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supercutszns · 8 months

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bitter to the taste; luke castellan

series masterlist

wc + pairing: 5.5k, luke castellan x f!reader

synopsis: a sharp blade, a black eye, and (more than) two kisses.

warnings: this is even sluttier than the last one, language, sword fighting, sharp objects, blood/injuries, reader is still a horrible person and so is luke but he's also a loooser, making out, allusions/mentions of sex but no super explicit descriptions, kind of fluffy at the end

notes: i’m starting to hate this bc i think i’ve been staring at it too long sorry if this is not as good as pt.1 but i have plans for this series ok. also READER AND LUKE ARE NOT GOOD PEOPLE!!! THEIR RELATIONSHIP WILL NOT ALWAYS BE GOOD!!! THEY SUCK!! they are also not real but keep that in mind :) synopsis inspired by crush by ethel cain; designated song for this fic is unpunishable by ethel cain (i’ve got a whole chronological playlist for these freaks like it’s serious)

You’ve always had a taste for violence. And an equally powerful penchant for sloth.

You prefer to watch the carnage, not participate. It satisfies something inside you that you know, if it wasn’t for your laziness, could cause something irrevocable. Who the hell has time for that?. You’d rather lie back and watch instead.

This flaw of yours is the only reason you haven’t stirred more trouble, you think. It’s the reason you never attend camp games or sparring lessons. Sometimes, when you do, a dark muscle flexes inside your heart to curl out of its slumber, forming a hunger you don’t have otherwise. The second it starts to pry you have to rear yourself back and tuck the monster in. Banish the need for something more.

You don’t want to feed it. You don’t know what happens if you do. So you let other people do the feeding for you.

Luke cuts through two dummy heads in one swoop. It’s fucking gorgeous. The moon reflects off his sword, a silver sheen casting his face when he’s in the right spot. His brows are set, eyes so dark they blend with the night. Every motion is ruthless. Satisfying.

You don’t know how many times you’ve watched him like this. He called you out for it last night, but you’re sure he doesn’t know the half of it. The shadows are a sacred cloak to you, and you wait inside them until you want your presence known.

Meet me tomorrow.

It runs through your head like a broken record. You can still feel his breath on your lips and your neck is still tender—had to wear a sweater in the blazing heat to hide the marks. Since you were created you’ve accepted a universal truth about yourself: you don’t harbour affection for anyone or anything. There’s not a single thing you’ve felt drawn to or protective over but yourself. It’s solitary, yes, and lonely, yes, but that’s the way you’re supposed to be.

But you think about last night. You think about the moments between the kisses and the rush. When he teased you against your ear. When his hand brushed a certain spot on your back and something much lighter fluttered inside of you. When you crawled into sleep and thought about him, those were the moments that struck you the strangest.

His gaze pans over the treeline every once in a while, the anger diluted. Then it comes back twice as hard as he shreds another dummy to pieces.

He’s waiting for you. Oh, this is rich! A better person would probably turn around and go spoon their offerings into the bonfire the second they understand what they’re doing is incredibly destructive. But who are we kidding? You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.

So you take a step forward, slip out of the comfort of the dark, and the next time he looks to the treeline he knows you’re there. He can’t see you, but he knows.

You wait. His strikes are less tenuous, much smoother. It almost makes you laugh. Some fucking showman he is.

Eventually, he buries his blade in the dirt and wipes his brow. “Are you gonna come talk to me or are you gonna stare at me all night like an owl?”

You relish in the feeling of shedding the darkness, coming into the light of the moon. “Hi,” you say flatly, but there’s a tiny smile on his face when he sees you that almost puts you off.

“Hello, rotten.” He tries to lean on the hilt of his sword but it isn’t quite tall enough so he stumbles. It’s so pathetic it almost makes you laugh.

“Don’t call me that,” you grimace.

“Okay, back to heathen?”

“Don’t call me that either.”

“Well, you don’t seem too happy when people call you by your name so pick your poison here.”

You don’t say anything, your mouth set in a scowl. “All right, both it is,” Luke shrugs.

He’s different from last night. Less impatient. You hope it’s not because he thinks he has you now—he’s got another thing coming. “I almost thought you weren’t gonna come,” he says with a crooked grin, neither bashful nor ashamed.

You’ve made your way closer to him, the soft grass turning to dusty earth. “Don’t know why I did,” you mutter crassly.

Having abandoned his sword, Luke chuckles wryly. “Yes, you do.”

That bitterness he hides from everyone else pierces through. He tilts your face up like he did yesterday, the press of his fingers beneath your chin almost burning you. You know he’s peering at the marks on your neck.

“If you made me come here just to hook up with me you’re delusional,” you glare.

“What, like that’s not why you’re here?” He pushes your face up a little higher, grinning a little when you add resistance. “I’m a gentleman, you know. I can be patient.”

This guy is full of fucking shit.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” you snipe. The only point of contact you have is his hand on your chin, but you’re a hair’s breadth away from having everything else. The air drifting between you is almost palpable, shrinking smaller and smaller like it’s terrified of being trapped between you.

He keeps your face still. He’s studying you, and you’re suddenly curious about what he sees. You remember all those looks you’d share at the dinner tables that made this happen in the first place. What did he see then?

“You wanna fight?”

It takes you a second to react. “What?”

“You want to fight. Pick up a sword, let’s go.” He smiles as he finally lets you go, waltzing away from you to unbury his sword from the dirt. His touch permeates through your skin and you hate it.

“What the fuck are you talking about? I can’t fight.”

“Sure you can,” he replies, grabbing another sword from the training rack. “You need to burn off a little steam.”

You laugh sharply. “And you think me waving a sword around is gonna do that?”

“Uh, yeah,” he grins. “It’s the method that lets us keep the most clothes on.”

You glare at him. His smirk is a mile wide. The way your stomach is simmering almost makes you sick; it’s like gorging yourself on candy except this time the candy has a sword and maybe wants to fuck you.

You just watch as he hands you his sword, and the moonlight glinting off the metal has you believing it’s not the kind used for training. “I’ll use the dull one,” he assures. “C’mon, heathen. I know you’ve used a sword before, they force us to.”

“I usually skip those classes.”

He laughs. You can’t tell if it’s at you or with you. “Of course you do.”

You don’t like following orders, but oh, what the hell. Luke knows something about you, just like you know something about him. You’re only a little curious about it.

“Straighten your back,” is the first thing he says once you’ve taken your stance across from him. The blunt of his sword reaches out to tap your hip.

You begrudgingly do as you’re told. He watches you mirthfully, and the press of his sword against you starts to feel like a substitute for his hand. All the closeness you’re hungry for, dampened by cold steel. It still makes you buzz.

He gives you the barebones—the right grip, how to maneuver, the proper balance. But long gone is his easy disposition. The motor inside him that powered all those dummy beheadings and disembowelments is running again, except this time it’s for you. He wants a fight. This is his battlefield. All right, you’ll bite.

You start to spar with the skill of an overgrown toddler. The sword feels like an unnatural ligament hanging off your body. Luke is precise, convicting, far more enthusiastic than you. “You can do better than that,” he prods after your swords clash lazily for the billionth time. “Stop going easy.”

“You’re going easy,” you shoot back.

“Yeah, but I’d really rather not. Come on.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. You think about that dark thing you keep harboured. A muscle aching to be used.

“Come on,” he says again, and he almost sounds pissed. “All of a sudden you’re playing nice? What are you afraid of?��

Something flares inside you. “Nothing!”

“Then pick up the sword and fight me.”

You huff and roll your eyes, but your next swing is far more inspired. Luke blocks it easily, but you don’t care. “There we go,” he nods. “Again.”

This is more than you bargained for when you decided to come see him. All you want is to make out with this hot, awful person and have him tell you hot, awful things about yourself you probably already know. Why do you have to fight to get it?

He keeps provoking you no matter how hard you try. Your temper picks up the more you swing, discordant clangs bruising the air, but it’s still not enough. Luke doesn’t let up. Of course the one time you try to be nice, you’re not allowed to. On second thought, why are you reigning yourself in for Luke? The only other person in camp with a real, consuming viciousness? If anything you should hit him twice as hard, since he’s so sure he can take it.

“No wonder you’re so angry all the time,” Luke heaves out, and it gives you a swell of satisfaction. “You don’t have a proper outlet. Maybe you’d be nicer if you didn’t sit around and complain all day.”

“Shut up,” you gnash your teeth.

“Just saying, maybe you should do something about it.”

You’re getting lost in the rhythm of the swords, the adrenaline, the sweat passing the scar on his cheek. Every swing you think less and less, and that dark muscle flexes more and more. It feels like home to you. Like a good meal. Your bones ache and the world has darkened, but that rotten pit inside you cracks open in full bloom.

Luke keeps egging you on but you can’t hear him. Not like he still needs to. You think you’re smiling, or huffing furiously, or both. The sharpness of the sword intrigues you. A million terrible things reflect off its blade and you imagine them, all at once, until you are out of your body and the black hole inside you has properly wedged itself open.

Luke jabs at you and you bring your sword down with a vengeance. But it’s a little too low. You only notice when he drops his weapon to the side and staggers back.

The fog of violence falters. It fades almost completely when he hisses long and hard, eyes screwed shut, and you see the tear in his shirt. In his skin.

“Shit,” you say. “Fuck.”

You don’t sound sorry, you don’t think you are sorry, especially when he laughs. It’s a wheezy one through his teeth as you come up to him, but a laugh nonetheless. “Knew you were going easy,” he remarks through a wince.

You ignore him, looking down at the injury. A gash across his abdomen. It’s bleeding a little, but not enough for it to drip. You did that. Just looking at the blood, you feel the bitter taste of it in your mouth, the reward a temporary hunger for carnage brought you. This is why you don’t play camp games.

“I’ve got thick skin. I’m fine,” Luke says casually. “I’ve got a medical kit under that tree over there in case I beat myself up too bad.” He’s no longer scrunched in pain, and you’ve got a feeling he’s telling the truth. So you go fetch the kit where he said it was. You need to wrap that slash. Not because you’re sorry for him, but because looking at it makes you angry.

You kneel and pop the lid of the small tin kit, covered in dirt. It’s mostly gauze and bandages. Rubbing alcohol too. “Just give me the gauze, that’s all I need,” Luke gestures.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m doing it myself.” You’ve already torn off some gauze, sitting all the way up on your knees.

“Most people just say sorry.”

“You pushed me,” you spit back, surprisingly forceful. Luke’s smile drops. You take a deep breath, adjusting yourself to get eye level with the injury. “I told you I don’t fight.”

You’re not sure what makes Luke give in, but he doesn’t say a word as you lift the hem of his torn shirt and he holds it up. There’s no proud remark about your eyes lingering on his stomach, or the hesitation in your hands. You stare at the wound. It really is shallow. Your thumb presses at the skin around it and he winces. “My bad,” you mutter.

As you sterilize the cut and wrap the gauze around his torso, you try not to let your fingertips cling to the warmth on his skin. You try not to notice the other scars littered there, most faded to the point they should be impossible to pick up even in the sun. It’s obvious he’s staring at you. Your neck is crawling with warmth. But you don’t engage, you just wrap the gauze a few times and do your best not to notice the rise and fall beneath his muscles as he breathes. Then you fasten things neatly and put everything away so you can get up. Any second. Come on.

“Good?” You ask instead, exhaling.

“Good,” he affirms. He slides a hand under your forearm and gets you up. It stays there once you’re standing. The night stills.

“I’m guessing you’re adding ‘attempted killer’ to your list of horrible qualities,” you go on to break the silence.

He holds your gaze unyieldingly. “I’d consider that a pro, actually.”

You are entirely fed up with this drawn out evening, but you can’t bring yourself to speed anything up any more than stepping closer so your chests brush. “I will give you one, though,” he continues, craning down to your ear. You smell his skin and it sends you back to the position you were in yesterday.

He finally kisses your jaw, just once, then your neck. You shiver. “You’re too tense.” Another kiss behind your ear. It’s not enough. “Do you even know how to have fun?”

“I don’t want to have fun,” you reply bitterly. I just want to make out with you, asshat.

Luke’s breath frosts over your face when he chuckles, but before he can get any further away you catch his mouth with yours. Almost instinctively his arm winds around you to pull you in closer, your hand looping through his curls. It's a relief, knowing last night wasn't some freak accident. This does feel good, actually, and it can happen. Everything you felt yesterday is only more urgent now, hungrier, and you're pretty sure the way you kiss him gives that away.

He indulges you, squeezing the base of your hips as his other hand thumbs across the marks on your neck. This is so fucking embarassing—you think you whine when he bites down on your bottom lip. You’ve never needed something this bad, you’ve never needed anything. But you press yourself as close to him as you can manage and his hand runs lower, slips against your inner thighs, and it’s difficult to worry about anything else.

Until he pulls away. Like a dick.

He doesn’t go far, his forehead pressed to yours, but you feel like pulling out all his hair. It’s a muddling mix of frustration and longing you’re starting to associate with him. “Dude,” you groan, an inner coil only starting to unwind begrudgingly compressing.

“Let’s go for a swim,” he says. The enthusiasm is almost alarming. Almost makes him look younger.

You’re homicidal. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes, heathen. Let’s go for a swim, come on.”

He’s rubbing circles on your thigh, which only makes you want to strangle him. “But I—I don’t have my bathing suit,” you string out.

The smile gets more boyish. “Wow, whatever shall we do?”

It’s another challenge. Another dare. And he knows what you want, fucking jerk. You’re going to kill him.

“Fine,” you grunt, and the second the words leave your lips you’re pulled to the lake.

It’s a warm, sticky evening, only made worse with the sweat and the half-assed kissing, so the water doesn’t seem all that bad. Unfortunately, you don’t like giving into demands. So you stare ghoulishly at your fingernails as Luke tosses off his ripped shirt and his shorts so he can plunge into the lake. “Aren’t you going to at least come in?” He asks, but you don’t look at him.

“I don’t like swimming,” you lie.

“At least your feet. It’s nice, I swear!”

A splash, like smoke moving through wind chimes. You look up and Luke has completely submerged, popping his head up closer to the mouth of the dock. “Please,” he says with such conviction your resolve turns to butter. Gods, what is happening to you? You still need that lobotomy!

You sigh, roll your eyes, turn your back to him. “Fuck this,” you mutter under your breath. You undress to your undergarments and you’re not sure if you want Luke to be watching or not. The moon touches your bare skin and a chill trickles through you.

You take a seat at the edge of the dock, knees tucked to your chest. Luke swims over for you right away. His hair is dripping against his skin, and you hate how beautiful it looks. The waterline is high tonight, almost ridiculously so, so he props his elbows up on the dock with no problem. “Come in,” he urges.

“No.”

“Just your legs?”

“No.”

“Gods, I’ll make it worth it, just throw your damn legs in!”

Your eyebrows shoot up. His face is stubbornly pink. Oh, so now he wants something. You take your time uncurling yourself and Luke wades away from the dock so you can put your feet in. The water goes up to your calves, and you shiver. “So fucking difficult,” he mutters, and your pulse flickers.

“Sorry, what was that?” You let yourself grin for the first time all night.

“Nothing,” he hums. This time when he comes to the dock, he wraps his hands around your calves. You’re pretty sure he can stand here because he stops treading. The warmth of the water seems to spread further, long past the threshold of your knees.

He rests his chin just above your knee, water pooling on your skin. “Stop dripping on me,” you complain.

“Sorry.” He fake pouts when he kisses the damp spot. You see, ever so faintly, a diabolic shift in his expression. He nudges your leg with the point of his nose, then kisses it, then starts to move it aside. “Feel bad about teasing you all night,” he murmurs, still with an edge. He presses more kisses on your legs. “I really did want to see you.”

The irony that he’s still teasing is not lost on you. You’re not loving how desperately warm you’re starting to feel. “Why’s that?” You lean back on your palms.

“You’re a very interesting person,” he quips innocently. His hands are cupping the backs of your calves. He’s pulled you a lot closer to the water, and somehow you’ve just noticed. Another blistering kiss on the inside of your thigh.

“You’re fucking evil,” you scathe.

He looks up at you from between your legs. “You have literally done nothing but berate and injure me this whole evening.”

“Yeah, and right after I patch you up you jump in the water for shits. You’re playing infection roulette, Castellan.”

“See? You’re so mean.” He sighs, and in a move that almost surprises you to death, he hoists both your legs over his shoulders and they dangle into the river behind him. “And here I am anyway, making it up to you.”

You are suddenly illuminated on the purpose of this situation. Why Luke is between your legs. Your heart jolts. “Luke, you can’t be serious.”

“Mmhm.” He leans forward to kiss right under your navel.

You hate how much you want him to do it again, how your body burns, but you avert your eyes. “Someone’s gonna—someone’s gonna hear us.”

He snorts, “No they won’t. Either this or you come in the water with me. Or both. We’ll see.”

A huge smile cracks across your face before you push it back down. You’re going to spend a lot of time coming back to this moment, this night, wondering why. “What is wrong with you.”

It comes out like a compliment when it leaves you. You want to vanish. Luke chuckles, and something foreign to the both of you buzzes through the air.

“Are you going to be nice?” He asks against your skin.

“Are you going to be quick?”

His mouth finds your hip bones and yeah, why the hell would you say no to this? He nods, “Swear.”

That’s all you need. You let your eyes slide shut and your head tilts towards the sky. Luke takes your permission and runs with it, pries you open with his mouth until the stars soak through the black of your eyelids.

You discover pretty quickly neither of you are good at keeping promises.

The next time you need Luke’s med kit, he’s already awake.

