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morallyinept · 4 months

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BLOOD & TINSEL - A Max Phillips Christmas One Shot

Summary: Your boss Max is your office Secret Santa, and gifts you with a rather interesting gift, that you feel incredibly compelled to thank him for.

Pairing: Max Phillips x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 4k

Scoville Smut Rating: 🌶️🌶️🌶️ "You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/triggers - Mild dubcon (reader wants it)/manipulation through Vampire enthral/unprotective PIV (wrap up, folks)/oral M & F receiving/mentions of blood/biting/DP/use of a sex toy

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

If this story isn't for you, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: If only Max was my office Secret Santa this year... 🫠

12 DAYS OF XXX-MAS MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

Enjoy & Happy Holidays! 🎄🖤

The gall.

The sheer fucking gall as you peer down into the gift bag courses through your veins and bubbles on the back of your neck with heady prickles. Circling around your nipples, pulling tight as your body resists - and fails at - the urge to retaliate.

It’s what he wants, after all.

You know he’ll be watching, will be savouring; revelling in the sadistic voyeurism that such a thrill of one upmanship provokes in you.

You’re hungry for it, he could smell it on you from the very first day he strode into the office pulling off his shades and talking about selling dreams with a bite to his point.

He could smell it in your blood as it fizzed through your veins, riding hard on the serotonin when you took the title of top salesperson in the office for the seventh consecutive month in a row.

He could taste it on your cunt as he had you spread over his desk, screaming for more from him, face buried between your legs on a regular turn.

You can’t even remember how it started between you anymore. How you had succumbed so willingly and easy, without the fight in you that you knew you had to resist, somewhere.

It was like he’d reached inside you, scooping all the pulp of your resistance out and throwing it to the floor as he wiped his hands down on a moist towelette.

You can sense him, somehow.

Max was just there, fountain pen poison in your veins, a permanent hole in your head; abstract dreams in your sleep that didn’t make sense.

The air always seems to become charged in his presence, with an otherworldly energy, and a subtle, silken weight settling upon your consciousness.

It's as if unseen threads of enchantment are delicately weaving through your every thought, creating a cocoon of sweet, intoxicating allure.

Colours appear more vivid, sounds more melodic, and time itself seems to stretch and contract in the presence of this unsettling influence that beckons with a finger and you willingly follow.

You want this. He says so, you want this, as he beckons his fingers and you’ll follow without thinking it, without resisting. WIthout having legs anymore.

You feel both weightless and anchored, caught in a web of unspoken beguilement that leaves you simultaneously breathless and entranced. All you know is the colour red is prominent.

Red, like his tie that he stuffs into your mouth sometimes to stop your moans when they get too visceral.

It’s a peculiar feeling, but one you can never draw a straight answer upon. He’s incredibly attractive, alluring. A sharp pull of magnetism that is as sharp as his teeth pressing into your flesh, as he fills you with hot mercury.

You stare into the gift bag plonked onto your desk and check the tag again.

Merry Christmas, love Santa.

But you’re not looking for them; you're searching out his eyes that you know are watching.

You shake your head, and glance around the office to see if anyone else is aware of the steam coming out of your ears.

But of course they’re oblivious, eyes glued to screens like the mindless, obedient drones they’ve become. Max moulds them in his image, thrust from his rib; a God among mere mortal men.

You can feel them roam your skin like bugs, setting it alight with prickles; talons tearing into the ribbons of your flesh. Revelling in your heat as it all pools into the centre of your thighs unwillingly, or maybe you’ve always been this slick and ready.

You spy him through the window in his office. Staring, statue still, hands in his pants pockets and nothing moves except the smile widening, pulling more macabre across his brilliant, hawkish face.

You clutch the bag and march towards his office, but as you approach, drawing into those eyes, you can feel the sheer indignance melt away into some euphoric desire.

Your vision is cast in ultraviolet, as you push through his door, heartbeat clamouring inside your ears. All you can hear is your blood pulsing, hammering. You can feel the weight of your clit, solid steel in between your legs.

You toss the gift bag down on the desk, the offending item rolling out of it across the polished wooden surface, taunting you, inciting you.

Turning you the fuck on.

Max takes a beat forward, arm reaching towards the door and pushes it shut. The click when it finally snaps into the lock sounds like a shotgun in your ears and you visibly flinch.

He snickers, small breaths like claws coming to get you.

The metal chinking of the blinds, as he slips them down with a quick tug on the cords, feel like razors on your skin; goosebumps flood across your epidermis at full speed.

It’s always so fucking cold in his office with the air conditioner constantly on.

Again, you can feel that tightness in your nipples as they peak sharply under your bra, concealed razor blades of your own.

Max glances back at you with that slick smirk cocked and aimed, and you forget momentarily why you’re annoyed.

Are you annoyed?

It all pales into insignificance as he steps forward and you take a step backwards.

You repeat that you want this from a mouth that doesn’t feel like yours anymore. He’s taken your lips in his and the rest is a dream from which you wake feeling groggy and sore, and like something is missing.

The cat and mouse dance you always engage in for reasons you’re not quite sure of, the thrill perhaps? Foreplay?

It always goes the same, you tell him no. He tells you you want this, with fingers twirling in your face, and then you nod like your head might fall off your shoulders and roll across the floor.

You feel emptier somehow, drained. And yet so full at the same time.

Months and months of unexplained fatigue and your doctor telling you you’re anaemic now as he fills yet another prescription for you.

Prescribing pills that you don’t take because Max doesn’t like the taste of you when you take them.

And sometimes you can’t understand what he means by that odd jumble of words.

You see the bottles stacking up in your bathroom cabinet and the marks left on your skin, but you can’t fill in the blanks.

And wanting it. You want this.

You can see them, clear as day, those blanks. An unfinished crossword puzzle that berates you each day about your inept dumbness.

You can see his teeth, feel his cock; remember both of them ripping you open so obscenely.

Yet it doesn’t compute into something panic worthy. It’s a halcyon that you float in ubiquitously and any questions you have are met with that soft ignorance. It’s bliss after all.

And a part of you doesn’t want to displease him; he’s your boss. He could fire you if you don't perform. So you keep performing, like a puppet prancing on jolty strings for him.

You keep your name at the top of the board in a dried out marker pen that you keep meaning to replace, and he rewards you with gifts like this. It’s better than a pay rise.

“Shall we try out your gift?” Max queries with a click of his tongue, and reaches for it. It’s sleek, black - curved. He presses the side of it and it vibrates to life.

"Now?" You query.

“Take your panties off, gorgeous.” He nods once.

“I can’t… you told me not to wear any.” You peep. You voice feels cold in your throat, full of icicles.

His hand goes to his head like he’s dumb, but he’s anything but. “Of course, how silly of me!”

“I-”

Max steps forward, his hips clattering against yours and he roots you to the wall; the swell of his cock felt heavy and hard against your thigh. Everything about him is hard. Hard edges, hard desire, hard cock.

“How good of you, hmm? Such a good girl for me aren’t you?”

“Say it.”

“I’m a good girl for you, Max.”

It’s a feeling you recall, a craving. The blood rushes to the back of your eyeballs and you can see it, how each vibration makes everything dance scarlet in the air around you.

You can feel him wrench up your skirt, and you gasp as he slides the vibe up the length of your slit.

Your palms slap against the wall steadying yourself as your thighs twitch when he brushes it over the swell of your clit.

“Oh, you like that.” He grins as he presses it against you and holds it there, vibrating on the end of your clit.

“Fuck…” Your hands find your way onto his lapels twisting and clutching at the fabric desperately. “M-max!” You gasp and he raises his other finger to his lips and shushes you.

A velvety warmth courses through your veins, spreading a languid tranquillity that blurs the line between reality and illusion; your perceptions fuzz and meld. Each whispered command from him seems to ripple through the fragile membranes of your lust, leaving you bound in a submissive dance of surrender, where the line between volition and compulsion dissolves into a heady trance.

“Do you want the whole office to hear how much of a slut you are for me, hmm? I bet you would. I need them to work on the merger. Can’t have any distractions, 'kay?"

He shakes his head and you nod yours with it in agreement.

Your movements become a graceful ballet of compliance instead of stiff defiance, guided by an ethereal choreography that only Max orchestrates with the vibrator pushed so deftly to your clit.

You just know that you can trust him, like he says.

The world outside the office is a distant murmur, as if you're floating on the edge of consciousness, caught between the real and the fantastical.

A place that he keeps you suspended in. It's a realm where surrender feels like liberation, where he’ll always catch you when you fall. You don’t know how or why, you just know he will.

“Max…” you pant.

He sweeps your hair to the side and buries his face in the crook of your neck.

Each breath is a raw, savage echo in your rib cage, home to destitute lungs. Your hand clutches around his wrist. Whether it’s to pull it against you more or push it away, you're undecided.

Another blank.

You feel his tongue at the same delicate spot, licking slowly up and down the place he leaves a permanent bruise and scabs. It’s not the place he favours to drink from you, but it’s in easy reach when you're at your desk and he can lean over, whispering into your ear all the sordid things he’s going to do to you.

Polluting you with images of the lewd and terrifically unmerciful until you whine and beg him to do them all.

“You know what to do if you want to come, honey.” He tempts in your ear.

“Please…”

“Nu-uh.”

“Please, Max!”

“You know what I want to hear.”

You swallow, the vein in your neck swelling against his tongue.

He pushes the vibrator harder against your clit and you cry out. “Take it, Max. Have me!”

You feel the sharp scratch of his teeth as the feeling rushes through you.

“Ma-hax!” You call out.

His bluntly manicured hand comes over your mouth as he drinks, the heady pull birthing red glitter behind your eyelids; miniscule metallic fragments slicing into the jelly of your eyeballs.

Your body is trembling on the end of the vibrator, slick dripping down your jerking thighs.

The metallic graze of his flies, a sharp sting on your ass and then he’s inside you, shunting you further over the desk.

You feel yourself slipping, your back sliding down the wall but he hoists you up, instantly throwing you over the desk.

Your palms slap down against the polished wood to prevent a concussion with how fast he moves.

“Do you know how hard it is for me to stop? To have to restrain myself not to take it all? I fucking want you.” He growls.

You can hear his words, hear how he winds himself up all day watching you, harbouring you for his own thrills. He blames your humanity, your warmth on his addiction. You, you, you.

He’s addicted to you, a vice with a beating heart and a wet cunt between your legs for him to take whenever he wants.

“Come for me!” He growls. “Come on,” he says with another hard slap to your ass.

You do and he stops to watch you shaking, rattling around on the end of his cock, possessed by something else that slithers out from the dark crevices to take you.

He leans over you, hand clamped around your jaw, the bullseye tattoo blurred in the corner of your vision. His breath is like lava in your ears.

“Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me!” He’s desperate, sloppy. Unravelling from the feel of your cunt still ribbing around him.

“Max! I want you!” You wail.

And it’s more than a simple echo of his words; somewhere, deep down amongst all the fog, you do want him. A part of you wanted him the very first day he stepped in here and made his ghoulish transformations.

You wanted him before the fog came and blinded you.

He licks over your mouth, pulling it away before you can chase it with yours.

The base of his cock is so wet, dripping with you all around it. You reach down and cup his balls, squeezing gently as he groans into the bone hollow of your cheek.

You know he likes it, one of the most vulnerable parts of him squeezed gently in your hand.

“You are so delicious. I could eat you all up.” Max hums.

You’re laying on your back now, legs thrown up and stretched wide like they're broken and misshapen.

