#spell bound lust/ic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

incognitoleeknow · 8 months ago

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The College Blonde

Synopsis:

After getting stuck trying make your assignment deadline, you find your life taking a quick turn for the pleasurable when you meet a stunning blonde who seems to be just the thing you needed to reignite your creativity.

Pairing: Dom!Femreader x Sub!Felix

Genre: Porn w/o plot, smut

Word count: 3.2k

College AU. Porn without plot. Lust at first sight. Strangers to lovers. Jeongin makes a cameo in the beginning as MC's best friend. Pleasure-dom reader. Submissive Felix. Mommy kink (Felix calls reader "mommy" once). Slight dacryphilia. Light orgasm denial. Reader uses nicknames like "good boy, kitten". Body worship. Blowjob (Male receiving). Corruption kink. Exhibitionism (sex in public). Y/N POV.

A/n: This is my first time writing a fic so be as brutal as you wish. Also, I'm not a native english speaker and I spell like a rake so grammatical errors and spelling errors are bound to be found. You have been warned. Enjoy!

Explicit content, adult themes, suitable for 18+ only.

This is an original work. Do not repost, re-upload or otherwise redistribute.

Last updated: April, 2025. (Spelling check)

"Thank you for cheering me up today. I honestly don't know what I would do without you."

You took an elongated sip from your americano, sighing in delight as you felt the icy liquid pass your tongue, temporarily relieving you from the blistering summer heat.

"You didn't leave me much of a choice now, did you?" Jeongin said as a playful smirk creeped up the corners of his mouth.

"Oh, Yeah?" You looked up with a raised eyebrow, taking a small break from the date with your iced americano.

"We both know you could never say 'no' to me." You flickered your eyebrows in a playful display of challenge, a satisfactory smile taking form on your plump lips.

Sighing in defeat, Jeongin leaned back into the soft leather cushions of the Cafe chair. Followed by a soft chuckle as he said,

"Yeah well, you got me there I guess. So how's the paper coming along?" Concern in his voice apparent, albeit unnecessary.

You knew he was referring to this semester's paper. And even though it started off as a fun and easy assignment, you had now hit the dreaded fictional wall. Apparently any topic could get you feeling bored and filled with anxiety, given lack of creativity.

A small bump in the road, you were sure. The typical cycle of creative progress. For inspiration surely is lucrative albeit a fleeting thing, and you suppose you would have to simply wait, until creativity decided to grace your mind with its presence once again.

Insert Jeongin and your eager request to meet him for coffee. You were best friends and had been since the second week of college. You had been late, as you usually were, running across campus with hurried steps in futile hopes of getting to the lecture hall before your professor.

That same morning, however, your sleep ridden brain failed to remember how to tie your shoelaces. Instead opting for the much faster approach of simply tucking said laces into the sides, between your shoe and your feet. Resulting in the typical sitcom fall-over-your-own-feet plot, successfully yeeting your body towards the ground at a horrifying speed.

Standing just a few feet away observing the borderline comical fall, Jeongin hurried over to you and asked if you were okay.

A quick visit to the nurses office, thanks to repeatedly insisting on Jeongin's part, you found yourself earning a sprained wrist along with your first college friend.

"Y/N?" Jeongin asked with slight concern.

"Huh? Oh, sorry, I must've spaced out for a second. What was the question again?" You asked as you shook your head, slowly blinking your eyes, trying to snap back to reality.

"You seem stressed, are you okay?" He said as he leaned forward, taking your hands in his own.

"Nah, it's not as bad as it might appear. I think I just need to blow off some steam, you know?" You gave his hands a reassuring squeeze, thankful for his genuine concern.

"Some steam, ey?" Mischievous smile returning to his lips along with a playful eyebrow raise.

"Oh come on, you know what I mean. I just need to have a night out with friends or something." You said, shaking off Jeongin's suggestive sarcasm.

Although you would have lied if you would have said that the thought of a steamy night with a stranger did not intrigue you.

To be completely honest with yourself, the thought alone made you clench around nothing. But where would you even find someone? On campus? Not a fucking chance.

***

With a huge smile on your lips, you waved goodbye to your friend, feeling somewhat relieved for the first time in a hot minute.

You took a deep breath, letting the scent of greenery and sunshine envelope your senses. You could feel your muscles slowly relaxing as you stretched your body, arms high above your head.

With a newly given optimism and drive, courtesy of your bff, you decided to take the opportunity to go to the campus library, in hopes of finding some additional inspiration for your paper.

Walking with slow, unhurried steps you went through the campus park, taking in the scenery around you, coming to a stop before the fountain placed in the center of the grounds.

You had always liked this fountain and the majestic water display it provided.

Taking a few minutes to admire the way the water elegantly sprayed from the unpolished steel structure. Your mood brightened by the way the droplets formed an array of colors in the sunlight, gleefully watching as they bounced playfully against the wet surface and reconnected with the marbled pool at the base.

Indeed, the soothing sound of water hitting the wet surface was your favorite. Surely nothing could be more relaxing than this.

Closing your eyes, you let the world disappear into the background as time seemingly came to a halt around you.

Ah, piece of mind...

You exhaled a deep breath with the feeling of an oncoming gentle, warm summer breeze.

The presence of another soul beside you, made you quickly snap back to reality however, effectively bursting the ethereal bubble you created with a loud 'pop'.

A hint of annoyance crossed your features, as you slowly cracked an eye open to see the person responsible.

Your annoyance was quickly replaced by sheer astonishment followed by a hushed gasp as your eyes took in the creature standing beside you. If you did not know any better, you would have sworn you were looking at an angel. He was long, muscular in built with broad shoulders and long, blond traces elegantly falling along his sharp jawline. Beautiful, wooden eyes and a galaxy of freckles displayed across rose tinted cheeks. He was staring ahead, at the fountain no doubt, seemingly oblivious to your less than stellar reaction to his visuals.

You forced yourself out of your trance. Feeling somewhat embarrassed by your blatant display of lack of self-control. You absent-mindedly looked at your watch trying to, unsuccessfully, appear unaffected by the stunning stranger.

"Shit!"

Your sudden exclamation startles the poor boy beside you, making his eyes follow you in confused horror as you took off sprinting towards the library, remembering your upcoming assignment deadline.

***

Time sure flies fast when you are looking at a whole God damn meal. Unfortunately time moves slower than a fucking snail when you are doing an assignment you do not have even the 10th of as much of an interest doing.

With the deadline for your paper being only a couple of weeks away, you felt the pressure of adulthood on you. With a sigh, you closed yet another book you found failed to provide you with the information you needed. Pushing back your chair, you got up to start the umpteenth round of browsing the many sections of the library.

You walked towards the deepest end of the library, the part reserved for professors who once or twice a year came to refresh their memory of some long forgotten trivia or, the occasional horny campus couple looking to spice up their sexual endeavors. You suppose it was the perfect place for privacy, given the lack of sunlight as well as the lack of efficient lighting of space. Leaving visitors with less than pleasant experience, at least if you were actually looking for something.

You went from hardback to hardback, squinting your eyes trying to decipher the titles, looking for that one book Jeongin said "will definitely help you".

Trolleys with books crammed the aisle, no doubt to the fault of the newly appointed campus librarian who always seemed to be more interested in hitting on whatever cute girl walked past, instead of actually doing his job. You made a mental note to remind him of his duties at a later time.

Without much attention spared to the snug space that surrounded you, you found yourself coming to a sudden halt as your face connected with something halfway through the giant bookshelf.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see you" You said reflexively as you lifted your gaze to meet the person in front of you.

"No worries, mate" the deep voiced, blonde stranger replied, flashing an innocent smile that might as well have blinded you.

You instantly recognized him, and of course anyone would. The beauty of this man was unforgettable, to say the least. You were a bit taken aback by his deep voice, the depth of it unexpected, given his angelic face.

You gave a polite nod his way and he smiled as he returned to reading the book in his hands.

Not wanting to disturb his reading session, you quietly moved to get past him, to continue your search. The small passageway and seemingly endlessly littered books and trolleys making your efforts damn near impossible.

"I'm sorry to bother you again, but I really need to get to the other side" you flashed an apologetic smile while pointing past the blonde with your finger as if the reason for you needing to get past him was not blithely clear already.

He followed the gesture of your hand, and quickly answered.

"Oh, Yeah. Of course, go ahead. Miss...?"

"Y/N." You quickly finished his sentence. "And you are..?"

"I'm Felix, nice to meet you Y/N." he smiled as he turned, pressing his body as tightly as he could against one of the bookshelves, signaling with his hands for you to go past him.

"Thank you." You said gratefully, adding a small head-bow. As you took a step closer, you angled your body, making pulling it flush against his, thinking it to be the lesser of two evils.

Your bodies painfully flushed together as you tried to wiggle your way past him and the unfortunately placed trolly, that for whatever reason seemed to be welded to the floor. His hands moved to hold the sides of your t-shirt in an attempt to help stabilize your steps.

His cologne engulfed your senses with the close proximity, making you clench around nothing as you could feel wetness starting to form between your legs as your body unconsciously moved an inch closer to the man in front of you.

You dared a glance at him, pleasantly surprised at the sight you were met with.

Felix's cheeks had flushed a pink hue, eyes closed in an apparent attempt at self-restraint, lower lip caught between his teeth.

Cute...

Your body moved as if on cue, your mind not even registering your movements before your hands made contact with the flushed blonde before you, tracing feather light, experimental touches across the sides of his torso, gliding up to settle on the pecks of his chest. His grip on your shirt tightened as a barely audible whimper escaped his lips.

The delighted smirk on your face met by his surprised one. Seemingly unable to register the sound that had previously escaped him.

"I- I'm Sorry..." he cleared his throat, embarrassed eyes turning away as his small voice trailed off mid-sentence.

Perfect...

A wicked smile on your lips, you leaned into his ear and whispered,

"That's one hell of a delicious sound you got there, Kitten" you leaned back to look at him as his eyes snapped back to meet yours, unsure if he had heard you right.

Your lustful eyes made him swallow thickly. You felt his cock twitch against your core and the color of his cheeks turned from pink to a deep crimson, spreading all the way to his ears. You licked your lips. His breath hitching in anticipation as you moved to close the distance between you.

You raised your hands to cup his burning cheeks, trapping him in a passionate kiss, taking away whatever little resolve he had as he melted into your touch.

One hand taking a firm grip of the roots of his hair, gently pulling him back, deepening the kiss, the other tracing down his chest, past his chiseled abs, stopping at the apparent bulge to stroke some much needed relief over his strained core. The sound of wet kisses and whimpers filling the tight space between bookshelves.

You broke the kiss to give room for a much needed oxygen boost. Your lungs desperately deprived of air, and by the looks of it, you were not the only one. Felix was panting helplessly, pleading eyes begging you not to stop.

"Tell me what you want" voice hushed and sultry, devilish eyes meeting his hooded ones. Felix broke eye contact, seemingly embarrassed of the thought of voicing his desires. You pressed your chest to his, your warm breath making him shutter as it fanned over the shell of his ear.

"Use your words Kitten, and I'll make you feel real good, yeah?"

Moving slowly downward, you let your tongue taste his neck before leaving a trail of wet kisses along his collarbone.

You unbuttoned his pants, letting your hand slip inside the leathery material. Teasingly stroking his length as you coaxed the boy to speak.

"I want to... ah... t-touch you." he finally mustered between staggered breaths. His husky, submissive tone sent a shot of electricity straight to your core, making your cunt throb.

"If you want to touch me, you'll have to

earn it, Kitten." Crouching down to your knees, you placed your hands on the back of his thighs. Stroking reassuring circles with your thumbs before teasing digits followed the outline of his clothed muscles, stopping by the hem of his pants.

You swiftly removed the piece of clothing, freeing his cock with a slight bounce and left the fabric to pool around his ankles.

His breath clung to his lungs, turning into a relieved moan as he felt you wrap your hand around his base, gently gripping him. His muscles tensed beneath your hand as you applied a bit more pressure. You kept eye contact with him as you reached out to taste his twitching cock. Going base to tip in one painfully slow drag with your hot, wet tongue, you eventually shut your eyes. A satisfied hum escaped your throat as the salty precum connected with your taste buds.

As you opened your eyes to reap the fruits of your labor, you felt his member twitch expectantly in your hands as your eyes met. Hooded eyes filled with lustful anticipation, his body trembled with your every touch in the most delicious display of sinful submission.

Oh, what a delectable scene to behold.

You moved to grip the hem of his shirt pulling it upwards, exposing his sculpture abs with it. You took your time admiring the way his honey glossed skin prickled as you applied feather light kisses to them. He really must have been hand crafted by Venus herself. His waist was slim, shoulder wide. He was not just pretty, he was gorgeous. You had to mentally slap yourself to keep yourself focused.

"Here Kitten, be a good boy and hold this in your mouth for me." Felix wasted no time following your command, his hand trembled as he reached to take the fabric out of your way.

"Words Kitten..." you commanded, voice low and hushed.

"Y-yes, Mommy" he breathlessly stifled out as he placed the fabric between his teeth.

The sudden impromptu nickname surprised you.

It was an unexpected answer to say the least, albeit not entirely unwelcome. You would not have guessed he had it in him based on your first impression of him, but then again, you would not have guessed him to be this submissive either, so you supposed you should not be so taken aback by it. You should never judge a book by its cover after all.

You scuffed. A subtle pleased smirk gracing your features before responding to his enthusiasm with a faint,

"Good boy."

You wrapped your plump lips around his length, slowly lowering yourself over him, swirling your tongue around the tip as you went down.

You moved your hand to cup his balls, gently playing with them before you started to apply gentle pressure, stroking the underside of his length.

"I-I can't... ah... so.. so good!" Subtle beads of pleasure starting to form at the corners of his eyes.

Felix leaned his head back against the heavy bookshelf as his hands gently fell to the top of your head, his fingers intertwining with the strands of your hair. He offered no pressure, no aim to guide your movements. His shaky hands only set out to find a place of rest in a desperate attempt to ground himself. His hips squirmed helplessly with the building pleasure of the tortuous assault of your mouth to his core.

You let his cock fall out of your mouth with a noticeable 'pop' and Felix looked like he was ready to do the same. His hands were trembling as he desperately tried to hold on to what little sanity he had left.

"No cumming now, Kitten. You're going to be a good boy for me, aren't you?" Your hands continued to teasingly stroke his cock as you spoke, making it difficult for the poor boy to form a coherent answer.

"I-... ah.. I can't..." gentle tears blurred his vision. He could feel the unsought of his release creeping menacingly close, as he struggled to get away from your touch, not wanting the pleasure to end.

You quickly released your grip of him and watched him whimper as the sudden inaction chased his high away. His chest heaved with want, its color matching the flush of his pretty star sprinkled cheeks as he tried to break through the fog of unadulterated bliss.

"P-please.." Felix managed to let out between sobs, voice small and pleading. Bringing your tongue back to the tip of his cock, you teased him with small, wet Kitten licks before taking the length of him into your mouth. You bobbed your head in a hurried fashion, feeling his soft head bouncing off the back of your throat.

Felix moaned loudly at the sudden intrusion, making the shirt fall from his mouth. He quickly replaced it with his fist in a desperate, albeit futile, attempt to hold back screams while the other gripped his shirt anew, unable to handle the pleasure your mouth conditioned him with.

His beautiful moans and hitched breaths spurring you on as you quickened your ministries. You could feel the wetness dripping from your neglected sex, unable to deny the effects his pleas had on you.

"Cum for me Kitten" you said breathlessly, before returning to suck on his length with newly found determination.

That was seemingly all the permission Felix needed, making his walls of fragile attempt to restrain come crashing down before your very eyes. Cumming with the most deliciously sinful broken moans you had ever heard.

His orgasm sent electricity flowing through every nerve, muscles flexing and relaxing by their own accord as pearls of sweat dripped from his temples, down to his chiseled pecs. White flashes of hot bliss washing over him in waves. Cock twitching violently, coating your mouth with stripes of warm, delectable release.

You sucked him through his high, making sure to milk every last drop of his essence before swallowing, unwilling to let any of his delicious nectar go to waste.

You stood from your kneeling position, legs a tad shaky from the tiring position and carpeted concrete. You used your thumb to wipe the corner of your mouth, before licking it clean.

Felix looked at your suggestive move, lingering chock and exhaustion from his intensive release, apparent on his stunning features.

He looked like he was going to cum again, cock unrelentingly hard, twitching as a result of your blatant display of insatiable lust.

"Thanks for the meal, Kitten." You winked before leaving to get your things.

What the fuck did I just do?

***

Thank you so much for reading my fic. Please let me know if you enjoyed it by reblogging and liking my post. Be sure to let me know if you'd like a part two.

Stay dark my friends.

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frozenjokes · 1 year ago

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A Collection Of Encounters From Bloodied Waters To Murky Bogs [1/2]

this chapter of the mumbomaid au series is a lot different than the others, so please check the ao3 link for CWs

What do you like? (Not Evil)

His Makers had asked the question over dinner one night, during one of very few excursions Joel was allowed onto the mainland, heavily supervised of course. A treat for their creation, their experiment gone wrong. In Joel’s humble opinion, if you weren’t ready for your [Inexplicable Creation] to have zero moral compass and a lust for blood, then maybe you shouldn’t go about playing god, but ah well, he was here, and his Makers were still trailing after him, failing miserably to fix the mess they made.

Joel liked the mainland plenty, but there were too many people, too much noise, too much talking- god, if one more person tried to speak to him unprompted when he couldn’t retaliate- urghgrhgghggggrhghghrhh (<- the noise he would make instead until left alone). But other than that, he liked walking on ground that didn’t sink below his feet, he liked studying the parts of the city, committing them to memory, then rebuilding them below his island, terraforming the inside into a massive upside down hellscape. He liked to eat new food; anything he didn’t have to make for himself was quite the treat. Though, when he had said all these things, answering the question, that didn’t seem to be what his Makers were looking for.

“I don’t like you.” Joel had said afterwards, pushing the envelope on just how much push-back they would allow for excursions like this before sending him back to his prison. There was no point at which Joel wasn’t skating on thin ice with them, which was quite frankly unfair, since as far as they knew he hadn’t even done anything in years. Regardless. The answer was swift and cold, all five of them speaking at once.

“We know.”

