#amethyst haze

[alienaiver]

Amethyst Haze preview

shinsou x gn!disabled reader

this is just a scene i just finished writing and would like to share bcos.. i think im funny in this. it also establishes shinsou and bakugou's friendship in my fic !!!! this scene is from chapter 6 and the sneak peek is 1.1k words of banter between two idiots about health

Shinsou barely moves the door handle before it’s being pushed open by none other than the number two hero, Dynamight. Miscellaneous titles also include friend, colleague, former classmate and, son of his landlord.

Bakugou storms into the apartment and before Shinsou’s even let go of the door handle again, slams it shut, pulling Shinsou with him. Shinsou whistles at the agitation as he watches his friend pace the hallway. “Oh sir, I promise that I paid my rent on time. Please, have the heart to not kick me out,” he jokes with a deadpan voice, follows as Bakugou groans and throws open his fridge to take out a bottle of tea, grabbing the convenience store meal inside the fridge now that he’s at it, too. Shinsou knows that this is Bakugou’s former apartment, but he doesn’t enjoy how much at home he feels now that Shinsou lives here. His eyes follow Bakugou through all the motions, propped up against the door frame. At last, Bakugou sits himself down on the couch.

His couch. In his hero-suit, dirty from today’s patrol. His couch. Inside his home.

“Since my rent isn’t due, to what do I owe this honour, my lord?”

Bakugou neither opens the tea nor the food container to eat, just sits down, fuming in his own anger.

“I’m losing my fuckin’ hearing.”

Ah. Shinsou doesn’t move still, only raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve been losing it since high school. Are you losing memories, too?”

Bakugou mocks out a fake laugh, “you know what I meant, dumbass.”

Shinsou makes a thoughtful grimace and gives it a moment before he tries another reply, “you already wear hearing aids… if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Bakugou groans and throws his head into his hands. Shinsou shouldn’t derive this much pleasure from his suffering. He might be a bad person, after all. He sighs and sits down next to Bakugou, but on the armrest, socked feet on the seat. “What about those ear protectors that support made you once?”

Bakugou sighs and rips open the container of food, some fried chicken with rice. After thoughtfully chewing for a moment, Shinsou expects Bakugou to answer about the protectors.

“This tastes like shit. You never do your own cooking ‘round here?”

Shinsou snorts, “I do so apologize that the food that I did not buy for you isn’t to your liking.”

Bakugou grins and grabs the bottle of tea, “this shit is bussin’, though. Good call.”

Shinsou hums, “you’re changing into your winter suit in a few weeks, right? Add the ear protectors then.”

Bakugou rolls his eyes, as if he wasn’t the one barging into Shinsou’s apartment to discuss the issue at hand.

“Don’t wanna. Fans are gonna notice.” he grunts, like it’s common sense. Shinsou rolls his eyes, “this again? Come on, you’re almost thirty. It’s not cool anymore or whatever, to not care about your health.”

Bakugou half-heartedly throws the food container back onto the coffee table, only picked at and unfinished. He gulps down half the tea, “why the fuck are you so calm?” he asks angrily then, wiping the drizzle of tea on his chin with his sleeve. Shinsou barely makes a face, “because you’re not. Someone’s gotta be, you know.”

“But I’m going fuckin’ deaf and you don’t even care?”

“Add the protectors, you dingus, or I’m snitching to your ma’.”

Bakugou’s eyes widen for a split second before he grumbles and fall back on the couch, “I’m afraid I’ll need to retire. Don’t wanna fuckin’ retire.”

“Lots of heroes retire before 30.” Shinsou states matter of factly, and Bakugou sticks out his tongue at him, clearly not getting whatever comfort he needs. He sighs then, “the ear doctor fucker wasn’t happy about the acceleration of my hearing loss. Says it wasn’t calculated to go this bad by this age. I know heroes generally retire young, but that’s from injuries or disabilities or what-fucking-ever.”

Mister Twister tries to covertly reach the chicken on the table, but when Shinsou claps his hands together, she flinches and jumps back down. “Lovely surprise for you, then! Being deaf’s a disability, too.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Fuck off yourself. Kats’, I’m being serious, add the protectors. Technology’s become so advanced they can probably hide them perfectly now than back when you were 17. Or don’t hide them, become an advocate for quirk setback consequences or whatever. Hearing’s a pretty important part of your work.”

While Bakugou mulls over his reply, Shinsou picks up his phone from the coffee table, fearing this emergency visit take most of his day.

Shinsou: might or might not need to cancel. im so sorry but friend emergency came up, ill keep u updated

He feels bad sending such a vague message to maybe cancel your plans, but he would feel even worse not prioritizing a friend feeling bad. He locks the phone and drops it onto the couch, “your arm’s still fucked from the war, and your leg from that raid a few years back, I feel like you don’t need to add an unnecessary badge to the list of injuries you’ve contracted through the years.”

Bakugou’s puffs up his cheeks to a pout, “my arm’s fine.”

“That’s like saying your diabetes is cured because you take metformin every day. If you stopped the metformin, your blood sugar would rise again.”

“I don’t take metformin-”

“I know. It’s an allegory.”

Bakugou groans again, “I shouldn’t have come to you.”

“Well, who else? You’re too thick headed to admit this to Izuku or Eiji. You’d rather pass away than give these updates to your parents. Your mom says hi, by the way.”

“Stop talking to my mom more often than me, man. It’s weird as hell.”

“You shouldn’t have let me sublet your apartment when you moved, then. She’s my landlord, so of course I need to have contact with her.” Shinsou smirks, before he gets up to take the food container out to the fridge again, before Mister Twister actually succeeds in stealing the chicken. He picks up another tea from the fridge for himself but before he’s back in the living room, Bakugou’s gotten up.

“Where’re you going?”

“back to work. Only had the lunch break after the appointment.” he explains curtly. On the way to the front door, Shinsou clicks his tongue, “could you stop coming in through the main entrance? I’m tired of all the rumors about what mistress you might be visiting every time you come here from work.”

Bakugou barks out a loud laugh and raises his middle finger towards Shinsou, “please. You’d give anything to be my mistress.”

He doesn’t get to make a witty reply before Bakugou’s already slammed the door shut again, leaving in just an explosive fashion as he arrived. Shinsou rolls his eyes and goes back to the couch.

[aikoiya]

DP HC - Nocturn (My Style)

Nocturn is a dirty shipper & everyone needs to know about it.

He was the ghost equivalent of aroace, or was it demi? There were so many blasted sexualities these days, he couldn't keep track of them all. Regardless, he didn't feel romantic or sexual attraction to anyone besides a single individual.

Well, he didn't have sexual urges, period. The act has never really made him uncomfortable, he just doesn't naturally crave it the way others do. Closeness & physical affection? Absolutely! He l♡ves it! Sex? It's just not something he craves or goes out of his way to pursue unless he's feeling particularly clingy & affectionate as he very much enjoys the closeness involved in the act.

He does find it both physically pleasurable & enjoyable, as well as interesting as a form of social/interpersonal bonding between romantic partners, though. He also feels it's his responsibility to satisfy his wife's urges, so he's never really objected to the act.

As a result of his lack of desire for sexual gratification, his kinks are generally pretty vanilla. Mostly revolving around praise & taking care of his partner. Just physical affection. As an aside, he turns out to be a switch & fits naturally into the role of Service Top. He is always willing to indulge his love in her own kinks, though. So long as they aren't disgusting or unsanitary, he's willing to try just about anything. Thankfully, she really doesn't.

Yet, paradoxically, he's also a deeply romantic soul who loved romance stories & novels.

Finds the interpersonal relationships of others interesting regardless of whether they be romantic, filial, philial, or platonic & is a filthy gossip.

He enjoys giving people dreams that reveal to them things that they might not have entirely known about themselves, especially in accordance with their relationships to other people.

Romance, of course, being his favorite.

He was also known in the Infinite Realms for being a bit of a matchmaker. It didn't always work out, but he did have a higher success rate than quite a few. Though, not anywhere near as high as ghosts whose actual Obsessions were with matchmaking, but that made perfect sense.

It was just a hobby of his after all & his lack of interest in such things for himself beyond the only one he'd ever had (& ever cared to have) did sometimes cause him to miss certain things as it meant that he didn't always fully understand certain aspects of such relationships.

He was only as good as he was through trial, error, & extensive observation. He imagines that if he had such inclinations, then he'd likely have better success, but considering everything, he'd like to think that he does pretty well even if he said so himself.

While he made it seem like he overtook Amity for malicious reasons, in reality, he was just being a dirty shipper again. Though, he could've accomplished his goal by simply sprinkling the 2 in question with his sleep sand & left with them none-the-wiser, he figured that he could also have a bit of fun while he was at it.

It was occasionally exciting to play the part of the villain. ♡

He typically doesn't control the actual contents of the dreams he gives beyond little nudges & a general point in the desired direction. For example, when he concentrates on nightmares, they have nightmares. He enforces sweet dreams, they get sweet dreams. He wishes for... well... wet dreams, then so be it. So, it goes for sweet romantic dreams as well.

Most things beyond that were formed by their own psyche.

Giving soulmates romantic dreams was especially easy, the ghost boy & his gothic friend even more so. The reason being that the pair actually had a dormant psychic connection that they likely didn't realize, meaning they had probably been together in several lifetimes before their current one. Because of this, all he had to do was sprinkle them both, conjure sweet romanticism, then bring that preexisting psychic link they had to the surface.

This resulted in their subconsciouses working together to create a single romantic scene that they both deeply wished for & shared.

It was one of his favorite sorts of dreams; a mutually agreed upon one. ♡

Not that he couldn't control every single nuance of a dream if he wanted to. He just chooses to save that sort of thing for extremely important dreams such as prophetic ones. If someone needed to know the future, but weren't specifically psychic themselves, then Clockwork informed him & he would give Nocturn the exact description of what needed to be seen. These sorts of dreams took an above average amount of energy out of Nocturn.

The pair tended to work together rather well. Then again, Clockwork was his great grandfather afterall.

Hmm... he hadn't thought about his life as Hypnos in quite a long time, let alone Clockwork's life as Chronos Aeon. Maybe he should visit his twin sometime? Thanatos could get lonely at times.

See, Nocturn wasn't actually dead. Nor was he a true ghost. Rather, he was merely sleeping & astral projecting himself. When awake, which was rarely, his wife, Pasithea, & his kids, Morpheus, Phobetor, & Phantasos, were all he needed.

He & Pasithea didn't have the most traditional relationship as a result of his only having experienced attraction upon getting to know her, specifically. Because of this, he'd been rather the fish out of water when courting her.

His Darling Daydream had been so wonderful, though. Very patient with his bumbling, trying to immitate the grand stories he knew rather than letting things happen organically! ♡

It was actually their love of romance that they first bonded over.

Young love was grand, wasn't it? ♡♡

Anyway, in reality, he didn't actually need those helmets to put people to sleep nor even to keep them that way. It was just an easy macguffin for the little Phantom to latch onto & overcome in order to save the day.

He was delighted to hear that the Tutelary Psychopomp had gotten together with the little Gothic Dryad in the end. ♡

I also like @thesoulspulse's idea where they said that "Nocturne uses threads from the Tapestry of Fate to weave hints of someone’s past or future into their dreams while Clockwork monitors the timeline directly & sees more possible outcomes based on a person’s choices. Sadly, Nocturne’s method while effective isn’t perfect since he can’t see the full picture ironically, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to do what he can."

They also said, "So this Nocturne has the power to read the threads that make up the Tapestry of Fate and weave them into the dreams of others with the help of his Dream Weavers (aka my replacement for Sleepwalkers) and the 3 Fates themselves. These threads can show him fragments of someones past or possible future which is why he uses his powers to indirectly guide them and help point them in the right direction or warn them of incoming dangers."

And, "Only Clockwork can see the full picture though which means Nocturne often has to ask for his council in more serious matters the threads have shown him since its pretty easy for him to misinterpret the dreams woven from them. After all, Nocturne is the Master of Dreams, not Time. And yet both of them have important roles to play in the grand scheme of things."

It works well with my idea of him. It also sort of ties into the idea that he might be Hypnos.

For more, go to my full Ghost Zone Masterlist.

[whatcolourisit]

buckle up, it's a long list

from left-right, top-bottom:

English Lavender, Guppy Violet, unnamed colour, unnamed colour, unnamed colour, Jazzberry Jam, unnamed colour

Deep Amethyst, unnamed colour, unnamed colour, Chinese Violet, Trendy Pink (? confused by this name), unnamed colour, Purple Peril

Manatee, Encore, Midnight Haze, East Bay, unnamed colour, unnamed colour

NOT TO MAKE ANOTHER "LOOK AT THIS STAYED GONE FRAME" POST BUT THIS ONE IS MORE MISSABLE THAN THE MULTIPLE TIMES VOX DOES THE RAINBOW TV BARS. literally a blink and you miss it frame. cause why is it a literal straight up BI FLAG right after alastor reveals vox tried to ask him to join his "team". like the rainbow tv bars you could brush off as them just deciding to colour the tv error bars a bit different. but this. this is just the fucking bi flag like there's no ifs ands or buts about it. what was the reason.

LIKE COME ON

[sharkgirl15cosplays]

Does anybody else hate their birthday? The one day where people generally are supposed to treat you right and it never happens, and this year, around my birthday, I'm moving back in with my parents ew. Could Taylor Swift do me a favor and release Speak Now TV at the end of the month? I need the serotonin. Besides February's birthstone is amethyst so it fits with the color theme, and fairytales are very pisces and I was born on national fairytale day. So Taylor midnight on my birthday would be perfect.

[historiaxvanserra]

In Hades I Am With You | Chapter Three

Pairing: Azriel x Hewn!city reader

Word Count: 3k

Summary: Reader is the ill-fated daughter of a cruel Lord of Night; plagued with prophetic dreams and cursed with rare, arcane gifts. Azriel is the stoic spymaster; forged from violence, lethal and honed to a fatal sharpness. The pair find themselves bound to one another through readers strange, prophetic dreams.

Tags: Forced proximity, strangers to lovers, Night Court lore, Priestess reader, discussions of SA and abuse, discussions of sex work, criticism of misogyny, sexism, and general abuse in all its forms, eventual smut, slight corruption kink, reader is incredibly romantic and horny.

I hold my hands up, as if in prayer, steam coils in feverish tendrils around the exposed curves and divots of my breasts and shoulders. The dark waters roil and spill over the lip of the turquoise pools as I surrender myself to their warmth.  From here, the world is obscured by the gossamer haze that glitters like spun spider-silk.  Like the veil between two worlds. An oppressive breeze cuts through the chamber like a shroud and the scent of wisteria and moonflowers smothers the putrid smell of the city in the wet heat of a summer storm. 

The cruel laughter of the other court ladies rings like a siren song in my ears. A symphony of high-arching sound that echoes off the moonstone pillars. I filter it out; focused instead on my own trembling hands, turning them to admire my fingers which are adorned in rings of amethyst and onyx, mined from the bowels of this wretched mountain that I call home. Then another's fingers interlock with my own, breaking my reverie.

Melinoe’s voice is lyrical and velvety as she wades through the waters before me. Steam rises in columns about her hips and waist, becoming entangled in the damp lengths of her silver hair. It curls over her sloped shoulders like a white raven’s plumage, casting her in a halo of opal light.

“Where were you last night?” 

Melinoe is one of the Lord Protector’s favorites. She is tall and graceful with beautiful smoke-kissed skin and glassy, onyx eyes that mark her as a daughter of this court. Melione was once the companion of Morrigan; The Lord Protector’s only daughter. Though she had been exiled from the Court long before I was born. She had been assigned to my household when I came of age. My eternal companion. 

Though we are bound by duty, there is still something of me that is kindred to her, a shared pain perhaps. She had grown up here, as I had, she too knew the anguish and oppression of this wretched mountain. The longing it can bring. It is why when I decline to answer her question she doesn’t feel the need to interrogate me further. 

“There are whispers amongst the Darkbringers.” Melinoe starts, a conspiratory gleam in her eyes as she looks around the room. The low cadence of her voice echoes dangerously off the mountain stone when she moves through the waters with a serpentine grace. She emerges from the bubbling pools like the image of some dark Goddess, born from the sea to lure men to their watery deaths. Her voice is laden with malice as she eyes the younger girls. How they hunger after every whispered word, circling her in merry rings like dancing water nymphs, or the coiling tendrils of some monstrous chimera.

“That the High Lord will return to court by the moon's turn.” The dancing tide turns volatile and the ladies eyes glint with something dark and predatory in the pallid light. 

Long ago, the first Princes of the Night Court had made their home here, in the cruel depths of the Mountain. The Moonstone Palace had been hewn from onyx stone of the mountain. Hence its name. The facade of the palace itself was adorned with great stalactites of opal that form a series of dark coronas that line its gothic archways, and its stained glass ceilings cast the palace in a wretched emerald light. When Rhysand had ascended the throne, after his father before him, he had abandoned his ancestral seat in the Palace in favor of his ‘Court of Dreams’. 

For millennia Velaris had been shrouded by ancient night magic; kept hidden from us here, under the mountain. Even as war ravaged these lands, and Amarantha made slaves of us all. A city shaded in veins of lavender, amethyst and violet, and saturated in perpetual starlight. 

The people of Hewn City had been afforded no such grace. Left to rot and ruin under the oppressive stone of the mountains. The forgotten vestiges of a dying regime; clinging to the archaic traditions of our forebears, coveting the dark whispers of power inherited from ancestors long dead.

Now, we cower in the cruel, emerald light of the Moonstone Palace, like shadows.

“The High Lord has no tenderness in his heart for us, why would he return if not for ill?” I ask, looking up at her through dark, curious eyes. 

“Because it pleases him to impose his wrath upon us,” Melinoe shrugs, running a fine-boned hand through the tresses of her hair, that refract like smoky quartz in the cold light. 

“And because it serves him to appease the Lord Protector.” Medea insists gently, leaning down to cradle my jaw in her slender hands. The mere mention of his name is enough to bring forth the ferrous taste of blood and hatred to my mouth, and yet, any ill I’d speak against him lives and dies upon the tip of my tongue. 

