#Wrought up in my bones

[future-dregs]

I can't believe he did this in front of God and everybody

[future-dregs]

[future-dregs]

See the thing is that Dean IS obsessive and overbearing, his love is overwhelming and all consuming.

But Sam doesn't feel loved any other way

[future-dregs]

Jealous!Sam, my heart's blood ♥️

[laiiaaa]

Your writing is stunning! Can I request injured!reader and Carmy rushing to be by her side? god the idea of that man dropping everything to be with you....

this has been in my drafts for probably a year now. i forget why i was hesitant to post it. so here’s something for you all :)

“Hey, Cousin—”

“I’m in the middle ‘f something, not now, Richie—”

“Hey.” He raises his brows, gives that serious look that has Carmen’s head peeking over his shoulder because it’s so sharp he can feel it. “It’s your girl. You wanna take this.”

He gets nervous, then, heart beginning to race. Where’s his fuckin’ phone?

“Give it here,” he says, arm extended. Richie hands it over and slips out the door, shutting it to leave Carmen by himself in the office; it only makes hurt stomach lurch harder.

He lifts the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“. . . Carm?” Your voice is broken and wobbly, wrought with tears.

“Baby?” He doesn’t even think before he’s jumping out of his chair, tucking the phone between his jaw and shoulder while he scrambles to find his keys. “Baby, you there? Where are you?”

“I-I’m at the hospital, I tried calling you—”

“The hospital—?” His mind goes back to New York, back to that morning. “What—” He takes a deep breath. His jacket. Where the fuck is it? “Okay, you’re okay, I’m comin’ now, alright?” He storms out of the office toward the lockers, finds everything right where he put it, including his phone. Dead. Fuck. “I gotta hang up, okay? I’m sorry, I know, I can’t take the phone with me. I’ll be there soon, I promise.”

“O-Okay.” A shuddered breath rings through the line, and it kills him. “I’m okay, Carmy—”

“I know,” he says, shimmying into his jacket and feeling for his keys. “I know, baby, but I’m comin’ anyway, you hear me? Gonna be there in ten.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. I love you.”

He doesn’t put the phone back properly, just slides it across the counter and hopes it doesn’t break again, shouting out orders over his shoulder on his way out the door.

The ride there is the longest ten minutes of his life. He doesn’t know what to expect. He doesn’t know anything at all, really. Are you hurt? How bad is it? What happened? Is it a burn, a broken bone, just a flu that got out of hand? Will you need surgery? Did you get in an accident? Did someone try to hurt you? He doesn’t want you to be alone right now. He needs to be there with you. You were fine this morning. You were fine this morning, all beautiful and groggy when he kissed you awake, still cozied up in bed when he left early as the sky turned blue after sunrise. You were fine. You were fine, and then he left, and suddenly you weren’t.

The fluorescent lights make him nauseous. They’re too bright, and a disgusting color, and too different from all the gentle lighting you insisted upon at home. Made the place homey, you said, and he agreed. The nurses at the station must think he’s out of his mind, all wide-eyed and asking for you.

“What’s your name?” the one asks him.

“Carmen, I’m her fiancé, I was—I was just on the phone with her—”

“Okay,” she nods, softening. “She’s doin’ alright now, she was askin’ for you, though. Still gotta get her wrapped up, but you’ll be outta here soon.”

He’s too busy wondering What the fuck does that mean? to properly answer.

When he’s finally brought to your room, his nerves subside—only a little. There’s no blood, no bland hospital gown to say you’re headed off to the operating room. Just a pillow over your tummy, with your arm—your swollen, bruised arm—resting on top of it.

“Hey, hon,” he says, coming to your bedside and smoothing a hand over your forehead to press his lips to your temple. “You alright? What happened?”

“They—” you sniffle when you look up at him, lip quivering— “They had to take my ring off, Carmy—” he nods along to your rambling with a concerned brow— “I-I told them not to, but they said my hand was too swollen—that-that it was gonna mess up my finger—. . .”

“What’s that, baby?” He smiles into your hair and exhales through his nose. So typical of you to get upset about something cute like that, he knows you’ll be okay. “Your arm’s all black ‘n blue, and you’re worried about your ring—?”

“But it’s special—”

“Shhhhh . . . I know, I know . . . ‘m just askin’ you to ease up.” Another kiss lands on your forehead before he asks, “Where’s it at, baby? I’ll fix it for you.”

You pout and look somewhere behind him. “On the table, but you’re not gonna be able to—”

“Just take a breath ‘n relax f’me, yeah? I got it.”

He stands upright again, turning to check that the ring is there—that beautiful, beautiful big diamond for his precious girl, before reaching toward the nape of his neck to unclasp his chain. Carefully, he threads it through the ring, silently urges you to sit up so he can hook it around your neck, icy-cool on your smooth skin, admiring the way it sparkles like your eyes.

You’re still pouting when he’s done, and he kisses your soft lips anyway while he wipes away stray tears. “Better?”

“. . . yeah,” you admit through a murmur.

“Good,” he huffs, pulling the visitor’s chair right next to your bed. With your good arm, you reach for him, just any part of him, and he holds your hand as he kisses your dry knuckles. “You gonna tell me what happened now? What’s got you all banged up?”

And you groan and roll your eyes, insisting that it’s too embarrassing to tell, and he lets you drag it out just because he thinks it’s cute when you’re stubborn. The doctor comes in with the x-rays to confirm that, yes, indeed, you’ve got yourself a broken arm, and after you’re splinted and discharged and given a sling and the next day’s protocol, Carmen holds your good hand on the way out the door.

“Oh,” you start, pausing before he opens the car door for you, “I forgot to tell you.”

“Hm?”

“I drove here.”

“You what?”

“I told you, I was embarrassed, Carm—”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, baby,” he grunts, laughing and shaking his head with fingers running through his hair as he helps you into the passenger’s seat. “You’re killin’ me today, y’know that?”

And it’s not the last time. When he unlocks the front door and sees the laundry spilled all the way down the stairs, with a basket flipped upside down at the bottom, he can put the pieces together. He kisses you softly, doesn’t say a word about it, takes you to the bedroom, and tucks you into bed to let you rest now that your adrenaline is wearing off and the pain meds are making you sleepy.

He fixes up the mess without a second thought, and once he’s done he slips right under the covers next to you, thanking whatever God there is that you’re okay, and that he’s got you back in his arms.

(And tomorrow, when he takes you into the doctor’s office for a proper cast, he has Natalie and Pete pick up your car. He still hounds on you about it weeks later, how you drove yourself to the hospital with a broken arm. You insist it makes for a good story, and to that he can’t deny.)

[future-dregs]

@righteousriot

Sam's happy little smile when they're carving their initials into the table made me think of your fic and how similar Sam might look cutting his mark into certain other things

Supernatural Hiatus Creations | Week Six Prompt: Winchester Brothers Sam and Dean - The greatest love story ever told. Their love and devotion to each other has never changed and never will. 

