#Healing Potpourri

[bandcampsnoop]

5/15/24.

Magic Fig were featured on Bandcamp's "New and Notable". They referred to the group in two descriptive ways: (1) "An assemblage of San Francisco indie pop all-stars" and (2) A band trying "their hand at Canterbury scene-style psychedelia".

Proof for the all-star claim: Members of Almond Joy, Healing Potpourri, and The Umbrellas are key members of this band. Joel Robinow of Once and Future Band produced this.

As for the 2nd claim, I'll direct you back to an excellent Bandcamp article about the Canterbury sound.

Magic Fig's S/T debut is being released by Silver Currents.

[aquariumdrunkard]

The Lagniappe Sessions :: Healing Potpourri

Released last year, Healing Potpourri’s Paradise came across like an introspective deep dive, drawing upon all that inspired the band’s orchestral brew of infectious chamber pop. The recording project of Bay Area multi-instrumentalist Simi Sohota and collaborators, the group’s inaugural Lagniappe Session dives head first into these avant-pop sensibilities.

[rcmndedlisten]

...And then there are the albums that defy any distinct definition because they are outside of even unconventional boundaries. Experimental music can creak into corners ambient and electronic, or twist rock and contort pop into artful, avant patterns. There were many artists this year across the spectrum who molded the sonic canvas in challenging sound, color, light and matter itself in how their music entered our conscious. These were the best albums that tapped into other worlds even if they were created in our current physical...

Animal Collective - Time Skiffs [Domino Records]

Time Skiffs is a reminder of why we should never take a band like Animal Collective, as it’s a reunion of sorts with it being the first album since 2012′s Centipede Hz to feature all four members in the mix where their matured wilderness and nautical voyages have never felt as fit for a real chill as it has here as their hyper-color psychedelia reaches the closest they’ve come to jam band status without sacrificing their feral sides either.

Beach House - Once Twice Melody [Sub Pop]

Victoria Legrand and Alex Scally definitely have nailed down singularity with their style at this stage in their career, but their eighth studio album -- a double album opus at that -- is perhaps their most definitive sensation of instantaneous synesthesia and mind-and-physical-nature-altering music they’ve produced yet. Embellishing their dream-pop elixir with strings and psychedelic portals to worlds beyond worlds, Once Twice Melody is well worth its lengthy travel all while promising a kind of transcendence only the Baltimore duo hold the key to.

Black Country, New Road - Ants From Up There [Ninja Tune]

As it turns out, we hardly knew Black Country, New Road at all upon last year’s breakthrough debut, for the first time. On the London septet’s sophomore effort Ants From Up There, the band – led by the fascinating, wild-eyed narrations of now-departed vocalist Isaac Wood – it’s their own uninhibited instrumental malleability that steeps their sound into a captivating post-rock theater which gives us something further to consider of a band who are intent on never sounding or looking the same as they did even just one year ago.

black midi - Hellfire [Rough Trade]

Chaos, chaos, and even more chaos, even when it sounds like all the calamity and human destruction in the fantastical tale have reached cease fire. That’s black midi’ Hellfire, the latest album from the London-based experimental art rockers, who on this turn go all in on a glory of their their most unhinged sonic facets that have been steadily climbing over the course of their first two albums in the form of precisely meticulated post-punk of their 2019 debut Schlagenheim and last year’s cosmically imploded jazzist traverse Cavalcade without losing their grip.

björk - fossora [One Little Independent Records]

björk’s fossora was inspired by fungi and a sound she earlier described as “biological techno”. That very much checks out, and as usual, reinvents genre, as the tenth studio album from the experimental art icon is the sound of nature burgeoning its way through the soil from its most microscopic spore, reaping and sewing with the seasons of birth, decay, and death where love, partnerships, motherhood and familial bonds eventually return their energy back to the soil.

Boy Harsher - The Runner (Original Soundtrack) [City Slang / Nude Club Records]

Boy Harsher don’t regard their original soundtrack to The Runner, a short, Lynchian horror film which they wrote and directed themselves, as a release separate from the rest of their discog. Rather, it’s a proper fifth full-length effort as well as a watershed moment for the Northampton electronic duo of vocalist Jae Matthews and producer Augustus Muller in creating their most inviting release yet, with eight songs being scene-setting chapters building terror in the most cinematic sense through strobing lights and heavy fog as well as gleaming goth club and new wave bangers.

Carlos Truly - Not Mine [Bayonet Records]

Ava Luna guitarist Carlos Hernandez’ talents on his own merits are fully realized on Not Mine, his first solo album as Carlos Truly. Recorded alongside his brother Tony Seltzer, the album professes an nth degree of synesthesiac sophisticate taste to it in the way Hernandez sculpts wave forms of R&B, funky guitars, and experimental pop and jazz flourishes in relation to his world view onto the emotional, personal and creative connect. With his voice barely touching ground, the listen blends sense and memory into a warm air feeling.

Claire Rousay - everything perfect is already here [Shelter Press]

Claire Rousay collage of sound is the immersion of her own specific surroundings, temporal to that moment, but committed to tape to live on forth with we as listeners. The San Antonio-based field recordings specialist’s latest, everything perfect is already here, continues mining seconds passing by through an instrumental rendering with ornate contributions from violinist Alex Cunningham, electrician and violinist Mari Maurice, harpist Marilu Donovan, and pianist Theodore Cale Schafer in a delicate inversion into Rousay’s world where even in stillness, her music can adorn a space with a deeper meditation onto the self.

Guerilla Toss - Famously Alive [Sub Pop]

Noise, psychedelic powers, and flashes of pop have long permeated Guerilla Toss’ music over the years, so it’s a fitting irony that on Famously Alive, their first album for Sub Pop, they would find a sense of clarity and balance in it all, created across some of the most chaotic times of our modern existence. Their synesthesia explodes vividly, and the hooks stick like Gak to the ears, all while vocalist Kassie Carlson confronts existentialist dread head on with empowering messages of reclaiming ownership of one’s fate in anthem.

Healing Potpourri - Paradise [Run for Cover Records]

Simi Sohota has reengineered the power of the calm vibe with Healing Potpourri’s Paradise. A bouquet of chamber pop, yacht and kraut rock in a breeze sailing its way in from the cosmos, Sohota alongside producer and Stereolab collaborator Sean O’Hagan have created an album that indulges in soft rays of sunlight and sighed reflections on connections through organic highs and interstellar journeys of the self that see every color in this strange human experience.

The Mall - Time Vehicle Earth [Self-released]

With so much within the overlapping industrial, electronic, and punk realms having become blasé and a mere goth cosplay, hitting play on Time Vehicle Earth will have all your perceptions of reality rearranged and raged. The moniker of St. Louis artist Mark Plant and Spencer Bible is like the equivalent of staring deeper and deeper into the cosmic sights of James Webb Space Telescope and realizing that the further out we get, the less we know as Plant’s shouts echo through spiraling space-synth at a punk-fueled speed of light.

Moor Mother - Jazz Codes [ANTI- Records]

Prolific and faceted as always, be it in her own name and other projects like her free jazz ensemble Irreversible Entanglements or the avant rap-pop duo 700 Bliss, Moor Mother’s Camae Ayewa has taken less than a year to bring forth a bookend 2021 standout, Black Encyclopedia of Air, with Jazz Codes, an album which she goes even deeper into the ether with a seance of Black creativity’s most brilliant, unheralded minds lifting through her new age jazz conversations and electronic multiverses that rupture enlightenment throughout.

Palm - Nicks and Grazes [Saddle Creek Records]

Mashing together philosophy, color and synesthesia, rock noise and electronic devices, Palm come alive on their third full-length effort in their newfound freedom of approaching their art while becoming hyper-aware of the outside obstacles that brought the four-piece to this point. It’s pop extracted from every high and lull of emotion, but unlike one meant to imitate anything beyond the moment its consumed.

P.E. - The Leather Lemon [Wharf Cat Records]

The Leather Lemon reassembles sound through the pieces of the world we continue to pick up in its aftermath. For that, P.E. focus on their strongest pop points amid the asymmetry, filling deeper grooves where absent pockets once were with body contortion and skin-on-skin contact. The turbulence of these times still exists within the context of these songs, though this time around, the Brooklyn band are working with them to connect emotionally, sensually, and physically rather than add to the discord.

Rachika Nayar - Heaven Come Crashing [NNA Tapes]

A new galaxy just dropped, and it’s called Rachika Nayar’s Heaven Come Crashing. The Brooklyn-based guitar virtuoso and multi-instrumentalist’s sophomore follow-up expands the celestial atmospheres discovered on last year’s Our Hands Against the Dust in one of the most sensory-entrancing examples of modern guitar art in which Nayar synthesizes her instrument with ambient colors and haloing vocal accents by songwriter Maria B.C., blurring the space between emotive rock, ambient electronic and trancelike dance music –emotion in motion at a constant centripetal force.

The Smile - A Light for Attracting Attention [XL Recordings]

A Light for Attracting Attention is clear evidence that the Smile are more than just a Radiohead side-project. Featuring Thom York and Johnny Greenwood alongside drummer Tom Skinner of the now-defunct Sons of Kemet, the trio have built their own new world of sound using places they’ve visited in their respective past lives, but at an alternate universe distance where its more experimental terrain of free jazz and electronic music allow them to continue to predict the future of art rock and our existence in an eerie spectral delight.

Sonic Youth - In/Out/In [Three Lobed Records]

Even in their post-mortem, Sonic Youth still remain among one of the most innovative sculptors in noise rock whose ideas remain unparralel in our current existence. A decade removed from their final bow, In/Out/In – a collection of several mostly instrumental tracks unearthed from their early Aughts era – moves seamlessly in its own distinct singular waveform despite being created in disconnect rendering Sonic Youth in their jammiest formation yet, with the static becoming a transfixing groove.

They Are Gutting a Body of Water - lucky styles [Smoking Room]

lucky styles, the third full-length effort from They Are Gutting a Body of Water, realizes the Philly experimental band’s wildest yet appeasing impulses in one sitting within textures of static-washed shoegaze, electronic-speckled zone-outs, and noise-pop over dreamy overtures and post-hardcore aggression rendering something much more adventurous than what we perceive in our everyday waking life.

[bellasmumblingsandmusings]

Chapter 8: You're Mine

Previously: Prologue Tumblr Link for Prologue, Chapter One; Chapter Two, Chapter 3, Interlude Chapter 4 Chapter 5, Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. NSFW, Ethical and non Ethical BDSM, noncon, some allusions to sexual violence, flashbacks to sexual violence, discussions of sexual violence, dubious boundaries, attempted sexual violence, dubcon, blood licking/blood kink, reference to cheating behavior, emotional trauma, group sex, sex, smutt, anxiety, negative thinking, sexual trauma, recovery, healing, angst,

Word count: 59K total

Status: Ongoing

SAD SMUTT this chapter and Artwork by : https://www.instagram.com/loomiiy/

(Chapter 9: July 31st)

Song for this Chapter: Mine - Sleep Token

A03 Entire Story Link on AO3 Spotify Playlist

After the Jump!

Chapter 8:  You’re Mine

During their year apart...

The twisted alleys of Baldur's Gate, a labyrinth of shadow and sin, snaked their way to a brothel that oozed the decadent charm of distant Calimport. Its façade, garishly adorned with flaking gold paint, shed its skin like a serpent reveling in its own corruption. The air was pervaded with the thick, musky scent of cheap perfume and stale incense, mingling with the unmistakable tang of sweat—a potpourri of desperation and desire.

Lanterns dangled from the ceiling, their sallow light casting shadows that deepened into sultry secrets. Velvet curtains, once richly hued but now faded and frayed, partitioned the narrow spaces into alcoves of anonymity. The muffled cacophony of passion seeped through the thin walls, each note a testament to fleeting ecstasy and whispered lies. Gold-painted doors, their luster long lost to scratches and time, lined the dim corridor, each guarding its own saga of ephemeral pleasures.

Why does this place always feel like home now? The thought clawed at Astarion’s mind, a bitter reminder of how far he had fallen.

As Astarion stepped into the brothel, his crimson eyes scanned the haze, and a familiar surge welled within him—hunger, sharp and demanding. The dim lighting cast an ethereal glow on his alabaster skin, shadows playing across his face like old friends whispering dark secrets. The air was a heavy cloak of perfume and raw desire—intoxicating, suffocating, wrapping around him like a lover's desperate clutch.

The sounds of the brothel played their sordid symphony in his ears—moans of pleasure, gasps of pain, and the rhythmic creak of beds. Each sound was a note in a debauched orchestra, each vibration a string plucked in the harp of his predatory instincts.

He moved through the musk, his gaze sweeping the room, searching, always searching. Who would it be tonight?

