#cinder silhouette

[ticklemerainbows]

On to Gen 8! Pegasus Charm and his wife Cinder Silhouette by @amixofpixels!

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[ronearoundblindly]

Some Steve for you to enjoy 🥰🫶🏻

Gurl, this f***ed me up! I wanted to try to make it a snippet of Item 107 or The Cinder King, but the muses were just like "you know what you need? emotional damage." So now here we have my first semi-legit period piece (which has zero useful era detail eh) and truly is just the carrier for skinny!Steve love. Hint: It's thirsty, smutty love with hardly any plot ANGST.

Hello and welcome to Lexi's most self-indulgent fic ever. It's got everything: crippling insecurities about my real-life stuff, horniness unmatched even if there were sex pollen shot directly into their faces, and everyone is touch-starved. \o/ Enjoy! WC probably close to 3k but idk because I'm too afraid to look back at it. *slams post button*

Turned away again, Steve "4F" Rogers steps out of the recruitment center to see you standing there, staring up at the posters promising glory.

People hustle around you, several even knocking into you, but you remain transfixed, invisible. You're clutching your purse like a lifeline.

Down one step, worn-through shoes barely hiding every seam in the cobblestone, Steve has to get closer because that's the direction of home and a lonely, empty apartment he can hardly afford. He has to pass by. He has to, but then he sees the amber light reflect on trails of tears down your cheeks.

He has to stop.

"Miss?" Steve clears his throat, his own arm smacked by a rowdy man who then swats at your ass just as Steve tries to get your attention again.

You jolt and turn to him in surprise, hand flying up to cover a sob, sweeping to wipe the evidence of emotion from your face.

Fast--faster than Steve really processes--he's shouting for the guy to apologize before the guy makes to advance, Steve presses himself between you and the asshole still laughing at disrespecting you, and then he--Steve--is getting shoved into the alley with you still at his back.

It's dusk. The alley is nearly black. Steve can hear you crying but he's slipped on the stones wet from an afternoon rain. He scrambles to right himself.

Amidst the cries, he hears grunts of anger and resistance, terror creeping into his chest as Steve thinks you're being assaulted.

"Piece of shit," you bite out. The silhouette of you hurling your bag at the man's face repeatedly is clear from where Steve crouches, backlit as you are by the movie theater marquee.

Then the guy is down on the ground, too, being stomped on by your two-inch heel. "Piece of fucking shit."

"Woah," Steve jumps forward to hold you back. "Woah, language, ma'am. Let's go. Just leave him."

He has a weak arm around your waist, but you kick at the man one more time for good measure, hissing "liar" before turning to follow.

Your hand in his, Steve hurries through the streets, picking the ones he knows are busier but maneuverable to make sure you're not being pursued. Each time he looks back, he sees your sinking face, more tears, more exhaustion, and he makes a flash decision.

He doesn't stop until he locks the door of his apartment behind you both, and you break down on the bare wood floor.

"You hurt? Did he hurt you?" Steve's boney knees land a few inches from yours and he leans over, his long fingers brushing over your pinned hair and stiff curls that dislodged in the commotion. "You're alright. You're safe here."

Where your legs crumple underneath you, your slip lays over your thigh, uncovered by the skirt pooling on the other side of your hip. He can see the outline of a garter strap and the top of your stocking beneath the silky material. Steve's always loved pretty, delicate things. He also loves the faint bulge of flesh around the restraints.

There's meat on your bones, something to hold onto, and he shakes his head, chastising himself for noticing all the wrong things about the crying woman in his home. His lonely, empty home.

Steve attempts to think of anything other than your body.

"Do you know him? What'd you call him a liar for?"

You sigh in defeat, hands flopping into your lap, and confess that it wasn't about him so much as a man not here anymore. Gone. To war. You tell Steve a rambling tale of excuses and snide comments, of a parting that left you wondering why that man--any man--bothered to be with you in the first place, of a surety that you weren't ever wanted.

"I thought he loved me but he lied."

Steve sits cross-legged in front of you now, enthralled and utterly confused. Why would anyone...?

"That's the worst part," you exclaim, voice cracking. "I don't know. I'll never know." Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your skirt. "I heard today that he died. Don't know where. Don't know when. And I hate that I still care."

"But he wasn't good to you," Steve soothes and wraps his hand around yours, "and he wasn't good for you."

All you do is shrug and hide your face. Tears falls to the fabric below your eyes and seep through in dark patches.

He scoots forward and lifts your chin with a gentle nudge. When your puffy red eyes meet his, he's struck by how lucky he feels to see you like this. It's odd to think someone who knew you more and for so much longer couldn't feel infinitely more attached and protective. You're so vulnerable, so open, so...

"You're beautiful." Steve's tongue swipes over his dry lips. "You're so beautiful."

The words are loaded heavier than tanks and pack the punch of a bomb. He can tell you don't truly hear him by the way you shrink and shake your head out of his hold.

"Don't do that," he pleads. "Please don't hide from me."

"You don't know me."

"No, but I--"

"You don't even know my name!"

He sits back and offers his hand.

"Hi, I'm Steve. It's nice to meet you, and I think you're beautiful."

"That's stupid," you lash out, bitterly spitting the half-hearted, heart-breaking words. "You must be an idiot, Steve."

It's not the first time he's heard it, but it is the first time he's not mad at hearing it. He believed those things, too, long ago, before his mom convinced him to see the possibilities in one's struggles. If you perceive it as an obstacle, it is an obstacle. Perceive it as an opportunity instead and use it. Those aren't her exact words, but Sarah Rogers has so many different ways of teaching the same fundamental lessons that Steve can't remember the phrases anymore.

He can remember the feeling. He remembers seeing both obstacles and opportunities.

"Is it stupid to want to touch you?" he whispers. "Because I would love to touch you."

The question is purposefully leading since he knows from your story that's exactly what you long for. It'll be more impactful if he shows you he longs for that too.

Slowly--so slowly--his hand comes up to your cheek again, his fingers tucking behind your neck.

"I don't want your pity." There's still bitterness but no power behind it. You gently shift closer and meet him halfway.

He's kissed girls before, he's fooled around, and he has, in fact, slept with one girl. They went all the way--twice--which means Steve knows what it is to be pitied intimately. He knows what it's like to want something so badly you don't care what the motivation is.

You deserve to know his motives.

"I don't pity you." His focus falls to your quivering lip. "I want to make you happy." He's close. He's so close his breath rolls warm over your face. "I want to make you smile."

A soft whimper leaves you just as his mouth arrives.

"I want you," he says into the kiss.

Instead of fighting, you grab at his jacket, pulling him until you're both falling into the stand lamp. You taste of salt and something sweet he can't put his finger on. Steve resolves to put that on the list of things to find out about you.

He keeps kissing you as you both fall, the lamp now wedged at an angle by the side table. Despite the tangle of tongues, Steve keeps his hands to himself. He doesn't quite have enough answers.

"What do you want, beautiful?"

Hesitant as he pulls away, gripping worn leather like your purse in the street, your eyes dart between his. You're a dream beneath him, but that sounds too selfish to voice.

"May I..." Steve is already panting "...get you off the floor? More comfortable?"

Maybe you haven't been able to say the words, but Steve doesn't need more convincing to know you want him.

He could tell from the way you pawed at him. He could tell from the multiple times you crashed him into the walls along the hall to makeout more. He could tell from the way you melted like hot butter at his every returned touch, but finally, you two made it to his bed.

He'd be embarrassed by the lumpy old thing if there weren't a curvy, luscious dame standing with wide legs at the foot of it, letting his tie slip through your hands as he sits stunned.

Steve swallows thickly.

"Let me see you." It comes out as more of an order than the hopeful question he intended, but when he sees the command shiver through you, he feels six-foot-six and powerful as all hell.

You two share the burden of unbuttoning all of your layers, spinning you a few times to release front and back and side to side. His hands spread and roam to relish each garment, each moment, until you're top half is naked.

He stares, fierce blue irises muted by the dim light on his bedside table, 'beautiful' on his lips every second you spend with your finger yanking the knot of his tie and sliding off the bond. When you lean to pop his shirt buttons, your breasts hang in his face.

Steve stops you by your wrists, peaking up at you through his long lashes as he takes a nipple in his mouth. He keeps thinking it--beautiful--while his tongue sweeps flat across pebbling flesh. Each subsequent swirl has you melting again, pressing more of you to his face, dragging nails up his chest, sighing long and deep. When he switches to the other side, your fingers bury in his hair. He takes his time to worship you, tracing his own fingertips around the hem of your slip and garters.

He doesn't get impatient, if anything Steve feels greedy for wanting more, for praying this lasts forever, for needing all you're willing to give.

His teeth graze your skin in wanton lust, and you flinch in surprise, knocking you off-balance.

You fall to your knees on the mattress, straddling Steve's slender body beneath your hot core.

"Sorry," you mutter, wriggling to stand, forcing Steve to wrap his arms around you and halt your retreat. "I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you."

"You can sit on me morning, noon, and night," he rasps. "I won't complain. I'll thank you, beautiful."

He groans pathetically when you relax, the grind of your ass making his slacks pinch tighter and tighter. Steve lets his head fall back on the sheets, eyes fluttering shut. The army might not want him, the world outside may forget he ever existed, but you see. He could get addicted to this feeling. He might get lonely without it.

Steve isn't strong enough to keep hold of you, but your weight never leaves, his erection still slotted between your cheeks. His mouth drops wide when your hips roll. Steve whines when you rise up enough to resume unbuttoning him. His lungs and heart go into overdrive, but even so, Steve doesn't want you doing all the work.

He flips you--using the sum total of his strength--and shuffles backward to stand, ripping the tails of his shirt from beneath his belt and shucking off his trousers. That part he could have been more patient for, but Steve smirks and brushes away the hair falling in his eyes, chest heaving from exertion.

He's pleased to see you watching him, ogling his body without judgment. You look like you want to eat him alive, and he is perfectly fine with that.

His palm lands on your knee to sneak higher beneath your slip, nimble fingers popping the clasps along your stockings and hooking through the band of your underwear. You lifting for him is all the permission he needs. Steve leaves your slip, garter belt, and stockings in place, and in a cheeky twist, he lets your underwear hang off one of your ankles, kissing your inner thigh, pushing your knees wider for him to fit.

He throbs in his boxers at the sight of your sex.

Nerves roil in his belly at the idea he is solely responsible for your pleasure. As he glances up to you, propped up on your elbows with a fearful and expectant gaze, he sees a poster promising honor and glory, a service to be proud of, and for the first time, he has doubts.

You see it in his eyes.

"Steve?"

He wants to participate and show that he's worthy of you.

This isn't about him though, and Steve Rogers is nothing if not dedicated anyone other than himself.

"Right here." He snaps back to reality, laying his hand to your thatch of hair and gently teasing his thumb along your folds. "I'm right here, beautiful."

It's an honor to touch you. He's proud of the moan elicited because he strokes over your clit rhythmically. The glory of watching you writhe is all his.

Steve's breath stays rapid as yours picks up. You're fisting the sheets, slick pooling beneath the pad of his thumb, helping him pick up speed. He dips into you, tests the breach while pushing his boxers down, and crawls over the edge of the bed. Like magnets, you guide each other higher till the pillows cradle you.

You're a broken record, repeating a desperate loop.

"Steve," you whimper.

"Won't ever lie to you." He captures your lips again. "Want you so badly. I'll want you all the time."

Steve doesn't understand why you won't talk to him, so he slows, eyes questioning and brow furrowed. You have to see. The light is right there.

Bottom lip trapped, you still say nothing, but your arms raise to his smooth face and plead in the silence.

He wants the same thing. He wants to feel. Not just the sting of rejection. Not just the slippery, rough stones through his shoes. Not just the empty ache inside. He wants to feel like someone cares whether he lives or dies.

You care even when you don't want to, but Steve can earn you, your care, your smile and your tears. He'll get up and come home to you every time. He needs you to come home to.

Otherwise, this is a lonely, empty apartment. Otherwise, he is a lonely, empty man.

Your hands bring him close, lips pausing just before contact while Steve sinks two fingers into you.

You gasp. His fingers curl. His thumb goes back to work. You kiss him with what little breath you can hold between muted cries until Steve notices your roving hands tug at his waist.

He wants the same thing.

Sitting back on his heels, Steve drapes your thighs over his, his slick fingers spreading you. He's mesmerized watching his cock disappear inch by inch, and the caress of your walls shuts down all other brain function. All he can do is slide against you, bent into your soft body, your breasts padding his jerky thrusts, the base of him perfectly laving the hood of your clit in the growing mess.

You're wet, and he's driven wild by the need to make you come. He tries to sit up again, to play with you properly, but he's stopped by the weight of your legs crossed behind his ass, the strength of your thighs anchoring him in place.

Steve takes huge, deep breaths through his nose because he won't last concentrating on how your body bounces and ripples, plush beneath his boney form.

You get wetter, looser in a welcoming way that spurs him to drive himself home faster. He sucks in air, though it's futile once his heavy balls start to seize.

Suddenly, you shout, stretching to push yourself completely flush with his pelvis, and he has to pull out, keeping aligned with the cut of you as aftershocks make you mindlessly hump him. Steve's cum shoots all over his belly and your chest, some drops dampening what clothes he didn't discard, stains of joy replacing stains of sadness.

His chest might explode. He's gasping, taxed beyond his naughtiest dreams, head lolling toward the ceiling with his throat high.

He feels your legs fall away, and Steve hopes for an instant that you embrace him even though he might suffocate in the process.

The envelopment never comes. The world is fuzzy and too warm beyond him.

He hears the sink in his bathroom turn on just as he lands palms-down on sweaty sheets. He tries every trick he knows to calm down. The water still runs after all the time it takes for him to recover and stand. The closer he gets to the doorway, the clearer the sound really is.

Sobbing.

"Beautiful? What's wrong? Did I--"

The faucet squeaks off, and you barrel out, nearly running him over, your arms covering your chest and your disheveled hair hiding your face.