“Or to bring him to heel.” I interject, parroting the words I had heard from the Darkbringers in the Jade Pearl. 

After a few aching moments, Melinoe agrees as a smoke-skinned wraith drapes her body in a robe of fine, dark silk. The garment is held together by iridescent emerald ribbons that cinched around the curve of her waist, its lapels and cuffs are trimmed with black lace and the hems adorned in the black, floral embroidery favored by the Velarian tailors. A gift from her Lord husband, and my barbarous keeper. 

None of my own garments are nearly so beautiful. My dresses are the austere, high-necked gowns of a novitiate; dark swathes of fabric that cover me like a shroud and veils of silver and alabaster to conceal my face. 

“Perhaps the High Lord and his Illyrian dogs have already fucked their way through all of the dreamers in the so called ‘City of Starlight’ and hope to find some solace here, in the dark where they belong.” Venom laces her words, though her tone is pleasantly breathy and she smiles prettily when she speaks. 

Melinoe only ever speaks to me like this here, in the quiet of the bathing chambers, where the words we speak are our own. Her mother had told us once, a long time ago, that a woman’s first blood does not come from between her legs, but from biting her tongue. I hadn’t known what she meant then but I think I do now. The women of this infernal court are like well trained bitches; obedient, meek, and loyal. I was taught young not to bite the hand that fed me. Taught me how to beg prettily, how to crawl on my hands and knees and throw myself down upon a man’s mercy. 

And there is so little mercy in this world for women like us.

“He is afterall, his father’s son.” I hum lightly, musing on her words and I sink further into the misty wakefulness that usually speaks to a coming vision. 

A few beats of silence pass between us and then the bathhouse is a cacophony of liliting voices and girlish chatter as the other girls dress; whispering and dancing across the tiled floors of the bathhouse at the prospect of our High Lord’s return. 

“So…are you going to tell me where you were last night?” 

“I was here.” I say lowly, as I gesture to the bathing chambers. These apartments are one of the view places I am permitted to be without one of my sworn Darkbringers.

When I was a girl I wandered the Moonstone Palace at my pleasure; I knew every narrow corridor of these hallowed halls. The statue of Astarion that lay beneath the Palace itself, the desecrated temple at the foothills of the mountain, the botanical gardens which held blossoms of foxglove and dhalia’s, and arches of wild flowering jasmine and climbing ivy, the atrium with its stained glass ceilings, through which I observed thousands of constellations that painted the black tapestry of the sky like threads on a loom, and the High Lord’s personal libraries, its high paneled walls holding tomes and scrolls as ancient and arcane as the palace itself.

Over the years. Those freedoms had been stripped away from me for one infarction or another. 

“I came here - after Aelios left - you weren’t here.” Melinoe says dangerously, a thin brow arching towards me. My heart hammers traitorously against my chest. 

If Aelios had sent her it would be under the instruction of my guardian and the Lord Protector of the city. If Keir had the slightest idea of my transgression I would have been summoned by now.

“Did Aelios send you?” I ask tentatively. 

“No - when do I ever do as that barbarous fool asks?” Melinoe retorts, an air of offense on her beautiful face.

“I thought I heard you leave your apartments. I wanted to make sure you were well.” Melinoe approaches the lip of the tub and takes my hand in hers. She touches me gently then, her eyes full of care and affection. 

“The dreams have been getting worse, haven’t they?” She was right, though, that was not the reason I ventured out unseen last night. 

Melinoe runs a fine boned hand through my damp hair, and coos softly. 

“Please don’t tell Aelios.” I beg her, feeling guilt coil in my chest for the sympathy that lights her eyes. 

These visions that plague me are prophetic and dangerous, they speak of sacrifice and sacrilege, of war and ruin. I know that Keir covets the power I possess, I know what this foreknowledge could bring about, in the wrong hands. His hands are mottled with rage and cold with death. 

“I won’t,” Melinoe swears solemnly, “and where did these visions lead you this time?” 

I look up at her through dark, curious eyes from my place in the bubbling pools. Unsure if I should tell her. 

“Th-the lower city.” Melinoe’s eyes widen, sparkling like starlight in the blue light. 

“You mean…you went to the pleasure houses?” She asks aghast. She takes a deep breath and pushes away from me, pacing in circles on the tiled floor. 

“How?” 

“I-I borrowed some of Leda’s clothes - left through the servants quarters - no one saw me.” 

“How can you be so sure?” She asks her voice low. 

“If anyone recognised me I would have been dragged before the High Council and exiled before I even had the chance to tell you.” 

After a few aching moments of silence Melinoe softens, her head tipping towards me. 

“What was it like?” She begs for something tangible to cling to. Some small sliver of knowledge of what lies beyond these castle walls. So I tell her and the whole while she stares at me enraptured. 

I tell her of the whores, who swarm merchants like sirens, singing sweetly to them. I tell her of the sailors and the smell of the ale, the bawdy songs they sing and the vulgar words that color their language. I tell of of the games, coins minted with the faces of our High Lord glint in the light as it changes hands. 

“I-i can’t believe you went out there,” Melinoe sighs enthralled. “Did you see anyone from the Palace?”

“I saw a few of the Darkbringers - I didn’t speak to them though - and…” I hesitate, unsure if I should tell her about my encounter with the Shadowsinger. Who touched me with reverence, whose lips had claimed mine so devoutly. 

That night, I returned to the Moonstone Palace filled with such strange…longing. For what, I am not entirely certain but the Shadowsinger has opened something within me, some old wound, festing and aching for touch.

“And?” She asks. 

I want to tell her. I want to kneel at her altar and confess that his kiss tastes like cedar and night-blooming wisteria. That his eyes hold the darkness from which we were born, and to which we will one day return. The confession dies when she looks at me again. 

The vows I had taken were solemn ones. Last night, I had forsaken every one. If my keeper ever discovered my treason I’d be exiled as Morrigan had been. Disgraced and forced to debase myself amongst the High Lord’s court of whores and tyrants.

What’s more is that kiss, sacrilegious and sacred as it was, belonged to me. A secret contained between myself and the city.

“The soldiers were talking about the war.” I exhale slowly, swallowing the fallow lump in my throat. “An-and the High Lord’s return.” 

I cast my gaze out of the large, gothic archway that exposes the city in the wet heat of the storm. A dark mass of shadows bleeds across the vast black tapestry of the sky until the world is veiled in black. 

Was the Shadowsinger out there? 

Somewhere in the depths of this mountain with the same longing in his black heart?

Melinoe strides towards my discarded clothes, draped over the tiles as she coaxes me out of the baths. Her slender hands glide over the heavy swathes of fabric and she procures my veil from the pile. The elegant spider-silk is almost iridescent in the sapphire light of the Moonstone Palace. It is a cruel reminder of my place here. I feel its heaviness settle over me like a shroud.

Beneath my faded robes I observe the champagne silk of the slip I had worn last night. It was trimmed with lace and tailored to fit my body. It had been a Solstice gift. Imported from Velaris. I wonder if its usual scent of jasmine and bergamot had been tainted with something darker. 

Wisteria and frozen pine. 

“The City Watch said that there had been trouble on the borders,” Melinoe offers. She did this a lot; always hearing whispers of one thing or the other. “Apparently the Princes on the Continent are working with him.” 

“With who?” I ask, tucking back a loose curl.

“The Death Lord.”

“The Priestesses say that The Lord Protector is willing to join them…for a price.” Melinoe says grimly. 

“What could possibly be worth such a betrayal of our traditions?” My stomach turns, a warring and violent storm. Anxiety coils around my throat like the tendrils of some monstrous creature borne from the depths of the ocean. 

“That’s what it is to thrive in this world, sweet girl.” Her voice is softer now, a whisper of gentle night. 

“To make your black deals in the dark and decide what you will trade for power.”

I knew very little of power. 

But I know this: I had forsaken sacred vows at the mere suggestion of it. So what might desperate a desperate man desecrate to know the kiss of that dark, ancient power that bleeds from the infernal heart of this land. 

“I probably shouldn’t have brought it up.” Melinoe turns away from me.

“It- it’s just that with the High Lord’s return…” She stalks towards the open windows, taking in the view of the city from this height, “and your dreaming…does it not speak to something - a coming storm?” 

In truth it had never occurred to me that my foresight might serve as anything other than a shackle. That it might be a warning from out of time. Of things yet to come. 

“Come, sweet girl,” Melinoe coos kindly, turning from me, “it is not for the likes of us to worry about.”

“I will follow in a moment,” I acquiesce, reclining further into the water, running a cloth over the junction of my neck and collarbones and loosing a sigh as the steam envelops me once again, “I will take the waters a while longer.” 

She lingers for a moment more before taking her leave, the other court ladies following her in a daze as they trail out of the bath chamber; in a throng knotted curls and flashes of laughing violet eyes that glint in the seraphic light.

The vision comes with the quiet, fleeting images of the blue light of a bleeding star and a dark-winged angel.

“Are you quite alright, my Lady?” The voice of my handmaiden, Leda, cuts through the arid heat of the bathing chamber. The young wraith's fingertips dig into the tender flesh of my arms as she drags me upward and out of the scalding waters. Leda is a lithe creature, with yellow eyes and thin, arched brows that she furrows when she casts her amber gaze on me in the cruel light. Her features twist grimly at the alabaster film that shrouds my vision, a testament to the fleeting visions and prophetic dreaming that haunts me in my waking hours. 

“Another dream?” Her voice is accusatory and laced with concern. The wraith’s touch is careful and deliberate as she cradles my chin in her cupped palm. A reflexive hand tightens around her as she runs a hand through the loose tresses of my hair as my ragged breaths soften to a gentle exhale. 

“The worst of it has passed, I think.” I assure her, smiling lightly, though I am sure it does not reach my eyes. The wraith looks at me warily and there in the darks of her irises I find a small flicker of courage that coaxes sound from me again.

“I- I dreamt of a winged angel -- a blue star that bleeds over the mountain.” I say gravely, my voice wane and ghostly. My body feels like a conduit of someone else's pain. A vessel of nerve endings and synapses that sear white hot with the last tremors of the dark power that lives in me. 

“Dreams may yet be just that, sweet girl.” Leda embraces me thoughtfully, the crease in her brow deepens and the set of her jaw falls into something akin to sorrow. She wraps me carefully in a dark navy robe, the soft cotton against my skin working to untether me from the ether. 

“Now get dressed.” The wraith speaks gently into my unbound hair. Leda’s voice is stern but her face unserious, one brow arches high and her eyes glitter with devilment in the fireglow.

“The Lord Protector wishes to speak with you.” I falter then and Leda watches carefully as my fingers descend upon the discolored flowering bruises that mottle my skin.

TAGLIST: @bravo-delta-eccho@tiredsleepyhead@that-one-bibliophole@azzyslittleshadow@lalaluch @laramcflyyyy @teenagellamaangel

[twilightkitkat]

Part 4 of thinking about the reaction another universe's Logan would have to meeting Wade. To Wade and Logan's relationship.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

@ramblingautisticman @desperatelyneedcoffee @di-abolical @bladenbrush @animaniac1017 @amethyst-loves-bucky @lookimjusthereforthevibes @insantfishsoup @mischievous-thunder

---

They arrived back at the mansion in a haze.

By the time the other X-men arrived, the man who'd kidnapped Logan was long gone. He'd disappeared without a trace, and taken The Wolverine with him.

Apparently the fucker had planned this, considering the other X-men all encountered problems right when Wade, Logan, and Other-Logan had faced off with him. He was smart, using technology and some of his stronger underlings to hold them off long enough to make a clean escape.

The worst feeling was realizing it had been premeditated. He clearly set up a situation where he'd be capable of taking Logan—distracting the other X-men and making sure an ability restraint collar was nearby.

Moreover, he'd known that Wade's Logan was different from this world's Logan. He'd had plenty of openings for all of them, so it was clear that his choice to target his Logan was intentional.

(Did Wade lead Logan to his doom? Was he responsible for Logan's kidnapping if he indirectly brought him here, right into the open mouth of a hidden predator?)

The other X-men had tried to track him to no avail. When they returned, Charles tried to locate him using Cerebro, but he couldn't get a signal. The villain had even planned for that, probably using some rip-off Magneto helmet.

It made Wade want to scream. Or cry. Or both.

Other-Logan hadn't left his side since they'd returned. He'd kept a steady hand on his back or arm wrapped around his shoulders, grounding him. Wade wouldn't admit it out loud, but it was the only thing really tethering him to reality at the moment. The only thing stopping him from devolving into a full-blown panic attack like he had the second Logan left his sight.

(The X-men had found them there, curled up together on the ground. Logan was stroking Wade's hair and murmuring quietly, an arm protectively wrapped around his back. Wade was rocking back and forth slightly, a hysterical look in his eyes.

Logan had glanced back at them and jerked his head, signaling for them to leave. When a few hesitated, he damn near snarled as his arm tightened further, nearly crushing Wade in his grip.

They'd left them alone after that.)

Wade, for once, was silent. He couldn't keep up his typical stream of banter and crude humor when he knew Logan was in real danger. He stared off into the distance, barely registering anything around him.

In his peripheral vision, he saw people frantically running around. Relaying information. Shouting orders.

It all felt hazy. Like he was in a dream, witnessing everything unfold but unable to control it. His focus was simultaneously everywhere and nowhere all at once. He heard little tidbits of information—urgent whispering and confused reactions as the X-men tried to plan their next course of action—but he couldn't really hear anything.

It was like sand. He could feel it between his feet, vaguely, but if he tried to grasp out and focus on one area of information, he felt it slip through his fingers. Everything was blurring together—people formed into little blobs of color, and actions registered in his brain like a lagging computer.

He felt lost, for lack of a better word. Like he was drifting, waiting for the moment where he'd wake up and this would all be a dream. Waiting for the moment he could curl up next to Logan and reach out to cradle his face and finally fucking kiss him like he should've done ages ago.

Nothing was real. Everything was too real. Reality shattered into tiny little shards that buried themselves into his skin and made him bleed out until he was just a bloodless, lifeless, husk of a person.

(Wade just wanted to go home.)

---

Logan groaned, eyes flickering shut again as the bright light assaulted his eyes. Fucking hell, he thought, what did I drink to get this fucked up?

As he drifted into consciousness—slowly, as if his body was against the very idea of waking up—he became a bit more aware of his surroundings.

The place was unfamiliar to him. It looked clinical, almost like a laboratory or hospital of some type. Full of pristine white walls and beeping monitors and technology he was far too old to know the purpose of.

...Did I end up in a hospital, somehow? He figured his healing factor would kick in if he ever managed to drink enough to do serious liver damage, but maybe he'd overloaded it.

He tried to remember how he got here, what in God's name would possess him to drink like a sheltered Christian girl gone wild at her first college party, but his memory was hazy. Out of reach. He would try to grasp onto the tendrils of a vague image in his mind, only for them to jerk out of his grasp at the last moment.

He tried to sit up, to ask where the fuck he was and how he got there, but he slammed back on the table with a huff. He glanced down and saw he was strapped to it, tight leather straps binding his chest and arms and legs.

This probably wasn't a hospital, then. Good to know.

He tried struggling against the straps to no avail. It only caused them to chafe uncomfortably against his muscles.

The old-fashioned way, then. He unsheathed his claws and—

—What? Why weren't his claws coming out?

He tried clenching his hands into fists again and focusing on them. Trying to activate the signal that caused them to slide out of his knuckles so he could slice away his bindings.

Nothing.

He was starting to get anxious. He'd been calmer, before, knowing that he was practically unkillable and nobody would be stupid enough to try to kidnap him. He always had an easy out, whether it was regeneration or slicing his surroundings up.

He struggled harder against the leather, uncaring of how it left red marks imprinted on his skin. Wade would probably have a fucking field day if he saw Logan right now. He could already his voice in his head, cooing at him, "Awww, did peanut have a mishap with some bondage? How kinky. If you wanted to try it out all you had to do was ask."

Wait. Wade.

Where the fuck was Wade? What happened to him?

If Logan was here, did that mean Wade was trapped somewhere nearby? Or was he still at home in their apartment, blissfully unaware that Logan had been taken. If he realized Logan was gone, would he come to save him?

More than that, if these guys had a way of stopping Logan from using his claws, what could they do to Wade? When Wade inevitably came looking for him (he would, Logan knew he would) would he be prepared to deal with whatever they were using? Or was he under the influence of it right now?

Logan renewed his struggle with ferocity. He needed to warn Wade. Figure out if these fuckers had him or were targeting him and kill them. It was starting to burn now, to dig into his skin and twist until the layers peeled apart and he began bleeding.

He glared at the wounds. He wouldn't let a little blood stop him. He'd broken out from worse restraints before, weakened state aside. He didn't know who the hell took him, but they were idiots for only using a material as flimsy as leather to trap him. Even metal wasn't enough to hold The Wolverine. All he had to do was wait for the bruises and raw skin to heal and he'd keep going, working with persistence until his bindings were worn down.

Except he wasn't healing. He stared at the reddened skin, waiting for it to go back to normal. Nothing happened.

He felt the rawness of it in full. Felt the way it burned against the leather, aching for release. Felt the way it protested against the friction.

It wasn't going away.

Shit.

Something told Logan this was going to be harder than he thought.

---

"I brought you a glass of water," Logan cleared his throat awkwardly as he entered Wade's room, setting the cup down on his nightstand.

"...Thanks," Wade mumbled. Now that he thought about it, he guessed he was thirsty. His throat felt dry and scratchy, and his voice was hoarse when he spoke.

He picked up the glass of water and held it in his lap. He stared down at it, willing himself to drink but unable to move. All he could focus on was his own reflection in the water, a mangled mass of tumorous flesh that was barely held together by his skin fibers.

He kind of looked like a wrinkly avocado had an orgy with a pack of raisins and a vat of acid and spat him out. Or a sea sponge decided to have human offspring that got burnt in a forest fire. Either way, he looked freakish. Like a monster.

(He was a monster, wasn't he? Just sitting here while Logan was out there, unable to do anything. Useless as always. The only thing Wade was good for was comedic relief, and he wasn't even managing to do that right.)

