#damnably handsome

[vivamusamemus]

Nikolai Lantsov

“When people say impossible, they usually mean improbable.” ― Leigh Bardugo, Siege and Storm

[monstrouslyobsessed]

love’s lethal bouquet

concept: in which the floral shop boss is in love with you—and isn’t a human. —momster

—a/n: well i havent posted in ages because of how bad my writers block was :( and i’m vvvvv iffy about this one. this is much more subtle and tamer than my usual too, but at least its something for the valentine’s day?

anyway, ima try and tackle a commission i owe next so please take care yall<3

—tw / tags: gn reader, implied drugging intention, implied teratophilia, implied exophilia, general yandere themes, sfw.

—featured character(s): the floral shop boss / plant monster (implied)

Valentine's Day proves to be one of the busiest days at the floral shop where you work. Breathing in the heady floral scents that permeate the store, you find yourself in continuous motion, assembling bouquets of pink roses, carnations, violets, and every red flower known to man into the van. With your back straining from the constant lifting, you absently listen to the gentle voice of your boss reassuring an irritated customer about their belated delivery—

and you wince.

Although you should be in a rush taking care of the deliveries, you tiptoe inside the back of the shop to avoid interrupting your boss—

But he merely hangs up the phone upon seeing your flustered face.

“S, sorry—” You begin.

He shakes his head with a gentle smile playing on his thinly bearded lips and says, “Don’t worry about it, love.”

The way he addresses you as ‘love’ used to bother you. It always seemed so…formal, old-fashioned, but coming from him—your boss—he somehow makes it work without needing to force the romantic undertone. Perhaps it is because he is on the older side and being a foreigner in this little town of yours.

The town lies deep within the trench of an endless forest, and you wonder how your boss had found his way here.

His arrival several years ago stirred many gossips about him, with him keeping his lips sealed about his past, but everyone slowly warmed up to him. His succulent blooms, never seen before even in the gardening magazines, certainly helped. Now, your boss is a familiar face among the townspeople, with very few not knowing who he is. And, of course, his handsome and charming demeanor won the hearts of many too.

“But I would’ve made the deliveries on time if I didn’t eat brea—” you try.

His piercing green eyes soften as you nervously fixing your rolled sleeves. You halt when he suddenly leans in.

“Boss—?” You rasp at the new weights on your shoulders, trying to pay no mind to the strange dark strains on his thick fingers.

The way he held you was almost…fond—

And he pushes you outside to the doorway. “Go finish the deliveries, won’t you?”

“Really?” You huff, trying to ignore the red tinge to your cheeks and the heavy thumping of your heart.

Your boss smiles that damnable handsome smile of his and pats you on your head, saying, “Get to it. The sooner you finish, the sooner I can give you your little Valentine’s Day bonuses for working so hard.”

While giving his employees gifts during holidays and special events is not new to your boss, you still perk up in eagerness and reward him with the biggest smile you can muster. As you dart away with a confident promise to complete the deliveries, he watches you scurry to the van, inhaling sharply,

“Soon.”

Your boss murmurs, rubbing his knuckle with his other hand—as if to hide the sudden green spot on it. Tiny vines emerge briefly, before he rubs them away and pivots back to his cash register where his impatient customers have started to queue. Flashing them with a dazzling smile to reassure frustrated customers with a wordless apology, your boss absently peers over to his office.

There, on his desk, is the special bouquet he prepared for you and only you.

Imagining you burying your face into the fragrant cluster of your favorite flowers, oblivious to the true intention of its purpose, the toxic drugging qualities meant to lure you into his arms—into his ivies and his binds of vines and creepers—had him biting back a shudder. Restraining himself before the antsy crowd, your boss rings up a customer with an invisible countdown ticking in his head.

A countdown to have you.

The blooms nearby writhe and shudder, with most dismissing it as mere breezes from the air conditioner.

It was not.

—end…?

[nichyevosobachka]

Imagine Sturmhond having a parrot and the bird saying his most said things repeatedly. You're gonna hear "Privateer!!" randomly in the middle of the night or "Improbable!" "Damnable handsome!" Idk why but this makes me laugh so much xD

[sky-kiss]

I have to be lame and ask for some Soft!Raphael, or at least as soft as he can be. If you please.

A/N: Short one, GN Tav.

______

“Wait.”

Tav stops. The severity of his voice catches them off guard. Raphael’s brow furrows, lips pressed to a thin line. He holds his hand out, imperious and handsome and such a contrast to Tav’s current state- dirtied, bloodied, and so damnably tired. 

Raphael doesn’t take a step towards them. Tav must be the one to make the effort. It’s the core principle of their relationship, unchanging in the face of everything else. They frown, returning to his side—the cambion tuts. “Look at you,” he grumbles, and there’s more disappointed headmaster than devil-king in his tone. “I need not remind you: the clumsy mouse inevitably catches the cat’s claws. And you, my dear,” he brushes a streak of dirt with his thumb. “Have proven quite clumsy.” 

Tav turns into the touch without thinking. It’s instinct. He’s warm. The touch has the illusion of kindness and care, and that’s more than they’re used to. Raphael blinks, caught off guard. The devil regards them with more pressing curiosity. 

“Anything to say for yourself? Should this lack of self-preservation be of concern?”  

They smile. “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m not dead yet.” 

“Damnably faint praise, sweetling.” He smiles, tracking his knuckles across their cheek. “I won’t have my asset wasting away. Come, sit, make merry.” 

Tav shakes their head. “My friends are expecting me.” 

“If not for your own sake, hero, then for mine.” Raphael’s voice drops to a low purr, his free hand settling at the small of their back. It’s an unfair trick; he knows what he’s done. He must hear the thunder of their heart. The delicate glitter in his eyes says that is precisely the case. “Indulge an old devil.” He motions to the lavish pool. Steam wafts off the overheated water, accompanied by the scent of roses. “Please.”

Hearing the devil ask for anything makes their stomach twist in inexplicable knots. Tav chews the inside of their cheek, letting him walk them towards the pool. “Just for a few minutes…” 

“Of course, my dear. I wouldn’t dream of asking for more. Only a moment, and then you can be back on your merry way, crusading across the Sword Coast…” He brings their hand to his lips, kissing the backs of their knuckles. “But for now, do avail yourself of these creature comforts. I provide for my own, you see.” 

[wormtitty]

Kinktober Day 12: Touch starved (Armand/Lestat)

on AO3 here.

He shouldn’t be so easily enthralled by this stranger, this fledgling that has infiltrated his coven, torn it apart at the seams. But he is handsome and charming and ignorant; and Armand wants to disassemble him piece by piece, cut him free of his old flesh, drape him in something new - something that belongs to him . 

Despite his vow, and his desire to never bring another into the darkness, he wishes Lestat was his. Wishes it was Armand’s blood in his veins, His to guide and cachetize, his to watch over every night. 

He has already shown such improvement, growing to appreciate the separations between their world and that of the mortals. He no longer walks the streets at all hours, has brought an end to his leading role on the stage, and is learning to live with the acrimony from his own fledgling.

What strength Lestat must have had as a mortal boy, to remain so undisturbed and seek connection with him in this desolate place. To be so confident in his desires. He appeared to live without fear, carving out a place for himself in the coven with ease. The others had endeared him to themselves within days. 

Armand, of course, was no exception. Lestat had been his shadow since that night beneath the cemetery, just after his dear Nicholas had been brought into the blood. He sought to learn everything from him, through his blood, if not his words. Armand thought himself not easily persuaded, but his attention and affection were slowly peeling away his layers of protection.

He was falling rapidly and damnably in love with this young thing. 

For hundreds of years he had lived in reverent fear of  the flame, seen its light but never strayed close enough to feel its heat. A great distance always separated him from the blaze when he was compelled to use that particular gift. So much so that he had forgotten the lick of warmth on his skin until Lestat swept him up in this affair, constantly bringing him to his lavish rooms where candles lined every surface, illuminating everything in a sensual glow. 

Lestat was drawn to a life of luxury, draping himself in bold colors and extravagant fabrics, and he wished to surround himself with those that presented themselves in the same way. This became something of a difficult matter when he was faced with an entire coven of vampires that believed themselves deserving of filth. 

It was weeks of dragging Armand to the baths before he saw much progress in that regard. It took him just as long to realize that the elder vampire was being stubborn on purpose. After that first time he’d stripped down and joined him in the water, Armand took great pleasure in drawing out Lestat’s frustrations. 

