#Patchouli Ink

[persolaise]

Montblanc Collection, L'Artisan Parfumeur Il Etait Un Bois, Jo Malone London Cypress & Grapevine reviews - 2024

In an attempt to lend their image a bit of rough, Jo Malone London have hired Tom Hardy as the face of their Cypress & Grapevine cologne (credited to Sophie Labbe). I did my best to endure its abrasive profile in a recent session of Love At First Scent episodes, which also included reviews of L’Artisan Parfumeur Il Etait Un Bois (Caroline Dumur) and the new Montblanc Collection quartet. Here are…

[lunaruza]

patche...

[makeshiftstory]

So I had to hold Astrid like a pizza box in order to get the scan done, but here are the inks for the Revamped Brew! I'm really thrilled with their new looks too since I've always liked the stompy feet/leg style and really looks great on them. Hopefully when I'm done with the set, Astrid will be a bit more merciful and won't force me to hold her like a pizza box again.

[dreamlocke]

we never seem to get a break, do we?

Patchouli to Patchouli

RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK ; ACCEPTING.

“Where would this mansion be without us, truly?” A sigh, another scheme to help a certain vampire commit. So much for spending a quiet evening reading. ���No rest wicked.”   

[illyrianbitch]

An Education in Malice — Part Six

Pairing: Vanserra!Reader x Azriel

Summary: With the sharp tongue of your notorious family, you are Azriel's most tantalizing challenge yet. It only takes one small meeting before you both realize that the line between hate and desire is dangerously thin.

Warnings: mentions and descriptions of wounds, scars, and allusions to torture, canon-typical violence, fighting, killing, death— all the fun stuff really. reader being a lil badass, az being emotionally vulnerable, a turning point in their relationship!!!!

Word Count: 9.8k this was originally going to be like 2-3 diff parts, but i loved reading it all as one, so consider this my lil offering since i disappeared for like 2 weeks <3

Part Five | Series Masterlist | Part Seven

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You always hated the ornate mirror that had stood in your room — its gaudy, gilded and tarnished frame was far too large for your liking.  You hated how much space it took up, how much of yourself you could see as you passed it. 

On most days, the female staring back at you felt like a stranger— someone wearing your face yet existing in a distant world. She moved when you did, blinked when you did, too. But she wasn’t you. And you hated it. So you didn’t often linger on your reflection. 

Except for today. 

Your hair was damp from the bath and a faint smell of sage and patchouli clung to your skin from the residue of your bath soap. 

Your eyes traced the lines of your face, following the tired shadows beneath your eyes and scars that marred the skin of your stomach. Normally, when you stood there with a focused gaze and a troubled spirit, it was because you were examining new wounds, cataloging the fresh marks left behind from nights where your father was particularly angry. All of those wounds were hidden beneath clothing, concealed where no one but you would ever see— carefully, strategically, placed. 

You’d gotten used to the marks, comfortable with them, even. There were many things in your life that weren’t yours. But these— these scarred areas of skin, these were yours. Proof that your body had worked to protect you, to fix and heal itself despite what had been inflicted unto it. And in some strange way, it made you feel less lonely. 

If it was any other day, you wouldn’t have looked any longer than a second, a minute at most. You’d walk past the mirror, change into a dress fit for an audience, and leave. 

Today was different. Today, your eyes were drawn to the intricate tattoo etched just beneath your left breast, wrapping around your rib cage. It was the first time you’d really looked at it, the first time you’d allowed yourself to acknowledge its presence since its creation. 

The tattoo was a delicate masterpiece, a swirling pattern of dark ink that almost resembled Azriel’s shadows perfectly— so perfectly it made you nauseous, made you flinch at the first sighting because it seemed too real.  It was beautiful, haunting, and undeniably meaningful.

It made you feel sick.

You traced the pattern with your fingertips, thinking back to how Azriel’s hand felt in yours, to the warm feeling you felt in your chest. You’d never made a bargain before— not even in Autumn. Perhaps all bargains caused this feeling you now felt, a sense of residue that your body held of him, as if you had crumbs of his being stuck to you. 

A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. 

You turned to see Laney's ears twitch as she registered the sound. Whenever you showered, whenever you were naked and vulnerable at all, really, she always guarded the door heavily, never moving. The knock was so gentle that she didn’t growl; instead, she sniffed under the door, her movements growing excited— happy. You could tell by her posture that the visitor was no threat. Not only that, but the knock was delicate— patient, almost. You knew who it was by that fact alone. 

Scrambling, you hastily pulled on your clothes, trying to regain some semblance of composure as you blinked away the last remaining images of Azriel from your mind. 

The tension in your body eased as you opened your door. 

"There’s my beautiful girl."

A small smile tugged at your lips as you embraced your mother, feeling the warmth of her body fold over you like a comforting cloak. You held her for another moment, savoring the softness of her touch and her heartbeat beneath you, and then you stepped aside to let her in. 

Your eyes flickered to the back of the hallway she’d come from. 

Your mother caught your gaze swiftly. "He’s with some of his men. Drunk. He’ll be busy for the night."

You swallowed, trying to suppress the unease that settled in your stomach. She placed a gentle hand on your arm.

"It’s alright," she said gently, “Too drunk to even function.”

You hated that you knew what she meant, that you and your mother had grown to develop your own language regarding the males in your home—regarding the one that owned you both. Her words meant that Beron had an enjoyable day, one that filled him with enough joy to celebrate— that such celebrations were going to tire him so deeply that he’d fall asleep straight after. No issues for you, no issues for your mother. You nodded slowly.

Your mother stepped closer, her fingers brushing through your still slightly damp hair. "Let me braid this mane of yours," she said softly, her touch light as she affectionately stroked your cheek. You casted a wary glance behind you, towards the darkened hallways, but nodded nonetheless, closing the door behind you with a soft click. 

Laney curled up comfortably on your bed, her relaxed posture easing some of the remaining tension in your shoulders.  The act alone was a sign of her trust, a reminder that she felt safe and saw no threats nearby. If Beron ever caught her on any furniture, she’d be punished. But in this moment, she was calm and content, and you let that calm you too.

And then you were back in front of the mirror again. 

Your mother pulled a small velvet stool in front, gesturing for you to take a spot. The large frame of the mirror seemed to laugh at you and as your mother stood behind you, delicate arms reaching for a hairbrush, you felt like a child again. The mirror seemed to grow even larger, even grander, and you fought to recognize the female that stared at you through it. 

You watched as your mother moved with the same gentle grace she had always possessed, bringing a hairbrush to your damp hair. Your mother was beautiful. She always had been. Even now, with the sadness in her eyes— a trait specific to Vanserras, you were certain—she was one of the most beautiful people you knew. Your thoughts drifted to what she must have been like when she was a bit younger, how she was when Helion first met her. You wanted to know it all, wanted to know your mother as a teenager, wanted to know how she fell in love. 

Her eyes caught yours in the mirror and her movements slowed. The expression on her face softened. 

"Where has that mind drifted off to?" 

You blinked, shrugging slightly. There was a lump in your throat as you responded, "Nothing real."

She frowned, and her eyes danced across your face before she continued brushing your hair. A thoughtful hum left her lips. "You've been gone a lot recently. Done a great job of stressing your poor brother out. Where is it you've been running off to?"

Her voice was soft and kind and just below a whisper—  as if you two were sharing a secret. It was her classic motherly way of interrogating you. The gentleness in her tone made it clear that she didn't mind, no matter the answer. She never did.

A soft laugh escaped you. "I have to visit all of my many admirers."

Her answering laugh was sweet and quiet, a sound so pure it almost felt out of place in this house. You resisted the urge to look back at your closed door, to wait in fear for heavy footsteps. But your mother didn’t seem worried about an intrusion. Instead, she looked at you with a glint in her eyes, a mischievous sparkle that reminded you so much of Eris—right down to the playful eyebrow raise.

"Joke as much as you'd like. We both know you have plenty of those," she teased.

You smiled to yourself.  

"How could you not when you're so beautiful?" she added, her voice filled with a sincerity that made your throat tighten.

You looked at her in the mirror again. Her eyes were so kind. They held the same warmth you’d see in Lucien’s— a warmth that you’d see even in Eris’s when he was at ease, comfortable. Those times were rare now, if not impossible. 

You looked at your own reflection.

You didn’t have kind eyes. You had your father’s eyes. Beron's eyes—hard, angry, simmering with rage. You had his temper, his unforgiving nature. You were every part of him that you hated, and you were reminded of it every day. Reminded of it when you struggled to control your powers, when you failed to harness the very essence of who you were. Reminded of it when you looked in the mirror for too long— when you thought about how you would never be soft like the females males often loved. That your pain didn’t lead you to be kinder, didn’t teach you to be gentle.

Your hand drifted to your heart instinctively, fingers brushing on the fabric just above your breast. You trailed down to the side of your ribs, to where a spiral of ink now adorned your skin. 

Your mother finished the large braid, bringing it around your shoulder. She caught your gaze in the mirror and smiled. "Do you like it?"

She had a freckle above her eyebrow, the same freckle your brothers each had in different places on their faces. Eris had the most freckles out of all of you. They painted the bridge of his nose and his arms the most—

"Honey?" 

You blinked. Your body felt fuzzy as you reached up to touch the braid. "Yeah,” you said, clearing your throat. “Thank you."

Her kind eyes softened at you— softened in a way you didn’t feel worthy for. There was a faint simmering in her eyes, a fire that she still held despite how her life had treated her. It had dimmed over the centuries, lessened to a small flicker. But the flame was still there. You saw it. 

You took a deep breath, maneuvering yourself to turn in the chair and face her. You made room for her to sit next to you, gesturing with a small smile and a lift of your chin. 

"I have to tell you something.”

She sat and frowned slightly, eyes scanning your face. But she said nothing, waiting for you to continue.

"Do you remember when I was little? And you used to love reading me that one poem?"

Her expression softened, and a gentle smile played on her lips as a distant look grew in her eyes. She knew, without you even saying the title, exactly what you were referring to— after countless nights spent curled around you, running her hands through your hair as she repeated the words she’d memorized so long ago, how could she not?

So she watched you, her gaze unwavering, as you began to recite your favorite stanza. "In life's cruel grasp we could not abide, so we made a pact with the Reaper's side."

Her voice joined yours. "And in death's embrace our freedom lies, where we'll find each other beneath somber skies."

You smiled to yourself, looking at her, scanning her face. "I know why you love it so much."

She furrowed her brows, yet even then she looked so patient, like she'd sit there and wait for hours until you were ready to speak again. This was someone who had been made kind by what they had gone through. You almost felt ashamed that you had turned out differently.

Finally, you said, "I found the book. In Helion's library."

A flash of recognition crossed her face, and she softened, her eyes taking on a distant, wistful look. "You did?"

You nodded again, watching her closely as a tender, almost nostalgic smile played on her lips. She tried to compose herself, her eyes growing distant and glazing over. "I've heard he loves to collect stories." She paused, then asked, "What were you doing all the way over there?"

You thought about her question, about answering, about maybe telling her everything. But there was only one thing you could pull yourself to say. "I know," you said softly. "About Helion. I know."

She understood what you were truly saying. A sigh left her lips and an echo of her younger self appeared in her eyes, a female who had fallen hopelessly and madly in love. A version much younger—much more innocent. More hopeful.

"I'm so sorry," you whispered, your voice breaking as she met your gaze. Her face seemed pained, shocked almost, and her eyes filled with confusion. She moved closer to you, grabbing your hands in her own.

"What could you possibly be sorry for?"

It was becoming increasingly difficult to draw a full breath. There was something constricting around your chest. Perhaps it was all of the recent stress, the worry of how much harder things had gotten, the image of a life your mother could have had— this suffocating tie to Azriel that you now had etched into your very flesh. 

"You were loved. And you deserve better,”  Your voice caught in your throat and a tear trickled down your cheek as you shook your head slightly. “And I can't do anything to help—"

“No, no,” She interrupted you, bringing her warm hands to cup your cheeks— pulling your eyes to her kind ones.  "I'm your mother. I'm supposed to help you."

Tears welled in your eyes as she continued. "I should be apologizing to you,” she murmured, “I could be better, stronger. I should apologize that I was selfish and brought you into this world."

