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kazvha · 4 months

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WHAT THE GENSHIN BOYS SMELL LIKE

Including: Albedo, Alhaitham, Ayato, Baizhu, Cyno, Dainsleif, Diluc, Freminet, Gaming, Gorou, Heizou, Itto, Kaeya, Kaveh, Kazuha, Lyney, Neuvillette, Tartaglia, Thoma, Tighnari, Venti, Wanderer, Wriothesley, Xiao, Zhongli

Notes: These are just personal headcanons, don't take these too seriously🥴 Enjoy!!💛

ALBEDO

• I think he smells like nothing most of the time

• You only feel cold air when you stand next to him because he's in Dragonspine a lot

• Subtle notes of charcoal which he uses as an art tool or of strong chemicals cling onto him on some days

ALHAITHAM

• I also don't think he smells like anything on most days, maybe only like the fresh clothes he's wearing

• Though he has a faint scent of coconut to him. It could be the shampoo or the skin care products he's using, but it's mostly because of his body lotion

AYATO

• His hair always smells like the shampoo he uses. So sugary and sweet, like vanilla cake or bubblegum

• But for his body and clothes he uses expensive clean and powdery fragrances

• Quite the combo, I must say💀 Strange, just like his taste in food

BAIZHU

• Smells like expensive bar soap. A mix of aloe vera and ginger

• Also smells kinda sour because of the herbs he works with

CYNO

• Smells like pure white musk which smells great

• But it can be quite intense on some days when he decides to go overboard with his sprays

• He's sweating at the end of the day but the smell is subtle

DAINSLEIF

• He smells like the environment he was in. Often it's nature. Every now and then he smells like the rain too

• Also smells kinda dusty, like that basement smell you know? People either love it or hate it.

DILUC

• He smells warm and homely. Notes of cedar, sandalwood, or cinnamon

• But you'd have to stand really close to him to smell anything, his coat kinda dulls the scent

• Of course, he always smells like the vineyard and grapes during the harvest

FREMINET

• Smells fresh like bar soap. It's almost unnoticeable. It has a light scent of baby powder

• His clothes smell like chamomile because of the fabric softener he uses

GAMING

• This fella smells like cocoa butter because he uses it as body lotion

• I can also imagine that he carries an aroma of caramel/burnt sugar

• Bro eats so much dim sum, he often smells like the food he ate

GOROU

• I don't think he has a particular scent

• But his home/room smells like cinnamon, cloves, and oranges. The scent kinda rubs off on him

HEIZOU

• He wears body mists with floral notes. His favorites are maybe roses, lavender, or honeysuckle

• He likes to keep a little lavender sachet in his closet, so his clothes also smell like flowers

ITTO

• Idk, he probably smells like someone who's outside a lot. He has that outside smell, you know what I mean?

• He probably wears a musky fragrance, but it usually mixes with his sweat

KAEYA

• My bro is using all sorts of Arabian oils and fragrances. He has some with the notes of oud, musk, amber, and much more. Kaeya has a whole collection

• He smells divine and he knows it because people compliment him every day

• But like Venti, he drinks a lot, so his scent mixes with the wine odor

KAVEH

• Kaveh likes to wear fruity, tropical fragrances because he's always craving chilled fruits, especially on days that are hotter than usual.

• They also remind him of the days on which he sat in front of his house with his parents and ate watermelons

• Also has an alcohol odor sometimes like his fellas in Mondstadt

KAZUHA

• He uses a fabric softener because he likes his clothes to be extra comfortable. That's why he often smells like fresh laundry

• Because he spends a lot of his free time in nature, he probably also smells like grass or firewood

LYNEY

• Berries. He always smells like berries.

• He won't tell you what his secret is

• You guess every product he uses has the scent of berries. His bodywash, his shampoo, his body lotion, his deodorant, his fabric softener, the candle in his room, his lip balm, etc. Even his toothpaste...

NEUVILLETTE

• This sir smells like the ocean. Like the sea breeze. Like water itself.

• Yeah, he likes expensive-smelling aquatic colognes. Though occasionally he also uses citrusy perfumes

TARTAGLIA

• Something tells me that he either smells like expensive aquatic fragrances

• Or he smells like an old lady mixed with the aroma of nature, grass, firewood, animals, etc.

THOMA

• He probably likes to wear sweet scents like tonka bean and honey

• Or even perfumes with fruity notes like peach or pear

TIGHNARI

• You can't tell me this guy doesn't smell like herbs, plants, flowers and stuff

• Idk, when I think of him I think of eucalyptus

VENTI

• He would smell quite fresh and idk, breezy?

• Like a fresh breath of air in spring if you know what I mean

• But since he's drunk most of the time the overbearing odor of wine sticks to him

WANDERER

• Nahida gifted him a citrus perfume and he has been using it ever since

• He likes bitter smells too, so he bought himself bitter perfumes with bergamot, bitter orange, and grapefruit notes

WRIOTHESLEY

• I think he wears a perfume which has woody, earthy notes. Sometimes he has a fresh minty smell to him too

• When he fights the scents obviously mix with his sweat

• I also think a light scent of motor oil sticks to him

XIAO

• Most of the days he smells literally like nothing, or sweat. It's not overbearing though

• But there are some days on which he smells super sweet, like vanilla, cotton candy, a baked treat or something

• It's either because he ate those things or because he has body sprays with these scents. He won't tell you

ZHONGLI

• If you're standing close to him, you'll smell his pleasant cologne scent

• It could be musky or woody, but he usually wears floral scents like osmanthus

• His scent mixes with the aroma of tea leaves or herbs which he gets from wandering in the market and drinking tea the whole day

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jamietwat · 10 months

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Roy being offended that Nate doesn’t realize his shirt is dark heather charcoal and not black is the EXACT same vibe as Jamie being upset that people think his hair is blond instead of walnut mist but Roy would have a meltdown if anyone dared to point that out to him

#He’s so judgy about Jamie like he’s not the exact same genre of stupidly offended over people not using a special name for the colour #Roy Kent #Jamie Tartt #Ted Lasso #RoyJamie #Mine

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azsazz · 4 months

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Midnight Muse (Part 15)

Azriel x Reader [Art School AU]

Summary: You and your best friend Feyre have just moved into a new apartment for your sophomore year of college at art school. What you didn't know when you signed the lease is that you'd be living next to three rowdy boys.

Warnings: Mentions of throwing up, doesn't actually happen.

Word Count: 4,008

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10] [Part 11] [Part 12] [Part 13] [Part 14] [Masterlist]

Notes: ENJOY. Also, someone plz tell me they got tagged this time 😭

_________________________________________

Everything fucking hurts.

Your head is throbbing like someone is repeatedly hitting you with a hammer. You can’t even open your eyes because the dots of light in your vision are swimming in circles, and you’re pretty sure if you crack your eyes open and squint into the room you’ll surely lose the contents of your stomach, which is still mostly alcohol from last night.

You groan in agony because it’s the only thing you can do. Curling in further on yourself, you tug the covers up over your head, trying to block as much of the sun, creeping steadily in through the windows, as you can.

A deep inhale to try and ease your stomach brings along the scent of freshness; like night-chilled mist and cedar. The smell is so perfectly balanced, familiar and fresh in your aching lungs that it almost lulls you back to sleep. It’s effortlessly masculine and with another luxurious inhale, your brain connects the scent to its familiarity. It’s the same as the soap you’d used when you were forced to stay the night at the apartment next door, while Feyre and Rhysand had been having their public nudy show in your living room.

You want to snuggle into it, wallow in its comfort all day, but your mind is quickly catching up to you, running that specific thought back a second time, but slower.

It smells like the same soap you’d used when you were at Azriel’s apartment after the rainstorm.

Your eyes snap open and your body jolts into an upright position that makes your stomach roil, shoving your head down between your knees.

Fuck. You drank way too much last night.

You blink away the bleariness, the dizziness from your vision, staring down at your lap. You’re still wearing the clothes you’d ambled over to Cassian’s party in, and the fabric sticks to your skin uncomfortably. You feel like shit all around, sick from the alcohol, dirty from the night spent dancing and sweating, and you’re pretty sure your breath smells like you’d licked the floor of the local dive bar.

Another blink brings the sheets into focus, certainly ones that are not yours. These are a deep charcoal color, softer and smoother than anything you’ve ever touched. The thread count must be in the thousands. The mattress beneath your aching body feels like a cloud, and all of the effort that went into curating such a lovely bed surely shouldn’t be wasted.

You’re impressed for all of a few seconds until you lift your head and realize where you are.

Azriel’s room.

It’s easy to tell because your memories of last night slowly roll in like flipping through pages of your sketchbook.

“Look,” Cassian grunts as you stumble again and he has to put you on your feet again. He’s faring slightly better than you right now, but only because there are women to flirt with. “I know our friendship is still kind of new, but if you keep hanging all over me like this you’re going to scare away the ladies.”

