#.> aureate starlight

[monoceros-vulpes]

24.

☆ … 2.2k

☆ … Cyrille, Lucielle.

☆ … Attempted suicide, Alcohol, Implied ED.

☆ … Cyrille birthday lore :) this one takes place in 2013

Darkness enveloped every corner of the street. 

The city was known for its bright, neon signs. They were scattered across the city; specks of cyan and magenta lighting up every building and walkway, even late at night. The bustling metropolis didn’t know sleep.

Most would be unfamiliar with the darkness, and understandably so. Yet, Cyrille navigated the sidewalk expertly in the dim light. The only visible things were faint gleams at the edges of buildings, dumpsters, the cars parked at the curb. They were enough to guide xem.

Xe pulled up their scarf a little higher over xyr nose. Cold crept in between the fibres of xyr sweater. Almost pleasant, if not for the dampness that lingered in the air. It hasn’t rained in weeks. 

Xyr hand returned to the strap of their tote bag. Inside were xyr necessities, plus a few games. Xe had bought them a console for their birthday last year, and xe’d take full advantage of it. And a bottle of vodka, to celebrate of course. Xe’d be celebrating with the prettiest guy this side of Heliopolis. 

Xe turned the corner, from walking down a quiet street to an even quieter alleyway. At the end, a single white floodlight illuminated the ground in front of the building. Several stories tall, yet not all that big. Pretty shabby place, xe’d have to admit. But it’s what was available at the time. A shitty apartment is better than no apartment.

Rummaging around inside xyr bag, xe pulled out the keys to the stairwell situated awkwardly in the corner. Unfortunately, also poorly lit. Barely anything could be seen through the gate. 

The lock turned easily in response to the silver key. Xe pulled it open, propping it with xyr foot while xe looked for xyr phone. It wasn’t needed, but the flashlight would help.

The door creaked close behind xem, audibly locking. The stairs were dry, thankfully. The wire grate walls weren’t much to keep the damp air out though. Xe stopped on the landing of the third floor.

Newly hatched butterflies made xyr stomach flutter. It was late, but they’d still be up. Most likely. They even suggested celebrating at their place instead of the bowling alley. A special occasion, not a rare one.

Xe knocked. 

Twice.

Three times.

Xe frowned, calling.

“Luci? I’m here.” Xe knocked again, then switched tabs to text them. Xyr lithe fingers tapped on the screen, dimly illuminating xyr face.

Minutes passed. Whether the night itself were growing colder or it just being from standing there was beyond xem. Xe sighed, pulling out xyr keyring again. 

Theirs stood out among the rest. The newest. The copy was only made a few months ago. It slid into the lock perfectly.

The apartment inside was dark. Notably warmer though. Xe reached over to the light switch, flicking it on before closing the door behind xem.

“Luci? I let myself in,” xe called. The apartment wasn’t large. They had to have heard xem.

Cyrille slid off xyr shoes, pulled off xyr scarf and hung it on the coat rack. Xe navigated the apartment, poking xyr head around the corner of the foyer.

The couch was empty, much to xyr discontent. The TV across from it was turned off too. Xe frowned at the blanket on one end of the couch, folded neatly. Lucielle tidying up? For xem? Something must really be wrong. The remote was even sitting neatly at the edge of the coffee table.

On the other side of the wall was the kitchen. Small, only enough for basic appliances and a little counter and storage space. Xe’d have to remind them to buy an island to separate it from the living room later. Unsettling to have it be so open, honestly.

Xe shook xyr head, stepping forward into the living room and turning on the lamp by the end table. Xe winced. The only sounds in the apartment were the shuffling of xyr socks on the hardwood floor and the deafening buzz from the fridge and the lamp. And the foyer ceiling light, which was arguably louder.

The hallway was only lit by the reflection of the foyer light though. Much darker, but nothing compared to outside. Xe shuffled around, avoiding the rug that’d bite xyr feet in front of the couch.

Maybe they fell asleep. It wasn’t unlike them to sleep longer than intended, especially since xe hadn’t messaged them since that morning to check up.

Their bedroom door was the same shade as the walls, only the trim giving it contrast. Xe slid xyr fingers over the faux wood before knocking, tentatively. 

“Luci? Are you in here?” Xe asked, adjusting the tote bag hanging from xyr shoulder. “I’m coming in.”

And sure enough, they were. A mess of blankets and hair on the bed in the far corner, dimly lit by the light filtering through the cheap curtains on their window. Xe smiled to xemself, shuffling over to flick on the lamp resting on the nightstand. 

There were a couple of empty glasses next to the lamp. Looking, xe found a few other dishes on their desk. As quietly as xe could, xe gathered and stacked all the dishes, leaving them on the edge of the desk to take back to the kitchen later.

“Morning time, sleepyhead,” xe said, just above a whisper. The bed dipped where xe sat, carefully avoiding loose strands of hair scattered on the sheets. They didn’t respond, still lying on their side holding a pillow.

“Luci?” Odd. Xe reached over, gently brushing their hair from their face. Their lips were a distinct shade of grey.

Xyr stomach dropped.

“Hey, Luci, babe.” This can’t be happening. Xyr hands fell to their shoulder, shaking them. Panic rose in xyr chest; xyr breath hitched. “Babe, please, wake up.” No, no this can’t be. They can’t. Quickly, xe pulled them onto their back and checked their pulse. Rapid. Weak.

“No, no, no, no, no, no you can’t. Don’t.” Xe cupped their cheek, pulling them closer. “Stay. Stay, please Lucielle, please don’t go.” They remained unresponsive, rapid shallow breaths escaping their lips being the only sign that they were still there.

Xe fumbled for their phone in their bag, hands shaking as they pulled up the dial screen. Tears blurred xyr vision.

Who do they call? Would emergency services really be the best idea? This can’t happen again. Xe can’t lose them. Instead, they pull up xyr contacts. He picks up on the first ring.

“Help, Arcene, please.” Xe chokes, mindlessly running xyr hand to find theirs. Xe explains the situation, barely coherent between sobs. The rustling in the background on the other end barely registered.

“Alright, alright, calm down.” He spoke as kindly as his voice would allow. “I’m still at the office. I’ll be there in five, ten at the latest, alright?” Xe nodded, not that it’d be audible. “First, I need you to strip their shirt. On their back, clear the area as much as you can. Then head downstairs to let me in. Alright?” A car door closed on his end.

“Please…”

“Look, Cy, I know it’s hard.” His engine started. “But they need you to do this. They have you. It won’t end up like that again.” Xe nodded, taking a deep breath.

“Thanks…” Xe hung up, tossing their phone to the nightstand and turning to Lucielle. Xe bit xyr lip, roughly wiping the wetness from xyr cheeks. Pulling down the blanket, xe pulled up their black hoodie, several sizes too large, tossing it to the side. Xe loosely braided their long hair, tying it off with a hair tie from xyr wrist.

“Please don’t… Promise you won’t, alright?” Xe presses their lips to their forehead. “I’m sorry.” Xe held their face, delicately, as if they might shatter at the slightest mistreatment. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. I’m sorry I didn’t…” Xe swallowed back tears.

Seconds seemed to take minutes, yet passed in the blink of an eye. Xe waved to the taller man once he was in sight, holding the door open. He carried a large bag with him. They ran up the floors in silence, but it was anything but quiet. It felt like xyr body itself was screaming.

The third-floor door was left open, at which he beelined to and down the hall. By the time Cyrille caught up to him, he was already kneeling beside the bed with a blood pressure cuff around their upper arm.

“How much do they weigh?” Xe rambled off a number. “How are you holding up?” He took notes on a pad, removing the cuff.

“Horribly.” He snorted.

“I bet. Do you want to wait in the other room? I can give you a task if not.” He took out a wipe, cleaning down their forearm.

“Anything to occupy me, please…”

“Get them their favourite snack. And water. By the looks of it, the kid doesn’t have much of either.”

Xe nodded, leaving the room to the kitchen. To be honest, xe didn’t know what was their favourite. Xe couldn’t cook either.

Their pantry had crackers. Cookies. Snacks. Those gross protein bars they’d always offer xem. Xe took a glass and a plate from the cupboard, filling the former with water from the tap. 

Xyr head swirled, too many thoughts and none at all at the same time. Maybe that bottle of vodka would be useful after all. Xe left their bag beside the bed though. And xe didn’t know if xe could face them. What if xe was too late? What if it didn’t work? Who knows what happened?

“Cy—” they turned back to the hall— “They’re fine. Don’t overthink it. I know you are.” Arcene took off their shoes, walking them over to the door. “I’ll be here for a little while, just in case. You’re fine to see them though.” 

Xe nodded, silent. The various snacks were arranged on the plate to look nice. As nice as xe could make them now. Xe wedged another empty glass in their elbow, carrying it along with the plate and the glass of water to their room.

Lucielle didn’t acknowledge xyr presence as xe entered the room. Their eyes were open though; the only indication that they were awake. Colour returned to their face, looking almost as if it had never left. Xe set the glass and the plate on the nightstand and pulled up the chair from their desk.

Lucielle’s eyes remained trained on the ceiling, unmoving. Unblinking. The blanket was now pulled up to their neck. Their sweater was still draped at the edge of the bed, in a different location from where xe tossed it earlier.

Xe rummaged through their bag, pulling out the bottle of vodka. It wasn’t the optimal way to drink it, at least in xyr opinion, but xe really couldn’t care less.

“Sorry,” they spoke, barely a whisper.

Xe looked up at them. They still haven’t moved from the spot.

“Shouldn’t’ve…”

Cyrille swirled xyr drink, watching it flow in the glass before taking a sip. The familiar burn was comforting, almost.

“Don’t sweat it, Luci. We can celebrate properly next week, alright?” Xe didn’t want to make them feel worse. They were already beating themself up over it; they didn’t need xem too. “I’m happy you’re alright, though.” Xe forced a slight smile.

