#the story only scars can tell ;; visage

[luminecent-sky]

Divinely ordained

A/n: yes this is for my birthday, i mean it's also sagau sooo

I did not finish neuvi's part, feel free to request more

Diluc

Did… did he just hear you right? He's your favorite?

His heart soars, he feels warm and giddy, like a hearth giving warmth to a home, it's almost too much, to hear the words again falling from your lips, reaffirming your earlier statement, before he jolted, wilting like a flower deprived of sunlight. Hadn't you once abhorred him? Ignored him for some petty reason after he had caught that glimmering golden star in his hand.

To gaze upon your flustered visage as you admit how petty and immature it had been to be angry at him for such a trivial thing… he thinks it was all worth it. Every bit of suffering and pain, the scars that marr his form, all for your gaze, your attention.

Keep looking at him like that, with that flustered gaze and those apologetic words,

Keep looking at him.

He puts a hand to block his face, hoping that the blush on his cheeks isn't that obvious —it clearly isn't working, his whole face is almost as red as his hair— that he isn't looking like a fool in front of his deity.

Both of you are just staring, tension building as the silence goes on for longer than either of you would like,

You break first, a nervous chuckle bubbling from your throat as you approach, holding his face gently, repeating yourself.

"I- i guess i can stop hating you for that… you are my favorite after all."

Ayaka

She may just die here, held in your embrace as the sun bears down on you both.

A light blush creeps its way onto her pale skin, obscured by her fan while she tries to wade through the thoughts flooding her mind.

She always knew of your favor towards her, evident in the blessings and artifacts she was bestowed with. All she is, and will ever become is for her deity. And this blatant admittance is something she will treasure forever, like the first and last falling petals of the sakura trees.

So please, if it isn't much of a bother… Please keep telling her that, keep speaking in that lovely voice, those utterly captivating words that even the Archons would beg and grovel for.

If only time could stop at this very moment.

Keep talking, keep those words of praise flowing from your divine mouth, and allow her to bask in it.

It's all she needs, all she's ever craved. What else was there in life to achieve now that she holds your favour?

You move to repeat your words, letting them wash over her like the cool stream water.

Her worries seem so far away now, all her duties pushed to the side for something that has now become a routine.

The people of inazuma can wait just this once, she has given her all to her duty, her family and the nation.

Rest has never been more alluring than now.

“...i think we can rest for just a little longer, no?”

Alhaitham

He must be dreaming, he muses, relishing in the way your breath fans his face.

After all, how else could he justify your sleepy murmurs, the serene declaration of the obvious favouritism he had witnessed directed only at him.

His day had been too good to be true, he thinks.

Kaveh had not woken him up with the usual clamour, in fact, the blonde was asleep, not in a hangover way, but honest to god asleep.

His work was also light, even if he barely did much anyways. It seemed like the universe itself decided to smile upon him and give him this.

And then he was summoned, aparently you had decided that perusing through the house of daena and looking through old tomes and various stories was the retinue for the day.

He never imagined that you would be quite interested in the old books, but as the scribe and only available person that day — never mind the fact that you had asked for him, he would never know — he supposed that his work was light enough that he could help you.

But here the both of you were, in a private room, with bookes piled up to your noses and your sweet whispers gracing his ears.

The library's curfew could be broken, just for once, just for you, he hummed,

After all who would question the creator on why they were here so late anyway?

Hours would pass and he would just sit there, admiring your face.

“I- uhh i didn't say anything embarrassing while i slept right?”

[littlejuicebox]

Hello Gina! Been loving your stories a lot specially Astarion talks in his sleep and My Sun, My Moon 1&2! which is why I wanna try if you can do a one shot of their 1st anniversary of marriage! 🤭 just wondering how it was for them, usually they say the 1st year is the toughest one but i wanna see how you see it 🤭 Many thanks!! i look forward to more stories!

Hello, my friend! <3

I really love this prompt! Marriage is hard and Astarion has his quirks that would def make him frustrating to Tav! Love isn't always sunshine and rainbows.

I took this in a slightly different direction, it's a reflection on their first major argument! Hope you like it. <3

Warnings/Tags: not edited or beta read / In-game spoilers, fluff/angst w comfort / married people having an argument / this follows my HC fics for redemption Astarion x Tav but I'm pretty sure it can be read as a OneShot

Word Count: 1.7K

-----

Astarion cannot concentrate on the blasted contract in front of him any longer. The delivery should have been here by now.

He only had a few hours before you returned from the Upper City and his entire plan for your first anniversary would be shot if the florists didn’t hurry the hells up.

“You said they would arrive by midday and now it’s nearly teatime, Pascal!” Astarion snaps at his steward, a middle-aged human with wide set eyes and a scar running horizontally along his nose bridge.

Pascal sits on the far end of Astarion’s office, reviewing a ledger. He slowly raises his eyes from the document to meet the petulant visage of his employer.

“That is what the florist told me, my Lord. But it is quite a large order. Fifty night-blooming plants and shrubs would likely take several carts, sir. It’s certainly possible they’ve run into delays along the way.” Pascal responds, his voice gentle but unbothered, as if he’s grown used to placating the moods of the vampire over the past year.

Astarion simply huffs in response, “We did not pay a premium for those ingrates to simply—“

He stops as his highly acute hearing catches the sound of wheels turning along the manor’s pebbled drive. By the raucous sound of it, there are several wagons making their way towards the home's entrance.

“Pascal, they're here. I will go greet them; round up the other servants and have them stop what they’re doing immediately. We will need all hands to make up for lost time.” Astarion says as he tosses the contract he’d been reviewing, leaving it with a large stack of papers scattered across his desk.

Several of those papers had the remnants of ink splotches and blood splatters from an hours-long drafting session he’d done on a business proposal the day prior. The goblet he'd been drinking from yesterday, dirtied with now-dried blood, sits haphazardly in the corner of the desk.

Astarion struggled to contain his natural propensity toward sloppiness. His mind often worked far too quickly for him to slow down and pay attention to trivial things like bloodstains and spilled ink.

However, after multiple gentle chastisements and one angry explosion from you, he’d managed to curb his disorganization to his office, which you accepted. The argument you two had, prior to coming to this arrangement, had truly terrified him.

The pale elf makes sure to grab the goblet and place it out in the foyer for the maid to grab; she had never been allowed to enter the master bedchambers or his office, for privacy. You two were responsible for keeping those areas tidy. Astarion did... almost nothing to his office, while you kept everything pristine in the bedroom.

Except for that one time before the argument. His mind wanders as he exits the office, reflecting on the memory that keeps him cleaning up his goblets.

-----

He could tell by your voice alone that you were angry. Furious, in fact. The sound ripped him away from the contractor agreement he'd been reviewing.

“Astarion! How many times do I have to ask you to not leave cups of blood in the bedchambers!” Your voice came booming down the hallway before you burst into the office, causing the door to slam into the wall with a loud thud. His eyes caught sight of the angry red splotches on your face, and then trailed down to your wedding dress, clutched in your shaking hand.

There was a large, crimson bloodstain smattered along the train. He almost fainted at the sight.

So many hours of his own work. Drenched in blood.

“I’d laid this out for the servants to frame today, and Scratch ran into the bedroom and knocked the goblet of blood — that you left there, completely full, by the way — off your nightstand and onto the dress!” You were waving the grown vehemently as you spoke, voice cracking toward the end.

Oh, his little love was infuriated. His gut sank at the thought.

The anger in your voice sounded entirely foreign, it was rare for you to speak in such a manner to anyone. But towards him? Never. You always spoke to him in soft, adoring tones and little whispers. The only time you truly raised your voice had been in bed, and he rather liked it then.

But this? He did not like this one bit. It made his undead heart thrum with anxiety.

“My love, I—“ He begins, his voice honeyed and smooth in the usual tone he used to appease you, but you cut him off.

“I’m sick of your excuses and your words, Astarion! I’m sick of cleaning up after you! I have asked you more than once to not bring blood into the bedroom and you've deliberately ignored me. And the one time I don’t remove the damned goblet from the bedchamber look what happened! I can’t keep—“

You were crying by then. Large, angry tears rolling in streams down your face as you swiped angrily at your eyes. That dress, and the hours of work he'd put into it, had been a testimony of his love to you. His actions had made your heart soar; seeing the gown ruined caused your heart to break entirely.

And Astarion's heart almost broke at the sight of his little love so distraught, but he had no words nor actions to soothe you.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath; he watched as the patches of red faded from your cheeks. When you opened them, the sight scared him and when you spoke, he was terrified.

Your face was blank, unreadable. Your tone was resigned. In that moment, in the absence of any discernible emotion, he felt certain you were going to leave him.

Eight months into a marriage and he was already failing; he knew he hadn't been cut out for this.

“I am very patient with you, Astarion. We both knew this wouldn’t be easy… with well, everything. Your condition, navigating my newfound fame, easing back into normalcy when we both have our baggage... but I chose this. I chose you. I choose you every day. Over and over. A hundred times a day."

You paused, and your eyes flicked between his, searching for something.

“I just wish I felt like you were still choosing me, too.”

And then you were gone. You left the dress crumpled on the floor as you turned and walked away.

As he moved from his desk to pick the garment up from the ground, he heard you call for Scratch and exit the front door. The sun was out, he couldn't follow you. And even if he did, there would be nothing he could say to placate you. He needed to give you time and space and wait for you to come to him; it was something he’d learned over the past eight months. Although he hated it.

So, he stayed in his office, trying to work, and failing at that, too.

After a few more hours, it was time to head to bed. When he entered your shared bedroom, he realized the goblet you'd spoken about had splattered over the sheets and onto the carpet, as well. He removed the goblet from the bedroom and placed it in the foyer; and then he changed the sheets, which you usually did. He waited for you to come to bed, but you never showed. Hadn’t he given you enough time by now?

Eventually he traveled to the guest chambers, certain you must be there sulking, and when he attempted to enter the room, the door was locked. He knocked tentatively on the door.

"Tav, darling--"

"No. And don't you dare pick the lock, Astarion."

"Tav, my sweet, please--"

"Please, Astarion. Please just leave me alone."

He wanted to pick the lock. Wanted to break down the door. Wanted to hold you in his arms and whisper apologies in your ear until you forgave him. But you always told him that his actions spoke louder than his words; honeyed lamentations would not work on you. Another thing he’d learned this past eight months.

And then he thought of the dress, which he'd left draped across the sofa in his office.

While you slept, Astarion set to work. He could have outsourced the task, sure... but truthfully, he did not trust anyone else with the fine detailing work he had spent several hours doing with his own hands. He'd created the masterpiece himself, after all, so perhaps it was best he restores it himself.

He worked gently, and for several hours, scrubbing the blood out of the fine fabric. His time with Cazador had taught him many things, and unfortunately a skill he used more often than he liked happened to be removing bloodstains from nearly any fabric.

By the time the gown was restored, his hands were raw from hours immersed in the harsh combination of soaps, chemicals, and water. It was past noon when he finished; you had certainly risen by now, but you hadn't come looking for him.

Astarion asked Pascal to place the gown in the sunroom to dry and then resigned himself to his office, back to reviewing contracts.

It was several hours later when you knocked on the office door, eyes downcast and face remorseful.

He didn't say anything, he just simply opened his arms and you crossed into the office before folding yourself in his lap. A few moments of quiet passed between you.

"I saw what you did to the dress. It must have taken hours... thank you." You finally whispered as your face nestled into the side of his neck. Your hot breath tickled, and he hummed in acknowledgement.

"It did, darling. And the skin on my hands certainly is not happy about it," He starts, and your hand comes to his as you bring it closer to your face, examining the uncharacteristically cracked knuckles and reddened flesh, "But you are worth the effort. And more. I'm sorry about the cups, my love.”

You placed a kiss on his chapped knuckle. An acceptance of the apology. And then you turned to face him and pressed a soft, tentative peck on his lips that made his entire body melt into you. Before long you two wound up on the floor of his office, and he made sure to use his actions to ensure you knew just how much he cared about you. How much he chose you.

And every day since then, he'd been certain to no longer bring goblets in the bedroom, and always leave them sitting in the foyer for the maid regardless of what room he was in. A tiny daily action signifying his love for you.

[002yb]

@crezz-star

It’s disconcerting for Zoro to see his captain falter when confronted by their new crew mate. There’s no imminent threat that Jean poses, but Zoro recognizes the man's presence on their ship brings Luffy no small amount of distress. Jean is a challenge Luffy doesn't know how to confront or overcome. The emotional turmoil that follows in Jean's wake is a damning thing and Luffy struggles in an uncharacteristic way that Zoro won't ignore.

“Tell me and I’ll send him off.” Because Luffy is his captain and Zoro is his first mate. Because if Luffy asked anything of him, Zoro would follow through. He might not be able to soothe the nightmares that torment Luffy, but Zoro can banish the ghost that haunts him.

Jean’s resemblance to Ace is uncanny. Zoro is no stranger to being confronted by an unwanted doppelganger of a love lost - to be terrorized by guilt and regret personified. He has no doubt Luffy will adapt despite the discomfort, same as Zoro, but Zoro knows from experience the heartache will stay. A persistent thing even in its dullness.

Jean is his own man, but the ghost he carries with him in body and voice and fiery soul is someone else entirely. Luffy is blindsided by Jean because of it and it makes Zoro wince at how lost Luffy looks, how stricken - like he's floundering in open water, dragged down by a devil's fruit and regret he can't shake.

Sometimes Zoro wonders if his captain sees the artist at all or if all that graphite bleeds red like blood and fire. He wonders if Luffy relents to the man’s continued presence on their ship because Luffy genuinely wants Jean there or if it’s because Luffy can’t fathom turning his back even on Ace’s visage. Is it desire for crew or for his brother?

It’s been a rough adjustment since Jean stowed away to pay his respects and dues. The man is all gratitude and admiration and maybe that, too, is similar to Ace. Not in expression, but perhaps in intensity. There’s a lot that Luffy doesn’t say about his brother, but there are some sleepless nights where Luffy will choke out truths in the dark, his voice muffled by arms strewn across his face or by the breadth of Zoro’s shoulder.

‘He always called me ‘crybaby’.’ Luffy would say around breathy laughter, and Zoro would soothe him in the only way he knows how — with dry banter. A quipped, ‘You probably were,’ that’s followed by titters and a nostalgic, ‘I was. He hated it.��� And Zoro understands that in a way Luffy might not; in the way Ace did.

‘He told me he wouldn’t die.’ Luffy said just once, so quiet Zoro almost missed it. But he could feel the ghost of Luffy’s lips and the grief in how he butted his head to Zoro’s jaw, ‘I made him promise because I didn’t know what he’d do.’ And Zoro didn't know what to say; had no means of reconciling that sorrow to the memories he has, to the wild stories Luffy has shared or the tender sentiments Zoro has noticed, himself. 'He told me he'd stay if I needed him. He swore it.'

His captain and he have fought and bled for each other. They’ve gone on a lifetime of adventures together; they share their dreams, their triumphs and failures and burdens. Zoro knows Luffy, but those shared intimacies in the dark give Zoro a clarity he’d lacked.

Luffy's capacity for compassion is a terrifying thing. His empathy towards those who are hurting is just as great. Zoro is no stranger to the hope Luffy can breathe into punctured lungs, the strength he inspires with his steadfast faith and resolve. Zoro assumed it was one of Luffy's innate qualities. It's in hindsight that he realizes Luffy's compassion was learned: a crybaby pleading for his brother to stay with him, to fight and love and live and dream.

Ace is the first person Luffy ever saved; Jean is the latest and all his regard and respect is like salt rubbed in an open wound. 'Thank you for loving saving me,' only Luffy didn't - he has the blood on his hands and a scarred heart to prove it. Jean is a ghost sent to haunt him and it's painful because Jean is kind in a way Luffy isn't ready to accept.

But Luffy is willful. If he didn't want Jean, then he wouldn't be with them.

When Zoro thinks about it, he knows why Luffy chooses to keep the artist around. Jean fits with the crew, all dreams and ambition and steadfast will. Jean is finding his footing after the world left him scarred; persisting despite past hurts and finding purpose and joy in a liberated world with open skies and seas. He is the shadow of Luffy’s brother that Luffy never stopped wanting needing.

It's complicated. Grief is like that.

“He’s crew.” Luffy tells him. It’s the end of their discussion on the matter. Zoro doesn’t need anything more; he trusts his captain’s word. Luffy will work through his grievances.

One day Luffy will stop jerking his head to the side when he catches Jean in his peripheral, mistaking him for Ace and one day the disappointment at his mistake won’t be such a heartrending thing. There will come a time when the depth of Jean’s voice and the sound of his laughter stops being an echo of someone else, when graphite smudges stop looking like blood stains.

Jean might be persistent in that same way Luffy was with Ace. It’s not anything Luffy comments on or complains about, though Zoro notices how contemplative it leaves their captain. He doesn't doubt that perseverance will win Luffy over. History repeats itself in strange ways.

That aside, Luffy is a simple man at heart. Zoro sees it before it happens. He can't help the smirk that pulls at his lips because of it.

Zoro stands at Luffy's side overlooking the seas when a row of graphite beetles come marching along the railing, tiny feet leaving scuttled marks of graphite across the wood as they approach their captain. The way Luffy's eyes light up with merriment as drawings brought to life crawl across his fingers and up his arms is a wonderful thing no matter how seemingly commonplace. Laughter bubbles up from Luffy's chest alongside his awe and wonder and delight.

Zoro catches Jean sitting further down the deck, smile bright and maybe the slightest bit sheepish, misinterpreting the first mate’s stare for scrutiny. Jean makes another creature with that logia devil fruit of his and sends it across the railing. Zoro stares after it for some time, bemused until he realizes it’s a damn marimo (undoubtedly courtesy of the damn cook spreading falsehoods about Zoro's likes and interests), at which point Zoro scowls something fierce and Jean balks.