"Are you gonna drink that, bub?"

Logan's voice startled Wade, tearing him away from his spiraling thoughts. He nearly dropped the glass of water, but managed to grab it in time. He gripped it so tightly that his knuckles turned white. If he applied any more pressure, he was pretty sure it would break. Shattered into glass fragments that would dig into his palms and the soles of his feet until he was as torn up on the outside as he felt on the inside. It was a tempting thought.

"Hey, Wade, can you hear me?" Logan waved his hand in front of Wade's eyes, a concerned expression plastered on his face.

"Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry."

"No need to apologize. I was just checking in to see if you're gonna drink the water or keep staring at it like a mirror."

Wade grimaced slightly, but finally managed to lift the cup to his lips and take a sip.

And fuck, he was thirsty. As soon as the first bit of water hit his throat it was like he couldn't stop, like he finally registered how dry it felt. He gulped down the water hungrily in one go until none of it was left. He sighed in relief once it was gone, setting it back down sheepishly.

Logan looked at him, and Wade could practically see the gears turning in his head from how his stare burned into Wade's skull. He was considering something, going to open his mouth a few times before closing it, until he finally seemed to settle on something to say.

"You miss him, huh?" That didn't come out nearly as nice as Logan thought it would in his head, if his frustrated look was anything to go by.

"What gave you that impression?" Wade remarked drily.

"No, I mean—" Logan cut himself off and took a deep breath (he seemed to do that around Wade a lot) before speaking again, "You care about him. A lot."

Wade looked up uncertainly. Where was this going? "...I do," he reluctantly replied.

"...What would you do? If something happened to him, I mean?"

"I'd hunt down the fucker who dared to lay a hand on him and disembowel them. Tear them limb from limb. Burn them alive. Torture them in a slow and agonizing way until they were begging to die, and then keep going until there was nothing left of them," Wade's eyes sharpened for the first time since Logan had disappeared. His glare was fierce—a promise of unimaginable pain if anyone dared to lay hands on what was his.

"You'd do that? For him?" Other-Logan looked vaguely shocked, but at the same time hungry. Desperate to know more.

"I'd do that and more. I'd tear this fucking world apart if that's what it took to find him." A declaration. A promise.

"Why?" A breathless whisper.

"Because he saved me. Even if I was the one to haul his ass up and out of that goddamn bar, he saved me. He's the one who still chose to save my world even if he didn't know if he could save his own. He's the one who chose to sacrifice his life so I could go back to them. He's the one who held my hand to fucking Madonna as we beat the odds and both lived because we had each other."

"He..." Logan began.

"He's the one who accepted my shitty olive branch and came to my apartment. He's the one who made my stupid depressing bachelor's pad feel like a home. He's the one who goes with me on all of the grueling, hard missions and watches my back so we can take turns sleeping. He's the one who helps me walk Mary Puppins and goes grocery shopping with me and cooks me dinner that doesn't make me want to throw up. He's the one who—" Wade's voice cracked.

"Wade..."

"No, let me finish. I need to get this out. He's the one who wakes up next to me every morning. Who makes the days where I want to tear off my own fucking skin tolerable because at least I get to be beside him. He's the only one who looked at my disgusted, fucked-up shriveled ballsack of a face and didn't flinch. When even Vanessa did. He's the only one who saw me and still accepted it. Who stayed when I asked."

Tears began to fill his eyes, "And now he's gone because of me. He got taken away before I got to fucking tell him that. Before I could thank him properly for everything and tell him that I want him to stay forever. Now he could die thinking I left him behind on purpose, when all I've wanted to do since I met him was keep him close. I just... I wish I had the courage to man up. To tell him how I feel."

"How you feel?" Logan's eyes were dilated, and he darted out his tongue to lick his lips.

"Yeah, tell him that aside from the buddy-buddy partnership we've had going on, I wanted more. I wanted him. Entirely."

"In what way?"

"I wanted to fucking kiss him and never let go. And now... now I may never get the chance. I spent so fucking long agonizing over it, thinking that if I made a move I could ruin everything. And now it's all ruined anyway. And I don't even know if he feels the same."

"...What do you mean, you don't know if he feels the same?" Logan's stared at him, blankly.

"...I don't know if he returns my feelings? I know you're a little slow, Wolvie, but do I really need to spell it out for you?"

"You're being serious right now." Logan deadpanned. "You actually can't tell?"

"Can't tell what?"

"Look," Logan sighed. "When we get him back, just tell him how you feel. I doubt he—I—would react as badly as you're fearing."

"...How would you know?"

"Because I'm him. And there is no way in hell I wouldn't love you too." Logan's voice was firm, a fierce determination in his eyes.

"What?" Wade stared at him, dumbfounded.

"If I lived with you—hell, even if I didn't—in any universe, as long as you were the same person. I'd love you. I know it."

Wade laughed wetly. "You're just saying that. Because you feel bad for me. Because you don't even know if we're going to get him back and you're trying to reassure me."

"No, I'm not. I mean it."

"Yes, you are. Logan, you're—you're a hero. You're the X-man. You're fucking righteous and angry and strong and the image of peak masculinity. If testosterone had a human embodiment, you'd be it. You're meant to be in love with Jean Gray or some other woman who's kind and smart and pretty. Who completes the picture for you. Not me, a morally ambiguous mercenary who looks like they got dipped in the deep fryer at a McDonald's."

Other-Logan grabbed his face, suddenly. Leaned in until their foreheads were touching, until their lips were just inches apart.

"That's not true," he whisper-growled, "Why do you get to decide what would complete my picture, huh? Maybe instead of a boring pretty girl, I'd prefer a mouthy fucking mercenary who can't seem to wrap his head around the concept of self-worth. What if that were true instead?"

"Then I'd call you fucking delusional and a horrible liar," Wade retorted.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Is this delusional, then?"

Logan's lips crashed against his. Wade just barely had time to open his mouth in shock and then Logan's tongue was pushing its way in, scraping past his teeth and tangling with his.

Logan's arms slid around his back, grabbing onto his waist, and Wade leaned into the touch against his will. Logan pulled back for a moment, barely long enough to breathe, and then dove back at a deeper angle. Wade groaned, deeply in the back of his throat, and wrapped his arms around Logan's neck, digging his fingers into the hair at the base of his nape to yank him closer.

Wade began kissing back with fervor, pressing forward to swallow Logan's lips too. He pushed him over and Logan tumbled onto the bed with him, landing on his back as Wade pinned him from above. It felt good. Good in a way he'd long forgotten kisses could feel, since his mutation.

Wade felt like he was floating, like he was having an out-of-body experience. There was no way this could be real: him, making out with another version of Logan while his was kidnapped. It sounded like the plot of some shitty Wattpad fanfiction. (Or Tumblr, if he was being generous.)

Logan's arms slithered further down his back as Wade moved to grip his shoulders, leaning in impossibly closer. He felt a heat begin to coil in his gut. (Really? Now, of all times? With him, of all people?)

Finally, after one last searing kiss, he pulled away. He had to. If he kept going, he wouldn't be able to hold himself back from crossing a line that he didn't think he could return from. (Wade may be insane, but even he had limits. And fucking the spitting image of the love of your life while they're getting tortured is one of them.)

"That was..."

"Intense?" Logan supplied.

"Yeah. Intense."

Wade sighed and flopped down next to Logan, running a hand over his face. If he focused, he could still taste the faint hint of whiskey. Figures, he thought, I don't know what else Logan would taste like.

"Do you believe me now?" Logan's eyes met his again. They were prodding him to look closer. To see the honesty and vulnerability and affection he felt. For Wade of all people. (If this was how Other-Logan felt, how did his own Logan compare?)

"Would be kinda hard not to," Wade let out a breathy chuckle.

"Thought so," Logan smirked.

"My Logan... he..."

"Probably feels the same. Wait, no. Scratch that. He definitely feels the same."

Wade snorted. "Fitting that I'd only realize it when he's in peril. The character development of an action comic book character can only be spurred by action, huh?"

"The hell are you on about? Comic books?"

"Don't worry about it," Wade dismissed him with a flick of his hand. "Stupid reference. You wouldn't get it. The point is that I believe you. If—when I find my Logan, I'm going to tell him how I feel."

"Gonna man up for once?"

Wade punched his shoulder, holding back a laugh. "Shut up. You don't get to say shit about manning up with half of your personality is just acting like a gigantic kitty cat."

"I do not act like a kitty cat."

"I bet you fucking stare in the mirror each morning and style your ear tufts to try to look like one. You capitalize on it, don't you? 'Oh look, I'm The Wolverine! I run around acting all mainly all while practically wearing cat ears like a middle school girl would to a Halloween Dance—'"

This time it was Logan who punched him. In the gut. Hard. (Ouch.) At least he didn't pull out the claws.

Wade's laughter trailed off, a more serious expression overtaking his face again. Logan noticed the shift in demeanor, judging by how his posture tensed slightly.

"Hey, Logan, you—"

"It's fine."

"But I didn't—"

"I know what you're gonna say, bub. And it's fine. I can deal with my own feelings, despite what you think I'm a bit more mature than a middle school girl running around in cat ears," Logan gave him a half-hearted smirk.

"But you said that you..."

"I did. And I do. But I know that while you may like me, who you really love is him. You're just chasing after the image of him, the closest thing you could get while he was away. The second best option," Logan's smile fell into more of a grimace.

Wade glared at him and then grabbed his face. Logan startled slightly, but met his gaze. "Stop that. You're not just a 'replacement' for my Logan. You're your own person. He's not you, and you're not him. You're right, I do love my Logan, and in some ways, you do remind me of him, but you're not him. I know that and I knew that when I first met you. So stop being self-deprecating and thinking that you aren't good enough just because I have my heart set on someone else."

Logan blinked at him, owlishly, eyes widening slightly. Then they visibly softened. "Christ, Wade. You really are one of a kind. This is gonna be harder than I thought."

"Love triangles are a bitch," Wade supplied. "They're a lazy writing device by authors who have no better plot points than introducing unneeded romantic tension."

"Yeah, well, I have plenty of experience dealing with them. It won't kill me, or I'd have died by Jean and Scott's hands a long time ago."

"Old."

"Shut it."

Wade's eyes lowered slightly. "My Logan... he's gonna be okay, right? I mean, obviously, he's strong as hell—you should know considering he's a version of you—but do you think he's holding on? What if he's scared? Or hurt? Or—"

"He'll be okay." Other-Logan's hand grasped his firmly. "We'll find him for you. I promise."

And just for a moment, Wade shut his eyes and let himself believe it.

---

Logan groaned in exhaustion as his head fell back against the table. He'd been struggling for what felt like hours without any progress. His skin felt tender in a way he'd never experienced before, raw and bloody and torn to the innermost layer.

It was then, just as he'd tired himself out, that the doorknob rattled.

Logan tensed up immediately, eyeing the door warily. His senses felt dulled under whatever type of drugs they had him on, and he was unable to pick up any useful information through his other senses like he normally could.

(It was vaguely unnerving, not being able to smell or hear people from the other room. Even if was overwhelming at times, it was his normal. It was like being able to see colors his whole life, even if sometimes they were blindingly bright, and then having the ability stolen from him. Suddenly becoming colorblind. It felt like a weakness. A disability that he'd never learned to live with.)

A man stepped in. He was a patchwork of human and futuristic robotic parts. He looked vaguely familiar, in a way Logan couldn't quite place.

"Ah, I see you've awakened," the man looked at him coolly. "That's good, it means my dosage was correct. How are you feeling?"

That voice was familiar, too. It sounded almost like—like—

("We can do this the easy way or the hard way.")

Suddenly, everything snapped into place. Like a part of his memory that was temporarily offline finally connected to the Internet. Like a piece of his brain slotted back where it was supposed to be.

"You're the asshole who broke Wade's communicator and kidnapped me," Logan growled accusingly.

That's right. He wasn't in his own world right now. He'd followed Wade here after not hearing from him for nearly a month, only to get separated again by this fucker. He must be in this guy's villainous lair, then.

"So you remember. I take that to mean that you're feeling better," the man said as he smiled at him politely.

His eyes were devoid of any light or real emotion. It sent a shiver up Logan's spine. The asshole probably got off on the power trip of acting all calm and collected while his victims panicked.

"What do you want with Wade? With me?" Logan snapped.

The man hummed to himself, sifting through a selection of tools sitting on a tray beside the table. "With the Deadpool variant? Nothing. With you, on the other hand..." the man trailed off, seemingly searching for something. His eyes lit up in recognition as he grabbed a vial off the table. "Here we go," he murmured under his breath, sounding pleased.

"Now, back to what I was saying." The deceptively pleasant tone had returned. It felt formal. Corporate. "You see, an interesting phenomenon happened not too long ago. One I think you'd happen to know quite a bit about."

"Stop stalling."

"Now, now. Patience. You see, normally, when timelines begin to unravel, they die out. It isn't a pleasant process. Things begin going wrong: people disappear, things swap places, rules of the world begin bending. It's almost as if the very fabric of the universe itself is collapsing."

"Your point?"

"And yet... that didn't happen to your universe, did it? Or, the Deadpool variant's universe, to be accurate. Oh, no, even after an anchor being in your universe died and it was destabilized intentionally, your universe recovered." The man spun an object that resembled a syringe between his fingers.

The man continued, "Such a curious thing... a universe being able to recover from the brink of collapse. When I heard of it, I thought it was just a fable. A tall tale. And yet, when I looked into it, can you imagine my surprise when I found out it was true? That it was possible to replace an anchor being?"

For some reason, those words stuck out to Logan. Something big was going on. Something very decidedly not good.

"It's a revolutionary idea. One that had never even been attempted before. ...But here you are. Physical proof that an anchor being can be replaced. The only successful anchor being transplanted between universes throughout all of history."

"What does that have to do with you kidnapping me?" Logan wished this guy could just get to the fucking point. The worst part of these types of monologues was the anticipation, the not knowing what to do next until he had enough information to try to roughly throw a plan together.

At least Wade was safe, if this guy wasn't lying. It made Logan feel slightly better to know that they didn't want anything from him. (Directly, at least. Logan knew that Wade would get involved in this one way or another, whether this villain thought he was relevant to his plan or not.)

"You see," the man stopped twirling the syringe. It rested between his index finger and thumb. "My universe isn't doing too well. Our anchor being died a few centuries ago, and the effects are beginning to catch up to us."

Logan's breath hitched.

"I think you'd be interested to know that our old anchor being was a Wolverine. Just like you," the man smiled tightly at him. "Everyone was lost on what to do until I had a brilliant idea. We can just... replicate Deadpool's little experiment. Using the one and only person who's proven himself capable of molding to be an anchor being for another universe."

His blood ran cold. This was significantly worse than he'd thought. This monologue insinuated that he not only had the capability of dimensional travel, but also the advantages of technology from several hundred years in the future.

"So we lured you here. Stirred up just enough trouble for the TVA to take notice and send out their favorite little mercenaries," the man spoke flippantly. Arrogantly. "Unfortunately, you didn't show up at first. What a pity. We could've met sooner. Luckily, I figured that you'd pull up to the party if your little partner got stuck."

"I refuse."

"What?"

"I refuse," Logan repeated. "I don't care what you say. I'm not going to go to your world and act as an anchor being there."

(Logan wouldn't. No matter what. Not after he'd finally found a home worth fighting for. One that could very well become unstable and collapse without him there to protect it.)

"You seem to misunderstand," the man spoke conversationally, "I wasn't asking you."

"And you seem to misunderstand," Logan snarked back. "I wasn't asking either."

The asshole merely chuckled. "You say that, and yet you'll change your mind."

"How? Are you gonna beat me up? You think I haven't seen my way around the torture block before?" Logan mocked.

"No, no. I have something better than torture." The man's smile turned razor-sharp, contorting his face in a way that would've been comical if it wasn't so horrific. "Do you remember how... disoriented you were when you woke up? How it took a second to regain your memory?"

Now that he mentioned it, that was odd. Logan figured he'd sustained some type of concussion because his healing factor wasn't working properly or that it was a side effect of whatever anesthetic he'd been on.

"You see, in the future, abilities are much more advanced. And so are the tools you can create with them."

"...And?"

"And one of those handy tools allows me the privilege of altering your memories. Permanently."

What the fuck.

"What you saw before was just a glimpse of its abilities. I can erase memories, yes, but I can also rebuild them. I won't have to force you to come with me to my world, I'll make it so that you'll come willingly."

"You insane piece of shit," Logan muttered.

"I think I'm quite psychologically sound, actually. If I forced you to come with me, you'd never stop trying to escape. I've seen the wills of Wolverines from other universes, and it's not to be trifled with. Additionally, your friends and the TVA would never stop looking for you."

"Damn right, I'll never stop trying to escape."

"—But, if I can make you come willingly, then that fixes all of the issues. Not only would your emotional ability to forge the bond as an anchor being be heightened, but you'd cease your escape attempts. You'd be able to convince the TVA that you want this, that you choose to stay willingly. And, well, you know consent laws."

"Pretty sure brainwashing isn't protected by consent laws, bub," Logan retorted.

The man kept talking, "The TVA has a lot on their plate. If I managed to make it impossible to undo, they'd let it go. That version of you would be long gone, anyway. Nothing left to save. They'd let me have the scraps so that they can keep their little documentation of you going."

Logan wanted to argue, but that did sound like something the TVA would do. They might be allies right now, but at its core, the TVA was a capitalistic, ruthless organization hellbent on efficiency and stability of all timelines. They'd cut their losses where they had to.

"Now," the man seemed to be content now that he'd finished his monologue, "let's get started, shall we?" The man walked closer to him, holding that same damn syringe he'd been fiddling with before.

Logan fought the urge to thrash again, his muscles coiled tightly as he instinctively plastered himself as far back against the table as he could. As if that would help.

He began putting on gloves, "I do have to come clean before we start. I know I implied I wouldn't torture you, but that was a bit of a lie. Do forgive me. While the formula I have is effective, we're running a bit short on time. And the results can be sped up when accompanied by some... psychological reprogramming.

That didn't sound good.

