#and it’s his own guilt and emotions snowing upon it

[caelanglang]

Snow Globe Love

Your life was a ball of snow

cold with frosting bites.

When you play and throw bullets

of laughter and ice,

somewhere your inner child smiles.

But then the world shook

so violently asking,

Who’s crying when the skies shed

shards of tears, lonely

breeze carried silent mourning.

You let the heavy ice pile

up on your shoulders.

Walls of glass rose to embrace

an untouchable you who

dreamt for an ending,

sold your soul to the future,

trusted winter’s unkindness;

Letting your regret

give birth to goodness.

You are the warmest

of falling snowflakes

Who left lingering

kisses over me,

But what we had was never

Summer’s love nor Spring’s fever.

What we had was a snow globe.

Dancing amongst the white storm

was your dark coat and bright soul.

From afar I watched,

I envied, I wished, I loved.

Before she shattered glass;

Until we fell apart.

[pinkberrytea]

He is the king, you are his crown; he is the tree, you are its blooms.

Requiem—A ceremony for the dead. The Vampire Ascendant once made her his bride; now he weds her before the gods. Eternal rest grant unto them, and let perpetual light shine upon them. Amen.

The pleasure of your company is requested at the marriage of Lord Astarion Ancunín to his darling consort, Lady Ancunín. Reception to follow.

Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 7k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: thank you for reading! this one was inspired by information released by Ed Greenwood about wedding rites in the Forgotten Realms. I thought the blood pact in particular would fit AA and consort perfectly! hopefully it is an enjoyable read. I’d like to thank @bardic-inspo and @starryjuicebox for their support and help with this piece. I appreciate you lovelies!

tags: blood drinking; cunnilingus; orgasm edging; overstimulation; fluff & smut; body worship; light dom/sub; vaginal fingering; creampie; dry humping; frottage; multiple orgasms; possessive behavior; mirror sex; wedding night; piv sex

“Art desirous of union with the man who comes for thee?” 

As the Galerian priestess’ words reverberate around the otherwise solemnly quiet venue, you are escorted to the snow-covered aisle by your dapperly dressed handmaidens, clad in beautiful scarlet silks with gemstones sown on the sleeves, and all eyes present turn to gaze upon your quivering form—yet none are more piercing than the pair of crimson irises taking in your image from their place by the altar, ruby red flecks swimming in pools of blood whose glistening surface is now disturbed by the waves of emotion breaking on their sanguine shores. Astarion had not been prepared for this; for how his heart would beat faster, how his stomach would twist and turn at the sight of you in your wedding gown, holding the bouquet of dahlias and asphodels he’d endeavored to choose for you himself close to your chest, pale cheeks glowing a faint pink and snowflakes falling leisurely on the veil covering your hair. Suddenly, the shallow reasons for why he had even come up with the idea of hosting the ceremony are all but forgotten, and his frenzied thoughts reduced to a single word: perfect. You look perfect. A vision in white, a bloodied rose, his darling consort, his sinful bride.

His eternal lover.

The moment you start walking towards him, the attendees all rise from their seats and the processional begins, your timid gait almost in rhythm with each pluck of the harp’s strings. He looks hauntingly beautiful in his elegant white doublet, intrinsically embellished with golden and carmine embroidery, silver curls pristinely arranged and marble skin shining ethereally, reflecting the gentle light of the winter moon. The fresh wound on his hand stands in stark contrast against the otherwise smooth blancheness of his palm, blood trickling down onto the soft snow below, and the enticing scent of it wafts through the air almost like an invitation, a temptation too great for your starved self, as all the endless preparations have left you no time to quench the everlasting thirst he bequeathed to you. How long has it been since you last fed? Days? Weeks? Try as you might, you cannot remember. Yet it matters so little now, as he waits for you with almost jovial expectation, ready to once again seal your undying bond, renew the vows made on the fateful eve of your turning.

“Seven thousand souls have given me the power to carve out my own future, and I want you to be part of it.”

The more you approach him, the thicker the air around him becomes, the louder the buzzing in his ears sounds. Your lashes look so long, your rouged lips so full—and gods, how sweetly you gaze upon him, how bashfully, naught behind the bright gleam in your lachrymose eyes but pure, unconditional adoration. Through all the pain, all the hurt, your devotion to him never once faltered, and though the perpetual guilt haunts you both still, it is not in spite of your shared burden that you are brought closer together, but because of it. As you finally make your way to the altar and take your place by his side, time seems to come to a standstill, and in the minutes that follow, you can see nothing but his face, smell nothing but his blood, hear nothing but his heartbeat. No one else matters, nothing else matters—just you, him, and your immortal love.

“My sole endeavor now is to make this world yours and mine alone.”

The priestess takes your hand in hers, and using an ornamental dagger, cuts a gash across its surface, as she did with Astarion’s before your arrival—yet unlike his, the blood takes a while to bloom from the broken skin, so little of it remaining within your veins. You bite down on your bottom lip to stifle a yelp, her treatment of you clearly rougher than would be otherwise necessary; the eldest heiress of an influential patriar, her father had sponsored the construction of the first Galerian temple of Baldur’s Gate, a venture Astarion had enthusiastically supported to gain his favor, and with it, access to the growing following of the God of Ambition. A young acolyte at the time, her infatuation for your darling was undeniable—it was almost wicked then when he arranged for her to be the one to wed you, a political ploy to cement the bond between the two families. You knew his motives, and his cruelty brought you no joy, yet his darkness was something you had long decided to embrace rather than deny, the weight of your choices a penance you’d not ever dare renounce.

Once the deed is done, she lets go of you and backs away, a hint of contempt muddying her lowered gaze. Neither of you pay it heed—rather, you remain focused on each other, the guests but faceless figures looming in the background, blurred and meaningless. He holds his hand up, eyes locked with yours all the while, pupils blown out and raw emotion blazing like a firestorm in their depths. You do the same, your movements small and uncertain, yet as the tips of your fingers touch, he is the one to close the distance between your bloodstained palms, wound against wound, your crimson flowing into his and his flowing into yours. The connection assails you with almost overwhelming fierceness, your minds blended together and a thread of blood binding your souls to one another, as if you were but a single being. You can feel his heart pounding in your chest, his red coursing through your body, his thoughts seeping inside your head and reassuring you of that which needs not be professed; he loves you, oh, how dearly he loves you, like the moon loves the stars, like the dusk loves the dawn. Yours is the light keeping him from being consumed by the shadows, a flickering flame he is willing to protect, no matter the cost.

“I ask for thy hand as my equal, that our lives run as one, from this day forth,” he says, voice soft like velvet, laced with undeniable warmth despite its measured cadence. You may not truly be his equal, not really, but that is a fact you were always willing to accept. He is the king, you are his crown; he is the tree, you are its blooms. You could not hope to compare to his greatness, he could not hope to live up to yours—yet even if those around you may not understand, even if they may challenge it, your love is no less real, no less precious.

“I accept, before the gods, and before all these good people,” you answer, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes as the words slip from your trembling lips. His feelings become entangled with your own while the blood link lasts, and hidden beneath the yearning, beneath the sheer intensity of his longing for you, you sense anguish, you sense remorse. How many times have you danced to this same tune, played this same game? What a hopeless fool he is—manipulating your affections and toying with them, only to then realize the upper hand was hardly his, not in that pretty clearing during your first night together, not now, as you stand before him so beautifully, so earnestly, laying bare your heart and handing it to him on a silver platter. Your unwavering trust in him is something he was never quite able to come to terms with—why? Why is it that you want him, even after everything? Why give yourself to a selfish villain such as he while asking for nothing in return, nothing but for him to love you back? He knows not the answer to this, but still he would take it; your body, your mind, your soul, he would take it all and make them his, and his alone.

“I shall protect thee and succor thee, until my breath fails and the gods claim me, putting thy needs and comfort before mine own, and keeping no secret from thee, until the end of my days, or until the gods set us apart, though I hereby pray they shall never do so.” The gods have no say in this—you are forever his, and he is forever yours. Astarion is your god, and he shall be the one to claim you; such is the fate you have chosen for yourself. Once he finishes voicing the pledge, your hands come apart and the connection is severed, leaving you empty and vulnerable. Still, you carry on with the rites, bringing your bloodied fingers to his parted lips, and his to yours, staining them with your combined essence; while mimicking your movements, he purposefully refuses to pry his eyes from yours, looking upon you and through you, so fiercely yet so gently, so ardently yet so lovingly. You lose yourself in the urgency of his gaze, giving into its passionate allure, feeling your body lean forward almost as if you were but a flesh puppet, and him the performer pulling your strings.

“You’ve never tasted so sweet, darling.”

He lowers his head to meet you halfway, and the instant your mouth crashes into his, all your thoughts crumble down and dissolve into nothing. The coppery taste of your crimson mixed with his spreads through your tongue, reaching the back of your throat, and the pain of hunger tugs violently at your stomach; yet even in death, as he breathes into you, you feel alive, through him, for him, enraptured by the softness of his lips and the warmth of his skin, protected from the bloodlust, from its all-consuming fury. He cups your cheeks with both of his hands and pulls your face even closer to his, almost as if trying to assimilate you, become one with you, to which you respond just as desperately, standing on your tiptoes and wrapping your arms around his neck. The tears that had been threatening to fall spill from your closed eyes, the surge of emotions bursting your frozen heart open; he dries them with his thumbs, delicately tucking the few hair strands that have slipped from underneath your headdress behind your ear. Blood is his ink, and with it, he shall again carve his name on your soul and claim that which belongs to him—requiem aeternam dona eis, so that tomorrow, you may rise anew.

“We have a beautiful, bloody future to look forward to, my love.”

It’s useless. No matter for how long or how hard you peer into the grand cheval mirror standing before you, it refuses to show you your reflection. Rather, all you see is an empty room, illuminated by naught but the moonshine creeping in from the open balcony, its velvet drapers swaying with the evening breeze. The snowfall has ceased, but the air remains mercilessly gelid; with your veins painfully wanting for blood to keep them warm, you wrap your arms around yourself, which unsurprisingly brings you no comfort. The guests are all gone, the ceremony is over—now you are left alone with the wandering voices echoing in the recesses of your mind, which grow ever so loud as the aftermath dawns upon you and dissipates the dreamy fog that had been cast over your still veiled head up until this very moment. 

Alone—yet not for long.

“Stunning.” You hear his voice before you see him approach you from behind, elegant fingers brushing against your bare shoulders and squeezing them gently, the soothing heat emanating from his hands sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. “You look stunning, darling,” Astarion whispers in your ear, his pretty lips grazing the ruby-carved earring hanging off it, which in turn dangles ever so softly, catching the moon beams on its shiny surface; breathing hot air onto your sensitive flesh, he then slides them down your neck and plants a loving kiss at its base, half-lidded eyes staring back at his own lonesome figure on the other side of the glass. 

“Do I?” you ask, the hint of disdain in your tone taking even you by surprise. He, however, seems unphased; on the contrary, his handsome face creases into a subtle, cheeky smile, and his hands glide down your arms to then join them around your waist, his chiseled chest pressed flat against your back. As if under a spell, you promptly let down your walls and lean into his embrace, closing your eyes and cocking your head to the side to grant him better access. His smile widens in response, and he kisses your neck again, letting his fangs ghost over the set of bite marks disrupting your otherwise immaculate skin for a moment before pulling back slightly and resting his chin on that same spot.

“Why, shall I be your mirror, my sweet?” Astarion purrs, the silky smoothness of his voice covering your now limp body in goosebumps; while it may sound like he is being unserious or trying to egg you on, there is sincerity underlying his offer, an honest wish to make good on it. “Would that please you? Knowing what the world sees when it looks at you.” He articulates each word with a guttural growl, scarlet irises darkening as his grip on you tightens, yet swirling in their murky depths, you glimpse ruddy hues of worship and desire, fondness and hunger. “What I see.” 

No sooner than the question leaves his lips, he spins you around and presses one of his hands to the small of your back, the other brushing your veil away from your face and caressing your cold cheek—once you lock eyes with him, his cheerfulness vanishes and he gazes upon your graceful figure in pensive silence, scanning every inch of your frame, from the opulent headpiece around your forehead to the sequined pumps hugging your tired feet. After what seems like an eternity, he brings his hand on your cheek down to clasp one of your own, fingers intertwined with yours; lifting it up gently, he then gives it a tender kiss, an impish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“May I have this dance, dearest?” As he waits for your answer, it occurs to you that the chance to waltz with him never really presented itself, politicians and underground overlords alike having kept him plenty busy throughout the night. You nod timidly, and immediately he takes the lead, stepping to the side and bringing you with him. You tumble awkwardly as if about to fall, but his palm splayed across your back holds you firmly, and instead you lean onto his torso, resting your head right above his heart. The instant you do, its loud pounding reverberates against your ear, lulling you, cradling you, and your tangled bodies sway gently to its soothing rhythm. In the mirror, the image reflected is that of a groom dancing with his ghost bride; no music, no ballroom, no elegant footwork, and yet the intensity of his lovestruck stare paints such a vivid picture that one might see shadows of your presence reflected in his eyes.

“Let’s see then—a slender neck, deliciously bare as if inviting me to feast on it, thanks to that lovely hairdo of yours,” Astarion suddenly says, voice quiet but hoarse, tinged with undeniable specks of lust. He guides your hand to his own waist and lets go of it, only to then slide his newly freed digits along the curve of your throat, carefully tracing the bite marks with their soft pads. “Though I must say, beautiful as your gown may be, I would very much like to undo that pesky knot keeping some of it concealed. May I, darling?” he asks, fingers quickly moving to the satin ribbon holding your bodice in place, wrapped fast around your neckline and flowing down your naked back. You nod again, cheek still pressed to his chest, and with a smug simper, he expertly unlaces it with unparalleled adroitness, letting the pure white fabric slip down your now completely nude bosom. You shudder and snuggle closer to him, in response to which he affectionately folds an arm over your shoulder and buries his fingers in your hair, partially unweaving the elaborate braids that had been tugging at your scalp all day, only those held by the crystal flower barrettes on your temples remaining. 

“Flawless, supple skin, which flushes so handsomely with my essence blooming under it,” he continues, digits sinking deeper into your ribs before he twirls you around, dipping forward as if going in for a kiss, though instead, he reaches for the hemline of your dress, hiking it up your long legs and in so doing, exposing the sinuous contours of your hips and thighs. Almost absentmindedly, the wandering fingers knead their way to the plushness of your round behind, still hidden beneath your underpants; giving it a firm squeeze, he then brings his other hand down from your head to unbutton the tulle corset attached to your petticoat, and just like that, the sumptuous wedding gown falls to your feet, leaving you covered in nothing but your veil and smallclothes.

“Bright crimson eyes that always stare so very coyly, so very docilely.” With a provocative growl, Astarion pulls you taut against him, and once your navel clashes with his crotch, the obvious erection forming under his pants becomes nested right between your bodies. Holding onto your waist with both of his hands, he then presses his mouth to an artery pulsating slightly above your collarbone, letting his warm tongue graze it teasingly as he speaks. “And oh, those precious little fangs, peeking from under lips most luscious… shall we put them to good use, pretty vampling?” he asks, pitch lowering dangerously, and his meaning is made instantly clear—positioned as he is, his own neck is conveniently exposed to you, too tantalizing an offer to ever be refused, so you accept it graciously, biting down on his ivory flesh just as he bites down on yours. The piercing pain of his teeth puncturing your skin is entirely numbed as the thick blood cascades down your throat, and you lose yourself in the bliss of life being returned to your undead veins, gripping both of his arms in an almost delirious haze; while drinking from each other, you rock back and forth, dancing still, a dark waltz under the fading stars.

“I can’t wait to taste your lips after you’ve tasted me.” 

Never unlatching from your bruising artery, Astarion wraps his arms around your rear and picks you up, taking you with him to the canopy bed on the other side of the room. Upon reaching it, he sits down on the edge of the mattress, you in his lap, knees bent on each side of him. He takes a few more swigs of your crimson before pulling away, though you remain feeding—while letting you drink, he carefully removes your headdress and veil, laying them aside to then cradle the back of your scalp with one of his hands and gently run his fingers down your spine with the other. You both moan and groan quietly in each other’s ears, and you can feel him leisurely grinding his hardness against your core; due to the friction, slick starts building between your now puffed-up folds, most of his red going straight to your aching sex rather than swimming around in your stomach. 

“That’s enough, pet,” he coos after some time, lightly tapping your shoulder, and you reluctantly obey, prying yourself off him with a needy whimper. He smirks and plants a kiss on your forehead, sliding his hands under your thighs to lift you up slightly and rotate your body so that your back is turned to his chest. Once your buttocks are pushed flush against the swell between his legs, you help him peel off your soaked underpants—pressing his knees to the back of yours, he then spreads you both wide, exposing your pretty cunt to the chilly winter air. You mewl pathetically, casting down your gaze in shame and hiding behind your palms; with an amused snicker, he grabs your wrists and lowers them, holding both together with one hand and using the other to grasp your chin. “Look, darling,” he whispers, tilting up your jaw and brushing his fangs against your earlobe, “see how exquisite you are.” 

