#even rainfall has shadows

[lmk-whenimdone]

Fanart for my girl Lumi

was rlly inspired by the new pages, keep up the amazing work!

[chipi-chupi-chips]

Hu Ru Daxian and An Hé

I had this fanart in my old blog and wanted to post it one more time ♡

From the comic "Even Rainfall Has Shadows"

I'm gettin more deep into this comic Hu Ru is such a beauty and An Hé such a sweetheart I love the dynamic they have (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)

Hu Ru Daxian and An Hé belongs to @lumidotexe

(☆Click for better resolution/quality☆)

(♡Likes and reblogs are very appreciated, thank you so much!♡)

[noteverystarisasun]

Ru and AW interaction

Two different shades of blue and orange,, Raindrops and Stars

Context if needed(?): Ru thought AW was a demon in a human disguise/form (due to his eyes) he is not [wink wonk]

embarrassment happens to the best of us,,

Ru belongs to @lumidotexe in her comic Even Rainfall Has Shadows!

-ASW/Speaks

[insoucianceart]

more sketchbook doodles! today we have @lumidotexe’s LMK OC, Hu Ru Daxian, and also Lumi’s Artist SMP character!

I don’t watch LEGO Monkie Kid but I really enjoy Lumi’s comic! Go check it out on her blog :D

[aimicha-arts]

@lumidotexe it's done

[lumidotexe]

EMERGENCY COMMISSIONS!

COMMISSION INFO/SHEET HERE!

so yeah a fake commissioner scammed me and it got so bad that my bank is closing my account.

Commissions are 20% off through the end of the year! Rules and info about commissioning me are on the sheet! Please read it carefully if you're interested in commissioning! Due to the nature of this scam, I will only be taking Paypal during this period, no exceptions. DM me if you're interested!

If you can't commission, then REBLOGGING/SHARING IS ALSO GREATLY APPRECIATED!!

Even Rainfall has Shadows Masterpost has been temporarily relocated to here. Thank you for your patience!

[inkinflux]

Can't Handle When the Fight Runs Out

Jayce Talis x f!Reader | 2.1k | SFW (tw: mentions of self harm)

Having survived the outcome of the hexcore's chaos, Jayce now deals with the consequences his trauma has on your relationship. A/N: angst, i'm sorry!! I was really inspired by this beautiful song. 🚫 I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WORK BEING USED TO TRAIN AI 🚫  

“Jayce?”

His name spoken, a warm hand outstretched in the dark.

The scar on his back was blue in the speckled moonlight that blanketed the kitchen, his shoulders heaving silently. The shadow of raindrops fell down the perfect canvas, disturbed only by the dents and divots of musculature.

Creaky floorboards announced your presence with a soft groan, and Jayce’s head snapped to the side, his eyes wide.

You approached cautiously, placing a gentle hand on his back. Jayce flinched, leaning forward, placing his hands against the stone counter top to ground himself.

“Did the thunder wake you?” You asked, delving further forward, careful touches sinking into his warm flesh until he gave way, leaning back into you as you pressed your cheek to him.

You gazed through the tall window into the night. Heavy rainfall and a sad, quiet record had lulled you into an easy sleep. You hadn’t noticed Jayce had left your bed until you rolled over, grasping for his body and coming up empty.

Lightning flashed across the blackened sky, illuminating the towers of Piltover. No longer did the tallest building emit the comforting blue glow of the hexgates. All that was left was an unsettling darkness, an absence that would be fruitless to fill.

Jayce didn’t answer. You were patient, your sleep-laden body heavy against his as you struggled to keep upright.

His silence gnawed at you. You wrapped your arms around his waist, fingers stretching up, settling over his heart.

“D’you want me to stay or go?”

Jayce placed his hand over yours. “Stay.”

That was something. Often, he’d tell you to go back to bed, made grumpy in all his missed sleep.

Most days he could barely stand to look at you anymore. Rejection was poised on his tongue at every suggestion. A trip to get away from Piltover? Picking up a new hobby to serve as a distraction? Alchemical solutions to help him sleep? No. No. No.

It was enough to make you feel like a burden.

As if hearing you dwell on such thoughts, Jayce said, “I’m sorry.”

“You were angry,” you conceded. “You’re forgiven.”

He wrapped a hold around your hands, pulling your arms around himself tighter.

“Does it get too hard?” He asked, “Being so good to me every day?” His head hung heavy, his sorrow apparent. “I know I haven’t been… easy to love, lately.”

Your eyes stung. You pressed your forehead to his back, letting the tears fall to the floor with two dull thuds.

It would’ve been to hard to dispute his words, for they were true. And besides, you didn’t want this to devolve into another fight.

Jayce sighed, breathing into your silence. He turned, rotating in your arms, to face you. You peered up at him, the motion causing another tear to fall onto your cheek.

“I know it’s been hard for you too,” your voice was small. “More than I can imagine.”

Jayce shook his head, eyebrows drawn down. He looked like a kicked puppy, even while he towered over you, strong hands reaching up to hold your face tenderly.

“I stood at the end of the world,” he said, fear flashing in his eyes at the recollection, “I feel the same way I did then, whenever the distance between us grows. And I know it’s all my fault.”

“It’s okay-“

“No, it’s not.”

You took a step back, out of his grip. You were so tired of his bad moods. Of his righteous victimhood. You were a mix of resentful and guilty and adoring. How could you be anything other than grateful he had come home, all those months ago?

“It’s okay,” you reiterated, “I never assumed I’d be getting the same Jayce back.”

He nodded, clasping his shaking hands in front of himself, his eyes following, not wanting you to see how hurt he felt.

“Yeah,” he huffed ironic amusement, “Instead, you got a ghost.”

His thumb traced the blue rune embedded in his wrist. The flesh now bore two deep purple lines where he had attempted to carve it out. You winced as your vision flashed red at the memory.

“What is it you want to do?” You had refrained from asking questions for long enough. You knew you had been avoiding the inevitable heartbreak.

Being brave wasn’t your forte. If you had been in Jayce’s shoes, you knew you wouldn’t have been able to do it, soft-hearted as you were.

“I don’t want to keep hurting you,” Jayce decided, the finality in his voice making your stomach twist. “Seems I can’t handle when the fight runs out. All I do is take it out on you.”

Why couldn’t he be content with the peace he had earned? Why couldn’t he block out the violent memories with the love and light you provided?

He had spent countless sleepless nights tracing your sleeping form, wanting to wake you and share his burden. But the thought of tainting you with it pained him more than the nightmares that left claw marks on his mind.

He’d started to resent you for knowing him so well. For leaving when he needed space, and staying when he needed your touch. For voicing how he felt without him needing to open his mouth. Lashing out whenever you tried to offer company, keeping you backed against the walls in your own home to avoid upsetting him.

You were the last thought that floated to his consciousness in that final, bright flash. Instead of the comfort of death, he had awoken to a new day, with nothing left to say.

Who was he without Viktor, without his partner? What was his purpose without hextech, without some sort of greater cause? There was nothing left for him in this world, and yet it had selfishly taken him back, bringing him back to you.

You, who had waited patiently for him to speak, after days of shell-shocked speechlessness. You, who had bathed him and shaved him and slipped fluffy socks on his feet to keep him warm. You, who rushed to close the windows and balcony doors whenever construction down the street began, shielding him from any startling noises.

You, who had been his entire world, until he realized you were just a girl.

As much as he wished for the adverse to be true, a person couldn’t substitute a purpose.

“Can you be angry with me, for once?” His tone was begging, his eyes glassy as he looked up to meet your gaze.

Looking at you, he could glean no fury, no fire. Only weariness etched into your beautiful face, a blank facade that had once been so prone to passion. Despite his attempts to keep you sheltered from his mangled psyche, he had broken you.

Your profile was cast in a blue flicker from the lightning outside, and it pulled your attention away. You stared into the rain for a while before taking hold of Jayce’s hand, tugging him silently to the door.

You were bringing him outside. Kicking him out. His heart started stuttering at the prospect. He thought he was ready for it, he had imagined it would have to come sometime soon.

As you stepped past the apartment threshold, all entered an almost-perfect darkness. You let Jayce’s hand fall, not looking at him before stepping into the rain.

Jayce choked on a response to your unexpected action. Words failed him as he watched you quickly become drenched, before laying down on the road. Your form blended into the storm, your baggy pyjama pants and sleeping top forming tight around your body from the weight of the water.

Jayce entered the curtain waterfall, the raindrops fat and cool amongst the humid summer air. His feet slapped against the pavement until he reached you. He hesitated no longer to lay down beside you, his eyes squinted against the water as it fell against his face.