Everything is made right by Luffy’s renewed laughter though, by the width of his smile and the mirth in his eyes. His joy is contagious just like so much else about him. It doesn’t stop Zoro from smacking the pseudo-marimo out of Luffy’s hand and out to sea when his captain tries to torment him with it though — graphite pressed to Zoro’s cheek once, twice and leaving smudges across Zoro's skin all the while—

Both Luffy and Jean gape when the marimo goes flying, Luffy’s arm stretching out after it a moment later. That Luffy catches it at all is impressive; the guilt Zoro feels when Luffy opens his hand to a circular smudge from crushing the thing is somehow even greater.

Jean fits in with their crew well though. The graphite beetles congregate on Luffy’s hand, molding together into an even larger marimo and Zoro grunts despondently as his captain and their artist cackle at his expense. Some part of Luffy's smile might always be strained when he looks after Jean, but Jean shares Luffy's empathy and compassion. It shows in his patience, the persistent and tentative way he stays just within reach.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆

crezz-star's Jean: the artist, the muse, the sweetheart.

[jaynovz]

John Silver Recovery and Hurt/Comfort Rec List

Hi there! Another rec list? -surprised Pikachu face-

These deal specifically with Silver’s post-amputation struggles and recovery. Often deep character study, heavy on hurt/comfort, wound care/medical discussion, wrestling with his disability and body image type stuff, so mind the tags on individual works. 

These are all Silverflint because, well, you know why you follow this blog.

--

What It Feels Like Not To Hurt by robotboy

Summary: So. This is a 9k slow burn watersports fic. That's a thing that now exists in this fandom. But it's mostly about Silver recovering in the warship cabin and working out how much of his humanity is tied to humiliation. To echo my esteemed colleague purplecelery: 'I'm gonna gently suggest that anyone who's not usually into this take a gander anyway because you might be surprised.'

The Salt and the Sea by x_etoile_x

Summary: John Silver was always able to make the best of a situation. If this particular situation had started to feel complicated, well, a vast fortune ought to prove clarifying. Whatever he might have imagined he'd seen in Flint, the reality was they had used each other. And he had been set to walk away on top.

Except now he couldn't. Now he was trapped.

_______

The gap between the end of s2 and the start of the raids - Silver's early recovery and eventual decision to stay.

i’m discarding pieces of myself in the dark by coffeeandchemicals

Summary: Silver swallows and fights the urge to run his tongue along his dry, chapped lips. It’s been awhile since they were in the Doldrums, but they were in cages after that, and Silver still feels stretched too thin over his bones. He knows his eyes are shadowed and cheeks are hollow; he can see the same in Flint’s visage, and on the faces of the remaining crew – he can’t let himself think of the ones they’d lost. They all bear more than just the physical scars of their most recent misfortunes. Silver’s are just the most evident.

Or: Flint tries to help Silver during the events of 3x07

His Heart Is Already Mine by queerpyrate

Summary: When Silver collapses aboard the deck of the Walrus, overcome with fever from an infection in his leg, Flint immediately alters their course to return to Maroon Island.

after the winnowing by princesskay

Summary: After Charles Town, Silver convalesces at the governor's mansion in Nassau while Flint chooses what happens to the gold - and their futures. Flint tries to take care of him, but are the kind gestures what they seem?

The Soft Animal of Your Body by x_etoile_x

Summary: Silver has a problem. Flint has an interest, as it turns out, and tells a story.

no daylight between you and i by inwardphae

Summary: What’s it all for, anyway? They’ll take and take and take until there’s nothing left of him. Not his leg, not his name, not his life. And there’s nothing he can do about it.

But then, something happens that surprises him, even in his frantic state, even as he feels his grip on himself slide away. And as it always happens as of late, he finds that the edges of his world begin and end with James Flint.

missing moments during and after charles town

Taut by Thiebes

Summary: Silver did not make it to dinner.

He awoke with a jolt to a dark room. How did he get on the floor? He didn't remember sinking down any more than he remembers falling asleep. The noise outside his door had faded, only a few distant laughs punctuated the sound of crickets in the night.

Let me try to pull you free by ember_firedrake

Summary: Following the loss of his leg, Silver can't stop thinking about the last night he spent with Flint before Charlestown, and what will happen when Flint learns the truth of the gold.

Follows "My heart is under arrest again." 

Set between 2x10 and 3x01.

Forestay by Farasha

Summary: Forestay: A line of rigging which keeps the mast from falling backward.

After Charleston, certain truths come to light that have Flint and Silver's relationship hanging by a thread.

Truce by lostinafictionalworld

Summary: “Would you like me to do it?” Flint offered quietly.

Silver’s head snapped up to glare at him, his usually warm eyes icy. He would have been shocked by the offer if he weren’t so busy being furious.

“I am painfully aware that I can scarcely take a piss without assistance,” he snarled, “but I am perfectly capable of brushing my own hair.”

After returning to Nassau following the events of Charlestown, Silver and Flint manage to set aside their differences for an evening.

vigia by doomcountry

Summary: That’s his talent. That’s what he offers him. That’s what he is, before he is quartermaster or lover or friend: the tempering flame, the relief.

A Holier Thing Than Hell or Highwater by swampslip

Summary: “This is… A difficult thing,” Flint says slowly.

“I’m not saying this to be-”

“I know.”

“I just can’t seem to… Move on.”

“Why should you?”

“What?”

“Why should you move on?” Flint asks quietly, gestures at the pinking, slowly healing end of Silver’s thigh, “This isn’t a moment that will fade into the oblivion of living. You won’t forget this, nor should you.”

--

As always, hit me up if you feel I’ve missed a vital inclusion, and I will give it a read. Mwah.

[dancingrain9625]

In your Hands

To assume that even if you had that creator's power, you would use it the same way... That's idiotic. Even if you are the same person on the surface, your experiences and hardships have forged you into two completely different beings.

One lived the life of a god

The other the life of a mortal.

While I couldn't tell you how that power might manifest in your hands but I can say how it would manifest in mine.

And not to worry. A story like this will be a once-in-a-blue-moon thing. Consider it a late April Fool's story. And if you guys want I'll make April 1st the time to do crazy stories like this one

—

The one called the imposter did their best to stifle their breath and endure the pain that plagued their body. If you looked closely one could see the many scars that littered their person, each one gained over the many years they had spent on the run.

For you see the inhabitants of this world were convinced that this mortal was an imposter. Someone who dared to sully their creator's perfect visage by attempting to impersonate it.

They didn't care less if that imposter had any choice over how they looked and the many years that they had spent eluding their grasp had driven them mad. How could they fail their creator like this they thought, and with every passing day, they vowed to make your death even more painful.

That is what brought us to this very moment. The three nations, Mondstat, Liyue, and Inazuma had joined forces and cornered you in Dunyu ruins before you could escape to Sumeru.

As of now the "imposter" starred down the three Archons as their followers stood behind them. And there was no escaping this time. Not with so many of them here at once. Not with those three "gods" standing right in front of you.

A trio of arrows pierced the imposter's leg. Forcing them to crumple to the ground. As they let out an agonizing scream the acolytes smiled. Finally, they'd make you pay for your sacrilege.

The pain was excruciating as they all began to torture the imposter. Swords and spears imbued with the elements. Pyro, Cryo, Anemo... It was all used to bring you the fate that they believed was just. Anytime you would begin to die or lose consciousness they'd heal you. Never letting this imposter have a moment of rest.

And the imposter meanwhile... Their life flashed before their eyes over and over again as they were brought to the brink and back. The family and friends they left behind. The choices and mistakes they'd made. Even the few friends they'd managed to make in this world. The imposter could see a few of them now. how they averted their eyes as they watched the imposter's unjust punishment.

Man... they never got to watch all that anime...

"You know... They say, when your life flashes before your eyes, your brain is looking for a way to survive in all your memories."

"Only A Failure Abandons His Principles And Pride."

“If you don’t like the hand that fate’s dealt you with, fight for a new one!”

“Don’t give up, there’s no shame in falling down! The true shame is to not stand up again!”

The imposter stood up with a burst of power. A white aura surrounded them as the wounds on their body closed and healed.

"Power comes in response to a need, not a desire. You have to create that need."

Opening their eyes the imposter walked forward to face the Army before them. Emotion was devoid of their expression as the three Archons charged forward to face the imposter.

Zhongli was the first to attack. Yet as he swung his spear he looked to see the imposter was gone from his sight. As his eyes drifted upward Zhongli saw the imposter had jumped over his attack and as they landed on the ground Zhongli flew back as they were struck several times in the blink of an eye.

The Shogun did not let that display deter her as she quickly swung at the imposter with her sword. Her attacks were blindingly fast and any human bystanders would be unable to follow their movements yet despite this the Imposter slipped in between every swing. like water pouring between the cracks of a stone.

Ei's attacks were cut short as the imposter drove their fist into her stomach. She was left gasping for air as she much like Zhongli was sent flying back into the many soldiers standing behind them, leaving the anemo Archon to face you on his own.

There was a certain look of fear on his face that almost made the imposter break their stoic face. Venti quickly pulled their bowstring back as an arrow imbued with anemo appeared in their hand. Letting the arrow fly a vortex opened to swallow the imposter whole, and it seemed to have worked as they were nowhere in sight.

Venti smiled in triumph only to freeze in fear as he felt a presence behind him. He didn't even have time to blink as one second four orbs of blue energy were placed around him. The next... well... let's say he's gonna need more than a Senzu bean for that one.

—

Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading.

Do you know what power the imposter had?

[cottonkendi]

Betrayal | 2

MASTERLIST

Kunikuzushi x Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Genre: Fluff

Warning: None

Synopsis: Our beginning

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

a/n: we finally have our innocent kunikuzushi~ he’s so cute~ </3 he’s a bit different from the scara that we usually see in game, i’d like to think that he was this scrunkly and cute before he was betrayed and all that kskkks (if anyone wants to be tagged, you can always ask~ i’m always open for such requests and if you guys have any thoughts about the stories kskksks <33)

The country surrounded by lightning...

One foot on the land and you can already feel it. The power zapping your skin as you look ahead, only a foot away from Morax, your arms placed by your side, feigning ease even though your finger twitches a bit, waiting for the moment that you’ll need to summon your weapon by your side. 

You can never be too cautious when in the territory of the deceiving kitsune. 

“Morax, (Y/N). Welcome to Inazuma.” 

You bow your head a bit in respect to the electro archon and her familiar while your archon offers them a sombre smile, his words of comfort spilling from his lips so naturally that you easily tune it out of your senses, instead, you focus on the third new presence. 

Unlike the electro archon and the kitsune, this one is quite… innocent. 

Like they haven’t been alive for too long. Blood as pure as a child. Memories never tainted with the gore and angst gifted to every person that you closely associate yourself with. Just their presence alone, you can tell that they are delicate. 

Delicate and human, if you will. 

Before you can think of any more complex questions in your head about this new human - if you can call any of you that -, Yae Miko giggles to herself before gesturing for someone from behind Beelzebul to step out of her shadow. 

With a subtle quirk of your brow, you can’t help but admire them, eyes so bright, skin so soft and smooth, their hair silky and almost the same shade as the electro archon’s. 

Disregarding the watchful eye that the kitsune has on you, you offer the new entity a bow, introducing yourself as one of the geo archon’s loyal yakshas, all the while, the boy in front of you can’t help but blush at your introduction. Not expecting to be treated with such high regard. Especially from someone who he has heard so many war stories about from the many poets and books in Inazuma. 

How you had fought amongst Gods, even against some of them, and won. 

He can see with his own eyes how the stories and portraits that he had found in the libraries hold no match to your actual visage. 

With how you hold yourself, your presence matching that of the archons amongst you, if he had not known better, he’d have mistaken you as one of the deities. Your skin glowing despite the many scars and blemishes that littered your body. It makes his mouth gape just a little, his dainty hand subtly moving to cover his face when he hears Yae Miko giggle beside him, using his sleeve to cover his face even more. 

“It-It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dendro Yaksha, (Y/N). I am Kunikuzushi, the electro archon’s puppet and son.” 

How beautiful. 

You can’t help but think to yourself. Your gaze drifting from his intricate clothes to his face, flushed pink beneath his sleeves that continues to cover half of his face. So beautiful. 

Ethereal. 

He may have been a puppet but he could very well fit to be one of the Gods. 

Giving him a nod, you try your best to give him a small smile, lips a bit awkward after not doing such a motion for however long you can remember. But still, you try. 

You can never treat someone such as him rudely. Not only is he the son of the electro archon herself, but he has also caught your attention. 

You do not know why yet. Why a puppet created by a God would interest you. 

Maybe it’s the nature of him essentially being similar with you and Alatus. Someone who serves Gods so closely. 

Or maybe it’s the way that he may have been a puppet but with only a few seconds of meeting him, you can already sense that he is far more human than you are. Nevertheless, it is not something that you’ll have to ponder on for you need to focus on protecting Morax. 

“Well, why don’t we head back to Narukami Shrine? We can continue our conversation there. As for you two…” Yae Miko gestures to you and Kunikuzushi which instantly makes you meet her gaze, willing her to continue. “Why don’t you two explore the shrine while we converse? I’m sure that Kunikuzushi would enjoy talking to you, what with him being intensely interested in your legends, I’m sure you’ll do him a big favour.” 

You can already tell that her words had brought the boy immense embarrassment, judging from the pretty pink flush climbing up his neck and onto his ears. Though the sight of the boy is quite fascinating, you still think that such an idea would be foolish. You came to Inazuma to protect the geo archon, not to sight see nor tell stories about your history. 

Before you can protest though, Morax himself turns to you, a gentle smile on his face. “I think that would be a good idea. If I ever need your assistance, I’ll simply call out your name.” He reassures you, already knowing about your worries. It’s one of the things that you’re quite vexed with when it comes to your God. He knows you too well… 

Releasing a deep breath, you nod your head, arms automatically crossing over your chest as you make your way beside the puppet, the two of you silently following the other three towards the shrine before staying behind by the big sakura tree. 

Before you can even say anything, you feel his fingers near your neck, his soft skin feeling odd against yours as you silently watch him touch your necklace, fingers grazing over the beads, studying every detail that he could without getting too close. 

Normally, you would’ve been perturbed by such actions, not used to someone casually getting so close to you but you let him be. 

He does not deserve to be rejected for his innocent curiosity, you think to yourself. And so, you let him sate his curiosity which ended with the two of you sitting by the steps right in front of the kitsune tree. “So it is true…” He whispers to himself, voice barely there if it weren’t for him being so close to you. 

He’s quite endearing… 

A bit naive and innocent. But endearing nonetheless. 

You have never met someone such as him, he reminds you of the children that you save from the monsters that roam the land. But at the same time, you can feel that there is something more to him. Something that only immortals such as yourself can ever have. 

A dark future, perhaps. 

“And what is true, if I may ask?” You finally ask, your voice snapping him out of his stupor, his hand freezing from their place against the beads of your necklace, his eyes quickly darting to yours which only worsens his shock, rosy cheeks flushing a darker shade of his lips as he quickly averts his gaze from yours, just now realising how he had just been invading your personal space - though you have not complained at all as he did so.

With a stutter, he tries to explain. “You see… I-I’ve read your legends, I always listened to the poets that the electro archon would call upon the palace. They always mentioned your necklace… how you personally created the beads. That the beads were made from your own abilities. That you’d harden some dendro to encapsulate your enemies memories in them… as a remembrance of your journey…” 

“Oh? I never knew that such rumours were circulating about my necklace.” 

You hum to yourself, unsure of how the humans have twisted such a story. 

You may have faced tons of gruesome battles in your lifetime but you have never once wished to encapsulate something such as a remembrance of your enemies and then wrap it around your neck. 

That would just be wishing for more karmic debt to take hold of you. 

No. 

Your necklace holds more importance than that. 

Noticing the expression on your face, Kunikuzushi thinks that the stories about you may not have been all that truthful. Tightly gripping the hem of his yukata, he prepares to apologise for possibly making you uncomfortable with his many expectations and for invading your privacy, but instead, he stills as you talk. 

“Would you like to know the real story behind my necklace, Kunikuzushi?” 

Without having to think about it, he nods his head, eager to know more about you and correct the information that he has about you. 

Carefully, you remove the necklace from around your neck, your calloused fingers gently laying it on Kunikuzushi’s lap, his hands barely brushing against yours as he quickly takes a hold of the accessory. “That necklace… it is made out of the gifts that my fellow yakshas have given me. Some are precious stones, others are a piece of their weapons. A remembrance so that I won’t forget about them through the eternal years that I will endure.” 

With every word that spills from your lips, it feels like the necklace on his lap gets heavier and heavier. The importance of the necklace making it difficult for him to hold, afraid of accidentally breaking it. 

He wouldn’t want to destroy something so precious to you. 

He won’t be able to forgive himself if he did. But despite the fear, he feels something else inside him. Something foreign. He’ll have to ask Beelzebul about it later. 

Looking at the necklace, he can’t help but feel something akin to want. He wants to be someone important enough for you to add him onto the necklace… 

It’s a ridiculous thought, he thinks to himself. The two of you have just met and yet, he already feels so strongly towards you. Maybe it’s due to the fact that during the short time after his creation, he’s already been swamped with so many depictions of you. He couldn’t help but think of you with such awe. And now that he has personally met you, it seems as if his feelings have grown stronger. 

Though you only spoke when necessary, you had already enraptured him. 

You had been so gentle with him. 

So caring. 

He can’t help but enjoy it. 

It’s a first for him. What with the electro archon being quite stoic with him while the kitsune has always been nothing but a tease that always wished to see him flush with embarrassment. 