"What are you doing? Are you cold?" Steve tries.

"I'm disgusting," you hiss in a mad dash for the pile of clothes on the floor.

He trips over his feet to stop you, corralling you as best he can, but you're quick. You certainly have fight in you. Steve only want to show you you do not have to fight him.

"Come back to bed," he commands hopefully, grabbing your wrist as you scoop up your wrinkled dress. "I should clean up, but please, please, come back to bed."

There is something broken and fearful in the way you finally meet his eye. He's torn apart, shredded down to nothing in a single look. That's not how a feral animal sees the world; that's how an animal, abused and betrayed, locks the world out.

Your protection is what you really took off for him. Your thick armor is what Steve got past.

"I didn't lie." He lets go of you and steps back as calm as his rasping breaths can manage. "I want you. I want you to stay." He wonders whether he ought to cover himself, too, because perhaps total vulnerability makes you more nervous.

So he presents himself as an opportunity, not an obstacle.

Steve finds his boxers a foot away and says one more time, "I hope you stay."

Unmoving, your eyes follow his walk to the bathroom, and in the split second he's looking down to turn the tap, you're gone.

Disappointment floods his system, but like all the other stamped failures in his record, Steve goes through the motions of caring for a body that thwarts his desire to live at every turn. In fact, it tries to die so often, he's always surprised to find himself here, staring at this mirror again, wondering why he gets back up.

He's also surprised to find you here, in the bed with the sheet pulled up to your chin, nodding to the side table where you've placed a cup of water.

The tiniest of genuine smiles curves your lips.

Steve's home is neither lonely nor empty anymore. He could cry.

A/N: this got so incredibly out of hand... I'm so sorry. But also, thank you for reading!

Tags: @supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555

@yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn

@late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries

@rogersbarber @blogbog710 @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads

[howi99]

Knight and traitor 1

Jaune: *bleeding out, unable to move as Cinder is about to finish Pyrrha*

Jaune: *weakly* God... Devil... I don't care who might be listening... I will give you my life, my soul *cough blood* ... My very existence... But please, give me the strength to protect them...

*time stop*

???: *a silhouette made of light appears* Well well well, what do we have here? You think of yourself quite highly if you think your soul is enough of a payment. *Sit next to Jaune, lighting a... cigarette?*

Jaune: *slow chuckle* I always was greedy after all... *Cough more blood* Always wanted to keep everyone in my sights safe.

???: *taking a drag from her cigarette* Hm... Greedy you say? *Chuckle* i know a thing or two about that. *Look at Cinder* Say, if i help you with your little problem, will you give me a name?

Jaune: ... What?

???: *rubbing her chin* I got some... Bad memory with my old name. I uh... Kinda have a bad reputation.

Jaune: ... And you want me to name you?

???: Hey, that's a better deal than your soul, isn't it?

Jaune: ... And how will you help me protect my friends?

???: *laugh* Now THAT'S the real question! *Get up and goes to Cinder* Now, as you can see *try punching Cinder, but his fist only goes through her, aimlessly* I can't interact with anyone. BUT! *Walk back to Jaune* I can be your sword!

Jaune: ... What?

???: *cough* I mean, as of right now, i'm basically just a wandering soul. But if you make a pact with me, i will be able to fight by your side! *Grinning* You got some mean Od in ya.

Jaune: Od?

???: *shrug* Eh, think of it as your Aura. It's a synonym from where i'm from.

Jaune: hm... Alright, i'm good with that.

???: Neat. *Looking at Jaune* Also, don't know if you noticed it, but i took the time to heal ya. The weird lady told me i could only do it once, so don't take that for granted.

Jaune: *still unable to move* I did feel like i wasn't dying anymore... Thanks.

???: So, that name?

Jaune: hm.... We name people with color. You got something to help me with?

???: ... I'm blond?

Jaune: *sigh* Yeah, like my whole family. Anything else?

???: ... I like red?

Jaune: Eh, that will do. Your name is now Red!

???: ... You lack imagination.

Jaune: Well, RED, i'm kinda more preoccupied in saving my partner ass over thinking of a name.

???: ... *Shrug* Eh, fair. The pact is sealed.

*time resume*

Jaune: *gasp for air* RED! STOP HER, NOW!

Red: *appearing before him* Roger that! *Goes to summon her sword, but nothing appears* ... Fuck!

Cinder: *turning her head to see what is causing the commotion* Who... *Shack her head* no matter, i got the maiden power, that is enough... For now. *Leave*

_________________

Jaune: And that's about it.

Qrow: *look at Red* So, you mean to tell me that this is some magic bullshit?

Jaune: More or less bullshit then the maidens?

Qrow: ... Fair *drink from his flask*

Red: *looking at Qrow* ...

Qrow: Something to say?

Red: *shacking her head* Nah, you just remind me of someone... *Take a cigarette from her pocket* Want one?

Qrow: ... Eh, sure. Been a while.

[porcelainseashore]

Into the Ether (8)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire! Toreador! Leon Kennedy x Fem! Reader

Summary: At the all-night events cafe you run, you’ve become acquainted with an elusive patron, Leon, though you can never remember the last moments of your interactions together. After a harrowing encounter, a love-hate relationship develops between the two of you as you grapple with your newfound status in a world of darkness and investigate the reasons behind the untimely attacks.

Content & Warnings: 18+ Resident Evil x Vampire: The Masquerade crossover, horror, mystery, romance, slow burn, strangers to enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut, swearing, smoking, alcohol, drug references, non consensual blood drinking, blood bond, vampire turning, violence, injury, mild gore, torture, religious themes, minor character death, RE ensemble, VtM concepts.

Author's Note: Implied torture and mild gore ahead.

Taglist: @admirxation @angelstargel @miss-oranje-disco-dancer ❤️‍🔥

AO3 Link

Chapter 8: The Chantry

He should’ve known you would be sharp enough to pick up on his remark about the suitor back at the cafe. Damn him and his big mouth. Well, you would’ve gotten wind of it somehow anyway, especially since Wesker had put you on this case with him too.

You waited patiently for his answer, as you saw a range of emotions sweep across Leon’s face. Unlike his compatriot, Luis, he was not a great talker. You’d experienced that first hand when he tried to reveal his nature to you.

“I don’t know who he is exactly, but most likely a higher-ranking Anarch,” he divulged, eyeing you intently to gauge your reaction. “The guy wanted to use you as a way to bring the East Side under their domain.”

A bunch of mixed feelings churned within you as you lamented the fact that just when you were beginning to reach an understanding with the man, fate decided to throw another roadblock in your path. “So, you Embraced me first to prevent that,” you deduced, the hurt in your voice evident as you made the following observation, “Was I just some political tool to you?”

“No, angel—” he caught himself as he accidentally let slip his term of affection for you. “You have never been, and will never be, a tool to me.”

Reaching over, he laid his hand protectively atop yours, tracing delicate patterns across its back. To his surprise, you didn’t berate him for using that pet name, nor did you shy away from his touch. Perhaps you had given in, your fire extinguished to smoky cinders.

“You know I feel a great deal for you… and regardless of what you may think, I’ve always wanted you to have a say in your Embrace,” he reiterated undeniably.

You bit your lip, still doubtful of his words. “What would you have done if I had said no?”

There was a thoughtful pause before he replied, “Probably be devastated, but I could never force you. Not like that.”

With a bitter laugh, he commented further, “I might’ve killed that son of a bitch before he got to you though.”

All at once, you were reminded of the side that made him inhuman, talking about murder as if it were a normal part of his daily routine. It irked you, but it also comforted you that he would do anything to keep you safe.

“And risk Final Death?” you asked, wondering if he was joking, or if he really would break the last of the Traditions for you. Unless the Prince had issued a Blood Hunt on a specific individual or group of Kindred, he would be forbidden to destroy another of his kind.

“Would’ve been worth it,” he quipped under his breath, his searing gaze unabashedly roaming across your body, following every contour of your silhouette as he admired what was before him. 

You wore things differently from his sire, which was all he had ever known. When he reminisced about Ada, bold, bright reds, like a fountain of blood, flooded his mind. Blood which he drank from every Sunday, worshiping martyrs and sacrifices, up until the point he had strayed. Blood which gave him a taste of life and death, anger and passion, lust and love. Blood from a broken hymen on bleached white sheets, like the innocence he’d lost when he stepped into the underworld. Blood drained from a pig to drench him in when he was hazed, the resulting humiliation he had felt after and his reddened cheeks, just like the shame that carved out a hole within him when Ada left. His throat tightened, just like the way her clothes hugged her body like a boa constrictor.

And then there was you, in emerald greens, deep burgundies and swatches of black — duller, yet no less luminescent beneath the surface. Something he had to work for, digging to unearth the gem of humanity he had squandered away over restless nights and bouts of insomnia. Your flowy dress robes and kaftans transported him to gap year adventures under the starry skies in Morocco, sand filling your shoes, and the scorching heat on the desert breeze. He had never been, never left the city since he was turned. But he loved to imagine a future where he could travel there with you. Dancing with wild abandon, in dark kohl eyeliner and that carefree smile. God, that smile… and your fire. You could captivate him for days. He never thought he could feel so intensely for another person again, but he was wrong — and he was glad to be.

From your end, you regarded him with reservation. The love he declared for you bordered on instinctual passion and obsession, and you couldn’t decide if you found it flattering or problematic. As a Toreador by blood, would you end up like him? It was still early days, yet he treated you as if he had been pining after you for a century. You wondered if this was just a temporary, fleeting thing and he would eventually tire of you in time to come.

Almost as though he could read your mind, he broke away, avoiding eye contact with you as he apologized, “Sorry, I, uh, didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Adjusting his collar awkwardly, he cleared his throat, coming back to his senses as he uttered, “We should, um, discuss about the Tremere.”

You nodded in agreement, dabbing your palms against your forehead and cheeks, letting the coolness seep into your warm, flustered skin. “So, I’m guessing you found something?”

“Not quite,” he sighed, gently rubbing the temples at the sides of his head.

Pushing himself up off the couch, he went over to his desk, grabbed a bunch of papers, and handed them over to you. Thumbing through the sheets, you briefly scanned its contents, realizing it was a shift schedule of all the Umbrella scientists based in NEST, as well as a couple of reports, though signed under a different name from the person you were meant to get in contact with.

Ms. Rebecca Chambers. The up-and-coming Tremere prodigy who had recently returned from a stint at the Hartford Chantry, renowned for their work on mind and memory alterations. Like the rest of the clans, the Tremere were a secretive sort, and even more so. They guarded their research and activities closely within their base of operations, known as chantries. Leon had mentioned to you about their adeptness in matters of the blood or ‘Blood Sorcery’ as it was named. They had once been a group of mages who discovered immortality through undeath, though they had wrangled their power at the expense of other Kindred. No wonder Jill had called them ‘ursupers’. You didn’t like the sound of their schemes and ploys either.

“Rebecca’s not in any of the schedules, and there’s no trace of her anywhere, even though she works directly under Wesker,” he put forth. “She’s not even credited in the projects she’s meant to be researching on.”

“It’s all signed off by this guy: Glenn… Arias?” you took a shot at pronouncing his name while flicking through the pages.

“Yeah, that’s her Regent,” he pointed out. “And a jealous one at that.”

“What do you mean?” You stopped rummaging, peering at Leon with a quizzical look.

“Well, word has it that he intends to hold onto his position for as long as he’s unliving. Meaning, capable apprentices are considered a threat to be dealt with,” he expunged.

“But he can’t just make someone relatively high-profile like Rebecca disappear,” you stated, pinching your chin in a thinker’s pose. All this sleuthing reminded you of those classic black-and-white noir films from the 1940s. Pity you were missing the whiskey and cigars.

“Yes, he can,” he insisted, pacing the room like a lead detective hot on the case. “He’s already doing it now — scrubbing out her achievements, making sure she leaves an invisible trail, and hoping that she’ll be forgotten among the sea of neonates who dazzled a little too brightly.”

“And of course the fucker is taking all the credit for her work,” you sneered, disliking this guy already before you even met him.

“Looks like you and I have something in common then,” he noted with a lopsided smile. He hated the man as much as you did. “Unfortunately this leaves us with no choice. If we want to get to Rebecca, then we’ll need to go through the fucker.”

You slumped back into the couch, your weight causing the upholstery to mold to your body. “Gonna need a whiskey beforehand.”

Shaking his head as he laughed, he took a seat on the coffee table directly opposite the couch facing you. “Sure, just be prepared to throw it up an hour later.”

━━━━━━━━━━━

When nightfall came the next day, you found yourself sulking in the passenger seat of Leon’s jeep as he drove towards the northwest of Raccoon City, heading straight into Raccoon Forest. It would be several miles before you’d reach your destination. In the background, grunge rock music from one of the local radio stations played at a low volume through the car speakers. Resting your head against the window, you heard Leon humming along to the melody as he tapped the steering wheel in time with the steady beat of the track.

“Funny, didn’t take you as a rock’n’roll kinda guy,” you muttered, still peering out of the glass pane, unwilling to look at the man who you were dead certain was wearing a giant smirk on his face right now.

“Glad I can continue to surprise you then,” he answered jovially. “I was young and rebellious once you know.”

“You? A rebel? Please…” you scoffed, rolling your eyes so far back into your head you probably could’ve popped them out of your sockets if you wanted to.

Instead of replying, he belted out the chorus lyrics in his annoyingly smooth voice. Frankly, you were a little sore about your exchange earlier back at his place when he had kept his word, and allowed you to have a sip from a cask of fine French whiskey stored in his vitrine. The problem was, he didn’t tell you that it would taste like shit.

Seeing as your undead body wouldn’t be able to digest it, you were prepared to risk throwing up just to have a shot of alcohol running through your veins. However, it turned out that everything except wine would taste like ashes and dirt. You didn’t even need to force yourself to regurgitate the contents; you did it naturally, spewing it out like a spray while Leon howled with laughter. Some fucking joke that was. Asshole.