[sauronxgaladriel]

Haladriel Library

Saurondriel/Haladriel Fanfic Recommendations. Some of these stories could fit into multiple categories. If you have any more recommendations feel free to add them!

Marriage

Shadow-Bride by eye_of_a_cat

Bridesprice by FormerlyIR (Irony_Rocks), Irony_Rocks 

Poison & Wine by Coraleeveritas

Galadriel takes longer to discover Sauron's identity

no matter how many skies have fallen by stitchingatthecircuitboard

A man is a god in ruins by eye_of_a_cat

Queen of the Southlands by FormerlyIR

Galadriel Says Yes

The House That Fire Built by Ready_For_The_Laughing_Gas

dig up the bones (but leave the soul alone) by Wyrd_Syster

Gilded by eye_of_a_cat

And white winter, on its knees by eye_of_a_cat

Mortal Laws by Helholden

A Portion of Thyself by Frotu

Reforged in the Making by FormerlyIR (Irony_Rocks)

Fabricated by Frotu

Canon Divergence/Reimagining of S1 and onwards

I could be your king by cliffdiving

The Tides of Fate by fireheart321

In Case of Defeat, Break Glass by eastwynds

that i may rise and stand, o'erthrow me by mortaltemples

Five times Halbrand's secret got revealed by eye_of_a_cat

Across That Fine Line by MyrsineMezzo

Instruments of Salvation by Scriberated

a fair form by properhaunt

Autocorrelation by EisforEverything

The Return of the Queen by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo)

A Feast of Starlight by TheLightofArwyn

Supernatural Creature AU

should have known better by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo) (Witch/Demon AU)

Wild Magic by Scriberated (Witch/God)

Storm Tides & Weaving Threads by elssiie (Siren AU)

just a taste by stardustspell (Vampire AU)

Haladriel meet before TROP

Spark, Ignite, Burn by cliffdiving

our souls were made from the stars by silverwing12 (Deleted)

Necessity's Bargain by Scriberated

Though the Gods and the Years Relent, Shall Be by Helholden

determination is the cure (for longing) by downtheroadandupthehill

where the spirit meets the bones by kangaroopaws

people throw rocks at things that shine by ophidion

Pick a star, and follow it home by CloudlySkies124

Hades Persephone Vibes

Beasts of the Hill and Serpents of the Den by Helholden

a dust like thine by mortaltemples

One-Shots

Unsired by shady-swan-jones (sweetleaf), sweetleaf 

the light of his eyes by eastwynds

now dark, now glittering by mortaltemples

In the Shadow of Your Heart by mzladybird

i cannot heave my heart into my mouth by fallofrain

this love is glowing in the dark by Orcas86

we could just kiss, like real people do by justatinycollector 

a millstone around my neck by mortaltemples

the nameless by bimmyou

next time by you_wear_fine_things_well

ouroboros by Amuria

Pregnancy/Parenthood

Light and Power by chronicallyexhaustedwriter

shining like a fiery beacon by ophidion

A Blessing of Eru by Scriberated

mitosis by Orcas86

Darkness Bound by no_more_doubt

Smut

A Stressed Tiding by FormerlyIR (Irony_Rocks), Irony_Rocks

this love is glowing in the dark by Orcas86

Buried in Bone by Invisible_Hand

Riptide by makeshiftdraco

Perfection by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo)

like magnets work, only drawn to thee by audreystark

To Follow the Light by Thrill_of_hope

A Moment of Honesty by Draconic_Grace

Dream Within a Dream by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo)

bind yourself to me by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo)

Dream Within a Dream by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo)

Lady of the Seas by eye_of_a_cat

Dark/Dead Dove

all your pain will end here by poeticmemory

Land of Enchantment by EisforEverything

perle by emphemeron

Glanduin Kiss by Anonymous

The Cost of Victory by EisforEverything

what you and i have wrought by thefudge

what heart's ease by fallofrain

Sauron as Annatar

hold her head above the water by Orcas86

next time by you_wear_fine_things_well

the light of his eyes by eastwynds 

Contaminate by Frotu

[future-dregs]

It starts when they get older.

Not old. Just. Older.

Older than they thought they'd be.

They do it every year. A little tradition.

Dean says "Happy Birthday."

Sam replies "Happy Anniversary." blows out his candles, receives a birthday kiss. After that? Sometimes they even make it to the bedroom.

The first time Sam had said it caught Dean off guard. They didn't have an anniversary. What would it even be? Their first kiss, first time having sex, the first time one of them had said "I love you" and meant it in a different way then they'd been saying it their whole lives?

What was an anniversary when you never officially started, you just, became?

A half smile, quizzical, confused. "What?"

"Oh Dean." Sam smiles, soft and warm. If love bloomed color he'd be pink and sherbert with it. He kisses Dean on the mouth and its years of longing and want, desire and satisfaction, devotion past lifetimes, distilled into a tender kiss. Familiar, but exciting. Shockwaves to their toes. Perfected by dozens, and hundreds of times "I've been yours since the day I was born."

Oh.

"Happy Anniversary, Sam."

[future-dregs]

@biromantic-nerd @righteousriot @paranoidxbastard

How would we get by? With stolen credit cards? Eating diner food drenched in saturated fats? Sharing a crap motel room every night?

[druidwolf21]

Five more minutes

Sanguinis/F reader

As requested, here's a little sweet short with everyone's favourite pigeon for (a super duper late) valentines

Fluff and smut( marked by 🌹) are clearly separated so you can read the fluff without anything spicy

Went out with some girlfriends, got a little bit tipsy, talked about big men, rewrote the whole thing, enjoy!

Tags: @beckyninja @moodymisty @thisuserislilsilly @jaghatai-khock @echo-of-damnation @laura-naruto-fan1998 @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @astrohymn @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @kitty-chan33 @incrediblethirst

Sanguinius rolled his arm as the last of his armour dropped from his body, the golden pauldron hitting the metal deck with a shuddering clang as it echoed through the armoury. The tech priests bustled about him, gathering the fallen armour and removing it section by section, scurrying it away to be better cleaned and blessed.

He watched disinterested as the last mechanicum bowed low before exiting with his dented shoulder guard. Pulling on a robe, he exhaled deeply and allowed his shoulders to slump as the door clicked shut, leaving him alone.

The muscles in his back twitched as he stretched with a rumbling groan. Bringing his arms above his head, Sanguinius winced at the crack of bones and tendon as he reached up and shook his muscles loose.

A gentle knock had his head whipping to the door.

"enter" he sighed straightening himself and plastering a smile on his face. Ever the visage of nobility, despite the ache that crept up his back, gnawing at his joints. The door creaked open slowly and suddenly all the bruises and strains vanished.

The door closed with a quiet hiss.

"welcome back, my lord"

🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶

You grinned as you dipped into a small curtsey.

"I'm glad you'r-"

Your words were knocked from you as large arms swept you up in a warm embrace. Laughing, you grasped onto his arms as he spun you, holding you close.