“... Stay?”

“Tonight? Yeah, of course. The next few days too. Thought you’d like the company.” Xe was still worried. The prospect of xyr best friend dying right in front of xem was… terrifying, honestly.

“Hold…”

Xe laughed weakly, smile turning just a smidge genuine. “Just as needy as ever, huh Luci?” They huffed. “So cute…”

Xe set xyr glass down on the nightstand, lifting the covers to slide into bed next to them. They turned onto their side, resting their head on xyr chest. They sighed against xem, nuzzling xem as they allowed tense muscles to relax. Xyr heart skipped a beat, xe swears.

“Red?”

“Hm? Oh, you mean Arcene? I’ve told you about him, right?” 

They shook their head ‘no’.

“He’s my half-brother. On my father’s side. Never really got along well. And my mother got custody of me when I was a kid. He’s what… 11 years older than me? Or 10, now. I didn’t know who else to call… He’s a nurse at the East district hospital. Lucky for us. He’ll leave sometime tomorrow morning.” They hummed in response.

Xyr eyes fell on their ears, watching them twitch contentedly. Their silver hair remained in its messy, loose braid. Cyrille reached up, running xyr hand over their hair. Xe could fix the braid in the morning.

Within a few minutes, they fell asleep. Soft, regular breathing now slowed to a comfortable rhythm. Xe continued petting them, running xyr fingers through their soft hair. Xe pressed a kiss to the top of their head, right between the ears as xe drifted off to sleep. They were alive. They were safe. That was all that mattered now.

[fox-buried-in-dandelions]

what year did cyrille and lucielle start dating.

[perdidit-vulpes]

they r so queer....

[asnowfern]

Crimson Starlight

Summary: His fingers twitch before clenching into a fist at the side of his body. He wears a nostalgic smile as amethyst eyes take in every detail, lost in every smudge and swipe of water colours. A secret conversation between him and the long gone artist. 

