#black fingernails red wine

[samtheangelfox]

Black Fingernails, Red Wine - Eskimo Joe Black Fingernails, Red Wine (2006) [MA15+ Video] Dir: Nash Edgerton

[freudensteins-monster]

Not much of a metal fan so had no idea who Polaris are, but tripped over this amazing cover listening to a Like A Version playlist on my morning walk. Interesting way to wake up lol 🤘

[voice-of-illogical-sense]

"A mouthful of glass

That cuts up your words"

[marchsfreakshow]

How Dangerously Beautiful [Peter Maximoff]

Fluff

You like collecting knives, and the first time Peter comes over, he's interested in the love you have for the maybe weapons.

Yet another Maximoff fic I'm not sorry. I am love Maximoff :3

No one's perspective

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

"We literally just got off the phone Maximoff!" You squealed as the front door was flung open. Nothing could ever make you used to the speedster's mutant powers. No matter how many times he sped himself over to you; outside, at his house, in your garden, at work... it always freaked you out a little. But a grin appeared as Maximoff stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

"well, you asked me to come over. And here I am, over." He breathed out, looking around, then speeding up the stairs. It made a sigh escape your tired body and rushed behind the speedster.

As Maximoff stood by a closed door, he pointed at it, almost quizzically. "Is this your room?"

"Well, do you see another closed doors that have a sign saying my name?"

"ah, yeah." He then just grinned at you and stepped in, immediately taking in the decorations and everything almost cluttering the walls. No mess Maximoff wasn't used to, but still looked around in slight confusion. "And here I thought you were the cleaner one in the relationship." A small chuckle escaped him as you just shrugged and stepped past the speedster.

Your eyes focused on the knife collection you owned with nerves. Sure people around the world liked making different things, selling and buying. But yours was an odd one, and it was the first thing on your mind while your silver-haired boyfriend explored your room. "Well...you know, I try to be." A deep breath when you started your sentence.

Just as soon as you let out a sigh, Peter noticed what you were staring at. He was entranced by the different coloured metals shining in the mid-day light. Entranced by the little details on the handles, and how they seemed to be crafted. "Woah man. These are...fuckin rad..." He whispered, fingernails lightly tracing one of the knives.

A gargled "no!" escaped you as you ran to stand in front of Maximoff. It was useless, he always stood taller than you. "Don't. Don't, touch them." Your voice came out as a shaky whisper rather than a loud and confident command.

"why not?"

"they're precious!!"

"You're precious but I touch you all the time all over."

"oh shut up." Gritted teeth but a blush at his off-handed flirt. Something you were used to, but in a situation like this it overrided your mind. "Just...be careful. Please?"

"Always am babe don't sweat." Another little grin as Maximoff picked up your favourite knife, by complete coincidence. It was a wine red on the handle, covered with little black designs. A spider on the end, a cliché broken heart on the same middle spot on both sides. Little lines and dots around here, there, over and around. Sharpened recently by the looks of it. The blade was dusty looking; the wine red covered in a deep dusk top, perhaps to save the sharpened edge that was new and shiny.

Peter was in love with it. He looked at it like he looked at you whilst you were on top, eyes full of stars...wonder, and just pure amazement. "This is... beautiful.." a small voice coming out of the usually loud and energetic man. As a response you kissed his cheek, staring at your most priceless collectable with the same wonder.

"It's my favourite one, and custom-made. My cousin had it made for me last year on my birthday." It was a bit of random information but probably the only good response you had at that minute. Another little kiss on his cheek as Maximoff placed the knife back in its holder.

"All of these are so pretty. Just like you." Grabbing you by the side and pulling you before him, admiring the small collection. Reds, greens, blues, all shades and colours. They almost sparkled in Peter's eyes as you looked up to him as best you could. "I mean, why knives though babe? They're dangeroussss!" A little singsongy voice, knowing you knew the dangers of having potential weapons such as these.

Small shrug as you wrapped your hands around Maximoff's arms. "I know they're dangerous. But I just, look at them. They're wonderful..."

A small chuckle as kisses were placed around the sides of your face. "Again, beautiful like you. They suit you and I think, you should get a full silver one. Just pure silver."

"what for you?"

"Absolutely!" Both of you laughed to yourselves, just admiring the wall of coloured metal in front of you.

"not a totally stupid idea...I'll think about it."

"you should." Another little laugh as another little set of kisses were peppered over your face.

⊹˚.⋆ ₊꒷ᘏᘏ︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹˚ᗢ₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷

Tag: @silverzoomies @babygorewhore @taintandviolent @coentinim @nahoyasboyfriend @newwavesylviaplath @fear-is-truth @slutforgarlogan @slvt4jamesmarch @bluerthanvelvet444 @briaroftheroses

[goddessofmischief]

can i request anything mihawk related and him pining after y/n

       —   I CAN SEE YOU (YOUNG MIHAWK X READER)

A/N: this is part of this series, which requests are open for! These fics are all one-shots, so they can be read separately.

He'd been thinking about you a lot lately.

You, the pretty girl who sailed with the Roger Pirates and made port in the same towns he did from time to time. You, who seemed to always be flanked by the boy with the red nose and the other boy with the red hair.

You. You. You.

You were clever - he noticed that at once - you had to be, to hold your own with so many men stronger and older than you, and he watched as you navigated through one dangerous situation after another, always escaping unscathed. The other boys tried to help, of course, but you didn't need them at all. Mihawk noticed that, too.

He liked the sort of clothes you wore - usually a bit oversized, which made sense, so you didn't have to buy new ones every time you grew, an unfortunate practicality for anyone growing up at sea - and often velvet, or satin, or with embroidered patterns, and usually in dark shades of olive, maroon or black. Sometimes cotton dresses of the palest ivory, which he also liked.

Mihawk had made a habit of always noticing the appearance of others, and judged them quite harshly on it - not their looks or dimensions or things they could not change, but how well they presented themselves. Living the way he did, the way you did, did not lend itself to luxury or composure or cleanliness, so he noticed whenever anyone paid special attention to how they looked.

You did. He never caught you without loosely wound curls, brushed out, or loose buns, or intricate braids that he sometimes heard the red-haired pirate protesting at doing for you. Mihawk noticed all of these things because they were things he liked about himself, and he liked them about you, too.

But even after all this liking and appreciating, which had gone on for many months now, he could never have the strength to talk to you. It wasn't for his own insecurity, although Mihawk was a good deal less boastful and more shy than most of the pirates his age, but more for fear of what he might say when he actually spoke to you for the first time. He had never struck out with girls before, but that was mostly for lack of trying. They found him, most of the time, and either liked his Hawk-Eyes or they didn't.

It was on one of those days, where Mihawk had made port at a small island and was sipping on a flute of wine at a small bar, that he found himself gazing at you again. You'd just stumbled off Roger's ship, and seemed in awe of your surroundings. Your friends already held drinks far too big for them and had wandered off, staring at the skyline, but you were clearly unsure of what to get. Mihawk watched as your fingernail dragged against a small menu, tracing every option, hesitating around the ones with dried flowers in them. You liked dried flowers, evidently, and he would remember that.

The thought crossed his mind that he might go get a drink for you, and perhaps begin some sort of conversation-

No. No. Stupid.

You could get your own drink.

And you were about to, it seemed, when a rather terrifying-looking mercenary pressed a blade to your back. Mihawk immediately reached for his own, which he had fondly nicknamed 'Yoru,' and had not yet seen much action.

