#the amount of yearning in his eyes good lord | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sh1-n0bu · 4 months ago

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bello, not sure if your taking requests so this will be my little thirst😼

was thinking about the elf bf and how intimacy is so foreign to him! How good your touches feel on his heated skin but what was this odd feeling? The coil in his tummy getting tighter with each grind of his hips on your thigh. The feeling felt so weird.. it feels good? is this good? he doesn’t want to disappoint you, or worse, scare you away! so he stops himself, letting his hips slow their grind for a moment. Inadvertently edging himself!

id like to imagine if he touched himself he would stop before cumming as well, he doesn’t know what it is! it feels so odd, makes him feel hot all over!

After he slows his grinds, you would be a bit confused…, does he not want to cum? or does he want to wait til your inside him? it takes a bit before you even think that maybe he hasn’t gotten that far before, the idea that you get to corrupt him making your face heat. Goodness he would be so pretty, teary eyes begging for you to slow down. Hips bruised from how rough you had grabbed him!

and to think, when he finally cums? its so overwhelming. heat spreading through his body, mind numbing as his legs twitch slightly? his pretty cock leaking onto his stomach? GOOD LORD I NEED IT💥💥💥

ty for listening nobu🫶🏼 we love you pls dont die

(low key my first ask, hope you enjoyed as i dont write much)

bellooooo, me is not taking requests for now but im still open for brainrots/thirsts!!!!

good lawdddd y’all gotta stop corrupting me more, my horny level can’t keep up guys. so i haven’t read the history of middle earth and all abt the biologies and cultures of the races tolkien created but i have come across multiple posts or points of people pointing out that sex and intimacy is an extremely important and raw thing. like how a constant friction creates fire over time and how that fire spreads into a wildfire that consumes everything, that’s how it is to elves and their culture. courting is important and it could go for a very long time until they decide to officially tie the knot. yet even after getting married, the consummation won’t happen in a while, first the couple must at least intertwine their fëa (soul) and so, the consummation act is more intense and powerful. its a very draining thing, when elves fuck, they fuck. long and hard, probably all night and into the next morning and even evening perhaps. they’re immortals, they have a monster amount of stamina

so with this info in mind, u gotta realize that elves do have knowledge of sex, how it usually feels etc and how near sacred it is to their kin. love is a fragile thing that will cross their eternal life only once and when they love, boy do they love. yet something tells me that despite having knowledge of sex, masturbation and other fleshly pleasures, they don’t participate in it much. its like they barely have anything that gets them pent up or sexually frustrated until they fall in love. and if it is a mortal? oh boy, they are confused and yearning. it’s like an instant neuron activation for them

the poor elf would barely know what to do with these thoughts and imaginations of you and him in such a compromising position. images of you guiding him through your first times together, holding hands, whispering sweet nothings into his sensitive, pointy ear while he shrivels with embarrassing noises on your lap. oh how those calloused, hardened hands would feel when tightly fisting at his cock, draining him dry and milking every last drop of his cum. how those long, thick fingers would feel when thrusting inside him, scissoring him open and making him squeal. good god, don’t even get him started on the dirty images he thinks of you when he looks at those arms and thighs of yours, he’s imagining himself riding that muscle until he soils his pants or how your hands would push his head down to fully swallow your cock into his throat

would it taste as how it is described in the eroticas? would your precum be salty as your thick cock head pushes past his soft lips with your soothing voice instructing him to “open wide, puppy”? would you be so mean as to fist at his gorgeous locks and fuck into his mouth, use him to your own pleasure? he would be a good puppy for that, taking whatever you had to give him with red cheeks and hands obediently held on his lap. like a good puppy, he would open his mouth, tongue out like an eager little dog waiting for the taste of his favorite snack as you stroke your dick, a low moan falling as he finally taste your load shoot into his awaiting open jaws

and when his dirty thoughts are finally granted and turned into reality? he’s a goner. scrambling on his feet, tripping over his words, mind blanking as he feels your hands grope his ass over the linen of his pants. feeling like a young ellon rather than the full grown elf he is when your hands fiddle with the buckle of your belt, gulping down the saliva in his mouth as he sees your strap spring out of your undergarment

with a shaky hand, he would grip your strap, meagerly stroking his hands up and down with a stuttered “i-is this okay…?” oh dear stars, how badly you wanted to just fuck him dumb right then and there, seeing the cute pouting lips, big eyes staring at you for an approval as he weakly asks for your preference. how fast he is to crumble when he feels your rough hand wrap around both your and his own dicks, stroking them together with a slow pace, occasionally spitting on them. his mind was already blanking, and he was sure that he had already came into your hand the moment you touched him

“w-wait a—annh!! mmh uhnng♡︎ h-hold owwnn♡︎ i ju-ust c-came! i came alreanngh already...♡︎!!” the poor elf weakly cried out, falling back into the sea of soft pillows as his hands shook by his chest, where he held them close to himself. he was sure you could hear the rapid beating of his heart, embarrassed by the noises he kept letting out despite biting down on his lips to shut himself up. poor sweetheart, doesn’t even know that the thing dripping down onto his stomach is his pre-ejaculation and not his cum! “shh shh… it’s alright, darling. i’ll be sure to teach you all about the fleshly pleasures tonight♡︎” and you were going to absolutely ruin him

sweet virgin elf who crumples into a heap of mess after experiencing his first cum. moaning and even squealing as his hands flailed around, unable to choose whether to hold onto your arms or to claw at the blanket beneath himself as you continue to keep going despite his whines of having already came. you were so mean, quickening your pace and even squeezing your dicks together, he was so sure that he blacked out when you first did that or swiped a thumb over his oozing tip. arms covering his face to hide the flush of his cheeks and the drooped ears, crying out to you that he was going to die. so dramatic

“sh-stooohpp..! stop stopstopstop—stop it♡︎♡︎! i came!! i nyaagh ungh guhc—came! i alreaawdyy camee…♥︎!” the elf cried out, already slurring his words together as his hips grind back and forth on the bed until your free hand comes up to keep it down in place with a bruising grip. your sweet boyfriend could only cry out, a broken whine falling as he shook his head, looking down at your hand that held down his hip before shifting to look at where your cocks were touching. held together in a tight fist, your hand already soiled with his cute load of precum as well as his stomach. he never noticed it before but gods, your strap was dwarfing him in size and girth. he would surely die if he takes that big thing inside himself!

but when you don’t seem to hear his pleas and only continue to fuck your strap and his weeping cock together in a faster pace into the tight grip of your fist — even rocking your hips forward too! — the poor elf was sure he was going to see the bright skies of valinor that night. whimpers turning into broken wails, punched out sobs of your name falling out of his now bloodied lips as he covers his face with his hands. he could feel the hot tears that fell from his eyes, wiping them away with cute pathetic sniffles as you tighten your fist just at the heads. another squeeze and one more before he was crying out your name in a shrill scream, his legs around your hips tightening, shaking even, as he finally feels himself cumming alongside you. translucent colored seeds mixing together, dirtying his stomach and even shooting up to his heaving chest

“…s-shoo goowdd… aaanh hhagc—♡︎ c-cum..♥︎ cumming ’gainn hhgaaa♥︎ ughk haahg [n-naawme], [namenamenamena—]♥︎♥︎” the elf sobbed out weakly, a putty in your hands as he feels his cock slowly grow flaccid. if it weren’t for the rough pads of your fingers tracing circles around his clenching rim and the feeling of your clean hand push away his hands from his face, your elf bf would have most definitely been sure that he had died and was re-embodied. yet despite the fuzziness in his brain and the way his blood seemed to circulate too quickly through his veins, his body unconsciously pressed itself against you, against your fingers as if seeking for more pleasure

thats enough thirsting yall, go do yalls assignments

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crusty-chronicles · 2 months ago

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If you write smut for Sebastian and the airheaded reader, My life is yours.

Smut Week: Day Three

Devour

NSFW: MDNI

Warnings: Dub con, oral sex, cunnilingus, doggy style, unprotected sex, cum eating, overstimulation, Sebastian being a demon, afab reader

The sound of glass shattering was never a good one. Especially when it was accompanied by one of your ‘oops’. A shame May-Rin was sick today. At least then there was still half a chance everything wasn't broken. Maybe he should’ve told you to work on the garden with Finny.

There was a resounding ‘boom’ from outside.

No, Sebastian had made the right choice.

He let out a drained sigh before making his way towards you. As he rounded the corner, he could see you frantically try to pick up what you dropped. Crimson steadily leaking from your palms.

Your pain tolerance was higher than most humans. It makes him smile to see you continue on like nothing's happened. To ignore the vast amount of cuts on your hands.

He's next to you within seconds, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapping one of your hands. Making sure to apply pressure in order to stop the bleeding. The white fabric being stained with splotches of red.

“Did you break another glass, pet?” He questions.

His tone is cooing as you stare up at him. He begins to tend to your other hand, watching a pout make its way to your face.

“I told you I wasn't good with anything fragile,” you reminded.

“It would seem everything is fragile when it comes to you.” He muttered under his breath.

You and your brutish strength.

“Perhaps you should busy yourself elsewhere. We wouldn't want the young lord blowing a fuse, now would we? Why don't you tire out the dog?” He suggested.

Immediately your eyes lit up. Giving the demonic butler a smooch on his cheek before running off.

“Ohhhh Pluto!!!!!” You called out.

He doesn't understand you and your brother’s connection to that mutt. Scratch that, he doesn't like your connection to that mangy beast. Especially when it takes on a more human appearance.

However, he can't afford to dwell on that now. There's a mess that needs cleaning. The broken shards you'd left behind. He picks up a piece and inspects it.

He can smell your blood. The sweet metallic aroma infiltrates his senses. A scent that's marked with his. All thanks to the sigil over your heart. It takes everything in him not to hunt you down and sink his teeth in.

You've left him wanting and you don't even know it.

Your soul calls to him in a way that others don't. It's pure. So very sweet thanks to your naivety. It's a beacon of light compared to his master’s. But it's also strong. Pumped full of your determination and need to persevere.

It's…Delectable.

It has him yearning for the feast. When he inevitably bores of you and devours your soul. He'd have his meal, and in a few centuries he'd have his desert too.

He discards the mess you made into the bin. Catching a glimpse of you outside from the window. You and Finny were laughing while you played fetch with Pluto. The two of you tossing a tree back and forth as the demon hound tried to catch it.

Sebastian doesn't mind your closeness with Finny. But he doesn't exactly like it either. It means he has to earn the gardener’s respect when courting you. A pesky human custom.

If he had it his way, he'd have already swept you away to his nest. Where you'd remain for all eternity until he's had his fill of your antics.

He wonders then, if your soul would darken seeing your loved ones wither away. How you'd feel being frozen in time whilst those around you changed with age. Watching until they were nothing but dust.

Would it become tainted by grief seeing your brother’s lifetime pass by before your very eyes?

Would it weep with sorrow?

Would it brim with fire and hatred when the young Lord's contract was up? Witnessing him scream in agony whilst his soul was ripped from its mortal flesh.

Or would you be none the wiser?

He would expect nothing less from you. You precious naive fool. No matter. Whether your soul remained sweet with ignorance or steadily darkened with anguish, he'd enjoy his meal all the same.

For now, there are other ways to satisfy his hunger.

—----------------------

It was a long while before he got you alone. The end of the day in fact. When both yours and his duties had been completed. Such a shame, he was hoping to ravish you sooner. Oh well, he supposed he would just have to make due.

He enters your shared room, courtesy of the young lord. You turned around and beamed up at him. You're so cute he could just devour you whole. Like a dog whose master has just arrived home.

“Getting settled in for bed?” He asked.

You nod, still in today's uniform. A clean set of clothes in your hands.

“I was just about to change. I'm all dirtied up from earlier. Maybe even take a shower.” You informed before making your way towards the bathroom.

You're stopped just before you reach the door, feeling Sebastian's presence from behind you. There's a flash of white from your peripherals. Before you realize what's happening, your breasts are enveloped by a searing warmth.

He holds your chest firmly, squeezing the pliable flesh between his fingers. He gauges your reaction. And when there's nothing besides shock, he grins. It's become one of his most favorite games as of late. Seeing how far he can push boundaries before you catch on to what he wants. Or before you give in to your own desires.

“My sweet pet, it seems your uniform has grown tight on you. Hardly the appropriate look for a Phantomhive servant.” He tuts disapprovingly.

You turn your head up at him, catching his dark gaze. None the wiser yet to his true intentions.

“Really? I think it fits just fine,” you brush off.

“Will you allow me to inspect further?”

How he enjoyed this game of cat and mouse. Your naivety made it all the more enjoyable. And like the moth to the flame, you'd agreed without a second thought.

“I don't see why not.”

He turns you around in his grasp, carefully unbuttoning the front of your uniform. He reveals your bodice that laid underneath first. And layer by layer he exposes you. The sight of your bare skin finally greeting him. His eyes can't help but glow seeing the sigil over your heart.

Such a good pet you were being for him.

He gropes you once more. The only thing separating him from your bare flesh are his gloves. They'd be gone soon enough. You lean forward on him, arms resting on his shoulders while he continued to toy with your soft skin. He can see your face heat up. Unsure about the sensations he's giving you.

“Your bust seems to have grown a few centimeters.” He noted.

“Has it?” You questioned.

It's getting harder and harder for you to focus on his voice. A feeling of want starting to course through you.

“Why don't I just make sure?”

Without warning, he sinks down on his knees in front of you. Eyeing your breast with a certain hunger. He takes one of your nipples into his mouth and sucks. The feeling has you letting out a noise of surprise. Arousal beginning to pool in your stomach.

“S-Sebastian!”

He pays no mind to your cries. Running his tongue over the perky bud and taking in your skin's taste. It hardens in his mouth while his hand kneads the flesh of your other breast. He can smell your slick from his place on the ground. He knows then that he's won. The dots finally connecting in your brain.

“Oh! Is this-Do you want to-!” You gasp out, gently bringing a hand to tangle in his hair.

He gives an approving hum against your skin. Releasing your nipple from his mouth before attaching to the other one. You were much quicker than the previous time. Last time he had to place your hand against his hardened cock for you to get it. Seems you were getting better at understanding his cues.

He pulls away completely at the feeling of your fingers tightening against his scalp. You'd hurt him if you weren't careful. As if. Your expression is flustered when it meets his. Truly you were an adorable little thing.

“My dearest pet, will you allow me to bed you.” His eyes burn a bright shade of fuchsia, beckoning you to say yes.

The word is barely a whisper under your breath, but that's all he needs. His fingers quickly looping under your bottoms and tugging them down. You step out of the rest of your uniform, leaving you in only your underwear.

Sebastian can smell you fully now. The sweet scent your slick gives out. He thinks he'll start there first. He'll prepare you nice and slow for him. Get you worked up until the only thing you know is his name.

“Lay down for me.” He orders.

There's something about the way you respond so obediently to him. Getting on your mattress and slightly spreading your legs. Perhaps it's being able to hold power over another after being reduced to nothing but a servant. Or maybe it's just the way you submit to him. Your strength and reliance going out the window with a mere look from him.

He relishes it all the same.

Your eyes staring wide at him while he undresses. The way your pupils seemed to dilate when he took off his coat. There's a certain innocence despite having done this before. It's refreshing.

He unbuttons his vest before moving on to his dress shirt, the crisp white distorting on his frame. He knows his appearance is one desired by women and men alike. Lecherous stares followed him everywhere he went. Yet you always looked at him differently. As if he were an equal. Nothing less.

It's one of the many reasons you're so entertaining. Especially when you self-consciously cross your legs at the sight of him pulling his gloves off with his teeth. He wants to chastise you for getting shy on him now, just to fluster you impossibly more.

On his left hand is his master's sigil, on his right is yours. He uses both to engage in this act of sin. Unbuckling his belt and pulling his trousers down. With his aching shaft free, he crawls towards you on the bed.

He places his hands on your thighs and slowly pulls them apart. A notable wet splotch in the middle of your underwear. He thinks he'll have his meal right now.

“May I?” He asked. His fingers looping under the thin fabric.

“Please,” you responded.

Oh how cute. You were begging for him. Well since you'd asked so nicely~

He rips the flimsy fabric off of you, tossing your legs over his shoulders and diving in. He laps at your sweet hole first. Letting your juices cover his tongue entirely. Your taste is absolutely divine.

He hears you cry out at the sudden stimulation. Your hands once again finding their way to his hair. You could push and pull to your heart’s desire, but he wasn't stopping until he got what he wanted.

Feeling like you were slick enough, he stretches you open with two fingers. Redirecting his attention to your clit. He laps on the sensitive nub with fervor, giving a harsh suck when you let out a moan.

His fingers work in tandem. Thrusting in and out at a steady pace. Every now and then curving up into that spongy spot inside you. A noise of satisfaction escapes him when your hips raise to chase after his digits.

Such a needy thing you were. Grinding against his fingers to seek out more friction. He feels you start to clench around them. Your cries rising in pitch as you gave his scalp a tug.

He wants you to cum on his tongue. He wants to taste you in full. Your sweetness that was only for him. He lets you continue to ride his fingers, crooking them up to repeatedly hit your sweet spot. Not a second later, you're cumming on his face.

He eagerly removes his fingers and cleans them with his tongue. He wouldn't be wasting a drop of his hard-earned meal. He pulls you closer by your hips when he's done. His tongue darting out to finish the rest of your release.

“W-wait! I'm sensitive!” You plead, arching your body away from him.