"Selfish?" 

How could she ever consider herself selfish? You knew the pain she carried, the weight of responsibility that seemed to crush her at times. You saw it reflected in Eris— a specific pain that came from feeling like you could never do enough. But even with your older brothers, despite their cruelty and callousness, your mother loved them fiercely, passionately. Loved them with every fiber of her being, every part of her that she gave to them. 

"Yes," she replied softly, her touch gentle as she rubbed your cheek, her eyes full of emotion. "Oh, how excited I was to have a girl. You, my sweet, are one of my greatest blessings. My beautiful daughter. So strong, so loyal. I just couldn't imagine a life without you."

You wanted to reassure her, to alleviate her guilt, but words seemed inadequate in the face of such profound love. Instead, you leaned into her touch, covering her hand with yours, and held on tightly.

"One day, things will be different," she said, her voice soft but filled with conviction— enough of it that it eased the anger that bit at your gut. "You can be different. And you won't be like him."

She paused, her eyes locking onto yours with a depth of understanding that made your chest tighten. "You’ll know what love is. And you won’t have to resort to reciting poetry to know how powerful it can be."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The dense canopy of trees above barely let any light through as you hurried along the forest path. Spring along the border was always odd, with dense forests giving way to large rolling hills. The difference in scenery, usually something you welcomed, felt nauseating today. All the sights, the smells, even the sunshine, seemed overwhelming.

You walked faster than usual, eyes fixed ahead, hands clenched at your sides. Azriel’s keen senses had already picked up on the subtle signs—your shallow breaths, the way your shoulders were stiff with tension. 

"Why are you walking through the woods and not even looking at me?"

You stopped as Azriel’s voice rang in your ears. 

You’d come to rely on these meetings with Azriel to exchange information, to strategize, to plan how to give your brother an edge. They’d eased your anxiety slightly, giving you a sense of support that you’d never thought would be found in Azriel of all people. But he was smart, as much as you hated to admit it, and had dedicated time to offering you aid. 

The truth was, you didn't quite trust your self-control right now. For some inexplicable reason, Azriel's scent was intoxicating, flooding your senses and causing your thoughts to swirl in a disorienting mix of attraction and confusion. Despite how hard you tried to fight it, you found yourself looking forward to these encounters. And that was a dangerous reality. 

"I like to stretch my legs," you finally responded, attempting to sound casual. "And maybe I just don't want to face you."

“Is that so? Nervous to stare at me too long?"

You could already picture the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips— a bit of personality that you’d seen grow over your time together. You rolled your eyes, turning around and facing him with a blank look.

He stepped closer to you, eying you closely. “Worried that you’ll go crazy with desire?”

His smirk deepened, a rare, genuine smile breaking through his usual stoic mask. You bit the inside of your cheek in response.  "Don't flatter yourself,” you scowled. “Maybe I’m being kind and saving you from embarrassing yourself with how badly you’ll want me.”

This was dangerous— it was entirely too playful, too close to the brink of what you assumed friendship felt like. 

“Are you?” he asked, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “Being kind?”

Azriel’s hazel eyes bore into yours and your chest tightened at the eye contact. You cleared your throat, turning away and resuming your brisk pace. “Shut up and let's just go.”

Behind you, Azriel chuckled softly, the sound rolling across your senses like an unwelcomed caress, making you shiver involuntarily. 

"Stop laughing," you gritted out, “I’ve never heard a worse sound.”

The chuckle faded and you heard him come to a stop. You turned around, meeting his gaze with a glare. He stood there, arms crossed, a faint smirk still playing on his lips. He seemed amused, at ease, even.

“What?” you snapped, your patience wearing thin.

He nodded towards you. “What’s your problem?”

“You standing there. That’s my problem.”

Azriel raised a brow, uncrossing his arms as he took a few steps forward to stand directly in front of you. He narrowed his eyes, studying you intently. “You’re bitchier than usual.”

“Careful,” you gritted out, staring at him with a heavy, burning gaze. 

“I’m here helping you,” he said evenly, his voice holding a hint of reproach. “You can drop the attitude.”

"You’re only helping me because you want to get rid of me and, sadly, you can’t kill me," you shot back, bitterness lacing your words.

Azriel's jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with something that almost seemed to resemble something like anger— like hurt. 

"I believe I've made it clear that your death is something I've purposely avoided."

Something about the way he was staring at you made you shiver. You fought the urge to run your hands over the area where your skin was now marked with the tattoo of a bargain. You met his gaze, steadying yourself. "Why didn't you tell me that Rhys presented my father with a proposition? That he requested an audience with him?"

Azriel blinked. "I wasn't aware that Rhysand had already done so."

"But you knew?" 

"Yes," he replied,  "I did."

"What good is this stupid bargain of ours if you don't even uphold it?" 

Azriel's expression hardened and he leaned down further. The scent of him filled your nostrils and you sucked in a tight breath, feeling your chest constrict with the motion. "I take my bargains very seriously. Our deal was that I would help you, that you would get what you wanted. Not that I would tell you everything."

Your nostrils flared.

"Do you realize how much danger Rhysand has put us in? Put me in?" Your voice trembled with barely restrained anger. "Beron is upset that Rhysand thinks of him as someone so conforming. He's convinced he has a traitor in his ranks. And if you haven’t noticed, Shadowsinger, he does!" 

You pointed to yourself and Azriel’s face seemed to darken with understanding. 

"Y/n—" he started, but he stopped abruptly, his gaze shooting to the trees beyond you.

Annoyance flared within you. "What?" you snapped, but he ignored you, his focus elsewhere.

"Can you just finish whatever the hell—"

Azriel moved with lightning speed, grabbing you and pushing you against a tree. His hand flew to your mouth, covering it as he brought his other hand to his face, a finger on own lips in a gesture of silence. Your eyes widened, watching as a muscle feathered in his cheek, his wings flaring slightly, shadows skittering around him.

Then you heard it too—a familiar laugh. 

"I know you're here, Shadowsinger. I can smell the bastard on you," Renard's voice echoed through the trees, taunting and cruel.

Desperation clawed at you. In a surge of panic, you bit down hard on Azriel's hand. He pulled back with a sharp intake of breath and you gave him one last look before you winnowed away. You could've sworn you saw a flicker of hurt, a sense of betrayal in the whites of his eyes. 

And then he was gone from your view. 

You didn’t get far, appearing in another thicket of trees within the same forest. Breathing heavily, you leaned against a sturdy oak.

Why hadn’t you winnowed farther? Straight to Autumn?

A tug in your chest nagged at you.

Faintly, the sounds of a struggle reached your ear—grunts and the clash of metal. You clenched your fists, chastising yourself. Do not go back, you thought. It's dangerous. You're putting yourself at risk—you and Eris, you and your mother. If they find you, if they manage to tell your father, you're dead. He'll kill you.

Azriel doesn’t matter, you tried to convince yourself. He can handle himself. And if not—

“Damnit.”

You made the decision before you could second-guess yourself, winnowing back immediately to where you had left him.

Disorientation clouded your vision the moment you landed. You blinked rapidly, taking in the chaotic scene before you. Azriel was engaged in a flurry of combat with three men— soldiers adorning the colors of your court. His gaze flicked to you for a split second, and his face softened with a brief, almost imperceptible relief.

You gave him what felt like a smile—an acknowledgment, a reassurance—before the reality of the situation snapped you back. Countless men surrounded you both, their eyes glinting with malice, with something that felt awfully like hunger. 

You had no weapon, but Eris had taught you ways to deflect attacks. 

One of the men lunged, and you dodged, feeling the blade cut through the air dangerously close to your side. With a swift kick, you sent him stumbling backward, then followed up with a sharp jab to his throat. He gasped, clutching at his neck, and you swiftly disarmed him.

Steel clashed against steel as you parried another strike, your movements agile and precise. A second attacker closed in, and you deflected his blade before stepping inside his guard, driving your elbow into his face. Blood sprayed as he staggered back, dazed. With a decisive motion, you brought his own weapon down through him, a sickening squelch filling your ears as he dropped to the ground.

Azriel was a blur beside you, his movements so swift and deadly it was almost poetic.

You managed to disarm another man, twisting his wrist until he dropped his weapon with a cry of pain. You kicked the sword away and followed up with a decisive strike to his chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. Your weapon found its way clean through his throat next.

Breathing heavily, you scanned the clearing, your eyes darting from one enemy to the next. There were countless bodies now, sprawled across the ground like fallen leaves— but none of their faces matched the one in your mind. You surveyed your surroundings once more. 

"Looking for me, princess?" The voice cut through the air, raspy and filled with disdain.

You spun around as Renard emerged from the trees, stalking closer with predatory grace, like an animal preparing for a kill. "Because I was looking for you."

He looked worse than the last time you’d seen him, barely alive, supporting swollen eyes and blackened marks around his neck. Beron had indeed tortured him, and the sight filled you with a grim satisfaction.

"Must be hard looking for anything with those eyes," you retorted, a grin on your lips.

"You did this to me, you traitorous whore," Renard spat, his face contorted with anger. He made a move towards you, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the flames flickering against your hands, unsteady.

"Real cute," he mocked. You bit back the frustration boiling in your gut, gritting your teeth as you focused on the simmering underneath your skin. 

“Come closer,” you sneered, “Let’s see how cute they feel on your burning flesh.”

“You always had such a foul mouth on you. It’s like you’re begging to be killed.”

Without hesitation, Renard lunged at you with a speed fueled by rage and desperation. You both collided in a flurry of strikes and parries, the sound of clashing metal ringing through the clearing. The flames in your hands flickered erratically as you tried to maintain focus amid the chaos.

You had always observed your father's men so you could be one step ahead— just in case. Now, facing Renard, you could sense his frustration with every move you countered, every strike you parried.

"You think you can match me, girl?" His voice dripped with contempt as he circled you, "I'll make your father's punishments seem gentle compared to what I have in mind."

"You talk too much," you managed to rasp out between clenched teeth. 

Renard's face twisted into a cruel smile as he pressed on, his strikes growing more aggressive. "I wonder what Beron will do with your body," he taunted, "If your mother will even be allowed to mourn you."

The thought hit you like a physical blow, momentarily freezing your movements. In that moment of hesitation, Renard seized the advantage. With a swift and brutal maneuver, he knocked your weapon from your grasp and delivered a fierce blow that sent you sprawling to the ground. Before you could react, he was upon you, gripping your hair and wrenching your arms behind your back, a hold tightening around your throat.

Panic surged through you as you tried desperately to summon your fire, but it wouldn't respond. You tightened your jaw, focusing every ounce of concentration to call forth that spark of heat, cursing the world—the training that was never enough, your father's prevention of you perfecting the skill.

Renard's breath was hot against your ear as you writhed beneath him. He gripped your chin roughly, forcing you to watch as Azriel fought against overwhelming odds. Men surrounded him, their blows raining down on him relentlessly.

"Is this how he had you?" Renard's voice dripped with venom. "From behind?"

You closed your eyes, summoning images of Eris, your mother, Lucien— each face a steadying breath in your mind. When you opened your eyes, your gaze landed on Azriel, surrounded by a sapphire aura that blurred with his swift movements. 

With a surge of willpower, you summoned every ounce of strength, every flicker of fire you could muster. Flames erupted from your hands with a hot burst of energy, startling Renard and giving you a split-second window of opportunity.

You turned around and seized him, your grip iron against his throat as you backed him into a nearby tree. With cold intensity, you stared into Renard's eyes, the flames casting flickering shadows across his face. 

"Don't worry,” you growled, “I won't be gentle."

Within seconds, flames engulfed Renard's throat and face, the heat and light blinding in their intensity. He screamed in agony, thrashing under your grasp, but you held on, firmer and harder each time he flailed.

As the flames dwindled, leaving behind only smoldering ruins, you staggered back, hands trembling and covered in ash and the stench of burnt flesh. But before you could dwell on the burnt remains of Renard that lay at your feet, you spun around to focus on Azriel, still fighting off multiple men, surrounded by the shimmering sapphire light of his power.

Two men stood directly in front of him, while another pair prepared to strike from behind. You glanced down at your hands and screwed your eyes shut for a fleeting moment. When you opened them again, the fire was there—steady and trained. With a fierce determination, you summoned the flames into existence, shaping them swiftly into whips of fire that crackled and danced in the air.

