#another frozen except dare i say it…

[hemmingsleclerc]

Did I mention? ┃james potter

james potter x slytherin!reader

james declared himself to yn during a quidditch game in the most ridiculus way possible

𖥔 ﾟ˖ ⊹ › ‹ ᵎ 𖧧. ⊹ ˖ ♡.˚˳១୨୧ ༘✰ ༘ ˚ ˚ ༘ ‧₊˚𖧧  ִֶָ 𖥔 ﾟ˖ ⊹ › ‹ ᵎ 𖧧. ⊹ ˖ ♡.˚˳១୨ִֶָ 𖥔 ﾟ˖ ⊹ › ‹

The Quidditch game between Gryffindor and Slytherin had been one of the most intense that Hogwarts had seen in years. The stands were full of energy as students from the houses cheered on their teams. Gryffindor's victory was a close one, as James caught the Snitch minutes before Slytherin's Seeker.

As the crowd erupted in cheers, James landed gracefully on the field, his heart pounding not only from the excitement of the game, but from the plan he had meticulously crafted over the previous two weeks. He spotted Y/n Nott, a Slytherin with whom he had shared a number of heated, yet interesting, exchanges over the years. She was fiercely intelligent, strikingly beautiful, and always seemed to be out of his league, which only motivated him further.

Determined and confident, James motioned to Sirius who immediately took the microphone Professor McGonagall had been using to announce the match and handed it to him. James took a deep breath, his Gryffindor courage motivating him as he spoke into the microphone.

"Attention, everyone!" James's voice boomed, drawing the attention of the entire crowd. "I have something important to say."

The stadium fell silent, all eyes on him. James' heart raced even faster when he saw Y/n in the Slytherin stands, studying his actions with curiosity. Nearby, Lily Evans, his friend and lifelong crush (or so they said), stared at him with a mix of surprise and confusion.

''A few years ago, I met a girl who I've completely fallen in love with'' - James began to say - ''I've admired her for a long time. Her intelligence, her strong personality… everything about her captivates me. I've been head over heels for her for as long as I can remember.".''

Lily's heart skipped a beat. Her friends nudged her, whispering excitedly, "He's talking about you, Lily!"

Lily felt her cheeks burn. She was ready to scream at him, she was already forming the words in her mind. How dare he make such a public spectacle? But before she could utter a sound, James continued.

"And I can't think of a better way to express how I feel than right here, right now."

Suddenly, the marauders sprang into action. Sirius, with a mischievous grin, waved a huge sign that read, "Say Yes!" Peter, struggling but determined, held up another sign next to Sirius that read, "You won't regret it!" and Remus carried another with the words, "You won't be disappointed!"

The entire Gryffindor section erupted into laughter and applause, adding to the festive chaos. Y/n couldn't help but laugh and shook her head in disbelief at the spectacle not knowing it was for her.

James took a deep breath and turned directly to Y/n. "So.....Y/n Nott, would you please do me the honor of going to the Yule Ball with me?"

The stadium fell into stunned silence. The shock was clear as everyone took in the unexpected twist. Lily froze, her mouth slightly agape in disbelief. She had been sure he was talking about her. Y/n was also taken aback, her cheeks turning bright red.

“Are you serious, Potter?” she shouted. “Is this a prank?”

"Dead serious Nott!" James responded with a huge smile on his face. "What do you say?"

Y/n hesitated for a moment, the entire stadium hanging on her response. Finally, she smiled and nodded. "Alright, Potter. You've got yourself a date."

The crowd roared in approval, students from all houses unable to contain their excitement at the unexpected turn of events except for the snakes. James felt as if he was floating on air as he handed the microphone back to a bewildered McGonagall and walked over to Y/n excitedly.

Meanwhile, Lily stood frozen in place, her heart clenching as she watched the scene unfold. She had always known that James had feelings for her, but seeing him so openly and passionately declare his affection for someone else was a bitter pill to swallow. Jealousy and regret gnawed at her as she forced a smile, clapping along with the rest of the students.

"I can't believe it," she muttered under her breath "I thought he was going to ask me out……again."

Sirius, who had been standing nearby, overheard her. With a teasing grin, he leaned in and said, "Girl, he's not going to ask you out anymore, sorry."

While Remus gave him a disapproving look while he elbowed Sirius in the ribs for speaking to Lily like that.

Lily turned to him, her eyes wide with a mix of indignation and shock. "Excuse me?"

Sirius chuckled, shaking his head. "You really thought he was going to ask you? Come on, Lily. Open your eyes. He's been over you since ages ago."

Lily opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. She stood there, speechless, as the reality of the situation sank in. All this time, she had been so certain of James's affections, and now, seeing him with Y/n, she realized just how wrong she had been.

When James reached Y/n, who was still shaking her head in disbelief, he smiled warmly at her. "You're something special, Potter," she said, a smile tugging at her lips.

"I aim to impress," he replied, not taking his gaze from her while he gave her the golden snitch.

[animasola86]

👻 A KNIFE TO REMEMBER

ghostface x f!reader 🔥 very explicit 🔥 words: 3.8k

As you try to find your way through the mysterious house, someone finds you first...

WARNINGS: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! Masks/costumes! Knife kink/knife play! Fingering! Anonymous sex! Creampies! (READ ON AO3!)

A/N: This is part 2 of my CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE smut series! 1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 This is OPTION 1/PART 2 - but can be read individually, let me just set the scene:

CONTEXT: You were invited to a Halloween party in a mysterious house, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, and on your search for the bathroom, you come to a long hallway full of doors, and you decide to reach for the door closest to you.

Just when you reach for the door knob, you feel someone coming up from behind, and before you know it, a pair of hands blocks your vision. You gasp in shock, but a low voice vibrates in your ear as you're being pulled against a firm body.

“Shh, no need to panic,” the male voice drones, making you stiffen in his hold. It sounds a little muffled. “I won't hurt you. Unless you're into it...”

You reach up and grab onto his wrists, squirming against him. “Let me go,” you plead, but he only shushes you.

“Ah, come on, little Red. You're here for an adventure, aren't you?”

His hand moves to your mouth now, and you blink into the dimly lit hallway. He holds your face tightly, making it impossible to turn your head and look at whoever has you in his grasp, but you can still see that he's wearing a black costume, something like a robe. No gloves, though, just big veiny hands. Strong, and very adventurous.

With one still on your mouth, muffling the noises of protest, his other hand roams along your body, rubs up and down your side, gropes at your breast, grips your throat and gives it a light squeeze, before moving back down, teasing under the hem of your skirt. You must be in shock, because you can't find the courage or willpower to fight whatever is happening. This guy is clearly taking advantage of your confusion, and without another word, he pushes you forward, opens another door and guides you into the dark room beyond it.

You stumble, and when he finally lets you go, you fall onto something soft. A bed. Scrambling on your hands and knees, you're not quick enough as he grabs you again, pushing you flat on your stomach. A garbled scream escapes you, coaxing a low chuckle out of him. He has his hand on your nape, a tight grip, and you whine and struggle, but he's strong, and when you suddenly feel something cold press against your neck, you freeze on the spot.

“Tsk, tsk,” he makes. “Be a good little victim now, okay? I really don't want to make my shiny new toy dirty too soon. Can you feel it? The cold blade?”

You don't even dare to breathe at this point, because, yes, you can feel it, see the large knife in your mind's eye as it teases against your delicate skin. He eases the pressure slightly when he curls one arm around your middle, pulling you back and flush against him. You'd expect his breath on your ear with how close his voice is, but you can't feel anything – except something hard like plastic pressing against your cheek. He's wearing a mask.

“So, let's have a bit of fun first, yeah?” he whispers and leans around you, and even in the dark room, with only the moonlight falling through the window, you can see the long white face with its wide open mouth and droopy eye holes glaring at you. Ghostface. “Hi,” he says, tilting his head menacingly, a low chuckle in his muffled voice. “Or would you have preferred a different sicko with a knife? We do have quite the selection tonight.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. The sight of that face, frozen in plastic, gives you the chills, but you can't deny the little flutter in your stomach. May it be your sensitive guts or something else entirely, but whatever the case, you are rendered immobile by this strange encounter.

“So, how would you like this? Shall I chase you through the house first?” he continues in a mocking tone.

You blink, trying to calm your thundering heart. “Just... let me go?” you gasp out when he raises his knife again, poking the sharp tip against the side of your neck. “Please!” you cry out with a whimper, tilting your body away.

“Aw, baby, don't worry, I won't kill you,” he says quietly, pressing his other hand against your stomach. “I just want to have some fun! And I'm sure you do too. I saw you come in, all alone, lost and lonely. Won't you like some company? Isn't that why you came here on your own? To meet people? Let loose?”

His words have the desired effect as you find yourself agreeing with him. Maybe not like this, but then again, this is a Halloween party, spookier things have happened than having some fun with a masked stranger (who teases you with a very real knife...). You can't deny that your body is already accepting whatever may happen next. The man behind you seems to sense its willingness too as his hand suddenly slips down your stomach and under your skirt and curls right between your legs, eager fingers pressing against your underwear.

“Ah, yes, see? You're so ready for this,” he hisses into your ear, and you look away in shame. “So wet. Maybe you have a knife kink?” he asks, simultaneously pressing the blade against your throat and his fingers between your wet folds, making you gasp and stiffen. As you fight the urge to squirm, he keeps rubbing along the drenched fabric of your panties, pressing hard and deep, teasing your entrance. “Would you like to have something bigger in that cute little cunt, hm, baby? I promise I brought more than just this pretty knife...”

To underline his words, he presses his groin against your back, and you can feel just how happy he is to see you. Your heart beats faster. It's a strange sensation. This feels wrong, being cornered by a stranger (with a knife no less), forced to have some fun, but then again, maybe you needed the push into the right direction. You only live once, as cheesy as it sounds, and you have to admit you've (more or less shamefully) masturbated to the occasional rape fantasy story before.

Sure it's something else to actually experience this, but your body seems to disagree. It's a thrill, an actual adventure, and the fact that you could have fought more and tried to run away but never actually did speaks volumes. Maybe you want this? And he does seem to ask you for your consent in his own twisted way, even if he has a knife pressed to your neck and his fingers between your thighs – he could have just taken you with how much bigger and stronger he is, but in the good old villain fashion he had to hear his own voice for a bit instead.

“Well?” he whispers, rubbing his plastic mask against your cheek. You can hear his labored breaths through it now, he seems just as excited as the wetness dripping against his fingertips makes you appear.

“Mhm,” you croak out, unable to find your voice or any words to make this whole situation make sense in your protesting mind. You can't believe you just agreed to this, whatever this is, but before you can ponder it any longer, he suddenly pushes you forward and you land on the bed again. Too shocked to move, you let him manhandle you onto your back, and before you know it, he's crawled over you, pushing your skirt up and your legs wide apart, holding them open with his knees.

His hands roam up your body, and you realize he's dropped the knife somewhere, as his long fingers knead your breasts through the fabric of your blouse. You lie beneath him like a stranded beetle on its back, hands palm-up next to your head, unable to even twitch, and all you can do is watch the large shadow above you, with only the white mask glowing in the dark. It's eerily intimidating, but at the same time you feel the telltale tension in your stomach, alerting you just how aroused you are.

“What a good girl you are,” he says, fingers fidgeting with the buttons of your blouse. “So submissive. Are you just as breedable, hm?”

His words make you shiver. You inhale sharply when his rough hands make contact with your soft breasts as they slip right beneath your bra, pushing it up, and you can't help pressing your chest against his touch, wanting more. He's strangely gentle in how he touches you, despite his costume, despite the power he clearly has over you. And it only adds to your arousal, making you squirm beneath him.

“Little Red's excited, huh?” he mocks as he gropes your tender tits until you feel your hard nipples pressing into his palms. “Don't worry, I'll fill you up in no time. But maybe... hmm...” he makes, slowly leaning back on his knees. His fingers grip the sides of your blouse, pulling it open and exposing you completely, before trailing over your stomach until he reaches to the side and grabs the knife again. “Maybe I want you to beg for it...”

You let out a surprised whimper when you feel the cold edge of the knife press between your breasts, teasing at the soft mounds. He's looming over you, his head (and the mask) tilted ominously to the side, the grotesque face staring down at you. You swallow hard, barely daring to move with the blade so close to your skin.

“Come on, baby, beg me to fuck you... or beg me not to kill you?”

Suddenly his hand is on your throat, and you gasp voicelessly as he closes his fingers around it, while pressing the knife firmer against your chest, the blade scratching along your skin with every rapid breath you take, no matter how hard you try not to move.

