#and kind of melancholy and magical

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Ooohhh I love instrumentals it’s so hard to pick just one XD but my favorite is probably “Rain” from Halo 3: ODST.

Goosebumps on her skin. A chill in her bones. Fabric scratching at her. Moisture flicking at her. Hard boards beneath her.

Zelda sat, overwhelmed and enamored in all the sensations around her. Her time fighting Ganon had been... otherworldly, dissociating her from herself in a constant battle of will and magic. She had forgotten the feeling of her own skin, and what little she did remember was clouded in malice - she had been protected by magic, she had heard Hylia's voice, she had been blinded and lost and found and warm and cold and everything and nothing.

And now she was back in the physical world. Now she was wearing different clothes, clean from the dirt and blood that had stained her very being for the last century, now she wasn't in Hyrule Castle but in Kakariko Village, sitting on the porch to Impa's abode as it rained.

Zelda hesitantly held out her hands, cupping them. She paused just before reaching out beyond the overhang of the roof. The pitter patter of the rain was soothing, a gentle lullaby in comparison to the constant scream of the Calamity, the hum of her magic, the voice of the goddess.

Feet shuffled beside her, and she saw Link sit down. He looked out at the rain silently, exhaustion etched into his features. He was so much more expressive now, even in his silence. It made Zelda's heart hurt to think this was the man hidden underneath the stoic mask all those years ago. She was glad he didn't remember the pain of the past, but she also felt horrible for it. She had torn his life away from him, ripped him of everything he'd known himself to be in an attempt to save Hyrule.

It probably would have been a mercy to let him die. But she hadn't been feeling merciful. She'd been feeling desperate and alone.

And Hyrule had been saved for it.

Zelda could never thank him enough for everything he had done for her kingdom and for her. She felt like even speaking to him was demanding too much of his time. Yet here he was, spending his waking moments with her.

The princess watched him a moment longer and then something distinctly cold and wet slapped against her fingers, making her jump, startled at the almost foreign sensation. Her hands had extended just far enough in her distraction, and now the rain was slowly collecting in her palms. Zelda marveled at it.

The whole world felt so new and different. In a way, she was just as reborn as Link was.

Speaking of Link, the Hero of Hyrule was now looking at her. His eyes were soft, a gentle smile pulling at his lips. The peace of the village settled over both of them, and Zelda's arms trembled to remain stretched out as her eyes stung with tears. She felt so disconnected from herself, so out of control and alone in this once familiar land. Hyrule was so vastly different, so much emptier, in such desperate need of rebuilding.

Link's arm slowly wrapped around her, warm and comfortable, a strong brace to lean against, a protection of safety that she didn't deserve but took nonetheless. The princess let her head be guided to his shoulder, rain slipping easily out of her hands as she hugged herself. A silent understanding hung in the air between the two, and Zelda closed her eyes, listening to the rain.

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

Do you ever read a post where someone is explaining a pokitical thing and from the way they're saying you know with absolute certainty 1) they got their info from a tumblr post and have never actually followed up on how feasible that information actually is to act upon (they may not even have checked if it was CORRECT, but when they do they have clearly not looked into how easy or hard it may be to follow those instructions with a positive outcome), and 2) you know WHICH tumblr post they're quoting because it is basically a copy/paste of it, and 3) it was YOUR goddamn post and the thing they are saying is entirely counter to the point you were making when you said it to the point that you genuinely wonder if they just like. Memory-holed the entire context once they saw that one itty bitty point.

It's like the motherfuckiny dating apps all over again. I do not want people to love my words if they are not actually willing to do the work of understanding them! Didn't your kindergarten ever make you play Telephone to teach you how heresay falls out????

[perhaps-mr-collins-has-a-cousin]

🐗

[goddesscfdeath]

Tag Dump 3

[ochibrochi]

spontaneous magic manifestation was NOT mentioned in the parenting handbook 😬

I know this isn’t how magic in dc works, but the fact that Damian’s ancestry includes some pretty powerful magic users is… INTERESTING 🤔? Drabble under the cut!

I wanna preface that I'M NOT SAYIN' that Damian should/does have magic powers, but there’s still so much unexplored potential with Damian's character, and the thought that he has a dormant adeptness in magic is somewhat compelling to me. Most importantly it would FREAK! BRUCE! OUT!!!!! What is this, magic puberty 😭??

By DC laws, anyone has the ability to learn magic, but it is also possible to be an innate ability. The Al Ghuls are no strangers to the occult-- Ra's has had increasingly been portrayed as a magic user, and the recent establishment of his mother being a sorceress/witch?? Even Talia dabbled in a bit of magic, I think. There is a catch that their power is suggested to be due to Lazarus exposure, but for arguments sake let's say the Al Ghul lineage is inherently proficient in magic (and Lazarus exposure simply enhances it).

I can't recall "magic" being a part of Damian's training/upbringing (I'm still slowly catching-up on Damian comics so apologies if I miss any canon examples of magic use). Not sure why Talia wouldn't want her little "heir to an ancient assassin empire baby" to learn magic, but it would at least give reason to Damian not knowing about his magic potential, or lack of interest in it.

Through the power of pseudo storytelling, what if Damian's encounter with Mother Soul could have triggered a manifestation of magic that was once dormant; like a pressure cooker waiting to explode with energy when it hasn't been given a safe outlet.

I've yet to read a satisfying arc where Damian truly gets to contemplate his Al Ghul roots outside of "dad is good guy, mum is bad guy". Damian's initial character growth stems from him running away from, and renouncing his association with the League (i.e. "I'm nothing like you, mother and grandfather!").

The most recent thing I've read was Robin (2021), and whilst Damian is much more cordial with his mother, there's still an emotional distance and sense of distrust/resentment (for good reason, even if the context was some cartoonishly evil writing). But there is a silver-lining that they still appear to be fond of each other, in a melancholy kind of way.

Realizing he's "genetically" primed for magic would be especially confronting to Damian. There's no denying his Al Ghul blood, forcing him to confront a facet of himself he can no longer ignore or reject. A family that he likely has to approach for help/guidance.

Damian is put in a position of acknowledging this power could be used for good, to be stronger, to fight crime, balancing it with the implication that what he possesses could be rooted in dark magic (Lazarus enchantment).

If he decides to embrace it, would that be too much of an endorsement of the Al Ghul's dark occultism? Can he separate the two ideas? What if he can't control it? What if he accidentally hurts someone? What if has the ability to save someone where his other skills fall short?

Ideally, I'd love for this hypothetical story to lead into Damian exploring his Al Ghul heritage more intimately, historically, and spiritually (à la RSoB: Year of Redemption adventures). Another little coming-of-age self discovery journey.

I have my own little personal thoughts on what Damian decides to do with his magic powers, but I'd like to leave that open to interpretation... By the end of it I hope that he will at least find some forgiveness over resentment, and a balance between accepting that side of his family a little easier. It is finally a sense of inner peace :)

Any thoughts? Did I get any characterisation wrong? Let's talk over on my DC blog @arkhamochi! I'm currently trying to read all Damian-centric comics until I catch up with the current run. I'm hungry for discussion and analysis!!!!!!

[fatherbrat]

cw. vampire!nanami, blood-sucking, murder & death, self-harm mention, melancholy, other vampire-y things. 1k words.

nanami would be the perfect vampire to turn you btw

you know it’s his nature to snare you, so you try your damnedest to resist. but it feels impossible. a blond devil who wears glasses and three-piece suits and spoils you with every luxury under the moon. and he wants needs you to be his. how could you tell him no?

he tries to ignore the urge to become your maker for four awfully long months. it would be a wicked thing to do, to turn you and keep you for eternity. he’d be tearing you away from your family, your friends, your career. stripping your life from you for his own selfish wants. 

but he’s not the gentleman he once was.

the night he turns you is unceremonious. it’s not the way he planned, but perhaps it’s better not to celebrate. death is rarely kind. your death is particularly excruciating. 

nanami, bless his unbeating heart, is unsure if he’ll be able to stop himself before he bleeds you dry. he prepares himself, of course, engorging himself on the blood of six others before he comes to you, trying to ensure he won’t drain you out of hunger. now all he’ll have to fight is his desire. 

he holds your jaw with one hand, gingerly, resting his thumb in your mouth so you can bite down when he does. he tells himself that the feeling of your teeth threatening to puncture his skin will keep him grounded. he tells himself that when your grip on his thumb starts to loosen, it will signal him to stop. he tells himself that he will stop. 

he tells you that teeth clenching is a side effect of the process, and he doesn’t want you to chip a tooth.

his teeth are colder than you expect. it feels like two frozen ice picks have stabbed you in the neck. you gasp and push at him instinctively, only to melt against him when he starts to suck and the bliss settles over you.

you’re not sure when you stop biting down on his thumb, or when start feeling silly and dizzy, like you're floating. all you know is that your brain feels like it’s swimming in your skull, and that nanami has cut himself and is making you suck on the wound.

he looks you in the eyes while you do it, watches how you swallow down his blood in a frenzy, as if you haven’t had anything to drink in weeks. it’s strangely intimate, more than when his mouth was on your neck, but you can hardly consider that now. the bliss is gone, replaced with a burn that sears you from the inside out. nanami just keeps watching. there’s nothing he can do for you at this point. no magic salve that’ll soothe the feeling of having your life force ripped away from you and then replaced with something dark and heavy and macabre. the experience is hellish. nanami wishes he could tell you it’s the worst part.

it takes a long time for you to adjust. you aren’t sad to leave your job, but it’s unbearable to leave your family, more so to leave your friends. you regret everything. you long for when you were warm and your heart was beating. you hate nanami. you wound yourself too many times trying to bathe in sunlight—three times by accident and three times in rebellion. he boards up the windows when he realizes you're burning yourself on purpose.

it hurts kento to see you hurt. during the first few months, that’s all you do: hurt yourself to hurt him. refusing meals and hunts and comfort. snubbing the decanters full of blood he leaves outside your bedroom door. you sleep all day and all night, going against your new brutish instincts everytime the sun sets. 

one night, you wake up from a restless sleep feverish and hysterical and desperate for something to drink. you have little memory of leaving your bedroom, or even of leaving the house. you drain an entire family in your delirious state, their bodies strewn about their property like children’s toys. it looks like a massacre. (it was.) 

nanami finds you not long after, sated and wrought with guilt. there’s a pity in his eyes when he scoops you up, holding you against his chest like you’re made of porcelain.

you appreciate that he doesn’t reprimand you even though you deserve to be. instead, takes you home and puts you in the tub. he tells you the story of how he nearly died not even three weeks after he was turned, the consequence of trying to feed on an animal he thought couldn’t kill him. it’s funny to think about: a version of nanami from a hundred years ago, brimming with an unknown strength, nearly taken out by an elk that was too shrewd for him.

“could you do it now?” you ask him, tilting your head back so he can wash the dried blood from your neck. 

“do what, my love?”

“kill the elk.”

he snorts. “of course. i did kill him back then. just with some…difficulty.”

a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. you lower your head, wanting to see his face when you ask him the next question. “do you think i could kill one?”

you can see him mulling over the question, his mouth set in a straight line as he scrubs your arm with too much concentration. you’re expecting him to say no. maybe he’s thinking so long because he’s trying to figure out how to let you down easy. 

“yes,” he finally answers, meeting your gaze so you can see the certainty in his eyes. “i think you could.”

you don’t ask him what’ll become of the family you slaughtered. you trust that he’ll take care of it, just as he took care of you, even when you didn’t want it.

you become resigned to your fate, hating kento less and less and letting him remind you of why you let him turn you in the first place. he teaches you how to hunt without leaving a mess, how to make the most of the night, how to not hate sleeping through the daytime. he’s nurturing in a way that humanizes him. you ask him questions and he answers. you ask for gifts and he delivers.

it occurs to you that there are worse people to be tied to forever. at least nanami looks after you. you feel a little like frankenstein’s monster, but less doomed and vengeful and more determined to adjust. it’s a good sign, you think, having the desire to adjust. it’s really a blessing that you have kento with you. this is likely the best case scenario.

(and he’s relieved you’re finally starting to see it that way.)

( ੭ ˘ ³˘)੭‎°｡⋆♡‧₊˚

[bitter-me]

Hello ! Can I ask Savanaclaw with a first year student (platonic) that is like LingYang from Wuthering waves pls ? Ignore it if you don't want to write it !!!

Have a good day !

Another Lion?