“Still pissed off, huh?” he questioned. You could sense a hint of remorse in his voice.

“Take a guess.”

You felt his fingers brush against your arm. “Hey, I’m sorry. Sometimes I get a bit carried away,” he whispered apologetically, his tone subdued, as if he was a dog who’d been chastised.

“Mm.” You pursed your lips, shrugging noncommittally.

“If you want, I can teach you how to be able to enjoy things like before,” he offered as a form of consolation. “But to experience the effects of alcohol, you’ll need to drink from the inebriated.”

Finally, you faced him to catch his midnight blue gaze, and he gave a weak smile. “Time for me to get wasted then.”

He took that as a sign that you had forgiven him, and you were back to bantering again. “No drinking on the job,” he warned.

“Yes, boss.”

With that, you turned your attention to the changing scenery outside, which blurred past your window. Gone were the city lights in the distance; you were now deep within the thicket of the forest. Tree branches shaped like claws scraped the sides of the vehicle and peculiar winged creatures flew in and out of the shadows. The only source of light was the car's beam, focused directly on the path ahead. At times, you thought you could make out pairs of glowing red eyes from the bushes in the dark surrounding you. Clutching the door armrest, you felt pinpricks of cold sweat forming on your palms, and you couldn’t wait for this segment of the journey to end.

As you reached a clearing, you saw the pale moonlight gleaming overhead through the clouded sky, its pearlescent light casting a silvery sheen across everything in sight. That’s when you spotted the imposing mansion in front of you as the car made its way up the driveway. There was a bluish tinge to its white-painted exterior, and although the building was well-kept, there was a decaying quality to it, as if it had been abandoned by its owners decades ago. You observed its towering columns and large lancet windows, noting the intricate details carved into the eaves of the roof. Who knew there was a mysterious grand manor situated in the middle of nowhere within the woods? You felt like an extra in a B-movie horror film.

After parking the car, you and Leon hopped out of the vehicle, walking over towards the main entrance of the house. Except for the sound of gravel crunching underfoot, it was eerily silent and nothing stirred. It began to dawn on you why the place was so unnerving: there was no rustling of animals or chirping of insects; it was completely devoid of life.

Spencer Mansion. So, this foreboding construct was Raccoon City’s Tremere Chantry. Perhaps there were worse clans to be part of, you ruminated.

Raising his knuckles, Leon was about to knock on the front doors when they creaked slightly ajar on their own, until a strong gust of wind materialized out of thin air, swinging them wide open as they rattled against the walls of the house. “Nice party trick,” he mumbled sarcastically.

“I heard that,” a voice boomed from the main hall.

The hallway was as opulent and musty as the building's facade, with smooth, spotless marble-tiled floors and a red carpet rolled out from the door towards the stairs. There was an elegant chandelier suspended from the vaulted ceiling, as well as decorative candle stands and sconces in every corner. Despite the multitude of light sources available, the room still seemed dimly lit.

In the center of the carpet stood a woman in a preppy tweed pantsuit, picking at her fingernails as she eyed the two of you haughtily. Even though she was alone, you had the strange sense that there were plenty of others in the room hiding in plain sight, and watching you from the shadows.

“An acolyte,” Leon whispered, making sure he was out of earshot this time.

It was just a fancy name the Tremere gave to a fledgling. Essentially, she was at the bottom rung of the pyramid, a newbie like yourself, and yet she was behaving as if she owned the entire manor.

“The Regent is waiting for you in the bar,” she informed. With a slight, dismissive wave of her hand, she indicated for you to follow her.

“Stick close to me,” Leon instructed, drawing you in until your arm bumped against the side of his chest. “You don’t want to get lost here.”

Definitely not. You’d heard about the chantry traps that the Tremere were famous for, designed to keep out both malicious entities and those unfortunate souls who had accidentally stumbled in, blissfully unaware of the nature of this place. Ending up like them would be worse than a disaster.

As you passed through the main hall, a stately set of doors on your left caught your eye. They were cracked open, and through the gap, you could see two rows of people seated opposite each other at the long cherry wood dining table. A large burlap sack, bound with rope, lay on its surface; whatever was inside squealed and kicked about. You could hear its muffled screams when suddenly, all the diners turned their heads to face you, completely expressionless.

Gasping in shock, you instinctively huddled against Leon’s body, seeking refuge from the chilling scene you had just encountered. He hooked his arm around your shoulder, allowing your head to burrow in the crook of his neck as you continued onwards. An odious grin crept over the acolyte’s face as she witnessed your reaction.

Climbing up the stairs, the whole mansion descended into a torturous maze. It was a nauseating feeling to lose all sense of direction, unable to distinguish where you were or where you were going. Each corridor looked the same; you took countless left and right turns, and it felt as if you were being led around in circles. Even your depth perception was off; objects shifted and merged, and passages stretched and compressed as you walked through them. It became increasingly difficult to judge your distance from anything in sight.

You tried to focus on the acolyte, using her as a beacon to guide you through this complex web. Although Leon was faring better than you, he too appeared to be struggling to keep up with the pace. You were ascending levels only to head back down again, no longer sure which floor of the mansion you were on. Was this some cruel joke she was playing on the two of you, or were they trying to ensure you’d never remember how to navigate a route through the building?

The next time, it was Leon who saw something unspeakable. Red light emanated from a narrow doorway at the side, and within it, a naked man was strapped to a sturdy mahogany chair. His head lolled on his chest and his frail body was bruised and battered. Pieces of his flesh had been carved out in strange shapes; some of the slabs were scattered on the floor. His festering wounds were weeping and if not for his feeble, trembling groan, Leon would have assumed he had been long dead.

“Christ, this is some sick shit,” he hissed under his breath in revulsion. You peered in the direction he had glanced at, but there was only an austere portrait hanging against a blank wall. Were the both of you going mad and imagining things?

Shaking his head, he advised, “You don’t want to go looking for it, trust me.” 

At last, the acolyte came to a stop, ushering you into a modest-sized room with checkered tile floors, reminiscent of a chessboard, and an oak bar counter at the side where a clean-cut, impeccably dressed man sat. There was a grand piano facing the bar, and Moonlight Sonata was playing on its keys despite there being no musician present at the instrument.

The room was vacant, apart from the lone person by the bar, whom you presumed was Glenn. He appeared to be a middle-aged man with graying hair and a deep scar across his left eyebrow. His long suit coat was a well-coordinated palette of grays, reds and blacks. As he imbibed the ruby red liquid in his crystal tumbler glass, a dash of it spilled out by accident, though it hovered in the air. Setting the glass down, he sucked it into his mouth with ease; his mouth twisting into a sinister smile.

“Please, make yourselves at home,” he welcomed both of you, gesturing to the unoccupied bar stools before him. Despite his mild mannerisms, his gaze was cold and calculating, honed through years of corrupt transactions and political backstabbing.

When you had settled in, the acolyte closed the door shut, leaving you with the man. It was then that he spoke up again, “There’s no need for pleasantries, so let me cut to the chase. You wish to see Ms. Chambers, yes?”

“On Prince’s orders,” Leon highlighted.

At this, Glenn laughed contemptuously, “I thought you knew better than to use threats against me, Mr. Kennedy.” He extended his gloved finger, wagging it scathingly in front of Leon’s face. “Unlike what the rest of you neonates think, the P-word doesn’t hold much weight here.”

Retracting his hand, he reiterated, “For your sake and the sake of your childe, I suggest you learn to play by my rules.”

You watched as Leon lowered his head in submission as your hatred towards Glenn grew. Were all the Tremere stuck-up assholes? You had a hunch that such behavior was largely shaped by this man himself.

“Excuse my earlier transgression, Mr. Arias,” Leon apologized rather perfunctorily. “Is there something we might offer in exchange for the inconvenience?”

“That’s more like it,” Glenn remarked, curling his finger over his lip as he nodded favorably. “Well, now that you mention it, I suppose there is.”

From under his coat, he pulled out a thin folder of documents, handing it over to Leon. “You see, for some reason, it’s been a tradition in my clan to divide the roles between Regent and Primogen, when really, they could just be handled by the same person.”

“And you want the Primogen title,” Leon surmised.

What else would he expect from a power hungry Tremere, who wanted the best of both worlds? As a Primogen, he would be considered his clan’s representative within the Prince’s Council — the first port of call the Prince would consult on various matters. That, along with being the figurehead of the Chantry, would allow him to elevate his status to what would essentially be a dictatorship within his clan.

“You said that, not me,” Glenn pointed out sneakily. “I’m merely exposing the incompetence of the current appointee.”

He tapped the documents in Leon’s hands. “Anyway, back to business. It’s quite simple, I’d like you to plant these documents in the office of the current Tremere Primogen. Discreetly, of course.”

Pausing for dramatic effect, he drummed his fingers on the counter. “And then we’ll see about your visit with Ms. Chambers.”

“What’s in them?” you questioned abruptly.

His eyes snapped sharply to you. “Oh, so she speaks!” he mocked. “Let’s put it this way, it’s enough to get her for treason.”

You were about to counter with a barbed remark when Leon cut in, talking over you, “Mr. Arias, would you be so kind as to allow my childe and me a few minutes to converse over this matter in private?”

An acerbic smirk appeared on Glenn’s face. “Of course.” He nodded slightly and took his leave.

“So you’re just gonna sit there and accept this slimy motherfucker’s offer?” you goaded, already irritated about being interrupted by your sire earlier.

“Language!” Leon hissed, reproaching you gravely. “The walls have ears.”

This only served to incense you even more, as you slammed your palm on the countertop in defiance. Glenn’s empty glass skittered across its surface, though Leon caught it just in time before it shattered onto the ground. 

“You’re condemning an innocent person to Final Death or worse!” you accused.

A dry chuckle slipped from his lips. “Innocent? No one in that sort of position, let alone this world, is innocent.”

For once, you were at a loss for words, only able to articulate how you felt about him in the moment. “You disgust me.”

“Honestly, I disgust myself at times,” he admitted rather self-deprecatingly.

Some part of you could understand that perhaps this was all he knew: lies, deceit, and shady dealings. Could you change that and make him see things from your perspective? You had to try.

Placing your hand over his, you squeezed it, peering into his brilliant blues as you reasoned, “How many compromises are you going to make until there’s nothing left in here?” You prodded his chest gently with your finger, urging him to reflect on what made him human.

“I—” He scrunched up his face, a tormented expression blooming across it as he turned away, unable to look you in the eye. “I-I can’t…” His voice was pinched and strained, as if it would hurt him to utter any more words.

“This is just how it works in the Kindred world,” he asserted, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Your anger dissipated into pure disappointment, weighing like a stone in your heart. “Keep telling yourself that,” you stated simply as you let him go, resigning yourself to your original position. Coward, you denounced internally.

As if on cue, you heard three sharp knocks on the door before Glenn came back in. “So?” he questioned, glancing over at the two of you in anticipation.

Leon’s features stiffened as he met the man’s gaze head-on. “We accept.”

[dokidokitsuna]

RWBY: Next Steps

This is just a design collection (remember when I used to do those? 'Winter Mission', 'Summer Tour'?? Fun times~)...and it may be my last. Its only real purpose is to give me something fun to draw for the NeverFell Projects wrap-up series. The recent Adam and Cinder designs are technically part of this collection, too. ^^

These were much harder to do than those two, though...I've spent ~2 months chipping away at this set, trying and retrying to address several different RWBY design criticisms while still making the girls look good. ಥ_ಥ I've finally begun approaching success, though, so I wanted to talk a bit about these ideas.

Ruby The only one I managed to design in one try. ^^; This was my answer to the question I felt was posed by Ruby's Vol. 7 design: i.e. "how do we do a new Ruby design that feels more 'mature'??" Because I never liked how the V7 design attempted to do that. :/

Between the new hairstyle and the new 'generic adventurer' clothes, it felt less like they were trying to evolve Ruby Rose and more like they didn't like her original design and wanted to get as far away from it as possible. V1-Ruby was such an iconic look (and STILL IS), and yet there's no trace of it in V7-Ruby. None of the goth-lolita style or playful edge that even V4-Ruby managed to preserve...instead they just scrubbed everything out to start from scratch, with a new design that's honestly 'meh' at best.

So what I did was stick closely to V1-Ruby, while adding just a few big changes to make the look distinct. You say a 'combat skirt' is too childish for an older Ruby? Well then we'll make it shorts...but shorts that are just as frilly and cute as the original skirt, with a similar overall shape. You say her original hairstyle is too boring and 'safe'? Well, then we'll change it...by simply shaving half of it off. It's a much edgier look that simultaneously preserves the original shape of her hair: from every angle except front and back, her silhouette will remain the same.

You say you want to give her new shoes, but don't want the fandom to make fun of you for covering them in dozens of belts again? Here's a wild idea: cowboy boots. ^^ A totally unexpected, unique item that still fits in with the antique-ish vibe of her goth clothes.

Basically, I just wanted to prove that you can do something dramatically different with Ruby without completely abandoning her fashion sense.

Criticisms: The details are still lacking; I think I should work some red accents into her corset and boots. Also, I originally designed this outfit with a white shirt, and I kinda want it back (she had the team colors! R, W, B, and Y! ;_;)...the problem is that it clashes with the sheer thigh-highs. One must go...I'm sure I'll figure it out

Weiss The toughest of the bunch: I did three different Weiss designs before landing on this one. ^^;;; The big epiphany came when I realized that Weiss looks her best when she mirrors Ruby. The girls' original design concepts share a lot of features; I feel like the characters were designed to look like they belong together, and figured I might as well honor that.

ALSO-- and this was the biggest priority for Weiss' design-- I firmly believe that she should not look like a princess anymore. From a character designers' perspective, it is ludicrous that they gave her the giant Disney ballgown in the same volume where they put classism at the center of the plot and have her send her bourgeoisie father to jail. That right there is the definition of mixed messages...