But with you, you had let him explore what he was interested in without a question. Answering his questions truthfully. And though he had noticed it quite late, he also noticed the subtle smile on your lips when you had just met. 

It was a pretty sight. 

And so, with his thoughts about you taking over, he lets his mouth spill his words, willing himself to be brave. 

“Someday, may I present to you a gift to add to your necklace as well?”

A little surprised with the offer, your gaze meets with his, his eyes so wide, filled with hope, indigo orbs sparkling as he continues to look up at you.  The mere sight of him makes you feel something. 

It makes you want to protect him from the world. 

If he would allow you to, then you would like to stay by his side for awhile, see how he grows into his own person. And as you do so, you promise to yourself that you will do what you can to protect him. 

“It would be a pleasure to receive a gift from you, Kunikuzushi."

taglist:

@salty-salty

all rights reserved © cottonkendi, 2022. do not copy or repost any of my works! reblogs/feedbacks are very appreciated~

[decaying-words]

Freaks

Victor Zsasz x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 3.3k words TW & tags: Dubious consent, scarification, wounds, blood, virgin AO3 • All my stories

"His body is a beautiful abomination, adorning monstrous scars like discolored veins on his marble flesh. They roll with his muscles, hideous and protuberant, and all I can think of is my desire to taste them all, read the stories his body tells with the tip of my tongue, until there is nothing left in the world but a cacophony of pleasure and moans. My hands caress everywhere, fingers tracing his tally marks, but I do not see the corpses, I only see the life pumping in his veins."

Freaks

Gloved fingers, frigid and dispassionate, trace sinuous patterns over the trembling features of my face, smooth and silk-like in appearance, a stark contrast to his, marked and scarred with conscious volition. His marble pallor adorns vicious cuts, the more recent ones reminiscing of crimson snakes crawling over his visage, disfiguring his traits and expressions; they sink deeply in the flesh and split his lips, discolored and cruel. There is a perverse design behind them, a morbid compulsion that makes it difficult to avoid and occult, so I don’t, or can’t really; my eyes are locked on his scars, frightened and terrified. He takes great pleasure, I believe, in seeing me anxious and petrified.

His leather thumb, demanding and inquisitive, caresses my lower lip, opening my mouth and revealing the warm cavity. He tilts his head, pensive and silent, while my eyes search for his, search for a reassurance I know I won’t receive. Truthfully, I’m unsure why I came to him willingly; or perhaps I do, and this frightens me even more. 

I used to timidly stare at him from a distant booth of a questionable bar we would both happen to frequent, our unknown encounters going from coincidental to deliberate; and while I have never even approached him, I couldn’t help but detail his striking appearance. Always impeccably dressed in elegant leathery and velvety pieces, his body, gnarly and marked, seemed oddly sublimed. A bizarre charisma that would keep my thoughts racing at night, fingers working quickly on my engorged nub.

Days turned to weeks as I obsessed and yearned for his touch, foreign and forbidden, knowing full well who that strange man was and the crimes he committed, not dissimilar to visiting sharks at the aquarium. I would pretend to be busy working on some undefined task on my laptop, nursing drink after drink, always strategically positioned in a booth in front of him, creating wild and fantastic scenarios in my head on how I would seduce him and how he would make tender love to me; scenarios that would content my inexperienced soul, while occulting the harsh reality of his character.

I suppressed a yelp when he found me in the bathroom tonight, blocking the exit door, toned arms crossed and dark eyes drilling holes in my mind. I’ve never been so close to him then, and I vividly remember the raw panic I felt standing in front of Victor Zsasz. If you keep looking at me like that, he said in a deep and surgical tone, I might well turn to stone. Face flushed with shame and fear, eyes laying inert on the ground, I could barely find the strength to mutter a quasi aphonic apology.

Cocking an hairless brow and tilting his head, he considers me for an instant, impatient and expectant. Perhaps I had too much to drink tonight, or perhaps I was driven by an unknown divine intervention, but in a soft and timid voice I murmured what could have been a confession. You fascinate me. He smirks, smug and proud, reminiscent of a demon luring a soul, and I am the willing participant of my own downfall. We leave the bar together that night.

His gloved thumb moves from my parted lips to my throat, his fingers tracing the contours of the rolling muscles underneath the delicate skin. Nothing and everything feels right at the same time; while my romantic nature imagined my first time under different conditions, I cannot ignore the tremors in my thighs when his knuckles brush my pulsating flesh. How bad could it be, I ask myself naively, my heart beating frantically at the foreign and completely new touch.

One word, sharp and glacial, that annihilates the last hope of romance I could have and makes me question my decision to bring him home. Undress. I do as I’m told, moving in a way I imagine would be languid and sensual under his unappreciative and disinterested gaze; instead, it feels humiliating and bitter. He stops me when I reach behind my back to unclasp my bra, leaving me in my underwear. Lay down. 

The air feels cold on my heated skin as I lay with the grandiose limpness of a corpse on the bed, eyes staring at the ceiling, waiting for something, anything to happen. I do not think much when I feel the mattress dipping next to me, then a sharp yelp breaks the otherwise quiet room as the cold touch of his leather glove caresses my bare thighs. Having now removed his coat, Victor wears a rolled up shirt, exposing his viciously scarred arms, the tally marks too great to count. One for each person he’s killed, I think to myself; and the thought shouldn’t make me feel so warm but it does, as much as seeing his dark gaze exploring my pristine flesh while his fingers massage my plush thighs. I feel a cruel shiver when he removes his gloves languidly, revealing two perfect hands, delicately defined and marked like the rest of his body. My breath hitches and he notices it, cocking an hairless brow at me with an amused light in his eyes, building up a sinful anticipation, one that makes my sex pulsate instinctively. 

A broken moan dies on my lips akin to a hiccup when his bare hands, warm and surprisingly soft, caress my legs up and down. There is a faint smile on his face, lips slightly parted, as a somber thought darkens his gaze. I like your thighs. I want to mark them. This is not a suggestion, I understand.

Wiggling on the bed, panicked and terrified, Victor then grabs me by the waist and immobilizes me on the mattress, towering over me. His face merely a few centimeters away from mine, he presses his index finger over his mouth, shushing me. Heavy tears threaten to run and spill, and Victor sighs softly, brushing them away from the corner of my eyes with his thumb. You won’t be another tally mark, he promises. I’m unsure this will be enough to calm me down. Not when his hand slips in his pocket and retrieves a butterfly knife that he opens in front of me. The blade, delicately and tastefully engraved, beams in the dim light of the room; it is perfectly clean and cared for.

His scarred lips find my neck, the sensation as devastating as it is confusing. His kisses are passionate and hungry, licking the sensitive flesh there and progressing slowly. Each and every one of his kisses drag a string of breathy moans out of my throat, almost making me forget about my previous panic, the overwhelming sensations disorienting. His mouth is on my collarbone, then my sternum, then my covered breast… Never have I ever experienced such fire inside of me, my legs quivering with desire, my stomach knotting and twisting, as Victor draws a path with his mouth on my body, until finally does he reach my thighs, where he stops and contemplates the skin.

Desire turns to fear again, an emotional rollercoaster that seems to displease him. I’m not the burlap guy; I don’t get off when you’re scared, he scoffs. No, I imagine not. I expect him to get off to my ripped flesh. Nonetheless, I swallow my tears and nod at him, unsure why I am even humoring him. When he smiles, looking up at me, dark orbs shining like stars, I feel my sex throb shamefully. He then presses a chaste kiss on my immaculate skin, murmuring a word dripping with honey and that makes my heart race. Good girl.

The pain is stark and burning but not unbearable I realize; a stark contrast with the intense and unique horror my mind is feeling right now, hissing through my teeth, screwing my eyelids shut and squirming on the bed. I feel his hands holding me still while his breath caresses my scorching flesh, shushing me to no avail. When I feel the cruel blade leaving my skin, warm blood dripping from the fresh wound and running down my inner thigh, I pant heavily, a brief sense of relief soothing my nerves. But I was wrong to relax that soon, as a renewed agony, more vicious and noticeably deeper assaults my flesh, dragging a frank shriek out of my throat. I cry honest tears, begging for him to stop, thrashing on the bed while his free hand immobilizes me. If you keep moving it’ll be worse, he warns. But how could it be, when my entire mind is screaming bloody murder and my body is tearing apart under his brutal instrument?

The torture lasts for an eternity, hot tears ruining my face and heart beating so frantically it could give up at any moment. It burns, the acidic pain radiating in my entire body, my ravaged thigh throbbing ferociously. It feels nightmarish, so much that my brain seems to numb me, in a last act of mercy and love. Until I hear the butterfly knife close, and his voice, soft and deep. Wasn’t that bad, was it? Yes, yes it was. 

Through wet eyelids, I tentatively peek at my leg, my heart sinking instantly at the bloody mess of torn flesh. It is hard to even decipher what he marked through the crimson ocean covering the skin and soaking the bed sheets underneath. Propping myself up on my elbows, I take a closer look at my lover from Hell, nestled between my legs and admiring his art; Victor pants heavily, face delicately flushed with an unmistaken arousal. Something boils in my stomach, a lighter feeling that makes me heave. Do you feel it now? he asks. The endorphins? You’ll feel real good very soon. I do not understand.

It burns again, atrocious and vivid, when his tongue, warm and wet, laps my wound; yet this time, there is something much more insidious, more sinful following the depraved sensation. The feeling is confusing, overwhelming, but a heinous pleasure replaces the discomfort and washes over me, making my sex throb and my nipples harden, a voracious desire to touch him, and be touched by him. Victor moans lustfully as the tip of his tongue dips into the cuts like one would lick a cunt, his fingers caressing the exposed insides, and through the agony I swear I can feel it in my core, can feel a soul-crushing liquid bliss building up inside of me.

Victor kisses my cuts, his fingers rubbing them open, and in a quasi delirious state I regret that they aren’t deep enough to be fucked. It feels numb, my brain doing a stellar job at occulting any pain and pumping me with relaxing and pleasurable hormones, and now I understand. Rolling my hips, I stare at his scarred face devouring me, begging him for more, more of this perverse and obscene pleasure only he can give me. He smirks devilishly, dipping his tongue in one of the deeper cuts he gave me, tearing the flesh open, and more burning pleasure follows as I throw my head back and wail.

My hand reveals my breasts, toying with an erected nipple, while the other slips inside my underwear, surprisingly soaked, and caresses my engorged, swollen clitoris in a familiar pattern. Victor slides his thumb inside the now almost translucent fabric, pulling it to the side to have a better view of my glistening cunt. I feel two fingers caressing my vulva, stimulating my lips, while the flat of his tongue licks the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh. 

I feel it coming now, a devastating orgasm, sinful and immoral, about to crash and break me, one that will without a doubt forever alter my mind, distort my heart, and ruin my definition of pleasure, as I shriek and scream incoherent praise, filthy curses and his name.

Legs quivering and now a panting mess, I gently push him, beg him to stop, and he does, thankfully, after pressing one last kiss on my raw thigh. Nothing and everything feels right at the same time, but I can’t complain, not when I just saw the stars of a doomed sky with the force of a tsunami, despite the permanent marks he just gave me. Oh God, he marked me.

Through half lidded eyes, I can clearly see Victor’s positively feral state. Breathing heavily, an exquisite flush on his face and a vicious tent in his pants, I understand that we are not done yet. His fingers hook under the elastic of my underwear and remove them while I squirm to unclasp my bra, presenting myself completely bare in front of him. His reaction is immediate, passionate; he bites, until the skin breaks, until blood spills and I scream and shriek, thrashing on the mattress, mourning my pristine and untouched flesh, pushing him when he forces himself on me, scratching his skin even though it makes him moan louder. He defiles me, marking my breasts, my hips, and everywhere his teeth can sink in, sucking and licking blood, leaving less permanent souvenirs of his presence. The pain is shooting now, throbbing and lively, but he shushes my sorrow, kissing my new tears, murmurs sweet praises as if I was a lover, while he undresses.

His body is a beautiful abomination, adorning monstrous scars like discolored veins on his marble flesh. They roll with his muscles, hideous and protuberant, and all I can think of is my desire to taste them all, read the stories his body tells with the tip of my tongue, until there is nothing left in the world but a cacophony of pleasure and moans. My hands caress everywhere, fingers tracing his tally marks, but I do not see the corpses, I only see the life pumping in his veins.

His cock, untouched and intact, stands proudly, his glans a delicious shade of carmine; the first one I’ve seen in real life, but my inexperience does not prevent my feverish mind to crave it. Wrapping my hand around it, it is warm, throbbing and full of life; loud breathy moans break his throat and make my sex throb, but his hand presses gently on my sternum, keeping me on the mattress and making me understand that he’s reaching his limit. 

His fingers caress my stomach with a tenderness that feels alien from him, before dipping lower and caressing my sensitive clitoris. I whine and moan softly, but manage to find the strength through my clouded mind to warn him. I’ve never… Victor looks at me quizzically before fully comprehending what I just confessed. There is a dark glow in his eyes as he bites his lip, a wolfish, devilish grin on his face. Staring at my sex with curious care, his thumb delicately opening my untouched hole, revealing my intact hymen; he hums deeply, his cock twitching with interest.

Victor spits a generous globe of saliva in his hand before spreading it on his cock, rubbing its head against my folds. The sensation is warm, soft and foreign, as I grab the sheets next to my head, humming appreciatively. A gentle pressure against my hole, and I look at him with slight panic. Aren’t you going to prepare me? I ask, but he chuckles darkly. Oh, no, don’t want to waste it. Waste what, I wonder? But before my mind can process his words, I feel him push. Oh God, he’s pushing, mercilessly, with no preparation, and it hurts, oh it hurts.

I hit his shoulder, tell him it hurts, beg him to stop, a now familiar circus it seems like; but Victor does not care, does not listen, or perhaps he does and enjoys hearing me suffer, in a true sadistic manner; he shushes me, encourages me somehow, until his cruel cock is completely sheathed deep inside of my pulsating cunt, splitting me in half, every single nerve of my body screaming and shrieking. I clench my jaw, staring at the ceiling, until I feel him remove himself in an equally painful movement. Victor hisses and moans, looking at his now bloodied cock, my blood on his cock, as if it is the most beautiful sight in the world; that viscous blood glistening and beaming on his angry cock. He pants loudly like a wild animal, a thin veil of sweat covering his burning body, watching his sex spearing my insides, defiling my most intimate parts, tormenting my anatomy, blood, precum and other fluids dripping down my ass. 

He rolls his hips surprisingly slowly and smoothly, but it is still too much and too painful for me, whining and yelping when his tip brushes against a spot too sensitive, or when my walls tense and refuse to welcome him willingly. His voice trembles when I protest, I know, I know it hurts; I believe he likes it when I’m suffering, maybe because he thinks that pleasure transcends pain.

After an eternity of torturous thrusts, I finally feel my body easing slightly, muscles relaxing around his cock, until, beyond the waves of agony, I can feel liquid bliss pooling inside of me, reminiscent of my earlier orgasm. I moan frankly, allowing my body to relax, welcoming all of his vigor and brutality, and Victor hums, caressing my face and kissing my forehead. Good girl.

His pace quickens now, thrusting fiercely inside of my aching hole, his hand lifting my knee to give him a deeper angle while he groans like a wolf and I wail and cry out, entire body sore and all of my senses assaulted, unsure what I’m feeling, unsure if this is the proper way to do it, all I know is that I have too much of it and also not enough, that I need it to end but also need it to continue, with the wounds on my thighs viciously throbbing again as his sides brushes against them. He looks at my blood, splattered on his lower stomach, on my inner thighs, cursing under his breath, in a quasi delirious state, proud and aroused.  He moans louder when his thrusts get more frantic, more irregular, choking the air out of my lungs when his hips give up and his orgasm comes, devastating and brutal, in an animalistic groan.

He stills, spent and panting, almost wheezing, body covered in sweat, until he removes himself, slowly, carefully. His come drips out of my hole in a pink shade, his cock glistening and crimson; his trembling hand pumps himself, spreads my blood on his length in breathy moans. My cunt aches and throbs in agony, used and open for the first time by Victor Zsasz.

He does not roll over and hold me like one would expect from a lover. This bothers me, somehow. Instead, he leaves the bedroom with his clothes in his arms and goes to clean himself, leaving me bare and shaking on the bed, with the limpness of a corpse; and truthfully, I am not sure he didn’t kill me, metaphorically speaking. There is a cruel clarity unveiling my vision, one that should make me feel awful, ashamed even of this aberrant night, but I feel content, satisfied, as if this improper desire, this filthy pleasure was always inside of me, all it needed was a Victor Zsasz to nurture it. 

When Victor comes back, he looks as impeccable as he normally does, dry and freshened up, holding his coat over his arm. I cock a brow at my phone in his hand, typing something, while I’m wondering how he found it and how he unlocked it. I should be upset, but I am too drained to protest. He throws my phone on the mattress, right next to me, offering me a polite smile and nodding in my direction.

Call me if you want to play again is all he says before leaving my apartment, leaving me with an agonizing body and much to think of.

[remwrites]

for a cute little scarian prompt: immortal scar trying desperately to find a way to cut his golden thread, so that he can grow old with grian because the guilt he would feel if he tried to make grain immortal with him is so overwhelming he can’t even fathom it <3<3 (bonus points if grian wants to become immortal because no length of time—save forever—with scar is enough for him…)

"cute little prompt" ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME

[]

For anyone else in the world, sitting on the edge of a roof would be a worry.

For Scar, it was no more dangerous than sitting on his living room couch. The endless drop below his hanging feet was a stunning visage, and Scar knew exactly what it felt like to sink like a stone through the air, to hit the ground. And to survive.