He parts from you briefly, watching as you squirm from under his gaze.

“My dear, the night has barely begun. I suggest you find a little of that endurance you have in battle. I don't plan on finishing with you anytime soon.” His voice is stern, as if lecturing you.

He quickly dives back in to finish cleaning you. This time, lapping a little more softly to soothe the waves of overstimulation. Humans are fragile in every sense of the word.

He lifts himself up when he's satisfied. Eyeing you with a look that only spells out danger. Such a shame you couldn't see it.

“Be a good pet and get on your knees for me.” Sebastian coos, cupping your cheek and lightly slapping at it.

Wordlessly, you do as he asks. Turning over and resting your hands and knees on the bed. The sight of your glistening cunt makes him feral. Displayed so prettily for him.

He'll have to make you take the day off from tomorrow. He doubts you'll be able to walk when he's done with you. But then again, you were always full of surprises.

He lines himself up to your entrance. Rubbing the tip of his shaft against your hole to tease you. And when he hears the hitch in your breath, he pushes in.

He doesn't bother stretching you inch by inch. He knows you can take everything he gives you without complaint. You always do. Still, he lets out a hiss feeling your cunt envelop his cock. Your walls wrapping tight around him.

He didn't usually take pleasure in these sorts of things. Using his body as a means to gain information in some cases. But you- you made it worth his while. Thinking in that dull little head of yours he was making love to you.

Fool. Demons didn't have hearts. They could not love…That doesn't mean he won't indulge in your innocent fantasy.

He leans his body over yours until his chest touches your back. Wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you near while he thrusted into you. His pace unrelenting.

You can practically feel him in your stomach. The way his cock makes a place for itself inside you. Stretching you out deliciously before disappearing. You can't help but want to chase after the feeling of being completely stuffed. For him to stay snug inside you.

If anybody were to see you now, you'd be dubbed a harlot. Sleeping with a man who was not your spouse. Shunned from society for engaging in such a promiscuous act.

And it makes you tighten around him. Moaning filthy into the pillows while he fucks you into the mattress. A coil starting to form in your stomach.

Maybe you understand now why he's so desired. You'd admit Sebastian was beautiful. But you were never tripping over your feet for him. Turning into a stuttery mess in his presence. No, you were not with him for his appearance, and you don't think you'd ever be.

But now you just might be with him for his cock.

You can feel his pace stutter. His arm tightening around you. You can even hear him let out a few soft grunts. He was close. You both were. The coil in your stomach wound with tension.

Then you feel it. Sebastian moving his mouth right over your pulse before biting down. The pain mixing with pleasure was enough to send you towards the edge. Clenching and spasming around him as you came.

A white hot pleasure overtakes you, making you blank out. Sebastian keeps moving inside you in an attempt to chase his own high. Feeling his cock throbbing and pulling out before he has a chance to finish inside. He cums on your back, sticky ropes of white staining your skin. Marked so nicely for him.

He can taste your blood on his tongue. Watching as you collapsed on the bed. The crimson on his taste buds makes him want more. Your dazed out state lets him know of what.

He flips you onto your back, ignoring your protests about laying in his seed. The candlelight flickers into nothingness. A telltale sign of what he's about to do.

Sebastian lets himself become bare in every sense of the word. He wants to know. He craves seeing your reaction to his true form. The way your debauched expression would surely turn into one of fear.

He wants to push the furthest he can. To test the utmost limits of your sanity. He wants to frighten you. Show you exactly what you're messing with. A lowly demon.

You stare up at the figure of darkness above you in shock. Black wings unfurling to cage you in. And despite the hunger, the unmasked malintent in his eyes, you can't help but think he's beautiful. This monster who had presented himself as otherwise.

“What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghoul.” His voice is deep and mocking.

It feels like it's rumbling off the walls. You've never heard anything like it. Nothing quite as…foreboding. But you've always been one to ignore warning signs.

“Have you always been so pretty Sebastian?”

It's said with so much honesty that it gives him pause. Your eyes had been filled with wonder instead of fear. The grin he gives you then spells out nothing but danger.

He won't ever let you go now. Not until his very being ceased to exist. And even then he'd find a way to drag you into damnation with him. He's going to keep you as long as he can.

“I'll devour you whole if you keep talking like that. My precious sweetling. Let's see if you'll be able to keep up with me.” He warns before hooking your legs over his shoulder and sliding in once more.

—---------------------------------

An: Me seeing Book of Atlantis’ Sebastian’s collarbones: I'm no better than a man 😞😞😞

Also, I got this request when I was halfway through with the Hiei smut. Brilliant minds think alike 😈😈😈

#black butler x reader #black butler x y/n #kuroshitsuji #black butler #kuroshitsuji x reader #sebastian x reader #sebastian michaelis x reader #sebastian x y/n #sebastian michaelis #x reader #sebastian smut

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yuff7e · 8 months ago

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Hii !!

Could you please write lady muzan with a his s/o male uppermoon reader that loves his boobies ?

𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑, 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐍��𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐒, 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔?

𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

hello anon, i love this request .. i am also obsessed with lady muzans boobies, js wanna squish em (ofc he would crush my head if i ever put my hand near his beautiful chest) hope you enjoy this one shot + headcanons :) ఌ︎

♬♪ -> lıllılı.ıllı.ılılıı

muzan wasn’t unaware of your obsession; in fact, it was quite the opposite. your relationship with muzan had blossomed over favoritism, rooted in mutual respect. he admired your strength, your capabilities, and the unwavering loyalty you displayed towards him. he found himself drawn to these qualities, yearning to possess you as his most trusted servant.

muzan regularly rewarded you with generous amounts of blood in exchange for your dedication and hard work. one day, however, he decided to give you his blood in a different manner. assuming his female form to conduct a unique set of tests, muzan summoned you urgently. as you appeared before him, he turned to face you, gazing down with a tender expression.

“my, my, [name], how beautifully you’ve grown.” muzan remarked, observing you with a sense of pride. “i trust the eliminations of the remaining hashiras are proceeding well. have you brought me the samples?” “yes, master.” you replied promptly, bowing before him. with a graceful motion, you raised your hand, presenting a small, glistening tube containing a sample of blood.

muzan hummed in appreciation as he delicately took the tube from your hand, causing a shiver to run down your spine at the lingering touch. each contact with him felt like pure ecstasy, even if it was fleeting. muzan delighted in teasing you, savoring the effect he had on you.

“you’re very good, [name].” he purred, his voice laced with allure. “i might just have to reward you with some of my blood.” with a tantalizing smile, he began to make his way toward his nearby table, leaving you with a mix of anticipation and desire in his wake.

with each passing moment, your yearning for further contact with your lord grew more intense. you hungered for his touch and approval, the very sound of his voice was enough to send you over the edge. the cold blood he had shared with you coerced through your veins, driving your longing for more of his attention.

sensing your unspoken plea, muzan placed the tube of blood down before returning to your side. seating himself in the chair facing you, he exuded an aura of power, his presence captivating you.

as muzan signaled for you to meet his gaze, you obediently lifted your eyes to meet his. locking your gaze with his mesmerizing presence, a smile naturally graced your lips as you admired his perfection, your thoughts swirling with desire; causing a grin to tug at the corners of muzan’s lips, acknowledging the unspoken admiration.

in a swift motion, muzan slowly folded back his yukata, revealing his impressive chest as it spilled out of the fabric before you, a symbol of his power and dominance laid bare in your presence. the action alone would’ve made you fall to your knees if you weren’t already on them.

your mouth went dry as a lump formed in your throat, causing you to stutter out, “master, i—” before muzan interrupted you with a raised hand, signaling for you to approach him. your legs felt like heavy weights as each step you took a struggle as you slowly made your way to kneel right before your master. muzan moved a hand towards your jaw, his grip tight. he gazed intently at your face, a moment of silent communication passing between you.

without a word, he guided your face to hover just above his exposed breast, his commanding presence leaving you eager. “i want you to drink the blood from here.” muzan’s directive was clear, his voice hung with authority as you puckered your lips against his areola.

slowly, your hot mouth engulfed his nipple, causing muzan to twitch; which only fueled your desire more. you bit down lightly, being careful in order to not hurt your master. you sucked in, and that’s when the ecstasy hit you, his thick blood coerced throughout your mouth, over your tongue and down your throat. you couldn’t help but flick your tongue over his nipple every now and then as you sucked, a new lustful feeling taking over your senses.

muzan placed a gentle hand against the back of your head, soothing you as you drank from his chest. he usually didn’t hold back on how much blood he gave you, since you were his favorite. he leaned his head back slightly, brows furrowed, reveling in the feeling of your mouth on the sensitive area.

you bring a hand up to massage his soft, tender breast, encouraging more blood flow. you tremble with pleasure and power as you feel it coursing through your body. eventually, muzan has to push you off, a prominent bite mark surrounding his nipple, which quickly heals. he looks at you with his dark, feminine eyes, gazing deeply into your very being.

“my dear, you just can’t resist my breasts, can you?”

˗ˏˋ ✨ 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 ✨ ´ˎ˗

— ever since muzan let you drink from his nipple, you’ve been obsessed.

— and honestly, muzan has too.

— the way you instantly attach to him, massaging them as you drink…

— he’s mesmerized by your dominant behavior and proceeds to let you drink from his chest more often.

— at times, he may just alter his chest and not his actual appearance, allowing you to truly behold your lord and experience his aura as you drink from such an intimate place.

— one day, you asked your lord if he allows anyone else this privilege .. wether it’s just you and him, or shared with others ..

— he attentively considers your question as he senses the pressure on his chest intensify, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

— "my dear, do not ponder such matters so naively. you are aware that this is a highly intimate gesture that i would only permit you to partake in. you’re a good boy, [name]."

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐒 : 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍

#demon slayer #muzan kibutsuji #musan kibutsuji x male reader #muzan kibutsuji x reader #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer x male reader #male reader #reader #yuff7e

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starmanskywalker · 2 years ago

Text

possession · anakin skywalker x f!reader

hello there, @snippy-tano! i tried to do something different here, still respecting the core of your prompt and i wholeheartedly hope you enjoy this one, dear!

synopsis: you broke free from a cult a while ago. your leader - and ex-lover - wants you back.

⚠️ the jedi temple in this fic is a literal cult. ⚠️ this is a modern, no powers!au fic set in the 70s bc i’ve always wanted to write something set in that decade. even though this is very much a dubcon work, i still feel like it deserves the dead dove do not eat tag, as cults are a delicate subject and there’s a scene featuring a very inebriated reader and a very sexually eager cult leader!anakin. huge, blaring trigger warnings for drug abuse, manipulation, coercion, psychological abuse and many other toxic behaviors cult leaders are known for having. if you're a minor, stay away!

i lowkey think this would also work so well as an obi-wan fic but anakin was also very, very fun to write in this context. feel free to send me prompts involving him or obi anytime you like (i might take a bit long to write but maybe you’ll think it’s worth it!)

word count: 6.599 (shit that’s long!)

When you left the Jedi Temple, you felt like the world as you knew it before turned upside down. To put it in more precise terms, you felt like an unfrozen comic book hero that came back from the realm of the unconscious.

You’ve spent seven years of your life with little contact to the mundane world outside of what Anakin allowed you and the other members of the Temple to see, hear and taste. Your entire existence revolved around him and his needs - after all, Anakin Skywalker was The Chosen One. The Force itself, that mysterious energy field that binds the galaxy and all members of the Jedi Temple together in its arduous mission to bring peace, equality and compassion to an increasingly unfair, unequal and war-torn world, chose him to lead you. So how could you say no to such a noble mission?

And what a mission that was. Seeing yourself in a mirror after all you’ve been through without the rose-colored glasses sponsored by Anakin’s constant and almost mantra-esque praise to you was quite something.

Your body was begging for rest in every possible way - your hair had stopped growing, giant dark circles had formed under your eyes and you didn't even have time to eat properly among so many tasks that were assigned to you on a daily basis, resulting in a drastic change on how you looked. During your time under Anakin’s watch, you were PR, secretary, cook, coordinator, supervisor, presenter, confidant, administrator and one of his many lovers; the amount of titles growing every day while no kind of worldly remuneration appeared as a reward.

Thinking about Anakin still stirred so many difficult and confusing feelings inside you. He supposedly loved you more than anything else in the world, yet still brought so many other women to his bed. You were his and only his, yet your body was often the bargaining chip he offered in some of his treasured, nefarious deals with politicians, bankers and other powerful men like him, which you accepted gracefully to please him. And Lord, how you yearned to please him in any and every way you could. This feeling was the only one you were able to discern clearly out of so many that disappeared in the mental fog of overwork.

He was beautiful, even more dashing when his attention was directed entirely to you. His compliments meant more, his touches were more eager, his smiles wider when you did everything you could for his cause.

There were days you only thought about the good aspects of your past life - and there were days the only memories that pierced your mind were the bad ones. Yet it’s kinda funny how almost a year later after you left he is still the center of all these thoughts.

Even if your current life is stable, calm and fairly easy. Even if your current partner is an angel who does treat you like they indeed love you. Even if you made them a promise you would never, ever look back.

Anakin, as always, makes things way harder than they really need to be.

The weight of loving Anakin and his community became too heavy to bear for you and your partner around the same time, for widely different reasons that coincided with a period of growing closeness between you. The fact that what drew you to your current significant other was precisely how much they reminded you of Anakin made you worry about the future you were building together from the start, yet Anakin was an addiction you always knew you wouldn’t break free from easily.

(Better to wean off in gradually smaller doses than to quit cold turkey.)

Another thing you always knew was that your partner would adapt to this new life much easier than you did, as they weren't as loyal to the cause as you were. They found new friends that also became your friends, yet at dinners and parties you always felt a little more out of place than them. Your jokes didn’t quite land, you were never the funniest or smartest on the table, not even for a minute, despite how hard they always tried to make you feel included. It’s always been like that for you, really, except for the time you were there.

With Anakin. By his side.

The feeling of belonging somewhere, especially when accompanied (or led) by a beautiful, well-spoken and ambitious man is a hell of a drug. A drug strong enough to numb the rage within you brought by the memories of the alienation and paranoia spiral he instilled in you constantly. The memories of the countless sleepless nights you’ve spent dealing with Anakin’s coke-fueled persecution complex. The unspeakable things he had you do to prove you were by his side and not against him and the cause.

A drug strong enough to make you accept a specific invitation.

At the beginning of a certain day, a stranger bumped into you while you walked into the street and left a piece of paper in your coat’s pocket. Classic Temple method of sending a message. However, instead of the usual threats and condemnations for leaving the community, you find something else entirely new.

Anakin wanted to speak to you. Alone.

You’d go just to get some much needed closure for what you went through by his side. Just that. Close this chapter of your life once and for all. After all, what harm could a simple conversation do?

You felt horrified that you still found yourself wondering what he’d think of you now; deep down you were afraid of him giving up on you entirely even though you truly didn’t want to be part of his mess anymore. Yet not having a door open to his path anymore frightened you to your core because even with its hundred million flaws, you still saw the Temple as a place you belonged in.

You feared that feeling in itself. Every decision it made you take. All the euphoria it still, regrettably and shamefully, brings you.

Your partner notices you growing more silent by the day as the calendar approaches the fateful date. Your mind was in a complete state of turmoil. You left the Temple months ago, determined to start a new life for yourself, one free from the darkness that had consumed you before. But despite your best efforts, you couldn't shake the memories of what had transpired between you and Anakin, or the longing you felt for the leader who had shown you for the first time, even if in his own twisted way, what it was like to have an entire community to go back to, one that appreciated you.

You feel a familiar flutter in your stomach, a mix of anticipation and fear that you couldn't ignore every time you think a little too much about Anakin's intense gaze and commanding presence. What would he say when he saw you? Would he be angry at you for leaving, or would he welcome you back with open arms? And more importantly, why would you even want to be welcomed back?

As you sat across from each other at the dinner table night after night, your partner couldn't help but notice the faraway look in your eyes. You seemed to be lost in thought most of the time, and your change in behavior coincided with the growing feeling you shared that you were being spied on by Temple’s members everywhere you went. Your partner, more than anyone else, knew what the Temple meant to you, and that leaving it behind had been a difficult and painful process for you both, but they couldn't help but feel frustrated that they couldn't seem to reach you.

And, dreadfully, that they know the reason why.

August 31st, 1979

As you drove to the address indicated in the now crumpled piece of paper, you couldn't help but feel a sense of nervous, reprehensible excitement building within you. It had been so long since you had felt this kind of intensity, this kind of connection to something greater than yourself. The memories of your time in the cult - your partner made sure to repeat this word to you as often as they could - flooded back to you, and you felt a sense of longing and belonging that you hadn't felt in a very long time.

But beneath the surface of your excitement, there was also a deep sense of fear and trepidation. You knew what Anakin was capable of, how he could push you to your limits and beyond. You remembered all the pain and all the humiliation, the sense of being stripped down to your very core. But even as these memories surfaced, you couldn't help but feel drawn to the system who had once held such power over you. You knew that what you were doing was dangerous, that you were walking a fine line between ecstasy and the destruction of everything you’ve built away from his grasp. But as you approach the place where you’ll meet him, you feel a sense of inevitability wash over you. You were in too deep, and there was no turning back now.

The few Temple members always present by Anakin’s side - you know them too well, after all, most of them also shared the same bed you slept on most nights - all welcome you with a disarming kindness that the outside world and its people just can’t match, even with the many hurtful words that were exchanged when you and your partner left. The outside world could never match such selflessness and forgiveness. This realization breaks your heart so strongly you swear you can feel it physically. Did I do wrong by leaving? Is it too late to have it all back? Why am I questioning myself over my safe, sane, final choice?

