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rinwellisathing · 6 months ago

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Paint The Lines, Cut The Flesh: Part 24

The night back at camp was a moment of respite, of relief, for the entire party. The campfire burned brightly as the group sat around it, sharing stories of their victories. Sentry grinned as he listened to Aylin regale the party with the tale of the battle against Lorroakan and his inglorious ending. Although as she spoke, his eyes kept darting into the shadows where he could still see the imposing visage of the Oathbreaker Knight standing. He had all but forgotten in the shuffle of everything that had happened, but the spirit stood there, a grim reminder of the price of the love and loyalty he couldn't bring himself to let go of, even as the memories were only just returning to him. He jolted from the distraction as he felt a hand on his, looking to see that Astarion was giving him a small, grateful smile and he returned it, squeezing the elf's hand softly. Jaina was speaking rapidly to Octavia, who was writing hurriedly in her little notebook and occasionally tilting to the page to show the tiefling, who nodded with great enthusiasm. Wyll's eyes never left Jaina the entire time, a contented smile on his face as he watched her. As the fire began to die down and the night wore on, slowly the area around the fire emptied. Sentry noticed Astarion had headed to his tent before the others, that was to be expected, after everything, it was likely he needed time to think. But the red eyes of the Oathbreaker still chilled Sentry so deeply, piercing into his soul, accusing him. He felt his breath become heavy, his heart racing. “It seems like you could use a calming influence, my heart.” Halsin's voice snapped Sentry from his panic as a large but gentle hand rested on his shoulder. The tiefling smiled gratefully and nodded. “Thanks...I could.” And he followed Halsin to his tent, nuzzling close to the larger elf.

Jaina broke away from the group, making her way down to the water's edge. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, letting the salt air wash over her. She carried her boots in her hand, letting her bare feet dip into the sea and feel the rejuvenating brine wash over her. She looked into the distance where the shimmering temple of the wave mother stood, a palace of marble and abalone, dominating the docks. Another sight caught her eye, however. Docked near the temple was a huge ship of heavy timbers treated with lacquers and finishes that shone in the moonlight. The figurehead of a pale tiefling woman with features akin to a deep sea shark decorated the front and the sails bore Umberlee's holy symbol. The gang plank was down and the anchor set, but it was not near any of Umberlee's feast days. What were mother and father doing in the city? A hand on her shoulder startled her and Jaina gasped in surprise, turning quickly with lightning already forming on her fingertips, but quickly fizzling out as she calmed, gazing into a warm red eye and the second one of stone. “Oh...Wyll, thank The Wave Mother.” She smiled. “I'm sorry I frightened you, Captain.” He returned the smile, a gentle, playful one of his own. “I hope I'm not disturbing something important.” Jaina shook her head. “I'm not the captain anymore, Wyll, look.” She nodded towards the ship. “My father is here in the city.” Wyll's eyes followed hers, slowly landing on the ship docked by the temple. “I see. That's quite a vessel! Well, I suppose that's actually a lucky thing, then...because I...Well...” He breathed deeply. “I had something important I wanted to talk to you about.” Jaina looked curiously up at him, cocking her head to one side. “Oh? Something that requires my father?” “Well, I mean, I had read that even on the pirate islands, a father should approve of....”Wyll stumbled a bit on his words. Jaina couldn't help but smile a little as she took a step towards him. “Say what you mean, Wyll. It's not as if my father is here with us right now. Just say what you want me to hear.” Her fingertips gently brushed the side of his face, her tail gently flicking back and forth, calm and content. Wyll collected himself, breathing deeply. “I've come to realize something on this journey.” He began, looking out over the sea. “Will you walk with me?” He asked, extending a hand to Jaina. She nodded, taking his hand in hers and allowing him to lead her way from the beach and towards the woods. The moonlight streamed softly through the trees, almost seeming to create a path of dappled shadow, leading the way to a great clearing where a large tree stood at the center. “I've fought many a great foe. Cultists, dragons, demons and devils...But one stands out to me as the greatest enemy we face.” Wyll began as he turned to face Jaina, still gently clutching her hand in his.

“That desperate need for paternal approval?” Jaina joked playfully, their earlier encounter with her brother had brought to mind what her father might say about her relationship. His feelings towards Ulder Ravengard were not exactly fond ones and if Jaina herself had reacted poorly to Wyll's noble status, her father's reaction was bound to be worse, not to mention the fact that even cursed by the hells, Wyll was human, and his early life had given her father a dim view of humans. Wyll gave a slight chuckle and shook his head. “A monstrous foe to be sure, but not the one I'm thinking of.” He admitted, leading Jaina to stand directly under the large tree with him, he now gently held both her hands. “Time. Time is so gods damned greedy... It takes from us all in turn and we cannot stop its terrible march. It fells armies, mountains, kings, queens, even gods” He explained. “Thinking on that, I've realized, whatever time I have left, I want to spend it with you, Jaina.” He knelt down before her, looking up into her pale blue eyes. Jaina only now noticed that beneath the tree they stood beside, an altar had been set up, and laid upon it were countless beautiful shells, glimmering in the candle light, brilliant stones and seaglass the same shade as her eyes or the same purple tone of most of her favorite clothing. Shark teeth were scattered as well, she could name which species each one had come from and it brought a smile to her face to see so many represented her. She gazed at Wyll, her eyes shimmering as she felt moved to tears by the gesture. “We are beneath The Wilden Oak. Legend says it has stood since the Age of Dawn.” Wyll explained, nodding up towards the towering tree above them. “I used to climb it when father's back was turned and listen, imagining the stories it might tell if I only could listen close enough.” He squeezed Jaina's hands gently, his fingers tracing the diamond patterned lines, just barely visible up close, admiring the protective ripples and ridges. Umberlee's blessings made Jaina and her people so unique, and in Wyll's eyes, made Jaina even more beautiful and rare than she'd already shown herself to be in their travels. “The dragonlords sparking the skies above it, the moon elves first plucking the strings of the weave.” He gestured grandly to the starry skies above them and to Jaina, it seemed there was magic in the air. “Here, I feel like I can see into forever.” His gaze turned back to those stormy blue eyes. “It's amazing, Wyll.” Jaina breathed, the tingle of anticipation coursing through her skin, her heart fluttered in her chest as a wide smile crossed her face, lighting up her features.

“As I said, I've been thinking a lot about forever lately, more than that, everything that comes before.” He took a deep breath. “And...you're the one I want at my side as it passes.” He reached down to the grass beneath the tree and produced a beautiful acorn, simple and natural, but perfect, the little cap still resting proudly just so atop the greenish brown pod, unblemished, uncracked. The potential of life ripe inside of it, something that could be nearly eternal if it were allowed to grow. The love that blossomed between these two heroes, one a charming folk hero of legend, the other and unlikely wild card who had stepped up to the call. All the makings of the most beautiful fairy tale. “My father used to tell me that my mother believed the Wilden Oak's acorns always held just a touch of wishing magic...She told him this as they once stood beneath it...Just like we are now...” He explained, smiling softly and holding the acorn out to Jaina as he stood again. “If that be so, then may my greatest wish come true tonight.” He gazed deeply into Jaina's eyes, his expression nervous but steady and serious. “I love you, Jaina Thalassia, Captain of my heart. Will you be mine, today, tomorrow, and reaching into eternity?” Jaina gasped, eyes wide and welling with emotion. “Yes! A thousand times yes, Wyll!” She cried out, taking his hands in hers, feeling the thrum of magic between them, if the acorn itself were not blessed with wishing magic before, then now it would be, touched by the powerful connection between them. “Gods, you've made me the happiest man in all the realms.” Wyll held her tightly, burying his face in that golden, sea-kissed hair and nuzzling close to her. “As happy as you've made me.” Jaina replied, her hands moving to gently caress his warm, soft skin. Her tail wrapped gently around his leg as she tilted his head towards hers', guiding him to kiss her. Soon the two of them had found their way to the ground beneath the oak, Jaina's skilled fingers, used to tying and untying complicated knots aboard her father's ship, easily undoing Wyll's doublet and letting the fine material slip from his body. Meanwhile, Wyll handily unlaced Jaina's bodice, letting it slide from her as the soft material of her blouse moved like water now freed from its confines. Soon, her soft, full breasts pressed to his chest as his hands gently traced the curve of her waist and her round hips. Her fingernails gently crossed the muscles of his chest and abdomen, the body of a skilled swordsman whose training kept him fit. A wave of selfconsciousness crossed Jaina's mind as she was very aware of just how far from flat her stomach actually was. Life as a school teacher and a caster to boot didn't allow much time for rigorous training, after all. But Wyll put those worries from her mind, his hands did not hesitate and his expression did not change as the tiefling bared her body before him, his eyes were full of the same awe and devotion as before as he pulled her into a deep, gentle kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth, careful around the sharklike teeth inside, as it met her own smooth, warm tongue.

Her hands gentle moved down from his toned stomach, fingers brushing his stiffening cock. She could now tell what he meant when he'd complained of ridges in unmentionable places, but these were quite natural for a tiefling, she gripped the shaft gently and began to work him to full hardness, never breaking the kiss as she did. He moaned against her mouth and she smiled appreciatively. “Tell me when you're ready.” She whispered against his lips, breaking the kiss for only a moment. “Gods, I've been ready...I've wanted you for so long, my love.” He replied. Jaina's heart leapt. This was the love she'd longed for, the love she'd read about in stories, the love she'd seen amongst couples back home, not the scraps she'd been thrown by a bored married noble in the city. She wanted him too, and she showed it in that moment. Slowly, she raised her hips, gently allowing her slit to tease the tip of his shaft, reaching down to slowly spread herself to take him in. They both cried out as she began to lower herself down onto his cock, inch by inch, the tight warmth of her cunt enveloping him. They both found the ridges of her inner walls perfectly teased the ridges of his cock, sending pleasure coursing through both of them as her hips began to rock slowly and steadily at first as they began to find their pace. Wyll's hand moved to Jaina's lower back, gently running his fingertips over the sensitive skin at the base of her tail, causing her body to arch as she tossed her head back and moaned sweetly. Determined not to let Wyll do all the work and to show him there were more benefits to his new form, Jaina's hands pressed to his chest, gently exploring the ridges and barbs all the way up his neck, Wyll's breath caught in his throat in a gasp of surprise at the sensations, and then, as her fingers traced delicately up the sides of his face, pausing slowly to savor the prickle of his beard and stubble, and went to his horns, gently running her fingers over the base of them, her touch sensual and exploring, before those smooth, shark-skin palms traced the length of each horn slowly and gently. She knew exactly where to touch to make his spine tingle and his cock twitch eagerly inside of her. It had been so long since his last encounter out on the trail and it had never been like this. Even his favorite tawdry romance novels paled in comparison to the tide that was Jaina's body. He was a ship tossing and rocking at sea, ever at the mercy of her rhythm and he wanted it no other way as he gripped her hips tightly with a cry of pleasure as he felt himself spilling inside of her at the same time as a warm, sea-salt torrent of her juices coated the thick curly hair that framed his cock.

They lay together there in the after glow, holding eachother close. Jaina's arms holding Wyll protectively to her chest as though she was afraid it was all a dream and he might disappear with the dawn. Wyll's hands gently caressed the ridges of Jaina's back, almost unable to believe this was all real. Together, they watched the sun rise, slowly peeking through the sheltering leaves of the Wilden Oak and both of them had to wonder briefly if they would be missed back at camp.

