#bleeding heart cross eye tattoo

[callmeblake]

Close ups of Frank's leg tattoos from this set

[sugugasm]

BET | love and deepspace

⟡ tags : underground boxer! sylus + reader — sylus isn’t afraid of going all in when it comes to you.

ミ★ content warning : fem! reader uses she/her prns, mentions of blood & injuries, mentions of female anatomy as well as male anatomy, oral fem! receive, gentle to rough sex, pet names like bby, dove, kitten, honey, 5.0K WORD COUNT

you step into the dimly lit underground boxing gym, the air thick with the scent of sweat, cigarette smoke, and leather. it’s a seedy place, hidden in the heart of the city’s most notorious neighborhood, where the law doesn’t dare to tread. the crowd tonight is a mix of rough characters - bikers with gang patches on their jackets, local gangsters with glares and expensive watches, shady high-rollers in suits looking to place big bets on the illegal fights.

as you navigate through the throng of people, you spot him in the corner, preparing for his match. sylus - the man who happened to be your ex-boyfriend . . oh, and only the most feared bare-knuckled boxer in the underground circuit. he was a sight to behold, all rippling muscles and newfound tattoos, with messy silver hair that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. you watch as he methodically wraps his hands, his intense red eyes focused on the task.

your history with sylus is complicated, to say the least. you met him two years ago at a biker rally, drawn to his bad-boy charm and undeniable charisma. he swept you off your feet with his daredevil antics on his custom harley and his smooth talking ways. but sylus’s world was always filled with danger, violence, and illegal activities. as the leader of onychinus, the city’s most notorious motorcycle club, he ran an empire built on illicit evol weapons, protocore deals, and underground fighting.

at first, the thrill of it all was intoxicating - the adrenaline rush of riding on the back of his bike, the wild parties at the onychinus clubhouse, watching him dominate in the ring. but as time went on, you grew tired of the constant chaos and the fear that one day, sylus’s risky lifestyle would catch up to him. you wanted stability, a future - things that sylus scoffed at. ‘i live in the moment, babe,’ he would say with that infuriating smirk. ‘and right now, all i want is you.’

but it wasn’t enough. six months ago, after a particularly brutal fight that left sylus battered and bleeding, you reached your breaking point. you told him you couldn’t watch him destroy himself anymore, that you needed more than he could give you. sylus, stubborn and proud as ever, refused to change. ‘this is who i am,’ he growled. ‘so take it or leave it.’ so you left, walking away from the man you loved, determined to build a life free from the violence and uncertainty.

now, seeing him again after all this time, you feel a mix of emotions stirring within you. anger, hurt, frustration . . . but also a undeniable pull of attraction and longing. as if sensing your presence, sylus glances up, his red eyes locking with yours. a slow, confident smirk spreads across his handsome face as he saunters over to you, the crowd parting before him.

“well, well. look who it is,” he drawls, looking you up and down appreciatively. “didn’t expect to see you here tonight, [★]. come to watch me dominate the ring as usual?”

you scoff and cross your arms, determined not to let him see how much his presence affects you. “i’m not here for you, sylus. i’m just here to collect on some bets.”

he chuckles, a deep, rich sound that sends shivers down your spine. “sure you are, sweetheart. keep telling yourself that.”

sylus takes a step closer, invading your personal space. he smells like musk and sandalwood, a scent that brings back memories of stolen moments and passionate nights. “i miss you, you know,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate. “everything’s been so boring without you around to keep me on my toes.”

you try to stay strong, but you can feel your resolve wavering. damn him and his charm. “i’m not here to rehash the past, sylus. what do you want?”

his eyes glint with a challenge. “make a bet with me - when i win the championship belt tonight, you give me another shot. a chance to prove that we’re meant to be together.”

you laugh in disbelief. “you can’t be serious. we’re done, sy. i’m not falling for your games again.”

“who says it’s a game?” he counters, his expression turning serious. “i know i messed up, [★]. i wasn’t ready before, but i am now. i want you back in my life. i need you.”

you hesitate, torn between your lingering feelings and your better judgment. sylus is a force of nature, wild and untamed. being with him is like dancing on the edge of a razor - thrilling but dangerous. can you really risk your heart again?

“and what do i get if you lose?” you ask, buying yourself time to think.

sylus flashes you a cocky grin. “you know i never lose, kitten. but if by some miracle i do . . i’ll leave you alone. for good. unless you decide you can’t resist me and come crawling back.”

you snort at his arrogance, even as a part of you wonders if he might be right. sylus has always had a hold on you, an undeniable magnetism that draws you in against your will, “fine,” you hear yourself saying, almost as if from a distance. “you’ve got a deal.”

his grin widens, triumphant. “get ready to come back to where you belong, [★] - with me.”

the crowd starts to get louder, chanting and cheering as the lights flicker and dim. it’s almost time for the main event - sylus’s championship fight. he starts to walk towards the ring, but pauses and turns back to face you.

“watch closely now, honey,” he says with a wink. “i’m about to show you what you’ve been missing.”

with that, he strides away, his movements graceful and predatory. you watch him go, your heart pounding in your chest.

what had you gotten yourself into?

as the crowd’s chanting reaches a fevered pitch, sylus steps into the ring, the picture of coiled power and raw aggression. his opponent, a hulking brute known as ‘the mauler’, glares at him from across the mat, pounding his meaty fists together in a show of intimidation. but sylus just smirks, unfazed. he’s taken down bigger, badder fighters than this guy.

the referee calls them to the center, going over the rules - not that there are many in the underground circuit. “no biting, no eye gouging, fight ends with a knockout or tapout. keep it clean . . ish. touch gloves and come out swinging!”

sylus bumps his taped fists against the mauler’s, staring him down with those intense red eyes. then they’re backing away, the air crackling with tension as the crowd falls silent in anticipation.

the bell sounds and the mauler charges forward with a roar, swinging wildly. but sylus is too quick, too skilled. he slips and weaves, dodging the heavy blows, letting his opponent overextend himself. sylus fires off a rapid jab - cross combo, snapping the mauler’s head back and drawing first blood from his nose.

the big man snarls and redoubles his efforts, trying to use his size to his advantage, to trap sylus against the ropes and pummel him. but sylus is like smoke, always just out of reach. he targets the mauler’s weak spots with surgical precision - a knife-hand to the solar plexus to crush his wind, a heel kick to the floating rib, an elbow smash to the jaw.

each blow lands with devastating impact, chipping away at the mauler’s formidable stamina and sending the crowd into a frenzy. they chant sylus’s name like a war cry, thrilling at the sight of the chiseled, tattooed demigod of the ring in his element.

you watch in breathless awe, pulse racing, body heating. damn him. he’s magnificent like this - a perfect fighting machine, all fluid grace and controlled violence. it’s enough to make you forget why you walked away, to let yourself imagine those powerful hands on your body once more . .

a pained grunt snaps you back to the moment as the mauler finally lands a solid hit, a haymaker to sylus’s ribs that sends him staggering. your heart leaps into your throat. but sylus just shakes it off with a feral grin, spitting blood and bouncing on his toes as he beckons for more.

they trade blows in a brutal, lightning-fast exchange, neither giving quarter. the mauler is flagging but still dangerous, pure grit keeping him on his feet. sylus bleeds from a cut over his eye but barely seems to feel it, an unholy light in his gaze as he scents victory.

he presses his advantage with a dizzying flurry of strikes, driving the mauler back . . back . . until he’s pinned against the turnbuckle. sylus hammers his torso without mercy - left hook to the liver, right uppercut to the chin, again, again. the mauler’s knees buckle and sylus steps back, letting him crumple to the canvas.

the crowd erupts as the ref counts it out. at “ten,” sylus throws his hands up in triumph, basking in the adulation. his eyes find yours across the room and the heat in them makes your breath stop. in three long strides he’s out of the ring and hauling you into his arms, crushing his mouth to yours in a searing kiss.

for a moment, you forget where you are. forget the mob of rowdy spectators whistling and catcalling. forget every reason you swore you'd never let him back into your heart. all you know is the demanding press of his lips, the steel - cable strength of his blood-slicked body, the intoxicating rush of his victory and your surrender . . .

“looks like i won our bet, babe,” he says smugly, smirking down at you. “hope you’re ready to pay up.”

you scowl, hating how easily he affected you. “one. drink. that was the deal.”

sylus touches his tongue to the seam of his split lip, gaze roving hungrily over you. “oh, i’m just getting started.”

he drags you through the throng of well-wishers and sycophants, his grip on your hand unbreakable. outside, the night air is cool against your overheated skin, charged with tension and the distant growl of engines.

sylus leads you to his pride and joy - that sleek demon of a harley crouched by the curb. the way he straddles the throbbing machine is blatantly sexual, all hard muscles and black leather. he jerks his head at the space behind him.

“c’mon - you know the drill, hop on.”

your hesitation lasts a mere heartbeat before you throw a leg over the bike and wrap your arms around his waist, molding yourself to his back. the rumble of the engine between your thighs and the furnace heat of his body shreds the last of your resistance.

your hesitation lasts a mere heartbeat before you throw a leg over the bike and wrap your arms around his waist, molding yourself to his back. the rumble of the engine between your thighs and the furnace heat of his body shreds the last of your resistance.

then, sylus kicks off and you’re flying, the city lights a neon blur as he opens the throttle. your pulse pounds in time with the roar of the pipes, excitement and desire a heady drug in your veins. by the time he screeches to a stop outside a dingy saloon on the outskirts of town, you’re dizzy with need.

inside, the bar is a den of sin and swagger, all scuffed leather and polished chrome and clinking bottles. eyes follow sylus with a mix of fear and reverence as he stalks to a booth in the back, one possessive hand at the small of your back.

he orders a whiskey, neat, and your favorite poison, not bothering to ask what you want. at your raised eyebrow, he shrugs.

“i remember.”

two words. but the weight of history and unspoken emotion behind them squeezes your heart. your fingers tremble slightly as you raise your glass in a mock toast.

“to your victory. and my reckless wager.”

sylus’ gaze is molten as he clinks his tumbler against yours, gaze holding you captive over the rim as he tosses back the smooth liquid. the slight burn of the alcohol is nothing compared to the smolder of his stare.

“what are we doing, sy?” you ask into the charged quiet, liquid courage loosening your tongue. “why now, after all this time?”

a muscle ticks in his jaw. he looks down, spinning his empty glass, broad shoulders rigid with tension.

“i fucked up.”

his voice is low, raw with a vulnerability you've never heard from him. your breath snags.

“i thought i needed the rush, the rep, the respect. and yeah, maybe i did, for a while. but none of it meant shit without you.” slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, he reaches for your hand — lacing his scarred, tape-wrapped fingers with yours, “i was a coward. i pushed you away because i was scared shitless of how bad i wanted you - needed you. needed your strength, your goodness. you made me want to be better. and it truly fucking terrified me.”

his grip tightens, almost painfully. anchoring you to him.

“losing you . . it broke me, [★]. made me realize that the only thing i’m actually afraid of is living without you.”

sylus swallows hard, his throat working. when he looks up at you, his eyes are blazing with fierce intent.

“i know i don’t deserve another shot. i know i need to earn back your trust. but i swear to whoever may hold my fate, if you give me a chance, i will spend every waking day proving that you’re my whole damn world.”

your heart is a wild bird in your chest, frantic and yearning. you search his face, finding only sincerity and aching tenderness beneath the bruises and blood.

“i never stopped loving you,” you confess, voice breaking. “no matter how hard i tried to hate you . . i couldn’t let you go.”

sylus makes a rough sound, halfway between a growl and a groan. then he’s kissing you, deep and urgent and saying everything he can't put into words. you fall into him, all hunger and desperation, the levee finally breaking on the flood of your need.

“take me home,” you gasp into his mouth, fingers curling in the sweat-damp silk of his hair.

“i thought you’d never ask, dove.”

the anticipation is a living thing as sylus speeds through the lamp-lit streets, the throaty growl of his harley between your thighs a heady reminder of the man commanding the machine. by the time he pulls into the cavernous garage beneath his loft, your body is humming, every nerve ending alight with need.

sylus is on you the moment you dismount, crowding you back against the rough brick wall, his large frame enveloping yours. his kiss is searing, possession and passion, strong hands gripping your hips as he grinds into you. you moan into his mouth, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his leather-clad shoulders, craving more.

“been dreaming about this,” he rasps against your lips, his voice like gravel and whiskey, igniting heat in your veins. “having you back in my arms, in my bed. fuck, [★], need you so bad it's like a sickness.”

“then take me,” you breathe, emboldened by the blatant hunger shining in those crimson eyes. “i’m here, sylus. i’m yours.”

something animalistic unfurls behind his gaze, a primal sort of satisfaction that has you clenching with want. in a burst of movement, he hoists you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his lean hips as he strides purposefully to the industrial elevator that will carry you to his domain.

the short ride up is a haze of frantic kisses and roving hands, two years’ worth of pent-up longing seeking outlet. by the time sylus kicks open the door to his loft, you’re both panting, clothes askew and lips kiss-bruised. he carries you straight to the bedroom, a cavern of shadows and silver moonlight spilling across rumpled black silk sheets. when he lays you down in the center of that decadent expanse, the reverence in his touch steals your breath. his battle-scarred fingers shake slightly as they skim over your curves, learning you anew.