I thought the whole point of Weiss' character arc was to distance herself from the uber-rich parasites of her family and fellow 'Atlas elites'. I thought we cemented that when she officially lost her "heiress" title in V4. o_O I expected her next look to ditch the crown and visually show that she's past the point of 'rebelling'-- there's no more authority in her life for her to rebel against; she's free now! But alas...

So as usual, I had to do it myself. This Weiss outfit is definitely still fancy, with the coattailed vest and ruffled sleeves, but there's a lot less 'decoration'; fewer jewels, fewer details. The construction is straightforward and simple. And of course, no more tiara. Instead I decided to give her a li'l snow pea flower and ribbon, which ended up inspiring her new periwinkle purple-y color scheme. Like her original design, it's actually fairly colorful, but does its job and puts the emphasis on the white elements.

Criticisms: ...Not many, this came out pretty good. ^^ I might reconsider the black coattails, but if I do I'll probably just switch it out with the indigo inner vest. I like the idea of her outfit construction mirroring Ruby's, but her color scheme mirroring Blake's, since they have a closer bond in NeverFell.

Blake Blake designs are notoriously difficult; if you wanna hear some great reasons why, I suggest you check out this old Twiins iink RWBY design ranking video, which always helps guide me when I do redesigns for the main 4. Anyway, this phenomenon makes it hard to describe what I did...I guess you could say I tried to combine all the best elements of all her outfits, while clinging to the 'fancy action girl' vibe of her original design.

I'm most proud of her new hairstyle-- I dunno why, I just enjoyed working on it and making those decisions. ^^ It's hard to tell, but it IS shorter; now shoulder-length instead of back-length. We make up for this with additional volume, emphasizing the waves in her hair texture by pushing them outward. And most notably: she keeps the ribbon. She just wears it differently, using it to accentuate her ears instead of hiding them. This way, we keep the point of interest on her head while still showing her character growth.

Criticisms: Infinite, countless. This is a good look, but something is definitely still off. ^^;;; I think some additional detail in certain places (not sure where yet...) might help 'finish' it, so to speak. Maybe some extra yellow accents...? Also, the bow obviously gets lost in her hair this way. I've tried several color changes and don't like any of them; I think I may just have to texture it differently in the final product. Fingers crossed...

Yang Another tough one...I only made 2 design drawings, but the colors took several rounds of trial and error. I think my excitement over finally arriving at a good color scheme TODAY was what spurred me to make this post. ^^;

Anyway...there is a specific piece of Yang design criticism I hear fairly often that drives me up the wall: people commonly complain that she doesn't wear enough yellow; that she doesn't represent her character color well because all she wears is a yellow shirt. And the character designer in me wants to rip my teeth out whenever I hear this, because it blindly ignores the giant fairy-tale-inspired mass of yellow that is her hair, and the purposely attention-grabbing pops of yellow that make up Ember Celica. They're not "clothes", technically, but they're still part of the design! It's like saying a character with green skin can't represent the color green if all their clothes are black...without realizing that maybe their clothes are black BECAUSE they have green skin, in order to draw your attention to it...!! (╬▔皿▔)╯I just jifjkdsnfksahujknsjnfufh

...Anyway, anyway...the point is, it's difficult to take a character design with so much natural yellow in it and add yellow clothes and still have it read well. But because I like a challenge, I decided to take it on. I think the difference between the mustard leather and neon yellow hair is large enough to make it work, while still feeling casual enough for everyday wear. The champagne off-white she wears in her 'Hunter' outfit (which heavily inspired this) looks great, but it feels too 'classy' to me; like something specifically meant to dazzle the audience with her beauty for one special adventure, not for her to wear often.

On that note, my secondary mission with this design was just to make Yang look cute again, by following the structure of her V1 look, and even adding a little skirt on top of her battle shorts, which looks surprisingly natural considering she almost never wears one.

I don't know what happened in the canon to make the character designer forget the 'Yellow Beauty' part of her character concept; tbh even if her gender presentation gets more masculine she can still look pretty. Designs like Ozma, V7 Qrow and V4 Ren show that they understand this, but choose to cover Yang up in flavorless sheets of beige anyway. :T Making sure she always has a boob window isn't enough; the clothes themselves need to say something too.

Criticisms: ...Honestly, none? I think this might be solid. :> We'll see what happens when I draw it properly. I hope the white socks work out, because then she'll successfully be wearing the RWBY color scheme, which fits her (former, implied...) role as the glue holding the team together.

[juanarc-thethird]

It’s Yangs birthday today

Because I was moving to another country, I wasn't able to start working on this. But here it is, better late than never, right? ---------------------------

Jaune: *Sleeping*

Clock: *Thursday 27, 11:59pm*

Jaune: *Babbling in his sleep* You can't do that Cinder, they're going to catch us~💕

Clock: *Friday 28, 12:00am*

The door to his room is kick open, waking Jaune with a fright.

Jaune: What the fuck?!

On the other side of the door, a strong light clouds his vision. The only thing he sees is the silhouette of a girl with a very recognizable hairstyle.

Jaune: Yang?

The girl enters the room slowly, giving Jaune time to adjust his vision.

Yang: That's right, lover boy. It's me, the amazing Yang Xiao Long

Jaune: What are you do-?

Jaune's sentence fell short, he can finally see. But what's in front of him left him stunned

Jaune: *Blushing* What are you wearing?

Yang: Oh this?

She suddenly turns around to show off her outfit. She is wearing a white long sleeve crop top, which says Birthday Girl, with a cake under the words. And as pants she was wearing nothing. And when I say nothing, I mean NOTHING.

Yang: You like it?

Jaune: *Covering his eyes, a little* Why aren't you wearing pants or something?!

Yang: You never told me what kind of pants you wanted, so I came like this. Also let's be honest, this will end with the two of us fucking like rabbits.

Jaune: *Red* Wha?! You do not know that?!

Yang: *Smug* Are you sure about that?

Jaune: U-Umm...

Yang: That's what I thought.

Then Yang turns around, takes out a sign from who knows where, puts it on the door and closes it.

Jaune: What was that?

Yang: *Walks towards him* Don't worry about it.

Jaune: But-

Yang: *Puts her finger on his lips* Ara ara, less talking and more spanking~💕 *giggles*

Jaune: *Worry* (Oh no, this is serious) Wait, just give me a momento. I just wake up.

Yang: Fufufu~ Nop💕

Jaune: Please!!!

While Jaune worries about liking his new "Big Sister" kink. Outside the door, the sign Yang put up would be a problem in the near future.

Sign: "Breeding in process, Do not disturb. Open to the public after 2pm"

[the-halloween-jack]

The Day Before ➳ Damon Salvatore x Reader, Part 2.

Synopsis: The reader knows she is dying, and to save Damon from the pain of her death, she makes an extremely difficult decision. However, the aftermath of this decision takes a great toll on Damon and the people who know him. Damon Salvatore x Fem!Reader Platonic!Stefan Salvatore x Fem!Reader Platonic!Caroline Forbes x Fem!Reader WARNINGS: Angst, Death.  A/N: This is part two to a one-shot I posted a while ago, this piece will not make much sense without having read it. Masterlist Words: 1,859 Part One

Stefan could tell something was awry the moment he stepped through the doors of the old boarding house. The air inside was palpable, as if every molecule was weighed down with a tension — a stillness that pressed against his heightened senses, thick and unnatural. Damon was sitting in front of the fireplace, his silhouette stark against the warm glow of the flames, though there was nothing warm about this scene. His posture, Stefan noted, usually so full of restless energy, was eerily composed. Too composed. His gaze was fixed ahead, unblinking, the light flickering in his eyes was like a dull echo of something that had long since burned out.

Stefan took a careful breath; he was not sure why, but his instincts screamed that something was wrong.

The blood on Damon’s hands was subtle at first, easy to miss, but it did not take long for the dried crimson to catch Stefan’s eye, it crept up Damon’s knuckles, stark and seeped within the crevices of his pale, illuminated skin.

‘Damon?’ 

Stefan called out, his voice cautious, wary, like he was approaching a predator lying in wait. But there was no answer. Damon did not so much as flinch, his expression a mask of chilling indifference, eyes as lifeless as the logs slowly burning to cinder before him.

Stefan swallowed hard, the dread inside him growing heavier by the second. 

‘Damon,’ he repeated, stepping closer, his shoes tapping softly against the hardwood floor. He kept his voice calm, but he struggled to hide the tension underneath. 

‘What happened?’

For a moment, it was as if Damon had not even heard him. He remained silent, his face void of any feeling; it was as if he was not even present in the room—like his body was there, but his mind, his soul, had retreated somewhere unreachable. The lack of reaction was more terrifying than any outburst, more unnerving than any fit of rage. Damon, who thrived on conflict, on drama, was sitting there… deadened.

Stefan clenched his fists, trying to keep his voice steady, but he couldn’t suppress his rising panic. 

‘Damon, talk to me. What did you do?’ 

Stefan’s gaze shifted, once again glancing at the blood-encrusted upon the hands of his brother. 

Still nothing. It was as though Stefan’s words were dissolving into the suffocating silence of the room. And then, finally, Damon’s eyes flickered, just barely. He turned his head slowly toward his brother, his movements languid, almost robotic. When he spoke, his voice was hollow, stripped of the usual sarcasm and wit that would linger in his tone. It was flat and mechanical. 

‘I did what I had to.’

Stefan’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. That lifeless tone, the vacant look in his eyes—it was all too familiar. He had seen this before. Damon had turned it off. He had flipped the switch, shut down his emotions, locked away everything that made him… him. Stefan’s stomach twisted with dread.

‘No,’ Stefan whispered, more to himself than to Damon. His pulse quickened, the realisation like a slap to the face, stinging and sharp. Damon had turned it off, but why? What had driven him to this point? What had happened?

He took a step closer, his voice firmer now, though his urgency seeped through. 

‘Damon, what did you do?’

Damon did not respond immediately. His gaze drifted lazily back upon the flames, as if Stefan’s question was of no consequence, as if nothing mattered anymore. 

‘What I had to,’ he repeated, his voice cold and empty, devoid of the fire that usually burned beneath his words. 

‘What I needed to. It doesn’t matter now.’

Stefan’s hands twitched, frustration boiling beneath his skin. He could feel Caroline approaching behind them, her presence like a ripple disturbing an already tense atmosphere. He did not turn to look at her, but he could feel her eyes on Damon, wide and fearful.

‘Damon?’  She whispered, her voice soft, hesitant, as though she was afraid to speak too loudly. She took a cautious step forward, her gaze shifting between the brothers. 

‘What’s going on? Why—' She broke off, noticing the dried blood on his hands. Her face paled. 

‘Why do you have blood on your hands?’

Stefan shook his head slightly, his thoughts racing. He felt sick; unease crawled up his spine in an icy shiver.

‘He’s turned it off,’ he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Caroline’s breath hitched, her eyes growing wide with alarm. 

‘No…’ Her voice was thick with fear as she looked at Damon, whose expression remained indifferent as if none of this concerned him. 

‘Why? Why would he do that? What happened?’

Stefan’s heart dropped. The pieces were falling into place, but he did not want to believe it. He did not want to accept what Damon’s cold demeanour was screaming to him, wordless. He needed to see Y/N.

Damon stood up slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes not even bothering to focus on Stefan or Caroline. 

‘I wouldn’t wait for her,’ he said, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion as he turned toward the door. Stefan shuddered, it was as though Damon was in his head, maybe he had been. Then his body tensed, Damon's words registering with him; a rush of panic flooded his system. 

‘Damon, what did you do?’

He did not answer. Without another word, Damon disappeared in a blur of supernatural speed, the door slamming shut behind him with an ominous finality. The room fell into a suffocating silence once more, but now the silence was darker, heavier with the weight of what they did not know. What they did not want to know.

Caroline’s voice trembled as she turned toward Stefan.

‘What does he mean? Stefan, what happened?’

Stefan clenched his jaw, his chest tightening as dread settled over him. They needed to find out.

The sun was setting as Stefan and Caroline approached Y/N’s home, as they got closer, it became apparent what was wrong, it hung in the air like an unspoken fact, they knew there was only one thing that could push Damon to this state, one event that could force him over the edge. Neither of them wanted to admit what it meant; they evaded this truth so its awful pending reality could not hurt them, but the silence around the house was heavy with foreboding.

‘Do you smell that?’ 

Caroline asked, her voice shaking as she stepped inside the house, the faint scent of blood hitting her like a physical blow.

The knot in his stomach tightened as they ventured deeper into her house, everything was still and quiet; his senses told him no one was there, but the lingering smell of blood stood in sharp juxtaposition, unmistakable and overwhelming. Every creak of the floorboards, every gush of the wind against the windows, seemed so much louder with the absence of life; it felt like a warning.

The bedroom door was left slightly ajar, and Stefan hesitated, his palm on the handle, before pushing it open. 

His breath caught in his throat.

There, crumpled on the floor, lay Y/N’s confronting form, still and cold, her skin as spectral as the moonlight now filtering in through the curtains. Her hair was splayed out across the floor, and her eyes were gently shut, as though she were only sleeping, but the sight was uncanny, they would never open again. Her limbs were unmoving, her chest motionless, and the scent of blood, stronger now, lingered around her like a haunting reminder of what had happened.

Caroline gasped, stumbling back as tears sprang to her eyes. They had already known this, but they did not want to believe it; the confrontation had been too much to behold.

“No... no, no, no...” she whispered, her voice breaking as she brought her hands to her face. 

“Oh my God, Stefan…”

Stefan could not speak. He stumbled forward and dropped to his knees beside the girl, his hands shaking as he reached out to touch her. Her skin was cold, by now, the warmth of her vibrant life was long gone, perpetually a memory. His throat tightened, his chest heaving with a deep, aching sense of loss. 

Not only was she his brother’s love, but a friend of his own, and he had cared for her deeply. Y/N had made his brother happy in a way he had never known, a fact he was grateful for, but she had also been there for him, her kindness and compassion knowing no bounds. 