"How'd you find me?" you said, voice trembling.

"Followed you," said the mercenary. "You owe us. We know you only gave us half of what you found when you raided that vault."

"That's not true," you said, and Mihawk felt you were telling the truth, although he may have been biased. "It just wasn't as much as you thought it would be-"

The mercenary forced his blade closer, and Mihawk decided he couldn't allow this to go on for one more second. Moving quietly, he removed Yoru from his scabbard, and drew the blade against the mercenary's neck.

"Move aside," said Mihawk, trying to make his voice more steady than it felt.

The mercenary stared him down.

"Who are you?"

"Dracule Mihawk," he said. "And I'd like you to step away."

"I refuse."

What happened next was completely uncalled for and also fated. Mihawk simply moved the sword very quickly to the side, and the mercenary fell, and that was the end of it.

It was not the first blood Dracule Mihawk had ever spilled. It was, however, the first blood he had spilled with this particular sword.

This sword, which would live on in infamy long after he was gone, this sword, which would become synonymous with not only his name, but swordsmanship itself.

First blood, this sword, and it had all been over you.

History would forget.

...But you would remember.

[slut4evanpeters]

Red Lace

stan bowes x fem!reader

song i recommend listening to: yayo by lana del rey

warnings: sugar daddy stan, smut, fingering, blowjobs, riding, car sex, squirting

word count: 1.4k

notes: guys im sorry my smuts are kinda bad🙁 ITS SO HARD TO WRITE AND FOR WHAT LIKE but here ya go! i love a good sugar daddy stan moment. sorry for ooc imma be so real with yall i didnt even watch pose. I JUST SEEN CLIPS OF STAN STOP LEAVE ME ALONE

MDNI 18+

You don't understand why Mr. Bowes insists on buying you things.

Thanks to his pay raise, you've got too much cash to spend on yourself already. You've upgraded your apartment, bought a new car, and now you shop at Whole Foods.

But this? This seems like a bit much.

"Mr. Bowes, I really don't ne—"

"And you expect me to allow you to walk home by yourself at this time of night?" He raises an eyebrow, his pale skin in stark contrast to the black leather of the limousine. Adjusting the cuff of his black suit jacket, he drawls, "Please, I insist."

You sigh, and yet you step into the limo anyway.

You feel out of place with the fancy wine glasses, smooth jazz, glossy white exoskeleton and soft red interior lighting. The partition is rolled high and you can't escape the feeling that this is private.

"Your address, Ms. Y/N?"

"Oh, right um," you hate to say you were too enamoured by all the glitter and glam that it takes you a second to come back down to earth to provide him with the proper info. Mr. Bowes raps against the partition with a fingernail, mumbling what you assume to be your address to the driver before it raises and you two are alone again.

"So, Ms. Y/N," Mr. Bowes begins. Despite all the space in the long limousine, he's sat right next to you, shoulders brushing and all. "How was lunch?"

Right. Lunch. Today, you arrived to the office with your lunch from home in hand, to find an even better one sitting on your desk with a note that read:

Eat up, Sweetheart.

— S. B.

Seriously. Is your boss trying to kill you?

But, you ate it. And it was delicious.

"It—It was good."

And, fuck. You're not one to stutter but thinking straight proves harder than you thought under Mr. Bowe's heavy gaze.

Mr. Bowes crowds you against the door and his cologne is beyond overwhelming, flooding your senses and setting your veins alight as he slides a calloused hand up your thigh, pushing your pencil skirt out of the way as he rubs up your thigh. He knows he can get away with it.

"And the outfit?"

"It uhm...fits fine."

And Mr. Bowes always finds the perfect size, too. Honestly, you're impressed—half of the time you can't find your size yourself.

Mr. Bowes hums in satisfaction, a hand sliding to play with the lace that falls over the crest of your ass. You know he likes to see you squirm and stutter blush. And yet here you are, eating it up like some slutty secretary.

"Are you wearing it right now, Princess?"

Mr. Bowes speaks like he knows, and you find your face turning a similar fiery red to the lingerie set you have on underneath your outfit.

"I am."

Mr. Bowes's eyes flutter and you swear his grip around your ass tightens, but it's gone before you blink again. A groan rolls through his chest.

"Show me, Princess."

Your eye shifts to the limousine window. You're on the highway, but you haven't got an idea to when you'll reach your apartment. "Mr. Bowes, I—"

"Stan when we're alone, Gorgeous."

"Stan, what if someone—"

"It's dark and the windows are tinted," Stan cages you in with a forearm against the door, leaning over so his mouth is leveled with your ear. "You and I both know you live a little ways away from headquarters, so what's the wait?"

You...You...

You don't know.

You find your mouth moving before you think it through, "What do you wanna see first?"

"You know me so well, Princess," Stan purrs, biting his bottom lip as his eyelids sink halfway, studying you. After a still silence, Stan speaks again.

"Take off your shirt."

You shiver.

Button by button, your fingers pull at the fabric of your shirt until the lacy red bra Stan left on your desk is on full display.

Stan groans at the view, head dipping down to press butterfly kisses to your breasts. The warmth of his palms feels strange through the lace but the thumb passing over your nipple has you shivering nonetheless.

"On your knees, Princess," a pretty pink tongue emerges to wet his bottom lip. "I want to cum on those pretty tits of yours."

Your hands are fluent and swift, from undoing his button and zipper to unbuckling his belt, and your face to face with your boss' hard cock bobbing underneath the tip of your nose.

"Suck, Pretty."

Grabbing the base of his cock, you lick from his balls to the tip, giggling at Stan's shudder.

"What, Princess? It's not my fault your mouth is sinful."

To prove his point, and to prove who's in charge, Stan bucks down your throat. It makes you choke and splutter, but you push through the spasms in your throat anyway, pulling a fairly juvenile broken moan from the billionaire's mouth.

"Such a dedicated little girl." Stan groans, gently threading his hands through your hair to grab you tight by the roots. "I bet you're soaking wet in between those legs, aren't you?"

You whimper, subtly rubbing your thighs together—you wouldn't be surprised if you left a wet spot on the floor. Your cheeks burn from the humiliating thought.

"Up."

You pull your mouth off of him, a little confused.

"Change of plans, Princess," Stan pants, lifting you by the waist and sitting you in his lap. After pulling the tight black pencil skirt above your ass, Stan bites his lip at the sight of you.

"So gorgeous," he moans, trailing a finger up your slit. "And so wet. Did I do all this, Princess?"

You slap him on the shoulder in mild embarrassment, cheeks and neck burning. Grinding your hips in his lap, you roll your eyes. "Stan, just fuck m—"

He grabs you roughly by the jaw, chuckling at the way your pretty little eyes burst into the size of saucers, "I believe I asked you a question."

"Yes," you whimper, caught off guard. Stan's grip tightens.

"Yes what?"

"Y-Yes Sir."

Stan bites his lip at the pet name, using the grip he has on your jaw to shake your head back and forth as he coos, "Good girl."

Peeling your panties to the side, the big hands on your waist guide you onto his cock. The slide is smoother than it should be, and Stan's buried in your pussy fairly quickly.

"Grind on me, Princess." Stan bucks his hips to spur you on, and you're moving the moment you pull his dress shirt into a tight little fist. Stan's always been big, but inside you? It can get a little hard to breath.

