#Glow-in-the-Dark Bead Patterns

[edensrose]

˖ 𑣲 The Dragon's Flower ✧ Sweet Sin

˚₊‧꒰ა dragon.ᐟ satoru gojo ﾉ sacrfice.ᐟ reader ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ after deciding to stay with the supposed “heartless dragon” & learn his ways of magic, you find yourself growing fond of him. as you both grew closer, it's only natural that you'd notice him avoiding you one week. you venture to his room in concern one day, and find him in a peculiar position . . . ꒰ ᡣ𐭩 ꒱ monster romance ˖ dragon heat ˖ conflicted toru ˖ handjob ˖ ovipósition mention ˖ kinda angsty end ˖ 2.9k ˖ the dragon's flower masterlist

໒꒱ ‧₊˚ eden , ain't none of you prepped. link in the fic is to help visualise the dick ( shape not colour ) ⌇ art cred : myuchiisu

Cool tones painted the mountaintop. Azure streams and rivers, the pale, sometimes murky sky. White orchids and lotus flowers that waved in serene breezes to clouds kissing the the citadel. A world of blue and white, much like its master — mow, all washed into something warmer, fiery.

Red faced, bathed in the auburn glow of candles and cloaked in sandalwood incense. Even his eyes, while the same bright blue, peered like two coals from beneath heavy white lashes. Smouldering, crackling, were dragons not susceptible to fire?

"Satoru." All formality drained the second you spotted his shaky form on the futon. White haori nowhere in sight and his dark, unbuttoned kimono pooling around his waist. That scaly heap slumped over his lower half must be his tail. Had it grown larger or was that the dimness?

His strained pants would have anyone believing he flew around the mountain ten times and over. With the shaky limbs and beads of sweat caught in the candle flickers, you wouldn't be too surprised.

Something rumbled. His voice? Deep, grave and as murky as the waters that brought you here.

"You need to leave."

Shivers pricked your spine. You might have mistook it for the first time you saw him if fear bloomed with it. Fear, how could you? Even with his jaw tight, scales littering him like the white-jade and those slitted eyes cloudier than the mountain's midnight haze, he was still Satoru.

Your body still drew to him. "Are you alright?" Your knees met the futon and he grunted with a shift. You followed, but irritation caught on your legs halted you. Claw marks etched in cotton with glistening sharpness coiled beneath fists as the culprit. Are those longer too?

As a woman raised in a superstitious village who wailed when someone cut their nails at night or flinched when combs broke, you should have known better. But instead of alarm bells, all you heard were wind chimes.

Because this was Satoru. The man who tickled instead of clawed, laughed instead of bit, protected the valley when villagers claimed he had a taste for hearts. Not a monster.

"Sweet girl," he called in a quake. "I'm fine, promise." You've seen enough of his smiles to know when they're fake. "Please, just. . . you need to leave, sweet girl." The name repeated, it eased him more than the cold springs.

"Like hell . . . are you sick? Can dragons even get sick?" He'd fall off the futon if he tried to escape, so you advantageously shifted nearer. With closer inspection you spotted gills in lithe, blue patterns from below his ears to just before his jawbone. Scales shimmered on full display all over his lower neck, collarbone and down his chest. Another glimmer belonged to a pair of tiny, teardrop-shaped. . . pearls? engraved above his navel.

Realisation snapped your venturing gaze back up. Your hand flushed against his forehead to mask your embarrassment. His tensing became your distraction.

"You're burning up . . ."

"No shit, sweetheart."

Iridescent claws displayed as he raised to your hand with a groan. But he didn't dare touch. As if only a graze of your skin would burn him like dark magic. Dark . . .

You quirked, "did you get spelled by miasma?" With the same exuberance of a student that recalled the technique seconds from peril. A dragon's weakness to dark magic rushed to your mind, courtesy of all Satoru had taught you.

Alas, he shook his head with another groan. You slumped your shoulders and pouted. "Please, I'm too old for that. Said that was for younger dragons, remember?"

"Well excuse me, old man."

At least that earned a laugh but your face remained. too concerned with every heave of his chest and stuttered breath, not to mention that his gaze kept running from yours. What, were you fire now? "Tell me what's going on," you urged and carefully traced your fingers along the side of his neck. He flinched. Perhaps your touch was a flame.

"Satoru —"

"Fuck, I'm serious."

Her jerked back. You halted, but not because he denied your touch for once. Low and dreary, the rumbled growl belonged to the night and yet . . . you still drew closer.

Stubborn as always. Like the incense, his gaze wavered, to and fro. Peeking, hiding. From himself or something you couldn't decipher?

Your eyes followed the quick drop of his hand and beat him to it. Prodding up into the fabric of his kimono, a tent awaited. As a village girl spoonfed the importance of chastity, you should have flinched at the sight. But while you knew purity's name, she didn't know yours.

Whose face was brighter? Maybe his with that infuriatingly smooth pale skin and snowy hair that almost left him glowing even in the candlelight. In all your months staying here, not once had red paint his face more vibrant than his stupid grins ever did. Nor did he ever attempt to hide or stutter.

"Are you happy now? Go, I can't have you here."

Can't. Not won't. Not I don't want. You pressed your lips together.

"Could you tell me what's going on?"

"Stubborn girl," even his growl laced with affection. He snapped you a sharp look and huffed heavily. "I'm in heat. Rut. Whatever you humans call it. And right now, you cannot be here."

He always prided himself on teaching you about the mystics hidden in this world, but your curiosity would be the death of him. Only seconds after discovering he was erect, you still had questions. Is that why they sacrificed you? — no, that's mean. Why they sacrificed you and why he couldn't have you in his room right now were the same reason. Not with your image in his mind . . .

"Satoru." Not when you said his name like that. Not when every syllable whispered a sin he wasn't willing to commit.

"Let me help."

You were definitely sacrificed for more than just your pretty face.

You'd think you had stolen his tide jewels with the glare he shot you, but even that was pathetic. If you asked prettily enough he'd pluck them from his flesh and press them into your palm with a kiss to each knuckle.

Satoru realised something frightful in your near-year on the mountaintop. To pry his eyes from a lotus flower such as yourself, or deny her, were impossible feats — and right now? Only his mind rejected the offer. Barely.

"Absolutely not." He sat up, miscalculating how he'd flush up into you as a result. At last he touched you, his large palm knocked clumsily on your shoulder. "Are you crazy? Aren't you a village girl? Haven't they taught you better?"

"Thought me pulling a knife on you back then should have answered that question."

"You're not a human, you're a siren."

"Thought those didn't affect you?" Neither should your hand that brushed on his wrist and your body that swayed closer to him, like tides kissing the shores when his kimono caressed your yukata. Sirens didn't affect him, and yet your voice masked in the song of one did.

Your boldness knew no bounds. Instead of blades aimed for his eyes, your hands trace a tender path down to his chest. Your fiery palms flattened against heated skin, he gasped.

A divine being. One of wisdom, strength, restraint, but you weaved all that away with only your pretty fingers, effortlessly. Fate? Maybe you were destined for him, perhaps as a punishment. For no matter how much his palms itched to touch your smooth skin, you were a lotus flower he swore to view from afar.

"I can't."

"You won't?"

"I can't."

Satoru caught your hand in sync with a breath lodged in his throat. He couldn't stop the other — no, he wouldn't. Not when it caressed his thigh and made him mouth forgiveness prayers to the gods. Wasn't he a god? You touched him like a devotee.

He tried. Tried to will away. Tried to focus on anything but your fingers tracing circles on his inner thigh. Calming him as if he were the inexperienced —

"Aren't you a virgin?" He quivered.

"How polite." You smiled.

If he had manners to begin with he might have apologised. "I'm serious. Don't they send 'village girls of purity' or something like that?" Every second word caught with a heave. You hand weighed as an anchor than a petal. Guilt pooled in his gut, but desire clawed at it.

"You shouldn't - fuck." Restraint drained and his claws shot out for you when your palm stroked over his bulge. He grappled onto dignity last minute and caught the futon in the crossfire. Four more streaks torn into the cotton. Couldn't it be your yukata instead? No —

"This," he gulped. "This is wrong. Not like this."

"And what if it's my decision?"

"Then it's a stupid one." Your lips inched closer, his pressed to your knuckles instead. Your hand shook in his hold but he still held tight. His lifeline. His ruin. "I'm a mythical beast." Not with the way he whimpered. "A creature. . ."

"No." If dragons didn't need air, why did all leave his lungs when you slipped past his kimono? The belt pulled with the last bit of his dignity. Your hand ghosted flesh you knew not of. "You're just Satoru."

He avoided your lips so you kissed his jaw instead. When your soft words tensed all his muscles, you glanced down. Far from human. Divine. Never had you seen a man bare before, but you knew no mere man could compare to this.

Pale, like the rest of him, and tall too - his dick sprung from the confines. While fleshy, the ridges were pronounced. Two in particular, on either side, extended from his base and flowed with the double-curve of his length. Once at the middle and another before his tip. Girthy, with smaller ridges along the underside. The head's thickness matched the rest of him with several other ridges that had you biting on your lip. Slick, pearly beads circled his throbbing tip. One slowly tricked down the underside, emphasising the swell of his cockhead. Whether natural or erect-induced, you're uncertain, but you gulped.

To big. Especially for you. But, ever as ambitious, your fingers traced over the underside's ladder of ridges. Another gasp. His gaze fluctuated between your face overly curious hand.

He tried again, pitifully. "You shouldn't . . ."

You smiled, impishly. "Then stop me."

A challenge. A promise. You'd stop if he made you — but how could he when he felt that his fingers wrapped around his girth barely touched? How could he even dream of trying to keep your chastity when you so willingly proved you never had any of it to begin with?

Inexperienced nowhere in sight. Your stuttered pumping laced with a confidence for his pleasure drove him wild.

The rumble returned in heavy groans and his hold tightened. Every fibre of him failed to keep his cock from twitching in your delicate hand. You had long-since watered down his restraint. Even gentle tides wore-out rocky shores.

No twitches, he throbbed. Not only did he groan - he moaned, unabashed, ashamed, but still desperate for your gaze from beneath his feathery, fluttering lashes.

You broke the stare to admire him. Even when his cock trembled in your hand, it was dainty by comparison. The strokes aimed from the middle to his tip, until you grew fluid and lengthened your pumps. Induced by the sticky mess from his pronounced cockslit.

Satoru's head flicked back. Gods, were you really a virgin? Was he a centuries-old being? He melted into your silken hand like sea foam. Your name a prayer on his lips.

"Sweetheart," he breathed - whined, when you stuttered around his tip. "I'm . . . committing something long since forbidden."

An apology, but not to you. Something greater, sacred, and still — he fell into the sin of your thumb circling on his tip. Bringing pleasure and ruin in a devastating, blissful gift to his body. So pent-up, so untouched. Heats were spent with his own palm and sometimes a pillow, but never the touch of another.

Careful, you might make him addicted — your lips kissed along his slit. He gasped. Scratch that, he already was.

"So sensitive . . ." Susceptible to fire or not, one lit in his gut as you crooned. He pushed his palm behind your head and cupped your neck. Claws a threat, but never a promise. Reverently, they traced your skin in-tune with your tongue swirling sinful circles, smearing his slick.

Your first time be damned. What's with the audacity?

"Who knew you were such a brat." His grip tightened, you had the nerve to laugh. A challenge clung to your lashes when your pretty eyes flashed up. What could he do with the way he throbbed?

"This brat's making you feel soo good though, right Satoru?"

"You— fucckk."

His neck grip paled to your squeeze on his cock. His jaw slacked with every quickened, pressured pump. Every tantalising kiss spelling out his ruin in slick smooches. Pre-cum bubbled, hot, and you swiped it away with your hotter tongue. Burns flooded his veins, and you only fanned the flames. His groans outweighed your slurps, your scent outmatched the incense.

How he wished to shut you up with his tip kissing the back of your throat. See how much you have to say with your lips strained round his girth. No challenges in your eyes, only tears. You'd be the one ruined.

He bucked at the thought. The image danced across his vision but his self control together with his building orgasm cut the music. His base thrummed and you caught the rhythm. Your hand quickened, tongue lapping as if searching for liquid gold. Kitten licks turned to bold strokes, and then - oh devastating you - your mouth clung to his tip's underside in harsh sucks.

Not a groan, not a moan, but a quivered, depraved whimper. White hair tousled over his eyes fluttered to the ceiling. Hips chased in a sloppy cadence. His gut coils, as did his tail. Heavy and tight around your waist, but you ignored the warning.

"Damn - wait I —" Every muscle betrayed him. He should pull you off. Save your dignity. "Waaitt, sweet girl - ah - I'm gonna -" maybe he could manage.

"C'mon toru, please?"

Not with that whine. One last throb burst into heat. His swollen cockslit spilled with thick, creamy ropes streaming iridescence. You watched a swollen bulb rush up to his head, then disappearing as it slowly sank to the base. His body jerked together with his head. Laid open for you as the image of sin with his saviour between his legs. A young village girl, her hand stained in his pearly cum and her tongue so diligently lapping away at his endless mess.

"Shit - sweetheart," another whimper, deeper than his eyes turned into murky pools. Yet it was he who drowned. Flailing so helplessly with your sweet, slithery hand slowing pumps as the lifeline.

He grabbed it. Your wrist dwarfed as he yanked you into a topple over him. Any restraint melts with his orgasm as he braced large hands over the swell of your ass. Slot between your legs and grinding feral bucks, he caught your body in sensual sways.

You gasped and limped into him, fisting on his kimono. Why not his back? Oh the fantasy of you struggling to hold on while he fucked you into the futon. Thighs split, sweet cunt stretched — fuck, would you squeeze him tighter than your hand did? How would you feel struggling to take his cum? Straining around his eggs —

Dignity knocked the thought out the second his claws bit your yukata's hem. Only flimsy fabric kept him from your body he's been dreaming of for months, but now it felt like an iron cloak. Sacred to his filthy hands.

His touched jerked away as if scalded and your hazy eyes raised. Cock still throbbing between your legs. Your slick awaited, calling.

Yet he only stared. Frozen from the depths to which his mind crawled. Two seconds from throwing you into the futon. Teaching you why you should stay away from beasts, and now, he truly felt like a monster. Instead of cum on your palm, it's scarlet, instead of heated pants, it's nerves.

What had he done?

"Satoru?"

Not that voice. It broke him once. He won't fall for it again. Not those hands reaching for his face — not a fool, not this time.

In the blink of the eye, like the turn of the tides, his weight disappears beneath you. Your knees hit the futon and you gasped. Your gaze shot around the room in a frantic search but only blue smoke dissipating into the air caught your attention.

Distant, cold. Birthed from the heat of passion, came anything but in the following week. For the first and second day, Satoru had vanished. Around the third, thank heavens white and blue captured your heart before anxiety did.

You hoped he'd speak with you. Surprisingly, your attempts bore sweet fruit. He held conversation as he always did. Spoke like nothing happened.

But that was the issue. Because something did happen, and he refused to acknowledge it.

At first you took it as embarrassment, but as the days droned on, the distance between you both was as clear as the frost creeping onto citadel's wooden pavilions. Icy, lonesome. Your fate? Would the warmth of that blissful night be your last here at the mountain?

Until he called you into his office and you held hope in your hands like seeds ready to sow a new chapter. A new —

"Don't try to stab me again when I say this," Satoru turned from the wind chime, a familiar scroll in hand. Your eyes widened. His were lost. Even in his attempt to joke.

"But maybe . . . it'd be better if you were away from the mountaintop. Away from me."

© 𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆 . no copying, translation or plagiarism authorised

[aleksatia]

🎨Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Rafayel.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🏍 Sylus | ✨Xavier | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Toxic romantic cycles, Verbal conflict / emotional manipulation, High emotional volatility, Crying / vulnerability, Jealousy, Theatrical intensity, Implied sexual content (consensual, emotionally charged), References to artistic obsession, Codependency themes.

Pairing: Rafayel x ex-wife!you Genre: Operatic angst, sensory overload, intimacy tangled in art and argument. Enemies to lovers to something mythic and broken. Summary: Rafayel was always too much — too vivid, too loud, too in love with the idea of being in love. Now, in a room made of silk and memory, you’re forced to confront the passion that nearly devoured you both. What begins with masks ends in scorched truths, spilled wine, and a kiss that remembers every wound it ever caused. Word Count: 3.6K

The room was a mirage made of silk.

Blue and amber fabrics swayed gently overhead, catching the glow of hanging lanterns that burned like slow, ancient stars. Patterns scattered across the floor like constellations, stitched from shadow and gold. The air pulsed with warmth, scented with saffron, cardamom, rosewater, and smoke — something too heady to be real.

A low table stood in the center, set for two. Carved brass, aged like a secret. Cushions instead of chairs. A bowl of candied figs. Crystal glasses half-filled with something rich and ambered, already beading condensation in the heat.

The music played softly, something stringed and spiraling, full of bends and minor keys. It didn’t fill the space — it wrapped it. Like a whisper over skin.

You sat with your hands folded in your lap, heart steady, but only just. Something about the room felt dangerous. Not overtly. But the kind of danger that came wrapped in silk and compliments. The kind you didn’t notice until it was inside you, changing your breath.

Then the curtain stirred.

A figure stepped through the veil — tall, lithe, draped in pale fabrics that shimmered like wet paint. A mask covered the upper half of his face: smooth silver, delicate scrollwork, slightly fox-shaped. His hair was dark — maybe lavender? — but the lighting played tricks, casting halos where none should exist.

