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fayes-fics · 2 months ago

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Right In Front Of You

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU

Summary: Sometimes, the thing you most need is right in front of you...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, vaginal fingering, smidge of dirty talk, orgasm. Friends to lovers, only one bed.

Word Count: 3.5k

Author's Note: Request fill for @eecummingsandgoings, who asked for only one bed trope with Benedict. Thanks to the awesome @colettebronte for beta reading and for the title suggestion! This is a seasonal-ish fic set in early December. Enjoy! <3

“You guys are so late!”

Melanie draws you into a bear hug after her fond chastisement.

“Blame this one,” you roll your eyes and signal a thumb over your shoulder to Benedict as he wanders up the path behind you. “He was supposed to be on map-reading duty after we ran out of phone signal.”

With a big smile, he mimes being stabbed in the chest before he receives a welcoming embrace as well.

“He’s been shit at directions since uni; why the hell did you have him navigate?” she chimes, taking your coats as you peel them off and hanging them in the hallway cupboard.

“Because you have experienced his driving,” you shoot back, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, good point,” Melanie guffaws.

“Starting to take this personally now,” Benedict pipes up with a good-natured chuckle as she ushers you both further into the cottage.

“This is nice!” you comment as you survey the place.

Its snug warmth is like an enveloping embrace on this cold, early December day. It's an Airbnb rental in the Lake District and looks suitably rustic but modernised with an open-plan layout—a perfect venue for a uni friends reunion.

“Well, I'm afraid you two are so late that everyone has already nabbed the good bedrooms,” she announces. “You will have to share the other attic room, two floors up.”

“I'm sure we will be fine,” Benedict blithely responds.

“It's only got one bed,” she cackles.

“Bagsy the bed!” you crow, turning to look at him triumphantly.

“Fine, I’ll take the floor,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes.

While chivalrous, it also seems fair payback, given that he got you so horrendously lost on a single-track country lane, going miles in the wrong direction. Sharing the drive up from London was supposed to take about five hours, not the almost seven that it ended up being by the time you eventually got back on the right road.

Leaving your bags in the hallways, you greet and join the gaggle of friends in the living room area, crowding onto the sectional sofa and beanbags. Melanie, always the mother hen of the group, stands across the room at the kitchen island, stirring a huge casserole dish that smells delicious.

“Alright, you bastards, come and get it,” she calls not long after you settle.

So, all twelve of you decamp to the long table, and drinks flow as you tuck into a hearty, tasty stew. The group have come without their spouses or other halves, except Dave and Andrea have been together since the second year and are still going strong more than ten years later—well, and one other exception.

“Matt brought Vanessa?” you comment into Melanie’s shoulder while conversation flows in little groups.

“Yeah, I know,” she winces. “Sorry…”

“No, it's not that. I just think it’s a bit odd. She’ll have to endure so many old uni tales and in-jokes all weekend. She’ll have little idea what we are all on about…”

Matt is your ex, yes, but you broke up almost a year ago now. You didn't get together until five years after uni, and in hindsight, you wish you never had. Vanessa is his first girlfriend since your breakup. You've been alone since—the only singleton left in the group.

“Drink up,” Melanie advises sagely, refilling your wineglass almost to the brim. “They have the other attic bedroom that backs onto yours, and even though the stone walls here are thick, I've heard rumours she is a loud one.”

“Urgh…” you take a large gulp, not savouring the idea of hearing your ex and his new woman having sex through an adjoining wall.

The rest of the evening passes pleasantly: wine flowing, a lovely time as you all catch up and trade stories. Jon recounts a hilariously disastrous holiday in Portugal that ended happily with him meeting his current partner Simon on the plane home, which earns him a round of applause.

The first to turn in is Matt and Vanessa, and not long after, others start to yawn and make their excuses, the drive from various corners of the country taking its toll on everyone.

Benedict grabs your bag as well as his, you trailing behind, making your way slightly gingerly up the second, narrower, steeper staircase to the attic rooms.

“I guess this is us,” he notes, nodding to the only door without a faint lamp glow leaking underneath.

You follow him into the room as he dumps the bags and flicks on a sidelight. It's not big but it’s homely, if a little chilly compared to downstairs, heated by the fireplace as it was.

“Ben, you can’t sleep on the floor; there's a draught,” you remark as you sit on the bed and pull off your fuzzy socks, a coolness wafting over your toes.

“I’ll be alright,” he assures genially, opening the wardrobe to gather a pile of blankets.

“And there's not much room,” you assess, realising the floor space is minimal unless he lays near the chimney, likely the source of the problem. “Seriously, we can share.”

An odd expression clouds his face briefly before he agrees and quickly excuses himself to the bathroom. You do the same after he returns. He is already under the covers, peering at his phone through reading glasses when you shuffle back into the room in your PJs.

“Are you sure about sharing?” he checks as you round the bed to climb into the other side.

“Yes, you idiot,” you chuckle, playfully swatting his leg through the duvet. “Nothing for Paul to worry about,” you add in jest, referring to his boyfriend of over two years now.

He goes so still that you twist to look at him. He is biting his lip with an almost sheepish mein.

“We, umm, broke up about a month ago,” he elucidates quietly.

“God, I'm so sorry; why didn't you say before??!”

It strikes you as odd that he never even mentioned it in the hours you were stuck in the car together. He had just sat dutifully, supplying supportive words as you lamented the dating scene.

“Well, you’ve been away travelling…”

“I meant today.”

“Oh, well, I guess I didn't really see the point, seeing as everyone has left their plus-ones at home,” he shrugs, then tilts his head back. “Well, apart from that idiot,” he adds, referencing Matt through the wall.

“Yeah, I thought that a bit odd he brought her… but anyway, do you want to talk about it? Paul?” you offer, wanting to give your good friend the opportunity to vent.

“Very kind,” he smiles briefly. “But no. I'm sick of talking about it, to be honest. Daph has been non-stop trying to agony aunt the situation, and Eloise has been plying me with alcohol and barbs about all of my terrible life choices, not just Paul,” he grimaces mildly.

You chuckle, knowing exactly how that has likely been going.

“You know he just brought Vanessa to make you jealous, don't you?” Benedict changes tack, keeping his voice soft even though it's unlikely to carry through the thick stone wall.

“Maybe,” you hesitate, then sigh: “I'm over him and his nonsense, to be honest.”

“You were always far too good for him.”

“Hah!”

“I mean it,” he insists, an abrupt intensity to his gaze that causes butterflies.

There’s no point denying your attraction to Benedict; he's a very handsome man. But it's always felt like a harmless crush; you doubt you are his type, and he’s not been single for many years.

“You are just trying to butter me up before you take over the whole bed like an octopus and snore in my face,” you deflect with humour.

“You never could take a compliment, could you?” he chastises gently, taking off his reading glasses and setting aside his phone.

“Please, I would never take any compliment from you seriously,” you riposte dryly. “I knew of your charmer reputation from the very first day of uni. Everyone did. Your Bridgerton reputation preceded you.”

“Entirely unfair to be tarred with the same brush as my lothario of a brother,” he sighs with mock burden. “I mean, yes, okay, at uni, I was a little…”

“Slutty?” you interject

“... adventurous..” he corrects with a narrowing of his hazy eyes, “but nothing like the rumours suggest. I just got with a couple of raconteurs early on who vastly overstated my abilities and skills,” he demures.

You know the truth is somewhere in between the polyamorous, bisexual playboy reputation and the modest version he is claiming.

“Besides, that was years ago,” he points out with a dismissive gesture. “I've had a total of five lovers in the last ten years.”

It is indeed true. Before Paul was Tilly, Tessa, Gen and Henry. He’s been surprisingly monogamous since his earlier, sluttier years.

“Ready to sow your wild oats again?” you ask, bumping him lightly with your shoulder.

“Hah!” it's his turn to scoff.

Just then, a distinct female moan filters through the wall. When it happens again, your eyes dart to each other.

“Oh god, Mel warned me this might happen,” you grumble, burying your head in your hands.

“Told you,” Benedict clucks. “This is definitely designed to make you jealous.”

“Pfft, please. Believe me, he's not that good; she's just a really vocal one, apparently.”

For some reason, you are keen for Benedict to know Matt is not the best you've had. Not bad, but not exactly worthy of the decidedly rousing review Vanessa is now giving through the wall.

“Want to beat him at his own game?”

His face is all permission and danger, making your pulse race, uncertain about what that could mean. But then he breaks into a goofy grin and throws back the covers, athletically jumping to his feet on the bed next to you, looking equal parts adorable and attractive in navy tartan pyjama bottoms and a dark grey t-shirt. He takes a few test bounces, the metal springs of the bedframe under the mattress squeaking mildly in protest as he does so.

“C'mon!” he coaxes, grabbing your arms and hauling you upwards onto your feet. “I think with a few bounces and choice noises, we can make our point.”

