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isaacathom · 1 year

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had a dream about turning blood into gold

In the past, there was a kingdom which sprang up along a powerful river, which fed into a waterfall that filled the valley. Over the course of many years, the kingdom constructed a massive damn to slow the waterfall, making the valley into viable land to expand into.

Years later, when the old waterfall is a distant memory, a prince falls for the castle alchemist. She's been researching, as all alchemists are want, how to turn various compounds into gold. This intrigues the prince, and the two work together. She scours the old tomes, and he uses his connections to acquire more from across the land, and to query other powerful alchemists.

In a moment of fervour, she figures it out. In the dream its not quite specified what her method is, but it involves a religious revelation on her part - possibly a gift from a higher power. When she cuts her palm, it is not blood that flows, but gold.

She informs the prince, now king, about her success. She brings him into this small growing cult, blessing his conversion to the faith using the water of the riverfall and including both of their bloods in the flow.

With this power, the kingdom grows incredibly wealthy, with the king selectively inducting various trusted warriors and advisors into the cult. At some point, he has the alchemist killed - its unclear why, either being because she had become disillusioned with using the life of people to create wealth, or because she was working on a way to convert gold into blood. He grieves, and he keeps his gold circle small.

For a time, there is a confused peace under him and his successors. The power is used sparingly, blood taken voluntarily or only from those who are doomed to die. But that is a narrow line to walk - how far is too far?

When one of the kings is killed in an accident, his cousin takes the throne. He lacks the restraint of his forebears, and under him the faith spreads like fire. Prisoners are killed for the wealth in their veins, and the world looks to the waterfall with fear.

War comes to the kingdom. The castle at the edge of the falls is sieged. In the chaos, the king is slain by a young warrior, and the dam is destroyed. The building, much of the surrounding city, all of it falls into the raging flow of a waterfall long contained, and the valley is flooded.

The kingdom fades into myth as its people scatter. The old magic dies with its king.

Except that the creatures that live around the valley lake seem to become riddled with iron and gold growths that writhe through their veins, making them difficult to kill. The valley is utterly deserted as these monsters spread. It's cursed, they say. The water is full of sickness and death.

In the future, groups have arisen to contain the creatures and protect the towns and cities. Many of these operate under the umbrella of a single corporation, who brands itself an explorer of science. As its employees battle the beasts of gold and iron, they seek to reverse engineer this contagion, and use it to empower their own soldiers. Each experiment performed results in the death of the volunteer - though, are they all volunteers?

Out in the wastes, by the lake, a man is found. He has no idea where he has come from, or who he is. He is taken in by one of the wandering groups, and when they are ambushed by gold beasts, he proves himself a reasonably adept fighter.

He is brought to the corporation headquarters. A scientist talks to him about their purpose, their plans, their goals. He suggests himself as a candidate for an experiment, much to the scientist's surprise. Does he really understand what he's getting himself into? He has seen the beasts by the lakeside and the damage they have done, the scars writ large on the landscape and her people. Why not try?

He is taken to the glistening facility on the hill, bade farewell by the soldier who had accompanied him this whole way. On the table, he is placed in a cast, and a compound is pumped into the space between. The pain is excruciating as the liquid seeps into his skin, and the screams echo familiarly through the hall. The scientists adjust their ear muffs and focus on the numbers, on the machines, and the technique.

The liquid is drained, and the cast cracked. A scientist clad in protective gear approaches, and helps the man to sit. He white knuckles the edge of the table, face contorted into a grimace. But he does not fall.

A scientist compares results to previous experiments.

Slowly, the man is coaxed into standing. He wavers, a hand to his head. The chief scientist relays commands, flatly, hardly observing proceedings - each has been the same.

He performs the small tasks asked of him - taking steps, sitting back down, stretching out his arm. Until, abruptly, he slumps back against the table. There's an audible sigh of disappointment from the arrayed scientists, and someone prepares to mark him down as a failure.

The scientist at his side speaks.

He is not dead. He is asleep.

There is a rush of activity as a disused medical procedure is enacted to take the man to somewhere comfortable under supervision.