"Nothing too bad. I suppose you'll live up to your name as an animal, though, considering we'll have to train you like one. To not disobey orders. Or ever think of leaving," the man fastened a mask to his face. At least followed medical hygiene regulations.

"And you know how animals are," the man walked over to him, preparing an area on his arm by wiping it with alcohol first. Logan tried to thrash, but he merely tutted and pushed him down with his inhuman strength.

"They learn best through pain."

The ice-cold liquid flooded Logan's veins. It felt like he was freezing and on fire simultaneously. It caused him to let out an aborted yell before his throat closed up as his vision went black.

As black spots invaded his vision, he just barely made out the silhouette of the man as he retrieved a sharp, metal object.

And then he was gone.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: On Colour

Describing Colour in your Poetry and Stories

BLACK Shadow Black, Dusk, Midnight, Blackbird, Blackberry, Ebony, Black Honey, Darkness, Jet Black, Ink Black, Soot, Onyx, Licorice, Ivory Black, Pitch, Char, Gloom, Outer Space, Creosote Black, Melanite, Goth Black, Gunpowder

BLUE Blueberry, Sapphire Blue Metallic, Tiffany Blue (Pantone 1837), Cobalt Blue, Denim, Aquamarine, Turquoise, Sky Blue, Topaz, Ultramarine Blue, Azure, Cerulean, Oxford Blue, Periwinkle, Electric Blue, Baby Boy Blue, Pthalo Blue, Robin's Egg Blue, Persian Blue, Marino Blue, Prussian Blue

GREEN Leafy Green, Olive, Moss Green, Jade, Lime, Sour Apple Green, Emerald Green, Mint, Kiwi Green, Phthalo Green, Praying Mantis Green, Viridian, Greenback, Shamrock, Sap Green, Chartreuse, Sea Green, Pistachio, Teal, Bamboo, Sea Salt, Celadon Green, Celery, Asparagus Green, Fern Green, Neon Green, Jungle Green, Pear Green

ORANGE Pumpkin, Burnt Orange, Carrot, Sunset Orange, Tangerine, Persimmon, Salamander, Tennessee Orange (Pantone 151), Jack-o'-lantern Orange, Florida Orange, Summer Squash, Pale Daffodil, Smashed Pumpkin, Saffron, Autumn Orange, Macaroni and Cheese, Cadmium Orange

PINK Pink Flamingo, Neon Pink, Bubblegum Pink, Salmon, Peach, Fuscia, Cotton Candy Pink, Rose, Carnation, Thulian, Apricot, Atomic Pink, Barbie Pink, Hot Pink, Amaranth, Flushed, Glitter Pink

PURPLE Lavender, Purple Haze, Grape, Eggplant Purple, Plum, Violet, Orchid, Psychedelic Purple, Amethyst, Lilac, Boysenberry, Mulberry, Wisteria, Bruised Plum, Indigo, Mauve

RED Blood Red, Copper, Maroon, Strawberry, Watermelon Red, Crimson, Candy Apple Red, Tomato, Brick Red, Scarlet, Cardinal Red, Cherry, Ruby Red, Coral, Sunburn, Hot Lava, Cadmium Red, Auburn, Blush, Alizarin Crimson, Fire Engine Red, Raspberry, Vermillion, Lipstick, Burgundy, Magenta, English Vermilion, Mahogany

WHITE Dirty White, Albino, Chalk, Alabaster, Cotton, Titanium White, Vanilla, Bone White Egg Shell, Marshmallow, Ivory, Pearl White, Almond, Champagne, Blond, Cream, Milky White, Corn Silk, Bleach, Navajo White, Ghost White, Light, Cloud White

YELLOW Canary Yellow, Lemon, Banana, Egg Yolk Yellow, Mellow Yellow, Chanterelle, Mustard Yellow, Corn, Goldenrod, Amber, Pineapple, Metallic Gold, Cadmium Yellow, Wheat, Tuscan Sun, Butter, School Bus Yellow, Yellow Ochre, Citron, Dandelion

BROWN Mud Brown, Beaver, Caramel, Rust, Macaroon, Toasty Brown, Coffee, Sandy Tan, Cocoa, Honey, Chocolate, Burnt Sienna, Mocha, Seashell, Antique Brass, Bronze, Brown Sugar, Chestnut Brown, Taupe, Burnt Umber, Khaki, Dark Sienna, Light Chocolate, Sepia

GRAY Stone Gray, Ash, Metallic Silver, Platinum, Smoke, Concrete Gray, Mercury, Steel Gray, Mist, Titanium, Charcoal, Slate, Sterling Silver, Tungsten, Old Coin Gray, Iron Gray, Chrome, Magnesium, Overcast

MIXED Candy Cane (red and white), Zebra (black and white), Chameleon (many different colours), Ladybug (black and red), Wildfire (yellow, orange and red), Tiger (orange, black and white), Yellow Jacket (black and yellow), Christmas Lights (red, white and green), Rainbow (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet), Black Pepper (black and gray), Leopard (spotted gold and black), Creamsicle (orange and white), Candy Corn (orange and white), Iceberg (a bluish gray), Marbled

COLOURS: Symbolisms, Associations & Psychological Effects

Black. Especially in Gothic literature from the West, a black colour choice often represents death, evil, grief, and depression. Associated with fear, the unknown and often has a negative connotation. Black clothes can make you look thinner. A black background severely diminishes the readability of most type. Often the go to colour for funerals and grieving. It symbolizes stability and power, which gives a sense of authority. Thus, the black colour often represents professionalism and expertise.

Blue. Has positive and negative connotations in colour psychology. Some writers may use blue to represent serenity and tranquility, instilling a scene with a calming effect. Blue can also signify sadness, melancholy, or isolation. People who find someone very loyal and faithful are often called "true blue". Blue is often considered to be more masculine which is why it is often the colour of choice when choosing a suit. Lighter blues are associated with tranquility, softness and healing. Darker blues are associated with power, knowledge and seriousness. Blue is actually shown to suppress appetites a bit. The colour blue symbolizes wisdom and hope. It’s the colour of peace and confidence. Blue has been shown to reduce blood pressure and pulse rate. It fosters serenity and a sense of belonging.

Green. The colour green often symbolizes rebirth, growth, peace, jealousy, and greed. Green colours may also represent spring and renewal. It is a colour that is very easy on the eyes. Dark green is often associated with ambition. Green suggests stability, safety and hope. At the same time, it may denote a lack of experience in a particular field. Green symbolizes peace, growth, and nature. It is the colour of success, promoting healing and tranquility.

Orange. The colour orange often represents energy, excitement, joy, and creativity. Since orange is the colour of fire, it may also symbolize heat. Since orange is not as aggressive as red, it can actually stimulate brain activity. It is very useful to catch someone's attention, which is why it's used a lot to advertise food and toys.

Pink. The colour pink symbolizes love, kindness, femininity, innocence, and playfulness. Certain shades of pink can limit aggression. Pink may be associated with unconditional love and caring.

Purple. Often associated with royalty, the colour purple symbolizes bravery, spirituality, and luxury. Light purple usually brings up romantic or nostalgic feelings; while a darker shade can make you feel gloomy or sad.

Red. The colour red symbolizes some of the most powerful human emotions, like passionate love or lust. On the other side of the spectrum, this warm colour is also the colour of blood, often symbolizing anger, danger, and violence. It stimulates the appetite. Red is an emotionally intense colour associated with energy, danger, anger, passion and determination. The symbolic meaning associated with the colour red is passion, excitement, and love. It’s the colour of urgency, power, and desire. Red is said to boost hunger and is believed to inspire confidence and excitement. This colour has also been found to increase blood pressure and heart rate.

White. This primary colour traditionally symbolizes innocence, peace, and cleanliness. In Western cultures, the colour white also represents purity and virginity, while it symbolizes mourning in some East Asian cultures. Usually has positive connotations when used and thought of as safe. Associated a lot with healing, simplicity and sterility, which is why it's used in hospitals and healing centers as much as it is. The symbolic meaning of the colour white is truth and sometimes even indifference. It encourages feelings of safety and cleanliness. Clean, white clothes and linens show sterility since stains are easily visible. That’s why doctors and nurses frequently wear white lab coats and scrubs.

Yellow. Writers may use the colour yellow to symbolize creativity, happiness, optimism, and warmth—think of a yellow ray of sunlight poking out from a dark cloud. A common negative connotation of the color yellow is cowardice, popularized by the phrase “yellow-bellied.” Warming effect which stimulates body and mind. Gold is associated with the highest of luxury. When bright yellow is used with black it's one of the easiest colour combinations to see from long distances; when uses with lighter colours it's not so easy to see. Yellow ribbons are worn as a symbol of hope and used quite often to welcome home loved ones. Yellow is the colour of warmth, kindness, and happiness. It’s often associated with optimism and well-being and promotes energy.

Brown. This warm, earthy brown colour may symbolize dependability, comfort, and a sense of being grounded. Brown is also a neutral colour, and writers may use it to represent dullness and predictability. Brown is a colour that is related to very grounded traits such as simplicity, practicality, common sense and hard work. Can also be associated with those that are frugal and not too flashy.

Gray. Lighter grays are often thought of as more feminine while darker grays more masculine. Gray is considered by many to be a neutral colour; the perfect balance between light and dark / good and evil. Pop up the lighter grays and add a little shine to it, and thought immediately turns to silver, which correlates to wealth.

Sources & related articles: 1 2 3 4 5 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

If these writing notes helped with your poem/story, please tag me. Or leave a link in the replies. I'd love to read them!

[ladylarynn]

Alleyway Affairs

Summary: The last you heard from Astarion, he told you to "die screaming." Months later, you find each other again. Only this time, deep in the city, in an alley under nightfall. Perhaps, he will bleed you dry. Or perhaps, he has other plans for you.

Rating: E

Word Count: 7.2k

Pairing: Astarion x you (fem!reader)

cw: 18+ REVIEW THE TAGS! established relationship pre breakup, post ending for BG3, blood drinking, exhibitionism, p in v, creampie, explicit consent, angst, additional tags posted on ao3

read on ao3

or keep reading below <3

It is in the end— after the blood had been shed, the world nearly ended. When you are once more alone, companions returning to their new obligations or new plights, when you are left with kind consolation and heavy goodbyes.

The city sleeps, yet often you do not. Residing at differing inns from night to night, you attempt to lead a life nameless once more. A lack of sleep, a predilection for forgetting. Perhaps that is also what led you here, entering a tavern prevalent in profound impropriety and bottomless drink.

The ale is a warm rush of current down your throat, a haze settling inside your mind. The scintillating fireplace of licking flames cast rhythms of shadow across unfamiliar faces.

You’re here on business… or rather, pursuing a whisper of opportunity. It isn’t unnatural to be stood up in this line of inquiry. Not many mages boast of wish spells, and even fewer know how to get their hands on one.

You had managed to not resort to needing Gale this long… so. Other avenues became necessary.

At least that is what you keep telling yourself as you keenly monitor the door.

One door close, and you pick lock it open, but your years in this line of work were hells bent on survival. Not miracles.

Yet, your miracles are not here. At least, one of them doesn’t show. The other you hope won’t.

You groan, cradling your head with your hands, then kneading balled fists against your eyes. The man eyeing you from across the bar coughs to conceal his sudden disinterest. Who can blame him? You’re pathetic.

“The deal is still on the table. You play your part just like you used to, and I help. The hero act wasn’t going to last, you know. Coming here is a testament to the matter.”

You grip the handle of your mug, your drink swishing to and fro. It all but topples over onto the front of your undershirt as you raise it to your lips. You take deep gulps, liquid dribbling down your chin. You smear it away.

You cannot get drunk quickly enough.

However, as the hour plays on, you begin to curse your tolerance of drink, as well as everything else gone wrong in the past months.

Fuck.

Gods, surely there is no use to this anymore—

A honeyed voice pollutes your buzz. It is a suave soliloquy, with syllables like rose petals. It wafts in the air, laughter silk soft with an undercut of severity. It prickles up your posture, and you are shrouded in thorns.

Fuck.

As sly as you may, you cast a glance over your shoulder, and there he is.

Without the tadpole's defiance of the sun, Astarion was thrust into the night once more, cavalierly caviling at the young man draped under his arm. The man is of noble build, with embroidered robes adorned in maroon and amethyst gems. The noble’s cheeks are a flush delight fueled by the splendor of Astarion’s charm.

The sight is the sea collapsing into you, wave after wave. Breath sealed in sinking lungs. You will drown if you don’t look away.

There are two awful realities to unfold before you.

One, how dismayingly odd the noble is for someone of Astarion’s taste. Just met his prime, early twenties, broad shoulders, and bright-eyed. These types were the kind Astarion would toy with until they bristled and cried. Not the kind he’d be involved with.

You swiftly shift to stare into your half-empty glass. A shiver stills your sigh.

Unless of course, the context of taste meant something entirely different.

Then it was most certainly his type.

You take a swig.

Second.

Astarion is philandering.

With your intended mark.

You shouldn’t look again. But you must be sure. On first inspection, the noble fits the bill all right; medium height, thin build, pale eyes, hair, and skin. The description checks out, everything but the—

A cacophony of swooning laughter manages to reach your side of the tavern.

“He laughs like a hyena.”

You turn, slow as if that will help conceal your gaze. It doesn’t.

Crimson eyes meet yours, and dread pollutes your surroundings, your thoughts, and your breath. Your stomach drops, the skin of your arms pebbling as a chill slinks its lips down your spine.

This is not how you planned the night to go.

There it is again, the clutch of your gut, the crater burrowing itself into the trenches of you.

You had not died— screaming, as he had last proclaimed. The reminder of those words, dripping in contempt, brazen in believed betrayal. They had marred your thoughts and sought to spoil the solace of your soul. The severance of your last encounter had sunk its teeth into you, chewed sinew, and spit out the scraps.

Astarion.

He whom you had given everything— anything— for. Gone. Never to be seen again.

But he is here— and you… you realize you really shouldn’t be.

You can’t be.

The mark can wait. There will be other nights.

Within a fluid movement, you set your mug aside, reach into your pouch, and spill gold coins across the counter. You make haste from the bar to the entrance. You slide behind shoulders and wade through strangers cackling and clinking cups unaware.

Even so, you feel him watching you.

The tavern bell chimes. You cringe with the acknowledgment it calls forth to you. The breath in your lungs constricts, the agony in the urgency to flee from his line of sight too much to endure.

Why is he here? Shouldn’t he be in the Underdark?

Did recognition pass across his countenance? He could have seen you but not see you.

This is the only comfort you can indulge in as you quicken your pace, the city lamp yellow hues sluicing and splaying across the street.

You’ve sobered up. Yet, everything is spinning. Swaying. Turning inside out.

You’re panicking.

A bell chimes and footfalls patter behind you. You don’t even need to look. The thought is nauseating. How well-versed you are in the sound of his steps.

“I hope you die screaming.”

It resounds in your mind just as he calls your name. It sounds foreign. It sounds like a memory. Like a dream, you never wake from.

You have half a mind to keep walking, roaming further into the city and into the surrounding, comforting dark.

He could want to make his past proclamation true.

Perhaps you’d let him if only to be rid of this ache.

This burden you bury beneath your smiles and behind your eyes, the loss of him you carry in your voice.

How it is known by all who know you.

“I didn’t think I would find you alone, in my time of the night. Where are your companions, darling?” His tone tinged in disdain; his darling laced with ridicule. There is a slow decline in breath. It staggers still in your lungs, like tangled strands caught in dragging dingers. Is it dread? Is it grief? Perhaps it is a touch of mourning.

You know now what you knew the last you spoke— you are the bearer for all that did not come to fruition. You are the reason he won’t say our companions. Our friends.

And though you loathe yourself for losing him, though you blame yourself for all the things you previously thought you were sheltering him from. You cannot endure this in silence any longer. Not when the chance to confront him is here.

Who are you to run away? You have spent your whole life running.

This isn’t imprisonment. This isn’t a life sentence.

Yet… isn’t it?

You can’t go on like this. You haven’t been.

You whip around, and Astarion stumbles into you. As you collide— his scarlet eyes widen, and a flash of recollection startling your pulse. The effect of being this close isn’t lost on you. You can see, even under the dim lanterns glow the crease of his brow, the wrinkle in his nose, the dip of his cupid’s bow. But just as sudden, he steels himself, stepping back and straightening, a glint in his glare, wrath warping his mouth and brandished on his tongue.

You muster the will to speak before he can.

“They were your companions as much as they were mine,” you bite back, though the spite of it makes you hesitate. Whatever you feel doesn’t matter.

“But…” you sigh, then start again, “that matters not…” you offer.

Your companions who watched you wither away the moment he left. Companions who offered you condolences yet spoke in passing of how things may have been different— for Astarion’s fate. It was blameless yet… how could they have not blamed you? And maybe that is why when it was over, you pushed them all away.

That is why you offered goodbyes in place of being a part of the next journey.

Karlach’s hand on your back, Shadowheart’s curt smile, La’zel’s tense jaw, Gale’s exasperation, Wyll’s sorry nod.

You’d never known family—let alone friends. So why grieve yourself over it?

Even if you gave all you could, even though you had killed yourself to keep the world.

It means nothing now.

All you can do is make him see sense. All you can do is convince him to listen, to hear you. You just didn’t think it would happen this soon when you are unready. When you are still angry— at yourself, at him, at everything.

“What matters is that I am sorry,” you plead, and Astarion teeters on his heel, bombarded by your insistence. But you can’t stop. Even if he thinks you are pathetic—distasteful or blunt.

Your hurt is too deep. You remember the vitriol in your supposed lover’s voice. You remember scrubbing your skin raw after the battle with Cazador. You remember numbly thinking if that was all you always were to him. A plot for protection. A ploy for power.

Hadn’t he said as much?

“I’m sorry how things ended. Now if that is all you wanted, let us be on our way,” you bitterly retort. You mean to turn your back on him, on all of this.

But just as sudden, the verses of carved intent burn at the inside of your wrist.

Dammit.

A contract is a contract.

Even if you walk away. Your past self has condemned you.