His ancestor had given his life to save a hundred. So his descendants, Scar included, had been gifted a hundred lifetimes.

After a few centuries it stopped being a gift.

Now Scar was here, specifically hanging over a roof forty stories off the ground, standing at the drop and knowing it would be nothing more than an inconvenience to fall. He hadn't come up there to fall. He'd come up there to think.

"Scar."

Scar exhaled. He didn't turn around. He said, to the wind, "I'm not going to change my mind."

"Stubborn fool." Grian replied, footsteps approaching.

That got Scar's attention. He turned, "Watch the edge."

Bitterness flashed over Grian's face, dark and annoyed. "I wouldn't have to, you know."

Scar had never loved anyone as much as he loved Grian. He'd also never had a fight with someone like they just had, screaming at each other until Scar had stormed off to mope on the roof like the melodramatic immortal he was.

And Grian, the fragile human, tugging the edge of his long sweater sleeve. The cold visibly cutting through him, even as he defiantly lifted his chin.

"You don't want this." Scar said, throat sore.

Grian narrowed his eyes. "I think I'm capable enough to know what I want."

Scar sighed, eyeing the roving city blurs beneath his feet. "I told you. It would be better if I joined you, instead of you joining me. We can live a normal life together. I've already done immortality for too long and let me tell you, it's not all it's cut out to be."

"But if you join me, Scar, you could die. And what the hell am I going to do if it's before me?" Grian stomped his foot, eyes flashing.

"That's exactly why you can't join me." Scar's smile went bitter and sad. "Because all I've ever known is everyone I love dying before me."

"It wouldn't fucking matter." Grian said incredulous. "Because the only person I'd need would be right there beside me."

Scar couldn't respond, the pain in his throat reaching a threshold. He looked away, back at the forty-floor drop. Ants of people on the sidewalk, milling, headlights and street-lamps in pinpricks.

"I want to grow old with you." Scar said, scratchy. He didn't want to argue anymore.

"You've had so much time." Grian replied, approaching to sit in front of him, hands in the gravel roof. "But I haven't. I want more with you. If we could have eternity together, why wouldn't you take it?"

"Because eternity sucks."

"Eternity sucks alone, yeah." Grian reached out and took both his hands.

"I'm not going to change my mind." Scar couldn't stop himself from squeezing his hands back.

"And I'm not going to change mine." Grian smiled, challenging. "If we play chicken, who do you think will break first?"

A slimy hand closed around Scar's heart. He said, wary, "What do you mean?"

"If you cut your golden thread, I will take it." Grian promised.

Scar's breath was taken away. He swallowed, realizing the force of nature he was dealing with. Grian was truly unlike any person he'd ever met in centuries. It was going to be his downfall.

He did not want to doom Grian to his own fate. His partner didn't realize what he was asking for. But Grian was the type of person who did not lose. He would cut off his nose to spite his face.

He was forcing Scar's hand. He stared at the fragile human sitting at his feet, far too high off the ground. Grian's eyes searched his face, the line of his mouth set in stone, speaking to the true severity of his words.

"Are you going to help me find my own?" Grian asked.

Scar looked ahead at his growing eternity. He would just have to make sure it was worth it for Grian.

[visage-of-hell]

scars:  how many scars does my muse have? where are they located on my muse’s body? how did they get them? what do they look like? 

Visage has amassed quite the little collection of scars over her lifetime ... and each and every one of them definitely has a story to tell.

The first one you'll notice most likely is this lil' number across the top of her muzzle. This was from a bar brawl with some other hellhounds during her bounty-hunting days. Doesn't regret this one, even if the reason for acquiring it isn't as interesting or exciting as some others--it taught her an important lesson on being too cocky and she's taken that to heart all the rest of her days.

THIS one ... you'll have a very hard time getting a straight answer about, unless she knows the person asking extremely well and trusts them a LOT. At face value, she'll just say it was a close call during an Extermination Day, which isn't a lie--it just isn't the WHOLE truth. This was the wound she sustained while trying to save her sinner girlfriend during one such event and as such, she wears it like a mark of shame. An ever-present reminder of her failure and everything that she's lost. This is one of the few scars she actually tries to cover up with high-collared jackets, collars, and other neck-obscuring accessories/stylistic choices (though she TRIES to be subtle about it).

The mark on her upper left arm is her first work-related injury, actually making it one of the oldest scars she has. Shoulder-checking a demon covered in sharp spines probably wasn't the most brilliant decision she ever made.

Right forearm was from broken glass after punching through the passenger-side window of a car to grab the occupant inside. One of those "seemed cool at the time" moments that she paid for later.

Now THIS one was a scary near-miss situation. The target she was hired to go after was armed with a switchblade edged in angelic steel. Only a few inches of distance were the difference between a grazing wound and a fatal stabbing.

The stab would through her left hand was a 'souvenir' from one of her hardest bounties she ever collected--an Overlord. This was the result of her opponent pinning her to the wall with a well-timed throw of a long piece of rebar. Hurt like HELL, and nearly gave her enemy enough time to finish her off ... but she managed to be the only one left standing in the end.

This one is ... interesting. Technically, one COULD say that it was a work-related injury. If by 'work' you mean 'seducing an intended target and getting into some rough play before taking care of him'. Sometimes pleasure CAN come before business.

This last one was also from a nasty brawl with a beefy target. This slash actually fully severed her Achilles tendon and forced her into an extended 'vacation' for nearly a month after she had it surgically repaired by a specialist in the Sloth Ring. Was one of the last injuries she sustained as a bounty hunter before going into retirement in preparation for what she THOUGHT was going to be her final Extermination Day.

[florafounda]

SHATTER. | A Drabble

CW: unreality / fugue state, blood, warped self image

The shower is a relaxing warmth I rarely experience, particularly in the recent cold snap of the month. Aches that have sunk into the bones seem to seep away and I watch the drain steal it all away like a thief. I catch myself watching how the water spins and spins and spins – down and away. Nothing like a river, I think absently, though I’m not sure why I think such a thing at all.

I do not want to leave the warmth, but I’m hyperaware of how long I’ve been in this one place. The faint urgency is there, as it always is, at the forefront of my mind, pushing and pushing and pushing me onwards. The shower is simply a foolish indulgence I have allowed.

I tell myself it’s a good idea. We stand out less after a shower.

The water comes to a stop, but honestly, I do not remember touching the handles. I continue to stand there for several moments as the water drips from the skin. A neat pile of leaves has collected at the drain and the water pools in puddles around my feet, blocked from its escape. Most of the shower had been spent working the debris from the hair and now the locks cascade across the neck uncomfortably. It tickles where it lay, but a deep part of me knows she will love what it means.

I am yet again aware how loathe I am to leave, to step into the cold rushing under the sliding glass. But I must. And it hits me, a gust of cooler air built up beyond the glass and I suppress a shiver. Worse yet, I feel the aches – the pain that accompanies the body – already beginning to crawl across the bones yet again. It’s probably my imagination though. The cold must be worse than a little chill to hurt us. But outside – that is a different story.

I plan to take us far away from here. I have tropical locales in mind, but more than likely I will simply find somewhere further south.

The other side of the glass is as I have left it. Our bag has been sat as far away from the door, but equally as far from the shower itself. Stolen clothes are neatly folded on the counter opposite the toilet and a towel awaits my hand to the side of the shower door. As I reach for it, movement catches my eye and I freeze in place.

The mirror must have an antifog coating because I can see the reflection staring back at me clearly. But its familiarity does not encourage me to relax. If anything, I am now frozen in place, an unknown emotion battling within me.

She is but a waif of a thing.

Skin holds to bone in thin layers that are too far stretched across the lanky body. For her age, she’s a short little girl, but for her body she seems too long overall. There’s the barest sight of muscle in her arms and thighs, thick enough to hide the bones, but thin enough to wrap an entire hand around. She has been bruised this way before and I blink with pain at the memories I call forth.

Under her too-small breasts, her ribs are visible with each one individually countable by anyone looking close enough and I am looking far too closely than I’m comfortable with. Better than the last time I saw her, I think to myself. But not enough. Never enough. She never puts on enough weight. Never eats enough to please the machines.

Her hair too, even cleansed and wet, looks dirty and messy. I know she must get it cut to make it look right, but she will not. Never again. It is her pride and joy to feel the locks of red in her tiny fingers.

The fingers – the scarring there is bright and pink in the too bright florescent. The telltale signs of WORSE scarring shine on the side of her neck, the barest visage of raised skin and red welting. And I know they travel down her back in a library of horror I do not want to read ever again.

The emaciated form reaches for the towel I am touching. I expect our fingers to meet, to touch. But there is only one hand.

And it belongs to her.

To me. To her. To me. To he—

I wrestle with the identity of the hand back and forth for several moments until it is basically redundant to use the towel at all. WE step out of the shower, the form following my movements with her nervous, uncoordinated gait, all but teetering on one foot as she stands there.

I reach up to touch the hair and so too does she.

The building EMOTION in my chest threatens to explode and I have yet to identify it.

“Stop it.”

No one answers, but the girl’s lips move to mock me.

And in that moment the cruelty of her childishness sparks into flame against the tinder of emotion.

I do not recognize the pain, only the sound as glass shatters around a fist. I peer into the cracks now stained with blood and I see her. I see her and me and her and me. I see a dozen of us.

And then just like that the emotions are gone as if they never existed at all. I am but a shell now and compared to the explosion from moments before – I like this better. I patiently pluck out glass shards from my knuckles and wash my hands as if part of my post-shower routine.

I collect the pendrive and hang it around my neck, then I clothe myself. The fabric is soft across my skin and I appreciate the choice I have made. I heft my bag onto my shoulder and look back at the mirror. She stares back silently at me through the cracks.

“I’m sorry.”

She does not answer and I don’t say anything else.

We are silent.

[nadas-dirthalen]

I love everything in this post, yes yes YES!!

Fellow haver of a (basically) white-haired Lavellan here! And she, while covered in freckles, *is* pretty. Her face is also long, and when her vallaslin are removed, she gets self-conscious about its bone structure all over again. As a Knight-Enchanter, she is very muscled, but has little in the way of curves. (Though I am 100% with you on the proneness to sunburns! Hence the swathes of freckles.)

And she grows to hate her hair. She grows to hate what her appearance lets people do with her visage.

She is not without flaws. She has scars on her brow and lips. She is far from the 'demure' Herald that people want her to be. The line of her jaw could cut glass. She has a resting frown.

But do they paint her honestly, in the Chantry? Never. Never once. Her blonde hair, while originally light, gets painted purely white. The harsh angles of her face seem to disappear in every piece of art she's seen, along with her freckles. Her brows get trimmed, by some magic, every time an artist depicts her form. Wild, how her facial structure seems to be an exact replica of Andraste's oval face, but only when shown in stained glass. The mirror tells a different story, all angles and points.

To say nothing of how half the people in Thedas just don't know how to paint pointed ears. That must be it, right? That must be the reason she is portrayed in so many different hoods and cloaks.

She wishes, near every day, that she'd have been born brunette. Once or twice, in her lowest moments, she wonders how the world would have fared with a human Herald.

I'm adding this to say: even the conventionally attractive Lavellans have their own unique features. Even the "barbie" white-haired Lavellans can be packed full of flaws and trauma.

Listen, I get that a lot of people's dislike of white-haired Lavellan's comes from over exposure, which is valid and happens to the best of us. But most of the time, when I see posts about folks not liking them, the frustration centers around them being this unearthly ethereal white-haired barbie doll. And I'm sure that is also common.

But as someone who loves my dinky white haired Lavellan, and also feels like she's one of my most human characters, I want to ramble about all the ways she is not just a beautiful barbie doll power fantasy. Because my nerd is pretty. She IS. But she also has the puffiest under eyes you ever saw. Depending on the day, there may be dark circles. There isn't a cream on the market that can make this lady look properly rested. When you combine that with the near constant sunburn on her nose turning it red, she has the air of someone that is in a permanent state of allergy season.

Going from the top down, she also has a tooth gap. And while we are here, they are pretty darn crooked. Thedas doesn't have orthodontists. I wouldn't say she has horrible teeth. But she has perfectly human imperfect teeth that make for a memorable smile for all the wrong (right) reasons.

Her left ear is missing a big chunk out of it from being hit by an arrow. It gives her the same lightly ragged look of a stray cat.

She has moles. The one on her chin grows a long and shockingly white hair out of it. She pulls it out. If it's because she's insecure about it or because picking at it is a nervous tick, she doesn't even know at this point because she's done it for so many years.

The hair on her arms is very fine and white. It is also very, very fuzzy. The kind of peach fuzz that catches the light and makes itself known. It didn't bother her when she lived with her clan because she has a lot of siblings, and they all have it. But someone casually remarks on it during her time with the Inquisition, maybe in jest saying her arms look more like a dwarf's than an elf's. Suddenly, she wears sleeves a lot more often.

I am pretty attached to the bean pole frame Lavellan gets in Inquisition because it's hard to headcanon out for me when it's constantly there on screen. That being said, her legs have some hefty cellulite going on in the back of those thighs. Her flat little ass is dimpled. There are stretch marks on the insides of her thighs, and on her butt. She thinks that's unfair given her complete and utter lack of curves. Knees? Knobby. Her shins always have bruises on them from bumping into something or another.

Various other things I think about and am fond of for her. Her sword hand is calloused. It's often dry and cracked, with hang nails like a construction worker. She tries to take care of it, but how do you out self-care the kind of wear and tear constant travel and fighting does to a person.

Her eyebrows are so pale and thin that it doesn't even look like she has them half the time. Her scalp can get sunburns where her hair parts. She gets a pimple in the same spot like clockwork every time her period comes around. She has one toe that's just inexplicably uglier than the rest.

And she's still pretty. She's still little miss doomed by the narrative.

Secretly, I didn't really have a point to this post beyond wanting to talk about my character's endearing imperfections. But I'll try to wrap this up with something coherent. You can use the stereotypical "pretty" color palette and still create a deeply human character. You can also use a unique color palette and still end up with a design or attitude that gives off "this character's sweat smells like roses and peonys."

I'm not saying that white-haired Lavellan's don't come with the baggage of over-exposure or the weight of heavy handed white savior energy. I'm not saying they can't be done badly. I am just sad thinking there are other folks out there that see all the "stereotypical Lavellan" posts, and also feel a knee-jerk impulse to redesign a beloved oc to be more like-able. At the end of the day, oc's are for their creator. Nobody is going to like your oc more than you. So make one that speaks to you.

And hey. Maybe you are guilty of making your oc's perfect pretty Barbie dolls. Nothing wrong with a pretty lady (or man but that's not really the point of the post.) But speaking for myself, I fall a little in love with every oc someone gives a perfectly normal "defect" to. So next time you find yourself making a hot girl... mix it up a bit and consider giving her toe hair. You might be surprised by how much that detail sticks with you.

[laboranti]

make your muse!!

tagged by: @ohdeer-malia​ , @lostvacvnt​ tagging: @beeutifulmuses​ , @srpntloyalty​ , @iiimpulse​ && you!

[fussymeanie999]

first time - loki laufeyson x plus-size reader

WARNING: this is going to be around 90% dirty smut. you have been warned. mentions of: cunnilingus, deepthroat, facefucking, unprotected sex, breeding, first time

synopsis: reader feels extremely insecure about her figure, loki finds her being absolutely destroyed, he decides to show her how beautiful she is.

a/n: also, i like used a scene from my mad fat diary for one of the dialogues (another one of my favourite shows), so all creds to them! i also used a monologue called "corsets and courtship" for some of loki's quotes by @tomhiddlestonsoundalike on tumblr so all credz to him and whoever wrote the text!

enjoy, my plussize queens (or whoever's reading this lol)

+++

you stood in front of your mirror, in your undergarments, looking at your own reflexion, your fingers grazing your own skin, cringing at every bump or texture you felt. your skin wasn't as soft as you'd want it to be. it wore many marks, wether from your skin stretching or plain old cellulite. you had some pimples, some scarring... you hated it. all of it. you just wished you were perfect. you weren't skinny, that was for sure. you weren't even mid-size. you were a big girl. and as much as you'd want to pretend you weren't, there were times where that was impossible. you didn't fit in any "regular sizes" and not every store had a plus-size section. you were afraid to eat in front of people. you couldn't even be intimate with your boyfriend.

ah. your boyfriend. your boyfriend's name was loki. and he was probably the most beautiful man you had ever laid eyes upon. well, not a man. technically he was an alien. or a god? he came from asgard. a different planet and it honestly baffled you that a literal god would go for someone like you, when he could get anyone he ever wanted. you couldn't believe what you were hearing when he revealed his feelings for you. of course you were hopelessly in love with him but you just couldn't believe he felt the same way. fat girls never get the hot guys. at least not in any story you ever heard, especially not in your life. you never had a boyfriend. no one had really shown any interest in you and you didn't either. mostly because you didn't think anyone would feel the same.  you didn't feel as though you deserved to be with anyone, you were too big, too unattractive, too insecure. so you never really tried. until loki came around.

he became part of your life almost a year ago to this day. he was your first kiss, first date, first everything. the only first that was missing was... your first time. yes. you were a virgin. a fat virgin at that. you didn't even let loki see you without a shirt on. the mere thought made you burst into tears, imagining different improbable scenarios where he'd be so disgusted by your figure he'd leave you. but you wanted to. you wanted him to see you and you wanted him to touch you. you wanted him in every sense of the term, but you couldn't bring yourself to reveal your body to him when the time came. he was always understanding, listening to your wishes and never made you feel like you had to do anything you didn't want to do. but you could feel how much it made him ache to not be able to be with you the ways he wanted to. it made you ache as well.

you grabbed at your fat, your jiggly rolls, covered in purple stripes and you couldn't help the tears that threatened to fall, roll down your cheek. your small cries suddenly became sobs, and they became louder and louder, as your brain was flooded with images of loki's face, disgusted in your figure. you let yourself fall onto the bed, feeling your stomach touch your thighs, making your sobs grow even louder. you held your stomach in one of your hands and and the other directed itself on your face, massaging your temple, feeling your heart beat inside your head.

you thought you were alone. you really did.

you heard the door of your bedroom creak. your head immediately jolted up as your glistening eyes met with familiar blue-ish green orbs. you grabbed the nearest blanket and covered your almost naked body, your sobs completely stopping but your tears still melted away on your round cheeks.

your raven-haired lover walked in the room, carefully.