He stroked her hair and tucked it behind her ear, while a terrible burn at the base of his throat rose and shifted into a choked sob. He realised at once that she must have died alone.

And Damon had found her like this, horribly sallow and confronting.

He must have tried to save her; Stefan’s eyes numbly caught the dried blood upon her lips. He had given her his blood, but it had been too late. The emptiness within Damon’s eyes, the cold detachment—it made more sense now. Damon had not just lost her. This was not just death. 

He had failed her.

‘She was trying to leave,’ Caroline whispered through her tears, her gaze locked on the half-packed suitcase on the bed. She was trying to look anywhere but the girl lying lifeless on the hard floor.

‘I think she knew she was dying... and she didn’t tell us.’

Stefan closed his eyes, the weight of this truth crashing down upon him, she had knowingly left without a goodbye. Damon had found her like this. He had tried to save her. And when he was unable, when he finally realised he was too late, it had ruined him. The love he had for her, the hope he had surely held onto—only made this so much worse. Stefan found himself wishing he had been there for him, even if it did not change anything, and he imagined it would not have, Damon would still be gone now. 

His chest ached with the knowledge that his brother, despite not being there at the time, would have felt every second of her death because he could not save her. Damon had turned off his humanity because the idea of living without her had been too painful. It had destroyed him.

Caroline wiped her eyes, and her voice trembled with fear. 

‘What are we going to do? If Damon has no humanity... Stefan, he’s dangerous.’

Stefan’s fists clenched, and his mind raced. Damon had always been volatile, but this was different. He had nothing left to lose now. 

‘We have to find him,’ Stefan said, voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. 

‘Before he does something he can’t take back.’

But his words were meaningless, as he glanced towards Y/N’s desolate corpse, Stefan could not shake the gnawing fear, or rather, the fact that it was already too late. Y/n was dead, and Damon had gone with her. He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on her forehead in farewell, knowing full well that he was kissing his brother goodbye along with her.

[hauntingofhouses]

rwby volume 9 liveblog

thanks to @kkglinka i am watching rwby again. i just finished rewatching previous episodes as a refresher, and man i realise i slipped up when i mentioned my fav character was salem lmfao i was thinking of CINDER. girl is such a bitch i love her.

but anyway. new volume. here we go.

starting with episode 1 ruby finds a talking mouse and the tone from the season finale of v8 has drastically shifted LMFAO.

we then cut to blake and weiss who've found each other but no sign of yang. then immediately have some antics with a whole rat pack who ambush the two.

okay now ruby's here and the three of them reunite. yay! not a very happy reunion, theyre all more confused and unsettled than anything and i cant blame them. im confused as hail too.

OKAY new monster??? doesn't look like a typical grimm and it talks, seemingly narrating what it does. i love the vibe, very creepy, love that.

AND YANG!!!!

omg i'm lowkey disappointed that blake's first reaction upon the monster running off isn't to jump into yang's arms. like girl talk about a delayed reaction but fine okay she's just being cautious making sure the monster is thoroughly chased away.

THEN GF HUG!!!!! i love them. i miss them a lot. feeling lots of feelings

but then okay plot and weiss revealing everything that happened after they fell since she was the last one of them who fell down the bridge.

AND UGHHH RUBY'S REACTION TO PENNY 😭😭😭 my nuts&dolts heart 😭😭😭 why must they keep HURTING me this way

okay and blake mentions her gut feeling again. THEYRE IN A FAIRY TALE !!!!!

okay the new opening reveal slaps and looks like neo is gonna be a very prominent character this season. jaune will be showing up soon too no doubt, and a mysterious silhouette. and then OH allusions to alice in wonderland? the girl is alice? she's brown? i'm here for this.

aight bring on episode 2 baybey

[vicaly]

In the beginning their sleeping pile became the norm very quickly. One to help Cinder take a break from holding up a human form by hiding their true silhouette in the dark, but also to provide needed comfort.

[makothedorito]

Crk Ocs but in the beast ancient AU (part 2) + a story

au by @cuppajj

i am probably gonna make fanart of this shit

Sharkberry and Stormberry Dragon Cookie - Alive

after learning about the fate of Pitaya Dragon Cookie at the hands of Dragonberry, the twin dragons of sea and storm noped the hell out of dragon valley and into the deepest depths of the sea, leaving earthbread at the mercy of storms run rampant and irregular tides.

Choco Chunk Cookie - Frozen

The Cacao village was one of the first to be hit by Frigid Cacao's permafrost. Choco Chunk can only hope that his granddaughter was able to have gotten to the Creme Republic safely and found a cure for the permafrost...

Milk Choco Cookie/Cacao Phoenix Cookie - Deceased

The Cacao Phoenix's spirit could only but watch as her husband turned his newfound powers onto their daughter, the formerly vigilant cookie having turned into a husk of his former self.

Amanita Cookie - Alive

being a Fungus Faerie Cookie does have its benefits after all, as the Chlorokinesis doesn't affect them. Instead Midnight Lily Cookie had them imprisoned, and watched over his former friends turned emotionless bodyguards under the control of Midnight Lily and could only hope that the Lily of the Valleys that had suddenly grown outside his cell was a sign...

Cheese Cinder's story under the cut

The Phoenix King and the Golden Goddess

One of the drawbacks of being an immortal Ancient Guardian and a Phoenix Cookie, is that even though you're Immortal, Its a good idea to recharge after millennia of being active to upkeep your powers, whether you like it or not. That's why Cheese Cinder Cookie, Founder of Scovilia and self-proclaimed Phoenix King of legend, has been in a near-eternal slumber at the heart of the hottest active volcano on Earthbread, right in Dragon's Valley. It was a very risky venture for Celestial Cheese Cookie and her guards, going straight through Dragonberry's territory to the dragon's valley, not just because it could be seen as an act of war, but because of the sheer amount of Dragonberry Soldiers headed by a fearsome commander that were stationed in search of Pitaya Dragon's secrets hidden in the underbelly of their caverns.

That wasn't going to stop the Golden Goddess from getting the Phoenix King for herself before Dragonberry could get her hands on him. Nothing could stop her in her conquest for the entirety of Earthbread, even meaning going through scalding hot tunnels deep underground, narrowly avoiding the cheese magma that permeated the entirety of the great volcano. At long last, the heat had started to pick up, and many of Celestial Cheese's Guards were forced to stay behind, lest they'll melt in the heat of the volcano as the Golden Goddess and her entourage approached the heart of the volcano, a vast cavern mostly covered by a deep pool of blinding, bubbling molten cheese magma, slowly pulsing as it moved through the cavern, and by extension the volcano itself.

"Cheese Cinder Cookie, show yourself!" Celestial Cheese demanded, her voice echoing off of the back walls of the cave. Silence, save for the bubbles of cheese magma popping. From the corner of her eye, she saw a golden glitter, reflecting off of the light of the cheese magma. a spear. But not just any spear, it was the Firestorm- Cheese Cinder's weapon of choice bearing his Spirit Jelly. "Bring me the spear." If Cheese Cinder won't awaken, Celestial Cheese might as well try to use the power of the Spirit Jelly of Growth for herself. But just as one of her attendants attempted to lay hands on the legendary weapon, movement came from the pool of molten cheese.

"You mind not getting your crumbs on that? I would hate to burn some cookies to a crisp. The scent sticks for ages!" A figure rose from the bubbling pool of magma, a silhouette against the blazing light. at once they stuck their hand out, and Firestorm flew into it, bathing the figure in enough light to be seen properly. "ah, yes. Golden Cheese, or more namely Celestial Cheese cookie. one of many whom asked for the Immortal Phoenix King's aid in their goals. What do you want?" Cheese Cinder slowly approached, the rivulets of magma giving his an ethereal glow.

"I offer you a chance at glory and riches never seen before, if you aid me in the growth of my kingdom." Cheese Cinder's interest was seemingly piqued at the word growth. he paused, seemingly dwelling on Celestial Cheese's statement.

"how about we make a deal, Golden Goddess?" Cheese Cinder swam up to the rim of the magma pool. "You bring me Burning Spice Cookie and let me take his Soul Jam, and in return, I utilize my powers as an Ancient Guardian for your conquest." the phoenix cookie offered. "Do we have a deal?" he proffered his hand, rivulets of glowing molten cheese magma still dripping off.

Without hesitation, Celestial Cheese Cookie took the Phoenix King's hand and shook, ignoring the scalding temperature.

"Deal."

The alliance was an invaluable one. With the aid of Cheese Cinder, swaths of land came under Celestial Cheese's rule, cookies submitting to the Golden Goddess in fear of her powers, or having their homes and loved ones burned to the ground by the Phoenix King if rebellion ever dared to come across their minds.

Its only a matter of time before the forces of Celestial Cheese and Dragonberry clash, and the Phoenix King may have to fight an old friend on the battlefield, on opposing sides instead of allies...

[ticklemerainbows]

“Oh nevemind the butler got it.”

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[helloescapist]

The Hashiras in a Relationship| Kyojuro Rengoku

Word Count: 4800?

Setting: Kyojuro Rengoku x gn!reader (there is one mention of kids in the future, but it's not implied how they will enter the family).

Content Warnings: none 🔥

Summary: headcanons Kyojuro Rengoku as a relationship partner, what it would entail. Dating to commitment.

[image is not mine]

To be loved by the Flame Hashirais to know comfort and warmth. To be loved by Kyojuro is falling nights, evening hours beneath stars that twinkle in the sky. The soft glow of cinder illuminating silhouettes, soft touches that at a moment’s notice deepen. Its security, an embrace beneath a blanket, two bodies coiled within another. It’s his breath against the back of your neck, snuggled close together. Savoring the tender notes of Japanese Red Cedar, tender as the embers cool. The fragrance of smoke, delicate and hazy. Dulling the senses as the warmth threatens to drift you off to sleep. The touches of smoke, destined to dance across your flesh. Lingering in the warmth, savoring one another, and perfuming your pores. To be loved by Kyojuro, is to stand next to a bonfire. Dance beneath the stars, warm and playful, to twirl in smoke, to bask in the crisp scent of leaves, and embrace comfort. The sweet caress of Orange Osmanthus. To know that regardless of where you may go, the scent of smolder shall remain, just as his love.

To be loved by Rengoku is to understand that you will need to embrace him. To accept the warmth of his smile, to respond to his laughter, to bask in the soul-piercing questions.

It’s to bare your deepest desires, and return his own. To welcome his confessions, to caress his tears, to cradle his insecurities.

To be loved by Rengoku is to be loved in every sense of the word. It’s to know the reliability of the rising sun; to know that regardless of the darkness that may claim the night, the dawn will always come. The warmth of embers upon your flesh, plush blankets, and the tender brush of his nose against yours.

It’s to know sacrifice, to know the honor of a Hashira, of a partner, and of a good man. Whether it is the haori off his back, relinquishing his bento to a hungry stranger, derailing a date to help a little granny carry a parcel home, to more extremes such as defending a child who impeded upon a nobleman’s honor, to staring death in the eye to protect mizunoto.

To be with Rengoku means accepting filling his empty tummy; it’s for the best his cooking is… questionable. It’s not he’s actually a bad cook, it’s more like he’s overzealous in the kitchen. Bare in mind the era, alongside his rank amongst the Demon Corps, Kyojuro likely wouldn’t have many opportunities to interact with the kitchen outside of amusement.

While he can follow the recipe well enough, I mean he is no stranger to scavenging the forests of Japan. Ultimately, his own excitement coupled with so many options—what is mitsuba? He’s confident he has seen [YN] use it in the kitchen. It MUST be tasty!

In it goes. He’s never been properly been given the opportunity to interact with a vast variety of spices and seasonings, and so, Rengoku is quick to deviate from the recipe.

To be with Rengoku means that, colds are in your future. His over generous heart very well will have him giving up his bed for a stranger while out on a mission, donating his haori for a passerby, so I recommend brushing up on caring for a patient.

Especially one as unintentionally stubborn as Kyojuro. It’s not that the Flame Hashira aspires to bring home a cold, or he means to be a burden while he’s ill. It’s rather that, it’s because he doesn’t want to burden you with his condition that he will attempt to hide it.

He will struggle against being cared for, insure you that he will manage. Please, don’t mind him. You will have to be firm, remind him that you WANT to care for him, and even resort to some under handed tactics to ensure he remains in bed.

I suggest reaching out to Shinobu for wellness supplements, vitamins, and rations for him to carry on his missions if he doesn’t give them away. You may have to resort to simply adding it to his daily routine, he certainly won’t reject the idea if you reassure that it’s because you care.

Despite his fuss, he loves that you’re taking care of him.

Regardless of what route you take in ensuring his physical wellbeing, the day will come. The day you pray will never cross your paths, when a kakushi delivers the news no one wishes to utter to a lover.

To be with the Flame Pillar is to accept that he will offer up his life for the sake of others. It is, after all his duty. Bestowed upon him by birth, gifted from the gods, and gently instilled with the pride of his mother, the day will come, and to be with Rengoku means to accept that one day, he will not return.

That your bed, will be empty, devoid of laughter. His curiosity and jovial smile will be absent from the kitchens, and your nights will be robbed of his enigmatic gaze.

This is the duty of his lover. One that pains him to impart on you, but one of which, he cannot avoid.

Just know, that every moment he dedicated to you were the happiest of his life.

[YN], I’m so sorry I won’t be home for dinner.

Reminiscing of the first bento you had ever made, the pride in which you had presented to him, the brightest smile touched to his face as he passes from this world.

Your first meeting, would be an everyday event. One where you went about your duties.

Whether it was to report for duty, under Oyakata-sama’s watchful gaze. The tilt of your head, eyes well trained to avert from another’s gaze. The polite bend of your back to even the kakushi that rushed through the halls, to the depth of your bow as you greeted superiors, well-practiced and mannered. The soft, humble smile tucked at your lips as he passed you by.