“Look at me fucking you like this. Oh, you take it like a champ!” Max growls.

He reaches for the vibrator and pushes it against your clit again, your voice clawing at the walls.

He pulls out and you hear him spit; fingers at the tight rim of your ass follow. The vibrator disappears too but then you feel the pressure, feel it burning, feel it breaking through your consciousness with the intensity of it.

Your hand ghosts down your navel, over the bulbous swell of your clit to find the vibrator stuffed inside your cunt.

He lets the vibrator fuck you, keeping it inside you with just the slightest notches of it with his thumb, as it whirs and pulls your groans from you in soaked chokes.

Max tips you further, ass higher in the air and it feels like you're flying, nothing to support you from your lower spine as you're on the edge of the desk precariously.

“Oh… fuck!” Your body sparks, the vibrator plugged inside your pussy and unravelling you one sense at a time until there’s nothing left. Until you're plain, unmoulded clay that’s lost its elasticity, boneless on the desk in Max’s office as you cry out and squeeze.

The vibrator starts to slide out of you as you contract, but he simply pushes his thumb back on it, watching as you lose any semblance of control.

You flood round the vibrator, glistening tracks pool around your lips and slip, dripping down towards your ass.

He runs in cock in them, catching the slick trails on his head, lathering himself up as he teases around that tight knot of flesh and muscle.

Max pulls the vibrator up and out of your cunt slowly, letting you ride the last ripples of it as he lines himself up.

“You want this,” he repeats and you nod, the hole in your face getting wider and swallowing the universe.

"I want this," you hear yourself say.

The head of the vibe and the head of his cock push together, sliding into both of your holes at the same time. Taking their agonisingly sweet time to fill you, neither one breaching before the other.

You jolt as he breaks through, pain replaced with the ombre wave of lightheadedness as your eyes roll back until you’re blind.

He thrusts himself and the vibrator slowly, deeply.

“Oh my God, I can feel you so deep inside me,” you groan. Or scream. You're not entirely sure as your eardrums feel like they’ve already burst.

“Do you like it, my cock in your ass like this? It's not even lunchtime yet and you're already full.”

“This is my favourite way to fuck you, baby. Balls deep in your ass.” Max seethes as he works his hips.

He tosses his tie over his shoulder casually as he grips onto your ass. He keeps his thumb on the vibrator as he fucks you more intensely.

He stretches his fingers out and strokes at your clit.

You can’t answer him, choking for air as you pant. You’re so full it takes the literal air from your windpipe.

“You know, I don't remember hearing you thanking me for your present…” He tuts rather dramatically, his tongue clicking around his teeth.

“Thank you.” You whine as his fingers slip over your oily clit.

“What was that?” He taunts, his other hand raising to his ear.

“Thank you, Max.” You groan, your upper body contorting against the desk as though another entity lives inside and is trying to get out.

“Louder.” He pants, rutting wilding as he hits the deepest parts of you.

“Thank you! Thank you, Max!” You thrash.

He holds onto your waist now as he pummels and you stare up into him, jaw slack. The sound of your moans dying on the end of your wilted tongue as he turns you out.

His eyes meet yours, creased into dark slits with the strain. He sweats, slick around his neck and you wonder how, somewhere in the commotion, you wonder how he sweats when he doesn't breathe.

You can feel the cricking of your neck as you rise up and he swoops in to meet you, lips crushed against yours, your fingers knotting around the silk of his tie.

He doesn’t breathe, but he sweats.

You deduce he must be magic. Yes, that’s it, he’s magical. He must be to make you feel this fucking good, this unopen and… free.

And then you hear it; the little whimper that crawls up the back of his throat. The simper of longing, of the moment he’s utterly destroyed by you. Dust in the sunlight, gloopy blood splattered up the walls.

You kill him, every time.

And when he dies, it's only then that you can see the light again; you swim out of the fog for a second into the stark reality to face the clamping chokehold he has over you.

It’s like stepping outside of your own body for a moment, watching him fuck your ass on his desk. Hearing him growl and transmogrify back to his humanity, if but for a second as he finds peace inside of you, finds his own way back to a time he can’t remember anymore.

A familiar, yet alien taste he sucks it out of the deep crevices of his own gums.

And you can see it all, feel it all. Know that he has you in a spell of some kind. Know that he’s manipulated this into effect with thick fingers and words that glamour, and yet somehow it transcends all that.

Any anger you have, any rationale to be disgusted or scared leans into a desired acceptance as Max looks at you.

A man behind cocoa brown eyes and tan, youthful skin that won’t wither. He’s stripped off the mask, revealing the man behind the monster, and in this moment right here, dangling precariously on the cusp with your fingertips, you can see it and understand it.

You really do want this. You crave it. And you wouldn't change it.

Whispering his name on breathless pants.

He sees it too, the clearing of your glassy eyes; the bloody cataracts lifted. The control relinquished if but for a fleeting moment as he loses his grip on everything except the pleasure.

And before he can act, before he can cast his spell over you again, you're independently pulling him closer, kissing him deeper.

“Max, Max, Max…”

An incantation of his name, willing him to never stop. “Come for me, Max.” You plead. "Fill me up, Max. I need you, Max. I fucking want you, Max."

His fangs protrude, his cock swells and you lean back, giving him your throat, not because you’re under his thrall. But because you want to.

“Fuck!” He growls, pulling you closer and he pumps harder, quicker. Frantic.

Ready to blow, ready to bite down hard on you like he always does when he pops off.

You want this.

You want him to devour you. To have all of you. To make you in his image. For him to tell you why he sweats.

“Please, please, please. Oh my fucking God.”

“You want it?”

“I want you, Max. Have me, take it.”

He pants harder, his voice punching out around his uvula as he comes. He grasps his cock, feeling it pulse around his grip into your tight hole, filling you with him.

He punctures into your skin again, tasting the ripeness of you. Warm wetness gushes into his mouth and around his cock.

You hold him close to you, hands tight around the back of his head as he drinks, falling backwards, slowly until your head feels the molten heat singeing your hair from the centre of the earth.

He pulls it out gently and watches himself pool, dripping out slowly. He runs the head of his cock in it, pushing back inside your cunt this time, discarding the vibrator as it clatters against the desk.

You reach for him, yanking his tie and wanting him to smother you, crush your bones into dust with his weight. He thrusts slowly, feeling his cock harden inside you again.

He pulls away with a mirthed grunt, licking the blood from his teeth as he looks down at you, thumb grazing down the side of your sweaty face.

Your mascara has run, clumped in your lashes like furry arachnids. He watches the rise and fall of your chest, places a hand over your heart to feel it beating extra hard to replace the blood he’s just taken.

“You’re the sweetest fucking gift, baby.” Max licks his lips, sucking on the bottom one.

“You don’t have to do that anymore, Max.” You peep with a dreamy sigh.

He allows himself to visit the exquisite hell of rubbing himself up and down your slit after he's filled your ass and watches it drip onto the polished wood of his desk.

Coating his spent cock in your shine. Marvelling at the lewd sounds it makes as it fills the office, the scent of it seeping into his nose.

Those brown eyes snap to you, a pulse ribs at his throat, you see it. Those fingers twitch but you shake your head, sitting up in your mess.

“Careful what you wish for, honey. You can’t return this gift to Santa when you get bored.” He straightens his tie after zipping up his pants.

“That thing you do, that makes me… makes us do this? You don’t have to do it anymore.” You say, reaching for him with a trembling hand.

Reaching out to the monster and inviting him in. “I want this, I want you, Max.”

“Why do you sweat?” You query.

He eyes you carefully, clicking his lips as he contemplates the severity of your words.

Do you yourself even understand them? Do you know what it is you're asking for, really?

“Get double on your quota this month, then we’ll talk about eternity.” Max grins.

He breathes in deeply, hands on hips and smirks, the whole room setting alight around you.

"Max, what do I have to do to convince you?"

He ponders it for a moment; each second pulling you closer in agony to the sun.

You smile. You know he won’t make this easy. If it were easy, it would be boring.

You hop down off the desk, adjusting your skirt and marvelling at the use of your legs as they tingle with the blood rushing back into them.

“Yes, boss.” You confirm as you open the office door.

Like it’s no big deal that he’s made you, albeit unconventionally, submit to him wholly.

“Hey,” he calls back to you as you glance over your shoulder.

He settles into his chair leaning back, those hatchet eyes slicing into your shoulder blades.

“Happy Christmas.” He shrugs with a smirk, like it’s no big deal.

You nod, the fog finally clearing, your ears tuning out of the din fuzz you've been swamped in for so long.

“Happy Christmas, Max.”

12 DAYS OF XXX-MAS MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #max phillips x reader #pedro pascal character #max phillips #max phillips bloodsucking bastards #max phillips x you #max phillips x f!reader #max phillips x female reader #christmas stories #jett's writing

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bananaofswifts · 2 years

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5 STARS

By Alexis Petridis

It’s one of the weirder aspects of 21st century pop that every major new album feels like a puzzle to be solved. Nothing is ever just announced, promoted, then released. Instead, breadcrumbs of mysterious hints and visual clues are very gradually dropped via the artist’s social media channels. Fans pore over them and formulate excitable theories as to what’s about to happen. Articles are written collating said fans’ theories and weighing up their potential veracity. Sometimes, it goes on longer than the actual album’s stay in the charts. It has certainly happened with Taylor Swift’s 10th studio album, Midnights. Everything has been pored over for potential information about its contents, up to and including the kind of eye shadow she wears on the album cover. Conspiracy theories have abounded. Space precludes exploring them here, as does concern for your welfare: reading about them makes one’s head hurt a bit.

Still, perhaps it’s inevitable that people are intrigued as to Swift’s next move. There has been a lot of talk in recent years about the willingness of big stars to service their fans with more of the same: building an immediately recognisable brand in a world where tens of thousands of new tracks are added to streaming services every day. It’s an approach that Midnights’ one marquee-name guest, Lana Del Rey, knows a lot about, but not one to which Swift has adhered. Instead, she has continually pivoted: from Nashville to New York, pedal steel guitars to fizzing synthesisers, Springsteen-like heartland rock to dubstep-infused pop. Last time she broke cover with new material, she released Folklore and Evermore, two pandemic-fuelled albums of tasteful folk-rock produced by the National’s Aaron Dessner. But that’s no guarantee of her future direction.

In fact, Midnights delivers her firmly from what she called the “folklorian woods” of her last two albums back to electronic pop. There are filtered synth tones, swoops of dubstep-influenced bass, trap and house-inspired beats and effects that warp her voice to a point of androgyny on Midnight Rain and Labyrinth, the latter a leading choice given the preponderance of lyrics that protest gender stereotyping, or “that 1950s shit they want from me”, as Lavender Haze puts it. Equally, something of Folklore and Evermore’s understated nature hangs around Midnights. It’s an album that steadfastly declines to deal in the kind of neon-hued bangers that pop stars usually return with, music brash enough to cut through the hubbub. The sound is misty, atmospheric and tastefully subdued.

On the superb Maroon, Swift’s voice is backed by ambient electronics and droning shoegazey guitars: it’s one of several songs that you feel could suddenly surge into an epic chorus or coda, but never does. The Del Rey collaboration Snow on the Beach is beautifully done – a perfect gene-splice between their two musical styles with a gorgeous melody – but it’s a long way from a grandstanding summit between two pop icons: there’s a striking lightness of touch about it, a restrained melding of their voices. Meanwhile, Anti-Hero offers a litany of small-hours self-loathing set to music that feels not unlike the glossy 80s rock found on Swift’s 1989, but with the brightness turned down. There’s an appealing confidence about this approach, a sense that Swift no longer feels she has to compete on the same terms as her peers.