You can’t help but to laugh. It feels good, so good that your chest aches with it. Your cheeks are red with drink, and Cassian hasn’t ever seen you grinning so much.

It kind of scares him.

“Where are your keys?” he continues, his hands warm on your hips where he’s trying to keep you from falling flat on your face. Maybe that last shot you’d taken together had been one too many. “Can I pat down your pockets?”

“I know you wanna feel me up, Cass,” you slur playfully, and his name sounds snake-like, with the way you drag out the S.

“Of course I do, (Y/N), any man would be stupid not to want you,” he comments but his words don’t register because the floor is slipping out from under your feet again.

“Feyre has the keys,” you hiccup. Then, “Are we on a roller coaster? The room is spinning.”

Cassian curses, poking his head out of the crowd to search for your missing roommate. She’s with Rhys, no doubt, but he doesn’t see them in the mass of bodies crowding his apartment. What he does see are a lot of disappointed, single women.

He gestures to you and then slices his hand under his chin in a cutting motion, signaling that he’s not with you, even though you’ve wilted against his chest, rubbing your cheek into the soft fabric of his shirt. Cassian watches his message land, their eyes sparkling in intrigue again, and he doesn’t care, he needs to get you somewhere safe so he can take that pretty brunette and her friend to his room.

The safest place in the apartment he knows is Azriel’s room.

“Oh my fucking Gods,” you groan, holding your head when your curse rings in your ears. Of course you’re in Azriel’s room, because you’re fated to end up in situations that will make him hate you even more.

Slowly, you shove the blankets away, slipping your legs over the edge of the bed. The good news is, you feel like you’ve slept for a hundred hours. The other good thing is that you didn’t throw up anywhere in his room that you can see, or smell.

The bad news is that you don’t know where Azriel is.

But at least he’s not currently here to witness you rising from the dead.

Blindly, you reach for you phone, patting across the table next to the bed. In the back of your throat sits a lump that you consciously work to swallow down. Later, you might regret not purging the rest of the sickness from your body, but the last place you want to do that is here, in Azriel’s room. What the fuck did you end up drinking last night? You remember the flaming shots and Cassian throwing out a partygoer who looked awfully familiar.

Then there had been Mor, who had told you all about Rhysand growing up over a few drinks. The longer Cassian had forced the two of you to talk, presumably so he could sneak off to flirt with girls while you were distracted with each other, the more Rhysand’s cousin seemed to relax. Those cutting looks had turned from pinning you to your spot to glaring at any of the girls who came up to the both of you to ask about the hosts of the party.

Mor’s stories had you seeing your roommate’s boyfriend in a different light. And the embarrassing ones were even better. Like the one time they had gone sledding down the slope of Mor’s family home in Colorado. It had been a steep incline and they’d been warned many times not to go down there, but the fresh snow had been all too tantalizing not to.

Their punishment had been to walk back up the hill to the house, and when they were small the trek felt like it was ten thousand steps high. And they had to carry their sleds behind them. Rhysand had thrown up halfway and Mor had gotten sick from the tears of laughter streaming down her face afterwards.

Cassian’s words cut through the smile trying to sluice across your face. Azriel had said something about a date. Your stomach revolts but you don’t know why. The thought of Azriel missing out on one of Cassian’s parties doesn’t seem out of character for the broody man, but going on a date? This is the first you’ve heard about Azriel doing so. You know much more than you’d like to know about his roommates’ sexual lives, but you didn’t think Azriel was even open to going out. You don’t know why you care.

You don’t.

It doesn’t sound as convincing as it may have once been.

He’s ridiculously attractive, so why wouldn’t he be going on dates? He probably has a plethora of phone numbers from girls begging to go out with him. So many that it makes your teeth grind at the thought.

Your fingers connect with your phone and your head throbs at the brightness of your screen, rivaling the sun’s rays spearing through the blinds.

And then you see the time.

“Shit,” you curse, scrambling for the shoes someone had kindly taken off for you. They’re piled at the foot of the bed.

You’re late for class.

Gods, you don’t remember the last time you drank like this. Must have been sometime last year because even with all the wine you’d consumed during your pottery painting with Feyre, Cassian, and Rhysand, you hadn’t felt this badly. This is a next level hangover.

You brace yourself when your hand lands on the doorknob to his room. There’s a lock and it’s flipped shut, so you turn it back carefully, breathing a sigh of relief when the click is quiet.

You freeze in your tracks, breath catching in your throat when you slide the door open.

Azriel is lying on the couch, his body splayed out in a long line. His shirt has risen from where he’s lifted his arm, resting it over his eyes to block the sun coming in through the windows, revealing the cut of his hips. There’s two tattoos painted on the skin that you hadn’t noticed the other night, a pair of feathered wings lining the defining muscle of his hips.

You lick your lips before realizing that in the quiet of the apartment, Azriel is fast asleep. The steady rise and fall of his chest helps give him away. That, and the fact that he’s not snarking at you or shooting daggers in your direction.

It’s your saving grace.

The coffee table shoved in front of the couch is littered with cups and rolling paper wrappers, alcohol spilled across its surface. You have no idea how the glass tabletop has survived the rowdy part unscathed, because you’re pretty sure there was one point in the night where you saw a girl standing on top of it, readying herself to fall into the crowd of people congregated in the living room.

The floor is much the same, and you feel like you’re walking a minefield as you tiptoe around questionable puddles and garbage. The stench of alcohol in the air makes your head spin, your stomach protesting and you press a hand to it, trying to comfort the ache.

You escape the apartment without waking Azriel, breathing a sigh of relief that has the remainders of your final drink swimming up your throat.

You make a run for your apartment next door, and thankfully, Feyre answers your knocking.

You don’t like the knowing look she’s wearing, but she doesn’t pester you while you make a break for the bathroom.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Surprisingly, it doesn’t take you long to get ready for class.

You’d told Feyre to go on ahead without you when she had knocked softly on the door while you had your head in the toilet, but the sound still clanged through your head like a gong. She was going to get coffee with Rhysand before class and asked if you wanted anything, to which you gratefully accepted.

Even though you have plans to meet Lucien at the coffeehouse for a drink, you need something now or you’re afraid that you won’t make it through the day.

As badly as you want to go and be a hermit in bed all day, you don’t want to miss your classes. Alis is bringing in another model and grading what you come up with in class, and you don’t want to be docked points for missing out.

Your other class for the day is Art History, and you need to show up to be able to drink in as much of the different styles of art as possible.

Dressing quickly, your clothes stick to your freshly-showered skin. You shove a baseball cap over your hair because while you had the time to wash your body, your hair had been left neglected until later tonight.

Slinging your backpack over your shoulder, you snag your sketchbook from your desk, shoving all of the loose papers hanging out the edges inside. It’s a haphazard job at best, but you’re already running too late for your liking, and you can organize them later.

Like as you wait for the Gods-awful elevator your apartment building has.

The queasiness in your stomach has gone down but the piece of toast you’d forced yourself to eat threatens to come right back up when you spot Azriel, his own backpack slung over his shoulder, waiting for the elevator.

You can still turn around and hide away, there’s definitely still time to—of course he’s turning around at the sound of your approaching footsteps.

His golden eyes glitter with amusement and you can’t shove away the shiver that slides down your spine like a paint filled brush as he trails you from head to toe.

“Sleep well?” He asks gruffly, and the sound of his voice makes your knees weak. Tripping on your next step, your sketchbook goes flying from your hands, spilling the loose papers you’d just stuffed in there everywhere.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you can hear Azriel curse in surprise, but you feel the hot mortification slicing through your body. There are sketches of his hands fluttering to the ground. Ones you had drawn while working on your last project for Alis’ class, the one where you drew Leonardo’s Study of Hands. Azriel’s had been your inspiration, and there’s sketches of them in all sorts of poses, some more promiscuous than others, and you’re completely fucking mortified.

You drop to your knees, face burning red as you scoop the papers closer to you, praying that he doesn’t see. Azriel’s already crouching down with you, helping gather some of the drawings, and the fact that this is the first time he’s ever seen any of your work is overshadowed by the fact that there’s a piece of thick drawing paper right next to his boot. It’s creased from its fall, half of it turned up at an angle. You can see the wavy lines you’d tried so hard to recreate from memory. If he picks that up and looks at it you will have to transfer schools.

“Don’t touch that,” you almost screech when his fingers close around the edge of the paper. You watch it in slow motion, the clench of his jaw, the way that his eyes flick down to his hands, marred flesh fully on display. Oh Gods, you think you might throw up all over again. He thinks you mean that you don’t want him to touch your things because of his fucking hands. Your throat tightens, heart beating so fast in your chest that you’re sure it’s going to burst through your skin. Quickly, trying to rectify yourself, you plead, “No.” Your voice cracks around the lump forming but you shove past it. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Azriel’s face is tight as he stands. You scramble, collecting your papers into your arms. He towers over you, even standing, and you don’t like the flicker of muscle in his jaw because he’s clenching his teeth so hard.

