#tattoo deign

[sweetteaandpie]

i'm sick so indulge me lol.

if yes, what would/should she get?

[martianbugsbunny]

If you send me CaptainCroc asks I will answer them

[heartsforvin]

fic of vinnie getting a matching tattoo w/ reader?? 🤭

MATCHY, MATCHY

this is sooooo cute ): thank you for the request !!

pairing: vinnie hacker x fem!reader

warnings: cussing, needle mentions, mentions of anxiety, use of pet names, otherwise just fluff!!

summary: you and vinnie decide to get matching tattoos

it’s been on his mind for awhile — getting a matching tattoo with you. he knows how you can get anxious when the idea of getting a tattoo comes into mind, but also knows you’ve been wanting at least one for awhile now.

you’ve talked to vinnie about your anxiety of getting tattoos, you explained it was mainly the needle aspect of it, and how you ‘give props’ to vinnie because of the amount of ink that’s on his skin.

he’s reassured you many times that you’d be okay and it only hurts for a bit, and at certain points due to placement. he said he’d be with you to hold your hand if you ever decided to get one.

that eased your tension on the matter a bit, the looming anxiety still lingering though.

you knew vinnie wanted to get matching tattoos, he’s told you many times. he never pushed you on the subject, though, and you loved him for that.

he knew it was ultimately your decision, and that if you wanted or didn’t want to get one, he’d be fine either way.

the day was chill, just you and vinnie relaxing on the couch as he held you in his arms as you two watched a movie.

it was silent for a moment until you looked at vinnie. he didn’t notice at first until he felt eyes on him.

“what’s up, silly?” he chuckles as he catches you staring. you smile at him, loving the sound of hearing him laugh.

“i wanna get that tattoo.” you say, and he can’t help but smile.

hera — who was on vinnie’s lap — almost fell off when her dad abruptly stood up. “really?” he asks.

he knew you’d come around eventually, he knew it was just all about timing.

you smile and nod, standing up to hug him. vinnie wraps his arms around you, hugging you tightly.

“do you have any ideas?” he asks, you shake your head.

vinnie pulls you with him so the two of you are back on the couch. “how about this, we’ll sleep on it and figure it out tomorrow.” he explains.

you agree and the two of you head to your bedroom for the night, excited for the morning.

☁︎·̩͙✧

the next day came faster than you thought. you woke up before vinnie, deciding to let him sleep a bit more.

you got ready for the day after doing your skin care routine. you walked back into the bedroom and go to vinnie’s side of the bed.

“baby,” you say softly as you run your fingers through his curls, kissing his forehead softly. “wake up, sleepy boy.”

vinnie groans and digs his head into his pillow. you chuckle softly at him before thinking of a way to get him up.

you walk out of the room and find hera on her cat tower. grabbing her carefully, you tell her what you’re doing while walking back into the bedroom.

“what the f—“ vinnie says as he feels weight on his back.

“goodmorning, vin!” you say with a wide smile, excited that he’s finally up.

you move hera off of vinnie and he sits up, you place the cat in his lap. “what’s got you so excited, princess?” he asks.

your smile doesn’t fade as you say, “tattoo day!”

vinnie smiles and holds his arms out for you to go by him. when you do, he wraps you in a hug for a few moments before you let go and tell him to get dressed.

☁︎·̩͙✧

the two of you arrive at the tattoo shop and tell the artist what you want and which deign.

the two of you decided on a matching heart, but with each others initial of your names at the end of it.

you told vinnie to go first, still a bit anxious over the needle. you hold his hand through the process, mainly for your comfort since you know he’s not scared of them.

once it’s finished, you gush at how good it looks as the tattoo artist goes over the healing process to your boyfriend.

“your turn, babe.” he tells you as you two switch places.

vinnie holds your hand through it all, stroking your hair softly as he reassures you that you’re doing great and you’ll be fine.

before you know it the process is over and the artist goes over the healing process just like she did with vinnie.

you got yours done on the inside of your left arm, while vinnie got his on the inside of his right arm.

vinnie smiles at you before kissing your head. “so proud of you baby, you did so good.” he praises and you just smile.

he grabs his phone and takes a picture of your guys’ tattoos before posting it to his instagram story and captioning it ‘tattoo w my girl <3’

“i love it!” you squeal as vinnie pays the tattoo artist.

you can’t stop looking at it, loving how it turned out. vinnie grabs your waist and kisses your cheek as the two of you head out of the shop.

“i’m glad you love it baby, now you just need about thirty-nine more to catch up to me.” he says.

you laugh as you squeeze his hand. “one at a time, vin. although, i do want another one now.” you say with a laugh.

“they’re addicting, aren’t they?” he asks, and you nod.

for the next couple hours all you do is talk about and look at your matching tattoo with the boy you love so dearly.

you’re so glad you got over your fear and decided to agree on this. best decision ever.

this was the cutest 🙁 i hope you liked it !!! i loved writing it !!

also it’s been almost a year and a half since i got my first tattoo and i need another one SO bad 😣

tags: @cosmicanakin , @anqeliclust , @forevergirlposts , @bernelflo , @leqonsluv3r , @st4rswrld , @louloulemons-blog , @lovingsturniolo , @kriissy4gov , @supabhad , @laylasbunbunny , @0strawberrysorbet0 , @slvthrs , @visualbutterflysworld , @violet0182 , @kayleighh , @hallecarey1

[anchorandrope]

why do you think louis and harry got an anchor and a rope tattoo?

hi !!

to understand why the anchor and the rope are that important, please read my post about the “i can't change” and the quotation marks. once you've read it, come back here :D

the anchor (harry)

regard to its symbology:

interesting, isn't it?

the rope (louis)

everyone thinks its an “H” and a “S” and they are not wrong tbh, but in my personal opinion, it believe louis’ chose THAT specific rope because it's a celtic symbol !

as you can see, its a celtic sailor knot variation. the original is this one, but the knot that's in the middle is the exact same one as louis’ has.

grab a rope (or something you can use as one) and copy the tattoo and the middle symbol. in both cases, you will reach this:

why is it open? easy... what do you tie an anchor with? 👀 now let's get into its symbology.

IT HAS NO BEGINNING AND NO END (imitates the endless waves of the sea, where… SUPRISE!!! the ships with their anchors and compass are, right?)

now you wanna hear something funny?

this freaking knot is one of the strongest knots EVER. what a coincidence that louis and harry have tattooed a rope and an anchor (water/nautical theme) on their wrists (where their hands meet) and that louis' knot is the knot that symbolises the calm waves. and its hilarious that louis and harry got those tattoos in june 2013 and in january 2014 respectively when *drum roll* louis wrote STRONG.

"my hands your hands tied up like two ships, weightless waves try to break it, I’d do anything to save it"

who got a tattoo of a ship and who got a tattoo of a compass ON THE SAME DAY (dec 19, 2012)??????? yep, harry and louis!!!!!

something even crazier is that harry in happily writes about fire (the opposite of water) in response to strong.

louis and harry literally used their bodies to say what their words could not and there are still people who deign to say that these tattoos are meaningless.... ;)

sources and more info:

what does the anchor symbol means?

anchor symbol- origin, history, and symbolism

top 30 celtic symbols and their meaning

celtic knots stock illustration

symbolic meaning of the celtic sailor knot

celtic knot types and meanings

celtic knot meaning

[prsfphone]

take me down to your paradise | s.b. x reader

word count: 2468

warnings: nsfw, smut, very brief mentions of drug use, mentions of alcohol, penetrative sex, oral sex (f receiving), dirty talk, classic english rockstar sirius (he’s hot)

a/n: part 1 of 2!

“she's a silver lining climbing on my desire... and satisfaction feels like a distant memory... and i can't help myself...”

The view is like you’re up in the sky, sitting on par with the clouds, and you don’t know what you’re doing. There’s a rockstar—a certified platinum-selling, messy-haired, black-nailed, egotistical rockstar—in the bed somewhere behind you and you’re wearing his shirt. It smells like him, too. Cigarettes and sweat and the expensive cologne. You’re sure you smell like that now, too.

You glance back at him over your shoulder, the rising sun setting your silhouette aflame as you gently press the pads of your fingertips into the bruises on your neck. His mop of black hair is stark against the pristine white bedding and you pick out the bridge of his nose, half-buried in a pillow nicer than you’d ever known existed before. You like Sirius’ nose, the bump halfway down that is shaped like a diamond from the front, the upturned end that gives a snobbish air to an already arrogant face. The urge to brush the hair away from his face just to admire him more easily arises and you hold yourself back. You stay firmly put on the white chaise, sitting on your hands. You stare at him still, though. You like his tattoos, the patchwork of them marring the alabaster of his skin. You’ve traced them more times than you can count, the thin, delicate lines and the thicker, aged ones. You’re particularly fond of the victory laurels just underneath his collarbones and the pile of skulls on his inner left forearm, just below the bend of his elbow.

On the insides of each finger he has roman numerals, what you’ve guessed are dates. You haven’t asked and Sirius certainly hasn’t offered, but you remember asking him about the bandage over a fresh tattoo on his ring finger the second time you ever saw him. Sirius had only waved you off—My mum’s birthday—but the year is too recent and sometimes you still look at it and imagine, secretly and deep inside yourself, that it has something to do with you.