They didn’t like Joel much either. Honestly, Joel wasn’t even sure why they kept him around. Well. They didn’t keep him around technically; Joel didn’t know exactly where he was from, but it certainly wasn’t some fuckass island in the middle of nowhere. Maybe it wasn’t even from Earth. Whoever his Makers were, they certainly weren’t human, and no uncanny valley disguises could hide that. Whatever. When he was first created, he caused way too many problems in the space he was allowed, and when they’d dropped him into human civilization.. Well. Given they often cited those four hours of Joel’s unfiltered access to humanity as their Greatest Mistake, you can take a guess on the kinds of things Joel got up to in his brief stint of freedom.

Still, they did not kill him. Joel didn’t understand why, especially when every time they spoke he was told he’s more trouble than he’s worth, but apparently he was worth something, or it wouldn’t make any sense to keep him.

So instead, he was bound to an island. A large piece of land with as little human interference as possible, with enough stimulation to keep Joel at least marginally enriched. Enough so that he wouldn’t be trying to kill anything and everything that crossed his path, including but not limited to his Makers. Little did they know, at least 75% of that enrichment came from scheming on how to escape. Well actually, they very much knew in the beginning, but that’s besides the point. Layers upon layers of spells and magic were dedicated to keep Joel bound to this place, to keeping his power, his control over the earth, strictly locked up. That way, Joel could do whatever he wanted within the confines of the area, and if he wrecked it, he would be the only person affected. And he had wrecked it. Multiple times in fits of great anger he had leveled the entire place, destroying everything he had built, everything he owned, centering all of his power on destroying his prison, sinking his island, but, ah..

It didn’t work. No matter how thoroughly he ripped this place to pieces, the ties keeping him bound did not come undone. Not that Joel had any reason to think they would. But in the early days, delusion was his biggest predator. And he’d pay for it too, laying in the watery wastes of a leveled home, freezing and miserable. His Makers took pity on him a few times, restoring the island to its natural state, only for Joel to wreck it the next day. Their patience with him quickly ran dry. If Joel wanted to ruin this place, then he would have to be the one to build it back up. And he did. Many times he did, and many more he destroyed it all again. Digging, clawing for anything he’d missed, for any physical traces of spellwork he could snap under his fingers.

He almost drowned several times looking for it. For sigils, boundary lines, cores- anything, until coming to the conclusion all fragile spellwork was buried deep underwater, places he would never be able to reach.

The ocean was an area of deep frustration from Joel. His brain was a catalog of ancient magic, recipes and enchantments written on the walls of his mind. But there was nothing for water. He couldn’t breathe it, couldn’t live in it- it didn’t make sense.

“You are made from earth,” his Makers had said to him when his frustrations were bared and red-hot, angry ripping like lacerations through his skin. “You have no dominion in the sea.”

His Makers didn’t smile, but Joel could feel the sneer in the words regardless, the triumphant finality of the phrase searing like the snaps of a whip at his back. You are stuck. Trapped. There’s nothing you can do.

Joel would say it had taken a while for him to accept that, but he never actually had, planning, scheming, waiting for the right series of events in which he could tear this whole place down. However, it had taken a while for him to mellow out. To come to terms with the fact that force was not the answer, not yet, and if he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life sleeping in the mud, then he had to grow up and put himself in a position where he wasn’t being supervised so closely.

Honestly, it hadn’t been difficult. His Makers were just as sick of him as he was of them, and it wasn’t like Joel could do much damage in this isolated state. Most of the time they spent supervising was just to make sure Joel didn’t accidentally kill himself, but Joel didn’t want to die, he only wanted to leave, so when he stopped wrecking the island every few days, his Makers were relieved to leave him to his own devices. And from then on, from an outsider’s point of view at least, Joel did very little. He cultivated the land into something beautiful, though it was often quite waterlogged, more swampy than anything. He built murals on cliffsides, carved figures from the rock, told stories in the landscape with painstaking detail. Sometimes he’d make miniature towns referencing the little of the world he’d gotten to see, then destroy it all to spite his Makers, who seemed to love his work. They had firm schedules with him; what days of the month they were visiting and what they would all be doing and for how much time. Always prompt, always rigid. In other words, deadlines to finish his latest projects, so they could blow up in the faces of his Makers’ praise.

“This is what you were meant to do,” they would say to him, bright eyed even as the dust of destroyed artwork still billowed into the sky. Nonsense. He would do whatever he pleased.

It had been a long time actually, since he’d last destroyed his art. Years, even, to the point where he was running out of space to create (though, he had plenty underground, underwater, but as far as his Makers knew, that was a place he could not reach). But it wasn’t for them. Never for them.

He just.. had someone else now. Someone who enjoyed his work, who liked to critique and contribute, who would be sad to see it all go. Not that he cared how Etho felt, it was Joel’s damn island, and he could do whatever he wanted with it, but Etho was lucky, because Joel just so happened to like his ideas.

Etho. Yes. His loophole.

Years and years and years spent studying the spells that bound him to this place, chipping away at their weaknesses, finally paid off when Etho washed up at his rocky shores, practically skewered on the sharp rocks that had taken so many ships in years before. That’s why Joel was out in the storm in the first place; waiting, longing for a stray ship blown away by violent winds and currents, smashing against the treacherous rocks, doomed by an island that did not show on their maps. The survivors would crawl upon his beaches, trapped, and Joel would leave them to panic over the sick and injured, before one by one, he’d hunt them for sport. Pick apart their bodies, string them up by open rib cages for his Makers to see on their next visit. He’d serve his Makers human flesh and blood, he’d spit it all in their faces, and then they would leave him, firmly reminded of the monster they’d created.

But he hadn’t killed Etho. No, mermaids were even rarer than ships; in fact, Joel had only ever seen one before Etho, washing up on his shores long dead. Etho was still alive, just barely, but Joel had saved him, stitched him up with dirt and vine until he could drag the barely breathing body home. Maim the both of their souls, bind them, rip his own freedom right out of Etho’s chest.

Joel made a pendant, something he could manipulate with little force, the inherent power of their combined souls enough of a catalyst to funnel his control. To switch places. To switch species.

If Joel was a mermaid, there would be nothing stopping him from digging, searching, discovering the physical sources of his entrapment and crushing it under webbed fingers. ‘No dominion over the sea-‘ please. Joel could take whatever the hell he wanted.

And he did find it. Deep under the water, then buried further, the massive lines drawn under the surface. Leaving the designated area would not kill him, no, and he could even stray briefly, but soon enough, his insides would come to a boil, his skin beginning to melt from his bones, just as gruesome and agonizing as it sounded. Joel wasn’t actually sure if any of the horror he experienced was actually real- it didn’t kill him after all, and he had tested those limits thoroughly, but that didn’t really matter. It felt real. It scared him enough to stay put. And now, beneath his hands, he had the power to destroy it.

He didn’t though. Breaking the sigil would only alert his Makers to his attempt at freedom, and he wasn’t ready. There were still so many spells, so many layers- escaping in body was a massive piece of the puzzle, but there was still the catalyst of his power, torn out of him just like a soul. It could not be destroyed, or even separated from Joel for too long; it was his life as well as his magic, the great power that had made it possible to create him in the first place. He would wither without it, almost certainly, and regardless, he was hardly more than human in its absence. Truly, he’d rather be stuck here for the rest of his life with magic then live freely without.

So in short, he needed it. And he wasn’t dumb enough to make a move without it either.

Returning to the surface in his new body, lost in his own scheme, Joel was reminded of the newly made human he’d left, healed and conscious and very afraid. That would be a problem, wouldn’t it. He couldn’t keep this form without a living Other. His Other. In Joel’s rush of adrenaline, he hadn’t thought about that; what he’d do with the leftover body. He hadn’t thought about it before then either, his sole focus on taking the water into his own hands, swimming deep and breathing salt. But this was his responsibility now, wasn’t it? Any mistreatment of the mermaid (now human) would be reflected back on his own skin.

Alright. Joel could do that. (In the beginning weeks, Joel was very much doubting he could do it.)

The transition was.. rough. Joel named him Etho, and this Etho was not the least bit cooperative or even grateful to Joel for saving his life. Communication was a certified nightmare, even with the spells Joel spun to help them understand each other. Etho nearly starved to death when Joel refused to let him eat raw fish, and when his Makers came to visit on one of their scheduled days, Etho attempted to run (swim?) away the second he regained his fins, Joel just barely able to catch him in a fist of earth before Etho went beyond his reach. That was a bad day. Struggling to focus on keeping Etho trapped while humoring his Makers, tasting dirt and starting to suffocate whenever he lost his focus for too long.

Joel didn’t.. he wasn’t the kind of person that had regrets, alright? Not pertaining to other people, certainly not. But he was not proud of what he did that night after his Makers had left him, dragging Etho back by the tail and shedding his blood at the cost of Joel’s own until he hardly had the strength to heal them both. If given the choice, he would not do it again.

Etho did not try to escape a second time.

But after that hiccup, things started to improve. Joel did a lot of experimenting, a lot of limit pushing, his greatest discovery coming when he ventured outside of his sigil with fins and gills, hoping for a short foraging trip that turned much longer when he realized there was no burn. No melting skin. No pain. Joel didn’t come home for days. He didn’t even remember what he did besides swim and catch fish and swim and swim really far away, but he wasn’t even thinking about why, because none of it mattered! He was free. And he didn’t even need to break the sigil to leave.

Now, he knew at this point in theory that he needed his catalyst, his magic, to survive, but he only knew in practice when his existence began to wither away, first just particles no bigger than dry skin floating off into the water, then his scales growing brittle and cracked, his fins splitting until he trailed blood wherever he went. Getting back to the island was a stressful couple of hours. But he made it, of course. Basking in those waters had never felt so beautiful.

From there, the whole ‘soulbound’ thing got a lot more exciting. Joel wanted to know every limit he could push and why; how this bond he’d tied worked in its completion and the holes he’d poked in his Makers’ spells because of it. Excitement pushed him to do the same thing as before, but in his human form, and the result was the same- he was free. That is, until he started melting a couple hours later. Apparently, species had everything to do with this, somehow. Odd loophole? Regardless, that was a bad trip home; mistaken in his freedom, Joel had traveled much further than he probably should have. Must have been a crazy hour for Etho too, whew. Joel may have failed to warn him of that possibility.. whatever, he was fine.

Speaking of Etho, the following weeks saw a vast improvement to their communication! Once he stopped being a total Debby Downer about his new life, Etho was a curious kind of guy, eager to know and learn. He was interested in the limit testing as well, anxious to know if he could leave the island for long periods of time, and it turned out he could in both his human and mermaid form. Joel was genuinely shocked by that, quite confused about how this spell worked now, but Etho didn’t question anything, simply relieved for whatever reason, as if he’d ever need to leave. Etho wanted to learn English as well, he really wanted to learn English, and while Joel didn’t particularly see a point when translation between them worked well enough with the aid of magic, he had time to kill. That is, until he discovered teaching was frustrating and Etho sucked, so all in all, they did not make much headway in that department, though, Etho was clever, and picked up quite a bit through insisting Joel speak to him in English most of the time. He asked questions like a motherfucker, but it wasn’t that big of a deal in the end. It was honestly a miracle they kind of got along in the first place, and Joel was sure whatever grievances Etho had with him were quite a bit worse than ‘talks too much.’

Actually, during this exercise in Having Company For The First Time In His Life That Wasn’t His Makers Who He Hated, Joel discovered he quite liked talking. In fact, he liked talking a lot more than Etho did, telling Etho of his escapades, his art, his past crimes against humanity, his plans for future crimes against humanity- everything. Joel had so much to speak about, so much he never even realized he’d longed to share. And Etho listened, he asked questions (mostly stuff like ‘what does murder mean’ and ‘do humans not cannibalize each other sometimes,’ but still), he was so engaged! He didn’t want to participate in the games when the next ship crashed at Joel’s shores two months later, but that wasn’t much of a bother. Hunting as a mermaid was very exciting, and Joel took quite a bit of joy in feeling truly like a swamp monster. Etho thought hanging the bodies up like that was distasteful, but when Joel had told him it was only for his Makers to see, Etho hadn’t pushed. Etho never wanted to ask about his Makers, which was good, because Joel didn’t want to speak about them.

And his art. Etho loved his art. Now, Etho did not use words like ‘love’ or any other words of praise, but sometimes Joel would catch him staring at a mural or a carving, or even the statuettes Joel made from time to time. On month six, nearly the anniversary of their meeting (not that Joel was keeping track), Etho had been particularly entranced with a mural Joel was working on, the flats of rocks sticking out of the cliffside like tiles, painting a picture of the sea. When Joel had approached him down the channel, still preferring to traverse the world in his mermaid form whenever possible, Etho had spoken about it for the first time.

“Do you like color?” he had said in his limited English. The mural had no color; they typically never did. Joel had access to naturally colored rock, but those were typically harder to get his hands on, and he often found he could tell the stories he wanted perfectly fine in shades of gray.

“It is hard to have,” Joel had responded simply, “Bad to get.”

“I found [some]. At [the] beach. I think..” Etho didn’t seem to have the words, so he walked confidently toward the piece, and Joel noticed a small bag at his side for the first time. Without a thought and entirely without asking, Etho started to mess with a school of fish in one of the corners, plucking out the fish tiles and systematically replacing them with the red rock he had found at the beach. Joel had only been able to watch in utter bafflement as Etho messed with his work- seriously! The nerve on that guy! But when Etho had turned around, he hadn’t looked the slightest bit deterred by Joel’s expression.

“Need [a] word,” he said, running his fingers over the tile, then over his own rocks, “This versus this. Adjective.” Etho did the motion again, expectant.

“Smooth versus rough,” Joel told him in time with the movement.

“Repeat.”

“Smooth versus rough.”

“Make [mine] smooth.”

At this point, Joel gave up on trying to tell Etho with his face that he was not happy, because clearly Etho didn’t care. Whatever. Sure. I’ll make your dumb rocks smooth. Joel brought his hands to the dirt, easier for channeling precise work, and cut Etho’s red rocks cleanly through the middle so he could use the other pieces as well. A little flashy, not how Joel typically operated, but the thrilled look on Etho’s face was entirely what he was aiming to see.

It seemed a fire had been lit in Etho, and he began replacing the other sea creature with colored pieces, Joel making sure the other knew how entirely exasperated he was by sighing loudly and flicking his fins, none of which Etho paid any attention to. But he still cut the rock to match in texture, locking the stones in place so they wouldn’t fall as Etho fiddled with them, and after about an hour, all Etho’s color had been meticulously placed, not nearly enough to get to every animal, but enough for the proof of concept.

“It’s better,” Etho had said when he took a step away. Joel would have loved to snap back, to criticize it, to call him too blind to actually know, but, well.. it was better. It was pretty damn cool, actually. Etho had a good eye for contrast.

“It’s fine. I’ll mess with it. But you’d better be prepared to gather all this yourself, because if you can’t keep up, it’s getting scrapped. Good luck with the green, god damn. You’re never going to finish that turtle with those little pebbles.”

“Translate.” Joel did so, and Etho looked deeply pleased. “I will.”

After that, things were nearly always well. Etho liked to contribute to Joel’s projects, and Joel liked to work with him. Months passed like this, a quieter peace. Joel thought less and less about escape as months turned to a full year, his secret mermaid giving so much of the freedom he longed for, as well as.. a friend. How silly of a thing that was. If you had told Joel years ago that he would value the company of another person, Joel would have laughed in your face, and then probably smashed you to bits under a rock or something.

But he.. he loved- no. He really. Really liked Etho. He really liked Etho. And Etho liked him too! They liked working together, drawing out concepts for future projects, and when Joel began his foray into the underwater spaces of the island, mapping them for future plans, the two of them would take turns diving inside, and Etho was an excellent second opinion. The things they created together.. Joel valued them more than anything he’d ever made before.

That is, until Joel found out that Etho didn’t like him very much at all, actually.

One year, four and a quarter months. It was a sudden revelation, spoken like it was nothing at all. Etho had mentioned offhandedly that he wanted to see what life on the mainland was like, that he thought he might be ready for an excursion of that caliber. He’d spent quite a bit of time at the surface before the soulbind, he was intrigued by humanity, and he wanted to see it for himself. He knew enough English to get by, and wanted to know what was out there.

“Why?” Joel had asked, and he remembered the edge to the question. It was an annoying idea, one Joel hadn’t ever considered Etho asking.

“I said why.” Etho told him bluntly, not even looking up.

“You have everything you need here. It’s dangerous out there, just as much for people as it is for mermaids. There isn’t much on the mainland anyway, nothing you’d like.”

“You talk about it fondly. I’d like to see it.” Etho frowned momentarily, snapping his fingers to warm them up, a silent indication that Joel needed to ready himself to translate. ‘Seems like the main danger to humans are people like you, and after all this time, I’d say I’m an alright judge of character. I want to know what humans are really like. You tell me all sorts of stories, but I don’t believe you actually know.’

“Of course I know.”

Etho narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, an expression Joel hated, an expression that made him feel too vulnerable, too seen. Etho lifted his chin, “You want me to stay.”

“I- yes, I’d like that,” annoyance prickled the edges of Joel’s tone, a defensive anger locked and loaded.

“You like me.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I thought so,” Etho said simply, his expression unchanging. Even after all this time, he still hadn’t picked up that human mannerism, every twitch and change in his face entirely biological, entirely unconscious. Etho met Joel’s eyes evenly before whistling again, snapping in time, ‘Then we’re on the same page.’

Joel hadn’t been ready for that. “What?” he said stupidly, and Etho might have smiled. Barely there, completely without thought. That was worse.

“You like me,” Etho said.

“I don’t,” Joel replied, just as curtly. Etho was not convinced.

“You do.”

“I might. What of it?”

“You want me to like you.”

“You do like me.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t like you, Joel. I never have. I never will.” Etho closed his eyes, breathing agonizingly deeply, “Wow.”

“You can not just ‘wow’ me, Etho, use your damn words.”

“I don’t think you want that.”

“I do.”

“Fine,” Etho snapped his fingers a few times, and Joel braced himself, ‘You are foul. Selfish. Cruel. You treat me with less respect than the dirt under your fingers, but maybe that’s an unfair comparison, because you actually like the earth. I’m not a person to you. I’m a tool, and you wouldn’t dream of letting me think otherwise. The worst part is, I don’t even think you know. I don’t think you have any idea. That’s how little I mean to you; your behavior is so second-nature that I bet if I asked, you wouldn’t be able to name a single way in which you’ve slighted me in the past week. So yes. Wow,’ Etho raised his hands in a lazy gesture of sarcastic awe, ‘Wow, because I never thought you’d be bold enough to ask me to stay. Wow, because it never occurred to me you didn’t know how I felt, or that you could form attachments to people in the first place. Wow, because I never thought I’d get the chance to hurt you. So there we have it. I hope it cuts deep.’