A lost history of the world's most iconic female impressionist artist and her first ever sale of an art piece. 

~~~

OR Vampire Rhys and human Feyre falling in love in 1880s Paris.

Rating: M, some blood and violence

WC: 4.2k

Read on AO3

A/N: Happy Feysand Week everybody!

Written for day 2 of @officialfeysandweek2023 prompt: Hobbies Because she likes to paint🎨 and he likes blood🩸 (The link is tenuous I know)

Thank you so much to @octobers-veryown for helping me check on the art history stuff! Love you💜

THE FEYRE ARCHERON EXHIBIT

Defying English societal norms and her middle class background, Feyre Archeron propelled to notoriety at a private art gallery in 1889, rendering critics of the community speechless with her stunning use of colours and bold impressionistic still life paintings. Eventually, paving the way for the self-taught artist to win the gold medal at the 1900 Exposition Universelle in Paris. 

Come celebrate with us one of the most prolific and trailblazing female artists in history.

***

She watches from her corner in the cool exhibition as the man enters the room. His tailored jacket clings to his broad frame, the first two opened buttons of crisp white shirt reveal whorling black ink and tantalisingly teases lean muscles underneath. His presence is commanding even  as his steps hitched in the middle of the exhibit, sharp violet eyes zeroing in on a portrait hung at the opposite end of the room, almost hidden from view from the general public. As if, it's a portrait which only he knows the existence of.

The lights of the museum seemingly follows him as he strides towards the painting, an aureate glow reflecting off dark skin with every step. He looks up at the smeared bright colours tracing three distinct lifeforms, the brush strokes in a distinctly different style. 

His fingers twitch before clenching into a fist at the side of his body. He wears a nostalgic smile as amethyst eyes take in every detail, lost in every smudge and swipe of water colours. A secret conversation between him and the long gone artist. 

A lost history of the world's most iconic female impressionist artist and her first ever sale of an art piece. 

===

A deafening crack of thunder over Hyde Park snaps Feyre out of focus, her hand twitches and sends dark shades of brown splashing over delicate painted hands. Ruining what was supposed to be portraits of her sisters. Matching storm in crystal blue eyes narrows as she swears, her mind races on how she could correct the misstep and salvage the painting.

Another clap of Zeus's lightning bolt sends rain down on the garden. It quickly soaks the canvas sitting and accumulates water on her precious paint. Dismayed, Feyre closes the easel and gathers her materials. Within the next minute, she ducks into a small stand and relies on the small red brick structure above her for shelter. 

Assessing eyes surveys her now damp canvas and sculpted lips curl inwards in dismay. Canvas are expensive, paint all the more so. For them to be wasted and ruined by the rain. The number of meals she may have to skip out on to recuperate the losses. 

She stares idly at the splotchy colours as her mind overlays new images of how the painting could look like. Her hand pauses in mid-air as she reaches for a new brush. It is something different, something new. 

Leaving no further room for doubt, she lowers her brush to the canvas in a smooth decisive stroke. With a slight curve to the lips, her brushes levels swipe after swipe, adding more colours, more shapes, more shadows. More. 

Suddenly, her hand stills. Feyre inhales sharply.

A chill runs down her spine and raises the hair at the back of her neck. Feyre shivers as she looks up, surprised that night has fallen in what had to be hours since she escaped to the shelter. 

As fast as it came, the pressing fear lifts from her chest and returns her breath back to her. Her fingers tremble as she dumps the brushes into her cup, quickly rinsing out the paint. 

"That's a beautiful painting," a low, silky voice says from behind her. 

Despite instincts screaming at her to run, Feyre turns towards the source of the voice and her mouth goes dry. 

The man is impossibly beautiful. 

Sharp sensual lines trace his facial features, his mouth pulls into a smirk with a hint of white gleaming through. He draws himself closer, wrapping her in a sea of salt and citrus. She feels her back practically arching towards him in response - closer, closer. 

He leans, not into her but towards the canvas, pausing for a stretched second. When he finally turns his gaze on her, the world quietens. For there are no colours that Feyre could mix to emulate the violet in his eyes. No, not just violet but the varying shades of blue and purple. It is like a galaxy, drawing you in until nothing else matters. 

"Hello, darling," he purrs. 

The words break the enchantment and Feyre steps away, her back colliding into a pillar. The stone cold surface spurs her into action, hands flying to keep her belongings. 

Rough calloused fingers gently close around her wrist. He asks lightly, "What's the hurry?" 

Feyre fights to keep her eyes open, fights to not lose herself in the smooth silk of his voice. She breathes out shakily, "I don't want any trouble. Just let me go and you'll never have to see me again." 

"Why would I ever want that?" He returns sharply, her hand remains rigid in the air even as he releases it.

A tension locks in her jaw as she pushes down the primal fear. She lifts her chin slightly, "Well, then what do you want?" 

"I want," he pauses as if to collect his thoughts, his eyes drifting back to the coarse board sitting on the easel, "I want to see the finished work." 

"Why?"

"Because I might like to buy it." 

The words sound genuine and takes her by surprise. She swallows the lump, her heartbeat kicking up a notch, "You're lying."

The man studies her for a moment, she resists the urge to squirm under the intensity of his stare. Finally, he asks, "Can you afford to let me go on the possibility that I might be telling the truth?"

Hot wells of embarrassment burn her cheeks as he touches on a sore subject. She has never sold a painting. Without the easy privilege that comes with wealth and titles, a female artist with no formal training or connections can never sell or exhibit.

Forever an amateur. 

She straightens her back to raise steely blue eyes to vibrant violet, saying carefully, "I'd consider it if you're telling the truth."

The edges of his mouth flick upwards, "Let's set up a meet when you've completed," he hands her a card with a name and address in Grosvenor Square, "We can discuss over dinner." 

He lifts her hand to brush his lips, spreading warmth over her frigid knuckles. Feyre swallows thickly, "This time, a week from now" 

He glances up, his lips lingering a touch longer than what is probably appropriate before drawing himself back to full height, "Very well, bring the completed piece and a couple more of your favourite ones. I will send a carriage to you at seven pm next Tuesday." 

She nods and gives her address down in Bayswater, her mouth set in a grim line. The man steps a respectful distance backward, giving her slight how, "I'll be counting down the minutes before I am able to see you again…"

"Feyre"

His eyes twinkled like stars in the night sky, "till then, Feyre darling." 

Feyre looks up at the blanket of clouds as she walks home, her hands clutching tightly onto the easel. She hopes that she did not just invite a murderer into the home of her and her sisters.

===

Feyre stares at the intricate designs etched into the wooden door. She shifts slightly and readjusts her grip on the numerous covered paintings sandwiched between her arm and body. Taking a deep breath, she raises her hand to grab the knocker. Only for the door to swing open to reveal her mysterious buyer - Rhysand, from the card, her brain reminds her.

Her eyes unwittingly drags up and down the male. He, Rhysand, has shed his jacket today. The sheer white shirt hangs loosely on his body but does little to hide his muscular physique. With a teasing smirk and another caress of his lips against the back of her palm, he leads her down a tastefully decorated corridor. 

The tight trousers, Feyre thinks, was definitely a conscious choice on his part. 

"Is there no one else here?" She asks as they enter a dining room, her head swivelling around, noting the lack of people around.

"Why, Feyre," Rhysand teases, smiling widely to reveal sharp pearly white canines, "are you enquiring after my marital status?" Feyre is about to scoff when he croons, his eyes slightly darkened, "Fortunately, I remain a bachelor." 

This time, Feyre does scoff, settling her paintings down with a huff, "It doesn't concern me if a potential art dealer is a married man or a bachelor. Although," she nods her head in gesture of her surroundings even as he bends at the waist to carefully study the pieces, "you don't seem like a very discerning collector."

Rhysand draws to his full height as he smiles wanely, "There hasn't been art that made me want to collect as much as yours."

She withholds a frown to mark his sincerity, announcing, "I have not yet decided if you're conman or a predator." 

He lets out a barking laugh, "Darling, I am sincere in my offer, but," his voice drops into dark velvet and awakens a dangerous heat in her, "make no mistake about it. I am most definitely a predator." 

With her hackles raised, she meets the darkened stare with her own, "And what makes you think that I'm a prey?" 

"No, you're not," Amethyst eyes glint as he dips his chin in agreement. Then as fast as a switch, he drops the heat and speaks formally, "Fifty pounds for the painting from the park and a thirty percent commission on all future sales."

Though she is sure her eyes are round with disbelief, she forces the breathlessness out of her voice, "Let's talk terms over dinner."

Dinner goes smoothly, a simple yet elegant affair. Servants slip in and out only to bring in food. Gentle clanks of chinaware bounce around the room as they eat. 

"Paris?" Feyre asks incredulously, her dessert fork hitting the plate loudly, "You want me to move to Paris? With you?"

He shrugs, the very picture of nonchalance, "Is there anywhere else better to be?" 

Her jaw clamps down on the delicate pastry. He is right, of course. The city of light is the epicenter of Europe's art scene - the birthplace of the often condescended upon impressionism. A place she could flourish much better than stuffy London. The marginal freedom she could attain as a female artist. 

Her sisters are comfortable with the small inheritance they've received with their mother's death. She could modestly live off the money Rhysand is offering for the painting for a couple of months. She could entrench herself in the landscape, learning and absorbing. She could actually be an artist. She could, she could, she could. 

Her heart lifts ever so slightly in hope and excitement.

She could.

===

Feyre wrestles her hands behind her back as she observes the casual art dealers surrounding her. It's been a few weeks since her move to Paris and things have progressed well enough that when she heard about Helion Spell-cleaver's private art exhibition, she paid the small fee and signed up for entry. 

"Look, Dagdan. It's the same distinctive wild brushstrokes as before. This must be Rhysand Night's artist then," a low voice sneers from a distance, "the new star."

Feyre releases the iron grip on her hands and forces them open and relaxed. Her back straightens with every stretched beat as she turns to the pair, schooling her expression into one of impassion.

Dagdan and Brannagh. 

Hailing from the upper echelons of French government and strong familial ties to the leadership of the society of French artists, the sibling duo made their debut at the last Salon with a piece Feyre found to be derivative. A pale attempt to pander to the recent commercial success of mixing impressionism elements into classical art styles the Salon prefers. A view that is sometimes whispered clandestinely around the community but never to their faces.

"Yes," the brother tuts, his elbow tight around his sister's, "and the same obscene mix of colours. But the price that it fetched? They say it's avante garde but I don't get it. Perhaps the perception of the common," his eyes flick disdainfully at the slightly frayed material of her plain cotton dress and distinct lack of a corset and bustle, "just isn't something that we can understand." 

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Feyre forces on a polite barely passable smile, interjecting, "Perhaps, the perception of the common is more suited for the masses. I couldn't possibly begin to understand the, er, beauty from a trained eye." 

"No," Brannagh curls a perfectly shaped lip in haughty contempt, "you really wouldn't." Her voice drops a decibel, "Mark my words, your name will be forgotten the day you stop offering extra services to your sponsor."