A figure cut through the dim light—a woman, her skin a deep copper, glowing like the last ember of a dying sunset. Her almond-shaped eyes held a calm assurance, a serenity that seemed both an invitation and a challenge. Her hair, a cascade of midnight waves, moved with a rhythm that echoed the silent music of the night.

She was draped in silks that clung to her curves like a second skin, each movement a whisper of concealed promises. A bandeau top of silk and chiffon, audacious in its scantiness, billowed behind her like a banner in the wind. Her smile, knowing and confident, brushed aside the stares that followed her like shadows.

Is she the one?

Astarion felt a pull, an inexplicable draw to her presence. It wasn't just her beauty; it was the way she moved with an air of authority, her confidence mirroring the power he so craved, the dominance he once wielded without question. He approached, his voice smooth, coated in the honeyed tone of interest and desire. "Greetings, my beauty. May I buy you a drink?" he offered, each word dripping with an allure that was practised, perfected.

"Why waste time with drinks," she purred, her voice a melodic tease, "when there's so much more to enjoy?" Her smirk, playful yet knowing, pierced through the haze of his thoughts, a sharp reminder of what he sought—what he needed.

Walking into this place always felt like a descent, each step a further plunge into the depths of his own darkness. The walls seemed to close in, the air thickening with each breath, heavy with the scent of opium and the ghosts of his past. Every face a mirror of another, every whispered promise a shadow of a memory he couldn't escape.

As he took in her words, a flicker of recognition sparked within him. It wasn't just her Calimportese heritage or the richness of her skin; it was her spirit, the unyielding boldness that so vividly reminded him of Sima. Could it be? No, but the resemblance...

Her silken attire swayed with her movements, the fabric whispering secrets against her skin. The invitation in her eyes, so charged with a magnetic pull, drew him closer despite the haunting familiarity. His heart quickened, the room shrinking around him, the shadows deepening as if conspiring to entwine him further in her spell.

Her scent was a tantalizing near-match—jasmine tinged with citrus, so close to the rose that haunted his dreams of Sima. Her breasts pressed against his shoulder, a softness that sent shivers down his spine, her hands weaving through his hair, stirring a connection he desperately craved yet feared to acknowledge.

Astarion closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the rush of longing. Her audacity almost convinced him to let go of the torment that clung like a shadow. She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear, her words tinged with a playful edge, "Are you coming, or do you need a map?"

Just for tonight. The darkness embraced him, the familiar symphony of the brothel echoing in his ears, drowning out the voice that whispered of love and loss. Another night, another fleeting comfort. He followed her, mind slipping away into the shadows, driven by the desperate need to forget.

He allowed her to take his hand, leading him towards a shadowed room draped in the promises of the night. The air thickened, the flickering candles casting ghostly shadows, the scent of sex and opium weaving through the atmosphere—a tapestry of longing, desire, and haunting memories, pulling him ever deeper into the abyss. Time was lost, even as she poured wine bottle after wine bottle into his mouth, a balm that never soothed.

The woman's dark skin caressed his face; the texture a stark contrast to Sima's, and his hazy mind struggled to grasp the difference. Her nipples teased his wine-stained lips as she whispered a taunt into his pointed ear, "Is that the best you can do? And here I thought you looked... like a lord." She bit his earlobe, then discarded the small cloth hiding her glistening heat.

Is this what I've been reduced to? A crude jest? Her words, they burn. The flash of anger in his eyes flickered briefly before a smirk curled his lips, a mask of control slipping into place. He grabbed her hair, pulling hard, leaning in close.

"Careful, darling... If you keep teasing me, I might just have to teach you a lesson."

He pressed her hips to his, rolling them gently to tease her, the smirk never leaving his face. He needed to maintain control, to feel that power.

The woman ground her wet heat against his growing arousal, her copper skin sparking flashes of Sima before his eyes. The silkroot's haze intensified, transforming the woman into Sima. Her brown eyes, her wet heat on him... after a year. The vision of Sima whimpered in his ear, "Then what are you waiting for, my lord?"

The room spun. Is it her? His mind, clouded by silkroot, struggled to separate reality from desire. The woman's voice morphed into Sima's, her body beneath his a tantalizing illusion. His eyes darkened with possessive rage. For a moment, he saw double, like a hazy vision he had to blink away. Sinister and unhinged, he almost moved to strangle her for her teasing. Instead, he tightened his grip on her hair and pushed her down hard onto the bed by the back of her neck. Pinning her down, he quickly undid his slacks and pulled off his shirt, the vision below him mewling.

He groaned against her earlobe, whispering hotly, his voice rough and low, trying to keep the image of Sima intact. "You have no idea how badly I've wanted this... how many times I've imagined you like this. But my imagination could never come close. Your voice. Your body... so perfect in my hands. Even the sweetest music pales in comparison to you like this, my dearest love."

The woman below, aware of his state, responded, "And I have missed you... please..." She turned her face, pressing her rear against his front, grinding into his growing firmness, and moaning as she opened herself up.

His eyes shut tight, breath catching in a gasp of desire. "Gods... darling, you're incredible. My Sima."

He pressed into her like a man possessed, one hand pinning her by the neck, the other gripping the headboard as the thrusted full hilt into her dripping cunt. A low hiss escaped at the sensation, her moans sending shivers down his spine. His hips snapped as he lifted her deeper onto his cock, pressing her head deeper into the mattress. The pace was full and unforgiving, pleasure and visions of Sima flashing before his eyes, her scent rising in the silkroot haze.

Relentless, he didn't stop, his need overpowering. The rhythm was hard and rough, almost brutal. His breath came in gasps, hissing in pleasure as he growled, fingers pressing into her skin, teeth leaving marks down her back.

"You are mine. You've always been mine."

He moaned against her ear, her voice driving him into a frenzy, the image of Sima in his mind almost blinding.

Astarion's breathing quickened, a low sound of pleasure escaping as his hips slammed into her, the slap of skin on skin filling the air. She wasn't the same; he knew this in the back of his mind. But the taste of her sweat, the sound of her voice, the scent of her hair—it was enough to drive him almost mad, his heart racing.

The woman, her black wavy hair flying, her body tightening around him, moaned his name and her fingers gripped the sheets. Her deep velvet clutch gripped him as she got closer and closer, the fluttering he remembered so well when his touch brought Sima to bliss... Sima mewled again, this vision below him.

Astarion’s moans echoed through the room at the familiar, sweet sounds. One hand practically split the word of the headboard, the other held her hips as he rocked into her. Her moans were like music—music he had craved for months. Her body clenched and arched, and he reveled in the heat, the melody of her body singing for him.

His eyes closed, face buried in her neck, his body shuddering as he remembered how she felt. Just how her body felt. How she tasted. The sound of her voice, her sweet, sweet sounds of pleasure. He groaned against her skin, teeth and hands gripping her, her name falling from his mouth in a sharp, needy whisper, his arousal still firm and fast as he desperately thrust, hitting that spot within her, rewarded with her moans. It was her... it must be...

The woman beneath him cried out, tightening fast and hard, her need rushing forth, thighs shaking. Her tightness, warmth, and moans, so close yet so far, dragged his silkroot-induced arousal to a devastating peak.

Astarion’s breath hitched and a growl rolled out as he felt her tighten around him. His hand  came down and gripped her hair almost painfully while the other kept her body pressed close. He let out a shuddering groan, teeth sinking slowly into the crook of her neck. It was a needy bite, an animal craving to claim. As he spilled his seed into her, he bit down, drinking, tasting her release in her blood. 

As the blood hit his tongue, the illusion shattered. It wasn't her. She was still gone.

In the muddled chaos of the night, Astarion recoiled with a growl, pulling out abruptly and propelling himself to stand near the bed, his body tense, eyes wide with a raw surge of outrage. His breath came in sharp, rapid gasps, his mind a storm of horror and disbelief.

Why did it feel like this? Why did it always end this way?

The deed—crude, desperate—left him gasping, the air thick with the lingering scent of silkroot that clouded his senses. Yet, the acrid taste of the woman's blood shattered the delusion. It wasn't Sima. The realization crashed over him like a cold wave, dragging him from the sweet haze of escape he so desperately sought.

Staggering over to the discarded bed sheets, his fingers trembled as they brushed against the cheap, gaudy fabrics that seemed to mock his state. The woman lay there, a soft moan escaping her lips, oblivious to the storm raging within him. She was recovering from his bite, from their rough, empty encounter, her soft moans a cruel parody of the ecstasy he had once known with Sima.

His chest heaved, muscles knotted with a fierce tension as he struggled against the urge to lose himself in her again, to forget the stinging bite of reality. Yet, he resisted, his mind ablaze with a chilling blend of determination and cold fury.

He needed to move, to escape this place.

With heavy, purposeful strides, he distanced himself from the bed, each step echoing in the hollow chamber of his heart. Sadness gnawed at him, a deep, relentless ache that seemed to echo the unending hunger gnawing at his soul. This was the nadir of his existence—a night drowned in regret and unfulfilled longing. The effects of the silkroot swirled through his veins, casting his thoughts into a foggy abyss. Unbidden, memories of hands, touches from his past life as Cazador's concubine, surfaced with painful clarity. Flashes of twisted pleasure and chilling detachment flickered before his eyes, trapping him further in his own dark labyrinth.

Sitting on the edge of the divan, Astarion buried his head in his hands, haunted by the ghosts of what was and what could never be again. His fists clenched, knuckles whitening, the air thick with the palpable sense of his frustration and helplessness.

The past year had been a cruel jest, the worst of his cursed existence. Faces, countless and indistinct, floated before his eyes—a kaleidoscope of strangers and victims blending into a seamless parade of emptiness. Despite his ascent to power, his new reign as a vampire lord, the sea of faces blurred indistinguishably from those he had known as Cazador's toy.

Amidst this desolate carnival, only Sima's image burned bright, a lone beacon in his tempest-tossed world. Her kisses, soft and tender, her touch, a balm to his frayed edges—she had been his anchor, a rare glimpse of genuine affection in a life otherwise shrouded in darkness.

Her face, her voice, the essence of her presence haunted him. He remembered the last time they were together—the way her eyes had filled with a tumultuous mix of compassion, fear, and anger. Her voice had risen, sharp and clear, as she defied him, refusing to be drawn into the darkness of his world. Her rejection—her refusal to become his spawn—had sparked his fury, driving her away.

Now, as he sat there, the bed beside him holding just another faceless shape, he felt the true depth of his fall. The lingering effects of the silkroot blurred his vision, but not enough to shield him from the haunting visages of past and present that swirled around him. He was spiralling, caught in a vortex of his own making, acutely aware of the vast chasm between his desires and his stark reality.

The woman beside him moaned softly in her drug-induced slumber, her presence a mere echo of the countless others who had come and gone, leaving him nothing but deeper sorrow. Just another faceless entity in the endless gallery of his torments.

Numbness crept over him, the cold comfort of the silkroot failing him. Astarion reached for the bottle of laced wine, its contents swirling seductively. The promise of oblivion beckoned—an easy escape from the pain, the longing, the profound loneliness.

But then, her image flashed before him—Sima, her face a vision of warmth and life, pulling him back from the brink. With a growl of frustration, he hurled the bottle against the wall, shattering it into fragments.

The copper-skinned woman stirred, her eyes opening, reaching out to him in a tentative gesture of comfort. Her body was a canvas of their combined carnage—his spend, her blood—a sight that made him recoil. Her voice, soft and uncertain, was all wrong. As he stumbled back, he caught a glimpse of himself in the wash basin mirror.

Staring back at him was a man marred by anguish and despair. The charming, sarcastic facade had crumbled, revealing a soul irrevocably fractured. He plunged his face into the cold water, hoping to wash away the misery that clung to him. When he resurfaced, he felt the weight of all the lives he had drained—their hopes, their dreams, all extinguished as surely as their lives.

The woman tried to reach out again, but he turned away, unable to bear the sight of her. She could never fill the void left by Sima. No one could.

"Get out," he commanded, his voice icy, cutting through the stifling air. When she hesitated, he snapped, "Now."

She quickly gathered her clothes and fled, leaving him alone with his anguish.

As Astarion faced his own reflection, seeing not just the vampire but the shattered man beneath, he felt the last threads of his self-control unravel. Rock bottom was no longer a mere concept but a reality, an abyss into which he was swiftly drowning.

With a bitter twist of his lips, he rose from the basin, his face dripping, his resolve hardening. He looked into the mirror, his eyes ablaze with anguish and a chilling certainty.

"I want to die…" the words escaped him, a raw whisper in the quiet room. But within that declaration stirred a flicker of resolve, kindled by memories of Sima—the only light in his dark existence.

His thoughts raced, a tumult of emotions swirling within him—love, desire, desperation. All converged on her image, her touch, the sound of her voice. It was more than a yearning; it was a profound, all-consuming need. She was his anchor, his salvation, the only one who had ever truly seen him.