"little bird, I missed you" he smiled, finally setting you back down and kneeling. His hand found your cheek as he pulled you in for a soft kiss, his lips brushing yours in a feather light embrace.

"I missed you too" you sighed, grasping his face gently between your hands. "I'm glad you're back safe"

The angel chuckles softly, pressing his forehead to yours. "I will always return to you, my love, you needn't have worried yourself"

"I will always worry about you, someone has to"

You fussed with his hair, picking clumps of dirt and congealed matter from his locks before wiping the mess onto the scarlet silk of your dress.

He took your hand in his own, pulling you away from his tangles to press a gentle kiss against your knuckles and you pulled back slightly as he finally rose back to his feet. His eyes lingered on you intently as you trailed your own gaze across his body, scouring for signs of injury.

"see something you like, my lady?

You flushed as he flashed you a grin, cocking his head to the side.

"perhaps"

You stepped behind him, pressing a finger into the tensed muscle of his lower back. A hiss emanated from sanguinius and the feathers of his wings puffed in discomfort as you felt the muscle spasms beneath your touch.

"I thought so"

You pulled away, crossing your arms with a scowl before gripping his hand and turning on your heels, heading for the door.

🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶

Raldoron clutched his helmet under his arm as he made his way towards the primarch's armoury, a blinking data slate beeping furiously in one hand as he marched down the corridor.

Halting before the wrought door, he huffed and dragged a hand through his hair. His primarch had been aboard the red tear all but an hour and already cries for the angel to return to the field had begun to echo through the ships vast halls.

Reluctantly, he raised his fist to rap a knuckle against the metal, armoured fingers not even touching the door before it flew open.

"my lady?"

The woman looked up at him with a quizzical look, one arm reaching behind the door before a frown settled across her features.

"no"

The captain stood silent for a moment, staring at the baseline.

"I'm sorry, my lady?"

The woman shook her head.

"I said no"

"my lady, I dont-"

"My lord has barely removed his armour, whatever it is, it can wait"

Before the blood angel could contest, her small hand gently nudged him aside as she stepped through, guiding the great angel behind her as she stormed away.

"My lord-"

"IT. CAN. WAIT"

Raldoron, first captain of the blood angels, esquerry to the primarch himself, stood in shock as his gene father was led from the armoury, an apologetic smile on his face as he vanished round the corner.

🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶

Sanguinius stood as you bustled around his quarters, towels piled in your hands as steam pooled from the bathroom door. You were muttering to yourself as you shifted through your dresser, pulling oils and creams from the drawers before hurrying into the washroom.

A warm comfort wrapped around his chest as he watched you work, bent over the giant marbled pool as you scattered sweet smelling salts into the clear water. You glanced over your shoulder at him and smiled, so sweetly he felt his hearts jump behind his ribs.

"come whilst the water is warm, my love"

Tossing his robe over his head, he stepped over and sank into the bath. Sitting with his wings stretched out, he groaned as the heat seeped into his overworked muscles. A flash of red drew his eye, your dress was tossed to the side as you stepped in beside him, Soft hands rubbing gentle circles in the knots of his shoulders.

He gritted his teeth as your small fingers found a bundle of tired nerves at the base of his wing.

🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶

"sorry" you whispered as you felt sanguinius jolt under your hand. "I promise this will help"

Working quickly, you rubbed the muscles of his back, slowly easing out the kinks and sprains with gentle caresses and medicinal oils, working from his shoulders, along his spine and through the tendons in his wings as the scent of herbs filled your nose. His body responded to your touch, arching into the warmth of your hand, soft downy feathers pudding up as you ran a finger along the joint.

Gradually the tension left his body and you moved to his hair, running your nails along his scalp as you teased debris from his golden tangles.

"better?"

He responded with a hum, a contented rumble as he leant against your hand, eyes fluttering shut as you rinsed the suds from his head.

You stayed for a moment, fingers threading through his hair before he turned, wings flaring behind him as he twisted and pulled you into his lap.

Sitting in comfortable silence, you lay your head on his chest, eyes closed as you listened to the reassuring thud of his hearts.

"I really should see what Raldoron wanted" he sighed, shifting reluctantly beneath you.

"five more minutes" you muttered, wrapping your arms around his neck and nuzzling against him.

A chuckle reverberated through him

"five more minutes"

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

Calloused fingers found your jaw, bringing your face up. Golden eyes stared into yours for a moment before he pulled you into a heated kiss. His tongue tracing along your lips, tasting you as his hands roamed your body kneading at your flesh. His hands found your hips as he slid you forward, smirking into the kiss as you gasped, feeling him harden against you.

"five more minutes?" He muttered against your lips.

Your hips rolled forward, sliding your cunt against his length as you groaned into the kiss, panting as you continued to grind against him.

"so needy, my lady" he whispered, his mouth trailing soft kisses along the line of your jaw and down your throat, pausing above your pulse point as it fluttered beneath your skin.

"did you miss me that much?"

You shuddered as his thumb began tracing slow circles against your clit. You could feel yourself slowly teetering towards the edge, the knot in your gut tightening, so close to release.

His hand stilled, and you whimpered, rocking your pelvis forward to chase your release. His grip on your hip tightened and you stilled, eyes fluttering as you felt his tip sliding against your wet cunt, slowly sliding in, inch by inch. Gasping at the stretch as he finally bottomed out, his thick dick bullying your tight walls as he thrust into you.

You gripped his shoulders, nails sinking into his taunt muscle as you bounced, groaning as his hips rose you meet yours, the tip of his cock finding the spot that made you sing so sweetly for him.

A hand tangled in your hair, jerking your head backwards, exposing your throat as sharp canines broke your skin. You head spun as the angel lapped at the bloody streaks staining your skin, his tongue following the crimson trail as it dropped down your neck and between your breasts.

"so sweet" he panted, kissing the blossoming bruise he had created. "My perfect little bird"

Your eyes rolled back as you came, heat blossoming through your body as you cried out his name. Beneath you, the primarch groaned, his hands shooting to grasp your waist as he felt you clench around him. His thrusts became erratic, hips jerking as he chased his own relief, as he fucked into you, hissing as you clenched around him.

You fell forward onto his broad chest, panting as he finally came, words in high Gothic and his native tongue wrung from his lips as he spilled inside you. Rough palms holding you firm as you felt him fill you and leak between your thighs.

His twin hearts thundered against his ribs and his lungs heaved like bellows as you clung to him, feeling his soften inside you. He held you close, the hand that tangled in your hair now softly trailing up and down your spine, raising goosebumps in its wake.

🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶🪶

Sanguinius brushed a hair from your cheek, admiring the soft pink flush still present on your skin as your breaths evened out and deepened. Smiling, he placed a soft kiss against your brow, admiring the light reflecting in your eyes as you blinked up at him.

"five more minutes?" He asked, tucking the loose strand behind your ear.