Sirius gives a moan, a sound of deep upset that he has to meet yet another day with clothes on, and buries his face fully into the plush pillow. His dark voice reaches you in an unintelligible garble. “Use your words,” you mock him with a quirk of your brow, hiding your smile in your bent knee.

He turns dramatically onto his back, tossing the blankets back as he goes. You try not to look at him. He’s naked, staring at the ceiling, and his lovely, tattooed thighs are begging to be looked at. “I said,” he enunciates in that snobbish accent you wish you didn’t love, “Staring is creepy.”

You sigh. “It’s romantic.”

“That why you get all fidgety when I look at you, sweetheart?”

Your face feels hot, and it only worsens when Sirius’ gaze finally deigns to land on you. “It’s not romantic when you look at me,” you hedge.

He props himself up on his forearms, lazy and with his hair like a lion’s mane about his face. “You’re hurting my feelings, Y/N.”

“It’s true!”

“Well, what is it when I look at you then?”

“You look at me like you’re trying to undress me with your eyes.”

A slow smile stretches his lips. “Come here.”

You can’t help your answering smile and you shuffle towards him, stand at the edge of the bed, gazing down at him, but he doesn’t allow it for long. No, Sirius wraps an arm around your hips and pulls you, clumsy and demanding, next to him in the bed. He buries his face into your neck, running his nose up and down, breathing deep. “Y’smell like champagne.”

You roll your eyes, curl your fingers tight into his hair when he licks a stripe up to your jaw. You stretch out against him. “Maybe if someone hadn’t sprayed champagne everywhere like an idiot.” Sirius tends to get overzealous after shows and you’re not entirely sure he isn’t coked up out of his mind sometimes.

He presses his mouth against your pulse and it stutters. “Didn’t say I didn’t like it, love.”

You squirm at the nickname. Sirius has learned well by now your weakness for his accent and all the little English quirks he possesses. Knows exactly what he’s doing to you when he calls you love. It makes you want to melt. It makes you want to jump his bones. And when he cups your face between his two big hands, presses his lips, hard, to your forehead and calls you his Lovie? It’s almost too much to bear.

Your digits loosen in his hair and his hands find your thighs, manage to roll you up to straddle his thighs. You’re a little dizzy when you finally settle into the new position. His grin is feral and heat blooms through you. Especially when your bare cunt presses against his throbbing cock, laying thick and heavy against his abdomen.

Sirius licks his lips. His callused hands knead your ass. “Climb up here, pretty baby,” and you know what he means. “Wanna taste that pretty little pussy.” Jittery, excited, you shift your way up to hover over his mouth. You jump slightly when his arms band around either thigh, pulling you apart for him. He runs his nose from entrance to clit and you gasp, grabbing for the plush headboard to steady yourself. “Sensitive baby,” he murmurs.

“You just like to tease me,” you accuse as he continues you avoid giving you any friction; Sirius scrapes his teeth along the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs, trailing the action with his tongue, smiling against your skin as you flinch when he gets near to where you so desperately want him. “Sadist,” you breathe accusatorily.

Sirius releases one thigh to bring his fingers to your cunt. “How do you suppose?” You open your mouth to answer and just as you do, Sirius plunges two fingers into you. It’s an awkward angle but you curl inwards on yourself all the same and Sirius doesn’t give you any chance at all to recover. His tongue laps at your clit and you bite down on your lip so hard you think it might bleed. But anything is better than giving him the satisfaction of having you a sobbing mess by his hands already.

He withdraws his fingers and you rock against him, trying to replace the loss. Sirius is quick to placate you with his tongue, sucking and swirling, and you forget to worry whether or not you’re suffocating him with your weight.

He pulls away. “You gonna answer me, love, or you just gonna use me for my incredible body?”

Is he really doing this to you right now? Of course he is. You try to move against his mouth but his hands hold you firmly still. You scowl and push the hair out of your face. “The second one.”

“And you say ‘m the sadist.”

“You are!”

He hums, drags his hands up and down your thighs. “How do you suppose?” He repeats.

You make a disgruntled sound that you refuse to acknowledge is a whine. “You know how.”

“Want you to tell me.”

“And I want to come.”

He flicks his brows. “Shouldn’t you know how this works by now? Hmm?”

“I could just sit down until you suffocate.”

Sirius snorts. “Think I could escape before that happened.” He gives a slow, teasing lick to your clit and your hands tighten on the headboard. “Tell me how horrible I am to you.”

“You are the worst, most evil man I’ve ever met.”

Another lick. “My cock has never been harder.”

“You talk so much,” you sigh, staring down at him. He bites down lightly on your bud and holds you fast when you try to jump away. “You leave me covered in hickeys. Constantly. I’ve spent a fortune on concealer.” For that, his fingers dig in to your doughy flesh harder. “And you tease me. Endlessly.”

“You like it.”

“Not this much! At least I—God!—at least I don’t get off on it.”

“Liar,” he nips your clit again and you shudder.

“I think you could come just from teasing me, Sirius. From listening to me beg. You enjoy my suffering.”

He doesn’t answer this time, only buries his face in your cunt and pulls your weight down onto him. He doesn’t let up. It’s dizzying, just how fast he brings you to the edge then. “Sirius,” you’re chanting, “Please, please.” But he pulls away all the same. Grinning wolfishly. You almost cry as the orgasm fizzles away.

He lets go of his grip around your thighs. “Sit on my cock.” You slide down, lifting yourself up, prepared to sink down to him—desperate for it, for the stretch, the fullness—when he tuts. “Ah ah, pretty girl. Gotta get me wet first.”

You roll your eyes. You know what he wants. He wants you to put his dick in your mouth, swirl your tongue around his head and kiss up the shaft the way you know he loves. He doesn’t deserve it, you think, and lean down to let some spit dribble onto his cock from the tip of your tongue and pump him a few times in your fist. Up and down. Once more. Sirius is staring at you through half-lidded eyes all the same, lit up in the early morning sun.

You line him up and sink down slowly, luxuriating in every thick inch. His hands meet your hips, not pushing, but stabilizing, and you hold tight to his wrists as you live through the barrage of sensation. When Sirius is fully sheathed in you, you rock a little, whimpering as the head of his cock brushes against your sweet spot. And you must squeeze around him because Sirius groans, loud.  

After a few moments of simply sitting there on him, legs spread around his hips, your spit-wet hand smearing against his taut abdomen, you begin to rock. Small circular movements, back and forth, rubbing your clit against his pelvis. Your nails scrape down his skin and Sirius hisses through clenched teeth. His head is kicked back. His hands start pushing now, grabby and mean and you slide down, hands braced lightly around the column of his throat as you lift up and fall back down and Sirius looks like he might come right here and now. Your breath falls out in small puffs of air every time you pull him back in and you lean down further and unsteadily for a kiss.

Sirius laughs, indulges you, something feral in his eyes. “This is pathetic.”

You slow to toss your hair out of your face but it comes right back, a curtain around your heads. You know you’ve barely done anything, but your thighs and hips are burning with the effort. “You’re mean.”

Sirius rolls his eyes at you. “You’re such a useless little pillow princess.” He uses his hands around your waist to flip your positions, pushing you down into the bed. Your eyes are rounded at the suddenness and Sirius puts a hand on either of your thighs, pushing them up and over his shoulders, settling himself comfortably there between your legs.

“You made me this way!” You accuse, though the bravado is wasted as he starts fucking you. He’s not gentle about it. Sirius hardly ever is. He likes it fast and rough, he likes when you lie there and “Take it so good for me, princess.” You reach down to find some part of him to hold onto, fingers grasping. You’re not sure what you latch onto as he thrusts so hard you think your teeth might chatter. Later, you’ll think to be embarrassed about the obnoxious way the headboard is slamming into the wall, about the wet squelching sounds as flesh meets flesh, about the moans you don’t have the presence of mind to think about holding in or quieting.

“So spoiled,” Sirius taunts. “Need me to do all the work, hmm, love?” You want to make a retort—something about how it is entirely his fault you are this way. It would fall on deaf ears, though. You like it this way and so does Sirius and you cry out when Sirius shifts the angle by leaning down to get a better look at your pleasure-stricken face. “Feels good, dunnit?”

“Sir-i-us,” his name comes out in syllables.

“You want something from me, Y/N? Use your words.”

You struggle for them for a beat. “Harder. Make me come.”

“Think ‘m a bad influence on you, baby.” But he obliges. He must be feeling generous this morning, to not tease you terribly. Glee sparks in his eyes as he gives you all he has; deep, punishing thrusts that force him to keep dragging you back down to him and leave the sheets in complete disarray. You’re so close it aches and the slight taste of pain his thrusts give you sends you spiralling. You tear Sirius down with you—his head falls in the juncture of your neck and he bites down as he pumps ropes of come into you.

You lay there for a moment. You feel ridiculous spread open this way. “Sirius, I want to put my legs down.”