---- “Well, look who's back after dawn.” Sentry grinned with a little chuckle as he eyed Jaina and Wyll returning to the camp. “Won't ask what you two got up to.” He slugged Jaina playfully in the shoulder, earning a playful shove in return. “Ask all you want, I'm not telling.” She smirked in return. “Well fine, I'm sure Wyll will tell me, seeing as we're best friends and all.” Sentry teased. “Sorry, my friend, The Blade of Frontiers doesn't kiss and tell.” Wyll shook his head, giving Sentry a wink and a contented smile. “Well, anyway, now that you're back, Minthara's got some information on that diabolist she was helping the Githyanki look for. I'm pretty excited to mess with Raphael's stuff, if I'm honest, so hurry and come meet us all at the center of camp!” The paladin beamed, finally leaving them be as he hurried towards the meeting spot. Jaina smiled and shook her head, her mind still filled with the bliss of the night before. She made her way to her tent to change her clothes, her eyes falling on the tent beside hers, where Karlach was just emerging. The other tiefling caught Jaina's eye and froze, Jaina thought she caught a look of pain on Karlach's face, but the barbarian quickly forced her usual upbeat smile. “Hey, soldier! Had a good night with Wyll, then?” She asked. There was far less enthusiasm to her voice than normal. “It was lovely, thank you for asking.” Jaina smiled gently. “Are you alright, Karlach?” She asked, gently pressing a hand to Karlach's shoulder. “Me? Oh yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Nothing's bothering me...not really.” Karlach laughed. “Can't wait to mess with Raphael, the creep.”

Jaina frowned. Something was definitely wrong, but she didn't want to push. Karlach was dealing with so much right now, between Gortash, the idea of needing to return to The Hells, she knew it couldn't be easy and she gently pulled Karlach into a tight, comforting hug. Karlach's eyes widened and she felt her face heating up as Jaina's arms enveloped her. Her heart beat quickened in her chest and thoughts of Wyll and Jaina, both smiling gently at her as they all lay together on her bed roll filled her mind, a rush of desire coursing through her body and she gave a little whimper. “Sorry!” Jaina gasped, pulling back at the sound of the whimper. “No! I mean...no...nothing to apologize for, just...uh...just the old ticker.” Karlach forced a laugh, pounding a fist to the infernal engine. “I should really get to that meeting anyway...See you there” And she hurried off, leaving Jaina standing there, somewhat puzzled. ---- “The Devil's Fee is located just outside the gates of the local burial ground. How you all managed to pass it by as you gallivanted through the city for the past several days is a mystery to me when the architecture contained such subtle clues as gleaming golden devil heads above each sconce.” Minthara was explaining as Jaina and Wyll finally joined the rest of the party at the center of camp. Sentry's hand shot up. “Hey, in my defense, I was dealing with a family problem when I was over near the grave yard, I would think as a drow, you'd probably understand that?” Minthara rolled her eyes and scoffed. “In Menzoberranzan, you would have learned to be clever enough to deal with your family before you left home to begin with.” “Okay, well we're not in....” Sentry pursed his lips and chewed on the insides of his cheeks for a moment and gave a cough and mumbled something that could have vaguely been similar to 'Menzoberranzan'. “right now, are we?” “If we were, you wouldn't be speaking out of turn, male.” Minthara muttered in annoyance. “At any rate, the proprietor of The Devil's Fee is a woman named Helsik, a Warlock in the service of Mammon. She's a lock pick to the hells, able to get adventurers in and out...Her services are costly, but I find most shopkeepers can be encouraged to lower their prices when...properly motivated.” Her hand brushed her weapon.

“I concur.” Lae'zel nodded, folding her arms across her chest. “We can easily threaten this 'lockpick'.” “Or....hear me out on this....” Astarion raised his hands in a mock image of calming. “Bribery works as well and is far less likely to get us teleported into a random glacier in Cania where we'll freeze to death. I mean, there's got to be something she wants aside from money.”

“Look, I'm sure Raphael has plenty of valuable trinkets and baubles around his little playroom that we could offer in exchange for the trip. After all, she's got to stock her shop with things for people that don't need to actually go to the hells, I'm sure she'd like to spare herself a trip.” Jaina added, folding her arms across her chest. “I mean, I agree with Astarion on this, it's best we avoid notice and a fight is going to be noticed...and trust me, if this person deals in the hells, she's not going to be easily intimidated, if we threaten her, it will be a fight.”

“We will need time to prepare, the hells will not be an easy place to traverse, even one single place with in them.” Halsin spoke up sagely. “Today we ought to shore up supplies and consider the best way to get in, retrieve this artifact, and get out as easily as possible.” “Agreed.” Wyll nodded. “I've fought through the hells before, it isn't pleasant and it's easy to overestimate how prepared you are. We should leave nothing to chance.” With that, the party began to separate to plan for their heist. Lae'zel collected each bladed weapon for sharpening, bringing them back to her tent and carefully staging them beside her equipment. Kroger, Jaina, and Octavia gathered around a makeshift alchemy lab in one of the abandoned buildings nearby and set to work brewing potions and crafting throwables they might find useful on their journey. Soon, everyone had a task in order to prepare for the next stage of their adventure and the camp was alive with the sound of grinding metal, the scent of herbs and reagents, and the chatter of preparation. ---- As day turned to night, Astarion approached Sentry, his hand gently brushing against the tiefling's shoulder. “Thank you for giving me time to think last night.” He murmured softly. “I am grateful, actually, that you talked me out of ascending, that you saw me for what I could be rather than what he made me.” He explained, looking into Sentry's eyes as he spoke. “You believed in me even when I didn't know if I could believe in myself and...” He winced slightly. “I don't know that I would have made the right choice without having met you.”

“I think you would have.” Sentry replied. “You're stronger than you know. If it weren't me, you would have found someone or something else to show you that.” He took the vampire's hands gently in his. “You were always more than your scars, more than what he did to you.” “Thank you, Sentry....” Astarion gave a small, wistful smile. “You know, if you have a minute away from all this planning, there's somewhere I want to take you, something I want to show you.” “I've got time.” Sentry squeezed Astarion's hand gently, allowing himself to be led from the camp and into the city. The streets were nearly empty at this time of night and even under the street lamps, it was dark as stars flickered overhead, the moon a waning crescent above. They passed down the alley that had led to the tombstone shop and through the open gates of the cemetery. The cool, dewy grass bent beneath their feet as they made their way to a neglected, defaced grave stone in the far corner of the grounds, overgrown and untended. Astarion knelt at the grave and brushed away the overgrowth carefully, revealing the original writing. “Nearly two hundred years, and I never came back here....not since the night I first woke up...” He breathed. Sentry took a step closer to him, standing by his side and observing the grave. “I had to punch a hole in the coffin and claw my way through six feet of earth and dirt...” He tensed, face contorting in anger. Sentry regarded him softly, his pale eyes full of compassion he could only ever fully show to a kindred spirit. He knew what it was to claw fearfully for escape, alone in the dark, choking and gasping for air as you desperately struggled to surface. His breeding cage and then the ash and smoke it had become when his pain and rage had finally been too much to contain him, the burning in his lungs as he choked ash and blood outside of his childhood home before fleeing for the streets above. “And when I finally broke the surface, coughing up dirt and congealed blood...Cazador was there.” Astarion contain, exhaling heavily. “And from that day on I was his, until today...” Sentry nodded. “And now that your free, how do you feel?” He asked with a gentle smile, pride shining in his eyes.

“I feel....exhausted...terrified...but...but excited as well...” His expression faltered, mouth turned down thoughtfully in a look of worry, of apprehension. “For all those years I was a ghost stalking the streets while the person I was lay dead and buried...and...” He sighed, biting his lip. “And now that I'm free, I have to figure out who I am...what I want...” Sentry took his hand gently in his, squeezing it tightly. “Then you'll have me here by your side the whole way, just like you were for me. It's like you told me that night, you're not alone in all this, none of us are.” Astarion's mouth turned up just slightly at the corners, a grateful smile as he turned to look at Sentry, gazing into his eyes, getting lost in their bright glow. “I did say that, didn't I?” He chuckled. “Well...Thank you...” He lowered his head and rolled his shoulders, his smile widening. “You know, you've been by my side through all of this, you were patient with me, you trusted me even when that was an objectively stupid thing to do...” He pulled Sentry closer to him, just enjoying the paladin's warmth and that scent of patchouli and vetiver that seemed to always emanate from his skin and hair. He breathed the familiar, comforting scent that was his protector, his Sentry. “ I feel safe with you, seen...No one else ever made me feel that way....and whatever lies ahead of us, I don't want to lose that...” Sentry held him gently, his calloused hands pressing gently to Astarion's back as he leaned in to nuzzle close. His tail flicked gently back and forth, contented and happy, calm in this moment as Astarion rested against him, content and at peace even if just for a moment. When finally their embrace parted, Astarion nodded towards the tombstone, drawing his dagger. “Well, I should probably fix this.” He gave a small smile, leaning down and beginning to chisel away at the stone. Sentry simply stood back and watched, allowing his lover all the time he needed to do what he needed to. Finally, Astarion stood back to admire his work and then knelt beside the grave. Sentry joined him there in the dirt, looking at the changes he had made and nodding approvingly. “I've been dead in the ground long enough, it's time to try living again.” Astarion finally breathed, turning to Sentry and gently taking his hands in his once more. “With everything that life has to offer.” “And, ideally....what would that life offer?” Sentry gave a playful little grin. “Well, if a night of passion is on offer, I wouldn't say no...” Astarion replied, leaning in closer. “I'd like that. I would like it very much.” Sentry nodded approvingly.

Astarion gave a small laugh, smiling brightly up at Sentry. “You know, I didn't care for you when we first met.” He admitted. Sentry laughed as well. “Yeah....yeah, I get that often...I can be quite a lot...” He shifted his body sheepishly. “And I kind of got that impression as well...I mean, you're charming and handsome, buuuut....not quite as charming as you think.” The tiefling teased gently.

“Hmmph...Well, anyway I DO care for you now. Being with you is more than just lust or manipulating you into protecting me...” He gazed deeply into Sentry's eyes now, his expression more open and honest than Sentry had ever seen it. “I love you. I love this...and I want it all.” He leaned in, pressing his lips to Sentry's and kissing him deeply. The tiefling returned the kiss with eager enthusiasm as the two embraced and fell to the ground atop the grave, Sentry's tail gently slipping around Astarion's waist and holding him close. As they undressed, Astarion's pale fingers traced the bold red ropes of Ilmater's holy symbol tattooed just below Sentry's collar bone, He smiled to himself, laughing at his own private little joke wondering whether it was Ilmater or Bhaal who had answered his prayers finally and sent this unusual companion. It seemed more Ilmater's game, really, to send him someone like Sentry, someone who would need him just as much as he needed them, who would somehow trick him into being better than he was. But no, Sentry was singular. No mere god could dream him up. With a gasp of surprise, he found himself shaken from those thoughts as Sentry flipped Astarion onto his back with a playful grin and slowly began to trace those artists' fingers down his body as though tracing him, committing his form to memory. “Hey, since tonight's all for new beginnings, isn't it time someone pleased you instead of the other way around?” The tiefling asked as he began to slowly and gently unbuckle Astarion's belt and undo the lacing of his pants. Astarion watched appreciatively as Sentry freed his shaft and gently took it into his hand, gripping softly and leaning his head down to slowly lick at the tip, that warm, pink tongue teasing at the sensitive flesh sensually, taking his time with every wet, sticky caress. The vampire relaxed, closing his eyes and tossing back his head with a moan of pleasure as Sentry took him into his mouth, so careful to avoid the touch of his own sharp teeth.

The tiefling's throat was warm and constricted with every motion. His tongue continued to tease along the underside as those calloused fingers gently teased at his thighs. How long had it been since Astarion had just been able to lie back and enjoy sex? Without anything being expected of him? He found himself lazily tangling his fingers in Sentry's pale silver hair, allowing the strands to run like water between them. Sentry barely seemed to need to breathe as he continued his ministrations, those bright mismatched eyes occasionally glancing up to make sure Astarion was still enjoying himself, although the way his cock twitched and the sound of his moans was proof enough. These noises were new, not the dramatic, exaggerated sounds of someone trying to convince their partner the sex was good, but the natural, sometimes even awkward sounds of someone genuinely enjoying themselves. ---- The next morning, the party regrouped. This time everyone would be involved in the mission, it was far too important to leave to chance. All three parties joined together to make their way to The Devil's Fee. As they made their way through the streets of the city, Minthara gazed about, taking in the sight of the massive steel watchers, the various clippings from The Baldur's Mouth discussing murder, cults, and other such nightmares. “Murder, oppression, hatred....Perhaps this city does have its good points.” Minthara mused, eyeing one of the columns regarding the Bhaalist murders pinned to a board as they entered the city. “Are you....like....aware of how it sounds when you open you mouth? Do you just get off on being a horrible person?” Sentry asked, raising a brow as he looked incredulously at the drow.