He moved with a liquid elegance that set your nerves on edge. Not performance. Presence.

And something in your chest twitched.

He sat across from you without hesitation, folding into the cushions like the air had made room for him. One ringed hand toyed with the stem of his glass. He hadn’t looked at you fully yet, but even the curve of his jaw behind the mask felt… familiar in a way you didn’t want to name.

You watched him watching the room.

The shape of his throat. The line of his wrists. The quiet, performative grace of someone used to being looked at — and loving it.

Your stomach turned, slowly.

Then he looked at you. Just briefly.

And smiled.

The candlelight caught in his eyes — unnaturally pale, a hue caught somewhere between rose and seafoam. Impossible. Stunning.

Your pulse skipped. Once. Hard.

No.

No, no, no—

Too dark. Too hazy. Too many fragrances in the air. That’s all this was. A trick of the senses. A trick of memory.

And then—

He spoke.

“Let me guess,” he said, voice smooth as velvet over glass, warm and slow and theatrical. “You’re the one they warned me about.”

Your throat tightened.

No name. No gesture. But your skin recoiled like it had just touched flame.

You made yourself breathe. Spoke without thinking. “Depends. What was the warning?”

He tilted his head slightly, like he’d heard something inside your voice that he didn’t expect.

“That I’d end the evening ruined.”

Your fingers curled in your lap.

That voice. You hadn’t heard it in almost a year. But your bones remembered.

Still — you didn’t move. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of recognition.

He poured the drink anyway. Fluid, slow, luxurious. Passed the glass across the table with the same fingers that once traced poems into your shoulder blades at dawn.

No. Don’t go there.

“Drink,” he said, watching you now. “It makes the disappointment more beautiful.”

The room shifted with the sound of his voice, like the silk overhead had caught its breath. One of the lanterns flickered. The scent of rose and something darker curled tighter around your ankles.

You didn’t touch your glass.

“Disappointment implies expectation,” you said. “You always did mistake fantasy for reality.”

He smiled — sharp and amused, like you’d stepped into a trap he’d laid years ago. “Still fluent in cruelty, I see. Good. I was afraid domesticity might’ve tamed you.”

You reached for the glass then, just to keep your hand busy. “And I see you’re still confusing cleverness with depth.”

The flicker in his eyes was almost too fast to catch.

You took a sip. The drink was sharp, floral, and laced with something decadent.

He was watching you. Not politely. Not appreciatively. Like a man trying to decide whether to paint you or burn the memory of you from his mind entirely.

“I should’ve known it was you,” you said finally, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. “All this silk and smoke? Feels like the opening act of one of your breakdowns.”

He smirked. “Then you should’ve checked under the cushions for a script.” A beat. “Though if anyone here’s performing,” he added, “it’s not me this time.”

That got a laugh out of you. Low, involuntary. Dangerous.

“God,” you said. “You’re exhausting.”

He lifted his glass again, gaze steady over the rim.

“And yet someone out there thought we’d make a charming pair.” 

A pause. 

“Statistically improbable,” he added. “But then again, so were we.”

The silk walls shifted faintly in the breeze of the central fan, as if the whole room leaned in.

You tilted your head. “They said this was a blind date. I didn’t realize they meant blind in the Biblical sense.”

“Ah.” He leaned back. “There’s the sermon I missed. Tell me, do you rehearse those in the mirror, or do they just fall out of you naturally?”

“You want natural?” you asked, voice cool. “Then take off the mask.”

He didn’t move. So you did it first.

The mask slid away with a soft hiss of fabric. You held his gaze, daring him to flinch, to breathe, to blink.

He didn’t.

Instead, after a beat, he reached up and peeled his own mask off — slow, like undressing a wound.

And there he was.

Exactly as you’d known he’d be. Beautiful in that way that always made you want to hurt something. Or kiss him just to feel how much it would cost.

His expression flickered when he saw your face.

“I thought you’d look different,” he said.

“I thought you’d grow up.”

That wiped the smirk right off his mouth.

For half a second, he looked like the boy who’d once painted your collarbone in gold leaf just because he could.

Then it was gone.

“You know,” he said, gaze dropping to your mouth, “for someone who always wanted peace, you start fights like it’s foreplay.”

You leaned forward slightly. “And for someone who always wanted to be adored, you sure made yourself easy to leave.”

Rafayel’s smile didn’t falter. But it sharpened — fractionally. Like the curve of a blade when it catches the light.

“Maybe,” he said softly, “I didn’t want you to stay.”

The words landed like silk draped over broken glass.

You blinked once. Then twice. Then let out a low breath of laughter — measured, dangerous, devastating.

“Oh, darling,” you said, tilting your head, “you always were such a convincing actor. Shame the role of coward never quite won you any standing ovations.”

He chuckled. “Coward?” he echoed, voice rich with amusement. “From you, that’s practically a love letter.”

You leaned back slightly, the candlelight catching the glint in your eyes.

“No, love letters require vulnerability. You wouldn’t recognize one if it was monogrammed and hand-delivered on rose petals.”

He lifted his glass in a mock-toast, eyes never leaving yours. “To you. The only woman who ever left a man mid-soliloquy and still expected an encore.”

You clinked your own glass to his with a smile that could’ve slit a throat. “To you. The man who wrote odes to my shadow but never once looked me in the eye long enough to know my shape.”

He laughed. You hated how beautiful the sound still was.

There was a pause, charged and theatrical, like the air had leaned forward on cue.

“And yet,” he said, swirling the drink in his glass, “you sat across from me. Masked. Unapologetically luminous. Like a challenge waiting to happen.”

“I was aiming for quiet mystery,” you replied, raising your glass. “But I suppose provocation always did look better on me.”

He leaned forward, close enough now for the scent of rose to cling between you.

“Then let’s drink,” he said, “to what we ruined so beautifully.”

You raised your glass. He raised his. Both smiles intact.

“To mistakes,” you said.

“To masterpieces,” he replied, then added, with a flick of his lashes, “—that deserved better muses.”

And that was it. Your hand moved before you thought.

You didn’t throw the wine.

You grabbed the wrong glass — the other one — and without hesitation, flung the contents at him.

It was tea. Very hot tea.

There was a stunned half-second as the amber liquid splashed across the front of his perfect, pale shirt — followed by a sharp inhale through his teeth.

He hissed softly, setting the glass down with a slow, deliberate clink. Then — without hesitation — he pulled the shirt over his head.

The fabric stuck to him slightly, steam curling off his chest like the room itself was reacting. His skin caught the lantern-light like marble dusted in firelight — golden, sharp-lined, impossible.

You stared.

Unfortunately.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling. “Always dramatic, aren’t you?”

“You deserved it,” you snapped. “And more.”

“More?” He stepped closer. “You always did like escalation. Tell me — should I throw a fig at your face? Or set something expensive on fire?”

You crossed your arms, not trusting your breath. “You’d enjoy that too much.”

“Because it’s the only language you speak!” he shot back. “Break it. Burn it. Drown it. But for God’s sake, don’t sit still and talk like a human being.”

You laughed, bitter and breathless. “That’s rich. Coming from you.”

He gestured wildly. “I begged you to stay! I begged you with everything but the word!”

“That was the problem,” you said, eyes burning now. “You gave me poetry when I needed something real. Something steady. Not ten thousand metaphors and a gallery of regrets.”

His jaw clenched.

“And now,” you said, voice cracking just enough to give it teeth, “you say I wasn’t enough of a muse. Well—”

You stood suddenly, movement sharp, breath shaking as your body tried to hold the rest in.

 “—maybe you should’ve picked a prettier tragedy.”

You turned away, shoulders tight and trembling.

He froze.

Your back was to him now, and thank God, because your throat was tight, and your hands were shaking and that single line — that stupid, perfect insult about your worth — cut deeper than it should have.

You felt it first. His presence.

Then the heat of him, close, pressing in without touching.

And then — his arms wrapped around you from behind. One quick, quiet motion. Not forceful. Desperate.

He pulled you against him, bare skin warm and still faintly damp from the tea.

His nose buried in your hair. His breath unsteady.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t mean it,” he repeated.“God, I didn’t— You know I say things when I’m scared. And you looked like you were about to walk away all over again.”

You didn’t answer.

So he tightened his hold.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “I’m sorry I made you think you weren’t everything. I’m sorry I hurt you to feel less hurt myself. I’m sorry I used my mouth to ruin what it was made to worship.”

You closed your eyes.

His voice cracked on the last word.

“I never wanted anyone better,” he whispered. “I only ever wanted more time with you.”

You turned in his arms with a suddenness that surprised even you.

You meant to push him away. You meant to say don’t, to reclaim your anger before it crumbled. But your hands — traitors — only reached his chest and stayed there, limp. Useless. Pressed against his bare skin like they belonged.

He covered them with his own.

Not roughly. Not to keep you there. But to hold the contact steady — as if you might dissolve if he let go.

The heat of him burned through your palms. Steady. Alive. Too much.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to fold into him and scream into his collarbone.

Instead, you whispered, “How did we get here?”

His breath hitched.

“I loved you,” you said. “You loved me. And somehow we became this—” your voice broke, “—this shipwreck of a marriage. What happened to us, Raf?”

He didn’t answer right away.

So you filled the silence with everything your mouth had been holding for too long.

“It used to be magic,” you said, eyes wet now, but you wouldn’t let them fall. “God, we were light. We were gold. You made me feel like I was flying. And then one day, it was like we couldn’t breathe unless we were screaming.”

He said your name. Just once.

Low. Like an apology wrapped in prayer.

You kept going.

“Why did it turn into a stage? When did our home become a theater and our life some broken play where we both forgot our lines? I didn’t want to be a performance, Raf. I wanted to be real.”

He slid one hand up your back, slow, careful. As if you might break from anything more sudden.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

“I didn’t recognize us anymore,” you said, the words trembling. “All we did was throw paint. Emotions. Blame. Color, color, color, until we drowned in it. Until we forgot what normal even meant.”

He leaned his forehead to yours, his breath catching against your cheek. And when he spoke, his voice had changed. Quieter. Lower. Without the velvet and dramatics. Just him.

“I was scared,” he said.

You blinked.

“I was scared,” he repeated. “That if things slowed down — if we got too quiet, too normal — you’d leave. That you’d realize I wasn’t enough without the chaos. Without the fire.”

You stared at him. Your hands still pressed to his chest. You could feel the way his heartbeat stumbled.

“So I gave you fire,” he said. “I gave you storms. I made our life… louder, because silence felt like death.”

“And I left anyway,” you said.

“Because I set the house on fire and expected you to dance in it.”

You closed your eyes. His words were knives. But so was your silence.

“There was jealousy,” you murmured. “And guilt. And all your little accusations when I was too tired to match your flame.”

He swallowed hard.

“You were angry when I fell asleep during your gallery story,” you added. “But I’d just come home from a mission. I’d spent five hours knee-deep in wanderers and blood and—” you exhaled, “—I needed sleep, Raf. Not a performance.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I needed rest,” you said. “And all I got was another curtain call.”

He looked ruined. Not fragile. Not shattered. Just exhausted from pretending not to be.

“I was so afraid of losing you,” he said. “So I smothered you with everything I thought would make you stay.”

You looked at him — really looked — and something inside you cracked down the center.

And still, part of you whispered: It might not be enough.

Rafayel tensed — just a little. The shift of a shoulder, the pause in his fingers at your back.

“Did you come here,” he asked, voice low and almost too careful, “because you’re ready to move on?”

You smiled, slow and sly. Not to tease, but to veil the flicker of something softer.

“Maybe my life’s been too normal lately. Too gray.” You leaned the smallest bit closer, letting your cheek rest against his bare chest. “I needed a little danger again. And you?”

His heart responded beneath your skin. 

He chuckled, brushing his knuckles lightly down your spine. “I could say I was looking for an exotic muse to paint. Something with cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood and an aura of doomed seduction.”

You huffed a laugh against his skin. “That would’ve been a very you thing to say.”

“But the truth,” he murmured, “is boring. Thomas set me up. Said he registered, got sick, and that some poor woman would be stuck alone unless I stepped in. He was very dramatic about it.”

You tilted your head back to look at him, eyes narrowing. “Tara pulled the same trick on me.”

“Ah.” His lips quirked. “Coordinated sabotage. Typical.”

A moment passed, heavy in the hush. You hadn’t meant to relax like this, but here you were — cheek to his chest, listening to the rhythm of a heart that had once been your home. And still was, apparently. Because everything inside you had gone soft, slow, steady.

It felt like something had clicked back into place. Like a missing tile in a mosaic suddenly slotted home and made the whole thing whole again.

Your voice, when it came, was quieter. Uncertain. Honest.

“Raf… why did you sign the divorce papers?”

He didn’t answer at first. His fingers moved gently through your hair, brushing behind your ear. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped into something rawer.

“Because I respect your decisions. Even when I didn’t agree with them.”

You looked up, eyes burning.

“I wanted you to be happy,” he continued. “Even if it meant watching you bloom from the sidelines. Watching you learn how to smile again without me in the frame.” He swallowed. “Are you happy?”

You hesitated. But the answer was already rising, uninvited.

“No,” you said. “The world turned grayscale. It’s like I’m walking through some awful dystopia with clean counters and dry eyes. Everything works. Nothing shines.”

He exhaled, long and low. His arms tightened around you, fingers threading into your hair, grounding you in scent and heat and skin.

“Cutie,” he murmured, voice close, mouth brushing your temple, “just say the word. I’ll paint the colors back in.”

“I’m afraid,” you admitted. “Still. Afraid to go blind from too much kaleidoscope.”

“I won’t lie,” he whispered. “I can’t promise restraint. I might always be a little too loud. A little too much. But I can give you something else now. Balance. Space. Stability. Peace, if you’ll have it.”

You searched his eyes.

He added, “Only if you’re ready. If you want to let me back in.”

“I never really closed the door,” you said. “Just stood behind it. Waiting.”

And that broke whatever spell held you still.

He kissed you.

Not hurried, not frantic — just whole. His mouth claimed yours like it had a right to, but still asked permission with every slow pull of lips, every breath passed between you.

You pressed into him, fingers curling at the base of his neck. His hand splayed across your lower back, warm and deliberate, guiding without demand.

He leaned into the cushions with you, dragging you down into silk and shadow, his mouth never leaving yours.

The taste of saffron and heat and memory filled you.

He kissed you the way people wrote arias — rising, falling, trembling with feeling too big for language. His tongue brushed yours gently at first, then deeper, hungrier, as if your mouth were the only place he could breathe.

You moaned softly against him, and he swallowed the sound, pulling you closer. Your legs tangled. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your dress, fingers grazing your thigh with aching reverence.

You moved like tide against him — hungry and fluid.

The lanterns swayed above. The cushions sighed beneath you. One of the glasses tipped over with a soft thud, spilling rose-colored wine that neither of you noticed.

His lips trailed down your jaw, to your throat, where he lingered, breathing you in like incense.

“You still taste like paradise,” he whispered.

And when he looked up again, your hair tangled in his fingers, your body flushed and pliant against his — you knew.

There was nothing gray left between you.

Only color. Only fire. Only Rafayel.

Your body answered his touch like it had been waiting a lifetime. Hot, eager, instinctive. Every stroke of his fingers sent sparks down your spine. Every kiss — soft or sharp — undid you a little more.

The silk beneath you could’ve caught fire from the heat you were building between each other.

His hands roamed without hesitation, without apology — palming, stroking, gripping — sometimes tender, sometimes greedy. Your back arched into him, chasing the sensations, chasing the memory of what it felt like to simply be wanted like this. Loved like this. By him.

His mouth found your throat. Then lower. His tongue trailed over skin like it was sacred. When his lips closed around your nipple, firm and aching, you whimpered — low and breathless — and pulled him closer, nails raking his back.

He groaned into your skin, and you swore your entire body melted into flame.

You didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want him to stop.

But then—

A soft, mechanical chime broke through the haze. Gentle. Too real.

The signal. The end of the hour.

You froze. So did he. Still hovering over you, still half-undressed, still hard and pulsing between your thighs.

You looked up at him, breathless.

He was watching you like the world might end if you looked away first.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, voice roughened by want.

You shook your head, smiling softly despite the ache in your chest. “No. Do you?”

His mouth quirked — cocky, fond, feral.

“Do you even have to ask?” he murmured, then rocked his hips forward just enough for you to feel the full weight of him, hard and ready. “Does that feel like regret to you?”

Your breath caught.

“I could steal you for the rest of the night,” he whispered, voice low and wicked, like a shared sin.

You grinned up at him, hand sliding into his hair. “You could steal me for the rest of my life.”

He growled — quiet and deep in his chest.

“We’ll see what you say tomorrow morning,” he muttered, brushing his lips along your jaw, “when you can’t walk straight or remember how to say no.”

You bit his bottom lip, teasing.

“Do you even know what moderation is?”

His eyes darkened with something hungry, reverent, unstoppable.

“Only in everything except how much I love you.”

And this time — when he kissed you — it wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t memory. It was home.

[writeriguess]

Hi dear! Can I request a Barbarian!Katsuki x Dancer!Reader. Katsuki is from a fierce, barbarian tribe and Reader is from a smaller tribe, better known for their exquisite dancing rituals and healing techniques. He stumbles upon her by chance while she practices her mating dance in the woods and he decides it's fate. They get to know each other and fall in love. His tribe is a bit surprised that he chose a small and un-warrior like bride, but they go along with it and they have a grand wedding. Thank you!

