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mambalae-s · 10 months

Text

wc: 7.8k words

cw: milf! reader; reader is described as a plus sized black woman; masturbation (m); public masturbation (m); no penetrative sex; fantasizing — throat fucking; one (1) mention of a daddy kink; one sided sexual tension; wakatoshi is a simp; he’s down bad; let me know if i’m forgetting anything!

notes from author: so, i’d wound myself up for an entire month working on this and i still had so much i wanted to write for it despite it already being nearly 8,000 words long…! i’ll certainly try my best to make a second part for this, one i’ll want to write from our reader’s experience too! this, truthfully, wasn’t the first idea for my milf reader idea, but i think it’s so much better, and i’m happy with the plot i settled with! i hope that, at least even a little bit, it’ll be satisfying for you to read, too!

it’s amidst a blistering summer’s day when you move into the house next to his.

there’s blood pumping beneath ushijima wakatoshi’s skin and boiling beneath each heavy breath that wafts from his swollen lips. his feet pound against the paved roads as he jogs at a steady pace, and he feels his fibers tinge with a static as they blaze beneath the sweltering noon’s heat, a familiar ache ebbing deep within his muscles and crawling through his veins. the sweat clinging to his brow burns like a toxin that pours out through every cell, his heart beating with the drums that pound through his airpods and teach him a dance he’d learned many times before. iwaizumi had told him once that running could be as addictive as any drug, and here, beneath clear blue skies and through heavy draws of air, wakatoshi considers that maybe he was right.

he takes a deep breath as he mounds the slight hill that leads to his house, and abruptly, his pace halts, chest heaving still as his eyes take to the moving truck parked out in front of the house next to his; a house that had, for a while, remained empty, certainly gathering dust and stale air after the elderly couple had moved away nearly a month long past. it had been easy for him to forget all about the vacant space, what with him dedicating his days to training and months of traveling for practice and tournaments, and it seems that, within that time, someone’s finally purchased it and were moving in today.

he’d been gone long enough for the hard working men to have finished their work, wakatoshi muses, as he watches them pack away their trollies and begin making to either door of their truck. though, as he stands there, he feels puzzled, confused and seeking reason to something he can’t find. there’s nothing spectacular about seeing these two men readying to go about their day, nothing that should keep wakatoshi’s feet planted and his laboured breaths stilling beneath the wind, yet he finds himself waiting, lulled into a curiosity that he can’t explain as he watches the break lights glow red and listens to the engine roaring to life.

and then, he sees you.

you, who wears a gorgeous sundress, deep purple fabric woven like a tapestry of flowers that blossom over a body of voluptuous curves. he finds himself enraptured by your brown skin that shines beneath the scorching sun like smoky quartz, by the sweat that lines your brow as he likens the glistening sight of it to beautiful jewels that shine around your smile and set you alight with the luster of ten thousand diamonds. the strands of your black hair, they sheen on the painting of the midnight sky; dark and elegantly falling around your round face and pouring like a river of obsidian and black tourmaline across your busty chest.

“thank you so much once again,” your voice comes through with fluency in his mother tongue, the japanese you speak perhaps a little regional… osaka, he considers, or kyoto? your voice sings on the breathlessness of intense labour, and wakatoshi deludes himself into thinking that the exhaustion on your sultry voice mirrors the intensely beating heart that stirs in his chest with a restlessness that he doesn’t attribute to his run. “seriously, you two… i can’t tell you how much i appreciate coming all this way!”

the older men you speak to are friendly in their departure, cheering with bright smiles that resemble yours in their warmth and openness as they drive down the deep slope, passing him by the side and far from his mind as he loses his focus on you. suddenly, the fog that clouds his mind doesn’t come from a sweltering summer’s day, but instead from the picture of you, hot and bothered and eyes squeezed shut as you try to wave cool air over your wet skin. the daze that locks around his tongue is the one of your sheen-covered lips as they part and let pass the heavy breaths that sit on your chest, of the rise and fall of your large breasts and the bit of tummy that he can see atop your curves. that daze that consumes wakatoshi, he tells it to lust — a venom that crawls through his bloodstream and tinges his tongue with desire unchecked, so that he becomes consumed by you and the deceptively innocent visage that burns itself into his skin. and suddenly, wakatoshi feels too damn hot, his heart beats so hard he fears it’ll leap right from his throat, and his pants are too damn tight.

oh. fuck… how embarrassing could it be to get a hard on in front of your new neighbour? he didn’t think he’d ever have to ponder such a specific scenario, and he certainly isn’t happy to have a taste of it first hand. even worse, what is he supposed to do when the very same neighbour turns her eyes to him and catches him staring like some demented creep? wakatoshi’s face burns with a heat that far precedes the blazing sun and he wishes the earth would open up and swallow him whole as his mouth starts to taste of sand and parchment paper. really, he shames himself, how appallingly embarrassing!

just like a guilty child, he averts his eyes as his blood boils across his neck. his feet act on their own, guided by the desire to disappear as quickly as he can with hurried steps and trembling hands that are more than eager to open his front door and seal him behind their sanctuary, and he feels even more guilt for awkwardly avoiding the kind yet confused smile you’d sent his way as you watched the large man scurry up his front steps. the protruding bulge that pokes out from his trousers is so painfully obvious, almost aching behind its confines as he prays that you hadn’t had enough time to notice it. and even then, behind his barrier of safety, he’s left with a problem — a very big one that powders his nose red and takes his breath on laboured climbs.

huffing, wakatoshi trudges to the kitchen, desperately searching his refrigerator for the coldest bottle of water he can find and starts chugging right away. arctic drops spill between his lips and down his throat, though the chill does nothing to dissipate the heat coursing beneath his skin and inside his pants. he doesn’t intend to slam the now half empty bottle down on his counter the way he does, but he loses control and water spills over, and his olive eyes only glare at the puddle that drips over on his marbled floor with something of disdain and increasing frustration.

for all that was holy, he can’t stop thinking of you. even now, with cold water sticking to his skin and poured over his bare feet, wakatoshi cannot get this image of you out of his mind and is rendered powerless to the aching boner that refuses to go away. within just one moment, you’ve seeped into his mind like a parasite that morphs and festers on sin and fornication, plaguing him with your large breasts and plump thighs that sheened with sweat and poured out from beneath your sundress. it’s a hard battle he faces with himself, feeling morally disgusted by the thoughts he finds himself with, and all about a stranger, no less. there’s no way he could be acting so depraved, right? is he a man so starved that the mere sight of an admittedly attractive woman could send him reeling like a damn teenage boy?

once more, wakatoshi heaves a heavy sigh, slouching for a moment with hands clenching the edge of his black stone counter before he rises to his full height. it’ll do him good to at least clean up this spill, and perhaps, he thinks, he aught to keep himself busy — surely then, he’ll forget all about you, and this glaring problem beneath his trousers will forget you too.

thankfully, it’s easier than he’d had hoped to fill the hours of his day. after taking care of his spill, wakatoshi takes to his home gym and continues working out till the late evening, when he showers and prepares himself to settle in with a cup of white wine and a book that he’d bought himself a while back, though only just recently had the time to begin. it’s only so rare for him to be able to enjoy slow days like this between training and volleyball tournaments, and he finds himself at peace with this lull in his schedule. finally, he feels relaxed and at ease, and his stressful situation from the afternoon earlier is far from his mind, until there’s a knock at his front door, and his heart lurches in his chest.

apprehensive, he turns his jade coloured eyes to the smoky glass panels by his entrance, and he feels his tongue turn heavy when he sees you waiting. for a moment, he hopes that you’ll give up if he doesn’t answer, though he immediately feels a bit guilty for thinking that. you’re only wanting to greet your new neighbour and make a good first impression, he considers, and it certainly isn’t any fault of yours the situation he’d found himself in earlier that day. you’re entirely blameless, and it’s really him who apparently needs to mature and grow a bit more than he’d thought. taking a long sip from his glass of chardonnay, wakatoshi builds himself on liquid courage and meets you by his doorway — though there’s no amount of wine that could’ve possibly prepared him for the sight that greets him once he opens the door.

you’re here, but you hadn’t come alone. hiding behind each leg are a young boy and girl who look about the same age and share striking resemblance to your own soft features. heads topped by black, wavy curls, with her tied in pigtails and his cut to his shoulders, there’s curiosity in their dark brown eyes as they appraise him, and he feels almost as if they’re judging him with something that he can’t identify. and you, you smile sweetly at him, your lips painted with a clear gloss that shines golden beneath the lights of his entryway’s chandelier.

“i’m sorry for disturbing you so late in the night, mister,” you offer your apology, and wakatoshi can hear more clearly the distinction in your accent that he’d only briefly heard before. now, as he listens attentively, unconsciously taking in the sultriness of your voice as your words flow from your two-toned lips, he’s certain that it really is a kansai dialect. “i’d just wanted to introduce ourselves since we’d just moved into the neighbourhood.” you lift your hands, that he now notices are not empty, to present a beautifully packaged basket with a little pink bow tying it closed. “and we also brought you these as a gift — a thank you gift, kind of! for having us here with you!”

wakatoshi accepts the gift basket from your hands, trying his best not to focus on the way you tuck your hair behind your ears and beam brightly up at him. standing so close, he’s able to notice new things about you that he wishes he didn’t feel so curious about; like the way you style yourself elegantly, your straight black hair parted to the side, curling the smaller hairs surrounding your forehead so that they lay neatly and perfectly brushed to frame your round face, or the fact that you stand several inches shorter than him, perhaps only barely reaching his chest. he wishes he doesn’t take in the clothes you wear and how they fit your beautiful figure, how your white cardigan hangs elegantly over a beige tank top and khaki coloured pants that accentuate your mature body. he tries, not to notice these many things about you, and so hopelessly fails, as he clears his throat and tries to offer you a polite smile that he hopes doesn’t come off as a grimace.

“thank you for being so thoughtful,” he says, and your smile widens, your eyes creasing around your expression as you respectfully bow.

“it’s my pleasure! i really should be thanking you for welcoming us this late!” theres a timidness to your grin as you lift yourself to full standing once more and you bashfully laugh. “it took us a little longer than we thought to prepare all our gift baskets — oh, right!” your eyes widen on a realization, “my name’s (l/n) (f/n), and these two here,” gesturing to the two children behind you, you bend down a bit to rest a hand on either of their backs. “this here is asahi, and this is makoto.”

the two young children, with your encouragement, bow their heads in greeting to him, with the boy — asahi — quickly returning to hide behind your leg, while makoto continues to stare at him, now with her curiosity unbridled and what looks like an eagerness that roars beneath her brown eyes.

he looks back up at you and offers a bow of his own, ducking his head with the basket clutched to his chest. “my name’s ushijima wakatoshi,” he says his name, and immediately, he hears two simultaneous gasps from the children by your feet. though, at least in this moment, he decides not to ponder too much on the expression. “thank you for introducing yourselves and for bringing a gift.”

you wave your hand in a ‘shoo shoo’ motion and shake your head. “no need for thanks, ushijima-san,” you hum, “really, it’s nothing much, but i hope you’ll be able to find good use for them— ”

“are you a volleyball player?”

suddenly, the little girl, makoto, blurts out a question that causes your eyes to widen and catches him off guard as you both turn your attention to her. she continues to stare up at him, as if awaiting his answer despite you reaching for her hand to gently pull her back. “makoto!” you exhale, a bit surprised, it seemed, as if you hadn’t expected her to ask something like that. though wakatoshi, he doesn’t take any issue at all with her question, and he simply nods his head, once more offering the most polite of smiles he can muster.