It’s been happening more and more often. You lurking around camp past moonrise and finding Luke outside his cabin, going for a walk or a stretch or a … something with you.

“Do you ever sleep?” You ask him sometimes between flurries of kisses with your back against a tree.

“Could ask you the same thing, heathen,” he squeezes your hips and nips at your neck, but never answers the question. And neither do you, so you’re both okay with it. You’d hate to give up this feeling, but he doesn’t need to know that.

This is the first time in your punitive life you have felt alive. Like a person, with bones and flesh and soul, a real presence. Not a ghost of smoke and shadow. You are real.

Fooling around makes you feel like an actual teenager. You’re young, you remember when Luke joins you in the dark. You’re having fun. His hands under your shirt and his mouth on your collarbone, the way he bites down and winces when you do something a little too well, when you string out his name and he rewards you for it. You’re both greedy, insatiable people, so there’s a push and pull only the two of you would ever be able to handle. And nobody has to know. Despite all the bruises, the sleepless nights, the swollen lips, all you and Luke share in the daylight are noxious looks, and that's only if he can find you. A perfect crime. Camp Half-Blood’s angel and the vice that lives in the shadows. But in the dark, it’s hard to tell which is which.

“Luke,” you whisper. “Luke.”

“I’m up,” he grumbles, peering up at you. “You shouldn’t sneak into my cabin.” He was already sitting up in his bed when you slipped in, and he didn’t notice you were there till you were right in front of him.

“Worried someone will catch me? You should know better.”

He follows you outside so you don’t wake the other campers. There’s a thrill knowing just one interaction between the two of you could ruin both your reputations forever.

“What is it, heathen?” He asks as the door closes behind him. It’s so dark and your back is turned to him, but his voice is drenched in smugness. “You don’t usually want to put up with me more than once a night.”

“Don’t have a choice,” you mutter, staring out at the camp. You go to chew on your bottom lip, but you wince immediately. “Where’s your kit thingy? The one we used after I impaled you.”

“You mean after you lightly grazed me?”

“Just tell me where it is, Luke.”

Your sharpness could cut through any sleepy daze he possibly has. He’s silent behind you for a second. “Why?” He asks.

“Because I need it.”

His hand curls around your shoulder and before you can think to submerge yourself in darkness, he turns you around. When he sees you, his face breaks from something proud to something … you’re not sure you like. “Oh, heathen,” he murmurs. “What happened to you?”

You guess it’s a semi-appropriate reaction, although you expected at least a grimace. To put it lightly, your face looks gnarly as fuck. There’s a bruise on your cheekbone and your lip is split. But what really draws attention is the half-formed, garish black eye swelling up your right side.

“Just the usual. Pissed someone off.” It hurts the skin on your lip that’s caked with blood.

He rests his thumb on your unbruised cheek, but somehow it still stings. You know he can’t see much of you in the dark but he tries. The prolonged eye contact without the imminent promise of a kiss feels foreign. “You need to go to the Apollo cabin,” he concludes, brows pushed together.

A laugh slips past your broken lips. “No fucking shot. They would not help me.”

“Why not?”

“Because one of their shit-eaters did this!”

The words take a moment to register. You see them filtering through Luke’s brain. He blinks absurdly. “An Apollo guy beat you up?”

“Not beat up. Just … tussled.”

“How much tussling earns you a black eye, exactly? From Apollo kids.”

“Gods, just tell me where your kit is so you can go back to fucking sleep.”

His fingertips inch around the back of your neck, thumb still against your face. “Already wasn’t sleeping. I might as well help you,” he shrugs. “I move the kit every once in a while so some other campers don’t ravage it.”

“I don’t need help.”

Luke opens his mouth, then sighs deeply. He takes a firm hold of your arm and starts to tug you along. “Hey, what—” you swat at his arm.

“You’re ridiculous,” he huffs. “Come on.”

It’s strange. Luke’s never done you a favour before. At least not one like this. You’re disgruntled enough that you had to go ask him in the first place and now he’s dragging you around? “This isn’t such a big deal, Luke,” you badger. “I’m fine.”

“Sure, whatever. Wait right here.” He lets go of you and only then you realize you’re in front of the Apollo cabin. You grimace, and Luke must have noticed because he says, “Don’t worry, I’m just gonna go inside and grab some things. No one’s gonna jump you.”

You scowl at him, and he just laughs. A part of you hopes he hits his head on the way in. You hide anyway.

It’s a few minutes of waiting in the oppressive summer heat, until Luke emerges from the cabin with his hands full. He looks around, hesitantly calling, “Heathen?” Then again. You move out of your hiding spot and he jogs over to greet you.

“Nice haul,” you comment. There’s an ice pack, cotton pads, a few miscellaneous items. “How’d you get them?”

He smiles widely. “Everyone loves me, heathen. It’s not hard.”

“…So you stole them.”

“Yes, but only because I’m too tired to talk to people and I’m protesting for your sake,” he rattles off. “Now hold this ice pack before it gives me frostbite.”

The two of you make your way down to the docks again. It’s morphed into your usual meeting place, since the waves lapping at the shore mask when Luke gets a little too noisy just to piss you off. (At least that’s what he tells you.)

He’s stashed his little tin in a different tree this time. After he retrieves it he sets everything out like a chef preparing to make a meal out of gauze and rubbing alcohol.

Your head has been throbbing for the past few hours. You’re not proud that you antagonized the wrong Apollo kid and got a shiner for it. You’re less proud that you came to Luke for help. Just like everyone else does.

“Come,” he gestures, tugging at the waistband of your pants. You scoot closer to him and swallow the weight of your pulse when he touches you.

Luke slowly presses the ice pack to your black eye, letting you hold it. “What did you do to earn this, anyway?” He asks, head tilted to the side.

You’re hissing because of the ice, half-consciously shifting into him. “The usual. Spat at him. Made fun of his daddy a little too much. Tripped him so he landed face-first in his offerings.”

“You did not,” Luke laments as he dots alcohol onto a cotton pad.

“You’re allowed to say you’re proud of me, Saint Castellan. I won’t tell. You can be mean.” Your voice drips with irony, and you hope it bothers him. The flex in his jaw gives it away.

“You’re always gonna be meaner,” is all he says back. “This is gonna hurt.”

It’s all the warning he gives before he presses the pad against your lip. The sting envelops you immediately, and your good eye squeezes shut. “Shit, ow!”

“Stop moving your mouth.”

“Fuck,” you swear anyway. Your lip burns so hard you can feel it in your teeth.

Luke holds your jaw with his other hand so you can’t shy away. “I’ll kiss it better,” he teases. “Almost done.”

You roll your eyes, but Luke takes the pad off a few moments later. “Serious question. How are you so awful to people all the time?”

A groan tears through your throat with such force your head tilts back. “Not you too! I don’t need a fucking reason, there is no reason. Why doesn’t anyone get that?”

“I’m not asking why. I’m asking how.”

He’s oddly serious, the caress of his thumb on your cheek far slower. You hate it when people want a reason why you’re like this, just to help them sleep at night. But from the bags lining Luke’s eyes, sleep doesn’t seem to be on his radar.

“I just don’t care,” you admit, shrugging. “I don’t care about any of them. I don’t care about what they can do to me. I don’t care about anything.”

“…What about the Gods?”

It makes you cock your head. “Huh?”

“You wouldn’t care about them, either?”

You think, but only about which words to use. “No,” you decide, “They don’t scare me. They’re nothing. What are they gonna do to me?”

Luke snorts, almost nervously. “Uh, punish you for saying that, for one.”

You turn back to him, ice pack leaving your eye as you gesture. “How? By killing me? Pecking out my eyeballs? Burning me alive? I’m telling you, I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. It’s all just nothing to me. I’m fucking unpunishable, I’d like to see them try.”

Huffing, you look back up at the firmament of stars. Luke says nothing.

The grass rustles as he shifts, and his mouth ghosts over the bruise on your eye. “Unpunishable,” he murmurs, like he’s testing it out. Then he places an uncharacteristically gentle kiss just beneath your eye. And another just above. “We’ll see about that.”

You get that feeling again, the unbearable lightness in a place it shouldn’t be. Mixed with the poison lodged in your heart.

Luke kisses you, still so delicate that you wonder if he’s been body-snatched. If anything, your bleeding lip feels soothed against his. His hands cradle your face with no ferocity at all. It seems wrong.

“How do you feel?” He asks after pulling away, dark eyes nebulous and wide. The night usually sharpens his features. Now, they’ve been hushed.

“Um, better,” you reply.

He hums, laying a slow trail of kisses on your jaw. “Did you at least get the other guy?” He asks between kisses. “Like, did you hurt him?”

“Not really,” you divulge, wondering if you should feel shame.

“Why?” He’s made his way to your neck now, nudging your jaw up so he can kiss behind your ear.

“I’m not a fighter.” And, without warning, for a reason you will never, ever be able to explain, your tongue adds, “I’m a killer.”

Your own brows furrow. Luke pauses for a moment, but knocks his nose against your neck. “Guess one of us has to be.”

There’s no more fooling around. No snappy insults, no feverish kisses, no hunger to be satiated. Luke just checks you over a few more times, hides his med kit, and you both get up to sleep. But his hand wraps around your wrist, far less firm than when he dragged you here. “Stay in my bunk, heathen,” he offers. “Leave in the morning.”

You think you’re making a mistake when you agree, but it doesn’t feel like one.

The next day, after you’ve left Luke’s bunk, rumours float around camp that Luke Castellan accidentally butted some Apollo kid in the face with his sword during training. Caused a bloody, broken nose. Luke was very sorry, apologized profusely.

But you know, by the way he takes you behind the stables that night, that he didn’t mean a single damn word.

luke taglist: @sunniskyies @apollos-calliope @lillycore @sunny747 @m00ng4z3r @pabkeh @thaliagracesgf @theadventuresofanartist @bonnie-tz

rotten taglist: @thaliagracesgf

leave a pm/comment/ask if you'd like to be added to a taglist :)

#perrie’s fics #rotten to the touch #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan smut #luke castellan pjo #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #charlie bushnell #pjo x reader #luke castellan fic

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chocostrwberry · 3 months

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Sentimaggedon!!

Sentimonster designs I came up with bc I was thinking about Argos’s debut in my AU! Bc I’m dumb and I haven’t thought too deep about him as a character to the story yet-

They were originally suppose to all be based on the seven deadly sins, especially Gasumptious (gluttony) and Elvy (envy). But I also wanted to branch into maybe Felix’s other hidden emotions, like his deep love for Kagami and his fear of being replaced by Adrien (Bride and Athazagora).

Argos becomes an official enemy when Dragonbug tells him they need to be destroyed. He defends them, saying they’re just “infants” and can learn how to behave properly with time. But a frustrated and exhausted Dragonbug she tells him they aren’t like humans and are created for one purpose: to serve and destroy. This hits home with Argos, and he develops a fear and hatred for Ladybug and swears his loyalty to Madame Morphisa afterwards in order to take her down and prove just how monstrous he can be.

I’m still kinda trying to find a way to make this concept work in my au. He promised to serve her in exchange for the peacock miraculous, and she wants him to use it to take Ladybug’s miraculous. In a novice attempt, he might have just starting creating multiple sentimonsters that he thought were harmless enough (something she did NOT expect), but they quickly spiraled out of control. It’s much easier to make sentimonsters based on others emotions, because you can predict which one you will create it off of. But instead, he chose his own, which makes it more difficult to tell how the sentimonster will act. I think it would show the aspect that these creatures do have a mind of their own, compared to previous Mayura sentimonsters who were easily controlled by their akumas!!

Red Moon

Red Moon is obviously already canon, but her power is instead hypnosis. If you get caught in her light, you stop whatever you are doing to stare at her. The streets of Paris become like a statue exhibit: countless of unlucky citizens are bathing in her glow, staring at the beauty of the red moon.

Gasumptious

As he devours, Gasumptious grows bigger and bigger. He’ll eat anything, so beware! After finishing most of the city, Gasumptious sits atop the Eiffel Tower and gnaws on its metal posts.

Elvy

Elvy lives in the sewers. She can control water and uses it to drain you of happy memories, which she keeps in floating green orbs and guards for herself.

It’s so silly to me how the manifestation of Felix’s jealousy of Adrien is fought and defeated by Chat Noir, who is Adrien ehehehheeh.

She also sounds like a Pokémon!! Probably like a Lapras, or the one that trills really pretty

Athazagora

A timid creature, Athazagora took over the catacombs, and hides in the shadows. You can hear the creaking and rattling of its wooden limbs in the dark as it stalk you. If you can’t escape, it envelops you in its cloak of darkness, never to be seen again.

Bride

The supposed advisor of Argos. She never leaves his side, and is always whispering something in his ear. To protect Argos, she showcases her ability to turn her arm into a long spear/sword, incredible strength and mobility, and that her body is made of an indestructible crystal.

Plus, he can make multiple sentimonsters bc he’s a sentihuman himself (Other people can’t. You can only make one, kind of like how the Butterfly miraculous can only Akumatize one person at a time, unless they share an object. Current excuse I’m going with that makes semi-sense HEHEHE) . So Lila totally wants to use that to her own advantage!

Ofc he fails, but she’s impressed with his resolve (and the lengths he was willing to go, albeit unintentionally), especially after sharing her goal of destroying Ladybug. Lila was feeling the effects of unification and now has a willing minion to do her bidding whenever she pleases.

If I decide to go with this plot, Lila has to end up forgetting Felix because of the curse. But she doesn’t care: all she really needs is Argos. I might need to retcon her revenge against Felix because of this but idm! It wasn’t very important to the plot anyways!

I was considering having Dragonbug in this episode, since she could use Perfection to snipe Red Moon out of the sky! The lucky charm would be like a wand that creates a sticky translucent web to keep the sentimonsters secure so they can go find their amoks.

And a sentimonster I never ended up including, Ava. I just didn’t have a reason to put her in there but I liked the yin and yang style of her design!!

#THATS A LOT OF TEXt #I tried making it pretty tho!!#hopefully this makes sense #miraculous ladybug #chocoau #chocoau lore #chocoau char #look st me making these big posts with lore and I’m just like “but I’m still not sure ab it yet!!”#LIKE WHY PUT IN THE DAYS OF EFFORT THEN CHOCO???#miraculous argos #chat noir

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pellucid-constellations · 5 months

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If It All Fell (8)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: If it all fell apart—if you forgot who you were—would you love him again? Would the bond guide you back? Azriel doesn't know if that uncertainty is one he can bear.

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: Angst, pining, injury

a/n: I appreciate thoughts and reactions more than you know!!! <333 Italics indicate flashbacks.

Series Masterlist (all parts ♡)

The next two weeks were interesting.

In the first few days after the accident—the ones filled with confusion and incorrect suspicions—you had spent most of your time alone or sleeping. Mor visited your bedroom every morning to share limited information about your past, but there was no routine beyond that. Everyone tiptoed around you, too afraid to set off the timebomb they assumed was your mind.

But Helion had disputed that assumption.

You were allowed to know who you were, to become the person you had been.

So, a routine began to form.

Breakfast early in the morning, usually with a random assortment of the inner circle. Mor was always present, keeping up with her responsibility of telling you about yourself. Cassian joined more often than not—an early riser, he deemed himself. Azriel made it when he could. He was always busy in the morning. Doing… something, everyone told you.

Rhysand would join you after the meal, whisking you away for an hour or two to work on the powers you still could not call upon. He would have a different objective in mind every day and it was your job to parse out what it was.

You failed.

Obviously.

He started bringing in random Velaris citizens instead, but you still felt nothing. It was nice to see the smiling strangers; they were all kind to you, all apparently knowing who you were. The vagueness surrounding them leveled the playing field more. They didn’t know your whole life story and you weren’t supposed to know theirs.

“You’ve explained it to me before,” Rhysand had said. “It’s a vibration, sometimes a light or a color. You see it around them, feel it. You understand a deep part within them that they don’t even know they’re revealing.”

Well, there was never any light or vibration or color. You could never tell that the fae were lying or that Rhysand was planning something big for his anniversary with his mate. None of this otherworldly intuition that the Night Court seemed to value so highly. It was all just stagnant.

After spending some time failing with Rhys, you got to explore Velaris. You had insisted that you didn’t need a chaperone, and your family believed you—for a time. You had three whole days of walking around the city alone before that privilege was revoked.

Granted, it was your fault that it was revoked, but that was neither here nor there.

It hadn’t been your plan to get lost, just as it hadn’t been your plan to get caught up in a street brawl over a cart of potatoes. But when you weren’t at the designated meeting spot for Cassian to bring you back up the house, and when he found you with a bleeding nose an hour later, what you meant to do didn’t matter.

“Y/n?” you heard a voice shout, heavy footsteps shaking the ground beneath you. “Shit—y/n, look at me, you okay?”

Warm hands enveloped your shaking ones, drawing them back and catching sight of the red staining your fingerprints. It was Cassian, you realized, with his broad wings cloaking you in their shadow. The General’s expression hardened when he took in your face.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low, comfort combatting fury. “Where have you been? We have about 10 people looking for you, sweetheart.”

You grimaced—both at the pain in your nose and the notion of your family scouring the streets of Velaris. “I’m so, so sorry, Cassian. I got turned around and then I was in this alley and there was a boy—”

“Hey!” Defeat washed through you at the sound of another voice in the alley, all hopes for a peaceful return home washed away. “Is your girlfriend over there gonna pay for the product I lost?”

The Illyrian before you paused, body going still at the accusatory tone. Cassian’s jaw clenched and he turned, keeping you well behind him. You still caught a glimpse of the scene from between his legs, and the merchant—to his credit—had the mind to stop his taunting.

