#wip: ruby blood

[rbbess110]

pspspsps writeblr friens!! if you were to choose one song to describe your wip what would it be and why

[rbbess110]

i was tagged twice so quick thanks to @sm-writes-chaos (their post here) for the tag as well <3

here is nida. she is just a little gal.

gently tagging: @guessillcallitart, @enne-uni, @digital-chance, @wmlittlemore-is-writing, @isabellebissonrouthier to create their main characters in this picrew as well <3

found this lovely picrew and wanted to start a chain! make your wip's main character using this picrew

this is rowan from nova futurum

gently tagging: @wingedcatastrophe, @intothesparrowverse, @aether-wasteland-s, @scribbling-stardust, @lucylyricism, @stesierra, @your-absent-father, @ruinmegently, @ntzsche9, @palebdot, @holdmyteaplease, @halfbit, @floweryprosegarden, @daughter-of-inklings, @fire-but-ashes-too

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

Hugs

About time I finished this WIP that randomly appeared in my head. I've just finished defeating Cazador and mannnnnn I really really want to hug Astarion and never let him go.

Summary: Astarion learns to hug you.

“Can’t get enough of me, darling?” Astarion purrs into your ear, sliding his arm around your waist to pull you closer. He leans in, pressing a kiss to the tip of your ear before letting his lips trail downwards, sending a shiver up your spine but you push him away, placing a hand on his chest.

“We don’t need to do this.” You shake your head, “I just want you, not your body, not your services.”

He feels his heart jump into his throat, anxiety gnawing at him but he smiles outwardly anyways, as practiced. “Which part of me exactly do you want?”

“All of you,” you breathe. He blinks, surprised as you intertwine your fingers with his, a thumb gently brushing over his smooth skin. The warmth sends tingles from his arm to his body, a fuzzy feeling blooming in his chest that fills him with uncertainty.

Is this genuine love? Is this how love is supposed to feel like?

Why would you want all of him?

He cannot understand why you would want the monsterous side of him, the side that craves blood, the side that is spoken in hushed whispers, woven into stories parents tell their children to scare them into bed. He hides his fangs whenever he smiles, afraid that your gaze will be drawn to them and that they will be all you ever see of him but you never seem to be scared of them, always open to him sinking them into your soft neck so that he can drink the ambrosia that is your blood.

You place an arm around his waist, noticing that distant look in his eyes and press your chest against his, hoping the sensation will bring him back from whatever abyss he’s fallen into and his head snaps up, ruby eyes locking with yours with a look you’ve never seen in them before. You feel his hand tremble as he tentatively rests it on your back and he inhales sharply.

“If you’re not comfortable we can stop,” you murmur. “I don���t want to force you to do anything.”

“You’re…not, darling. It’s just…” He swallows. “It’s nothing.”

You narrow your eyes. If all this time spent with him has taught you something, is that every time he says ‘it’s nothing’ it’s always something.

“Astarion, you can tell me anything, but take all the time you need, alright?”

His lips quirk up for a split second, instinctively sending you a reassuring smile but the smile quickly fades, replaced by a sorrowful look. He gazes at the ground, suppressing the urge to just melt into you. You deserve someone better than him, someone who could love you properly, who understood what love truly meant and didn’t feel disgust rising every time they placed a hand on your skin because of their past. No matter how much he loves you, he’s not the best one for you.

You reach out to him, a hand gently touching his cheek but he pulls away with a snarl, fangs bared and you quickly stumble backwards, surprised at his hostility. His eyes widen when he realises what he’s done and guilt devours him even further. Your touch feels tainted, even if it lacks the usual lust and desire behind it, but that is no reason to hurt you. He forces himself to reach for your hand, muttering a quiet apology as practiced and rests it on his cheek, willing his body to remain still like always.

Doing this should be easy, he’s been doing this for centuries, so why does it feel so difficult now?

You look at him with concern, an emotion usually devoid in the eyes of those who touch him and pull your hand away of your own accord.

“I’m sorry.”

Why were you apologising? He was the one in the wrong, he was the one who had broken the moment, he was the reason the night had turned from one of tranquility to one of tension.

“There’s no need to apologise, love. Shall we continue?” He leans in once more despite the sickening smell that your scent has transformed into. “You’re just that intoxicating.”

Still, you push him away, noticing how he’s zoning out each time he moves closer to you. Worry creases your eyebrows and you take a step back, moving just out of his reach.

“Did I overstep any boundaries?” You ask. “I’m sorry if I did.”

“You didn’t, darling.” He shakes his head. “You’re far too perfect to make such mistakes.”

Far too perfect for him.

“Astarion,” you realise what’s plaguing him. “No matter how long it takes, I will always be by your side. You are my star, my entire world, no one else can possibly replace you or be better than you.”

“I shouldn’t be,” he mumbles. “I only add to your burdens.”

“Well, it’s only fair that you do that since I do the same to you.”

“No you don’t!” Astarion snaps. “Don’t you ever say that about yourself!”

He glares at you, fists clenched, his clawed fingertips digging into his palms. You raise your hands in surrender, slowly stepping away from the riled up vampire spawn upon whom realisation has dawned. He inwardly curls up even more, despising himself for taking out his anger on you and yet no matter what he does, you refuse to leave. You’re still standing there, a safe distance away but within his line of sight with no intention of leaving him. He cannot wrap his mind around why you would do such a thing, why you wouldn’t leave someone as unstable and unloveable as him, but a small part of him is grateful for that, he can’t bear to watch you leave.

“Sorry.” He chokes out, the word leaving a foreign feeling in his mouth. “I —”

“It’s alright, apology accepted.” You smile. “We should return to camp, the others must be wondering what is taking us so long.”

Astarion shifts from one leg to another, scratching the back of his neck, “wait, darling, please.”

You pause, turning around to look at him, “yes, Astarion?”

“I…” He starts. “It’s not your fault, it’s mine. Everything feels tainted, touching you feels disgusting, being so close to you feels nauseating, but it’s not your fault. It has nothing to do with you, I promise, it’s —”

“I know. You don’t have to say it out loud if you don’t want to. I’m sorry I can’t erase the past, but I want to help you forge new associations with touch.” You raise a hand, palm facing him. He does the same, shakily moving his palm closer to yours but encouraged by your smile, he presses your palms together. He swallows the bile rising to his throat and looks to you, waiting for you to make the next move. You take a step closer and he does the same, although his step is filled with much more uncertainty. You give him an encouraging nod and take another step. This time, his step is more certain, made with the signature confidence you know and love.

After a third step, the both of you are close enough that your nose fills with the scent of bergamot, rosemary and a hint of rosemary, overlaying Astarion’s real undead scent. You cautiously put an arm around his waist and when he doesn’t flinch, you grow bolder, removing your hand from his and putting the other arm around his waist.

He freezes, but the action raises no memories he’d rather keep locked away so he tries to keep himself grounded, to feel the soothing warmth of your arms around him that mean him no harm. He locks eyes with you and your gaze washes all the fear away, stirring something within him. He wouldn’t have dared do this before, but tonight you’ve given him more than enough courage to attempt this.

Astarion steels himself, and then puts his own arms around you. His undead heart thunders in his chest, fear consuming his mind. What if you pull away? What if you hate his cold touch? What if —

You lean into his embrace, silencing all his fears and nuzzle into his chest. He lets out a breath he never realised he was holding and buries his face into your shoulder, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Your embrace is vastly different from the previous embraces he’s had, all you want out of it is a display of love and care, you don’t want his body, you don’t want what he can offer, you don’t want anything in return.

As he continues to hold onto you, never wanting to let go, he lets a hand wander up your back, finding a better position to pull you closer and you hum in response, happily burrowing deeper into his arms.

“I like this, you know,” he whispers. “Whatever it is that we have, I don’t want it to end.”

“I feel the same way,” you whisper back, breathing in his scent. “Let’s stay here like this, the others can survive on their own for a little while longer.”

