#the heartbeat thing is just more palatable

[apollo18]

Imagine being a JL member and Superman randomly says to you, “did you know you have an abnormally slow heartbeat?”

I don’t even know man the fact he can just recognize certain people by their heartbeat fucks me up.

Like what about their digestion?

When I put my head on someone’s tummy I can hear their stomach, can he hear that too?

Could he recognize someone just via their IBS

[after-witch]

With Your Heartbeat Next to Mine [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Title: With Your Heartbeat Next to Mine [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: You were lying to yourself if you claimed to think Mahito would be satisfied with kisses and late-night snuggles on the couch.

Word count: 1220ish

Notes: yandere, possessiveness, implied dubcon, talks of virginity, self-blame for unwanted advances, Mahito in general

Mahito steps forward, and you’re trapped between the unusual coolness of his body and your bedroom wall. One of your posters--some sun-faded thing leftover from your school years--crinkles against your back. You hope it doesn’t rip, and then you’re back to worrying about more important things.

Like the fact that Mahito wants you to have sex. Tonight. Today. Right now. 

“It’s just--I’m not ready,” you say, lips dry, stammering stupidly. “I’m a--I mean, I’ve never… I haven’t…”

Mahito quirks his head, and then grins, all teeth and salaciousness. “Oh-hh. You’re a virgin, then?” When you don’t answer, he pokes the end of your nose with a finger. “I read about it. It doesn’t matter to me. Humans attach importance to silly things, don’t they?”

Something like humiliation and hurt puffs up in you. He doesn’t take anything seriously, at least not when it comes to you. It’s never bothered you too much. It was part of the charm, the game, of being with someone like him.

But this is… different. Isn’t it? And it bothers you, deep down, even though you really forfeited all rights to any sort of normal relationship expectations the moment you willingly kissed a literal curse. 

“It’s not silly.” 

Your eyebrows furrow and you think back to fumbled romances from before Mahito. Awkward make-out sessions on the couch that always ended in you telling your dates that you weren’t ready to go that far, and they either smoothly accepted it and got their time’s worth with sloppy kisses and gropes or got the hell out of dodge, and you’re not sure which was more hurtful in the end. 

And then came Mahito. And he was different.  And a curse. And you were in something-like-a-relationship with him, but you didn’t know what to call it when the person you were seeing couldn’t be seen by anyone around you and he tortured people (to death, or not, and you definitely knew which one was worse in that case) for fun and “science” and you, sick and selfish thing, still loved the way he pressed kisses up your neck to feel your heartbeat or yanked your bottoms down to taste what was underneath or simply held you all night while you watched movies. 

And now he wants to push you down onto your bed and fuck you, and you don’t know what to do or say.  You don’t want it, but you knew it was coming, like it always does in any relationship. Was it any wonder that it came, too, in this one? 

Mahito puffs air in your face and you flinch, startled out of your thoughts. 

“Where’d you go, hmm?” You feel his fingers on your chin and you know what’s coming when one of them slides along your lips.  One of Mahito’s fingers hooks onto the side of your mouth, and if you weren’t used to him playing around with your body like it was a lump of clay, it would have bothered you. Instead you wonder when he last washed his hands, even as he stretches your lip upward, a mockery of a half-smile.

“Humans are silly. You’re silly,” he says, all matter-of-fact. Then he sighs, put-off or tired or just pretending to be in order to make himself more palatable, more humanesque, to you. You can never tell with him, and that’s part of the thrill. “Is it because you…” 

He releases your lips and taps his chin, putting on a show as he thinks for a moment, digging out information from whatever well of knowledge he stores things in. He normally pulls out trivia about humanity that would be better suited to some sort of criminology class. But today it’s something far less morbid, though hardly any less anxiety-inducing.

“Are you saving yourself for marriage? Is that why you don’t want to have sex?”

Your cheeks feel impossibly hot. 

You shake your head, looking down, unable to look at him. He never has a problem staring at you for what always feels like a terribly long time. Sometimes he does it so you’ll give him the answer he wants. Other times, it’s to study you--or that’s what you think, anyway. 

Mahito pouts. “Oh. Darn. I was thinking we might have a wedding, if that was the case. I’ve always admired those pretty dresses in the windows.” He sighs again. “Probably couldn’t invite him, though, anyway. He wouldn’t approve.” He smiles again, bright and peppy, all imitations of tiredness tossed aside like an old coat. “Did you know he wanted me to kill you the first time I brought you up?” 

You nod, because Mahito has had no problem telling you that his companions think he should have killed you a long time ago, and sometimes he thinks about it. But then he remembers how much fun you have together, so he puts it off for another day.

And the thought hits you like lead: If you won’t have sex with him, will he kill you? Will refusing make you too annoying or boring to put up with? Or is it better to say no and keep up the chase, make him fight for you? It was almost dizzying, the way relationship games became serious with Mahito around. A regular guy might just break up with you. Mahito might just break your neck.  

“Then… oh!” His expression brightens and he looks so sweet like this that you can almost forget what he is and what you’re doing with him. Almost. “You’re worried about the pain.” He nods, a mockery of sage wisdom. “I’ve read about that, too. He tilts his head back a little. “In novels. It’s cute…”

“You’re cute,” he says, and that’s a good sign--right?--because it means he still wants you. And you’re at least another step farther from being turned into some awful experiment in a sewer. 

His lips press against your ear, and his voice is too close and he’s too close, but you signed up for this when you let him in your life, didn’t you? You let him hold you and kiss you and if you didn’t think he’d eventually want more,  you were lying to yourself. 

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, and it does nothing but make you worry more. “I’ll be gentle.”

The most awful thing of all is that you can't tell if he's being genuine or not.

He grins, a sticky smile that oozes an awful dark pressure that makes your stomach clench. It would be better, you think, to do what he wants. Since he seems to want it so much. And… you should be flattered, if anything. Right? Be flattered. Be grateful. Appreciate that some all-powerful curse wants to press you into a mattress and have sex with your body and pull out your mewls and moans like he’s done before, albeit in a far less intimidating fashion. 

Mahito presses a chaste kiss to the end of your nose, then pulls back to examine your expression. 

“That’s what I’m supposed to say, isn’t it?” His fingers card through your hair up your scalp, scratching just a little too hard to feel nice. “So you don’t fight as much?”

You swallow, and your throat is so tight that your spit might as well be needles. 

Mahito, not wanting for an answer, presses his hands against your shoulder and pushes you harder against the wall as he moves in for a hungry kiss. Behind you, the poster rips. 

[rillils]

🌸 post-catws stucky + hug

The first tendril of want shocks him like a splash of ice-cold water poured down his spine.

Bucky doesn’t know at first – doesn’t know what, doesn’t know how. But the want is there, curled up in his chest: small, and starving, like some trembling newborn thing whose first taste of life is hunger, crying to be fed and soothed.

There’s a half-remembered feeling in the back of his mind, something he reaches for when the want aches sharp and spark-bright inside him. The word for it is short and sweet in Bucky’s mouth, so gentle it barely touches his tongue at all, all throat and soft palate: ‘hug’.

It’s a simple concept. Two arms go around one body – that’s all it takes. One step, and there it is: a hug. And Bucky imagines it vividly: his own mismatched arms around Steve, and Steve’s arms folding around him, like a circle – the shape of the infinite, of timeless things like the two of them. A line that should end, but constantly finds one more beginning instead.

He tries to see it, Steve’s broad chest brushing against his as their bodies meet, the swell of Steve’s arms enveloping him, Steve’s big palms splayed wide against his back, touching him. Gentle. Like Steve’s eyes on him are gentle; like the clasp of his hand on Bucky’s shoulder is gentle, always. So gentle, perhaps, that Bucky would hardly even feel the hug around him.

But he would take it, gentle or no. Because the truth, where it lies in the empty pit of his stomach, is that he starves for it, day after day, the want pulsing inside him with every beat of his heart. He just doesn’t know how to ask for it.

So Steve does the asking for him.

His hair is ruffled, limned with copper and wisps of gold in the late afternoon light, and his hands are unsure, nervous. But his eyes. His eyes take Bucky in, searching, urgent – and for a moment, Bucky is sure that Steve, too, must have been starving for this.

“Can I hug you?” he says, and the word sounds especially sweet when it’s Steve pronouncing it. When there’s a ‘you’ attached to it, and that one syllable becomes two, joined seamlessly together, and the new word rolls smooth and honeyed down the curl of Steve’s tongue, hug you, hug you, hug you. “Would that be okay?”

Bucky wets his lips. ‘Yes,’ he means to say, but the word that slips out of his mouth in a rasp instead says, “Please.”

So Steve gathers him close, two arms and one body and his nose buried in Bucky’s dark mop of hair, and he carves a snug space out of himself to make room for Bucky right there, his hands fisted in the back of Bucky’s shirt, their chests pressed so tight together that his heartbeat pounds behind Bucky’s ribs.

It’s not a passing touch, the fluttering echo of a hug Bucky feared he might barely feel. It’s persistent. It’s desperate. It’s a hungry little thing, a creature to be fed tenderly, steadily, so it’ll grow and live, and live.

He wraps his own arms around Steve, and grasps at him just as fiercely as his want commands, a wet exhale shuddering out of his lips to land in the crook of Steve’s neck.

He was wrong, he realizes now, framed in Steve’s embrace like a timeless work of art. He was missing a step.

A hug is a simple concept: two arms go around one body, and they hold on.

[sommerregenjuniluft]

@jegulus-microfic 6 & 16 march - scent & arrange - 2329 words

have some 1800ish-something a/b/o jegulus curtsey of me rewatching bridgerton over the last few days lol  (the soundtrack goes so unnecessarily hard)

Regulus is in need of a drink, and Regulus is in need of it fast.

His useless Alpha excuse of a brother is nowhere to be found, has left him alone amongst the bloodthirsty throng of eligible Alpha bachelors of the ton and Regulus is but a piece of medium rare steak marinating in his own juices. No pun intended.

Regulus is supposed to have his first dance of the evening with his newly engaged fiance which he, not to mention, has yet to even meet and none of his family or friends are in a reachable vicinity to aid their support.

He is going to throw a fit.

The padded mesh cloth around his throat is so tight he feels unable to breathe, there are a dozen different scents wafting at him from all sides at any given moment and Regulus feels stupid with it. And not in a positive sense, just– horribly overwhelmed. Dizzy from the sensory overload.

He desperately needs something to take off the edge.

Cue, the drinks buffet.

He’s almost at his destined location when he collides with a warm chest.

“Oh, careful there,” a deep voice responds, grip tight on Regulus’ shoulder but not untoward.

But Regulus is already in a foul mood, insults read at the tip of his tongue, bitter and stinging. 

“Are you not in possession of a working pair of ey—” the last syllable dissolves uselessly on his palate before it can do more damage when Regulus is, with a sudden burst of clarity, pulled from his distressed state in an instant.

Cloaked in a realm of fresh outside air, meadow and wood, like someone had opened a window directly beside Regulus to rescue him from his torment. He breathes in again, greedily, taking in the patchouli and vetiver notes. Something rich and friendly that immediately lulls Regulus into a much more acceptable mood, shoulders untensing, heartbeat slowing. His body’s reaction quite similar to whenever Sirius is scenting him.