“that’s right. i play volleyball.”

you seem to recognize something within the awe-filled gazes of the two children that he doesn’t, because before either of them can get a word out, you’re hurriedly reaching for their hands and making your way down the stairs. “thanks so much again, mr. ushijima!” you call back to him with one free hand, leaving the man standing stunned inside his doorway as you walk away from him. “let’s get along well from now on!” when you think you’re far enough, he thinks he hears your voice taking to astonishment as the little girl whines a complaint — “but mom, we saw him on tv! it’s really him!” and your response heavily pouring with your dialect as you lightly scold her for blurting out so suddenly.

he’s left here, basket in his hand as he hears several gears creaking to their abrupt stops and clanking as they fall apart in his mind. mom? she’d said mom, hadn’t she? with ghostly steps that are far too quiet for a man of his stature, wakatoshi shuffles to his expansive living room where he sets your gift atop his clear glass coffee table, right next to his glass of wine and his book, and collapses into the black suede sofa behind him. you’re a mother? the guilt that consumes him tastes bitter and threatens to crawl up his throat. he sits, hands folded above his lips as his elbows dig into his thighs, and he stays this way for one minute, then two, constantly replaying the sound of your daughter calling you mom. your daughter, your daughter and son, you have a daughter and a son who both call you mom—

wearily, wakatoshi’s eyes glaze over your cutely packaged gift and straight to the glass of wine that sits like a pretty temptation, and cruelly, he thinks of how you are just the same. a beautiful and painfully enticing temptation that will surely render him helpless if he gets any more involved with you. he groans, hissing under his breath as he reaches for the glass and stands up. it’ll serve him better to retire for the night, he concedes, a hand nursing the growing migraine that sits on either side of his head. he’ll finish his glass and read his book peacefully in bed, and for the second time this day, wakatoshi will forget all about you.

except, he doesn’t.

amidst his waking dreams and long night, forgetting you is impossible. how can he, when you come to him here in his bed, the straps of your purple dress falling from your brown shoulders and your breasts pouring out from the thin material? how is wakatoshi supposed to forget you when in his dreams, you tease him with the likeness of a vixen, when you lift the edges of your skirt to show him just how plump and fleshy your thighs and ass are, whispering “do you wish to touch me, mr. ushijima?” in that sultry, silk-like voice of yours. he dreams of the way your eyes would roll back into your skull if he brushes his fingers over that sweet spot between your legs, if his tongue traces lines over your panties until your knees buck and you fall right on top of him. in his dreams, he wants you so much that it’s an ache he needs to fill, until he’s unconsciously fucking his mattress and squeezing his pillows with a vice. his breathing is laboured and tasting of honey as he begs you yes, yes, please, i need you… need you so bad, please i need to touch you—

his climax rocks his body like an earthquake and tears him away from sleep with a jolt, his chest heaving as sweat clings to his skin and his eyes, disoriented, search his dark room for your image before they fall to the soiled mess leaking through his boxers and between his thighs. his damn cock is twitching, still painfully sensitive, and wakatoshi stutters through a gasp as his hips buck uncontrollably, as if chasing some phantom feeling, cum still continuing to spurt from the angry red tip. he reels from pure shock and a bit of morbid amazement as he reflects on his dream, and as he recalls those dirty visuals his mind managed to conjure, he lets out a loud, frustrated cry and falls flat against his mattress. really, is this the man he is? a perverted fool who has inappropriate thoughts and dreams about another man’s wife?

he curses himself, and curses his mind too, as he begrudgingly swings his legs over the edge of his california king and. sleep evades him now, he certainly fears reliving that dream that felt far too realistic, your touches, the taste of you — all far too real that it leaves him shaken. one hand lifts to brush his sweat-matted hair away from his forehead as his eyes disdainfully behold the mess he’s left all over his dark sheets, where his semen sits in a large puddle while there are still drops running down his thighs, and he unwillingly thinks about you once more. those sounds that your voice made in his dream, all those dirty songs and cries of his name that you’d uttered, the way your skin felt so supple and soft beneath his hands as he felt you up and spread your legs apart—

a surprised moan causes wakatoshi to slap a hand around his mouth as his cock twitches in his soiled boxers, still very hard and leaking through the now cold material. no, he decides, he really won’t be able to fall asleep again — not like this, at least. but wakatoshi has practice in the morning, and within all his years of playing volleyball, he’d never gone a night without proper sleep. for the umpteenth time, he groans helplessly, flopping back down on the edge of his bed. he glares at his boner, wishing it would just peacefully deflate and that, really this time, he could forget you and just go back to bed; and again, once again, he sighs, and submits himself to a decision he’s certain that he’ll immediately curse himself for as he pulls out his cock and wraps his fist around it.

he hates himself for it, but it’s so easy for him to build a perfect fantasy of you. one where you’re sitting prettily on your knees and batting those doe-brown eyes up at him through your lashes. his hand squeezes softly around his erection and at first, he moves slowly, choking back each heavy breath of air that threatens to burst through tightly pursed lips. but god, he thinks of the way you’d tease him, slowly tracing your mouth over the tip and leaving a trail of saliva and strawberry flavoured lip-gloss while your manicured nails would trace tantalizingly lines down his thighs. his hips buck impatiently into his own fist and his chest heaves with soft grunts that become more uninhibited as he imagines you finally slipping him into your warm mouth and his very spirit crumbles on the lust that consumes him.

“does that feel good, mr. ushijima?” you’d beseech him, so eager to please as you’d trace your tongue across his leaking slit, collecting the drops of precum that poured out and smear it around your lips. and he’d be just as breathless as he feels in his fantasy, trying and failing to conceal each gasp that evades him as he nods, “yes.. yes, your mouth feels so fucking good.” he’d force you to swallow him whole, pushing your head down to the base until you’d choke and your eyes would water as he’d throw his head back — without his will, his hand moves faster around his cock and fills his dark bedroom with filthy, sloppy noises. “take every inch, don’t you fucking dare spit it out. that’s it, shit…just like that. swallow it all the way down.”

he thinks of how fleshy and warm the back of your throat would feel as you’d gag around him and dig your nails into his thigh, struggling to take even a single breath through your nostrils as he’d mercilessly fuck your face. he’d drag you off him suddenly and slap his cock against those messy lips, and he’d get to admire the way you’d fall apart as your mouth lolls open as if begging him to put it back in. “ohh, such a greedy little slut, aren’t you?” he’d taunt, and a particularly loud, wanton moan rises from his chest as he imagines the way you’d use your hands all while staring up at him. you’d be the very picture of salaciousnes as your hands wrap around his smeared length, teasing the underside of him with your tongue and groaning through your own arousal. he imagines how he’d wrap his hand around your throat as he’d tower over you; he’d have your face pressed right up to his stomach while he’d reach down and grab a handful of your breasts, reeling at how soft and squishy they’d feel pouring between his already large hands before he’d twist your nipples, and you’d whine like a helpless nymph from how sensitive your body would become. “go on, then.” he’d hum, and he wouldn’t give you even a second to prepare before he’d have you choking around his length, groaning as spit would bubble around his erection and pour from your nostrils. “use those pretty little lips of yours. mhm, let daddy feel your tongue on his dick while he fucks your throat.”

and its as he pictures the way your eyes would roll into the back of your head, cheeks puffed and stuffed full as you whine around him that, for the second time that night, wakatoshi cums into his fist. pleasure sears through his teeth and down his spine as spurts of semen explode from his slit and he forgets himself on the suddenness of his orgasm. “shit… ahh— aahhhh, shit!” the spots in his vision and the heat that consumes him from his bone and to his skin, it all coalescences on a pleasure he’d never once felt in his thirty-three years of living. his entire body trembles and his cock twitches against his abs, cum splashing against his sweat-sheened skin and dripping over his skin like hot, molten lava. the afterglow of pleasure is forsaken for the adrenaline that courses through his blood and turns the taste of his tongue to metals untold.

through his bliss, wakatoshi reaches clarity, and is overwhelmed by an intense wave of disgust and repulsion as he glares at his cock so feebly slapping against his stomach; it’s still hard, the damn thing, and every cell in his body craves ravenously for more, more, more…but he refuses. absolutely refuses to repeat what he’d just done. for christ’s sake, you are a mother — a wife to someone who you return to each night, who gets to hold you and touch you, to whom you may give your heart and gentle affections to. tonight had been a mistake, he tells himself; an irrational lapse in judgement, and come morning — he means it this time, really! truthfully! — he’ll forget all about this sin, and forget about you. you’ll be nothing more than a new neighbour who moved in with your family, and your interactions will be few and far between, enough that he’ll be forgiven for the immorality that he’d let himself fall to.

but the devil, oh, the devil, bless his soul, he has his tricks, and he loves to play.

wakatoshi hasn’t at all forgotten about the previous night, but he pretends that he has. on the cusp of dawn, when the rising sun sinks her warm fingers through his tousled hair, he focuses on his beating heart and his laboured breath as he jogs through the park and back through his gated community. he pretends that he didn’t jerk off to his new neighbour and envision her doing the dirtiest things to him, and he almost succeeds.

almost.

he nearly swears when he walks out of his front door the next morning and bumps into you at the earliest hours of dawn. there you are, where you shouldn’t be — not this early in the morning before the sun had risen, when he’d made sure to leave early enough that he would’ve avoided this situation exactly. it’s summer, isn’t it? why, wakatoshi wonders, had you woken up so early? could he really be do unlucky? he sees you and your two children, and he’s now certain that they must be twins, and you’re too busy fixing their backpacks on their backs and fussing over their hair and faces to even notice him awkwardly frozen by his doorstep.

“you both have everything you need, right?” your voice reaches him on tones of faint worry and anxiousness as you lean down over your children, unwittingly showing off your rack for him to see between the button up blouse you wear. even from where he stands, it’s such a clear picture that he feels his head spin as his eyes remain glued there. “you’ve got your toothbrushes and toothpaste? lotion? shampoo and conditioner?”

your son, asahi, tries to escape your busy hands, though it doesn’t dissuade you very much it seems. “mama, we already have everything!” he grumbles with a slight pout, “we’ll be alright.”

a quiet sigh falls from your lips as, finally, you relent, kneeling down to hug your two children. “i know you will be, asahi,” you whisper softly before pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads. “promise me you’ll both be good and have lots of fun, alright? can you send me a text when you get there safely?” both the twins nod their head yes before placing a kiss on either of your cheeks, and wakatoshi finds the sight endearing as he sees your smile brighten on tenderness and motherly affection. a part of him feels as if he’s intruding on what should be a family’s private and treasured moment, something precious that should only be seen by your husband and not the creepy neighbour next door. his stomach turns in on itself and, like a demon he can’t escape, guilt and shame crawl over his neck.

“bye mama!” makoto is the first one to hop on to her bike, waving her hand excitedly and full of energy despite the early morning, while her twin follows in a far less eager manner as he waves at you too. “i love you!”

“i love you mama..!”

“i love you both, you two!” now standing at full height, you wave both your hands as both asahi and makoto start to pedal away. “make sure to have lots of fun!”

before long, both your children have gone down the hill and you’re left alone with a wistful smile, and wakatoshi finds himself desperate to go before you have the chance to notice him standing. his normally sure feet fail him on a moment as he stumbles in his hurriedness, and in his attempt to steady himself, his hands fall slack and drop the very large, very metal he’d bottle been carrying with a loud clang! that causes your head to whip around. he meets your gaze, shame bubbling in his gut and he wishes that lightning would just fall from the sky and take him from his misery. what happened to avoiding you as best as he could? he wonders, what happened to leaving at the crack of dawn and being on his way before he’d need to lay eyes on you again so soon after last night?

wakatoshi is so embarrassed that he could die.

“ah! good morning, mr. ushijima.” you, oblivious to his plight, greet him politely, bowing your head. he notices the way you absentmindedly pull your cardigan over your sheer night dress, the chill from the morning mist having caused you to shiver a little. your nipples have turned hard and poke through the thin white material, and are very, very visible without him needing to try and see them. he purses his lips, sighs through his nostrils and averts his gaze, focusing instead on retrieving his traitorous waterbottle and praying that his grey slacks do well to hide the problem that now begins to grow beneath them.

“good morning, mrs. (l/n.)”

he tries to focus on his feet as he descends down his front steps, ensuring that he doesn’t lose his footing once more rather than looking at you. and yet, he can’t help the awkwardness that he feels as every muscle in his body seems to have tensed up despite him having gone jogging to warm himself up. you remain none the wiser, something he’s thankful for, as he hopes and prays that he can get past you and on his way before you notice his strange demeanour.

“do you normally get up this early?” you ask in a polite attempt at making small talk, to which wakatoshi offers you a slight nod as he gives you just enough of his attention.

“yes,” and, admittedly, he’s also curious, and he returns a question against his better judgement. “do you?”

laughter bubbles up from your lips as you shake your head. “goodness, no!” you chime playfully, lifting your watch to see the hour; 5:39. “it’s too early for me, but asahi and makoto are about to start summer camp for their club — i’d only been seeing them off today.”

he offers an understanding nod, similarly recalling the days of his youth where he’d also attended summer camps during elementary through high school. right now, he considers would be a perfect time to end this conversation and see himself away now that he’s heard what he wanted from you, but something in him urges him to stay, to talk to you more and spend some time with you. he knows he’s not the best at small talk, is all too aware that his social skills are terrible, at their worst, incredibly abysmal, but he wants to try — against his better moment, and he’s reminding himself all the while that you’re a mother and a married woman, but despite that, he wants to talk more with you. perhaps, and it’s a delusion that he forces himself to believe, he’d want to be friendly with you. it’ll certainly be easier than perpetually avoiding you when you’d done nothing wrong to him, after all.