Perhaps it's mostly the three glasses of wine, but it seems like a funny idea. You both start to bounce, grasping each other's hands and giggling, the bed beginning to rattle against the adjoining wall as you work up a jumping pace.

“Make it sound like you are having the time of your life,” he proposes, laughing.

Your attempted noise of pleasure has you flushing with embarrassment at the feeble result.

“Oh, I know you can do better than that!” Benedict incites, eyes glittering with mischief.

“I really can't,” you protest.

“Follow my lead. I’m not above a touch of theatrics,” he winks.

Benedict groans loudly, and despite the absurdity of the situation, it makes something run hot and electric through your body. He peers at you expectantly, awaiting your rejoinder.

You cringe as, once again, your second attempt is lacking.

“Loosen up,” he rags lightly before repeating his very distracting noise. “C’mon, just imagine I am the best sex of your life.”

Your traitorous mind finds it remarkably easy to settle on that idea. Supplying a vivid picture of Benedict looming over you, a beguiling lopsided grin on his face as he takes you apart with long fingers buried between your legs. Just the thought has you biting your lip, but not before a feral noise escapes entirely without you meaning it to.

“Oh yes, that's much more like it,” he looks slightly taken aback but entirely approving. He leans in close as he requests: “Just a little louder.”

Then with a grin, he turns to face the wall and pounds his fists onto the thick, rough stone.

“Yeah baby!!” His decidedly Austin Powers-like call echoes up along the ceiling as he tilts his head back, going fully theatrical.

“WE GET THE FUCKING HINT, BRIDGERTON!!”

Matt’s muffled, annoyed yell through the wall has you exchanging looks before collapsing back down onto the bed and rolling around in fits of quiet giggles.

“Well, it worked… I don’t think you were much help at all, though, if I’m honest,” Benedict opines breezily. “I definitely did the heavy lifting.”

“Perhaps I’m just not a loud sex noises person,” you posit.

“Then you haven’t been having the right sex. Which, given you were dating Matt, is sort of a foregone conclusion,” he needles genially.

“Not all of us are Vanessas… or apparently Benedicts.”

He laughs heartily before countering: “I bet you could be. I’d happily try to have you screaming the roof down if I thought you’d ever bloody let me…”

It's a record-scratch moment that has your stomach flipping even as outwardly, all you do is scoff at the patently ridiculous idea. He must be kidding. He has never given you any vibes of being remotely interested in you in that way.

“Let you?! Bitch, please. As if you’d want to!” you rebut, wine stealing your filter.

He turns towards you, seemingly in slow motion, breathing slightly heavy from the recent exertion, his cadence dropping low with words that sound like a warning.

“Don't play that game.”

“I’m not playing any game,” you frown even as your heart speeds up at the challenging glint in his eye. “Ben, honestly, I… I'm not,” you stutter, all your assumptions about him scattering. “I… I didn't think you saw me that way…”

He twists up to hover over you. It appears he reads the honesty behind your stilted words, surprise rippling across his features before a breathtaking, troublesome look takes its place.

“You never could see what was right in front of you, either, could you?”

Although rhetorical, you have no response anyway. Buffering as his lip quirks appealingly, a burst of heat behind your ribs as he leans down closer.

“Will you let me?”

“Let you what?”

Your whispered response is entirely too breathy and wanton. A delicious crackle in the air as Benedict stares down at you, inches apart, lips and cheeks flushed dark, likely a mirror of your own.

“Test your theory.”

The slow sweep of his glistening tongue over his lower lip breaks your resistance.

“Yes…”

Your shaky exhale of permission may be barely audible but seems so loud to your own ears.

And suddenly, his mouth is on yours.

The kiss starts soft and almost hesitant, but alcohol and desire coursing through your veins make you impatient, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck to tug him closer, craving his weight and heat to engulf you. And that is what he does as his lips part yours, his tongue seeking permission you readily give as he presses you into the mattress. It’s a blur as you take from each other greedily, open-mouthed, demanding kisses that never seem to end.

“I need to hear you make that sound again,” he rumbles, kissing over your cheek, snagging your earlobe between his teeth, breath gusting hot into your neck.

Boldly, you grab his wrist and, throwing all caution to the wind, guide it lower between your legs. His fingers curl into the cotton, sinking into the heat, knowing you are seeping through the thin material.

“Are you always so wet?” He whispers, impressed, kissing a line over your throat.

You don’t answer, not wanting to say that it’s all him, instead pulling him in for another searing kiss, hoping he will get the hint. Sure enough, as you suck greedily on his questing tongue, he slowly swipes, locating your swollen clit with just one move. Just that slight nudge has your body alight, stuttering into his mouth, spine arching up off the bed, pushing your breasts into him.

“I want to make you come,” he admits breathily, dilated pupils trained on you as you squirm under his touch.

“Please do.”

His groan is poetic, an insistent mass nudging your hip promisingly as he leans into you. You glance down, mesmerised by the veins on his hand as he moves to pluck at the bow at your waistband until it relents. His touch spiders under the material, trailing through your trimmed hair and then between your legs, a delicious noise in the back of his throat as his bare fingertips slide into your wetness.

You want to ride his digits until you are screaming, want them buried in you so far you see stars. Want him to make you suck your juices from between his knuckles, him calling you all the filthy words under the sun as you do so.

“Whatever you are thinking of, tell me,” he pleads, his other hand sweeping into your hair, cradling the back of your head, a slight pull on your scalp that just heightens everything. “I just want you to use me. Take what you need from me; just please make that perfect noise again.”

“God Ben….” You stumble, never having had someone make such an offer before. So much pent-up desire you are quaking as you answer without artifice: “I was thinking of your fingers inside me.”

You don’t even have to ask him for it, he twists his wrist, and you moan as two fingers breach your weeping pussy, a slick noise filling the air as your body suctions onto his invasion. He utters a curse, perhaps taken aback by just how soaked you are. You inhale sharply, grasping the corded muscle of his forearm as he slides deep, his knuckles grazing your walls, reaching places you cannot.

He begins to softly stroke you, massaging in a rhythm that has your mouth slack, staring at him wide-eyed; then his thumb nudges your clit at the same time, and you are unable to prevent the loud staccato groan it elicits.

“Yessss, there it is..” he hisses triumphantly, kissing your temple.

You nuzzle his cheek until he takes your hint, kissing you again, plundering, you making the noise again, open-mouthed, against his teeth and tongue, dripping onto his palm as he takes you higher, an electric hum racing under your skin. His thumbnail catches deliciously under your clitoral hood as he strums your swollen nub. Somehow it feels illicit, both of you still clothed in your nightwear, a tented outline in his pyjamas nudging your hip as you shamelessly ride now, a dewyness gathering inside your tank top at the flush of desire enveloping your skin..

“Come on, sweet girl,” he goads, “ride my hand properly. Use me.”

That term of affection would usually make you bark a laugh, but right now, it’s just blisteringly hot, him wringing the most filthy sodden noises from your body as he rocks in and out of your pussy.

So you do.

Scrunch your grip into the duvet beneath you and undulate on him, baring down as he surges inwards, moving like a wave together as he makes noises of encouragement, his lips warm on your cheek. His eyes don't leave your face except occasionally to glance down your writhing body, gaze lingering on your nipples pebbled against your vest.

His feet entwine around your ankle, holding you down just a little bit, giving you just a little fight that you need, reading you like a book. With a nod and lopsided smirk, he silently bids you to keep going. And you do, getting overheated, chasing that high he is aiding and abetting.

“Don’t hold back,” he tutors silkily into your damp temple, intuiting that you are swallowing back some of the noises you want to make.

So you follow his bidding. Stop modulating yourself, letting go, leaning into the simmering in your body, each perfect glide of his fingers spiralling you so high it's almost dizzying, your desire running down between your cheeks now. Something daring in you wants to be louder than Vanessa. To make the whole house jealous. Hell, for the entire world to know how good this feels.

He angles to catch your g-spot as well, and it hurtles you rapidly over into the blissful abyss; unable to stop yourself from spasming almost violently, screaming out, him fighting against your convulsions as you fracture apart and reassemble, breath stolen, blood pounding in your ears. You float both high above yourself and grounded in your body as that wondrous quake spreads to every corner of your being.

“That was bloody perfect,” he exhales, a thread of pride etched into his tone as you collapse down, heaving breaths as he withdraws from inside you.

“WE GOT THE FUCKING HINT EARLIER!!”

Matt’s yell through the wall makes you both still, eyes going comically wide before you both start giggling. Benedict lands a kiss on the tip of your nose as he rolls on top of you, his rigid cock nestled against your inner thigh.