Padmé, Sabé, Ahsoka, they’re all wide smiles, lighthearted jokes and they exude a strong feeling of happiness for having you, even if for a short while, around them again. Despite an initial distrust from your part that manifested itself through curt words, you eventually engage in lively chatter with the girls like nothing between you ever changed. You talk about everything and nothing at the same time as you all tried to avoid the elephant in the room: the reason you were there.

Your smile falters when Padmé hands you a white, delicate, flimsy gown that leaves you feeling way more exposed than you’ve ever been since you left. She notices your discomfort and places a hand on your shoulder. “This is all about healing. We’re so happy you’re back.”

This specific dress is only used by women who go through The Rebirth. A private ceremony between the Temple’s leader and a follower that promises to bring the follower closer to the divine.

Despite how close you were to Anakin, you were never invited to a ritual of his yourself, you just heard of them. He always told you you didn’t need it and you knew better than to probe him about it. It’s funny how the opportunity appeared only after you left his circle.

All you knew was that the Temple’s rituals, usually aimed at the unruly, alternated through a range of activities and experiences intended to be intense, transformative, and meaningful; perfectly crafted to reach people Anakin couldn’t solely reach through words or promises. These imperfect followers would afterwards appear completely different after their closer encounters to the Force. Some left the Temple, some stayed. But they were all similarly profoundly changed: some women disappeared, some women started to believe in miracles, some became part of his inner circle.

“I’m… I’m just here to talk t--”

“And that’s all you’ll do, if that’s what you want. But keep in mind it's not every day that you’ll get to be a part of something like this.”

You begrudgingly nod, forcing yourself to smile again. “Okay.”

“You trust me?”

“I do.”

“I’ll tell him you’re here. Could you please change your clothes while I go up there? Remember we need you to be as comfortable as possible, so please don’t wear anything underneath the dress.”

“Okay.”

You close your eyes as you feel your stomach dropping. You take a few deep breaths.

You were just reminded of what you didn’t miss about the Temple.

Ahsoka and Sabé promptly offer to help you in changing clothes, which you accept. A few minutes later, Padmé returns with a kind expression on her face, extending a hand towards you. “Master Skywalker is waiting for you.”

You take her hand and follow her through the series of steps. You felt your heart racing as you were led deeper into the building. You knew that you’d been tricked, but now it was too late to turn back. You could feel the intensity of the ritual building around you, and you knew that you were in for something far more riskier than you had bargained for.

You finally arrive at the door and, surprisingly, Padmé gives you a warm hug before leaving. Some minutes pass, no sign of anything or anyone. Were you supposed to knock or something…?

Before you could answer that question to yourself, Anakin opens the door and the oxygen is ripped out of your lungs in a way you couldn’t anticipate. You’re like a fish out of water; you can hardly believe your eyes. There he is, the one person you thought you'd never see again, standing before you.

Anakin's bathed by the muted light of candles in a sight that could be painted by the Force itself. He’s shirtless, wearing only sweatpants, his golden skin and defined physique bared for you to see. He moves some rebellious strands away from his eyes to see you more clearly.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you struggle to catch your breath at the sight of him. The room is too hot, seeing him again is too overwhelming. You want to leave, to get as far away from this place as possible. But before you can make your way back, Anakin holds your arm, his voice calm and reassuring. “Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You shake your head, unable to form words.

"Come in," he says, taking you inside gently. “No need to be scared.”

As he envelops you in his arms and closes the door, you are immediately struck by the religious imagery that surrounds you. There are symbols and icons everywhere, each one imbued with its own powerful meaning. The space feels simultaneously cozy and imposing, the perfect balance between comfort and awe.

Your eyes drift across the room, taking in the details. There are candles burning in every corner, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The air is thick with incense, a heady mix of spice and smoke. In the center of the room, there is an altar, adorned with offerings and gifts.

He leads you to a quiet corner of the room. There, he holds you close, murmuring words of comfort and reassurance.

"I can’t believe you came, little bird," he says. "I’ve missed you.”

You can feel the strength of his arms around you, the familiar scent of his skin. As he pulls away and looks into your eyes, you can see a mixture of emotions playing across his face. You're not sure what he's thinking, but you sure can sense the power he still holds over you, especially when he calls you by that pet name. Despite your best intentions, you know that being in his presence again will be a test of your willpower and resolve. It’s already being one, to be honest.

As you struggle to calm down from your panic attack, Anakin continues to hold you close and stroke your hair. You feel his gentle touch and the steady rhythm of his breath, and it begins to soothe you. You hate the fact that it’s soothing you.

He speaks to you softly, using words you can barely hear as you focus on slowing your breathing. "You're safe here," he says, "You're with me again, and everything will be okay."

You look up at him, trying to speak, but your voice is still caught in your throat. He nods, understanding, and simply holds you a little tighter.

As he continues to speak in soothing tones, you try to remind yourself that his words are simply a means to an end, a way to control you once again. Your mind races as you struggle to push away the memories of what he's done to you in the past. But despite your attempts to resist, you can't deny the feeling of safety that washes over you in his embrace.

You know that you shouldn't give in to his words, that you should fight back and leave this place. But deep down, a part of you yearns for the familiar comfort of the Temple, of him. The part of you that craves his attention, his approval, his touch. Who can’t get enough of it.

In that moment, you realize that you're falling prey to him all over again, despite everything you've been through. You feel a deep sense of shame and disgust at yourself, but it's drowned out by the overwhelming desire to be near him once more. Even if for a while.

That makes it even harder for you to speak. Your voice seems to have been swallowed up by the overwhelming emotions churning inside of you. You used to be so confident and outspoken while you were under his wing, but now you feel like a mere shadow of yourself, unsure of what to say or how to act. You hate how vulnerable you feel in his presence, how powerless you are against the pull he has over you. So you just stare, unable to do much else.

Anakin briefly lets go of you to gently touch your hand. He looks at you intently, his piercing gaze locked onto yours. "I understand how overwhelming this is for you, but I promise you you're safe with me. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to.”

“Why did you want to speak to me?” You protest, your voice cracking as you force the words out of you, almost as a way of rebelling against his guidance. You pull away and distance yourself from him.

Skywalker looks at you with a solemn expression, searching your face. "I called you here because I want to offer you a chance at redemption," he says, his voice steady and calm. "I know you've been struggling with feelings of inadequacy since you left us. I just want to help you find your way back to the right path."

He pauses for a moment, letting his words sink in. “You were always one of my most faithful Knights," he continues. "I know you still have that spark inside of you. The spark that made you believe in me, that made you want to devote yourself to this. I want to help you rekindle that spark.”

You feel a wave of conflicting emotions wash over you as you listen to his words. Part of you wants to believe him, to trust that he has your best interests at heart. But another part of you is wary, remembering that the only reason he knows that, literally, is because he’s been ordering people to follow you.

“I don't know if I can trust you,” you manage to say, your voice shaking slightly.

Anakin’s expression softens, and he takes a step closer to you. "I understand why you might feel that way," he says. "But I want to assure you that I have no intention of hurting you. I want to help you heal, to help you find peace and purpose in your life. All you have to do is trust me. I promise that I'll be there for you every step of the way."

“Even if I don’t stay?”

You notice a flash of desperation in his eyes, which he tries to conceal. “We have something for you much more powerful than what your current life is offering you. And I think you know that, too.”

“I left for a reason.”

“And I can give you many others to come back. Your new life is just an illusion, a temporary fix to a problem that will only grow worse.” As he speaks to you, you feel his words sinking into your mind. He’s a specialist at tearing down the walls you’ve built to protect yourself from his influence, brick by fucking brick.

“I love my partner. That’s… that’s not an illusion.” You answer, not really believing your own words.

“A partner you’ve found here. A partner you’ve chosen to live a life with where you constantly look for things to try to fill the emptiness of not being here.”

You feel a maelstrom of emotions swirling within you, making it difficult to discern which way is up. The memories of the past, the good and the bad, flood your mind, clouding your judgment. You want to believe that you can be free from Anakin and live a normal life, but something inside you is drawn to his words. Something that also reminds you that there’s no such thing as a normal life after this one, after meeting him, after letting him in control for so long.

The thought of giving him another chance both terrifies and excites you, and you feel yet another wave of guilt crashing unto you for even entertaining it. He can tell he put you in a tug-of-war between what you know is right and what you truly want. “I only want what’s best for you. Deep down you know that being here is where you truly belong.”

"I don't know anymore. It's just... it's really not that simple--" You hesitate, noticing how his gaze is morphing into something much less fraternal the moment he notices there’s ground for his persuasiveness to tread on. You step back and start walking in the opposite direction, not noticing how easy you’re making it for him to corner you. He slowly, predatorily follows your steps.

“What's not simple about it? I know we bring you more fulfillment than anything or anyone else in this world.”

“I’m confused, Master!” You yelp, your heart beating fast once again at the looming threat of history repeating itself and at the shock of you instinctively calling him by his title again. You knock over an offering and you cover your mouth while trying not to hyperventilate once more.

“Then let me help you. Come back home and we can work through this together.” Successfully having you where he needed you to be, he moves your hand away from your mouth, almost whispering as he lowers his head to speak closer to your ears. “You just need the right guidance, the right push. And I am here to give that to you.”

“They are so devoted to you. I don't know if I can be like them. What if I change my mind again?”

"Don't worry about them. You're not like anyone else. You're special.” You find yourself getting lost in his words, feeling a sense of comfort that you haven't experienced in such a long time. You know that you shouldn't trust him, that he's just trying to fuck with you, but you can't help the way you're feeling. “I can mold you into the perfect follower, the perfect partner, the perfect lover. You'll be amazed at what we can accomplish together. It’s not like you don’t already know, right?"

In that moment, you're no longer the strong-willed person who left the Temple behind. Instead, you're a vulnerable follower once again, willing to do anything to please your leader.

“I mean it when I say I’ve missed you. You don’t know what you do to me,” he confesses in a raspy, needy tone while his fingers gently move the straps of your dress away from your shoulders, making you shiver. His need for you also tore down some of his own walls. “Couldn’t fucking breathe knowing you were living with someone else.”

“Anakin–” you squeak, breathless as the silky fabric slides easily above your skin and pools at your feet, leaving you bare in front of him like a freshly prepared meal. Vulnerable doesn’t even start to define how afraid, uncertain and exposed you feel right now. Anakin seems to notice things are going at a pace that’s not compatible with how frail your trust in him is, so he does his best to keep his composure and go back on track.

“Lie down for me at the altar, little bird.” He orders, his tone very artificially patient.

Trembling, you do as you're told. The marble is cold against your skin and you flinch at the touch, the heat of the candles balancing your temperature when you finish positioning yourself.

“You were lost, but now you're found. You were blind, but now you see.” He intimately preaches for your ears only, punctuating his command with the softest of caresses on your cheek. Your voice weakly paired with his at the last few words, as you remembered them with a painful familiarity and ease. “You thought you could leave me behind, but you belong to me. You belong to this community and now we will reforge that bond. Would you like that?”

You close your eyes, the certainty of your fate now making place to a strange serenity. “Yes.”

“Good.” He replies, pouring oil in his hands and spreading it between his palms and fingers. “Now relax. You will be enlightened and empowered like never before.” His hands firmly massage your skin in unhurried movements making your stomach flood with butterflies, his touch as inebriating as the whirlwind of thoughts running inside your head. “I sense so much fear flowing through you.”

You moan in response to the smooth sliding of his hands over your tense body. As Anakin applies pressure to your muscles, making them feel looser and more relaxed by the minute, you shiver at the realization of how much you missed being this close to him in such an intimate way. “Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate…”

“Hate… leads to suffering.” You complete, swallowing hard afterwards as if to clean how dirty you felt by falling into this as easily as you did.

“Exactly. Let yourself be at ease. You carry a heavy burden, love, and it's my job to help you lighten that load.” You can feel the purpose of his touch gradually morph into something much more unvirtuous as he palms your abdomen and moves upwards, now fondling both of your breasts exploratorily, basking on how velvety your skin feels after all this time you’ve spent apart.

A flicker of apprehension rushes through your veins as you sluggishly try to move his hands away from you, but instead your limbs just rest atop of his, your relaxed body unable to follow through with any movement that demands more than a few active brain cells. A wave of anger at yourself and at him rolls weakly through your mind, promptly subdued by how blurred the lines between pleasure and shame start to feel on your mind and frame. His soft touch starts driving you a little crazy; after what seems like forever, he finally tweaks your nipples, eliciting a soft whimper out of you.

“Let me take care of you,” he quietly pleads, hopefully having noticed to some degree that you still were trying to resist him in some way. While Anakin continues to knead the soft flesh, his thumb flicking across your nipple until it’s painfully erect, the other slowly goes down your abdomen until it reaches the most sensitive part of you. You sigh, utterly, impossibly resigned to the situation that’s unfolding. Also to let go, at least partially, of the anxiety that’s creepingly festering in your guts. “You deserve to be loved. To be here with me. You deserve everything that’s about to return in your life.”

Your eyes water at his words. It’s not that your partner doesn’t love you or make you feel like you don't deserve love, but it's overwhelming to hear this from Anakin after you loved him like you did (and maddeningly, regretfully, still do). Your partner gave you love, but not much else - and if there's something you learned from your time away from the Temple is that just romantic love isn’t enough when your new life didn't give you other people to rely on, didn’t scratch that persistent fucking itch that never really went away after you left the Temple.

You woke up every day feeling like you were missing something, like there was a hole in your chest that couldn’t be filled. You tried to distract yourself by immersing yourself in a new job, new hobbies, new social life. You went out with people, attended events, participated in activities of leisure, but the ache never really went away. You talked to people, but it all felt surface-level, small talk that went nowhere and meant nothing.

You started to feel like you were going crazy. Why couldn’t you just be satisfied? You have a partner who loves you, a job you enjoy, decent, lively people surrounding you both. You loathed yourself for the fact that the answer always led to the same place and person you prided yourself in leaving. You started to withdraw into yourself, keeping your feelings to yourself, afraid of burdening others with your problems. You didn’t want to seem ungrateful or needy, so you bottled everything up. But it only made things worse.

It made things bad enough that you searched for the only solution that could soothe it all easily. That always had all the answers all the time, regardless of the personal cost they had to you.

Anakin’s grayish eyes stare profoundly into yours for long seconds before he kisses you intensely. You eagerly retribute, his fingers still spreading the growing wetness between your legs in unhurried yet precise circular motions that make you moan unreservedly into his mouth. You can feel the slightest taste of whiskey and that bitter pill he always took on his tongue as a small reminder of everything you’re agreeing on letting take over the control of your life again, yet there's no way in hell you’re letting it go now. As a sign of such commitment, you cling to one of the arms that are stimulating you as if it’s a lifeline, an act that makes him smirk into the kiss and let out an appreciative groan. He’s still careful, though, trying hard not to lean entirely on the familiarity of how your body yearns for him, as this is above all your return back home. He needs to act accordingly.

His movements start to probe your cunt a bit further and after a little while of teasing, he inserts two fingers inside of you, his lips letting go of yours briefly just so he can hear how precious you sound while getting filled by his digits. You comply with his wish, letting your satisfaction echo inside the dimly lit room along with the filthy sound of how ready you are for him. “I’ve missed this so much.” He groans, letting out a shaky breath he shares with you as he feels the heat spreading under your skin, manifesting itself through glittery beads of sweat that start glistening over your figure.

“Me too, Master,” you whimper, a tempestuous river surging through your veins as you angle your hips repeatedly to meet his thrusts. He seems to understand your desperation, and it’s his turn to comply with your request. His thumb moves towards your pulsing clit and starts circling it in sync with the movement of his other fingers, setting your nerves on fire.

Perhaps in order to get even more of you in the matter of sound, he goes back to putting his mouth to good use. You let out a shrill cry of pleasure as his mouth meets the breast he was previously fondling, while he expertly curls his fingers up to rub your G-spot after relentlessly scissoring them inside you. His teeth rake across your nipple and you jolt, arching your back in a desperate attempt to get closer.

He has a look of hunger in his eyes as he stares you down, delighted at the effect he's having on you. "You're doing so well for me, little bird, so fucking wet," The noise that rips from your throat as an answer is halfway between a guttural moan and a desperate whine as your walls spasm and contract around his fingers. "Come for me." He commands in a hiss, resting his glistening forehead against the side of your head as your muscles convulse in staccato.

You can practically feel stars exploding all over your body in wonderful pinpricks of pleasure as he coaxes from you the most intense orgasm you've ever had. You let out incoherent moans and whimpers while he continues fingering you through your high; you're floating in a bubble of submission and he knows he has to help you land gently on the ground. "I'm so proud of you, baby." He praises softly into your ear before ceasing his ministrations and taking the fingers coated in your release to his own tongue, to your hazy astonishment.

“Thank you for that.” You breath, a confession of how much you needed to feel once more what he was capable of doing. He nods affectionately in return before distancing himself from you to wander nearby, and at the corner of your eye you see him pouring a red liquid on a small glass cup. You sigh in a bit of a fucked up pride at seeing how tented his sweatpants are. After he’s done, he comes back and hands it to you.

��Drink.”