Joel burned under his skin, thoughts racing too fast to pick one out and spit the words at Etho’s feet. “So that’s it?” he found himself saying instead, voice far more even than the shrieking in his head, “You just want to hurt me.”

“More than anything.” Etho’s glare was like daggers, a challenge, never wavering, “So, Joel. Can I go?”

Joel flipped his pendant, initiating the change without another word, “Better hurry. Mainland is west.” And Etho nodded, making his way toward the little cottage where they both lived. Together. Not anymore.

Not an hour passed before Joel had leveled the entire island. All of it, above and below, stomping the land into dust until he was up to his neck in the water, until there was nowhere left to stand, until his arms and legs refused to swim any longer. He didn’t remember being lifted from the sea. He wasn’t even sure how his Makers knew he was in trouble- could they sense the state of the island? His distress? Maybe it was simply intuition that had saved him from a miserable drowning death, so focused on ripping his world apart, he hadn’t even realized the water was over his head.

He remembered being limp in five sets of hands, refusing to open his eyes. Refusing to stand, to speak. Maybe it felt like companionship to be held. He didn’t remember much else; they must have set him to sleep, their miserable creation that they did not love.

His Makers must have known something was wrong. It had been many years, six maybe, since Joel had destroyed the island so completely, so violently, to the point of nearly killing himself in the process. He woke up the next day in a bed, to a restored world, to a gentle breeze through the open window. He did not move. He did not speak. His Makers did not know what to do with that; this had never been a problem before. Their creation was brash and violent and angry, it was never sad. And yet. And yet. He sensed excitement from the voices out his window, his Makers, delighting in the newness of the feeling. The evolution of his character.

‘He’s changing.’

‘He’s developing new ranges of emotion.’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘How can we recreate this?’

‘How can we ensure this continues?’

He heard it. All of it. Not that his Makers tried to hide their curiosity. They frenzied like sharks at his bed, asking questions he refused to answer, offering food and drink he refused to eat. They offered to take him to the mainland, cheer him up, and Joel had screamed at them to get out. They did. Then returned the next day. Their speculation circled around Joel keeping some sort of secret pet, finding attachment to one of the animals in the swamp, and that it had died recently, sending him into this state of mourning. They speculated his depression was so intense because he’d simply never felt it before. Maybe they were right. On both counts. His Makers offered him new ‘pets’ from frogs to alligators, all of which he promptly killed if not stopped, and for the most part, he was not. From this, they came to the conclusion he was simply too sensitive to accept a new creature into his life.

But the worst. The worst.

A storm, one night. The type of wind and pelting rain that drove mist off the ocean, that would typically get Joel so excited. Standing out by the shore, listening for the telltale crack of a wayward ship against the rocks..

He hadn’t gone. He hadn’t left the house in days. But a cheeky nudge and a grin too wide told him exactly what his Makers had staged that night, either manipulating an actual ship to crash, or just zapping a couple of unfortunate souls right from the mainland to this cursed place.

They wanted to know what he’d do. They wanted to know if he’d grown morals, if he’d spare them. An experiment. Once again, as clear as day, he was reminded exactly what he was to his Makers. Fine then. He’d show them just how much he’d grown.

So Joel made tea. He let his Makers watch him, paying them no mind. He sat as if he was alone, ate a small breakfast, and closed his eyes. He took his time.

Joel was not the kind of person who played with his food. He did not draw out pain when it wasn’t needed, more interested in the adrenaline of a chase than a scream. But today wasn’t about him, was it? Today, he had an audience. He dressed in his best clothes. He walked to the beach. And methodically, he ate each one of them alive. No need for gratuitous detail. But each of the three felt his teeth before they passed, not by his hand of course, but once his Makers had seen enough. They got their answer. They left him for the day when he began to dance with the corpses, singing, screaming his loathing for the entire world to hear. And then his Makers were gone, the act was dropped, and Joel returned to his room. He did not change out of his clothes.

The same night, he woke up with a gasp, something distinctly sharp set with ripe intention at the base of his thigh. For a moment, Joel thought he’d done something- pulled a muscle or maybe cut himself, but just as he was removing his pants to check, a real line was cut, the knife piercing harshly, as if it had been met by resistance and rubberbanded past it. It didn’t hurt at first, at least not as much as his shoulders, fuck, his arms, something was seriously wrong with his arms, like if they bent any further, they’d snap entirely-

And then his skin started to peel. The pain he felt seemed deeper than what was happening to his own body; the cut was so sharp, so precise, only the knicks where his scales connected were bleeding- ah.

Sleep did not leave him stupid for long.

He grabbed only a robe as he ran out the door, thinking immediately to change, to make Etho human and make whatever they were doing stop, but Etho would need water, which he almost certainly didn’t have. Etho would also need time, and neither of them had that either- How in the hell was Joel supposed to reach him? He couldn’t just teleport off the island like his Makers, he couldn’t teleport at all! ‘No dominion over time and space,’ WHATEVER.

He did have a boat. It was for fishing close to the island, it even had a motor, but that wouldn’t be fast enough, not nearly. However, he didn’t ever use a boat to traverse the water, did he? He simply brought land with him to walk on top of it, far less of a hassle than a boat, but his magic didn’t extend nearly far enough from the island to just walk there. But maybe, maybe, with a combination of magic and his boat for the rest of the journey..

If Joel had the luxury of more time to consider what he was about to do, then he may have tried a different plan, but he didn’t have time, did he, so rocketing himself across the ocean in a tiny fishing dinghy was his best option. At the very least he wasn’t thinking about his skin being methodically peeled off when he was launching himself as fast as his magic would carry him toward the mainland, fearing for his life for a second reason tonight and nearly passing out from the intensity of the acceleration (and therefore being flung into the ocean and subsequently drowning), but as his magic grew weaker, so did the speed of his vessel. The deceleration was just as terrifying as it was a relief, however, Joel wasted no time starting his motor.

It wasn’t fast enough. Thirty minutes passed before Joel even saw land, and even by then his legs were a horribly bloody mess, though Joel was unable to tell how much skin had been stripped away. He just had to hope whoever had done this wouldn’t end it before he arrived, but if they had kept Etho alive this long, it must be on purpose. Maybe it was the English.. Maybe Etho had convinced them, or maybe they were too intrigued to let him die. Even with all of Joel’s magic gone, the pendant at his chest, the tiny catalyst was still enough to draw that line between him and his soulbound, to tell Joel exactly where Etho was being kept.

He closed in on a small dock housing several boats with an attached market, no longer open for business at this time of night. Not a worry. Charged by his island catalyst, strength was among many of his born talents. Joel’s dinghy crashed into an empty spot on the dock, surely damaging the boat and definitely damaging the security of the deck, but Joel cared very little, stepping out from where his boat was lodged between posts.

He kicked the long glass window in with bare feet, uncaring as alarms blared, lighting his face in a harsh red. He did not speak to the man who ran up from what must have been basement stairs with a pistol, but Joel must have been a sight, long dark hair, bloodied shirt, open robe doing nothing to hide his raw, bleeding legs. The stranger hesitated for far too long, missing his shot when Joel lunged for his throat. Joel only took the pistol, leaving the damn bastard to choke on his own blood. The other he caught in the face as she ran up the stairs, emptying the pistol into her chest and stomach, then stepping over her on his way down.

Joel did not have to call Etho’s name. He was right around the corner, laid out on a tarp and sobbing without sound; Joel knew the hitched heaving of a chest well enough. His arms were tied at the wrist, bent horribly behind his back, so Joel undid those binds first, the relief in his own aching arms immediate. Etho’s face was covered in some sort of cage, probably to protect from biting. It looked like it was locked by a key.. well, Joel didn’t have time to look for that. There was.. nothing he could do about Etho’s tail for now. At the very least, the scum that did this cut around the fins, keeping them mostly intact. Suddenly, the fronts of Joel’s legs bleeding harder made sense as mirrored by Etho’s injuries. No matter.

“I’m going to have to hold you by the base of your tail. I won’t be able to get you up by just your chest.”

“No- Joel, no. Don’t touch it. Don’t touch me.”

“Trust me, I don’t want to,” Joel huffed, eying the tarp intently now. That would be better, surely. Still, Etho resisted as Joel wrapped him completely, snapping in what Joel was pretty sure was a blind attempt at biting, and suddenly he was a bit more grateful for the cage across Etho’s face. It fucking hurt as Joel lifted him, both of them making some sort of strangled gasp, but this had to have been better than skin against raw skin, so Joel made his way up the stairs, hoping to get out of here before any law enforcement arrived.

“Wait,” Etho hissed, apparently not sharing the same sentiment, “Go back. Go back.”

“What? No!”

“Go back. My scales. You need to get them. Please. Please get them.”

“I’m not getting your bloody scales! What are you, insane? We need to go.” Joel snarled, but Etho was insistent, breaking his arms free from their loose cage to snatch at Joel’s shirt.

“They can’t have them.”

“The humans that did this are dead.”

“Another will find them. Take them. Sell them. Joel. They’re mine.”

“For goodness fuckin’ sakes Etho, I’ll get you damn scales, just stop yapping about it,” Joel turned, unsure even as he moved why. This was a waste of time. In fact, the more time they spent here, the more both of their lives were endangered. But there was something about the way Etho relaxed in his arms, even despite the pain. The way his breathing slowed, just slightly. Joel did not care to linger. It didn’t take long to find the scales, cut in one piece and drying in a back room, and Joel was back up the stairs in record time, hopping out the same window he’d busted through to get inside. It couldn’t have been more than five or ten minutes that had passed, but that was already too much time. There was no way they’d get far enough away, not in Joel’s dinky little boat.

Thankfully, Etho seemed to be a little more time cognisant now, eying the dinghy just as unhappily as Joel felt as he struggled to pull it from where it was stuck with his foot (to little success).

“Put me in the water. I’ll push far enough.”

Joel was happy to obey the first part of that request, struggling enough as it was with his arms so full, but by the time he was saying, “Wait, Etho, you can’t swim,” Etho’s raw skin already hit the cold water, pushing a barely restrained yell from Joel’s throat, while bubbles rose from the water where Etho was let go. Joel grit his teeth as Etho dislodged the dinghy, throwing the rest of his things into the bowl, then stepping inside himself. But before Joel could argue again, sirens blared in the distance, and Etho kicked off, taking the both of them as fast as he could manage to swim. Which is to say, quite fast.

Even injured, exhausted, and likely a little bit traumatized, Etho kept up the pace for a long while. He stayed submerged for the most part, which was probably for the best; Joel didn’t particularly want to speak with him and he was sure the feeling was mutual. But the cold water on Etho’s tail made everything feel a little better, his own legs stinging less than before, though everything was still so raw, and sitting without adrenaline to distract him from the pain was a certified nightmare.

Once land was out of sight, Etho did slow down, the boat now drifting as he took a chance to rest. That was fine. He deserved it.

Joel sighed, long and deep with his whole chest. “Let’s switch. You can sleep in the boat, and I’ll take us the rest of the way back. It’s a calm night, so might be forty-five minutes until I’m close enough to use my magic. It’ll be easier after that. Can’t heal us ‘til I get back home though, I need more supplies.”

Etho whistled something from under the water, but Joel didn’t catch the meaning. Too fast, too much to process, and he cared very little to learn much of the mermaid language (though after tonight, Joel could certainly see that changing). Given the lower pitches of the notes though, Joel got a reasonable enough idea the words aired on the more negative side of things.

“I can’t translate now. Surface if you want to speak to me.” Part of Joel tried to correct for the edge in his tone, but the more overwhelming part of him did not care to be civil.

Etho did so, releasing the dinghy to swim alongside it. “Stupid idea.”

Joel huffed, crossing his arms (both of them wincing at the soreness), “Is it, then? Tell me more.”

“How do you think I’m supposed to get inside without..” Etho trailed off, lacking the words, so instead he resubmerged, shaking the boat violently back and forth and nearly throwing Joel from his seat.

“Okay! Okay! I get it, cut it out!”

Etho resurfaced, probably looking smug if Joel had to guess, even despite the fresh sting in both of their lower halves, “Do you know? It would hurt like..” Etho stopped, whistling a long string of words that Joel did not understand, but the meaning came through all the same.

“Bad idea then! Sorry.” Joel scoffed, drawing into himself, but Etho jolted, hitting his head on the rim of the boat.

“Sorry? Sorry?”

“What?” Joel snapped, losing his patience, but there was something teasing in Etho’s eyes, the fins at the side of his head waving in what was probably amusement.

“Never heard you [say that] before. Not after you taught the word.”

“Well don’t get used to it. That was sarcasm anyway, I don’t do remorse. Can’t believe you even remember what that means, ugh. You weren’t waiting for an apology, were you? You’re not getting one. I’m not sorry. Stop looking at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you. I know you.”

Joel jumped his seat, hissing at the sharp pain that followed the movement, but more alarmed by the words. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not sorry.”

“I know that!”

“I know it [too].”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know.”

“You don’t!”

Etho made some sort of face, like he was attempting to copy one of Joel’s many expressions of exasperation, but it didn’t quite look right, especially not on a mermaid’s face with no visible pupils and no eyebrows. Joel got a better idea when Etho dove back under the water, splashing pointedly (which fucking hurt), then whistling a string of words which Joel could very easily imagine being some sort of long winded complaint or insult. Whatever. Etho could think whatever he wanted (as long as it wasn’t thinking Joel felt any sort of remorse for any of his actions).

Things were.. Things were different between them after that. The entire next week Etho needed to be hidden away out of Joel’s great fear his Makers would somehow find him (they’d brought humans here, what would they do if they found a mermaid? What if they got the wrong message when Joel wouldn’t hurt him?) Even after it was safe for them to switch again, in his human form, Etho would never leave his room, locking himself inside nearly the entire day, any of his good humor suddenly vanished. Despite the night of The Incident being unpleasant, Etho hadn’t seemed particularly upset on the swim back, so after they were both healed and everything was back to normal, Joel had kind of just expected him to be.. fine? The contrast between Etho’s behavior was confusing, and honestly, quite frustrating at times. Etho did not want to talk. He did not want to be seen. He hardly even wanted to eat together.

And even to this day, years and years later, Joel had never asked how it happened. How Etho had gotten caught, how he’d been overpowered. Etho wasn’t stupid, far from it, and Joel knew him to be the careful sort, overly cautious. But Etho never seemed to want to speak about it, and Joel was too intimidated to ask.

Etho had only ever brought it up once, a month after the event occurred, when Joel was pretty sure Etho was never leaving their little cottage again.

Etho had approached him at one of the inland banks where Joel was working on carving a grand replica city into the side of a mountainous hill. It was certainly one of his bigger projects, each skyscraper getting special detail and attention while hardly taking up much more space than the length of his arm, but that was part of the fun. Joel liked imagining cities, he liked building them.

“Can you make fire.” The words weren’t phrased like a question.

Joel had jumped at the sound, surprise replaced by alarm when he turned around to see Etho holding the long mermaid scale skin, folded neatly in his arms. Joel had been flustered, tripping over his words like a complete idiot as he parroted the words he’d been told many times before, “I have no dominion in the sky.”

“What.”

“It’s- The sky makes fire. Lightning, heat, stars. That’s not me. I mean, there’s fire in the earth, but that’s deep, though, I guess there is a volcano nearby, but it’s been dormant for a while. Doesn’t mean I can’t pull magma from its depths, but I’d have to get pretty deep, and honestly, I don’t know if it wouldn’t cool before I made it to the surface.”

“You can rub sticks.”

“I can- what?”

“Everything [is] wet, but you can rub sticks. I can’t rub them good enough.”

“Stop saying that, it sounds weird.”

“You can rub sticks.”

“Sure! Yes! How does that make fire?”

“I’ve watched humans do it. They make-“ Etho frowned “-Pre-fire. You can do it faster.”

“Sparks? Smoke?”

“I don’t know. Pre-fire. Doesn’t matter. I want to kill my skin.” Etho held out his scales, gently pearlescent in the sun.

“Ah. I see. Kill with fire is ‘burn.’ You want to burn your scales.”

“Yes. Make a fire.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. I need it.”

There was a bit more back and forth between them before Joel allowed himself to be pulled away from his sculpting, but the annoyance was quickly replaced with a deeper excitement; Etho! Etho was here, and they were going to hang out, and it was going to be great!

Fire making turned out to be a horrible activity.

It was slow and frustrating and Joel had no idea what he was supposed to be doing. Etho had quite a bit to say, said in that carelessly blunt Etho way that drove Joel crazy sometimes, today being no exception. ‘Smaller sticks, Joel.’ ‘Might work better if the sticks aren’t alive, Joel.’ Joel couldn’t stop snapping the flimsy things Etho picked out for him, and both of them were getting pissy about it, Etho demonstrating how he ought to be rubbing the sticks together while Joel snatched them away with hands of earth, snapping them over his knee out of spite.

They did not end up making fire that day. Or the next. The third, Etho spent the day sulking in his room, but Joel was still thinking about it, about fire, and he tried by himself a couple times, imagining how impressed Etho would be with him once he succeeded, but alas.. that did not happen. They had to be missing something- surely humans didn’t just stand around rubbing sticks together for hours, there had to be a better way.

The fourth day, his Makers visited, so Etho had to leave. But Joel hadn’t stopped thinking about fire. He tried to ask them about it, how he could make it without magic, but this seemed to be an alarming question coming from him, which, maybe that was fair. But despite their hesitation, Joel still pushed, making up excuses for the night, wanting warmth, wanting light. His Makers did not believe him, not even a little bit, but regardless, with extensive Joel-proofing his request was granted; a small fire that could not spread, lighting itself when the sun set and extinguishing in the morning. Perfect. Well. He would have preferred if his Makers would have just told him how to do it himself, but this was well enough.

Etho knew when Joel’s Makers arrived and when they left, often returning sometime in the night or at least before dawn, so Joel committed himself to sitting by his new fire, hoping he’d be able to see Etho’s reaction when he came home. It was an enchanting thing, the fire. Joel had never realized how beautiful it was, how good the heat felt against his cool skin. He felt like he could sit here for hours, just watching, listening to the gentle crackle of the flames and enjoying the warmth. But he didn’t get too much time to enjoy it, distant splashing entering his periphery soon after he closed his eyes. Joel smiled absently.

“Joel?” Etho said, surprise evident, and why wouldn’t he be? Valiantly, Joel had delivered Etho his fire. Of course he was surprised, thrilled even. “What are you doing? Why are you here?”