The Savage’s Dance

The rustling of leaves whispered through the dense, moonlit forest. Fireflies flickered between the towering trees, their golden glow barely illuminating the path Katsuki Bakugou had taken. He had wandered far from his tribe’s encampment, his senses heightened as he scouted for threats—or perhaps, for something more. The battle-hardened warrior had never been one for aimless walks, but tonight, instinct had pulled him into the woods.

Then, he heard it.

A soft, rhythmic pounding against the earth. The sound of bare feet moving in a mesmerizing, deliberate pattern. It was accompanied by the delicate jingle of beads and the faintest rustling of fabric against skin. Katsuki narrowed his crimson eyes and stepped closer, his movements as silent as a stalking predator.

There, in the heart of a moonlit clearing, a woman danced.

Her body twisted and arched, her arms lifting toward the sky before sweeping down in a graceful arc. The dim light of the fireflies caught the smooth curves of her form, highlighting the sheen of sweat that clung to her glowing skin. Her hips rolled in hypnotic waves, and the bells at her ankles chimed in time with her movements. Katsuki’s breath hitched.

She was beautiful.

But this was no ordinary dance. Even someone as unversed in such things as he could tell—it was a ritual, something sacred. A mating dance.

His fingers clenched around the hilt of his blade as heat surged through his veins. His people had their own ways of claiming mates, but this? This was something entirely different. Something… enchanting.

The dancer twirled, her long hair fanning out before she suddenly froze. Her dark eyes locked onto his, widening in surprise. Her chest heaved as she caught her breath, her exposed skin glowing in the dim light.

“You…” she breathed, taking an uncertain step back.

Katsuki smirked, stepping into the clearing. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She studied him, her gaze flickering over the sheer size of him—the powerful muscles, the numerous scars, the heavy furs draped over his shoulders. He looked every bit the warrior he was, the kind of man who had seen more battles than peaceful moments.

“You’re from the Skullcrushers,” she finally murmured, her voice laced with wariness.

His smirk widened. “Damn right.”

The Skullcrushers were a fearsome tribe, known for their strength in battle, their untamed warriors, and their brutal ways. But her people—the Moonveil tribe—were different. They didn’t war. They didn’t conquer. They healed. They danced.

And yet, here she was, standing before a barbarian, caught mid-dance.

Katsuki tilted his head. “What was that?”

She hesitated before answering. “A ritual. A mating dance.”

A slow, pleased chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Hah. So I was right.”

The heat in her cheeks deepened. “It wasn’t meant for you.”

He crossed his arms, clearly amused. “Too late for that, sweetheart.”

She gaped at him. “You—”

“—Looks like I showed up at just the right time,” he interrupted, his gaze darkening. “Maybe it’s fate.”

Her heart pounded against her ribs. This man—this dangerous, untamed force of nature—was looking at her as if she belonged to him. As if the dance had been meant for him all along.

And, gods help her, she wasn’t sure she wanted to argue.

The next few weeks were unexpected.

Katsuki kept coming back.

Every night, he found her. Sometimes, she was dancing. Other times, she was gathering herbs or tending to the wounded. And each time, he would sit nearby, watching her with a gaze so intense it made her skin burn.

She tried to ignore him at first. Tried to pretend that the massive warrior wasn’t standing at the edge of her world, waiting for her to acknowledge him. But it was impossible. His presence was too much.

One night, she finally snapped. “Why are you here?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I want you.”

She nearly dropped the bowl of healing salve in her hands. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, stepping closer. “That dance—your dance—I’m claimin’ it.”

She scoffed, trying to push past him. “That’s not how this works.”

Katsuki grabbed her wrist, gently but firmly. “Then tell me how it works.”

Her breath caught. His grip was warm, solid, but not forceful. Not cruel. His crimson eyes burned into hers, full of want.

“I’m not a warrior,” she whispered.

“Don’t care.”

“I’m not strong.”

His lips twitched. “Bullshit. You’ve got a different kind of strength.”

Her chest tightened. “Your people—”

“They’ll deal with it,” he cut in. “They’ll respect it.”

She hesitated. “And if they don’t?”

Katsuki smirked, his hand tightening around hers. “Then I’ll make ‘em.”

The Skullcrushers were surprised.

Katsuki had never spoken of taking a mate before, let alone one from a peaceful tribe. They expected him to choose a warrior—a battle-hardened woman with bloodstained hands. But instead, he brought home a dancer.

They whispered. They stared.

But none of them dared question him.

Not when he stood beside her, his expression daring anyone to speak against it.

Not when she looked at him with something softer than any of them had ever seen in their ruthless leader.

And when the wedding came—a grand celebration with both their tribes joining together, their traditions merging in a way no one had ever expected—the doubts faded.

Because when she danced for him that night, under the watchful eyes of both their people, there was no question.

She had been meant for him all along.

[regressionschool]

whole

The room was softly lit, the glow of fairy lights casting delicate patterns on the walls. He lay back on the plush blanket spread across the floor, the faint crinkle beneath him reminding him of just how far they had come together. She sat beside him, her expression unreadable but calm, her fingertips idly toying with the beads on her bracelet.

He shifted slightly, self-conscious, feeling the cool smoothness of the fresh, white diaper against his skin. It was crisp and snug, every tape meticulously placed by her only moments before. The silence between them was thick but not uncomfortable—an unspoken understanding hung in the air, even if his cheeks burned under its weight.

She leaned forward without a word, placing her hand gently on the front of the diaper. Her palm pressed lightly, not enough to be firm, but enough to draw his attention. His breath hitched, his stomach flipping as the warmth of her touch seeped through the thin plastic.

Her dark eyes flicked up to meet his. “You’re quiet,” she said softly, her voice teasing but gentle. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

He swallowed hard, struggling to find his words. “I just… It feels…” He trailed off, his hands twitching at his sides. The faint blush creeping across his face deepened.

“Feels like what?” she coaxed, her fingers tracing absent circles against the surface. “Come on, use your words.”

He groaned quietly, his hands instinctively coming up to cover his face. “It’s just… embarrassing,” he admitted in a rush, his voice muffled. “It makes me feel so… small.”

Her hand stilled, her touch growing firmer—not harsh, but grounding. “Good,” she said simply, her tone carrying both affection and authority. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

He peeked at her through his fingers, his blush spreading all the way to his ears. “I guess,” he muttered, looking away.

She laughed softly, the sound warm and low. “You don’t need to guess. I like you this way. Vulnerable. Mine.”

Her words wrapped around him, firm yet soothing, as if tethering him to this moment. He wriggled slightly under her palm, unable to hide from the feelings she unearthed. When she pulled her hand away, it wasn’t emptiness he felt—it was her presence, lingering and unshakable, leaving him with the quiet realization that surrendering wasn’t a loss, but a gift he’d willingly given.

Her hand moved back to his chest, resting over his heart. She leaned in, her voice low and certain, words soft but deliberate. “You’re giving me all of you,” she said, her eyes locking with his. “And I don’t take that lightly. I won’t ever let you feel small alone. I’ll hold it with you, always.”

The weight of her words sank into him, filling the spaces where doubt and self-consciousness once lingered. She smiled faintly, brushing her thumb against his chest. “Because this isn’t just yours to give, you know. It’s mine to cherish.”

Her words hung between them, a quiet echo of his unspoken thoughts. Vulnerable, yes. Small, yes. But in that moment, he didn’t feel diminished. He felt held.

And, for the first time, whole.

[polychromaic]

🌸 when the Hindriarch banished Eskhind and her kin from Bey Lah, Neelahind would follow her heart into voluntary exile. To abandon a surefooted life, as well as a coveted spot among the Fellowship, is nearly unheard of among both hindren and Wardens, but Neelahind was glowing when she took her leave. I hear the pair are quite happy together, practicing arconautics in the ruins to the west—at least, that's what the kendren bring news of when they come back to trade.

back at it again w more caves of qud deer gals 😏✨ i'm kind of enamored with the ending to the Bey Lah quest where Esk and Neela both take off, so i wanted to see what they'd look like as a matched set of lesbian pariah-arconauts. geez, i can’t believe it’s been almost two years since i drew them last

image descriptions under break!

img desc: A drawing of a hindren deerfolk girl from "Caves of Qud". On the left a title card reads "Pariah Neelahind (she/her)". Some of the details are labeled. Her fur is a rich cedar red, with a lighter heartwood underbelly curling under her arms and on the inside of her legs down to her hooves; her curly hair is dark mahogany, tied back in a ponytail with a sky-blue bandana; her antlers are a pale heartswood, deepening to a rich velvet at the tines. She’s smiling, looking up and off to her right; she's poised upright, her arms spread to either side of her as she grips the haft of her war-scythe Yal, which is laying across her shoulders. She’s wearing shining steel platemail—a breastplate over a nanoweave surcoat patterned with pale lemon slices over pink (called "Pink Lemonade"); her armor is incomplete, but well taken care of. She’s wearing leather braces, a steel gauntlet on her left hand only, and a woven blue sash and bedroll across her back.

img desc: A drawing of a hindren deerfolk girl from "Caves of Qud". On the right a title card reads "Pariah Eskhind (she/it)". Some of the details are labeled. Her fur is ashen, with her pale undercoat spotting through on her forearms and flanks. Her messy hair is a greenish bleach-blonde, and one of her ears has a hole in it; her antlers are pale and their velvet is darker grey, and they're covered in little tied-on charms and brass tine hornaments. She has an eyepatch over her left eye, and a gap between her front teeth. She's grinning, slouching in a relaxed fashion, pulling back her hood with one hand and flashing a rock-on with the other; her front two legs are crossed, while the back two are spread like she's posing for a picture. She's wearing a well-worn chainmail hauberk, which extends down over her back; a ragged cowl, with buttoned slots along the hem of the hood for her antlers to fit through; a leather bracer on her left wrist, a steel pauldron on her right shoulder, a fingerless elastyne glove on her right hand, and two pairs of croccasins on her hooves. A pocketed saddle is slung over her back, along with a backpack and bedroll; on either side, the pockets are full of tools and bits. Tucked into her swordbelt is a sheathed folding carbide longsword and a gaslight kris; slung across her chest is a bolt-action rifle called "Peashooter" (it has a lesbian flag on its stock). Around her legs are several beaded bracelets and charms; one of them is the rightfully reclaimed Kindrish, complete with its carved deer charm.

[artificial-transmutations]

Three days to midsummer: Prologue

A bead of sweat traveled down Jörgen's brow as he carefully looked down the corridor, left and right. He knew he was safe here from the cameras, and the watchman wouldn't make his round for another fifteen minutes, so it was safe to take a quick break and wipe the sweat away. It was a week after the middle of June, and although it was already dark, the summer heat of the day still hung in the corridors of the museum. This was good one hand; everyone was either distracted by the heat, asleep or already in preparation for the upcoming celebration. On the other hand, Jörgen wore tight black clothing from head to toe that damply clung to his body when he moved. Still, it was the ideal opportunity for the heist. The idea to sabotage the AC unit had looked good on paper - and it probably was - to keep the watchman distracted, but it also made his own job harder.

Pulling himself together, he put the ski mask back on - for the off chance he had missed a camera - and stepped into the exhibition room. There it was, the pride of the Stockholm museum for crafts: a pair of silver bracelets forming a complicated, ornate pattern. Valuable enough to sell them for a good amount, but with no historical significance or wider popularity, to cause a lot of trouble afterwards. He stepped forward to the pedestal, took out his glasscutter, and started working on the glass panel. Even though the cameras were off, he still had to be quick about it. As always in his job, the smallest mistake could have dire consequences.

Finally, the glass was cut, with an almost inaudible 'pling', and the treasure was in his grasp. Carefully, he lifted the bracelet and placed it into his pocket. It was a beautiful piece of art, really. Too bad he couldn't keep it for himself.

Suddenly, his professional focus was interrupted by a warm glow on his neck, and he spun around, startled and blinking. Gone was the midnight darkness of the museum, and instead...

Jörgen looked around in utter confusion. He was standing in some kind of garden or park, with flowers and the remnants of some old walls scattered around the place. And it was sunny. This couldn't be! Given, it was close to the summer solstice, and the days were long, but this was high noon sun shining down warmly on him.

"Well. Look at that. How curious."

Jörgen almost jumped at the foreign voice. It was warm and rich like honey, flowing effortlessly in a sing-song melody that belonged to the man behind him. He was tall and muscular, with white hair and an almost perfect body that was only stressed by the thin glittering fabric draped around his hips, accentuating the ample bulge more than hiding it. But that wasn't the most unusual thing about the other guy. Behind his back, flapping idly in the breeze, was a pair of elegant, glittering blue wings. Like a butterfly or...

"It's been in a while since I had visitors. What's your name, mortal?"

"Mortal? What? What the fuck? Where am I? Who are you?!"

The impossible man smirked, uncrossing his arms and walking slowly towards him, licking his lips unnervingly.

"Oh, how rude of you. I like it. Very well. I'm Zephir. Prince Zephir, of the Summer Realm, to be exact. And I believe you," he pointed a finger at Jörgen, and he could have sworn to see colorful light particles dancing around it, "have not only trespassed into my realm, but you also carry something that once belonged to me. Perhaps you have stolen it? Now. Please tell me your name."

A few colorful sparks hit Jörgen's chest and suddenly, he felt his tongue move on its own accord.

"Jör... Jörgen." he muttered. Damn. He should have kept his mouth shut, but he couldn't.

"I see... Jörgen."

He didn't like the way the self-proclaimed prince was rolling his name around in his mouth as if tasting it.

"Are you... I mean, are you really a -"

"A fairy?" Zephir sighed theatrically. "Yes. And, as I have mentioned, not just any ordinary fairy, but royalty. But enough of that. Why don't you take out the bracelets you have stolen?"

This time, Jörgen didn't need any magical sparks to compel him, and he took out the silver bracelets, gulping.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know they belonged to you..."

"Oh, I'm sure of that," Zephir interrupted him, "but you were aware they belonged to someone, right? Well, to be quite exact, they don't belong to me either. I gave them to a lover I met so many years ago. It's a melancholic memory. We shared so many wonderful hours, and yet... mortal lives are so... fleeting. It's a tragedy."

Jörgen didn't know how to react. At least the fairy prince didn't seem too... upset?

"I'm sorry. She must have meant a lot to you. Please, you can take them back, as a memento."

Zephir, who had apparently been lost in thoughts looked up, and a rather mischievous smile crept on his face.

"Oh, yes. He was a wonderful lover, but that is history now. You, on the other hand..."

Blue wings idly flapped as Zephir circled around Jörgen.

"You are here now, and I believe you will prove rather... entertaining. Keep them. Better yet, put them on."

When Jörgen didn't react directly, Zephir snapped his fingers impatiently and a small shower of sparks rained onto the man, who quickly slipped the bracelets onto his upper arm, where they fit perfectly.

"Much better. See, we're not so different. You and me, both thieves, in a way. Only while you steal jewelry, I steal hearts. Now, here is my game. You see, in only three days, it's midsummer. And - coincidentally - my birthday. I have enchanted these bracelets so you can't take them off anymore. Over the course of the next three days, they will change you, body and mind, into my perfect birthday gift. A plaything, always ready to provide entertainment, always... horny."

The way he pronounced 'horny' didn't sound good. Jörgen felt a cold shiver run down his back.

"What? No! That's not fair! You can't do that to me!"

Zephir blinked.

"Oh, yes, I can. But you're right, that wouldn't be very fair indeed. So, here is the deal. If you happen to find true love - the man who you can love with all your heart and he loves you - then and only then shall the enchantment be lifted."

This was so absurd, Jörgen had to laugh out.

"What? That's impossible! First of all, I'm not gay. I love women, do you understand? And what the fuck? Three days? That's not possible!"

Zephir chuckled, seemingly amused by his predicament.

"You will have to find a way - or submit to my whims. And as for your preference for women... I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you. In any case. My conditions are clear; the enchantment is sealed. Good luck finding someone who can put up with your... needs. I know I will be watching your struggle with great interest."

With another snap of his fingers, the world turned black again, and Jörgen found himself dreaming.

He was dancing, in a club he recognized, like many times before. But something was different. The dancefloor was crowded, and it was hot and sticky, but when he looked around, he noticed that every single person in the place was male. And they were all moving, gyrating to the music, grinding their half-naked bodies against each other, and against Jörgen, as well! He had never had a dream so intense and for a moment, he wasn't even sure it was a dream at all. He could smell the sweat, he could hear the music, he could see those bulging muscles, those perfect abs and those thick bulges, barely contained behind fabric. To his horror, Jörgen found himself mimicking the movements, grinding his own body against the other guests and...

No! He needed to get out! Now! He pushed his way through the crowd, not without noticing the looks and the whistles he was getting, but he didn't care. He needed to leave, to get out and breathe the cold air. It was just a dream, but his head was spinning and his cock was painfully erect and...

Finally, he found a door and stumbled through, but it only got worse. Behind it was not the saving outside, but a room that was barely lit at all. There were fewer men in here, which was good, but the relief was short-lived. In the darkness, several decidedly male figures were moaning, and moving and...

A pair of hands grabbed his body and pulled him against a wall. Several others joined them, roaming over his chest and his ass and he felt his shirt being torn open and strong fingers entering his pants and...