Raising your head almost hesitantly, you do as told, and it takes you a moment to register what has now come into your field of vision: the mirror, albeit more distant, is angled perfectly to reflect your naked form, no longer a ghostly apparition, but flesh and bone, your image returned to you thanks to Astarion’s ascended essence sizzling within your veins. Still holding your wrists, he slides the hand on your chin down your neck, gliding it across the hollows of your sternum and then up the soft curve of your breasts, where he stops to pinch a pebbling nipple, earning a high-pitched yelp from you; looking straight into your eyes through the glass, he lovingly kisses the back of your shoulder and smiles against your skin, obviously pleased with himself. After playing with the puckered nub for a moment, his fingers continue descending, through your navel and crotch—finally reaching their intended destination, they circle the twitching bundle of nerves crowning your mound, and you arch your back in turn, shock waves shooting up your limbs.

“Asta—ah!” you moan, rolling your hips into his hand, but he immobilizes you by tensioning his arm muscles, without ever stopping stroking the engorged knot. You whine impatiently, the tautness in your lower belly growing more agonizing by the second; Astarion, however, is clearly in no rush, his movements mercilessly languid. Pressing down on your clit with a deft digit, he buries two others in the sticky warmth of your folds, parting them gently and hungrily gazing upon your wetness, or rather, its reflection—in the mirror, your slickened entrance glistens wantonly, a honied flower waiting to be pollinated, given a healthy flush by the heat of his crimson. One finger rims it tentatively, coating itself in your juices; with no prior warning, he then plunges it in you up to the knuckle, venturing within the tightness of your walls. You try to stifle a shriek, in vain—emboldened by this, he plunges another, watching mischievously as you writhe and squirm. 

“Oh, little love, I do quite like those pretty noises you’re making, I like them very much,” he says, kissing your shoulder again and curling his fingers inside your slit, which flutters desperately in its urge to be stuffed full. Overwhelmed by the lewdness of the scene unfolding before you, not quite used to witnessing yourself in such a vulnerable position, you try turning your head to the side, only for him to quickly let go of your wrists, capturing your face in his now freed hand and pulling it back into its previous position, intent on having you be his audience as he brings about your ruin. “Tut tut, cheeky pup.” Despite clicking his tongue, Astarion’s voice carries a playful lilt, accompanied by the roguish glint in his lust-ridden irises. Bucking his hips forward, he wedges his still clothed bulge deeper within the valley of your ass, and even through the fabric, you can feel it twitching and jerking. “You will be a good girl for me, won’t you?” 

You nod vigorously, hot tears of yearning prickling your eyelids and escaping through your long lashes. He dries them with his thumb, the smirk still gracing his lips, yet his gaze softens a little; moving his hand from your jaw to your chest, he then cups one of your breasts, squeezing and kneading it gently before resuming his attentions between your legs, now pumping his elegant digits in and out of your center. Feeling your body edging closer to the precipice of desire, you hold onto both of his arms, clenched abdomen covered in a glossy sheen of salty sweat and cheeks burning bright red—however, just as you are about to climax, he suddenly snatches you up and throws you on the bed, stradling you right after so that you become entrapped beneath him.

“Good girls must earn their spurs, darling,” he growls, grabbing both of your knees and pushing them apart, licking his lips at the sight of your cunt spasming madly in protest, hopelessly slickened and swollen. “So needy… have you no patience, my dear?” Smoldering you with a lascivious stare, he ignores your avid pleas and lowers his head, pressing his mouth to the plushness of one of your thighs. Ever so delicately, he kisses it and lingers for a short while, only to then unceremoniously sink his fangs into the squishy flesh, coaxing a soft cry out of you. Moving his hands to your hips, he holds you in place while voraciously sucking on the throbbing artery, some of the blood leaking and trickling down onto the silk sheets. Your arousal makes your crimson taste delectably sweet, an ambrosial aphrodisiac—with each gulp, his neglected cock jolts angrily, translucent drops of precome running down its length, so hard now that the pink tip peeks out from the hem of his pants.

“It will only hurt a bit—the pleasure will be far greater than the pain.”

“Hnng—Astarion, please…!” you beg, attempting to bring a hand to the tumid bud convulsing atop your dripping core, but Astarion seizes it with one of his own and pins it to the mattress while drinking still. Finally unlatching from your thigh, he laps at the red beads that remain oozing out of the small wounds inflicted on your skin by his teeth, following the trail down to your groin; once there, he lets his tongue wander and graze your folds, tauntingly flicking it as if by accident. You bury the fingers of your other hand in his silvery curls, half expecting him to stop you, but he doesn’t—instead, he brushes the wet appendage against your clit, swirling it around for a moment before making his way downwards, leaving a glistening string of his saliva mixed with your lifeblood in his wake. Upon arriving at your entrance, he traces its outer edges, savoring you with lengthy strokes to then delve inside at last.

“Oh, gods… hah…” No longer capable of keeping the breathy whimpers and erratic pants contained within the confines of your mouth, you throw your head back and let them fall freely from your parted lips, grabbing a fistful of his hair, though carefully so as not to pull at it. Pleased with your reaction, he rewards you by nuzzling his face against your mound, reaching as deeply within you as possible while massaging and tasting your tender walls, the bridge of his nose auspiciously pressed against the hood of your pearl. Heat starts again pooling in your stomach, your every nerve set ablaze, and it doesn’t take long before the tension snaps and you finally come undone on his tongue, creaming and clenching around it. He enthusiastically partakes of your tangy nectar, eating you up still even as you bask in the afterglow, only stopping once you let go of him. With one last lick, he propels his torso back up, drool dribbling down his chin. 

“Ah, but that won’t do,” Astarion says, releasing your wrist to wipe his lips, their corners still quirked upwards into a haughty, devilish smile. “No, my sweet… I’m not nearly done with you yet.” Lowering both hands to his pants, he swiftly drags them down, freeing his erection and wrapping his fingers around its base. Your eyes are irresistibly drawn to it, and from under heavy lids you gape at the bulging veins and enlarged crown, his foreskin tautly pulled back to reveal the weeping slit. Leaning on one of your knees and slipping his free hand under the other to keep you spread open, he then guides the swollen cockhead to your fluttering folds, dipping it between them and glazing himself in your essence. With a quiet whine, you wiggle your hips, your sex still sensitive as you recover from your orgasm, but instead of backing out, he doubles down and presses the velvety tip harder against your raw knot, chuckling as your protests grow in volume and you try to slither away from him, straining your thigh muscles in an unsuccessful effort to close your legs.

“Gods, you are too cute.” Staring smugly at your flailing body while rubbing himself up and down your wetness, Astarion fastens his grip on your calf using just about enough force not to hurt you, but simply restrain your movements. “Where’s my good girl? Again. I know you can come again,” he purrs, voice deceptively gentle, although the warmth in his eyes is genuine. You shake your head, unable to muster up an intelligible sentence, your mind wiped clean of coherent thought; bending down to brush his lips against your temple, he kisses away the tears beading your lashes, affectionately pressing his forehead to yours. “You can do it. Come, my love. For me.” The whisper caresses your ears with such tenderness that as if by magic, you feel yourself relax, the pain slowly giving way to rekindled arousal. You try your best to focus on the budding sensation, reveling in the smoothness of his cockhead as it grinds against your sore clit, indulging in the intimacy of having your center of pleasure almost merged with his. Gradually, the waves of lust and hunger rippling through you gain momentum, spreading from your gut to your extremities, every inch of your skin tingling and prickling with primal yearning—taking notice of your rapid ascent to rapture, he hastily aligns his cock with your entrance, stretching its tight borders open, though not yet shafting himself inside. 

“That’s it, my darling little bride. Come for your sire.” You can barely hear his words as white noise overtakes all your senses, the world around you reduced to a blurry, chaotic maelstrom. The moment he finally slides his length between your walls, filling you to the brim in a single thrust, your toes curl and your hands ball into fists, your body going limp as you are at last pushed over the edge of ecstasy. Letting go of your knee to take off his doublet, he carelessly tosses it on the floor to then gently cradle both of your cheeks, pulling you into a sensual, passionate kiss. Muffled groans form in the back of his throat with every twitch of his cock, which pulsates longingly as you vibrate and flutter around it; he nips at your bottom lip as if asking for passage, sucking on the bloody droplets drawn from the nicked flesh, and once you comply, without delay his tongue starts massaging your own, eagerly rolling over it while he patiently waits for you to adjust to his size. Wrapping both of your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, you roll your hips upwards, wanting to feel all of him, each bead of sweat, each drop of blood, until it’s impossible to tell where you end and he begins.

“Mhnf—Astarion…” you mewl into his mouth, encouraging him to start moving, his rhythm slow and gentle at first. Despite how wet you are, he works your slit open with a bit of difficulty, his girth abnormally enlarged due to the drawn-out neglect, although even through the discomfort you find yourself relishing the chance to have him so snugly nested within you. Astarion, too, seems to be thoroughly enjoying having you gripping him so deliciously tautly, his usually husky grunts growing louder with every push. His hands leave your face to roam the sides of your body, gliding down your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist and slipping underneath you to grope and fondle your ass, slightly tilting you upwards so he can sink deeper within your cunt. Finally breaking the kiss, lips bruised and plumped, he lovingly gazes upon your just as disheveled self for a moment before leaning back down to give you a chaste, tender peck, only to pull away again, lowering his head to have his tongue ghost over the skin of your throat, your clavicle, and then up the swell of one of your breasts, stopping to hover above its reddened peak.

“Say it, pet. Tell me who you belong to.” His breath tickles the sensitive nub as he speaks, voice dripping with honey and eyes searching for yours from under thick lashes, darkened with desire. To anyone else the question may sound like just another racy quip, provocative banter to spice up the mood, but you know better—you know him better. Following the Black Mass, on that very eve Astarion would first test his unholy gifts as the Ascendant, not by calling upon the dark forces now at his mercy nor by turning into mist, but by making you his for all eternity. That was always the plan—to become your warden, your guardian, your sire and master. Never before you had he ever felt as wanted, as needed, and he cherished that power; for once in his life he was the protector, not the protectee, not the weak vermin wriggling about to find shelter. You gave him a reason to be, a reason to live, and he would not lose that, not for as long as his thawed heart beats.

“I’m yours, Astarion. All yours,” you say, giving him the reassurance he seeks while at the same time soothing yourself. Yes, you are his, entirely his, and that is of solace to you as much as it is to him. Satisfied with your answer, Astarion smiles softly; refusing to avert his gaze from your face, he then wraps his perfectly-shaped lips around your nipple, circling it with a pointed tongue. His teeth graze the supple surrounding flesh for a moment before unexpectedly sinking into it, and your mouth pops open to let out a soundless gasp in surprise. You propel your torso up slightly by resting your arms on each side of your body and leaning on your bent elbows, firmly gripping the sheets beneath you with both of your hands, panting and whining as he suddenly speeds up the pace, undulating his hips more energetically with every thrust. Through his cock and fangs alike, his presence inside of you is absolute, imperious, overwhelming—yet also comforting and fulfilling, like a crushing, constricting embrace.

“You complete me.” 

“Mnhg—ah!” While still latched onto your breast, avidly drinking from it, Astarion moves one hand to your lower back so he may gently raise you with him into a seated position, and you let go of the sheets to hold onto his broad shoulders for support. His other hand continues fondling your ass, fingers widely splayed across one of your cheeks, applying just enough pressure to push your crotch flat against his, securely settling you in his lap as you had been before, except you are now both facing each other. Prying himself off you, he then pulls back to admire his handiwork—the blood seeping from the freshly made puncture marks on your chest trails lazily down your abdomen, the bright crimson accentuated so beautifully by your pale skin, a perfect match with the rubies encrusted in the jewelry that you remain wearing despite being otherwise completely nude. You make for a breathtaking vision, one belonging perpetually and irrevocably to him.

“My darling,” Astarion croons, voice uncharacteristically tender, bringing his hand on your back up to lovingly cup your chin. “My pretty darling,” he whispers before capturing your lips with his bloodstained ones, hips snapping upwards to resume massaging your walls. You bob your body in rhythm with his thrusts, buttocks slapping against his thighs every time you sink down to the base of his length, and his fingers dig deeper into the soft swell of your rear, surely to leave bruises in the morning. Eyes fluttering close, you lean fully against him, the contours of your frame hugging his own almost perfectly, save for your breasts, which are now squished between your rib cage and his pectorals. Releasing your face, he instead grabs your throat, his grip strong, but not binding; giving it a gentle squeeze, he then pulls away, tongue absentmindedly lapping at the strand of saliva connecting you still even as your mouths unweave.

“Astarion…” The way you utter his name sounds almost like a plea, a supplication, yet you can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. “I love you”—is what you mean to say, but you bite back the words instead. They are empty, meaningless; the depth of your bond is such that “love” is a sentiment which needs not be voiced. You know he can feel it, for you can feel it too—way past just affection, the pure devotion carved on the core of your very being, so raw and so visceral that it may as well be an open wound, never to heal, bleeding thick, warm emotion. As tempting as it may be to proclaim it, the world is not owed any measure of access to your relationship; this is something meant just for the two of you, a silent understanding between an eternal bride and her husband-to-be, sacred and precious. Thus, rather than speaking any further, you look into his eyes with as much earnestness as you can possibly manage, and he looks back at you just as intensely, pupils so dilated that his irises are but thin red discs, barely even visible. He knows; of course he does. He always did.

“Shh. Hush.” He lets go of your throat before softly pressing a finger to your lips, only to then comb all five digits of that same hand through your hair and cradle your head, gently nudging you forward. Following his lead, you rest your chin in the crook of his neck, flushed cheek brushing against his; upon raising your gaze, you notice that you can see the mirror behind him, reflecting his strong back and shapely waist, still encircled by your entangled legs. More than that, you can see him moving—his hips going up and down every time he disappears inside you, balls swinging whenever he lifts up his ass from the mattress. Watching him fuck you might as well be the most erotic thing you have ever laid eyes on, and for a third time arousal coils low in your belly. 

“Oh… Astarion…” you whimper in his ear, feeling him bump against the spongy skin of your cervix just as his cock is fully swallowed by your needy cunt in the mirror. Your blunt nails rake down his spine, gliding across the valleys and ridges of his scars, once a reason for shame and pain, now a proud symbol of his victory—and of the ghastly consequences it entailed. The fingers buried in your hair pull at it firmly as he pounds into you, and those on your rear continue their ministrations, wandering to the space between your buttocks to lightly graze the puckered entrance. As he peppers kisses over your nape and shoulders, his own moans grow more desperate and less dignified; sweat drips down his curls, now tousled and sticking to his forehead and temples. You feel so tight, so wet, so warm, so good—always such an obedient little thing, so eager to please, letting yourself be thoroughly ravaged and catering to his every whim, his every desire. There is nothing Astarion values more than his dominance over you; his most beloved treasure, the source of his life, the source of his light, however dim. How terribly he adores you, and how frightfully he yearns for you, to be drunk on you, an addiction so great that the very thought of you leaving his side for even a minute fills him with pure dread. To love you is bliss, but also torturous, for you are at once his greatest strength and his most alarming weakness.

“That’s it, gods, that’s it… you’re taking me so well, darling,” he groans, breath hitching as you push against his thrusts, the lewd sound of smacking flesh reverberating across the room. He is close, so close, and so are you—beyond the glass, his reflection plunges into yours with reckless abandon, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. As you ride him, you can feel the entirety of his length, the velvety skin, the throbbing veins, the tumid girth stretching and rubbing against your slickened walls; and with one last powerful jerk of his hips, you can also feel his thick spend painting them in spurts, flooding you like a broken dam. 

“Oh, my love…” Astarion continues rutting into you even through his orgasm, pumping his seed out of your slit. Before long, you too clench violently around him, thighs trembling and gut convulsing, coating his twitching cock in your release. Shoving you back onto the mattress, he keeps leisurely sliding in and out of your sex as you both pant quietly, reveling in the high of your respective climaxes; with his face nuzzled into your cleavage, he affectionately laps at the bite marks on your breast, occasionally intercalating each lick with tender little pecks. You bring one of your hands to his scalp and run your fingers through the silky locks, closing your eyes and emptying your mind, intent on enjoying the moment for what it is, safe and sound in the arms of your lover; he who took you into his sanguineous embrace and imparted on you the gift of absolution, he who set the world on fire while shielding you from the dancing flames, he who placed a crown of roses upon your head after ripping off every thorn. Lux aeterna luceat eis—let perpetual light shine, and from the dark, the two shall reign, betrothed in immortality, wedded in undeath, now and forevermore.

May they rest in peace.

[yuesya]

The first time Blade meets the girl who will kill him someday, she’s sitting on one of Silver Wolf’s cushions with an armful of sweets.

“You should definitely try one of these, too,” Silver Wolf is saying to her. Her words are an uninterested drawl, and Silver Wolf’s eyes do not stray from her glowing phone screen. But the distinctly unsubtle way that she proceeds to use one of her legs and nudge over another bag of candies to her new companion belies her true feelings.

The other girl does not respond.