Stan's thumb ghosts your clit and it has you shivering, drunk off his slow in sensual pace.

"Hmm, you're drooling Pri—fuck!"

There's a bump in the road and it sends your pupils flying into the back of your skull, and the broken moan that tumbles out of Stan's mouth makes you want to hear more.

Bracing your knees against the plush limousine cushion, you maintain the momentum and drop yourself onto his cock so rapidly you're sure the driver can hear the slap of skin through the partition. Stan's eyes widen before his eyelids drop halfway, mesmerized by the slow but hard movements of your hips.

"Shit—c-careful, Princess," Stan puts his hands around your waist in an attempt to gain control of the speed, but you quickly swat his hands away.

"I wanna," you pant, whimpering as he hits your cervix when the limo jolts again. "I wanna make you feel good. A-As 'sa thank you."

"Awe baby," Stan coos, applying more pressure to your clit. You squeak, readjusting your grip on his shoulders, "For the outfit I gave you? When I saw it in the store I knew it'd look gorgeous—and look at you, so fucking delicious."

To reinforce his comment, Stan digs his teeth into your neck, and that's your tipping point—eyes fluttering, your toes curl and you're squirting in Stan's lap; making a mess of his cock and his (probably expensive) suit pants.

"Oh shit—" Stan lets out a guttural moan and he's filling you up, hips stuttering and eyelids flickering. His chest rises and collapses with an airy moan.

"Fuck, Princess," Stan chuckles breathily, resting his head against the limousine seat. His face is pretty and flushed red, hair stiff with sweat and dress shirt a wrinkled mess.

The limousine rolls to a stop, the smooth motion pulling your attention to the window. As you peer out, your brows knit in confusion. This isn’t your apartment building. Instead, the limo is parked in front of a grand, imposing house. One you don’t recognize but assume must belong to Stan. Its tall windows glow with soft, inviting light, the front door just beyond a well-manicured garden.

Your gaze flicks back to Stan, his casual posture in contrast to the subtle tension in the air. He catches your eye, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips, his voice low and smooth.

“Care for a quick detour, Princess?”

[rottenpumpkin13]

Sephiroth: quiet midnights, gleaming steel, faint incense smoke, the scrape of a whetstone, books lined perfectly on a bookshelf, cold rain against bare skin, polished black leather, bitter ginger tea at dawn, weighted blankets in winter, sharp ice crystals, scratched classical CDs, weathered angel statues with missing wings, sharpened pencils in neat rows, morning fog over empty streets, delicate frost patterns on windowpanes, steel-gray skies before snow, silent films in empty theaters, cat footprints on documents, mathematical equations, unopened mail, clean sword oil, abandoned chess pieces, mint tea leaves.

Genesis: spilled red wine on white papers, chipped maroon nail polish on piano keys, gold bangles clinking against wine glasses, vintage vinyl at dusk, steaming mulled cider with cinnamon sticks, smudged eyeliner after theater rehearsals, leather-bound books with gilded edges, dark chocolate with sea salt breaking under his teeth, dog-eared poetry collections, playing cards scattered across silk sheets, cherry candy staining his tongue red, cologne bottles on antique vanities, melted red candle wax on love letters, fresh ink bleeding through parchment, caramelized apple pie, packed jazz bars at 2am, velvet curtains, stage makeup, worn dance shoes, red leather gloves, theater tickets.

Angeal: petrichor on summer mornings, fresh ground coffee beans, sunrise training sessions, polaroid cameras with worn straps, mismatched lucky keychains, pencil sketches in margins, old photos in cracked leather wallets, soup simmering on stovetops, buzzing radio stations between cities, dappled sunlight through garden leaves, evening cicada songs, autumn leaves crushed underfoot, soft worn flannel shirts, pressed flowers, acoustic guitars, wrinkled maps with coffee stains, soil under fingernails, homemade bread, herb gardens, worn pottery, recipe books, wooden spoons, patched jeans, morning dew, pocket knives.

AGS: loud laughter, discarded pizza boxes, arguments dissolving into jokes, snorted milk, tangled legs under a blanket, whispers in a packed room, empty mugs littered around a table, quiet yawns, bitten apples, ring tones, a half-finished puzzle scattered across the floor, a messy kitchen, heads on each other's shoulders, rock-paper-scissors, scattered dice, sour candy, bumping elbows, the glow of a tv screen, borrowed hoodies, stolen phone chargers, dirty dishes, arms around shoulders, inside jokes.

[jamnsketch]

black fingernails, red wine

[avxlyse]

Awash In Crimson Wine - Agatha x Succubus!Rio

A/N Hi guys!! You asked and you shall receive! This story takes place in a universe where instead of trapping her in westview, Wanda lets Agatha go with a fraction of the power she once had. Just a silly little fic to sooth my Agathario cravings in between episodes! I’m gonna try and get new chapters out every other day or so.

Title from From Eden by Hozier

***********************************

It started with a flicker, unsuspecting and uninteresting. Agatha was rooting through some old spell books to try and find a glamour enchantment to attract sexual desire. It was a childish whim, made in her desperation to regain some semblance of control. Wanda left her weak, and with so much of her power gone, she felt her grip on those around her loosen significantly.

It was jarring, a loss too odd to articulate, when you go from bending the will of others at your whim to an indifferent force in the world around you. Agatha craved it, that feeling of utter control, more than anything else Wanda took from her. She knew she had to get it back, even if she had to start at the bottom and claw back to the top. She had to start with what she knew to be the easiest, simplest way to attract total devotion‒ through sexual desire.

The spell went, for the most part, just as she had planned. The ingredients were easy enough to find. Roses, honey, salt, red candles, and some kitchen spices you could knick from any grocery store. Simple, easy witchcraft she’s been capable of for centuries. The shift in energy would’ve been imperceptible to most, but to Agatha, the sudden, illogical flicker of each candle in unison made her hairs stand on end.

Still, she chalked it up to Wanda's ever lingering damage and went about the rest of the ritual as she always had. It wasn’t until that night that she understood the true gravity of her error.

The warmth stroked her every muscle with a tender hand, lulling her into an inky black sleep. Each pulse of her heartbeat sent liquid gold to her limbs, bringing her closer and closer to bliss. An orange light surrounded her, and a laugh like honey rang in her ears as a hand reached out to touch her. First her shoulder, trailing up to her cheek, then down to her knee. Through hazy, lidded eyes, she peered up at the golden light. A woman, dark haired and effervescent, peered back at her, smiling through red lips. Her tongue darted out to wet them, and it sent electricity all through Agatha's body. The woman's hand trailed slowly up her leg, past her robe, and grazed her upper thigh with a torturous, feather light touch. Every inch of contact was like fire, warmth blooming in her chest as she gazed at the woman. She felt magnetized to her, like any inch of space between them was an inch too much. Agatha leaned in to press her lips against hers, but before she could get any further, she felt a piercing pain in her thigh. Yelping, she pulled back to see long fingernails emerge from under her robe, dripping with blood. The woman laughed, the sound radiating as she licked her fingers.

Agatha shot awake in bed, body drenched in sweat. She ripped the covers off of her body and peeled back her robes, dreading to see what she already knew was there. Four long claw marks stared back at her, etched into her skin and trickling blood. Worse than that was the ache radiating from her core, needy and clearly present. She shoved her head back into her pillow and groaned at her stupidity, as it slowly dawned on her how utterly fucked she really was. If she knew anything about witchcraft, she knew one thing — She had a Succubus.