“You created art from the corpses of your victims, tiefling. Are you in any position to judge me?” The drow responded bluntly, tilting her head as though awaiting a response. “Well, she does have you there, Sentry.” Jaina pointed out with a little shrug of her shoulders. “That...was certainly a lot to take in when you told us about it.” Sentry rolled his eyes and blew out his lips. “Well...” He paused a moment to think, then scoffed in frustration and folded his arms. “....At least I can successfully complete a mission.”

“And did I or did I not locate a diabolist?” Minthara replied. “Speaking of which...” The party had arrived outside the massive door of The Devil's Fee and for a moment, stopped outside. Jaina stared in awe, all her time living in the city and she'd never known this place was here. Sentry, meanwhile, felt a wave of nausea hit him. There was something so familiar about this place, he could almost remember Gortash's mouth on his just outside this very door in the dead of night. He was shaken out of the memory as Kroger gripped the door handle and pulled it open, leading the group inside.

Octavia ooh'd and aaah'd at the various infernal and abyssal skulls and parts on display and she almost wanted to reach out and touch the various books with their gilded lettering written in the flowing, elegant infernal script. Gale's eyes widened as well as he took in the massive library of forbidden knowledge the shop held.

“By the wave mother....is this from an Aboleth?” Jaina breathed, her fingers brushing a strange aquatic skull with a single large eye socket. “The ancient lords of the sea...from a time even before gods...I've always wanted to see one in person...this might be the closest I'll ever get.” She murmured. What lessons could such a creature impart if she could encounter one alive, she wondered?

“You again...” The shop keeper gave Sentry a withering look as he approached her counter with Kroger. She tossed a hat Sentry recognized at his feet. “Your nasty little friend dropped this the last time you were here and by the way, you and your companion still owe me from last time.” “I....I'm sorry, what?” Sentry choked. “I've never seen you in my life, ma'am.” “Don't play the fool with me, Dread Executioner! You and Lord Gortash promised me some of those protective coats from Cania...and you've both yet to deliver!” The woman glared. Kroger cleared his throat and gave a polite little wave. “Now miss, you'll have to excuse my companion. He is suffering from rather severe cranial trauma. He's still regaining his memories.” The githyanki explained, he voice gentle and calm, practically imploring compassion. “That's actually why we're here, there's a place we believe might jog his memory...I know if he could remember having met you, having been here, he would pay you what you're owed....” He gave a pleasant, handsome smile. The diabolist was not impressed, frowning skeptically. “I'll still expect payment for this time at the very least. My lord Mammon doesn't do favors for free and neither do I. Coin is the only language spoken in Minauros....Coin and treasure.” “Oh, well then you're very lucky indeed.” Astarion spoke up as he joined Kroger and Sentry at the counter. “You see, we're staging a heist in The House of Hope. You get us in, we bring you a haul any treasure hunter would envy. We only need just the one artifact and I'm sure that smug bastard has plenty.” “The House of Hope...Hmm...” She paused a moment in thought. “Well, your friend DID successfully infiltrate Mephistar last time...and Raphael DOES have those gauntlets of hill giant strength, I could more than triple my next haul if I could just carry more...” She pursed her lips and drummed her fingers on the counter before finally nodding her head. “alright, fine...But you perform the ritual yourselves and you were never here.” She passed Kroger a black silken sack and a silver key. “The ritual room is just upstairs.”

“Wonderful, Thanks so much.” Astarion grinned and he turned towards the stairs, Sentry following behind and Kroger motioning for the others to follow them. The room they found themselves in was imposing in red velvets with a transport sigil in the center of the floor. Kroger paused and looked at the scrap of paper that had been included in the bag, dumping out the contents and beginning to read the instructions. Before he could utter a single instruction, Sentry was already placing each item as though it were second nature, each lighting up and sizzling with heat as it hit the correct spot on the sigil. When they had all been placed, Sentry rejoined the group, standing back as a massive portal opened in the center of the floor. “This is pointless, I don't know what you hope to achieve wasting your time on this ridiculous trip.” The Emperor's voice echoed in Sentry's ears. He ignored it, however and took a step forward, looking to the others. “Well, shall we?” He waited for them to join him at the portal.

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discordapples · 2 years ago

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PT. 14 Blissful Thirsts (PT. 2)

Word count: 1.9k (8 mins read)

Characters: Ominis Gaunt, Gaunt Family.

Summary

During the Collector's first leeching, Ominis finds himself possessing two things he craved for a long time.

Read the next chapter below.

Song list: Family Portrait, by P!nk.

Ominis | Hogwarts, Late September, 1893.

First Leeching — Bliss

The deafening clangor washes over Ominis as if he stepped under a curtain of seething water. It tingles along his limbs, melting like imploring fingers in his hair.

When he opens his eyes, he—

Sees.

The light plashes against his retinas, rinsing his skull in pain. Colors swarm his vision, as if an irked drove of gnats.

An aperture in the haze forms, growing larger and larger until the light softens enough for him to make up silhouettes.

His family sits around a dining table, picture-like, curls of steam pluming from an effusive assortment of dishes.

Directly facing him, his mother, Malicent Gaunt, is not the hideous woman Ominis pictured her to be. With her sleek ash-blonde hair and her sea-blue eyes, she sits with poise; her features no longer an echo of her soul's rot.

Next to her, Everard Gaunt—Ominis' father—smokes a pipe, his graying tar-black hair pomaded tight against his head and a newspaper stretched between his fingers. His older brother, Moros, is deep in his cups and slumping in his chair, while his twin older sisters, Lachesis and Clotho, two scrawny blonde girls, pick apart their food with a spiritless glare.

While his gaze leaps on each face, Ominis cannot help but wonder how the sighted can make up the intentions of others if they can don such a beguiling mask. To Ominis, the features conjured in his mind were always a reflection of a person's character; their essence projected outwards.

Now he grasps the perils of navigating such a deceitful world.

Garnished with empty frames, the dining room is an overwhelming clump of glinting chromes and silvers, translucent glass, pellucid crystal, brass surfaces, shimmery velvets, lacquered woods, waxed checkered floors.

His head floods with vertigo, and he feels the need to touch something to anchor himself amidst this imperious surf of stimuli. He squeezes his eyes shut, his breath staggering, then gropes his way to his right until his fingers graze a smooth surface, and he holds onto its hem like a shipwrecked on flotsam.

"Are you all right, darling?" His mother's timbre is familiar, but her worried inflections are foreign to him.

He didn't know she could disguise the knife of her cruelty in the silk of motherliness.

Slowly, he opens his eyes, the light softening more and more until he can bear it without cringing. Carefully, he aims his attention on single objects, to ease into his newfound sight, then looks at his mother.

She returns a genteel smile, her hand gesturing to the empty chair next to her.

His heart recoils in his chest, as if a caged beast rattled to its core.

Is it a ploy?

He scans for her wand, but finds none.

Ringlets of smoke unfurl in the air as his father peeks from behind his newspaper. "Sit, son. We've been waiting for you."

There is no trumpets announcing an impeding doom, so Ominis circles around the table and sits next to his mother.

Her fingers find his cheeks, and she stares at her youngest son with a strange glint in her eyes.

Is this... love?

"We are so happy you could make it home for the summer," she croons, her voice fondling over him like silk. "I missed you so."

Ominis doesn't want to believe the words; knows that something is amiss, but he craved them so much they slide between his lips, finding the gaping holes in his heart and stitching them back together.

"The headmaster sent an owl to tell me you are Hogwarts' most brilliant student," Everard says, folding his newspaper neatly on his lap. There is pride in his father's gait, and, deep inside Ominis, an ever-bleeding injury mends itself. "I always knew my son would make me proud."

As if another day added to a string of normalcy, Ominis' family eases into harmless chatter while Malicent fills a plate for her son. Throughout the dinner, she is tactile beyond what he has ever known, her smiles easy, her voice doting. Everard manifests his delight with curled lips showing through a scud of pipe smoke. Moros acts a playful rivalry and surrenders brotherly advice while Ominis' twin sisters relish in the school gossip as if they have thirsted for it like sun-starved flowers.

Ominis revels in the pageant before him, letting his fingers get a feel for the silverware, the napery, the foods, and, for what seems to be hours, he reconciles the textures with the sights; marvels at the array of tinges and how subtle the shades can be.

He wants to see it all: the grass that yields this smell he likes so, the sun that heralds itself through its warmth, the lumps of clouds cruising through a bluish sky, the blinking stars that were, up until now, only clusters of dots in an astronomy book, the face of his friends.

His friends...

He didn't come here alone.

Or did he?

The only memory he can conjure is this of him riding the train to Ireland.

He sat alone, in a compartment, the locomotive steaming awake and the Scottish countryside trundling by. He doesn't even have to close his eyes to sharpen the reminiscence. The images are so stark. Emerald hills needled with golden paths, ruined castles august in their persistence, thousands of diamonds spindrifting on the surface of lakes, a bridge, arrogant in its height, and a ribbon of river water below.

He came to the Gaunt secondary residence for the summer, like his mother said, and as his parents and siblings settle in the drawing room for the evening, Ominis eases himself into this family portrait like he has always belonged there and glances around him.

Malicent stitches by the fire. Everard pours himself a glass of brandy and smokes in his armchair. Lachesis and Clotho share a book, huddled on the davenport. Moros sits at the chessboard, pondering over moves, and Ominis settles in front of the piano.

A finger grazes the key, then he adds another and another, teasing shy notes from the ivories. He does it gingerly, at first, as if he hopes to see the sound rise like a plume of dust from the instrument, then falls into an enraptured trance.

A melody soars from the piano's stringy guts and Ominis uproots himself from his seat, watching the tiny hammers pound against the cords.

This world is full of small mechanisms, he realizes; cogs that groan and tick and fall into place. Milicent belongs to her chair, the needle, to her stitching; Everard to his printed words and the peat of singed tobacco; Clotho, Lachesis, Moros to their simple evening pleasures; Ominis to this family and its inflexible peace.

It is a clockwork world, and he finds contentment in being a gear in its machinery. Not one that stutters and bucks.

Not anymore.

The music soars, the keys chant, and he plays until his fingers ache and his forehead is drenched in sweat. When the music dies, his lungs burn with contentment and his heart has sewed itself back into soundness. He rises, grinning, under a rain of filial compliments, then sets to sampling all the pleasures such a quiet evening can conjure for him.

He plays chess with his brother, reads to his sisters, rises to help his mother stoke the fire, shares a taste of his father's brandy, looks through the window to the dusk stripping layers of colors, going from delicate yellow to reddish orange to rosy pink and nightly purple.

When his father joins him before the window, Ominis is drunk on the beauty unfurling before him.

"Walk with me, son." They leave the drawing room, then cross into a corridor clustered with hanging pictures.

They stop before a frame and inside, Ominis can see his family sitting around a table in a Parisian cafe, the street bustling with activity. The scent of freshly baked bread purls in his mind, and he remembers how striking the sun was as they walked through the Jardin des Tuileries. Another picture yields the memory of him and his siblings, leaning against the railing of a steamboat as it nears departure. Seagulls circle overhead and the funnels disgorge a shoal of dark smoke.

"Tonight had me thinking," his father mulls. "We should stay here, at the summer estate. I long to escape the bustle of London. Don't you?"

In this instant, Ominis cannot remember what his father does for a living; cannot fathom if Everard Gaunt will be missed.

The idea burrows through him, a tempting gift.

He could spend his time plodding down the rickety staircase carved into the cliffs and watch the ocean fracture on the sharp cliffs or fill pages with musical notes, birthing songs from the ivories.

The picture frames are filled with endless possibilities. Day trips to Glasgow, jaunts through Wales, opera concerts in Venice, nights spent visiting other worlds through the pages of a book.

Ominis cannot help but smile, a riveting warmth blooming in his chest. Stopping his course at the end of the corridor, he looks at his painted family portrait.