Abruptly, his cold, nimble fingers curl around your forearm. His filed nails nip into your skin— though the pain doesn’t end there. His touch burns through you fields of forlorn faith of anything different than the vile sure to leave his tongue.

He is incredulous.

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry? That’s all you have to say to me? Are you sorry to be reminded of how you refused to help me despite stating you would? How you ruin any chance of me ascending, of being more than my captor? You’re sorry?!” He bellows out, the way he does when things are far too outrageous to constrain within a reasonable decibel.

The words stick like tar and taste of arsenic. He must have rehearsed a version of these lines before, as he always made sure to hone his skill of slights. They puncture the air with each consonant, every vowel, as he draws you in closer.

His presence encircles you, a predator playing with its prey. He could end you here and now, drain you of all you are.

As if he hadn’t already.

You yank your arm away and vociferate back.

“I ruined your chance at becoming Cazador. You couldn’t see it. You wouldn’t. The spawn aside, you would have been damned. I love—” a near concession you barely manage to conceal, “I loved you,” you finish.

Dammit! You love him. His mean proclivity. His budding vulnerability. His gentle rebuffs. The sly quips, the grandiose turn of phrase, the sharp smiles, the soft uncertainty of palms alleviating parts of you that were left derelict. When the others slept, you’d glide your fingers through his strands of hair, humming quiet, close, gentle. You never knew if he truly saw you in the same way— as if you were precious as if you were his new comprehension of eternity.

It is why you’d been willing to risk your reputation to pay repentance. To earn some semblance of forgiveness.

Even if you had to become what you once were…

He wouldn’t have to.

And that is enough. Yet—

Yet, you blink and blink it back.

You can’t cry- not like this. Not now.

“I was trying to…” it almost tumbles from your tongue. Save you. That is what you mean to say. But it feels wrong to say it— it felt wrong even then, even if that is what you meant to do, even if it was done with intent rife with compassion, with desperation to help him. You know, deep down, he will despise you further if you admit it. You hadn’t wanted to fix him, but in that moment, you knew love would never heal him. Nor power. Not vengeance.

It was through choice— a choice you seemingly made for him.

So, you halt yourself. Shake your head, and turn away.

“Love?!” He sputters at your confession in disbelief. You hadn’t told him that before. It was never the right moment, or perhaps you feared rejection. Even if you had said it countless times, like the mantra pounding in your heart, would he have ever believed you?

He grips your wrist this time, preventing you from even daring to leave.

“I needed you. And you went back on your promise.” He says indignant. “I should kill you for what you took from me.” He gestures towards the blade sheathed at his hip and for an instant you… you wouldn’t mind if he did.

You’ve been beaten, bloodied, beguiled, spurned. What is left of you after the fight for the city? Victories wrought with death, a closure that did not fulfill. All of it was done with a broken heart.

Deep within, you cave.

How did we become this?

Your features crumble, brows pinching together and tears beginning to burn, threatening to descend your cheeks. You’d never let him see you cry. He’d heard you before… held you as you shook beside him. But never would you show your face. It was too much. For anyone.

Except… the night he left. In front of the others— you wept.

You cannot retreat into the night, for he knows the dark better than you. You had thought he’d known you better.

In the thralls of morality, you finally had the chance to do right by the world. So, you tried. Always.

It’s why he disliked you once. It’s why he cared for you later. It’s why he detests you now.

“Then go ahead Astarion, kill me if you must. But I… I love you with all of me. I promised I’d help you defeat Cazador. I never said I’d aid you in ascending. And you know— you had known I wouldn’t.”

It is a dagger through your heart, the tears have come, yet you cannot hide.

You’d said it.

Love. Not loved. Not the past tense, but the current, the now, the always, the evermore.

For a moment you think he didn’t hear you, didn’t believe you, or thought it a lie. With his proficiency in deceit, shouldn’t he recognize the absence of it?

Astarion’s resolve begins to crack. His lips twitched downward, his jaw tense. The watery remorse seeping into your voice makes him shutter, makes him step back. He clenches his fists, his eyes shutting tight. It’s as though he’s fighting— against what you say— against what has become of you both.

He opens his eyes, on the verge of tears.

“You had no right to refuse me,” he jabs his finger toward your chest, his words are crumpled, falling apart, “you said you would do what I needed.”

“I thought I was doing what you needed,” you insist, hands puncturing your wavering intonation, “That I— I couldn’t do what you wanted. And for that— I am sorry… I am sorry.”

You begin to cradle yourself, backing up, treading away from this… demise of you.

You mutter while meeting his eyes again.

“I know what you want now. I promise you will never see me again.”

Just as the others.

As soon as it leaves your lips, his hands are on your arm, at your wrist. He drags you down the dim alleyway between the tavern and the inn. He seizes you against the opposing wall, your body caged by his, your spine straightening to the cool press of brick.

He is all-consuming, a tidal wave. The moonlight combs through the waves of his hair and coruscates in the gleam of crimson irises. You inhale the aroma of his skin, and it riddles you speechless, the notes of rosemary, the undercurrent of bergamot and cinnamon intoxicating.

Anchoring you to the spot, Astarion is seething.

“No,” he pauses, squeezes his eyes closed, and shakes his head in contention before clenching your wrists tighter, pale red ringlets sure to form. “You don’t get to cry… you betrayed me. Maybe I didn’t become Cazador, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t become much worse.” A mirthless smile snags at the corner of his lips. He scrunches his nose, as if in disgust.

“Don’t look at me like I’m the one who did that to you. Don’t tell me you love me now.”

You steel yourself. You know the game he is playing all too well. You can’t let him see the wound he’s prying wide open, even if your heart is plummeting to the abyss inside your chest, even if your stomach churns.

You step into his space, causing him to flinch, his sneer slipping from his smug face. You murmur quiet, kind.

“You were afraid. I know. But power would not have quilled your fear. No one would hurt you more than you would have hurt yourself. You would have become everything you despise, and I couldn’t watch it happen.”

His grip has lessened. He looks at you with timid uncertainty.

Your voice hardens.

“You can hate me for it. You can kill me for it. But I never wanted to hurt you.”

What you say lingers in the air for a long moment. He regards you with an inscrutable expression.

But it shifts. It morphs. It becomes impenetrable, unknowable. Astarion does what he does best. He withdraws within himself. He counters with defiance.

“The path to the hells is paved with good intentions, my dear.”

You gasp as he releases your wrist, then bring his deft fingers to glide over the underside of your jaw. You shiver, ensnared by the sensation of his sharp nails, his thumb pressing against the seam of your lips, parting them ever so slightly. He drags his thumb over the plush of your bottom lip, and the breath strangled in your lungs releases in a broken sigh, his touch igniting a memory, only known by your skin.

He surveys you with a raised brow, with prowling eyes. His eyes peruse your body as his other hand descends your forearm, nails tracing an aimless motif. Fingers flow from there to the bend of your waist, featherlight over the fabric of your blouse. He curls his palm snugly on your side, thumb positioned beneath the underside of your breast. He can feel your inhale beneath his splaying fingertips. You exhale shakily slow, clinging to the façade of indifference. He tilts his head with a tsk of disapproval, then gently grips your chin.

He flattens his palm over part of your cheek and jaw, slanting your head. He brushes your hair aside, unveiling your neck, then skims his lips over the shell of your ear. He is so close, so familiar. The sanctuary of this nostalgia overcomes you. His cashmere voice is a susurration for surrender.

“Say you’ll let me,” he coos, and the sweet redolence of his presence pervades your senses. Yet, you must try to resist, even when his fingers at your side wade up and down, soothing, and — tempting. When his lips press beneath your ear, then over your pulse, warmth cascades down inside your core, and your knees buckle. You feel the heat bloom between your thighs, your sanity yielding from this all-encompassing yearning.

He drags his fangs over the nape of your neck yet does not bite. Instead, he hallows his cheeks and begins to suck, a violet blossom blooming into your skin beneath his mouth.

You tremble against him, another gasp fumbling from your lips.

“Oh.”

You feel him smile as he hums against the hollow of your throat in approval. Your hips jolt toward his, and you inhale brokenly as his arousal presses to your stomach. It is straining against the fabric of his trousers, firm and full.

Your lust threatens to unravel all sense. Your mind is in the mist.

Latching onto your heavy gaze with his own, he repeats himself.

“Say you’ll let me.”

He says it with resolute intonation, yet an inkling of doubt tinges the end of his sentence. It is not a command, though not a question either. Perchance, he is not sure for which he implies. If he is struggling with who he has created himself to be, or if he is still the Astarion you knew.

Never treading too far, too close, without reassurance. Yet, here, and now, he treads the line of persistence in proving to you the error of your ways. The error in endeavoring to see him, to know him for all the beautiful, the soft, and the gentle. For forgetting who he was made to be. For thinking ascension would be the thing that would break him when he, himself, is too far gone.

You ache with the love you have for him.

“Show me the kind of man you’ve become,” you reply, calm, “Why ask for permission?”

He hesitates for a moment, doe-eyed and dazed.

Then, he decides.

He tilts his head, looking at your lips.

“I wasn’t.” Astarion states, with a cadence of wavering insistence, and with it, you sink lower into the surrounding night.

Your body tensing, your pulse quickening.

His fingers leave your side and weave into the strands of your hair. He pulls your head into a slant once again, causing the nape of your neck to become completely and utterly exposed. The markings of his kisses are scattered along the skin, like that of his own design.

The moonlight swims in his half-hooded gaze, glints off his fangs, and fills you to the brim with trepidation.

There is a sudden, stark stillness in your body.

He mutters, insouciant, “I’ll bleed you dry.”

His breath is a warm flush on your skin, and then his fangs delve deep.

“Ahh!” you hiss, sagging into the adjacent wall. His lips enclose, as he begins to suck a stream of your blood into his voracious mouth. He is harsh in his thirst, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every thick swallow of your blood he takes, the tug of your hair eliciting a dull pain.

Despite this— a sinful sense of pleasure saturates the pain, as it always does when he feeds. Your pulse, heightened, like an orchid in full bloom, beating a deafening rhythm. It is reverberating in your ears, in your temples. Your fear once formidable now fleeting, flowing away with each draw of your blood to his lips.

The euphoria of feeding envelops you in a lukewarm embrace, milky mind a mirage. His grip eases on your hair, and he steadies your jaw with caressing fingers, the rush of your blood now a slow, steady pull from your veins. The effect of drinking entrances him, and you feel the hum of his moan, the lulling of his languorous lips.

It is as though you are being anointed, touched by phantom palms in all the places you yearn— the heat building beneath your skin like a fever that will burn you alive. Your voice, a lilt of his name, shivery and silver. He hmmms against your neck, and your fingers find their way into his curls, trailing your nails through his strands and over his scalp.

He groans, deep in his throat. It is just like the way he used to, those many months ago.

It is like your head is floating, the fever a flavor you sought to forget— but there is no forgetting, not when it is etched into the marrow, into your soul. You want him. So much, you are distraught with want, the heat coalescing at your core, seeping down your inner thighs.

He unlatches his mouth, just to mutter, voice drenched in desire, “I can taste it. You’re so eager for me.”

“I— I don’t—” you whimper in response, biting your lip. But as you try to deny—

Astarion holsters your wilting body up and shifts his knee, pushing it between your thighs. The friction is not nearly enough, yet all too much. You try to resist, yet all sense has vanished. You succumb to him, rolling your hips against his knee, aching for relief. Astarion’s breath catches in his lungs, and though your eyes have fallen shut, you don’t know if it’s to solely focus on the chase of a teetering high or to escape the city’s midnight mussitations. Maybe it is to memorize the motion of hips, the silk of his sigh, the bend of his fingers clenching and unclenching on your waist. It’s building and building, a relentless sea in the mellow meringue of his dipping vowels, the thrumming of this heat enough to drown in.

His knee drops, and despite yourself, you let out a faint whine. You think it is on purpose, a cruel way to deter your relief, yet he grips your hips and pulls you flush against him.

He feels so good, heavy, and thick, snug against where you need him most.

He grinds into you with every sashaying sigh, his head drooping into the crook of your neck. His dulcet exhales tremor through you, showering your head from toe. Your toes curl inside your boots, and your hands clench in fistfuls of his hair.

You don’t know how far this will go— especially here, only concealed by nightfall.

If it remained like this, insatiable, yet… safe. Not crossing the line…

Just as the thought nips at you, Astarion is wedging down the sides of your trousers inch by inch, your mound of curls peeking out from your underwear. He means to feel you, to know the wetness between your thighs. You clench them together, suddenly shy, sheepish at him having evidence of how eager you truly are, how completely he’s undone you with only this continual grazing of his hips, a brush of his lips to the shell of your ear.

You part your thighs, just barely enough for him to flatten his palm and curl his knuckles around your cunt, fingers a touch away from delving between your folds. Yet— he doesn’t. He hovers his fingers there. He is waiting for something yet can’t quite admit.

You know.

You nod, ever so slightly, and give in, letting him set the pace, letting him ascertain what he needs from you.

“Please,” you say, trying to withstand shifting into his touch.

His chest rises and falls. His ring finger slides over the seam of your lower lips, thumb a featherlight swirl around your clit. He teases his middle finger between your folds, sinking slowly until he is knuckle-deep. Your hands leave his hair and find purchase on his shoulders. Your head sways and you bite your bottom lip, stifling a moan.

“Mmmn—“

“You like this?” He says, not unkind. He gently pumps his finger in and out, in and out. A leisurely tempo of sweet torture.

“Yes.”

He lifts his head to look at you, crimson irises a thin ring, his pupils blown wide.

“You want more, don’t you darling,” he encourages you in a sly teasing tone, with a lilt of consideration.

“Yes—“

His ring finger pushes in, and you adjust to the width of them both. Your heartbeat is like a crescendo, as his fingers glide, soaked in your arousal. Again, and again, they pump into you, increasing in pressure, in pace. His thumb twirls over your clit, lazy circles compared to his fingers.

Your nose scrunches, your nails dig into his shoulders. He coos into your ear, praises of you sound so insatiable, such a good girl.

It’s coming, you know it when your hips begin to jut forward sporadically, the coil tightening in your core about to snap. Sizzles of stars pepper behind your eyelids, and stream down your spine.

But can you be quiet enough? What if someone hears you? Sees you?

The inkling of worry must show on your face.

“Just focus on my fingers,” he soothes, “on my voice.”

His thumb massages over your clit, and you gasp out a fragmented version of Ah—starion.

“Let me make you cum, sweetheart,” he susurrates, “you’re so beautiful like this. Clenching on my fingers, whimpering my name.”

His reassurances are relentless, and you tip over the edge of oblivion, rashly muffling your moans into his shoulder, into the fabric of his shirt. Waves of white wash over you, pulse thrumming in your chest.

It is pooling in your core, soaking his fingers, and dripping down his wrist.

You hear him give a shaky breath, wrought with longing and saccharine anguish by your release.

“I want you… I… I can’t— I need you,” he admits on impulse, his fingers sliding out from you, drenched. You tremble at the loss of them, nearly delirious in your post-high. His words make your core clench, make you feverish once more.

Does he mean to take you? Right here? Right now?

A concoction of concern looms over you, and you lift your head from his shoulder. You glance at him, then dart your gaze from one side of the alley, a dead-end brick wall, to the other side. The street before you is devoid of life, no Flaming Fist patrollers, no drunkards huddled in dusk. The lanterns give a dim glow, swaying in the cool breeze. Nevertheless, the light cannot reach you here. Though, surely someone will leave the tavern once the hour’s shade dissipates, to flee home from a brawl, or to sluggishly crawl into bed.

You look to him once more, and again it is as though he reads your mind.

“I know,” he sounds pained, head drooping. By the tension of his trousers, the shut of his eyes, perhaps he is.

“I won’t… we don’t have to,” he quietly assures, and it is so unlike the bravado of before. It is delicate.

You see him, the Astarion you had once been devoted to. Ready to fight for, to die for. And although it may lead to disaster, to the unraveling of your very being, you have never been surer.

This evidently wasn’t only about lust. If it had been, he’d have left you by now for your mark in the tavern. He wouldn’t have followed; he wouldn’t have touched. To be this close had always been a rarity done out of a need to be cared for, adored, to be cherished. Though he may never love you, though he may be planning to hurt you in a way worse than death, you… if only for tonight…

Your palm caresses his cheek, and you meet his eyes.

“I want you,” you murmur, “I’ll be quiet.”

A breath and his eyelashes fall over his eyes as they watch your lips. He leans in close.

“Let me hear you,” he states, then his lips are on yours. The seal of his lips eases the weight of hesitation from your skin, his honeyed mouth in harmony against yours. His tongue slides over the seam and you part your lips, tangling your tongue with his. His needy palms are at your waist, gripping and pulling you nearer as he angles his head, deepening the kiss. You nip at his bottom lip, and he groans in his throat.

You briefly come up for air, panting with the metallic aftertaste of your blood lingering on your tongue. A chill hits your exposed skin as he anchors his fingers at your pants once more, tugging them down until they fall to your knees. You step out of them, a flourish of fear amalgamating with shameful escalating arousal. He pulls you in for another kiss, as his fingers begin to fumble with his waistband. You aid in his endeavor, dragging his pants down until his cock can spring free.

You taste his steadying inhale. He breaks the kiss, then hooks one of your legs over his arm, pushing your back further into the wall, deeper into the cocooning shadow.

You are vibrating with anticipation, dripping onto the floor. He presses the head of his cock to you, and you quiver. He nuzzles it over your folds, then glides it back and forth, until it’s slick, until it’s ready.

You look at him, and the array of emotions passing over his countenance is like deciphering a blur of seasons changing. Your chest is heaving. You are fully bare, fully vulnerable, in more ways than one.

You need him so fucking bad, your hips push forward instinctively, the head of his cock nearly dipping inside you. He responds in a low, guttural grunt, hiking your leg a bit higher, bumping the tip of his cock against your sex once more.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, half delirious, half desperate, rolling his hips into you.

His brows are furrowed, white lashes cast over closed eyes. The damask rose of his flushed cheeks, the pink tips of his pointed ears, pale skin incandescent under the moonlight.