They've done it

#dream blogging #story blogging #i extrapolated a lot of shit. yknow how dreams are #the whole concept revolved around the idea of converting the *iron* in blood into gold #yknow. like alchemy?#its not particular mysterious when presented in this order but as a story itd obviously be in reverse #you wouldnt know about the old kings and the sin of alchemy before you meet the mysterious man lmao #my sense is that the resolution would have been that the man would find some way to convert gold to blood #which would undo the curse? i guess? and almost certainly result in his death.#so if i were to edit id probably make that the original plan of the original alchemist. in the dream it was unspecified #bc yknow. dreams are hella nonlinear. shits weird. i really liked this one though. it has a cool thing going on #yknow that whole gold repair stuff? got vibes of that going on visually. very hsk. very phospholyte

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mypoisonedvine · 3 months

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81:"just come to dinner with me. it doesn't have to be weird." 89:"keep the lights on, I want to see you." 88:"kiss me like you mean it." With Jack Whiskey or maxwell Lord.

Hope your having a lovley day<3

-❄

I know he's not everybody's favorite but I want a sugar daddy maxwell fic sooo bad! to make it fair I decided to take some liberties with his look lmao

length: 2.5k (no clue how that happened...)

warnings: smut (18+ ONLY), oral f receiving, sugar daddy relationship, alcohol consumption, possessiveness <3

You’d never done anything like this before— you made that perfectly clear to him, to the point that you wondered if it would scare him off. But it didn’t, which was equal parts comforting and concerning.

However, even with all your complex emotions towards the idea, you agreed to it. Just come to dinner with me, he’d told you, it doesn’t have to be weird. Nothing has to happen— it’s just dinner, no expectations.

That relieved you enough to get you to go out with him. He’s not expecting anything, you promised yourself, it’s just dinner. Nothing has to happen.

But you still put on your nicest lingerie under your dress… just in case.

The whole thing made you feel out of place, honestly: you’d never been to a restaurant this nice, you’d never worn a designer gown before (let alone one that someone had picked out and sent to you for your first date), you’d never been picked up by a private driver—you didn’t even know what to do when you got to the restaurant, so you were a bit relieved (if certainly surprised) when you walked in and they seemed to already know you.

The host greeted you by name, took your coat, and informed you that Mr. Lord is already waiting for you at his usual table. That made you wonder if a girl like you was his usual guest.

Your heart picked up its pace when you saw him from across the restaurant; he looked like he fit right in, with his hair slicked back in a black tux. He looked so natural like that, you couldn’t even imagine him without a tux. (Well, you could, but you were trying not to.)

But, your heart didn’t really start racing until he saw you. His eyes lit up, and a tilted smile filled his face as he stood to greet you.

“Don’t you look gorgeous!” he purred, leaning in to kiss your cheek as you approached— even that caught you off-guard, but you realized it wasn’t meant to be especially flirtatious, it was just one of those rich people greetings. Then again, the arm that reached around you so his hand could rest momentarily on your lower back felt a bit more than friendly. “You like the dress?”

“Y-yes, thank you,” you smiled nervously as you looked down at the floor-length black gown again, “it’s beautiful. And more comfortable than it looks.”

He laughed a bit, squeezing your arm briefly before gesturing for you to take your seat. One waiter was already pouring your water and another was draping a white napkin over your lap and pushing in your seat; “White or red, miss?” the one pouring drinks asked.

“O-oh, um—” you began, but Maxwell interrupted.

“Why don’t you bring her a glass of the ’61 Chateau Haut-Brion?” he suggested. “To go with mine.”

“Of course, sir,” the waiter nodded, and soon him and his fellow servers departed.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Maxwell addressed you again, “the house wines are fine— but I think you’ll like this one, it’s excellent.”

“Oh, I trust you,” you smiled, “you know a lot more about all this than me.”

“Try not to feel too intimidated,” he assured, “almost everyone here is worrying just as much as you about looking like they belong—probably even more than you are. The only difference is, you actually have enough beauty to not be outshined by a place like this.”

A little uncomfortable with the compliment, you looked around the modern space— so much glass and crystal sparkling under pleasantly-dim lights, with a view out over the ocean just outside the window you’d been seated against. It was sleek and ornate all at once. “It really is a lovely place, thank you for taking me here,” you announced.

“Oh, I come here all the time— more than I should,” he laughed. “I’ll warn you now, you might become addicted once you get a taste.”