Savanaclaw | M. Reader as Lingyang [Wuthering Waves] (Platonic)

----------

"It's like a mini you!"

----------

The day [Name] arrived at Savanaclaw is the day where Leona get's another headache. Such an energetic guy.. honestly where did he got all that energy from? It's annoying. Like a child who's still learning the world around him, believing how being kind and sincere is a good thing. Meanwhile Jack and Ruggie is incredibly happy. [Name] is just such a nice guy, always willing to help, it's a nice change from how many rotten eggs are in Savanaclaw, believing that they're the "strongest."

It's even more interesting how [Name] appears to also be a lion like Leona but turned out way different. Ruggie would always joke how [Name] is the version of Leona if he was kinder. Which earned him quite the death glare. When [Name] offered a private lion dance performance. Boy is it a sight. Watching someone showing their culture and traditions are always a nice experience and seeing him go from pillar to pillar with such swift motions is quite mesmerizing. [Name] is more than happy to teach them lion dancing if they asked.

With how swift he is, [Name] instantly made his way on to the Magical Shift/Spelldrive team in Savanclaw. He's just so agile, perhaps being a lion dancer makes him quite nimble.

Leona still finds him annoying though but after some interactions, [Name] makes a wonderful sleeping buddy. How? Well somehow he always without fail found the nicest and seclusive spots for naps. [Name]'s senses are surprisingly sharper than his, which throw Leona off the loop for a moment, and just like that [Name] had officially become Savanclaw's younger brother, who ever dare lay a single finger on him will answer to the Housewarden.

Ruggie and [Name] bonded like brothers, playing pranks here and there, enjoying life. Jack is like the more responsible older brother. Ready to help, and tries to get the two of them out of trouble, he may seem mean, but he's a big softie.

----------

Spoilers to those who haven't done Lingyang's companion quest

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Leona, Ruggie, Jack, and [Name] were at the Savanaclaw's dorm, Leona is napping like always, while Ruggie and Jack told stories of from their hometown as [Name] listens eagerly, happy to learn new things. "Oh? So it's like a folklore? Jinzhou also had one. It's called the Jingle Beast." [Name] says casually, looking out at the horizon with a faint smile, remembering it well how people use to fear such a "beast."

"They say that there's a beast somewhere out there and that when it hunts, you could hear the sound of a bell jingle. It's as simple as that really." He explains casually with a chuckle in the end. Such a silly rumor.

"Kishishishi! Really now? A Jingle Beast?" Ruggie can't help but laugh at such an interesting folklore. "Some say it's just a Suan'ni. A mystical creature that has amazing abilities. Some were skeptical though, since Suan'ni's are practically extinct now." [Name] added, looking down at the ground where they sat. This caught their attention, even Leona as he opens one eye and glance over to the three of them.

Ruggie thought about it for a moment before nodding in response, his face became more serious. "I don’t blame them. In ancient times, the world used to be a very brutal world. Suan‘nies were hunted and killed by humans for their own profit and desires. It was cruel and not fair."

[Name] remain silent for a moment, thinking back on those times. "In my own option…" He began slowly.

"The last Suan'ni might have yearn to become a human… it yanked out all of its fur, filled down its claws, twisted its bones, and learn how to stand upright." [Name] explains in a soft and melancholy tone, his gaze never leaving the ground, his ears occasionally twitched as he says those words.

"Anyway…" He paused, adding with hesitant in his voice. "It.. never really became a human in the end.."

Pure silence. Nothing but pure silence follows after that.

Ruggie and Jack look at [Name] with widened eyes, heck, even Leona had gotten up, sitting upright and looking at the other with a dumbfounded expression. They immediately picked up on what the other is implying.

Of course the Suan'ni never became a human in the end... because at the end of the day.. it is still a Suan'ni.

Through out the centuries... animals evolved and that's how they could now stand on two feet, talk, and etc etc.

But what about those who are older? Before such evolution could even be achieve? Suppose...

[Name] had answer that question.

[etheries1015]

What about Diasomnia going into MC's dream? They had been through Lilias time of war and magic, his tragic backstory and beautiful history, and suddenly they were in your...much less "exciting" world.

A boring life seemed to be a harsh description of what your world was, but there wasn't many other words to properly describe your world and your life. The reality was as such; boring. Every day was the same - work whatever that may have been, home. Work, home. Work, home. And although you may have had people around you, there wasn't ever truly a time you seemed to be...happy.

A lonely life. A boring, magicless, mundane, and slow life. That was how you would describe your world- the color grey, vibrant hues stripped from its core leaving behind a shadow that never seemed to leave your side.

Of course, there wasn't anything inherently wrong about living a slow and boring life; however it just never seemed to feel right to you, experiencing little to no excitement, no danger, no risks...the place you felt most at home was the comfort of your own mind.

You seldom spoke about your life prior to Twisted Wonderland to any who would inquire, you had a laid out response every time someone asked;

"There isn't much of a story to tell."

And suddenly they, Lilia sebek and Silver, were standing in front of you.

You, who was sobbing into your hands inconsolable.

You, who was absolutely miserable

This wasn't their fun sunshine prefect they knew,

This was a shell of a person who hated their mundane life.

Sebek Lilia and Silver all stared at you from a distance as you simply stared at the sky with a somber twinkle in your eyes. It was useless to come up to you- there was no way you'd understand where they had come from, and no way you remembered magic. Instead of marveling at the prospect of being inside a place completely opposite of Twisted Wonderland, they were instead silent in their sadness staring at the prefect they had come to love.

You looked up at the sky which was turning dark, taking notice of a singular star that had planted itself directly above you. This star was particularly beautiful- beautiful enough for you to decide that perhaps it had the properties to bring you peace of mind.

"Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight," You hesitated before letting out a breathy chuckle while shaking your head, almost as if you were making fun of yourself for speaking such words.

"I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight." Another stretch of hesitance reigned as you simply stared at the dark sky, contemplating whether or not it was worth trying. You seemed to have made up your mind, letting out a sigh and offering your wish to the star.

"Please, just...Send me somewhere. Anywhere but this place."

A moment of silence seemed to tease you at your request, and you sighed yet another pathetically melancholy sigh. The three boys truly pitied the sight before them. Although not a backstory of betrayal, war, or fantasy, seeing you so disheveled and in a state of disrepair was a different kind of tragedy.

The silence that rang was rudely interrupted by the sound of clicking against the ground and a neigh of a horse- you didnt have a moment to realize what was happening until it was far too late. You stood up in a mere second of panic as you saw a horse with a carriage in tow, a large black carriage you hadn't even a split second to notice the details.

You heard the sound of voices calling out your name

Before the carriage had come and made impact

ultimately granting your wish.

[diejager]

New Ownership

Pairing: Dark!Krueger + König x doll!reader

Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, possessive behaviour, magic?, death, heartbreak, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.2k

You used to watch people awe at you, expressing their shock, incredulous and pleasing, under the protection of your owner —your creator. You were an object of emotion; of melancholy. You were a life size doll made of porcelain and wax, of hohair and glass eyes, painted in the richest pigments and dressed in the finest fabrics, you were the epitome of treasure in your time. A doll made with utmost care and tenderness to heal a wounded heart. 

Your creator was a doll maker, building every doll with a special kind of affection, be it for his collection or for a client, he always loved his dolls. He made as much as he gave, the single joy of his life was the present his late-wife gave him, a daughter to call his own, someone soft and living unlike the cold bisque of his creations. You were a present for her coming-of-age, a mimicry of her person, made with love for the adoration he had for his daughter, and sadness for seeing her grow up and leave, to start a new life without him. Every stroke was perfection and every detail was imperfection, you were perfectly imperfect, a mirror to a human.

You were made as an object to remember him by once she left to live with her fiance, painted in the last moments before he saw her off. He dressed you up in a pretty dress, a voluptuous crimson for the passion and a deep black for the end of he past and the start of a new beginning. He made you into what he saw his sweet, precious daughter as, a dream that he was ecstatic to gift, but she was in an accident the week before her celebration. She died of it, passing in writhing pain and tearful agony. It broke the man who lived to care. Your tender creator who lived to love and give.

He drowned in the throes of sorrow and agony, paraliysed by his own fears and torn apart by his nightmares, and left the house you once loved to rot and waste away just as he was. Sobbing nights and depressing mornings, you were unable to do anything but watch as he spent his days rotting, his skin sinking, his hair outgrow and his complexity pale unhealthily, yet he still cared for you. Your creator —your father cleaned you, dressed you and incased you in a thin layer of wax and gel to protect you from the changing times. 

You gave him solace, something to live for after he closed his quaint shop and became a hermit, crazed and lonely, having nothing but you to talk to and spend his shortening time with. You wished you could tell him how much you cared, how much you shared his sorrows or how saddened you were to see him like this. And like his daughter, your father passed away, heartbroken and lonely, leaving you to watch over his cooling body dissolving in his bed. All the wasted years, spent seated in your chair, unmoving and unliving, never being able to reach out to him to show him how much you loved him. Life, however, ran its course, uncaring of any kind of self-sought fury or self-given agony, you were just a doll given conscience and memory. 

You were picked up by a relative, estranged and distant from yours. He was German, or Austrian from the rough tone he used, a deep growl as he appraised you, rough fingers caressing your face like he was admiring you. He was, this wasn’t admiration in his eyes, you knew it, that sick and twisted gleam in his brown eyes, it was obsession. It was a perverted kind of adoration, it made you fear what he would do to you.

And these fears, these demons that clung to your peripheral, weren’t unfounded, weren’t an illusion your conscience made up to fill the void in your empty core. You were carefully stuffed in a box, stored safely during the long move from your small town in Germany to a place in Austria, locked away in a loud and dark place and only brought out to be placed in another cage of gold. 

He laid you in a pentagram of sorts, a crooked thing painted in a dark red and terrifying runes that promised nothing but evil. He enacted this… ritual that would affect you in some way, his low chants and hisses while he stared you down with hungry eyes once he stripped you of all clothes, lathering your porcelain with markings. He scared you more, knowing that he had this planned out, and that he wasn’t alone. 

There was a shadow of a giant behind him, a man heads taller than most with cold eyes peeking through a fabric to gaze at you. He had broad shoulders and thick arms, seemingly swallowing the corner he stood from. He took up a lot of your attention, ripped between the chanting man and him from your chair, placed perfectly at the center of this ritualistic circle. You were a show to the giant and a project to your new owner, a spectacle to watch unravel and writhe in pain.

It hurt. Why did this hurt? Your skin tingled, an annoyance that grew to a boiling agony, this sacrilegious magic reworking your imperfect body to fit one of his whims. You shook in your chair, the red sinking into your skin, lining the inside of your precious porcelain with runes as your fingers and toes flexed, limbs jerking from the information overload on your new nerves, synapses snapping into place and building a circuit of sensitive system. You could blink and you could cry, tears springing from your fluttering lashes, lips trembling before you screamed, a shrill cry that wailed out of your lungs. 

Your chest burned, it felt heavy with an erratic pulse, beat after beat slamming into your calcified ribs, warm fat and strained muscles. You felt like you were drowning, your throat clogged with something sick and dying after you shriek, acidic to your tongue. It stole the air from your lungs and you had to fill it back, the nagging urge to do so. Your chest expanded with your first breath, it hurt - it burned, but you didn’t drown - but it seamed the first seed of life within you. 

You slumped forward, eyes rolling to the back of your head as the last words he uttered passed through your mind, a searing memory forever imprinted in your conscience. You fell into warm arms, a soothing warmth unlike the boiling pit of magma that raged over you, embracing you with a quiet coo from the man who brought you to life. He hoisted you up, wrapping an arm under your knees and another firmly pressing your naked chest to his. Yours limbs were strangers to you, new and uncanny that you couldn’t move or control just yet. You limply laying your head in the crook of his neck, burying your nose in a green veil smelling strongly of musk and metal, your legs too weak and arms too tense like a newly born fawn.

“Besorg mir etwas, um sie zu bedecken, König”

“Ja, bin gleich wiener da..”