Her fists clenched into tight balls as they stalk away, the low rumble of their sniggers fuelling the burn in Feyre's cheeks. 

The words still haunt Feyre days later. She growls in frustration as she lifts a charcoal to paper for the umpteenth time that day. Her mind draws a blank. 

Obscene mix of colours. 

The charcoal breaks into pieces as it collides against the hard floor. Feyre bends her knees to pick up the pieces and inadvertently collapses to the ground. The cool sting of marble permeates through the fabric to reach her skin. 

She twists her body slightly to rest against the leg of the chair, her eyes falling shut. It's just to rest her eyes, she tells herself. The next time she opens them, she will be ready to face her canvas. She thinks as Brannagh and Dagdan's voices melt into a pot of derisive laughter.

==

"Feyre, wake up!" 

Large hands envelope her, pressing her against a stiff jacket while gently shaking her awake. Feyre whines at the intrusion, "Five more minutes." 

The pressure of fingertips on her lessens and a low chuckle reverberates pleasantly down her spine. "Wake up, darling."

Her lids flutter open and Rhys swims into vision, lines of concern carved into his face. The lines lessen as he takes in her waking form, gradually giving into tender amusement. 

"Rhys?"

"You had me worried for a moment there"

She groans, sitting up. A warm palm lingers on her back, lending her support, "What time is it?" 

"Nine," he answers, his brows pinched together. 

Feyre rubs the bridge of her nose. She is more than two hours late for their appointment, no wonder he showed up. She gives a woeful look, "I'm really sorry about this. I was just really tired." 

He doesn't say anything. Instead the arms which are still wrapped around her tighten and there is suddenly nothing else in her world but a salty sea of citrus. 

"I was so afraid that something had happened to you." The confession comes out in the slightest of whispers. 

"It's just an ill-timed nap," she murmurs into his chest, his confession prompting one of her own, "I've been having a block the past few days. Ever since the gallery." 

They lock gazes, Rhys searching her expression. But for what, Feyre cannot say. Finally, a familiar smirk returns, "I think I have a solution for that." 

Refusing to let her change out of her paint speckled dress, he ushers her into a carriage and sets them off with haste. The infuriating man refuses to let her sneak a peek out of the carriage window, even after they have arrived at their destination.

"Is this really necessary?" She huffs as he ties a scarf around her eyes. 

"Yes, now hush." 

With a last good natured hush, Feyre loops a shaky arm around her mysterious broker's elbow and follows. She relaxes after a couple of minutes.

"Hold tight, darling." 

"What, why?"

Feyre stifles a gasp as the ground beneath her moves upwards, leaving her stomach behind. With reflexes faster than what the other probably expected, she whips the blindfold off her head. 

Dark metallic structures whirl past her at impossible speed, bringing them higher and higher. She lurches forward as the contraception comes to a halt, only strong arms which are still circled around her shoulders keep her upright. 

She gingerly steps forward to move towards the viewing balcony. Every inch of her body thinks of nothing but to lean against that edge, "How? This isn't open to the public yet " 

He gives a mysterious smile of his, "I have my ways." 

She sniffs at the non-answer. But it doesn't matter, she peers downwards at the small dots that littered the streets of Paris, the shimmering glow of the street lamps glinting at her like stars. It is suddenly obvious why Paris is known as the City of Light. 

But to speak of stars.

She shifts her gaze upwards and reaches out a hand. She's so close to the stars, closer than she's ever been before. 

Colours burst in her mind, a cacophony of swirls and lines. Her lips relax and pull upwards at the image. She turns back to Rhys, "Thank you"

The male remains silent, his eyes are shaped like the moon and reflected wonder, "Do that again" 

"Do what?" 

His lips trembled, "Smile"

Her face splits open as a warmth fills her chest.

"Welcome to Paris, Feyre darling."

===

Feyre races down the street, swerving through Parisians, earning herself disapproving glances and tuts. She ignores them in favour of the paper scrunched up in her palm and the bursting excitement in her chest. 

Exposition Universelle, Exposition Universelle. They are actually going to showcase her art at the Exposition Universelle - the world's fair to show the progress and success of the French and they wanted to display her art. The art of a no-name, English female impressionist. Her entire being vibrates with excitement.

She barges through Rhys's door, her chest heaving as she tries to regain her breath. The brunette darts around before dashing up the stairs and into Rhys's study.

Never mind that she did not have an appointment. For what is an appointment in the face of such fantastic news?

Apparently, very important. She thinks as her eyes numbly take in the sight before her.

Her throat fills with pennies, her tongue becoming numb in her mouth. Blood roars in her ears.

Rhys is locked in a lover's embrace with another woman. Her head lolls back and her eyes are glazed. She sighs in pleasure as familiar large hands hold the back of her head in an iron grip, his full lips pressed to her neck. 

She should be mortified. Maybe even betrayed. Yet, a tight, blooming heat erupts in her stomach. Feyre's back hits the shelf behind her with a thud. Rhysand snaps his head dangerously towards her. His hand loosens on the woman, who slides to the floor.

Twin streaks of blood flow from his mouth and dribble down his chin. 

With her heart still pounding jungle beats, Feyre turns around and bolts. She barely makes it to the stairs before a flash of black snarls and sweeps her off the ground, launching them into the air. 

They land roughly at the base of the steps, hard arms absorbing the crucial impact from the ground. His heavy body pins her down. A guttural growl vibrates the narrow space between them. 

She should be terrified, horrified, petrified. And she is all of those things. Yet, her brain is still caught up in the way Rhys had embraced the woman, her moans and sighs of limp pleasure, the trail of blood running down his chin as he fixed her a feral, hungry glare. 

Teeth, no, fangs scrape up the surface of her cotton dress and rips the high collar. His hot breath tickles the length of her exposed throat and raises goosebumps. Another low snarl escapes his throat.

His pupils are blown wide open, a black hole consumes the vibrant galaxy she is used to seeing. No, this is not the Rhys she knows. A paralysing fear seizes her body.

He lowers his head once more, sharp fangs join the soft wet tongue, poised at her jugular. Feyre squeezes her eyes shut, a choked sob escapes her as pain erupts, "Rhys"

Immediately, the hard pressure lifts and is replaced by a pliable heat. The pain lessens. 

"I am so sorry, Feyre," she relaxes her eyes open to see sorrowful violet eyes staring back at her, "Sleep" 

There is nothing left to do but to let the darkness pull her under. 

===

Dear Feyre darling, There are no pretty words I can use to defend what happened, nor will I ply you with lies. The truth is I am an unholy creature, an undead monster of the night. I prey on humans and leech off them. So as much as it pains me, I understand if you never want to see me again. If it is agreeable to you, Helion Spell-cleaver has agreed to be your agent and will be awaiting your correspondence. My dear heart, in the short weeks that we have known each other, you have become everything. You brought beauty into the humdrum of my centuries of existence. A shining star in the endless dark sky. A brightness that I sully with my very presence. A fact I grew comfortable ignoring. But alas, reality has caught up and I can't pretend to be what I am not any longer.  Instead, I wish you the very best - at the upcoming Exposition Universelle and all future endeavours. I know you will shine, as you always have, and always will. Yours eternally, Rhysand

The paper remains crumbled in Feyre's hand as she reads it for the umpteenth time. Her heart grows heavier with every read, her heart that has no business weighing her down. 

An undead creature, an undead monster of the night. 

Nothing about that statement is wrong. The image Rhysand drew in his letter is one that matches her memory. Yet, it is also completely different from the image of Rhys in her head.

That Rhys is teasing quips and arrogant smirks. That Rhys is encouraging words and a confidante. That Rhys is soft smiles against the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower. 

She can't quite reconcile the two but she knows without a doubt that she isn't changing agents, not yet. She gives the River Seine a last glance, appreciating the glitters of setting sun, and stands up. Her body twists towards the main street when she collides head first in a hard chest, gasping.

Obsidian hair and pitiless dark eyes. 

"Congratulations on the exhibition, peasant." 

Sharp pain explodes in her abdomen. Feyre opens her mouth to scream but it is covered by a cloth. The cruel glint in Dagdan's eyes stands out in an otherwise nonchalant face. White hot agony spreads along her body as he twists the blade. Metallic tang fills her mouth.

No, she's actually going to die here. 

The exhibition. She's going to die before she succeeds. Her sisters. She is going to be abandoned in a foreign land without ever getting to see them again.

Rhys. She is going to die before she ever figures out how things could be resolved. A scream of pure terror and a primal growl tear her away from her thoughts. Air floods her nostrils. 

Inky blue-black hair, bright violet eyes. 

Rhys's face is dark with rage, his lips folded into a thin line. Blood splatters his cheeks and immaculate velvet jacket. Next to him, Dagdan sobs, clutching on to his severed arm. Brannagh kneels over her brother, her neck tilted up at the male, her face locked in fear. 

He turns a fearsome glare on them, his deep baritone blends with a beast-like growl, "Jump into the river and remember, we were never here." 

There might have been a splash but darkness edges her vision and her world is muffled, nothing but a rain of salt and citrus. It feels like she's falling deep into the vast ocean.

"Feyre," a devastated voice reaches out for her, shining a beacon of light, "I can't save you. Not without condemning you."

Warm liquid gurgles her mouth as she forces out the words, "I'm not ready to die."

She continues, sending the gentlest look she can muster into conflicted anguished shades of violet, "Do it."

===

She watches as the nostalgic smile wraps around the man like a fitted glove. Then the moment vanishes. Giving the dark frame and vibrant colours one last look, he straightens his jacket, flicking off a lint and leaves. 

She emerges from her corner, her mouth widens into a predatory smile. It is time to move. She smoothly navigates her way through the quiet crowd, memorising every guard location, every exit and every camera. 

Not that it matters much, so long as she does it right. 

She carefully looks around her surroundings before fixing her attention on the painting. She remembers the shaky hands and skittish strokes. Her first time blending colours in that manner, the first of many to come. Well, they do say you never forget your first. 

With a broad, catlike grin, Feyre grips tightly onto the painting and walks out of the doors and the museum goers' minds. Later, as the painting hangs proudly in their doorway, Feyre raises a crimson glass to Rhys, the galaxy eyes that she can never tire of sparkle at her. The glasses clink together lightly. 

'Happy 120th anniversary, my love." 

[starlightinitiative]

And so the first Starlight Initiative event comes to its close for the night.

This was incredibly exciting and heartwarming! It was good to see everyone that showed up -- whether it was limited to appearances within our Discord, fleeting moments in-game, or those that even spent all weekend with us out at the event venue!

I genuinely cannot stress that this event would not be possible without all the kind and generous volunteers that are a part of the team. Whether they joined at the conception of the idea, or during the events thus far! So to the volunteers we have that are on our very own tumblr, and from the bottom of my heart, thank you to @blossomblade, @humblemooncat, @pangolinheart, @scholarlostintime, @irisopranta, @valdiis, @janzoo, @wrenanigans, @ivoryribcage, @phoenshire, @strawbebbynya, @strayingkat, and @bnuuywol! And thank you to all the ones that joined through the Discord that don't have a tumblr as well (that I know of!)! Thank you to our Discord members: Arigaaz, Atsuki Scypher, Elquinjena, Aureate Emrys, duz, Kyu Wishmaster, Mimarrah, and ProtostarMirage!

Maybe some of you who are tagged are thinking, "was I worth thanking?"