With a deep breath, his features set in grim determination, Astarion whispered to his reflection, a promise steeped in dark resolve, "I will have her back. No matter what it takes."

He stared at his reflection, and slowly, a smile began to curve his lips—not a warm or roguish smirk, but something more sinister, a twisted sneer that bore the marks of his unraveling psyche. "She is my eternity," he affirmed, his voice low and unyielding, tinged with an edge of madness. "And I will do whatever it takes to have her again—even if it means crossing every line, breaking every rule, challenging the gods themselves."

No price was too high. Astarion was ready to burn down the world to have Sima by his side once more.

"My love, I'm coming for you," he whispered, his voice a mix of longing and frantic hunger. The twisted smile lingered, a dark emblem of his descent into obsession and despair.

***

A week had passed since the confrontation at the docks with the Selûnites, Shadowheart, and Sima. Astarion lay ensnared in a cocoon of darkness and despair, barely leaving his bed. The oppressive silence of his chamber stood in stark contrast to the chaotic storm within his mind. His battle wounds throbbed with a relentless ache, sharp reminders of his failure. Red-rimmed eyes, devoid of life, stared up at the ceiling, lost in a labyrinth of rage and longing. His hunger grew, not just for blood but for the intimacy he had lost—a gnawing void that threatened to consume him.

She thinks she can escape me. Foolish girl, he thought, fury and obsession interweaving. Sima's eyes, once a sanctuary, now haunted him. The thought of her giving her love to another twisted his gut with rage and sorrow. His blood boiled, fangs itching with the visceral need to reclaim what he had lost. He rolled over, trying to escape his thoughts, but they clung to him like shadows, growing more insistent. Sweat slicked his skin, his body trembling with a feverish withdrawal. I will not be denied, he vowed, feeling adrift in a stormy sea without her.

Sima had been his anchor in chaos. Losing her was a wound deeper than any physical injury. The pain of that realization was so intense that even his ever-present hunger seemed to fade in comparison. She was my light in the darkness, and now... she's gone. Does she even understand the depth of my feelings? Her rejection felt like a dagger to his heart. She was mine, and now she’s gone. But not for long.

He shifted to face the wall, breath heaving, hands clenched into fists so tightly that his nails drew blood. The weakness and desperation felt like an insult to his very being. Yet a part of him clung to that vulnerability. Why am I so weak? he thought within his fraying mind and heart. He wanted to cry out, to scream and rage against the world, but he held back, his emotions coiled tightly inside him like a spring ready to snap.

A surge of hunger roared back to life, snapping his eyes open. The beast within demanded to be fed, to lash out and punish someone, anyone. He sat up, the room spinning violently, causing him to fall back onto the bed. The empty space beside him was a cold reminder of his solitude. Without her, I am nothing. Just the monster Cazador wanted me to be.

Astarion's hunger was a cruel mistress, intertwining his need for blood with his desire for Sima. Her scent, her taste, the feel of her skin under his fingertips haunted him, making his longing unbearable. He had never seen her as just a body; she was his everything. But now, his instincts warred with his love. He wanted to protect her, to cherish her, but the beast within him wanted to possess her, to make her his in the most primitive way.

"This is pointless. Lying here like a brooding statue," Astarion muttered, forcing himself up again as if resurrecting from the dead. His muscles screamed in protest, and the cold air of the chamber felt like shards of ice against his bare chest as he walked to the window and threw it open. Crisp, biting night air filled his lungs, his nostrils flaring as he took in the city's scent below.

Memories surged back like a tempest. He could almost smell her, that intoxicating blend of jasmine and rose. His fingers traced the window frame, recalling the feel of her skin beneath his touch, soft and warm. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the way her body moved against his, the curve of her waist, the softness of her lips. It was torment, this blend of love and hunger.

The thought of her with someone else, another touching her, kissing her, making her cry out in pleasure, twisted his insides with violent, consuming rage. His need for her was beyond rational thought—it was feral, all-consuming. The idea of her whispering another’s name, her body arching for someone else, nearly broke him. His hands gripped the window frame tightly, nails splintering the wood. I will not lose her. She is mine, he vowed. The beast within him roared to life, hunger intertwining with love in a dangerous dance. He dressed swiftly, the cold determination in his eyes mirrored by the icy night outside. Sima, you will see. I am not the monster you fear. I am the man who loves you beyond reason.

He left his chamber, his mind set on one goal—reclaiming the woman who held his heart, body, and soul.

***

Meanwhile, Sima was healing, though her body remained fragile, a delicate wisp of her former strength. Her magical energy slowly returned, flickering like a candle in her turmoil. She knew Astarion still loved her—his restraint in not biting her was a silent confession. The pull towards him was unyielding, dragging her towards their unresolved tension. Memories, fresh and raw, clawed at her heart. One moment she sobbed, the next, she steeled herself for the battles to come.

Days passed in a haze of meditation and prayer within the Selunite Enclave. The rhythmic chants and soothing incantations washed over her like a gentle tide, offering balm but not a cure. Shadowheart’s group of female clerics, their voices a chorus of compassion, offered her sanctuary. Despite their kind words and moments of shared tea, she felt like an outsider, her warrior spirit at odds with their serene solace. Astarion haunted her thoughts. Misguided, twisted, yet she believed there was something salvageable in him. Shadowheart warned against such idealism, pointing out harsh realities. Each night, Sima defied her friend’s warnings, driven by reckless hope. She wondered if Astarion awaited her beyond the Enclave’s sacred ground.

Astarion was indeed there, a specter in the shadows, pacing with barely restrained fury. The burning sensation at the holy ground's edges was a bitter insult to his rage, which grew with each passing moment. He could sense Sima within the Enclave, and the inability to see her gnawed at his sanity.

Sima lied to Shadowheart about her nightly excursions, but her friend saw through the deception. Despite her better judgment, Sima clung to a sliver of hope. The glimpse of the real Astarion at the docks lingered in her mind. She donned her white leathers, at Shadowheart’s insistence, with a lavender tunic underneath. Silver blades sat at her hips, and her black ringlets were braided back, revealing her deep mahogany skin.

The path ahead was shrouded in a dense, unsettling fog, obscuring the moonlight and casting an eerie pall over the landscape. The soil squished beneath her boots, damp and treacherous. The cold air bit at her exposed skin, and the fog whispered cruel taunts, words like "failure" and "disgrace" carried on the chilling breeze. I won’t let fear control me, she thought, each step a defiant declaration against the oppressive darkness.

Leaning against a weathered tombstone, Sima let her gaze drop to the moon daggers gifted by Shadowheart. The blades gleamed under the ethereal light, symbols of protection and strength. She thought of the women in Shadowheart’s group, their faces etched with stories of suffering and resilience. Each bore scars, physical and emotional, mirroring her own. Their tales of enduring and overcoming reminded her of her own battles, her desire to change the person who was hurting her. Astarion was drowning in his darkness, and she couldn’t abandon him, even if it meant risking herself.

I have to see him, she resolved, stopping at the wrought-iron gate of the Enclave, still on holy ground. Why do I keep coming here? Because he let me go? Because I believe there's still something good in him?

She could feel his presence, a heavy, predatory aura that set her nerves on edge. The hunger emanating from him was palpable, a primal force that seemed to pulse in the air. She cast Light above her, the spell cutting through the mist and casting a harsh, revealing glow. Her daggers gleamed in the light, ready to defend her if necessary. As she crouched, her eyes scanned the darkness, waiting for Astarion to make his move.

As she approached the wrought-iron gate, Sima's breath caught in her throat. The graveyard stretched out before her like a somber shroud, tombstones jutting at odd angles, their inscriptions blurred by the mist. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, the chill seeping through her clothes and into her bones. Moonlight filtered through the fog, casting unearthly, shifting shadows that danced around her, making the landscape seem alive with whispers of the past.

Astarion emerged from the fog, his red eyes gleaming with a predatory intensity that pierced the mist like a hunter’s gaze. His presence was a tantalizing paradox, a blend of promise and threat that sent a shiver down Sima's spine. His black cloak flowed around him like liquid shadow, and even amidst the sanctity of this place, his allure was undeniable. She could feel his gaze on her, a tangible force that made her heart race and her blood sing with a volatile mix of fear and desire.

Her thoughts churned with conflicting emotions. He's here. Why did I come? Am I so foolish to think he could change? Or is there still a part of him that I can reach? Memories of their past flooded her mind—the tender moments and the brutal betrayals. She wanted to believe there was still good in him, that the man she loved was not entirely lost to the monster he had become. But the risk was immense, and the danger palpable.

Astarion's voice cut through her thoughts, low and almost gentle, yet dripping with dark promise. "Gods above, woman, I can almost taste the blood in your veins. That heartbeat... so strong, so vital. What would I have to do to get you to come through that gate?" His eyes never left her face, his fingers curling around the bars. He could almost feel the heat radiating from her skin, the tantalizing pulse of her veins calling out to him. So close, yet so far. I will have you, Sima. Every inch of you, he thought.

Sima's heart pounded, a symphony of fear and defiance. She raised her silver daggers defensively. "Swear on Selûne you won't try to turn me against my will. That would be a good start."

Her mind raced with thoughts of escape and survival. Stay calm, keep him talking. Don't show fear. Remember who he was, not what he's become. She watched his features, noting the glassy sheen in his crimson eyes, the barely controlled hunger radiating from him.

She's clinging to a ghost, Astarion thought, smirking. "Fine. I swear on Selûne, by her light, that should you come through this gate, I will not force you to join me as a vampire. I will not take any blood from you except what you give willingly. I will not force myself on you unless you consent. However..." His eyes narrowed, though the smile remained. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I reserve the right to persuade you. With words or otherwise. Is that agreeable?" I will make you crave me, Sima. I will make you beg for it, he thought.

Sima smirked, though her heart ached. "I think you would have been better served being honest. You and I clearly do not see eye to eye on what consent means. So I respectfully decline."

Astarion's face darkened, his features shifting with sudden anger. "And what will you do if I break open this gate and take what I want, you arrogant witch? You are in a rather unfortunate position..." Damn her defiance. Why can't she see this is for her own good? he thought.

She narrowed her eyes, her voice steady though her mind whirled with anger and sadness. "Remember... you let me go. There's a kernel of empathy in you, of who you were. Think of that. The only one driving this towards tragedy is you."

"I will not be threatened by you, you impudent little bitch," he hissed, his intensity bordering on hate. "But... you are correct. I am making this worse. Even if you won't change your mind willingly, there's always other means. I am not bound by silly things like morals or empathy. I have the power of a vampire lord. Understand that." She provokes me so effortlessly. Why does she make it so difficult? he thought.

Her heart ached with the loss of the man he once was. Where did he go? How did we come to this? She watched him, searching for any sign of the Astarion she loved. His anger was palpable, but so was his pain, etched in the lines of his face and the tension in his body.

"You think you can tempt me with nostalgia? You have so many more lessons to learn, Sima. I am not the same person I once was," Astarion said, stepping up to the gate, his breath hot against her skin, his eyes burning with intense hunger. "Kiss me or suffer." His voice was a dark caress, filled with both desire and menace.

Sima’s heart pounded, her breath quickening as she felt his nearness. "You've lost yourself! I speak of the past to remind you of who you are—who you once refused to be like. Cazador, Godey, the kennels, the horrible existence that was forced on you! See reason, please," she pleaded, her voice cracking with sorrow. Her eyes searched his face, desperate for a flicker of recognition.

Astarion's snarl was immediate, his features twisting in fury. "I am nothing like Cazador, you foolish girl. I made my own choices! I did it for both of us!" he snapped, gripping the bars of the gate, his knuckles white with anger. Why does she insist on dragging me back to that hell? I've moved beyond it. Haven't I? he thought.

"Gods damn you. I hate you for making me think of those things—the things I hated and wanted to escape. But then again..." His eyes narrowed, hate mingling with a shadow of doubt. His voice softened to a dangerous whisper. "You think you can control me with pretty words? Do you honestly believe your memories mean so much to me? That I would betray my hunger and desires for a mere reminder of my former self? You don't understand what has happened to me at all! This new me... he is everything I was meant to be," he whispered bitterly. "Do you honestly believe I would want to be that person?"

Sima stood up, flipping her daggers into a defensive stance, her eyes never leaving his. "I know better than most there is no road back. But you are rejecting the one principle that mattered most to you, the thing that was robbed from you, and that you now seek to rob from me: choice," she said firmly.

Astarion's eyes blazed with a mixture of anger and pain reflecting in their crimson depths. How dare she speak of choice? After everything I've endured? he thought, fists clenched, veins bulging with barely restrained fury. Despite his anger, she did not back down. She still believes she can appeal to me, to my compassion, he mused bitterly.