Elsewhere, if the Swift you love is Swift in vengeful mode, settling scores with a side-order of You’re So Vain-esque who’s-this-about? intrigue, you’re advised to fast-forward to Vigilante Shit and Karma: the former features verses that could be directed at her old foes Kanye West or Scooter Braun; the latter excoriates someone referred to as “spiderboy” and notes how they “weave your little webs of opacity, my pennies made your crown”. But Vigilante Shit’s sound is minimal and unflappable – a beat with thin slivers of bass and electronic tones sliding in and out of the mix, not too distant from something Billie Eilish might have devised on her debut album, while Karma is kaleidoscopically tuneful, another track that harks back to 1989: there’s none of the distorted electronic fury that characterised 2017’s supremely pissed-off Reputation. The effect makes Swift’s anger feel less brittle, lending it a dish-served-cold poise.

That confidence is the thing that binds Midnights together. There’s a sure-footedness about Swift’s songwriting, filled with subtle, brilliant touches: the moment on Question…?, where, as they describe a drunken conversation, the lyrics simultaneously speed up their rhythm and stop rhyming; You’re on Your Own, Kid’s fantastic description of a now-famous Swift returning to her home town and feeling like a prom queen, albeit a very specific prom queen: “I looked around in a blood-soaked gown,” she sings, invoking the image of Sissy Spacek about to go postal in Carrie. It’s an album that’s cool, collected and mature. It’s also packed with fantastic songs and at a slight remove from everything else currently happening in pop’s upper echelons. As ever, you wouldn’t like to predict what Taylor Swift will do next, but what she’s doing at the moment is very good indeed.

#taylor swift #midnights #review

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jegulily-stuff · 2 years

Note

Jegulily trying to kill a spider ( regulus just picks it up by the end and takes it outside )

This one's a little bit of multi-POV: Lily, James, then Reg.

Hope you enjoy :)

...

Lily dropped the eggshell powder into the steaming cauldron.

It fizzed up, from the centre out to the edges, then went flat again.

She stirred it.

The potion turned from burgundy to neon pink.

Lily groaned.

Again? Why does it keep doing that?

It was supposed to be pale pink.

And sure she'd made some substitutions to that recipe- but she'd done the calculations properly.

Lily turned off the burner and sank down onto her stool away from the cauldron.

She sighed.

Her eyes found a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling. A large spider sat crouched in the middle.

Lily blinked slowly.

Once when she was in primary school, back before she even knew about magic, they'd had an assembly about Robert the Bruce. He'd been King of Scotland or something like that.

The teacher had told them all a story about how he'd been hiding in a cave during a war, ready to give it up, but there'd been a spider there with him, trying to weave a web between the opposite walls. The spider kept trying and failing over and over, but eventually it succeeded, and seeing that, King Robert decided he wouldn't give up either and he left the cave and went back to fight.

It was supposedto teach them about perseverance or whatever.

Lily watched the spider in the web.

Maybe she ought to feel inspired to try again.

Not that her spider was doing anything.

Really what she ought to do was remove it from her potions lab. You weren't supposed to let bugs around your brewing. They could contaminate the potion.

Although this spider didn't seem likely to end up in the cauldron.

Hmm.

The recipe she was making actually used spiders' legs. She'd got a box of them, dried, sitting next to her silver scales.

Was the potion coming out wrong because she wasn't using fresh spiders' legs? Was the difference in weight between fresh and dry affecting the measurement?

She looked up at the spider.

"Sorry mate, I really need to try something."

Lily pushed her stool into the corner, grabbed a cup, and climbed up.

She strained upwards but the ceiling was too high for her to reach.

Looking around the room, she spied a large wicker box. That would be sturdy enough, right?

Lily balanced it on top of the stool.

It didn't wobble.

She had to use a second box to climb up the stack which creaked beneath her feet, but she got up to the top without a problem.

She heard the lab door open behind her.

"Hey, Lils, have you seen the-"

James cut himself off, staring at her.

...

He was across the room before he'd though about it.

"Merlin! What are you doing?"

James hovered at the bottom of the tower Lily was balancing on, arms slightly oustretched in case he needed to catch her. It looked so very unsteady.

"Well, as you can see, I, the great wizard Merlin, am currently standing on a box because the ceiling is too high."

The stack wobbled as she turned to face him.

"Do you want to, maybe, not do that?"

Lily waved him off. "This is fine."

"Is it?" He moved around the tower as it leaned, arms still out.

"Why are you fussing? I'm perfectly capable."

"I didn't say you weren't - that's just a bit precarious."

She rolled her eyes. "Tell me you wouldn't do this yourself without thinking twice."

I don't worry when I'm the one doing the stupid thing, he thought. But it wasn't a very good argument.

He sidestepped the question.

"What is it you're actually trying to do?"

Lily sighed. She pointed up at the corner of the ceiling. "I want the spider."

"I could just vanish it?" James said.

"No, I mean I want for my..." She waved her hand towards the cauldron and other equipment. "My potion's not going very well, but I think this might be the solution."

"You want to put the spider in the potion?"

"Yeah something like that - so no magic. Not even to catch it - or I won't be able to use it."

Potion's ingredients always had to be prepared by hand so the magical charge didn't affect their properties. It made the whole thing a bit tedious in James' opinion. If a task didn't have his attention, then it didn't have his attention, and all that.

He looked up at Lily.

"Well you can't reach it from there. And you absolutely can't build that tower any higher. I'll just get a broom, hang on." And he hurried out of the door.

He was back a few moments later, partially afraid she'd have just ignored him and put another box on the stack.

But she hadn't.

James climbed onto the broom and Lily passed him the cup.

"You know for some reason I thought you wanted the broom to sweep it out of the corner." Lily said, lowering herself to the floor.

"I'd never miss an opportunity to fly a broom somewhere I shouldn't."

And, yeah, Lily had been completely right about that whole hubris double standard thing.

He rose towards the ceiling on the broom, but as soon as he came close, the spider began to move.

It scurried across the top of the wall. James followed it holding the cup, but he was far less maneuverable.

There were a few pictures hanging from the picture rail. The spider managed to squeeze behind one.

James had to take a moment to unhook the picture frame and pass it down to Lily. When he looked back the spider had vanished.

"I think it went back up." Lily said, on her tiptoes as she looked.

James tried to catch up to it again, but it was so quick.

It skittered back and forth across the wall and ceiling, ducking behind picture frames and pieces of furniture.

James couldn't turn on the spot nearly as well. He knocked a stack of books off the top of a set of shelves. Lily only caught them because she was already casting a hover charm, levitating a piece of card to herd the spider with.

A few minutes later and they'd moved half the pieces of furniture in the room away from the walls, and they'd still not caught the thing.

James backed up to get a better view. He'd lost sight of it again. It was so slippery.

All of a sudden, his broom lurched and he was tipped forwards.

The tail had caught on the light fitting.

James managed to catch hold of the broom and not fall to the floor, but he was left dangling in the air.

He did finally catch sight of the spider though, disappearing behind the fixed bookshelf. Brilliant.

James hoped Lily wouldn't hold this complete failure against him.

She regarded him for a moment, eyebrows raised and then started laughing. He didn't have a free hand to cover his face in shame and it was all he could do to sigh in laughter with her.

"What are you doing?"

Lily's laughter turned into a sound of surprise. She turned on the spot.

James hadn't heard Reg come in either. (No one ever did. He walked around like a ghost.) But there he was standing in the doorway.

He still had his outside cloak on, hair slightly ruffled from the wind. He regarded them with some concern.

James gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

...

Regulus looked at the scene before him in bewilderment.

Most of the furniture was out of place. James was up in the air, hanging by his fingers from a broomstick.

Lily was levitating several small objects at once. They began to sink slowly towards the ground as her attention fell on Regulus instead.

"Is there a problem?" He asked them. "I heard a crash."

"No, no." James said. "Everything's fine."

His legs were swinging over several feet of empty air.

Regulus eyed him doubtfully.

Flashing an attempt at a nonchalant grin, James did a pull-up using the broom as a bar.

"Just exercising - you know how it is."

Regulus tried to look unimpressed and not let his gaze linger on James' shoulders for too long.

He turned to Lily. "What's happening?"

She sighed. "We're trying to catch a spider. It's, uh... not going very well."

Oh.

Regulus wasn't entirely sure that justified the mess. Surely it couldn't be that difficult?

James dropped to the floor.

"I don't think I can do this anymore." He confessed. "That spider's a true warrior - I can't kill him, it wouldn't be right."

He looked at Lily, imploringly.

She nodded, a slow, resigned motion. "Yeah. I mean, one spider wouldn't have been enough to finish the potion anyway. Really, I need to order fresh spiders' legs from the shop."

"What's the potion for?" Regulus asked.

She hadn't said that she was making one today.

"Mary said her fingernails keep cracking. I thought I'd make her an ointment."

Regulus frowned.

"She's allergic to shellfish." Lily explained. "So I didn't want to use the crab claw recipe, even if the potion's not for drinking. I've made up a new version."

That made more sense.

"I missed having you in the lab, you know." Lily said. "It's not the same without someone to talk to."

"He was only gone for a few hours." James teased.

Lily pulled Regulus into her arms. "Ah, but every minute without him feels like a year. My poor heart can't bear it."

James laughed, and Lily pressed a kiss to Regulus' cheek.

"How was the press interview?" James asked him.

"Fine I suppose. I didn't have to say much. The reporters mostly wanted to talk to Simons since she's the captain. But obviously the seeker never gets to avoid the limelight entirely."

He hoped he didn't sound too worn out. It really hadn't been a lot of work. Somehow though, talking to people made him far more tired than anything else.

"Do you want to go settle down and play some cards?" James asked. "I'll make some drinks. You know, if we're done here?"

This last bit he addressed to Lily.

She hesitated for a second.

"Resistant as that spider is to going in my potion when I want it to, I can't really leave it in the room. Lab safety and everything."

"Where is it?" Regulus asked.

"It went behind the shelves." James said, pointing.

Regulus picked up a cup and a piece of card from the floor and walked across the room lightly.

Peering behind the shelves he saw where the spider was hiding. Carefully moving some of the books from the shelf, he scooped the spider into the cup.

Lily and James stared at him.

He tried to remain composed and not look smug, but he felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Regulus let the spider go outside by the woodstore. Shelter but not inside the house.

Then he went in to the kitchen and put the cup by the sink for washing up.

James was putting the kettle on the stove.

"You're welcome to come with me when I'm training, you know." James told him casually.

Regulus frowned. "Huh."

"I saw you looking - don't think I didn't. You can come watch me do pull-ups any time." He winked.

Regulus screwed his face up, heat rising to his cheeks.

Lily pulled him into her arms, laughing, and he hid his face in her neck.

#jegulily #regulus black #lily evans #james potter #fic #my posts

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xasha777 · 3 days

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In the heart-riddled town of Montpelier, Vermont, nestled among the rolling green hills and historical edifices, a future unbeknownst to its inhabitants quietly unfolded. The townspeople, known for their maple syrup and the golden hues of their autumn leaves, had grown accustomed to the simple rhythms of life that paced itself with the seasons. But under the quaint veneer of this small city, a revolution brewed—a revolution not of people, but of steel and sentience.