A brief moment passed before he quirked a brow.

“Of the food, I mean,” he winked, and you giggled a bit.

“Right— should I, um, look at a menu?” you wondered.

“It’s actually a set course tonight,” he explained, “I hope you don’t mind. Honestly, I prefer not having to think about it— and the chef here never misses. He’s a good friend, actually.”

“I get the feeling you’re good friends with a lot of people,” you observed, and he gave you a knowing smile.

“Should I be offended?” he asked.

“No,” you laughed, “but you seem like you’re always getting in places, always getting special treatment or private access— ‘cause the theater owner is a good friend, the executive producer is a good friend…”

“You make me sound much more popular than I am,” he shrugged.

The waiter returned with a bottle in hand, showing the label to you and Maxwell. “The Chateau Haut-Brion you requested, Mr. Lord?”

“Fabulous, thank you,” Maxwell smiled as the waiter uncorked the bottle and poured glasses for you both.

“The first course will be out shortly,” the man explained before he departed; you reached for your glass, about to take a sip, but your date raised his own.

“A toast,” he suggested, making you stop pulling your glass closer and holding it up in anticipation instead, “to… new friends.”

You smiled and clinked your glass against his.

You tried not to look too starstruck as you looked around the penthouse apartment, but it was hard to hide your awe at all the fine art on the walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittery city below, the vintage and baroque furniture…

“I haven’t been here in a few weeks,” he explained as he sauntered inside after letting you in, “forgive me if it looks a little barren— I’ve been in my home in California for some time to manage my work there, I only visit my apartments occasionally—”

“You have more than one?!” you realized, unable to suppress the urge to gawk, and he smiled as you looked back over your shoulder at him.

“I have quite a few properties, yes,” he nodded. “Miami, Berlin, Hong Kong— all of these, of course, would be available to you whenever you’d like to visit, if you were to…”

He trailed off, approaching you as his eyes darkened a bit. “If I was to…?” you prompted.

You shivered slightly when he reached up to run his fingers gently along the curve of your jaw. “If you were to accept my offer.”

You swallowed, turning to face him properly, and sighed when his other hand came to rest on your waist. “A-and, if I was to…” you trailed off, apparently still not proud enough to say it, “would there be… anyone else?”

“No,” he shook his head, “not for either of us. That’s not what I want.”

He’d explained to you before, in a few different ways, what he did want. He’d explained that he enjoyed ‘dating’ this way because it took out the guesswork, because he was too busy for a traditional relationship. He needed a partner who could work around his complex schedule— and to soften the blow, he would send gifts to fill the time while he was gone. All he really asked was that you stay ready and waiting for him to return— or even to be ready to drop everything and hop on a private jet to come see him wherever he was when he needed you most.

The look in his eyes certainly showed that he needed you now. You knew that if you told him you didn’t want this— or even just that you didn’t want anything to happen tonight— he would be polite and sweet and have a car take you home. But you also got the feeling that if you said any of that, he would see right through it.

You wanted this too. It was sort of obvious, especially as your hands snaked up his chest over the fabric of his tux, resting on his shoulders as you looked up at him expectantly.

“Why don’t you tell me what you want, beautiful?” he suggested in a low voice.

“I… I want,” you began hesitantly, having to look away to find the courage to say it, “I want you to tell me what to do.”

He smiled a bit, lifting your chin and guiding you to look up at him again. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

You felt strange about that wording— like he thought you didn’t genuinely want this and just tolerated it in exchange for the money. Which wasn’t true, but then again, it is hard to turn a man down when you’re wearing the thousand-dollar dress he bought for you.

And, of course, you kissed him. You wove your fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, shutting your eyes and sighing as he tightened his grip on your waist; he wrapped you up in his arms, slowly and gently, and hummed lowly against your lips. There was something about it that was different from every other first kiss you’d had (or possibly every other kiss you’d ever had) but you completely lacked the words to describe it. Maybe it was how careful he was with you, how oddly patient; or maybe it was how quickly you found yourself wanting more.

You opened your mouth slightly, letting him delve deeper with his tongue, though he wasn’t too aggressive about it at first. It was still sweet and slow, and you relaxed further as you pressed your body to his.