“Welcome to the living, Rehkitz.”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

[malleleothreesome]

Under the Mistletoe with Malleus

❤️ summary: Malleus' latest hyperfixation is mistletoe ༶༶༶ 💚 warnings: gender neutral reader, SFW, fluff, romance, Christmas centric but not religious ༶༶༶ ❤️ word count: 4k ༶༶༶ 💚 inspired by: this ask thank you! ♡✧*:･ﾟ

Malleus listens intently to all the tales you have to tell, all the little pieces of your world, of yourself—all the little snippets that come rushing out from the recesses of your memories, painting a picture of your humanity and the universe you'd once inhabited. All the intricacies and details of how your family would spend Christmas, the foods, the gifts, the songs—he loves hearing all about your unique traditions and experiences. Malleus is endlessly grateful for each of these recollections that you decide to entrust him with—small moments of personal history that hold so much weight in shaping who you are. Your mind runs wild as your thoughts run rampant, a blur of vivid recollections that overwhelm you. Then, he sees the tears brimming on your lash line and the tremble of your lower lip, his heart sinking instantly when the painful weight of homesickness visibly crashes down upon you. His own emotions, his yearning, his gratitude are all clogged up in his throat. When the tears finally drip past your lashes and down your cheeks, you're swaddled in strong, firm arms that cradle you. Malleus doesn't bother with words as he shushes your sobs, only offering his comfort with the secure tuck of your frame against his larger form, and the gentle tracing of his elegant, gloved fingertips along the curve of your back in soothing circles. His soft humming is melodious against the crook of your shoulder, warm and welcoming as he surrounds you completely.

Wanting to make the Christmas season extra special for you, his dearest friend, Malleus spends copious hours poring over the plethora of holiday books he could acquire from the school library—reading and studying each festive tale, tradition, and legend until the pages are wrinkled with the oils from his fingertips. Each chapter carefully absorbed and ingrained into his psyche, his eyes sparkling alight with delight and fascination, relishing in the lightness and warmth of the holidays as he familiarized himself with this magical and jovial festivity. When Christmas rolls around the corner, Malleus ensures the front entrance to Ramshackle dorm is lit up and decked to the nines in brightly glowing lights strung all over the framework—an aura of luminescence and color enveloping the dilapidated architecture with festive spirit. The rest of the exterior of the Dorm was covered with glittering golden tinsel, wreaths, garlands and pinecones—whatever he had deemed as festive in his extensive research.

Malleus was determined to honor this strange holiday—a special and important part of your childhood—but unfortunately, none of the decorations, lights, or Christmas cheer were quite as meaningful and special as what he wanted it all to symbolize. When he heard about the tradition involving a parasitic plant, he was naturally intrigued by the idea that a plant would wilt away and die if not united with a particular organism—it could only flourish and thrive when entwined with its complementary other half. In return, the mistletoe would provide both beautiful flowers and ripe fruit, enhancing the lives of the forest around them and fostering harmony within the ecosystem. However, it was the usage of that plant during a kiss that truly made him delighted by its macabre nature and its value to this sacred human festivity. It seemed befitting somehow that the now dead mistletoe, the melancholy parasite that thrives in connection with others, could bring a measure of life and happiness to all who cross its path through a kiss under its eternal, desiccated embrace. Perhaps, this tradition could serve as his best effort to explain that this gesture was intended as a token of appreciation for the kindness you have extended to him—the pleasure and privilege of having you, such a splendid and bright star, in his dark and dreary world—his reward to you for making him feel alive with such an overwhelming sense of happiness that he didn't even know the sensation could exist until you entered into his life. For Malleus, you were the one to awaken him, to pull him from a long slumber and into your embrace, allowing him the privilege of knowing warmth, love, and joy once more. A ghost of a smile appears on his lips, unbidden, as he imagines the roots of the mistletoe spreading through both your lungs, finding nourishment in each other's energy, a complete symbiosis.

Malleus desired so much that your connection would be reciprocal, as intimate and profound as the magic of this holiday would allow. Though your relationship up until this point has remained platonic, he hopes the magic of this custom might give him permission to love and cherish you as so much more. From the moment he first laid his eyes on you, his heart had already made his decision. That fiery intensity of emotion for you has only been compounded with each meeting the two of you have shared—the yearning that only grows stronger with each moment he spends at your side. His feelings for you have reached a saturation point; the deep well of passion and affection that burns ever stronger within the confines of his chest will not be extinguished unless the source of all his turmoil is revealed and answered in due kind. At long last, he wastes no time in preparing the customary kiss. His heart yearns so dearly for it that even the constant tug of his usual shyness and trepidation could never possibly bring him to halt in his advances. Malleus promised himself that the delicate, thriving thing you and he were developing would not fall prey to the same pitiful demise as the mistletoe if left untouched and unwatered. If you did indeed feel similarly about him, he could only imagine the beauty and majesty that would blossom between your intertwined souls, a union of great and unstoppable potency, a lifetime of adoration and devotion.

Therefore, he procured a large branch of mistletoe, so ripe and abundant with sprigs that its small, white berries shimmered and shone. The hanging plant seemed to call out, in a sing-song tinkle of fairy bell laughs, for his beloved to walk underneath, so he could ensnare you in its clutches and give you an obligatory kiss you couldn’t refuse—or so he hoped. Malleus wrapped the strand with some festive red ribbon, decorated with twirling glittery snowflakes, making it shimmer under the twinkling rays of Christmas light. Then, he carefully balanced the mistletoe at the highest point above the doorsill and stepped back, admiring the way the golden glow of the lights would reflect off the glossy white berries, casting them in an ethereal iridescent glow that made them pop, dancing across its branches as though possessed by some Christmas spirit. They sang for you, just waiting for you to take Malleus up on their unspoken promise of his unrequited, hidden desires for your lips.

With that, Malleus knocked on your door. Though, despite his determination and his willpower—so vast and endless that his ambition was virtually limitless—Malleus couldn't help but be flustered, his hands trembling and sweat forming along his brow, heart rate beginning to rise like a swelling wave until he could hear it beating in his pointed ears. The silence that engulfed him was deafening as his mind replayed the myriad ways you might respond to his advances—sharing his sentiments, returning his affections, giving him the opportunity to finally love and kiss you the way he so desperately, hopelessly yearned. Or—perhaps, his advances could have an unwanted negative reaction, creating friction or even destroying your friendship—if not the very love he sought—completely. Undeterred by the looming anxiety that threatens to drown him like a tempest-wrought sea, his heart manages to remain valiant and brave, the steady rhythm keeping him tethered, ensuring him the courage to risk the possibility of breaking apart and dissipating with the winter wind that sieves through his lithe fingers.

As he hears the creaking footsteps along the old staircase inside, the adrenaline kicks in, giving him the fight or flight impulse he has been lacking, his legs stiffening, threatening to buckle from his immense nerves, knees trembling so harshly that he almost loses his balance. He shuts his eyes, trying to brace himself for whatever comes next, not allowing himself to breathe again until the knob finally gives way and the door is thrown open. At last, Malleus gazes upon your dazzling appearance, flooding his vision with an image he's dreamed about for weeks: you stand before him, bathed in the bright, effervescent light, glittering hues of gold and green like a present wrapped up just for him. Before he even allows you a moment to compose yourself and register his presence, Malleus can't help himself, the need to let his words rush out overwhelming him until his syllables practically stumble over each other.

"I wish to partake in the traditional parasite with you," he tells you quickly, trying to sound confident despite the urgent desperation to speak leaking through in his strained vocal chords, struggling to hide the shakiness that attempts to invade and taint the voice he wanted to convey his longing for you with. His words are filled with hope and trepidation, his emerald eyes wide with vulnerability as the mistletoe glistens under the shimmer of lights he personally strung up, bathing the two of you and your surroundings in a magnificent luminance that casts a perfect spellbinding glow upon the scene. Your mouth falls slightly ajar as your eyelids flutter in confusion before registering his intention, noticing the way his expectant eyes dart between your lips and the hanging plant above your door frame, his intense gaze giving you the most telling implication. The sudden realization of his motive renders your whole being paralyzed. Your face heats up from the sheer impossibility of the moment and your brain fizzles into a complete and utter daze, unsure how to comprehend the enormity of the offer he's extending.

An eternity seemed to pass as the seconds ticked on, his dark brows knitting together as the mist and tension seemed to wrap around the both of you. The sting of the cold wind whistled past the space that seemed to shrink between the two of you in unbearable torment. A curtain of lacy snow was falling around, shrouding everything in a dull glow. The night itself seemed to be in a strange sort of serenity and apprehension—watching his eyes lock onto you so intently and feeling his breath, hot and heavy, mingling in the frost between the two of you. The foggy mist of the cool evening air floats through your hair, tiny particles of frozen water suspended around you and shimmering brilliantly as the beams of multicolored lights shine past and illuminate each crystalline droplet in a celestial aura.

Despite it all, your focus was on him alone.

Finally, he was able to collect the breath stolen from his lungs and continue his confession, taking your floundering silence as an invitation for his explanation. "I had wished to spend some time with you under a mistletoe, even though this is something that humans usually do with their partners or loved ones..." he admits sheepishly. You couldn't stop the gasp that escaped your lips when you saw how glassy and emotive his eyes were, the sparkling lights catching the yellow flecks in his viridescent stare.

A shadowy flush washes over his pale complexion as he allows the words he had tried so long to repress to come flowing freely from his lips. "I've noticed how sad you seemed since you were removed from your world, and I wanted to bring you a little of the Christmas cheer you're accustomed to. I wanted to ensure we'd have a pleasant Christmas, especially with how often you've shown me such loving kindness," a sigh escaped his throat, "you've gone to such great lengths, I wanted you to know just how much you mean to me..." His fingers thread together anxiously as he continues his ramblings. "I was so excited to learn the Christmas tales, legends, and histories behind all the traditions... There is so much joy and good-will involved. It seemed a befitting way to honor our time together. As my beloved friend—," his tone holds a subtle note of reluctance to his last statement as he lingers on the term a bit too long. "I wanted to ensure your time in Twisted Wonderland wasn't depressing, and that you experienced Christmas as best you could under your circumstances." The more his sentences seem to elongate, the further he's pulled into himself and begins to overthink every minuscule aspect of his interaction.

The wind picks up slightly, blowing his silky, ebony locks away from his forehead, revealing the shiny scales that cascade up the top half of his head as his horns poke out through the billowing strands. His long, heavy cloak trails behind him, sweeping up the fresh piles of glittery snowfall, shimmering under the auras of the decorative lights he painstakingly strung for you. Malleus was so imposing in the darkness of the night—there's an ineffable beauty to it as his skin seems to emit its own soft glow. Yet, despite his frightening appearance, he appears so docile and timid standing before you with his head bowed, one foot dragging the toe of his boot along the white slush and ice, kicking clumps of snowy wisps, attempting to abate his mounting anxiety.

"...Are you aware, child of man, of the nature and symbolism of the mistletoe?" He pauses and peers into your eyes, emerald pools pleading for mercy as a crack opens within him, revealing his fluttering soul for your scrutiny, allowing you to glimpse his emotional state in a rare display. "Mistletoe requires the partnership and nourishment of another to keep it flourishing—without its partner, it will wither and die a gruesome death, gasping, desperate, starving..." The strain on his tone is audible, words full of unspeakable yearning as he pines so desperately, the loneliness of centuries seeming to distill within a single, all-encompassing desire for your acceptance and love. His Adam's apple bobs with a hard gulp of apprehension as he seeks the approval he longs for deep within your gaze, hoping he has finally found the love of which he has searched for since the first heartbeat he has taken.

"No matter where it falls, or how strong its stem or seed, it will perish without another plant to sustain and nurture it," his explanation was grave and yet somehow poetic, holding you entranced with rapt attention. Each sentence was meant to mimic his struggle—the endless waiting, and the desperate need for companionship that has weighed so heavy on his aching heart for so long. The solemn confession of a hopeless romantic, yearning desperately for the chance to take root, plant his soul and spread until all the ache was gone, replaced by the warmth and fulfillment of life only a partner could give him.

"And yet, if the two plants come into symbiosis with each other, the result is breathtaking—one would not expect something so simple would possess such transcendent beauty and vibrance," his melodic tenor takes on an ethereal quality, as the wondrous facts he learned are once again brought to the surface, replacing the melancholy in the air. "Mistletoe is capable of blossoming to life; producing flowers and bearing fruits when combined with its host, providing an environment for both plants to flourish and thrive," his heart picks up its pace at the subtle meaning and implication behind his words. "Once a healthy mistletoe becomes entangled with its beloved, the pair remain connected and thrive, ultimately strengthened by the bonds forged in interdependency, blooming brightly against the frigid temperatures of winter." Malleus' soul is brimming and bubbling over with the hope and anticipation of a relationship with you and, in an instant, Malleus understands what it truly means to be alive.