He pulls himself up and your neck burns. He’s like a fucking vampire. He kneels, carefully unhooking your legs from over his shoulders, placing them delicately on the bed on either side of his own thighs. He rubs his warm hands up and down your legs. “Feel okay, lovie?”

Blood rushes to your cheeks and you cover your face with your hands. Like that will help. “Stop that,” you whine.

Sirius flops down beside you. “Why? Know you like it.” You don’t have an answer for him. How could you even begin to explain to him why you’re blushing like crazy? You like him. You know he doesn’t like you half as much. Sirius Black is all you think of and you know you’re just a groupie he likes to fuck.

Your mood plummets. You sit up and swing your legs over the side of the stupidly large bed, pretending you don’t notice the displeased look on his face. “I have a friend who lives in the city,” you tell him conversationally. “We’re gonna do lunch today.” You dig through your suitcase, messy, on the floor for fresh clothes. You desperately need to do laundry. Sirius’ come is leaking down your thighs.

He comes up behind you, wraps his arms around you. “Let’s have a shower, yeah?”

You glance at the clock on the wall, all white glass and silver metal. You shrug out of his hold. “You’ll make me late.” You head to the bathroom, and for once, he actually listens.

[gabessquishytum]

I saw another prompt on here about Dream cheating, and honestly? Yeah!! Give that morally questionable man a morally questionable situation.

So old money families tend to marry new money families mostly bc the money has run dry for them, and new money wants the prestige of the older more established families have. Burgess is one of these odious new money men. Stupid and cruel, he wants the prestige of the old aristocracy. Not that marrying Dream will lead to any real power, but the respect behind the Endless name is well endless even if their wallet isn't. A perfect situation for him to waltz right in and buy a bride for his son.

Who should have been Death, but Mother Endless was insistent that the heir and spare chose their own spouses. So poor Dream was the one chosen to be miserable.

He hates Alex with a burning passion, and Alex isn't too keen to keep his mouth shut about his new husband's attitude either. They fuck occasionally when Dream deigns to waste his precious time with Alex's modest three inches, but it's not enough.

He meets Hob at one of Roderick's parties. The one where he publicly pushed his husband away and told him to go chase some other skirt. The one where Alex was found in the arms of Roderick's gardener. Not that Dream cares if it keeps Alex from touching him, but he has to keep appearances up and has a row with him in front of everyone.

Hob sees all of this go down and cuddles up to Dream. He gives Dream drinks and they talk the night away about various topics from history to art to what the fuck Dream is doing here with Alex. He plys Dream with drinks and sweet words. None of which he really needs to convince him to follow the other man home and get his back blown out. They fuck all night and he sends Dream home full of his cum and minus his underwear. His outfit torn in several places and missing some of the bedazzled embellishments.

Alex wants to say he doesn't care. That Dream can have as many affairs as he wants bc that means he can do the same. And maybe at first, he believes that. But watching his husband come home cum drunk and completely in love with someone who isn't himself? It would make any man crazy. Maybe crazy enough to lock Dream in a room and brick it off, just so he's never made into a cuck again.

- 🤜 Anon

Ooo yeah. Maybe that first night Hob is just having some fun - he likes humiliating these aristocratic types who think they’re better than him. He likes the idea of seducing Dream and spoiling his honour. But after that one night, Hob is genuinely addicted. He wants to be Dream’s regular lover, wants to treat him so good and then send him back to his ridiculous little husband. He marks Dream all over and makes sure that he stinks of sex. He even gets a tattoo on his forearm to show how deep he’s had his hand inside Dream’s pretty little body. He moves in the same circles as Alex and Dream regularly, so the rumours swirl and Alex gets more and more frustrated as Dream flaunts his affair with Hob everywhere. He won’t even let Alex touch him, these days. And ok, maybe Alex is doing exactly the same thing with Paul, but he doesn’t flaunt it to the whole world!

So, he makes sure that Dream can’t humiliate him any more.

When Hob comes around looking for Dream after only 36 hours, Alex feigns ignorance: “he left, I thought he was with you”. Hob doesn’t believe a word of it, he can sniff out a lie from a mile off. Alex threatens to call the police if Hob doesn’t leave, so he goes. He calls Dream’s family and small circle of friends. Eventually he calls the police and reports Dream missing. But after a week, he still hasn’t turned up. Alex gives the same old story, and Dream’s infidelity was well known enough that it’s believable that he would just run off without telling anyone.

Hob isn’t taking the bullshit any longer. He shows up at the house again and shoulders his way in, punches Alex out with one right hook. He finds Paul, who won’t look Hob in the eye and keeps looking like he wants to run. Eventually he murmurs that Hob should check upstairs.

There are a bunch of bedrooms in the mansion, and it’s pretty clear that only one of the doors has been recently plastered over. Hob kicks and finds bricks underneath, and he’s fucking horrified. Surely Alex hasn’t left Dream in there to starve?

He hasn’t, but it’s almost that bad. There’s a small grating in the room next door, through which Alex and Paul have been passing food and water. They’ve left Dream inside with no clothes, no bed, no stimulation. By the time Hob gets to him he’s literally blue, shaking in the corner, unable to speak. Hob carries him out and refuses to let go until the paramedics turn up and get him hooked up.

The haunted look doesn’t leave Dream’s eyes until his divorce comes through. When Alex gets 15 years in prison, Hob promises Dream that he’ll kill him the second he steps out of the jail. That’s the first time that Dream manages a wobbly smile.

Hob and Dream have their wedding dance on Alex’s grave. Maybe it’s a bit over the top but it feels appropriate to prove that he always was, and always will be, a loser.

[dent-de-leon]

Kingsley sinking to his knees for both Caleb and Essek. Worshipping his Magician with reverent touches and tender kisses, melting into his arms after being starved for affection for far too long. Adrift in a sea of shattered memories.

The keeper of clandestine trysts taught him prayer was a stolen kiss, laying his heart bare to another under the cover of shadow. Stealing away into his lover's chambers like a thief in the night, warming him all through the bitter Zemnian winter.

Caleb is always soft with him. Gentle. Careful hands combing through his hair, trailing down his spine. Lips pressing soothing kisses along his brow, his freckles, the old scars branching across his throat. Holds Kingsley close enough to hear his beating heart, as though to reassure himself that he is alive and whole. King--Molly--still remembers, is the thing. That moment when Caleb's flicker of magic flowed through him, the first breath of air in his lungs. Caleb willing life back into him.

It makes his Magician's every burning touch feel surreal. Sacred. These gentle, calloused hands that once held his soul. Baring the core of your heart to another is such a heady rush of surrender. Caleb had already witnessed him tear himself apart and stitched back the seams. He held terrifying power over him--yet never once hurt him.

Words are too tricky. Heavy. They lodge in his throat with every tentative touch and warm embrace. Acts of service were familiar, grounding. Easier to swallow than choking on the acrid taste of "sorry"--"Empty"--spilling out over and over. He would rather chase the nightmares away with the fervent passion of a devouring kiss, mouth it over the tender skin of aching wounds. Letting Caleb shower him in love and adoration. Basking in his softness and light until it feels like forgiveness.

Months have passed since Lucien's end. And still the image of his Magician's bloodied body haunts him. Makes him remember why he tore himself apart at the very end. It's gutting, that Caleb deigns to look at him with such warmth, tracing tender hands over every tattoo and scar with enamored reverence.

Essek tries to mirror his motions, still uncertain, still learning the steps in this dance. But King finds it easy to drop a kiss at his forehead, smooth away all the tension from aching, knotted muscle; coax him to rest with a few lingering touches and bated breaths.

And if Caleb cares about him, is happy with him--then King will gladly show his gratitude, whisper his thanks between the barest brush of fingertips and breathless little sighs. Stealing every word from the drow's clever tongue, rendering him dazed and moonstruck.

He thinks he saw the elf before, in the bleeding edges of another stolen memory. Mingling with the sensation of Caleb's lips on his forehead, a strand of hair delicately tucked behind his ear. Everything fading as his body goes cold. He thinks he saw the drow crying. For Caleb. For him. Shedding tears for this stranger he never knew. The monster who tore apart the man they both loved not moments before.

Molly presses the softest kisses to mottled scars where bone wings clawed through. Pours his love into every trembling touch. A warm bath. Silken sheets. A kiss that tastes too much like regret. Fingers clumsily intwined, soft lips on fever warm skin. Devotion as a ritual of loving adoration.

It is an unnerving thing, to be both intimately familiar and a stranger. Yet Caleb still welcomed him into his home. They both let him into their lives. He is here, and he is loved. It's an honor he doesn't dare believe he deserves.

Kingsley soft and sweet and wanting. Nuzzling into the crook of his Magician's neck with a warm rumble in his chest, tail idly curling to trail along Essek's forearm. Caleb absently stroking his hair in immense fondness, murmuring gentle reassurances as King turns prayer into an ardent caress. The soft, breathless chuckle of exasperated adoration. "Good boy."

And when he goes to leave for the night, to disappear like he did back in Darktow, a hand with as many scars as his own reaches for him. Anchoring him. And then there is a lighter touch, Essek rubbing slow, soothing circles at his back.

"Stay," Caleb pleads.