That’s before he looks up at the man though.

He’s all bronze skin and unruly dark hair in the most endearing sloppy way that it infiltrates Regulus with the urge to reach out his twitching fingertips and righten the mess, kind brown eyes behind perfectly round, wire-framed glasses and the most dazzling smile Regulus has laid his eyes upon this evening or ever, maybe.

Which currently twitches wider at the corners, at Regulus’ loss for words, presumably, making him blink violently and stoop into a hastened curtsey.

“My apologies, Lord–” Regulus cuts himself off, realising he doesn’t even know the man’s title nor name. He could be a foreign duke, a prince even, for all that Regulus knows. Or, rather, doesn’t know.

“Just James,” the Alpha responds. With his given name, of all things, much to Regulus’ confusion.

He’s smiling warmly down at Regulus, if a little amused, holding a respectable amount of distance that he has stepped back into.

The grin makes Regulus feel all kinds of woozy and cotton-mouthed and out of sorts despite the lack of just one drop of alcohol having landed on his tongue. A spectacle he must appear as, gnawing at his bottom lip and gawking at the unnecessarily handsome stranger like a simpleton without getting a single word out.

The Alpha cocks his head, grin widening and Regulus finally finds it in himself to rip his stare away when there’s a waiter gliding past them with even more champagne on a tray. Reminding him as to why he’s made his way over here in the first place. Regulus snatches up a glass and downs half of it in one go, going against every single thing his family have ever taught him but he can honestly be less bothered right this moment given they have all abandoned him anyways. Stupid Papa with his stupid business arrangements. Stupid Maman with her ever so unsatisfied need of new gossip. Stupid Sirius and his stupid staff mistress.

“And you might be…?” the same warm voice says, a little closer now.

“You’re still here?” Regulus throws over his shoulder, aiming for annoyed, though the question coming out strained and to his surprise, yet again, he gets a laugh in response.

He turns, allows himself to properly look this time and there’s mischief dancing in James’ eyes as he raises dark brows, “Is there something troubling you?”

“Is there ever not?” Regulus sighs, taking another sip against his better judgement. Anything to drown out the reminder of his predicament.

“Well, as your self-proclaimed rescuer in this clearly distressing time of need, I am all ears,” the stranger offers with a cheeky smile.

Regulus narrows his eyes, his unused arm wrapping protectively around his front. 

The Alpha narrows his eyes in imitation, lips straining with a dimpled grin, apparently finding ridiculous amounts of joy in Regulus’ miserable state, though he doesn’t look the type to be of malicious intent. A jokester, perhaps, someone silly and rather unregarding of any rules, maybe—much like Sirius, actually, and Regulus, despite their differences and how horribly annoying he can be at times, would be the last one to label his big brother as a bad person.

And, well, desperate times and all.

Regulus sucks in a big, steadying breath, “I am to dance with my fiance in mere minutes.”

A pause. “Then I understand congratulations must be in order,” James bows his head, teeth digging into his lower lip as his grin widens impossibly.

“Certainly not,” Regulus hisses, outraged, “What about me at the very moment says happily engaged Omega, I must inquire?!”

“Mm, the distressed frown and wide squirrel-about-to-be-shot-eyes, of course.”

Regulus ignores him, on a roll now, feeling the rush of complaining tug on him like a wild current, “I do not even know the man, have yet to even meet him. For all I know he could be a troll! An ogre of a man, or worse; an Alpha ready to bore me to death!”

“Or he might be the most handsome, charming, talented, ingenious, chivalrous, witty Alpha for miles—perhaps the whole continent?” James counters, ducking closer.

His scent increases for a second and Regulus has to take a moment as he feels it settle on the back of his tongue to remind himself of his manners. Face flushed, he turns to look back into the room, desperate for distraction. Settled on the musicians, watching them play their violins and the pianoforte, Regulus sniffs primly, “Or a troll.”

A snort, smile evident in his voice when the Alpha speaks next, “Well, I suppose there is only one way to find out.”

“Or,” Regulus says pointedly, taking another big gulp of the sparkling alcohol, “I pretend to faint and you will be witness for my family to convince them to take me back home where I shall crawl under the covers and feign illness until the very end of the courting season.”

“And what if I told you that you can’t hide forever?” James ducks his head to catch his gaze and Regulus rolls his eyes into his champagne glass, “You might have already been found out before you even know.”

“Then I would tell you that you underestimate me,” he replies, turning back to him and leaving the sight of musicians as the ballroom fills up.

“Hmm,” the Alpha makes sceptically.

“Hmm,” Regulus mocks, wobbling his head.

James narrows his eyes, mouth twitching, “Are you mocking me?”

“I would never dream of it, my Lord,” Regulus answers.

James makes a noise resembling an indulgent Sure and takes the almost empty glass out of Regulus’ grip and replaces it with another. The new glass is more curved, with a glittering golden rim and the liquid inside equally sparkling but with a delightful added hue of soft pink.

It looks enticing but Regulus knows better than to trust just any obscure Alpha, “Are you trying to get me drunk, my Lord?”

This time it’s James’ turn to roll his eyes, “Take a sip.”

He doesn’t use the voice yet Regulus finds himself almost eager to obey nonetheless, so he lifts the glass to his lips.

It’s lemonade.

When Regulus looks back up, licking his lips off the residue, James cocks his head expectantly with a smirk. 

Regulus can’t stand his arrogance.

It’d do him some good to be knocked down at least several pegs. Regulus certainly wouldn’t pass the opportunity to volunteer for the task. Wipe that self-assured grin right off his face and for some reason there is heat crawling up into Regulus’ cheeks suddenly—the champagne must be getting to him.

He sniffs quickly, eyes darting away to occupy his gaze with something else and falling to swirl along the intricate pattern on James’ coat. His broad chest is well on display with the way his hands are folded at the small of his back.

Regulus blinks again, studying James and the way he’s been standing next to Regulus at the drinks buffet for minutes without ever attempting to take one for himself.

“You’re not drinking?” he asks curiously, brushing an errant curl back behind his ear.

James does something weird then. A flutter of his lashes, nostrils flaring, and his jaw drops open slightly. A breath punches out of him that tapers into a chuckle as he slips into a grin, averting his eyes for a moment.

He winces slightly, still smiling, and then takes another half step closer. Regulus narrows his eyes in warning but James just keeps the short distance, grinning shamelessly. “Well, actually, I came to the buffet because I could have sworn I smelled lemon tart—see, they’re my favourite.”

Regulus frowns, head swivelling to glance behind James’ big form, along the length of the table, occupied solely by glasses of champagne and lemonade. He turns back to James, a derisive scoff tumbling from the centre of his chest that would have earned Regulus a sharp warning glance from his mother, “Perhaps you should consider a visit to the Doctor, my Lord. Your sense of smell must be awfully off.”

Or maybe he’s just particularly dull. Well, Regulus thinks, it is only fair this way. If you’re already this handsome and well-built you don’t deserve to be a genius as well. Balance of nature and all.

The Alpha’s grin does not wane though and Regulus feels a shiver run up the curve of his spine when the tall Alpha hums in a deep timber. “My nose works just fine, actually,” James tilts his head to the side, eyes wandering down Regulus’ face towards his neck, “As opposed to your scarf.”

It takes a moment and then Regulus’ mouth drops open. Oh, the sheer audacity. A sound of disbelief jumps from his dry throat, “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, no need, I am perfectly capable of controlling myself even with such a delicious treat dangled right in front of my nose,” James grins. It’s infuriating.

Regulus can feel the vein in his forehead popping with his anger, “Have you no manners?!”

“I certainly do,” he volleys back, “I just take my liberties with whenever to apply them.”

“Well, then I advise you to take a tighter reign of them when in the company of strangers,” Regulus spits, cheeks warm. 

It’s just that James is still so close, smelling divine and knee-weakening and now that he’s been made aware he can’t help but notice their scents mixing in the air surrounding them. Their space neither of them seems quite taken to leaving, creating a wonderful concoction of syrupy sweet-sour citrus and heavy spicy-woodsy musk.

“There will be no need around you then, Regulus,” James counters and Regulus gasps, head reeling, feeling like he’s just fallen from his horse, “Given you are my fiance, love.”

Oh, there is no way. 

No.

This must be a joke. 

Regulus feels like his eyes are about to pop out of their sockets as he eyes the length of the Alpha again. The tousled black hair, the handsome features, the pleasant build, the clearly expensive clothing. Reminded of the fact that his aristocratic, powerful family would never arrange an engagement with anyone less than fully deserving for their only Omega. “You–”

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he grins, stooping into a curtsey, “James Potter, Duke of Godric’s Hollow.”

“Oh, goodness in the heavens.”

“Now I believe I was promised a First Dance?” James looks in no way angry with Regulus’ disrespect, if anything, just as amused and cheerful as the whole time. The whole time in which he evidently knew who he was talking to, making a right fool of Regulus, just for the fun of it.

Regulus barely has the time to pout when the Alpha already continues, “I think that is the least you can do after calling me an ugly tr—”

“Yes,” Regulus cuts him off, clearing his throat, “I will dance with you.”

Something softer shimmers in James’ warm, chocolate eyes and then Regulus gasps silently when a warm hand touches the gloved curve of his palm, “I am nothing short of delighted to hear that, love.”

They step onto the dance floor together, hands entwined and basking in each other’s presences. Regulus feels fizzy and warm on the inside. 

James is witty and interesting, effortlessly able to keep Regulus on his toes—both metaphorically and literally—and excellent dancer and an even more stunning conversationalist. Not to mention, quite easy on the eye. And Regulus doesn’t even want to get started on James’ scent again.

One dance turns into many, turns into walking around the room side by side bickering and gossiping and laughing, turns into a lively game of chess, turns into wandering through the halls and appraising art, turns into Regulus passing out on James’ shoulder on a settee before Sirius eventually finds them and takes him home.

The next day, James is there in the drawing room for tea, as he promised he would. Regulus has told the kitchen staff to prepare lemon tart.

And the rest is history.

[mouwrites]

Good Morning/Evening!!

Could I request Dating Cole Brookstone Headcanons?

I see you are a person of fine taste, my friend!! It would be my pleasure to fulfill this request!

Ninjago - Dating Cole Brookstone Headcanons

I see him as a natural romantic

Like, he doesn’t even have to try

He just does stuff and it’s so perfect

Like, he’ll thoughtlessly pull you into a slow dance when his favorite song comes on

(Side note: he LOVES to dance with you)

Or he’ll “surprise” you with a fancy restaurant reservation and flowers (he really just forgot to tell you earlier and got the flowers because they reminded him of you)

Or he’ll spout the most heartfelt compliments at random moments

“You really are the most beautiful person ever.”

“…I’m just scrolling on my phone though? In my unwashed pjs???”

All this without even specifically trying to be romantic

He’s just being himself

His favorite kind of date is to go out to dinner

He likes trying new things with you, so one of you will pick an obscure restaurant to try out each time

Whether it’s palatable or not, you always have a good time anyway

If the food sucks, you bond over the horrible experience

“Wow. That was horrible.”