You don’t question. You throw your sense of self-preservation out of the window perhaps as some kind of punishment to yourself over coming to him and still trusting him like that regardless of everything you went through. After lifting your torso just enough to be able to drink something without choking, you down the cup’s content in one swift gulp, a pleasant, sweet flavor filling your mouth. Your master strokes your hair fondly with a warm smile on his face, and kisses your forehead before you lie down again. “Now, for the main part of the rebirth, you might feel a slight tingling spread across your body as this potion does its magic. But don’t worry. This is the official beginning of a new life for you.” He instructs, now positioning himself between your legs, which he has no problem at all to part.

Along with the tingling, you begin to feel a sensation of euphoria spreading through your body. Your mind is flooded with intense feelings of pleasure and happiness, and you feel as though you are floating on air.

Everything around you seems brighter and more vibrant than before. You notice the colors of the flowers attached to one of the offerings near you, and the smell of aromatic plants seems more potent - it’s as if a veil has lifted, and you've been given new sight.

As you look at Anakin, who now stands above you revealing what’s hidden below the thick fabric of his pants and positioning his throbbing cock inside your dripping pussy, you find yourself even more drawn to him in a way that you didn’t think was possible. You maniacally reevaluate the entire perception of him in your mind - have you ever truly given him the chance he deserved? You were now sure the things your partner said about him were the unfounded, harmful brainwash. Anakin was the Chosen One! He could do no wrong ever. How could he do wrong if you’re feeling so invincible, so blessed, so in love?

So absurdly, out of your mind wet?

Anakin notices your eagerness, chuckling at how twitchy and desperate you’ve become for him. He mumbles something about how beautiful of a fucktoy you are for him now, how you always have been, and all you can think about is you love the way his mouth moved when he talked. The forward way he set his jaw, making his teeth meet with such delicacy, enunciating every word. You want him to own you, you think before he kisses your sodden mouth and idly strokes himself.

Anakin obliges after a short while, entering you in one swift motion. He lets out a long groan. “Holy shit,” he breathes. You shut your eyes and wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin when he begins to move, slowly pulling out and in at first. Every sound, every texture, every sensation is amplified to an almost overwhelming degree. You feel surges of energy coursing through your veins every time he reaches spots within you you didn’t even know existed.

His breathing is ragged and his eyes are half closed when you tilt your face up and kiss him sloppily, giving the green light for him to go faster. Your need is urgent, there is no possibility for precision. You wanted to spread the exquisite poison that he had given you. “I love you,” you yelp, “I'm madly in love with you.”

“My little bird,” he heaves, heavy breath syncing up with yours as he moves deliciously inside of you at a growingly unforgiving pace. Anakin lowers his head so his lips can hover over your ear and beckon you with an unholy invitation. “If you really mean it, come back home. Tonight.”

“Fuck. I don’t know if I can--” you whine, your hands palming his chest aimlessly as he fucks you to the moon and back, the loud sound of skin against skin driving you both insane. He’s bestowing upon you a blessing no one ever could, each thrust unceremoniously ripping yelp to pathetic yelp from your throat along with every remaining logical thought inside your head. “Fuck!”

“Of course you fucking know. You’ll always be welcome back home.” he murmurs against your neck in between kisses and bruising nips. ”Come back to me and you can have this everyday. Nothing needs to be the same.” A strong jolt of pleasure rocks you as his hand creeps down your inner thigh to masturbate you while you move against him for more sensation. A long, low moan vibrates in your chest. He shushes you with another deep kiss as your hips buck from the maddening pressure.

Very amused at how drenched you were, how you mewled at his every touch, he manipulates you with teasing circles until it was too much. You dissolve into pleasure so intensely you can barely register the exact moment you soak him as well in your juices, milking him for all that is worth in the way. He doesn’t take long to follow, his hips stuttering as he empties himself inside you in thick spurts that make you feel impressively full. You keep clenching around him, not willing to let him go, a wide smile on his face at his achievement and at the work of art he crafted so masterfully. He’s genuinely fucking brilliant at this.

“Nothing needs to be the same.” You repeat in a drunken stupor, moving hair strands from your sweaty face as you smile back to him, framed perfectly like yet another offering in his marble altar.

Perhaps his most prized one.

#anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker smut #star wars smut #reader insert #star wars fanfiction

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signedkoko · 1 year ago

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Howdy!

Could I ask for romantic headcanons for what initially makes Blitzø, Stolas and Millie fall for the person they're interested in?

Hope that makes sense lol. Much love to you <3

Blitzo | Millie | Stolas [Romantic]

In which their initial interest in you begins to flourish

It was a tough mission, one far before Blitzo had formally established IMP

It was just him and his gun, payed hefty cash under a table to take care of a target

He hadn't expected the target would notice him, and the tables would turn so quickly

With his back pressed against the floor, and a gun placed firmly into his skull, he surely thought that was it

But the first shot was drawn not by the target, but another demon wielding an old shotgun

Blood was everywhere, splattered across the ceiling, himself, and you

And good lord, did that crimson ever bring out the colour of your eyes

One of those stupid slo mo scenes in his mind, at least until he realised you'd killed the target before he had- and- wait, why were there two of you?

" Good call on the client for bringing in a backup plan, huh? You ain't bad but you could be better. "

You had helped him back home after that, and to his surprise, split the cash amount equally, citing something about how bait was just as important as the kill

Since then, you were the only thing on his mind, and his new shining obsession

Growing up in Wrath, Millie was well acquainted with those around her, and found it easy to spot someone who wasn't local

And boy, you were anything but local

The delivery person who dropped off supplies for the ranch from various rings, you looked nothing like the folk around here, far more...modern

Eventually, she happily took up the 'chore' of handling drop offs and pick ups just for an excuse to talk to you, and learn about you

Your stories of the other rings drew her in, feeding the yearning she had to adventure amongst them

Her parents preferred to keep their rowdy girl home, where it was safer, but when you offered to take her with you on a delivery to the pride ring, she begged her parents until they reluctantly agreed

Not that it mattered, she would have snuck out if she had to

You brought her up to the pride ring, showed her the sights and even let her speak to one of your other clients, IMP

Thanks to you, she eventually got a job with them, and she still insists on taking care of any of IMPs drop offs

Stolas often felt isolated in the place he was pretty much forced to live in and continue to work from day in and out

Always the same faces, the same servitude, the same job, nothing ever changed

The only people he got 'close' to were other royals, since everyone else had to bow their heads to him and followed the speak when spoken to mentality

But like every royal, there were a few ceremonies and festivals he had to attend to where he got to interact with the denizens of hell in a more refreshing manner

That was where he met you, at the winter solstice celebration, which was annually held in the pride ring

You were a descendant of the former event runner, now tasked with welcoming the prince and shifting the temperature cycle of hell through an ancient artefact

Stolas found you far more welcoming than the last, having invited him into your home the day prior so he didn't have to travel so early, and asking him many questions of how his experience of it was in the past

This year, he opened the gate to the mortal sky far wider, and for longer, as a small gift to repay your kindness

He hopes you consider a summer solstice event, so he can see you more than once a year

Author's Note - Thank you so much for requesting!! I decided to be a lil creative and make something neat up, I hope it was to your liking!

#koko writez #hazbin hotel #helluva boss #hazbin hotel x reader #helluva boss x reader #reader insert #x reader #millie #millie x reader #blitzo #blitzo x reader #stolas #stolas x reader

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cryingpariah · 1 month ago

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Garling being obsessed with the Shandia to the point of near fetishization is diabolical.

The only reason Dragon doesn’t kill him personally (aside from the fact that Imu’s whatever the fuckery would make that difficult/impossible) is because the nasty bastard would probably enjoy being killed by the object of his obsession.

(Prepare to get the ick something CRAZY.)

It started off normally enough really (well as normal as you can get for a celestial dragon anyway). 1 part fascination mixed with 1 part blindly hatred equals this perverse obsession.

How dare they, lording above him in the sky, do they think they're actually superior to him?! The heaven's chosen guardian, a beacon of holy light unlike any other! He was superior to them in every conceivable way!

..except the wings. He lacked their beautiful wings. Pure white like snow, soft like silk wings that that ungrateful fool Noland had described in his sparse scribblings. Garling wanted wings of his own so badly but no amount of money or medical research can give you the real deal, only a cheap copy.

He was much too good at his job to be given leave long enough to head for the sky so he made do as the years went on, found and hunted slaves with other oddities but it wasn’t the same. He filled canvas after canvas with images of his future conquest with a little help from Noland's journals but felt resigned to his fate on the ground. Is this how the plebs of the world lived, with the things they want out of their reach? It was truly dreadful.

And then he heard about it, Vice Admiral Garp had married. A woman who had the wings of silk and snow he so desperately yearned for. He had kept his composure when he spoke to the man, discussed only his future plans for the people of the clouds but on the inside he was a giddy mess. He had to keep touch his chin to make sure he wasn’t drooling. He even had to excuse himself to the bathroom to do things he’d never admit to.

To think one would have found their down to the seas and into the simian brute's bed, oh he was so jealous! Were her wings as perfect as he had always imagined? Feathers as uniform as they were described? Would they flap if he touched her just right?

He could take her, demand what is rightfully his but making a possible enemy out of Garp would cause too much attention. He’d wait. He’d be patient. He can very patient. He would see her one day and all would fall into place…

But it never did. Was she just some homebody or did she know? Did she suspect? Did she think of him with disgust in her voice and hatred in her eyes? God he hoped so. Like Captain Ahab to the white whale he yearned to cross her path but that blasted Nika must have been interfering with his plans.

And then the unnatural rise of the Orange Admiral who tried oh so hard to hide what he was. Didn’t he know none could escape him? And he certainly didn’t. Figarland had been beside himself with joy! Sure the boy wasn’t purebred but none of them were pure to begin with anyway! His copper skin, spiked hair, golden accessories..just as it said in the journals. He could pinpoint what he must have gotten from his mother, the nose, the smooth voice and of course the wings. He had been devastated upon seeing the state of them, who could take such perfection and desecrate it! Who would be so brazen as to take what belonged to a saint! No matter, he deal with them later…

But then (and how he is overcome by shivers at this memory) how the boy had looked at him. First with fear but then his anger, his righteous fury! How enchanting, how mesmerizing! He looked like wanted to split Figarland's skull open and he almost wanted to let him try. He’d never be able to do it of course but it would be a cute struggle.

He swore after that meeting he would have the both of them, Garp be damned. They would be so grateful to bask in him, such a joyous gift bestowed upon their unworthy souls. Regardless of the outcome, be it a fight or surrender, he would have gotten what he wanted.

What he has always deserved.

#disgusting freak (derogatory) die slow and painfully #in some horrible reality where Urpi made it to the slave auction (and didn’t burn it down) she definitely would be bought by Figarland 🤮🤮🤮#Figarland is weirdly fun to write for?? I think I just like writing horrible delusional people 🤷🏾‍♀️#cw fetishization #<- idk if this is a thing but I feel like it should be #I cooked but at what cost…#one piece #figarland garling #monkey d urpi #monkey d garp #monkey d dragon

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separatist-apologist · 6 months ago

Text

We Could Call It Even

Summary: Newly made and terrified, Elain Archeron's human fiance tells her of a creature that could turn her back and keep them together and Elain will stop at nothing to make rumor a reality.

There is no force that can undo fate. No magic that can unmake a mating bond. And Lucien Vanserra isn't about to let his mate throw herself in the path of certain death on a fools hope. Lucien will be forced, instead, to watch her love another man for eighty brutal, miserable years.

While Elain Archeron will have to contend with a life she hoped to never live…and a mate she never wanted.

Thank you @shadowisles-writes for the moodboard!!

Read on AO3 | Chapter 1

Lucien couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

Standing beside her human husband, glowing and lovely in the ruined light of the estate they stood in. She had pointedly ignored him, though the male—Graysen—had looked him over with more curiosity than anything. He supposed the human lord wanted to know what his competition was.

As if there’d ever been any choice between them. She hadn’t even done him the courtesy of formally rejecting the bond, leaving Lucien with an ache he couldn’t dispel and a yearning he suspected would never go away. Even then, Lucien warred with the urge to rip Graysen to shreds.

He had his arm around her. She was leaning into his body, head on his shoulder and Lucien hated it. She owed him, he thought angrily. Not an acceptance, but at least an explanation. Lucien would have liked to be free, too.

Instead he leaned against the ruined door, arms crossed over his chest as he avoided his mate, his former friend, and his older brother all at the same time. He listened to their pretty speeches about unity and togetherness that would never amount to anything. The humans very obviously distrusted her—he could see they thought she was little more than a traitor.

Feyre didn’t seem to have a good sense of her own history. Lucien wondered why that was. She cared, certainly, but was divorced from the suffering of her own people and wanted them to get over it as she had. Feyre was an anomaly, an outlier that, from Lucien’s perspective, didn’t even notice how different she was.

Even Nesta Archeron didn’t seem wholly convinced, arms wrapped tightly around her body as though she were trying to shrink in on herself. Across the room, Jurian was trying to catch his eye. Lucien would rather die, he decided. He wanted to wash his hands of all of this.

He didn’t regret the things he’d done, but…all Lucien felt anymore was misery.

He tried to slip out once it was clear there were no more speeches left in anyone. Oh, they mingled and talked, promising to keep in touch but he knew they wouldn’t. The fae were too secretive and the humans too distrustful. The history was simply too bloody between them and even five centuries couldn’t erase the hurt.

After all, the fae had never really paid any reparations. They’d merely walled themselves off and warned humans if they crossed the border, well. Everything was fair game. Lucien didn’t know how he’d do it differently—it was a herculean task better suited to far smarter minds than his own. He simply knew that what they’d tried—which was nothing at all—hadn’t been working and would fix nothing.

“Wait up,” Feyre murmured, looping her arm through his as she’d done on the battlefield. She’d been trying to convince Elain to speak with him, which had gone poorly. Elain clearly wanted nothing to do with him, despite everything he’d done for her. The ache in Lucien’s chest expanded.

“I’m not going to Velaris, Fey.” That stopped her short. Standing among the rubble, a breeze blowing strands of that burnished blonde hair over her freckled face, Feyre looked sad. Young, too. It was easy to forget just how young she was, but…fuck. She was twenty. Lucien ran a hand through his hair, trying to think what he’d been doing at that age.

Fucking and drinking, mostly.

“Why not?”

“Why—I can’t,” he confessed, letting her hear some of his grief. “I want to forget all this happened.”

“Where will you go?” she questioned, looking up at him with the roundest pair of blue eyes he’d ever seen. She reminded him so much of that fragile human girl he’d once known. Lucien exhaled a sigh.

“I don’t know.”

“She’s…she’s not going to come back, Lucien. I don’t know if she’s even welcome back, I’m so…” Feyre bit her bottom lip.

“So what?”

“Angry,” she whispered, as if Elain might materialize beside her. “This wasn’t how I wanted things to go, you know. But she…she’s got this idea of what life should be like in her head and she won’t let it go.”

“Good for her,” Lucien said dismissively, not wanting to talk about Elain.

“I need…I know you don’t want anything to do with her and I don’t blame you. I told her to at least explain it to you. To talk to you. I um…I went in her mind. A couple times, actually. She doesn’t have any mental defenses and Graysen is always screaming all his thoughts at me anyway. He’s filled her head with some nonsense about a creature who can make her human again.”

Lucien's blood ran cold. “What?”

“A creature tethered to a lake,” Feyre added pointedly.

“He’s a fool then. They both are, if they make a deal with a death god.”

“She’s going to look for him. Alone.”

Lucien hated that he cared. Hated more that he knew what Feyre was asking of him and that he was going to agree, despite how much more pain it was heaping on his shoulders. Hadn’t he suffered enough? Lucien was certain he’d been sent back to live a life of torment for crimes committed in the past.

“I’ll do anything, Lucien. Anything,” she whispered, offering him her hand.

“You know that’s a fools bargain, Feyre,” he reminded her, knowing she wouldn’t have said it if she didn’t trust him.

“She’ll get herself killed and I’ll be blamed for it. Nesta will never forgive me and Graysen…he’ll spin it as faerie trickery.”

“How am I supposed to stop her? She seems perfectly capable of making her own choices.”

“You went there. You saw him. Explain to her what he takes and the cost she’d be paying. Restoring her humanity would come at an enormous cost. Elain can be selfish, but she’s not cruel.”

Lucien wasn’t certain he agreed with that. He took Feyre’s hand, though, because he loved her as much as he’d loved anyone. She gripped tight, yanking him just a little closer.

“I’ll put you up somewhere quiet,” she murmured, holding his gaze. “Anywhere in my territory you want. You don’t have to work with me, just…stay, Lucien.”

“And when you have to pick between myself and your sister?” he asked bitterly. “Humans die quickly. She has a century with him, if that. Likely less given how stupid he seems.”

A smile cracked over her solemn expression. “She didn’t choose me. I heard her thoughts when we went to beg for sanctuary. She held such contempt for me and I…why should I keep begging her to care about me? She’s made her choice. And I am making mine.”

Lucien’s stomach tumbled at the ferocity of her words. “I tried to kill you once.”

Her smile widened. “I was a little shit, as I remember it. You went to war for me. I’ll never forget that.”

He’d gone for Elain, and he suspected Feyre knew as much, but he appreciated the sentiment all the same. Maybe he could reframe it in his mind. Sure, he’d gone on Elain’s vision, wanting to prove himself to her. But he’d saved his friend—perhaps the best friend he’d ever had. “How do I…how do I stop her?”

“She’s going alone. Don’t tell anyone…but I manipulated Graysen’s thoughts to convince himself Elain had to go by herself. That it was part of the legend.”