… Not until Silver Wolf prods her again, at least, this time directly kicking at the round, cat-shaped cushion that the silent girl is sitting upon. However, the end result of abruptly kicking out and unbalancing a spherical cushion… is, naturally, its unresisting occupant being unceremoniously upended onto the ground in a spilled heap.

A few candies are dropped from the girl’s arms, skittering wildly across the ground. There’s a lollipop that comes to a rest by Blade’s foot.

He crouches down, and picks it up.

When he looks up again –the new girl is staring at him.

She’s still lying on the ground, not making any attempt to pull herself upright. Blade takes a moment to study her in return.

The clothes that she’s wearing… they look like one of Firefly’s spare outfits, although the jacket is probably Kafka’s. White hair surrounds her like a halo, and there’s something about the sight of long, snow-white hair that stabs down, needle-sharp, in something within the recesses of Blade’s mind. For a moment, the haze of something red flickers at the corner of his vision, as the whisper of mara threatens to spill forth–

But the faint stirring of madness subsides swiftly, as Blade gets a good look at her eyes.

Blue, not red.

And… there are no particular emotions that are reflected in them, either. There is no pain, no loathing. No hate, nor guilt. Neither steely determination, nor unspoken sorrow.

The gaze that looks back at him is placid, neutral.

If anything had to be said about her eyes at all, then perhaps–

“Hey, how long are you going to –oh, Blade?” Silver Wolf finally looks up from her phone. “What’s up? Is Elio giving us another script?”

“Not yet.” Elio had not given any orders, merely suggested that Blade go visit Silver Wolf, who had taken surprisingly well to their newest addition to the Stellaron Hunters. Even now, Blade can see her tossing her phone to the white-haired girl –so it hadn’t been her own phone that Silver Wolf was preoccupied with; she’d been setting up a phone for the new girl– and pulling her upright.

“Don’t be such a sack of potatoes,” Silver Wolf complains, albeit without any real heat. “Okay, now you finally have your own phone and can play games with me! … And you too, Blade! You told me last time that you’d game with me once your hand was better. No more excuses from either of you!”

Blade pauses, and instinctively glances down towards the white-haired girl, who reacts similarly in this moment.

“Oh, right. This is your first time actually seeing each other, isn't it?” Silver Wolf drags over another cushion, this one in the shape of a penguin. “Blade, Shiki; Shiki, Blade. Alright, now we’re done with introductions! Hurry up and make an account! … What do you mean, you haven’t downloaded the game yet, haven’t I already–”

[ohhiimweird]

Safe Haven (Post-movie comfort)

A couple paragraphs of hurt-comfort for each turtle post-movie

CW: a sprinkle of angst, rottmnt movie spoilers

Raph:

Raph didn't think he deserved affection after he broke free from the kraang. He remembers very little of being controlled, but that might be a good thing. He doesn't want to remember the faces of people he's hurt or the horrified looks his family must've had upon seeing him.

All the while, guilt weighed on his shoulders. It whispered in his ears, 'It should've been you.' No matter how much Raph wanted Leo to step up and be a hero, he could never have predicted the pain it entailed. This guilt consumed him to the point he would freeze up when spoken to.

This doesn't happen in your presence. A single touch silences his thoughts. Your thumb tentatively rubs over the scars around his blinded eye. It's like you're giving him sight. His head goes to your lap, face buried into your stomach. Neither of you says anything. You just play with the tails of his mask and hum to him. He couldn't want anything more than that.

Mikey:

Mikey never regretted saving his brother from a life of misery. However, his hands were never the same. His green skin cracked and leaked an orange glow whenever tapping into his mystic powers. Although it was a beautiful sight, this created problems.

It was harder to draw now. His hands were so shaky that a straight line turned squiggly the moment his pencil hit the paper. It was almost as if he forgot how to create. To Mikey, his life as an artist has come to an end. Any piece he created looked horrible in his eyes, but not in yours.

You either said, 'It's beautiful,' or 'Your hands are getting better.' Both phrases were interchangeable. They were also enough to make Mikey's heart melt. He's done for if you take his hands in yours, (bonus points if you kiss them repeatedly.) It's as if Mikey's hands are still from your touch. Mikey likes to call it, 'the power of love.' He can't help but cling to you now.

Donnie:

Donnie was never the biggest fan of touch or emotion. However, merging with a spaceship and being forcefully pulled out might have done something to his brain. The sliminess of it all unnerved him on a whole other level compared to his normal distaste for certain textures. He would get by with it, however. He had plenty of weighted blankets set aside when he goes into sensory overload.

It's the emotions that Donnie has a hard time dealing with. He didn't like the idea of losing his family for even a second. It was already bad with SHELDON, an ai that he considered as his own child. Leo, his own twin, trapping himself in the prison dimension made things worse for him.

Your very presence tells him that everything is going to be okay. You just sit next to him and let him pick himself up without saying a word or trying to touch him. You'd sit there and listen to him vent without a hint of resentment. It didn't make his problems go away completely, but damn does it make a great illusion.

Leo:

The prison dimension was cold. If anything, Leo thought it would start snowing as the kraang leader beat him senselessly. And yet, a voice in the back of his said told him it was his fault. He wanted to sacrifice himself, why was he so traumatized by it all, then?

He didn't tell anyone this, only looking onward and putting the invasion behind him. That was a lot harder since Leo is the leader. He gained the responsibility Raph once hand. He understood why it put him under so much pressure, even before the invasion. In the night, Leo was plagued by nightmares and overwhelmed by the cold.

On nights like those, he would come to you, portaling into your room. You didn't mind, letting him crawl into your bed. Leo's head buried into your chest, relishing in your warmth. It was like a flame he desperately didn't want to go out. He didn't worry about the prison dimension or the order of his family's deaths. You were next to him, in his arms, and safe.

[lancermylove]

Chapter 10 (N.SFW)

➣ Pairing: Demon brothers, Royals, Solomon with fem!Reader. ➣ Warning: N.SFW ➣ Word Count: 3,431 ➣ Chapters [SFW]: [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12] ➣ Chapters [N.SFW]: [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12]

➣ A/N: I'm running late! 🙈

———————————————

A thin, wispy mist caressed the lake's surface and twirled with the morning sunlight. The winds of winter howled from afar while chills prickled your skin. You had not expected to discover Lucifer resting on the wooden bench by the lake. Though his eyes had remained fixated on the horizon, you were aware he sensed your presence, yet he chose not to react, letting the serenity of the environment stay undisturbed.

You carefully treaded to the bench, ensuring your footsteps were silent and your movements slow. As you sat beside the Avatar of Pride, your gaze lingered on the spot where Satan had fallen in. "He is doing alright," your warm words cut through the cold, silent atmosphere.

Though Lucifer remained silent, you saw a brief glimpse of relief pass over his face. You stretched your hand out and soothingly brushed it against the back of his red glove. After a moment, he turned his hand over and held yours firmly. "I cannot erase the image from my thoughts," he whispered in a cracked, slightly hoarse voice. "My pride is suffering."

"It's okay, Lucifer. That just means you care about Satan," you consoled him and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

"I would prefer not to experience such an emotion again," he chuckled, but there was an underlying pain behind it. You were unsure what feeling he was referring to and did not want to open his wound even further. As if reading your thoughts, Lucifer elaborated, "Fear."

A comfortable silence took hold of you both, only to be interrupted by hardened snow crunching under heavy boots. You turned your head to see Satan coming your way, and you had to stifle a small smile at the sight of him. You did not want to alter his mood and prevent him from honestly expressing his heart. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Lucifer looking at him with a blank expression that did not betray any emotion.

You withdrew your hand from Lucifer's and stood up, giving Satan a slight nod. "Then, I will get going."

"Please, stay," Satan promptly said, to which you nodded firmly and sat back down. Keeping your focus on the younger brother, you patiently waited for him to express himself.

"Lucifer, I refuse to apologize to you. Do not misinterpret my words as they do not mean my hatred for you has lessened," Satan firmly said, but you noticed that he hesitated a bit at the word hatred. "I would like to thank you for helping me. You no longer need to sleep on the sofa. Rest assured, I will not prank you. I will allow you to rest properly."

You couldn't help but find Satan's unusual method of apologizing endearing. Silence once again took hold as Lucifer remained stoic while Satan bore the guilt of his actions with increasing weight upon his shoulders. Though the older brother's gaze held a brief hint of softness, he refused to grant the Avatar of Wrath the satisfaction of accepting his apology. Unexpectedly, Lucifer began laughing the next moment, surprising both of you. Even though Satan had no idea why his brother was laughing, he found the laughter contagious and joined in with a chuckle of his own.

"I love you two," you giggled, cheeks red from their sweet moment. Upon hearing your words, Satan's cheeks tinged with a vermillion hue while Lucifer smirked.

"Do not speak such words carelessly, (y/n)," the Avatar of Pride whispered, which only made you giggle.

"Oh, Lucifer, I forgot why I am here in the first place," you gasped and gently slapped your right plan on your forehead. "We have a little surprise for you. Let's head back to the cabin."

As Lucifer entered the living room, he was taken aback by the presence of everyone. You decided to take the initiative and provide him with a brief explanation. "For all the trouble we have caused you and for always being there for us, we got gifts for you."

Lucifer's sharp gaze shifted to his siblings, and the moment caught him quite off guard and left him feeling a tad suspicious. It seemed a little too perfect, and he pondered if there was some kind of condition or hidden agenda attached. However, he kept these thoughts to himself as you handed him the first present.

The gift was wrapped in an exquisite pink wrapping paper with sparkly stripes and a satin bow tied neatly around it. Inside was a bottle of the finest anti-aging serum the human world could offer. Lucifer merely stared at it blankly before shifting his piercing crimson eyes to Asmo, who shot him a sweet smile. The Avatar of Lust chimed in with a giggle, "Only the finest anti-wrinkle serum money can buy for you."

As the room threatened to break into a full-on fit of laughter, you quickly handed Lucifer the second present wrapped in a blue wrapper with white snowflakes. An elegant black box was hidden inside, and Lucifer opened it cautiously to find a magnifying glass. The first brother curiously looked at Levi, who chuckled. "Elderly people have bad vision, so you're welcome!"

Some snickers rang out in the room, but you swallowed down laughter while forcing a straight and calm expression. To ensure no one laughed again, you handed Lucifer a hastily wrapped present covered in orange wrapping paper with a copious amount of scotch tape holding it together. After a bit of a struggle, he managed to open it and discover an intricate golden canister. The first brother opened it eagerly, only to find it empty. Beel nervously and guiltily admitted, "I ate all the tea leaves because I was hungry."

Lucifer sighed quietly but motioned you to hand him the next gift. You passed him a small box wrapped in bright golden-yellow wrapping paper with dollar signs. Inside was a simple white coffee mug with black letters that read: Being my older brother is the only gift you need. You giggled as you watched Lucifer's eyes narrow at Mammon, who shrugged and said plainly, "It ain't a lie. I'm the best brother anyone could ask for."

The younger brothers started laughing at Mammon's remark, but before a verbal war could erupt, you gave Lucifer the next gift, which caused everyone's attention to turn to him. The green gift bag featuring a few snowmen on it contained a book titled "How Not to Act Like a Grumpy Old Man." The Avatar of Pride glared at Satan, who smirked in pride over his gift choice.

You handed Lucifer yet another gift, with a slight feeling of pity stirring inside you. The purple wrapping paper covered a large, thin, square object that was revealed to be a vinyl record. You sighed in relief at the glimpse of a suitable gift until Lucifer pulled two broken pieces from the casing. You assumed the record broke by accident until Belphie calmly said, "A broken record for someone who sounds like a broken record."

Lucifer shook his head while your guilt began to kick in - you regretted suggesting this plan to get the Avatar of Pride presents as a way of showing gratitude to him. You expected the brothers to gift him something proper, or at least more thoughtful gifts that wouldn't come off as insults. You silently handed him a cream-colored, design-less gift bag, and Lucifer extracted a small velvet box from it. Opening it, his muscles visibly tensed while your jaw dropped. Within the box was a silver necklace with a religious cross pendant. When you shot your eyes toward Solomon, he smiled calmly and said, "Everyone needs blessings, would you agree?"

In disbelief, you slapped your hand against your forehead and nervously handed Lucifer the last present on the table, which was tightly wrapped in crimson wrapping paper with a velvety black bow. As the Avatar of Pride opened it to reveal the ticket to the ballet, "The Nutcracker," you breathed a sigh of relief, glad that at least one person understood your original intentions.

"I cannot believe you guys did this! All I asked was for you to give a decent gift to Lucifer, but you chose these gifts?" You loudly said. "Thank you, Diavolo. At least you were considerate!"

You crossed your arms and glared at them before turning to Lucifer to offer an apology. But the moment your eyes rested upon his face, the Avatar of Pride laughed heartfully, catching you by surprise. This was the second time that day you heard his genuine laughter. Behind you, the others glanced at each other with concern or discomfort.

"Is Lucifer alright? Did we break him? " Levi whispered.

To which Mammon responded, "I think he's been possessed."

"Demons...we can get possessed?" Belphie asked in surprise.

"The right question is: who would be crazy enough to possess Lucifer?" Solomon chuckled.

You shook your head at their cracked conversation and looked at Lucifer, who quickly returned to his calm and composed self. "(Y/n), what gift might you have selected for me?"

You grabbed his arm with a slightly sweet yet nervous smile and led the Avatar of Pride upstairs. Upon reaching your bedroom, you shut the door firmly behind you and faced him. "I am pleased to offer you the gift of peace in the tranquil confines of my room...as well as the gift of truth."

Lucifer's expression transformed into a serious one, and he gave you his undivided attention. You could tell that he had been eagerly awaiting this moment since the day all of you arrived at the cabin. Taking a deep breath, you met his gaze with the calmest demeanor you could muster and began to speak. "I brought all of you to celebrate Christmas vacation in the Human Realm at Diavolo's request. He asked if I could cooperate with him, and everything for this vacation has been set, from housing to funds to food. All I had to do was say yes, and I said yes."

Your words struck an effect in the Avatar of Pride, and he redirected his gaze toward the windows. As he observed the snowflakes cascading from the heavens, you remained silent to allow him time to process the information. Wordlessly, Lucifer walked close to the window as if to acquire a more profound view of the descending snow.

Going against his principles, Lucifer gave in to his nagging feeling and opened one of the envelopes on Daivolo's desk. What was this? Why hadn't Diavolo spoken to him regarding this? His curiosity piqued as he set the first letter down and picked up the second, then the third. Their contents were very similar as they all held complaints against his brothers.

'Dear Prince, we wish to have some peace in Devildom.' 'Kindly send the brothers away. I will lose my mind otherwise.' 'As a prince, it is your responsibility to assure the residents of your realm are at peace and content. With the brothers present, we feel neither!' 'We are tired of dealing with the mess the brothers make. Send them away.' 'Hey, prince, how about giving us a little break from those crazy fallen angels? They should be thankful we're letting them stay here. Instead, they're making our lives a living hell. Funny thing is we already live in hell! But they still find a way to make things worse.'

"A few days before we came to my world," you started to speak in a low voice, drawing Lucifer out of his thoughts, "Diavolo received a heap of letters. They all contained complaints about your brothers. So, Diavolo devised a plan to appease the demons in Devildom without hurting you or your brothers. The plan being to bring all of you to my realm under the pretense of a Christmas vacation."

You paused for a while and stared at Lucifer's back as if you were waiting for him to turn around and look at you. But when he didn't, you sighed and continued apprehensively. "I am sorry for not telling you the truth earlier. I wanted to help Diavolo but also bring all of you here to spend the holidays in peace. A-Are you mad? "

Even after a significant amount of time had passed, the Avatar of Pride didn't offer a response and persisted with his gaze directed outside. A thin layer of snow had covered everything, adorning the entire area in a fresh layer of white. Finally, he lowered his crossed arms and faced you with a serious expression. However, you did not find any evidence of anger in his crimson orbs. "I have no grievances with your decision to bring us beyond the limits of the Devildom or with your desire to aid Diavolo. I have a grievance with you and Diavolo for undertaking such actions behind my back. That, to me, is an act of betrayal."

Your heart sank when you heard his choice of words, as you had never intended to backstab him or even leave such a notion within his mind. You lowered your head, hiding your eyes, as a scorching sensation burned within your tear ducts. Lucifer recognized the pain his words had caused you but remained unaffected and continued to speak calmly and collectedly. "I, more than anyone else, am familiar with the stress and difficulties that accompany my brothers. I would have readily consented to your course of action, especially if you had been the one to ask me about it. All you had to do was tell me."

"I am sorry," you whispered as tears cascaded down your cheeks and landed on your fluffy slippers. Lucifer closed the gap between you and himself with a steady gait. His expression softened considerably, and he delicately held your chin and angled your head upward to meet his gaze. He slowly wiped away your tears with his gloved fingers.

"My brothers appear to be content with their time here. For this reason, I cannot remain upset with you. Your decision has brought them joy...has brought us together." The softness within his voice was quite noticeable yet felt unfamiliar to you. "However, you must refrain from revealing the reason behind this vacation to my brothers. Their joy will gradually give way to sorrow, an outcome I do not desire in the least."