He stretched his arms out, splayed fingers bumping against yours. He turned his head to look at you, and you were already gazing at your close hands, undeniably feeling the same pull he was.

Jayce linked his fingers through yours, resting the back of his hand against the wet ground.

“I know the emptiness inside you can’t be remedied by anything I do,” you told him after a while of drowning in your swirling emotions.

The rain had woken both of you up, your emotions more coherent. You were looking up into the cloudy sky, the rain letting up finally, slowly transforming from raindrops to a light mist.

“Then why do you keep trying?” Jayce asked. “Doesn’t it piss you off?”

“Of course it does,” you said, with a gentleness that soothed his soul, despite his yearning for anger. “But that emptiness isn’t you, Jayce. Your grief isn’t a part of you, it’s just… the construction of a monument to all you’ve lost. It always takes time before it’s done.”

Jayce glanced at the scaffolding against the front of one of the neighbouring buildings on your street. He smiled at your everlasting ability to make random analogies from your surroundings.

“Let me guess. It also puts up a racket that drives the neighbours crazy?”

“Exactly,” you smiled, turning onto your side to look at him.

He sighed, turning to face you too. “You do realize we’re laying in the middle of the street?”

“Mhm,” you hummed your acknowledgement, your face still warm despite the chill that had set in from the rain.

You reached out for him, and he shuffled closer, cradling your hand as you pressed it to his cheek.

“What if the builders are lousy and take long lunch breaks?” He asked, “What if they can’t get the monument done in time?”

You ran your thumb along his cheek, along his scar. “Isn’t that what always happens? It’s to be expected.”

Jayce slid your hand down to his lips, placing a kiss against your fingers. His hip was starting to ache from being pressed against the concrete. Every sensation suddenly sharp and astute, something he wasn’t used to these days as he walked through a haze.

It was nice to finally feel awake.

You pushed against the ground, raising to sit, your knees bent.

“If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”

Jayce sat up, his mind no longer clouded by pity and pain.

“And if I want to stay?” He asked, “How do I make it up to you?”

You frowned, thinking about it.

“Talk to me. Let me in on the blueprints for this massive monument being built inside of you.”

Jayce chuckled, catching your hand as it slapped half-heartedly against his chest.

“A burden shared is a burden halved, right? I think in your case the burden if way too big to be easily split, but if I can even take a chip of it, hand me a chisel.”

“Alright,” his voice strained as he stood with effort, “I can tell how tired you are when you start getting attached to metaphors. Let’s get you back to bed.”

Before you could prepare a retort, Jayce was scooping you up, carrying you without effort back into your home. You had begun shivering at some point, no doubt from the cold of the rain, and Jayce held your trembling body close, his body heat a persevering force.

When you returned home, Jayce shed your wet clothes and bundled you in blankets and pulled on fluffy socks, placing a kiss on each ankle as he finished doing so.

Warmth blossomed in your chest from the affection. It had been so long since he had indulged in it.

Now he nuzzled his face into your neck, snoring while you remained wide awake. Laying with his peaceful presence, and stroking calming touches to his hair when he twitched from dreams. You could have stayed like that forever, holding him and the weight of the grief inside of him. But then the rain started back up again, and the periodic rise of his back with each breath lulled you to sleep, his body a weighted blanket.

The morning was grey and the rain continued, leading to a late sleep-in. The smell of breakfast woke you a moment before Jayce entered the room, his face clean-shaven and his eyes the brightest you’d seen since he went away.

“It’s not a chisel,” he said, handing you a fork, “but it’s a start, right?”

You looked between him and the plate. Carefully, you took it from his hands, placing both items on the nightstand before pulling him against you in a desperate embrace, your kisses erratic and drawing pleased sounds from his pretty throat.

“Missed you,” you hummed against his lips.

“Me too,” he replied, before deepening the kiss.

[san8ny]

WHEN YOU FANTASIZE, AM I YOUR FANTASY?

!: sfw, a bit of morally grey! Ellie, infidelity.

?: Ellie can’t seem to leave Jesse’s girlfriend alone..

Ellie is not a bad person, she swears she isn’t.

“You have a nice lip shape..” you murmur absentmindedly, smudging out the lipgloss on the sides of Ellie’s ajar mouth with your thumb, eyes looking anywhere but directly up at where you hover over her. This feels sweetly intimate, she thinks, palms directly on your sides as she steadies you on her lap, pretty much since you need a comfortable position to apply products onto her face; The room is warm, rainfall falling lightly on the windowsill rhythmically as the dim lampshade casts a golden hue on your face.

Her eyes finally fall on you and she hopes you don’t notice the slight dilation in her ivy orbs, her affection for you running rampant while Jesse’s game echos where he lounges in the living room a few rooms away from where you two currenly sat in her bedroom— on her bed.

She liked you, you had spunk that none of Jesse’s previous girlfriends had; more importantly, you actually acknowledged her existence living with him, rather than seeing her as a nuisance or a 3rd wheel, always making her feel involved when you two would just chat it up.

Guilt gnawed at her heartstrings whenever you’d go out of your way to be polite to her, often times shushing Jesse when he’d interrupt whatever she had to say, your undivided attention on her as you closely listened to her, even scooting closer.

She practically went to bed with you on her mind; and god, was her appetite and both jealousy maxed out on the nights you would sleep over, perversely having her ear up against the door while you and Jesse fooled around, closing her eyes and imagining it was her around your arms and not her longtime friend.

When her fingers slowly trail up to your baby blue, lacy bralette, you’re pulling away slightly, making small distance,

“Ellie, we’ve talked about this—

“You don’t even like him like that.” She immediately retorts, croak in her throat expanding when you don’t allow her to get anymore closer than she already is. She looks nothing short of pathetic right now and she knows it— you know it.

“Just one kiss..” She attempts to negotiate, eyes pooling with desperation, “I can’t move on fast, you know this..”

She’s down-bad to the point she doesn’t even see the corner she’s put herself in; even if you were to potentially take up her offer and put an end to whatever was left of your relationship with Jesse, you’d still have to actively see him everyday. Lost in your thoughts, Ellie’s burying her head in your lap while you mindlessly run digits in her hair, massaging her tender scalp like you did all those nights you two spent together as you form a conclusion.

“and what about him?” You whisper, humoring the idea, but she doesn’t respond, eyes trained on the shadow moving underneath her door and additionally, way too comfortable in the warmth you held to give a response. She eventually mumbles something but it falls incoherent before she completely goes non-verbal, just focusing on the massaging of your honeyed fingertips.

It was a sickly sight, to say the least, and Jesse would agree.

He stands near the wall adjacent of Ellie’s bedroom door, heart racing as it all dawns on him why she’d been so fond of you and not the others. What he’d just witnessed through the small crack of her door has just completed changed everything, and yet explained it all at once.

A small part of him doesn’t blame Ellie, as he’d fallen for your charms too but, why specifically you? Why not the countless other girls she’s passed up under the guise of ‘not being for a relationship?’

His throat dries up as he, himself, comes to a bridge,

Was she truly not ready for a girlfriend, or was she just getting ready for his?

He stands defeated as he watches the one girl he’s ever liked have more of a connection with his bestfriend than he ever did with her; to add more salt to the wound, he finally notices,

she’s aware of his presence.

She doesn’t acknowledge it, simply letting you pet her like a docile pet while her relatively warm gaze burns into him, a telltale sign she’s trying to get the message across that she’s won whatever this was.

For sure, Ellie Williams was a bad person.

[jolalibrary]

there's nothing blue about you

javier peña x f!reader | masterlist

summary: javier peña's dreams are haunted by shades of blue, blending his fears into nightmarish landscapes. only his lover's touch anchors him, transforming his dreams into hues of something else.

warnings: 18+ smut, p in v. overuse of the colour blue, like by a lot. this whole this is an angsty bitch, with hopeful/hea. leans close to gothic horror in some ways but not quite, honestly? unsure how to describe what in the hell I've written. third-person reader (she/her). no descriptions, no y/n. an: written for @studioghibelli's fic challenge. (the moodboard is at the end of the fic). i think i leaned very much into painting and blue, and I'm not sure if that at all was what was asked of me. thanks: i'd have likely scrapped this if not for @goodwithcheese who took my weird-poetic-ness and called it lyrical and somehow it made it worth how long I've agonised over this. i hope she knows i love her, and if not, i hope this very public declaration confirms it. shoutout @pedgito who urged me to do this. wc: 2.7k

Javier Peña dreams in blue.

Thick strokes of azure, cerulean, and navy smear the world, forcing it to twist around him. Smearing the world, forcing it to twist around him. Knocking it all on its axis—allowing the horrors to blend into fairytales and happiness to shift into nightmares.