Yes. The answer is yes.

You believed in the Starlight Initiative to help get it off the ground. Your belief in this project, and much of everyone's excitement poured into it is what motivated me to go forward with it. To the new volunteers that we acquired over the course of the event, I am grateful for you as well! Your belief in this project and wanting to go out of your way to make others smile for the holidays is what makes this project something so amazingly touching to me.

I would have probably given up super easily if no one reached out. I wouldn't have had the drive to continue onward. But your belief in this to reach out is why I genuinely want to recognize and thank you for doing even just THAT. Your belief encouraged me, and we made such an amazing weekend for people who came by.

To everyone else as well, even if you're not a volunteer. It's easy to look at this event on a surface level and feel maybe jaded, incredulous, and skeptical of such an event; "People just giving away free stuff? Because they want to? Okay, what's the catch?"

I'm glad for you. You who believed and trusted in us to fulfill your wishes. You who came and got something. Who showed appreciation for what you got. You who got something for someone else special to you just to make their in-game experience something better.

Thank you. Thank you so much.

I also posted this in Discord for everyone that's there, but I feel like it bears repeating for anyone here seeing it for the first time that has come to the event, donated to it, or wanted to help in some way that maybe didn't join our server for whatever reason they may have had.

We have so many people ask: "What can I do in return? / What can I give you in return?" My answer may differ from some of the volunteers, or otherwise! Though I'd like to implore everyone who has this question in mind to simply repay the kindness forward. Make someone else smile this winter holiday -- no matter what holiday you celebrate! Make someone's winter season that much more enjoyable. Winter is rough for a myriad of reasons, and I feel like there's a lot of emphasis on bringing joy and warmth to others during the season, but sometimes it feels like it's never seen to. If you can and if you're welcome to, just bring a little extra warmth to someone who seems like they need it. ♥

Thank you for making this Weekend of Gift Giving something special. Let's do it again next year!

Happy Holidays, and Happy Starlight!

-Admin Prim

[lunaetis]

▸▸ [ @tempestforged ( phainon ) || starlight trails ]

─「银月」─  the sound of her name being called caused her movement to freeze immediately. almost every person upon solaris-3 would refer to her with her TITLE, only a selected few were granted the knowledge of her true name and those who chose to call her with it was even LESS. there was a certain familiarity in his movement even though his appearance did not cause recollection to surface.

                " ... yes ? " the way those striking aqua hues gazed at her as though she was something he lost a long time ago made her aureate orbs widen slightly. you'd know when you met someone for the first time, and when you were standing before someone who had known you even better than yourself. his FREQUENCY wasn't resembling anyone or anything she had encountered before, either. this man ...

                " you've come a long way. " there was a hint of guilt lacing her tone. to not be able to remember someone when they looked at you with HOPE felt like having a knife poking in all the wrong places. " you know me, don't you ? " or perhaps know was an understatement.

[silversprings-mp3]

this was amazing!!!! such beautiful writing, i was absolutely floored by this:

Bucky’s kisses may taste like the middle of June and a first love, but desperation lines every action like a wound with jagged edges. It’s a slow process learning to be free, but one day he’ll transform into starlight—and instead of a kiss like fire, it’ll be like touching your lips to a constellation’s aureate mouth. 

definitely saving this to read again <3

As You Are (Bucky Barnes x fem!reader)

Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+

Word Count: 6.4k

Warnings: smut, explicit language, mentions of alcohol, mentions of violence and injuries, light choking, brief thigh riding/grinding, vaginal fingering with them metal fingies, oral female receiving, unprotected vaginal sex (dont be a dick, wrap that stick), fucking on sam’s couch

a/n: ok hi this fic is very self indulgent bUT YKNOW WHAT WHO CARES EKJHEJHKEJH this is my first fic for marvel and AH I hope I did Bucky justice. ENJOY YALL

This had been a terrible idea. 

Right from the minute you tailed after he and Sam to the Baron’s extensive vintage car storage. Bucky had explicitly withheld any and all information regarding this little excursion to protect you but of course you’d shown up—none too jazzed about the little stunt Bucky pulled regarding the Baron. Fair. 

You were right—Bucky should have called but that overwhelming guilt of dragging you into another one of his problems stopped him from pressing that little call button. He never wanted to be the reason you ended up back on the run again. Though judging by the way things were going, it was more than likely you’d be in prison by the end of the week. 

Luck had your back in that sort of regard—too bad it could never rescue you from your own stubbornness and grief regarding that damn shield. 

You’d taken a devastatingly hard hit from Walker—a fractured orbital, a split lip and a dislocated shoulder. All preventable—if only Bucky kept better track of you before you showed up in that warehouse alone. Left to fight the shadow of what was once a symbol of hope for some—another man playing dress-up in something that will never belong to him. 

It was just their luck Bucky and Sam arrived in time—preventing you from becoming another red stain of violence splattered over that shield. 

James Buchanan Barnes is not afraid of much—but fuck. Seeing you crumpled over the concrete floor, all bloodied and struggling to raise a hand to protect your face… It was the same feeling as injecting his veins with a pure shot of adrenaline and anger shrouded in fear. He promised Steve he’d look after you… 

And as Sam carried you out of that warehouse you had the gall to tenderly tell them that you were just fine—as if your mouth weren’t full of blood and a face blooming with patchy bruises. The jealousy that sparked through Bucky’s chest when you clung to Sam’s chest did nothing to help that dark festering pit inside his ribcage he’s attempting to suture back together.

Keep reading

[edensrose]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐒

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ dark!thranduil / reader / sauron

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ prologue

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ( summary )

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤᵗʳᵃⁿˢˡᵃᵗᶦᵒⁿˢ ᶦⁿ ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵉⁿᵗˢ

“O stars that in the sunless year, 

with shining hand by her were sown,’’

Rays of shimmering aureate fall upon the palace, bathing it in glimmering pools of warmth and shine. 

“In windy fields now bright and clear

we see your silver blossom blown. . .’’ 

Yet such a brilliant gleam does little to breach through overhangs of leafy clusters, dense and dreary, bringing upon a murky gloom to the Woodland Realm.

“We still remember, we who dwell,

in this far land beneath the trees,’’

Despite twisting aches to the chest, soft eyes focus ahead, ignoring the lingering dread for but a moment, 

“Thy starlight on the Western Seas,’’ and set upon the horizon instead.

The land most of your kin dreamt of, yet only few dared to seek. A paradise, your true and intended home. If so, why not run away to those heavenly lands, the world promised to you from birth? T’was not as if an intangible force held you in place and rendered the journey unattainable. It was in arm’s reach, open to any who wished to dwell in the realm of the Ainur. 

But perhaps, not everyone sought out paradise. Perhaps, what brought meaning to life was the gloom beneath the trees and the mysteries of the world, much like whatever beings crept and mingled within the depths of Mirkwood’s vast forest, just below your line of vision. 

Drawing a sigh, your graze drops from the land beyond the horizon to the aforementioned canopy, below that of which remained a mystery. Once a flourishing haven of mighty beech and blooming blossoms of every colour imaginable — now withered or inked sappy black, similar to the trees that crippled over like hunched, elderly women. 

The forest of Greenwood the Great was before your time, that might be true; even so, your heart yearned to see the beauty of the past, now depicted in nothing but paintings and the storybooks of elflings. An endless pall now reigned over these lands that wood elves called home, it had become standard to them, to you. 

However, what was once accepted as normality slowly but surely wove threads of apprehension into your heart. A growing anxiety that festered and toiled over the past couple of months. 

Done unto you by the very one who promised serenity and comfort. 

“My lady,’’ saving you from the depths of your mind, a voice, soft and mild calls for your attention. “Galion?” You question with a glance over your shoulder, features softening in response to the butler. “Might I be of aid?” Turning completely, you allow arms adorned in lace to fall to your sides. “No, my lady. I am simply here to relay a message. The king calls for your presence,’’ he bows after bringing a hand to his chest. 

“He has requested that I escort you to the meeting room. For the -” 

“The meeting,’’ with a feigned gasp you push yourself from the balcony’s railing and advance forward. “It had completely slipped my mind.’’ Of course it didn’t, things like this rarely did. The butler seems to catch your act but chooses not to call on it and instead presents a knowing smile. “Come, m’lady. You know better than to keep him waiting.’’ 

You exhale with a curt nod. Yes, you did know better. The King of the Woodland Realm could either be abundant in patience or garner very little of it, as contradicting as that sounded. Which is why you would rather not risk catching him in one of his foul moods and allowed Galion the lead the way. 

Down the stone halls of Mirkwood’s Palace, intricate in designs upon pillars and ceiling, all the way to the pair of large, equally as engraved doors which led to the forenamed meeting room; he led you up until that point. Knocking briefly before opening, Galion backs away and allows your entrance. As per usual, all but the king stood in greeting to not the chief sorceress — but their future queen. 

“Your grace.’’ 

“Meleth nin.’’ 

You nod in return to the guards and staff before facing the elven lord, King of the Woodland Realm, Thranduil Oropherion: your betrothed. 

It is only when they sit does he stand, leading you to the chair beside his at the end of an extensive timber table. “Forgive me for such tardiness, aran nin,’’ you apologise after taking your seat alongside him. “It had merely slipped my mind.’’ Biting your tongue, you pray he does not see past your lie — and nearly sigh outwards when he offers you those temperate eyes. A clear sign that all was forgiven and his mood was far from dire. 

Meetings such as this were never your forte, having only recently been involved with the royal duties of what it means to a ruler, you were still adjusting to your future role. However, the topic of discussion in this particular meeting is what led you to go as far as intentionally not arriving in hopes that it would carry on without you. Alas, you now sit here to the right of your soon-to-be husband, lips sealed as the matter is conferred. 

The topic of debate? 

Simple, the growing darkness within your realm and the creatures of the night which venture far beyond what one would deem comfortable. Within the span of a few months evil beings clustered around the woodlands, drawing nearer to the safe haven elves found refuge in. Enough to spark a panic in not only the foot soldiers or border guards, but even leak into the king’s guard and palace staff. Soon, it would reach the general population; so in order to keep such a fright from consuming the people of Mirkwood, a meeting was suggested to debate what the next plan of action is. After all, the current night hunts seemed to be doing little in lessening the numbers of these dreadful creatures. At the very least, they would need to be improved — or perhaps a game plan to be concocted. 

Certainly not something that a sorceress such as yourself would find a say in, but considering you were not just the chief spellcaster and rather, the future queen of the Woodland Realm, it was only necessary that your presence was required. Even so, you remained silent whilst the guards and Thranduil spoke over the matter at hand.