“Please,” you whimper, a series of shivers crashing down your spine. “Don't... hurt me...”

“Hmm, can't promise that, lovely,” he replies with a sigh. “I'm sure you'll like a bit of rough sex as well, won't you? And what's pleasure without a little pain, hm? Try again!”

The knife pokes a little deeper, and you're sure it broke your skin now, but he keeps holding your neck, that unnerving mask staring down at you. “Please, don't kill me,” you whisper, playing along, somehow not as frightened as you should be. “I'm too young to die!”

His laugh is low and menacing. “And too pretty as well, right? Yeah, you are,” he says with another chuckle, leaning closer until your entire vision is filled with that white face and its black eye holes. “Well, then, whatever else could we do? You know I like to kill people, slash them up real good... if only there was something I could do to you instead...”

“F-fuck me,” you croak out, surprised by your own words.

He leans back abruptly, a triumphant “Ah!” falling from behind the mask. “Good girl, Red. I can do that!”

Your head is spinning as you have a moment to contemplate what you just said, but only until you feel his hands lifting your hips before his fingers pull your panties down. He's shifted to kneel beside you, and you realize he's placed his knife right on your fluttering stomach. Your hands claw at the edges of the pillow as you ground yourself, still not even thinking about fighting back or even escaping. Why would you? You've never felt this exhilarated. Sex with a stranger. Your mother would be so disappointed, but it's all the more incentive to go through with it.

You watch his dark figure, noticing that he's rid himself of the long black robe, and you can see muscled arms and a tight black shirt, and you wished you could see it all in more detail, but it's too dark, so you just have to imagine the rest of his build. Not that it matters much, you're already aroused enough as it is (though the mental image of a big strong guy with bulging muscles pinning you to the bed certainly helps with it).

When his fingers are back between your legs, you gasp in surprise, blinking your eyes into focus as he rips you from your thoughts. His fingertips move expertly, slipping between your labia, teasing at your hooded clit, poking at your hole. All you can do is squirm slightly, moaning softly the more he touches you. He watches you, or so you think, his head tilted comically to the side, that white face leering at you ominously.

Suddenly he moves, hands on your thighs as he pushes your legs wide open, before he grabs the knife and teases the pointy tip down your stomach, over the fabric of your bunched up skirt, until you feel the cold metal against your inner thigh. You let out a croaked whimper, forcing yourself not to move too much. While he teases you with the blade, he puts his hand over your mound, pumping his palm against your wet folds until a lewd squelching sound rings in your ears that makes you blush deeply.

“Nice and wet for me, aren't you?” he mocks quietly, repeating the motions a few times before he pulls his hand back and probes two fingers against your core instead. You brace yourself for the intrusion, but you still cry out softly when he pushes inside you. Big hands with thick fingers, and two of his feel like four of yours, as he stretches your entrance and presses hard against your protesting muscles. You groan in response, thrashing your head back.

He keeps fingering you, his digits slipping in and out in a lazy rhythm that he mirrors with his knife as it scratches up and down your inner thigh, and every time he presses the blade harder against your skin, you feel your walls clenching around his fingers.

“You like that, huh?” he whispers menacingly. “Knife kink confirmed.”

You bite your lip hard to suppress more telltale noises of pleasure, but he only keeps going, teasing you, playing with you, pushing hard and fast into you, and when he curls his fingers just right, you inhale sharply, that tension in your stomach building relentlessly, almost painfully, but it's only when you suddenly feel the cold metal of the blade right against your throbbing clit that you come with a loud howl, hips bucking up, no longer caring about getting cut, as you ride the waves of bliss as if nothing else matters.

“Beautiful,” you hear his distant voice as you slowly come down from your high, bright lights dancing behind your eyelids, and you feel him still massaging your squishy walls as they contract around him. “Can't wait to feel that around my cock...”

You hear a soft clinking sound when he seems to fumble with his belt, the knife back on your belly, heavy and cold even through the fabric. His hands are on your waist then, pulling you down a little until he drapes your legs over his thighs, guiding your crotches together. You barely register any of it, your mind reeling from your orgasm, but also anticipating the feel of his dick inside you. You can't see it in the dark, but with how he is built, you can only imagine it must be equally impressive.

You don't have to think about it for long as you feel its tip pressing between your wet folds when he rubs it against you to gather your slick. Breathing harder, you open your eyes, trying to watch him. The moonlight is enough to show you a big strong body kneeling between your legs, and only the glowing mask makes it all a little eerie, but when he finally enters you, you don't care about appearances anymore. He feels glorious.

Big, oh so big, filling you out more than you would have expected as he presses deeper, nudge by nudge, little rolls of his hips until he bottoms out inside you. His hands dig into your waist, holding you against him, and you feel bruises forming, but you don't mind, you need this. His first thrust makes the knife on your stomach bounce, and you gasp loudly. The second is equally harsh as he withdraws slowly to slam back in with force.

When he finally settles into a slow but steady rhythm, you're mewling softly, overwhelmed by how he feels inside you, how your walls cling to his shaft, sucking him in and dragging along it with every push and pull, rubbing so deliciously you feel a scorching tension building up inside you, burning brighter with every snap, every deep plunge, filling you up more and more.

His hands leave your waist to grab your throat, turning your soft moans into voiceless gasps, as he slowly picks up the pace and really rams into you, using his hold on your neck as leverage to angle his pelvis against you, allowing him to hit all the good spots with ease and fervor. You cry out soundlessly, your eyes rolling back, the last thing you see that ominous white mask above you, before you come hard around him, clamping down on his pistoning cock, your wetness gushing past him as you convulse beneath him.

You feel lightheaded, blinded by bliss, barely able to breathe, but you couldn't care less. He fucks you through your literally mind-blowing orgasm, pushing you higher and higher, until you feel it building up all over again. He lets go of your throat, allowing you to cry out hoarsely as you come a second time (or so you think, not that you could think at all, much less count the highs he's forcing upon you).

He pushes you down into the bed, one hand on your shoulder, holding you steady, while his other hand grabs the knife off your stomach, and you only realize that when you feel the cold blade against your cheek, gathering your sweat on its tip. Or maybe your tears, you can't be sure, your body feels like it belongs to somebody else at the moment, and you're just here to enjoy the ride.

“Open wide,” he tells you, his voice muffled and strained, and you comply, parting your lips before you feel the blunt edge of the blade pressing against them. “Tongue out.” You follow through, still too dizzy to question anything.

He presses the knife flat against your tongue, holding it there while he keeps pounding his cock into your fluttering cunt. You can hear his labored breaths from behind the mask, his movements becoming jerkier as you just lie there, staring up at him, goosebumps rippling over your skin as your legs twitch against his sides.

The white face is looming over you, unmoving, unnerving, while the man behind it gives his all to chase his own orgasm as he thrusts into you feverishly. Your own sounds are muffled with how he holds your mouth open, and you have to really force yourself not to move your tongue against the blade. He leans down more, putting more of his weight on you, pinning you down, his hips snapping against yours in a wild rhythm, until he finally stills, a loud groan echoing in your ears as he falls forward, mask pressed to the pillow beside your head, the hand holding the knife to your tongue shaking slightly.

That last thrust made you whine as he pushed as deep as he could possibly go, bullying your cervix, and before you can even wonder if he's used a condom or not, which you doubt, but again, your mind is swimming in bliss, unable to worry about anything at all, you feel him throbbing inside you, his balls drawing up against your folds as he empties himself in your depths, filling you with spurt after spurt of hot cum. You clench around him, trying to milk him, and the motion only makes you moan into the blade pressed against your tongue as another wave of pleasure crashes over you at the sensation.

He eventually leans back up, propped on his elbow, that mask so close to your face it's all you can see. Slowly he lifts the knife, the cold pressure gone, and all that remains is a numb feeling and a whole lot of spit. You close your mouth and swallow hard, but freeze when he suddenly reaches out and wipes his fingers over your wet lips, a gentle gesture you haven't expected. He traces your mouth with his thumb, and for a moment you're tempted to pull that stupid mask off and kiss him, deeply, properly, but that's not part of your play, unfortunately.

He stares at you a moment longer before he sits up again, his chest rising and falling almost as heavily as yours. His hands trail down your body, giving your breasts a few more squeezes before he grips your hips and pushes you off him, his mask tilting down as he watches his cock slipping free from your cunt, followed by a large warm dollop of his cum spilling from between your puffy lips. He exhales loudly as he slowly gets off the bed and puts his spent cock away.

“Well, wasn't that fun,” he then says, his low voice a little strained. “Thanks for the ride, Little Red. I'll make sure to recommend you to the others...”

His words should have irritated you, but you're still too fucked-out to care. All you reply with is a soft sigh as you sink back into the bed, finally relaxing into the cushions. You watch him out of hooded eyes as he puts his robe back on, hiding those strong arms, then leans closer once more to pick up his large knife.

And then he's at the door, opening it, letting the light from the hallway spill into the room and over your soiled body. He raises his knife, waving at you almost menacingly, then slips out of the room, closing the door behind him, vanishing like a shadow in the night, leaving you alone in the dark.

You groan and thrash your head back. What a ride indeed. Not how you have planned this party to start, but what's done is done. When you eventually scramble off the bed, bra pushed back over your breasts, your shaking fingers trying to button your blouse, you realize you can't find your panties anywhere. He must have taken them. Fuck. If he wouldn't have pumped you full of his cum, you wouldn't even mind, but as you stand, you can feel it dripping down your leg, warm and sticky.

Sighing deeply, you squeeze your thighs together. Just another reason to finally find that bathroom, you think as you slip out of the room and back onto the hallway full of doors.

1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6

YOUR NEXT OPTIONS ARE:

check the door opposite you

go to the end of the hallway

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

KINKTOBER 2024 MASTERLIST

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: not gonna even acknowledge the time break between chappies... all i'm gonna say happy cassian chappie ! <3! i hope u all enjoy it mwah thank u for reading

word count: 3.8k

synopsis: Adjusting to life in Velaris means learning to train with new, friendly faces. A tentative friendship forms. Azriel keeps his distance.

CHAPTER NINE :: FRIENDS (IN OTHER PLACES)

Whoosh.

Training staff gripped tightly in your calloused hands, you swing with a muscle memory built over decades, the stick whistling as it cuts through the air with deadly precision. Strike. Twist. Bend. Strike, twice as hard.

You're going through the motions. A simple warm-up, running a drill that you've done enough times you could probably do it in your sleep. The movements are familiar, easy. Routine.

If you close your eyes, you could almost imagine you're still in Exordor.

Except... there's no familiar wind current to perform its melody in the early morning, dancing through the mountainside trees. No frozen chill to the air around you. No crunch of snow beneath your feet to throw your balance. No bound chest to chafe your skin.

No looking over your shoulder in pure panic at every unexpected noise.

Well, not quite that last one. It's a habit you're dedicated to breaking for the sake of your shot nerves — but evidently failing, considering how you straighten up and whip around when the door leading out to the training ring shudders open.

You hold your breath on instinct and clutch the training staff tighter.

Stepping out into the early morning air, the dawn still unbroken, is another Illyrian warrior.

Mother, how many of them were there around here?

You hadn't got to meet anyone else after that encounter on the balcony, almost exactly one week ago. Hadn't exactly wanted to either.

You hadn't even wanted to see Azriel again so soon after the churning, sickening twist of emotions you had barely managed to stumble through after your severe reawakening.

He hadn't come to see you.

You hadn't asked.

Besides Madja, Rhysand was the only new face you had come to know. He had taken to coming by your room a couple times over the week, checking on the progress of your healing, particularly sympathetic on the state of your wings. Revealed his own with a polite flourish.

He was... different than you were expecting. Perhaps you were learning that rumours are not everything — certainly it's clear that there is more to Rhysand than what first appears.

As Highlord, he had to discuss your potential living situations once you were healed enough to leave the infirmary.

I meant what I said. He had said, violet eyes kind as he hovered at the end of your bed. You're no prisoner here. You'll be free to go wherever you wish, even back to Exordor if that's what you decide.

And if I don't? You had whispered, your gaze fixed on the fine sheets of the bed. If I decide that... I have no home there anymore?

Then you'll have a home here. For as long as you would like.

And though it overrode every single instinct you had learned to trust, everything that had kept you alive this long, you chose to take his word for it.

Rhys said no harm would befall you in Velaris and you would be welcome here for as long as wanted.

But... that didn't mean you were exactly looking to make new friends.

Staring the newcomer that enters the balcony with much less grace than that of usual Illyrians, you watch him closely, not quite daring to take a breath.

At a first glance, you had thought it might be Azriel—heart leaping up your throat—but that was quickly washed away. Something in you knew from the hair standing up on the nape of your neck, before you even saw him properly, that this male was utterly unfamiliar to you.