“I’m sure they can, my love.”

Hugging has definitely made its way to the top of his list of favourite things to do with you, Astarion thinks, listening to your happy hums as you soak in his embrace. He should do this more often.

[icyowl]

Save Me

Pairing: Vampire Megumi Fushiguro x reader

Synopsis: You discover Megumi's true nature in the worst way: when he nearly devours you in a frenzy. Gojo saves your life, but Megumi is held captive under the school, starving, unable to consume any blood. Can you save him? Will you try after what he's done?

A/N: I promise i'm not dead! Sadly I keep running out of steam before I finish any WIPs, but I powered through for you on this one! Been wanting to do vampire megumi foreverrrrrrr

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

The hot blood pouring from your shoulder had been reduced to an afterthought now that the vampire who nearly tore your neck open was barreling after you. There was only one thing you could do:

Runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun

Out the bedroom, through the hallway, down the stairs — you passed through most of the building without really taking it in. All that existed were the dank/steaming/slobbering/moist snarls behind you and the burning in your lungs. Air couldn't come fast enough.

His weapons — a pair of bloody inch-long canines and countless claws — were one bad step from having their way with you.

A flash of guilt had your steps slowing for a fraction of a second. You could maybe reason with him or somehow pull him out of it, so, against better judgement, you turned-

“Megu-”

The crazed animal that took his place slammed head-first into the wall next to you, missing your carotid by one flinch of your quivering muscles. Splintered wood sprayed everywhere. If your survival instinct hadn't kicked in when it did, you'd be right in his war path, and likely ripped open (again). Face still partially embedded in the wall, mouth gorging on wood fractures, one of his pulsating eyes fixed you in its wild gaze.

Red hot, with a slitted pupil constricted to a razor sharp sliver.

It wasn't simply inhuman; it was the farthest thing from human. Curses didn't compare to whatever was in those now-ruby eyes.

You gave yourself splinters trying to yank yourself out of his reach. Maybe you could have reasoned with him, maybe you should have, but you didn't trust him not to kill you if you tried. What about the movies where the monster's love interest could subdue his deadly instincts? Yeah, this wasn't a movie. Fuck that.

Every slip of your feet on the hardwood flooring sent a bolt of fear through each nerve in your body. Where could you go? Did you stay away from people and keep them safe, or try to find help? Could you manage that while keeping yourself alive? Air stung your lungs with every brash inhale and your legs began to fatigue. How much longer could you keep this up?

You exploded out of the dorm into the muggy summer air. In time, he would catch you, end you, devour you. Bad idea or not, you needed help.

A bear trap full of claws closed around your side. You screamed as they tore through your clothes and into your skin. In a fit of sheer willpower and for the second time that day, you deliberately pulled your skin from him, the ripping and tearing only worsening. It sucked, but you didn't have a choice. Could you try and lose him in the forest? Lock him in a building? Lure-

You were too busy keeping an eye on the gnashing teeth and snarling yowls of your boyfriend to stop yourself from running head-long into someone. After recovering from the initial shock of hitting the ground hard and heavy, you looked up to a moment of great stillness.

Gojo stood, one hand in his pocket, and the other outstretched to Megumi. What had once been your violent animal now floated helplessly in the air, his lashing talons catching nothing but the humid breeze. He growled deep in his chest, trying with everything he had to break the invisible chains keeping him suspended and kill you, and yet Gojo simply smirked, humored by it all.

“Megumi,” he chided, “I told you something like this would happen.”

It was almost laughable — almost — now that you were safe, alone, staring down your ordinary visage in the bathroom mirror. Three days until you could get a full night's sleep, five days until every sound didn't send your heart into overdrive, and now, one week removed from the incident, you could nearly believe it never happened. Apart from the bandages. Megumi had done a number on you and likely would have feasted on you had Gojo not happened to be in the way. His moans were pained, and when his words turned to garbled growls. . . all this time, he was so different from you, and all this time, you hardly suspected a thing. How could you not see something so important? How could he have deceived you so completely? Would he have ever told you? Was he fine with hiding so much of himself from you?

Your shoulders dipped down and forward. Megumi’s backpack was still at the foot of your bed. His cologne was on your pillow. You smelled it last night before you dreamed of him — a ballad of warmth and peace. Every time you looked at your phone screen you saw a glimmer of his grin from that trip to the carnival however long ago. Dark bruising curtesy of a healing hickey on your throat snickered at you from the mirror; he had been so gentle then.

You would have gone to him already, had Gojo not turned you away at the basement door. It probably wasn’t a good idea to go down there before you’d healed — what if you made it worse? If Megumi lost control from some kissing, what would he do when he saw the bandages or smelled the stitches digging into your skin? But it didn’t feel right to know he was locked up just a ways away while you hid like a child in your room.

Your phone’s buzzing nearly sent you through the ceiling.

Principal Yaga.

“Hello?” You asked warily. Was a week really all he’d give you before he sent you back to class? Your wounds could hardly be considered healed.

“Fushiguro needs your help. Come to the sealing chambers if you can. We're out of options.” His tone was grim (when wasn’t it?). All at once your heart galloped like you were back in the courtyard running for your life. You didn’t see your reflection in the mirror. The lack of color, slack jaw, none of it. All you saw was an image of the man who read to you at night now locked away in a dark room, bound and gagged, a starved circus animal.

At the first door of the sealing chambers it wasn’t Yaga who met you but Gojo. Even with the blindfold, you could tell he wasn’t happy. He held the door open without a word. As soon as you entered the dark hall, tortured cursed energy pressed in on your chest. Sealing tape lined the long corridor Gojo led you through, along with every staircase and every doorway. Talismans of different origins and scripts from countless religions hung from the ceiling. You’d be fearful if Gojo’s words hadn’t kept you preoccupied. Megumi had been unable to keep down any blood he’d been given since your attack, and, since he’d been starving enough by then to trigger a frenzy. . . he was in dire straights now.

“Why can’t he keep anything down?” You asked.

“It’s called taste aversion. You get food poisoning from a restaurant, you never want to go to the same company or get the same kind of food again. His goes beyond that, though. The mind is an incredibly powerful thing – the shame, self-loathing, guilt – his psychological barriers are just as real as any physical ones. Without consuming any nutrients… he’s dying.”

As soon as you walked through the next door to a long, narrow walkway with cells on one side, the shouting and thumping reached your ears.

“No! Don’t bring her in!” Megumi said from down the hall. He could smell your cozy allure, the infernal whispers beckoning the frothing beast under his skin to break through. His teeth ached.

Your stomach squeezed when you saw him; shackles held his wrists on the end of chains bolted to the ceiling. He was on his knees, covered in grime, and wearing the same clothes you’d last seen him in. Stains and a few empty bloodbags dirtied the floor.

As soon as he saw you, he shoved his head in his shoulder to the point of cricking it and slammed shut his bloodstained eyes.

“Get out!” He screamed.

You looked at Gojo who was already studying you. His message was clear: do what you think is right. No judgement. If you ran away yelling, he wouldn’t hold it against you. This was merely something he was willing to try, if you were too. You looked back at Megumi. Dried blood caked his wrists where the cuffs had dug in. His skin touching the metal puffed out smoke where the skin underneath burned. They must have chained him with silver. His skin was pale and gaunt, a sure sign of a starving man. Bits of his hair lay around his knees where it had fallen out. Around him, the walls were etched with staines, fingernail scratches, and symbols of faith.

You knelt across from him. The hard floor pushed at your knees. All you could think to do was roll up your sleeve and hold it out to him. “I’m letting you take my blood, so no more of this aversion stuff. I’m telling you it’s okay, so you can’t reject it.”

Something guttural made you flinch back. He kept his eyes shut even when he turned to say: “I’m never touching you again. I don’t want you here, understand?”

You sighed. Water flooded your mouth and eyes. “You have to eat, Megumi, or you’ll die.”