“are you—” fuck, his voice sounds scratchy as he clears his throat, blush creeping over his cheeks. “are you um… headed back to bed then?”

as you ponder his question, he gets to take in your morning appearance. your hair’s been brushed and tied back with a little white bow, and your lips look air brushed and as soft as rose petals. hugging your sides beneath your cardigan, you shiver, and wakatoshi notices the way you slightly lean back and forth on your heels. “i guess it’d be a waste to try and sleep again now,” you hum with your gaze turned towards the horizon, where the sun begins to peak over the far off mountain on soft blue touched by golden hues. “i’ll need to be ready for work in a few hours.” you turn your gaze to him with a cheekish grin, and his heart skips a beat. “why not start my morning now, right?”

oh. oh, this is bad. for the second time, waktoshi tries to clear his throat with a hand covering his mouth and averts his eyes from your beaming face. “i’ll let you get to it then,” he says, his voice sounding so small and timid to him that he feels his mind reeling and his tongue turning heavy. “enjoy the rest of your morning, ms. (l/n).”

“thank you, ushijima-san! you do the same, okay?” for a second, he lets his eyes find yours, and they dazzle him within just that moment that he has to look away. he leaves as you re-enter your home, and it’s the only thing he can do to squeeze the straps of his bag to rid himself of the jittery feeling racking through his spine. his heart beats too loudly and he feels dazed, as if he walks on clouds and forgets how to even breathe.

he doesn’t— no, he can’t be; his feet break from the slow pace as he breaks into a jog, each muscle within him burning cold and begging for release from the thoughts in his mind. there’s no way… he doesn’t like you, does he? why else would he have dreamt of you the way he had? why else would he feel so nervous and timid when you stand face to face? the morning dew tastes like liquid mercury and sets through his veins on a violent rush as he runs, as far away from you as he can get, hoping to immediately expel you from his thoughts, to escape this hold that you seem to have locked around him.

he laughs at himself, helpless and bewildered; is he really nothing more than a foolish boy? at thirty-something years old, ushijima wakatoshi is developing a crush on his married neighbour — even the mere notion to him is so adamantly ridiculous that he could throw himself off a bridge. he feels embarrassed, utterly and completely mortified, and it’s for his sake that he tries to push the notion far, far away, so that, at least for the day, he wouldn’t have to think about it. he suppresses these budding epiphanies in the face of his teammates, who tease him for being seven minutes later than he usually is and tries to ignore the fact that it’s all because he’d stayed and talked with you. he tries to forget about you through the drills and practice rounds, lets the heavy beating of his heart turn its turmoil into adrenaline and sweat that seeps through his thin shirt. wakatoshi falls into routine and this time, certainly, this time, he’s moved on. the feelings that soaked through his core on the early morning’s dawn have disappeared and melted away on summer’s blistering heat, and he thinks that finally, he can let go of that ghost that’s haunted him from the night until morn.

but noon, as it always does, succeeds the dawn, and there you are.

the burn in his muscles turns to a seething fire that he fears will consume him right where he stands, amidst the people around him going about their days while he remains glued in place. his heart, oh the poor thing, it beats on the fallings of a thousand horses and threatens to rip right from between his rips and spill itself out on the pavement. wakatoshi wants to run, he wants to take flight and escape into the burning sun, but his feet fail him on the jolts that run through his aching muscles when your eyes, oh, he imagines he sees the world in them, find his amidst the sea that threatens to swallow him whole.

“ah? mr. ushjimima!” your voice calls out to him a surprise he thinks he feels on tenfold as you approach the man. god, how many hours has it been, even? he’d only just seen you this morning, isn’t it too soon for him to be put through this never-ending crisis? he doesn’t feel as if he’s ready, as if he can look you in the eyes while trying to force away the memories of last night, or the turbulent mess that dances and ties red knots around his throbbing heart. “i didn’t expect to see you here too.”

neither did i, he thinks helplessly, though he offers a single words that sounds choked up in his throat, “practice.”

“oh!” you chime, your eyes gazing behind him to where the large sports gym stays only so many paces behind — if he really wants, wakatoshi could easily pretend that he has to return if only to escape from you, but he doesn’t — for some incomprehensible reason, his tongue betrays him with the phantom taste of you.

“well,” you smile, and laughter spills from your lips as you tuck your hair behind your ear and meet his eyes from behind your lashes. “i didn’t think i’d see you again so soon — and at my place of work, no less.”

i didn’t think i would, either, wakatoshi thinks to himself, and then your words rewind in his mind and everything halts. your place of work? the question spills from his lips before he can even think to stop it. “you work here?”

you nod with a hum, gesturing with your palm to the academic buildings that span the expansive lot. “i teach vocal composition and contemporary piano courses here.”

“ah.” of course. wakatoshi is bewildered; how unlucky could he be? for the married woman he fantasized about to be working at the very same university that his team frequents for volleyball practice? he takes a moment to curse the heavens and the cruel gods within them because certainly, they must find humour in his agony.

like lasers, wakatoshi’s eyes become too hyperfocused on you all at once. there’s sweat gleaming down your neck and dipping between your breasts and trailing wet marks down your v-line as you, absentmindedly, fan at yourself. he takes in the way your eyes scrunch together and your lips part with a heavy breath, a sigh that, to his ears, sounds lewd and filthy, and on that single breath, his world runs like a viscous furnace. he’s like a moth drawn to each and every detail about you that swells on the summer’s heat and as he stands here, everything consumes him — the slight pout of your full, puffy lips, the display of your breasts that look so big that they could pop out of your low button up dress at any second, those big, doe-like eyes of yours that are so close to rolling back beneath the agonizing heat — every bit of you accords into a vision of immeasurable pleasure and lust, and then you look at him, head tilted back and panting ever so slightly, and it’s enough and too much all at the same time.

“it’s awfully hot today, isn’t it, mr. ushijima?”

wakatoshi thinks he’ll lose his mind.

something breaks like a faucet and pours scalding water all over himself as he feels his grey sweats becoming too tight, too confining, just like the situation he finds himself in and he decides that now would be the perfect time to leave. “i have to head back.” he nearly stutters over his abrupt sentence, and he sees the slightly startled look that comes over your sun kissed face. again, he feels guilty for fooling you, for lying straight to those innocently pure eyes that are none the wiser of the effects you have on him. in a pathetic attempt that he doubts you’ll even believe, he tries to dissuade you with a simple, yet suffocated, “practice is gonna start soon.”

“oh, of course!” his lie seems to work, and wakatoshi hopes that the relief that locks inside his throat isn’t too obvious as you turn your feet to the opposite direction. “i didn’t mean to hold you up, i’m so sorry!”

“no, it’s alright.” it’s not, but what is he supposed to say? “i’m sure you’ll need to prepare for your next class soon.”

you giggle, hiding your smile behind your hand, and your eyes crinkle at the corners. “you’re right. it was a very nice surprise to see you again, mr. ushijima!”

as he makes his pathetic escape, wakatoshi prays that you don’t find him weird after this, but perhaps if you’d have any inclination of what he’d done, what he’s about to do, would you look at him in disgust? of course you would — he asks himself, how could you not? his feet can’t take him to the secluded gym fast enough as he forsakes everything about himself, purely fueled now by this burning desire that’s carnal in its awakening. the bathroom door locks and the bolt slams with a loud click, the ac languidly blowing through this confined area not nearly enough to quell the fire blazing across his skin. it’s immoral and utterly deprived what he considers doing, and the shame he feels is bound to be an eternal scar. yet in this moment, with his cock so painfully hard and pressing uncomfortably against his thigh, leaking so much precum that it stains through the thick material of his shorts, wakatoshi doesn’t care — not for the ungodliness of the act he’ll commit, nor for the consequences that could follow him. not now, at least. as he releases his throbbing member from its binds and wraps his fists around it, it’s the farthest thing from his mind as he thinks about you. again, it’s you.

the wind in his lungs is knocked out from his mouth as he rapidly pumps his dick. in an instant, the empty bathroom is filled with the squelching noises that bounce and echo off the tiled walls, only contested by his laboured breaths and groans. his knees threaten to lose their ground, and he desperately clutches the cold edge of the sink, the chill consuming his palm almost jarring to the aggressive heat that pours all through him. the image of you with your head tilted towards the sky, of your lips hanging open on salacious cries of his name as he envisions you on top of him, it all drives him to the brink of insanity.

wakatoshi thinks of your body in that tight button up dress blue dress. he thinks of how elegant and put together you looked, the picture perfect woman, and how he wants to tear apart only the top pins open and let your breasts fall out so that he could take them between his lips. how would you sound, he wondered, if he rolled your nipples between his teeth, sucked on them with his tongue until they’d turn hard and perky? would you cry out his name just like you always do? would that sweet voice of yours sing out on torrential pleasure as you’d call out to him, your thighs squeezing around his waist while your hips buck and wriggle over his cock? that innocent façade you wear, how quickly could he make you abandon all reason for desire, until you begged him with your words of honey for him to destroy you?

his fantasy falls apart and rips through him like a comet as cum explodes from his throbbing member and spills through his fingers, ever so narrowly missing his pants and spurting out on the tiled floors. it’s non-stop, this horrible, horrible mess that keeps on growing, his body jolting and knees feeling weak and he struggles to hold himself up because he can’t stop coming, so consumed in his fantasy that the moans he fought so hard to contain now ring freely inside the empty bathroom as his hand continues to milk every drop that jolts out of him. you’re the only thing in his mind, consuming him with hellfire as pleasure winds him up and tears him apart over and over again, and he knows he needs to stop, he’s being too loud, too careless, he could get caught, but god, does this taboo feel so good that he loses control. his depraved mind wonders on you catching him, cumming all over his hands like a depraved beast, all because of you?

there’s a daze that overcomes wakatoshi, heat fading to a warmth that fights for some kind of structure to hold on to as he, breathlessly, leans over the sink. his eyes look down between his legs, the length of his cock still twitching in his palm and cum smeared around it and webbing along his fingers. it doesn’t yet come to him, the reality of what he’s done, and its awakening is slow and steady, until it crashes all around him with the last wisps of adrenaline trickling out of his system. for a long time, he stares at his hands, at the mess smeared in his palm and all over his pants, and he meets his stare in his reflection. he stares, but doesn’t comprehend as a minute becomes two, and then five, and when it’s been far beyond ten, his body flushes over with red-hot embarrassment as he clenches his teeth and drops his head.

wakatoshi, filled with shame, wishes he could throw himself into the sun.

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dabiconcordia · 5 months

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The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart’s core. By William Butler Yeats

#wb yeats #famous poem #innisfree #photo #untitled by brayden tozer #pinterest.com

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cricketnationrise · 1 month

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dear cricketina, i humbly request some magic words ❤️

time stamp - 5:38am

location - anywhere as long as there's a sunrise (some ideas might be: beach, airplane, looking at a picture/video of a sunrise, in a cozy resort suite with the sunrise bathing the room in lovely colours - but you can choose anything you want!)

character - henry fox mountchristen windsor

song - from 'the air that i breathe' by the hollies:

Making love with you Has left me peaceful, warm, and tired What more could I ask There's nothing left to be desired Peace came upon me and it leaves me weak So sleep, silent angel Go to sleep

Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe And to love you All I need is the air that I breathe Yes, to love you All I need is the air that I breathe

rating - up to you!!

dearest darling cee. what a FANTASTIC prompt. a banger from top to bottom. full disclosure, i basically wrote this on my lunch break today as an escape from The Horrors(TM), so I hope it's everything you wanted and that you love it as much as i love you 💜🦗

read the rest of the ficlets here

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

5:38am, the lakehouse

Alex would never say it, but Henry knows. He knows how close he came to ruining the lakehouse for Alex when Henry left him in the lake. When Henry left him in the bunk beds.

When Henry left him.

It’s Alex’s self-professed second favorite place in the whole world—right below the circle of Henry’s arms on one of his many lists. So this trip, their first trip back after everything hit the fan and somehow came out confetti instead of shit, is possibly the most important trip of Henry’s life.

It’s just them this time. Just him and Alex: basking in the sun like overgrown lizards, playing in the water, filling up the house with the sounds of Alex’s music and the scent of migas in the morning and ribs in the afternoon. It’s the two of them flirting all day and abandoning any kind of civilized schedule for sex all over the property whenever the mood strikes them.

The weather has been kind, no storms or excessive humidity—just one perfect Texas day after another, the sun making Alex glow even more than he usually does. He’s a sight to behold at any hour: lazy mornings when he grins at Henry over his giant mug of coffee, high noon when they retreat to the back deck for some shade on the swing, late afternoon on the lake when the setting sun sparkles off the water and in Alex’s eyes, purple dusks when the only light is from the moon and the fire burning low.

But there’s nothing like the sight of Alex at sunrise.