You don’t like the shadows writhing through the gold of his eyes, molten with anger.

He hands out the papers he’s picked up and an apology is on the tip of your tongue. Reaching out, you’re just about to grasp them, croak out a thank you, when Azriel drops them.

You watch them flutter to the ground again. The elevator dings and the doors squeal open, but you can’t stop staring at the paper on the ground now. You swallow hard, the mortification bubbling into annoyance.

Azriel’s boots twist in your vision and he enters the elevator without another word.

Your eyes prickle but you don’t know why. The breaths you’re releasing through your nose to keep calm are harsh and shaky. Like Azriel’s hands. You need to go to class, and he can fuck off now.

You dip down and snatch the papers from the hall floor, not caring if they get crumpled in your haste. The doors of the elevator begin wheeling shut but you slip through before they can shut completely, trapping you inside with Azriel.

The tiny, metal box that grinds down the elevator shaft is filled to the brim with tension. You can feel the stiffness wafting off of Azriel’s body, though he’s leaning against the wall like he doesn’t have a care in the world, head currently buried in his phone.

Your anger emits in waves, and you feel like you’re drowning in it. What you had said came out the wrong way. You had in no way meant it in the way that you didn’t want his hands touching your work, but the way you’d seen Azriel go preternaturally still, something flash in his eyes, still makes you sick to your stomach. You want to cry, because they’re not tainted in the least. If anything, his hands are the most beautiful hands you’ve ever seen, imperfect yet so, so perfect.

Of course he had retaliated in the way that he did. You would’ve misconstrued the comment as well, but there’s an itch on your side that tells you he didn’t have to react like that, throwing your papers back to the ground. Another misunderstanding between the two of you.

You open your mouth to speak, but there’s a screeching that’s more horrible than it usually is, and the elevator is jerking to a grinding halt.

You stumble a little, and Azriel steadies you before removing his hands just as quickly. His brows are pinched and the lights in the tiny space flicker before going out completely.

“What the fuck?” You question, pitched higher because of your nerves. You’re stuck, the elevator has stopped working and you’re stuck in it with Azriel. “Oh my Gods, we’re trapped!”

Azriel grunts, punching the buttons on the door. An emergency light flickers on, casting the metal box in a low, fluorescent light. Nothing that he’s doing works, and you’re officially beginning to freak out.

You watch Azriel try to pry the doors open, but even with the bulging of his biceps he’s no match for the metal jaws of death.

Throwing a look over his shoulder, he says, “What are you standing around for, princess? Call the fire department or something.”

“Right,” you respond weakly, pulling your attention from his muscular form. The dispatch is nice about it, sending someone your way and all you have to do is stay calm and await assistance. “Thanks, “ you reply to her, hanging up the phone and turning back to Azriel. “So we wait.”

He looks like he wants to ask more questions, but he nods instead, sinking down and making himself comfortable against the wall. Looking up at you expectantly, you sigh, dropping your bag from your shoulder and collapsing to the floor across from him.

His legs are so long they nearly stretch across the entire elevator, and you can’t help but follow the path back to his eyes, glowing as he watches you. You avert your gaze as quickly as possible.

You don’t know how long it will take for the fire department to get here, so you shoot a quick text to Feyre with your predicament, letting her know that you won’t be able to make it to class and to give your coffee away. Then you send a sad emoji because you really, really needed that caffeine.

Across from you, Azriel’s phone buzzes. He reads it, and then his eyes flicker up to yours in a glare.

“Cassian seems to think that this is funny,” he says, and you don’t know why the deep timber of his voice feels like fingers brushing across your skin. “Why did you tell them?”

“I texted Feyre,” you huff defensively. Crossing your arms over your chest, you level him with your own glare. “I don’t control who she tells.”

Azriel rolls his eyes, shutting off his screen.

It’s silent for a long time. There are no sounds coming from outside of the elevator, and you wonder if anyone has even noticed that it’s trapped. The godsdamned thing takes so long to arrive at any floor that you think most patrons take the stairs now, or give in when the elevator of doom never reached their floor.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, mostly to break the silence. Azriel raises a straight brow and you flush. Sheepishly, you continue. “I didn’t mean what I said in the hall like that. I just—I didn’t want you to see my sketches.”

It’s the most you can give him without spilling the truth of exactly what the drawings were.

Azriel’s jaw works, and it looks like he’s contemplating something important, with the way he’s assessing you. Maybe he’s trying to read if you’re telling the truth, if your apology is sincere or not. The intensity of his eyes makes you want to pull your hat down over your own face to hide it from sight.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” He surprises you by asking.

Your lips part in shock. “What?”

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” He asks again, because he doesn't know how he can word the question any differently.

The question throws you. Azriel’s ignored your apology, and instead he’s asking what you’re doing tomorrow night? Has the elevator getting stuck somehow transported you into the Twilight Zone? Is this even really Azriel sitting here with you?

“Um…nothing?” you respond, and he quirks a brow.

“Is that a question or an answer, princess?”

“An answer. I’m doing nothing. Why?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, tipping his head back to rest against the wall, as if he’s contemplating even finishing his question. He looks ever the picture of nonchalance, but what you can’t see is the way he’s curling his fingers to stop their trembling, the rapid beating of his heart.

“I’m having an exhibition tomorrow night. Would you like to join me?”

What? You’re even more dumbfounded now than if that had been the end of the conversation. An exhibition? Tomorrow night? And he’s asking you of all people?

“Who are you and what have you done with my douchebag neighbor?” you ask, shifting in your spot.

A wry smile cracks his mouth and it makes your heart flutter. “Still here, princess.”

Your mouth twists sourly at the nickname. “Let me get this straight. You want me to go to an exhibition with you tomorrow night?”

“Yes,” Azriel nods, agreeing with the echo of his words you’ve just replayed back to him.

“Why don’t you ask your roommates to go with you?”

“They don’t know about it.”

Huh. You don’t know why Azriel wouldn’t invite Cassian or Rhysand to an exhibition he’s having. Well, you could see Cassian wreaking havoc and drinking too much champagne, but Rhys? It seems like the perfect spot for someone like him.

You mull it over, analyzing him. Azriel waits patiently as you study his eyes. The gold is bright under these lights, looking like two golden bars of sun. He’s never been easy to read, and even right now, as you’re trying with all of your might, you can’t find any flicker of anything that tells you this may be a joke.

You tut, crossing your arms over your chest to stop yourself from wringing your fingers in your lap. “Why me?”

“No one better to go with than someone I’m not trying to impress,” Azriel answers seriously. And, he has a point there. You won’t have to hold back from telling him your honest opinion of his work.

You hope that he’s terrible at art, but you have a feeling he’s anything but.

“That doesn’t give me a lot of time to find something to wear.”

His eyes flash and you wish you knew why.

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s not a no.”

Azriel nods, and that’s that. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eight, then.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Midnight Muse Taglist: @going-through-shit @honeycriess @natashachelsea @thisisew @kennedy-brooke @cat-or-kitten @sourapplex @magical-mischief-makers @reiincarnatiion @ccucumbers @secret-ly-here @throneofsmut @cami26cami @torchbearerkyle @a-frog-with-a-laptop @sevikas-whore @endless-worldss @vellichor01 @bangtans-jagiya @kalulakunundrum @pinksmellslikelove @sakurafrost3-blog @imxnotxhere @bookishbroadwaybish @justdreamstars @i-am-infinite @whichwitchisthebitch @i-am-a-lost-girl16 @sia-r

If you are not being tagged, please make sure that your account can be tagged, you can do this by going to “account settings -> general settings -> mentions -> who can mention (your username)”

#midnight muse #tattoo artist!azriel #artist!azriel #art school au #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel/reader #azriel au

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colorfuldragons · 7 months

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halloween special: vocaloid characters, but as flight rising dragons

𝟣. hatsune miku: charcoal/robin/fuchsia

2. kagamine rin & len: silver/banana/white

3. megurine luka: oilslick/rose/metals

4. gumi megpoid: grapefruit/pear/banana [left] || grapefruit/pear/pear [right]

i couldnt decide which gumi scry/outfit looked better, so i figured id just include both!