He feels so good, so heavy, and thick sliding over your sex.

He looks so beautiful, the corner of his lips smudged with your blood, the scarlet trail disappearing down his jaw.

But it matters not— his body, his beauty. It is all of him, in every way. The meadows of his mind, the lilies of his laugh. The valleys of his voice, the lavenders of his language. The willows of his worries, the serene of sunrise in his smiles—

Your heart could burst outside your chest. Your vision is a stretch of liquid silhouette.

“I love you,” you say, as if it is as natural as breathing, as simple as the sun rising at dawn.

He reacts in a tremulous exhale, nostrils a flare and the arm anchoring your leg falling a little.

A flush of embarrassment flames in your cheeks.

He probably didn’t mean for you to say that again.

An apology is on the tip of your tongue when he repositions himself at your entrance and sinks in.

Inch by inch.

“Ah—!” You gasp, yet his palm is quick to soften the sound as he encloses it over your mouth. You whine into his hand; your eyes rolling back as he sheathes himself inside your wet, hot heat. You squirm slightly to adjust to the girth of him. He doesn’t stop pressing forward until you are full to the brim.

Astarion pulls out almost completely, before slamming back inside. His hand falls a bit from your lips, and as if by instinct you part your lips, sucking his index and middle finger into your mouth. You peek at him with low-lidded eyes, and he curses the gods beneath his breath.

You hum around his fingers as he sets a sinful rhythm of a gradual outward pull, a heavy plunge in. The slapping of skin echoes softly in the alleyway, and it is downright disgraceful, yet you become lost in its soliloquy. He is undoing the tethers of your mind, diluting all sense.

There is no doubt he feels it too, his agonizingly slow pace increasing in intensity, his quiet pants becoming drawn-out moans.

“Gods, you feel so fucking good,” he mutters, pumping himself in and out, over, and over. You think you may go insane. His fingers pop from your mouth, and he takes hold of your chin.

“Look at me,” he instructs, and you comply, though it makes you blush, makes you boil hot in your blood.

“Say it again,” Astarion commands, and you clench around him in astonishment, in a flare of pleasure. You whimper unintelligibly, glancing away, embarrassment steeping in your face as a surge of wetness coats his cock.

He nearly loses control.

“Say it,” he growls out as he slams deep into you again. His hand clasps your jaw, fingers a curve over part of your neck, urging you to look at him once more.

“I love you,” you confess. You feel tears beginning to prick your eyes, as an impending orgasm sears within you something fierce. Your cunt tightens over his cock, you feel him throb.

“Again.” He orders through clenched teeth, thrusts now sloppy, uneven.

“I love… I—” You try to speak, yet the words are a jumble from your mouth. It’s coming, oh fuck… it’s…

“I love you,” you profess, just as your orgasm consumes you in licks of flame, in rivers of euphoric relief, just as—

Fangs. Fangs delve deep into your neck, the shivery silk of your orgasmic high becoming static fuzz, as Astarion begins to drink your blood like he’d gone centuries without it.

You try to speak, but you are left speechless, as with each draw of your blood, you feel his cock pulse inside of you, his body shuttering, his groans vibrating into the hallow of your throat.

Astarion sucks hard, his hips slamming into yours as he reaches his climax. His cock spasms as he releases his seed inside you, droplets of his cum dripping to your feet. The rush of your blood being drained renders you weightless.

He is devouring you, mouthful, after mouthful.

“Astarion—” you plead, fingers clenching in his hair, tugging at his head. He won’t budge, won’t stop.

“Please,” you beg, tears beginning to cascade down your cheeks.

It is as though he can’t listen, as if set in a trance. Your heartbeat starts to slow, your sight fading.

Your grip loosens on his hair. You don’t pull— instead, you graze your fingernails over his scalp, like an ocean wave meeting the shore, trying to remind him, trying to—

BANG.

A door swings open, the sound emitting from the tavern. Astarion jolts, fangs yanking out of your flesh, blood spilling down his chin. His cock slips from you, and you sigh at the loss of him. Your consciousness ebbs in and out. You slump against the wall, almost unable to stand as he drops your leg to the floor.

You feel his frenzied hands at your ankles, yanking up your trousers. You numbly watch his flustered movements as he pries up his own pants.

Foreign voices ring out, an argument of sorts. You aren’t sure.

You aren’t sure of anything.

Astarion is mouthing words at you. His hair in disarray. His eyes glistening in the moonlight. He attempts to keep you standing, while scouring the floor for something.

“Please,” he suddenly sounds so frantic, so afraid. You feel something bump against your lips.

“Please drink. Darling, please,” he implores.

He tips the bottle and something familiar hits your tongue. You begin to gulp it down, the bottle trembling in his hold as you do.

A cool nourishment floods your body, and your senses and your surroundings return to you once more.

A potion of healing.

You drink until the bottle is empty. Though you feel rejuvenated, it is not enough to wholly quell the effects of blood loss. The skirmish down the street seizes your bones in realization, a welcome distraction from what just occurred.

You cannot get caught like this.

You hand the bottle back to Astarion wordlessly, avoiding his eyes. You double-check your body and find at least you are fully clothed. The sticky mess between your thighs and in the crook of your neck, however, brings anything but relief.

“We need to go.” You mutter emotionless, attempting to brush past him.

Could you still scale the wall in this state? It’s a miracle you’re even breathing right now.

Astarion grabs your wrist and says your name.

“You can’t,” he states, and again, he knows your thoughts. It does anything but endear you.

He continues, “Not like this. We need to wait for them to leave.”

“Why?” You bite back in a whisper. “So you can finish me off?”

He recoils with the stab of your words.

Good.

You yank your hand away.

It would have been one thing if he’d just had his meal, but instead, he made sure he had all of you.

You don’t know if it’s him you’re more upset with, or yourself. A sob claws at your throat. You turn away from him, approaching the wall. You begin to scope out a path for your hands and feet.

“It’s your fault.” He declares, and you stiffen, unmoving. You peer back at him.

“Yes. All my fault,” you move towards him, finger jabbing into his chest.

You take your wrist, and without forethought, smear it over the blood still wet at your neck.

You extend it out for him to see. A contract, made in blood, visible only in blood, illuminates in a yellow scrawl of initials on your skin.

“And I have done everything to make up for it.”

His eyes widen in shock. He grips your wrists, inspecting the golden glow of letters.

“Why—”

“A wish scroll,” you don’t let him finish, “I complete the contract, and I get a wish scroll. It could… it could cure you… or at least allow you to live in the sun.”

He drops your wrist, shaking his head in disbelief.

“How many?”

“Seventeen.”

He lets out a breath.

“Only seventeen?”

“Of noble birth,” you state, “though still far better than seven thousand.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.

A voice rings out from down the street. Someone is calling the nightly patrollers.

You tense and then turn away once more.

“You’ll need me alive if you want that scroll. So, let’s part from here. I’m sure I can find you once I get it.”

“This isn’t you,” he argues, “the hero of the grove, the savior of Baldur’s gate, of the world. You can’t tell me your feelings for me are enough to inspire this.”

“Astarion.” You slide a palm down your face. This conversation is going nowhere, and you’re running out of time.

“There are things about me I never spoke of. That our friends could never know. I wanted to be something different, and I was. But this is more to me than that. You are more to me than that.”

He is silent. Your voice softens. You’re about to cry.

“I’ll see you when it’s over.”

Before he can respond, a CLANG clatters from the street. A rustle of feet, and voices rising. Someone is being arrested.

You don’t waste time to find out. You begin to scale the wall, ignoring the throb of your neck, and the exhaustion of your limbs. You force yourself to climb until you’ve reached the top.

You don’t look back at him. You slide over the other side, then hit the ground running.

You hear him call after you, yet you don’t stop. You won’t.

You run as far as you can, bitterly knowing that when morning comes, at least then you’ll be safe from him.

[forlorn-crows]

𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝑶𝒖𝒕 𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑫𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒌

Rating: Mature (implied sexual content)

Relationship(s): Aether/Rain

Tags: daddy kink, quintosis (quintessence as hypnosis), post-hypnotic trigger/suggestion, implied transmasculine rain, mildly dubious consent & morality, intox kink, alcohol. let aether be SLEAZY let him be NASTY. we love a wine drunk lightweight rain.

Words: 2189

Guppy. The quint ghoul watches the petname hit Rain’s brain and settle there, making his hips falter in their swaying. He makes an unconscious noise, momentarily stupored. But the haze is gone the next time he blinks, replaced with the almost imperceptible dilation of his pupils. A few sparkles of amethyst blend into his normal cerulean irises, indicative of Aether’s little trick he’s just begun to play. It’s simple, really. A little post-hypnotic suggestion, if you will. “That’s a new one; have you called me that before?” Rain giggles a little and takes another sip of his wine. Oh, has he.

Notes: for my bestie @divine-misfortune; happy birthday, void! he requested "I am placing an order fr Aeth and his guppy,,,,As for what theyre doin? Good question-idk maybe gettin him cute n dumb in public or smthn so he needs his daddy" and thus, this fic was born

Read the rest under the cut, or on AO3!

The abbey grounds are alive with celebration; alight with lanterns, string lights, and a great bonfire down the hill; the smell of stew, mulled wine, and crisp apple mixes with the fresh promise of autumn that cools the breeze. Many libations are passed amongst the scattered groups of ghouls and siblings, as well as shared laughs and cozy conversation. It’s a nice night for festivities, and it’s only bound to get rowdier as the evening progresses. 

Rain, of course, is no stranger to a good time. A glass of cranberry wine downed already with another one halfway drunk in his hand, he sways to Swiss and Mountain’s guitar-percussion duo they’ve set up just beyond the bonfire. The multi ghoul strums an unnamed melody while Mountain accompanies with a rhythm on an old floor tom. Easy-going and no particular songs in mind. A few others bustle around him—Cumulus spins Aurora around to her giggling delight, a group of siblings dance amongst their little circle, and Aeon is very obviously wiggling his butt for Swiss’ benefit. 

Not that Rain isn’t doing something similar. Aether’s quite enjoying watching the water ghoul sway his hips and smile coyly over his shoulder as Mountain blows him a kiss. He’s equally as cute in the outfit said drummer most likely picked out for him: a charcoal gray thermal underneath a cream colored blouse, chocolate brown joggers that hover above his leather chelsea boots and show off black wool socks, all topped off with a modest gold ring on his wine-glass-wielding hand. In his hair, bright magenta aster blooms are woven alongside yellow heliopsis flowers in the waterfall braids looping under his horns. 

A right autumn beauty that has Aether itching to touch, to charm.

“Hi, cutie,” he says appreciatively, slipping his hands around Rain’s waist after sauntering up behind him. He pecks the water ghoul on the cheek.

Rain hums and presses his chilled lips to Aether’s mouth. Cinnamon sugar and berry gracing the tip of his tongue. “Hi yourself,” he grins. 

The quint ghoul falls in time with Rain’s hip sways, pressing himself to his back. “And what number drink are we on, love?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know the answer.

“Excuse me, this is only glass number two, thank you very much,” Rain says indignantly. He turns up his nose playfully and flips his hair into Aether’s face, who simply chuckles and blows the strands away.

“Gotta pace yourself; don’t want to see this pretty face passed out in the lawn now, do we?”

Rain rolls his eyes. “I don’t see you enjoying the fruits of Mountain’s berry picking labor.” He throws another coquette look at the earth ghoul, playing it up as a compliment. 

Aether hums. “Open up and let me really taste, then,” he lilts, nipping at Rain’s jaw with a growl. 

“Ugh,” he laughs through a groan. In trying to dodge Aether’s attack, the red wine sloshes over the rim of his glass and soaks into the cuff of his thermal. “Aetherrr,” he complains, picking at the sleeve. 

Aether tuts. “It’s only a little—it’ll dry, guppy.”

Guppy. The quint ghoul watches the petname hit Rain’s brain and settle there, making his hips falter in their swaying. He makes an unconscious noise, momentarily stupored. But the haze is gone the next time he blinks, replaced with the almost imperceptible dilation of his pupils. A few sparkles of amethyst blend into his normal cerulean irises, indicative of Aether’s little trick he’s just begun to play.

It’s simple, really. A little post-hypnotic suggestion, if you will. 

“That’s a new one; have you called me that before?” Rain giggles a little and takes another sip of his wine. 

Oh, has he. He plays innocent. “What, ‘guppy’?” 

Rain giggles again, almost automatic. “Uh huh. Kinda like it.” Aether can tell he doesn’t know why he says so. It’s part of the design, of course, that he doesn’t catch on to what the nickname does to him. How each utterance weaves a little more magick into his mind, dropping him that much further. Rain hums, leaning into Aether more heavily than before. 

“Thought you might,” he rumbles, giving him a peck on the cheek. He catches Mountain’s eye over the water ghoul’s shoulder, his expression now twisted with a mix of amusement, suspicion, and maybe a little bit of jealousy. Aether throws him a wink, and the earth ghoul rolls his eyes and shakes his head with a smirk.

He taps the rim of Rain’s wine glass. “Is my pretty ghoul gonna pace himself properly, or will I have to keep an eye on you, mister?”

“Mmm, you can keep an eye on me all you want.” Rain wiggles his ass against his crotch suggestively. 

Aether chuckles and gives his waist a squeeze. “Watch it, now; you get into too much trouble and I’ll have to whisk you away from all the fun, guppy.”

Rain shakes his head exaggeratedly, whining in disagreement. Stumbling a little on his next hip swivel. “Nooo, let me have fuuun,” he protests. “I’ll be gooood. Promise.” He offers up the pinky on his free hand. The hammered gold band on his middle finger flashes with the firelight across the field. 

Aether links his pinky with his own. “I’ll be watching,” he warns playfully, nipping at his jaw again. Rain doesn’t swat him away this time. The quint ghoul offers a pat on the ass before he walks away, busying himself with hor devours and fish stew.

It’s a few hours later before they cross paths again, Rain noticeably tipsier and loose-limbed as he converses with Dew at the bonfire. If Aether’s observations were correct, the glass of dark, blackberry wine in his hand should be his fourth drink now. He’d be inebriated without the magick, lightweight as water ghouls typically are, but the touch of quintessence makes him needier, more tactile than he otherwise would be. It’s a side effect that makes itself known quite obviously: kissing Mountain full on the mouth after his and Swiss’ set was finished, resting his head on Sunshine’s shoulder as she fed him prosciutto and cheese cubes from her snack plate, holding a sister’s hand as he walked with her through the small rose garden that surrounds the outside walls of the bathhouse. 

Like this, he’s seductive and ripe for the taking. Aether’s drawn back to him like a magnet.

“ . . . wanna go someplace on the coast,” Rain is saying as he approaches the pair. “When it’s warm.” Rain pouts.

Dew makes a face. “Ugh, I don’t know if I can take more outside shows; too fuckin’ hot.”

“Y’re ‘fuckin’ hot,’” the water ghoul smirks, poking at Dew’s leg with his boot. 

Dew just rolls his eyes fondly. “And you’re drunk, starfish.”

“Nuh uh—”

“Think Dew’s right, guppy,” Aether interjects, placing his hands on Rain’s shoulders. “Hm?” Rain raises a finger above his head, waggling it in front of Aether’s chest to emphasize his nuh uh. Aether can feel the magick swirl that much deeper under his fingers, making Rain hiccup and drop his head back against the quint’s body.

Beside them, Dew crosses his arms and laughs knowingly. “Guppy, huh?” He raises an eyebrow and bites the inside of his cheek to stop his mouth from quirking up further. Mentally, Aether shrugs. So a few of them know of his tricks—sue him. They’ve enjoyed the effects of Rain’s (and their own) nickname before, so, really, they have no place to judge.

“‘s cute,” Rain slurs, smiling up at Aether. “Gu-ppy. Guuuuuppy.”

“Why don’t ya say it a few more times?” Dew snorts, turning to busy himself with the fire and leaving Aether to his sleazy antics. Luckily, Ifrit’s there to hold his attention. The quint ghoul slips around and takes the free spot on Rain’s left. He’s immediately greeted with a lapful of clumsy water ghoul, who chooses to climb on top of him instead of stay in his own seat. 

“Hi, love,” Aether says warmly, wrapping his arms around him. Deftly, he plucks the wine glass from Rain’s hand and places it on the stump beside them. “You enjoying yourself?”

“More now tha’ y’re here,” he smiles, all drunk and dopey. He loops his arms around Aether’s neck and hums. Adjusts himself more than comfortably on his lap, legs hanging over his hips and bellies pressed together. 

“I’m glad, my pretty guppy,” Aether rumbles. Rain makes a noise at the back of his throat, quick and breathy. Aether watches his eyelids flutter for the first time since the night began, like a moth's wings as they carry the flying creature closer to the flames. He tuts and brushes his thumb over the water ghoul’s cheek, who leans into the touch with a needy purr. 

“Y’ feel nice,” he sighs dreamily. 

“Not getting tired?” he asks, a self-satisfied smile crossing his face as Rain fights to blink away the haze.

He shakes his head, sticking out his bottom lip and wriggling closer. Rolling his hips not-so-subtly against Aether’s crotch. “Uh-uh.” 

“No? Looks like that wine is getting to you, love,” he teases. 

“Aetherrrrrr,” Rain wines. He wiggles again, and Aether can feel the damp heat starting to radiate off of him. Teetering perfectly between giggly, aroused, and falling asleep standing up. “Let me have fuuun,” he echoes himself from earlier.

“Out here, in front of everyone?” Rain groans and sticks his face into the crook of Aether’s neck. He chuckles to himself and wraps those big arms tight around his lithe body. One more, and he’ll be just where he wants him. He puts his mouth to Rain’s ear and whispers: “No—don’t want you to get sloppy, guppy; why don’t we tuck in for the night? You and me, what do you say?”

It’s like a weight drops on his body, Rain going so lax against him until his arms slip off Aether’s shoulders, head only staying up because his chin keeps it hanging off of Aether’s chest. He’s not dropped all the way, not just yet, but his face pulls into an expression of bliss and his eyes slip all the way closed this time. Purrs increasing in intensity as he helplessly melts into Aether’s control. 