"Since you first crossed my path, the mistletoe within my chest grew with such ravenous appetite, longing to reach out to your heart and find harmony, sharing in warmth and nurturing life. You, my lovely starlight, are a plant of the utmost virtue," he gently caresses your cheek as you fall deeper under his enchantment. His words have rendered you completely immobilized, the smooth silk of his voice ensnaring you, unable to escape its sweet whispers and dulcet tone. "For the first time in all of my years, the bud inside me began to bear fruit and opened my eyes to a paradise I never thought possible. Through a simple act of your kindness, you have breathed life into my tired and aching heart and granted me new purpose." Malleus cups your face so delicately, long, tapered fingers stroking the curve of your cheekbones in loving affection. He gazes at you with glowing, adoring eyes, staring deep into the infinite possibilities of your future together. The soft plumes of the falling snowflakes softly embrace you as his feather-light touch communicates all his longing and unspoken passions. You allow yourself to bask in the tender and raw vulnerability of his heart as the glimmering lights and stars in the sky shine with the promise of a brighter tomorrow for you both.

"I had spent many years in unending isolation. Each passing second in your presence was the happiest, most indescribable euphoria. It took a considerable amount of time to discover these feelings and become aware that they are associated with the yearning for intimacy, something which I was denied for a great amount of my lifespan. I've long desired the things I've learned your Christmas legends signify," the words leave him on a wistful sigh, an endless source of elation. "Of family, comfort, love... All that I desire for Christmas is you," he concludes softly. "It was thanks to my research into the mistletoe that I realized how much I needed your lips as though without them I would never draw another breath, so I ask... Do you wish to be mine? Could I have the gift of your lips, of a kiss?" he requests breathlessly as the tip of his tapered thumb ghosts across the flesh of your plush lower lip, sending shivers throughout your whole being.

At last, the confessions of his affections toward you reach their inevitable resolution, allowing the culmination and coalescence of every feeling and emotion within his soul to burst forth like fireworks, shooting off into the midnight air in an explosion of beauty and intensity that would cause any witness to pause and stare in awe of the magic of the night. Like the soft, romantic tones of Christmas music and the enchanted glimmers of holiday lights, Malleus' spell woven in the lyrics of his confession engulfs you in an aurora borealis of ardent devotion. The feeling of his hands against your cheeks radiates warmth and comfort as he cradles your visage close, tender and secure against the soft flurries that flow all around you, surrounding you with an intimate aura of holiday mirth. You find yourself leaning into his touch as your heart and soul yearn to return the depths of his affection, so openly displayed across his handsome, captivating features. With a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins, your knees threatening to buckle from his searing yet unyielding stare, you gather the strength to utter the most wonderful syllables you have ever experienced the pleasure of pronouncing—the sum of every single one of his blessings wrapped up neatly into one succinct phrase.

"I love you, too."

Your voice was shaky, unsteady, cracking under the emotion, but the message was unmistakable. The intensity of the moment rendered Malleus stunned and speechless, tears of delight stinging his emerald eyes, brimming at the waterline with the intensity of his joy. Every single day was spent thinking of the next instance where the two of you might cross paths and now, you'd just given him the most spectacular present in the world. Malleus doesn't think about anything else, he just leans in, lips parted ever so slightly, barely containing the gasping breath that escapes his throat as his nose nudges yours and his entire world collapses upon itself before igniting with an incandescence of pure elation. With all the delicate adoration of his whole, enchanted being, he offers you a sweet brush of his soft, inviting lips against yours. A whimper emanates from his mouth as a trembling sob of disbelief is unleashed, reverberating between the two of you and sending every last vestige of his restrained sentiment into you, engulfing your heart in a fervid embrace that crushes you with all the weight of his desperation—his centuries' worth of desire and craving for an end to his misery.

Despite having never been kissed, his lips moved confident and gentle, as though it were as natural as his very breath, or the thrum of his heart. The sensations were unparalleled—better than his wildest expectations as your flesh entwined with his, mingling the pliant texture and pillowy warmth. A satisfied sigh rolls past his tongue, which teases the seam of your mouth, offering gentle, fleeting sensations as he licks and teases your bottom lip. A series of jolts rock your frame when his fangs accidentally nip at the skin. The sound that leaks from his throat as he swipes his tongue over the wound and laps up the warm, metallic liquid of your blood is guttural and broken with the raw emotion of being deprived of such ecstasy for so long. It was heavenly—to finally be united and experience the taste of love, passion, and the transcendent rapture of the one and only person to ever make him feel such happiness. 

He swallows every whimper and moan of your kiss, reveling in the sounds that permeate through your entangled forms and dance on the frosted wind. Your fingers come to thread through his silk-like locks, nails grazing his scalp until a shudder rattles his chest and his tongue can't help but invade the hot, wet cavern of your mouth. There's a subtle pressure placed on the base of your skull, adding a deeper angle, so that he may completely envelope and taste the sweetness of your saliva as you revel in each other. When the chill of the winter winds brings forth the full impact of the cold, and the mistletoe spins aimlessly under its icy breath, swaying above, you are undeterred in the bliss of your newfound love. Your noses smudge as you press yourself further, gaining deeper contact and savoring each brush of his deft, explorative tongue and the tickle of his heated breath fanning against the sensitive surface of your palette. The kiss sparks flames within you that make you forget the bitter chill, warming the deepest crevices of your core, staving off the frigidness of the night and replacing it with the cozy, fluffy heat of your love. You clutch desperately, latching onto the black tailcoat and pressing the muscles and softness of your bodies even closer, desperate for each touch, wanting him as close to your form as you can manage. The fullness of your feelings for each other, and the completeness of his confession, finally come together in a bittersweet, perfect dance of two souls. Forever bound, hearts thudding in unison as you two continue to exchange kisses underneath the mistletoe, filling this merry season with newfound glee and a holiday tradition all your own.

When you two finally make it inside, you sit comfortably with his arms wrapped around you atop a pile of plush blankets, surrounded by mounds of pillows under the twinkling lights of the massive tree he had erected and draped in garland. Next to him, there was nowhere better you'd rather be, snuggling deeper into his warmth, burying yourself in his embrace and cuddled tight under his heavy, weighted cloak as the roaring fire before you burned in a warmth that reflected that of the deep, profound affection the two of you shared for each other. As he held you in his lap, surrounded by the soft music playing in the background and the decorations he'd strung, he looks at you with excitement alight on his beautiful visage, eager to share more fun facts about his latest hyperfixation. With the shimmering lights refracting across the deep emerald pools of his gaze, he starts to ramble, "Did you know, mistletoe is also a sacred symbol of fertility—"

Woah, woah, woah, woah... I just spent all day working on this, its like, 10:30pm and now I'm just now eating mac and cheese for dinner. I really love what I created, I hope you all do too. This was fulfilling a request for my 12 Days of TWSTmas event, so uh, anon, I'm not sure if this is what you expected of me... I think I projected my own newfound mistletoe hyperfixation onto Malleus a bit too hard, but I hope this meets your expectations. I'm desperate to hear all your thoughts on this one, I really want you guys to love this as much as I do! I wish I had more to say here, but my brain is melting. My exhausted brain longs to sign this off like a corporate email. Best, Erica Malleleothreesome

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Espionage" - Kaz Brekker x Reader

SUMMARY: Lord de Witt is throwing an exclusive banquet for socialites - just the perfect opportunity for Kaz to put his hands on whatever the aristocrat has in his safe. Fortunately, being an ambassador's daughter, you can easily smuggle him in but the two of you must pretend you're engaged to avoid suspicion.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 3.7k

>>Grishaverse-inspired playlist&lt;<

If Jesper didn’t know Kaz, he’d think he was having a laugh.

“When you said you know someone, I was expecting everything but the daughter of an ambassador.” Then, in a slightly anxious manner, he turns to look at you apologetically. “No offence.”

There is something quite amusing in his uneasiness as though Jesper is expecting to be decapitated for as much as giving you a sour grimace. You’re probably the closest thing to nobility he’s ever been around.

“Worry not, sir,” you reassure him with a polite smile on your face, “I will try my best not to spoil your criminal quality.”

His eyebrows furrow and he leans towards Inej. “Did… did she just call me ‘sir’?” he asks quietly.

“Don’t get used to it,” she answers half-heartedly, busy pondering something else.

“How do you even know each other?” Jesper points between you and Kaz but the moment his index finger is directed towards you, he quickly puts his hand down. “I doubt you’ve been to the Barrel before.”

To any passerby, the sight of you and the Crows standing next to each other must look like a skit. With your expensive, light-coloured dress and back about as straight as a broomstick, you really do stand out like a sore thumb. Are those lowlifes bothering a proper lady or is she perhaps noble enough to offer them a few coins?

“That’s quite right. When my father was fraudulently accused of conspiring against the crown, mister Brekker,” out of pure habit you vaguely gesture towards him, “had been so kind as to solve this perplexing hoax. It is only fair that I agree to help him when he asks.”

Kaz checks his watch. Then, his expression suddenly becomes stern, focused, and you know exactly what it means.

“We should go,” he states. His eyes have a strange glint of both coldness and concealed worry to them. “There’s no backing out now.”

Your polite smile doesn’t falter. “I wasn’t considering such a thing.”

The dearth path around the lawn in front of the manor is blocked with countless carriages - horses of one freight have their nostrils pushed against the rolling stock of another cart. It seems as though Lord de Witt has invited half of the continent to his exclusive banquet. Half of them, one might assume, came out of courtesy or simply because of the other guests sure to attend.

Mixing into the crowd of rich men and aristocracy, choking on the powder and perfume, you tell Kaz the basics of banquets like this:

“Let me do the talking. You’re accompanying me, which among socialites makes you akin to a show horse. Of course, someone might ask you a question but it will be pure courtesy. They don’t actually care, because they don’t know you. Answer shortly and politely.”

“Will it not raise suspicion that the ambassador’s daughter is engaged to a no-one?”

“Not if he’s a First Army veteran, wounded on the front lines by a Fjerdan savage,” you say in a theatrical manner. His perpetual frown elicits a chuckle from you. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m sure you can sell it. Besides, if you seem grim enough, which shouldn’t be a problem honestly, the guests won’t dare ask any more questions.”

The porter nods knowingly in your direction. Despite his old age, he’s quick to recognize the little lady you once were. You offer him the invitation but he waves his hand in dismissal. His fingers tremble slightly, making you wonder in all of your melancholy whether he’d still be able to do all those small magic tricks he used to entertain you with.

Following the mob of guests, you end up in a spacious ballroom. Crystal chandeliers reflect candlelight, causing ethereal rainbows to dance across the frescoes painted on the ceiling. Some of the artwork presented landscapes, other battles and even Saints - all of them equally breathtaking. The hall is filled with a plethora of scents: vertigo-inducing perfume, imported fruits, freshly-cut flowers, braised meats. To Kaz, this is the smell of wealth but to you, the ballroom only smells of home.

Appearance-wise, Kaz falls a bit behind compared to the three-piece suits and cylinders but the difference is not stark enough for people to give him contemptuous glances. In all honesty, this will help you sell the yarn you’re spinning. After all, what veteran has enough money to buy a whole suit for just one evening?

“Come on, we should say our greetings to the host,” you say quietly while gently nudging his arm.

As though you are something of a Grisha yourself, the middle-aged man in question suddenly appears in front of you. His face has gained a few deep wrinkles since the last time you saw him but still, his prominent laughter lines are the first thing people notice about him. Considering what kind of person Lord de Witt is, it’s a reliable first impression - a rare occurrence among thieves and noblemen alike.

The man’s face beams with happiness when he recognizes you, his eyes nearly disappearing in a genuine smile. “Ah, принцесса!” he exclaims, opening his arms. “You’re more beautiful every time I see you.” Holding your hand, he meaningfully leans down but never presses a polite kiss against your skin. Instead, he curtly nods while maintaining eye contact, uneasy at the thought of such a gesture.

“I thank you for the kind words, Lord de Witt,” you answer. “It is a pleasure to be your guest.”

He furrows his eyebrows and dismissively waves his hand. “Nonsense, you’re not just an ordinary guest. Tell me, how’s your father? Is our ambassador in good health?”

“The weather is terrible on his knees, I’m afraid. Only laudanum and nettle curb his pain enough to let him work. If I may inquire as to where Lady de Witt is? I haven’t seen her among the guests.”

Lord’s face grows brighter once again but this time there’s a sense of longing in his tired, grey eyes. “My dear Betty left for Novyi Zem just a few days ago. Ever since Lady de Serre expressed interest in her antique collection, she’s been eager to go back.”