Alex comes into focus as the light changes from deepest night, the sweat at his hairline highlighted in the weak grey of false dawn. Dust motes dance and swirl amidst Alex’s gasping pleas as the sun peeks over the horizon, washing the underside of clouds in brilliant orange and pinks. The unruly mess of Alex’s brown hair—tousled from hours of moving over and with and under Henry on the bed—looks like strands of burnished copper as the sun climbs steadily higher and burns brightly in the clear blue sky.

Henry collapses—utterly exhausted—next to an equally spent Alex with a contented sigh. Chronic insomnia is usually heinous, especially on their vacation, but occasionally, like tonight, like this morning, he and Alex indulge in the opportunity. Henry kept Alex on the edge—letting him get close a few times and then backing away before finally, finally, giving them both what they wanted and pushing Alex over the edge, following him helplessly right after—the only sounds this morning are the birds and the waves of the lake lapping on the shore. For now, Alex doesn’t need to fill the peaceful silence, and Henry doesn’t need words to bask in the afterglow. It’s still a rare treat, to be together like this with no official obligations pulling either of them away. Eventually, they’ll leave this cocoon of their bed—for sustenance, for another canoeing adventure, for a shower. But for now, all Henry needs is air to breathe.

And Alex next to him, sharing it with him.

#cricket writes #celeritas2997 #ficlet fest 500 #rwrb #HI CEE I LOVE YOU #*slaps top of this ficlet*#this bad boy can fit so many descriptions of sunlight in it

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ophernelia · 1 year

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So, you want to completely overhaul the lighting of your sims game? I can help with that!

IMPORTANT: Multiple of the same lighting mods can conflict and may not work in game. Please follow each creator’s installation instructions in order to not break your game!

Please use mods at your own risk. Some mods may impact gameplay fps. Make sure your computer can handle it. Always follow the creator's installation and removal instructions. Always Always ALWAYS keep a backup of your original files!

The mods listed below are available for PC and MAC.

"★" Patreon Locked Content.

Interior + Sim Lighting Mods | The Sims 4 tends to be overwhelming blue. These mods can help combat that.

LUUMIA’S NO BLU | Goes into mods folder. 3 versions available. Conflicts with OOTD. Focuses on interior lighting. Darkens the game and removes the bluish tint.

LOTHARIHOE'S OOTD | Goes into mods folder. Conflicts with NO BLU. Focuses on interior lighting. Darkens game and removes bluish tint. Not as dark as NO BLU.

LUUMIA'S NO GLO | Goes into mods folder. Can be paired with NO BLU or OOTD. Conflicts with ITTL. Focuses on sim lighting. Helps sims blend better with environment lighting.

LOTHARIHOE'S ITTL | Goes into mods folder. Can be paired with NO BLU or OOTD. Conflicts with NO GLO. Focuses on sim lighting. Removes bluish aura around sims. Helps sims blend better with environment lighting.

★ NORTHERN SIBERIA WINDS BETTER IN-GAME LIGHTING | Free on 3/27. Goes into mods folder. Can be paired with NO BLU or OOTD. Conflicts with NO GLO + ITTL. Brightens sims. Multiple variations available.

World Lighting Mods | Changes the lighting of the entire world. Overhauls outdoor lighting. Can be used with interior + sim lighting mods. These mods cannot be used together.

LOTHARIHOE'S PURPLE SKIES | Delta + Data folders. Does not go into mods folder. Brighter skies at noon. Reduced bloom. Improved sunrise/sunset hours.

SOFTERHAZE'S SUNBLIND | Delta + Data folders. Does not go into mods folder. Lighting in each world is overhauled based on theme of world. More realistic daytime, darker nighttime.

SOFTERHAZE'S MILK THISTLE | Delta + Data folders. Does not go into mods folder. Foggier mornings. Desaturated shadows. Cooler sunlight. More vivid sunrises/sunsets.

CAS Lighting Mods | Changes Lighting in CAS only. Can be paired with any of the world, sim, and interior lighting mods.

NORTHERN SIBERIAN WIND'S GENTLE CAS LIGHTING | Brighter sims. Similar to better in-game lighting mod. Softer glow and shadows. Pet version available. Goes into mods folder.

SQWEE'S REALISTIC CAS LIGHTING | Balanced, warm, and moody lighting. Goes into mods folder.

BREEZYTRAITS CAS LIGHTING | Multiple different variations. Pick one only. Goes into mods folder.

SIMPLYANTUJA'S CAS LIGHTING | Multiple different variations. Pick one only. Goes into mods folder.

LUUMIA'S CAS LIGHTING | Multiple different variations. Pick one only. Goes into mods folder.

SIMPLYANTUJA'S GOLDEN LIGHT | Brighter, golden light. Good for screenshots. Pets supported. Goes into mods folder.

Next masterlist will be for replacements for world textures, weather, etc. More things visual. Happy Simming!

#the sims 4 #TS4 #ts4cc #sims #simblr #masterlist #recs #mod showcase #resources #sims 4 lighting mods #sims 4 lighting #ts4 lighting #ts4 lighting mods #ts4 download #ts4 mods

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fetch-me-penguins · 15 days

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i want to live (Astarion x VampireSpawn! Tav)

Every minute that he holds on without loosing it, is a minute closer to dawn. A minute closer to whatever end this may have. The only thing a vampire can feel is hunger, people say. Gods, he wishes it was true. or Cazador takes Tav.

An angsty take on the premise of Cazador kidnapping Tav to replace a dead spawn on the Ascension ritual.

Read it on AO3

CHPTR 1 (you're here) | CHPTR 2 | CHPTR 3 | CHPTR 4

Out of all the places where they have camped so far, a Guild safehouse was not the one he expected to have the most spectacular view of them all.

At one of the highest points of the Lower City, in the courtyard of a seemingly abandoned summer house, Astarion has an unobstructed view of the sun meeting the sea as it sets in a show of blood orange rays and heavy purple clouds. A gentle wind, running through the trees and the overgrown wild lawn at the courtyard where they have set their camp, the heavy stench of the city getting lost between the blooming flowers and aromatic shrubbery.

He can hear a bellowing bard on a tavern a few properties down, the gliding sound of a sharpening stone against metal some place across the firepit, leaves rustling in the wind, and the owlbear’s claws as he stalks pigeons from behind the dry fountain at the entrance of the courtyard.

It is a beautiful evening at a peaceful camp, and he is indifferent to it all.

Even though he knows in his bones that something is missing, he can’t find it in himself to care.

Such is the nature of the Calm Emotions spell, apparently.

His mind is molasses, stuck on trying to separate his senses from his thoughts despite the throbbing migraine he has been nursing for an eternity, it feels like.

He can’t remember when or what was the last thing he drank, or how many hours he’s been awake. As far as he knows, the log where he sits is the only place where he exists. The only place where he is real and thinks.

There’s a wide pot in front of him, filled with a dark liquid and strange jutting shapes that resemble fabric.

He stares. He is almost sure it’s dye.

Puzzling.

Did he need something dyed? Is the clothing even his? How long has he been sitting here? He can vaguely remember seeing the high noon sun reflected on the surface of the dark water as it steamed and reeked, but surely it hasn’t been that long?

The sun sinks lower, showing off to no one.

The owlbear trips and falls with a thump and a whine, the pigeons fly away in a flurry of loud flapping and cooing. They settle on the roof. The sharpening stone glides. The bard is off pitch. The wind races.

He is cold. His hands and forearms are stained a faint hue of indigo. Like a drow.

They don’t feel his. If he flexes the fingers, they seem to move on a delay. Heavy, clunky.

His body is here, but his will is… somewhere else.

The untethered feeling should be nauseating in its familiarity, but it feels like nothing instead. Jarring, in a detached way his empty brain can’t begin to piece together. A pot of ink poured over a letter to hide whatever secrets it used to hold.

Just like the pounding headache, he hasn’t been able to get rid of the stone slab over his chest, a deep feeling of wrongness that he can’t quite place.

He searches for an anchor, something beyond the log that may make sense and he follows the sound of the sharpening stone.

It’s Karlach, sitting on a crate and sharpening her axe with minute care across the firepit. The orange glow of the sky reflects on the blade, casting light over her red rimmed eyes and a deep frown on her face. The mirror shine of her weapon stirs something in Astarion, a visceral urge to take his own blades and run…somewhere.

The urge fades as soon as it comes, drowned by another wave of numbness that he attempts to resist to no avail. The longer he tries to hold on to the memory of his daggers, the greater the pain grows, snaking beneath his eyes and into his teeth. It makes his forehead feel like it’s about to burst open until he surrenders to it, breathing shallow and bending over the tub.

He is cold. Hungry. And so gods damned tired he can’t even begin to think why, out of all the people in their bloody camp, he was the one given dyeing duty.

A man clears his throat right beside him, and Astarion can’t even bring himself to even blink as he meets Gale’s pitiful attempt at a warm smile.

“Time to take them out, I gather?” he says, gently placing an empty wooden tub at his feet.

He stares at the wizard’s face, the dark purple circles under his eyes and the straining at the corners of his mouth, his pale, dry skin.

He knows he is under a spell. He knows that this wizard is the one holding it over him. And yet, he feels nothing but a faint whisper of annoyance

Puzzling indeed.

Gale’s brows furrow slightly at the silence, and the fog over Astarion’s brain rises and swells. He fights it, trying not to drown in the void again. A throb pierces his temples, a familiar presence scratching and throwing itself with all of its might against the rock solid walls surrounding the numbness and confusion. His will, fighting the spell with almost rabid desperation.

Gale’s strained smile fades, and his eyes sharpen. The fog thickens and Astarion is pretty sure it’s going to split open his head and make him crack his teeth.

“Stop that” he snarls, his lips curling back, barely hearing the sharpening stone stop.

Gale doesn’t step back when Astarion closes in on his space, filling his lungs with the acrid smell of the wizard’s blood, the pain of his own hunger and the raging migraine the only thing standing against the muck in his head.

It’s Gale’s turn to stand still and stare.

“Astarion,” he starts, voice level but not moving an inch, “We agreed to this, remember? You told me yesterday evening to hold the spell until we could set out.”

He can’t remember, and he can’t even be alarmed at the fact that he can’t remember. He can only only puzzle over the here and now, everything else has been swallowed by the numbness.

Gale sighs and steps back, gazing over Astarion’s shoulder and slightly assenting to someone before his eyes return to his face. The fog barely recedes, but the pain dulls to a thud instead of a piercing lance. Astarion all but collapses back on the log, aching to claw at his own chest to force his lungs to take a full breath, to feel something other than the all consuming void.

The other man sinks down to one knee, his eyes searching Astarion’s face with something akin to pity.

Astarion knows himself. Which is why he knows that everything, even this, is amiss.

He should be sneering at the wizard and his pompous self righteousness, furious at the sorry state of his hands, fuming at the bloody bard with a piss poor pitch at the tavern next door, and he should be somewhere else. Somewhere important. The ache of not being there refuses to let him breathe and he can’t understand why, the answers locked behind the closed gates of his mind, tearing apart his temples every time he even thinks of getting them back.

He did this to himself, then. He gave another person his mind on a leash, and agreed to have disobedience punished with pain. And apparently, he made the choice at some point, to let his mind waddle in the muck instead of facing whatever it is that has everyone acting out of sorts. Specially himself.

He must have lost it pretty badly, to have turned to the fucking wizard for help.

Gale settles on the ground and moves the empty tub closer, pulling his long sleeves back and reaching for one of the pieces of fabric closest to the surface. Astarion follows his motions, reaching into the dark water and pulling on a piece of linen, some sort of sleeve now dyed a deep midnight blue.

Gale sighs again and he clears his throat, apparently intending to say something, when a shooting vine bursts from one of the overgrown garden plots, raining down a flurry of roots, clover and the busted pieces of a wooden hatch door. Karlach runs towards the noise, axe in hand, when the muffled sound of Shadowheart’s battle cry is followed by the head of her morningstar, smashing open the rest of the hidden hatch.

Astarion can feel Gale’s concentration on the spell sway, as he gets up and nears the hole in the ground where Shadowheart now has emerged, dragging the tumbling body of a young woman with a burlap sack over her head.

“Don’t tell me that’s-” Gale begins to question, a hint of anger in his tone.

“Yes, she is.” Wyll answers, voice flat as he emerges from the ground, followed by Lae’zel and Jaheira, who watches the scene unfold with her hands on her hips as soon as she is out.

Astarion is about to start twisting the linen shirt in his hands when something makes him stop cold, a whiff of the girl’s scent piercing through the sea of numbness and rattling something inside his chest. Sour sweat, the Flaming Fist’s standard issue soap, traces of orange peel oil. And underneath the drool and bile soaked front of her shirt, wine. Heavily spiced and bitter.

The blood covering her is new, though. It hadn’t been there before, he muses as the headache spreads from his forehead to the back of his scalp.