"five more minutes"

[twooftheluckyones]

Cult of the Lamb: Luck of the Lamb Part 3: Paradigm Shift Belief is a force beyond reckoning. What one believes in can shape the entire course of their lives, and if their will is strong enough, the lives of others as well. So great can someone's ideals be, that their divine power might change the very fabric of reality. After all, the Lamb was wrought to bring change. ~Previous/Next~ ~Start~

~~~~ Story Segment Under Cut ~~~~

"Una, you have done well," Narinder boomed from above. Finally, freedom was so close. Pride and triumph filled him, victory barely within his grasp. "You are freed from my service. Return the crown to me, so that I may be free! Finally... I will be FREE!" An electric energy filled his arms, the shackles binding him gone, now only one final chain to be broken. Una looked up at the god, eyes filled with awe but still pleading. "Narinder, I have one final request of you," she asked, nervousness filling her entire core and seeping into her words. She felt ready to implode. "Let me join you, fighting by your side as your most trusted follower!" Narinder's smile faded, looking guarded, but still neutral. "I have spent my entire life in your service, and hold you above all else. Let me stay by your side and continue my duties as your loyal servant, please!" Narinder's smile faded, and for a pause he looked at her, conflicted. "Your growing divinity has given you courage above all else... I will at least give you some closure." His jaw tightened, his demeanor turning dour as shadow covered his face. It had to be this way. "You ask far beyond what can be done. I cannot save you from your ending." He looked down at her, eyes narrow. "I arrived in much the same manner you did; by dying. My vile siblings struck me down, but death is my domain. The power within the crown would have allowed me to escape. It is only with their binding chains that I was trapped here." Una felt the floor vanish from under her, clutching the crown with fear. The implication of his words began to sink in. "No! There must be a way!" She stammered, desperation taking hold. "T-The ritual of resurrection?!" "The mortal soul is but a candle, simple to relight, but the raging power of a god cannot simply be rekindled with mere bones and chanting." He spread his arms wide, gesturing to the vast expanse around them. Suddenly the still air felt thick, oppressive, binding. "Their chains may be gone, but we are still both bound to this place, and have been since we died. Death is as inevitable as the sand in an hourglass running empty. It is only through the crown's power that a god can escape it." He looked at her again, and only for a moment she saw the faint glimmer regret in his eyes. But determination snuffs it instantly. "This includes you... Una," the name is oozing with remorse, far more sympathy than the god has ever granted anyone. "Your musings of emergent divinity are true. Even if you returned the crown, I cannot undo the divinity that now fills your soul." He stretched his arm out again, hand right in front of her. His eyes smoldered with command. There is no other way. "Return it. Now." Una did not obey. Her trembling hands steeled themselves around a jet black sword, glaring up at him with furious refusal in her eyes. Tears of betrayal ran down her face, but did not sway her hand. There had to be another way. The electricity in her body surged, divine energy rising up around her as she prepared to defy destiny. The space around them crackled with the whirlwind of power, a furious storm summoned by one who defies all odds and opposes fate itself. One becomes nothing, and the universe trembled in change.

[dancingbirdie]

I saw you did a new submission for Astarion. Is it okay if I ask for another thing for Astarion who’s very submissive and whiny for your touch?

Hi anon! I hope I did your request justice. I was feeling a little angsty today and this is what came out. Feel free to submit another request if this didn't scratch your itch, so to speak.

As always, comments and reactions are appreciated.

xoxoxo

Bring Me Back

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Astarion x gn!Reader

Word Count: 1.3K

Warnings/Tags: Oral sex (Astarion receiving), slight hand/finger kink, body worship, mentions of blood & gore, trauma/trauma response, disassociation, fluff and angst and smut, p0rn with a little plot.

Summary: Astarion just needs some love and comfort from you after a particularly brutal fight.

*****

There was blood on his hands. Too much. Dried and crusted, saturating the wrinkles around his knuckles. He sat on the edge of the bed you were sharing, hands limp in his lap. 

He’d killed so many today. You all had, but he more so than anyone else. It had been a vicious battle, the reality of which seemed to be sinking into his bones now. 

“Astarion?” you ventured carefully. You were carrying in a water pitcher and basin you had pilfered from the cook’s quarters downstairs. 

He didn’t seem to register your voice. You tried again, moving cautiously to kneel on the floor before him. 

“Astarion?”

“Hmm?” he responded, his glassy eyes finally sharpening enough to take you in. “Oh, apologies, darling. My mind… it must’ve wandered.”

“Are you feeling all right?” you probed in a low murmur. 

“I feel…,” he trailed off, his head shifting to stare vacantly out the dingy window near the bedside. “Numb.”

“Numb?” you echoed.

“Mm. Disconnected, more like,” he amended distractedly. 

“Hm, I see,” you replied, unsure of what more there was to say. 

Certainly you could understand the feeling. And certainly it was justified, after the carnage you all had wrought today. No matter how noble the cause, things had still ended in a tide of blood and viscera. 

You were at a loss for how to comfort him. But the rational part of your brain settled on addressing the most immediate problem before you. Namely, the blood on his hands. 

“Astarion,” you soothed, waiting until he turned back to look down at you again. “I’d like to clean up your hands before we rest.”

He stared at you blankly. Then slowly, his gaze drifted down to his hands. He turned them over, palms up, studying them absently.

“Is that okay? Can I touch you?” you pressed. 

You knew his displeasure in being touched without warning. You’d seen his reactions frequently enough, on the road with your other companions. Each clap on the shoulder from Gale. Each good-natured shove from Karlach. His response was subtle, but not lost on you. He would grimace and shrink away. Every time.

“Touch me?” he repeated now, brows upturned.

“Yes,” you nodded. “To clean your hands of the blood, love.”

He shuddered. You watched as his fingertips twitched. His bottom lip trembled. 

“Please,” he uttered in a broken plea. 

You nodded again and set to work. Gingerly, you lifted each hand, cradling it with reverence. You passed the rag soaked in tepid, rose-scented water over each digit, in between them. You swiped under each nail, over each knuckle, clearing his fingers of blood, one by one. You soothed over his palms, over the patchwork of calluses on the pads of fingers, over the delicate skin of the backside of his palms. He watched you in silence as you carried out your cleaning, mesmerized. 

The basin was colored deep crimson by the time you finished. Grabbing a dry cloth, you patted his hands dry. You squeezed them both gently before moving to release them. You prepared to stand and get yourself ready for rest. 

But Astarion stopped you. His hands, once limp while you were caring for him, suddenly clutched yours desperately. Your eyes whipped up to meet his in surprise. They were limned in tears that had yet to fall. 

“Please,” he whispered in a desperate sort of voice. A whine, almost. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop touching me.”

You swallowed thickly, unsure of what to make of his plea. 

He plunged ahead at your reticence. “I can’t… I want to be here. In this moment. But I can’t find my way back,” he croaked. 

His voice, so broken, so desolate, was rending your heart in two. It was more than you could bear. 

“Touch me,” he begged. “Bring me back. Please.”