Kaz, so far unnoticed by the aristocrat, glances between you and the man. You’re exchanging mere greetings and courtesies, yet he’s learned quite a few interesting things in just those few sentences. Nobility, as it seems, will say everything and anything as long as they think they’re talking to an equal.

His inquisitive thoughts must have pushed some Saint’s hand because Lord de Witt suddenly turns his attention to him, although continues talking to you. “The dapper young man is your husband, I presume?”

“Not yet, unfortunately,” you say with a bashful giggle - very ladylike, even if forced. “Igor Dreesen,” you introduce him. Kaz shakes the Lord’s hand without ever giving away that he’s never heard that name before. “He has fought in the First Army, on the front lines.”

“You have my eternal gratitude, gentleman.” Lord de Witt has an iron grip on Kaz’s hand, holding it significantly longer than Brekker is comfortable with. “May we all have your bravery and loyalty. Please, enjoy the evening.”

Kaz waits for the Lord to be out of earshot before turning to you. “He seems to know you well.” Maybe you’re reading too much into it or maybe there is a hint of suspicion in his tone.

“When I was younger, I used to come here every week. Valeriya de Witt, Lord’s eldest daughter, taught me embroidery. I know this manor like my own home.”

“Then you surely know where the safe is.”

“It could be in his bedroom or in his office.”

Kaz cocks his head. “So you don’t actually know.”

“I’ve met quite a few noblemen and state officials, Kaz. The older the money, the less we’re careful. De Witt’s office is next door,” you motion your head to the side.

Strolling through the ballroom towards the office door, weaving your way between gold-threaded gowns and made-to-order suits, you can’t help but wonder about the master thief by your side or rather what the world looks like through his eyes. You can recall so many gossip exchanges where a group of complete strangers would discuss their wealth and business, believing that their secrets are safe among socialites similarly to unaffiliated thugs discussing their commissions over a pint of watered-down beer. In a thief’s world, you’re something of an encyclopedia on fast enrichment. Maybe telling a secret or two could be treacherous of you but in the grand scheme of things, you think it’s not nearly enough to cover your debt.

You lean towards Kaz, speaking in a low voice. “See that lady with a scandalously huge hat? That’s lady Maria de Bouvier, harbors so much contempt towards her stepmother, she’d probably be elevated if some of the jewelry was to disappear.”

Brekker spares you a questioning glance but doesn’t say anything. 

“Or that retired soldier by the pillar? Next to the girl dressed in all-white?” you ask him. His keen eye quickly finds the dark green jacket with an obnoxious amount of medals attached. “Captain Geoffrey van der Greiss, earned most of his fortune from smuggling. Open any crate with fish at the Eastern harbors and the sides of the box will be filled with cash. Yours to take if you can bear the smell.”

Kaz suddenly steps in your way, stopping you. His usual frown appears more like a scowl now. “Why are you telling me all of this?” he spits out. “You’re so eager to point me towards easy wealth. It’s not just about returning a favor, is it?”

You look away for a moment - you should have expected that if someone was to notice your motive, it would be Kaz Brekker himself. His face is still contorted into an expression of contempt or anger when your stare returns to him.

“Have you ever, even for a single second, considered what would have happened to me had my father been found guilty?” you ask in a hushed tone.

“I can’t say I have.”

“I often do. He would have been locked up in Hellgate or simply killed. The family fortune would dwindle rather quickly as my mother and I would live off of it. Then one day the money would run out, we’d have to sell our house and live modestly if not on the streets. No one would employ us because of the scandal and soon we’d find our place in a brothel. All of that did not happen because of you, Kaz.” His expression visibly softens, even if he’s doing his best not to show it. “I owe you my life.”

“I don’t want it.” 

Without waiting for you to continue, he resumes walking towards the office door. Although off-limits to the guests, the manor staff is simply too busy to pay attention to anything else other than restocking drinks and food. On the other hand, the guards employed by Lord de Witt are so convinced drunk aristocracy doesn’t need nannies that they’re playing cards in some dark, isolated corner and drawing lots when someone has to go swipe some alcohol and lamb from the kitchen. Perhaps they are paid to complete much different tasks but if someone is familiar with de Witt’s banquets, they wouldn’t be exactly surprised - a scandal is yet to happen inside his manor.

You meet Kaz’s gaze but immediately regret it. There’s something both chilling with determination and burning hot with focus, making you feel rather flustered at the intensity of it all. 

“Make sure no one comes in here,” he says quickly before swiftly crossing the remaining meters and sliding inside the room. For a man with a limp, he’s exceptionally agile.

Minutes go by while Kaz is absent and you begin to worry. What if someone caught him? Or if he got injured somehow? He may be something of an atelier of theft but he’s still a man, after all.

Debating whether to go after Kaz or trust his expertise, you don’t notice a young man approaching you:

“Excuse me, my lady, but you are the ambassador’s daughter, are you not?”

Torn out of your spiraling thoughts, you look up at him with wide eyes. He has a kind face with strong features. His tanned skin is in contrast with his creme-coloured suit, creating a quite enticing sight. Warm, brown eyes study you with interest.

“I am, master…” you make a meaningful pause.

The man immediately picks up on your cue. “Tolkov Ilya Romanovich. My father is the legat of Ketterdam’s Merchants’ Guild.” Contrary to Lord de Witt, Ilya doesn’t hesitate to plant a kiss on the back of your hand.

“Oh, I have heard about you. Horse racing enthusiast, is it not?”

He gives you a flustered chuckle. “My vices precede me, I see. As does your beauty, if I may say so.”

You feel your cheeks warm up. There’s something about Western men’s charm that really gnaws at a lady’s heart. “That’s very kind, master Tolkov.”

“Lord de Witt spoke of you with exceptional fondness. I thought it only appropriate to witness your marvel myself.”

At the same time, Kaz is slipping back through the office door into the ballroom. Judging by the lack of interest he attracts, none of the guests even noticed his disappearance. He is making his way back to you, when he catches the sight of a rather dignified man politely kissing your hand. Although you don’t look swept off your feet, there’s nothing akin to discomfort on your face either. Kaz feels sudden uneasiness in his chest like he’s watching something he shouldn’t be, while being unable to place his gaze elsewhere. He doesn’t even know his face has turned into a grimace of distaste.

“You’re finally back, my love!” you dramatically exclaim when Kaz reaches you and the stranger. His expression is rid of anything pleasant but you decide to play along for now. “Master Tolkov, this is my fiance, Igor Dreesen. Darling, this is the son of the legat of the Merchants’ Guild, Ilya Romanovich.”

Legat of the Merchants’ Guild? Finally someone worth knowing of.

Kaz shakes Ilya’s hand but that marks the extent of his politeness. “I do not take kindly to anyone descending on my lady,” he says in a stern voice.

“But of course, sir.” Tolkov nods curtly. Annoyed or not, he’s proficient at keeping his face blandly kind. “My sincere apologies.”

Ilya gently bows his head towards you before leaving the two of you alone. Your gaze follows him until the man disappears among coiffures and cylinders. Then, you look at Kaz with hardly hidden amusement:

“You play your part better than I was expecting.”

Kaz, however, completely ignores your comment. “The safe isn't here. It must be in the bedroom. Where is it?”

“Upper floor. There’s the grand staircase in the vestibule but we can take the kitchen stairs, there won't be many people in that part of the mansion.”

The presence of ground floor guards is revealed only by loud laughter from behind the door leading to the staff rooms. All of the guests could just leave at once and none of them would notice. Still, you’re exceptionally careful when sneaking between the tables that are bending under the weight of food - even a small misstep, nudging one of the silver platters, could cause a cacophony loud enough that someone might hear it, even if not the guards in question.

You’re leaning against the wall when walking up the spiral stairs. Cocking your head to the side, you’re trying to look into the hall on the first floor but there’s not much you can actually see. As it appears, theft takes a lot more faith than you had previously thought.

The upper floor guards are out of sight but you don’t let yourself give in to the sudden feel of relief - this is only the first step into this little big scheme. There’s still a safe to find and an exit to make.

There’s a long, red carpet covering most of the floor. Although it muffles Kaz’s cane, it also makes the steps of the guards hardly audible. If you do see one, you’ll have to rely on quick thinking and a certain level of stupidity accredited to aristocracy.

Left turn. Pair of doors. Two right turns. Another left and another right. And then - footsteps.

“Someone’s coming,” Kaz whispers. His keen eyes are scanning the long corridor to find anything remotely close to a hiding spot. Decorative cabinets could well work but only if the unwanted passerby doesn’t walk past them.

The idea, a true testimony of quick thinking and aristocratic carelessness, hits you like a bolt out of the blue:

“Push me against the wall,” you order him.

His head snaps towards you, eyes wider than you’ve ever seen. “What?” he stutters out.

“No one likes clingy couples.”

There isn’t any time to discuss and ponder as the footsteps grow louder. Visibly displeased, he puts his arm against the wall next to your head. At first you’re wondering just how enraged your father would be had he heard about this but then you smell Brekker’s cologne and suddenly one nervousness is changed for another, a more bashful one.

The footsteps, as one might expect, belong to a lonely guard patrolling the manor. His face is grim even before he notices the misplaced lovers. When his eyes do glance at you and Kaz, the soldier’s cheeks visibly raise and the frown quickly becomes more of an expression of disgust. Passing by the two of you, he grunts in distaste or irritation and continues walking farther down the corridor.

Kaz, to your surprising displeasure, wastes no time in putting more space between the two of you when the guard is out of sight. No words are exchanged like a collective agreement to pretend this little embarrassment had never taken place. But, it can’t really hurt him if he doesn’t know you’re thinking about it, can it?

With a confident push, you open the ivory-coloured door, their golden decorations glistening in dim lighting.

Lord de Witt’s bedroom is strangely dark compared to the rest of the house. At first glance, there is nothing that stands out as a possible hiding spot for a safe: a bed that could easily fit five people, a vanity with boxes of jewelry and cosmetics, a small desk with private correspondence, a cold fireplace, a folding screen. The artisan taxidermy hanging on the walls only adds a touch of grim macabre.

But a master thief is not so easily dissuaded. You watch Kaz in a slight confusion and interest as he walks through the room, gently knocking against solid wood or carefully. brushing his hand along some surfaces. More than once he tapped different parts of the floor with his cane, only to let out a short sigh as if the strange rite gave him some kind of information but not necessarily the one he was hoping for.

Then, as though he had known all along or played a secret magic trick, he pulls the base of a taxidermied boar’s head. The decoration, for a lack of better word, moves on hinges, revealing a strongbox - one of those that will survive explosives as the manufacturer promises. The safe has a dial and a handle, rendering any kind of traditional lockpicking useless. But Kaz Brekker, as you’re about to witness, is not much of a traditional thief either:

He puts his ear against the iron box, turning the dial a few times in one direction and the other. Then, he lays his other hand on the safe’s door, his whole body leaning against it. Kaz begins slowly turning the dial in one direction. A silence falls between the two of you.

You can’t be sure whether the tension you’re feeling is because of the hallway perplexity or because he’s so determined to open this strongbox but either way, you’re completely uncomfortable with that. “To be honest, I used to be intimidated by you,” you throw at him in hopes of some kind of conversation, no matter how pointless.

“What changed?” he asks in an absent voice. His hand stops turning the dial only to start rotating it in the opposite direction - whatever he’s doing, it seems to be working.

“You have turned out to make a rather lovely spouse.”

A loud click resounds in the room and Kaz immediately pushes down on the handle, opening the strongbox. He reaches inside, pulls out some documents and quickly reads through them. Some he puts back, others he stuffs between his waistcoat and shirt.

“Such nimble fingers you have. I know a market for that,” you joke partially expecting the thief to say something sultry enough to get you to be quiet for the rest of the night.

He spares you a glance and goes back to rummaging through the contents of the safe. In an unexpected act of goodwill, he takes only some of the cash. “Are you trying to flirt with me?”

“Even a lady of my sort has her weaknesses.”

You wait for his answer but Kaz doesn’t as much as look over his shoulder at you as though he hasn’t even heard your words. Although awkwardly, you patiently wait for him to be finished with whatever selective theft he’s committing. That tense silence again.

After a longer while, he closes the safe and locks it again. When he turns around to face you, something glistens between his fingers - a string of pinkish pearls. They flow along the shape of his hand as he offers you the necklace.