Everard stands, scion-like, his palm wrapped around a silver-tipped cane. Sitting a chair, Malicent offers a soft smile. Lachesis and Clotho, hands knitted together, wear pearls and intricate hairdos. Moros' fingers trellis Ominis' shoulders in a protective embrace. And there, amidst this perfect family, is something strange that forces him to take a closer look.

A single crack in the varnish, so minute it is almost imperceptible. Yet it is there, cracking through his own face.

He gets closer, his fingers brushing against the ridge in the gloss.

"I believe the sea air will do us all some good," his father continues. "We could build a cottage by the beach."

A cog in the machinery falters, and something squirms inside Ominis' chest. He extends his finger to the ridge folded in the paint, and soon as he touches it, the lights in the corridor flutter in their sockets.

"What's happening?" He turns to his father only to find his traits muddled, as if erased from his face.

Words come, despite Everard Gaunt having no mouth to shape them. "We could clear the singles, perhaps, have warm sand to dig our toes in."

Ominis' vision flickers, as if a vacillating flame, and fear slithers into his chest as spates of total obscurity cycle before his eyes.

What is happening to him?

His heart pounds against his ribs, and as his father blurs into a shapeless form, Ominis feels points of contact on his shoulders, and realizes his father is whirling him around.

"Look, Ominis," his father's voice thrums against his eardrums, "at what matters."

Reluctantly, he peels his eyes open and faces his family portrait again. He squints, focusing on his own painted face, but finds no cracks in the lacquer.

A momentary lapse?

How could it be anything other than that? He is with his family, in a house by the cliffs where the ocean laps hungrily at a strip of shingles. He has ridden the train from Hogwarts to Ireland, sucking on a handful of Honeydukes sweets, sipping on the beauty wheeling past his window.

His heart eases back into its hushed pace, and his father's fingers squeeze around his shoulder. Ominis can hear the gentle smile in his voice. "It's an old thing, this portrait. How old were you? Fifteen?"

Ominis nods, his unexplainable episode all but forgotten. "I believe so."

Everard Gaunt's grip is firm around his son's frame. "How you have grown into a man, Ominis. This no longer does you justice. What do you say I commission a new family portrait?"

Ominis smiles in his turn. "I'd very much like that."

#hogwarts legacy fic #hogwarts legacy ominis #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy #dark retelling

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thelovebudllc · 1 month ago

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Polish Pickup Haunted History September 2023 Swatches and Review

We’re in the final hours of the September 2023 Haunted History-themed Polish Pickup! The pre-order is open through September 4 at midnight EDT. I have products from Anchor & Heart Lacquer and KBShimmer to share this month! *press samples* Anchor & Heart Lacquer The Flying Dutchman is a deep navy blue jelly with gold-green-teal-blue multichrome iridescent shimmer and large lime-blue-indigo…

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infoblogifyzen · 1 year ago

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Creating Unforgettable Experiences with Lenox Hill Florist's Event Cocktail Tables

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#cocktail tables for events

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usagimen · 1 year ago

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Lacquered black, she parts the curtain to reveal what is underneath. Faintly, in the silver reflection the reality causes her to shudder. How long has it been since she’s proclaimed her right? A trembling blossom that wields a knife, only to become one when the time needs be, that variation of who she was died long ago. A flicker suddenly causes her gaze to break away, warmth that envelopes the senses as she laughs carelessly, “Oh, you sensed my own despair once more” the quiet jest made at her own expense. Even she knew when the melancholy spread within her, the affliction was wrought upon her demeanor, always distant in her ethereal nature && far from grasp.

Her lips contort, frowning tenderly, she should not fret about the marks left behind, accumulated over in the midst of combat. A body that was unbreakable, awed && delighted by those who chose to seek sanctity under her nocturnal reign, yet the heart still mourned the loss in order to become that which steel envies. “Perhaps that is why we align, the life that was chosen for us was not of our doing, instead we endure” there were times she pondered the possibility, away from omens that inspired dread && the lingering of a curse, between the dead && living, a life that could have been. Who would that woman be? Fragile she believes, blissfully unaware of what threatened to consume her whole. Each word she listens with attentiveness, hanging on tight like an anchor that keeps her from drowning beneath the waves, softness entwined as her shoulders finally drop.

Losing their menacing stance even when alone, even when she must be at ease, her heart still races amidst a hunt. If she had remained nothing more than a prize to be sought, would this life ever transpire? The ember that became an inferno, one she held great pride in despite the sorrow that was fed in mouthfuls, freedom that was greater than any pleasure she had ever known. “Here I was believing it was our stubbornness && relentless nature that caused us to become harmonized, is that not true?” laughter, it blossoms from the back of her throat, echoing like a God’s. There was no need to be anyone else, seek no image that would bring vapid delight, when together she spoke earnestly - even when her voice would tremble. His joyful sounds vibrate as she feels her grin spread, toothy && large, undeniable in glee as the tips of her calloused hands clasp together. “So, you confess - I caught you! Tsk, your senses are becoming dull, alas, that means we must train together” a prideful creature with feline-like qualities, hand resting upon her voluptuous hips as she playfully casts her gaze to the side, sugar sweet moments that she gladly accepted, finding herself at ease when they spoke candidly with one another.

Albeit it, her charm was often blunt, the vixen who kept a dagger upon her tongue, unabashed as she would scoff; only maidens blush in such manners. “You were mystified by the formation of my silhouette in a bathing robe, how cheeky, I expect better from you when it comes to moving in the darkness” without hesitation, on the tip of her toes, she reached to steal a single kiss. Every smile that could be felt through her small pout, “What if it was my devious tactic to steal your attention then strike?” she could never, disarmed, there was no need to strike. The softness of her high cheeks pressing against his own, warmth that was peppered with a scent uniquely her own, an enveloping air that always encased her inviting as it was consuming. She envelopes him, the flutter within her chest carried by her own grin that spreads.

“You give me too much opportunity to attack, even now, I have you in my grasp - who knows if I’ll let go”

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Subject and spectator remains entwined, as Hanzo Hasashi carefully observes Sayuri in her unperturbed quietness. He finds himself excavating his darkest musings, bottled moments steeped in desperation and despair, as all compiled fragments of his flawed being abruptly surface. Perhaps his own candor, open expression - exquisitely vulnerable and revealing - becomes the canvas of confession, as he manipulates what ought to have never been harvested; the genesis of his tainted reputation. He has gotten sick of his own company - the same reflection of bloodthirsty, vicious Scorpion haunting him over and over, the fathomless white pearl of his own eyes hollowly staring him back.

"I hardly think it to be perilous to be resilient, yet become a little sentimental, but it was by far my intention to fiercely tighten the hold of my gaze upon you, did they become such thorns that gore your skin and embed themselves? I hoped them to become the sowing roots that spread beneath your flesh as if they were made to enrich you whole." Obstinate, yet apologetic in the deliverance of his intention, Hanzo's timbre softens, as does the stillness of the late winter air.

Despite all the swords, magic, blood, vigorous combat, Hanzo only remembers disquieted and alienated death which rendered him vitiated of his true purpose in Earthrealm. He never bled out wishing for peace he rallied for so valiantly, as Scorpion wore a corrupted cloak made of his decay, as his hellfire burned and dripped down his entirety, pulling his own mortal flesh off with it. It was vitriol ire and vengeance that had taken a vice grip hold of Scorpion, without infinitesimal morsel of purity and virtue he used to wield as Grandmaster Hasashi, as violence clashed and created dissonance. Even as a newly-resurrected human, he was consumed by selfishness and impulsiveness, and wishing everything all for himself in the name of serving justice. How his hearthfire warmth settles upon Sayuri's petite form, then dwells deep within her as the stronghold of his arm embraces her whole.

"We are painfully familiar having grown with roses, spoken poetry among the thorns and vines of our lives. We have been torn inside as blood draws, prick inevitable, lying in red as the flowers that bloom on this pricking bush. I would rather lay my head on this bed of roses, with all these trials and tribulations, than the absence of red." Time takes time, and perhaps neither of them will truly change. For Hanzo Hasashi believes, he has never changed; he simply became more himself with amplified strengths and flaws diminished. Lest they become the greatest paradoxes, he knows with all of his heart and soul that they will become the truest. Luck was faithless and worth little. Had he not expected to come across Sayuri, but their love has never been fancy nor magical; but simply true in every sense. Honest, loyal, and sure in their vulnerabilities and stubbornness.

A hearty laugh escapes his lips, then a relieved exhalation follows. How he remains draped in the allure of midnight, where their whispered confessions and ephemeral touches create a symphony of contentedness. How his expression crinkles in faux bewilderment, as he shrugs his broad shoulders, as fathomless umber eyes glint with simmering mischief. "What can I say, but to admit that I am a creature of habit? Being a ninja may constitute a lot of things, but let us simply come to consensus that I was simply bewitched by your mystifying presence, which was able to make deadly glorious and mundane compelling. It was a matter of time until moments in time would begin to pause." ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

#sasorikigai #––– ❛ incarnation【 main verse. 】#// they're so cute!!!#// she loves teasing him but rn her heart is just a mess with his laugh #// it's sayuri instantly remarking: please do that again

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behappyandbuypolish · 6 years ago

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Star Magnetic Manicure with Quixotic Polish Luciole, Anchor and Heart Lacquer Summer Princess

Star Magnetic Manicure with Quixotic Polish, Anchor and Heart Lacquer #magnetic #indieswatch #nails #manicure

Polishes used: Quixotic Polish Luciole, 2 coats over black [previously swatched] Anchor & Heart Lacquer Summer Princess [Summer 2018 Seasonal Indie Box] 2 coats of QDTC

Yesterday I promised you’d enjoy what I added to Luciole and here the manicure is! Even though some of my stars (thank goodness for nail vinyls!) turned out wonky, it still is pretty cool looking. (more…)

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#Anchor & Heart Lacquer #Quixotic Polish

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aenaxes · 4 years ago

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dream perfect

[howzer x afab!reader] you can't sleep. and if you can't sleep, neither can howzer.

warnings: nsfw, cunnilingus, fingering

w/c: 1.9k

a/n: lol this was supposed to be a warm up exercise for the request prompts in the queue but i got carried away :/ anyways i think i need to write a pt.2 hehe

You like to think you’ve been running the motions of a pretty convincing stillness. Waiting a few minutes in between each turn from your back to your side and back again, you squirm under the anchoring weight of Howzer’s arm draped over your hip.

It’s going to be another long night.

And yet, for all your strategic shifting and careful restlessness, a few minutes shy of the hour, Howzer’s breathing stutters, and he stirs around you.

“Mn, cyare?” he mumbles, tongue heavy with sleep. “Y’still awake?”

Guilt, queasy and cold, creeps up your throat. The perpetual vigilance of active duty left behind, leave days replace that sharp attention with something heavy and warm that settles around Howzer’s shoulders and keeps him asleep through even the most resonant of storms. That your slight movements have apparently awoken him where thunder would not warms the apples of your cheeks in something equal parts concerning and embarrassing.

“It’s fine,” you respond weakly. “Can’t sleep is all.”

“Can’t sleep?” Howzer repeats past a groan as he shifts onto his side to face you. In the low neon lights of the Coruscant night, you can make out the ease of his features, his frown more of a boyish pout that carries with it a gentle insistence, concern. His fingers squeeze over the soft slope of your waist, and he yawns. “That’s no good.”

“It’s alright,” you say, and you punctuate your low murmur with a quick peck over the corner of his mouth. “You should go back to sleep.”

“Not without you,” he huffs in response. He takes the moment to shuffle closer, closing what little space lies between you to press close against your chest and bring his arms around your shoulders. You feel the tip of his nose press just above your hairline, and when he speaks again, his voice rumbles low and warm over your head. “What can I do, mesh’la? Tell me how I can help.”

“I’ve tried just about everything; I’m not sure there’s anything else left to do except to wait it out,” you sigh into his collar. With an insistent wiggle of your shoulders, you pull away just enough to meet his puppy-eyed consternation, soft with sleep and softer still as you bring your fingertips to the sharp lines of his jaw and offer him a lopsided smile.