“Then let me.” He bit back.

You looked to the teacher for answers. Gojo held you in his eyes for a long moment before nodding and bringing up two fingers. Using infinity, he forced the cuffs open. Megumi’s ruby eyes shot open, looking at his hands, sharpened nails still present, to you, and to Gojo.

Megumi only had time to hiss before Gojo was behind him, wrapping an arm around Megumi’s neck and wedging his student’s chin in the crook of his elbow. Gojo’s other hand spread out on the back of Megumi’s head, forcing it forward and putting him in a suffocating headlock. Megumi lurched and growled but couldn’t budge Gojo’s insurmountable strength. He turned frantic when you approached and his noises turned to snarls, hating showing this side of you but hoping he’d reach that primal flight reflex inside you and get you to fear him, to run and leave him in his misery.

“Don’t do this.” Megumi warbled out. His voice was whimpering and tortured. It broke off with a foreign growl. His instincts tried to make him submit. Your heart pulled itself from your ribcage when his eyes watered and his canines descended against his will. Every part of his body was trying to reach for your supple skin, close the gap, find that sweet release, but his mind was fighting valiantly to resist the pull. In the middle of the war was his heart, damaged and vulnerable and begging for salvation.

“It’s okay.” You tried. You pressed your arm against his lips. Still, he wouldn’t budge. You pressed harder, until his teeth were smashed to your skin, yet he wouldn’t bite.

Gojo tightened his hold until Megumi involuntarily gasped for air, giving you a chance to dive your arm into his open mouth and impale it on his fangs. It fucking hurt, sure, you yelled and flinched in spite of yourself, no doubt making it worse for Megumi, but you were far more focused on him. Megumi clawed at Gojo’s arm, trying to pull away, but soon the sensation of your blood flowing down his throat hit his nervous system and he stilled, eyes glazing over and a tear escaping down his cheek. Audible swallows interrupted the sudden quiet and you let out a heavy breath. As scary as he might have looked, glowing eyes and snarling face and intermittent growls, the relief you felt at hearing those quiet gulps washed over you from head to toe.

His claws turned from trying to push himself out of Gojo’s hold to pulling you closer. Megumi’s grip became untamed, readjusting and tightening, not caring how he tore open your skin. Hot tears fell from your eyes. You weren’t sure how long you could keep from wailing. “How much does he need?”

“Depends.”

Sweat was breaking out over your face. “What?”

“If you can hang in until he recovers himself, he might see he can control it. That should cure the avoidance, but it won’t be fun, and it might not even work. It’s up to you.”

Your neurons turned to sludge, so all you did was nod. Against your will, your sense of balance was leaving you. To comfort Megumi, and anchor yourself, your other hand rested on his head, petting the thick, unruly strands.

“It’s okay. Even when I saw what you were. . . I trusted you. That’s why you bit me before; because I believed you wouldn’t kill me. I’m sorry I wasn’t someone you thought you could trust. I. . . I’ll be better, from now on.”

Again Megumi’s struggling changed. His eyes, previously wide open yet unseeing, slammed shut, his face pinching in a struggle. Moans of pleasure became grunts of effort. Your forehead fell against his. From here, you could smell your blood and his shampoo in the small space between you. “It’s okay, don’t fight it. I want to help you. I want this.”

Though he writhed against Gojo’s abominable strength like a predator in a bear trap, you were growing statuesque. Cold crept up your arm. Blood turned frigid in your veins. Shadows settled in your ears and eyes until the world seemed very far away. All you felt were the fine serrations on his canines as Megumi’s movements wove them deeper into your sinew. His growls took on a melodic quality, a primal war chant from a bygone era. It was a deep rumble you imagined sounded just like the thrum of the earth. This was easy. Peaceful, even.

A herculean pull yanked your arm off his canines with a squelching pop and spray of blood. Megumi’s effort made you tumble onto your back. Blood poured from the wounds on your arm. When he could finally get his eyes to focus, you were unconscious and unmoving.

Some sort of hissing moan escaped him. The fresh blood in his belly threatened to come up. “No. . . no.” He groaned around his fangs. His words were unintelligible. Gojo could sense his cursed energy - the guilt within - and let him go. Megumi crept to you, and stopped with his hand just above your arm. He strained over the sound of his tears to barely catch the whoosh of your breaths. Alive. Still alive.

Something gripped his muscles - not hunger or thirst, but a different kind of insatiable desire. A feeling to have you, not as food, but as. . . something necessary all the same. He had to draw you to him or risk some kind of death; he could feel it in his bones. At the edge of your consciousness, your latched into his grimy shirt, right where the lurch in his stomach had begun to calm. Megumi worried about his claws on your skin - he’d hurt you so many times with them already - but nevertheless couldn’t let go.

“That’s pretty cute, like a dog growling over its bowl.” Gojo remarked, smirking at the glare his student was giving him. Megumi didn’t even notice the hisses leaving him or the baring of his sharp fangs. “Tell me, do you feel sick?”

Fire or love tinged his vision an opaque red. His teacher, the prison, even you were reduced to a slurry of wavering shapes and twisted movement. The blood had begun to settle in his stomach, and with it came the grip of shame. Fck, what had he done? He was such a monster he couldn’t even see that carnage he left behind, but he smelled the blood mixing with the dirt on the ground under you, could feel it coagulating between his fingers and cooling under his nails, heard the weak rasp of your lungs fighting for every inhale. He had ruined you.

Something gnawed at his stomach. His hand rushed to his mouth. The blood roiled in his belly and began digging its way up his esophagus. How could he have done this to you?

Still blind, he felt your chest tense, heard your hand push through the air, but nevertheless flinched when your wobbling fingers brushed at the blood and tears drying on his cheek. Your thumb pushed away his upper lip to caress the flat of his fangs. “Please,” you whispered, “don’t stop me from helping you. Don’t keep me from loving you. It’s what I want more than anything.”

And more than his desire to protect you was his need to fulfill you.

Megumi swallowed the tears and the blood at the back of his throat. If this was what you wanted, then he had to try. If he was good for anything, let it be this. He pressed his forehead to yours, staining your face and filling your nose with the stench of dirt and blood. Who knew love was so vile.

“Not that this isn’t cute, in a teen angst sorta way,” Gojo chimed, “but she needs a transfusion. You need to let go.”

Megumi’s eyes cleared. The first thing he saw was your gaze, glassy and sluggish, but unwavering from his own. He smelled the oxytocin wafting from you.

“No,” he shook his head while his fingers kissed your face, “she only needs me.” His hand dove into his mouth and with a silent snarl he burrowed his fangs deep in his wrist. You tried to stop him, but weren’t fast enough. The sound of it should have made you flinch, but the gleam of his scarlet eyes and the slitted pupils had you fascinated. He pulled his mouth away with a wet schlop and held it against your lips.

You pulled your lips around the wound and began to suck. To be fair, you didn’t expect to feel different right away, but as soon as you swallowed, a warmth spread out from your core - knitting the cuts, curing the bruises, and healing the puncture wounds. The pounding in your head, the adrenaline dumped in your veins, it all dissipated in the gentle heat of a morning sun. After a couple of gulps Megumi’s own bite mark had closed, leaving nothing but a pleasant aftertaste under your tongue. Even his own blood didn’t want to harm you by tasting bad.

Megumi’s head lurched towards the door, seeing past Gojo, hearing something far away.

“Who’s coming?” Gojo asked.

“Yaga. Nanami and Ieiri, too. They’re not happy.”

A rush of hurried steps followed some time after. Yaga was sweaty and livid.

“Gojo,” he roared, “she was meant to comfort him, not feed him!”

Gojo rose to stand in front of him. “I wasn’t gonna let anything bad happen.”

“This,” he threw a hand at the two of you, “doesn’t count as bad?! You’ve endangered your own students!”