5. kaito: ice/blue/grapefruit

6. meiko: berry/brown/cream

7. kamui gakupo: ice/mist/turquoise

#flight rising #scrying workshop #vocaloid #hatsune miku #kagamine rin #kagamine len #megurine luka #gumi megpoid #kaito vocaloid #meiko vocaloid #kamui gakupo #using the original art for all of them except kaito and meiko #bc thats what im more familiar with + i prefer the older outfits #i havent listened to much vocaloid since middle/highschool but when i saw the sandsurge augment tert #i was like omg that would be perfect for miku #anyway thats all the vocaloids im gonna scry. that took way too long #fandom scries #dressing room

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hisui-dreamer · 2 months

Note

Okay I spent a while thinking of flowers and decided that I'd rather be simple, and give Jamil a bouquet of Gladiolus and Morning Glory based on our birth months ^^ (also, a thought- there's no reason for these same flowers from our world to exist in TW, maybe similar looking ones, but not the same. So imagine prefect cultivating flowers to look like flowers they know, specifically for their beloved 😭💕)

clandestine meetings and longing stares

Pairing: Jamil Viper x gn!reader

Synopsis: your love for each other was never allowed, but that never stopped your feelings for each other

Tags: secrets relationship, pining, fluff, reader is not yuu

Word count: 1k+

Notes: so sorry this took so long kirexa!! my assignments put me in an a really bad slump,,, i hope you'll like the direction i took for the flowers hehe <3

Masterlist

flowers of choice:

gladiolus: secret meeting

morning glory: reunion of lovers

The gardens of the Asim estate hold secrets woven into their very essence, secrets that only unveiled themselves beneath the soft shroud of night.

Tonight, like many nights before, you tread the familiar path, the same path you’ve always walked with your heart pounding with anticipation. With bare feet, you move briskly, aware of each step, careful not to disrupt the delicate silence of the night.

Anticipation and adrenaline run through your veins like wildfire, fuelling your steps as you ventured deeper into the heart of the gardens. The moon casts its ethereal glow upon the landscape, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. Each rustle of leaves, each whisper of the wind, seems to beckon you forward, urging you to hasten your pace.

Arriving at the secluded alcove, your heart soars with elation as you behold Jamil standing amidst the ethereal glow of the moon. His silhouette seems sculpted by the soft radiance, a vision of serenity amidst the night's embrace.

"Jamil," you breathe his name like a prayer, relief flooding through you at the sight of him.

"Ya amar," his voice, soft as a breeze, wraps around you like a comforting embrace.

In mere moments, you find yourselves entwined once again. You melt into his embrace, his touch enveloping you in a comforting warmth, a sensation that instantly makes you feel at home.

Your lips meet in a tender kiss, a silent symphony of emotions cascading between you, conveying depths of love that words could never adequately express. In the stolen moment, you allow yourself to forget the rigid boundaries imposed by your stations in life, the weight of your familial expectations, and simply exist in the blissful sanctuary of Jamil's arms.

All the weariness of weeks spent apart dissipates like mist under the morning sun, replaced by a sense of wholeness that only his presence can provide. As you reluctantly pull back, your breaths mingling in the cool night air, your foreheads pressed together in a silent affirmation of your connection.

"I've missed you," Jamil confesses, his words a balm to the ache in your own heart.

"And I, you," you reply, reaching out to cup his face, your fingertips tracing the contours of his features as if committing them to memory. With a soft smile, you pull back slightly from his embrace, gazing into his charcoal-grey eyes with tender curiosity. "Tell me," you urge gently, your voice barely more than a whisper in the tranquil night air. "How has school been? Are you adjusting well to the second year?"

Jamil's expression softens as he meets your gaze, a flicker of warmth dancing in his eyes. "It's been... challenging," he admits, his voice tinged with a hint of wistfulness.

Each word he utters is painted with the hues of his experiences, drawing you into the vivid tapestry of his school life. He begins to weave intricate tales of his persistent classmate, the one who incessantly seeks his assistance in his business ventures, caring for your older brother, ensuring his well-being and academic progress, and many other intriguing classmates.

You listen intently, a soft chuckle escaping your lips from time to time as you find yourself captivated by his tales. His voice, smooth as silk, washes over you like a gentle caress, wrapping you in a cocoon of comfort and familiarity. It's a voice you've always cherished, one that resonates deep within your soul, and in this moment, no recording could ever compare to the warmth of having him speak softly into your ears.

“I feel a lot better now, being back home, with you..." He trails off, a fond smile gracing his lips as he squeezes your hand gently.

In response, you tighten your grip on his hand, leaning in to nuzzle your face into the curve of his neck. "I'm so glad you're back," you murmur softly, your words a whispered prayer of gratitude.

Oh, how you ache for the freedom to love him openly, to cast aside the heavy cloak of secrecy and fear that weighs upon your shoulders. To intertwine your fingers with his in broad daylight, to lose yourself in the depths of his gaze without the lurking shadows of doubt. To bask in the radiant glow of his affection beneath the sun's golden rays, unencumbered by judgment or retribution.

But how could you? Your families, entrenched in generations of tradition, would recoil at the mere suggestion of your union. To reveal your love openly would be to invite catastrophe, risking the fragile harmony of their world. You know all too well they would send Jamil away, far, far away to somewhere you could never reach, before marrying you off to someone else they deem suitable to fully extinguish the flame of your love.

And yet, you still find yourself yearning for more – for the liberation to proclaim your love from the highest rooftops, to unveil the depth of your devotion to the world without hesitation or constraint. It’s not lost on you how attractive your lover is, his captivating dark features that could ensnare anyone’s heart, and his perfect competence in all facets of life. He would make a brilliant husband.

Just the thought of him marrying another, belonging to someone else, ignites a fierce flame within your soul. The thought of him caring for another sets your heart ablaze with an intensity you cannot ignore. You find yourself holding him tighter, as if by sheer force of will, you could keep him tethered to you.

“Jamil?”

"Hm?" he paused, placing tender kisses into your hair.

"How much longer?" you murmured into his neck, the words carrying the weight of your shared longing, your shared struggle.

He didn't need you to elaborate. Jamil understood the depth of your question, the ache that echoed through every syllable. How much longer must your love remain hidden, relegated to stolen moments beneath the cloak of night, until he could proudly declare to the world that you belonged to him?

"... I don't know, ya amar," he replied, his arms tightening around you.

Masterlist

if you liked this post, don't forget to reblog!

#✧2k! blossoming bouquets✦#twstnexus #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland jamil #jamil viper #jamil viper x reader #jamil viper x mc #twst jamil viper #twst jamil viper x reader #twst jamil #twst jamil x reader

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erikatsu · 1 year

Text

RAINY DAYS + GENSHIN MEN

❍ PAIRINGS: Alhaitham, Dainsleif, Kaveh, Xiao, Cyno + GN!Reader (separate)

❍ WARNINGS: Individual if necessary. SFW, but minors don't follow. this is kinda all over the place.

❍ NOTE: this is my first time writing xiao & cyno. i cannot believe it.

ALHAITHAM

warnings: implied established relationship

If there was one thing Alhaitham hated more than eating from a bowl while trying to read, it was the rain. More specifically, it was going out in it. Today was one of those days, where it couldn't be avoided after leaving work to go home. Even though his walk was short, it still annoyed him every time a drop of water hit his skin.

But, coming home to you made that short walk in the weather worth it. Not that he would voice it out loud, but seeing you tucked into the couch with a blanket around your shoulders and you nose in a book as soon as he walked in brightened his mood. He'll pause for a moment in the doorway, soaking in your appearance before slipping down the hall to get dried off.

Once he changes into some comfier clothes, he'll sit down beside you, gently taking the book from your hands. He makes a face when he realizes its the latest light novel shipped in from Inazuma, which is something he found you reading a lot. While he didn't much care for fantasy, he did suppose exercising the human imagination did have its benefits. Regardless of his opinion, he'd pull you closer in his side and start reading out loud from where you had left off.

His voice compliments the sound of the falling rain, lulling you into a sense of comfort and security, and warmth as you get lost in his sound.

DAINSLEIF

warnings: angst, reader is implied to be royal and no longer around (take that however you want).

The first rain after the fall of was not a beacon of hope to Dainsleif. It was just a reminder that the sun shining after wasn't what he wanted to see. He craved the moon, and it's eternal shine. He craved you, and they way your skin glowed in its light.

The rain brought him back to a time when Khaenri'ah still stood strong in all its glory– a time when you were still around. He could recall countless nights where the two of you would stand in the open halls of the palace, watching and listening to the rain fall. One arm would be wrapped around you, pulling your back into his chest. He'd kiss the top of your head, thankful for the small amount of time he'd gotten to spend with you that day.

It was one of those moments where he'd forget others existed, feeling like it was just the two of you. There was no heirarchy, nothing keeping you two apart. You and him, together, feeling slight mist coming off the downpour while it washed away aftermath of a long day.

Dainsleif used to love the rain. Now, he stood in it— melancholy, cold, and alone. He'd never enjoy the rain again, because all it did now was remind him of what he'd lost. A painful memory of the loss of you.

KAVEH

warnings: established relationship

Your eyelids were heavy as you dragged your gaze over to your boyfriend. His hands are busy moving across a page, eyes darting up every now and then to make sure he was capturing the scene right. You'd been sitting this way for an hour, the rain tapping against the window almost putting you to sleep.