Lucien sighed, exasperated. “What if I’d said no?”

“You wouldn’t,” she replied with that easy, lopsided grin. “She has to make her way through my territory to get to the harbor. I know the ticket she’s purchased. Just…meet her on the docks and say whatever you have to in order to send her home.”

“And if she gets on the ship anyway?”

“Then I’ll send in Cassian,” Feyre said, her smile fading. “And Elain will know I’ve been in her mind and she’ll be cleverer next time.”

Lucien paused. “How many times have you been in my mind?”

She squirmed. “Twice.”

“On purpose?” he demanded, more annoyed than anything.

“Just once—the first time was a mistake,” she told him hastily. He believed that.

“And the second time?”

“When you visited my sister the first time,” she all but whispered. It was better than he’d been imagining. Feyre, in her roundabout way, always wanted the best for everyone. And if she could force it to happen, well…even better.

“I’ll do my best,” he agreed, if only because he’d already shaken her hand. He felt the tingle of magic sliding up his elbow, and when their eyes met, she was smiling again.

“We ink our bargains on the skin,” she told him. “Stay with me tonight, at least. You can decide in the morning where you want to go.”

“Maybe I want to live in the mountains,” he challenged.

“I’ll build you a cabin,” she whispered. “Or a palatial estate. Whatever you want—name it, Lucien. Just…don’t leave me.”

“No promises,” he said, heart racing. No one had ever wanted him to stay so badly they’d been willing to beg. To give him whatever he wanted. As Feyre took his hand, lacing her fingers with his, he suspected she would have given him nearly anything he asked for. Jewels, some low-level secrets he’d always wondered. And as they walked back to Rhys, who cocked his head to the side but only smiled as if what he saw pleased him, Lucien wondered if it wasn’t better to just try and make a clean break of things.

“Az and Cass are already halfway back,” Rhys told Feyre, falling into step easily beside them. “Azriel was seconds from pummeling Drakon to the ground.”

“Why?”

“He thinks they’re cowards,” Rhys said, some of his amusement fading. “How did you find them?”

“I read,” Lucien replied with a shrug, not bothering to mention that a lot of it had been blind, stupid luck. Perhaps Rhys knew that, too—after all, he had to have been looking for longer than Lucien had.

“Well, they’re going back behind their wards.

“Miryam showed me how to get a message through,” Feyre told him, but her expression was troubled. Rhys merely nodded, offering a half smile that didn’t meet his eyes.

“Hopefully we won’t need them again. Jurian has gone back with Vassa…they wanted Lucien to join them in the human lands—”

“No.”

The mere thought made his skin crawl.

“I told them he had more important tasks in Prythian that would better suit their goals.”

“Did you, now?” That irritated him. He hadn’t sworn fealty to Rhys as his High Lord. In fact, the only person Lucien felt any allegiance to was Feyre, who had promised him a life of quiet contemplation.

“He’s lying,” Feyre whispered theatrically before a rush of cool, jasmine scented air filled his senses. Beneath the metallic edge of the magic lay the familiar scent of Feyre—pear and lilac, whorling together so nicely that for a moment he could pretend they were all back in Spring together and none of this had happened.

Was he selfish for wishing that?

They landed on the cold streets of Velaris. A fog had settled from the mountainside, causing light snowflakes to settle on the cobblestone. Few people moved about—he’d forgotten Feyre and Rhys, like so many others, had evacuated their people. It would take time to bring them all back.

Rhys made his way back to their home while Feyre took him to a familiar townhouse. “I thought you’d prefer it here tonight. It’s closer, but it’s also…”

“Yeah,” he agreed, understanding. It was empty. He could be alone with his misery, not forced to put on a show so people wouldn’t pity him.

“I’ll have clean clothes sent over. If you don’t want to stay, I won’t make you, but…” Feyre bit her bottom lip, crossing her arms over her chest to ward off the cold. “I wouldn’t make you work for me. You could take a break, Lucien. Enjoy your life, for once.”

“A novel thought,” he admitted. “I’ll think about it.”

She nodded, tugging the end of her braid nervously. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Lucien wanted to say more, but the words that often came so easily to him were stuck in his throat. As she turned, Lucien lunged, catching her wrist. “Thank you.”

He hoped those two words conveyed what he wanted to say properly. She seemed to understand—they’d always had that between them, at least. Feyre nodded her head and he released her, letting her vanish into the mist before he went into the warmth. He’d been here before, just as bloodied and exhausted. Velairs had seemed foreign to him at the time, so at odds with the stories he’d always been told. This was the land of living nightmare? Surely not.

But here, among the well appointed cream furniture and dark wood floors, lay the truth of the Night Court. It was no different than any of the other territories. It simply better guarded its borders by allowing rumors to spread unchecked. He knew, now, that Rhys rather liked that people were too afraid to come marching in.

It was better than the heavily fortified borders of Autumn, he supposed.

Lucien snapped his fingers, bringing the fireplace roaring to life. There was new magic in his veins he’d been trying to untangle. Ever since Hybern, Lucien had practically simmered with it. Flame like he’d never seen, bright and hot as the sun itself. It looked a lot like his fathers, like his brothers, but it didn’t feel like it.

He’d been hiding it, terrified if Eris learned, he’d have him killed. Lucien simply didn’t need any more enemies. He didn’t want Autumn, besides, and had to believe the world wouldn’t be so cruel as to force him back to the place that held so much misery for him.

When he and Feyre had trekked through, all he’d been able to think about was Jesminda, after all. What would she make of all this, he wondered? She’d hate Elain, he decided. He’d been trying to decide whether she’d like his mate or find her unworthy. Lucien had his answer at long last. Jesminda had always railed against the people closest to him, frustrated they didn’t treat him better, didn’t love him well.

You deserve so much more, she used to say. He’d believed it once, but now…gods, Lucien didn’t think so. Surely, after centuries of swallowing immeasurable bullshit, things would have started to look up? He’d thought so, for a moment.

Now, though…

Lucien sighed, trudging upstairs to a room clearly meant for guests. He’d stumbled into Feyre and Rhys’s room and nearly gagged on the scent of them. The room at the far end of the hall—the one that overlooked the river—smelled faintly of lemon and dust. Better than the smell of sex, he decided. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Lucien didn’t bother to turn the lights on which caused him to slam his shin into a chair he hadn’t seen in the gloom. Ripping open the heavy, dark curtains allowed for gray light to filter in. There was a bed large enough to accommodate someone with wings, a dresser, and a bookshelf holding a haphazardly stacked collection of books on war. Cassian must have been here last, he decided.

The bathroom was large—Rhys had that going for him, at least. Lucien peeled off the Illyrian leathers, wincing when it ripped the hair from more sensitive places. How did Cassian and Azriel stand them, he wondered? Lucien would be glad never to wear them again. He hoped to have no cause to ever wear them again, though he figured that was asking too much. There was a death god tethered to a lake and a gaggle of humans trying to enrich themselves at the expense of the world itself.

And his mate, of course, comfortable with potentially damning them all for a human lifespan of happiness.

Lucien sank into a tub of scalding water, almost embarrassed by the noise that escaped his throat. It was something between relief and a sob. Looking at his forearm, he found proof of the bargain he'd made with Feyre, inked in black and white. Pretty vines wrapped from his wrist to elbow, with delicate, autumn-like leaves hanging gracefully from the stem. He traced the pattern with his finger for a moment before relaxing against the cool, smooth surface of the tub.

His muscles loosened beneath the water, a reminder that he’d run across that battlefield looking for Elain. He hadn’t known she’d gone back to the human—all he’d heard was that she’d been captured by Hybern and was being held as a prisoner. His fear had overridden his good sense. It had been Azriel who’d gone and rescued her, and Elain who’d turned right back around for the human who couldn’t even keep her safe.

Lucien closed his eyes, trying desperately to banish the image of Elain from his mind. She’d made her choice and he wasn’t going to beg. Wasn’t going to get on his knees and ask her to give him a chance. All he’d ever had was his dignity, and he’d be damned if he threw all that away, now. She might be his mate, but that didn’t mean he owed her anything. Mate in name only…but Jesminda had been his love. She’d died for that love, defiantly refusing to disavow him even when Beron offered her the opportunity to save her own life. If she’d been alive, would he have wanted Elain?

No.

He almost couldn’t hate Elain for her choice. Lucien hated her for making it and for getting what he hadn’t—the chance to be with Graysen, who had survived the war. It seemed so supremely unfair that Elain got everything he’d been denied.

It was simply easier to hate her. As he laid there in the water, covered up to his chin, Lucien let whatever feeling he might have had for her solidify into something cold and unforgiving. It would take centuries of chipping to break through by the time he was done. He could guard this part of himself so carefully, so closely, that no one would even know it existed.

Let Elain have her dalliance with the human. He’d die, and she’d have nothing. And Lucien…Lucien had nothing, anyway. How long, he wondered, would Feyre hold her resolve? Would she still choose him over her sister? He knew Feyre—she simply didn’t have it in her to hold a grudge. Not forever. Time had a way of easing things, besides, especially when you were surrounded by love and happiness. Feyre would have children, would settle into her life and she’d miss Elain.

Lucien thought he’d die if he had to see Elain at every solstice party for the rest of his miserably long life. He could beg his father to take him back—and end up on the same side of the blade Jesminda had. Or he could do nothing.

Travel.

Wander.

The idea seemed to warm him a little. Shifting his aching muscles beneath the water, Lucien let himself imagine living on the continent for a time. Maybe a decade before he moved on. There was nothing holding him to Prythian anymore. No one holding him here anymore. He couldn’t even go back to Jes, whose grave was lost to him. Her family had refused to tell him where she was buried and would likely have killed him before they ever let him say his final goodbyes to her.

Lucien left the bath, drying himself as he solidified his plans. He had more than enough money, collected after centuries of being overpaid by Tamlin, and then overpaid again by Rhys. If he needed more, he could always pick up a job somewhere. Do things he’d always been curious about if he truly wanted to.

It was a nice enough fantasy to put him to bed. Lucien woke to snow falling softly and the smell of cinnamon wafting through the halls. Wrapping a sheet around his waist, he found a little note from Feyre beside a stack of fine clothes that were his style and not the Night Courts. He dressed quickly while reading her note.

You can do hard things—even this.

Love you,

Feyre

The mug of steaming, cinnamon chocolate, felt more like a bribe than anything. Still, he downed it all the same. Snapping the cloak around his neck, and checking his hair one last time, Lucien braced himself to speak to his mate.

And to tell her goodbye.

#elucien #you all wanted to know what lucien was thinking WHELP HERE YOU GO

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ecoustsaintmein · 29 days ago

Text

ghosts (part iI of ????)

part i here

part iii here

part iv here

part v here

pairing: paddy x eoin; rating: M. slow burn.

this was the first time they'd had this conversation as eric and killian. but it was as if they'd had this conversation, many years ago, many times before.

(or, paddy mayne and eoin mcgonigal, reincarnated as eric love from 'starred up' and killian from 'angel'. they meet again, during the heights of the pandemic -- but they don't remember - until much, much, much later).

killian's been setting up shop, selling videos of himself to viewers who would pay ridiculous amounts of money just to see him strip and touch himself without sacrificing his anonymity.

that interlude in his life - spending time with his pals at that farm, it was fine playing at being lord of the flies once in a while, but it had to end.

eric reminds him of matt, in some ways. it's his colouring, killian thinks, the way his hair shines golden in the sun, but that's where the similarity ends. eric is closed off when matt is so open, eric is a professed agnostic when matt speaks about heaven and angels and god without any fear of judgment.

no, killian decides, categorical. eric isn't like matt at all, but more like katrin, whose fierce eyes and determination can turn cruel without warning.

instead of colliding head on like he did with katrin and jess and sammy, killian tiptoes around the edges of the cliff that is eric, because he never knows what will happen if he plunges head first into the abyss. will eric consume him whole, will eric spit him back out?

killian thinks that him and eric could not be any more different from each other, but maybe they're only pretending to be the people they aren't, with the masks that they're wearing. it's easier to hide when everyone seems interchangeable with the green scrubs and the ppe gear, breathing the same chlorine detergent and stale piss scent. maybe deep down they're just the same, with the violence and savagery that they're both capable of.

it's just that killian hides it better.

the only time that he really can be himself, he thinks, is when he's in front of a camera, anonymous, faceless.

as cu chulainn, killian has the freedom to act out his fantasies. he's a man still, but he sees nothing wrong in being in touch with his feminine side, while retaining his masculinity. there was a time when he was ashamed for even considering this as a possibility, it having beaten into him growing up catholic in rural cork. it's something that he keeps close to his chest, though, and it's not as if he could casually discuss this part of his life with anyone.

so yes. there is still shame there, maybe.

he'd come up to london and experienced soho and experimented with other boys who were much more confident than himself, but perhaps it's the inner irish farm boy in him that makes him want to isolate himself; safely cocooned by his insularity.

he's traded wide spaces with rolling green hills and the sunshine for packed clubs between brewer street to old compton street, bathed in fairy dust and neon lights. the bassline still beats in killian's ears, in his toes, sometimes, and he thinks he wasn't born for this kind of life. so he retreated back into the peaceful eden that is his flat, with his potted chilli and herbs and anything that will stay alive if killian takes good care of them. the wild side of him still yearns, the part of him that wants and craves.

he started off small, with the videos. he didn't want to give anything away, hence the false name and the fake accent, after years of living on the farm in west sussex and sharing good craic with those english lads who'd spent their gap year to live life off-grid. they came and they went, but killian had stayed. until matt came along and told them that he needed to leave the farm altogether.

and killian's response, instead of anger, or resentment, was to kiss matt.

and then ran away like a fucking coward.

(it was a choice).

but the wild side of him still yearns, the part of him that wants and craves.

it really took off when pandemic hit, when the clubs closed and every transaction is conducted through grainy pixels and splodgy screens, the black mirrors to their souls. the numbers of his subscribers rose.

names and handles indeterminable from one another, some direct and downright rude, some a bit more hesitant and quiet, happy to just enjoy the show.

sometimes he would talk about himself -- his likes, his dislikes, without giving too much away. he rambles a lot, sometimes, about sweet nothings and on vague enough topics that no one can pinpoint who he is. his monologues tends to get the chat going, even when he's not stripping down or touching himself, and there'd been a flurry of questions about whether he's got a boyfriend or a girlfriend or maybe both. killian's laughed a hearty laugh, then, because he feels that he's some kind of a mini-celebrity and his subscribers are so nosey about his personal life.

one of the quieter, but eagle-eyed subscribers, user @/blair_e once asked about his handle, and his supposed englishness. 'if ur english why cu chulainn', the question went, and killian had switched effortlessly to his native accent, playing coy, asking, challenging: who says i'm english?

killian's begun to calling him blair, now, in his head, though they've never had a direct interaction. blair never replied after the 'who says i'm english?' comment -- like he's been chided by a teacher and has learnt his lesson and doesn't want to cause any more trouble. he's interesting, this feller, because before that he did occasionally send comments like 'you're gorgeous' and 'i want your cock in me' and 'fuck me hard', plus every other iteration of such phrases known to man, since the time of catullus who had written so eloquently:

'pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo,' killian thinks. 'i will sodomize you and face-fuck you.'

but sometimes, blair would also type things like:

'i would undress you in the summer heat, and laugh and dry your damp flesh if you came,' or --

'give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred', or,

'i love you. i love you, but i'm turning to my verses and my heart is closing like a fist,'

-- but doesn't follow up on any of them, as if he's scared that killian would notice, would know where the lines had come from.

oh, but killian did notice.

two can play at this game.

blair, he thinks. it's a lovely name.

but he's not a real person, just a name on the screen. it's only as real as cu chulainn's only a fragment of himself, that he hasn't got the guts to show the world in real life.

tonight the show is over.

tomorrow morning, he's killian again. the same killian who waits up for eric, who's always scatty and late (the alarm clock doesn't go off, he says, or his toast burnt, or he's lost his ear buds). eric's flat is a miasma of three bottles of different lynx fragrances, and killian's nose always twitches when he opens the door, the way one's nose twitches when walking past a lush store.

then they'll walk up to st george's, together. 'saves up the bus fare, innit?' grins eric.

this, killian thinks, is more real to him.

killian grins back and puts an arm around eric, because they're pals.

eric lets him.

the experience they'd had, eric and him -- as volunteers, in this hospital, has humbled them. there are things bigger than themselves. they're just specks of dust, and yet, the things that they do still matter.

eric, especially -- he'd spoken openly about his time in prison, what a twat he'd been. killian would be lying if he'd said he couldn't see it, because he could. eric is intimidating, sure, but killian doesn't fear him. he's like a lost stray dog who wants affection but doesn't know how to ask for it, because all he's known is danger and hunger and learning how to become the bigger, vicious dog in order to survive.

there is no room for vulnerability, because in that world you'd get eaten. you fight for scrapes. you fight for honour. but you fight dirty. you walk around with red-tinted glasses and everything's a red flag, but you don't realize that you're a fucking red flag yourself.

he'd seen the people coming through into a+e for knife crimes, and eric says to killian, there'd been a time when i'd been the prick who'd done that.

and then he'd worked in the wards and saw the realities of life and death and between the prison and the hospital and the halfway-house that is their council flat, something in eric seems to have shifted.

killian's seen the way eric balls up his fists and grits his teeth when he's trying not to talk back at a demanding relative, an entitled patient, a sneering charge nurse, a snobby junior reg who graduated from oxbridge.

they're all burnt out.

