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[aligarhlockspatna]

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[thesightstoshowyou]

No Questions Asked

Ledger!Joker x F Reader

- Chapter One -

Summary: A house call puts you in the path of Gotham’s newest menace.

Warnings: Gunshot wounds, blood, descriptions of medical procedures and medical “torture,” reader is described as having longer hair because I was gripped with insanity and had to write that scene, swearing.

[A/N: This is a bit different than what I usually write! Stepping out of my comfort zone, I guess. Let me know how I did!]

The sidewalk simmers, heat rising off pavement. A weak breeze billows through the street, bringing with it the stench of refuse and exhaust. Gotham in the summer smells like literal hot garbage.

Paradise.

Your nose wrinkles and you tug your hat further down on your forehead to shield your eyes from the sun. Towering buildings offer shade, but thousands of windows reflect the glare of that accursed star at just the right angle to blind unsuspecting passerby. Even the skyscrapers here mean harm.

You weave through the crowd, calves burning with your quick, deliberate steps. The strap of your bag digs into your shoulder and sweat gathers beneath it until your shirt adheres to your skin. The relative cool of the alley you enter would be a relief if you weren’t already so sticky.

The door is unassuming; metal, distressed, a little rusted at the corners like all the others nearby save for the rectangular peep hole at eye level. You knock twice, two sharp raps in quick succession. Almost immediately, the shutter over the peep hole slides open with a clang.

You raise your chin in greeting to the pair of eyes that inspect you through the opening. Slam goes the shutter. The muted click of locks opening reaches your ears before the hinges squeal as the door is tossed open.

You don’t wait for permission from the burly man behind the door. Instead, you cross the threshold and descend the worn stairs two at a time. An annoyed sigh leaves your lips when the stuffy basement air presses into your already overheated skin. You’d think these rich assholes could at least afford some a/c.

Rossi meets you in the doorway. His uneasy expression immediately sets you on edge and you worry the urgency of the situation had not been properly conveyed over the phone. He gives you a look before you step into the room, a glance that says, ‘Don’t ask questions.’

He must think you’re an idiot. You could not have made it in this job for as long as you have by allowing your curiosity to speak for you.

It immediately becomes apparent what Rossi meant when you enter. The low ceiling is dotted here and there with aging, incandescent bulbs that bathe the room in sickly yellow. At the center of the room is a round, makeshift “conference” table littered with bloody paper towels and rags.

A few goons you don’t recognize hover uselessly around another slumped in a fold out chair, the reason you’d been called here on such short notice. He’s vaguely familiar, a distant relative of Maroni’s—Ronny Something. He’s clammy and pale, his scarlet coated fingers pressed limply to the wound in his shoulder.

However, what draws your attention and raises your hackles is the man seated in the corner atop an overturned box. His legs are spread wide and he hunches over them, elbows resting on his knees, fingers clad in purple leather and absently fiddling with a pocket knife. Dark green hair hangs like oily curtains next to a grease-painted face. Stained mostly white with blacked out eyes and a curling red grin, it’s apparently supposed to be a crude imitation of a clown. Above him, the light bulb flickers, throwing him in and out of shadow, but you can still make out the sharp eyes trained directly on you.

You don’t ask. Never do. That rule had been made abundantly clear. Instead you stride across the room and shoo the henchmen aside. Bending at the waist, you pull Ronny’s hand away from his shoulder and click your tongue as blood gushes from two distinct bullet holes.

“I was told these were grazes,” you start as you straighten to shoot a glare at Rossi. “There’s at least two slugs still in there. I’m gonna have to call the doc. He needs anesthetic and blood and other shit to keep him from going into shock. I don’t have the tools—

“Do it,” dares a sing-song voice. Startled, you turn to face the man in the corner. He’s smiling now, yellow teeth peeking between red, his upturned cheeks pockmarked and twisted. You realize the paint covers thick scars that stretch away from his lips like a macabre extension of his grin. The intensity in his gaze is difficult to hold so you don’t, instead glancing at Rossi, the unspoken question of, ‘Who the fuck does this weirdo think he is?’ written all over your face.

“No, no, no, no don’t look at him. Look at me.” Even with the weird, warbled inflection of his voice, there’s authority in his tone and an unspoken threat should you disobey. Brows knitting into a frown, you do as you’re told, and your head twists back to meet the eyes of the clown in the corner. The air in the room is thick and heavy and it’s no longer because of the heat. You can barely even hear the other men breathe.

“I’m a nurse. I don’t have the expertise necessary to perform surgery.” Not entirely accurate these days, but he doesn’t need to know that. “He could die, and then my head would wind up on a plate.”

“I like your head…where it’s at.” His own head shakes a little with his words and a pink tongue darts out to swipe across painted lips. Finally, he stands. Pinching the knife between thumb and forefinger, he slips the blade into an inside pocket. Gripping the lapels of his purple jacket, he gives them an exaggerated shake. His movements are erratic and cartoonish and you can’t stop your nervous little backwards half-step.

‘Who the hell are you?’ The question sits poised on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t let it free. Instead, you grit your teeth as the…man saunters over to Ronny and claps a hand on his uninjured shoulder. The movement jars Ronny enough to pull a pained cry from his mouth.

“Little, uh-“ the clown snaps his fingers like he’s trying to remember something, then makes a grabbing motion like he’s pulling the information out of the air, “Ronny here has faith in your skills. Don’t you, Ronny?”

Weak, but hasty, Ronny nods as though he’s trying to placate the other man. In response, the clown spreads his arms, palm up, eyebrows raised as if to say, ‘See? Told ya’ so.’ Voice a deep growl, he sweeps one arm in front of him and says, “The floor is yours.”

None of the men speak up. There’s no protest, not even a scoff. The only sounds are the flickering bulb and Ronny’s haggard gasps.

You don’t glance over your shoulder at Rossi. It is clear to you now that there has been some sort of shift in power and this clown…this man is in now in charge. And questioning orders is definitely not in your job description.

“Well, that’s fuckin’ great,” you sigh. The man chuckles, high and airy. “Get him on the table,” you snap at the two goons hovering nearby. After a second of hesitation, they quickly comply and hoist a blubbering Ronny onto the dirty tabletop until he’s flat on his back, his legs dangling.

Heart rate pulsing in your ears, you whip off your ball cap and toss it away. Hurriedly, you gather your locks into a messy bun before tossing your bag onto the table next to poor Ronny’s shivering form. The zipper is so loud in the tense silence, the rustle of bandages and the clink of instruments a cacophony. Unfortunately, there’s no sink to be found, so you settle for hand sanitizer.

“You’re gonna be okay, Ronny,” you tell the man staring up at you as you snap on a pair of gloves. Fear and pain twist his expression and you can tell he wants to protest, but won’t dare. It makes you wonder what the man in the makeup is capable of to inspire such fear in hardened criminals.

Scissors make short work of the bloodied shirt. With gauze and sterile water, you clean away dried gore so you can properly inspect the wounds. You note one graze along the bicep, a bullet buried in the deltoid, and another lodged just under the clavicle.

“If there’s any nerve or artery or organ or bone damage, I won’t be able to repair it. He needs actual surgery.” You shoot a withering look at the clown who makes a show of sucking in air through his teeth as though he’s concerned. You don’t miss the grin tugging at his scarred lips. “I can get the bullets out and do my best to stop the bleeding. You two,” you nod at the unnamed henchmen, “Will have to hold him.”

Ronny whimpers, the sweat pouring off his brow mirroring your own. You want to complain about just how not sterile this space is, how Ronny is probably going to die of an infection even if you get him stabilized, but you bite your tongue and focus on the task at hand.

You watch the process as though you are suspended just outside your body: Insert IV, start fluid, give what little pain meds you have on hand, sterilize the forceps, clean the injuries, bodily hold down a thrashing, screaming Ronny while you dig out the slugs, slap him awake and tell him to man up, hold pressure, stop the bleeding, suture the wounds closed.

“Keep this,” you shove the bag of normal saline into the hands of Goon Number One, “Above his head.” You turn to a stone-faced Rossi and solemnly tell him, “Doc needs to see him.” You fill a syringe with antibiotics, amazed by how steady your hands are. Ronny barely flinches when you jam the needle in the meat of his hip.

Snapping off your gloves, you release an exhale that trembles on its way out. On autopilot, you turn back to your bag and reach for the blood pressure cuff when, without warning, leather-clad fingers wrap around your wrist. Jolting, you stumble back into the table to put an arm’s length between you and the clown—where the fuck had he come from—but he closes the distance with one, bouncy step.

Just like that, you’re snapped back to reality. Now firmly seated in your body, you are startlingly aware of how hot everything is: The air, your sweaty palms, his chest against yours, his breath on your lips, your blazing cheeks, the stares of the other men burning into the sides of your head.

“Don’t—

“Shhh, shh, shh, c’mere,” the clown murmurs as he grips you by the back of the neck. You stiffen and push back against his hand in a subconscious effort to put distance between you, but fall still when his opposite hand comes to rest on your neck. His expression is unreadable, the look in his eyes a mixture of amusement and something a bit more menacing. You don’t want to search too hard, but fear of what will happen should you look away keeps your gaze on his.

White paint cracks along the creases in his forehead when his brows raise. “You’ve just got a little….” He presses a thumb to the corner of your mouth and drags it upward. You feel the slickness smearing across your dewy skin, too thick to be spit or sweat. Blood, you wager. Judging by the satisfied smile that spreads across his face and the contented hum he emits, you guess there’s a red half-grin now curling away from your mouth.

An imitation of his own.

You barely manage to contain the flinch when the clown raises his hand to your crown. Fingers dip into your hair and feel around for the hair tie keeping it piled atop your head. Three quick tugs sees your locks cascading around your shoulders. Both of his hands then come up to ruffle and shake until it’s all a wild, frizzy mess.

You don’t know whether to be afraid or baffled, and you realize this is entirely the point. Keep others guessing and unable to predict your next move. There’s fear in uncertainty.

The intensity of the moment, the frantic fluttering of your heart, the stifling heat of the room has you seconds away from begging for mercy, something you’ve never done before. Even the slouch of his shoulders—the way he almost curls over you—seems designed to make you panic. You swallow thickly and open your mouth to break the awkward, terrible silence when he interrupts:

“Why don’t you…run along, hm?” He offers you your ball cap and, tentatively, you take it. The clown shuffles back the tiniest inch and you suck in a gasping breath, your heart like some kind of trapped bird ricocheting against your ribs as you hastily whirl around to pack up your instruments. Fuck Ronny’s blood pressure. Doc can handle it. You must get out of here.

You don’t look over your shoulder as you quickly stride from the room, but lilting words reach you in the hallway and stop you dead in your tracks. A chill races up your spine.

“See you soon!”

The clown’s parting sentiment.

You’re up the stairs and out the door before Rossi can catch up. “Who the fuck was that?” you snarl, whipping around so fast your bag smacks against your sweaty back.

“Are you livin’ under a rock?” he shoots back, but any bite there might have been in his words has been shaken from him. He’s pale, you notice, obviously disturbed by what you had to do to Ronny.

“Yes!” you exclaim, throwing your arms up in the air. “Yes I am! I keep my head so far down, I’m underground.”

Rossi shakes his head and huffs a humorless laugh. “Turn on the news, then. That oughta answer your questions.”

**

Begrudgingly, you do as you’re told.

It doesn’t take long to put a moniker to the painted face splashed all over your television screen:

The Joker.

Maybe it’s time to pay more attention to current events.

[simplyholl]

Birthday Girl

Summary: Loki surprises you for your birthday.

Warnings: Smut. 18+ ONLY. Minors DNI. Sub Loki.

A/N: For @lokisgoodgirl Happy Birthday, my sweet friend. Love you! ❤️

Your heart races as you run down the hall to your apartment. Thor told you that your boyfriend Loki was waiting for you inside with your birthday gift. You finally reach the end of the hallway, turning the knob to let yourself in. You check every room, calling for him. You pause in front of the bedroom door, the first place you should have looked.

You find Loki on the bed, not a stitch of clothing on. Chains wrapped around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides, a black leather collar fastened around his neck. “Happy Birthday, my love. I thought I’d gift you the only thing you’ve ever asked of me.” Control. Loki always was in charge in the bedroom. When you tried to top him, he would growl, flip you over and punish you in the best way.

You quickly shed your clothes, eager to play with your new gift. You slide between his muscled legs, taking his cock between your hands. You pump him slowly at first. When you speed up, he hisses. “You can only cum if you’re a good boy.” You give the ultimatum as your mouth descends on his hard length.

You take him between your lips, tongue swirling over the soft skin. You flatten your tongue, taking as much of him in as you can. He thrusts up, and you stop. “So impatient.” You tease. You lick the pre cum dripping from his tip as he watches you. He follows your gaze to the nightstand. You reach over, pulling your wand vibrator out of the drawer.

“Remember what I said.” You tell him as you power the wand on. You rub it up and down his length. He shutters, moaning your name. You bring him back inside your mouth, locking your lips tightly around him. He squirms as you move the wand over his stomach, down his thighs, and finally up to his balls. He says your name in warning. “Darling!” He shouts as you rub a particularly sensitive spot with the wand.

“You’re being so loud. I know the perfect way to shut you up.” Tossing the wand aside, you make your way up his torso, admiring how good he looks in chains. This was an image you would never forget. You place your legs on either side of his head, lowering yourself onto his mouth.

He licks a fat stripe up your center. You squeeze your thighs tighter around his head as he uses the tip of his tongue to flick your clit. The skilled muscle swipes and swirls against you expertly. You use the pad of your thumb to caress his cheek as he eats you. Your other hand toys with the collar around his neck. You don’t think he’s ever been hotter and the man is sex on legs. Your orgasm sneaks up on you. You buck against his face riding it out, tugging on the collar.

You move back down his body, gliding his weeping cock through your folds. You moan when it hits your clit. You can’t wait anymore, you have to have him inside you. You sink yourself down on him. He stretches you deliciously, and you haven’t put all of him inside you yet. Even though you had slept with him before, you would never get used to how full you felt every time.

When your hips meet, and he’s settled all the way inside you, you both exhale. You bounce on him, loving the way he’s squirming under the chains. Under normal circumstances, he would have both hands on your hips, using you how he wants. But tonight, it’s all about what you want. You pinch your nipples between your thumb and index finger, moaning every time you sink back down on him.

“I’m so close. May I please cum, my beautiful birthday girl?” He asks, you know he’s lacing his plead with sweet words so you’re more likely to give in. You continue riding him, taking a strand of your hair between your fingers, twirling it like a schoolgirl. “Since you asked so nicely…. No.” You giggle wickedly as he groans at your answer.

You lean down, stomach flush to the chains. You tighten around him, loving the way the cold chains feel against your sensitive nipples. You kiss his jaw, sucking above the collar hard enough to mark him. Loki whimpers when you pull on the collar, and it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. “I wish it was my birthday every day.” You think out loud. Loki chuckles. “You have me chained for one night, and already you wish for more. My greedy girl.”

You grasp his shoulders to steady yourself, grinding down on him. This angle makes his cock hit that sweet spot that makes you scream. Your legs tremble each time he drags against it. You feel your climax building. You look at the powerful man underneath you. He trusted you enough to let you have him like this. He shakes from trying to hold himself back from ripping out of the chains. A part of you wishes he would. You bounce harder, “Cum for me, my good boy.” He thrusts up, sending you over the edge with him. “I love you, my birthday girl.”

Tags

@lokisgoodgirl @fictive-sl0th @lokidbadguy @ozymdias @cindylynn @cakesandtom @eleniblue @marygoddessofmischief @coldnique @mochie85 @goblingirlsarah @lokisninerealms @wheredafandomat @peaches1958 @freegardenbanananeck @chantsdemarins @lokidokieokie @l0ki3000 @anukulee @multifandom-worlds @alexakeyloveloki @ladymischief11 @kats72 @mischief2sarawr @lamentis-10 @loz-3 @litaloni @lulubelle814 @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @avengersfan25 @silver-tongue-taken-to-bed @mybugabomlb @bunny24sstuff @luthien-elvenia-asher @gruftiela @itsybitchylittlewitchy @asgards-princess-of-mischief @weirdothatwritess

[pennyserenade]

picture this | chris o'doyle x reader

summary | there is an american woman, famous for her place in the background of protest photograph, and there is man from the ira. one week of every summer their infamous lives join and they forge a simple something a part from it all. rating | (explicit) tags/warnings | ira mention, vietnam war mention, smut, a little bit of an age gap (reader is around 30, chris is 40), friends with benefits, co-workers (?) with benefits, protected sex, fingering, pinv, consensual sex, tender word count | 3.8k a/n | this took way too long to write and i'm sorry about that, but i hope you enjoy it!