He’d simply sat motionless in the bath, refusing to wet his hair or scrub the grime from his skin. Lestat had paced around him, spinning a whinging tale of how the mortal world would more readily accept their theatre if he would just put in more of an effort to look presentable. 

Armand waited him out until Lestat dumped a pail of water over his head. He sputtered, caught off-guard and irritated, soothed only by the sensation of another body slipping down next to him, fingers firm but gentle on his scalp.

This was another thing he’d forgotten - the pleasures of the flesh. 

For years he had only felt the touch of another during the hunt, and only the most necessary of contact was accepted in the forms of claws ripping through flesh and clothes; fangs piercing into skin, brutal and efficient. 

The Children of Darkness were no exception to this rule. Most of them knew better than to seek physical affection with their leader, and those who did not were succinctly turned away.

Then came Lestat with his grand ideas, and beautiful face, and all of those boundaries seemed to slip away with the water in the Seine. All he had to do was approach him at a low point, and offer his company when all others had left him. His blood was sweet with promise on Armand’s tongue, and he knew then that he would do anything to keep Lestat at his side.

He would even forsake the familiarity of sleeping beneath the earth of that cemetery to spend his days alongside this voracious young thing that called him “teacher”. The first time Lestat had led him hand in hand into a rented room, he stood immobile in the center of it, overcome. Armand had not seen such opulence in over 200 years. 

Lestat had busied himself with lighting his dozens of candles, oblivious to the state of stunned astonishment Armand found himself in. 

As with all matters, the novelty of Lestat’s taste wore off in short order, becoming just another thing Armand had grown accustomed to; ribbons in his hair, fine fabrics on his body, and a soft bed to share with his lover. 

Lestat took great joy in showing Armand just what he’d been missing in all his years of celibacy. Of course he had not forgotten the many ways to take pleasure from the flesh, but it had been so long that every touch now felt new and fresh, devastating in their intensity.

He was frequently overwhelmed with the most innocent of caresses; Lestat slipping gentle fingers under his shirtsleeves would send shivers up the length of his arm and a deep flush to his face.  

“You are so terribly old-fashioned,” He loved to say. 

And this was true. A touch to his bare wrist could render Armand speechless in a matter of seconds. In the early days of their affair, he would freeze at the first kiss of the night, stolen easily as Lestat woke from slumber.  

This delighted Lestat endlessly, smirk pulling at the corners of his lips as he rolled the entire length of his body over Armand’s, letting his weight settle over him completely. His clever mouth leaving great wet kisses over his face, a dumbstruck expression fixed to it for a few moments before he becomes an active participant; scrabbling at Lestat’s back for purchase and searching out those full lips with his own. 

Just a few kisses, each one more delicious than the previous, was enough to have Armand panting into his mouth. He was a mess, squirming beneath Lestat, shaking all over as if he had never been touched like this before. Arousal simmered deep in his belly, filling him with a pressing heat that felt as if it would overwhelm him completely. 

He had him begging in minutes, a slew of “Touch me, touch me, touch me,” spilling out of him in a chant like a prayer. 

“Your desires are so simple,” Lestat teased, acquiescing immediately and lining up the lengths of their bodies on the bed. 

Armand whined high in his throat, feeling the bloodhot press of Lestat’s shaft against his own. They writhed together like that for some time, trading gasping kisses between lips slick with pink-tinged saliva.

By the time Lestat had gotten his hand around them both, Armand was babbling incomprehensibly into his shoulder, fragments of sentences that sounded an awful lot like “love you,” and “mine, mine, mine,” and “love me, love me, please.”

He found his release in the first stroke, the pleasure shaky and feverish as it washed over him in waves. Lestat’s hand sticky and red between them, still working at his own member until he bit down on Armand’s shoulder, muffling a long groan into his flesh. 

It was always still in the aftermath, quiet as they gathered their composure. With Armand’s mind fully back in his body, he thread his fingers through Lestat’s hair, pulling his head back to look him in the eyes. 

“I do mean it. I love you, quite desperately.” 

Lestat buried his face back in his throat, pressing a kiss to the skin there. 

[witchywithwhiskey]

Ok but Logan and his cigar & sleazy landlord bucky sounds so intriguing 👀🤭

eee i talked about my logan & his cigar wip fic here, but i will absolutely talk about sleazy landlord bucky!!! it's inspired by this photo + convo from a...while ago. the whole fic is essentially inspired by seb's look at sdcc this year.

i have the full first draft done, but something in it isn't really working. when i was writing it, i was struggling with how sleazy i wanted to make bucky and how far i wanted to push the line of dubcon and whether i wanted to go full noncon. i struggle a lot writing dubcon/noncon fics because, for me, there's a line where it becomes no longer enjoyable to write. add to that, my instinct is always to add in a level of softness or sweetness, especially at the end of a sex scene, but it doesn't always make sense for the characters and it can make a fic tonally inconsistent.

so yeah, i needed to put some space between me and this fic so i can come back to it with, hopefully, a fresh perspective and a better idea of what i want the tone to be and where i want the line to be with bucky's sleaziness.

hopefully i'll get back to it eventually! for now, here's a little snippet (18+ content ahead):

“Y’know, doll, there are other ways you could pay me.”

For a moment, your brain stuttered over the words, refusing to process the insinuation beneath them. When you finally did, you recoiled as if you’d been slapped, the flames of embarrassment rising fast and fierce in your cheeks. 

“Excuse me?” you forced out, your voice a high squeak.

Bucky huffed a laugh, his eyes finally deigning to meet yours, after he’d spent the better part of five minutes staring at your tits and bare thighs like he wanted to undress you with his gaze alone. He scrubbed a palm over the short scruff surrounding hi mouth, your eyes dropping to the movement. He dragged his thumb along his lower lip, and you couldn’t help but bite yours as you realized just how soft and kissable his mouth looked.

It was only when he chuckled that you realized he’d done it on purpose, kept your attention his mouth, and you looked away, the prickling heat of shame nipping at the back of your neck. 

“We both know you heard me loud and clear,” Bucky rumbled, his voice gruffer and more gravelly than it had been even a moment before. Your eyes flicked to his face, and the corner of his mouth kicked up in a smirk, his hand sliding down the front of his body—your gaze following all along—until he grabbed the slight bulge in the front of his slacks. “I’ll take another form of payment, but you have to offer it up willingly, baby doll.” 

Your eyes widened and a different kind of heat warred against the blaze of embarrassment, sinking down between your thighs and making you squirm as you felt the telltale beginnings of wetness starting to gather between your lower lips. You were so concerned about your body’s reaction that you didn’t notice you were still staring at Bucky’s bulge, not until he chuckled, the patronizing sound washing over you and making tingles of desire burst throughout your core.

“C’mon, doll, don’t play dumb with me,” Bucky cajoled, squeezing his half-hard cock hard enough you could see it twitch through his pants, and you immediately looked away, your gaze rising back to your landlord’s handsome face. That damnable smirk was still fixed on his mouth and his eyes were watching you closely. “Make me an offer I can’t refuse, and this little problem with your rent can just go away.” 

thanks for playing my WIPs ask game!!

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Wrap Around Pt.1

Pairing(s): Oberyn Martell x Martell!Reader, Oberyn Martell x Ellaria Sand

Warnings: siblingxsibling implied, longing

Words: 2033

Summary: Oberyn was beside himself at the return of his baby sister (y/n). For a year she had been off in Essos, experiencing the rest of the world outside of the safety of Sunspear. Now she was returning to Dorne. Returning to Oberyn.

PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO ANY OF THE WARNINGS/TAGS

Part 2   Part 3   Part 4

“Her ship still isn’t here yet?” Irritated, Oberyn makes the servant squirm uncomfortably under his scrutinizing gaze. Normally Oberyn was quick to please and in a jolly mood. There was none of that.

“No, your Grace. Her ship seems to be lagging.” He awkwardly informs the Prince of Dorne.

Near the archway of his chambers, Ellaria was lounging on a long, cushioned bench. She watches as the poor boy flees once given permission by Oberyn. “Calm down, my love. The ship will get here when it gets here. You yelling at squires won’t make it sail any faster.”

His brow was tense on his handsome face. “I haven’t seen my baby sister in a year. I need to see her face. It’s been far too long.”

Ellaria coles and rises, her robes flowing after her as she glides over to Oberyn. Hands smooth out Oberyn’s knotted shoulders. (y/n)’s initial departure had been hard enough on Oberyn. For days after Ellaria stayed by his side as he longed for his sister. Now that she was returning, he was once more growing impatient on her arrival.

She kisses the length of his neck, feeling his form relax under her touch. “You know how arduous traveling by sea is. The wait will be worth it once you see her.”