Shifting, changing. His worst fears come alive with brushwork, forcing scenarios to swallow hopeful desires.

Each blot spreads out like tendrils, drawing their tales in wide, brisk strokes, in shades of melancholy and yellow. The latter is a beacon—a spark of hope in a sea of nothing; a beam that guides him back to reality. To being awake, where his heart squeezes tight. Eyes open, struggling for breath before the sun has even risen. Sometimes, even before the stars have stopped sparkling and glittering. Sweat beads at his temple, palm to his chest—gasping, struggling to breathe as he drags his hand down his face, swiping the hair above his lip.

Then, anxiousness embroils. That same hand patting, sliding, eyes blinking furiously as he banishes shadows and forces them to shift back to non-threatening inanimate objects.

He’s able to breathe when he feels her. Alive, asleep.

Blissfully unaware of his nightly torture as her chest rises and falls—soft breaths mingling with ragged ones. Curling close, inhaling her scent, listening to the steady way her heart forces blood around her veins.

Hoping, praying, that when he closes his eyes he dreams of nothing, but knows they’ll be worse now. They always are when he wakes and reaches for her. As though by touching her, they spill to her, ruining her too. Wrap their fingers around her, change her skin to deep shades of blue in his hands as he falls through landscapes and lands in hell.

Then she sobs, pleads; tight little balled-up fists hammering at his chest as she shakes everything in him until she rips like paper, leaving him alone, just like he envisions he should be.

But then, he’d choose those over the ones where his hands are stained in her crimson, blotched, unable to be washed, little beads on his clothes and then a rainfall. Her split in his hand, eyes fading from light to dark. Those haunt him for longer when he wakes and he sits opposite her over breakfast and tries to force a smile.

Sometimes, he worries that his dreams have become the thing she adores. Reminding him of the poster she’s framed in her place—the one with swirls of a night sky.

She stares at it often, loses herself in it—escapes. Javi envies her for it. For being able to lock away the things that plague her, evading them, not to be tormented by them in fields that shift and flutter around him. He thinks it’s because she carves out the parts that make bags appear under her eyes through painting. Inspired, thriving, transforming wicked things into light, taking something that weighs her to something that makes her smile. Each drag of her paintbrush was like a spell, like magic.

“It helps.”

“How so?” he replied, leaning against the wall, arms folded, admiring.

Shrugging, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand before dabbing the brush into the murky water. “Just does.”

He wishes she’d run the brush over him. Run the synthetic filaments over every part of his skin.

But then, if he was asked, Javi would choose not to have the dreams at all. Would rather not be lost in a labyrinth of blues, where a lantern flickers and tries to guide. Instead, they cast ochre-shaded shadows that appear like shape-shifting failures. Each of them dancing, whispering secrets, finding all he can do is follow. Trust in it, hopeful it takes him to her, like his real life.

An accidental meeting, a connection that soothed his bones. One that had him smiling when he sat back in his truck, had him thinking when the darkness smothered the backyard and had him wishing for second meetings.

But, unlike his reality, the path is never straight, always winding, always shifting.

Sometimes, he sees her in the distance, her figure bathed in moonlight, a silhouette against the swirling sky. Sheet falling, curves and all on show. He reaches out, only for her to fade, dissolving into the night, leaving him grasping at the air like he’s chasing a ghost. A thing conjured, never real.

But, she’s real now.

His arm is behind his head when he hears the faint groan as she stretches before a palm slides over the soft curve of his stomach. Her breath fans over his lips, a whispered morning before they press to his. Smooth, velvety, gentle—addled with sleep, yet dripping in need. His name is punctuation in the sentence when she says, want you.

He never squanders the chance to remind himself of actuality. Moving her until she’s on her back, until she’s as bare as she is in his dreams—nothing blue, nothing midnight, cobalt or sapphire. Feeling her, taking the time to as he kneads her breast and grazes his teeth over the bud that hardens against his tongue as her nails scrape red along the olive of his skin.

There’s no making up the way she feels between her thighs, warm, slick, and inviting—or the gasp she emits when he curls two fingers inside of her and her back arches at the intrusion.

A blessing. That’s how he’d describe her when he’d been caught smiling, wearing smitten like an accessory. Questioning on the second date if she could be the sun to his night. Bright, luminous, radiant. The type he’d somehow expect to find shopping in town in a movie, but not in Laredo.

Too perfect—

Made only more so when she’d slid her underwear into his pocket on their third date. Before the mains, after the starters. Too much of the meal to go before he could make an excuse that’d allow him to hear if she moaned as pretty as he had thought.

It’s too pretty the noises she makes. Another thing he yearns for. She emits them in varying shades, but they’re always cried with his name—whether he fucks her rough or gentle, whether he takes his time or bends her over the couch decorated in plush cushions and creased blankets.

She welcomes it, when he hikes her dress up or when he pushes her panties to the side; when his mouth is pressed to her spine or when it’s crashing to her lips. Use me, she says, suave, sultry—each letter wrapped in intoxication as she leaves dye only he can see on his skin and he leaves bruises that he’ll look to replace in a few days.

He remembers when she painted him.

When she made him beautiful on white canvas—saw him, immortalised him with finger marks and paint strokes.

Do you like it?

He answered only by sliding down onto his knees, by pulling the shorts she paints in down her glorious thighs and answering yes against her pussy. His tongue explained it better than words could. His fingers had dug into the flesh of her rear as his nose bordered her swollen clit, her thigh rested on his shoulder and her palms pressed into her workbench, leaning back, for leverage as he fucked her with his tongue, as he drank up every drop she’d give him—as though it healed him, fixed him.

When he can, Javi likes bending her over around her paints—taking her. Likes that sometimes an open can or a left-out brush stains him in a way he can see. Rich oranges and deep greens. He enjoys spreading her out on her workbench as he makes her whine his name which makes all other ways his name is spoken seem obsolete. That there’s more than her sweat on his skin, her scent digging into his bones—evidence, proof of existence.

He has all the evidence now as he slowly slides his cock inside of her. As he swallows her whine, her moan—a gasp tinged with thankfulness. Feeling her stretch around him, take him in one smooth movement as allows himself to glance down and see where they meet. Then, he drags his eyes up, and sees how she smiles, how her fingers are reaching for him, grabbing for him. Needing, desperate, wanting.

But not just for his body, for what lived inside of his jeans. But for him.

Not just the daytime, but the blue version that drapes over him when things get too quiet and his mind gets too loud. No question asked, but an offering of comfort. Like when she had slid across his lap, when she pulled his head to her chest, brushed fingers into his hair. And he wonders like he did then and only ever to himself, how cruel it is that he cannot be something more for her. How unfair it feels for such sunshine to be surrounded by a storm.

He had smiled, though. Half-assed and minimal. Pulled her closer, so she sat more comfortably across his thighs. The grin barely reached his cheeks, never mind his eyes. “How strange, to dream of you even when I am wide awake.”

Her snort loud had punched the air. “Poet now, are we?”

“For you, I’ll be anything.”

More words had surrounded it, not spoken, but there. I’ll do anything, be anything. I’ll try, I’ll—

Unsure how else he could keep such a thing, unsure how he can keep perfection curled up against him, who’ll remind him his demons are only self-inflicted.

“Maybe just be you. You, are plenty enough.”

He had sneered, chin dipped, shame blooming.

“Hey,” she says urgently, fingers hooking under his chin as she drags his eyes to hers. “You are, Javi. And I’ll be reminding you of that until I have no words left in my mouth.”

“Be a while then, with how much you talk.”

Even as she pinched him, he pressed how he didn’t deserve her against her lips, against her cheek, neck and collarbone. Not that she took them. Ripped them instead, shredded them.

“You don’t have to pretend with me.” Her fingers then glided across the back of his neck, head rested against his. “Because, you know, Javi, there’s nowhere or no one else I’d rather be sat on…”

A beat passed, one he waited for, fingers brushing over her skin. “…crushing.”

He laughed then. 

Because she always pulls laughs from him like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like he’s a soul full of joy, happy. Like he wasn’t a man who had spent a decade around destruction, misery and streets filled with scarlet, weighed down by it. 

She makes it lighter. In the same way, she calms him at night and he thanks her for it in the morning.

Like he’s doing now. Licking his thumb before he presses it to her clit, swirling, forcing her pussy to draw around him, to hold his cock as tightly as he needs, sucking him in, gasping for more as her breasts bob with each thrust, and her mouth falls open in a silent moan—

“Close, m’close, Javi. Fuck, baby—”

He presses his mouth to the juncture of her neck, feeling her attempt at vocalisation. Letting it vibrate against his lips, tingle. Proof that he’s awake, that this is real, that in any moment things won’t turn—

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” he groans, pressing kisses, dotting them in a pattern like stars in the sky. “Feel so good around me...”