“so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, crimson gaze tracking hungrily over your body like he's committing every detail to memory. “can’t believe i almost lost this . . lost you . .”

“never,” you whisper fiercely, reaching up to cup his angular jaw. “i’m here, sylus. right where i belong. and i’m not going anywhere.”

he turns his head to press a fervent kiss to your palm, the heat of his breath making you shiver as his lips graze your fingers — and ever so gently, he bites. then slowly, deliberately, he divests you of your clothes, unwrapping you like a gift. you echo his actions, baring him inch by glorious inch to your avid gaze.

sylus’s body is a work of art, all chiseled muscle and inked skin, a roadmap of violence and survival. you take your time tracing the ridges and hollows, the scars and scrolling tattoos, familiarizing yourself with this new landscape of him. he shudders beneath your questing touch, eyes fluttering shut, a low rumble building in his chest.

“[★],” he grits out, and fuck, how you’ve missed the way he says your name, guttural and raw, like a prayer and a plea. “please, baby . . need to taste you.”

“yes,” you hiss, already aching, empty. “please, sylus.”

granted, he descends on you like a man starved, that talented mouth charting a path of fire over your sensitized flesh. he maps every curve and valley with lips and teeth and tongue, each nip and suck and lap stoking the inferno building in your core.

when he finally settles between your trembling thighs, the first bold stroke of his tongue punches the air from your lungs, your spine arching involuntarily. he groans in appreciation, strong hands splaying your thighs wider, opening you fully to his voracious appetite.

“fuck, i missed this,” he rasps against your slick folds, the vibration of his words making you keen. “missed the way you taste, the sounds you make when i devour this sweet cunt. could feast on you for hours, little one . .”

you whimper breathlessly, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other tangling in his silver hair, holding him to you. sylus takes the encouragement for what it is, sealing his mouth over your aching flesh and suckling greedily. stars erupt in your eyes, pleasure rioting through your veins as he works you ruthlessly, adding clever fingers to his oral assault. he curls them just right, rubbing that secret spot that has you seeing god, all while his wicked tongue paints obscene promises on your clit.

“s-sy, fuck!” you wail, back bowing, thighs clamping around his ears as he drives you higher and higher. “oh god, yes, just like that! don’t stop, please, i’m gonna’ cum . . fuck, baby-”

he doubles his efforts, a man possessed, growling his own pleasure into your core. “that’s it, my love,” he urges gutturally between long, lewd licks. “go ahead and give it to me, wanna’ feel you drench my face, want you gushing on my tongue . .”

his filthy encouragement hurls you over the edge with a strangled scream, release slamming into you like a freight train. you shatter spectacularly, pulsing and clenching around his thrusting fingers, slick gushing into his eager mouth as he works you through the most intense orgasm of your life.

when you finally drift back down to earth, aftershocks still rippling through you, sylus is grinning up at you wolfishly from between your thighs, his beard glistening obscenely with your essence. “fucking incredible,” he rumbles, pressing a soft kiss to your still-twitching center. “could watch you fall apart on my tongue forever and never get tired of it.”

“get up here,” you demand breathlessly, tugging him to you. he comes willingly, settling his considerable bulk over you, caging you beneath miles of warm, hard muscle.

you claim his mouth in a filthy kiss, moaning at the taste of yourself on his lips and tongue. he responds with matching hunger, hips rocking into the cradle of your thighs, the thick ridge of his erection a brand against your sensitive flesh.

“please,” you whimper into his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip. “need you inside me, sylus. been too long, i want it . .”

“fuck,” he snarls, the words seeming to snap his restraint. “far too long, honey. be patient, you know i will.” slowly, giving you time to adjust, he notches himself at your entrance and pushes forward, gasping harshly at the tight, wet heat of you enveloping him. “goddamn,” he grits out through clenched teeth, forehead pressed to yours. “silly me. i almost forgot how fucking perfect you feel. like coming home.”

“yes,” you moan, reveling in the familiar stretch and burn of his thick length entering your body. “missed this so much . . missed you . . love you, sylus, so fucking much.”

“i love you too,” he rasps, pulling nearly all the way out before surging back in, starting a deep, rolling rhythm that has your toes curling. “i never stopped, never will. you’re only for me, [★]. only me.”

you lose yourselves to the timeless dance, bodies moving in perfect synchronicity, rediscovering every perfect angle and hidden sweet spot. sylus takes his time, building you back up with long, measured strokes, whispering words of worship into your skin, branding you with his love.

“so good,” he groans, hitching your leg higher on his hip, sinking impossibly deeper. “could stay buried in this tight little pussy forever. never wanna leave.”

“don’t.” you gasp, fingers clawing at his flexing back, desperate for more. “stay — harder, sylus, fuck me harder. wanna’ be able to feel it tomorrow.”

with a low, approving growl, sylus complies, snapping his hips faster, driving into your yielding body with the piston precision of the machine he rides. the wet, obscene slap of flesh fills the room, punctuated by your escalating moans and cries.

“i’m not gonna last,” he warns, rhythm faltering. “too good, too fucking good. tell me you’re close, baby . .”

“s-so close,” you pant, the coil in your belly wound to the breaking point. “just a little more - fuck, right there, sy . . o-oh my —”

sylus hammers into you, grunting with the effort, sweat sheening his skin. he wedges a hand between your straining bodies, finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight circles. “cum on my cock,” he demands, voice strained. “let me feel that pussy grip me, milk me . .” his words are your undoing, hurling you into oblivion with a keening wail. your inner muscles seize around him, rippling and fluttering, trying to pull him deeper as you drench his driving length in release.

“fuck, yes!” sylus roars, pistoning wildly, chasing his own end. “gonna’ - ah, shit, kitty, i’m cumming!” his climax overtakes him with a force that borders on violence, his cock jerking and pulsing as he spills himself deep in your still-spasming core, painting your inner walls with thick ropes of his seed. you mewl weakly in blissed-out overstimulation, aftershocks rolling through you as he fills you to the brim.

finally spent, sylus collapses onto you, taking care not to crush you with his bulk. you cuddle as sweat and other fluids cool on your skin, hearts gradually slowing in tandem. he’s still stuffed deep inside you and you clench involuntarily around his now-softening length, loving the way he groans, overused nerves sparking. “keep that up and we’ll be going again real soon,” he warns playfully, nuzzling into your neck.

you huff a laugh, carding your fingers through his damp hair. “yeah, yeah,” you tease. “we’ve got time now, sylus. all the time in the world. i’m not going anywhere.”

he raises his head to look at you, crimson eyes soft and full of wonder. “damn right you’re not,” he rumbles, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. “i’m never letting you out of my sight again. you’re stuck with me now, sweetheart.”

“eh, could be worse,” you quip, grinning up at him. “i think i can handle being stuck with you. it’s only forever, after all.”

“forever,” sylus echoes solemnly, like an oath. “i like the sound of that. you and me. binded as one.”

“ . . . and loving each other stupid every chance we get,” you finish impishly, wiggling your eyebrows.

he barks a laugh, the joyful, uninhibited sound making your heart soar. “oh, that is definitely part of the plan,” he assures you, a wicked gleam in his eye. “gotta’ make up for lost time, don’t we?”

“mmhm, that we do,” you agree readily, warmth suffusing you. “better get started on that. forever’s not getting any longer.”

“as my lady commands,” sylus murmurs, capturing your mouth again as he begins to stir inside you once more.

and as passion ignites anew, the promise of countless tomorrows enfolding you like a benediction, you know this is just the beginning of the ups and downs.

because this love, tempered by loss and longing, by time and truth . . it’s unbreakable. a bond that even the harshest trials will only serve to strengthen.

and with sylus by your side, his heart in your keeping as surely as yours rests in his scarred and steady hands . .

. . you know you can weather any storm.

forever, and then some.

★ SUGUGASM 2024 | please don’t copy, translate or share my work on other platforms without my consent. tagging @ramonathinks <3

[glitterycvm]

Herbalist!Reader X Sukuna

WARNINGS: SMUT, p in v, degrading, rough sex, sukuna being mean

a/n: this took so long to write 😭😭

synopsis: sukuna gives u a reward for healing him

divider creds: animatedglittergraphics-n-more

it was about 11pm at night, and you needed to grab a couple more herbs to complete a medicine order. the thing was, the order was due tomorrow morning, and you had procrastinated the whole day. so here you are, roaming around the forest scrummaging around bushes, and trees, basket in hand which a flashlight in the other.

you were peacefully looking through a patch of echinacea, when you suddenly heard someone grunting with pain. you were a little worried, nobody ever came into this area, especially at 11PM at night... you were also curious about the noise, wanting to find out the cause of it. what's the worst that could happen?

flashlight in your hand you try to find the source of the noise, which soon turned into heavy pants and footsteps. as you searched you heard footsteps approaching you, you hide behind a bush,you place a hand over your mouth to muffle your breathing. then you see a tall pink haired man who was clearly very beat up, cuts spotted all around his chest area. he also had very distinct black tattoos. even though you could barely see him under the moonlight, you couldn't deny that he was very attractive.

you felt an urge to get to know him, to be near him, to just be in his presence so you take a deep breath and approach the tall man. as you walk towards him, "excuse me!" you belt as you walk closer to the man. he turns around and looks down at you. gosh he was so tall. and the way he looked at you, his piercing dangerous gaze. "what?" he hisses, hand over his chest. there was blood all over his hand. you looked back up at him sympathetically "I noticed that you're injured, like really badly..." you pointed out "and I was wondering if you wanted to come back with me to my cottage so I could take care of your wounds?" you offer. oh the innocence in your eyes, the way you looked up at him, the kindness of your heart. sukuna was invested. he wanted to ruin all that kindness and Innocence in you. he found it so cute that you had no idea what you were about to drag yourself into.

sukuna smirks, he bends down to your level, he scoffs loudly "you think I would need your help? please.I think I can take care of myself." he mocks. his words make your heart ache, why was he so mean about it? but you weren't gonna give up now. he was going to be yours. "are you sure? you know you have a lot to say for a guy who's nearly bleeding out" you remark, crossing your arms in the process. "c'mon let me fix you up, unless it hurts your precious little ego-" you tease. sukuna glared at you dangerously "you better watch your mouth." he grunts, you smirk, "aw? did that hurt your feelings?" you mock him. "you know what? if it makes you shut up, fine then!" he snaps. sukuna was loving the little game you were playing with him. if anything it made him even more attracted to you.

"so your name's sukuna?" you repeat, as you begin to clean his wounds. "didn't I just say that?" he snaps back. "woah chill out" you mutter as you begin to open a jar of aloe vera gel. sukuna rolls his eyes and stares up at the wooden roof of your humble cottage. "this might sting so be prepared" you warn before spreading a thin layer on his wounds. sukuna hisses at the sharp burning sensation. he looked so hot when he felt pain. the way his eyebrows furrowed, and the sounds he made... you wanted him so badly. you close the jar tightly, "that should be it" you comment. sukuna sits up on the couch, as you stay sitting on the floor. now you could get what you really wanted this whole time. "you know I think I did a really good job" you praise yourself. sukuna smirks sharply "I guess you did..." he admits "don't you think I should get a little reward?..." you ask slyly, as you rise up from your knees. sukuna chuckles "oh and what would that reward be?"

SCHLAP. SCHLAP .SCHLAP."s-slow down sukuna!" you mewl, placing a hand near his hips to try to slow him down. sukuna chuckles and grabs both of your hands and pin them to your back. "what happened to wanting that reward huh? too much f' you to handle slut?" he whispers in your ear, his voice raspy and endearing. he slaps your ass as he mercilessly thrusts into you. your sweet moans echo throughout your small cottage, the sound of skin slapping harmonizes with your moans. "if you keep going like this, you'll get hurt again..." you warn him. he rolls his eyes "oh well, you'll just have to fix me up again, and we both know you would love that." he says coldly. he thrusts into you like he's running out of time. his second cock rubbing up against your clit giving you endless amounts of ecstasy.

"i-im so close" you whined, sukuna smirks and flips you around making you lay on your back this time. you whine at your denied orgasm, sukuna just laughs devilishly. "didn't think I would let you come so quickly did you? you thought I would forget about that attitude you gave me earlier? now come and take this cock like the filthy slut you are." he demands as he aligns his cock with your entrance. the way he degrades you just turns you one even more, your pussy getting wetter by the second. without warning he slams into your hole, his second cock now grinding on your puffy clit rapidly. sukuna pushes your legs all the way to your chest, so he could abuse the shit out of your cervix. the amount of pleasure you were receiving was both heavenly and painful. your eyes were filling with tears from all the sensations.

you once again attempt to slow him down by placing a hand on his chest. sukuna grabs both your hands and pins them above your head, he leans in to whisper in your ear "don't run away now, where was the filthy whore I met a while ago? I thought you wanted this as a reward? that's what I thought. now shut up and take this dick." he commands. oh the way he degraded you was so hot. he talked to you like you meant nothing to him. the pleasure you were getting made you shed tears. sukuna scoffs at the sight, despite absolutely loving seeing you with wet glossy eyes. "such a crybaby... be grateful I haven't put both my cocks in you, ungrateful whore" he comments as his thrusts get sloppier but the second, his pants getting raspier. your moans grow in volume, you were so fucked out.