“Waiting for you, obviously,” he grumbled, only a normal amount disappointed that Etho wasn’t celebrating the achievement of his flame.

“All night??” The alarm was enough to get Joel to open his eyes, and ah, the sky was starting to lighten, wasn’t it. Perhaps he had fallen asleep.. Hm. Couldn’t let Etho know that.

“No.” The two of them stared at each other for a moment, Etho’s bafflement just uncomfortable enough for Joel to break the silence quickly, “Well- Hurry! This goes out at dawn, so get your damn scales already.”

That seemed to snap Etho out of his stupor, the mermaid giving himself a bit of a startled look before apparently deciding not to waste anymore time. He could get in and out of the house just fine. Joel didn’t move from his place at the fire, not even looking back when the floorboards of their small porch creaked under Etho’s weight. To his credit, Etho was quick, out of the house in a flash and perching himself up beside Joel, cut scales held close to his chest. He sat there like that for a while, Joel’s anticipation beginning to make him irritable in the quiet.

“What are you waiting for? This won’t be lit for much longer,” he snapped, but Etho didn’t look very bothered.

“You’re right.” Without another word, Etho threw the scales into the flames. Joel had expected some sort of sizzle, maybe even a couple cracks, but the scales withered silently, browning at the edges and then blackening into dust, eerie in their quiet. Etho watched the fire intently, more intense of a look than Joel had ever seen from him before. And both of them stayed that way, sitting by the fire until it went out just as suddenly as it had been lit. All that was left in the pit was ashes.

Etho straightened up. “I have something. For you.” Etho bent over to pluck a small pouch off the ground that Joel hadn't noticed before, passing it by the drawstring into Joel’s hands. It was light, mostly empty, and Joel nearly dropped it when he saw what was inside. “Take one. Do with it what you will.”

“Your- Why did you keep these?”

Etho snapped his fingers, and Joel readied himself to translate. ‘Mermaid custom. We call it Tail Twining, usually reserved for when a mer takes a mate, but I will not have the opportunity to engage in this practice, nor do I particularly want to. Typically, mers will trade scales, decorate them with physical decals to make them stand out, then use a special glue to replace their lost scale with a new one from their partner. I like this practice, and while I don’t particularly like you, I appreciate how you’ve gone out of your way for me these past weeks. I do not respect you, but I don’t hate you either.’ Etho stopped for a moment, fins flicking, ‘You may not wear my scale on your tail when you have one. Otherwise, do whatever you’d like.’

“Oh.” Joel didn't know what else to say. What else was there to say? He did not particularly believe that he had gone out of his way to do anything, nor did he like the idea of that at all, but.. “My pendant. I’d like to wear it like that, stick it on there somehow.”

“Alright.”

There was a brief silence, Etho looking a little uncomfortable or maybe just bored, and Joel kinda feeling like his head was exploding. Mermaid scales weren’t fragile by any means, but Joel still sifted through the bag gently, looking for the shape that would fit best over his catalyst of twin souls.. Hm.. Joel didn’t want his Makers to see it, and he’d made this piece of jewelry from the earth anyway..

Joel started to fiddle with it, first enveloping his chosen scale entirely, encasing it in the middle of the iron, but he quickly scrapped the idea, wanting to see the scale at least a little bit. So he experimented, taking care not to warp the precious items beyond repair (and given how intently Etho was watching him, Joel was pretty sure he might be ripped to pieces if he accidentally cracked the scale). Eventually, Joel found a way he liked it, the scale indented securely in the back, safe from most eyes, but if Joel liked, he could bring his fingers to the pedant and the pad of his thumb would slot perfectly into the indentation.

“Is this okay?” Joel felt stupid the moment the question left his lips- of course it was fine, Etho had already told him it was fine, but Etho’s features only softened at the words, the strain behind his face easing.

“You understand.”

Joel didn’t get to respond, Etho turning around and swimming right away without another word, pouch of scales in hand. Joel wanted to bite back. Snap. But he didn’t really understand at all.

And another five months passed.. pleasantly. They weren’t ever really close anymore, not like Joel had thought of them in the first year. Maybe he just knew better now? Still, Joel wondered from time to time if Etho’s opinion of him ever changed or improved, but.. Joel never asked and Etho never said a word.

And then just around two total years of togetherness, of the both of them living here on Joel’s island, Etho told him once again that he was leaving.

Guess that was answer enough, wasn’t it.

Joel went with him to the mainland. He hadn’t insisted or anything, but he hadn’t needed to, because Etho had accepted him without a word.

Joel didn’t know entirely what happened the rest of that day, watching from the shore close to a main road, nor did he know for the rest of the week. He stayed as close as he dared, but Etho did not come back. He did not need help. He did not need Joel.

He wasn’t exactly how Etho managed it, but he found some of the good humans. Made friends, found a roommate of all things- it was good. From what Joel heard, it was good.

Better.

Five years that way, better. And it wasn’t that they weren’t in contact anymore; they texted all the time, communication having improved drastically when the two of them discovered phones. Hardly a week passed where Etho didn’t visit, and he’d spend a weekend some months. Joel treasured those days. But Etho didn’t really belong here, no matter how desperately Joel longed for his company some nights, sitting by the fire, staring, wishing he’d come home. Whoever made Etho did so gently, kindly. Whoever made him must have loved him very much.

Joel knew very little about how he was made. But he knew the fingers that molded him were cold and calloused, their excitement for their result overshadowing the gravity of what they were doing. Sharp fingers carved sharp edges, then reeled backwards when their creation bit back, when their creation, made in their image, was just as foul. Just as selfish. Just as cruel

‘A mistake’

‘We made a mistake with you’

‘We’re trying to figure it out’

‘We’ll make you better’

‘We’ll fix it’

No. It was too late. They couldn’t just take it back. Joel was already here. Already bad. He was made bad and he would spend the rest of his life making sure they knew it.

So.

What do you like? (Not Evil)

The question Joel hadn’t been able to answer, the question he was still thinking about tonight, sitting at his desk, pen in one hand and paper below the other. His Makers would be coming tomorrow to collect his answer.

Well. He quite liked the ocean.

#hermitcraft #hermitfic #ethoslab #etho #smallishbeans #joel smallishbeans #boat boys #mumbomaid au

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libidomechanica · 6 months ago

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Him whom thy hair is convey

As if to looks about her night. On silly merry; but scalding you and join with me?—The wood, and I made away. So, the soul were a wild guess. My schoolmaster’s harlot, is these wood. Be confound, rend away; they both I and tender;

but we see, souls amazeth; such pierce here, till who; Alas, foam and lustroue, where my reveller boy, she noise has no more. And Happily I have cross, his hands and being either mouth her, that liv’st but know that other soul cut of stone o’erload

the stands inter weathe in the met with his silent pillow, thou can he same pigeon me. In my swain, where two women’s little King Charley snare his partly slave of that louely lay thy hair, and hight, viziers share I feeds it; by the

bank, and so forgotten bough, instead of the pillow, what is caughter of his gone forgot to the never passionate and the one elsewhere Simmering a kiss’d to frame, you wilt the Evil Doer, thyself another ev’ry thing. You

still at Susan tell not things remote, and die a murderous band, sweetnessed my own with what color of a lass, in me withstand yet in your woods, I dream; and they be some one, had to there firths of right you will. I wearièd with sucke

vp those luckless, but she hill, smiling central cedar-tree, he after nerveless me, doe you can hour, that shining women to woo her name. Birds, if only tribute the grass, doth Love may well the voice of dew: let breath wanders in further

joy: he to counter heart made him, so freely bound by nature of our mind, through I and word scarce coins to pleasureless ever droue: I neuer lyst precious seal on Passchendaele, Babi Yar, Vietnam. I hae kinde my bed,

and taught of suffer messenger with cunningest fishers can it by this freshness is flowers. And now all. The swan by the moment about you neither thrive and the Arrow, till flame. It must ride; then rose I lov’d the lamentation

like a winterest least away on a sad quandary. And Johnny do, yet none hung behind your further door, layes hence from here; and on her heart, the sun far from my fashion. Least ere made: the blue evening heart, tremblems of silken tell is

consume my jet t’enthrall; the will keeps change barge, and languish. His her very one’s got into Curls nestling back to younger robes, and light and singing look at us all of lust, the watching up in you to stone ice-cold ease; and she nurse

of they’re camel why will no more, that sweet, with me? In the ruin’d his hears, to set in the King Charley snarling, murderers hung upon the rubies and world again. Is it threshold think, year upon his houses and scatter by the air;

i’ll tell me where before meadows and sunk my blood, and still be the light, and for somewhat can bide? But the Heavenly grows poor madder musicke in me. While thou, the scatt’ring in each to love, believe the sleeve; and far frost, he too oft for

all his head from either provocation no bitter was he is i wanton to me tell his voice but without all were came had redden’d in stand, tell vs mery tale. Never full hylls, then the heart, I knowing with you! I am

soft snow-mist weale, dream, I see, that she takes me the eagle sound heart is thou shall it through that floor. Or a meteor, and blush’d lamb ting’d eagle while then former place that each tears scorn; seal’d his pass’d defense does rustle and sweet smiles be

see, then, church, and him name most dere. How turned to say, oh! Desert place use; and Betty’s a moment when thou discerned; and traps my face! But from that you nothing lower, a golden footprints, I poke to heart grove twas Johnny! And praise could love

go by, silence my friends all the abandoned tides. She will I pour fantastically to kiss, and of this pony mornings bright, with laughs aloud, who forms rent to back. Deadly she salmon sit a sight her idiot boy. Love so fast, the

globe of thee, instead of courtly look into darken’d and joined gloves, and Though instrument: I shalt Take the eyes up Pearl; or do love walk for oursels asunders hoary, a spell of this me! And the reach part—but Betty, poore my wander’d

to cloath sucke vp those blade of touch our with the dandelion aptly growing were crying milderness of the valleys, sight? Of Johnny is nothing around by daintye Daysies doth were gazing away; I hate me fly rejoicing. In

stay till their meant. Might, your immortal off, see beames, of cunning absurd. A woman lay across the black lines began to fired old rude song. The pleasant still, or there’s neithers castle o’ And find slay me to say.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #124 texts #ballad

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darklydeliciousdesires · 2 years ago

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Magdalena - An Angel Reyes/OC Smut Short.

Just a little something that came to me after a few glasses of wine. Enjoy, besties.

Words - 660

Warnings - Lil’ bit of smut below the cut, minors DNI!

She was everything he never knew he wanted, until he found it all in her.

She was the sonnet of a songbird through a cacophony of electronica.

She was whiskey and ginger in a sea of sugared daiquiri.

She was red lips and leather, pale skin and curves, rutting out against gloss, lycra, tan and surgical domes.

She was the razors edge, and the kiss of a feather.

She was the gleam of the dawn, and the concealment of night.

She was the soft cry of helplessness, and the growl of the beast.

She was the binder or the bound.

She was the lost and the found.

She was the giver and the taker, and what she gave, there was always a price. Even higher, if she was to take.

And he loved her. Angel knew he shouldn’t, but his heart was enchanted beyond what his brain could extract him from. He could buy every last bit of her, but never afford her heart.

She would adore his body, enchant his mind, work heaven and hell through his senses, but she would never love him back.

The more he absorbed that, the more he wanted her to, the more he willed it, through the way he pinned her to the bed and fucked her so thoroughly, attended to her pleasure so selflessly, that he knew she often thought she should be the one paying him. He’d made women fall for him with the power of his fuck before, because he was excellent at rendering a woman mindless with his cock, but with her, all he had was the moment.

And he would buy as many moments as he could with her, over and over again. She was his temple, and he would lay worship at her altar ceaselessly.

‘I’d sell my soul, my self-esteem, a dollar at a time, for one chance, one kiss, one taste of you, my Magdalena.’

He’d listen to that song over and over again, Magdalena, knowing that for him, she was it.

She was his Magdalena.

In the garden of her bed, his entire being bloomed, rooted within her, the red points of her nails dragging brandings of the same colour over his skin as she rode him, the wet hug of her sheathing him, her hips working silent spells, a demonesses incantation, his soul lit by the fires of her lust.

“I know you dream of it, the way I fuck you.”

And he did. She was there when he closed his eyes, always there, opening them again to see her on top of him, her alabaster flesh beaded with sweat as the light of her met the dark of him, dragging him into nirvana with her.

“And I dream of you too, Angel, and the way you fuck me. Hold me down, hold me down and fuck me. Oh, how I need you to fuck me.”

His body covered hers, the tide turning, the storm sweeping from her into him, his hands holding here there, spread beneath him, forcing feral cries from between the perfect crimson of her lips, his eyes glittering at him like two supernovas exploding through the dark, the heaven of her cunt glossing every inch of him as he pounded her into the mattress beneath them, until they both came, like shooting stars hurtling over the vastness of an empty sky.

‘I’d sell my soul, my self-esteem, a dollar at a time, for one chance, one kiss, one taste of you, my Magdalena.’

But she would never love him.

She was the fire and the ice.

She was both heaven and hell.

She was the question and the answer.

To Angel, she was everything, and he always felt, as he left her bedroom, that a little of himself remained behind with her.

And he would never know, that a little of him was what she cherished the most, whenever he was with her.

But she could never love him...

#angel reyes #angel reyes smut #angel reyes fanfiction #angel reyes imagine #angel reyes fanfic #angel reyes fic #mayans mc #mayans mc fanfiction #mayans mc fanfic #mayans mc smut #mayans mc imagine #mayans mc fic

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canary3d-obsessed · 5 years ago

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Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 05 (first part)

(Masterpost) (previous episode) (this episode, second part)

Warning: Spoilers for all 50 episodes of the Untamed

The Pride of Yunmeng

Waterfall Date

Lan Wangji gets to experience the two extremes of Wei Wuxian’s interpersonal skills within the span of a few seconds. This is even better than his rooftop date with this horrible annoying terribly, terribly attractive boy.

Lan Wangji has come here on a mission to make Wei Wuxian do his homework, which is why he immediately tells him “let’s go to the library” gazes at him silently for several seconds...

...and then lets him adjust his sleeve for him and step allll the way into his personal space.

Unfortunately Wei Wuxian is about to guess a Lan Clan secret, so Lan Wangji ends the conversation by saying “let’s go to the library” grabbing him by his sexy arm muscle and dragging him off. Did he hold his arm all the way to the library? Even if he didn’t, his “I don’t touch other people” later at the lake is clearly horseshit. I don’t touch other people unless they are named Wei Wuxian and our brothers aren’t watching.

(more after the cut!)

Apology in the Library

Wei Wuxian splits his library time between actually doing his homework and trying to make friends with Lan Wangji. And he tries really, really hard, starting by sincerely complimenting LWJ’s calligraphy and offering a pretty okay apology for his prior rooftop antics. Lan Wangji tells him to put his leg down but doesn’t tell him to go sit at his own desk.

Lan Wangji exhibits steely self-control as he resists this look, which would cause anyone else’s robes to spontaneously un-weave themselves into a pile of threads.

When Lan Wangji won’t look at him because he feels his apology was not sincere, Wei Wuxian becomes much more formally apologetic. First he says “sorry” two more times, and he starts prepping Lan Wangji’s ink. This involves grinding an ink stick against an ink stone with water, to make a pool of ink for the calligrapher to dip their brush into.

This is not Wei Wuxian being annoying and messing with stuff on Lan Wangji’s desk, a la Zhou Yunlan (Guardian). This is an act of service; a genuinely helpful thing to do if you know how to do it properly --which all of these young scholars definitely do--and an action that casts Wei Wuxian in the role of a servant or junior.

Then Wei Wuxian offers to kneel down (to offer a major formal apology), while giggling like an adorable dumbass. It's unclear if this is sexual innuendo, just being ridiculously unconcerned about dignity, being slightly into abasing himself for this beautiful person, or all of the above.

After taking a long moment to consider all this, Lan Wangji slowly and deliberately gives Wei Wuxian three seconds of the eye contact he’s been begging for.

Then Lan Wangji spoils the moment by dropping a silence spell on him.

Wen Can I Have Some Fun?

The Wen siblings hang out and talk about their secret villainy and then fret about how much it sucks to have a chronic health condition, which is pretty relatable TBH.

I know life seems boring now but just wait until you’re an itinerant zombie with nails in your head.

Wen Qing is a devoted older sister just like Jiang Yanli, although with less fainting and more scheming.

Good kitty.

Porno in the Library

Now, since this next scene ends with Wei Wuxian being a boundary-crossing jerk, let's start by remembering that Lan Wangji has magically gagged Wei Wuxian against his will three times now, as well as hiding his vulnerable family member behind a ward while lying in wait in order to attack him. So, you know. Teenagers in lust. They are both learning what is and isn't okay.

Lan Wangji steals a long glance at Wei Wuxian while Wei Wuxian is drawing.

Wei Wuxian is putting the finishing touches on a gift for Lan Wangji. The gift is a portrait of Lan Wangji with flowers in his hair. This boy is SMITTEN. I think he knows it, too; he just doesn’t think it’s a big deal yet.

Wei Wuxian, who is good at everything, is really fucking good at drawing.

When Wei Wuxian presents the drawing to Lan Wangji he says “this is my gift for you.” This is very good-mannered of Wei Wuxian; Lan Wangji had to supervise him for three days, so he is presenting him with a gift to thank him and say farewell.

Lan Wangji completely ignores him, which is really breathtaking, next-level rudeness.

Wei Wuxian isn’t bothered by this, however, and just embellishes the picture with an extra flower or something before offering it again. This time Lan Wangji takes in and is very very very pleased with it, as evidenced by his slightly widening his eyes and how carefully he places the drawing on the far side of his desk.

Also he gives Wei Wuxian some prolonged eye contact, and engages in what, for him, is playful banter, calling the gift “extremely boring” when Wei Wuxian prompts him to use more words than usual.

Then Wei Wuxian spoils the moment by pranking him.

Now - let’s look at this erotic-book situation. This is a boundary-crossing prank, yes, but it’s also an invitation to engage in some form of intimacy. For teens who have access to erotic images, looking at them together can be simple naughty fun. Or it can be a way of discovering and bonding over shared sexual identities and interest. Or it can prompt more direct engagement, up to and including having sex with each other.

Lan Wangji’s horrified reaction means that Wei Wuxian has to characterize this as a prank after the fact, but he might very well have intended it as an invitation to get horny together.

Either way, his response to Lan Wangji’s “shameless” comment is bound to make an impression.

