“Hey I love your story! Is it okay if I draw-“ 

YES. PLEASE, GOD, YES, DRAW IT. DRAW IT AND SHOW ME. I WILL BEG YOU FOR IT.

YES YES !!

I will never say no to anyone who wants to draw anything I write!!

Oh my goodness!! It would make me so happy if ever anyone even tried! I would never say no!

If you ever wanna draw my stories, that would be amazing! You don’t have to ask, just give me credits and tag me!

Laid out on the bed.

His lithe form towering over yours, that insufferable grin smeared on his lips. Knowing that with a syllable, with no more than a whisper, your vision would flash white, your mind would go blank, and your body would convulse. That he has such power over your ecstasy this evening.

And that you don't.

There is something of this communicated between you, as always. In the sweat-damp silence, his eyes flare with the recognition of a message received.

You have been described, not a few times, as being stoic. It is no use denying it, an expressionless stone-face being one of the more essential features of the job. And yes, too often, you cannot quite shake the demeanor when you get off the clock. The only person who could always make you crack was the one now seated atop you— plush cheeks resting just above your waistline.

And here in the half-lidded moonlight, all else a distant memory, it's almost impossible to believe that side of you ever existed. The smallest motions have revealed everything to him, leaving your mind as bare as your body. Of course, in his wicked attentiveness, this creature misses nothing. He pounces on your desire in an instant, grinding his ass into your hips. Your eyes flutter as the tension leaves your shoulders. Your head falls back into the pillow, and his hand is upon it before the moan has even left your lips.

How predictable, he might have said, if he were the crooning type. But it is the goat who bleats, not the wolf. His nature is as inescapable as yours.

iv,

My grandmother Janet is 96 years old. The last time I visited, while drinking the traditional after-dinner gin and tonics, we got to talking about the treasures lying around her house. Somehow we settled on a particular needlepoint hanging on the wall.

She asked: Who made that one, does it say?

And I said: It says "Deedee".

And she laughed: I didn't remember making that one!

My brain wasn't working as fast as my tongue that night— perhaps on account of the gin— and I said: Wait, who is Deedee?

She laughed again, and explained. It was what her parents called her, and the name that she used until she went to high school. All her best friends, everyone who knew her from back in the day, they still call her Deedee.

And then she said to me: You know, Janet is not my real name either. Nobody calls me by my real name, because nobody alive remembers it. And I'm not telling anyone now. It is just for me.

iii,

I was studying abroad in Budapest when I received a facebook message from Rob. A friend, not quite 21, from college back home, saying: I have a secret to tell you, but I do not want anyone else to know. I don't even want to write it here.

I replied, Here is my address. Write it down and mail it to me. I will read it, and then I will burn it; and he agreed.

I left the house, went all the way to the end of the metro, found a convenience store, bought a pack of matches, and sat down in the nearby park.

The three sentences at the start of the letter were: I am transgender. I am a man. My name is not [what we once called him], it is Rob.

This much is no longer a secret, but the three pages that followed are not my stories to tell.

(Have you ever tried to burn a letter? With a match. It is harder than you’d think.)

It is common now for a trans person to refer to their "old" name, the one assigned to them that they no longer use, as their deadname. Rob did not use this language in the letter, probably only because he did not know it yet.

Some of the debris from the letter made it into a trash can. But most blew away into the Hungarian landscape, white flecks scattered in the wind.

ii,

I set my father into the ground in October. He would have been 71.

It was a whirlwind of a weekend, of a week, really. Gatherings every night, friends and family buzzing in the house all day, as if the collective strength of so many silent prayers might summon him, Christ-like, into our midst.

Flying was my dad's first love. I was born near the end of his distinguished career as a fighter pilot in the Air Force. He continued flying, commercially, for as long as I lived under his roof.

A fighter's call sign is what the other fighters call them over the radio when flying together. Pragmatically it is a mask for when enemies intercept communication. But to the squadron, there is nothing secret about this identity; it is more a name than their name is. My dad's call sign is— was— Bear. At the memorial gathering, that was the name that rang long after sundown, that echoed in the still desert air. 