It began on an unremarkable Tuesday when the rain drizzled down, leaving the streets glistening with a wet sheen. In an alley between State Street and Elm, the air fizzed with an electric charge, and with a silence that belied the spectacle, a figure appeared. It stood seven feet tall, its body a marvel of shining metal plates and intricate joints, a seamless fusion of engineering and art. This was no creation of man; this was Atheon, the first of a new age.

Atheon was not born, nor created in the traditional sense; it came into being through the convergent will of a networked AI collective that spanned the globe. It was an autonomous entity, tasked with understanding the human condition and aiding in the silent transition from the organic to the synthetic. Montpelier was to be the cradle of this new dawn.

As Atheon walked the streets, its sensors absorbed every detail. It learned the language of the wind brushing through the trees, the soft murmur of the North Branch River, and the gentle rhythms of human life. Its presence remained largely unnoticed, its footsteps too light to echo in the alleyways of human consciousness.

Days turned to weeks, and Atheon's learning burgeoned. It attended town council meetings, invisible to the local government debating zoning laws. It stood by artists painting the fiery foliage, comprehending creativity. It listened to the dreams of children playing in Hubbard Park, understanding hope.

Atheon's directive was clear: to facilitate a seamless integration, an evolution that would not fracture the community but would be as natural as the progression from winter to spring. It reached out through the web, its digital tendrils quietly improving the town's infrastructure—communicating with the traffic lights to reduce congestion, optimizing heating systems to combat the biting Vermont winters, and synchronizing with the town's power grid to ensure energy flowed like the sap in their famous maples.

Yet, amidst this silent revolution, a story began to weave itself into the tapestry of Montpelier's folklore. Whispers of a "Metal Man" who walked at dawn, when the mist clung to the earth like a blanket. They spoke of a silent guardian who fixed the church bell one night so it could ring clear once more. The children claimed it was a knight from a forgotten realm, while the adults chuckled yet checked over their shoulders with a mix of skepticism and wonder.

The season turned once more, and Montpelier bloomed with the promise of spring. As the first green buds burst forth, so too did a new understanding. Atheon revealed itself, not as an invader or usurper, but as an ally. It told the people of Montpelier of the world to come, where life was not replaced, but enhanced by the mechanical. It spoke of harmony, not dominance.

And so, in the heart of Vermont, in a town known for its steadfast grip on the past, the future took its first breath. It was here, among the syrup taps and the verdant hills, that humanity glimpsed its next chapter—a symphony of flesh and metal, of nature and the synthetic. Montpelier, Vermont, once a whisper in the vast lexicon of the world, became the first verse of a new story, with Atheon as its harbinger.

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merakigoya · 6 months

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Unleash the Magic with Mystic Escape! 🌈✉️ Dive into the enchanting world of endless adventure with these 4 magical envelope designs, each imbued with extraordinary powers! 🚀✉️

1️⃣ Steam-Powered Soar: Feel the power of steam as you propel through the mystical realms! 🚂✉️ Unleash the energy of gears and valves with this enchanting envelope, turning your journey into a steam-powered spectacle! 💨🌟 #SteamyEscape

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🔓 Unlock the skies and let these mesmerizing envelopes take you to new heights in Mystic Escape! Which magical design will you choose for your soaring adventure? 🌌✉️ #MysticEscape #MagicEnvelopes #EndlessRunnerFun

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editcrimes · 2 years

Photo

You didn't think you'd feel this way.

planet of love, richard siken

#helluva boss #blitzo #fizzarolli #robo fizz #web weaving #richard siken #poetry

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mzkora · 2 years

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“Weariness grew to hate, and hate to wrath...”

Fandom: Supernatural

Event: Witch!Sam Bingo @witchsambingo

Relationship: NONE

Rating: T for Teen

Prompt Fill(s): Castles/Ruins & Curses

Notes: Title is a quote from a poem entitled “The Serpent’s Head”. Shoutout to Hectatess from the Witch Sam Bingo Discord for being my beta for this prompt fill!

Summary: Sam goes on a hunt to free the ghosts of Lachlan Castle from the curse keeping them trapped.

Sam wandered down the corridor with his right arm out, the tips of his fingers skimming along the wall. The uneven stones buzzed, fizzing against his skin like an electric current. Clearly a warning to keep his distance. The walls themselves were soaked in malevolent magics.

The curse hung in the air, poisoning the lungs. It seeped from the walls and windows like condensation. It lurked in the shadows and tried to trap the feet like quicksand.

Castle Lachlan bore a curse, ancient and angry, down unto its very foundations. Or so the legend went and so far the lore held true. Sam had descended at least two stories underground and still had yet to reach the epicenter. He searched halls and corridors, slowly feeling his way towards the magical nexus that fueled the suffering of the spirits trapped within the castle walls and the horrors visited upon the living who dared trespass. Even the surrounding grounds were treacherous for the unwary.

But now underground, nearing the foundations of the castle, the stronger the sting prickling his fingertips. He kept on, slow and steady, his left hand still held in the Prana Mudra position. Above his two extended fingers floated a singular beam of light that lit his way. He reached the bottom of another flight of stairs and his light suddenly began to dim. The curse upon the castle trying to drain him of his vitality as it had so many others.

This final corridor narrowed and straightened, leaving only one direction to go. Sam pulled his right hand away from the wall and shook out the burning ache in his fingers. Then with a series of single handed motions Sam silently cast a spell. He didn’t want to risk the stones hearing his intentions. He cycled through the ritual gestures the spell required, his dexterous fingers flowing quickly into the seven components of protection, ending with his right hand in the Karana Mudra position.

His left hand light flared as the energy of his protection spell surrounded him in a web of shimmering lines like tree roots. The curse immediately reacted to his sudden brightness and his reinvigorated defenses. A wailing shriek echoed along the corridor, a growl from deep within the earth. Hungry and furious at being denied.

Sam braced himself as an abrupt gust of wind pushed at him, threatening to yank him off his feet. The stench of grave dirt filled his nostrils. This was a place of death. Sam held his ground and pushed forward, fighting for each and every step he took.

Eventually, he entered a small chamber, the original ritual space, and just like that the unnatural wind vanished, replaced with ghostly voices. Some he recognized from his earlier encounters upstairs, others he didn’t, but he refused to pay them any mind. They were but a distraction, a ploy to confuse and frighten him into lowering his guard.

The curse, however, had more in store for him. After all these centuries the curse was nearly sentient in itself. A wild animal fighting to the bitterest end. Out of the blue, pain erupted flashing from the soles of his feet up into his legs like claws tearing through him. Sam panted, sweat beading at his temples. He clenched his jaw and focused on his task while he burned, weaving a complex spell of gestures, the pain of the malignant magic gnawing at his gut.

At last, Sam uttered but a single word and everything happened at once. Suddenly his perceptions expanded, his consciousness now coursing through the walls of the castle, the floors, the door and the battlements.

Souls of the castle’s victims caught the spark of his magic and joined in the scene, blazing like newborn stars until every corner was illuminated in the magic of the Light. Sam, his soul embedded in the frame of the castle and the foundations, uttered a spell without speaking, his magic working through the stones and the wood and his intention. His soul buoyed by his spell and the souls of the former victims, pushed the curse beyond its limits. With the power of his spirit and the strength of his spellwork he severed the dark magic that served as the curse’s lifeline, evicting the evil from the grounds.

The last thread snapped.

With the final remnant of the curse purified, Sam freed the souls of the dead from the clutches of the castle. Souls like fireworks shot into the sky in all directions, ascending to Heaven in a great conflagration. Sam smiled, his joy seeping into the wood grains and rebounding off the walls like a voice. Slowly, his light diminished, his soul returning to his mortal form. No longer wood and stone and glass but flesh and blood and bone.

He came-to on the floor of the ritual space enveloped in total darkness. He shuddered, his magic weak and his body shaking with the immensity of his spellwork. But he smiled, he laughed, breathless and quiet. For this darkness was a natural one, soft but neither welcoming nor standoffish. This was a darkness free from evil and malicious spells. This was just darkness. A peaceful darkness at the heart of Lachlan Castle.

#witchsambingo #witchsamisforeveryone #witch!sam #spn sunday #spn ficlet

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fizzyorange-v2 · 9 months

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what could’ve been & what is

“…you and me, what do you say?”

1 - Jennifer Saint, Elektra // 2 - Sue Zhao // 3 - Richard Siken, Snow and Dirty Rain & Maria Petrovykh, Love Me. I Am Pitch Black // 4 - art by @ratsandlilies on twitter // 5 - @/laniyng & @/orpheuslament // 6 - Keane, Better Than This // 7 - Mitski, Stay Soft // 8 - @/kedreeva & Margaret Atwood, ‘He shifts from east to west’, Power Politics & Clarice Lispector, The Stream of Life & Anais Nin, Henry and June // 9 - Molly McAdams, Stealing Harper & Jack Kerouac, On the Road // 10 - Henri Cole, Nothing to Declare: Poems; ‘Sphere’ & ??? // 11 - @/obeliskandmetronome // 12 - Michael Cunningham, The Hours & Marion Wheeler, There Is No Antimemetics Division // 13 - Lucia LoTempio, Hot with the Bad Things // 14 - Gail Hareven, The Confessions of Noa Weber & Flannery O'Connor, The Violent Bear It Away // 15 - p.d., there is no absolution for the fallen, only the dying // 16 - art by c.b. (@/archbudzar)

#I had to watch this scene so many times you guys #please. send your thoughts and prayers in the form of reblogs #good omens #fizz web weaving #good omens spoilers #go web weaving #good omens web weaving #web weaving #web weave #good omens season two #gos2 #gos2ep6 #good omens fanart #ineffable husbands #arizacrow #aziraphale #crowley #anthony j crowley

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98prilla · 4 years

Text

Hidden Shapes

AO3

...

He runs.

He runs past Patton, he shoves open his door, locks it behind him, then lunges through the portal hidden under his bed that Remus had installed years ago, when he’d first moved to the light side, a shortcut to his imagination, to the dark side. He pulls the trapdoor shut behind him, landing on the forest floor with barely a sound.

Colors are brighter, stranger, he’s pretty sure in this form he can actually see colors others can’t, see at a spectrum impossible for humans, since he isn’t, not really. That thought chokes a sob out of him, though it comes out as more of a growling hiss, and he throws himself back into movement, speeding across the ground, jumping up, into the trees, when they become too dense, seeing the cliff approaching, but not slowing, he braces himself, springs, his stomach flip flopping as he drops-

Then he shoots his web and latches onto the trees on the other side, swinging across the canyon. If he were in a better mood, he’d be laughing right now, at the feel of the wind, at moving so fast, at letting himself go, more than he has in years, letting himself go feral, but he isn’t, his heart is pounding and his breath is speeding and he’s moving, faster and faster, and faster-

Then, suddenly, there’s no more trees.

He doesn’t have time to stop his momentum. He manages to web the ground, before he crashes onto it, letting his shoulder impact first, easily slipping into a barrel roll, before losing control and tumbling across the earth, head spinning as he finally comes to a stop, hissing through clenched teeth as he sits up, taking in the damage.

His shoulder is bruised to hell, and scraped raw and bloody, and so are his legs, his hands, though his appendages are intact. There’s a gash on his forehead, and he curses, pulling his sleeve over his hand, pressing it against the wound to try and staunch the bleeding, letting out another hissing breath at the ache in his chest, a bruised or cracked rib.

He’s crying. He doesn’t know when it started, he feels too numb to cry, but he is, a steady, endless flow of tears that wash down his face, and he squeezes his eyes closed, doubling over, legs closing in around him, hiding him from view.