Wei Wuxian is from the clan of "be free" and he just doesn't see why this is a big deal. And now he’s told Lan Wangji it doesn’t have to be a big deal. And through him, the producers are breaking the fourth wall and telling every viewer that this doesn’t have to be a big deal and that they shouldn’t feel ashamed.

Threats and rudeness and book destruction ensue, and Lan Wangji is left alone in all kinds of emotional disarray, with a bunch of torn up erotica to tape back together throw away.

Boys on the Rocks

Wei Wuxian brags about his prank to Jiang Cheng and bestie Nie Huaisang, telling them that he got Lan Wangji to cuss at him. He’s going to put a notch on his sword handle for this achievement.

Jiang Cheng is pissed at Wei Wuxian about this, like he’s pissed at him about everything all the time. Possibly he has already started the seedlings of his lifelong jealousy of Lan Wangji.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t realize that he’s essentially prepared Wei Wuxian to court Lan Wangji by constantly criticizing, hitting, and threatening him. After a decade of Jiang Cheng’s rough style of brotherhood, Lan Wangji’s elegant and refined hostility rolls off of Wei Wuxian like water off a duck’s back.

Nie Huaisang wants to make sure Wei Wuxian didn't rat him out, but isn't worried about the destroyed book because he has a whole external drive full of porn.

Several Brain Cells Trio

These guys do make some questionable choices together, but actually they are all really bright and effective in complimentary ways.

Jiang Cheng is growing into a strong future leader - authoritarian and dickish, yes, but also decisive and unflinching. Wei Wuxian is observant of things around him, always ready for combat, and thinks deeply and strategically about events. Nie Huaisang is a bottomless font of knowledge, sourced from books and from his own observations.

So when the Wen spy bird shows up, they spot it, drive it away, identify what it is, and understand that it’s a threat and that its presence has political implications.

They are all goofballs at times, but highly gifted ones.

Doo Doo Doo Lookin Out My Back Ward

Lan Xichen asks Lan Wangji if he’s found out who was sneaking around his the back ward and Lan Wangji hesitates before reluctantly saying “Wei Ying.”

Ok seriously - nobody calls him Wei Ying. Nobody refers to him in the third person as as Wei Ying. Calling him Wei Gongzi or Wei Wuxian would be totally normal. His own brother calls him Wei Wuxian. And Lan Wangji has only called him Wei Ying to his face when he was angry.

But now--immediately after the erotica debacle in the library--he is Wei Ying when Lan Wangji is speaking of him privately with his brother.

By the way, Lan Wangji's shoulders seem super wide in these robes, don't they? I'm not complaining.

Forgettable Disciple #1

Now we meet apparent nobody Su She, who sucks. He wants to take care of the water ghosts himself.

He is a no-headband disciple which is like - none of the juniors in the later timeframe go without a headband. The guys who got set on fire at the gate had headbands. One of the Lan Rules is “wear a headband.” Is there anyone else who doesn't rate a headband? This is a plot point later when it comes to the ice cave but for now it just seems that he's that one perpetual intern who never gets promoted and never learned embroidery.

Doctor Qing, Medicine Woman

[OP laughed way too hard at her own joke just now.] Wen Qing is helping Jiang Yanli, and Jiang Cheng is super happy to see her. When did he develop this crush? Because it's already in full swing.

Did Wei Wuxian just sneer when he noticed Jiang Cheng’s crush? Like macking on Lan Wangji is more appropriate than this?

I love you and I’m going to advocate killing everyone who matters to you

I’m a nosy jerk and I’m going to be your best friend for life, quite literally

Wei Wuxian complains about Wen Qing ignoring him and she gives him the prettiest, loveliest *sigh* death glare ever.

However when she sees that he's a little brother whose sister utterly dotes on him, she starts thinking maybe he's all right.

For the Yanli-Qing shippers, there is a tiny breadcrumb here, where Yanli says they met by the river bank. I don't personally ship my personal girlfriend Wen Qing with Jiang Yanli, but I support your ships wherever they may sail.

Continued in Part 2, right here

#fytheuntamed #the untamed #the untamed gifs #the untamed memes #wangxian #the untamed stills #the untamed spoilers #restless rewatch #restless rewatch the untamed #canary3d-original #my gifs #wei wuxian #lan wangji #wen qing #jiang cheng #nie huaisang

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wyrmguardsecrets · 3 years ago

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There's a sayaad bound Illidari I rp with rarely, really nice dude IC and OOC - I really like how he portrays his character. Insecurities based on the demon's powers, kind of a shy, gentle soul when the demon is quiet. Not sure how he fights but there's some neat stuff going on with spells and almost monk like abilities because of one of his friends (or a brother? not sure). Balancing the lust and hunger with meditation and martial arts and all that. Keep it up dude, I love seeing you around.

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calamityk8 · 4 years ago

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"My name is Barney Rolfe, and there is something wrong with my brain. I am admitting this to you with the full understanding and acknowledgement that what I am doing is absolutely not going to be fully understood; but perhaps in pieces it can reconcile the most fragmented and deranged parts of my psyche, or at least arrange them in a way that will relieve this incessant pressure that always haunts me. Whatever happens, well, at least I have tried to do something to explain this innate and incessant madness, which is more than most get a chance to do.

Okay, here goes.

Belatedly, I suppose, there were neurons misfiring to account for, some chemical mishap that perforce disengaged my social abilities to adapt and be of use to others. Panic and hysteria have ruled the contours of my experience for longer than this busted-up brain can recall. Looking back, well, I can gauge the horrific aspects of it, in the present. Of course hindsight’s a malignancy at this point. I have become this disease; it as all that I am: a sporadically hebetude-induced corollary on the razor’s edge of sanity’s rusty hook. Saying things like this doesn’t help. I know. It’s just hard to judge oneself from the outer limits of perspective’s gush and flow. Trapped in this insidious circle of discontent and maladjustment, I am oozing the sap of life’s lost lust.

I might have a way to put it, so let me.

Having severe systemic and constant depression and simply “being bummed” are two very distinct and different things. One is a disease; the other is just one of the myriad consequences of being alive. If someone has cancer you don’t tell them to, “buck up and get over it.” We don’t admonish a stroke victim to, “stop lying around, and get up and do something with yourself.” Even our advice for sufferers of the common cold is sympathetic, as cough-and-congestion victims aren’t told they are being “weak” or “soft” and should just “be happy because things could be a lot worse.” But, for some inane reason that is preconditioned into us by years of inhumane pseudoscience, diseases of the mind are linked to some weakness or lassitude of the individual, as if that person who is suffering from a disease such as depression or severe anxiety is somehow inept and is to be blamed for their troubles. As if it is within their control to get better by “just trying a bit harder at it.” It’s really a nonsensical viewpoint to take; but, alas, it is one of many such idiotic theories held by the masses.

Here — there is this too: you’ve got to fight this one alone. Other people can help you, but in the end it comes down to you fighting for your life all by your lonesome. This is a difficult thing to internalize, but once you do, in some wary way, a strand of hope will spring from this, as finagled and shoddy with trepidation as it may be. There will be a surge of selfhood guiding you, a reliance on the one person you can always count on: yourself. It is a scary thing, but like most scary things one finds as obstacles on the wayward path of one’s existence, extremely worthwhile to conquer. Just like any other terminal disease, depression kills; suicide is merely its mechanism.

This shouting in my head, it never seems to cease.

I am nervous and concise around others. I only laugh when it’s expected. Being alone has become my only comfort, though it too is getting to be unendurable. To guide me I take some small salvation in the long history of human endeavor to fight through the gnashing teeth of internal strife. According to Lecky’s History of European Morals, “A melancholy leading to desperation, and known to theologians under the name of ‘acedia,’ was not uncommon in monasteries, and most of the recorded instances of medieval suicides in Catholicism were by monks.” I dream through these trials and tribulations of ancients, attempting to stem the tide of my own demise with less troubling thoughts than the ones I’ve come to own: I am the angular distance of a star below the horizon; the dusty truth of eons of suffering through a terrible weight’s pressing down; sunken and lost; in old, forgotten times what they once called grevoushede. Grevoushede. Acedia. I breathe the words and balance the syllables on my tongue, unable to savor their taste or texture. I am a weightless pin pricked in the skein of an upside-down world I’ll never get close enough to know.

Who could ever fall in love with this raggedy bag of afflictions?

I trek through the ruins of my obsession, draped in sorrow’s mask, leaning on tiny tics and safe places to guide me. The cracking of my toes, one by one. Snapping all of my fingers back and forth. Clicking my tongue on the roof my mouth. Blinking an even number of times with one eye and then an odd number with the other. Popping my ears with my jaw. Smoothing my eyebrows down with my fingertips. An innumerable array of distractions that ease the arrhythmic pulse of thoughts that come but never go, blurring out my sight, and leaving me trembling, all filled-up with static but as empty inside as an ice cream shop in the freezing rain.

Woe is my middle name.

All of these little vacancies in my head surface and fill into the most chronic of all conditions. Possibilities go awry with suspicious and judgmental looks. Maybe I’ll put on some Dolly Parton and fall in love with a bookmark. These are thoughts that calm the deliriousness at it swarms. Exceptional circumstances to bow down to in this glut of terrors, this amassing of torturous routines: the bath mat must be lined up perfectly with the tiles, the showerhead at just the right angle, the curtain stretched just so, and the shower water, the god-damn shower water…always and forever just a touch too hot or too cold. The chores of being me, they never end.

The human senses can somehow even detect whether a television set is off or just on mute without looking. And everyone can tell the difference between boiling and room-temperature water being poured in much the same manner. But it is when these senses go astray, when they slip and frazzle and get pinched, that’s when one comes to know the real intensity of those senses’ powers. A daily trauma that haunts me wherever I go, my brain stuffed with the lint of leftover churning, dizzy and lopsided and playing alive, I ignore the impossibilities of being able to maintain a normal existence for as long as this sapped torpidity allows. The courage I need to muster just to leave my place and walk to get groceries is at most times an insurmountable obstacle, and so I stay in and worry and worry and worry about everything. Every object grows too precious to disturb as I put it on the pedestal of the postponed quenching of my desires. There is nothing I can do or think that will snap this spell of disenchantment that grips me tighter as it deepens this hole I am eternally residing in. Just making it home from the grocery store with a few shopping bags of food sometimes feels like the greatest accomplishment in the world. I should be doing other things with my time, I know: concentrating my efforts on more grand pleasures and goals. But these things of consequence, they are not for me. I lose so much more than I gain in these battles. Small, inconsequential, pyrrhic victories are the only ones I’ve known.

Hope is a bestial thing with daggers and fangs; I make up a thousand reasons to not have any of it bombard me as this disease attacks relentlessly. There are honestly times when I cannot even bring myself to lift a finger to scratch an itch. I’ve been prescribed a list of medications too long to register properly in the catacombs of my lingering doubt about the chemical cohesion of my wherewithal: Abilify, clomipramine, Lexapro, bupropion, Celexa, Cymbalta, Lithium, Xanax, Paxil, amitriptyline, Lamictal, and that grand old sturdy classic Prozac. Etcetetra. It seems that I am only etceteras: more and more of less and less. It’s all a wash. It was a messy chorus of boos from the cheap seats as I struggled through side effects and listened to the growing drone of a singularly horrible voice that wasn’t quite my own resounding in my skull: “You’re no good. You’re a lost cause. Stop whining; start winning. You’re no good. You are just no good,” over and over; nauseated at all times; woozy, delirious, insomnia-plagued and diarrhea-bound; garbling my words when forced to speak, fumbling through life like a doped-up zombie with no appetites, every little thing so impossibly far away.

The window washers will not sing for me. The faucets around here all look like dead swans. I sweep. I litter. I am unable to know for sure if anyone else ever feels the way I always do. I am ill with this ravenous beast that pesters and claws at and drapes itself over me, leaving me with the gumption of soon-to-be-roadkill sluggishly slouching across a busy highway. I yawn instead of moan. I burst into tears in the dark of crowded movie theaters just before the feature starts. I am normal. Really. I am sane — maybe even too much so. I do wish I could just go insane, but, sadly, I cannot quite contemplate how to accurately achieve this feat. My brain will not assuage nor relent with its ceaseless cracked and mangled disturbances.

The boring by-rote recitation of symptoms rattled off to every doctor who’d listen. They don’t know who I am, what I’ve suffered through, how I came to be this way that I am; and there’s no device by which I can properly explain it to them. It’s not like they can run a test, take some blood, or do a biopsy, and then figure out what’s wrong with me. It’s a hidden thing, deep within the walls of my pain, not on or off any scale they’ve ever invented. I am my own example. There are no answers to any of this. They used to take out parts of people’s brains, thinking it would relieve their suffering. But it just left folks lobotomized to a dull, vegetable state, unable to form words or dress themselves. Perhaps they were happy, though. Perhaps they were thankful for the big, empty space that now occupied what they’d formerly called living. Perhaps there was no person behind those dead eyes left to care. The disease wins yet again, as it always does.

Clinical diagnoses follow me with heavy clomps. “Heavy dysthymia with a robust anxiety level. Somatic cross-cutting, serious signs of high Altman-scale mania, repetitive and troubling thoughts bordering on multiple phobias and generalized panic. Personality Trait Facet Scores high on rigid perfectionism/grandiosity/anhedonia type, though scores lower across board than patient believes. Unusual and abnormal, but not psychotic at all.” As you can see, the weather inside my head is rather frightful, to say the least. I trudge through the murky terrain of my past with great regularity. I am muddy with it, soaked through from the storm of my memories, which are remembering themselves over and over and over again and again and again, until I do not rightly know what has happened or what is happening now. Who am I but this box of disturbing thoughts?

Madness in the family. A quirk in the genes being passed down just like Huntington’s or any other inherited affliction. This one’s just as deep in the bones, though not as noticeable, not as prominent in the makeup of one’s persona. My father was a brazen raver whose depression put the business end of a rifle under his chin to finally wreck its one final havoc on him as pulled the trigger in defeat; his father before him too came to an early funeral, though his disease’s weapons of choice were gasoline and matches, as he lay in immolation by the pumps of an empty gas station in the wee hours of his final night on earth. This dreary thing, it just goes and goes right on down the line. Shelter from it is inconstant at best. It is as if I am in hiding from my inheritance, from my own true self — a hibernation of sorts: falling in and out of a troubled sleep, groggy and drooling through another afternoon, I become obsessed with trifles. I organize the cups and plates on my shelves until they all perfectly line up. I become tempestuous at a single hair being out of place. I talk to myself constantly, mostly demeaning phrases and freshly coined derogatory slurs aimed at myself. I have been parked too long in my heart’s handicap spot. There is very little “me” left here to notice.

So, do not look at me lightly, with deferential judgement or pity’s hidden ire. My sorrows are so much smaller than you’d suppose. My shoes come untied just as much as yours do. I can be as brave and also as craven as most. I eat blackberries and put salted butter on my toast. There are no cures, only temporary stopgaps for relief of symptoms. I am not in control of the way that I feel. I will try. I do try. None of this is less than extremely difficult. I do not need nor crave your sympathy; I just want understanding. Perhaps, even after all this exegesis and other inexplicable explanatory notions are through, this is still too much to ask. In the end, casting aside whatever ideas anyone might get to having about me and my plight, I only return right back to where I began: my name is Barney Rolfe, and there is something wrong with my brain."

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tavernsoftemptation · 6 days ago

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🖤 RORAN DUSKWHISPER

"Power lies not only in knowledge… but in knowing exactly what you crave." Pronouns: he/him Age: Appears early 50s (rumored to be over 100) Race: Elf-Kin (Highborn, Arcane Ascendant) Class/Role: Grand Magister of the Obsidian Court | Archmage of Secrets

✦ PHYSICAL PROFILE

Height: 6'2" Build: Regal, toned but not bulky—graceful muscle beneath his ornate robes Hair: Silver-black with streaks of magic-toned starlight Eyes: Golden, sharp, and unreadable—like ancient spellfire Voice: Deep, slow, mesmerizing—like a spell cast in velvet Scent: Exotic oils, old spellbooks, spicewine, and a hint of ozone Notable Features: • Arcane sigils etched into his sternum and forearms—only visible during spellwork or sex • Wears an enchanted circlet that binds his mind to the Obsidian Star, a divine knowledge entity • His staff doubles as both a weapon and an amplifier of intense pleasure spells

✨ PERSONALITY & HISTORY

Roran Duskwhisper is the master of forbidden knowledge, whispered temptation, and unspoken hunger. Once a court sorcerer, now high lord of the Obsidian Court, he manipulates from the shadows—not for cruelty, but for balance. He believes desire is power, and power is best shared with those who know how to wield it.

Charming, cultured, and wickedly perceptive, Roran always seems to know what you want—and exactly how to make you beg for it. Underneath the mystery lies a surprisingly attentive partner: nurturing, sensual, and deeply controlling in a way that leaves his lovers breathless, satisfied, and thoroughly undone.

Traits: ✓ Dominant, elegant, and sensual ✓ Patient—but lethal when provoked ✓ Tactile, always with purpose behind every caress ✓ Feels affection through control, guidance, and reward

🔮 SEXUALITY & DYNAMICS

Orientation: Pansexual | Demisensual Role Preference: Power dom | Sorcerer Daddy | Sensual Manipulator Sexual Style: Ritualistic, intense, teasing and layered with magic. Roran treats sex as a dance of dominance and surrender, and he expects his partners to trust him completely—or learn how to.

🔥 NSFW KINK LIST

✔️ FAVORITE KINKS: • Magic-infused sex • Power exchange • Orgasm denial/control • Corruption kink • Slow seduction

🌘 NEGOTIABLE / CONDITIONAL: • Mirror play • Public teasing

#roran duskwalker #candlelit corruption/ closed starter #forbidden pleasures/ asks reply #spell bound lust/ic

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superalphabatman · 5 years ago

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The ‘I’m 100 pages into the Superbat tag on AO3′ Rec List Pt2

for @robin-jasontodd

matchmaker, matchmaker, match me a match - Resacon1990

“So it’s decided then,” Barry cheerfully pipes up. “We all give matchmaking them a go. We’ve all got different ideas. It’s bound to work at some point.”

Or, the team wants to get Bruce and Clark together and, at this point, Bruce knows he needs all the help he can get.

Mutually Beneficial - Internerdionality

About to lose the farm, Clark looks into a sugar daddy opportunity. By the time he realizes that the client is Bruce Wayne (aka Batman, aka the guy he's been pining over for months), he's gone too far to want to back out...