She whines. A noise he banks in his mind, a jar full now—one that sparkles and shimmers.

“You feel good too.”

“Yeah?”

Nodding, hands sliding around his neck, digging into the hair at the base of his neck. “Always make me feel good,” she slurs.

Javi hooks her leg over his waist. A new angle, one that drives him deeper, as she clenches and he snaps his hips to hers. Feeling her close to snapping, her thighs already shaking, trembling. His chest heaving, her ribs expanding, copious breaths to still the dizziness she inflicts on him—just by being, just by existing.

It’s building, that fire in his veins, the fever that spreads out of him when he releases inside of her and she tugs him close as she comes down from her high. His hips stuttering, his name a symphony that erodes all other noises from his dreams.

And, there’s nothing blue about this. Nothing despairing, melancholy about this, about her.

Not when she flutters and arches when she comes and uncoils. Her fingers dig into whatever part of him she can get to before he smears himself inside of her, groaning into her neck as he spills and thinks of nothing but how much he adores her.

How much he loves her. Because he does. He loves her, he loves her, he loves her.

“I love you too,” she whispers from underneath him, his head pulling from her neck—elbows on either side of her face.

Finding seriousness staring back, her fingers skating over the sweat sliding down his forehead, wiping it on the sheets she lies on.

“Unless you hadn’t meant to say it. Then I take it back.”

He blinks. Thinking of the summer’s day when he’d first seen her; the first rainfall two months later when his arms had wrapped over her front, pressed her back to his chest and they felt the cooling air slide over their warm skin. He remembers the night he’d told her everything, and the new candles that had become stumps as she listened; the stormy afternoon turned night when he’d taken her out of town, and how her hand had slid over his and thanked him.

“I meant it.”

Her lips slide into her cheek, palm pressing to his chest. “Good.”

He wonders over morning coffee, when she glances at him and smiles if his dreams are merely a reflection of his fears—rather than anything that could come true. A manifestation of his fears of losing her, fearing the day when the blues will no longer be just dreams. Because good things don’t always, least of all to those who don’t deserve it.

He blinks them away when she tells him she has something to show him, hearing her bare feet on the floor until he doesn’t, counting, reaching twenty, before she appears, a new canvas in hand.

And when she turns it, letting it face him, his breath is stolen—feet forcing him to stand.

Her hand held it, the brightest shades that could ever be. Mixed brushstrokes into something that heals a crack in him, one that he’s never asked for. Because in every shade but blue is him and Pop outside the ranch, a place that had never felt like home, but now feels like the only place he could ever call such.

“Where are you?”

She blinks, the slightest frown in her brows. “What… what do you mean?”

“You belong there too, cariño.”

And if she hadn’t believed him in bed, in the things he’s not said, he thinks she believes them now. Leaning the canvas against the counter, feet padding towards him before her mouth is on his—different, more necessary, as his arms slip around her waist.

Something else slid back into place, able to fill his lungs a little easier.

Not a shade of blue in sight, not indigo, powder or sky.

And he worries it’s temporary—a thing that’ll change come nighttime. But he smiles all the same, right against her hairline when he presses a kiss there too. Feeling her hand sliding around his waist, becoming an anchor, a rock, a crutch.

He loves that about her too, that she does that for him. But he’ll tell her that tomorrow.

A silent promise, one beginning to stitch with a smile. And, then, when nightfall comes, and the painting rests against the wall of his room, Javier Peña finds—for the first night since he’s been back—that he doesn’t dream in blue.

Instead, he dreams in yellow. In honey, citrus and sunshine.

[beomiracles]

for kinktober: yeonjun + knife/gun play if you’re feeling it :3

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒

DAY 16 : CHOI YEONJUN + KNIFEPLAY DARK CONTENT — “Don’t worry, I promise to take care of you this time”, he murmurs, brows furrowed as he lets the flat of the blade press against your naked skin.

Knife play is a form of consensual BDSM edgeplay involving knives, daggers, and swords as a source of physical and mental stimulation. 

pairings yandere-ex!yeonjun x fem!reader warnings heavy yandere themes, dub-con, kissing, vaginal fingering, hints at previous abuse, knife play but it’s also used as a threat, reader has sort of an internal crisis !

#serene adds ✎ I love this one, even though I'm not too sure just how big the actual knife play part is.. >-<

EVENT POST

“Are you scared?” 

The question was rhetorical, you could tell by the low and menacing drawl of his lips. Still you shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat as you try to calm your nerves. Your small objection makes his face twist into a sour grimace as Yeonjun draws in closer. The sharp knife glints under the pale moon when he brings it to your throat, its sharpened edge resting just above your palpable pulse, blood flowing beneath your warm skin. 

He towers over you, his expression dark as his body cages yours against the cold and rough brick wall. Your eyes flicker down the narrow and vacant alleway, the last bit of hope you’d clung onto flushing out onto the pavement along the heavy rainfall. — You hadn’t heard from him in months, you thought that you were finally rid of him, that you were finally safe. 

But as soon as you’d let your guard down, he appeared. It was as if he’d been waiting for you to slip up, to make a mistake, and you had. Fuck you should’ve asked Soobin to follow you home, but you didn’t want to bother him, and it was late.. One act of kindness had led to one of malice as your ex-boyfriend cornered you, seemingly out of nowhere as he appeared from the shadows. 

“I think you should drop the knife.” You try your hardest to sound calm, as if you were talking to a slightly delirious and insane person, but Yeonjun was. His lips curl into something halfway of a smile and a smirk, you couldn’t quite place it, but it made him look uncanny. The sharp silver is firm against your throat and you find it hard to breathe. "Yeonjun, I'm serious..” But there’s a shaky edge to your voice, and you know he can pick up on it. 

“Baby. I don’t get it..” His brows furrow, the inside of his cheek caught between his teeth as the knife drops from your neck. “Thought you liked this, us, I mean”, he continues, his free hand traveling down your side before coming to rest on your hip. — You go to shake your head once more but quickly stop when you catch his expression. 

“We.. It just wasn’t right, okay?” You try to make it sound as painless as possible, choosing to leave out the details of the hell he’d put you through. Yeonjun shakes his head, readjusting the grip on the knife as his eyes snap back to yours. “I’ll make it right”, he states and before you have the chance to question him, does he connect your lips in a desperate kiss. 

You try to push him back, nails clawing at his chest but it’s to no avail. “We can go back to how things used to be”, he breathes against you, tongue invading your mouth and you gasp. Sure Yeonjun had gone to extreme lengths over the past six months in order to get you back, but this was a whole new level. And as the dull end of the knife slides up your thigh, you let out a terrified scream against his lips. 

“No, no, no, shh”, he hushes you with a hand on your mouth, eyes darting around the alleway anxiously before they return to you. “I would never hurt you baby.” The phrase is all too familiar and your stomach draws into knots. Still, your hands give up on pushing him away, instead they anchor themselves in his shirt as you exhale. 

He flips the blade, using the pointy tip to slice through your long dress as he creates a makeshift slit in the fabric. “Don’t worry, I promise to take care of you this time”, he murmurs, brows furrowed as he lets the flat of the blade press against your naked skin. The cool sensation sends shivers through your body and you shudder. 

“Just like how it used to be”, he repeats to himself as his hand dips beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers slipping down to part your folds as he drags them along your cunt. You know you should stop him, call the cops, have him locked up, make him go away. So why couldn’t you, why did you let him do this? 

The knife now rests against your chest, his grip on it is lazy as he focuses on his fingers inside your weeping cunt, eyes glued to the scene of them disappearing before withdrawing covered in slick. You could easily take it from him, overpower him, he was weak when it came to you. But you don’t. 

Instead you let your head fall back against the brick behind you, a shallow moan passing through your lips as your nails dig into the apex of his shoulders. “See, I always make you feel so good”, Yeonjun hums as he slides a third finger inside, curling it along with the others as he pulls a small cry from you. 

He seems to regather focus as he grips the knife firmly again, letting it trace along your exposed collarbone, watching with great fascination as you shudder in both fear and arousal. 

Perhaps you liked his sadistic ways, perhaps that's why you let him terrorize you like this. Perhaps that was why you had yet to report him to the police, why you’d let this go on for six months.. Did you crave the validation he gave you? Or were you in love with the idea of being loved by him? You didn’t know, you didn’t want to think about it for either thought scared the living daylights out of you. 