With a scream, Jörgen woke up, and needed several moments before he realized he was at home, in his bed. His heartbeat slowed as the first light of the morning was pouring into his bedroom. Then, he noticed three things:

First, his bedsheets were tented and wet from his morning wood and a rather intense nocturnal orgasm.

Second, there on his upper arms were the two silver bracelets, glittering innocently in the light of the rising sun.

And third, his body didn't look like it was supposed to. The changes were subtle, but if his eyes didn't play tricks on him, he was just a little more defined, the tent under his sheets slightly bigger, his chest had a bit more hair to it...

Realization dawned on him. The fairy prince, the bracelets, the dream - it had all been real, and he was already changing. Zephir's curse was real. And if he didn't find some imaginary true love in the next three days, that pervert fairy would do God-knows-what with him!

"Fuck!" he muttered.

What was he supposed to do?

I've always wanted to do a poll-style story! Enjoy this 4-parter where you help the fairy prince to spread mayhem by your choices!

[somedudenamedruiz]

Honestly, just a list of my Ruptide headcannons.

This is mostly for myself but enjoy lol

Chip plays the fiddle. Jay plays the violin

Gillion was taught traditional art forms alongside his sword play and magic. (Bead work, a particular type of flower arrangement that i do not know what it's called, might add more.)

Gillion Tidestrider is bioluminescent and venomous. (Lionfish spines)

Chip and Gil both have pink-red lightning scars from Pelagus.

Gil has pink streaks in his hair, also from pelagus. Chip has orangish yellow ones.

Triton have their own language. Basically, it's a modernized Primordial. Their stripes light up as part of it. (Think wings of fire.)

Jay knows Primordial because of poetry. Ik Grizz said it as a joke, but it's funny to think she can read the equivalent of Beowulf. It's the type of nerd shit I love her for.

Order of height from tallest to shortest goes Jay, Chip, Gil. Gil will always be 5'1 to me. (6' smthn, 5'8, 5'1)

Gil has so absurdly much beadwork on his and the others clothes. So much free time on a ship, man.

Jay does leatherwork! Partially for practicality, because artificer. Partially because she just likes it.

Gillion Tidestrider has a secret chicken. It's a sea chicken. That's where he gets his special eggs. Thank my brother for this one. It looks something like this v

^Gil keeps giving feathers to Jay. She does not know where the hell he's getting them from.

The captains all have piercings later in the timeline. Jay has angel bites, Chip has spider bites, and Gil has shark bites. ;]

Jay's hair gets progressively more frizzy and big as time goes on because of salt water and humidity.

Chip has an incomplete cleft lip. A gold tooth, a chipped tooth, and extra canine teeth. Because unique features are fun.

Jay has full wing tattoos on her back instead of the little feather tattoo. Cause cool.

Gillion's armor is made from a combination of different types of shells with only a little bit of metal. Lighter, more accessible with very limited trade with oversea, and it doesn't rust.

A lot of Gil's clothes are made out of lotus silk. Traded from swampy areas. It doesn't wrinkle barely at all, is waterproof, and dries very fast. It is stupid expensive.

Chip has top-surgery scars. He got it done cheap and very questionably, but he got it done. Probably aren't symetrical.

Gil's tail is damaged after the stronghold in the black sea. Bro got peeled. Missing half of his main tail fin.

^ Jay made him a prosthetic one. It has their Jolly Rodger on it. (Think Toothless)

Triton have something like palm readings, where they read their stripes patterns!

Triton have retractable gums. Fish have spines, which hurts. So gums retract.

Triton also have claws. Shaped kinda like an eagle or a grizzle bear. Cause they both catch fish.

Triton have horizontal pupils. (Big peripheral vision) They can dialate really big.

Triton have thick ass hair. It's dense, and it doesn't absorb water. Probably diesnt tangle, either. Tend to have a couple of layers of color. (Gil's goes dark green, light green, white. Same with Edyn.)

^ Hairstyles are cut in said layers to show each of them

Chip started kind of opposed to touching Gil, because fish slime and spines. That got thrown out the wondow at some point, though.

Cuddle piles are a frequent thing with the captains now. Because it's sweet, and I said so.

Sometimes Gillion forgets that he can't breathe air through his gills. Habit, mostly. The turtleneck puts just a little bit of pressure on them, so he forgets less often.

Chip's habit of accidentally setting things on fire in his sleep were 100% early manifestations of his fire magic.

Chip learned the hard way that Triton spines shoot venom when pressure is applied.

All of the Captains have SOMETHING that glows in the dark on them by later in the timeline. Gil's fins, stripes, and eyes. Chip's tattoos. Jay's eye, and probably her wings tattoos.

Jay's yellow eye looks more like a hawk's than a human one.

Gillion absolutely does not understand any stigma there might be around being trans or genderqueer in any way. He is a fish. They kind of just do that. That's how a LOT of fish work.

They all have different levels of culinary skill. Jay grew up helping her mom in the tavern. She's a great cook. Chip fended for himself for the majority of his life. It might not be the best tasting, but it'll fill you up. Gillion is not allowed in the kitchen.

Chip has higher heels than Jay does. Jay is still taller.

Jay Ferin does the thing that Blackbeard (the real dude) dide, where she braids slow, burning fuses into her hair. When lit, it makes it look like her hair is smoking. She learned it from Drey, who used to do the same thing. Neither of them have the flame hair, so they made their own.

I'll add more when I think of them :>

Stay tuned for updates lmao

[transuncletaylor]

Happy International Women’s Day to the Moon

[id: photoed is a digital drawing of Princess Yue from Avatar the Last Airbender. It is in 3/4 view from the bust up and she is face it left. Her soft gaze with purple eyes are looking towards the viewer with a slight smile that has a dark red lip stain. Her hair is similar to in the show, except for braids, her hair falls loose down her back. Her white hair is iridescent and glows and she is wearing traditional Yup’ik jewelry with blue, tan, and grey beaded earrings that are attached with a matching beaded necklace that falls under her chin. The background is a very dark blue with slightly brighter star and moon pattern.]

[moonselune]

Dark!BG3 | My Doll

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

For: Conqueror!Minthara, MotherSuperior!Shadowheart, God!Gale, Ascended!Astarion, Naturist!Halsin, GrandDuke!Wyll

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

CW: Controlling, manipulation, coercion,

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Conqueror Minthara:

The grand chamber was bathed in the soft glow of opulent chandeliers, their light reflecting off the richly adorned walls and luxurious fabrics that draped the room. The scent of incense and exotic perfumes filled the air, mingling with the muted tones of classical music that played faintly in the background. Minthara’s personal quarters had been transformed into a private salon for the evening, a space that had become a shrine to her taste and power.

You stood at the center of this lavish room, surrounded by a flurry of activity as servants and attendants bustled around you. Minthara herself was a striking figure, her presence commanding attention as she watched with an air of anticipation. Her eyes, dark and gleaming with a mix of authority and affection, never left you as you were transformed into her perfect vision of elegance.

The first outfit was a deep crimson gown, its fabric rich and heavy, adorned with intricate patterns of black embroidery. As you stepped into the dress, the weight of the fabric felt like a reminder of Minthara's control.

The gown’s skirt flared dramatically, brushing against the floor as you moved. The bodice was fitted tightly, emphasizing your form, while a high collar added an air of regal sophistication. The color scheme was unmistakably Minthara’s: red and black, the hues of her dominion.

Minthara stepped forward, her gaze sharp as she inspected you from head to toe. She circled around you, her fingers trailing lightly over the fabric, adjusting and smoothing with practiced precision. Her touch was both intimate and commanding, a constant reminder of her ownership.

“No, no,” Minthara said, her voice a smooth purr of discontent. “This won’t do. It’s missing that certain… finesse.”

With a flick of her wrist, she signaled to her attendants, who quickly began to assist you in changing. The crimson gown was removed, and you were draped in the next ensemble: a black dress with a daring slit that exposed more of your skin than the first. The neckline plunged dramatically, and delicate red beading formed intricate patterns across the fabric. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but Minthara’s approving smile made the discomfort bearable.

Once again, Minthara’s scrutiny was intense. She examined you with a critical eye, her expression a blend of approval and dissatisfaction. “Better,” she murmured, “but still not quite right.”

The process repeated itself, each new outfit showcasing a different aspect of Minthara’s aesthetic. You wore a gown with a high-low hemline, the skirt cascading in layers of black tulle and red silk. Another time, you were adorned in a tailored suit that highlighted your form with its sharp, clean lines and dramatic red accents. Each outfit was more elaborate than the last, each adjustment made to ensure you embodied Minthara’s vision perfectly.

Hours passed, the constant changing of clothes becoming a test of endurance. But you remained calm, accepting each new ensemble with grace, knowing that this was part of your role in her world. Minthara’s delight and satisfaction with each iteration made the process easier to endure.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of fittings and adjustments, Minthara declared that she was satisfied. She clapped her hands, summoning the attendants to finalize your look.

They brought out a final accessory: a bejeweled collar, meticulously crafted with red and black stones that formed a delicate pattern around your neck. At the center of the collar was a pendant engraved with Minthara’s initials, a mark of your complete subjugation to her.

As you looked in the mirror, you saw yourself fully transformed into Minthara’s vision. The reflection was a striking image of her colors and style—red and black. The collar around your neck was a permanent reminder of your place, a symbol of your devotion and submission. Your hair was styled to perfection, complementing the overall look and adding to the aura of elegance and obedience that you now embodied.

Minthara stepped behind you, her fingers gently brushing against your shoulders. She leaned in close, her breath warm against your ear.

“There,” she whispered, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “Now you are truly mine, a perfect reflection of my desires and authority. You look magnificent, my little doll.”

You turned to face her, meeting her gaze in the mirror. Her eyes were alight with a mix of pride and possessiveness. With a final, approving nod, Minthara offered you her arm, guiding you gracefully towards the door.

“Come, my dear,” she said, her tone both commanding and affectionate. “We have a gala to attend, and I want everyone to see just how perfectly you are mine.”

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Mother Superior Shadowheart:

In the opulent, dimly lit chamber of the cloister’s grand tailoring room, Shadowheart was immersed in the meticulous task of curating the perfect uniform for you. The room was adorned with luxurious fabrics and ornate furnishings, reflecting the wealth and power of her position.

You stood in the center of the room, surrounded by a sea of garments and accessories that Shadowheart had deemed essential for your transformation. The process was more elaborate than you had anticipated, and her patience seemed to stretch as thin as the fabric she was scrutinizing. With each new outfit, you felt like a doll being dressed and undressed for the amusement of its owner.

Shadowheart’s eyes were sharp and discerning as she examined each piece, her expression a mix of contemplation and exacting standards. She would approach you, draping fabrics over your shoulders and adjusting the fit with a practiced hand. The clothing ranged from dark, elegant robes embroidered with intricate patterns to high-collared tunics and flowing skirts, each adorned with symbols of Shar that spoke to her influence and control.

The first few outfits were a blur of material and adjustment. You tried to remain compliant, but the process was exhausting. The layers of heavy fabric and constant changes began to wear on you, and your patience grew thin. As the hours wore on, you found yourself growing restless and defiant, your attempts to express your discomfort evident in your body language and terse replies.

Shadowheart noticed the shift in your demeanor with a frown. Her patience was equally thin, and she was determined to have you fit the perfect vision she had in mind. With a swift, practiced motion, she summoned her magic, her hands glowing with a dark, malevolent light. The room seemed to shiver as she cast her spell, an incantation that infused the air with an aura of command and control.

You felt the magic’s effect almost immediately. A soothing, yet unyielding calm settled over you, dulling your restlessness and rebellious thoughts. It was as if a weight had been lifted, but it had been replaced by a compelling sense of submission and compliance.

Your previously defiant posture softened, and a serene, pliant expression took its place. The resistance that had marked your movements was replaced by an obedient, almost docile demeanor.

Shadowheart observed this transformation with a satisfied smirk. She approached you, her eyes scanning your now receptive form with a critical yet approving gaze. “

There we go,” she said, her voice laced with both authority and satisfaction. “Much better. Now, let’s see how you fare in these last few garments.”

She continued her meticulous work, dressing you in a series of uniforms designed to reflect both your new role and her unyielding control. The garments were tailored to perfection, each piece accentuating your form and adhering to her strict standards. Shadowheart was a master of her craft, ensuring that every detail was flawless.

Each time you grew slightly restless or attempted to voice an opinion, she would subtly adjust her magic, reinforcing your compliance and soothing any rebellious thoughts. The process became smoother as your resistance faded completely, leaving you a willing participant in her vision.

After several hours of rigorous fittings and adjustments, Shadowheart finally declared herself satisfied. She stepped back, her eyes gleaming with a sense of accomplishment as she surveyed you in the final ensemble—a striking combination of dark, elegant fabrics and intricate embroidery that marked you as a perfect reflection of her influence and authority.

“You look marvelous,” Shadowheart said, her tone carrying a blend of satisfaction and possessiveness. “You are now the embodiment of my will and the symbol of our cause, my love."

You nodded, your movements smooth and compliant, a stark contrast to the defiant spirit you had shown earlier. The transformation was complete, and as you gazed at your reflection, you could see the results of Shadowheart’s meticulous efforts—an image that perfectly represented her authority and your newfound role. Shadowheart approached you, her fingers gently brushing against your cheek.

“You have done well,” she said, her voice softening with an almost tender edge. "Come, let the cloister see us in all our glory."

As you followed her lead, the uniform you wore became a second skin, a symbol of your submission and her dominance. The process had been grueling, but the final result was a testament to Shadowheart’s unwavering control and your complete integration into her world.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

God of Ambition Gale:

In the opulent chamber that served as Gale’s domain within his realm, the ambiance was a blend of divine grandeur and meticulous attention to detail. The walls were adorned with shimmering tapestries depicting scenes of grandeur and ambition, and the air was filled with a faint, otherworldly glow that highlighted the majesty of the space. The large, ornate mirror in the center of the room reflected the elaborate setting, its surface gleaming with enchantments.

You stood in the center of the room, dressed in a simple yet elegant attire chosen for this occasion. Gale was preoccupied with perfecting the emblem that would symbolize your role by his side—a symbol that would embody your essence and his divine vision.

His attention to detail bordered on obsessive as he fussed over every aspect of the emblem, his eyes never leaving you as he examined the designs and elements that would represent you.

“Hold still,” Gale instructed with a tone of authority that brooked no argument. “The emblem must capture your essence perfectly. We cannot afford any mistakes.”

You did as instructed, feeling a mixture of apprehension and patience as Gale maneuvered you into various positions. He adjusted your posture, making minute corrections with an almost artistic precision. His fingers traced delicate patterns in the air, and his gaze was intense, as if he were trying to extract the very soul of your being.

Gale’s attention to detail was meticulous. He moved around you, occasionally stepping back to assess how you appeared from different angles. His eyes flickered with a blend of concentration and creative fervor as he compared the emblem’s design against your form. He muttered to himself, adjusting the insignia’s elements and ensuring they harmonized perfectly with your presence.

At one point, he repositioned you with a gentle but firm touch, guiding you into a new stance.

“No, no,” he murmured, his frustration evident. “Your posture needs to reflect the ambition we’re channeling. Stand taller, and hold your gaze with conviction. We need to capture the essence of your power and my divine influence.”

You complied, striving to embody the posture and poise he desired. The process felt almost like being sculpted, with Gale as both the artist and critic. His scrutiny was intense, and his corrections were precise. He adjusted the fabric of your attire, smoothed out imaginary wrinkles, and reoriented you to align with his vision.

Time seemed to stretch as Gale continued his work, his focus unwavering. He made several adjustments to the emblem, testing different designs and placements until he found the one that resonated with his divine sense of perfection. Each adjustment was accompanied by a thoughtful hum or a quiet exclamation of frustration when something didn’t meet his exacting standards.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Gale stepped back with a satisfied smile. He took in the final result, his eyes gleaming with the pride of a creator who had achieved his vision.

“There,” he said, his voice filled with a mix of triumph and relief. “That is it. The emblem is perfect. It captures your essence and embodies the ambition we both strive for.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror, observing the emblem’s intricate design—a symbol of your role beside Gale, reflecting both his divine nature and your connection to him. The emblem glowed subtly, an ethereal representation of your union with the God of Ambition and your place as his muse.

Gale approached you, his demeanor softening as he gazed at you with an affectionate pride. He reached out, his hand gently cupping your face in a gesture of tender affection.

“Thank you for enduring this process,” he said. “Your patience and poise have made this moment truly perfect.”

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Ascended Astarion:

The lavish chamber was a stark contrast to the anxiety that churned within you. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, and a grand chandelier cast a warm, golden light over the room. Astarion had spared no expense, the luxury surrounding you only amplifying your unease. This was the fourth tailor he had summoned, the others having met a grim fate for their perceived failures.

You stood in the center of the room, feeling like a mannequin as the tailor’s assistants fussed over you, taking measurements, adjusting fabrics, and pinning samples of the latest creation.

Astarion, lounging nearby with a glass of fine wine in hand, watched with a critical eye. His presence was as commanding as ever, his pale skin glowing in the candlelight, his crimson eyes tracking every movement.

The tailor worked in nervous silence, his hands trembling slightly as he presented the latest outfit for Astarion’s approval. It was a finely crafted piece, the fabric shimmering with a subtle, ethereal glow that hinted at the magic woven into its threads. But as soon as the tailor held it up for inspection, Astarion’s expression darkened.

“What is this?” Astarion’s voice was cold, his displeasure evident. He set his wine glass down with a deliberate clink, rising from his seat with a fluid grace that belied the menace in his movements.