"f-fuck m' so close sukuna!!" you exclaim, as you feel your orgasm approaching, sukuna grunts as he chases his own orgasm along with you. he leans in, whispering in your ear "you like it when I pound into you hm? you're so cock thirsty for me aren't you?" he grunts, "y-yes! sukuna!" you mewl, the sound of slapping skin quickens as you both reach your orgasms. you both let out deep groans, sukuna fills you up with his cum, a string connecting his dick to your cunt as he pulls out. as you try to sit back up, a hand pushes you back down.

"who said I was done?"

[living-dead-girl7]

Notes: I am so deranged for this man right now... anyway probably occ, typos because I am a busy gal who doesn't proofread, mention of blood, softness, and probably some canon divergence . Also I am not even going to try and use Russian words for this so just imagine any terms of endearment that are italicized are in Russian lmao

Moonlight filters into the room and casts a soft hazy glow across Nikolai's bruised face as a cigarette dangles from his lips. His hands find themselves tangled in your hair, as you gently rest your head on his chest. The delicate manner in which your fingertips trace the ink that decorates his skin makes him shudder.  It's foreign to him, after so long you forget what it is like to be loved. His life is not his own, yet it feels all too real. His scars and tattoos are palpable, but the lies they tell deceive him.

Your soft voice interrupts his thoughts, "What's wrong?"

Nikolai looks down to be greeted by your half lidded eyes and a sleepy smile. He sets his cigarette down on the ashtray sitting on the nightstand with a small smile, "Nothing. Go to sleep dear." His gruff voice is like a lullaby to your ears, familiar, warm, and feels like home.

Your head lifts from his chest and your full body sits in front of him. "Nikolai-" you gently coo.

Before you can finish the question he shifts his body and opens his arms in a silent question. You happily indulge him, wriggling your way into his arms to gently rest your forehead against his. It's pointless to push him even more, so you resign to indulge him.

He wanted to answer you, but he couldn't find the words. In the back of his mind, he wonders what you truly think of him. You know of his work, what it entails, and the fictional nature of his whole facade. But truth and lies often fade into each other and form a murky pool that's easy to drown in. He wonders if you truly believe his words as he bares his scared and tattoo skin that screams the opposite. A constant reminder that tomorrow is not promised, it's a wish that crosses his mind every time he sees a star. He wonders if the blood on his knuckles make any difference.

There are times he knows you believe him, late nights when your limbs are tangled together and the only sounds are your soft snores. Or when you gently trace his scars and tattoos asking what they mean. Or like last month when you shoved your face into his chest after you shyly told him I love you in his native tongue. To him, it's tangible evidence you believe his word. If you didn't trust him, you wouldn't love him. 

He knows that if he asked if you truly loved him, it would break your heart into a million pieces. Hot tears would run down your cheeks and he would look away because he can’t bear to see your cry. The first time you cried in front of him it felt like he was having a heart attack. His chest was tight and constricted, it ached to see you smile again, it ached to hold you in his arms and cage you in so nothing could hurt you. He yearns to protect you, he knows he has too.

 Your devotion can be heard in every word uttered in his ear, every hug, kiss, and night spent awake waiting for him to walk through the door bleeding out. He knows that everytime he walks through that door, there is someone worth living for. 

The sound of your soft snores break him from his thoughts. Gentle inhales and exhales grace his ears and he swears that you said his name. Before he can fight himself even more, he lays back down with you cradled in his arms, for now, its heaven and always will be.

[fantasy-mixtapes]

Adaine Abernant S3 Character Playlist: Side A

So many feelings, so many. Here's to our overworked teenage oracle of all.

Genres Include: Alternative Rock, Folk, Pop-punk

1. Custom Concern, Modest Mouse

Their custom concern for the people Build up the monuments and steeples To wear out our eyes I get up just about noon My head sends a message for me to reach for my shoes and then walk Gotta go to work, gotta go to work, gotta have a job Goes through the parking lot fields Doesn't see no signs that they would yield and then thought This'll never end, this'll never end, this'll never stop

Yeah, obviously, this is about spending so much of your time devoted to a job and losing your mind about it. There are a lot of songs about hating your job, but I don't think they capture the level of dissociation and disillusionment like this one.

2. Why Am I Like This?, Orla Gartland

Last night, I smoked a cigarette My dad would have been so upset Then we got tattoos by the coast Maybe I'm an old soul trapped in a young body Maybe you don't really want me there at your birthday party I'll be there in the corner, thinking right over Every single word of the conversation we just had So why am I like this? Why am I like this?

I can just imagine Adaine getting to experience so much of "normal" teenage life now that she's not controlled by her parents, getting to be the party wizard, getting to be the cool girl with the best friends, and knowing that she still has that little voice in the back of her head.

3. I Don't Know You, Mannequin P*ssy

I know one, two things I have heard about you But I wouldn't tell you No, I couldn't tell you I know three, four things that they say about you But I wouldn't tell you No, I couldn't tell you I know a lot of things I know a lot of things But I don't know you

Adaine's exchanges with Oisin really took me off guard, just because romance has kind of never been able to be on her plate the past two seasons. It totally makes sense, she was dealing with the worst abusive family ever, but also that means that 17-year-old cool girl adaine is absolutely clueless about this stuff (not to say that Oisin is any better).

4. Boreas, The Oh Hellos

Making lists, folding laundry Keeping tidy with my radio show I'd be lying if I told you I'm keeping tidy anymore Yeah, I swing from believing That maybe my working will all pay off To considering drinking with Molotov I'm halfway out the door Maybe then my breath could embody A wildfire starting I'd sweep up the forest floor And my body'd breath life into the corners Be a darker soil

This song, in particular, is MY burnout song. It's one of my favorites, and it (Romans 10:9 by The Mountain Goats) is what I listen to when I just can't take it anymore. Also I love to pepper in a little bit of rage/fire/red imagery into each of the characters since I think we can all tell what brennan has cooking down the line 👀

5. Running Out Of Time, Paramore

Never mind, I hit the snooze on my alarm twenty times But I was just so tired There was traffic, spilled my coffee, crashed my car, otherwise Woulda been here on time Shoulda, coulda, wouldn't matter, ultimate alibi You know it's a lie There was a fire Metaphorically Be there in five Hyperbolically

Obsessed with this song and the entire album, Ms. Williams (and the rest of Paramore, by extension) have my entire heart. I also like that we have cross over with having Cest Comme Ca on the Kristen playlist and this song here. I really like the dreamy quality this one has for Adaine though (could almost say trance-like ha ha)

6. How to Boil an Egg, Courtney Barnett

Pull yourself together, pick myself apart Nothing lasts for never so be still my bleeding heart Oh I've been dreaming, dreaming of a brand new start Yeah, I've been dreaming, dreaming of a brand-new start Oh, you have a great abundance of axes there to grind Remember some people have real problems next time you whine Oh, hang the washing Hang the washing on the line Yeah, hang the washing, hang the washing on the line

I just think she should start charging for prophecies. Like those tarot readers/astrologers on like etsy. People (elves) should fantasy venmo the oracle and she should turn her unpaid position into a lucrative business. Extort some hoity toity elves.

[thegreatwicked]

I need some insights into Maul fic Moonlight randezvous!

🖤❤️

I had no idea you were a Maul fan!! You shold go read my Meditations story! I think you'd love it! Enjoy this juicy little tidbit because this story has taken me forever to figure out and I'm horrifically stalled!

"You managed to pique my interest," the admission surprised even himself. "And that's no easy feat." he asked, taking a step closer to the bath, his gaze lingered on Zeala's tattooed body, his eyes tracing the intricate lines and symbols. "What tongue is this? What do they mean?" 

"They're just pretty lines,"

“I don’t believe you.”

"Is that really why you’re here, a shared fascination with body art?" she countered, her eyes gleaming with mischief. Maul scoffed, her dry wit was charming. 

“Why did you assist my brother?”

“Maybe I did it out of the goodness of my heart?” She smiled at him brushing her hand over her breast near her heart, Maul simply scoffed and shook his head. 

Maul's eyes narrowed as he gazed at Zeala, unyielding in his scrutiny.

"Out of the goodness of your heart? I find that hard to believe," he retorted, his voice laced with skepticism. “Don’t play games with me. I've never seen a woman with so many bounties on her head. There are plenty who desire your demise, and some even relish the thought of inflicting pain before delivering the final blow."

“Well, I suppose I do have a way of attracting attention.”

The room felt stifling, and Maul's heavy robes only added to the discomfort. He tried to remain focused on the matter at hand, but it was challenging with Zeala's alluring presence before him.

“Being owed a favor by a high-ranking member of a criminal syndicate might extend your life, wouldn't it?” Her smile widened as Maul seemed to catch on quickly.

“Not necessarily, having ally’s in high ranking criminal organizations can be about as reliable as having a pet rancor, it might protect me, or it might bite my head off… But I suppose it can’t hurt my chances.” 

“Did you know who Feral was when you decided to help him?

“Yes, his identity played a part in my decision.”

Maul's expression turned grave as he leaned closer, his grip on her chin tightening and becoming slightly painful.

"Do not think you can deceive me, I will know if you are lying" he warned. "Did you engineer the circumstances that led to my brother's misfortune?"

Zeala's demeanor shifted, her eyes locking onto his with a steely resolve.

"No, I did not, you have my word," she stated firmly, her tone leaving no room for doubt. “Your brother and I were simply in the right place at the right time.”

Maul’s burning eyes shore into her violet ones and after a moment he seemed satisfied and he released her.

“And now he owes you a favor?”

“Yes, he does.”

Maul studied her, trying to gauge her intentions. "Why a favor and not credits?" 

“I haven’t dealt in anything as common as credits in years.” Zeala leaned back, crossing her legs as she looked at him. "Credits can lose their value or disappear with the stroke of a key, secrets, information, and favors are priceless. Entire empires have fallen over carefully leveraged information. I stay one step ahead of my enemies by maintaining a delicate balance of favors and debts,"

“My brother, Savage, thinks you're a ghost, he clings to the superstitious beliefs of our fellow Nightbrothers. It was only my command that kept him from spilling your blood.” he paused, “Assuming that you bleed at all.” 

She chuckled, “I can assure you I do, I have the scars to prove it.” she said, running a finger along the surface of the water.

Maul tilted his head, considering her carefully. "Are you a threat, then?" he asked, his tone challenging.

Zeala met his gaze with an unwavering stare. "Only to those who cross me," she replied, her voice calm but filled with conviction, a dangerous undertone beneath her composed exterior.

“You want to know what my motivations are? I’ll tell you. I want to survive. I don’t ever want to sleep on a cold, damp floor again and I never want to be under the thumb of anyone more powerful than me ever again. I want to know a bit of comfort before I meet my maker. I’m many things but I don’t betray those who don’t betray me. Does that satisfy you?"

Her voice was laced with bitterness that Maul could feel came from a very difficult life, which he could relate to.

“A curious creature you are,”

“Does being curious increase my chances of survival?”

Maul leaned forward. "I don't trust you,"

Zeala met his gaze without flinching. "It’s a delicate thing, isn't it?" she said softly. “Seems to me we need to build trust if either of us want to leave this room alive.”

“How might one establish a bit of trust?”

A mischievous smile played on Zeala's lips as she leaned back against the edge of the bath looking up at him, her eyes fixed. "I can think of one way," she replied playfully, her hand gesturing towards the steaming water. “Trust should go both ways, from where I sit you have the advantage and you’re looking at me like prey.”

Maul's deep chuckle filled the air, "Cornered, defenseless, alone, and naked. In this moment, you look exactly like prey," he replied with an unpredictable fire in his eyes, his lips curled into a dangerous smile.

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, though Zeala couldn't see it. He moved silently out of her view. In the tense silence that followed, Zeala could feel the weight of his presence behind her, a dangerous energy emanating from him.

A few seconds passed, and just as the tension felt unbearable, she heard the distinct sound of fabric falling to the ground as Maul undressed behind her. One piece after another, each fold and layer cascaded down, creating a subtle rustling that mingled with the steam rising from the water. The weighty shuffle of the robes hitting the floor resonated in the small room, a tangible echo of the transformation taking place. It was as if the sound itself carried a sense of power and authority. A breath of relief escaped her lips, knowing that Maul had decided to join her in the hot water, rather than drown her in it. For now.

Her heart beats a little faster as she feels the presence of this powerful, dangerous man so close to her. 

Maul was no stranger to being stared at for one reason or another, the red eyes, his horns, his tattoos, and he had long ago grown indifferent to it all, but Zeala’s eyes on him were different. She didn’t look at him in fear like so many did, her gaze was fascination, intrigue and desire. She drew her legs up closer to her chest to leave space for him, it wasn’t a large tub by any means but it could certainly accommodate two people who were comfortable with one another. Though his hulking frame might be pushing it, she swallowed and for the first time her cool collected demeanor shook slightly, Maul smirked. 

