#like 'this is god. this is half of gods soul. these are gods descendants. these are the descendants of the half of gods soul. they have all

[the-muppet-joker]

I must admit, though shamefully, that I didn't believe you at first. What an ignorant heretic I was. How silly, I thought, that the second first man born unto God would choose such a humble place to spread his sermons. I've been so jaded in this awful life that I've rejected the one true light twinkling out past the darkness. This all-consuming black hole inside me...((Like a muppet hole)) No, no, no, no not like -((Are you so dissimilar to a toy? A muppet with a hollow inside where his creator's hand fits? I'm puppeting you right now and I'm telling you dude - there is a whole lot of empty in here.)) Why do I feel so ashamed? These thoughts are horrible.

((You know what's happening. You're just in denial.))

I remember the first time I saw the Muppets like I remember the first time my father hugged me (9). It shocked me to my core and I had this indescribable feeling- a feeling I can now put words to; This show was going to change the course of my life. I watched in awe as the be-felted people sung and danced. The songs felt like gospel in my young mind. I even tolerated the female Muppets because they were funny. All except one it turns out. Kermit was performing on stage and my life was reaching a peek. My soul was ablaze and my hole was being filled. And then this PIG walks on stage. Ms. Piggy was the definition of a 10/10 femoid in the looks department. Then this bimbo pig walks right up to Kermie and starts flirting with him. I think I must have blacked out the second she open her shrill mouth because the next thing I remember I'm staring down at my bloodied hands. The TV laid in a parking heap on the living room floor. I thought I could hear something coming from the TV, a whisper beneath the sparking and the now growing fire...muppet hole. The TV was undeniably glitching out and repeating the words muppet hole. No, it wasn't just the TV, it was a particular voice. Kermit.

((You saved Kermit from Ms. piggy)) No I didn't. I broke down, caused property damage, and had to skip summer camp for therapy. ((You were chosen)) For what? Almost burning down my house. Half of my hometown thinks I'm an arsonist. ((It is your role to burn every trace of pig flesh. Like a hog on a spit, rotating before the eyes of hungry horrors that lay just outside the fire's haze. She will know what it means to sacrifice your flesh to a smiling God)) Ok I understand.

Last night, laying in a puddle of congealing orange Faygo (huge bender), this memory came rushing back to me. I asked myself if my hole was filled. I checked and couldn't tell. After cleaning up I tried asking God if my hole was filled. He told me the answers I seek lay within my own mind. As a Maid of Mind I can dive really deep into my own mind. I used my ascended god tier powers to travel to the farthest recesses of my subconscious and find the answer for myself.

The further I descended the darker everything became.I panicked and tried to escape but hit a wall. Oh God, is this how I die? Trapped within my own mind, forced to suffer my sick, evil thoughts until my physical body perished? ((Keep moving)) I suddenly felt completely calm. I turned and kept walking. I soon realized that I was in a hallway. I could see a figure emerge in a sudden flash of light and I ran towards it for what felt like millennia. This invader of the mind had a dominant stance, with arms straight out to the sides as if to say ((come at me bro)).

Suddenly I was face to face with. Oh. ((Now do you understand?)) I do. Before me stood God, ie Dirk Strider. (If you're a monotheist Homestuck kin I'm sorry for the exclusionary language as Homestuck *can be read as a monotheistic work. I am just trying to express my religious views so my interpretation of the scripture is limited to my own experience. Sorry (⁠๑⁠•⁠﹏⁠•). God fist bumped me like a real bro and popped open a fresh bottle of orange Faygo to wash my feet with.

I can't write out the feet washing scene because I have a foot fetish. Let's just say it was very enjoyable for both of us although I don't think it was sexual for him. Was hard to tell through God's trademark dark sunglasses.

((You are my son, my child, my blood. Skin and bone but just as precious as the hand-sewn Smuppets. I have built from the clay just as my maker has built me from mud. We are Earth, we are space, we are transcending the roots. Together we will seed the universe and live out our Godhood.)).

How will we seed the universe?

((We must destroy Ms.Piggy so she can't hold Kermit down with her dumb feminine ways. Every snort from her is like a vast oink that pulls the threads of the universe apart farther, and farther. She is a force of chaos and having her so close to Kermit is limiting his potential to ascend. Kermit is one of my splinter selves and if he can't ascend I might lose narrative relevance altogether))

WELL THEN HOW DO I HELP YOU! PLEASE LET ME HELP YOU REACH YOUR TRUE POTENTIAL BY BRINGING DOWN THIS HOG. But I have one concern? How do I do it? My abilities aren't primarily combat based. How can I bring down nigh infinite incarnations of this foul swine?

((Muppet hole))

I woke up(?) in a puddle of sweat building over the now fully congealed Faygo puddle. I felt a purpose in my limbs as they moved easily like the wooden arms of a marionette. I felt full, fulfilled. I have found my purpose and my master. I HAVE FOUND SALVATION.

I've spent the past week going to every store on the bus route, 1 by 1, and defacing any evidence of Ms.Piggy. I cross out her name in big black sharpie and write religious seals on the pages of the magazines. I steal the dolls, replace the heads with different heads, and put them back. I even go to the grocery stores and cross out all the ham/pork labels on the meats. I've been replacing them with labeled that say things like "smile at your true god" and simply "flesh".

I do this all in the service of a god that is now crystalizing in my mind. And the sharper the image gets the closer it looks like Kermit's crusty hole. Amen.

Finally someone fucking understands

[nyaskitten]

I need to rewatch season 1 soon so I may be a bit wrong on this, but something about the idea of the Great Devourer being like a revered goddess to the ancient Serpentine, while those same ancient Serpentine feared her creator, the Overlord, it's just making me have thoughts...

#imagine your goddess was created by a darker yet more powerful god whos actually half of lego god's soul... #like these guys have it pretty intense. #off-topic but its kinda funny that the overlord is a grandpa on account of the Vermillion being the Devourer's offspring #also his giant pet snake has a bunch of statues for siblings that's p funny tbh #also like Idk how the FSM famlly rlly works if the Overlord is part of the FSM but its so funny to imagine ppl in the ninjago universe bein #like 'this is god. this is half of gods soul. these are gods descendants. these are the descendants of the half of gods soul. they have all #tried to kill each other. gods other half is no longer welcome to family reunions' #ninjago #raine's rambles

[heytheredelulu]

Simple

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Imagine

ALL OF MY WORK IS 18+

Word Count: 1k (It’s a quickie)

C/W: It’s all smut. It’s literally nothing but cock sucking, okay?

Bucky Barnes enjoyed the simple pleasures in life.

A heaping stack of warm, buttery pancakes drizzled in maple syrup.

A glass of oaky, barrel aged bourbon, neat.

The sultry, nostalgic, slow jazz of the 40’s playing over the speakers he still couldn’t quite figure out how to connect his Bluetooth to.

His copy of J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit”, worn and weathered from all the times he’d read it cover to cover while lounged lazily in his oversized armchair.

But perhaps the greatest pleasure he enjoyed was the feeling of his pretty baby’s pink, swollen lips wrapped around his thick and needy cock.

He’d had plenty of blowjobs before, many hot, wet mouths gagging on the impressive length of him but none, none of those encounters could ever compare to your ministrations.

He was smitten with you long before you’d knelt before him but it wasn’t until the first time you sucked the very soul from his body through his throbbing cock that he was fucking done for.

You were his, forever.

There was just something so beautiful about the way your soft hums of contentment vibrated through his shaft like you were singing him the chorus to the sweetest song ever composed.

The way your eyes fixed on him half lidded, attentive and responsive to his every twitch and pulse against your tongue. It wasn’t just the sheer skill of pleasing him that you possessed but the level at which you so clearly enjoyed the act itself.

Your eager wiggle on your knees while you suckled at his frenulum, your hand wrapped firmly around the girth of him as you traced the sensitive, velvet flesh of his cockhead against your soft, plump lips.

Oh God, the wanton groan that rose from your throat when you teased the tip of your tongue to his slit, lavishing the salty flavor of his precum on your taste buds.

And you hadn’t even put him in your slutty little mouth yet.

He’d always let you lead, slowly descending on him with your hands splayed on his muscular thighs, batting your lashes at him once he brushed the back of your throat as if waiting for him to cup your jaw and stroke your cheek affectionately with the calloused pad of his thumb like he always did while you ‘took a moment’ to adjust to his size. Part of him wondered if you really needed to adjust or if you just wanted to savor the look in his eyes as he committed the lewd image of you to memory.

You’d breathe heavily through your nostrils- the exhale blowing gently against the soft, dark curls at the base of his cock and the inhale shuddering like you were basking in the scent of him.

The first time you’d lapped at the seam of his sack with your tongue while he was seated to the hilt down your throat his toes curled as he gripped the arm of the chair with white knuckles, hissing out a string of curses.

Always so responsive to his body, you slowly eased off him, your hand stroking languidly along his thick shaft, applying firm pressure to the tip as you dipped down to gently draw his heavy balls into your mouth. The whine that erupted from his chest was a sound he’d never made before but then again, he’d never had a woman show much- if any attention to his sack during a blowjob, let alone roll them around in her mouth like they were a goddamn delicacy.

Lord have mercy when you descended on him again, your cheeks hollowed, your tongue flicking and swirling along his length, one of your dainty hands holding him firm at the base as you cupped and fondled his saliva-slicked balls with the other.

Somehow you even made gagging look seductive, inhaling sharply through your nose while your eyes watered and drool dripped down your chin, trailing across the hollow of your throat and leaving a wet sheen across your pretty tits.

Oh yeah, you absolutely had your tits out. Hell, you loved to be naked on your knees for him. It only made it that much easier for you to snake a free hand between your thighs, rubbing slow, gentle circles over your aching clit with the sweet arousal that wept from your cunt with how utterly turned on you were by sucking his cock.

You’d lose your fucking mind when he twisted your hair around his fist, shameless moans bubbling up from your chest as he bucked his hips, fucking himself down your throat. As soon as he’d pick up that merciless rhythm you’d slip two, sometimes three fingers into yourself, frantically pumping them to mirror his tempo until you came with a strangled cry, tears pricking at the corners of your lust-hazed eyes.

Holy hell that’d be his tipping point.

He’d hold your head firmly in place, his massive hand flexing against the back of your skull, his cock pulsing as he throws his head back, a deep and primal moan ripping through his chest as he comes hard enough to make his fucking ears ring.

Words of praise would fall from his lips in a breathless whisper as he caressed your cheek, lazily rutting his hips forward while you greedily swallowed down every last drop like it was your well deserved reward for your tantalizing efforts.

“Such a good girl.”

“So fucking pretty when you choke on my dick.”

“Oh baby, yes. Fuck, swallow it.”

“Shit, you’re so goddamn perfect.”

Sometimes when you were feeling extra submissive you’d sit back on your heels and open your mouth, proudly showing him the pearlescent fruits of your labors, pooled on your tongue.

You’d wait patiently, drooling unabashedly with a slack jaw as he tucked his spent cock away, zipping up his jeans and slowly buckling his belt while he kept you naked on your knees awaiting his order.

He’d pinch your cheeks in his large hand and dip down to press a kiss to your forehead, his chest swelling with pride at the power you allowed him to hold over you.

All the while, you’d stare up at him obediently with smoldering eyes until he’d nod, his lips twitching up into a crooked smirk before he’d finally speak his command in a low, gruff voice.

“Swallow.”

Taglist (Taglist is open):

@badbunnybabygirl01 @suz7days @truthfulliarr @lilacka @writtingrose @samsgoddess @loveisallyouneed1125 @vicmc624 @millercontracting @wildernessflora @mydorkyboys @blackhawkfanatic @honestlywork @ladyvenera @cavity-exe @ihavetwoholesforareason @km-ffluv @shortnloud @mrs-katelyn-barnes @somnorvos @22rhianna2006 @misshale21 @angelbaby99 @deans-spinster-witch @kezibear @acornacreacure @buckys-wintersoldier @terry2227 @wintrsoldrluvr

A/N: Yeah, idk where this came from-

I was feeling feral again.😅

💋Sj

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #avengers smut #marvel smut

[mediumgayitalian]

prev

———

Twenty minutes later, Solace hurries out of his cabin in cowboy boots.

And jeans.

Nico gapes at him.

“Go go go go go, questions later,” Will hisses, herding him behind the Apollo cabin. “We are on a time limit, we gotta —”

“You’re wearing close-toed shoes.”

“Yes, yes, sometimes I wear the clothes that I own. Wild. Let’s go.” Will tugs, uselessly, on his arm, but Nico’s half-certain his jaw has taken root in the ground, cementing him in place, because what the actual shit.

“Solace, you wore flip-flops to the snow-smothered bus stop in January. I thought you had, like, a condition!”

“I do have a condition. It’s called You Are Not Hurrying, Death Breath, let’s go —”

This time when he pulls, Nico stumbles after him, ducking under windowsills and inching around flower gardens. Every time someone so much as looks in their direction, Will plants both hands on his chest and shoves them into a corner somewhere, craning his neck to watch until they move on. Every time he does, another piece of Nico’s soul breaks away from his body and descends into hell. There is an actual trail of bones and tilled earth and dead grass behind him. Will doesn’t need to worry about being stealthy — the death aura of Nico’s dignity is large enough to scare off anything within a four mile radius.

“In here!”

Undeterred by the death aura, for some reason, Will seizes his bicep and shoves him in a crack between the Hypnos and Dionysus cabins. He slips in a millisecond later, crowding him against the warm bricks, forearm pressed awkwardly next to Nico’s head.

“Hnggh,” Nico gasps, mournfully wishing his last sliver of self-respect goodbye. Rest in fucking peace. “Do you have to be so — close, Will, gods —”

“Shhh!”

“If you shush me again I am going to rip your throat out —”

“Go, go, go!”

Yanked forward again, Nico doesn’t have the time to finish his threat. This time, at least, they sprint the final stretch to the shed without any more hiding and shoving.

Thank all the fucking gods. One more second of Will’s stupid torso — since fucking when does he wear polo shirts, huh, what the shit fuck is up with that — pressed against his and Nico’s bronchitis was going to come back. And this time he’s going to succumb to it.

“Okay,” Will says. He stands in front of a tarp-covered lump, gripping one side and jutting his chin out at the other. “On three, we tear this off and start pushing. We need past Thalia’s tree in under thirty seconds. Got it?”

“No,” Nico says stubbornly, “you still haven’t explained what the rush is —”

“One two three go!”

Will, unfortunately, has been tricking ADHD teenagers into doing things they don’t want to do for years, so Nico’s ripping off the tarp and shoving the chariot out of its stall faster than he can register what he’s doing. He practically sprints to keep up with Will, chariot wheels creaking happily as they rush over stones and sticks and forgotten weapons.

“We’re leaving now, Chiron! Bye!” Will hollers, moving too fast to give him a second to respond. Luckily, Chiron is similarly busy, galloping after a speeding Harley without more than a backwards wave and a sharp don’t die, please!

“That dynamite I gave Harley’ll only keep everyone distracted another thirty seconds,” Will mutters, ignoring Nico’s alarmed the fucking what you gave Harley, “so we need to move, let’s go.”

“Will — slow down a half fucking second, Christ, not everyone is seventy percent leg — we don’t even have pegasi!”

“Will you keep it down.” Will looks back and forth, eyes wide, like he’s worried someone is going to pop up with a pack of the winged animals. “Just — stop asking questions! We’re almost home free!”

“You’ve gone insane. It’s finally, actually happened, after all these years, who woulda thought, fully bonkers at age sixteen —”

“Oh, shut up.”

Muttering his complaints, Nico helps him push the infernal chariot down Half-Blood Hill. Among his grievances, he makes it abundantly clear that 1) this is stupid, 2) he did not agree to physical labour, 3) he would not have agreed to come if he had known about the physical labour, and 4) this is stupid.

“Just a few more yards, then we can —”

“Okay, no, that’s it.” Nico lets go of the chariot, letting the wheel dig into the soft ground and send the whole thing halting. He meets Will’s pout head-on; arms crossed, jaw set, foot tapping, refusing to give into those big blue eyes.

“C’mon, Neeks.” A faint explosion sounds off in the distance. Will’s eyes get more pleading, more hopeful. “We won’t have much time after the diversion wears off…”

“You have three seconds before I turn the hell around, Solace.”

“Please?”

“One.”

He pushes uselessly at the chariot. It spins a sad little circle without someone pushing the other side. “Neeks!”

“Two.”

“Alright, fine! Help me push again and I’ll explain on the way down.”

“Much easier when you just do as I say,” Nico grumbles, starting to push the stupid (horseless and therefore useless) chariot again. “Isn’t it?”

Will, predictably, rolls his eyes, although he can’t quite help the smile that pulls at his lips. Nico tells the butterflies that go buck fucking wild in his stomach to go to hell. This does nothing.

“How much do you know about the chariot?” Will asks eventually, after a couple minutes of shoving the stupid thing past a deep trench in the soil, leftover from the war. (Nico is going to set the fucking thing on fire. It’s a flying chariot — shouldn’t it be lightweight? Why is he suffering?) They’re nearly three quarters down the hill, and it takes everything Nico has not to risk it all and shadow travel the last couple dozen feet. Yeah, it might kill him, but then his problem would immediately go away. Tempting does not begin to cover it.