Agatha cursed under her breath, clutching the sheets in her fists as the realization sank in. A succubus. She hadn’t summoned a lover, a pawn, or even a mortal with fleeting devotion. No, she had called forth something infinitely more dangerous. 

She sat up, trying to steady her breath, but her body betrayed her. The warmth from the dream—the succubus’s touch—still lingered on her skin, an itch that wouldn’t quite leave. Her thigh throbbed, and the marks from the Succubus’ claws began to feel all too real. Was this just the beginning? How much could she physically harm her? How much would Agatha let her? She glanced at her reflection in the mirror across the room, her eyes dark with need, frustration, and… something else. Was it fear? No, not quite. Anticipation. The thought turned her stomach.

Agatha swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her bare feet hit the cold floor. She cursed again, this time more audibly, as she paced back and forth, trying to shake the lingering sensations. Her mind raced with the implications. Succubi were notorious, not just for their insatiable appetites, but for their ability to manipulate, to control, to twist their victims until they craved them beyond reason. She knew the stories. Hell, she had lived long enough to have seen the aftermath of succubus entanglements. Witches, sorcerers, even powerful beings like herself, brought to their knees by desire.

“I’m not one of them,” Agatha muttered, a desperate edge creeping into her voice. “I’m not weak.”

But even as she said it, she could feel the echo of that laugh in her mind—smooth, sultry, dripping with amusement. It was a sound that made her chest tighten with equal parts fury and desire.

She needed to figure this out—now. Agatha stalked over to the grimoire she’d been reading earlier. It still lay open on her desk, the candles from the ritual now melted down to stubs, the faint scent of roses and burnt honey hanging in the air. Flicking through the pages with a practiced hand, she searched for answers. There had to be a way to reverse this, to banish the succubus before things spiraled further out of control.

But as her eyes scanned the old, familiar words, she found nothing. No incantation. No banishing ritual. No easy fix. Of course, there wasn’t. Summoning a succubus wasn’t the kind of mistake one could undo with a flick of the wrist. She knew that.

A low chuckle echoed from the shadows, making Agatha freeze. The temperature in the room seemed to spike, and a sultry voice purred from behind her, "Looking for something, darling?"

Agatha turned sharply, heart pounding as her gaze locked on the succubus, who stood casually in the corner, leaning against the wall as if she had always belonged there. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders, the same as in Agatha’s dream, but now she was here, in the waking world, every bit as alluring—and dangerous. Agatha stared at her long, tan legs, just peaking out through the slit in her emerald green robe. It was more modest than she had imagines for a succubus, covering all the way up to her collar bones. Still, Agatha could see the lace of a black bra peaking subtly out of the top. Her skin seemed to glow a dull gold as her scent carried across the room— Honey and warm spice. She thought about the skin of her thighs, how soft it looks and how if she could reach just a little further—

"How did you—" Agatha began, cutting herself off before her mind could wander any longer, but the succubus just smirked, pushing herself off the wall and walking towards her with that same predatory grace.

"How did I get here?" her voice was teasing, almost patronizing. "You summoned me, remember? And I must say, you have impeccable taste." She stopped just inches from Agatha, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Though I think we both know this is about more than just a casual attraction spell. You wanted something… deeper."

Agatha clenched her jaw, trying not to flinch as the succubus reached out to trail a finger across the line of her jaw . The touch was electric, sending sparks of heat through her veins despite every instinct telling her to pull away. But the pull was there. Undeniable.

"I didn’t ask for you," Agatha hissed, stepping back, though it took more effort than she wanted to admit.

The succubus smiled, a slow, dangerous smile. "Oh, but you did. Your power called to me, Agatha Harkness. You were searching for control, for dominance, for someone who could bend to your will." She circled Agatha now, her gaze lingering on the claw marks she had left. "But you should know… you can’t summon a succubus without offering something in return. And lucky for you…" Her hand brushed against Agatha’s lower back, making her breath hitch. "I’m very, very good at fulfilling desires."

Agatha spun to face her, eyes blazing. "I don’t need you."

The Succubus' smile widened, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "Oh, darling, we both know that’s a lie." She leaned in close, her breath warm against Agatha’s ear. "The question is… how long can you resist before you admit what you really want?"

Agatha’s breath caught, her pulse racing as she met the demons gaze. There was a challenge in her eyes, one that both enraged and enticed her. Agatha had always been the one in control, always the one with the upper hand. But this—this was different. She wasn’t just a distraction; she was a threat, a temptation that Agatha wasn’t sure she could ignore.

"Where are my manners? I haven’t even introduced myself," the succubus purred, her voice as smooth as silk. She smiled, a sickly sweet smile that sent a shiver down Agatha’s spine, stepping closer with an effortless grace. Her dark eyes glittered with amusement, lips curling into a pout as she batted her lashes. "Well, aren’t you going to ask me my name, Agatha Harkness?"

Agatha's breath quickened. She wanted to ignore her, wanted to maintain her sense of control, but the succubus’s presence was magnetic. The air between them hummed with tension, a pull so strong it felt almost physical, drawing Agatha closer without her consent. Her instincts screamed at her to keep her distance, to push this creature away before things spiraled further out of control. But her curiosity—and the simmering desire beneath it—kept her frozen in place.

She swallowed hard, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "I’m not in the habit of making small talk with demons," Agatha said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The succubus chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made Agatha’s stomach twist with both irritation and something else she didn’t care to name. "Oh, darling, this isn’t small talk," she said, stepping even closer, her gaze fixed on Agatha like a predator toying with its prey. "It’s tradition. You summon a demon, you give them a proper introduction. It's the polite thing to do."

Agatha raised an eyebrow, forcing herself to meet her gaze head-on. "Since when do demons care about tradition?"

The succubus smiled again, but this time there was something darker behind it, something ancient and knowing. "Since we’ve had names worth remembering."

Agatha clenched her jaw, refusing to be drawn into whatever game the succubus was playing. She had been down this road before—manipulation, seduction, promises laced with power. This demon wasn’t the first creature of darkness to try her hand at controlling Agatha, and she certainly wouldn’t be the last.

But there was something different about this time around.

Her heart pounded against her ribcage, and no matter how much she tried to brush off the feeling, Agatha knew this was more than just a game of power. The challenge in the succubus' eyes wasn’t just about control. It was about want. Hunger.

And Agatha, against her better judgment, felt that hunger stirring inside herself too.

The succubus watched her with an amused, expectant expression, like she knew exactly what was going through Agatha’s mind. "Go on," she coaxed, her voice dripping with honey. "You know you’re curious. I can feel it."

Agatha took a slow breath, trying to quiet the heat rising in her chest. Her body was betraying her, reacting to the succubus’s presence in a way she hadn’t felt in… she couldn’t remember how long. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as she fought to keep her cool.

But the words slipped out before she could stop herself.

"Fine," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "What’s your name?"

The succubus’s smile widened, satisfied, as if she had been waiting for this exact moment. She leaned in closer, so close that Agatha could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, the scent of something sweet and intoxicating filling the air between them.

"My name is Rio Vidal," she said softly, her lips brushing against Agatha’s ear as she spoke. "And now that we’ve been properly introduced… things are about to get very interesting."

Agatha’s pulse quickened at the way Rio’s name rolled off her tongue, rich and dark like wine. She hated the way it felt, hated that her body responded with a shiver that ran down her spine, hated that her mind was already racing with possibilities.