"oh my sweet girl, what has happened?" the god said softly, carefully kneeling in front of you.

he slowly held out his hand to meet yours with confusion, worry and a hint of sadness in his eyes, but you quickly dodged it and got up, covering your entire front side with the blanket and quickly turning around so he couldn't see the back of you.

"nothing" you struggled to say, in between cries, still backing away from him.

you continued walking backwards until your lower back hit the dresser. you looked down, for a few quick seconds and when you looked back up, your lover was only a mere 2 inches away from your face. he cupped your visage with his hands and softly wiped your dried tears with the back of his thumb.

" you know how much i trust you my darling..." he started. " ... but this doesn't look like nothing."

he started slowly stroking your hair and brushing it with his fingers. you tried avoiding his stare but it was useless, as he was grabbing your face and lifted your chin up to make you look at him straight in the eyes.

as his stare felt as though it was piercing through your soul, you couldn't contain your cries anymore.

" be honest with me... i beg of you... it pains me to see you like this" he pleaded.

you started to contain your sobs a bit better, but you still felt so much pain.

" why... why are you with me loki...?" you were able to blurt out.

confusion. confusion was all that was written over his face. he also looked a bit hurt.

his stare started going around the room, trying to find an answer to your question. his hands, that previously were cupping your face, slid down to your throat and rested on your collarbone, his thumb drawing circles over your thyroid.

"what kind of question is that?" he said, annoyance in his voice. you were afraid you made him angry.

"loki... you can have anyone you want, alright? you're a god..." you said, tears still brimming the sides of your eyes.

loki looked at you with so much hurt, it was hard to keep eye contact.

" you're an 11, and i'm a two at best..." you proceeded. "most people, when they see us, out in public, or on social media, they must be thinking; "oh he must be absolutely mad going out with that..." you stopped yourself when you saw loki's facial expression go from hurt to raging.

"that what?" he asked firmly.

you didn't answer.

"THAT WHAT?" he screamed, making you jump.

he put a hand over his mouth, trying to calm himself down.

"how many times do i have to tell you, y/n?" he started. "you are my person. my woman. my everything. you are the most magnificent being my eyes ever laid upon. the most beautiful creature in all of the nine realms. can't you see? can't you? because i can. i see it everyday. i don't have to see you bare to know. never say that to me again, you understand? do you? do you understand?" he said, starting softly and becoming more firm.

his hands were still hanging by your collarbone, but you felt them grip at your skin, desperate for your understanding, for your touch, for you.

"... i" you started. "i d-do..." you stuttered through sniffles.

he looked at you directly in the eyes. you knew he loved you.

'but not enough.' you thought to yourself.

your love carefully placed his lips upon yours. his lips that you were familiar with. lips you kissed thousands of times. lips you loved. lips you longed for. you needed. the kiss he planted was one of the most delicate kisses he'd ever given you, but at the same time, one of the most passionate. it felt like all of the love he felt for you he poured out into you and in that moment, you felt like nothing could come between you two.

"p-please don't leave me, loki..." you cried out after the kiss.

"my love, my love, my love... never. i love you." he reassured you, stroking your hair.

he planted kisses all over your face, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, your eyelids, and then back to your lips, this time with more hunger. it was like all of the times he had to restrain himself, when you felt like you weren't ready, completely melted into that kiss. all of his passion, his love, his hunger, his despair, and more importantly his lust, he finally let it all out and you let it all in.

"loki..." you panted in between kisses.

"mmh... yes my love?" he said, intensifying and deepening his kisses more and more.

you hesitated. but you knew. you knew you were ready.

"i-...mmh... i want you." you said, desperation tinting your voice, sounding almost like a plea.

loki slowed down. he took a minute to look at you in the eyes. he wasn't sure what to say. he wasn't even sure what you were saying.

"what?" was all he could muster up to say.

you looked at him with a little more confidence and nodded slowly.

the look on his face was priceless. he would finally be able to be with you.

"a-are you sure about this, love?" he said, sounding like he had just won the lottery.

you nodded again.

he grabbed the sides of your head firmly and leaned in to kiss you once more. his hands trailed down the sides of your body and started playing with the blanket that you were still holding firmly in your hands. you were scared to let go. to be completely bare to him.

"i'm afraid you're gonna have to let this go, my darling." he whispered in you ear, taking the chance to leave a wet kiss on your lobe, slightly biting down on it.

he grabbed your shaking hands in his, drawing circles with his thumb softly against yours.

"give yourself to me, little one... let me see you, touch you, feel you, taste you. i beg... i beg of you." he whispered again, pressing his forehead against yours.

you breathed heavily. you wanted him to see you. to touch you, feel you...

the wall you had built had always seemed so hard to knock down... but in this moment though, that wall seemed to be made of silk. all you had to do was let it go.

"okay..." you said, in the softest voice you ever spoke.

you backed away from loki and walked backwards a few feet. you were now standing the back of your knees faced towards the end of the bed. loki was staring at you proufoundly, awaiting your reveal impatiently.

your hands were trembling. you had nightmares about this moment. you had panic attacks for this moment. this moment was everything. but something about loki... was it the way he stood? the way he spoke? was it his stare? something about him made you feel safe. safer than you had ever felt before tonight.

so you let go.

you felt the blanket reach your toes. you cringed. so you closed your eyes, not wanting to witness loki's disappointment. you awaited any second now a hurl, a disgusted sound or a hurtful comment. but none of that.

you carefully opened your eyes, only to find loki with a gaping mouth, having the most amazing look on his face. a look of pure love, of endless attraction and mesmerising lust.

he approached you slowly, making each of his step count. when he finally reached you, he immediately pressed his forehead against yours. though your eyes were staring down at your feet, you could feel his stare devouring you.

he carefully placed his hand upon yours and let it trail up your arm. then back down again, giving you chills.

he didn't say anything. not a word. what was he thinking?

"i... i look disgusting i know, i'm so sorry. i know i disappoint..." you said, starting to regret the blanket had reached the floor.

you heard loki sigh so heavily.

"you... have got to be joking, love..." were the first words he spoke after seeing your figure. you heard the smile through his voice.

"in all of my..." he started. you heard him swallow before continuing. "in all of my 1056 years of living... never... and i mean never... have i ever witnessed such beauty before this night. my sweet, sweet girl, i simply do not understand why you felt the need to hide."

his hand reached your face and kissed you so passionately, you felt a sort of... heat at the bottom of your stomach. it was an unfamiliar feeling.

that same hand made its way to your neck, then to your shoulder and started playing with one of your bra straps. eventually, he completely took it off and did the same with the other strap.

"you have no idea what you are doing to me right now..." the god said, in a lower, hungrier voice.

"what am i doing to you?" you asked, innocently.

in between kisses, you could feel loki smirk against your lips.

his hand went from your shoulder, trailed down your arm and grabbed your hand in his. he took it and before you knew it he pressed it upon himself. his black, silky, suit pants were showing a bulge in between his legs and that's exactly where he put your hand.

he was hard.

when you first touched it, you heard a whimper come from your lover. god, he needed you.

"this... this is what you are doing to me, darling."

you couldn't believe the words he was saying to you. you felt as though you were in a sort of dream. loki wanted you. he was... quite literally hard for you.

loki grabbed your hair and pulled your head back so you were looking at him. his eyes went extremely dark.

"lay down. on the bed. now." he demanded firmly.

you obeyed his commands in the blink of an eye. you were ready.

you laid down on the bed, on your backside, carefully. when you got comfortable you looked up at loki and saw him looking at you, with hungrier eyes. eyes that were darker and more lustful than ever. he was devouring you with his eyes and he made sure to capture every square inch of skin of your body.

with only a smirk and the flick of a hand on your partner's part, your bra disappeared in a light green magic, leaving your breasts uncovered and nipples starting to harden.

loki obviously couldn't contain himself any longer and almost jumped on top of you, kissing you savagely, making his way down your neck, leaving all sorts of love marks, some darker than others. some of them were painful but the pain only reminded you that this was real. when he got to your breasts, you could almost see his mouth water.

he carefully grabbed one with his hand, keeping eye contact with you the whole time.

"so soft, so plump... for me. oh god, sweetheart you're giving me such a delight"

and with no warning he started giving you small licks, around your nipple, carefully approaching your most sensitive part, which he enthusiastically started to flick with his tongue. the sudden pleasure rose your voice as you let out a small whimper, begging for more.

"yes... yes my sweet girl... let it out... show me how much you want this" he said in a raspier voice.

you found your fingers playing with his raven-black locks, as his mouth played with your brown-ish pink buttons.

he did so for some while, until he felt your hand grasp at his vest. you wanted him to reveal himself to you as well. he got the message pretty quickly.

he looked up from his meal, giving you the same amount of eye contact, as he took off his black blazer, black tie and black vest. all he had on were his bottoms but you were too worried about his beautiful torso to notice. you let your hands wonder on his pale chest, feeling the softness of his skin, some of his hair, up to his pecs, you couldn't believe it. how can this man become even more beautiful?

"like the view, my love?" he asked. you enthusiastically nodded.

he bent down to leave more love bites over your torso and your breasts. he started to slowly go down your body leaving kisses under your breast, going even nearer to the most insecure part of your body. you cringed and whimpered again, but this time in a less of a pleasurable manner, remembering all of your stretch marks and cellulite, knowing he'll be disappointed.

"i... couldn't... be... more... in... love..." he breathed out between his wet kisses. he was now definitely directly on your tummy.

he looked up, knowing you wouldn't like this part. he met your eyes and definitely noticed your hesitation.

he got back up, towering over you. he bent back down, catching your lips in his.

he carefully started stroking your hair, in the most loving manner you could ever imagine. he looked at you straight in the eyes, seeming like he was trying to deliver a message directly to your soul.

"what have i done to deserve you?" he asked, his voice choking in between his words.

those words completely melted your aching heart.

it was your turn to touch him. you said nothing as you slowly stroked his cheek with the back of your hand, giving him your approval by a shake of the head.

he smiled and his head disappeared to your stomach again.

you could feel his hands rome around your entire body and his mouth leaving wet kisses over your stomach. his long raven hair still trailed around higher up on your torso, nearer to your breasts.

he finally got to the place his own body longed for the most.

at this point you were completely damp and you awaited his reaction to your wetness impatiently.

he quickly gave you one of the hungrier and most impatient look you'd ever seen him give you.

he got up in front of the bed, looking you up and down like a predator looks at its prey and with the flick of hand, yet again, loki made your panties disappear in a light shimmering green magic, leaving you completely bare. all that was covering you up were your legs, still pressed firmly together.

loki carefully placed his hands over your bare knees. he could feel you trembling. was it from excitement? nervousness? or desire?

"open up for me, my love... let me in" he said in a demanding, pleading voice.

you slowly started to comply and let your legs go loose. your lover took it upon himself and slowly spread your thighs apart. he couldn't believe his eyes.

he was letting himself finally see your aching core. he could see it glistening, it was calling to him, begging for his touch. he was the one the one responsible and he'd never felt prouder. he admired every fold, every forgotten hair you missed while shaving, everything about it was inviting.

"oh my sweet sweet girl... look at the state of you. don't you understand how long i've been waiting? to see you in this position, completely at my mercy, legs spread, only for me..."

he gulped and whimpered at the sight of you, as you spread you legs even further. he could feel the tightness in his pants become almost unbearable. he'd never been this aroused before in his entire life. but first, he needed a taste of you.

he slowly started leaving wet kisses over your thighs, getting closer and closer to your velvet folds. his hands traveled your entire body. your body, that felt as though it had been set on fire. he once again cupped one of your breasts and started flicking your nipples with his fingertips. you let yet another whimper escape your lips, needing him more than you've ever needed anyone.

you felt his hot breath against your wet love box and that was all it took to make you go insane.

"p-please..." you pleaded to the god.

he took your scent in, smelling the most mouth-watering aroma he ever got the chance to smell in all of his 1000 years.

"you don't have to ask me twice, my sweetness..." were his last words before delving in.

he placed his fingers upon your aching core, exploring all of your folds, he couldn't believe how wet you were.

"darling... you are dripping..."

he let his fingers trail for a few seconds, until they reached your entrance. he circled it with the tip of his finger as he finally placed his lips right on top of your sensitive button.

the sudden, unfamiliar sense of pleasure, completely took you by surprise as you yelped.

his tongue peaked through after a few kisses planted on your clitoris. it circled in the same motions his finger was making to your entrance. he was so soft, so cautious. but you could feel the heat in the bottom of your stomach growing darker, more demanding so you placed you hands on the top of your lover's head, brushing your fingers through his hair and slightly pushing his head down on your core.

loki got the message, as his circles became more passionate and as he started flicking his tongue aggressively at your core.

you felt your entire body tremble in desire as loki's finger plunged itself in between your folds, exploring your insides.

you were now moaning deliberately, wanting him to add digits. you thought you'd be more resistant, you thought it'd be a little painful, even but all you could feel was pleasure.

"more..." you pleaded.

as the words were still hanging from your lips, loki plunged yet another finger in, and this time, you did feel a little resistance but you didn't care. you wanted him. you wanted him so much.

his tongue was working wonders on your clit. you would think the man hadn't eaten in days at the sight of him. he was completely devouring you and you could feel the pleasure build up inside of you.

the mixture of his fingers pumping in and out of you, and his tongue flicking at your sensitive button, all of it was too much for you to handle. you felt something was coming.

"loki... l-loki... something... something's happening." you panted, in between moans.

he didn't stop. he knew what he was doing. he went harder, his tongue completely destroying you.

"i can feel it as well... your heat... your wetness... let yourself come undone, my sweet... for me" he whispered, panting, in between licks.

'come undone?' you thought. but before you knew it, you felt it. the highest peak of pleasure your body had ever felt in its life. you felt your thighs squeeze around the god's head, squashing him a little. you didn't want to hurt him but you couldn't contain yourself, as you screamed his name, not believing that amount of pleasure was even possible. it was electrifying. your whole body reacted, you were sweating. you put your hand over your mouth and bit down your finger to stop yourself from becoming a screaming mess, but it was already too late, as you rode your orgasm out to the last bit of pleasure you could conquer up.

"you taste even sweeter than i thought you would, sweet girl" he said, giving the nickname a whole different meaning.

you let out a huge sigh, slowly coming back to your senses. you looked up as loki got up from between your legs, his hand still caressing your folds slowly and placed a delicate kiss on your lips. you tasted what you thought was yourself. oddly enough, you didn't cringe, you hadn't found yourself to taste disgusting. it was... kind of erotic actually.

"loki i..." you started. you didn't know how to ask. "i want to..." you sighed out.

"say it, darling" he said, stroking your hair, still caressing in between your legs.

"i want to taste you... too" you finally let out.

you wanted to make him feel as good as he made you feel. you wanted to thank him in a way.

he was surprised. he didn't think you were ready.

"you made me feel so good today... i want to reciprocate the feeling... y'know..." you said, shyly.

loki's hand pulled at your hair to make you look at him.

"is that what you want?" he asked, firmly. he grabbed your hand and slowly pressed it yet again on his throbbing member, through his tightening pants.

he sighed heavily, still looking at you straight in the eyes.

you nodded, slowly. he smirked.

"then, get on your knees."

you obeyed.

you liked how he commanded you and guided you through all of your movements. you were nervous he wasn't going to enjoy, but the anticipated look on his face told you otherwise. also, the throbbing length in his pants.

you were now on your knees, on the floor, at the end of the bed and loki was sitting, his still clothed legs spread, inviting you in.

you started to slowly stroke his thigh, rubbing your hand up and down, each time getting closer to his private. you did the same thing with his other thigh, feeling the god getting impatient with your teasing.

you finally placed your hand over his member, giving it a small squeeze. you heard your lover grunt, at only your touch.

"you're eager" you stated, looking up at him. he gave you a smirk.

"less talking." he said, darkly.

you complied, massaging his bulge through his pants.

when you finally unzipped them, you heard your lover let out a sigh of relief. you wanted to bring them down to his ankles, but loki, being impatient, made them disappear in his green magic.

"hey. let me work." you said, in more of a joking way.

"i said... less talking" he repeated.

you noticed a small wet spot on his grey boxers. you bent down, without touching it, smelling it.

you felt the god squirm under you, eager to feel you around him.

you carefully, and slowly took his boxers down, letting his member spring free of its shackles, finally revealing itself to you.

he was huge. it was veiny, its tip was a dark pink, almost red, it was pale like the rest of his body. but most importantly, it was enormous.

"like the view, my love?" he asked for the second time that night.

you nodded your head enthusiastically. all you wanted was to get a taste.

you carefully approached your hand to the hot spot. the second your fingers reached his skin, loki whimpered. it was burning up, but it was so soft. you felt the veins under your fingertips, and suddenly it was like you knew exactly what to do. you carefully started stroking him and ran your thumb over the most sensitive part of his shaft, his frenulum, and heard him whimper once again.

"please" he pleaded, imitating your pleas from earlier.