killian's seen, in a span of an eight hour shift:

a respiratory consultant screaming in the men's urinals after another death on his take. a med reg having a panic attack in the chaplaincy after a resus gone wrong. a medical student dissociating from the reality of their future; what their career paths will lead them down to--

-- this feckin' shite.

people dying.

politicians roared in laughter behind closed doors, like the pigs and the humans at the end of animal farm.

killian's seen the injustices. the failing systems, the trolleys in a+e corridors, paramedics rushing in and out helplessly as ambulances whizz past. nurses joking that their piss look like fucking irn bru because they didn't even get the chance to drink a gulp of nothing for a whole twelve hours. doctors skipping lunch because they just had no time to even breathe so they stacked up on those sweeties from them bright red celebration tubs that relatives brought in as a thank you gesture. stuffed them in their scrubs' pockets and gobbled them up between running from one end of the ward to the other. the bounty sweeties were always the last ones left.

killian doesn't mind them, but eric swears that it's the filthiest thing on earth.

eric still speaks about religion distastefully, and seems to shudder every time a chaplain comes around. killian's grown fond of one of the chaplains, a wise lady of caribbean descent who grew up in clapham (her parents were on the windrush, she'd said), but retained her trinidadian accent. he got her to hijack their lunch table one day, and eric had grunted then -- but by the end of fifteen minutes he could tell that even eric was charmed, and by half-an-hour he was openly laughing at a joke that she'd made.

killian had seen her at work, how she put people at ease - even if they're religious -- or not. killian watches how she helps people grieve, and through this it also helped killian work through his own unspoken, unprocessed grief. his da. losing his friends.

katrin. sammy. jess.

matt.

what could have been if they hadn't been kicked off that farm. what could have been if killian hadn't broken off all contact. what could have been if killian had stayed in dromena, with his mam, instead of fucking off to west sussex. what could have been if his real da hadn't left them.

what could have been, killian wonders, if he hadn't been a coward; hadn't run away after he'd kissed matt under the grey skies crying mourning tears over the choices killian had made in his life.

and then, he thinks, he wouldn't have taken the first train up to london. he wouldn't have been lost. he wouldn't have been found.

he wouldn't have found himself.

he wouldn't have found eric.

eric doesn't talk about his dad a lot, but he'd shared enough for killian to know that they were in the same prison. he talked about the therapy group and the posh fucker who fucked off to canada, and he spoke about dr wilson and made a joke about how the prison psychiatrist and the hospital chaplain could probably be best pals.

he talked about ashley.

killian could tell that eric's grieving about ashley, too.

one night, on the bus home, because it was raining again and it was dark as sin and neither could be arsed to walk, eric fell asleep on his shoulder. head lolled back, a sudden snore.

the bus jolted, and the moment passed.

eric woke.

stared at killian, bleary eyed like he had no idea where he'd been or who he was.

when things were.

'eoin,' he'd said, and something in killian snapped. eric looked like he'd caught himself, as if to say, 'i didn't mean to say that'.

when they got home killian paused at eric's door. it was a split-second decision; a choice to make -- maybe he could lean by the doorframe and stand over eric and kiss the stubble off his cheek.

or maybe he could just say 'good night, paddy,' with a curt nod, and take the extra ten paces to walk to his own door.

killian chose the second option.

eric didn't correct him.

he'd said, 'good night, eoin,' back.

killian didn't correct him neither.

eric turns on the computer, as he often does. finds out if cu chulainn's posted anything new.

finds out if killian's posted anything new. he wishes he could stay away, he wishes he could stop. but now that he knows, he needs more. and it's not like he's a predator -- it's not like he's doing this without killian's consent. he's posted the videos for all the world to see. it just so happens that killian's his pal, the same killian who makes amazing sausage rolls from scratch but is so bad at fifa. and he's helping out a friend, innit? even if it means that eric would be running out of pocket money before the end of the month?

there isn't a new video, but there is a dm.

it's a voice note, from cu chulainn.

from killian.

eric presses play.

killian-as-cu-chulainn recites:

'my heart’s aflutter! I am standing in the bath tub crying. mother, mother who am I? if he will just come back once and kiss me on the face his coarse hair brush my temple, it’s throbbing!

then I can put on my clothes I guess, and walk the streets.';

then --

'give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred, then yet another thousand, then a hundred; then, when we have performed many thousands, we shall shake them into confusion, in order that we might not know, and in order not to let any evil person envy us, when he knows that there are so many of our kisses;'

and --

'the fist clenched round my heart loosens a little, and i gasp brightness; but it tightens again. when have i ever not loved the pain of love? but this has moved

past love to mania. this has the strong clench of the madman, this is gripping the ledge of unreason, before plunging howling into the abyss.

hold hard then, heart. this way at least you live.'

that night, eric dreams:

eric-as-paddy, and killian-as-eoin, reciting poetry,

sitting at the piano,

singing percy french songs, together.

playing chess instead of gta v on the ps,

drinking rum instead of cans of monster.

'i will join the sas too,' eoin says, the grip on paddy's arm burning like a furnace.

'let's fuck off to burma,' paddy says, and --

'he reminds me that underneath i am a poet.'

and then they jump.

eric wakes and rushes out and knocks on killian's door, breathless.

he's wanted to say, 'i want to see that notebook again. that notebook with those names on it -- paddy and eoin.'

but when killian opens the door, with a confused look on his face, all eric could think about is,

'i am stretched on your grave and will lie there forever if your hands were in mine I'd be sure we'd not sever',

and -- 'eoin eoin eoin eoin eoin,' and 'i don't want to lose you again.'

so he kisses killian-who-is-eoin-but-not-eoin, and killian responds back, his body singing,

'do not stand at my grave and cry, i am not there. i did not die,'

and -- 'i'm still alive, paddy. i'm still here. the sand of the desert couldn't keep my soul buried, just like you said,'

before they break away from each other, panting, wondering what the fuck's just happened.

this time, killian doesn't run.

but eric does.

tbc.

part iii here

#paddy x eoin #paddy mayne #eoin mcgonigal #sas rogue heroes #this is the second part to this very niche fic #thanks to the very lovely people who said lovely things about the first part (undeservedly but i will take all the nice things i can get)#i'm not sure if can continue to sustain it and killian's voice is harder to write #because we know so little about him so i extrapolate A LOT #all i can say is: killian is rambly and uses commas a lot #eric is more abrupt

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vahalia-cress · 3 months ago

Text

So this was the dock the Whitlock's had seen all their ships off from….

Vahalia looked over the planks and rows of chairs that had been set along the end of the dock and the various people that sat within each seat, all holding blood ties to the Whitlock name, the very family she was about to marry into. Foes to friends – how strange a table to turn when one hadn’t expected it; but was such a commitment and idea as unpredictable as it looked from the outside looking in?

The sheer drapes of white billowed along the current of the wind fresh off the waves that gently rolled in along the wooden braces. The fragrance of pearl and cream lilies carried along the breeze, tickling at her senses even though she stood far from the audience present to witness the ceremony, and beside her stood the ever-vigilant Castien.

Not far off from the Priestess Vahalia had recently been introduced to was Kalem, engaged in light conversation with all those in attendance, even from this distance she caught the dagger-sharp stare that Abel bore in his brother's direction, undoubtedly an insurmountable amount of malice lingered in the space.

“That one…” Vahalia casually motioned her chin towards Kaevia, the Priestess, as she spoke in a low tone to Castien beside her, “ – keep her safe.” she intoned and without needing to look, Vahalia could already feel the woman beside her nod and shift before stepping away from her station.

The small storehouse beside the dock was well-lit, and decorated with a variety of well-wishes and celebratory quotes for the newlyweds-to-be. A tradition that those within the Whitlock House had practiced, a small token of good favor Vahalia was keen to adopt. But no decoration came close to the majesty of a ship that rested in the waters beyond, anchored and awaiting its familiar home; eager to await the couple's arrival to which they’d sail upon their honeymoon.

It was tradition to christen a new ship, these docks belonging to the family had seen many ships cast off from their shores though it had only been Ophelia’s ships that had never returned to their rightful place.

Two of which had seen ruin, been commandeered and dismantled for profit, fashioned into something more fruitful for all those who held connections to Vahalia. The Red Queen however stood apart, one of three Vahalia had considered to keep, to salvage and put to use. The very same ship she was reluctantly presenting to Kalem on their day of union. An action made in good faith– she had been making plenty of those lately.

Was she turning over a new leaf?

Slowly, light golden eyes came to close as Vahalia prepared herself, steeled what nerves she had and which already were sound with armor. This new year was to bring peace to her heart. A yearning, a desperate need to fulfill her promise and to embark beyond the grief she held since Valeria’s passing.

Pursing her lips she walked toward the altar, the elegant flow of white satin and lace trailing in her wake, a cascading bouquet of yellow and cream-colored daisies and lilies flowing from her hands as she had placed herself before the Priestess of the Whitlock House, opposite Kalem.

There were whispers and murmurs, smiles in all manner of fashion. However, the tension from Abel was nearly palpable and though Vahalia had not looked in his direction, she could sense the animosity upon which she often thrived. The unknown, the chaos, the venom that was practically her lifeblood.

Currents of soft gold found pools of green as Vahalia stared up to Kalem and the Priestess began, “Today we are gathered here, in the spirit of the Twelve, to pay witness to this ceremony of matrimony between two hearts. Between two families seeking to walk into the new light hand in hand. To build a better union and a better name upon their joining. Let all those in attendance today bear witness to the joining of Lord Whitlock and Lady Cress, to wish them well on their coming journey and to usher them along their path into the bosom of peace, prosperity, light, and love.”

Still among the masses of 20-something-odd people, Vahalia could not find Kalem’s other brother, the youngest of the Whitlock sons, Volricc.

Perhaps all that had been offered was not enough to draw him from whatever depths he had himself holed away in. Kaevia’s voice continued as she offered a small prayer and chant and those in attendance bowed their heads to give their silent wishes.

The wreath of flowers the Priestess held was lifted and while the ribbons of it caught the breeze, the pale hand of the Seer lowered it to hover and eventually circle it above the chalice she held within her grasp.

An old prayer though one Vahalia had come to recognize as a blessing of prosperity and fortune.

The absence of Volricc hadn’t done much to Hakan’s own mood, he was nigh unflappable, but the words of the priestess, Kaevia, had a scowl tugging at his face. They were too flowery by far, and even from where he perched, obscured, on one of the towers overlooking the docks he could hear courtesy of listening devices that had been planted far in advance. But however much he may’ve wanted to twist them, it was not his play to conduct, only observe until the last brother revealed himself.

He wasn’t worried, no, capable, of thinking Volricc wouldn’t attend. Not when the bait they set, the chance for reclamation and retribution, was presented so prettily with a bow and a dress, flowers; in Vahalia herself. Were Volricc even an ounce of the man evidence coloured him to be, the idea or fact that it was all a trap still wouldn’t be enough for him to steer clear.

So, he was left to wait. To play with the virtue of patience even as they were readying to enact sins born of wrath and pride. There was no chance to be surprised, not fully, not when the Shikari waited in the clouds with only its grey painted hull ‘showing,’ not with the town beyond the dock occupied with just as many contractors as common folk keeping aware of strange faces.

“S’a a pity,” he rasped into the linkpearl, “that you’re not more keen on hurting dear Kalem. You in that dress, the color you hate, it spawns cruel ideas.”

Vahalia smiled, watching as Kalem spoke but it was only another voice she heard in her ear. Cruel ideas indeed, though she knew Hakan to be passively impatient.

“And now you.” Kaevia motioned a hand towards Vahalia. Vahalia had been entirely devoid and absent as Kalem spoke, professing his admiration, words that had been a buzz in her ears as if her soul had been elsewhere wholly.

Otherworldly.

She was expected to open up and share some lovely, sappy slew of words she had for Kalem, a vow he could keep in his pocket and fall back on were he ever to find the need to remind her of her devotion.

A venomous gaze shifted between them and he took up her hand from beyond the stems of the bouquet and when he turned her hand over to pat her palm, the well-suited Lord paused. Crimson bled into her sleeve and a breath left Kalem, his fingers reflexed away from the blood that pooled and dripped from her palm, “Halia…” he whispered and stepped into her with concern.

“I always hated you calling me that,” she seethed in a sharp tipped whisper. As swiftly as Kalem tried to reply, her bloodied hand shot to the front of the bell that hung from her throat, a dull knell loosed as she felt the thrum of the piece pulse against bleeding palm, the bouquet in hand dropping between them, her now free hand shooting in the other direction. The gasps of the crowd cried out and there was a shrill scream that gave way to chaos just beginning to unfold.

A dagger point protruded from Kalem’s socket, the hilt snug as far as it could potentially be bared up along the underside of his chin and throat. And there at the altar Kalem’s hands reached for Vahalia’s shoulders, the gurgle and spittle of vital poured out from maw and wound, the cause of the uproar. Chairs scraped along the dock, the Priestess barely gasping before she was plucked from her station at the altar from behind. A flurry of pale robes, blonde hair, and limbs frantically trying to shove off the assailant behind her.

Hakan furrowed his brow, blinked, before focusing his attention on the stage Vahalia had built. “Hnn, not how I saw this going,” he voiced the thought as it came. He supposed now was when the rifles in the other tower, the floors beneath, and those that had been acting as the customary guard for a noble's wedding would begin to bark. And they did, the cacophony of screaming joined by the cracks and snaps of discharging firearms.

He watched the struggle of the priestess, arms and legs kicking, and the frown that had been tugging at his mouth became a slight curve in the opposite direction.

“You couldn't have waited till the bedding? Seeing his wife stripped and taken might've twisted the knife worse before you really did it.” His focus narrowed onto Halia as she handled the blade, unable to see the results but knowing it wasn't quite fatal. Death would've been swift, the body collapsing like a sack, otherwise.

Once more Hakan’s voice came through the pearl, though Vahalia was far too focused on the rite she had been extracting upon the eldest brother. Her hand jerked away with a sickening crunch and ripping of bone and sinew as she ripped the blade free from Kalem’s face.

It was the barrage of bullets snapping through the air that brought her back to her senses, the whirling and buzzing of the clamor that had been happening where ceremony goers dove behind what little of their chairs they could. Abel was already closing the distance between him and Vahalia while Kalem spun around clutching his ruined face on the floor in agony.

Step by step everything had been calculated, Vahalia certainly expecting Abel to perish within the crossfire. Perhaps all his ill luck gambling had made him lucky today. The blast of a round crashed over the curve of a glittering shield she conjured, knowing full well that there would have been some fighting and disgruntlement at hand once things played out.

She would have to adapt and fast, “What a strange joy that would have been,” she finally spoke as her eyes bore toward Abel as he fought against the shield. He hadn’t even seen it conjured yet all the same it remained as Vahalia held her hand upward showing no real struggle to maintain it. Dark magic wove and slithered along the floor below the virgin white hem of her dress, pooling out as her marred hand dripped blood – seemingly unbothered by the normal sacrifice it took to summon Creature at whim.

Kalem moaned in agony, writhing around the floor – impotent for the time being.

“I knew this shit was a setup from the beginning. Kalem wouldn’t listen!” shouted his brother.

“Most don’t heed advice from whoring middle sons with compulsive gambling issues. It's truly a shame that your one bit of solid advice really should have been heeded. Silly boy. The silly boy who cries wolf.” Vahalia purred and already she had been losing herself to the dark gift.

Eyes of glinting gold bled black and the rasp of Creature’s voice protested his cage, a harrowing howl that echoed over the venue and winds until finally, he had loosed. Tendrils whipped wildly up along Abel’s legs and arms as he fought and slashed against something still yet unknown. Restrained and coiled Abel continued to writhe and worm along the grip Creature’s shadow happened to manifest.

“You’ve run out of time, Witch! Volricc knows of the ceremony and makes his way now! You’ll have to kill us to be rid of us and there isn’t anything you and your pet or plots can do that would have us come willingly.” Abel spat and the firearm in his hand had eventually been wrestled from his grip, already he was struggling to breathe.

Vahalia’s attention finally cut from Abel as she looked towards the chairs. Those who had tried to flee or make it to the water’s edge or under the dock itself had already been cut down at the pass, small fires started to catch along the old, dried wood of the dock’s flooring that found wooden chairs alike, “I don’t recall saying anything about taking you alive.” she hummed and calmly her attention found Abel once more, “I wonder how well my accomplice can end you with one bullet from his range. Care to make a wager for your life?”

“Held up as the fool is, I'd say easily enough,” Hakan replied. He’d taken a seat along the tower floor, comfortably braced against the rail with one leg dangling off the edge. “What makes you think I've a rifle with me, though?”

It was a hypothetical of course. Despite being more an observant to the scene playing out below, it wouldn't do being unprepared. Not when they were expecting the prodigal brother, the one responsible for the current bloodletting happening far below.

The discharge of firearms began to take on a slower cadence before petering out near completely as mercenaries and retainers began moving amidst the bodies with blades.

Hakan looked away from Vahalia and her prey, hawk-like eyes surveying the carnage, the killers reaping the field and finishing off those that tried to escape to the waters edge or the building fire. To drown, to burn, or to die quick. It was hardly an option to him.

“Seeing your betrothed still alive, I might've suggested it still but…mnn, the shock wouldn't be there to enjoy. Perhaps if Volricc takes his time, we might place Kalem on the prow of his sister's ship to get him.”