You brought your hands out towards the two men, feeling the fire respond to your command, crackling and whispering with power as it morphed itself at your will. The flames transformed into fiery whips, extending from your outstretched arms like extensions of your fury, connecting with the two bodies threatening Azriel.

The fiery tendrils snaked around their necks like vengeful serpents, searing flesh and scorching hands as the men futilely tried to break free. With agonized screams, they collapsed to the ground. The flames dwindled down to mere embers. When you looked up, Azriel met your gaze, his face bloodied and his leathers splattered with crimson. Shadows writhed around him, dancing on the forest floor towards your feet.

He walked towards you, his eyes shifting to the fallen bodies at your feet. He took in the sight for a moment, gaze focusing on the marred flesh across their throats. Then he blinked and brought his focus to you. "Where's Renard?"

You glanced over to the disfigured body and pile of ash near a tree. Azriel followed your gaze and he blinked once more, his eyes widening as he took in the sight. His lips parted as if to speak, but before he could utter a word, his attention abruptly shifted.

He pulled your body into him, his wing extending protectively in front of you right as a sudden ripping sound tore through the air. You were pushed away from him just in time to witness a thick weapon—a sharp, wide blade welded to a spear—pierce through the membrane of his wing. 

He cried out in agony, falling forward slightly, enough for you to catch the gaze of a lone soldier peering over the apex of his wing. You grabbed a nearby weapon and hurled it with all your might. The blade found its mark, burying itself in the soldier's neck. He collapsed instantly, motionless on the forest floor.

Azriel let out a cry of pain as he ripped the weapon out from his wing, causing it to twitch involuntarily. "C'mon, we need to go," you urged, moving closer to him. With great effort, he tried to adjust himself as you lifted his arm over your shoulder, feeling his weight and warmth press into you.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The journey back to the cabin was a blur of frantic winnowing and determined dragging through the dense forest. Your muscles ached as Azriel’s weight dragged heavily against you, stumbling with every move as the pain in his body grew. He groaned in pain as you lowered him onto the couch, the sound raw and unsettling in the quiet home.

Kneeling beside him, you moved closer to get a better look at the injury on his wing, but Azriel scrambled away from your touch and further into the couch. Your gaze settled on his face— eyes screwed shut, jaw clenched so tightly that you could see the strain in every muscle. His siphons glowed with an intense, flickering light and his shadows seemed to respond to his distress, curling protectively around him. For a moment, you felt a pang of envy. Even in his delirium, he had something to shield him from the world. 

The sight of him like this—so vulnerable, so raw—made your stomach churn. His breathing was ragged, each exhale accompanied by a soft whimper that he seemed to be fighting to suppress. Sweat matted his hair to his forehead, and every so often, he would twitch. 

You always thought that seeing Azriel suffer would make you feel good, make you feel some sort of vindication. Often, you used to imagine it would be you bringing him to his knees in pain, him and the rest of Prythian—making them suffer as you and your family had for centuries. But now, as you watched him writhing in pain on the couch, your heart hurt in a way you had only ever felt for your family—and even worse. You felt like you were in pain too.

But you had no wounds comparable to Azriel. 

A knot tightened in your chest and an unexpected urge surged through you—to comfort him, to wipe the sweat-dampened hair away from his forehead, to ease his torment. You blinked the thought away— nauseating and entirely too heavy for you to acknowledge further. You brought your attention back to his wing.

The membrane was pierced clean through by the weapon, a gaping wound from which blood and darkened poison gushed. The sight made you nauseous and you pushed away the haunting images of your father's face, the sound of leather striking flesh, and the memory of Eris's scarred back.

"I need to burn it out.”

Azriel's eyes shot open. "No, no," he pleaded weakly, his voice strained heavily. "Please."

Your hands hovered uncertainly above him. The first time you’d felt this poison in your wounds, it had felt like your body was eating itself from the inside out. You’d gotten used to the pain after a while, but Azriel was new to it— and Illyrian wings were incredibly sensitive from what you’d learned. He was in blinding pain.

"It's the only way to stop it from spreading," you insisted. "It'll only get worse if I don’t. You won’t be able to heal otherwise."

"That's—that's not how faebane works," he stammered, shaking his head vehemently. 

You gritted your teeth, letting out an exasperated breath as he rambled. "Because it's not faebane–”

Something seemed to snap. Azriel flinched, his eyes snapping to you with a wild intensity. His pupils were blown wide with fear, like a trapped animal. "You set me up."

Your stomach dropped.

"What?" 

You pulled your hand away, feeling an unfamiliar sting of offense wrapping itself around your chest. Azriel’s jaw clenched and his gaze darkened into a dangerous, skeptical narrow. 

"You're not hurt," he continued. "Was this some setup?"

Azriel's shadows flickered and writhed around him, siphons glaring with an iridescent light. He clutched at his injured wing, muttering through gritted teeth, "I knew it. You— you Vanserras."

He spat your family's name with such venom that for a fleeting second you questioned whether poison had lined his mouth rather than the wound on his wing. 

You were a fool. Azriel’s pain shouldn’t have bothered you so deeply. You should have never went back to help him. The hurt boiling under your skin made you feel weak, made you feel small.

"I will never be trusted by you, will I?" you asked, the words weak on your tongue. You looked at him and fought to push that stupid empathy away. Azriel said nothing as he grimaced further in pain. You let out a humorless laugh.

 "Right,” you said, “Deal with it yourself then. Stay here and die for all I care.”

You turned to leave, but his hand shot out and grabbed yours. The grip was firm, but not hard enough to hurt you. He adjusted his fingers around yours. When you looked down, Azriel’s pleading gaze met yours, sweat clinging to his hair as he looked up at you through darkened lashes. "No, no, I'm sorry," he murmured, "Please."

You hesitated. 

A surge of conflicting emotions—anger, hurt, and an unsettling tenderness you didn't want to acknowledge—washed over you.

Pull away. Leave him.  

And then you swallowed down the hatred, the cruelty that had risen, and knelt back down in front of him. He let out a relieved sigh. Your eyes fell to his hands, taking in the scarred tissue covering his skin— deep marks etched by fire and flame. 

"Close your eyes and pretend I’m Morrigan.”

His eyes flickered to you. "What?"

“Azriel,” You took a deep breath, training your eyes on him. "I need you to trust me. And since you don’t—close your eyes and pretend that I’m not me."

Your voice was gentler than you’d ever heard it, softer than you ever thought yourself capable of.  Azriel swallowed hard, then gave a small nod. His eyes shuttered closed.

You gently placed your palm on his injured wing, feeling the delicate membrane beneath your touch. Your other fingers trembled slightly as you summoned Eris' voice into your mind, calling upon that familiar heat and flicker as the flame began to rise through your hands. You struggled to keep it steady, each breath becoming more labored as you bit back your frustration.

Slowly, soft tendrils of shadows began weaving around your hand– a soft, cooling touch that made you blink. They drifted over you, calming the flickering flame to a steady warmth.  You took a deep breath and cautiously brought your fingers to the wound.

As the fire met his skin, Azriel tensed, a strangled sound escaping his throat. You could feel the poison reacting to the heat, the black substance dissipating under your fingertips.

"I can do this," you murmured, more for your own benefit than his. "It’ll be alright."

You weren’t sure if he could hear you, but you kept talking, hoping that your voice might anchor him to something other than his pain. It always helped you when Eris told you it would be alright, when he talked to you as he tended to your wounds, gently, tenderly, lovingly. 

You focused solely on the task at hand, blocking out the rest of your thoughts and the tightness in your chest. Finally, when you felt the last remnants of poison retreat, you withdrew your hand, the flames extinguishing with a final flicker.

Azriel’s breathing, though still ragged, had eased from the strained gasps earlier. Encouraged by this small sign, you withdrew your hand, a quiet smile of satisfaction tugging at your lips.

Looking down at Azriel, who had slipped into unconsciousness, you took a deep breath. "Thank you," you whispered to the shadows that continued to hover around you. For a moment, you felt silly for speaking to something so intangible— to things that probably didn’t even understand. Yet, as if in response, they slithered back toward Azriel, settling near the crook of his neck.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel’s eyelids felt heavy as he finally came to, his surroundings blurry and unfamiliar. 

It took him a few moments to orient himself, to remember where he was. He noticed three things first: it was nighttime, and a gentle moonlight bathed the space he was in; he was covered in a thin orange blanket, the fabric soft and worn, smelling faintly of pine and something sweet; and he was no longer in the agonizing pain he had succumbed to earlier.

Azriel shifted slightly, grimacing as a dull ache radiated from his wing. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to sit up, the blanket sliding off his shoulders. He glanced at his wing, noting the faint hole where the gaping wound had been. He extended it in a light stretch, feeling a slight sting, but it was bearable. Healable. His mind replayed the events leading up to this moment, your voice echoing in his thoughts—soft, concerned, saying his name. 

Pretend I’m Morrigan.

He had nodded, closed his eyes— but he hadn’t pretended. It was you kneeling beside him, not Mor.

Azriel's gaze wandered around the room. His shadows had left their original position, perched and curled around the apex of his wings, and now seemed to be leading him across the small living area. He frowned, his boots heavy against the aged floors as he followed them past the wooden table— he pushed away memories of you bent over the furniture, shaking his head as he approached a small bookshelf tucked in the corner. 

The shelves were adorned with an assortment of well-loved books, spines worn from what Azriel could only assume were countless readings. His shadows hovered near the middle shelf, where something caught his eye—a slight indentation in the wood, partially concealed by the darkness they casted.

As he drew closer, the shadows dissipated, revealing a carving etched into the wood—

L.V., Y/N. V. 

Azriel blinked, brows furrowing as he inspected the letters further. He traced the letters with his fingers, feeling the rough wood against his scarred, ridged skin. 

You had mentioned offhandedly that you kept in contact with Lucien, that you visited the Spring Court. But he hadn’t given the statement any further thought.

He glanced around the room. 

The space seemed to come alive around him, details he had previously overlooked now asserting their presence. He had never paid proper attention to the home, never questioned why it seemed to be so oddly clean, why you favored it so much. His fingers hovered over the initials once more.

Y/N. V. 

Glancing down at his shadows, they stilled momentarily before slithering across the floor, guiding his gaze towards the doorway. There, through the windowpane, he caught sight of you standing a short distance away from the house, beneath the starlit sky.

Azriel approached the door with cautious steps, ensuring every footfall was quiet– undetected. He reached out, his shadows wrapping around the door handle to muffle any noise it might make. With a gentle push, he swung the door open just wide enough to slip through, his shadows ensuring the hinges made no sound, either. Leaning against the sturdy frame, he allowed the darkness to envelop him further, becoming one with its comforting embrace as he observed you in the distance.

From this vantage point, he watched you, bathed in the soft light that painted the sky with a silvery hue. A gentle breeze stirred, ruffling a few strands of your hair and carrying your faint, familiar scent to him. Sweet with a hint of spice, a smell that he’d grown used to recently. There's an emotion woven into it that he can’t decipher, and for a brief moment, it frustrated him. You seemed at odds. Peaceful, in this night air, but stiff. 

There was a tightening in his chest. 

Seeing you now, basking in the moonlight as the cold air licked at him, Azriel wondered if you were the same Y/N he had so violently hated. Could someone so cruel enjoy the light of the moon? Did his other enemies also watch the stars?

“How long are you going to stand there and stare at me?”

Azriel stiffened and a heat rose to his cheeks. He looked down at his shadows in accusation. Maybe they had betrayed him, not covered his approach adequately. He glanced back up, meeting your gaze as you looked over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

Azriel waited for it— the expected glare, the indifference, or even a cruel smile. Something foreign, something that aligned with the adversarial image he held of you. But it didn't come. There was no hostility, no cruelty, no snark. Only a softness reminiscent of one that he had seen those in his family hold many times before. It caught him off guard.

You snickered softly. "I can feel your stare burning a hole into my dress."

Azriel swallowed and cleared his throat, willing himself to regain composure as he walked towards you. You turned to face him, arms crossed, eyes flicking to his wing.