"you don't have to tell me twice" you imitated as well.

you approched his tip to your lips and delicately gave him a soft kiss. his skin was so warm.

you continued giving him small pecks but you felt him get, yet again, impatient with your teasing.

"oh come on..." he pleaded.

you looked at him. sweat was dripping down his forehead.

you then flipped his cock over, back to his stomach to give yourself full access to the base of his member. you placed your tongue directly in between his balls and shaft and worked your way up to his tip, making sure you passed by his sensitive junction between his red bulb and the rest of his penis. directly after, you put his tip in your mouth and started bobbing your head back and forth, tasting the drops of pre-cum he deposited on your tongue.

you heard him moan, some cusses flew out of his mouth, he moaned mainly your name, or called you by all sorts of nicknames.

"oh my, oh my... you're doing so good... mmh... g-good girl..." he moaned out.

his words were able to bring back that heat at the bottom of your stomach. you slowly directed your hand in between your thighs and started stroking your own bundle of nerves. loki didn't seem to notice, too lost in the waves of pleasure you were giving him.

he was now moaning deliberately. he tried... he really tried, but he couldn't contain himself anymore, he grabbed your head, pulled you by your hair and pushed your head down to take more of his shaft. you awaited a gag or any sort of resistance on your part, really, but nothing came.

loki got up from where he was sitting, your head still enveloping his shaft and started moving back and forth, you being completely at his mercy. he was deliberately fucking your face, and you let him.

he moaned your name so many times you'd lost count. he became more and more agressive with each thrust until all of his shaft was buried down your throat. he held your head down for a few seconds, gripping at your hair, letting his cock sit in your mouth, until he finally pulled out, a strand of saliva escaping your lips. he was out of breath, but not as much as you.

"you feel so good, my love. you're doing amazing" he said, panting.

you gave him a few kitten licks, asking for more. he buried his cock again down your throat, pumping in and out. he was fucking your face as though it was a cunt, using your throat as a mere hole that was made to mold his shaft perfectly.

you weren't gagging which surprised you. you'd never tested your gag reflex, but obviously you didn't have any.

you felt him go faster and faster until he once again, suddenly stopped as your head was completely enveloping his shaft. but this time, he started grunting and moaning, louder, in more of an animalistic way, holding your head down, hard, as deep as he could go.

"i- i'm cumming, love" he grunted out.

suddenly, you could taste bitterness, saltiness explode in your mouth, and run down your throat. your first instinct was to spit it out, but your god kept your head in place, making you swallow. it felt never ending. he kept cumming and cumming. you thought the taste would repulse you, from what you had heard from friends and the internet, but you honestly didn't find it to be that disgusting.

he stayed in that same position, holding your head in place, for another ten to fifteen seconds after he came. you felt his cock twitch in your mouth and he finally removed himself.

you took a deep breath, considering you could finally breathe properly.

loki knelt down to your level. he looked at your face. fortunately, you weren't wearing makeup, so no makeup to ruin. your eyes were red, tears had run down your face, you had spit all over the sides of your face, and some of loki's cum had fallen out of the corners of your mouth. he wiped it with his thumb and took it up to your mouth.

you sucked his thumb dry, tasting him yet again.

he gave you a loving smile.

"mine." he simply said, in a soft manner.

he then kissed you in the most loving way he could, tasting himself on your lips.

he then backed away, looking you up and down, noticing your hand still wondering around in between your thighs. he smirked and locked eyes with you.

"i think we're gonna have to take care of that." he said, as he got up. he was now standing up while you were still on your knees. you noticed his cock was hard again, once it got to your eye level. how was that even possible? how could he be hard again this quick? you had to remind yourself he did have the stamina of a god. he handed you his hand for you to take, which you did.

he got you up and carefully placed his hands on the sides of your head and started stroking your hair.

"are you still sure you want to do this my love?" he asked.

you chuckled.

"after what we've done? i'm pretty sure there's no backing up now?"

he gave you a confused look.

"of course there is. i'm not gonna do anything you're not comfortable doing, sweetheart." he said.

you sighed at your poor choice of words.

"and i know that." you started. "but i'm ready. i want you... loki."

he smiled yet again. he didn't say a word. he just kissed you. it was a passionate kiss, like all of your others that night. his hands roamed around your body as if it was discovering it again for the first time.

taking you by surprise, he lifted you up, flipped you around and threw you on the bed. never had you been picked up before. you always thought you'd break the person's spine. but loki lifted you up so easily, you felt like a feather.

"you're mine" the god grunted, as he plunged on top of you. he spread your legs open, as far as he could and positioned himself right between them.

he reached down to your bundle of nerves and drew circles with his fingers like he did earlier. he wound up plunging his fingers inside you yet again, prepping you for what was about to replace them. you could feel his length harden even more against your thigh, as he did so.

you started whimpering, wanting more than just his digits to fill you.

your whimpers were like music to loki's ears. he loved hearing how much you longed for him. he loved seeing you squirm under him. he enjoyed feeling all powerful, having that much control over you.

"take me" you sighed out, looking at your lover straight in the eyes. you couldn't hold it in anymore. you needed him. you needed him inside you. now.

he smirked as he bent down, to leave a soft kiss on your forehead.

"tell me when you want to stop, my darling. use your words." he asked of you.

you nodded, agreeing to his words, whilst trying to spread your legs even further.

his fingers left your core, leaving you needy and wanting to feel him once more, but they were quickly replaced by what you knew was his tip. he started slowly moving back in forth in between your folds, teasing at your entrance.

he gave you a look, pleading for approval.

you slowly nodded, ready to take him in.

you felt his his bulb starting to peak inside of you. you winced, feeling a slight resistance.

he stopped. but you nodded again, asking for him to continue.

as he buried his shaft deeper in you, it started to really hurt. for real this time.

"ow, ow. stop." you asked. "but stay inside. just stay... stay like this. let me- let me adjust."

he listened to you.

"are you okay, my love?" he asked, still halfway inside of you.

you nodded again, breathing heavily. you knew you could do it. you wanted to.

"p-... proceed." you said.

he listened to you again, burying himself entirely in you. he let out a loud grunt. your walls had adjusted to the size of his member and it felt less painful.

your lover moaned again.

"you.. are so tight, oh my. you feel so good." he panted.

you smiled. you loved seeing him in this much pleasure. you loved the passionate, lustful look on his face, all of it was for you.

he started moving back and forth, slowly, being really careful of each and every one of your movements, analyzing if you wanted to continue or not.

the first few thrusts were painful but eventually the pain left and absolute ecstasy took its place.

loki noticed the change in you and decided to give his thrusts more power, barely able to contain himself. he pumped in and out of your aching core at a medium rate. he wanted to go faster, harder but he stayed careful.

but you... you wanted more. you started clawing at loki's back, bringing him closer to you and leaving red scratches all over his back. you kissed his neck, his torso, leaving him the same bruises he left you earlier, though yours weren't as agressive as his. yours were small, red, but his eventually became huge purple bruises. and you had them all over your body. he started leaving you some more, on your neck, your collarbone, imitating your movements.

"more..." you pleaded.

he smirked against your skin, left you yet another passionate kiss on your lips and with that, his thrusts became harder, more agressive, much faster. you felt as if he was trying to crawl inside of you.

you both started moaning and screaming each other's names at the top of your lungs. your lover got up, detaching his torso from yours, trying to find an angle where he could go deeper inside of you. you wanted him back, missing the heat of his body. you reached out to him with your arm, but he firmly grabbed it, stopping you in your tracks. you were surprised. he looked down at you, staring at you straight in the eyes. his eyes went dark. his hand that had stopped your movement, trailed up from your hand, to you elbow and up your arm, until it reached the crook between your shoulder and your neck. his thumb drew circles over your cheek, then your chin and finally on your throat. you didn't even have the time to realise but his hand had completely wrapped itself around your throat, choking you slightly. you could still breathe completely fine, but his hand held your head in space, as his thrusts became even harder, if that was even possible.

he started panting, completely losing himself in the moment.

he bent down again, still holding your throat in his hand. he grabbed you and forced your face to be centimetres from his.

"mine." he said in a deep, grunting voice.

that word was the one that completely sent you over the edge. you could feel your walls clench around his member, your were close. you needed your release.

"loki... i'm close." you tried sighing out.

he understood you perfectly. the hand he wasn't using to choke you found its way down between your legs and started playing agressively at your clit.

"let go, baby... let go" he panted.

you couldn't hold it in anymore. you let your orgasm take control of your entire body. your legs were shaking, your hips started grinding against loki's, your hands scratched at his back even deeper, your eyes were rolling back inside your head, and your mouth gaped wide open, letting all sorts of cusses fly out of your mouth.

as you rode out your orgasm, you knew loki was close as well. seeing you in this intense state, all because of him, sent him over the edge and he knew he couldn't hold on much longer.

you started grinding your hips even more agressively, trying to meet his.

"come on, baby..." you whispered in his ear, leaving all sorts of wet kisses and hickey's all over his body.

you ran your finger through his curls, pulling at his hair.

and that's when you knew. you felt his hand grasped at your throat even tighter, making you gasp for air. he stopped moving, buried deep inside of you.

"oh my fu..." he started, moaning loudly.

you had made some research about how it would be like to have someone cum inside of you. you found out most people couldn't feel it. but you did. you felt all of it. you felt a warmth completely invade your insides, it kept coming and coming, just like earlier but this time inside of you.

loki's hand was still wrapped around your throat, holding it firmly, but as his orgasm ended, he eventually loosened his grasp.

when he finally stopped coming, as he was still buried inside you, he finally looked up at you and left a wet kiss your lips.

"i love you" he said, out of breath.

"i love you too."

loki looked down and smirked, taking his hand off your throat.

"no... don't say it like that... don't say "too"... it sounds like you're just agreeing with me. say it for real..."

you scoffed a little, thinking his request to be a little ridiculous. but you understood. you ran your fingers through his raven locks, held his head between both your hands, making him look at you.

"i love you, loki... i love you." you said softly, staring into his ocean blue eyes.

he gave you a wide smile and kissed you once more. he gave you a kiss full of love and passion.

after your kiss, he slowly pulled out of you. you felt so full, a second ago, the absence of his shaft between your legs contrasted so much with the empiness you now felt.

loki bent down again between your thighs to watch his seed run out of you. it felt yet again, never ending, but loki watched attentively.

"what a beautiful sight... may i snap a picture?" he said, jokingly.

"shut up..." you said in the same tone.

he gave you one last lick to your core and licked his lips, not minding his cum, plastered over your folds.

"i'll get a towel..." he said, leaving one last peck on your lips.

"thank you, honey..." you thanked him softly.

as you layed, completely naked on your bed, you thought.

you no longer felt restrained in your own skin, not around him at least. he made you feel seen, loved, desirable. you hated your body a little bit less, now. you might even try eating in front of people! maybe... you and loki didn't just have sex that night. you made love. he didn't just take your virginity, he made you into a better, improved version of yourself.

you were never more in love with him than in that moment.

loki came back with a light pink towel. he rose your hips up in the air and deposited it under you. he used the other end of the towel to wipe his seed off you.

once you were clean, loki got back off the bed and put the towel back in the bathroom.

he joined you in bed and wrapped his arms around you.

you felt so good. better than you had in years. with him. you felt so loved.

you didn't want to move, but you remembered you had to pee after a sexual intercourse... you read it in a blog.

you nudged loki, trying to get off the bed, but loki held you back, making it impossible for you to move.

"don't... even think about it." he said firmly under his breath.

you chuckled.

"i'm gonna get a urinary tract infection... and it's gonna be on you." you said in an accusing manner.

"darling, i'm a god... i have super powers, you're not gonna get a... whatever sort of infection you're talking about."

you scoffed, nuzzling your nose in the crook of his neck, sighing heavily.

loki left a loving kiss on the top of your head and held you tighter.

"you're mine... all mine."

+++

word count: 7395.... comment if you liked it loveys!! what was your favourite part?

[hlizr50]

Update: The Raven and the Songbird

Chapter 8 (It's a long one, y'all)

A choice, a conversation, and a question

Read on AO3

Azriel’s body was perfect.

Anyone who disagreed was surely blind.

Gwyn had been watching him for the better part of half an hour, choosing to sit in silence when he hadn’t acknowledged her presence. There was no possible way he didn’t know she was there – he would have scented her at the very least. Azriel was one of the most accomplished warriors in the history of Prythian, after all, and no-one could ever enter his sphere without notice. She had only managed a handful of times, and she had a sneaking suspicion that his shadows had been responsible.

Those shadows were coiled tightly to their master tonight, looking like they might snap from even the slightest brush of a finger. They mirrored the tension that rippled over the shadowsinger’s bare back. Gwyn smirked to herself as she silently cursed the Illyrian for focusing his frustration solely on the post in front of him, facing away from her and cruelly limiting her ogling. He’d opted for punches and kicks, no doubt requiring impact and pain to relieve whatever it was that had weighed on him today. She would have quite enjoyed the sight of that gloriously elaborate eight-pointed star, appreciating how the sweat would bead and trickle down his spine or between the muscled ridges of his stomach.

Mother above, he was beautiful.

Both of the Illyrians in her life were impossibly tall and built of solid muscle. They were the definition of power. But Cassian and Azriel were so utterly different. The general was brute force, hulking muscle, arrogant. The spymaster, though… He was leaner, strength hidden underneath an unfair amount of grace for a male of his stature. Gwyn had seen him shirtless many times, but rarely did she have the chance to appreciate the vision that he truly was. She wanted to memorize the tangled strokes of the tattoos that waterfalled down his neck and over his shoulders. She marveled at the ease with which he moved, even with his long legs and arms. His wings were magnificent, even as silver ribbons of scars streamed over the thin skin. She’d heard Nesta, Cassian, and Emerie talk about wingspan and how it related to other parts. That wasn’t particularly important to her, but it had still made her blush.

And his hands.

She knew Azriel was determined to hide and hate them, just as much as she was to love them and prove to him how special they were. She nearly crumpled in tears every time she recalled the cruelty that had marked them, fire and torment melting the flesh as quickly as it could be woven back together. The story of his childhood had shattered her heart, and she was even more awed that he had somehow grown into someone so considerate, noble, and kind. Gwyn longed to hold those hands, to trace her thumbs over the mottled flesh and make him feel her adoration for them. But she wanted them to adore her, as well. To feel those graceful calloused fingers gliding over her skin…

She felt warmth coil deep in her belly as it crept into her cheeks. Gwyn blinked away the haze in her eyes and chided herself. There was no reason to think things like that – she shouldn’t get ahead of herself.

The priestess scowled as she saw blotches of red blossoming over the strips of cloth wrapped around his hands. Enough was enough. She pushed herself up off the stone and strode over to where the Illyrian continued to batter the post, shadows still taut around his rippling shoulders and incredible wings.

“What’s wrong?” she called, making sure he could hear her over the echoing thunder of his fists against the padded wood. Azriel paused but didn’t turn to face her.

“Nothing.” He squared his shoulders again, but she would not have it.

“You’re a liar, Shadowsinger.” He straightened but didn’t respond. So Gwyn continued. “You were tense during training this morning and you skipped dinner. And I can only assume you were here instead because, violent and powerful as you are, it would take you longer than the last half hour or so to beat your hands to a bloody pulp.” She crossed her arms, the billowing blue of her robes tucking under her wrists. Gwyn bore into his back with her eyes, willing him to turn around and face her. She’d be damned if she let him shut her out, not after things had been going so well. She could feel her heart beating in time with his measured breaths, those toned shoulders shimmering as they rose and fell in the moonlight. She was so entranced by his breathing that she jumped when he flared his wings.

He finally turned around. His shadows had loosened, if only slightly. But it was a start. Gwyn shot him a grin, daring him to tell her that she was wrong – to deny that something was eating at him.

“It appears I’m caught, then.” Azriel’s voice was quiet and measured. Most wouldn’t understand how it differed from his usual tone, but it set the priestess on edge. She looked into the dark gaze of the spymaster, and somehow the angles of his face had sharpened. “Interesting training attire.” Gwyn ignored the lightning that seared through her as his eyes swept over her body, even though she knew there wasn’t much to see thanks to those robes.

“I didn’t come here to train.” She rolled her eyes. The shadowsinger’s cold stare flickered for a moment, a crack in that practiced stoic expression.

“Then why –“

“I came out here to make sure you were alright, Azriel.” Cauldron, he could be so dense. She cocked her head, watching his face relax as her words sank into him. And she might have heaved a relieved sigh as his shadows started twirling like candle smoke and hazel gleamed back at her in his widened eyes. Satisfied that she had been able to reach through his veil of detachment she strode toward him. Gwyn did not move her eyes from his, even as she stopped in front of him and pulled at one of his battered hands. She cradled it in both of hers, allowing her fingertips to caress the whorls of skin and blood-soaked rags. “Why don’t we go inside. I’ll take care of these and you can tell me what’s bothering you.” She kept her hold on him gentle, though she couldn’t help but tighten her fingers around his for fear that he might pull away. The priestess studied his tanned face, trying desperately to read any hint of where his silence was leading them. The spymaster mask had slipped, but aside from the pooling light in his hazel gaze and the easy wafting of the shadows there was no breath of what he was thinking.

Gwyn lowered her gaze, frustrated that he was still so reserved. But she would not give up – that was not her way. So she sighed as contentedly as she could muster and focused on his hand. She drew her fingers softly over his knuckles, surely cracked and stinging under the crimson stains she traced. Her fingers followed the paler lines of scars to the end of one finger, then the next, until she had attended to every piece of exposed skin she could find. Then she folded his fingers into his palm and raised his hand to her chest. She dared a glance up at him and found it difficult not to cower away from the intensity in his visage – burning liquid pools of hazel seemed to pierce straight into her soul. But she gathered her courage – from where she did not know – and stared back, lowering her chin and brushing her lips over his knuckles. Gwyn felt his intake of breath, even though his lips barely parted and his face betrayed nothing. The air around them grew thin and taut and she waited, once again, for him to pull away.