“Uh, big source of drama, right? Apollo and Ares worked together to seize it, argued over who got to keep it?”

He cuts a careful glance over to Will, well aware it’s a sensitive topic. He knows the question isn’t a trap — Will would never do that to him — but it’s probably best to tread lightly. As far as he’s concerned, this is a sore point that’ll take more than a couple years to heal.

Luckily, there’s no tension to Will’s face. “Mhm. I wasn’t there for much of the planning, ‘cause I was busy in the infirmary and also, like, twelve, but it took a lot of time on both sides. When Michael and everyone seized it, though, it glowed gold.”

“…Ah.”

Will snorts at his awkwardness, nudging his shoulder. “Yeah. Sure made it hard for the Ares cabin to claim, as dicey as it may be. Here, help me park it on the side of the road.”

There’s a thatch of weeds and undergrowth separating the road from the base of the hill, so dragging the chariot over is a struggle and a half. Nico can’t help but think that this task would be very easy if the chariot was harnessed to a couple pegasi and flying over the fucking thatch, as it is meant to do. When he voices this very valid thought, Will does not respond.

He does walk into a thistle, though, so Nico feels considerably better about the whole ordeal.

“The thing about the blessing —” Will grunts, yanking the chariot onto the gravel shoulder with one final tug — “is that it’s not that big of a deal. My dad blesses shit all the time. Our cabin is blessed. The infirmary is blessed. Hell, half my scalpels are blessed, and I throw those things out all the time ‘cause they’re dangerous when they get dull. Just because my dad blessed it doesn’t mean we actually have to keep it.”

“Okay…” Nico says slowly, “then why was it such a big deal?”

“The blessing on its own wasn’t.” Will’s voice gets fainter as he lowers himself onto the pavement, dragging himself under the belly of the chariot. Nico is confused for a full three seconds before a particularly rough patch of asphalt snags Will’s shirt and drags, and wow, are those jeans low rise. His throat is suddenly very dry. “Blessing a chariot on the other hand…”

Will makes a dorky little noise of success, crawling back from under the chariot. When he resurfaces, he’s grinning, carved piece of wood the same material as the chariot clenched in his hand. There’s soot smeared across his left cheek, his curls have tangled themselves into more of a mess than usual, and there are three separate scuff marks on his nice jeans.

Nico ducks his head, hiding a smile. What a dorky loser. Even dressed up as he is (boy, has Nico fallen low, if he’s calling jeans and cowboy boots dressed up), he still manages to look like…Will.

A really, really hot version of Will, but. Whatever. Details.

“The hell is that?”

“This,” Will says grandly, feeling around the wall of the chariot until he finds a specific spot, “is the reason my brother gave a fuck about a dumbass chariot.” He sticks the edge of the wooden tool in a tiny groove, wedging it open to reveal a hidden panel and a small, golden button. Nico meets Will’s grin with raised eyebrows, impressed.

“What do you know about Michael?”

“Uh, not too much.”

“You think he, in any reality, would have had that much interest in a hunk of wood?”

Nico had scarcely met him more than a couple times, but Michael Yew made an impression, that was for sure. For someone who was shorter than Nico when he was ten years old, he sure took up a lot of space. In the few times Nico remembers seeing him, he’d been concerned with his bow, his camera, or showing any given person who so much as blinked at him wrong just how quickly he could turn their ass concave. If Nico is correct, actually, the one time he and a pegasus had been in the same vicinity, they’d hissed at each other. Nico didn’t even know pegasi could hiss.

He tries to find a delicate way to say this.

“He seemed more interested in other endeavours,” he says politely.

Will laughs loudly. “He would rather shove an arrow in his eye than race a chariot!” His bright smile is impossible not to match, and Nico is relieved to find him totally comfortable, relaxed; hell, even excited. Usually, any talk of his siblings, even fond, makes him quiet. He’s glad for this change, however unusual. “Man, I loved my brother more than anything, but he was the most ornery motherfucker I’ve ever met in my life. He taught me every swear in every language by the time I was nine, just because he knew it would drive Lee batty. He didn’t care about some spoil of war.”

He smirks, wide and devilish, and Nico’s knees go weak. Dimples like that should be illegal.

“He was smart, though. And he figured, if dad’s blessing made this chariot anything like his own…”

He reaches out and presses the golden button with his thumb, letting go and standing back once he registers a faint click. After a couple seconds, the chariot begins to glow, soft at first, then brighter, then Nico has to squeeze his eyes shut to avoid the stinging burn, and then when he opens them, it —

He gapes. Will grins.

Where the chariot used to be, is now a shiny, brand-new, black and yellow motorbike, two helmets gleaming on the sparkling leather seat.

“…Then it might be a little more than some lousy chariot.”

Without waiting for Nico to pick his jaw off the floor, Will rushes forward. He tosses one of the helmets to Nico — which he barely manages to catch, still working on processing what the fuck just happened — and tucks the other under his arm. Nico happens to notice how his biceps flex with the action, and then vows to have his father bankrupt the entire polo shirt industry, because he can never be caught lacking like this by any mortal soul. It’s humiliating.

There’s a click as Will unlatches the seat, lifting it up to access the compartment under it. He pulls out a bundle mass of black fabric, and with a flick of his shoulders reveals it to be a fucking leather jacket and oh, gods, Nico takes back the polo shirt complaints, he can live with the polo shirt. This is too much. This is —

“Any time you’re done ogling at me, you can climb on,” Will calls out. He doesn’t even have the good grace to look in Nico’s direction, instead sliding on the seat facing resolutely forward, amused smirk on his face. And because he wants Nico to die, actually, he straightens his jacket, making sure it fits his shoulders right (by the gods does it ever) brushes his hair backwards (there is no genuine reason for someone’s hair to actually shine in the sunlight) and slides his helmet on. When he finally does look back in Nico’s direction, through his raised visor, the combined sight of his sparkling blue eyes and the cut of his face under the angular helmet actually gives him tachycardia.

“I hate you,” Nico croaks. “Not joking.”

Will throws his head back and laughs, baring his long, tanned throat. Nico follows the bob of his adam’s apple like Tantalus does the forbidden fruit. It’s horrible, and what’s worse is that Will is visibly preening like the fuckin’ peacock he is. Someone should remind him he’s basically a dressed up turkey. Or something. Nico’s brain is operating at twenty percent capacity, his ability to metaphor properly is a secondary concern.

“Just get over here, you goober. We’re on a time limit, remember?”

Shoving his helmet on to hide his flaming face, Nico does, sliding on with a healthy four inches of space between them.

“Mm, not gonna work, ParaNorman. This thing’s enchanted, we’ll be going well over a hundred. Hold on properly.”

Praying to seven different gods for strength, at once, Nico scooches the agonizing few inches closer.

“Hands around waist, Death Boy.”

“I’m fucking — I’m getting there, you asshole, gimme a goddamn second.”

“Do you need help?”

“I need you to shut the fuck up so I can focus.”

Maybe it’s the healer in him, or maybe there actually is a god looking out for Nico and they decide to have mercy. Maybe it’s a third option. Either way, Will reaches back and wraps his callused hands around Nico’s wrist, tugging them gently forward and resting them on the narrow curve of his hips. Nico holds them there, along with his breath, until some of the panicky tension starts to loosen in his chest, and he relaxes forward, resting his chest against Will’s back.

“There,” he says quietly, humming with approval when Nico’s arms link properly around his waist. He squeezes his clasped wrists once — a silent you good? — and waits for Nico’s minute nod, face buried in the back of Will’s neck, before starting up the engine, revving it twice before leaning forward, body flush to the bike. Nico can practically feel his grin, it’s so clear in his mind’s eye, in the delight thrumming through Will’s entire body, that he can’t help his own smile, too, can’t help but feel the thrum of the machine, the sharp smell in the air. He tightens his hold and Will lets out a loud, whooping laugh.

“Let’s ride, baby!”

With a push off the ground and a twist of a thrusters, they’re off, leaving behind only the echo of the roaring engine and the joyful, startled sound of Nico’s shriek.

———

next

#ALMOST DONE I SWEAR IM SORRY I DIDNT KNOW IT WAS A THREE PARTER #but nico is just so fckn. dramatic all the time. it takes time to write #pjo #percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #nico di angelo #will solace #nico di angelo & will solace #nico di angelo/will solace #nico/will #will/nico #solangelo #pre solangelo #pining nico di angelo #down bad nico di angelo #whipped nico di angelo #pjo hoo toa #bad flirting #idk how to tag ‘will is a cool bamf hottie’ but #it was his turn to be a biker i think #longpost #my writing

[historiaxvanserra]

Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of | Chapter 2

Pairing: SingleDad!Rhys x Reader

Summary: The High Lord of Night makes a bargain with a beautiful Priestess and he has come to collect.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: allusions to sexual assault, allusions to depression, abandonment, broken homes (y'know keeping it light, in all seriousness this is not all angst it's quite sweet actually).

Last night you dreamt you went to Hewn City again.

You are a girl; coloured in the shadowed jade light of the Moonstone Palace, and your body feels unlike your own. A hostile vessel-- empty and aching-- longing for some semblance of release. You call into the darkness words akin to prayers; Mother, save me; Father, please. 

From the darkness no answer comes. 

Then, as all dreamers are, you are possessed of a sudden magic; you walk the halls of The Moonstone Palace. As a shadow or a memory. The cursed daughter of a capricious Lord. An Ill-faded bride to a mercurial God. The time passes strangely there in the dark dreamscape; the passing of time marked only by the slivers of opal light that pierce through the blanket of the dark each night. Fractured rays of pearlescent light that dapple the marble floors and high, onyx ceilings. You cherish those fleeting moments where hope bleeds into you with the rapidly falling night. It is those moments you cling to as dawn breaks.

The morning light creeps in like hunger; veins of first light that cascade-- all golden and ephemeral-- cutting through the darkness of your dormitory as the dream slips away from you again. A figure, obscured by your sleep addled haze, falls into view and you feel it as their weight settles at your side. The feeling of a fine bone hand runs along your bare arm, soothing and gentle and she whispers words close to comfort to you as the world around you comes back to life. 

A myriad of light and color. 

“Clotho is looking for you,” Gwny smiles down at you and her eyes shine in the first light. All glinting cerulean -- flecked with gold -- reminiscent of a diadem your mother had worn when you were a girl. That diadem and all memory of the woman you called mother is little more than a distant dream now. 

A cruel reminder of the home you left.

“What does she want?” You murmur lowly as the fleeting remnants of sleep still cling to you. You rise with haste from your bed with a quiet reluctance and make quick work of pulling on your heavy pewter robes before the morning chill has time to kiss its way up your bare skin. Judging by the slivers of gold light that spill onto the plush rug beneath your bare feet it must only be about 9am but nonetheless, you’re late at starting the day. Gwyn hovers by your cluttered desk, flicking over some of the parchments there, as you dress hastily. By the time you’re covered and running a comb through your unbound hair you turn to face her. 

She’s dressed in dark training leathers and her long auburn hair is adorned with white and silver ribbons that make her look as though she is crowned in starlight. She is every inch the Valkyrie in this light you think. Half-divine with an ethereal look about her.

Like a tragic heroine from some old myth.

“I didn’t ask,” Gwyn shrugs and her eyes meet yours in the broken mirror as your fingers twist and braid your hair as it cascades over your shoulder. Something flickers in those blue gold eyes then, some devilment pools in them as she regards you with a delighted smile that arches on smirking.

“Come on, you’ve got a visitor too.” You smooth a hand over the ill-fitting robes and sigh dramatically as you collect the scrolls and the hastily written notes you’d been studying. Gwyn retreats from your dormitory laughing and humming playfully as you fall into step with her as she rounds the corner into the Library itself. A night chilled breeze graces you as you descend into the lower levels where Clotho will be waiting for you and as you approach the balcony overlooking the ground floor you catch the scent of night blooming jasmine and citrus. 

That smell seems to follow you these days. It smells so much of the home that you left all those years ago.

A cruel trick of the mind.

Sunlight filters through the large stained glass window that lights the antechamber of the library and as you round the stone pillars the world as you know it is crowned in gold light as the shadowed sun beams illuminate the great cavern of the Library. The Library deep in the bowels of The House of Wind is a feat of architectural grandeur; Like Hewn City, the house itself is carved into the dark stone of the mountain that looms over the City of Starlight, and everything within is saturated in shades of coal and bone. The Library itself is made up of a series of levels and floors, all held in place by dark pillars of the same stone. The large Gothic archways are adorned with carvings and intricate patterns and tapestries -- embroidered on black cloth -- illustrate the mythos of the court you were born into. Tales of dark Gods and gentle maidens. As a girl you had spent many nights enamored by the dark magnetism of the Gods of old and the cruel and beautiful Goddesses they loved. The Library, sacred as it is, breeds a strange sense of reverence in you. For the knowledge contained between its sanctified walls. 

The Library is home to the High Lord’s vast collection of Prythian’s mythological texts; Holy relics of the arcane Gods which had once been venerated and revered in these lands so long ago. All that is left of them now, resides in the deepest part of the Library, where you spend most of your days. There in the bowels of the Library something ancient and foreboding calls to you. The knowledge contained here in the dark heart of Velaris could bring kingdoms to their knees if one were so inclined. And in truth, you had thought about surrendering yourself to the call of the darkness that lies dormant in the depths of the mountains more times than you can count or would care to admit. In it, you feel something kindred to you; something aching and empty that resonates somewhere deep in your soul. 

As if the very fibers of your being are composed of the same darkness. 

When the High Lord  had first brought you to the library-- broken and aching-- there existed in you a vengeful wrath that longed to rage until the mountains gave way beneath you. Until the men who had hurt you were nought but dust and age-worn bone. All that rage. All that grief. It had been a terrible thing; haunting and terrible. But it had been yours. So you clung to it, until the girl you were was dead and buried beneath that mountain. And from her ashes the woman was born; tempered by time, and made strong by the faith you had found there in the library’s darkening aisles, in sisterhood, and in forgiveness. 

Your thoughts are interrupted by Gwyn’s gentle humming as you are cast out of the memories that come back to you in flashes of jade and twilight. 

“I best get back to Merrill before she comes for my head,” Gwyn exclaims loudly, smiling so bright that you’re sure she must be up to something. You offer her a small nod and a polite goodbye which she returns in earnest as her footsteps fall in sporadic succession and they echo down the aisles. You smile at her fondly and descend further into the main floor of the library still clutching onto the hastily compiled notes that are stuffed into the small cloth bound book you had been reading. Anxiety pools in your stomach, coiling and twisting as you approach Clotho’s office. 

The office is situated on the main floor of the library and as you approach through the long, empty aisles the door to Clotho’s office falls into view and the swings open with a magical flourish. Through it a large figure emerges followed by the beautiful Priestess, who looks utterly impassive, even in the presence of such an intimidating figure as the High Lord. 

You had always admired Clotho; her unwavering courage and fierce devotion to the Priestesses in her care. Her soothing presence and gentle smiles had been a source of comfort and strength for you in those first few months where you had thought you might surrender yourself to the mercy of the darkness that lurks in the bottom of this sacred Library. Since then it is her courage that had made you strong and her friendship that you valued above all else. There was a faith in the sisterhood you had found here, bonds forged of suffering and healing, made strong by the time in these sacred walls. 

Now you must find something else to put your faith into. Who or what that might be you are not entirely certain. Yourself perhaps. And though Clotho was hesitant about your decision to leave the library and her behind, she had offered you her support and comfort all the same. 

You approach the Priestess and your High Lord with a quiet caution as your school your face to a neutral expression that doesn’t speak to your rippling anxiety at the thought of leaving the place you had come to know as home or the women who you had come to call family. 

The High Lord catches your eyes first; he’s swathed in shadow as he steps out and then the light cast through the windows wreaths him in a halo of topaz light and when his violet eyes find yours in the empty aisle he smiles at you. A carefully curated thing that glitters with false charm and behind the violet of his irises you see the darkness that lurks within them. Something kindred to you. 

Made of the same darkness.

“There she is!” The High Lord of Night muses, his well-sculpted arms branching out towards you as if in prayer, “my favorite acolyte.” The High Lord's voice is tempered and light, with an air of arrogance about him that makes you smile shyly as he makes three long strides towards you. 

There it is again; night-blooming jasmine and mandarin. 

Clotho waits a few paces behind him in wordless silence but the silver lined eyes and sad smile she offers you is an indicator of her true feelings at your leaving. And though you don’t broach the subject at that moment you offer her the promise to find her soon. So that you might say goodbye to your dearest friend in the privacy of her office. She only nods and quietly retreats into her office with a few books.

“I’ve sworn my vows,” You offer gently, surrendering yourself to the enigmatic male that stands before you.

Rhysand leans casually against the desk in the forum, his violet eyes trailing lazily over the elaborate cursive on the parchment left by another Priestess, one of his hands is buried in the pocket of his suit pants and the other flexing around the lip of the lectern. In this light, as the sun bleeds through the stained glass windows, he looks like an old God from one of the tapestries hung along the slate walls.