Gojo was having none of that. His playful tone evaporated. “If I thought for a second he might kill her, I’d have stopped him instantly.”

The bickering continued in your peripheral. All you concerned yourself with was brushing the dirt off his face while he watched, listening to the ever-stronger beats of your steady heart.

[loafelife]

The Wizard and His Knight AU

Welcome to the Continent of Chaotic.

Each Kingdom is a color of a Chaos Emerald. (The world is a WIP and suggestions are welcome! Just focusing on the boys right now.)

-------------------------------

The Emerald Kingdom is facing a new, terrifying threat, and has called upon the Ruby Kingdom for their aid. A foreboding evil, known only as the Black Doom, is slowly consuming the fields of Green Hills. This viscous black sludge envelopes living beings, controls them like puppets, and annihilates everything else in its path.

Fire holds it off temporarily, but it’s not enough. Each time they burn it back, it returns stronger within days.

Desperate, they plead for the help of the Ruby Kingdom’s infamous Mad Wizard—the only man powerful (and reckless) enough to challenge it. However, much to his dismay, the Ruby Kingdom won’t let Ivo travel to the Emerald Kingdom alone. The threat is too great and the trek too long for him to go alone. So, for his protection, they need to assign him a knight.

There’s just one problem: Ivo Robotnik has driven away every knight assigned to him.

He called them idiots, distractions, and detriments to his work. And truthfully? They were. They hovered over him, repeatedly knocked things off of tables with their cumbersome gear, whispered behind his back to their superiors. They feared the way he held himself, the intent and wild focus in his eyes when he thought no one was watching. He loathed them, he hated being treated like a caged beast under surveillance.

But this time, the Kingdom isn't sending a regular knight. They're sending the legendary Obsidian Knight.

A swordsman shrouded in mystery, with an unbeaten record since his sudden appearance seven years ago. The man with no known origin, no defeats, and no allegiances. The perfect man for the job.

Ivo is determined to get him to leave within a week.

The Most Powerful Wizard and the Strongest Knight on the Continent.

Surely, it'll work out… right? (They have no idea what kind of chaos they’ve just unleashed upon the world. Because when these two finally get in sync—gods help them all.)

The High Wizard Ivo Robotnik

The Grand High Wizard of the Ruby Kingdom.

Universally acknowledged as the smartest man in all the Kingdoms (He knows it, and he’s insufferably smug about it).

Drinks his tea strong and bitter so he can work long into the night.

Uses shards of ruby in his work—power sources that also glow with a constant, almost eerie red light.

His eyesight is starting to fail him from decades of reading in the low light of the Ruby's glow (He wears spectacles for reading but complains about them constantly).

Secretly practices forbidden blood magic (He doesn’t care what the Kingdoms think—he just keeps it hidden to avoid execution before his work is done).

Fiercely private—despises interruptions, especially people in his space.

At first, Ivo finds the Obsidian Knight just as intolerable as the rest. Too silent. Too observant. But unlike the others… the other man doesn’t fear him. Wary at first sure, especially when the practice of Blood Magic was discovered. But in little time he started watching Ivo not with suspicion or concern—but with awe.

That’s what makes it dangerous.

Aban Stone (The Obsidian Knight)

Crown Prince of the Amethyst Kingdom—though only very few know that now

Hated the cold pedestal of royalty and being tethered to one place.

Was forced into an arranged marriage with the heir of the Diamond Kingdom and fled instead.

Passionate about herbology and spellwork—his only permitted chosen studies back home in his kingdom

Wears a full set of matte black armor that makes him quiet, gives him a bit more height and quite intimidating.

Has roamed the Continent for 7 years, becoming a legend for his skill and tactical mind

Most of the Amethyst Kingdom believes him dead by now; even those still searching have mostly forgotten what he used to look like

Though strong and unreadable in battle, Aban is a kind soul. He sees the world with wonder and a quiet care that not many do. And when he sees Ivo work—when he watches him manipulate raw ruby light, rewrite reality with blood and brilliance—he doesn’t look away.

He looks in admiration, amazement- and something else that the wizard couldn't quite put his finger on.

That unnerves Ivo more than any threat he had faced so far in his journeys. Made an odd warm sensation bloom in his chest.

No one has ever looked at him like that before.

Where others saw madness, Aban sees genius. He listens.

He respects Ivo’s space, his rituals.

He doesn’t shy away when the wizard bleeds onto runes as he murmurs quiet incantations. He offers him tea without a word, making it in the most palatable the Wizard has had in years. Tends his strained and occasionally bleeding hands without comment. Defends him fiercely when others dare to cast doubt or caused a threat.

Ivo begins to look forward to hearing Aban's light humming when he sharpened his blade. He even starts to wait in slight anticipation for Aban’s footsteps down the trail. Starts watching him from the corner of his eye when he’s supposed to be pouring over his books.

They’re not together—not yet. But the tension is growing, slow and undeniable.

And the closer they get, the more dangerous their bond becomes.

Because once they finally understand one another? Once they choose each other?

There will be nothing left to stop them. Laws be damned.

If you'd like, ask me about my AU! I’ll try to answer all prompts—maybe even doodle some scenes too. I’ve been a little shy when it comes to talking to others in this fandom, so this is me coming out of my shell a bit.

[therysss]

(Sketch) Rhaego Targaryen, Heir of The Iron Throne Dragon's Bay WIP Redesign of a redesign of my "main" ASoIaF AU: Age of Iron and Steam. You can find the other (few) arts from this project in the tag "The Age of Iron and Steam AU". Martin may hate me for fanficting, but it's kind of his fault for killing off this character who- oh my god, could have been great… Or terrible for, you know, stone houses and stuff. The whole conflict behind this doubt/prophecy is exactly what I want to explore in this AU beyond the New Age that has begun in Meereen. I'm not sure yet if I'm going to turn it into a fanfic, or just a series of drawings with scenes I have in mind since University prevents me from spending much time on either of those things. Well, this is Rhaego, the Stallion Who Mounts the World, or Who Will Mounts… He's only 14, GIVE HIM A BREAK! Anyway, design explanation: I wanted to reflect not only his Dothraki heritage, in a way that still honors his Valyrian heritage, but also shows a touch of his personality: Even when casual, the prince dresses richly. Over his bare chest, Rhaego wears a traditional hand-painted leather jacket, a gift from his sister, who painted the jacket in the colors of their house, featuring several embroidery of the three-headed dragon from the Targaryen sigil; the black and red scarves at his waist are held by two belts, one of bronze medallions holding Valyrian glyphs that means "Blood", "Power" and "Fire", respectively, and the other made of Valyrian Steel with rubies set into each of the "coins"; His braids are held back at the nape of his neck by a hair pendant whose end is shaped in the image of three dragon heads, with silver and gold rings, bells, black and red ribbons and other hair accessories along the length of the three braids that have never been cut. He also wears accessories all over his body, a scarf with rings on his arm, riding gloves that cover part of his forearm, several rings on both hands, silver earrings with rubies and most notably a Valyrian Steel necklace with a pendant in the shape of another Valyrian Glyph, "Raqagon" which means "Love".

[imogenkol]

— WIP WEDNESDAY/LAST LINE(S)

I was tagged by @lilywatt @neonshrike and @loriane-elmuerto thank you beloveds 💕💕💕

tag list (ask to be added or removed!): @socially-awkward-skeleton @inafieldofdaisies @voidika @florbelles @adelaidedrubman @simonxriley @tommyarashikage @aceghosts @carlosoliveiraa @risingsh0t @unholymilf @thedeadthree @cassietrn @jackiesarch @shellibisshe @katsigian @captastra @simplegenius042 @g0dspeeed @strangefable @jacobseed @cptcassian @euryalex @auricfog @confidentandgood @belladelamorte @minaharkers @elligatorrex

Finally jumped back into bg3 again after months and defeated Orin for the very first time so here’s some Yvaine in the aftermath (spoilers for the Dark Urge and warning for some blood/gore imagery)

Yvaine had never known the truth of silence until every last drop of her father’s blood had been violently torn from her body. The agony was as liberating as she hoped it would be, so swift and absolute that she didn’t even have the opportunity to scream. Then the quiet that followed was the first taste of peace she had ever known. The voices — the urge — was gone, and now she knew nothing but reverent silence.