And to look afraid.

Really, truly afraid.

“You did this to her?” Cassian growled, fists clenching at his sides.

The merchant swallowed. “You’re—and she’s…”

“Did you. Do this. To her?” Cassian asked again, words broken up by malice.

A beat of pressing silence, only whispers of the street meeting your ears. The merchant took several, shaky steps back, but the movement damned him. His hands swayed with his backtracking feet, and red glistened on his knuckles.

Cassian’s wings flared at the sight. It only took a small uptick of his brow for the smaller man to fall to the floor in a plea.

“Please, please don’t kill me! I didn’t know who she was. Don’t turn me over to the Shadowsinger, I won’t make it! I have a family to care for—a wife! I was only trying to protect my crops and she butted in. I didn’t want to hurt her!”

The General hooked his chin over his shoulder and sent you a questioning gaze, one you were sheepish to answer. With a harrowing breath, you revealed, “There was a little boy stealing potatoes. He was going to hit him. I stepped in the way.”

A tug at your chest had you gasping as Cassian turned back around. The feeling had been persistent the moment you got lost, increasing after you’d been implicated in the merchant’s conflict. It pulled and pulled, a desperate winding around your ribs that you didn’t know how to relieve.

It had to have been fear. Or stress.

Cassian eyed the man crumpled to the floor. “Is the boy okay?” he asked, the question meant for you but directed across the alley.

“Yes,” you confirmed, pressing your hand to the blood running down your chin. “He ran away.”

Cassian grunted, sent a harsh warning to the man, and then crouched back down to your place on the ground, shaking his head in frustration. “Let’s get you home.” And then he grumbled, “I might get my ass kicked but…”

Cassian had not gotten his ass kicked when you got home, but many other things happened. Mor just about cried in relief, her arms thrown around your neck followed by a string of commands to never do such a thing again. Rhys rubbed at his jaw as tension lifted from the House. He also had a command—that you wouldn’t be traveling alone anymore.

And Azriel… Azriel looked like he would vomit, his shadows flitting angrily around him before bridging a path to you. He had cleaned the blood from your face, eyes haunted by misplaced grief, and pure guilt replaced all else in your myriad of emotions.

You agreed an escort would be better.

Azriel volunteered. Every day.

And so you got to know Azriel.

Mor had described him as reserved, not one to offer the intimacy of touch or personal information so readily. That was not your experience with the Shadowsinger.

Fleeting touches had become commonplace between the two of you, whether it was his hands or his wings or the brush of his thigh as you sat by the Sidra. You weren’t sure if he was doing it consciously, but you welcomed the familiarity. You found he did it most when he wasn’t paying attention—when he was deep into a story about your past or listening to your opinions intently.

He was open, sharing pieces of himself you didn’t have to pry to receive. He told you about his mother, about his scars, about how he overcame them. He shared with you how important you were to him many, many times, slipping it into conversations so causally. A thread connected the pieces of his life, and you, it appeared, made up the spool.

He did not speak of his mate, despite being prompted.

A sadness came over him at any mention of her, one so achingly melancholy that you told yourself you wouldn’t ask again.

He loved her deeply, but something had happened there.

You tried not to get too close. This was friendship, a deep familial love that he relied on. That you seemed to have relied on for so many years.

And Azriel was hurt. Even if he and his mate were no longer intertwined by their bond, he didn’t need the onslaught of emotions his amnesiac friend was suddenly overcome with.

Because you were—overcome by emotions for him.

It was wrong.

You wished you had the context to separate those feelings. If you understood your history—if you had memories beyond the few weeks of sweet stories and brushes of his fingers along your hair—maybe you wouldn't be feeling this way. Maybe your heart wouldn’t beat painfully against your ribs each time he entered the room… each time his eyes met yours as if he could feel your admiration for him within his own chest.

You wouldn’t be feeling this way, surely. Because no one had told you that you should be.

You only had the recounts of your friends, and the three of them had made no insinuations about you and Azriel.

You wished you could meet the rest of the inner circle.

There had been plans to, but then you came home with blood on your face and a disorientation in your eyes and that was suddenly off the table.

After your time exploring Velaris, you read.

Mor would pile your favorite books beside you in the small reading room you had come to love and rave about how great of an opportunity this was for you.

“You would kill to be able to read these for the first time again,” she’d laugh. “So have at it!”

Reading felt easy.

Books did not pressure you to remember things you weren’t able to.

You could see it all in their eyes, the way your family clung to each of your words for even a hint of reminiscence. They’d make a joke and hold their breath, desperate for the laugh that should be bubbling out of you. But you never got it, never making the connections that they did.

Azriel was the only one who’d catch the shame you felt at your lack of deliverance. Although he was the one with the most torture in his expression, he was also the one with the most understanding. He’d lean his head down and whisper what you needed to know in your ear, and then you’d giggle—for show—and hope would return to the room.

But nothing had returned to you.

You were still a shell.

“What do you think?”

Cassian’s question blanketed the table, forks halting their movements atop plates. Breakfast had just begun and you were dressed for a morning in Velaris at the theater, this time with Cassian.

“Are you sure that’s the best idea?” Mor questioned, eyeing the General beneath a raised brow.

“Were you there last week when I brought her home all bloody? I think it’s a great idea. Rhys agrees.”

“And Az?”

Cassian continued his breakfast, reaching for his drink. “Cassian—”

And so you found yourself steps away from the roof of the House of Wind—no longer in the comfortable daywear you’d been sporting—squinting into the morning sun. Leathers fitted for your body were laced up at your back and waist, stretching with a groan as you reached up to block the light from your eyes. Although the pain in your head had subsided to practically nonexistence, it often flared up in brightness or in times of stress.

Like when you stood atop a mountain and stared into the sun. Or got punched in the nose by a potato merchant.

“This is where I go while you go galavanting around the city,” Cassian chimed in, a grin evident in his words.

“Charming,” you muttered, still adjusting to the jarring assault of the sun.

The sound of grunts and clashing metal oriented you quicker, and as your eyesight settled you were met with the image of Azriel. He was bare-chested, leathers donning his legs as he pressed further and further forward, the knife you always saw at his hips hacking away at the metal dummy before him.

He moved so quickly that it was difficult to track him, one swipe after another, so carefully skilled and practiced. Sweat beaded down his tattooed skin. His wings rippled and spread in time with his footwork.

He was mesmerizing, a force of nature only halting as his shadows wound around his ear, whispering. Azriel whipped around, sheathing his knife at his side and staring out beyond the training ring with a narrowed gaze. He spotted you instantly, without looking near or around—a magnetic force.

Until he wasn’t looking at you, instead glowering in Cassian’s direction. “What are you doing, brother?” he bit out. The back of his hand made a quick pass along his forehead.

Cassian didn’t look the slightest bit sheepish, ushering you to the outskirts of the ring. “She’s going to train. Now that we know she won’t break at the slightest thing.”

Hazel eyes slid back to you, a softness overcoming them as you quickly averted your gaze from the broadness of his chest. You were not ogling him.

You bit into your cheek to stave off the embarrassment.

“I thought we agreed—”

“Az, come on. It’s been a couple of weeks now. We need to get her back in the swing of things.”

A crack of defeat edged its way onto the Shadowsinger’s face.

What had they agreed on? To wait it out? To treat you like glass until you were their version of yourself again? Something ugly licked up into your chest, something raw.

For a moment—just one—you stood on the sidelines and felt pathetic. While the two Illyrians stared at each other, a silent conversation between eyes, you let yourself feel like an outsider. They had had discussions about you, but not really about you. About the you that they loved—the one with memories and reciprocation.

“Will you be careful?” Azriel’s even voice snapped you out of the spiral you had initiated. His expression was uneasy, a hand pressed to his chest. “And tell us if you need to stop? If your head—”

“My head has been completely fine for a while now,” you assured, hands coming up to grasp the rungs of the training ring. “Promise.”

Azriel pressed his lips into a line but motioned you in with a nod of his head.

Despite the conflict still raging within your mind, you smiled at Cassian, the two of you letting out a small cheer and high-fiving before the General lifted you by your hips and past the rungs. You regained your footing and stood before the spymaster, meeting his level gaze with your own.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Cassian began, a loud clap resonating behind you. “Muscle memory is going to play a big role here, but I don’t want to risk you getting hurt, so you’re just with this guy for now.” He patted the shoulder of the dummy Azriel had been practicing with.

You scoffed, dropping your hands to hang by your thighs. “What? I still have the same muscle tone from before and last I checked my face was beaten in by a real person, not a chunk of metal.”

“And that will not happen again,” Azriel cut it. “Ever. But especially not when you’re… in this state.”

You ignored the unsettling remark. “Okay, well I think sparring one of you would be more effective in the prevention of that, don’t you?”

“Cassian and I could hurt you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“We can’t guarantee—”

“I trust you,” you interrupted, your view of Azriel partially obstructed by the shadows that wound up your body. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me. Let me do this, Az.”

The male before you faltered, his eyes darting quickly between yours. His chest, gleaming in the sunlight, rose and fell with strenuous effort. A clench of his jaw. Another pass of silence.

“Okay,” he nodded, gaze roving over your features. “Okay, y/n. Get warmed up and we can spar.”

You warmed up with Cassian, stretching and relishing in the feel of your body moving. He went over a few basic maneuvers with you, and you tried your hardest to pay close attention to how his feet slid around the ring.

It was a rather hard task, seeing as Azriel had continued his blade work on the dummy. Still shirtless.

After the General was satisfied with your progress, he passed you off to his brother. The Shadowsinger’s posture had softened a hair from when you first entered the ring, his wings coiled back and his shadows creating uneven shapes along the floor. He kept his hands by his sides, his feet relaxed—not a fighting stance in the slightest.

“Come on,” you teased, cocking your head to the side. “You have to at least try, Az.”

“I did not spar with you often before your memories were lost,” he admitted. “I do not enjoy the thought of hurting you.”

Guilt immediately flooded you. You hadn’t even thought about what this would be like for him, too caught up in your own strife. Your stance dropped, the fists at your chin loosening and falling.

“Oh, Azriel, I’m sorry. I can have Cassian—”

“No.” He dragged his left foot back. A ghost of a fighting position. “Only me.”

You took a painful breath in.

He didn’t move, allowing you to lead.

You shook your hands out and then your body moved of its own accord.

You swiped at his legs first, unsurprised when he leaped back with practiced grace. The two of you fell into a dance of drawn arms and calculated shifts and you were almost unnerved by how your body moved without you willing it to.

Cassian had said that muscle memory would play a role.

It seemed to be the only thing driving you.

You went for his knees, but in a way that maneuvered past his wings.

You used his shadows as cover, taking advantage of their familiarity with you and cloaking yourself in their mist.

Azriel swung a halfhearted punch at your shoulder and you bypassed the motion, grabbing his wrist and twisting at his back.

It felt right. Your actions were not your own but they were ingrained in your being.

This was your body.

Something that remained unchanged.

In your newfound joy, you missed the open palm Azriel carefully directed at your chest. The impact caught you off guard, stealing your breath from your lungs as you were pushed to the ground. As your back hit the floor, another shocking burst of air was ripped from you.

You laid frozen for a moment before a shadow cast over your body, the sun no longer beating down on your skin. Through the ringing in your ears, Azriel’s voice flowed through.

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—y/n, take a breath.” A scarred hand rubbed along your clavicle. “Breathe. You’re okay. Breathe.”

A startling gasp of oxygen entered your lungs. You were fine, completely unharmed, only shocked and disoriented. Azriel bowed his head as you continued to circulate the air into your body, and it was then that you saw it.

A chain hung between you, dangling from his neck and brushing against your chin. It swayed back and forth, a grounding point as you blinked back the tears lining your eyes. The ring glinted in the sun, rubbing against the golden chain, looking as if it did not belong there.

Azriel tracked your gaze as he raised his head, looking down at the object of your attention. He sat back on his ankles and the diamond followed him, resting close to his chest.

You raised yourself to your elbows. “Who’s—” You coughed. Azriel winced. “Is that yours?”

A stupid question, but you couldn’t stop yourself from asking. A guarded look passed over the Shadowsinger’s face and you regretted it instantly. He reached up and clutched the necklace in a closed fist.

“No,” he responded. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t release the ring.

“I’m okay,” you confirmed. “I’m not hurt. It just knocked the wind out of me.”

Azriel nodded. A grim line formed between his brows.

“Hey! She alright?” Cassian called. He had moved clear across the roof when you began to spar with Azriel, mentioning something about inventory or knives or something you hadn’t paid attention to. You had been too focused on the warmth you felt from being so close to Azriel’s skin.

The sound of Cassian’s voice did nothing to break the hold Azriel’s eyes had on you.

Another beat of silence passed.

The wind blew a strand of his hair across his forehead.

“I—”

“I have a mission. I was supposed to meet with Rhys before midday.” He spoke the words apologetically but his hand shook when it lowered to his knee.

The sun was already past the high point in the sky. It was no longer midday.

“Okay,” you whispered. “I want to thank you for—”

“Don’t thank me. Please, just—Be careful. I have to go.”

A quiet collection of parting words fell from your lips and Aziel twitched, looking as if he would move forward but thinking better of it.

But you had thoughts too, and they worked against Azriel’s

You raised to your knees and brushed the hair on his forehead back, a small smile gracing your face, trying so hard to melt some of the tension that had grown between you. Azriel’s breath caught as you moved, but you only doubled down, softly dragging your nails along his scalp.

He shuddered, eyes falling shut for a brief, unguarded moment.

His shadows consumed him.

Azriel was gone.

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #azriel x female!reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #azriel acotar #azriel angst #acotar #acotar fanfiction #fanfic

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tadpolesonalgae · 17 days

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Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Chapter 22

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: there might be some spelling errors here and there which I’m sorry about—I’ll try and remember to check through in the morning <3

word count: 7,866

-Part 21- -Part 23-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

More than once, you find your feet leading you in the direction of Bas’ house, but you always turn before you can reach his street.

A few days ago you’d thought it would take a fortnight for the transition between autumn and winter to truly become apparent. You were wrong.

There’s no way you could mistake it for anything else, with the way breath now huffs from chapped, rosey mouths like ancient, angry beasts prowling across an early morning moor; how now when you step outside and leave the warmth of the heating enchantments the cold nips at your throat, splashing ice into your lungs, encasing your arched ears in snow-kissed winds; how even without much sense left in your hands you can feel as your blood recoils from the temperature, scrambling back to be closer inside your body and abandoning your limbs for the sake of comfort. Useless body. If you were instead one of the massive bears kept in the Winter Court with thick coats and dense, padded bodies this would be much more bearable.

As it is, you have to settle for keeping a brisk pace and wrapping yourself in an uncomfortable amount of layers. Layers that wrinkle too easily beneath one another and store sweat in their fibres. It’s always a relief to be once again indoors so you can shed the many skins. Especially when so much of the cosier cloaks are inlined with fur. You try not to let it bother you but as soon as that particular smell of leather creeps in, or meat with a little too much preserving salt…

Winter’s gotten a little easier. You can appreciate some of its beauty now it’s less likely to kill you. Its glittering exquisite.

“What about this?” Elain gestures to a folded quilt that’s laid out amongst other similar items: bedsheets, pillowcases, towels, flannels, cloths. The quilt is a patchwork of small squares about the size of your open palm, each one different in pattern but similar in colour—pinks, pale pinks, whites, creams, oranges, pale oranges, a glitter of egg-yolk yellow. Around the hem hangs a slight frill made up of white lace. On its underside shows the padding designed for comfort, perfect for maintaining heat and being a cozy blanket to nestle under.

An image passes through your mind then of all four of your crammed into that tiny bed, stuffed beneath a blanket like this in the depths of winter. Fingers so cold they felt like ice, cold enough to wake you from your sleep if a bare foot grazed your calf. Nesta and Feyre would usually be on the outside during the colder months, rarely taking place in the cozy, warm centre. You and Elain ever the middle children.

A second image forms soon after, except instead of being set in an alternate past seems to fit more with a branch of the future: all four of you stuffed on the long sofa in the River House’s living room, the fire crackling behind its muffler but Nesta still on the furthest side. Some of you would be reading, Nyx might be cuddled beneath the quilt, close to Feyre’s chest, and maybe you might be stitching something together or sewing a pattern onto the sleeve of Elain’s top. Nyx would probably be briefly fascinated by the lace frill. Then if it was interesting enough he might try to eat it.

You zone back in when you realise Elain’s looking to you for an answer. You wince, wanting to pull back into yourself and hide in your skeleton, sit on one of your own ribs, arms hung over an upper one. “I really… It��s lovely, but the bedroom I have is fine. We don’t need to find replacement stuff.”

Elain seems a little crestfallen but quickly blinks it away, already turning her head to scour for something else that might take your interest. “Are you sure? It looks so warm,” Feyre pipes up, inspecting the little patterns of the squares. “I can imagine you all wrapped up in this, tucked away into a chair with a book heavy enough to break someone’s foot.”

“I’m sure,” you assure her. “Really, the bedroom in your house is more than enough. I’m not sure I even wear half the clothes in the wardrobe—I’m fine.”

After the news had been announced, tears had been shed, and you’d all spent the night on that sofa too afraid to let go of one another, Nesta had been the one to suggest fixing up the House of Wind again. It had been patched up after the initial explosion, but Nesta had suggested making it somewhere nice, reasoning all of the furniture had been destroyed anyway, so your room would be in need of some redecorating anyway. ‘Besides,’ Nesta had pointed out the following morning, ‘It’s mine. I can do what I like with it.’ And spend Rhys’ money while doing it, had gone unsaid, but after Nyx’s birth at least some of their aggression seemed to have boiled off.