Cut from the same holy cloth.

At once The High Lord meets your eyes and you resist the urge to avert that arresting violet gaze. Instead you offer him the ghost of a smirk as you address him again.

“So, I believe it is Priestess to you, High Lord.” The High Lord’s laugh is a wondrous thing as it permeates the air, rich and deep, and shaded with that same dark magnetism you had witnessed that first night.

“Well then, Priestess, I believe we made a bargain,” Rhysand pushes himself from his perch on the armoire and closes the space between you. He’s so close that you swear he will hear the flutter of your heart as he meets your eyes, “and I’ve come to collect.” His voice drops an octave and the words are tainted with an air of seduction that makes you feel anxious even if you’re certain he doesn’t mean it. Even if you see the morose darkness behind those violet eyes. 

Rhysand studies you carefully and you feel his eyes on you even as you turn to shelve the book that you had cradled in your arms. Your silence does little to calm the air around you as you turn swiftly from him. “You still want to come, yes?” Rhysand sounds hesitant and quiet as he broaches the subject. You swallow thickly and cast your eyes along the long aisle of the library you had called home for the last few years. 

“Would it matter if I didn’t?” You laugh lightheartedly, gesturing to the tattoo brandished into your skin, still unable to meet his gaze. The High Lord doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t so much as smile half-heartedly. Rather, the High Lord draws dark, thick brows together as the swell of his bottom lip moves into a deep frown. So mournful and aching that you’re sure you feel your heart ache for him in response. 

“Of course it would matter,” The High Lord’s voice wavers once more as he addresses you with a sad smile. He’s so beautiful in this light and you regard him as you do all holy things, with equal parts reverence and anxiety. 

“You know that, don’t you?” There’s an uncertain quality to his demeanor that disarms you. He’s always struck you as this enigmatic and confident male, with an almost louche quality to him that seemed to exude and air of rehearsed arrogance. But now. Now you see him for what he is; something dark and beautiful and fragile. There is a hesitancy about him as he steps away from you as though the mere distance between you is enough for him to feel untethered to this plane. Left to drift amidst a vast, starless sky

It is you, who closes that gap once more in a bold display of trust and despite the tremor of your own hand when the heat of the High Lord’s golden skin melts into yours, you smile at him as one might smile at something lovely and full of sorrow.

And he smiles back-- as though you and he are not both broken, fragile things. 

“Yes,” You admit truthfully. 

There is so little that you are certain of now but you know this: that you and he are made of the same darkness -- born from the same star perhaps -- and that with him, you will always have a choice. 

“Yes, I do, High Lord.” 

______________________________________________________________

“This will be your bedroom,” Rhysand offers with a wave of his hand before it wraps around the burnished gold doorknob to reveal the room nestled between the nursery and his own chambers “I hope it is to your liking?”

The guest room in the High Lords townhouse is just as beautiful as the rest of the house; sunlight, golden and ephemeral, cuts through the drawn linen curtains and cascades along the dark mahogany floors. Through the open window you can hear melodious birdsong from the garden below and as you step into it’s heart, the view of the dark marble fountain at its center that looks as though it is carved from the same mountains that flank the city.  The garden itself is coloured with the climbing ivy and moonflowers that arch up the trellis and is shaded by a thick canopy of cypress and bergamot trees, whose citrus scent seems to bleed into the room itself. 

“It’s absolutely breathtaking,” You say, smiling so brightly that you’re sure it must rival the midday sun as it bathes you in its radiant light. The rooms' furnishings are made of rich rose wood and the walls are painted a muted sage blue color that reminds you so much of the robes you wear and the bed nestled into the alcove is adorned with many quilts and duvets of cream and pewter and mauve. You don’t think you’d ever seen anything quite as inviting. 

The High Lord crosses the threshold and instead of joining you in the center of the room to admire the view of the gardens in the sunlight he opens the door to the adjoining bathroom. The bathroom itself is almost as big as the guest room, with a beautiful claw-foot tub in the middle of the room and both the walls and floors are made of a champagne marble with decadent flecks of gold. You take a few steps towards the washroom and perch by the door frame to admire the craftsmanship. Rhysand does the same and makes no effort to put any space between you as the quiet settles over you both as the shadowed sunlight illuminates the gold accents in the marble. 

“There’s a writing desk over there,” Rhys says, retreating back into the main room, pointing towards a matching rose wood desk and chair with a mirror hung above it so that it doubles as a dressing table. “And an armoire there.” he points at the ornately carved chest of drawers by the desk.

“Though if you find you need more room for your clothes there’s plenty of space for another.” 

“I think I’ll be alright with just the one,” You say lightly, eyes traveling to the small, worn leather bag at your feet that contains all of your worldly possessions; a few sets of nightclothes, two dresses that are half as old as you are, four well worn books that you had sequestered from the Library and a small collection of trinkets you’d collected over the last half a century. Hardly an extravagant amount of personal belongings but they were yours. 

The High Lord hums thoughtfully at you and for a moment you think that he won’t think anything of it but then violet eyes drift to the worn leather satchel and though he doesn’t speak you see the look in his eyes as it morphs from neutral to something akin to pity. 

You don’t want pity, you think, and you feel something dark and ravenous nip at the back of your throat. It’s an ugly thing that you bite your lip and swallow down lest you bite the hand that feeds you. 

It had been so long since that anger and pride made itself known in your heart. 

“If you need anything you just have to ask,” Rhysand says, offering you a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, he looks somewhere far off and you catch the scent of lilacs and pears when the breeze shifts, “whatever it is you want, you just have to ask.” 

“Really Rhys, I don’t need anything else,” You make a move to haul your bag onto the plush velvet armchair by the window but in a flurry of movement Rhy takes it from you and places it on the small end table near the bed for you. “it’s beautiful, thank you.” 

The High Lord does not respond, only smiles slyly at you from the end table, turning one of the straps of the brown leather bag in his deft fingers. 

“What?” You ask with an accusatory tone, narrowing your eyes at the beautiful male beside you. 

“Nothing,” The High Lord holds his hands up in surrender to you, his voice is velvet and lilting with his mirth as he looks at you again, “it’s just the first time you’ve called me my actual name.” 

“I wonder what it would sound like in other situations.” He all but purrs and neither you nor he can manage to keep a straight face when you roll your eyes dramatically at him and elbow him sharply in the ribs. 

The lull in the conversation comes with the passing of the afternoon clouds. They come in hordes of flowering grey and ivory, undercut with a darkness that spells a coming storm. In those quiet moments you watch as the confident facade that the High Lord wears so well melts away and he reverts back to the male you know him to be, tender and morose as the darkness in his eyes melts into a neutral expression that speaks to how truly tired he is.

“Get settled in and then come and find me later, Love.” Rhys voice is quiet and smooth and he offers you a gentle touch on your shoulder as he slips out into the hallway.

“Yes, High Lord.”

The High Lord’s eyes, iridescent and violet, meet yours and for a few moments while he is looking at you, you and he exist somewhere in the darkness between the stars.

TAGLIST: @awkardnerdd @ladybirdbeetle7 @lalaluch @saltedcoffeescotch @mybestfriendmademe @coisas-da-dani @justdreamstars

#acotar #acotar x reader #rhys x reader #rhys x you #rhys acotar #rhysand x reader #rhysand x you #rhysand fanfic #singledad!rhys x reader

[dilemmaontwolegs]

i know u have a gazillion requests but what if we spice up that Carlos fic? if you decide to do a pt 3. maybe Carlos is once again is frustrated because of the penalty after a good quali and has sex with Rebecca cuz he can't find the model. a lil angst

It’s no secret, I’m in an angsty kinda writing mood at the moment 😅 I also forgot who was meant to be the toxic one...and now it's both of them.

Lady in Red (3) || CS55

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr x fem!reader Warnings: 18+ only, NSFW, smut, cheating, manipulation WC: 1.5k

One || Two || Three || Four

You had been called away to work just before qualifying finished. You and half a dozen other models were asked to stand behind the top three drivers and wave feather fans for the cameras while an Elvis impersonator pumped out his signature dance moves. 

From your position you could see the frustration on Carlos’ face. He had qualified second fastest yet he was going to have to start from 12th on the grid. You weren’t the only person in the area upset by the 10 place penalty and the Ferrari supporters were making their opinion known as they chanted for Carlos.

“Alright, sweethearts, we need you over at the Bellagio for some promo shots and then you’re free for the night,” one of the headset-clad organisers said to the group you were with before checking her watch. “Or should I say morning.”

The drive back from the Bellagio to the paddock seemed to take hours with the road closures and checkpoints, but finally you made it back. Knowing Carlos would be waiting somewhere for you, you scanned each floor to find him before heading straight to the top.

“Fuck, mi amor, this is what I need,” Carlos moaned. 

You froze at the sordid scene you had walked in on. Neither one saw you in the doorway of the darkened room, their backs to you as Carlos bent Rebecca over the desk and pounded into her. He curled her hair around his fist and pulled back so to expose the pleasure painted on her face. 

You didn’t even notice you were crying until a droplet fell from your cheek to land on your breast, the feather girl outfit he enjoyed on full display. You suddenly hated how exposed you felt in the ridiculous costume. It was almost as ridiculous as you - for thinking a man like him could change. 

“Take it, cariña, take it,” he stammered as you recognised the pinch of his brow. He was close. He was close to finishing and you were more than done with seeing it. 

You were conscious of your footsteps as you retreated from the room and descended downstairs. You just needed to make it to your dressing room so you could get your stuff and go. 

“Hey,” Charlotte called out as she caught your arm and pulled you to a stop with a friendly smile. “Carlos was looking for you earlier. Did you find him?”

“Yeah, I did,” you whispered, quickly wiping the tears from your cheeks. “Don’t bother drafting up the breakup post.”

Her smile dimmed as confusion replaced it. “What breakup post?”

“Huh,” you laughed humorlessly as you shook your head at your stupidity. “The one Carlos clearly didn’t talk to you about. God, I am a fucking idiot.”

You left the track, heading straight back to your hotel room and before you even reached the room you saw Carlos’ name come up on your phone. You sent him straight to voicemail, again and again.

You barely slept as you thought about how humiliated you felt. You wanted to get him back but you weren’t innocent yourself. You knew your career would be over if you outed the relationship you had with Carlos, even if it made you feel better momentarily. No, you weren’t going to bloody your hands for him, there was already a stain on your soul for what you had knowingly done.

You were a survivor and you were smarter than your recent actions showed. You knew things about Carlos that he had been foolish enough to share in the unburdened state that came after sharing his bed. You were going to use it to your advantage and do what you did best, be the envy of every man.

You had turned your phone off when you arrived at the paddock for the race but it was going to be impossible to ignore Carlos when you were assigned to the Ferrari team. 

“Stacy, swap with me?” you begged as she waited for Charles to escort him to the grid. “Pleeeease.”

“Whatever, French boys aren’t my thing anyway,” she said with a grin before heading next door to Carlos’ side. 

“I’m not French,” Charles corrected as he stepped out of his room. “I’m Monégasque.”

“Today, you’re pole,” you said with a grin as you offered your elbow out to him. “Ready to go?”

You didn’t glance in Carlos’ direction as you accompanied Charles out onto the grid. You didn’t even have to fake enjoying the company as you found the Monégasque had a good sense of humour and made you laugh the entire way. 

From the slamming of Carlos’ car door you knew you were getting to him. Carlos’ fear was losing to his team mate and he was sick of always being compared to Charles Leclerc. 

Carefully angling the feather fan to hide your faces from the jealous driver, you leant in and wished Charles good luck for the race. To the fans, you were clearly talking, but to Carlos? He would always think the worst.

Charles was high with adrenaline when he arrived at the Bellagio after coming second place. It wasn’t the win he was obviously hoping for but you could see how happy he was with the result. 

“So, you like Charles now, huh?” Stacy whispered as she stood as you did, a fake smile on your faces as you lined the interview stage. 

You cast her a quick side glance and winked. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I know why you wanted to swap, Carlos acts like a fucking baby. He practically trashed his garage after Charlotte spoke to him about something. God, I wish I could have heard what that conversation was about.”

“Hmm, me too,” you said with a sick sense of delight as the interviews wrapped up. “Oh, finally, almost time to party.”

“You must be happy, proving Carlos wrong,” you teased Charles as you escorted him back to the Rolls Royce he arrived in. 

His steps faltered and he slowed his walk as his other podium finishers drifted further ahead. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s been telling everyone how much better a driver he is compared to you,” you stated with a shrug. It was an exaggeration, you had overheard him complaining to his father in the garage. “But you showed him.”

“A better driver?” Charles scoffed. “He is full of shit.”

He seemed to be in deep contemplation as he walked silently, until he reached the car and turned to you. “You should come to the after party.”

Carlos had already added you to the invite list but you smiled and batted your lashes as Charles. “Are you asking me?”

He blushed and laughed at himself as he nodded. “Would you like to come to the after party with me?”

“You don’t have a girlfriend do you?”

“No,” he laughed warmly. “I wouldn’t be asking to take you if I did.”

“Then I would love to go with you.” You gave him your room number that was conveniently in the same hotel as him, since both Ferrari drivers stayed in the same one. 

You already had the perfect dress waiting in your room and as you stood in front of the mirror you had to admit you looked stunning. The red dress was tailored to your body and the plunging neckline was risque and exactly what you envisioned it to be. You couldn’t wait to see Carlos’ face when you walked into the party on his teammate's arm.

“Hey,” you greeted as you opened the door after the knock, but it wasn’t who you expected to see on the other side. “Carlos, what are you doing here?”

His jaw fell slack, lips parting, as his eyes trailed down your body. “Mios dios, hermosa.”

You held your hand out, planting it on his chest as he stepped forward to kiss you. “Woah there, buddy, not happening.”

“Why not? Why have you been ignoring me?” he asked with genuine confusion.

“I saw you fucking Rebecca last night after Qualifying.”

He looked a little sheepish as he scratched the back of his heated neck. “I couldn’t find you.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better when you call her ‘mi amor’ too?”

“I didn’t mean it, I-I was thinking about you,” his eyes widened as his voice went up a pitch. “I swear.”

You nodded sympathetically as you rubbed his arm. “Of course, like you were thinking about me when you didn’t have that chat with Charlotte. Yeah, I know you didn't, so just go back to your girlfriend.”

“But I want you,” he pouted as he bowed his head and looked up with big brown puppy dog eyes.

“But I don’t want you. Not anymore.” You gave him a push and he ceded the space in your doorway as the  elevator across the hall opened and Charles stepped out looking good in a pair of jeans and a fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow. “Hey handsome,” you greeted him with a smile as you grabbed a black clutch with your phone and money. “Perfect timing.”

“You are breathtaking,” he said after a few blinks to recover from the sight of you. He smiled as he brushed past Carlos to kiss your cheek, ignoring the Spaniard completely. “Ready to go, chérie?”

You took his hand and sent a dark smile in Carlos’ direction as you passed by. “See you around, red man.”

Click here for part four.

#carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz x reader #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 x reader #formula one imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine

[louventcavaliersx]

𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Reader

The death of Daemon Targaryen never had hurt you more than it should.

Inspired by Ophelia from Hamlet. The end quote is from Song of Achilles.

fanfiction | House of the Dragon

"Daemon, where are you going?" You inquire as you watches him readying to soar on dragonback with Dark Sister. Your gaze lifted to meet his, worry etched upon your visage as you observed your beloved. The war still raged, his life at stake.

Daemon turned to face you, unable to utter the truth, he imparted to you a falsehood. "Fret not for me, my love," he reassured, yet noting that your furrowed brow betrayed your unease.

He descended from his dragon, alighting before you on the earth. He clasped your hands firmly in his, bestowing a tender kiss upon them.

Your eyes locked with his. "Where are you going?" You softly inquire once more, voice quivering akin to your heart that throbbed and ached with dread. "You cannot go." It was your intuition that whispered so.

Nevertheless, Daemon sought to reassure you. "I shall return." The prince enfolded you in a kiss, pressing his lips fervently against yours, yearning to cherish the moment with you one last time.

As the kiss parted, he stroked your cheeks, brushing away the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. "Keep this ring," he murmured, placing the silver ring in your palm.

A look of confusion crossed your visage as you gazed at him.

"Know that you are half of my soul," he whispered to you, and you were a fool to let him depart from your side.

You observed as he ascended Caraxes. The sense of foreboding only intensified as he and Caraxes soared into the heavens, perhaps never to return to you.

When he leapt towards Aemond with Dark Sister, you pondered what thoughts consumed him, his allegiance to Rhaenyra or his love for you?

As his blade pierced through the boy like butter, its edge piercing his remaining eye, was he reminiscing about you?

Did remorse grip him for leaving you bereft and alone?

Every morning you awoke to an empty bed, solitude enveloping you. The news of his demise shook you to the core, unable to contain your tumult of emotions, you wept bitterly.