He's taller, you realise. His hair is a longer and he doesn't quite move with the grace of the Shadowsinger — though, perhaps you are just so unused to seeing a male so relaxed. So caught off guard, in fact, that when he turns he gives a little yelp in surprise.

"Fuck!" He says, one of his large hands jumping out and clenching into a fist —his whole body switching to a fighting stance, you realise— before he relaxes again. His fist uncurls into a less threatening open palm.

"I- sorry, just didn't realise anyone else was out here." His fighting stance melts away, open palm still extended. He gives what you think might be a friendly smile.

You don't respond, only gripping the training staff a little tighter. Every hackle is raised, the hair on the back of your neck prickling, and your entire body winding itself up to prepare to fight, if it comes down to it.

The male seems to realise this as his next move is to raise both hands, palms out, the universal signal for surrender. They're large, tanned, and void of the scars you've come to know on Azriel.

However, where there are usually shimmering cobalt blue siphons, this newcomer has dazzling ruby red ones instead. You count each of his. Seven.

Your throat tightens — like all of Illyria, you've heard of this warrior too. The Lord of Bloodshed.

He doesn't exactly look so fearsome at the moment, his expression easy-going, even friendly, from behind his raised hands.

He seems to be waiting for you to make a move or to speak but after a moment, he realises neither are going to happen.

"Rhys said there might be another Illyrian around." He says, taking a tentative step forward, in the direction of the training ring, letting his hands drop to his side. You notice how he tucks his wings in a little more, like he might be trying to be respectable. Polite.

He's watching you closely. "Didn't mention you were a female, though."

Instinct makes you want to sneer in response — the only time Illyrian males bother bring up the differences in sex is to make some nasty comment about the biological weakness of females.

Not born to be warriors. They spit. Fragility is bred into them from the moment they're conceived. Breakable. Less than. A female in the training ring has as much place does as a male does in the kitchen.

But this male... says female in a way you've never quite heard before. As though he's somewhere closer to awe.

"My name is Cassian," The male introduces himself, his tentative steps becoming more of a stroll as he wanders across to the weapons stand. He eyes them halfheartedly, his focus still on you.

He turns lightly, tucking in one of his wings to peer back at you. "And yours is...?"

You still haven't moved, only tracking his movements with a slight shift of your eyes. Part of you wonders if he already knows your name and he's simply being polite.

Cassian nods as though you've spoken, despite the fact you haven't made a sound.

"Okay, not a big talker, I get it." He dips his head in a little nod, giving you an easy smile, then a quick wink. "Promise I don't bite."

No reaction. You’re not entirely sure if that’s a joke or not.

Either way, Cassian turns and focuses on his selection, pulling one of the training staffs off the weapons rack into his strong, sure grip.

Despite Rhysand's promise, your heart begins to rabbit wildly.

You wonder if this is some sickening game of cat and mouse—if he's perhaps going to tire you out before he selects his true weapon. If he wants you to know he can best you, even without a blade at his disposal.

You're a decent fighter—hell, a great one even—but you know better than to expect to come out on top against the Lord of Bloodshed.

You finally force yourself to move; shifting your feet to face him, you sink into a fighting stance, staff poised to face him, prepared to bare your teeth.

Cassian blinks. It takes another moment for him to realise that none of his friendliness is working to thaw your iciness. He quickly sets the training staff back down with a clatter, raising his hands once more.

"Woah," He says, giving a small shake of his head. "Not looking to fight. Unless you and I are in that ring—" He gestures to the training ring behind him. "I will never try to fight you. And... I hope you can say the same for me."

You don't even realise you've released your breath until you deflate a little, relief coming in small, incremental waves.

He doesn't want to fight. There's no proving yourself, at least not today.

Maybe some day in the near future, he'll demand you get in the ring to earn your space here—because that was the first thing you ever learned as an Illyrian warrior. But not today.

Reluctant and relieved all at once, you lower your training staff.

Your hesitance or silence doesn't seem to hinder Cassian. In fact, he smiles at the motion.

He's quite handsome, you note. In that rugged way, not quite so classically handsome as Azriel. The unexpected thought makes you flush. You shake it away with a shiver.

"You have your reasons for your unease I bet," Cassian continues, his hands drifting back to his sides. His wings have begun to spread out a little more, as if relaxing.

"And if you want me to piss off, I certainly will. My goal is not to make you uncomfortable in the slightest. But... well, I do have just one question."

He pauses, as if waiting for something. Permission, you realise faintly, which surprises you enough that you give a rather jerky nod, permitting him to ask his question.

A brilliant smile spreads across Cassian's face. "Did you really stab Azriel with a fork?"

The question takes you by utter surprise, fresh bewilderment rippling across your features. You shift back almost awkwardly, stepping out of your fighting stance. The memory from months ago rises up inside, the first meeting in your lonely shelter.

How did he know that? He could he know that?

"I—" You trip over the words, not entirely sure how to answer the question. You can't quite tell why he's asking—is he assessing you as a threat? Your voice is tentative and guarded as you murmur out, "...yes?"

You don't think it would've mattered how you answered truly, as the moment you confirm it, Cassian roars in laughter, his head thrown back and his hand clutching his belly. He laughs loudly for a moment, shaking his head with a fond smile.

"Holy shit, I thought Rhys was kidding! Cauldron, what I would've given to see that." His hazel eyes glitter brightly, as though he's excited. "Was he surprised? I bet he was. Where did you stab him?"

His easy tone, like he's talking to an old friend, takes you back. You find yourself responding with an unexpected ease. Looking back on it now, it is a little funny.

"He was," You nod, nearly smiling at Cassian's enthusiasm. Your lips twitch and you gesture to your neck, somewhat awkwardly, miming the motion. "In the neck."

Cassian laughs again. "Oh, and I bet he'd deny the whole thing if it ever came up."

You don't know quite what to say to that—Azriel hadn't ever brought it up and you certainly weren't going to remind him of it. You tilt your head to the side a bit, an unknown feeling making itself known in the pit of your stomach. An anxiety of an entirely different kind.

The male before you is not an enemy. He's not an ally either... and you can't understand what he gains from talking to you.

You can't even fathom the idea that he might just want to be your friend.

So, you turn. Tighten your grip and resume the exercise that had been interrupted. Muscles groan as you work through their achiness, slowly becoming warmer as the hot blood pumps around your body.

Despite what Madja had said a week ago on that balcony, today was actually the first morning you were allowed to train.

For the last seven days, the exercise you were restricted to was mere stretches; only enough to ensure each of your wings could extend fully and that your limbs could move without serious cause for concern.

It had driven you stir crazy.

The only time you ever skipped so many days without training was during your cycle—something you had mercifully missed the end of this time around, hidden away in your unconsciousness.

So, at the first opportunity, when you rose from your bed this morning and Madja hadn't given you that pointed stare and instead gave you directions, you had found the training area. Began with old routines, if only for the fact you don't know who you are when you're not training.

Inhaling now, the wood of the training staff creaks beneath your iron grip. You're trying desperately to use it as a tether, to some semblance of normal for yourself. It's difficult when there's so many changes lurking.

The solid stone makes you sturdier than before. There's no snow beneath your feet to sink your boots into, to find your balance on. But your injuries aren't entirely healed either.

The pain is not fresh but it's still hindering enough to be a nuisance. Your left ear still twinges from time to time—sometimes it seems to hum so loudly you can't hear clearly, others it dulls altogether. Neither are particularly pleasant to experience.

Pain, however, you have plenty of experience in. Gritting your teeth and pushing through it is practically standard for the Illyrian way; especially when you know your body. You know how much it can take. You know it's been through worse.

But the pesky problem with your ear keeps you off balance, just enough that it shows in your motions.

You keep stumbling around like a goddamn fledgling with every new attempt, footing clumsy, which makes you burn in humiliation because that's what you learn first. It's impossible not to feel unendingly frustrated as decades of training all get shifted slightly to the left.

It doesn't help either that there's still those holes in the edges of your wings.

Fae healing is incredibly advanced but even so, there is only so much magic can do.

Lacerations can be healed, stabs and slices stitched up with ease — but a hole, torn forcibly in and through the delicate flesh of Illyrian wings? You know that you should be thanking the Mother that they even still work in their complete capacity.

The skin around where the stakes had been forced is puckered and stiff, whitened by the scar tissue and trauma. It had been sickening the first time you had curled them close around you and realised with a faint horror that you could technically see through them — a irregular circular gash preserved in either wing of how you'd been pinned down.

The air passes through them as you shift, causing an uneasy shiver. They don't catch on the wind quite the same as they did before.

You haven't taken to the skies yet. You're torn between your eagerness to fly again, to prove to yourself that they can still, and the sinking fear that that's something new you'll have to relearn as well.

So, instead, you run through the training drill for the nth time, trying to get back in sync with your own body. Trying to push past where it seems to falter and trying and failing to not care that your wavering movements now have an audience.

Watching him subtly out the corner of your eye, Cassian appears to be running drills of his own, a gentle warmup. He stretches his toned arms above his head, the motions limber and easy. Briefly, your mind wanders to Azriel's own morning training —never mind that you did have experience training with him over many mornings — and the most peculiar fluster flows through you.

You bite your cheek and rein in your drifting thoughts, gripping the staff tighter.

Strike. Twist. Bend. Strike, twice as hard. Your left eardrum squeals, jumping abruptly in volume at the motions, and though you manage to contain yourself to a wince, your twist goes off kilter.

Your wings stretch out to counterbalance but they don't catch the wind as well as you're used to. Your feet stumble to realign and all you can think is how fucking easy it would be decimate you in a fight in that second.

Something awful starts to grow in your throat and it takes a full moment to realise its the urge to cry, clawing up your throat.

You inhale shakily, eyes fixed on the stone beneath you, and will them away. You weren't a crier — but then again, never had you ever felt quite so utterly hopeless as you were right now.

You've always had this—always had the fight from within your bones, always had your body, always relied on your dexterity to push you forward.

Shadow covers the stone before you. Your head shoots ups, that same panic you can't shake jolting in your chest.

"Hi." Cassian says, giving a little two-fingered salute. He smiles kindly. "Cassian. We met maybe, uh, 5 minutes ago? Remember that?"

You blink at him, not even noticing how the distraction sends away the urge to cry. Swallowing thickly, you give a tentative nod.

"Fantastic. Great memory." His smile melts into a grin and though it sounds like he's teasing, you don't exactly feel like it you who's being made fun of. "I— I have no doubt you're an excellent fighter, especially considering you managed to land a hit on a warrior such as Azriel."

Cassian seems to hear his words only after he's said them and gives a minuscule frown. "Wait, don't tell him I said that. He'll never let me live it down."

When you don't react in amusement as he was aiming for, Cassian changes his tone again, more serious this time.

"Look, I might not be exactly sure what happened that meant you ended up here. I know it might not seem like a welcome change of pace but— well- and what I mean to say is— I can see your missteps."

The admittance of your failings makes humiliation swell up within you. You avert your eyes. Cassian, aware of his awful blunder, barrels on.

"But I can see you're getting your feet again." He adds, softer than before. "After whatever happened to you and your wings, I can tell you're already doing better than most Illyrians would. I also know that everything is easier with a little support."

Your gaze tugs back to Cassian's face as his sentence ends, the offer within it leaving you momentarily dazed. He wants... to help you?

You open your mouth to say just that—but instead, say, "They... didn't tell you?"

Something foreign yanks on your heartstrings. You can't say you had expected privacy, not when Rhysand was already generously providing you with both medical aid and a place to lay low and recover. You were in no position to ask for more.

Suddenly, you become hyper aware of your wings and their gaping, obvious scars to pair with the thin white lines of the lashes adorned across them. You rein them back self-consciously, keeping them tucked close against your back. There's relief in that simple motion alone.

"It is not their story to tell." Cassian nods, grave and serious. "And, just as important, sharing it is not a requirement to be allow yourself a little support."

You don't have to tell him, if you don't want to.

Before you, an Illyrian male, like so many that you've detested all your miserable life, and he doesn't know a thing about you. He doesn't get to know what happened unless you decide to tell him.

You taste his words, mulling them over in your mind as you try to figure out what he means. In the heart of it, you can't understand what he truly stands to gain from this offer of support.

"What... kind of support?" You question warily.

Unthinkingly, your grip tightens on the training staff once more—a knee-jerk reaction to the idea of baring your vulnerabilities. It had been well-trained out of you. Connections of any kind risked exposure... and well, the one time in your life you had given it a go, it had only been proven true.