“This just seems like too much,” you admit while walking at Feyre’s side, Nesta strolling along the far side of the street while Elain’s already begun appraising a new set of pale green pillowcases. “You don’t have long,” Feyre murmurs in reply, her voice straining toward the end, “six months will fly by.”

“I don’t mind,” you whisper absently. “My room’s fine as it is. We don’t need to redecorate the entire House of Wind.”

Feyre falls silent, feet tapping in time together along the icy cobbles. Then her arm is tentatively slipping beneath your own, gently linking at the elbow, careful not to cause any aches in your flesh. You squeeze her faintly, bodies pressing closer in the cold, arms locked to try and keep up warmth while walking through the city.

You glance up at the clock tower constructed at one end of the main square. It reads midday. Elain will be leaving for the human lands in a little under an hour and none of you have yet had lunch. Feyre follows your gaze, reading the time. “She won’t be gone for long, remember?” Feyre assures quietly. “She’ll be back before night.”

You blink, turning to face your younger sister, “Oh, no, I wasn’t thinking…” You flush, averting your eyes as you pull your arm from Feyre’s, “I’m not that clingy.” It comes out sounding more defensive than you’d thought it would, the tug of your arm rougher than you’d anticipated, but you speed your pace regardless, crossing the street to instead join Nesta. She’s looking into the window of a large bookshop, her sharp eyes picking out titles even through the warped and rippling glass panes.

Nesta reads even more than you do, which is saying something. You’re not sure you could even read a romance book anymore. Not without a piercing sense of loss pinned through your heart.

“I’ve been thinking,” Nesta muses, pulling from your thoughts, standing straighter as if she’s considering entering the shop, “of having a meal up at the House of Wind. Would you come?” You blink, looking over to her inquisitively, “Just…a meal?”

“I was thinking of bringing Emerie and Gwyn to it, too. None of you have met one another.” Nesta turns back to the window, though she doesn’t seem to be looking at the books anymore. “Elain and Feyre would be there, too.”

“For sometime near solecist?”

“That could work.”

You pull a part of your lower lip into your mouth, nipping at the interior. “Have you thought of a present for Feyre this year?” You ask, still being without a gift. It’s still about two months away, but…time has a habit of slipping through your fingers. Silverish eyes slide sidewards to you, and you glance at her questioningly. Nesta looks back into the window, “I think the plan is to all do something together. Elain seems to think that’s what Feyre wants.”

“Do you think she does?”

“Probably,” Nesta replies. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“Won’t that ruin the surprise?”

“Wouldn’t it be better to know what she wants so we don’t do something she won’t enjoy?”

You purse your lips. “Elain can ask.”

Nesta seems to decide she’s done with the bookshop, turning her body to move on ahead and you follow quietly. “So, about the meal?” She reminds, and you swallow but manage a short nod of your head. “It sounds nice.” Your lips part, throat flexing in preparation to add on, I’d like to meet them, but something stops you and then the moment has passed. Nesta seems satisfied enough with your answer.

Had she also mentioned Elain and Feyre intentionally when bringing up the dinner?

You worry your lower lip. It’s been nice spending time with them again. Being on the sofa. Feeling bones press together. Hair sliding over shoulders. But has it been too much for them? Feyre has a husband and a baby and a court. Nesta has Cassian and her own life. Elain…is who you’d usually spend time with, but she’s leaving to visit Lucien.

Bas is leaving too, soon.

Maybe you should be returning to the House of Wind on your own instead of making them take you there and pad the way. You’re not ready to go back. Maybe you should just lock yourself up in the Prison. But that’s a stupid thought, one that’s not going to help you. Why try and make things worse for yourself?

Your stomach grumbles and you flush, putting your hand over it in attempts to quiet the noise.

It’s about time for lunch, anyway.

————

“You haven’t been up to the House since, right?”

You startle, spinning around as your hand recoils from the door handle, chest rising and falling so rapidly that saliva gets caught in your throat and you have to cough into the crook of your arm. At least you didn’t eat too much over supper, or you might have been worried about being sick.

Azriel stands silently in the hallway a little distance away, his eyes vaguely alarmed at your abrupt reaction. He clears his throat. “Sorry. I thought you’d heard me.”

“It’s fine,” you excuse, coughing once more before lowering your arm, going to straighten your skirts before a rush of something shy flutters through your chest and your hands instead join at your front. “You’re just…very quiet.”

Azriel hums, and you shift on your feet. You’ve been spending so much of your free time with your sisters that you haven’t really seen anyone but them over the past two days. Well, aside from Madja, who you’re still seeing every morning at ten o’clock, much to your relief. You lick your lips, finding them chapped and dry. “So…was there something you wanted?”

Azriel nods his head once. “Not exactly. I was thinking it would be a good idea for you to readjust yourself to the dimensions of the House, since Nesta’s told me you’re redecorating.” You flush, eyes dipping away, once again shifting on your feet. “Well, it’s more her idea…” you hedge, “since…you know, it’s hers now…?”

“I know. But you’ll be wanting new furniture,” he reasons. “The walls had to be realigned so your room will be wider once it’s complete.”

“Once it’s complete?”

He nods his head. “You blew it up, remember?”

The flush deepens and you take a subconscious step back towards your room. You hadn’t meant to wreck the House, even if it was only your room that was really ruined. “I just meant…you mentioned walls needing to be realigned, so I was wondering whether they’ve yet been…”

Azriel nods his head. “They have.”

A beat passes. “So, are you coming?”

You look up, surprised. “Hm? Where?”

His eyes narrow. “To the House. Is your head okay?”

“Fine.” Your brows furrow. “Fine.”

“No headaches?” He pushes, hazel eyes scanning swiftly over your body in a painfully analytic fashion. “No bouts of forgetfulness? Brain fog?”

“No. No, I’m fine. None of that,” you assure, glancing down to the hardwood floor, a small part of you still stumbling at his attention. But it’s all good and fine noticing a problem once it’s obvious. “Besides,” you add, “I’m sure Madja would have picked that out by now…” Right? Madja’s been nothing but dependant as company. Competent and kind, so gentle with your skin and flesh and mind.

Azriel seems to disagree, his head tilting slightly and you wonder if it’s a movement he’s showing intentionally or whether it’s simply something he’s learned to do when around other people after having every reaction trained out of him. “You’re only seeing her for about twenty minutes each day. It’s easy to miss some things.”

“Yes, but isn’t she…? It’s Madja. Isn’t she supposed to be…I don’t know, one of the best healers in Velaris?” Isn’t she? Arrogance aside, wouldn’t it make sense Rhys would only want someone he could trust around during Feyre’s birthing? Madja must have proven herself to be reliable hundreds of times to be trusted enough to work so high up. Azriel nods his head, confirming your inner thoughts, “Probably in all of the Night Court.”

“So, she would know if something was wrong.”

“There’s no harm in double checking.”

You swallow, eyes awkwardly scanning him and the hallway, too nervous to look at him properly. “Well,” you say, once more clearing your throat, “I think I’m fine.”

Azriel nods his head. “Shall we go?”

You brows furrow deeply. “Where?”

“To the House of Wind,” he says, stepping forward as if to reach for you, “Did you forget already?”

Your nostrils flare, lips curving at their edges. “I’m messing with you, Azriel.”

His hand pauses in mid air, then it retracts and he stands straighter again, a look of faint displeasure held between his brows, “You shouldn’t joke like that.” Tension coils in your chest, and you look away from him, lips pursing, “life’s dismal enough as it is. I’ll joke about what I want to.” Azriel sighs, taking a step back to where he’d originally been standing, reinstating that cold distance between you that has your heart stretching thin.

“Joke about what you like, but keep that humour away from your sisters. They’ll be going through a lot, right now.”

You look at him then, arms lightly folded across your chest. “Will they?” You ask, tension coiling tighter. “Yes. I’m sure they’ll be finding it the most difficult right now.” Azriel’s chest expands, then he’s blowing out a harsh breath, “you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You know you could have said it better.”

Quiet hangs in the air, then your throat is rolling, fight disintegrating when he makes no move to respond, shame at your snappiness creeping to your surface; disappointment he didn’t attempt to amend the exchange. Just one sentence would have been okay. You’re past pretending like you’d demand a lot from him. A few words and forgiveness would fall from your lips in a desperate spill, hungry for his care.

Your lips press together. “Shall we go, then?”

Azriel had flown you up—he hadn’t wanted you to winnow. You hadn’t thought much of the House since you’d been staying in Feyre’s home, but now you’re back and the smell is wrapping around you and it feels like you never left. It’s after a family dinner, you’re not yet obviously ill, warmth from Bas’ palms lingers on your hips and you’re still on good terms, Mor’s offered to take you out into Velaris and you never wrote back to Eris. You never told Azriel how you felt, and you still speak regularly in the library, your heart fluttering every time your eyes would meet, and you still think you’re in with a chance of keeping his attention.

They hadn’t felt good at the time—they hadn’t felt enough—but you’d take them back in a heartbeat if you could.

The two of you walk in silence down the hallways that lead to your old room, but when you reach for the handle you almost pause, able to feel the weight of Azriel’s attention on you and for a truly awful moment you worry they’re all inside, your room already done up, money already wasted on you, and you’ll have to pretend some kind of gratitude for the debt. But you cast the thought away, because that’s ridiculous—you’d been out with your sisters just this morning.

You’d been unfair to Feyre. Short-tempered. Intentionally choosing to keep misunderstanding her. And then you’d done the same with Nesta, pushing your emotions onto them.

Maybe it would be better for you to return up here again, so you’re away from them. Isolated, so your foul moods don’t bleed onto them. So they can stay happy, and you can deteriorate without having to feel bad about your inner necrosis. So they don’t see the way you’ll fall apart over these last six months.

The handle twists in your palm and the door swings open.

Azriel was right about the walls—they’re further apart than they used to be, your room suddenly a few inches wider, enough to disorientate you. But that’s not it.

Your hand falls away from the handle, breathing shallow and deathly as you step back into the room. A small bed has been pushed where the old one used to lie, a similar looking desk up against the wall, a wardrobe near the windows, all resembling their previous pieces but so clearly different. Emptier.

Your stomach drops, and the ground falls out from beneath your feet.

“Where-” Your throat strangles the words in your mouth. Warping them to a hoarse rasp. “Where are my things?”

You hadn’t thought about it. You’d put it out of your mind. Made sure to lock it up tight in a box along with the rest of the mess because you’d fall apart time and time again if you could think about it. But if the furniture was obliterated, and the walls destroyed…

“They were blown apart, too.”

The far end of the room stretches, distancing itself further and further from you as the walls either side become narrower, the floor beneath your feet groaning as if it’ll give any second. All of it’s gone? Everything? Everything?

You walk over to the desk, fingers tracing the surface, lips stitched shut. A painting had once sat there…greens, and golds, and falling stars. A romance book sat in solitary on an upper shelf. A bookmark with silver thread. A pendant with a small map contained inside.

Your feet carry you to the wardrobe. There’s no smile drawn into the dust on the mirror. No lipstick, nor nail polish. The jigsaw you never touched, still wrapped in its bow. All of it? All of it’s gone?

Scared eyes turn to the bed, glancing once to the empty bedside before you’re faintly walking over, lowering to your knees to peer beneath the mattress. Staring into the empty space beneath. Dark and hollow. No box holding your golden solar system. No bags from a shopping trip with Mor. No comfy slippers, and that dress that you’d only worn once, in the shop. The one that had looked nice, and you’d never worn it, too ashamed of yourself.

“Did the-” The words are sticky, drying your throat together, tongue stuck too the roof of your mouth. “My orrery…?”

Your heart is pounding and there’s a delicate fire beneath your skin, a cool sweat glossing your flesh. A soft roaring around your ears. You can’t have lost all of it.

“A couple of things made it,” Azriel says from the doorway. You turn to look at him, the air around him warping and spinning faintly. Shallow and shimmering. Azriel shifts, something about his expression changing that you can’t quite pick out. “Are you feeling alright? You look…”

“I’m fine,” you whisper, staring at him because it seems too much effort to really move your eyes elsewhere, lids pinned to your brows. A couple of things made it. A couple of things survived.

Azriel nods his head. “Wait here,” he says, “I’ll get them.” He looks like he might says something else, hazel eyes flicking over you, but he keeps his mouth shut and turns, disappearing from the doorframe.

In his absence a wave of dizziness overcomes you. It’s without nausea, but the room is shifting, your head unable to find a balance to keep your body upright and you end up settling lower to the ground, lying on your side, knees curled to your chest. The room is so empty without any of yourself in it. Is this what Bas’ home will look like once he’s gone?

Is this what your room will look like, once you’re gone?

You picture it, the raised bed with the thick duvets, the desk pushed up against the wall to lie beneath the window, the bathroom connected with its cool, pale tiles. The room you and your sisters spent an afternoon and evening contained in, chatting and drinking tea; the room Madja’s tried to heal you in; the room you found out you were going to die in. Will it stop being your room once you’re gone? Will Feyre repurpose it? Keep it as it is?

A floorboard creaks in the hallway, but you just don’t have the energy to move. Choosing to instead curl tighter, allowing your eyes to close in order to try and contain the hot pressure that’s building behind them. You don’t want to cry.

Can death come any quicker?

Footsteps pause on the threshold, and shame tugs on your gut, wanting to scuttle away and hide beneath the dark hollow of the bed. To crawl away to some dark space and be out of everyone’s way, keeping to your own corner far from anyone else. Safe and alone in the darkness. Like a small spider lurking on the top shelf in a wardrobe, just trying to keep out of someone’s way. You could get so far if you had eight legs. If you were as small and nimble as a spider you could go anywhere.

The mattress stretches as a weight is delivered to it, then a presence is gathering at your back.

A few seconds pass, then he’s asking quietly, “What are you thinking about?”

You take time evening your breaths before you answer. “Spiders.”

“Is there one under there?” Azriel asks, still keeping to that soft, low voice. Your lips tremble, but you open your eyes enough to look into the darkness, peering about for any eight-legged creatures. You shake your head faintly. “What got you thinking about spiders?” He asks next, and you realise his voice is close enough he’s probably sitting behind you. On the floor with you. You try to shrug your shoulders, not wanting to answer, but the movement is stunted from lying on your side.

“Do you mind them?” He asks.

“No,” you reply, voice creaking through the quiet. They’d made you uncomfortable at first, when they’d started creeping into your house all those years ago. Spinning their webs on bookshelves and between table legs, down the hinges of doorframes, where the breeze brings in smaller bugs for them to catch. “They’re small.”

“Even the big ones?” Azriel replies.

“They don’t hurt anyone.”

“They look creepy.”

Your brow furrows, then you’re rolling over on the floor to face him. Sure enough he’s sat a little distance back, arms around his parted knees. “Are you scared of spiders?”

Azriel’s eyes twinkle. “Not the small ones.”

You blink, unsure what to make of that. “Then, the big ones?” He hums in a way that might be a yes. It’s hard to pick out what he means by that one, smooth noise. “Which ones?” You ask, watching him quietly. “I know there are large ones in the Summer Court jungles? Arachnids as big as your torso.”

Azriel smiles. “Those are fine.”

“But their venom can paralyse you,” you argue softly, brows furrowing. Small ones are fine, small ones can’t hurt you. But the larger ones, those can bite. Those ones can be dangerous. “They’re easy enough to avoid,” Azriel reasons.

A look of concentration knits itself between your brows, and you push yourself up from the floor, shifting back to lean against the bed. “What court do they come from?” Azriel’s lips curve faintly—he’s not going to tell you. “The continent?” You ask, trying to work around it, but this time he shakes his head. “On Prythian?” He nods. Your eyes narrow, inclining your chin by a singular degree, “how big are they?”

Azriel pauses, thinking. “Curled up…probably as large as that bed,” he answers, nodding to the bed you’re leaning against. “Splayed out…each joint in a leg was probably around your height.” Your eyes widen in fascination. Then they narrow again, suspicion rising in your mind, “is this creature magical?” His lips don’t smile, but his eyes do, and he nods his head. Your mouth parts, “that’s cheating.”

“How’s it cheating?” Your mouth opens again but you can’t give an answer, eyes darting about as you think. “You’ve done most of your learning while you’ve been here, haven’t you? We have books on the creatures here. I’m sure you know some of them.”

“I don’t know of any spiders that big,” you reply with your brows furrowed, frustrated you don’t know the species he’s talking about. Azriel laughs and you avert your eyes, scowling into the floorboards.

“She’s locked up in the Prison now, anyway,” he says casually, as if that makes it better. You look at him again, “‘she’?”

He nods. “Can you guess?”

Your brow tightens again. “I don’t want to.” You pull your knees up to your chest, readjusting your skirts so they’re covering your ankles. Leaning your chin into the dip of your palm, a downward tug to your displeased lips. Azriel raises a brow, “I didn’t know you were a sore loser.”

“We weren’t competing.” You mutter.

“Are you really upset?” He asks, sounding perplexed. You sigh, shifting on the floor now the bed is beginning to dig into your spine. “No,” you mumble, “I’m used to it.”

He smiles, eyes twinkling, “used to what?”

You don’t smile back. “You.”

Azriel’s features mellow out, light winking away in his eyes and you watch the warmth sift down and out from his expression. “You aren’t entitled to my affections, just because of your situation,” he says softly, but sternly. No leniency afforded to you. No padding or gentleness to muffle the hurt. An ashamed blush creeps up your neck, spreading through your cheeks as you lower your head. “I’m not talking about that,” you mumble. Gloved fingers wring together and you pull your legs tighter to your body, “I’m talking about how needlessly cold you were. How clearly you cared for Elain without thought for me.”