"I promise I will not tell them anything," you whispered with a slight smile. You breathed easier, like a monumental weight had been removed from your shoulders and heart. 

As if noticing your contentment, Lucifer cradled your right cheek with his left hand and lightly wiped away your tears with his thumb. He leaned forward and pressed his lips on the corner of your left eye. His lips slowly descended your cheek, kissing the remaining tears, only to stop at your lips. When you parted your mouth, he chuckled deeply and captured your lips in a tender kiss.

"Oh, I also have another gift for you," you said, meeting his crimson orbs and smiling playfully.

He curiously gazed at you with a smile and waited for you to retrieve the gift; instead, he noted sparkles of mischief glimmering in your eyes. "Remove your shirt and lay on your stomach. I plan to give you a massage," you giggled.

Lucifer's expression morphed into a smirk as one of his eyebrows raised; however, he did not express any doubt or question your request. Without hesitating, he undressed, leaving his pants on, and lay on your bed with his back to you. Kneeling beside him, your fingers into his muscular shoulders, and his muscles initially tensed up before finally loosening and relaxing. However, that relaxation was only temporary. His muscles tensed once more as you straddled his lower back to position yourself more comfortably.

The Avatar of Pride forcefully diverted the direction of his thoughts elsewhere and dismissed your actions as innocent. As you directed your fingers to knead the muscles around his shoulder blades, your eyes fell on two scars on his lower back. Upon recognizing those scars, your gaze softened, and you softly glided your fingers over them.

"Luci, do you ever regret your decision?" You asked, breaking the tranquil silence. Though you were aware that this was a sensitive topic, your curiosity momentarily captured your thoughts.

"Not once," he whispered in a candor and genuine tone. "I am content to have Satan with us."

His words struck your heart deeply, and though you were grinning, you didn't respond to his words. Choosing to leave that line of discussion alone, you opted to change the topics. "Speaking of Satan, I have to apologize to you. I am partially the reason why Satan started pranking you. My intention was for him to find common ground with you so the two of you could have fun sharing a room. But...he interpreted my words as this is the best opportunity to have fun and prank Lucifer. I promise that is not what I meant!"

Lucifer murmured in an unusual, faint manner, and when you requested him to repeat what he had said, he merely responded by mumbling once again. You, however, decided to lean towards his head to better hear his words, only to be surprised by Lucifer's mischievous smile as he turned his head and looked at you with a devilish spark in his eyes.

"You are in deep trouble, my dear," he whispered in a low, sultry voice that sent a shiver through you. In the blink of an eye, your back was pressed against the mattress, and he was now hovering above you. "I wondered how Satan hatched such a devious scheme. I did not anticipate that you would be the mastermind behind it."

"W-Wait, I wasn't! He misinter-"

After a series of dizzying moments, you ultimately found yourself with your upper body pressed into the mattress, and your derriere pointed upwards and faced him. The Avatar of Pride dug his fingers into the curves of your waist as his hips repeatedly collided against your buttocks, producing a sensation that was simultaneously rough and enjoyable. While his movements appeared aggressive, he ensured that you were experiencing pleasure above all. Lucifer had warned you to maintain a minimum level of sound, as he was concerned about others becoming privy to your secretive moments. To further ensure the discretion of your intimate encounters, Lucifer had shifted your bed away from the wall.

You thought one climax would fulfill your punishment, but the Avatar of Pride possessed other intentions. He planned to monopolize you for the entire day without holding back. While the fogginess of pleasure clouded your ability to accurately recall the moments of your shared intimacy, you remembered your back pressed against the wall as he gripped the underside of your knees. Your lips were molded into a blissful union as his length penetrated you over and over again.

The memory of your position at the round, wooden table near the window appeared in your mind. Lucifer had positioned himself behind you, and you were grasping the edges of the table firmly as he rapidly thrusted into you from behind. His fingers were buried in your mouth to prevent sounds from escaping your reddened lips.

Then, the two of you were in the center of the room, where he steadily pounded inside you up and down, standing upright. When you tried to recall anything else from your intimate moments together, the only thing that flashed in your mind was his intimate exploration of your body in the shower.

Your long and steamy day of intimate interactions finally drew to a close on your bed. The Avatar of Pride was well aware that you had reached your limit, so he proceeded with caution in the missionary position. He gently and lovingly moved his hips while his eyes remained locked with yours, maintaining a slow pace while your lips met again and again. 

Lucifer adjusted your blanket to conceal your exposed skin while you drifted into a deep slumber, exhausted beyond belief. He lightly brushed his fingertips over your cheeks and lovingly admired your slumbering face, his gaze caressing your features. He tenderly planted his lips onto your forehead in a show of uncontrollable affection.

"I cannot express my deep appreciation for your presence in my life," he whispered despite knowing you could not hear his words. "I simply cannot fathom a future where you are no longer by my side. The mere thought of losing you fills my heart with emptiness and anguish. I promise to protect and cherish you, your heart, and your happiness. I love you, (y/n)."

———————————————

➣  Please visit my website for the full masterlist!

[sculptorofcrimson]

After the Palace

Synopsis: Ushotan survives the Palace Coup. 

Relations: Ushotan x gn character, Ushotan x Valdor(implied)

A/N: Here’s me writing Ushotan(because he’s the only Thunder Warrior I know).

It started as lewd, but it moved onto trauma, and then onto headcanon, and then angst and…well. You’ll see.

How is he alive? He shouldn’t be alive. The poison in his very veins, his own blood, his very corpse. It should have killed him already. Ushotan simply doesn’t understand. The Emperor never made him stupid(after all, no fool could’ve made it to the rank of Primarch), not even his relatively easygoing demeanor knows how to handle this unexpected trip from the grave.

(Why is he alive? Why? Why does he have to live? He no longer knows.)

Hm? Rescued, was he? Rescued, like some helpless kitten? Ushotan wouldn’t stop joking about it, sharp-tongued as always, even when being literally bedbound for the first three days. He’s not some damsel in distress, for the Emperor’s sake, he’s nearly 9ft of pure muscle and steroids and rage. 

Thunder Warriors did not have all feelings expunged from them. They did not lose desire. In some senses, they are human, adhering to a primal sense of emotion and affection lost to most Astartes. In some sense, they’re more human than Custodes or Astartes will ever be. Ushotan still retains his affection, his own loyalties, joy, some kind of fear, rage, full emotions and even desire. It’s messy and it’s torn and it’s ragged, especially with the weight of the years and mental deterioration coupled with Thunder Warriors. And desire burns. For all his decrepitude, for all his wounds, he’s still a furnace of light, still raging against the death of the sun. 

To be human comes at a price. The price is high. The bargain isn’t worth it. He saw his brothers, his soldiers, his men die atop Ararat, and then die again before the Palace. Beneath the cold steel of Valdor’s hands and his cold gaze, not once, but twice. Twice from betrayal, once from Valdor’s, and once from his. 

The guilt is enough to eat anyone alive. 

He doesn’t like the snow. It reminds him too much of Valdor. And what that bastard did. He remembers the hands collapsed limply on his throat, the blood pooling through sticky fingers already losing sensation, the scars braiding across his neck like lightning strikes. The pain of betrayal. And the scent of incense, curdling into ash.

He still insists, as stubborn as an old bull, to take those long walks on the mountains. To drown himself in the memories. 

Thunder Warriors always had higher metabolisms. Ushotan is unbelievably warm. He’s surprisingly comforting when snuggling, his temperature always perhaps a little too hot but undeniably pleasant.

That man sure has a tongue. Ushotan has his own insights, and absolutely no qualms upon voicing them. Sardonic, snappy and without even the hint of restraint. Don’t be taken aback if his language cuts deeper than even his sword. Of course, he could regulate himself, but why bother, when no one has challenged him for decades? (And the only man who could harm him refuses to kill him?)

That man can cuss in no fewer than 12 different languages. Even Valdor is impressed. He, surprisingly, reserves his swears for incidents that actually require them. 

His vivacity and energy is astounding, in more ways than one…For instance, have you ever seen a Thunder Warrior describe the inner mechanics of a tank with an enthusiasm not unlike an overgrown puppy?

(Of course, this also applies to…other factors…)

His neural ports are sensitive, and he guards their access points jealously. Try not to poke him there. Rubbing soothing circles, on the other hand…

As a Thunder Warrior ages, muscle aches become a common occurrence due to their genetic degradation. Ushotan, being much more heavyset than most, must be severely regretting the amount of muscularity he has. Massages are as close to heaven for him as it gets. Nothing precisely exciting about a massage, simply the fact it relieves the tension caused by his genetic instability. 

(It’s not even pleasure, only an absence of pain.)

Thunder Warriors were never meant to fight alone. He was never meant to be alone. Left alone without his brothers, in some deep, buried part of him, hidden under all that ash and false smiles and raucous laughter…somewhere, beneath that false bravado, there’s grief. Grief and isolation and the ache of betrayal so deep it could not be expunged. It could not even be cured, nor brought out to light, it could only be soothed occasionally, when that jagged grin slips off his features as for a moment the former Primarch almost seems like the broken beast he was. A soldier, without a country to fight for, a tool without a purpose. Knowing he’s nothing but a derelict ruin, eking out a miserable existence for a better death. 

(In those days, those times when even Valdor’s knife feels better than his mercy, hold him. Hold him kindly. Wrap an arm around those broad shoulders, poke gently but insistently beneath the scales of half-healed wounds, beneath the aches where memories of his dead brothers lay, and listen to him sob. Listen to him grieve when he finally breaks and lets down his guard. His brothers have been dead for decades, but their Primarch has never accepted their graves.)

His voice is a ragged ruin. A lifetime of stimms, drug abuse encouraged by the Cataegis legions, hasty surgeries, and finally, by Valdor’s hands, have wrecked his once-booming voice. It’s still sharp, and echoing and imposing, as he’s too stubborn to remain silent for long, but he still also rasps occasionally, his laugh a grating chuckle. Occasionally it’s painful for him to speak at all. When away from the company of others, when he can let that mask of sardonic flamboyance slip, Ushotan won’t speak at all. He might let himself cough then, hacking up goblets of oily blood, ignoring the crimson streaks the same way a soldier learns to ignore the stench of corpses.

(He can sing, but only a few warsongs. And a drinking song or two, for good measures. Don’t ask him to try. He’ll laugh at you.) 

(Don’t touch his neck. He hates strangulation. Well, not hate it precisely, but he hates being reminded of the scars on his neck. They’re sensitive. Dreadfully so. Aurite shackles, clipped to his neural ports, could harm him severely. Perhaps a kinder touch could bring him around?)

Sometimes, he can wake himself screaming. Screaming from the dreams. When Valdor slit his throat, and tore his vocal cords, he can still sometimes be heard whimpering. Gasping out wheezes that could have once been screams, awakened from memories of half-remembered war dreams. The dirt of trenches before his boots, the sound of cannons in the distance, every muscle strained and tense for some unknown ambush, battle-madness seeping through his veins before realization sinks in. The trauma will never leave him, not as long as he lives, but he’ll be damned if he lets them see what their Primarch has become.

For the Thunder Warriors that survived with him, he’s still their master, in a sense. He’s alive, isn’t he? He’s all they have left. They look up to him, the same way a broken ship may look towards a granite slab in the distance, weathered and eroded by sun and storm yet still standing strong. (And he’ll be damned if he’ll let them die the same way they died the first time.)

He laughs, he jests, he spars and fights and plays with them, it’s all the brutal, boisterous rituals of Thunder Warriors anyways, soldiers sharing one last smoke before the shells rain down upon them. He can be heard laughing, his booming voice uproarious and unrestrained, confident and unbreakable and as bold as brass before external company, as sharp and as savage as an old knife that still knows how to cut. 

But when that mask of arrogant strength fades, when his jests and his mirth and his sharp, sharp intuitions leave him, there’s nothing but cynicism inside. Nothing but pain in those far too old eyes when his grin finally fades, and his broad shoulders slump from the weight of his defeat. And for a moment he might appear truly beaten, looking upon his surviving Thunder Warriors not with his usual camaraderie but with sorrow, with apologetic suffering when the memories crowd in. A shard of brass, drowning against the unfeeling night. Kandawire had come very close to seeing what he appeared as, what he truly is, at the very edge of this charade, when all his boisterous confidence leaves and the man who had shouldered the entire weight of a broken legion that refused to yield. 

In those moments, Ushotan appears as he truly is. The last remnants of a once glorious legion, soldiers sloughing through the mud in a campaign that will never end, praying the next mortar shell might just strike a bit more accurately. 

In sieges, the key is patience. He knows that under unrelenting force, even the most stubborn of fortresses break. Even the most resolute of walls crumble beneath the relentless assault of batteries, and the screaming of guns. He knows what it feels like when the walls break, and the exhausted soldiers, life broken out of them by cannons and months, gazing back with dull acceptance as their enemies storm through gaping gates and broken walls, their fortresses seized brick by brick and stone by stone. Ushotan knows just how terrible, how painful, it can be…to simply endure.

Because, in truth, is that not what they are? Soldiers in a siege that will never end, holding the line against the stark horror of their very existence itself. No longer living, but simply…existing. Enduring. Sloughing on day after day, when their purpose is made obsolete. 

Former. Primarch. Emphasis on his rank. He was the master of the living storm once. He will not be again. Everything from his old wargear, to his current state, to his very own surviving brothers, seem to exemplify this. Ushotan has never enjoyed feeling quite so old, quite so derelict. 

He’s good with machinery, repairing, innovating, engineering, designing. He’s also good with beating random thugs to death with random bits of machinery. One happens more often than the other. 

Be prepared for occasional outbursts of violence. For a Thunder Warrior, his self-control is remarkably strict. He’s still just about sane, just about in control but there are…lapses. Chinks in his armor. When that smile slips and his memories take over, when he’s a young creature again(Hell, he’s always young, he hasn’t aged since the augments) and smelling the frost of Maulland Sen, Valdor standing at his shoulder. Those memories are never pleasant. He remembers few actually pleasant moments.

For a Thunder Warrior, he can be remarkably patient. Ushotan may have the temperment of a ragged, vengeful, surprisingly playful bear, but he’s still sane enough for self-control. 

Of course, the whiskey. How could one forget? That man could down countless bottles of it without even a single difference. Drowning his sorrows, perhaps, but in this case his sorrows are as cold as a mountain, and as elegant as a certain captain-general, still undoubtedly hunting Terra for his absence. 

Why is he alive? Ushotan doesn’t even know why himself. No need to worry, he’s not foolish enough to…attempt anything. Cowardice is the lowest form of treachery among Thunder Warriors. If he dies, he’ll do it fighting, claw and tooth and nail and fang.

Fighting. It’s what he loves, in a sense. They all love it. It was beaten into their genes. Nothing happier than when he’s grinning, fists covered in blood, wounds standing stark against his broad frame, and not even feeling a single twinge of pain. Hacking, bleeding, wounded and wounding, up to his knees in the heat of combat. That is when Ushotan and his brothers know joy. Wild, unadulterated joy. He knows his purpose. He knows his worth. It was, in a sense, all he is good for.

(Exhaustion can quickly set in, especially given the energy expenditure of a Thunder Warrior. Ushotan has collapsed before, out of sheer exhaustion. The Thunder Warriors can carry him back. That fool of a Primarch only laughs, runs a hand through his cropped hair and calls it “sleeping troubles” before walking off.)

They’ve replaced him already. Ushotan has always noted this with a form of ironic humor. They’ve replaced the Thunder Warriors. He had fought the Astartes in that failed coup, and he wasn’t even impressed. But it was real now. Evidence, in his bloodstained hands. The cycle was complete. The world had no use for him now, even though he had helped build it, brick by brick.

(In rare moments of introspection, the former Primarch sometimes concludes that it is truly better to be forgotten. After all, who would care for the savage soldiers of a bygone age, when victory - and not the struggles it took to achieve them - were already in their grasp?)

Valdor’s still looking for him. He knows it, Valdor knows it. They both know it. It’s a burning, broken thing. An obsession. Ushotan knows that when Valdor catches him, he will kill whomever was kind enough to take him in, he’ll kill his brothers, he’ll kill them and drag Ushotan home in golden chains. The captain will throw him in the Dungeons to rot out an immortality without life, where the sun eclipsed the stars and the nights are endless. 

Taxidermied like a living corpse on display, he’d never see Terra again. If Valdor catches him. If Valdor catches him. There would be no escape.

It is on days like this when he realizes the futility of trying to hide, that he takes another swig of whiskey, closes his blue-grey eyes, and tries to forget. 

(Perhaps…some certain actions can help him relax? He isn’t entirely deprived of desire after all, if one is willing to press him enough.)

His eyes are surprisingly beautiful. They aren’t dark, or black, as presumed. They’re an icy blue overcast with grey. Like stormclouds. Like a hanged sky. Like rain. Such a shame Ushotan doesn’t showcase them often.

Scars. Multitudes of them. They scrawl over his chest, his back, his hips, his thighs, nearly every inch of him. Each scar, a silent story unfolding over flesh, with words he has no interest in speaking. Ushotan doesn’t care for his body, in a sense. He knows it will fail him. He knows it will kill him. The poison in his veins will burn him alive, either way, why would he love what is essentially a glorified coffin?