As he submerged himself in the bath, his muscular frame reacting to the heat, surprised at just how hot the water was but he was ultimately unbothered by it. Zeala couldn't help but feel a surge of curiosity and desire mingling in the charged atmosphere between them. His extensive tattoos, swirling and rippling across his skin, added an air of mystery and danger to his already imposing presence.

Intrigued, “Quite extensive indeed.” She mutters in an appreciative way with a lingering look at the ink decorating his skin. "So, now that we stand on equal footing, where do we go from here?"

This is a rough draft of how Maul and Zeala meet and I've never gotten the story quite right! So, let me know what you think!

@maulfvckers

[dangerous-disposition]

Tig and Gareth for #16 please 😁

Aaaaaaaah thank you so much for your request!!! I love writing my boys!!!

This is actually going to be an official scene in the the Tigareth fic so please enjoy this little teaser I guess??

Tagging the scromies and tig fans: @sidekick-hero @scarcrossdlvrs @patchworkgargoyle @starryeyedjanai @stobinesque @vecnuthy @sentient-trash @steddieas-shegoes @wormdebut @theheadlessphilosopher @hellion-child

It was the worst fucking day of Gareth’s life.

He was hungover— as fuck— and he had to spend the day with the fucking cryptid. There was something about the producers “liking their chemistry” or some such bullshit, but Gareth knew what that really meant; bickering and animosity did wonders for ratings, and he and Tig had that in spades, so…

Well, Gareth had that in spades, if he was willing to be honest, which was never when it came to the back-up guitarist.

Not only did he have to spend the day with Tig, but it was hotter and more humid than Satan’s hairy taint and that meant both of them were a pair of grouches. Tig was especially grumpy.

“I fuckin’ hate the heat,” Tig groused as he tied his hair up into a high ponytail, showing off the blond undercut that was normally hidden by his long, dyed— a dark green, at the moment— mane of hair. It also showed off just how high up the black-out tattoo crawled up Tig’s neck and scalp.

“Don’t you live in LA?” Gareth asked sourly, tearing his gaze away from the line of Tig’s neck to stare out the SUV window.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Tig snapped, which actually caught Gareth a bit off-guard. Yeah, Gareth was a huge bitch to him all the time, especially when it was more than 90 degrees out, but Tig never matched his energy. Looking back at the man, equal parts offended and concerned, he could see Tig was already regretting his outburst. “Sorry, that was shitty.”

“Yeah, it fuckin’ was,” Gareth grumbled, crossing his arms tighter over his chest. “I just asked a question.”

At that, Tig rolled his eyes. “Yes, I live in LA. Also, yes, I have a low heat-tolerance. We do exist, actually. Don’t you live in LA, too?” he asked, basically pouting across the bench at Gareth.

“Yeah, but it’s the humidity that I hate,” he admitted with a groan, shifting uncomfortably in the back of the SUV. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I’ve got swass something fierce. Why do leather seats exist in a fuckin’ climate like this.”

Tig got a look on his face that had Gareth’s heart hammering in his chest, the anticipation for the innuendo that was surely about to drop from those lips, in that voice. But then Tig just smirked and shook his head.

“What?” Gareth pressed, pouting when Tig snorted.

“Nothing, low-hanging fruit,” he said with a suggestive waggle of his brow, just as the SUV stopped moving. With a grumpy little huff, Tig rolled his eyes and said, “well, we’re here.”

“Where’s here anyway?” Gareth asked as he followed Tig out of the vehicle, just to stare at the building with growing confusion. They were at… the humane society? He was too hungover and too dizzy from the humidity to deal with animals, and yet here he was, apparently doing just that. “What the hell?”

“See, this is why I didn’t want to bring you but the producers made me,” Tig sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. At Gareth’s affronted look, Tig rolled his eyes and added, “Normally, I love your bitchiness, thrive off of it, really, but this is my thing that I do for me.”

“And what? I’m harshing the vibes?” Gareth snapped, feeling bad because he knew the answer.

Yes, he was harshing the vibes, and he was doing it for no good reason. They were both stuck on this dumb trip out together and instead of burying the hatchet, Gareth was just going to keep swinging and swinging and swinging it until they were both bleeding apparently.

Tig eyed him, and standing at full height had him practically looking down his nose at Gareth, sharp and appraising. It was stupid how hot Gareth thought that was.

“It’s more that this is an outing I would’ve preferred to take you on when you weren’t forced to,” Tig responded after a moment, then shrugged. “Also, yeah, you being a bitch is kinda harshing the vibes.”

“Oh, so like a date?” Gareth asked skeptically, mockingly even but the frown that overtook Tig’s features had Gareth feeling guilty.

Instead of answering him, Tig sighed and nodded toward that door. “Can we just get this over with? Appease the producers and shit and go back to the hotel?” he asked, and Gareth felt an apology on the tip of his tongue.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” he sighed instead, following Tig into the building.

Turned out that when the rest of the band was off doing their stupid touristy things with the film crew, Tig was visiting humane societies in every city they hit on their tour. He was, apparently, spending his free time away from the band volunteering as a dog-walker or playmate for unwanted animals, as if the man could get anymore fucking attractive.

Today, they were apparently on Keep the Dogs Cool duty, which involved getting cooling vests wet, filling kiddie pools in the play yard, making sure the dogs were all playing nice in the kiddie pools in the play yard, and replacing the big ice cubes in the water bowls. It was nice, fun even, and Gareth was even starting to drop the whole… schtick he had with Tig. It was especially gratifying when Tig began to smile at him, big and genuine. The full force of that man’s smile, especially with those silver goddamn fangs, was enough to turn anyone’s legs to jelly, and Gareth was absolutely shaken by it, the world spinning around him as he struggled to catch his breath after one particularly blinding grin.

Actually, no, that wasn’t the smile making him dizzy, Gareth realized; it was the humidity and the hangover. That had to be it, right?

“You okay, Gare?” he heard Tig ask, and Gareth just nodded as he stared at the dog he was petting instead of looking directly at the other man.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just gonna go grab a drink inside,” Gareth said, swallowing hard as he stood up and spun on one heel.

Tig’s big hands were on him, one of his long arms around his back and the other around his waist. It was weird because Tig had been a few feet away and crouching, too; how was Tig holding him? Blinking his eyes open— when did they even close? What the hell? — he was looking up at the canopy over the play yard.

He was… on the ground? No, Gareth realized, he was not on the ground. He was in Tig’s arms.

Tig was talking, and there was a flurry of motion around them, but Gareth was too busy staring at the man’s worried expression as he talked to someone else. It was one of the camera guys— Brian? Maybe? — who handed Tig a washcloth, and when Tig turned his attention back to Gareth and saw his eyes open, he grinned.

“Hey, sweetheart, glad to see you back with us so quick,” Tig said, and his relief sounded so fucking genuine, Gareth’s heart ached for it. Then something began licking his face in big, slobbery stripes, breaking the spell of the moment. Tig laughed, shoving the massive Rottweiler away. “Dozer, back off, let the man breathe.”

“What the fuck happened?” Gareth asked, sighing as Tig laid the washcloth over his forehead.

“You fainted, like, straight into my arms,” Tig answered, and Gareth groaned. If that was caught on camera, he could only imagine how the producers were going to spin that in the finished documentary.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Gareth hissed, and Tig helped him sit up slowly.

“Y’know,” Tig started after a few minutes of them sitting and fending off slobber attacks from Dozer. Gareth looked over at him and frowned at the smirk on Tig’s face. With a grin, Tig continued, “If you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

“Shut the fuck up, Doug Jones,” Gareth snapped and the bewildered expression on Tig’s face was perfect for cheering him up. When the man apparently had nothing clever to retort to the new nickname, Gareth huffed grumpily and looked around. “Can we call it a day and go back to the hotel? Please?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Tig said, and Gareth huffed at the term of endearment, glancing away from him to hide the blush he could feel overtaking his features.

[dottie-writes-tmnt]

I Love you Like an Alcoholic

I wrote a thing! This is Rasey, although it’s a bit���questionable (toxic) and kinda a more angsty thing than a lovey dovey thing. Based off of the song I Love you Like an Alcoholic by The Taxpayers!

It was a heavy, humid night, Raphael Hamato dropping down from his traverse across rooftops to land on the corner of Park and Main Street. He pulled out his phone, sighing; his brother wanted him home as good as an hour ago.

He glanced up at the gravel crunching and caught the eye of a caramel-skinned boy with freckles and messy black hair and a bandanna, who gave him a crooked, embarrassed smile at having being caught staring.

Just that smile sent blood and endorphins running through his veins at maximum capacity— if it went any faster, he could truly testify from his hospital bed that looks gave heart attacks. Leonardo could wait, he decided, crossing the street to talk to the stranger. He was invited over and they listened to the boy’s records while talking about nothing and everything at the same time.

It was so amazing to have someone like Casey in your life; the duo met at that place every night, and soon even dangerous men in the shadows played audience to their nighttime adventures of vandalism, kicking ass, and just being stupid teenagers who probably wouldn’t ever make it to college, and even the meanest among them had a little shine in their eyes when the duo walked by.

This particular night, they just walked, holding hands and talking about good tattoo places and cities better than the one they were in— maybe if they were alive long enough they’d move in together in one of those cities —and Casey stopped walking, cupping Raph’s face and staring down at him. And of course, with his Hamato luck, the rain opened up the sky as their lips collided to get

One last kiss…

***

Raphael never should have let Casey meet his family. Raph knew he loved Casey so much it felt like it made his heart bleed. He felt addicted, especially now, like a fucking alcoholic, the way this shit was hurting him but he couldn’t stop it.

He knew Casey liked April and it made him sick to think about, made him sick when Casey would come into Raph’s room with her lipstick on his neck, but that feeling always disappeared when the ravenette kissed him or held his hand.

He needed Casey. He needed him like he needed a broken leg. It hurt and they argued often, Casey swearing he still loved Raph— which he knew, but April was still a problem —and after any argument, they fucked and never talked about it until they fought again. It didn’t do jack shit.

Raph stared at his ceiling, thinking of the last time he’d seen Casey. They’d finally ended things on

One last kiss…

——

Casey had been getting off a late shift at his part time job and attempting to recover from how it’d drained him. As he got off the bus, he crumpled up the bus pass and tossed it into the gutter before looking around.

His gaze caught on a handsome dark skinned stranger that was standing on the corner. Those green eyes were compelling; magnetized. Looking back, Casey wonders if he’d lost them when he got older. The two walked together and seven blocks in, the ravenette’s fingers brushed the other’s hand. Casey blushed while Raphael laughed, but he seemed a little sad.

Casey Jones was never one to jump a ship, but to this day, he can still say that he absolutely knew he was six steps in when he fell into him.

One last kiss…

***

Casey did like April, yes, but he loved Raph too. He’d never want to hurt him. Casey’s heart hurt and he knew he should do something, but he was addicted, his love akin to an alcoholic’s.

After every single fight they had, the two fucked, Casey listening to the other’s breaths and running fingers through that hair. It made him feel worse and worse every time. He really needed to end things, and they both knew it, which was why Raph would cry during fights and Casey would go quiet then. But he needed Raph like he needed a gaping head wound.

Now the ravenette stared out of the window of his apartment in a city the duo had considered moving to, staring out at that dark street and wished they’d kept in contact as he thought of how when they’d ended things, in the same place as their first, it rained yet again as they had just

One last kiss…

(I love you like an alcoholic)

[theladyofbloodshed]

A Court of Tangled Flames - Chapter 24

Once Nesta had criss-crossed through the quiet city being blanketed by snow, she was enveloped by the warmth of the River Estate. She had barely taken off her coat when Elain ushered her up the stairs. Her pink skirts twisted around her silk slippers as she hurried up ahead of Nesta.

‘I moved your things into here,’ she explained, gesturing to a corner of the room where her overnight bag sat.

There were small plants growing in pots on the windowsill where they could soak up the sun. The large room was bedecked in creams and blush pink with a decadent sort of luxury that would have bordered on obscene with anybody else, but for Elain it suited her. It was pretty and polished, all softness and opulence. There was her own bathing chamber as well as a modest lounge coming off the bedroom.

Nesta tried not to feel jaded, but Elain had been catered to with no pressure of working for the high lord like she had been. There was no bargaining for money, no conditions on her stay in their property. Elain was taken care of without question. She didn’t need to scry or train or do anything she didn’t want to do. And that was how it had been right from the beginning. Nesta was foolish to be hurt by the same thing, like repeatedly running her finger over a blade and being startled that it still caused her to bleed, but she was hurt by it still. It was unfair, but it was never going to change. Why couldn't she learn that?

Her eyes tracked back to the thin, reedy plants sagging over their pots and Nesta was struck with the urge to tell Elain about Eliška’s green fingers too. Something held Nesta back. Her mother-in-law’s life wasn’t to be traded to try and poach Elain towards a bond. If she was being honest, Nesta wanted to keep those special moments to herself. A delicate bond was beginning to grow between Nesta and her mother-in-law in the rare times they were able to interact and she didn’t want to share it. Deep in her heart, Nesta knew that if Eliška met Elain, she would fall to second place with Elain’s soft company preferred.