“Ugh, I know. Was that rice or shredded tire rubber?”

“Honestly, the latter would’ve tasted better.”

“Pfff—”

Talking over a table with the din of restaurant ambience is like your guys’ own love language

You’ll talk about anything and everything

Light topics, dark topics, deep topics, whatever comes to mind

He’s a really deep and reflective person, so your deep conversations are often the most meaningful

He’s also absolutely hilarious though, so joking around is a very close second

Speaking of, his love languages are physical touch and words of affirmation

As mentioned before, he’s a natural at giving compliments

But he also uses the L word quite liberally

Definitely the first to say “I love you”

He loves cuddling

He’s a big guy, so you already know he’s optimally huggable

Doesn’t mind what cuddling position; he just likes to be close to you

If he had to pick a favorite, though, he likes to lay on your chest and listen to your heartbeat

Whenever he has to go away on a mission, he gives you the biggest bear hug

He’ll lift you off your feet, squishing your faces together and peppering your cheek with kisses

The hug he gives you when he gets back isn’t quite so energetic, but it’s no less romantic

He’ll lean on you a little more, relaxing his form to fit against yours perfectly as he lets out a long sigh

He’ll rub your back absentmindedly while he murmurs how much he missed you

Those are some of his best hugs, but he also frequently just lifts you up in a quick two-second hug, sometimes even from behind

“Ack! Cole, put me down!”

“Ha, sorry babe. You’re just so darn lovable, how am I supposed to not hug you?”

“Don’t apologize; I just want to hug you back!”

Also big on touching

Not necessarily PDA (but he won’t object if you like that), just maintaining physical contact

Hand holding, an arm around your shoulder, pinky-locking, anything really

Even if it’s just touching shoulders

Likes to get creative with cute nicknames as well

His go-tos are babe, baby, sweetheart, and angel face/cakes

But you’ve also heard pumpkin, muffin, munchkin, gorgeous, sugar, teddy bear, cuddle monster, etc…

Plus some… interesting… original ones

“Hello, my lovely little dragon snackie!”

“Cole. I love you but what was that.”

He will ascend to the heavens if you give him literally any affectionate nickname

Gives you the biggest grin whenever you use it

Honestly he smiles whenever you say his name, but cute nicknames will really get him

I hope this was alright! Thank you for this splendid request, and thank you for reading! Take care you cultured folks <33

[bobtheacorn]

I think the thing that’s most compelling for me about the live action iteration of Luffy is that they’ve stripped away all the expectations of the Shonen Protagonist.

Right away they let him have some character growth and vulnerability that we didn’t get from the manga until several dozen or hundred chapter in! He’s allowed to be indecisive and to make the wrong call and to NOT know what to do and to get comfort and reassurance and advice from his friends!!!

Everything goes to shit - Zoro is mortally wounded by Mihawk - and after they drag Zoro’s bleeding body into the galley, Usopp is running around looking for the first aid kit and Nami is trying to staunch the bleeding and Luffy completely detaches himself from the moment because it’s more than he can process! He never for a moment thought Zoro would lose and here are the consequences. Nami has to call his name several times before he can even answer her! And even when he runs into the Baratie’s kitchen, he’s so flustered and upset that he’s nearly incoherent and the pathetic way he says “My friend is dying” is absolutely heartbreaking!

It’s such an interesting take to see so early on, because the few instances in the manga where Luffy has lost a fight or not know what to do or royally fucked up have been because he didn’t understand the situation or he wasn’t properly motivated, etc. His authority as captain and the whole “playing at pirates” thing isn’t even something that gets called into question until WATER 7, and it’s Zoro who calls him out because he’s so ready to forgive Usopp.

To do it NOW? During the East Blue arc???

To have it be Nami who tells him he’s shit at his job and that he Needs to take it more seriously because Zoro is DYING??

I’m frothing at the mouth about it tbh because Luffy takes that shit to heart - because it’s after this confrontation that Nami LEAVES. Luffy says it himself when he’s talking to Zoro while he’s unconscious. HE lost the grand line map, HE lost Nami, and HE feels responsible bc he might lose Zoro too!

All those failures - all that guilt - bothers the hell out of him and we get to SEE that!

Part of Manga Luffy’s charm apart from his emotional intuition is that he’s a lil fuckin bulldozer and he’s so arrogant and selfish and that head is empty zero thoughts 98 percent of the time - to soften those harder (arguably less palatable) traits and make live action Luffy just so fucking earnest and thoughtful and intelligent is such an incredible take I’m just obsessed with it! I’m eating it up!!! Bc he’s still LUFFY at his core!

He’s goofy and smiley and charming and fun and happy and easygoing and he’s dumb as hell and he’s constantly hungry and he loves to fight and he’s KIND and he sticks up for other people and he believes in himself!

He believes in other people’s dreams!

He doesn’t think you should let anything or anyone stand in your way!

He cares so much about his friends and he LOVES them and he’d die for them in a heartbeat!

But he’s also allowed to have a fucking panic attack when his friend is literally bleeding to death and oh boy do I love to see it!

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

hands you another gortash x vampire spawn!tav fic

Rated Explicit

Warnings: inexperienced reader, power imbalanced, aphrodisiacs, vampirism

The taste is bitter, alcoholic, fuzzy; your face announces your displeasure and inexperience. You try to hide it quickly but the glass is taken from you by a hand covered in decorative gold. His lips find the exact spot where your lips touched the wine glass, his eyes not once leaving that face of yours, he relishes in how expressive you are.

"It is an acquired taste," Gortash's words are smooth like the fine fabric of his clothing, "You grow more accustomed to it over time." He loves the way your hands fidget with the ring on your fingers, your eyes lowered and lips pressed thin. He has seen you both covered in blood, feral in battle, and seen you command your little team.

Yet, here you are shy as a blushing maiden with no intention of remaining an untouched maiden for long.

Though you certainly no maiden.

He has wined and dined you, as he requested of you to parlay with him. Surely you can see under his guidance and leadership Baldur’s Gate is flourishing. Of course, with you by his side, it can prosper even further.

Not everything has to end in a bloodbath and he much rather have here willingly then chain you to his bedchambers unwillingly.

Though he would relish in breaking you. Hmm, he is curious how one takes a vampiric lover.

"Thank you for your hospitality, sir."

You do not take the way a shiver runs up his spine at the sound of a formal title coming from those lips.

"Of course," He leans in close, "It is not every day I get to play host with such a famed hero." Oh, he knows about the incident with the newspapers, such a clever move on your part. It would not have hindered you much but it works more to your advantage if the people like you.

"Lord Gortash." You never have… Felt so small. Not like this. You feel dizzy, and hot all over, and you can smell him. You can hear his heartbeat, oh how does the blood of a Banite taste like? Your tongue sweeps slightly across your bottom lips.

His smile is perfect, he is easy on the eyes too. Astarion would understand if you didn't share this meal…

"I uh excuse me I am rather rusty when it comes to these things." You have no idea how to seduce a person! "But perhaps we can retire for the evening? Just us." You try to use the charm of your inexperience to catch your prey. But you aren't aware your prey is the predator and his intentions are not simply to parlay with words.

Why else spike your drink? Vampires are such fascinating creatures. A bit of drugged blood into the wine and here you are in the palm of his eager hands.

Of course, he has long ago trained his body to not be so easily felled by poisons or aphrodisiacs. He is of clear mind while you will be palatable to his whims.

"My, my, such forwardness." He teases you, "How refreshing." The wine glass is left somewhere ago the way as he kisses you, leading you not to his chambers but the dining table. Your fangs pierce his wrist, a few drinks there before you go for his neck. You can taste his refinement, his power, his very corrupted being.

And it thrills you.

But just as you bite him, he bites back though with different intentions. Gortash is marking you, parting, opening, and lifting your clothing to touch you with his golden decorative claws. You hiss in pain when he bends you over on your front, his unclawed fingers between your legs.

Gortash is different from Astarion, he doesn't tease you– No, he denies you over and over until you are a tearing half-feral mess.

"Please." You never had really begged for Astarion, he always gave in.

"Please? Surely you can do better than that." He grins against your shoulder, his teeth biting down on the spot your sired fang marks are. You moan, embarrassingly loud enough to make you hide your face by pulling the dining table cloth up to your face.

"Lord Gortash, please," Trying to hide only caused him to use his free hand to grab a handful of your hair and pull until you are taunt like a bowstring. "Touch me?" The curious tone between your moans is amusing and innocent.

"I am."

You hiss as he stops his fingers, "Gods, just fuck me. Just let me cum with you inside of me." You hope that is enough. You've read enough of the 'A Pleasurable Deal' to figure a man like him might like those words.

His laugh is rich with mocking amusement but he suddenly is viciously using his hand to fuck you again. "We'll work on that later." The promise is mixed with danger, if you were of sound mind you see he has no interest in ever letting you go.

When you cum, Gods it is like he lit ablaze every nerve in your body, you lose your balance and he lets you collapse onto the table ungraciously.

Usually, Astarion lets you recover, grounds you with pretty words. Gortash doesn't, in fact, he wants you in this state. Want to break that pretty little mind of yours.

Your leg lifted and placed on the table opening you up, exposing you and the mess you made (his wet finger shoved in your mouth with unspoken command to taste yourself), his cock teasing your hole before he plunges deep within your heat. The beast within you is silent, content, one might say pleased.

He is overwhelming, relentless, he fucks you as if he means to keep you— To convey you will not leave here untouched or unbruised, if you get to leave— Well, he will allow you to return to your little band of misfits to inform them of the agreement you and himself have come to. Maybe you can get your vampire friend to join you.

[shroudandsands]

Prompt #1: Steer

Tires thudded over the curb. The engine backfired. Bullets clanked against the frame. And Dugald was driving like his life depended on it.

He had never expected to be put behind the wheel, honestly. At least- Not in the first few days of knowing the driver. Or the car. It felt impersonal, you know? You didn’t drive someone else’s car until they trusted you with it or they were dead. And neither were particularly applicable right now- But he supposed the latter might happen if he didn’t make the next turn. The Thorton skipped over another curb, the side scraped against a wall, the owner hollered her complaint over the sound of returning gunfire. He white knuckled the steering wheel. Another bullet ricocheted off the frame. Another was sent in return. He looked in the rearview mirror. Scavs. It had to be scavs. One clear memory in his head- of a few, at least- and it was in a high speed chase that he could remember how he felt about scavs. Probably not an uncommon feeling towards them. I mean, who could like butchers who’d sell you for every bit of metal you have in you- right down to the fillings in your teeth? He thumped over another curb as he swung the truck around into an alleyway. Honestly it wasn’t surprising that his only memories of them were negative. The sound of the mirrors scraping against brick and metal was just as evocative of their chop shops as the actual sound of them screaming behind them. How much was he worth? Hell, how much was this gal worth? Between the two of them they probably had a pretty decent score. At least he had a feeling the car wasn’t what they were after.