(He really, really does need to take better care of himself…)

[lady-iizsil]

WIP Wednesday

No pressure tagging: @vanilleeistee @izzetheopossum @skyrim-forever @dirty-bosmer @lucien-lachance @pocket-vvardvark @illumiera

As I settle down for the night and prepare to read a lot tonight, I wanted to toss the most recent WIP I have out there. It's in pretty rough shape still because I wanted to blurt out the dialogue while I was still inspired for it, and now I'm going back and trying to fill in gaps.

It's another excerpt based on my Snow Elf oc Aremor, who was a veteran of the Battle of Moesring -- he survived to the 4E by way of a Dwemer cryochamber experiment and now sees the ancient battleground of Moesring Pass all these years later, and finds himself overwhelmed by his guilt and trauma.

Idk if the context is needed or not but I wanted to blurt it anyhow: Upon the Fall of the Snow Prince, he swiftly abandoned his loyalties to the remaining numbers of the Snow Elven armies and betrayed one of his own to steal their horse, both in a desperate attempt to survive and also with the intention of getting back to his family in Nchuand-Zel so he could take care of them.

The Falmer he tore off their horse was who sliced his face and gave him a nasty cheek scar: a permanent reminder of his guilt and a testament to what he'd do to get back to his family.

ANYWAY I'll post the scraps of this scene I have and let yall read XD

The impact of where Aremor was didn't really hit him while he was in the ash wastes. It was simply too alien through the filter Red Mountain cast on the land. Yet it certainly did not stop the developing malaise of the spirit as he continued onward through the dead woods and the brittle brush, where the layers of ash gave way to spiky grass growing in rocky crags and mountain snow. The acrid smell of Red Mountain's belching permeated the air with a foul taste, and that was the only thing that felt familiar, in a way. It was not as sour as the air had been in the first era.

Aremor remained silent as the group kept trekking up the gravelly slopes, only turning to check on the progress of those behind him. Guilt weighed on him for how far ahead he allowed himself to go, but as they continued to climb upwards, and the air felt more brisk, the more the memories saturated his thoughts. He thought he could do this when armed with his friends at his side, but the air of the ancient battleground was making his resolve shrink inward.

His eyes were wide and his jaw was set like stone. Aremor’s ears were normally very animated, swiveling as he listened and emoted, but they were tight against his head, almost like he was trying to block out whatever was happening around him.

The ground was familiar now. When he stopped to look around and take in his surroundings, the thoughts swarming in his head felt like a thick and impenetrable cloud.

Here he was. The ancient battleground: The Battle of Moesring.

He could remember it now as he turned backwards, looking down the craggy slopes into the ash below.

Red. Red like no other on Nirn. The red slush of the battlefield, where snow and gravel and blood soaked in the crags and the footpaths.

The flashing image in his mind made him flinch. His lips were curled in distress as he looked around, his feet now refusing to carry him onward. He didn’t want to think of it, but everywhere he looked, there were ghosts.

The steep mountainside had few plateaus for fair battle. The only advantage of the Snow Prince and his cavalry were that they had the high ground. But the pass proved to have its own dangers. Their horses could fall easily here. The cliff sides spoke for themselves. The mountain’s surface could crumble beneath them - the Nords and their thu’um would be a dangerous adversary here. As much as he faulted the Prince for placing their final stand at Moesring Pass, Aremor himself knew that there was no better choice. It was here, and now, or not at all.

Lost in thought, the Snow Elf instinctively reached for the scar that opened his cheek, teeth gritted in shame and distress. His body felt perfectly comfortable in this weather. He was built to survive worse than snow and cold wind. But sweat clammed his palms and the hair at his temples darkened with it too. Feeling that made the thoughts worse. He could almost feel it - the grime caking his face. His hair plastered in tendrils against his head, stinking of blood and muddy sludge. His ears rang and his hands were raw from his grip on his weapon.

The Falmer brought up his hands to look at them, flexing his fingers. His palms were sticky with sweat. He knew this. Yet the thought of blood caked on them was too real. Why could he almost see it?

Steel against steel. Steel against flesh. A thunderous shouting followed by a deafening boom. Grieving wails and fearful cries. He saw a soldier on a horse – sweet escape, and it was right there. Elven armor mattered not.

The earth swayed and his feet faltered as he took a backward step. His body felt paralyzed while his mind raced, images and voices flashing like bursting powder kegs.

“You bastard! You thieving bastard!” The Mer screamed as he swung his dagger, slicing through Aremor's cheek as they wrestled on the snow. Hot blood filled his own mouth and he spat it in the rival Elf's face.

“Just let me go!” Aremor pleaded. He didn’t want this either. But he needed their horse, and they were an obstacle.

He shook his head, grabbing his own arms as he crossed them. His mind shifted toward the snow beneath his feet.

“No! Please don't do this!”

His arms unfolded and he lowered himself to the ground. He laid back and felt the snow compress beneath the weight of his head.

What if I died here? He thought to himself. He could have stayed and fought beneath the banners of his people until the very end. His life blood could have seeped into the rocks of these mountains and rotted there until the humans came to burn his corpse. He could have been a temporary part of this mountain and the melted snow that fed the grass. All he was, and all he ever would be…

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. He sat up briefly to see Lorika standing above him, though from a respectful distance. While she managed to smile at him, he could see the worry stitched in her brows. She shifted her weight onto one leg as she asked, “mind if I join you here?”

Aremor swallowed, and numbly, he nodded. He looked away and reverted back to laying in the snow as she joined him. The heat emanating from his skin was melting the snow around himself and his clothes were growing damp, but he couldn’t bear to move from this spot. Being here was overwhelming. All he needed was to stop and take it in. Lorika’s presence was usually welcome at his side, but in this moment, it added pressure to the guilt swirling in his stomach.

He listened as she shuffled and laid beside him, and she crossed her hands neatly over her abdomen. A few moments of silence passed as they listened to the wind and simply took the moment to breathe. There was a desolate beauty to this place to be enjoyed, but he couldn’t see it past the lens of the atrocities that were committed here. The silence felt too deafening and the last thing he wanted were for the memories to swallow him again.

“I’m sorry if this is bothersome,” he croaks. “I needed to ground myself.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” the Nord woman responds, and the ascertained way with which she said it made Aremor feel a touch of comfort. “We were worried, but I decided it was best if we didn’t swarm you right now. I just wanted to ask what’s on your mind. I want to help, if I can.”

He gazed at her sidelong from where he laid, meeting her one eye with his own. She was the very picture of who he fought here all these years ago. That thought discomforted him, though not for the reason he thought it should.

He sighed heavily and turned his face away. “I was confronted with more than I thought I’d be, coming here,” he spoke. His tone was matter-of-fact, yet distant, still looking fixedly at the expanse of blue above them. “This mountain is the monument of my shame. I wonder sometimes if my people could have had a chance if I remained stalwart. I was the Hand of Syrabane, after all. Another symbol of hope.”

He heard Lorika sigh, though not in annoyance, it seemed. “Aremor. If you spend the rest of your days with questions like that, you’ll drive yourself insane," she said with a worrisome tone. "It's why I worried for you coming here. And I feel worse not knowing what to say to make this better."

Aremor shook his head subtly. "There aren't words for my situation. Not quite. But you needn't feel sorry for that." He pauses for a good while as he tries to sort his thoughts. "I feel disturbed with myself - and being here, well."

Lorika side-eyed him, and with a tone of cautious encouragement, she says, "feel free to speak your mind. I'm listening."

He went quiet again, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. The words and the feelings were there, but untangling them felt like an overwhelming matter. Finally, he began slowly, saying, “I try to be thankful — and a large part of me is. Not many are given a second chance at life, much less a better one. But when I turn inwardly, I see that… I am much the same, despite all I have been given, despite all I have learned. I did terrible things for the people I loved, and one would think after losing them, and knowing that all I did was for naught, I would learn to accept that. I thought perhaps something inside me would click, and I'd set myself straight. Violence for the sake of devotion earned me nothing but punishment. But when I look at the people I have now — us — I realize…”

He pauses, brows furrowing.

“I would do it all again.”

[captainremmington-13]

A Lady Made of Snow

DISCLAIMER: I don’t own The Hunger Games franchise, the images above, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, or any of the characters in this fic other than Bellova.

SUMMARY: After Arachne’s death, Coriolanus and Bellova manage to go a day without insulting each other.

Warnings: spoilers for TBOSAS, mentions of death

A/n: I am using a combination of the movie and book version of the events that occur in this chapter. This chapter begins with a third-person point of view that centers around Bellova’s inner thoughts. After the time skip, the third-person point of view shifts to reveal Coriolanus’s thoughts.

The following morning, Bellova spotted Coriolanus just outside of Heavensbee Hall. She noticed that he seemed exhausted, which wasn’t surprising. She hadn’t slept much either, the memory of Arachne’s dying screams keeping her awake throughout the night.

She approached him, giving him the usual cordial nod, which he returned.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, surprising her. He never asked her about anything personal. They mainly discussed school or mundane gossip, not their emotions. 

“I’ll be fine,” she said as they walked into the assembly together. “I hardly slept, though. I couldn’t stop thinking about…well, you know.”

Coriolanus nodded. “I stayed up writing the proposal for Dr. Gaul.”

Bellova raised an eyebrow. “I thought you and Clemensia were supposed to do that together.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t want to wait. Clemensia probably isn’t in any shape to do much schoolwork at the moment.” 

“That’s fair,” Bellova said as they took their usual place in the hall, waiting for the assembly to start. “I’m sure Dr. Gaul will be pleased that you went through with writing it, even with what happened yesterday.”

Coriolanus looked at her, a ghost of a grin dancing across his lips. “What’s gotten into you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re being so…nice.”

She scoffed, adjusting the collar of her uniform shirt. “I’m not nice, Coryo. I’m polite.”

“Debatable,” he muttered. 

Bellova rolled her eyes. “So what if I’m being less combative than usual? Yesterday forced me to reflect upon what really matters to me.” 

“What exactly does that mean?”

Bellova opened her mouth to respond, but Professor Satyria Click cleared her throat, silencing the student body. 

She wasn’t surprised that Dean Highbottom was absent. The old man was probably higher than normal after yesterday’s events.

Satyria spoke of Arachne in a way that Bellova deemed inaccurate. She wasn’t extraordinarily intelligent, funny, or special in any way, really. But she listened intently and even teared up a couple times. She saw Coriolanus do the same out of the corner of her eye, but knew he wasn’t actually that emotional. She’d listened to him complain about Arachne and her antics too many times to count.

Professor Sickle acknowledged Coriolanus and Bellova’s efforts to save Arachne, which made them both wince slightly. They did not want to be reminded of the gruesome sight of their classmate bleeding to her death. 

The counselor, Mrs. Lunt, added that grief counseling was available to anyone who may need it. Finally, Professor Satyria announced that Arachne’s funeral would be the following morning.

After the students were dismissed, the twenty-three remaining mentors went to Professor Demigloss’s classroom. It was obvious that all of them wanted to be at home, but no one spoke up about it. 

Demigloss handed out a sheet of paper listing all of the tributes, their names, and their assigned mentors. Bellova immediately scratched off Arachne’s name, and then felt a pang of guilt. She didn’t mean to erase the girl’s memory so quickly, but it erasing the scratch mark wouldn’t bring her back to life .

Not much time had passed before Clemensia and Coriolanus were summoned to the Citadel, no doubt by Dr. Gaul. Bellova mouthed ‘good luck’ to Coriolanus, who gave her a genuine smile in return. That was rare, coming from him. 

Bellova turned away from him and back towards the professor, concealing her slightly flushed cheeks. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Coriolanus hastily made his way out of the Capitol Zoo, tripping several times but managing to avoid falling. He figured that it was late enough that his arrival at home wouldn’t be suspicious, so he started on his way back to his apartment complex.

Suddenly, his shoulder bumped harshly against someone else’s. He stumbled a bit, but the other person tumbled to the ground, cursing angrily. 

“Bellova?” 

Bellova groaned, sitting up slowly and gathering the apples that had spilled out of her arms. “Coriolanus. What are you doing here?”

“Visiting Lucy Gray. What are you doing here so late?”

“Bringing food to Velvereen,” she said. “I figured she could use something to eat, it’s been awhile.”

“Ah,” Coriolanus said. He watched as she walked over to the monkey exhibit, passed the apples through the bars, and patted Velvereen’s hand reassuringly. She walked back to him, and he noticed how drained she looked. He wanted to say something, but refrained. 

“Want me to walk you home?” he asked instead. “I know you live close by.”

Bellova sighed. “Sure.”

A few minutes after leaving the Zoo, Coriolanus decided to inform Bellova about Clemensia’s “accident”. He thought Lucy Gray would be the only one he’d tell, but he figured that Bellova would keep the incident confidential.

Her eyes widened in horror when he described the snake bite. “Will she be alright?”

He nodded. “I visited the hospital, and the doctors think she’ll survive. Not without mental damage, though.”

Bellova bit her lip. “This is all a disaster. We’re dropping like flies. I wouldn’t be surprised if a handful of us mentors lose our lives after this is all over.”

“Don’t say that,” Coriolanus said. “We just have to be careful. And regardless of what happens, you and I will be fine. Surely you know that.”

“We’re stronger than the others,” Bellova agreed. “We’re smarter, more resilient, and less susceptible to our emotions. But that doesn’t guarantee that we’ll come out of this without scars.”

“We survived a war,” Coriolanus pointed out. “We can live through this too.”

Bellova looked at him, her eyelids beginning to droop slightly from exhaustion. “Since when did you become an optimist?”

Coriolanus let out a short laugh. “I haven’t. I’m just…trying to ease your worries.” 

She gave him a smile. “I appreciate your efforts.”

They reached Bellova’s estate a couple moments later. Spontaneously, Coriolanus decided to leave a parting kiss on Bellova’s cheek, rendering her speechless. 

She simply waved goodbye to him, then walked through the gates that were being held open for her by guards. Coriolanus watched her disappear into her lavish home, wishing more than anything that he lived in a place twice as large as hers.

TAGLIST: @daenerysqueenofhearts, @squidscottjeans, @euphemiaamillais, @gracieroxzy

Author’s Note: Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments! I know that this chapter was sorta short, but the next one is wayyy longer and v e r y eventful👀 Stay tuned for Chapter 4!

[januarywren]

I'd like a Sansa x Sandor, he finds his way to Winter fell to rescue her from Ramsay, but he arrives as she's feeding him to his dogs

I apologize for how long it's taken me to fulfil your request! It turned out a little different from your original request and I hope you like it (you can read it here or down below)! I deeply appreciate your support, and can't thank you enough. 🐺🖤

//tw: miscarriage, canon physical/emotional/sexual abuse, canon animal abuse, canon violent death//

He heard the screams first.

The snaps and snarls.

Sansa –

He held his breath until he saw a flash of red hair. There she was.

He found himself drifting toward her wherever she went, despite the lingering guilt that gnawed at his conscience. Their paths had crossed at Castle Black, where he had pledged to Jon Snow to keep her safe during the chaos of war. They all knew what could occur when men were lost to bloodlust.

Including himself.

And, it seemed, his Little Bird too.

Sandor approached cautiously, his heavy boots crunching on the snow. "Thought you'd be inside, celebrating."

Sansa, without turning, her voice steady, replied, "There's nothing to celebrate yet."

He stopped beside her, his eyes on the gruesome scene that she had imagined enacting countless times. "Guess the bastard got what he deserved."

She finally looked at him, her expression unreadable. "He did. They always do, in the end."

He grunted, watching Ramsay's demise with a mixture of disdain and satisfaction.

As if he had any right to watch.

To feel, as she did.

Sansa kept her expressions still, tucking her resentment into the narrow depth of her ribcage. It was the same place where Cersei’s cruel smiles and Joffrey’s venomous taunts resided, where echoes of her family’s laughter once brought warmth, and where her childish dreams lay. It was a place that no one could take, no one could see; a place where she hid her name, and the pain etched upon her face.

“I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home.”

The dogs howled, tearing at the marrow within the bones, their whimpers echoing when their hunger couldn't be sated. They were hideous creatures, their fur matted with blood, and muzzles dripping with frothy saliva. They had no loyalty to the master that starved them; their bodies were littered with scars, their pads cracked and aching without end.

“And you can’t frighten me.”

Sandor exhaled; his breath visible in the bitterly cold air. "Gods, girl. You've grown cold."

Meeting his gaze, a flicker of something—pain, perhaps—passed through her bright blue eyes that he’d often dreamed of. "I've had to."

She wasn’t the girl adorned in silk, its threads dyed crimson and gold, her tiny bones once yearning to bear the weight of golden-haired lions. Sandor felt a pang in his chest as memories flooded back, memories of when her moonblood came and he found her stuffing bloodied strips beneath her mattress.

And what had he done?

Sandor swallowed hard, the buzzing sound in his ears growing louder. He had grabbed her by the arm, his grip firm, and told her there were no secrets in the Red Keep; none that she could keep. He had known he was hurting her, could feel bone grinding against bone, and yet he hadn’t let go. Her arm had been warm against his touch, and he had wanted more; a warmth he could never claim for his own.