Closing his eyes, Oberyn sighs and allows Ellaria to lead him to a chair. Dutifully pouring him a goblet of rich Dornish red. Dark as blood but oh so sweet on the tongue.

He should have never let (y/n) leave for Essos. She claimed that she wanted to see more of the world and since she was not allowed to go to Westeros on her own (Oberyn had already lost one sister there, he wasn’t going to lose another), her brothers relented. Giving her a ship to Essos was safer than having her travel in Westeros where Lannisters and Tyrells could easily prey upon her. For so long after Elia’s death, Oberyn kept her safe in Dorne. No one would dare to take his young sister from their own home. (y/n) wanted to spread her wings though. Too headstrong to be tethered down. She was not delicate like Doran and Elia had been. There was venom in her, a will that couldn’t be broken, nor did Oberyn ever want to. He loved (y/n), faults and all of her fire.

“If she comes back with a boy, you must promise not to hurt him.” Ellaria suddenly muses while petting his dark head.

The thought hadn’t even occurred to Oberyn before. (y/n) was of perfect marrying age and much like himself had a healthy carnal appetite. What if she had decided to bring someone home? Perhaps when she visited Trystane in Norvos where his mother lived their nephew might have introduced her to someone. A beautiful foreigner that peaked her interests enough for her to want to bring them home. It made Oberyn’s stomach drop.

“Then the boy must be ready to prove himself. No man is worthy of my sister if they are not prepared to fight me.”

Ellaria knew that there was more to it. Expert hands fann on his broad shoulders and begin to knead them. “Even here, feelings like that are looked down upon.” They never spoke about it. Hardly brought it up because of the sadness that followed. Incest was rife in Westeros, but never in Dorne. Have a lover, even two if you like, but it could never be a sibling. That was the one taboo everyone agreed upon. It was viewed as unnatural, even damnable. And perhaps another reason why Doran was willing to give (y/n) her own ship to travel for months at a time. He saw what Ellaria did: a brother who loved his sister too much for comfort.

Not saying anything, Oberyn gingerly grabs one of Ellaria’s hands and pulls it down so that he could kiss her smooth knuckles. “I just want to see her.”

Off in the distance they could hear the low blow of a horn. Oberyn was on his feet in seconds, a big grin plastered on his face making him look ten years younger.

“She’s here!” **

Your heart rattled the cage of your chest once you caught sight of land and the shining top of Sunspear’s palace, even the looming vegetation of the Water Gardens could vaguely be seen.

The warm Dornish breeze kissed your face, welcoming you back home. Although you had fun during your solo journey, you sorely missed Sunspear and all the people that lived there. You wondered how much your nieces had changed, if they even did at all. Arianne and Tyene had been close companions to you growing up. The three of you spent your early adolescence playing in the Water Garden and flirting with whatever poor boy got stuck in your alluring trap. You loved Oberyn dearly, but you could never have fun with the opposite sex when he was around. Entangle yourself with another woman? Sure, go for it. But if Oberyn caught a whiff of a male scent, he was right there to scare them off. Being with your nieces did a lot of good for you as you were allowed to escape Oberyn at least for a few hours.

You smile to yourself when you think of your possessive brother.

Retrieving a piece of cloth that was normally tied to your wrist, you press it under your nose. After so long it still smelled like Oberyn. Before leaving for your first stop, Lys, you had snuck into Oberynb’s room and cut a strip of fabric from one of his shirts. A token to take with you, for even though he chased all the boys away, Oberyn was your favorite person. More than Arianne and Tyene. More than your older brother Doran. He was your light. When Elia was murdered, Oberyn slept in your room every night because of your haunting nightmares. He pressed you close to his bare chest and you drowned yourself in his calming scent. Cloves, spices, and a bit of natural musk was your security blanket.

The sway of the ship brought you back.

You’d be seeing him shortly. You let go of the scrap of cloth, ignoring it as it fell to the ground. There was no need for it anymore. You were home.

“(Y/N)!!”

Even through the shout, you knew who it was. The closer you got, the more you could make out Oberyn at the dock; hands cupped around his mouth as he called out to you. Two armed guards stood sentry behind Oberyn and Ellaria. Of course they would be the first ones to greet you.

Leaning over the side, you call out “OBERYN!!”

Then, to the deckhands utter shock, you did the unthinkable. Getting up on the ledge of the ship, you dove into the sparkling water below. Their screams were drowned out once the water enveloped you. Breaching the surface, you swim over to the dock’s shore where Oberyn was running to.

“You crazy girl!” Oberyn was laughing as he helped you up and out of the water. His own trousers getting wet in the process but neither of you cared. He grabbed onto you for dear life and nearly suffocated you in his embrace. That’s when you heard the delighted screams of your nieces running into the water as well. Arianne excitedly skipped in, her dress skirts immediately getting wet. Tyene was a little more hesitant than her cousin but lifted up the hem of her dress and waded in. While Nymeria was close behind Tyene, Obara and Ellaria chose to stay on shore.

Even though saltwater stung your eyes and soaked into your clothes, you had never been happier. In the arms of your family you felt secure and loved.

Being drenched from head to toe made the way back to Sunspear’s palace a little uncomfortable, but at least you weren’t the only one. Nymeria had charged in, knocking all four of you into the water. Oberyn’s long hair was dripping as was Arianne’s. The way back, Tyene sulked over her wet attire; silently shooting daggers over at her half-sister.

Before facing your brother Doran, the reigning Prince of Dorne, you desperately needed a bath and a change of clothes. Being in that state was okay when it was in front of Oberyn, not the eldest child of Prince Egemen and Bahar Martell. Even if he was your brother, you still had to appear proper in front of the ruler of Dorne.

Departing from your welcome wagon, you were taken for your required bath. It felt like heaven to slip out of your soiled garments and into the steaming hot water that the maids had quickly supplied for you.

Sprinkling small jasmine flowers into the water made the floral scent begin to rise and fill your nostrils. As fun as your travels had been, this was your home that you had missed.

Hadiye, a hand maid who had been with you for years, goes to answer a knock at your washroom door. You could hear her quiet protest. “Prince Oberyn, your sister is almost done with her bath.”

Quite easily, Oberyn pushed past her. “That’s alright. You forget that (y/n) and I used to bathe together as children. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Besides, I want to hear of her adventures in the vast land of Essos!”

Gawking at the prince that was now striding over to your massive tiled tub, Hadiye looks to you and Melisa who had been lathering your hair with essential oils at the time of Oberyn’s disruption. Melisa, who was lower in rank than Hadiye, takes a step away from you and bows in your brother’s presence.

He waves them off. “You two may leave. My sister and I have much to catch up on.”

From her nervous glances at you, you assure the women that it would be alright. Before you left, this had been normal. Oberyn barging in on you as you bathed so he could keep you company and talk. Still, you knew how much this fact made others uncomfortable. “Go on. Let Prince Doran know that I will be ready in a little bit.”

Obedient Hadiye bows and ushers Melisa out.

“Such fretting hens.” Oberyn clicks.

“They surely haven’t changed one bit.”

Finally the two of you were alone. Releasing a sigh as he gets down on his knees, Oberyn sits on the floor; back leisurely pressed against your tub. Of course he never looked directly at you while you bathed. That would be inappropriate.

“So tell me of the year I have missed out on.” **

He had hoped things would be different once (y/n) came home. That her and Oberyn would stop tip-toeing the line of being inappropriate with each other. Yet his retainer had just told him what Hadiye had relayed.

Prince Doran purses his lips and runs a hand over his brow. They had always been too close, even before Elia’s murder. Elia had fretted over the relationship her younger siblings had. She wanted (y/n) to be married as soon as possible, preferably to a Dornish lord so that (y/n) would not have to suffer in a foreign land. Doran knew better. If he were to marry off (y/n), Oberyn would bring upon the apocalypse. Many times he had stated that no man could take (y/n) unless they defeated him in combat. Which more than likely meant Oberyn would kill any potential suitors.

What to do about them was becoming quite a problem for Doran. No young lord wanted to risk their life in order to claim (y/n). His father had taught all he may need to know for ruling Dorne, except for this. Times like this made him miss Elia. Under her care, Oberyn and (y/n) were more docile. Oberyn kept his possessiveness at bay while (y/n) kept her encouragement to a minimum. They clung to one another furiously after Elia’s premature demise.

Even with his paramour, Ellaria, Oberyn kept a tight grip on (y/n) and vice versa. Like snakes entwined in their mating dance.