It could be on an average serving day, employed at a local tea house. Disbursing tea and treats with a dutiful bow, and gratitude upon purchase. Welcoming all those who passed the business. The deep bow from those that frequented your shop regardless of station. The way you had tended tend to an elderly man, who had struggled with his meal. His later years betraying his body, making him jumpy and unstable. How you had quickly preserved his honor without so much as a second thought. Willing to take the blame for offering him such cold food that it had sent a chill down his spine, both of you knowing that the meal before him was well prepared, all while maintaining the bend of your back.

Truthfully, the first day you would encounter one another, would be an ordinary day. It would be your average day. One born of duty, of survival, of tasks to be accomplished, and yet, the way you had conducted yourself.

Respectful, dutiful, kind. Not a day in which you would expect attraction to ember. The touch of cinders had ensnared him, drawn his attention.

The days to weeks to follow, you find yourself caught under his gaze. The touch of embers drawing your curious attention, embarrassed to be appraised. Bashfully averted, prioritizing manners whether of station or employment.

The warmth of crisp fall leaves, captivating the ambers of autumn, engrossed in the warmth of fiery red enough to draw the heat to your cheeks.

Unlike some of the Hashiras, Rengoku does not require as much time to pursue you. While he’s not as intentionally flirty as some of the Hashira, he is also not as hesitating either. I would say, he’s a fair middle ground.

He craves a deep connection, and a genuine partner. His approach to ensuring he has glimpsed at the truest version of you, would be similar to Shinobu.

The Flame Pillar will take some time to observe you. Nothing as in depth as the Insect Hashira’s approach no one will be as thorough as Kocho. It will be small drop-ins, interactions made in passing.

Never intending to snoop, but he could not resist the way his eyes followed you, the way you had pulled from an onigiri from your pocket, offering it to a small child who’s stomach knew of hunger. Could not ignore the gentle way you had consoled them.

Nor the time when he was out securing bentos for his journey, ensnared by the way you had placed yourself between an innocent bystander, and a fowl temper drunker.

He would have intercepted the interaction, but it was evident that the lecture you had elicited had more than sobered the man up, and shamed him more than any smack Kyojuro could have provided.

No, he really wouldn’t need that much time before he approached you with the intentions of taking you on a date, or seeing you more casually. He certainly has no qualms about making the first move.

Should you decide to reject him, it will be met with a sincere smile, and apology for disrupting your day. However, in the event you have elected to turn him down, you will have to make the first move if you’ve changed your mind.

Kyojuro is a tolerant man, and he will take you up on your offer despite his bruised ego, but he will not ask you a second time.

It’s not that he’s no longer interested, rather, your reject was clear—he is not one to force himself on you, or anyone else for that matter. He does not enjoy playing games.

That being said, his willingness to approach you first is a breath of fresh air amongst the Hashiras, not many of them will approach you first, or willingly announce their attraction in the way that the Flame Pillar, nor as openly.

The positive is that your relationship, is not expected to progress slowly. The first date will be set as soon as Rengoku has determined that he is in fact interested. This stage can move as quickly as his interactions with you.

If you happen to work together under the Demon Corps command, you can expect things develop fairly quickly.

However, if you are not a member of the slayers, then your opportunities are limited to the interludes between his missions.

To be clear, Rengoku is not averse to a more casual relationship. Although he approaches them with trepidation. While he is flirtacious intentionally or not, he has very little desire for a fleeting attraction.

He wants a spark, a flame that bursts upon impacts. The rumble of hearts, merged to one, singing of more than simple cravings of the flesh, but rather the desperate plead of souls pledged to one another.

The steady flames of true love, he is looking for a partner one in which will satisfy his desire for a deep connection, not a passing fling.

For this reason, Kyojuro is not likely to engage in a casual fling. That being said, while such fleeting interludes are rare, they do happen. If this is the arrangement you desire, your best bet is to be forthcoming with your expectations.

If you are insincere about your relationship expectations, you will likely be met with a critical reaction before the bond is without a doubt, severed.

To be loved by Rengoku is to engage in deep, intimate conversations. His desire to connect with you will not be satisfied without such interactions.

He wants craves to know the truest you. To delve into the depths of your soul, to know the warmth of your smile. He yearns to dance upon midnight with you, to play in the snow as though you were children, and to witness to your tears.

To comfort your fears, to quiet the depths of your mind, and the doubts that fester there. He desires nothing more than to understand you. To care for you, to know the you, you would only dare share with him. Him alone. Rengoku is more than willing to exert all of his time to unfolding the layers you bare.

Discussions of your future, and the possibilities that accompany them will be common place. While he savors the present, the warmth of your smile, how lovely your eyes are alight in the daylight, and your scent as delicate and earthy as sweet potatoes, the Flame Hashira’s heart is towards the future.

Even on your first tryst, Kyojuro’s core is considering the life ahead of you. Whether you will marry, or engage in a promise of souls. If you would want children, or rather, how many children would you be willing to care for.

How you might turn the Rengoku estate into your own, would the home smell of tea and yaki imo? Would you great him with daigaku imo on harder days? How do you prefer to express your affections? How would he achieve this? How would you ensure in all the years to come, that you will always know his affections are for you, and you alone?

the man is already considering names for the fur ball he would bring home for you.

Kabocha for a rabbit. Kaki for a dog. No, wait. [YN] may a cuter name like Mochi, or Chibi.

Prepare yourself, he will not hesitate to approach a heavy topic. He wants to know the profundity of your dreams. Savor the taste of your aspiration.

There is a chance you may be blindsided by his abrasive approach, rare is the man who would impede on these topics on the first date, but I suspect that the natural warmth and acceptance that Rengoku radiates, will have your lips moving in no time. Whether you are shy or not, I imagine that he will find a way to have you talking. He’s so good nature, that I doubt it would be a forced situation.

He may have offered too man alcoholic drinks, unaware of your low tolerance. The spew of confessions to follow enough to shame him for not cutting you off sooner—he should have been more thoughtful.

Or perhaps he noticed the way your eyes sparkled when you passed by an artwork, inquiring if you yourself, are a crafter. Your excitement to share your passions betraying your attempt to maintain intrigue. I

t’s okay, he finds the way you overshare the intricate details of your passion adorable even if he doesn’t understand the terminology.

For this reason, your first date may last far longer than you ever suspected.

Truthfully, you’ll notice fairly early on that Rengoku supports these pursuits. The Flame Hashira would not shy away from bringing back tokens of affection on his journeys.

If perhaps you were interested in seamstress work, he would bring back interesting hand-dyed patterns he had passed in the different regions. Eager to share them with you.

If perhaps you had a pension for reading, he would bring back any oddity transcript he had happened to pass along the journey home.

Ironically, while the Flame Pillar is able to elicit the smallest of details from you between honeyed words, and lending an ear, you will find that Rengoku will require some time to open up. Although this will not be as lengthy of a transgression as most of the other hashiras, it’s difficult for Kyojuro to share his vulnerabilities.

It will come, and such topics will be approached in time and naturally. Such as the first time you visit his home, and inquire of his mother, he will express with a distant gaze of her passing. You’ll know when the time to delve deeper will come, but until then, know that it’s not that he is attempting to conceal his past from you rather, he’s worried that it may change your opinion of him.

Dates with Kyojuro would be as diverse as the man himself. Some activities, will be energetic and playful. Implicative of childhood memories, challenging you to catching fireflies in the summer. Playfully daring you to a sparring match, maybe even sumo if the mood strikes him.

Other times, the dates will be intimate. As deep and connected as the conversations he elicits from you. Fingers interlocked, blazing glances. The touch of your footprints etched along the sand as you stroll through the beach with one another. Nights gazing upon the stars, laid along his haori. Snuggled on the veranda as the day wanes, worn out from the hiking expedition he had spirited you away on.

In time, you’ll discover that Rengoku considers your happiness as though it were his own. He will do anything he can to bring the smile to your face, to light up your world whether in small gestures, or grand it does not matter. Whatever crosses his mind, he’s like a puppy eager to please.

Determined to stay at your side when work allows him to do so. Whether this means simply basking in your company while you pursue your passion, or attempting to assist you as you do so if sewing is your joy, you will have to place him in charge of simply handing you needles, he is not adept with thread.

He is so very, eager to please. At times, you may even feel that you are not meeting his expectations. In his over enthusiasm, you may feel rather than the gentle nudge he intended, that you are being shoved down the pursuit. Taking it at an expedited pace than you may prefer.

As with any relationship, this can lead to resentment, or inadequacy between the two of you, and really, he never intended for you to feel negatively. He genuinely wants to support all of your desires and pursuits, so much so, his over eagerness inflicted harm. If you choose to leave it to fester, you are both likely to end up battered and bruised, but should you choose to approach it rather than shy away from it, Rengoku will immediately apologize.

Again, all he ever wanted to do was support you—tell him how you view support that way you desire. A hug after a long day? Will do. A cup of tea while you work, he’s got the pot boiling, hands off, oh gods he will dutifully fight remind himself.

Just be sure to verbally praise his efforts, while he does these acts out of the goodness of his being, he still loves to be praised appreciated.

In fact, Rengoku is so eager to please, that you will discover rather quickly that his over generosity will lead to exhaustion, illness, or burnout. Whichever may come first.

To love the Flame Hashira, is to accept that there will be times in which you will need to fast guard his health, mental, emotional, and physical.

As I’ve already mentioned—he will neglect to do so himself, so this will be a long-term source of frustration for the both of you. One which you will likely have to repeat for years to come. but, it’s why you love him.

Along with the herbal treatments Shinobu will gift you, you will also have to make sure that he has regular interactions with his friends, and reassure him that you will enjoy your night at home, or with your own friends while he does so. He is so prone to prioritizing you, that his other relationships often fall to the waste side.

The gentle reminder, and encouragement to pursue these connections will be greatly appreciated, and do his heart some good. He is after all, a social butterfly. With the verbal reassurance, he will greatly appreciate your attention to his needs.

Don’t worry, he’ll behave regardless of where Tengen’s antics lead him.

When he falls, he falls hard. Like a meteor crashing to earth, embedding the earth’s surface. Permanently carved across the exterior, Rengoku is a goner.

For all that he is willing to give to you, every ounce of his time, his energy, his affections, his very heart, Kyojuro expects the same commitment from you as well.

In love, Rengoku is highly in tune with his partner. He’s able to sense the shifting of moods, of growing needs. He is the ultimate cheerleader, and will always be your side.

Rengoku, as you already know is a family man, and friends are at the center of his universe. Regardless of how dedicated he is to these relationships; he will always ensure that he has time to spend with you.

Just be sure to remind him to engage with others from time to time, he is at risk of getting lost in you. don’t let him lose himself in you.

As a partner, Kyojuro is understanding, and when it comes to understanding your needs, he is quick to adapt. Rather, he has a natural ability to care for those around him, and read the room. Should you have an off day from time to time, he is quick to overlook it as he retains the best version of yourself that he has grown to know.

Eager to please, quick to assist you whether it’s washing dishes, chopping vegetables, hanging the laundry, or even more intensive tasks such as hauling water from the mountains. He thrives with a happy and supportive partner, and as long as he is cared for in the same regards. He will not blink regardless of the requests you make of him.

Rather, one of the most difficult obstacles you are likely to encounter is the Flame Hashira’s inability to relinquish his burdens. While he understands that any part of a healthy relationship is carrying one another’s loads, he struggles with the concept of burdening you with his own.

Far too willing to accept yours as his own, but stubborn to accept your aide. Nor confess his desires for you to offer. Yet, the moment you break through his façade, he will crumble.

Tears that roll through a smile, joyful to have been accepted. To be supported. The child who had to accept the loss of his mother, to care for a small child well beyond his age, and capabilities. The very child who had met nothing but disapproval and rejection, embraced in your support.

Hold him.

You are a source of true joy, and meaning in his life.

It goes without much saying that Rengoku is a very, very protective lover. Alongside his natural desire to shield others, you have garnished a special place in his heart, and he will rise to any threat that pursues you.

A demon, he will stand between you and death. If someone has infringed upon your honor, he will safe guard your reputation without a moment’s notice. Should the situation require it, blows will be traded. He will always, protect you.

Where a lot of the other Hashiras have their difficulties with communication, you will not find this is the case for Rengoku. In fact, it’s rather the opposite.

In the event you yourself struggle with communication; he is quick to adapt. He’s open, and engaging, and if you find your struggling, don’t worry yourself too much. Kyojuro will adapt to suit your communication needs. If you are the type to need space, he’s more than okay with this.

Openly express that you need a moment he still needs the reassurance that your love is his own, and he will happily give you the time you need. If you are a fast talker, well, he is more than capable of matching your speed.

Truly, the only difficulty that you will meet in conveying yourself to one another, is in the event you are jump with loud noises. Remember, he doesn’t necessarily for his voice to boom. It’s his enthusiasm, but with his damaged ear drum, you will find that he’s naturally… loud.

After succumbing to hearing damage with his encounter with the flute demon, he struggles to hear soft voices. Patience, and adaptive communication, you’ll have this sorted out in no time—and your relationship will be better for it.

The first time you utilize this communication (signing), he will gush. To do something such as learn another language for him. he’s melting.

The embrace he will trap you in upon realization of your fingers moving, the words falling between your gestures. It’s going to hurt, snap your spine, and force the air from your lungs, hurt. Mitsuri warned you. He doesn’t mean for it to; he’s just so happy.

The playful, bashful laugh as he runs his fingers through his hair upon realizing how he openly grasped you in public.

While the swordsman is communicative, there will also be points in your relationship where you will notice he has a slight passive aggressive side to him.

His intentions are never to hurt you, but the reality is that Rengoku was not given a lot of opportunities to appropriately navigate tension in relationships. In these moments, you will have to re-center yourself.

Remember your boundaries, and your worth, remember that you love him. Compassion will go a long way with him, and give him space to work through what little thing has set this agitation into play. He really is sorry. He didn’t intend for his jealousy to ebb him that way, and what was such a little thing—he told himself that your attention to the grocer was nothing to concern himself with, and yet, that small piece of him nagged.