The tailor stammered, his fear palpable. “M-my lord, I thought—”

“You thought?” Astarion interrupted, his tone laced with disdain. “You thought you could present such a pedestrian creation and pass it off as worthy of my beloved?”

You flinched at the edge in his voice, knowing what was to come. Your nerves were already frayed from the endless fittings and the constant fussing. You had tried to remain patient, but the compulsion he had placed on you was wearing thin.

Astarion turned to you, his gaze softening for a moment as he noticed your discomfort.

“Ah, my dear, I can see you’re growing restless,” he said, reaching out to gently caress your cheek. His touch was tender, yet he reimposed the compulsion with force. “But we must ensure that everything is perfect. You deserve nothing less.”

You nodded slightly, feeling the magic of his compulsion tighten around you, forcing you to remain still. The anxiety gnawed at you, but there was nothing you could do but comply. Astarion’s attention snapped back to the tailor.

“This will not do,” he declared, his voice cold once more. Before the tailor could react, Astarion moved with blinding speed, his hand flashing out to grasp the man’s throat.

The tailor gasped, his eyes wide with terror as Astarion lifted him off the ground with ease.

“I will not tolerate mediocrity,” Astarion hissed, his fangs gleaming in the dim light. With a swift, effortless motion, he snapped the tailor’s neck, letting the lifeless body drop to the floor.

You swallowed hard, the sight of yet another death turning your stomach. This was the fourth tailor he had killed, all in his relentless pursuit of perfection for you. You felt a mix of horror and resignation, knowing that this was the reality you lived in, a reality shaped by Astarion’s obsession with you.

Astarion turned to one of his servants, who had been standing silently by the door, awaiting orders.

“Bring in the next one,” he commanded, his voice devoid of emotion. The servant bowed and hurried out of the room, leaving you alone with Astarion and the body of the tailor. You glanced at Astarion, who was already smoothing his hair back into place, his demeanor calm once more.

He noticed your gaze and smiled, though there was a hint of something darker in his eyes.

“Don’t worry, darling,” he said, his tone almost soothing. “We’ll find the right one soon. I promise.”

You forced a small smile, knowing that there was no other choice. Astarion’s devotion to you was absolute, but it came at a cost—a cost you were forced to bear as he sought to mold you into his vision of perfection.

As the door opened again, and the next tailor was ushered in, you braced yourself for another round of fittings, knowing that you would remain still and compliant, just as Astarion wished.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Naturist Halsin:

The sun had barely risen when you found yourself in the grove, surrounded by the soft chirping of birds and the gentle rustle of leaves. The scent of fresh earth filled your senses as you knelt beside a wounded fawn, carefully tending to its injuries. The little creature’s eyes reflected a trust that warmed your heart, even as the dull ache from your own wounds reminded you of the previous day’s events.

Halsin had insisted you rest, but staying cooped up inside felt suffocating. You needed this—needed the quiet, the peace, the distraction of caring for the injured animals that had always been your solace.

As you gently applied a salve to the fawn’s leg, a shadow fell over you. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air grew heavier with Halsin’s presence, his towering form casting a long shadow over you and the garden.

“What are you doing out here?” His voice was low, a mixture of concern and frustration, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

You continued your work, trying to ignore the tension that had suddenly filled the space between you.

“I’m just helping,” you replied, keeping your voice steady. “The animals need me.”

“They can wait,” Halsin said, his tone firm. He stepped closer, and you could feel his gaze boring into you. “You’re supposed to be resting. You were hurt.”

You clenched your jaw, frustration bubbling up inside you. “I’m fine, Halsin. I don’t need to be coddled like a child.”

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with a gentleness that belied the strength behind it. He pulled you to your feet, towering over you as he looked down with a mix of concern and stern authority.

“You’re not invincible,” he said, his voice softer now, but no less commanding. “You need to take care of yourself.”

“I am taking care of myself,” you argued, trying to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened just enough to keep you from moving.

Halsin’s eyes flashed with an intensity, and you knew you were treading dangerous ground. He had always been protective, but since the incident, that protectiveness had grown into something else—something more controlling, more suffocating. He was treating you like a porcelain doll, terrified that you would shatter at the slightest bump.

“You’re acting like a child,” he said, his voice laced with frustration. “You’re hurt, and you’re out here risking further injury because you refuse to listen.”

“I’m not a child, Halsin,” you shot back, your own temper flaring. “I can take care of myself, and I don’t need you hovering over me every second.”

He sighed, the sound heavy with exasperation, and released your wrist. For a moment, you thought he might relent, but then he cupped your face in his large hands, forcing you to look up at him. His expression was stern, and the intensity in his eyes made your heart skip a beat.

“You will rest,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “And you will do as I say. I won’t lose you because you’re too stubborn to take care of yourself.”

The authority in his tone was undeniable, and you felt a surge of defiance rise within you. But just as quickly, it was smothered by the reality of your situation. Halsin wasn’t someone you could easily defy. He was strong, powerful, and his protectiveness—however suffocating—came from a place of genuine care. You knew that resisting him would only lead to him tightening his control over you further. With a reluctant sigh, you nodded, your shoulders sagging in resignation.

“Fine,” you muttered, the fight draining out of you. “I’ll rest.”

Halsin’s expression softened, and he pulled you into a gentle embrace.

“Thank you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice filled with relief. “I just want to keep you safe.”

You stood there, trapped in his embrace, feeling a mixture of emotions—frustration, resignation, and a flicker of something you couldn’t quite name. It was easier to give in, to let him protect you, even if it meant surrendering a little more of your freedom. The alternative was a struggle you weren’t sure you could win.

As he held you close, you wondered how much of yourself you would lose in the process of keeping the peace.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Grand Duke Wyll:

The grand chamber was bathed in soft, golden light as the sun filtered through the tall windows, casting a warm glow over the ornate furnishings and rich tapestries. The scent of oil paint and fresh flowers hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of the perfume you wore. In the center of the room, you sat perched on a velvet chaise, your posture rigid, as the painter worked diligently at his easel, his brush gliding across the canvas with practiced precision.

Wyll stood beside you, his gaze critical as he observed the progress of the portrait. His sharp eyes missed nothing, and you could feel his presence like a weight on your shoulders, even though he had yet to say a word. The painter, a nervous-looking man with a thin mustache and trembling hands, kept glancing at Wyll, clearly anxious under the scrutiny of the Grand Duke.

“Hmm,” Wyll finally murmured, stepping closer to you. His fingers brushed your cheek lightly before he tilted your chin slightly upwards, adjusting the angle of your head. “You’re looking a bit too stern, my dear. Try softening your expression.”

You obliged, relaxing the tension in your face and offering a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. You knew that Wyll was enjoying this—reveling in the control he had over every detail of the portrait, and by extension, over you. It wasn’t the first time he had treated you like a doll, something to be posed and positioned just as he liked. But today, there was a particular gleam in his eye, a playful edge to his actions that made it clear he was having fun with it.

“No, no, this won’t do,” he muttered, stopping to adjust the drape of the fabric around your shoulders.

The gown you wore was exquisite, made of the finest silk and embroidered with delicate patterns of gold thread. But it wasn’t quite right for the image he wanted to create.

“Perhaps something more regal,” he mused aloud, turning to the servants who stood waiting in the corner. “Bring out the crimson velvet. I want something that matches their hair, something that will make them stand out even more.”

The painter hesitated, his brush still in mid-air as he watched the scene unfold. You caught his eye, offering him a reassuring smile, even as you resigned yourself to another round of adjustments. You could see the unease in his expression, the way he bit his lip as he glanced between you and Wyll, but he remained silent. No one dared to contradict the Grand Duke, especially not when he was in one of these moods.

The servants quickly brought out a new gown, a rich crimson velvet with intricate gold embroidery. Wyll personally helped you out of the first gown, his touch lingering on your skin as he peeled away the fabric. He took his time, his movements slow and deliberate, as though savoring the moment. Once you were dressed in the new gown, he stepped back to admire his handiwork, a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Much better,” he declared, his tone laced with approval. “Now, let’s try this again.”

You returned to your position on the chaise, feeling the heavy weight of the velvet gown settle around you. The painter began anew, his brush moving quickly to capture the new look. Wyll, however, wasn’t done. He continued to fuss over every detail—the angle of your head, the position of your hands, the way the light caught your hair. Each time he made an adjustment, you complied, holding your pose as still as you could, though the strain was beginning to wear on you.

But you could see the joy in Wyll’s eyes, the way he seemed to relish in this exercise of power and control. There was a playfulness to it, a lightheartedness that you hadn’t seen in him for some time. So, despite the growing discomfort, you decided to indulge him. Just this once, you would let him have his fun.

Finally, after what felt like hours of repositioning and adjustments, Wyll seemed satisfied. He stepped back, folding his arms across his chest as he studied the portrait taking shape on the canvas. The painter’s hand was steady now, the initial nervousness replaced by a focused determination to get everything just right.

“Perfect,” Wyll murmured, his voice soft with admiration. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re perfect, my love.”

You smiled up at him, though your muscles ached from holding the pose for so long.

“As long as you’re happy,” you replied, your voice tinged with a forced mix of amusement and affection. He chuckled, a warm, rich sound that filled the room.

“More than happy,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve made this portrait something truly special.”

As the painter continued his work, Wyll remained by your side, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. You knew that this was more than just a portrait to him—it was a reflection of his power, his control, and the deep bond between you. And for today, you were content to let him have that.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

So sorry to the nonnie that asked for this one, your ask got eaten by my inbox :((

But it is here now !!! Hope you guys enjoyed it - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[usanyan]

crybaby, wonbin x reader

! suggestive if you squint, marking, very slight choking, body worship

🎧 crybaby by waterparks...

a/n i need to worship wonbin. he deserves it so much he's so pretty so beautiful

please...

wonbin's voice is nothing but a whisper. your fingers discover his chest again and again, your nails graze his skin without leaving scratches. you love the feeling of goosebumps slowly covering his body under your touch, his skin getting warmer and the lovely glow of the blush creeping up his neck. you reach his waist, one finger on each side going over the slight curve of his hips and you hear his breath catch in his throat.

you trace over the slight line of his abs on his stomach, his muscles tense with every gentle caress. wonbin feels both hot and cold, he shivers when your fingertips draw patterns on his lower stomach yet it sends sparks of warm in his body. it makes his blood pump faster and his mind go higher. his heart jumps at an unsteady rhythm and he's convinced his ribcage won't be enough to hold it. the way he looks at you, eyes hidden behind his messed up black bangs, his pupils drip with emotions.

you know every weakness, every soft spot. your lips press a kiss on his stomach and wonbin's hand fly to your hair. he doesn't hold it, he just brushes his fingers in your strands and push them away from your face. he needs to see you, he needs to prepare his foggy mind for whatever you would do next. you hold his sides, warm palms cupping his skin as if you wanted to get inside his bones and stay there forever. you trail your mouth over his stomach, you leave warm love bites in your way.

wonbin lets out a shaky breath, he wants to hold your face and bring you close, he wants to kiss the soul out of you so you can become one with his. but he adores every touch of your fingers, every love mark on his soft skin. you kiss the beauty mark right under his abs, you trace the curves of his muscles with your hands, your kisses travel slowly up his chest. you rest your body on top of his and wonbin finally can rest his palms on your jaw, his distended pupils blown with adoration.

wonbin needs you to keep going, he needs you to keep playing with his heart and make it yours. there's nothing he wants more than ripping it out of his chest and make it your property. tears flow his eyes. he doesn't want to cry, he doesn't want to be your crybaby. but feelings are about to spill out of him, droplets beads at his eyelashes like little diamonds. you press one kiss to each of his pink nipples and feel wonbin's hand grip your shoulders. and when you lift your gaze to meet his eyes, two heavy tears roll down his cheek.

wonbin chuckles at his own weakness. but what else could he do? you turn him into someone else. even better than that, you make him feel like himself, you open his armor and let his soft personality and every flaw he hates pour out of him. you swallow them in your chest and make every of his insecurities your favorite thing, you replace them with a confidence he never knew he could have. he becomes stronger without needing his mask, he allows himself to be selfish, sensitive, sad, angry, tired, knowing the way you wrap your lips in his and give him the strength he lacks.

wonbin smiles at you, your heart eyes in his are enough to let more tears fall from his pretty eyes. you could never get enough of his beautiful face, and even the way he cries. it's like he can't be imperfect, angels brought him to earth for you and he ended up in your arms. when he met you, wonbin started believing. he trusts every word out of your mouth, every 'you're beautiful', every 'you're doing well', every 'it will be okay'. he feels loved. he feels appreciated. he feels handsome. he feels enough. your voice is his lifeline, it's the one last star in a deep dark night. next to you he feels like his own voice faded, a murmur he loses into your ear.

please... mark me... leave marks... make me yours...

wonbin wants to be your one and only. he wants to you to paint him, bite him, scratch him, squeeze him until his skin turns to purple. color his skin with your own palette of red shades. he wants the world to know, he wants to feel pride when curious eyes fall to his neck and see the spots your lips left. he wants everyone to see he belongs to you without even needing to say it.

wonbin takes your hand, he kisses your fingertips one by one before guiding your palm to wrap around his neck. he needs to feel your skin dipping into his, he wants to give you his last breath. your grip slightly tighten and blush cover wonbin's face and ears. the breath he takes fade into your lips when you kiss him. he holds your wrist between his fingers tightly and press your hand closer to his throat, he loses every of his sense in the softness of your mouth against his.

your hand rests there, warming up the skin of his neck, you hold him in place with a gentle grip. he loves how he weakens under your touch, his eyes sparkle with tears. he begs you to squeeze his lungs out of his chest, to tear his life away with your hand. he speaks against your lips, he tries to stay connected with you as long as possible like you're his only source of energy.

the way you kiss him, your soft lips and your pretty eyes, it's like a storm in wonbin's heart. you finally leave him, you make your way down his jaw with your mouth, you cover him with warmth. you nibble and suck on his skin and leave behind you a fresh love bite where his jaw and neck meet. wonbin's body is painted with your love like galaxies, and his skin slowly glows with purple and red, you've made him your own personal sunset.

wonbin wants you to own him, own his mind and body like you own his heart. he doesn't want to be himself anymore, you possessed every part of him and made him become a better version of himself. you cover his neck in kisses, you count the freckles that disappear down his back with your lips. more spots appear on his body, wonbin feels them all. he feels every time you sink your teeth and soothe the pleasurable sting with your tongue. one of his hand is tangled in your hair, while the other still grip your wrist. your fingers don't squeeze his throat yet he feels like he can barely breath, the touch burns him and holds him in place.

more tears blur wonbin's vision. oh how deeply in love he is. how thankful he is that you stole his heart and soul to make it your own. each time you kiss his skin, you share your feelings and he feels himself loving you a little more. it's like an hole where he falls endlessly, he's drowning in your emotions and your eyes. you make his heart beat and wonbin feels it stop each time you tear your eyes away from him. your body against his keep him alive, and the warm tears that roll down his cheeks make him believe he's not dreaming.

you release his throat and place a kiss on his adam's apple, your now free hand gently wipes away wonbin's tears. no matter how breathtaking he is, your heart clenches seeing him cry. wonbin assures he has no other way to express himself, his voice gets stuck in his throat, he's convinced only the butterflies living in his chest will escape through his mouth if he tries to talk. but the smile that stretches his lips, the sparkles in his eyes, it speaks more than thousand words, it's the most precious poem.

red love marks stain the smooth skin of his throat. your hands discover his chest again, before they rest on wonbin's shoulders. you bite on your next meal, the pretty curves of his collarbone. you're hungry to love him, you want wonbin to see himself in a mirror and think your work makes him beautiful. he's even more unique with the way you colored his body, like no one else. wonbin lets out a little noise when you suck on his collarbone, his head falls back on the sheets beneath him. he exposes even more your canvas that you trace with your fingertip.

you love seeing yourself on wonbin. the hickeys in his neck and on his hips, the faint scratches on his back, the shape of your lips on his cheek, and your feelings deep in his pupils. when you look at him again, his eyes shine with unshed tears. he closes his eyes to release the crystal stream, you press a kiss on his eyelids. wonbin's arms wrap around you. he's satisfied. he feels safe knowing he's yours.

thank you...

the way you hug him back heals his messed up heart. wonbin wants to keep you there, inside his chest, so you can keep making him beat and stay alive. but you crawling inside him would mean not seeing you, so he prefers this. he prefers holding you in his arms, surrounded by your scent and the feeling of your lips on his neck. he can fall asleep. closing his eyes, wonbin can't wait to wake up to you in the morning.

[rocknroll7575]

So you liked knightcrown. I will give you a thought , they ever after arc but gillian some how arrived and thinks to the clockwork orange she arrives to find jaune after the paper pleaders save him.

So when team rwby arrive jaune is now the rusted king and gillian the summer queen. They have kids

Firstly, I don't just like KnightsCrown, I fucking love it! I kept it alive! Anyway! You have asked, and so you shall receive!

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Gillian clenched her teeth as she hurled the clock fruit to the ground, watching it roll away before coming to a stop against a bed of thick, twisting roots. A bitter curse tore from her lips.

"Damn it!" she cried, her voice sharp with frustration.

She lifted her gaze to the sky, heart pounding as an unsettling realization took hold. The vibrant hues of dusk had vanished, swallowed by an unfamiliar darkness. Stars twinkled in patterns she didn't recognize, and the moon, now fuller than before, cast a pale, eerie glow over the landscape.