A few suggestions were made, some accepted and jotted down for further detailing or outright shot down. It appeared that the majority of ideas landed in the latter pile and ideas for improving the situation was next to none. 

Circles. That is what you were running in. 

Frustration gradually began to crane its ugly head as tensions arose within the chamber, from the guards and the king who debated back and forth on why some ideas would work whilst others were ridiculous. Throughout it all, you took notice of your lover’s uncharacteristic silence in this. It was unusual for him to not have some sort of backup plan, perhaps that is why frustration festered like a swiftly growing flame; as solutions were eventually sought out from the one they called ruler and king. 

“Doubling the border control and enhancing the number of night hunts should do well in achieving our goal.’’ 

“Your majesty,’’ Feren clears his throat, doing everything in his power to not narrow his brows. “Surely you understand that it is something that we have already done. Are we to keep doubling the outer guards until there are none within these halls?”

“Feren,’’ Elros attempts to sate the evident flame within his fellow guard only to be blatantly ignored. “Surely there must be something that you can do other than idly sitting here and giving orders.” You flinch, immediately glancing over the guard with pleading eyes. Thranduil’s patience would not extend to his subordinates, as much as he adored his people; especially those who stood against him whether he was in the wrong or not. 

Yet instead of outright confronting the guard - to Feren’s frustration - Thranduil remains silent, merely staring on ahead as if he was looking past the one who spoke to him. The silence did little to aid the situation, allowing for the tension to rise not only between the two, but the others within the room as well. The king could care less, it seemed. No, instead he kept his gaze onwards, almost as if he were lost in thought. 

He knew what needed to be done, and unlike what he had pertained to earlier it was not as simple as merely doubling the watch and greatening the number of night hunts. For the solution in mind was the very reason that the king held his tongue for majority of this meeting, the reason which held him so still and rendered him akin to a statue. 

‘A means of protecting what is precious to you, surely you accept?’

‘After all, is it not the very thing that brought you to me?’ 

Damnit, that man wasn’t making this any easier. Had he not told that damned buzzard to give him a little more time? To wait.It appeared to not be in his vocabulary, evidently if this is what he was resorting to. Thranduil cursed himself a thousand times and over — for at the end of the day he had no one to blame but himself. After all, would that man know of any of his weaknesses if the elf hadn’t outright sought him? Would he have knowledge of where to hit the elvenking in order to bend him to his will if Thranduil had not made it so blatantly apparent?

A part of him wished he could turn back time, stop himself from even considering seeking out that fortress. But Thranduil knew better than anyone that what was done could not be reversed and unfortunately, he feared that something far worse would have sprung up should he not have played with fire that fateful winter’s night. 

Your own doing, 

this is your own doing,

your own doing.

This is your own doing. 

Oh, how he hated that voice, his own voice, that of which lingered within the deepest crevices of his mind. One which he once trusted so much, now the source of his greatest headaches. The voice which once agreed and commended his work, now against him; reminding him of each and every one of his failures. Is it even possible to have your conscious rebuke you?

He fell into this trap, spun himself this dreadful web of which he could not escape — so was there any point in battling with himself over this any longer? The answer to all their questions was short, simple even, yet would surely dawn upon it an array of judgement and critique. Not as though he ever cared about such a thing. . . but this time was different. 

“My king, will you not answer me?”

“What is it that you wish for me to do, Feren?” Finally, he finds his voice and faces sharp sapphires to his legion of guards. The growing pressure did little to aid the situation, only thickening the darkening mist setting upon both his gaze and mind. The world around him became a blur of hues and incomprehensible ringing, a constant, deafening shrill which left the hairs on his arms standing. 

Swallow that bitter taste, 

focus your vision, 

now is not the time to allow such an ugly beast lose. 

“Anything!” The skidding of wood against stone startled most guards, Elros’ eyes widening at the sight of Feren standing to his feet abruptly. “We are in shambles, your majesty. Surely this is no secret!? We have doubled the numbers, we have strengthened the forces, what else will you have us do when every idea mentioned is either shot down or overlooked?”

“Feren,’’ your voice is hushed, teetering the line of a squeak as you are the first to notice the clenching of your partner’s fist. “My lady,’’ the guard glances at you, eyes brimming with desperation. “Please understand our frustration, our kin is worried.’’ He shoots a quick glance towards his ruler, his king. “And we require some form of plan. Otherwise, I fear the worst for this kingdom, our people.’’ You tense, knowing damn well that the guard spoke nothing of nonsense, yet also having enough acuity within you to realise that this is far from the best option in addressing this situation with the elven lord. 

“That is enough,’’ “Your majesty —” 

A second screech echoes throughout the chambers, following by a loud thud! as pale hands find the wood of the table in a harsh, curt slam. “Dina!” The king’s voice booms across the walls, surely echoing down the halls and startling even the guards who stood at further posts. You are quick to snap your attention to your beloved, observing his figure hunched over the table with nails digging into the wooden edge. A few strands of his platinum hair stray, falling over his face twisted with an expression of raging flames, threatening to consume the entirety of the woodlands. He looked anything but the graceful ellon you had come to know, the elegant king of which his people boasted in. 

Your heart clenches together with your chest, as shoulders amongst the guards tense and all eyes linger upon the ragged-breathing elf. He appeared strained, as if he had walked the distance of Mirkwood to Erebor on foot with so much as a drop of wine and rarely any breaks between. Definitely, an appearance far from which any of you were accustomed to. 

“Am I not your king?” His voice tears through the crippling silence soon enough and when he receives no answer he cranes his neck higher, abusing some of his height and towering over the table of staff. “Have I not promised to assure this kingdom’s safety — have I not vowed it to you as my father did yours!?” There’s a certain gruffness in his voice, dancing upon the border of a growl as his gaze quickly directs to the guard who had the gall to confront him. 

“I would like to inform you, Feren. That I plan not to merely sit here and give orders.’’ He grunts, jaw clenched and brows furrowed. “I suppose there is no more delaying it, since the lot of you drown in impatience.’’ 

Damn that man,

damn that man.

Making him resort to this scheme prematurely and in such an imprudent manner, damn him!

“A plan has already been put into motion, one of which none of you in this room will be able to aid,’’ he exhales, glancing at you and prompting every nerve within you to contract altogether. “Apart from her.’’ 

Thranduil draws yet another sigh, slowly rising to his full height and straightening his spine. “I require you all to put your trust in me as you have for centuries, to do what I ask and order of you. I believe that what I have decided will bring upon scepticism and rightfully so. I only ask for your utmost faith and allegiance.’’ 

An uneasy squeeze finds your lungs, their lungs, as every elf held their breath and stared upon their king who clasped his hands behind his back and raised his head to his usual proud, firm stature. 

“For our plan of action will be to play with forces many of you would deem foolish,  create what we have come to detest and scrutinise. . .’’ 

As sapphires harden, emitting a newfangled chill which circles the chamber, your heart plummets into the pit of your stomach. 

“Our very own: Rings of Power.’’ 

[sasorikigai]

"five times touched" 83c

send me "five times touched" for a drabble about five times my muse touched yours! || @yetremains || selective accepting! 

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || 一. Hanzo Hasashi’s life may be a foretold miracle; but he didn’t believe it until he felt its pain, and the miracle was freedom. Gods and immortals, they wouldn’t understand miracles, because they would have to face death to understand what it means, for Hanzo’s sentence to be deferred, to be saved by the unfurling string of his heart. The best miracles hurt; for they make him feel small and alone in the universe, but together with everyone who feels that way too, connected by fragility and wonder and hope. No longer, Hanzo Hasashi believes in miracles, but he believes for both of them. Fire ignites when hands hold hands, slipping hair under night; his devoted time and love in the throes of his sinking quagmire of unconscious that continue to drain and siphon him. Even in the eidolon breathes through him as the air becomes a ravening luster, in the vacuity of oblivion, beneath the agoraphobic infinity that threatens, Hanzo’s gaze that once would become feathers upon thickened haze of his unconscious becomes cimmerian ash, his burning inferno fueling through the depths of Yang’s familiar gaze filled with pale glitters that reminisce Hanzo of reddened moon affixed in the skies.  

二. There are so many lovely things in the world; lovely, made to be loved, soft like flower petals and that look in his eyes when he says something sweet. And strong like the first push of green through the snow, but oh-so-gentle as the graveled rumble of his voice would smooth like the bleeding red of the rose petal, becoming pliable and fragile under the touch. Hanzo kisses back of Yang’s hand, and it’s an offer and a plea and a gift; how he holds her like something precious as his eyelashes flutter against her skin. In the way how sunsets and sunrises and every way of sunlight can shine down through clouds and rain and dapple through trees. How could he not see the aureate gold of his light and not think how wonderful is it to alive? 

三. Here is what Hanzo remembers. The rhythm of Yang’s heartbeats. The way she usually takes her coffee black, but she doesn’t say anything when he sneaks in some sugar into her cup, because she deserves sweet things in her life. There were melting not caused by fire, and yet, the motionless desire manifests as the novel life of delectation, as the sunflower radiance of flame tendrils become multitudes of petals, as they become glittering pieces of his fragmented heart, dancing in the corners of his melancholic home. They are creating the verses of loneliness in Hanzo Hasashi’s half-lidden eyes, adding rhymes of heartbreak, and singing an ode to the pain. How his soul feels no less than the weary old clothes, which have been ditched in the virtue of new fashionable ones, and lying all alone beneath the dust trapped in the closet of loneliness. The only companion it has would be the lingering chaotic mess. It is not the first time Hanzo has been left in the darkness, but the melancholic blues and onyx blacks that push him into this ocean of suffering will shine a light, even through the bleeding scars. For his heart exudes new and real promises; always waiting for her, always waiting for one as the ebbing flow of his heartbeat resonates against Yang’s splayed fingers. 

四. Maybe Hanzo wants to feel this pain crawling towards his bones, maybe he wants to push himself in a void he cannot get out of, and maybe he wants it to cut deep, to leave its mark, to remember it by. A souvenir, forever on him, or maybe just until the moment he dies. In his deepest slumber, his weary mind sleeps, as the darkness consumes the rampant thoughts at least ephemerally until the morning comes. The glory of his rise will tremble the earth, for it will become intoxicated with his ember’s splendor, as his infused essence will match that of a solar flare. Harumi Hasashi may become his paradox, perpetually living inside his mind, though Hanzo is never dark and uncertain of the newfound love, nor constantly tormented by the laments of his severed love; no longer, would he drown in the regret-ridden sea, as their devotion becomes intense and unique. It never sleeps, and it would become one worthy of eternity and myth. For paradise is those moments when Hanzo is alone with Yang, resting safe and sound inside her arms, loving every second of this devotion that is between them. The cradling emanation of his hearth-fire becomes the silent meadows, as the carnival of starlight echoes through their shared obsidian tapestry, as the scintillating palm of stars flow with their exchanged gaze, even in their slumber. 