“Well, that just sounds like a challenge to me,” he quirks a seductive eyebrow. “Let’s give them something to really complain about…”

Then, without warning, his soaked fingers yank down the neckline of your vest, his warm lips suctioning onto your nipple, and you are calling out loudly once more.

masterlist • wips • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)

Benedict taglist pt 1 : @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @ferns-fics @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @hanji-emo-blog @sya-skies @urfavnoirette

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

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peachesofteal · 1 month ago

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MELOS (PART TWO)

main masterlist / Azriel's masterlist

Part One / Melos masterlist 5k words - AO3 Tags: 18+ mdni. Blood, feelings of fear and panic. Reader POV. Trauma. Protective Azriel. Canon-compliant, post ACOSF and HOFAS. "I would spend a lifetime earning your forgiveness"

The fly amanita has been eluding you.

It’s speckled red cap is usually so easy to spot, but you’ve been trudging through the woods all day, turning over logs and peering around tree trunks to no avail. You’re getting closer and closer to the break in the forest, the one bordering a large meadow rich with wildflowers, the one you hardly venture to unless you’re truly desperate for something specific.

You’re seriously considering it when something dusky red catches your attention from the corner of your eye, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you spot the healthy patch of fungi. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” you sink to your knees, digging down to the roots. The soil is wet, freshly damp from a recent rainstorm, and it sticks to your fingertips. “Such a pain in-“

Magic scrapes at your skin. Long gruesome fingers of something unseen try to clutch at you, drag you away, and your power surges to meet it, beating it back to the gloom it calls home. You shudder. The magic from your mother's blood, the gifts the Middle grants you, are enough to keep you safe, protect you from most things in this place, the ones nefarious and full of malice, but that does not mean they do not try.

You exhale, breathing freely in the crisp winter breeze whispering through the trees, rustling the deadfall into small vortexes that spin across the wood, twisting upward in a delicate dance of changing seasons. You lift your face to the sun just as the wind turns dark, smoky grey, and then explodes in a burst of ink, onyx spilling around the mushrooms, wisps snaking through the stems towards your knees.

You swat them away.

Azriel.

You grit your teeth. Don't think about him, don't think about him, don't think-

A shadow brushes against you like a feather, and you hiss.

Azriel.

The male who tortured you. Used you. Gained your trust to hurt you. Suffocated you until you thought you were going to die, until spots appeared in your vision and your heart slowed. The male that hurt you, in more ways than one.

Fooled into falling for a ruse, you believed it meant something every time your heart thundered when he was near, how your magic crooned for him, tried to reach for him, touch him. The pain you saw in him, over and over again, a mirror to your own, led you to believe in a fairy tale that never existed, a stupid notion about two halves of a whole, only for it to crumble and reveal manipulation and lies.

And after it all, whatever he gleaned from you he must have determined to be inconsequential, since no one has shown up at your door to haul you away for execution. No one came to imprison you, or banish you, or torture you, again. No one came to take you away from your home, your life, like you were expecting.

He did it for nothing.

The shadows are an ever-present reminder.

Ever. Present.

They collect in the corners at work, they trail along the ground as you run your errands, go to dinner, visit your only friend in the city.

Thankfully, they seem to stay out of your house, though in the middle of the night, it’s not so easy to tell.

You shoot them a glare. “Run back to your master and leave me alone, for the hundredth time.” You have no concept of a Shadowsinger’s magic, or an Illyrian’s, no idea if the shadows see, or hear, or speak. Their presence frustrates you, and his hoarse attempt at an apology that night still haunts you. Why does he not just come to speak with you? Explain himself? Justify his actions?

It’s been weeks, and still nothing. Silence from the Spymaster. Your rage that was once all consuming is starting to cool, leaving a mess of confusion and pain in its place.

You need to let it go, you must, but the music persists, faintly there in the back of your mind, a melody you can’t forget.

It’s a double-edged sword, one that slices and stings. You see him in your nightmares, and your dreams. In the dark, you hear his voice, cold and calculating, pacing around you in a suffocating circle, and in the sun, you see him in the Middle, ablaze in a mist of brilliant blue, brushing his lips against yours.

You’ve grown familiar with how a room changes when one of the Wraith sisters arrive. Shadow rolls in like a fog, dissipating as they materialize, grey gossamer turning to smoky quartz, taking shape as a beautiful female, her eyes iridescent like black pearls.

Rarely, do the twins ever come together.

Today is the exception.

Cerridwen gives you a half smile, gaze lingering on your clothes. “If I made you a new frock, would you throw this one out? It’s nearly in tatters.” You huff.

“This is my work frock; it’s supposed to be a bit messy.”

“It’s not messy, it’s falling apart.” She raises an eyebrow, and Nuala places a slender hand on the stack of brown paper wrapped packages on the table.

“How are you?” The question is loaded, expectant, and they watch you, analyzing every second of whatever is showing on your face.

“I’m fine.” Are you? The lie is so painfully obvious, and they exchange a look.

“Azriel,” Nuala begins cautiously, “has asked if you would be open to seeing him.” You freeze.

“I..”

“In a public place of your choosing, in the city.” The very idea tips you off balance, blindsides you. Could you do it? See him?

“With a third party, if you would like.” Cerridwen adds. Maybe this is your chance at closure, an opportunity to put it to rest. “Take some time to decide, and we’ll-“

“No, no. I’ll do it.” You scramble to think of a place where you’ll feel safe, somewhere you’ll be among many, and not few. “Is… Rose and Thorn okay? It’s in the Palace of Thread and Jewels.” They nod.

“Of course. And a third party?” You shake your head. Something in your soul assures you no chaperone is needed, and you allow it to guide you. “Very well.” Nuala waves her hand, wisps of storm clouds floating around her fingers-

And then Wraith sisters are gone.

He’s there before you.

Seated at a table outside, elegant and sculpted, an exquisite, eldritch beauty accentuated by strong, chiseled lines. His skin glows golden brown in the warm bath of the sun, flecks of caramel and green, honey and oak painted together like a priceless landscape in his irises. His wings are tucked in a tight formation at his back, but even in restraint, they shudder, their membranes more unique than a snowflake, more delicate than a spider’s web.

He’s almost too stunning to look at. The beauty of a god. A prince of shadow, shining in winter’s glow.

Suddenly, you’re very self-conscious, fighting the urge to pick at the frayed threads of your dress, too aware of how faded its once emerald green is, how fast your heart is beating, anxiety and pin pricks of fear cascading up your spine, coupled with an undeniable longing that shakes you to your core.

An ocean tide too strong drags your eyes to his, holding you captive in its current, the two of you suspended, floating, woven together in a melody, same song you’ve been hearing, feeling, all this time, elusive, empyreal notes harmonizing across your soul, your magic. The heat of the patio, magic humming in the air producing the equivalent of a warm spring day, urges you out of the cold and towards the table, meeting him where he stands, so tall he towers over you.

“Hello.” Your stomach flips. This is suddenly harder than you imagined, and you’re being torn in two, afraid and yearning, two sides of a coin. His eyes gentle, and he moves back a fraction, giving you space. You manage to clear your throat.

“Hi.” You can’t look away, and finally, after a second turned eternity, he motions to the chair.

“Would you like to sit?”

“Sure.” The words are stiff, like your back, and you hold yourself rigid, hands clasped together in your lap.

“Thank you for coming, I… I know this was a lot to ask.” You nod, unable to make your mouth move. “Are you well?”

“Yes.” You’ll need more than one syllable answers to get through this, and you fight against the vice squeezing in around you, trying shake loose the battle raging in your blood. There's a need to protect yourself, fortify yourself... and another, one humming a song of wonder, of desire, a song you don't know the words to. He takes a deep breath.

“There’s nothing I can say to excuse what I did, and I know you have no reason to trust me, but I-“

"What you did? You tortured me, you terrorized me. You made me feel like I was dying. and I... why did you… why did you waste your time tricking me into thinking you were… we were… it was all fake.” Your voice breaks, and his eyes flash with despair. “You tricked me into trusting you, letting you get… close,” you study the tabletop, fingertips tracing loops in the woodgrain, trying to maintain your control. You can’t let him see how badly it hurts; how awful it is to know whatever you thought was happening between the two of you wasn’t real, how he's shattered your own trust in yourself. How could you not see the deceit? How could have fallen for such a blatant deception? How could you allow yourself to be hurt like that? These are the questions keeping you from sleep as they toss about in your mind, scolding you, chastising you for allowing yourself to be so weak. Stupid. “Why waste all that time if you were just going to do it? The act itself was... it was terrible but the manipulation, the lie that came with it, feels worse somehow.” Your cheeks heat with shame, mortified at the tears now blurring your vision, and his hand twitches, almost jerks towards yours before sliding away.

“There are no words in any language, anywhere, to tell you how sorry I am. I would spend a lifetime earning your forgiveness, if you’d let me.” Everything you want to fight back with, the words you wish to bury him with, die on your tongue as you stare at him with wide eyes. “I don’t deserve to see you or ask for a moment of your time. I don’t even deserve this chance you’ve given me today but… nothing was a trick, it was not fake. I was a fool.” You know you should say something, but still nothing comes, and there’s a rising uneasiness emanating from his, shadows shivering around him in a halo. “I would ask you to strike a bargain with me.” What?