But more than anything, she hated that Rio could see it.

"Don’t get too comfortable," Agatha snapped, stepping back, trying to regain some distance, some sense of control. "This isn’t going to be your playground."

Rio didn’t seem fazed by the sudden shift in tone. She merely tilted her head, studying Agatha with that same knowing smile. "Oh, I’m not looking for a playground," she said, voice low, almost a purr. "I’m looking for something much more... satisfying."

Agatha’s stomach churned, a flush creeping up her neck. She turned her back to Rio, pacing to the other side of the room, needing space to think, to breathe. The succubus’s presence was suffocating, overwhelming. Every word, every glance was designed to provoke, to ignite something Agatha wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

"I don’t need your help," Agatha said firmly, her back still turned. "I can handle my own power."

"Really?" Rio’s voice was closer than it should’ve been, and when Agatha turned, the succubus was standing just behind her, their faces inches apart. "Because it seems to me that your power is the one thing you can’t control anymore."

Agatha glared at her, refusing to be intimidated. "I’ve lived for centuries, Rio. You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You want to get inside my head, make me doubt myself. But you won’t succeed."

Rio’s eyes gleamed with amusement, her lips curling into a slow, predatory smile. "Oh, Agatha," she whispered, leaning in until their foreheads almost touched. "I don’t need to make you doubt yourself. You already do."

The words hit Agatha deeper than she wanted to admit. She felt the truth of them, the gnawing uncertainty that had been growing ever since Wanda stripped her of her power. The fear that she wasn’t as strong as she used to be. The creeping doubt that maybe—just maybe—Rio was right.

But she couldn’t let that show. Not now. Not ever.

"I think it’s time you left," Agatha said, her voice cold, pushing the words through clenched teeth.

Rio lingered for a moment, her dark eyes flickering with something unreadable, before she finally stepped back. "As you wish," she said, her tone light, though there was a shadow of something deeper in her gaze. "But don’t think for a second that this is over, darling."

With a casual wave of her hand, Rio vanished, the air in the room suddenly lighter, but the tension still thrumming beneath Agatha’s skin.

Agatha stood alone in the silence, her heart still racing, her thoughts a jumbled mess. She had won this round, but she knew the succubus would be back. And the worst part?

A small, dangerous part of her wanted her to.

[faorism]

fanart for Black Fingernails, Red Wine by @draculastarion [img desc in alt text]. so happy to finally share. instantly knew i had to draw it when draculastarion posted mode boards for boys' looks. also because a 50k nanowrimo fic deserves artwork even outside a big bang! masks based on the amazing work of tuahadedana. background uses a screenshot taken by using the native camera, immersive ui, and camera tweaks mods.

you can find details and the full size image for personal printing on ao3.

[noroi1000]

Nyan XIV - What the hell?

Nyan Chapters List

Summary: You've been put in a strange situation...Why are they so close to some woman when they were about to explain something to you...

A/n: I was asked for a bit of drama, so here it is. Light angst.

"Good morning, I was sent by Gojo-san and Geto-san. It's my pleasure to meet with Miss (y/n) (l/n)?" The dark haired man with glasses asked as you opened the door after hearing the doorbell. 

As you might have guessed, they weren't home yet... You felt sad about that, but there was nothing you could do. You had a bit of a fight with them, didn't you? 

It was your first serious argument in your relationship... You felt bad.

But what the eyes see for a second doesn't mean it's real. 

Maybe the argument wasn't what you thought it was because you didn't see it long enough?

At first glance, everything is much worse than it really can be. 

"Yes. It's me," you said.

"Miss, please come downstairs. We have to hurry." He said with a small smile. 

You went for your phone and took what you needed.

You walked up the stairs and wondered who he was. A driver in a suit? 

So compared to who your boys hang out with, maybe this apartment is too poor?

Who the hell are they? 

The door to a shiny black car has been opened for you, and you know it's not a taxi...

It's a very clean, shiny black car that a driver in a suit invited you to sit in...

You hesitantly got into the backseat and fastened your seatbelt, looking around shyly.

How should you behave? 

Why is it all like this?

What can you expect? 

Who are they really?

Maybe they are serious businessmen who earn a fortune?

Maybe they are models or actors?

They told you not to worry after finding out. And that they will protect you.

Oh my God...

Are they from the mafia?

Is that why this car is like this? Own driver? A lot of money? 

In books, a mafioso is always handsome and young... Maybe this also applies to your situation?!

What if you get out of the car and immediately see a large villa in the suburbs and gorillas with guns to protect the boss?

Oh god, what have you gotten yourself into...

Or maybe they are murderers too?

They can fight and track! 

What if you see drugs and weapons? Or maybe dead bodies?!

What the hell is wrong with your cats?! With your boys?!

Cat mafioso??

Two cats with signet rings behind a desk and guns?!

Two cats that rule the entire mafia?!

Your imagination is running too wild now!

You looked at your phone when you saw the message you had received. 

Suguru: "When will you be there?" "Where are you already?"

You: "I don't know" "We entered some forest and we're going up" “I won't be taken to the forest and murdered, right?"

Suguru: "Of course not!" "Silly, we would never let anything happen to you." "Ijichi is a trusted assistant" "We have to do something with Satoru. We'll be alone when you arrive."

You: "What should I do?" "What's more important than finally telling me the truth?"

Suguru: "We have one person to deal with" "Believe me, you don't want to understand this woman."

Women?

They are there with a woman...?

Who they are? 

Who is this woman to them...?

If they...           

             "If I had to choose between you, I would choose the one who earns more." said the white-haired woman with a glass of dry red wine that was prepared for your dinner later.. "So who has more money?"

"Mei-san, we are busy. In a moment -" Geto started but she interrupted him.

"I'll ask her which one of you has more. Every woman should look at the thickness of wallet and the number on a man's credit card before dating.

"(y/n) is not you." Satoru laughed. 

"If she doesn't care about the money, she must have won the Jackpot by getting the two highest paid men in our profession."

The woman stood up and walked towards them in her dress, running her purple fingernail along Gojo's arm.

"She is the happiest woman possible. And we are the lucky ones who got it. And you, Mei-san, you drank all the wine and you're drunk." he laughed, looking at her from under the blindfold. 

"Small glasses aren't enough to get me drunk. Unless you pay me more." She grabbed their shoulders. "It doesn't matter which one, what matters is that he has money. And there's no shame in showing up at a bar like that."

Geto moved away.

"Mei-san... Please go now... We want to be alone with (y/n)." Geto muttered. 

Suddenly she placed her hands on both of their cheeks and looked at them with a smile. 

"You earn much more than you did at school 11 years ago. And you look much better. If every millionaire looked like you, my life would be more beautiful. But anyone with a lot of money for me will do."

She only sees money in them...

Suguru's eyes moved towards the open door and he saw you there. 

You saw all this Woman fawning over them.

When you found out it was a school, you were a little calmer.

But what you saw now was beyond the limit. 

You had doubts before. And now it all became clear.

They wanted to get rid of this woman? It looked like they were having a great time. 

A beautiful woman with white hair, lusciously painted lips and nails, dressed nicely, ingratiates herself with them.

You saw that glass of wine on the table. 

And then there's the woman who touches your boyfriends like that. Rubbing their arms, touching their chests and backs. Speaking with a smile. Satoru was smiling too. 