It was only mildly disappointing when her heart restarted with an unceremonious lurch and had her gasping for breath, staring at the black cavern ceiling above her as it dripped moisture onto her pale gray face like a salivating maw.

The precious silence was still there. Silence and loneliness. Perhaps she could get used to it. After all, she would never be truly alone. Her own self was a stranger and the silence would give her the opportunity to get to know who she really was without all the noise.

However, the loss of her family still cut deep no matter how vicious they were. Yvaine still mourned the absence of the urge her father had gifted her, how it had always brought her the comfort of his presence and love. She even mourned for the bloodkin slaughtered by her own hand. What was left of Orin was more or less a pile of gore splattered onto the altar of their father. A parting gift to Bhaal.

Once she found her footing, Yvaine carefully knelt down onto a trembling knee and retrieved Orin’s weapons from the pool of still warm and sticky blood.

She decided to keep her sister’s dagger for herself, its curved crimson tongue lapping up its master’s blood, dripping with it as Yvaine strapped the blade to her belt. Then she picked up the shortsword. The red and bronze blade glittered like a ruby in the firelight. A fine, elegant weapon. But Yvaine felt no need to claim it.

Instead, she marched over to Minsc and presented him with the sword. “Uncle,” she said fondly, bowing her head in respect and gratitude.

Yvaine may have severed her connection with all whom she considered bloodkin, but she still had some family — one who taught her that she was not fated to be in her father’s malicious shadow. That there was far more to life than being a dutiful daughter.

[sekhmetswrath-if]

The Wrath of Sekhmet is based on the 1999 film ‘The Mummy’ and follows the original story of Sekhmet to the best of my research abilities, but also includes highly fictionalised elements.

DEMO (01.09.23) | CHARACTER APPEARANCES

As the archivist of the Museum of Antiquities in Cairo, you’ve collected a lot of knowledge over the thirteen years you’ve worked there. Yet, there has been nothing that fascinated you more than the story of Sekhmet.

A goddess of love turned goddess of war with a bloodlust so deadly that her father, the sun god Ra, was forced to fashion a necklace that Hathor could wear in order to contain Sekhmet.

The necklace glittered with gold and diamonds, but it was the single ruby that sat nestled at her throat that was the real treasure.

Said to contain a drop of Ra’s blood, it was a gem so powerful that it could grant lesser creatures invulnerability when the necklace was worn.

And now, your brother thinks he’s found the legendary Temple of Sekhmet. A temple that was supposedly built to house the necklace.

This could be the adventure of a lifetime and you refuse to be left behind.

This is an 18+ wip due to violence, depictions of blood and gore, optional sexual content, death, elements of body horror, and abduction.

FEATURES

✧ Play as a female, male, or nonbinary mc with cis and trans options. Choose your pronouns and titles separately.

✧ Romance the suave archaeologist, the stoic leader, the bubbly best friend, or the calculating adventurer. Poly routes are available.

✧ Personality stats: sarcastic/genuine, stoic/emotional, reckless/cautious, grumpy/jovial, kind/indifferent, shy/bold.

✧ Skill stats: intelligence, charm, sword fighting, and agility.

✧ Set features of the mc: they’re at least half egyptian and as an archivist, mc is intelligent, studious, and knowledgable about history. While they can be grumpy and indifferent, there will not be the option to be unnecessarily cruel.

CHARACTERS OF INTEREST

Maddox [M]

The bane of your life and one of the only people you trust to always have your back. He’s more of a lover than a fighter and has a silver tongue that could get him out of any situation, but don’t underestimate his protectiveness over you. Older brother prerogative and all that.

Elijah/Elodie Caddel [M/F] [RO]

El is charismatic, quick-witted, and familiar with the temple of Sekhmet making them the perfect companion on your quest. However, for all their charm, they are notorious for keeping everyone but Aksel at a distance, so it is a surprise to all when they quickly seem to develop a deep fondness for you. As well as a wicked protective streak.

Menna Bakir [M/F/NB] [RO]

As a Medjai Chieftain, Menna is responsible for the lives of many. For that reason, they have learnt to show little emotion, although it is noted that they soften around animals and now it seems, you. Once their trust has been earned and they become more comfortable with your group, you’ll see a much more relaxed and even teasing side to them.

Nakia/Nubia Hassan [M/F] [RO]

N can be utterly ruthless when it comes to getting what they want for the museum, but with you they're almost always very bubbly and friendly. They're your childhood best friend and your biggest supporter, and without them, you wouldn't be taking this trip across the desert to discover the secrets that lie in wait.

Aksel Madsen [NB] [RO]

While they seem lazy and unbothered, it doesn’t take long for you to realise that there’s something not quite right about them. They’re too observant, too intelligent, and too calculating. Despite this, you wouldn’t class them as a bad person, especially not when you’ve seen the way they look out for El and, on occasion, you.

Poly routes

N/Aksel | El/Menna

[eradore]

Made a post on my other blog about waking up in the dead of night with a fully fleshed out bagginshield smutfest in mind, but in my 02:00 glory, I realized I'd accidentally made it sound like I was just seeing visions, and wasn't planning on subjecting y'all to them. And then I realized it's WIP Wednesday anyway so i made another sideblog about it and decided to give y'all a preview of what rouses me from my sleep (proofread this time, i promise)

CW: possessive behavior, allusions to addiction MDNI

Bilbo's hair is too fine for beads, mores the pity. Thorin would like nothing better than to see the burnished gold offset by sterling, glints of sapphire hidden under tumbles of silken curls. It's too fine for braids, too, truth be told, but Thorin happily sets aside time each day to reset them, taming the Hobbit's tousled locks himself because he can't let the man leave his rooms without it, the pretty half-braid that marks him as consort, marks him as his.

His only regret is he can't do more. Thorin would be no true dwarf if he didn't sometimes wish Bilbo could grow a proper beard - more golden thread into which Thorin could weave himself - but he likes this, too. Likes watching as the Hobbit forgets himself, messy thing, and lets honey spill over the swell of his morganite lips; likes knowing how simple it would be to lick it from his unblemished skin, blood welling as rubies when Thorin gets too excited, teeth like swords against his prize's skin -

Oh. So it's going to be one of those days, is it?

[rbbess110]

okaaay, so, "ruby blood" draft 2 game plan. this will be a tough one but we'll see how it goes.

the main goals are:

cut down on my word count ...or page count, because word count does Not reflect how long this is. 24.5k words is 270 pages. the magic of writing in verse. realistic (?) goal: 220 pages ideal goal: 200 pages

figure out plot holes not even fix them for now. just look very critically at the plot and note down any loose ends i should tie, and leave them for future me to figure out.

...i thought there would be more, but i'm trying to take it slow. i've had a long break from this wip and it's peculiar enough that the only way i'm able to work with this is figure out the process as i go KFJHSF. so we'll see how it goes. more detailed rambles under cut

so. my main goal for this draft is to cut down on my word count. it's hard to tell how long it should be exactly (listen i'm vibing writing this as a play and writing in verse, but i'm flying blind when it comes to any rules), but pretty sure that 270 pages is wayy too long. if my goal is for it to ever make it to the stage (which it doesn't have to be, for now i treat it as no-strings-attached passion project, but we'll see where it goes), i should probably aim for 150 pages max. maybe 120 even. but that's the goal for the final drafts; i need to take this slow with killing my darlings. therefore, if we get to 220 pages by the end of this draft? i'm satisfied.

my main issue is that while draft 1 is mainly for making it exist, i'm really satisfied with how draft 1 of "ruby blood" turned out. it's readible. i dare to say it's not bad, even. i think that maybe a longer break from the project was needed, because i've been attached enough that even if i had gone back to working on "ruby blood" just after a month (like i had planned), i wouldn't have been able to make any major cuts.

another issue is, it's almost 300 pages of writing in verse where every second line rhymes. this means smaller cuts will be PAINFUL. this structure means that editing is kind of like playing jenga - changing a line can make the next 10-20 whole verses crumble. that's why i do NOT want to rewrite too much during this draft. while rewrites are definitely necessary here, if i try to do them as i go, i might end up rewriting the same part over and over again and this will never end. this is going to be my imperfect-messy-draft, since draft 1 definitely wasn't.

so. let this journey begin!!