“A bargain?” He nods solemnly, face set with resolve, foreign limerence weighed down by sorrow reflecting in his gaze.

“Allow me to spend some time with you, to show you how sorry I am, to prove how real it was, and in return, I will owe you a debt.” You fight to keep your face blank, smothering an outward ripple of shock. Maybe he’s gone insane.

“You… the Spymaster of the Night Court… would owe me a debt.” You chew on it, toss it around between your cheeks, try to digest the enormity of it. A debt could be anything, it’s a favor, a wish, a request that must be granted, no matter what it is. You could ask that he drink a vial of poison, and he’d have to do it. Could ask him to leave Pyrthian, and he’d have no choice. Most importantly, you could ask him to leave you alone. Forever. “And if I asked you to never speak to me again?” He winces.

“That would be your right.” This is a bad idea. Your magic trills, vibrating with a strange yearning, again guiding you away from the rational choice and into an agreement.

“I will see you once a week for a month, and in return, you will owe me a debt,” you extend your hand, “and swear not to harm me.” You add hastily, expecting him to refuse, or attempt to change the terms, but he meets you with zero hesitation.

The magic hits you like a gale force wind, wild and too strong, planting itself in your skin to push ink to the surface.

A tree.

The roots sprawl around your wrist, twisting upward into a trunk and then outward into branches, spreading wide until they’re nearly touching on the inside of your forearm. He snags a finger under the cuff of his shirt to reveal the tattoo’s twin, the concrete vow between the two of you plain as day.

What did you just do?

You’re taking advantage of the first meeting. Having a second with you, a powerful, formidable second, gives you an opportunity to trek into a more dangerous, more unstable part of the Middle in search of a rare mineral.

You’re also using it as punishment, irritated with the small twinge of guilt growing in your side. He strides along at your side silently, shadows skittering ahead across the forest floor, disappearing and reappearing at will, as if they’re scouting and reporting.

“Will you tell me where we’re going?” He finally asks, cocking his head to the side as you stop for a moment to catch your breath. He’s not winded at all, of course, and you’re starting to regret this choice, while also trying to avoid staring at him. Every time he moves into your line of sight, your palms sweat and you remember how his laugh sounded on the steps of your house, how he earnest he was when asking you questions. You remember the kiss, and the way his mouth felt upon yours. You remember it all, and butterflies take flight in your belly.

But being alone with him in a dangerous place such as this, is also a stark reminder. A reminder of the last time you were alone with the Spymaster, truly alone, and how it ended.

“There’s a cave a bit from here where a very rare crystal grows. Its mineral compound is a key piece to a specific elixir.” His lips twitch into a small, barely there smile, reading between the lines.

“You’ve brought me along for back up.” You smirk.

“You didn’t say what spending time together had to entail.” You shift your backpack. “It's just past this bog up ahead.” He stops short, eyes sharp, tensing.

“A bog?”

“Yes. You know… like a swamp?”

“Of Oorid?” You blink.

“You know the Bog of Oorid?”

“I’ve been there.” Now it’s your turn to scrutinize him. Could you have underestimated this male, again?

“Why?” You shiver. You’ve visited the Bog before, twice, and left each time with a new scar, a new nightmare.

“We were looking for something.” We? Questions brew in the back of your mind, so many of them they’re hard to contain, but you’d hate to appear too interested in him and his adventures.

“Did you find it?” He nods and says nothing. Fine then. “It’s not the Bog of Oorid, just a boring swamp. C’mon.”

You withhold a key piece of information regarding the swamp.

It’s quite hateful, if you’re honest, and a small part of you weeps at your own vindictiveness, but the vengeful side feels too smug, too satisfied.

“It’s this way.” You take the lead, stepping into the ankle-deep muck. “Sorry, you’ll have to get a bit dirty.” The trees here are warped, bent to the undertow of the swamp, stripped of their life, yet still thriving, flourishing in the inert, foul water. Wicked, and greedy, they creak and coo, relishing each cursed step Azriel takes. Your magic crests, drawing up through the Middle, and you smile to yourself as the mud reaches mid-calf. Right about now-

He hisses.

“Are you alright?” You call innocently over your shoulder, now paces away, reveling in the sound of him fighting against the sludge's hold. When he doesn’t answer, your heart quickens, and you turn.

He’s shaking his head, wings flared at his back, muscles flexing beneath his leathers, trying to work himself free, and you bite your tongue to keep from telling him it won't work.

The swamp is a collector, a keeper of things, admirer of the rare and unusual. You’re sure it’s never ensnared an Illyrian before.

“Careful,” you sing, “struggling makes it worse.” He’s knee deep but surprises you when he breaks a leg free and takes another step, cobalt blue siphons beginning to gleam, shining into the dark green stagnant water and pockets of mire. Interesting.

“Clever little witch.” He's amused, reverent, and you're irritated by his reaction. “How does it not trap you?” Keening echoes through your soul, frantic and tortured. It’s reaching for something, crying for something, steeped in a distress you don’t understand. An incessant tugging, the faint sound of a melody. A chiming of bells, ringing, and ringing, and ringing. You steady yourself with a deep breath.

“I ask it not to. My magic comes from the Middle, like my mother’s. It makes things... more amenable to me.” You make it sound far worse than it is to spook him, but he only watches you with interest, keen eyes dissecting you from the inside out.

“And will you ask it to release me?”

“Maybe.” You shrug. He sinks farther, now trapped to his mid-thigh, and your pulse races. You had planned to leave him here, trap him here until you came back, but your magic is clawing at you, heart trying to beat out of your chest, fear and panic colliding with an instinct buried so deep, it can’t be cut out or ignored, an instinct trying to push you into his arms, pleading with you to help him. It hurts, trying to fight it is like trying to swim against a current, your muscles screaming at the struggle, your power thrashing in your veins. The music is no longer a delicate, enchanting thing but a symphony flowing into a fortissimo, brass and strings and keys digging into your soul.

It's too much, your heart pounds in your ears, magic shredding your restraint.

It's too much, and you long to go to him.

Release him, you command the swamp, and it tightens its embrace, a lover clinging to another, refusing to relent.

Is this not for me?

No. He is mine. Release him. Now. You press onward, urging the swamp to relax, it’s reluctant acquiesce bringing you a relief so strong you have to hold yourself steady. It recedes, and the two of you stand face to face, chests heaving. You don’t understand what’s happening to you, what this war that rages in your magic, your heart, your entire being means.

He closes his eyes, the shadows receding, disappearing entirely as he takes a long, measured breath, his hand pressing against his ribs, still deep in the dredge of the fen.

"Are you alr-"

“Is there anything else I should be aware of, before we continue?” He cuts you off, the heat radiating from his body coming in waves, and you push against the pull.

“No.” You croak. He inclines his head.

“Very well. Lead the way.”

“Why don’t you winnow here?” You're seated on a rock outside the mouth of the cave. The trek itself is the most dangerous part of this task, and the crystal retrieval was uneventful. Boring, even, as you walked side by side with Azriel in silence, contemplating the unexpected amount of remorse over the swamp settling in your stomach like lead.

“I don’t winnow to most places in the Middle if I can help it.”

“No?”

“You never what will be waiting for you, or what you will discover, when you arrive.” You take a bite of your apple and sneak a glance at him. “You’re not angry. About the swamp.”

“No.” He’s preternaturally still, but rife with intensity, alight with an ache you can’t describe.

“Why?”

“I deserve far worse from you.” You say nothing, because what can you say? It’s true.

But if it’s true, why does it feel so awful?

You stand abruptly, eager to separate yourself from this situation, this confusion and confliction. “I should get these back.” Winnowing from the Middle, at least, is a perfectly safe option, and you’re eager for the escape now.

“Next week?” Your head is pounding, limbs twitching like your body has a will of its own, and suddenly you’re drained, magic and will quickly depleting. He steps closer, brows knitted together in concern. “Are you okay?” No.

“Y-yeah. I’m going to… I’m going to go.” He frowns.

“You look ill.”

“I’m just tired. The swamp takes it out of me.” You lie weakly with a halfhearted smile that lacks conviction, and before you can do something stupid like reach for him, you draw on your power, giving him one last look. “Next week.”

You’re at the Palace of Bone and Salt when it happens.

The market is packed to the brim, overflowing, most caught up in the approach of Winter Solstice. It’s still weeks out, but all are always eager to celebrate the city’s favorite holiday. Boughs of holly and evergreen, ribbons of red and green decorate the square, twinkling fae lights nestled high and low. You’re looking for bone marrow, but can’t help loitering by the chocolatier’s stall, his perfectly crafted confections artfully arranged in pyramids stretching far past your head. He catches your eye with a smile. “Would you like to try anything?”