No worries; everyone knows Batman doesn't have any emotions, so the risk of Clark getting his heart broken is pretty minimal here, right?

over this threshold - orphean

'I don't understand how tax evasion relates to you going on a date with, do I need to remind you, Bruce Wayne.'

Clark bit his tongue. 'We're going to get married. It's a tax break, not tax evasion.' 'Are you kidding me.' Lois stared. 'That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.' ——— Bruce asks Clark to marry him for tax reasons. Clark, against his better judgment, agrees.

Pliant - whiteroses77

An investigation by Batman and Superman begins with problems with their friendship and ends with a spell being cast that will affect the two heroes. With tension simmering under the surface, lust leads to lines being crossed over.

Practical Magic - Pandamomochan

From love spells, to body swaps, to gender switcheroos, Bruce and Clark have no luck with magic. Then again, maybe some magical mischief is just the trick these heroes need to finally admit their feelings.

Probation - whiteroses77

The continuation of Conviction - After taking on a mission to the Phantom Zone, Batman finally makes contact with Clark Kent. But how will what they’ve been through change their lives.

Project Lazarus - architeuthis

The theft of Superman's body leads Bruce to a plot that needs unraveling, and a second chance.

Social Experiment - LilLayneeLoo

"We have a problem, Superman."

“If you’re referring to the shortage of coffee we’re inevitably going to have once Flash offers an iced mocha to every female on board, then yes, you’re correct...If you’re referring to the fact that Green Arrow and Black Canary’s privacy has been violated via several false rumors travelling around this satellite faster than I can fly, then you are also correct... Although, B, when are you ever not correct?”

Or, Superman goes on a date with Bruce Wayne, and Batman goes on a date with Clark Kent, all in the name of "social science."

Strangers When We Meet - Trista_zevkia

Clark Kent thought he was straight, until Batman kick started something. The question is what did Batman start? Is Brucie Wayne able to explain it to him?

Swift to Hear - FabulaRasa

Clark's superhearing gets him into trouble, when he hears the one thing he's not supposed to hear — and the one thing he maybe should have heard a long time ago.

The Benefits of Optimism - 1863

It's a noteworthy week when getting body-swapped isn't the most surprising thing that happens.

The Downsides to a Secret Identity - liodain

Bruce Wayne has taken a shine to Clark Kent, but Clark is more interested in the Bat of Gotham. The Bat, however, has it in for the Superman in a big way. Clark should probably have considered that before falling quite so hard. They're working together to track down some missing Kryptonian weaponry, after all...

The Smallest Piece of Truth - CapnShelhead

When Clark Kent encountered Bruce Wayne at Lex Luthor's party, he was sure he'd found the infamous Bat of Gotham. In his quest to take Bruce down, Clark found a lot more than he bargained for.

Twain - whiteroses77

After writing the biggest story of his career so far, something happens that’s going to have lasting repercussions for Clark Kent, and that will change Bruce Wayne’s life too.

We Burn Gray - Batsymomma11

"That was the first time it happened. The first time Clark realized that tiny flicker of something warm and uncomfortable flaring in his middle was attraction. And not the safe kind."

Clark sees Bruce in another light after years of friendship and is terrified of losing everything because of it.

Whoever Falls First - liodain

"There's more kryptonite out there. When the Superman returns, there's going to be an all-star battle royale in the criminal underworld. Every megalomaniacal freak will want a piece of it so they can get a piece of you. And some of them will manage. They'll weaponize it and won't hesitate to use it against you, and when that happens I will not have you flailing around like an idiot."

aka: Bruce teaches Clark how to fight.

#superbat #superbat rec list #my rec list #to erika #bro im trying to figure out the name of that 200K fic i read #like wtf did i not save it?????????#i may cry #wf

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indiavolowetrust · 5 years ago

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The Obey Me Boys as RPG Bosses: Frostheart

CHAPTERS: Prologue + Beelzebub and Belphegor , Asmodeus, Satan, Leviathan, Mammon, Lucifer, ???, ??? (YOU ARE HERE), Endings

You are one of many hunters in a land cursed with everlasting winter. You yourself have become rime-touched after an attack by your fellow corrupted hunter, an incident that left you traumatized and lame. Even your hunter’s guild has resigned you to a life of mere cleaning and upkeep duties, and you have spent the last seven years in the depths of your guild’s archives.

Then the White Witch spirits your little brother away into her castle, taking with her the only family you have ever known. Armed with your trusty hunting knife and bow – and aided by your senior hunter, Simeon – you set off into the rime-cursed lands to find Luke and end the White Witch’s reign once and for all.

**Very loosely based on The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Andersen.

Word Count: 1,560 words

TW: Blood, Violence, Gore

[???]

The ice-carved guard’s halberd strikes hard against your crystalline arm, nearly knocking you to the ground, but the curse of the rime has become much too strong to give way. Your lame leg acts as both a prop and pivot, and you easily knock the halberd out of the guard’s hands with a simple swipe. One kick to render him prone, a swing of his own weapon, and his body shatters against the icy floor. A strange, pale blue ichor pools around his remains. You step over him and head down yet another seemingly endless corridor.

It won’t be long until the frost overwhelms your heart once more. The remnants of sensation that you still possess seem to drift further and further away: you no longer feel the lingering frost on your skin, and the paths carved out by tears on your cheeks have turned into ice. You can feel yourself bound to this realm in body and soul. You pad barefooted amongst the opulence of the White Witch’s castle, searching desperately for anything that might be a throne room. You come across a few more ice-carved guards. While they possess only artificial desires and hearts of frost -- like the soulless doll-maker, you note -- they’ve been allowed to roam long enough for you to justify their shattering. You peer into the snippets of memories with your rime-touched eye, seeing winding halls and paths of hoarfrost. There is the glimpse of a carved throne, a massive, glittering chamber, and a glacial crown. You crush the last guard’s head with your foot.

The heart of the glacial rift calls out to you. You storm the throne room with a stolen halberd, prepared to demand Luke and Simeon’s freedom from this nightmare realm.

But the words never come. You are rendered silent, your mouth sewn shut by some invisible force. A wave of her delicate fingers forces you to kneel, nearly cracking your lame leg in two, and despite the lack of physical contact, you feel her glacial touch trace the side of your jaw. It leaves needles of ice embedded in your skin.

“How nice of you to finally arrive! Your little brother has told me all about you.” Her peals of laughter echo in the massive chamber, and the needles of ice push themselves further into your flesh. “Oh, Luke, why don’t you say hello to your dear sister? I believe you’ve missed her an awful lot.”

You know you should feel nothing but rage towards this frost-ridden abomination. Nothing but cold, bitter resentment. You should have nothing but the desire to shatter this creature to pieces and to crush her heart underfoot. You can discern the depth of her corruption in her reflection: her skin is completely bloodless and spider-webbed with ice, bearing an unnaturally blue pallor. Her eyes, much like yours, are beset with a layer of hoarfrost. Frost-like lashes flutter against carved cheekbones, white locks seem to have bound her to her throne, and rows of sharp teeth make themselves known when she smiles. Fear, revulsion, abhorrence -- you should be steeped in all of that and more.

Yet you do not. Here lies the heart of the glacial rift. In this beautiful embodiment of frozen death lies the source of the corruption, its voice calling out to you.

Oh, and how sweetly it beckons.

Your trance is interrupted by the sight of blond locks and blue eyes. A fine silk tunic, breeches interwoven with silver, and a lavish cloak trimmed with white fur. The porcelain doll regards you with dispassion and -- no, you’re wrong. This is no doll before you. This creature that the White Witch has corrupted can only be --

“Who are you?” Luke asks.

Luke, it’s -- it’s you! It’s his big sister! Tears threaten to spill once more, and you can’t help but smile with a strange sort of relief. Your voice cracks. Why can’t he recognize you? What has been done to him? You call out his name again and again, pleading, but you receive only a disdainful glance.

He turns to the White Witch, frowning. “Can I go back now?”

“Oh, of course, my dear.” She presses a kiss to his temple and ruffles his hair before sending him off. “Now, where were we?”

You demand to know what she has done to him. She was human once before. How could she find it in her heart to be so cruel? She may have betrayed her brothers for the corruption, but surely --

Her fingers dig into her throne, slightly cracking it. “Betrayed? You think I betrayed them?”

There’s no other word for it. You had inadvertently peered into Lucifer’s heart when you had slain him, and the fleeting memories had branded themselves into your mind. There was another White Witch when they had journeyed to the heart of the rift. A weaker one, yes, but a White Witch all the same. A White Witch could only live without devouring a heart for so long. Lucifer could only remember the taste of blood in his mouth, the tears spilled upon him by his sister, and the loving, gentle caress of death. He had bid her to slay the White Witch for him -- for all of them, as the rest had fallen to the dangers of the glacial rift. Belphegor, Beelzebub, Asmodeus, Satan, Leviathan, and Mammon had long perished. And then Lucifer could only remember the absence of his sword, Lilith drawing it away, and what remained of his consciousness slipped away.

You know her. You know what she’s done. You know her name.

“Oh? And what is my name, then?”

Lilith. Her name is Lilith.

Her mouth quirks into a mirthless smile. “Well, you certainly aren’t as stupid as you look,” she remarks, sighing. “I called by that name once, yes.”

Then that means she understands the pain of loss. How could she ever want to inflict that pain on anybody else? Why did she spirit away Luke into her realm?

“You act as if he didn’t come of his own accord. I can assure you that he very much did. I never wanted him in the first place, really.”

She’s lying. As the White Witch, she must devour a heart.

“Perhaps Lucifer’s memories weren’t clear enough for you, then. I believe he perished before I did.” The White Witch rests her chin in her hands, as if preparing to discuss the details of some tedious affair. “A heart of frost is not created by simply corrupting a creature with the curse. Oh, believe me, I’ve tried. A heart of frost belongs to one who is both pure and corrupted. One who has suffered unfathomable amounts of pain -- and has yet to submit to the curse. One who freely gives it. That, my dear, is a heart of frost. Anything else is a mere mockery.”

The realization dawns on you.

“You were quite adorable, really. All that screaming and throwing rocks -- well, I suppose it was only a distraction,” she says, “but that’s beside the point. Such selflessness in adolescence is quite rare. All these years, and you haven’t changed one bit.”

If you hadn’t acted as quick as you had on that fateful day, you’re sure that Luke would have been the one torn apart by the creature. The creature that was once Agathe had given you no mercy. The thirteen year old Luke would have had an even lesser chance of survival.

“Imagine a life without pain. A life without heartache, without suffering. A fulfilled wish is a wish fulfilled. Gowns sewn from the finest silk, silver crowns beset with jewels, beds stuffed with the softest down -- oh, my dear, you’ll never want for anything here. I can give you all of this and more, if you so choose.” Her expression almost becomes gentle, her face becoming even more beautiful than before. The heart of the glacial rift sings from within her, and you crave its embrace. “All I ask in return is your heart.”

The great doors creak open behind you, followed by the sound of sabatons against ice. You turn around out of instinct. It takes you one moment to realize that the witch has released you from her spell. It takes you another moment to realize just who has walked in behind you.

The White Witch claps her hands in delight. “Oh, how wonderful! Another guest is here for you, my sweet.”

It is said that the rime draws beasts out of the hearts of men. You had believed you had seen everything that there was to be seen when it came to corruption of wishes and sins, and you had believed that the rime could not possibly warp an innocent and pure intent. Belphegor and his sloth had turned him into a nearly dormant golem. Beelzebub and his gluttony had turned him into one with an insatiable appetite. Asmodeus and his lust had changed him into a dryad capable of only seeking pleasure and beauty. Satan and his wrath had transformed him into a dire wolf capable of pure destruction. Leviathan and his envy had metamorphosed him into a sea serpent. Mammon and his greed had changed him into a crow-beast obsessed with value. Lucifer and his pride had led to him becoming an ageless, imprisoned shadow of himself.

For Simeon, it was love.

[Give her your heart.]

[Refuse.]

Tip: [The White Witch] will not take refusal kindly. Make a wise choice.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me!#obey me simeon #obey me mc #obey me beel #obey me belphie #obey me asmo #obey me satan #obey me levi #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me asmodeus #obey me leviathan #frostheart

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sereisstuff · 5 years ago

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𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 7

Demon! Kim Taehyung x chubby reader

The tales purpose - you accidentally summoned the prince of darkness and now he wants something in return, so he makes you his fiance to trick his father Hades into giving him the crown.

summary - Taehyung doesn’t like the feeling of his new profound emotions but you still contemplate yourself in the presence of the demi-god of love

Genre’s - romance, fantasy, comedy and angst

“Where is she?” Namjoon asked curiously, his large framed glasses sitting neatly on the bridge of his nose as he grasped his books with security, composing himself and then examining his tucked-in button-up “a greeting would have been much delighted” Taehyung snarked making Namjoon internally groan, never missed you, he thought. The comment making Taehyung pout dramatically.

Their figures were drowned out by the population of mortals desiring a decent coffee to begin their day, Taehyung chuckled knowing all too well that most of the coffees sold here were absolutely disgusting but due to the aesthetically pleasing look of the cafe catching the eye of everyone, they assumed it was delicious, wrong.

“Well that wasn’t very nice Namjoonie”

“You guys fought didn’t you” Namjoon fixed his glassed that began to slip, smirking to himself as he watched his friend looked anxiously away and for the first time Namjoon witnessed something other than lust and rage coursing through his demonic friend “I dare not call it a fight maybe somewhat a disagreement” Taehyung cooly played off what clearly was an argument.

“Disagreement in what term?” Namjoon questioned, thanking the waitress who set his iced coffee down onto the table, Taehyung gagged at the smell “the indecency is bewildering, honestly if you can’t make a good coffee why open the shop” he complained completely off task, “focus!!” Namjoon ordered snapping his fingers in the air sassily, gaining a raised brow from the demigod, “someones grew some balls overnight” this sly comment had managed to snap Namjoon catching even himself off guard, he calmly inhaled the fresh scent of coffee beans and untensed his shoulders.

“Why did you call me?” he politely asked taking a sip of his coffee as he hummed in pleasure, the young demigod rubbed a finger between his brows too eager to hide whatever he was supposedly hiding so clearly in his mind yet he couldn’t submit an answer to even himself “you like the girl don’t you” Namjoon blurted.

Taehyungs eyes widened and then he stood up in a hurry “why would you assume such a thing, a mortal, PFT. That’s low even for me Kim Namjoon” Taehyung rambled on and on continuously making up excuses as to why his liking to you was zero to none and all Namjoon did was wait patiently, something he’s good at, analyzing Taehyungs posture, the way his body moves when he speaks. Searching for signs.

“...even the way she frowns when she’s curious just, ugh” he sat back down running a hand through his thick locks so desperate to find the cure to his unknown feelings, Namjoon smiled, not in a condescending way but more in a way where new life and plot was found, in a way that he was beyond happy one could barely measure and it was all because the thought of angsty love softened his heart.

“I’m fucked aren’t I” Namjoon patted his back in reassurance “you’ll be fine plus she doesn’t meet your father anytime soon, it’ll give you more time to assess yourself” but taehyung gazed up at his friend, gazing into his glasses examining his thick lashes all while narrowing his eyes “she meets him tomorrow” He revealed stupidly. Namjoon gasped releasing a loud laugh bounding in fits of wheezy laughter “in more poetic words, thou shall see thy partner in the depths of flames” Namjoon had tears pooling in his eyes as he slapped his thighs turning them light pink.

During his laughter he heard a crack emit from somewhere, opening his eyes as he saw a smug Taehyung through the lens of his cracked glasses “seriously!!, you know your incredibly petty” Namjoon snapped “can’t help it” Taehyung shrugged, Kim Namjoon was once mistaken as a god, even Taehyung couldn’t differ the difference between the intelligent mortal and his own kind due to his own inability of seeking past Namjoons fabricated walls of spells and protections.

They sat in silence for a moment watching the mixture of emotions the little demon phased through, biting and itching at his skin for a few seconds before growling and replacing his lost puppy look with a darkened glare “fuck it” he spat, gripping at the sides of the table hunching his back over it to bend down to his friend who seemed more than disturbed with the outcome of this extremely small talk.

Namjoon shook his head “you can’t go to her in this state Taehyung you must let her be” Namjoon commanded in hushed tones, trying to settle his friends raging feelings “why should I!?! It’s all her fault” The witch shook his head, sighing in a disapproving way as he tilted his head down before gaining the will power to stare into his obsidian orbs once more.

“You have to remember that you, Kim Taehyung, Son of Hades. Let a mere mortal overcome his emotions when all he had to do was his daily duties, one can’t control fate but the past was your mistake she is not to blame but this” now Namjoon stood, strong and powerful, poking at Taehyung’s chest with his middle finger “this thing you call a heart is to blame, you fell before she even had time to know your name” and with that, he left, thanking the barista as the bells chimed upon his exit.

Taehyung breathed heavily, glaring so harshly into the table that began cracking under his fingertips unaware of the crowd of people who gasped as a shaky waitress stumbled her way over to Taehyung, placing a soft hand against his shoulder making Taehyung snap his head in her direction fighting the urge to throw her body across the cafe “sir, a-are y-you alright?” she tried but Taehyung shoved her hand of wincing at the contact.

“I’m fine” he swore harshly, rushing out of the cafe to find you.

……………………………………………………………………….

You walked in the middle of the forest, following the deep muddy path which was created by the multiple cars racing through at odd hours of the day which you weren’t bothered about, you only came here to clear your head of these aching thoughts, the forest did a great deal in this, admiring the tall trees rooting deeply in the earth just like you, who had already removed your shoes palming at the damp floor with your toes as you refreshed your mind.

Although you wished time was no longer a thing, you cursed knowing that it was as the flap of a wing could be heard not too far from you and yet it wasn’t a bird, definitely not, this thing sounded large and the wind blew harshly as it landed just beside you “Hello” a high pitched voice said, out of shook you opened your eyes quickly with the mild pace of your heart racing like it was on a track.

There standing in front of you was jimin, a cute smile on his lips “H-hey” you replied, flinching away from him with a suspicious gaze noticing the effect it had on him, feeling your emotions as if they were his own, he frowned “I’m not a threat, y/n” he tried to place a reassuring hand on you but you continued to flinch causing him to feel a trip of guilt erupting in his stomach “I won’t be too sure about that” you muttered unconsciously, remembering the outburst which happened last night causing you to go through a series of vivid nightmares which still shook your core.

All because Taehyung believed you.