"Whatever you wish." Cassian grins, as if pleased you had asked that exact question. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear and rattles off his list easily, with a slight shrug of his armoured shoulders. "Friendship? Training? Someone to listen when you need it or to drink your sorrows with? I've had plentiful practice with all."

He sends you another wink, teasing and easy like everything else about him. It's disarming actually, just how different he is from what you had been expecting from only the rumours around Exordor. Lord of Bloodshed. He's so...casual.

After another beat of silence, Cassian clears his throat when it becomes clear you aren't exactly jumping onto any of his initial offers. The caginess you exude is palpable and something ragged in Cassian's chest tears wider at whatever his mind conjures up about what might be lurking your past.

True to his word, Rhys hadn't delved into your story or how you came to end up here at the House of Wind.

All Cassian knew for sure is that Azriel had talked of training with a bastard some months ago and now, you were here. A female warrior from Exordor.

Cassian thinks that Azriel likely would've mentioned it if the bastard he was working with was female—but he hadn't. There's much more to your story, he can tell, and it seems to ripple from the edges of your wary, dangerous form at just a glance. Almost a full picture for him to realise, to see clearly.

But... these things were earned.

If Cassian wanted to be your friend, to know your story, he would do it the honourable and hard way.

He would become someone that you could trust in this new, unfamiliar place and he knew it was possible because what Cassian knew lay within him was reflected in you. The one clear part of the picture.

A warrior who knows themselves best when they're fighting.

"Train with me. Please." Cassian tries once more, ready to relent if it was too much, too soon. "There is a lot we can teach each other, I'm sure."

That seems to catch you by surprise, your brows jumping a fraction up your face. You school the expression away quickly but not before Cassian catches it. He nods.

"What do you say?" Cassian grins again, holding out his hand, palm up. Nonthreatening as can be. "Friends? Allies? Reluctant rooftop sharers? I'll take any happily."

You eye his hand, that still cautious air in your gaze, but Cassian can see as something settles within you. Tentatively, you reach forward and put your hand in his, giving it an awkward, stilted shake.

"I'll take allies for now," You say, somewhat demurely. It's taking a mountain load of trust for you to do so, Cassian knows. He does not take that trust lightly.

Cassian grins. "Allies it is."

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[wutheringskies]

Wei Wuxian: The Untamed Hero

Wei Wuxian had to be killed even if:

1. He carried his sword

2. He didn't use gui dao

3. He didn't create Yin HuFu

4. The Wen remnants were not in the plot

Then, why? The reason is here, voiced by Jin Zixun of all people:

Wei WuXian, you are too bold! Did the LanlingJin Sect invite you today? And you dare run wild here. Do you really think that you’re invincible, that nobody has the courage to confront you? Do you want to overturn the Heavens?”

Wei WuXian smiled, “You’re comparing yourself to the Heavens? Excuse my language, but your face is a little too thick, isn’t it?”

So, you see, this untamed heart can only meet with tragedy as the world is unrighteous, as those who are in power think their actions cannot be contested (and they often aren't!), and that their words are like the law. How many times have we seen, a convicted powerful person escape the justice system? Far too many. And how many times innocents or victims were framed for crimes? Also too many. People like Wei Wuxian aren't condemned by fate, but rather, being born into a world where the "heavens" are those who are powerful and corrupted, he very well might be destined to live tragically, along with others of his type.

Returning to the matter of this particular scene: on one hand, the Jins throw private banquets, gilded with gold. The major scandals are: Jin Zixun is forcing the Lans to drink alcohol! You see, Lan Xichen can't outrightly refuse, so he is trying to be polite about his rejection. Jin Guangyao is trying to reason and excuse, and distract. The crowd spurs Jin Zixun on, wanting to see the Lans drink for once and fall to their level.

Everyone is in their own fine little world, doing their niceities in their golden halls drinking expensive wine, admiring pretty women, gasping at scandalous behavior, asking for favour, gossiping etc.

And then Wei Wuxian walks in. Uninvited. He simply drinks the wine himself, before demanding these people to spare him their time for real wordly issues, such as deaths, debts, cruelty, the parts that society wishes to hide. A few scenes later, we are shown with much description, just how terrible Qiongqi Path is. That's the Jin's backyard. You see their achievements that are drawn on those big walls? We see the reality of the people making them.

Now, let us come to another incident. Think of the soup incident. I fully expect before Wei Wuxian came into the scene, people were simply gossiping, uninterested in finding out what was going on, why Lady Jiang is crying. Then, Wei Wuxian comes and realizes Jiang Yanli who never really cries... was crying, and firstly decides to beat the shit out of Jin Zixuan. Secondly, he understands the whole truth, beats Jin Zixuan up for humiliating his Shijie, and also makes the other girl face responsibility.

Although his shijie had an easy temper, except for how they cuddled and cried together the day the three of them reunited after Lotus Pier was destroyed, she hadn’t really shed many tears in front of others, much less cry so loudly, so pitifully in front of so many people. Wei WuXian was filled with panic. As he tried to ask her, Jiang YanLi was crying so badly that she couldn’t even speak properly. Then, when he saw Jin ZiXuan standing on the side, astonished, he fumed with anger, wondering to himself why it was the dog of a person again. With a kick, he pounced on Jin ZiXuan. The fight between the two would have alerted the Heavens. All of the cultivators around the base came to break up their fight. Amid the ruckus, he finally understood what was the cause of all this, and became even more angered. He spread his tough talk, saying that one day he’d definitely make Jin ZiXuan die in his hands, he told people to drag out the cultivator woman.

A round of questions later, the truth emerged, and Jin ZiXuan’s entire body was frozen. No matter how much Wei WuXian continued to curse at him, he returned neither words nor fists, his face dark. If not that Jiang YanLi held up her hand a while later, while Jiang Cheng and Jin GuangShan came to pull Wei WuXian away, it was likely that even now Jin ZiXuan wouldn’t be able to attend the hunt of Phoenix Mountain.

See.

The point is, perhaps, people feel Wei Wuxian's actions are unnecessary. But imagine if he wasn't there! The consequences as I predict them will have been:

1. Jiang Cheng who doesn't want to upset a prominent clan would've grumbled and cursed underneath his breath, but eventually just moved away from the ruckus and taken his sister away.

2. Perhaps the truth would never have been found out, unless Jin Zixuan later searched by himself.

3. Thus, Jiang Yanli's reputation would be stained for the years to come.

It's because Wei Wuxian dared that the truth was revealed. I took this small incidents simply to highlight this, without the addition of more factors. In the book, often, it might seem like people are trying to stop him from creating trouble. You might often wish, ugh, this is going to be so bad... The point is Wei Wuxian knows! He's not stupid, he knows of the consequences of his actions.

But he isn't the one creating trouble. It was already created by the likes of those very people who try to stop him from investigating deeper. The trouble in question is that immoral and unrighteous words and actions and decisions have already been made. Society tries to hide them. If you can't see it, it's not there. Yet, even if it is not visible, a crime has its traces and it will bleed into their world sooner or later.

Wei Wuxian forces people to snap out of their comfort zones. He doesn't care for the barriers they set around themselves. Here are some examples to explain what I mean by these barriers:

Who dares hit Jin Zixuan, who's the only heir of LanlingJin, even when he deserves it? Protected by his status, his birth, his clan who dares? Wei Wuxian does.

Who dares to annoy Lan Wangji, the second jade of Lan, who from birth is considered otherwordly, strict, immovable, rigid, untouchable and protected by his extreme cold aura? Wei Wuxian dares.

Who dares to enter cultivation society without even wielding sword, without even cultivating a core? Wei Wuxian!

Since time unknown, treasures have belonged to the powerful sects: The Lan Clan and their library, their many secret techniques. The Jin clan and their treasures, their gold. The Nie Sabres. The Zidian. Yet, a son of a servant somehow ends up possessing the most powerful treasure all by his own! Everyone goes to this popular refinery, some famed blacksmith, or that popular sect to get specially created spiritual weapons, yet Chenqing, one of the most powerful weapons, was forged alone by Wei Wuxian during his 3 months in the Burial Mound!

Since years, the cultivation world has taken to heart rules of Lans, words of the powerful sects, and their leaders! Then, once again, this orphan child comes and bends the world and changes the cultivation society forever! Yiling Laozu said that... Yiling Laozu created... Yiling Laozu's manuscripts...

His words literally become the law.

Think of how 13 years after Wei Wuxian's death when "all was peaceful" despite us knowing very well, just how much shit happened after his death - slaughter of minor clans, deaths of two prominent sect leaders, xue yang etc (because, you know, most of it was purely accidental, kept hush-hush, or the victims were people who weren't important), he comes back to life and in a matter of a couple of months, upends the cultivation society again.

The "problem" is that this guy simply doesn't conform. The problem is that he is better. The problem is that he is not unnecessarily humble about it, despite his origins. He doesn't seem to treat himself as an outlier, but an equal. (That's why I hate insecure Wei Wuxian, like this guy is righteous enough he won't even treat himself badly.) The problem is that all those barriers - social classes, power, the locked doors - they won't keep him away.

Even if he was only the Jiang Da-shixiong with a bright golden core, he will still not be a conformist. To those who aren't used to having their decisions questioned, he is their worst enemy. To whose who are used to talking in circles, spreading rumors, he is asking them. What source do you have? What is the factual evidence behind what you are saying? Why are you saying this now?

Think of how he cross questioned a petty seller selling Yiling Laozu portraits in Qinghe, and how he questioned the gathered cultivation sects in Lotus Pier during Sisi and Bicao's intervention with the same sort of attitude. Surely, there was a major class difference, power difference between the two. Yet, they don't matter to him. What matters is the truth.

So, no matter what, when the people who are in power, start having too much dirty laundry and corpses in their backyards, he will definitely know. For this guy, knowing isn't enough - he will get to the crux of the issue. The problem is, he even has the skill for it. He has the ability. One also can't distract him with offers, promises, gifts, riches, status, women. He doesn't care for any of that. He perhaps might even hate one's victims. Yet he will stand up for them.

Of course, those who are in power, all smile at each other. They understand things sometimes have to be done. People sometimes have to be silenced. "We know better."

Then, Wei Wuxian comes in and says, actually you don't. He comes in with factual accounts, evidences, forces you to face your misdeeds. Says you're all a bunch of hypocritical people. No, perhaps what is worse is that he will make you realize that's what you are! Because he's got to be good at talking, too! He's not going to act on anger or be stunned in fear.

So, now you have someone who's not only digging into your evil deeds, someone who's capable, who's not easy to persuade, but also someone with high emotional intelligence who can play the same role as you do, of being a noble, accepted gentlemen with immaculate manners, of very high literacy and outdo you. Because this guy knows very well how society works, he can comprehend social cues perhaps better than you can. He can use your own polite words and nature against you.

It's precisely because of this he must be killed. Perhaps, in every world, Wei Wuxian will end up being the victim. It's only that in MDZS, these were the particular circumstances, and those were the particular excuses.

My personal take is: sometimes it is good to be a centrist, and hold everyone's better intentions in mind. most of the times it might not be, as there are many conflicting systems in place that allow for true victims who are stuck. most often, the victims are always the ones who DON'T have a voice, who are brushed over as numbers of corpses, rather than people with stories. most often, kindness is shown in little action that are trampled upon by those who hold true power. most often the people who are good, who are heroes die young, or are hated and ridiculed, for speaking up for the victims. it's not right, and never will be.

if someone like wei wuxian or his presence in the book makes you uncomfortable it might be because you hold the "niceities" and the pleasantries to be of more importance than the issues at hand. just because something is too troublesome doesn't mean it is wrong. if everytime he enters the scene you're scared of what he's going to do next, you should know it's not him who is the problem but the prople who aren't doing anything who are. don't be scared of "trouble-makers." he's not erratic or spontaneous. he has considered society's standards and deemed it useless. why is that that the koi tower scene, where he is in his "yiling laozu, loss of control, threatening" moment is followed immediately by him being extremely kind to Wen qing ? it's not that he's losing control. it's that Jin Zixun wouldn't have acted and told him where the people were without him using intimidation tactics. Wei Wuxian is the one forced into bad corners by the powerful people, where he has to show his edges. Don't end up twisted the narratives. if you bite someone for a while, expect to be hit.

[mediumgayitalian]

“Nico,” Will said, softly.

Nico hummed.

“Nico,” he said again. His voice was no more urgent, but instead almost breathy, half a sigh. The weight of Will’s head in his lap grew heavier. He set down the block of wood he was carving, sliding both hands into golden hair, instead.

“Yes?”

Will’s eyes were half-lidded, lethargic, blinking slowly. He met Nico’s fingers when one hand slid down his neck, his shoulders, to grasp it, squeezing gently.