He feared for his younger siblings. Their attraction to each other would ruin them.

[kaitlinamberxo]

“He’s damnably handsome. Brave in battle, smart as a whip. An excellent dancer, oh, and an even better shot.”

kaitlin's 100 favorite fictional muses — 97/100: Nikolai Lantsov / Sturmhond

[milayawr]

An Old Memory

Nikolai Lantsov x F!Reader

Summary: Nikolai returns with the sun summoner and he has someone special who has waited for him for years.

Warnings: longing

Word count: 1,088

Notes: Thanks for reading this!🩵 This is my first fic, and i'm so nervous. Please let me know what you think about it. Also, English is not my first language, so i apologize if there are any mistakes.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Nothing hurt more than waiting.

She knew the pain that came with it, maybe more than anyone else. It was crushing her heart out, consuming her from the inside, and leaving her broken in pieces. But the worst part was not those stupid feelings, it was hiding it. Over the years, she became very good at hiding her broken heart but she could never hide her sadness. Everyone asked her about her feelings. Why was she sad all the time? She couldn't say she was waiting for a prince since she was already married to a prince, so every time she was asked that kind of question she came up with a stupid lie.

Vasily Lanstov was quite handsome. His wealth was every girl's dream. He was going to be the king of Ravka. She should've been happy. She had accepted the marriage with the hopes of being happy. Her happiness was becoming a queen but she didn't know love could change everything.

Vasily was kind enough but never truly cared for her. He was interested in far different things. He even cared more for his horse than his new wife. They were married for nearly three months but he didn't even come to their bed.

She wasn't complaining about it though. She never thought of having a man in her bed while her mind belonged to another.

She loved him for years. Even when she was engaged, she had feelings for that particular prince.

She came to Os Alta when she was sixteen. She was a duke's daughter and her family and Vasily's family had planned a marriage for years and when the right time knocked on the door her family sent her to the capital. She lived with the royal family since then. The queen had always been on her side. She was also kind but she was not giving a mother's love to her.

She was craving love ever since she could remember.

Maybe that was the reason why she fell in love with that bastard.

He was a year younger than her but his charming face made him look a bit older. He was way more mature than her in some topics but still not mature at all at the same time. He was damnably handsome. Brave in battle, he got into the army when he was sixteen. An excellent dancer, they danced at so many parties when he was still in the capital. His charm would affect someone from miles away.

She never understood how she fell in love with such a person.

She should've loved Vasily. She had to love Vasily. Well, she would have if Vasily had taken care of her, look at her face even once, smile and help her out with the loneliness, and shown her love. Being a little kind didn't help the situation. Even though she was newly wedded she was waiting for a man she hadn't seen for years because she was longing for his affection.

She knew her love did have a mutual feeling. She knew that he liked her, that he had a feeling for her. Even if it was not love, he still liked her. But now, even though he liked her, it was impossible for him to be in love with her because she was the wife of his fucking brother.

But that didn't stop him from kissing her before he was gone.

It was the last thing she remembered from him. She was engaged to Vasily at that time. They were saying goodbye to each other. She was grateful for his friendship, far more than grateful, actually. She was thanking him and then suddenly he was kissing her.

She hasn't forgotten the look of regret in his eyes after that.

Embarrassment filled her as she closed her eyes. He regretted the best thing that ever happened to her. Maybe when he arrives he's going to be distant. "Fuck him," she muttered under her breath.

"Did you say something, your highness?" Asked the maid who was walking behind her.

"No." She answered. Everyone was used to her cold tone over the years. She was never the same after him. She slept with the memory of him kissing her and woke up to the reality of being engaged to his brother. And now she was even married to his brother.

She missed him and she wondered if he missed her as well.

The butterflies in her stomach worsened her day. They were flying around since the moment she heard he was gonna be back. The queen was excited as her, but their excitement was for different things. The queen was waiting for her sweet son, and she was waiting for her first love.

And Vasily was probably not showing up. Again.

Fuck him too, she thought. They were brothers after all. Far different personalities but still, the same shit. Saints, she should hate them both but she can't. She can't hate Vasily because she is his wife and she can't hate Nikolai because he is just… him.

How could she hate Nikolai?

She wanted to forget everything about him as she walked down the hall. She wasn't with the queen, the king, and probably, hopefully, Vasily. She hoped Vasily was there because when she'll see Sobachka again she wanted to hold onto his arm and smile at her husband as if she was in love with him. She needed Vasily for once.

When the door ahead of her opened she held her breath. All the things in her mind flew away. The blond hair was the first thing that got her interest. He was wearing his fancy clothes. He was more handsome than she imagined over the years. The second she realized it was him, everything disappeared. It was just him and her as she always wanted. Why was she wanting that feeling to be gone? After all those longings that broke her apart she was seeing him again, so why?

She didn't have the time to think when he had arrived. The idea of him was rushing around her mind. Nikolai Lantsov was standing right there and all she could do was stare at his handsome bastard face.

He smiled as he wasn't the source of her sadness, broken heart and longings. "Hello, Y/N." He said with a steady voice.

His face, voice, charm... Everything about him was just a memory that had gotten old.

An old memory was standing in front of her and she was speechless.

[goodqueenaly]

Do you think there was any truth to the daemon blackfyre and Daenerys were in love story? I honestly would think not except for the so spake Martin where grrm said they were in love

Do I think it's possible that Daemon and/or Daenerys may have been interested, and indeed perhaps mutually interested, in one another? Sure. We know virtually nothing about Daenerys with respect to either her personality or her appearance, but it certainly might have been the case that Daemon found her attractive - by her own merits, because he saw himself as having the right to a Targaryen royal bride (as perhaps Prince Aerion may have a generation later), a combination of these or some other reason, who knows. Likewise, just as I think Daenerys' nephews (who were of an age with Daenerys herself, of course) may have gotten along reasonably well with Daemon in the years prior to the First Blackfyre Rebellion, so I think it is at least possible Daenerys found herself romantically inclined toward Daemon, a handsome, charming, very martially talented knight of her own age and a familiar presence at the Targaryen court (especially, perhaps, compared to her brother's faraway, "foreign" brother-in-law, who may or may not have been close to her in age). So I would say it's certainly in the realm of possibility that either or both these two young people felt some level of romance for one another. (That obviously doesn't mean that their feelings never changed either: it's always worth keeping in mind that Daemon was a husband and the father of at least nine children when he died, while Daenerys was herself a wife and the mother of an unknown number of children by Prince Maron.)

Do I think it is just as possible, and not mutually exclusive with the above, that pro-Blackfyre propagandists as well as future storytellers and singers seized upon and made much of the Daemon-Daenerys relationship, including some degree of exaggeration and romanticization? Absolutely. Yandel himself notes when discussing the lack of evidentiary support for the proposed love affair, stating that "[i]n the years afterward [i.e. after the First Blackfyre Rebellion], Daenerys was never aught but a loyal wife to Prince Maron, and if she mourned Daemon Blackfyre, she left no record of it". We as readers are in turn are reliant on (as yet unknown) contemporary accounts and later interpretations of events to understand Daemon's and Daenerys' personal feelings, without the benefit of being able to separate the story from the (fictional) reality.

So for pro-Blackfyre propagandists, the idea of a doomed love affair between Daenerys and Daemon may have aided in their characterization of both Daeron II and Daemon: "Daeron Falseborn" was so wicked, the story might have gone, that he would personally deny the happiness of both his half-brother and his sister and so damnably xenophilic that he would prefer to sell his only sister to the Dornish; Daemon, for his part, might then have had no choice (again, according to this propaganda) but to stop the pro-Martell terror of King Daeron, for his own sake and that of the kingdom. (Yandel indeed even hints at the political advantage of such stories, noting that "some of Blackfyre's partisans later claimed" that Aegon IV had promised Daemon that he, Daemon, could take two wives.) Singers and storytellers, for their part, may have seen such a relationship, to whatever extent it actually existed, as too fertile ground to ignore for creative inspiration. How perfectly tragic it might have seemed for these creators, the daughter of a queen who was herself supposedly the subject of a doomed love affair (even though I doubt that was really the case), pining for the dashing royal rebel who longer for her in turn, the anguish of the hearts turning into a massive national civil war where they would be forced to opposite sides.