For a moment, Howzer seems to take your defeat at face value, his expression deflating. Then, he makes a low noise that crinkles over the bridge of his nose and settles on the smile teased over his lips.

“I have an idea.”

Even with sleeplessness taunting you through the gaps in the blinds, you can’t help but laugh, leaning forward to gently nudge your forehead up against Howzer’s cheek. You know that look by heart, that coy glimmer finding home in his dark eyes as he pretends to fight his growing grin.

“Howzer, really, I’m fine,” you say, reaching up and stroking over his dark curls. “Go back to sleep. Besides, I’m off tomorrow.”

“We’re both off, cyare,” Howzer chuckles.

From under the covers, you feel him slide his hand from where it rests between your shoulders, battle-weary callouses no less warm as they drag over your form. He pauses where the hem of your shirt and the waistband of your shorts part, rubbing gentle motions into the exposed skin, comforting, grounding, seeking invitation.

You shiver under his touch. Anticipatory delight shocks up your spine.

“Let me help,” he implores.

“Okay.”

The last breath barely has enough time to pass through your lips before Howzer’s rising to his knees and pushing the pillowy duvet somewhere off to the side of the bed. There’s the careful composure of propping your head up against a second pillow and lifting your hips to tug your shorts down past your ankles. But rife through his gentle deliberation—tension, need, finds home in his posture as he squares his shoulders, plants his palms on your knees, and pushes your thighs open.

Your breath hitches as cool air rushes between your thighs. First instinct has always demanded a shy squeak, your hands itching to cover yourself as you lie spread open before him in the low light.

But you know better.

When Howzer’s shoulders drop with a quivering sigh, when his eyes flutter shut and open again with that precious disbelief that this was real, that this—that you were his, bashful chastity withers in the face of desire.

“So pretty,” Howzer breathes low, almost as if to himself, and swallows hard enough that you hear from the crown of the bed. A moment longer, he stares transfixed, then looks up to you with nothing short of a plea glittering in his eyes. “Please. Let me help.”

“Want you,” you whimper. “Howzer, I—”

Your voice cracks, reduced to a choked cry that swallows the rest of your words when, as soon as your assent reaches his ears, Howzer dips low, pressing a brief kiss to your clit before he drags the flat of his tongue from the fullest swell of your cunt and back up to press another kiss at the crown of your thighs.

“Good?” Howzer asks, his breaths puffing warm over the slick of his spit smeared over your throbbing cunt. No matter how many times you do this, you can’t seem to shake that delicious tremble as you feel the air between his lips and your cunt practically vibrate under his voice.

“Y-Yeah,” you mumble.

He responds by wrapping his lips over your clit, coaxing another stuttering moan from your tongue. But it’s not enough, with him it never is, and your hips buck up as he brings the calloused pad of his forefinger just under his chin, sliding it through your cunt. It only makes the growing core of want burn hotter when you feel his rumbling laughter shock through your skin.

Your eyes fly open at the first gentle push of his thick finger into your cunt, sinking into you with almost embarrassing ease. When his palm pushes up against your skin, he crooks his finger up, grinding up against the soft bundle of nerves that has you sobbing his name. Howzer only takes your soft noises as encouragement. He seals his lips over your skin and laps at your clit with a renewed vigor.

It doesn’t take long for him to pull his soaked finger from your cunt and push back in with a second. He finds a rhythm as soon as he fucks as deep as he can go, sucking over your clit while he curls the rough pads of his fingertips over the spot that makes your vision white out again and again.

Howzer sinks his fingers knuckle-deep, but instead of pulling back, the satisfying burn of stretch sears through your core as Howzer parts you open and lifts off of your clit with an almost comically wet sound. You know exactly what he’s going to do, but it makes it no less thrilling when his nose brushes over your clit, and he fucks the firm taper of his tongue between his fingers.

You arch off the bed with a wanton cry, barely coherent enough to understand the crooning words of praise Howzer slips in between fucking his tongue into your cunt and taking gasping breaths of air. You cry out again, and he moans into your cunt with you.

You feel blindly for him, and Howzer knows, he knows. He grabs your wrist and fumbles as he pulls his tongue from your cunt and continues to pump his fingers into you. Finally, the burning coil of desire cresting higher, higher in your gut, he finds purchase and slides his fingers between yours. You squeeze once, he squeezes back, and you moan as his tongue laps over your clit again.

He opts for a maddeningly fast pace, alternating between pressing his tongue deep as it can go into your cunt and rolling it over your clit. All the while, he keeps an unrelenting rhythm with his fingers, pulling you apart artful stroke by artful stroke as he rubs his thumb over the back of your hand.

He drinks you in like a man parched, head bobbing with each heaving swallow. His arm is your only anchor as you squirm under its weight and desperately grind back against his tongue. It’s toeing the line of overstimulation fucked dumb. And it’s all you could ever want as his tongue presses deep, as deep as it’s gone all night, and pushes you over the edge.

You come over his tongue with a shuddering cry, neighbors be damned, and squeeze your hand down hard over his. He squeezes back, groaning into your cunt, telling, promising, he’s here, he’s here, for you, for you as pleasure closes around you and swallows you whole.

At last, after a brief eternity of the kind of bliss that drives bone deep, Howzer pulls away, pressing one last kiss to your clit before pulling back and breathing in long and deep between your quivering legs.

He presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, his lips warm, wet as they mouth silent appreciation into your skin. (They are words you do not think you will ever truly know, the ancient poetry of the warriors who came before him, but they reach you deep to your core.) When his lips still, and his eyes flutter open, Howzer lifts his chin just enough to meet your gaze.

“Think you can sleep now?”

As much as you want to laugh (because what kind of question was that with your heart beating loud enough for him to hear?), you’re too winded to do anything else but shake your head.

“Good,” Howzer laughs, running his tongue over the slick smeared over his fingers. The fluorescent brilliance of the Coruscant nightlife filters through your window, glimmering obscene over the mess of your arousal and his spit as he parts his lips and sucks them clean.

Your mouth waters.

Sugar sweet desire breaks over your tongue, though you might more aptly call it greed—in want of tasting yourself on him; in want of feeling his fingers dig into your skin when he pulls you close and licks over your teeth; in want of bending you, breaking you, then pulling you back together again, gilded kintsugi lacquered strong by a soldier’s hands.

Howzer pulls his fingers from his mouth with a loud pop and flicks his eyes to yours as you peer up at him through lidded eyes. Half-closed they may be, but they are far from heavy with the sleepy taunts of before.

You both know sleep is the last thing on either of your minds.

Rising up to his knees, he twists out of his shirt and flings it off somewhere into the far reaches of the room. One moment he’s standing tall at the base of the bed, the next, he’s leaning close and sliding one palm from where your thighs part up to where he kisses over your neck.

You whimper softly as you feel his fingers curl over your pulse, helpless in the best of ways as Howzer pulls back to sit back and admire your expression. In return, he offers you the smile you’ve come to love most, barely there on his lips, brimming in his eyes, adoration divine.

Then, soon in its place, always: hunger.

“I’m not done with you just yet.”

#howzer says itadakimasu 🙏#also if u know the inspo for the title i am offering my hand in marriage immediately #howzer gives the best head in the gar and that’s it! no one else beats this mans head game #u thought fives was good? he learnt from howzer baby!#learnt? learned? idk man #anyways when will yaeji write ns//fw without being poetic? the answer is never #howzer x reader #captain howzer x reader #the clone wars x reader #yaej.writes

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ajaviary · 4 years ago

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Shatter Me

Summary: One misstep and your carefully crafted world will shatter and reveal the truth you’ve worked so hard to hide. The ugly, shame filled void that you haven't been able to drag yourself out of. You never expect to be on his radar, a string of circumstances bring you two closer and unfortunately he’s drawn into your world.

Some Dark Content with mentions of physical & emotional abuse. Hints at self harm in later chapters.

Rating: M (Explicit) - 18+

Chapters: 1

Word count: 4168

A/N: Thanks for reading and feedback is appreciated. I decided to expand on my Vulnerable Piece, this is the first chapter of that expansion.

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You felt your phone vibrate in the pocket of your leather jacket, but you ignored it as you leapt back out of the way of a fist that smashed against the street. You frown, doing a quick glance at the civilians in the area, too many were still lingering at the intersection, all the cars stopped, but that wasn’t before some of them had swerved to avoid hitting you as you’d suddenly appeared in their way. Your litheal body tucked itself, the palm of your hand glowed for a moment before you were able to attach the small gemstone to the car in a form of a really strong molding and pulled yourself in a twist onto the hood effectively avoiding the prospect of being roadkill.

You were a little too pretty to wind up the bug on someone's windshield today.

The radio in your ear clicked on effectively telling you the eta of your team. Kamui Woods was on his way, he’d gotten held up about three blocks away and that was still long enough for the guy you were facing to cause problems if you didn’t hold his attention. You hoped down off the hood of the car, your boots walking over the torn up roadway. “Throwing a tantrum now, what are you two years old?” you wonder with a tease as you grin. You’re not just the Pro Hero Gemini for shits and giggles, no you had earned the name and it was rising in popularity and your recent joining of The Lurkers.

You were rising in popularity. It was through your hard work. Everything you did was because of your dream to help people, but you weren’t delusional in assuming it wasn’t going to be hard fought to claw your way to the top, you weren’t aiming to be number one, but you were going to do your best.

“All that effort to rob that bank and to think you almost got away with it too, if only it wasn't for that meddling little Gemini.” Your grin was wide as you watched the large man sneer at you, his body glowing a brilliant blue at the center of chest and the color expanded outward along hands and down his legs before he was suddenly rushing you.

So predictable, but then again this is hired muscle for you.

You darted to the left avoiding his swing as you cupped your hand along his ear with a hard slap of sound. The blow left him staggering to the side, but blood oozed out his ear down his cheek. You’d blown out his ear drum.

This sort of thing affects things like balance and depth perception. Not to mention regular things like one's perceptions of sound.

“Oh look at you, all weak in the knees.” Your laughter is enough that even if he can only hear it out of one ear, he’s raising his venomous gaze to you and throwing out a large hand to smack you down.

The crowd expected you dodge and weave out of the way, but their cheers erupt as the smoke clears and your standing there having taken the blow, unmovable as you’d anchored your feet, and your legs are reinforced with the gemstones that gave you your Pro Hero name, your arms raised to block the swing as you hold him back.

The crowd cheering for Gemini shouldn’t have been such a booster to your confidence, you shouldn’t be looking for recognition in the public, when you should get that in your private life too, but you didn’t. When you took off the mask, took off your hero costume you were left with a shattered, broken (Y/N). Your freedom fell away and with it your confidence.

You break in thought, in focus is what left you realizing too late that he’d only hit you as test, but he’d been charing his attack for something else as his wide mouth opened and blue energy swirled inside his mouth, your eyes widened and you knew you couldn’t block that move, couldn’t move out of the way either, not with the civilians clustered behind you.

Shinji Nishiya (Kamui Woods) showed up just in the nick of time, shouting out his special move. “Lacquered Chain Prison!” He throws out his arm as wood from his left arm and entangled the bad guy, his branches curling tightly over his mouth and noise and along his body forcing his hands to his sides and his body back away from you. The crowd was stunned for a moment in silence before their was the clicking of cameras and the sounds of cheers. You should have been upset by your mistake, you were and yet in that moment, as you had stared your death in the face, you were disappointed he hadn’t fired. It was that dark though that left you shaken to your core for more reasons than you wanted to look at right now. Instead you plaster a smile on your face and pull all the emotion you needed too into playing your role for just a little longer. Hoping Kamui hadn’t noticed anything that might give you away.

“I hope you have a good reason for being late,” you joke, poking him in the chest and he only stammers out an apology. He was a little too easy to tease.

“There was a- “ he paused, looking away. “There was a what?” You pressed, sly grin widening. “A cat, ” he mumbled, embarrassed. “that almost got run over in all the confusion,” he defended.

“I always knew you were a softy Kamui-Ichi,” You teased good-naturedly.