It wasn’t just her imagination.

Time had been reversed.

A cold weight settled in her chest as the truth set in. She was supposed to find Jaune. She had fought so hard, struggled so much to reach him. And now, she was trapped in the past, stranded in an era she didn’t belong to.

Gillian clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as she let out a low, frustrated growl. But before she could fully give in to her despair, her instincts flared—voices, soft but distinct, drifted through the air.

Her muscles tensed as she shot to her feet, her bow already in hand. With practiced efficiency, she reached over her shoulder, grabbed an arrow, and notched it, drawing the string back just enough to be ready. Eyes narrowed, she tuned out the pounding of her own heart, focusing instead on the voices whispering through the trees.

She turned her head slightly, angling her ear toward the sound. 'There! To the left!' Gillian thought

Moving with measured steps, she wove through the dense underbrush, slipping past thick foliage and gnarled branches. The air smelled different here—earthy and damp, tinged with the scent of something ancient. She ignored the strange plants curling toward her boots and the odd flickers of light dancing between the trees. None of it mattered right now.

What mattered was what lay ahead.

After what felt like an eternity, she pushed past a final barrier of leaves and emerged into a clearing. What she saw made her breath hitch.

A group of creatures, no taller than her knee, gathered in a loose circle. They were star-shaped, their bodies appearing as though they were crafted from folded paper, glowing faintly as they murmured among themselves. In the center of their gathering lay a figure—a man, unmoving.

Standing over him was a massive Jackalope, its antlers glinting in the moonlight, its ears twitching as it regarded the fallen figure with a mix of curiosity and wariness.

Gillian's grip tightened on her bow, but when her eyes landed on the man sprawled in the grass, her breath caught in her throat.

Even beneath the unkempt hair and the beard that now covered his face, she knew exactly who he was.

Jaune.

Her heart stammered.

She darted forward without hesitation, shoving past the small, paper-like creatures as a sense of dread clawed at her chest. Her knees hit the soft earth beside Jaune’s motionless body, hands trembling as she reached for him. His face was twisted in pain, beads of sweat forming along his forehead. His breathing was shallow, labored.

"Jaune! Jaune!" she cried, her voice raw with desperation. She carefully lifted his head, cradling him in her arms. His skin was unnaturally warm, and a sickly pallor had overtaken his usually fair complexion. "Open your eyes! Please, Jaune! Say something!"

There was no response.

Her stomach twisted, fear gripping her tighter than ever. Just when she thought she had finally found him, he was slipping away before her eyes.

A soft voice interrupted her panic. "He's been poisoned," a small green star-shaped creature stated matter-of-factly, stepping forward from the gathered group. "His steed came to us and asked for our help,"

Gillian tore her gaze from Jaune and looked at the strange being. "You can help him?" she asked, hope laced with uncertainty.

The green star gave a reassuring nod. "Yes, we are the Paper Pleasers, helping is what we are, and helping is what we do,"

Gillian hesitated. The creatures were strange, their very existence unlike anything she had ever seen. But she had no other options, and time was slipping away with every second Jaune remained in this condition. Her grip on him tightened as she swallowed down her doubt.

"Then please, help us," she said, her voice quieter now but no less urgent.

"We will," a pink star chimed in. "But we must take him back to our village, there, we have what we need to heal him,"

Gillian nodded, shifting to try and lift Jaune, but his weight was more than she anticipated. She gritted her teeth, struggling to get him off the ground, her muscles already straining under the effort.

Before she could collapse under his weight, a presence loomed beside her. A firm, yet gentle force pressed against Jaune, easing the burden. Gillian glanced to the side and saw the Jackalope, its massive form lowering to assist her. The creature’s deep, intelligent eyes met hers for a brief moment before it knelt slightly, revealing a saddle strapped to its back.

Realization dawned on her. The Jackalope wasn’t just helping—it was offering to carry him.

Without wasting another second, Gillian adjusted Jaune’s position and, with the Jackalope’s assistance, carefully lifted him onto the saddle. Her hands lingered on him for a moment, making sure he was secure before stepping back.

She exhaled, glancing down at the Paper Pleasers. "Lead the way," she said.

And with that, they set off into the night.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

As they followed the winding path toward the village where the Summer Queen resided, Little practically vibrated with excitement, his tiny form nearly bouncing with each step. His ears twitched, and his paws fidgeted as if he could barely contain himself.

Ruby noticed his enthusiasm and chuckled. "What’s got you so excited, Little?" she asked, watching as he practically quivered with anticipation.

"We’re going to meet the Summer Queen!" Little cried out, his voice full of wonder. "She’s said to be the most beautiful queen in all the land! And the Rusted Knight serves her!"

Ruby tilted her head. "I don’t remember reading about the Summer Queen in the book," she admitted, frowning slightly.

Blake, walking beside her, nodded. "Neither have I, but there’s so much about the Ever-After that wasn’t in the book," she said, her amber eyes scanning the unfamiliar landscape.

The Ever-After had already proven to be far more mysterious than they had imagined, and the mention of a Summer Queen and the Rusted Knight only deepened the mystery. Who was this queen, and could she really help them?

As they neared the village, a small but sturdy wooden wall came into view, enclosing the settlement within. The scent of wildflowers and warm earth drifted through the air, mingling with the distant sounds of voices and activity from within.

Just as they reached the gates, they groaned and creaked open, revealing the figure that emerged from within.

A young man, seemingly their age, stepped forward. Unlike the whimsical and strange inhabitants of the Ever-After they had met so far, this one looked unmistakably human. He was clad in gleaming white armor, polished to perfection, with an elegant silk cape draped over his shoulders. The fabric shimmered under the light, almost as if infused with a rainbow’s glow.

His shaggy black hair was slightly tousled, and sharp blue eyes studied them with curiosity and caution. At his hip rested a sword, its handle intricately designed to resemble the twisting roots of a great tree, as if nature itself had shaped it.

His expression remained unreadable as he finally spoke. "Who are you?" His voice carried a steady authority, though not unkind. "And what brings you here?"

Weiss took a step forward, composing herself before answering. "We’re here looking for help," she said, her voice firm but diplomatic. "My name is Weiss, and these are my friends—Ruby, Blake, and Yang,"

The young man’s gaze swept over them, measuring, assessing. Then, his grip on the hilt of his sword loosened slightly.

"Help?" he echoed. "Then you’ve come to the right place,"

The young man turned on his heel and gestured for them to follow. "Come with me," he said simply before leading them through the village gates.

The group exchanged glances but said nothing as they stepped inside, curiosity tugging at their thoughts. The village was unlike anything they had seen before—quaint yet vibrant, with buildings that seemed to blend seamlessly with nature. Vines coiled around wooden structures, and soft lanterns cast a warm, golden glow over cobblestone streets. The air carried the scent of blooming flowers, and villagers of all shapes and sizes bustled about, their chatter filled with laughter and song.

As they walked deeper into the village, Yang decided to cut through the mystery hanging over their guide. She folded her arms and glanced at him. "So, uh… I gotta ask—are you… human?"

The young man gave a small nod, his expression calm. "I am," he confirmed.

Yang raised an eyebrow. "Then that means you're from Remnant, right?"

To their surprise, he shook his head. "No," he said. "I was born here, just like the rest of my brothers and sisters. But my parents… they came from Remnant."

That caught their attention. Weiss furrowed her brow. "Your parents?" she repeated. "Is your mother the Summer Queen?"

The young man’s lips curved into a fond smile. "She is," he confirmed. "And as for my father… well, you may have heard of him. The hero of the land himself—the Rusted Knight."

Ruby’s eyes widened. "Wait, what?" She turned to Blake, who looked just as stunned.

"That wasn't in the book," Blake muttered, crossing her arms in thought. Then her expression darkened slightly. "Didn't the Rusted Knight sacrifice himself for Alyx?"

At her words, the young man came to an abrupt stop. His entire demeanor shifted—the warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by something cold and unwavering. His jaw tightened, and when he spoke, his voice carried a firm edge.

"That's a lie," he said, his tone serious. "Alyx poisoned my father and left him for dead."

Silence fell over the group like a heavy curtain. The story they had all grown up with, the legend of Alyx and the Rusted Knight, was unraveling before their very eyes.

Weiss, Ruby, Blake, and Yang stared at him, struggling to process the weight of his words.

Another part of the tale they had believed to be true… had just been revealed as a lie.

The path led them to a grand manor, its stone walls draped in ivy, with tall windows that reflected the golden hues of the setting sun. It stood as a testament to both elegance and warmth, a home that had clearly been lived in and loved for many years.

As they stepped inside, the air was filled with the soft sound of laughter. In the spacious hall, two young children with golden hair played excitedly, giggling as they tumbled across a plush rug. Nearby, a man and woman watched over them with affectionate smiles, joining in on their game.

The young man leading them stepped forward, his voice warm with familiarity. "Mother! Father!"

At the call, the two adults turned, and in an instant, Team RWBY felt their breath catch in their throats.

"Jaune!?" Ruby gasped, eyes wide with shock.

Jaune Arc stood before them, older than they remembered, yet unmistakably him. His golden hair was longer, streaked with hints of silver at the edges, and there was a wisdom in his eyes that had not been there before. Despite the years, his smile remained the same—gentle, warm, and full of the quiet strength that had always defined him.

"Hey, Ruby," he greeted with a small wave, as if they had just seen each other yesterday.

Beside him, the woman—Gillian—smiled, her gaze shifting from Jaune to their son. "Ren," she said softly, "Will you take the twins outside and fetch Jeanette and Luna? We have guests,"

The young man, now revealed to be named Ren, nodded in understanding. "Yes, Mother." He turned to the two little boys, who were still grinning from their game. "Jax, Finn, come on," he called, motioning for them to follow. "Let’s go find our older sisters."

With excited laughter, the two blonde-haired boys scrambled up and raced toward their brother, their tiny footsteps echoing through the hall as Ren led them outside.

Once they were gone, Jaune and Gillian stepped forward, both regarding their guests with warmth.

Jaune’s gaze swept over Ruby, Weiss, Blake, and Yang, a flicker of nostalgia and relief crossing his features. "I’m sure you all have a lot of questions," he admitted, his smile never fading. "But can it wait until the rest of our kids get back?"

He crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly.

"After all," he added, his voice filled with quiet meaning, "You guys are the reason we’ve been waiting for so long,"

Indeed, the team of four huntresses had a lot of questions they needed answering, but they were even more in shock that their friend was now older, married, and had kids. They really needed to know how that all came to be.

[zeke-fanfucs]

Heyy ^^ no request, just a question

What would you say is your favorite thing you've written recently?? (doesn't have to be BvZ related)

It’s not uhhh BvZ. It’s a little story I make up in my head during a long car ride and I had been playing listening to Hell’s comin’ with me and other songs. So here’s some made up story! Gays! Creepy powers! 1860 cowboys!!!!

Rattle and the River

In the raw heart of Oregon, 1865, where the trees grew thicker than the lies men told, Sheriff Lowell Horne Warner carved out a sliver of peace. His town, barely more than a string of dusty buildings strung along the river like beads on a weathered rosary, stood untouched by the wars that had torn the East apart. Here, the battles were smaller, meaner—between greed and decency, between iron and blood.

Lowell was a man molded by the land he swore to protect: steady, rough-edged, but kinder than most who wore a badge. He tipped his hat to the native families who fished the silver rivers, just as he greeted the weary prospectors who staggered into town looking to bleed the mountains dry. No man was better than another in Warner’s Patch, not while Lowell rode the streets on his gray horse, Rattle—a beast named for his owner’s peculiar talent at killing snakes, both the hissing kind and the two-legged ones.

As the sun slipped behind the pine-drenched hills, the river turned to molten copper, and Lowell rode its edge, keeping a watchful eye on the new families who had arrived on the noon steamer. He already sensed it: trouble, brewing like a summer storm. Gold fever made men foolish, and foolish men got dangerous quick. It was a familiar pattern—drunkards who thought fists made kings, or quick-draw boys who thought themselves invincible until Lowell or his deputies put them down… or under.

But tonight, something different rode on the wind.

A shimmer across the water caught Lowell’s eye—a figure standing just beyond the mist, where the river bent and the world softened. A man, slight but proud, wearing clothes that shimmered wrong against the twilight. His hair was dark, curling at his neck, and his eyes… they glowed faintly, like a lantern seen from underwater.

Lowell narrowed his gaze. Not native, not prospector, not preacher. Not like any damn thing he’d ever seen.

The stranger raised his hand—not in threat, but in greeting—and for the first time in a long while, Lowell felt a crack in the armor he wore around his heart. It was like the earth itself had shifted, subtle and slow, under his boots.

Magic, the old folks whispered. Magic had always lived out here, in the wild places men hadn’t yet ruined.

And maybe, just maybe, it had finally come calling for Sheriff Lowell Horne Warner.

The man in the mist stepped forward with the deliberate ease of someone who had learned to measure every move. He was tall—Lowell’s height, maybe more—and carried himself like a man who’d lived through things no one should’ve had to. His skin caught the last of the sunset’s gold, warm bronze and brown like river-polished stone, and his dark hair curled loose under a beaten hat that had seen better years.

Lowell reined Rattle in, boots creaking in the stirrups. The horse snorted, wary but not hostile.

“You the sheriff?” the man called, voice carrying smooth and even, like it had practice talking men down from foolishness. “’Cause I ain’t looking for trouble, unless trouble’s lookin’ for me.”

Lowell gave a single nod. “That’s me.”

The man glanced around, as if gauging whether the trees might hide bullets. “I’m Alejandro,” he said, and the name came with a weight, like it wasn’t the first he’d worn, just the one he’d kept. “Used to be someone else, but… that name belonged to men who owned chains, and I ain’t never goin’ back to that.”

Lowell tilted his head, just slightly. “Fair enough,” he said. “You got a story, but you don’t owe me the telling of it.”

Alejandro looked almost surprised. “You don’t hear my voice and call me dirty runaway?” he asked, and there was a wary smirk behind the words. “Ain’t gonna draw on me, or say I oughta move along?”

“I ain’t that kind of sheriff,” Lowell said simply. “And you don’t seem like the kind of man who takes kindly to being told where to go.”

Alejandro chuckled, soft and bitter. “You’re right about that.”

He stepped up onto the bank, the mist parting like it respected him, or feared him. There was something old in the way he moved, like roots under the surface of calm water—powerful, deep, and waiting. His boots hit the ground and Lowell saw the faint glimmer of something strange around the edges of the man, like heat haze, or candle smoke. He blinked, and it was gone.

“You got a place in town where a man like me could sit without gettin’ spit on?” Alejandro asked, his voice losing some of its edge. “Somewhere I don’t have to sleep with one eye open, if I got that luxury.”

Lowell looked him over again, quiet for a moment. “There’s a widow runs a boarding house. Name’s Ruth Granger. She don’t ask questions if you pay honest. Keeps a shotgun behind the bar, too, in case someone forgets their manners. I’ll take you there.”

Alejandro nodded, his eyes studying Lowell’s face, like he was deciding whether to trust him.

“You always this helpful to strange men walkin’ out of the river mist?”

Lowell smirked, just a little. “Only the handsome ones.”

That earned a pause—and a flicker of something in Alejandro’s eyes that wasn’t mistrust. Not quite. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the first thread of something stronger.

“Then I reckon I’m lucky tonight,” Alejandro said, and followed as Lowell turned his horse toward town.

The river behind them whispered in a language older than either man, and if it watched them go, it said nothing—just carried its secrets out to sea.

Alejandro threw his bag onto the narrow bed with a grunt, the old frame creaking like it might collapse under anything heavier than his worn satchel. He looked around the small room—wooden walls that still smelled faintly of sawdust, a pitcher of clean water on the nightstand, and a quilt sewn with care, not haste. Nothing grand. But it was his for the night.

He sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders stiff from weeks of travel, and stared at the floor like it might shift beneath him. This town… it was different.

No one spat at his boots when he walked down the main street. No mutters of greaser or half-blood. No sideways glances like he carried some disease. A little girl had smiled at him—wide, gap-toothed and fearless—as she skipped past with a boy who might’ve been Chinook or Nez Perce. The two of them had raced down the road like they’d never been told they weren’t supposed to play together.

It twisted something deep in his chest. A tightness. A memory, maybe. Or something trying to be one.

He rubbed his hands over his face, tried to shake the feeling. Peace made a man nervous when he wasn’t used to it.

The widow had surprised him most of all. Ruth Granger. Stout woman with sharp eyes, gray hair pinned back in a no-nonsense bun. She’d taken one look at him, dusty and road-worn, and offered soup. Just like that.

“You look like you ain’t eaten since Texas,” she’d said, and there wasn’t pity in her tone—just a kind of motherly steel. “Sit down ‘fore you fall down.”

He’d almost laughed. He’d almost said no, too. But his stomach made the choice for him, and before he knew it, he was spooning stew into his mouth while she clattered dishes behind the bar, humming something soft and low.

She didn’t ask where he was from.

Didn’t ask what he was running from.

Didn’t ask what the strange marks on his arms meant, or why his eyes flickered gold when the candlelight hit just right.

She just fed him.

Alejandro leaned back, looking at the ceiling like it held answers. He didn’t trust it. Not yet. Kindness was a knife in the wrong hands. He’d seen preachers smile as they branded men, overseers offer water just to break you with a whip once you took it. He’d trusted once. That was enough.