And then he says something Aether wasn’t entirely prepared for; something that makes his breath catch in his throat and his pants get tight.

Rain sighs happily, stupidly, eyes reopening to amethyst-tinged slits as he gazes up at the quint ghoul. He smiles, licking his lips like a dog settling down for a nap. “Okay, daddy.”

Fuck. Aether bites back a groan. “Yeah, baby?” he says softly. “You wanna cozy up with Daddy?”

“Mm-hm,” he nods. 

Aether scoops him up immediately. He can feel Mountain’s jealous stare against his back as he carries Rain back to the abbey, no doubt thwarting the earth ghoul’s plan to strip Rain of the outfit he picked out for him and take him slow and sweet. The quint ghoul flicks his tail behind him: next time, big guy. 

Rain makes a noise of protest as he’s eventually plopped onto Aether’s bed, nearly falling over as he makes grabby hands towards the bigger ghoul.

“Just closing the door, sweet boy,” Aether assures. 

When he turns back, there’s a blush on Rain’s cheeks, rosied from the cool air. He looks back at Aether with big eyes, whining as he starts to paw at his own clothes. Needy and eager. A picture of casual sin, the braids around his horns have gone loose from the night’s festivities, flowers cascading down his curls like fallen leaves that get stuck in branches on their descent to the ground. The merriment which disheveled his pristine look has also sullied his blouse, now stained crimson in a few rogue spots from the wine. And as Rain shifts and spreads his legs a little, Aether catches sight of the tiny damp patch in the crotch of his pants, his sudden arousal obvious and impossible to hide. 

It’s enough to make his mouth water. “Fuck, look at you; handsome, handsome boy,” he rumbles. Aether crouches over him, bracketing Rain’s torso with his arms and leaning in to graze their noses together. The smell of wine and sweet, heady arousal hits him like a punch to the gut. In an instant, his resolve crumbles, and all he can do is groan. “Daddy wants you so bad, baby.”

Rain’s whimper turns into a gasp as Aether runs a hand down his thigh. “Oh . . . but—clothes,” he says dumbly, still grabbing at them. 

“Don’t worry, guppy—” he breathes, tracking that hand back up to the waistband of his pants, then his fly. Rain’s groan is soft, trailing off at the end as he starts to slip somewhere distant, putty in the quint ghoul’s hands. Aether pops the snap and pulls the zipper down with one claw, pushing past Rain’s fly to cup him over his now damp underwear. His mouth brushes against the water ghoul’s messily, hungrily, and lets the momentum of it all take them both down onto the bed. 

“—Daddy’ll take good care of you.”

[alienaiver]

Amethyst Haze sneak peek!

heres a small sneak peek! :3 its shinsou and reader at an amusement park, finding a prize stall!

900 words!

There’s a stall with Pro Hero plushies lined behind a shooting range game. You stop to look, and Shinsou follows your eyes. There’s a big Deku plushie front and center, with other various heroes around him. He’s not sure which one you’re currently sending your warmest heart eyes to, but he chances a question, “you want any of them?” he tries to ask smoothly, but cringes inwardly at how flirtatious it might’ve come off. You lick your lip subconsciously and nod before you catch yourself. You clear your throat, “it’s uh, it’s a bit embarrassing,” you laugh and pull a few strands of hair behind your ear. He looks at you with a huff of a laugh, “you can’t be saying that now, can you, Brainwave Number One Fan?” he teases and the way your head whips towards him in surprise, your eyes twinkling before you let out the lightest, most relaxed laugh he’s heard from you all day and scold him mockingly, “you promised not to bring that up!” lightly punching his shoulder. He holds back from reaching out for the spot, seeing if you left behind any warmth on him. He stares at you, a love struck smile on his face for a moment too long.

He smirks at you then, “then tell me which one you want and I’ll get it for you.”

He’s not sure where the certainty comes from. While he’s confident enough in his aim, this is a bow and arrow type of shooting; it’s not exactly his forte. You hum as you look back and forth a few times, a playful smile on your lips that you try to hide behind a hand. Then you look at him resolutely, “you win and I’ll tell you.”

He puffs up his chest before he nods, “alright.” in a brave act of flirting on purpose, he takes off his cap and puts it on your head.

He doesn’t win anything and the owner of the stall barks out laugh after laugh at Shinsou’s attempts; they don’t even seem to be meant as mocking, she seems like she’s genuinely just having fun. Which makes Shinsou even more embarrassed. In an attempt to soothe him, you pat his back, “don’t mind,” you say to cheer him up and he slumps further. You giggle, “it’s okay. I’m sure some obscure eBay seller will have it,” you argue and turn to walk away. Shinsou clenches his fist and gives the woman one last determined look and another 500 yen coin for another three tries. The stall owner, called Byakuya, as you learned through small talks as Shinsou failed attempt after attempt, nods approvingly at the challenger and his renewed vigor, handing him four arrows instead of the allotted three. You clap excitedly and cheer him on, “you can do it!” you say with excitement, as you try to discreetly lean against the counter of the stall, dispersing your weight and hoping your cheers doesn’t sound too performative. Before coming across this stall, you’d agreed to sit down and try the churros that went viral a few months back. It’d been a good time to sit down and rest before continuing to walk around.

You have a feeling Shinsou might feel embarrassed about failing so many attempts, but you find it endearing in and of itself. You’re not sure the compliment would make him happy though, so you keep quiet, secretly packing away this moment in your heart to look at later with a fond smile. You hold back with all your might from lifting your hands to the cap on your head and pull it down to see if his scent lingers on it. That’d be too much for sure.

He reaches the last arrow with no success, and inhales deeply. Then, he turns to you and pushes the arrow in his hand toward you. You pause your supportive clapping to stare at him, a confused “ah?” leaving you at his movements. He looks to the ground, the tell-tale signs of an almost pout on his features. With furrowed brows he reluctantly speaks up, “bless it for me. With a kiss.”

Another “ah?” leaves you before you process his words, staring blankly at him. He thrusts it towards you again, still refusing to look up from the ground and there’s a heavy red tint to his cheeks that you can’t help but focus on.

Then you slowly walk towards it, looking at him all the same. In the back of your mind you hear Byakuya click her tongue about the hygiene of kissing the arrow. Even when you don’t reply, you register it and reach out with your fingers, pulling the hand with the arrow towards you.

Shinsou finally looks up and is immediately mesmerized by you. The cap’s too far down on your head, so he can’t see your face, your hair a mess underneath. Your lashes flutter as you blink nervously a few times, focused on the hand as you tentatively lick your lips. There’s a burning sensation where you’re touching him, and it takes everything in him to not pull away as if burned. It’s too much, too hot, all at once. It’s unbearably uncomfortable, yet he’s frozen on the spot, hoping it never stops.

He holds his breath when your lips close in on the arrow, but he chokes on the held breath when you continue past the arrow and lightly peck his knuckles. You linger there for a moment longer than necessary and Shinsou fights back the cough wanting to spill out when your eyes catches his through your lashes; what kind of killer move was this?

He then pulls away abruptly and looks away. He grumbles out a strained thank you and doesn’t notice the grin on Byakuya’s face. In the back of his mind is a hope that he isn’t recognized here, right now, since he was stupid enough to take off the cap.

He puts the arrow into position on the bow and inhales slowly, focusing his aim. He keeps looking for a moment longer, hoping and praying to God; any God at this point – he promises not to be picky if he wins – and then releases.

i hope you enjoyed this scene from a current disabled!reader fic im building. let me know if you'd like to be a vibe reader (more information here) and have a lovely evening <3

[colettebronte]

She Rings Like a Bell Through the Night: Chapter 1

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Pairing: Vampire!Anthony Bridgerton x Witch!fem Reader

Summary: In 1695, a young woman is chosen as a sacrifice to appease the will of her village's Protector. The resulting encounter is formative for both of them and though parted, our heroine spends the ensuing years learning about herself, the craft and about the man who still haunts her dreams, over three centuries later

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: 18+ for the overall fic. For this chapter,  not much except for some sensuality. Minors DNI. I will put this up on Ao3 so please do not repost my work elsewhere

Author’s Note: Just a quick note, before this gets started. While I am Pagan, the traditions and spell work portrayed in this fic are pulled from a variety of groups of Paganism, legends and lore and should not be taken too seriously. With that said, I hope you enjoy this, my Halloween fic

Thank you @fayes-fics for betaing 🫶❤️

Somewhere in Rural England, 1695

You pull the hood of your cloak over your head and with a last glance back at the stern elders, you take a fortifying breath and begin the long walk across the stone bridge that separates your village from the outside world.

Though well-lit by torches, the further you walk across the ancient cobblestones, the thicker the mist gets. You pause to light your lantern with one of the torches before resuming your solitary march.

Despite your own light source, with each step you take it becomes more difficult to see through the haze. You wish you could pull the gauzy white fabric off your face, but you know the rules as laid out for you by the elders, ancient and unbreakable, or so they’ve said.

Once put on, only The Protector may remove The Chosen’s hood.

Like most in the village, you know very little of The Protector. Only that he has blessed (cursed) your village by keeping it protected (cut off) from the rest of the world for longer than any of The Elders can remember. According to them, every Samhain he demands an eligible young lady as a sacrifice. If he is pleased, the village is protected for another year.

But the young woman is never seen or heard from again.

This year, you were selected as The Chosen. In truth, as the village outcast, you had thought you might have been selected sooner. Having no father of record and your mother having died when you were young, you were left to rely on the “charity” of your grandfather, whose disdain for your very existence he made no secret.

But unbeknownst to him and the rest of the village, your mother had left you three gifts, an amethyst and silver pendant carved into the shape of the waxing and waning moons, a Book of Shadows and when you turned thirteen, the power to command both.

Albeit, you were still learning. Away from watchful eyes, you tirelessly practiced your fledgling magic and had lit yourself on fire more times than you actually managed to light any candles. But after several years of hard work and quiet persistence, you were able to conjure some basic magic successfully.

And although you had no say in being The Chosen, it was your fervid hope that you could somehow convince The Protector to release his hold on your village and let the rest of the world know of its existence. 

A new century was approaching and surely, it was time to join the world, whether or not you survived the night to see it.

The mist has now become so thick that even with your lamp, you can’t see anything in front of you but you proceed forward all the same. Overhead you hear the flapping of a bird’s wing and then the fog suddenly clears without warning. You look down to see you have reached the end of the bridge.

Looking behind you, you see the swirling mist, but when you turn to face forward, you are startled as someone tall, dressed in a white cloak is standing before you. Frozen in shock, you can only watch as they step toward you and, in one fluid motion, gently pull back your hood. This surely must be The Protector.

You boldly raise your lamp to his face, mostly concealed by his cloak; you can make out a stubbled chin and a sharp smile. He places a surprisingly cool hand atop yours and moves the lamp closer to your face. You can feel his eyes inspecting you and unconsciously, you hold your breath. After a long moment, he nods and then extends a hand, beckoning you to follow him.

And so, you do.

**********

The walk is oddly peaceful as you silently follow behind The Protector. Though free of the mist, the only light, aside from your small lantern, is that cast off by the half-full moon. The man before you treads quietly, holding no light source of his own. It’s almost as if he can see in the dark.

You shake off the ridiculous thought and continue to follow behind him. You’re unsure of how long you’ve walked or even where your destination is until you come to a tall metal gate. The Protector pushes and it gives way under his touch as he walks through. You pass through it and then you hear as the gate seems to close on its own behind you.

It’s another short walk and then you come upon a stone cottage, well-lit by a pair of large braziers at the entrance and then the glow of candles from inside, some visible through large glass windows.

The Protector stops at the door and you’re so engrossed at the sight of the house that you stop short, mere inches from walking into him. He reaches out to steady you with one hand as his other takes the lantern from you and extinguishes it. 

And that is when you hear his voice for the first time.

“Will you grant me the pleasure of your company tonight?” His voice is deep, if not a bit rough, as if he doesn’t speak much on a daily basis. For some reason the sound of it brings a pleasant flutter to your belly as you parse his words.

You furrow your brow, confused. “I have a choice?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Of course you do.” He pauses and seemingly to himself says quietly, “Whatever do they tell you in that village?”

Whether you’re meant to answer him or not, you do. “They don’t tell us anything. And then whoever comes here, never returns.”

He nods absently, clearly lost in thought, before his still-covered face turns to you.

“I shall explain everything. But first, may I offer you a meal?”

The rumble of your stomach is answer enough and then you can just make out his smile in the firelight. Making a decision you tell him, “I accept.”

The heavy wooden door of the cottage swings open without him touching it and then he’s holding out his arm. You take it and pass through the entrance of his home together. As you walk through it, that’s when you feel it —the tell-tale tingle of magic.

The room you enter is large and cozy, with a stone fireplace against one wall and an array of mismatched, well-cushioned chairs and benches surrounding it. In another corner is a large wood table with a pair of chairs with a single place set, a large stew pot steaming in the center. The scent wafting from it is delectable and your stomach rumbles again.

This seems to spur The Protector into action as he directs you to sit in the chair with the place setting. As you get comfortable, he proceeds to scoop out a heaping serving of stew for you and despite your nerves, you tuck in. It’s absolutely delicious and as you ponder if he’ll let you have a second bowl, he pours you a glass of water from a pitcher. He sits at the seat across from you, his own goblet filled with a dark, red drink. Wine, perhaps? He, at last, pulls down the hood of his cloak, revealing a darkly handsome visage that has your stomach reacting in a whole other way.

Draping his cloak over the back of his chair, he doesn’t partake of the stew, instead insists you eat as much as you like, and so you do. He refills your water goblet while he takes measured sips of his wine.

You’ve finished your third helping when you declare yourself full. The Protector comes around the table and pulls out your chair, helping you stand. He gently unclasps your cloak with cool, nimble fingers and drapes it over the back of your chair. Taking up your water goblet, he leads you over to one of the plush-covered benches. As you sit down, he joins you, sitting on the edge, leaving a fair amount of space between you.

He rests his hands on his thighs, fingers fidgeting, as if he were nervous. You find that oddly charming. As the minutes tick by, you watch the fire together, the hissing and popping of wood the only sound. You find his quiet presence comforting.

You’re not sure what you expected would happen tonight, but surely, it wasn’t this. Making the decision to be bold, you take a deep breath and turn to him and speak.

“Sir, I’d like to make a request, if I may?”

He seems to startle at the sound of your voice. He stares at you for a long moment, his dark eyes impenetrable.

“You may ask,” he rumbles, “But I cannot promise to grant it.”

Taking another deep breath you make your request. “Sir, would you please release your hold on our village?”

He arches an elegant brow, his lips quirking up in a sharp smile that sends a pleasant zing to your core.

He slides a fraction of an inch closer to you. “That is an intriguing request indeed,” he muses. “If this is truly what you desire, what shall you offer me in exchange?”

You look down at yourself, knowing exactly how to answer his question. “Sir, I am as you see me. I’m afraid I have nothing to offer you,” you pause to touch your pendant before adding, ��Nothing but myself.”

His nostrils flare. “Do you understand what it is you’re offering me?”

Now it’s your turn to slide closer, your fingers mere inches apart on the bench. “I do indeed, Sir.”

He reaches over and brushes cool fingers across your cheek and you can’t help but lean into his touch, turning your face to kiss his palm. He moans softly and then, in a blink of an eye, he stands, lacing your fingers together to help you stand.

He pulls you close, your body tightly pressing against his. You’ve read about lust in your Book of Shadows. Surely, that is what you feel now, thrumming through your veins. The Protector breathes in sharply. He leans down and presses his nose to the side of your neck, inhaling deeply.

“Please join me in my bedchamber,” he all but whines in your ear. You feel a flood in your knickers at his words.

“Sir, yes. I will join you.”

He pulls away from your neck to stare into your eyes. His dark eyes soften and seem to glow in the firelight. He smiles softly and says, “Thank you. And please, call me Anthony.”

Anthony. You repeat it over and over in your head as he takes you by the hand and leads you into another room.

His bedchamber.

taglist: @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @faye-tale @cosmiclove330 @abridgerton @fiction-is-life @kmc1989 @alexandrainlove @ietss @multi-fandom-lover7667 @turtle-cant-communicate @liliac-dreamer @hottytoddyhistory @queenofmean14 @jtheteenagewitch

[okkotsuus]

breathe me in (bllk pt.1) !

features: yoichi i. nagi s. reo m. hyoma c. meguru b.   

content: fluff. suggestive. kissing head canons. making out. mentions of biting. established relationship. 1.3k words

pt.2

yoichi kisses you as if it is the first time, no matter how many times it has been. for him, it has never truly sunk in that he really has you wrapped around his finger.

yoichi had just gotten home from one of his championship games.

you couldn't help the joy surging through your chest as you ran to him, cupping his cheeks. his hands hovered just above your waist as your lips leaned forwards to chase his, his head tilting to bring you even closer.

a shallow whine was pulled from your chest as he finally grasped your waist, pressing you flush against him. feather-light circles were drawn as he snaked his hands under your shirt to feel the bare skin of your stomach.

his tongue dragged over your bottom lip, pulling it back between his teeth before separating from you with a pop.

your dazed eyes looked at him and you couldn’t help the rapid beat of your heart. his breath fanned over your face as his hand reached up to rest on your nape.

the look in his eyes was the exact same one he got when he played soccer.

“we’re just getting to the good part, aren't we, sunshine?”

nagi kisses you with a lazy fervor. his lips slot against your so slowly but the hurried movements of his hands and his breath shatters his laid-back illusion.

nagi laid between your legs, head resting on your stomach with your hands gently twisting his snowy tresses. he scooted up further to rest his chin just below your collarbone as his softened eyes met yours.

all it took was him placing his hands on either side of you as he hovered above you, pressuring a gentle peck to your lips. he came right back and slotted his open lips to yours, gently biting at your bottom lip.

you reached your arms up to wrap them loosely around his neck, spurring him on further. his hand ran up and down your side, unintentionally pushing that side of your shirt from your soft waist. he was propped up by his other elbow and the knee that rested between yours.

his pace was slow; with the drag of his tongue against yours, but you could feel the rapid fans of his breath across your face. you rest your hands on either side of his neck, cupping just below his jaw. you could feel the rapid beats of his pulse against your palms.

nagi pulled away, panting as his eyes looked down at you: gazed with something other than just sleep.