‘I will ask you once then I will say no more.’ Elain took in a steadying breath as she wrung her fingers together. ‘Are you truly happy with Eris, Nesta? It could be arranged that you didn’t need to go back there. You would be safe and no trouble would come to you for the last few months.’

She clenched her teeth together so tightly that it was little wonder that they didn’t crack. ‘Yes. I am happy. Happier than ever. And that is the last you will say on the matter.’

Nesta understood then why her sister had rushed her off to the bedroom whilst the others were cosy, cloistered downstairs already drinking and laughing. Elain meant well. Perhaps. It was more than likely that another had put the idea in her head or pushed her to broach the subject with Nesta. She had to get it out of the way before she lost her nerve.

Elain smoothed down her skirts with both hands. ‘Then that is what matters.’

How could Elain have visited Orla’s house, seen her and Eris so comfortable in each other’s presence, and not known it was real?

‘Are you happy, Elain?’

She fumbled for her words, before blinking at Nesta with her fawn-brown eyes. ‘Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?’

Tossing a lock of her hair over her shoulder, Elain aimed for the door.

That was the sign of happiness, Nesta thought, scurrying away and being unable to look her in the eye for more than a moment. Did she still grieve for the relationship with Graysen – even after all this time? Or was it something else – an unwillingness to rock the boat in Velaris or give into the press of the bond?

Elain had seen first hand just what happened to those who went against Rhysand. Maybe she was frightened that she too would be jailed into the House of Wind with a sword thrust into her hands.

After changing out of her dress that had dampened on the hem from the snow, Nesta braced herself to join the festivities downstairs. She touched the tattoo beneath her plain wedding ring, already missing Eris terribly. It was strange to stand up alone when her husband had been at her side for so many months.

In the lounge, Elain sat rigidly at one end of the couch whilst Cassian occupied the other end. Neither of them looked particularly pleased by it. As expected, Rhys had a protective arm wrapped around Feyre, his violet eyes flicking across Nesta’s dress as she entered the room, cataloguing every declaration that she belonged to the Autumn Court. Azriel gave her a nod and Mor – thankfully – did not pass a remark, only continued with the tale she was regaling them with.

‘Happy birthday, Feyre,’ Nesta said, in a lull in the conversation as she wedged herself beside Lucien.

The male did his best to shift up, but it was more a chair than a couch. Nesta would be damned if she took up the seat beside Cassian though.

Happy conversations swirled around the room, but Nesta couldn’t be part of it. Her throat had dried up at the sight of the roaring fire. She’d become too complacent with a husband who could create creatures from flame, who always ensured she was warm, to anticipate a fire that burnt naturally. It had been an aspect that Nesta had overlooked in her planning.

Her breathing was shallow as she tried to manage the encroaching feeling of doom. Each crackle was a prelude to something worse. Every pop made her flinch.

A sudden press of silence fell about the room.

‘Nesta?’

She dragged her eyes from the flames. Every pair of eyes in the room was staring at her.

‘Too much time with my brother’s magic. The fire has enchanted her,’ said Lucien with a smile. ‘Feyre asked where abouts in the city you visited.’

‘Your old taverns?’ Mor said with a roll of her eyes.

It took Nesta time to bring herself back into the lounge. She had been lost on the battlefield with her body cradling Cassian’s as the king bore down on them. Her eyes briefly snagged on the Illyrian across the room, remembering the tremble in his hands as they’d touched her face, the hope fading from his eyes with every ragged inhale. They should have died that day.

‘No. The temple. That’s the only place I went.’ She didn’t doubt that a shadow or two had trailed her on their master’s orders to ensure Nesta didn’t go snooping anywhere else in Velaris.

‘I’ve not been in a temple for centuries,’ drawled Rhys.

Feyre shifted slightly with a hand supporting her stomach. ‘The temple?’

‘Eris attends whenever possible so I asked him to take me to one to try and learn more about Prythian. I wanted to give my thanks to the Mother today.’

Mor’s blonde brows raised to her hairline. ‘As if Eris is the paragon of religion.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Eris lacks a spine. He lacks any sort of morality. The idea of him worshipping the Mother is laughable.'

Mor had folded her arms across her chest, the tension slithering up her body as she met Nesta’s eyes in challenge. This was her den. The failed betrothal still hung between Morrigan and Eris centuries later. She could have defended her husband’s actions and explained to Mor that it was her own family who had hurt her; Eris had merely left her there because bringing her to the Forest House would have been a tragedy. Beron would not have let her live. There was no reasoning with a female who had spent five hundred years running from the truth. No, Morrigan couldn’t face it. She wouldn’t see reason.

‘Keep my husband’s name out of your mouth.’

The stalemate went on and on.

Nesta held her ground in the battle of wills, forced Mor to look away before she did as silver fire burnt in her irises.

Just as he would do for her, Nesta would not hear a bad word spoken of her husband.

Eris had given her everything. She’d see her veins run dry before she saw him harmed by this court.

The sounds of the front door opening distracted attention, thank the Mother, though it brought the unwanted arrival of Amren and Varian.

Nesta endured comments from the former that she was surprised that Nesta wasn’t deep into a bottle of wine by now. For a moment, Nesta debated simply throwing her steaming cup of tea at Amren to see how much damage it could inflict but then Varian blocked her shot, turning his body slightly to speak with Cassian. Shame.

It could not be clearer to Nesta that she did not belong in this place – and that she never had. The conversation was crass at times and not at all stimulating. She yearned for the teachings of Maceo as he delved into the histories of the Daglan or how Orla would commentate on her healing magic as it worked. The idea of going to bed without Eris kissing her forehead was unfathomable now. Was it too late to ask for a return to the Autumn Court?  

Even Lucien sat with a bland look plastered across his face, speaking every now and then to keep up the charade of wanting to be there. His eyes continued to flick to Elain who dutifully pretended not to notice. It was difficult not to. Even Nesta could feel the searing heat of his look. It wasn’t desire, not in a lustful sense, but a deep longing to be near his mate, to speak, to make her smile, to simply bathe in her presence.

Slowly, the room filtered out towards the dining room where the smells of roasted meat and vegetables wafted out.

‘Feyre,’ Nesta said, pausing her before she could rise from the chair. Rhys remained stood beside her, a hand outstretched to help her to her feet. ‘I’d like to speak to my sister alone.’

The bastard didn’t shift. The tension crackled from his skin, desperate to strike at Nesta. This was the reason she was here – and Rhys knew exactly what Nesta would speak to his mate about. Too bad.

‘Rhys, go.’

For a few seconds, he remained as if in disbelief that Feyre had ordered him away. It was difficult for Nesta not to grin.

He made no hurry to leave, trampling his slippered feet across the rug from Sangravah, but Nesta refused to speak until he had departed the room. She had little doubt that a part of him would be lurking inside Feyre’s mind like a spectre that needed a permanent banishment.

‘This is for you.’

Nesta handed her sister a box wrapped in a long, red ribbon.

‘We do presents after dinner, Nesta.’

‘This is for your birthday,’ she insisted, keeping her hand firmly on the box so that Feyre couldn’t push it away.

So young. Her sister was so young. Faint freckles crossed the bridge of her nose but her grey eyes were wearied from troubles she shouldn’t have to carry. The softness of her face had been stolen by hard lines as the pregnancy took its toll on her. Feyre hadn’t even reached her mid-twenties yet. Hadn’t experienced a life full of laughter and lightness. Would Rhysand prioritise his mate or his heir, Nesta wondered.  

Thin fingers plucked at the bow to unravel it. Within the box were small, knitted clothes for a baby and the book of mortal bedtime stories found at the market.

‘Did Elain and Azriel talk to you about Orla?’

Feyre’s lips puckered together as she thumbed a blue cardigan with little slits on the back for tiny wings to slip through. ‘Yes. I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

‘Feyre,’ she breathed. ‘Orla can save you. All of you.’

She raised her chin indignantly. ‘The lives of my mate, my son, and I in the hands of an Autumn Court female employed by Eris. It’s a trap.’

So young and naïve, led down a path by a male who showered her in the love and affection she’d been denied while he blinded her to truth. Feyre was desperate to be loved, she always had been.

‘Are they your words or your mate’s? Perhaps if you had not rushed head first into a mating with a male who drugged you every night, you would be able to see clearer.’

Her words came out before she could jail them, but they weren’t the worst that she could say. Each one was a blow that hit Feyre, one after the other.

‘Eris told me everything about what happened to you Under the Mountain – or, what he saw. I don’t know what else happened to you – what others couldn’t see – but the sister I knew, who went back into danger for love,’ she said, swallowing slightly, ‘she would never let a decision be made for her. She would not stand for a male hiding information and controlling her life. She would be the one charging forwards with her own opinions, carving her own fate.’

Feyre blinked back tears.

It was true though. Her sister had always been headstrong, arguing with other children about rules of games, and getting cross if people tried to cheat. Feyre had been a stubborn, little thing with a will as strong as Nesta’s. Rhys had smoothed it all down until she was supple enough for him to bend into what he wanted for a high lady.

Feyre’s fingers enclosed around a glass jar at the bottom of the box. It was filled with boiled lemon sweets that were filled with sherbet.

‘Where did you find these?’

A shrunken, old servant who used to tell them stories as she tucked them into bed always kept a jar of them in the house. Each sister was given one on a Sunday afternoon after their dinner, with the warning that they mustn’t tell their mother she had given them a sweetie. Feyre was always desperate for them. She’d polish her plate – mushy peas and all – in anticipation of one.

‘Eris,’ replied Nesta. ‘I made a comment that I wished I could find them for you and the next day, he appeared with them.’

‘He went to the mortal lands for these?’

She couldn’t stop the smile from spreading over her face as she thought of her wickedly cruel husband – about how soft and loving he was beneath the spiky shell the whole world saw. ‘I think Eris would walk into hell if I asked him to.’

With care, Nesta helped her sister out of the chair, but she couldn’t release her hands.

‘Feyre, forget about Rhysand and Eris. Forget everybody else’s opinion of what you should do. This is your body. Your child. I am your sister. The sister who went to the Wall for you, who asked you to paint even though you probably wanted to chop your own fingers off instead. I would never suggest Orla’s abilities, if I didn’t think it would work, if I didn’t think she could save you. I am not one to give false hope or pretend things will be okay. Feyre. I am your big sister. I was there when you took your first breath. Trust me.’

‘Dinner will be cold,’ came Elain’s voice as she appeared in the doorway, beckoning them to join the others.

***

How could a female be so utterly devastating?

Nesta glided into the dining room with her head held high as if she were wearing a lofty crown. There was not a room she could enter without appearing as if she belonged there. The world was crafted to Nesta.

Her burgundy gown wasn’t at all like she used to wear in the Night Court. No, it was firmly Autumn with its tight-fitting bodice and heavy, flowing skirts. The colour made her glow. The thinness of her body had been traded for soft curves, the pockets of grey beneath her eyes for a healthy blush across her cheeks. The sheer sleeves of her gown displayed the no-longer-too-thin arms, but ones that were toned from training.

And he had lost her.

The female who had trailed behind him through Illyria was lost.

Nesta had been as thin as a waif despite weeks of training and a house caring for her. Her lips had cracked like a pea pod with sweat rolling down her forehead and dampening her golden hair.

If she had not been too proud – if she had just asked to stop – then Cassian wouldn’t have kept pushing her. It had been her Illyrian heart that had been her downfall.

The confidence had always been there, but before it had been a defence to keep people away. Now, it was an easy confidence, an assurance in herself and her abilities that made others in the room pay attention.

Nesta took the spare seat beside Varian. Not once had she looked to Cassian since she had been in a trance at the fire. As soon as their eyes had met, she’d blinked and forced herself to look to Feyre. He willed it and wished it to happen again. A quiet voice in his head continued urging her to just glance his way once.

He knew he’d failed where it had mattered. Not in the House, not on the hike, but a year earlier when he had stormed after her on Solstice then sparked an argument with his cutting words. If Cassian had spoken to her that evening, perhaps offered her a smile or kind words then maybe that would have changed the trajectory of their relationship.

It was a torture to see her.

Nesta Vanserra.

Eris was an enemy. A bastard who Mor couldn’t even be in the same room with without panicking. And Nesta had married him. He had fucked her before coming to Solstice to flaunt it in Cassian’s face. No matter what Nesta believed, there would always be a part of Cassian that knew Eris had married her simply to spite the Night Court.

‘Can you please pass the carrots?’

The voice didn’t register, not fully, until the whip-crack tone came again. ‘Cassian.’

Nesta stared at him with her brows tugging together in irritation.

His fingers brushed against hers as he lifted the dish towards her and sparks danced through his veins.

It was an effort to stop himself from looking at her during the meal. Nesta spoke little, only to Lucien or Varian when they directly asked her questions, but it wasn’t the same hollowness Cassian had once seen from her.

Nesta had a good amount of food on her plate that she ate without pushing it around, but her eyes were still forlorn.

When presents were exchanged, Cassian’s heart remained locked in a jail of its own making. He received the usual terrible gift from Mor and dried meat from Az, but his eyes continued to flick over to Nesta. They were drawn to her and he was powerless to stop.