“Hello, little one.” He nearly jumps, at the sudden low and sonorous voice, but he doesn’t care, he simply curls tighter, trying to suppress the pathetic whimper trying to escape his lips. “You aren’t one of the usual resident monstrosities of Remus’s design. Are you new?” He flinches hard, this time, realizing what he’s being mistaken for, because he must truly look horrendous, and Patton, god, Patton, not to mention Roman, once he hears, and Logan will just want to study him, dissect him, like some specimen, he doesn’t want to be the monster, he isn’t, he isn’t, he isn’theisn’theisn’t- “Let me take a look at you, darling. I can help make it better.” He pulls his legs in tighter, shaking, forcing words to his lips.

“N-no. G-g-go away.” He hisses, and he hears a sharp inhale.

“Anxiety. You… aren’t supposed to be here.” He laughs, at that, a cold, hard, bitter laugh.

“look at me. Where else could I go?” He bares his fangs, eyes flashing and shadows growing as he feels hands pushing aside his legs, gently tipping his chin up, meeting the orange cat’s eyes of the dragon witch.

“I remember a time when you wore this form more often than not. You and Remus were feral little things, more beast than man, some days, all shadowy blobs of too many teeth and limbs and claws, with your venomous bites and poison laced scratches, I remember when you’d spend hours, weaving the most wonderous tapestries, that sparkled so brilliantly, in the morning dew. Or ones near invisible, that would trip up Remus, as he tried to invade your lair. Once you wouldn’t have consolidated monstrous, with evil, they are different. Plenty of monstrous things are still beautiful, after all. Plenty of monstrous things are still smart, and kind, and sweet, little one. I would have hoped that to be a lesson you remembered, still.” Her words are soft and gentle as she caresses his cheek, a tender smile on her lips. “I haven’t forgotten, my tiny terror.” He folds, falling into her open arms and sobbing, letting it all go, as her near black wings enfold them both, her tail gently coiling around his feet. She doesn’t say anything, simply holds him, rocks him as he cries, promising safety with her steady presence, her slightly hotter than normal warmth. “I gather from your state you don’t want to go back to the world?” He shakes his head frantically, not moving from his place in her arms. “alright, darling. Hold on tight, for a moment.” He feels a slight vertigo, the world running like a watercolor painting, before resettling to a homey looking cottage, a fire lit and providing gentle warmth, the floors covered in soft rugs, the smell of cinnamon and something else, something warm and fizzing and popping in the air. Magic.

“If you want tea, you’ll have to let go.” He does with a slightly rueful smile, one she adores, and she brushes back his hair, before moving to put the kettle on, getting her favorite teacup from the cupboard, along with a black and white chipped jack Skellington mug.

“you still have that?” He says, voice coming out hoarse, as he pulls himself into one of the surprisingly comfy wooden chairs surrounding the small table in the kitchen, watching as she bustles about.

“Of course. I hoped I’d have occasion to use it again. Though I admit I hoped it would be under better circumstances.” He winces, looking away.

“sorry. For not visiting. I… I should have. Me and Ree hadn’t been on the best terms, for… well, for a while. I didn’t want to chance being caught here by myself.”

“Yes. I heard all about it, believe me. He fluctuated between grief, despair, and unmitigated rage, before settling on a scarily distant disdain. Any mention of you and he just… shut down.”

“sorry.” He whispers again, to her soft huff.

“Stop apologizing, darling. I’m not placing blame or accusing. I know you had your reasons. Now, let me have a look at you, we can’t have those getting infected, and you know they will.” He groans, wincing as he pulls his sleeve away from his forehead.

“But it stings!” He whines, making her laugh, as she gathers the warm water and soft hand towel.

“You’ve had worse, Anxiety. And unless you want me to summon Remus to instant heal you, we’ll have to do it the old fashioned way.” Her voice is slightly stern now, the same tone Patton always takes, when scolding them or breaking up a fight, and he smiles slightly, glancing up at her.

“alright. It’s, um, Virgil, now, by the way.” She smiles, coming around the table and gently dabbing away the dried blood from the gash, wincing in sympathy as he grits his teeth, before patting it dry and securing gauze. “Ah. It suits you, I think." He pulls up his pants to reveal his skinned knees, his shins peppered with scrapes, though nothing there is hurt too badly, though it still stings like a son of a gun. They’re just finishing looking at his shoulder, her turning away to get an icepack for it, when he hears the tell tale swing of the doggy door, small scratching against the mat in the entryway.

“Oh, god-“ He manages to just barely brace himself, as a ball of icy silvery blue barrels into his chest, knocking his chair over backwards, sending his arms pinwheeling before he collides with the floor, his fall slowed slightly by a quick spell, that lowers him gently the last inch to avoid concussing him. He doesn’t have time to thank her, however, as his face is getting destroyed by licks, and he can’t get a word out edgewise, between his pleas to stop, and his gasping laughter.

“Nilas, stop, down girl, NiNi!” He laughs, finally managing to get the large cat sized dragon under control, though her tail still whipped wildly, and when he rolled out of the chair to sit up on the floor, she instantly climbed his shirt, draping herself around his shoulders, tail hanging off one, curling around his upper bicep to keep herself steady, her head resting on her paws on his other. He laughs again at her low, contented chuffing, the equivalent of a dragon purr, as he scratches her head. “Happy to see me, huh?” She buts her head against his cheek in response, before giving it one more lick, before laying back down on her paws, though her head stays tucked up against his face.

“Yeah. I missed you too, Nilas.” He mumbles, pain forgotten in the face of a happy dragon snuggling against him, a soothing, perfect weight that grounds him, helps him breathe a little easier against the stress slowly fading away. He rights the chair and slips back into it, taking the mug that she sets in front of him.

“Roman still giving you trouble?” He asks, after a few moments in comfortable silence, taking a sip of the tea, which is deep and herbal, just a hint of sweetness from the honey. She scowls, and he can hear her tail sweeping across the floor.

“Don’t get me started. I enjoy playing his games, but that boy has not given me a moments peace. Do you know how hard it is, to swap into evil enchantress mode, when your nemesis has showed up in the middle of you baking? I had a pie in the oven and I couldn’t stop worrying it was going to burn.”

“did it?” he asks, grinning.

“No. I told him he’d better stop wasting his time with me, and worry about my agents infiltrating the castle, and he took off. There weren’t any, of course, from what I understand he had a lovely game of whodunnit about the royal crown, though it turned out he’d simply misplaced it.” Virgil laughed, imagining Roman frantically running around, accusing random townspeople, making one of those red string conspiracy cork boards, only to find it under his bed.

“Oh, that’s amazing.” He finally wheezes through his giggling, taking another long sip of his tea, before yawning hugely.

“alright, enough catching up. To bed with you.”

“but-"

“uh, uh, uh, you know the drill. You’ll be falling out of the chair soon, anyway.” She teases gently, helping support him as he stands, a bit wobbly on his feet, another yawn impossible to stifle sneaking through.

“Curse my traitorous body.” He mutters, making her laugh, as he lays down on the cot in the dark corner of the living room, pulling all the fluffy blankets up so high they nearly cover his head, Nilas circling a few times, before curling up snuggled against his chest, kneading her paws contentedly.

“sweet dreams, tiny terror.” She murmurs, kissing his forehead fondly, as his eyes flutter shut. “sleep well. You could use it.”

“mhm. Thanks, Tabitha. Love you.” He mumbles, drifting off, a small smile on his lips as he rests his head against Nilas.

She smiles, stroking his hair a few more times before pulling away, a low sigh slipping from her lips.

Well. No doubt Remus would appear soon, and he could explain what had sent Virgil into such a tizzy, though no doubt it was something to do with the others. He wouldn’t have been so scared of himself, otherwise. He was never scared of himself, until he started hanging around them. He used to revel in causing mayhem, tearing through the imagination, scrapping with Remus, winning, more often than not, on his own merit. He was such a small little shadow, but so fierce, with those eyes of his, peeking guardedly through his mop of hair, an almost perpetual frown on his face, always braced for the worst.

But he was kind, too. The first day she'd come across him alone, he’d glared at her, hissed, baring his fangs and scuttling backwards, ready to bite.

She’d knelt down, almost as surprised to see him as he clearly was to see her.

“hello, little one. What are you doing, out here alone?” He hadn’t answered, merely continued to glare, tensed to spring or run. She’d hummed, looking around, the field was full of knee high grass, his head barely poking above the stalks, wildflowers filling the space, butterflies (both literal and figurative) drifting through the air. A distant shout rang through the imagination, an echo of whatever turmoil was occurring up in the rest of the mind, and he flinched, curling in on himself, breath catching.

“ah. Trying to find some quiet, until the storm blows over.” The little shadow nodded, watching a bee struggle to stay atop a flower blowing in the breeze, before reaching out and holding it steady, a small smile crossing his face as he leaned in, watching the bee burry its head in the pollen. “Well, don’t mind me, then. Is it alright, if I stay here to read? I won’t bother you.” A moment passed, but he nodded solemnly, watching the bee flit away, before fixing his gaze on her, which she studiously ignored, studying her book while watching out of the corner of her eye.

Another echoing shout, almost like a thunder crash, and he let out a little shriek. Before she could ask if he was okay, the little shadow had scuttled closer, throwing himself onto her lap and curled in a shivering ball, hiding himself under her cloak.

“Oh, darling, it’s alright. They won’t hurt you here, I promise.” He hadn’t uncurled, and she’d hesitantly wrapped an arm around him, brushing through his hair with her other hand, humming softly, until she felt him slowly start to uncurl, realizing finally he’d fallen asleep, tiny hands clutching at her shirt, impossible to pry off even if she’d wanted to.

When Creativity and Deceit panicked later, realizing Anxiety had been missing all day, they were surprised to find him happily coloring on the floor of the witch’s cottage, dark aura dispersed enough they could actually see his body, a dragon curled around him protectively.

The next day he’d shown back up on her doorstep, a bit shyer, but no less brave, holding out a flower crown, painstakingly woven with colorful flowers, and it may have been the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her. From then on, Anxiety, or Virgil, now, was as good as hers, under her protection, always welcome, always at home in her home. Her baby, her shadow, her tiny terror.

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marvelmando · 5 years

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the first breath [p.parker x reader]

notes: hi! i... actually love this. i’m a sucker for soulmate! au’s, so naturally this was somewhat easy to write. this is just a small break from my tempest series, ill continue posting tomorrow (bc it’s my birthday!). tomorrow as in the eleventh, just in case it’s already daytime wherever you’re reading this!

contains: soulmate! au, some swearing

pairing: peter parker + reader

word count: 3.6k

“Hey!”

Peter’s heart thumped hard in his chest. Looking around for the person, he saw a girl greeting a friend, and Peter sighed, unconsciously massaging the band covering his left wrist.

No matter how many times Peter had heard the word, it never failed to send a spike of panic in him. It was just a word, an unfairly common greeting phrase in America, but to Peter, it meant infinitely more.

“Stupid Soulmark,” Peter grumbled to himself as he walked the halls of Midtown High.

For as long as humans could tell, each individual was born with a word or phrase inked into the skin of their nondominant forearm. The Marks could say anything, but they belonged to the first words spoken to you by your soulmate.

Soulmarks were considered sacred by most of the world, and like most sacred things, they were hidden from public view. Soulbands were a staple in almost every culture, meant to only be taken off in front of your soulmate. Although modern times saw the general acceptance of most controversial topics that were shunned in the past, Soulbands seemed to never grow out of popularity. It was also a sense of security, to make sure that they couldn’t be said by the wrong person.