[theheartmold]

No Goodbyes

Another WIP of Nadasa Thorne and Mahanon Tabris, set in the year that Rook is traveling with Varric.

“I’m not your apprentice anymore, Mahanon, I don’t have to deliver your mail,” Nadasa sighed, shaking the stack of missives towards Mahanon. They had all been sealed with wax, with the sigil of the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. Mahanon laughed and didn’t take them back. “You’re always my apprentice, Nadasa. That’s how mentorship works. I’ll always have experience on you.” Mahanon folded the leather straps of his bag over, and from their secluded corner of the camp, glanced askance towards where Varric and Harding spoke between themselves. “How has your journey been?” “We’ve tracked the Dread Wolf to Tevinter,” Nadasa replied quietly. There were more ideal places to be camping than in the Anderfels wilderness, but there was no camp safer than one guarded by wardens. “So that’s where we’re headed next.” “And when you put a stop to whatever he’s doing, maybe the other wardens will forget why they were so cross with you,” Mahanon said. Nadasa could tell by the wicked tilt to his smile that he still found the whole thing funny. “Elven gods. Can’t say I envy you. Almost makes me miss the Fifth Blight.” “Really?” “I said almost. You don’t really miss that kind of experience. You do miss the people.” Nadasa knew the edge of that wistful tone in Mahanon’s voice. It was one he often tried to conceal. “I’m sure they would be happy to hear from you. It’s not too late to reach out.” Mahanon raised a brow at him. “What do you think those letters are for? I need you to send those out when you reach the next city. I have business further in the wilds.” Though his fingers twitched at the thought, Nadasa resisted the urge to start reading who they were addressed to right in front of Mahanon. “If you insist. I won’t be around to collect if they reply.” “I know,” Mahanon said. “I know you have to leave soon, too. I want to give you something before you keep heading north.” Nadasa quirked a brow. That was unusual for Mahanon; giving gifts was far from his normal way of doing things. The last time he’d received any sort of gift from Mahanon, it had been a sword, a shield, and a combat manual that he’d been expected to memorize front to back. “Feeling sentimental, old man?” “You’ll get it one day,” Mahanon replied, before he offered Nadasa a silver chain, from which a red pendant was dangling from. No, not a pendant, Nadasa realized, but the light caught the blood inside in such a way that it seemed as though it could be a ruby. “What is this?” Nadasa murmured as he took it. “It was from my Joining. Figured you needed something to remind you of what was really important. Clearly not your armor; what is this dingy scrap? Did you pick this up off of corpses? Old chests?” While Mahanon picked at the state of his armor, Nadasa felt his blood run cold. The true purpose slowly came into focus. The headaches. The lessons. The meeting. The missives. The sentimentality. The trip to the wilds. Nadasa looked up at him, still holding the necklace in the air. “You’re not coming back,” he whispered. Mahanon froze, and for just a second, Nadasa thought he saw a flash of regret. “No,” Mahanon said. “But I’m not very good at goodbyes.” Nadasa stared at him, and he realized that Mahanon was waiting for him to say something. Anything. So he slowly slid the necklace on over his own head, letting the cold metal fall against his neck—which was odd, because he had imagined it to be warm where the blood pooled. “So no goodbyes.” “And no mourners, not for me,” Mahanon said. “But if you’re ever back in Ferelden… well, he’ll get the letter. He’ll know I’m sorry.” Mahanon’s one good eye moved to meet his once more, gleaming yellow. “I’ll see you when it’s over, Nadasa.”

[of-sinners-and-seas]

A Song of Spirits

OF SINNERS AND SEAS - BOOK ONE

A WIP INTRO

From the minds of @isabellebissonrouthier and @lady-grace-pens !

GENRE: adult. high fantasy. dark fantasy. dark romance.

POV: third person limited. past tense.

STATUS: writing.

CW: gore. strong language. explicit sexual content.

VIBES: ruby hearts and obsidian eyes. crashing waves and thundering skies. the bile of regret. the seduction of sin. tired eyes. heavy sighs. old photographs. tarot cards whose edges are worn by love. a broken body in a black room. clashing swords. a dusty throne. secrets exchanged in a back alley where the only judges are the street lamps that blind the stars above. pearls. jazz. rusted bars of a once-gilded cage. self-proclaimed godhood. bruises from lips that used to berate you. fresh ink from a letter scrawled in the dead of night. hidden longings. confessions. voices in the wind uttering words of destiny.

clotted emotions. a journal in tatters. flashes of light in the corner of your gaze. a pair of stilettos echoing down a rain-slick street. the stench of death. creaking wood. weapons that belong in your hands. the ache of nostalgia. the weight of the present. the sharp cracking of autumn leaves. milking blood from a wound that won’t heal.

THEMES: fate vs dreams. loyalty vs betrayal. history. secrets. self-worth. loneliness. mysticism and fortune telling. power and control. what do you want and how far will you go to get it? where will chasing it land you? In a better or worse position? Could you even handle it? How can you be sure?

SYNOPSIS:

Seven pirates. Seven thrones. Seven deadly sins.

All vie for dominance over their fantastical world, thinking themselves to be as close to immortal as could be. But the question of what, exactly, they are remains elusive, as is the reason why they crave a seat atop the world’s throne, battling to be the most dangerous sin of them all.

Some long for power. Some lust for a sense of identity. Others simply chase the thrill of the war they’ve locked themselves into.

Is not the root of all clashing swords a wretched cry for one’s own purpose?

It is for Katty, mistress of Envy. Her interest in the eternal war has been waning, and the figures roaming the streets of Eiffel have captured her attention more and more.

Families. Friends. Couples unscathed by the tests of time.

Her presence on her own pirate ship has become a rarity. Her lover, Delvan of Greed, has waxed on about his disapproval of her flippant desires, stressing the importance of what truly matters in their lives.

Fortune. Power. Status.

Katty knows this. And yet, she aches for more.

When the cards of fate unfold for her a passionate affair with the prince of Pride, Braven, behind the backs of their allies, Katty remembers the spark that being Envy once carried for her.

It’s only natural she chose him to accompany her on a secret mission to infiltrate the ship of Gluttony, also known as Flint. While Braven seeks information regarding Flint’s relentless search for who they are, Katty seeks a chest of personal valuables he’d stolen from her. More than either of them bargained for, Braven is captured and Katty is filled with regret. Sooner than she could even think to fall back on her own allies for aid, Flint captures them, too.

Katty must rescue them. And she must rely on Braven’s twin sister, wretched Morannah of Lust, in order to stand a chance against that giant, hulking man.

When the girls invade, cruel revelations are sparked: one calls into question the sins’ immortality, and the other permanently alters the nature of their war.

After all, what is an ally worth when all ends in betrayal?