“I love you, you know that?” He whispers, his fingers slowing to a more gentle pace as he momentarily withdraws to play with your soaked folds, briefly flicking over your clit, relishing in the way you moaned against him. It was all the confirmation he needed, it was what he needed to keep longing for you for another eternity. 

You weren’t in love with him, but you couldn’t imagine a life without him.

kinktober taglist (send an ask to be added) — @sweetpotatogyu @aduh0308 @joieouioui @inkigayocamman @bambammtori @hkplushier @gyusoulz @eliluvsjjunie @velvetmoonlght @izzyy-stuff @hwanghyunjinismybae @lunathewritingcat @ninitorih @run4gyu @beestvng

© all rights reserved ─ @beomiracles 2024

[innistable]

Talk talk (snippet) [Full fic coming 10/07/2024] [1/4]

jason todd x reader

summary: the sequence of events that led you and your neighbor, Jason Todd, to fall in love. For better of for worse.

a/n: I'm new to tumblr and I'm still getting the hang of this. English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes. Please, like and reblog if you are interested in reading the full fic, any comment is highly appreciated.

word count: 2k

Your grandmother had always been a superstitious woman, constantly talking about those omens lying everywhere, praying to be seen, both as a warning sign or as a blissful encounter. However, you have never been the one to pay attention to that, not caring about cats, stairs, corners, clover and everything in between, especially in a city like Gotham, where you don’t need an auspice to know that danger is close. 

For all of its sketchiness, Gotham City is a pretty straightforward place, there is always something happening, you may not see it, but it is there, an uneasiness that you can’t quite shake, hiding in a blind spot, a shadow in the corner of your eye. Still, in this precise moment, you wish that you had paid attention to something, omen or not, maybe the gray sky had been a good pointer that it was going to rain, maybe for once you could have listened to weather forecast, and maybe, just maybe, you should have just stayed at home after you saw that black cat licking one of its wounds on the fire escape. 

The point of all this is that it is raining, pouring, it’s one of those rainfalls that’s so loud and strong that it makes you think that the sky is being torn apart. Now you are on your knees, blue jeans now wet and grayish against the cold pavement, trying to retrieve your scattered groceries. 

It went like this: a few harmless droplets when you were cornering Monolith Square to take the bus after spending the evening seeing the Wayne Botanical Garden; on the bus, you were reading a book, something short and too pretentious for its own good, suddenly, the driver was using the windshield wiper and you noticed that the window view was then translucent, being barely able to make out the street silhouettes, it all became a blurry heap of buildings, street lamps and ill-defined legs, torsos and heads; then, you recognized the “C” Building, your stop, so you pressed the button, the bus slowed down and opened its door, outside a storm awaited. 

It’s a two hundred meter walk to your apartment, but what normally was easy, it turned into a midday odyssey, strong winds and warm water made the route unbearable, your tote bag felt heavier by every passing second and just when you were in front of your building, keys in hand, your bag tore by the seams, and all of its contents fell to the ground. 

It’s frustrating and you feel like screaming, it’s not the worst thing to ever happen to you, but it does feel like it is, probably because Gotham is some kind of cruel mistress, no matter how hard you try to play by its rules, it always ends up having a way to humble you, you might try to avoid trouble, but it ends up finding you, one way or another. You have this kind of overwhelming sentiment that makes your eyes sting when you see the damp sugar on the floor, just next to the trinkets you got from the Wayne Botanical Garden and your favorite brand of cookies. 

The rain seems to feel your distress and it starts pouring even more. Great. 

“Need help?” a voice asks. 

You have never been a very religious person, but when you hear those words dripped in that thick gothamite accent that sometimes makes your stomach churn, you think that perhaps there is something out there that has decided to glance your way for once, and that for once, it felt pity for you. 

“Yes.” you say. 

You look up and see a tall man, gruff, huge. He has dry blood on his upper lip, a thin scab, dark maroon, recent but not too fresh. His hair is black, tousled, with a white streak on the front, and it seems a little bit damp, locks sticking to his forehead. His skin seems thick, probably because it is littered with scars, white dents on his skin, some big and some small, you don’t think too much about it, it’s Gotham, everyone has some scars around here, from gunshots to safety accidents on the swings of Robinson Park. His eyes are blue, almost icy, and his pupil is enveloped by vibrant green hues, his gaze seems curious and fixated, he is analyzing you, the same way you are analyzing him, ‘fair’ you think. He wears a worn out hoodie, overused, with grease spots and frayed holes, he is wearing also a pair of black shorts, the ones you use for running or going to the gym, and he’s also using trainers, the label says Numa instead of Puma, they are probably from the street markets that you can find around in every corner of Gotham. 

He is alluring, you concede, even handsome. But that doesn’t matter, because he is kind. Gotham is isolating, people keep to themselves, they look the other way, not because they are necessarily assholes, but because they have clear boundaries, they distinguish your business from their business, and unless those two spheres intersect, they don’t see a reason to cross the line, it’s easier that way. Therefore, unapologetic kindness is not something easy to come across; in fact, you would be wary of it, if it wasn’t for the fact that he has a plastic bag and is taking your milk carton from the ground. Thank you, that’s what your eyes say. 

For Jason it goes like this. 

He is in his apartment, for the first time in days. It’s Wednesday and on Saturday he had a complicated patrol with Nightwing, the kind of complicated that leaves your face scarlet and body mauve, the type of convoluted patrol that leaves you aching for days, movements limited and a sore spot under your sixth rib. 

He was kept in the Manor until yesterday evening, not because he wanted to, but because he was forced to. I can take care of myself he grumbled, but then Afred got this look in his eyes, not the one that says I am disappointed, he doesn’t care about that, he is used to disappointing, to failed expectations and lists of unspoken requirements he will never meet, it’s fine, what’s not fine is the other look, the one that softly whispers You are breaking my heart, master Jason, and Jason doesn’t want to do that, not to Alfred, who seems the only one ready to accept him for what he is now and not clinging to an old memory of what could have been. So, he stayed, receiving medical care from Leslie and Alfred, but he left as soon as he could. 

Alfred had asked if he was staying for dinner, even though at this point it’s more of a silent plea, some sort of want for him to stay for once, to really be part of the family, to act like one, but Jason never agrees. The thing is, Jason never stays, he flees, he doesn’t do goodbyes or excuses, he is not a Wayne, perhaps he was at some point, when he was loud and excitable, full of wonder, but that part of him died, and no magic or god can bring that back, some things stay dead and maybe it’s better off that way. 

The point is that he was finally back at his apartment. The closest thing he had to a proper home. It was small, he could afford bigger, he had bigger, but it began being just a plain safehouse, some impersonal storage unit to keep ammo, League weapons, gear, etc. However, at some point, he started spending nights there, probably because it was in a nice part of Gotham, Midtown, without the constant chaos from Uptown, where he mostly operated, but still far away from the haughtiness ever so characteristic of Downtown Gotham. It was a perfect balance, not too much, not too little, and Jason likes evenness, equilibrium, perhaps because most days he tethers the line between sanity and insanity so he appreciates any resemblance of stability he can grasp onto. 

He arrived yesterday at 20:30, ordered delivery from the mexican restaurant a few blocks away, and fell asleep watching reruns from an old, mildly successful tv show. He likes the background noise, when everything is too quiet, he starts imagining things: footsteps, the sound of a crowbar against his flat’s parquet, screams and wails, the sound of a ticking bomb, etc. He likes everything that makes his subconscious believe that he is not alone. 

His morning wasn’t different from any other mornings and that was fine. Jason enjoys routines, the predictable. He enjoys his usual morning channel; the black cat that visits him every morning to silently ask for food; the cadence of his neighbors footsteps as they run around their flat trying to get the kids ready for school and Roy’s texts. There is no sign that today is going to be different, and he likes that. He hits the gym, as always. He prepares lunch, nothing fancy. He reads, today it is The Master and Margarita, he is one hundred pages in, he marks words, phrases, writes thoughts on the margins and slowly makes his way through. He journals, he is not much of a poet, not that he wants to; he might be tortured, but he is not an artist, words more times than not get stuck on his throat, scratching like barbed wire against his larynx, drawing blood; however, Dinah, also known as Black Canary, who acts as his psychologist via Roy, advised him to write, she told him that it could help, sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn’t, he keeps doing it anyway. 

When the clock marks 17:23, he gets bored, so he goes to his balcony. It’s sad, but he lives his days anticipating the nights; he likes patrolling, he savors the adrenaline, he basks on the rush, he thrives under the light of traffic and streetlights; daylight stuns him, he doesn’t really know how to navigate the world once the sun has risen, it’s disorientating. Therefore, he just rots, he decays around his apartment, and now he feels like festering on his balcony. Suddenly, it starts to rain. It begins as a drizzle, so he doesn’t really care, he takes a cigarette, he lights it up and takes a puff. 