Near the middle where the bone protruded on her knee, there was a dainty, thin scar that grew fainter with time. Somewhere–in past publications and museums, in scrapbooks and freshly-printed history books–the scar is being newly formed: she is twenty-two, attending her senior year of college and nothing makes more sense to her than standing up for other people. There is a sign in her hand, uncomplicated in both its design–white board, black lettering–and its demand (PEACE IN VIETNAM). Her youthful face is twisted in pain, her fingers folding the edges of the sign in agony as one knee touches the cement. If the camera had shuttered one second later, you would watch as the other gave way too, and you would see her mouth open wide to let out a scream that would only be masked in the cacophony of other screams.

She is not front in center in the photograph, but near the middle, only captured because of the chance way the bodies moved in that single, precise moment. Behind her is a crowd of soldiers, no older than any of the other students, who will later claim they did not strike first. They will accuse a dusty blond boy who died a week later from injuries he sustained during this photograph. This happened at a college campus she thought she would love forever. Now the degree she got there collected dust in a drawer, and she spent much of her free time trying to do anything that mattered.

Tonight, Chris found she was uncharacteristically romantic, full of cheap, potent beer and the inane idea that because they met once a year and fucked without purpose, that what they did was markedly adult. It wasn’t that she really thought that, but was an easy notion to be taken with; friends she had known in college were getting married and settling down, or already had, and the most consistent relationship she’d had in five years was this annual, week-long endeavor. Of course she knew that what they did was more sophomoric than trying at a real relationship and failing, but she could delude herself into thinking it was more mature on the basis that she did not love him and he did not love her. She told herself because they liked each other intellectually, personally, apart from having sex, it was different:. They had shared interests. He really did think she was clever. When he laughed, the laugh came from some place within him, an innocuous place that did not have coal to burn from in Ireland, but stirred happily back to life with her. When he kissed her, he did it for pleasure. He let her dress and undress herself. He lit her cigarettes the way he did for other acquaintances. When they were at her apartment like this, locked together in the quiet hours of the night, she was unabashed, witty, the least vain and neurotic version of herself.

Chris’ leather jacket hung on the back of a chair in her kitchen, his shoes tucked vertically by the door. His arm sloped over the back of the sofa, hovering near her body but not quite reaching it. In his current state, he looked at perfect ease: dress shirt unbuttoned, the glimmer of his silver St. Christopher’s pendant shining beneath the harsh lighting, a content smile on his face. If one were to glimpse inside her home, one might think he was a permanent resident.

“For a man so supposedly out of touch with the world, that mustache of yours is pretty in vogue, don’t you think?” she teased warmly, nodding towards his mouth. Her beer bottle sweated against the coffee table, without a coaster to protect the wood beneath it.

Growing more comfortable, Chris’ hand moved down, his fingers grazing against her knee. A flush of heat rose to her cheeks almost immediately, and he knew that the touch excited her, simple as it was. She watched carefully as he leaned down, quiet, and pressed his lips to the scar there. It was intimate, too familiar. She was an adult, steady minded, logical, and yet the simple act drove her to wordlessness. This was what a week with Chris always looked like, why she so craved it and feared it: it dizzied her, grounded her in a place that had not ever existed since she was twenty-two. It came back with tenacity whenever he stepped into her life.

Chris had no shame, leveling a satisfied smirk in her direction. He took in the sight of her face, his hand traveling further up her leg, exploring the width of her smooth thigh beneath his hand. She became tense under his touch, taut with anticipation. He nudged her legs apart with a tap of his fingers. Slowly, as if she had never done it before - not for him, not for anyone - she spread them apart.

“That’s right, my girl,” he cooed. Beneath the fabric of his tight slacks, his cock began to stir in interest.

This was a ritual his body knew what was going to happen next–because it always happened next. His pale blue eyes went a shade darker, the pupils widening as he trailed over the insides of her thighs with his fingers. Up close like this, he could smell the perfume on her, a heady, intoxicating scent that he relished as she leaned back on the couch for him. He rose up to her neck, tonguing at the flesh nearest to her throat, humming contentedly as her thighs attempted to close around his explorative hand.

He nudged alongside her jawline with his nose, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses on her neck. Beneath her skirt, he began rubbing soothing circles on her thighs. He could feel the heat emitting from her cunt, was thoroughly taken with the idea that in this state, he could just as well do anything he wanted to her. For months now, he’d been thinking of this, of her — of her soft whimpers, of the scrunch of her face as she came, of the taste of her, acidic and lovely. He’d palmed himself in the dark of night too many times to count, re-imagining the moments she hung up her inhibitions for him. He wanted her more than he could bring himself to admit.

He reached up and felt for the outline of her underwear. There was nothing. “No knickers?” he murmured against the warmth of her skin.

She shook her head, almost coy.

Chris pressed his lips to hers then. At first a light peck, the feeling of her lips against his was better than he remembered - better than anything he could possibly imagine - and he could not help drawing himself more closely to her. His hand carded through her hair, and when she opened his mouth for him, he groaned softly, ghosting his mouth above her own. They sat like that for a moment, staring at one another, measuring the depths of each other’s want before his tongue touched hers, and she eagerly gripped on the side of his shirt, pulling his body over her own. His feather touches on her thighs crept higher and higher until his fingers ghosted over her cunt. She canted her hips up, pleading silently, as his tongue ran over the top of her mouth, possessive and needy.

“What’s a matter, darlin’? No one touched you while I was away?” he teased. The Irish lilt drove her wild as it spread itself across the sensitive flesh of her neck.

Her nails dug into his side and Chris relished in the sting of it – at this something painful, that could also be nice. There was always a terrible, incessant part of him that wanted to know that things could still be nice.

She attempted to mold her form to his again, mewling from his curious lack of inattention. Chris grinned – nearly beamed – as if in wanting him, she was granting him some longed desired freedom. He knew her cunt ached for him; he felt the heat of it as his hand cascaded further up. Instead of touching her, he brushed lightly over her, grazing everywhere except the spots that would do anything for her. A protest finally rose up in her throat, but as Chris pushed the fabric of her skirt around her waist, whistling at the sight of her before him, it only came out as a weak sound instead. She looked at him, glassy eyed. Even in the dim lighting, he could see her glisten.

The alcohol made her pliant, but not incapable; whereas sober she probably wouldn’t let his curious eyes linger as long as they were, she allowed it now, slightly thrilled. The feeling ran up her spine when he brought fingers to her, spreading her puffy lips apart. She stifled a moan, gripping the edge of her couch, arching into his touch. With Chris, nothing ever managed to feel lewd; it felt like the most correct thing in the world, like he was drawing up a map and saying ‘this is where you are, this is where you belong, this is what you’re meant to do.’ It made her dizzy, how much she wanted him to merely touch her – not to mention how badly she wanted his cock, his tongue, anything at all. She wanted to tell him. To say: you could do anything you want with me. I’ll lie on the carpet, naked, let you look forever if you just keep looking at me like that, making me feel like this. Keep making me want you, just this much.

She didn't feel bad about it all—it made her feel strangely, inexplicably whole. Better because she didn’t love him, because she only liked him, and he only liked her, and yet they still wanted to touch one another like this, look at each other like that. She’d waited her whole life to feel that way.

“You’re mine,” he told her. The voice sounded as it came from deep within him, a place he didn’t rightly know existed until it did and he couldn’t help but reveal it. “Aren’t you? My girl, waiting for my fingers–” he circled over her opening, watching blurry eyed the way it closed around nothing “--waiting for my cock, wearing no knickers, hoping that I’ll what?” When they made eye contact, she found she never wanted to tear her eyes away from him again. He looked like he could devour her whole. “That I’d notice, fuck you soon as I seen you?”

He clicked his tongue, entering a single one of his thick fingers into her cunt. He tightened his jaw, watching the way it disappeared into the warmth of her. She was wet as hell. When she pushed at his shoulder, squirming a little beneath him, his lips curled up at the end into a small, genuine grin. He liked the way her face contorted, how she pushed even though she wanted more.

“That f–feels good,” she moaned.

“So fucking wet–” He entered another finger into her.

His nose once more rubbed along the smooth outline of her face. How badly he wanted to know the entire shape of her–to reach inside, extract a piece to take home. His fingers rubbed against the spongy top of her walls, and he measured the beat of her heart, the wavering of her breath, the ghost of her against his skin as he adjusted above her. His other hand grazed beneath the fabric of her shirt, peeling it up.

As he hung his head, a shag of hair concealed his face. She pinned it back just as he licked just above her breast. Her body arched up towards his own and he groaned, pulling his now wet fingers out of her and gripping at her hip. He pinned her against him, knocked his nose against hers, before kissing her; he sucked at her bottom lip, ran his tongue over the back of her teeth.

Chris wanted her to make a mess of him, and to let him make a mess of her. He wanted her spread and wet, wanted to plunge his cock deeply inside of her, wanted to run his tongue over the creases between her legs, wanted to suck her clit, bite her nipples, to see her mouth around his cock, his fingers, wanted to watch her pupils dilate, her mouth form into a neat ‘o’, to hear the thud of her heart against his ear, a sound that would no doubt make his own heart beat quicker, and more happily than it had in months.

“Please,” she told him, and he couldn’t resist.

Her fingers found the buttons on his dress shirt and diligently began to undo them as he reached between their bodies to push down his slacks. As she moved the shirt down his arms, he caught her lips against own again.

“D’you have a condom?” he asked, urgent.

“Over there.“ She pointed to the drawer beside them. He kissed her again before leaning over and grabbing the pack out of the assortment of junk she had stored there.

His brows furrowed as he took one of the wrappers out of the pack. He tried not to think entirely much about the fact that there was empty space where others had been, and tore the end as she hooked her fingers beneath his underwear and drew them down around his hips.

Swallowing, he took himself in his hand. As he pinched the tip of the latex, she reached out, stilling his hands. Before he could ask her what she was doing, she was doing it. He watched with widened eyes as she put her mouth around the weeping tip of his cock, taking him slowly into the warmth of her mouth. His fingers gripped the back of the couch and he sucked in a shallow breath. “Jesus Mary—“ he uttered, face tinting red. Her eyes glanced up and he nearly shuddered; they were glassy, impish, delighted as she flattened her tongue on the underside of his cock, tracing the vein up.

He felt drunk when she hummed around him — everything going straight to his brain all of the sudden. What she could not put in her mouth, she stroked with her hand. Chris could not peel his eyes from her. She’d done this before, of course, but never with so much self-possession. Saliva glistened on his cock and cornered the edges of her lips as she pulled back. He wanted to reach out, to touch her. To tell her good girl and watch the way the praise settled over her skin. But it all happened too quickly; she was already moving off of his cock before the words could come up. “

Now,” she told him, still holding him in her hand.

Chris understood; he nodded and adroitly peeled the condom over himself.

She laid back, spreading her legs apart to make room for him. He looked down at her, reverent, but still with the mind to be clever. “Mind me if I’m wrong, but I thought you women liked a bit of foreplay?” he joked, running his finger alongside her thigh.

Her lips mirrored his own. “This entire day’s been foreplay.” Her own fingers sprawled against his stomach, wrapping around his sides. She looked up at him through her eyelashes. “Like you said, I’ve wanted you to take me as soon as you saw me.”

It didn’t take much more convincing for him. His head dipped, his mouth on hers as he guided her back on the couch. She wrapped a leg around him, their tongues rolling against one another’s as he positioned himself over her. Even through the cotton of his undershirt, he could feel her pebbled nipples against his chest. He sighed, kissing at her jaw, her neck, leaving wet kisses over her collarbone. Reaching between her legs, he ran two fingers through her folds, testing how slick she was for him. He sucked hard on the skin over her breast—hard enough to leave a bruise—and hummed agreeably as she coated his fingers.

“My naughty, naughty American,” he delighted. He spread her folds apart with his fingers, rubbing over her core teasingly. She looked him in the eye, mouth parting to let mouth a silent moan.

Chris repositioned, replacing his fingers with his cock, rubbing the head of it through her folds. He went slack jawed with her as he teased the tip inside of her, stretching her entrance with the fat head of it. Her nails, which had been ghosting over his skin, dug in slightly. After a few moments, he pulled back out, much to both of their dismay.

“Don’t know if you’re wet enough,” he whispered against her lips, grinding his hips in an upward motion. She whined, pouting.

“I am,” she insisted.

“Not for me,” he replied, his hand reaching back between their bodies. He pressed two fingers inside of her, grinning as her brows drew together. “You’re mine,” he told her again, dragging his fingers along her walls. “You can fill yourself with whatever or whoever you like while I’m gone, but I want it to be known that this—“ he rubbed the top of her cunt, reaching a deep part of her that made her squirm. “—is mine. All fucking mine.”

She was intoxicated, the heady fumes of desire spreading out around them. He thrust his fingers inside of her, widening them apart to stretch her for him. Wrapping her hand around the back of his neck, she brought him down to kiss her. He did, parting from her only to cast his translucent eyes down to where he was touching her.

“Fuck, I’m wet enough, Chris,” she said murmured his lips, frustrated. He laughed.

“Not enough. Want you dripping,” he said back, a bit stern. She could see it, suddenly, the way she hadn’t ever been able to before: an etch of seriousness that told her he could be a somber man. She found it terribly attractive. She sucked at the end of his tongue.

“If you fuck me properly, I will be,” she retorted, drawing her fingers around his sides, up to his back. She traced alongside his spine.

He scoffed, though she could see in his eyes he liked the teasing.

“You’re not being very nice to me. Don’t know if I should.” They both watched as he dragged his wet fingers up to her puffy clit. He traced wide, light circles around it. She held her breath, drawing her legs up involuntarily for him.

“You’re clenching around nothing, baby. What a pity.”

“Chris—“ she breathed out. “Chris.”

“Yes, that’ll do,” he nodded in approval, righting himself over her again. He applied more pressure on her clit.

“My pretty-“ Chris took himself in his hand again, lining his cock over her entrance, “-pretty girl all worked up.” He shook his head as if chiding, before thrusting his hips forward slowly. His eyes followed his cock as it disappeared into her, her cunt stretching beautifully around him. She was a goddess, laid out before him, wanting and waiting. Despite his desire for all of her, he thrilled at the slow taking of her. He was savoring it, remembering the tightness of her cunt, allowing the curve of her nails to embed themselves into his mind as well as his skin.

When he found himself fully seated inside of her, he turned his head, kissing the side of her lips, his eyelids, her nose. She pulsated around him. “You feel so tight,” he told her, gradually pulling out, only enough to feel the squeeze of her around him without losing too much of the warmth. He nearly sighed in contentment as he moved back inside.

She was already flush and warm all over from the alcohol in her system, and the feel of him inside of her felt less like an intrusion, as much as it did a missing piece to a lifelong puzzle. His cock was better than his fingers, thicker, longer, going deep as he grinded his hips down into hers. Impatient, she told him, “Faster.”

He huffed out a laugh, but obeyed, drawing up more quickly this time, pressing into her with more intent. She bit back a moan as she felt the plunge of him inside of her. Her knees went higher, something he encouraged by hooking one of them around his arm and thrusting roughly inside of her.

“Fuck, like that,” she moaned, nodding as he went impossibly deep inside of her then. She felt herself grow wetter—could hear it too, the slap of their bodies growing nosier the more intense he grew with his thrusts. It was no longer an issue for him to slide in; her body beckoned him, made all the room so he could seat himself closer and closer to her core.