“You needed a clear answer. I was helping.”

“You used me,” you whisper.

Across the floor, you can feel it as Azriel stiffens. Almost freezes.

“You used me,” you repeat, this time looking at him, “you knew how I felt about you. There’s no way you couldn’t have, Azriel. You-”

“You kissed me back.” Hazel eyes pierce into you, the shadows at his back stirring as though raising from their sleep. “You-”

“I’m talking about before.” The whisper rushes out of you on a swift exhale, hurrying to get the words past your lips so he doesn’t remind you any further. You swallow, a familiar feeling of shame coating your skin. “When I would speak with you in the library. And you would only speak with me to learn more of Elain. You were using me.” Azriel’s brows narrow and your heartbeat quickens unpleasantly. “You know I was making sure she was okay,” he claims softly, “the Mother knows you were too preoccupied.”

“Stop lying to me.” A hot pressure is building behind your eyes again, staring at him in this room with the walls that feel like they’re closing in. “I know you love Elain. I know that, so stop trying to pretend like I’m imagining it. You wanted to know more about her so you spoke with me to learn more. You must have known how lonely I was, how hard it was for all of us after being ripped from our home, from our lives, and shoved into a world we had never wanted to be a part of. It’s like you’re just trying to get me to hate you.”

As soon as the words leave your lips you freeze, staring at him with widened eyes.

“Is that-?” You cover your mouth, toes curling in your socks as you huddle your limbs together. “Is that why you were so cold afterwards? Was it so horrible to deal with? Was it really so disgusting to you that…?”

Azriel says nothing and you feel at that moment like the earth might split open and swallow you whole, suctioning you down far below the ground for discovering such a horrible secret, snatching you away before you can tell anyone and sealing you a thousand times in jagged stone beneath cold, damp earth.

————

Her eyes are wide and her chest is heaving, knees pressing tight together as if to hide her body from him. He should lower his head to respect her dignity, look away to offer her privacy but that in itself would be yielding too much information. Doing anything other than watching her crumble would be exposing a part of himself and no matter how much she’s hurting, he cannot. He will not.

Azriel doesn’t care if she hit the nail on the head. He hadn’t meant any of it. But had he really been expected to simply accept her tenderness for him? Even if he wasn’t the spymaster he’d be able to see how much she thinks of him, how she listens to him and hangs on his words as if they heal wounds. If she thinks she loves him, she should know how awful he is.

————

You shake your head, still staring at him. Then you try to push yourself to your feet.

You need air. Need fresh air, and to get out of a room as cramped as this one. But when you stand you spot the things he’d laid on the bed. The things that had survived the blast, and you freeze.

On top of the bare mattress, weighing into the bed is a thickly bound volume. The spine reads: Prythian: An Anthology Of Discoveries, in golden lettering. Sitting small atop the book however, is a familiar silver band, its narrow edges smooth and shiny. It’s the ring Eris gifted you on that last day in Autumn. The one he’d told you would help keeping your magic in check. The one you’d left discarded then nearly killed Azriel by being unable to control yourself.

“This…? This is all that made it?” Your fingers trace the title, and you consider for a moment raking your nails down its surface, scalping its smooth leather and ripping the pages from the spine. The silver is cold against your fingers, and you imagine casting the window wide and throwing it out to the winds. Throwing it far, far away, somewhere you’ll never have to see it again, where you’ll never be reminded of the poor choices you made that brought such an unbearable amount of shame into your life.

You can feel it begin to crush into you again, and your knees shake like they might buckle. Why is this all that lasted?

“The book was enchanted, as many are nowadays.” Azriel’s voice is far off in your head, the world tipping beneath you. “The magic protecting it was ripped apart, but the book’s still intact. The ring seems to have its own magic warding it, though it’s been damaged.”

“Is this-?” You turn to face him, arm banding across your stomach, able to feel as the shame and hurt squeezes you insides. “Is this your way of punishing me for what I did? By showing me this?” Azriel’s brow furrows, and he takes a step forward, “No.” You’re not sure you believe him. He takes another step forward, so he’s stood before you and you have to tilt your head slightly to look at him. “I thought you’d be happy. I thought it would make you feel better. That you had something to keep.”

“That reminds me of why you all hate me,” you say, hot tears spilling from your lashes, scalding your cheeks. “You can’t be expecting me to believe that you’re showing me these things because you’ve forgiven them. That you’ve so suddenly had a change of heart about what happened. Not this.” You sniff, trying to hide your face. “Not you.”

Silence hangs in the air, stretched and painful until, “You think we hate you?”

“I know you do,” you whisper, “and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

Scarred fingers collect around your wrists, and you try to cover yourself as he gently pulls your palms from your tear-stained face. “Look at me.” Look at me.

Does he know what he’s doing? Or are you joining dots that have no business being joined? You open your eyes but look away, staring at the floor, at a section of wooden panelling that must have been redone when- “Look at me.”

His shadows cooly gather beneath your chin, lifting your head but you stubbornly refuse, instead casting your gaze to the right where the door is. Just anywhere but him. Anywhere but his eyes, eyes that will make your heart splinter. You look at the threshold, the handle of the door-

Azriel’s wings open, and then you’re ensconced in night.

His shadows gather between your feet, circling overhead so there’s nowhere for you to look anymore but him, everything else inked out to be bland and uninteresting. Only a very small amount of light is allowed through the darkness, like a dozen black veils of silk have been thrown over you to keep you together. Slowly your breaths begin to settle, transported away from the demanding present and instead somewhere else entirely, where time has been paused and you have no pressure of worry beating down on you.

Your nostrils flare, but your breathing has become even. Chest slowly rising up and down, calmed and quietened.

Your throat trembles, but you look at him.

His hazel eyes are normal. No disgust or revulsion to be found. No ice, either. At first glance you might have called the look indifferent, but…calm. Quiet.

Hands release your wrists, one lifting to the circle of your shoulder, but the other moves for your chest. You inhale softly as his fingers graze across the fabric of your top, his touch featherlight and careful. They pause, coming to a stop in a place you’re certain he’ll be able to feel the pounding of your heart. But he makes no remark on the wild rhythm, instead pressing the pads of his fingers down so they’re resting atop your breast. “You have a scar here, don’t you?”

Something tugs from beneath your ribs, an alertness jerking awake beneath his touch.

“It’s small, isn’t it? Barely there. Less than a scratch, but it’s scarred.”

What? How does he…?

His hand finds yours and he guides you a step closer to him, then lifts your palm to the side of his stomach, his ribs. “I don’t hate you,” he says quietly, but in the shared silence you have no need to strain your ears; you can hear him perfectly. “None of them hate you either.”

“You’re lying,” you whisper.

“I’m not,” he replies, pressing your palm flat to where that matching scar lies, embedded deep in his flesh. Where he’d stolen the arrow you had meant for yourself.

Your head hangs in defeat, and your forehead meets his chest. His hand releases your shoulders, scarred fingers skimming the small hairs sprouting from the top of your nape.

————

Night has fallen by the time you return to the River House.

It’s dark and you wrap your arms tight over your chest, wind playing with your hair, kissing ice up your neck. At your side, Azriel seems unbothered by the descending winter, appearing as stoic as ever.

Coming up the pathway that leads past the front lawn you can see the lights in the House are one, letting you see in to the living room and kitchen, each separated by the hallway that connects to the door before you. No one’s in the living room, but you can easily make out the figures of two of your sisters in the kitchen—Feyre and Elain. You wonder what they could be speaking about when Elain soundlessly slams her hand down on the table.

You pause, and you know Azriel’s watching too.

Elain’s teeth flash in the faelight and your brows narrow, pulse spiking—they look like they’re arguing. You hurry a step forward, hand falling to the handle but Azriel places his palm atop your shoulder, pausing you. You look back at him. “We should give them space. Let them sort it out on their own.”

You consider, glancing between him and the front door. Teeth nip at the interior of your lip—you’ve not seen Elain like that in a long time. She’s not one to become easily agitated. “No,” you say, “they’re my sisters. I want to know what’s wrong.”

“It looks private. You should wait-”

But you turn the handle, giving him a strange look, “They’re my sisters.”

As soon as the door opens, Elain’s voice rings through the halls, bouncing off the walls with crystal clarity, “I want to know why I had to hear it through Lucien, Feyre. Who, I might add, didn’t even hear it from one of you.”

Quiet settles, tense and taut and you halt, blinking. What have you just walked in on?

With as little noise as possible you push the cloak from your shoulders, hanging it on one of the hooks in the entryway. Elain’s voice carries on, unaware of the new listeners. “Are you going to explain it?” She asks, voice softened from its previous cut, still bearing a nasty edge. “I didn’t want to worry you,” comes Feyre’s quietened reply. “I didn’t mean to hide it, Elain, but the timing was never right, and you’re both…”

“We’re both what?” Elain asks sternly, her voice tight. “Untrustworthy because we aren’t as tightly knit with others in your circle?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth,” Feyre replies, with soft steel. “That’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Then tell me why you didn’t think to mention it.”

Silence falls, and you feel guilt gather in your chest for eavesdropping. You turn to glance at Azriel but he seems to have vanished into shadow at some point. Maybe he actually had intended to give them privacy, but you’re in too deep now. Instead of hiding you straighten your skirts, quietly stepping further along the hallway until you reach the kitchen, peeking your head around the doorway, “is everything okay?”

Cocoa coloured irises flick to you and Feyre turns in the kitchen, spotting you in the hallway. “Fine,” Feyre says—too quickly. You look over to Elain, but she’s watching Feyre instead, coca eyes simmering. You swallow, and step decisively into the room, steadying your voice, “What’s wrong?” Because something’s clearly amiss.

A tense silence passes and you can feel your insides trembling, as if the quiet is a living, breathing creature, gently but increasingly firmly pushing against you, weighing on your shoulders, pulling on your back, an invisibly current slowly trying to drag you from the room. You stand still.

Feyre’s shoulders sag in a way you haven’t seen before, her can lowering in a way that casts heavy shadow beneath her eyes and into the downturned corners of her mouth. “We’d thought to keep you out of it,” she says, much too softly for High Lady. “You’re both…” But she trails off, landing her face in her hands and rubbing along the narrow lengths of her curved brows. Her hands fall to her sides and she leans back against the table, arms moving to fold over her chest. “I know what it’s like, to be kept out of something…” She looks at both of you in turn, blue-grey eyes anguished and distraught, showing a turmoil she’s been battling with for quite some time. And what she’s said is true—she knows what that’s like. How she almost died without knowing the circumstances of her own child. She knows better than anyone what it means.

So what could have made her decide…?

You release the tension of your stance, settling back against the wall since this seems like something important.

“You may have seen us to be more on edge than usual…” Feyre confesses, casting a glance to Elain. Your older sister’s expression doesn’t give, but acknowledgement passes through her eyes and Feyre continues. “Nesta’s been practicing with Ataraxia more frequently, despite how little we know about its nature; Amren’s been trying her efforts at furthering her understanding of The Old Language; then the trip Nesta and Cassian went on to the Day Court…to visit Helion’s libraries.” She swallows thickly, shadows accentuating the roll of her throat. “Helion, Spell-Cleaver.”

“Nesta mentioned a binding spell,” you now recall from that supper all that time ago. Amren had bitten her off. Nesta had Ataraxia out on the table when you’d gone to visit her. What Eris had been talking about during your visit to Autumn. It must have something to do with why he was surprised you weren’t learning to fight.

But why would you need to?

“We…” Feyre starts but swallows her own words. Besides her, Elain shifts on her feet, her attention casting skittishly around the dimly lit kitchen, only small yellow lights lighting the large room. Your younger sister sighs harshly, rubbing her face once before looking at you fully, hands again to her sides. “We think the Prison is collapsing.”

Her words settle into the quiet of the kitchen and seem to disappear in the external world while they ring endlessly within your mind, repeating in a space away from the linear passage of time and instead growing louder and louder with every hurried repeat. We think the Prison is collapsing.

What are you supposed to say to that?

You can feel your eyes stretch, throat turning dry from breathing through your mouth, lips open while you stare.

“Why?” You manage to gasp out, throat closing up on itself. Why would the Prison be collapsing? Why now? Why?

“When Nesta fought Lanthys,” Feyre begins solemnly, “perhaps even when she first retrieved the harp…whether it was Ataraxia, one of the Dread Trove, or Lanthys exploiting a worn fibre of the spell’s fabrics…maybe a combination of the three…we don’t know for certain.”

“You don’t know why the Prison is breaking?” Elain asks, staring at Feyre.

“We know the wards are weakened,” she corrects, as if savouring the small grace that they seem to still be holding. But for how much longer? “We think it’s in relation to a magical object imbued with Cauldron-made power being in close proximity to such an ancient antiquity…that their magic might have abraded the spells of the Prison… But no. We don’t know for certain.”

The walls tilt, shadows stretching and you’re thankful you’re leaning against the wall. Feyre meets your gaze with a look you could call grieving. “Please let’s discuss this further in the morning. I’m sorry it was kept…that I helped keep it from you—both of you—but for a conversation like this…” Feyre looks to Elain, a bit of that strength being forced to her surface. “We can speak in the morning.”

Elain watches Feyre silently, and for a few moments you think you might see anger in her eyes, but it’s turned calm and quiet. “I imagine it’s difficult, in some respects,” Elain says, “to play the role of High Lady.”

You can’t tell whether it’s meant as consolation or a jab, but Elain’s already departed from the room, leaving just you and Feyre.

“How long have you known?” You ask in the quiet. Feyre shifts but doesn’t look away from you, “Long enough that we’re running out of options.”

You nod your head, more than just fatigue now weighing on your lids. “I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.”

————

It’s strange how you find yourself meandering the opposite way from your bedroom when you reach the top of the stairs. Seeking out a room you’ve never once tried to approach without explicit permission beforehand. But the whole night had been strange, and your head is swimming slightly, paddling in the shallow part of a clear river.

Your hand lifts, but at the last second, and for no discernible reason, you change your mind, opening the door quietly without knocking.

Azriel is sat at his desk, a low light atop the surface, a lampshade tinting the colour a pale yellow. Ink scratches over parchment, and you pause on the threshold, leaning against the doorframe. You could understand the pleasure of spying, if it means seeing people like this.

He looks up after a moment, seemingly finished with his task as he sets the paper aside and lowers his quill.

“It was Blue Annis, wasn’t it?” You speak before he has a chance to. “The spider you were telling me about.”

“Yes.” Azriel inclines his head. “It was.”

Something big enough, cruel enough, powerful enough to strike a chord of unease into Azriel. And the container holding her and countless others is fraying?

You lean a little more of your weight into the doorframe. “How long do you think is left before the wards are sparse enough for one of them to slip through?”

“Probably another month,” Azriel replies. His expression doesn’t falter as he adds, “one might’ve already managed.”

“What do you mean by that?” You ask, fear twisting in your stomach. He must be able to smell it on you. Azriel leans back into his chair, “We’re checking each cell to make sure. So far everything’s been where it should, but it’s a slow process. By the time we happen across an empty one…” He raises a brow as if to say: Who knows how far it’ll have gotten?

A shudder spider-walks down your spine. “Are they all as scary as she is? As Blue Annis?”

“You’ll work yourself up into a panic like that,” Azriel tells you, his face remaining serious. “You’re already imagining the worst possible creature you can think of, aren’t you?”

“Is she less scary than I’m imagining?” You ask dryly, forcing a wry curve of your lips.

Azriel’s eyes seem to twinkle, but maybe it’s the light.

“What’s she like?” You force yourself to ask, voice lowered beneath the night. But Azriel shakes his head, “Ask me another time.”

His lips curve, but the light in his eyes has winked out. “You don’t want her to be the last thing on your mind before night.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya @starlitlakes @kksbookstuff @feerique @ratgirl2020 @just-m-2

cbmthy taglist: @impossibelle @naturakaashi @fae-glamour-petrichorus @ficienjoyedrbspot @azriels-shadowsinger @marina468 @misstea12 @going-through-shit @fussel9913 @minakay @i-am-infinite @wannabewolf @thegirlintheshadows101

#azriel x reader #can’t bring myself to hate you #azriel x reader angst #cbmthy #azriel x reader fic #azriel x reader multi-part fic #azriel series #cbmthy chapter 22

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somerandomdudelmao · 1 year

Note

But what's Casey using to cloak himself?

From what we see in the show, cloaking brooches are normally activated by touch but can be turned on/off without it (eg. big mama's hotel staff). This makes it pretty hard to tell what it is, and normally when theorizing about something like this, you need to go through and reread EVERYTHING but I'm too lazy for that so lets assume I actually did. Firstly lets get the mask and hockey stick out of the way, because he doesn't even have those on him afterward Draxum gave him the cloaking "pin". He doesn't actually seem to have anything that could be identified as a brooch or pin as far as we can tell in the first few panels of the "Commander O'Neil arc", which narrows it down from anything that could be blatantly obvious. He could, however, be hiding it somewhere on his body (chest, shin, shoulder, or boots are most likely in order) There's also the chance of the magic just being infused into him because Draxum is Draxum and magic shenanigan's, which could mean this search is futile and I'm just ranting about useless sh*t. Anyways, since Casey usually has one or two outfits per arc, weather it be different from the previous or not, I'm gonna compile all the first (good) shots of him here somewhat in order (from after the turt casey saga):

The images above seem to be his more casual outfit worn around the base, with short sleeves and long, loose pants tucked into what looks like boots and/or ankle wraps (similar to what Raph has on his arms in the show).