“Kiss me,” he requested, voice soft as strawberry blossoms.

A light, late-June breeze blew through the valley, rustling the leaves of the tree they say under and carrying Will’s voice away. Nico heard him, anyway, watched the curve of his lips and the shape of his teeth as he murmured the words, eyes dusk-blue and dark and meeting his, head-on.

Hands shaking, Nico rested them gently on the sides of Will’s face, palms on his cheeks, thumbs stroking the soft line of his jaw.

Slowly, he bent down, pausing a hair’s breadth away from warm, freckled skin, breath tickling the light, delicate hairs of his eyebrows and making his eyes flutter shut. After two breaths, three, four, shaking in his lungs, he pressed his lips, dry and lingering, to the bridge of his nose, the skin between his eyebrows.

“Like that?”

“Yes,” Will breathed, chest rising slowly as the winter sun. “Again.”

Hardly lifting his mouth enough to make space between them, he followed the contours of Will’s nose, leaning to the left and hovering over the apple of his left cheek, sun-kissed and heated. He pressed his lips there, too, giving him no time to speak before moving to his other cheek and kissing there, just as softly.

This time, his voice was heavier, breathing more laboured.

“Like that?”

The cooing of the mourning doves and distant camper laughter should have drowned out the sound of Will’s breath, but Nico heard it anyway, the sharpness of it, the quickness of it.

“Yes,” he whispered. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Another. Please.”

Nico’s hands were trembling openly, now, and the slightest of shudders wracked his frame — Will’s voice was deep and wrecked, like river rocks. He had never heard it like this, and he had to press his hands closer to Will’s skin — if that was at all possible — to reserve himself.

He moved slowly over the swell of Will’s jaw, brushing his own thumb in the process. He hovered over Will’s mouth, feeling more than hearing his breath hitch, and pressed a long, lingering kiss to the dip just below his bottom lip.

“Like that?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“Yes,” came Will’s shaky response. One of his hands came to rest on top of Nico’s, overheated palms burning a brand over his knuckles. “One more.”

As slowly as he dared, Nico dragged his mouth along the crest and swell of his lip, lingering at the corner of his mouth and kissing the peak of it, open mouthed, near frozen —

“Please,” Will begged, “Nico, please —”

— and when he finally pressed their lips together, nose brushing his chin, he could have keened in relief; he was bowled over by the intensity of it, by the way Will surged up and tilted his face and gasped into his mouth, as if this was the first time they’d kissed instead of four hundredth. Nico moved the hand not trapped under Will’s for rest on his chest, palm to his heart, feeling it gallop and speed faster with every second they spent pressed close together. Nico was convinced he could taste Will’s devotion on the roof of his mouth, suck the blinding light of him from his molars. He breathed heavily, hardly focused on it, hardly focused on anything except the smell of him and taste of him, the scratch of his nails in his scalp.

“Don’t stop,” Will pleaded between breaths, and Nico thought the Earth Mother could rise again and I would not move.

He said, “Would never,” and pressed closer, and committed every one of Will’s gasps to memory.

[bopbobpbobpbobpbobpbobpb]

Sleepover gone wrong on noesss

Writing underneath

It had all started so well. Simple plan. Simple. Plan.

Step one: become unpossesed

Step two: sleepover

Step three: pie

Step four: wait for mom to go to sleep then get out the ouja board and play fun sleepover games!!!!! Thats how it works!!!! Kris would know!! They've had plenty of sleepovers with Azzy, Noelle and

Step five: have fun and go sleep. (Kris would NOT be sharing everyone else has to sleep somewhere else)

That was the plan!!

It had started of so well. Kris had entered the room and Susie and Berdly, well did what They always did. Argue. It was friendly though!! They always do that it was normal. Noelle suggested truth or dare (a classic) and it was going well!! Bonding!! With friends!!! Kris had missed this. They had missed having so many people in their life, shouting amd screaming, having fun until they were too loud and Toriel had come into their room and remind them to be a little quieter. They had missed laughing and being "sneaky", talking about the most random things and playing little games. They had missed the noise and the warmth of the ones close to you just simply being there. Kris had finally resolved everything with Noelle Berdly and Susie. Until they just made that shit go crashing down.

One thing had led to another. Berdly truthed susie to tell something. Susie got defensive. Things got heated. They both lashed out. Noelle tried to diffuse the situation. Berdly said something. Noelle got pissed. Berdly said something. It struck a nerve. Kris saw red.

The whole room had stared at Kris in shock. Kris's eyes widened. No. No. They didn't mean that they didn't mean tha- Berdly rushed out. Eyes suspiciously shiny. There were only three of them left. Kris, Noelle and Susie. All of them could only stare dumbly at eachother. Shit SHIT. Kris CAN'T go back to before they CAN'T they CAN'T. Panic rose. Kris had just made up with Berdly and they immediately ruined it. Kris went after Berdly, determined to make things right again.

Except ...

Kris stood at the doorway, frozen. How do they do this? Their breathing got funny. WWAD What would Asriel do? He was good at this sort of thing wasn't he? But.. Asriel wasn't there. Only an idiot human and a crying bird on the footsteps. Kris thought about what to say. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it .you're my friend. I love you. Kris flushed no they could NOT say that don't be an idiot. No they had to say what they were sorry about right? Like uh: Im sorry i-

"are you just gonna stand there"

Kris flinched. Berdly sighed and continued looking away form Kris.

"I'm sorry" Kris could only say.

Berdly ignored them. Kris sat down on the steps next to Berdly.

"I didn't mean it" Kris looked down, avoiding eye contact.

"It's not true"

There was a silence.

"But what if it is" Berdly's voice cracked. Kris looked up in shock.

"What if I am" Berdly burried his face in his wings

" I AM a forgettable little bluebird and when I die no one will care because I have done nothing in life and I'm not exceptional at all and I was so mean and I -"

"No."

"What do you mean no?"

"Berdly I was being a dumb shit who got mad and took things too far you ARE NOT foegettable you ARE exceptional and if you died I would be really sad and track down your murderer and kill them and you're my friend and i love yo-" shit shit shit shit.

Berdly faced Kris.

"What"

"What"

"What did you just say"

"If you died I would be sad and kill your murderer"

"No after that"

"You're my friend??"

"No the one after that"

"That was it"

"KRIS STOP GASLIGHTING ME"

"I'm not??"

Berdly laughed. Kris could not help but grin a little at the sight. Suddenly they stiffened the birb hugged them tightly.

"I love you too kris"

Suddenly there were two idiots crying that night.

[purplepeach333]

The Prey

Pairing: Feyd x reader

Warnings: none

Summary: you are the adopted daughter of house Atriedes, stranded on Arrakis with your mother and brother. Paul starts seeing visions of war and chaos whilst you are trying to aid your brother in finding a way out of the bloodshed you get word of the arrival of the Emperor and house Harkooen. Paul goes to your mother for help. She claims there is only one way that war will be avoided which is for you to accept the long waited betrothal offer so that they can keep peace.

~Part 1~

I dart into the cramped cave my mother occupies, feeling frantic and almost sick

“How could you! Even just knowing that you were considering giving me away to those monsters is absolutely unbelievable!” I breathe out, anger coating my features as I pace around the small space a few times.

Jessica sits there in her usual place within the shadows almost unaware of my presence, meditating for the hundredth time that day. I stop pacing and turn to her looking for a sign that she is paying any kind of attention. Away from the blazing desert sun the air feeling cool as It fills my lungs, not a sound but my unsteady breath

“Mother please, you can’t just ignore me and expect me to accept it” I cry out angrily, searching for any kind of response.

After a horribly long couple minutes of silence Jessica opens her eyes glancing up at me with a vacant expression

“It has been decided, I have already sent word to the Baron.” She replies her voice empty and emotionless matching the bland expression on her face

“What!.” I stand there, my body frozen dread rushing through me. “Y-you can’t do that.” I try to protest my voice coming out in a desperate whisper. “They wouldn’t agree to it. Not now”

Feeling my world collapse around me, anything I could have ever wanted or wished for gone, impossible, absolutely unattainable I’ll be a prisoner.

“They will come to fetch you tomorrow, then all shall be well for Paul to continue on his path” she finishes turning away from me

Hearing her words I feel something within me snap “Paul! Is that seriously all you care about!” I shout in frustration. Seeing her so uninterested in what I have to say I step towards her. I'd been training day and night my whole life to perfect my control over the voice, without hesitation I look down at my mother and use her own training against her “look at me.” I command

The energy in the room changes almost immediately as Jessica stands from her spot glaring at me “how dare you.” She demands her voice echoing on the thick stone walls around us as bits of sand and rock fall from above.

“You have no say in the matter it has already been decided.” she continues stepping towards me “with the Harkoonens satisfied and out of the way Paul will be able to do what he must and with you wed to the Na-baron we will have a hand to control them.” Without another word she strides past me out into the light.

I stand there stunned. Even if Paul achieves his goal how will I gain control over the Harkooens they’d kill me if they ever saw me as a threat.

—

Stepping out into the harsh, burning heat from the cool, comforting shade, I realise that this is actually happening in just a few short hours. I will be forced to leave my family and the beautifully harsh desert to go willingly with the Harkooens. I’ve only ever read about them and their way of life and what I’ve read isn’t very comforting, but being merely a pawn in a large,unfair game of chess I have little to no say against the kings and knights ranking well above me no matter how much I plead and beg.

“y/n do you have nothing better to wear?” Jessica comments from behind me devoured by her layers of elegant fabrics

“No mother, this is all I have.” I pat down my fremen borrowed clothes “I doubt it matters-“

“Of course it matters, you must make a exceptional first impression” she corrects me immediately “you wouldn’t want to disappoint your betrothed”

I peer out into the never ending sea of sand, wishing it would swallow me whole and put me out of my misery.

[capnsupernova]

The Death of Batman

Four years. Four years since the streets of Gotham have seen Batman. Four years since the Justice League has seen Batman. Four years since the Robins have seen Batman.

And now he stands, in full gear, mask and cape and all, in front of a podium in broad daylight with a microphone in his face, surrounded by cameras. The audience is still. No one dares make a sound. No one dares ask why, after all this time, he is here now. No one dares to say it, but he’s different than they imagined he’d be. He is tall, yes, and his shoulders broad and sturdy enough to carry the whole weight of the world, but they see his weariness etched in the lines of his mouth, the only part of his face they have ever been able to see. For the first time, they see, not some cryptid of the night meting out justice, but a man. Just a man in a suit. No one dares say it, but he looks tired.

For a long time, he is silent.

When he does speak, his voice is softer than they expect—tinged with the first hints of age.

“I have watched this city for so long.”

The people of Gotham hold their breath.

“For so long, I have been your knight, your judge, your hero…. No, not your hero. It’s been a long time since I’ve been anyone’s hero.” He sighs and all the burdens of darkness and justice escape with his breath. “I am so tired.”

His enemies wait in the shadows. Everyone knows they’re there, waiting for an opportunity. Never has Batman announced his presence so publicly. Never has he handed himself so neatly to them, and with so many potential hostages and casualties around his stage. But they find themselves frozen. This is not the voice they know, not the gruff growl that haunts their nightmares. He is tired. They hear that, and this is familiar in a different way. They have all, villain and civilian alike, felt this exhaustion themselves. And so, they wait to see what he will say next.

“I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. I don’t know if I’ve ever done the right thing. My children are hurting. I have hurt my children.” His voice catches. He takes a moment, looks up at the sky, blue and cloudless and bright. “I just want them to come home.”

He pauses, head tilted upwards before looking back at the people of Gotham, people he saved, people he fought and locked away—all of them, in one way or another, people that he has tried to help. People he has tried to protect.

“The Batman,” he says, “is retiring.”

Somewhere, a pin drops, and the echoes reverberate around the world. No one notices, but in the crowd, among reporters, a tall, barrel-chested man with dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses smiles. It’s a small smile, a twitch of the lips. He meets Batman’s eyes over the tops of the heads of Gotham’s citizens. He nods, barely perceptible, and the man behind the black mask stands just a little taller.

“That is all. Thank you.”

And just like that, Batman is gone. No one stops him as he walks off the stage. No one stops him as their Dark Knight, their strange and mysterious vigilante, disappears into the shadows and out of their lives forever.

--

The first to return is Jason. He knocks on the door with all the casual confidence of Gotham’s premier crime boss, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, eyes so green they may as well be glowing.

When Bruce opens the door, he looks the old man up and down. “I’m assuming my old room is still available?” His smile is half-cocked and arrogant as ever, but there’s uncertainty furrowed in the space between his brows. If you didn’t know him, you wouldn’t see it at all.