You nodded, never breaking eye contact, as you rose from your crouched position on the floor before him. Tears streamed silently down both of your faces. Neither of you made a move to wipe them away. 

Slowly, carefully, you urged him to shift back on the bed as your legs parted to straddle him. Perched atop his lap, you threaded your fingers through his silvery locks. Pulled on them slightly. Tugged at them until he groaned. 

His hands grasped your hip bones, hard enough that you were sure there would be finger-shaped bruises there tomorrow. You didn’t mind. You would cherish them, those marks from your lover. 

“Come back to me, love. Come back to me,” you whispered in between hot, open-mouthed kisses. Your tongues danced together, like old friends.

You nipped at the hollow place near his clavicle. You sucked on the skin where his neck met his shoulder. His needy, breathy whines only goaded you further. You hoped the fire that was igniting in your veins would transfer to his. If the way his hips were canting into you was any indication, you were both tinderboxes itching to be set ablaze. 

“Be here. Be here, in this moment with me,” you crooned in his ear, rolling your hips into his. You were both still fully dressed, but your bodies crested and fell together in perfect timing. A practice performance for what was to come. 

“Yes, yes,” Astarion keened, as you slipped a hand to brazenly rub the flat of your palm against his erection. The fabric of his breeches was strained to the point of stretching. 

“I’m here,” he panted. “I’m here.”

“Good, stay with me, I want to taste you,” you whispered. “Come back to me, let me taste you.”

“Fuck, please,” he moaned, his head drooping onto your shoulder. He was so pliant in this moment, like putty in your hands.

“Lie back,” you ordered, nudging him backwards with your body. “Untie your breeches.”

“Yes,” he agreed, all too eager to follow your command. Chest heaving, he reclined further back onto the bed. His fingers quickly set to work on freeing himself from his leathers. 

“That’s it, darling, yes,” you cooed, watching him bare himself before you. “Stay here with me. Watch me. Watch me keep you here.”

“Gods, yes, yes,” Astarion whined, lifting his head to witness you take him fully in your mouth. 

“Fuck,” you heard him bark wantonly above you. Felt his hips cant himself deeper into your mouth, until your lips were meeting the base of him. 

His dulcet whimpers and moans were music to your ears. As you worshiped him with your mouth. As you caressed him lovingly back into his body, back into this moment, back into this bed with you. 

You could sense he was close to climax as his hands gripped your hair tighter and tighter. You swirled your tongue around him with greater fervor, teasing him closer and closer to the edge. 

“Let me come in your mouth, please, darling, please,” he keened, hips bucking erratically against you. 

Refusing to bring him down from this high with words, you met his eyes and nodded your assent, gripping his thighs tighter as if to say go on then, love. 

And he did. He spilled himself down your throat in delicious pulses. You swallowed every bit, relishing his release as if it were your own. 

With a soft pop of your lips, you released him. Licked him clean, before stretching out to lie on the bed beside him.

His chest was heaving as he recovered. You delicately traced the muscles of his abdomen as he came to. After a few moments, he lifted a hand to clasp your fingers. Stilled them with his own as they interlaced on his chest. 

“Did you find your way back?” you whispered. 

He turned his head to look at you. His lips upturned in a quiet, muted sort of smile. 

“Thanks to you,” he returned quietly. “I’m here again. Here with you.”

[balrogballs]

The Clean Break

a little take on Aragorn and Elrond’s final meeting, a removed scene from Cast in Stone (no context required; it’s canon compliant) that I liked too much to toss.

Aragorn was Estel when he broke his wrist, somewhere between five and six years old. It was a perfectly ordinary break, which happened for a perfectly ordinary reason: he had been running about on a wet floor, slipped, and crashed over a threshold. Elladan and Elrohir had come running at his wails, picked him up and took him to Elrond.

He remembers how Elrond explained to him that it was a clean break, and a very small one — it would stop hurting in a few days if he kept it still. The twins, those ardent connoisseurs of broken bones, had kept up a steady stream of joking patter to distract him whilst their father slowly applied a pain-relieving poultice and began to wrap up the wound.

Estel had been sobbing and sobbing, regardless of how mild the injury truly was. He was only five years old, and was more frightened than hurt, because he had never broken a bone in his life and he did not understand what everyone was doing, did not understand why his arm was being covered in white cloth, and it did hurt quite a lot, so he wailed.

And at some point in the process, he remembers looking up and realising that his father was crying too. Elrond hadn't made a sound, but his cheeks were awash in silent, indecipherable tears. Aragorn remembers how his expression didn't change at all, blank and beautiful in the white afternoon light: wrought from stone like a weeping statue, a quiet miracle, a promise of faith.

He remembers Elladan's tense, barked-out "Ada! What is it? What is wrong? You said it’s a clean break!"

And Aragorn remembers how Elrond had sat back on his heels and smiled, the motion pulling his features back into familiar lines. He remembers sitting silently, watching the last tears fall down the marble face, as Elrond said: "hush, my boy, you will scare Estel. Nothing is wrong, it is only a clean break. He will be fine tomorrow."

"Then why are you in tears?" Elrohir had asked, equally worried.

"Oh dear, am I? Aha, I am. Truly, it is only because he is," Elrond admitted sheepishly, sniffing. He had stroked a lock of hair back from Estel's face, laughing self-consciously, and his voice shook only a little. "I hate seeing him in pain. It breaks my heart seeing him cry so ceaselessly, even for such a small cause. It is only that, Elrohir, do not worry."

At the time, the twins had laughed, teased their father for his softness as they often did, made so many jokes about it that even little Estel, who didn't really understand the fuss and at the time had just probably assumed Elrond had a broken wrist too, was laughing alongside the three of them for absolutely no reason at all. It was casual, domestic, completely ordinary and commonplace as far as his childhood went: there were funnier incidents, sadder scenes, happier conversations.

But for some reason, this one is Aragorn's first real memory. The day he broke his wrist is the scaffolding he built his life atop, the day he looked at his father and found something sacred within him.

________

"I thought for a very long time," Aragorn says, on the tallest tower in Minas Tirith, their final meeting. "About what I could give you as a parting gift."

"If it is anything extravagant," Elrond warns him, raising a finger. "You know as well as I that I will take it to mean you are offering me a bride price, and I will take deep offence."

Aragorn grins, winks: "it's actually less than worthless, financially speaking" and cackles at how Elrond actually looks somehow more offended at that option.

"And what is this less than worthless thing you are donating to the one who raised you all your life?" he raises his eyebrows, a smile playing on his lips. "What castoff hand-me-down do you deign to bestow me with?”

"I know you must be weary of rings," Aragorn gestures at Vilya, winking away on Elrond's finger. "But perhaps this one may restore your faith in them."

"I am of a race that thinks nothing: jewels, lives, wars, is eternal," he continues, hair drifting over his face. "Of an old jewelry box my mother had, many trinkets were lost to time, some earrings were without a pair. And such loss of heirlooms never grieved us. After all, they were not ours to grieve."