五. Society applauds resilience - bouncing back failure after failure, but forgets that healing precedes a rebound, that only with rest will he come back stronger than ever. In his awakening, his essence expels what used to restrain him; what was confessed to him at nightfall manifesting as each unbidden desire that teases them down the rivulet of his impatient skin, speaking with his eyes for he can translate his heathen passions as waterfalls seducing early morning dreams. Yang’s voluptuous, muscled frame awakens him in tremblings, and Hanzo Hasashi knows scent of her before even his lips smile before dawn’s amber forms a halo, teasing between their invisible curtains. He hears her gentle laughter, the length of her in shadows, coalesced into his own nakedness, and in curves wide and alluring, Hanzo finds himself wanting her again as if it were early spring, akin to earth breathing with its whole expanse for the first time; alive, alive, and unfolding. And he would continue to relearn the ways, the rhythms, the rituals as the balmy rose petals of his lips kiss her again and again, as the whisper of the sweet song becomes an orchestra in the echoic complexity as once quieted world blossoms with effulgent colors. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || 

[caduceuss]

keen   aureate   drinks   in   the   visage   of   his   time   worn   enemy   with   the   same   irreverence   a   nonbeliever   would   drink   in   the   statue   of   a   god.   he   regards   zhongli   for   what   he   is   -   not   what   he   tries   to   hide   -   and   as   cunning   as   baizhu   is,   to   some   degree,   it   still   shows   upon   his   beautiful   features.   between   them,   the   air   has   always   been   different,   and   those   with   keener   senses   can   see   it   too.   it   can   become   cloying,   almost,   the   magnetism   of   two   powerhouses   stuck   in   one   room,   breathing   in   each   other's   scents   and   giving   nothing   except   everything   away   all   at   once.   few,   perhaps,   could   withstand   the   reckoning   of   morax   and   orobashi   no   mikoto.   fortunately   it   seemed   they   had   eyes   only   for   each   other.

and   what   eyes   they   were.

baizhu   breathes   him   in   like   starlight,   watches   his   stance   shift   and   each   graceful   movement   as   predator   advances   with   a   near   fanatical   attention.   the   world   around   him   has   faded   to   a   dull   roar,   and   the   doctor   watches,   watches,   watches....   fingertips   curling   into   sandbearer   counter   and   lips   pursing   with   thoughtfulness.   what   a   fun   game,   this   was!   oh   how   he   loved   luring   in   an   age   old   enemy   with   this   countenance   of   beauty   and   it's   wiles.   oh,   how   he'd   love   sinking   his   teeth   into   morax's   throat   and   plunging   his   hand   into   his   chest,   wrapping   claws   around   a   key   to   the   heavens   that   he   deserved.   his,   rightfully   his   -   it   should   have   always   been   his-

he   is   snapped   from   his   thoughts   by   the   hand   upon   the   countertop,   nearing   his   space.   baizhu's   gaze   falls   upon   it   before   trailing   up   his   wrist,   his   bicep,   his   shoulder   -   all   the   way   to   zhongli's   face.   it's   a   lover's   caress,   the   drag   of   slit   eyes,   and   he   makes   no   attempt   to   make   it   seem   anything   less.   "   oh   he'll   be   fine.   qiqi   is   tending   to   him.   "   comes   the   aforementioned   words,   a   reminder,   clear   and   present   -   that   they   are   very   much   alone.

his   own   hand   splays   upon   the   countertop   -   near   the   archon's   resting   digits,   a   mere   inch   away   from   touching.   somehow   the   air   is   electrified   further,   but   he   comments   not   on   it   -   only   peers   up   at   the   elder   through   thick   lashes.   "   you're   the   expert,   zhongli.   "   the   name,   a   prayer   and   purr   on   his   lips,   a   beckoning   summons   that   barely   hides   the   whisper   of   'morax'   beneath.   "   but   your   trust   in   my   knowledge   is   appreciated.   to   that   end...   have   you   considered   something   foreign?   "   a   flash   of   teeth,   "   we   received   numerous   dendrobium   from   inazuma   recently.   "   dendrobium.   the   lycrois   that   bloomed   too   close   to   the   corpse   of   his   previous   form.   testing,   testing   -   he   was   always   testing.      and   of   course   it   wasn't   a   balanced   reagent   at   all   -   but   one   dark   in   energy   -   violent   and   true.

he   comments   not   on   that   though,   waiting   instead   for   their   illustrious   consultant   to   catch   wind   of   his   folly.   baizhu   offers   him   another   near   saccharine   look   -   the   kohl-lining   of   his   eyes   providing   the   briefest   flash   of   danger   in   gilded   hues.   "   oh   -   and   there   is   no   need   to   be   so   formal   hm?   "   he'd   die   again   before   he'd   allow   himself   to   call   zhongli   anything   but   one   of   his   many   names.   "   call   me   zhu.   after   all...   "   a   flick   of   tongue   over   his   lips,   just   long   enough   to   give   tell   to   the   slight   forked   trait   upon   the   muscle,   "   we're   plenty   familiar   with   one   another,   aren't   we?   "

𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 - 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐩 . gloved hands meet in one at the small of his back , the slope of his back having finally gained a more natural curve , as opposed to the stiff rigidity it had maintained for the first few dawns of his mortal disguise . even the hardness of his stare had relaxed somewhat , as the features of the human zhongli had now become natural . it was not a difficult transition , & few had any suspicion that he was anything more than human , if not for the rumors regarding his possible existence as a secret adeptus . physically , he was only seen as a simple , though austere , gentleman . but his demeanor was outstandingly peculiar .

though wishing to be discreet , his assimilation to liyue harbor had only gained him a very present notoriety : & though only employed at wangsheng for the service of advising on funerary rites & rituals the lay citizen may not know the complete history nor performance of , he had hence become a consultant for the whole of liyue . men of all ages sought out his crystal - clear recollection of history , his counsel , as if memory alone was a skill commendable enough to merit his every guidance . a habit difficult to stop . those who asked his help received it , with every blessing of a fallen deity.

but there were also those who did not look to him as some secret adeptus , did not call upon him as a mentor . it was most gratifying to find those who regarded him plainly . as rex lapis , few stood beside him as friends & compatriots , being held as the just , guiding god of liyue . those who had were perhaps among the most valuable to him , but many had since retired into seclusion , or faded away , lost to legend . it then was no surprise that he valued the simple , unembellished hospitality shown to him by the vendor . baizhu , a figure known to him very intimately , had ever given the consultant zhongli humble attention . for that , he had only returned the like . one who could have perhaps rivalled him at his most strong now content to stand on equal ground . both wearing human skin . both seeming to understand such secrets should not be uttered . there are times he wonders if the unassuming mr . baizhu knows .

　　　❝             how unfortunate .   ❞ if the flatness of his tone is any indication , he is far from remorseful at the absence of mr . gui . if anything , there is a note of sarcasm lingering at the edge of his speech : he knows that baizhu knows he does not make the walk to bubu pharmacy to visit him . zhongli takes two steps closer of his long stride , obeying his silent come - hither , & how lovely is it to see that sly look a little closer . lacking the fury of the ancient ones , but as venomous as one can recall . ❝   my well - wishes for his quick recovery . i am certain he has received the best care from his boss . there is no doubt in my mind that he will make a speedy return . . .   ❞ but do not hasten him back into his post .

　　　❝   not pomegranate leaf . i require a balanced reagent to take its place . surely , bai - xiansheng , you have a recommendation ?   ❞ as he approaches the counter , one hand leaves its home behind his back , & two fingers rest upon the top . his core stays its distance , but the gesture prods into the space of the other , as if asking permission to stand so close . if nothing else , the senses greatly desire to be engulfed in the entirety of his being . seeking the volume of his voice , the headiness of his scent , the whole of his vision to be upon him . knuckles remain on the countertop may he ask this much ?

[monoceros-vulpes]

OCs Rio - Rio Kayne - N/A Chihaya - Praeteritus Dies Haruka - Limodorum Vines Kasimir - Fox of the South Kusuma - Kusuma Clair - Clair Åsa - Åsa Llyr - N/A Blaire - N/A Beau - N/A Hemera - N/A Innas - N/A Kasimir - Seratis!Kasimir Marie - N/A Nyx - Star-Fallen Prince Ciar - Ciar Shion - Ice Prince of Kanagawa Dian - Sapphire Flame Cyrille - N/A Lux - Lucielle — Setlist: Lux Moka - N/A

S/I Ships Exsanguis Larva - exsanguis larva Ginsig - ginsig Rivix - N/A Ruby Blende - Ruby Blende

OC Ships Alchemical Performance - Alchemical Performance *Permafrost - N/A Preserved Ink - N/A *Diamond dust - N/A *Inked Spell - N/A Starlit Embrace - Starlit Embrace Brilliant Dawn - N/A Aureate Starlight - Aureate Starlight

[fox-buried-in-dandelions]

Masterlist.

Voiceclaims. || Pronouns.

Genshin Impact

Kasimir Chihaya Quinn Haruka Kusuma

Sellatis

Kasimir Nyx Hemera Marie Beau

HTTYD

Åsa Llyr

Ad Vitam Per Morte

Dian

Honkai Impact 3rd

Lux Moka Cyrille

Pen & Paper

Ciar Kasimir

Persona 5

Shion

Bungou Stray Dogs

Rio

Ships

*currently canon ** previously canon

Genshin Impact

*Alchemical Performance - (Lyney/Quinn) Permafrost - (Amber/Kasimir) **Preserved Ink - (Orobashi/Chihaya) Diamond dust - (Sucrose/Kasimir) Inked Spell - (Quinn/Lyney/Kasimir)

Sellatis

*Starlit Embrace - (Kasimir/Nyx) Brilliant Dawn - (Hemera/Marie)

Honkai Impact 3rd

**Aureate Starlight - (Cyrille/Lucielle) Ice Star - (Honoré/Lucielle)

[star-veil]

starbright

yavin temperatures are quite something to get used to, especially for a pale, lithe officer who’d spent his whole adult life aboard a star destroyer, far from a natural sun and far from a natural atmosphere.

it is something to get used to, as are much of these new changes.

“I love you more than anything in this world, ‘tage...”

he winces, and brushes off the thought, continuing footsteps gently through the brush.

the trees around him stretch in a canopy of green- a blanket that seems to envelop the entire moon in such a serene grasp. like a mother, caring for its child- nature, reaching out to thank its host.

“all the constellations in the sky combined, darling...”

he blinks, stopping suddenly to duck his head and run one hand through his hair. it’s roughed, tangled. but, he supposes, this is supposed to be a vacation of sorts. he shouldn’t worry about appearances this much.

so he keeps walking, teeth anxiously biting at his lower lip as he let his thoughts run as rampant as the birds overhead.

“it, uh, it was my mom’s... I want you to have it,”

he pauses only when he comes across an array of sculpted ruins. vines carved elaborate cracks and patterns into the stone, blooming ivy that roots into the ground and stretches out toward him like little tendrils of starlight.

he starts off over the ruins, careful not to step on any fragile carvings, and sits down on a little ledge of steps where the blossoms arch up to form a beautiful spread of flowers. like a sun.

“I love you.”

the ring is in his palm.

it is small in his hand, a simple thing of silver and steel.

there are no carvings, no designs like the ruins around him. but it is soft and cool against his skin, and he can’t help but feel pangs of guilt upon seeing the thing.

“I know... this is sudden, ‘tage, but...”

and it cuts deep. sharp, sudden, stinging.

he had always been taught to be cold. be commanding. softness is weakness and weakness is failure.

but with him...

no, no- survival instincts take over and he’s shaking, tears stinging at his eyelids, cheeks flushed red.