The car groaned, same as him, as he swung it wide around the corner and back onto the road. Potholes thumped the suspension as he pointed the nose towards the distant promise of an easier time, an easier escape- The only highway ramp not currently blocked by NCPD or some Maelstrom popup… Gathering. Gathering was the best way to put it, he thought. Really the only problem with all the thoughts before, of course, as he stomped on the pedal and listened to the automatic transmission whine in horror at what he was making it do- Well. This thing wasn’t exactly going to go zero to sixty fast enough to escape the scavs’ slipshod dragsters. Whether from shitty parts, old age, or factory limiters- “WALKER-” She dropped back down into the passenger seat as a grenade soared past the car and landed in a heap of garbage. It exploded as he swerved around it- much to her and the car’s complaint- and he felt another backfire take them down a gear. The look she gave him was wild, frenzied even, and frankly he didn’t appreciate the unspoken complaints about his driving. Not his fault he wasn’t carrying any guns at the moment. Not his fault that the car couldn’t go above sixty and take corners without screaming in agony. What had she been doing to this thing? Or, rather, hadn’t been doing? It’s not his fault that he couldn’t make it go faster. Not…

He looked in the rear view. They were getting closer. The Thorton was blowing smoke. Slowing down. If he could get on the highway it still wouldn’t be fast enough in the straightaways to get out of their territory. He was pretty sure they were about to blow a tire, too, to make it all that much more palatable. They’d be able to catch them in a heartbeat. It’s a Thorton. He stared in the rearview.

Chop shops. Metal. Chrome. Thortons. He looked down at the steering wheel. It was a Thorton. Scavs weren’t after the car- In a fit of memory-induced insanity-

Dugald gripped the console with both hands, his fingers slipping into grooves meant for technician tools. Augmented hands and arms would have to do for the moment as he groaned… and tore the module right off and into his lap. Within the same second, in a memory as rote as blood flowing from a wound, his arm slipped open in all but the same way to expose a monofilament blade that sprung cleanly from his forearm and out under his palm. And then he jammed it straight into the ECU plug. Sparks flew. Chop shop. Metal. Chrome. It was a Thorton. The only difference between any damned model of the thing was the limiter the factory put on it and the armor the customer slapped on it. Limiters could be removed. Engines could be tuned. Not in real time, no, never in real time. Not for anyone sane at least. Not for anyone who wasn’t currently being shot at and thoroughly invested in staying as alive as possible for the next 30 minutes- give or take a few. Oh but that’s what he remembered. The Scavs. The chop shops. Oh he remembered it all.

It was right as they hit the ramp that the Thorton screamed- no, roared- to life like a truck of its caliber likely never had before. The volume of if deafening, the rattling of it frightening, the speed of it exhilarating; and all the while Dugald stared dead at the the road while his arms twitched in time with the engine’s pistons. From zero to sixty. Sixty to one hundred. One hundred to one hundred twenty. Pretty sure they just put some sports cars to shame. Jerking the car between what few other drivers were still out on this side of the city. It was easy enough to tell when they weren’t being followed anymore. The fireball of a collision not even a quarter mile behind them. But he kept it going. Taking highway turns like they were hairpins, taking ramps like they were jumps, throwing the Thorton down the highway like a rocket that might just explode if he stopped it. He didn’t check on the state of his passenger. The speed would shut her up for now. His driving would shut her up for the next hour after that.

It wasn’t until they were out of the city lights that he finally let it slow back down to a crawl. Or, rather, that the car finally gave up. No amount of coaxing- no amount of manual control, really- could get it back to speed. She was tired. So was he. …Aaand he was being yelled at.

He leaned back in the seat as he retracted the blade back into his arm. He didn’t bother listening.

[saintbarou]

tags: gen reader, fluff, food mention, alcohol mention, cigarettes mention, kishibe thinks you’re the cutest thing and then some

valentine’s with kishibe….oh….

you made him chocolates, making them the night before and you almost throw them out 3 times but you concede in the end. handing the box over with shaky hands, his face remains stone cold but you fail to notice the sparkle in his eyes. his throws his cigarette onto the ground, stamping it under his boot and asks -

“these for me?” you nod and he can’t help but think how…cute you are. you’re playing with your tie and his fingers rub at the silk of the red ribbon tied around the white box you handed to him. he can’t help but think if your warmed cheeks would be as soft as the material. he even notes the neat way you wrote the characters for his name.

“y-yeah…i hope it’s not too forward or um…childish for you - i just thought it’d be nice.” he hums, opening the box with ease; even pocketing the red ribbon, tucking it carefully into the pocket of his coat right next to his flask. he pops one into his mouth, they are darker and smell stronger than usual store bought chocolate that smells powdery. they are in a simple round shape and he blinks at it smoothly melts onto his tongue.

sweet and then bitter - he likes it.

he’s never been a big fan of sweets but when he looks at the hopeful look on your face he thinks his palate might be taking a turn for everything sugary and nice.

“these are pretty good. thank you.” he drawls, rubbing his tongue onto the roof of his mouth, chasing the tails of the sweet-bitter taste he finds quite nice. you smile, so brightly it feels like he watched the sunrise.

“thank you! i didn’t think you’d be the biggest fan of sweets so i add more cocoa powder to make them like dark chocolate.” you explain, chittering brightly and he cocks his head, taking in your features. shining eyes and full cheeks, a bright smile and a kind disposition. he’s gotten quite lucky, making you his - he’s thinking about what he should do for you on white day. he looks at you from the corner of his eye before he leans in closer.

you pause, eyes widen now that he’s so close. he smells like cigarettes and his cologne - something dark and musky it makes you shiver. when he speaks you can smell the chocolate on his mouth still and it makes you swallow from his proximity.

“white day’s a month away right? find someone you like by then, i’ll buy it for you.” is all he says, iron eyes taking in your flustered state before smirking, the scar on his cheek tugging upward and you feel heartbeat race in your ribcage up to your cheek. you nod, tucking a piece of hair behind you ear.

[cappymightwrite]

I don't think Jon gonna love Dany in books if jonsa is endgame. Even if he is conflicted about his feelings for his half sister, the torment isn't suddenly going away if he would meet Dany. It's because those feelings are going to be strong. Dany is basically foil to Sansa character and even starks in general. Considering he had met people who reminded Jon of dany but in negative light going to affect his viewpoint. He had to forget everything to love her.

This is a very old ask, apologies! I'm going to attempt to catch up with a few of them, now that I've got a free weekend 😅 Anyway...

I think more and more now, I agree. They are fundamentally too different for love to grow there, certainly from Jon's side because through the characters of Stannis and Melisandre, especially, we start to get a real sense of how D*ny and Jon's politics will likely rub each other the wrong way. Death by fire is truly horrifying and it's through Jon's eyes that we see that horror firsthand:

Jon watched unblinking. He dare not appear squeamish before his brothers [...] The horn crashed amongst the logs and leaves and kindling. Within three heartbeats the whole pit was aflame. Clutching the bars of his cage with bound hands, Mance sobbed and begged. When the fire reached him he did a little dance. His screams became one long, wordless shriek of fear and pain. Within his cage, he fluttered like a burning leaf, a moth caught in a candle flame. – ADWD, Jon III

The imagery of the burning of the glamoured Mance used above goes some way to mask its real horror by describing his writhing in excruciating pain as like "a little dance," his catching on fire as like "a burning leaf" or a "moth caught in a candle flame." These are far more palatable images, small, inconsequential things to make this horror smaller too, to make it easier to withstand and to watch, unblinking. It's a very human response, on Jon's part, because how else to you go on, having witnessed something so horrifying, if you don't attempt to minimise it in some way, if only for yourself?

And this is just one person. One burning. I think you're quite right, Jon would have to erase this experience from his mind in order to love a person so cavalier with fire. And actually, even if he hadn't witnessed this, I don't think it's in his character to fall in love with D*ny, especially because Jon has also had the experience of somewhat being part of a democratic system at the Watch. I say somewhat because obviously it's flawed, but you know, they attempt to vote fairly on things, decisions aren't always down to one person. With D*ny, there is no taking a vote, it is her judgement at the end of the day and if she thinks you deserve to burn, then honey, you're burning, without any need to busy about setting up a pyre too.

I'm a Jonsa truther, but even excluding that... I think some readers are a little too happy to discount the politics of individual characters and families in favour of what would be "cool" for their fave — I'm talking about D*ny and Arya, D*ny and Arianne, getting along like besties, or just generally the idea of a Targ restoration.

You know, Ned had a very defined set of personal politics, of principles, an adherene to an "older way", and in Jon, as well as the rest of the Starklings, we see a continuation of those principles.

"King Robert has a headsman," he said, uncertainly. "He does," his father admitted. "As did the Targaryen kings before him. Yet our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die. "One day, Bran, you will be Robb's bannerman, holding a keep of your own for your brother and your king, and justice will fall to you. When that day comes, you must take no pleasure in the task, but neither must you look away. A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is." – AGOT, Bran I

Now, D*ny doesn't have a paid executioner, but like Targ kings before her, she is not the one swinging the sword either. It is her dragons who are her executioners with fire as their sword, and it makes you wonder... "a ruler who hides behind [dragons] soon forgets what death is." Contrast this with Ned and the Stark boys at the very beginning of AGOT, and then again, with Jon not only witnessing the burning of (the latter revealed to be glamoured) Mance, but also ordering archers to mercy kill him:

One arrow took Mance Rayder in the chest, one in the gut, one in the throat. The fourth struck one of the cage's wooden bars, and quivered for an instant before catching fire. A woman's sobs echoed off the Wall as the wildling king slid bonelessly to the floor of his cage, wreathed in fire. "And now his Watch is done," Jon murmured softly. Mance Rayder had been a man of the Night's Watch once, before he changed his black cloak for one slashed with bright red silk. Up on the platform, Stannis was scowling. Jon refused to meet his eyes. – ADWD, Jon III

And to bring this back round to Jonsa:

The smile that Lord Janos Slynt smiled then had all the sweetness of rancid butter. Until Jon said, "Edd, fetch me a block," and unsheathed Longclaw. – ADWD, Jon II

So... I'm sorry but, ya know, Targs and Starks, they're chalk and cheese really, and Jon is a true Stark, no matter his name or parentage. As the story progresses, D*ny is leaning more and more into the exceptionalist T*rg, fire and blood way, whereas Jon will always adhere to that "older way," a way that reveres ones duty to others, to what is fair and just, above all, and often the following of these principles comes at the cost of your own personal longings:

He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade. – ASOS, Jon XII Jon said, "Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa." – ADWD, Jon IV

You're right, D*ny and the T*rgs are very much foils to the Starks and we know how much Jon loves the Starks through his execution of Janos Slynt (who took part in Ned's execution), his defence of Sansa's inheritance, he striving to save (who he believes to be) Arya etc., etc. D*ny could be the messiah with bells on and even then she wouldn't come out on top over Jon's loyalty to and love of the Starks. It's just in him, deep in the very marrow of him:

"[...] you must do what needs be done," Qhorin Halfhand said. "You are the blood of Winterfell and a man of the Night's Watch." – ACOK, Jon VI

Jon knows who he is in the sense that he knows what kind of man he is, what kind of man he hopes to be (one like Ned). A lot of people have fallen under D*ny's dragon goddess spell, both in the books and outside of them, but I don't think Jon is going to be one of them.