The classic battle/outdoor outfit that we see him wear in the movie, consisting of armor that vaguely resembles a turtle on his chest, a cape that goes over his shoulders and covers his neck as well as the top of his torso, pants with kneepads, shoes akin to sneakers, possible arm wraps that go under the gloves, the cool ass mask, and his hockey stick.

back into the shirt and pants when in the past lair, but is in a different shirt as there is no longer a rip on the left sleeve. He isn't wearing any shoes, scratching the boots/shoes theory, as well as his pants going up past his ankles and almost past his shins, meaning it's probably not there either.

going onto the surface, Casey wears a hoodie supposedly on top of the shirt and pants he wears around the lair, gathering his stick and mask to go with it. He is also seen wearing this hood in the lair on part 10 of "You are in the past, your thoughts are in the future".

The shirt and pants are definitely his lair outfit at this point, the photo above is from "Donatello".

the hoodie returns for a magic spell, only to be replaced with the free Hamato possesion make over

This lovely upgrade keeps his hoodie, but he now has a design similar to the Hamato outfits for the turtles in the episode "Insane in the Mama Train", with wraps on his arms, legs, and around his waist. Donnie's logo now sits on his heart (awww), and he looks pretty damn cool. I wasn't sure if he had socks or shoes on, but looking at that piece of fanart on Cass' page, it's shoes. There is a symbol on his back, possibly being that of the Hamato clan (hard to tell though, as it looks more like some kind of wheel in most panels you can see it)

The turtle version seems to be pretty much the same, the only difference being the wraps changing for his now 3 fingered hands and 3 toed feet, as well as the hoodie likely becoming a bit looser/bigger to better fit his shell. A little something I noticed about the transformation scene is that it starts from his ankles/shins/feet, which is cool and all for the posing, but is a bit controversial because it is, in fact, not in any of those areas. IN CONCLUSION,

The brooch (if there is one) is not on his arms due to him wearing short sleeves around the lair, it is not put in his shoes, and it does not need to be activated by touch. It is not anywhere near his feet, as there isn't anything we can see despite the transformation thingies coming from that general area. If we take the previous sentence into account, it is not on his chest either, crossing out pretty much all of the options we have. The last thing I can think of is Draxum somehow just... injecting the stuff into him as a controllable power. That could be flimsy, though, as Casey could've struggled with that of course. But then again, plot convenience.

TL;DR

The brooch is probably non-existent and Draxum just did some mystic shit to the kid.

THE A M O U N T of research HOLY SHIT??!¿¿¿

Why is it that every time I read an essay with theories, I feel like I'm not the author???Ahahah but for real?? I strait up just sit there like...

like...oh my god, how interesting, there are so many mysteries in this comic, unravel them for me please

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dizzy-n-busy · 10 months

Text

[can (and most likely will) contain SOME poly hcs!]

« Shaw Pack headcanons »

° • ° • ↓ • ° • °

Younger David and Darlin' had a 'platonic confession' - as Milo and Asher put it - with each other (they confessed that they were besties for the first time)

Younger Darlin' was hella touch starved and tried avoiding it at all costs bc it made them feel weird; Darlin' now is constantly being touched and completely immune to it

Angel and Asher are VERY touchy feely, love language of physical touch havin asses

David and Baaabe are the cooks of the pack - Baaabe also makes snacks for pack meetings bc David's too preoccupied (Milo and Sam are good sous-chefs !!)

Sweetheart loves buying things and going to expensive ass restaurants with the pack (they're restricted for special occasions bc the pack doesn't want them going broke)

Angel and Baaabe met each other in college but never found out each other's names till later

Everyone is immensely protective over Sam (esp during pack meetings)

Sam and Darlin' stay getting cuddled and clinged onto bc they think that they're outcasts

Milo learned how to stitch at a young age so he could personally tailor some of his clothes shorter; he was embarrassed to get them done professionally

Angel likes wearing short clothes/bottoms so when their shoes untie, the pack's literally dolphin diving tying it for them so they don't have to bend down

David gets called 'mama duck' and he literally hates it

Someone always records whenever they all hangout for memories (I'd say Baaabe, David or Sweetheart)

Darlin' and Sweetheart are menaces when it comes to pissy chrissy, they love intimidating him (Darlin' looms over him and Sweetheart jumpscares him with cloaking)

Milo has a daily skin care/shower routine which is oddly complex

Angel spams the gc with David smiling when they catch him in a photo or to lighten the mood - everyone loves it

Angel got Asher hooked on cheek kisses (or vice versa)

Movie nights or sleepovers/camping go crazy

The pack has, at some point in time, all fallen asleep on or next to Sam (he's too comforting for his own good)

It's always Milo vs Asher till you bring Darlin' into the picture (2 against 1 and they still lose lmao)

Baaabe literally obliterates everyone at arcade games

David has his last name tattooed on the back of his neck; he says how they'll be his demise /j

Sweetheart stress cleans (twinninem)

Baaabe gives fantastic pep talks

Darlin' takes Angel out whenever they struggle with sleeping and don't wanna bother David (Asher sometimes goes too)

Sweetheart is the go to for missing stuff, they always manage to find it somehow

Sam lets the pack play with his hair

Angel got David to match fits ONCE and they were literally vibrating in excitement

The amount of 'embarrassing' old pack photos and videos that David hides is FEDERAL

Darlin' gives really nice hugs

The werewolves all shift and form a cuddle party, it's very cute (many photos for evidence)

Angel likes riling Darlin' up when their shifted and gets chased like a bat outta hell - they have literally mounted the rest of the pack tryna get away

Sweetheart always gives the pack's shifted forms head kisses before and after rubbing their heads

David won't admit it but he loves hanging out with Sam on the sidelines while everyone else is playing around (shifted)

Darlin' got assorted matching piercing with the listener mates (angel bites for Angel, gages for Baaabe and either a tongue piercing or snake bites for Sweetheart)

Milo gets picked up a lot for some reason - it only slightly pisses him off

They were all matching for the Summit, I might draw it to show what I mean

Sweetheart and Milo LOVE making and holding eye contact, they like how it flusters ppl (they always win staring contests/j)

Angel's super into interior designing, they interpret it thru minecraft bc I said so

Group therapy goes crazy/lh

I have so many thoughts abt them, I might have ta make a pt2 💪💪

• ° • ° ↑ ° • ° •

#this is to save me from the literal mindfuck the summit was #redacted audio #redacted david #redacted angel #redacted darlin #redacted sam #redacted asher #redacted baabe #redacted milo #redacted sweetheart #redacted shaw pack

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dasnercaret · 2 months

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i had so much fun drawing this guy it's unreal. please observe siffrin from @protectorcraft's fic a bell chimes somewhere!! what a dude. what a lad. what a weirdo (positive)

some more details under the cut! (spoilers for isat and the fic under the cut as well!)

i imagine that since siffrin's creachur form has something to do with wish craft, it wasn't too far-fetched to say that his eye would be colored too, especially given how the sky kid focused on it. however since this isn't his wish to stay with his family, i thought it would be nice to make it a different color... something representing the universe........ Sky Blue It Is

it helps that i am also obsessed with shades of sky blue AND the line from the fic that the sky kid said that it had "everything" in its eyes

i didn't illustrate it, but i think it would be extra cool if creachur siff's eye color changed as per time of day. just because. he's like the eye color version of that one 'do you love the color of the sky' post

i like to imagine that siffrin still has a strange Light in his eyes even when in his human disguise. can't remember if the fic mentions it or not but he has a sky blue highlight in those eyes now in my design. because i can :3

speaking of human disguise, i like to think that even with his transformation he's still not that subtle. mirabelle picks up immediately that he's weird but also that he's friendly and VERY good at survival, and so isn't too bothered by his... quirks. this might end up being canon to the fic honestly but i just wanted to trot out my two cents regardless while i'm here

i'm hoping i managed to communicate some of that off-putting nature in his face! especially his eyes. they're almost unnaturally gray aside from that strange highlight

i originally wanted to make his eyes even weirder but then i thought that being Too Weird would kind of defeat the point, and the point of this is that siffrin kind of has to pass as a normal human which means no glowing pupils, unfortunately. i can totally Give Him Pupils though. gotta get that subtle horror/ creepiness in :3

he gets glowing pupils / tapetum lucidum in the dark though. or when he's angry (see top left). as a treat

didn't draw his in between state (between human and dragon) but i imagine it looks kinda fucked up ! his horn and ears grow, his tail gets longer, teeth get sharper, his whole face sort of. Distorts. in a distinctly uncanny valley way. the blue highlight starts bleeding into his eyes (and his pupils start transforming from round to slit to star-shaped)

continuing, this in-between form in my head is sorta like the dragonkin soldiers from elden ring, just in terms of 'this is a weird hybrid of human and dragon and it just Doesn't Work'. like human, cool, dragon, cool, in between? fucked

siffrin is INSANELY floofy. even with the fact that he hasn't bathed in ages and his floof is all matted and tangled from lack of care he's still crazy soft. i think his fur also has similar insulating properties to his cloak so he never overheats or gets too cold. always the Perfect Temperature

if i were more confident in my skills (and which way this fic is going to end up going) i would have drawn a big hero 6 style moment where everyone is just lying with their face buried in siffrin's fur, like how everyone lays on warm marshmellow baymax.

i originally meant for siffrin to be more cursed and body-horror-y, and then i was looking at the fic descriptions for him (as of chapter 7, so there may be more detail later that i didn't get to see as of writing this) and was like 'wait... he kind of looks like the dragons from BOTW doesn't he' and then the inherent majesty kind of. just. Happened.

i like the fact that he looks kind of majestic though! i think it's a good representation of siffrin's terrible body image issues in this fic where honestly he looks awesome but he just doesn't realize it because, hello negative self-worth

didn't color the last doodles of human siff at the top left. apologies. i got sleeby

in another life mirabelle rides his dragon form into battle and it is exactly as awesome as it looks like it would be

kind of shoehorned my own oc into here as well but i SWEAR aleph is so absurdly similar to this design it's actually kind of hilarious. if i had a nickel for the number of space dragon designs i've made i'd have two, which isn't a lot but

and the full page of doodles! just cause

#isat #in stars and time #isat siffrin #isat fanart #in stars and time fanart #in stars and time siffrin #siffrin #isat spoilers #kind of only for the readmore though #a bell chimes somewhere #dasner art

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electrozeistyking · 2 months

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Hi, I really like making little personalized references for characters I like when I get into things! I do this to figure out how I wanna draw them, and is a recent-ish development that I haven’t done a lot, but I really like character design and thinking about them! So I made some for Siffrin. How fun!

DO NOTE THAT THIS WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR LATER PARTS OF THE GAME. I did obviously tag it as such for the sake of others and it will be further down, but I figured I’d still warn you just in case. <:3

Now, without further ado, here’s “reference one!”

I’m personally gonna be using this in conjunction with Siffrin’s actual reference sheet (which I refer to as “notes” in mine!!) to make sure he look his best! I also wanted to make sure they’re “in line with canon,” yet still in my style and in a way I can be proud of.

Which isn’t that hard, since I’m usually always proud of my own work. I just like my own stuff. <:3

Due to the brim of his hat allegedly being bean-shaped (teehee), I thought it’d be fun if I carried that over to his torso/body. It’s not noticeable with a cloak in the way, nor when Siffrin’s standing straight up. Basically, the bean shape would only be revealed in certain poses.

(Coming up with that also made me say “Whoops! All beans!” out loud about Siffrin, btw.)

Additionally, I like giving characters is their own set of fangs. One character I draw has a gap between them and the rest of their teeth, one has prominent ones to make them more cat like on purpose — and for Siffrin, I decided to give them rounded ones.

I usually make fangs razor sharp, because I really like big ol chompers like that, so them being round is definitely a very unique thing for Siffrin to have. Well, at least at first.

I’m also a really big fan of certain design elements sticking around after something wild happens to characters… which brings us to “reference two.”

Well, if you’re not gonna be able to find any good references for this version of Siffrin, you might as well make your own, right??

The major thing I wanted to do with this Siffrin was to have him still feel like himself, but also give him somewhat of a unique design in comparison — by playing up elements I noticed during this scene.

Making this Siffrin feel as giant as they are was important to me. I went ahead and made their hat, face, hair and cloak longer. Made their shoulders broader, had them hunch over so they’d practically loom over everyone. Trying to appear smaller while still being an obstacle. Wanting everyone to stay here. Wanting their family.

I noticed that a lot of Siffrin’s hair seemed a lot more angular here, so I felt it crucial to use those shapes, but going a couple steps further and using them for his face as well… primarily his mouth and chin, of course. Which meant replacing those rounded fangs I gave him with a full set of sharper ones.

(I also wanted them to look like they’re too big for Siffrin’s mouth, so two of them — well, four? — will always peek out/fall past their lower lip. It’s like their teeth are not a comfortable fit whatsoever and it makes talking feel weird, but they manage.)

(They stick around after Siffrin “reverts back” or whatever we’re calling it. He never gets his round fangs back, but at least the ones he has now serve as a reminder that he got to the end. Might take some getting used to, though.)

(I also tried making their brows look a bit more angular? Can’t tell if they really come across that way.)

ANYWAY, I THINK I SHOULD STOP HAHAHA. I could go on and on all day, but I got other things to do and I think I’ve already explained enough! Just know that I get a kick out of putting love and care into character thoughts and designs. <:3

#in stars and time #in stars and time fanart #in stars and time spoilers #in stars and time siffrin #isat #isat fanart #isat siffrin #isat spoilers #siffrin #zeisty’s in betweens #character thoughts #headcanons maybe??#i was gonna make a jab at how siffrin looks like a sonic the hedgehog character in that first ref #but coming from the guy whose first two contributions to isat was siffrin in sonic adventure poses #and who is also a sonic fan working on a particular fancomic #i think that would’ve been too ironic. or self aware? idk. just felt outta place #either way yeah. i draw really big hands and stompers and i think it’s due to me being a fan of sonic the hedgehog #also yeah! this is mainly for me but if anyone else wants to use these (especially that last ref bc I know there isn’t a canon one)#absolutely feel free! heck even let me know when you do! i think that’d be fun!#i think siffrin would make at least one pun involving the new sharper fangs. maybe even more than that

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another-lost-mc · 17 days

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(Fallen) Angels Round Table Discussion: Fashion

Featuring: A mixed bag of canon and OC angels and some of their fallen brethren.

"So, honest question - who comes up with these outfit designs?"

GABRIEL: Most angels meet with someone from the tailoring guild and they can request what sorts of clothing they'd like.

SERAPHIEL: Clothing is also a popular gift for angels that pass their ascension trials.

"Does hierarchy or rank have anything to do with the types of clothes angels are allowed to wear?"

SIMEON: Not really. It mostly boils down to preference. Certain styles are more practical than others too. For example, most of the warriors choose not to wear robes on a daily basis. I only wear mine for very special occasions.

METATRON: Michael and Lucifer couldn't be more different style-wise and they were both Seraphs.

MICHAEL: I designed a new outfit for Lucifer that was a little bit more...relaxed...but he wouldn't wear it. Asmodeus even helped with it.

LUCIFER: That’s exactly why I refused. You show enough skin for both of us.

"Now that you mention it, is there a practical reason for designing tight clothes with, um, decorative cut-outs?"

RAPHAEL: It helps us stay cool and prevent heat sickness during our hottest season.

HABUHIAH: Loose clothing isn't comfortable to wear underneath armor.

RAPHAEL: I don't think that's much of a concern anymore.

HABUHIAH: You have more faith than I do when it comes to certain demons.

BELIAL: Are you still upset about our little scuffle in the human world? It's been nearly five-thousand years.

URIEL: You mean the pointless war that you started?

BELIAL: It was actually very profitable.

URIEL: You're the worst.

GABRIEL: Shh, darling. Just pretend he's not here.

BELIAL: That's not very nice, Gabe. You haven't missed me even a teeny-tiny bit?

HABUHIAH: You can't be serious.

METATRON: If we have time later, I'd love to talk to you about your involvement in that skirmish. The official records we have aren't very detailed.

BELIAL: Say no more! I'd be delighted to stay as long as necessary and—

GABRIEL: Absolutely not.

"So, back to the whole why angelic clothing is so revealing thing...?”

SERAPHIEL: Right. Well, from a utility point of view, form-fitted clothes usually work best because you still want to be able to move your body freely without any restrictions. Wearing something flimsy like a cloak is a potential disaster too, at least if you're in a fight.

RAPHAEL: Michael learned that the hard way.

URIEL: The younglings were in the garden and got a firsthand demonstration about combat safety so at least something good came from it.

MICHAEL: You set your cloak on fire by accident one time and your friends never let you forget it.

RAPHAEL: That was an accident? I thought you did it on purpose to get out of training that day.

SIMEON: The point is, a lot of those considerations aren't as important as they used to be. Now we simply wear what we like.

AZRA: Are we going to gloss over the other very important reason? That some of us just wanted to look good?

LUCIFER: Riveting input from our resident incubus.

HABUHIAH: What's that gesture Azazel is making with his hand?

SERAPHIEL: I'm not sure, but judging by Lucifer's expression it's probably not nice.

MICHAEL: Their demonic forms are much more impressive than the photos I've seen on Devilgram.

RAPHAEL: Should we try to stop them?

SIMEON: It's more entertaining if we don't.

METATRON: But I don't want anyone to get hurt.

URIEL: Wait, why is Belial fighting now too?

SERAPHIEL: He's upset that his suit got scorched when one of their wayward spells hit him by accident.

GABRIEL: I hope you're pleased with yourself since this was all your idea, Michael. But I have to admit, I expected much worse.