"The oddest thing in the box was an old, battered golden ring. When I was first given the collection, I was only twenty yet already that ring was far too small for me. I thought that it belonged to a petite woman, perhaps a sister or a mother. Yet more recently, I was thinking of it and it confused me — why would a noblewoman own a cheap, plain ring? The other stones in the box were all precious, valuable, true heirlooms. When my mother died, she told me to pass them on to my children, and I will: but with this ring, I intend to disobey her."

"It was only some weeks ago, as Arwen showed me her own rings, that I realised something," said Aragorn, fishing around in his collar. "That this trinket I carry was no woman's ring, it was made to be worn by a child. You had given me one of these too, if you recall, as per tradition — on my sixth begetting day, a flat gold ring like this with my name carved into the inside. That was when I looked closer at this one, at the inscription on the inside of its hollow."

He unfastens the clasp on the chain, slips a small ring into Elrond's palm. He watches as all the blood leaves the elf's face only to be replaced by a harsh, terrible expression.

"Nothing is eternal, Ada," repeats Aragorn. "But some things should be."

"You are — you are giving me this?" Elrond's voice is strangled, eyes wide. "It —"

"I am. It is not mine to grieve."

Elrond does not say a word, does not even look at Aragorn, instead turning away and walking towards the far side of the balcony where he stood silently, ring clutched tightly in a shaking fist. Aragorn allows him to hold on to dignity.

Dignity, and a small, burnished gold ring.

It was rather battered, some of the plating rubbed off, a groove carved into it from all the times its owner tied it to a string and used it to tease cats with. It had a small dent in the frame, warping it slightly, and if you looked closely you could make out a little tooth mark, as though someone had a habit of gnawing at it. It was less valuable heirloom, more solid proof that the ancient king Elros Tar-Minyatur of Numenor, had once been a messy, careless little boy.

A few minutes pass, in which neither of them speak.

"I had nothing of him," Elrond tells him quietly after a while. "All my life, I had nothing of him at all. It had felt wrong, you see, sailing off to Numenor and demanding his possessions from his grieving children. So for five thousand years, I had nothing of him."

"But I never told you of him," Elrond's voice is searching, harsh and confused, trying to find a justification for the gift. "I had never told you of him, and yes, you had known of him from your lessons but I had tried so hard never to speak of him to you lest you, for one second, thought that I only loved you because you were the heir of Elros. You had no reason to know how I loved him, how fiercely I missed him, how I had nothing of him at all."

Elrond sounds almost angry, wrenching the words through gritted teeth like a scolding, his back still turned to Aragorn: "who made you so kind, Estel? Who made you so selfless — that you — that you give me this without ever being told — that you thought of it — who made you, boy?"

Elrond is breathing in deep, clarifying breaths and Aragorn stands there silently. He does not answer any of the fevered questions. It was Elrond, after all, who once told him over a chalkboard: stupid questions did not deserve answers.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Ada," says Aragorn at last, when only a sliver of sun is left behind in the sky. "Not for a moment. That is why I had… I had… that is why I had hoped we could have a clean break. I just didn't want to hurt you."

"I know you didn't," Elrond says, half-smiling as he turns back, composed again yet not entirely unruffled. "But I would rather it hurt in such a way, than it not hurt at all."

"Would you?"

"Of course," Elrond tells him, unconsciously running a finger across the flat, golden surface of the ring he had slid onto his smallest finger. "After all, the most treasured things in the world are only so valued because of how debilitatingly painful it would be to lose them."

Aragorn cannot speak. He has dawdled and delayed, pushed this parting to a cliff-edge, given gifts and made jokes, all the while waiting for a clean break that would never come for those who love like the two of them. He walks forward in a daze, and Elrond takes him into his arms and Aragorn is five again — building a life atop the scaffolding of the heart Elrond offered to him.

"I do not know what divinity made you this way," his father's voice is rough as he repeats his earlier question, but it does not break. "I do not know which of the Valar wielded the knife that carved you out of kindness. But I am glad, Estel, so glad that I know you."

Aragorn stays pressed in that embrace, shaking. He fights a sudden, absurd urge to laugh and roll his eyes, to say don't ask stupid questions, to say who made me kind? oh, I don't know, perhaps the one who loved me so wholly that he beheld a five year old's silly, childish tears, and wept that I shed them at all.

Still, he does not move: he does not want to see Elrond's face, does not want to see his own, not at this moment. Time passes, strains like molasses through linen, slowly and with great reluctance. At last, the king draws away and takes in this final image, the one who raised him standing before his son with an inscrutable expression on his face.

When he was younger, Aragorn used to think it might make it easier for his father to bend with the marred world if he learned how to be as cruel as it was, instead of taking each slap in the face as a surprise. But he understands now that whilst he wasn't looking, the marred world had bent itself to Elrond's gentleness; that it is a strength, an honest one, to be kind when the world not only abides by cruelty but insists upon it.

Aragorn cannot bring himself to turn and leave, wanting to brand Elrond’s face into the back of his eyelids with knife-hot tears. It is anything but a clean break.

“I cannot bring myself to turn,” he admits, the moonlight limning the silver in his hair. “Because when I turn, you'll be gone, and it will be the end of everything. Is this the end of everything now, Ada? Are we done now, you and I?"

Elrond smiles, looking at Aragorn in the same way he had always looked at him, every day since the moment he was put in his arms: eyes bright with unconditional adoration, unashamed pride, and a constant, total faith in him. He shakes his head.

"You and I will never be done,” he says softly; resolute. It is the only oath he ever makes.

[genshin-impact-updates]

Gemstone Wrought of Tears and Mettle

"Not long after we first met, I saw Kachina crying, and tried to hand her a handkerchief. But smiling back, she said to me, 'Don't worry, I'll wipe my own tears away.' That was a moment I'll always remember. So don't you worry about her either — the girl's made of strong stuff. Just make sure you give her all the encouragement she needs."

— Mualani

◆ Name: Kachina

◆ Title: Mottled Gold Yet Unsmelted

◆ Nanatzcayan Young Braveheart

◆ Vision: Geo

◆ Constellation: Ochotona Princeps

Just like other younglings of the Children of Echoes, Kachina grew up surrounded by adorable Tepetlisaurs, shiny gems dug up from the depths, and heroic stories passed down by tribal elders. She came to know the mountain paths like the back of her hand, developing a great instinct and skill for searching out the treasures of the earth. In her leisure time, she and her friends would often visit the recording studios where musicians made their music, where they would dance freely to the pulsing rhythms. Growing up in such an environment, the occasional bump or scratch was unavoidable, and when she hurt herself, Kachina would cry out in pain just like any other child. But long before others had recovered from their pain, she would have wiped away her tears and stood back up again.

Of course, she understands why the adults might see her as a good kid — yet she struggles to comprehend why she, of all people, was given the name of "Uthabiti." For as the ancient poem goes:

"The one that dares stand firm as a mountain, their bones like battlements, and hold the sun's gaze — it is they that shall be given unto eternity."

"Fear itself should instead fear me, for my body is like a roaring blaze; destined to melt down all that is mean and lowly, then cast it once more as an epitaph."