"Your pathetic attempt at manipulation is amusing. My choices now? My choices matter more than ever before," he sneered, leaning forward, his voice a dangerous whisper that sent shivers down her spine. "I'm not the same elf I was. I'm free. Free of weakness and the illusion of choice." His eyes narrowed, though the smile remained. Free to claim what is mine. Free to covet your beauty, your body, without shame or restraint, he thought hungrily.

Astarion's eyes blazed, seething with a mix of anger and regret, as he moved forward to tower over her, his breath hot and filled with the scent of blood. "I am not the same person. You can't even imagine what I've been through! I've transcended my past, risen above the likes of Cazador. So shut your mouth and listen. This is my choice, my will, and my desire. I've thought it through, considered the options. And this is the way it will be. Do you understand me?" he demanded.

"And this is mine! I choose to say no," Sima retorted, closing up her leathers and putting herself into a fighting stance, mirroring his stance, with the daggers held above and below, her muscles tensed and ready.

His jaw clenched tight, hesitation flickering in his eyes as he weighed his options. Damn it all, she’s not going to back down. I can’t let her defy me. Not now, he thought. With cold determination, he stepped forward, crossing the threshold into holy ground without hesitation, ready to confront the woman who dared to defy him.

"You're pushing me to the edge, Sima. If I can't have you willingly, then I will break your spirit and make you mine," he growled, his voice a dangerous whisper, every word dripping with dark promise. "One way or another, you will understand who I am now. Who I must be."

Sima’s eyes narrowed as she conjured a Globe of Invulnerability, the arcane energies swirling around her, creating a protective barrier that shimmered with otherworldly light. "I won’t let you break me," she said, her focus unwavering, her heart pounding with both fear and determination.

Astarion began weaving a spell of his own, his eyes flickering with arcane power. Flames erupted from his fingertips, aimed directly at her. "Watch her squirm. Feel her burn," he whispered, a sinister smile playing on his lips as the fire licked toward her.

Sima stood her ground, the Globe of Invulnerability absorbing the searing heat. She felt the intense warmth pressing against the barrier, her skin prickling with phantom burns. She cast Thunderwave, sending a powerful shockwave that rippled through the air, knocking Astarion off his feet and pushing him out of its radius.

Astarion was thrown back by the force of the spell, landing hard on the ground. He rolled and sprang to his feet with a growl, shaking off the holy ground's relentless gnawing at his strength. His eyes blazed with fury, his muscles tensing as pain and rage intertwined. "Pain is nothing. The prize is worth every burn," he snarled, pushing forward again, his determination etched in every line of his face.

"How is it that you think I wouldn't be so furious that I would ignore the discomfort and take a little pain?" he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "This pain is nothing compared to what I’ll make you feel, Sima. You’ll see. You’ll regret defying me."

"I’ll make you submit. You’ll see reason," he lunged towards her again, faster this time, his movements a blur of predatory grace.

Sima steeled herself, casting Fly and swiftly moving to the other side of the globe, eluding his grasp. Before Astarion could reach inside the Globe, she raised her hands to the sky and called down a bolt of lightning. The air crackled with energy as the lightning struck Astarion, lifting him into the air before throwing him aside. "STOP making me hurt you, you stubborn bastard!" she cried, her voice a mix of determination and desperation, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Astarion’s body convulsed as the electricity coursed through him. He hit the ground hard but forced himself back on his feet, his rage undiminished. His muscles twitched from the shock, but he barely noticed. "You’ll pay for this. You’ll see the error of your ways," he vowed, his eyes burning with fury, his voice a snarl that echoed through the night.

"You're right. These games we are playing are pointless. It's time for me to take what I want," he growled, frustration evident in his tone. Enough of this. Time to end her resistance, he thought, his eyes narrowing.

He cast Command, his voice dropping to a deep, commanding tone. "Kneel."

Sima felt the divine protection of Protection from Good and Evil envelop her, a shield against his command. She winced, feeling the power of his voice wash over her, but she managed to resist. The divine intervention saved her, but Astarion’s eyes narrowed with fury. The fire in his chest burned hotter as he cast Hold Person from a distance. "Divine protection? How quaint. I’ll break through. I’ll make you mine," he muttered, dark magic coiling around his fingers like serpents.

He stayed within the holy ground, enduring the corrosive pain for a chance to paralyze her. If she couldn’t move, she couldn’t maintain her spells or cast new ones. His eyes locked onto his prey, his voice a deadly whisper. "Stay still. Stay frozen. Let me in."

Sima felt the magical bonds tightening like iron chains, but she fought back, breaking her concentration on the Globe of Invulnerability. Vulnerable again, she saw Astarion’s smirk, his eyes gleaming with predatory satisfaction. "So, her defenses aren't impenetrable after all. This just got interesting," he mused, his gaze locked onto her, his blood singing with the thrill of the hunt.

Desperation fueled Sima’s next move. She conjured Leomund's Tiny Hut, a dome of force encasing her, impenetrable by physical attacks or spells. But she knew mental spells could still reach her. "Just hold on, Sima. You can outlast him. You have to," she whispered, her heart pounding in her chest like a war drum.

Astarion’s eyes narrowed at this sudden trick. Watching her encase herself in a bubble he couldn’t penetrate physically, he glared, his mind racing with dark strategies. With his next spell, he decided to attack her mind instead. "If I can’t break your body, I’ll break your spirit," he muttered, his voice dripping with insidious charm.

He cast Charm Person, his voice a seductive caress as he focused on her mind. "Sima, my dear, come to me. You know you belong by my side," he whispered, each word a tantalizing promise. "Be mine, forever."

Sima felt the charm wash over her, the familiar dulcet tones pulling at her will. Her body reacted involuntarily, a burning arousal aching in her core, but she fought back, shaking her head. "Is this what you think love is? Manipulation and control?" she asked, her voice trembling with hurt and betrayal, her eyes wide with pain.

"Is this your love? To hurt me like those slavers in Calimport? Does my pain matter to you at all?!" she continued, her eyes burning with the raw trauma she had shared with Astarion, vivid and painful.

Astarion's honeyed tone turned sharp and cruel. "Your pain matters less than my desire. I will take you by any measure. I want you, and I won’t take no for an answer," he snarled, his eyes blazing with possessiveness. "Your body does not belong to you, nor can you hope to escape me, love."

Sima's eyes filled with grief, tears threatening to spill. "What has become of you? Is this it? Is this who you are now? A man who will brutalize the woman he loves like he was brutalized? Do you truly refuse to see reason here?!" she implored.

Astarion’s eyes showed nothing but rage now. Not only was she resisting his power, but she was resisting him. To him, there was no difference. He came to the edge of the hut and placed one hand on the sphere, squeezing it as if he could crush her body. "Reason? Do you think I care in the slightest what you want? I want you to be MINE and nothing else matters." His grip tightened, his voice a snarl of frustration and obsession, his nails digging into the barrier as if trying to tear it apart.

Sima's eyes filled with true grief. "Then you are truly lost to me. And... I've been a fool to think you'd see me as more than just a thing to be used. To think you loved me." She clung to the edge of the hut, the weight of reality crashing down on her like a relentless tide. He cannot change. He does not see reason, or perhaps he simply does not want to, she thought.

Astarion’s body trembled with fury. The mere thought of her resisting him, denying him, sent waves of rage coursing through his veins. His every instinct screamed to take her, to crush her in his hands for denying him, to break her for wounding his heart so deeply. Yet, buried beneath the rage, something in his heart ached, something that held him back. He stared at her, his gaze a storm of longing, rage, and heartbreak, ignoring the dome that protected her. She’s mine. She will always be mine. Why can’t she see that? he thought.

For a split second, Astarion's eyes betrayed something beyond anger—sadness, regret, a fleeting moment of pity and longing for what could have been. Then it vanished as swiftly as it came, replaced by his consuming rage and mania. "You belong to me, and you always will. I don't care if you understand or accept that." His grip tightened further on the sphere, his nails digging into the barrier, leaving shallow marks as if he could tear it apart with sheer will.

Sima looked at Astarion like he was a stranger. "Astarion... you're really gone, aren't you?" Her voice was a whisper, barely audible, laced with sorrow and disbelief.

Astarion felt something cold and heavy settle in his chest, a feeling of deep sorrow and loss. He stared at Sima, trying to summon some remnant of what she once meant to him. But as he looked into her eyes, seeing no hint of the former love he had known, a bitter chill set in. She’s slipping away. Why can’t she just understand? he wondered.

"I am no longer the Astarion you met. The one you loved is as dead as Cazador's victims. He's been replaced by a new Lord, who will not be denied." His voice was cold, final, each word a nail in the coffin of their past.

Sima took in his face, every feature burning into her memory. His eyes, crimson with a predatory gleam. His hair, white as snow. She imagined the devious but genuine smirk that once graced his lips, now replaced by a cruel, twisted line. She recalled everything they had shared, everything that was. And in her heart, she finally allowed herself to let go. "Goodbye, Astarion," she whispered, stepping one fraction out of the hut.

Astarion's eyes flickered with something that might have been recognition or even pain, but it was fleeting. His rage and obsession quickly overshadowed any softer emotion. "No," he snarled, lunging forward. "You don't get to say goodbye. You belong to me!"

His hand hit the barrier of the Tiny Hut with a force that reverberated through the air. The magical dome shimmered, absorbing the impact, but Sima felt the shockwave. She steadied herself, her heart pounding. She couldn't afford to let him break through her defenses, not now.

"Astarion, please," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "This isn't you. You're stronger than this. You don't have to be what Cazador made you."

His response was a guttural growl, his eyes burning with an unholy fire. "I am what I must be! I have embraced my true nature, and you will embrace it too, whether you want to or not!"

Sima's eyes filled with tears, but her resolve hardened. She knew what she had to do. With a deep breath, she focused her energy, feeling the familiar pull of the Recall spell. The world around her began to blur as the magic took hold.

"I won't let you take me," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "Goodbye, Astarion. I hope you find peace, even if it’s not with me."

As the words left her lips, the Recall spell activated, enveloping her in a cocoon of shimmering light.

The world around Astarion seemed to slow to a crawl as he watched Sima speak the words and then vanish. The bitter chill turned to an icy cold as all the emotions trapped deep inside exploded outward in that singular moment. He shouted her name, grabbing at the air, grasping at nothingness, trying to deny what had happened. But it was too late. Sima was gone.

Astarion stood alone on the holy ground of the Selûne Enclave, now cold in both body and spirit. His breath came in ragged gasps, his mind a whirlwind of rage, sorrow, and an all-consuming need to reclaim her. Gone. She thinks she can escape me. She underestimates what I will do to have her back, he thought, fury coursing through him. He fell to his knees, clutching at the ground as if he could pull her back from the void. The holy ground burned against his skin, a fitting punishment for his sins, but he welcomed the pain—it fueled his resolve.

All this power, and yet it feels like chains around my soul, he mused bitterly. I have more freedom now, but without her, it means nothing. His chest tightened with an unbearable ache, but he couldn't dwell on that. He had to focus on her. On bringing her back.

Her words echoed in his mind, searing him with their finality. “You’re truly lost to me.” The sting of those words was a wound deeper than any blade could cut. He had become the very thing he once feared, and in doing so, he had driven away the only person who mattered.

Astarion’s hands dug into the earth, his nails clawing at the dirt. I was a fool to think I could have it all. Power, control, and her love? I was deluding myself. His tears mixed with the soil, a rare and bitter testament to his internal torment.

But even in his despair, a new resolve took root. He would not give up on her. He would pursue her, find her, and make her see that they were destined to be together. Her scent lingered in his mind, the memory of her touch a phantom sensation on his skin. I will not be denied. I will have her back. She will understand that we are meant to be together.

His sobs grew quieter, the rawness of his grief settling into a cold, hard determination. He had lost Sima, but he would not lose himself again. He would embrace the darkness fully, let it consume him if that was the price of his choices. But he would also harness it to find her, to bring her back to him. You will see, Sima. You will understand.

The wind whispered through the graveyard, the fog curling around him like a shroud. Astarion stood, his eyes cold and hard, the last vestiges of his kinder self slipping away. He had made his choice, and now he would live with the consequences. But he would also fight for what he believed was his.

Goodbye for now, Sima. You were my last hope, and I shattered it with my own hands. But this is not the end. I will find you. I will bring you back. And I will make you mine, forever, he thought, his lips curling into a bitter smile as he walked away from the holy ground, each step a testament to his transformation and his unyielding obsession.

The man you loved is truly gone. And what remains... will stop at nothing to reclaim you.

[picturesofthegoneworlds]

For one word prompts, I'm finally seeing some green in my garden again, so: Sage?

Oh, of course you know how to appeal to me. I hope this brings the vibes <3 ~

There was a variety of sage (still is, most likely) - sanctified – a herb that they would dry hanged from the rafters and tie into bundles like broomstick bristles, its own fibrous stem knotted in noose around the neck and ankles of the bale, burnt at the stakes and raised pitchforks to sweep away the wicked.