He shouldn't. He shouldn't. An errant memory flickers to the forefront of his mind, lying sprawled out on his back in the bed Caleb made for him--for Mollymauk. Staring up at the riot of color and velvet drapes glinting with silvery moons, the slightly askew portrait of a four-lead-clover hanging in the corner. "I should go," he thinks, this ugly, traitorous part of him. "I can't indulge this weakness any longer--"

Time to run. It's what he does best.

And yet. He doesn't dream when he drifts off in Caleb's arms, doesn't wake screaming with the distant memory of otherworldly black chains. Lucien's blood burning in his veins.

"Just for the night," he concedes.

[onehopefuldreamer]

Why I can't help but always romance Persephone in Stray Gods

1 - Prickly on the outside, soft on the inside personality trope

This is probably the biggest reason because it's also probably my most favourite personality type of all when it comes to fictional characters. I am so very weak for ladies who kick ass and look scary but are secretly huge sweethearts. And Persephone is this trope to a T. Sure, she's big and scary, no one can deny that. But she can also be so sweet. She helped Calliope when she left Olympus, she saved Chastity from her abusive husband, she takes to mentoring/helping Grace so quickly, she is happy to help Medusa if Grace offers her help and even goes as far as admitting that this help was long overdue (something Apollo never does by the way). These are just some instances we become privy to during the game.

I'm absolutely sure there are more times when she was secretly kind, especially to people who needed help but had no one in their corner. Because while her personal philosophy is that no one else can help you keep your head afloat (born out of her own experiences no doubt) she's shown to actively be giving advice to and helping Grace as well as genuinely worrying about her safety and doing what she can to keep her safe. She's also obviously remorseful for not having been able to exact the change Calliope wanted so badly after becoming part of the Chorus and sympathetic about Freddie's fate. She cares and she cares deeply. She simply does her best not to show it because experience has taught her that others don't tolerate her being weak or deign to offer her sympathy no matter how dire the situation she is in. This naturally leads to:

2 - A character who is all alone and without a supportive system but refuses to give up

This is sort of a subsection of the prickly on the outside, soft on the inside trope, I know, but I cannot help but love characters who have had a traumatizing past and been forced to deal with it on their own. I always, ALWAYS want to be in their corner and if they happen to be ladies I never fail to fall in love with them. I find it absolutely amazing that anyone can preserve their integrity and remain kind after being hurt so badly both in fiction and in real life if I'm honest. To me these are the real heroes - people who have been hurt but refuse to let that hurt turn them into monsters. If there is a character like that in any media I partake in, no other characters stand a chance. Not really.

3 - Mary Elizabeth McGlynn's voice

In reality this is actually pretty much tied with numbers 1 and 2 but I had to keep some semblance of order so here we go.

I am very much someone who has always and forever been weak for beautiful voices. And out of the whole VA cast giving life to the LIs it's Mary Elizabeth McGlynn's voice that never fails to make me swoon or give me chills. She's so very good at what she does this woman. Her delivery is flawless both when it comes to her spoken and sung lines. I can physically feel Persephone's pain when she asks Grace "Please, don't do this." as well as her anger and bitterness when she sings "I gutted a god." or says "The only god I killed deserved it." for example. This adds so much to the character for me, you have no idea. I cannot honestly say if I'd have loved Persephone so much if she had been voiced by a different actress. But the combination between tropes I love and her sublime voice created a perfect storm so now no one can even compete with Persephone. Not even Freddie. And I love Freddie. She's just not Persephone. I'm sorry.

4 - Persephone's design

I love Persephone's design so damn much! I can't decide what I love most - her badass haircut, her cool tattoos, her slightly weird but somehow totally working for her outfit, her make-up that suits her perfectly, the colour of her hair and eyes or her androgynous look. Everything comes together flawlessly and creates one total and extremely gorgeous package. I don't know who worked on her design, but bless them, they really knew what they were doing.

The amount of screenshots of Persephone I have is obscene and I keep taking more because I simply cannot get enough of how stunning she is. Even when I was replaying to romance Freddie, Apollo and Pan I still kept taking screenshots of Persephone and being distracted whenever she was in the frame because her look is just so... I am running out of adjectives meaning "beautiful" here... Let's go with alluring.

The way she looks just does things to me I can't even begin to describe. I might be ace but even I can tell when someone is objectively hot and Persephone is scorching. Aesthetic attraction is huge for me and I guess her looks hit all the right buttons because I can't help staring at her and going "Wow!" pretty much all the time. Basically this screenshot of Grace is me every time I look at Persephone:

And speaking of that, one thing I have found I am particularly weak for when it comes to her design is the way she looks when she's drawn in profile. I don't know what exactly it is about her profile but I just melt every time I see it. It really did not help that this was part of her introduction to us in game:

How was I expected to pay attention to anyone else after that?!

I have a whole collection of screenshots of Persephone in profile that I should post alongside this to reinforce my point but again - the way she looks does something to me and I apologize to everyone else but I cannot possibly pay any attention to them when I have this in front of me. I'm only human...

[moodymelanist]

Where The Light Won’t Find You Chapter Ten

happy day three of @nessianweek everyone!! I haven’t updated this fic since April so I hope this chapter is worth the wait 💚

when I was coming up with a title for this fic, I instantly thought of Lorde’s cover of “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” that she sang for the Catching Fire movie. it’s dark, it’s moody, and it fit perfectly for Nessian as I’ve imagined them in this story. hope you all enjoy 💚

✵✵✵✵✵✵ Cassian

Cassian forced himself to take a deep breath and release it as Rhys and Feyre appeared in the middle of the throne room, the sound of them breaking through the wards like glass shattering. On his left Nesta didn’t outwardly react, but he knew her tells well enough now to read her annoyance in the tightness of her shoulders.

They always have to put on a show, he wanted to tell her, but he knew she knew that almost as well as he did. She didn’t need the reminder.

They were dressed formally, their status as High Lord and Lady reflected in their clothing just as much as the matching crowns on their heads. Feyre’s usual sweater and leggings had been replaced with a shimmering gown, the material as dark as the tattoos that swirled across her fingers. Her hair was pulled back to show off the silver crown nestled into her golden brown hair, the dark onyx and bright diamonds embedded in the metal glittering from the remaining sunlight.

Rhys was wearing his usual all black, not a stitch out of place on his immaculately-fitted tunic and pants. He’d opted for a matching silver crown, though his was slightly larger than Feyre’s, the bright metal standing out against the dark of his hair. His violet eyes were nearly unreadable as he took Nesta and Cassian in, but even he couldn’t fully hide his sneer in Nesta’s direction.

Maybe it had been a mistake, a slip in his carefully constructed mask, but Cassian had known Rhys for centuries. He didn’t make those kinds of mistakes.

Cassian didn’t need to look at Nesta to know she wouldn’t let Feyre and Rhys get the first word in, especially not after the way Rhys had looked at her. She leaned back in her throne and stared at them impassively for a few moments before breaking the thick silence between them. “So. You’ve finally deigned us worthy enough to visit.”

Keep reading on AO3 here!

tag list: @perseusannabeth | @bookstantrash | @charming-butt-insane | @oversizedbats | @melphss | @sv0430 | @podemechamardek | @autumnbabylon | @live-the-fangirl-life | @julemmaes | @that-little-red-head | @jmoonjones | @sayosdreams | @thewayshedreamed | @hiimheresworld | @brieq | @pearlfortears | @swankii-art-teacher | @nerdperson524 | @snickerdoodlechittybangbang | @imsointobooks | @nesquik-arccheron | @sweet-pea1 | @champanheandluxxury | @dustjacketmusings | @mrs-shadowsinger04 | @unlikelypersonalknight1 | @goddess-aelin | @arinbelle | @talkfantasytome | @simpingfornestaarcheron | @duskandstarlight | @letstakethedawn | @vidalinav | @c-e-d-dreamer | @dealfea | @katekatpattywack | @burningsnowleopard

[forpiratereasons]

meeting stede bonnet

a slow meandering through June. seventh prompt: rivals

day 1 | day 2 | day 3 | day 4 | day 5 | day 6 | day 7 | day 8 | day 9 | day 10

-

“I’m telling you, I saw him. Clear as the nose on my face. Canoodling in the back garden with a bloke in black leather.”

“What sort of canoodling?” Frenchie asked.

Roach wrinkled his nose, trying to remember through the haze of last night. “Touchy-feely,” Roach finally settled on. “They left together.”

“Sorry,” Oluwande said, finally deigning to look up from inventory and tune in. “Did you say Captain left the bar last night with someone?”

“I’ve been saying it all morning, pay attention. He carried some guy right out of the bar and left with him.”

“He carried—?”

“What, like a doll? Are we sure it was a real person?”

“Carried,” Roach affirmed. “Like a bride. And it was definitely a real person because he almost kicked someone in the face on the way out.”

“That was me,” the customer appearing at the counter said, dryly.

Everyone turned to look at him. He was kind of short, greying hair, bit of a goatee. Lots of leather, just like Roach said, and he had the best resting bitch face Roach had ever seen in his life.

Presumably it was resting, anyway.

“Er,” Roach said, looking the guy over. “Our boss carried you out of a bar last night?”