"You don't look like death anymore," you remarked, a faint hint of amusement in your tone.

Azriel offered a wry smile. "I suppose I have you to thank for that." He paused, searching for the right words. He had too many questions in his mind— too many thoughts floating around, headless, bodiless. 

— You had called him by his name. You had been here with Lucien. You left and you came back. He shielded you with his wing. You healed him. You stayed. You watched the stars. 

Crickets chirped, and a soft breeze rustled the leaves overhead. Azriel's mind wandered to the initials carved into the wood.

"This was your home," he finally said, his voice quiet. "With Lucien."

Your head snapped towards him, eyes widened and lips parting in surprise. "What?"

Azriel simply looked at you, taking in the contours of your face, the way the moonlight painted soft shadows on your features. You had always been attractive, dangerously, irritatingly so. But you looked softer in this light. Someone more approachable, more real—someone he could dare to care for.

Someone he cared for enough to protect.

"Am I right?" he asked again, his voice steady.

You glanced back at the modest house. With a small sigh, you met his gaze briefly before your eyes looked down, unfocused. 

“It was Lucien’s.”

Azriel remained quiet, steading his breath as your eyes met his again. The normal simmering rage within them was replaced now with a distant sadness. 

"After Lucien fled Autumn, Tamlin had this made for him," you continued, gesturing subtly towards the house. "A place close enough to the border that Eris could sneak me to. A place for me to see Lucien, to stay with him when it was possible."

Azriel’s chest tightened further. This wasn't a Spring Court citizens home— it was yours. He thought back to the first time he’d found you here, how bitter you had seemed when you talked of its emptiness. To you, Feyre had taken away the only place you had to escape— when Lucien was forced to flee from another court, when Hybern took advantage of a weakened Spring.

"Why risk sneaking away constantly? Why not seek refuge like Lucien did?" 

Your face seemed to harden briefly at his question, a flicker of defensiveness crossing your features. "I could have," you replied, your tone tinged with a hint of regret as you offered a shrug. "Lucien begged me to."

"Yet you stayed. In Autumn.”

You tilted your chin to look at him properly, meeting his eyes with an intense, burrowing gaze. 

“Would you leave your family? Your court?" 

"My court is not known for its cruelty." 

The words slipped out almost automatically, like a response that had been trained in your presence. He cursed himself inwardly. Something flashed in your eyes and your jaw twitched imperceptibly.  For a brief moment, he braced himself for the anticipated flash of anger, the potential for conflict that could leave him stranded in this spot he now believed himself tethered to. 

But you only raised a brow. 

"Isn't it, though?" you retorted with a slight snicker.  "The all-powerful and brutal Rhysand, feared High Lord of the Night Court."

Azriel bit back the discomfort at the sound of Rhysands name, at the way you disregarded his title so flippantly. He took a deep inhale, and you recognized the action as the response that it was. 

"Autumn is my home.”

The freckles on your face seemed more visible in the moonlight. All the times he'd been with you, the weeks spent meeting you, fucking you, he couldn't remember a proper conversation, face to face, that had lasted this long without a cruel, vile insult. He found it hard to picture you in Autumn anymore, to see you alongside your other brothers, alongside Beron. The image of you among the autumn leaves, your fire-red hair blending with the fiery landscape, felt almost surreal now.

“It was Lucien's too."

“No.” You shook your head gently, a rueful smile touching your lips. “Lucien spent most of his life in other courts. He was always too kind for us. Him and his large heart were destined to leave. A bleeding heart in Autumn gets you nothing but a loss of blood."

You looked like Lucien now, more so than Azriel had seen before. The snark of Eris was still there, the same guarded, calculated movements— even the still, low cadence of your voice, like a practiced talent. Seemingly emotionless despite the topic of conversation.

Seemingly.

Gods, he hated how much you looked like Lucien now.

Because Lucien was fair. Just. Lucien had every reason, as Azriel was beginning to see like you had, to hate him. He'd gone after his mate, had rushed to prove himself in a battle to the death, hadn’t thought about Lucien as a life, as a person, beyond an adversary standing in front of a prize he wanted—that was what Elain had been. A prize. Something he wanted to deserve. Something to prove he was good.

But Lucien was kind. Lucien was diplomatic, good with people. Lucien had won Elain over with his patience, with that good heart you spoke of.

Azriel studied you, wondering how much of Lucien’s qualities you had in you that he had refused to acknowledge. That heart—it was there, beneath the layers of bitterness and guardedness. He had seen glimpses of it tonight, in the way you tended to his wounds, in the way your voice softened despite the hatred you held so deeply, so fiercely. 

He found himself wondering, not for the first time, what you could have been had you left with Lucien.

Azriel cleared his throat. “So you stayed.”

You held his gaze for a moment. He wondered if you were deciding whether to answer, waited anxiously to see whether this openness of yours would vanish. 

"I couldn't leave my mother. I couldn't leave Eris."

Azriel opened his mouth— to say what, he wasn’t sure. But you beat him to it.

"And besides that," you added, your tone shifting slightly, "I fit. You're the one who's talked about my cruelty. I belong in Autumn."

A familiar hardness began returning to your expression. He could see it building, a wall of cold resolve. Your arms tightened around yourself, nails digging into your biceps. You were cruel—this was a fact he knew well. Cruel, calculated, and dangerous for him. Yet, despite all this, an inexplicable urge to apologize welled up within him. 

He had always known getting involved with you was a bad idea. He had rationalized it as a way to fulfill his urges, telling himself that fucking you was the path of least resistance compared to killing you. One option provided a release, the other would only escalate into more chaos. But now, as he stood here, the realization hit him: perhaps it was more dangerous than he had thought. Perhaps he had been dipping into something more addictive than he realized, and now he couldn’t think straight.

Why had he protected you with his wing?

You glanced back at the house, your gaze softening, body relaxing. "I don't think Lucien ever truly got over that," you whispered, almost to yourself. "The hurt that came from his belief that I had chosen my cruel brother over my kind one."

It felt like an admission not meant for Azriel, like you hadn’t realized you’d confessed it out loud. You blinked and the flicker of vulnerability he had seen was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the guarded expression he had come to know.

"But that's not the truth,” Azriel said.

You met his gaze again. Years of sacrifice and loyalty that bound you to a life you never chose. A curved smile touched your lips, a mask slipping back into place— so easily, so swiftly, it almost made him sick. 

"People believe the stories that make the most sense to them. I'd say you're more than familiar with that habit, Shadowsinger."

Azriel's brows furrowed as he straightened, instinctively pulling his wings closer. A small ache radiated from his injured wing, and his mind drifted back to the wound. His shadows coiled protectively around him. Through their whisperings he felt an inexplicable urge to ask, "How did you know it wasn't faebane?"

You looked at him, your expression unreadable. With a nonchalant shrug, you replied, "Lucky guess."

He shook his head. "Do not lie to me."

“I don’t take orders from you.” Your jaw tightened, a flicker of defiance danced in your eyes. "And does it matter? You're healed. You’re welcome. Move on.”

"It matters," he insisted, his voice firm. "How did you know it wasn't faebane? That you needed to burn it out?"

You sighed in irritation. "You're supposed to be smart. Why do you think I knew?"

Azriel's heart pounded. He did know. Deep down, he knew the answer, but he needed to hear it from you. "How did you know?" he pressed.

You looked away, a dry laugh escaping your lips. Shaking your head, you said, "Faebane became useless to my father when an antidote was created for it."

Azriel's brows furrowed further, a sick feeling churning in his stomach. His fists curled at his sides as he asked, "What does that mean?"

A bitter smile twisted your lips as you met his gaze again. "He needed something else to make his punishments effective. So he created a new type of poison, similar to faebane. You can burn it out, which he loves. It's like a fun game for him—inflict the wound, heal it with even more pain, just to do it all over again."

Azriel's shadows seemed to still, softening in their movements. He fought the urge to keep them close, feeling them drift away towards the night air, towards you.

He scanned you with a burning gaze. He’d never noticed any scarring before, but then again, he'd only ever seen you from the back, your dress hitched up to your waist as he rutted into you from behind.  A tightness in his chest made him feel sick.

"I'm sorry," Azriel whispered before he even realized what he was saying, the honesty in his voice surprising even himself. Azriel didn’t apologize. He never did. Even when he should’ve.

You let out a wicked, cold snicker. "Don't go soft on me, Shadowsinger. We both know you're not really sorry. Just like your brute brother wasn't sorry when he figured out the same thing about Eris."

He shivered at the tone of your voice— a bite stronger than the night air that surrounded you both. His fists tightened at his sides as an image of Cassian came into his mind. He felt a rush of two things: blinding rage and blistering guilt. You had no right to call Cass a brute— Cass was a good brother, a loyal brother. And he and Azriel had talked about Eris, had talked about your brother, how little they cared about his punishments. The guilt bubbled up faster than the anger did, swallowing the rage entirely. 

The nighttime air felt suffocating now, pressing against his skin. As if you sensed it too, a cough escaped your lips, breaking the silence that had settled between you as Azriel observed you further. 

"That's enough sweet talk for me. I'll be leaving now," you declared, making a move to step away. Azriel intercepted your path, stepping in front of you with a determined stance.

You shot him a pointed glare. "I can just winnow away. You are aware of this, yes?"

Azriel ignored you, his gaze fixed on you as he searched your face for the answer to a question he didn’t know how to ask. 

"You left me earlier," he said.

You rolled your eyes, an incredulous scoff leaving your curved lips. “Gods, what is this, an exit interrogation? I just saved your ass and—”

He cut you off. “Earlier. When Renard ambushed us. You left.”

"Yes, Azriel, I did," you replied evenly.

The sound of his name seemed to cause a ripple, almost imperceptible, through the shadows around him. He flinched slightly and his stomach twisted into a small, tight knot. Azriel. 

Azriel's eyes darted between yours. “And then you came back.”

He could sense your growing annoyance, could see the simmering flame in your darkened eyes, the tightening of your hands.

"Are we summarizing the events of tonight?" 

He ignored you. “Why?”

"I'm not doing this with you," you shot back, frustration lacing your words as you attempted to push past him. But Azriel moved with a swiftness that caused a small sound of surprise to leave your lips. His strong grip closed around your arm, halting your movements and pulling you back into him.

Now, you were standing close, barely an inch separating your bodies. He could feel the heat of your body radiating against his and the faintest hint of a question lingered in his gaze. His shadows wrapped around your arm.

“Why?”

Your eyes locked with his and you sucked in a breath. "Because you're no use to me if you're dead.”

Azriel's thoughts raced. He hadn't meant those words when he said them, either. 

His shadows whispered things he couldn't quite focus on, their murmurs blending into the background as all he saw was you—so close to him. Someone who could have left him for dead. If Renard's men hadn't taken him so off guard, the poison would have. But you helped him, even after he insulted you, accused you of setting him up.

You looked like Lucien. You looked like Lady Autumn. You looked like Eris. But for the first time, you didn't look like someone he hated. 

"You are not Beron," Azriel said, his voice rough like gravel. He watched as your brows furrowed, your lips falling into a slight frown. "I should never have compared you to him. You are not your father.”

He could see the conflict in your eyes, darting across his face as you began to fall lax in his touch.

"And you're not your brother either," he added quietly.

The words felt like a confession from his lips, as if he was saying something besides the actual words he uttered. 

You blinked, staring at him as you pulled away slightly. Confusion flickered in his expression, his hand hovering where you had been in his hold. You took another step back.

"I am not my father," you affirmed, your voice steady. "I'm loyal. And I'm smart. And—" Your voice faltered. "And I get those things from Eris.”

Azriel stiffened, feeling his shadows tighten around him involuntarily as he watched you. He saw the softness fade from your face, replaced by a steely determination that caused a pang in his chest. You shook your head slightly, swallowed hard, and locked eyes with him.

"I am exactly like my brother. It's one of the things I'm most proud of.��

Before Azriel could respond, before he could even make a move toward you, you turned on your heel and were gone. The night swallowed you up, leaving him standing alone amidst the whispering shadows, grappling with the sickening vulnerability that washed over him like a wave. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

IM BACK BABIES AND IM WRITIN LIKE ITS A FULL TIME JOB

ill make parts shorter i swear (actually....will i???) but alas.... azzie baby has been hit in the face with the beginning of his FEELINGS!!!!

also, in case you wanna SEE our angsty hate-love birds, the super talented @micahssketchbook has sketched them not ONCE, but twice!!