Shadowheart all but hauls the girl towards the empty rooms surrounding the courtyard and kicks open one of the wooden doors, splintering the frame. She unceremoniously drops the girl on the ground, her skull hitting the floor with a loud crack, and exits the room without looking back, stomping in a beeline towards the water barrel.

The sun has already set behind the ocean, but the bright orange light reflecting on the clouds renders their little group’s gathering around the firepit in a hellish light. Wyll groans as he takes Karlach’s place on the crate, massaging the side of his neck with a grimace. Lae’zel has taken to sitting on a log, her eyes dully following Shadowheart’s pacing from the water barrel to her tent as she forcefully removes pieces of her armour and throws them to the ground. Gale approaches with branches and a couple of thin logs to start their fire for the evening.

Astarion can hear Jaheira talking to a couple of the Harpers guarding the roof, but his eyes follow the interest of his nose, to the darkened room where their new prisoner hasn’t moved. Her wrists are bound, but it seems hardly necessary; she is missing all her fingers, except for her left pinkie.

He doesn’t need the tadpole or his head entirely clear to realize that whatever the rest of his companions were up to during the day, it has not gone over well.

“Well?” Gale prompts, once the silence has stretched long enough.

Wyll stares into the fire and feeds it some small branches before answering, “She said she cannot spare the hands. Specially now that she has weeded out rats on her den. She is gathering whomever can hold a sword to hold together what she can of the city”

Gale’s face contorts in a sneer and the walls around Astarion’s mind tremble.

“Whomever? More orphans? Is that it?” he almost spits out.

Wyll stays silent, and after a beat he responds, strained.

“The Flaming Fist is scattered after my father’s brush with the Absolute, the Watch all but disappeared under Gortash. They have at most two weeks before the fight for the city begins. If I were in her place-” Wyll’s mismatched eyes don’t meet Gale’s when he scoffs. The walls get a few hairline cracks and Astarion can feel the weight over his chest getting heavier and heavier, a vice growing around his throat.

“You wouldn’t have done that. And would have stood by your word.” Gale insists, bitterness seeping further in his tone.

“Chk. Shut up, both of you.” Lae’zel hisses in their direction, “Focus your anger on something useful or stop wasting it.”

Silence fills the fire pit, and Gale seems to get a hold of his temper, the Calm Emotions spell gathering back its steadiness.

“After what we did for them. After what she did for Nine Finger’s, for so many years. I don’t-” Gale sighs, rubbing at his eyes.

“Nine Finger’s is not like either of you.” Jaheira says as she approaches on long strides. “Loyalty in the Guild does not come cheap, and we have earned it. If she’d had the means to pay it back and hold us in her debt, she wouldn’t have hesitated to use them.” She removes the cork to her waterskin and takes a long drink. “But she doesn’t have the means. And the fact it’s one of her most loyal assets is the one in that palace, well…” she lets the sentence wander off into the night, putting the cork back on the waterskin and staring pensively into the fire.

“It was a long shot anyway, but we had to try.” she says with finality, her keen eyes scanning every face across the fire.

The silence stretches as Shadowheart joins the pit, her scowl lessened by exhaustion. Astarion realizes that he is still holding the linen shirt in his hands, his fingers now wrinkled and stained a nearly black shade of blue. He drops it into the dye water once more, the splashing sound of it the only thing to accompany the crackling of the wood burning in the pit.

“What about her?” asks Karlach, nodding in the direction of the room where the girl still hasn’t moved an inch.

Wyll looks pointedly at Jaheira.

“A show of good faith from the Guild. They don’t claim her, or her actions.” she stops once more, staring straight into Astarion’s direction. “We may dispose of her, as we plea-”

“Excuse me?” Gale interrupts her, “Dispose of her? Is this what we are doing now? Are we going to take turns on chopping up the only finger she has left?!”

“Gale, please-” Wyll rises to his feet.

“I hold no love for that-that individual in there. But it’s clear as day, that she has been through enough.”

Jaheira’s face twists into a sneer, her eyes fixating on the flames that seem to grow taller.

“That individual invited spawn into our camp and took our friend, the woman she called sister, to her doom. She has worked against her own Guild, against the Gate, for months! You cannot fathom the damage she has done!”

“She almost succeeded in killing me, so I can gather some! But I won’t be her executioner. She didn’t need to walk on her own broken feet all the way here, just to end up in a gallow with a different view!”

Jaheira seems to grow larger in the whipping light of the fire, her cold stare turning slowly towards Gale.

“Do you need a list of what that bastard is doing to our friend in that palace, wizard? Can you stop thinking of yourself for a minute?”

Gale’s concentration snaps like a tree in a hurricane, and Astarion gets a taste of everything he has been holding back.

He is a pig for the slaughter, a bloody canal has split open his chest and cracked open his ribs, but his lungs are frozen, refusing to expand. The firepit tilts, his vision blurs in a red and black fog, the burning logs and heated voices turn into a senseless cacophony that rises endlessly. He heaves onto the floor, his brain tearing itself apart between running away into the sunset or darting into the streets of the Lower City, gutting everything that may cross his path on his way to rip apart Aurelia and Leon, for what they have dared to take from him. She is gone, she is gone, he took her screaming four days ago and he is waiting for Astarion to come willingly to the slaughterhouse, to present his neck for sacrifice a second time. The wine on the girl’s clothes is an Utterdark, a favourite of the Master; a sickeningly familiar mix of spices, forever intertwined in his brain with the scent of rotting blood, rat piss and spawn waste in the kennels. Nails dig into his scalp, a burning pain that instead of tether him as it should, sinks him further into the sea of despair. The wine had been the only whiff of a smell on his year inside the coffin, the Master pouring himself a glass over the stone lid, just to let him catch its scent mixed with blood already in the glass. He hears his screeching laugh, the rattling of the chain whip, his own molars breaking, broken bone grinding against raw nerves and vermin flesh. She is there, she is strapped onto the rack, the stones of the palace drinking in her precious blood. And he is here, loosing his fucking mind in front of his own companions.

It stops at once, just like it began.

He finds himself on his hands and knees, staring to the cobblestone floor in the courtyard of the camp. The heavy silence only interrupted by Gale’s quiet cursing and Astarion’s own ragged breathing.

His arms tremble and he is so dizzy that he lets himself flop down on his back, shadows at the edges of his vision creeping back and forth in time with the renewed thudding at the back of his brain. His throat is raw and his breath shallow, but slowly a few stars blur back into focus, alongside a tiefling’s worried face hovering over him.

“This is not about revenge, Jaheira” a male voice says. There’s a slow breath before an answer comes.

“That is not the reason why she is here.”

The tiefling is slow and deliberate on guiding Astarion by the shoulders, first to get up from the ground and then to sit down on a log close to the fire. He lets himself be steered, still too addled to feel any hint of disgust towards himself for it.

The fire is mesmerizing, a much better sight than Gale’s conflicted face as something seems to dawn on him, and Jaheira’s solemn expression when she readies to speak again.

“The truth has to be spoken. Hazel has most likely been turned by now. We need to plan accordingly. And for that, we need to talk. All of us.”

She walks closer and drops to a knee in front of Astarion, blocking his sight of the fire and the blurry silhouettes of their companions. Her aged face fills his vision, her eyes purposeful but not unkind.

“We need you here, Astarion, really here. You know the inside of his lair, the dirty tricks he may use. Any advantage we can get, we need it now. We have to move at dawn.”

He is still shaking mildly, phantom traces of whatever had been going through his mind before he found himself crawling on the floor still floating around the fog inside his brain. It is an instinct to avoid Jaheira’s searching stare, whatever part of his brain that actually understands what she is saying taking control.

Her brows furrow slightly before softening again, her face loosing some of the tension around her eyes and mouth. She almost seems to grow old in front of him.

“I know a thing or two about loosing people, my friend. But the day they took my husband from me…” her eyes get lost on some point over Astarion’s shoulder, her mouth forming a thin line before she returns her gaze to him, “I have not forgotten that pain. So know, that when I ask you to let the spell run its course and get yourself together, I am aware of what it means.”

The walls around his mind hold back most of it, but the taste of bile at the back of his throat is reminder enough of the full force of what is happening beyond the limits of the spell. He’s not just drowning in despair. He’s terrified.

“He will be waiting.” His voice is a broken, whispered thing.

“Yes.” Jaheira answers, holding his gaze without flinching. “But you are not alone.”

His eyes drift towards the fire at her back, where a log and some pieces of broken furniture have been fed to the fire. The far off bard hasn’t stopped singing, although there’s a distinctly nostalgic quality to his bellowing now.

The tune is familiar, tugging at the strings in his throat and pounding at the insides of his temples.

The girl’s blood sings to him from a few meters away, but the wine on her clothes stills him with an iron grip at the nape of his neck.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

The druid sighs, and after a moment of consideration, she leans in closer.

“You know to fear your former master. But right now, you need to bear your teeth through that fear; let it wash over you and believe that you will get to dwell on it once everything is said and done. If not for her, for yourself.” She whispers, quieter than the breeze running through the courtyard.

His body has been numb and foreign for days, like a sleeping limb that refuses to recover sensation. At some point in the last five minutes though, the walls have thinned. He can feel it now, distant but clear. The wind on his arms, and a rising sense of panic that clings to her every word.

“You get to try to get her back. You get a chance to put the spawn on the ground and rise as your own man, Astarion.” Her hand is warm as she grips onto his, her earnest eyes unblinking. “You get to try. So try.”

He can feel it creeping on his spine, wrapping itself around his ribs and deep inside his skull. The full force of the last four days looming on the horizon, a wave gaining height.

Jaheira waits and doesn’t let go of his stained hand. The wind howls through the trees, the fire crackles and whips into the darkened sky.

You are not alone, she said. He knows these words, they matter to him. They echo in his bones, they loosen his chest just enough.

He grips Jaheira’s hand in return and assents before letting go. He closes his eyes and feels the walls crumble all the way, the crest of despair standing still for a moment.

This time he has half a mind to turn around, before it drags him under.

.............................................

He has no idea who the nonchalant performance is for any more, but at this point of the night he is way to exhausted to puzzle over anything.

Wyll, Karlach and Gale linger at the fire, spitting venom at Nine Fingers and her excuses, whilst Astarion wipes his hands of the grime from sharpening the last of the blades he’s settled on taking with him. He sneers at his hands, still dark blue and now smelling of steel shavings and polish. A cleric, a druid and a former Chosen of Mystra, bested by a bit of indigo dye.

He is not feeling optimistic about their chances.

Although, that may have more to do with the hunger burning a hole through his abdomen, rather than the actual state of affairs.

The spell may be lifted, and he may be able to take shallow breaths now, but its mostly because he has willed himself not to think about it, any of it.

There’s plenty to stew over anyway.

Like the fact that the pedantic vampire lord would surely choke on his wine if he knew that there existed a floor plan of his state on some courtyard in the Lower City, drawn by his own spawn with a piece of chalk. Crude marks for hidden entrances that Astarion knew like the back of his eyelids, traps that he’d been an unfortunate test subject for; and a short explanation, given in the flattest, most unconcerned voice he’d managed, of what intimately little he knew of Cazador’s magical preferences.

If Jaheira had been expecting more, she doesn’t show it. She merely nods and listens, even as Gale’s heart skips a beat at the mention of necromancy, and Karlach mutters a dejected “Of course” the moment he mentions Cazador’s misty form he’d used once, on a game of cat and mouse on the one night he’d dared to visit his own grave. Useless details they don’t get to know.

It may not be all that his former master can do, and he knows it well. But it is well past what Astarion could stomach to tell.

The metallic tang of polish clings to his skin with stubbornness, and the tavern next door has fallen silent a while ago. The wind rustles through the leaves above and he can tell with acute awareness, that the blood on the girl’s stumps has soaked through one of her bandages.

He clings to the pain in his gut, forcing himself to turn his head towards the fire instead of the alluring dark room. He is drawn to it, the way a fly aims for a rotting carcass on the street; and he feels the same disgust for that girl the way he does for the fly.

No one has mentioned her again. Not Wyll, who is strategically sitting down so he is giving his back to her, and not Jaheira, who marched off to the stairs the moment they could hear Minsc’s loud ramblings coming up the street.

If he focuses on the twisting pain at the maw of his stomach, he can’t think of the hole in his chest. If he tries, with all the might of his weakened senses, to hear the wretch’s rabbit heart pumping away, he can let the hunger eat him whole for a moment, and pretend that it is the only thing he has to worry about.

He is dizzy, the vision of his dry, splotchy hands blurring slightly, when he hears Minsc yelling just a few feet away from him.

“Astarion! Astarion, look!”