“No.” His voice was soft, raspy, but still managed to enunciate every full stop like it were a threat. “I almost got kicked in the face.”

“Uh, here,” Oluwande said, reaching for the book the guy had in his hand. “Sorry about our boss though. He’s a bit—enthusiastic?”

This didn’t seem to placate him. Instead he sniffed and said, as if it pained him on an existential level, “He was carrying my boss. And he has an appointment at eleven, so if you could tell him Izzy Hands is looking for him—I’m not actually going to buy that, by the way.”

Oluwande looked down at the book he’d handed over—The Wonderful Wizard of Oz—then at Izzy Hands, and nodded like that made sense. Roach privately agreed; he didn’t really seem like a magic and whimsy kind of guy.

“S’only nine,” Frenchie pointed out.

“Takes time to prep a tattooing appointment as complicated as Blackbeard’s.”

Frenchie whistled, long and low. Roach’s eyes widened. “No.”

“Yes,” Izzy said.

Roach knew who Blackbeard was. Obviously. Everyone knew who Blackbeard was—tattooing legend, the kind who booked out years in advance. And, though Roach didn’t usually vibe any kind of way, generally speaking, even he knew Blackbeard was hot. Long hair and leather and big brown eyes type of hot.

“You sure you’ve got the right establishment?” Roach asked, frowning. “Normal-sized bloke, Disney prince hair, seems a bit clueless sometimes? And like, aggressively optimistic about it? Not nice optimistic—like he might fight you in the street optimistic. That guy?”

The resting bitch face transformed into active bitch face. “I don’t like it either.”

Oluwande had gone back to his inventory like this was not the most fascinating piece of fucking news any of them had ever heard. Lucius was going to shit when he found out. Possibly bake Stede a cake.

“I can text Stede for you, mate, but they’re not here,” Roach said. “Haven’t seen either of them all morning.”

Izzy’s face scrunched up, like he’d just smelled something particularly heinous. “You could call,” he pointed out.

“Not calling my boss while he’s busy with any of that,” Roach shot back. “You could call.”

Izzy shifted uncomfortably, obviously not too keen on calling his boss while Blackbeard was busy with that either. He glared at Roach like that might change anything; it did, but only in that Roach was having more fun with it than he had been before.

Roach raised an eyebrow.

“Fine,” Izzy said. “Fine!”

“I’ll text for you,” Roach called after him as he stalked away. Izzy gave him the finger, then he was gone.

“So,” Frenchie said, leaning on the counter next to Roach. “Blackbeard.”

“Fucking Blackbeard.”

“Literally, it seems.”

Oluwande jabbed Roach with the end of his pen. “We’re staying out of it, remember.”

There was a pause.

“He’s moving pretty fast, though,” Frenchie mused.

“Pretty fast,” Roach agreed. “Awfully fast, really.”

They both turned to look at Oluwande, who finally put down his pen and sighed. “Fine! Fine. Call an emergency staff meeting—let’s just—take it easy, all right?”

[indiaalphawhiskey]

Hi love ❤️ I’ve seen you’ve been missing writing and while I don’t want to burden this on you (please only respond if thinking and writing about this gives you joy) I wanted to share these two pics I keep connecting in my brain as if they happened at the same moment.

Harry walks by Louis’ desk. Their eyes meet.

And I keep wondering, what is going on here? Do you know?? 👀

Ask and you shall receive. 😘

— (loosely) based on Can You Keep A Secret? by Sophie Kinsella

—————

Harry was barely able to fight another yawn as he stood up from his incredibly new, incredibly bare, incredibly normal office desk.

As he closed his laptop and slipped it in his bag, he tried not to be too disappointed. All in all, the day had gone pretty well.

Ish.

Okay, so it had kind of been dead boring, but that was partially Harry’s fault for expecting too much. Apparently, almost dying on a horrifically turbulent flight halfway across the world to get a foot in the door of your dream job at an indie record label tended to lead to a rather anticlimactic first day. Who knew?

Like, not that Harry expected Elton John to walk through the halls or anything (that would be ridiculous; he was signed by Universal, everyone knew that), but like, maybe some grungy up-and-comer he could brag to all his friends about finding in a garage in the future.

Or, even the rumored new (hot), young (hot), brilliant (hot), openly gay (and hot) CEO, at least. Just to, like, confirm the rumors of the insanity of his hotness, you know?

But alas, the Mystery Boss had been holed up in a twelve-hour meeting that hadn’t even stopped for lunch, and God, did Harry somehow get tricked into working for the indie record label version of JP Morgan?

He grimaced. Considering his luck last weekend, he wouldn’t put it past the universe.

But just as he let out another quiet sigh, a petulant pout already forming on his lips, the door to the fortress that was Conference Room A opened. And because Harry was nothing if not nosy, he craned his neck just enough to take a harmless little peek inside at the head of the table.

It happened like lighting — blue eyes, and a smart smirk, and a 28 tattooed on his fingers.

And, thinking about that exact moment in hindsight, Harry would bet everything he owned that if there was a way his soul could have simply left him to die from embarrassment right then, it probably would have because…

“Flight 568, this is your captain speaking.”

“Oh God,” Harry whimpered over the crackling of the speaker as the plane rattled wildly all around them, “oh God, we’re going to die. Our captain is about to tell us we’re going to die,” he said, clutching the fingers of the stranger beside him without bothering to spare a thought to manners or like, boundaries. What on earth did he need manners for, now that they were clearly about to fucking die?

“We’re not going to die, mate,” the stranger said, his Northern accent calm.

But Harry wasn’t listening.

“Uhhh, we are,” he deigned to argue, even with the panic that was rising in his throat with each new violent shake. Then, suddenly, faced with the mounting reality of his mortality, Harry blurted out, “I lied on my CV.”

A beat of confused silence before, “O…kay—?”

“I just really wanted this job, you know?” Harry continued, because apparently, the precipice of death made him chatty. “It’s literally the dream. Like, the job I’ve wanted to do my whole entire life but never thought I’d have a shot at? That job.”

“I… see—”

“So I lied,” Harry repeated, just in case this stranger didn’t understand the depth of his betrayal. “And then I got it, and… and… Oh God—“ Harry wailed, squeezing his eyes shut as the plane rocked like it was made of paper, “And now I’m going to die, and they’re going to know. They’re going to know that I lied about where I went to school and I’m going to be dead, and my super hot new boss is gonna fire me posthumously, which is really unfortunate because I’m pretty sure he’s the kind of hot I would probably let fuck me in against a glass window, you know?” he asked, nervously forcing a laugh as he chanced a quick glance at the stranger.

He was met with blue eyes.

Blue eyes, and a smart smirk, and a 28 tattooed on the fingers Harry was currently crushing in his vice grip.

The stranger chuckled easily. “I’m nervous about my new job too.”

And…

“Oh God,” Harry said then, the horrible horrible truth sinking into his stomach as he watched his new (and now confirmed super, insanely hot) boss narrow his eyes thoughtfully at Harry through the slightly open door, before his brow began to lift in slow, amused recognition.

Oh. God.

[onceuponalegendbg]

Ok so, I just wanted to kind of pick apart my problems with the Arlong Arc in the Live Action a bit. And I’m going to avoid the whole “needed more time/should have cut some of the marine storyline” complaint and just focus on the details that didn’t quiet work and were kind of baffling.

And I want to reiterate this before I get into it: I loved the Live Action. It was fun and goofy and the passion behind it was palpable. And this isn’t me going “argh, how dare they deign to change anything! I wanted a shot for shot remake! Argh!” No. I’m okay with changes. I love that all we get of Don Kreig is Mihawk humiliating and then killing him because god was he annoying in the anime. Least favorite arc I sat through. Nami’s one on one conversation with Kaya? Fantastic! I’m not even that big of an OP fan, but this kind of made me wish I was.

I just really love the Arlong Arc in the anime (horribly paced fights aside). It’s honestly the only arc I care this much about so I wanted to talk about this.

- Arlong’s Betrayal: Ok, so in the anime Arlong makes it very clear that he will let Nami and Coco Village go once she hands over 100 Million Berry. It’s made explicitly clear that he’s a fishman of his word and that he’d never go back on a deal involving money. And then of course he sends Nezumi to steal Nami’s money once she has it all. Ok. So that’s all pretty much the same in OPLA.

However, in the anime, Arlong does not immediately move to destroy the Village. In fact, when Nami comes charging in after realizing Arlong’s betrayal claiming he broke his word, his reply is “When? When did I go back on our deal exactly?” Because he technically didn’t! And instead of moving to destroy Coco Village, he tells Nami (to paraphrase), “guess you’ll just have to start over with stealing all that money because a deal’s a deal. Oh, and if you think about bailing then I’ll kill everyone in the village.” This way Arlong keeps both his chart maker and he gets to keep extorting the Village. This shows that Arlong is very cunning and slick, as well as a terrifying force.

But, in OPLA, that’s not the case. The fact that Arlong in OPLA is really just going to wipe out the village now that Nami got all that money is so wasteful. And if there was one thing Arlong wasn’t, it was wasteful. If he could use someone he’d do it, provided they paid his fee. Arlong in OPLA, while still a decent threat (the actor does give him some serious presence), he kind of comes across as an idiot.