He broke away sooner than you wanted him to, and you watched his eyes scan over your face before they drifted to your shoulder— where his hand was tracing over the strap of your dress, teasing that he might slide it down at any moment. You found yourself wishing he would, but instead he brought his eyes back to your own.

“Would you mind if I showed you the bedroom?” he suggested.

“Not at all,” you breathed.

You didn’t get a very thorough tour, not when you were stumbling backwards through the door as his hands ran all over you. He quickly flipped on the light switch as he walked past it, only for you to reach and turn it off again. He smiled playfully at you as he broke his lips away. “Now, darling, how am I supposed to show you the bedroom in the dark?” he mused.

“You can show me after,” you sighed, trying to tug him by the jacket into another kiss, but he resisted with a smug grin.

“After,” he repeated with a low, rich voice that seemed to wash right over you. “But what we’re about to do, I don’t want to do in the dark, either— you’re much more exciting to look at than some boring old bedroom that’s been on the cover of Architectural Digest…”

You laughed a little, but he bit his lip as he pulled you closer to him.

“Keep the lights on,” he pleaded— or maybe demanded, “I want to see you.”

You flipped the lights back on, and he almost turned that designer gown to shreds getting it off you.

He growled as he got a glimpse of your lingerie, and you bit your lip through a smile when he met your gaze again. “Oh, angel— you’ll spoil me.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you, making you gasp slightly as he delicately ran his fingers along the lacy hem of your panties.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he sighed, “I need to taste you.”

“Fuck,” you mumbled, “o-okay, whatever you want.”

Looking up at you, he shot you a glittering smile. “Get used to saying that, beautiful.”

You shuddered, just as he pulled the panties down and dove between your legs.

You felt a bit undignified with him burying his mouth against you while you were standing up; your knees wobbled and he grabbed onto your hips to help keep your balance, sliding his tongue out between your lips.

“Fuck!” you gasped, reaching down and grabbing a handful of his hair greedily. He moaned against you, shutting his eyes tighter, lapping at you eagerly. He pulled away far too soon, and you whimpered before he beamed up at you with slick lips.

“Get on the bed,” he demanded.

You didn’t need a tour of the room to find that: you stepped out of your panties and fell back onto it, smiling at him as he quickly slipped off his jacket and climbed up over you with an insatiable look on his face, his dark hair broken out of its style by your touch and dangling down around his face.

“Take this off,” he instructed, running a finger over your bra as he balanced himself to hover over you.

You sat up enough to reach behind your back, unfastening the garment and shimmying out of it to toss aside onto the floor.

His gaze raked over you lasciviously. “Forgive me,” he breathed, “if I can’t find the heart to take my time with you like I imagined.”

You felt your heart skip, just before he descended and kissed you again, the tangy taste of your own arousal making you moan in the back of your throat. The kiss was filthier and needier than ever, and quickly moved down to your neck; your back arched up off the satin sheets as his tongue traced your pulse.

“I could spend all night,” he panted between heady kisses, “tasting you everywhere.”

“God,” you whimpered, “I won’t stop you.”

“And what if I want to spend the whole night inside you?” he challenged further, making you whine and stir under him. He pressed his weight down on you as you slowly spread your legs; you felt suddenly aware of him still being almost entirely dressed while you were stripped to nothing, and it somehow only made you more desperate for him.

“Please,” you begged, feeling his teeth scrape your neck as his hips rocked against yours. You gasped feeling how hard he was, and it turned into a proper moan as one of his hands groped roughly at your chest. “Fuck, Max—”

“When you say my name like that, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to control myself,” he growled, pulling back to look down at you.

“Then don’t,” you offered with a smirk.

“Just promise me one thing,” he began, surprising you with the change of his tone. “If we do this… you’re mine.”

Your throat caught on nothing.

“If you can’t handle that, I understand,” he mitigated, “but I can’t pretend that I feel any differently— I need you, all to myself. I need to know that you belong to me.”

You found yourself nodding before you even really thought it through. “I’m yours,” you promised as you clutched desperately at his shirt, making him smile proudly. “Fuck, I’m all yours.”

He kissed you—not as ruthless as the last one, but still plenty passionate. This time, you were completely sure you’d never been kissed like this.

“I want you to say that,” he purred against your lips, “every time I make you come.”

#maxwell lord x reader #maxwell lord smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut

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