Look at me, he’d wanted to snarl, look at me, and sing me a song, Little Bird.

He'd wanted to carve a space inside of himself for her as if he could hide her from the lions that prowled the Red Keep. The fact that he couldn't made fury and regret and disgust at himself simmer in his stomach until he'd vomited after every meal until he drank himself to black out every night instead.

Fuck her.

No –

Fuck me.

He’d kept her secret, but it hadn’t mattered. Sansa was soon summoned to see the Queen, who announced her engagement to the buggering dwarf.

“This world’s done you no favors,” Sandor admitted, his voice rough with regret. He gestured towards the dogs who were now scrabbling in the dirt for any trace of human remains. “But this..." he paused, struggling to find the right words. "This ain't you."

"Maybe not. But it's the world we live in. You taught me that."

"Aye, I did. “

He wished she would sing him a song then; one that was beautiful and sweet as spun sugar melting on his tongue, and would take him away from there. Instead, he tasted ash and dirt, and worms making their way into his gums. He knew what he’d done, and the man that he was.

He wasn’t worth hearing her pretty songs; not realizing that his Little Bird had no more songs to give. She had stopped singing long ago; her voice wasted on her guardian had sold her to a man who ensured she would never feel safe in her home again. Nor were her songs meant for her bastard brother who looked at her as if he wanted everything from her while knowing that he could expect nothing; or to the northern families whose loyalty was swept away in the river alongside their fallen king, and her eldest brother. None of them had ever come for her, regardless of how loud she had sung.

So, Sandor sang a song of his own.

“I failed you, leaving you to face it alone."

Once, Sansa’s heart would have quivered in her chest, hearing his song that was as hauntingly beautiful as any she had ever sung. She closed her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath.

"We can't always choose what we become. Only how we survive."

His fingers twitched. "Surviving ain't the same as living, girl."

A cold, ironic smile tugged at her lips. "No, it isn't. But it's a start."

Softly, almost to himself, he said, "You deserve better."

Whispering, more to the night than to him, Sansa replied, "We all do."

It was easy to imagine her siblings and the life they should have led. She envisioned a future filled with warmth and laughter, where they were all together, surrounded by the love and protection of their family. Arya would be free to roam the forests of Winterfell, her spirit untamed and wild. Bran would explore the mysteries of the world, his mind unlocking the secrets of the past and the magic that lay hidden in the shadows. And Rickon, the youngest of them all, would grow strong and brave, his laughter echoing through the halls of their ancestral home.

But woven into these dreams was the image of Robb, their noble brother, crowned as King in the North. Sansa imagined him standing tall and resolute, a beacon of hope for their people, and a worthy successor to their beloved father.

Not for the first time, Sansa wondered if her mother had known the fate of her children if she would have let them emerge from her womb. If it were her –

What would she have done?

She didn’t want to answer. She couldn’t answer; not when she thought of the first night at Castle Black. The memory of doubling over with cramps and staining the bed sheets with her blood was still vivid. She hadn’t let herself cry even as Jon had pulled her against his chest and buried his face in her hair, tracing soothing circles over her back. She would have never allowed Ramsay’s babe to live. She couldn’t have.

“I’ll protect you,” Jon had whispered in her ear, and bile rose in her throat. She believed in Jon’s actions, but she couldn’t believe his words.

“No one can protect anyone.”

After a moment of silence, Sandor’s voice a low rumble, he continued, "I failed you once, Little Bird.”

‘As you’ve said,’ Sansa thought, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip.

She knew that he was drawn to the sight; blood rising to the surface. Did he think of the blood that trickled from her wounds when the Kingsguard beat her on Joffrey’s order or of the blood that dripped from her cunt when her moonblood came? She’d been desperate to hide it from the southern court, knowing that it meant she had come of age for breeding. Cersei had made it clear that when she did, Sansa would marry the dwarf and have his monstrous babe; one that would tear her cunt apart.

“For your sake, I hope it’s a boy, little dove.” 

She remembered how gentle Cersei’s tone was, even as she cupped Sansa’s cheeks and dug her nails into her skin. The cruelty took her breath away, and even then, Sansa questioned how she ever thought the woman was tender and kind.

‘I am slow to learn, and slow to forget that which I have learned.’

Sansa knew what Sandor wanted from her, the same as Petyr did. They wanted her sweetness and her submission, and a place in her heart that no one else did. Perhaps Jon too, wanted that place in her heart; one that her mother had given to her children but never, ever, to him.

How could she?

“I was a hound for the Lannisters, but my place is here now, by your side. As your hound, if you'll have me."

‘Pity that he didn’t bend down on one knee,’ Sansa thought, even as she knew it was dark, and mean. Her thoughts were ugly things; twisting and turning in her mind and demanding to be let out. They were the kind of thoughts that would have made Septa Mordane weep, and her mother –

She wasn’t sure what her mother would think of her anymore.

What did she think of herself?

"You'd be my hound? How noble. And what happens when you grow tired of me?"

He didn’t flare with anger like she'd expected. Instead, he thought of his time with the brothers, of digging grave after grave, envisioning flaming red hair and blue eyes with every corpse he buried. She was inside him, and he couldn't get her out, no matter how he tried. "I won't. I owe you that much."

He owed her far more than that.

"Perhaps,” Sansa allowed the cold in her voice to thaw just enough for him to hear it. She knew that regardless of how much he had changed, she could only push him so far. “But loyalty is a rare thing. I've learned that the hard way."

Who was she loyal to?

The North.

The Starks.

Who was loyal to her? Truly loyal?

Jon, she thought immediately, and Ghost. Arya and Bran. Sansa knew they were out in the world still and believed they would make their way to Winterfell again.

“The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”

Even then, there were so few of them against many.

Grey eyes met blue then, as Sandor murmured, "I ain't leaving you again. My place is here, by your side, Little Bird. Always."

He was serious, she realized then. He truly believed he could protect her. Protect her from what she wanted to ask. From the monsters that fill my dreams? The ones who wear the faces of my husbands, those with golden hair, my aunt who hated me, and my guardian who wanted me to call him father and sit in his lap as if she couldn't feel his reaction to her?

Her mind spiraled back into the depths of her nightmares, each one a place she had already been. She remembered the cold, harsh walls of King's Landing, the cruel sneers and whispers, the constant threat of pain and betrayal. She thought of the Vale, where her aunt's jealousy and madness had nearly destroyed her. She saw Ramsay's sadistic grin, felt Joffrey's cruel hand, and the calculating eyes of Littlefinger. These were not just dreams; they were memories, indelibly etched into her soul that would always be with her.

I am never alone; she almost said, swallowing the words as they rose in her throat. I’ll never be alone. She had already said enough –

And there was a part of her, the stupid, silly little girl, that reminded her Sandor had never hurt her. His scars had scared her, yes, but he had never harmed her as other men had. All he had ever taken from her was a song.

A song.

The only sound Sansa wanted to hear now was the noise Ramsay’s dogs made as they panted and settled, their bellies full to bursting for the first time in weeks. The thought of the waste inside them gave her a grim sense of satisfaction, a feeling the girl she had once been could never have imagined experiencing. Then again, she had experienced countless things that she could never have imagined, let alone dreamed of. Her world had been turned inside out, filled with horrors and unexpected twists. Yet, amidst the chaos, there were moments of clarity, moments where the impossible became reality.

She toyed with the sleeve of her fur cape; the one tell that she couldn’t break herself of as a thought came unbidden to her; a thought that made her feel as if she too, had a belly full of waste, and ached from the sheer weight of it, after going weeks without eating. The smell of copper was heavy in the air, but for once, it did not emanate from Sansa’s bruised frame.

Ramsay was gone.

If she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, a part of her would have always doubted that he would never be able to touch her again. That was why she had stopped Jon from killing him – he would have done the same, had she decided to hang the men involved with killing him, in his stead.

It still didn’t feel quite real, even as she knew that it was. Ramsay would never be able to touch her again. No one would.

She stilled, her thoughts turning in her head. 

If Ramsay could die, why couldn’t the Hound live for her?

The sheer size of the man beside her made her relax, as she knew that no one in the whole of Winterfell could tower over him. His presence was a fortress, a wall of strength and defiance against the darkness that had plagued her for so long. The Hound, with his scarred face and gruff demeanor, had always been a figure of fear and fascination. Yet now, he represented something else entirely: safety.

Why couldn’t she use him?

Her pink lips curved into a soft smile, one that Sandor found as lovely and earnest as the smiles his sister used to give him, back when she had a missing front tooth and her hair tied with yellow ribbons that he gave her. She had loved him, and he’d let Gregor kill her.

Sansa saw the starving look in his eyes—a desperate craving to be wanted.

To be needed.

Once, she’d had the same look in her eyes.

Sansa’s hand drifted toward his forearm; her fingers resting there. She didn’t miss the way that he stiffened and stared hard at her face. He didn’t scare her now.

He never would again.

“I’d like that,” Sansa admitted, her voice as faint as the beating of a sparrow’s wings. She would be his Little Bird again; one that sang pretty songs and placed its head into the mouth of a hound. A hound that had little idea about the wolf that crept behind it, with gleaming eyes and sharp canines.

[byjillianmaria]

As I dive into the umpteenth draft of A Colder Home, I decided to do a meta dump similar to the one I did for Behind You! Very similar, actually... you'll notice that all of the photos are more or less in the same place. And that is because I am lazy. But not too lazy to ramble about inspirations under the cut!

SONGS

Once again, my eight track playlist for this WIP goes extremely hard, and once again, I could easy ramble about all eight of those tracks. I will stick to the three I selected for this graphic.

This Unrest by Siouxsie and the Banshees - In general, I associate this WIP with a lot of post-punk and goth rock, so of course I had to lead with an iconic goth rock band. The lyrics are haunting and capture a feeling of deep unease, which is the sort of feeling that pervades this book. Also, there are a lot of weird vocalizations in this... gasping noises that sound like someone being strangled, along with echoing, ghostly shouts. Both become very relevant.

Blue by The Birthday Massacre - I started associating this song with A Colder Home immediately upon hearing it. It absolutely calls to mind a house haunted by ghosts that are slowly being twisted by their anger the longer they stick around, the singing switching back and forth between calm and violent. The lyrics even reference a car crash! And the notion of "casting shadows in a pale shade of blue" does remind me of limited light making its way through snow-caked windows...

Double Dare by Bauhaus - Okay, I'm going to be real with you. I don't associate the lyrics of this song so much with this WIP. I mean, if you want to stretch it, you can say that Cleo's whole arc deals with her learning to "dare" to hope and to not live her life ruled by fear, but that's about it. What really gets this song for me is the heavy, oppressive instrumental. It absolutely sounds like a house that's weighted down with decades of pain and anger and guilt... a house that is now reflecting those emotions in destructive, violent ways.

BOOKS

Writing that influenced A Colder Home! Like the books I referenced for Behind You, I wouldn't consider these comp titles, just inspirational.

My Heart is a Chainsaw by Stephen Graham Jones - SGJ is such an influential horror writer for me, with The Only Good Indians probably being one of my favorite books of all time, and is also a heavy influence for A Colder Home as far as pacing and tone. I haven't actually finished MHIAC yet — I have to read it slowly, because Jade's specific flavor of paranoia does not play very nicely with mine — but I included it as the reference title here because, like A Colder Home, its main character is a teenaged horror movie nerd.

The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson - I mean, Hill House is THE haunted house novel. Of course I'm going to include it as a reference! The opening paragraphs of this novel are burned into my mind, and its characterization of a haunted house definitely influences how I write the house on Brewer Street. I'd also be pretty remiss not to bring up the Mike Flanagan adaption here... while it's decidedly its own thing separate from the novel, his specific brand of emotionally-fueled horror writing has definitely left its mark on me.

The Shining by Stephen King - I mean. A Colder Home is a book about people trapped by snow in a haunted location. Need I say more? Interestingly, both of these books also deal with themes of alcoholism and addiction, although they come from very different emotional places. Cleo also references the Stanley Kubrick movie at one point, which is, again, very different from the book. But as a film nerd, I think it makes sense that she'd think of that over the book... I do also wonder if the film's less sympathetic portrayal of Jack Torrence might have stuck with her more. She probably wouldn't like me pointing that out, though.

The Fall of the House of Usher by Edgar Allan Poe - Another work that gets directly referenced in the book! It's not a direct comparison or anything, but it gets referenced early, and over time more parallels can be drawn... Overall, thematically, this borrows a lot when it comes to complicated family dynamics, skepticism vs. rationality, and that sort of overall inevitability/hopelessness thing that goes on.

VIDEO GAMES

I'm not much of a gamer myself, but the way that the medium is able to tell horror stories is fascinating! I've enjoyed watching Let's Plays of both of these titles.

P.T. by Kojima Productions - P.T. was a playable teaser for a (tragically) scrapped Silent Hill game, and it remains one of the absolute creepiest things I have ever seen in my life. The sound design haunts me... every time I hear something that sounds like that creaky light, I break out in goosebumps. I cannot replicate the feeling of this thing in ink and paper, but goddamn it if I'm not going to at least try. Also, you can definitely feel Lisa's design in Virginia, one of the main ghosts of A Colder Home, haha.

Devotion by Red Candle Games - I'm really fascinated by the way the story unfolds in this, how the player is given these little vignettes and has to piece the story together from that. I think you can sort of see that in the way I approach some of the ghost scenes in A Colder Home... but, also, I'm very inspired by just how personal this game feels. The little details in the set design just really add to the sense that you know these characters, and makes the scares hit all the harder.

POETRY

Poetry can express in just a few lines the same emotion that it takes me thousands of words to dig into! One is not better than the other, but I'd lie if I said I wasn't inspired by it.

In The Pines by Alice Notley - Technically, I think the version of it in this graphic is from the song #6 by AroarA, but they pulled their lyrics directly from Alice Notley's book of poetry, so I feel like that's where the attribution lies. This poem absolutely gutted me the first time I read it... It makes me think of loving someone who is unwilling or unable to stop their self-destructive tendencies, and how hopeless that can feel. Which is, really, what's at the core of this book.

Selfishness by Margaret E. Bruner - This book deals a lot with complex feelings of grief, and some of the less savory feelings that comes from that. Anger, guilt, blame... these are all really human and understandable reactions to a loss, especially if that loss is sudden. The horror in A Colder Home comes from watching what happens when those emotions are all that's left... I think that poem really captures that energy.

[slytherin-paramour]

Just a little angsty drabble from a Yule Ball themed fic that I've yet to finish.

The moons light shone down upon the few headstones that littered the uneven, earthy and snow covered ground, most of them weathered with chunks of stone missing from the edges, no doubt housing long forgotten souls. The thought filled you with a sense of melancholy.

The bottom of your dress made a swishing sound as the dark green fabric moved over the floor of the graveyard, slowly soaking up the snow and becoming sodden as you took tentative steps toward a certain plot that lay in a secluded spot behind the mausoleum. Not far away, a couple of jovial spectres were tossing a ghostly severed head back and forth, too embroiled in their other worldly fun to even notice the young witch who had wandered into their domain.

Aside from their laughter, the place was peaceful, the only other sound being that of an owl somewhere off in the nearby woodland that surrounded Hogsmeade. You tried to calm the anger that burned through your body as you dropped to the ground in front of a recently tended grave, the soil staining your dress where your knees made contact.

You heart lurched as you tried and failed to block out the images of Sebastian, the way his fingers gripped the fabric around her hips, the Slytherin girls dainty hands running through the wavy auburn locks that you'd come to endear. His lips pressed against hers hungrily, painfully unaware of the anguish that he'd caused in you. You swallowed harshly, willing the emotion to stay confined inside you. What a ridiculous reason to become so dismayed. Sebastian wasn't yours to cry about in the first place.

You looked up and stretched your fingers out to dust away some of the snow from the marble headstone in front of you, your breath catching in your throat as your eyes scanned the name that was etched there. Eleazar Fig. How you wished that he was still with you.

The guilt would always flood back when you thought of the final words spoken between you both, the moment that you'd let him down and witnessed the disappointment in his tired eyes when you'd decided to open that damned repository and absorb the dark contents within. You'd truly believed that you were more than capable of controlling the magic, of finding a way to harness it and mold it into something that could be of great benefit to all of Wizard-kind. As of yet however, you'd been unable to wield it properly, only succeeding ( barely) in keeping the power contained within yourself.

As if taking on it's own sentience, you abruptly felt the magic pulsate through your chest, radiating down through your arms and spreading to your fingertips. You lurched forward, head dropping low. You clawed at the fabric that covered your heart, willing the episode to pass. Tiny wisps of molten silver flickered around your hands, the power wanting desperately to be released.

After a few moments, it subsided and the frantic breaths you'd been taking calmed somewhat. You gazed up at the headstone once more, this time tears running freely down your cheeks, hands clasped together on your knees.

"I am so, so sorry, Professor. Please forgive me." Your voice cracked. "I miss you terribly. I don't know what to do..." The sob fell out of you weakly.