MICHAEL: See, I told you not to worry. It's just like old times!

A/N: Here's something silly that helped distract me from real life stuff that's kept me busy lately. This vaguely incorporates some Celestial Realm headcanons/worldbuilding, and to be honest, I just wanted to throw these characters into a room and see what happened. (Chaos. Chaos happened.)

#obey me incorrect quotes #obey me oc #obey me headcanons #its like the most awkward family reunion

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childrenofcain-if · 1 month

Note

Hiii, I hope you have a nice day. I just want to tell you that since I found your story I haven't stopped thinking about it and the characters. The way you write is amazing and I can tell you know what you are doing. As someone who writes in her spare time I must say I am in love with your writing. ✨

But seriously, you write very well, I hope the universe gives you health and lots of motivation to continue with your projects.

Now, C is the most popular Ro and I get it, it's mine too, but I want to know more about the others too. Hahaha

I don't know if you've answered this yet, from what I've read you haven't, and that's fine if you don't feel like answering or don't have time.

What would you say is the Ro's way of dealing with jealousy?

Will there be any characters who are jealous of other Ro's?

And also, what kind of voice would you describe for them? How do you imagine their voices?

Oh oh, and will there be some difference in the way Ro's interact with different MC's?

Thanks for reading and for sharing your talent with us, and sorry for talking so much and asking so many questions. Hahaha

Pd: soooo we already have amazing Ro's but is there a possibility of having you as one of them? pls 👉👈🌸

i’ve gotten so many asks about my writing and ngl, i was very surprised because imposter syndrome is a bitch and i have a hard time being happy with anything i write. y’all have made me so much more motivated and confident in my writing and i can’t thank you enough. this is to let you know that i’ve read all the sweet and supportive asked you’ve sent me and i’m eternally grateful for everybody who have faith in me and this story 🫶🏻

okay, sappy axel aside, let’s dive into the questions:

what would you say is the ROs’ way of dealing with jealousy?

C LACROIX

C’s jealousy is a quiet, smoldering thing, more akin to a slow-burning ember than a raging fire. it begins as a mere flicker, an unsettling gnawing at the edges of their mind, something easily brushed aside in the beginning. but it grows, consuming them in small, imperceptible increments.

they don’t lash out; that would be too obvious, the action of someone too insecure. instead, their jealousy manifests in control—sharp, calculated moves to reassert their dominance, their superiority. a barbed comment here, a subtle maneuver there, each action designed to tighten their grip on what they perceives as theirs.

C cloaks their jealousy in a façade of indifference, even as the venom coils tighter around their heart. the game, after all, is not about emotions—it’s about winning. and C Lacroix does not like losing.

V NÆSHOLM

V’s jealousy is a battle of wills, fought not just with the outside world but within themselves. raised on the virtues of patience and self-restraint, they resist the initial sting, the impulse to confront. V does not crumble at the sight of competition; rather, they internalize it, turning their attention inward, wrestling with the dichotomy nature of their feelings.

they pray, of course—they always pray—seeking strength to overcome what they see as a personal failing, a momentary lapse in their otherwise steadfast faith. but jealousy lingers, seeping into their thoughts like a persistent shadow.

it is a test, they tell themself, one they must pass without faltering. and so, V watches, waits, and suffers in silence, until the day when they can either forgive or be forgiven.

W OSTENDORF

W’s jealousy takes the form of a timid, creeping thing, a quiet dread that blooms slowly and without warning. it unsettles them, making them feel small, insignificant. they know what it is but can’t quite bring themself to acknowledge it. it’s easier, safer, to pretend it doesn’t exist, to bury it beneath layers of strained politeness and mild-mannered smiles.

when jealousy takes hold, W retreats into themself, seeking solace in routine and familiarity, as if by doing so, they can keep their ever-growing at bay. they avoid confrontation, preferring to suffer in silence rather than expose this chink in their armour.

they convince themself that it’s nothing, just a passing feeling, that they’re above such negative and petty emotions. but deep down, they know that their jealousy is simply fear dressed in a different guise—the fear of being overlooked, of never being enough for anyone, much less you.

D DIACONU

D’s jealousy rears its head as a raw, visceral thing, a sudden and overwhelming force that they’ve never quite learned to control. it ignites quickly, like a match struck in the dark, flaring up in an instant and consuming all rational thought. they feel it in their chest, hot and suffocating, and their first instinct is always to fight—to claim what they believe is rightfully theirs.

but D is also scared, terrified of the depth of their own emotions, and so they pull back, lashes out in unexpected ways, the anger masking a deeper fear. they’re torn between the desire to protect what they love and the dread of being inevitably hurt again.

in the end, D’s jealousy is as much a reflection of their insecurity as it is their passion—a volatile mix that will leave anyone restless, yearning, and perpetually on edge.

M WHITLOCK-SINGH

M’s jealousy is a cold, calculated affair, more of an intellectual exercise than an emotional response. they analyze it from all angles, as if it were a puzzle to be solved rather than a feeling to be experienced. they don’t let it show; that would be beneath them, unbecoming of the “paragon of styx.”

instead, M channels their jealousy into ambition, using it to fuel their drive, their need to prove that they are, indeed, the best. it’s not that they don’t feel it—they do, acutely so—but they refuse to be ruled by it. jealousy, in M’s eyes, is a weakness to be mastered, a flaw to be overcome.

and so they play the long game, biding their time, waiting for the moment when they can subtly, almost imperceptibly, reclaim their rightful place without ever lowering themself to the level of those low-level thugs who provoke it.

will there be any characters who are jealous of other ROs’?

i didn’t understand this question fully, but i’m guessing you mean amongst the ROs? if so, C would be more jealous of D if they ended up dating the MC and vice-versa. W is jealous of any ROs who date MC lmao, but they’ll try their best to temper it down.

and also, what kind of voice would you describe for them? how do you imagine their voices?

C LACROIX: silky and husky, with a slightly cold, detached quality.

cédric’s voiceclaim would be tom hiddleston, while céline’s would be ella purnell.

V NÆSHOLM: gentle, warm, and steady, with a soft, almost lyrical cadence.

vance’s voiceclaim would be jordan fisher and for vanessa, it’s the same as her faceclaim, taylor russell.

W OSTENDORF: soft and slightly breathy and raspy, with almost a drawl that surprisingly makes them sound sincere most of the time.

for wilhelm, i’d say andrew garfield comes to mind. wilhelmine definitely has gracie abrams as her voice.

D DIACONU: deep, rough, and slightly smokey. there is also a gritty edge that comes out when their emotions are getting intense.

dumitru’s voiceclaim is definitely jacob elordi, while imma have to give dumitra to sophie thatcher.

M WHITLOCK-SINGH: polished, refined, and posh, very articulate with a natural commanding tone.

maxwell’s voiceclaim would probably be a mixture of benedict cumberbatch and dev patel. i knew from the conception of maxine as a character that i wanted simone ashley to be her voiceclaim.

and will there be some difference in the way ROs interact with different MCs?

ooh definitely. it largely depends on your character’s personality and choices tbh, but don’t worry, there’s no weird stat system for that. you don’t have to kiss their asses all the time for them to treat you nicely, however, you shouldn’t be overly rude either because that’s going to lose friendship/romance points.

i guess what i’m trying to say is that your MC doesn’t have to be a complete doormat to progress with their platonic/romantic relationship with the ROs. some of them, like C and M, might even start softening up if the MC is more of a gentle/shy type.

#my girlfriend has chosen me as her romance option tho #i better still be no. 1 on her list tho tf #i got here by fighting all her book crushes #ro: c lacroix #ro: v næsholm #ro: w ostendorf #ro: d diaconu #ro: m whitlock singh #interactive fiction #if: the ballad of the young gods #interactive novel #twine wip #interactive story

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misseviehyde · 8 months

Text

CLOAKED

It was summer recess and Maisy and her best-friend Erin wanted to earn some extra money for the holidays. The two girls had long been friends and shared many interests, so they were planning to travel together and see the world.

In order to save up - they were willing to work any job they could find. Babysitting, bar work, office temping... anything that paid.

As full-time students they couldn't take on a full time position, but as sensible trustworthy girls, they didn't find it hard to find work. Still - the savings were only growing slowly and they had a long way to go until they had finally saved enough.

Then Erin hit a jackpot. An old friend of her Mom's who had married into a rich family needed someone to be a cloakroom attendant at a massive party she was throwing at her mansion. Erin got the invite and was staggered at how much was being offered for just a few hours work.

That evening Erin found herself in a plain black dress standing in the luxurious hallway of the mansion. As guests arrived she would take their coats and hang them in the large purpose built cloakroom near the entrance.

As more and more guests arrived, Erin found herself growing jealous of the rich successful people she was seeing. Her own family were poor. She was a scholarship student and had had to work hard for every opportunity. Skinny, plain and shy - she was a million miles away from the beautiful confident bitches who thrust their clothing into her arms without a second thought.

In the cloakroom Erin carefully hung the coats and gave each person a ticket. Eventually a lull developed. Most of the guests were now here and she idly browsed on her phone and sent Millie a selfie.

Bored she purveyed her small kingdom and suddenly realised there were a number of unticketed coats that had been there before she arrived.

They looked like expensive fur coats. They were rich and bitchy looking. Like something a spoiled instagram model or sorority Queen would wear.

Intrigued Erin slid one off a hook. It was a dark grey, super stylish coat and it looked made to fit her. Her fingers bit into the soft fur and evil whispers began to echo in her mind.

Erin groaned and shivering in delight she slid the coat on. It was like it had been waiting for her and it felt like she was putting on a new skin. A better skin.

Erin moaned as her short bitten nails lengthened into an expensive manicure and her plain features shimmered with new makeup. A bitchy blonde streak shot through her hair as her bones cracked and she shot up in height to become tall and thin.

Her plain black dress plunged down to show off her expanding cleavage as it morphed into a designer dress and she was pushed up in expensive black heels.

"Mmmmmh ohhh fuck yessssss," she hissed in a bratty new voice, tossing back her silky hair and standing more confidently with her hands on her Dior belt.

A spoiled sneer appeared on Erin's pefect pink lips as gold bangles encircled her wrist, gold hoops dropped from her ears and an expensive handbag trailed down from her shoulder.

Pushing a pair of Chanel sunglasses onto her now blonde head, Erin giggled like a bitch and clopped out of the cloakroom. This job was beneath her now.

A woman walking down the corridor raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Where's the cloakroom girl gone?"

"Like how the fuck should I know?" sneered Erin. "That fucking little loser seems to have vanished. Too bad huh? Guess you'll have to find your own coat."

Grabbing a glass of champagne from the welcome table, she gave the woman a fake smile and strolled into the party. Ohhhh it felt so good to be a bitch.

Somehow the coat had transformed her. Shy unconfident Erin was gone. She was a bitch now and she loved how it felt.

She felt a hunger for attention as all eyes were drawn to her. Tonight was going to be A LOT of fun.

She entered the party and felt the hungry gaze of every man, married or unmarried fixate on her.

If there was a feeling even better than an orgasm... she had just found it...

******

Erin admired herself in the window of a passing car as she made her way home from the party, her head spinning. She looked amazing. As the night had progressed - her transformation into an evil rich bitch had accelerated and she could still feel herself transforming, even now. It seemed she could only get even more evil and she loved it.

The longer she wore the fur coat, the more it changed her. Erin's hair had become even blonder, her face even prettier. Wealth and privilege now dripped from every pore of her spoiled bitchy body. Long acrylic nails decorated every finger, flawless blue eyes gazed boredly out of a pretty face with long lashes. The fur coat was now white... having transformed to match her white wedge heels.

"I'm a fucking Goddess," she hissed as she tossed back her hair. She had always wanted to look like this, feel like this.

Tonight at the party she had been the centre of attention and it had felt good. She looked down at her phone and the contact numbers of the rich men who had begged to be her sugar daddy. With this new body and attitude she would be able to get whatever she wanted.

Her lips twitched into a cruel smile. She could travel the world, enjoy private jets and expensive cruise ships. She certainly wouldn't be wasting time with that loser Maisy.

A wicked shiver ran through her and she felt herself get wet at the thought of bullying and dominating her former friend. She wanted to lord it over that pathetic little bitch... to show Maisy what a loser she was. Her breasts tingled and her pussy got wet.

Being bad made her feel good.

The coat seemed to reward her evil thoughts. Her face became even prettier her boobs grew another cup size. Being evil would be rewarded. She was an addict to the power now.

"I want more," she hissed. "I want to destroy the old me and become completely corrupted. I need it."

The coat felt warm, comforting. It numbed her guilt, her remorse. It made her feel nothing but pleasure at her new depraved body and malicious mind. She was eager to go even deeper. Her pace increased.

It didn't take long to get home. Reaching the small dorm she shared with Maisy she flung open the door and stormed in.

Her friend was lying on the sofa, her face was a mask of shock. "E...Erin? Wh... how? Is that really you?"

Erin laughed and grabbing Maisy's hair pulled her viciously off the sofa and hurled her onto the floor. Maisy screamed, her hair burning as the other woman stood over her dominantly.

"Ahhhhhh what are you doing?" screamed the terrified Maisy as her former friend brought a foot down and pinned her to the floor like a bug.

"Stop squirming you pathetic little loser. From now on I'm in charge here. You'll do as I say or... do you remember that essay you cheated on by copying my work? I'll tell the university about it and you'll be finished."

"Noooo, you promised you'd never tell..."

"I promised a lot of things," hissed Erin. "It feels good to break those promises and just do what I want. I'm all that matters you see."

Erin laughed as she summoned up saliva and spat a long slow stream out onto Maisy's face. The other girl cried. How humiliating... how funny.

"Stop snivelling loser. Move your worthless stuff out of our room. From now on you sleep on the sofa out here and I get the room to myself. And you better get used to calling me Mistress Erin."

"Y...Yes Mistress," sobbed Maisy.

*****

The next six weeks were hellish for Maisy. Erin had completely changed. The kind and friendly girl was now a mean, vicious, psychotic rich-bitch.

She had their dorm ripped apart and rebuilt to suit her tastes and she bullied and humiliated Maisy every chance she got.

Worse, she was now raking money in from her rich doners and she took every possible moment to taunt and tease Maisy about her upcoming travels.

"Remember how we wanted to see the world. Well I will still get to, but you can stay here you pathetic little bitch. You don't deserve to travel and see the world. You don't deserve anything but to be my footstool."

Maisy was desperately trying to figure out what had happened to make her friend so evil. It had all changed the night Erin had worked the cloak rooms and she had come back wearing a fur coat. She always seemed to be wearing the coat. When she took it off for the briefest times - she seemed less bitchy, more like her old self.

Maybe the coat had something to do with it? Maisy decided if she could destroy the coat, maybe she could get her friend back. First she just had to get it off her.

It would be dangerous. Erin was now much stronger, faster and more violent then she used to be. If Maisy failed, her friend would be sure to punish her.

She just needed the right opportunity.

Erin currently had her scrubbing the floors of the bathroom and doing all the cleaning. Maisy was busy scrubbing the floors with a soapy bucket of water as the Queen Bitch entered.

"Having fun loser?" scoffed Erin. "It's so much fun watching you slave away for me."

With a sudden scream, Maisy unexpectedly flew at her, a thick heavy soapy sponge smashing into Erin's face. The bitch staggered back blinded as Maisy dashed behind her and tugged the fur coat down enough to pin Erin's arms in place.

She roughly pushed Erin forward and down, trying to grab the coat and pull it off.

It all seemed too easy and it nearly worked. But Erin wasn't about to give in that easy. With a snarl she kicked back, knocking one of Maisy's legs loose and then pushing back she crashed Maisy into a wall knocking the air out of her.

Struggling to pull the fur coat back up and free her arms, Erin lashed her head back and reverse head-butted Maisy making her head spin. She resolutely held onto the coat though, knowing this was her only chance.

Erin struggled and fought like a wild thing but she couldn't shake Maisy off. Then changing tactic she shrugged off the coat causing Maisy to fly back and crash into a wall still holding the coat.

Coatless, Erin growled. Now free she could deal with this loser and then put her fur coat back on.

"You think you can stop me Maisy? I'm gonna have to break you in even harder now. By the time I'm done, you'll never oppose me again."

Maisy was trapped. She had no way to destroy the coat and no way past Erin. In moments her friend would have the coat back in her possession and she would probably never get another chance ever again.

She did the only thing she could think of. She put on the fur coat herself.

Erin's sulky mouth opened wide in a shocked expression. "What... no... NOOOOO!"

*BOOM*

The air vibrated and shook. Erin doubled up like she had been punched in the stomach and with a WHOOSH all of the evil power was sucked out of her body. She went limp like a rag doll and collapsed to the floor. She was no longer beautiful, her hair was now brunette again, her fingernails short and stubby and her face plain and anxious.

Maisy struggled to rip off the fur coat before it was too late, but her arms felt heavy and a delicious feeling thrilled through her as the evil power exiting Erin flowed back into the coat.

Her skin tingled and she felt herself begin to transform. She fought it for a moment... then surrendered.

Yessssss. Why not just give into it? It was her turn to be the bitch, her turn to have the power. Erin was going to suffer for all the humiliation she had put Maisy through.

"Yessssss, transform me," she groaned as the coat fit snugly on her body and her mind was warped and transformed into the most evil possible version of herself.

All that was good, kind and innocent about Maisy was reversed and subverted. She was becoming just as corrupt as Erin had once been.

Her hair turned blonde and pink bitchy lips twisted into a pouting sneer. Long nails shot from her fingers and her stance changed as her clothing altered and she was pushed up on six inch stiletto boots.