Chris began to whimper as his thrusts grew more erratic. The pendant on his necklace swung as he watched the way his cock entered her, hitting her in the face as he pushed inside. Her tongue latched onto it, drawing the cool metal into her mouth. When he looked back at her, his eyes were full of unadulterated want. He shuddered, his hands falling over the back of her shoulders, attempting to draw her closer than she already was. She felt the fabric of his undershirt against her sensitive nipples, felt the drag of his pubic bone against her clit as he worked himself inside of her; he was all around her, hot, tangible, lovely, human. Hers.

His fingers wrapped tightly around her shoulders, almost with a bruising intensity, as he began to twitch inside of her. She looked him in the eyes, nodding, urging. He came then, the warmth of his seed inside of her making her gasp, even through the latex of the condom. Her arms wrapped around him, and she panted, smiling.

Pressing a kiss to her breast, he steadied his breathing. She brushed her fingers through his unruly hair, enjoying the faint tickle of his mustache against her skin.

“I’m still gonna make you cum,” he promised, cupping his hand around one of her breasts. They adjusted, so that he tucked himself beside her on the couch, their legs intertwining. His touch was curious more than attentive, the tips of his fingers caressing her warm flesh.

“We’ve got all night.”

“I know,” he smiled, licking behind her ear. Her eyes shut closed, and she pressed away the thoughts that this was not friendly. The alcohol made her feel pleasant, warm, and she did not care.

“Gonna make you cum a lot, my American,” he murmured, biting her earlobe.

She kissed him softly and he returned the kiss in kind, resting a hand on her cheek. He wanted to tell her something terribly romantic, to confess that he liked her quite a lot, that he enjoyed being here more than she would know. But Ireland was such a quiet, fearful place and the IRA had made him wearier than ever; it was best to say nothing than to say too much. It was better to show. His hand drew up between her legs, his eyes glimmering as he pulled away from her.

I want to know all you, said the line he traced up her thigh.

Alright, she consented, parting her legs for him.

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Datura Pt 3

Summary: Trapped Under the Mountain you have to decide if it's worth keeping your enemies close.

Content Warnings: Under the Mountain is like a walking trigger warning, but mentions of torture, unnamed character death via the torture; Rhys is an ass but he's a protective ass so we'll allow it.

Author's Note: This part is loooong, needed to set up Part 4 and it made sense in my head to have these bits in one piece before we get to the *cough cough* personal training. Hope you guys enjoy! :)

(Part 1, Part 2)

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There’s no way out.

You bash the only heavy item you can find--a paperweight, tucked into the back of a dust filled drawer--against the air duct, over and over, large chunks of stone flying in every direction, even as the reality of the situation sets in. There are no back doors, no windows, just this slim chance that maybe, maybe you can bash your way out of the rock on sheer force of will.

The paperweights thuds against the stone make your ears ache. Every blow has your shoulder feeling like it might wrench from it’s socket any second, the pain a sharp thrum with every blow, but you can’t stop, if you stop you will think about it and if you start thinking about it, you won’t make it.

The blows land over and over, sometimes you switch arms to try and give yourself a break. You haven’t slept, exhaustion making this tedious, even more so when this escape attempt requires you to balance atop a bedside table that’s seen better days. Chunks of rock fly away from the wall, dust a heavy coat over your skin, your tongue. It’s like swallowing sand.

“Come on!” You beg the wall. The paperweight shutters, bits of metal cracking, denting. You’ve broken your fingernails, torn apart your knuckles trying to get the hunk of engraved metal to push through the rock. This is your only shot, the door’s bolted from the outside, a guard posted beyond. Rhysand, that bastard, had tossed you into this empty, dust ridden room hours ago. You aren’t entirely sure where you are, the journey over here a blur, glimpsed only in flashes as you’d hung over the male’s shoulder, but that’s irrelevant. The only thing that matters now is getting out, getting free. The air duct is more of a slit, carved into the rock wall that makes up your room, barely enough room for to slide your arm into, but you have to hope it gets wider somewhere. You can’t allow yourself to think about what happens if you can’t climb your way out of the room.

The paperweight lands again and again and again, the rhythm steady, the beat not unlike the drums that had gotten you into this mess in the first place. If you lived through this, you’d never go to another Calanmai celebration again. You take all that anger you feel, the helplessness and confusion of the last twenty four hours and channel it into your arm. The wall shudders, but your elusive powers do not flare behind a few wisps of darkness over your bloody knuckles.

“Break!” You snarl like it can hear you, bend to your desperation.

A few more blows and the only thing that breaks is the paperweight, the hunk of metal cracking into three, small pieces. You stare at it as it slips from your hand, scatters across the rock floor.

You know it can’t see you, but you flash your middle fingers at it. “Useless fucking thing,” you hiss as you climb off the bedside table. The room is larger than you anticipated, a bed in the center, the table next to it with a little lamp; there’s a small bathing room with a copper tub, sink and toilet. It’s not really a cell, it’s technically bigger than your room in the farmhouse, but the locked door reminds you it’s not better by any means. The whole place is dark, carved out of rock in the heart of a mountain, as far as you could tell when they brought you in. It might have made more sense if you were upright, but there’s no use dwelling on that now. Dust covers everything, the sheets, the walls, the floor, disturbed by your footprints, and also the bed that you managed to wiggle behind and push in front of the door. The wood was heavy, it had taken all your strength to push it away from the back wall and across the room. It might not do much, but it will be enough to give anyone pause, at least you hope. It’s better than sitting around waiting for them to come back, at the very least.

You go back to the bathroom, pausing briefly to wash the blood from your hands, then slowly study the place, looking for something you missed the first time around. One door, not even a door to the bathing room to lock yourself in if necessary. No more vents. No windows. No cupboards. Very little places to hide unless you feel like hiding under the bed. You go over the space inch by inch, looking for anything else to use to help dig yourself out, but there’s nothing. Not unless a cheap bar or soap of the moth bitten sheets can be used somehow. The base of the lamp looks heavy, but then you’d be working in the dark and that’s not an option.

You’re about to break down and cry when the door opens. Unhindered, because it doesn’t swing in, it swings out, your idea to block the door absolutely useless. From the darkness of the hallway, Rhys stares at you, then the bed, the wooden frame barely up to his chest.

You flash your middle fingers at him too, teeth pulled back in a snarl. If he tries to come in here you really will rip out his throat. He’d deserve it. Bastard. How could he do this to you?

With a smirk, and the flick of Rhys’s wrist, the bed re-centers itself against the far wall. Not even an inconvenience, he’d moved it like it was no effort at all.

Shit.

“Was that supposed to be a barricade?” The door swings shut behind him, the lock clicking ominously into place in the cavernous space. He’s found a new shirt, the one he’d given you earlier stuffed in the corner where you can’t smell the scent of him any longer.

He seats himself on the edge of your bed, making himself comfortable, eyes darting briefly to the new hole in the wall. “Dare I ask?”

You cross your arms over your chest, still barring your teeth. Perhaps Calanmai had turned you into more animal than girl. “It was like that when I got here.”

“Of course,” he says with a shrug, like he knows it’s useless, that you’ll simply tire yourself out, become easier prey.

“What do you want?” You hiss. He doesn’t seem to notice the venom in your tone, the way you make sure there’s distance between the two of you.

“Can’t I be here to make sure you’re comfortable?” He counters.

“What an excellent host you make,” you snarl. “Will you bathe and tuck me in next?”

His violet gaze rakes slowly over you, assessing the bare expanse of your legs, the tattered, mud stained hem of your shift, barely covering you, the barely there straps clinging for dear life to your dirt stained shoulders. It’s intense, you know many fae would melt under it; you might have too, if things had been different, if the sight of him didn’t make you want to hurl something at his head.

“Darling, I’d lick you clean if you asked,” he says lowly.

“Does that shit usually work for you?” You snap back. He’s infuriating. How could you have kissed him?

He grins as he pushes away from the bed, eyes locked on your lips like he’s thinking about that kiss too. “I don’t usually have to resort to it, my good looks and natural charm do most of the work for me.”

“You have the charm of a viper.”

He huffs a laugh, “Cruel, wicked thing.”

His advances have you backing up, until you stumble right into the wall. The rock bites into your shoulder blades as he halts inches from you, close enough that you can feel his warm breath on your face; smell that citrus and jasmine scent of him. You should push him away, give yourself breathing room, but when he’s this close rational thought eddies from your head.

“What do you want?” You repeat, voice shakier than you intend, trying to remind yourself that you’re angry at him, that you don’t want him anywhere near you. It’s his fault you’re in here.

“Her highness wants you trained,” he says like that’s supposed to mean something to you.

All you can do is stare at him.

“She sent word to your father,” he amends. “He’ll be here in three months time.”

You’re suddenly aware of how loud your own heartbeat is.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me? He never bothered to contact me before.” You’re loosing your edge, mind spinning with all the things you could do to try and put some distance between the two of you.

“It seems your Uncle stole you away in the middle of the night,” Rhys explains. “Hybern has been looking for you since.”

“He’s done a shitty job.”

Rhys shrugs as he reaches out a hand to play with a tendril of your hair, curling it around his slender fingers. A cat playing with it’s food; he has no intention of letting you move away from the wall, trapped between the rock and his chest. “He’s eager to see you again, and Her Highness is eager to prove that you’re useful.”

“Why?” Why does Hybern suddenly care about you? Why does the red head care what you do with your powers? Why is this male touching you still and why are you letting him?

“Hybern’s an opportunist,” he says as he brushes the strand behind your ear. “His plans for Prythian might be closer to reality with the right power behind it.”

None of it makes any sense to you.

Rhys must see that on your face because he says, “Hybern made Amarantha. That might not make sense to you yet, but she is what she is because of him. She knows the best way to solidify her position within the world Hybern intends to create is to hand him a weapon already sharp enough to use.”

“So I’m to be a pawn then?”

He shrugs, the hand still against your temple drifting to brush over your cheek, like he can’t help but touch you. “Or you could also be an opportunist.”

You quirk a brow.

“Hybern might just be your only way out of here, Darling.”

“First off, don’t call me that. Second, what if I don’t?”

“You will.”

You shiver.

 “Training isn’t the choice here. The choice is whether you want to see anyone get hurt to make sure it happens.”

“What are you gonna do, torture me?” You hiss.

He brushes a thumb over your lip, violet eyes trained there like he’s thinking about how they felt against his own earlier. “You have people you care about.”

Your heart drops into your stomach.

“She’s already given me the order to find your uncle.” His fingers drift lower, until he’s holding your chin between his forefinger and chin. “Where is he?”

“I’ve been with you,” you growl; his words snap you back to reality. He’s the enemy. You do not want to be this close to the enemy. “How would I know?”

“My spies tell me he packed a bag and left after finding you gone? Did you have a meeting place for emergencies?”

“Eat shit,” you snarl.

 Something brushes against you, like a shadow, but it’s not against your skin, it’s against your mind. The sensation cold, foreign. You blink, pull your head out of his grip to shake your head, shake the feeling off, but it lingers, holding on.

“You don’t even have any fucking shields,” he snarls.

The brush against your mind makes you see things, the farmhouse, your own hands kneading bread, it takes longer than it should for you to realize you’re seeing your own memories play out before you.

“What-” a tavern spins into view, the worn sign clear enough in your eyes that you say the name out loud. It’s a little place, not too far from Spring’s borders, close enough to Autumn that you can get there by foot in half a day. Your uncle had shown you the place as a kid, said that if you’d ever gotten separated from him than you were to go there and wait. If he’d returned home and found the house empty, the first place he’d go was there.

The memory fizzles; the shadow recedes.

Reality slams into you, tears falling from your eyes. What did you just do?

Like he can’t help himself, Rhys brushes a tear off your cheek with his knuckle. “We’ll work on shields first.”

He moves to leave, but you grab him by the front of the shirt. “Wait, please… please don’t do this! I’ll do whatever you want, ok? Just, just leave my uncle out of this.”

It is not cruelty on his face, or judgment, it’s a flash of pain before he straightens, face a mask of perfect indifference as he slides his hand over yours. “As I said, Darling, I would consider your options here carefully.” He pulls your hand away, the lock sliding out of the door on a phantom wind, and then he’s gone.

Only when the lock clicks into place again do you allow yourself to crumple to the floor and cry.

There’s a flower on the bedside table when you finally manage to get up off the floor. It’s the same glowing, violet bud that you had seen in your dreams, the one that had led you right into Rhys’s waiting arms. You pick it up gently, starring at the soft petals, so thin you can almost see through it. It’s beautiful and strange all at once.

Then you take it to the bathroom and flush it down the toilet.

No more stupid flowers, or those damn visions, no more chasing flowers through the woods and trusting stupidly handsome males to protect you. Fuck him and these stupid flowers! They’re to blame for all this mess. A mess you were now dragging your uncle into.

You might have started to spiral again if there wasn't another flower in the first’s place by the time you step back into the main room. As if the one you’d moved had never been there. You stare at it for a long while, then back at the bathroom, the water still running as the toilet flushes, just to make sure you hadn’t imagined removing the first one.

Groaning, you snatch the second one and toss it down the toilet with the first.

There’s a third as quickly and as soundlessly as the other two had arrived.

“You’ve got to be shitting me!” You snatch it off the bedside table and crush it into your hand, the scent of it overwhelming, too strong for any flower not sprouting from the ground to be.

You wipe the remains on the dirty sheets as you sit on the bed, watching the table now, daring a fourth to appear. No one has used the door, the vents aren’t an option, it’s got to be some sort of magic. Unless tables can sprout gardens in this strange mountain dungeon.

As if it knows it’s being watched, no fourth flower appears.

You cross your arms, waiting, challenging it. Minutes tick by. Nothing. Only then do you breath a sigh of relief.

But in the stillness of the room, the lack of entertainment soon becomes suffocating. You try to distract yourself by stripping the sheets off the bed and shaking the dust off of them. You’re obviously going to be sleeping here, might as well make yourself comfortable. But that doesn’t take long.

You push the bed back in front of the door again, it’s failure be damned. At least, if anyone tries to enter while you sleep you'll have a second to get up and move before they get inside.

The bedside table looks lonely without the bed next to it, with a shrug, you decide to move that as well. You’re half way across the room when one of the legs hits a pit in the floor and tips, the lamp bouncing off the floor with a clang that echoes like a death toll in the cavernous space. The movement knocks the slim drawer on the table wide open, a worn book tumbling out across the floor. It definitely hadn't been there earlier when you'd opened it and found the paperweight. The fading title reads Death Gods and Goddesses Through the Ages, in a scrolling font, the author’s name long since legible in the battered leather. There’s less dust on the pages than the rest of the room, like it hasn’t been here quite as long. After collecting the fallen lamp, blissfully not broken, as if is spelled to avoid such things from clumsy creatures like you, and pushing the table against it’s new home on the wall, you sit yourself atop the bed and prop the book open.

The pages are worn, stained, most of the margins filled with hand written notes. A couple of the pages are even book marked.

Long before the first ages of the world, when light was first introduced, the Gods walked the land, unburdened with the weight or mortality. They were before Time. Until the Darkness came and merged with them. Next to the opening paragraph, someone had added the annotation: These are not the same as the Princes from Hel that opened the Portals in the Dark Ages, these are other. Their powers are other.

You shiver and close the book. Who would keep this here?

You draw your fingers over the edges as you process, lip worried between your teeth. It feels like a bad omen, a warning… from the flowers? Your head hurts from all the questions. Are these supposed to be connected? The flowers had led you to the cave, were they leading you to this strange book now too?

You climb under the covers, cold, and then crack the book open again.  

The Darkness took hold, hid Its children in the shadows of the world, rearing its beloved offspring in secret. We did not know to fear them until it was too late. Monsters, they are such terrible monsters. The next note in the margins was a page number that you flipped to, marked with an old slip of paper with swirling marks doodled across it. The High Lords of old consulted with witches and necromancers, priestesses and seers, biding their time, accumulating their knowledge until they were finally able to form a weapon against the Death Gods. At least, that was what they told them. There were those among them who didn’t want the gods removed, they wanted their power to wield, to rule. There’s lists of names, linked in genealogical order of ancient High Lords and bloodlines that had merged with the Death Gods and Goddesses of old. All carefully mapped out. Whoever had owned this book before had done their research, some of the trees branched over onto other pages, the names growing smaller and smaller the longer they went. You don’t have time to read through all of them before the lock on the door groans as it’s moved out of place.