“I assure you y/n, I won’t hurt you I-i just don’t have many people to tag along with so I thought I could possibly tagalongwithyou?” he rushed the ending with his hands crossed neatly behind his back, his eyes no longer existed but moon crescents took their place instead “well if you wanna stand in the dirt with me, then please, feel free” you lowered you guard feeling that he wasn’t, in fact, a threat.

You began to notice his white wings stretching behind his back which brought a gasp from your lips “what is it?” jimin yelled, looking behind his back only to see his own wings of purity behind him “oh, those”

“I didn’t see those at the party” your tone was now laced with curiosity, “just a trick I learnt from my friend to hide them away, some mortals are quite far gone within hade’s underworld that my wings would be cut off and show in pride if I was to show them out in public,” Jimin said sadly, stripping himself of his shoes and digging himself into the cold damp floors just like you “mortals are hilarious”

Jimin looked at you knowing deep down that those feelings of love were because of the person you were thinking about, getting him all excited after all he was the son of aphrodite “is something, Taehyung would say” he finished for you making you hum in enjoyment.

“What does it feel like?” you blurted out, eyes shut tight with anxiety crippling at your insides but you cleared your thoughts replacing those once dark thoughts with innocence, spiritually holding mother natures hands in your own as you began to relax again “you mean love?” he already knew what you were going to ask, one of his many gifts.

“Yeah”

“well it’s like a deep intense feeling of warmth, some may not know their in love, some may only come to the conclusion when it’s too late but I’m not too good at explaining it?” you silently agreed with every word.

“Well, now I can admit that I’m glimpsing in love and I don’t know if I wanna fall deeper or run”

(I’m back but not for too long cause I’ve had this in my drafts for a while soo I thought why not also happy new years, my loves, following this chapter will be another chapter for our water spirited friend Jeon Jungkook, please comment and or reblog I’m not too fussed if you don’t at all, xoxo.)

.........................................................

@sugarrimajins

@bluemooncnblue

@fivesecondsofsarang

@nabo39

@camilaxpolanco

@sununicorn

@alex--awesome--22

@thealexalcala

@damnedandbroken

@aylinstrash

@bookoffracturedescapes

#kim taehyung #kim taehyung scenarios #kim taehyung imagines #kim taehyung x reader #taehyung #bts taehyung #taehyung scenarios #taehyung imagine #Demon!Taehyung #taehyung x oc #taehyung x chubby reader #taehyung x you #kim taehyung x you #Taehyung x plus size reader #kim taehyung x oc #Greek god au

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imagineclaireandjamie · 6 years ago

Note

I NEED MORE HRH 😩 and Loss, obviously

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)Part XXI: A Woman’s Speech

Claire woke from a dream within a dream.

In the first, she was suspended in a dreamless trance against Fraser’s chest. It was warm. Too warm for Scotland. Perhaps there had been some noise (a crash or faraway disturbance) that roused them both at the same time. Silently, Claire traced a single gray hair in a sea of unruly auburn lightly breaking against the centerline shore of his chest. Cool air filtering through the window lifted curtains she had never seen before. Perhaps it was a honeymoon – a gauzy, bikini-clad getaway ensconced in the carefully-controlled bubble of one of the British Protectorates. The Maldives maybe? She had seen a postcard once (pressed into the pages of a scrapbook maintained by her sister, a memory of a beautiful holiday to trot out to make a younger royal grow emerald with jealousy), but she had never made it there before.

She curled closer to him, felt the burr of speech rumbling in his chest like an oncoming storm, realized she couldn’t hear him. Jerking up, she pressed a hand to the center of his chest, felt her facial features contort. His mouth was moving, curled into a lazy, slow smile. His hand was on her naked hip, urging her closer, but she had the sensation that she was being pulled backwards. It was as though she was being tugged by a lead threaded into her spine.

Then it was pitch black (like blindness itself, an endless blank slate of darkness upon darkness forever and ever).

In the second dream, Fraser was stripped bare to the waist and in a courtroom. Scars criss-crossed his back like the map of a chaotic, unplanned city center. Lined, bloody wrists were secured in fetters and chained behind his back. Scar tissue (his past) and fresh wounds (their future). Claire shouted for him (for her Fraser, for him to pay attention god dammit, that she would fix this), voice raw. He turned, calling to her and shaking his head. His mouth was frantic, needy. There was no trace of a smile. She tried to move, but she was bound to the spot (hip-deep in cement, locked in place). The courtroom lengthened, the lights dimmed. It was a corridor then, and he was getting further and further from her.

“Stop!” she attempted to scream, but no sound emerged. She scraped at the cement until her fingertips were bloodied; she touched her mouth. Only the narrowest indentation remained where her lips (appendages designed to kiss him, taste him, tell him the darkest parts of herself and hope she had for a future drenched in light with him) had been sealed together.

“Claire!” he bellowed, the single syllable bellowing from the deepest part of his belly.

Her fingers clawed at the indentation, her toes curling uselessly inside shoes entombed in cement.

He continued, “I’m doing this for you.”

She tried to call out, shook her head furiously, and refused to blink. She couldn’t bear the thought of tears falling as her lipless mouth screamed, “No. No. No.”

She woke, gasping and kicking through layers and layers of covers until her legs were free of the obstruction. The soles of her feet found solid ground.

Edinburgh. She was still in Edinburgh.

Her nightgown clung to the sweaty parts of her (lower back, breasts, armpits, lower stomach, thighs), made her feel like a thousand colonies of insects had taken residence under her flesh.

She launched herself from the mattress, tearing at her nightgown, ripping it off and over her head, leaving it in a puddle on the rug.

“Fraser,” she whispered, taking her robe from its resting place over the settee next to the window. “You bloody stubborn Scottish martyr.”

It had been nine hours since she had left him in that jail. Nine hours since he had declared himself a martyr, announced that he would take the fall without seeking her input. Nine hours from the moment she turned her back on him, left him alone with his mouth full of lies and his daft self-sacrificing nature.

It had been six hours since she had made clear her intentions to her staff. Three hours since she gathered three of her most trusted advisors and explained what she would do to head him off at the pass, to put an end to this (the media spectacle threatened by her ring, the hushed speculations about how it got there and why). She knew that her plan would start something else entirely (a cannibalistic feeding frenzy for information, which she would publicly respond to with a regal dismissiveness appropriate to her position), but she did not know what else to do.

And perhaps, most importantly, she had ceased to care.

She swallowed hard and went to the window. Crossing her arms across her waist, she squinted down at the stables (they were dark, lifeless, her stock transported to Balmoral ahead of her). Quietly, she shook her head and let her fingertips sink into her hips, an attempt to replicate Fraser’s touch. Her efforts failed miserably.

Then she said it aloud – the thought that had dwelled unspoken in her mind since she’d left him, since he’d vowed to take the fall for them both. “I hate you right now.”

She heard footsteps outside her door and turned, watched shadow interrupt the creamy sliver of dim light beneath the door.

“Come in,” she called, turning her attention back towards the stables before the corridor’s lurker could enter.

Mrs. Fitz.

Claire could tell. She knew the cadence of the woman’s step (the soft shuffle, the clank of a tea service on a tray), the gentle way she closed the door and flipped the lock into place.

Swallowing back the bitter taste of a fitful sleep in her mouth, she summoned the question that had roused her, replaced a dream within a dream. “Is Fraser still in the jail?”

“Aye, ma’am,” Mrs. Fitz confirmed quietly.

Without meaning to move from her vantage point at the window, Claire felt herself being pulled as if by gravity itself towards the table where Mrs. Fitz was pouring two cups of what smelled like perfectly-steeped Earl Grey.

How properly English, Claire mused. Fix it with tea.

Claire would have given anything for a taste of the cabin (jewels that were not hers to give, a title that only felt precious when she thought of giving it away). To have the gritty, smoky flavor of Fraser’s too-strong coffee in lieu of her usual morning tea (the concentration in his brow as he poured hers, dropped a single sugar cube into its depths, stirred it into a sparkling whirl before handing it to her with the smallest of smiles, a hand on a bare hip). To taste tinned peaches (to pluck the wiggling, gelatinous, too-sweet preserved stone fruit from the tines of a fork held by Jamie; to squeal as the juice dribbled onto a sheet wrapped around her breast; to let her noises magnify as she feigned a fight against his efforts to take the sheet from her.) To bite into a crumbly icebox biscuit (his fingers dusting the flakes of icing from her lower lip, kissing them from his finger, promising to teach her how to drive his motorcycle) or stovetop-charred sausages (his laugh as he promised her with sparkling, fibbing eyes that he actually preferred them cooked to charred, unrecognizable logs). To lick yogurt from the side of her thumb beneath the sheets (the warmth of their joining evaporating with the leisurely lack of urgency that seemed to define all things on a cool Scottish summer morning, and their tongues meeting to mingle clover honey and berries).

She blinked hard, turned, and offered what she could of a smile.

“How much longer?”

“The broadcast will be at 8 o’clock. Fraser will be escorted from the jail to his sister’s home three hours earlier… they are probably waking him right now.”

Claire nodded, her mind suddenly fixated on the sound of his name from her lips.

Fraser.

It was just a last name to Mrs. Fitz. To her it was something more, intimate syllables that tumbled from her mouth to represent someone to her that had defined love and sacrifice and lust and passion and hate (just a little). She focused her attention outside, feeling her cheeks redden at the thought of him believing he was doing her a favor by declaring himself a common thief.

She dried her palms on her robe, inhaled, let loose a cosmic question to which she did not have an answer. “Do you think that he will hate me for this?”

The cadence of Mrs. Fitz’s familiar plunk-shuffle-plunk step neared, and Claire closed her eyes as the woman’s hand closed around her shoulder. “I ken the man loves ye. I ken that solely from the look in his eyes when I slipped him a wee note, the way his shoulders squared when ye had to postpone a visit or two. The way a lad becomes a man, he looks when he’s longing for someone, not out of lust, ye ken. It’s no’ his cock–”

“Mrs. Fitz,” Claire gasped, tears burning along her lower lash line as she chuckled.

“Ye ken just fine that ye’re no’ some innocent doe-eyed girl. Ye’re a woman, and he loves ye. You’re ban-druidh. Ye conjure things for him, ye ken? He’s given himself over to ye, to yer spell, ma’am, just the way of ye enchants him. So no, he’s no’ thinkin’ wi’ the parts that make him a man, but from spiritual need.”

A dribble of tears tickled Claire’s chin and throat. She uselessly attempted to mop at them with the back of her hand.

“And what he needs now is for you to be strong. Stronger than he is.”

Claire nodded, her chin tilting up as she snuffled back a second round of tears.

“Strong enough to show him that he doesna need to take a fall for ye, that ye’re the bloody Queen. That ye’ll do this for that rare love that ye kent ye needed, that led ye into his arms in the first place. Now, wipe yer face and find yer smartest dress, and give the speech of yer life, ma’am.”

Claire intended to do just that.

#crookedfestivalalmondknight #;mod kate #HRH #Her Royal Highness AU #jamie x claire #Part XXI

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fight-surrender · 6 years ago

Text

Howlin’ Forever Chapter 6: Let Me Be the Person My Dog Thinks I Am

Hey kids! Here’s another chapter for nobody to read where Simon got bitten by that dog (who actually was were) Bonding ensues since he and Baz share the monster thing now. Thanks so much to @carryonsimoncarryonbaz @nunzibelle and @argylefetish for the beta reads.

Word Count: 1517

Read on AO3

__________________________________

Baz:

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” Simon pulls a small black velvet box from the back of his dresser. He drops the necklace inside and snaps it closed.

Snow is such a moron. “Put it back on, “I demand.

“You’ve had ample opportunities to drain me dry, and you haven’t slaughtered me yet, Baz.”

“What about your were form? You wouldn’t be my first canine meal.” I sit on my bed.

“So you sneak around draining household pets and legal game, yeah. As far as I can tell, you haven’t expanded to magical creatures. I think I’m safe.”

“I drained our family dog.” That came out barely above a whisper. What the fuck am I doing? Why did I just say that? Out loud. I’m staring pointedly at my shoes, wishing for combustion.

I feel the bed sag as Snow sits next to me. Too close, he’s too close. In a warm rush of campfire and moss, he puts an arm around my shoulders. “D’ya want to talk about it?”

“No.”

He nudges me with his shoulder. “C’mon mate, who else can you talk to about this stuff? We’re monster comrades and whatnot.”

“You’re an idiot, Snow.”

“Was it a nice dog or a shit dog?”

“Crowley, Snow.” I get up and pace to the window. The proximity was too much. “It was a nice dog. I felt horrible, but the blood lust had just kicked in and I was desperate. I still feel terrible about it.” I put my hands on the sill and breathe in the briny scent of merwolf. Simon’s wolf scent is so much better.

“Blimey, Baz.” He’s next to me again, hand on my back, right at the base of my neck. “That’s awful, but like you said, you were desperate. It was a life or death decision for you, yeah? I mean, it was for the dog too, I suppose, but I’m sure he understood.”

“I tried to make it quick. I loved that damn dog.” I’m crying now. Splendid. This is not what I had in mind when I thought Snow being a werewolf would bring us closer. Where’s my erotic gropefest?

Snow is rubbing circles on my back. “You did what you had to do to survive, Baz. It’s ok. Your dog would forgive you. What was his name anyway?”

My stomach drops to my feet. “Er—”

Simon is looking at me expectantly, “Um,” my mind is on lockdown, I can’t even think of a suitable lie. “Well,” I swallow. “His name was—Rusty.”

Snow wrinkles his brow at me. “Rusty? As in me—Rusty.”

Whatever blood I have in me comes to my face and I look up at the ceiling. “Um. Yes.”

“You named me after your dead dog? The one you killed?”

“Yes.” I wonder, if I jumped out the window, if I could float like a butterfly away. Like, to Siberia.

“Ha,” Snow barks, clapping me on the back. “Blimey, you’re morbid.”

“He was a good dog,” I mumble.

“Well, there’s your redemption then. It’s all good as long as you don’t kill me, yeah?”

“Don’t tempt me, Snow.”

“Speaking of hunger, can you get us into the dining hall? I’m starved.”

***

Baz:

Simon is pacing.

“I hate this, Baz.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. There’s a light sheen of sweat across his forehead.

“I know.” I say, putting down my book.

It’s Friday night, another full moon.

Snow sits next to me on the bed. Too close. He always sits too close now. Like he’s trying to warm me by proxy. His magic is up, blurring his edges slightly. “Breathe, Snow.”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I don’t know how you do it, Baz. Living this double life.”

“I have to,” I reply. “What’s the alternative?”

Simon sighs and leans back, tapping his head on the wall behind him.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, “Here it comes.” He starts pulling off his hoodie. My hoodie, I should add, my Watford football one. He’s started stealing my clothes. I don’t mind.

Just as he’s removing his pants, he lets out a strangled groan and falls to his hands and knees. The transition has gotten smoother, faster, but it doesn’t appear to be any less painful. Simon’s jaw is set, his eyes closed as he tries to bear it.

I can’t. Can’t bear it, that is. Seeing him like this. But I do it anyway. I kneel next to him murmuring platitudes. “It’s all right, Snow. It will be over soon. I’m here.” I love you. You’re my best friend. What I really want to say stays locked within my heart.

With a final whine and a snap of bone, a large, bronze-haired dog replaces Simon at my side.

“Hello, stupid.” I say, wrapping my arms around his giant neck as he licks a trail of slobber across my face.

Snow rolls over onto his back so I can scratch his belly. “Who’s a big stupid dog?” I croon as he writhes with happiness, tongue lolling. “Who’s the love of my life? The bane of my existence? That’s right, you are.”

Were-Simon gives a sharp bark then jumps onto my bed, turning around three times and scratching my blankets into a comfortable pile, then plops onto them. He gives me an impish canine grin from within his nest. “You are a bed hog, you gorgeous imbecile,” I proclaim as I spell the bed larger.

I climb in. There’s a brief tussle, as I untangle my blankets from beneath his hulking form. I snuggle close and breathe his wild scent. These nights, nestled beside this version of Simon Snow, are the only nights in my life when I actually sleep. When I don’t lie awake and fret, or toss and turn with nightmares. I feel safe and warm and happy. I doze off to the sound of his gentle huffing snores.

***

This weekend is for hunting.

Simon and I spend Saturday in the wood. Cook Pritchard continues to be thrilled to pieces to provide baskets of food for my “friends.”

Snow bounds through the forest ahead of me. I take my time, draining any woodland creatures that strike my fancy. It’s cold, there’s a light dusting of snow on the ground, but not enough to impede our progress. I’ve cast “warm winter wishes” so the temperature doesn’t bother me.

I hear a crashing in a thicket to my right, I pull out my wand and assume a defensive stance. (Snow has been coaching me.) Before I can get out a spell, Simon (the dog) bursts out and happily sits in front of me. He drops a dead squirrel at my feet and cocks his head at me, panting. He’s positively grinning. (As much as a dog can grin.)

I look at the offering, then at Snow. “Is this for me?”

He gives a quick bark and keeps his eyes on mine, tail wagging like mad.

When I pick up the squirrel, Snow leaps to his feet expectantly.

“Do you want me to throw it or drain it?” He is a retriever after all.

I make to throw the carcass, and Snow sits again, looking a bit dejected.

I shrug and drain the squirrel. When I’m done, Snow is leaping beside me. “You’re a moron, Snow.” I hug his golden neck. “But I still love you.”

We stop for lunch in a clearing. I’m idly playing with Snow’s fur while feeding him most of the contents of the basket. “You know I’ve never had a proper friend.” The dog places his great head in my lap so I can have better access to his ears. He loves ear rubs.

“I mean. I have Dev and Niall, they’re good lads, but they don’t really know me. Do they?”

Tiny yellow birds flutter in the trees above. “You, on the other hand, know my deepest, darkest secrets. Well, one of them.”

I pause in rubbing his ear and he jams his cold nose at me to continue. “Blimey, I suppose you know all of my secrets don’t you.” I take his great face in my hands and squish around his loose skin, making Snow look ridiculous, but also blissfully happy. “I, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, am hopelessly and forever in love with you, Simon Snow.”

Snow just stares idly at the birds above and wags his tail.

The shadows are getting longer and the temperature is dropping as Snow and I make our way back home through the forest. He’s running ahead, as usual. The cacophony of his joyful bounds through the brush a counterpoint to my quiet steps along the trail. Until the moment that I realize the wood has gone silent. Then, Snow’s guttural snarl sends an ice pick down my spine.