Do I think that, as Barristan Selmy remembers the story, "Daemon Blackfyre loved the first Daenerys, and rose in rebellion when denied her"? Probably not, at least to that level of simplicity. Whatever personal feelings Daemon may have had toward Daenerys, and/or she toward him, the First Blackfyre Rebellion was a conflict whose origins had been simmering for years prior to its official start in 196 AC. From the moment of the aggressively pro-war Daeron I's assassination and the accession of the aggressively pro-peace Baelor, the parameters of political divide among Westerosi power players had been set. Aegon IV and Daeron II had only hardened that factionalization of the kingdom: father and son had come to embody the division of attitudes toward Dorne, with Aegon IV extending his personal hatred and pettiness toward Daeron to politico-military actions against both Daeron and his Dornish allies, while Daeron's personal familial relationship with the ruling family of Dorne extended to greater political patronage toward the Martells and Dornish more generally, culminating in the nuptial peace with Prince Maron. These divides had existed and been developing before Daemon Blackfyre was born, and while I am certainly not absolving Daemon of any agency when it comes to the First Blackfyre Rebellion, I don't think the war can simply be boiled down to an unfulfilled romantic affair.

Do I think GRRM will simply leave the matter at that SSM from back in 2012, where he noted that "[d]espite Daemon and Daenerys being in love, her brother the king, Daeron the Good, was more concerned with matters of state than matters of love"? Probably not. GRRM is a storyteller himself, after all, and I would be very surprised if he didn't take the opportunity to explore the potential romance between Daenerys and Daemon. Fire and Blood Volume 2 will undoubtedly provide more details regarding this period, and while that story is obviously not a traditional novel/novella-style narrative that allows for a lot of character interiority, it's very possible we'll get more third-party observer accounts about the relationship between Daenerys and Daemon from this period.

[darcydarlingdabbles]

Jazz and Jen

Human Hotel Trip ~ Part 5~ 3k

Hazbin Hotel ₊⁺⋆ Charlastor ₊⁺⋆ Eventually Explicit

Part 1 ⚜️Part 2 ⚜️ Part 3 ⚜️ Part 4 ⚜️ Part 5 ⚜️ Part 6 ⚜️ Finale

// Charlie comes to Alastor's rescue when he's captured by a Cougar, and then drags him onto the floor for a dance neither of them will ever forget.//

✧✦✧✦⚜️✧✦✧✦

Alastor sat at the hotel bar, nursing a whiskey neat as he reveled in the discordant tones assaulting his ears. 

A bastardized jazz cover of a current pop song mocked him from the hotel’s ballroom, where the ‘Roaring Twenties Bash’ was in full swing. The disguised demon grimaced. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass before taking another sip, letting the whiskey burn pleasantly. 

Outside of the bar and across the short hall, a change in tempo meandered through the double doors—and another abomination came to Alastor’s ears, pulling at the edges of his smile. 

Damnable human body made everything just that much more difficult to control. 

His fingers tapped his irritation against the polished wood of the bar. Even so, Alastor refused to return to their hotel room, though he knew Charlie was not there. 

She’d gone to the dance, he was sure of it. Which was probably why he hovered in the empty bar across the hall. Alastor had seen a makeup bag open on the bathroom counter and found a shopping bag that must have contained a dress, and he couldn’t help but wonder. 

Picturing Charlie dolled up like a woman in his time was, more than intriguing—though reality quickly shattered the fantasy. His mind turned to the unshed tears in her golden eyes under the relentless afternoon sun and in the humid Louisiana air the last time he’d seen her. 

Alastor was not familiar with the pang echoing in his chest. 

“Perhaps this auditory torture is a fitting punishment, after all.” He murmured to the rim of his glass. 

When he named the feeling, Alastor chastised himself for even a modicum of guilt. 

He’d only told Charlie the truth. The damn girl just wore her bleeding heart on her sleeve—every joy, every sorrow, every fleeting feeling showed on her face. It put her weaknesses on a marquee for anyone to see. 

It was as endearing as it was naïve, and he had crushed her, with a carefully crafted smile on his face. 

Alastor’s fingers cinched around his glass, wondering if he could shatter it in this human form, and if he would bleed. What it would be like to see scarlet seeping between his tawny fingers again?

The Radio Demon did not apologize. He did not regret. And he was heartless. 

So why did hurting Charlie make him feel so hollow?

Alastor swallowed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, his mind made up. He had to find the Princess and smooth things over—for purely strategic purposes; he had to remain in her good graces. 

Just as he was about to straighten his vest and leave, someone slid onto the bar stool beside him. The spark of hope at the flash of blonde hair drowned instantly, when her cloying perfume violated his senses. Alastor turned to see a human woman, gracelessly aging into her fifties, leaning towards him. 

“Well, hello there, handsome,” she purred, bluntly sizing him up. “I’m Jennifer. Can I buy you a drink?”

Alastor’s smile narrowed on instinct, wondering what this foolish mortal was playing at. “I beg your pardon, Ma’am. But I was just leaving—” 

Jennifer laughed, her manicured hand coming like a claw to grip his arm. Alastor had to resist the urge to recoil as his skin crawled. “ The night’s still young, and you and I should get to know each other better.” 

Radio silence blanket the demon’s thoughts. 

Was this woman, flirting with him? And why? Some sort of artless joke? He might suspect Angel Dust or even Vox of putting her up to it, if they weren’t realms away. 

Jennifer used his stunned silence to pull Alastor back onto his bar stool, not noticing the way his fists clenched at the audacity of her still touching him. 

“I’m…flattered.” Alastor said, his tone undercutting his words, “but I’m afraid I have a prior engagement with—” 

“Oh, don’t be shy,” Jennifer interrupted him, leaning closer to him. “You don’t come to a bar in that shade of red without looking for attention. It’s so…devilish.” 

“Madam,” Alastor’s teeth grit behind his smile, his eyes flashing an infernal red behind his spectacles. “You have no idea what you’re playing with.” 

Though, to the demon’s surprise and unmitigated horror, his threat only made the stranger lean in closer—and touch his arm again. “I like the sound of that.” 

Alastor’s irritation crackled off of him. Static sizzled from hidden speakers around the bar. He had to extricate himself without causing a scene. He’d promised Charlie no harm would come to humans on this trip, but his patience was wearing thin. 

He couldn’t threaten if his target wasn’t afraid of him. 

“Surely, a woman of your…” Alastor plucked her hand from his forearm and dropped it on to the bar top. “ Experience…could find more suitable company.”

“Oh, I think you’ll do just fine, sugar.” 

Alastor suppressed a groan, suddenly realizing how much intelligence it required to realize you were being insulted. He had no option but to escape. 

“Well, terribly sorry, but I really must be off.” He stood abruptly, his stool scraping against the floor in his haste to leave. 

Jennifer’s eyes lit up. “Why don’t I join you?”

Over his dead body. 

“That won’t be necessary.” The Radio Demon’s perpetual smile tightened. 

“Your room or mine?” Jennifer purred as she too got to her feet. 

Alastor’s eyes widened, interference squealing from him as he stepped back. This was not what he intended in the slightest. And now it wasn’t annoyance but dismay straining his hold on human form.

If she touched him again, he would snap and break another promise to—

“There you are Al!”

“Charlie,” Alastor sighed her name like an answer to his prayers. 

Alastor turned towards her voice, already reaching to pull her towards him—and a lesser man might have let his jaw drop to the floor. Because Charlie was dressed to the nines. Her blonde hair was styled in perfect finger waves and layered pearls dripped from her throat. 

“And who is this chick?” Jennifer asked from behind him. 

Alastor's instant fury sounded like a needle scratching across a record. He knew an an affront when he heard it, but the Princess stepped past him and offered her hand to the human woman. 

“Hi, I’m Charlie.” She offered politely, as Jennifer gave the other blonde a far harsher glance over. “I’m Alastor’s fri—” 

“Girlfriend.” The demon seized the opportunity and Charlie by the shoulders, pulling her back against him and out of Jennifer’s clutches. “And date, to the dance tonight.” 

He could feel Charlie’s surprise as he ignored the intensity of her warm skin under his fingers. 

“Oh?” She turned, catching his eye. And he felt his own throat tighten, pleading that she would have mercy on him and play along. “Honey, I thought you didn’t want to go to the dance?”

Alastor felt his eye twitch at Charlie’s sly smile as he leaned down to emphasize his point. “Since when have I turned down the opportunity to dance with you, my darling?”

Jennifer might just be turning green right in front of them. 

“I thought you wouldn’t be caught dead at. What was you said? A feeble mockery of the glamor of a bygone era?”

Alastor had to hand it to her. That did sound like him. He had no idea she’d been listening to his rants. 

“Well, I’ve had a change of heart. Shall we?” He pulled Charlie’s arm into his to steer her away from the bar. 