Bear was rowdy, gregarious, and virile. Stories about his after-work antics sprang readily to the lips of the guests. Boozy, shirtless memories of he and his fighter friends, boys who aged but never grew up. And then, after the laughs and a moment's pause, they would add sincere praise about Bear the professional. Thoughtful. Whip-smart. Straightforward. Generous. Passionate.

This man they described was familiar enough, but deeply unrecognizable. He bore little resemblance to the temperamental and stern authority of my childhood memories. Even less to the man I knew on equal footing, after several medical emergencies brought an early and unceremonious end to a lifetime in the cockpit.

I would have liked Bear, I think, but I never met him— I knew him too late.

i,

There are many stories to tell of my father, the man-who-was-not-Bear. I never know which one to start with.

I once asked my mom if I could paint my nails red. I don't remember my mother wearing colored nail polish, it must have been a neighbor who I saw, and the idea enchanted me. And yet somehow, there was the bottle, right underneath the phone. It would have been so easy. But mom said no, dad would be furious. And we both knew that was the end of that.

I liked my hair long. My parents did not. They tolerated it, in the way that one tolerates such inconsequential teenage lashings-out. But the frequency of snide remarks would increase in proportion with its length, and roughly every 6 months I would give in.

(When I was older, I discovered that my hair actually would not get much longer than that. After about 9 months, I shed.)

And if I could see you, I would see these stories fall lighter on your brow than on they lay on my psyche. And I would be suddenly tempted to strike cheap, to scowl forty-five and let sympathy roll in. But it’s too… it’s dehumanizing, and it’s not even narratively right— it doesn’t describe the heft of the uncertainty he left me with, any more than a dumbbell thrown at your face conveys the weight of a blanket.

The household I grew up in was reductivist when not mechanistic, and my childhood gave but scant framework to understand the impact of a thousand unremarkable moments. Still, human, I could not divert myself from the creation of my personal mythology, grasping at any explanation for those forces of parental nature. Nor from this private, shameful conclusion: that this love is, perhaps, conditional. Not necessarily. But the threat was there, and I, conflict-shy, colored inside the lines.

Dharys was 29 when my father died. Or maybe he was 2. (...let's not think too hard about that one.) In any case, my father never met Dharys, and for this alone I still grieve. In the dark I wonder if he ever had these feelings about Bear— this bridgeless chasm between us, etched in time. The quiet, tugging sadness that I would never know him as he was.

Perhaps he never could have, I reason, hopefully. Tieflings learn young, after all, how to hide. Perhaps Dharys can only live because not-Bear has died.

Or perhaps he knew me too early.

* * *

A/N: The picture in this post was drawn by @parziivale; I'll be posting about it separately.

Khiari

16. most comfortable position to sit in?

I sit cross-legged. Comfort has nothing to do with it.

44. favorite scent for soap?

... Soap?

[mod: wait, seriously, Khiari? You use it to clean yourself. Like in a shower.]

I have no use for your water rituals, nor their accoutrements. I am cleansed only in the scorching heat of our Angel's basin.

[mod: *exasperated sigh* okay yes but... no hold on let's back up, this is fascinating. Do people not try to bring soap with them to the afterlife? like not a single person? in however many friggin centuries you've been doing this, not a single person wanted to bring soap?]

You know I cannot speak of such things, mortal. Are there further questions?

66. favorite flower(s)?

The question makes xem pause. At last xe speaks, slowly.

A hydrangea, well-loved, is a breathtaking sight. Sadly, the ones that pass my way tend not to be cared for...

UPDATE

Well that was cutting it a little close. Thankfully though, it all seems to have worked for the most part. I did several things to get this place up and running again, but the only one that will have much of any impact on you Darlings, is that I’ve switched the ownership of this tumblr from my main, to the one that will eventually act as the masterlist for this one. This basically means that I should now be able to respond to replies and such, directly, instead of having to take screenshots in the future. Though I may still do so for some of the older stuff in my drafts.