Bruce sees it. And of all the things Jason excepts—the door slammed in his face, all the security systems of Wayne manor targeting his chest and head, a lecture at the very least—what he doesn’t expect are the tears that well up in Bruce’s eyes. He doesn’t expect to be wrapped tightly in his strong arms, arms that feel so much smaller than he remembers.

“Oh my boy,” Bruce whispers into his chest. “Oh my sweet, strong boy. I’m so sorry. I’ve missed you so much. I’m so glad you’re home.”

And it’s too much. The man behind the red hood, the man who beat Tim within an inch of his life, the man who shot Damien in the back in an effort to kill his own pain, crumples. In his father’s arms he is reduced to that 15-year-old boy who died and came back to life. The 15-year-old boy who, after all this time, only ever wanted to come home.

--

The rest showed up one by one that very same day. Dick showed up first with Tim and Damien in tow, surprised—not that Jason was there—but that he had beat him home. Then Barbara, Duke, Stephanie. It wasn’t long before the house was full of every single Robin and Batgirl who ever passed through these halls. Draped over chairs and couches (or, in Dicks case, swinging from the chandelier in the foyer while Tim and Damien did their best to use him—unsuccessfully—as target practice).

Not much changed in Gotham, after that. The villains didn’t retire with Batman, just as they didn’t disappear with Batman four years ago. But neither were they given free reign of the city, for Batman had ensured so, so long ago that there would always be someone to protect his home and his people. Gotham would always have their symbols of hope, their bats of blue and red and green and purple and yellow. New symbols that filled the night with a rainbow of colors.

And when their work was done, they returned to the manor, where their father would dress their wounds, mend their capes, and make them heaping piles of pancakes and eggs (“Yes, Dami, you have to finish the eggs. I won’t have some villain getting the better of you because you don’t have enough protein in your system”) with bowls of fruit and fresh squeezed orange juice. Bruce was, at the very least, a better cook than Alfred had been.

Things weren’t perfect. There were wounds that couldn’t be healed with a simple hug and a few tears. Wounds that would take years of therapy and hard talks and patience to fully close over. Bruce never told them where he’d been for those four years, and they never asked. This was the beginning of something entirely new for all of them.

But for the first time since anyone could remember, the sun shined bright and warm over the city of Gotham.

--

Writer’s Note:

This is an idea I have debated with close friends—the retirement of Batman. The main issue boils down to this: what becomes of Gotham without their symbol of hope? And to me, the answer is simple. Nothing. Because Batman is no longer their only symbol of hope. He hasn’t been for a long time, since he first took in Dick Grayson, that colorful bird of a boy. I think, in all honesty, that this is the true purpose of the Robins. Maybe Bruce himself didn’t realize it at the time, but he always hoped for something brighter for Gotham than Batman. Bruce has always been a reflection of Gotham. “The hero they deserve.” In a way, by taking in each sidekick, he adds another possibility, not just for the people of Gotham, but for himself too. A brighter future. Isn’t this what we all hope for our children?

[shalomniscient]

bring me the sun || arlecchino x reader

You are her sun and she is your moon, and she holds only the stars as witness to the way she loves you to the edges of the heavens and back.

cw: maybe ooc arle? was trying to hit that childhood friends to lovers angle but might have missed the mark. other than that, none !

wc: 1.6k

There are three things the inhabitants of the Hotel know about Father: her orders are absolute, her power is unquestionable, and that you are her utmost and only beloved.

Your visits to the Hotel were always highly anticipated—perhaps even more so than Father’s, at times. You traveled the world in your service of Arlecchino, and by extension the Tsaritsa, which also meant that every time you returned to the Hotel you brought new, exotic sweets along with you. The children clamored around you, tugging on your hands and the silks of your dress, all vying for your attention. You always smiled at the kids, rather than push them away like one would have expected a Fatuus to do—the cadence of your voice light as you entertained the excited children, warm and almost motherly. A bright morning sun in the gray winter. But an icy voice always smothered that warm moment like snow falling into a flame.

“That’s enough. Do you all not have other things to do?”

Father hardly ever left her office upon the arrival of guests—but you, always you, were the only exception. The other children scurried off immediately, unwilling to draw Father’s ire, but one child was a little too slow and hid behind your skirts, frozen in place as he watched Father descend the grand stairs. She moved slowly, a wolf to a lamb, her boots clicking like claws on the cold tile. That was the sort of presence Father commanded—frigid and loveless and distant like the moon. A light in the darkness, to be sure, but one would find no warmth in the Knave.

But then, you smile, a soft thing that bloomed across your equally soft features, the sun emerging from behind grey clouds. Achingly fond. The Knave’s coldness swept up and over you and right out the door as you beam, unbothered by the chill, and drop into a polite curtsey.

“My Lord,” you say, and the children watching from the wings swear they see Father’s lip twitch. But then her gaze passes over you to burn holes into the boy behind you, who quivers under the intensity of it.

“Have you forgotten your assigned duties for today, boy?” she asks, and the boy flinches ever so slightly. “Surely there are more pressing matters for you to attend to, rather than accost our guests?”

“Rest assured, I was not accosted, my Lord,” you interject quietly, placatingly, before the Harbinger could go any further. “I promised to bring sweets, last I was here. He was simply waiting for his share.”

Some would find your bravery admirable yet foolish. But the children know their Father better.

The rigid line of her shoulders relaxes ever so slightly, and she watches you with the calmness of first snow. No icy barb or frosty remark is hurtled your way—instead, the whirling blizzard that is the Knave quiets, as if subdued by you and you alone.

“Make haste, then,” is all she says, and you offer another sweet smile, pulling a few wrapped candies from your pocket and handing them to the boy. He kisses your hand in gratitude before scampering off, eager to escape from Father’s piercing gaze. Once he is gone, disappearing into the winding hallways of the Hotel, your expression falls into a frown, but the twinkle of mirth in your eyes is difficult to hide.

“Has anyone informed you how terribly mean you are, my Lord?” you tease, though your words and posture do not match the joviality of your tone. From afar, one would assume that this was simply another conversation between a superior and a servant. As if the words exchanged were for no one other than you and the Knave.

“No,” the Knave says, frigid as ever. “None have dared.”

“Then perhaps it is a blessing that I have returned,” you joke, and anyone could see the way Father’s entire body bleeds the tension it normally carries, as if you were drawing it out of her with each light word. As if your presence was a balm to her soul. As if to say, always. Father doesn’t deign your teasing with a response, but she may as well have.

“Let us talk more in my office,” she says. A blackened hand rises to rest on the small of your back, a gentle urge that you do not reject. It is such a far cry from the violence they could inflict, the devastation they could deal. “I have a pot of rose tea prepared.”

“Ah, my favourite! You remembered.”

“Of course,” the Knave says quietly, as if it were a universal fact, as if the idea of her forgetting was absurd and incomprehensible. Your gaze is kept forward, admiring the new paintings of sunrises and sunsets that line the walls as you both ascend the stairs, so you do not see it but the children do. They see the way Father’s eyes soften so imperceptibly in a way most didn’t think was possible for her. They see the way her features smoothen out, her typical sneer of cold condescenscion melting into not a smile, but something so close to fond.

When you both disappear behind the heavy doors of the Knave’s office, the children can’t help but wonder—do you know, that you held a Harbinger’s heart in your hands?

“You spoil them far too much,” Arlecchino says as the doors shut. The hand on your back has not left, but you do not want it to anyway. She guides you to sit on an opulent couch, the cushions the same blood red as Arlecchino’s cross-shaped pupils. On the coffee table is a familiar old teapot, the aroma of sugar and roses wafting from the spout.

“Perhaps you spoil them far too little,” you counter, watching as she poured you a cup of golden tea, those dark hands stark against the pale porcelain.

“They are children of the snow,” Arlecchino rebuts, placing your cup on a saucer. Her hands are steady. “They do not need to be spoiled.”

“And yet, they are still children,” you murmur, bringing the cup to your lips for a sip. The tea tastes sweet, with distinct floral notes—just the same as it tastes every other time you visit. She has your tastes down to a science. Over the rim of your cup you see Arlecchino’s expression twist before it mellows out, and she sighs quietly. She knows where your softness comes from. You, too, were both children once, even if it was difficult to remember ever being allowed to simply be a child. You both grew up far too quickly and far too cruelly—the only constant and comfort you could find was in each other. A truth that remains even now, years into the future.

“Your heart is too warm, mon soleil.”

You set your teacup down, a teasing grin pulling at your lips. “And perhaps yours is too cold, ma lune.”

Arlecchino simply hums. She indulges in your fun where she would have eviscerated anyone else. Instead, dark hands curl in the folds of your dress and with a light tug she has you straddling her lean thighs as her head lies on the couch’s cusions, neck craned upward to look lazily up at you. The pale column of her neck is exposed like this, and you stifle the urge to press your lips against it. Her hands find home on your hips, like they’ve done countless of times before.

“If that’s the case,” she whispers, low and temptous as one hand takes yours to press below her left breast, right above her heart, “won’t you help warm it up again, mon soleil?”

You lean down, cupping her face in your free hand. Dual toned hair falls into her dark eyes, a delightfully messy sight you so dearly missed. Your lips ghost over her own, and you laugh breathily as Arlecchino twitches forward ever so slightly, her eagerness rather cute—though you suspect she would sooner die rather than admit to being anything other than terrifying, least of all cute.

“As my Lord commands,” you croon, and you finally, finally kiss her. She all but melts beneath you, greedily chasing your kiss and the sweetness of roses. She normally loathes sweet things, but perhaps she could make an exception if she drank it directly from your lips. She kisses you as if she might lose you at any moment, slowly savouring all of you. Her blackened hands start to feel warm again, the heat of your body under her touch radiating through her own and making her feel the most alive since you left.

You are her sun. The source of her light, the centre of her universe. You remind her what it is like to be warm, when the chill of those faraway snowfields cut into her skin and bite deep into her bones. Sunshine lies just beneath your skin and Arlecchino craves it, needs it like a thorny rose to the light. It is only with you that she can be more than Arlecchino, more than the conniving Knave who lurks in the shadows. It is only with you, behind these closed doors in the comfort of her own space can she be just your lover, and be loved in turn, away from the prying eyes of the outside world.

You are her sun and she is your moon, and she holds only the stars as witness to the way she loves you to the edges of the heavens and back.

She wonders if you know this—if you can feel it in the way her lips move against yours. It is a silly thought, because when Arlecchino feels you smile into the kiss she knows you know.

[sandeewithtwoe]

What are all your Delta headcanons?

I’m glad you asked that!

The good thing about characters with unfinished stories is that you can make a lot of headcanons about them :)

First, he always gives a first bad impression on people. His aggressiveness, chaotic energy and the way he talks about “killing bad guys” throws people off. He’s also very cocky so he sometimes just say out of pocket things without thinking. That results in him not having a lot of friends. The only ones he’s really close with are Color and Epic, so he’s pretty protective over them, even tho they’re probably wayyyy stronger and older than him (don’t tell him I said that). Thing is, once you get over first impressions, he actually gets somewhat friendly. He’ll always lend a hand if you need help, tell jokes, give you friendly punches, etc. He still says weird things but he can be very helpful and sweet.

Another thing, I really like the headcanon that he has internalized toxic masculinity, but only towards himself. “Heroes don’t cry”, “dresses make you look stupid”, “don’t show any weakness”, “man up”, stuff like that in his head. He’ll never put those expectations onto others tho, cause he kinda puts more pressure on himself than everyone else. Everyone should express themselves however they like, that’s what makes them so brave. EXCEPT HIMSELF >:D (/j). He’s so cocky but he also has a fragile ego. If you dare him to do something he will do it bacause he doesn’t want to be seen as weak. Speaking of looking weak, he doesn’t cry because of that. Last time he cried was when he failed to bring everyone in the underground back to life. Crying means he failed, that everything is lost and there’s no hope left (he should speak to a therapist about that)

Also also, about his human soul (Beta), they don’t really talk much, but they both still care for eachother. Beta watches his back and gives him courage to keep fighting and try new things. Because of this, Delta basically has a second pair of eyes, which gives him good reflexes. And like I said in a previous ask, Beta would sometimes move Delta’s arms and punch people, but only when Delta is off guard or when he’s frozen like a dumbass.