Succumbed to his own low self-esteem, and thought, perhaps, maybe you were interested.

While the Flame Hashira is not one to back down from a physical challenge he loves the opportunity to prove his growth as a swordsman, Kyojuro is quick to avoid confrontation in his relationships.

He favors harmony between the two of you, and a majority of the time, will avoid it at all costs. You mean so much to him, he really doesn’t want to fight. He just wants to snuggle.

Yet, disagreements are a natural part of any relationship, and when they rear their ugly heads, he is willing to do just about anything to disperse them as fast as he can. His haste actually puts even the smallest of disagreements at risk of maturing, and infecting, left unresolved over time.

However, as long as he is given the appropriate space, and by which, I mean, you reassure him that he is as valued to you as you are to him, he will rise to the challenge, and face the spat head on.

In reality, Rengoku is one of the Hashira at risk of jealousy. There may be moments where jealousy and low self-esteem fuel tension between the two of you.  

While at times he appears to be the most confident member of the Demon Slayers Corps, the reality is that from time to time, distant whispers of his life will surface. Hushed reminders of doubt, of worthlessness. In these times, he is sensitive to things around him.

Such as another person openly attempting to engage you in flirting. He is mature enough to know that it is not your fault, nor does he intend to burden you with his past but it’s still a part of him.

It’s rare, far and few between that these moments surface, but there will be times in which they are dredged from the depths. At these times, jealousy may follow.

Because of this, it’s important to note that Kyojuro is a loyal partner, and as long as his self-esteem is intended to appropriately, you will find no more a devote partner. Through thick and thin, he will always stand at your side, but should his needs be ignored, he is not validated, and trust break down in the relationship...

I would say that he is at risk of straying outside of your relationship parameters. and he is horribly ashamed for the betrayal

One thing that you will have to understand in moving forward in a relationship with the Flame Hashira, is that Kyojuro places a large importance of continuing on his blood line, and duties.

While it’s true that he is accepting of Senjuro’s rejection of the responsibilities of being a demon slayer, he still feels a source of pride that his brother lives on. Because of this, I believe that Rengoku would want a few children of his own—not that he would ever force them to undertake his position.

Rather, I suspect much like he embraced Senjuro’s break from tradition, he would support the childrens deviation. If in the event one of them did decide to accept  the obligation, I don’t feel that Rengoku would draw special attention to this from the other children.

I suspect that he would boast about ALL of his children’s accomplishments regardless if it were slaying a difficult demon, tending to children of their own, or embarking on their studies. Really, he would just want them to pursue their dreams regardless of what route they may follow, but this does mean, children are in your future.

For Kyojuro, he thrives on words of affirmation. To be openly praised, shamelessly bragged on whether it’s his attention to details, his dutiful physical tasks, or even adoration for him having picked up dinner, he thrives on this attention. It’s the fastest way to ensure that he feels important in your relationship, and treasured.

For the Flame breather, words of affirmation come just as easily as breathing. In fact, he’s quick to disburse his praise, and it takes absolutely no effort on his part.

He will shower you in applaud. Shamelessly declare you the best partner of all, regardless of your surroundings. If this is your love language, you are in luck because he will satisfy every flattery you could ever hope for.

In fact, at times he may go overboard and risk it falling on meaningless applause.

If in the event that it’s not, it’s okay that you’re shy from the private eye. He’ll learn to whisper it in private moments rather than so openly, but it will take some adjusting.

In terms of gift giving, I also see this being a strong suit of his. He has no aversions to physical intimacy, nor shies away from displaying it in public. I suspect that he would be more than content to lay his head in your lap, stare lovingly into your eyes, brush the strands of hair that fall before your eyes behind your ears.

The fire of his desire is not one to stray, but I imagine that he would comfortably the role of physical affections. Fingers interlocked during strolls, and allowing you to rest your head on his shoulder when you are tired.

Although his over enthusiasm for your touch may result in a few moments turning heated. are you really mad though?

The Flame Hashira would also be fairly forth taking with gift giving; his travels for missions have him sprouted all throughout the region, and his overly thoughtfulness will result in him bringing you a wide variety of tokens of affections.

This little kappa reminded him of how you loved to soak in the bath, this flower it’s dead, but it was as beautiful as you in its prime, this bento has your favorite snack in it—you get it.

Where ever he travels, you are always on his mind, and as long as you express your appreciation, he will never hesitate to bring home present after present, after offering of devotion.

He’s giving, overly so. Prepare yourself.

Acts of service is without a doubt, going to be met. As it’s already been expressed, whatever you ask of him, he will more than deliver.

Asked him to bring water down from the mountains? Oh, he did, he also utilized it to wash the laundry, hang it to dry, and utilized the leftover to prepare a warm bath for you.

He is literally a man of service.

Ultimately, I believe the area in which Rengoku would struggle to express his affections is actually in the quality time together department.

It’s not that he doesn’t savor moments with you, he adores the opportunity to have you at his side. However, the Flame Hashira’s determination to serve, leads him to feel that any, ANY small moment can result in restlessness.

He should be doing something. He should fold laundry. He should run you through self-defense drills to ensure you are safe while he is away, he should—his mind struggles to rest. He really and truly, is eager to serve.

SO much so that if your needs rely on quality time spent together, you will have to quiet the doubt of his mind. Reassure him that the extra time in bed together in the late morning, is all you need to be happy.

The reality is, to be in love with Rengoku is to know support. It’s to know devotion, and unwavering loyalty. To have someone always in your corner, always on your side regardless if you are in fact, wrong. It’s to know dedication, and warm smiles. To savor sweet words, as sincere as the heart they blaze from. It’s to know that despite the distances you may face, you are always on his mind. In his heart. To be loved by the Fire Hashira is to know the passion of the heart, of devotion, of the flesh. It’s to know that you are everything to him, your bond as close as destiny itself. To be loved by Kyojuro is to know love, the depths of a flame so smoldered and that the ardor will never be snubbed out. It is to be truly embraced as you are for who you are. A romance secured by soft touches, endless praise, unwavering support in pursuits of joy. To know that you are his joy. To know that he will love you.

Even in death.

In this life.

And the next

[tumblingxelian]

I saw a post earlier today that really kinda got my goat so to speak so I wanted to re-post my take without starting shit on tumblr dot com.

I categorically disagree with the idea that Adam was ever planned to be the main leader of the White Fang pre coup.

We meet Adam leading what was suppose to be a resource acquisition mission that he turned into an attempted mass murder for shits and giggles because he is a blood thirsty idiot.

Not only is that incredibly wastefully and politically stupid of him, it is also not reflective of what Blake described the White Fang's methodology as during Volumes 1. IE the methods that actually were working and were introduce by said new leader which Adam was blatantly ignoring.

It also makes clear his relationship with Blake is awful given the manipulation, the lies, the dismissal and using her as a shield, and maniacal cackling ETC.

The second time we see Adam its in volume 2 right after its revealed that a ton of Faunus died because of Cinder's plan and Mercury wonders if they will still obey. Adam arrives and promising to continue throwing his people's lives away for Cinder. Making it quite clear where Adam stands on the subject while showing the White Fang itself lacks any loyalty to Cinder.

Before V3 we have two possible mentions, one being the silhouettes in V1, one of which could be argued to represent Adam, but also contained two other people. & the masks reference which, if Adam was the leader, you'd think Blake would just say it was an idea their leader came up with. The fact she didn't should make it clear to any viewer that Adam was just popular, but not in charge.

Going into V3, we already know he's fine throwing Faunus lives away for Cinder, so anything he says when rejecting Cinder needs to be taken with a grain of salt. Yeah Adam wasn't just gonna work with some random human cos he doesn't like humans and his people are watching so his behavior is performative. Cinder leaves, then returns and makes it clear she can kill him if he doesn't obey and he instantly bows because, shock and horror the manipulative abuser is not actually all that brave when its 'his' ass on the line, setting the stage for what we already know happens by V2.

Adam was never meant to be the leader, Adam was never a genuine revolutionary, Adam was always an abusive cowardly liar and manipulator seeking power and appeasement for himself.

Losing Sienna was a tragedy and genuinely a huge mistake on the writers part and Ghira taking over again is in no way ideal, but Adam is not some tragic loss. He's one of a dime a dozen would be revolutionaries who only care about the 'revolution' for their own ends. Any passing glance at historical revolutions and rebel movements will show people like him.

One can criticize the White Fang plotline without needing to big up someone like Adam; just like one can endorse revolutionaries without advocating for war crimes. Discuss Sienna and how she could have been introduced earlier or avoid her demise. Bring up how Ilia's arc could have potentially led her to being the one leading a revitalized White Fang. Or how Blake herself could potentially have taken the reigns more overtly, as challenging as that might be to portray given the overall plot line.

There's plenty of ways to emphasize the new generation, and tackling bigotry head on without raising Adam as a viable candidate and especially without engaging in historical revisionism as to his slated role in the series proper.

[wmarximoff]

𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: you and Wanda spend Christmas Eve by the fireplace, making the same mistake you've been making for a long time again.

warnings (18+): intersex character (Wanda), smut, blowjob (Wanda receiving), vaginal sex (r receiving), cheating, mentions of pregnancy, angst. MINORS DNI.

pairings: Wanda x fem!reader, mentions of Wandanat and Pietro x fem!reader

word count: 4k

A/N: here's my slightly late, but not too late, Christmas/New Year special. it's sad but coming from me you already knew that.

masterlist|

A zephyr of gentle wind stirred the dancing of the curtains like dark specters, swirling into the living room in a winter breath that flickered the low fire in the nearby milky granite fireplace like a lantern flame, before the fingers of both your warm hands gripped and, in a disgruntled grunt under your breath, rolled down the windowpane – invading snowflakes gleaming like shavings of steel on the cream-colored ledge. The curtains quieted from their ghostly dance, settling back to rest like sleeping albino bats upside down. You didn't remember leaving the window open, but at the same time, you weren't in full control of your mental faculties at the end of the year either.

“Damn, it's snowing again,” you blurted out, your studious eyes peering at the world outside through the cloudy, stale glass about a hand's breadth away from the tip of your nose, “I... I don't think he'll manage to make it in time. It's too late anyway.”

A beam of pale luminescence penetrated the living room through cracks of ice that fogged up the glass, interspersed white streaks of streetlights that pierced the brief layer of spectral snow inserted inside thanks to the opening of the window above – a tight, dark light, rather vague, that posed in a grayish hue outside, offering the world (your car parked in front of the house enveloped in a sheet of ice, the low fence of the front yard turbid at that distance, the long-time plucked oak tree on the sidewalk and the distant cinder that was the house next door, just the yellow light from an window) the appearance of ghostly silhouettes, like the aftermath seen in a faded dream.

But inside you residence, everything was sheltered and protected by a thick layer of cozy heat coming from the fireplace flames (the orange light casted in tall shadows, shining in the depths of your eyes and in the ornaments hanging from the tall pine tree decorated with the theme nearby, fluttering on the ceiling; its warm reflections inside the living room windows), and you considered the possibility that, sooner or later, you might end up pulling your thick wool sweater over your head.

“Well,” Wanda's low, velvety voice drifted behind your shoulder, “He said he probably wouldn't make it in time for Christmas Eve, didn't he? And that he would stay in a motel in case the blizzard got worse. He'll be here tomorrow morning, honey, don't worry. He... he'll be fine. You don't have to worry about him, Y/n.”

And you understand, you understand what she means, what her tone of voice says contrary to her words. It's just that in so long, you've specialized in pretending, always pretending. Pretending you don't understand, pretending a lie is the truth. Your right fingers were still hooked on the vertical slit in the pale, soft satin curtain, your gaze lost in the stormy puffs of ice outside.

“I know, but… you know how uneasy Pietro can be sometimes, and he'd hate to miss even the tiniest Christmas celebration… I can't help but worry about him, Wanda. He's out there during this blizzard that doesn't look like it's going to pass any time soon, after all.”

The sudden high-pitched ping of a message dropping into a phone chat pierced the oxygen above the crackling hiss of the great dry wood fire burning in the fireplace, sounding just after you've finished your Christmas wails.

You then turned your chin over your right shoulder to regard her with your diligent gaze, and for a second of oxygen engulfed in your throat you just allowed yourself to admire her, Wanda, standing there in the middle of the room, being partially illuminated by the glow of the nearby fire, giving her silhouette the air of a scarlet creature from another world – the jadish eyes fixed on the phone set supplanted in the palm of her right hand, the thin long locks of brown hair that partially curtained a face holding her beautiful strong, fine features, her left fingers curled around the cylindrical body of a steaming porcelain teacup.

“It's him.”

A dizzying itch took hold of your right fingers, and you just took the time to sweep that long lock of hair behind her ear so deeply that every component cell in your body seemed to bristle and ache, as if there were grains of sand in your bloodstream and your bones were made of shards of glass. Your skin burned in the need of hers, a familiar touch, an outdated nostalgia. With your eyes hovering over Wanda's figure, there was no way your worries could sail towards Pietro anymore, not with all your attention focused on his twin sister as it was.

“What did he said?” your voice squirmed from the back of your throat, “Is he okay? He’s safe?”

And you wanted to care, but Wanda was just categorically stunning. Fifteen years ago you had already become familiar with the beauty of her oval-shaped face, but that doesn't mean that it wouldn't even have diminished with the lapidation of time – maturity dawned in a decade and a half, when her facial lines became more accentuated in a natural cut, just a new discovery for you. You still felt the whiffs of her adolescence somewhere, even if even she didn't feel them at all anymore.

It was as if, in so much time, you still hadn't discovered what it was that could actually be pointed out in the emerald shadow aligned with Wanda's gaze that instigated that thirsty burning inside you. You just wanted more of her, as much as you could have. As much as she would allow herself to be yours. In front of her, on her torso, Wanda was wearing the loose crimson and green thick wool sweater that your mother-in-law had given her last Christmas – Natasha had a pair of this piece knitted in green and red wool.