A quiet sigh escapes your lips. “I don’t want a payback, Kaz,” you shake your head to accentuate the refusal. “You have helped my family tremendously, this,” you make a vague gesture with your hand, “is the least I could do for you.”

“This isn’t payment,” he states.

Your eyebrows furrow. “Whatever do you mean?”

His intense gaze bores into you for a minute or two before he slowly answers. “It’s a bastard’s inclination.”

With a flustered ‘oh’, you take the string of pearls from him, feeling blood rushing to your cheeks. Still feeling his passionate gaze gliding along your face, you’re a little too abashed to meet his eye. Who would have thought - a thief with a heart!

[raayllum]

bc s7 might have cute rayllum boat date and i'm no one if not booboo the fool

Callum's big surprise involves a boat of all things.

Rayla isn't sure what she expected when her dorky handsome mage had excitedly taken her hand and tugged her out here to a more secluded part of the forest with a river and everything—a picnic or private place to make out, or both, maybe—but...

The boat itself was done up very nicely, with roses and Stella waddling over to plop the Baitlings over in their place. It must've taken time and magic, as she clambers in with only a slight queasiness and Callum's hand steady in hers. It feels nice that it's so easy and natural to accept his help, after so many walls and so many years apart. That he offers it as freely as he ever has, his eyes bright when he looks at her and they lean against one side.

The river is gentle, at least, the boat moored so she isn't really getting seasick. Stella juggles adoraburrs and the Baitlings sing a tune that's pretty on key for glow toads.

"All this for me?" she only half-teases, looking at him.

Callum grins back at her, rubbing the back of his neck a bit bashfully. "Yeah, well—I knew I had to do something pretty special to get you on a boat."

"Very true," she plays along, bumping his shoulder with hers.

They stare the calm green water, a few fish swimming by the riverbed. She can feel the moment his gaze turns to her, though she doesn't meet it—this is a new part of the forest, and she wants to look around a bit longer.

"Do you remember the first time we were on a boat together?" he begins, teasing and charming.

In spite of the water then and water now, she smiles. How can she not, when it was the first day she saw him in a new light? In his truest light—sweet, attentive, understanding. "Ugh, don't remind me."

Callum scoots closer and wraps his arm fully around her shoulders. "Oh come on," he trills. "it wasn't all bad. You liked the five questions game."

Rayla snorts. "I did." Then, more ruefully, "Can't believe you remember that." His memory is amazing, but it was close to two and a half years ago—a lifetime ago—and there are spells and runes has to look up on occasion. She gave him good reason to want to bury those memories too, deep inside if not burned to a crisp. He'd kept them all instead.

A soft sigh of contentment and just a tinge of melancholy escapes her, as Rayla leans further into him. His scarf is soft against her cheek.

"Well," Callum replies, his voice a tad shy, "I never did get to ask the other three questions."

She raises her head enough to look at him, close enough their noses are nearly touching. "Oh?" Her lips twitch.

Instead of leaning in for a kiss, though, or eagerly asking a question about Xadia she'll more than oblige him for, Callum pulls back from her. Takes something out of his pocket as he moves down from the wooden plank seat in the boat to the base.

"There's kind of only one that matters, though," he continues, smiling sweetly, his eyes shining. There's a horn cuff in his hand. Rayla's heart sticks in her throat. He can't be... "Marry me?"

Moon above, he is. She covers her mouth with her hands, staring at him. "I..."

Callum shifts, a tad uncertain. "I know we're young," he amends. "And the future is uncertain. But I also know you, and I love you. You're my truth, and my path and light, and I never want to be separated from you ever again, and—whoa!"

She almost sends them capsizing from the way she tackle hugs him and knocks them both down, laughing and crying all at once. Her arms wind around his neck as Callum catches her (because he always will) and keeps one around her waist, his other hand still holding onto the engagement horn cuff; the green gemstone embedded in it matches his eyes. It's perfect.

"Gods, yes, dummy," she laughs, tears spilling over. Her cheeks hurt from smiling so wide. "Of course I'll marry you."

[lanafofana]

Temptation

Pairing: Raphael x Tav(f)

Word count: 3.6k

Summary: She won't sign another contract but she’s not opposed to a different kind of deal

Rating: Explicit [🔞MINORS DNI]

Warning: Porn! Filthy depraved devil porn! A little bit of hate sex (PnV with a little PVP), ( she throws hands twice)(but he's into it). Cunnilingus, because it wouldn't be a Lana fic if a tongue wasn't getting shoved in someone's [redacted]. A little bit of toxic relationship dynamics at play (devil gonna devil). SMUT SMUT SMUT

No beta, we die like pumpkin pie (listen, it's been a long night)

💖✨Kudos to @dr-demi-bee for the prompt✨💖

AO3 Link here for all who celebrate the time honored tradition of validating authors via kudos etc etc etc

“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Raphael doesn't look surprised to see her anymore. Merely gives her a look when she finds him on the balcony of his Archive and snaps his fingers to conjure her a drink that appears in her hand before returning his attention back to the fiend giving him some kind of report in the guttural language of the infernal.

She slips away, perusing his collection of tomes from some kingdom long dead and sipping at her wine. It's too sweet, cherry rich and decadent but the alcohol burns pleasantly warm in her belly. Later, sprawled across a lavish settee, an open book in her lap, Tav is trying to untangle a web of mental snares that have put her in a melancholy mood of late when Raphael finds her.

He doesn't say anything for a long time but she can feel his gaze taking her in with more precision now that he can afford his full attention to the task. The predator, sizing up the prey. Her skin prickles.

She's returned to his house with more frequency of late and though he’s never brought it up she’s struck with the sudden anxiety that she is overstaying her welcome. Draining her glass of wine she swishes the liquid around her mouth while watching the crystal goblet refill in a blink. He's never asked why she’s decided to help herself to his company or tries to dissuade her attention when she comes calling. There's a mystery there she’s too afraid to pursue. She sighs and takes another drink.

Footsteps, steady and deliberately slow, approach. The predator, stalking their prey. Turning a page in the book she isn't reading Tav pretends his proximity doesn't send a bolt of heat and fear fizzling along her spine. In her peripheral he stops, a looming metaphor for the direction her choices are driving her to. A finger, warm and familiar, presses against the soft vulnerable space just past the jut of her chin and tilts her face to meet his.

“Have you come to bargain?” His dark eyes drink in her face, giving nothing away.

He already knows the answer to that question but she answers it anyway, deriving a weird sort of comfort from the repetitive nature of this exchange they've replayed so many times they might as well have memorized a script.

“No.”

His eyes narrow and she doesn't hear the snap but her wine glass and book both vanish. Standing involves significantly more motor skills than she presently possesses so, with a smirk, the devil offers her a courteous hand and hauls her up. Her breasts graze against the broad expanse of his chest before she gains her bearings and straightens. He doesn't let go of her hand.

“What then do you seek from the House of Hope?” His voice is mocking but his eyes are hungry. Tav knows the steps to this dance by heart but she’s hungry too. Famished.

Grasping the collar of his opulent coat she tugs him into her orbit, sliding a hand into his hair and pressing her lips to his. He tastes like hellfire and forbidden fruit.

The edges of her vision white out for a moment when he displaces them to his quarters, his infernal magic buzzes against her tongue pleasantly. Pressing close with nothing but fabric between them she shifts, a calculated movement to stoke the fire of his desire.

“Crawling and secret she constructs her own web, a trap for her prey, fallen into instead.” Raphael wedges his knees between her legs and, hands tight on her hips, bows her back to wrest control from her. Dizzy with drink and anxiety and lust Tav grinds against his thigh, seeking the friction that will at last unwind her mind.

“Needs work,” she critiques unnecessarily, breathless and smirking. He nips her bottom lip, pulling the plump flesh taunt in chastisement but it makes her lashes flutter, her clit throbbing against his thigh.

Huffing a laugh at his petulance she pulls away. Pulling her clothes loose and discarding them under his dark gaze while backing towards the bed. The backs of her knees hitting the edge of the mattress, she beckons and –after a moment– he follows, unbuttoning his doublet slowly.

“Go on then,” she teases, heedless of the black warning in his face, “Seduce me with your limerick.”

“A mouthwatering fruit, this human heart.” He sheds his jacket, the shirt too, preening under her appreciative stare. “Devastating, damned, and doomed from the start.”

She swallows, mouth dry as he approaches and comes to a stop close enough to feel the heat off his skin.

“Dazzling, delicious but,” he looks at her critically for a moment, “Not very rare, this cracking soul is fetid with,” Raphael leans in, to take in her scent deeply. Closing his eyes he murmurs lasciviously, breath hot against her ear, “Despair.”

She throbs with need.

Wrapping a hand around her throat he pauses only long enough to take her pulse, sneering at the staccato beat, before sliding his hand down her chest, to her breast. With both hands he gropes her roughly, squeezing and tugging at her nipples till they pucker, rosy and stiff. The expression on his face hasn't changed much, cold and disdainful but his eyes. She shivers under the blistering heat of them.

“Take what you came here for, creature.”

The words are hardly out of his mouth before her hands are on him pulling him close with a rough hand in his hair, yanking his head to the side, putting her teeth to his throat.

She bites him savagely, electric at the needy whine he tries to stifle unsuccessfully. She laves her tongue against the red teeth marks soothingly, hands on his shoulders. His hands have migrated too, palming the swell of her ass. When she runs the edge of her teeth down the column of his throat and licks the dip of his collar bone he smacks an asscheek, the crack sharp and loud in the otherwise quiet room.

In retaliation she sinks her teeth into his shoulder so hard he repeats the action on her other asscheek. She cries out, her inner walls slamming down on nothing.

“Tell me, my dear,” his voice, rough and deep, is commanding. Tav clenches her thighs together in response.

Nothing and no one comes for free in the House of Hope. Each visit to his bed, a transaction between her hunger for his body and his hunger for her pain. Their unspoken devil’s pact. She knows exactly what he wants and her stomach flips in trepidation.

Hands full of her ass he is not gentle when he pulls her against him, grinding her against the hard length of him through his trousers. She whimpers, drawing her nails across his shoulders and scoring livid marks into his skin. “Tell me,” he repeats, a furious snarl, as he shoves her to the bed.

“Then ask, you fucking monster,” she hisses, hitting the mattress with a soft ‘oof’ as the wind is briefly knocked from her lungs.

He follows her descent, aiming to cage her body with his but a spike of adrenaline has her scrambling out from under him. Awkwardly she heaves her way to the head of the bed but he’s faster – stronger– and he snatches her ankle in a fierce grip, dragging her back within range.

Wrapping himself around her, thick cock against her ass, bruising fingers holding her captive against his chest he chuckles. The sound chills her in the same way it sends another trickle of wet desire between her legs.

Close to her ear he breathes his full query at last. “What is the root of your despair?” Her stomach sinks down to her toes, the red flush of her desire doused cold.

What was your last wickedly depraved thought, he's asked her before. When did the thrill of bloodlust last blind you completely to sense; do you hate anyone more than you've hated yourself? She may have never signed another contract with him but somehow he’s found a way to drain her soul, piecemeal, all the same.

“Tell me,” he murmurs against her skin, parting her thighs to drag a finger along her slick wet slit.

The reason for the wine becomes clear to her in that moment. She’s never had inhibitions where sex is concerned. Has never considered it a trial to use her body and let it be used for its skill with a blade, on either side of the sheets.

But put enough wine down her throat and inevitably the secret hurts that haunt her begin to spill out from between her lips.

The devil growls at her hesitation, flipping her over and pinching a nipple between his teeth slightly too hard. Demanding her attention and supplication in all things.

“I–,” she gasps and leaves half moon indentations on his skin when he sticks his tongue in her belly button, swirling his tongue there lazily. “I’m sad, all the time,” she confesses in a rush like it will hurt less to say it fast. Her heart pounds. “I hide from my friends, from everyone, and suffer alone. I’ve always been alone, I’m pretty sure I'll always be alone because it’s–” her breath hitches on a strangled sob when he just barely presses his thumb to her clit and leaves it there, teasing. Torturing. She doesn't want him to ever stop. “I’m too much to be around. Too much unhappiness in one person to inflict on anyone else.”

“Self pity,” Raphael groans with relish and she bristles because of course he's right. “Never looked so lovely than on the utterly pathetic,” the words burn, as they're intended to. “Look at you, mourning yourself to the point of self destruction.”

Blood rushes to the surface of her skin, blooming red and hot across her throat and cheeks. Within her bosom she aches. Raphael hums with pleasure, as drunk on her internal agony as he is on her body.