“Oh, no, but thank you. They always look so lovely.” He pulls a pink chocolate swirl from the collection that’s caught your eye and holds it out to you.

“On the house then, for Solstice.”

“Thanks so-“ Your gratitude is stolen by a groan, one rattling upward from beneath your feet, the entire market rumbling so violently the stalls creak, their goods tipping to the side.

A quake.

They’re rare, but not unheard of. The mountains breathe, stretching and straining, the plates they’re built upon occasionally shifting and realigning, all of it causing Velaris’ foundation to shake. These things you know, but you’ve never experienced it firsthand, and you didn’t expect such… force.

The shopkeeper dives beneath his counter, others running in every direction through the market, panic and fear permeating the air. They’re looking for cover, afraid the second and third story buildings may come crashing down on their heads, while others try to outrun it, sprinting away as fast as they can manage.

It’s pandemonium. Everyone is being tossed around, marble and wood falling and rolling, and you’re frozen, rapidly trying to weigh the options, decide what to do when something catches your eye.

A child.

She’s standing in the middle of an aisle, screaming for her mum, and without hesitation, you snag her around the waist to tuck her into your chest, covering the back of her head as you curl into a ball and huddle beneath the counter of the first stall you see.

That’s where you stay, for the next ten minutes. Curved over this little girl who can’t be more than two, holding onto her as tight as you can to quell her screaming, trying to calm her. Things fall on you, something scrapes the side of your face, and it stings, but you don’t let go. You can’t.

You’re somewhere else in your mind. In the Middle as a child, running as fast as you can to the boundary, trying to get to safety as your mother howls. Claws scratch down your back, blackened, putrid magic tries to drag in the bowels of the forest, all while horrid shrieking and crying fills your head. The boundary is too far, and you fold yourself into a hollow, a damp, muddy nest inside the base of a tree where you hold your breath and sit really still, just like you were taught.

The quake ricochets around you, but the screeching in your ears is not from this time, this moment. It’s from then, you and this small child in your arms now the same, scared, alone, and crying for your mothers.

Even once the rumbling stops, you don’t move. Too afraid it will start again and you’ll be caught in the open, you wait. The sticky, festering sap of the memory clings to your synapses, refusing to let you go, embedding itself beneath your skull like it needs to live there, as if you could ever forget. There are moans from the injured, confusion and worry from those who took shelter, but multiple voices rise over the din of everyone else, giving instructions, looking for the wounded and those who need help immediately.

“- was right here, but she let go of my hand… there were too many-“ a frantic female’s voice echoes over through the market, and her terror is met by a kind, reassuring voice.

“We’ll find her.” The girl in your arms makes no attempt to free herself, still shivering in your hold, clinging to you with all her might, and you stay rooted to your spot.

There’s a brush of magic against your mind, a gentle caress that probes the dense sedge wall, and you push it away, opening your eyes to see a beautiful female crouched in front of you. “Hello.” The High Lady. The little girl finally moves, wriggling against you.

“Mara!” Her mother calls, rushing over and scooping her into her arms, sobbing. She looks her daughter over and then holds her tight before trying to approach you. “Thank you, thank you,” she’s reaching for your hand, trying to squeeze it in a manner of gratitude, of love, but you can’t move, still grappling with the noise ringing in your head. There’s more conversation, more of the High Lady’s voice, patient and gentle, and another’s, deeper, heavier.

“-shock, maybe?”

“-go get him,”

“Cassian-“ The second voice is enough to startle you back to yourself somewhat, and you carefully stretch your limbs, crawling out from under the counter and away from them, standing up on your own two feet. The High Lady holds her hand out as if you steady you. “Easy. You’re hurt.” Hurt? You instinctively touch your face, fingers coming back stained crimson. You need to get out of here, need to get as far away from all of this as you can. You’re still trying to right yourself, convince yourself you’re here, not there.

“Maybe you should sit down.” The other one, the big Illyrian who you met in this very place months ago, watches you with concern. You’re shaking, lungs expanding, searching for as much air as they can find, warm trickle of blood falling over your lips and down your chin. Pain registers slowly, no longer isolated to your face, but in your side too, and when you press your hand to your ribs, wet fabric squishes beneath it. More blood.

“Let's get you to a healer,” the High Lady tries, motioning to your head, your side, and when you don’t respond, she frowns, glancing at her companion. The wailing is finally quieting to a point where you can properly think, but words still won’t come, and she’s about to say something else when shadows swirl around the three of you, and Azriel drops from the sky.

Azriel. Your heart sings his name, and the double-edged sword cuts to the quick, opening you up to a strange spark in your chest.

He looks… awful. Insane, even. Wide eyes find you, his wings stretched into a defensive position, shadows spread around him in a dark cloud, and his fear is so palpable you swear you can feel it. All you can do is stare at him as he frantically takes you in, focus never wavering, even as he speaks to those at your side. “What happened?”

“We found her under here,” Cassian points to your hiding spot, “protecting a little girl. We think she’s in shock.”

“She needs a healer.” He grits, hands flexing and relaxing from flat palm into fist, repeatedly.

“We know.” The High Lady angles her body between you and the Shadowsinger. “Az,” her voice is serious, with an undercurrent of authority, “maybe you should back-“

“You need a healer.” He ignores her, and you shake your head. You need to get out of here, to get somewhere safe where you can try to rip out the rot of these memories still nipping at your heels.

“I need to go. Home, I need to go… home.” I need to go home? That’s the best you can come up with? Cassian snorts, and Azriel says your name, an edge of dominance cutting through the haze of your mind. The blood loss is making you woozy, and the ground is unsteady, continent turning over as you start to feel sluggish. Your vision grows blurry, and then there’s a hand on your cheek.

“Look at me, it's okay.” Azriel murmurs, and you try. You do. There’s something about his touch, the texture of his hands that soothes you, comforts you, but the world is falling away, and darkness is taking you, tugging you into the lull of sleep.

You curl your fingers into his shirt, a last-ditch effort at staying upright, at staying awake, looking up into a never-ending swirl of hazel, green moss and bright umber drenched in panic.

They’re the last thing you see before everything goes black and you slip under.

#peaches writes #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #azriel #azriel acotar #acotar

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thorns-and-rosewings · 23 days ago

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(Behold what happens when I have ideas that far surpass my skill level... ^^; Here we have tall-ish Lunar, roughly Bloodmoon height, only taller if his hat gets counted. And this universes versions of the Gemini twins)

Okay so this needs some explaining; this here is Asylum AU's version of Lunar and the Gemini twins. I didn't put their information on my last post about this AU because:

A. I genuinely enjoy these guys little side tale so much I wanted to attempt to give a good visual to go along with their bit.

B. I thought it was long enough already.

So I'm gonna write their whole little bit below, as with everything I write it's gonna be LONG, but hopefully a fun read.

Enjoy ^_^

Lunar: As with all this universe's characters, he started off life built by Eclipse to assist him... But the main difference was that this Lunar was treated infinitely better than our Canon Lunar was right from the get go. Not to mention that he had his Star Power right from the beginning as well...

How did he have that you may ask?

Simple... Doc Eclipse acquired some meteorites that contained an unknown alloy. And he genuinely went 'What the hell, why not?' and used it to build Lunar's body. Which apparently contained some residual Star Power and thus, this Lunar has his powers.

Right from the beginning, Lunar didn't want to fight with Sun and Moon and he began trying desperately to get everyone to stop fighting. So to make a very long story short, eventually, he was successful in getting the fighting to actually stop because Sun and Moon grew to care about Lunar like a brother. Although the fighting didn't stop until there was significant damage done to the motor control of Eclipse's left leg... There's an uneasy peace between the two halves of Lunar's family as the result of this.

Free to choose what he wanted to do with his life, Lunar took his love for games to the next level and started a gaming company. (But also made Beanbag chairs as well) Lunar's commitment and genuine love of the games that the company made reflected in their products and it didn't take long before Lunar's company not only became successful, but a MAJOR name in gaming.

By the time Asylum AU starts, Lunar's gaming company, Starfall Games, (The logo being the blue star emblem Lunar is creating and has on his clothes) is considered the number one gaming company in the world. Their claim to fame is their games quality. As they have never once released a game with any major bugs. Lunar is a very good boss and although he demands a great deal from his employees, but he is never unreasonable. And he regularly rewards his staff who go above and beyond.

He's a tough, but fair boss.

Lunar owns a huge tower in the middle of the city, which he lives in. It's so advanced it would make Tony Stark jealous. He lives in the penthouse on the upper stories while the lower stories contain the main headquarters for his gaming company. His tower is seemingly crafted from obsidian, with neon blue lights running throughout it. The dress code for the staff actually follows a similar theme, with everyone wearing bright seemingly neon colors. Or have some sort of celestial, space or star theming.