I have more but I’m too tired, so here’s a list of them instead:

- Likes working out with Blue (gloves gets stronger if he builds muscle)

- Has a lot of respect for Dream, even though he disagrees with his methods

- Is 26 years old, uses he/they, aromatic (romance repulsed)

- “do it first, ask questions later” when it comes to his friends

- Eventually gets friendly with Cross after realizing that he’s not going to hurt Epic

- Would throw the middle finger to Nightmare and challenge him to a fist fight (hates Nightmare with all his might)

- Has NOT met killer yet, but thinks Color and Killer are dating (they’re not)

- They’re fashion sense is so boring and simple. Wears white/grey shirts and black pants only (less colours = manly to them I guess)

- Stays up at night to talk to Epic and not leave him alone (also fails to stay up and falls asleep in the middle of their conversation)

I’ve got more but I’ll stop here lol this is a lot

[deathbxnny]

Salutations good writer! I hope you're feeling better after your mental health break, and that whatever may have spurred it has been resolved! Now, if you are 100% open to taking reqs again, I'd like to propose a little platonic HC ask for the certain crew of a space-faring locomotive. Basically the, Astral Express crew (if you're cool with taking HSR asks, since I remember seeing you mention that you were feeling burnt out with those) finding out that their youngest (I'd say upper teens in terms of age range) member... has a lot of cybernetics. I'm talk an arm, half their upper body, and both their legs. And these cybernetics are a source of great insecurity for them, like they feel like they're beneath everyone, a lesser being, less of a human being. And as for why they hid it, well, it may have been an illogical train of thought, but it was because they, deep down, were terrified that the crew would end up validating those feelings if they ever found out. And this was information that they'd hidden from the rest of the crew for a good while, under layers of covering clothing, until during a recent mission that would result in their secret being revealed. I'm imagining it's either like, they jump in front of another crew member, or the crew need to urgently retrieve an item, or pull some sort of switch, but where that item or switch lays is too dangerous for any of them to just reach in unless to want their hand and/or arm melted or ripped off. Any of them, except for the reader. Who does just that. Either way, their clothes are damaged, and their secret is exposed for all to see.

-----♡

A/N: I love the way you talk like a mid-century, mysterious merchant, who sends you on a life altering quest, before disappearing into the shadows of the forest, satisfied with the evil they've committed for the day on the unsuspecting adventurer... Also, thank you for your interesting request lmao-

Content: Teen reader having robotic limbs, hurt/comfort, slight angst, unserious in some parts, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns!

((Not fully proofread))

-----♡

》March 7th

She found out about your robotic limbs during a fight against some enemies. Your arm malfunctioned, loosening off your shoulder, which made you instinctively grab it to keep it in place. March thought that you had gotten injured and quickly tried to aid you by grabbing your arm too, despite you telling her that it was alright.

She didn't listen and quickly had to pull you out of the way from an attack, making her accidentally take your entire arm off with her. You both stood there frozen, including the baffled enemy, as you just stared at your arm in March's shaking hands. Your insecurities quickly flared up, as you tried scrambling for an excuse. But you were cut off by March's high-pitched scream of horror, since she thought that she had somehow ripped your entire arm off.

The enemy eventually just left out of sheer embarrassment, as you had to be the one comforting March about your arm and explain to her that everything was fine. At least you didn't feel too bad about it anymore, if anything, it was maybe even funny for once.

-----♡

》Welt Yang

Welt always somehow knew that you were hiding something, but never dared push you on the topic. Instead, he made it clear that you can talk about anything that bothers you to him. He was open to anything, in fact, he has seen practically everything the world had to offer. Nothing surprised him anymore and he made sure you knew that. So really, he was just patiently waiting for you to one day tell him what it was, that visibly bothered you so much every day.

And the day finally came, when you couldn't fix your leg that was broken in a battle. You were frustrated and angry, unable to fix it no matter what you did. You didn't want anyone seeing you like this and therefore hid yourself in your room until you could solve the issue. But the crew eventually got worried for you and send Welt to check up on you. He knocked, asking you if he could come in and after an eternity of silence, you sigh and give up, before letting him in. You tearfully sat on your bed in defeat, your robotic leg on full display, thinking he'll now degrade you for it.

But he surprised you, as he simply kneeled down at your bed and asked you to give him your tools, so that he could fix it for you. He asked no questions and just worked away, until he finally fixed it for you with ease. He didn't need to say anything and you didn't either, just silently appreciating him for the wordless kindness he had just shown you.

-----♡

》Himeko

Himeko only noticed your robotic limbs, when you returned from a mission completely beaten up. Your sleeves were torn off your arms and your cybernetic limbs on full display for her to see. Your head was hanging in shame, as you nervously and anxiously waited for her ridicule you thought you'd get.

But that never came and instead, she just gently hugged you and quickly tended to your wounds. She asked no questions and just patiently waited for you to tell her all about your limbs, whilst she calmly patched you up. She wiped away your tears and patted your head, reassuring you that everything was going to be alright and that your secret is safe with her, if you don't want to share this with everyone just yet.

She from then on made sure you had better cybernetics that didn't break or malfunction and kept your secret just like she promised to. She was always to hear and still your insecurities, as she didn't think that they were anything to be ashamed of.

-----♡

》Dan Heng

Dan Heng once caught a glimpse of your cybernetic limbs, yet never said a word about to anyone. He for one didn't think it was his place to do so and also didn't think it was such a big deal in the first place. So he wasn't all to phased, when your arm shattered during a fight and was revealed to indeed not be real. The only thing he was worried about, was if you were alright or not.

He finishes up the battle quickly to make sure you're alright and not injured. Though seeing you so visibly shaken up and ashamed makes him freeze up with worry for a second. He certainly didn't except you to be so insecure about them, even if you hid them from everyone. He gives you silent support by helping you quickly get a replacement arm and making up some lies, so that the crew didn't know anything, until you were ready to tell them yourself.

He continues to not make a big deal out of it afterwards and instead tells you that your limbs make you even more interesting, in hopes of cheering you up through it.

-----♡

A/N: Alright, I hope this was okay! Thank you again for the request!<33

[devilsrecreation]

trick or treat!!! /np, nf again!... if i'm allowed to do this twice?

I don’t see any reason why you’re NOT allowed to do it twice!

Spinny, you know my hc where Nduli finally calls Kiburi out on every bad thing he’s done? Well….

Something inside Nduli’s brain snapped the moment those words came out. His claws dug into the ground, a snarl escaping from his mouth as his eyes narrowed. All the negative thoughts that were once spiraling deep inside his brain suddenly jumped out all at once.

“That’s it!”

The rest of his float turned towards Nduli shocked of his unexpected tone.

“I’ve had it with you and your attitude! Ever since this morning, you’ve been so mean to everyone! Whenever any of us do something wrong, you’re just so cold! I’d get it if it were still the Dry Season cuz it makes us moody, but it’s over! Now, you’re just tearing us down for no reason!”

Kiburi scoffed, “Maybe I wouldn’t be if you actually did something right!”

“And that’s another thing! You’re being too hard on everyone lately! We’re all trying really hard to make you happy, but it’s NEVER good enough!” Nduli’s voice softened into a more concerned tone, “And you’re hard on yourself, too! Like you don’t stop sparring until you’re about to pass out and it ain’t good for you! Whatever’s going on, you can tell us!”

“I told you, stop worrying about me.” Kiburi replied, firmly, “Why do you always have to be on my back all the time?!”

“Why do you always have to push everyone away when they’re just trying to be there for you?!”

Absolute silence.

It was like all of Africa had stopped moving around them. Any sounds of their environment had now quieted down. No one spoke a word, not even Tamka—the most talkative one of the float. He and Neema merely exchanged glances, not daring to even breathe. Wakali cowered a bit but kept her eyes locked on her father and uncle. Kiburi had reared his head back, while the rest of his body was frozen. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Nduli continued,

“First it was Makuu, then your own sister, and now you’re doing it to us! All we want to do is support you when you need it the most! Because that’s what friends do, they care about each other! But no, all you ever do is push away anybody who wants to help! Whenever we try to talk to you, you just say you’re fine and you wanna be left alone! But you’re not fine and we know it! You don’t even wanna hang out with us anymore, not even when you have nothin’ to do! You’re always saying that you’re tired or you don’t feel like it or you wanna be alone. It’s always about YOU and what YOU want, but you don’t even think about any of us anymore!” Nduli took a step towards Kiburi. “YOU didn’t listen to Makuu when we woke up in the Dry Season, YOU challenged Makuu to a mashindano cuz YOU didn’t like the new watering hole we got! YOU wanted us to take down Simba and YOU got us banished from the Pridelands! Just admit it, everything that happened that day was YOUR fault! We had a good home and everything except you blew it cuz you don’t care about anyone but yourself!”

Nduli was left breathing heavily by the end of his rant. His eyes now seemed to be a bit misty, but still glaring daggers at his leader. Kiburi could only blink in disbelief with his mouth slightly agape. Things were quiet again until Nduli eventually caught his breath and spoke again,

“You can find your own way home, Kiburi. I’m done…”

[thetarttfuldickhead]

I’m particularly unhinged about how Roy offering to train Jamie is arguable a direct continuation of and parallel to the locker room hug.

Both are instances where Jamie must be feeling utterly alone, exposed in a terribly vulnerable situation he has no idea how to change or remove himself from. At Wembley, it’s a moment of acute crisis; at Richmond ever after Zava’s arrival it’s a slow, nagging thing – but whether it’s him being frozen in shock after punching his dad or very, very deliberatedly holding his emotions in after Zava steals his goal, it’s Jamie struggling to deal, and being all alone in that struggle.

Except, he isn’t alone, is he, because Roy is there. Roy is there and he sees Jamie and he chooses to act in both instances, giving Jamie exactly what he needs at each of these moments. A hug, for touch and comfort and safety when that is what Jamie clearly craves; a sense of agency and the means to change his unhappy situation when this is what will serve him best.

Just. Something about the grace of it; so unexpectedly being caught and held and held up when you thought you were all alone and falling. Someone’s there, and they’ve noticed you struggling and they’ve got you. The way that feeling must stay with Jamie after Man City, leading him to immediately trust and accept Roy’s offer of training at Ola’s, rather than say suspecting Roy of making fun of him for finding himself in this situation – not unreaonable given their history.

(And how heady it must be for Roy, too; for this angry man with such a bleak idea of how he affects the people around him to realize that he can be this for someone else? It’s not just Jamie who carries that hug and everything it made it feel with him. Roy’s risking something here, too, making an offer that might be refused or mocked by someone who was once an enemy – but he dares make it becaue the last time he reached out to Jamie, Jamie didn’t push him away but clung onto him for dear life.)

I mean. The way they are so good for each other? The way they put themselves out there to be there for one another and make each other better? Unhinged.

[bisexuallsokka]

zukka n 22 pls :)

22. a kiss in a rush of adrenaline.

"Sokka."

"I know."

"It's just that…if you don’t make it…”

"I know, Zuko."

"Sorry. You can do this. Win for me, yeah?"

Sokka spares a glance at him, seeing how he is worrying his bottom lip. Zuko meets his eyes, as if he can read Sokka's thoughts about Zuko's lips and his hands and his--

"Sokka!" Suki warns.

"Shit," Sokka curses, redirecting his attention to the television and glaring at the banana peel that his kart just ran into. "Sorry, uh, got distracted."

"Sokka just hit a banana peel," Zuko says, continuing his ongoing narration to Toph. "I think it's the one he planted during the last lap."

Toph lets out a cackle that Sokka chooses not to acknowledge, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Katara lean forward more. His palms feel sweaty. He's so close to gaining on her, he can't let Zuko down after Katara beat him in the last race. Funny, the fact that he could lose the pool of money reserved for the champion of their Mario Kart bracket doesn't seem to matter to him anymore.

"Katara is still in the lead but Sokka is catching up, they are approaching the finish line to start the final lap, they both just got a power-up..."

Sokka tunes him out as he crosses the finish line, focusing on the final lap, on beating Katara. He turns a corner, then another, then-

"Fuck," Katara mutters as she just barely misses the shortcut that Sokka takes, then she shouts, "Fuck!" when her position changes to 2nd and Sokka takes 1st. He doesn't dare let it distract him though, tries desperately to not get distracted by Zuko for once as his narration of the game gets louder from his excitement. Sokka just focuses on completing the rest of the track smoothly, dodging a shell that Katara sends his way, then-

"YES!" he and Zuko shout at the same time, Sokka jumping to his feet as Zuko chants, "He won, Sokka won!"

Suki and Aang cheer and Katara gets up to give her brother a firm congratulatory handshake and a smile that makes Sokka fearful of ever trying his luck a second time. He turns back to Zuko, finally letting himself fully bask in his smile and the way his eyes are wide and excited. He's on his feet, throwing his arms around Sokka so strongly that they nearly topple over, then Zuko is pulling back from the hug and Sokka's hands are grabbing his elbows to stop him from getting too far and he's leaning forward and-

Shocked silence falls over the room except for the music from Mario Kart and, after a few moments, Toph saying, "What?"