Besides, her smile clearly showed her intentions.

She likes them.

And they didn't seem to object...

You felt your heart hurt.

How could you think that you could have boyfriends like that??

They are out of your league. This woman is way out of your league. She fits them better. 

You are an ordinary woman who lives in a block of flats that is neither the cheapest nor the most expensive. You work in an office. You're ordinary. 

How could you ever think you could have a happy life with someone as special as them? 

Your Life couldn't be a book in which a handsome rich man meets a normal girl and honestly falls in love with her at first sight. 

It wasn't a fairy tale.

Once upon a time, when you were feeling down, you wondered if you even deserved them.

Now you see the answer.

They are out of your league. With beautiful women who surround them with smiles. 

Fingers gripping the fabric of your pants, you watched with tears wanting to come out as they both looked at you and whispered your name. 

But without looking at it any longer, you just started walking towards the exit. Ignoring how they were calling your name and running after you.

You didn't want to disturb them in their real life where they belonged.

[mommysmistake]

Dražen (Yugotalia Croatia) headcanons: 1. He doesn't get enough sleep. He sleeps 6 hours at most (on weekends), but usually it's 4 hours of sleep for him. For example, he falls asleep at 2 and wakes up at 6 am. He's a 'night owl', so he's very active until he goes to bed. In the morning he needs time to wake up, but he has strength throughout the day because of the substances he does (the only somewhat safe one being caffeine);

2. When it comes to weapons, he has more skill with knives, compared to guns. He had used guns in the past, of course, but he doesn't have good aim (and he has been shot at which made him afraid of dealing with guns), so he sticks to pocket knives, carrying them almost everywhere he goes. He has a srbosjek, which is barely in use and starting to get quite rusty. A fan of basic kitchen knives, but only for special occasions, since he can't just carry them all the time;

3. Has very strong facial features, big nose and full eyebrows. His arms and fingers are bone-y, he has almost no muscles because of his diet and (substance) habits. His fingernails are very short because he's afraid of what others will think if he grows them out to be long and sharp (which he prefers);

4. His attraction to Vuk is purely sexual. He loves his genitals the most, while being slightly less attracted to his body. Despite relating to Vuk, he doesn't like talking with him, except when they flirt; mostly because he doesn't want to be seen as similar to him by the others;

5. Loves listening to pop and pop folk, but represses it. He listens to ex-yugoslav rock, as well, though less frequently. His favourite artists are: Svetlana Ceca Ražnatović, Severina, Jelena Rozga, Oliver Dragojević and Branimir Štulić.

6. Doesn't share his opinions to anyone he interacts with in real life in order to keep his image clear. Because of this he runs a secret Croatian nationalist, neo-nazi blog where he posts rants and hate speech. He's very careful with it and shares almost no personal information, except for his family history and traditions, or anything else that makes him indistinguishable from any other Croat.

7. Cut his hair off in 1940 (during Banate of Croatia) because he wanted to be seen as a changed person (he had long hair until then). He cut his side-burns off to make him look more masculine, but let them grow long during SFRY, so he would look different from how he looked during WWII, despite keeping the same, now watered down values he had to repress because of the country's politics (wa, wa, poor baby);

8. Loves plump, male bodies, but he makes fun of Vuk's. It goes as following:

He sees Vuk eating sweets and insults his weight; Vuk decides to diet so he won't be made of anymore; the next day Dražen takes him out to eat or cooks him unhealthy food, making him stay the same weight, or even gain some;

and repeats itself. This happens for a few reasons: Dražen finds Vuk's body attractive and doesn't want it to change, he loves teasing him, and he thinks that women would be all over him if he was fitter which he doesn't want;

9. He mostly eats savoury foods, but he gets cakes from time to time. Loves drinking coffee (has atleast 2 cups of espresso everyday) and red wine. Sometimes he skips a meal and sometimes he eats to the point of sickness. It varies, but he usually stays the same weight, when his weight does vary, it's usually 5 kilos more, or less.

10. His closet is filled with dark clothes. Most of them are some level of formal, but he also owns "house clothes" which he only wears inside and they are slightly dirty or ripped. Owns one or two pairs of trousers, the rest are denim jeans or shorts and pants. Has either black or white socks, having longer ones for winter and very short ones for summer. Uses armpit pads so he doesn't sweat during hot weather. Loves leather and wears it all the time;

11. Knows how to write using the glagolitic (both round and angular) and latin script. Never bothered to learn cyrillic, he doesn't know how to write text in the cyrillic script and he can only recognize a few letters in texts written in it. It's not necessary for him to know it, since Croatia isn't known for using cyrillic, but he needed it in Yugoslavia. Back then he understood it enough to read simple text written in the script, but still couldn't write in the script;

12. Has almost flat speech, but not as much as Enis. He only shows emotion in his voice when yelling and you can't tell his emotions based on his speech, except for anger. His voice almost shakes when he raises his voice which has been responded to with both pitiness and fear. Of course, he speaks with a central Croatian accent and dialect, with the Dalmatian dialect being almost foreign to him (poor knowledge of words used by Dalmatians). He speaks Croatian and English as a second language. Understands a bit of Italian and German and some Hungarian words (all because of past interactions with the people);

13. Writes frequently, but his works are only appealing at first glance. He prefers writing short stories or small 'essays' for his blog, while he writes poems once in a blue moon. Doesn't struggle with grammar or spelling, writing something that makes sense and has an interesting story behind is his only challenge that he can't seem to beat. He needs to get atleast a little bit sentimental to whip out a verse or two, otherwise, he doesn't consider it. The publishers have started refusing to publish his work because no one really reads his articles in newspapers. He thinks his writing is refined and unique;

14. Can only cook minimum effort and traditional dishes, and that's it. He doesn't try to learn to cook any dishes besides the ones he already knows because "they're too hard". Has cooked for the other yugotans in the past and they've enjoyed it, despite his meals not being anything special. Has only baked small buns and bread a couple of times before because he buys bread in the bakery. Goes out once a week (with exceptions), and mostly orders chicken or pasta at restaurants;

15. Used to have a fiat 500 (from what I can tell based on the photos) until it was destroyed. From then on he used public transport until he got money for a new car, which lasted for a year or two. He bought a Škoda Octavia which has shown itself to be pretty decent. He doesn't usually drive that much, unless he's going on vacation, but uses his car when he wants to go to a mall that's hard to get to by foot. Prefers walking to the store or the café, despite getting a bit 'woozy' when he walks for a longer period, due to his habits and build. Might edit later. If I think of anything I should add. Have this for now.

[haveyouheardthisband]

[bharv]

Blood and Bone, Bone and Blood

It was ever fated thus. 3437 words, The Dark Urge/Ketheric Thorm, background implied The Dark Urge/Enver Gortash. CW violence, sex, and a lot of father issues.

Read on Ao3

His letter had said that he would bring her. That after the correspondence, the time he spent in the libraries and archives, the long conversations about what might be possible, that it was time to make it so. That they had been blessed in their endeavours, these Chosen of the Black Hand and the Lord of Murder, and the crown was theirs.

Their Gods blessed them all. It was time to claim their reward for their devotions. 

She is a little rough around the edges, says Lord Gortash in his careful hand. But you’ll like her. She keeps one sharp.

*

The Lord of Bones is a fair master to him. He came to him in the darkness, and he made an offer of one more chance for the light.