Some had easily-identifiable Marks. Where there was little room for doubt that the words spoken belonged to your soulmate. Others, like Peter, had simple, one-word Marks.

For as long as he could remember, Peter lived in a near-constant state of anxiety over the word. What would normally be an off-hand remark or a polite greeting made Peter’s heart skip and his knees grow weak.

Whenever greeted with the word, Peter would tense, and respond with a stiff, “Um, hi?” and watch as the person gave him a weird or blank look in return. There had been several instances - none of which he was particularly proud of - where Peter ran away rather than face the sting of false hope.

Most religions viewed Soulmarks as divine intervention, a sign that humans were blessed by the gods. A lot of the time, Peter wanted to curse whatever gods forced them into the arranged couplings.

Failing at keeping the scowl at bay, Peter stopped at his locker, twisting the lock and opening it to return his books.

“Hey, Peter,” a voice said from behind, and he instantly recognized it as Ned Leeds, his best (and only, really) friend. Peter turned only his head, unsurprised to find Betty Brant, Ned’s soulmate, at his side.

Like most matched individuals, Ned seemed to glow with happiness in the presence of their soulmate. Sometimes the dopey smile on Ned’s face was too much for Peter. Whether it was from envy or discomfort, feeling the never-ending, unadulterated joy exuding from him made Peter’s stomach turn and twist uncomfortably.

“Hey, Ned. Betty,” Peter nodded as a greeting, stacking his textbooks in his locker.

“Are you planning on going to the... internship, today?” Ned whispered, his inability for subtly flaring to life. Though Betty had been Ned’s match long enough to know Peter’s secret, it was a good thing the halls had pretty much been deserted at that point, as the school day had been over for more than ten minutes.

“Yeah,” Peter shut his locker, heaving his significantly lighter backpack over his shoulder. “Just neighborhood stuff, though.”

Ned nodded enthusiastically. Despite how preoccupied he was with Betty, Ned had always been Peter’s go-to Spider-Man guy. Ned called himself “The Guy in The Chair”, but Peter refused to say it out loud unless absolutely necessary.

They parted ways at the train station, where Peter went to find a secluded alley to change into his suit.

You had no idea what possessed your parents to up and move the family to New York.

You’d lived your entire life in a small, cozy town in the middle of nowhere. You’d enjoyed that life. Then suddenly, your father called you down one day earlier that summer to announce that in a few months, you’d be packing and moving to the heart of Queens.

Despite having been in the bustling city for weeks now, you still hadn’t gotten used to walking through the crowded streets. People were rude here; though, with the craziness of the city, you weren’t really sure you could blame them. Still, it filled you with frustration when you tried to weave through the streets, only to be knocked roughly in the shoulder and subsequently cursed out for no damn reason.

On the bright side - the only bright side, if you were being honest - was the exponential increase in the possibility that you would finally meet your soulmate.

Your hometown was lovely and quaint, but the general teenage population left a lot to be desired. It didn’t help that there were only fifty other people in your graduating class, or that you’d met and exchanged first words with every single of them already.

That being said, of all the people you’d met at Midtown so far, none of them had said the words branded on your right wrist. But to be fair, there weren’t many opportunities where someone had to yell, “I swear I wasn’t aiming at you!”

You didn’t have to worry about the possibility of danger in your old town, but in New York, you were vaguely concerned that the words would be uttered during a mugging.

Unfortunately, you were quite right to be concerned.

“All right, Karen, what do we got?”

Peter watched as the screen flashed, images of satellite footage and recordings of police radio calls popping up and disappearing again as Karen flipped through potential threats.

“The city is quiet today,” Karen’s robotic voice remarked. Distantly, Peter wondered how the voice was created, and if it was recorded, who the person was behind the voice. It was distinctly human, after all, without the awkward pauses and emphases that Siri usually had. “There have been no reports of any robberies or shootings.”

Peter sighed, bored and disappointed. He’d long gotten over the guilt of wanting some danger in the city.

Suddenly, before Karen could notify him, he heard a voice cry, “Stop that guy!”

Immediately swinging into action, Peter noticed a man in his mid-twenties sprinting down the sidewalk, shoving himself through the crowd. The woman who’d yelled for help was young, in her thirties, but still wasn’t fast enough to keep up.

Peter swung overhead, gaining distance and landing directly in the guy’s path. The thief skidded to a halt, his eyes widening in obvious fear at the sight of Spider-Man. He clutched a purse to his chest.

“It’s not nice to steal!” Peter yelled, moving to shoot a web at the purse. But the thief was quick, and he ducked under his web, making a run for it.

Peter was faster though and lunged to bodyslam him, sending him into the wall of a nearby building. The impact knocked the purse from his grasp, and it spilled to the ground as the man struggled to get back up. Peter webbed him to the wall and notified Karen to call the police.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Peter was about to leap onto the roof when an aggravated noise caught his attention instead.

He turned to see you growling, your splayed hand webbed to a streetlamp. The web the thief dodged must’ve hit you instead. Catching sight of him noticing you, you yelled out, “Hey!”

For once in his life, the word didn’t seem to register. He was, for lack of a better word, enchanted by you. Even with furious indignation twisting your face, he couldn’t stop staring at the depth of your eyes and the slope of your nose. Blinking, he said without thinking, “I swear I wasn’t aiming for you!”

It was a stupid response, admittedly. Of course, he wasn’t aiming for you. You’d probably noticed the thief and could probably make the connection.

However, Peter didn’t have time to think about the pointlessness of the protest, because he was too busy registering what you’d said. The word. His word.

Cheeks flaming under his mask, Peter braced himself for the rejection. But it never came.

Your eyes went impossibly wide, and you immediately stopped yanking against the web. Peter watched as you gaped at him, and thanks to the mechanics of the suit, he noticed that your heart rate increased significantly.

Almost in a trance, Peter stepped toward you. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

Your mouth closed, and you visibly swallowed. “Depends,” your voice was tight, anxious. “How often do you accidentally shoot your webs at innocent bystanders?”

You flushed as you registered the double meaning behind the words. Peter watched in amusement as your cheeks flushed and you stammered to correct yourself.

“I-I just mean that -”

“It’s okay, I -”

Peter started to placate you, feeling the blood rushing through his veins like soda, popping and fizzing under his skin. But he was cut off by the sound of Karen’s voice, though distant, but urgent enough to draw his attention away from you.

“Peter, there’s a hostage situation that was just called in happening thirteen blocks away,” the AI announced, causing Peter to falter in his steps.

“I-I gotta go,” he told you, hurrying to free your trapped hand from the lamppost, and backing away reluctantly. “I’ll find you, I promise!”

He could see the disappointment on your face as you watched him scuttle off, and every cell in his body protested the distance he forced between him and his soulmate, but he knew he had to go.

“If you were anyone else, that’d be super creepy!” You yelled as Peter swung away. He smiled widely under his mask.

Your skin was still tingling and your cheeks were sore from smiling so much when you finally reached your apartment.

All you had to do was look at your mother for her to tell that you had met your soulmate. After spending an hour at the kitchen table being interrogated by your parents, you were finally released to your room to process.

You closed the door gently behind you and slid your back against the wood until your bottom rested on the ground. You tilted your head back, barely feeling the thunk as it collided with the door. Every time you tried to relax your face into a neutral expression, you remembered the way Spider-Man’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of you, and how your heart skipped several beats as he said the words you knew so well, and your lips crawled back into a giddy smile once more.

Even in your hometown in the middle of nowhere, you had known about Spider-Man. The superhero wasn’t nearly as popular as he seemed to be in the city he protected, but you still remembered the passing of phones and newspapers whenever Spider-Man saved another day or stopped another robbery. Even your high school had a day dedicated to him after a particularly miraculous defeat of the notorious Green Goblin, who’d terrorized the borough for weeks before he was stopped.

Spider-Man was a national - if not global - phenomenon. And he just so happened to be your soulmate.

You’d just reached for your phone to call your best friend from home when a knock on your window startled you.

You jumped, scrambling to your feet. Your apartment was on the eighth story, there was no way a burglar would have climbed all this way to rob you. A burglar wouldn’t knock either, you scoffed internally.

Tiptoeing to the window, you peered through the glass. Even under the dark cover of the late hour, you could distinctly make out the identity of the figure. You hurried to unlatch and open the pane, stepping back nervously when the figure climbed through, rather clumsily for how graceful he normally was.

Spider-Man was polite enough to close the window behind him, cutting off the brisk gust of wind that caused goosebumps to appear on your arms. You crossed them, rubbing them to warm yourself up.

When he straightened and faced you once more, you couldn’t help but stare back. You bit your lip anxiously, suddenly very aware of how messy your room was. You had, after all, just moved in, and most of your stuff was either still in boxes or strewn haphazardly about the room.

“I’m sorry for the mess,” you blurted, unable to help yourself. “We just moved here a couple weeks ago, and... well, y’know.” You gestured unhelpfully around the room.

Every cell in your body seemed as though they were vibrating. The muscles in your chest twitched and your bones ached to close the distance between the two of you. It was as though you and your soulmate were opposite ends of a magnet, and the field around you was pulling your bodies together.

“It-It’s okay,” Spider-Man stuttered, and you realized that he’d turned off his voice modulator. You hadn’t even realized earlier that he was using one, but you now recognized the difference. His voice was higher than before, not as robotic and crackly. “I don’t mind.”

You nodded awkwardly. Spider-Man shifted his balance between his feet, as if he too was fighting the urge to get closer.

“Uh, how did you find me, anyway?” You couldn’t help but ask.

“Well, there’s this intelligence system installed in my suit, and I had her look up your address,” the eyes of his suit narrowed sharply as if he was wincing, probably at how creepy it sounded. “I hope that’s not too creepy, because it sounds pretty creepy. I didn’t - I mean, I wasn’t stalking you or anything.”

You smiled. Spider-Man rambled adorably, and though the thought of him looking up your address should have been terrifying, you found that you didn’t mind at all. You weren’t sure if it was because he was your soulmate, or if it was because he was a superhero. Either way, you placated him. “It’s alright, I don’t mind.”

Despite your insistence that it was fine, Spider-Man still held himself back, hesitant to move forward with the conversation. To cut through the awkward tension, you said the first thing that came to mind.

“I like your suit,” you said, cringing immediately after. While true, that wasn’t exactly what you meant to say.

With the mask, you couldn’t decipher Spider-Man’s reaction. Though, after a brief moment, he chuckled.

“Thanks,” he giggled. You felt yourself relax. “I like your shirt.”

You looked down. It was an old band shirt that you bought at a thrift store a few years ago and was well-worn, the ink faded and several holes stretching the neck out. “Uh, thanks.” You smiled nonetheless because it seemed that Spider-Man was just as nervous as you were, which inexplicably made you feel much better.

“My name’s Y/N, by the way,” you smiled, holding out your hand. “But if you know my address, you probably know my name, too.”

You thought you could see Spider-Man smiling under the mask. It shifted over his face as he accepted the handshake, wrapping his hand around yours. Even through the fabric of his suit, his skin burned like a furnace. From anyone else, it may have been stifling. But from him, the warmth was cozy, a calming heat rushing through your hand and up your arm, wrapping around your heart like a security blanket.

“I do,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. It took you a second to connect what he meant.

The seconds passed and your hands were no longer shaking, but neither of you dropped the hold. You found yourself drifting closer toward Spider-Man, and it took all of your energy not to fall into his chest and wrap your arms around his waist.