[blacksgarden]

It Can't Be

I just got 10 followers :0 Now, I'm aware they probably weren't expecting me to post something like this... Ngl, neither did I. I suppose it's a little snippet of my writing capabilities. This probably won't even get that much attraction or views anyway, so just enjoy the little story ~

The poorly aged wooden floorboards of the old, worn room let out a deafening creak under the weight of her feet. Little shards of wood lay scattered against the surface of the floor, almost as if they were waiting, tauntingly, to pierce through the skin of anyone who dared to walk barefoot upon it. Deep gashes and scratches scarred the wooden floor, as well as tiny holes and moss that grew in certain areas of each panel. She froze in her steps, which ceased the groans from the battered wood.

Her heart pounded within the confinements of her chest; she was almost sure it would burst from the way it was beating. A chilling sensation ran down her spine, like a ball of snow melting and gliding painfully slowly along her back. That little voice in the back of her mind grew louder and louder as she stayed rooted to her spot, going against her instincts to run. But run where? Further into the room? Or out of the room? To escape what? And flee to where?

However, this was not a matter of what, where, how, or when. But rather, who? Who could it be that her eyes gazed upon, standing in the middle of the room? Who was this person with shoulder-length, shaggy, unkempt hair? With depressingly torn and dirty clothing, which had barely fit him. Rather, it drowned his thin figure in those ridiculously baggy garments. It was obvious how much nutrition and sleep he lacked due to his hollow cheeks and dark, sunken eyes.

Those eyes held so much emotion yet seemed so tired at the same time. The life almost drained from those dark orbs of his. It was almost the perfect description of a madman. The only thing missing was the cynical laughter and a maniacal grin; however, the man lacked both. Instead possessing an expression of, not insanity, but sadness. And regret and guilt. His lips quivered slightly and parted as if he were about to say something; it was just on the tip of his tongue.

Yet, nothing came. Nothing except silence There was a very noisy silence as his eyes searched hers desperately for something. Anything.

She felt her own eyes sting, blurring her vision. Could it be? After all of these years...

"Dad?"

Yeah, that's all I got. I'm just testing waters right now. Lmk if you like it :)

Taglist: @somewereinthegalaxi @msblacklupin @cometsghost @ageofshadows666 @a-had-matter @siriuslena @underfnafbendyguardianwofdeltaga @chronicintrovertt @corcracrow @ashywashy1240

[eveningecho]

okay so Hope Estheim is my favorite character of all time. (I hate claiming favorites, it makes me feel like I’m letting others down, but it’s very true.)

I was around his age when I first played the game, and never, never, have I related to any character, at any time, in any media, more than him. I too was an emotional teenager. I too had people get upset at me for being an emotional teenager. I too had overwhelming anger and struggled to deal with it in a healthy way (not that I ever tried to kill anyone,) and I too was scared of upsetting people around me.

Hope needing to tiptoe around Lightning for fear of rejection? So, so painfully relatable. I have ADHD and RSD (unaware of it at the time) and pretty much anything that leans into fear of rejection hits home for me. That datalog entry that directly states that when, in the Gapra Whitewood, Light asks Hope if he’s scared and he says no, he’s clearly lying because she kind of holds his life from a string. That entry is so beautiful, because logically, of course he’s scared and of course he’d lie. Without her, his odds of survival drop so, so, so low. I didn’t pick up on without reading the datalog, because sometimes I miss things, but listen. It also sings of fear of rejection to my heart. Not sure what it’s like without RSD, but with, rejection sure feels weighty enough to be life or death anyway lol.

Continuing from RSD, Palompolum brought me so. much. stress. I love Snow, with all my heart, and did from the first moment I met him (all these characters are so great, I take no criticism for any of them,) but I also understood Hope’s anger, it made sense, I knew how it happened. I had plenty of it in my own life. I did not blame him for clearly misplacing it, but I was so desperate for a reconciliation between the two and I couldn’t see how it would be possible. There was no way this wasn’t going to end without a confrontation and how could anything be okay after a confrontation? But then, Hope tried to kill Snow, instead got thrown unconscious off a roof, and Snow, who knew full well what was happening at that point, wasted not a second before jumping after him to save him. Unconditional love and forgiveness? To me, who was dealing with so much anger, and the guilt that comes after lashing out, this was so much more important than I can define.

When Alexander comes, and Hope’s trying to put on a brave face, and lie again, and much like in Gapra, it’s clear that he’s trying to be braver than he is, and they refuse to leave him. It’s that unconditional love from Palompolum again. They won’t leave him behind because at that point they are a Family, and familymeansnoonegetsleftbehindorforgotten. It is so satisfying to see a Family who does not care for the sort of people pleasing behavior, who see right through it, and are there for the you that is trying to hide beneath it.

This isn’t the most coherent but anyway anyone who dislikes Hope for being an emotional teen are wrong actually. As a (once upon a time) Certified Emotional Teen, he was the representation I needed.

[385bookreviews]

1.45.1 The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes by Suzanne Collins

SPOILERS

Pages: 528

Read Time: 9 hours and 58 minutes

Overall Rating: ★★★★☆ Storyline: ★★★★☆ Dialogue: ★★★☆☆ Characters: ★★★★★

Genre: YA Dystopian

TWs for the book: Violence, death, murder, child death, war, blood, cannibalism, poisoning, gun violence, classism, gore, injury, child abuse, toxic relationship, death of a parent, confinement, toxic friendship, torture, police brutality, grief, execution, animal cruelty, animal death, su*c*de/thoughts/attempts, alcohol, drug use/abuse/addiction, physical abuse, gaslighting, emotional abuse, vomit, medical content, fire/fire injury, xenophobia, medical trauma, genocide, forced institutionalization, panic attacks, bullying, colonization, mental illness, slavery, kidnapping, hate crime, misogyny/sexism, stalking, dementia, trafficking, terminal illness, abandonment, chronic illness, racism, bombing, eating disorder, self harm, deportation, ableism, domestic abuse, infidelity, miscarriage

POV: Third person; Coriolanus Snow

Time Period/Location: Over the span of around 6 months in Panem, the new name for a fictional, dystopian version of North America, set 64 years before the first The Hunger Games.

First Line: Coriolanus released the fistful of cabbage into the pot of boiling water and swore that one day it would never pass his lips again.

The story centers around Coriolanus Snow, the future president of Panem we see antagonizing Katniss and Peeta throughout The Hunger Games series. 10 years after the rebellion of the districts and their defeat by the Capital, Coriolanus and his cousin Tigris and their grandmother are still feeling the affects of it. Tigris and Coriolanus have lost both of their parents, and the family has lost their fortune, barely managing to maintain appearances that they are still wealthy. Coriolanus goes to the Academy, and has plans to attend University the next year, but only if he can manage to win a prize by mentoring a tribute in that years Hunger Games.

He feels insulted by being given a District 12 tribute but hopes he can turn it around upon seeing the charismatic singer, Lucy Gray Baird, put on a performance at the Reaping and capture everyone's attentions. He waits for her at the train station and offers her a white rose from his grandmother's garden. She only takes a petal of it, but resolved, he rides in the caged truck bed with her to where the tributes are to be kept. This ends up with him and the rest of the tributes being dumped into the monkey house at the zoo. He is embarrassed, but Lucy Gray tells him to own it, and he plays it off for the news cameras. After being removed, Dean Casca Highbottom, who seemingly has a vendetta against him and knows of his family's poverty, gives him a demerit. Dr. Gaul, a mad scientist and head gamemaker overseeing the student's projects, commends him. Coriolanus continues to visit Lucy Gray at the zoo, along with Sejanus, a fellow classmate who Coriolanus despises but keeps on his good side anyways. Sejanus and his family were from District 2 but became wealthy Capitol citizens when his father supplied weapons to the Capitol during the war. Sejanus is guilt ridden by this, made worse by the fact that the tribute he is supposed to mentor was a classmate of his in District 2. He offers food to the tributes, but his tribute Marcus refuses to take anything. During school, Coriolanus and Dr. Gaul come up with new ideas for getting the citizens of the Capitol and all of Panem involved in the Games, such as betting on tributes and sending food into the arena, seeking to make it some kind of sporting event. On a trip back to the zoo with some of his other mentors to give the tributes food, Arachne Crane, the mentor of the District 10 girl, is killed by her through the bars of the enclosure. The District 10 girl Brandy is then shot by the Peacekeepers.

After this, Coriolanus and another classmate Clemensia are chosen by Dr. Gaul to put together a project explaining how to make the betting and food donation system for the Games work. Clemensia is too distraught to do the project, but Coriolanus finishes it on his own. They are summoned by Dr. Gaul to her lab where she is working on genetically engineered rainbow colored snakes. If the snakes are familiar with your scent, they are friendly and calm, but if not and you approach them, they attack you with venom. Dr. Gaul put the project papers in the snake tank and asks Coriolanus to lift them out, which he does without issue, however when Clemensia tries, she is bitten and begins to die and is whisked away to the hospital. Dr. Gaul says this happened because they lied about doing the project together when he did it on his own. Coriolanus sings the anthem of Panem at Arachne's funeral, and Brandy's body is dragged through the streets. The rest of the tributes are paraded through while shackled to the back of a truck. After this it is arranged for the tributes to tour the arena with their mentors, when suddenly bombs go off. Both District 6 tributes are killed along with their mentors, twins Diana and Apollo Ring. Lucy Gray rescues Coriolanus instead of trying to escape. The District 1 tributes are shot by Peacekeepers as they try to escape, the District 2 girl dies, and Marcus, Sejanus' District 2 boy, escapes. After his recovery, Lucy Gray begs Coriolanus to believe that she can actually win the Games and they begin plotting how she can do so. Before the Games begin, Coriolanus gives Lucy Gray an old compact of his mother's so she can smuggle rat poison into the arena. She gives him a kiss and tells him he has stolen her heart.

The boy tribute from District 5 dies before the Games can begin, so only 14 tributes enter the arena. They find Marcus' body beaten and tortured but still alive hung up on metal poles. This enrages Sejanus and he has an outburst in the Academy and leaves. The District 7 girl Laminia kills Marcus as an act of mercy. Dill, the girl from District 11, dies of illness some hours later. After an uneventful first day, Coriolanus returns home to find Sejanus' mother, and she says that Sejanus has disappeared and not come home since his outburst. That's when they spot him on TV in the arena, sprinkling bread crumbs on Marcus' body, something that was done to the dead in District 2. Dr. Gaul calls Coriolanus, demanding he come to the arena and rescue Sejanus. When he goes in, Sejanus refuses to leave, wanting to make a statement with his death, but Coriolanus convinces him otherwise. On their way out, Coriolanus is forced to kill Bobbin, a District 8 tribute.

As a way to cover up for his son's stunt, Sejanus' father creates the Plinth Prize for the mentor who's tribute wins the Hunger Games. It is a full ride scholarship to University, which is something Coriolanus desperately needs in order to be able to go because of his family's poverty. Sol, the girl from District 5, is killed almost immediately the second morning of the Games. Lucy Gray and Jessup, the District 12 boy, finally emerge from their hiding places, but it is clear that he has rabies and is trying to kill Lucy Gray. Coriolanus and Lysistrata, Jessup's mentor, send in huge amounts of bottled water, which trigger Jessup's hydrophobia and cause him to fall to his death. When Coriolanus arrives home he learns that his family will lose their apartment due to a new tax bill that they can't afford to pay.

On the third day, Mizzen and Coral from District 4 and Tanner from District 10 kill Laminia, who has been safe up on top of the rafters. Coral and Mizzen immediately turn on Tanner and kill him. Reaper from District 11, the most feared tribute, emerges and starts lining up all of the dead bodies. His mentor Clemensia, who was hospitalized for very long and deformed from the snake venom, cruelly refuses to give him any food as he isn't killing anyone. Gaius, one of the mentors in the program, died from his injuries from the bombing on the arena. Coriolanus discovers Dr. Gaul is planning on dropping the mutated snakes that bit Clemensia into the arena. He decides to drop a handkerchief that Lucy Gray had been using in the snake pit before it is put into the arena so that the snakes will not attack Lucy Gray.

Wovey from District 8 emerges the next day, only to immediately foam at the mouth and die. Coriolanus suspects Lucy Gray killed her with rat poison. Dr. Gaul announces Gaius' death and sets the snakes loose in the arena. Circ from District 3 is killed, along with Coral. Lucy Gray, however, emerges from the tunnels singing to the snakes, and they wrap around her dress and her arms perfectly at peace.

The next morning Teslee from District 3 uses drones to knock Mizzen down from the rafters and he falls to his death. Treech from District 7 kills Teslee with an ax to the skull. Lucy Gray emerges and he goes to attack her as well, but she runs and hugs him before he can swing at her and attaches a snake to his neck. The venom kills him. Lucy Gray taunts Reaper until he decides to drink from a puddle of water she poisoned with rat poison and he dies, making her the winner of the 10th Hunger Games. Before he can celebrate his victory, Coriolanus is sent to Dean Casca Highbottom, who reveals the handkerchief he dropped in the snake tank and the compact with the rat poison. With his cheating revealed, he has no choice but to give up his victory and join the Peacekeepers.

As a Peacekeeper Coriolanus goes to District 12 as he hopes to be able to see Lucy Gray there. He is beginning to consider su*c*de when Sejanus appears, having also joined the Peacekeepers. Sejanus was also given the choice Coriolanus was of expulsion or Peacekeepers, but he agreed to do so as long as Coriolanus could officially graduate the Academy with High Honors. Coriolanus resolves to take the officer's test to move up in the Peacekeepers. He makes plans to see Lucy Gray at a performance of her and her band, The Covey Bairds. He is forced to witness the execution of a rebel, who tells his lover to run before being hung from a tree. At the Hob, Coriolanus sees Lucy Gray perform, and they are about to reunite when her spurned lover Billy Taupe appears and causes a fight. Sejanus and Coriolanus leave the base the next day to go visit Lucy Gray and her family. She sings Coriolanus a song she wrote about the hanging the previous day, called The Hanging Tree. They talk and say it was written in the stars for them to be together. When Coriolanus and Lucy Gray return to the house, Sejanus and Billy Taupe are seen conversing, and Sejanus is drawing him a map of the Peacekeeper base and Sejanus admits they were discussing the girl who the rebel who had been hung told to run. She was captured by the Peacekeepers. Lucy Gray tells Billy Taupe off, and Coriolanus begins to suspect Sejanus as being a rebel sympathizer. Coriolanus writes a letter to Dr. Gaul as if he is still having lessons with her, telling her of what he is learning by being in the Districts.

The soldiers are assigned a new task of shooting jabberjays and mockingjays, but only after they assist Capital scientists in trapping 100 of each. Coriolanus is thrilled that his ideas are being heard, as he hates the fact that the mockingjays exist, seeing them as being out of control. When they go to see the Covey perform again, Coriolanus finds Sejanus sneaking around the Hob and decides to keep a closer eye on him. Lucy Gray confesses that Billy Taupe wants her to run away with him up north. While working with the jabberjays, Sejanus comes up to Coriolanus to confess something to him, and Coriolanus presses record on a remote so the jabberjay records the conversation. Sejanus tells him he is going to run away and go north with Billy Taupe, and needs Coriolanus' help to free the captured girl. Coriolanus refuses to help and tries to talk him out of it but fails, and then sends the jabberjay off knowing that Dr. Gaul will hear of Sejanus' treason. Lucy Gray and Coriolanus walk in on Billy Taupe and Sejanus trading illegal weapons, and Lucy Gray diffuses the situation by saying she'll go north with Billy Taupe. Then Mayfair Lip, the mayor's daughter that Billy Taupe cheated on Lucy Gray with, appears and threatens to reveal the whole scheme, so Coriolanus, not wanting him and Lucy Gray to look like rebels, shoots Mayfair, and then another rebel present named Spruce shoots Billy Taupe when he tries to stop Lucy Gray from leaving. Spruce runs off with the guns that have Coriolanus' fingerprints, but is brought to the Peacekeeper base the next day severely wounded. Sejanus is then arrested and executed for treason.

Coriolanus is told that he is being sent off to become an officer, but with Spruce now dead he is worried that the guns with his fingerprints will show up eventually, and he decides to run away with Lucy Gray. In the time that it takes for them to get to their usual hangout spot deep in the woods, Coriolanus has already decided that this kind of life isn't for him. In the abandoned cabin he finds the guns with his DNA and realizes he can go back and become an officer, but Lucy Gray runs off, realizing he plans to go back and that he betrayed Sejanus. He chases after her, and she planted her orange scarf by a snake that bites him. He fires the gun at random into the woods but can't tell if he killed Lucy Gray or not. He throws the guns into the lake and makes it back to the base. The next day he gets on a hovercraft bound for District 2 so he can become an officer. He is sent to the Capital instead and is greeted by Dr. Gaul. Him becoming a Peacekeeper was a plot of hers the whole time, and she had him honorably discharged and enrolled at the University.

He becomes an apprentice gamemaker, and became the heir to Sejanus' family fortune as they didn't know he was the reason he died and adopted him as their new son. He finally learns the truth as to why Dean Casca hated him so much. Him and Coriolanus' father were friends at the University and given a project by Dr. Gaul to come up with a way to punish the Districts after a war, he joked that they should have the Hunger Games. Coriolanus' father turned the assignment in to Dr. Gaul, betraying Casca's trust, and making him the creator of the Hunger Games. It is left unsure whether or not Lucy Gray ran away into the woods or if she died, as back in District 12 it is speculated the mayor had her killed. He uses rat poison to kill Dean Casca, and the book ends with his family motto: "Snow lands on top."