Days passed, the war for the throne persisted. And you battled against the war of grief and madness threatening to engulf you completely. His remnants provided solace, soothing your tears and calming the sobs that escaped.

Rhaenyra and the others watches as you gradually descended into madness.

You sank to the ground, faltering with each step, observing as the water tenderly kissed the earth, forming a gentle ripple. The God's Eye was where your beloved had met his end with the young prince Aemond.

You prayed for Aemond, envisioning the suffering he must have endured.

Tears streamed down your face as you knelt by the water's edge, feeling the anguish in your heart. How could he forsake you so? He vowed to stay by your side, to live, to love you eternally.

You clutched the ring he had bestowed upon you not long ago.

"I shall return," he pledged as he placed the ring in your hand. The silver caressed your skin. Then he bestowed upon you a kiss, one of fervor and hunger. You could faintly feel his lips against yours, so sweet and intoxicating. He departed with his sword and his dragon as you watched from below, witnessing him slowly recede from your life.

Now you wished you had halted him.

Regardless of the throne's fate, regardless of victory or defeat, you stood resolute. The water beckoned to you, like a siren luring sailors. You dipped your feet into the water, smiling as though sensing his touch against your skin.

Similar to Queen Helaena and Daemon, you submerged into the water. Even as it embraced you tighter and deeper, pulling you further down, you only closed your eyes, gazing at the darkening and blurring sky. You tightened your grip on the ring in your hand. Not it, you could not lose it, not even in death.

Death welcomed you like an old friend, with open arms. You accepted your destiny.

In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.

#hotd daemon #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon x reader angst #house of the dragon

[feyascorner]

10 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. “The damage you’ve done to my stomach is plenty. Thank you, darling,” he frowns. “And if I may: It isn’t completely fair to place all the blame on me, is it? I might’ve been intoxicated, but I wasn’t deranged enough to miss the way you kissed me back. Aggressively, might I add?”

You roll your eyes. “I was trying to bite your lip off.”

“I would believe you if you hadn’t made such teasing sounds when I bit back.”

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, tav reader is a bard, italics are flashbacks, suggestive content!!!! (new warning hehe)

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. actual????? communication????? after 45k words?!?!?!?!?!? or is it...this chapter is literally them being loser teenagers i love them

To you, his touch is like a drug.

His breath, cool against your hot skin, presses against the shell of your ear as something dangerously close to a whine escapes your lips. You can feel him grin as he lowers his head and places a long kiss on your collarbone. His slender hands slide up your back, grinding you even closer than you already are as he mouths at every nook and cranny of your body. It’s almost like he wants to consume you whole. To drink you until all that’s left is a shuddering mess, your body still begging for his own.

White curls tickle your chin as the strings on your shirt finally come undone. His tongue brushes against the peak of your bare breast, and your eyes meet him in a lust-clouded haze, lips pursed as you swear you could reach your peak just by the way he looks at you. It’s so intimate, so vulnerable, so pleasurable that your eyes half close when the palm of his hand smooths against your clothed core.

He stills, lifting his head to kiss his way up to your neck again. As much as you want to beg him to resume what he’s been doing, he doesn’t let you. Instead, his fingers bring your face to his.

“Don’t hide from me.”

You shudder. You think you know plenty with how flushed your face is, but he doesn’t seem to care. He lowers back down your chest, grinning as he lays his cheek on your skin teasingly.

“If you look away, I’ll stop, my love.”

“Are you insane? Of course, he’s staying here!”

You lurch up from your pillow as the earth-shattering reality of the morning sun blares you awake. Cheeks burning, you rub at the bags under your eyes, humiliated in the face of nobody but yourself, as you hear more voices from downstairs. None of which even try to keep it quiet. You stare down at your legs, lips pursed.

Only still half-awake, you can practically feel his hands on your waist.

Curses. What are you? A prepubescent teen?

With a loud groan, you force yourself onto your feet. Considering how your dreams will only add to your stress, you might as well.

“Oh, thank gods you’re here. Tell him we’re not taking Astarion with us to the celebration, will you?” Shadowheart hisses as you descend the stairs, still half asleep. “Our wizard seems to have gotten the wrong idea about the leech upstairs.”

You swear Lae’zel snorts.

“It was only a suggestion. I wasn’t sure if we’d want to leave him alone here…isn’t that merely an invitation for him to run away?” Gale rubs his temple with his thumb, clearly exhausted.

You’re fully aware of Astarion’s nightly escapes into the city, but you don’t tell them that. It’s better not to cause a panic.

Shadowheart shrugs. “We’ll tie him to the counter. Hells, we can just lock him into the basement.”

Gale sighs. “He’s not a dog.”

“He acts like it,” Lae’zel grumbles, sinking her teeth into an apple.

“We could ask the Duke to spare some of his soldiers for the night. Make them keep watch while we’re at the party,” Shadowheart offers. “Anything to keep that dirtbag here instead of there. Isn’t that right, Tav?”

Gale’s eyes meet with yours. There’s a sort of expectancy in them that makes you squirm in your shoes as they bore straight into your soul as if he’s aware of your deepest secrets. There are bags under his eyes, surely from having to balance Astarion’s less-than-likable presence with all his other responsibilities in rebuilding the city. A part of you feels guilty for the work you’ve dropped on him, but both parties know it’s for the best.

It’s been made glaringly obvious that you and Astarion shouldn’t be anywhere around one another. It’s only a recipe destined to end in a yelling match or…

Your cheeks flare. Last night was a mistake. It won’t happen again.

“We’ll keep him here. Lock him in his room like Shadowheart said,” You finally blurt. “Can you send the invitation back with everyone who’s going? I have someone to visit in a few minutes.”

“Very well,” the cleric smiles, obviously pleased with your decision. Gale only frowns. “I’m glad that’s settled.”

So are you.

You hear the door of Astarion’s room open upstairs and decide you shouldn’t stay any longer. After rushing goodbyes to your companions and another questioning glance from Gale, you scramble to fly out of the house, barely grabbing your bag in the process. The contents weigh more heavily than they usually do, and for good reason. Hopefully, younger vampires feed less than fully grown ones because otherwise, the squirrel you found the night before won’t be able to satiate Berry’s appetite.

It’s hard not to wonder how she’s doing for most of your day. You were initially planning to visit her last night until the unfortunate ambush Petras released onto your already sore limbs. Even now, you constantly rub at the ache of your thighs and arms. The healing potions did plenty, but they couldn’t do everything.

She must be starving, you think. You grit your teeth.

Fortunately for you, however, when you arrive at the Highberry residence, Berry seems perfectly fine. In fact, she’s helping her adopted siblings arrange decorative plants around the house, likely to liven up the place after what’s been happening the past few months. There’s a sense of calm here that doesn’t currently exist in your own household. The scene makes a soft smile pull at your lips, which is more than welcome.

“You didn’t visit last night,” the young girl finally says when you’re with her by the window, far enough from the siblings to be out of earshot. She looks up at you sheepishly. “I thought you might’ve gotten attacked.”

She picks at her fingers.

“Were you worried?” you stifle a laugh, and she shrugs, albeit flustered. “I brought you some—prey. You must be hungry.”

“Not really,” she still takes the worn sack and clutches it close to her. “I went out to find food by myself.”

At this, your eyes widen. “What? You left for the forest? You know that place is dangerous, Berry; it’s not safe for someone as young as you.”

“I’m a spawn. It’s probably safer for me than you,” she squints, and you can’t bring yourself to deny it.

“...You’re still a child,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Where’d you learn to hunt anyway? The last time I checked, you could barely fight off a few forest animals.”

Her face flushes red, but she huffs regardless. “The haggard taught me.”

“Hag?...”

“Your friend,” Berry perches either of her arms on the windowsill, staring out at the passing civilians on the street. She whips her head to you and points at either of her fangs, opening wide. “He’s been teaching me to hunt with these.”

“Astarion?” you blink. “He taught you? Willingly?”

It’s rather hard to believe.

“No, I had to follow him. By the time he noticed, he didn’t have much of a choice,” she says proudly, puffing out her chest. Then she deflates again as if she just tasted something sour. “He got two big bears last night but wouldn’t share…So, I had to get my own squirrels because he told me I’d starve otherwise. That old hoot is selfish and mean.”

Well, it certainly sounds like him.

“You could’ve gotten hurt,” you scold her gently.

“Maybe by him.”

You want to say that she’s wrong and that Astarion wouldn’t hurt her, but the blasted comb flashes back in your mind, and reality sits heavy in your throat. So, instead, you bite your tongue.

“Have you found any of them yet? The other spawn?” she pushes herself off the wall to stand straight.

“I did—if fighting them counts.”

Her face falls and a part of you regrets even alluding to what happened last night. She begins to fidget with the sharp ends of her nails again and stares at your shoes. “There’s too many of them.”

You’d most certainly know.

“We have the Fist fighting for us,” you assure her, albeit pathetically. Even in your own ears, you don’t sound entirely confident. “And besides, the murder count has been decreasing as of late. If we keep going at this rate, we won’t have more than a body every two weeks—”

“It won’t work that way, though. They’ll just keep coming back.”

Were children always this perceptive?

You’re not sure what to say.

She clenches her fists. “Not all of them are bad, you know.”

“I know, Berry. You’re not a bad person at all; it’s just that—”

“I meant the siblings,” she blurts, finally meeting your eyes. “Aurora…she was nice. She was nothing like Petras.”

Aurora?

You’re suddenly leaning down to her, shoulders tense. “You’ve met the other siblings? Since when?”

“Only once, months ago. Petras tried to convince the others to stay here with him, but they said no,” her brows furrow. “He was furious that day.”

Of course. Why didn’t you realize that earlier? Petras, Dalyria, and Leon were the only ones of the main spawn that remained in the city, and being so swept up with their antics, you’d forgotten to ponder on the motivations of the others. You swallow the dry lump in your throat as realization slaps you across the face.

“So not all of them want to go through with the ascension?” you gasp. Berry pauses but nods slowly. 

Help. You could ask them for help. Surely, if they don’t want another Cazador running rampant in the city, they’d be willing to stop the ritual as a whole. You gnaw at the inside of your cheek as your mind races. Were they even aware of what Petras was up to? How many lives he’d taken?

You take her hands to stop her from picking at them, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Berry, where are the other siblings?”

“They told Petras they were leaving for the Underdark like they promised you.”

Gods, bless this girl. Somehow, she’s been more helpful than any other resource you’ve had the past few months—including the Duke, and your vampire spawn. You’d think she might be a blessing from the heavens if it weren’t for all the other bullshit they’ve thrown your way as of late.

“Tell Cora I dropped by,” you smile brightly. Though it’s rare nowadays, you feel almost hopeful. “I’ll come back in a week. Stay put until then.”

By the time you realize how much time has passed being cooped up on your bedroom floor, the sun is already setting. You reach for a candle, flicking a match against the box before lighting a flame to illuminate the pages sprawled around you. In anyone else’s eyes, you might look nearly hysterical, but to you, it feels as if the weight of the entire city is on your shoulders again. In a way, you suppose it is. Unless you want more than just a couple dozen bodies on the city streets in a few months, that is.

Your eyes scan over Dalyria’s drawings for what seems like the millionth time. And for the millionth time, you find nothing. Since the last time you obsessed over her journal, there have been a few additions to your collection: some books on ascension, vampires, and, for some reason, a book on vampire lords. 

You’re not sure you see the point in picking up this particular book, considering the spawns’ master is long dead, which means none of them can become a true vampire unless they were to ascend—the exact scenario you’re trying to prevent. But perhaps spending an entire day at the library blossomed a newfound curiosity within you. 

There isn’t much in there you don’t already know from first-hand accounts Astarion would recall on the nights you couldn’t fall asleep. There are parts, however, regarding the vampire spawn they can compel that lure your attention.

“Vampire spawn were the masters of stealth and charismatic cunning,” you read mindlessly. “...vampire spawn would seek vengeance on their creators.”

Vengeance. Is that what it was when he tried to strangle you?

Your jaw clenches, and you feel a sort of buzzing on your lips. What an asshole.

Quickly, you shut the book with a slam as you decide that dwelling on information you’re already well accustomed to is a waste of time. You’d likely be a better source of knowledge than the book itself because of how basic its contents tend to be.

You stare at the cover, which simply illustrates a set of fangs. Cliche, you think, but it’s effective.

The room suddenly feels too quiet.

Fortunately, the uncomfortably loud growling of your stomach snaps you out of your trance.

Shoving the book under your bed, you swing the door to your room open to pace to the kitchen. Hopefully, there’s some dinner left over from last night—-worst-case scenario, you have to eat one of those days-old fruits gathered in the bowl on the counter. You don’t have much time to ponder, though, because you hear a familiar groan from downstairs as soon as you reach the top of the stairs.

“Will you please stop leaving dead animals in the cabinet? As grateful as I am that you’re feeding on them rather than our friends, it bloody reeks, Astarion!”

Shit.

Astarion stares up at you with wide eyes on his way up to his room while you blink down at him wearily. Gale continues to mutter mindlessly about whatever trouble the spawn has caused in his sacred kitchen, but Astarion doesn’t seem to pay him any heed. You feel naked under his gaze, but you think putting on at least four more layers of clothing wouldn’t even scratch the surface of how you feel.

“Good morning,” he blurts.

He never greets you. Not like this, anyway.

It’s not even morning.

Fortunately, he looks just as confused at his words as you do.

Searching for a response that won’t come to you, you refer to the lamest solution. A scapegoat, if you will. “I need to walk past you.”

Astarion immediately nods. “Right. Yes, of course.”

He stands to one side of the narrow stairs, and you cautiously squeeze past him. Has it always been this much of a struggle to fit two people on the stairs? It’s terribly awkward as you shuffle by, holding the air in your lungs in hopes that he doesn’t recognize how uneven your breath is. You’re sure he does, but it was worth a try anyway.

Suddenly, Gale is standing at the bottom of the stairs in front of you.

“Where are you going? I thought you needed a healing potion for your stomach,” he aims at Astarion with a raised brow.

The said spawn coughs. You almost choke on the air.  “No, I—I’m alright now.”

“Are you sure? That bruise was pretty nasty, my friend. Letting something like that fester will surely only hinder you…”

Astarion closes the door to his room. Slams, more like.

You glance at Gale pitifully, who only crosses his arms with a sigh as he turns to return to the kitchen. “He’s moodier than I was when I was going through puberty.”

Wordlessly, you trail behind him until he resumes whatever dish he’s cooking up inside a pot while you reach for an apple. There’s a comfortable silence as you perch yourself on the counter, legs gently swinging as you chew, cringing whenever you feel a mushier part of the fruit. Gale lifts his ladle to his nose and takes a quick sniff before nodding in satisfaction. He then puts the lid over the pot.

“I’ve never seen Astarion as awkward as he was earlier,” he comments, and you cough.

“He wasn’t that charming in the first place,” you grumble.

“I never said he was charming. Just that he isn’t awkward.”

“Maybe he’s still drunk from last night,” you scoff, blood boiling at the mere thought of how he acted. A strange sense of pride spreads through you, knowing you hit him hard enough to do some damage, but you still think you could’ve hit harder. All those months pent up should’ve garnered far more strength, surely.

“Or perhaps it’s from the kiss.”

You do choke on your apple this time.

After you wheeze out whatever apple chunks were lodged in your throat, your head whips in the wizard’s direction. “Gale, you–”

“It wasn’t voluntary, I’ll have you know,” he cuts in, crossing his arms. “I just happened to leave one of my books on the couch, which I only wished to retrieve for my nightly routine of reading at least 100 pages.”

You’re at a loss for words. Your face deepens in color, even as you beg it not to.

“I, of course, being the most fortunate lad I am, had to walk into the room when his tongue was halfway down your throat.”

You nearly shriek. “There was no tongue!”

“Well, that’s certainly a relief!” he laughs. “I likely would have had to pry my eyes out with one of Lae’zel’s swords otherwise!”

On any other occasion, you’d bite back at him, but you’re too busy drowning in your own humiliation to register half of his words. A blessing and a curse in this case.

“It didn’t mean anything!” you blurt, even though he never really asked. “It was—he kissed me. I punched him afterward, too.”

Gale raises a brow. “Really? It appeared to me that you were kissing back, though it might have just been the angle. Quite passionately, too, but that might’ve been the trick of the light…”

You slap your palms over your ears, praying to the gods that he shut his mouth for once in his damn life. “It didn’t mean anything!”

“Does he know that?”

“He hates me! And he’s kissed hundreds of people—I doubt one stupid kiss even bothers him.”

“Yes, but it’s a kiss from you. His ex-lover,” Gale shoots back. “And he doesn’t seem unbothered. Neither of you do.”

“So what?” You know exactly what, but it’s difficult to acknowledge at the moment.

“Tav,” Gale says carefully. “If you’ve—by any chance—begun to grow accustomed to his presence again…and I don’t blame you at all, by the way. I’ve become rather fond myself of forcing him to listen to magic lectures that nobody else is willing to listen to; however…if it’s becoming something more on your end–”

“It’s not,” your tone is more stern this time. Colder. “It never will be.”

“Really?”

“Do I need to punch him again for you to believe me?”