"Sit still, my love," he'd tell you gently. "I'm almost done."

He wasn't, and you knew that. But, once he finished his sketch he'd come sit beside you, and finish his work with charcoal coloring as you watched. This was always how rainy days went. Impeding weather meant no work for him or you, seeing that you both worked outdoors, even if it was in different fields. You'd have the house to yourselves, just relaxing and doing things you enjoyed while in the presence of the other.

Kaveh loved to use you as his muse, although you did like to tease him and say it was torture. But, you couldn't think of anything more endearing than him spending hours on your portrait, capturing how you looked even with a dreary background like the rain. There was a sort of magic in his art, making you glow and look breathtaking against his chosen canvas.

When he was actually finished, he'd put his creation where he kept the others before curling up under the blankets with you. He'd hold you close, placing a light kiss against your forehead as you dozed off in his arms. Both of you finally allowing the soft tapping of water against the window to sing you both to sleep.

XIAO

warnings: reader is scared of thunderstorms/loud noises. can be seen as platonic or romantic

Your nails anxiously tap against the wooden table in the kitchen of Wangshu Inn, hearing the distant thunder even over the sound of Chef Yanxiao bustling about. The man was always kind enough to let you hang around when the weather turned dark and if Xiao wasn't around. The clanking of pots and pans was easier to listen to than heavy rumbling thunder. You knew you probably weren't rational in your fear, but then again most people thought that way. Except for Xiao. He didn't seem to grasp mortal concepts like that, but you couldn't fault him for it.

"Why didn't you call?" His voice came from behind you— soft with a hint of curiosity... or was it disappointment? It was hard to place, but you were leaning more towards disappointment.

You frowned, knowing he'd been out all morning performing his duties despite no longer being tied to his contract. Calling out for him for a childish fear while he vanquished enemies didn't sit right with you, even if he had told you countless times you could reach out whenever you needed to.

He lightly scoffed, walking over to Chef Yanxiao and briefly speaking to him before coming back with a hot cup of tea. You looked up as he held it out to you, giving him a small smile and a "thanks" in response.

"Just because I don't understand some of your emotions, doesn't mean I can't sense your fear," He told you, the usual gentleness present in his tone. "I'll always be here to protect you, even if what you're afraid of can't actually hurt you."

CYNO

warnings: some hurt + comfort , established relationship

A soft sigh passed your lips as you stared out the window, watching as the people outside rushed to seek shelter from the rain. It had been a week since you'd last seen Cyno, the General Mahamatra and your boyfriend. You knew he was out there, just doing his job, but some days were hard. You had been stressed to the max with your research, your advisor constantly riding you about it and its due date. On top of that, you felt lonely. Sure, Collei and Tighnari stopped by for dinner every now and then but it wasn't the same. You missed Cyno, and nobody's presence felt the same as his.

You pressed a finger against the glass, letting it follow a raindrop down to the pane. No distractions you thought of worked, and you'd tried nearly everything to get your mind off him. Just a few more days, you told yourself, holding back tears. Just a few more days and he'll be back home.

You were lost in chasing the raindrops, missing the front door opening and closing. Cyno frowned when he saw you curled up, pillow tightly pressed against your chest. He knew him leaving was hard on you, but he didn't know just how hard until now. He figured now was not the best time to greet you with a classic joke. Instead he took the pillow from you, setting it off to the side before sitting next to you. He placed a soft kiss against your forehead, causing you to turn and bury your face in his chest.

"Thank Kusunali you're back," you told him, voice muffled by the close proximity. "I've had the worst week."

A soft chuckle left him at your change in mood, his arm wrapping around you. He'd missed you and your rants. One thing he admired most about you was your ability to communicate your troubles, knowing it must have been driving you crazy to keep what was bothering you all bottled up. He gently ran his hand up and down your back , "I'm here now. Tell me all about it."

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sprout-fics · 7 months

Note

Hitman 141 would be TERRIFYING, an entity that ppl only whisper about-ESPECIALLY at the mention of Price, or someone being told to stfu if they do dare to utter his name, ppl keeping their heads down everytime 141 enters a room like they're THAT GOOD

Hitman 141 Headcanons

(Call of Duty Masterlist)

Rating: M Wordcount: 800 Tags: Hitman AU / Mercenary AU, Dark 141 Warnings: Brief descriptions of violence and torture A/N: Thank you for the brainworm anon

They don’t go by any name. There’s no title for their unit.

The living know better than to speak of them

They’re known in the underground only as ‘The Four’

Black paint smears across their gazes, like the hand of the grim reaper has dipped its skeletal fingers in charcoal and tried to blind them

Their eyes gaze forward even so, looking for their next target, their next kill

It’s rare to see any of them, and even rarer to see them all together. When they enter into the secretive enclaves and dens of the world’s finest assassins, a hush falls over the crowd, and you see them grin- knowing that their mere presence invokes fear

They know how to kill men a thousand different ways, they say

There’s no target that’s too large for them

They can disable a government overnight, can sweep in under the cover of darkness and eliminate an entire cabinet in one fell swoop

And yet the depths of their deeds remain entirely unknown, with a finger pressed to lips of their victims before they grow cold

Nobody knows their real names. Those that have tried have failed- and the dead hold their secrets

They do go by names that only the damned dare to whisper

Gaz, their intelligence specialist who leaves no loose ends, who draws secrets from the graves of those who gasp words with their dying breaths

He knows, they whisper, knowing that he has ears everywhere. That even the shadows come to murmur in his ear. His sniper scope finds his targets, and he reads their lips before he fires a killing shot

When he talks to others, his smile is easy, that of a friend. Yet there’s a flicker in his eyes that speaks of a second sight, an ability to bleed words from your mouth before you can stop yourself

“Thanks, mate.” He tells you with a clap to your shoulder, and you watch in dread as he depart, and wonder what have I done?

Soap, their supplier, their demolitions expert, the man who leaves behind only a trail of ash that can’t be traced

He’s the friendliest of them, with his easy going smile and blue eyes. Yet there lurks a darkness in his gaze, a challenge, and you know if you get too close you’ll be incinerated by the flames

He’s rumored to have killed the president of a foreign country- the man dying in a tragic house fire with no discernible cause. They say it was a catastrophe that couldn’t have been stopped

Of course not, not when he created it. He smiled as he watched it burn

Ghost, the assassin, the reaper they say

He fought death, and won, but in his victory his soul is forever held by the grave.

There’s a hundred different stories about his survival. He was lost in the wilderness and killed a bear to steal its pelt. His feet were poured into concrete and he broke his hands cracking himself free. He dug himself from the grave and took the scythe from the reaper to kill his enemies himself

His figure will be the last thing you ever see. There’s not even time to scream

Red drenches his bone white mask, and behind them stare the eyes of a dead man

Then there’s their leader- Price.

Price, they say, for a price must be given for the lives of those who’ve been killed. It’s a steep cost to deal with him and his men, and even steeper to refuse them

Smoke follows him in a mist, chokes the airways of his victims. There’s a brutality to him that’s untold, hardly restrained, witnessed by few who survive only to see him in their nightmares

The others yield to him, defer to his guidance. There’s rumors he’s immortal, has lived many lives but is cursed to roam the earth like Cain, having slain his own blood and now lives in eternal damnation

He tips his hat to the man he leaves hanging upside down from the rafters, leaving him to a slow and painful death even as he begs for mercy

What they don’t know is that his chosen targets are those that lurk in the dark, festering underbelly of the world- whose crimes damn them before they’re even revealed. The violent, the corrupt, the selfish, the takers of the innocent. None live beyond the sight of one of the four- a vision just before the end

They say they were soldiers once, defenders, warriors

Yet the world betrayed them, set their lives ablaze. In the ashes they were reborn, bent on the destruction of those who wronged them

By bathing in the blood of their enemies, they signed their souls for the devil to keep, bestowing upon them an inhumane darkness they wield at their fingertips

And some day, the devil will come to keep them

#tf141 #cod mw2 #soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #captain john price #my writing #headcanons

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divine-misfortune · 29 days

Text

Mushy May, day 1. Cuteness aggression

Rating: Everyone

Words: 1,133

Summary: Dew gets fit for his new uniform with the other water ghouls, and Mist couldn't be more proud of him.

Water ghoul bonding time.

Many thanks to @forlorn-crows for organizing mushy may :^)

“You need to stop wriggling around or you’re going to keep getting pricked,” River warned through clenched teeth, the thin silver pins held between them bobbing as he spoke.

Dew frowned at his reflection in the mirror and then found River's dark gaze staring back at him. His eyes narrowed when Dew dared to heave his shoulders in a sigh, giving the charcoal fabric a bit of a tug to pull it taut around his skinny frame. He wanted to throw his head back and groan, air his frustrations, but knew better than to. Especially when River was equipped with multiple sharp objects, he was dangerous enough unarmed. That didn't stop his tail from lashing to and fro, Dew could hold his tongue but not his tail it seemed.