Thanks for the ask and apologies for taking so long to answer it!

[xluciifer]

The room envelopes in silence, dawn reaches the peak but nightfall always resides here, with a faint glimmer of hope through a single candle light. It's been days. He knows it too from the dryness of his mouth and the rumbles in his stomach.

Oh heavenly Father, for you had forsaken thou retribution in the form of an eternal damnation. But his eyes had been blanketed in recognizing the playing field God had actually bestowed him.

His mind dwindles, his heartbeat's faint and the rage lives on as an inferno inside his ribcage. He's tired but he can't sleep, he's restless and stagnant; all the things he wishes not to continue being.

The pitter patter of fingers paced in tune against the wood, a daunting, mind numbing sound. He grew tired.

It's been days.

Claws finally dug trenches into the oak, no longer standing the sound of his own breathing filling the same air. His breath grew labored, scleras split into inverts as tearful eyes led towards the window.

The clock struck, echoing the walls. It's time.

For you see, dear Lucifer. Hell was never given to thy station as a guised prison. Far from! It was a palatable paradise to unleash thy resentment and rage! Sin! Just have you done once before in Heaven down below in the hell spawn invested waters you soak in! Cleanse thyself in the havoc of blood and gore!

Maybe then, God will allow entry once more.

Delusion on top of delusion, his mental state shattered; the voices won their long term game over possession of the once innocent as he unleashed his demon form and sprint like a sonic wave, battering the window in his wake.

Be forewarned, sinners.

The King has finally come to pay thy daily bread in BLOOD.

[spicywarl0ck]

Hi Spicy!!! How about some Pavelyan or Pavellan today (or any other pair that inspires you!): “I told you, you would eventually start begging.” -from Smutty prompts

Happy Friday, and thank you so much for the prompt! This took me two fridays to finish, because I got carried away with it. I had so much fun writing this for @dadrunkwriting, so thank you x3 Pairing: Dorian Pavus/mLavellan Rating: E Length: 2129

The rush of air felt cold against his flushed cheeks.

He heard the soft splashing of the nearby well, the sound comforting in contrast with the noise inside. Just a moment for himself was all he needed, a moment of calmness after dealing with too many politicians and murder plots.

Revassan took a deep breath, inhaling the soft scents of the exotic flowers around him. 

“Ah, and there I wondered where the hero of the evening went. I figured I’d find you here.” Dorian’s voice made him smile on the spot. It had been hard to find even a minute for themselves with everything going on. They’d only been able to squeeze in one tiny dance on the balcony.

“You always seem to sense where to find me,” Revassan smirked at the mage. “I’d almost say you keep a magical tracker on me.”

“Maybe I do.” He watched the eyes of the Altus glinting slightly, his lips stretching into a mischievous smirk. “We Tevinter mages are rather good at keeping track of our elves.” Dorian joked. “Wouldn’t want them to run away and develop free will, right?” he teased. 

“Ah, I knew there was a catch.” The elf chuckled, observing as Dorian's expression softened. “I take it you came to fetch me then?” 

“Actually, I wanted to steal a moment with you.” Dorian presented him with the bottle of wine he’d held behind his back. “What could be nicer than a picnic in Celene’s gardens right?” 

“And also her wine, I assume?” 

“Of course.” The mage gestured him toward the stone frame of the well. He would never get dirt onto his outfit. “But to soothe your conscience, I asked very politely,” Dorian added swiftly.

“Aren’t you always?” Revassan chuckled as he graciously sat next to the Tevinter mage. “I’m impressed.”

“As you should be.” By the creators, he loved this cocky man. He’s tried to withstand his charms at first but fell for him sooner than expected. Now, he was caught in his trap, unable to let go of the magnificent man that Dorian Pavus was.

“I see you’re very humble tonight.” Revassan teased, watching as Dorian conjured two drinking cups up before he filled them with the sweet red liquid.

“Of course I am.” Dorian’s mustache moved with his smile. “I am the humblest man you’ll ever meet,” he added, only his eyes betraying his words and calling his tease out. By now, Revassan was more than capable of reading this man.

It took him a while to see the vulnerability of Dorian, but he’d taken a deep understanding after meeting his father in Redcliffe.

“Thank you for sneaking the wine out.” Revassan’s smile was genuine. “I needed it,” he added. The past evening had been a lot, and he hadn’t been sure how to deal with political situations. His people didn’t really meddle in things like that, the conclave being the only exception he witnessed. 

If he was honest, it was surprising that they listened to a Dalish elf. 

“I know.” Dorian’s voice sounded soft when he spoke. “You’re not ballroom material,” he added, the tease evident in his voice. “For me, it’s like coming home.” His gaze drifted away for a heartbeat, the corners of his lips dropping slightly.

“Do you miss it?” 

“Home? Of course. Tevinter might have his flaws, but it’s still my home. Don’t you miss your Clan?” he replied, taking a thoughtful sip of wine as he let it dance on his palate. “Hm, I have to say not bad, but nothing could beat a Tevinter Redwine.”

“I miss them.” A sad smile danced on Revassan’s lips. “I miss them ever since I left. Funny, isn’t it?” he chuckled.

“I always wanted to leave, but now that I am so far away from them, I can’t help but want to go back.” It wasn’t as if he could or would, to begin with. There had been nothing more he wanted but to go back when he woke up in the dungeon in Haven. But he knew there was no turning back now.

He’d come too far for that. 

Also, there was Dorian. He wasn’t sure if his father would approve of a Tevinter Altus, meaning he’d need to make a choice sooner or later. For now, though, he didn’t want to choose.

“We always miss the things we can’t have. Or so they say.” The mage’s face turned firm, his eyes studying him intensely.

“I told myself I won’t compromise myself anymore.” He set the cup aside before his hand stretched to touch Revassan’s cheek. The elf felt the cold metal of Dorian’s rings pressing against his skin, the touch soothing against his wine-heated cheeks.

“Neither should you.”

Revassan couldn’t say who initiated it, maybe both of them, but he didn’t care much about the hows and who’s as he melted contently into the kiss. Dorian always knew what he needed, the sweet taste of Orlesian wine lingering on his lips.

He got lost in the touch, slightly shuddering against the mage’s palm cupping his cheek. 

It was easy to forget everything around them as he closed his eyes, just enjoying the moment and closeness of the other man against him as neither wanted to withdraw.

“Getting a little excited?” Dorian chuckled against his lips as he felt him shiver

He didn’t even give him a chance to answer until his tongue brushed against his lips, gently asking for entrance before slipping in. This bastard knew all too well what he did to him. Revassan melted in his arms as his whimpers were muffled by the invading tongue exploring his mouth.

An unbearable heat began to claim his body, yet he also shivered as he felt the chilly breeze.

All he felt was the body pressing against him and the tongue moving inside his mouth. A hand pressed against his lower back, drawing him closer while the mage ravaged every corner of his mouth, leaving him wanting more.

“Dorian~” his voice got muffled against his devouring lips, and he wasn’t sure if he had spoken or just uttered the altus’s name in his head. It didn’t really matter.

“You’re shivering.” The smug reply indicated that Dorian heard him after all. “Oh, but you’re also so aroused right now. I can feel it,” he added, luring a groan out of the elf’s lips as their pelvises touched.

“So are you.” Revassan teased before a rushed breath escaped him when Dorian pushed him further against one of the walls surrounding the gardens.

“I am always excited for you, Amatus,” he whispered against his ear, his tongue darting over the pointed tips and making him moan hoarsely. Revassan tried to hold back, but he couldn’t betray the want in his voice.

Creators, he wanted this man, and he wanted him now.

“We can’t.” The elf tried to protest still, fighting a battle against his wine and lust-filled brain. He wanted to do nothing more but to be ravaged by the tevinter mage, no matter the place or the time. 

“I can tell you don’t mean what you say.” Dorian chuckled, his lips still too close to his sensitive ears. 

He dragged his tongue all over the tip, causing Revassan’s fingers to curl into his tunic tightly. A strangled moan escaped him as he tilted his head to the side, giving the impossible man more access to his ear and neck.

“I guess I have to make you beg for it then. We both know you will.” 

It was both a threat and a promise. Dorian always managed to bring him to that point, and Revassan was sure the Altus would manage this time, too. No matter if they were in the Empress's gardens or not.

A part of him needed to admit that the thought excited him a bit.

“What if someone sees us?” The elf asked, even though the chance added to the thrill. He knew the corner that Dorian was dark enough that no one would see for real, but just the implication of it would serve the nobles enough topics to gossip about.

“Are you truly caring about that?” Dorian’s voice was husky, but Revassan knew he only needed to say the word, and he’d stop.

“I leave that to you to find out.” Revassan teased him, only to moan as quietly as he could when he felt Dorian’s teeth scrapping against the sensitive skin of his ears.

One hand slowly snaked towards his crotch, brushing against his bulge innocently enough to play it off accidentally. But he knew it wasn’t. He couldn’t help but press against the hand, secretly yearning for more as the mage’s lips and teeth drove him insane in such a short amount of time.

“Dorian…~” he whimpered as the Altus kissed his way to his earlobe, only to continue at his neck. 

His hips couldn’t help but move against the hand cupping his erection, but he was too proud to beg. He wouldn’t give in to Dorian’s demands that quickly, but he also couldn’t help the dizziness rushing through him. It probably was the mixture of the blood flow and the wine. 

“I love it when you moan my name like this, Amatus.” The cocky mage whispered against his heated skin.

His lips left marks where they touched him as his hand slowly vanished within the elf’s trousers. They were so close to the goal as they stretched over the smooth skin above his hard cock, the touch so very teasing as Revassan wanted nothing more but to be touched.

But Dorian wouldn’t give him what he wanted. Not just like that.

“You’re such a… a prick.” Revassan stuttered out, his brain unable to focus on anything but the heat and the throbbing pulse of his cock.

“I am, but admit it, You love me for it.” Dorian chuckled against his neck, leaving another mark behind after sucking the sensitive skin. Revassan felt every tooth dragging over his skin and the soft sensation of the mage’s lips as it pressed right against him.

But Dorian was right. He loved this man more than anyone else.

“Dorian…” a moan broke past the elf’s lips again, his hips grinding wantonly against the hand touching anything but his throbbing cock. “Pl… Please.” he gave in and fought his pride, not caring if anyone would see them.

All that he wanted was Dorian.

“I told you. You would eventually start begging.” The altus chuckled just as his hand traveled lover to wrap around Revassan’s cock. “It’s alright,” he added in a soothing voice as the elf moaned underneath his touch, his fingers curling firmly into his clothes. 

“I take care of you,” Dorian promised softly, his hand never ceasing its pumping motion as it dragged up and down on the pulsing shaft. 

It drove him insane. Both the sensation and the knowledge of being jerked off in the Empresse’s gardens were too much. He didn’t know what to think since all his thoughts became a heated blur, his hips thrusting into his lover’s hands on their own. 

It didn’t matter anymore where they were or what they did. All that mattered was that Revassan was here and the heat rushing through him, wanting more. And what he wanted right now was to find release within his lover’s hands.