Lunar's powers in this area also 98% mastered, with the problem 2% to be addressed in a bit. Like Canon Lunar, he has electricity. But this version, rather than weather powers, his focuses on electricity, lightning and electro plasma. He actually powers his entire tower with his abilities and is in negotiations with the city to possibly power the entirety of that as well in the near future. His lightning powers are incredibly deadly if used in combat, but fortunately he next to never needs to use them offensively. In the rare instances he does need to fight, he is skilled enough to actually manipulate the electrical currents in a human body and essentially short-circuit a human temporarily. It's even more potent against animatronics.

But it's his plasma powers that he is actually the most fond of, as he's so skilled with wielding them that he can literally craft various things out of the plasma and then dissolve them on a whim. He can literally create tiles or stairs that allow him to walk in the sky. It's not uncommon to see him stroll across the sky near his tower at any given time...

But his favorite thing by far to create is his Plasma Cycle. Essentially a futuristic Tron-esque motorcycle that can reach nearly unfathomable speeds and drive over every type of terrain and even drive in the sky with him creating a plasma road below and in front of the bike to drive on.

(Essentially like this but in a brilliant blue)

Ultimately this Lunar has a very good grasp on things, but there are still some... Drawbacks...

Lunar didn't get to where he is in life without having to deal with A LOT of shit. With the one thing he has grown to value THE MOST in people is loyalty and honesty. He has endured many betrayals and been in the midst of liars and he finds people who partake in these negative things to be the lowest of the low.

He's not crazy and understands small lies and fibs can be understandable, even necessary. As he regularly lies about how good his Suns homemade 'Mint Sugar Cookies' are... They're damn near inedible, have the texture of a mix of toothpaste and sand, but nobody has the heart to tell Sun.

Aaaand then there's his family and that often deeply uncomfortable situation...

The thing Lunar loves the most, more than his company or anything else, is his family. His deepest wish and desire is for them all to stop hating each other and get along. Which is the one thing he wishes for every year on his birthday, when he invites everyone to either his home, or another location to spend the day together...

And every year without fail...

It's a total disaster...

It would seem Moon and Eclipse, in spite of their love of Lunar... They can't not fight for even a single frickin hour. They will fight, Sun will cry, Solar Flare will try to make peace, Bloodmoon stays the hell out of it, aaaand things proceed to fall apart before they can even have dinner. Let alone cake...

Every year Lunar just endures this. His heart breaking a little more each time... A tiny part of him wondering if he means so little to his siblings that they can't just get along for him for just a few hours. But, he just buries it and smiles and says that next year will be different. The stress of his family fighting is the only thing that can cause him to lose a grip on his powers. Sometimes leading him to short out an area and have to pay a hefty bill to repair the place he accidentally wrecks.

...fortunately he has his best friends, Castor and Pollux, by his side whenever these nightmares happen...

...the two people he trusts most of all...

...yeaaaah...

Castor and Pollux: In this dimension, the Gemini twins were drawn to the bizarre Star Power usage on this planet, eventually tracking it to Lunar when he was at his company. And they came with literal perfect timing, as Lunar had just started wandering through some of the floors of his company and they just appeared there.

One thing about this Lunar is that he is more than a little... Oblivious...

So oblivious in fact that he didn't notice the two clearly inhuman beings in his presence. But, to be fair, his companies dress code could have allowed a normal person to make such a mistake for maybe the first time... Not consistently every day for several years.

Now Lunar was in work mode, so he was wandering through the halls and checking in while being flanked by these two who were trying to talk to him. All while he initially thought they were just trying to pitch an idea to him, something that happens a lot. But as they continued to dog him, (And growing more frustrated at Lunar brushing them off) It finally occurred to Lunar that their behavior wasn't like someone trying to pitch a game idea... And then it dawned on him...

They had to be the new assistant the agency sent over...

Although why would the agency send two people and not just one?

Castor, decently annoyed by everything going on and seeing the opportunity to at least get the information that they need, doesn't exactly lie pre say... he merely says that they are there to 'Observe and offer help as need be.' And how they were a two-for-one deal.

Lunar just shrugged and went with it...

So over the course of the next few years, Castor and Pollux are by Lunar's side nearly constantly. They had to learn a fair bit about games and paperwork, but fortunately they are incredibly fast at learning and adapting. So they went from just being the assistants that Lunar admittedly went through fairly quickly... As a lot of them got too comfortable and got a bit powermad having access to the bosses attention. The two Astrals not only became invaluable in helping Lunar with his day to day responsibilities, but also became his closest companions and friends. To the point that they literally moved into his penthouse with him, updated their respective wardrobes with more human-esque clothes (Lunar actually crocheted them their scarves and added the star logos) and they are even so joined at the hip to him that he now instinctively manifests a pair of sidecars onto his Plasma Cycle which allows his companions to join him on his fun high speed insanity.

...at first they were just doing their jobs, observing Lunar and assessing if he was a threat or not...

But after a while things drastically began to change...

Lunar had a very good handle on his abilities. Had the good sense of when to use them. But more than that... He was giving, kind and just overall a nice guy who did everything he could to bring joy and happiness to the people around him.

And he succeeded in ways he couldn't imagine...

Lunar had somehow, made Castor and Pollux feel overwhelming joy and happiness. Given that Astrals don't feel emotions like mere mortals can... It was a jarring experience when Lunar somehow brought these emotions out in them and it made them realize that they actually, genuinely, cared about Lunar. A LOT...

But given everything...

They were now stuck in a bad spot...

While they never 'technically' lied to Lunar, they sure as hell know that they haven't been honest. Telling him the truth about themselves, about the Astrals in general, star power, his powers, everything... Given how Lunar values honesty and loyalty...

Oh yeah, they know they are in deep shit...

Not just with Lunar either. As they have been deliberately misleading what involvement is required of them to the other Astrals. While stating the situation is under control, but being extremely vague about what it even is. Aaaand even doing a few things to keep their fellow Astrals distracted from asking too many questions...

...like sending Scorpio an entire industrial roll of bubble wrap for them to stab with their tail...

...Giving Aries multiple wool pillows for them to rest comfortably on while meditating and using their dream powers...

...and last but certainly not least, sending Leo a beanbag chair completely packed full of catnip...

Courtesy of these little distractions, they have managed to avert deeper questions regarding what they have been up too. Except for Taurus who is getting suspicious about what exactly is going on down on earth. The only thing that has prevented him from heading down there to see for himself is with how busy he's been trying to track Rez.

But back to things on earth; given the closeness that the siblings have with Lunar it is now understood that in the company, they now wield as much power as Lunar himself. Referred to as Lunar's right and left hands respectively. They do, subtly, lead Lunar to occasionally have days where he takes some time off to just trains his powers. Pointing out one can never have too much control over such powerful abilities... They usually convince him to do this with the promise of having a picnic and just having a day to chill and unplug from everything. They have made an effort to do this every few months ever since they witnessed one of the hellish fiascos that Lunar's birthday turned into...

That was a horror show...

Made worse by how having his whole family together for a day was the only thing Lunar could talk about for a whole week...

Pollux: (Her hands clamped over her mouth as everything just spiraled out of control. So completely stunned still)

Castor: (In disbelief and his eye twitching) What is happening here?

Bloodmoon: (Surprisingly staying out of it) Not sure. But we're about a minute away from stuffing our pockets full of shrimp and getting the hell outta here...

Everything was over in under an hour, leaving Lunar heartbroken and usually a venue wrecked. The Bloodtwins at least making sure that Lunar got home alright, to which the Gemini twins then took it upon themselves to cheer Lunar up, always being sure to have a little 'Backup Party' ready to cheer him up.

And this has just become a solemn tradition...

Lunar gets his hopes up for a happy time with all the people he loves the most, it gets ruined, the twins take him back home. They handle the incoming apologetic phone calls that follow, Castor swears at them... a lot... Then they watch movies, play games and have some ice cream cake.

And Lunar asks how he got so lucky to have them in his life...

And they feel that knife of deception twist in their proverbial hearts...

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bitmapbooks · 4 months ago

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A Tale of Two Halves: The History Of Football Video Games

From Antoss to Zico Soccer, A Tale of Two Halves hits the back of the net with expert analysis of over 400 football games.

BUY NOW: www.footybook.net

#bitmapbooks #book #retrogaming #retrogames #gaming #art #reading #foryou #asmr #bookstagram #booktok #fyp #football #soccer #ataleoftwohalves

#bitmap books #art #book #gaming #retro gaming #a tale of two halves #football #soccer

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celaenaeiln · 11 months ago

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in like a one person gets one, who would dicks soulmate (platonic or not idk) be? i’ve asked this to several ppl and the answers are usually wally, donna, or jason though i’ve seen some ppl say slade, roy, and bruce.

Anon your ask has literally been haunting me at night. I thought I knew the answer but then you hit me with a Donna!! But between Bruce and Donna, I can't decide so I'll just present a case for both.