He barely has the time to lift his eyes before a longbow is placed in the very hands he’d been sneering at. He blinks several times, trying to focus on the thing. It gives off a faint, familiar glow.

“Wait. I’ve seen that thing somewhere.” Karlach wonders as she approaches.

“Ah yes! Minsc had forgotten, Karlach was there too when we pawned it off!”

That quip makes things fall into place. The Devil’s Fee. And what a fee it had been.

Gontr Mael is still one of the finest bows he has ever held. It had pained him to give it up, but they had needed to bypass the bloody diabolist as soon as possible to follow their idiot leader into the House of Hope.

Back then, even when things had been strained between them, he hadn’t hesitated to give up his most precious bow if it meant reaching her in time, even if he’d had such precious little time to enjoy its weight on his hand.

It had been so simple.

“Helsik gave it back?” he asks, in a slightly hoarse voice, as his hands find the spikes along the bow’s body and pluck at the tight string that binds both ends. As perfect as it had been then.

“A bit of persuasion and promises were needed, but not nearly as much as we had feared.” Halsin answers.

“Ha! Well, she still owes us nine thousand gold. She got so much of our stuff, and those gloves? Man, don’t get me started.” Karlach laments.

Astarion can nearly hear Halsin’s smile when he answers.

“In such case-”

“No way!”

He has a moment to feel a crumb Karlach’s joy as she takes the Hill Giant Guantlets from Halsin and almost squeals, the deep frown in her forehead temporarily smoothed out.

He catches sight of Jaheira by his tent as she drops the quiver of arrows by the entrance. As she notices his attention, she points her face quietly towards the dark room.

He leaves all the muscle gushing over their newly reacquired weapons and he approaches the broken threshold of the room, where Jaheira meets him with crossed arms, staring at the rumpled figure on the floor.

“So this is what our village berserk has been up to for the day.” He comments, following one of the bow’s sharp spikes to its curved end.

“The knucklehead was not going to let Astele's reasoning go unchallenged, no matter how sound it may be.”

The girl’s breath is shallow, the skin of her neck bathed in sweat. The heart still beats, weak and fast, but still alive. Beckoning him into the dark, an itching in his bones to rip apart this bag of meat that clings stubbornly to life.

He grits his teeth, and tightens his hold on the bow. A bitter reunion, if there ever was one.

He has plenty of those in his near future.

“Nine Finger’s was about to get rid of her when we got to the Guildhall. She offered to let us do the honours.”

“So you dragged her all the way here.”

She stays silent, staring at the girl. She walked the whole passage from the Guild to the safehouse and she had every chance to end it. To drop the girl and let her die in the darkness of the tunnel instead of pushing her onto his hands. But not only she hadn’t done that, she had apparently talked Wyll into it too.

“Why?”

Jaheira takes her time to answer.

“They say that the only thing a vampire can feel is hunger. Nothing else touches them — not grief, or mercy. Or any sense of what is just.”

Out of all the things the master ever used against him, the hunger was the one that had kept him in the tightest leash. Eating had been as agonizing as being hungry, the compulsion that made him crawl on his belly for rats would never truly leave him, even if he had no master.

Only one thing would, the one thing he is trying his damn hardest not to think about.

“Well. There must be something to it, then.”

“Perhaps.” she hums and leans back from the creaky door frame, shifting her gaze towards him. “Maybe a sense of what is just escapes most of us, not only the undead.”

Silence falls over both of them. He is almost afraid of it now. He has no escape, torn between his hunger and the frightening amount of contempt he feels for the woman on the floor.

He could see Hazel all over her, when they met her at the Basilisk door. The plain appearance and mended uniform hiding the quick wit and the muddy secrets.

She had vouched for them at the entrance to the Guild. She had been funny, she had watched over Mol when she entered the Guildhall and Hazel had been so relieved to see her that she’d almost seemed to float. The girl’s eyes had lingered on him, as so many eyes did now that he could be seen by day, and Hazel had teased him about it. An olive branch to try and stay the rift that was tearing them apart.

She hadn’t been attracted to him, he knows it now. She had been zeroing in on her prize.

Her name was Meg. Hazel had called her nutmeg twice, truly smiling for the first time in days.

He may loathe her, but he knows he will not enjoy this one bit.

“Try to get some sleep, Astarion. We need you at your best.” Jaheira says as she leans in and takes the bow from his right hand, turning away towards the firepit and leaving him alone.

He goes into the room and swings the door closed, decidedly ignoring the dejected sigh Gale lets out.

Alone and in the dark, his dark vision reveals details of the room in shades of black and gray. The scent of the girls blood blooms and fills his lungs with mouth watering expectation. The richness of a healthy human, a sprinkle of bitter adrenaline, and the foulness of the Utterdark wine still on her clothes.

If he had been near enough to camp to smell the wine, he would have known that the girl was an envoy of Cazador, even if she herself had no idea who she worked for. But he hadn’t been there.

And none of them had known who took her, not until it was too late.

The heavy silence settles on his shoulders and at the bottom of his neck. He wonders if it was done on purpose, the wine spilling over her clothes the moment Cazador decided to reveal his hand in a way only Astarion would understand.

Knowing that it would make him remember who he truly was.

He could make her suffer, he ponders. Make whatever Nine Fingers had done look like mercy.

He could give her some semblance of dignity. Prop her up against a wall and be done with it.

Or, he could just give in. Surrender to the instinct already thrashing beneath his ribs.

He could go down under, give control of his body to the ghost of a predator living inside his head, go away for an instant and come back once it’s over, one last time.

It’s easy, really. He truly makes things harder for himself when he thinks.

His legs seem to move on string, kneeling besides her on the ground. His hands follow the lead, removing the burlap sack over the girl’s head. Her breathing is shallow and she cries weakly as his fingers grip onto dark hair to tilt her head back. Her neck is already marred by a dark, thick rope burn; the markings of a noose.

If her blood smelled as foully as the Moonrise drow’s had, maybe he would have an excuse for the full body shiver of disgust that makes him close his eyes and cower deeper inside his head. Her blood smells fine. They need this. He needs this.

Bear your teeth through it, let it wash over you, Jaheira had said, whilst Gale had sighed like if he was the one destined for the gallows.

They know why the girl is here. They know what he is doing in the dark. They know that only one walking corpse will leave the room.

He was told to dwell on it when everything is said and done. So he will.

He feels his back bend and his jaw opens wide.

His mouth fills and he swallows pull after pull of something warm and soothing. He sinks his fangs again, digging deeper between the tissue, and he drinks everything he can. He focuses on the warmth spreading to his fingers and the clearing of his head, the burning at the mouth of his stomach cooling down at last.

He does not want to heave onto the floor. He is not avoiding to touch her skin with his lips as much as possible. He is not considering pulling the burlap sack over her head again.

He is not thinking of running away.

He is not.

Astarion straightens up and stares at the cooling body on the ground. Even though she has lost some blood in the last few hours, his senses sharpen to a needle point once more, the aches around his body only a sign that he really needs to lie down.

Jaheira’s awful fiddle plays into the night. Gale seems to be roasting almonds in the fire.

Every minute that he holds on without loosing it, is a minute closer to dawn. A minute closer to whatever end this may have.

The only thing a vampire can feel is hunger, people say.

Gods, he wishes it was true.

.............................................

The halfling behind the bar is the only soul in the Guildhall when their merry band makes their entrance. Astarion finds the lack of blood and innards pleasantly mundane, even if the smell is still atrocious.

As soon as the guard at Nine Fingers’ office lays eyes on them, she opens one of her doors and the Guildmaster’s voice emerges from inside. It doesn’t stop in whatever it is saying, not even as the guard signals in Thieves Cant to someone inside.

‘They’re here.’

Nine Fingers must be the one answering, because the guard looks back to them and motions towards the inside. Jaheira steps forward, and he is about to make his way to the bar with the rest of the party, when a quick whistle catches his attention back to the wooden door.

It’s the guard, making another familiar sign whilst holding his gaze.

‘You too.’

The scraping sound of chairs being opened and the heavy clang of weapons placed on the bar top accompany the slight dread that dawns on him as he approaches on quiet steps, focusing on whatever it is that Nine Fingers’ has been talking about this whole time.

“-I don’t give two shits if your wife is in labour Stefan! I want every bloody rat on this den exterminated by midnight. Don’t come back until it’s done.”

Jaheira seems intrigued as she approaches the door, dodging the unassuming young man that exits the office in a hurry.

The moment they enter the now familiar cavernous space, he can tell the situation is far different from their first meeting a couple of weeks ago. Nine Fingers is alone at her desk, dressed in leather armour even though it is close to midnight.

She may look composed, but the bulging vein on the right side of her forehead gives her away. The moment her eyes fall on him, her pulse quickens and a frown settles on her forehead.

“Where the hells have you been?! I’ve been trying to get a Sending to you for the last two fucking hours!” her eyes fix upon Jaheira as the older woman walks calmly to her desk, her voice rising slightly after the doors have been closed once more.

She is furious.

He shares the sentiment. Jaheira just seems tired.

“Apologies, Guildmaster. Bad reception at the Murder Tribunal.” the druid retorts, lowering herself on a chair without invitation. Astarion stays far from the desk, in what he can guess is the periphery of Nine Fingers’ field of vision. Just in case.

A beat of silence passes, as Nine Fingers pours a finger of whisky on a glass and pushes it towards Jaheira. She offers none to him.

He is over this conversation and it hasn't even begun. He wonders what even is he doing here.

“Got what you were looking for?” she asks, the vein at her forehead pulsing in the low light.

No, he thinks bitterly. He didn’t get what he had been looking for, because Hazel hadn’t ever been at the Temple of Bhaal.

Halsin had, but that was a given anyway. He even was unharmed and had been unconscious for most of everything, for all the good that did him.

But Hazel hadn’t been there. Not on the slab, not as decoration on the hallways or hiding between the cultists, as he’d dared to hope in a last bid to make the journey worth it. Orin hadn’t even known what they meant when they demanded she reveal her second captive.

The might have gotten rid of the last Chosen of the Dead Three and taken possession of her netherstone, but they hadn’t found their leader.

It had made sense back then, to think that the changeling had been the one to take her. He’d returned from his Minsc chaperoned diner excursion to a ravished camp, no Hazel and a letter written in blood, congratulating the party on killing Gortash.

It’s been a while since he has truly put his mind to try and understand anything that happens to them on a daily basis, and of course the one time he actually cares to follow the reasoning behind what their escapades, it has to fall apart.

At least he hadn’t been the only one dumbfounded at the Temple. Too bad Hazel hadn't been there to see Gale gape like a fish and be speechless for once.

“We did.” Jaheira responds. “A few errands to attend to now, before we move onto the brain and get this over with.”

The low light in the office may work to hide her from human eyes, but his darkvision reveals Nine Fingers’ face and the steady tick that pulls at her left bottom eyelid.

“A pity that your guiding shrub will miss all the action, after everything she did to get here.”

She must have guessed this was the way the conversation would go, because Jaheira merely blinks and stares at the woman across from her in silence. She hasn't touched the whisky glass.

“If you know something, you better spit it out Astele.”

“Of course I bloody well know something! I can’t believe you’ve kept this from me for the past three days, Jaheira. She’s Guild, she is ours too, for fuck’s sake.”

“She isn’t. Not any more.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe it’s the raising thirst gnawing at the bottom of his stomach, or perhaps it is the past three endless days that make him say out loud the thing that Hazel had only ever said to him through the tadpole. Or maybe it’s her tone. Her particular choice of words that remind him of his own former master.

Nine Fingers’ eyes snap from Jaheira to him, her face a mask of ice cold rage. This is the first time she has truly had him on her sight, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Think it’s that simple, Astarion? Leaving what we are behind? You better think again, because you past is catching up.”

Everything recedes. Nine Fingers’ racing pulse, Jaheira’s furrowed brow, even his own awareness of his name on her voice and the wrongness of it.

“What?”

“Your head is catching a pretty penny on the bounty hunter market these days. And yet, you’re still here. Bet you didn’t even notice the four hunters and the Shadow Thief that almost cashed in, did you?”

He thinks back to the last few weeks and can only think of one body out of place on the periphery of their errands at the Gate. But he can see Hazel’s dark circles grow purple and deep, taking guard more often and for longer, making her own tent and renting her own bed instead of joining him at his. He had assumed it had been because of their fallout after their increasingly bitter Ascension talks, but he’d only been partly right.

She had known.

“I warned her that you were trouble, that she should keep her distance.” Nine Fingers continues, holding him still with the weight of her accusatory glare.“Trust a thief in a hurry and a fool in love to run into the same wall twice.”

“I couldn't think of the kind of enemies you've made to have such an obscene bounty on your head, but now that the splashback of your shitshow has gotten me too, I can get an idea. Not many creatures in this city have to send a decoy first, to ask for permission to be let in.”