“See,” she muttered then, still with her eyes downcast, “He's fine. Here.”

Wanda's right forearm lifted her wrist to your eye level, turning the phone's pale screen into a synthetic glow toward you, her brother's contact shimmering across your retinas.

[Pietro]: Yo Wands tell Y/n I won't be able to make it in time anyway, this sucks man, a truck overturned on the road because of the snow and they won't fix it until tomorrow morning ☹ I miss her and the boys wtf!!!☹ ☹

The face of Wanda's thumb pressed the button on the side of the device after a couple of measly seconds of silence permeated by the ambience of the crackling of the incandescent firewood, and on the wide, newly darkened screen, the reflection of your deplorable facial expressions was outlined – your lower lip being sucked under your upper incisors, the streak of skin creased almost mournfully between both your brows. Wanda just lowered the device completely, moving it out of your field of vision.

“So… he won't be coming home today.”

“No,” she looked at you, her eyes flickering fire and dark green, “He won't come home today. And the boys are out like logs in their beds already,” and it was true, after all, she had read them a couple of bedtime stories herself. She always wanted to spend as much time as possible with the twins, after all.

Something sparked inside you, in heat and hunger, when the emerald color of Wanda's eyes stared at you from under her heavy lashes. It was like a non-syllabic question (can I?). You looked into her sharp cheekbones, engulfed partially by that orange reflection of the fire burning there so close to the two of you – you just wanted to feel her close, all to yourself, call out her name in your needy grip on your chest. Yes, scorched will and hunger sharpened through your veins, yes Wanda, you can. Now you can.

Her phone and teacup were both placed carefully on top of the light wood coffee table in front of the sofa, placed in a spot parallel to the fireplace and comically next to the fully decorated Christmas tree, blinkers off, presents wrapped in colored paper. But her phone pinged again that night, a bitter reminder, a sick joke – a message from a different contact, Natasha, a red heart emoji next to it. Wanda looked at you when you looked at her.

“I'm a fucking horrible person,” she muttered under her breath, as close to your personal space as she could get.

“I know,” was your broken voice reply, “But that's okay, because so am I.”

And, in an act of regret, you just did what your need obligated you to do – you reached forward and took Wanda for yourself, flattening the commission of your lips against her mouth that tasted of compunction and tea, just an old comfort for the overflow of your feelings so dismayed, so much need that would soon overflow. After all, that wasn't the first time that you kissed Wanda, and it certainly wouldn't be the last time that you would look for the hold of her arms, so that she could cherish the desire bristling in the hollow of your inner groins. The desire to have her always supplanted the shame of your ego.

A sinuous dance of delicate, tangible lips that fit perfectly and neatly, like something it should be. The ardent and passionate kiss was transmuted, however, into a harmonious kiss, and the harmonious kiss metamorphosed into splashes of tiny tight-mouthed kisses that soon dismantled in a state of fear, scattered in a reality where uncertainties and worries were mere ignoble daydreams, as long as you were in each other's arms. The first kisses were always fearful, they always meant to be.

The palms of both of Wanda's warm hands felt gentle against your sides, risking to caress your hipbones with the pads of her thumbs. A wave of the urge to implode in tears swept over you – perhaps out of desire or fear, regret or the intrinsic will of flesh and bone. You just wanted her to burn you like the fire in that fireplace burned to ashes in the wood, the only witness to your act of adultery, the fire that in the end consumed everything completely, a natural destroyer of evidence.

With her melodious lips parted, her pulps pink and cracked, Wanda, in turn, began to give you infinitesimal, lingering kisses along the contour of your neck, along the area where it joined your left shoulder, along the line of her jaw located in the gap between your ear and neck, validating the traces of hickeys sitting there, like long brushstrokes of dark paint on a blank canvas.

"Wanda..." you purred like a sleepy cat, the heavy lids covering your eyes again, enjoying the feel of the warm lips splashing over the bristling epidermis.

Unguarded, perhaps even a little needy in your deprived core, you snuggled against your beloved's warm body, a guilty, lazy little dread embodied by the commission of your own wet lips. You felt a warm forehead press against your pale skin band above your brows, and you and Wanda opened your lids at the same time – an immensity of burning green, brown strands of hair strumming against the skin of your chin.

“I need you now, baby,” she sighed against the kiss of your lips, “I-I – I need you, Y/n. It hurts. I need you now.”

And you knew what she needed – that's why you gave it to her, sitting her down on the couch, Wanda's sweater pants pooling around her knees in a matter of seconds. There was never room for ceremony when what you did was just the result of a mutual repression that always led to a needy outburst. 

From the hollow of your pearly lips, the tip of your velvety tongue made itself present, and that tongue, sweet and musky, soaked the entire length of her penis in a layer of shimmering saliva, the veins throbbing as the outline of the curled mouth cupped the pulsating tip, without the resistance of teeth in your way.

“Fuck, baby,” was a muffled moan against the palm she pressed to her own lips, urging you to do what you intended to do, “Just like that… Y/n, shit…”

You sucked Wanda's precum once, wringing a musical wail from both of your throats—the shivering moment, the bittersweet sap and the cinnamon heat, all etched into the center of your tongue, an already familiar taste in your stomach. Maybe that was why she chose you – the way you were the first person outside her family circle who accepted her for who she was, for what she felt she should be.

You were fifteen when you met the Maximoff twins, a boy and a girl, children of immigrants, in junior year of high school. And you were sixteen when you found out why Wanda didn’t used the locker room after PE with the other girls in your class.

“My parents thought I was a boy when I was a kid,” she once told you, under the bleachers after a literature class, “But then we found out that I was born different from Pietro, from most other people even... the doctors said the name is intersex. It's not very common, but it can happen sometimes.”

A girl with long dark hair that flowed in waves down her shoulders and wearing a second-hand fabric jacket, also dark as her hair. She was dark and stunning.

“Got it,” you hissed because you were sixteen and didn't know what to say, and Wanda was your best friend, “Your brother asked me out.”

“Oh,” it was like the sound of a piece of glass breaking, “Got it,” you always saw the way she looked at you, but it was Pietro who had the initiative. And he was always a good boy, and your parents taught you that there's no denying a good boy.

It didn't take long for Wanda's body sensitivity to acclimatize to your mouth, after just a handful of minutes in which you passed between her legs, ennobling the length of her member with just the tip of your tongue (back-and-forth movements, little kisses, and, at the latest, daring nibbles). You, upon noticing your beloved's familiarity with your tongue movements, took it from the inside of your mouth, almost the entire length between the flesh of your cheeks, reaching the summit of your throat, moist and plump.

“Y/n,” Wanda groaned, her brow furrowed, “Fuck, baby–!” and you felt a touch on the top of your head, near the roots of your hair.

Your mouth went up and down once, twice, five times. Wanda's right fingers, intertwined with your bundle of hair, made sure that the movements progressed eventually to something continuous and hard – her hips moved vigorously, fucking her way with her heavy member to the back of your throat. A cavernous yelp escaped Wanda's throat as her brows twitched and her eyes squeezed into two lines on her panting face, a pleasurable simulation of pain, a ball of yarn being woven down her navel.

You, the one who knew her as well as she herself did, tried to accompany Wanda's orgasm formulation with the movements of your mouth, thick saliva mixed with precum dripping from the corner of your lips in thick threads that wet the band the skin of your chin; you compressed your lips around her cock as you slid down its length, only to return to the head and then intensify the avid sucking until you brought your lover to the culmination of her own pleasure, of everything you wanted her to feel.

“Shit, shit, shit— ah! Y/n, I'm going to cum in your mouth, baby! Fuck!”

Wanda leaned forward so that both of her hands were resting on your temples, keeping your head in place as it spilled over your tongue, hot cum rushing its way to your stomach like you always did – always glad to swallow all the bittersweet load deposited inside you by Wanda.

At her apex, Wanda collapsed back to the length of the back of the couch, a warm, sweat-soaked dark lock plastered to her forehead. Her chest rose heavy and slumped back into her ribcage beneath her crimson wool sweater. The fire crackled in the hearth and in you too, however, because you wanted more, more of her, all of her – time was scarce and limited, and as such, incapable of being wasted. So you rose up towards her face, crying out to her.

“Wanda,” you called, your chin touching hers, your knees pierced by hers, “Wanda, I need you inside me now. Please, I need... I need you. I need you.”

You spoke as if you weren't in your living room at home – as if your children weren't sleeping right above your head. And she held you like she wasn't your husband's sister.

“It's okay, my dear. I am here. I'm here for you now, Y/n, I'll give you what you need.”

And then you were on top of her again, your shorts discarded like a rag before the fireplace, your hand reaching for Wanda's to close it by the back of your own hand, her thumb sinking soon into the warm flesh of your hip, her fingertips opening the moist lips of your pussy. On both of your ring fingers rose bands of golden wedding rings, yours different from hers, which turned copper in front of the fireplace – rings placed there by other people.

With the touch came a mutual moan that was engulfed by the embers, crackled from deep within your throats. And you began to reach down, feeling her inside, thick and firm. You came down the full length of her, and Wanda's back instinctively arched.

“Fuck-! Fuck, you're always so tight, baby, fuck–! You're practically grabbing me..."

“You're big,” your hands found her shoulders, the wool soft and red, “So big, Wanda… I want you for myself. I want you all to myself tonight, please.”

“You already have me, baby,” she lisped under her breath, “You always had me.”

With her member all tucked inside your cunt, inch by inch swallowed inside your throbbing walls, Wanda's mouth burned lustfully. The roar that bloomed through a crack in her lips had been a husky murmur.

Without circumlocution, Wanda was quick to thrust herself against your throbbing cunt, hollow slapping sounds filling the living room as she thrusted her hip against your wet entrance – so needy, a growing urgency in her bones and in your flesh, yearning for the heat of the ethereal figure that unfolded to you with such care and mastery, the inhuman touch burning over your skin. Wanda's movements were fast and uneven, solemnly guided by her desire to have you, to be inside you.

Her fingertips brushed your fine wet, low pubic hair, and you took a deep breath, your chest rising heavy and falling lightly, snorting a breath of warm air in a ravenous moan against the shell of her ear – the warm skin of your face cinched against Wanda's neck, who found herself able to feel both of your swollen nipples pressed against hers through the material of your sweaters so muffled. Her arms were wrapped around your waist, pulling you against her, the two of you as close together as you could be.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Y/n!”

“Wanda,” the words strangled in your throat in a strangled moan, “Wanda, I love you. I love you.”

“I love you too, baby,” she whimpered against your chest, “I love you too, I've always loved you…”

The steady movement of her hips brushed in eager friction against your swollen, nervous clit against the base of Wanda's cock, soaking her in your natural, smoldering lubricant juices. Your ecstasy compelled you to choke on a moan that coiled in your throat, and you rolled your hips forward, begging for more, so debilitating when against something as simple as the feel of her close to you, a single ethereal touch.

“I love you, Wanda. I love you I love you..."

The notion of the fact that that woman beneath you, reeking of tea and sex, as supernal of the encompassing reaches of human cognition as she could possibly be, could come to leave you at any moment saddened you to your ecstatic core. You didn't want to leave her. You didn't want to lose her, a battle already lost. With a soft growl (which came dangerously close to a needy moan) you pressed your entire body against Wanda's to make her feel how in control like she was over your mundane will. And your sister-in-law didn't even try to stop you.

“I love you Wanda, I love you, I love you, I'm sorry, I love you.”

“I love you too, Y/n, I love you too, fuck, I will always love you, always, always... please, I’ll always love you–”

You rode her like that, being impaled, squeezing her tighter and tighter, until the two of you came together, her orgasm painting your walls in needy vastness, in an encapsulated moment where you were hers and she was yours, where your choices led you in the right direction, her inside you where she should always be, your arms around her like you always wanted her to – her inner thighs were strong and wet against your hips.

“I'm sorry,” you cried against her neck, Wanda's hands stroking the length of your back beneath the wool layer of your sweat-damp sweater, her flaccid cock still nestled within your walls as if it weren't already too late.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I wish I had chosen right. I'm sorry. I wanna do it again. I wanna choose you. Please. I wanna choose you.”

“It's okay, Y/n,” Wanda lisped against your hair, a tear pooling under her lashes, “It's okay, honey. You already have me. You’ll always have me.”

The end of the year festivities came and went like the blur of the blizzard outside that Christmas Eve by the milky granite fireplace, and in the first half of January you and Pietro entertained your families for longer than you'd like – his parents and yours, and Wanda and Natasha, her wife, inevitably came and went too. The world presented itself in a furious way to you at the beginning of the year, incongruous: people everywhere, Wanda, Natasha, Wanda, Natasha, cold January winds. Natasha wanted kids with Wanda because she was a great aunt to Billy and Tommy.

“Children, huh?” Pietro asked his sister one night when the two of them were sitting on the sofa in front of the fireplace, the fire crackling softly.

“I thought you and Nat were the type who didn't want kids… but hey, this is awesome news, Wands! You'll be a great mom, you're like the boys' favorite aunt, everyone sees that! You take great care of them, Wands, so I imagine you'll be even better with your own children!”

“Yeah,” she smiled wanly, a little bitterly, looking into the fire, “With… my own children.”

“And I bet it will be the same with the next one too,” the twin looked at her, his blue eyes flickering towards her. Wanda looked away from the fire to look at Pietro.

“The next one…?”

“Yeah,” he smiled with the grace and pride that only someone in that situation could carry with him, “Y/n is pregnant again, Wanda! Can you believe?! Another Maximoff in the world!”

And then, Wanda looked at her brother. And she wanted to cry – cry for him, for herself, for Y/n and Natasha and Billy and Tommy, and that new child to come into that fucked up world made of lies and more lies. For all the mistakes she and Y/n made that could very well tear that family apart. She almost cried in front of the fireplace. If Pietro knew the true reason for those tears, he would never forgive her.

“Yeah,” Wanda smiled, a tear trapped in her green gaze, the fire burning in the fireplace, “Another Maximoff in the world.”