You squeeze his shoulder and the ribbing stops as the two of you were just discussing what you were going to do about the muscle head whose part of the crew in charge of a string of robberies lately.

The rest had slipped away in the chaos.

“We keep being a step behind, we have to do better,” your words are low and spoken so only he can hear you. It’s been no secret that this crew has been making a fool out of the heroes who wind up chasing them. They’ve been dubbed Resurgence, but it's their leader the mastermind behind each and every successful hit.

It didn't help that every time their scapegoat was caught he was effectively let go, with the team escorting him to Tartarus unable to provide any details on how it happened, their memories seemed to be altered and in some cases, completely wiped.

“Report Gemini, ” Edgeshot had arrived on the scene, you frown slightly surprised and yet not that your boss had shown up, it wasn't just your reputation on the line after all. He’d become increasingly frustrated that this group kept slipping through their fingers making quite the mockery of all involved.

You efficiently relayed everything that happened to the current moment. How you’d been patrolling and had stumbled upon them as they had fled. You gave chase, but in the confusion, you were left chasing Mr. Humanoid Godzilla over there. You should have been able to do more, you knew this was your fault, but if you were honest you couldn't be too upset. You were alive and that sentiment couldn't be shared with the others who faced them and were left in far worse shape than a scrap or two. You got lucky and you tighten your fist all, too conscious of that fact.

“Let’s double back to the bank,” Edgeshot advises and as a team you head that way it was only a few blocks and traffic wasn’t permitted to pass around the area. Mt. Lady was currently guarding Mr. Godzilla, you hadn’t bothered to remember his real name, it had been in the file this morning, but well you had paid more attention to his looks and his quirk than feeling it necessary to remember his name. It will come back to you eventually.

The bank doesn’t seem very special and you head for the door first as the others are talking a few paces behind you discussing possible scenarios. Your hand curls around the door and pulls it open just as the door opens fully there is a rush of heat and explosion as you’re thrown back.

Edgeshot had reacted by pulling you from the explosion, before you could get hurt by any of the buildings as it exploded outward. You react on instinct, even as you're pulled back into the air your body hardening, golden gemstones extruding from every visible area of your body, even as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, as he pulls you closer. “Careful, you’re bleeding,” his voice was hard to hear around the ringing in your ears, but you nodded after a moment as he set you down in the middle of the street and the three of you were left to stare at the rubble of the bank as several other Heroes arrived on the scene to put out the fire, and help with clean up miraculously no one had been hurt.

Your phone buzzed again in your pocket and you swallowed as it vibrated again signifying a call coming in, your hands were clammy as you stepped away from your boss and put a little more distance between you. Your face grim as you were all too aware of the camera’s recording every second of your life. Your heart was pounding in your chest, he knew and he wasn’t happy.

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It was a few days later before you could convince Eizan to agree to let you go out with Nemuri at a bar she regularly frequented, you hadn’t been expecting any visitors, it was just supposed to be you and her and then you wouldn’t be lying. He always knew when you lied to him. Luck wasn’t on your side, not when two other Pro Heroes showed up, not when he'd shown up with Hizashi. The meeting hadn’t been planned, but they had been invited to join all the same, Nemuir didn’t realize the predicament she was putting you in, the danger. Nemuri knew so many heroes sometimes you were still left with your head spinning trying to keep up with them all.

Eraser overheard what you had said about your boyfriend, his most recent show up at your interview, how he’d been possessive, harboring a quiet anger over the fact that your interview had been a surprise appearance with you boss Edgeshot, you were there to dispel the rumors of any sort of romantic relationship, a picture that the was running had been of the two of you just a tad too close to each other, but there hadn’t been anything to it, but it hadn’t looked great either way, not when his arm had been around your waist as he’d used his quirk to swiftly curl around you and pull you out of harm's way, only to reform with his hand along your hip and your fingers carefully pressed against his chest, bleeding from a blow to the head. Shinya Kamihara had handled the situation well, and you had too, you knew what to do in these situations, but that didn’t mean the internet wasn’t blowing up either way.

After the interview you’d stepped off stage and Eizan had been there, chatting with your coworkers like it was the most casual thing in the world. Shinya had given him an accessing stare and looked to you, you gave a subtle shake of your head and he didn’t comment, but he wasn’t happy and you could have sworn you saw concern in his gaze when he’d left the station, but he hadn’t made a comment or a scene and instead let you handle it.

Aizawa had shared a quiet look with you before he left to get a drink at the bar before he and Hizashi would join you at the table. Leaving you to finish your conversation with Nemuri in private. She’d placed her hand gently over yours and softly told you that you needed to drop him, that he wasn’t safe for you to be around.

“He was just in the area, ” You grin widely as though to help ease her misgivings, hoped that your smile would be bright enough, convincing enough to hide the truth. You knew she had a right to be worried about you. It hadn’t been a secret that Nemuri wasn't his biggest fan when you guys had started dating. You had been too blinded by love to see him the truth and now you were in far too deep to get out.

You knew that, deep down you knew and the reason you hadn’t left yet was because you were in denial, and then deeper than that was the fear and then shame that you were in this situation in the first place.

It kept you up at night as you wondered what signs you had missed, this sort of thing happened to others, you saved people from abusive relationships and yet here you were in the exact same situation and it was suffocating. It felt like you were walking on a tightrope and it would snap at any moment if any more weight was put on your shoulders.

The conversation didn’t go much further into the subject once the boys came back. The night wore on and eventually you were the only one still sober, nursing a coke with some ice. Your limit was one drink, and that was it, you knew your limit and you had to protect the pretty glass house you had built. If you had a little too much, you would spill your guts to anyone who would listen. You dirty little secret exposed to the world.

Aizawa had stayed with you at the table and sipped his whiskey occasionally, his muscular arms exposed at the forearms as his dark grey long sleeved shirt was pulled up and he leaned his cheek against his fist. You hadn’t expected him to stay there once Nemuri and Hizashi went to play a game of darts as drunk as they were.

Instead you two had talked quietly about life, UA, the hero world and eventually movies and books. He’d warmed up to you after your animated telling of how Kamui had rescued a cat today and how you two had gone back and dripped the little guy off at a no-kill shelter after your patrol was over.

It was crazy for you to get along so well with anyone, most of all a guy who you’d just met, who didn't shut you up or seem like he wanted you to talk about something else. He listened to you, really listened.

You always had to be on, to say the right thing, to have your hero persona on.

This, this was just you, just (Y/N). No special title, just a young woman in way over her head.

“You should be respected and trusted,” the words were soft and you glanced at him, seeing the way he nursed his whisky, but wasn’t nearly as intoxicated as Nemuri and Hizashi as the two played darts in the back. “No man should own you.”

His words wouldn’t normally have caused tears to fill your eyes. You knew that, you knew that, but it was sort of like a wake up call. You blinked and a tear trailed down your cheek. You hastily reached up to wipe it away, an apology on your lips, but he beat you to it. His thumb brushed gently over your cheek as he wiped it away, you shouldn’t have leaned into his hand. It was just so nice, so warm. It wasn’t laced with possessive rage.

“Don’t apologize, ” he cut it, a soft smile curving up his lips.

You stare wondering if he can read your mind and he only slowly draws back and gives you a soft smile before taking a sip of his whisky.

The sounds from Nemuri as she lets out a screech of trumpet has you twisting on reflex toward the noise that he had ignored, but glanced toward once the laughter at Hizashi’s groan. You were just about to thank him for the advice; when fingers curl around your wrist and jerk you from your seat, you stumble in your strappy heels. Only barely managing to catch your feet.

Your mouth is shooting off before you can formulate or stop your words. “Who do you-” the words die in your throat as you take in the form of someone who has their fingers tight along your wrist and they only seem to tighten as he glares at the dark haired man with his hair pulled back into a low ponytail and tipped up, exposing his sharp features.

‘What is he doing here?’ You can’t help but wonder.

Aizawa who had set his glass down and was watching the scene with displeasure in his dark eyes and barely banked anger. He had been taught to respect women, he may have been brash, and inconsiderate sometimes, but he knew what not to do. He didn’t like what he saw, but he was giving you a chance to handle it. He didn’t want to step on your toes, but his hand tightened into a fist under the table, as the other was relaxed and curled carefully around the glass.

“Baby, I thought you said you were getting drinks with Nemuri, you didn’t mention anyone else would be there,” he pulled you closer to him, his grip bruising your slim wrist with the mark of his fingers. You wince, unable to help the movement...to hide it. This side of the abuse is what you desperately tried to hide from the world, you were (Y/N) (Y/LN)...the slightest negative news about Gemini could topple everything you’d been working so hard for. Everything you built and he knew that.

“These are friends of Nemuri, Eizan...her coworkers from UA High. Don’t embarrass me, please. People are starting to stare,” she dropped her voice at the last part, but it wasn’t low enough that Aizawa couldn’t hear every word. He’d also noticed that Nemuri and Hizashi were coming back to the table, Nemuri looked furious like she was ready to go to war for you.

“Embarrass you?!” he suddenly exclaimed loudly, as he jerked you closer forcing you on the tips of your toes, any higher and he’d have you off the ground as he stared with angry eyes down into your own. “Fucking seriously (Y/N)?” he sneers. “You’re embarrassing yourself out here dressed like that for all the men to see. Just trying to get a quick fuck, is my cock not good enough for you, now that you’ve gotten a taste of fame Gemini?”

For a moment you are stunned into silence, unable to formulate a set of words to go with what you had just heard and been accused of. You’d never cheat on him...that was then’t who you were. Guilt courses through you though anyway, as you wonder if you had done something wrong and then you were angry, angry because you hadn’t done anything!

‘You should be respected and trusted,’

Those words from earlier give you an unexpected rush of conviction in your next action, a rush of resolve. You dropped your weight and tried to gain back your footing. “Let go Eizan, just let me go! I’m out with my friends, you don’t get to act like an obsessive jerk!” Her gaze slid to the people who were starting to notice, and someone had their phone out. “Just go home, we’ll -” you fumble here, finally telling him completely what you wanted. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

‘No man should own you.’

You can tell by the way his eyes widen he’d never expected you to attempt to turn this around on him, to make it out like he was the bad guy here, no he expected you to apologize like you always did. He was so hyper focused on you that he almost didn’t notice that Nemuri had come up on your left, her bare hand flush against his chest as she waited to shove him back or activate her quirk and put him to sleep and gladly watch him clumple to the ground. Hizashi was next to her, his hand on her shoulder, his eyes hard behind his glasses and Shota was on your right, his hand curling and tightening on his wrist, his grip was heavy, hard and held no remorse.

Eizan balled his hand and shot a nasty glare toward the man with long black hair. He was stronger than he looked, but now that he gave him another closer look, he recognized him. He was Eraserhead. Did everyone just think you were going to spread those pretty little thighs for them if they came to your rescue?

“You heard the lady, I suggest you take a walk before we get the authorities involved,” It wasn’t a threat exactly, there were plenty of other things he’d like to do, but Aizawa didn’t want to cause anymore of a scene, too many people were paying attention to them and some had heard your name dropped.

Eizan was livid and the look he shot Nemuri was murderous, it was clear who he blamed for this level of defiance. He smiled slowly and released your wrist and somehow that made your heart pound in your chest with a rapid cadence, so loudly it was all you could hear. It left you with such a stark fear, that you were sure something gave you away, because he slowly raised his hands, palms out in front of him. “We wouldn’t want any trouble, of course not,” he said passively, he gave up too easily but it was clear to you as he widened his smile in your direction for a moment before he turned and headed for the door he’d come in...this wasn't over.

“(Y/N)” Nemuri’s touch was gentle on her hand as she raised your wrist that had dropped to your side, the skin already darkening with a heavy bruise, one you knew you’d have to hide tomorrow. Her touch was so feather light you hadn’t felt it, still struggling to try and hear more than the pounding of your heart.

You didn’t wait to watch him leave, you were suddenly in a twist of limbs and legs as you blindly got some space as quickly as possible darting between your little group and shot for the restroom in the back, you didn’t run, but you moved with a stumble that was clear of the alcohol in your system. The shaking started the moment you shoved the door open, your arms curled around your shoulders as you shoved your fist against your mouth to silence the broken sob that tore from your lips.