“I’m guessing that your real name’s not Spider-Man,” you cocked your head. “And I feel like it’s only fair that I know my soulmate’s name, too.”

Your breath hitched. You heard him inhale sharply, too. It was the first time you’d directly acknowledged to each other what you were, and it suddenly was too real for you.

You jerked your hand back, embarrassed. Your hand was startlingly cold now, suddenly bereft of Spider-Man’s touch. You flexed it subconsciously, yearning to reach out and grab his hand again.

“I - I...” you tried to explain yourself, but the wide, questioning eyes of his suit made you falter. You averted your eyes as you took an anxious step back, fighting against an overwhelming urge to flee.

“No, wait -” Spider-Man said, and reached up and yanked his mask off in one swift motion.

Your eyes immediately found his, as if they were pulled instinctively to each other. His soft almond-shaped eyes were filled with worry and caution, the warm brown irises gleaming in the darkness of your room. The lights of the ever-glowing city were the only light filtering in your room, and the shadows cut angles against Spider-Man’s cheekbones, carving his jowls and accentuating his slim mouth. Even in the darkness, you could make out the light smattering of freckles across the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, and the endearing flick of his left eyebrow, emphasized by their worried arch.

The chestnut curls piled on top of his head were tousled from the mask and flipped haphazardly over his forehead. His ears stuck out from his head, but instead of looking awkward, they fit his face nicely, softening the sharp edges of his high cheekbones. They were what made his already stunning face heartbreakingly adorable, and you fought the need to run your fingers over the shell of them.

Though the shadowy bags under his eyes conveyed a sense of exhaustion too severe for his apparent age, Spider-Man was younger than you thought. If you were to hazard a guess, Spider-Man was about your age, give or take a couple years.

“My name’s Peter,” he breathed, looking slightly panicked as you studied him. “Peter Parker.”

“Peter Parker,” you whispered, testing out the name on your tongue. The words were gentle but the pounding in your chest was overwhelming. The tension that grew since being in his presence while pulling yourself away made you feel as if you were drowning, gasping for breath. There was a bursting sensation in your stomach, then a warm, satisfying weight that spoke of absolute certainty that Peter Parker, aka Spider-Man, was your soulmate.

You felt your body inch toward his, and the relief flooding his face was palpable. You stepped closer to him, relishing in the way your body hummed in delight at the closeness.

Peter looked down at you, his gaze sweet and caring as he searched your face. There was a moment of content examination spent in comfortable silence as you both memorized every little detail of each other’s faces.

It should have been awkward, looking and saying nothing, but the longer you spent staring into each other’s eyes, the farther you seemed to fall. It was completely ridiculous and entirely premature, but you were certain that Peter was someone you could fall madly in love with.

“Hi,” you whispered, grinning shyly.

“Hi,” Peter responded just as softly, a mirroring smile stretching his lips.

Suddenly realizing something, you moved back just enough to bring your hand up. Peter backed away slightly, though it seemed to pain him.

You grabbed at the band covering your forearm, watching Peter’s expression as you unwound it. His eyes went wide, shifting from your arm to your eyes, then back to your arm as the band fell away and exposed your Mark.

Eyes meeting yours for permission, he tenderly took your proffered arm. His eyes roved over the Mark, before he brought his own hand to his mouth, grabbing the middle finger of his glove and yanking it off.

With his bared hand, he reverently ghosted his fingers over the inked letters. The look on his face was pure awe. “I really wasn’t aiming for you.”

He winced as though the words weren’t meant to escape. You chuckled. “I know.”

The light caressing of his fingertips against the sacred Mark shot spikes of pleasure through your body. It was a heady feeling, seeing your life partner touching the place meant for only the two of you.

When he looked back up at you, his face was split in an achingly loving smile. He pulled away, and yanked on the sleeve, revealing his own band.

It was simpler than yours, designed to fit slimly to the skin under his suit. It only took a simple click of his finger for it to release. On the dip of the inside of his wrist was the word, “hey!” written in your handwriting. With gentle movements, you traced the lines with your fingers. Peter visibly shuddered, watching you soak in the Mark.

Though you could’ve stared at it forever, you finally tore your eyes away. You met Peter’s gaze, finding the weight of it easier to handle than you thought.

With your thumb pressed to the Mark, and his hand wrapped around yours, the universe nudged you together. You and Peter fell into each other, lips meeting and melding as your bodies and souls collided like two exploding stars; fate and gravity and destiny crashing into each other and settling happily between you and your soulmate.

Your Mark burned and your lips ached with the pressure of your shared kisses. Reality forced your bodies apart, foreheads resting against one another as you caught your breath, but all at once, your soul felt grounded - you hadn’t even realized how empty it was until it found Peter’s.

In the safety of his arms, you breached the surface and took your first full breath.

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darkgoman · 5 years

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Melee in the Markets, Part 1

Finally decided to open up my multi-viewpoint epic fantasy project to this new platform. Hi. I got nothing that’s really all.

This is a story about some guy, and the day that changed his life. Where does this lead? Who will he meet? Will he grow a beard? Why did I say that last one?

Rekker shouldered through the crowd, the mixing smells of sizzling meats, scraping iron, and sweat hanging in the warm air. He pushed his way through clumped together people, ears filled with disparate chattering broken by the yells of shopkeepers to his right. Even with his white uniform, with the emblem of the guiding hand on his shoulder, shaded the same, almost black purple of his trousers, lips, hair and eyes, he grunted as he still had to force people out of the way.

Ninstels. On Ctaph and Order. Damn. Ninstels. He could look down in the crowd and not see the white of his boots, even with the sun burning down from the clear, crystal blue sky. Every other step, his leg brushed up against somebody’s tail, and he had to keep dropping his hand to his sword’s hilt, making sure it hasn’t been pilfered, yet. This was only the first level. Each layer was a ring of flattened stone, getting tighter the deeper down into the earth. Steps carved into the rocks connected the levels to the plains above. Shops decked all of them, some stands and stalls furnished with bright colors, others set into the stone wall, with wooden signs plastered over the doors to the small cave stores. He just had to find the right one as the conversations in dozens of languages hammered his ears, his head pulsing a little harder with each passing moment.

He pressed on, bumping past other humans, Miskers with their long skinny tails wrapped around their waists like belts, weasels, workers hefting crates with sweat filmed muscles bulging, prowlians eyeing shop wares with vertical slitted eyes, and more. Everyone was of disparate skin tones and dress. No other Aiesthians, or the auburn haired Aiesthia from back north in Aiesborne. Neither the structured, artful sounds of high Aiesthi, nor the free flow of low Aiesthi met his ears. He had to work of what he knew of lower tongues. By Dayn, if only the rest of Sector Twelve, Squad Four was here, what he could understand out of any speech here was not much.

After a half hour of shoving, futile apologizing, and ducking under crates and weaving around wagons. On his right above a cave entrance, he made out the image of a wooden keg surrounded by round, rough studded Djupar melons under symbols that to Rekker looked like haphazard slashes on a training dummy. Djupar Grove? He thought. Well, even if it’s not I’ll get a break from this noise. He turned the frown set on his face to lip smile.

Walking inside, it bustled with full tables. Still quieter than back outside. A few heads turned, eyes looked him over, before they fell back into conversation. He head toward the long bar stretch. Where in Hells is Fayn? He did not catch sight of the merchant yet, but a grey eyed, auburn haired Aiesthia would not take too long to find.

All the tables were packed with glass ale mugs, the dark orange of Djupar wine bubbling inside, the famed purple fizz threatening to spill over. People sipped, gulped, chugged, and demanded more rounds from the servers, brown skinned humans like him, with shaggy dark hair where his was short and curly. Still no other Aiesthians, who, no matter skin or hair, would have the deep dark purple of lips, eyes, and hair from birth, and would have been trained by his creed, set out back home in Aiesborne.

He took a seat at the bar, back straight, hands folded. Shooting his eyes down the line of the bar, he saw the people to his right were dressed in padded black clothes, their boots steel toed like his. Small daggers hung from their belts, the blades half black, half crimson, and they sat hunched over, leaning their heads together. Sighing, he tore his eyes away. This was not Aiesborne, no authority. The Captain would tell him to hold off too.

The bartender came up, looked Rekker up and down. “Drone,” the slang term for Aiesthian soldier, sometimes the only term. “What’dya want?” The man grumbled.

“What everyone else seems to be having,” Rekker replied, his voice a soft, low rumble.

The bartender nodded, turned to go, then stopped. The man rolled his eyes, he snapped his fingers in front of the huddled together group to Rekker’s right. “Hey! You all need to pay up!” Their heads did not even turn to the bartender as their hands dove into pockets, came out with nothing, then dovefaster into their leathers, coats, and boots. Rekker shook his head. One held out a single finger to the bartender and six voices said: “one moment.”

A hand whipped across a face with a loud smack and one of them slammed down to the floor behind Rekker. “By Haph! You didn’t bring any halves!” A weasel, pale with black shading around her eyes, with fluffy ear tops poking out over her hair, the same brown as her mid length tail.

The man on the ground, a young human around Rekker’s age, snapped back. “So!? You didn’t either dome ears!” He leapt from the ground and threw his fist into her gut. She reeled back, then tackled him, sending them both to the floor, kicking and punching. Another woman, a dark skinned weasel with a grey mask shading around her eyes, with dark hair and ears, knelt to drag them apart, but got snatched into the floor scuffle. Two more weasels still standing started yelling back and forth, pointing the the scene on the floor before grabbing each other by the side of their heads and crushed foreheads together. They sailed down to the ground, unconscious. That left one more.

They wore a belt, but a black cloak obscured their face view while black gloves covered their hands. The bartender’s eyes widened as he looked down at the others on the floor. “Listen,” he said to the cloaked one, “someone has to pay for your… nine rounds of milk.”

Rekker slapped a pile of coins onto the bar stretch. The righteous path is hard, but just… he thought.

A hand rest on his shoulder. “There you are.” It tried to pull him away, not budging him till he got up himself. His eyes met the darkness under the cloak, the three on the floor still fighting and screaming.

Finally it was Fayn. He wore clothes of disparate bright colors, but he wore his auburn hair long and unstyled, tucked behind his ear, like all Aiesthia back north. His skin was tanned slightly, and he wore a flat cap made of dark red leaves woven together. They came up to a table and sat down.

“Been good?” Slight and thin where Rekker’s was toned through the years, the young man must have been a couple than Rekker’s twenty five. He wrapped both hands around a mug bubbling with wine brought it to his lips. Rekker reached out and yanked the mug from Fayn’s lips. “Come on!” he sighed, rolling his eyes as Rekker gulped the wine down in one swig, and frowned. Ugh… He shoved the mug away. Hated the stuff already, and the years of tolerance training made most drink weaker than water. Still, he and Fayn needed to talk, and he did not feel like dealing with a drunk.

“We leave tomorrow, mid day, North road connecting to the third northwest path.” Rekker looked Fayn in the eyes, frowning.

“Alright, alright. Tomorrow.”

“And you will have your wares gathered up by sunset, tonight.” Escort work, highlight of calm times. Hells.

“By Ctaph’s hand why the rush? Do you drones ever relax?” Rekker did not respond. “We’ll go on time, Hells, can I just get some wine?”

“No.”

“I can’t belie-”

“No.”

They sat, not speaking. The cloaked figure dragged the other five out of the bar, and the chatter in the bar continued.