“That’s not quite what I’m getting at. I just witnessed the tension between the two of you, and it would be irresponsible of me as a friend if we didn’t work through what you’re feeling before things start to get out of hand.”

You groan, throwing your hands in the air. “There is no tension, Gale!”

“Now now, I might not be the most experienced out of all of us in romantic affairs, but I’ve had my fair share of them. With a goddess, no less! It would be wise if you heeded my advice and discussed what the kiss meant to both of yo–”

You clap a hand over his mouth, words gritting through your teeth. “Stop saying it!”

His response comes out muffled against your palm.

“Fine, I’ll talk to him. I’ll go up to him right now and tell him how I’ll bury him alive if he tries anything again. Would that be enough to shut you up?” 

Gale smiles. You don’t return it.

The angry march up to Astarion’s room should’ve been enough to wake up your other companions, but it doesn’t. You knock heavily on his door, foot tapping impatiently as you glare at Gale, who stands halfway up the stairs, grinning from ear to ear in a pathetic attempt to be encouraging. It only makes you want to shrink into your shirt.

When Astarion fails to answer after multiple knocks, you decide you have no time for this. “I’m coming in. Please don’t be naked.”

The door doesn’t even have a lock. His room is empty except for the cold air that hits your cheeks. You realize that the window is swung wide open, allowing the moonlight to pour onto the wooden floors where he’s left his cloak in favor of what you assume to be usual nightwear. You pull the door behind you and cautiously step into his room, eyes glazing over the rest. It’s a stark contrast from your own. Despite how much time he spends in it, there isn’t a speck of dust or an article of laundry where it shouldn’t be. His bed is neatly made, his chair pushed into his desk, and if it weren’t for his books organized on his desk, you’d think nobody even lives here.

You slowly inch toward the window, running your fingertips over his books. They’re worn but somehow still well taken care of. You can feel how old they are, yet their pages remain perfectly intact, without a single crease on any corners. 

When you reach the window, you finally notice the vines growing on the sides of the building that protrude just over the window sill. You hear soft thumps from the ceiling, resembling the pace of his footsteps. Or at least, what do you think they’d sound like if he made any sounds while walking.

The asshole knows you’re here. Of course, he does.

With a wary glance at the vines, you firmly grip both hands on the roots and slowly lift yourself off the windowsill. Thankfully, the stones making up the building make for good boosters to haul you up toward the rooftop, even though your instincts suggest you’d likely fall and die an unfortunate death here. Still, somehow, you manage to haul yourself onto the roof's edge with a final groan.

You slump rather unceremoniously onto the angled edge, and the slight snicker from the other occupant of the space doesn’t go unnoticed. You glare at him, and Astarion only grins, leaning back on both elbows. “Should I have lent you a hand?”

“I can climb a wall, thanks,” you snap, crawling to a spot that allows you to lie back and stay a generous distance away from the vampire spawn. The tiles of the roof feel cool against your skin. From only two stories up, you can see a full four streets further than you usually can from your window, where only a few people now shuffle through the city given the time of night. While you think it should be peaceful here, all you can focus on is the undead individual lying a good few feet away from you, staring up at the sky rather than the city.

“As much as I enjoy all the colorful insults you throw at me, I was hoping for some peace tonight,” he finally says.

“This is my rooftop that I paid for. I’ll go where I please.”

Astarion sighs, his eyes still gazing up at the stars. “Then to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence tonight? If it’s about the dead animals, I’ve already told Gale I’d store them outside from now on—”

“Last night didn’t happen.”

There. It’s like a weight off your chest. At least, it should feel that way.

He stops, moving to stare from the stars to you. “And since when could you manipulate the very essence of time?”

“Don’t get smart with me unless you want another repeat of yesterday. Maybe I’ll knock out a fang this time,” you hiss.

“The damage you’ve done to my stomach is plenty. Thank you, darling,” he frowns. “And if I may: It isn’t completely fair to place all the blame on me, is it? I might’ve been intoxicated, but I wasn’t deranged enough to miss the way you kissed me back. Aggressively, might I add?”

You roll your eyes. “I was trying to bite your lip off.”

“I would believe you if you hadn’t made such teasing sounds when I bit back.”

This boils your blood just enough for you to tear your gaze away from him and back onto the city. “Just forget it happened.”

“Must I?”

“Yes! It was clearly a lapse of judgment!”

“It was,” he affirms. From the corner of your eye, you can see him put his chin against the palm perched on his elbow, fully turning on his side to face you. “An exciting one. I thought I knew you well enough that I could trust you would never kiss me again.”

You glower. “I was bleeding half to death—I was barely conscious. For all I know, I thought you might’ve been someone else.”

You can both hear the obvious lie in the statement, but neither points it out.

“I do wish you’d stop doing that,” he mutters, staring through lidded eyes. “It’s hard not to pay you any attention when you constantly smell like fresh bait. It’s like seeing an entire feast before you but being unable to have a taste.”

“Yes, because I wanted to get attacked by your brother.”

“Right. That.”

He stares up at the sky again. Hells, if he stares any harder, you’d think his damn eyeballs would fall out. His white curls blow gently against the breeze, and from here, it appears like nighttime was really made for him. Or do all vampires just glow during the night?

“For all it is, I’m truly sorry.”

Your eyes resemble barrels as you turn to look at him. He’s now occupied with his hands—those flawless hands of his that, by some miracle, don't have a single scar on them even after all the two of you have been through. Those very same hands you’ve once loved and that you’ve grown to hate.

“I, of all people, should know what it feels like to have someone forced upon me. And if I had any sort of control over my body at the time, I assure you what happened last night wouldn’t have happened.”

Though it’s not the main point of his apology, you find yourself focusing on the implications. He would’ve never kissed you if he was sober. You know this—you’ve known this—so why you’re so preoccupied by this confession, you have no idea. Internally kicking yourself, you steel your mind to remain calm. He hates you. You hate him. Simple. You only notice, moments later, that he’s still talking.

“---and I’m aware we aren’t on good terms,” he says, softer. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll stoop down to the levels of the dirtbags I had to deal with for two centuries. I might have questionable morals about all else, but in that aspect, I’m unlike them.”

Still wide and unblinking, your eyes slowly relax as you soak in his words. It’s been a while since you’ve heard him so sincere (in a manner that isn’t insulting), and it feels like a breath of fresh air. For a moment, you want to deceive yourself that you’d never reached Baldur’s Gate. That you and your companions are still camping in the woods, and Astarion is still only learning to care for another. That he never went to Cazador’s palace, and you never needed to stop the ascension.

You would’ve indulged in such fantasies months ago, but now, they feel too artificial to derive joy from them. They feel too hollow. Fake. Like biting into a poisoned apple. You can sense him waiting for your response, and it takes a moment, but you manage to mumble it out. “It’s fine. I did kiss you back. We were both not in our right minds. Just…forget it happened.”

You don’t know how to decipher the look in his eyes, but you’ve long given up on how to do it in the first place. Because every time you think you finally understand him, it turns out to be a mask or a plot to deceive you. And every time, you don’t see it coming. It’s better not to try at all because it means he has no way to lie to you in the first place.

“Very well,” he says numbly. “It never happened.”

Both your heads turn to look up at the dark sky. The stars twinkle overhead, glistening in their own respectful glories. There’s one in particular that shines the brightest, floating right beside another that dims compared to all the other stars. It seems to drag behind the brighter star like a shadow, always following but never truly acknowledged.

You pity it.

“Why did you quit music?” he asks suddenly. “I thought it was…your passion.”

“I can’t see the beauty in it anymore,” you say simply.

Astarion hums. “A shame. I was rather fond of your lyre.”

The brightest star almost appears to move again. The darker one trails right behind.

You raise your brow. “Is this where you run off to every night? To stargaze? It’s pretty, but doesn’t it get boring?”

“It’s not pretty at all, darling,” he grins, attention never leaving the sky. “I watch every night, hoping that the dimmer star dies out before the brighter one notices it’s there.”

Tags: @ayselluna @littleenglishfangirl @bg3obsessedsideblog @iwillpissyourpants @cyberpr1m3 @snowlotr @road-riot @spacekidnova @madislayyy @lordfishflakes @nicalysm @djarinsway @tinystarfishgalaxy @brainz00 @hopeful-n-sad @ohdeerieme @madisban @chrismarium @chonkercatto @fanfic-share @bitterbeanren @sleepyred1703 @miskouly @ravenswritingroom @iamlowkeycrying @deezus-roy @spiritraves @mariposakitten @dinobae-replyacc @whisperingwillowxox @bdudette @misscrissfemmefatale @atropapurpurea @cosywinterevenings @phoenixgurl030 @generalstephkenobi @shadowsmusical @himesuedi @girlygmer-blog @vulgarfuckinvirgo77 @hyperfixationwhore @teardropcup @marina-and-the-memes @kiwi-mansanas @woosaaghh @cminr @everybodystaycalm @divineknightmare @bangtanbecks @carolinelec @aelieknox @bluelovesleep @catching-fire-in-the-wind @moonlight-stay @thatbeanieboss @atotalmess-lol @lavender-romancer

#astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate astarion #astarion x tav #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion #bg3 x reader #tfbu #astarion x oc #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 companions #gale dekarios

[cyberghu0l]

Rekindle

you meet an unexpected face at camp halfblood. but not only is there beef between you two, there's an unrequited romance. or so you thought.

clarisse la rue × daughter of Psyche!reader

◇◇◇

you met clarisse only once. it was quite stupid, actually, and you can't even remember how you forgot about her till this point. you were a freshman in highschool, starting the year at a brand new school in Arizona. the dreaded state your father made you move you to when he got a new job. you were stuck at this small, smelly, and really ugly highschool for the next 4 years. then came her. you had only ever had one interaction with her.

it was what some would say to be a cliché. some boy had invited you to his house for a party. he said it was gonna be "chill" and "small," it was anything but that. it came time for spin the bottle. everyone was so excited, while you were scared out of your mind because you haven't had your first kiss yet. your turn came around, and low and beyond, it landed on clarisse. she only smiled sheepishly and leaned forward.

you had watched many movies where they made it look easy, but it all came down to this. your lips collided and moved in sync. you would be lying if you said you were bummed when she pulled away after a minute or two. the same smile remained on her plump lips. you hadn't realized you were smiling so hard until someone pointed it out.

the next day, she wasn't at school. neither the day after that nor that week. it only got worse after she left. rumors spread like wildfire that she got sent away to some camp. after that you didn't know if you would ever see her again.

that was until your junior of highschool when you were driving back home from the beach after a bonfire with your friends, when something appeared in front of your car. you couldn't explain it, except for it being a huge, bat lady. she had ripped off your metal roof and overthrown your car. you took off running in the dark, cold woods.

you set course on a trail that ended at a hill. you wanted nothing but to stop and put your aching muscles to rest, yet something in you told you to continue up the hill as the bat lady chased you through the trees. you stopped at the long arch that you could barely read in the dark of the night. it didn't take along for the creature's screeches to alert someone. a girl with a sword came running out under the arch. she jumped onto a rock and into the sky just high enough to slice through her. a war cry escaping her throat.

she landed on the ground as the bat lady descended into dust. you felt your heart begin to pound like a running engine in your chest, your eye sight blacken, and your head a daze. you passed out.

it had been a couple of months since your arrival to Camp Half-Blood. a couple of months since you found out you were a demigod. and your mother was Psyche, the beautiful goddess of the soul. it didn't take long for you to find your strengths, one being combat. you were a natural with a sword and shield. but so was clarisse.

it didn't click in your head who she was until you saw her smile. gods, her smile. it made any sunny day brighter, it made your worries melt away like ice cream, and you felt blessed to see it again. her laugh was like music straight from the angels. you couldn't understand how having such a father like Ares and be so angelic.

you would do anything to talk to her again, only problem is. she hates your guts. she hated anyone who wasn't her own siblings, and even they got the worst treatment. you tried pairing with her during combat training, but she rudely declined. (which you didn't even know you could do) there was once when you did successfully paired with her. it ended with you on the ground and her pointing her sword at your throat. your chest heaved, trying to catch your breath. the green lawn now decorated with droplets of your crimson blood.

clarisse looked down at you as if you were garbage. you would never forget that look.

"clarisse!" chiron's voice echoed through the whole camp. everyone froze. clarisse turned to look at the fences where he stood. disappointment plastered all over his face. she put her sword back in her carrier and walked over to him. you saw them leave before you fell on your back, laughing.

you had to admit, you were scared for your life, but sparring with clarisse was something you'd never forget.

after her talk with chiron, the days following were awfully weird. her slight shoves as you walked past her, turned into her moving out your way. she let you skip the line at dinner with a slight hue of pink on her face. sparring with her became less graphic and often ended with her helping you up and smiling at you.

"you're getting better, y/n. still can't match me, but better." she smiled.

"i will some day la rue." you always responded.

her siblings still picked on you. but she was there every now and then to back you up.

"why are you letting this punk off, clarisse?" one asked.

"are you questioning me right now? do i have to remind you of who's the oldest?" she replied, balling his collar in her fist looking down at him.

"n-no, im sorry."

you weren't stupid, though. your mother blessed you with the art of reading anyone like a book. she was finally warming up to you, but you weren't sure if she remembered you like you did her. the curiosity ate away at you like mold on food.

one night, you were braiding your little sister's hair for dinner when clarisse walked in.

"everyone out, now!" she demanded. she looked at you as everyone cleared out the cabin. you were left on your bed. she closed both doors.

"why are you here, clarisse?" you said as you got up and put away the ribbon you were supposed to use in your sister's hair.

"i needed to talk to you. alone." you turned and watched her inch her way to you.

you stood at your desk, leaning on it slightly with your arms folded across your chest. truth is, you were so nervous your palms started to sweat for the first time in your life.

"you know me." she began. "not well, but you can say that. where is this going?" You questioned.

"no, you know me. and ive known you." she looked at you like she knew something you didn't. a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.

"Arizona." was all she said, and you were taken back to your first year of highschool.

"listen, clarisse." you tried to explain yourself. "i didn't say anything because i didn't know how you'd react. knowing some the kids here, they would rather forget their old lives." you spoke.

"well im not some kids, y/n. and as embarrassing as it is to admit. ive never forgotten you." you swore you saw a shade of pink run across her face. she still looked at you intently. "thats why i saved you that night. i recognized you the second i saw you."

"are gonna stop being an ass to me now?" you asked with a slight smirk. she laughed. gods, you swore your knees became jelly.

"that depends. you gonna make me your girlfriend or what?" your stomach churned.

"oh, come on! it wasn't that unnoticeable. i can't be anymore obvious." she said the last part even quieter than the first part of her sentence.

"gods, you can not be the daughter of Ares." you laughed. she rolled her eyes and came up to you, closing the space between you two. her gentle hands caressed each side of your face. she had the same twinkle as she did 3 years ago at the party. she leaned into you, planting a sweet kiss on your lips.

it was as if she didn't have to speak to tell you she missed you.

◇◇◇

#black reader #lgbtq #black y/n #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo tv show #pjo series #clarisse la rue #clarisse pjo #percy series #clarisse x reader #wlw #pjo fluff

[tobiasdrake]

By the way, while we're talking about Gohan, Piccolo, and that moment, I want to take a moment to focus in on what he says here. Because it's fascinating to really stop and think about.

In his dying moments, Piccolo says this to Gohan.

"You were the only one who ever really talked to me."

Piccolo's existence is so complicated at this point that there's some ambiguity here. The first person ever to really talk to him. That's a bold statement. What does he mean by that?

What does Piccolo mean when he says "ever"? Let's stop to really think about that.

The first interpretation is that he's referring to this incarnation of himself. Going back to the day he was "born" anew.

I love how he was born wearing clothes apparently. Maybe he popped out of that egg and immediately used his signature Clothes Beam, an obscure technique but a valuable one.

For real, Piccolo's ability to create matter from ki is probably the most underutilized ability in Dragon Ball. This is, like, the one and only time we ever see it. It is never explained. Even Cell wound up having to create his arena from existing resources nearby.

But I digress.

Piccolo was reborn to finish the work he'd started: Kill Son Goku and take over the world. The 23rd Tenkaichi Budokai was his opportunity to do just that.

So. When Piccolo says "ever", he's talking about this, right? He talks to attendees at the tournament but their interactions are strictly hostile. He's here to kill Goku; He's not interested in socializing.

This is the closest thing to a friendly chat that this incarnation of Piccolo ever had prior to Gohan's training. So it's easy to hear him say "You were the only one who ever really talked to me," and go, "Yeah, that checks out." Though that's not really their fault.

But. Hang on. Piccolo's sense of self goes back further than that.

"Majunior" is always referred to and always refers to himself as though he and Piccolo-Daimao were one and the same. He is not Piccolo's son. He's a copy, splintered off from the Daimao and given a new body.

Kami explains it like this.

Effectively, Daimao split himself in two. One piece of him created the egg and sent it across the horizon for the other piece to escape inside, and that piece hatched into "Majunior".