But this town… It wasn’t just Lowell, with his even voice and steel-eyed calm. It was the land itself. The trees. The river. The way the stars shone brighter than he remembered.

This place was watching him.

Not with hate.

But like it was waiting.

He flexed his fingers, and the faintest flicker of heat shimmered in his palm—like sunlight through water. He closed his hand into a fist and sighed.

He was tired.

And maybe, just maybe, he was tired enough to stay.

For a while.

(I have more if you like to read this. Nothing special, just gay sheriff, decent town in the 1800’s west towns, and not supernatural man)

[chapel-of-rizztual]

Awwwhh pack bonding time :’)

Cw: wax play? Inappropriate use of a candle?

Perpetua was told he’d have to do something drastic to get the ghouls to respect him. He’d been around ghouls before, the ministry he’d grown up in had ghouls, but these are his brothers ghouls and they were fiercely loyal to him. He was told that the two Quints and the earth ghoul would probably be the easiest, they’re calm and have been through a change of leadership before. Dewdrop specifically would be a problem. If he got his respect the rest would probably follow. He decided to throw a dinner party for the ghouls, his mothers flair for them had been past down to him and he’s honestly missed them. It would be a great opportunity to get all the ghoul in one place at the same time so het could get to know them as a pack, find out the pack dynamics. He already had the perfect centrepiece in mind.

He ushered the ghouls into the dining hall, clapping excitedly behind them.

“You will love it my ghouls!” He ignores the collective eye roll and the shuffling of feet. “I spent all day preparing something nice for you.”

The small hum in response was anything but positive but he wasn’t going to let them deter him. He knew once they ghouls had seen what he had planned they’d all love it.

The first few ghouls stop in the doorway in shock, looking back at him with wide disbelieving eyes. “Don’t just stand there, go in, all of you in.” He shoos the rest in, closing the door behind him. “Well?” He gestures to the table in front of them all. “Do you like it?”

In front of them is a sturdy dark wooden table, with sturdy wooden chairs to match. The table was set for ten people with delicate china plates adorned with different flowery patterns swirled over them, surrounded by different flowers and candles to decorate the table. The centre is what was catching everyone’s attention. In the centre was Dewdrop. Fully naked, kneeling with his wrists tied to his ankles so his ass was forced high into the air. It wouldn’t have been anything noteworthy, or particularly out of the ordinary for Dew if it wasn’t for the lit candle sticking out of his ass. It was one of the long white ones, one that was used in the chapel and was definitely stolen from there. It was long, long enough that it stuck about five inches out of Dew without knowing how much was inside him. It wasn’t particularly thick, only about two fingers wide, barely enough to stretch him open but the heat from the small flame was enough to make intense. There was already a few beads of wax that had slid down the candle and pooled into Dews sensitive skin. He’d already been here like this for a while.

Aether panics a little, Dews mouth wasn’t gaged so he would be able to speak of his displeasure or discomfort if he wanted but the distant far away look in his eyes was worrying. He taps into his quintessence to feel for Dews emotions, explaining to find panic, maybe fear and a cry for help but instead he found, well, not much really. There was a sense of calm with an underlying horniness but not much of anything else. Whatever this was, Dew had clearly consented. He relaxes, giving a small nod to the rest of the tense group letting them all know it as okay. They all visibly relaxed, the tension in the air shifting into something hotter and more intense.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Perpetua asks the group as he walks around the table so he’s behind Dew. “My masterpiece.” He gestures to Dew.

The whole group nods dumbly.

“How-“ Aether clears his throat when he hears his voice break. “How did you manage this?” He gestures to Dew on the table. “Dew is…well he’s Dewdrop.”

“Oh, it was easy really. He just need a firm hand. Isn’t that right, Dew?” He brings his hand down onto Dews ass and only then does Aether notice the red handprints glowing on each cheek. He’d already figured out Dews weakness.

The slap makes Do gasp and arch up into it. Unfortunately for him it jostled the candle inside him, making the hot wax that pooled in the top drip down the length of the candle until it gets to his sensitive stretched rim. It soaks into the skin, setting and hardening as it does, solidifying around him. Dew squeaks, the feeling of the hot wax on him making his wet eyes roll back.

“Holy shit.” The little quint next to Aether gasps, his eyes wide, his pupils already blown as he follows the bead of wax down the candle. He palms at himself, not very subtlety trying to relieve some of the pressure. Perpetua thinks his name is Phantom. It doesn’t really matter, he already has plans for the little ghoul.

“Please, sit. All of you sit.” He gestures to all of the chairs. “We have a long night ahead of us.”

There’s a sound of chairs scraping against the floor as the ghoul obey him. He stops Phantom from pulling his own chair out.

“Not you. I have something special for to sit.”

Phantom gasps softly and lets himself be lead by the hand to the end of the table. He gets pulled into the older man’s lap, his eyes widened when he feels how hard he is under his ass. “We get the best view in the house.” Perpetua whispers into his ear as he squeezes the little ghouls thighs.

They’re head on with Dews ass. Phantom can see a bead of wax roll over Dews taint and over his balls, stopping and solidifying about halfway down. He nods dumbly, unable to take his eyes away from the scene in front of him.

The table wobbles as everyone moves around it making the candle inside Dew move and drip more hot wax into him. Some lands on his rim, already coated in wax, some makes a river down and drips down into his balls making Dew gasp and his cock twitch.

“Awwhh look.” Swiss coos out, pointing at Dew. He point to his cock, hard and pressed up again his belly, leaking a steady stream of precum onto his belly and the table. “He’s got his own little drippy candle.”

The earth ghoul next to him rolls his eyes and nudges him with his shoulder, but there’s a barely contained smile in his face and a blotchy red blush on his cheeks. A ghoulette at the opposite end of the table purposefully shakes the table with an evil grin on her face making wax splash from the candle into Dew. Some of lands in little pearls on Dews spanked red and already sensitive ass. He lets out a hiccuped sob feeling it land on him, tears spilling from his eyes and onto the table.

Perpetua can’t stop smiling. This is what he wanted. The tension between them had disappeared and turned into something much more pleasant, something lighter and brighter. And hotter

“My ghouls.” He announces. “Tonight we feast in the name of our dark Lord.” He points to Dew. “And worship at his unholy altar.” Dew moans feeling all eyes burning onto him. Perpetua continues. “Tonight we make new bonds, in new loyalty and new leadership.”

The ghouls around him nod in solidarity with him, agreeing with him. Phantom purrs into his neck, not so subtlety grinding down onto him. He flashes them all a smile and Aether swears he could see his white eye glowing but it’s gone within a blink of an eye. “Feast, my ghouls. Feast.” He commands. And feast they do.

[luciacaminoz]

APOLOGY for the gaslight gamerbro himself perhaps? idk i would just love it if you had a reason to make julian grovel for his wife just a lil

Hearts/Wires (2.2k, nsfw)

February 2021

Here’s the thing about Julian Sim: when he wants to gut you, he uses a scalpel, not a cleaver.

The main area of the penthouse haven is all dark wood, black marble, muted LED underglow—reeking ego.

Three neon-lit servers hum like a hive mind stacked neatly in a small, panelled alcove; on top, a lacquered black terminal and various split-screen monitors. There’s an entire wall of vintage gaming consoles and rare, limited edition collector’s items, all bespoke shelving and shiny sleek casing.

A cyber koi dominates another wall on a matte black canvas, silver and teal metallic paint catching light, glowing circuit-board patterns along the scales and through its fins. There’s an Eames chair beneath that; dark grey, horrific little Licker plush perfectly centered, and a thin, bioluminescent algae tank splits the space, tints everything in cyan.

Portishead’s Glory Box is an audio autopsy; drags lazily from somewhere.

Sol leans against the back of a leather suite by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching her first snowfall skirl thick over the city. Elena’s in the HQ sublevel garage; Nadia’s still spying downtown.

Julian’s fingers fly over a tablet.

“Hey,” he says.

Sol just glances over her shoulder.

He swivels in his chair, grinning—that fuckboy grin. That one.

“Got something for you.”

“If it’s another USB drive of NFTs I swear to god, Julian, I’m out.”

“Nope.” He stands, all lean lines in his stupidly expensive techwear, and gestures to a black case on the marble-topped kitchen island. “Open it.”

She saunters over, pops the latches.

Inside: a leather jacket—deep shade of grey-brown, oversized, buttery-soft, lined with Kevlar. The back’s embroidered with two tiny hummingbirds in black and silver thread; the cuffs studded with citrine and gunmetal hardware. Sewn into the pocket: a rosary—each bead delicately carved obsidian.

“Customized the Kevlar weave,” he says, too casual. “Stops .50 cals, UV-resistant, self-healing nano-fibers. Also, y’know. Looks hot on you.”

Sol runs a thumb over the hummingbirds.

“You had this made?”

“Nadia sourced the leather. I did the code for the nano-fibers.” He steps closer, smelling of designer cologne and mint gum—he’d held another 2100X lecture at the University of Denver earlier this evening. “And the embroidery’s mine. Took a week. Fuckin’… needlework.” He mimes stabbing himself. “Torture.”

Sol keeps her expression carefully neutral.

“You should’ve stuck to hacking.”

“Probably.” His grin fades.

The jacket’s perfect. Infuriatingly perfect. So perfect she wants to cry or hurl him through the ten-storey window. Instead, she shucks off her old one, slides into the new. It molds to her—alive.

Sol can’t help the small smile. Her palms run along the smooth leather and she turns to him with a brow raised, exaggerated bedroom-eyes: Like what you see?

Julian’s gaze darkens. He closes the distance and smirks as he fixes her collar, tucking loose hair behind her ear, and it’s like every drop of squirming vitae in her system suddenly streams towards his touch.

She slaps his hand away.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do that. The… soft shit.”

He catches her wrist.

“You’re mad. I get it, Sol. Be fucking mad.” They’re chest-to-chest, her back against the counter, so close his breath ghosts her scar. “But let me at least try while you’re mad.”

“Try?” She snorts. “Try what? Try to fix this? You get fucking and fighting and nothing else. You don’t know the first—”

Julian drops to his knees.

Sol shivers.

Hands on both sides of her hips, his mouth laves a hot, pleading stripe up the inner seam of her jeans. Sol grips the counter’s edge, knuckles white.

“Julian,” she hisses, but her thighs part anyway. Fuck him. Fuck his pretty little mouth, fuck his goddamn eyes—wide and wet like he’s the one being gutted. She shoves him back, but he catches her foot, pressing a kiss to the snake at her ankle. “Fuck. You.”

“You first,” he murmurs, tugging her jeans down.

She should knee him in the fucking face. She should. Instead his breath scalds through the fabric of her underwear and she whines like a kicked dog. He noses her clit, deliberately slow, savoring.

Sol’s head thuds back against the cabinet. She fists his hair—god, his hair, still so fucking soft, no one but her allowed to mess with the stupid fucking coiff—and grinds down.

“Hate you.” It sounds laughable on the tail end of a moan.

“Mmhmm.” Julian drags her panties with his teeth, then bites the fleshy inside of her thigh hard enough to leave a bruise. Two fingers slide into her, curling exactly right, and she hates how he remembers her body. “Tell me again, Sol.”

She doesn’t. She can’t, because his tongue replaces his fingers, lapping at her like she’s the last O-neg he’ll ever fucking see. The whimper chokes out of her throat, sharp, shallow, broken. Julian groans against her, vibration ratcheting her even higher.

“Solona,” he rasps, fucking her with his tongue now, deep and filthy. “Missed you. Missed how you taste—”

Her legs almost give out. Her claws unfurl, digging into the marble.

“Shut—fuck—shut up—”

He doesn’t. It’s Julian—he talks; words muffled but relentless against her clit.

“I remember when you used to beg me not to stop—”

“Julian—”

“Beg.”

“Go to hell—”

He pulls back, cold air hitting her soaked cunt. Sol nearly sobs. He looks up at her, lips glistening, pupils huge.

“Say it.”

She slaps him.

He blinks; when he meets her eyes he’s smiling again—shit-eating, I’m-untouchable—but his hands tremble.

She holds his gaze for two seconds before her heel slams his shoulder.

Julian crashes back into the algae tank, cyan light rippling violently over the room. In that moment he looks scary; his fangs drop with one slick schlick, eyes flat black fucking fury—

Then he laughs.

“You’re savage tonight.” He staggers up, licking vitae from the cut on his palm. He sounds as unhinged as she feels, spreading his arms like some shitty messiah. “Okay, Solona. Hurt me.”

She’s on him, fangs bared, slamming him against the server wall. Monitors clatter; the Licker plush tumbles to the floor. Julian’s cock strains against his pants, and the scent of his blood—wired monsoon nights, algorithmic zips of lightning; hers, her Sire’s, mine mine mine—drags a guttural moan from deep in her chest.

“Hate you,” she sobs, clawing his shirt open. “HATE.”

“I know. I know—”

It’s not a kiss she pulls him into. It’s teeth and tongue and ten years of fucked-up festering feelings. Sol shreds his belt with her claws. He lifts her onto the marble counter, ice-cold against her bare skin, and she resents how easy it brings her back—how his hands stay gentle, how his cock twitches against her stomach, leaking and desperate, how she wants to curl up and keep him inside her forever.

“Sol, look at me,” he whispers.

“No.”

“Please.”

“You left,” she snarls.

“I came back. I was always coming back.”

“To use me.”

“And you let me. Is that what you want to hear?”

She slaps him again, harder, tips of her claws splitting skin; two thin jagged slices across his cheek bone.

The crack echoes. Julian’s head snaps sideways, hair falling over his eyes. He touches the blood blooming beneath his eye and just sighs.

“Feel better?”

“No.”

He cups her jaw, pressing his forehead to hers and Sol exhales a shuddering breath between them.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Forget it. Just fuck me.” Her eyes are steepling with red. She’s using every gram of composure to keep them from running over.

Julian fucks her like he’s trying to carve an apology into her bones. Sol fucks him like she’s digging a grave.

Her heels cut into the small of his back. The counter’s edge bites into her ass. He slows, angling deeper, hitting that spot that makes her vision white. It’s a conscious effort to retract the claws, but she does, finally gripping his shoulders, grasping the nape of his neck, their foreheads still tight together.

“Look at me.” Begging. Begging. “Solona, please.”

Sol opens her eyes and stares into him the way she did when she thought he hung the stars.

Then, tears.

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—” The words glitch out of him—staccato, inelegant, cracking. His thumbs swipe, smearing blood like warpaint.

He kisses her. It’s clumsy. It’s not enough. It’s everything. His lips tremble against hers, hands cradling her face like she’s made of cracked glass.

She kisses him back, nails digging crescents into the softness of his neck. Blood mingles metallic and salt-bitter between them. Julian’s hips stutter, buried to the hilt, chest hitching.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” he repeats against her mouth.

She doesn’t answer. She wraps her legs tighter around him. Her hips roll slow now, aching, like she’s trying to fuse their skeletons.

Julian matches her pace, each thrust deep and punctuated—I’m. Here. I’m. Here.

His kiss trails along the thin ridge of her scar, her throat, her collarbone, every mole and freckle he finds there. When she comes, it’s silent—clenching around him, full-body shudder. Julian follows with a choked groan, forehead to her sternum, watching mingled vitae paint her thighs.

For a long moment, they stay like that, suspended—sticky, bleeding, Julian’s arms locked around her waist like she’ll ash if he lets go.

The algae tank continues to pulse, low and steady.

Sol shoves him.

He stumbles back, red scratches across his cheek almost closed over, Dior shirt hanging in tatters. She eases off the counter, legs shaky, and stalks to the bathroom. Julian follows, silent, hovering in the doorway as she splashes cold water on her face.

“Sol—”

“Don’t. Please.”

He doesn’t.

She strips, steps into the shower. Julian leans against the sink, watching through the glass as steam fogs the edges of her silhouette. When she’s done, he’s there with a towel—

Sol snatches it, wrapping herself tight.

Julian’s fingers brush her wrist.

“Let me fix your hair.”

“Fuck off.”

He retrieves a comb from the drawer anyway.

She gives him a look… but perches on the toilet lid.

Julian kneels behind her, carefully detangling the damp mass of waves. He used to do this—since the first weeks after her Embrace, when her hair would snarl from Sonoran winds whipping through the Geo and in the later 00s after messier Camarilla hit jobs. His fingers move in gentle, practiced patterns.

“We’re so fucked up,” she mutters.

“Maybe.”

“Lettow should’ve killed us both in Tucson.”

His mouth twitches.

They don’t speak after that. She leans into his touch despite herself.

Julian finishes her hair, silently debating a shower. Not wanting to leave her alone long, he burns vitae to blur through the motions, veins sparking with hunger, then dresses in a faded Evangelion t-shirt and black sweatpants.

Ridiculous, giddying relief slumps his shoulders when he walks back out into the living area and finds Sol slouched in the Eames chair, toeing the Licker plush on the floor, wearing one of his older hoodies—still raiding his wardrobe even here, even now.

Snow whirls behind her in the darkness outside, choking Denver’s skyline. Her eyes are closed, head drooped, limbs heavy, and he feels it too—the pressure droning behind his brow bone, blood beginning to stick and clump as arteries dry up to collapse. Dawn’s close.

Julian rakes his fingers through damp, painfully mussed and un-styled hair, and grabs the prayer mat tucked in a compartment beside the arch leading to the bedroom. It’s silk, deep olive green and embroidered—ayat al-Kursi in delicate gold calligraphy.