He started to smoke when he came back to life, his dad used to do it, his mom too, everyone in Crime Alley did it, since it helped you to stay warm. When he was younger, he didn’t like it, back then when he was the bright-eyed Robin and he treated his body like a temple because Batman told him to do so, back when the only thing he wanted was to prove himself worthy, something he never was. His body as Robin was a temple; his body as the Red Hood are the ruins of a long forgotten empire that lived its own demise, and no one cares about ruins, why should he? 

His first cigarette was given to him by Egon, one of the first mercenaries who trained him after his resurrection; then, the habit sticked, after all the life he chose, the life he lives, happens on dimly lit bars and dingy hideouts where a thick layer of smoke covers everything, it’s only normal that he smokes. Furthermore, he admits, there is some kind of masochist element to it, at first, the smell of smoke was enough to send him to a panic attack, since it reminded him of bombs, collapsed buildings, screeching manic laughs and charred skin; smoke was what filled his lungs when he gave his last breath, so if he was able to control the panic that the smell evoked, that meant that he won, in some way, in any form, it may be a consolation prize, but a prize nevertheless. 

So he smokes and the rain starts falling with more force, but he doesn’t bother going inside, he likes the feeling of the droplets against his skin, it’s nice, it feels real. He looks down and he sees you, hunched over picking things from the floor and, after a few heartbeats laced with smoke, he decided to go down and help. 

He sees you up close, eyes fixed in your face, taking in every detail, engraving them on his memory as he does with everyone. Right now, the world doesn’t tilt on his axis, there are no sweaty palms or rushed breaths, nothing has stopped, it doesn’t feel like something monumental, but it is. 

He helps you and accompanies you to your apartment, it’s on the second floor - his is on the fourth - and he feels content about knowing someone new after Roy has been nagging him about needing to be friendlier and meet other people. He doesn’t talk much, he never does, he tells you his name and his apartment number, it’s enough for such a small talk. You thank him and it feels nice. He leaves and you close the door, it’s enough for today. 

Like and reblog for the full fic

[stormhearty]

Pairings: Eris x Reader

Word Count: 3k

Triggers: pining, reader being shot by arrows, mentions of bloodshed and killing

Summary: Eris watched as your body lay still in the large bed, healing from the poisonous arrows that had penetrated your body. The Autumn Heir is reminded that, no matter how much he loves you, you will always be in danger if you stay around him. Now he has to make a choice… whether to keep you in his arms and protect you with his fire or to unlock the cage and let you go free.

Note: Based on this request! Thank you @strangelygreat for your request! I love this so much. I realized that I never really listened to this song in its entirety. The Broadway version, “If I Can’t Love Her” has a similar feel — it has the same longing and distress. But I listened to <Evermore> and of course, I am in love. <Evermore>, Josh Groban’s version more specifically, has such a beautiful pining feeling; I listened to it while brainstorming and writing this song. This is also based on a scene from the manhwa “Secret Lady”, one which echoes this feeling of pining with angst. I loved this scene in this manhwa, and I highly suggest reading it! This will mostly be under Eris’ POV since the song is from the Beast’s POV as well.

I would suggest listening to the song either before reading this story or during, and please do tell me if I could portray the song correctly!! Or was able to portray a similar feeling to it.

Closing the door behind him with a silent click, Eris stepped into the dimly lit room, his steps leading to a familiar bed, one that held a familiar body underneath its sheets. A hand reached out to grab the back of a chair, dragging it across wooden floors, the echo of scraping wood resonating throughout the quiet room. Placing the chair next to the bed, he gracefully sat down, hands gripping the arms of the chair as amber hues stared at the rise and fall of your back.

The room had grown silent after that, the pitter-patter of rainfall against the large windows and your even breathing occupied the room. It rarely rained in Autumn Court, but lately, Eris felt like the weather matched his mood — bleak, dull, and sober. His gaze moved from your peaceful features to the bandages on your back, the blackened blood that seeped through the white cloth.

It had been a month.

A month since the day you had stepped in front of those poisonous arrows, ones covered with ash — ones that were marked towards him — and almost had your life taken away in front of his very eyes.

He watched as your eyes looked up at him, a smile tugging at your lips, the words that slipped from your lips haunting him to this day: “You're okay…”

Eris felt himself stiffen in the chair, hearing the echo of your words through his body. He felt the wood creak underneath his fingertips, his claws splinting the wood underneath them.

He could still see it — how your body slumped against his, that arrow penetrated your skin; how the blood seeped from that wound through your ball gown. He could still smell it — that blood that tricked from the edge of your mouth and onto his pristine clothes. He could still feel it — how your body slowly started to become cold in his warm hands, how your pulse slowed underneath his palm.

The scene was still vivid in his mind — a constant reminder of the dangers that lurked in Autumn Court; on the dangers that followed him. On how every single moment that you lay in this bed, barely hanging into the thread of life — was another reminder to the Autumn Heir that he had started to become selfish — especially when it came to you.

For the longest time, he had restrained himself, his feelings, his obsession when it came to you. You were a fleeting moment — he constantly told himself — one that was not meant to be caged, especially not by him. Not in the political battlefield such as Autumn Court. Not where his brothers waited in the shadows to strike him down every waking second. Not where his father was looking for any weakness to use against him as punishment.

You weren't meant to stay by him, he had concluded.

Eris knew that — from the moment he laid eyes on you, all those years ago.

How you were a breath of fresh air in his suffocating world. You were his haven… an escape from the constant pressures of his Court. He wouldn’t have minded if the world had faded away — all that mattered was you. And Eris knew, oh how he knew, and that very thought was intoxicating and dangerous. All he had wanted to do was to keep you within arm-length, to be able to whisk you away when need be.

But he couldn’t.

“(Y/N)…” Eris murmured your name in the darkness, like a lover whispering sweet nothings.

“I can tell you now…”

Amber hues stared at your sleeping form, unaware of the truth that he was about to spill. Eris knew that the walls listened, his own home against him. But he needed to get it off his chest, to let the world know.

“You were my Goddess for the longest time…”

He shifted slightly to pull pieces of porcelain from his pocket — a broken miniature statue, one that Eris had held onto for all these years. He glanced at the pieces before shifting his hand, to allow them to fall to the wooden floor, the sound barely reaching his ears.

“You were something that I could admire from far away, keeping you at arms distance. Something that I could look at and never touch, never hold. I wasn’t afraid to think of you back then… to wish and yearn for you… To miss you. I never wanted to know who you were, never wanted to know more about you. I was content with just looking.

“But, when I saw you that day… During my coming-of-age ceremony, all those centuries ago, could you imagine — - no… you could never understand how I felt that day.”

You were radiant. A bright light in his dim world. Even in a crowded room, he could spot you from a mile away. You radiated warmth, kindness… purity. Something absent in his world of hatred and betrayal.

A shaky sigh escaped his lips, a hand coming up to run through his copper locks before running down his face, pressing against his eyes to prevent the burn of tears.

“It was the first time in my entire life… I wanted nothing more to do than run.

“You were gorgeous. And for the life of me, I couldn’t look at you without having my heart beat frantically in my chest. I felt like my heart would jump out, for the world to see how much you had affected me.

“Was this love? Was this devotion? Did this shift of emotion mean that I could never be able to seek you out again? That I could never be able to think freely of you? I didn’t know. And I didn’t want to.

“I thought that I would be able to manipulate myself into not loving you. How could I? I didn’t know you… all I had loved was what I could see on the outside. I thought I could manipulate myself into thinking to not fall in love with someone I did not know.

“I had thought it would be easy. I rarely saw you, except on passing occasions… Superficial words of greetings in loud halls. It was fine, for centuries, for me to just silently yearn for you. To allow myself not to hold you tight…”

A broken laugh paused his monologue, his hand dropping back onto the arms of the chair as he looked at you. He shifted out of the chair and moved to sit at the edge of the bed close to your form. Eris reached over, wanting nothing more than to feel your skin underneath his hand — to ensure you were still there… alive. He hesitated, his hand hovering over your back, only to move to gently grasp a piece of your hair. He leaned down and pressed a kiss on that one lock of hair.

“But that night, all those months ago, when you sought me out in the forest, knocking frantically on that small cabin door. You had sacrificed your safety to forewarn me of the assassination attempt by my brother. I knew I had to push you away, I had to keep you hidden from the prying eyes of my father and brothers. For they would know, if I had been a moment too late, pulling you in and hiding you within that closet, they would have known how much you had affected me.