everything about his better knowledge, every single thread of his past tells him this is wrong. not only is warmth prohibited but tears?

you really are weak, armitage.

and he can feel the tears rolling down his face, stopping at his jawline and falling gently like drops of sunshine.

they sparkle, even, as the sun dips over the forest canopy and bathes him in a warm aureate light.

he feels wavering. like a thin thread, a wire waiting tense and shaking to snap but-

ah, warmth!

the sun that spills over him is like a lulling song and he can’t help but falter to take a little breath.

there are stars. just so gently but now that the sun is dipping down to rest, to light the rest of this beautiful, terrifying moon.

he loves you.

and then there is only peace.

he allows himself to rest and lets his gaze drop down to the ring.

soft, silver, reflecting a slight light from the yavin star.

he loves you.

a foreign peace unknown to his anxious mind and... 

a feeling unlike any other.

he loves you.

and ‘tage....

with all of his heart, with all of the suns, stars, planets around them...

‘tage knows.

[thatsadorbsyo]

Starlight Gifts

A series of boxes are left with the retainers at the front desk of the Argentate, gifts from Evette Blackstone for her associates to receive whenever they should next return to the business.

For Liana Warden ( @liana-warden ), a long, narrow white box wrapped in pink ribbon contains a well cared for antique cane, made out of white ivory and with a pattern of gold hummingbirds spiraling up the length from the foot to the handle. The note reads, For looking pretty on a shelf, or to keep nearby whenever you have reason to doubt the people around you. On the back of the card are instructions for operating a hidden lever that causes a stiletto blade to pop out of the foot of the cane.

For Luther Aldric ( @dasregal ), a small black box wrapped in gold ribbon contains a dagger very similar in make to the one Evette carries, likely even crafted by the same blacksmith. It’s an Ala Mhigan blade made with dark metal, but it has iconography of Nald’thal etched into the handle. The note reads, For when mine isn’t within reach.

For Sorya Marin ( @sorya-marin ), a heavy brown box with gold and green ribbon and gold leaf inset lettering that reads Goldscale Apothecary contains six balls of compressed alchemy powder, that when placed in a full bath will cause the water to bubble pleasantly and fill the room with pleasing aromas. One is vibrant orange and smells like citrus, one is gold and creamy and smells of honey and milk, another is brown and chunky and smells of oatmeal and spice, one a pale green that smells of tea tree and chamomile, another light purple and smells of orange blossom and lilac, and the last is nearly white and smells of a strong mint. The card reads, “Treat yourself,” and hastily scribbled underneath that, “(Not for eating!)”

For Burkegan Iriq ( @ninth-threnody ), there is no box at all, but rather a bottle of extremely cheap Pearl Lane hooch with a bow tied around the neck and a key to a Goblet home sitting inside the bottom of the bottle. The card reads simply, “Drink this and come over.”

For every other employee of the Argentate and the Aureate Ward is a simple charm fitted with a round, opaque white gemstone with threads of smoky grey marbled throughout. The note reads, “In Coerthas, Pillarstone symbolizes Halone’s strength of mind and character. Wearing it is said to imbue you with luck and fortitude. Whether you believe that or not, it is fair to behold and matches everything. Let the coming year be whatever you make of it.”

[aurealmaster-a]

“ && I wish I knew how long we’ll have,    It’s like you blink && so much time has passed,    At the end when my heart beats it’s last,    I will still w a n t you    Who can say what tomorrow holds?    Where I’ll end up if I take this road?    People come && people go,    I love you && that’s all I know. “ 

    He lays down first in bed alone, but the sheets are too cold-  the room too quiet and bed too big.  The empty space and sound eats away at his heart, threatens to carve in and hollow him out.  His anxieties poke and prod, play at his heartstrings and will not let him rest.  He sits up in the dark and feels numb.  Is that it?  A feeling of being unfulfilled, incomplete.  A fear.  Tomorrow is the harbinger of true ending; are his affairs in order?  Has he said all he has to say?  All he needs too?  ( An immediate answer of thought:  NO. ) 

   He rises from bed, bare feet on cold hardwood floor and pads quietly into the adjacent living area-- No sign of Láeg at first, of course, not yet.  Cecil is sure he’ll rematerialize once he realizes his Master has stirred.  For now, the cold && hollow home only further serves to drive the point home:  After tomorrow he will dead, or he will be alone. 

   He does not call out to the Rider, does not summon him forth from silence of cold to keep him company.  He seeks instead the company of the stars, drawing back the curtains across the huge wall of windows in the living area-- It is moments like this that Cecil is wildly thankful he lives so far from the city-- From this window is an expanse of clear and cloudless sky-- Here is the solace and distant warmth he seeks:  the stars.  Each is a cold, years away spot of light-- It doesn’t ease his sleepless heart at all.  Leaning against the window pane, the chill of autumn creeps through glass and cloth until it reaches skin, and then through bone, threatens to turn his soul cold under the touch of it.  Cold, cold, cold.  He’s been left staring out the window a few solid minutes-- Something in his soul feels RAW, miles away-- and true to his initial study, there is an iridescent shimmer of color and light. Láeg stands close by and only watches quietly for a breath, before he breaks the silence. 

  “Tomorrow will require all of your strength, Cecil.  You ought to be resting n-” Ah, but when Cecil faces him the words die away.  He could be called unearthly beneath the galactic and glacier glow, painted in hues of starlight and silver falls, lambent and ethereal--  These rivers of moonlight wash over them, fill the room with that graceful, chilling light.  And those aureate eyes of amber are glued to him, dazzling novas of emotion. Láeg’s breath hitches in his chest, it feels like, for a moment, there is a chasm between them too wide and yawning for Láeg to breach-- and just as swiftly gone when Cecil’s voice calls to him.  “Rider.”  ( A hush, a whisper, a prayer.  How could a word sound like a prayer, and steal all of his attention with no fuss that it was better to call it a command? ) 

  “Are you unable to sleep, Cecil?”  

  “Yes.”  He says, he does not say that the silent apartment breaks his heart, that the bed is too cold without his arms.  “I just...can’t stop thinking about tomorrow.”  

  && Láeg is swift to assuage and greet his expression ready resolve and support-- “Don’t worry, I won’t let you get hurt.  I won’t let anything happen to you.”  But Cecil is silent again, arms coming to cross his chest, hugging himself.  No answer is given in the shape of words, but rather, Cecil crosses the space between them and wraps his arms around Láeg ‘s middle without pretense-- presses his face into his chest and hides.  From here, only when he feels warm arms secure around his shoulders, safe, does he voice with a trembling sound:  

  “I’m afraid.  Not of war or death, but of returning to life without you.  How can I sleep tonight, clear headed and dreaming while I should be taking in every second I have left with you?  I don’t want to sleep-- I want to lay in the dark and listen to your heartbeat.  I want your fingers burning against my skin and I want you to kiss me until I’m certain I’ll never forget what it feels like, what you taste like-- I want...” He shakes, shoulders first and those arms tighten around him. Láeg presses his face into his hair, breaths the comfortable scent that Cecil carries, vanilla and sandalwood.  Home.  “I just want you.  Until tomorrow is worlds away in my mind-- Until I...Until I could almost forget...” That I’m losing you.  Raw, so raw, his heart and soul are crying-- He could nearly call it unfair.  What had he ever done to fate to deserve a thing so cruel as to meet your soulmate, worlds and eons away?  To know they are all you could ever want, know they could love you in return and still lose them?  No, It’s cruel, even if he isn’t bitter.  Even if he doesn’t have a single regret, even if he wouldn’t change a single moment of their time.  

  Láeg pulls back and holds his face, hands warm, and kisses him-- a thing of passion without fear.  Of love and fire. “Tá mo chroí istigh ionat.” It isn’t a sentence Cecil knows, but there are some sentiments which can be understood wordlessly, can be conveyed in heart and soul, in the eyes-- and his eyes are exactly where Cecil finds his translation.  “And not even death or fate may change that.  Not even death or fate may take that from you.”  ( && he says it with such confidence Cecil’s heart leaps in his chest. ) 

  “I’m not sad, I’m not--”  He speaks against lips, hands that wander over familiar scars, down his chest-- “Not really.  I cannot be angry over what I was granted.  the very chance to know and love and adore you--”  That hand continues, strokes muscle and scar and Cecil leans up and kisses him again, licks at his lips.  “No matter how short.”  And it seems his desires has caught on, or that perhaps his Rider has shared the same thought all along, holding back for uncertaintly as he is wont to do, because Cecil is suddenly backed against the window and the heat of a body presses in-- It’s his touch alone that chases out the empty cold and fills him.  Makes the apartment feel inviting again-- More like home and less like a beast waiting to swallow him whole.  Cecil brings his arms up to drape and wrap around Láeg’s shoulders.

 ( And like this, the stars swim around them.  That visage of mercurial light is now obscured by drifting clouds, sweeping in and out of the view of a full moon.  It halos around Cecil’s head, and bathes the room when present with it’s company. ) 

 “ If this is it, the last night I have with you, I want to remember it for the rest of my days.”  He wonders if it sounds silly, if it sounds selfish, if Láeg is just as afraid as he is.  Cecil kisses slow down his throat, relishes the pulse that leaps and jumps beneath his lips before he sinks to his knees.  The intent is clearly carnal, and those eyes never leave Láeg’s, looking up at him through dark lashes-- despite the late hour, despite the pressing day to come, Cecil takes his time, moves with such languid desire one might think they had all the time in the world.  That's precisely what he wants.  MORE TIME.  If he cannot have it, then he will make do with pretending they already do.  

           // @dilseacht

[sasorikigai]

 ❛ wanna put your english on my tongue then daddy ? 🥺💕 ❜

Random Inbox Shenanigans, based on this gifset (x) || @rahge || always accepting!

💥 || Hanzo Hasashi’s vision, exquisitely exhausted, enhanced and enriched by the proverbial darkness of his melancholic stride furrows. It remains which, unfounded amongst the clean, are brewed under such resplendent opal starlight shining above him, as it reciprocally basks over the chiseled musculature. His intense, unblinking gaze remains slick with sickness and infused with intent, as the polished onyx stone of his gaze spills the raw essence of his being.

How Akina Mori had opened his heart up, from being torn apart, and had lifted him when his earth-collided facade threatened to shatter his being. Forget the ephemeral spinning of sex and eradicated brood and melancholy as the floating silence sketches the penned desire that breaks the cage of an everyday life. He is trying to be better; striving for the sun, reaching towards a tomorrow that towers above the invisible, intangible cage that holds him inside. 

The glinting aureate beauty of his intense gaze seems to linger in a mystically endless flood of time and their close proximity stirs an endless whirlwind, feeding off life. No longer whirled beneath the whirlwind of despair and depression, the once brooding, cruse assertiveness honed with steeled composure of the Commander’s unbreakable composure visibly mellows. How Hanzo remains delicate like basked mountain amidst the meadow. The dualism of his flourishing force and sensuality coalescing to speak the authenticity of his emotions, raw, unfiltered, and magnificent. 

“Speak plainly, Akina, does this mean you find my accent pleasurable to your ears, or you simply wish me to steal your breath and kiss you passionately?” The accentuated intonation of his timbre lingers, as his inquisitive head leans considerably, enough to breach her personal space. Pupils dilated, with the steady, strong ebb and flow of his broad chest radiates heatwave enough to engulf and devour both in the throes of exuding passion. 💥 ||