Bruce

Bruce and Dick are soulmates on a cosmological scale. The DC universe ordained them to always find each other because they're quite literally a fated pair.

Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight Issue #23

Bruce: The only regret is that I'm out there alone. It felt good having someone at my back, being part of a team...but no sense wasting time wishing for something I'll never have.

Dick: He's cool, dad...d'you think we'll ever see him when we play Gotham?

The universe literally brings them together no matter the circumstances.

Convergence Issue #4

"The bond between you and Bruce Wayne echoes in every reality."

I don't think there's any stronger evidence for Dick and Bruce being soulmates than this.

But if that's still not enough I have more-

The Multiversity: Guidebook

In Bruce's world he lost Dick and in Dick's world he lost Bruce, but still in the end they somehow find each other. In every universe that has Batman, if someone is his partner it's always Dick.

In the medieval ages world-

Batman: Dark Knight of the Round Table Issue #1

The world of "A Christmas Carol" with Ebenezer Scrooge -

Batman: Noël

In a world where Bruce is a doctor at Arkham -

The Batman of Arkham

Dick is always there as his second.

Here's another interesting but depressing fact: In worlds where Dick Grayson has died as Robin, Bruce Wayne has never taken in another Robin.

This is because on top of the fact that Dick and Bruce as fated to meet, Dick means the entire world for Bruce. Like sometimes Bruce will come across a case with a child involved and the first thing he'll think about is Dick.

Batman: City of Madness Issue #2

Bruce's mind and life is literally consumed by Dick Grayson on a cosmologically spiritual level.

Donna

Donna is Dick's soulmate on a twin-sister spiritual level. Dick and Bruce are two halves of a whole, yin and yang. Dick and Donna though are one person. Their relationship is like taking paint and mixing it together to get something new. Like in those comics where two people look at each other and there's a "zing!" and suddenly it's an instant connection. That's them.

Titans (2016) Special 1

additionally:

Titans (2016) Special 1

New Titans (1988) Issue #89

Dick and Donna have no secrets. They're like a jigsaw puzzle, their pieces fall right into place.

He's always there for her-

The New Teen Titans (1980) Issue #38

They're so special and integral to each other that when an evil witch erases Donna from everyone's memories, there is only one focal point for her. One focal person for her throughout the years. Even though he doesn't remember her, Dick literally goes back in time with his future daughter Mar'i to help Donna, his soul-sister-

The Titans (1999) Issue #25

In every. single. moment of Donna's past Dick appears again and again to comfort her and be her pillar from Robin to civies to Nightwing. In the "Who is Donna Troy" Arc, as the story goes from the origins of Donna to the present, it becomes very clear that Dick is her centerpoint.

They're the definition of soulmates.

She knows him better than anyone else and he knows her. She even had him walk her Donna the aisle for her wedding. He was given that honor because of who they are to each other.

Tales of the Teen Titans Issue #42

I...

just-

Tales of the Teen Titans Issue #50

to love like that...

They're made for each other.

#dick grayson #nightwing #bruce wayne #batman #donna troy #wonder girl #troia #robin dick grayson #dc titans #titans as family #cl anon asks #cl asks #thanks for the ask!#koriandr #starfire

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starry-bi-sky · 4 months ago

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MMMM twins au with danny and dan except its og TUE timeline danny and dan

ok okay i neeeeed o write this down and share it before i explode buT. as the title says. twins danny and dan (who im going to be calling James/Jamie bc i cannot express how much i despise the name dan) where, instead of disappearing into the ghost zone after he's separated from danny's body, Dan rips out Vlad's ghost half, tears THAT in half, and fuses one half with himself and the other with Danny.

Shit happens, and BOOM. Two morally ambiguous and perhaps slightly murderous demonic twins from hell. Daniel James Fenton and his Twin WHose Always Been Here What Are You Talking About :) James Daniel Fenton. They are both depressed, lonely, and one bad day from becoming a mass extinction event :)

this is because i got grabbed by the hair today and dragged into the SVSS fandom screaming and the fanart of Shen Jiu/Shen Yuan/Shen Quingqiu (????) with his fan entranced me. Ice Prince Core is my favorite thing so naturally i have to implant that onto my favorite blorbos ever :)

After the Incident, both their appearances changed and they're practically identical to each other. Sorta. They both have heterochromia and salt-and-pepper hair. But Danny has one green eye and one blue eye and white hair with black streaks, while Jamie has one blue eye and one green eye and black hair with white streaks. I'm iving them both long hair, for funsies <3

nobody can tell them apart, they keep getting confused on whose who and frankly the mix-match hair and eyes make it worse not better asjd. they're horrifically codependent. please do not separate :)

and because i must. im pulling a blood blossom/tales of the passerine and giving them to pre-robin batman. batman and his terrifying demon(??) twins. nobody is quite sure if they're human or not, and the scourge of gotham are a little too terrified to ask.

(they dont HAVE to go to batman while he's pre-robin. however. i think its much funnier that way bc gotham isn't use to A) Batman having kids, and B) Batman having TERRIFYING kids yet. think of all the new fun rumors)

they both use war fans while they're out, and neither of them use their ghost forms because they at least have the remaining empathy to know that they're more likely to murder someone accidentally as a ghost :). Ghost form is for fellow mythicals and Functionally Immortals Only! Not for Squishy Humans.

Jamie: murder. bloodshed. revengggee Bruce: no. no. Justice. peace!! hope! Danny: bittinngggg. blooood. ^-^

They're honestly not bad kids they're just horrifically traumatized two halves of a whole that can never be reunited ever again :).

idk what their vigilante names are but i do know that the underground refer to them in horrified whispers as 'the twins'. this all stemmed from the desperate and sudden urge to see Danny and Jamie, as their vigilante selves, hiding the lower half of their faces with fans and looking terrifyingly judgmental while they do it <333

#danny fenton is not the ghost king #dpxdc #dp x dc #danny fenton #dpxdc crossover #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc au #danny phantom #dan phantom #dp x dc au #dcxdp #dpxdc prompt #the twins au #look look it doesnt NEED to be DPxDC specifically i just WANT it to be. give bruce two twins who arent technically twins at all but the #shattered remains of a boy's soul who will never be whole again :). i need them to be like. 13 when bruce gets them but also when they're #older they're the picture of refined and lethal elegance. bc brrrrrrr. they have scarves bc scarves brrrr. they're like capes lite.#despite Jamie's demeanor comma it IS danny you need to watch out for dont be fooled Danny is not harmless nor declawed he's simply quiet :)#just do you- do you-- dont run away --dO YOU SEE THE VISION. I AM ON TH FLOOR FROTHING. DO YOU SEE THE VISION #they both have hollow looks in their eyes and that never really goes away even after they get older. but it does get better. bruce does hel #bring back some of that spark bc i refuse to slander that man in my house. im going to let my babygirl be a father like god intended #its par for course that of course bruce wayne's new kids look like supervillains in the making. just look at what happened to harvey dent #the gotham public is so certain that beloved bruce wayne has adopted demons. but nobody can prove anything other than the eery reflection #in the twins' eyes and their too sharp teeth. their pointed ears and soft voices that take up the room. antichrists the both of them #bruce wont take this slander and the twins?? honestly?? dont appreciate slander against bruce either. thats their New Dad actually #anywhoosies just a new fun au idea that includes og timeline danny :)) i dont think he'd be anything like his counterpart bc of the trauma #he and jamie get along surprisingly well (according to other danny's standards at least.)

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after-witch · 1 year ago

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Run Rabbit [Sukuna x Reader]

Title: Run Rabbit [Sukuna x Reader]

Synopsis: You were the first one in your village chosen to be a sacrifice to Ryomen Sukuna. But you won't accept your fate so willingly.

Word count: 2000ish

notes: obsessiveness, reader is set to be a sacrifice, non-graphic injuries, non-graphic sexual assault threat,

There are two types of desperation beating inside your breast

The desperation to live, to not be torn to pieces by some beast, to keep going another day and walk down the path of life, wherever it may take you.

And perhaps the worst of the two, the desperation of knowledge: the fact that you can’t deny that you understand why they’re doing this to you, why you’ve been tied to the tree at the entrance of your village.

Why they have chosen you as a sacrifice to Ryomen Sukuna.

He had slaughtered so many people already, in your village and many more besides. Men, women, children. It made no difference to him--no, you think, perhaps it did. From what tales you’ve heard, he seemed to enjoy killing women and children most of all.

Your own parents had been killed by him while they were traveling to a nearby village to visit your mother’s pregnant friend. Perhaps that’s why the village chose you as the easiest sacrifice--you had no family left to stand up for you.

You were just some orphaned daughter. You couldn’t carry on the family name. You would be a burden, if you were married off, and who wanted to take the time to create a match for you amidst the current heavy fear enveloping the village?