“I’m close.” he moaned, his forest green eyes hooded and foggy when he tried to make eye contact.

“Then come for me, Amatus,” Dorian answered, his voice hoarse since he couldn’t hide his own desire. “Come,” he added in a whisper, his lips gently sucking at the tip of Revassan’s pointed ear as his hand kept a firm grip on his cock.

He didn’t budge when the elf found his release within his hand, hips stuttering as he made a small mess.

For a moment, he felt shaky. Only the body of his lover could keep Revassan from falling onto the ground as his heart rate went up. He almost felt like he was bursting, and everything around him was a blur.

But he felt Dorian’s warmth and strength as it held him, the mage’s aftershave so prominent in his nostrils.

Revassan could’ve fallen asleep but forced himself to regain a clear head. No one was around them, just the two of them sharing a heated embrace as the elf slowly came to his senses.

“What about you?” he asked hoarsely as one of his hands softly brushed questionably against Dorian’s bulge. 

“How about we join the party for now, and you repay me after we retire to our quarters?” The altus whispered against his ear, cleaning his hand with a handy spell and giving Revassan a moment to make himself decent again.

“You think anyone can lend us any silk shawls?” 

[ntls-24722]

What I think is extremely funny is that this transformation went mostly unnoticed up until the very end because a lot of the changes were very... Fritz. He was literally already enough of a freak of nature that when he DID become one, no-one noticed until they pulled up old photos of him.

Like - "You're telling me he's roaming the woods in the middle of the night, eating carrion and rotting meat, and you watched him crush bone between his teeth? Yeaaah, that's Fritz, he's a freak."

But anyways,

When Comet died, he was left without a source of protection. He's already grieving the loss of her, but now there is the problem that he actually is vulnerable and in danger without a giant spider to keep him company - they spent their whole lives dismantling an extremely powerful company that creates murder machines both un-and-in-tentionally. Fritz and Comet had an entire species and incredibly powerful billionares as opps for over 15 years, and Comet, the 80-ton murder spider on his side, is now dead. He is scared and sad, and one of the things he is scared to do is sleep.

The way Comet was at his side as they slept had an almost hypnotic effect (because of how big Comet's heart was, her heartbeat was constantly audible and as they slept, Fritz's own heartbeat matched up with what was a very slow one) that made the both of them feel incredibly safe and without her he's both scared for his life and without that easy crutch for calming down. Comet was placed in the starfall (I have NO damn clue as to how) and once while visiting her, he spends too long and sleeps beside her.

It is the first time he sleeps well in weeks.

Chasing that, he keeps visiting and sleeping by her side or inside her as the soft tissue begins to disappear, and because of the prolonged exposure, he begins to adapt as a member of the starfall ecosystem. His stomach becomes stronger and the smell/taste of rotting meat, something he used to hate, begins to be more palatable, and he's sensitive to even just the sound that her body produces with the wind, which is rather similar to organ pipes.

If it wasn't hard enough to cope with the loss of the love of your life, it's even harder when the love of your life is slowly becoming your ideal environment from her grave! The worst part is is that he struggles to stop visiting her because he likes the change. Because of this, he's 90 with the dexterity and general energy that he had 50 years ago, and the fact he's changing at all makes him feel like Comet is still with him. The fact that despite her death, she's still affecting him and changing him in the way he can see her effects on him, he can feel her effects on him, with his fingertips and in his head. He doesn't see them as effects or biproducts or circumstance radiating from her,

He sees the changes like it's her right there.

[livums]

a means of ensuring order. {🌹}

Hi again! I capitalized on some free time (shocker) and tried my hand at writing an event from the beginning of Demigods from Nysa's POV! I think I like it??? So... great!

Anyways, enjoy!

Featuring:

Princess Nyséan (ny-SHAWN)

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

(tag, DM, reply, or fill out this google form to be added/removed from taglists)

General taglist: @enchanted-lightning-aes @outpost51

The Romance of the Demigods taglist: @aalinaaaaaa @sarahlizziewrites @thecrookedwriterspath @inkspellangel @crystal-librarian @hallwriteblr @bluberimufim

The first time the Church tried to kill her, Nyséan did not know how to respond. So, she told no one, and went about her evening. No one had ever before, to her knowledge, made an attempt on her life. Nyséan had long known that there was no great fondness for her among the peers of the realm. When her back was turned, they would call her things like ‘standoffish’ and ‘curt’. This was no slander, for she rarely employed the pleasantries or the delicate tricks of speech required by one of her station—damn near the highest station in the realm. Naturally, popularity eluded her. But this was not the offense for which she would be murdered.

From a plush chair—the perch to which she’d fled after that first sip—Nyséan eyed the cup of apple cider. It rested innocently on the tea table across the length of the drawing room. Candles burned ever lower in their sconces, and Nyséan did not take her eyes off the cup. The taste of the drink stained her tongue and her palate—far too sweet. Something sinister and bitter lurked beneath the sugar. Or, perhaps it was not at all so. Perhaps, in her vigilance, she had imagined the change in taste. Perhaps her recent conversation with the Archbishop had set her senses on edge. But Nyséan devoted her scarce-given trust to her own intuition above all else. She performed the same routine nightly—a stroll in the gardens, an hour in the library (after a concerned word from Father, she restricted herself in this regard), and, after dressing for bed, taking a sweet drink of the season in her drawing room while she composed, relaxed, or more likely, fretted. Without fail, it was so. So tonight, when the first taste of the cider had kissed her tongue and coated it with something so slightly different, she had spat it back into the cup without hesitation. Now, hardly realizing, Nyséan pulled her knees up to her chest, letting the chair cradle her and her gown swaddle her in its volume. Her mind raced in tandem with her heartbeat. When she tried desperately to recall the past moon or so, her memory would yield only thoughts of the Archbishop, of Father, and, naturally, of the Hierophant.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Father had summoned her just after Midsummer. The perfect opportunity, she thought, to convince him of the Church’s ill guidance. It made her uneasy how, this year, the palace had only sparsely been decorated in the typical fashion, in the artisanal goods set out to please the Queen of the Earth, and the King of the Sky. Nyséan had not seen a single soul scattering family ashes, even. She wondered if the Earth and Sky took note. She wondered if they cared, anymore. It turned her stomach. The night before, she had witnessed a mere smattering of dances and fires, desperate to catch on in the heavy and solemn aura of the Church and its clergy. They’d not mandated a thing—not by official means. Even so, Nyséan could feel the power of the Host’s influence. It was evident in the way that the bonfires died shortly after sunset, in the way that the quiet singing and strumming of their priests took the place of the unabashed celebration of the peers, the servants, and other commonfolk. No true celebration of Midsummer. More and more of the nobility were electing to attend the sanctuaries instead, anyway. The Church of the Sonnelic Host, those who held to the so-called New Way—to them, the day was known as Second Apsidia. It was, like First Apsidia in the year’s earliest moons, a time of contemplation in honor of their god-of-gods, the very sun in the Sky. Or, rather, the sun in the Stellar Stratum, for it—or “He”—was much too great a god to be contained in something as small as the Sky. A scant three or four years ago, Nyséan recalled, the New Way faithful would hole themselves up in their sanctuaries and leave well enough alone. Now, it was simply not so. Thusly had Nyséan’s thoughts had been clouded as she drifted through the ashen stone corridors of the royal palace.

Before turning a final corner, she was halted by her reflection in a tall, slender mirror hung upon the wall. Nestled among paintings large and small, landscapes and portraits, she beheld her own self. Dark eyes were set amid twin clouds of pale skin that brushed over her temples, her cheekbones. Against her warm brown skin, the contrast was stark. Similar pearly nebulae crested above her neckline, along the span of her clavicle and her shoulders left unobscured by her gown. Her spine straightened itself as her impassive eyes trailed lower. Behind her, the dark coils of her hair that swished and billowed when she walked now hovered still about her shoulders. Her soft hands, clasped together loosely in front of her, were more richly dappled by the pale skin than some other parts of her body. Past the second knuckle, her fingers were almost entirely without pigment. ‘Moon-kissed’ was perhaps the kindest thing anyone had ever said of her. Anyone aside from Father—he had long been her only ally. But she could feel this changing more and more every day. A pair of house guards stood attendant at the doorway to his antechamber, deep in the embrace of the keep. At her approach, they parted the doors without delay. Aside from his most longstanding and familiar servants, only two people were allowed anymore into the King’s rooms: his daughter, and his physician. So, when Nyséan saw the Archbishop of the Host in her father’s sitting room, she was horrified. The woman rose from her chair with a startling youthful fluidity. She was tall. A sheer curtain of hair the color of platinum parted at the middle to frame a white and smiling face. The hair shimmered as her ivory-colored robes did, flowing like water when she moved—and sometimes when she didn’t. The Archbishop curtseyed deeper than necessary for one of her standing. To Nyséan, it was yet another layer of grotesquerie. “Your Highness.” The pale woman straightened to her full and eerie height. She looked rather like a bird, tilting its head to inspect something edible. “You honor this servant with your audience.” Nyséan felt her nails dig into the skin of her hand. Her response was quick, and clipped: “I came because my father called. No one told me that we would be joined by a guest.” “You wouldn’t have come if I had,” rasped the King. Nyséan turned her head with some reluctance to regard her father. Someone had helped him into his wheeled seat—Nyséan blessed the soul who had first devised such a contraption—and he had positioned it across the sleek low table from the Archbishop. The brown of King Hasteor’s skin had faded even lighter in recent years, and fatigue seemed to burden his eyes no matter how long he rested in bed. It did uncomfortable things to her stomach, seeing him so. She hadn’t seen much of him at all, these past moons. And the less she saw of him, the more she dreaded laying eyes on him again. And the more her dread mounted, the more she found herself avoiding his presence. She hated herself for it. Her father went on, in that voice that had dimmed as his illness had advanced: “Actira, you must forgive the princess. Although—“ He raised a hand, and gestured toward his daughter. “I’ve not seen nearly this much expression on her face in years. You have my gratitude.” His upper lip, concealed by a beard barely graying, coaxed the rest of his face into a smile. Despite the humor in his mien, his directives brokered no argument. He pointed to a third seat, a sofa. “Nyséan. Sit.”

Nyséan realized that she had stopped dead at the threshold between the antechamber and the sitting room. A stilted gait carried her forward, one reluctant foot after another. Her eyes did not once stray from the Archbishop’s face. They hovered on the woman’s nose (dainty, small) and mouth (wide. Smile unending). The instant Nyséan felt the seat cushion beneath her, the Archbishop was re-perching on her own chair. A ripple coursed down her robes, leaving subtle, cascading twinkles as it went. “I will explain my intentions.” The Archbishop arranged her hands upon her lap in a manner most formal, but Nyséan espied a giddy anticipation in the way that they moved. Where her father was drained of energy, the Archbishop overflowed with it. “Your Highness is a woman of a great many virtues and admirable qualities, as you yourself must certainly be aware.” Nyséan was not aware. The woman went on anyway: “And your future—the future of the realm—would of no doubt be chief among Your Highness’s worries. This, of course, is the mark of a truly extraordinary ruler-to-be—we subjects of the realm are terribly fortunate—“ Nyséan had stopped listening. “You’re explaining nothing,” she said. The Archbishop took in a breath to continue—she had either been perfectly prepared for the princess to interrupt her, or she did not care at all—but before she could speak, Father interjected. “The Hierophant.” The strength in her father’s voice surprised Nyséan, but it was quick to soften. It was as if he had cut in before realizing exactly what it was that he wanted to say. “Twenty-three… You are well of an age… The good Archbishop and I have been in talks…” Nyséan’s stare was blank. Father finally found the words. “It would be of great benefit to the realm,” he said, gently, “if you and the Sonnelic Hierophant were to wed.” She waited, and said nothing. He spoke the truth of the matter. “You and the Hierophant will be betrothed.”