All sound ideas, and the twelve knew there were plenty to consider, none of which might have had the impact Vahalia had wanted. Perhaps nothing would have truly been enough after what they had done. She came for blood though Hakan certainly had other ideas to emotionally torture the Whitlocks before they met their end.

Kalem was silent along the floor, passed out perhaps by the sheer loss of blood and shock to his system. Abel remained restrained, and even then, plucking him off the face of the Star while he was incapacitated wouldn’t have been as enjoyable as she might have thought.

Lowering her hand, Vahalia’s crest fizzled away, the electric charge of the arcane sizzling through the space between her and Abel. Castien had played her part well, no sign of her nor the Priestess remained, and soon the Red Queen would act as the rendezvous point.

It was silly to assume one would hand over such a vessel and in Vahalia’s eyes, she had earned it. It belonged to her and her alone. A token. A...trophy.

The serpent-like glide of Vahalia’s dress slipped its way down the two steps to reach Abel until there was nothing to separate them. She grasped his chin roughly within her clutch, “Not one for making smart decisions are you Abel? I give you this chance here and now – where is Volricc?”

There was silence.

Lifting her finger towards her ear, Vahalia’s eyes drifted to the Red Queen off in the distance, “Return for the two brothers. Prepare their voyage to Black Water.” a voice returned the command, voice a mere muffle at Vahalia’s ear and Abel’s brow knit as he watched the woman before him.

“Once more, where is Volricc, Abel?”

Silence continued though Abel’s lips twitched and with velocity, he spat towards the woman. Hardly phased though seemingly amused, Vahalia wiped away the spittle from under her eye with the side of her thumb. She took several steps back and loosed a small laugh to Abel’s surprise.

A scent on the breeze coupled with the metallic tang of blood lingered at the back of Vahalia’s throat and she paused, expression shifting. The familiar rake ran swiftly along the back of her darkened eyes, turning on her heel to confront the stranger– she barely had a sliver of a moment to harken Creature forth, salt burning at her nose before the steel object implanted itself into her chest, her feet slipping from under her as if the rug itself moved. In a vicious lick of pain she felt herself brought up hard along something behind her, her body searing with agony, entire form pinned to one of the braces behind her that was left of the dock.

“I’m right here.” the monotone voice spoke and Volricc stepped into better view. Had Vahalia a moment to register she would have easily taken note of his leather-clad garb, long straight hair, singular patch worn over his eye, the prominent chin and hooked nose.

A large man and much like his brother’s on all accounts.

Her hand twitched, her mind abuzz as both manus lifted and digits curled over the shaft– the very steel pole that impaled her to the wooden slab behind her.

Volricc was here, within reach!

Never before had she felt the blaze of a sun outside of Hakan’s touch but now it roiled within her stomach despite vital pulsing from the wound she had now suffered. Lifeblood trickling from her lips she sneered, gritted teeth already coated in the coppery substance.

‘Creature.’ even within her mind her voice was weak, and even as she beckoned him, she felt the warmth drain from her fingers, the taxing ability to keep sound of mind.

Awake. Alive.

‘𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔬𝔳𝔢. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔶 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔲𝔠𝔠𝔲𝔪𝔟 𝔱𝔬 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔶𝔢𝔱.’

Roughly her trembling hands held firm to the piece within her, knowing full well she would bleed out if she removed it. Even adjusting upon the spear caused her to cry out in pain as Volricc began his swift pace towards his mark, both Whitlock brothers remaining as they had been before Volricc’s arrival.

Hakan was not prone to panic, to freeze at the unexpected nor shouting in rage. Those things had been trained out of him if they had ever been part of him. But even still, he couldn't help but acknowledge a certain…disconnect, as saw Vahalia suddenly impaled, the appearance of someone that by all means shouldn't have been able to get so close, nevermind get on the island, without notice.

This was twice now, that an assailant had bypassed all the measures and security put in place by him and other experts. Perhaps, the simplest and most plausible explanation, was that there had never been a hired assassin; that it was always Volricc himself.

These were things he thought from afar even as his body moved, rifle rising and voice echoing orders into the open channel for the mercenaries to converge on Vahalia. Volricc wasn't moving far, wasn't changing his path; firing at him was as simple as breathing, an act he distantly knew he was capable of and doing– though not at that exact moment. You were only supposed to exhale before the shot.

As the bullet moved faster than his eyes could track, he wondered if he should be feeling something. That was Vahalia bleeding out, dying, his daughter; His. Yet he could only watch, a passenger, as something else held the reins and acted while wood began to smolder and warp around him, smoke rising skyward.

The pearl wedged into ear carried voices Vahalia had not been all too familiar with, the space around her felt tight and restricted – the bullet she hadn’t banked on hit its mark and Volricc toppled from the impact which offered just enough time for her to act.

Moments, seconds…

He was right there!

While trembling she pulled herself along the rod piercing through her, enough to try for the end and the chitter of a voice came along her ear as once a pristine and vibrant dress had now been soaked, dyed, recolored and painted of her own organic ancestry.

‘𝔇𝔬𝔫'𝔱. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔱.’

'But you still can.’

‘𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔡𝔦𝔢 𝔦𝔣 ℑ 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔫𝔬𝔴.’

‘I made a promise.’

‘𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔡𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔫. 𝔘𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔪𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔥 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔪𝔞𝔶 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔰𝔢𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔢𝔳𝔢.’

A bloodied hand reached for the bell at her throat and once more she silently called upon the divine shadow that rested within, the thick cloud of darkness that always followed, reaching to pluck and summon that part of her from her very soul.

Volricc found his feet once more, hand pressed to his throat swift glances between Vahalia, his brothers, and where the shot had come from, the voices in the distance – it was fight or flight.

There was no possible outcome where he could win and so he spun to flee into the streets not too far off. The moment he bolted Vahalia finally freed herself from her steel trap and fell forward, the traces of an otherworldly being ripping from her person, an eerie groan and wail of voices filling her ears – shrill cries, a cacophony of agony and grief tore through into the open. And there was Creature before her right when she connected with the ground on her knees as if gravity had finally plucked him from his cage.

“Find him.” Vahalia spoke aloud and labored as her hands pressed to the wound at her chest that kept hemorrhaging her vital.

A lick of hesitancy came from the large Creature that loomed over her and a small touch barely grazed the back of the Voidsent’s leg, “Feed.” Vahalia commanded once more in barely a whisper that sent Creature after his prey on all fours, closing the gap between him and where Volricc had run off. Volricc had already been bleeding, which was evidently more than enough for Creature to hunt.

The vision of Creature before Vahalia blurred as she felt her eyes blink several times fighting that urge and almost involuntary need to sleep. The clamor of boots along what remained of the dock around her was all she heard before everything started to dapple into darkness, the sight of a smoke-ridden figure with burning coals for eyes moving toward her was the last she saw before succumbing to a pitch so black.

Collab w/ @belgravexiv

#Stories #Blurbs #collab writing

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minjoonapio · 5 months ago

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🎐 Wind Breaker CH.157: Remaining Embers

💭 THOUGHTS & ANALYSIS [⚠️SPOILERS⚠️]

🧵Twitter/X Version 📖Where to read the manga: Kodansha | Other 📺Watch Season 1 now (S2 in 2025!): Crunchyroll, Netflix

I was hoping Chika would be knocked out already since the last chapter left us with panels of Umemiya giving one hell of a sucker-punch. But I was wrong (at least we get to see them fight under the rain a lil' longer hehe)

This whole page, these three panels, is showing us a frame-by-frame of Chika being punched by Umemiya, indicating it's all in slow motion.

Usually, when a scene is in slow motion, it is either to reveal a certain detail or to emphasize a turning point or a shift in a character or in the scene.

This is Chika's turning point.

I believe the actual trigger of this shift is before the punch; when he froze and saw Umemiya’s determined eyes and the Bofurin leader echoed the deal they made a while ago.

Since then, Chika’s POV sounds different.

I love the bleary effect in one panel, showing Ume's POV. He is almost losing consciousness. I can feel how he is at that moment; energy's all used up, and he's aching everywhere. I mean, he especially had the wind knocked out of him so of course, he's trying to get some air in his lungs.

Despite all that, Umemiya still faces Chika head-on with the amount of will he’s got.

Chika may not be aware of it but this interaction with Ume is affecting him because he allowed it. He allowed Umemiya into his own world. All because of that same fiery aura he has that matches his.

But the thing is, right now, he's not only fighting the strong raging Umemiya he likes, but the Umemiya who wants to reach him into his world; determined not only to defeat him but to understand him.

So the moment Ume declared he wanted to get to know him, it did something to him. That's why it struck him frozen when they saw eye to eye.

We’re then shown a panel of a hammer hitting hot metal; the metaphor Endo used for Umemiya. His perspective is different from what we’re seeing now.

Old Ume may be selfish, forcing his ideals on the unwilling, but Present Ume yearns to listen to Chika. He doesn't want Chika to accept him or anything. He just wants to talk and perhaps have some mutual understanding. He won't make the same mistake he did back then (letting Chika be).

Allowing Umemiya in his world, interacting with their fists, may initially be a mistake, but in actuality, it is a blessing. Chika starts to gradually change. The way the lettering bolds the words "used to" and "good".

In Chika's world, he says he likes what he likes, and hates what he hates. But after that eye-to-eye interaction and Umemiya's words, he suddenly said he used to hate rain. He says it like this never happened before -- this change of his likes and dislikes.

Just because of this fight, this "conversation" with Umemiya, Chika's embers are gradually gone…but maybe his world will grow.

All this time, Chika never cared about the result. He just cares about the thrill of it, especially with someone he acknowledges (Him calling Umemiya's name shows that). And I think Chika probably is looking forward to his chat with Umemiya.

It’s like how Togame & Sakura expressed how they had fun in their fight. Since then, they respected each other (We also got a short-hair Togame joining in their fights and fanboying over his "best bud" Sakura. Lord, I never knew I needed that T.T)

“I had fun” The first time Chika said this, Umemiya was knocked down. He looked sad perhaps cause it's over. And I questioned then, what did he want to get from this fight? To make sure he clearly defeats Umemiya? (After this latest chapter, I don't think so) And what now since he defeated Umemiya?

But this time, the tables have turned. He's defeated...but something’s changed. We don't see his face when he says those words. Only Umemiya’s reaction.

I’m guessing he looked content.

I chuckled when Chika is like “ok bitch you won now move your big head and let me enjoy the rain” But in a sense, this is Chika now, changed and open.

He stares at the rain like how he would stare at fireworks.

Finally, their fight ended with Umemiya as the winner. Not only in their physical fight but also broke Chika's walls down.

We can finally have that talk. (I swear if they’re gonna have it while lying down under the rain, I’m gonna flip)

Sorry if I may not make any sense. I try. My brain is not braining well today. Haha. It's the effects of the Wind Breaker drought!

Thank you for reading! The next chapter will be up next Tuesday at Kodansha/K Manga!

🧵Twitter/X Version 📖Where to read the manga: Kodansha | Other 📺Watch Season 1 now (S2 in 2025!): Crunchyroll, Netflix

#chika takiishi #endo yamato #sakura haruka #umemiya hajime #wind breaker #ウィンブレ #nii satoru #wind breaker manga #wind breaker chapter 157 #wbk157

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unhinged-summer-fun · 3 months ago

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the foolish heart's guide to not repeating history - chapter 6

Pairing: Dream of the Endless "Morpheus" x F!Reader

series masterlist

chapter 6: the reflectory

Dream of the Endless despises being caught off-guard. Surprises, while they could be delightful, were a dime a dozen in his realm. Yet, the act of catching him off-guard was always an annoyance he would not tolerate, a breach of his carefully constructed composure.

He’d heard his brother’s voice on the wind, seen your eyes go wide and unfocused, and then you’d disappeared—just as your hand was going to touch his. Dream blinks several times, still seeing the outline of where you’d been just moments before.

The sense-memory of your touch on his skin, over the tattoos still sensitive after two hundred years, staves off the indignation rising in the back of his mind. He hadn’t meant to lock up as he had; he hadn’t meant to startle you or indicate your touch was unwelcome.

It had been a considerable time since he’d allowed someone to touch the tattoos. Your initial interest in the stars upon his hand at your first meeting had stirred a longing within him. In the moments he’d seen you between that day and this, he’d intentionally extended his arm in your field of vision, yearning to rekindle that same interest. Ask me, his heart silently pleaded, for your curiosity was a balm to his soul.

And now you know the story, as embarrassing as it had been. Your eyes had gone a little distant upon mentioning Paris and the Luxembourg. Whatever memory you had of the place in the other universe, it must not have been pleasant. He only hopes his tale does not touch any of the same darkness you’d possibly endured.

A nearby sentry, one of the myriad Knights of the Shining Armor oft-deployed to the frontlines of children’s dreams, asks if he is well.

“Yes, Ser Throckmorton. I am well.” He hides the rising embarrassment at having the rug pulled from beneath him and swallows, nods. “Good day.”

Undoubtedly, the gossip about his meeting with you on the city wall would have spread through the city by now. He stifles a groan and looks up to the skies, now a deep purple twilight. As the Dreaming day wanes, he knows the waking world where you have taken up residence is beginning to wake.

Destiny would not return you to his company when he finished his summons. With a flourish of his hand, sand pouring forth from his fingertip, he steps through a door and into London.

It’s daybreak in your flat in London, and Dream of the Endless is standing over your bed.

“I suppose a conversation is in order?”

He at least waits for you to make coffee before demanding any answers about your sudden departure. In the fantastical realms of Dream and Destiny, wakefulness and attention were a given, but back in the waking world, you’re still just waking up from maybe—oh, goodness—twelve hours of sleep.

You’re tempted to ask how long he waited for you to wake, but you know the answer would embarrass you further. You hadn’t picked up the mess from last night, takeout boxes on tables, and a bottle of whiskey still out on the coffee table.

With dogged determination, you ignore his presence until the coffee maker has finished brewing, but you’re certain no roast is strong enough to conquer this conversation.

Stars, what he’d said just before.

Darling, do you think I would have let you touch me if I did not want you to?

Were you meant to pick up the conversation from there like nothing happened? Like your world hadn’t been upended by what Destiny had told you?

You pour him a cup of coffee as a half-apology, and he raids your fridge and cabinets for sugar and cream, quite at home in your space.

You try to move the gigantic, unfolded pile of laundry into the bathroom as subtly as possible. What were you supposed to do? Say, welcome to my flat, Dream Lord. Please do not look at the bra hanging on that chair, the embarrassing amount of romance novels in that corner, or the hopeless tangle of my last attempt at crochet. In fact, please leave.

Well, now that you thought about it, that option was tempting.

He’s staring at your kitchen window when you slink back in, just looking at the dozen crystal suncatchers you’ve set up in the kitchen window. Being an east-facing apartment, this time of day is the only opportunity to see the display’s brilliance.

You’re glad you get to see his face lit up in the thousand rainbow flares. His hair swallows the light, but there are those grays again, marks of age and marks of life. They gleam brightly in the light. It makes the embarrassment almost worth it.

“Are you—”

“Good morning—”

You both stop in your tracks after speaking over one another. Nervously, you laugh and pick up your mug, taking a sip and motioning for him to continue.

“Are you hungry? I can get us breakfast if you… wished for privacy.”

Your laugh returns. A man who’d appeared in your bedroom, near-looming over you as his brother had done, offering you privacy. “No. No, I’m fine with this for now.”

“As you say,” he says with a nod that’s too formal for the hour displayed on your stove.

You curse Destiny for inviting this damnable silence back into the space between you and Dream.

“Have you—”

“Your home—”

The startled silence draws twin winces from the both of you. This time, he nods for you to speak. “Have you done the same with the other dreamstones?” you say, gesturing to where the tattoo of his ruby is.

“No.” He moves to sit at the small kitchen table before the window. “The rest reside in the reflectory.”

“Oh, I love the reflectory—” you stop short, but he takes it in stride.

“I’d guessed,” he says, gesturing to your adornment-heavy window. “A shame you’d only get to see this once a day. The reflectory never ceases to shine, even at night.”

“It was one of my favorite places in the Dreaming.”

“Why couldn’t it be now?” He takes a pointed sip of his coffee, one perfect eyebrow raised. Stars, that mug looks so tiny in his hands.

“Well, I’ve never seen this one, have I?” You sip your coffee as well, matching his attitude.

“That could change. Tonight. Or right now, if you prefer.” The look he gives you, followed by a deliberately slow swallow from his mug, fills your cheeks with more heat than the coffee.

You look down at your socked feet and pajamas, and the impact of his once-over is now more embarrassing than confidence-inspiring. “Tonight would be better.”

“You could come to the Dreaming through one of the doors I have here, in case you didn’t want to wait for sleep to take you.”

“That sounds even better.”

This time, the silence is comfortable, the two of you just sharing the quiet morning together over coffee. When you feel you’ve woken up enough (and what a novel feeling it is), you meet his gaze.

“Destiny told me I appeared in his book. The Fates confirmed it.”

He draws his posture taller, with seriousness in his expression. “Did he tell you of it? What your fate was to be?”

“No, it wasn’t like that,” you shake your head. “It’s just another confirmation in the long line of confirmations I’ve been ignoring about my place here.”

“Did you believe him?”

“It’s hard not to believe what you’re told by Destiny of the Endless.”

“I’ll try my best not to be offended by that.”

“You do that,” you smirk.

“You’ll seek to insult Dream of the Endless, King of the Nightmare Realms?”

“You don’t scare me.”