So they took you in the early hours of the morning, when the air was misty and cool, and dragged you from your bed to this very tree that leads to the main path to your village. The tree itself was considered sacred. Or it had been, once. Scattered around you are broken charms, no doubt laughingly scattered by Sukuna himself; failed protections against his horrors.

But you? You were going to be the village’s salvation. Surely he would accept their offering and kill you (perhaps more, beforehand) and spare the village. At least for a while. At least until they had to drag some other pretty thing to the tree, and hope he would take them and spare their village for another day.

That’s what they hoped for, anyway.

But you? You were not going to be a good sacrifice. That is why you have spent the better part of the day sawing at the rope binding your wrists to the tree, using one of the broken charms as a sharp edge.

And as the sun begins to slip beneath the horizon, and the warmth in the air seeps away and leaves a clammy cold in its wake, you feel the rope finally fray to a fragile husk--

Just as every insect in the night suddenly ceases their droning calls, and the night birds in the weaving lakes no longer cry out.

Just as the sound of footsteps approaching the tree replaces them.

You have never seen the demon, curse, monster Sukuna in person before. You had only heard the stories, at first huddled together with your family, and then alone.

He is, above all things, overwhelming. Eyes upon eyes, arms upon arms.Two of each, and faces like halves. He is…

Inhuman. Unnatural.

Without realizing it, you are frozen--a doe in the flickering lamplight of a weary traveler. No, for this is no weary traveler who smiles indulgently at the sight of a frightened deer. You are more like a doe trapped in the unmistakable sight of a hunter’s bow.

“Well,” the monster says, his voice like a rough purr that sends goosebumps creeping up arms. “This is a first… surprisingly.” His eyes look you over, and the sight of the multiple pairs moving sends your empty stomach lurching. “Usually villages try to sacrifice their weakest first. The children… the elderly.”

The way his gaze rakes over your form sends your limbs trembling, and you begin to rub your wrists together, willing the rope to give way to nothing in time for you to have some sort of chance.

If he notices, he says nothing. Instead, he steps closer and looks down at you. “But oh, you’re a precious thing, I would think. A lovely woman.” He calls you precious but nothing in his tone or demeanor suggests he thinks you so.

“Shall I kill you outright? Or have my way with you first?” There’s a laughter in his words, and you’re not sure if he means them, but they create a hard knot in your belly all the same.

It doesn’t matter. Because the rope has split.

“Neither,” you spit out, and you don’t wait for his reaction--you simply run.

The primal part of your brain expects to hear his footsteps behind you. Instead, you hear laughter, barking, harsh--but delighted.

“I’ll give you a head start, girl!” He calls out. You don’t dare look behind you to see if he’ll hold true to his words.

The forest is familiar and unfamiliar all at once, for you never went into it during the night, and certainly never alone--and definitely not with a demon at your heels.

Dark greenery whizzes by, punctuated with scratching branches and your own terrified, panting breaths. Some of the branches catch the fold of your robe and you stumble, pulling until the fabric tears or the branch lets you go.

A branch catches your clothing again, but when the fabric tears this time, you don’t regain your footing. You fall to the ground and your body aches, unused to running and injuries--

And then you hear those footsteps again. Loud. Confident. As if whatever creature makes them knows he is entitled to be exactly where he is, doing exactly what he does. You don’t doubt a demon who has slaughtered countless, seemingly for sport, might feel that way.

Hot tears fall down your face, dripping on the ground, almost in time with the footsteps.

“Are you done already? How boring.” His voice above you (for you don’t dare look up at his face) has lost the delight it held earlier, replaced with something you keenly sense is far more dangerous: a loss of interest.

He’ll kill you. If you don't run now, he’ll kill you.

Some noise, grunting and animal-like, escapes your lips. And then you’ve propelled yourself upward, riding on adrenaline, running into the darkness again.

Behind you, Sukuna laughs.

“Keep going! Don’t give up!”

The mockery in his voice lands and slides off you like raindrops. You don’t have the resources to care about anything but getting away from him.

So you run and run and run.

Your fingers taste of sweat and dirt, but you keep them pressed to your lips, muffling your ragged breathing as best you can.

Sukuna is somewhere behind you. His every movement rustles leaves, snaps twigs. He doesn’t need to hide his presence--why would he? He could kill anyone or anything he came across.

If he finds you tucked inside the hollow of this tree, he’ll kill you. Maybe worse than that, because you can; or because he feels an inclination for it.

“Brat.”

Your muscles turn to ice. He found you. He found you and this is it and now--

But pain does not come, death does not come. Instead, you realize, slowly, that he wasn’t addressing you. He’s talking to himself.

“She’s made it this far, huh? If she crosses that stream…” He sighs, and your mind provides the image of his face, pinched with irritation. “I can’t follow. It’s been blessed. Damn sorcerers.”

Hope, fragile but alive, flutters in your breast. The charms on the tree didn’t work… but evidently something did work against this creature. And you were close--so close you could hear the water bubbling--to reaching it.

And like a miracle, his footsteps recede, and the soft sound of the night returns. The insects, hesitantly chirping; the soft crunch of a fox scurrying out of a burrow.

After a time, long enough to make sure he has truly gone, you slowly, carefully crawl away from the hollow of the tree.

The stream. If you can make it across the stream, you’ll be safe.

With your muscles aching and your feet bleeding from the terrain of the forest, you run towards the sound of quietly bubbling water that will be your only chance of salvation.

You have never appreciated the moonlight as much as you have on this night. The moon is not quite full, but it’s large and bright enough to illuminate the man made rock path lodged across the stream, giving easier (but no less slippery) access to those who want to cross it.

Just get across, you think. Just get across and be safe. Be free. Start over. Find somewhere you can live and settle down and--

You take a deep breath and force yourself not to race too far ahead. You don’t want to get distracted, not now.

Not when every footsteps matters. You go as slow as the panic in your breast allows, keeping your arms straight out like you used to as a child, begging your parents to help guide you across.

On the last stone, you hear him approach. Hear the rumble of his chest as he hums. Feel the oppressiveness of his presence.

But you leap to the wet, mossy ground on the bank of the stream and you turn and your heart beats fast with fear and relief in turn. You made it. You’re safe.

Your face breaks into a sobbing smile just as Ryomen Sukuna takes an easy, sauntering step onto the stepping stone.

His laughter hurts your ears.

“Did you really think I couldn’t cross water?” His four eyes blink down at you, and it’s like your soul wants to drop to the ground and run away. “Country bumpkin…”

The smile cracks, but the sob on your lips pushes its way out as you whirl around and run.

But your body has other ideas. It’s too tired. You were not used to such physical strain, and the stress from being tied to the tree and chased and chased--and chased--like some animal has finally overruled the adrenaline pumping through your body.

Your legs collapse, and you fall to the ground. You’re on your knees, aching and bleeding though they are, and you gulp down terrified, sobbing breaths.

This is it. This is when he kills you. You can only hope it will be fast.

“Finally run out of steam, girl?” Sukuna hums, and you feel his foot press down on the small of your back. It doesn’t take any effort for your body to crumple beneath it, but he keeps his foot on the dirty, frayed fabric of your robe.

There’s an uncomfortable flush of humiliation, but you chide yourself for even feeling it. Does it matte, what he does, if he’s just going to kill you now?

“You lasted longer than I thought you would. Though you were stupid to think I was serious about the river.” His voice is low and lazy. You almost wish he sounded angry, annoyed that he’d had to chase you through the woods.

But then you realize that this chase which has worn your body to its limit was like a relaxing stroll for him.

You were running for your life--and it was nothing to him.

“Just…” Your voice is hoarse, and you would drag yourself to the stream and gulp it down like a wild animal, if you could. What is water, though, when you’re going to die at any moment? “Just kill me already,” you finish.

There is a rustling sound, and you don’t know what it means until you’re flipped harshly on your back. You cry out as you’re flipped, body aching, and hurting even more when you feel rocks digging into your tired muscles.

It was better to be staring at the ground, you think. Better to look at that than up at the face of the monster who will end your life.

He tilts his head at you--the two faces, you think, are not just grotesque but otherworldly and very, very wrong. They shouldn’t exist, and he shouldn’t exist, and you hope that somewhere, somehow, some day, there will be a person who knows how to destroy the thing above you.

He hums again. And after a while, he grins, as if he’s pleased with himself. “No, I don’t think I will, girl.”

His words take a while to sink in. And the question forms on your lips before you have time to wonder if you really want the answer.

“Why--why not?”

Sukuna leans down and grips you by the ruined fabric of your robe. He hauls you to your aching feet, and keeps his grip on you even as your legs try to buckle underneath you from fear just as much as the physical strain of the night.

One of his four hands grabs your chin, and none-too-gently forces you to look at him. His pairs of eyes study you, and your stomach twists and turns as you’re made to stare into his face.

“You were given to me,” he says, voice back to that low, growling purr from when he first saw you tonight. “And I’m going to appreciate this little present.”

#sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #afterwitch writes

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