The smoke was what woke her, herbaceous floral distress signal, thrown through the open (paneless) window, accompanied by salt and circle.

They hoped to lure her out the front ‘door’ - she concluded with groggy post-dream clarity - strategized to trap her between saline force field and stone and mortar.

She stumbled over herself, gathered her few possessions. In time shorter the flames carpeted the threshing covering the floor, climbed into her bed to alight the straw stuffing the mattress, exorcised from there to cross exposed rafters to the mossy thatching comprising the roof-

She left through the vacant fireplace.

From a distance fled she observed the thick grapevine coiling of smoke as it billowed out above the forest canopy from a chimney that had crumbled decades ago.

Fire-licked masonry, tattered and scorched fabrics. Perhaps their malice left the cabin more befitting, well-suited, paralleled - outfitted in ash grey skin and soot ichor stains. The hunting party retreated but she could not return. She wondered who would take up residence in the hollow shell - as such a body must be an invite, must be a vessel (at least that was a lesson she was soon to learn) - but who would cohabitate with the spiders, birds, and other small mammals?

The thick smoke filtered through the pines

All of her grievances aside (packed away once again with her bedroll and cauldron), it smelt rather wonderful-

~

There was another sage (surely must be, still) - common - cultivated in window boxes and allotments, the leaves torn to marinade meats, to infuse healing balms, unbiased towards the dead or the living, transmuting itself for both in order to permeate soft tissue.

Laudna would grab handfuls of the silver-furred leaves; amass them in pocket-lint-lined-bundles of potpourri. Crushed the sage between her fingers, rubbed it on her pulse points, tied it with red twine dried in parcels of cheesecloth that she decorated around her person. Loose in her coin pouch, trinkets, her spell component satchel too, sewn into Pâté’s stuffing, flattened behind her belts and tucked into the front of her bodice and trampled in the soles of her shoes-

Never sure if it was necessity or in her head, not like when she wore flushing and sweating flesh, saturated, awkward teenager dealing with the stubborn stench of puberty or drenched in the fragrance of a farm-girl-butcher’s-daughter composting straw manure and coagulated pigs’ blood –

-not the perfume of The Ladies, certainly, refined with their age, aged mahogany liquor barrel vintage sophisticated palate, finery of silks satin lace velvet layers stored in lacquered marquetry hardwood armoires and mausoleum-sized wardrobes, aired in gilded vase and bouquet’ed marble surroundings, chandeliers ornately framed paintings in alabaster hallways-

She would feel rather self-conscious of it; of her differences - but continued her play with the worms in the forest regardless.

Then, for a short time, she slept with them.

Or rather, she woke to fall onto a heap moving with them, dancing drunken room-spin carpet shag pile of maggots and flies and mosquitoes and pillows of other larvae unidentified, turning familiar faces into fertiliser.

She was not sure if it was the memory, or the actual (un)working order of things

Permanently rotting 

Hard to smell past the end of a decomposing nose

Perhaps it wasn’t so hard to tell for others?

Every time she passed the plant she filled her pockets and hands - ironically unaware of how time had stilled, that she was embalming herself - hoping it would fight the trauma-ever-present smell, that she could throw off the(ir) scent.

~

There is a sage that blooms violet throughout the summer - wild - like early humid evenings with head thrown back in laughter and perspiration jeweling tanned neck, clouds underlit and voluminous as purple-sunset tousled hair.

Imogen points it out with inquisition; at the gatherings of spears of blossoms lanced into soil growing not far from the bank of a river in the sun-bleached and crunching-under-foot tall grasses of an open field.

Seeds from dried out flower heads are carried along the docile breeze, ashes falling in hazing-heat ground fog, smithing dandelion diamond rings to decorate the fingers of the willows that lazily wave, bid farewell to the jewellery that doesn’t fit, allowing it to marry elsewhere between clumps over the grass and charms accumulated at the banks of the gently moving river.

“D’ya know what this is? Smells good.”

She kneels down with her palm held open to the purple blooming sage, presentory, skin offering the tan lines above her knees exposed from the displacement of the tops of her tall leather boots, a dandelion seed catching in the mass of her mane like a feather, her hand not designated to indicating specimen shading above one of her eyes squinted shut and the corner of her mouth raised baring teeth as she looks to Laudna with the midday sun over her shoulder.  

It’s a bit overwhelming, the life and the bliss it elicits.

Laudna walks the few paces over to her, gives a quick inspection with the cast of her shadow.

Smiles in familiarity, nods to the plant in greeting

“Would you like to try it?”

Imogen starts the fire, uses the abundance of dried grasses as kindling. It smells just like the burning cottage had, does so every time. Laudna prunes the wild sage, gathering toothed leaves and small violet petals into her wicker basket, rolls the fragranced stems between the pads of her fingers and inhales, implores the herbal scent to momentarily mask the memory of deterioration as it once had. Imogen sets up the frame for hanging the cauldron, drives the iron spikes into the dry ground, fills it from the river, has to submerge her hand into the gathered water, fingers tweezers removing errant dandelion parachutes that she wipes onto her gauzy dress skirt, skin glistening with the cascading droplets that intuitively follow the scarring of her lightning marks and drip onto the floor, where a lizard with skin like stones flees under the weave of the trodden grass once her footfall returns, retreats for safer ground. Laudna questions whether it will turn to watch the fire or let instinct tell it to keep running-

“You’re quiet…”

Imogen states, offers a softened and upturned corner of her mouth.

Another feather of an airborne seed lands in her hair. A warning arrow shot through the window and puncturing her pillow, innards flying-

“I seem to be having a reflective day, sorry.”

 “Anythin’ you wanna share?”

Imogen wears her empathetic apology in her brow, strained, and Laudna isn’t sure of how legible abstract memories are to her, if the furrow is from an attempt at unknotting the tangles, mostly it feels a weight too unquantifiable to know what to share with intention.

“Not now. I think this is good, something new.”

Present is good, a gift, shared (willingly, in part).

“I don’t dislike it…”

Imogen declares, staring into her cup as she swirls its contents under inquisitive-eyed assessment.

“It sounds like you are warming up for a caveat there.”

She pauses, holds the pottery between her hands on her lap.

“I’m not, s’just new. Tea back home was mostly black and made with lemons and alotta honey or sugar; was cold if the occasion were special-” she tucks her hair behind her ear as her eyes read the pattern of the blanket they had laid over the floor. Laudna wonders if there were birthday parties on picnic blankets out in the paddocks, waited by her father, Imogen and her childhood friends drinking sweet tea and running around in daisy crowns “-I guess we had other teas, but they were more for if y’all were sick?”

She doesn’t like to think of that.

The birds and the crickets carry on their background accompaniment, Imogen's hand returning to the other cradling the cup. Laudna feels as though she can see the slow turn of the skin on her exposed thighs from bronzed tan to sun-kissed red, convinced she is observing the freckles multiplying.

“This one is supposed to be good for anxiety.”

Imogen scoffs, it causes a nearby bird in the brush to scatter

“Yeah? Well I’ll report back on that - maybe we should take more with us just in case.”

Laudna laughs agreeably, enthusiastic. She knows how to make plenty of room for sage.

To follow the tea she also makes them a salad with the plant’s greens; a field-foraged thing prepared with borage and dandelion leaves, fleshed out with wild strawberries, a little olive oil and a little cider vinegar, served in a wooden bowl. 

finishes the assemblage with an intentionally random flecking of the wild sage's violet petals, as though the bowl is a miniature diorama of the meadow in which they sit, olive oil babbling brook and cast iron fork fallen-tree bridge ready to present on a plinth, garden plans proposed by the landscaper in the study to a snooty gent stroking his chin and um-ing and ah-ing -

the hidden door that was disguised behind ornate wooden panelling, adjoining the ransacked and emptied floor to ceiling shelves of the study via dark stone corridors to the equipped and practical, cell-like laboratory- 

She thinks that was the layout, at least - worries who she will rouse if she thinks too hard on it. There is comfort in the answer being left immaterial.

“All’a those times I was sittin’ in fields of flowers, I never really thought I could be eatin’ them.”

It is so nice to have someone she adores break up her ruminations.

“You had a lot of quality produce, there wasn’t really the need.”

"I guess not. Honestly, I think I prefer the salad to the tea." 

Imogen licks her teeth, reveals a violet petal plastered over incisor that she shortly removes with a blade-of dry-grass toothpick, re-places the petal on the flat of her tongue, rolling it around her mouth and swallowing it. 

Laudna stares.

"You like the flowers?" she finds herself leaning towards Imogen. Wants to tell her that for years this one was her perfume - pomanders adorned and concealed in tattered layers.

“They’re purple, ‘course I do.” she giggles, resting sat cross-legged with her weight behind her on her palms. Her head rolls towards Laudna, leaves their foreheads almost resting against one another, Laudna able to count each individual eyelash.

Purple, like the deep undertones of her hair. That much Laudna was very aware of.

“I should have guessed that that would be what caught your attention.” She brings her hand up and wraps her bony index finger in a ringlet of Imogen's hair.

“More like your magic, I was thinkin’…” She drawls, tenor lowered and breathy. 

“And the taste?”

Imogen visibly swallows, cheeks flushing a further tint than what the sun has already given - it makes Laudna feel overly aware of the networking of her own heart and veins.

Imogen clears her throat

"’s’good - kinda familiar."

Laudna feels overwhelmed by the compelling need to kiss her - so she does. Her hand with finger still tied in ringlets of hair sprawling over Imogen's chest as she responds with a squeaked moan that reverberates underneath it. Her lungs halt in their expansion as her mouth is sealed with her own, the increasing pulse at the base of her neck decipherable carved runes under the tip of her fingers, her heart thudding against her palm.

Familiar. Laudna can muse on that in the future, certainly.

She sits back from Imogen - already breathless and chest heaving, lips kiss-swollen - and appreciates the sight she helped curate; the picture of her looking a little dazed on their tartan blanket with the surrounding flora densely reaching above her shoulders, crowned in multi-coloured paint strokes.

“Familiar? And here I thought that was your first time eating a flower.”

Causes her to blush furiously

“Don’t you use ma’words against me.” She pushes Laudna playfully at her shoulder, pretends to look away in dissatisfaction, bottom lip pouting.

“I apologise, that is your advantage to keep. My words are but humble ammunition for your armoury.” Laudna exaggeratedly plays acting pious at Imogen’s half-turned back, Imogen turning back to her with one eyebrow raised and a laugh she is clearly trying to keep within her stomach murmuring at the corners of her lips.

"That so? Well alright, how would y’all describe it?" 

She puffs out air towards her head, hairs previously put behind her ear falling back out of (or into, depending on which of them you ask) place, sits forward again, arms folded. Adorable. Laudna is aware of how susceptible Imogen is to her teasing, always so charming and charismatic, and so often a bumbling mess - and it is intoxicating - to exercise any sort of outcome on such a gifted sorceresses’ disposition, is doing her best to learn what the differences and distinctions are between that and her own longer ongoing situation…

Focus.

Despite the more imposing associations, she can still remember

Can still remember her father butchering the pig, her mother in the kitchen slicing its fatty flesh into patchwork diamonds, stuffing the incised indents with sage and garlic and other seasonings, the slab of flesh tied with butcher’s twine around a whole peeled onion and roasted, skin crackling, the three of them sat around the oak table, talking about the small things, Laudna's mother showing off the basket Laudna had weaved that day, presented like a cornucopia on the kitchen table top, holding that weeks offering of vegetables.

She would describe it as herbaceous, sweet, and floral. Peppery, perhaps like a minty aniseed. Earthy. Mulchy. Rich as the soil it grew from. Could also admit to it being 'like the first home I'd made burning down, like the incense I'd crush between my palms and rub behind my ears so as to not offend any people who would be so kind as to get close enough to notice the death’

what she does say is

"nostalgic." 

not a lie - though she hopes in futures she won’t be drowned marinating in it, the complex layering of all of the ingredients and flavours, hopes one can remain dominant, bountiful and nourishing.

Imogen there, seen over the end of a nose that did not rot and fall off. She’s sure that it can change.

[vitaminseetarot]

PAC: How Can Nature Heal You? 🍃💎🐾

Hi everyone, I'm officially back from my long and crazy trip to the outdoors! If there's one thing I've learned from the trip, it's that yellowjacket stings are 10x itchier than mosquito bites!

And learned how to stay grounded.

Since the start of October, things have felt like a whirlwind, but knowing that I (eventually) get to come back and post some more feels strangely grounding. Right now, especially as winter approaches, it's important to find ways of keeping ourselves grounded. I don't know the exact astrology, or if it's just from eclipse season, but things feel topsy-turvy at this point in time.