She sat on her knees with the skirt of her gown pooled around her like blood. Lucien had offered her his seat, but she’d waved it away, preferring to sit closer to Elain as the latter unwrapped her gift. Nesta had brought gifts for both sisters and even Azriel. The pair had chuckled at it. There was a silk eye mask for sleeping and a small, glass bottle filled with water that could be sprayed.

‘Every time Niamh annoys you, spray her like a cat,’ she explained.

It made Azriel bark out a laugh that was loud enough to send his shadows skittering upwards.

The quiet shadow singer had even set a gift in Nesta’s lap with a knowing nod of his head.

Cassian knew he should have been glad that the pair were on good enough terms to exchange presents, but he felt only jealousy. It should have been him. Nesta should have been sat beside him, laughing at a private joke that only they knew, leaning against his arm with sleepy eyes.

It was wrong to be angry with Azriel. He had done nothing untoward. Once he’d given Nesta the gift, he’d stepped back to his seat beside Amren without lingering. But the jealousy in his chest was a creature with teeth that bit.

Cassian’s eyes remained fixed on the narrow gift box, watching Nesta unwrap it.

‘What’s this?’

‘You can attach it to whatever book you’re reading, and the little ball of faelight will shine. So you don’t have to squint when you’re reading at night. Eris said you’ve read half of his personal library already.’

Nesta touched the glass ball, no bigger than her thumbnail, and faelight flickered within, casting a bright, easy glow upon her hesitant smile. She tapped it again and it turned off. And then she jumped to her feet and crossed the room before flinging her arms around Azriel.

Envy writhed in Cassian’s stomach at their contact. That and Azriel mentioning Eris’ name. The casual way it had slipped from his tongue as if they had many exchanges.

He hated it. Hated him.

Eris had stolen Nesta and ruined Solstice without even stepping foot in Velaris.  

How could the others be happy when Nesta’s presence was a temporary thing?

Cassian looked around the room from Mor who stood behind Feyre’s chair massaging her head to make the high lady laugh, Rhys engaged with Varian and Amren with talk of the Summer Court, Lucien and Azriel exchanging strained pleasantries and Elain tidying up the discarded pieces of wrapping paper. The drinks flowed which increased the merriment in the room, but all Cassian could do was look to Nesta.

For the celebration, Elain had bought her a rare book which she had been admiring whilst still perched on her knees on the carpet. When Nesta rose to head back towards the dining room, Cassian couldn’t stop himself from following her.

Her hand wrapped around a knife to slice a wedge of chocolate cake then she sucked her finger to remove traces of the frosting that had smeared against it.

‘Knew that would lure you in,’ he said, leaning against the wall.

She gave him a muted smile. When he thought she would leave, Nesta stayed. ‘Orla, the healer, is also a terrific baker. Half of my diet is cake.’

And she looked better for it, he thought. No longer did Nesta appear brittle. The softness to her body made her more appealing. She’d bring armies to their knees with one look.

‘Do you still train?’

She dipped her chin. ‘Not as often, but I do. With Niamh.’

‘I don’t know who she is,’ he admitted.

‘Oh. Orla’s sister. She’s terrorises Azriel each time they cross paths.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘She is also besotted with Emerie.’

Another thing he didn’t know about his brother. Each time that Azriel departed and disappeared from their ranks for days in his aloof state, had it been the Autumn Court that he retreated to? Eris would certainly love a shadowsinger to be within his circle. Surely Az wouldn’t have switched allegiances though – unless it was a covert mission for Rhys.

Her fork pressed through the sponge to gather a heap on top.

‘How have you been?’

‘Alright. In Illyria a lot. Devlon has been his usual self. Mor’s had me at Rita’s a lot too.’

‘Poor you.’

Cassian snorted. ‘Poor Velaris. I thought I could dance a few weeks ago when I’d sank a whole bottle of whiskey.’

In response, Nesta gave a short smile that didn’t meet her eyes. She ate the mouthful of cake on her fork then began towards the living room.

‘Nes,’ he said, stilling her. What could Cassian say to make her stay? The last few months had been an agony without her, but now that Nesta was stood opposite him, Cassian didn’t know what to talk to her about. Conversation wouldn’t come. There was no common thread that he could pull at to spin a web to keep her there. ‘Happy Solstice.’

‘Happy Solstice, Cassian.’

***

Once Amren and Varian had left, the tension unknotted itself slightly from Nesta’s shoulders, but then Lucien announced he was leaving and she knew one of her lifelines was gone.

The male said a general goodbye to all with a shake of his hand to Rhys, but his eyes had fallen to Elain, sorrow warping his expression. Nesta couldn’t bear to see the longing.

‘Goodbye Lucien,’ she said, surprising him with an embrace.

He was her brother now, after all. His arms slipped around her back, squeezing once. The smell of a forest was on his clothes, mixed with the musky smell of a freshly lit fire. Autumn was made for Lucien.

Her lips brushed against his scar as she kissed his cheek softly in farewell.

It pained Eris to be without his younger brother. It was a wound his mother carried too. One day, he’d come home.

‘Don’t leave me with them,’ she whispered.

His mouth turned up into a grin. ‘If you can survive Beron, these are pussycats in comparison.’

The shadowsinger engaged her with a game of chess which provided a respite from the fireplace. It drew Elain’s attention so she asked when Nesta had learnt to play.

‘Eris,’ she explained with a brief look over her shoulder back towards the lounge.

‘Saint Eris,’ Mor grunted. ‘Devout follower of the mother, a master of ch-’

The female could not get out another word. Nesta had seized her with a sharp grip on her face that was hard enough to turn her fingers white.

‘You will not speak of my husband again, Morrigan. You might think he is the villain of your story, but Eris is not the villain in mine.’ She lowered her voice so it came out rough and hard. ‘You know exactly who the villains are in my story.’

‘Nesta,’ Rhys said, voice striking like a hammer against an anvil. ‘Let her go.’

No, not yet. She had to learn that she could not continue to spew insults towards Eris, that Nesta wouldn’t let Mor step on her anymore. She never should have let her intervene on what could have been something with Cassian. The day he let go of her hand in Mor’s presence, Nesta should have stood up for herself, for her hurt feelings.

‘If you dare speak of my husband again, I will cut your tongue out.’

The fathomless eyes of the shadowsinger were on her as Nesta slipped black into the chair opposite to resume their game, but Azriel said nothing. Nobody did. The hush went on and on as her silver flames continued to spark around her in warning. Nesta had excellent control of her magic now – and that was what they were afraid of. She could strike hard and fast with it. And, Mother, it was tempting.

Eventually, the conversation started up in the other room, but it had a strained feel to it. Good. They were the villains in Nesta’s story. They hadn’t tried to help her. They had decided what was best and forced her into it. At no point did any of them consider whether she needed to grapple control of her magic from the slumbering beast within her chest. Her magic was a secret that they refused to look at.

When Elain announced that she was heading to bed, Nesta followed rather than endure any more time in their presence.

The thought of whispering with her had been appealing, but Nesta didn’t know what to talk to her sister about anymore. In the past, they’d gossiped about girls from their village or handsome boys who they wanted to steal kisses from. That was before all of this. Now, Nesta was married and Elain hid behind Feyre’s skirts.

‘Goodnight Elain,’ she said into the darkness.

Her sister was already asleep with her wavy hair falling across her cheek and the silk pillow.

Nesta couldn’t wait to go home. Tomorrow night, she would be in bed with her husband. Arms would wrap around her or he’d say it was her turn and she’d press her body behind his to weave her arm around his waist. There would be a dog or two laying across their feet. Eris would shift in the night, murmur that he loved her, as she inched closer to him.

***

It had been another night of fitful sleep. As predicted, Cassian had opted to remain at the River Estate rather than return to the House of Wind. Which meant Azriel did the same. He’d struck the deal with Eris to not only whisk Nesta to safety if needed, but to be a mediator in case Cassian tried anything.

Throughout the night, Azriel had lain awake, straining his ears for the sound of Cassian’s heavy footsteps stepping down the corridor in search of Nesta. Once certain that his brother was deep into sleep, Azriel tried to steal his own. It rarely came to him. His shadows whispered to him to sleep, but it was wishful thinking more than anything else.

When he arrived down for breakfast, only Nesta and Rhys were present. The pair were like two bulls locking horns, faces tense and determined.

‘You made this, not Eris,’ Nesta was saying with a sweep of her hand towards her body. ‘They are my swords and belong in my possession. If you had given me the slightest kindness at any point then we wouldn’t be here now.’

At his arrival, Rhys gestured for Azriel to join them though tension still bracketed his mouth. ‘Feyre has decided she wants to meet this healer. So Nesta has decided that she wants possession of her swords and access to the Prison. So much for altruism.’

Nesta shrugged one shoulder then bit into a slice of toast. ‘If you were in my position, you’d do exactly the same, Rhysand. Perhaps bargain for more. Keep the Mask. I have no desire to wear it again.’

‘Your sister’s life is on the line and you bargain.’

This wasn’t the same wounded female who had once lived in Velaris. Back then, every day had been about survival for Nesta. Survival for her and Elain. She dragged Elain through each day in the beginning until her energy ran out.

The Nesta who sat opposite Rhys did not balk. She was going toe to toe with a high lord as if dealing with a child having a tantrum.

‘Your mate’s life was on the line the day you impregnated her and you chose to tell your friends rather than her. I am offering salvation. But I will have my swords, Rhysand. I will.’

Had Rhys forgotten that Nesta had been to the Eris Vanserra school of bargaining?  

‘You are the one who forced me out of the city because you planned to kill me. Thank the Mother that Eris found me. My marriage is all due to you, Rhysand,’ she said, raising her glass of orange juice in a toast. This female was unbelievable. The fires of the Autumn Court had only strengthened her steel. It was no longer just a steel spine that held Nesta up, but an entire suit of armour.

‘Eris is not getting his hands on them.’

‘He’s your ally,’ she said, as footsteps came from down the stairs. ‘It would be a shame if my father-in-law knew the Night Court had possession of three Made swords which rightfully belong to his court thanks to my allegiance, wouldn’t it? Yes, I know all about inheritance laws and declared allegiances thanks to my tuition in the Autumn Court.’

Cassian entered first followed by Mor then the younger Archerons. Cassian clapped his hands together, breaking the stalemate. ‘This looks cosy.’

‘Bonding,’ Nesta said with a saccharine smile. ‘Rhysand tells me you’d like to meet Orla. I’m so glad you saw reason, Feyre. That’s the sister I know.’

They dug into breakfast but Azriel kept a close watch on the female who’d turned out to be deadlier than any of them had ever estimated. It was difficult not to imagine the weapon that Nesta could have become in the Night Court. But she served Eris now, served his court, not out of duty but out of love. Azriel had seen it from both of them – a love that had grown so fiercely in such a short space of time. Eris would tear the world apart before he saw Nesta back in the clutches of the Night Court.  

To hand over the swords would be a mistake. But Azriel was curious as to why Nesta wanted to access the Prison. There hadn’t been a whisper of it from Eris or Niamh – the female’s lips were looser in the presence of Emerie. What could be in the Prison that drew Eris' attention?

In desperation to ensure his wife’s safety, Eris has promised Azriel a favour. Any favour, almost. If he had to get his wife out of there, Eris would give him anything – except any future children they might have together. It was the kind of brash deal that he’d never have expected from the cold, calculating heir. But love did strange things to people. It was an offer too good to refuse, but as the end of Nesta’s visit came closer, Azriel was glad in a way the deal hadn’t taken effect - glad Nesta had got through Solstice unscathed. Soon, the tattoo would dribble away from his skin. Eris’ wording had been ironclad that the deal would stop the moment Nesta was returned to him.

‘Should I leave it for you and Eris to discuss Orla’s visit?’

‘She isn’t coming to Velaris,’ Mor shot across the table.

Nesta gave a tight smile. ‘If Feyre wants her baby delivered here then Orla will have to one day.’

Which meant Eris would come too, because there was not a chance that he’d leave his father’s favoured healer amongst Azriel in the Night Court. She would know every slight injury or ailment that had ever befallen the high lord. That was valuable information.

‘The Hewn City,’ said Feyre as she rubbed against her rounded stomach. ‘For the meeting. I will prepare questions. The sooner the better, please.’

Mor slammed down her knife onto the table, smearing butter against the cloth. ‘This is a terrible idea.’

‘Morrigan, it is not your decision,’ Nesta clipped.

Cassian gave Nesta a little nudge with his elbow. ‘She’s just grumpy I didn’t go to Rita’s with her.’

‘With those dazzling dance moves?’ Nesta cocked an eyebrow, a slight smirk curling her lips.

‘You’ll have to come next time. Have you never seen a bat perform a waltz?’

A laugh broke out of Nesta. The sound trickled from Nesta’s lips, as rare and as beautiful as the sun in winter. All of them gathered around the table seemed to still as her laughter ruptured out of her, louder and louder, never seen before. Her head was tossed back and her nose scrunched up, unable to stop herself from laughing. Cassian was grinning too, proud that he had been able to conjure that joy from Nesta.