Nyséan blinked. “No.” The Archbishop leaned forward, her flowery, gushing language at the ready. “His Radiance is amenable to—“ “No.” “Nyséan—“ “He is enthusiastic to meet—“ “I said no!” The shout tore desperately out of her body, which jolted in its wake. The sound of it lanced like lightning through the quiet grace of the opulent sitting room. It was dizzying, the grave understanding that wrapped its slow and steady talons about her torso. Nyséan felt her breath shorten. A delicate silence followed. Nyséan’s wide eyes were pointed downward, at her trembling hands. She did not look up at the King. She knew that she would only see him avoiding her gaze if she did. The Archbishop was the first to speak again. Softly, as if consoling a small child or a frightened animal: “If Your Highness would consider seeing him, speaking with him,” she said. “I believe you will find His Radiance most appealing.” Ignoring her, Nyséan finally turned to the King with entreaty. “But you said—“ “Nyséan, the realm…” His tone mirrored the Archbishop’s. She hated it. “Brennenhaugh is rapidly approaching unrest—Old Way, New Way…” At this, Nyséan heard the Archbishop snort. “When I am gone, you will be without a means of ensuring order. I refuse to burden you with a kingdom in crisis. The good Archbishop graciously furnishes us with a solution.” Nyséan heard beneath the King’s words a truth that he may or may not have intended: If people liked you more, it might not have come to this. Helplessly, she repeated herself: “But you said.” “Meet the young man, Nyséan.” A sudden fury drove her off the sofa. Standing, Nyséan turned to regard the wispy Archbishop. She jabbed a finger in the woman’s direction. The interloper was unperturbed. “Keep yourself and your faithful away from my father,” Nyséan hissed. “I won’t let you take advantage of him any more than you already—” “Nyséan!” The King must have exhausted much of his strength in the one bellow, for he deflated gradually as he spoke on: “My wits are not gone just yet. This is a decision I make in sound mind.” Despite his diminishing volume, Nyséan could not mistake the resolve there.

She fixed her anger on him. “Before, you would have been the first to say that it’s a fool who slights the Fae-Gods. What do you think this is?” “This is in your best interest. I need you to understand this. I thought—“ He hesitated, and the last remnants of sternness in his voice were no more. “Nyséan, I thought I would have more time to set this kingdom right for you.” She said nothing. She had no choice—something too big for words was trying to fight its way into language. But it was in vain. It was all Nyséan could do to keep herself standing. “The Church holds more influence in the realm with every passing day. This is all that I can do for you, now.” Her mouth hung open, desperate for the words to come. They did not. She shook her head. Nyséan did not move again until the Archbishop spoke. “As I endeavored to mention…” Her voice might have soothed a thousand serpents. “…His Radiance desires to arrange a meeting. You will find that he is nothing sort of…” Nyséan stopped hearing the woman. The words were far away, taunting her. Mute, she turned her back on the Archbishop, and the King, and left the sitting room. Distantly, she could hear the woman speaking to him with urgency. The hurried shuffling of cloth, and the telltale tapping of shoes on sleek stone tiles followed behind. “Your Highness!” Nyséan did not stop moving through the antechamber, towards the outer doors that would release her back into the corridors of the keep. The Archbishop, on her long and presumably spindly legs, soon fell into step with her.

“His Radiance has expressed to me that he wishes so ardently to meet you,” she said. “I’ve watched over him since he was a babe, Your Highness. He will make a strong and loving husband.” The Archbishop leaned in then, as if the two of them were sharing a joke. Nyséan kept her eyes forward. “And he is quite handsome—” Pivoting on her heel, Nyséan whirled on the Archbishop. Words grew hot in her mouth, and she spat them at the woman. “Tell your prophet I’d sooner leap from a balcony—or slit my skin—or swallow poison than hand your Church the reins to my kingdom.” The Archbishop receded coolly to her full height. Not once did her demeanor waver, but Nyséan saw—or perhaps appended to the memory upon reflection—the slightest tightening of the woman’s smile. After a moment, the Archbishop dipped into another curtsey. “Your Highness.” She turned and walked serenely back the way she had come.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

It had not been Nyséan’s intention to give the Church any ideas. Yet before her sat the fruit of their inspiration—a poisoned cup. A princess who should be dead. She was eventually able to unfurl herself and approach the cider. Peering into it, it appeared perfectly normal. She leaned forward to sniff at it, then stopped herself abruptly. What sort of death had the Church designed for her? Would it have been gentle, as sleeping? A burning fever? Violent, bloody, choking agony? There were a seemingly infinite abundance of rules by which Nyséan knew she, as princess of the realm, must abide. Many were enshrined in law. Many had been passed down to her through the King’s patient guidance. And still many more were the unspoken, the invisible, those which were just Known. It was these that she so often failed—these courteous tools, these sleights of the tongue. The more she grasped at them, the more they eluded her understanding. After a time, this ceased to frustrate her, and continued to frustrate everyone else. But now, Nyséan found herself wondering whether or not a more thorough knowledge of these rules might have been useful, for she was beginning to realize that she did not know how to react in the wake of an assassination attempt. First, she paced about the perimeter of her drawing room. This way and that, minute after minute after minute. Next, she opened the door that led back into the keep. A house guard stood at attention on either side of the doorway, as was typical. For the first time, Nyséan eyed their faces. If they paid her any mind, they did not show it. She soon retreated. Then, she took the cup in trembling hand and flung the cider out a window. And, well, after that, what more could be done? Had she drank the poison and died, it was perfectly reasonable that no one would find her until morning’s light. She could see little point in disrupting the remainder of her nighttime routine. Nyséan returned to her original seat—her desk chair. By waning candlelight, she continued to write, and pretended to be dead for a while.

[ladyofcrowsandcoffee]

Red Wine and Pining

Clairice belongs to the lovely @barbwillbrb I'm so glad she enjoys this Tav ship as much as I do.

Sunrise had slowly illuminated the camp and Isadora was already fighting the siren song of curling back in her bedroll. She was sitting on one of the logs Karlach brought back a few days ago after the last ones became cinders. Camp was lively despite Isa's groggy state as Gale chopped ingredients, Scratch played fetch, and Lae'zel sharpened her sword on the wheel grinder. She didn't notice Clairice sneaking up behind her.

Clairice wrapped her arms around Isa's shoulders. Isa leaned back enjoying the warmth of her skin and the subtle notes of cologne dancing around her every move. The mix of juniper, amberwood, nutmeg, and what Isa swore was vanilla fit Clairice perfectly. Sure the cologne was stolen from someone but that didn't matter in the strange moments like this. Clairice finally let go and curled up next to her. The sunlight was hitting at the perfect angle to make Clairice's eyes look like blue topazes. Gods she was gorgeous. Clairice smirked. Shit I spaced out and was staring at her face again. She wasn't sure who but someone started brewing coffee as the dripping sound blocked out most of the background noise. The only other thing she heard was Clairice's heartbeat and occasional humming.

By time Rackal brought two empty mugs and the serving pot over the two of them were pushing the definition of personal space. He said nothing but did raise an eyebrow at Isa. She looked to make sure her shirt wasn't inside out or missing entirely before realizing she likely was glaring daggers for a split second. The items were set on the stump that was the closest to a table they'd get in the wilderness.

"Sit tight princess gotta make your elixir of life palatable," Clairice said, pulling out a bottle with a dark purple syrup.

Isadora watched as Clairice altered the coffee with the syrup and felt a heat rush to her face with the bottle trick. Maybe it was a delayed response to being called princess or even the fact she remembered the time Isa mentioned how much she missed lavender lattes.

"Careful those skills would make any bar resort to sketchy means to have you. I'd have to rescue you,"she giggled and took the mug from her hands.

"Princess I'd be fired before you even got your boots on. Besides they'd definitely prefer having someone pretty just sitting there. I'd have to check pockets of course for your safety, no other motives," Clairice said.

Isadora sipped on coffee and smiled. While it wasn't a latte it had the right flavors to hit the spot. She closed her eyes letting the aroma take her and for a moment she was back in the little cafe right on the border of the upper and lower city. The ping of a metal pin coming loose made her finish her coffee before the braided bun decided to fall.

Later in the day Isadora, Karlach, Astarion, and Shadowheart were rushing back from meeting with a lead that went south. The lead decided to call Isadora princess after her warning of call me that again if you want to get hit. Shadowheart teased her with oh I thought you liked being called princess on the way back. At the least it would get the wine stockpile enough to fuel a noble's hedonistic party for our troubles. During the fight that broke out Isa's magic had a surge that took out the last pins she had for her buns. She was more upset over the pins breaking than the bad information they received. By time they reached camp her buns had fallen and unraveled.

She sulked a bit to her tent to figure out an alternative style. Her hands quickly worked to remove the twin braids. Isadora hummed as she took a comb through her hair. Maybe a five strand braid, reverse fishtail braid or a cage braid. The sounds of alcohol bottles being opened momentarily distracted her from the sectioning of her hair. About half way through the five strand braid Clairice slinked in drink in hand.

"Want a sip? I found everything to make a cocktail."

"Only if I don't have to let go of my sectioning,"she said, her fingers nimbly moving the entire time.

"Would you like me to play with your hair? I might end up pulling it Princess," she said playfully.

" Oh isal nikym that just means my hair is in very capable dexterous hands," she leaned closer to Clairice as she spoke.

Clairice placed the fingers of her free hand onto Isa's where the sections were held apart. Isadora took the cocktail from her other hand and took a sip. While it was technically a cocktail it was mostly alcohol with a bit of sweet lemon syrup. She wasn't sure why she expected anything different. Clairice wasn't even braiding her hair just playing with it. Her touch was surprisingly light even when she brushed against her ears. Every touch of Clairice's fingers along her ears sent a shiver down her spine.

"How much of your drink can I steal?"

" Enough for a shot princess. I'll make us more unless you want a sweet red wine," she smirked as she finished unbraiding her hair.

" I can handle my liquor. You were supposed to braid it," she took another sip of the drink pouting slightly.

" Let your hair down at least for tonight it looks amazing when free.You're a sorcerer by time a hypothetical enemy from an ambush reaches you we have bigger issues as it means Rackal and Karlach are downed,"she said gesturing towards the tent flaps.