“I've been standing here for ages, how are you not done?”

“Because I take pride in my work, thank you very much” River bit as Dew's tail knocked against his leg.

Behind him, he watched Lake move to River's side. Oddly gentle as he tucked a strand of inky hair behind River's ear before leaning in to whisper something Dew couldn't quite catch, punctuating whatever comment he'd made with a kiss pressed to his temple. It seemed to force the soured, irritated expression from River's face, and Lake shot him a half grin in the mirror.

“I get it, oh I hate having to play dress form for him too, but we'd have been done ages ago if you could just hold still a little bit. This would go sooo much faster.”

“How's the man supposed to work when you keep squirming like a tadpole?” Mist tutted at him from her place on the couch, and Dew turned to look at her.

If looks could kill.

“You're supposed to be on my side,” his voice pitched into a whine and Mist snickered into the back of her hand. “Maybe if the man hurried up I wouldn't be so restless!” He huffed, shoulders dropping once again.

A sudden sharp prick in his hip caused Dew to yelp and made his posture go rigid. He jerked away from River only to be pulled back so he could properly pin the fabric in place. He tried to hide it by ducking his face down but Dew could see that smirk. A glimpse of shiny white fangs. He hissed between his teeth, silent curses thrown at the two older water ghouls playing innocent as they continued to work.

“Oh that was on purpose you dick!”

“The last five have been on purpose, dear” River said, sort of sweetly, sort of venomous. It was always hard to tell when it came to him.

Mist turned her face away. Forced to in order to hide a proper laugh from her protege and his big sad wet eyes, lest his pout cement itself to his face - permanently sporting the look of a kicked puppy. He had an almost adorable quality to him like this, despite the fact Dew was bigger in stature than her, he looked small. The uniform, still not exactly sized to fit yet, didn't help. Too much fabric on his scrawny frame. Surrounded by two taller, bigger water ghouls, Dew looked dainty in comparison. No more than a guppy.

She remembered the day she was fit for her uniform. To say she wasn't just as restless would be a lie, but she didn't dare to fidget when Delta was the one holding sharp objects. At least he had been more time efficient than River. Mist couldn't exactly blame Dew for moving so much, it was an exciting and daunting moment for him. It had been for all of them.

Traditionally, she would have been the one to fit him for his uniform. Mentors almost always were the ones to do it, a sibling had once compared it to being a graduation of sorts. Mist would have liked to, and it was a bit of a jab at her pride that she couldn't. Her own fault, really. She just never got the hang of the whole sewing thing.

Water had popped in to be part of the moment briefly towards the start, but couldn't stay. He'd tussled Dew's hair as he gave him a once over before departing. Dew still hadn't smoothed any of that pretty silver hair back into place, River hadn't let him lift his arm long enough to do so. Delta was the only water ghoul, former water ghoul, who hadn't made an appearance which stung ever so slightly. More likely than not, Delta was lending himself to Omega. Assisting in Aether's tailoring. At least she hoped that's where he was. He'd been drifting aimlessly a lot more these last few weeks.

Her smile faltered at the thought, and Dew tipped his head to question the sudden change in her expression. Mist shook her head. Silently dismissing whatever concern she'd evoked as she pushed herself to her feet, finally truly taking in the sight of him.

Her face softened, he had an awful habit of making something inside of her melt without trying, and this moment was no different. She stepped close and took his face in both hands, turning him to look at her. Dew's skin was just as cool to the touch as hers, but he felt warmer the longer she held him.

“Oh droplet, look at you,” Mist sighed fondly and his eyes flicked away. He was awful at holding eye contact when he got flustered. “All grown up and about to be on your own.”

“Mist-” Dew mumbled, color warming his cheeks as River and Lake began to snicker.

“What? Can't I be proud of my little shark pup?” She squished his face between both hands, knocking their horns together. “Finally getting to see you through your rite of passage.”

“You're being sappy, it's gross.”

“I think I've earned being sappy!” Mist forcefully shook his head side to side with a huff, “look so handsome in your uniform I could just eat you up.”

“Mist!” He whined, pawing weakly at her. Pink spreading to the tips of his ears. “Stoooop-”

River and Lake's laughter was harder to ignore, adding to his ever growing embarrassment. Mist shot them both a glare before turning her attention back to him. Whiplash, sharp stare becoming gentle. Adoration. He clearly wanted to bury his face in his hands and let the floor open up to swallow him whole. She chuckled and pecked a little kiss to the tip of his nose, pinching one of his reddened cheeks before finally relenting.

“Fine, fine, because you hate letting me have my fun.” Mist waved him off and traded places with the other two ghouls, letting them work to get Dew safely out of the pin-filled cloth with minimal injury.

#IT IS FINALLY MY EXCUSE TO WRITE THE OLD GHOULS MWAHAHAH #void writing #writing #nameless ghouls #mist ghoulette #dewdrop ghoul #river ghoul #lake ghoul #water ghouls #the band ghost #ghost the band #the band ghost fanfiction #ghost bc #mushy may 2024 #mushy may

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sculptorofcrimson · 2 months

Text

Tyrant’s Lullaby

Once upon a time, there was a glorious, terrible man. He built horrors. He built wonders. He brought monsters up from the deep. He took a child from the arms of a horrified, weeping family, and raised him not as a boy but as a general. He took a child and ruined his future, He took a child and made him a king, a pet, a dog. He marched armies over the face of the ravaged earth, and trampled all that did not kneel before the weight of the storm. He burned tundras to ash and shook the mountains until they crumbled, He boiled the seas to mist and the skies to charcoal. And when the scouring was done, and the earth was entombed in ashes, He turned His dreaming, endless glare upon His own.

He strangled the thunder that had bore Him a throne, He sent the golden, the children stolen from their cradles, to plunge down long knives into turned backs raised so fervently before His regard. With their blood they had built Him a kingdom, and with their bones He crowned Himself a throne. And when Terra knelt, cowed, battered, in awe and in fear, He turned His gaze skywards.

And the stars felt His benevolent wrath.

He bore twenty sons, two of them sacrificed, and He unleashed them upon the earth, the skies, the stars. They hunted for Him, they loved Him, they adored Him, yet some had strayed too far from His light, some had gazed upon the man that would be a god with sullen, hungry eyes, doing His bidding, and knowing His wrath. They are those who were there when affection curdled to treachery.

There was no peace among the stars, no mercy, no rest, simply a slow, heartless drowning as the gold claimed them limb by limb, inch by inch, and swallowed them into the endless light.

And then war. Treachery, when the stars themselves were swallowed. When brother turned against brother, and father against son. When the Phoenix cleaved the Gorgon’s head from his shoulders, and the Immortal bashed in the Haunter with a hammer, when the Angel fell to the Traitor and He stained the Palace’s stones red with His son’s blood. When Horus burned, when the Angel shed his wings and the golden were shattered upon the anvil of betrayal, the Father fell to His son.

He was buried upon a rotting throne, screaming hollowly into the fading dark, the stars basking in His rage, His pity and His wrath. He was buried alive in a tomb made from gold, ashen bones ruling a decaying kingdom from the grave, dreaming forever of brighter days. Dreaming of His sons, and how He betrayed them first, how they betrayed Him, how they abandoned His bones. And finally could the golden rest, bathed in the heart of their greatest shame, enshrining the decaying dust of a master they had failed, in an empire He had forsaken.

That man was the Emperor. That corpse is the Emperor, golden, glorious, and decaying just like the slaves.

Do not think your bones different from a slave's. When you rot, your corpse will be indistinguishable from those of your servants.

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love-toxin · 1 year

Text

Retrieval - entry I

plot: after escaping the horrors of Los Iluminados, a piece of your heart is still stuck in that desolate place. you won't truly be able to rest until you find him--or until you put him down like the monster you wish you'd saved him from.

(cws: post-canon divergence, re4make spoilers, yandere!plagas!leon, fem!agent!reader, guns & blunt weapons, blood, gore & injuries, violence, grief, funerals, pining [chapter smut cws: wet dreams, mild choking, possessiveness, unprotected]

wc: 5.3k

(future entries to come! <3)

No matter how much time passes, you're certain this place will always reek of blood and death. It will always be the place that you lost the person most dear to you, and in such a vile, cruel way that it still haunts your darkest nightmares.

It's been awhile since then, but it all still feels the same when you step down from the car and let the door shut with an unapologetic thud. The air hangs heavy and thick with humidity, and although the distant stench of rot is lesser this time around, it still lurks in the background of your senses like a shadow creeping by the windows of a house. The trees hang low and sway gently as you pass them, crows beckoning you deeper into the brush with their croaking trills echoing all around you. Aside from a pitiful line of cautionary police tape strung across an iron gate, even the entryway and the path leading into the village all look exactly as they did weeks ago.