- Nojiko/Village Knowing: In the anime, we find out very quickly that Nojiko did know about Nami’s deal with Arlong. Little Nami told her sister after they made it, and after Little Nami put on a big show of betraying the village so they wouldn’t go fight and die. The kicker is, when Nezumi comes to take Nami’s money, Genzo reveals that the village also knew about her deal, and pretended to hate her so that she wouldn’t feel bound to come back if she ever decided to leave, to escape Arlong.

Also, because Nojiko knew, she got her tattoos as a sign of solidarity. Little Nami talked about how she hated her tattoo and how it made her feel like Arlong owned her. So Nojiko, being the amazing sister she is, got her tattoos so Nami wouldn’t feel so alone. It was a symbol of their bond. Now in OPLA I guess she just… got tattoos… because they’re cool?

- The lead up to the breakdown: Okay, so this one kind of lends into the “they needed more time” category but also I just wanted to mention this. While I still say Emily Rudd gives the best performance in the series here (my opinion, don’t @ me) and I did feel emotions, I really feel like we needed just that extra smidge more.

We needed that moment where everyone is ready to fight and then Nami walks up, putting on the biggest, most fake smile, ready to absolutely throw herself onto a metaphorical sword again so that everyone she loves won’t run toward their deaths, only for Genzo to pull her into a hug and tell her “it’s okay. You’ve done enough. You’ve carried this burden too long by yourself. The least we can do is try to win our freedom ourselves now, and if we die then… hey, you’ll be free.” So when the Village ignore her pleas to stop and move to basically die, Nami finally just collapses because everything she worked for, everything she spent eight years trying to achieve was all for freakin nothing.

This moment more than anything shows who Nami is at her very core. And it just… doesn’t exist in OPLA.

- Rapid fire, minor complaints that don’t actually ruin anything but I did notice: It is really bizarre that they never say Bellemere’s name out loud. It’s on her grave marker but that’s it.

While I don’t think Nami should have been a baby when Bellemere found her and Nojiko, perhaps just a smidge younger?

The catalyst for the argument in which Bellemere slaps Nami after Nami says they aren’t an actual family. In the anime Nami says this because Bellemere has been skipping meals and only eating tangerines so that she can give all the food to her daughters. Nami’s guilt over that and the fact that she believes if Bellemere didn’t have to look after them she could afford to take care of herself leads into that fight and slap in the anime and it’s Genzo that tells Nami about Bellemere’s backstory after she runs away.

Could have used Nami denying help just a little more when Luffy stops her from stabbing her tattoo. Throwing dirt, telling him to leave, just this horrible last ditch effort before… “Luffy. Help me.”

[mareenavee]

Light The Way

Happy birthday, @thana-topsy <3 Neloth rambles, so I let him. Enjoy your Morrowfic :3

Light the Way

--- Please check the AO3 tags on this one. ---

“This is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard,” Neloth said. “Though I should hardly be surprised, considering it’s you.”

Teldryn Sero, fool that he was, had the nerve to sigh. Dramatically. He did rather have a flair for that. All things considered, Neloth doubted he’d act any other way, what with the Nerevarine nonsense hanging over his head. An inflated sense of self is all it amounted to, really. And if Neloth knew anything, it was how to deflect that, much to Sero’s chagrin.

“We’ve been over this, Neloth,” Sero said, scrubbing a hand over his face in exasperation. He had a new scar—a raised scratch that cut counter to the tattoos that spiraled down his face. He’d said it was a cliff racer attack. Neloth rather doubted it. “My way is more effective. Blatant murder over on the Peninsula isn’t going to win you any points with the Council. It’ll turn into a House War before you have a chance to cackle.” Sero shook his head and began to pace the room while cracking his knuckles—an annoying habit made worse by the hollow clunk of his chitin armor. Neloth grit his teeth against the urge to yell at him over the unnecessary noise and drama. “Besides, I am…they won’t let me leave Vvardenfell anytime soon. And what are you really going to do over there by yourself?”

“House Dres needs to be put in their place, and I need to regain favor after…well. You know.” He was relatively safe here in Sadrith Mora, but they’d sent the Morag Tong after him a handful of times in the recent past. Shame, that. A waste of good fighters. Neloth fidgeted with a soul gem on his bookshelf until it stood just right to refract the sun filtering in through his window. It acted like a prism and washed the floor with shifting multicolored light. For a fleeting second, the pristine order of the moment brought him peace. “There’s things you’ll never have to worry about at your rank. Or even as Hortator, if you do choose to go be whatever it is the Empire insists you’ve got to be.”

Sero’s face twisted through several emotions before it settled back into the familiar, frustrated scowl he always wore. “The Empire can go f—”

“ —yes, yes, we know your sentiment. Spare me the histrionics, if you don’t mind,” Neloth interrupted with a flap of his hand, “because we do rather have things to accomplish today if we aren’t simply going to wreak havoc on the Mainland as I’d intended.”

“You know, we will have to discuss that topic again later,” Sero drawled, scratching the back of his neck. “As much as I don’t want to. For now, though, you’re right.” He huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Hortator. It’s madness.”

“I told you, you’re going to have to talk to Dratha first.”

“Neloth, she hates me. And you. And everyone, I think.”

“How on Nirn could anyone hate you, oh great Nerevarine,” Neloth droned dismissively. Sero shot him a glare and threw up his hands in disbelief. He muttered to himself in Dunmeris as he leaned against a far bookshelf, fiddling with some Dwemer gear or another Divayth Fyr had brought over the last time he’d deigned to visit Tel Naga.

Neloth grinned at his own minor victory and glanced over at the distracted Nerevarine, caught in the glare from the soul gem. His frown was etched into his face. Gods only knew the weight of all he was responsible lately was heavy enough to merit the dismay. Nobody seemed quite as capable of being so sullen over something as ridiculous as the entire Nerevarine situation. Well, perhaps now that it wasn’t quite a rumor anymore, it carried more weight. If any of this was real—though Neloth still had his doubts—it was a responsibility that came with expectations even Neloth would be remiss to shrug off in favor of this abolitionist nonsense. 

He knew Sero was procrastinating. Neloth had called him on it earlier, though the comment had been deflected. Regardless, like anything worth having, he’d eventually have little choice but to take the title. Or—Sero being Sero—convince himself he’d already earned it. The utter chivalry of the entire situation got exhausting after a while. What had happened to the slovenly bandit with a chip on his shoulder? Neloth could have sworn it hadn’t been that long—months, if that—since he’d first arrived looking for, of all things, employment. It was a valid path for a reformed criminal. But a bandit with a boyish face he’d still been, nevertheless. Apparently, prophecy and legacy did a number on one’s priorities.

Though, come to think of it, Sero had never really been the type who allowed himself to be pointed in a direction and told to stab. He’d always been too clever for whatever he’d believed about himself all those years before. Not that Neloth would be caught dead telling the fool that, though.

Neloth shuddered at the implications of admitting any kind of respect for a non-mage, first of all, and an otherwise nameless urchin besides. Imagine. The Council would be in hysterics, and the ruse would be dropped, and every ounce of power he’d clawed back to himself would evaporate in the blink of an eye. No. Securing a seat on the Grand Council was imperative if he wanted to keep his status. One did not simply earn a seat the same as individual House Councils: one had to make connections—or honestly, more likely lie or commission writs to clear a spot. No. There had to be concrete proof of concept. What, exactly, could one do as a Grand Councilor that would advance the House’s position as a whole? -> Read the Rest on AO3

[pellaaearien]

Small snippet of the WoL returning to the Source for the first time in ShB. Gen, Wolmeric

“You, of course, may return to the Source whenever you wish.”

Eyn’ara let out a quiet sigh of relief. She certainly wasn’t about to abandon her friends in the First but the thought of Aymeric back home not knowing what had happened to her was like a knot in her stomach. 

The Crystal Exarch shot her what somehow managed to be a sly look even from under his hood. “In fact, you could go back now, if you like, using the mirror behind me.”

Eyn’ara shook her head. She did want to find her friends first. Losing them one by one had been torture, and she wasn’t about to turn her back on them now. But she promised herself she wouldn’t keep Aymeric waiting long. 

“I’m going back to the Source.” Eyn’ara projected her best aura of confidence, the way she would sound if she had legitimate business.

And she did. She would see Tataru first, reassure her that their friends were all right — well, as all right as they could possibly be, given the circumstances. But it was not her end goal. 

The Exarch merely nodded. Eyna’ara convinced herself she was imagining his scrutiny. 

“Safe travels,” he murmured. Eyn’ara nodded, turned, and walked through the portal. 

She found herself back in the Syrcus Trench. It was night, and she looked up for a moment at the star-strewn sky beyond the high rock walls, appreciating the darkness as she never had before. Tataru first. Then Aymeric. 

She began to run. 

“You won’t be staying here then?” Tataru asked, too innocently. The tea at Eyn’ara’s elbow was cold; she’d neglected it over the course of too many words, most of them her own. She shook her head. 