Whatever Jaheira says next gets overpowered by a shrill ringing in his ears. He barely gets to hear the name of Cazador Szarr leave Nine Fingers’ lips before he is pushing open her doors just to get away from the sound.

The empty Guildhall is still the same, his companions sprawled on the bar stools.

“Hey, Fangs! We got you some wine!” Karlach sing-songs, pointing at a glass in front of an empty chair.

He is paralysed at the threshold for a moment, his ribcage frozen mid breath.

“Astarion?” Wyll asks, getting up from his seat, “Are you alright?”

What now? What now that he has her? What now that she has been there for three days whilst they have been parading around and saving the world?

What now that she is dead?

“Slow down, what are you saying?” a voice beneath a sea of cotton asks, hazy silhouettes closing in on him.

His vision blurs. He can’t breathe. Where are his blades?

Hands reach over, gripping at his arms, his back. Growing whispers of something that sounds like his name but make no sense. No, she isn’t dead. What she is now, is much, much worse than that.

He has to go. Find anything to drink and then he will do something. Something other than doom her as he has been doing the past three days where he has play acted at being something that he is not.

See what happens when you leave your place, child?

A large red shadow looms over his vision, it reaches for him. The Master, come to take him where he stands and return him to his place. He is terrified. He wants to throw up. He wants to rip something apart. He wants to cry and beg to let him go. He wants to disappear.

Although you may try to deny it, what I made you had always been in you, son.

He reaches for the dagger at his hip.

A sudden bright light shines on his eyes and blinds him. A blanket of cold numbness cuts through the terror, making his vision clear and his hand relax. A metallic rattle echoes around the high vaulted ceilings of the empty Guildhall as he hears a blade falls to his feet.

Everything is quiet as colour and shape return slowly to his eyes.

Karlach holds a bleeding slash on her right palm, but her worried eyes don’t leave his face. Her blood drips onto the stone floor. Shadowheart is just beside her, her hands still emitting a faint yellow glow.

Gale makes his way from the edges of his vision, his hands raised. He looks remorseful. Astarion distantly wonders why.

“You’re under the Calm Emotions spell, Astarion. I’m… I’m sorry.”

His hands are too heavy to grasp at the dagger again, Gale’s words drip onto his brain one by one.

“We’ll figure this out, just—just hold on.”

He is cold.

#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion fanfic #astarion fandom #bg3 #bg3 tav #writers on tumblr #fanfic #first fanfic #please be nice

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commander-wame · 16 days

Text

Ty for the tag @herald-of-aurene !!

tagging @vampiricsheep @commander-violette @mystery-salad @commanders-sole-braincell @manasurge and anyone who'd like to!! (idk who has or hasn't done it yet)(no pressure)

-- B A S I C S

Name: Wame Nicknames: Ura (by Gixi) Age: 3 y/o at the start, currently 16 y/o (I think??) Birthday: 1322 Colossus (November 15th) Race: Noon-bloom sylvari Gender: Non-binary/guy/person (he/him)(transed his gender upon waking) Orientation: Panromantic asexual Profession: commander (semi-retired), champion of Aurene

-- P H Y S I C A L A S P E C T S

Hair: Originally brighter green. Now darkish/desaturated green with specks of lighter green and dark purple Eyes: Originally yellow, now a very pale green Skin: Desaturated green, fading into darker tones on his limbs and horns, glows a faint yellow in the dark Tattoos/Scars: long scar on his left eye (arrow, eye now perma closed due to shoddy patch job), many more tiny scars all over his face, assorted burns marks

-- F A M I L Y

Parents: Pale Tree Siblings: Fehine (older brother), Eithne (older sister), Sera (younger sibling over at @/commander-violette), Caithe (older sister) Grandparents: Jungle grandpappy (Mordremoth) In-laws and others: Eldrid (dearheart), Trahearne (???, deceased), Gixi (best friend/adopted sibling), Aurene (adopted daughter), Dragon's Watch (Adopted Family) Pets: Sparkfly (smokescale, always by his side since Maguuma), Beetle (raven, often closeby), a two headed snake who sometimes chills on his shoulder, + tens of cats

-- S K I L L S

Abilities: Ranger (soulbeast, temporarily fusing with animals he's tamed/pets), minor necromancer abilities Hobbies: Cooking, drawing, studying animal and creature behaviour.

-- T R A I T S

Most positive trait: gentle, kind, protective, analytical, decisive. Most negative trait: stubborn, pessimistic, self-isolating.

-- L I K E S

Colors: greens, yellows, pale blue, and a specific bright red Smells: bread, fresh air, fruits, blood Textures: soft fur, rough scales, tree bark, cloth Drinks: coffee, mango juice, water

-- O T H E R D E T A I L S

Smokes: no Drinks: on occasion Drugs: no Been arrested: a couple of times

#wame #the him #ty this was fun!! :D

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lennjamin-o7 · 4 months

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Lenn: Right, so the prompt is supposed to be between 500-1000 words. I'm about halfway done, so lets check to see how many more words I can-

#why can't I be concise??? lololol #Noon a Purple Glow #lenn writes

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quillpokebiology · 1 year

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Espeon Facts

@captainfalcon03 asked me to do this, but I accidently deleted the post. But this is an awnser to their ask!

-The scientific name for Espeon is "Alter vulpes sol" which means "other sun fox"

-Espeon is known as "The Sun Pokemon," because they get their psychic energy from the sun. Many ancient cultures also took inspiration from their sun bathing techniques to gain psychic abilities themselves

-The fur on espeon's ears droop and become thinner the older they get

-Because their fur is very sensitive to it's surroundings, espeon don't have a great sense of smell

-The gem on their head doesn't apply to any gems you can find in nature. But it mostly resembles either ruby, red eudialyte, red jasper, garnet, or red coral

-Espeons can have slightly different fur coloring and body types depending on the time of day they evolved. Dawn espeon are usually shorter and have darker fur, sunhigh or Noon espeon have lighter fur and are the most common (the ones you see on the pokedex), and sunset espeon have a purplish/pinkish color scheme and have ears the point slightly more downward

-Because wild espeon are so rare, researchers often put tracking devices on the ones they do find. There's actually a website that allows you to see the footage of wild espeon and where they go

-When angered, their eyes begin to glow instead of their orbs. The orbs only glow when using their psychic abilities

-The inside of espeons ears can be either purple or blue

-Espeons are common for illegal poaching, as the gem is very valuable (it gives psychic abilities to the pokemon that holds it. Don't poach espeon)

-Espeons are great for beginner trainers as they mostly like to relax and are fine just cuddling up to their trainers

-Like leafeon, espeon needs to sun a lot. Most in the wild prefer to sun in an open clearing or field, but in the house, they're fine with finding a window and sitting by that to get sunlight

-Lack of sunlight can cause espeon to get grumpy and irritable, so they're usually the most grouchy during cloudy or rainy days

-Espeon are related to the meowstic line. The eevee line, in general, are actually related to a lot of pokemon, and I might have to do an entire post on that

-Espeon in the wild tend to better care for young eevee, as they can foresee ant danger that might come to them, and can easily find ways to avoid it

-Espeon in Alola tend to be more powerful, as they get lots of sunlight

-Ancient civilizations in the Asado deserts of Paldea Worshipped espeon, almost like gods

(Ooc: plz give us an Egyptian pokemon region)

-While espeon don't have many natural predators, they often get into fights with sableye as sableye often try to steal their gems

#espeon #eeveelutions #pokemon biologist #pokemon biology #quill pokefacts #pokemon #pokemon irl #irl pokemon #pokeblog #pokeblogging #pokeblr #rotumblr #rotomblr #pkmn irl #irl pkmn #quill awnsers

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vidawhump · 2 months

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Dear Valentine

Masterpost

CW/TW: Captivity whump, winged whumpee, idk this one’s just fluffy

“Elias, don’t be like that. Just come down and eat your breakfast.”

Elias refused to respond to his captor, continuing to gaze out the window. The cities were right there. And just beyond that, the forests. His home, his family, his freedom, were right at his fingertips. So close, yet so far away. His life was taken away by Cassidy, and no matter how much she might romanticize the exhibitions, he hated it all. He tucked himself away in his wings, desperately trying to ignore Cassidy.

“C’mon, starling, it’s Valentine’s Day! Everyone is here to-“

“I’m not a starling. The starlings were my friends. …Don’t talk about them.”

Elias would normally bite back and start a fight with Cassidy, but he was burnt out. He would bite her in the ass tomorrow, but not today. Cassidy sighed in frustration, and Elias heard a light tap on the table below the windowsill.

“Be stage-ready by noon. Eat your food. And…” A pause. Cassidy never hesitates. “Happy Valentine’s Day. Love you.” With that, she left the room, long brown hair rippling behind her like the rivers back home. It shut with a sharp click.

Hell no. What was that? Her voice carried mild traces of… sympathy? Empathy? No. She has Elias trapped here. She’s using him. Soon. He’ll be out soon.

Elias swung out from the windowsill, angling his wings to soften the fall. Neglecting the tray of berries that Cassidy had left for him, he brought his attention to the concerningly large pile next to it. It consisted of what seemed to be hundreds of Valentine's cards, envelopes, and assorted candy hearts. And a letter opener. Of course, Cassidy wanted him to open them all. Maybe when he finished, he could shred the papers and make a mess of his room. That’s sure to piss her off.

Idly shuffling through the stacks of magentas, pinks, purples, and assorted “romantic” colors, Elias stopped at a deep maroon envelope. Unlike the others with their cheesy hearts, cupids, and pitiful declarations of love, this one had barely any details. It was dented in the corners as if it was beaten up during delivery. The outside was entirely bare, save for a matte black wax stamp, sealing it all shut. In the middle of the stamp was a crow with outspread wings. Elias’ breath caught in his throat. There was only one person who could’ve sent this.

He stumbled to fly back up to the windowsill, where the sunrise dripped in soft pinks and purples behind the cityscape. Feathers fluttering behind him, Elias scrambled his way onto the ledge with the envelope and letter opener in hand. He barely managed to open the envelope before pulling out a hastily folded loose-leaf notebook paper. Most of the paper had unrelated notes and to-do lists hastily scribbled into the corners. Between a due date reminder from months before and a dried coffee stain, were a small cluster of hearts in spotty red pen. He couldn't help but cry when he saw the familiar handwriting.

Dear Valentine

It’s been a minute, hasn’t it? Molly misses you. She’s walking all over my paper as I write this. You might see tiny bites on the paper because she literally won’t leave me alone. She knows that she can get away with anything, I swear.

New Years passed me by. I went on a walk just before midnight to stargaze under our favorite tree. And I swear, before the fireworks covered everything up, right when the clocks struck midnight, the stars glowed just a little brighter. I think between everything that’s going on, that might be a good sign. :)

The forests are quiet without you. I miss your rambunctious energy firing up the whole flock, and the way you know you were born to be a leader. The kids are asking where you went, and I can only keep up the excuse of a spontaneous solo migration for so long. I miss finding your fluffy feathers in absolutely everything I own, and the way you would make a nest of blankets on my bed and hide out in my room when you got sick. Molly likes playing with the feathers that are still lying around. She’s collecting them in a fuzzy pile in her corner. Molly wants you to come home. It’ll happen soon.

Recently, I’ve only worn your hoodies and sweaters, the ones with holes in the back for your wings. Physically, it’s colder, but it makes me feel that much closer to you. The bed is lonely without you. I miss the way I would wake up to your primary feathers all up in my face, you sprawled out all over the bad and hoarding all the blankets. If I pile up the blankets next to me with your feathers, and if I close my eyes, for just a minute, I can pretend you’re still here with me.

You’ll be out soon. I promise I’ll help you escape. I have a plan, and I know you’ll catch on fast.

Eden <3

And taped to the last page were wilted rose petals. There was a rose bush just outside his window. Elias pressed up against the window and peered down at the small bush, which was mysteriously missing a few roses. Eden was here. Eden knows exactly where he is and has a plan to get him out.

Elias felt his heart flutter, reminiscing on memories he and Eden shared. Not even the forests know what the nature of their relationship is. Romantic, platonic, does it even matter? Elias and Eden are the light of each other’s lives, so why try to label their dynamic?

Elias took a deep breath, looking out his window. The pink had slowly bled into a cloudy blue. Gripping the paper to his chest, the future was looking a little brighter for Elias.

He should probably get to opening all the other cards. Happy Valentine’s Day, indeed.