Feeling flayed open she wails, hands scrabbling for purchase on his skin and in the rumpled bedding, when he sinks a finger fast –and hard–and deep in her dripping, aching cunt. She bites her lip and breathes through the discomfort of letting him see her. The despair and self pity on full display for his perusal. He feasts on her pain like a man deprived of fresh air, reveling in the cocktail of humiliation, fear, and miserably pathetic sorrow.

“Entrust me with your soul and you'll never be alone again, for as long as your pitiful soul flickers,” he vows, working a second digit in with the first. She’s so wet her lips squelch lewdly around his scissoring fingers to punctuate his words.

He means it too. It's far from the first –or the last– time he has promised an eternity to her. Her soul nestled within his grasp forever, damnation tempered with endless companionship. A demon’s version of love. Eternal ownership. The ache in her chest sharpens to a knife’s edge. Thrusting her hips against his hand, her breathing changes, getting deeper and faster as her orgasm inches tantalizingly closer.

Her legs are open but her heart's been closed so long the hinges squeak and grind in complaint at being disturbed. Maybe that's why his canny words rend instead of pierce, like they're claws mauling instead of hands gently stroking. Devils don't know kindness but there's a world of gentleness in the way he peels open her ribcage to curl up in her chest cavity with his insidious intent.

“Kiss me,” she begs. Begs, hoping it will be enough to stem the tide of his incendiary words. Words spoken with the intent to hurt, to disturb, to split the cobbled pieces of her being back into shattered fragments he can hold in his hands. To mold her, shaping her to his will. Without ceremony he crushes her with his mouth, his body, and his desire.

Raphael moves against her, heavy and too big, a threat and a promise that tastes like cherry wine and feels like coming home. The kiss, a miscalculation on her part, steals his voice but replaces wounding words with bruising force. Shoving his tongue into her mouth he seeks only to consume and she moans around the wet intrusion, curling a hand tightly into the hair at the nape of his neck until he hisses against her teeth.

She lets him continue only for so long before the hand she has locked in his hair tugs viscously and she gets a glimpse of his pupils blown wide before his eyes flutter closed. The Archduke Supreme would never admit to his proclivities in bed but he’s not the only one studying his prey during their encounters.

She maneuvers until he's beneath her, breath stuttering in his chest as his ardor intensifies with her forceful take over. The meticulous Archduke Supreme, Lord of the Nine Entire, Devil of False Hope, Cania’s Conquerer might have eaten her whole for the audacity of asking for control in the bedroom but when she takes it…

He groans, squirming and wanton, when she peels herself away from his lips to sink the fingers of one hand around his throat while the fingers of her other hand tug on the laces of his breeches.

“Tav,” he growls, the reverberation of his vocal chords against her hand shooting directly to the heat that burns in her core.

She pulls her hand from around his throat to pull back and strike him across the face. His hips surge up against her desperately. “Silence,” she warns, nimble fingers slipping his throbbing cock from its confines.

The fat head is wet, a glistening mess of his own precum. The smell makes her mouth water. Wrapping her hand around the shaft she pulls at him experimentally, running the calloused pad of her thumb across the leaking slit on top and along the thick vein beneath his glans until he whimpers. The sound makes her smile, the power of her unique position sending a rush of wet slick through the lips of her vulva, dripping down the inside of her thighs.

Moving the hand she just had wrapped around his erection to her own throbbing need she drinks in his expression while he watches her fuck herself on two fingers. She leans back to give him a better view while she circles her own clit, biting her lip and shifting her hips in time with the movements until she’s close, almost too close.

The devil never looks more beautiful than when he’s languishing untouched, desperate and needy and simmering with helpless fury.

“Open that pretty maw, creature,” she sneers, an echo of his earlier epithet.

Obediently his lips part and she leans forward, shoving her fingers into his mouth, pressing against the molten heat of his tongue.

“Suck.”

Tav's eyes flutter, nearly rolling to the back of her skull as the Duke follows her instruction, locking his lips around her slick coated fingers and sucking hard enough to tear her soul through her fingertips. She moans, positioning herself above his pelvis and undulating her hips to rub his delicious head through her slippery folds.

Inside his mouth his tongue swirls across the pads of her fingers and he echoed her moans; pleasing, pretty, broken little sounds that have her sinking onto his cock halfway in her excitement. He bucks, too sharp teeth grazing erotically against her fingers and she withdraws them to backhand him; whip fast and snapping his lust drunk face to the side. He gasps and she revels in the feeling of him jumping against the walls of her sex.

Pulling herself upright she arches her back, giving him a pretty view as she plays with her own breasts, running the tips of her fingers along the goose pimpled flesh of her abdomen.

“Like what you see, devil?” She taunts, sinking a little more around his girth. “Tell me, Archduke,” she smiles cruelly. “Tell me how much you want to fuck this sweet mortal cunt.” She twists her nipples and sinks a little lower on his cock, watching the expressions flit across his face faster than he probably even registers them. She smiles, all teeth. “Beg.”

“Please!” He doesn't even hesitate, voice gone tight. “Please, let me feel you sink that perfect tight cunt onto my cock.” He releases the most delicious open mouthed whine when she does, enveloping him completely. “Please!” He blurts, hands fisting in the bedding, muscles quivering with the restraint to keep from fucking into her.

The stretch is nothing short of divine. Her hips yearn to move, to rock against him, grinding his hips into the bed but she pauses, balancing on the precipice.

“Please, what?” She demands, relishing in the widening of his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open.

“Please,” his eyes close briefly and he swallows thickly, “Archduchess Supreme, My Lady Eternal.”

“Good boy,” she murmurs, warmth suffusing her entirely when he keens at the praise.

Planting her hands on his chest she wastes no more time, fucking herself on his thick cock; fast and hard and rough. Between her fingers she pinches his nipples, leaning forward to swallow his cries as she rides him to the brink. Between her thighs he cants his hips, mindlessly matching her thrust for thrust as his orgasm barrels within reach.

She slips a hand between their bodies, pinching her swollen clit and cries out his name and a litany of swearing as she crests her final peak. Her mind whites out, the walls of her cunt bearing down on his cock so tightly he spills into her with an inarticulate groan.

Their bliss reached, their movements stutter clumsily to a stop, chests heaving and breathless pants peppering the air with the soft sounds of post coital exhaustion.

Tav disengages from Raphael's body slowly, flushing at the rush of slippery fluid that leaks out of her. The devil looks at the mess between her legs, unabashed, a pleased smirk hovering in the corners of his mouth.

Running a finger through their combined spend, shivering on the cusp of overstimulation, she holds his gaze as she reaches up to paint his lips with it.

He doesn't even blink, licking the shine of his own seed from his lips and making a pleased noise, deep in his chest, that echoes in the throb of her empty cunt. Leaning into him, chest to chest, Tav chases the taste of them on his tongue with a redolent kiss, slow and tender. His hands drift along her sweat slick skin, raising goose bumps with each delicate graze of his nails.

Wrapping his arms around her Raphael flips them, startling a sound from her that he chases with teeth and an amused chuckle. Before she registers what he's doing the devil is wedged between her legs, pushing one of her legs wide, fingers sunk tightly into the plush thickness of her thigh while the fingers of his other hand part the puffy lips of her sex.

He stares, transfixed, for only a moment before he bends his head, slotting his lips against her wet, sticky heat. The predator devours the prey. The gluttonous wet sounds of him licking and suckling at her sex sends her brain rocketing away on a tidal wave of sensation. She grasps the back of his head in shock and a haze of overwhelming arousal.

“Raphael!” She cries out when he locks his lips around her clit and sucks. “Nnnggg– ahhh!!”

“Say my name again,” he growls, immediately spearing her with his tongue and twisting to lap at every drop of her slick heat. “Say it!”

“Ra– Raphael! Oh– nnngggahhh!!” If she is his Archduchess then he is her god and she cries out to him, exultantly. “Raphael! Yes! Yes! RAPH–”

He hums his pleasure and the vibration has her sinking both hands into his hair, pressing him closer– harder–

She flexes her hips, rocking against the sensation of his mouth taking her apart, heart slamming against her ribs as her mind spirals faster and faster and–

“RAPHAEL!” Tav’s mind flies apart as she screams her release, back bowed, thighs clenched tight around the Archduke’s ears.

She comes back into her body to the feeling of her fingers being disentangled from their iron grip on his hair. She releases him immediately, flexing her digits and collapsing against the bed as a wave of exhaustion slides over her.

“You,” she pants breathlessly, boneless and still buzzing for the high of her orgasm. “That was–

“Delicious,” he finishes for her with a sinful smile that does nothing to soothe the thunderous beating of her heart.

This time it is the devil who stretches himself over her body, skin against sweaty skin, and presses the taste of her arousal and his spend between their lips in a filthy kiss. When he pulls away Tav’s dazed expression pulls another smile to his face, this one different from the one he usually shows her. Her stomach clenches but in the next moment her face is split in a jaw cracking yawn and when she looks again he looks the same as he always does.

“Sleep, my dear,” he says in a tone that conveys he neither cares if she does or does not. With a snap of his finger he is dressed and polished once more. He drags his eyes down the length of her naked body with an appreciative leer. Another snap and he's gone in a flash of hellfire.

Tav forces her body to move though her limbs feel made of jelly. She crawls between the sheets, the luxurious material cold against her heated skin. Sweat on her scalp and elsewhere on her body sends a shiver down her spine. Cocooned, safe, and spent, she sleeps.

That's All Folks!

[riacte]

some thoughts about some ren ships:

ren/martyn: it's fine and it's cool until springtime comes and there's a melancholy in the tepid, humid air that clings to your skin and clogs up your lungs. and it's really fine until you start planting carrots again in the way he did and you realise all the small moments in your life have been defined by those few months you spent with him. there's a before and an after. his influence has melted so casually in your daily life that you don't realise it. it takes years for the intensity and absence to sink in even though it's always been there. and you finally understand. what you felt on those carrot fields was love. (note the past tense. note that you're a liar.)

ren/doc: words cannot describe what happened in that damned van. they're not husbands, they're FREAKS. they almost wish they did romantic shit like stargazing and going on dates but it's just a lot of being cooped up in the tiny van and the intimacy of repairing each other's prosthetics and lying in the same bed and staring at each other for hours while listening to nothing but the hum of the air conditioner and each other's breathing. because they're "bros".

ren/cleo: they practice "on and off platonic smooching". whatever that even means. physically affectionate to the point of being disgusting. they can stop and start back again at any time but somehow it's healthy. despite all the intense pda and cuddling and shit, no one emerges emotionally devastated. their dms are just spamming heart emojis.

ren/false: he's been lowkey crushing on her for so long he's genuinely forgotten about it. from her point of view, he's been acting this way around her since forever so she's also forgotten about it. they exist in this miraculous and meticulous limbo in which no one crosses a line because they don't think about it. they have the keys to each other's bases and water each other's flowers. one day they wake up and make each other breakfast and look out at their beautiful mess of a shared garden because it's their sixtieth day of accidental cohabitation and go "how did we get here again".

ren/iskall: i know it's long gone and the magic's not here no more and we can't go back to who we were. maybe i'll joke about "wrong person, right time" but that feels like stabbing myself in the chest with a dull knife. i look at you and from the bottom of my heart, i feel love. regardless of what kind of love it is. when i see you smile, i can still feel it against my lips. so maybe we still wear each other's clothes. so maybe you still drink from that ugly mug i got as a gag anniversary gift. so maybe you still consider sending me a love letter as a joke. best friends to lovers to neighbours. jokes and casual flirtation and even more casual declarations of love. i love you and you love me but we both know it's not the same anymore. still, it was good. for a while, we were good.

[adrift-in-thyme]

@uncleskyrule happy belated birthday!!! Thank you so much for your patience while I wrote this! I hope it's worth the wait!

------------------------------------------------------------------

Four knows what sleep deprivation looks like. 

He’s seen it spelled out on his grandfather’s face when long days turn his usual joviality to melancholy exhaustion and draws the shadows of half moons beneath his eyes.

He’s seen it painted across Dot’s beautiful features after an arduous night when the memories resurface, memories of a leering crimson eye, of claims to possession hanging heavy over her, of cages and darkness and smothering magic. 

He’s seen it shadowed across his own face too, when the battles within and without grow to be too much, darkening his features, drawing them thin, sucking the youthful fat from his cheeks, the light from his eyes.