The last time your feet hit the dirt here, only Leon had been your much-needed company in your venture. You'd walked through the mud and ran through the mist together; searching the lodge and being chased into the heart of the village had only been the beginning. His breathing had been the thing to keep you calm then, of all things. Those heavy pants when he scrambled through doors and soft puffs of his chest when it was a touch too quiet; it reminded you that he was alive, and saved you from having to glance over and pray in the seconds between that he wasn't being carved into a bloody stump by a Ganados.

But all that? That was a long time ago. It feels like a lifetime, and yet neither of those timelines are the truth–really, it's barely been a month since you and Leon had been separated, but it still feels like years since you've seen him.

The scent of charcoal pulls you away from the memory of him as you draw close to the circle of houses, your gun out of its holster the moment you cross underneath the main gate. You at least have the sense not to go slinging it around when you hear the crackle of twigs in the underbrush, though the sound that resembles a gasp has you eyeing the forest to your left…just long enough to watch the offending group of birds chitter and take flight suddenly up and away from the trees as you draw close. The policemen that had accompanied you here have long since granted you their goodbyes, their eyes dark and fearful at the sight of this village looming in the distance before they had driven off in a frantic hurry. When you think about it you can't really blame them, not with them knowing the unfortunate fate of the two men they had probably rubbed shoulders with back at the station. Knowing that both of them had been made sacrifice for no better reason than violence and power.

That would've been you and Leon once upon a time, if Umbrella and the virus and everything hadn't screwed it all up and blown it to pieces. Sometimes you daydream about what it could've been like at RPD, but most times it's too painful to even consider and you just end up drowning your sorrows in a bottle of liquor instead. Leon would be admonishing you for dealing with it in that way and he would've been a total hypocrite for it, but he hasn't been here to do so. The thought that he won't ever be again fills you with so much dread you can feel it in each step you take into this dilapidated heap of pig slop and manure.

It's been over a month since you've been here last, about 37 days if you've been marking off your calendar correctly. You had to take into account the retrieval, your hospital stay, and the few days that seemed to meld into each other when you'd slept almost every hour away in recovery, but altogether it totals 37 days since you last stepped foot on this soil. Over five weeks since you last saw Leon, and only a couple days since you gave a eulogy at his funeral. It had all felt fake and pitiful even with you having organized it yourself–most of the people there were the reasons he even came to this disgusting place, all those government agents and well-to-do politicians that ate up yours and Leon's survivor stories and demanded you join the military's special ops. They should be the ones paying the price in the grave, not Leon.

But as you look around now, there really isn't much to speak of in the first place, now that you feel the sense of urgency wane and lower your pistol in the wake of dead silence. Aside from the bullet holes, the crumbled tower, and the blasted-out windows that cake the dirt with glass, there's not many signs that you and Leon had even treaded ground here. It's getting later than you'd like based on the position of that hot, Spanish sun, though. You've got to get moving and quit moping around this ghost town if you want to make any progress on his retrieval before night falls.

This isn't a trip down memory lane, after all. You came here with your own rescue mission in mind; you're here to find Leon's body, and you're prepared to give him the mercy he deserves if your suspicions about his supposed death are correct. Because you can't keep living with that memory of him in your head, that version of Leon burdened with black veins and vermillion eyes and a pained gait as he tried to kill you. When there weren't enough injections of the suppressant to go around, he gave you his own–and when it came time for you to go under the knife, Leon insisted on you and Ashley going first even when he had a death grip on the lever, the Plagas taking over him quick enough that he knew exactly what he was doing. Leon gave his life for you, Ashley, and Luis to live–and you've taken on the job of returning the favour, whether it means dragging him home in a body bag to give him a worthy burial, or putting a bullet in his head and ending the monster you never wanted to see him become.

"La Americana!"

But the moment you take another step to climb over the rubble of the church, a voice shouting from behind you sends a chill rocketing right up your spine. You thought you would only hear it again in your nightmares–but no, as soon as you turn on your heel, your eyes scan over a mob of Ganados shambling right for you. Drooling, bloody, rotting villagers wielding their pitchforks and sickles, and in that momentary panic that freezes you to the ground, a cold feeling erupts inside your chest that you've never experienced before. Acting on base instinct alone you make a mad dash for the house on your right, but you're left skidding to a stop and backing away just as quick when another monster lunges out of the doorway and makes a swipe. You're being cornered, trapped, with nobody left to save you like they did before.

This is wrong. It feels wrong, it sounds wrong, it's all wrong. This is exactly what happened before, but that was a nightmare you fought through and survived. You shouldn't be here again. Why are you here again? Why are you being so stupid to feed yourself to the same monsters that took your Leon from you? Why haven't you learned your lesson? Why?

When the first gets close enough to strike, you barely even register the hot, vile presence of its foul breath on your skin. Your muscles tighten and you swing indiscriminately, the butt of your pistol smashing into its temple with a force you didn't even know you were capable of. The scythe in its hand is halfway to hitting the ground before you're crossing the distance to the second one, movements almost robotic as you empty half your magazine into its forehead and don't stop until you're standing over it. For some reason, the gore and the blood splattering over you doesn't disturb you like it should. It doesn't even feel…real.

You're all to blame for this. This is all your fault.

Whether those thoughts are self-inflicting or self-soothing, they plague your mind in a constant, changing loop as you stagger from villager to villager. There's no other option; either fight or die, because reason won't get you anywhere but closer to your own grave. It's not even worth running at this point because they'll just chase you down, and you want them to just leave you alone more than you even want to live.

Getting hit doesn't feel real. Watching the Ganados choke on metal doesn't feel real. Not even your gun clicking empty and burning hot in your hands feels real, even when your brow furrows and you whip it at the nearest monster with a grunt that sounds more feral than ferocious. It's a slaughter but you can't tell that time has passed, or that you've gained bruises from the beating you've taken, or even that you've been blowing off the faces of people who were probably just people once. It just doesn't matter in that short, fury-driven span of time, not until you have nothing more to attack and you blink yourself awake with a hatchet gripped in your hands, soaked from head to toe in rotting blood.

With one final, blood-curdling scream from the deepest pit of your stomach, you throw your arm down and send the weapon flying across the ground like a tempestuous child. The pain, fury, and grief have been building up inside you for long you've forgotten what it feels like to be free, what it once felt like to laugh away your troubles when they got too big to deal with. Now you've been planning your best friend's funeral on the days you don't drink yourself into a stupor, and nothing matters anymore. This was a stupid idea and all you've done is set yourself up for a bigger, stupider failure than you've already proven you could accomplish. Right now, the best relief would come if you just dropped dead.

….But it doesn't come, even after you've fallen to your knees and sobbed into your hands. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. You count each breath, but each of them are just as heavy and laboured as the last, never slowing or getting shallower. If anything, you feel more alive as your senses come back and you cringe at the blood starting to crust over your skin and clothes. Taking your hands away, all that fills them is a sheen of dark, wine-deep red, splattered with tears that sting just as much as your skin that's been hacked with small, shallow cuts and bruises. As the episode passes, your desire to get up is stronger than your want to just lay down and relinquish your strength.

So you press on. Not for want of something better, but for the simple fact that you have nowhere else to go but forward. You put yourself into this mess, and as you can hear Leon's voice in your head, "You can get yourself out of it."

So you walk. You scoop up your gun from the ground and wipe the blood from the handle with your shirt. You stumble over the chunks of stone and rubble that litter your path, weaving through the half-open doors that haven't leaned right since Leon had first kicked them in or shot them open. You just keep walking until the gate with that familiar symbol comes into view, and upon pushing it open you're met with the sight of a sea of graves and dead grass–and a murder of crows watching you through the tree branches while they await a new body to pick at.

Seeing the church looming over the hilltop is enough to give you a chill. Maybe the graves are helping with that, standing as crooked and crumbling as they were before, but whatever it is about that place just plagues you with a sense of unease. Each step up the hill has you on guard, peeking around to see whether more Ganados will come out–but it's just as eerily quiet as you expected it to be, and you don't even spot much more than the crows until you're past the gate and standing on the front step of the chapel. To your fortune, the door's still unlocked–as you hoped it would be, considering all that you and Leon had to endure to get it open the first time. You'll never forget that feeling of your stomach sinking when you watched him retch up all that blood over the side of the boat, nor the heat of his tight grip as he had grabbed your wrist and whimpered in pain before slipping into unconsciousness on your lap.

Life had been scary enough then, but in some way seeing Leon go through the Plagas infection hit you harder than any other mission you'd gone through…especially since you know now that he would never be cured. He was just so strong in the face of everything, even during Raccoon City, when he truly had no idea what he was doing. He had such a kind heart that he would do anything for anybody. Even if he could be a hardass at times, he was pure.