#elias oc #cassidy oc #eden oc #molly oc #featherbound art #my writing #featherbound #captivity whump #whump #elias and eden are so perfect for each other y'all don't even understand #too bad Cassidy took too much interest in Elias and kidnapped him lol #I have so much to say about Eden somebody ask me about him he is my little lovely #happy valentines day y’all 👍

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karmic-toast · 2 years

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☆A traveler from another world★

Next>>

Surprise, surprise. You’ve stumbled upon a magical world called Teyvat. There’s just ooonnnee catch. Everybody there wants you dead! Well, at least your not the only one…

Warnings: none

You hadn’t realize you’d fallen asleep. You slowly sit yourself upright, drowsily examining your surroundings. Vibrant blue plants that softly glowed in the moonlight, and trees with dark trunks and lush jade-colored leaves adorned with light reddish fruits you knew all to well as Sunsettia. Sunsettia? SUNSETTIA?! You ogle at the fruit as if it were a sacred relic. There weren’t supposed to be Sunsettia’s here… That’s when you realized. Before you fell asleep you were at home. Now, you were in some type of forest. A forest filled with things that weren’t supposed to exist. Not in real life. Your shock slowly grows into excitement. There was only one place you knew that had Sunsettia’s and lamp grasses. Teyvat!

You ponder among your thoughts. There were so many thing you wanted to try! You hurry over to a batch of lamp flowers and picked off one of the stems. It seemed to glow brighter as you marveled at how pretty it was. Using the plant as a flashlight, you venture deeper into the forest, hoping that it was the right direction to Mondstadt. Your “flashlight” eventually died out, and you were left to your own defenses. You tried continuing, but after tripping over your own feet for what seemed like the hundredth time, you finally gave up. Since you didn’t want to sleep in pitch black, you ventured a little further to find a place with some moonlight. After a quick inspection, you find a spot covered in lamp flowers. Satisfied with your discovery, you find a place to lay down. You weren’t necessarily used to sleeping outdoors, but it’s not as if you could complain.

Your eyes start drooping as you continue staring at the cloudy night sky. When you arrive in Mondstadt tomorrow, you were definitely going to scare off Timmie's birds!

Soon you get lost in your thoughts, oblivious to the two shooting stars that lit up the night.

When you came to, it was already noon. You look around your surroundings. It was completely unrecognizable. Had you moved again? Blue, purple, and pink flowers bloomed around you, almost covering you entirely. There were squirrels running around and- Oh my. Was that a slime in your lap? The blue slime makes no move to attack. On further inspection, you realize it was sleeping?! You poke at it gently, trying to wake it up. The slime felt wet, yet there wasn’t a single speck of water on your clothes or hands. The slime opens its eyes, revealing two white ovals. They blink at you expectantly.

“Uhhh hi.” you say unsure of what to do.

The slime stays silent. Your faces starts to heat up in embarrassment. What were you thinking? It’s a slime, of course it can’t speak-

“Hello.”

Masterlist

#razor #genshin impact #sagau #kaeya #diluc #angst #fluff #childe #aether #xiao #albedo #mondstadt #slime #genshin cult au #genshin sagau #genshin x reader #character x reader #sagau x reader

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baggedbloodandmilk · 1 year

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kaedehara kazuha x fem!reader where — reader finds a fallen maple in the depths of chinju forest part 1.

𝘔𝘢𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘓𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘠𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘍𝘢𝘭𝘭

The air was absolutely frigid. The same trees that provided shade and comfort rustled harshly, as did the blades of grass that were to tickle, instead poking and prodding like needles. The wind that swept to and fro was relentless in its attack, sweeping in and out as the forest only grew all the more restless. Fast drops of cold water continued their onslaught on the ground below, rushing in only to platter onto the surface. The sound of rain was supposed to be calming. Then again, the entire forest was meant to be somewhat of a comfort place.

No longer was the air filled with the sounds of birds chirping, nor was it filled with the soothing smells of flora. No longer was the forest filled with woodland creatures that came and went, nor was it frequented by the occasional beings who wanted a break from their civilization.

No.

Chinju Forest was unforgiving that night.

His once clean skin was littered with cuts and bruises, some made from jagged branches hanging too low, and some made from blades' sharp edges. The fabrics only provided even more discomfort, ripped and torn, wet and muddy. But there was no time to let his discomfort show. He was lucky to even be here in the first place. Alive and still breathing.

His shoes slushed into the mud with every step, spraying mud onto the red-turned-maroon fabrics of his clothes. The discomfort of having mud coating his feet was enough to make him grimace, but he refused to falter. He couldn’t let himself falter.

But obviously, the lack of lighting limited his vision. He caught himself multiple times, tripping against fallen branches and perched stones. But as he felt his legs weaken, a stone was caught between his path.

Letting his knees meet with the muddy ground, his hands were sprawled across the floor as he let his weight fall on his arms. Breathing a bit too fast for his liking, and yet he was left no luxury to catch up with his disorientated mind. Marred with nothing but earth, he sighed slowly before propping himself up again.

But his eyes widened when thundering footsteps echoed, they were too close. And not a second was left when they had finally surrounded his figure. The familiar hues of purple and black clouded his vision. Each face harboured different emotions, ranging from rage and anger to annoyance and arrogance. He schooled his own expression to be calm.

“Give it up, you have nothing left,” one of them spoke, his polearm pointing directly at the other.

“My vision is not ‘nothing’, it is the materialization of my own ambitions,” he straightened his posture, willing his breathing to slow, unlike the erratic beat in his chest. “Surely, you can agree with this.”

“Your ambitions are nothing compared to the eternity the Almighty Shogun wishes to achieve.” Another one bellows, a hint of arrogance in his voice as he commands a jolt of electricity to settle in his blade, as if mocking the less fortunate.

“If you wish to take my ambitions away,” his black haori blows in the wind as he repositions himself, a hand on the hilt of his blade all while his vision glows in the dark. “Then so be it.”

“I wonder if this is all the mint plant I’ll need…” she huffed out a sigh, exhausted from the work of her day. The glaring sun only did its job of annoying her further, prompting her to readjust her hair into a high ponytail and wipe the bit of precipitate that formed on her forehead. It was a hot day, that much was evident. After the earth-shaking thunderstorm that occurred last night, she was a bit surprised to see the sun gleaming as if nothing had happened prior.

Then again, weather phenomena were nothing special here in Inazuma.

But strange, haggard men sprawled on the forest floor weren’t either.

“I wonder if he’s woken up by now,” she turned back to look at the sun’s position in the vast blue sky, a bit later than noon. Yet still teetering to the calling of ‘evening’. If she were not to make her way back home now, she’d have to take a longer route to avoid the confrontation with monsters and rogue samurai.

Her home wasn’t too far, estimated to be a 20 to 30-minute walk, depending on her hold-up in Konda Village. Her home was just a few north of the village, nearing Byakko Plain. Although renting a home in the town sounded much more convenient, she was just a bit short on mora. Her healing business wasn’t too popular, seeing as no one really passed by her residence with a bruised arm or scraped knee.

Children did come by for the occasional heal-up or just some homemade snacks she’d prepare, a few would have mora in hand but she never truly charged the children.

They were only children.

“Y/n-ah!” She looked up and smiled, waving back at the little old lady standing by her pathway through Konda Village. Mrs. Himaori Tsumogi—Grandma Himaori, as she insisted—called out to the girl, sweetly smiling as she tilted her head to the side, a habit Y/n came to know was a sign of her fondness. She waved back, speeding her pace up to walk through the village with her favourite elder.

Grandma Himaori was like a motherly figure to Y/n. Raising her in the village after her mother passed away and teaching her the arts of healing with hydro, Y/n began to look up to the elderly woman.

“I heard you took in a stranger for healing, have they woken up yet?” That is what nerved Y/n. She huffed a sigh before slouching her back, “Stop doing that.”

Grandma Himaori chuckled, feigning innocence, “Doing what, my little dango?”

“Your creepy- foreseeing stuff, and stop calling me dango,” she placed her hand on her blushing cheek, “we’ve been over this.”

Grandma Himaori only laughed some more, reminding Y/n of the story she was persistent on erasing from memory. “Come on, dear. It was cute-”

“By cute, you must mean embarrassing!” The elder’s laugh ensued right after.

Shutting her door and locking it appropriately, she sighed heavily before setting her basket down. She stared at the contents of the basket, Grandma Himaori’s words echoing in her head: “We both know you’d never eat that much food.” She said as she pointed at her basket. Y/n’s shoulders were hunched forward. Nothing gets past the elder.

Not even the stranger who sat on her bed.

She bandaged him a few hours prior, changing and applying ointments daily. But there was a difference between his complexion when unconscious and when he was fully awake. A noticeable one was the colour that returned to his ivory skin, shading it with a healthy hue. Life returned in his ruby eyes and gave his skin a softer glow. Back when he was still unconscious, she took note of his attire and the empty sheath that was attached to his hip. She gave them both a good clean and patched them up.

Which then brought her thoughts wandering to the not-so-modest thoughts. She internally grimaced as she unintentionally reminded herself of the painfully slow process of actually “cleaning” the man.

Shaking unwanted thoughts away, Y/n reprimanded herself.

Oddly enough, Y/n was nothing close to being startled. “Good afternoon,” she said with a careful smile, attempting to look less threatening and slowly approaching the stranger. He stared at her movements carefully, assessing his situation and the girl. The man could feel a dull throb by the side of his waist and leg, but it wasn’t enough to bring a grimace to his face.

He took his time observing the girl. She seemed to be close to his age, with flowing (h/c) locks and a smooth complexion. The afternoon sun poured in from the windows and complimented her skin with a soft glow. Her facial features were soft as if she’d yet to know how to scowl. Eyes a rich (e/c) with lips rosy and pink. A beauty hidden in the depths of this nation.

“Are you feeling any better? I tried my best to close the wounds but…” she noticed the faraway look on his face. Tilting her head slightly, she smiled slightly and brought her basket up to one of the counters nearby. Rearranging a few of the herbs and spices she managed to buy and collect, Y/n pulled out a small box of Sakura mochi she packed prior to her trip as a light road-snack and walked back to her “patient”.

“I’m not certain you’ve had anything to eat yet, so here’s a little appetizer.” She laid out the box and set down a pair of chopsticks in front of the stranger. Although her head was filled with questions, she didn’t dare bother the man with her intrusiveness. He can choose to tell me or not, and instead focused on preparing the small treat for the stranger. “Sorry, but I haven't started with lunch yet.”

“I’m Y/n, by the way.” When she didn’t get an answer back from the stranger—aside from the indifferent stare—she continued her small introduction. “I found you passed out and injured near Chinju Forest.” She picked up the chopsticks and snapped them apart, weaving them in between her fingers before picking a sizable Sakura mochi and moving it toward the stranger.

The male quirked a brow, tilting his head toward the side as he eyed the food, and then the girl. He noticed a light blush tinting her cheeks.

“It’s best you not move too much during your recovery period.” She reasoned, casting her gaze to the floor. She was more used to treating children and the elderly of Konda Village, meaning that tasks such as spoon-feeding were considered normal.

“I’m grateful for your kindness, but I’m not completely immobilized,” Was the male’s response; a rejection coated with sweetness, perfect. His voice was smooth, like the softest winds caressing her on a spring morning. Y/n scrambled to gather her thoughts for a few seconds before having a mild panic and setting the items down. “R-right, my apologies.”

Moments passed in silence. Whereas the male sat and enjoyed the sweet treat he was given, the female pursed her lips into a pout, a nervous habit of hers.

“Are these handmade?” He noticed the tense silence and offered to break it. Y/n nodded, “Y-yes, they’re homemade with ingredients from Inazuma City.” He smiled softly, complimenting her culinary skills. He took note of the doughy texture and mild sweetness of the treat, relishing in the softness before continuing to assess his situation.

She found me in Chinju forest. How long ago? Has she taken notice of my vision yet? What of the Tenryou Commission, had they come looking for me while I was recovering?

“Y/n! Y/n!” A shrill voice resounded about the small house followed by a clumsy mess of footsteps. A mess of brown hair poked from behind the door first before rushing in once they saw the (h/c) female. “It’s Yuma, he’s in trouble!” The brunette boy squealed, teary-eyed and snotty-nosed.

Hearing a familiar name, her senses sharpened. Taking the small boy in her arms, she cooed at him to calm down and relay the details. Y/n shushed the sobbing child and advised him to rest in her home (and look after the stranger) while she went to take care of the situation. “Satoshi, I’ll be right back, alright?"

Without waiting for the boy’s response, she rushed out from the front door and toward the location she was told about. It was a short stream of water that passed through a few mounds and hills. A known area for nobushi. The area wasn’t too far from her place, just a short few minutes of a trip and she’d be near enough to hear the rushing waters.

Aside from the rushing waters, she could make the sounds of a weeping child. Yuma!

Taking control of her vision, her catalyst allowed the formation of small projectiles made from water.

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