•••

Pinterest Board | YouTube Playlist

INTRO TO THE SERIES

MEET THE SINS:

Envy | Pride | Lust | Greed | Wrath | Gluttony | Sloth

EXPLORE THE WORLDS:

Eiffel | Polarys & Lorallyn | Geldour | Valoma | Guisse | The Desolate

MEET THE FIRST MATES:

Gigi | Mikael | Désirée | Alusia | Marigold

•••

TAGLIST: @the-inkwell-variable @fifis-corner

[zarvasace]

Just finished re-reading Counterbalance to have something fun to read while waiting (very patiently surely) for the Pathfinder Links writing (looking forward to it a lot!!! I’m excited to learn about them!!) and Madness was making my heart hurt almost every scene 😭 “purple reminds me of something” “Link! Wait… no rainbows.” And that tiny back and forth with Four,,, ACKKKKK I just want to lock them in a comfy room and watch them chat,,, Can’t wait for more of your amazing writing!!!!

😭 blubbering thank you so muchhhh!! Counterbalance makes me happy, so I'm delighted to hear that you enjoy it. I love Madness a lot too, and want to give him lots of blankets and cocoa. He'd like that. He's currently the best of them, I think.

I don't want to give away the conceit of Counterbalance 2 (I'll find a better title for it) but I will tell you that the plot is 14 days long, and I have drafted out 2 of them (and parts of a few others) (day 1 is 12k words ahhh). The wip is currently on hold due to febuwhump, which is also a ton of fun, but other than that, it is my main focus right now.

I'll give you a cryptic, out-of-context outline note and an edited snippet, how about that? :)

Note: Four is the first to find the emergency exit button, and that isn't a good thing.

"Sapphire bones," Madness spat, "geode brain, ruby blood, even the jade heart. That's what you want, isn't it? Not me." [Redacted] gave him a long, calculating look. "You're talking about Link, aren't you? Your Link. Why won't you just say what you mean?" "Locks and keys," mumbled Madness, vainly attempting to get out of [Redacted]'s hold again. "You must be useful somehow. Your compatriots can turn into children, hypnotize others, or shoot lightning from their hands. What can you do?" "I don't have a ruler for you!" Can't give you a straight answer, interpreted Four. He was getting good at this.

[heylittleriotact]

🎄 Merry Almost Christmas Have A Festive WIP 🎄

(It's not looking like I'll be able to finish this before the holiday chaos ensues and I won't have a moment to myself until at least the weekend, so Christmas came sort of early, Emmrook friends)

❄️ Yet Untitled First-Day Holiday Fluff Piece ❄️

She stares at the gold ring and twitches her finger slightly, capturing a beam of groggy winter sunshine in the impressive red jewel that adorns it. She raises and lowers the finger, mesmerized by the comforting silence of the wood paneled entryway, and the way the light catches so prettily on the stone, making it look like bright arterial blood: rich with oxygen and scarlet in colour. 

It’s no ruby though… not even relatively inexpensive garnet. It’s coloured glass, and the band isn’t gold: judging on the way it leaves a dull green shadow of itself on her skin by the end of each day, it’s brass or maybe copper. 

If one was to look at it closely - which she has numerous times over the past few months - they would see where the cheap metal has been repetitively worn down, buckled, been repaired, and worn down some more over decades. There’s an almost imperceptible chip in the stone near the upper left edge of the setting, and in the right light you can see where small spiderweb cracks have been painstakingly filled in with a strong, clear substance, sanded and polished to match the shine of the rest of the stone. 

She dare not ask how much coin Emmrich has spent over the years to keep this ring in good repair. 

He rather insistently offered to buy her a ‘proper’ ring to mark their betrothal the morning after they returned to Nevarra: his Father’s ring was only meant to be temporary given the timing of his proposal, and what she really needed was a ring befitting the enormity and depth of his love for her; a ring that would at least compare to her beauty, though no bauble existed that could ever equal it. There were a number of other poetic and deeply romantic sentiments that she patiently waited for him to list off, nodding politely as he worked himself into a veritable tizzy, snuggled up alongside her in the warmth of the plush feather bed in the master suite of his house in the city.

“If you wish to spoil me with a second engagement ring, I daresay I’ll be the talk of Nevarra, and I won’t utter a single complaint,” she grinned, rotating the priceless ring on her finger. “But I hope you realize I’m going to keep wearing this one. This is the real one: this one is you. And you could drop a small kingdom worth of gold on the finest ring from King Caspar’s personal collection for all I care, but it would still look like cheap junk next to this, so if this is all just a clever ruse to get me to give it back, you’re out of luck, love: it’s mine– just like your heart… but don’t fret: I’ll take good care of them both.” And she planted a kiss on the top of his head, burying her nose in tousled hair that smelled of ripe cherries.

He made her come three times in a row that morning. 

She smiles at the memory and tugs on a pair of lined leather gloves, looking around the inviting entryway of the house as she does this. It’s a level of status and comfort that she’s still very much getting used to. It’s not a palatial manor by any means, but rather a high-end rowhouse in a quadrant of the city where nobles, high-ranking Mortalitasi, and retired political advisors live. Rowhouse or no, it’s still got four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and the nicest kitchen Amina has ever seen. Emmrich worked hard for the comfort he enjoys, and Amina was no pauper before her break from the Watch, but getting used to having staff has proven… challenging. Blessedly with the holiday coming up, Emmrich has sent the housekeeper, footman, and butler home - with full pay of course, and some extra - to be with their families. The house is empty and quiet but for the two of them, and it’s been a boon to just feel able to fully relax without the ever-present awareness of someone perceiving her, even if it was done benevolently by the curious staff of Professor Volkarin.

She couldn’t blame them for their interest: their employer went on sabbatical months earlier and returned home, a lauded hero of Thedas, with a relatively young woman on his arm and rumours of an imminent marriage trailing the pair. 

She runs a gloved finger down the dark chestnut door frame (not a speck of dust) and shifts, feeling a bit warm standing inside wearing her thick, gray wool coat. It always takes Emmrich forever to get ready to go anywhere— they’re going skating, not attending high tea with the Empress of Orlais…

“Rook!”

She glances over her shoulder to see Manfred shuffling down the hallway towards her, a pair of ice skates held aloft in front of him as he races towards her. 

“Knives!” He declares, eyes flaring gleefully. “Knives!”

“Sort of,” she remarks wryly, her lip curling in an amused smile that she can’t help whenever the enthusiastic construct is around. “Best not let your Father see you running with those: you remember the incident with the scalpel, hm?”

“Pressure!” Manfred recites proudly, “Put! Pressure!” He grips Amina’s forearm with surprising strength to demonstrate.

“Very good.”

“Hurray!” He relinquishes his grip and hops from foot to foot, unable to contain his excitement.

It had been difficult to convince Emmrich to bring Manfred skating, what with her beloved citing the obvious incompatibility of brittle bone, hard ice, and gravity. 

“What if he falls?” Emmrich had queried, his brow knitting in consternation, his lips pouting, fingers laced over his heart - hell, his moustache might have drooped a little. 

Emmrich still turns brick red when Manfred calls him ‘Father’ and tries to correct him, but when he’s not within earshot, Amina tells Manfred not to listen: just this time - because he is Manfred’s father, and he’ll get used to it eventually, but denying it isn’t going to do either of them favours.

“He won’t fall,” she had promised Emmrich, tracing the shape of his shadowed jaw. “Not when he’s got both of us by his side.”

He made love to her twice that night: long, passionate encounters that left her muscles a bit achy and her brain a bit foggy come the morning.

She’s still been taking her weekly tincture to prevent pregnancy, but sooner or later she knows they’re going to have to talk about the future of that… and all that might come of stopping it. She could have broached the topic by now - could have said something, but he hasn’t said anything either, and even if she did float the idea of a child by him and he said no, that would be fine, but she hasn’t felt ready for the permanence of that conversation yet… the fact that once its had, it can’t really be taken back: she’s thirty-seven, and running short on time to act on such things…

“Emmrich is Father. Rook is Mother!” 