A gleam in his eyes tells you he would like nothing more than to try and disprove that, but it’s playful, not predatory. You sip your coffee, feeling more flustered by the moment. He takes his victory and returns to silence. Questions build and break when the light from your window starts to disappear. With the sun rising higher, most of the rainbows are now on the table between you.

“How do you feel about it?”

“I am not sure. I think my mind has gradually accepted it a little at a time with every passing instance like this. The different Free Houses remembering me here, leaving footprints in sand, Hob calling back for me, being able to sign a lease without the ink lifting off the page. I’ve considered myself more of a ‘regular’ in this universe than someone living here.”

He nods, understanding your logic. “Do you ever think you’ll go back?”

“I’d hope not,” you laugh, but it’s hollow. You look in the reflection of your coffee and see only rainbows. “It’s been three thousand years. I don’t know that I’d like going back and being unable to recognize any of it. It’s cleaner to close that door behind me.”

He gives another hum of assent. “I’m envious of my brother, sometimes. He’s met himself from the other universe.”

“Of you lot, Destruction is the only one with a small enough ego to survive such a meeting.”

He almost looks offended again but instead shrugs. “That’s fair.”

He traces the edges of one of the shapes made by the crystals across your kitchen table, the stars on his hand catching the light in an aurelian glint.

“How long were you waiting before I woke up?”

“Not long,” he says, shifting a little.

“How long is not long?”

“No more than fifteen minutes.”

“You knew I’d wake up, not return to the Dreaming?”

“My brother is not subtle about his summons, nor is he with his dismissals.” The twist in his expression tells you all you need to know regarding his feelings on the matter. He must have been similarly yanked and thrown from the Garden.

You watch his fingers move a little longer before looking out the window at the still-dim street below. The apartment is across from a park bordered by a heavy thicket of trees that keep the sidewalks shaded and chilly until well past ten. This morning, two cats patrol along the route, walking in perfect sync with one another. They duck into the gap beneath the gate and disappear into the park beyond sight.

“Do you think I should return to the other universe? To visit, I mean.”

When you look back at him, he’s studying you with the same kind of soft interest with which you’d watched the cats.

“Your mother is there, is she not?”

“Dusk is not a mother, and certainly not my mother.” You refill your coffee to get some distance from the sharp souring of your emotions. “But yes, she is there, in the Starless Spaces.”

“What’s it like there?”

“Cold. Dark. Lonely. It’s where I was brought into existence and where I stayed until I broke out to find someone else to meet in the universe.”

“She is an Endless too, is she not?” he asks, a frown growing on his lips.

“No. She was made before the Endless existed and was not born of Night like they were. She was Dawn, then, and not even a daughter. She was simply the Dawn of Time. She tried considering the Endless to be her siblings, but when their apathy toward her existence waxed, she waned. She became Dusk, separate from what she was before and whatever else may have existed since.”

“Delirium was once Delight, yet she is still the same. Despair is not as she was born, but still is.”

“Some transformations eradicate all you were before.” In your mind’s eye, you see a pale face, white hair, and white robes—an emerald.

“What was she like?”

“Hopeless. She made me from what was left of Dawn’s hope and the starlight she’d taken with her when ending the universe she came from. She was left with no hope and no light to live by and despised me from the moment she held me in her palm.”

Pain creases his features. Not pity, nor sympathy—just pain. “You deserved better than that.”

“I know,” you say, putting a hand over his to assure him. He’s warm in the colorful light. Touching the magical sand in his tattoo feels like holding your hand over a glass of fresh champagne. “If I were to talk to her, she’d tell me I was rubbing it in her face to have found happiness, love, and belonging. I’d probably only go back to tell her she was wrong.” You roll your eyes quickly to gloss over exactly what you’d admitted.

But Dream wouldn’t let you. “What’d she be wrong about, exactly?” he asks, smelling out a truth like the hunter-poet he is.

Shit. Cornered.

But he shows you his palms, a peace offering, an out. He waits for what you’ll do or say.

“She’d… she’d tell me that I wouldn’t—couldn’t—find or feel any of those things because they were never meant for me. But I… I have found those things. And I have felt them.”

His eyes are kind, and you’re filled with the idea that he understands you slightly more.

“I would not fault you for wanting to tell someone off and disappear,” he says around the beginnings of a smirk. “I’ve had few opportunities to do the same, and not without trying.”

“Your father?” you guess.

He nods, sipping his coffee to tell you he didn’t want to elaborate.

“Would Dusk try to keep you there?” he asks.

“No. The only thing that ever trapped me with her was myself. I’ve got the Hob Gadling maxim going for me now.”

“You’ve got so much to live for?”

“Precisely. So it’d definitely be more of a, what did you say? Telling someone off and disappearing. It’s not worth the effort at the end of the day.” You wave your hand.

“And there’s nothing else in that universe which would tempt you to return forever?”

“I’ve got everything I want right here.”

A warm smile. “Is that so?”

“What’s not to love?”

The man with the flaming visage had never seen anybody enter the office in London before. His grandfather had told him about the dreams long before he had ever had one. Once a month, like clockwork, he’d fall asleep and find himself behind a desk in an office in London. He couldn’t tell where the office was in London, but he could almost make out familiar landmarks from his seat at the secretary’s desk. It’s his job to man the desk until his relief arrives, a man with a portcullis face.

In his waking life, Shaun Fleming had never worked a desk job. He’s part of the fire brigade like his father and grandfather had done, and as his son had just begun training for. Sometimes, Shaun would wonder: if his father hadn’t died in that car crash when he was 16, would he be the one stuck with these office dreams after his grandfather had passed? Shaun most likely would never know.

Still, once a month, on the 18th, he’d sit at a desk and know exactly what to do until his shift ended. In this dream, he was not Fire Captain Shaun Fleming; he was simply the man with a flaming visage. He knew he managed the London office for a tall, intimidating sort of fellow who never bothered to smile (or so the previous man with a flaming visage had told him) and was hardly ever in at all.

Others, of course, stopped in to see the unsmiling fellow from time to time, but he’d give the same answer to them as he had before—

“I am sorry, ma’am, he isn’t in today.”

“Oh, I know; I’m looking for the door to him.”

The strange woman smiles at him. Very infrequently does he see the people who come in… smile. But he tries to smile back, despite the flames that are his face having no mouth to do so.

“The door to him…?”

“Yes, I’ve got a date and can’t miss it.”

If there was one thing the man with the flaming visage knew, it was the importance of punctuality and making one’s meetings.

“I believe the door you’re looking for requires a key—oh.” The man with the flaming visage surprises himself by holding up said key, and the flames on his face flare blue in confusion. “This key.”

“Thank you!” she smiles again, and really, who in London smiles anymore? She takes the key from him and opens the door to a place too full of color and grand possibility for him to look at for too long. “Have a good night!” she calls, and the door shuts.

The man with the flaming visage wonders if he should tell his son about this tomorrow morning.

The Dreaming unfolds before your eyes, and there seems to be a party going on. Everyone in the bustling castle town is dressed to the nines, all classy gowns and coattails. The diamonds in the street gleam as your air taxi transports you to the castle gates. The skies are woefully free of any pirate battles.

That’s not to say there are no battles to face on the ground.

The Guardians above the door regard you thoughtfully.

“We have seen many walk through these doors with hearts intact and leave with them not so,” says the Winged Horse.

“Yet yours seems much broken already,” adds the Gryphon.

“Stay upon the path,” concludes the Wyvern, blowing a hot breath in your direction.

“You’re too kind,” you say, tone acidic. You roll your eyes only when you pass beneath them up the stairs.

Your feet protest the Wyvern’s advice, but this is not Destiny’s Garden, and you do not control what happens when you stray from the paths of the Dream King’s palace. You recall the weeping, lost souls trapped in a timeless, unending dream of wandering without relief.

“Why do you let them suffer?” you asked. Standing on a balcony with a glass of red wine from worlds away, you observed a young man glancing behind his shoulder every few seconds. “I didn’t think you shared the Morningstar’s predilection for punishment.”

Perhaps that wasn’t true. Maybe you were speaking for yourself, returning to the Dreaming repeatedly for a punishingly sweet taste of paradise and leaving long before any relief was found. Still, the question remained, and Dream answered.

“Nightmares convey lessons and messages to those who confront them.”

The man beat against the walls and shouted in frustration, tears coming in force.

“And what’s this lesson?”

“To listen to the rules of the house when you are a guest.”

The shouts of frustration turned into loud, unhinged weeping.

“Please, let him go.”

The Dream-King waved his hand, and the man woke up. The otherworldly wine tasted somewhat bitter after that.

“You disagree with how I fulfill my duties?”

You couldn’t look up at him. Phrased like that, his reproach was made clear. You drained the remaining wine and set it down on the railing. “I’d like a path to the gardens if you don’t mind.”

He made one for you on reflex, and you deliberately stepped off it the moment you could. You weren’t sure how long you walked or when your distaste turned to despair, but you continued walking.

“You’ve made your point.”

You walked right past Dream of the Endless without acknowledging him. He was there again when you rounded a random corner.

“This is not the point of the lesson taught. You weren’t—”

“I was, though. I was told upon coming in.”

You walked past him again. He next tried blocking your path with all his swirling flames and darkness.

“Yes, but you are not dreaming, are you?”

You stay on the path, excitement tempered somewhat.

The path ends in the reflectory. You’ve always liked this place. From your memory, it was always the tallest tower in the castle, so it could provide the best views of the realm. In that world, the tower it called home was only accessible to those who braved the three thousand steps to the top. The long walk up was its most assuring security feature, because after the first thousand steps you really don’t think whatever’s at the top is worth it anymore. By comparison, your jaunty walk from the Guardians to there takes about two minutes. Such is the nature of paths in the dreaming.

Along with the dreamstones, Dream keeps his glitteriest gifts and treasures up here. They each hang from lovely, intricate chandeliers displayed at eye level, like the universe’s most expensive crib mobile. In the light, the room itself ensnares the attention of every creature lucky enough to look upon it.

This must have been what drew your eye while he’d told the story of his tattoos.

Standing in the doorway, you sigh at the sight before you, unable to do much else. There is no official day or night in the Dreaming, but when the king allows it, there are blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sunrises, there are sunsets that last weeks. In this holy place (what else could it be than holy?), the waning golden light hits every facet within, and the overall effect is something more, as if the light of all days could be held within each gem to glow until morning.

“Delaying our appointment, or simply admiring?” a night-velvet voice comes from your right.

Looking up at Dream of the Endless, you smile even wider. “Adoration,” you explain, and revel in how he ducks his head to hide his grin. “I love this place.”

“You’ve said,” he murmurs. “I’m glad it lives up to your standards.”

You share the moment a little longer, smiling at each other as light reflects off your faces. “Delaying our appointment, or…?” you prompt.

Mischief sparks in his eyes. “Adoration as well, I’m afraid.”

A short, skinny man in a red coat, blue trousers, and a cream-colored turban clears his throat from a door nearby. “Your meal is ready, sire,” he says, navigating the small lisp from his fangs with practiced composure.

“Thank you, Taramis.” Dream smiles at his butler and offers you his arm. “Shall we?”

You take it and enter the reflectory at his side.

He takes you to a table in a nave containing a chandelier shaped like tree roots, glittering crystal teardrops dripping from the ends. On one root dangles an impossibly large diamond necklace you’re sure belongs at the bottom of the ocean, and on another hangs a row of twelve earrings shaped like butterflies. You’re so busy looking up that you don’t notice Dream holding your chair for you until one of the butterflies takes flight and flutters down to your hand.

The Hum wants to answer the question rattling around your head: what does that look mean? Any answer it provides is more foolish hope than fact.

You take your seat and shoo the butterfly back up to the chandelier, but it simply flutters up to land in your hair. A moment later, the other eleven do the same, their wings gently chiming together as they migrate. Dream’s hand lowers to the table, giving away his involvement. You grin at him and gently touch the butterflies arranged in a crown around your head. “Thank you.”

“They are becoming. You wear them well.”

Taramis appears again, removing the silver domes from atop your trays and offering a bottle of wine. In the grand satisfactory manner of the Dreaming, your meal is whatever you wanted most at the time, which you’re embarrassed to see is a rather large bowl of raspberry gelato. Taramis then bows out, closing the door behind him. The air from the door closing causes the other chandeliers to clink against one another, an echo to the butterfly wings around your head.

Dream has a plate of fish and chips. It smells suspiciously familiar.

“Is that Hob’s recipe?” you ask, taking a bite of your gelato. It’s sinfully delicious, and just what you needed.

“He’s one of the oldest Londoners still out there, so he’s had centuries to perfect it. I wouldn’t trust another.” He looks just as pleased with his meal as you feel.

Your eyes keep following the play of light as the sun moves further away on the horizon. Even as night falls, the crystals hold their gleam, some of them glowing on their own and others meant to pass along the light and little else. “It reminds me of the pocket dimension in your coat, I think.”

“You know about that?” He says, suddenly bashful for some reason.

“Yes.”

“The reflectory reminds you of it?”

“Yes.”

Dream looks around with you, surely not in an attempt to hide the blush creeping up his neck. Magnanimously, you assume he’s most likely trying to see it how you would, and not from his point of view. You wonder, not for the first time today, what Dream dreams about on his mortal days, and if he feels the same wonderment you do when looking upon this realm.

“I suppose I can see why you’d say that,” he concludes with a smile in your direction. “I don’t mean to pry or ask a potentially upsetting question, but… are they very similar? The Dreaming here, and there?”

“Like night and day seems the best description.” For once, you let go of the ghostly heartache of remembering where you came from. Somedays, homesickness is more a terminal condition than a state of mind.

“So, completely different, then?”

“No.”

He smirks. “I’m not sure we have the same definition of like night and day, then.”

“Night and day are similar in many regards. The light of the moon is still the light of the sun, and the light of the sun is still the light of a star. Some places that look friendly during the day are menacing at night, and some conversations are easier to have at night than during the day. It’s the same, from different points of view. In different lights, that’s all.”

“What would Cafe Terrace at Night be, were it Cafe Terrace at Midday?”

“I’m sure you’ve got that in a gallery somewhere,” you laugh. “Shapes of shadows do not make the items themselves change.”

“Plato would agree.”

You consider how else to describe the differences. “There, the palace was… isolated. It was often on the tops of mountains, behind impassable forests, or across vast seas and deserts. It sat at the center of a spiraling path of its own that started in Nightmare. I tried walking it once, and on foot, I never reached the center.”

“Paths through the Dreaming are more metaphorical than literal,” he points out.

“Both of these things can be true. The true heart of the Dreaming was metaphorically inaccessible at the best of times, and literally prohibited at all others.”

“I admit, there was a time here that resembles that statement.” Dream looks a little lost in thought, swirling his wine around in his glass. “Tear-floods would sweep away whole countries of the Dreaming, sigh-tempests would level cities. The realm would change itself to suit my isolationist needs when I was still pushing everybody away. The paths within the castle would never lead to me.”

You take a shuddering breath from his turns of phrase. I thought you loved John Donne.

“When was the last time that happened?” Since you’re asking personal questions and all.

“I can’t lie to you, but neither do I want to tell you.”

“Why, because I’ll judge you for it?”

“No. Because it’s an embarrassing answer.”

“All the better to tell me. We’d be even.”

“Even?” he laughs, the somber attitude shattering.

“I kind of cried all over you the first time we met.”

“Fine then, we’re even. Tell me about the reflectory there.”

You sit back, conceding the point to him. You stand from the table, taking your wine with you as you look around at the reflectory. The biggest difference, what you want least to say, is how you were never brought here on one of his paths through the palace. You’d had to climb all three thousand steps each time you wanted to see the splendor of this room you loved more than any other in the entire Dreaming.

No, that’s not what you want to say least. It’s that each time you’d been here before, you’d been alone.

“There’s a great deal more butterflies here,” you say, tilting your head toward the wings dotted about the room.

“They are the guardians of the reflectory. They blend in with that which they are protecting.”

“They’re dreams?” you smile, urging one of the crystalline insects onto your finger. You note the serrated edges of the delicate wings, visible only at a certain angle. Though the crystal is dainty enough to fly upon, the broken-glass wings seem incredibly sharp. You wouldn’t want to find out for yourself if they did as intended.

“Though there’s rarely call for a dream of crystal-warrior-butterflies, having them in abundance is a guilty pleasure of mine.”

“You should never feel guilty over your pleasures, Dream. Especially ones so beautiful as these.”

Quiet as a night breeze, he appears beside you, reaching a hand up and into your hair, disturbing the resting butterflies atop it. They flutter about the two of you, circling together like a murmuration of starlings. In the last seconds of daylight, free of gems and magic, Dream looks down at you with the revered wonderment you’d been wondering about. The corona of light and color catch on every resplendent part of him. He is as at home here as any of the glittering jewels.

“You’re right. Guilt has no place when admiring the beautiful.”

He steals your breath when he rests his hand upon your cheek. On instinct, you lean into the touch and close your eyes. This is so novel, knowing his touch. He’d offered you his arm earlier just to walk twenty feet, and now he’s caressing your face like he’d want nothing more than—

“Can I kiss you, darling?”

You open your eyes. The room has gone night-dark, save for the starlit radiance of the crystals and the glinting wings of butterflies. Save for the comet-tail strands of silver stretching past his temples. Save for his eyes, which shine the hints of a thousand more galaxies you’d love nothing more than to explore for eternity.

But he’d asked you a question. It’s a question the Hum desperately wishes to answer, precedent telling you no, he cannot, you will simply disappear from his arms like the last time—

You kiss him anyway just to shut it up.

CHAPTER 7

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