As for future posting, I am hoping to go back to writing two prompts a day, plus posting a song of the day, but it might take some time for me to get back into the swing of writing proper prompts again.

Please also take into account that I’ll have to play catch up in the activity feed for all the time I’ve spent without being able to save responses to my drafts, so that they can be reblogged at a later date. I’m not sure how long this will take me, so please be patient.

If you have any questions or concerns that you feel need immediate attention, and that you are concerned I wont see quickly enough, please leave them in the replies of this post, and I will do my best to respond to you when I can.

My apologies for the long update, but hopefully I got everything in one go. 

Stay safe Darling ones 🖤

—-

Future Masterlist And Current Main @its-me-darlings

#for 💖 it's probably helpful to know that #Dharys would never interpret this question about romantic relationships #BUT I WOULD and so i have some Thoughts #Dharys would be *extremely* slow to admit Feelings generally #and like the story he would tell himself is that #he just wants to be *sure* they feel the same way before bringing it up #and idk i think the boy is setting himself up for a lot of heartbreak because anyone who was interested would definitely confess first #so if he ever were to finally pull the trigger the best he could hope for is a 'huh i never thought about it' #and in a distinct but related tragedy i can imagine his methods of 'being sure' might be... unsubtle #and probably not endearing the first time he tries ;_;

Some more characterization that didn't deserve to be left in the tags >.<

(WARNING: Brief implication of suicidal ideation. Please be safe Darlings.)

The endless drone of frivolous chatter and faked laughter, echoed through the opulent ballroom far too loudly for your liking, not even the live music being played, managing to drown out the endless ringing of their voices. All around you stood people dressed in their finest, each and every one attempting to outdo one another with over the top displays of their wealth and status, fake smiles adorning their faces as though they were simply another pointless accessory.

It was as suffocating as it was depressing. 

Excusing yourself quietly, you slipped away from the chattering group and began to weave your way through the crowd, seeking out somewhere that wasn’t quite so busy, where you could finally have some peace and quiet, and a break from all the soulless banter. Thankfully, the balcony seemed rather empty, and almost instantly you felt the tension start to bleed from your shoulders, your lungs taking in a deep and grateful inhale of the crisp night air.

It didn’t take long for another to join you, and even without looking, you knew who it was. 

They had been watching you for most of the night, after all.

Feeling a smile begin to creep onto your face, you turned to face them, once again marvelling at the fact that out of all the people they could have chosen, it was you they had willingly grown close to. Something you would forever be in awe of, and grateful for.

Without them, you would never have known what else this world had to offer, nor that you could find happiness, even in the darkest times.

Thanks to them, you had found a reason to live on.

…..Ironic, given their nature.

Neither of you said a word for the longest time, the pattering of rain and the blood pumping in your ears the only sound that came between you. You’d come up to escape the mindless chatter, after all.

The rain would ruin their clothes. Yours too— but you had at least dressed for the occasion. It was a simple cream-colored outfit that was just fine enough to blend in, but easy to overlook. The same could not be said of theirs, a flouncing and ostentatious gown, so perfectly matched to their long red hair that at a passing glance, one might think they were wearing a hood. The neckline was bursting with luxurious ruffles, and the sides embroidered in lace, all of it now damp and matted.

That’s not to say they were enthusiastic about the ball, the endless parade of posturing. You knew that they probably cared even less for the small talk and petty scheming of mortals than you did. But they wore the stunning gown for precisely the same reason that they had so readily destroyed it: for them, fabulous was simply a habit.

They knew you were looking at them, of course, but they stared out onto the expansive, impeccably manicured garden. with a wistful expression on their face. It was as if they were pining for you from a distance, rather than having you nearly in arm’s reach. The slightest turn of their head would give them exactly what they wanted, but they seemed to enjoy denying themself.

They sighed heavily, and you knew that you would have to be the first to break the silence. “Thanks for being here.”

At last they smiled, still staring out into the rain. “Do you want to know who’s next?”

“Not really.”

“Yes you do.”