So to make up for some lost time, I have decided to prepare three different PACs for you as we approach the full eclipse moon and end of the month. Here is my first of the three. I'll have something very different prepared for next week as well… perhaps a game or two? Stay tuned!

☼♦☼♦☼♦☼♦☼♦☼♦☼♦☼♦☼♦☼♦☼♦☼♦☼♦☼♦☼♦☼♦☼♦☼♦

Try to find some moments out in nature, Autumn is calling. Take some time to head outside, even for just a few minutes, and find a natural focal point. When I went into the city to work, I'd find a rare bird who'd perch by a parking lot light just to say hello. Even rain puddles in asphalt may have something to say. Feel which way the wind is blowing. It's much easier to ground with natural focal points, and with camping they're everywhere, but surprises await you anywhere you are.

Nature can heal us all in different ways. While camping by the pond, I decided to create three piles to see how nature is able to help you when times get stressful. I consulted the sea, earth, and sky for these cards to find out new ways for you to refresh and recharge while outside. Please choose any one of the three pictures below for your reading: Origins, Reconnect, or Friends.

Pile 1:

Origins: Remember Your Roots; 46. Facing Your Fears, Service, Page of Swords, Tower, Nine of Cups

Nature heals you with its pleasing aromas. In the autumn breeze, the smell of fallen leaves can lift you away from the chaos surrounding you. Smell the crackling bonfire and listen to its ancient stories that have been carried through time. Let the old stories sustain you when the world feels like it's shaking.

The scents of nature have an immediate effect on you. Smell the hot cider from fresh tart apples, or the memories from the scarf your relative or ancestor left behind. Smell the dark October rain and the many chilly nights preceding the storm. Where does it take you? Do you let your lungs fill with the world's organic potpourri? Do you allow yourself the space to roam through the woods to find what you've never experienced before? Or give yourself the chance to reset your body through mindful breath as your worrisome thoughts are replaced with cool, misty serenity?

Take some time to name each thing you smell, perhaps in your journal. The more we are able to name what we smell or taste, the more we can establish a relationship with it, whether through hate or through love, brine or breeze. Welcome more fresh air into your life at this time. Breathe deeply in the smells of the changing seasons and infuse your affirmations with them, knowing that your intention will be carried away with the turbulent winds.

The lionfish is dangerous to many ecosystems through its invasiveness. Yet people have learned how to prepare lionfish as a meal. So now there are holidays dedicated to hunting these fish to reduce their effect on coral reefs. It says to you: "Look for ways to strengthen your connection to the Universe and others. Stay peaceful and calm in the knowing of who you are."

A necessity brought a community together for an important goal. You too have a place where your actions and desires are aligned with the universe; don't discount your capabilities just because things look too tough to tackle. When situations in your life seem out of control and overwhelming, take a step outside and connect to the smells of the woods, or an essential oil blend to safely diffuse in your room. I'm picking up on clove and cinnamon in particular but whatever blend works right for you.

Pile 2:

Reconnect: Secrets lurk in the captive shadows deep in the woods; 24. Love Where You Are, Bliss, Seven of Pentacles, Five of Swords, Six of Swords

Nature heals you with its deep underground connections. It lies dormant within layer upon layer of mineral, silicate, and pulsing soil. You can dig and dig for days because you've seen the glittering amethyst geode hiding beneath the surface of volcanic debris. You're adorned with the roots of a single glowing mushroom that splits in a thousand directions at the strike of lightning.

It seems as though there is no end to the digging, even when a dead end scrapes against your shovel. It may also feel like each direction you take on is limitless, stretching the roots as far as they can go. The desire to know and resolve tugs and pulls like a sprout emerging from seed. You're here to learn the mysteries of life, carve the revelation upon stone, and somehow hold them firmly in your hands. A pumpkin may not hold all the answers to our lives, it can make for a enjoyable pie with ice cream. And sometimes simple and pleasant things like that are all that's necessary in the time you have.

The earth calls you when you are in a fuss, when you can't see eye to eye with another. When things get tense, go for a walk. Imagine your roots traveling beneath the earth as a fish rides the deep currents. Remember there is always more going on outside the troubles of the everyday. All it may take is a morning in the garden, sifting through the dirt, and planting delicate seeds to clear your mind enough to make the next moves in your day.

Clams love the earth as well. They find a comfortable place on the ocean floor, slowly filtering sand and grit into incredible works of beauty. Each pearl forged is the result of a lifetime's worth of sustained effort. It says: "Use your sensitivity to know when to act. Connect your heart with your head when determining what you would like."

Sometimes, we can solve our problems by nagging over the details, but in other times, we must sit it out and let things unfold as they intend to. Sometimes it's best to settle matters rationally, but in other times emotional wisdom is required. Stay in touch with your roots in the present and move one muddy step after the other. Whatever the issue unfolding, let the earth heal you in the now.

Pile 3:

Friends: The most unlikely friendships can form; 16. Inner Desires, Family, Fool, Five of Wands, Tower

Nature heals you with its menagerie of connections with the feral world. A day where you learn about a new species is a jackpot; you bask in abundance through admiring the vast animal kingdom. There is magic to be found in the growth and decay of a beast. Joy emerges from its shells, which grows into a love that spreads its wings and flies west into eternal peace and infinite renewal.

In each paw print, you can see evolutionary fragments of your own. Hearing the birds call in liquid notes, you venture into the thicket in hopes of encountering a part of yourself once forgotten. Is it easier to relate to animal kind than it is to people? Even when their display is for tricks or camouflage, they will not misjudge or criticize against you for who you are. At the same time, each animal desires its own space in the wild in which it can't be disturbed. It can be difficult to leave behind a difficult situation at home to find anyone who will relate with you deep within the shadowy woods. But you are being called by the chipmunks and squirrels to carry your acorns to the next level, beyond the stress, and give yourself the chance to plant them in a more nurturing, caring land to thrive.

You are being asked to, as the birds and cattle do, migrate into a whole new feeding ground. You may be a fish that has grown too big for the pond and now must plunge into the waterfall, a snake ready to shed coiled skin, or a butterfly emerging from its cocoon into new heights. Are you in a transitional phase, like a job or school change, perhaps even a move? Wherever you end up in next, the resources and guidance you need will await you at the bottom of the pool. The place your heart seeks to go the most is where you'll find your unique calling for your next adventure.

This mollusc seems humble up front but carries a powerful and influential role; they are the creators of the cowrie shell. It has been seen to represent abundance, love, and connection to the ocean's splendors through the shells they leave behind. Many people around the world have used these shells as currency. It says: "Set your intentions. You are entering a phase of plenty or have a sudden windfall. Goals are within your grasp."

Transitions can always feel unsteady, but you have many helpful animal guides by your side. Even your pet can sense that change is in the air and wants to be there for you during moments of doubt and strife. And look out for the occasional ladybug, hare, or black cat as you map out your goals to prosperity and healthy social networks. The animal world trusts you to make the right decisions with its welfare in mind.

This reading has not been evaluated by the FDA to diagnose, prevent, treat, or cure any disease or infection. Please ask your physician before going online.

2023, @VitaminseeTarot ™

[copiousloverofcopia]

Exciting news Primo lovers! I couldn't help but write the next installment of Potpourri early and guess what? IT IS LIVE!!!!

Thank you all for all your love and support! Once I reach either 100 fics on AO3 or 1500 followers on here, whatever happens first, I will be doing a fic giveaway. More details to follow but anyways thank you all so much for reading!

Please if you like my work, share it!

Potpourri

During his retirement, Papa Primo Emeritus falls in love with a new Sister of Sin who has suffered a tragic loss. While the new sister settles into the Abbey, Primo can’t help but grow more infatuated with her. Promising to give her everything she desires, but can he win her affections when she still can’t let go of the past?

Chapter 7: Honeysuckle

Also available HERE on AO3! Haven’t started yet, start from the beginning HERE!

Definitely NSFW below the cut

Guinevere lie awake in her bed, staring up at her hand. Tracing the lines of her palm as she held it out before her. Hand illuminated in the moonlight that flooded in from her window. Her mind still lingering on the feel of Primo’s hand on hers into the early hours of the morning. 

It had been such a long time since something as innocent as holding hands had affected her so. Fuzzy memories of middle school puppy love, swirling in her mind. Her heart, racing at the thought of it. Wondering if she would ever return to a time when love was a magical thing—one that brought her happiness and not pain. 

She knew it was Primo. He was the one making her second guess. The one who made her wounded heart feel as if it might be capable of healing for the first time. The one who felt like he might change everything.

Gwen closed her eyes, the tears beginning to form from beneath her heavy lids. Swallowing back the knot in her throat at the thoughts that accompanied her. She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. Thankful that no one would notice just how tear stained it had become.

Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t help but imagine it. Allowing herself to envision a life with him. A life of romantic glances from across the table, shared laughter over things no one else could possibly understand, and if she was lucky, a child who had her smile and his Emeritus eye.

She pressed harder into her pillow. Heart aching as she mourned the loss of things she never had. Sniffling back and her lips quivering as she tried to stop herself from crying. Then suddenly a hand settled atop her shoulder.

“Gwen?” Fiona asked, her voice full of concern. Gwen looked up from the sanctuary of her pillow. Catching a glimpse of Fiona’s worried face. “Are you ok? I can hear you crying.”  

“I’m ok, just having a rough night is all. I will be fine in the morning Finn. Go back to sleep.” Gwen insisted, wiping away her tears and sitting up beside Fiona on the side of her bed. Fiona put her arm around her. Letting out a heavy sigh before telling Gwen something she hadn’t quite expected to hear.

“I say give him a chance Gwen…it's no secret he gave up his life for yours. What more love and devotion could you ask for.” she reasoned. Gwen said nothing, only staring blankly into the darkness of the room. Fiona, giving her a final pat on the back before returning to her own bed. Guinevere left to contemplate the heavy words still thick in the air. 

Love and devotion, Gwen thought to herself. The words, though heavy, felt light as they reached her heart. Drying her eyes of tears, resolved to return to the comfort of her bed. Her mind, still on the feel of her hand in his. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“It is so good to be back.” Copia cheered, raising a glass to the room full of siblings and clergy members. All of them clinging to his every word. The energy jubilant and bright as Copia was welcomed back into the Abbey’s bosom with open arms. “Thank you all for coming…truly it has been an honor to serve you all. To serve Lucifer. But like all good things, it has come to an end and now I am home with you all. My friends and family. Please now let us all raise a glass to the Ministry for their efforts and praise Satan for this beautiful party here tonight si? May he walk with you all in darkness—leading you from the light.” 

“Nema!” called out the crowd. A sea of crystal glasses, all practically spilling over with the finest of Italian wine, clinging together as the celebration continued. The Great Hall, sparkling in glitz and glamor from the royal blue and Rose gold adornments of the room. So much beauty as far as the eye could see, but for Primo, his eyes never once left Gwen. 

Her hair was pulled up into a loose bun. A few curly tresses, trickling out and framing her face. He could stare at her all night. The way her black dress hugged the curves of her breasts and hips was sinful. Sending Primo into a constant fit of adjusting himself in his chair, praising Lucifer for his being able to remain seated at the table. 

“Is that her?” Copia asked him as he came to sit down beside him, Primo’s eyes still locked on her. As good a sign as any that this was the case. 

“Si, that is Sister Guinevere.” 

“She is very beautiful fratello…and if I know you, and your tastes, then she must be beautiful inside too.” Copia smiled, giving Primo an approving pat to the back and taking a sip of red wine from his glass. 

“She’s the most beautiful creature that I have ever seen.” Primo professed as suddenly his eyes were met with Gwen's, honey-colored and sparkling.

"Well, I will tell you one thing…she'll give you a beautiful child." Copia smiled, watching the two of them stare from across the room. Both of them, so enamored, it was a wonder to Copia how they’d been able to remain apart.

"Fratellino, would you be offended if I took my leave?" Primo asked him. The glint in his eye telling Copia all he needed to know. 

"Of course…give her my best." he replied, sending Primo off with a wink as he got up from his chair. Leaving the massive head table with a nod of his head. Approaching the far-right side of the room where she was sitting. Fiona and a few other siblings sitting beside her at the lavish table. Covered in its center by deep blue roses and hints of golden alchemilla. 

"Sister Guinevere, would you do me the honor of accompanying me? I have something I wish to show you." He asked her, holding out his hand for her to take. 

"Promise you won't try anything." Gwen playfully jabbed, though inside her nerves were firing from all sides.

“I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.” he said, both of them beginning to laugh. What a sweet laugh it was, one Primo thought could be matched by no other.

"Then of course Papa." she told him, taking his hand as he helped her out from her chair. Gwen glanced back for only a moment.  Fiona sent her a smile and a wink. The whole Abbey, watching on as Gwen left the hall on the arm of the first Emeritus son. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Where are we going?” Gwen asked him as Primo led her down a part of the Abbey she had yet to explore. Their hands held tightly together as they turned the corner. “Oh my—” she began as her question was answered. Eyes widening at the sight before her. “What…what is this place?” 