Walking over to the shivering Erin, who was going through the worst withdrawal imaginable, Maisy looked down with cold cruel eyes and reaching down cruelly grabbed the other girls hair and yanked her head up.

"I'm the Mistress now loser," she hissed in delight. "Now I'm going to break you just as you wanted to break me. I'm going to turn you into my whimpering pussy slave - so broken that you can't even imagine betraying me and wearing the coat ever again. You're nothing now Erin and soon you'll be even less."

Erin sobbed as she looked into Maisy's cold eyes and knew every word was the truth.

She was doomed

***

Landing down in New York, Maisy watched her servants packing her luggage into her expensive car.

She had enjoyed travelling the world and living her dreams... visiting the fashion capitals of the world had been fun.

Now back in the USA she would spend a bit of time here in New York before heading back home.

She smiled at the thought of Erin, plugged and obedient waiting for her back home. Tonight she would take a couple of male lovers to pleasure her, but tomorrow when she got back she had put time aside to play with her favourite toy.

She wondered if Erin was looking forward to it as much as she was...?

THE END

#evie hyde #bitchification #f2f transformation #f2f corruption #corruption #evil bitch #fur coat #magic #clothing #power transfer #betrayal

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 month

Text

Show Stopping.

This is the concluding story to the corresponding blog event, It’s Raining Crows and Dogs! I took inspo from Cruella (2021) while writing this piece.

Please note, I was not able to respond to all interaction requests, as many were sent after the submission period, disregarded rules, or simply did not catch my interest 💦 Apologies!

By My Hand.

Drinks dulled the senses, distracting from the din of the charity ball. Alcohol was forbidden on campus—but the sugar and the carbonation was enough to be ride that high, to loosen from the binds of stiff suits, glittering gowns, and falsified formalities.

The orchestra’s song swayed and sloshed like liquid in her ears. The golden lights refracting off chandelier crystals, kaleidoscopic.

Was it the juice or the tiredness messing with her senses?

Knocking back her glass, Raven let the fizzy, fruity concoction tumble down her throat. Bright citrus washed away her worries, the bubbles tickling her nose as it went down. She set the glass, now empty, down and called out to the anxious mob student manning the bar.

“Another, please.”

“… D-Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Raven-san?” Octa A asked. “That’s your seventh drink.”

She stared at him with blank, lifeless eyes.

Octa A immediately set to preparing the eighth. Club soda, fruit syrup, crushed mint leaves, and cubed ice.

“Long night?” he wondered out loud, attempting at conversation.

“Yes.” Raven groaned, nursing her aching head with one hand. “I was up for all of yesterday assisting Crewel-sensei with the final touches on his ensemble for this evening. Didn’t get a lick of sleep.”

“Oh. I-I’m sorry to hear that…” Octa A muttered. He topped off the fresh drink with a twisted lime wedge and then slid it to her. “Did your efforts at least pay off?”

She accepted the beverage with a tired yet grateful smile. “I have no clue. He has yet to arrive.”

Even though he demanded that I be here to witness ‘the fruits of my labor’…

“I’m sure he’ll show up soon.”

Raven cast a glance at her phone. 11:59 pm. Late—far too late.

“I highly doubt—”

BAM!!

The instant the clock struck midnight, the doors to the venue swung open, as if on cue. In strutted two Dalmatians, each fitted in a diamond encrusted collar. Trailing them was a figure in a white cloak with a long train, hood pulled over their face.

Heads turned. Onlookers gasped.

“Who is that?”

Raven stilled.

They produced a wand from a billowing sleeve and waved it in an arc. There was a dog collar looped around the end of the wand, a square magical gem on it.

Fire sprouted at the end of the mysterious guest’s train. It formed a coil, snaking up their body and engulfing the white. The exterior fell away into crumbling ashes and cinders, revealing what was underneath: a handsome face in a black and white eye mask, his suit a sinisterly shimmering crimson.

Divus Crewel, fashionably late.

Raven exchanged looks with Octa A.

The venue bursted into sound like a balloon popped. People rushed at him, flocking like birds, swarming like bees.

“Sir! What a grand entrance! How did you do it?”

“What a show stopping performance.”

“I thought my heart was about to beat out of my chest!!”

“Where did you get this outfit? I would like to own one for myself. Oh, you must pass me along the name of the brand.”

Crewel, right at home among his throng of admirers, chuckled. “I appreciate the compliments, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to find a replica of this look in any store or boutique. This ensemble is an original designed by yours truly.”

“Oh my!” A woman clutched at the string of pearls around her neck. “Would you be willing to do an original for me then?”

“Now, now! I had every intention of asking him first!” a mustachioed man protested.

“Unfortunately, I’ll have to turn down those requests,” Crewel interjected smoothly. “I am presently focused on my role as an educator. Your presence here at this event helps Night Raven College and its efforts to better the future and the local community.”

A murmur of agreement passed through the crowd.

“And another thing,” he continued, “I’m afraid I cannot take all the credit for my outfit. I may be responsible for the design, but the color of the dye was made in collaboration with a student.” Crewel searched the room and found Raven, letting his gaze linger on hers. She felt her mouth drying up. “This is the direction of the future.”

He flashed a dazzling smile. His handsomeness, a cutlass slashing through their defenses. Raven felt the entire room melt in response to Crewel.

“If you wish to support us and Night Raven College’s endeavors, we you may donate tonight. All proceeds will be going to an animal shelter on Sage’s Island.”

Several voices cried out simultaneously.

“I-I’ll donate! Of course I will!”

“Honey, we’ve got to support this cause.”

“You heard the man.”

“Night Raven College is such an exemplary learning institution!”

“Wow, Crewel-sensei strolled in and commanded the entire event,” Octa A mused. “Raven-san, the work you were doing yesterday… now it’s being seen by all of these people.”

“Well,” she said warily, absentmindedly swirling her half empty glass, “as long as he’s happy and NRC gets that money, I guess it’s fine.”

“That shade of red is nice,” Octa A commented. He was already assembling the ninth drink. “It suits Crewel-sensei very well.”

“I should hope so!” she huffed. “It took a lot of workshopping and several samples to find a shade that pleased him.“

“What did you name this one? Since you tend to label your homemade inks.”

“Ah, I call this one…”

Cruel Devil.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #Divus Crewel #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #It’s Raining Crows and Dogs #Raven Crowley

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your-ne1ghbor · 9 days

Text

Now Introducing...

the one

the only

QUEEN AGATHA

(OR AMAYA BASICALLY)

(ALSO THANK YOU @signed-sapphire @sewerpalette @pennysucks FOR YOUR THOUGHTS ON THE DESIGN. IT WAS A MASSIVE HELP AND JUST THANK YOU IN GENERAL. IDK HOW TO THANK YOU GUYS BUT I'M FOREVER AND EVER GRATEFUL TYTYTYYTYTY)

ok...

Lets talk about her now shall we?? 😘

(FW: MINOR GORE)

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Before we begin, Agatha is by no account, Amaya's replacement. Now here is the thing. Amaya is really cool...in drafts. But in cannon, Amaya is nothing more than a plot device to get the teens in the castle and only exists to be Magnifico's replacement in the cannon film once the whole kingdom goes down so Asha doesn't take up the reins of being Queen. Not only that she didn't have a lot of personality or any character in the film. In all honesty, although she is inspired from the drafts of Amaya, her character conflict is very much different and not on par with the drafts. She also has more to her backstory that was not seen in the original drafts or even thought of. I just wanted to get that out of the way before I go in depth to her character. But lets get to the outfit, cause I think it was a pretty interesting thought processes ;)

Plus have you seen the jokes about Amaya or why I barely talk about her?? ITS BECAUSE SHE IS NOTHING. ZERO. EGG SHAPED. Why should I care about her when I barely know anything about her like bro, giving her a moral delehmia of staying with Magnifico or joining the resistance would have been so much more interesting and gives more substance. Probably why I dont like Amaya at all. She lacks substance.

°•◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇•°

Agatha has Greek/European inspirations to her design! I had a ton of problems when getting the design together, merely the fact that I didn't like the outfit given in film or didn't find any that really fit her for what I was going for. Even though I didn't know what I was going for, I just didn't like that style given in the films, or hell, even in the drafts (the dull colors didn't even help since there was so much vibrancy in medeivel times)

Thats when I had the most randomest idea and just said: "Fuck it" and then I decided to combind Greek and European outfits into one.

My inspirations were from these images I found on google and pinterest:

So this is how the dress works or merely my thought process on how it came out this way!

°•◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇•°

Numro Uno

As ideas was setting into place, I noticed a trend among both sets of the outfits. I'm mainly refuring to the top shape to the outfit.

When taking a look at the European Outfits, that have what I would say, a more triangle shape, which the same can be applied to Amaya's outfit as well.

Meant to put curves down, but you get the point.

For Greek outfits, there was more of a square shape doing on at the top of the outfits.

Not only that, but the Greek clothing does not have the dress open up unlike some European outfits I saw. (not all of the European outfits I saw opened up near the bottom of the dress, only most of them did)

Either way, what I am trying to say is:

Greek Outfits = Square

European Outfits = Triangle

So when combinding them, I simply thougt of it being like this

Top: Square Shaped

Bottom: Triangle Shaped

ofc this is the final design...

What you guys want was my drafts!

°•◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇•°

In my sketches, at first since I didn't like how outfit wise, dresses didn't seem too work, so I wondered what she would look like if she wore pants 🤯

(You will notice that I kept the transparent cloak the entire time)

Although she looked BADASS (fucking hot oml) it felt more like smth she would wear during travels. That's the main ick, it just worked for something else, but not for what I am going for. However, Agatha does wear pants, but mainly when she is getting materials for her potions that are acessed outside the kingdom. And yes, I even thought about giving her a tail coat, but it wouldn't work for the time frame 💀💀💀

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For these 2, I started playing with the top to get ideas and see if I wanted the transparent cloak at all (I did ofc she looks so badass (hot) in it)

I also drew her comforting Asha! (Which I will talk about her in the backstory section since I had to change it)

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Hmmm this one does seem familiar now does it 🤨🤨

For this one in particular, although this was one I chose as a main base for the final draft, her top was more triangle shaped than square, which is what I was going for in the final design.

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Thats when I started worrying about mobility. How much room would that dress have when she is moving quickly?

This one was to see what it would look like if she had more mobility in her outfit. Although she would...it didn't sit right with me. It just felt off. It could be the more triangle top I went for in this one, it just didn't work and didn't look good.

The one in the corner was me playing with "WHAT if Asha inspired outfit" lmao.

Nah didn't work.

So between those 3, a friend from my ASL 2 class saw my drawings, and I asked for his opinions on it. He said to go with the one I chose for the base. Although I don't necessarily remember much of what he said, he explained why this one was more appealing soooo thanks Z. 🔥🔥

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This one was more of ofc using the drafts, but if she had sleeves. I intentionally removed them because it clashed with the cloak and didn't look good or work with what I was going for.

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Now let's talk about color pallet! (Ik I'm going so much in depth than what I did for Asha, but imma be honest the whole process in on my tumblr. The amount of times I changed that girl's outfit is unfathomable 😭😭😭😭)

I'll be short, but the frills on her dress (the gold part) is supposed to signify a yellow rose. Cause...ROSE-AS ROSAS 😜😜😜

I did see if blue worked for the outfit, but for the warm toned color pallet I did for her, it really clashed. Soooooo GOLD FOR THE WIN BABYYYY

She also wears this gold leafy crown and it was between green and gold, and I'm still stuck between that, but this was the crown ykyk

Yes it is a Greek one, I just REFUSE to give her a ugly ass crown like I did for Maggy. (IM SO SORRY MAGGY I SWEAR ILL MAKE YOU A BETTER ONE)

Ahem....

Can we talk about her face?

Yes?

HELL YEAH.

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(TW MINOR GORE)

So there is a stark difference between her past self and her current self when it comes to certain features.

For example, in her past, or "I am not at the brink of insanity" saga, her hair is braided, telling us she is in a good mental state at that point of time before her eye was scratched out (a dagger like cut through her face through her eye, literally popping it 💀). In the one I show you above in the "My eye is missing" stage, is what she would look like in her "Im not at the brink of insanity" saga minus the overlapping hair strands and the obvious missing eye. Also in that image, she has ash stuck in her hair from...THE INCIDENT (cough cough).

In her current self, her hair is obviously not braided actually showing us her current mental state. She is literally a huge mess, and her trauma has a huge effect on her mental health. She literally is not doing to well...until she met Asha (I'LL GET TO THAT I SWEAR). Agatha also has a white streak in her hair from a experiment gone wrong type of scenerio, where the potion she was brewing exploded something and landed on her forehead, hense the burn mark underneath the hair. Which is what gives it's unnatural hair color.

I was going for a beserk evil scientist vibe with her design, because she does go a bit crazy later in the story obv

Some other features I added was just adding a overall added sharpness to her, to actually resemble something like thorns in a way and to she perhaps she was EVILHSJkDLMNJHK 😜

The only features I sorta kept was her overall color pallet from Amaya for her hair, skin, eyes and her mole below her eye cause I thought it looked really cute.

And lastly, he is the character sheet for Agatha <3

Now that is out of the way, I'll get into the backstory portion...kinda...

I still wanna save some things for her for the story, but here are some notes/things you SHOULD ABSOUTLY KNOW about her

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NUMERO DOS

Agatha is the oldest sibling out of her 3 siblings. Her sister is really a few years younger than her and is in her young adult/late teens age wise. Her younger brother is in her pre-teens.

Her parents cut her off from all forms of contact after...yk...so she knows things about abandoment and how she felt, especially at the worse time in her life.

She and Magnus did NOT kill Asha's parents. IN FACT, they were very close friends, and met during their travels with Magnus! (I am firmly debating if Magnus ever founded a kingdom or he is royalty but I am not entirely sure yet but it would fix some weird things I found in the story)

She is a more organized person than her husband lol

Potion making is what she excels at ( one of the potions she made can blast lightning (inspired from hogwarts legacy))

She deeply cares for both Asha and Magnus with all her heart <3

Thats really it. I am ofc holding things close to my chest for backstory reasons and for story reasons since we will learn more about her from that point.

This is the part where for what I need to talk about, which is the Hamlet.

The Hamlet idea is so cool, I will admit it, but for how the story is progressing or my thought process of it, it creates plot holes. Not small ones, but GAINT plot holes.

I noticed this back when I was writing out the Magnifico Angst, which was why I put a hold on it to think about it. This was also when I was also concidering the duration of time taking place in my AU (which I am still having trouble with). I think past me did a pretty good job of explaining the way I felt about the Hamlet overall in my AU (this is from my 20+ drafts help):

It boils down to my dilemma with Asha's character right now. It's when she meets Maggy and Amaya and going off topic to talk about Asha too, is how she can become a better person after learning everything she knew is a lie.

Plus noticing some other plot holes like "how does maggy know dark magic kills stars?" Cause if he knows that dark magic kills stars, that would mean he had done it before so it is like 🤨

And it is very important to when Amaya takes in Asha. If Asha was one of the citizens that was there when the kingdom was destroyed, that is just...tragic overall and breaks some things 😭

I'll explain. If Asha saw everything that happened to Mag or basically was there to witness said event, she would have seen her parents basically evaporate into thin air as they shielded her. It makes some good trauma, and it does justify her reasons for not liking stars, I just don't like how it would play out in the story personally. It's good, but wouldn't it ruin the relationship between Star and Asha? PLUS, why would she wish on a star for things to change...oh wait that would make for a really good villain au fuck-

ANYWAYS, if it isn't...well then why was the hamlet there? I mean I could say that after decades of the kingdom going to shit, the citizens fled to the forest to hide in, but that brings up: why did Mag and Amaya destroy it in the first place? I entirely know why Amaya took in Asha, (it breaks me everytime help) but the whole hamlet thing in my au just kinda breaks. It also begs the question: why didn't they do anything to change what is going on in the kingdom, how did maggy and Amaya find out about it? And if they murdered some people, why not Asha (even though i know why Amaya took her in, doesnt it sound hypocritical? Like why spare her? Maybe they spared the children...idk) And going back to why Mag and Amaya destroyed the hamlet, if they did, it would be because they dont want any heretics, or a revolt. But if it is a revolt, it slids into why didnt they do anything to change...UNTIL THAT TIME IT TAKES PLACE?? And just the overall why of it all. And how it impacts Asha overall. I mean sure, she might remember some parts of her early childhood being in the hamlet, but she was six. She might not even remember all of it. So wouldn't ruin the pacing? Plus her character doesnt really resolve around the hamlet much if I'll be honest. I mean yeah, that can change ofc, and if it ends up her having to remember stuff from there, would it be significant to the overall plot??? For her character? (Idk her age, but) if she ends up being 18 in my au (its going from 18-19 rn lol), she has basically been living at the castle for 12 years 💀. Why would she want to remember things she wouldn't want to remember?? I guess maybe for wanting to learn the truth 💀💀

Lots of why's lmao.

Which is why I have to remove it. For pacing reasons, character reasons, and story reasons.

Agatha took Asha in for reasons. Not stating it here since I would like to make a animatic for that...but...man... :(

Kinda hurts for Agatha and Magnus since they KNOW HER PARENTS.

Massive womp womp

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CONCLUDING THOUGHTS

Yikes sorry for making you read through that, I also felt like I was on the brink of insanity just talking about her.

But yeah what do you guys think about Agatha? Personally, she is my pookie wookie

Im finally going to draw her more since honestly I dont draw Amaya a lot, but with Agatha

hell yeah

@oh-shtars @rascalentertainments @spectator-zee @annymation @tumblingdownthefoxden @chillwildwave

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