“Fine.” Jennifer’s face fell in an ugly way, though she still shot Alastor a smile. “I’ll be around, if you change your mind.” 

Alastor clenched his teeth. “I assure you, I won’t.” 

“Come on sweetie, let’s go cut a rug!” Charlie beamed, dragging him towards the ballroom. 

✧✦✧✦⚜️✧✦✧✦

It was crowded, loud, and flashy. Attention had been put into the atmosphere, with candlelight and warm yellow string lights to make it look like the shell of a jazz club he used to haunt. And that was nothing compared to how the music was already making Alastor cringe.

Charlie caught him and pulled him right onto the dance floor with her. 

“Oh, no you don’t. You owe your fake girlfriend a real dance.” She propped her arm up on his shoulder, her tiny hand never releasing his fingers. “I didn’t get all dressed up not to dance.”

“Is that so?” Alastor pushed Charlie back, lifting their linked hands, so the blonde gave a little spin. 

In a sea of swaying fringe and feather boas, Charlie’s dress was elegant and understated. It was a black crepe romaine gown with a touch of dark sequins that glittered as she moved.

When Alastor’s gaze fell to her sheer stockings, he pulled her back to him, so he couldn’t stare. 

“I’ve seen worse.” Alastor said simply, glancing sideways as a dancer waved her feathered fan dramatically around the dance floor. 

“I’ll take that.” Charlie beamed. “Besides, you can’t avoid me if we’re dancing, can you?”

“And why, pray tell, would I be avoiding you?” Alastor’s eyes narrowed as they turned in loose circles to a song he didn’t recognize. But he wasn’t paying attention to anything other than the petite body in his arms. 

He already knew. That unfamiliar twinge of guilt, twisting in his chest. And he wondered, if she knew. 

Charlie turned a mischievous smile up at Alastor. “You know, Al,” her golden eyes glinted. “You still owe me an apology.” 

A harsh squeal of feedback pierced the air, causing a few human dancers to wince, but the demon didn’t let his steps falter. Alastor’s lips pulled back over his teeth, flickering between amusement and annoyance. 

“I do hate to disappoint, Princess.” He purred, his voice smooth as could be despite the static. 

He spun Charlie gracefully—but this time pulled her back against his chest—trying to distract her, and get his lips to her ear.

“I do not apologize. It’s simply not in my nature.” 

To his eternal surprise, he heard Charlie laugh. 

“Oh, really?” the blonde stepped forward, creating a space between them that the demon instantly despised. He righted his face as she turned. “If that’s the case, I’m sure Jennifer would be more than happy to take my place.” 

Alastor’s lanky frame gave a violent shudder. Without hesitation, he pulled Charlie back flush against his chest, his grip tightening around her waist possessively. 

“I am rather, particular, about who I dance with, Charlie.” He kept his voice low, fighting to keep the smile on his face. “And I’ve no desire to find another partner.” 

She stilled in his hold, almost falling out of step—and Alastor realized what he’d said. How Charlie, who read too much into absolutely everything, just might interpret that. 

Worse, she might just be right. 

“My, my, Charlie,” In an instant, Alastor pulled the smiling mask back over his face, and tugged Charlie back to him. “I do believe you’ve forgotten something rather important.” He crooned to her, watching her guard drop. 

Just so he could spin her out across the floor, then pull her back with a flourish. 

Charlie’s delighted giggle was the best music to meet Alastor’s ears that night. “Oh yeah, and what’s that?”

“That I am, quite simply,” Alastor’s grin widened as his hand slipped down to the small of her back—before he dipped her low. “The best dancer in all of Hell.” 

“Is that so?” Charlie laughed breathlessly and flushed a pretty pink, as her hand came to rest on his vest. 

“It is.” Alastor pulled her up, swiftly, twirling her again before drawing her back into step with the up tempo beat. “And I’d be happy to show you.”

✧✦✧✦⚜️✧✦✧✦

Dancing with Charlie was easy as breathing. And, with Alastor’s skill, it was easy to keep her from talking. 

But, the slow song always had to come.

And Charlie’s arms found their way around Alastor’s neck, just as his hands rested on her waist, naturally as could be. Being in tight proximity to anyone else would make his skin crawl—but he’d never minded being this close to her.

“You know, Al.” Charlie said, so soft only Alastor could hear. “This doesn’t mean that I forgot about that apology you owe me.” 

Alastor sucked air through his teeth like a sour lemon, but there wasn’t anywhere else to look with her arms around him. 

The demon took a breath before deciding on a new…and entirely unfamiliar tactic. To get back into the Princess’s good graces, he needed to be just a little softer. He could even be sweet—or pretend to be.

“My dear,” he chose his words as deliberately as he could. 

“I admit I could have been more... tactful in our earlier conversation. However,” his voice took on a firmer tone, “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

“You called me thick-headed and a fool, Alastor.” Charlie scowled. 

Alastor winced visibly this time, his perpetual grin faltering for a moment. He cleared his throat, radio static crackling faintly in the background.

He hadn’t meant to hurt her, had he? The thought was…disconcerting. 

“When I spoke of your stubbornness,” he began, His words slipped out in a whisper, gentler than his norm, “I meant it as an admirable trait. Your determination, your unwavering belief—it’s quite remarkable, really.”

Alastor ducked his head until their eyes met. 

“And…well, only a fool would think that they could challenge Heaven or Hell.” He lifted his hand from the small of her back, cupping her chin with a fondness even he could not deny. “Yet, here I stand with the incredible young lady who has bested them both.” 

“Oh, Alastor…” Charlie’s eyes were brimming with those tears again, though these were happy—he assumed. Though the demon had just as little idea what to do with—but soon she was wrapping her arms around him, squeezing his waist and pressing face into his chest. 

Their dance had turned into an intimate embrace, but the Radio Demon didn’t pull away. His chin came to rest on top of her blonde waves. Wondering when he had stopped trying to sway her, and just kept holding her close.

After an eternity that was not near long enough, Charlie turned her cheek to press to the buttons of his blood red shirt. 

“Al,” Charlie murmured, her words barely audible over the music. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, my dear.”

Charlie hesitated, and Alastor had a heartbeat to regret his instant agreement. “Do you really not want to be redeemed?” She lifted her head to look at him with those big glossy eyes, and Alastor felt his smile slip. “Or…do you just think you can’t be?”

And he felt himself torn down the middle. Between the instinct to deflect and protect himself—and the horrific urge to tell her the truth. 

✧✦✧✦⚜️✧✦✧✦

Alastor’s foot caught, nearly missing a step in their slow dance. The slip was imperceptible from the outside—but he knew Charlie felt it, because her hold around him tightened. Like she could keep him from falling. 

“I…my dear.” He hesitated, actually, hesitated. “Charlie…I know what I am, and what I am not.” 

The words fell heavier than he intended, hanging in the air between them.

 Charlie’s amber eyes blazed with an intensity that caught Alastor off guard. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his black vest, pulling him down until their faces were mere inches apart.

“Yeah? Well, maybe—just maybe you don’t know everything, huh?” The Princess challenged, her whisper fierce.

Alastor’s eyebrows shot up, genuinely surprised by her boldness. By her…closeness. It was distracting, to say the least. 

The scent of her blonde hair pulled him back to this morning, the way it and Charlie splayed across his chest. And everything else disappeared. 

Charlie didn’t relent. “I know who you are too, Al. And I know there’s good in you. I’ve seen it, even if you refuse to.”

“Dear little Princess Charlotte.” Alastor retreated into the perfect performance radio host. “Ever the optimist. But I am afraid this dog is too old for new tricks.” A hitched laugh escaped his lips, slipping from humor into something much darker. 

Part of Alastor knew he was baiting her—Charlie was incapable of resisting a lost cause. It was safer territory than bearing his throat to be bled dry. 

Charlie, predictably, had to do the right thing. She gripped on to him tighter. “You won’t scare me off, Alastor.” Her eyes never left his—and he could feel the determination burning. 

Alastor leaned closer, a breath away, his brown eyes turning a deep, menacing red as his pupils became radio slits—radio dials. A reminder that this dapper exterior was just a thin veil over the predator beneath. 

“Are you quite sure about that?” he let his voice into a dangerous whisper.

Charlie didn’t flinch. “Yeah, I am.” Her gaze locked with his.

The challenge hung between them, charged with electricity. Alastor felt a familiar thrill. 

The push and the pull. Her belief verses his doubt. 

But something else was stirring with in Alastor. A desire to prove to Charlie, once and for all, that her faith in him was misplaced. Before he could second-guess himself, Alastor closed what little distance was left between them.