You scramble to hide the book under the mattress before the door opens, though maybe it would have served you just as well as a weapon, because it’s not Rhysand at the door this time.

The soulless black eyes that leer down at you can only belong to the Attor.

It takes seconds for the hulking creature to kick the bed out of the way, the wooden legs screeching as they slash through the rock floor. You don’t even have time to scream, run, as the monster bursts into the room and grabs you by the back of your shift.

“The Queen demands an audience,” it sneers in a voice that sounds like shifting sand.

You flail as it lifts you off the floor like you weigh nothing, begging whatever gods can hear you for help. In a rare flare of power, your claws tear through your fingertips, dark, misty power budding in your palms. You claw at the leather hands holding you, slashing over and over again, splattering blood over the walls.

The Attor snarls, tosses you hard into the wall just outside your door. The impact is jarring, black spots swimming across your eyes, all the air leaving your lungs in a rush. You scramble to get onto your feet, legs unsteady, the room spinning. The cavern like tunnel ahead of you flips and doubles.

“Stupid girl!” It snarls as it reaches for the back of your shift again.

You scramble out of reach, legs wobbly, talons scraping across the walls. You make it all of three steps before the Attor grabs you again. If it’s arms aren’t it’s weak spot you need to hit it somewhere else, but it holds you up out of reach, lesson learned. You reach for the walls instead, punching your talons through the rocks, trying to wrench yourself out of it’s grip by finding something to hold on to.

The terrible shrieking sound your claws make against the rock makes the Attor give you a shake that has your brain rattling around in your skull. “Stop that you little pest!”

More spots swim across your vision, hands slipping off the walls. These last twenty-four hours have made you feel more powerless than you have ever felt in your life. What good are these supposed powers beneath your skin if they don’t even work?

The Attor, on lumbering legs, carries you through dark, twisting tunnels. It’s like walking through a maze, the dark stone walls only lit with torches in sparse intervals. There’s no decorations. Little light. And cold, so damn cold.

The Attors claws scrape against the ground as it walks; you recognize the scrapping sound from the cave in Spring. It had been out hunting you too.

“Where are you taking me?” You dare to ask.

It takes a couple more sharp turns, it’s breathing a heavy hiss behind you as it finally brings you to a set of double, stone doors. They’re taller than even the High Lord’s manor, something you imagined you’d see a cave troll bursting out of in one of your books at home. There is something ancient, sacred about the space as the doors swing open on their own. The chamber ahead of you is cavernous, held up by too many carved pillars to count, all depicting different battles across Prythian’s extensive history. It’s the art work you’ve seen replicated in temples and paintings across the Courts, all supposed to be symbolic, holy, but this…

The floors are made of red marble, like a blood stain; fitting because pinned to the walls are bodies, some human, some fae, some other, all disfigured and mutilated. The contents of your stomach rises into your throat.

The cavern is full of fae, some dancing to the low rumble of music coming from the corner, like no one notices the horrors around them.

At the far end of the space sits a dais, the red headed Queen seated atop it. A glittering dress the shade of her hair hugs her form, a single shard of bone dangling from a string around her neck the centerpiece of the plunging neckline. She sips from a golden chalice, a smudge of red lipstick along the glass, her eyes bored as she surveys the party happening around her. There’s a half dressed male sitting at her feet, head in her lap, her clawed nails drifting absently through his pale hair. A cloud of mirthroot smoke circles him, golden eyes glassy like he has no idea where he is. Rhysand leans against the back of the throne, the only one watching the Attor approach at all. Maybe it is normal to see the gangly creature drag people into the throne room, the party goers certainly don’t notice you.

Amarantha, Rhys had called her, only notices you when the Attor all but hurls you at the base of the dais, your body crumbling against the stairs.

“Her Highness,” the Attor sneers.

The Queen’s grin is cruel as she passes her cup to Rhys, who all but tosses it over his shoulder when she’s not looking. “Quiet!” She barks at the musicians, half hidden in an alcove between pillars. Her voice carries through the room like she had screamed it, the echo in the chamber making the floor shake.

All eyes are suddenly on you as you manage to get back on your feet.

“Rhysand tells me you’re willing to cooperate,” Amarantha says.

You’re very aware of the leering eyes of the crowd as they take you in, still wearing nothing but a shift. The crowd doesn’t get too close, but they’re near enough that you hear the whispers, the laughter. It’s an effort just to swallow. “Yes, I did,” you choke out, intentionally not looking at the male.

Amarantha frowns, “What was that, mouse? I can’t hear you.”

Your cheeks heat; your hands clenching into fists at your sides. “Yes, I will cooperate,” you bite out.

“Hybern will be glad to hear it,” she strokes a hand over the male’s temple, leaving faint pink scratches across his pale skin. He’s too high to notice. “It will be a great victory for the Court to have you back and ready to take your rightful place.”

Rightful place your ass. None of this feels real, right. Your rightful place is with your uncle, trying dozens of new jobs every time his trading business slows, learning new things to make the money stretch. The farmhouse was a new project, a new chance at settling down and not having to live on the road like you had for most of your life. That life was the only thing you had ever known. To be here now, hearing all this talk about war and conquest, with this queen and her court, it was like you’d stepped into a strange dream you couldn’t escape. You’d been trying not to think about it, but faced with it now you didn’t know what to do, say. She was starring at you like she was waiting for you to thank her for ripping the ground out from under you.

Amarantha frowns when you don’t say anything, her hand across the male’s forehead stilling, the eye in the ring on her finger swiveling to look right at you as if it’s a living thing.

“Rhysand,” she snaps, “you had a gift for our guest, didn’t you?”

Rhys looks up from his very important business picking lint off his shoulder. “Right, of course, the gift.”  

The crowd quiets as he descends from the dais and snaps his fingers. At your feet a male appears, bound and gagged with the dark tendrils of Rhys’ magic. The male looks at you pleadingly and though your heart goes out to his plight, you glance up at the other male in confusion. Are you supposed to know who this is?

“Your uncle’s farm hand,” he says with a grand sweep of his hand, all courtly business.

“Since you couldn’t find the kidnapper,” Amarantha hisses.

Rhys slides his hands in his pockets casually, the picture of bored indifference. But his violet eyes are only on you as he says, “This was the only male waiting for her at the Temple she told me about.”

Temple? Your head spins. You hadn’t shown him a temple.

Amarantha pushes the male in her lap away from her as she climbs down the stairs in heels sharp enough to cut. “A little demonstration is in order, don’t you think?”

Rhys steps a little closer to the bound male, but you can’t help but note that he has now positioned himself between you and where Amarantha is poised at the base of the dais.

The male makes a gasping sound before his eyes glaze over, sweat quickly dotting his forehead. Rhys remains with his hands in his pockets, Amarantha giddy at the sight unfurling before her, and even though neither of them move, it’s clear the male is fighting the invisible grip they have on him. You can’t help but think about what the two of them have already done to you.

“Wait,” you protest. Even if you don’t know this male, you don’t want him to suffer. “I already said I would cooperate, this isn’t necessary!”

The male begins to scream, thrash, and the bands of darkness around his wrists and legs dip into the marble floor, pinning him.

The crowd presses in closer to watch; you hear someone start making bets about how long he’ll last.

“This is a little reminder,” Amarantha coos at you, soft enough that the crowd won’t be able to hear it over the screaming. “Of what will happen if you decide you suddenly don’t want to cooperate with my training regime.”

Blood starts to pool in the corner of the male’s eyes.

You can’t stop yourself from stepping forward and grabbing Rhys’s arm. “Please, stop, I get it ok! Let him go. I will do what you ask.”

But louder than your pleading, Amarantha orders, “If he has nothing to give us, kill him.”

The gag slips from the male’s mouth as he turns to look at you with what looks like his last little bit of strength. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”

The sound of bones snapping fills the chamber; the male gurgles on his own blood, and then he slumps lifelessly to the floor.

Tears stream down your cheeks and you yank your hand away from Rhys’s arm, disgusted.

Amarantha waves the Attor over to clean up the mess, even as she says, “You may resume your dancing now.”

As if it never happened, the music starts back up. People start laughing and drinking, the dances not unlike the writhing shapes you had seen in your vision of Calanmai.

She waits until the noise is too loud to be overheard by the crowd to ask, “Did he tell you where her uncle is?”

There’s no chance this stranger knows anything about your uncle. Rhys had lied, but you still find yourself holding your breath, waiting for this to be a trap too. The male certainly acted like he’d known you.

But Rhys says, “I saw a tavern in Winter, I’ll head there-”

“My men will take it from here,” Amarantha interrupts, “I want you here, working on her.”

Rhys bows. “As you wish, My Queen.”

“Escort her back to her room,” Amarantha orders, “I don’t want her back here until we’re sure she can be controlled.”

“Of course,” Rhys moves to take your arm and you duck out of reach.

“I can walk,” you hiss.

He lets his hand fall, slides it back into his pockets.

Amarantha is half way up the dais when she calls back, “I expect quick results.”

He nods in understanding.

“And don’t forget, Rhysand, about the deal you made for this opportunity.”

His eyes darken. “I haven’t.”

As far away from him as you want to be, it’s a relief when he motions for you to move towards the door. The crowd parts for you, some of them outright ignoring you, others leering.

A redheaded male watches the two of you closely, catching Rhys’s eye as you pass.

Rhys snarls something you can’t make out at him.

“Whore,” the other male spits back.

Rhys laughs mirthlessly in response as the doors shut in the other male’s face.

You have questions of course, but the exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours weighs so heavily on you, you almost wish it was the Attor carrying you out. Every footstep is heavy.

Rhys doesn’t speak as he leads you through the maze of tunnels. You should be attempting to learn the path, so if you ever do get out you know where you’re going, but it feels like so much effort. What does it matter in the end? You’re stuck here, at the whim of an evil queen and whatever the hell Rhys is, at least until your supposed father gets here and decides to do Mother knows what with you. Any attempts at escaping, at fighting are useless, not when Rhys knows where to look for him. It’s the reminder that he lied that finally makes you look up from where you’ve been following the cracks in the floor.

“Why’d you do it?” You ask softly.

“Do what?” He counters. He sounds as exhausted as you feel.

You watch the way the shadows of the torchlight bath him in half darkness, the glow of his eyes dimmed here. Everything about him feels dim in these halls, like the mountain has stolen something from him.

“That male-”

He halts at a door that must now belong to you and a bit of magic pulls the door open. “She wants you to know what she will do if she even suspects you’re trying to outsmart her.”

“No,” you shudder thinking about what he had done. How could anybody wield powers like that? “No that’s not what I mean.”

Rhys leans against the doorframe and motions you inside. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me then, Darling.”

You stare at him. He seems to be playing a game unto himself. Whatever his motives are, whatever it has to do with you, he’d not about to admit it here in the hall.

You step into the room, head pounding from all the unanswered questions you have.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says as the door begins to close.

You don’t want to see him in the morning. He’s a monster who can rip people’s minds apart with a thought, a monster who somehow lured you out of your home and brought you here to his evil queen, but he’s also the monster keeping your secrets, and in places like this, you might need a monster like that on your side. You won’t trust him, not after what he’d done in the cave, but maybe it’s not trust you need in a place like this. Amarantha demands you learn to use your powers, she never said anything about you using them on her.

“I’m counting down the seconds,” you say dryly.

“Dream of me,” he says sweetly.

The door closes before you can snarl that you’ve dreamed of him enough.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tag List: @mariahoedt, @llovelydove, @twsssmlmaa

If anyone else wants to be added to the taglist feel free to let me know :)

[jtl07]

a bit of a continuation of the college theater au

It’s the pictures that are the most damning, really. 

The cast party isn’t much different from one of their regular get-togethers - it certainly feels that way, what with how it being a week after closing. It’s almost more a celebration of surviving exams than anything else. And while Beatrice is glad for the break, she isn’t so sure she’s glad for the memories the party has evoked. 

“You never did say,” Beatrice hears behind her, and it’s in that playful tone that already has her sighing, “How it was like.” Camila comes into view at her side, joining her in appraising the wall of pictures from rehearsals and the run. 

“How was what like?” Beatrice asks, though it’s not pitched so much as a question as it is a warning.

Camila, of course, heeds it not. 

“Kissing Ava.” 

Beatrice coughs into her drink, caught mid-sip and she glares at Camila even as her friend hands her a napkin to clean herself up. Glares harder at the expectant stare. “There’s nothing to say.” Beatrice clears her throat, glances around and is relieved that everyone else is still mostly across the room gathered around the coffee table. She spots Ava lounging on the couch, needling Lilith it seems and she smiles when Ava catches her eye and waves. 

Beatrice hears a giggle at her side. She coughs; looks away. “It’s not like we were really kissing anyway.” The magic of blocking, Shannon had said. It had still required them to be close, with each show inching them closer and closer. Until closing when there had been but a breath between them, and Beatrice had made the mistake of looking into Ava’s eyes and wondering - 

“But you wanted to.” 

Beatrice instantly ducks her head but knows it does nothing to hide the blush on her face. “It was part of the scene,” she mumbles, “Nothing more.” Refuses to acknowledge the memory of Ava in her arms, refuses to entertain the question of what if. “We were just acting,” she says as she nods to herself. 

Feels a gentle touch at her arm. When she looks at Camila, there’s no teasing in her eyes, just a gentle earnestness. “There’s no shame in it. On or off stage. You know that, right?” And Beatrice hears what she’s really saying: you’re not alone, we love you, it’s okay. 

Beatrice nods and manages a small smile. Camila returns it before pulling away. “And just for the record, she feels the same way, Bea. Ava might be a good actor but no one can look at someone like this without feeling something true.” 

Beatrice zeroes in on the photo Camila taps on as she leaves. She remembers this moment: they’d been on break, rehearsing the day before opening and Ava had been doing her level best to help with her mounting nerves.

As soon as their midday break had been called, she’d tugged Beatrice into a corner, laid Beatrice’s palm atop her chest. “Breathe with me, Bea,” Ava had coached, as she took in a slow deliberate breath. “Close your eyes, don’t think about anything but this. Just you and me. Just breathe.” 

She remembers the rush of her thoughts, the blood in her ears, the warmth of Ava’s skin beneath her shirt; remembers locking onto Ava’s voice and letting everything else fall away. Remembers feeling calm. Centered.

And when she’d finally opened her eyes: home. 

“There you are,” Ava had murmured, and Beatrice remembers now how the shutter of the camera had registered faintly in her consciousness. But all of her focus had been on Ava, on her soft smile, the tenderness in her eyes.

Even then, she hadn’t really seen it, had looked but had been too scared to really admit it. Here in print, the truth of the moment is laid bare: how Beatrice looks at her; how Ava looks at her back.  

She takes a sip of her drink, feels it burn down her throat - something more, something like hope.

[accio-victuuri]

Wang Yibo Bazaar January Issue feature article

What do you hope to see from him when you pay attention to him?

Faced with a public figure does not speak, should we choose to remain silent and just observe and speculate, or should we continue to build a bridge of dialogue at eye level and continue to ask questions?

This is a question Wang Yibo asked us.

We are happy to receive and answer - to come calmly without presuppositions, to follow only the intuitive guidance of the moment, to eliminate biased thoughts, and to see him as a "person" first.

This is not an article written just to fill the page. Perhaps what I can tell you truthfully is that every word in it was written at the filming site of this work, and was typed word by word at a distance of less than 20 meters away from the person I was working on - Wang Yibo. It seems that this is necessary to ensure the immediacy and time-limited nature of this creation.

It is full of questions that may not be asked even if they sit down and face to face. Perhaps it is precisely because there is no need for conclusive or chaotic answers that these questions become more reckless, direct and useless.

In the end, not only did the answer no longer matter, but it became increasingly unclear who the question was addressed to.

Wang Yibo: What you see is what you get

Written by: Lu Yanni

In a huge room surrounded by cement, there are two small temporary spaces surrounded by black cloth: the larger one is a shooting room, and the other smaller one is a space where people can watch movies and rest at any time. There were some white folding chairs inside, which were only occasionally empty throughout the cover shoot.