What part of her lives up to the lofty spirit embodied by this great name? The young Kachina has yet to figure this out. But having been granted this great honor, she is determined never to give up, no matter how many of her bids at the Pilgrimage of the Return of the Sacred Flame end in vain. Even if it means being ostracized and reproached by her peers, or feeling disappointed, inferior, and at times nearly overwhelmed by landslides of negativity... In the end, she'll wipe it all away along with her tears. Because one thing is for certain — that "Uthabiti" Kachina will never be defeated by her tears.

[nanamiskentos]

GOO GOO MUCK #2 — jujutsu kaisen x reader choose a storybook to open. aka my mythos take on jujutsu kaisen.

you've turned the page to: CHAPTER II. GETŌ SUGURU go back to the table of contents.

why are they all trying to make me a saint? oh god! oh god! i want to do things. stop turning me into a saint! andrei tarkovsky, journal 1970-1986

prologue. → a mortal man wears the skin of a serpent and wields dark sorcery with a lover's ease. suguru geto promises you a throne, a seat by his side and a kingdom on its knees. you understand why cautionary tales are written about foolish gods who gave their power away for silken chains, for those who would tear them asunder.

pairing. serpent king!suguru geto x goddess!reader (sfw!)

song inspiration. goo goo muck — the cramps / little dark age — mgmt

warnings. geto is manipulative as fawk, kind of dubious, suggestive behaviour from mr. suguru geto, angst, very much the premise of a dark romance, ambiguous and tragic ending, kissing word count. 2.6k

a/n. daphne write a happy ending challenge failed again but i can't help it teeheehee

ask/comment/dm to be added to a taglist 🩵

mp3. when the sun goes down, and the moon comes up, i turn into a teenage goo goo muck!

how can man claim a god?

the ancient texts say he can chain them, bind them to his own wills and desires.

the world around you sharpens slowly, revealing an altar carved from stone as old as time, with dark mineral veins that run through it, gleaming faintly in the dim light. the chains that have bound you are wrought of a metal that you do not recognise — neither iron nor silver, but something darker. and it feels almost alive. an ancient and all-consuming magic. each link is inscribed with cursed energy, winding around your wrists and ankles, cold to the touch and yet searing with power, holding you fast with a grip that sinks through flesh and bone. it has tethered your form.

the air is thick with dampness, the heavy scent of earth and rot mixes with the subtle perfume of nearby flowers, sickening sweet. you blink as you focus on ghostly white blossoms hanging on twisted and skeletal branches, each petal aglow with an otherworldly pallor. to your left, a pool of water shimmers in the stone hollow, black as midnight, with a surface that barely ripples — waiting and watching.

then, a sound — soft at first, but unmistakable in the silence. the faint swish of fabric moves in steady, deliberate strides. the one who has dared to summon and call you onto this mortal plane? but the air grows colder as the figure draws near, and he steps into view.

it is no lowly feat to summon a deity in a shrine, and an even greater feat to bind them, with such chains of power. you have never paid attention to the tales of mortals, little and less truly, but the serpent king is known. suguru geto is known for interfering with the divine plans for humankind, determined to wipe them out for his own misguided gain. your captor's violet robes catch the faint light, shimmering dark as they brush against the damp ground.

he steps closer, and for a moment, your wrath stills — because of him. the ghostly glow highlights his face, the sharp angles and fine lines as though he were chiselled from marble. it is the kind of beauty that mortals sing of in legends, a face that the gods themselves must have blessed, sculpted by divine hands. you wonder, fleetingly, if one of your brethren sired him, some forgotten affair between a deity and a mortal.

he draws near with a slow, sinuous grace, his movements almost serpentine, fluid and deliberate, his violet robes brushing against the floor in rhythmic waves. even his eyes—narrow, predatory slits of deep amethyst — glimmer with a strange, hypnotic gleam, unblinking as they take you in. mortal he may be, but here's something undeniably reptilian about him, something ancient and unsettling that lingers in the way he tilts his head, his gaze unwavering and utterly still, like a beast considering its prey.

a fierce snarl tears from you, and the stone walls echo your wrath. "do you know the price of chaining a deity, serpent?" you hiss, your words laced with venom. "do you understand what fate awaits one who dares to keep me captive?"

the air shivers with your warning, cold seeping into the air, yet he only observes you with that same unnerving stillness, a flicker of amusement gleaming in his narrow eyes. suguru geto tilts his head, a subtle, slithering motion, and reaches out with long, graceful fingers to test the chains binding you, his touch deliberate and controlled.

without warning, he leans in close, his breath brushing against the curve of your ear, soft and almost hissing. "you misunderstand me, goddess," he murmurs, his voice silken, carrying a subtle, hissing undertone. "i do not fear the gods. i have spent lifetimes defying them, one whisper at a time, one spell, one ambition." he pauses, his lips curling into a dark smile as his fingers trace the chains that bind you, "i will never be a god. but with a goddess at my side," suguru geto smiles, almost sincere, "a queen, i will be as close as one could ever be."

the gall of him, the sheer recklessness in his claim, strikes you like a spark to tinder, a hot rage flaring in your chest.

the audacity of him, the nerve — a mortal man, no a creature of shadows and serpentine, thinking himself worthy of even whispering such a treasonous thing.

"how dare you," you snarl, and each syllable drips with scorn, "how dare a mortal, a mere man, even think to claim one of the great pantheon as his own! you think yourself a king, but you are nothing. i am beyond you — beyond the hand of any man," and you writhe in the cursed chains, "i almost pity thy foolishness, arrogance of the highest order."

but suguru geto's laugh is dark and rich, and he does not even flinch. no, he does not even blink. his robes have a strange and mesmerising ripple. the folds undulate like liquid, shifting and folding in ways that no mortal-woven cloth should. nay, it is no fabric at all. it is skin, serpent skin — sleek and glimmering, slithering in tune with the man who has draped himself in it.

despite yourself, you shiver and in that moment, suguru geto leans down, lowering his face to yours. and his breath is warm, and soft against your skin. this is the closest that a mortal has ever gotten to you in eons.

"do you know how long i have waited for you?" he murmurs, and his words are hushed, almost a whisper — dripping with desire and laced with honeyed sweetness, "how long i have searched for someone who could stand beside me, for power and beauty? you call me mortal, so you will not fault me for my weaknesses, then. is it not my nature to chase after perfection?"

his eyes have locked with yours, mauve and endless, "i am not a god, but i have still seen lifetimes pass, but nothing compares to the burn i feel when i kneel at your altar, for your worship."

suguru geto's hand grazes the chains around your wrist, a feather-light touch that is almost gentle in its caress, as if testing your resolve that you do not sear through his flesh, "do you not see that i offer you a kingdom?"

the air between you is thick, and it is a traitorous heart within your chest that continues to beat at a quicker tempo. you have not missed the hunger in his eyes, and it makes you furious. by what right does he find the courage to speak to you like this? you have heard of others like yourself, others of your kind. gods and goddesses who threw away their divinity to be in the arms of mortals, those who offered something that the cosmic simply could not.