Coriolanus Snow (Coryo): This was an incredible backstory for Snow. You know that he's going to turn out evil, but at the same time you are rooting for him to be a good person and to win the Games early on in the book. Getting to finally see his internal monologue and his motivations and logic, and how he was shaped by Dr. Gaul, really puts the rest of the book series into perspective. He isn't a loveable protagonist whatsoever, and at the end of the book when he is a Peacekeeper you really start to get his true perspective of things. He never loved Lucy Gray, but saw her as his, an object and a possession, a toy that he eventually got bored of. He saw the mockingjays as an affront to the control of the Capitol, like a mockery. This series puts into perspective everything Katniss did later on and her entire symbolization and why it was so triggering to Snow and why he hated her so much.

Lucy Gray Baird: I agree with a lot of the character evaluations of her that I have seen that she is not meant to be similar to Katniss, but rather to Peeta. They both are able to manipulate audiences and put on a show, and I believe this is why Snow targets Peeta and uses him the way he does in Mockingjay. Lucy Gray wasn't what he wanted her to be, so he discarded her when she wasn't useful. I like that they ended her story mysteriously, with you not knowing whether or not she died or if she escaped on her own and made it north.

Sejanus Plinth: Following the theory that Peeta reminds Snow of Lucy Gray, Katniss reminds him of Sejanus. Sejanus was arguably more influential in Snow's life than Lucy Gray, and his "betrayal" affected Snow more. This might explain why Snow treated Katniss more like a peer, and Peeta more like toy. As for Sejanus himself, I enjoyed his character a lot, just wishing he was less naive and didn't trust Snow like he did.

Tigris Snow: We see Tigris in the Hunger Games, a mutated person altered beyond recognition and wanting Snow dead. I so desperately need to know what happened between The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes and Mockingjay that turned their close relationship to the point that she wanted him dead.

Storyline: Watching Snow transform into the monster we know him as was an immensely compelling storyline. You slowly watch his downfall into authoritarianism and cruelty and it's a painful read but so, so good. Suzanne Collins gave so much backstory and explanation for things that happen later. None of it felt forced or thrown in there just because. Things like The Hanging Tree song and Snow's connection to it being fully explained makes the rest of the series feel so much more real and everything has a lot more significance than it did. Also learning that Snow (with the help of Dr. Gaul) made the Games into the spectacle we see in the original trilogy ties everything together in the best way possible.

Representation: Pluribus, a club owner and smuggler close with the Snow family reveals that he used to have a husband. One of the Covey Baird girls has a girlfriend.

Summary: The writing style between this book and what I remember of the original books is definitely different, and it was weird to me at first but ultimately, as it's from Snow's perspective, it makes total sense and adds to things. Snow is an unreliable narrator from the jump, but you don't really realize that until nearing the end of the book. This book really just adds to the series as a whole and takes to an impossibly high standard for an already legendary dystopian YA series.

Quotes: "I'm so blameless I'm choking on it."-Sejanus Plinth (pg. 73) "He comforted himself with the thought that she was old and no one lived forever." (pg. 161)

[bluberimufim]

Hi, may a happy STS be upon ya! (as usual I am @writeblr-of-my-own). As of now, what is the best scene you have ever written? Feel free to also share a snippet of the scene in question if you want to!

STS be upon ye!!

What I consider to be the BEST scene I've ever written is in "Black and White", set a few days after Alphonse dies. It's, like, 100% just Diedrich's thoughts about how he feels about the death of his son, when he goes to spend some time with his wife. The narration isn't particularly beautiful, imo, but the feelings always hit me very strongly and the last time I revised it I nearly cried.

Anyway, here's a snippet!

It wasn't what they were used to. Of course it wasn't. It could never be. But something inside him became a thousand times sadder just by being there. It was something in the silence, deeper than it had ever been. Alphonse had never been particularly noisy or talkative, but the ausence of his voice in those rooms was soul-crushing. He wandered around the house, knowing that, around the corner or at the top of the stairs, he wouldn't find his boy. He wouldn't hear him greet him with his soft, low voice. [...] He was constantly haunted by images that took the place of ghosts. He was the man in black and white. He saw Alphonse's body, eyes closed, as serene as if he was asleep, but pale as snow, his red hair standing out like blood. He saw that form that had once been his son and no longer was. But the vision that tormented him the most was that of his grave. He could never forget the letters of his name engraved on the headstone, precise with sharp edges, not yet weathered by time. He never thought he would see something like this in his life. he had never thought he'd see his son's name on that stone, the name that he and Lucille had picked out with all the love in the world. That name would one day end up being used like this. And that was one of the things that bothered him most, besides his own guilt: how wrong it all was.

This scene is a bit longer and every paragraph causes me severe emotional damage, but this is my favourite bit.

I hope you enjoyed it!!!

[lancermylove]

Chapter 10 (SFW)

➣ Pairing: Demon brothers, Royals, Solomon with fem!Reader. ➣ Warning: None ➣ Word Count: 2,526 ➣ Chapters [SFW]: [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12] ➣ Chapters [N.SFW]: [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12]

➣ A/N: I'm running late! 🙈

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A thin, wispy mist caressed the lake's surface and twirled with the morning sunlight. The winds of winter howled from afar while chills prickled your skin. You had not expected to discover Lucifer resting on the wooden bench by the lake. Though his eyes had remained fixated on the horizon, you were aware he sensed your presence, yet he chose not to react, letting the serenity of the environment stay undisturbed.

You carefully treaded to the bench, ensuring your footsteps were silent and your movements slow. As you sat beside the Avatar of Pride, your gaze lingered on the spot where Satan had fallen in. "He is doing alright," your warm words cut through the cold, silent atmosphere.

Though Lucifer remained silent, you saw a brief glimpse of relief pass over his face. You stretched your hand out and soothingly brushed it against the back of his red glove. After a moment, he turned his hand over and held yours firmly. "I cannot erase the image from my thoughts," he whispered in a cracked, slightly hoarse voice. "My pride is suffering."

"It's okay, Lucifer. That just means you care about Satan," you consoled him and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

"I would prefer not to experience such an emotion again," he chuckled, but there was an underlying pain behind it. You were unsure what feeling he was referring to and did not want to open his wound even further. As if reading your thoughts, Lucifer elaborated, "Fear."

A comfortable silence took hold of you both, only to be interrupted by hardened snow crunching under heavy boots. You turned your head to see Satan coming your way, and you had to stifle a small smile at the sight of him. You did not want to alter his mood and prevent him from honestly expressing his heart. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Lucifer looking at him with a blank expression that did not betray any emotion.

You withdrew your hand from Lucifer's and stood up, giving Satan a slight nod. "Then, I will get going."

"Please, stay," Satan promptly said, to which you nodded firmly and sat back down. Keeping your focus on the younger brother, you patiently waited for him to express himself.

"Lucifer, I refuse to apologize to you. Do not misinterpret my words as they do not mean my hatred for you has lessened," Satan firmly said, but you noticed that he hesitated a bit at the word hatred. "I would like to thank you for helping me. You no longer need to sleep on the sofa. Rest assured, I will not prank you. I will allow you to rest properly."

You couldn't help but find Satan's unusual method of apologizing endearing. Silence once again took hold as Lucifer remained stoic while Satan bore the guilt of his actions with increasing weight upon his shoulders. Though the older brother's gaze held a brief hint of softness, he refused to grant the Avatar of Wrath the satisfaction of accepting his apology. Unexpectedly, Lucifer began laughing the next moment, surprising both of you. Even though Satan had no idea why his brother was laughing, he found the laughter contagious and joined in with a chuckle of his own.

"I love you two," you giggled, cheeks red from their sweet moment. Upon hearing your words, Satan's cheeks tinged with a vermillion hue while Lucifer smirked.

"Do not speak such words carelessly, (y/n)," the Avatar of Pride whispered, which only made you giggle.

"Oh, Lucifer, I forgot why I am here in the first place," you gasped and gently slapped your right plan on your forehead. "We have a little surprise for you. Let's head back to the cabin."

As Lucifer entered the living room, he was taken aback by the presence of everyone. You decided to take the initiative and provide him with a brief explanation. "For all the trouble we have caused you and for always being there for us, we got gifts for you."

Lucifer's sharp gaze shifted to his siblings, and the moment caught him quite off guard and left him feeling a tad suspicious. It seemed a little too perfect, and he pondered if there was some kind of condition or hidden agenda attached. However, he kept these thoughts to himself as you handed him the first present.

The gift was wrapped in an exquisite pink wrapping paper with sparkly stripes and a satin bow tied neatly around it. Inside was a bottle of the finest anti-aging serum the human world could offer. Lucifer merely stared at it blankly before shifting his piercing crimson eyes to Asmo, who shot him a sweet smile. The Avatar of Lust chimed in with a giggle, "Only the finest anti-wrinkle serum money can buy for you."

As the room threatened to break into a full-on fit of laughter, you quickly handed Lucifer the second present wrapped in a blue wrapper with white snowflakes. An elegant black box was hidden inside, and Lucifer opened it cautiously to find a magnifying glass. The first brother curiously looked at Levi, who chuckled. "Elderly people have bad vision, so you're welcome!"

Some snickers rang out in the room, but you swallowed down laughter while forcing a straight and calm expression. To ensure no one laughed again, you handed Lucifer a hastily wrapped present covered in orange wrapping paper with a copious amount of scotch tape holding it together. After a bit of a struggle, he managed to open it and discover an intricate golden canister. The first brother opened it eagerly, only to find it empty. Beel nervously and guiltily admitted, "I ate all the tea leaves because I was hungry."

Lucifer sighed quietly but motioned you to hand him the next gift. You passed him a small box wrapped in bright golden-yellow wrapping paper with dollar signs. Inside was a simple white coffee mug with black letters that read: Being my older brother is the only gift you need. You giggled as you watched Lucifer's eyes narrow at Mammon, who shrugged and said plainly, "It ain't a lie. I'm the best brother anyone could ask for."

The younger brothers started laughing at Mammon's remark, but before a verbal war could erupt, you gave Lucifer the next gift, which caused everyone's attention to turn to him. The green gift bag featuring a few snowmen on it contained a book titled "How Not to Act Like a Grumpy Old Man." The Avatar of Pride glared at Satan, who smirked in pride over his gift choice.

You handed Lucifer yet another gift, with a slight feeling of pity stirring inside you. The purple wrapping paper covered a large, thin, square object that was revealed to be a vinyl record. You sighed in relief at the glimpse of a suitable gift until Lucifer pulled two broken pieces from the casing. You assumed the record broke by accident until Belphie calmly said, "A broken record for someone who sounds like a broken record."

Lucifer shook his head while your guilt began to kick in - you regretted suggesting this plan to get the Avatar of Pride presents as a way of showing gratitude to him. You expected the brothers to gift him something proper, or at least more thoughtful gifts that wouldn't come off as insults. You silently handed him a cream-colored, design-less gift bag, and Lucifer extracted a small velvet box from it. Opening it, his muscles visibly tensed while your jaw dropped. Within the box was a silver necklace with a religious cross pendant. When you shot your eyes toward Solomon, he smiled calmly and said, "Everyone needs blessings, would you agree?"

In disbelief, you slapped your hand against your forehead and nervously handed Lucifer the last present on the table, which was tightly wrapped in crimson wrapping paper with a velvety black bow. As the Avatar of Pride opened it to reveal the ticket to the ballet, "The Nutcracker," you breathed a sigh of relief, glad that at least one person understood your original intentions.

"I cannot believe you guys did this! All I asked was for you to give a decent gift to Lucifer, but you chose these gifts?" You loudly said. "Thank you, Diavolo. At least you were considerate!"

You crossed your arms and glared at them before turning to Lucifer to offer an apology. But the moment your eyes rested upon his face, the Avatar of Pride laughed heartfully, catching you by surprise. This was the second time that day you heard his genuine laughter. Behind you, the others glanced at each other with concern or discomfort.

"Is Lucifer alright? Did we break him? " Levi whispered.

To which Mammon responded, "I think he's been possessed."

"Demons...we can get possessed?" Belphie asked in surprise.

"The right question is: who would be crazy enough to possess Lucifer?" Solomon chuckled.

You shook your head at their cracked conversation and looked at Lucifer, who quickly returned to his calm and composed self. "(Y/n), what gift might you have selected for me?"

You grabbed his arm with a slightly sweet yet nervous smile and led the Avatar of Pride upstairs. Upon reaching your bedroom, you shut the door firmly behind you and faced him. "I am pleased to offer you the gift of peace in the tranquil confines of my room...as well as the gift of truth."

Lucifer's expression transformed into a serious one, and he gave you his undivided attention. You could tell that he had been eagerly awaiting this moment since the day all of you arrived at the cabin. Taking a deep breath, you met his gaze with the calmest demeanor you could muster and began to speak. "I brought all of you to celebrate Christmas vacation in the Human Realm at Diavolo's request. He asked if I could cooperate with him, and everything for this vacation has been set, from housing to funds to food. All I had to do was say yes, and I said yes."

Your words struck an effect in the Avatar of Pride, and he redirected his gaze toward the windows. As he observed the snowflakes cascading from the heavens, you remained silent to allow him time to process the information. Wordlessly, Lucifer walked close to the window as if to acquire a more profound view of the descending snow.

Going against his principles, Lucifer gave in to his nagging feeling and opened one of the envelopes on Daivolo's desk. What was this? Why hadn't Diavolo spoken to him regarding this? His curiosity piqued as he set the first letter down and picked up the second, then the third. Their contents were very similar as they all held complaints against his brothers.

'Dear Prince, we wish to have some peace in Devildom.' 'Kindly send the brothers away. I will lose my mind otherwise.' 'As a prince, it is your responsibility to assure the residents of your realm are at peace and content. With the brothers present, we feel neither!' 'We are tired of dealing with the mess the brothers make. Send them away.' 'Hey, prince, how about giving us a little break from those crazy fallen angels? They should be thankful we're letting them stay here. Instead, they're making our lives a living hell. Funny thing is we already live in hell! But they still find a way to make things worse.'

"A few days before we came to my world," you started to speak in a low voice, drawing Lucifer out of his thoughts, "Diavolo received a heap of letters. They all contained complaints about your brothers. So, Diavolo devised a plan to appease the demons in Devildom without hurting you or your brothers. The plan being to bring all of you to my realm under the pretense of a Christmas vacation."

You paused for a while and stared at Lucifer's back as if you were waiting for him to turn around and look at you. But when he didn't, you sighed and continued apprehensively. "I am sorry for not telling you the truth earlier. I wanted to help Diavolo but also bring all of you here to spend the holidays in peace. A-Are you mad? "

Even after a significant amount of time had passed, the Avatar of Pride didn't offer a response and persisted with his gaze directed outside. A thin layer of snow had covered everything, adorning the entire area in a fresh layer of white. Finally, he lowered his crossed arms and faced you with a serious expression. However, you did not find any evidence of anger in his crimson orbs. "I have no grievances with your decision to bring us beyond the limits of the Devildom or with your desire to aid Diavolo. I have a grievance with you and Diavolo for undertaking such actions behind my back. That, to me, is an act of betrayal."

Your heart sank when you heard his choice of words, as you had never intended to backstab him or even leave such a notion within his mind. You lowered your head, hiding your eyes, as a scorching sensation burned within your tear ducts. Lucifer recognized the pain his words had caused you but remained unaffected and continued to speak calmly and collectedly. "I, more than anyone else, am familiar with the stress and difficulties that accompany my brothers. I would have readily consented to your course of action, especially if you had been the one to ask me about it. All you had to do was tell me."

"I am sorry," you whispered as tears cascaded down your cheeks and landed on your fluffy slippers. Lucifer closed the gap between you and himself with a steady gait. His expression softened considerably, and he delicately held your chin and angled your head upward to meet his gaze. He slowly wiped away your tears with his gloved fingers.

"My brothers appear to be content with their time here. For this reason, I cannot remain upset with you. Your decision has brought them joy...has brought us together." The softness within his voice was quite noticeable yet felt unfamiliar to you. "However, you must refrain from revealing the reason behind this vacation to my brothers. Their joy will gradually give way to sorrow, an outcome I do not desire in the least."

Platonic:

"I promise I will not tell them anything," you whispered with a slight smile. Lucifer affectionately rested a hand atop your head but said nothing more. You breathed easier, like a monumental weight had been removed from your shoulders and heart. 

Romantic:

"I promise I will not tell them anything," you whispered with a slight smile. You breathed easier, like a monumental weight had been removed from your shoulders and heart. 

As if noticing your contentment, Lucifer cradled your right cheek with his left hand and lightly wiped away your tears with his thumb. He leaned forward and pressed his lips on the corner of your left eye. His lips slowly descended your cheek, kissing the remaining tears, only to stop at your lips. When you parted your mouth, he chuckled deeply and captured your lips in a tender kiss.

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