For more than four hours, the only thing that never stopped here was the music - some of which were from the editor's private playlist, and some of which were specially requested by Wang Yibo. They may be psychedelic, light, noisy, or strange, difficult to classify and describe, but no matter what the style and rhythm of the music are, they are all consistent and uninterrupted.

Wang Yibo just kept his head down and said nothing, even sternly smiling, and immersed himself in doing what everyone who came to him wanted him to do. Are all similar jobs the same? Does every day of his life look exactly like the same day?

The music was so loud that people could jump inside. He remained silent, without saying a word. There was nothing but silence.

He squatted down, covering his face with his hands, and then his head. His hands messed up his hair.

He half-knelt until he gradually fell to the ground. He curled up into a ball. He looked up. He bent over and simply lay flat on the ground, one leg bent, the other leg also bent, and his hands spread out and stretched forward. He fell directly to the ground. He closed his eyes and rubbed his hands on the white floor paper.

He said nothing, nothing but silence. Where is he lying?

I suddenly thought of his name being screamed out by the crowd in that small southern town more than a thousand miles away half a month ago, and the moment of silence when the lights went out in theaters one after another in contrast to the noise. , he sat down in the seat that belonged to him for a short period of time, and could occasionally get a moment of calm and peaceful listening time in the dark.

What shape and color is the peace he needs? Does he need peace?

The stylist used a tool to curl the bangs on the wig to make them fly a little more, then sprayed them with moisture, pulled them up, and sprayed them with hairspray to make them look messy and branched. He closed his eyes and let it all happen. That's not his hair. What does that lock of hair have to do with him?

A group of people squatted there, surrounding him in the center. The umbrella-shaped light illuminated him, and all he could hear was the snapping of the shutter and the blinking of the flash at the same frequency. It was as if a group of people had discovered some rare plants in the mountains and were sampling them very quietly and carefully. He sat there, occupying only the size of a corner.

Is this a rare moment of relaxation for him? "Relaxation" - it's just our guess. How can one person experience what he is feeling moment by moment for another person? Whether it is one-way or two-way, how easy is it to "understand" between people?

He stood up again, covering his head with his hands, as if he had just hit something, or as if the fight had just ended.

He tilted his head back slightly and took a deep breath. Was it exhaustion? Or some other feeling?

The staff passed by and sighed softly: "The shooting was too intense!"

Looking back, Wang Yibo was curled up in a ball and lying on the ground again. The photographer asked his assistant for a tissue, and he caught himself sweating profusely.

Wang Yibo was still lying on the ground, his body stretched further.

Reputation, what is it?

Is there anything else that can rival the vanity that comes with being in the spotlight?

If he were willing to give one thing in exchange for everything he has now, what would his answer be? What would your answer be?

Will prosperity last forever?

"I know why you wanna hate me! (I know why you wanna hate me!)" "

I know why you wanna hate me!"

The music has changed. Clothes changed. His body also seemed to be suddenly injected with a strength that would not be easily suppressed. Wearing a white vest, jeans, and chewing gum, Wang Yibo smiled, danced involuntarily to the music, and sang along, his voice getting louder and louder. The chorus was repeated once, twice, three times, four times...

"I know why you wanna hate me!"

"I know why you wanna hate me!"

He jumped up. His long arms and legs were swinging in the air.

What kind of opportunities and luck are needed to eliminate other people’s prejudices against you or your own prejudices against others? Is this something that can be controlled by just relying on the rise and fall of one's own ideas?

The next picture is the cover picture. Everyone is working hard to get as high a score as possible. His silence then became deeper.

Someone was saying, "Let's not act like a cover photo shoot... just be normal." So everyone laughed together, trying to relieve some of the pressure and tension, but he remained silent.

What are we creating?

He was leaning on the sofa, looking lazily at the camera, suddenly closing his eyes and leaning on the back of the sofa. How can we know what he is thinking at this time? Does he really enjoy this? A question that doesn't expect an answer at all. Who am I talking to? Who am I asking? A tree, a piece of cream cake, a chair, a bolt of lightning?

On this blank screen, a new face and a new piece of clothing appear every month. What does he, who occupies the center of the screen, think about such rapid changes? Is there any panic? If not, then where is his panic? Does he think his panic has merit? Why do so many things have to be assigned so-called "value"? Who stipulates that people must prepare for a rainy day? Can't we make a decision after it rains? So what if it rains and it’s too late to make a decision? It's nothing more than getting soaked all over. It will be fine if the sun comes out the next day to dry it off.

Things seem to be getting a little more difficult.

"We have to get this cover picture out..."

"How about everyone disperse and stop crowding around him."

It's so hot in the room.

What else could he do? He couldn't go anywhere but stay where he was. Doesn't he want so many people surrounding him? Is he afraid of crowds? Didn't he live for the crowds and the attention of everyone? What does he want to live for? What do you hope to see from him when you pay attention to him?

If a little bit of the world is enough for him, how big is that "little bit"? What are the essentials?

There was a burst of cheers and applause, and everyone was very excited. He suddenly raised his arms in the slightly depressed atmosphere, and wow, the photo was finally "available".

“Well done!”

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Haunt Me✨

A/N: This is just a little part of a horror, romance book I started kinda writing a few years ago. I might post the first part where they meet if anyone wants to read ☺️ Destined lovers 🥰 Might actually expand this into a longer one shot because I’m really feeling the paranormal vibes lately.

Summary: Joel isn’t all that he seems. He might be dead, might be a ghost, might somehow just be trapped in a curse, but you find him. You always find him.

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 734

Pairing: Joel x fem! reader

Tags: Slow dancing, kissing, destined lovers, no outbreak au, haunted mansion ghost vibes

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Rain drizzles lightly against the foggy glass windows, thunder rolling loudly across the pitch black night sky. Candles splay dimly around the cold, dark haunted room. A big chandelier hangs in the center of the massive room, one with black encased walls. The room grows colder as you slow dance around the sunken wooden floor. The room that stands in a massive, abandoned mansion. The mansion where you found Joel.

You shutter as Joel pulls you closer against his broad chest, one hand gliding down the back of your dress and the other gently caressing your jawline as your heart hammers in your chest. His dark tousled curls fall against his glistening forehead as he brings it down to rest against yours. His brown doe eyes are the color of honey and sunlight, flecks of light brown mixing to make the prettiest coffee color you’ve ever laid eyes on.

Every time you look at him, you melt a little more inside. Just like warm liquid seeping down your skin. Hot, scorching, pulsing. He touches your face softly as you breathe in his woodsy scent, your skin alight with electricity with every touch he steals. How you can feel his touch you might never know. He was a trapped soul in this house, a ghost of the past. But what you felt for him, you couldn’t begin to describe it. It’s like you were meant to find each other. Fate.

He spins you in a slow circle as you dance around the old but majestic room. The soft music continues to play on the dusty record player, static sticking to the hollow walls and you cling to his broad chest.

Joel slowly backs you up to the cold, stone wall, his brown eyes paralyzing you in place. He gently tucks a lock of soft hair behind your ear as you feel magic buzzing through your skin. You breathe him in deep, warm mahogany coursing through your senses as you lock eyes.

“I’ve waited so long for this moment. To find you. To have you. I’ve walked these halls more times than I can count. Hundreds, thousands, millions of times. Trapped with no place to go. This house is no place for a girl like you, but yet you keep comin’ back to it. Why do you keep comin’ back?” he asks with furrowed brows and a strong jaw that keeps clenching up, his eyes glazed over with concern.

You flex your fingers around his flannel shirt and let the other drag down his salt-and-pepper scruff slowly, transfixed on the beauty of his warm, honey eyes. You take a deep breath and inhale his intoxicating scent. “The reason why I keep coming back here is for you, Joel. It’s all for you.”

His eyes go wide as he cups your chin and pulls your mouth up to his as he hovers cautiously above your glossy lips. He sighs before he speaks in a slow, gravelly, deep voice. “You’re so stubborn, you know that? Never listen to a word I say,” he smirks as he shakes his head, pulling his plush lips right over yours.

“Yet you keep pulling me in,” you smile as he chuckles softly against you. You feel the deep rumble all the way through your pounding chest as he feels like a hurricane. Overpowering and breathtaking.

“And I’m not gonna stop, sweetheart. Not until you stop comin’.”

“I’m not going to stop, Joel.”

“You’re such a mess, you know that?”

“Yeah, but I’m your mess.”

“Yeah ya are, so c’mere. Let me taste you, sweetheart.”

He sinks his lips down on yours as he pushes you up against the cold bricks, your arms wrapping around his neck as his hands cup your face desperately. You part your mouth and invite him in, feeling his warm tongue lap against yours as you pant into his hungry mouth. You both melt into each other as the lights flicker above you, the rain pelting softly against the glass windows as thunder rumbles overhead. You stay like that for what seems like hours, just holding each other as you melt mindlessly into the other. Bodies burning for the other, wildfire desperate to devour you. And you let it.

Joel’s the blazing wildfire you got sucked into, and you’ll let him burn you, brand you as he devours you completely.

Two souls destined to find each other. Soulmates.

[comatosebunny09]

intermission | r. kyojuro

cw: nipple sucking, language, modern au, needy!kyojuro

He’s a needy little thing, red-faced and pouty-lipped whilst he stands in the doorway of your home office. His gaze is downcast to his feet as he toys with the drawstrings of his joggers. Uncustomary of him, no?

“What’s up, love?” queried over your monitor, the clacking of your keyboard petering out as a smile dons your lips.

You have an inkling of what he needs if the pretty shade of rouge inhabiting the tips of his ears is anything to go by. But, you’re a devious little shit who gets a thrill out of making him beg. It isn’t often that your husband subjects you to this side of him, all squirmy and avoidant.

His oncoming laugh is nervous and light, tugging a smirk onto your face. You watch him work his tongue around an excuse momentarily, his incandescent eyes flitting every so often to the deep cut of your tank. A pang shimmies through the pits of your gut. God, he can be the cutest thing when he wants.

Catching on, you carefully shut the lid of your laptop. Quietly maneuver yourself around the desk, padding over to your husband to encase his hand in yours. It’s warm and saturated with sweat as you lead him to the futon tucked into the office’s alcove. The leather squeaks beneath you whilst you plop down, legs cross, grin shit-eating.

He falls into the space beside you, averting his stare to the flatscreen mounted on the adjacent wall. You bite back a doting coo. He’s just the sweetest thing. You could never deny him the simple pleasure of your body, especially when he comes to you with his defenses buried in the sand. And, of course, he makes you weak-kneed with how shy he becomes when matters of the flesh are involved.

As if it’s second nature, you drag the hem of your tank top skyward, your breasts springing free from the restrictive cloth. Your top tucked beneath your chin, you reach for your husband. “Here,” you say, a tender hand at the nape of his neck, drawing him closer to your chest. “Suck.”

His gaze flicks to you momentarily, silently asking if this is alright. You nod, relaxing against the sofa whilst a mop of feathery, blond hair nestles into your lap. He gives you one final look, offering you an out. When you make no move to push him off, his lashes shutter, and he takes your hardening nipple into the hot suction of his mouth. Your approving moan causes an eager hand to knead the lonely, doughy flesh of your other breast.

Pleasure burrows deep into the center of your thighs. You bite your lip against the swell of it, your head thumping against the headrest. He suckles on your teat like a man starved, occasionally lapping at your nipple and adding the perfect amount of teeth whilst his thumb skates over the other. You gently cup his cheek, observing through hooded lids as your husband delightedly samples from your body, his airy little keens tickling your ears.

A grin rounding your lips, you proceed to comb through locks of marigold, fondness dancing alongside ecstasy in your belly. This break is much needed for you and the love of your life if the wet suckling and needy groans are any indications.

[aligarhlockspatna]

Lock Manufacturer in Patna @ Aligarh Locks

Selecting Aligarh Locks as your lock manufacturer in Patna entails putting security first without sacrificing quality. Aligarh's extensive selection of locks provides solutions that are strong, creative, and customized to meet your demands, whether you're protecting your residence, place of business, or industrial space. With a history of quality and trust, Aligarh Locks has established a solid reputation as a dependable option for both customers and companies. Their dedication to producing high-quality craftsmanship is evident in each item.

[urdepressedslut]

May I request a shapeshifter!reader x platonic!avengers/Bucky where the reader was experimented on by Hydra and received her powers there? The Avengers try to recruit and help reader but she’s freaked out from all that’s happened and Bucky helps her overcome the fear and stress and learn to use her powers? Lots of angst but also lots of fluff if possible? (I also want to add your username is amazing lol /gen /lh )

oooooh I've never written a shapeshifter!reader, but I'm very interested with the whole idea. hope you like what I've come up with🥰

Tragedy

♡ Pairing: Platonic!Avengers!Bucky Barnes x Shapeshifter!Fem!Reader

♡ Summary: A new shapeshifter recruit has a hard time adjusting to the team, she feels out of place. Bucky knows what it's like to be the outsider and fight to have control, so he comforts her.

♡ Warnings: angst, fluff, talk of hydra experimentation, mentions of past torture, mentions of Bucky's trauma, anxiety, depression, tony being tony

main masterlist ✧ inbox open

The Avengers compound had been chaotic for the past week, tons of missions, plenty of people getting burnt out— overall it was busy. The compound had gathered some new recruits, adding some much needed people to their team. It would take awhile before they were respected like all of the original Avengers— but they’d get there in time.

A pair of invisible twins had joined the team, taking time with Wanda to master their ability, practice being stealthy. They also had the ability to read minds, which is why Wanda wanted to work with them.

A boy at the age of 19 had just been recruited, his ability being super strength. He was strong, fast and overall almost as in shape as some certain super soldiers. Steve had taken a liking to the boy immediately, noticing he wasn’t just enhanced— but he had a good heart as well, sweet as pie. Steve didn’t hesitate to take him under his wing.

Lastly, there was you. You were the most recent recruit— having just been released from the asylum. Yeah… asylum. Unlike the other new recruits, you had a battered past and a scarred brain. You didn’t have an easy journey to become apart of the team. Truthfully, you didn’t want to be an avenger— you were just trying to survive.

You had been rescued almost a year ago from a hidden HYDRA facility. Almost thousands of bodies littered the building, the scattered evidence that HYDRA had been secretly experimenting on innocent people. The team had scopes out the entire building with heavy hearts, not finding any sign of life— until they had found you. He had found you.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Hidden underneath the facility through a tiny window, you were being held, chains keeping you locked int the confined space. The team remembered that image perfectly, the way they shuttered in horror that you had had to live like this for god knows how long. It was an unsettling day, but a victorious one at least. They had saved you and brought you to medical center immediately. After tests had been done, scans had been run— you were moved to an asylum.

To say you were difficult would be an understatement. But it was just that, you weren’t difficult— you were traumatized. You didn’t feel in control of your body, your mind— your abilities. You were spiraling, the newfound freedom unfamiliar— uncomfortable. You were kept in a white room for a couple months, until you showed signs of progress. You’d speak when you had to. You’d eat if you were told to. You functioned more normally as the days passed, as the therapy sessions came and went.

Truthfully, it was all bullshit. No one recovers from that kind of life. The life of imprisonment and torture.

How could you?

You recovered enough to be allowed out of the white room, walking the halls of the asylum. You knew you didn’t belong here, you weren’t what they labeled you as… crazy. You were struggling to adapt to your new life— that’s all.

Soon enough, your therapist thought you were stable enough to move on to bigger things— like joining the Avengers. She had briefly told you that she talked with a Mr. Fury, and that you had been invited to be an avenger. You wanted to laugh at the offer, how does one even get an offer like that? Although your declines were ignored and you found out quickly that if you didn’t obey and join the avengers, you’d be locked up again at the asylum.

It was either you adapt and do good— be good. Or you were back to staring at the white walls. You chose to not put up much of a fight and let them guide you to the compound. In the back of your mind you wondered if you would always be kept somewhere against your will. The Avengers were good compared to HYDRA, but ultimately— they were holding you hostage just as HYDRA was.

Guess you should be used to it by now.

The introduction was embarrassing, everyone staring at you like you were fresh meat— yeah you were, but the stares had you feeling incredibly self conscious. Everyone seemed nice, offering to help in any way that they could to help you adjust easier. You thanked them quietly and kept to yourself, the team didn’t hear much from you ever.