She managed to stop, lips still curved into a smile as she quipped back, ‘Maybe next year, Cassian.’

Then a cold sensation washed against Azriel. The shock was enough to make his heart judder a beat or two in his chest.

His shadows evaporated.

Within the room, a strained silence snapped into place. They all felt it. Felt that press of something greater, something more. 

Cassian’s face had gone slack as he stared at Nesta. All of the humour had been swallowed up so only mute horror painted her features.

In a voice no louder than a whisper, Mor voiced the words all of them felt, ‘The mating bond.’

@owllover123 @rarephloxes @fanboy7794 @sugardoll22 @kitkat-writes-stuff @this-is-rochelle @sv0430 @embersofwildfire @thegodessaltenia

[echoalyssa]

hello! Can we get a part two of this ask? Thx! “Hey, sorry to bother you but I was wondering if I could make a request for Jaden Hossler or Chase Hudson where he cheats on the reader cause he thinks him she is cheating on him when she's actually planning a surprise b-day party or something like that...”

Authors Note: After like a year long wait... here it is! A warning, I am into veterinary terminology but I am not certified and this information and order of events may be incorrect. I apologize in advance if it is. This is part two but can probably be read as a standalone. I have linked part one below!

Read part one HERE

It's been two long years away from Chase. At first it felt like the end of the world. You'd laid on your bedroom floor unable to move. It had felt like your heart was being held in an iron first. The breakup had broken you... until it hadn't.

It was true what they said, time heals all. It had taken longer than. you had expected, the whole thing was public. Even months after the videos released there were still edits and DM's and YouTube videos about the split. People monitored that type of thing, when you had unfollowed him they had noticed immediately and it was blown out of proportion.

Now though, two years later, you had moved out of LA and into Murfreesboro Tenessee, a much smaller town that allowed your healing to complete.

You had deleted all social media, gotten a regular job at a regular animal shelter and basically fallen off the face of the earth.

It was nice, just being able to focus on the animals and the gym. You were living for yourself and yourself only.

It was funny though, you'd changed your phone number but even before that most people dropped you. They had chosen to stay out of the drama completely rather than take sides.

After all this time, you couldn't say that you hated him. Even after what he did to you. You had done the same thing back anyway. Occasionally you would think about him, but it was a brief fleeting thought before you were losing yourself in a book instead.

Well... until today.

It's storming hard and the dogs are howling. Most of them scared of the thunder. You're running around checking that the dogs are safely locked into their kennels. The last thing you needed was one of them getting out.

It was being busy like this that really helped you. Several of the staff had called off, opting to stay out of the storm. You didn't call off for anything though.

You make it out of the dog sector and start to cross the lobby to the cats.

Halfway though, the front door to the shelter busts open.

"Help! Somebody help me!"

The voice makes you freeze in your tracks, you know that voice. How could you ever forget?

You turn slowly and there he is.

His hair is plastered to his forehead because of the rain. He's filled out more and he looks taller. He's in a short sleeve t-shirt so you can see that his tattoo sleeve is finally finished. His eyes are still just as mesmerizing as before.

He's holding a dog in his arms, the front of his shirt soaked in blood. The dog is limp and you can see that his leg is not facing the direction it should be.

"Please. Nowhere else is open. I found-"

He freezes because he's recognized you.

You'd changed your hair color, grown it out, and were decked out in shelter gear and rainbows but he knows it's you.

You choose to help the dog first, surging forward to take the dog out of his arms. Your fingers touch his arm and he inhales sharply.

The shelter vet had already gone home for the day but you were trained in pain management, splints and tourniquets.

You shove the two double doors to the clinic room open, laying the dog on the table.

He follows your worriedly.

You turn to dig through a cabinet for all the supplies that you might need. An IV, a fluid bag, a vial of the pain medication.

This dog was going to bleed out if you didn't act fast.

Your first move is to administer the shot. You'd have to move his leg around a lot and it was going to be excruciating. It wasn't going to kick in immediately but it was better than nothing.

"Is he going to be okay? I got here as fast as I could!" He's hovering over you way too close for you to work.

You turn to face him, voice steadier than your heart.

"Chase." You pause to get his attention. "You need to let me work. Grab my phone and call Marcia. Tell her it is an emergency and I'm applying a tourniquet to stabilize him."

He nods, scrambling with the piece of technology. Having something to do seems to steady him somewhat and allows you to apply the tourniquet.

Lastly, you shave down the leg that would have to be operated on and insert an IV to hopefully hydrate him.

The meds have kicked in and the dog is beginning to fall asleep on the table.

"That's all I can do. Now he just has to wait for Marcia."

Chase doesn't respond so you turn to look at him.

He's staring at you.

"Its been so long." He says it as a statement so you don't respond, waiting for him to continue. "You dropped off the face of the earth."

Again, another statement.

He wrings his hands together nervously.

"I looked for you."

His words make something in your heart stir. You pause for a long while and then suddenly say, "Your shirt is trashed. We have some extra shelter volunteer shirts."

You walk away from him to search through the closet for them.

When you turn around with one in hand your mouth goes dry because he's pulling his shirt up and over his head and wow. He had certainly filled out. The muscles in his back ripple and you force yourself to look at his eyes instead.

You hand it to him and your fingertips brush again.

"How have you been?" His voice is almost a whisper.

There's no way to deny that this is a question not a statement and so you are forced to answer.

"Ive been good." It's a short answer considering everything.

He nods, cracking his knuckles.

"I missed you."

That one hurts.

"I never got to tell you how sorry I was. The snake I... you put a lot of thought into it and I never should have doubted you. You never gave me a reason to not trust you."

You nod. There was a lot of nodding going on in this conversation.

"I should have been better for you."

"It's okay." You finally say, your voice is barely above a whisper.

"It's not okay. Can you ever forgive me?"

"I forgave you a long time ago Chase."

Your words make him smile, almost too much.

"I want to try again."

You shake your head at this, "No, Chase. There's too much hurt and I gave that all up. The social media, the drama, that's not me anymore."

"I know!" He tells you, "That's okay. We'll make it work."

Except how would that work? He would have to give up his career or you would have to go back into the spotlight and that was not something that you wanted to do.

"I don't think I can Chase. I have a life here, I don't want to go back to how it was."

He steps forward, reaching for your arm and you pull away from him.

"Let's just start over then. Get to know each other as friends. I'm here on vacation anyway!"

"You're in Tennessee on vacation?" You ask skeptically.

"Well... I have a show in Nashville. My album is trending! I was driving through when I found the little guy."

Your heart is beating wildly and your head is telling you it's a bad idea but deep down in your heart you know you want to. So when Chase reaches out to shake your hand, you let him.

"Hi. My name is Chase. What's yours?"

"Y/N. Nice to meet you Chase."

[blorbologist]

*pokes my head in* hi uhhh can i get uh. vexahra with a side of "loosing your mind when they tilt your chin to look you in the eye" pretty please

[Took a while to get to this one 'cause I needed a lil rest/got distracted doing Two for joy stuff. First time writing Vexahra, enjoy! <33]

“I think it looks stupid,” Vex insists with a huff, legs crossed. “I mean - ‘reject’? Really? Way to advertise the daddy issues, brother.”

Zahra shrugs, feigning focus on her ale. Vex is too used to appraisal to not notice she’s watching her, though. No matter how interesting the fly in her drink must really be. 

(This doesn’t feel like Syngorn, though. No one else - man or elf or half-elf or half-boar - is watching. Just the tiefling sitting the bar, tail curling too close to Vex's wrist.)

She’s pretty sure she’s right when Zahra takes too long to respond. She covers it with a hum, brows knitting in disapproval - noticed the bug at last. “Well, darling,” says Zahra, “I’m not sure you’re one to talk.”

Vex tilts her head. Go on, then.

“So tragic.” Zahra mimes a pout, drawing a sad line from the corner of her eye with a fingertip, more claw than nail. “If you’re playing for sympathy, I’m sure it will work wonders, you poor thing.”

“Who doesn’t like a good sob story?” Vex purrs. “Just watch and learn - one look at this face and the contracts will be in hand. Every one.”

“Oh, by all means - you’ll need all the charm you can get.”

She gets double birds for that.

The tattoo was, really, more a reason to stick around with Vax while he got his done. An impulse, not quite thought through, that she’d love if - well. Nothing. The process itched more than anything, but the arcane artist noted that it would be easy enough to unwind the enchantment to remove them if ever. 

Father certainly wouldn’t approve of this, if ever he wanted them back. Vex is undecided as to if she’d want his ire or his appreciation.

The tiefling stops indulging attention to her ale. She openly watches Vex now, swirling her tankard. If that fly isn’t dead, it’s certainly being taken for a ride. Like Vex, really, when Zahra places a hand on the bar and uses it to lean over Vex. Loom is a better word, she realizes, something heavy stuck in her throat. Was an unwanted guest in her drink, too? It certainly squirms.

“Actually,” says Zahra. “Let me get a better look.”

Vex rolls her eyes. “It’s not exactly that subtle-”

A fang of a nail slips under her chin, angle suitable for cutting throats, and Zahra slides even closer. The take is loud, louder than her heart in her chest. She’s been too deep in her cups - this human stuff is stronger than what she’s used to in Syngorn.

Oh. 

Interesting. Okay.

Zahra smirks, angling her hold on Vex’s chin so the points of her claws press just behind the bony edge of her chin.

She’s not even looking at the fucking teardrop tattoo.

Vex is of half a mind to bite her, though she really can’t find a good justification for that. 

So instead Vex surges up to kiss her, because that seems more in line with how those two fingers somehow hold her still. Because she’s going to paint those stupid red lips blue with her lipstick. Because fuck you, let me show you how charming I can be. 

(The nail cuts a smooth line of pain, drawn from the underside of her jaw to the nape of her neck. Not enough to bleed, but enough to remember.)

[thetimetravellercat]

So I wrote a little prequel to my Bellhands fix-it fic, this is quite sad but also beautiful and revisits familiar headcanons about Izzy's tattoos by switching things up a bit

Tags:

Tragedy, Love, Tattoos, Lost Love, Long lost love, Painting, toes mentioned, cross tattoo, wrist tattoo, Elspeth - Freeform, pre Bellhands/Elspeth, Pre-Poly, Elspeth is the name of the OFC, inspired by a famous painting, inspired by the girl with a pearl earring, Lucius Spriggs Lives in the Walls of the Revenge, no one dies

Summary:

Elspeth brushed Sam’s cheek with her thumb, gently, softly.

“He is still your love.” And it was simple. She could see it written all over Sam’s face, all over his heart that he was wearing on his sleeve.

“You’re my love.”

“I know that, you silly man.” She let her hand drop. “But you love him too.”

Sam toyed with a thread sticking out of the armchair.

“Elspeth.” He whispered. “There is something I need to tell you.”

“I’m listening.” She said, most seriously.

“I love you.” He started. “My heart bleeds for you when we’re apart, and there isn’t a day where I don’t see myself growing old with you if you’ll allow me.”

“But you’ll never love me as much as you’ve loved him. As much as you still love him.”

“No. I’ll always love you as much as I love him. Do you believe me when I tell you I have as much love for you as I do for him? Do you believe me when I tell you I have enough love for the both of you?”

“I do.” And she did. “Because I believe you would have enough love for most of this world if it let you get away with it.” She kissed his head. “What was his name?”

He buried his face in Elspeth’s neck and breathed in. Elspeth took the portrait back into her hands. Those piercing eyes…

“Israel Hands.” He exhaled.

“Tell me the story.” She asked.

Sam tells the story of his long-lost love, Israel Hands.

~~~~~~~

He was cradling Izzy in his arms. They were both tightly squeezed in his small bunk. Ed had cut another toe. It was the third one. He hadn’t managed to witness it this time. He was used to keeping an eye on Izzy, from behind the walls, but when he had understood what was about to happen, he had chickened out. He couldn’t bear it. He had been there for the first two ones. He remembered the horror that had filled him. He remembered the taste of his own blood as he bit his tongue and then his hand hard enough to bleed.

Izzy hadn’t let him get close the first time. The second time he had been able to hold his hand. The third time… he had wished Izzy hadn’t been so pliant. He hadn’t even tried to push him away.

“If I die, you should know. Someone should know.” Izzy’s hoarse voice broke the silence.

Years later, Israel Hands tells the story of his tattoos, it’s definitely not what his audience expected.

~~~~~~~

This was written for the Izzy Hangs Bingo (@izzyhandsbingo ) for the prompts: original character, inspired by a famous painting, tattoos, long-lost love

[sntsnairns]

case     file          :          nairn     ,     anastasia           1901     ,     russia          

basics.

full name . . . ; anastasia nairn nicknames . . . ; ana, professor nairn association . . . ; none birthplace . . . ; russia occupation . . . ; Professor of Supernatural History at Académie du Haut-Pont, Author, Owns a Book store date of birth . . . ; unknown day, 1901 date of death . . .; 1941, unknown date status . . . ; single sexuality . . . ; lesbian pronouns . . . ; she/her languages . . . ; english, russian, latin, french scars . . . ; none tattoos . . . ; none piercings . . . ; none positive traits . . . ; kind, honest, selfless negative traits . . . ; aloof, cold, she is emotionally constipated connections . . . ; tallulah kia . . . soulmate

BIOGRAPHY.