When his hand squeezed one of hers, she knew her cheeks had flushed a deep crimson. Mother, she was sure her face looked giddy with child-like hope, but she smiled up at that perfect face when she squeezed back. She earned a soft crooked grin in return.

“Lead the way, priestess.”

~~~

Azriel kept his wings tucked close as he was silently led through the house. It had not gone unnoticed by him that Gwyn had not released his mangled hand, choosing to keep those long fingers of moonlight tangled loosely with his own. He couldn’t quell the warmth that spread through him, and he couldn’t stop shadowy tendrils from circling down his arm and looping around the contact. If the priestess noticed she didn’t show it as she pushed open the door to the library.

“The library?” He raised his eyebrows, but his question was soft. He had assumed she would guide him to his room, but realized as soon as he’d voiced his surprise that it was a ridiculous assumption to make. Being alone together in his room would feel extremely intimate, and she was likely not ready for that.

“Is that alright?” Gwyn asked him as she turned to him with that lovely hand still grasping his own. “We could have gone to your room, but I know your privacy and space are important to you. I didn’t want to intrude on that.” Her head cocked as she blinked toward the ceiling, freckled nose scrunching in thought. Azriel felt the corner of his mouth quirk, unable to suppress his fondness for how expressive her features were. The warmth inside him took root as her words registered. She’d been thinking of him. Of his comfort and not her own. Irreverent and spontaneous as she was, her consideration for those she cared for was thorough and thoughtful. As surprising as she always was with her candor, Azriel was floored by the depth of her compassion.

“Actually, I’m not even sure I know where your room is so,” she shrugged and tugged him over to the settee, “the library will have to do. Now sit.” The spymaster dropped onto the cushions as if his body were unable to resist her command for even a moment, though she let go of him when he did so. The absence of her gentle touch left him aching and he looked up at her gleaming teal eyes. “I need some things to tend to your hands. Promise you won’t leave?” His heart pinched at the earnest plea as he tried to understand the emotions churning in that ocean-deep gaze.

“You have my word, Gwyn.” He hadn’t meant for his voice to be so rough, thick with other promises he wanted the priestess to ask of him. But he was inwardly smug as he watched the blush stain her freckle-painted cheeks.

“I’ll be right back,” she whispered and scurried out into the hallway.

Azriel allowed himself a chuckle at her reaction, running a hand through his dark locks. Then his mirth settled, a weight in his gut replacing the contentment he had felt only seconds before. He didn’t want to talk to anyone about his distaste for Illyria, least of all Gwyn. He didn’t want to see her eyes darken from his own sorrow, and he couldn’t bear for her to realize that just by being Illyrian he was a potential danger to her – a monster.

But, Mother above, this was Gwyn. He’d promised that he wouldn’t pull away, that he wouldn’t decide how she would react instead of giving her a chance. And somehow that beautiful warrior would not see the same things he did. Something inside him just felt it. So he would be brave and he would lay himself bare to her. Again. And he knew, terrifying as it was, that he would do it over and over – she need only pin him with that hopeful, caring gaze.

A clinkinterrupted his reverie, and he saw a porcelain bowl sitting on the coffee table, the water still rippling from its sudden appearance – no doubt a request to the house from Gwyn. As if on cue Azriel shifted his attention to the door and found the lovely copper-haired priestess pulling it closed behind her, a basket in her hands. He allowed himself a grin and let his gaze follow her as she crossed the room and placed the basket next to the bowl of water. Then she hiked up the waterfalls of blue robes and sat – somewhat unceremoniously – facing him on the couch. She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, surveying her supplies and formulating her strategy, and the shadowsinger could feel the heat coil low in his stomach at the sight. It was a small mercy that she gestured for his hand and released that lip from her teeth.

With less trepidation than he expected, Azriel placed his scarred hand in Gwyn’s alabaster grip, but kept his focus planted on where they touched. Her long fingers were nimble as they worked against knots to unwrap the crimson-stained rags. As he might have expected, the wounds had already closed, his Illyrian blood providing swift healing. When the priestess scowled playfully, nose scrunched, he couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

“I suspect I might not have required your medical expertise, Berdara.” But the priestess just shrugged a shoulder, unaffected by the turn of events.

“It was only an excuse to get you to stop and talk to me,” Gwyn admitted before looking up at him, beaming that her ruse had succeeded. “So I’ll wash off the blood and make sure everything is fine. And you’ll start talking.”

Azriel just stared at her for a moment, shadows flaring in his periphery at her unabashed statement. Her hair shone like flames in the fae light as it fell over her shoulders, her focus firmly on his hand. She had dipped a cloth in the water bowl and started dragging it gently across his knuckles, cleaning the red stains from his mottled skin.

“I’m waiting, Shadowsinger,” she cooed.

“I have to go to Illyria. Tomorrow. With Cassian and Rhys,” Azriel sighed, and had his hand been free he might have flopped dramatically into the back of the settee. When the priestess remained silent he whispered venomously. “I hate it there.” Gwyn still didn’t look back up at him, and he wondered if she did that purposefully, as well, so as not to make him feel more pressure than the anxiety that already gnawed into his chest.

“You don’t lead the armies. Why do you have to go?”

Cauldron, if she only knew how many times he’d asked the same damned question.

“For… status checks such as these my primary purpose is intimidation.” He let his eyes wander over the rainbows of book spines filling the shelves on the end wall, once-vibrant hues dulled by time and dust. “We present a united front, the leadership of the Night Court and their forces.” Azriel felt the warm cloth on his hand pause and he turned his attention back to the Valkyrie who now looked up at him, head tilted in curiosity.

“So you, Cassian, and the High Lord?”

Azriel nodded. “I believe the High Lady will be joining us, as well. Sometimes Mor accompanies us, as a representative of the Hewn City. We’ve tried a few different strategies regarding who makes these visits.” He couldn’t hide the contempt in his words. “But we’ve found a strong female presence is… rarely helpful. Even though it is proof of the point that Rhys and Cassian are trying to make.”

“Rhys and Cassian, but not you?” The shadowsinger inwardly cringed at the implication that he may not share his brothers’ beliefs about the value and potential of Illyrian females, but the priestess before him held no judgment in the depth of those teal pools. Azriel ran his free hand through his hair.

“My brothers have been quite insistent that Illyrian females have the opportunity to train, should they choose, as well as putting a stop to some of their more barbaric traditions and practices.” He stifled a gasp as Gwyn’s fingers traced over his now-clean knuckles, examining them for any remaining injury. Apparently satisfied, she set that hand in his lap before lifting her gaze.

“But you don’t include yourself in that effort?” Her eyes narrowed, but her lips lifted in a wry grin. “I know firsthand that you also believe that females should be trained and can be capable in battle –“

“More than capable, priestess, as you have proven.”

Gwyn’s smile widened. “So why is it that you separate yourself from them?”

“Of course I share their beliefs, and I would love nothing more for wing clipping to be a figment of a dead past and for camp leaders to stop insisting that weapons must be buried once females touch them. I just don’t have faith that the Illyrians will ever change.” He loved his brothers. They were the best males he’d ever known, their hearts and minds full of so much hope. But Illyria would always be a cesspool of brutality and carnage.

“You believe so little in their potential?” Gwyn’s face had softened, no lines crinkling her nose or the corners of her eyes, swirling orbs of concern. His shadows held tight to him, unmoving with his bitterness. Not a single tendril reached for the warrior who gingerly grasped his other hand and pulled it into her lap. “You and Cassian and the High Lord are all Illyrian, and the three of you have grown into quite exemplary males.” After that soft statement she turned her attention to the bloody wraps, sighing contentedly. He watched the top of her copper-tressed head.

“Cassian and Rhysand are the best of us. I’m not –“

“Azriel.”

His throat bobbed at the quiet reprimand in her voice. Gwyn’s grip on his hand had tightened considerably and the rest of her body had tensed. Silence thickened the air and it fell over him like a blanket, urging the shadows closer to him, to safety. When she looked up at him again his mouth nearly fell open at the intensity of her expression.

“Why do you do that?” He was taken aback by the roughness in her voice, usually a sweet, soothing song. “You are one of them. You are. Their hearts and souls are no more pure and precious than yours. And even if we spoke only of you, what about being Illyrian would damn you so?”

The shadowsinger gaped, and Gwyn’s bright eyes challenged him to prove her wrong. Just like he knew she would. But, no matter how many times she proved to him the depth of her empathy and understanding, he still felt the pang of shock simmer through him. His fingers tingled in her grasp.

“Tell me, Azriel,” she whispered her near-silent plea.

“Gwyn, you know how the Illyrians are. You’ve seen it with your own eyes and experienced it.” Azriel took a breath and shifted his gaze to their hands, still entwined in her lap. “Illyrians are bred to be brutal in all areas of their lives, violent and entitled and possessive and selfish. They take what they want without thought or regret. They… indulge themselves freely, taking females for their own pleasure with or without consent. And that is the heritage I share. I was created there, just like the other brutes, to be a monster. Powerful, yes, and lucky as fuck to have found myself under the care of Rhysand’s mother. But a monster, nonetheless.”

The spymaster kept his lidded attention on his bloodied hand and Gwyn’s delicate pale fingers tightened impossibly further around it. He focused on the contrasts – his darkened, ruined skin under the freckle-spattered moonstone of hers; her two hands unable to wrap completely around his much larger one.

“You’re not a monster. You’re not a brute. And no matter what happens, I will always be here to remind you of that.” Azriel closed his eyes, shuddering at her conviction. He felt her hands moving again but kept his eyes closed, unsure of how to continue. He felt the wet cloth against his skin and knew his priestess had resumed her ministrations, washing away the stains of his frustration and contempt.

Minutes passed in silence as he focused on the dampness against his skin and the soft, comforting breaths of the incredible female in front of him. Then the cloth was gone, his fingers guided to fold around her hand, and then he felt two fingers lifting his chin. Azriel took a breath to gather his courage and lifted his gaze, finding full lips in a soft smile, constellations of freckles dusting pink cheeks, and the most incredible, impossibly expressive teal eyes shining with emotion. The fingers left his chin but he barely noticed, lost in that ocean.

“When you go to Illyria, I want you to remember what I’m about to say.” He gave a nod when she paused, waiting for him. “Nobody is just one thing, Azriel. Being Illyrian does not doom you to a life of committing atrocities and causing pain. There is hope there. Remember Balthazar? He aided Nesta and Emerie during the Blood Rite. I know there aren’t many, but they are there. Think of Cassian and Rhysand, who you say are the best of males. They have far outshone the picture of damnation that you’ve painted.” Gwyn squeezed his hand and he squeezed back. His eyes must have been playing tricks on him, as he swore he saw a fine line of silver on her lower lashes.

“But what I really want you to think about is you. You’ve shared your history with me, Azriel. You have experienced pain and loneliness and darkness greater than most can even imagine, and your power is some of the greatest that Prythian has ever known. You had every reason and every opportunity to become a monster. If anyone could have become the most fearsome, brutal male it could have easily been you. But you didn’t.” Azriel felt pinpricks in his eyes, and the way the priestess smiled at him… that light seemed to breach his very soul. “You are here, a dedicated servant to your court. You do the things you must, to protect your family and your home. You are thoughtful and kind and more generous than you probably realize. You are not a monster, but you areIllyrian. And you are sitting here with me, holding my hand. Being Illyrian has not defined who you are. And there are likely others out there who are the same. Try to remember that.”

Azriel let out a disbelieving huff, but he felt his lips curl into the slightest grin. This warrior priestess was going to be the death of him – a certain death of broken-down walls and encouragement and fierce rebuttal of the self-loathing that had been with him far longer than he could truly remember. It was uncomfortable, and he almost didn’t know who he would be without it. But the way Gwyn looked at him, the way she saw him. Maybe he could find himself there.

“Well,” she patted his hand and gave it back to him. “Your wounds are healed, the blood is gone, and hopefully now you can get some rest.” She hopped up and began cleaning up her rags and water, only to give a soft ‘squeak’ as the house vanished them away. He snickered, earning a withering glare, which only made him laugh harder.

“I’m going to bed,” she huffed, sticking out her tongue at him before stalking to the door. Azriel rose quickly to stop her.

“Gwyn,” he called, halting her at the door. She turned to look at him, an expectant eyebrow raised. He reached for the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. “Thank you. For listening. And… and for your encouraging words.” Watching her expression change was like magic, like watching the sun transform the sky as it breached the horizon. The irreverence and playfulness fell away, replaced with that delicate gentle smile and burning compassion in her ocean depths.

“Thank you, Azriel. For trusting me. I am so grateful that you didn’t pull away from me.” She paused before turning back to the door. “Be safe, Shadowsinger.” And then she was gone.

Azriel just stared at the empty doorway, confounded and delighted and… awestruck. And there was nobody to hear his quiet vow when he finally spoke.

“Anything for you, Berdara.”

~~~

He was all but running down the ramp to one of the lower levels of the library. His long legs loped, carrying him closer to his goal – the sweet voice echoing a lilting melody through the stacks. Azriel kept his wings tucked close, knowing that if he unfurled them even a little he may be tempted to fly.

He was sure Clotho and the other priestesses would not appreciate such brazenness.

He didn’t think he would ever describe a visit to Illyria as pleasant, but even he couldn’t deny the optimism that had somehow permeated his soul. It had helped him open his eyes beyond his own bitterness. She had helped him. Of course he had been every bit the feared spymaster that he was required to be, but he had surprised Rhys and Cassian when he had joined them for every meeting and observation, choosing to utilize those few moments of downtime to execute his more covert tasks. They were to debrief immediately with the rest of the Inner Circle – given only enough time to wash before they were required at the River House. But as soon as he had smelled the air of Velaris all he could think about was the lovely Valkyrie priestess who seemed to be a balm to his scars.

He was breathing hard when he spotted her, shadows flitting at the enchanting picture before him.

“Gwyn.”

Her singing stopped as her head whipped to face him, face splitting into the brightest smile. “Shadowsinger! Welcome home!” If their relationship were different – if it were further along – he might have run to her, gathered her up and swung her around in his arms. Gods knew he wanted to. But he had to keep himself in check, at least for now. So he settled for a grin and walked briskly toward her. Her eyes darkened in question. “Do you need something? When did you get back?”

“A few minutes ago. I don’t have much time – we’re supposed to go debrief at the River House with Amren and Mor. But I do need something.” Gwyn’s smile had softened but she giggled.

“Alright, well I’ll do whatever I can –“

Her voice halted when she noticed that Azriel had extended his hands to her in silent question. He could never just grab her, but he prayed to the Cauldron, the Mother, to all the gods above that she would take his scarred hands in hers. Confusion fluttered over her features, but he grinned, hoping she was encouraged. He released the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding when she cautiously lifted those robed arms, placing her palms in his open ones.

“Az?”

“I do need something. I need to ask you… if you would join me for dinner tomorrow?” For once he could be smug, seeing the surprise light in her eyes and knowing this wasn’t what she expected. He was emboldened. By her. So he brushed his thumbs over her knuckles as he continued. “I know it’s only been a few weeks. And I’m sure I haven’t done nearly enough to prove myself, but I just –“

“Yes.”

His eyes had to be wide as saucers, and his breath seemed to have escaped his chest. But he didn’t need it. Not when Gwyneth Berdara, hands still safe in his own, smiled at him that way – corners of her eyes crinkling above flushing cheeks.

“You came straight here – knowing you were needed immediately by the High Lord – just to ask me to dinner?” Gwyn snickered but it caught in her throat, betraying emotions that stormed in her beautiful eyes. He released one of her hands, only to grasp the other with his scarred fingers.

“Yes,” he breathed, lifting that pale hand and brushing his lips lightly over the soft skin of her fingers. A shadow twirled down his arm and danced where they touched, but Azriel’s focus was pinned to her face. He was relieved to see no sign of discomfort, but a furious blush had painted her cheeks and the points of her ears. And he chuckled. She could not be more lovely. “I want to see what comes next, Berdara.” She shook her head.

“We need to work on your priorities, Shadowsinger.” She scrunched her nose and then gave him an easy shove with their tangled hands. “Go, you’re going to be late.” He kept ahold of her, jerking her forward lightly. Smirking, he kissed her knuckles again before letting her go.

“I’ll see you in the morning, priestess. I hope you haven’t been slacking in my absence.” Azriel winked at her – Mother above the things she made him do – and turned on his heel, moving much more slowly to leave than he had to find her.

“You’re going to wish we had!” she threatened. And he laughed, throwing his head back, reveling in the joy he felt. Whatever was next, he was ready to face it. And he wanted to face it with Gwyneth Berdara.

Tag List: @trashforazriel @tealnymph24 @secretlovelybeauty @meher-sumedha @imsointobooks @flora-shadowshine @positivewitch @tanvee1231 @imwritingthesewords @camreadsum @vikingmagic33 @katiebellf @shisingh @gwynrielsupremacist @sagureads @deedz-thrillerkilller16 @sv0430

[trensu]

I had a thought about a vaguely Cupid-and-Psyche inspired crack!fic where Elias is a god of Love

(Jon: don't you mean Emotional Manipulation?

Elias: you say to-may-to, i say to-mah-to

Jon: ... I say to-mah-to, I'm not American, what does this have to do with anything?)

Jon is obviously Cupid. Elias took a shine to him and made him immortal against his will and keeps him as his servant or smth. Idk Elias is a douchebag, okay? ANYWAY, Elias is also a petty bitch and so he gave Jon Love arrows

(Jon: it's mind control.