Unlike the other new recruits, no Avenger spoke out to take you under their wing. Nobody wanted you around.

It was a particular rough training day that had things falling apart.

You had wandered into the training room on your own, sitting crisscrossed by the large mirror. You were trying to meditate, since your little scare this morning. You were a shapeshifter, and could transform into any being, take on their appearance— but not without difficulty. You could only transform if you had touched something. It was unlike any stories that were ever told about your kind— shifting was painful. Back at HYDRA, you were chained down to a table while guards would bring in different kinds of creatures, different suffering innocent people. They beat you into shifting, torture you until you took a different form.

When you woke this morning, your heart was beating scarily quick. Your limbs were cold, your fingertips and toes numb— you had identified it quickly as a panic attack. You dreamt of your days back in HYDRA— the days you were tortured for hours on end, days on end. You found yourself wanting to shift into a muscular guard you had seen in your dream— appear stronger and bigger. You felt you needed to be on alert, protect yourself from the dangers of your dream. The feeling quickly flowed throughout your body, the familiar pain of shifting coming on fast— so you tried everything you could to calm down. That’s where you found yourself sitting in front of the mirror, attempting to meditate.

Bucky wandered into the room, getting ready for his own workout when he noticed your small form on the floor. He watched through the reflection as you had your eyes shut, your chest rising and falling with deep breaths. He was no expert, but he had an idea of what you were trying to do— possibly what had happened. His heart clenched at the sight, feeling terrible that someone else had to go through such things.

Sure, he had read your file— but that was no way to get to know someone. He was waiting for a good chance to introduce himself, maybe show you around. He found that rather difficult, you were very good at staying hidden— sneaking out of a room without notice. He admired your stealthiness, but he didn’t want you to feel like you had to be around the compound.

“Hey.” He started, feeling bad when he saw you jump slightly at his greeting.

You met his blues through the mirror and turned quickly to face him, standing up along the way.

“Hi.” You greeted quietly.

He smiled at your gentle voice, deciding to stop at a good length away— not wanting to make you uncomfortable.

“Haven’t really gotten a chance to introduce myself since you got here. I’m Bucky.” He held his flesh hand out.

You eyeballed his hand, knowing that you would gain the ability to take his form if you touched him. You took a deep breath, enjoying the cool air traveling down your throat to your lungs— before you raised your hand.

“Nice to meet you Bucky, I’m (Y/n).” You said quickly, pulling your hand back to your side— ignoring the tingling sensation that his touch had left.

It wasn’t the unpleasant feeling of shifting either— it was just a pleasant buzz.

“(Y/n), what do you say after I’m done in here— I’ll show you around the compound. Introduce you to everybody.” He offered and immediately regretted his words at the expression of horror on your face.

You gulped, the thought of meeting so many faces all in one day— it was extremely overwhelming and anxiety inducing. You didn’t want to mess up your first impression, you wanted to have gotten a good nights rest before you met everyone. You probably looked a mess, your hair— your clothes—

“(Y/n)?”

Bucky’s voice snapped you back to the moment and you shook your head, scratching the back of your neck in embarrassment. Being caught in a little moment there.

“Uh… I’d rather meet everyone another time… if that’s okay.” You whispered out, nervous that he’d get mad at your refusal.

He noticed how nervous you were to tell him no, on one hand he was proud that you had spoke up— knowing you came from HYDRA. Another part of him was saddened at your hesitation— no doubt you were waiting for a beating or some kind of torture.

“Of course, we can go at your pace.” He told you in a soft voice, hoping to keep the conversation smooth and calm.

You weren’t prepared for the kindness and you felt thrown off at his response. It took you a second to gather your thoughts before you could talk again.

“Thank you.” You whispered so quietly that you were sure he didn’t hear you.

Bucky had though, and even if he didn’t respond— he felt his heart hurt at your scared quiet voice. He hated HYDRA— so fucking much.

The conversation ended soon after, giving you time to excuse yourself to your room while Bucky started his workout— all his thoughts of you of course.

You hadn’t given him a full answer in his offer. He knew you didn’t want to meet everyone yet— which was fine. But he still wanted to show you around— if you wanted to.

After he showered and cleaned himself up, it was the late afternoon. He headed up to your room to retrieve you.

He knocked three times before waiting patiently. He could hear the faint thuds of you inside, and by the sounds of it— you hadn’t been expecting a visitor.

The door swung open and your eyes widened at Bucky standing there. For a second you wondered if someone was setting him up to do this… talk to you.

“Hey. Was wondering if you were still up for the tour?” He asked hesitantly, waiting for you to decline.

You thought for a moment, taking in the way he looked clean, his hair seemed freshly washed and shiny. Your eyes wandered to his outfit, jeans and a navy blue henley that complimented his eyes. You smiled little at how put together he looked.

“Just you and I?” You wondered, swaying on your feet.

He nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Just us. Whatta ya say?”

You wondered how much it would hurt to find out he was indeed being forced to hang with you. It would sting— but would it really be anything new? You repeled people and that’s the way you liked it. No one had the chance of hurting you if you didn’t let anyone in.

You gave in regardless, taking a chance. Knowing that this was going to hurt.

“Okay. Lemme get a sweater.” You told him, sneaking back inside you room— grabbing a gray knitted sweater.

Pulling it over your tank, you exited your room and closed your door with a click. Turning towards him, you were met with happy crinkly eyes, his warm smile beaming into you. It was hard not to smile back, but you managed somehow.

“Where to?” You asked.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. First stop— the kitchen.” He announced dramatically.

You could tell he was trying a little too hard to make you comfortable. But it was an appreciated gesture— you just couldn’t stop thinking about how much this was going to hurt.

Every sweet gesture was just another rock being placed over your chest. Eventually your bones wouldn’t be able to hold the rocks— they’d crack them and crush your heart.

You said nothing as you followed behind him, wandering through the hallways until you both entered the kitchen— which was full of avengers. Your anxiety spiked immediately and you wanted to disappear from all the staring.

“Heyyyy! Look who it is! It’s the rookie— are you done hiding from us now?” Tony asked dramatically, fake being hurt.

His question was fair, but you couldn’t find yourself able to answer with all eyes on you. You could feel yourself start to sweat, your hands cold and becoming numb. Some may think you’re being dramatic, but you just weren’t mentally prepared to meet everyone.

“Tony don’t…” Bucky warned lowly, trying to keep his voice down as to not bring any more attention on you.

“Oh c’mon Barnes— you have to be a little curious as to where she’s been hiding this whole time. Let’s remember this is my property— I deserve to know who’s living in it.” He said as a matter of factly.

You swallowed and tried thinking of a response. Maybe you should apologize. You wondered.

“She still deserves privacy Stark.” Natasha voiced from the corner of the room.

Tony rolled his eyes, turning back towards you with a smirk.

“Sooo what’s up rookie? Where ya been?” He asked.

Despite many trying to defend you— they were also curious as to where you have been. They knew of your arrival and hadn’t seen you much since then, besides Bucky. But he was only just starting to talk with you today.

“I’ve been in my room mostly, trying to adjust.” You managed to make out, your throat was still tight with nerves.

Bucky looked to you with a pitied gaze. He felt bad that he had put you in this position.

“You should totally come to a famous Avengers movie night sometime kid.” Tony suggested, and a bunch of the surrounding Avengers nodded.

You relaxed just slightly, although Tony was pushy and loud— you could tell he had good intentions. You nodded your head and attempted a small smile.

“Yeah, that sounds great. I’ll definitely make it one night.” You told him, and he smiled in triumph.

“I’m not too hungry anymore— wanna get outta here?” Bucky spoke from beside you, and you felt relief at his words.

“Yes please.” You whispered to him, earning a smile from the soldier.

You two waved your goodbyes and headed out of the room, heading towards the living area. Bucky immediately spoke up once you two were away from the rest.

“(Y/n), I’m so sorry— I didn’t think they’d all be in there. Please know that I didn’t do that to you on purpose.” He apologized and you took him by surprise by grabbing his metal hand.

“It’s fine, I believe you.” You reassured him, “Besides, Tony is right. I need to stop hiding.”

Bucky softened his gaze and held your hand properly with his metal one, getting your attention on his blues.

“Hey, you don’t have to rush into anything. You go at your pace, okay?” He told you, his voice smooth and gentle. “I know what it’s like to switch to this lifestyle after living with…”

He trailed off, knowing your story from the file but he didn’t know if you knew that. Of course, you had assumed everyone knew your story— kind of sucked, but you didn’t have a choice in the matter.

“I know. Its much different here than Hydra.” You finished for him. “It will take time but I’ll get there. I already feel better now that I can talk to you.”

“I’m here if you ever need to talk— about anything. I’m not so sure how great I am with advice but… I’m a good listener.” He told you.

You smiled and gave his metal hand a tiny playful tug.

“Thank you Bucky.”

He nodded and gave your hand a playful tug back.

“Don’t need to thank me, just know I’m here for you.”

A/N: haven’t proofread this— ignore spelling mistakes🥰

[jaeeyaaasworld]

Sister's Best Friend - LN4

Featuring: Lando Norris x older!Y/n

Warnings: mention of sex, shitty best friend, cheating husband, Lando has an older sister

Requested: Yes/No

Lando was 14 when his older sister brought home her best friend, Y/n. he was 14 and Y/n was 20. she was one of the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen, he still thought that up to this day, after ten years that they knew each other and he had been crushing on her.

it's been 10 years since they met the first time. at that time she didn't even spare him a glance, as she should, since she was 20 and he was 14. but as time passed Lando kept thinking about her, he was getting older and he was only waiting for her to give him a chance.

his heart broke in a million pieces when Y/n got a boyfriend, he couldn't believe that the love of his life was interested in another man, how could she do that to him. the only thing that he wasn't thinking about is the fact that she didn't even know he had a crush on her, and the fact that he was still 18 and she was 24.

Lando's already shuttered heart cracked a bit more when Y/n announced to their family that she was getting married with her boyfriend, Theo0, and they were all invited. it was in 2019, he was 20, she was 26, and he was determined to get ready and be absolutely stunning at their wedding.

at the wedding

Lando was standing in a corner, his drink in hand, as he watched Y/n dance with Theo in the middle of the dance floor, everyone present at the wedding making a circle around them, but for some reason he could watch them have their happy moment so clearly, it was like the universe was making fun of him.

"why so sad, kiddo?"

Noah, Y/n's younger brother asked him, hooking an arm around his shoulder.

"come on, I'm just 3 years younger than you"

Lando bit back, taking a long sip from his drink as he rolled his eyes.

"hey, 3 years are a lot"

Noah said, making Lando nervous. if 3 years were a lot, 6 were too many.

"anyway, why do you look so sad, huh?"

he asked again. in that exact moment Lando decided that he was gonna let everything out.

"listen, I like your sister, since I was 14, since the first time that I saw her. I believe she's the love of my life, but here I am, at her wedding with another man"

Lando finally said, making the other man take a little step back, unhooking his arm from the driver's shoulder and staring at him with wide eyes.

"damn, man. are you fine?"

the older genuelly asked, as Lando let out a big sigh, going back to staring at the happy couple in the center of the dance floor.

"I'm not fucking fine. but she looks so happy"

the driver replied sincerely, staring at the love of his life smiling up to another man. he was okay with seeing her happy for now, he was only gonna wait for her to realize that he was waiting for her.

to the present

it was after one of his practices, he came back to his apartment, impatient to get ready and go to his sister house. she was throwing a little party there, they would have dinner all together and Y/n was gonna be there, without her husband.

he got the keys in the door lock, twisting them around and entering his apartment casually. his eyes met Y/n's puffy eyes, as she was sitting on his couch in his living room, almost making him let out a scream. he forgot that he gave her the spare key to his apartment in case of anything happening.

Y/n was there, seated in his apartment. her make-up was leaving long black strikes on her cheeks as she cried, a cute dress hugging her curves in a way that got him weak in his knees and a pair of high heels on her feet.

Lando slowly made his way towards the woman, crouching down in front of her to make her look at him in the eyes.

"what's going on, sweetheart?"

he asked, used to using that nickname with her, as she always used it with him, since the first time they met. Lando earned that nickname since he was always in his best behavior when Y/n was around.

when the driver didn't get any reply, he placed his hand on the side of Y/n's cheek, softly trying to clean the make-up smeared all over her cheek, having no success.

"could you tell me what's happening, please?"

he pleaded gently, slowly making the woman look up towards him.

"Theo"

she whispered. Lando knitted his eyebrows, his jaw clenching without him even noticing.

"what did he do?"

the seriousness in his voice couldn't be masked or go unnoticed, but he still tried to not make her see it.

"he's cheating"

her voice cracked, her hand came up to her face, as she covered her mouth so that she wouldn't make any sound. Lando's fingers wrapped around Y/n's wrist, pulling her hand away from her face and wrapping his arms around her figure.

"oh, sweetheart"

he whispered, rage was pumping through his veins; this asshole was dating the woman of his dreams, a figure that turned heads, a face like a doll and the best personality ever, and he dares to cheat on her? what the fuck?

Lando forced himself to just be sweet and console Y/n that was crying on his shoulder, trying his best to not feel happy about them probably divorcing.

his hand reached for her cheek again, pulling away reluctantly as he wiped the tears away from her cheek.

"he doesn't deserve you, okay? you deserve someone to worship you and love you like it's the end of the world, Y/n"

Lando whispered, both his hands on her cheeks now, his thumbs caressing her skin softly. he wasn't getting any reply, so he just kept going.

"listen, we will get you cleaned, this beautiful face can't get ruined like this. then we will get into my car, drive around a bit since we have so much time left before Selene's dinner and then you will have a calm dinner and be fine, alright?"

he explained his little plan to Y/n, getting a little nod in return as she was finally about to stop crying, a few sobs still showing up a few times.

"can I pick you up?"

Lando softly asked, as Y/n nodded her head hesitantly. the driver placed one arm behind her back and one behind her knees, picking her up in bridal style, making Y/n wrap her arms around his neck.

he made his way towards his bedroom, walking into his bathroom and softly placing Y/n onto the bathroom sink. she sat there with her hands placed onto the sink beside her thighs, her shoulders raising from the pressure.

"I'll get make-up remover and some pads"

Y/n nodded at his statement, not even questioning why he got make-up remover and pads in his apartment when he lives alone. Y/n was kind of assuming that he had a lot of girls over, when in reality Lando was only waiting for this to happen, for her to realize that he was waiting for her and showing up to his house unannounced.

he placed everything on the sink next to her, taking one of the pads and getting some make-up remover onto it.

"can I do it?"

Lando asked, concerned that he would mess things up between them, but he got a nod in return. he gently placed the pad over her cheek and started wiping the pad around, careful not to ruin her actual make-up who surprisingly was still intact. Y/n closed her eyes, enjoying every touch of his fingers on her face as she finally felt cared for after a year.

the driver wiped the make-up from her other cheek too, finally seeing her face clean after all that undeserved crying. the woman opened her eyes, eventually realizing the proximinity of their faces, but she still didn't back off.

their faces kept getting closer with time passing, making Y/n gulp and realize something: she was about to kiss her best friend's younger brother, she couldn't go on, the guilt would have eaten her up from the inside. so she backed off abruptly.

"I'm sorry, but we can't... you're sister is my best friend"

she whispered, her eyes looking anywhere but him.

"no, no- I know, I'm so sorry"

Lando replied, his hands fidgeting with his clothes as he looked down to the floor, not daring to look her in the eyes.

"do you... still wanna drive around a bit?"

he hesitantly asked, his eyes slowly searching for hers, still not knowing if she would be cool about what just happened.

"uhm, yeah- I mean, we had a plan, right?"

she replied, it was almost a whisper. with that sentence only she got him smiling like an idiot from ear to ear.

"yeah"

he practically beamed.

at the dinner

the dinner was over, everyone was slowly going home but Y/n and Lando. Y/n was gonna stay at Selene's house for a little sleep over, since Y/n's husband wasn't there at the moment and Selene's husband was out in a business trip.

Y/n was leaning on the balcony railings with her elbows, enjoying the nice view, when Lando got in the balcony and leaned on the railing next to her.