It's a popular fanon to treat Piccolo Jr. like he's a totally newborn baby saddled with the Sins of the Father, but this is never how the source material treats him. Piccolo is Piccolo is Piccolo; the two are one and the same. Except one's a Mazoku and the other is not.

A revelation that comes at the cost of Goku and Raditz's lives.

So when he says "You were the only one who ever really talked to me," he's probably not talking about this incarnation. He's probably reaching all the way back to the birth of Piccolo as an entity.

When the Nameless Namekian ascended to the throne of God, he had to purge himself of the evil that had accumulated in his soul. That evil took form and shape, and it became Piccolo.

Given the description of Piccolo having "escaped", it sounds like they tried to imprison him moments after he first came into being. Makes sense; He's literally evil incarnate. A half-person Mazoku formed of pure evil, incapable of moral agency. Why would you want to let that loose?

But they failed. Piccolo got free and descended from Heaven into the human realm to wreak untold havoc upon humanity.

So. Y'know. Nobody's out there having civil chats with that.

...

But. Hang on. Piccolo's sense of self goes back even further than that, doesn't it? After all. As much as "Majunior" is a fragment of Piccolo-Daimao, Piccolo-Daimao too is a fragment of the Nameless Namekian, and he retains that knowledge, memory, and experience as well.

When Piccolo and God begin to speak candidly with one another in the ring, they don't speak Japanese. Instead, they're speaking their own language. A language not of this Earth. With courtesy translation for the audience.

They are speaking the Namekian language. A language from a race neither Piccolo nor God even knows exists. This is confirmed by Bulma and Popo, when they discover the Nameless Namekian's spacecraft.

This was the first language Piccolo ever knew, in the very first incarnation of himself.

This isn't God's history he's sharing. It's theirs, his and Piccolo's together.

Because Piccolo is pure evil. But he isn't. Like. The concept of evil. He is Nameless's evil. The corruption, the bitterness and resentment and fear and anger and uncertainty and despair that's cultivated in his heart over a lifetime of loneliness and isolation.

A Ryuzoku Namekian, child of Katatsu, sent to Earth to escape a climate catastrophe that destroyed their planet and killed their entire race, but two. An orphaned child landing in a deserted wasteland with nothing but an empty promise from a parent who would never make the trip.

We don't know what happened between then and his ascension to Godhood. All we know is that these days were spent alone. And a worm of evil grew in his heart.

This, it should be noted, is not standard procedure for becoming God. When Dende took the throne, he did not have to do anything to purify himself.

That's basically the entire vetting procedure for Dende's ascension.

The way God describes the process, creating Piccolo was something unique to his experience, because his predecessor had noticed a growing darkness unworthy of God inside of him.

I legitimately wonder if God spit Piccolo out as an egg, the way he later spit out the egg of his copy.

In the Namekian language, the word "Piccolo" means "Another world".

It's a word that Nameless knew intimately. Not just because it's from the first spoken language he ever knew. But because that voice command opened and closed his home.

Every day of his lonely life, waiting for a parent that would never come, this is how he came and went. Piccolo as he goes out and Piccolo again once he steps outside. Piccolo on his return and Piccolo once he's safe inside the only home he knows. Piccolo, Piccolo. Piccolo, Piccolo. This word defined his childhood.

This word was the only parent he had.

When he fractured, breaking off the darkness in his soul and externalizing it into a new body, that body took Piccolo as his name.

This has been his existence, since before he could remember. The life of a Namekian whose name has been lost to time. The man who became the man who became Piccolo. God, in his temple in heaven, has Popo by his side to offer companionship and assistance. But for the life he lived before that and for the part of him that fractured off, not once in this long and winding 300-year journey has he ever had a friend.

So when you really stop and take a look at where not just the original Piccolo but the original came from, at the foundation of where Piccolo truly began, those words take on a bit of a different meaning, don't they?

When Piccolo says, "You were the only one who ever really talked to me," that cuts a little deeper when you stop to really think about it.

#dragon ball #dragon ball z #piccolo

[y-rhywbeth2]

Lore: The Bhaalspawn

Link: Disclaimer regarding D&D "canon" & Index [tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess and it's borderline impossible to cover everything. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest]

I decided to compile all of the information I could find/remember on the Children of Bhaal in one place; drawing on the original games, BG3, WotC "canon", and a magazine article written by the writers of the original games meant for playing Bhaalspawn in pen and paper games. There's a surprisingly large amount of information.

Also prodding a bit at the distinction between a Bhaalspawn, as in a quasi-deity, and their tiefling descendants, who are also called by that name.

As with all D&D lore, sources may conflict, but nevertheless, here it is.

-

There are technically two variants of being that can be referred to as bhaalspawn (three, if we count the Dark Urge as something separate).

The term "Bhaalspawn" is usually applied to a Child of Bhaal, a quasi-deity who has the Lord of Murder for a father. Most are Demigods, born of a mortal parent, although Bhaal has seemingly also produced at least one Titan, who has no mortal lineage at all (hi, Durge). With the exception of that last one, they were all sired before his death during the Time of Troubles. Many, if not most, had Bhaal's priests as their mortal parent - willingly conceived as part of the greater plan to resurrect their god.

As is the norm for half-planar-half-mortals, the offspring of a Child of Bhaal will be of the planetouched (tieflings, aasmiar, genasi). As Bhaal is an evil-aligned god, his grandchildren and descendants are specifically tieflings (or some humanoid equivalent, if they have children with non-humans).

Each Child carries the divine essence of their father, woven into their very being (the god himself specifically derides them as having "borrowed" existences). This divine essence wasn't distributed evenly, and some carried more of Bhaal's taint than others. Some were aware of his influence acting on them from birth, and others never knew what they were until their more powerful and ambitious siblings came knocking to tear their essence out of them.

Being so tied to Bhaal, the souls of his children are inherently tied to him and the Throne of Blood - when they die their essence returns to him and takes their souls with it. A Bhaalspawn can worship another god and receive spells as a divine spellcaster if that deity accepts them, but there is no other afterlife waiting for them except for their father's domain. Specifically, this is the Throne of Blood, a section of Banehold (Bane's domain) which should be on the first layer (Khalas) of the plane of Gehenna (also known as "The Bleak Eternity of Gehenna"). Every single game has placed the Throne of Blood on a different Lower Plane (the Hells, the Abyss, the Grey Wastes), but none have used the one actually given in the tabletop canon, for some reason. Mount Khalas is an active volcano, hundreds of thousands of miles high with slopes of at 45° at their very flattest. The slope is generally more like a sheer cliff face, and falling may "completely shred" the would-be climber. The mountain floats in an infinite void by the border of the Nine Hells. The ground is full of bottomless black chasms and magma flows fed by "waterfalls" of the stuff, and the ground glows crimson from the heat of the molten rock. The air is clogged with pyroclastic ash and it's impossible to see further than a dozen feet in any direction. It also features the River Styx, a river polluted by all the filth and evil of existence that flows through all the Lower Planes. The next layer of Gehenna, Mount Chamada, is visible overhead, glowing faintly, "burning like a small, bloody moon." The spirits of the dead who are sentenced to this plane are those who were consumed by greed and a ruthless and insatiable lust for power in life; in death they are selfishness embodied. The domains of the deities who reside there are carved into ledges on the slopes. Banehold - also known as the Barrens of Doom and Despair - is "an inhospitable locale, filled with vast deserts of black sand and huge plains of dark granite." The sky is blood red and sunless. The only source of water on the plane is the Styx.

Some Bhaalspawn feel the pull of their father's domain so strongly that their soul can be pulled into Gehenna before they die. Should these individuals become sickened or injured enough they will fall into a coma as their connection to life weakens and their soul is dragged into their father's realm in the Lower Planes. It will return to their body once they're healed and that the pull of life is strong enough.

Some Bhaalspawn have reported the ability to "feel" deaths occurring around them, which is also said to be a pleasant experience that calls to them.

Due to their inherently divine nature, every one of them has the latent capacity for sorcery, though not all will manifest it.

It was originally claimed that all the Children perished in the Bhaalspawn crisis, however a small ttrpg supplement published by the writers in a magazine article (meant for playing Bhaalspawn as tabletop characters) claimed that while many died, including all the most powerful of their kind, many "weaker" Bhaalspawn survived the crisis.

There is conflicting information about the free will of these survivors following the foiling of Bhaal's first resurrection. As per the original game's canon, Bhaal's command over them is gone once broken, and these Children were free to act out their lives as they saw fit - bar stuff like the occasional nightmare and inherent urge to go on a killing spree. The power in their blood is their own to repurpose.

Baldur's Gate 2 presented the possibility of a Bhaalspawn being totally cleansed of their father's taint and rendered fully mortal and free of all divine meddling. 5e has retconned this in both tabletop supplements and BG3 canon, and posits that while one of the Children can (seemingly) be unchained from most of Bhaal's control, his divinity is an inherent part of them and they may still become pawns in his designs.

Judging by the first two games it seems that a Bhaalspawn's ability to resist their father's control is related to their own willpower and how tied to death and negativity they are. Being sheltered from death and suffering allows themselves to distance themselves from him, while exposure and harbouring feelings of hatred will destroy the barriers and push them closer.

One of the things Bhaal may try to push his children into doing is interfering with the plans of Cyric, who originally killed him during the Time of Troubles and temporarily usurped him as god of murder.

Bhaalspawn grow in power with age and experience. While signs can start early, by the end of their adolescence they will all have begun manifesting various abilities and signs. What defines "growing in power" is rather nebulous - in game mechanics it's tied to character levels. Technically, a Bhaalspawn could manifest the ability to create supernatural darkness and turn into the Slayer at age 17 and, by the time she's 18, have manifested as much as eleven more powers (and a plethora of dark influences plaguing her to go with them, including an addiction to killing). Or she could go her entire existence never having more than those two traits, a nasty temper, and some horrific nightmares.

Quasi-deities are immortal - ageless and unable to die from natural causes. While theoretically, a Bhaalspawn might not manifest this trait, it would conflict with other established lore on half-deities (because D&D lore loves conflicting with itself). Bhaalspawn immortality tends to kick in at any point in adulthood, at which point their age freezes. They could be in their twenties - and is more likely to manifest at a younger age, but theoretically it could kick in when they're 87 or older.

A Child of Bhaal can usurp their father and take his godhood for themselves: They must prove themselves worthy of being Lord of Murder by deliberately orchestrating a thousand innocent deaths (the method can be anything). They must seek out a portion of their father's flesh. Remnants of Bhaal's slain avatars, such as the remains of the Raveger in the Moonshaes, or traces remaining in the Winding Water from the Time of Troubles are recommended. Bhaal's actual corpse would've been in the Astral Plane, pre-Sundering. What one is meant to do with this chunk of flesh is unspecified. And then one is meant to present themselves for judgement by the overgod Ao, who will decide if they deserve the job. This seems to involve some kind of epic quest in a very dangerous location to prove oneself.

-

The term "bhaalspawn" also seems to be applied to the tiefling children and descendants of the true Children. Tieflings descended from Bhaal show no outward signs of their heritage the way most other tieflings do, appearing as regular members of their species under physical examination and lacking strange quirks - such as those seen on tieflings descended from the god Mask, who cast no reflections. That said, planetouched descended from deities are known to bear birthmarks in the shape of their divine ancestor's holy symbol, so that might be the exception. Like many of the non-Asmodeus tieflings, they bear the taint of the lower planes in their being, and from birth they often feel it pushing them to bend to their whims. In the case of bhaal-spawned tieflings, these urges would be murder ideation and an obsession with death. God-descended tieflings are no more inherently powerful than the regular kind descended from fiends like devils, demons and night hags.

As with all of the non-Asmodeus tieflings, after the first tiefling grandchild the blood tends to go dormant and hide itself for generations, until it suddenly manifests in a child born to an unsuspecting normal family who is unaware that the taint of the god of murder lurks in their bloodline.

-

There are various abilities (and side-effects) a Bhaalspawn might manifest. Interestingly, while a Bhaalspawn can manifest the vast majority of them, they will never manifest all the possible powers available to their "family." Meanwhile, the most powerful of them will manifest all of the dark urges and traces of evil that threaten to consume their kind.

There are no rules given for their tiefling descendants. Tieflings have been known to manifest a variety of quirks and spell-like abilities, such as those that have been provided for the Children of Bhaal, it's not unthinkable that their heritage may cause them to manifest one or two of them. Going off of the tiefling creation chart from 2e, a tiefling will randomly manifest one advantage, and one drawback.

So a grandchild of Bhaal might have poisonous blood and be unable to control herself from going berserk from bloodlust in battle. One might heal at an unusually fast rate and give off an aura of death that causes strangers to respond to them like they're a monster. Another tiefling may be able to temporarily boost his strength to impressive levels, but be consumed by the urge to murder.

While only the most powerful manifest every trait, the signs of being a Bhaalspawn include:

The undead can sense a Bhaalspawn if they're within 60ft of each other - so clearly that they can pinpoint their exact location. Even protective magics that should hide them from the undead's senses won't keep them from being aware of their presence, it will only prevent them from being able to know exactly where they're standing. In BG2, a vampire named Phlydian describes it as being able to "smell the murder in [their] heart."

Being around the Children of Bhaal triggers the fight-or-flight instinct and makes others uneasy; they give off an unsettling aura that causes those nearby to subconsciously pick up on them as predatory, and Bhaalspawn have a harder time convincing others to like and trust them. Divination spells that reveal alignment and intention will detect them as evil, regardless of whether they truly are or not.

Bhaalspawn are harmed by holy weapons, and those who are particularly murderous can also be harmed by holy water.

Bhaalspawn blood is black and viscous, and the divine essence within it calls out to the lower planes. A bleeding Bhaalspawn leaves a "scent" that calls to all fiends of the Lower Planes, including devils and demons. Even if it doesn't have the texture and colour, the blood is poisonous. If their blood enters the bloodstream of another being it will immediately cause weakness and fatigue. If the blood is not purged, the individual will weaken into a coma and eventually die. Of course this won't affect beings immune to poison. According to Phlydian vampires find the divine blood of the Children of Bhaal irresistibly "sweet."

They experience chronic, horrific nightmares that are traumatic enough to impair the demigod's daily functioning. These visions can occasionally be resisted through willpower, but not staved off indefinitely.

Bhaalspawn always want to kill, and may lose control of themselves in physical conflict, trying to strike at everything within reach. They struggle to restrain themselves, and limiting attacks to non-lethal damage requires will saving throws. They are reckless in combat, paying attention to little except slaughtering their opponent/s - not even caring about their own safety, The urge to kill can be a fundamental need, If not met, thoughts of murder slowly overwhelms their willpower, thoughts and their awareness of their surroundings, until they're finally driven to kill somebody. This urge cannot be sated by anything except for the murder of a sapient being. (This is similar to the effects of some hungers that affect the undead, causing them to devolve into mindless, feral animals driven by hunger - it may look the same.)

They are possessed by a constant undercurrent of rage, and when humiliated or frustrated they must keep a grip on their anger or slip into a state of violent killing rage not unlike that shown by barbarians in combat - their strength and endurance is greatly strengthened as they attempt to attack the subject of their ire.

They may actually find their sense of free will is innately weaker than that of regular mortals.

They are drawn to the sight of the dying and the dead, and take involuntary pleasure in the sight.

--

Bhaalspawn are also known to manifest various quirks and spell-like abilities (which they can cast as three times per hit dice/character levels a day. So a level 12 Bhaalspawn with "death knell" can cast it 36 times a day). Again; not every one of them manifests every ability, many will probably never have more than two, but powerful individuals may still manifest most of them.

They are able to boost their strength to impressive or even superhuman levels (depending on base strength) for anywhere between 1-20 minutes.

They are immune to all poisons and toxins.

They are resistant to being wounded, unless the wounds are caused by an object made of or plated in silver. Complete immunity to being harmed by unenchanted weapons is also a possibility for the most powerful individuals. (I've never been clear on what damage reduction looks like - I suppose either it's harder to break their skin, or else the wounds simply close up or at least heal up a bit automatically.)

They can cure moderate wounds like a divine spellcaster.

If they touch a dying creature they can drain the remaining life-force from them, killing them and temporarily strengthening themselves (as in physical strength and hit points, as well as boosting the power of their spells) Some may manifest the similar ability to drain the life force from a target by looking at them, stealing their vitality to heal themselves. The target doesn't need to be dying, and may be perfectly healthy

They are unaffected by any but the most extreme of temperatures, to the point where they're resistant to elemental damage of that kind (this could be cold or heat, or both). Some Bhaalspawn are also resistant to electricity and any magic cast on them.

They can strike mortal dread into nearby beings.

They can use divine energy to smite their foes - or they can maifest it as a 20ft area of darkness and tangible evil ("cold, cloying and greasy" to the senses) that damages non-evil beings within it.

They can create supernatural 15-20ft clouds of impenetrable blackness that extinguishes all sources of light, as per the darkness spell.

One Bhaalspawn manifested the (involuntary) ability to instinctually teleport to safety whenever he panicked - this is just speculation, but I would assume this works the same as the ability available to Bhaal's Deathstalker priests; they can teleport to the Throne of Blood in the Lower Planes, and from there teleport back into Toril at any location not protected by warding magic.