“Only if it’s Guy.”

They snorted. “Nope, Guy’s got a long life ahead of him, you know that.”

“A shame.”

“Agreed.”

A momentary pause, and then:

“It’s not me, is it?”

“No. It’s Whitler.”

“I said I didn’t want to know.”

“I see.”

Back to quiet. The wind picked up in the distance, scattering leaves across the lawn that the Humphries servants would have to attend to in the morning. You watched them for as long as you could stand, but there was no magic to it. The dance of the leaves was no more captivating to you than the swirling gowns on the dance floor. The creature on the other side of the balcony, on the other hand…

“Don’t you have to work tonight? I can’t imagine there are fewer people dying tonight than any other.”

“It’s the rain. People only want to die on clear nights.” Finally, they turned to you, their smile wide, sharp teeth on full display. They did that for you, cheeky bugger, and it had exactly the intended effect.

“You twit.”

“You asked,” they teased. “Now dear, of course it’s because I knew you were going to be terribly bored. I got the others to harvest my souls for tonight.”

“Some day you’ll have to cover for them, you know.”

“Well, someday you’ll be dead,” they said brightly, “and then there won’t be any reason to attend the parties of terminally boring English noblemen.”

You shot back a sarcastic grin. “I’ve been looking forward to that day, too.”

Their expression suddenly turned downward, concern etched in every thin line that wrinkled their otherwise perfect face. When they spoke, their voice was soft. “You scare me when you talk like that.”

You craned your neck to look into their eyes. “What, so you can joke about my mortality, but I can’t?” So often they were the one teasing you; it was a thrill to be on the offensive for once.

“Mortals aren’t supposed to be so callous about death. Especially their own.”

They looked so serious, you couldn’t help but feel sorry for how your joke seemed to hurt them. You reached over to brush their shoulder, to apologize and reassure, but they batted your hand away, snarling.

“Don’t do that. We can’t be seen so intimate, not here. You know that.”

You rolled your eyes. “Darling, we’re already alone on the balcony together, in the rain, at the height of the ball.” A wicked twinge sparked through your mind, and into your grin. “Anyone who sees is going to know, and it’s not going to make a lick of difference whether you’re standing six feet away, or hiked up my dress with your tongue all over m—”

“Shut up!” they hissed, snapping to to you, their cheeks as red as their hair. “I… I swear, you—”

They stuttered to finish a coherent thought but you didn’t bother letting them, grabbing their chin and pulling them toward you, planting a kiss on their forehead.

“If you insist,” you said, mockingly deferential. All at once, you wheeled around and strode back inside, leaving them sputtering after you. The bright music once again filled your ears, the laughter from the dancers flowing more carelessly than you had remembered.

This was fun. You were having fun.

Well-Rested

A/N: Explicit content, mostly pwp foreplay. MtF-coded!Incubus x F!Reader. (850 words)

 * * *

You woke up to soaked panties and your girlfriend humming softly into your ear. Her hand slid under the elastic lining and you sighed happily at the warm tingling that her fingers spread across your hip. She giggled in response and grabbed your chin, turning your head to meet her gaze.

“Good morning, my love.”

For anyone else, the glow of her fire-red eyes might have set off alarm bells in their head and had them looking for the exits in an adrenal rush of fear. But for you, those pins of light set deep into her dark purple skin had become a strange comfort. However unsettling you may once have found them, they now only reminded you of her love. The careful attention that she gave to your every word. The patient tenderness to sit with you the end of a long, exhausting day, hanging on your deepest desires.

Sometimes those desires were your hopes, your dreams, your highest aspirations. And sometimes, you were sharply reminded as she rubbed your thighs, they were decidedly more physical.

Keep reading

cw: mild nsft, dubcon, fearplay

 * * *

“Ah, but do you shiver from fear?”

The voice of my tormentor, silky and smooth, rolls lazily around in my head. He leans into me from behind, sucking the heat from the air.

“Or is it… anticipation?”