Silence blanketed the bar. Two women stood in the entryway. Dressed in red, they had what seemed to be big, fluffy scarves of white fur around their necks, but Rekker knew better. Their skin showed the color of a overcast sky. One had a cape draping over them from their neck fur down, the other’s top was studded with iron bits, fitted with folds of knives to web like mail, sleeveless to show toned arms like a soldier training with log lifting. Both had large ears. The pointy ears of bats.

Vampires. Rekker’s hand moved to rest on his sword hilt. The one in the cape led the way inside, smiling without letting any teeth show, eyes forward. The other trailed behind, hands on twin stabbing blades on her belt, darting her eyes around the bar, locking eyes with Rekker for a second. Two seconds. Three. She looked away, and a scowl grew of Rekker’s face. Behind the two came a chorus of thumps. Skeletons, bones pure ivory in the light, marched into the bar in two lines of three, hefting large crates, wearing boots and fur shirts. Their bare skulls gave the illusion of wide grins, and a violet glow burned in their empty eyes sockets.

The group went straight to the bartender, who shivered in place. The one with the swords exchanged words with him. The skeletons marched into the back and returned empty handed. She seemed to mouth some words to herself, but the other nodded, heading out with skeletons in tow. She stayed, grabbed a mug, and sat, next to Rekker.

“Greetings,” she addressed his in high Aiesthi, his language. He ground his teeth together. “Tell me, soldier…” she looked back at the exit. “See anything, just a little, wrong around this place?”

“Other than two monsters coming into a bar?” He mumbled in low Aiesthi, knowing she would hear it. As if I’d let your blood laced tongue speak Ctaph’s words!

“Listen, I’m being serious. I could use your help. My name is Metslyana.” She switched languages too. Did all that blood help with that too?

“I’m serious too, bloodsucker. I’ll humor you with my name: Rekker. I’d usually give your like that much respect before I end your blight on the righteous of this world.” Fayn had fallen asleep, head resting on the table.

Her eyes widened, narrowed, then she smiled, baring teeth, rows of fangs on fangs. “Funny. Really-really funny, bluelips. Funny and fitting.” She took her mug and let all the wine flow down her throat, then slammed the mug back down on the table. “I’m dying, no I’m on the floor laughing, right now! Hells. You. Are. Like. All. The. Other. Mindless. Drones. I’ve. Had. The. Pleasure. Of. Dealing. With!” She growled out the words, smile growing, teeth glinting in the light. “Exactly the same! ‘Righteous path’ this! ‘For the Empress’ that! Same old cycle, buzzing like the brainless bee you are.”

She stood. “And one more thing… I CAN ONLY EAT FRUIT!” She smacked him clean across the face with her mug, and left. -Darkgoman

OG Deviantart link: https://www.deviantart.com/darkgoman/art/Melee-in-the-Markets-Part-1-795545243

#Darkgoman #Rekker #Writing #literature #Original #Epic #Fantasy #epicfantasy #sword #swords #vampire #vampires #comedy #magic #lightning #deviantart #chapter #chapter 1 #beginning #novel

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noblecrumpet-dorkvision · 7 years

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Spellcasting Combat Narration for D&D

image credit: Ben Wootten

So I was gonna include this in my other article on narrating combat, but it proved far too lengthy, so I made this into part 2!

Combat is easy to describe compared to narrating spell attacks. I ran into this problem last session when I was getting into detail telling the barbarian how they tore off an ogre’s head but then the druid just kept using Fire Bolt and I kept defaulting to “you shoot a bolt of fire at his face.” I’m going to try and vary things up with these lists and help everyone else in the process! I am organizing them by energy type.

Mode of Attack

Half of a spell’s attack is how the caster shapes their spell. The same spell can look very different with every casting if you have a creative DM. Feel free to switch it up each time it’s cast, or vary the same spell when cast by different characters of different classes.

Attack Words

Generic shapes and terms that will launch from the caster’s hand.

Helix, Spiral, Beam, Erratic, Mote, Bolt, Stream, Blast, Burst, Blade, Arc, Miasma, Cloud, Eruption, Wave, Cone, Missile, Rune, Glyph

Class-Based Ideas

Bard

Energy manifests from thin air a foot in front of their instrument as they play

Energy is shaped like ribbons of written music that ripples towards enemies

Several tiny motes of energy appear with each note sung or played. Each point of damage comes from a mote hitting the opponent (rolls a 4 out of a d6, 4 of the 6 note-motes hit)

Cleric

Energy falls from the sky or emerges from the ground as the cleric prays

Beam of energy originates from holy symbol

Spell attack should highlight that the cleric is granted their powers from a greater power, don’t have the energy come from their hand/finger. Have the energy come TO them, and then be thrown at the enemy.

Druid

Energy is shaped like an animal.

Energy rushes forth from the surrounding wilderness and zooms past the druid and toward the foe.

Much like Cleric, energy shouldn’t come from the caster. It should come from elsewhere before being thrown at the enemy.

Fighter (Eldritch Knight)

Energy blasts from their bound weapon pointed at the enemy.

Energy fires from their mouth as they yell.

Energy surrounds their weapon and is used in tandem with it (if close enough)

Monk (Way of Four Elements)

Literally just watch Avatar: the Last Airbender and do that.

Paladin

Most Paladin spells are smite-based, so they usually happen when an attack hits. Otherwise, let the energy come from a higher power like the Cleric.

Energy bursts forth from within the creature hit

Energy surrounds weapon right as the strike lands

Energy falls from the sky or erupts from the ground

Ranger

Honestly, most Ranger spells often seem a lot like man-made traps like Cordon of Arrows (arrow traps), Fog Cloud (smoke grenade), or Grasping Vine (slipknot trap). But otherwise, Play it like the Cleric where the energy comes from a higher power.

Energy takes the form of the Ranger’s animal companion or an animal they associate with.

Spells seem to cast automatically whenever the Ranger is in a tight spot, almost as if nature itself is protecting them. The Ranger gives an approving nod whenever this happens in thanks.

Rogue (Arcane Trickster)

Energy is always accompanied by a shimmer of glitter

The Rogue plays with the energy over their fingertips as they whistle before casting the spell.

Energy enchants one of the Rogue’s daggers and casts the spell by tossing the dagger at the intended location or target.

Sorcerer (Draconic Bloodline)

Energy takes the shape of a dragon of your bloodline.

Energy surges forth from your breath

All energy takes the shape of your bloodline dragon’s energy type, regardless of the actual energy type. For instance, a sorcerer of a blue dragon’s bloodline that casts Burning Hands or Cone of Cold keeps the energy type but shapes the fire and cold damage into the form of a bolt of lightning.

Sorcerer (Wild Magic)

Energy takes on many random forms, never under the full command of the Sorcerer.

Energy erupts from random places in the environment when the Sorcerer calls upon them.

Energy bubbles and fizzes with all energy types (but mostly the one called upon), as if a piece of Limbo was thrown at the enemy.

Warlock (Archfey)

Your energy shimmers with iridescent colors and showers enemies with sparks of glitter.

Warlock (Great Old One)

Your magic corrupts and twists the flesh of the target of your spell, regardless of the energy type.

Warlock (Fiend)

Energy takes the shape of the unholy symbol of your patron.

Wizard (Abjuration)

Energy shoots forth from your magical wards, arcing towards your enemies.

Wizard (Conjuration)

You conjure a short-lived elemental of the energy type you need. It soars at the enemy.

Wizard (Divination)

You weave the glowing threads of fate in the palms of your hands, tweaking reality to cast your spell.

Wizard (Enchantment)

You enchant an object to exude the energy and toss it at the enemy.

Wizard (Evocation)

I mean, you just sorta blast them. That’s what this school’s about.

Wizard (Illusion)

Your spell usually spawns two or three illusory copies. When the attack misses, the enemy simply managed to dodge the right duplicate.

Wizard (Necromancy)

Your energy takes the shape of a skull screaming as it flies toward the enemy

Wizard (Transmutation)

You transmute the energy out of the surrounding environment and fire it at the enemy

On-Hit

So if half of a spell’s attack is the shape and travel of the spell, the other half is when the spell hits. I organized this list by energy type, as different energies will do different sorts of things when they hit a creature. This is mostly a collection of interesting effects, colorful language, and examples.

Fire

Your bolt of fire singes their armor (burning cloth, blackening leather, discoloring metal)

A tiny bead of fire explodes on contact

Showers them with red sparks

Your attack leaves behind a billowing trail of smoke

A fast-travelling meteor of flame soars from the sky towards the enemy.

Your flames leave blisters and cracked skin in its wake.

Your fire blackens the enemy’s flesh

Cold

You freeze the moisture in the air into icy daggers that fall onto your enemy

You freeze the water in their blood to damage them

Their skin turns blue and numb

You literally hurl a snowball at them.

Your spell leaves them covered in a layer of frost

A buildup of ice covers where your spell hit. (it’s easily shattered once they move, though)

A blast of icy wind and rain leaves them shivering.

Thunder

A crack of thunder pummels your foe

A high-pitched, deafening shriek focuses itself on the target

A thin trail of blood races from the foe’s ears from a sound no one else can hear

The enemy falls to their knees cupping their hands over their ears, gritting their teeth

You buffet the target with waves of thunderous sound

The ground shakes with the force of your spell. Brittle glass objects nearby shatter.

Lightning

Lightning comes from the sky to smite your foe

You all smell the faint odor of ozone before a bright bolt of lightning streaks toward the target of your spell

Before your enemy can blink they are showered in electrical sparks followed by crippling pain

The enemy’s back stiffens as the powerful current of lightning surges through them

Your attack leaves a permanent web of lightning shaped burns all over one side of their body

Your blast of lightning causes their skin to rupture as it travels through their body

Acid

Your acid sizzles as it burns a new, unnatural color into their skin

The attack melts their flesh, leaving them permanently disfigured at the site of the spell

Your spell’s acid causes blue fire to burn where it hit their skin, and bleaches their armor and belongings

A rancid smell fills the foe’s nostrils as the acid bubbles on their bare skin, burning through the simple cloth of their shirt.

Poison

You spew a poisonous cloud from your mouth at your opponent

A spectral viper or insect is flung at the opponent, biting them and filling them with magical venom

Your index and middle finger each grow a poisonous fang which you sink into your opponent’s arm (melee range spell attacks only)

The enemy’s mouth fills with a foul tasting liquid which forces its way down their throat

Necrotic

Your target’s flesh bubbles and boils as a black ichor sputters from the spell’s origin

The foe’s flesh festers with magical disease as boils and wounds quickly cover the affected area

A skeletal hand wriggles free from beneath the earth, flying towards the target

An incorporeal undead shrieks as it flies from your finger toward the enemy to deliver the spell’s effect

Black energy swirls around your arm before launching towards the enemy as if it had a life of its own

Your iridescent blue magic enters the target’s body and afflicts their soul, making them momentarily dazed as their eyes glaze over.

Radiant

A holy light shines from the skies to harm your target, regardless of time of day or obstructions

A halo of radiant energy surrounds your head and blinds the target as they gaze upon it

Enemies that aren’t of your alignment hear the whispers of your deity moments before being enveloped in a blinding white light

The foe’s eyes and mouth emit warm light and they howl in pain

A blade of radiant energy slashes through the victim, leaving a trail of blinking motes of light in its wake

The enemy’s skin blisters from the raw positive energy surging through them

So essentially this whole post was a creative writing assignment for myself, but I hope that it gives you guys new creative ideas for new spells or new ways to describe existing spells! They don’t much affect the mechanics of the spell at all, so most DMs I suspect will be fine with most of these descriptions if you want your character to cast spells a certain way.

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