"hey"

he whispered softly, the look on Y/n's face was giving it all away, he could see in her eyes that she had something to talk about with someone and he promised himself that if Y/n needed someone to hear her out he would be there. so he just asked.

"do you have something you have to talk about?"

Lando asked gently, tiptoeing around the subject and the situation to get her to talk about what was going on.

"you know- I'm just... frustrated"

she replied, without even looking him in the eyes and passing an hand through her silky hair, bringing them back.

"for five months, he didn't want anything to do with me, and now I understand why?"

Y/n finally left out, leaving Lando a little bit confused about the situation.

"anything to do with you? but he was always around when you were here or at mine"

he said, trying to understand whatever she was explaining to him, only to get a small sigh in return from the older woman.

"intimacy, Lando"

she explained fully, as he finally understood what she was trying to say and nodded his head. he placed his hands on the railing as he distanced himself from it.

"ooh- just so you know, Y/n, there's someone out there that is willing to die to fuck you"

Lando finished, leaving a long kiss on Y/'s cheek and turning around to walk out the door and drive back to his place, hoping in his heart that Y/n would ditch his sister to go to him.

after a while, at Selene's house

Selene and Y/n were doing their night routine, putting on creams and everything that their skin needed to keep being healthy, as Y/n was explaining what was happening with her husband to her best friend.

"oh- baby, I knew he was sketchy from the moment that I saw his car parked in front of that nasty motel"

Y/n stopped all her movements, her jaw dropping open at what she heard her best friend say.

"so you knew?"

she asked shocked.

"I mean- yeah, I knew he was cheating but I don't know with who"

Selene kept going, only making Y/n more shocked than she had ever been.

"this was when?"

Y/n asked again, trying to understand the time zone of all of this.

"like... a year ago, maybe?"

the woman said, unsure about the answer.

"you knew for a year and you never thought of telling me?"

Y/n was dumbfounded, she couldn't even grasp the fact that her best friend didn't tell her anything about something so important.

"you know, every wife says that they would prefer to know, but in reality they really don't"

Selene explained, as Y/n's hands flew to her hips to make herself look serious.

"Selene, you're my best friend"

she finally shouted.

"yeah and you're... one of mine"

Selene finished, making Y/n pick up all of her things and run out of the apartment and to a taxi.

at Lando's house

the doorbell rang, as Lando was playing a game in his gaming room. he got up from his chair, a little confused by who it could be that is ringing is doorbell in the middle of the night.

his hand reached for the doorknob, but before he could open the door he stopped; it couldn't be Y/n, right? it has been at least two hours since he came back from Selene's house, she would've come earlier.

with a shrug he opened the door, finding Y/n in front of his house, still in that cute dress that she was wearing at the dinner.

"hey, what are you doing here?"

Lando asked, leaning on the doorframe and trying his hardest to sound as casual as ever.

"aren't you supposed to be at Selene's?"

he kept asking, wanting to understand what was going on with Y/n.

"yeah, I don't want to talk about it, but..."

Y/n started, her sweet voice lowering softly as she searched the right words.

"do you still wanna fuck?"

she finally asked, leaving Lando wide-eyed as he stood straight from the doorframe.

"hell yeah"

he replied honestly, making Y/n come into the apartment and leave all her things on the ground, right in front of the closed front door.

"good"

she finished. her hands reached for his face, pulling him down to her level to place her lips on his eagarly, as his hands placed themselves on her waist firmly. her fingers were passing through his messy hair.

he reluctantly pulled away from her, as his hand reached for his glasses, that were resting on his nose, and tossed them onto the couch to not be in the way. his lips went immediately back to hers, as her hands started working on the buttons of his dress shirt, slowly undoing them all and pulling the shirt off of his body.

Lando's placed his hands under her thighs, patting softly for her to jump into his arms as he carried her to his bedroom. he gently let her fall back onto the mattress, his body pressing firmly onto hers.

he put his weight on his hands and lifed himself off of the girl, taking in every inch of her body under his.

"I waited all my life to worship this body of yours, you will let me do it properly, yeah?"

[kana2025]

MODEL JAEHYUN X PHOTOGRAPHER READER: THROUGH THE LENS

Word Count:

Genres: Romance, Fluff, Lowkey of a Sensual Undertone, Kissing, fast paced

Synopsis: In "Through the Lens," a photographer and rising model, Jaehyun, navigate the blurry line between professional and personal as their photoshoot ignites an unexpected and passionate romance. As they explore their undeniable chemistry, they discover that some moments are worth capturing beyond the lens of a camera.

==============================

The scent of fresh coffee permeated the spacious studio, mingling with the faint hint of wood polish and the metallic tang of photographic equipment. The dim light filtering through the large, industrial windows cast a warm, golden glow over everything, giving the room an almost ethereal quality.

You stood behind the camera, adjusting the settings meticulously. Photography had always been more than a profession for you; it was an art form, a way to capture the essence of your subjects, to reveal something deeper and more intimate than what was visible on the surface. Today, your subject was none other than Jaehyun, the rising star in the modeling world.

Jaehyun was a sight to behold. His chiseled features and the casual yet sophisticated way he carried himself made him a natural in front of the camera. He stood in the center of the studio, his tall frame clad in a simple white shirt and dark jeans, the fabrics clinging to his body in all the right places. His dark hair was tousled just so, giving him a boyish charm that contrasted with the smoldering intensity of his gaze.

"Ready when you are," Jaehyun's deep voice broke through your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. You nodded, lifting the camera to your eye, the world narrowing to the frame you created around him.

"Just relax," you instructed, your voice soft but commanding. "Let yourself be natural."

Jaehyun's posture eased, and he began to move, shifting from one pose to another with fluid grace. You clicked the shutter, capturing each moment, the sound of the camera blending with the ambient music playing softly in the background. As the session progressed, you found yourself drawn into a rhythm, a silent dance between photographer and model.

"Hold that," you called out as Jaehyun turned slightly, his profile catching the light just right. He froze, his eyes meeting yours through the lens, and for a moment, the air between you seemed to crackle with an unseen electricity.

You lowered the camera, stepping closer to adjust the angle of his chin. "Like this," you murmured, your fingers brushing against his skin. Jaehyun's breath hitched at the contact, his eyes darkening as they locked onto yours.

"You're good at this," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. "Making me feel comfortable, I mean."

You smiled, your hand lingering a moment longer than necessary. "It's my job."

Jaehyun's lips curved into a smile that was both playful and inviting. "And what about making yourself comfortable?"

You blinked, taken aback by the question. "I'm always comfortable behind the camera."

He leaned in slightly, his proximity making your pulse quicken. "What if you were in front of it?"

Your breath caught in your throat. The suggestion was both daring and unexpected, and you could feel the tension between you heighten, the professional boundary blurring into something more intimate.

"Let's finish the shoot," you said, stepping back and lifting the camera again, though your hands were now a little less steady. Jaehyun's gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he resumed his poses, his movements slower, more deliberate, almost as if he were teasing you.

The rest of the session passed in a blur, each shot a testament to the undeniable chemistry that had sparked between you. When it was finally over, you set the camera down, exhaling a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

"These are going to be great," you said, trying to maintain a semblance of professionalism. "Thank you for your patience."

Jaehyun walked over to you, his presence commanding your full attention. "I should be thanking you," he replied, his voice soft. "You made this... interesting."

Before you could respond, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but it sent a jolt of electricity through you.

"Jaehyun..." you began, but he cut you off with a look.

"I meant what I said earlier," he murmured, his face so close to yours that you could feel his breath against your skin. "You should try being in front of the camera sometime."

Without thinking, you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut. The next thing you knew, his lips were on yours, soft and insistent, a kiss that spoke of desire and promise. You responded in kind, the world around you fading into nothingness as you lost yourself in the moment.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. "What now?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jaehyun's smile was slow, sensual, and full of promise. "Now, we see where this takes us."

And as he kissed you again, you couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, you had found something worth capturing beyond the lens.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. You and Jaehyun cleaned up the studio together, the air between you thick with unspoken words and lingering glances. Every accidental brush of his hand against yours sent sparks through your veins, and you found yourself replaying the kiss over and over in your mind.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the studio floor, Jaehyun turned to you with a thoughtful expression. "Would you like to get some dinner?" he asked, his voice casual but his eyes intense.

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "I'd like that."

The restaurant Jaehyun chose was a cozy little place, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. It was intimate, with dim lighting and soft music playing in the background. You couldn't help but feel a little nervous as you sat across from him, the weight of what had happened earlier still heavy in the air.

Jaehyun seemed to sense your unease. "Relax," he said, reaching across the table to take your hand. His touch was warm and reassuring. "This is just dinner. No pressure."

You smiled, grateful for his understanding. "It's not every day I kiss my models," you said, trying to lighten the mood.

He chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well, it's not every day I kiss my photographers either."

The ice broken, you both fell into an easy conversation, talking about everything from your favorite movies to your most embarrassing moments. You learned that Jaehyun had a passion for cooking and that he loved to travel. He listened intently as you spoke about your love for photography and the adventures it had taken you on.

As the evening wore on, you found yourself relaxing more and more, the initial tension giving way to a comfortable companionship. By the time dessert arrived, you were laughing together like old friends.

Jaehyun watched you with a soft smile as you took a bite of your chocolate cake. "I have an idea," he said suddenly.

You looked up, curious. "Oh?"

He nodded. "Come with me. I want to show you something."

The night air was cool as Jaehyun led you through the city streets, his hand warm in yours. You walked in comfortable silence, the sounds of the city fading away as he guided you to a secluded park. The moon was full, casting a silvery light over everything.

Jaehyun stopped by a large, old oak tree, turning to face you. "This is one of my favorite places," he said softly. "I come here when I need to think."

You looked around, taking in the peaceful surroundings. "It's beautiful," you murmured.

He smiled, his gaze locking onto yours. "Not as beautiful as you."

Before you could respond, he pulled you into his arms, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was slow and tender, yet filled with a burning intensity. You melted against him, your arms wrapping around his neck as you lost yourself in the sensation.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathless. Jaehyun rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. "I've wanted to do that all night," he admitted.

You laughed softly, your fingers threading through his hair. "I'm glad you did."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "Can I see you again?" he asked, his voice vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache.

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "I'd like that."

The days that followed were a whirlwind of emotions. You and Jaehyun saw each other as often as your schedules allowed, your relationship blossoming with an intensity that took you both by surprise. Every moment together was filled with laughter, passion, and a sense of rightness that neither of you could deny.

One evening, after a particularly long day at work, you found yourself at Jaehyun's apartment. It was your first time there, and you couldn't help but feel a little nervous as you looked around the stylishly decorated space.

Jaehyun seemed to sense your apprehension. "Make yourself at home," he said, guiding you to the couch. "I'll get us something to drink."

You nodded, sinking into the soft cushions as you watched him move around the kitchen. There was something incredibly comforting about being in his space, surrounded by things that reflected his personality.

He returned a few moments later with two glasses of wine, handing you one before sitting down beside you. "To new beginnings," he said, raising his glass.

You clinked your glass against his, smiling. "To new beginnings."

As you sipped your wine, Jaehyun's hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in a way that felt both intimate and natural. You sat in comfortable silence for a while, simply enjoying each other's presence.

Eventually, Jaehyun set his glass down, turning to face you. "I have a confession," he said, his tone serious.

Your heart skipped a beat. "What is it?"

He took a deep breath, his eyes locking onto yours. "I've been thinking about you constantly. Ever since that first shoot, I haven't been able to get you out of my mind."

Your breath caught in your throat at his words, your heart pounding in your chest. "Jaehyun..."

He held up a hand, stopping you. "Let me finish," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "I know this is all happening fast, and I don't want to scare you off, but... I'm falling for you. Hard."

Tears sprang to your eyes at his admission, the intensity of his feelings mirrored in your own heart. "Jaehyun," you whispered, reaching up to cup his face in your hands. "I feel the same way."

A look of pure relief crossed his features, and he pulled you into a deep, passionate kiss. The world around you faded away as you lost yourself in the sensation, your heart swelling with love and happiness.

As the night wore on, you found yourselves tangled in each other's arms, the bond between you growing stronger with each passing moment.

[themournwatcher]

SESSION ONE: WELCOME TO BAROVIA

This is the re-cap/write-up of our first session in CURSE OF STRAHD: HUNTED, a campaign run by our dungeon-master ONYX and played by a total of six people around the table. In this session the party first arrives in the plane of Barovia and meets each other, before heading toward the nearest village (also Barovia).

As a note, the character known as Luca does not show up in subsequent sessions as the player bowed out of the campaign and we brought in someone else to take their place in session 2.

View the cast HERE.

For now, though, here is the start of the STORY SO FAR. / (MOBILE LINK)

The session opens with everyone centering in on a clearing, in the woods just south of Barovia.

Melchior and Giselle had met earlier in the day; Melchior introduced himself to her as a werewolf hunter, and seeing that Giselle was lost, agreed to take her to the village of Barovia so that she could start to get her bearings. It's late, and they've just set camp. Suddenly, an elf bursts into the clearing--Lune--and only pauses for a moment to tell them to "run" before they move along, faster than anyone the other two have ever seen before.

Before Melchior and Giselle have a chance to decide what to do, there is another interruption. Falling from the sky is Crafine, the kenku, followed quickly by Vayagol, a cleric who lands on top of them. As the group struggles to get their bearings, with Melchior offering healing word to Crafine, they realize that Giselle has already run off after Lune.

Eventually, the party catches up and gathers together underneath a tree. Up in the branches, Lune is helping Luca (bloodhunter) and an injured hunter, Bernor, down from the tree. Luca is covered in blood down the front of his shirt, and Bernor is limping along with his crossbow.

Crafine's sense power ability reveals a mass of undead encroaching upon the group from every direction except to the north, so everyone heads north. The mists, which seem to be chasing them, funnels them over the bridge and into the village of Barovia. Although to outsiders, the edge of the town is dilapidated, with abandoned houses and shuttered windows, those native to the plane state that it is always in such a state. The party takes note of a mansion nearby, welcoming with warm lights in the windows, though Melchior is disinterested in seeking help there.

Luca goes to seek help in the inn (Blood of the Vine), but the locals are frightened by the encroaching mists and so no help comes. Despite Melchior's warnings, Giselle makes a run for the mansion and prompts the party to follow. They find themselves trapped within Durst Manor, as the fog closes in and gives them nowhere else to turn. Melchior and Luca hint that this might be by design, alluding to a mysterious baron, and the party goes inside to investigate what might be going on within the manor.

Just inside, in the foyer, the party encounters two children: Rose & Thorn. The two children inform the party that their parents are gone (but insist that they will return), and that a monster "lives in the basement, but is haunting them through the walls". Despite Melchior's reticence, the party agrees to help them out. They decide to leave the children with Bernor guarding them, armed with a crossbow in the foyer, while everyone else explores the lower level of the house.

A short rest is taken, and then exploration begins. It appears as though life has frozen in place: the kitchen appears to have been freshly used, a mess with food and dishware scattered everywhere, and there is a hot feast out and waiting in the dining room. No one partakes of any food, though there is some theft of the silverware after Melchior reveals that he is a werewolf hunter, and that werewolves are a threat in Barovia. He says that a table setting is unlikely to do much damage to one of the beasts, but thefts occur regardless.

Upon not finding much on the first floor, save a bungled attempt to open a locked cupboard and an aside that Vayagol might not hear from her god here, the party decides to head up into the second floor. Melchior recognizes the people in the painted portrait at the top of the stairs, and correctly identifies the face of Gustav Durst, the former master of the Durst Manor and whose family used to rule Barovia. He recognizes Elizabeth Durst, his wife, who is scowling down at the baby cradled in Gustav's arms. The two children in front of them, who he states seem to be Rose & Thorn Durst, are smiling unawares.