The scene in part three where Azriel has reader in a chokehold and she pulls one on his ass by taking Truth-Teller

and what theyre about to be like in future parts with Az caressing readers face!!

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @panther-girl-124 @bubybubsters

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @vansaddy

[kinascum]

LAST HIT - C. STURNIOLO

SUMMARY: A drug deal turns into a night of unexpected twists and revelations for two lost souls seeking escape.

CONTENTS: drugs, reader is described (sorry, 1st pic of moodboard), sexual content (head, degradation, praise, cum eating), cursing, lmk if I missed anything

words: 1.5k (crazy ik)

Chris's sneakers squeaked against the linoleum floor of the dilapidated apartment complex, echoing through the empty hallway. His hand hovered over the doorbell, hesitating for a moment before he finally pressed it. The sound of a TV, muffled by layers of paint and cigarette smoke, filled the silence that followed. He adjusted the baseball cap on his head, tugging it slightly lower over his eyes. The door cracked open and a pair of brown eyes peered out from the shadows, scrutinizing him before the door swung open wider.

"You're early," Y/N said, her voice a mix of surprise and annoyance. She was leaning against the doorframe, her hair a wild mess of curls that framed her face. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that barely covered her midriff, and her legs were a canvas of freckles and ink.

"Couldn't wait," Chris replied with a cocky smirk, flashing a bag of goodies at her. She rolled her eyes but stepped aside to let him in, her bare feet slapping against the cold floor. The apartment smelled faintly of patchouli and weed, a scent that was as much a part of her as the piercings that lined her ears and the lip.

He made his way to the couch, the springs groaning beneath his weight as he dropped his duffel bag beside him. She followed, curiosity piqued as she eyed the bag. "What'd you bring?"

"The usual," he said, unzipping the bag to reveal a collection of small plastic baggies filled with a variety of colorful pills and powders. She licked her lips, eyes darting to the digital clock on the wall. It was almost time for their rendezvous. "But I brought something extra for us to try later," he added, a glint in his eye.

"You always know how to make a girl feel special," she quipped, crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes narrowed as she took a seat beside him, her legs curling underneath her. "But first, I need to take care of some... business."

Chris nodded, understanding the unspoken agreement between them. They had been doing this dance for months now, ever since she had stumbled into his life, a lost soul looking for a quick high and an even quicker escape from reality. He pulled out a lighter and a blunt, lighting it with a flick of his thumb. He took a deep drag, the smoke filling his lungs before he exhaled it in a slow, deliberate stream that curled around his head like a halo.

The girl leaned in, her breath hot against his neck as she began to unbuckle his belt. He could feel the anticipation building, a familiar ache in his groin. She was good at this, the best he had ever had. Her hands were deft, and she knew just how to make him squirm with pleasure. As she slid down to her knees, he leaned back, closing his eyes and letting the warmth of the apartment and the buzz from the weed wash over him. Her mouth was soft and eager, and he couldn't help but let out a low groan of satisfaction.

"Mm, you're the best," he murmured, his hand finding its way into her hair. She smirked around his length, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

The TV flickered in the background, casting strange shadows across the room as she worked her magic. The only sounds were the crackle of the blunt and the quiet, wet noises of her sucking him off. The tension grew, tightening in his stomach like a coiled spring. But as much as he enjoyed this, he knew it was just the prelude to what was to come. The real show would start once the sun went down and the shadows grew long. And he had a feeling tonight was going to be one for the books.

"Take it deeper," he ordered, his voice gruff and demanding. She complied, her eyes watering slightly as she took him all the way in, her throat constricting around him. He watched her, his eyes hooded and dark, a sadistic smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, that's it. Like you're starving for it." He knew she wasn't, of course. This was just their game, a dance of power and submission that they both found thrilling in their own twisted ways.

He tangled his fingers in her hair, gripping tightly as he began to thrust shallowly into her mouth. She gagged, and he felt a surge of power, a rush of control that was almost as intoxicating as the weed. "You're such a good little slut," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. She moaned in response, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through him. He knew she didn't like being talked to like that, but it was part of the thrill for her, the edge of degradation that made her feel alive.

"Look up at me," he said, his voice a harsh whisper. She obeyed, her eyes meeting his, and he could see the mix of defiance and desire in them. He smoked the blunt, letting the smoke drift into her face, watching as she coughed and sputtered around his cock. "That's right, breathe me in," he said, his tone mocking. She glared at him, but there was a spark in her eyes that told him she loved every second of it. This was their dynamic, a push and pull that kept them both coming back for more.

The tension grew, the air in the room thick with it, until he couldn't hold back anymore. He felt the warmth building in his balls, the pressure mounting until it was all he could focus on. With a final, deep thrust, he came in her mouth, filling it with his hot seed. She choked, but she didn't pull away, her eyes never leaving his as she swallowed every drop, a look of triumph on her face.

He sat back, his chest heaving as he took another hit of the blunt, watching her wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. "Good girl," he said, his voice a little softer now. She stuck her tongue out at him, a playful gesture that made him laugh despite the heaviness in the air. They had an understanding, a bond that went beyond the physical. They were both damaged in their own ways, but together, they found a strange solace in their toxic little rituals.

Chris took a moment to compose himself, his heart racing from the intense climax. He reached down to help her up, pulling her onto the couch beside him. She curled into his side, her head resting on his shoulder as they both took a moment to catch their breath. The TV flickered on in the background, the mundane sitcom laughter a stark contrast to the raw intimacy they had just shared.

"So, what's the plan for tonight?" she asked, her voice a little hoarse from her earlier exertions. He could feel her body relaxing against him, the adrenaline slowly draining away. He took another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs before exhaling. "Got a big score lined up," he said, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Should be enough to get us out of here for a while."

Her eyes lit up at the mention of leaving this run-down apartment behind, if only temporarily. "Where are we going?" she asked, a hint of hope in her voice. He wrapped his arm around her, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her bare skin. "Somewhere warm, with a beach and no worries," he said, his voice a promise.

The clock on the wall ticked away the minutes, each one bringing them closer to the night's main event. But for now, they were content to sit in the quiet, their bodies entwined and their minds racing with the possibilities of what the future could hold. The blunt burned down to a nub, the embers casting a warm glow over the room.

As the last of the light faded, the apartment felt like a cocoon, a temporary escape from the harsh realities of their lives. But outside, the world was waiting, and with the promise of a big score, the stakes had never been higher. They both knew that this could be their ticket to a better life, or the end of the line. But for now, all they had was each other, and the thrill of the unknown.

the vibe dwb!chris brings to the function

[darielivalyen]

Eldritch Tales: Inheritance [WIP]

Eldritch Tales: Inheritance is a cosmic horror game with elements of romance, set in a Gothic manor. You and your high school friends are reunited after five years by a mysterious letter, and through this letter, you inherit an old Gothic manor and a substantial fortune.

There is only one condition: you must live in the manor together.

As you arrive at Blackthorn Manor, strange, unsettling events begin to unfold. Shadows move on their own, nights are unnaturally dark, and the atmosphere grows increasingly tense. The manor is full of secrets, and the more you learn, the less you seem to understand.

Play as male, female, or nonbinary.

Customize your appearance, personality, and sexuality.

Romance or befriend a wealthy and carefree playboy, a no-nonsense scientist, a disciplined and protective ex-soldier, or a sweet and free-spirited artist.

Manage your relationships, or face unforeseen consequences.

Pay attention to your sanity and health, or…don’t.

Search for clues, solve puzzles, and learn the truth behind your inheritance.

Discover hidden rooms, secret passages, and eldritch artifacts.

Confront moral dilemmas, and be careful as they may have far-reaching consequences.

Face randomized events that will keep each playthrough unique.

Experience multiple endings based on your choices and actions.

What darkness does Blackthorn Manor conceal, and how will it affect your fate? Can you uncover the truth and survive, or will the manor’s sinister influence consume you all?

TYLER REYNOLDS

Personality: Tyler exudes a confident, carefree spirit that's both alluring and slightly unnerving. He enjoys the present and isn't too concerned with the future.

Background: Born into wealth, Tyler has always enjoyed privilege and opulence. While his party-going ways have quieted recently, he still often boasts about his family's status.

Physical description: Tyler is tall and lean with an athletic build. He has dirty blonde hair, hazel eyes, and a preppy yet sophisticated style. He is fond of loafers and owns over two hundred pairs.

Smell: Tyler's scent is a blend of citrus and musk.

CALEB MITCHELL

Personality: Caleb is disciplined and protective, with a dry sense of humor shaped by his military background. Despite his rugged exterior, he dreams of a peaceful life.

Background: A former soldier, Caleb has spent the last couple of years doing different security jobs. His protective nature extends to his younger sister Julia, with whom he shares a close bond.

Physical description: Caleb is tall and muscular with a rugged appearance. He has a dark brown undercut, deep brown eyes, and perpetual stubble. His style is casual and rugged.

Smell: Caleb smells of cedarwood, with hints of amber.

JULIA MITCHELL

Personality: Julia is a no-nonsense individual who values efficiency and clarity. Her methodical approach to problems contrasts with her puzzlement at overly emotional responses.

Background: Julia has a deep passion for science, excelling in engineering and physics. Her cross-disciplinary focus defines her academic and professional journey.

Physical description: Julia is of medium height with a lean physique. She has neck-long black hair, deep brown eyes, and wears stylish glasses. Her style is Parisian chic.

Smell: Julia smells of lavender, with hints of paper and ink.

LUNA HARPER

Personality: Luna is a free spirit, and her vibrant personality is reflected in her artwork. Her infectious optimism and innocent humor reveal a soul untouched by cynicism.

Background: An eclectic artist, Luna finds solace in her paintbrush and palette. She embraces all sorts of spirituality and has a deep love for crystals.

Physical description: Luna is petite and has an ethereal presence. She has long platinum-blonde hair with pink highlights, and green eyes, and loves the bohemian style.

Smell: Luna smells of patchouli and sandalwood, with floral notes reminiscent of wildflowers.

DEMO | FORUM | PINTEREST | TUMBLR | KO-FI

[dance-in-the-morning-glow]

As someone who is very much into (indie and niche) fragrance and Pirates of the Caribbean, here are my scent picks for some characters absolutely nobody asked for:

Elizabeth Swann: Juliette Has A Gun - Vanilla Vibes (Sea salt, natural vanilla absolute, orchid absolute, absolute brown musk, bezoin absolute, sandalwood, tonka bean)

This is basically just a salty vanilla perfume and I’m all here for it; it’s beachy, light and totally pre-Pirate King Elizabeth.

For more of an indie choice, I’d pick Death & Floral’s “I could never stay long enough on the shore” (sand, salty air, smoke, cold coastline). It’s been a while since I’ve smelled this one but it feels fitting. But tbh, any white floral scent would also fit CotBP Elizabeth - so maybe something like Cloon Keen’s Lá Bealtaine.

Pirate King Elizabeth would absolutely rock something challenging like Beaufort’s Terror & Magnificence (birch tar, black pepper, saffron, incense, tobacco, papyrus, haitian vetiver, myrrh, labdanum, benzoin and pebbles).

Will Turner: Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab - Asleep in the Deep (black plum, sea salt, opium tar accord, labdanum, and indigo benzoin)

Basically the dark and heavy counterpart to Elizabeth’s Vanilla Vibes, truly smells like you’re on the Dutchman in between realms.

Jack Sparrow: For Jack, I feel like anything remotely boozy with rum notes works, but if I had to name one scent, I’d pick Stranger Perfumery’s Cigar Rum (raisin, dried fruits (prune and cherry), rum absolute, mandarin, amber, tobacco, oakwood, vetiver, resins, labdanum absolute, seaweed absolute). Maybe layer that with a dirt single note or Fantôme - Bune (damp subterranean air, nagarmotha, smooth cave walls, davana, a cold marble altar, & glittering green dragon scales) for authenticity lol.

Hector Barbossa: Solstice Scents - Headmaster (Apple, bourbon, oak, cedar, pipe tobacco, applewood, amber, spices)

I just felt like I needed to pick a spicy, woody scent with apple notes in it. But any dark aquatic works too.