“I have to get back to the First.” 

“Of course.” 

Eyn’ara didn’t care what Tataru thought. Thankfully, it hadn’t been that long here while she’d been away but there had been a time after she'd arrived in the Crystarium, however brief, when she hadn't known whether or not she would be able to come back. She needed to see him. 

“Give my regards to the Lord Speaker!” Tataru called after her, but Eyn’ara was already halfway out the door and didn’t deign to respond. 

Aymeric.

Her heart beating a tattoo in her chest, she placed her hand on the aetheryte. In a flash of light, the gloom of Mor Dhona was replaced by the snows of Ishgard. Though she no longer lived in the city, it still felt like a homecoming. Pulling her hood over her head, she made straight for the Aymeric's rooms. 

Scaling the icy bricks of the wall was so familiar to her by now she could do it in her sleep. Once she gained the roof, it was a simple matter to jump across to the balcony. 

Candles were still lit inside: she’d known he wouldn’t be abed, despite the lateness of the hour. Stealing to the door, she tapped on the glass pane. She didn’t have to wait long before the door was thrown open and Aymeric stood before her, clad in a simple shirt and breeches. His hair was mussed like he’d been running his hands through it. 

“Eyn’ara!” he exclaimed, grasping her hands and drawing her inside. “Halone forfend, one of these days my guards are going to shoot you for an assassin.”

“They know me,” she replied, pushing down her hood. “Besides, if they do catch me, I’m slipping. Thancred’s been giving me lessons.” And had been insufferably smug while doing so, though she didn’t mention that part. “The only reason I even bothered visiting this late in the first place is I knew you’d still be up. You work too much.”

“Pot calling kettle, my dearest.” He ran a hand over her cropped hair, a favourite habit of his. Then, without warning, he drew her into a tight embrace. 

With a low sound, Eyn’ara surrendered to his arms. Their visits had gotten ever fewer and farther between even before this whole business of traversing worlds. She’d learned to cherish any stolen moment. 

“I’m so glad you came,” Aymeric breathed. “There was scant news out of Mor Dhona, all of it troubling. Scions up and collapsing one by one. I feared you’d be next.” 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t send word,” Eyn’ara murmured into his shoulder. She loved the way Aymeric’s hugs enveloped her, cradled and safe. “Any time I would try to write I just had no idea of what to say. We knew so little about what was happening. The situation was changing so rapidly I couldn’t speak to what it would be by the time any letters reached you.”

Aymeric drew back to look at her. “But you’re safe?” His ice-blue gaze held hers searchingly, as though he could divine the answer by sight alone. 

Eyn’ara nodded, and he pulled her close again. “We know what was happening, now,” Eyn’ara said — reluctantly, as it meant giving up Aymeric’s embrace. “But it’s a long story.” 

“I’ve time,” he said easily, before bestowing on her a quick, ardent kiss. “I always have time for you.” 

“At what cost to yourself?” Eyn’ara groused, but relented. Her news truly couldn’t wait. She still wasn’t clear on the time differential between the Source and the First and there was too much that needed to be done there for her to dally here. Still, her love deserved some explanation. 

Grabbing a bottle from his desk. Aymeric poured them each a glass of wine. Eyn’ara sniffed hers out of habit before sending him an apologetic look. He just smiled, encouraging her to begin. 

“And so they would put the weight of yet another world on your shoulders,” Aymeric muttered, when she’d finished. Eyn’ara wasn’t sure she’d been meant to hear. She leaned back and sighed, downing the last of her wine (an excellent vintage, as to be expected). 

“I am the Warrior of Light,” she said, by way of explanation.

Aymeric just shot her a look. They’d been sitting companionably, knocking shoulders on the settee, now he waited for her to set her empty flute down before slipping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his side. 

“They ask too much of you,” he said. He smiled, self-deprecatingly. “Of course, I’m free to say as much now that I’m no longer the one doing so.”

Eyn’ara smirked up at him. “I never minded when it was you,” she said, and Aymeric’s expression settled to something softer. 

“I’ll admit to some relief at that,” he said. “It has never escaped my attention that I am simply one in a long line of others who needed something from you.” 

“You were different,” Eyn’ara told him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. As Aymeric chuckled, she leaned further into him. “Apart from anything else, you actually solved your problems. I haven’t been called back here for a freak dragon attack or anything.”

He laughed louder. “No, indeed. Sometimes I long for the days when our problems were so simple.” He stretched leisurely, and Eyn’ara took the opportunity to let her eyes trace the strong length of him. “Our problems are now of the negotiating table, and though I would be the last to dismiss your labours, cannot be as summarily dealt with.”

Eyn’ara snorted. “I could still try to hit them with my axe.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Aymeric said, and pulled her closer still.

[dent-de-leon]

King still wears gloves; fine black leather that suits his regal bearing. He keeps them on always, hiding away the old scars lacing over his palms and wrists, the coiling snake tattoo that once held a bright red eye. It is only when they’re alone like this that Kingsley deigns to let his skin show, quietly slipping off his gloves to reveal the vibrant artwork and healing scars beneath. 

Caleb dutifully doesn’t say a word, but he still captures King’s bare wrist with a gentle touch, pressing a measured kiss to warm skin. And if King sucks in a shuddering breath and bites his lip, dark lashes fluttering—well, Caleb will steal another kiss or two, just to feel the tremble of his pulse.  

Kingsley sighs and just breathes, mesmerized by Caleb's touch as fingertips fumble through the first few buttons on his collar, delicately trailing down the peacock feathers fanning the column of his throat, caressing branching blood curse scars and the mercifully empty eye.

But King barely has the strength to hold back the tide of otherworldly screams any longer, black chains still weighing heavy on his wrists, his ankles, choking him by the throat—

"Did you ever read the story of the Yellow King?" Caleb asks gently, a hand reaching for Kingsley's own, their mirrored scars woven together.

Kingsley's tail twitches at that, lashing back on impulse, nearly knocking the wind out of his wizard. To his credit, Caleb doesn't even flinch, though something in Kingsley is shaken. He sets his jaw and lets his eyes fall shut, collects the scattered fragments. He doesn't know the story, he couldn't possibly. But the words ring a tad familiar somehow, strike a cord in the twisted knots of tangled memories. Like a person you used to know, a face you can't quite remember--just on the cusp of wavering into focus, bleeding away at the edges if you look too close.

He can ask, he knows. He's allowed to ask, and Caleb's more than happy to share--soft smiles and warm lights, golden amber silhouettes drifting by, memories trapped in time. Prismatic Image flickering to life as Kingsley watches himself laugh and dance in a glistening circus; lights twinkling, humming with magic. The infectious fondness in Caleb's voice when he tells a story.

Another fairytale flits to him like a whisper on the wind, a royal mantle and golden crown, soaking in the rain on hallow burial ground. Did you ever read the story of the Yellow King?

"Aye. And you liked that strange little tale?" Kingsley smirks.

Caleb's lips quirk up in a wry grin. "I had a certain fondness for it. As I got older, I...found myself returning to it. A lost loved one brought back from the dead, the magic of a miracle--it has a certain appeal, ja?"

Kingsley can see it; he knows in all his lives he's always been a romantic.

"I know I've heard it, here and there, but...tell me one more time?"

"For you, Circus Man? Always."

[goddesstrolls]

Out of Hive and Home

Previous: Comforts of Hive

((Another collab with @nihils-trolls))

It was a nagging feeling in the back of Arctus’ mind. Something about Quilis’ sudden drop off the face of the planet didn’t sit right.

Though he had declined an invitation to her hive once before- Simply because he liked to be found indoors the least amount possible- The fact that he was theoretically welcome sat alongside her disappearance.

He lay a hand on the doorknob of the broom closet in the shop. He didn’t need to have seen the location he wished to go; The shop needed only the vaguest of concepts, and it would choose a location on its own to drop him. Normally, he only wanted to go somewhere remote, somewhere cold, and so on.

Arctus opened the door. Rather than a broom closet, beyond the frame was grass and tree-spotted hills. He peered through, finding a veritable castle crouched on the hill, old stone and gothic architecture. 

He’d trust that the shop had indeed brought him to Quilis’ hive. It knew her, after all. 

He stepped out into the moonlight. There was a dark rectangle in the shape of a doorway behind him, providing a view back into the shop. He reached back inside to shut the door, the doorway vanishing entirely as it was shut. It left nothing behind but thin air, and a cold autumn breeze.

Arctus turned, and strode up to the hive, seeking an entrance. Wondering if he should try to find something like a front door. He’d only just gotten close when he caught wind of something.

Something was not right. Arctus curled his lip in disgust, a low growl escaping him with his breath rolling away in a cloud of fog on the wind. He was now glad he had decided to visit.

The Something was so closely aligned with his own elements, a being of the shadow plane- That he could determine the hold it had over the hive right away. A sensation in his chest, a resonant frequency from the foul energy radiating off the hive. He decided not to bother with finding a front door, nor with any modicum of manners. If Quilis had brought this thing upon herself, he would have a word with her; If it had found her, perhaps even through him, then he had rid her of it.