“I knew that I should have let you go that night. I shouldn’t have held your hand and pulled you into that cabin. I should have let you run away from this cage I call my home.

“But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t let you go, not when you were the one who sought me out. For the first time in centuries, you were the one who looked for me.”

Fingers dropped that lock of hair, as he settled his elbows onto his knees, hands, once again, pressing against his face as the tears finally broke… cascading down his cheeks in a never-ending river. He cried in silence, afraid that any sob or cry of grief would wake you up from your slumber.

You were finally within arms grasp.

Eris could reach out and hold you in his arms, to press his lips against yours. To love you as he had wanted.

“I couldn’t lie to myself anymore, (Y/N)… I wanted more. I wanted nothing more than to hold you in my arms, kiss you in the dead of night, make you moan my name as we made love… I wanted to drink up everything that you had given me. I wanted your eyes to shine only for me.

“And I regretted it so much.”

Eris felt every regret seep into his body — he regretted letting you into his life, into his world of fire.

“You mustn’t let her lay on her back—-” the priestess hummed out, as the glow from her hands faded away, fixing the bandage to cover the wound.

Eris watched, dull amber eyes staring at your face for any indications of pain. He held you in his arms, your head resting against his shoulder as the priestess healed the wound on your back.

“—-For it may fester with the moisture that can build up. You must lay her on her stomach, to let the wound breathe…” The gentle hands of the priestess ran over the wound, and Eris felt you shift in his arms, your face scrunching in pain. He felt himself growl at the priestess, amber eyes lighting in anger.

The priestess bowed in apology, “—- Her feeling pain is better than feeling nothing, my Lord.” With one last bow, the priestess swept away, passing the Lady of Autumn as the doors closed.

Eris didn’t pay attention to his mother, not when you were shivering in his arms. He sighed softly, bringing you closer to his warmth, letting the fire that breathed under his skin warm you. Fingers ran through your tangled hair, trying to undo the knots that came upon you while you were asleep.

“Why did you let (Y/N) into the Forest House?” Lady of Autumn asked her son, finally breaking up the silence of that room.

It had been a day after the incident — a day after you had taken the arrow that should have taken his life. A day since the priestess worked their magic to try to save you from the brink of death.

Eris had been nothing but a statue, forgoing his duties as the Heir of Autumn Court to just sit in that very room, watching you breathe — as if afraid that if he turned away from your body, you would disappear.

He glanced up at his mother for a moment before he leaned down to bury his head into the crook of your shoulder, the feeling and sound of your breathing calming him, reassuring him that you were still alive in his arms.

“Why did you have to —-”

“Mother…” he breathed out, interrupting her question.

Lady Autumn raised a brow, lips pressing as she allowed her son to explain.

“Imagine there is someone you wanted to protect, would do anything to protect. And you realize… that the person you wanted nothing more to protect was in danger because of you. What would you do?”

Eris shifted so he could lay you back on the bed, gently laying you down on your stomach as the priestess told him to do. He sat at the edge of the bed, tugging the bedsheet to cover your lower half, allowing your back to breathe in the cooling air.

“I would do whatever in my power… to ensure their safety…” she answered him.

Eris ran his hand down your back gently once more before he stood up, his feet dragging him over to the window as amber hues stared out into his Court.

“And that’s what I did, Mother… That night, after I had killed Tharetiur, his blood splattered on the wood of that cabin. After (Y/N) had fallen asleep in my bed, I stepped out into the night, wondering what I could do to ensure she was safe. I couldn’t let her go home, not after running for god knows how long to warn me of Tharetiur’s assassination attempt.

“… I had turned to Drucand —-” Eris’s right hand, one of the few people in Autumn Court he could trust with his life, “—-I asked him, ‘Where is the safest place in all of Prythian?’ I watched as Drucan stared at me for a moment, as if I asked a stupid question, before reaching for the holster of his sword…”

Eris remembered how Drucand pulled that holster from his waist and proceeded to hand him his sword.

“’ Heir of Autumn Court, the first son of Beron and Lady Autumn. The Heir whose blood runs with flames. The safest place… would be in your arms, with your fire and sword in hand.’”

A laugh broke out of Eris, his head shaking at the thought.

“I wanted to send her off, wanted to keep the distance between myself and her… But, I couldn’t. And I started to selfishly think that keeping her by my side, with that sword in my hand, might be the most reasonable solution to ensure her safety. I thought… that no danger would touch a hair on her head, not when I would protect her as my hounds do for me…

“But I failed… I failed, Mother…”

Eris turned around and faced his mother, tears finally breaking through his composure. His voice shook at every confession and every truth he thought knew.

“…It seemed that the Gods and the Mother above had led me to her. Fated us to be together… and yet ripped us apart the moment they thought we had gotten too close. That I had gotten too close to her. It seemed that they used her… her kindness, her warmth, her love… as punishment for me and my discretions…”

Eris believed with his whole being that you were his eternal punishment — for forgetting his promise to forget you, to punish him for yearning for you. Your kiss with death… was his punishment for falling in love with you.

The Heir watched as his mother let out a light sob before rushing towards him, holding him in her arms as he broke — as he finally broke. Eris sobbed, his body collapsing onto the ground in the arms of his mother, his hands wrapping around her as he grasped her shoulders, his body shuddering and breaking.

All because he had failed to protect you.

Amber eyes focused on your body once more, as he slipped out of the memory, the tears drying on his cheeks, determination in the depths of his eyes.

“(Y/N)… I had brought you into my life out of a momentary desire. A want, a selfish want, rather than a need. You were no longer the Goddess that I could bask in your light and warmth. You became a person — a living, breathing person — someone who cried and smiled… someone who showed your heart on your sleeve despite living in a Court that could use that against you.

“You showed me that you were like me, alive. I got to know you, your little habits — how you would bite your nails in concentration, how you would fiddle with the ends of your hair when you were nervous. You were an open book — one that I read so easily and greedily.”

How could he resist falling in love with you?

He couldn’t.

Not when you had accepted his flaws, accepted the darkest side of him — and in the end never turned your back on him. You had stuck next to him, in the horrors of his own Court, sticking out your neck for him every second.

How could he not fall in love with you and declare to let you leave?

How could he just have let you go like that? Not when you weaved your soul into his heart and stole it for yourself.

He couldn’t live without your hand in his, your body next to his own in the dead of the night. He couldn’t live without you.

But yet, there he was, he had been so close to losing you. To the terrors of his brother.

He didn’t regret it.

He didn’t regret the bloodshed that night after Drucand had taken your body from his arms.

All he saw was red, and he had no hesitance in taking Drucand’s sword, using his powers to wrap it in flames, and slaughtering his brothers in front of his father and mother.

There had been no ounce of regret in his blood at the sight of their bodies on those marble floors, blood pooling around them. He stared at his father with a glare, before handing Drucand the blood-covered sword back and taking your wounded body into his arms and striding out.

Eris would kill for you, again and again, if he had to. He would cover himself in blood… a sword in his hands, all for you. He would burn Prythian in flames… all so that he would never lose you again.

It was such a dangerous thought.

You were a dangerous addiction to him.

“(Y/N)… What if…”

There was only one way for him to fulfill his promise — his promise to the Gods, to the Mother.

He leaned over your body, his hand gently running down your leg, over your calf, and grasping your foot.

“What if I would carve my heart out, severing my feelings for you… Would that be enough to protect you and keep you alive from the dangers of my life?”

Eris pressed a kiss against the top of your foot, a notion of devotion from the Heir of Autumn Court.

“If that would be the case… then I would gladly take my sword, and hand you my bleeding heart. To show my eternal devotion and my love for you…”

[balrogballs]

The Mirage

a hopeful little deleted scene from my old “Elrond stays to watch Eldarion grow up” AU, in which he meets his grandson for the first time 😊

When Elrond reverently takes Eldarion into his arms, the newborn’s dark curls still slick from birth, he cannot help but look into his future. It’s a bad habit he has always had when it comes to Elros’ descendants, no matter if it was baby Estel, or the adolescent fosters, or even distant cousins twenty times removed.

Eru, he would think — allow me this indulgence. It is all I have left of him. Elrond allows himself the glimpse, only once and only a taste, but always. The remnants of an ancient cheekbone, eye, nose, smile, increasingly blurred and altered, but undoubtedly present. He lives like a man lost in the desert permitting himself a single, longing glance at each mirage he passes, always backing away before the face peels off to reveal the death mask beneath.

But this time, the man staring back at him from Eldarion’s future is not Elros. And nor is it death.