The kiss was hard with defiance, and burning with longing. 

He felt her gasp against his lips, louder in his ears than the appalling music. 

Charlie tasted sweet like cinnamon, her mouth soft with surprise as she stayed frozen in place.

For a fleeting, heart-wrenching moment, Alastor was sure that he had finally found the line and crossed it. 

Until arms wound around his neck to pull him in closer. 

Charlie was kissing him back.

Deepening the kiss until he was the one to gasp—before remembering that he didn’t have teeth sharp enough to cut her tongue.

Alastor was supposed to be proving a point, not enjoying kissing Charlie.

And wishing it never had to end. 

⚜️ Part 6 ~ Speak Easy to Me ⚜️

Part 1 ⚜️Part 2 ⚜️ Part 3 ⚜️ Part 4 ⚜️ Part 5 ⚜️ Part 6 ⚜️ Finale

[savethegrishaverse]

"Not bad looking?... She's damnably handsome... Brave in battle, smart as a whip... An excellent dancer... Oh, and an even better shot."

Presenting Nikolai Lantsov. Privateer. Queen. And a damned beast when she's in a bad mood.

Aka I had way too much fun with this. I made three whole looks and I can totally do more because I keep seeing ways to make the looks better.

Also yes I did splurge on VIP mind your business.

And yes the camera quality will get better. I'm just testing things out 🙈

[pearwaldorf]

[edit 12/27] Hey go reblog this instead thx

--

It’s a really fucking boring party. Phillip is here purely for lack of anything better to do, including sitting on his couch and binging Parks and Recreation, which he’s done three times this year already. 

(Lyndie glared at him when he demurred yet again, but then softened.

“Babes, I know it’s been hard on you, but you have to get out there. Not in a find yourself a nice rebound way, although I do think it would be beneficial, but you have to get out and talk to people.” 

“And who exactly am I going to talk to, love?” He was fine with Tim getting pretty much the entire friend group after the breakup initially, but it was real fucking depressing looking at his contacts and realizing there wasn’t anybody who wanted to hear from him. 

“Somebody. Anybody. Not everybody in the fucking world is part of Tim’s circle.” Lyndie’s trying her best, bless her, but that’s what sisters (or close as) do, right? It’s not fair to her to be his one social lifeline.

“All right. For you.” 

She beamed that damnable grin that makes everybody fall over themselves to do what she wants, him included, and kissed his cheek. “Thanks babes. You won’t regret this.”

“We’ll see.”)

It’s an exhibit opening, and now that Phillip’s looked at the art (pedestrian, derivative) and nibbled at the platters (Costco, of all things. Not that they’re bad, but absolutely not in keeping with the atmosphere), he’s taken his plastic glass of Three Buck Chuck to find a corner to people-watch.

In the back next to the one actually interesting sculpture, he nods to a man dressed in the most fascinatingly archaic suit. No, that’s not the right word. It’s like he bought all his clothes at one time and never bothered to replace them because they really don’t make them like they used to. They’re at least forty years out of style, but they fit well. 

Phillip takes a sip of the wine. Oh god, he’d forgotten how awful this plonk is, not really being a person who frequents places where the quantity of alcohol is more desirable than the quality. 

“I regret I don’t have a fine vintage to offer you, but this has to be better than whatever swill they’re providing.” The other man holds up a flask, smiling. He’s not exactly handsome—his eyes are too small and his ears stick out too much for that, but he has a sharp, curious demeanor that makes Phillip want to know more. 

He takes the flask, ignoring how their fingers brush,  and downs more than is probably polite. It’s whiskey of some sort, burning sweet on the way down. 

“Thank you,” he says, handing it back. “It is very much an improvement.” 

The man screws the lid back on, puts the flask back in his jacket pocket. “A fine bourbon, American of course. Certainly other countries produce it, but it never tastes quite right. Like a bagel made outside of New York.” His accent is something Phillip has heard but never actually encountered in person, almost parodic in its intensity. It’s fascinating.

“They do make bagels elsewhere. And they’re nothing like the ones in New York.” Phillip says, just to be a shit. 

“Indeed, and I do not mean to impugn their quality. But I suppose we latch onto the examples we first encounter as the ideal.” He puts out his hand. “Benoit Blanc. If we’re going to have a conversation I suppose we should get a little more acquainted.”

“Phillip Owen.” The other man’s hand is warm, his grip assertive and confident. 

“A pleasure, Mr. Owen.” It might be the whiskey, but Phillip swears Blanc’s voice is warmer, more friendly. 

“I don’t mean to be presumptuous or rude, but your name does not strike me as particularly Southern.” 

Instead of bristling in offense like Phillip expected, Blanc just smirks, a little reproving. “How quickly we forget history, Phillip.” His smile takes any sting there might have been from the words.

“Now that I’m to get a lecture it’s Phillip?” He keeps his voice light. This is probably the most interesting conversation he’s had in a long time, which is probably a bit sad when he thinks about it, but he’s a little buzzed from the whiskey and he’s enjoying himself much more than he thought he would tonight.

“Lecture is such a stuffy word. Call it a gentle reminder of things that should be more prominent in your memory.” Blanc’s kind of a shit too, and god help him, Phillip is into it. 

“Then tell me what I should remember, Benoit,” he says, as gravely as he can. 

The other man winces, like he’s physically pained. “I hate that name. By the love of whatever you consider holy, Blanc, please.” 

Impulsively, he reaches for Blanc’s hand. “I’ll call you whatever you like if we get out this stuffy hellhole into a place with better liquor and a place to sit.” Is it forward? Absolutely. But it’s been a long time since he’s had anybody besides Lyndie to talk to, and he didn’t realize how much he missed it until now. 

Blanc looks a bit surprised, but his mouth curls slow into a smile that might promise something more. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

[honeybeewhereartthee]

Crossing × Tales || Aoi Twins fanfiction

"I love you! Please go out with me..!"

Such scene of confession behind the school building under the cherry blossom tree would been an amazing high school drama if not for the fact the two people in the scene is neither feeling the said emotion for real but rather desperate for something that he will gain once the other agree and the latter is looking at the other with disgust in their face.

"Not interested in real people." The one being confess too—You says to him.

"WHYYYY?" he fake crocodile tears as he grab onto your legs while you tried to walk away from the clichy sense.

"Do you not like the cute and caring older twin? What about a very charming and handsome youngest twin instead?!" This person seems to really want something from you to even push his [ younger brother ] under the bus.

"No. Not interested." You tried to push the weirdo off your legs before people around you would see you and think crazy stuff about this! You don't even know this person! AT WORSE THIS PERSON DONT EVEN GO TO THIS SCHOOL!

"Waitwaitiiiipleasee....!!whatifishowyoucutepicsofmeandmybrotherasbabies" The shameless and annoying orange guy grips on yours legs so tightly you cannot even walk properly.

"ANIKI!" In came another orange who seems embarrassing by the shameless orange. "Stop it!" He run toward you two and you wonder at that moment, if he is the one who have common sense between the two but he too cling onto you. "Don't worry Miss/Sir you can always choice the two of us! Only me and ANIKI!" He exclaim out in the open. Now everyone is looking at you three. They all start to gossip to one another like buzzing bees. Earning an inked annoyance from you.

"WHAT ARE YOU LOOKIN AT?" You glare at the passing by people who all run away the next moment. You give a look at the two who was surprised to see your outburst which you taken as a chance to remove their hold on you and left to go to your class.

...

As you left the two, they stared at the direction you went and the youngest sigh as he went to his knees, he cannot believe he have to do this kind of thing. HOW EMBARRASSING! But also how come the enemy is too hard to conquer! How could they leave this damnable world now?! "ANIKI. What's the title of this place again?"

"Crossing tales.... Why is the title so odd? Do we have to cross out stories. I have a pen here!" He seems to be almost tired as he too collapse in the ground. Laying in the ground on his back, without care in the world.

"Is this like knock off of that Romantic k*ller anime? Gosh what is mix with this au?" He tried to understand the roles and script of this world but found no clue. How could they escape from this world when their only way is so hard to do? As the two demanded a clue from the heavens above and probably that fae who put them in this place. A paper is slapped across their face.

"What this--" the oldest read the paper, his eyes widen as the clue is given to him.

[ Experience love story across the tales from stories of books]

"...did this include NTR—aww!" He spoke out but was hit by another paper with huge frown emoji in it. "GEEZ BUT ITS BASED FROM BOOKS AND REAL LIFE STORY THRU?" He already been looken over by others like a lunatic but he did not care as he yell st the heavens but the heavens only slap him with magical flying paper across the face.