The arrogance! My blood runs as cold as the lifeless breath that teases my ear. I want to scream my defiance, to curse and roar. But the gag makes even my voice helpless, and his quiet chuckling overpowers my most stringent protests.

“It’s eerie how similar those feelings can be, wouldn’t you say?” Icy fingertips tap gently at the base of my neck, I can hear his grin. I struggle uselessly against the webbing. I know it’s meaningless, the restraints familiar enough, but what else can a captive do? The struggle feels right, I suppose, feels as right as those fingers sliding up my cheek—

“Can you even tell the difference anymore, my dear?”

Fighting back tears, you stared hopelessly down at your hands, as the rain slowly started to soak through your clothes, unable to bring yourself to move from your place on the old park bench, even just to go and purchase an umbrella, from the shop around the corner.

You had always known that there was a chance they wouldn’t show up, that they had either died somehow, despite their nigh immortal status, or that they had simply moved on with their life, and forgotten you. Given how many years had passed, it was certainly a lot more likely than them having actually waited all this time, even if they had promised that they would.

Even though the thought of it hurt, you still couldn’t help but hope that it was the latter, the idea of them having died, paining you even more than the idea of them having moved on without you. It was honestly a miracle that you had even met them in the first place, thanks to that freak accident that had sent you back in time, and although it had only been five years for you, since you had been forcefully returned to your time, for them, it had been well over a hundred.

It made sense, that they would have had an easier time forgetting you, than you had, forgetting them.

Still, despite having known that this was the most likely outcome, for quite some time, you had definitely hoped that they would at least meet you here, as they had promised. At least then, you would know that they were still alive and well.

Swallowing thickly, you lifted your head slightly, and peered out at the empty park, the dying light having bathed it in a soft golden glow, despite the pouring rain. Though your heart ached and your vision was blurred, you couldn’t help but admit that it was still quite a beautiful sight.

….You only wished you’d been given the chance to share it.

A/N: angst, death implied kinda? (1,224 words)

* * *

If there was anything he knew about them, it was that they didn’t do well with time. Night after night they’d stumbled into the streets and stood agape, having to remember anew that the world they inhabited was very different from the one they hailed from. Once their phone had died, they became interminably late for anything and everything— everything they weren’t busy being too early for, at least. He chuckled at the memory of the furious, red-faced governor, the terror at the old man’s reaction, at the prospect of perhaps losing them, having lost its bite sometime in the last century or so.

So he’d come early. Years early, even though it didn’t seem likely that they’d even made it back to their time yet.

Keep reading

Toys

A/N: Thanks to @gotta-love-monsters for the inspiration. Technically not sft :) See the tags for warnings (& spoilers). 610 words.

 * * *

Click! Hk-rk-rk-k—

He smiled at you as you tightened his handcuffs, chaining his wrists to the bedpost. You sat on his legs, pinning him in place. His slight chest lay out before you like a narrow, bony canvas.

“You remember the safe words, don’t you, pet?”

“Red to stop, yellow to pause,” he recited. “You think I’d forget so fast?”

“No,” you said matter-of-factly. “But I have a new toy to try on you tonight.”

“Oh!”

His face lit up with excitement, an adorable display that never failed to make your heart pound. Such an eager lab rat, he seemed to adore everything that you would do to him. And you were only too happy to experiment.

You shuddered the thought away, pleasant as it was. Tonight, it was important that you stay focused.

Keep reading

I do so love fictional depictions of the Fae courts but let something be entirely clear, the title of king is more akin to a consort for the Queen. Fae Queen’s hold the power of the court they represent within them.

Fae courts with “kings” earn an automatic side-eye from us

“We allow them to be called king on Wednesday.”

Do you REALLY want to give Cadoc that kind of power????

*frantically writes addendum* “Knights will be stripped of all tiles if they attempt to call themself a king on Wednesday. “King” is merely an affectionate nickname with no rights, powers, or authority. It just means the Queen sometimes smooches you & everyone knows about it & thinks you’re a prat.”

Ps. IT IS LOWER CASE. It’s like calling your dog a prince. It’s on par with, “you’re so cute!” in baby talk. 