“This, amore mio, is my most sacred of places.” he explained, leading her inside. It was the glass-walled, crystalized wonder that was his greenhouse. A magical place that led out to the massive garden on the southern side of the Abbey. Primo’s well-tamed foliage and flowers, tended to by his own two hands, laid out for passersby to admire. They were, however, only able to peer at them through the glass, Primo himself the only one ever allowed inside—until tonight. 

Gwen was in awe of it. The spray of botanical life—greens and hues of reds, pinks, and yellows all like all swirling together like a painting. She squeezed his hand, looking over to him with excitement written all over her face. Her smile, hitting Primo’s heart—hard and fast. She looked happy for perhaps the first time ever. Seeing her this way was one of the best things Primo had ever experienced. 

As he led her inside, they could see the small specks of light from the fireflies that floated in from outside. Their glow like stars spread out across the night sky. Gwen turned to face him, clearly overcome with emotion. “It’s so beautiful.” she told him. Reaching out to allow the small bug to land on her. Crawling along her palm until it once again took flight. 

“Not as beautiful as you–the flower I cherish most.” he told her as they passed under the honeysuckle-covered trellis. Blooms of pastel pink—their insides a rich red. Strikingly beautiful and their scent enticing. A sweetness from inside, one that Primo imagined would be like something else he’d longed to taste. 

The inseam of his pants was beginning to tighten as the thought of it sent his blood racing. The need to bury himself between Gwen’s legs. Tasting the sweet nectar from inside her. Pleasure pouring from her, into his willing mouth—it was almost too much to bear.

He struggled against his thoughts, trying desperately to calm them as he watched her taking it all in. Wonder and excitement in her eyes. Primo pulled her closer towards him. His eyes gently falling upon her face. Watching that tell of blush hit the apples of Gwen’s cheeks. 

He wanted to kiss her so badly. To take her in this, the place he loved most when suddenly he watched as Gwen’s gaze changed. Primo, wondering if she could feel it too. A moment where they both longed to kiss the other. 

“I must confess cara. I—I have imagined this moment between us. Though my mind could never have conjured just how beautiful you would look right now.” Primo confessed. Gwen felt it, that much was true. As much as she wanted Primo, the ache in her chest and the urge to run and leave him behind lest she be hurt was so strong. She began to cry, feeling overwhelmed with all the emotion stirring inside her. 

Primo gently caressed Gwen’s cheek, feeling the warmth of her tears as they hit his hand. His palm, filling with the pain that lay inside her. She looked up at him, seeing the compassion and love in his eyes. Wanting so badly to allow herself to do as her heart desired—to show him how much she felt it too.  

“I—I think I need to go.” Gwen sniffled back and wiped the tears from her eyes. Pulling away from him and collapsing into herself. Her eyes, drawn to the traces of petals and dried leaves that graced the ground.  

“Why mio fiore, is it something I said?” Primo asked her. Gwen looked back up at him, pained to think he blamed himself for her upset. She was so scared to speak her truth. So she took in a deep breath and tried her best to muster the strength of will to tell him. Knowing in her heart, he deserved at least that. 

“Oh no Papa…it’s not you…you have never done anything but be kind and compassionate with me. Hell you've even given me back my life, binding yourself to me…something I can never repay you for…or for one ever imagine you wanting to do but…it’s just—it’s just because of the way I feel around you…it…it might make me lose control.” she confessed. Primo lifted her face, urging her to look at him once more. Smiling softly down at her as he watched more tears well in her eyes. 

“Would that be so bad cara mia? To allow yourself the reprieve? To let go and let things happen as they may?”

“It scares me. I don't think my heart can take any more.” she answered. 

“I want nothing more than to make you happy Guinevere. I would never hurt you…never.” Primo vowed as he pulled her close once more. Kissing her deeply—passionately. Gwen, quickly melted into his arms. Held by him in a way no one had ever held her before. His hand, gently tangling in her hair. Holding her close to him. His devotion, on full display as her inhibitions fell to the wayside. Losing herself in the comfort of his arms.

They pulled away reluctantly for a moment, staring into each other's eyes. Mouths open and breathing heavy as Primo spoke again. “In case I hadn’t made it perfectly clear before amore—I am desperately in love with you.” Primo said, as his hands fell from Gwen’s shoulders to the small of her back. She turned her head, a bit shameful as she struggled to hear the words. 

“How can you be in love with someone who’s so broken?”

“You’re not broken Guinevere…You never were.” Primo assured her as a single tear fell from her eyes. He gently wiped it away as their mouths met once more. Tongues dancing in sweet serenity, surrounded by the light of the fireflies and the sweet smell of the honeysuckle. 

They spend several moments getting lost in each other's arms. Primo and Gwen, both lowering to the ground, just out of sight of possible onlookers. Primo hovered over Gwen. Basking in her radiance as he hung above her. Gwen, settling into the ground beneath her. Allowing Primo to explore her. Kissing over her mouth, her jaw. His soft lips, traveling to the delicate line of her neck. Hand, sliding gently over her breast. Tenderly kneading it as he brushed ever so slightly over her sensitive nipple. Gwen closed her eyes with the sensation. Her soul, practically  ascending from her mortal coil as she felt Primo free her breast from her dress—drawing her nipple into his willing mouth. 

“Ah…mmm…Primo…” she moaned, finding her hand creeping over the back of his head. Holding him to her breast as she felt the steady heat rising from between her legs. Occasionally feeling the swell from Primo’s cock as it rubbed against the inside of her thigh. Already writhing beneath him, her tousled hair collecting an array of petals from the ground. The fall of the loose strands, making her even more desirable to him.

“I want to taste you, to savor every drop of your desire—say you will allow me.” Primo begged as he positioned himself between her legs. On his knees as he waited with bated breath at her word. Permission to descend upon her.

“Yes, yes…” she whimpered, wiggling out from her panties as Primo pulled them down from her legs. Painfully slow as his fingers caressed the gentle skin of her thighs. Fingertips dimpling them as he waited for them to part. 

“Spread them for me, please…” he groaned, his desire mounting. Gwen allowed her legs to fall open. Revealing her swollen, wet folds. Waiting and ready for him. Gwen, desperate now to feel his touch once again—his love. 

“Oh fu—” Gwen moaned out, working quickly to cover her mouth as Primo’s lips grazed over her clit. The swollen bud, throbbing at the sensation. Her insides too, pulsing with the anticipation of him inside her. His tongue, rolling over her and traveling up through her folds. Settling once again on her clit.

Primo, gently sucking and licking as Gwen’s grip on his head tightened up. His ministrations drawing her ever closer to release. He lowered his mouth, his tongue teasing at her folds, the tip of his nose pressed against her clit. Primo brought two of his fingers carefully inside her, working her until he had unlocked her orgasm. 

“Ah…oh…Primo!” Gwen called out as he absolutely devoured her. Lapping up every drop she had to give. A smug smile on his face as he emerged from between her thighs. His face paint smeared delightfully across his face. 

“I need you amore. Please say you’ll have me.” he begged, his cock leaking withs need. Gwen reached down to feel him. Her hand full of his desire, a bit in shock of his size. She left out a shaky breath and she dragged her fingers back up to the zipper. Pulling it down to allow Primo’s hard cock to be free of the confines of his paints. 

“You weren’t kidding.” she chuckled, steadily panting and biting her lip as she allowed herself to look at it for the first time. 

“Absolutely not.” Primo growled as he brought his lips back to hers. His cock hanging out freely between them. Gwen took it into her hand, both of them gasping a bit as she stroked him. Mouths, still touching, wanting not to part. 

“Take me.” Gwen spoke against the tenderness of his lips. The words soaring through him as he grabbed her, rolling her to straddle him. Gwen panting, filled with excitement and joy for the first time in as long as she could remember. Watching Primo’s loving eyes cover her body with their gaze. Knowing how badly he wanted her—needed her. It was intoxicating. 

Gwen helped Primo find his place just at her entrance. Her eyes, rolling back in his skull as she allowed him inside her. His well endowed cock, slowly spreading her open. Her body, tugging against him—already desperate for him to fill her. 

“Cazzo, ti senti così bene... come per magia. Ti amo cara, così tanto!” Primo groaned, stifling his moaning as he felt her squeezing him around from inside. The throbbing of her walls was almost too much. Primo, working hard to contain his orgasm, wanting to last as long as he could. Hoping that he might be able to cum with her. 

“Ah…ah…ah!” Gwen mewled as she rode him. Her thighs pressed tight against his as she rose up and fell onto his shaft. Both of them, creating more heat and humidity between them than the greenhouse ever could. Their efforts, hot and sticky—yet slow and deep. 

It wasn’t long before Primo could feel her insides begin to shake—to quiver. Her resolve, falling fast as she began to cum. He worked fast, flipping her back onto her back and pulling her up over his lap. Sliding into her with ease and continuing to thrust steadily deeper and deeper as she came. The fluids of her satisfaction, leaking all around his cock.

“Si amore, now cum for me again…Show me how good it feels.” Primo moaned, relishing the feel of her cunt pulsing around him. 

“Ah…oh my god…”Gwen cried out as he drove his cock deeper inside her. Primo gripped tight to the moist flesh of her thighs. Holding them up as he thrusted into her with intention—worshiping her.

“Amore…mmm…I—I’m going to cum.” Primo groaned, feeling himself beginning to give way.

“Wait! No, no…don’t!” Gwen cried, pushing back against Primo, forcing him out from inside her. 

“Gah…” Primo groaned, already too close as his orgasm came bursting through him. Pulling out just in time to spill his seed over her belly. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Gwen and Primo lay together in the greenhouse. Held still but close together as they remain content even in the silence. Both still breathless and drained. Gwen snuggled up closer to Primo. Resting her head on his chest as Primo played with her disheveled hair. The golden-brown locks, flowing like sand through his fingers. 

Gwen hoped he wasn’t upset. She knew how badly he wished to cum inside her. She just couldn’t risk it. Unable to let go of the fear that lingered on. 

Thankfully Primo didn’t mention it as they lay together under the glass ceiling of the greenhouse. The stars in the night’s sky, shining down upon them. Gwen would push the thoughts away again. Burying them down for the time being—waning nothing more than to enjoy this moment between them. 

“I think you are the most wonderful man I have ever known Papa.” Gwen whispered as she nuzzled into the small patch of hair on Primo’s chest. He brushed her hair behind her ear, watching her head raise up to face him, an exhausted, but content smile on her face.  

“And you my dear are like thunder—a roar amongst the heavens.”

Notes: 

mio fiore- my blossom

Cazzo, ti senti così bene... come per magia. Ti amo cara, così tanto! -Fuck you feel so good...like magic itself. I love you dear, so very much.

[baileypie-writes]

Hiya saw your requests open (I love your writing)

How about Yuri & little brother precure reader (the same age as Itsuki)

How about with Itsuki’s fairy (forget its name but I do know it’s backstory) their was another one born with it that choose the reader (got quickly introduced with reader being close to Itsuki and finding out) making them cure breeze and their super close to their fairy how would Yuri react learning their little sibling became A precure and start growing A bond like the one she had with cologne (and maybe for some more sad points the new fairy tries to get close to Yuri too)

(Headcanons will be good)

A/N ~ Sure! I had a little difficulty getting this own started, but once I did, I was really in the zone. I really liked this concept! Maybe I’ll turn this into an actual oneshot one day. Also, I didn’t end up using Reader’s Pretty Cure name, but feel free to imagine it! Hope you enjoy!

~Cure Moonlight with a Pretty Cure!Younger Brother and his Fairy~

~~~🌖~~~🌖~~~🌖~~~

Fandom: Heartcatch Precure!

Fanfic Type: Headcanons

Reader: Male, Yuri’s younger brother, a Pretty Cure

Relationship: Familial

Characters Included: Yuri Tsukikage/Cure Moonlight

Genre: Minor angst, hurt/comfort

Rating: PG

Warnings: Mentions of death(Cologne), mentions of Reader and Yuri’s missing father

~Masterlists~

~Heartcatch Precure! Masterlist~

At the beginning of these headcanons, Yuri isn’t a Cure yet.

Guide: Each character’s dialogue is their signature color, Reader’s dialogue is uncolored, and their fairy’s dialogue is green.

~~~🌖~~~🌖~~~🌖~~~

~ When Yuri first saw you fighting as a Pretty Cure, she was both shocked and devastated. You’re her little brother, and she loves you. So the last thing she wanted was for you to go through the same pain she did. Her last battle would replay over and over in her mind, including the sorrowful death of her beloved fairy, Cologne.

“A new Pretty Cure?”

“Marine, look out!”

“Wait a minute… (name)?”