It is neither future pyre nor waterlogged tomb, but a familiar face regardless. Elrond squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head in confusion at what is certainly a blip, a malfunction of his foresight in the absence of Vilya. It can’t be. It can’t. But the image does not change.

“What did you see?” asks Arwen nervously, recognising the mask of foresight stretched across her father’s face. Elrond looks up, blinks, face taut. Aragorn’s lips tighten, afraid.

“Ada!” Arwen sits up now, face white in terror. “What’s wrong? This is fear, is it not? What did you see?”

Elrond shakes his head. He tries again, shutting his eyes tighter, and it is still the same image, as if the loss of Vilya foreclosed his foresight and turned it into a carnival mirror, uncanny and familiar all at once. He looks into his grandson’s future and sees only his own eyes, his nose, his jagged right canine, his heavy brow, his hair, his ears… no, not his ears. No, not his ears at all, his ears are — oh, Valar… his ears —

It seems unbelievable, does it not? Unbelievable, in a world of such wickedness as this, that Eldarion Telcontar will one day grow to become not a vague shadow of Elros, but the spit of Elrond Peredhel, right down to the bone. He cannot believe it. He blinks at him as if to make sure he isn’t a vision, that the irritable twitch of Eldarion’s nose and the sharp angles waiting under his chubby cheeks are really, truly there.

“He looks like me,” he breathes out at last. Elrond’s eyes are wide, blown, as though he stands before some great divinity. “Oh Arwen, he looks just like me.”

This is where every war could end, just before it truly does. In that split-second second-space where one vision of power fades and another begins to wake, when the earth sheds its skin. When all that remains are whispers of renewal, primordial reawakenings gifted by the earth itself as a self defence mechanism, or a good-faith treaty. Like birdsong in felled forests. Like rainfall and riverbeds. Like jungle, mountain, sea. Like Eldarion Telcontar, asleep in his grandfather’s arms — not a mirage, but the promised oasis.

[cloudedmoonofficial]

Frozen - River Colony New-Claw

Light gray tabby molly with yellow eyes

Age: 8 months

Parents: Sandtail and Iceclaw

Mentor: Cherryrill

Born into privilege, Frozen’s father is Second, her aunt is the Captain of River Colony and her grandfather, Frozenpool, for whom she is named, is a well respected Elder on River Colony’s Council. Her family is special and so is she!

Having such a great family means she’s better than other cats and she gets to have everything one day! She has a crush on Falcon and knows that they will be mates when they are older, having the perfect litter to contribute to their perfect colony! She hopes to be a nicer parent than her own… Her parents are scary… but maybe the other New-Claws are afraid of their parents too? As long as she follows Iceclaw’s orders, his claws won’t turn on her… She hopes. Her mother, Sandtail, has been absent for months, but Frozen can’t help but see her mother’s malicious eyes in every shadow.

Frozen never gets assigned boring duties, babysitting kittens is for cats like Talon, and cleaning dens is for cats like Moss and Ivy. When her mentor, Cherryrill, tries to give her a dull task, Iceclaw always scolds the Mentor for disrespecting his daughter. Frozen can’t believe Cherryrill keeps forgetting how important she is! Sometimes it feels like Cherryrill doesn’t even seem to like her! Frozen doesn’t know why! She is trying so hard to be the best New-Claw she can! Honing hunting and fighting skills with the extra time she has from not doing the more demeaning work that’s suited for other cats!

Her best friend is Lily, but it has to stay distant because Frozen is the one with a great destiny, after all! Lily is still just a normal cat, even if Frozen wishes she wasn’t. It's lonely at the top, her dear aunt has told her that. And while Rainfall seems to relish it, Frozen sometimes wonders what it would be like to be born just average, like her peers. But also, she admits that putting cats like Moss and Talon in their place with Lily can be so much fun! Lily can get the biggest rise out of them; she always knows how to push their buttons, even when Frozen’s insults fall flat. She wishes was more clever with her insults...

Frozen’s least favorite activity is when her father takes her out for “private lessons”. They scare her. Iceclaw tortures his prey and makes Frozen help, telling her that these lessons will be useful to protect Rainfall in the future. And only they are strong enough to see it done. Frozen dreads the day her father asks her to use these skills on something other than prey…

“No! I’m being weak again! Shape up, Frozen! I will be as glorious as my grandfather before me!”

Art by Snap

[familyfriendlydilfartist]

Bedtime (Short)

Synopsis; you can’t fall asleep so you seek comfort.

Warnings; None

One thing everyone in camp knew was Astarion enjoyed reading. They would always catch him with his nose in a book, crimson eyes taking in every word moving slowly from the top to the bottom of the page. Astarion often held onto the books he found when looting crates and shelves during your adventures.

It was midnight and everyone was getting ready to settle down for the night. Shadowheart sat In her tent unbraiding her hair and then running a brush through her raven strands before finally heading to bed. Lae’zel sharpened the last of her weapons, a ritual she refuses to neglect. Gale lay in his tent attempting to fall asleep as he used magic to mimic rainfall white noise. Everyone else slept soundly in their tent, or so you assumed.

Well, everyone except yourself. Tonight you lacked the capacity of falling into a deep slumber.

You were kind of like Scratch. At times Scratch couldn’t sleep, too hyper to even lie down. Halsin calls this zoomies so maybe you had zoomies as well.

You lie in your own tent staring at the roof. Gods how you wish dawn would arrive sooner. You huffed sitting up, you couldn’t lie in this uncomfortable tent for much longer, it was driving you crazy. You carefully peer out from the flaps of your tent. You observed the outside. Everyone was asleep, except for one. Astarion. A warm light illuminated his red tent, outlining his shadow. He lay in his tent, with what you could tell was a heavy book.

Astarion and you shared...well could you even call it a relationship? You slept together once or twice and Astarion enjoyed flirting with you but it didn’t seem like he wanted anything more. Whenever you slept together it seemed like he wasn’t entirely there. The only time he truly took satisfaction in the act is if he was allowed a bite from your neck. You it saddened you, to say the least. You really liked Astarion, not just for his stunning look but for his charming character as a whole. However, if all he wanted was to have a fling then so be it. That wouldn’t stop you from being his good friend though.

You slowly crawled from your tent and then tiptoed over to Astarion’s tent. You weren’t hoping to surprise Astarion; his heightened senses wouldn’t allow you the luxury. Your quietness was in favor of Shadowheart and Lae’zel, two people who would stir awake at the slightest snore. Astarion had his eyes on you already, waiting for you to call out to him first.

“Astarion,” you whisper, “It’s me.”

“I could tell.” He states matter of factly, turing the page of his novel. “Whatever is the matter?”

You lower yourself to the tent opening, pushing a flap aside. “I can’t sleep, could I hang out with you?” Astarion stares at you with an unimpressed look. “Please?” you pester.

“I guess so, besides who am I to deny you the pleasure.” Astarion sighs like a bothered mother giving in to her child’s request. You grin and immediately crawl inside. You sit beside him with a silly smile on your lips. There's a silence for a moment, you trying to gain the courage to ask him questions while he read to himself.

“Whatever you want to ask go ahead, the more eager you grow to ask, the more it’ll bother me.” Astarion lowers his novel. The slightly bothered expression he wears provokes an uneasiness in the pit of your stomach. You shyly mess with your nails. “Oh, well, I was just wondering what you were reading.”

“A novel about a boy venturing into vampire territory and what he has learned about my species. His assumptions are quite laughable.” Astarion’s pale pink lips quirk into a brief smile and a small laugh falls from them. “Here he states,” Astarion changes his voice into a mocking one, “One of the known weaknesses to a Vampire is garlic. Garlic will frighten a vampire, so always wear some on your neck to scare them away.”

You giggle too, “I’ve heard that one before. To be honest, I assumed you’d be scared of garlic as well because all the other tales of vampire’s weaknesses were debunked as true by you.”

Astarion shakes his head, “No, darling. It is simply the scent. Truly odorous. And if garlic were truly a weakness of vampires then Gale’s breath after dinner would be my demise.”

You both share a laugh then the silence returns.

“...Could you read to me?” you ask out of the blue. After the moment shared between the two of you before, you had hoped the question wouldn’t be answered too harshly. “-I mean, I like stories too but my mind often drifts from the pages. I prefer being read to than reading it myself and you have the perfect voice.”

Astarion contemplates for a second, observing you as he does. He taps his bed, “Fine.” You do as instructed, tugging the blanket until you’re all warm and cozy. Once you’re settled in Astarion starts on the page he stopped on. His voice is soft and relaxing. As the night goes on you finally fall into a deep slumber.

[aimicha-arts]

Wip for @lumidotexe