James Norrington: I associate James with any light aquatic or clean scents (at least when he’s not in his Scruffington Era), so I’d choose something like Solstice Scent’s Gulf Breeze (Saltwater, sand, seashells, sea oats, rain, ambergris (vegan accord).

Cutler Beckett: Histoires de Parfums - 1740 (bergamot, mugwort, patchouli, coriander, cardamom, cedar, birch, labdanum, leather, vanilla, elemi, helichrysum)

Idk, this is just giving off Cutler Beckett energy. It’s boozy, it’s rich, it’s dramatic.

And somehow The House on Widow’s Hill (brandy, old oak paneling, dusty thick carpets, a thread of incense & a roaring fire in the hearth) by Pulp Fragrance also fits. That one’s basically brandy, smoke and dusty carpets in a bottle. On second thought, that might also work for Papa Swann.

I also feel like a tea scent would suit Beckett, but only if it’s a bit heavier, so maybe something like Gris Charnel by bdk (fig, black tea, cardamom essence, iris absolute, bourbon vetiver, indian sandalwood, tonka bean absolute). …But I haven’t smelled that one in a while too.

Davy Jones: Zoologist - Squid (Pink Pepper, Solar Salicylate, Incense, Black Ink Accord, Salty Accord, Opoponax, Ambergris, Benzoin, Musk)

Pretty self-explanatory. On my skin, it’s very musk-forward though.

Ian Mercer: Beaufort - Tonnerre (smoke, gunpowder, blood, brandy, sea spray and citrus)

…Yeah, I guess that one’s also pretty self-explanatory.

Yup, that’s it. Make of that what you will.

[fear-is-truth]

Hi, I hope you are well!

I want to request the Evans and what they smell like. You may include how they take care of themselves or something like that if you want.

Also, Kai is my absolute favourite and I can definitely tell he smells sweaty sometimes ahah. I wouldn't care tbh

Thank you 💙

𝜗ϱ ┆ WHAT THEY SMELL LIKE .ᐟ

── THE EVANs ‧ h e a d c a n o n s ೃ࿐

ft. tate ‧ kit ‧ kyle ‧ jimmy ‧ james ‧ kai ‧ austin ‧ peter ‧ colin

⟣ TAGS ‧ SFW

some of them make sense, and some of them are just random scents i associate with them

⟢ 𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐃𝐎𝐍.

fabric softener

old books

faint musty basement smell

deodorant

cocaine

⟢ 𝐊𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑.

cigarettes

gasoline / motor oil

freshly lawned grass

baked cookies

bacon & eggs

fresh laundry

⟢ 𝐊𝐘𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑.

books

apples

mint toothpaste

herbal tea

clean laundry

incense

candles

⟢ 𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆.

beer

grass

sweat

lemonade

juicy fruit gum

sun dried laundry smell

cotton candy & caramel popcorn

⟢ 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇.

tobacco

whiskey

absinthe

cologne

mahogany

shoe polish

cedarwood

freshly pressed suit

⟢ cult leader .ᐟ 𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍.

sweat

mint

ozone

leather

cologne

dior sauvage

fabric softener

arctic fox hair dye

⟢ 𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐒.

leather

woodsmoke

liquor

metal (blood)

ink

patchouli perfume

⟢ 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐗𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐅𝐅.

leather

comic books

air fresher

bubble gum

plastic console + hand sweat

twinkies + various snacks

⟢ 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐍 𝐙𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐋.

coffee

cologne

aftershave

pine

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[copiousloverofcopia]

imagine copia about to become papa iv and his prime mover saying something like "you're going to be papa" and he's like duh, not getting it at all, and she literally has to go "no, you're going to be *papa*" and that's how she breaks the news to him

It's a shame how long it's been since I got this...like a year. 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

Hopefully this little sumthin sumthin will be worth it.

And Then It Hit Him

You have news for your husband, Cardinal Copia on the brink of his ascension to the Papacy, but will he stop long enough to listen?

Also available on AO3 HERE!

You were doing your best to remain patient, though the news was burning from inside you. Wringing the fabric of your habit in your fingers as you waited for the perfect moment to interrupt him. Your husband had barely looked up from his parchments since you entered. A comfortable silence between you as you noted his hands were once again covered in ink. 

You were instantly transported back to when your dear sweet Cardinal was only the Ministry treasurer, and you still a naive novitiate. A time when you fell hard and fast in love with eachother. Watching with joy as he ascended the ranks of the Ministry. Proving himself worthy of his station at each and every turn. 

Now he was only weeks away from the announcement that he would receive the miter. The highest honor that only the select few could ever hope to achieve within the church. Truth be told you had wondered if your news would pale in comparison, but knowing Copia as you did, there was no way it would.

"Cope..." You nudge, hoping to finally garner his attention. Copia stopped, pulling his glasses off from where they hung on the bridge of his nose and began rubbing his eyes. Clearly he hadn't moved them from his work for more than a few second at a time.

"I'm so sorry cara, I just have so much work that needs to be done before I head back out on tour. If I leave anything unfinished Sister will have my head for it." He responded, taking your hand in his. His eyes, returning to his desk. You could tell he was worn down by it. The endless bureaucracy of the Ministry trampling over him in the guise of all this paper and ink.

"Copia, my love...I know you have a lot on your plate, but I—I just have something I wanted to tell you." 

"Of course, what is it?" He asked you, a sweet smile sent your way.

"Well.." You began, rounding his desk and placing your head on his shoulder. Breathing in the scent of his cologne. Like old books and patchouli, a scent that had intoxicated you night after night for so long now. It hardly seemed fair just how much it had affected you. Like a spell cast on your senses. Clearly it was one of the many reasons, like his undeniable charm, that led to you being in this position. "Soon my love…you are going to be a Papa.”

You were surprised when Copia's reaction was lacking. Letting out a sigh as he finished up the sentence he had been writing. "I know, I know. That's why I have to get this done." He explained, clear now that he had completely missed what you were trying to tell him. You thought for a moment, trying to decide if you could stand one more minute of knowing it all on your own, before finally you let out a groan.

It stopped him, Copia catching on that you needed him. Letting the pen drop to the desk as he pulled his attention away from the plethora of papers decorating it to face you. Heeding you as you gently brought his jaw up to help face you. Your eyes locked with his when he gently kissed your hand. The hair of his sideburns, tickling your palm as you spoke.

"No…Copia.” You began, a note of both amusement and disbelief in your voice, “...that's not what I was trying to say.” 

“I'm sorry amore… you should have had my full attention. Please…what is it you wanted to tell me?”

“I'm trying to tell you, you silly man, that you are going to be A PAPA.” You emphasized by taking his hand and placing it on the small of your belly. Suddenly it was clear to him. Hitting him all at once as his eyes began stinging with tears. He stared at your still inconspicuous belly. Both mystified and deliriously happy before looking up at you.

“Amore, are you sure?” he asked you. His voice quivering—a mess of emotions. You could feel Copia's hand trembling as his thumb gently glided over your stomach. Already so gentle and tender with a child he had only just discovered existed.

“I'm very sure Cope…we’re going to have a baby.” You smiled. 

“Sweet Satanas, I'm going to be a Papa!” Copia yelped, casting himself up from the chair and pulling you tightly into his arms. Blissfully crying and whispered praises in Italian, his hand never leaving your belly. You began to laugh. Copia looking up at you once again just as your own tears began streaming down your face.

“A papa and Papa.” 

Notes:

novitiate- nun or sister in training 

[deathnguts]

What I think marauders era peeps smell like:

Regulus: green apple, mint, black tea, ink, rain but specifically that which falls during a thunderstorm

Barty: axe cologne (loser) and cigarettes drowning out all else, but patchouli and lime if you catch him at the right time and you’re close enough

Evan: sandalwood, vetiver, iron, some stupid expensive cologne that smells distinctly clean overall like latex almost

Pandora: burnt sage, jasmine tea, moss, ginger, dandelions, boiled lemongrass

Dorcas: bluebells scented perfume, vanilla, blackberry, castor oil

Lily: strawberry shortcake perfume, daffodils, cardamom, white sand

James: cinnamon, leather, cedarwood

Sirius: bergamot, pine, amaretto, small hints of coffee

Remus: bitter dark chocolate, firewood, old paper, but a rusty twinge overall

Peter: eucalyptus oil, oat milk, lychee

Marlene: old spice deodorant, orange, sea salt

Mary: Apple blossom perfume, coconut, nutmeg, amber

Alice: rosemary, lily of the valley flowers, cloves, wind through the forest

Frank: mechanic oil, sesame, freshly cut wood, sheep wool

Sybill: lavender, morning dew, pollen, dust, labdanum

Narcissa: green tea, yellow roses, lemon zest

Lucius: narcissus flowers, cucumber, agarwood cologne that masks it all

[lunaruza]

So for the Patche painting I'm trying to decide which one to use as the base to add shading and painted elements over. Left is a cleaner digital redraw while right is the scanned ink drawing. What does everyone think?

[yeyinde]

Hey darlin. I've had a week from absolute hell at work and I'm in desperate need of some soft!Soap in my life. When and if you have time, would you mind doing a little drabble with Soap pampering his overly stressed and exhausted s/o? Perhaps a well deserved back rub (I need one in the worst way 😫). And spice it up if you like, I'm sure that man's got some serious wandering hands. Much love ❤️🖤

Johnny presses his chest against your back. His heart echoes through your ribs: the steady brag of Atlas. He holds the world on the slope of his broad shoulders—

"Let's get you to bed, alright?" 

—and your heart in the cup of his palm.

hiya, love~ 🖤

sorry this took a bit, but i really hope you enjoy this! @brewed-pangolin

⇾warnings :soft Soap; slight petting–fingering; f!reader, gendered female anatomy; Soap just takes care of you the way the man would

It starts slow—a gradual buildup: nothing immediate or noteworthy. Tension in your brow, an ache in your back. You've felt it all before. It's nothing to worry about. 

It's not that you're being crushed by anything in particular. There is no weight bearing down on your shoulders, no anvil locked around your neck pulling you down to the unforgiving concrete. You're not drowning in the middle of an ocean, or clinging to life on the edge of a mountain. And yet—

Heaviness. Brassbound bones filled with hardened lead. 

You waver under the ache. The malaise. The ennui. 

It's that feeling of being persistently chipped at until your skin is flayed, muscles exposed; a rawness in the cut of your brow, the sag of your eyes. 

You need sleep, but you know nine hours are just not going to cut it. 

It's the slough of life. Another cog in the machine that never stops moving. Grinding you down over time; an erosion until you are pulverised powder. 

It's everything. All of the aches and pains and the pressure that turns you into hard coal instead of a diamond, and then—

"You're home late, hen," he murmurs, twisting his head to stare at you from over his broad shoulders. They, you think, can take the weight of anything. Bear the burden. The promises made. 

Atlas stands in your kitchen wearing the worn apron you'd bought him as a joke a year ago for Hogmanay. He wears it each time he cooks. 

The kitchen is thick with humidity; dense with the scent of stew. Something robust and hearty. It's soft and secure, a warm familiarity that makes you shake when his hazel eyes meet yours. 

His hand curls around a bottle. He holds it out to you. Irn bru. Your fingers are stained with dust and ink; carpal and shaky, and you can't bring yourself to reach out when your joints are tense and brittle. 

Johnny says something low, but all you can think about is the time on the clock and the ache in your lower back. Only precious hours are left until you need to sink into a fitful sleep that is never enough only to wake to the jarring blare of your alarm in what feels like a minute. 

Maybe it's the way you sag, shoulders slumping, head knocking against the doorframe, or maybe he just knows, but it's instant. He's there. Arms around you, pulling your temple away from the harsh press into the wood. 

He smells of orange pekoe tea and clary sage. 

"C'mon," he murmurs against your temple, stubble digging into your skin. "Let's get you settled, aye?"

All you can do is nod, hands grasping the fabric of his shirt.

(Atlas can hold up the world, but surely there is no room for the weight of your burdens on his shoulders.

He does it, anyway.)

  The tub is full of rosy bubbles that slosh over the porcelain rim. A clove candle sits precariously on the corner where your bar of soap used to be. The light is dim. You smell blood orange patchouli burning. 