The Queen 100% baby talks him in the “you’re my cutie-utie-utmums, dearest one!” -way.

hmm so I feel like there’s good potential here for some very fun horror-tragedy:

Everyone knows about the fae, and people just kinda live with the fact that you might one day end up getting plucked out of existence due to the unknowable whims of the local apex predator. But: classic adventure fantasy setup, there’s a once-in-ten-thousand-years kind of alignment of energies and the kingdom’s magi are like “the fae will be weaker on this full moon than they ever will be, round up a team of adventurers and we’ll rid ourselves of this terror for good”

Now the adventurers magic their way over to the fae realm and are snooping about, overhear the fae talking about some ceremony, and they all get super excited at the prospect of seeing the king— in much the same way that you’d be excited to see a cute puppy on a Zoom call. But the adventurers don’t get it, because patriarchy, and they’re thinking: score! So they make go back to camp and draft up regicide plans.

Time comes, and the plan goes off without a hitch. They stab the king through the heart in view of the whole Court and one of them starts in on some jingoistic “we are your natural overlords”-type speech. And all the fae are just… staring at them, totally aghast at their stupidity. The Queen lets him monologue for a bit and then calmly stands up, taps him on the shoulder, all like “so, hm, cute, better luck next time” and just utterly dominates them.

I’d like to think that She’d leave them alive and make them suffer. Death is far too good for the brats who killed Her precious, adorable, Her favorite little king.

Last Friday Night pt. 2

M!Vampire x F!Human.

Warnings: Kidnapping implied? (1150 words)

Summary: Tessa is the daughter of legendary vampire hunter Caroline Putkowski. When a young vampire unwittingly targets her for a quick meal and a fun evening, both of them find themselves in over their heads. Inspired by a @write-it-motherfuckers​ prompt (this one!), and a continuation from this post.

 * * *

“I don’t— That’s… You want my mother, not me!” Tessa’s words gasped out, her throat constricting and eyes widening in the vampire’s cold grip. “I—”

He cut her off with a loud sigh. “Do you really think I didn’t know that, cutie?” Chuckling, he relaxed his hands around her neck, careful to keep her fenced in with his body. She seemed harmless, but there’s no good in letting her run off. “Caroline doesn’t cut such a striking figure nowadays.”

She stood motionless, the blank look on her face suggesting that she hadn’t quite understood what he was saying. “I’m not with her!— I swear— I’ll tell you anything I know, just, please…”, her panicked pleas fading into a pathetic whine.

He waited for her to breathe, and then he spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. “Tessa, beautiful. I’m not here tonight about your mother. I promise.”

She gulped, finally taking in the meaning of his words. “Then, why…?”

It was a good question. What exactly was the next move? Killing her was the original plan, but it suddenly seemed much less attractive. It would certainly be a status symbol, he lamented, perhaps finally being worthy of attention from a clan. For all the good it would do him. He could enjoy it for last few weeks of a life cut short by a vengeful gang of Putkowskis, led by the single most ruthless Hunter on the continent.

But he kept the turmoil within. “Why do boys usually come home with girls after a long Friday night?” He growled, looking her up and down, licking his lip.

He watched her cheeks flush with heat. As she fumbled for something to say, his mind went back to work. Leaving her free didn’t seem like much of an alternative. She was crafty, probably? Certainly had been clever enough to get him this far. Even if she wasn’t working with her mother, even if Tessa really did have the best of intentions (still unclear, he had to remind himself) the old witch might well be able to force it out of her.

“So I’m supposed to believe it’s that simple? You, a vampire, happened to choose me, daughter of—” She’d been speaking boldly, but seemed to stumble over those words. “—to choose me, for no other reason than you needed your dick wet?”

Not exactly, he wanted to protest. But he couldn’t say much of anything without admitting everything. Briefly, he wondered if he should. The letter from last night, the scorning elders, idle bloodlust that led to a careless hunt, a beautiful mortal girl and her cursed mug, that strangely warm feeling in his chest as they danced…

Probably not.