No. No. No!!!

This isn’t over. You saw him, you saw him, you saw him!

Those were the only words your mind wanted to shout in your head as you flashed back to the look on his face, the dangerous glint in his eyes.

You were in trouble, you knew that, something bad was going to happen, something was going to happen, he was going to get even with you, he was going to hurt you.

“(Y/N)” the sound of your name spoken softly had you tensing, but you knew who it was, you knew the sound of her voice and somehow, somehow it made everything so much worse. You couldn't hide it now, everyone knew, everyone had seen.

It was another crack against your armor, another break in your chain, it exposed who you wanted so desperately to hide from the world.

Her arms were thrown around you as she drew you against her. “It’s going to be ok,” her words were soft and low in your ear.

Someone telling you everything was going to be ok, holding you with such care...it broke what tiny shred of your self control remained, your knees buckled and heavy soul wrenching sobs were expelled from your body as your fingers curled into the back of her shirt.

Nemuri sank to her knees when your legs gave out, she held you as you cried.

Outside Hizashi and Aizawa lingered outside the bathroom door, they had seen just a glimpse inside, but even the closed door couldn’t stop the sounds from escaping. Hizashi shoved his hands in the pocket of his jeans and looked up at the ceiling as he leaned his head against the wall. “What a night,” he muttered as he pressed his shoulder against his friends. Aizawa was silent for a long while, his gaze on the door, he was going over the night in his head looking for anything he might have missed. He knew leaving either of them alone wasn’t a good idea, not tonight...not for a while. Guys like that didn’t just give up. He sighed softly in the dimly light hallway. “Yeah,” he agreed as he let his gaze drift to the hand that he’d wiped your tears away with.

He knew he wouldn't be able to let this go.

#aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta #mha smut #mha hizashi #mha nemuri #my hero acadamy #boku no hero academia #dark content #physical abuse #emotional abuse #healing #personal growth #shatter me

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farshootingstar · 2 years ago

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Posting a few recent nail polish looks I did. The first and last are character-inspired.

First one is based on Saffron from YOU and HIM. The cream color with black speckles is Vanilla Bean from Cirque Colors and it's cute, but I really don't recommend that color since it's crazy streaky and doesn't level well (it might work out slightly better with a wide, flat brush but mine has the old skinny brush since that hasn't phased out entirely). I needed to put some glitter-smoothing top coat on to salvage it a bit by filling in the ridges. The other color, Saffron Jelly (also from Cirque Colors), is great.

The second pic (that somehow jumped to the bottom of this post, so disregard my numbering; it's the blue one) is the Zoya nail polish Sparrow, which isn't a character based look, but I really like the look of that color. It has so much shimmer and holo glitter in it.

The last pic and video are for a look based on Krow from The Krow's Nest. The purple is Guilty Pleasure from Cirque Colors and the matte top coat with shimmer and flakes is Tarya's Birthday 2020 from Anchor & Heart Lacquer (they're who all of my matte top coats are from, though the other 2 are plain but scented).

#themed nail polish #nail polish #cirque colors #anchor and heart lacquer #zoya polish #saffron you and him #you and him vn #krow #the krow's nest

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aotimagines · 4 years ago

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Can you also do a scenario for Levi with Hanahaki disease?

I haven’t written a scenario for Levi since 2018 and this is what I come back with. Um...I’m so sorry. Angst is my forte and it’s easy for me to write, so...yikes. I also listened to drivers’ license on repeat to set the ambiance for this piece and now I’m sad, lol. Sorry! Maybe I’ll write something happier for Levi to make up for this one, lmao. Enjoy!

It was happening again.

The tightness in your chest constricted your lungs like a snake had coiled around the base of your throat and squeezed, cutting off the air to your lungs. Your head spun, black dotting across your vision, and the uncontrollable urge to cough itched in the back of your throat. You had to hold it down. ‘Please, not here,’ you mentally begged to any entity listening above the skyline to not expose your dirtiest, darkest secret to your colleagues. Your nails dug into the wooden table, leaving behind crescent-shaped marks in the cherry-colored lacquer and the color drained from your cheeks.

No one would notice your struggle if you kept it together, you reasoned. Hange was going over something about Marley and you had, admittedly, tuned out about thirty minutes ago. Whatever it was had to be important because they had everyone’s attention, to your knowledge. Out of the corner of your eye, you were vaguely aware of Levi’s sharp, piercing gaze lingering on your face, but you squeezed your eyes shut and internally begged him to just look away.

Inside of your chest, the flower that bloomed burned like a kindling ember, the stems brushing against your lungs and taking up space you needed to breathe. Experiencing this was painful, but it was nothing like the white-hot agony you felt whenever you realized that the person you loved would never return your feelings.

You had tried to let go—had tried to release your feelings and live with your fragmented heart—but nothing had worked. How could it when the person whose affections you desperately wanted worked alongside you every day, helping and caring about you in his own awkward, weird way? It wasn’t fucking fair that you had to live like this.

Except you didn’t. You knew about the removal process and, as a soldier, you knew that it was what you needed to do for yourself, for the future and for humanity. Every time you thought about getting the surgery performed, the aching of your fragile heart—the singular bloom of hope still lingering in the pit of your stomach—protested against the idea. You had never felt this way for anyone before in your life; how could you just ignore that and have the flower removed? How could you forget about happiness that the feelings gave you, or how it felt to just be by his side in silence of the night?

Living with this flower growing inside of you was painful, but the thought of having to give up Levi Ackerman was excruciating.

“That’s all I wanted to talk about today! If everyone could follow me, I want to discuss some improvements to the thunder spears I’ve been working on…” Hange’s voice flooded through your reverie, snapping you back to reality. Your knuckles were stark-white from the tight grip you had about the wooden table, your fingers easing from the leg once the feeling of having to cough seemingly passed.

As the group shuffled out of the room, there was one person who waited—one person whose unreadable facial expression made you tense up where you sat. “Four-eyes was that boring?” his flat voice drawled and, even without looking up, you knew his slate-colored irises were glued to where you sat. It had you anxious, the sensation of having to cough flaring up in the back of your throat once more. Instead of answering verbally, you shook your head and prayed that Levi would take the hint that you wanted to be alone. The sound of his shoes reverberating off the flooring allowed the tension you had been holding between your shoulders to dissipate, a wave of relief washing across your body. You were finally alone to cough in peace.

The instant you opened your lips to try and draw in a shaky breath, it began. A powerful cough strangled your breathing, the sensation of something lodged deep inside the back of your throat causing your body to lurch forward. Tears pricked your eyes as your coughing turned into violent dry heaving, the wheeze from your lungs desperately trying to push out the planet inside of your body echoing throughout the room. Hange and rest of the Survey Corps’ higher ups were probably in the weapons room by now, leaving you alone to your own suffering. Your fingertips dug into the stone flooring, your sputtering finally expelling the first fist-full of bright-blue, blood-slicked flowers from deep within your chest. Once it began, it didn’t stop. Over and over again, you threw up the bright flowers, their beauty tainted with the crimson blood dribbling from each and every petal.

At some point, you became aware of a hand resting against your back, dread serving as an anchor tethering you to where you knelt on the floor. When your gagging calmed down, you sharply sucked air in through your teeth, desperate to catch your breath and stop the feeling of your head swimming. You knew you were covered in spit, blood, and forget-me-not petals, but you didn’t care about your physical appearance. The person at your side didn’t have to speak—you already knew who was at your side.

“Please,” you croaked, voice husky and hoarse from having just coughed up over a dozen flowers in one go, “don’t say anything. Please, Levi.”

“You want me to sit back and watch you kill yourself?” came his blunt remark, much to your dismay. He wasn’t going to let it go; of course he wasn’t. The two of you had been together for a decade at this point and the worry that he felt for you buzzed through the air like electricity.

Your wild eyes met his taciturn expression, tears streaking down your face. “I don’t want to talk about this. Why did you even come back in here?”

“If you were hiding this, you did a shit job. You acted weird throughout the meeting. How long?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Levi clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Is that something you could be saying?” He was quiet, gaze flickering to the pool of flowers on the ground before tentatively bringing up in a quiet tone that was almost uncharacteristic of him, “You’re dying, and you didn’t say anything. Were you just going to lie down and not fight this?”

A laugh bubbled from the back of your throat, disbelief written across your face. Pushing off the floor, you sat back on your knees. “I don’t want to have the surgery.”

“…That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Levi brought himself to his feet, hands brushing off the imaginary dust that clung to his clothing. Without much warning, his hand hooked around your arm and hoisted you up, his strength guiding you towards the door. “You want to die? Then do it under someone else’s watch.”

“Let go,” you demanded, yanking your arm away from his grip. Frustration simmered inside of your veins, your hurt and anguish for this man finally spilling out in one fell swoop. Hot, fresh tears gushed from your eyes, yet you made no move to conceal them. Your heart was, for the first time in over ten years, on display for Levi to see and the fear of his rejection wasn’t enough for you to keep your silence any longer. “You don’t get to dictate what I can and can’t do! So what if I don’t want the surgery? So what if I’m being stupid? Even though I’m like this, I can’t let go! So, what am I supposed to do, Levi?”

The raven-haired male was silent for a moment, drinking in your broken features with a glint of concern etched into his body language. It was faint and difficult to see, but you knew him like the back of your hand; it was easy to tell and see what he was thinking, at this point. His lack of response prompted you to shake your head, your voice small and as fragile as splintered glass as you asked, “Is there really no way you’d love me back? Am I putting myself through hell for nothing?”

Levi was tight-lipped, body tense and unmoving as he continued to study you. Desperate, you latched onto the sleeves of his jacket, voice thick with tears. “I fucking love you, Levi. If there’s even a chance for you to feel the same, please tell me.”

A long, drawn out pause filled the air until Levi’s fingertips—calloused from years of training and fighting—uncurled your hands from his frame, features pressed into the same, apathetic expression you were so used to him wearing. “Get the surgery,” he said firmly, his singular sentence tearing you asunder from the inside out. Your face crumpled, the flower inside of your chest throbbing painfully at the notion that he would never love you back.

No matter how much you wanted him, Levi Ackerman wasn’t in love with you.

“I’m telling Hange when I walk out this door. Once it’s over, things can…go back to the way they were.” Helplessly, you watched Levi exit the room, missing the way his features twisted in misery as he listened to you collapse into yourself, your sobbing playing again and again inside of his head.

How could he promise you something when everyone he ever loved withered and died underneath his touch? You were too precious to lose, even if it killed him in the end.

Inside of his chest, a familiar burn pulsated, the urge to cough becoming more and more difficult to ignore even as his legs carried him down the hall.

#levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi scenario #levi imagines #levi ackerman images #levi ackerman scenario #aot imagines #snk imagines #snk x reader #aot x reader #mod elle #y'all i'm sorry lol

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lesmotsdemoi · 2 years ago

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idanwyn-et-al · 3 years ago

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(XIV|21-9: Friable. Anne-Sophie Bale.)

Healing took time. She knew this, and did her best to keep her expectations reasonable. Once her mind was reliably lucid, she kept boredom at bay by reading, a lifelong comfort and compulsion. As her legs grew steadier and she began to put on weight, she took daily walks in the gardens, longer each day. Though she felt the urge, she didn’t attempt to call up so much as a thread of aether; she remembered the consequences of doing so as if her previous bout of long convalescence had happened just yesterday, instead of eighteen years past when she was a starry-eyed young knight eager to prove her worth against the dragons.

Summer’s brief, beloved presence made its swift descent into another post-Calamity Ishgardian autumn. Snow flurries eddied beyond the leaded glass of her childhood bedroom, each catching a ray of fleeting rose-gold light before whispering to the withering gardens below. Anne-Sophie spent entire bells watching the world outside her window, letting her thoughts drift with the birds, the snowflakes, the curl-edged leaves. She smiled to herself; she’d often dreamed of going as far as those free agents of nature did. She’d gone farther.