Its—

Heaven. 

And yet: 

Eleven hours. 

"None o'that, hen," he murmurs, hands falling to your shoulders. You ease into him to him. Softened wax under warm hands. "Can hear you from the other room—;" his cheek rubs against the back of your aching head. "Just relax, aye? Got a nice dinner waitin', a long soak in the tub."

"Not too long," you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. His fingers stroke your skin with the finesse of a musical maestro. Expert touch digging into each knot that formed, full of lactic acid, and aching. "Gotta be up early."

He huffs. The soft exhale is a breeze over the ridge of your ear. "Aye, aye. Now get in the tub, bonnie." 

He doesn't give you a second to think. His hands tug, pull at your clothes—the ones that reek of work and ink and ennui—until you're bare in his arms. The heft of them circles your middle: firm and tight. 

He perches you on the ledge of the tub, flashing another soft smile in your direction before his hands drop to the hem of his white Henley. 

"Come on," he husks, moving you forward. You're limp in the bracket of his embrace.

(Atlas, you think, with nothing but burdens to bare.)

The sight of his chest—muscles rippling, pulling taut; pale flesh dusted with black hair—makes something hungry spool inside of you. Desire. Want. Your eyes are heavy, lidded, and weighed down by lead, but the grittiness, the sting, isn't enough to make you look away. You savour it all. 

He catches your stare when his hands drop to his trousers. His brow ticks. A smirk curls over his lips. 

Johnny says nothing, but you suppose he doesn't have to. You can see the way his gaze darkens, a boscage in the bloom of spring, as he takes in your bare breasts, your tummy, your thighs plush against the white ledge of the tub. The contrast between your flesh and the porcelain makes his jaw tighten. 

His pants drop. "C,'mon, hen," he husks, hands grasping your arms, helping you stand again on knees that wobble at the sight of him. Atlas: sinew and strength. A man capable of carrying the heavens. "Let's get in the tub, aye?"

Johnny moves, lifting his leg over the rim. He goes first, sitting in the milky water—used that stuff you like, the bomb thing, or somethin'—and once settled, his eyes cut to you.

He leans back, open for you. You move after him, and his lips crook up in a smile. The water sloshes when you sit, back to him. It's warm, and perfect, and you shudder when you feel his damp skin on yours. His arms wind around your middle, tugging you back into his embrace. 

"Shush, shush," he rasps, a gentle coo in your ear, pulling you tighter in the seal of his clutch.

His chest is warm, wet, when you press your back to him. It's bliss when you ease into his hold, head falling back on his shoulder.

Arms loop around you, big and firm and secure, and the whimper you let out when everything finally cracks sounds a little bit like a sob. 

Johnny reaches for the loofah, lathering it up with the bottle of body wash on the ledge. It smells of eucalyptus and birch. His wash. You melt a little more into him when he reaches down, hand wrapping gingerly around your wrist.

"Close your eyes, hen. Know you need it."

"Johnny—;" the protests are cut short when you feel the drag of the sponge over your flesh. The fresh, minty scent clots in your lungs. 

It's soothing. A gentle scrub as he washes the stress of the day, days, away with your sponge. He's meticulous in everything he does, and washing you is no different. He starts with your fingers. Each digit is brushed with the loofah and then massaged with his bare hand. Your joints liquify. The knots in your hands ease with each pass, each roll of his fingers over you. Your palm tickles when he rubs circles over it. Pulse flutters when he drags it up over your wrist, forearm. Your biceps.

He pulls away when he reaches your shoulders, changing hands so that his arm is crossed over your chest. Secure. Heavy. The angle is a little stiff, but he says nothing, no complaints, and gathers the suds in the cup of his palm. He works his rough hands over your tense flesh until your breath stutters in your chest. Your head tips back further. The base of your skull plinthed on his broad shoulders. The wall is cold on your crown. 

His stubble scratches your temple when he nuzzles his mouth over the thrumming flesh, lips pressed taut to the place that hurts the most. "Good girl."

It's a baptism in bliss. Each pass of his rough hands over your skin turns the titanium in your bones to mercury. You melt under the heat of his flesh working those stubborn knots into ash. Johnny's hands are heavy, dragging away the malaise from your pores with each careful, reverent swipe. 

You breathe in the scent of wet pine when he drags his palms over your collarbones, the swell of your chest. His fingers catch on your nipples—hard from the chill in the air, the graze of his flesh over yours—and the pinch of pleasure makes your legs part slowly, a small mewl brimming from your throat. 

"That feels good," you whisper, head lulling on his shoulder. 

"Scoot up a bit," he husks, hands falling to your hips, helping you move. He pushes your back forward, hands sliding up to your shoulders. 

The groan you let out echoes against the humid walls when his fingers dig into your stained muscles. 

"Johnny—" 

"I know, I know…" he nuzzles the space between your shoulder blades, stubble grazing your sensitive flesh. Goosebumps ripple over your skin. "I got ya, hen." 

And he does, of course: always. 

Bliss leaks from the tips of his fingers into your muscles. He moves in small, deep circles until your body is liquid; a gooey polymer that sags in the water around you. He doesn't relent. Johnny finds each knot, tenderising it into a fine dust. Nirvana is in the tips of his fingers. 

You groan: a low, drawn-out quiver of pleasure when he works out the kink that had clotting in your shoulder blades. One born from deadlines, and meetings, and—

And gone. 

You breathe out, heavy and full, until your lungs quiver, flattened to your chest. 

"Feel good?" He murmurs, soothing his hands across your back. His knuckles notch over the curve of your spine, and the thrill of pleasure makes you pant. 

"Yeah—"

Lavender is thick in your nose. Your eyes slowly slide open when his hands curl through the gaps in your arms, winding around your waist. 

You fall back into his chest, boneless. Shattered. Dissolved. His chest rumbles with a chuckle. 

Johnny tucks you against him, coarse, damp hair tickling your back. His breath is heavy on your shoulder. 

"Hen…," there is a click in his throat when he swallows, hands roaming down to your thighs, sliding between them slowly. "Lemme make you feel even better."

It's a whisper of a touch that makes you shiver against him. 

"Johnny—"

He hushes you again, nails grazing your sensitive flesh until he meets the seam of your thigh and pelvis. "Let me do this for you, hen."

"Something tells me this was your plan all along," you huff, pressing your nose into his neck, and breathing in the mossy scent of him. 

"Nah," he murmurs, palm pressing against your core. You can feel him against your back, thick and hard, and when he parts your folds, fingers gliding through your slit, you feel him throb. His hips shift into you with a gritty inhale. His chest expands across your back. When he speaks, it's barely a whisper: "this is just for you."

Johnny knows your body, knows where to touch; his hands on you are magic. He works you—a potter moulding clay—and you melt in his arms. 

His finger ghosts over your slit, trailing slowly until he reaches your clit. 

"Relax, hen," his voice is thick, full of lust. "Lemme make you feel good."

His fingers slide back down to your hole, pushing in gently until you stretch around him with a gasp of pleasure, hands dropping to clutch at his thick forearms. His huff ghosts over the shell of your ear, lips pressing against your flushed cheekbone. 

"Gonna make you cum," he rasps, throat clicking again when he swallows. 

The low hum of his voice makes your legs part further, hips canting into his palm. His fingers thrust against your sensitive walls, thumb rubbing soft circles over your clit until you see stars in your eyes; phosphenes of pleasure that dance and sway with each press of him inside of you. Knuckles catch on the seal of your pussy, stretching you, rasping over that gummy spot inside that makes your belly fill with molten euphoria. 

"That's it, bonnie," he urges, words liquid in your ear. Oil over your flesh. A soft thrum to your core. It's good. So good. 

Your nails dig into his flesh, desperately clutching at something, anything, to keep you from slipping below the waves that lap at you. A soft erosion. The the way Johnny dissolves you into pieces until you're effervescent, veins bubbling with soporific pleasure, makes your heart lurch. The swell of affection for him—your atlas, your buoy in the churning sea—brings tears to your eyes. 

He's observant. Incredibly so. Any change, even one almost indiscernible, must have been noticed. The bunch of your shoulders. The sag of your eyes. Exhaustion fell over you in a blanket of malaise. 

You think about those nights spent bundled in his arms on the couch. Mind adrift in a sea of responsibility, lip between your teeth. You hadn't noticed the copper on your tongue until his fingers tapped the furrow in your brow. 

Y'alright, hen? 

Just—

Work. Life. Everything. 

He noticed. And—

Dinner, your favourite. The bath. The candle. The lavender bath bomb—

Lavender? He asks, rubbing a petal between his thumb and forefinger. 

You nodded. It helps with stress. 

—he knew. 

And now: euphoria pools in every synapse inside of your head until all you see is white. Body languid, more relaxed and sated than you have been in a long time, and—

The strong arms of atlas secure you to his chest. The cup of his palm is a plinth keeping you above the torrent below that wants to consume you. 

"Come on, hen," he urges, voice rucked and trembling. He throbs against the small of your back, cock trapped between your bodies.

You melt into him with a moan, dizzy and delirious from the pleasure spooling inside of your core with each press of his blunt fingers against your soft, fluttering walls. Each roll of his thumb across your clit. Your body sings for him. Aches for him. A maestro; you dance for him. 

Your head is fuzzy. Thick with somnolence and pleasure that congeal over the heft, the weight of everything else. All you can think about is how secure you feel in his embrace. Gentle and safe, and—

It's the coalescence of everything that pushes you off the edge. 

You're falling, falling—

"I got you, hen."

Your core tightens, throbs. You pulse around him like the fluttering wings of a hummingbird. Oxytocin floods your veins in a deluge, inundating your being until all you can feel is static pleasure blooming inside of you. 

You fall into him. Languid and bone-weary. He catches you with a chuckle, lips pressed against your temple, chin nuzzling the skin of your cheek. 

"Feel better?" 

You've lost the capacity for speech. Tongue leaden, eyes heavy, you twist your head, nose scratching over the stubble on his cheek. Your lips find his. Soft, gentle. He peppers you in small, fleeting kisses; full-lipped and dulcet sweet. You catch oat on his tongue; almond. Sweet London fog. 

His arms tighten around you. Johnny breathes your name, and the crooked axis you teetered on shifts. The precipice you wobbled along rights itself in the hymnal he sings for you. 

Johnny presses his chest against your back. His heart echoes through your ribs: the steady brag of Atlas. He holds the world on the slope of his broad shoulders—

"Let's get you to bed, alright?" 

—and your heart in the cup of his palm. 

[firstaidspray]

Each version of Mr Scratch and what they smell like - Scratch and sniff, if you will.

Okay so because I am So Normal about Scratch, the other night I was wondering what he smells like, and more specifically, what each games' version of him smells like. Now the obvious comes to mind with versions like AW2, who is covered in blood and dons a biker jacket- he smells like gore and leather. But at the mall I did some literal sniffing around some different men's fragrances and have come up with a list of what each version of Scratch would smell like in terms of cologne, as well as extra scents (such as the aforementioned blood and leather). Here we go!!

AW1 Scratch

(Sorry, had NO good pics of him)

The smells, generalized: a warm and spicy cologne, freshly printed ink on paper, the woods, cold air.

We don't get to see much of Scratch in AW1, as he's introduced in the ending, but its DLCs do give us more. However that freshness, that just-created copy of Alan, makes me feel like he would not only smell like- very subtly- freshly printed ink on paper, but also whatever Alan may have worn as a fragrance combined with a genuine forest scent of pine needles, dirt, etc. as well as cold air. As for Alan's fragrance and therefore Scratch's, my cologne for AW1 Scratch is...

Gucci Guilty Por Homme. This fragrance is described in this way: A woody, aromatic, ambery fragrance that magnifies the true essence of [the fragrance's] signature. A new and intense vision of masculinity, [the fragrance] opens with a lighter, milder, and more modernized aromatic hook. The true essence of [the fragrance] is magnified at the heart with the deep ambery signature of Spanish cistus combined with the floral richness of orange flower and a spicy hint of nutmeg. Finally, the mysterious elegance of Indonesian patchouli is reinforced with the long-lasting sensation of dry woods and musks. The fragrance family is "warm and spicy," and the type is considered "woody spices."