In the library, Lune discovers a secret passageway; within, they find runic books on the shelves (which neither Melchior nor Crafine had the time to try and translate). Also within the passageway was a skeleton, that had clearly been killed by acidic darts, clutching a letter. The letter reads as follows:

My most pathetic servant, I am not a messiah sent to you by the Dark Powers of this land. I have not come to lead you on a path to immortality. However many souls you have bled on your hidden altar, however many visitors you have tortured in your dungeon, know that you are not the ones who brought me to this beautiful land. You are but worms writhing in my earth. You say that you are cursed, your fortunes spent. You abandoned love for madness, took solace in the bosom of another woman, and sired a stillborn son. Cursed by darkness? Of that I have no doubt. Save you from your wretchedness? I think not. I much prefer you as you are. Your dread lord and master, Strahd Von Zarovich

Lune opens up the chest on which the skeleton was propped up, and retrieves several items: three identified scrolls (bless, protection from poison, spiritual weapon) and three more scrolls that have yet to be identified. In the study portion of the library, Melchior reads through the first page of an open journal that was left out near the fireplace, and locates a silver key within the desk emblazoned with the symbol of a windmill; he recognizes this windmill from his travels.

Across the hall in the music room, Luca effortlessly serenades Giselle with enchanting piano music while she dances along. Crafine and Melchior enter the music room to investigate, so Giselle steps outside to talk to Vayagol. While this is happening, Lune travels upstairs to the third level of the manor alone, triggering an attack on the party by animated armors that suddenly spring to life.

In the ensuing combat, much is revealed, such as: Giselle is capable of casting magic, despite her previous claims that she is unable to do much more than to cook or paint. Melchior spies Luca drawing his own blood in combat, and his eyes turning a bright electric blue. Crafine almost falls unconscious, but Vayagol dashes over to him to heal his injuries before he is lost.

the party calls for a long rest.

in the library, Luca reveals to Crafine the truth that he is a dhampir, and that his blood is electrified(?) He alludes to some fonder familiarity between himself and Bernor. the pair of them play cards with the children, teaching Rose & Thorn how to gamble.

in the servants quarters, Melchior is carefully embroidering red thread into a large sheaf of spare black cloth. he tells Vayagol that his mother taught him how to do, and gestures to the red flowers embroidered onto his shirt. he implies that the flowers are of traditional significance, and promises to teach her the art of embroidery at a later time.

in the hallway, Lune speaks to Giselle, who is sticking close to them out of fear from the recent attack and feeling safer with them. Lune learns that Giselle was not lying to the party, but she has only recently come into her powers. Lune ponders over the amulet around their neck before taking their meditative rest.

end long rest.

after the long rest, Crafine and Luca realize that Bernor and the children are missing. Alarmed, the rest of the party is quickly roused, and everyone agrees to ascend to the third level of the house. (Luca and Giselle first investigate the third floor, but Melchior writes them off and convinces everyone else to keep going). The third story is unlike the first two: it is decrepit and aged, walls peeling, cobwebs strung along corners and dusty furniture. Crafine locates a hidden stairwell hidden in the far wall. the party splits at this point.

Melchior, Luca, Crafine, and Vayagol enter the northern room. In this room, they find another dead body--a man, but no one knows whom. They tear this room apart with perception checks: Crafine locates a safe in the nearby wall, and Melchior locates the key locket hidden within the bed. Within the safe is a jewelry box with an expensive looking pendant and three non-magical rings; Luca takes the pendant, and Crafine tricks Melchior into handing over the rings. Vayagol reminds them that they are supposed to be looking for Bernor and the children.

Melchior notices that Crafine is additionally wearing a wedding ring.

In the southern room, Lune and Giselle open the door and are set upon by a specter who does not want to permit them entry into the room. Both of them attempt to calm the spirit enough to enter the room, but fail. They do get the specter to indicate that the missing children are another floor up, on the fourth floor, accessible only by the recently discovered secret passage.

On the fourth floor, the party locates the bedroom of Rose & Thorn Durst. It is discovered that the children they previously met on the first floor were not the real spirits, but an entity mimicking them. Through questioning the children, it is inferred that Strahd likely killed their parents at a dinner banquet, and the children were left to starve alone upstairs.

During this discussion, Melchior becomes visibly distressed and leaves the room; although he occasionally interjects with questions, he is mostly pale and sick-looking for a time.

The dollhouse in their room reveals that passages to the basement are missing that should have been there. The house is sentient, and was hiding the basement access from the party (either to protect us or to protect itself). Crafine wraps up the bones of the children to properly bury them; additionally, he and Giselle both allow themselves to be possessed by Rose & Thorn. Lune takes the dolls of the children at Melchior's behest.

Before they descend to the basement, Crafine and Melchior have an argument at the top of the stairwell. Melchior insists that attempting to fight the creature within the manor is futile, as everything within Barovia is subject to the will of Strahd Von Zarovich: their best attempt would be to flee and chance with the mist. Crafine argues that it is the coward's way out, and that there is no other way but to the basement. Despite his reservations, Melchior makes no attempt to leave the group.

During this argument, Melchior bares his teeth at Crafine, revealing sharp canines; Luca notices this and asks Melchior if he is also a dhampir, something which Melchior affirms. Luca shows off his ability to spider climb on the ceiling.

As they descend, Crafine moves slowly, allowing for some to get a chance to converse. Melchior and Luca discuss dhampirism (with a few interjections from Crafine), in which Melchior agrees that they are strange kindred, but does not reveal what he hungers for (Luca is revealed to be a classic bloodsucker). additionally, it comes out that Crafine is in his 40s, with two children between the ages of 20-23. Luca is revealed to be physically 24, but due to his dhampirism, he is also up into his 40s. Melchior is simply 24, Giselle is 18, and Vayagol is 19. Lune does not offer their age.

Melchior keeps getting tripped by Something as they continue to head down the stairs. Crafine is using his sense powers skill repeatedly, fretting over a consecrated presence that has repeatedly occurred. As it keeps showing up from behind, he begins to shuffle the party members in front of him on the stairs so that he can narrow down from whom it is coming. Surprisingly, the cleric, Vayagol, is not the source of this consecrated energy. It is narrowed down to either Giselle or Lune, before Melchior, now at the front of the group, is violently shoved down the stairs.

As he recovers and gets his bearings, the rest of the party catches up to him. Melchior accuses Luca, who had been behind him, of being the one to push him. Luca denies this and the two bicker until Crafine puts an end to it, saying they need to keep moving.

Melchior indicates the group should go to their right, and lead them to a crypt. Underneath the Durst Manor is the Durst Family Crypt, which Melchior notes with no small amount of alarm seems suspiciously empty. As they head south, they find the four empty tombs of the immediate durst family: Gustav, Elizabeth, Rosevalda, and Thornboldt.

Crafine puts the bones of the children into their respective tombs (and Lune lays their dolls to rest with them), and the spirits pass on. Crafine and Giselle are no longer considered possessed.

As they head further into the crypt, Melchior is attacked by a hidden creature referred to as a grick. Thankfully, it is quickly disposed of, with Lune making the killing blow.

END OF SESSION ONE.

[blorb-el]

trick or treat! 🎃

let's see... how about. the opening scene to kryptonian superbat au...... this was my nano project last year (only got to 20k or so though). i'm so tempted to like.... footnote every single scene of this bc it's mostly a labor of love towards precrisis kryptonian worldbuilding Lore <3

465 words, superbat, this scene is gen

---

Kal stares at the notification. “Kelex,” he mumbles. “Why didn’t you remind me earlier?”

Kelex whirrs. “You requested not to be disturbed.”

…fair enough. They’d been busy on the ride back from the conference. Very busy. But now, Kal has to wake up his husband. Best to get it over with quickly.

He opens the shadowed door, wincing at the soft rumbling snore. Pads across to the bed, and slides in. Brus shifts towards him, and Kal kisses his forehead regretfully.

“Brus,” he murmurs. “Brus-kir.”

A furrow appears on that brow. Kal brushes a lock of hair away, cupping his husband’s face, and slowly, one of Brus’s pale eyes cracks open. “Kal,” he mumbles. “You’re insatiable.”

Kal should have woken him up differently, maybe. “Brus. Light of my life. Sun to my moons.”

“What do you want,” Brus mumbles, but his lips curve up ever so slightly.

“Can you talk to the :dhosurro tomorrow morning?”

A grunt. That eye shutters closed for a second. “Why.”

“It’s science, zrhymin. I forgot I had an appointment.”

Another grunt. Brus turns to bury his face into the pillow. Kal goes in for the kill. “It’s for Kim-Da’s class. It’s for the children, Brus...”

A strangled sigh into the pillow, and then Brus turns over to look at him again. “Fine,” he agrees. “But you owe me.”

Kal kisses him, and Brus kisses sleepily back. “Oh?” he breathes against his husband’s lips, and Brus makes a noncommittal noise.

“How about you wake me up better next time,” he mumbles, and Kal buries his forehead into Brus’s shoulder.

“Agreed.”

“When do I need to talk to your plants?”

Kal winces. “Two wohl thirty dendahr.”

Brus fishes for the pillow and puts it back over his face.

“It’s science, zrhymin.”

Brus heaves another sigh, and then slides the pillow down to eye Kal, hair messy. “You’re so lucky I love you.”

Kal melts a little. “I-“

He’s about to say I know. I love you too. I love you so much.

Instead there’s a twinge of pain in his chest.

I don’t understand why you love me so much.

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t say anything, but something in his face must change, because Brus reads him. Brus reads him like he always reads him, like he’s an open book. His eyebrows draw down a little, and he reaches out, touching Kal in the center of his chest, flattening his palm right over Kal’s heart, where the ache lies. “Kal. I love you,” he says, softly.

The pain sharpens a second, and Kal squeezes his eyes shut, reaches up to clasp Brus’s hand in his own. Hold on to him, hold him closer. He lets out a shuddering breath. “I love you too.”

Thank you, he thinks, but doesn’t say.

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Hi! Hope you're well. I had an idea for you: what about a Charles Dickens "Christmas Carol" AU? With maybe Astarion as Scrooge and Evie as Cratchitt? Or a caroling orphan?

Okay, this is tricky because there are so many different ways you can go with this. I'm just gonna break down the two that came to mind. One being more in keeping with Dickens and one playing more fast and loose, simply holding onto the whole past, present and future thing.

Astarion x Evie (Ace!Tav) Masterlist

Ghost of Past, Present and Future with Ascending Astarion

Cazador is defeated and Astarion is able to convince Evie/Tav to help him Ascend; he is holding the staff in his hand, but before he can begin the ritual he is surrounded by three spirits of the past, present and future

All of the vision happen within a fraction of a second before he starts to ritual

The spirit of the past shows the pain of his past, the faces of all those he doomed and who he will now destroy for his own gain, possibly even show him Cazador's past on how he became a vampire and the torture his master inflicted on him

It doesn't excuse Cazador's actions, emphasizing the cycle of abuse and Astarion's part in it if he goes forward with this

The spirit of the present shows him Evie/Tav, how afraid she truly is and how helping him wasn't out of love, but fear, fear he too is acting upon

Emphasizes Evie/Tav's POV on the whole situation and how afraid they are of losing him and how much they love him for who his is now

The spirit of the future then shows him his Ascended form a full century in the future

He has everything, wealth, power, a command over armies and a city that fears him

He can walk in the sun and transform into mist, he can see himself in a mirror and feast to his heart's content

But then he realizes, he can't find Evie/Tav any where

The spirit leads him through the palace, he can smell blood and sees how the servants cower even when alone

He's led up a tower he doesn't recognize, higher than any in the palace and enforced with impenetrable stone

A single door greets him, one the spirit gestures him to pass through

It opens to a room, ornate in decoration and illuminated in candle light; all the windows are shuttered closed and locked so not a hint of sunlight can get through

In the center of the room he finds Evie/Tav sitting on the edge of a large four poster bed

They're dressed in the finest silks and jewelry, their skin a pale, but flawless, and they sit as still as a statue

His stomach twists at the sight, there is no life behind their eyes just a blank stare forever forward

He reaches out to touch her, but his hands passes through her like air

It's then the door unlocks and Astarion gets to see himself fully for the first time

Ascended Astarion greets Evie/Tav and Evie/Tav slips on a smile that Astarion can see doesn't meet her eyes

Astarion watches himself speak with Evie/Tav and feels the need to tear his reflect's hand away from her

It's not so much what he says, as how he says it; there is an ownership to his tone and touch Astarion recognizes, he knows his future self doesn't really love Evie/Tav, how could he love somebody he sees as an object

And then there's Evie/Tav; they're afraid, they're so clearly afraid, but they're too broken to leave

They barely speak, their voice hoarse from disuse, a far cry from the smooth tones that brought him so much joy and comfort

He never considered himself the hero type, he wasn't the one to rescue the princess in the tower, but seeing this, he thinks he might

He wants to deny it, he would never treat his love this way, he just wanted to keep them safe, both of them, but isn't that what his reflection is doing?

Locks on the windows to keep the sunlight from accidentally burning them, a high tower as opposed to a basement so when the night comes they can see the sky, no threat from enemies coming to take them away or kill them in revenge, no lecherous eyes to pluck out while still providing them luxury and comfort

His stomach turns as he realizes just how easily he could let this happen

He's brought back into his body and at the last second throws the staff away

Cazador mocks him for being too weak to take the power when it was right in the palm of his hand

Astarion counters that he is more than what Cazador made him and kills the man, ending the ritual before it could really begin

Evie/Tav is by his side the next moment and he weeps

He later tells them of his vision, of what he saw their future being

Evie/Tav confesses that they acted out of fear as well and they don't want their future to be dictated by it either

They're both looking ahead assured and braver than before

A Christmas Carol AU

This one is more in keeping with Dickens so no Cazador, Astarion is just a standard lazy magistrate who got the position through nepotism and is just relaxing in a relatively cushy government potion

Evie/Tav is still a bard and one day brought in to whatever the Baldur's Gate equivalent is to small claims court over some petty thievery

Astarion finds her guilty without really looking at the case, causing her to have to pay a fine she does not have the money for

Later Astarion sees her again and, feeling a rare moment of remorse, offers for Evie/Tav to play for him and some of the other elites of Baldur's Gate at a holiday party the next day

Evie/Tav cannot believe the audacity of this man "offering" her a job to pay off the debt he inflicted on her

She then throws it all back in his face telling him she's not going to be his little side project to temporarily sooth his guilty conscious only to undoubtedly throw her away the second he gets bored, so fuck off

They part ways and Astarion is effected by her words more than he cares to admit

Then, that night, he's visited by the spirits of past, present and future

His past would obviously contain a lot less torture in this version, but I maintain my head-canon that his parents aren't alive at this point, or at least so distant from him he doesn't have much of a relationship with them

His childhood would consist of a lot of lonely days that taught him that money and influence was the only way to maintain love and affection

I'd also include Sebastian as the Belle in this backstory; he and Astarion were in love, but Astarion's pettiness and ambition in maintaining his position eventually drove them apart

The present would show the next day where the holiday celebrations are under way

Astarion gets good look at his own party and sees it for the hollow thing that it is; a bunch of lazy bureaucrats and their minor petty rivalries

We still gotta give him a Bob Cratchitt, so we get a loot an his secretary and how their life is affected by Astarion's banal cruelties

Maybe Rolan? I don't think any of the party members would fit this very well

Either way, keeping those same lessons

He then gets unexpectedly taken to the lower city where Evie/Tav is playing at a local tavern

She's good, very good if he's being honest surrounded by a comradery he can't say he's ever felt before

Evie/Tav talks about the verdict to a friend and is unsure how she's going to get the money

Her friends assure her she doesn't have to worry about that now, something will come up, it always does, besides it's the holidays, extra performance and extra cash, they'll be loaded in no time

The future is a little trickier since being and elf he can't die, so ending up dead and utterly alone I don't think would work

I think he would have to find himself stuck in the same place, still alone, still with nothing truly his own and surrounded by people who would be just as happy to see him leave as to see him stay

I think then he'd have to be taken a tour of all the lives he did effect, the people not in his circle yet he still dictated the lives of and see what petty misery he spread for no good reason before finally landing on Evie/Tav

They're in debt, having had to go to the thieves guild for the money in the end

Instead of being the great musician Astarion saw they clearly could be, they're just as stuck as he is just older and working themselves to the bone just to keep their head above water

As tempting as it is to put the blame on Evie/Tav for not taking him up on his offer, he knows it's a poor excuse, he would have done exactly as they said and toss them aside and he had done so many other times

He then wakes up the next day with a new perspective and goes about making things right and trying to be a kinder, more empathetic person