Shar was the absence. The nothing in the long night. The darkest part of the shadow, the last ragged squeeze of the exhale. 

Myrkul is the entropy, the judgement. The eternal proof of what is dead can truly never die.

He came to him in the darkness, as his mind still searched for the light.

Come join me, undying, his Lord told him in his awakening mind as the lid of his tomb was pulled from its resting place. Meet the eternal promise. I can give you what you desire.

*

They arrive on a cold evening, two figures emerging from the bleak fog on foot. The horses had turned at the edges of the curse, they would tell him later, and she had ripped them open as a mercy. Their footmen had turned on the verges, and she had torn them limb from limb.

They arrive in his halls, he draped in dyed bearskin, her in a plain red cloak. There are whispers in the hall as she lowers her hood, as his servants take their belongings.

Gortash bows to him.

The Bhaalspawn does not.

“I would remind you,” he warns her as he sits forward on his throne, “That in my halls, you defer to me.”

“I obey only the blood,” she replies, her voice dark and heady with the kill.

*

She haunts the floors of the towers on their first night.

He has no need for sleep anymore, he has rested long enough. Her voice echoes in the darkness, chased by the sound of screaming, echoing across the staircases and winding up into the sky.

He stalks the sound of her. Tracks her. He can only assume this is what she wants as she leaves great trails of blood along the wall, exsanguinated goblins and other such expendable creatures littering the ground as she paints her trail. He does not try to keep his feet light. She wants to be pursued; a game of hide-and-seek.

He dips his hands in the blood she leaves, feeling for the warmth blooming that will show that she is near. He follows her voice as it becomes clearer.

“My blood sings to their blood.”

He finally finds her, stripped naked with great gloves of blood half way up her arms, a mask of red on her face. “I will kill them, General,” she says with a delight in her eyes. “I will kill them, and you will make sure they return, won’t you? Blood and bone.”

She is like a child playing up for attention, her eyes wide in the torchlight, her body shivering in the cold. Punish me, she challenges, or make it right. He does not answer.

*

They speak through the plan from dawn until dusk, the crown on the table between them. It is strangely unimpressive to look at, this great prize, this key to dominion. Gortash lays out great scrolls of parchment, calls for food and wine, and he is happy to let him drown in the sound of his own voice. The plan is simple, really, beneath the theories and designs. His Lord has told him what he needs to know. 

“There are some last things to capture,” says Gortash. “Scribe Yanthus can take them down. We must ensure no part of this remains undocumented. We change the world, my friends.”

He raises his glass, but he is the only one drinking. The Bhaalspawn plays with the stem of her goblet. There is blood still under her fingernails.

“I will dine with General Thorm tonight,” she says finally. “He can tell me the history of this place, while you are working.”

“Manva-“

“Enver.”

Her name is a prayer, a plea on his tongue. His is a warning on hers. A moment’s annoyance, anger even, is replaced with a tight smile.

“Well, there is much to be done,” says Gortash, draining the last of his cup. 

*

They dine in silence in his rooms. He eats nothing. He needs nothing. He watches as she picks at a plate of dried fruits, of stale hardtack, of salted meat. She watches him in silence for almost an hour, her eyes set on him all the while, before she deigns to speak in a careful, measured, dark enquiry. 

“Your Lord spares you from death. Is that your bargain?”

She looks over him as she speaks through a mouthful of fruit that stains her lip.

“No.”

“It interests me. What you are given, what you ask for. Enver wears his ambitions every day.”

“And you?”

“I am the true blood of Bhaal. I ask for nothing. I only take.”

She spits a stone from the fruit onto the plate and looks at him. “I heard stories of the Great General of a hundred years ago. Leading the great Dark Justiciars across this land. Bringing the ever night. You were a champion. You served with glory.”

In a moment, her cup is knocked to the table as she pulls herself atop of it. She walks across and kneels in front of him, her hands on him so quickly he cannot stop them. 

“Is this what is left?”

He is struck by her tenderness, this child of Blood. She runs her hands so softly over his face, the callouses of her fingertips catching on the soft, hanging flesh.

“Is this what is left after the final breath? Is this what is left behind, after the bleeding stops? After the end? ”

“You fool,” he replies, his mouth by her mouth. “Death is no end at all.”

*

In the crypt, the candles burned out in a matter of days. He replaced them as he sat at the end of her grave over and over again. He bought the incense. He bought the offerings. He prayed.

Shar’s reward was just, he believed that. Shar’s reward was everything he had asked for. It was the moment of waking before one’s mind flooded with the grief of loss. It was the brief pause between the inhale and exhale. It was the moment when you had cried all the tears that your body could hold, and stillness fell.

He had no need for sleep, for food, for water. He had no needs at all, and she knew that. She did not come for him, because he did not ask.

He lived-not-lived in the gaps between for as long as he could, but that is the thing with grief. You can carve it away over and over, take the flesh from your body, bleed it away, but it lives inside your very bones.

*

She sits astride him and tears into his chest. The pain is an echo of what it could have been, his Lord’s great mercy, and her delight. Her strong hands crack his ribcage. It feels almost good. Right.

“Your blood smells wrong,” she says as she buries her face in him. “Oh, but your heart, Ketheric? It is so beautiful.”

She moves on him, and his eyes roll and what passes for his breath chokes him.

*

He holds her after, as his flesh knits back together and she watches like an awed child. He did not expect her to stay. It feels wrong to hold her like this, in the bed he shared for twenty years in love.

Melodia fit into his arms so perfectly. She would bury her nose into his neck, under his ear, tuck herself under his arm and his hand would find her waist. She would settle her hand so delicately on his chest as if any pressure would shatter him into pieces. 

“You did this for love, didn’t you?” she asks quietly. How old must she be, this reckoning in woman? Barely thirty, if that. The freckles across her nose remind him of Isobel as a child. Her strong jaw. Her pale eyes. 

“I did. I do.”

“You buried your wife. And then your daughter. And then yourself, in Shar.”

“I serve my Lord.”

“I think you serve yourself.”

Her fingers trace down the mark she left. 

She is not so delicate as her hands reach into him again.  

*

She explores the towers without his consent. She rifles through his books, asks questions of Balthazar. She feeds the gnolls, she watches the torturers in the dungeons, she runs her hands through the knives in the kitchen. 

“I wish to know you, my ally,” she tells him. “If we are to be bound together, I want to know you.”

“You are a blade,” he tells her. “You do not need to be anything more.”

*

“Tell me.”

“No.”

She has crawled into his bed again. This time, she has only let the blood from his neck in but a trickle, to weave her fingers in, to play with his black blood. When he heals, she pulls the flesh apart again gently.

“Do you want it? Is that why you ask?”

As her fingers move, so he moves in her. She sets the pace slow. He will follow.

“I will be the last being on earth,” she says. “If Bhaal wills me to quicken, then I have failed him.”

“I asked what you wanted.”

Her eyes glaze. She looks beyond him, and then into his eyes with a tenderness.

“Tell me of the day you first held her,” she demands, her lips by his wound. “Isobel. Tell me of the day she first saw the sun. Tell me of when you loved.”

*

When he held her he.

When he held her.

This body cannot recall it, not fully.

For when he held her, something changed in the very weaving of his veins.

When he held her he was flooded by the light she bore, the light that she was born with, ever radiant, his girl.

Every part of him that was good and just and right passed through into her. Every part of Melodia that was gentle and sweet and kind passed through into her.