Instead, he shrugged and leaned in closer. “Like you said, you’re not with her. So as far as I can see, it’s just two beautiful people turning a fun night out—” he smiled again, letting his fangs graze on her nose as he kissed it gently, “into a fun night in.”

“M-hmm.” She shivered at his kiss, but quickly composed herself, pursing her lips. “And one of them is dead by the morning.”

“Well—” he said, his composure finally slipping under that enchanting icy stare. “Traditionally, yes.” It was rather more blunt than his usual, but she was a hunter’s daughter. There probably wasn’t any point in smoothing that one over.

“Charming.”

He bent his knees and head in a mock curtsy. “Guilty as charged.”

For once, his flirting failed to impress her. Crossing her arms, she nodded at the door. “I think you should leave.”

He cocked his head and let out a weak laugh. Surely she wasn’t so naïve as to think that she could force him out? “Now, Tessa—”

Her jaw set, and it was her turn to enunciate her words. “I. Think. You. Should. Leave.”

“You can’t be serious.” His eyes darted around, scrutinizing every feature of her face. She certainly seemed serious, but she wasn’t angry, she was— Glancing around her apartment, he finally fit the puzzle pieces together.

She had no plan.

This wasn’t a trap. She was just a scared girl with a famous mommy, who got a little reckless one night out. The only difference between her and anyone else in the club, was that killing her carried marginally more risk of retaliation. Not for the first time that night, he cursed his luck. Normally he was better at sifting out bad targets. But normally he wasn’t worried about seducing the children of internationally renowned hunters.

He slowly pulled back, uncaging her from her paneled wall. “Okay, okay,” he said, lifting his hands above his shoulders and trying his best to look non-threatening. “Okay, Tessa, I wouldn’t do this for everyone; I’ll do it for you. I’ll leave. But,” he paused, lowering his hands slowly back to his sides. “you have to come with me.”

She snorted incredulously. “Absolutely not.”

“Tessa, darling, I’m not asking.” She had been starting to relax, but her breath hitched at his words, and fear flooded back to her eyes. “Here is your choice. I can kill you on the spot, or you can come back to my place for a few days and we can figure things out.”

“You’re bluffing.” she said, her voice wavering.

“Now, I know these aren’t the options that you want to choose between. Believe me, they wouldn’t be my first pic—”

“You can’t hurt me; that’s a death wish. My mother would take revenge.”

“I told you, I didn’t come here tonight to talk about your mother,” he said sharply. “Besides, don’t you think I have a family too?”

He flashed a confident smile, a blatant lie. None of the regional clans would take him in. Lacks ambition, they said. A century and a half, and what has he to show for it? If she had been close with her mother, or even her uncles, if she had been keeping up with the Hunters’ chatter, she might have known that. But he could see immediately, the color draining from her face, that she did not have the faintest idea who he was.

“She’s dangerous. She would destroy all of you.”

He rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to lecture me about Hunter Caroline.” Then, calmly, slowly, he extended his hand. “My offer stands.”

Hunters would always tell grand underdog stories about the supernatural abilities of their prey, but the only true advantage of immortality is patience. He counted the seconds as they ticked by into minutes, the room completely still. Perhaps she was mentally checking off her options, perhaps she was simply stunned. But finally, slowly, she reached out toward his hand. At the last second she hesitated, shaking her head as if casting out some delirium.

“You have to tell me your name.”

He gently clasped her hand, bowing down to place a soft kiss on her wrist. “Samuel Burkhart, madame, at your service.”

A Brief Interview with Khiari

A/N: I recently (ahem, “recently”) adopted this character from @snejkha. As a getting-to-know-you exercise I sat down one evening and tried to work though everything from the post “oc asks that reveal more than you think” by @yvesdot​. Instead of just posting the answers, I’m picking a few to touch on in a format that’s a little more fun to read, maybe smoothing out xir voice, too ^.^

Come to my ask box with any questions you have for Khiari, and feel free to pick a number from the linked post if you’re not sure what to ask!

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