He found a door and opened it. Beyond was a long, stretching hallway that seemed to keep getting longer as he watched. The walls were striped in purple and white, almost the texture of nylon canvas. At the end, a light shone through the crack of a doorway.

Arctus bared his teeth, growling to himself again as he stepped inside. He made his way down the hall, making no effort to conceal the growing shadow of his presence. Darkness against darkness, it wouldn’t surprise him if The Something did not notice him or even, foolishly, deigned not to bother with him in favor of toying with Quilis.

This particular variety of demon fed off of fear, warping an enclosed space- Such as a hive- Into scenes that would deeply frighten its prey. If Quilis had been here since he last heard from her, her willpower had to be waning very thin by now.

He bit the finger of one of his gloves to pull it off and then sunk his claws into his own chest, leaving deep gouges oozing black blood. Tiny, blobby creatures, each no larger than a coin, and dozens of them, sprang from the wounds. His snake tattoos fled from his skin, pulling away and dropping to the ground, suddenly solid. Arctus flicked the blood from his claws, creating more of the shadowy creatures. The blobby creatures and snakes skittered away from where he walked, seeping through shadows to reach other parts of the hive. 

He reached the end of the hall and pulled open the door, finding a spacious circus ring beyond. Faceless trolls jeered and laughed from the stands, moving jerkily as though in stop-motion. The sound of the crowd was strange and discordant, like the approximation of something that had never heard it before. 

Arctus’ gaze flicked about for some sign of an exit from here. The spotlight swung, following a troll on a trapeze high above. They flew from the bar, posing gracefully in the air; For a beautiful moment hanging in the void as though hovering before falling straight down and splatting directly against the circus floor.

Arctus ignored this vision entirely, moving through the ring to an entryway on the other side; More shadowy creatures pushed their way from the wounds on his chest, scuttling away as though their tiny lives depended on it.

The tunnel led to a set of stairs leading upwards, dimly lit with some lights flickering faintly. A short flight- at the top of the landing stood wide double doors, having ornate steel trimming. 

Arctus made his way up them without hesitation, and pushed open the doors.

Beyond was a sheer drop, at least seventy feet. Glancing around, several sets of impossible stairways sprawled onwards and upwards- moving slowly to different doors like clockwork. Faceless paintings of unknown trolls in finery decorated the walls.

He huffed in annoyance; Some of his shadows had already made their way through here and gone through some of the doors, narrowing his options; He picked one that he thought he could just barely jump to.

Arctus leapt without much deliberation. He just barely grabbed the ledge, boots thudding against the wall with no foothold. At the same time, however, a long, shadowy hand darted through the doorway, grabbing Arctus and pulling him up. Kneeling, Arctus looked to a puddle of darkness as the hand retracted into it. 

“Thank you.” He said, putting a hand to the wound on his chest to siphon away some of his blood and plunging his hand into the pool. Something within the pool gave a raspy gurgle in thanks, and Arctus straightened to continue.

The room before him seemed to be a concert hall. He stood at the top of another landing, two stairways on the left and right lead downwards to a checker-tiled floor. In the center of the space below was an elaborate grand piano, alone with a bench. Further beyond that, another set of similar looking doors to the ones behind him.

Arctus moved down the stairs and across the checkerboard floor, the piano holding his attention for a moment; It wasn’t part of The Something’s illusions.

He returned his attention to the doors and opened them.

—--------

Quilis sat huddled in a corner, doing her best to avoid looking at any of the mirrors that lined the walls and ceiling. She had sat down and decided not to leave, unable to really find it within her to go on just yet. From somewhere around the corner, she heard the sounds of a crowd. Sometimes echoing laughter, sometimes blood-curdling screams. 

Every now and then she’d look up to make sure nothing had changed- seeing reflections of people she once knew. Nothing ever did before; but this time, some… inky black blob scuttles over to her. At first, she considered squishing it as it ‘waved.’ Though, something made her refrain from doing so.

More began to crawl in from out of seemingly nowhere, bouncing around on the floor while she looked on- a bit confused. A wild change from previous illusions, if it was one. Although, a sudden, loud clatter of the door snaps her out of her confusion- drawing her wary attention.

Arctus stood at the door, his attention snapping to her nearly immediately. Blood black as ink soaked the front of his shirt from gouges in his chest. Ignoring the mirrors, he made a beeline for Quilis and dropped into a kneel near her.

She pressed her back against the wall behind her, as if trying to retreat somewhat. 

Arctus tilted his head to peer at her from under the shadows of his hat, the ghost of some mixture of wariness and concern lacing his otherwise neutral expression. He shooed away the black blobs with a wave of his hand, before addressing her.

“Are you alright, Quilis?”

She glances away at the blobs for a moment, then turns it back to Arctus. “I’m trying to figure out how much of this is real,” she states- clearly tired.

“I am real,” Arctus replied, though he knew well enough that she couldn’t trust his word. “As is my blood.” He gestured vaguely at the retreating blobs, and then cast a disdainful gaze at the rest of the room. “This- An illusion of the fearmonger. I will send you away from here.” Arctus brought his hand to his mouth to sink his fangs into his palm- Not daring to draw a dagger when Quilis was so wary.

She scrubs her face with her hands and sighs. “H-hold on just a sec, I was…” She pauses a moment, brushing her bangs back. “I was in the middle ‘f something. Well, more almost done with it, to be honest.”

Rummaging through the pocket on her sweater briefly, she then pulls out a folded piece of paper. Opening it up, she then slams it against the wall next to her- the paper burning away to leave behind an engraved magic circle.

Arctus watched, and stared for a moment at the circle, reading the magic within it. A spell to lock the hive, and prevent it from shifting further.

Then, his head snapped up, like some unheard sound drew his attention. He stared off down the hall for several moments, and then narrowed his eyes.

“It seems I’ve been noticed.” He said, and then made to straighten. He held out his hand to help Quilis to her feet.

She eyes him for a moment, then accepts the help to stand, though wincing briefly. “I have one more to place… somewhere around here. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Let us make haste then, and finish this.” Arctus glanced away again, eyes still narrowed, though his exact feelings were difficult to read. 

“Agreed,” she says, turning to head where the hallway bends. At the end lies yet another door, presumably leading to more of the maze that now makes up her hive.

Pushing it open reveals another steep drop- Quilis looks down to see the circus ring from before. Before her lies a small platform with a tightrope high above the ‘crowd’ below, leading to another door. Grumbling some, she steps out without much hesitation.

Arctus, having followed, stepped through the door and took a look at the tightrope spanning the distance to the other doorway. He watched Quilis cross the tightrope with no issue with a blank look.

As sudden as a light turning off, pitch blackness spread from behind Arctus and enveloped the room. Nothing could be seen of him, or the illusionary ‘crowd’ below- Such a deep darkness that if Quilis held her hand in front of her face, she wouldn’t have been able to see it.

It was gone as suddenly as it appeared, and Arctus was standing on the other side next to her.

She blinks at him for a second, but continues through. Quil now stands in what looks like her old parlor, the piano nowhere to be found however. She pulls out one last sheet of paper from her pocket, and slams that against the wall much like the last.

Moving into the center of the space, she peels back the rug to expose the hardwood beneath, then feels around in her pocket again- hoping to find something to write with.

“Fuck,” she mumbles to herself. “Thought I had more on me.”

Pausing a moment to think, she kneels down and rolls up her sleeve. Quilis takes a breath and bites into her arm, drawing purple blood. She spreads it across her hand and begins weaving the final piece of the ritual- an overly complex design. Just to be safe. 

Finally, she places her hand in the center of it all- leaving behind a print to finish it off. The circle in front suddenly glows brightly, along with the one on the wall behind the two of them. Several echoing, loud clanks and thuds reverberate through the hive, signaling the success of the spell.

Arctus’ gaze flicked between the glowing circles, and then he lifted his head at the series of distant thuds and clamor. His gaze returned to Quilis as he waited for her next move.

“Wish I could be of more help,” she speaks up, “-but I think that’s all I’ve got in me for now.”

Arctus made to move past her, reaching out to lay a hand on her shoulder as he passed. “It’s a wonder you still have your sanity. You’ve done more than enough.” He turned his gaze to the doorway ahead, narrowing his eyes. “I will handle the fearmonger.”

With the hive no longer shifting, Arctus could locate its presence far easier. He continued into the next room, darkness following him as he blotted out every light, passing through walls where there wasn’t an endless void between them. 

One of his blood-blobs had found the fearmonger earlier, alerting it to his presence- And it had moved rooms after quashing his scout, perhaps the smartest move it had made thus far. 

But now, it could run, but there was nowhere to hide. Arctus stalked the halls freely, until he entered the final room where the being waited.

It was an enclosed darkness, featureless yet somehow walled. As though part of the room, the being waited, a formless mass of eyes and mouths full of teeth. 

Baring his own teeth, Arctus overtook the enclosed darkness with his own magic. He forced the space into an open, endless void of nothingness, leaving the demon with nothing to hold onto. As it flailed, he advanced on it.

It tried in vain to flee as Arctus lashed out. It squirmed under his grip as he dragged it closer. 

Arctus parted his jaws wide, and ate the fearmonger whole.