I feel this vibe fits Alan, at least in the first game, perfectly. If you've smelled this scent, you know what I mean. It's the smell of a man who has enough money to blow on expensive cologne, yet it somehow remains a humble scent, if one can apply that word to a smell. Though this is said of Alan by Scratch in AWAN, not AW1, "you've got money, fame, but you don't know what to do with it!" In my mind, this is translating back to Alan as a successful writer but still a relatively normal dude, and this scent just fits the vibes. Like yes I have enough money to buy Gucci cologne, but I'm not gonna shove it in your face. Likely only wears it in a very very light way. And because of AW1 Scratch being a fresh copy of Alan, he would wear this scent too. He hasn't developed enough of his own self yet, not like he has by AWAN, so I imagine he smells like Alan does.

To recap: AW1 Scratch smells like Gucci Guilty Por Homme because that is what Alan wears (in my mind) and he is a fresh copy of Alan, yet to develop his own scent tastes. He smells also of the literal woods, as Alan likely does from his "adventure." The smell of fresh ink on paper refers to the vibes of being a "copy," and of words being typed with a typewriter's ink. Cold air refers once more to his freshness and lack of real self- it's like he's hollow, and when he enters the room it turns, and smells, cold, like a winter night.

AWAN Scratch

The smells, generalized: a versatile, charismatic, elegant cologne, hair gel, freshly pressed clothes, Campari.

Scratch has developed his whooole own personality by the time we see him again in AWAN, and therefore has also developed his own taste in fragrances. We know damn well this man is spending good money for good cologne- after all, it's Alan's money that he's taking and using for anything he wants, why not spend an extra bit to smell good? Also, his insanely gelled hair, he's got some hair gel smell on him too. His clothes are very nice and neat (when they aren't bloody) and he often straightens them up, so I'd assume they are freshly pressed and ironed and starched and all that, which you can smell. Campari is not confirmed to be the drink AWAN Scratch has, but considering it is the drink of Tom Zane's choice and his similarities to AWAN Scratch, let's say it is. It's the same color, anyway. It looks the same. He has a faint smell of it on him when he's been drinking. As for Scratch's fragrance, my cologne for AWAN Scratch is...

Montblanc Legend Spirit. This fragrance is described in this way: Discovering a breathtakingly fresh woody aromatic territory, this cool and confident scent blends energizing citrus with intense cardamom and lavender, settling on a sensual woody base. [The fragrance] is a powerfully modern scent designed for a passionate man who yearns to explore new horizons. The fragrance reveals a more casual side of the [designer] man while maintaining the same versatility, elegance, and charisma of the original. It's style is also said to be versatile, charismatic, and elegant.

A passionate man yearning to explore new horizons? Is that not exactly what our dear AWAN Scratch is doing? Sure, his yearning is more like obsession and his new horizons are horrifying, but it still fits. It's said to reveal a casual side but maintain the same elements of the original- Scratch reveals to us his silly, playful, campy side through his tapes and dialogue, but we must remember the original elements of him being an evil bastard. Scratch's versatility in murder and in methods of fucking up Alan's life fits that bit (I will not stoop to making sex jokes). AWAN Scratch is dictionary definition charismatic, the man could charm me out of my clothes just by looking at me. And elegant- Scratch seems to want to appear groomed, clean, neat. He dresses nice, in a suit. I suppose that's elegant enough.

The vibe I got smelling this for the first time hit me straight in the face as AWAN Scratch's smell. It's the smell of that nicely dressed, weirdly charming man you happen upon somewhere in passing. A party, a store, the street. And who knows, maybe that man is a super natural serial killer too? This is a very very charming scent, the vibes are off the charts correct for Mr Scratch.

To recap: AWAN Scratch smells like Montblanc Legend Spirit, because that is a charismatic and charming cologne if I've ever smelled one. The vibes are just off the charts Scratch coded. His hair gel is also probably fragrant, he uses so much of it you'd probably smell it if he got relatively close to you. Freshly pressed clothes get a spot as not only a vibe but a possible applicable smell, as we see Scratch straighten up his clothes and try to look put together, his clothes must be ironed and taken care of. And finally, the Campari- it's not confirmed that's what he drinks, but in my mind it is, and when he does drink, you get a faint hint of it off him.

AW2 Scratch

The smells, generalized: earthy and woody cologne, leather, blood, hotel soap.

By AW2, Scratch has been defeated once, and now, he's just pissed off and wants the Clicker. In every instance we see the man, he's disheveled, and has at least some blood on him somewhere. The other two have to do with Scratch possessing people- the leather from Jaakko's jacket, and the hotel soap as the vaguest, barely there little note you can only smell if you get close enough to, say, kiss him. Which I would. Anyways, that's from Alan freshening up at the lodge, and if we count him possessing Casey, I'm sure he's also been using that soap. I'll elaborate later on what I mean by hotel soap. For now we will see something else. My cologne for AW2 Scratch is....

Burberry Hero. This fragrance is described in this way: The vibrant freshness of bergamot is invigorated with juniper and black pepper and deepened with a heart of cedarwood—a new man, a new hero. Discover [the fragrance], the new [designer] masculine spirit that explores freedom as modern heroism. [Designer's] vision of modern heroism is challenging the stereotypes of masculinity and empowering man to transform and find the courage to embrace who he truly is—to become extraordinary. It's classed in the scent family "earthy and woody" and the scent type is "citrus and woods."

I smelled this and I immediately pictured the colors associated with AW2 Scratch- black, dark brown, deep red. I picked up on a vibe I thought fit him pretty quickly, and this was one of the last colognes I smelled, too. I thought I'd have to settle for one I didn't really think fit him, but then this one fixed that. The earthy and woody description fits for a man who crawled from a lake in the middle of a forest, and the vibes of transformation, embracing your true self, and becoming extroardinary?? All Scratch coded. He wants to transform Alan into himself, or vice versa. He really seems to embrace that raw, visceral, angry version of himself in AW2. And to have the clicker, to be God essentially, is that not extraordinary? The style this stuff goes for is what Scratch goes for. Plus my synesthesia vouches for it.

To recap: AW2 Scratch smells like Burberry Hero cologne, because the vibes are just absolutely applicable to him, and even just smelling it in person I saw his colors. He also smells like leather because, well, poor Jaakko's jacket is now his, and I know for a fact Jaakko takes good care of that leather and it smells great. Blood is obvious, Scratch is constantly covered in it, and if you've never truly smelled blood, like a room covered in it...trust me, you don't wanna. Just take my word that it smells like a sweeter version of rusty metal. And hotel soap, I will now elaborate: you know the little soaps you can get at hotels, how they all smell exactly the same?? Alan definitely freshened up at the lodge, and Casey had been staying there so he likely used it too, and I feel Scratch carried the ever so slight hint of it if you got really really close and he didn't like. Bite your face off.

SO!! That was a lot of work, research, and headaches from sniffing a bunch of cologne for a good thirty minutes. Plus some other stuff that I think fits the Scratch versions. If you have any comments or other ideas of what they may smell like, please reply here or shoot me an ask!! And yes, comments about how unhinged this post is are welcome too.

[klaus-littlestwolf]

I have put together a list of all of the Smells that I think each designation would possess, mostly good, natural smells but some bad as well that come from negative feelings like Fear and Anxiety

Alphas Good Smells:

Pine Trees

Fireplace

Aftershave

Whiskey

Leather

Old Spice

Burning Wood

Brown Sugar

Apple Pie

Peppermint

Coconut

Toffee

New Car Smell

BBQ

Tequila

Matches

Fresh Money

Dark Chocolate

Bacon

Freshly Brewed Coffee

Maple Syrup

Sandalwood

Gasoline

Patchouli

Seawater

Ginger

Hay

Mahogany

Gunpowder

Pears

Cedar Wood

Amber

Pesto

Sautéed Onions

Funnel Cake

Cigarettes

Blackberry

Fresh Cut Grass

Ink

Snap Fire Crackers

Bad Alpha Smells:

Wet Dog

Rancid Meat

Blue Cheese

Blood

Sweaty Feet

Tar

Betas Good Smells:

Lilies

Bamboo

Champagne

Apricots

Pumpkin

Shortbread

Almonds

Tulips

Pina Colada

Mochi

Raspberry

Macaroons

Sharpies

Baby Powder

Butterscotch

Mangos

Sautéed Garlic

Key Lime Pie

Dove Soap

Peanut Butter

Coal

Black Tea

Wet Forest

Marigolds

Fresh Basil

Lilacs

Vanilla

Soda Flavored Lip Smackers

Bad Beta Smells:

Rotting Fish

Oil

Burnt Popcorn

Tuna

Dog Food

Vinegar

Omega Good Smells:

Chocolate Covered Strawberries

Chamomile Tea

Jasmine

Spearmint

Roses

Old Books

Crème Brûlée

Honeysuckle

Eucalyptus

Marijuana

Citrus

Caramel

Cherry Blossom

Cinnamon Bun

Lavender

Whipped Cream

Apples

Dryer Sheets

Fresh Bread

Aloe Vera

Sea Breeze

Peaches

Magnolia Trees

Thunderstorms

Honeycomb

Cherries

S’mores

Cookies Fresh from the Oven

Blanket Fresh out of the Dryer

Sky After it Rains

Smell of Baskin Robins

Bad Omega Smells:

Burnt Rubber

Rotten Eggs

Bleach

Nail Polish Remover

[fictional-library-tournament]

Prelims round 1, poll 19

Propaganda

Scarlet Devil Mansion Library, Touhou:

It's said to have books of all kind, in thousands of different languages, and about countless different things. Some of the books were written by the librarian herself, Patchouli Knowledge. The was also probably one of the first recognizable set pieces in the windows touhou games, being the fourth stage in it's introductory game.

The Lines Between, Dimension 20: Neverafter:

Contains all versions of every story ever written, told, or imagined - free existential horror with every checkout!

"You're nothing more than scratches of ink on someone else's piece of paper."

The Lines Between is a massive place between stories, and staffed by diverse and deific librarians who are just doing their best, such as Glossary, Key, Legend and Index. The library is physically made of books, scrolls, and parchment. Its areas include the Hall of Stories, the Canonade, the Tower of Tales, and perhaps most remarkably: a brilliant view of the Auroratory. It is a beautiful aurora borealis of voices, preserving auratory stories that aren't necessarily written down. It is possible to swim up and into the Auroratory.

Fort Maria Library, Star Sable Online:

(All images come from ssoblr users)

So this is not necessarily a public library and it was abandoned for a long time (as far as we know) but the druids have it up again recently in game. It was built as part of Fort Maria centuries ago by the time of the game, and holds books from all those eras.

It is a gorgeous and expansive place with secret passageways, rare tomes, fluffy seats, old abandoned research, a lot of study areas, old relics, a moving bookcase to a portal cavern and even its very own library ghost!

It is, in my opinion, one of the most atmospheric places in the game. Even without sound on it is gorgeous and bring across its intention incredibly well, and with the sound on it is incredibly eerie. The music here is very limited and quiet, and the player’s footsteps echo through the library.

I feel like whatever you’re researching, you will find something on it in here. It feels like a place you could spend your whole life reading in, and still only have read a tiny fraction of the books there.

the citizens of jorvik (fictional star stable online island) keep all the witchcraft books in there and all their super secret and cool magic books, it was closed for years and it's very mysterious. one of the coolest characters (mrs. holdsworth) in the whole game hangs out there a lot, and it's home to a cute little capran named beatrix and she took her name from her favorite book. the only way you get in the library is by feeding her snacks and reading her books and she's also one of the coolest characters in the game (imo). also beatrix is friends with one of the horses in the game and she often is seen playing with the horse so :) OH and also there's a full heckin portal room in the lower floor!!! with a little pond and a portal that at some point the main characters (the "soul riders") get kicked in by the evil guys (the "dark riders") into this place called devil's gap (despite the name there's just one witch basically vibing in the gap potentially helping out the evil guys but we haven't figured that out yet). and it's gorgeous, if you're worrying about looks. the inside is all wooden and home-y and the portal room is also very pretty eye candy, it's very glow-y.

Bookholm, The City of Dreaming Books by Walter Moers

None