And, last but not least, Bhaalspawn are known to be able to transform into the Slayer when particularly favoured by their father. In one, exceptional, case a Bhaalspawn was known to manifest Bhaal's other avatar; the Ravager.

#I'll probably notice a thousand flaws the moment I hit post... #FYI the aferlife sucks if you're a Bhaalspawn #“You have an air of irresistible desperation about you” #No shit sherlock #I'm still judging you for not detecting Orin you useless vampire (affectionate) #durge #the dark urge #dark urge #orin the red

[ossidae-passeridae]

I'd be fascinated to hear more about gnosticism in tlt if you ever feel like writing about it.

I honestly don't know what's already been written r.e. gnosticism and TLT, so might be reinventing the wheel here, but I'll do a brief description of the overarching themes present throughout the books?

The uh, first layer of the gnosticism onion, as it were.

So to start this off I'm going to give a broad and at least partially incorrect overview of gnosticism:

Gnosticism is a tenth century mess that's loosely based off of Christianity, but then gets Weird. Thanks to some fun political situations in the Gulf, the Christians in the South were isolated from other Christians for decades thus spun off wildly from "mainstream" Christianity. We mostly have fragments left, and a lot of them contradict each other, so working out exactly what they believed/meant is Very Fun and also Somewhat Impossible. (Like the fragments of documents left in Canaan House, you could say...)

That being said, parts of their beliefs we do know better than others. They have the bible, of course, but on top of that they also have this pre-Bible creation myth regarding how God came to be in the first place.

It goes something like: In The Beginning there was a sort of primordial god-soup. This god-soup occasionally emits binary pairs of entities, also known as aeons and (later) twin flames. These binary pairs are two souls made for one another and with one another, and together they are balanced, and perfect, and full of Holy Light(tm). Each binary pair had one grammatically-masculine name, and one grammatically-feminine name. These names do not necessarily relate to perceived gender, and in fact the binary pairs are often referred to as if they are Beyond Gender Altogether. (*stares pointedly at the Lyctors*, *stares even more pointedly at Gideon's name*) [I could probably write a whole thing on this alone, honestly, they're sometimes referred to as like, the fingers on God's hand which, yeah.]

Anyway, in this pure and godly space, there is no matter, only Holy Light. But one of the entities, known as Sophia, goes off on her own and interacts with the shadowy chaos that exists outside of the godly soup. She's half of a whole, unbalanced. And through her meddling she (unintentionally) creates another half that's not pure and holy and full of godly light, but instead a dark reflection of what he Should Be. This is generally referred to as the Demiurge.

Unlike all these other beings, the Demiurge is made of matter. He is the first thing of matter to exist and he looks around the void that he's birthed into, bare aside from him, and concludes that he and he alone is God. (Hi Jod)

Then he makes earth, and heaven, and a bunch of other things besides, the things we know as the universe today. In the immortal words of Douglass Adams — this has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.

The problem is — all of these things that the Demiurge has created are made of matter. And being made of matter, they're cut off from the light of Godness (which is incorporeal and made of Pure Energy), thus inherently flawed. What's more, they're never meant to have existed in the first place. The Demiurge is tormented by his failure, but unable to create anything that is not inherently Wrong. (oh look it's the Nine Houses, I'd bet money that there's a link between being cut off from Godly Light and the Nine Houses being the only stable thanergenic planets here)

Sophia, who has watched these unintended consequences unfold and the suffering they've caused, cannot undo what's been done, but she can descend into the material world to share the light of wisdom and try to alleviate what suffering she can. So she does.

The story culminates with Christ being born and teaching all of humanity Gnosis — a special, mystical knowledge that can only come from the Divine, we are not really given specifics here — before he's sacrificed in order to make humanity's ascent beyond their material prison possible.

So that's the broad strokes of gnosticism as a religion, and also first layer of the TLT gnosticism onion. Just the really broad spectrum thematic *waves hands around* Stuff. I've refrained from speculating on the end because until Alecto comes out we really don't know.

If you want anything more specific anon, let me know?? I've been in the gnosticism soup for so long I can't always tell what's common knowledge and what isn't.

#tlt #the locked tomb #tlt meta #good evening I love these books also I am suffering #gnosticism in tlt #I'm not sure where the gnosticism onion came from but apparently I'm running with that metaphor so apologies for that

[sugar-plum-writer]

A God Has Descended to Earth

Paring: Gojo Satrou x fem!reader Tags: God complex, one-shot, what happens when a god like existence on Earth makes you wonder? if all the gods you knew were fake A/n: I just wrote this after being inspired from Lana's - "Salvatore", I have listened to it many times but this version of it being in a cathedral unblocked my writers block. The echo, the reverberation, and blue cathedral inspired me to write some lines and it evolved to this lol~ I hope you guys like it! pls leave a comment for any feedback if you like it!

Throughout the lands and the sky above, beyond the glistening stars the breeze itself seemed to freeze to not disturb his walk. Black, white and blue sky, a gold painted sun cathedral with echo's of power resonating through each crevice swirling like the depth of oceans, and storming like a titanic on the clouds

Stepping down he looked like a God

using the sky itself as a staircase he stepped down, elegantly- playfully smirking, he needed no cathedral, he needed no church or temple, why? The sky was his, the sky was the cathedral, the only place high enough for a man like him to look down on the world and be worshiped.

No throne was worthy enough for him, none dared to bear his weight, no gold or diamonds needed to show his wealth, Afterall, which diamonds could ever compare to the azure blue painting his eyes reflecting the sun and the ocean in it's wake.

The sky was his, it exists because he exists, with just a drop of his power thousands could be ripped till bones and daggers cannot be forged. Having the strength to take the Earth from the back of Atlas and bear it on his mere hands; spinning it like a child spinning the globe. As if it was the most weightless object in the world.

How did such a man exist- was beyond you, having heard about him through many people, calling him annoying, cocky, over-confident, but one thing the whole world agreed on- he was the strongest. You laughed it off as you heard many things related to him, so many stories a 1000 nights couldn't match up, wondering if you could meet this man known as the strongest yourself

Until, you saw him, the man himself walking down from the sky

Sharp cuts on your body stung dripping with blood, making you beg your nerves to stop feeling this piercing pain. If it stopped you could focus more, hot blood drenched a side of your face, blurring your vision hazy, it smelled like iron and tasted disgusting on your throat making you want to vomit

Seeing him made your breath stop, world stop, the chaos fell silent and deaf to your ears- looking at him breathless as he walked towards you not even realizing the curse you were fighting was still alive

With a light grin he raised his hand

"Red"

Such a simple word, just 1 syllable

Obliterated half of the area you were standing flat, grimy blood of the curse splattered on the wall behind you- with a crater big enough to hold an elephant, but rather than horror it looked like a painting- a painting of raw power

Is this what ultimate power looks like?

The curse you struggled to fight against, gasping for breath in every killing blow, small cuts graced your body making your skin be basked in crimson, nearly dying fighting this curse and for him it was just

One Syllable

You stared at him, stunned to speak, he did not avert your gaze rather kept looking in your eyes, the azure eyes melting into your own- evoking the feeling of your soul being consumed by him

Gently raising his hand- he brushed your hair aside- though his hands got covered in your blood he paid no mind

"My My~ that's quite an expression you've got their my dear"

leaning in his lips close to yours- inches apart- gaze unwavering looking into your heart

"A-Are you a God?"

You do not know why such words came from your mouth, they just did, as if wanting to know, if the god you have been worshipping your whole life was fake

"Am I?"

He chuckled

"If I am, will you go down on your knees and worship me? will my name be the only prayer on your lips? Answer me dear? Will you?"

With a light smile he said the words as if they are weightless- even a god declaring his words would make himself look mighty, is he above a God?

"If so"

"Kneel"

Link to my Masterlist in case you want to read other works of mine

#fanfic #jjk #jjk imagines #jjk drabbles #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen anime #jujustu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu sorcerer #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen gojo #jjk x you #jjk smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo x reader #gojo smut #satoru gojo #gojo saturo #jjk satoru #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x you

[turndecassette2]

I do remember those magic knight people! Every once in a while I go back on your blog to try to track down those drawings because I like them and the concept in the description so much. I would love to hear more about them. Do you have a story planned out?

yeah, vaguely. so for the cosmology; there's this dystopian city I desperately need to draw a map of built above the fossilised remains of an ancient hell. the city mines the hell for 'hell-flesh', a semi-sentient magical substance that's kind of the physical container of the souls of the damned. I suppose this is like fantasy rare earths for fantasy compute or w/e. this has been going on for a while and the city is, kiruna-style, gradually falling down the pit. also as more of the hell is laid bare, semi-autonomous demonic creatures are let loose, maybe as a kind of immune response against human incursion.

(imagining this sort of thing + branching passages. but in the middle of an italian intra-feuding city-state w a population ca modern day singapore)

a kind of grid of bridges and fortresses has been built above the pit to protect the fancier, upper parts of the city from the decaying/descending bits below. the lower city is mostly miners etc & due to the fucked up mutagenic influence of living near a hell & touching hell stuff all day the people in the upper city treat them with suspicion. there's a 'join the US navy-army-whatever to get health insurance & education & basic human dignity' or like french foreign legion situation where by joining the elite magic army manning the little fortresses, ppl from the lower city can gain some access to the upper. in the reverse I guess for the upper city ppl it functions a bit like 'the wall' in asoiaf where criminals, noble bastards etc go to maybe redeem themselves or die horribly.

the fire magic used by the guards to fight demons etc is derived from the burning corpse of a god that is said to have been there since before the founding of the city (presumably the entity responsible for the hell situation in the first place). by swearing fealty to this dead(-ish) god one gets the ability to summon his divine flame but you forfeit your chance at an afterlife, or maybe you go to hell (no-one is quite sure). everyone kind of assumes once the body is fully burned the god will return/reincarnate (and either save or destroy the city, depending on who you ask).

the politics part; at its founding the city was part of some empire that has since collapsed (pretty recently). the city is dependent on trade to stay viable/fed and to appease the new warring states/mini-empires that have sprung up around it. the current ruler is a reclusive young queen & she has her favourite lord/advisor, an ageing academic who is sort of trying to liberalise the place or make it superficially less fashy. other lords dislike this & are working to either find her a proper king or hasten the return of some deity or other that will return the place to its former glory.

I guess the story? has this noble child bastard protagonist from a shady family* of word-mages who is sent to the 'centre' fortress & works her way up to become the apprentice of some hero-knight demon slayer guy with a possibly shady past (I think rn the name I have for the guy is Chaimé & idk if this is a good name? like the spanish jaime but w more e, & the tiny bastard is Myia I think). I imagine her being the sasuke to a happier, more popular girl who saves her from a demon (embarrassing) then is outed as a half-demon herself (she's the redhead in the drawings) & Myia warms up to her as she (demon girl) becomes increasingly isolated from the outside city (being supposedly dangerous or too powerful? I don't think Myia has much natural magic or w/e in her aside from being a nerd & very persistent).

sorry there's a lot here that would be SPOILERS if I ever actually made this into something coherent enough to be an actual comic ha ha. the knight/mentor guy gets dragged into a kind of fantasy 'business plot' & I guess part of that would be like, seeing to what extent he goes along with it & if he's actually a good person ha ha. + there's a bunch of other characters w stuff going on that I haven't figured out the looks of yet but. they're important in my head. the big bear-ish bf guy who gets sent on an expedition down the pit etc

* I have a distinct image of these people living hidden away in some gormenghast-style estate. they've habsburged themselves into being mostly deaf but the only ones around who can fully read/write the divine language that lets them do word-based magic & the other houses kind of have to put up w their weirdness. also scheming nobles in dune using sign language is 1 of my favourite things in the new film adaption & I like the idea of outsiders being forced to learn to sign (or else being cut-off from higher level magic) as some sort of power move? I don't think they involve themselves that much in politics since that's below them but are def part of the 'bring the gods back' thing, for better or worse. anyway after 'avas demon' (GUILTY PLEASURE I know it has such pretty colours but comes from such an unhinged part of the internet, will never stop apologising for this) started posting again I realised it had a character w the same look & vibe so will try and re-design protag girl to look more like this cute person I saw in a fashion post on IG

... let's see how this goes. came up w all this BS after some viz lady at comicon asked me if I wanted to make them a manga but it's grown from being too little to being too unwieldy to pitch. will see after I finish up my current projects. how much blood, swearing & genocide can a story have before it stops being YA. I think chainsaw man is sort of YA but dorohedoro isn't

#I started reading dorohedoro as a teen & I turned out OK #I mean I draw comics I live w my parents in the woods like a medieval peasant etc but that's no worse than the rest of society #these days #god this is a mess #16 yo me loved the bas-lag books #an ask #sorry abt grammar etc this is a lot of words

[makur0]

Melting Innocence, Rouge Heat, Tainted Soul

synopsis — if putting on an alluring performance wasn't enough for the two members of Adam, you certainly will fulfill their desires on Valentines Day. [nagisa ran x fem! reader x ibara saegusa]

content warnings — nsfw, mdni. sub! reader, hard dom! ibara, dom! nagisa, semi-exhibitionism, dirty talk, penetration, creampie, oral, cursing, stomach bulge, breeding, slightly rushed end

author's note — part one of valentine's fest! god i want to be sandwiched between these two it isn't funny. (and surprisingly... writing to character AI's really helps my burnt out era)

word count — 2347

"HON, AREN'T YOU GOING TO SEE ADAM'S PERFORMANCE?"

Anzu turns to you, her head tilted. You finally look up from your paperwork, blinking. "...huh?"

The lead producer sighs, reaching over to close your computer. "[name], Adam? The sub-unit you produce for? Nagisa and Ibara?"

You seem dazed, not processing her words before finally jolting. "A-ah, yes! Their Valentine's Day-themed live, right? Yes, I'll be there... I think..."

You sigh, running your fingers through your hair. "I don't know, Anzu. I have too much work to even take half an hour out of my time... but then again, I was the head of this project, I should at least enjoy it..." You look so conflicted with yourself, Anzu sighs.

"Darling, [name]," The brunette tuts, bringing you up to your feet. "Go, I got the rest."

"But-"

"Shut- no. That's an order," She says sternly, and you finally yield, nodding. At this Anzu looks pleased that she finally convinced you to take a much-needed break. "Good... now, go before they start."

You quickly run out of the office, and as you leave Anzu alone, she smiles to herself slightly.

Besides... Nagisa and Ibara would be extremely dissapointed that their 'main audience' won't even be there...

---

You quickly make it to the Producer's section of the auditorium, meeting many other of your co-workers who are excitedly waiting for the performance. Unlike you, they came solely to... ah, simp for the two members of the popular unit Eden, Nagisa Ran and Ibara Saegusa. You didn't even recognize half of them from the project, which you sigh at. You laugh at yourself- the head of the project showing the least 'interest'...?

You take your seat away from the horny group, making yourself comfortable. Minutes before the Live starts, your phone buzzes: it's Ibara.

Ibara: Are you here? I would be gravely disappointed if you weren't.

You sigh through your nose, texting back a short, 'Yes' before shutting your phone down. Ibara should know better than to text you right before his own performance.

Finally, the lights turn off, and the stage lights up. You can't help but swell in pride of how intricate the stage is, thanks to your designing. As the two members of Adam had requested, you tied it along with their song as well as you could... as well as some suggestions that were strangely what you like...

You had decided not to look into it deeply, instead following Adam's requests.

As Ibara and Nagisa descend, somehow they quickly find you in the crowd, both sending you an unreadable look as they start the performance...

Your breath was caught in your throat.

You had no idea how... uh. Hot their vocals and choreography was.

As the head of the project, you were surprisingly only in charge of the setup of the stage and the light coordination. Then again, Ibara had requested that you pull your full attention on that...

You felt yourself heating up at the lyrics, mesmerized by their movements. If you were in a more attentive mindset, you would have noticed that they were constantly stealing glances towards you. But, paired with overall tiredness, your flustered state did not help at all.

You started to overthink as the Live carried on. They have been sending me mixed signals... No, how could they possibly fancy me? Both of them? I'm just their producer, nothing else...

So why do I feel so uncomfortably hot?

It felt like an eternity, but Adam was finally done with their performance. To say the least, you were proud of yet another successful performance, but so many other emotions were mixed into the mess... confusion, flattery, embarrassment...

Not long after Adam left the stage you feel your phone buzz again.

Ibara: Come meet us at our dressing room.

You can't- don't think much of it as you rush off before the other producers could disgust you of their horny talk, walking through the cold halls as you find Adam's dressing room. You frown, as the door stands ajar and the room is dark inside.

Funny... maybe they got another dressing room? Or did they just leave earlier?

You walk into the dressing room, completely unaware of what was about to happen...

The door shuts as your vision is obscured by the darkness of the room, and you even hear the door lock click as you feel arms wrap around you tightly. "H-hey-!?"

"Shh." It's Nagisa. "...It's just us."

A groan from another man, Ibara you realize, interrupts Nagisa. "Your Highness, I thought we agreed to keep our identities a secret as a special touch."