“Oh. Um… not… not just yet, Manfred… wait— who told you that?” She feels her face redden, feels even warmer in her coat and scarf than she already does: where the hell is Emmrich? “Your ability to speak is certainly coming along, isn’t it?” She pretends to take a nose he doesn’t have, sticking the tip of her gloved thumb out from between her index and middle finger. She shakes it tauntingly and bites back the laugh threatening to break loose at the sound of Manfred’s scandalized hiss. “Give you a few years and I bet you’ll be running entire lectures by yourself.” She ducks Manfred’s grab for the ‘nose’ in her hand, bobs under his skeletal arm and straightens: they’ve played this game before - it rapidly became one of his favourites once Amina made sure he was crystal clear in his understanding that it was a game and he was not to actually remove anyone’s nose. 

“Oh good, you’re both ready!” 

Emmrich traipses down the stairs, hauling his own dark green wool coat up over his shoulders, a man in his element with his hair impeccably coiffed, his charcoal trousers perfectly pressed even in the absence of his butler. His earthy, herbal aftershave follows in his wake as he squeezes past Amina, his hand trailing over her waist to tug a soft woolen scarf from one of the hooks lining the wall.

“The ice on the river might have started melting had we waited any longer.” She snags Manfred’s wrist and gently deposits the ‘nose’ in his hand. After he jams it back on his face, clacking madly the entire time, she turns to Emmrich and beams at him, watching him weave the brown scarf into a complex but distinguished knot, tucking the ends down the front of his coat before buttoning it and lifting the collar to frame his angular face.

He’s flustered - at odds. Is it because he hasn’t skated in years, or is he still preoccupied with worry over Manfred?

“I loathe feeling rushed,” he half mumbles into the scarf, verging on a proper strop. 

“No one’s rushing you.”

He’s taking this very seriously. Too seriously: the tension in his frame gives it away. So she catches his eyes with hers along with his hands, and rises on her tiptoes to press a long, soft kiss to his lips. He tastes like life and embalming fluid and strong black tea.

“You’re the one that wanted to take me skating anyway,” she purrs against his lips, half tempted to tell Manfred that skating has been cancelled so she can take Emmrich upstairs and put a properly fucked out smile on his face instead of the dour pout he’s currently wearing. “We’ll have a lovely time, and if it helps put your mind at ease, why don’t we bundle Manfred in your thickest down-filled coat?” 

His mouth turns up slightly at the corners after a moment of consideration. “What an excellent idea, darling.” He kisses her again, holding her chin with his thumb and forefinger, his fingers so wonderfully warm and real. For a moment she wonders if he’s having thoughts about calling off their excursion as well, but he turns from her to rifle through the closet. He leans further and further in, going further and further back through decades of fashions - some timeless, others dated and eccentric - she’s well familiar by now with the state of his sprawling closet upstairs: it’s little wonder he has this many coats too. 

Eventually she hears a muffled ‘a-ha!’ and Emmrich resurfaces gripping a massive down-filled jacket that’s a virulent shade of yellow plaidweave. It’s got about forty pockets, twenty-odd buckles, and a dozen black toggle style closures running down the front all shaped like skulls. The hood and cuffs are trimmed with…with some sort of fur? …Why is it bright green?

It’s hideous.

Actually, ‘hideous’ is a polite assessment: in fact, it’s so, so far beyond hideous that Amina is unsure if there actually exists a word to accurately describe the severe affront to all things fashionable that this jacket is. 

Unable to help herself, Amina bursts out laughing at the sight of the thing, mostly due to the immediate mental image of the man holding it, wearing it. 

“What?” He frowns.

“It’s so…” she gasps between giggles. “It’s just so… hah! Did you actually wear that?” She collapses in a fit of amused titters again as the love of her life holds the jacket at arms length and studies it. 

“Well… yes.” He states, sounding nonplussed. “Granted, I was in my very early twenties when this style was popular with the more… avant garde circles I ran with in those days…” 

“It looks cozy, I’ll give it that.” She gently tugs it out of his hands even though he’s still frowning at it, nostalgia evident on his face. “And we certainly won’t lose Manfred in a crowd with this colour combination.” 

[stottlemorgan]

WIP day

Because I'm feeling very much in an anxious PTSD funk.

This is a very tiny peek of my first ever Aruby (My OC Ruby Meyer x Arthur) fanfic which will detail how they meet! I'm not super sure on what style I want to write it in so, it's very much a WIP.

Mrs. Meyer is Ruby's mother, Robert is her brother; I haven't killed Ruby off lmaoooo

TW for blood, death, corpses, rdr2 typical darkness but not overly descriptive.

“Mrs. Mey–?” As his knuckles knock the wood just once, the door opens marginally. Not enough to see anything, but enough for Arthur’s hand to steadily move down to his holster. Using his free hand, he slowly pushes the door open, peeking his head in cautiously, “Mrs. Meyer?” He calls out softly, only to choke on his next breath in. His free hand comes up, pressing the back of his glove to his mouth as he stifles a cough and forces himself to breathe in. The cabin is stuffy; the air acrid. Metallic. 

With another forced breath, Arthur takes a step in. Scanning what little he can see through the shroud of darkness, he softly tries to breathe away his unease. The grainy outline of a round table and chairs stands across from him in the corner of the small room. To the right of him are two doors, the furthest away open, the other closed. A fireplace, he thinks, takes up the farther end of the left wall with a door to its right in the back wall. Vague lines of cabinets and cupboards fill out the corner to the left along with the wall at his back. Another step, and Arthur’s boot tacks to the floor. He freezes, peering down, and rocks his foot; both feeling and hearing a thick, sticky substance mucking beneath his boot. With a grimace, he turns and moves towards the window above the cabinets. The same boot knocks into something heavy, something plush. Huffing out a curse, Arthur hastens. Clumsily stepping over what his quivering gut is telling him are most definitely limbs, he grabs at the curtains and yanks them apart, turning back to the rest of the room. Light of both moon and lamp spills in, bluing Arthur’s sight but allowing him to see the oaken furnishings, which have been thoroughly ransacked. Although, Arhur only notices that after a long, slow moment of dragging his gaze over the lurid spatterings of vinous fluid marking the surfaces surrounding the table, accompanied by not one fresh body, but two.

Arthur removes his hat with a tut, pressing it to his chest. “Mrs. Meyer,” he breathes in greeting to the corpse of a middle aged woman, his focus drifting down over her as she sits slumped into one of the chairs around the table. He blinks at the pair of bullet wounds piercing her chest and staining her grey shirt before continuing down to the second body. “An’ I’m guessin you’re Robert.” Arthur’s hand lifts from his holster, rubbing his moustache absent mindedly as he sighs– partly out of condolence, but also mulling over what he will tell Strauss. The man lies awkwardly on his front, his face lifted toward the front door, eyes and mouth agape and slack. The back of his shirt is spotted with the bloody and blooming tail ends of multiple gunshot wounds. One arm is crushed beneath him; presumably reaching for the empty holster at his side in which his gun must have been tucked away. Arthur glances around the cabin, now able to see properly, and again takes in the sections of disarray. A few drawers are strewn about the floor, one left up on the side along with various miscellania.

“You folks owed a lot more people’n jus’ us, huh?”

Too bad I didn’t make it here first.”

[shallowseeker]

“Are you considering drinking his blood?” Sam recoils. “What—no! That’s—God, that’s not even close to where my head was at!” His brain lurches, conjuring a half-rotted flash of Ruby—standing over him, her wrist pressed to his mouth, her dark eyes roving as she watches him drink. The image fizzles and melts, her features reshaping into the broad planes of Jack’s face, the gray-blue of his eyes, wide and innocent. (Wrong.) Sam scrubs the image from his mind, bile rising in the back of his throat. He stares at Michael. The question loops—too precise to be unintentional. “W-would that even work?” “Give you the so-called low-budget Na’phil powers, you mean. Like with Azazel.” “Yeah.” Michael turns to stare at the treeline and goes quiet again. Sam swallows hard. “So, no?” “Maybe.”

For your crimes against the most high (ao3), wip snippet ch 7 psychic boy blues