TW: Death

the truth of calamity is simple, tucked into the space between the cage of your ribs and your esophagus, where your lungs strain under its hold. it fills your tongue with salt, your glands with perfume, throat packed with petals you will spit in anger screams. the lines between woman and this being you've become rot, dulled by claw marks digging on the carpeted floor.  p.o.v; you wake up - and there is something wrong rooted inside of you, the place your heart once resided. it stretches its branches into the air, past veins and teeth, begging a God to rip it out of misery, plant it somewhere ashes hasn't touched, where the soil is not cursed and burnt. the walls of your home are as scorned as you, empty as your body, where your soul should be occupying this vastness that remains. there's no scars but the taste of fire on your tongue, the black smoke exiled in your throat, the rotten essence filling your cheeks. 

blood tucks itself under your nails, beneath a layer of dirt and moss, fingers never stilling until skin is raw and bleeding. were you ever happy, in this carcass of a home the sun doesn't dare illuminate? laughter bouncing off these walls sound like a hallucination in your ever ringing ears, a pseudo memory to alleviate your grief. life hasn't filled these hallways for as long as you remember existing in this new form, shaped and crafted after something ugly rearing its heads over your hunched shoulders. you don't remember feeling the happiness that has now soured in barrels of tragedy, turning to vinegar where only hazy pink and yellow should've been. the crosses outside were hurriedly assembled by hands covered in blood, a reminder of your responsibilities and names you whisper to yourself before closing your eyes. you had escaped when you were seventeen, leaving your family to die. you only returned after fangs sank deep into your neck, your lover's body turned cold. guilt fills your body and sours what little is left of your soul. 

dreams are a distant memory, being replaced by the screams that plague this land, on the outskirts of a city the name you forgot how to pronounce. you built a home out of wood walls that groaned even with no wind, where the moon was a constant welcome visitor. 

you become a famous author. opens a bookstore. becomes a teacher. anything to escape your past, to escape your guilt. you loved her, you loved them, yet you are the one who is not gone. life has a way of torturing people.

[moonmoonthecrabking]

eurovision 2023 was a really great year for a couple of fanfic titles that also inspire prompts

inspired by posts by @/lis-anxiety-writing and @/cookinguptales

o mio padre, there's a ghost in my body

at least it pays to be funny (ugh)

i forgive myself for all the lies i said before

cold heart, cold hands, fire in my veins [potenially with (heart in chains)]

i'm so hypnotised by someone that i've never even met

cross my heart til the sky turns red in the sunrise

all the games you think i play (are my ways of keeping sane)

they'll never kill this fire (your love will take me higher)

that little psychopath (war war war)

you filled my life (with minor songs)

i miss your kiss (gasoline and a matchstick)

actually just all of break a broken heart

pink skies. red wine. (i called you mine)

[not a lyric but.] it's crazy it's party.

i head towards the dance floor (like a cha cha cha)

CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA CHA EI [that's actually not a good name for a fic but you fucking know i had to include it)

i heard them scream (it was too dark to see)

you still think we live in a world so beautiful (you see, i think i don't believe in this stuff anymore)

i hurt myself to do some good

words getting worthless (love is a wordless)

what we are is but a choice (a promise to ourselves)

wish this was something i could just ignore

(like an obsession) i thought you were a living part of me

my heart is bleeding (i need your healing)

another moment would've been too much

the sun and the moon will hold our wedding crown

between falling and running

her heart in spite is warm and bright

love i can't do it like this (i don't even feel like myself)

i trust her (she lies beautifully)

i'm spinning like a vinyl (because i want to play in her movie)

you have snake eyes (and i get butterflies)

hello? game over, bitch

i don't wanna choose my fighter

i want to sleep as the world burns

we'll jump across mountains (to be embraced by the sky)

my child, when i die, may they bury me in the moon (so that i'll see you every night)

you're stuck on me like a tattoo

grow to be the kings we dream

life is just a game (and i'm playing for the win)

dance it away (i thought my heart would break)

time to go away and believe in fairytales

she is her own queen (and she will prove it)

please reblog with your own additions!!!

[ruvviks]

💋🐈🙈🙉🍸☕️♟️⛺️ for yancey :3c

oc asks!

💋 KISS MARK: What’s their signature look, if any? Do they have a gesture or piece of jewelry or something else that acts as a calling card for them?

yancey always looks a little bit like he's crawled out of a dumpster that morning, not even necessarily in looks but just in vibes. here's a recent sketch i did of him that i still need to finish :]

he generally wears t-shirts that have a loose fit and are too big for him with either cargo pants (black or dark green or beige) or dark sweatpants underneath, with big boots and an oversized very old corduroy jacket that's falling apart at the seams but was a gift from someone he used to care a lot about and he doesn't want to get rid of it ;_;

he's got several tattoos on his body which are all pretty creative, and he's designed all of them himself! the one peeking out his shirt is a dagger stuck in a heart with flowers and vines growing out of the exit wound; he also has a skeleton mixed in with a wasp on his upper right arm (partially visible in the ref in the top right corner) decorated with flowers and the skeleton is holding a bleeding revolver in one hand and doing a peace sign with the other; and on his upper left arm he has a little angel with a demon face holding pistols while standing on a seashell like the birth of venus; and then on his lower back he has a falling icarus and then on his shoulder blades kind of like, imprints of where other people would have wing tattoos?? so it's as if icarus fell down from his original place if that makes sense. it fucks in my brain

his eyes are pretty sensitive to sunlight and blightwood crossing can have very bleak and bright sunlight all year round so he can be found sporting sunglasses a lot! they're always very low on his nose because they slide off the bump on the bridge of his nose easily and he doesn't like having them above it LMAO

🐈 CAT: Are they a cat or a dog person, or something else? How do they feel about pets?

yancey loves cats a lot!! he doesn't have any himself but he does have three chickens :] i still need to figure out names for them at some point but he loves his chickens to bits, they live in a very intricate installation he put together for them himself on his balcony :]

�� SEE-NO-EVIL: What’s the worst thing they’ve ever seen? Do they tend to be a bystander or do they intervene?

the worst thing yancey has ever seen is something i can't talk about because it has to remain vague for story purposes ;_; but generally his problem is that he is too hesitant. he's not good at standing up for himself which makes it difficult for him to stand up for others too, and the hesitance in his actions more than often turns him into an accidental bystander when in reality there's so many things he wants to do or say. his hesitance is also partially what caused the situation to escalate to the point he had to leave atlanta for good :(

🙉 HEAR-NO-EVIL: Are they good at keeping secrets? Do they share their own secrets?

yancey is very good at keeping secrets because he understands the weight of a thing like that. he doesn't necessarily have secrets himself but isn't very straightforward about a lot of things about himself either, rather having people to just not know certain things about him because it makes everything easier for everyone involved

🍸 COCKTAIL GLASS: Do they drink alcohol? What kind do they prefer?

yancey DEFINITELY drinks alcohol, enjoys it too, probably entirely too much. he knows this though but also he doesn't care all too much, he's here for a good time and not a long time. he loves a good cream liqueur, or some strong tequila or bourbon, but he can and will generally drink any kind of alcohol as long as it's not overly sweet

☕ HOT BEVERAGE: Do they prefer coffee, tea, hot chocolate, or something else for their “hot beverage”?

yancey likes hot chocolate! doesn't drink it all too much but he's definitely not a coffee or a tea drinker, if he needs an energy boost he's reaching for monster energy

♟️ PAWN: Do they like board games or games of strategy?

yancey isn't necessarily a board game enjoyer but he would like playing it with friends just for the whole concept of hanging out together basically LMAO he's not very competitive and has a much better time hanging back a little and letting others win or fight for the win :] he also takes a while to understand rules so everyone calls him grandpa yancey whenever they're trying to explain a game he's never played before to him

🏕️ CAMPING: Do they like the outdoors? Do they like camping, hiking, fishing, etc.?

yancey loves nature but at the same time isn't much of a fan of being stuck in it, so camping would be a hard no but he would like hiking for sure! fishing would be something he does with others and he would again mostly just let them do their thing while he's there to observe and be good company :]

[lilura-laqueus]

W H O A M I ?

FULL NAME: Lilura Laqueus OCCUPATION: Physiotherapist AGE: 39 PRONOUNS: She/her SPECIES: Hunter CLASSIFICATION: Femme Fatale GUILD: The Brotherhood ALIAS: The Queen of Hearts HOMETOWN: Austin, Texas RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Enigmatic SEXUALITY: Pansexual

(tw: mentions of death, blood, weapons, torture, violence, medical malpractice)

P E R S O N A L I T Y

ATTENTIVE. Odds are she's been observing her prey long before she's made herself known to them. She takes pride in finding the physical signs of vulnerability; idiosyncrasies to latch on to and abnormalities in routines to exploit. BRUTAL. Lilura is not a redeemable woman. Tears and scars are her currency of choice, whether you're on her hit list or not. If you’re lucky enough to bleed for her and walk away with a souvenir, you’ve made an impression on her. CAPRICIOUS. Also referred to as volatile, unpredictable, and indiscernible. Best described, Lilura is a loaded gun primed with a single bullet in a revolving cylinder, ready to be fired at will. If you give an inch, Lilura will take a mile. CUNNING. She enjoys telling people what they want to hear to suit her agenda. Her mind and tongue are just as sharp as the switchblade she keeps on her person. ENCHANTING. It's all in the eyes — careful not to stare too long. They're windows to the soul, and hers was damned long before she was brought into this world. UNFORGIVING. A bridge burned is one lost forever. Your apologies mean nothing. Repent as she sees fit or die.

B I O G R A P H Y

There is no childhood to be remembered — no family to think of fondly or friends to miss. No weaknesses or liabilities unless they're made of her own volition. Earliest memories are of her eighteenth birthday. Trusted with the touch of the talisman, Lilura accepted her role to seduce and destroy and agreed to study the movement of the human body; to daylight with a widely-regarded, and future-proof profession. It armed her with the knowledge of common injuries in joints, muscles, and bones, and the length of time it might take to heal them with proper remediation. More suitably to her agenda, she learned how to inflict injury to weaken a target unsuspectingly. Her name was gifted to her by the Brotherhood's Austin quarter, and her identity reshaped and trained to be made in their image. Lilura, meaning enchanter, charmer, or fascination. Laqueus, meaning ensnare, trap, or noose. Her identity serves as her ground zero and a warning to those curious enough to look into it. She has a handful of tattoos that decorate her skin, distracting from her hunter's mark that hides in plain sight. It's absorbed by the hilts of cross-bladed twin sai that sit in the lower quarter of her breastbone, between the curves of cleavage. Rarely did Lilura choose her own target, and never had she refused an assignment. She didn't ask questions, offering unwavering loyalty to the guild she sought to serve, and eliminated threats others couldn't. Usually high-profile and mystifying supernaturals, often prone to monologuing their demise. Nothing a swift stab to the gut and the twist of a blade couldn't silence. Only on the rare occasion when her bloodlust was insufferable and her mind untethered by obligation did she find a quick kill — for the instant gratification hand-delivered by the sounds of agony inflicted on a willing admirer. She's lived in Marseille, having left the city with blood staining baroque wallpaper and luxury linens from a hunting knife driven fatally into a carotid artery. It painted ornate walls a pretty Rorschach of crimson as it burst. She signed her magnum opus with her renowned calling card left stuck to the drying blood. She's lived in Verona, breathing new life into the tale of two fictional lovers by murdering her own. She drove a blade deep into the base of the spine to paralyse, just so she could recite tragic prose while she carved open their chest cavity and severed coronary arteries. She pulled free the heart they'd claimed was hers for the taking, ensuring their words had proper weight to them. Her calling card lay in its place, drowned in blood. She's lived in Bavaria where a backdrop of forested mountains in a lakeside paradise, neighbouring rococo palaces long-abandoned by monarchs and regency, provided the isolation needed for anonymity. A poetic landscape juxtaposed by the brutality of a throat slit and body left on the bank of a lake to contaminate freshwater. And yet another calling card, wedged into the clean cut of skin. She's been in Port Leiry, and without an official guild-assigned target, for 2 years. She's waiting patiently for contact about her next target and indulging in a little depravity to pass the time.

W A N T E D

I can feel my instincts here for you - She's on a sabbatical she didn't ask for. She's antsy. She's hungry. She misses the hunt, and you're in her sights. Flew over the cuckoo's nest - Spending too much time with Lilura will do that to you and she knows it. Bad news is, she's said she has all the time in the world for you and you can't decide whether that's a wholesome sentiment or a looming threat. It's strange what desire will make foolish people do - A conversation that reveals too much, or a flirtatious encounter seemingly requited; seduction is a sport and a skill. Let her flex her muscles. Help me lose my mind - A mentor, a guide, a sadist. Let her lower her guard and promise to keep her secrets, whether you're affiliated with the Brotherhood or not. You'll get a loyal mercenary in return. I can tell now you're thinking of leaving - She has no weaknesses. Except you.