Zuko and Sokka are staring at each other in shock, Sokka's hands still frozen on Zuko and Zuko seeming unable or unwilling to step away.

"Uh, Sokka just kissed me," Zuko tells her. Toph cackles again.

"I did," Sokka says. It had barely been a kiss, just a peck really, but there was no denying their lips met. And he wanted it to happen again. But also... "Sorry, it was the adrenaline," he starts, but when Zuko's face falls Sokka grips his arms tighter. "Not like that! Like, I definitely wanted to kiss you, but I hadn't planned to do it just now, I was just excited and you were looking so-"

"Sokka, I will double my contribution to the money pool if you have this conversation literally anywhere else," Katara says, already going through the menu to start a new race, sounding way too unenthusiastic for someone who has been telling Sokka to make a move for months. Everyone else is still busy processing what just happened to say anything else; Aang's eyes are darting quickly between Zuko and Sokka, Suki is hiding a smile behind her hand, and Toph is smirking in their direction.

And, well, it's the push that Sokka needs as he grabs Zuko's hand and leads them toward the door to go for a walk and a conversation that has been a long time coming.

[batsvnte]

𝐎𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 • 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞

Pairing(s): Blade

Sypnosis: The experiences that the two of you went through never slips his mind. Not during months of hiding away after the day of your death

Warning(s): mentions of scars/blood/death, slight yandere Blade, angst (?), ooc maybe, not proofread

Song used: Paris, Texas by Lana Del Rey feat. SYML

Word Count: 1.8K

Notes: black fem!reader (she/her pronouns) with probably the most ooc Blade ever- this is more of a Drabble that i put together because my minds been everywhere. Idk much about him except with some key factors about his personality so this is gonna be messy hHhH-

When everyone’s stars bright

They say there are five stages a grief.

Nobody knew it was gonna happen. It took them by surprise. One of the sides had low thoughts about the event that took place, figuring that it was one less hunter to deal with, but held some sympathy to the ones that knew her. Another side grieving silently among themselves. Knowing that it was gonna happen one of the days of being afflicted with them. Someone who was a less known but considered an wanted criminal with nothing else to show of themselves. The one side though was in a mixture of emotions. All of them were foreign to him.

Blade didn’t know what to do. The events repeating in his head over and over again in his hand like a never ending cycle. It didn’t take him long to realize what has happened to you. He figured it out to quickly. Frozen in his spot as the news of your death finally became official. Staring with his cold eyes at nothing in particular. The hunters he was close to could tell what he was feeling at that moment. Despite his emotionless nature he strangely couldn’t control what his mind was taking him through.

Brighter than you are

Denial.

The missions were progressively getting quicker. He would’ve set a record for the hunters for how fast he would complete the mission. No words being said, only Kafka’s voice being heard through the ear piece he wore. Every now and then Silver Wolf would say a remark, but neither heard any snarky remark come from Blade. Only a hum of agreement or disagreement. Or nothing at all. They would be use to the silence he gave before but now he won’t utter a single word to them.

No matter Kafka’s words about you, he can’t bring himself to leave sleek black helmet that you left behind. Finding it on the ground in the midst of the chaos was the only thing left of you that he can keep ahold of. Blade carried it back to the hideout as if it was the last thing he could ever hold onto. Aware that at some day it could be stolen away from him for whatever reason there may be. Might that day ever come to, Blade would track down the person who had stolen it. If he were to find a single scratch on it he would make sure the person would be dealt with thoroughly.

It’s gotten to where it was locked away into his room. Leaving it on a place where he can have a full view of the helmet. He could never bring himself to rid of it. He could never bring himself to let anyone else in your room that was quickly abandoned. Any new recruit would be met with the sharp end of his sword threatening to slice through their neck. Being given no explanation as to why they can’t enter the room.

They either walk away unscathed with no answers, or find themselves bleeding on the floor drawing their last breaths.

It’s time to go

Anger.

It was confusing to tell who it was directed to. On occasions during the mission he would relentlessly fight the ones who stand in his way. Leaving nothing but the dark crimson of their blood to be left of them. Taking his rage out on the world around him for taking away the one person, who dare say this, stole his heart. He might even snap at his own teammates for bringing your name out of their mouths.

What reason do they have to be speaking about you. Don’t they know that he’s grieving too?

But he was also angry at himself. Angry that he couldn’t have the time to get to know you better. Angry that he didn’t hold onto you to get you back. Why else would he be destroying the empty room in a fit of rage once he’s reminded of what happened that day. Blade couldn’t forgive himself for letting you slip away from his grasp. Your warmth he so desperately held onto to escaping his hands.

No matter how many people have fallen to his sword he could never satisfy the rage that clawed at his mind ruthlessly.

And you’re the only one left

Bargaining.

Moments when he’s alone Blade would be in your room. Viewing the items in your room that he never got to ask questions about. The tech that you kept hidden from everyone else that at first made them suspicious, but have grown fond of the type of ideas you have to improve their weapons.

Blade wouldn’t be so accepting finding that his sword is enough but lingers to hear what you have to say for Kafka’s guns. Making sure that they weren’t jammed for the mission and fixing them up if she ever got into a mishap.

He wouldn’t deny it to himself that he hopes that you miraculously come back to the hideout. Walking around with the light steps you take that you instinctively gotten use to having in order to surprise him once he turns the corner. Though you earned no reaction to what your scheme was directed to him, there would be a conversation following up to it. Blade is always reminded of the things he has said to you. The things he wished he had asked sooner.

What makes you so confident to go on this mission with me?

Why are you so fond of me?

Why did I have to let go of you?

Why couldn’t I save you sooner.

Dancing while they’re on the floor

Depression.

Blade hides his face from the world during the midst of the nights. Running to different planets and using disguises to go about his day never ceases to slow him down. It never felt the same ever since that day. The hopes that somehow you survived. Lingering around for the chance to run back to the hideout and return back into his arms is what he longs for. Blade’s aware that it wouldn’t happen.

He can’t look back on the memories he has with you. The black helmet that sits in his room is a reminder about one thing about you. He’s never gotten a single glimpse of your face. None of the hunters have except Elio. Another part of why they were suspicious of you from the beginning. One might think it would add onto the fact that you didn’t want to be recognized out in public and chased on the spot. Blade took the chance to ask this one question about you though.

“Why do you wear a mask everywhere you go?”

There was a short pause on the conversation at hand. Blade’s eyes were locked onto you regardless, waiting for an answer to his question.

“..I have a scar going across the right side of my face,” you blurted out suddenly. “I just found it better to just have a mask on. Besides, I don’t want to be hunted down the moment I walk out of a store.”’

‘I dont see the point of that when you’re hiding a face that’s beautiful’

How he wished he would say that to you. Finding it impossible to view every moment he had with you with no clear vision of your face. A blank canvas that he wished to have engraved in his mind to see your smile. The moment he learned about the scar on your face, he wondered how you got the scar.

Who was stupid enough to hurt you and forced yourself to hide your face from the world?

How could they bare enough courage to hurt someone like you?

Though wasn’t fully sure if the scar you mentioned came from an accident that was caused, or by someone with the intent of hurting you. He couldn’t tell. Blade never saw what you looked like, not even on that day that you died.

Time to go

Acceptance.

Was this something he could live with? Every day is an never ending cycle for him. He is always reminded of what happened, which ends with him holding the helmet in his hands or being in your room in the middle of the night staring at all the items that filled the room. He could tell right away that the others have moved on. Was he the only one still holding onto what remains of you. Being the fact that he always found some sort of way to remember you.

Blade knew he needed to move on. Accept that you were gone and that you may never return. But something kept holding him back.

Maybe it was the lingering stares he would get once he’s out in public in his disguise. Figuring that it might be a guard from the planet he is hiding out in for a mission that might have suspicion of him. He could never find the eyes that looked at his direction. Blade often find himself taking quick glances towards a particular individual who’s back was always turned. Head casted downwards as she held something in her hands. His mind going concluding that she might’ve recognized who he was or had an feeling about his identity. He could only sneer lowly at those thoughts as he turns away from her, walking the opposite way to avoid any other direct confrontation.

Or maybe it was the little words spoken to him in the forms of apologies. Accidentally bumping into the same person not even an few hours later in the midst of a busy crowd. He swore he could barely hear what she had to say but pieced together what came out of her mouth.

“Sorry.”

It was just a small apology. That was all that it was. Why couldn’t Blade help but stare at her as she disappears from his sight and into the crowd. Why couldn’t he move from his spot to get to where he needs to be. Why did he want to go after that person who ran into him. All of these questions filled his mind to the very brim. He couldn’t explain why he has the urge to go find whoever it was that bumped into him. Blade’s mind was occupied with the thoughts of the one who he subtly met.

He was gonna make sure that whoever it was, he wasn’t going to let them go.

Never have I ever written an entire thing like this and finished it in one day dayum—

Wanted to contribute the to HSR content so I got some Blade going through the four five stages a grief so I hoped you enjoyed reading this

[marinthecottage]

“The night felt like an abandoned music box tucked away from time and space, where the world was made of ice and snow and everything shone like within a prism, it was overwhelmingly beautiful, a kingdom drowned in music, it made her cry happy tears, the firewhisky traversing through her veins didn’t help with matters either, with the utter relief of the warmth of her friends beside her, the reminiscences of another ball, once upon a december, when everything was coated in doom and hubris and broken sugary hearts. Everything had been so crucial and yet behind the film of youth of not knowing what was to come it had all been so simple too.

Things now carried an air of grief, the new ghosts haunting the halls, the scars and the empty spaces. But there was also the sweetness of being alive, of being able to keep loving as fiercely and unafraid as she could and perhaps that had also drawn her to this mess of a moment, the spices of the firewhisky making her head swoon, the baubles of magic that floated around and all the stars above that made her feel endless. But now here she was in the arms of none other but Draco Malfoy, looking into his silver eyes that matched the rest of the decor to the point she could almost believe him the lord and ruler of this frozen land. He looked at her and no one else with a parted mouth, barely breathing as if he made the wrong move she would simply evaporate. She realized she quite liked it, she also liked the way he smelled and the way that his left hand pressed onto the small of her back, each fingertip applying more force than it was necessary for such a dance, but it sent a thrill up her spine. They hadn’t spoken beyond him asking her to dance, her accepting by taking his hand. Her friends a bit stunned except for Harry, he looked at her as if he already knew it all, perhaps she hadn’t been as careful, maybe it had been the stolen touches as they passed through the halls or the stolen glances, that left her with a pit in her stomach. Maybe she couldn’t hide away from her best friend, this drew a smile to her lips.

“You find me amusing Granger?” His smirk always made her senses somersault, but the battle with him never ended and she was known to be stubborn.

“So what if I do?” She challenged staring deep into his eyes not daring to look down at his lips.

He leaned down their foreheads almost touching, his hand moving up her back, making her gasp. “I just like to know everything I make you feel Granger” he whispered, amongst the chatter and music no one could hear them she knew, and yet she couldn’t help but look around, just in case. Old habits die hard, as if not the entire school have seen them already.

He took this as cue to pull her away out into a balcony, the air was frigid and her dress did very little to cover her, the alcohol in her veins slowly burning away. Next thing she knew she was in his embrace once more. He smells of the deepest part of the woods in winter, of mint and smoke. His lips flutter over her forehead, her ear, the line of her jaw, her arms go around his neck seeking any sort of support, and he responds in kind pushing her against the cold stone wall.

“Draco!” She cannot help it his name escapes through her lips at the shock. He has her now surrounded. His kisses stopping at the mention of his name but continuing over her neck and up back to her face and over her lips.

“Please say it again” his breath is warm against her and he looks like a madman slipping away into her, a god of winter making her sign a contract to take her away into the woods. Oh Vasilisa what would you do?

She signs it of course by uttering his name one more time. “Draco” his tongue licks away at her lower lip and immediately his mouth is on hers, it is hungry it is everything that has been promised through the months they have gotten to know one another, all the fear and anger is still there too and it fuels the burning inside of her. “

- An 8th year Yule Ball inspired Drabble. What would it be like ? How bittersweet how filled with the want for something good? With new love sprouting of the impending winter like snowdrops ✨

It’s been a year since I joined this fandom and I’ve loved every second of it. The art, the people, voices and their writing. So I decided to make some art pieces to commemorate it. ✨❄️ have good winter and a magic Yule everyone ✨

You can find more dramione art on my Instagram @mar.s.cottageofdreams or more dramione works on ao3