you fight it, your pride flaring, but something in his gaze makes you hesitate. there is a flicker, just a flicker, of doubt. of wonder.

what is it like to be loved like this? to be seen as something worth so much, even by one so dangerous, so impossible?

geto moves closer still, his lips brushing against your ear, his words now a soft promise, a murmur of desire. "you will come to me, my queen," he whispers, "for no man has ever loved you as i will. you are destined for me, and you will know no equal but me. no one else will ever touch you the way i will, feel you the way i will. only i can give you the eternity you deserve."

a flicker of doubt dances behind your gaze, a single, fleeting question pulling at the edge of your mind.

what is it you truly seek, serpent king? you are no fool; the gods know of your sorcery, of your schemes, of the wars you have stirred, the chaos you've unleashed, and the suffering you've caused. what greater ambition drives you, to bind me to you with sweet promises and the touch of your smooth, serpentine hands? is it truly a throne beside you, or something far darker that you covet, something more dangerous than a queen at your side?

"you are a goddess,” he murmurs, his voice a soft purr, "but do you see what the gods have done to you? you, who should have had a throne at the heart of the heavens, have nothing. you were left to drift, to be forgotten by those who claimed to love you. they never gave you a seat, never gave you the respect you deserve. but i… i see you, goddess. i feel you. and I will give you a place, a throne, beside me, where you will be honoured."

the heat in his voice stirs something deep inside you. how dare he? how dare he imply that the other gods have wronged you? what does he know of the beginning of the world, of the start of creation where the gods ran free on the green earth? your anger flares again, and you draw in a sharp breath, ready to fire back, to unleash the words that will tear him apart.

but before you can speak, his hands move, slow and calculated, slipping along your sides, the burn of his touch sending a jolt of something electric through you. his fingers, like liquid fire, trace the curves of your waist, the pressure so gentle yet undeniably possessive. the sensation makes you tense, makes you forget, even if for a moment, the chains that bind you. you shift, instinctively trying to pull away, but he only tightens his grip, coaxing you back toward him with a soft but unyielding pressure.

you would never — never — be swayed by this mortal’s charms.

and yet, the heat between you, the pressure of his hands against your skin, makes your words falter. you don’t understand it, the way your heart quickens, the way your breath catches in your throat. his touch, slow and deliberate, feels like fire and ice, and your body betrays you, trembling under the heat of the sorcerer's presence.

his lips brush your ear, soft and tantalising. "you are mine. always were meant to be."

you want to pull away, to demand he release you, but his fingers now run down your sides, the delicate pressure almost tender, as if coaxing you into submission, his touch a slow, sinful caress. each brush of his fingers sends a wave of warmth surging through you, and your breath catches, unwilling to admit how much you crave this sensation.

but what you do not realize — what you are too distracted by —is the spell he is weaving. his hands are not just teasing, not just caressing. they are binding, weaving an ancient magic around you, a net that tightens with each passing moment, each whisper of his voice. his dark powers wrap around your divinity, subtly pulling at the very core of your being, drawing it from you, sealing it into a cage of twisted magic.

you are caught, and you do not know it.

his lips are now mere inches from yours, his breath warm and inviting, the heat of his body an undeniable force. he leans in slowly, deliberately, as if savouring the moment before he seals your fate. "no one will ever love you as i will,” he whispers, his voice barely audible, but it trembles through you like a spell. "no one will ever see you as i do. and when you are mine, completely mine, you will know what it is to be cherished."

and then, his lips brush against yours.

the moment his lips graze yours, it is not a kiss of gentleness but one of purpose, calculated and slow, as though he is savouring each second before claiming you fully. his breath is warm against your skin, rich with a subtle sweetness, like honey mixed with something darker, more intoxicating. it is an invitation and a command, both at once.

as he leans closer, his body shifting with a fluidity that hints at something serpentine, something unnatural, you feel the very air grow thick with tension, as if the world itself is holding its breath in anticipation. his long hair, now fully free, cascades like midnight silk over his shoulders, and as his breath fans across your cheek, you can almost hear the faint hiss of it — like the whisper of a serpent’s tongue.

it is a kiss that coils around you, not just in the physical sense but in a way that makes your very being feel entangled in him, in his essence. his mouth is soft yet firm, warm yet cold, and the subtle pressure of his kiss sends shivers down your spine, like the touch of a thousand slithering scales against bare skin. it is not a kiss born from affection, but from domination — an assertion that he will have you, body and soul.

his hands, those impossibly smooth, long fingers, still move over your sides, but now, they feel like they’re not just caressing — they are pulling, shaping you. as his touch travels over your skin, there is a sensation of something prickling just beneath your flesh, as though his hands are drawing magic through your veins, weaving it into you, entwining it with your very essence.

the kiss deepens, slow and unyielding, as his tongue gently traces your lips, teasing the edges of your resistance.tThere is a strange coldness to it, a chilling presence that seeps through the warmth of his lips, as though he is not merely a man, but something far older, far more dangerous.

and then, with a sudden press of his body against yours, you feel the full weight of his power settle over you, the coils of his magic slipping into your mind, into your heart. his kiss becomes possessive, desperate in its insistence, and just as you feel the last remnants of your will begin to bend, a sharp, silken flick of his tongue inside your mouth sends a jolt through you — a pulse of energy that feels like a serpent's strike.

it is then that you realise it. for the mortals will write tales about this, use you as a cautionary lesson on the want and greed of the gods. and how easily they fall.

geto's kiss is not just a kiss — it is the seal of your fate. his power, snake-like and subtle, unfurls within you, sliding beneath your skin, taking root. you feel your divinity, your strength, slip away from you like water through your fingers, each drop being absorbed into him, into the snake who has become your captor.

the spell is complete, as his magic entwines with yours, twisting it, stealing it, leaving you powerless against him. his kiss pulls away just as you feel the last trace of resistance drain from you, leaving you breathless, weak, and utterly bound to him.

as suguru geto draws back, his lips curve into that wicked, knowing smile, and you see it now — his pupils, once narrow slits, have widened, glowing with the faintest light, like the predatory gaze of a serpent preparing to strike. his skin, pale as moonlight, seems to shimmer in the dim light of his realm, like the scales of a great serpent, and for the first time, you realise that this man — this king — is the serpent he claims to be. how could the gods have been so naive? so foolish?

and you, now bound to him in a way far deeper than any chains could ever hold, are his prey. your divinity, your essence, your power — it all bends to him, to this mortal man who now stands as your captor, your lover, your king. the serpent has claimed his queen. and you, despite yourself, feel the chains tighten, forever.

[future-dregs]

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