When Melodia died, all that he loved lived in Isobel.

When Isobel.

When she.

There is a story of a man who sold himself part by part, and he tells himself that story. It is easier to tell it than to feel it again and again and again.

*

There is an affection there. They think he does not see it, but he does. 

Gortash holds the door for her as if he were the page of a highborn lady, and she steps through as if she is. He watches her as she moves through the halls of Moonrise, smiles as she smiles with that bloodthirst on her lips.

She swaps the ink pot as he scrawls without being prompted, and smiles as he writes and writes and writes. She reads his pages later as he sleeps. He knows from the smudges she leaves, but never tells.

It will be easy to take control over them, when the time comes. He barely needs to do a thing. He knows what that kind of love is capable of, that seeping in of gentleness in passion. If they survive placing the crown on the brain they will destroy each other over all these moments, with just the lightest touch, and as they turn to bone and ash he will endure.

He will endure.

*

The power of the brain has torn through his mind and dropped him to his knees twice already. The stone on his chest is being deflected. It buries itself into his armour, bores itself into the flesh. He can hear its voice in his mind, its mocking voice ripping through his mind.

Chosen of many, it whispers to him, Loyal only to one. You are brittle, breaking apart.

Gortash is on his knees, his hand above him not in defiance, but in protection.

He will endure. He will not fall before these children.

“She will be the all mother!” Manva cries, tears mingled with blood from her eyes. Her stone sits in a blade that she holds to her own throat in a rhapsody. “Her children will sweep through the world. They will be her children, and she will love them all.”

The crown flies from them and bonds to the brain, and the scream of it almost tears his mind in two.

*

That night they feast and he watches them. They are giddy, delighted with themselves and each other. She fills his cup. He tucks her hair behind her ear and she does not stop him.

“And now, we can take our rewards. The city will be mine, General,” says Gortash, “And tomorrow, we will help you claim yours.”

“And what does the child of Bhaal claim?” he asks her. 

She smiles in return. “Everything I am, I hand to my Father.”

*

It still smells of the herbs, of incense and of moss, of the strange sweetness of the flesh suspended from rot. It is still sacred, a hundred years later, preserved for all time with the strongest wards that he now dispels with a shaking hand. How many nights did he sit vigil here, and how much longer has it sat unmourned?

Manva moves the lid of the sarcophagus with ease, as Gortash holds the torch over the body.

The body.

His daughter.

His Isobel.

“Oh, but she is beautiful, General,” she swoons. Her hands reach down to her face, those vile instruments of violence.

“You do not touch her.”

The power of his own voice chills him, and she laughs at him, this degenerate, this poison.

“I cannot make her more dead, Ketheric. What are you afraid of?”

“Leave us.”

“But-”

“Leave. This is not for you.”

Gortash hands him the torch and takes her away. They leave him here, with the silence. That silence. And the fear.

“Lord,” he offers, falling to his knees one last time. “Grant me…”

He will be a supplicant. He will crawl in the dirt. He will push himself into the ground again, for this chance, and all the Lord of Bones asks for is his soul. His body. He prays for hours, awaits the hand of God to guide him, and it does.

As his hands touch her, her eyes open wide. She chokes on the cloth that sits down her throat and he pulls it from her as she gags. She tears away the bindings on her hands in dread panic, but her eyes, her eyes, they are bright and they are alive.

“Isobel. Oh, my love, my love, you are here with me!”

“Aylin?”

The sound of that woman, no not a woman, that creature’s name on her lips is a poison all over again. It seeps through him as her eyes come to focus on him fully.

Eyes that are full of dread.

“She is dead, Isobel,” he tells her. His voice sounds cold, so cold. “It’s me. I’m here. Oh, my girl, my beautiful, beautiful girl.”

The colour is starting to return to her cheeks. “Daddy, no.”

“We will be together now, my love.”

“What happened?”

Her hands, trembling, reach to his face, but stop before they can touch him. She buries her face in her hands and howls.

He wishes he could cry. Perhaps that would melt away the fear on her face as he picks her up, as he holds her to him, as he pulls her from the grave. She is still as stiff as a corpse against him, until he starts to pull her away.

“No-”

“It’s time to come home, Isobel.”

“No!”

He is pushed from her, hitting the wall in a flood of radiant light as she glows white, running past him on unsteady legs. Selune, moon-goddess, first love of his life, has borne down her blessing and her scorn.

“Isobel!”

He tries to run after, but the light seeps through his black blood and stills him, holds him, and he can only watch as she falls out of his sight once more.

*

He takes Manva to his bed. It is not up for discussion. 

“Perhaps I will kill you,” he tells her. “Raise you as my servant.”

“Perhaps I will starve you of your dead, Ketheric. Still the blades, if Father wills it.”

There is no satisfaction, at least in the physical, that he can take here. All the edges of his body are dulled. All of the great joys and the great pains stifled in service to his God.

But there something akin to joy in watching her discovery of his body. In watching that wonder that crosses her as she finds new ways to pull his flesh apart, as he hisses with an echo of the pain of it. She is delighted. She sparks. There is a beauty in it, a beauty that does not remind him of the sweet touch of his wife in bliss, but of the look of Isobel the first day she saw a songthrush, the first time she ate honey, the first time she realised she could say I love you to her father and make him laugh with joy.

There is a beauty in it.

In making her undone with ease, and wondering if Gortash can give her this. 

*

“I must return to the city to do what I do best,” she says. Gortash is waiting for her, and they will leave for Baldur’s Gate that morn. “The streets will run red with blood. We will have our victories. We will have our roles to play. And then…”

And then. She will try to kill them all. She will try to find the way. He will wait, as always, only now the world is his crypt.

She stops what she is doing, placing her pack on the table as she looks at him. She comes to him, sits in his lap again as she did that first night, and he does not stop her from taking his face in her hands.

“I wish they could rise again, those I will kill,” she says as she holds him close to her. “I wish they could rise to kiss me with such care.”

“If that is what you think care is, child, then I pity you,” he says, as his arms wrap around her one last time.

*

She stands before him again. Less defiant this time. New scars, new blood on her face. New allies, who look at her with that same dogged devotion young Gortash wore, the poor, misguided fools. It is a farce. It is obscene.

But if there is one thing he knows, it is that death is rarely the end.

As her eyes roam over him, he sees something stir in her. Recognition, for a moment, before a wave of uncertainty. Her lips part, her eyes are wide, and yet she says nothing.

“I am surprised to see you again, True Soul,” he says. “You are here to assist, and not to meddle, I trust?” He sits forward, and cannot help but smile. Oh, she is helpless. “I would remind you that while in my halls, you obey me - just as you would any other chosen.”

She does not take his meaning, his inference. Her eyes look to the others in the room. She is seeking confirmation, a hint, a purchase. She will find nothing. They are loyal to him.

“I’m sure you will enjoy seeing my justice enacted. You have to take what pleasure you can, after all, in your diminished state.”

She is pathetic. Her muscles shrunk to nothing, the fire in her a mere flicker. Her head bowed. Her eyes bloodless. 

“You know me?” she asks, but it is barely the hint of a question. She knows.

“Better than you know yourself.”

Blood and bone, bone and blood

It was ever fated thus

And as they mingle in the dirt

So the world returns to dust

[do-you-have-a-flag]

white noise by the living end and black fingernails red wine by eskimo joe on the radio in the last few minutes, what year is it