And he’s seen it…on the faces of his brothers.

On Time’s when the moon is full. On Twilight’s when a quiet twilight falls and skeletal trees whisper in tongues known only to some. On Wild’s when the amnesia recedes, Warriors’ when phantom lips press across his cheek, Wind’s after he awakens screaming his sister’s name. On Hyrule’s when he gives too much, Legend’s when the adventures he never speaks of tell their tale in his petrified cries at night…

And now on, Sky’s.

Some may find it strange for a man who can drift off practically anywhere to suffer from fatigue. Add to that uncanny ability, Sky’s penchant for seeming one of the most mature of their little group, the most…put together.

But Four is well acquainted with the deceptions someone can tell through demeanor alone. He himself has been dubbed mature, put together, responsible. And while, yes, those labels are true (Four would certainly be cross if people decided to start dubbing him childish or, Hylia forbid, a disaster as they call some more unruly children in his Hyrule), the lie rests in the assumptions they bring about.

Beliefs of invincibility and impervious spirit. Beliefs that there is no need to be gentle or kind, no need to offer respite or lighten the load.

It is the same fate their leader suffers so often, the same Warriors and Twilight sometimes crumble beneath. Suffering silently, yet always strong. So strong.

And Sky…

Sky hides it better than anyone.

Four is uncertain whether or not he is the only one who notices his distress. Perhaps, he is. 

It doesn’t matter though. In fact, if he is the only one who has taken note of it then it is all the more important that he do something before Sky’s inevitable collapse.

But life never makes things simple. And in the end, he’s too late.

It has happened too many times now — a portal that separates the heroes into mismatched groups. Four thinks that perhaps, after his near defeat at the combined hands of the champion and the rancher the Shadow is attempting to be more careful. 

More conniving. More vicious.

Attack first and you won’t be defeated. Such is the attitude of wild animals and beasts. More than likely, the Shadow shares it too.

This would explain why in addition to splitting the heroes up, this portal also dumps them right onto a battlefield.

Or at least, it does for Sky, Legend, and himself. Four can’t be sure what the others are facing. But he can only pray it isn’t a sand-drenched dungeon packed with redeads and stalfos.

The unearthly screeches of the emaciated corpses fill his ears as he fights, teeth gritted, heart pounding. It’s all the three heroes can do to stay out of reach of their paralyzing cries.

Back up to escape one beast and you nearly collide with the mad swing of a stalfos’ claymore. 

Four winces as the very tip of a blade slices across his left arm and leaves an angry gash in its wake.

That’s going to need a bit of potion to remedy.

Beside him, Legend growls what sounds like a curse as he plunges his hand into his pouch and retrieves a fire rod. He brings it in a sweeping horizontal arc. In a blaze of blistering heat, a group of the monsters fall.

“Well done,” Four says with a breathless smirk. He plunges his sword into the gaping chest cavity of one of the stalfos still struggling for survival on the darkened floorboards. With a raspy exhale, it dissolves into ash. “I think you just turned the battle in our favor.”

“I’d better have,” Legend huffs. “The sooner we get rid of these things, the sooner we can get out of here.” He screws up his face in a grimace. More monsters crumple beneath his skilled hands. “It smells like death.”

It does, indeed, Four thinks as, finally, the last of the monsters fall. The stench of it hangs heavy, permeating the thick darkness that surrounds them, wafting from the thin threads of light carrying from faltering torches. 

But now that the battle is over they can focus on escape. Hopefully, to a place where it proves easier to breathe.

He sheathes his sword, glances around. The gash on his arm throbs and the various bruises and smaller cuts he earned join in its stomach-churning beat. Still, it could have gone far worse. 

“We all okay?” Legend asks, bangs falling into his face as he replaces his fire rod. 

“Yes,” Four says. “How about you…Sky?”

His voice pitches an octave higher as he catches sight of the Skyloftian, turning the question almost into an exclamation. 

The knight lies crumpled where he had stood mere moments before. The Master Sword lies fallen beside him, his cape flows over him like a blanket of snow. His breath comes in shuddering gasps that grate upon Four’s ears as he races to his side. 

“Sky!” 

He shakes him, slightly, and hazy blue orbs flutter open. Sky groans. 

“What happened?” Legend drops down beside him, panic in his voice and a half-empty potion bottle in his hand. “Did a monster get him?”

Four shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” A quick inspection provides no sign of blood or other injury. But Sky’s face is ashen and he shudders as though in the throes of fever. “Sky, are you hurt?”

“N-not hurt.” Sky curls his fingers into a fist, as though attempting to gather strength. “J-just…just…” He swallows, tries to drag himself up, and nearly collapses again. It’s only Four and Legend’s quick movement that keeps him upright. “‘M fine.”

“Like hell you are!” Legend’s eyes are blazing with emotion now. “Sky, what happened?”

Sky shudders again. He glances down at the trembling hands he has folded into one, white-knuckled fist. There is a certain helplessness in the look.

“I dunno,” he croaks. “Was fighting and the room start-started swirling.” He curls in on himself further, and Four wonders if the next shaky exhale brings tears with it. His voice is very small. “I just-just fell.”

“And you didn’t have the strength to get back up,” Four says, solemnly. An idea is already forming in his head, a confirmation of what he has witnessed these past few hellish weeks. 

I should’ve acted sooner.

But there had been fights both in and out of the group, and injuries and secrets unveiled. There had been discussions long overdue, restorations to be made in the face of pain and sorrow. And he, he had been in the midst of it all. 

Between explaining the Four Sword and its powers and making up with Wild, he just hadn’t found the time…

“You haven’t been sleeping, Sky…have you?”

Now, Sky raises his head, glazed eyes focusing unsteadily on Four. Slowly, he shakes his head.

Legend blows out a sigh. He sits down beside Four and brings a dusty hand over his sweaty brow. 

“Sleep deprivation? Yeah, that’ll do it. How long haven’t you been sleeping?” 

Sky swallows. A beat passes, then another. The oppressive feel of death begins to crowd in on Four again. He struggles to breathe beneath it.

Then, “Since Twilight,” Sky whispers, and Four’s heart plummets to the depths of his stomach.

Legend’s hand falls to his lap with more viciousness than defeat. His face screws up in an expression that toes the line between sorrowful and intensely irritated. “I knew something was up! I knew it! I should’ve — ”

“Couldn’t have done anything,” Sky croaks, leaning further into Four’s touch. A small smile quirks his lips. “Was me that should-should’ve d-done something in the…in the first place.”

Legend’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

Sky looks back down at his hands.

Another theory is beginning to form in Four’s mind now, joining with the previous one, enlarging it, and embellishing it until things start to make sense. A theory born out of something Sky has said before, a snippet he had overheard and tossed aside in favor of giving his full attention to fighting the Yiga that had taken Wild captive.

“I’m sorry, champion,” the Skyloftian had said as he had helped Warriors tend to the boy’s wounds. “I was late…again. I’m sorry.”

“You blame yourself.” Four measures the words carefully, speaking each one with intricate precision. Lest he step in the wrong place and cause them all to plummet. “You blame yourself for what happened to Twilight.”

Sky lifts his bloodshot eyes. A tear wells in one of them then spills over to slither gracefully down his cheek. 

“Why would you blame yourself?” Legend asks, even as comprehension burns in his violet irises. “It’s not your fault the rancher got hit. You weren’t even near him when it happened!”

“I was near enough.” Sky’s voice is quieter than ever now, more like a whisper than anything else. “I know the skyward strike. I could’ve hit that…that thing if I’d been…b-been faster.” His breath hitches. But to Four it sounds defeated more than panicked. “I was late and he paid for it. I’m a-always…”

He curls in on himself, weighed down by exhaustion, shuddering with pain and sorrow. Legend looks at Four and Four looks at Legend. Then, slowly, together they reach out and draw Sky into their arms.

It’s strange. Four hadn’t taken Legend for someone willing to show physical affection freely. But he embraces the Skyloftian as though it is no price to pay. As though he has done so before.

Long nights. A shuddering sob. Soft feet dressed in boots with wings adorning their sides. Whispers in the dark that exhaustion muddles before Four can make them out. Amethyst eyes staring from over a hazy cloud of silken white. Sliding shut as a larger form huddles deeper into an embrace.

Sky shivers again and Legend holds him tighter.

“It’s not your fault,” Four murmurs, pouring every ounce of confidence he possesses into those words and praying that it is enough. “It’s not your fault, Sky. You did everything you could do for him. There’s nothing else you could have done.”

Sky doesn’t reply. 

They hold him, whispering assurances, as his tears wet their tunics and his fatigued body quakes beneath the burden he forces it to carry. They hold him until, at last, in the murky darkness, surrounded by carcasses of monsters and piles of resting sand, he drifts off.

In the arms of his brothers.

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

A Love of Music

I have always enjoyed music and I wish I was good at playing an instrument. To sit down at the piano and effortlessly play one of my favourite songs for example. It always blew my mind when I saw people do just that in public spots. 

A few days before I enlisted, I was picking up my current girlfriend at St Pancras. She’d been at her parents in Kent over Christmas. We’d arranged to meet by the large Christmas tree. There was a piano there too. Free to use for anyone who wanted to show off their skills or entertain the travellers.

A teenage girl took a seat and started to play Auld Lang Syne. It was beautiful and much to my chagrin, I had to wipe away a tear.

***

Classical music was a genre I had an ambivalent relationship with. I guess I found it too pompous in my youth, but as I got older, some pieces stuck with me, and I quite enjoyed The New Year Concert from Vienna. 

It varied which instrument I was fascinated by. The harp, with its grandeur and elegant form, had always intrigued me. I also enjoyed the oboe. The sound of it felt both soothing and melancholy. But in the end, it was the violin I loved the most. How a skilled violinist could coax out all kinds of sounds from the beautiful instrument never failed to stun me. 

***

And then I experienced that even talented violinists could play so terrible that it hurt the ears and caused shudders to ripple through the entire body.

Yes, I’m referring to my mad flatmate and boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes. When we first met, and he told me he played the violin, I thought he was an amateur. Imagine my surprise and awe when I realised that he was just as skilled as any violinist in a symphony orchestra. At least in my opinion.

“You’re biased, John,” Sherlock told me.

I guess I was, but he was bloody good, and I thoroughly enjoyed it when he played for me. Therefore, I was totally unprepared for the change in tone when Mycroft visited. I had had my encounter with the pompous arse in a parking cellar somewhere months prior, but this was the first time I witnessed a meeting between the brothers.

A screeching sound from Sherlock’s violin made me cover my ears and yell from the kitchen: “what the hell, Sherlock!”

He stopped for a brief second to tell me his brother was tormenting him. Then he started molesting his instrument again. It was unbearable. I think my ears would’ve started to bleed if I hadn’t been able to pry the bow out of his hand. He plucked the strings for a while, before he sprawled on the sofa, clutching the violin to his chest.

***

The tone and the pieces he played when I had nightmares, were soft and gentle, luring me back to the flat and out of the desert. My heart swelled with love for him in those moments. Sometimes I stood from the bed and went to thank him with an embrace or a kiss. Other times, I was too fatigued to do anything but just lay there and thank him in my mind. The nightmares got less straining after I started sharing his bed, but he still played for me.

***

Sherlock’s own tone when Mrs. Hudson asked him to play Christmas carols, was clipped and haughty, but when he started playing – well, it was magical. He transformed from that aloof man everybody thought to be a sociopath, and into a passionate musician. I could even discern a tiny curl of his lip, indicating a smile on those occasions. After all, he’d do anything for his beloved Hudders, however reluctant he seemed.

***

His sorrow filled the small church when he played at his father’s funeral. I had never seen a face so despairing. Tears trickled down his cheeks in a constant stream, but he never faltered. Not until he lowered his bow after he’d finished playing. I was by his side before he’s knees gave way, and he stayed close to me for the rest of the day.

***

After we moved to Sussex, Sherlock still practised and played the violin, but it took a bit more effort as the years passed. His fingers weren’t that flexible anymore, especially during winter. So, we changed our habits. Every so often we took the train up to London, or Mycroft provided a car, and we went to see the London Symphony Orchestra. If there was a serene violin solo, Sherlock tapped at my arm in step with the soloist. 

***

It wasn't our shared love of music that brought us together, but it was an important part of the foundation of our relationship. And when the crime solving and the hunt for suspects through London ended, the music became an even bigger part of our lives. The tones changed and differed, but our love remained solid and steadfast.

-------------------------------------------------------------

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