TABLE OF CONTENT

LETTER 01

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #27: One in the Hand

Prompt: sole || Master Post || On AO3

A/N: The sequel to this year's "Levin Deals." :D

--

“Synnove.”

Synnove looked up from her book, brow furrowing as she glanced around. Had someone called her?

“Synnove.”

Oh, yep. That was Aymeric’s voice echoing into the house. And her knight sounded in a tiff.

Amused, she closed her book and reluctantly wiggled her feet out from beneath Ivar, then unwrapped herself from her nest of blankets and pillows. The worst lingering effect of her sustained aethershock from the Final Days, even moons after the fact, was she was always damnably cold, even in summer. But once free, she swung her legs off the couch, shoved her feet into her slippers, and pushed herself upright to shuffle out of the library.

Another clipped call of her name, and Synnove shook her head as she made for the kitchen garden. Ixion must have broken the armistice and begun nibbling on the rows that weren’t set aside for him.

Stepping outside, she closed her eyes for a moment and sighed with delight as the sun beat down on her shoulders. Mmm, warm.

“Synnove.” Oh, last syllable emphasis. Her beau was, indeed, quite irritated.

Synnove opened her eyes. And stared.

There was Aymeric, hands on his hips and wearing his gardening clothes, his brows pulled down into a ferocious scowl. There was Ixion, happily chewing on the late summer tomatoes in one of his designated vegetable rows and making a violent mess of his muzzle.

But there was also…

Aymeric pointed. “What is that?”

“I don’t know!” Synnove said, holding up her hands. “I’ve never seen him before in my life, I swear!”

Next to Ixion, snuffling curiously at the still-growing pumpkins, was a creature that might be mistaken for Rhalgr’s steed’s twin were it not for his colors. Instead of his primary coat color being blue-violet, his was sandy brown; instead of vividly stripes, his were deep ruby, and his mane and tail aglow in orange; instead of a horn of gold and striped purple, his was a molten crag, like looking at the top layer of a moving lava field. And where levin danced across Ixion’s hide, embers flaked off his own.

Ixion gently rapped his horn against his fiery doppelganger’s, and the creature stopped nosing at the green pumpkins and lifted his head. He spotted Synnove and his ears pricked up, and began picking his way carefully around the vegetable garden, then pranced across the grass to where she stood.

Synnove squeaked with delight. Aymeric sighed heavily and muttered something that sounded like, “Bloody two of them, Fury have mercy on my garden.”

The fiery steed came to a halt and reached out his neck with a polite whicker. Synnove squeaked again and held out her hands to him, and cooed as he snuffled at them to familiarize himself with her scent. “Oh, aren’t you just a handsome lad!” she crooned. “And so warm. Wherever did you come from, sweet darling?”

“We’re not keeping him.”

“Hush!”

--

G’raha Tia was wearing an expression similar to the one had the first time he met Estinien, stars literally in his eyes, ears pricked like a unicorn’s, and tail frantically lashing about him and slapping at his ankles and hips. “How,” he breathed.

Aymeric grumbled next to him. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

Synnove, astride her new friend’s back with her arms wrapped around his neck and her face buried in his glowing mane, grunted wordlessly. Said new friend was munching happily on the buds of a stalk of Lominsan sprouts.

Roksana, loafed unhappily on Aymeric’s shoulder, mumbled, A levin unicorn, now a fire unicorn? Where’s the water unicorn for me?

“It’s like looking at one of the illustrations in my favorite book of tales as a boy,” G’raha said, hands clasped in front of him. “Phaeton! The sun’s own fire made manifest!”

“I have never been to Corvos in my life,” Synnove mumbled. She was going to stay here for the rest of her life. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaarm. “Therefore, you can’t blame me for this, my love.”

“I’m blaming you a little,” Aymeric said, snappish and yet still somehow fond all at once as he pet the still-sulking white pearl carbunclet. Synnove grinned into Phaeton’s mane; now she was warm inside, too.

G’raha started hopping from foot to foot, his ears flicking in time with the movement. “There has been some speculation since Ixion began wandering more openly in Gyr Abania that he might be the result of a Mhachi experiment, though personally I would think Allag to be the more likely culprit,” he said. “Such experimentation with fauna is much more within the purview of Allagan aetherochemists rather than Mhachi voidmages, and as Allag had a strong presence in Corvos, the stark similarities between Ixion and Phaeton go from statistically unlikely phenomenon to reasonable coincidence as the products of an Allagan laboratory.”

“G’raha,” Synnove slurred, halfway to a nap with the sun warming her spine and Phaeton warming her face and stomach and everything else, “do you want to pet the pony or not?”

“Please may I pet the pony, oh please oh please oh please.”

She patted Phaeton’s neck, and the fiery unicorn raised his head and swung around to stare at G’raha with eyes like glowing coals. The miqo’te scholar, despite visibly vibrating with his excitement, stepped forward slowly, holding one hand out. Phaeton snorted, but lowered his head to whuffle against his palm.

“This is,” G’raha gushed, “the best day of my life.”

“Know the feeling,” Synnove said. Ixion, still methodically decimating his tomatoes, whickered smugly.

PREVIOUS || NEXT

[autumnslance]

FFXIV Write 2023 Day 23: Suit

They had all dressed up so nice.

Papalymo, traditionalist that he was, wore a formal white Sharlayan archon’s robe in lieu of his usual adventuring outfit, though the Aurifex was still strapped to his back, freshly cleaned, its gold gem gleaming. A family heirloom as well as a powerful magical focus, he had told her.

Yda’s white and red dress was made to complement her own red and black, the similarity in cut, with the bared arms and the knee length of the skirt, intentionally similar to her own dress for the occasion. They had laughed together as they worked with the Toll’s tailors to quickly create them. Yda kept her mask, attaching it to a lighter turban that showed more of her hair and matched the dress. Her thigh-high boots were subtly reinforced, as were her long gloves, especially over the knuckles, so she didn’t have to worry about having her clunky Gutwrenchers with her.

Y’shtola had declined to join them, opting for a white and blue dress that evoked the sense of those formal archon robes, but of a lighter fabric and swishier flow. She kept her wand on her fancy new belt.

Alphinaud was in a long blue jacket, dark pants, knee-high blue boots, and black gloves. His grimoire hung at his side as well, the gift from his famous grandfather never far.

Minfilia had a new dress in her usual pinks and soft purples, in an Ala Mhighan style. A dress for festivals and fighting both; sleeveless, but one flowing armlet attached to one side (the other, Yda told her, was often a gauntlet), open space between the breasts and on the back and midriff, straps attaching the skirt, open in front to show  the loose pants worn, sandals on her feet. She wore her softly-glowing dagger to appease Thancred.

She had expected Thancred to wear the fancy Ul’dahn style outfit again, as he had that time—gods, was that really over a year ago, now?—when they were first acquainted. He was, after all, their usual Ul’dahn representative, for all the Scions had distanced themselves from the city’s politics.

So his white and black suit left her blinking, and perhaps staring enough to be teased gently by Yda, making her damnable blush worse. It wasn’t quite a tuxedo, but it was of a more formal cut than she recalled him wearing since that first celebration, and in a very different style. He fiddled with his cufflinks and gave her a teasing wink, when he caught her looking, for all he had been watching down into the Gold Court with a frown just a moment ago. She didn’t see his blades, but had no doubt they were there. He gallantly offered Minfilia his arm as they made to enter the Fragrant Chamber.

She was diverted to the Sultana’s Suite.

Everything went to hells.

She had the feeling the conspirators weren’t expecting the scholars to show how and why they had earned those marks on their necks, especially while in formal clothing, chosen for comfort and movement as much for appearances.

Yda, in her matching dress, smiling as she chose to stay behind to cover their escape.

Papalymo in his formal robes, staying with Yda to close the gate.

Y’shtola, her lovely skirt skimming the rank waters of the tunnel, ordering them forward.

Thancred dropping the jacket of his handsome suit, giving them another wink and reassurance as he stayed to defend the conjurer.

Minfilia, her Ala Mhigan dress whirling like flower petals in the wind, running back down the tunnel while urging her forward.

Alphinaud, in his tattered blue jacket, panting next to the Marshall as they found her.

Aeryn, at the Falling Snows a week later, throwing her fancy dress into the fireplace, unable to look at it again.

--

(ARR time and budget means we didn’t get the Scions dressed up for the Banquet, alas. Gotta hit up that end of expac angst at least once a challenge, it seems.)