Something about her glance in the mirror intrigued Isa as for a split second there was something she couldn't place. Isadora stood up and leaned on Clairice's shoulder momentarily while she maneuvered around that one annoying spot where the pole always tried giving her a concussion regardless of the height she set it to. On her way out she failed to notice one of her fingers as it brushed along Clairice's jawline. Isa followed Clairice to where Rackal and a few others had made a makeshift bar. She sat down and chugged the drink making sure to leave a shot for Clairice.

"You're seriously trusting Clairice to be your bartender," Rackal said, sounding as if he was delivering a warning.

"I can hold my liquor and plan to keep up with her. Besides, what's the worst that can happen?"

Rackal looked as if was reliving a near death experience before he responded, "At least drink water if you're going trust her to bartend."

"I've never gotten you killed from mixing drinks," Clairice said, mixing together a new drink.

Isa looked down at the cup in her hand with lipstick smudged on the rim. Fuck I probably look a mess if it's smudging like this.

"Clairice, do you want a new cup? My lipstick is all over this one."

" Thought it was smudge proof," she said, handing the cup to Isa.

" Well I'm sorry I lacked a way to test it when I bought it. I'll bring you next time and make sure you're wearing your lightest colored top. Just don't blame me when you get lipstick stains you can't get out of the collar."

Wyll almost choked on his wine as he laughed. Clairice froze momentarily then focused on the drink she was pouring. She handed the almost empty cup to Clairice. That sounded better in my head. The drink Clairice made this time was even stronger and what Isadora assumed was whiskey hit the back of her throat. About three maybe four drinks later Isa snapped her fingers together summoning a magical box that could play music. The box had a rainbow of colors pulsing to the beat of the music. She wiggled her nose and made it start playing an upbeat song from a bard group she saw live what felt like an eternity ago.

"That's fucking amazing soldier," Karlach said poking it with her hand.

" Going to put me and Alfira out a job princess."

" I could never do that isal nikym. It's easier than using the tadpole. But it's fickle magic that only I can create. Also let's everyone add to it."

She sipped on her drink as Karlach was roping people into dancing. Three songs later a song she hadn't thought of in ages played. Gods last time I heard this I was dancing on the bar. She briefly thought of dragging Clairice into a seedy dive bar then pulling her on top of the bar top and pulling her into a kiss afterwards. Before she could blush she shoved that idea to the back of her mind praying it would vaporize. I'm just reading too much into everything she does, touched starved, and anyone can see she's attractive.

Clairice was leaned against a log occasionally stealing glances at Isa. You know what fuck it. She jumped up and motioned for Clairice to follow her. She downed the last bit of her drink and followed Isa.

"Are you stealing me to go to your tent? You can at least get me dinner if you are," Clairice said playfully.

"Just follow my movements and don't trip me. I'd hate to end up needing healing because the rogue lied about their musical skills and couldn't find the beat."

Stop picturing her in her bra and boxers on your bedroll you're just friends even if that was the first thought to pop into your brain. She led Clairice to a spot by the fire and swayed her hips. Isadora kept going by tapping her right heel then left one. Clairice's eyes held an intense gaze as they wandered up and down her body. She flipped her hair before sliding to the right. Once she hit the spot she dropped low while rolling her hips. Clairice took a deep breath as if she was gathering her thoughts before she followed along. Occasionally Clairice would bump a hip into Isa pretending it was an accident feigning innocence. Neither of them noticed Shadowheart and Astarion starting a betting pool. The music changed as Karlach figured out how to add music to the box.

Isa grabbed water and hit it with an ice spell before taking a sip. She sat by Karlach, Rackal, and Wyll who were playing a card game. Shadowheart's laugh echoed across camp at something Clairice said. She wasn't sure how much time had passed between the red wine she had gotten into and multiple rounds of a card game she wasn't sure she was playing correctly. While she could still walk a mostly straight line her brain had turned the flirty demeanor up to a ten and Clairice was a frequent spector in her thoughts.

" So what does isal nikym even mean you call Clairice it all the time," Wyll asked why shuffling the deck.

"If you literally translate it means honey dagger. More accurately it means honeysuckle or honey flower. It fits her as she's fairly resistant to both frost and fire just like the plant Plus she's gotten hit by my magic in combat for both elements. Haven't figured out nicknames for the rest of camp," she said trying to hide how nervous this made her.

"That's a sweet reason for a nickname," Wyll said, dealing the next round.

"I wasn't trying to be sweet, I'm just bad at nicknames. She calls me princess. I had to come up with a nickname for our banter or it would get weird," she said, crossing her arms.

"Are you certain that's the only reason for the nickname, " Rackal said his tone trying to nudge her into something what she wasn't exactly sure of.

"As sure as my winning streak has been against you. Sure she's hot but so is 99 percent of camp anyone with eyes could tell you that. You just want me distracted this round," she took a sip out of the wine bottle she was nursing.

Rackal rolled his eyes and gave a look of keep lying I'm just not going to pry more. Was he prying on Clairice's behalf ? There's no way I'm even in her radar, the only explanation is we're all just drunk teasing each other. When cards devolved into Karlach just laughing at everything she went to find a new spot. Her eyes immediately found Clairice by the fire. The gremlin part of her brain made a decision before any other part could tell her this was a horrible idea.

She walked directly to Clairice with a determination she wouldn't have had even two drinks ago. Isadora placed her left knee between both of Clairice's legs, her right on the other side of one leg, and leaned in close to her. Clairice was studying her face, unsure what exactly to expect from Isa. Her left hand rested on Clairice's muscular thigh tracing small circles with her fingertips.

" Was this a condition of losing cards?"

" Absolutely not, I'm here of my own free will," she said, fluttering her eyelashes for a moment.

A strand of Clairice's hair fell into her face and with her free hand she moved it back behind Clairice's ear. Her fingertips were gentle as they brushed against one of Clairice's scars in the process. Isadora leaned in closer so her words would only be their secret.Clairice's throat bobbed as she swallowed the faintest hint of color flushing her cheeks.

" Should I turn into a cat since I seem to have stolen your ability to speak? Your wit is one my favorite things about you Clairice. You're gorgeous on top of that. But the effortless wit is more intoxicating than red wine and whiskey flowing through me right now. Isal nikym I don't give a damn what anyone says otherwise your eyes would be the prettiest jewels for you to steal if you could. You don't get told how pretty you are enough especially while we're bantering. Unless it's more than bantering to you if it is just say the word and you can ruin my lipstick," her words flowed out softly and her body kept just close enough Clairice couldn't pull her closer but still within her personal space.

"Princess I'm not going to tell you my answer until you've sobered up," she was fumbling over her words and trying to lean in closer to Isa.

"You don't have an answer which I get you have a pretty woman holding your wit hostage. Must be a major loss for the brilliant Clairice Orro,"Isa made sure part of her lips brushed against Clairice's skin as she pulled away while saying her name.

Before Clairice could say anything she grabbed her hat that was placed on the log. She smirked as she placed it on her head. Isa intentionally wiggled her hips as she walked away as she would've to make a skirt flutter just right. Clairice took a swig out of her drink trying to figure out what in the hells just happened.

After a bit Clairice recovered enough to speak again, "Fuck she even stole my hat."

Rackal brought some cut up fruit to Clairice. He looked ready to say something.

" Don't even say a word Rackal. She's clearly just drunk, it's nothing more than banter."

"Right, just banter. She insisted you also get a snack if we were going to make her have food."

" She's not drunk enough to need a babysitter but fine for her sake I'll take it."

The next morning when Isa woke up with Clairice's hat in her tent she almost screamed as the realization of what she said hit her harder than Karlach raging. She wanted to fight the gremlin part of herself that overroded every other part including rational thinking because it was choosing to cause problems. Isadora swore she'd find some way to play it off as their usual banter once the urge to turn into a lizard then crawl under a rock subsided. She was certain the alcohol was what caused everything and not a crush on Clairice surfacing.

[inquisimer]

in the middle of my chaos

For OC kiss week day 6, a reunion between @demawrites' Morgon Trevelyan and my Siobhan Hawke. Some things have changed in big ways - some things are exactly the same.

read it on ao3 here

Female Hawke/Male Trevelyan | Rated G | 629 words | No CW

-

Siobhan was already several drinks in, lazily kicking her heels against the bar when he stepped through the mirror. She reached out a hand and Morgon drew near enough for her to hook a finger in his belt and tug him close.

“Took you long enough,” she said, and pulled him down into a kiss against that damnable smirk he always wore. His tongue traced her lips and she relished in the familiar push-pull of their meeting. When they parted, his eyes were already open, watching her carefully.

“There’s been some…developments, on my end,” he said lowly. Not an apology, but a taunt, a tease. Siobhan raised one brow, ice clinking as she swirled her whiskey. Pointedly, she didn’t say anything. She couldn’t—she knew more than him, in some ways.

Morgon rapped on the bar and motioned for a drink. Then, he turned his fist over and held his palm out for Siobhan to inspect. She nearly dropped her glass, nostrils flaring with against a sharp, surprised inhale.

Across the callouses, a painfully familiar green light pushed his skin apart. The Mark of the Inquisitor. It sparked and flared in response to emotions he kept hidden and a wave of murmurs rippled across the bar as people took note. None raised a fuss; most everyone here either lived this moment, or knew someone who had. Or they were going to. There was an Inquisitor in every universe, after all. It seemed Morgon got that honor, in his.

“Fuck,” Siobhan finally said. She set her drink down and cupped his hand with both of hers. The skin under the magic was warm and buzzing slightly; healing generally evaded her, but she probed the edges of the mark with her mana, exploring.

Morgon clenched his jaw and his fist, pulling his hand out of her grasp. “Don’t do that.”

The bartender slid over a glass of amber liquid and Morgon tossed most of it down in one go. Siobhan couldn’t blame him—it was the sort of thing that required something strong.

“Where are you?”

“In a bar,” he snipped. “Just like you.”

Siobhan glared. He clearly wasn’t keen on elaborating, but her mind was spinning. How much could she say? How much should she say? She knew how things played out for her—disastrous and uniquely painful. But she didn’t know the players in Morgon’s Inquisition; most of the time they shared wasn’t spent talking.

“Why did you come here, if not to discuss it?”

“To get away from—“ he gestured at the now dormant Eluvian that brought him here. “Turns out I can only stand so much righteous condescension before I stab someone and there’s a disturbing lack of people in Haven that I’m actually allowed to shank.”

In spite of herself, Siobhan snorted. “Sounds like your employers aren’t giving you enough enrichment.”

Morgon scoffed. “Employers. More like long-suffering chaperones. If they could shunt this thing to someone more palatable, they would do it in a heartbeat.”

“They’ll learn. We don’t always get to pick our heroes.”

“I’m no hero.”

Siobhan shrugged. “Maybe not. But they’re going to make you into one, whether it suits your plan or not.”

“I’ll make it suit my plan.” A dark semblance of a smile twisted Morgon’s face. The press of glass against his lips drew Siobhan’s gaze like a magnet, held on the way his tongue flicked out and slowly caught the flecks of alcohol left behind. “But in the meantime…”

He caught her chin between his fingers and kissed her again, a searing, demanding embrace.

“I came here for a distraction,” he murmured. Siobhan’s answering grin was a delightful, wicked thing. She tangled her fingers in his hair and brought their lips back together.

“That, I can manage.”