Swordmaster Janne, straight-backed and clear-eyed despite her eighty-odd summers, ran Anne-Sophie through simple sword forms with a training blade in the barracks. The Knight-Scholar panted, bled, wobbled, fell, cursed, cried. She never failed to get up; always under the careful scrutiny of Janne’s intent brown eyes, she stopped when her body told her to. There was always another day; another walk in the garden, another batch of elixirs and fortifying foods; another night of black, formless dreams.

As autumn’s last golden flicker surrendered to the long northern winters, she finally opened the sprucewood chest, still smelling of sawdust, lacquer, and resin. Within lay her travelling armor, clean and mended; across it, wrapped in its holy shroud, was her magicked rapier. Fury’s Looking-Glass was its forgename, though she just called it Glass. It was an unusual creation; the original smith, long-since dead, had been inspired by the Red Mages of distant Gyr Abania to create something for those whose strength of body was less than their strength with aetheric manipulation. Decades of useless bickering with the Church had passed, an unknowable amount of lives with them, before the weapon was given orthodoxy. Anne-Sophie had been in the very first Irregular Arms Unit under Ser Ibaux, the lot of them so proud to carry their magicks. Anything to kill the dragons, back then, even the faint whispers of Gyr Abanian heresy.

That war was over; and yet, her love and rapport with Glass remained true. Anne-Sophie allowed herself to unwrap the shroud around the hilt and grip, brushing her fingers along the dim crystal focus that was, for now, hooked into the pommel. Temptation sang at the corners of her mind, but she patiently pushed back; all in time, she told herself.

When winter came, she was ready to leave home. The whispers and sidelong glances had made their way to her sickbed in the form of “well-wishers”, and she felt too guilty to bring such shame to her family any longer. Her parents, her siblings, the servants and extended family of House Bale tried to reassure her that she’d done nothing wrong, that in a few generations her experience would be called a miracle, that she might achieve sainthood. That didn’t help the darksteel weight tethered to her heart; the only way to weigh that particular anchor would be to leave. She started wearing her travelling armor during training, and eventually her heavy plate. The dress armor...she couldn’t bear to look at it just yet. Burnished and mended, just like everything else, her manservants had proudly displayed it in her tower. Unable to reprimand them for what was truly an act of kindness, she thanked them profusely and then immediately covered it with heavy curtains. Different sorts of wounds, different healing times.

Finally, it was time to make amends with Glass. Anne-Sophie took the blade to the family chapel, unwrapping it and returning the shroud to the family priest in accordance with her family’s own take on Halone’s rites. There, before her parents and siblings, she had to prove she was still aetherically connected to the blade before she’d be declared fit to travel.

Anne-Sophie inhaled deeply, then, for the first time in nearly half a year, reached for her aether. Nothing. She felt friable again; that blankness was even worse than the pain of success would’ve been just a few moons past.

Patience. She tried again, her mind open, her personal aether a faint, steady glow that sought its kin in the world around her. A quiet drip-drip-drip in her mind; in the distance, the feeling of a rainstorm descending on a desert.

She waited for that rainstorm, calling it. Her own aether encircled Glass; together, they were a magnet exerting its gentle, incessant pull on that metallic-smelling incoming flood. As it arrived, Anne-Sophie felt an equal mix of exultation and pain, recoiling back a step as Glass stood on its own dragonkiller-like tip, radiating and refining the raw flood of force.

“Together,” Anne-Sophie said aloud to the blade, and the two achieved aetheric equilibrium, resonating in harmony with one another and the very star around them. Glass wasn’t Amoracchius, but in some ways it was better; most notably, it was still at her side, while Amoracchius and her wielder were not.

#anne-sophie bale #my writing #my characters #FfxivWrite2021 #prompt 9 friable #ffxiv hyur #ffxiv midlander #hyur #Ishgard #Ishgardian #Red Mage #kinda?#she's a spellsword ok #this one really got long but i enjoyed writing it!

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tartarusdwelt-a · 4 years ago

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five times kissed / tankswap meeeee 👉👈

five times kissed // accepting | @disaeric In which I completely forsake my regular formatting because this got TOO LONG.

i. you dare to goad the consequence, it devours you. ul’dah, the golden city.

THERE WAS A GIRL ON EITHER ARM — colour her unsurprised. They fluttered in like butterflies, like moths to a flame, and he burned so brightly. Pretty things with pastel dresses and bright eyes; in their whispers and drab flirtations she found herself watching, an alienation that bothered her only when she paused to consider it.

Not of a desire for him. No, no, that would be ludicrous. But that he should be desired and desire in turn — that his waking moments should be defined by the want that another person held for him. She did not know the sensation, nor the touch. A feral, mangy, disgusting thing; she was defined by the word of others, and held their assessments of her in cruel regard.

“aye, who should want you? fucking idiot girl, y’not worth the food I put into your mouth.”

“You know it’s rude to stare.” His tankard of ale clinks against the bar top, and she jumped at the sound. Amber eyes met golden brown, unabashedly unafraid at how she glared, and he grinned.

“I am trying to drink in peace,” she answered, her expression worsening at how he laughed, “Not watch you tongue fuck every available woman in the room —”

"Are you jealous, Koret?” She hated the arrogance in his voice, how it managed to burn colour to her cheeks without conscious thought. In a fool’s attempt, she brought her ale to her lips and hoped it would hide her expression; only to near choke on his next words. “I could kiss you if you want.”

There was a pause. She lowered her drink, smoothed her fingers against the lacquered wood, and turned to look at him only when she was sure she wasn’t pink. “I could think of nothing worse.”

“You wound me,” he answered, though she knew her words inflicted no injury. If anything they were an invitation; a test to see if her bark had any bite. Foolish; he should have known a creature raised on harm would fall to a gentle hand. They found stiffness, but not resistance, and the red of her hair tumbled like blood over his fingers as he drew a soft ascent from her jaw to her cheekbone. He held her — tender, despite his previous teasing — and when he brought his lips to meet hers they were not intense, but gentle. Nothing like she’d seen when he’d kissed the others. She told herself that was what made it worse.

A hand on his collarbone. Her fingers in divot. She pushed him back, incredulous at her own weakness, and embarrassed she let herself entertain the notion. “Stop, go kiss the tavern girls!” she snarled, the back of her palm pressing to the skin of her bottom lip.

He was radiant. She wanted to kiss him again.

ii. there is a poltergeist in your veins, it wants to watch you burn. the castrum, alight.

TWISTED, METALIC ASH FELL LIKE SNOW against her hair, blistering exposed skin as Garlean engineering groaned and melted in the fires wrought by great Ultima. The pain, however, was secondary. There was an animal in place of a girl; an instinct; a desperate claw for life as the inferno wreathed its way down the narrow passage and the cool night air felt distant as oxygen was sucked from the tunnel. Yet even still she carried on; one hand on his back, the other on the control stick, and it was all she could do to push the magitek forward out of that forsaken place.

Thancred — how stupid she was to miss the signs. Lifeless, his body draped over Maggie as they ran, and unlike her as she coughed and spluttered he uttered not a peep. That fact was more frightening than the fire; greater than the ascian she tore from his body: the truth that she had missed the signs, and it might cost him entirely.

Her scream ripped through the air as they burst free, fire spewing behind them like dragon’s breath, and a sudden turn sent them both tumbling from Maggie’s back. Kor landed hard on the wet earth, tasting blood in her mouth and feeling the gashes in her bottom lip. She struggled to push herself up, to drag her body to his even when she could see the blurred vision of her companions and hear them yell at her that she was safe.

“No, he —” Her throat was burning, her voice cracked and horse. He had not moved from the place that he had fallen, splayed a marionette flung by a ruthless child. She reached for him with muddied hands, smearing dirt across his face, and pressed her forehead against his.

Please do not be dead. Please do not be dead. I cannot bear to lose anyone else. Please don’t be dead.

The tickle of breath against her hair. Shallow, barely there, but he was alive. A gasp of relief — a laugh. Without even thinking she leaned up and kissed his forehead, caring not for the bloodstain that remained.

iii. ours are the bodies of graveyards, our hearts a mausoleum. dravania, in grief.

THE SUN. She was the sun. Her gentle light a comfort; her warmth a welcomed friend. How deep the shadows ran when she departed — how cold was the world was in her absence. It reflected in her guardian. It cheated the mirth from behind his eyes and stole the revelry from his teeth. He stared ahead with catatonic dullness, his thoughts a tempest of what if’s and if only, and the dark circles and weighted shoulders were an unintended weakness to the reality of his grief.

Which was worse — the mirror or the reflection? That she should stare into a reality she knew all too well, or that she had once projected it? Grief was intruder who slipped past her doors and made a home at her table; he had stolen her innocence and took more than a pound of flesh. It defined her, the loss of her sister. She could only imagine how Minfilia’s would define him.

Without much thought she came to sit beside him, not minding that he didn’t pause to look. The fire, as it crackled and twirled on charred logs, was a good enough distraction — she was familiar with the disassociation. To speak was to admit. To act was to give in. There was violence in the vulnerability. She knew, she knew.

Her head lay gently against his shoulder, feeling it a pitiful comfort. Yet he reached for her all the same, his hand resting on the top of her head, and they sat in the quiet for a time.

“Thancred.” When she spoke her voice was quiet, thick with an emotion she didn’t fully understand, and when she finally looked up at him she wasn’t even sure what she should say. I’m sorry. I know. It never gets easier. I wanted to die, too. It will live in you — poison you.

Instead, with lips slightly parted and the flutter of her hand against the back of his neck, she leaned in to kiss him. A foolish distraction, one she full expected him to reject, but he did not. His lips moved against hers, his tongue a delving dance, and as he twisted himself to meet her the hand that pressed itself to the small of her back cradled her as he gently lowered her to the grass.

iv. they play requiems in your honour; it is an insult. the rising stones, alone.

SHE HATED THE FLOWERS PLACED BY HIS BED. Dead — he wasn’t fucking dead — but it was as if they had left him to die. Their scent was a mockery; their withering blooms a reminder of the time that ticked idly by while he lay unmoving beneath the oil lanterns of the Scion’s headquarters. Though he breathed he did not wake, and the smooth lines on his face did little to soothe her knowing his last expression was of agony.

Gone. He was gone. Dead, but not gone. How was she supposed to rationalise that? If he were dead at least there would be a funeral, but the flowers that wreathed him shed petals in the coffin of his bed. It was absurd. She picked one from his cheek and let it flutter to the floor.

“Come back to me,” she pleaded. But like every time her voice did not reach, nor did her actions have any effect. She took his hand, curled his fingers around her own, and pressed them to her mouth. “I love you. Please, please come back.”

He was silent.

She did not expect anything less.

Choking back her own despair, she willed herself the gentleness to lower his hand before the anger exploded.

The vase shattered into a thousand pieces against the wall. Wet hands pressed themselves to her cheekbones, hoping the pain would stop her grief, but it ripped itself from her lungs all the same.

She fell to her knees.

v. golden, she burns like atoms. you cannot protect her. the first, sacrosanct.

AH, SO THIS IS HOW SHE WOULD DIE. Not by her own hand, but the light. In holy radiance she would be purified from the inside out. Incinerating her, she would become beautiful and clean.

It burned. Gods, it burned.

She didn’t realise she was screaming until his hands were steady on her shoulders, uttering soothing placations she knew neither of them believed. Five years on his side had changed the man she knew, but even in the depths of his weariness the familiarity remained. He was a fixture; her fingers wrapped around his arms an anchor; and even as she choked and vomited the burning light he did not peel himself from her side.

“It hurts, it hurts.” Kor didn’t mean to sound so vulnerable — so small. She was the Warrior of Darkness, she could not show weakness. But it poured from her like a fount and dripped off her skin like holy water, and as she cried he kissed her head and kept her steady in her fight.

“I’ve got you,” he assured, even know she knew neither of them believed it. Even if it wasn’t enough. “You’re going to be okay. I’ve got you.”

#disaeric #in which i thought this would be like sexy battles and shit #but my brain said #nah #angst #nothing but angst #for like... i don't even want to word count #「 ♛ 」𝙆𝙊𝙍𝙀𝙏 / when you inhale I fill your lungs.

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