“Thanks! You saved my butt!”

“Oh no…”

~ After the battle she waited until the others were gone to confront you. She hugged you, which was something she never did. She was always so distant after the disappearance of your father. She expressed concern, and begged you not to be a Pretty Cure. But of course, you couldn’t be swayed.

~ Yuri would be upset, continuing to try and push you to quit. But then, she met your fairy. That was the last straw for her. She would begin crying, telling you all her pains from being a Pretty Cure. You assured her that you were willing to bear the consequences, all for the sake of protecting the Heart Tree. That’s when Yuri truly realized that if anyone should be a Pretty Cure, it should be you.

“Cure Moonlight! It’s so awesome to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you!”

“Who’s this?”

“This is (fairy’s name), my fairy. They and Itsuki’s fairy, Potpourri, are twins!”

“……”

“Yuri?”

“I’m sorry, (name). I just can’t look at them.”

~ Afterwards, she began coaching you. She bought walkie talkies, or some sort of communication devise to talk to you from a distance. Her critique is harsh, but very honest and helpful. She’d always congratulate you on any improvement or good attack. She may be stern, but she’s still kind.

“(cure name)! Behind you!”

“Ah! Thanks! That almost hit me!”

“You need to be more observant.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

~ It would be moments with you and your fairy that would cause her to back away a bit. Her mental scar from loosing Cologne still hadn’t healed, so it caused her pain to see him and herself in the two of you. It would hurt even more when your fairy tried to interact with her. She knew they just wanted to be friends, but she just couldn’t bring herself to talk to them.

~ When her ability to turn into Cure Moonlight is regained, that’s when you really started seeing a change in her. She was happier, and wouldn’t distance herself as much anymore. It was fun when the two of you would fight Desertarians together. Especially since, being siblings, you were naturally in sync. Even though you and all the other Cures were a team, everyone could tell that you and her formed a duo on your own.

“Look at them go!”

“Yeah. It’s like they can read each other’s minds!”

“Should we help them out?”

“I think they’re doing just fine.”

~ When Yuri finally allowed herself to interact with your fairy, it was shocking how quick their friendship formed. She adores them, and they feel the same. Since she doesn’t have a fairy of her own anymore, the two of you practically share them. But you don’t mind. Thanks to you, your fairy and the rest of your team, all the broken pieces of Yuri’s heart had been put back together, and she was healed.

~~~🌖~~~🌖~~~🌖~~~

~~baileypie-writes

[natterghast]

𝟑-𝟓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘.

& DASHBOARD FUN ; Geid -ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 ;

Oily Black.

Necromancer Green.

Peat Brown.

𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 ;

Dampened earth after rainfall, or dew.

Rot like old wood.

The sulfurous decay of a swamp.

A forest carpet of fallen leaves in autumn.

𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐎𝐍 ;

(note* Geid uses a glamour and doesn't wear real clothes. He's a living ooze. They modeled their clothes off of the common folk of the time.)

Well-used boots with overshoes of rubber, whose soles have waded through marsh and thicket.

Work shirts of muslin that liken to centuries past, with rolled sleeves and an undone and rumpled collar.

Muddy pants worn low for comfort, with the cuffs rolled high.

𝐎𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐒 ;

A large, rough-hewn, rope hammock that's noticeably discolored.

Old, rusty bear traps with lichen growing on the edges.

A chipped tea set.

Handmade wreathes and bowls of potpourri, with bark, herbs and wildflowers.

A faded deck of cards with bent edges.

𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄 ;

Running gentle hands over objects, both the familiar and new, to memorize their shape — their beauty and imperfections.

The apprehension of one too large for a space, of taking up too much room; of making others uncomfortable or frightened. Open hands, tight shoulders, awkward smiles.

Absent, wordless singing along with the wind, wood, and brook during busywork or trap setting.

Seeping when under duress. Often begins with large dollops from the hair as it falls out of shape.

𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒 ;

Retribution, and the necessity in responding with violence when all other options have been exhausted. How heavy a burden it rests when compassion for your fellow creatures is not returned in kind. How war, no matter how just, leaves destruction in its wake — and the deep scars that follow.

Healing as a long path with each stone placed by hand. As a cumbersome task with difficult steps and many failures. Of choosing, again and again, to continue forward. Of seeing the coming of spring even in the harshest of winters.

Decay not as a death but a continuation of life; a rebirth, life taken to new form. Appreciation for even the smallest of creatures and how their bodies nourish all.

Repose after a great violence. Gentleness borne under the unlikeliest of circumstances.

Nature. Forests, both young and old; great plains, marshes, valleys, and all. How structures of old inevitably fall to the seasons. Speaking a language lost to many, knowing the names. Paying respects to the bounties given.

tagged by @dynamoprotocol!.. this took me so long to fill out today, haha!! really had to think about some of these. tagging @jfouler (for mae?), @abysswarden, @15-44 - and anyone else can always nab it from me and tag me!

[bandcampsnoop]

12/3/23.

Hot on the heels of December 1st's joy of the new Maxwell Farrington & Le SuperHomard comes a new release from longtime English band The High Llamas. After Sean O'Hagan left Microdisney he began this band. Their sound has stayed relatively the same over the past three decades. Chamber pop a la Van Dyke Parks or later era Beach Boys has always been their calling card.

More recent bands like The Heavy Blinkers, Sweet Apple Pie or even MGMT have shown that they're influenced by The High Llamas. And of course we need to mention Louis Phillippe and San Francisco band Healing Potpourri, with whom O'Hagan has worked.

This will be released by Drag City Records.

[doomandgloomfromthetomb]

Zachary Cale :: The Aquarium Drunkard Interview

Head over to AD right NOW to read my recent conversation with the great singer-songwriter Zachary Cale. Zach's new one, Next Year's Ghost, is a total beauty that you're going to want to spend some time with. You're also going to want to spend some time with Vague Plot, the new-ish instrumental band that he plays guitar in — great jams! (PS: We've also re-upped Zach's very sweet Lagniappe Session, which features inspired covers of the Stooges, Eno, Peter Laughner and JJ Cale.)

Aquarium Drunkard has been publishing loads of fascinating Q&As over the past few months ... Mark Neeley's chat with Cornelius! Jennifer Kelly's deep dive with Will Oldham! Jason Woodbury's convo with John Carpenter! Healing Potpourri's give-and-take with Sean O'Hagan! If this kinda thing is your kinda thing, consider subscribing to the ongoing online magazine that is AD ...

[rcmndedlisten]

One of the coolest sounds breezing freshness into modern indie throughout 2022 was a transfixing chillout factor radiating from Cali in a kindred connection between Healing Potpourri's Simi Sohota and the Los Angeles artist's recommended floral pop experiment, Paradise, and the anti-static swerve into introverted think bubbles forming from the psychedelic mind of Peel Dream Magazine's Joe Stevens on his latest album, Pad. The mutual energy exchanges itself on Peel Dream Magazine’s remix of the Paradise highlight, “Here”, channeling its cosmic instrumentation into warm, synthetic instrumental orbs where its matter evolves elsewhere into the universal atmosphere.

The vibes don’t stop there, though. Healing Potpourri has held his ear close to the musical ether far out elsewhere as well, and shares with +rcmndedlisten his favorite music of the year. If you like the ambient, avant pop, sensory-manipulating experiences, or just a reminder of warmer climates as the weather does its own kind of chilling for the season, this is its own escape of suggestions. Take a deep dive into his list, and stick around for more Paradise below...

Healing Potpourri’s Favorite Music of 2022:

Peel Dream Magazine - Pad [Slumberland Records]

Pad by Peel Dream Magazine

Fonteyn - Trip the Light Fantastic [Born Losers Records]

Trip The Light Fantastic by Fonteyn

Michael Rault - Michael Rault [Wick Records]

Michael Rault by Michael Rault

Pregnant - Duct Tape [Disorder Recordings Ltd.]

Duct Tape by PREGNANT

Children Maybe Later - What A Flash Kick ! [Sloth Mate Productions]

What A Flash Kick ! by Children Maybe Later

Jerry Paper - Free Time [Stones Throw Records]

Free Time by Jerry Paper

Cate Le Bon - Pompeii [Mexican Summer]

Pompeii by Cate Le Bon

Young Guv - Guv III & IV [Run For Cover Records]

GUV III & IV by Young Guv

Paul Cherry - Back on the Music! [Sunset Music]

Back On The Music! by Paul Cherry

Pearl & the Oysters / Biche - Coordonnées [Feel Trip Records]

Coordonnées by Pearl & The Oysters, Biche

Honorable Mentions:

Kolumbo - Gung Ho [Calico Discos]

Gung Ho by Kolumbo

Fievel is Glauque - Flaming Swords [Math Interactive]

Flaming Swords by Fievel Is Glauque

Jonny Kosmo - Light Speaks the Quilt [Slimehouse]

Light Speaks the Quilt by Jonny Kosmo

Sam Prekop and John McEntire - Sons Of [Thrill Jockey]

Sons Of by Sam Prekop and John McEntire

Dummy - Mono Retriever [Sub Pop]

Mono Retriever by Dummy

Paradise by Healing Potpourri

Healing Potpourri’s Paradise is available now on Run for Cover Records.

[zponds]

(Credit goes to JWBtheUncanny on Deviantart)

PreCure All Stars Crystal Freeze 6

For the Final Battle against Dr. Doom with everyone learning He was Manipulating everything from the Start involving the War for the Healing Garden, To get into Latvaria to get Revenge on Dr. Doom for Secretly Attacking the land of Hearts by using Bombs to cause Earthquakes in an effort to punish PreCure for ruining his plans of 2020, the Jerkinators and Ketchum Alliance came up with the Idea of Smuggling them into Latvaria, By placing Pretty Cure All Stars (From Max Heart to Healin Good) and the Fairies of UFO in Crystal Freeze, Being placed in Crystal Freeze will hide your thermal heat from any and all life-form Scanner, If some of you are familiar with my work so far, Being in Crystal Freeze places you in a Hibernation state and for as long as the Panel operator wished, the Process however can be Dangerous if not used properly, Aside from it being used for long distance Travel from World to World, it would be considered as a form of Punishment for anybody that's committed a crime against the PreCure Race, Before going into Crystal Freeze, All PreCure have to wear these Special Latex suits that can not just cover there privates and would serve as a Regulator for there Body Temperature, kinda like a Diving suit.

If your wondering how this was possible, You can thank KiraKira PreCure a la Mode, They've been busy recreating the Crystal Freeze chambers as requested by Cure Elder, and MLPFan053.

Here are Heartcatch PreCure (Tsubomi Hanasaki, Erika Kurumi, Itsuki Myoudouin & Yuri Tsukikage along with Chypre, Coffret & Potpourri) Wanted to do one of Yuri at the side with some of the Details.

[eendtiimes]

aaron wakes with a start to find he’s surrounded on all sides with pillows. as his eyes adjust to the low light, he recognizes the pattern, the feel of the fabric. he’s in his own bed. he doesn’t feel the cowl around his face, but does feel the nomex of his suit. the last aaron remembered, he was following a distress call from a civillian just down the street. after dispatching one of her attackers—and recieving a gunshot wound just above his hip in the process—he’d staggered forwards, red rush close behind… 

he blinks hard and looks up. the curtains are drawn, so the figure that stands before him his backlit, little more than a silhouette. it’s a silhouette he’d recognize anywhere. “josef.” aaron moves to sit up and is struck with a sudden, sharp pain. he suppresses the urge to wince. “what happened?” there’s urgency in his voice. anything could have happened between now and then, be it to josef or to the civilian. 

@potpourris / darkwing .

quick hands reach out to help Aaron sit up, knowing full well the extent of the damage . gunshot aside, when Josef found him, Aaron looked like he’d been hit by a bus . except the bus was on fire, and was full of bears . he shouldn’t have been walking, nonetheless out fighting . Josef’s worry and held-back urge to chastise Aaron is clear even in the low light as he gets closer, sitting on the bed next to him with hands lingering on the other’s shoulders .

❝ everything’s fine . ❞ he says quietly, tone more dim than his usual voice . he isn’t angry, not upset with Aaron necessarily, but he’s worried as all hell and a little miffed that Aaron of all people pulled a stunt like that — wasn’t he supposed to be the responsible one ?

❝ no one else got hurt . ❞ well, aside from the guy who shot Aaron . he’ll probably need a nose job after his face heals . ❝ I took care of it . so you don’t have to worry . ❞

Josef sighed then, gaze falling from Aaron’s eyes to idly graze over the wounds he knew were still present . he was by no means a doctor, but apparently Aaron’s constant lectures about how to treat certain wounds stuck after all . the worry is thick in his voice . ❝ why were you out there in this kind of condition ? you could have died . I could have lost you . it’s a miracle I was already out looking for you . otherwise … what would have happened ? ❞