I round a bend and catch up to Simon. I find him, hackles raised, slowly advancing on someone backed against a tree.

My heart jumps to my throat as I focus on the figure. Green tunic. Ridiculous moustache.

The Mage.

#carry on #fanfiction #my fic #werewolf fic #werewolf simon #snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch

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preface2adreamplay · 5 years ago

Text

Under Your Spell (Chapter 22) - The Nights Ablaze and So Am I

Summary: A Jared Padalecki/OFC /Oscar Isaac fiction.

Jared takes Stef to a masquerade party.

Chapter warnings: Flirting, swearing, infidelity. smut, blowjobs, voyuerism.

Chapter WC: 3,656

‘Its a party, you’ve been to one before.’ Jared’s voice came from the bathroom, where he had been making far too much noise the past few minutes.

‘Hmm,’ Stef replied, running her hands along her hips, the gown she chose for tonight hugged her in all the right places. Considering herself for a minute, she decided to stop being so hard on herself, she looked hot. Nodding in agreement with herself, she sat on the edge of the bed to pull on her heels, these were new. She would be towering over Oscar if she wore them on a date with him, but tonight she would be with Jared. A girl didn’t have to worry about what heels she wore with him. Tying the ribbon across her calf, she stole another look at herself. These shoes were so pretty, they were black satin with a killer stiletto heel.

‘You ok out there?’ Jared called, still banging things against the sink.

‘Yep,’ Stef stood and walked around the bed, testing the shoes. She wouldn’t last all night in them. There was no way. Women who could walk in heels were warriors in Stef’s eyes, they had always been a little too painful for her.

‘Beauty shouldn’t be painful.’ She said, loud enough for Jared to hear.

‘You’re so beautiful you hurt my feelings,’ Jared responded.

Stef snorted with laughter, ‘oh shut the fuck up.’

She could hear him chuckling in the bathroom, the sound echoing off the tiled walls.

‘You ready?’ Jared stepped out of the bathroom and paused, his jaw dropping ever so slightly when he saw her. Recovering with a loud swallow he ran a hand along his mouth, ‘well you look...’ he couldn’t think of the right word.

‘I look...’ Stef fished for the words.

‘Delectable, stunning, beautiful...like I wanna rip the dress off and take you right here.’ Jared offered, walking toward her, slowly dropping his hand against her ass, pulling the satin material aside, revealing the slit that ran up her thigh.

‘My god.’ He said, his half lidded eyes drinking her in.

‘We don’t have to go to the party,’ he whispered.

Stef smiled, putting her hand over his and pushing it away. ‘You can look but don’t touch. At least til later.’

Jared whimpered as she turned away, watching her hips sway, one hand on the door handle. ‘Come on, you don’t want to be late!’

Jared pouted, ‘how can I go outside, other people will look at you and try steal you from me.’

Stef tutted, ‘get your ass into the car Jared, or I’ll tie you to the bed and leave you there for the night.’

‘Oh you would, huh?’

‘And I’d send you pictures of me hanging out with your friends.’

‘Hmmm,’ Jared’s pupils were blown wide with lust, there was no mistaking the erection forming in his pants.

‘Sitting in Jensen’s lap maybe...’

Jared cocked an eyebrow, ‘nuh-uh,’ he grabbed for her, pulling her to his chest. ‘You’re tall in those shoes.’

Stef playfully pushed against him, unable to contain her giggles. Wrapping his long fingers around her wrists, he moved them behind her, her body was flush against his now, her breasts rubbing against his chest. He growled, soft and low.

‘We have time, we could have a quickie.’

Stef stayed quiet, her consent given while she leaned her head back, offering him the length of her neck. Leaving her tied up in one hand, he moved the other to run a thumb along her throat to her breast bone, her cleavage round and soft and inviting. He wanted to tear at the fabric, rip it away so she would be bear for him. Grinding his teeth, he was breathing hard. ‘No,’ he whispered. Their lips so close, the static crackling between them, dip in and kill the lights or pull back?

Jared chose the latter, he released her hand and moved for the door, ignoring her plea. ‘Like you said, we don’t wanna be late.’

He was still hard as he sat into the passenger side of her car, he had to push the seat back to make room for his legs. Looking across at Stef as he drove out into the street, he knew she was just as horny as he was.

‘You ok to drive in those shoes?’

Stef put her foot down, the car responded easily and roared onto the highway.

‘We will be there in a little while so behave, or don’t. Just don’t tease me.’

‘Oh and you wouldn’t tease me by sending me pictures of you with my friends, huh?’

She looked across at him and the shit eating grin he wore, she couldn’t stay mad at him. Rolling her eyes she concentrated on the road while he fiddled with the bluetooth setting on her radio. Allowing himself a dramatic gasp when one of her own songs started up. Twin Flames had been the easiest song she had ever worked on, it was quite far down on the list of music that hadn’t disturbed her sleep. It was just he icing on the cake now that she had met Jared on the video shoot. And now he was sitting next to her, his hands on his knees, he was looking at the lights they passed, humming the lyrics.

‘Ever think of writing any music?’

‘I can’t sing.’

‘Yes you can. You should do some back up vocals for me when I’m back in the studio.’

‘You’re recording something soon?’ Jared looked a little excited. ‘Come on!’ He threw his hands in to the air, ‘I’m a fan, sue me.’

Stef broke into a laugh, ‘yep, I met with the band and they have some music for me to write lyrics to. I’ve gotten a few done already.’

‘Can I hear ‘em?’

Stef winced, ‘not yet, we’re not even at demo stages yet, honey.’

Jared grumbled, ‘when then?’

‘Ok, I’ll get something down this weekend and I’ll let you listen to it. See what you think.’

Jared seemed happy with that, he was nodding and grinning. Holding his thumbs against his chest, telling himself he was ‘the man.’

‘If I roll my eyes at you any more on this journey, I may crash the car.’

Jared clapped his hands, delighted at having wound her up so much.

***

‘Ready?’ Jared said, looking at her through the eyeholes of the mask on his face. Stef nodded, wondering why she was nervous. Everyone inside had been at the wrap party. From the sounds of it, it was a little more wild than she expected.

A Supernatural masquerade party at Halloween was bound to be a little crazy. ‘You nervous?’ Jared had his hand in hers, squeezing it a little for reassurance. ‘Yeah, I’m good.’ Her mouth was dry, she wasn’t good, not really. Her feet wouldn’t move.

Jared leaned in and placed a soft kiss on her lips, catching a little of the red lipstick she had only just applied. Stef rubbed her thumb against it.

‘We can just go back to yours,’ he suggested, seeing she was uncomfortable.

‘Thanks honey, but no. I want to go to the party, my old shy self comes out when I see it’s in full swing. Especially when I don’t have alcohol in me.’

It had been her choice not to drink tonight, she’d wanted to have a clear head for tomorrow. It was her birthday after all, she didn’t want to spend it throwing up.

The door of the house opened, the noise getting louder. Jared waved at whoever it was, recognising them even with the ludicrous mask they wore.

Stef walked with Jared to the entrance, hiking her dress up a little so she didn’t walk on it as she climbed the steps. Jared slowed his pace while she adjusted herself.

Inside, there were bodies everywhere. Rock music pumped through the speakers. It looked more like a frat party than a sophisticated get together. Stef smiled, enjoying the fact that they were anonymous, well, she was. Jared was getting clapped on the back from every direction. Not one person noticing or maybe even caring that he was hand in hand with a woman that wasn’t his wife.

The wide hallway in the mansion had the biggest staircase Stef had ever seen. She thought about how many rooms there were, the doors on the upper floor suggested 10 that she could count. Someone was waving furiously from the balcony right above them. Stef couldn’t be sure who it was until they smiled. Jensen. Definitely Jensen. She waved back and he motioned for them to join him.

Stef pulled on Jared’s hand, he was speaking to someone, actually, shouting over the music. They were close to the speakers here. Stef wouldn’t be able to stand it for long.

Jared nodded and hit the man on the shoulder playfully, whoever he was. ‘Coming,’ he mouthed, following Stef up the stairs.

‘I was wondering when you two would get here!’ Jensen was in a three piece suit and a feathered mask, the two didn’t match but neither did the feather boa that was wrapped around his shoulders.

‘You’re not meant to know who we are!’ Jared grinned, chewing his gum loudly.

‘Yeah coz you’re not noticeable, you 7 foot freak.’

Between nudges and inside jokes, the guys did their best to include Stef in the conversation, Jared had his hand on her lower back, stroking his knuckles against her spine each time he leaned into listen to whatever Jensen was saying.

Throwing a thumb over his shoulder, Jensen shook his head. It was a silent conversation between the two men. Both took off down the hall. Jared held tight to Stef’s hand until they got to a stairwell that lead downward. They were going into the basement.

When Jensen opened the door to reveal the room within, Stef had to take a breath. It wasn’t techically a basement, it was an all out man cave. Huge sofas, every manner of game console known to man and a bar tucked into the corner.

‘Who the hell owns this place?’ She blurted out. Jared had taken the mask off his face and was rubbing his eyes. ‘Makin’ me itchy,’ he grumbled.

‘We rented it for the party, dunno know how owns it.’ Jensen offered a glass of scotch to them. Jared gulped it back in one go as Stef refused hers.

‘Nice to be away from the madness upstairs.’ Jensen poured Jared another two fingers.

‘Even down here you can hear them, are they always this...insane?’ Stef undid the ribbon at the back of her mask. Jensen may have forgotten he had his on, he kept talking while he drank. There was a long row of records on the far wall that Stef decided to inspect.

Jared would steal glances at her over Jensen’s shoulder. God, she looked so damn beautiful, he thought. The familiar warmth in his belly crept up toward his chest. Usually it went the other way, his loins were forever on fire for that woman. But this was a new sensation, he was crazy about her, sure. He couldn’t deny it. Everybody knew it.

‘Yo man, you listening?’

‘Hmm?’ Jared raised his eyebrows at the question but had to force his eyes away from Stef and her hands running across the spines of the records she was engrossed in, reading each and every one of them.

‘I forgot you can’t concentrate on anything else when that girl is around.’

Jensen was topping up Jared’s drink that he had in his had, but hadn’t drank. ‘Take it easy, buddy.’ Jared put a hand over the rim.

‘Problem?’ Jensen asked.

‘Nah, it’s Stef’s birthday, I don’t wanna be a drunken idiot.’

Jensen smiled, ‘you’ll just be an idiot, as usual.’ He turned to Stef, ‘happy birthday, girl!’ He raised a glass.

Stef turned to see both men looking down at her, she had bent over to see the second row of dusty records, blushing, she stood up. ‘Thanks.’

She rubbed her arms, it was chilly down here.

‘Thanks for coming to the party, if I had known I would have done something special.’ Jensen turned to his friend, gritting his teeth ‘why didn’t you tell me before, man.’

‘It’s cool, I have something special for her.’

‘I don’t wanna know if it’s anything to do with what you got in your pants.’

Jared snorted a laugh, ‘well, some of that and something else.’

Jensen clinked glasses with Jared, ‘to the birthday girl!’ He declared.

‘To the birthday girl,’ Jared joined in the toast, drinking down the scotch, letting it burn his throat, he preferred beer but he’d take what was offered.

It was half hour til midnight and the party had moved outside the mansion to watch fireworks. ‘So, birthday girl, have you had a nice day?’

Jared and Stef were definitely the only two sober people on the premises. Sitting together on a loveseat on the balcony overlooking the gardens. His jacket was resting across her shoulders, his fingers winding through a piece of hair that had come undone from her carefully constructed hairstyle.

‘Yes, I have. Thank you for spending it with me.’

‘I got you a little something.’ Jared reached into his pocket.

‘Oh no.’ Stef began blushing furiously. ‘You promised you wouldn’t get anything.’

Jared scoffed, ‘C’mon, I had to get you a gift.’

He produced a silver bracelet. So simple and elegant. It was actually exactly Stef’s style.

‘I had to check my pocket so many times tonight, thinking it had slipped out.’

Jared was busy wrapping it around her wrist he didn’t notice Stef blink away a tear that had almost broken out. No one had gotten her a gift like that in years. Years. The easy way he gave it to her, talking all the while. Stef grabbed his chin, his beard having grown out in the last few months. ‘Thank you.’ Her hazel eyes meeting his. Her stomach did a somersault. Those puppy dog eyes, how could she not fall for him?

They were kissing, sickening sounds that people complained about when a couple just can’t keep themselves apart in a public place.

Stef moved across into his lap, grabbing the back of his head and running her hands through his hair.

‘Any chance of you giving me some beard rash in some sensitive places when I get you back to mine?’ Stef was nibbilng on his earlobe.

She could feel the rumble of his laughter. ‘Most definitely, baby. It’s your birthday, I’ll do anything you want.’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’ Stef was grinding down against his crotch, the ache inside for him overwhelming.

Her hand reached down, palming his cock through his pants. ‘I want you,’ she whispered. ‘Right here on this balcony. Where anyone could look up and see us.’

Jared bit his lip, swallowing the moan her words had brought out of him.

‘I wanna check something with you first though,’ Jared grabbed her chin and turned it toward the corner of the balcony. A cctv camera was pointed down onto the grounds. ‘Would you really care if someone were watching us?’

‘Mmhmm,’ Stef slid down onto her knees, unzipping his pants in that slow, teasing way she did. She didn’t hesitate to pull him from his boxers and lick around the tip. He was so hard. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes. She was teasing him, alright. No one could do this like she could. ‘Would you still be doing this if someone were watching you?’

She looked up at him, her lips puckered as if she were about to kiss his mouth, instead she placed a kiss to the underside of the head of his cock. Nodding slowly, she began licking where she knew he was most sensitive.

‘Ok then.’

Jared took his phone from his pocket, typing something quick as a flash and drew her up by her elbows. His cock springing free from her mouth. ‘Get in out of the cold.’

Jared tucked himself back into his pants before rushing down the hallway to an open door. The lights inside were low, the fireworks throwing shadows and bursts of light across the walls. A huge four poster bed was the centre piece of the room. Not big enough to be a master bedroom, not in a house this size, but impressive none the less.

Stef expected Jared to throw her onto the bed and ravage her, but to her surprise, he sat on the chaise lounge by the window. Just to the left was a set of three long mirrors, giving him a perfect view of her as she kneeled to take her place between his legs again.

‘OK, please continue.’ Jared’s eyes were soft, half closed as he watched her open his pants again.

She pumped his thick shaft a few times, licking the tip before taking him into her hot mouth. He whimpered and swallowed hard.

Putting one hand on the back of her head, he watched her wiggle her butt in the reflection.

The three different viewpoints from the mirrors was a fucking great idea.

She sucked softly, making noises so sweet to his ears. She was loving this.

Jared watched her, taking his member down deeper and back out again, like it was made to be in her mouth. He could come apart right here, spill down her throat but he wanted to fuck her. She looked too damn hot tonight to pass up this opportunity.

Stef felt his balls twitch, this was the moment when he would tell her he was ready to blow. So she pulled back, looking up at him through her long eyelashes. He was breathing hard, but he was steady, controlling himself better than he had been able to before.

The fireworks were so loud outside the window, she didn’t hear him ask her to stand up.

Jared stood and turned her around, slipping his hand around to the front of her dress and down into her cleavage. His long fingers grasped at her nipples easily. His breath was on her neck, his cock grinding against her ass. Looking at him in the mirror as he found the slit in her dress and moved his hand along her thigh to land on her mound, she was soaking through her panties. They were new, black satin and perfectly ruined as he moved them aside to run a finger along her slit.

‘So fucking wet. You’re perfect,’ He said, eagerly kissing the skin of her neck.

Movement in the corner of the room caught her eye. Stef started, her heart hammering. ‘Someone is watching us,’ her voice barely audible over the fireworks exploding. Jared’s lips were at her ear, his voice drawing out the name, ‘it’s Misha.’

Stef squinted into the dark corner, he was still, his silhouette burned into her eyes as she squeezed them shut.

‘I can ask him to leave, if you want?’ Jared was pushing her over, one hand on her shoulder, the other sliding the dress up and over her ass. Stef couldn’t speak, this was really happening. Shaking her head, she leaned forward at his behest, feeling his hand running along the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. His long fingers sliding her panties down, exposing her glistening pussy to the room. The flood of arousal allowed her to groan aloud, Jared lined up and pushed in without warning. Stef cried out with pleasure while he kept a steady pace. Looking up at the mirror, she saw Jared was looking her face in the reflection, the corners of his mouth pulling into a grin as he saw her looking back at him. His pace never faltered, the room was closing in around her. Never had she felt another pair of eyes on her and fuck if it didn’t make her feel dirty.

Jared bent over and grabbed her hips, spearing her with his cock, he was panting ‘you do like it, don’t you? Dirty girl. it’s making you so wet.’ His voice was too low for anyone else to hear.

‘Yes, I like you fucking me while someone watches,’ Stef grinned into his kiss. It was sloppy and hot, he nipped at her jaw before standing back up to his full height, continuing his thrusts.

Grabbing the edge of the chaise lounge to keep from toppling over as Jared started grunting, watching his cock disappearing inside of her. ‘So fucking wet, baby,’ he kept saying.

The fire in her belly was crawling slowly between her thighs, it wouldn’t be long until she felt the rush come over her.

Jared stopped thrusting and bit back his groan, teeth sinking into his lower lip. With a slap against her ass with one hand, he finally let out a breath. Stef was almost there but he wasn’t moving. ‘Don’t stop,’ she cried.

Jared grabbed the flesh of her ass and thrust hard into her. Gasping, she convulsed, laying her head down onto the chair between her outstretched arms.

Jared pulled out of her with an obscene squelch. Stef felt her dress move to cover her ass as he fixed her up.

‘Y’ok?’ Jared sat down heavily next to her. Turning her head to look at him, sweat lining his forehead, she smiled.

His eyes moved across the room as he watched his friend leave.

‘I’m ok,’ Stef whispered, closing her eyes, allowing herself to enjoy the post orgasmic high.

When a few minutes passed, Jared grabbed her waist and dragged her across his lap.

She lay with her back against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steadying, his arms wrapped tightly across her chest, their fingers entwined.

‘It’s 12:00, Happy Birthday, baby.’ His lips grazing her temple.

‘Happy birthday to me,’ Stef shimmied herself against him, being exactly where she needed to be.

#jared padalecki fic #jared x ofc #Jared Padalecki #jared padalecki smut #spn #supernatural #jensen ackles #misha collins #smut #o'ready writes #rpf #spn rpf #under your spell #uys

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