“Prayer time,” he says lightly, mostly to bridge the awkwardness stretching between them.

Sol looks up and frowns. He’s paler than usual, deep circles under his eyes, movements sluggish as he hits in a key code on the far wall and then lays out his mat.

“Skip it.”

Julian pauses.

“You know I can’t.”

She strains and stands, grabbing the Licker plush and what can only be an incredibly expensive throw blanket from the arm of the leather suite.

Julian watches, an almost imperceptible tightening in his jaw, as she follows him over, drops both to the floor beside him, and lies down.

“Fucking hypocrite.” She sighs, eyes closing. “You think Allah’s cool with diablerie?”

“He’s cool with me surviving sunrise.” Julian shrugs. “I’ll be quick.”

She watches him kneel, forehead pressed to the rug, earring glinting as he rocks forward, and thinks he looks beautiful like this.

The murmured Arabic is a familiar rhythm. She’s listened to it a thousand times as a fledgling in their trailer, but tonight it aches differently.

When he finishes, he doesn’t move.

“Julian?”

“I meant what I said in Santa Fe, Sol. Monterrey’s yours if you want it,” he says quietly. “I’ll follow you. No scripts. No strings.”

“No backseat Blood Sorcery?”

He finally flashes a smile at her, but she’s still lying on her back, eyes closed. He rolls up the mat with quick precision, even half-dead and mid-dying, and crawls over.

“None.”

“Liar.” Sol opens her arms.

He collapses into her, face buried in the crook of her neck.

“Missed this,” he mumbles.

“Missed you whining through Fajr.”

“Mean.” He flicks her nipple through the fabric.

Sol tugs his hair just enough to hurt. Julian purrs, fucking purrs, like some deranged cat.

Right before daysleep takes her:

“...Thank you. For the jacket.”

Julian smiles against her skin.

“Wait til you see what’s in the garage.”

[ prompt list ]

[kabsey]

A Word with Friends

Tagged by @serensama, so I knew I had to do something with Illario. And this word works quite well for the future Professor Ingellvar-Dellamorte.

This week's word is Perspicacious:

Definition: Quick in noticing, understanding, or judging things accurately or of acute mental vision or discernment.

I'm not sure who has been tagged for this already, so if you see this and would like to participate, please feel free to join in.

-------

The dead Venatori stared at Illario accusingly, which he thought was rather unfair. Yes, the other man had died first, but his weapon was lodged in Illario's gut and would probably remain there until both of their corpses grew cold. The agonizing burn of the wound was already fading into a disturbing numbness. They had both used Venatori weapons, and they would both die to them. Was that irony? He could never remember.

He lost time watching his blood turn the dirt beneath him to mud. Not far away, people were still fighting to save the world... or to end it. It didn't seem important anymore. Why had he followed the other Crows from Treviso? Why had he endured their sneers and cutting remarks? For the world? For his cousin? For redemption? He supposed it didn't matter if he didn't know the answer. He would not live long enough for anyone to ask the question.

He jerked out of his musing when someone tugged at one of his gloves. He squinted, trying to see through the haze of smoke and blood loss, but all he could make out was a dark shadow above him. A looter? He tried to tell them to at least wait until he was dead, but he couldn't find the breath. He supposed that didn't really matter either.

Then the glove, turned inside-out so all the blood and dirt was in and only his sweat was out, was shoved between his teeth. He choked—breathing with a lethal wound was hard enough without a wad of fabric between his lungs and the air—and then bit down with a muffled scream as the shadow grabbed him beneath the shoulders and dragged him across the rubble. Every bit of his reality collapsed beneath a swell of searing agony.

When he came back to himself, he was panting into the open air again. The glove had been removed, but the shadow was still above him.

"I apologize for the gag," it said in a lightly accented voice. "I was trying to avoid undue attention until we had reached a safer location."

Illario tried to ask why it—she—had bothered to move him at all, but only the "why" made it past his lips.

"I'd find it difficult to heal you while fighting off darkspawn."

Heal him? He narrowed his eyes again, and this time he could make out flickers of gold among the shadows. Dark lashes lined with gold kohl. Dark hair in a complicated sweep of braids dotted with gold beads. Dark mage's robes patterned with gold thread.

When the mage met his gaze, even her eyes glowed gold with the reflection of the fires from the battlefield.

"What is your name?" she asked him.

He licked his dry lips. "Illario," he croaked.

"Hello, Illario," she responded, as if they were in a clean healer's office instead of within shouting distance of a major battle. "My name is Stasia. I am a member of the Mourn Watch. You are an Antivan Crow, yes?"

He nodded vaguely. It was hard to focus. His mind flitted from the feeling of the rocks digging into his back, to the hair pulled loose from his bun and tickling his forehead, to the contrast in temperature between his gloved hand and the bare one. All of his nerves and senses seemed to be competing for his attention at once as the pain that had consumed him began to diminish. When he tried to assess the state of his wound, he could only feel her hands pressing against his skin.

"You're shaking," he noted.

Her face was becoming clearer, and he saw her smile slightly, though she did not lift her gaze from his injury. "You are perspicacious."

His command of the trade language was nearly flawless, but he was having trouble finding any words at the moment.

"I do not know that word," he admitted.

He expected a scoff or scorn, but the mage only nodded.

"You are observant," she clarified. "The tremors are a physiological symptom of mana depletion."

"You're out of mana?"

Illario was no specialized mage-killer, but he knew a mage without mana was vulnerable at best, incapacitated at worst.

"Not yet," Stasia informed him. "I should be able to seal the major blood vessels before I lose consciousness, but several minor vessels have also ruptured. You will need to maintain pressure on the wound. You may use pieces of my robes as bandaging if necessary."

"Lose consciousness?" He seemed incapable of anything but repeating what she'd said.

Her eyes met his again, and she gave him a wan smile. "It's been a trying day."

Even as she said it, one of her blood-covered hands shifted to his shoulder in an attempt to prop herself up. He grabbed her by the waist to try and steady her, but her hand slipped, and she slumped against his chest. The motion dislodged a groan from deep in his throat as her hip dug into his still-tender wound.

"I apologize," she said again, her voice breathy. Then she went limp atop him.

His vision was clear enough that he could take stock of their surroundings. She had managed to pull him into the entrance to some kind of shop. Most of the building had collapsed, but the small nook they were sheltered in seemed solid, for the moment at least. He knew he wasn't nearly recovered enough to get himself back to the Crows' staging area, let alone get his savior to any sort of safety.

The mage was still shivering. He tugged at her robes until they were covering her as well as he could manage and then wrapped his arms around her. His wound throbbed beneath the weight of her hip, which was probably just as well since she'd said to keep pressure on it.

Keep pressure on the wound, keep her warm, and keep watch.

He would just have to hope whoever found them next was friendly.

[exorcqism]

﹆₊吸血鬼‧₊˚ TOLD HER BABY I EAT HUMANS, KAMO CHOSO

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ﹆₊ 概要 ‧₊˚ you encountered the famous vampire hunter. wc, 2.27K. dark mode recommended.

␥ note. got this idea from a fanart i saw on twitter. MY LORD HE WAS FINE..erm anyway,, JOIN THE DISCORD AND THANKS AGAIN FOR 400 FOLLOWERS. hope ya enjoyyyy. reblog to support meee

␥ tags. vampire AU, half-vampire vampire hunter!choso, female anatomy, blood, light smut (?), etc. lmk if i missed anything

␥ misc. masterlist AO3

the cathedral stood tall and imposing, its intricate stone façade glimmering in the moonlight. each stained-glass window depicted a different biblical scene, casting colorful patterns on the ground below. inside, the soft murmur of hushed prayers from the townspeople reverberated through the halls, creating a serene ambiance. but choso's purpose for being there was not to pray.

his heavy footsteps echoed through the cavernous halls as he made his way through the dimly lit crypt, guided only by flickering candlelight. the musty smell of ancient bones and earth filled his nostrils, sending shivers down his spine.

choso cut an imposing figure, his tall frame draped in a black cassock that nearly fell to his ankles with black pants underneath. a matching mozzetta hung from his shoulders, fluttering in the air as he walked, adding a sense of solemnity in his presence.

his black boots were sturdy and well-worn, a testament to the countless hunts he'd been on over the years since the church recruited him. his black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, letting his bangs hang just above his eyes, revealing his pale skin. and his violet eyes were piercing, they seemed to glow with an inner fire.

across the bridge of his nose, a blood mark stood out, a stark reminder of his vampiric nature. a battle he waged within himself. around his neck hung his rosary, a symbol of his faith, which he wielded as fearlessly as any weapon.

the hunter's struggle with his vampiric nature was a constant battle. despite his determination to suppress his undying thirst for human blood, he could still feel the deep-seated urges simmering beneath the surface. he likened it to a constant humming in the back of his mind, a temptation that was always there, no matter how hard he tried to stop it.

it took every ounce of willpower to resist the pull of his instincts. choso had finally developed several coping mechanisms over the years, from meditation and prayer to sheer force of will. but still, the thirst lingered, his mouth suddenly going dry at the sight of a human and the distinct smell of their blood, imagining the flavor.

as choso continued to make his way through the crypt, his senses remained on high alert. he could feel the weight of silence, the chill of the stone walls, and the oppressive air of the tomb. but what captivated his attention was the scent of human blood.

his steps faltered as a sudden wave of hunger washed over him. his fangs ached to sink into soft flesh, his body craved the sweet taste of blood. he closed his eyes, willing the thirst to subside. he couldn't afford to lose control, not here.

the hunter's body was tense, his breaths shallow and controlled as he focused on calming himself. he reached for his rosary, the smooth beads cool against his skin, a symbol of strength and protection. in his mind, he conjured the faces of those he had sworn to defend - innocent men, women, and children who relied on him for their safety. with each bead he passed through his fingers, the hunger that threatened to overtake him slowly began to subside, leaving behind a hollow ache in its wake.

choso's eyes snapped open as he sensed movement in the shadows once again. he whirled around, his hand instinctively reaching for the blessed dagger made from his own blood at his hip. that's when he saw you, the human he had been sensing, huddled in the corner of the crypt.

for a moment, he was struck by your vulnerability, your fragile humanity. but then his gaze was drawn to the pulse beating in your neck, the blood flowing beneath your skin. he felt the thirst rising again, stronger this time, harder to resist.

choso took a step towards you, his eyes locked on yours. he could see the fear in them, the knowledge of what he was. he felt a sudden shame, a revulsion at his own nature. but still, the hunger gnawed at him, a constant reminder of the character he tried to suppress.

he stopped a few feet away from you, his body trembling with the effort of resisting the urge to feed. "what are you doing here?" he growled, his voice low and threatening. "it's not safe down here...not for someone like you."

the man's gaze flickered around the crypt, taking in the dusty tombs and the eerie silence. choso's mind was racing, trying to piece together how you had ended up in such a place. had you been lured here by another vampire? or did you sneak in?

he took a deep breath, trying to center himself. "you need to go," he said, his tone firm. "now, before you get into some trouble." even as he spoke, he could feel the thirst rising again, reminding him of the danger he posed.

silently, without another word passing between you and the hunter, you swiftly exited the cold and dusty crypt, choso’s mozzetta fluttering behind him as a draft flew by him. your footsteps echoed through the dark tunnels as you made your way back to the main floor of the church, leaving the solitary hunter behind in his thoughts.

the smell of damp stone and old incense filled your nostrils as you ascended the stairs, anxious to escape the unsettling atmosphere of the crypt. finally, you emerged into the warm light of the cathedral, relieved to be once again surrounded by familiar surroundings.

choso watched you go, his body tense and coiled like a spring. he didn't relax until he heard the soft click of the crypt door closing behind you. only then did he let out a ragged breath, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion.

he sank to his knees, his head in his hands. he felt drained, both physically and emotionally. he had come so close to losing control and biting you, to becoming the thing he had sworn to fight against.

the male stayed like that for a long time, until the muffled sounds of footsteps in the church above finally spurred him into action. he stood up, his movements slow and deliberate. he knew he had a job to do, and he couldn't let his own weaknesses get in the way.

choso looked like a fallen angel, his pale skin glowing in the light streaming through the stained glass windows the following morning. the nuns fussed around him, their adoration plain to see. but his mind was elsewhere, lost in thought.

he sat in the pews, his gaze fixed on the ornate ceiling above him. his white collared shirt open, revealing a hint of his toned chest. his hair was tied back as usual, but a few stray strands had escaped, framing his face.

his thoughts kept returning to the events of the night before, to you, the human he saved. he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something different about you, something that set you apart from the others.

he closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. he needed to focus on his mission, on his duty as a vampire hunter. but your face kept intruding on his thoughts, your fear and vulnerability etched into his memory.

choso's thoughts were interrupted by movement at the sound of the church doors opening. he turned his head, his gaze instantly drawn to you as you walked down the aisle in his direction.

his eyes widened in surprise, and he felt a jolt of something he couldn't quite identify. you looked different in the daylight, your features softened by the warm sunlight streaming through the windows.

as you drew closer to choso, your steps faltered, and your eyes showed a mixture of uncertainty and genuine gratitude. but he could also see the fear in your gaze, knowing the potential danger he posed to you with his presence. his sharp features were set in a stern expression, adding to the tension between you both. as you stood before him, the air seemed to crackle with an unspoken understanding of the risks involved in this encounter.

with a deep inhale, he attempted to steady his racing heart and regain control of his emotions. "i distinctly remember warning you to stay away from this place," he started in a rough, gravelly voice. his eyes narrowed as he scanned the intruder standing before him. "what are you doing here?" the air seemed to crackle with tension as his words hung heavy in the stillness of the abandoned building.

you instinctively took a step back, feeling the weight of choso's presence and the depth of their emotions. "i needed to see you," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "i wanted to say thank you for what you did last night."

the words hung between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. the air was thick with tension as you waited for his response, uncertain of how he would react to your thanks. despite the distance between you, the intensity of your feelings bridged the gap and connected you in that moment.

you leaned in, your voice still barely above a whisper. "but i wanted to ask you something," you prompted. "in private." your words hung in the air, creating a sense of mystery and intrigue. the soft glow of the sun peering through the window illuminated the faint outlines of your face as you waited for their response.

choso looked at you, his expression unreadable. "no, there's no time for that," he said firmly. "you need to go before something happens and you need to stay away."

with your chin held high, you stood your ground. "no," your voice was shaking but determined. "i need to talk to you. it's important."

the hunter hesitated for a moment, weighing his options. he knew he needed to protect you, but he also couldn't ignore the urgency of the situation. "fine," he said finally, his voice tight. "but make it quick."

with a firm grip, he snatched you by the hand and urgently led you into an empty room, away from the curious eyes of the parishioners flooding in. as soon as the door slammed shut, choso wasted no time in closing the distance between you. his breath was hot against your skin as he leaned in close, his dark eyes burning with intensity.

choso’s voice was filled with urgency as he spoke. it echoed off the stone walls and reverberated through the dark room. "what is it?" he questioned, his eyes searching yours for answers. "what could possibly be so important that you would risk your life to come here and tell me?" the tension in the air was palpable as you hesitated before revealing your question. every word was like a fragile thread that could unravel at any moment.

the question had been nagging at you since the moment you left the cathedral. "how come you didn't bite me when you saw me?" the words escaped your lips before you could even think about it. choso turned to look at you, his widening with surprise at your query. "why did you decide to let me go instead?"

your tone was curious, almost amused. you couldn't help but wonder what was going through his mind, what made him spare your life when he could have easily ended it right then and there. the air around you felt heavy as you stood before the hunter, awaiting his response.

choso hadn't expected you to be so direct with him, so perceptive. but before he could answer, he felt his mouth go dry with thirst rising within him, more powerful than it had ever been. he took a step towards you, his violet eyes glowing with desire. he knew he shouldn't, aware that it was dangerous, but he couldn't resist.

"because..." he whispered, his voice strained. "i couldn't."

without thinking, he closed the distance between you and pressed his lips to yours. the kiss was hungry, desperate, fueled by his desire for blood and something else he couldn't quite identify.

your body stiffened in surprise, but then you found yourself melting against him, returning the kiss with equal fervor. for only a moment, choso had forgotten about everything except for the taste of your lips and the thirst welling up inside him.

choso lifted you with ease and gently placed you onto the cleared desk in the room. his lips traveled from yours to your neck, pressing soft kisses against your skin and occasionally nibbling on it, leaving a trail of marks behind. each touch sent shivers down your spine and your pulse quickened as you let out quiet moans, struggling to contain your growing desire.

the sensation of his warm breath on your neck only added to the intensity of the moment. the room was filled with the scent of passion and anticipation, as bodies pressed together in a dance of pleasure. choso's hands roamed over your body, igniting every nerve with his touch.

the sensation of his warm breath on your neck only added to the moment’s intensity. the room was filled with the scent of passion and anticipation, as bodies pressed together in a dance of pleasure. choso's hands roamed over your body, igniting every nerve with his touch.

while his lips pressed against your neck, you felt a sharp pinch on your skin, followed by a faint slurping sound. choso's mouth and shirt were now stained with your blood, causing your eyes to widen in shock. before you could even process what had happened, he pulled away and kissed you again with an urgent hunger, his actions more desperate and forceful than before.

you could feel the warmth of your own blood mingling with his saliva as the taste of iron filled your mouth. the intensity of the moment sent shivers down your spine, both from fear and a strange sense of pleasure that you couldn't quite explain.

⠀© vmpiires | like, reblog & follow.