Elias: they inspire passion, Jon. Just bc you don't experience it, doesn't mean--

Jon: No. Me being ace has nothing to do with it. They're mind control arrows. These people wouldn't have done all that if they weren't being influenced.

Elias: you have no romance in your soul

Jon: ...i find your interpretation of love and romance extremely suspect.)

Whenever Elias feels jealous or neglected or just plain bored tbh, he sends Jon out with to shoot whoever's caught his ire with one of those love arrows and has them make fools of themselves. Jon does it (he's bound to Elias for handwavey reasons so he can't really disobey) and it usually gets him in trouble. It's how he's gotten all those scars. (Jane Prentiss falling in love with worms and attacking Jon with them when he accidentally stepped on one while trying to make an exit was pretty tame in comparison to Jude Perry's reaction when she realized Jon struck Agnes with an arrow so she'd fall for some no-name mortal boy).

Such is Jon's life. Being immortal is not all it's cracked up to be when you can get injured and scarred. So when Elias started muttering about Peter's wandering eye, Jon knew it was only a matter of time before he'd send him out with those arrows again.

Peter, apparently, had been showing too much interest in a mortal boy named Martin, whose Loneliness tasted as bittersweet as dark chocolate (or so Peter claimed as he boasted during his dinner with Elias while Jon slowly sunk further into his chair the more irritated Elias's scowl grew).

"make him fall in love with something hideous and embarrassing," Elias had seethed at him, practically throwing the quiver at his head. At least two of the arrows pricked him so he was quite grateful that he was immune to their mind control (Elias: don't be ridiculous, Jon. Having you susceptible to the magic you're tasked to handle would be a stupid move on my part. You could get compromised and be completely useless to me!)

Grumbling, Jon set out to track down the mortal boy. He was not prepared for the the way the sunlight glinted off of Martin's light hair or his warm smile. He was not prepared for the twinge he felt in his heart when Martin's pale eyes glimmered with tears after receiving his mother's harsh words (the pain, worryingly, felt all too similar to the slice of the arrows he aimed at people).

He didn't want to shoot Martin with one of the mind control arrows. He wanted Martin to be happy. So he persuades his good friend Daisy to get her gf Basira to fake a prophecy. To her credit, she did a fantastic job delivering a fake prophecy. But there was some sort of miscommunication (or Martin's mother deliberately misunderstood; it could go either way). Instead of telling Martin's mother to marry off her son to a kind and handsome man with a gentle heart in order to avoid the wrath of the gods, the prophecy was somehow interpreted as sacrificing Martin's hand in marriage to some sort of hideous beast that lived at the peak of a nearby and treacherous mountain.

(Jon: how did she get that idea from your prophecy? what exactly did you tell her???

Basira: i can't fake a prophecy, Jon. and i'm not telling you what the prophecy was

Jon: What?? Why not???

Basira: it would violate the oracle-client confidentiality clause on the consent form we have them sign prior to a reading)

Jon was irritated by how quickly and eagerly Martin's mother was to dress up her son and dump him on the mountain. He was tempted to use the arrows on her, instead, but he figured Martin would be upset if something happened to his mother so he refrained. Jon fretted as Martin started his slow procession up the mountain. Martin wasn't made to endure such a harsh environment, and even if he had, he shouldn't have to!! Martin deserves to be loved and treated well and get given all the good things life could offer!!

So Jon constructs a luxurious enchanted castle using godly magic and more favors than he probably should've called in. He puts big obvious signage to Martin knew it would be his castle provided by his non-existent monster spouse.

(Daisy: he's gonna get suspicious when his monster spouse doesn't show up. he'll probably leave and try to find it. he seems like the self-sacrificing type and you know how those get.

Jon: i have a plan

Daisy: .... is this like all your other plans?

Jon: shut up, daisy)

So Jon pretends to be the hideous monster spouse Martin was expecting. Sort of. He only visits after dark, and informs Martin that he can not bring light into the room for if he sees his visage he'd be cursed (or something; Jon came up with something on the fly and was definitely not suave about it but Martin complied and that's all that mattered). He spends his nights with Martin, telling him stories and meekly asking permission to pet his hair and hold his hand while doing his best to ignore the pounding of his heart and the heat on his cheeks whenever Martin softly says yes. He didn't say yes the first time Jon asked, and Jon skittered away from where he had been creeping closer. He respected Martin's boundaries (he isn't Elias, after all) but as he and Martin spent more time together, Martin became less guarded and began to allow Jon close.

It got to the point where they would cuddle in bed and Jon was so content in Martin's arms that he occasionally dozed with him. Everything was great and Martin seemed genuinely happy to spend his days in the castle learning new hobbies and such while spending his nights with someone he couldn't see. Until one day Martin asked if he could have his mother visit. Jon wanted to say no, but the hesitant way Martin asked tasted too much of fear of rejection for Jon to deny him.

(Daisy: why do I have to guide her here?

Jon: bc you're my friend and if you don't Martin will be sad which means I'll be sad and you'll have to listen to me cry about it and you hate that

Daisy: damn it jon)

And because martin's mother is awful and bitter and spiteful, she tells Martin he should find out what his "captor" looked like. his spouse was a monster, after all, he should know what he's dealing with so he could defend himself and her if it should decide to attack them. so one night, shortly after his mother left, he waits until Jon has dozed off before quietly lighting a candle.

Jon wakes when he feels hot wax drip onto him and sees Martin staring a him with a shocked expression. Jon realizes what happened and flees in a panic. He knows what he looks like; short and skinny an riddled with scars of all kinds. Ofc Martin would be disgusted by him. He ends up licking his wounds at Elias's.

(Elias: my poor delicate darling precious boy

Jon: really, Elias?

Elias: can't a father worry about his child??

Jon: you're not my father!! you kidnapped me and immortalized me against my will!

Elias: details, details. anyway, you can stay here until you recover from your grievous injuries. byyyyee!

Jon: where are you going? elias? why's the door locked? elias?? LET ME OUT, YOU POMPOUS ASS)

When Jon recovers and finally manages to escape, he finds out that Martin had been trying to find him but Elias had given him impossible tasks to prove he's worthy of him. Thankfully, Daisy, Georgie and Basira all helped him out, much to elias's displeasure. Since Martin completed the tasks, Jon was able to reunite with him and they lived happily ever after~!

[sylverstorms]

Donna x Elena ----From Winter to Spring

This is a commission written for the lovely @saltwatereulogies and I cannot thank you enough for all your support! I hope you enjoy the story :)

She doesn’t know how she escaped that nightmarish inferno. How she still draws breath. Why her body keeps running despite its condition and despite the fact that she has lost everything.

The village is gone. Everyone she knew is either dead or a monster. She watched her own father growl like a beast and cleave a woman in half, then soon after wail out her name and succumb to the flames swallowing up the building. There is nothing left. There is nothing left for her.

Why? Elena wonders. A trail of blood marks her path through the snow, towards the unknown. Why still fight?

It will be easier to surrender to the agonizing burns, to the open gashes and wood splinters stuck in her skin. It will be far, far simpler to stop pressuring her rattling lungs to provide oxygen and fall into the snow, instead. It looks… peaceful. Soft. Pure.

It will welcome her to a quiet death, she thinks, so she may join her friends and her father.

Her father. The man who had never reached his hand out to help her when she fell –either on the fields or when she tripped over hardships— yet had always been there in his own stubborn, strict way, telling her to pick herself up.

“I didn’t raise no quitter.”

Ah, is that why.

Perhaps part of her feels it owes it to him to try. She did miraculously survive the fiery wreckage she’d initially thought would be her grave. But… the odds just aren’t with her.

Elena is only human. She’s lost too much blood, been through too much punishment. Her vision is growing blurrier by the second, her legs more sluggish. When she steps on grass instead of snow, she believes her mind is now playing tricks on her, too.

Something smells sweet, like wildflowers.

That is the last thing Elena is aware of, before she drops to her knees and blacks out.

-

-

When she blinks her eyes open, she is… confused.

She never thought heaven nor hell would have a wooden ceiling. She wouldn’t have guessed pain follows one into the afterlife, either, yet there she is, prone and throbbing with every weak breath on a bed too comfortable to be her own.

Unless…

Unless she’s not dead. Unless, against all odds, she survived a second time only to suffer some more. Elena wants to cry. What cruel game is the universe playing with her? The luck she never had in life is suddenly gracing her in extreme bursts now that she doesn’twant it.

“She’s awakeeee!” an overly excited voice exclaims somewhere around the room. Elena is too dizzy to tell.

“Shh.” A second presence makes itself known, calming the first.

“Who…” Who are you, Elena tries to say, but the words never make it past her dry throat.

Heels tap against the floor, until a black-clad figure comes to peer down at her. Elena expected to see the face of her savior, yet all she sees is a ghost, its visage hidden behind a mourning veil. The image is jarring; it sends her heartbeat skyrocketing, which doesn’t help her condition.

Oh, Lord, Oh, Lord what… Elena wants to tell herself she’s dreaming. It isn’t real, none of this is real—

Until a doll jumps into the edge of her bed and says something she doesn’t hear over the sound of her hoarse scream.

The ghost flinches backwards as the world turns dark once more.

-

-

The second time she opens her eyes, hours or days later, the pain has subsided somewhat.

Elena can feel her body, at least. All the wounded parts are carefully wrapped in gauzes and all her burns are covered by a soothing salve. Her lungs no longer hiss when she inhales, so long as she does so slowly, evenly.

That, of course, is not so easy to do when she turns to her left and sees the ghost sitting there, an open book in her lap. The veil is still on, obscuring her features, but Elena takes note of her fingers as they cradle the spine of the tome, long and pale, manicured black.

Appearances aside, there is a certain calm about her that doesn’t feel threatening.

“I… I’m not hallucinating, am I?” she whispers, not trusting her voice to go any higher.

The mystery woman tenses as though her voice has startled her. “…No.” she eventually replies. Her voice is quiet, like the rest of her.

“Did… you save me…?” A single nod is all she gets in return. Her company doesn’t seem very comfortable speaking, but Elena has questions that she needs answered. “Where am I?”

“The Beneviento estate.”

Elena would gasp if she could. I made it that far? And this woman… is she really Donna Beneviento? Her father told her all she needed to know about the four Lords residing at the outskirts of the village. He had also told her to avoid them at all costs.

“Um. I’m Elena—” A cough cuts her off. The sudden motion causes every injury across her body to burn.

“…I know.”

She is too much pain, in that moment, to ask how Donna knows.

-

-

In the following days, Elena comes to accept a few things that would have normally made her question her sanity;

The doll is alive. Her name is Angie and she is Donna’s friend. Donna is the adopted daughter of Mother Miranda, who, upon the former’s request, has given her permission for Elena to remain in the mansion. When she asked what would have happened had she denied, the doll only sing-songed that she doesn’t really want to know.

It still plagues her mind, probably because she has far too much time to think and this is the only thing she can focus on, lest she starts crying over and over again.

When Donna comes to change her bandages, it is a relief.

The woman sits at the edge of her bed, at the absolute maximum distance. Elena slowly brings her body to a semi-reclining position to assist. Angie hops on the bed and pulls the covers to the side… and that is when they arrive to a standstill. Donna doesn’t move, Elena doesn’t know what to do.

“Um. May I?” the veiled woman motions with her –admittedly very elegant— hands. It’s… endearing, how she approaches the subject of touching her.

Elena nods and tries to be a good patient for her. Tries being the key word. When she’s not fighting for her life, she is not nearly as brave in the face of pain. Her teeth are gritted as Donna’s cool hands unwrap the gauzes at her right arm, her eyes closed, breath held.

“…Am I hurting you?” Donna asks, quiet as ever.

“No.” Elena forces herself to exhale. “No, you’re… very gentle.”

Donna nods and continues with the same measured movements. Elena doesn’t want to look at her wounds, afraid of what she’ll find there, so she turns to the veiled visage of her companion. She wishes she could see her face. Wonders what she may look like, what flaw she’s trying to hide.

Until a bandage catches on a particularly bad burn and Elena cries out.

Her whole body jumps—

Donna’s hands fly to her shoulders, keeping her steady with surprising strength, yet she steps away the very next second as though she’s been scorched.

Elena bites her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. There you go, making her uncomfortable…

Angie takes over for a while, also quite precise. Elena peeks down to realize she isn’t in as terrible a condition as she may have imagined. Scars will be left, no doubt, but she will probably heal well enough.

Then the last difficult spot comes up. She knows it when Angie warns: “You need to stay still here.”

“No, no wait!” Elena pleads. “I—I can’t.” I can’t, I can’t deal with this again, not again—

But Donna sits back next to her and her mere presence calms her down. “You are very strong, Elena. This is the last one.” she says.

“Hold me down.” Elena requests.

Donna doesn’t seem to like the idea. Still, she slowly brings her hand back over the uninjured part of Elena’s shoulder. “It’ll be alright.” she whispers.

“On three.” Angie says. “One… Two…”

She pulls the bandage on two and Elena would jump high enough to burst through the ceiling if it wasn’t for Donna. When the agony subsidies she realizes she’s sobbing helplessly, clutching at the dollmaker’s sleeves for dear life.

“Shh, I’m sorry, it’s over now. It’s over.” Donna’s slender fingers comb through her unruly hair.

The brunette closes her eyes and lets her head drop back down into her pillow, but she doesn’t let go of the dollmaker right away. She smells like the flowers outside her house,she thinks.

She feels like a safe space, steady, in a world that’s broken and tilted for Elena.

-

-

Gradually, Donna talks to her more. Gradually, Elena tests her body’s limits until she is strong enough to walk around the house on her own.

Angie is with her, most of the time, but she knows it’s less a security measure and more one for her safety. Her mental connection to Donna is something Elena cannot grasp nor understand, but she tries to.

The first time she manages to get to the living room, Elena stops and stares at the painting of Donna adorning the wall opposite her.

“…is that her?” she asks Angie.

“Of course!” the doll replies excitedly. “I am so proud of that one, the artist did a great job! Mistress Donna looks splendid, but it is me who steals the show!”

Elena can’t look away from the canvas. Why is she so familiar…? “Is that what she looks like?”

“Well, excluding a scar she wishes to hide. Kind of like my face. We match.” Angie answers, giving her version of a grin.

For the rest of the day, Elena sneaks glances at Donna, then the painting. It isn’t proper, she knows, but she’s curious. And… surely, no scar is enough to justify hiding that cute face from the world?

-

-

Weeks pass. Elena has healed well and she owes it all to Donna.

The two of them have grown closer in the time the former’s injuries have forced them together, close enough to have tea in the mornings and brief chats over common interests throughout the day.

When the weather grows a tad warmer, Elena asks the dollmaker to take a stroll with her outside. She sees the decorated graves, of course, but she knows better than to ask. She doesn’t want their time to be poisoned by grief. The scars of losing loved ones run deep, she knows this too well and they never really heal.

The two of them are basking in comfortable silence for a while, until a thought that feels impossible not to be voiced strikes Elena.

“Donna.” she speaks.

“Hm?”

“When I first woke up and I told you my name… you said ‘I know’.”

“…yes.”

“I’m sure we’ve never met before…?” Elena stops and turns to face her companion. Donna mirrors her.

“How certain are you?” she asks. Upon Elena’s obvious confusion, she elaborates; “As a child, I used to visit the village with my father. In one of those visits, some of the kids made fun of my scar. A boy, especially, was saying some very mean things.”

Elena starts to recall one such incident in the blurry images of her childhood.

“You stopped him.” Donna says. Pauses. “…with a punch to the face.”

Elena raises a hand to her mouth, but a quick laugh escapes her anyway. “I did?” A nod. “No way.”

“You did.”

“It couldn’t have been a strong one, though.” Elena giggles.

“I don’t know. Rumor has it he still hasn’t gotten up, to this day…” The little exhale of a chuckle that escapes Donna makes something in Elena bloom and flutter.

She wants nothing more in that moment than to lift the damned veil and see the face of the gentlest, kindest woman she’s ever met.

-

-

The winter eventually gives way to spring. The earth heals from the wounds of the cold like Elena has, under Donna’s care.

She no longer has doubts about what she feels, what she wants. It is only a matter of overcoming her fears and nervousness. Only a matter of finding the right timing and the appropriate setting.

Elena has rehearsed the words she needs to say many times in her dreams and thoughts, yet she finds herself tongue-tied and completely lost on what to do in reality. She has asked Donna to walk with her, taken her to where the waterfall calms into a river… and now struggles to summon her voice.

“What is it, Elena?” Donna, ever the sweetheart, asks. “You know you can tell me anything… right?”

“What if…” she hesitantly begins. “What if I can’t tell you? …can I show you, instead?”

“Of course.”

Elena takes a deep breath and chastises herself to woman up. One little step brings her into Donna’s personal space. Her hand raises to the edge of the veil, blue eyes searching for a sign she should stop. The dollmaker is tense, but she hasn’t made a move to back away, nor lower Elena’s hand.

She trusts her.

And that’s all Elena needs to finally, finally remove the barrier separating them for months. The cute girl she defended as a child is a beautiful woman now, looking back at her with gentle, dark eyes. The jagged scar running down the right side of her face does nothing to retract from that beauty.

“You don’t need that.” she breathes. “You never did.”

Donna glances to the side, a hint of color spreading over her pale cheeks. Elena chases her chin with her fingers, then slowly inches closer, making sure the dollmaker has ample time to decide if she wants this, too.

When their lips meet, color blooms behind her shut eyelids, within her chest. Donna’s mouth is as soft and sweet as her personality, Elena discovers. It is a short, chaste kiss but it is also a promise for many more to come.

It is the gratitude Elena will eternally hold for Donna, who found her at the ending of her life and nursed her back to this,

A new beginning.