“this feeling… need more, more ‘f you, hun.”

reo kisses you with a sort-of smugness to it, but there’s an underlying hunger to prove himself to you. to prove that he’s not just some heir, but a man.

you had just placed a tin of muffins into the oven, your boyfriend leaning onto the counter across from you. you smiled at him, hopping to sit on the counter opposite from him and playing idly on your phone.

you felt a warmth on either side of your hips and looked down to see hands on them. you looked at reo, a brow quirked as you set your phone off to the side.

he didn’t say any words as he lurched further, trapping you against the counter. the heat that rose to your cheeks didn’t go unnoticed as he pressed kisses to your cheeks, trailing down your neck.

your hands tangled in his amethyst hair as he came back up to press a kiss to the corner of your lips, chuckling darkly as you whined at how close he was to what you had desired. he gave you a cocky smirk and a roll of his violet eyes as he leaned forward, finally capturing your lips against his.

his hands squeezed bruisingly against your hips as he pressed closer and closer into you, enveloping you into his being. you couldn’t think with the haze reo puts over your mind, all you knew was the drag of his lips against yours and the groans that you managed to drag out of his throat.

when he had finally let you go for air, you heard the singing of the oven. reo turned it off and returned to you, clearly no intention of stopping.

“don’t wan’ muffins, need yer pretty lips, darlin’. ”

chigiri kisses you with a slow salvation, contrasting beautifully to the speed he exhibits on the field, as if he must treat you with caution.

hyoma had you sat on his lap as you idly babble on about what you saw while he was gone, but he wasn’t really listening.

he heard you but the words went out the other year as he watched your lips while you talked. every now and then you would poke your pink tongue out to coat your plush lips in a glittering sheen of spit and he would lose all cognitive ability.

so when you did it again, he cupped your cheeks and pulled you to him, pressing his lips against yours. the startled gasp that you pulled in allowed him to slip his tongue into your mouth as he dragged it against the roof.

your hands reached up to tangle in his hair as you reciprocated. the whimpers that he pulled from you with his painstakingly drawled pace made his lips curl upwards against you.

the soft nips on your lips had you like putty in his grasp and a rumbling chuckle from his throat had you going limp against him, hands now grasping onto his shirt to ground yourself. he showed mercy and pulled away, lips now in a sheen too.

as his eyes scanned you, you couldn’t help but avoid his piercing gaze, embarrassed at how easily you had folded for him. his hand wrapped around your jaw as he pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, meeting your gaze.

“what were you sayin’, pretty?”

bachira kisses you with a yearning, scared that if he doesn’t it may turn out that you were never there; just another monster in him.

bachira was an eccentric, everyone knew this as a fact. he lived and breathed soccer. so when he came home from winning his game to you hugging him while in his spare jersey, he couldn’t help the fire that burned in his body.

he just stared for a while, eyes wide and hollow, pupils blown. the monster spoke, and told him to do it. so he surged forwards to slam his lips to yours, halting the words about to escape from between them.

his hands reached to pull you into him, holding you up by your thighs. his lips clashed against yours desperately, the drumming of his heartbeat and the sounds that escaped you was all he could hear.

his tongue slithered into your mouth as he dragged it against yours, breathing you in completely in all you were. seeing a pretty thing like you wearing his number and name drove him a special kind of crazy. the kind that had him holding you up in the entryway, door barely shut and his skin still sticky with sweat.

when he pulled away with desperate pants, lulling forwards to reconnect, before being stopped by your hands against his heated cheeks. he looked up to meet your gaze, eyes filled with a hunger, the hunger of a striker.

“can’t help it when i see you wearing my name and number, my sweet thing.”

okkotsuus 23

[oo-delallymrcrow]

Soup for the Soul

Summary: Gricko has come down with a flu. You help take care of him and Hootsie.

A/N: another request! I'm sorry it's taken awhile to put out but it's finally here! I thought this was so cute and I love Hootsie! I would absolutely die for her I swear! Edit: I forgot to say @amethyst-gemstone requested this because they give me inspiration!! Thank you 😊

Gricko Grimgrin wasn’t one to fall ill. He prided himself on his resilience, his ability to withstand the things that would knock others flat. But this time, something had gotten the better of him. When you’d first heard about it, the idea of Gricko, bedridden and vulnerable, seemed almost impossible.

Everyone seemed to be busy with something and just could not stay to help their friend. Kremy and Gideon off doing God knows what with Twig. Frost and Torbek doing ... .well you didn't really listen when you heard the coughs and sad hoots coming from Gricko’s room. So with everyone else busy with their own things today, you volunteered to stay behind.

You walked up to the room that Gricko had taken over and softly rapt at the door. You just heard a sniffle and a few scratches in response, so you opened it. Hootsie immediately hopped up to get a few scratches and coos as you made sure she was ok. Looking up to find Grickob in a sorry state, lying in bed with a fever that had him sweating and shivering all at once.

“Gricko?” you called softly, stepping into the room. He didn’t respond, just mumbled something incoherent.

You approached the bed and found him lost in a feverish haze, his usually sharp eyes glazed over.

“It’s me,” you said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m here to help. Just rest, okay?”

He muttered something about “the shadows moving” and “never trust the clocks,” his voice barely above a whisper. You couldn’t help but smile a little at the absurdity of it all. Even in his delirium, Gricko was a strange one.

Hootsie curled up at the foot of the bed, keeping watch as you moved about, gathering supplies to help nurse him back to health. You made sure she was fed and comfortable, giving her the attention she needed while also trying to soothe Gricko’s fever.

Hours passed, and Gricko’s ramblings continued. He talked about forgotten memories, dreams that made no sense, and even mumbled your name a few times, though you couldn’t quite catch the context. Every now and then, he would open his eyes and look at you with a confused expression, as if he wasn’t sure if you were really there or just another figment of his fevered imagination.

As he slept you let her follow you around the Inn and help with the mundane chores. She helped you with the broom, letting her hold it while you swept. You opened the front door to let her run around in the grass and chase rabbits and mice that she found and ate for lunch.

Speaking of, you made sure to gather a few ingredients to make a nice soup. Making sure to make it hearty and filled with vegetables that you know Gricko lacks in his diet. As you prepared it Hootsie came in from her fun, sitting and watching you as you moved around the kitchen. When you finished you made sure to ladle a good helping and a good cup of tea with honey mixed in.

As you brought him a bowl of warm soup, he tried to sit up, but his strength failed him. He reached out, and his hand grasped the fabric of your pants, tugging weakly as he struggled to stay upright.

“Gricko, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” you whispered, setting the soup and tea aside to help him back down onto the bed.

But instead of letting go, he clung to you, his fingers trembling as he pulled himself closer. Before you knew it, he had curled up against you, his head resting on your lap like a weary, weak puppy seeking comfort.

“Stay,” he murmured, his voice barely a breath. “Don’t go…”

You couldn’t refuse him, not when he was like this. Gently, you stroked his hair, trying to soothe him as best you could. He nuzzled closer, his fever making him more vulnerable than you’d ever seen him before. The lines between platonic and romantic, between caring and something more, began to blur, but you weren't ready to question it. Just stroked his hair with a hum of a soft tune as Hootsie joined you both on the bed, laying by Gricko’s feet to watch as she too fell asleep.

As you sat there, with Gricko curled up in your lap, you realized just how much this strange, often misunderstood man meant to you. He might be freaky, with his odd habits and mysterious ways, but in this moment, all you saw was someone who needed love, just like anyone else.

And so, you stayed, holding him close, whispering reassurances until his breathing slowed and he drifted into a peaceful sleep. You pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, hoping that, in his dreams, he’d find the comfort he so desperately needed.

But there was a shift that night. His delusions became less frequent, and instead, he watched you quietly as you took care of Hootsie. You heard him mumble something but when you turned to look at him, he had fallen asleep again. You smiled and let Hootsie cuddle up to her father as you tidied up his room.

When you left for a while to make him a small breakfast, you found him awake and talking quietly to Hootsie. You stopped for a second to listen to his soft words as Hootsie chirped and hooted.

“She let you play outside? And eat all the rats and rabbits? She really is a nice lady isn't she?”

You smiled to yourself before you entered the room with a soft ‘hello’.

Hootsie jumped from the bed to let you set the tray of food down as Gricko sat up. You smiled as he gave you a cheeky grin.

“I see you're feeling a little better.”

“Oh quite. I woke up to find the place tidy and a nice cup of tea next to me.”

You hummed as you brushed some of his hair back as his eyes crinkled in another smile and you saw them soften as he continued to watch you. You moved to sit at the end of his bed as he began to eat. Hootsie coming up to cuddle with you as you both talked about where everyone has been and other nonsense.

“Hootsie was telling me you were taking really good care of her.”

“Oh it wasn't anything special. She just needed someone while you were down for the count.”

You giggled as she purred and chirped at your words. He chuckled and leaned back from finishing his meal. He watched you both, you having a conversation with her and Hootsie responding to you. Hootsie turns to him and waddles up to lay by his side. She looked up at him with her big owl eyes and you could see him melt and scratch at her chin.

“She really likes you.”

“Hmm I hope so,” you chuckled as he glanced up at you.

“I really like you too.”

You blink at his soft words and can see he is being sincere with his words. He watches you and with a nervous laugh he shrugs as he looks away.

“Sorry. Probably something you don't want to hear.”

“That's not true Gricko,” you swallowed and stood up to grab the tray. “I like you too.”

You turned and started to leave the room as Gricko gave a slight cough.

“So hypothetical, if I wanted to take you out on a date, you wouldn't say no?”

You smiled and turned to Gricko with a wink, “get better and we'll see.”

As you walked down the hall you stifled a laugh as Gricko whispered excitedly to Hootsie.

“Oh Hootsie, did you hear that? You'll have a momma yet!”

[adrift-in-thyme]

Hide for the sentence prompts, please?

Tw for blood and injury

Legend drops behind the leafy embrace of shrubbery, breathing hard, hand pressed to his crimson-kissed side, tears of agony making his irises amethyst.

Beside him, Sky shivers, the grasp of fever relentless, and when his eyes widen at Legend’s condition, when he starts to stagger to his feet, determination mixing with the thick haze of illness, white-knuckled hands grasping the Master Sword, Legend grabs his arm and yanks him back down.

“No,” he grits out, past the pain, past the fear, “you need to hide. There’s a lynel out there, a white-maned one; you don’t stand a chance against it.”

Sky coughs into his hand, drags in a sobbing breath, and whispers, “neither do you.”

[pupsmailbox]

MAGIC ID PACK

NAMES︰ ace. adonis. agate. amber. ambrose. amethyst. anders. aqua. aquamarine. arion. arthur. ashlin. asriel. astra. astrid. astro. athena. atlas. aurora. blaise. bran. briar. bruxo. bunnie. bunny. calamity. callisto. callum. calypso. cantasyia. caspian. cassian. cassiopeia. cedar. cedric. celeste. celestine. cherish. circe. clem. clemet. cosmo. coven. crystalesse. crystalette. cullen. cynthia. draco. drake. dreerie. duske. eerene. elphias. elysia. ember. emil. espen. etherial. fay. felix. finn. finnley. florian. fredrich. fyre. galatea. galen. garnet. glyra. griffin. haven. hazoire. hera. hypnyra. indigo. jade. jasper. jinx. juno. jynx. kara. kian. kimble. krystal. krystalle. lapis. lennix. leo. link. lucien. lumen. lumiere. luna. lune. lunesse. lunette. luz. lyra. mabel. mac. mackenzie. maddie. maddy. madelyn. madison. maggi. maggie. magia. magique. magnus. maria. max. maxwell. melanie. melodie. melody. mercy. mia. milena. miles. milo. minerva. moonesse. moonette. myrror. mystique. nova. onyx. opal. orion. oscar. oswald. pandora. pearl. pearlesse. pearlette. pearlle. phineas. phoebe. phoenix. pinkie. pinky. ruby. rune. sage. salem. sapphire. selene. seraphina. sereia. silouet. sirus. skye. sol. sora. sorcyrie. soren. spella. twyla. twyllusia. vince. zephyr.

PRONOUNS︰ amu/amulet. an/angel. arc/arcane. bad/bad. bless/bless. bo/bone. brew/brew. ca/cast. can/candle. cha/charm. cla/clash. con/conjure. cr/crystal. cur/curse. de/demon. di/dim. du/dusk. en/enchantment. en/entity. eon/eon. eternity/eternity. ev/evil. fan/fantasy. fea/feared. fi/fight. fla/flame. fu/future. go/golden. go/good. h?/h?m. hae/haze. hex/hex. hx/hxm. hy/hym. ill/illusion. ix/ix. jar/jar. know/knowledge. ma/mage. ma/magic. mag/magic. mag/magical. mag/magician. magic/magic. mi/mist. mis/misfortune. mys/mysterious. myth/myth. myth/mythical. obs/obscure. pe/peril. po/potion. po/power. poi/poison. potion/potion. pu/purge. pur/pure. pur/purity. rit/ritual. sh?/h?r. sha/dow. shae/shade. shx/hxr. shy/hyr. si/sigil. sini/ster. soc/sorcery. som/somber. sor/sorcery. spe/spell. spell/spell. spi/spirit. sup/supernatural. th?y/th?m. thxy/thxm. thy/thym. vae/vaer. wa/wand. wand/wand. wi/wise. wi/witch. wit/witchcraft. witch/witch. wiz/wizard. ✨. 🍀. 🐀. 🔮. 🕯️. 🕷️. 🥀. 🦴. 🦷. 🧙🏻. 🧙🏻‍♀️. 🧿.

[shiyorin]

#A story about Fulgrim and his dear agent

#Reader is Imperial Agent

#Maybe cheesy, I don't know

Celebration raged within the Pride of the Emperor, lauding some recent victory you cared little for. But revelry meant relaxed protocols, a rare chance for reprieve from duty's rigors. And you partook freely, allowing carefree pleasures seldom indulged. Wine flowed rich and heady, loosening inhibitions with each quaff. Laughter came easier as night deepened, lashing you lighter and looser till worries dissolved on fermented tides.

A passing servant refilled your goblet unbidden, bearing a flagon of rare vintages from a paradise world. You sipped appreciatively, tension seeping from tightly-wound muscles under alcohol's warm caress. Drink flowed freely and you eagerly partook, letting wine-soaked revelry carry worries downstream. Hours passed in a haze, surroundings blurring yet warmth spreading through weary limbs. All too soon had bottles emptied, head spinning pleasantly as body sighed surrender.

Rising unsteady, you wandered in search of new diversion. Gaze drifted haphazard across boisterous crowds, latching upon lush plumage amid a flock of preening nobles. Your primarch, lord Perfect stood resplendent, holding court through honeyed words and flashing smiles that once stirred heartstrings.

"Bah, empty flatterers a lot." you grumbled, eyeing Fulgrim's patience enviously.

Memory floated vaguely, had you always found him so striking? Of course. He is lord primarch of III legion. Fulgrim the Perfect. Mind drifted as legs carried you ambling path ever closer, drawn as moth to glorious flame. Fulgrim noticed the approach, bidding flock disperse with practiced grace to spare privacy for he and you.

Fulgrim wrapping you in a steadying arm, concern lit amethyst eyes scanning for injury.

"My agent, have you been drinking again?" he sighed, exasperation battling amusement seeing you wobbling grin.

"My lord, you looked like you needed rescuing," you whispered. "From these swollen head simpletons with their incessant bleating!"

A flash of mischief lit Fulgrim's eyes, eagerly joining any plot to unsettle pomposity. "Indeed, though it seems I must rescue you now!"

Sweeping you up unceremoniously, he deposited you upon his massive arm, smirking at your unnoble like sprawl. You sagged against him, awash in heady scents of exotic perfumes. But then you began wriggling restlessly, limbs flailing with drunken kittenish abandon.

Fulgrim grunted, fighting to maintain balance beneath your inebriated writhing. "My dearest, do cease your fussing or I'll drop you amongst these peacocks!"

You merely giggled uncontrollably, squirming ceaselessly in his chest, nuzzling into it as warmth spread through chilled form. An itch arose beneath the skin, demanding satisfaction. You writhed against him, kneading clawed grip along sculpted arm. A purr rose in your chest, desire demanding release something.

Fulgrim sighed, resigning himself to an undignified struggle until balance prevailed once more.

At last you stilled, slumping bonelessly against Fulgrim's chest. He peered down into your flushed. His fingers stroking your spine in a manner at once soothing yet stirring ominous lusts within.

"Never a dull moment with you, my dearest. Come, let us away before you cause more trouble."

Scooping you close once more, Fulgrim departed. Your laughter is fading into the distance still.

Fulgrim sighed as you squirmed restlessly against his chest, shredding silk robes in an unconscious frenzy before gradually subsiding into exhausted slumber. He gently brushed tangled locks across silk folds now rumpled. Strange to find such unbridled potency contained within frail mortal flesh.

One delicate finger traced your lips, split and swollen from conflict yet no less exquisite. A token caress, but you stirred against him with low purr, seeking warmth instinctively. Fulgrim smiled softly. His touch trailed lower, tracing delicate collarbones bared by rumpled silk, feeling heartbeat quicken.

You sighed drowsily but not stirred from a reluctant nest. Fulgrim paused, gently easing free from rumpled silks cocooning your form, Fulgrim lifted you into strong arms. Your head lolled bonelessly onto silk-clad shoulder. His steps carried both through winding halls to lavish chambers sealed from curious eyes.

Soft silks and plush furs welcomed weary forms, Fulgrim settling you lightly upon awaiting down. You stirred briefly but exhaustion held fast, sighing content as Fulgrim joined you casually amidst luxuries gleaming in lamplight’s golden glow.

One arm curled about your slight waist proprietarily, fingers tracing subtle contours while imagination spun fantasies still. Fulgrim smiled faintly. Your skin bared awaiting revelation by caring touch. He closed eyes languidly.