"...My bad."

With the little light in the room, you see Ibara's glasses reflected in it. Otherwise, he was completely invisible in the darkness. "Dear Producer, what did you think of our performance...?"

You hear his footsteps walk up towards you, and his pair of arms hook under your own and lift you up. Nagisa's body acts as a chair for you as you feel hot breath on both your neck and face... feeling yourself heat up, you completely disregard the previous question thrown at you.

Ibara tsks at your lack of response. "Hm. It looks like the cat has already got her tongue, Your Highness..."

"...I was hoping to be the first one to get her tongue."

"W-what on earth is going on?" You finally manage to get out, squirming although Nagisa's hold around you is strong, tight. "Ibara-san, Nagisa-san, is that you?"

Ibara chuckles. "Indeed it is, dear producer! I am quite glad that you had decided to attend our Live, as my plan would be in complete shambles if you haven't..."

"Plan-?"

Nagisa interrupts you, groaning. "Ibara, make it quick. I can't resist any longer."

The said male exhales. "If you insist.

"As I was saying... tonight is Valentine's day, as you're aware. And also... you seem to have been ignoring our rather obvious calls for you.

"So, we decided, tonight, we shall-"

Ibara is interrupted by your yelp, as you suddenly feel Nagisa bite down your neck, humming. The pain is brief, as he lets go as soon as he bites down, kissing the flushing mark now.

Based on his voice, Ibara is annoyed. "Your Highness, couldn't you have waited a bit longer?"

"...Mm. No." Nagisa quite plainly says, nibbling on your ear. "With her right in my grasp... I couldn't resist any longer."

The younger male sighs, then finally light filters into the room, although red(?) and dimly lit. It's not enough to blind you, just enough to see the two figures starting to swarm around you. "W-what?"

Now it's Nagisa's turn to be annoyed, as you seem to flinch away from him. "We're not going to hurt you... just simply show our want for you.

"We're quite endeared with you, little [name]. I'm quite surprised you haven't caught onto our advances..."

You stutter as Ibara suddenly sits on your own lap, and you're soon sandwiched between the two already-sweaty men, from their performance. Your head is yanked forward as Ibara takes your lips greedily, all signs of courtesy now gone as he seems to have also lost patience to reason with you. As he sees that you're not pulling away, he continues to ravish your lips, groaning softly. You still feel Nagisa's breath on your neck, watching him softly kiss all your tender spots and grinning to himself as he sees you flinch every single time.

"Mm... finally." Ibara finally breaks the long kiss, leaving you gasping like a fish out of water. "You taste just as I predicted... sultry, yet sweet."

You feel your body heat up at his comment... how long have they've been trying to pin your attention? A week? Month? Months?

You thought it was just you, pining for the two handsome idols. When in full retrospect, you weren't the only one satisfied with just the work-acquaintance relationship.

Both Nagisa and Ibara's advances and touches on you become more rushed, heated, the longer you let them do as they please. Even without you saying it, your complete submissiveness tells them loud and clear:

You like this too.

Ibara curses under his breath, shifting as his pants grow tight. "Nagisa," He completely disregards his usual title for the older male. "Lay them down. I'm getting too damn impatient now."

The said idol obliges quite easily, letting you go of his tight hold and setting you down on the wide, long couch. Usually having... ahem, sex on a couch was rather uncomfortable, but it seems that this piece of furniture would suffice well for the three of you... you wonder if they planned this deliberately.

As soon as your set down Ibara immediately hovers over you, Nagisa taking a seat near your head. As the maroon-haired male props his elbows on either side of your head, he leans dangerously close, looking quite... tempting even as his glasses slightly slide down his nose.

"Do you want to know why I didn't allow you to know about the music or the choreography?"

"..."

Ibara hums. "...well, it would just ruin this night even more for us. If you haven't connected the dots yet... those lyrics?

"About this night. About you."

You blink, your cheeks heating up profusely. "...H-how long have you've been trying to- ahem."

Nagisa speaks up. "Around a month..."

Oh dear.

The younger idol shakes his head. "The past doesn't matter now. You're here in our clutches now... god, I can't wait to just ruin you..."

He flips you over on your stomach, forcing your legs up so that your ass is in the air. You let out a faint squeak, reddening even more as your face is quite close to Nagisa's pelvis... quite close to the rather large tent in his pants.

The cold air hitting your bare ass barely bothers you as Nagisa lifts your head up slowly, shifting to his knees as he gets ready to use your mouth. As he tantalizingly takes off his pants, you feel Ibara's fingers prod at your hole, chuckling as he feels that it's decently wet... he needs it soaking, though. He's not going to just rail you for hours to start with a measly arousal.

Your whimpers are soon muffled as you slowly sink your mouth down on Nagisa's now-exposed cock, the tip angry red as the veins bulge. You barely make it halfway before you start struggling, your hands clenching onto the sofa fabric.

Ibara's fingers make their way into your hole, abusing your poor cunt as he quickly brings you to a high. You moan around Nagisa's cock, shivering as you hit your first orgasm for the night... but certainly not the last, far from it. Ibara seems to finger-fuck you faster, relishing your now-twitching finger and muffled whines. Nagisa lets out a pleased sigh, his head bobbing back as his fingers thread your hair as your moans vibrate his cock.

You're pushed into another orgasm again, making your moans more frequent and louder. Nagisa seems to lose his composure, gripping your hair and shoving his entire length down your throat. You choke violently, gagging as hot tears run down your cheeks as you moan shamelessly, being used as nothing but a toy for the two idols.

"God," Ibara curses, scooping up your arousal to taste it. "A little part of me wanted to fuck you on that couch on the stage, right in front of everybody.... what would you think of that, your Highness?"

"..."

Ibara sighs, looking down back at you. "Nevermind... besides, you're already here. Why should I wish for anything better? Public or not, we're still going to ruin you..."

Nagisa lets out a soft groan, pelvis jerking as he comes down your throat. You gag loudly, clutching the sofa as you feel the hot liquid go down your throat. There was so much, too much... your gag reflex triggers, and you feel yourself choking back up some of Nagisa's cum, staining your lips.

The male seems satisfied with your reaction, pulling away from your mouth and wiping your lips clean with a kiss. Just as he finishes, Ibara is taking his pants and boxers off, ready to enter his shaft into you.

He slips into you easily with a groan, your own mewl pairing perfectly. Nagisa watches with piercing eyes as you're propelled forward by Ibara's force, fucking into you erratically without giving you a change to adjust to his size. Your moans are loud, unhinged, and watery due to the previous blowjob. Your hips are about to collapse, but Ibara keeps a death-grip on them, definitely bruising them. Small groans leaves the idol, his glasses slipping further down his nose as he pounds your tight cunt.

You wail loudly, clutching onto Nagisa's thighs in front of you and leaving small crescents into his skin from your nails. Seeing you get railed so effortlessly has Nagisa heating up again, his sex hardening once more. "..."

"Fuck- you're so tight," Ibara laughs breathlessly, picking up his pace just to hear you moan even more. "How many loads will it take before you're leaking with our seed, huh dear producer?"

You whimper at that, clenching around his length. "I- I'm not sure..."

Ibara smirks at Nagisa. "Let's experiment then, shall we?"

---

It took only two loads to fill you to the brim, but the two didn't stop there.

Pounding into you, biting your skin and marking it up, abusing your poor clit and cunt, you were left a mess when they were done with you hours later. Your sex was puffy and leaking with their mixed seed, your stomach even slightly bulging of how much they managed to keep inside you. You're dazed, hazy as they managed to haul you out of the dressing room without being caught.

Nagisa looks at your dumb state. "...Can we do this again, Ibara?"

The said idol barks out a laugh. "Why, of course! You enjoyed this as much as I did, no? Just filling her up makes me so aroused~"

"...I filled her up more."

"No you didn't, Nagisa. Shut up.

Taglist: @ciderwebs @himeru-soulmate @ibaraluvr

#enstars #ensemble stars #enstars smut #ensemble stars smut #ensemble stars x reader #enstars x reader #ibara saegusa #ibara saegusa x reader #ibara saegusa smut #nagisa ran #nagisa ran x reader #nagisa ran smut #valentines day part one #WOO

[spidey29phangirl]

So, there’s a summoning in the League of Assassins base that pulls Danny into the dc dimension, where when he meets a pit mad Jason the guy pulls a knife against his throat and threatens him to get him out of the base. friendly glowstick was actually on his way out, so he just shrugs and goes sure what the hell turning them both invisible with just the briefest amount of wondering over why the guy didn’t do it himself because he’s a ghost too. anyways Danny only intends to drop the guy outside—but then outside is just a bunch of deserted mountains as far as he can see. okay, so maybe if he gets a better leverage point…

Jason only sees this as a faint stop, and then the pull of the ghost flying flash-speed up. It holds him only by the hand and while this power of his does seem to extend something of an anti-gravity sensation to Jason, training and instinct both scream at him he’s about to be reacquainted with death via free fall. …and so the non sense part of his brain scrambles for some bargain. the ghost— who god isn’t even looking at him,, must want something? what? souls? it’s just as unnerving as this glowing green eyes, but Jason manages to conceal the panic before it turns into a full blown attack, it goes something like; “wait, wait. if-if you want—souls i know plenty of bad people the world wouldn’t care to miss,” attention grabbed, the ghost just tilts his head to the side and stares, “it’s in this place where people go missing everyday, and powers like–like that go totally unnoticed, i mean you can totally pass as a living person. i can take you there if-if you just let me- it’s a little far but i swear it’s worth it. it’s in the United States?” the expression draws up a frown but also a glint of recognition. he sighs shakily. “you know it?”

“Yeah. I know it.” Danny doesn’t know why the ghost just started rambling about soul hotspots like he was a banshee, but whatever. “I thought… I was there actually. guess i always assumed I would never be summoned outside of the country… “ He looks around again, “where am I then?”

He looks back at Jason and abruptly realizes he is still holding his hand. “oh i’m sorry—“ he starts just as he lets go. the ghost probably wants to fly on his own.

…

he doesn’t.

the ghost plummets down. fast.

…

Danny hovers down a little because that’s odd. the ghost should’ve flown by now, grasp onto the instinct that is defying gravity and— still hasn’t, his core churns as he watches him keep falling —but why? does he not know how to fly? not to go invisible or …intangible? oh fuck. he hadn’t. back there the ghost had asked Danny to get him out. he hadn’t. Danny dives down rushing past the wind as the distance closed and the ground approached.

just as the realization sinked. the ghost couldn’t.

…

Jason latches on like a lifeline to the arms that close on him and start to descend slowly to the fast rhythm of his racing heart. it’s an iron grip he wishes to turn into a lock, but the ground is not in close range still.

“—g omg i’m sorry i didn’t—i didn’t know you couldn’t access your powers i swear like i would’ve never done that in purpose omg what the fuck i’m sorry—what happened, your core felt fine but I didn’t think and whatever’s it is that’s messing with your powers is something i can’t—“ it’s nonsense that’s half apology half rambling, that he tunes out after because now they are close enough and it only steals a sec to leaps down with a clean roll and in the process put distance between the teen ghost and him. The kid leans forward almost wanting to hover closer. but doesn’t.

He looks concerned. “Are you okay?”

Jason doesn’t answer, but his heart rate starts up again as the ghost waits and then raises both hands to approach him almost placatingly. “I didn’t meant that, i’m sorry, again I didn’t know you didn’t have your powers.”

Jason would like the guy to not get any closer. “I don’t have any powers. What the fuck are you on?”

The ghost’s aura dims.

And it’s like the world stills. almost like it turns into one big suffocating void.

“You don’t know?”

Jason has nearly backed up into a tree. His sleeve hides a knife.

The ghost looks sad.

“You’re dead.”

oh.

oh good god.

Jason swears his heart nearly jumps out of his chest because of the anticipation, but it’s okay, it’s nothing. Jason knew that already. …it still didn’t make sense with half the shit the ghost said but ghosts, uh they probably had a way to sense when someone died and so to think the that the ghost thought he was one too was plausible. is why the kid said he dropped him.

which in that case. honest mistake. maybe the kid is saying the truth. Jason looks back at him and the kid holds a mournful expression. And a little pity.

He huffs, “Not new news you’re giving me kid, honest.”

That seems to puzzle the white haired kid. He frowns. “Then why ask me what i’m talking about? is it that you don’t know who did this to you?”

His eyes glow just at the reminder. “no,” a growl rips out of his throat. “I know exactly who did this to me.”

“Then? Why can’t you access your powers? as a human the fall would’ve been fatal.”

again with this shit. Jason runs a hand through his hair, feeling only the slightest amount of frustration and pauses. …this is a normal amount of frustration, maybe even proportionate in a way he hasn’t felt in a very long time. He wasn’t getting worked up over something to the point annoyance turned into full blown anger. the pit wasn’t bothering him and that— felt weird. Jason did not choked up a little. “okay. kid, ghost …whatever. I realize you probably think I’m like you but no, I can’t just fly or–density shift my way out things. I am not like you.”

“is this like the five stages of grief?” the ghost muses, like he didn’t even hear him, and raises an eyebrow, “are you on denial?”

Jason runs a hand through his hair and almost closes his eyes because clearly the kid, god he was just a kid, young impling he was, didn’t want to see what was in front of him. “kid.”

He almost wants to be close enough to grab the ghost’s shoulders.

“I did die but I– I came back.”

…

Kid in question is doing a terrible job at hiding his smile. He nods back slowly too. The “and…?” inquire he makes is almost insulting.

Jason has no words.

At that the kid just inhales deeply and angles his body to the open gestures he begins to do with his arms, “this is what I meant when I asked if you knew?!”

“i’m not a ghost.” Jason cuts in, if only he could get it through the kid’s thick skull. “I know that much.”

True and only ghost scowls with suspicion for a moment before sighing.

“…you …you didn’t submit yourself to some kinda…experiment, right?” the dead teenager uncrosses his arms, “because even if don’t have powers you’re still very much a ghost.”

Jason looks at the floating being with probably an inane amount of disbelief.

The look he receives in return is dead serious.

….

and for a moment there’s only silence lazy and light.

“nope. no. no.”

Jason hesitates to turn on his heel and give his back to the ghost so he goes sideways instead. “I am done here. won’t indulge you any longer.”

The silence after is heavy.

And lasts only enough to remark the sound of soft sand paving away for boots to thump the ground. for the first time the kid is touching solid earth, Jason notes, and he does it with a solemn look on his face, glowing aura looking fainter.

“look, I’m just concerned.” kid’s voice tilts with a quiet echo that hadn’t been there before, “it’s never as simple as you make it out to be. one can’t die and come back without change. death on principle doesn’t just relinquish its hold for anyone. if you would just… let me explain.”

Kid sits down cross legged and waits. Seeing as Jason isn’t walking off he continues.

He doesn’t know why he stays.

“okay okay, so the thing is death loves change, right? embraces it as much as life does. it just doesn’t like to share it the same way,” kid smiles fondly at that, absently playing with the hem of his left glove. “So what happened to you was an exchange, those happen in the rare, very rare occasion life is willing to give wiggle room to chance a comeback token, on those death follows closely behind because like i said, she doesn’t like to share, she is gonna wanna try to take it away, and by that I mean all. the exchange is messy and chaotic—but it highly depends on circumstance— that is how violent and traumatic the death, frequency of the brushes with death if any, level of ambient ectoplasm around when alive—hell even the stability of reality plays a part on if and how many of you comes back. the amalgamation of factors is huge, believe me. it’s just to give you an idea. the point is they determine whether it’s total game over or not. and, and because death gets her chunk either way, she isn’t even mad if you do pass go and collect the money.”

Kid stops to scratch the back of his neck, dims his excitement a little and pauses. “I’m not losing you, am I? I’m—not the best at explaining, but what I am saying is that you did. You passed. you are alive. and dead. but that was what I was getting at earlier. You are a ghost, I mean maybe not as much as you are a human because your exchange feels like it ended up with more life than death in the mix but… you should have a ghost form. Haven’t you felt it? core, powers, the likes?“

The kid looks so earnest with a honestly genuine smile that Jason… wishes he could give him one back. wished him the kid wasn’t telling him he was still dead, making him run through his head and remember how broken he’s felt ever since he died.

Jason doesn’t want to be a ghost.

why had he come back at all if he was not complete?

He closes his eyes and tries to vanish those young glowing green eyes from his mind.

he wants to think.

It’s all green though, and he hates that color.

why did they have to be that color?

Jason shakes his head and ignores how he begins trembling.

it’s the pit color. the one he can’t feel and wants back.

grasping blindly and searching for it feels like a yawning empty space void that tells him there’s nothing over and over.

The ghost hums.

sounds optimistic even. “I’m saying it because you got them.”

yeah. power. potential. or whatever the ghost was selling. he got it but couldn’t reach it.

it was all the same.

there.

but only if little Jay puts efforts in. really wants it. just had to work harder. just be enough.

“You just gotta put from your part, I’ll help you.”

Jason stares at the outstretched gloved hand.

He doesn’t take it.

#jason todd #dp x dc #batman #danny fenton #league of assassins