Thinking about Leon always ends up leading you to memories of his funeral, especially so as your shoulders relax and you step into this church that somewhat resembles the one that housed it. You drop your bag on the nearest pew and let it spill over on to its side, and when your wallet tumbles out, your eyes pass over the picture inside that makes another memory pop into your head.

"This world is undoubtedly worse off without Leon. It won't ever be the same, and I…I'll miss you, Sancho."

Luis hadn't more than dabbed at his eyes at the service, but he'd hugged you so tightly at the reception he could've broken your bones with ease. You sat at a pew just like this one and held your hands between you throughout the eulogies, quiet and empty while Ashley cried her eyes out a few rows ahead. Other than a few close friends from the academy, a couple surviving members of RPD, and a handful of people Leon got to know in the military, the rest of the service was populated by complete strangers to you. Including the president himself, whose hand you openly refused to shake when he approached you with his "condolences". Without Luis there to guide you away to go get some complimentary dinner, you might have told the leader of your country where exactly he could stuff his condolences.

At the very least you can get some healing by actually burying your best friend, you think as you check the perimeter of the church to ensure its security. If you succeed, which you're hoping might actually happen if you can keep the grief and overwhelming anxiety to a minimum.

"Mh?"

Perhaps it's a good sign already, but going unnoticed by you up until now you spot something out of your peripheral that looks out of place here–and when you step up to it to take a look, sitting at the crest of the church where the podium would be, is what looks to be a washbasin that might have come from one of the nearby houses. Peering over the lip it looks to be filled with nothing but clear water…and when you dip a finger in, a sigh escapes you when you feel how warm it is. There's even a towel hanging over the nearest pew that you could've sworn wasn't there earlier, but it's getting harder to see with all the blood caking your eyelashes. And not one to turn away a perfectly good miracle, you're all too happy to strip off your clothes and dunk your head, hair, and limbs into a clean, semi-refreshing bath.

While you scrub the dust, dirt, and dried entrails from your skin, your mind wanders yet again into another world–the one you lived in before, so blissfully unaware of how bad the outcome could truly be. You'd met Leon for the first time at his debriefing in the RPD, when he'd been quietly optimistic with that baby face and a well of enthusiasm that had come out in the strength of his handshake. Marvin introduced you first as his immediate superior because you'd been in that same position before; you had been the rookie from out of town the year prior, and aside from the beaming sense of pride at moving up a peg in the force, you also liked how sweet Leon was.

He'd greeted you with honorifics you didn't need, smiled when you gave him a tour, and not once did he ever scoff or roll his eyes when you were giving him advice before he had even started. You noticed him because he was new, but also because he respected you and pretty much everyone else with barely any hesitation. In his plainclothes surrounded by decorated officers he treated everyone he met like a friend, and although Marvin had expressed concern about him being a little naive once he went home, you remember that moment as you watched him get into his car, and you remember thinking that the world–and Raccoon City–needed more people like that. You liked to think that you always knew he was a hero at heart.

Your brow softens as the water starts running clear down your body, the basin filled with blood and muck that you've been scrubbing off your skin until it's raw. The tiredness is setting in now from the plane ride and the tension, and all you want to do is sleep–but a sudden start and pain flooding through your abdomen has you alert and gripping the edge of the basin. Easing your chest out of the way to look down, you watch in frustrated horror as your fingers brush by the opening of a much more significant wound than the scrapes and bruises just beneath your breast down towards your stomach. At only about a half inch wide and five or more inches long the cut isn't severe, it doesn't even seem like it's been touched by the filth you've been doused in as you pour a little more water over it. But now that you've noticed it the sting is much more palpable, and with no desire to have it infected and die a slow death you fumble for your pitiful first aid kit and work away at closing the wound. Strips of medical tape and gauze are about all you can do, though the process is slow and awkward with you trying not to stretch or strain it too much for it to hurt worse. Just your luck. It's only the first day. You just count yourself fortunate that Leon isn't here to see this because you know he'd both fuss over you and tease you to no end…although you do find yourself glancing around more as you fix yourself up, your mind on high alert while you're in this state of vulnerability. For some reason you do feel watched, although with no sounds or odd noises to tip you off you're tempted to assume you're relatively safe. You can only hope that you are, because rarely have you ever been so sluggish and desperate for rest than you feel right now and you'd rather not wake up with an axe in your skull.

When you're done and with your clothes still hanging wet over the pew, you've got little choice but to tug on an old shirt and thin shorts from the bottom of your bag, the spare set of clothes an absolute emergency item that you're glad you at least brought this time. The summer heat's still strong so hopefully it doesn't get too cold in the night, the darkness of which you can spot creeping over the horizon through the stained glass windows. Luckily for you the layout is fairly simple and you'd already rediscovered the upstairs room where Ashley had been kept in your search, so after pushing the pews with a grunt to block the doors, low windows, and finally the ladder to the second floor, you take your gathered things inside and set up on the thin, downy cover that will have to do as a mattress for tonight. You've certainly slept in worse, less secure places than this anyways.

But before you allow yourself the chance to drift off, your fingers stretch for your wallet again that you'd tucked back into your bag, the picture greeting you once more when you flip it open and slide it out. Leon's beaming face smiles back at you, and your gentle self stands beside him six years younger in front of the RPD's grand foyer statue. Him in his jacket and you in your uniform, waving and grinning at the camera with his arm around you like nothing bad ever existed in the world. You knew in your heart that day would be the start of something different, but just how different wouldn't occur to you until it was too late. The picture sits tightly in your hand for immeasurable moments that melt into one another, up until your eyes finally flutter closed and you drift off in neverending silence.

When sleep finally comes, so do the dreams. And in them, you get to see Leon in a much more visceral way than the pictures on your desk or the smell of cologne on his jacket. The walls behind you look to be the same as the room you'd fallen asleep in, but in smooth fashion a hand cups your chin and pulls your gaze back from the floor to the one who wants it the most.

Leon looms above you on bended knees, his chest bare and hair tousled as if he'd yanked off his shirt in a hurry–he's always like that, always in a rush to begin only to take his sweet, agonizing time when he's actually performing. His lips look bitten and flushed like he's been kissing you already, but maybe that's because he's been nibbling on it like he is now out of shyness, or maybe embarrassment.

"I missed you." Your voice comes out muffled as it usually does, and Leon shifts around, his hands dwarfing your knees in comparison as he moves them to fit himself between them.

"I'm right here, sweetheart." His smile lights up your world with a glow, he makes it brighter even though a shadow still casts itself over half his face from the lantern on the other side of the room. "I'm always here for you."

But you died. Those words play on your lips, but you don't allow them to slip out. If you do, the dream may end here and now, and you can't afford to let such a precious moment of affection pass you by. "I love you, Leon." You whimper instead, and he gasps with pure, undiluted need as he makes that push inside you that he's been waiting for all night–that soft, wet heat welcoming his stiff self in like it always does and always will. The pressure stings at first, it beats hard in your chest and between your legs where he lies, but it's a forgiving ache and not a dull pain. When Leon kisses you again, it all disappears just as quickly–even quicker when he eventually starts to move.

"I love you more. I'll always love you, even after you're gone." He whispers against your lips, breathing his sentiment in and capturing yours on every exhale back. His fingertips leave trails of searing desire up your flesh, warm hands guiding your arms higher to rest around his neck and keep him as close as you can. You wouldn't need to, you don't have to, but he wants to be closer and you know you do too. Being inside you isn't enough for him, he needs you to want him, to desire him so deeply you can't fathom being apart. And you do, you always do, but you never seem to manage saying it out loud even in the throes of a perverse dream…but he can.

"I'll love you even if you leave me again. I'll fuck you so good you don't even think of doing it to me." Your lover pants, his pace picking up while your pleasure jumbles up into a heated, twisted mess. It seems like he's just entered you but at the same time it feels long, like you've been at his mercy for hours or days on end and the pressure keeps mounting higher and higher too fast. These fantasies usually end too soon for your liking but that's always because you're the one folding first, legs shaking and nails digging blunt marks into his arms when he makes you see stars. You're getting close to that mark now, yet you've barely even started.

Leon suddenly holds his hand up to your throat, fingers splayed over your delicate neck to squeeze it with a growl low in his throat. "Don't ever leave me again. Promise me." At your absent reply he tightens his grip harder, and the stars in your eyes have you choking out an answer that isn't good enough. "Promise me I'm the only one. Swear on your life you won't choose him over me."

"I-I promise! Leon, p-please, I promise! I-I'm coming to–c-cumming, Lee!" You cry, overwhelmed as you look up with wet, hazy eyes at the man you've always loved. The black veins start spreading across his golden skin, and his own gaze grows cold and dark before a sudden pulse turns his irises to a bright, piercing red. The killing blow comes with a chuckle as his lips curl into a sinister smirk, and his hips plummet down to meet yours in a cacophony of sounds that will echo in your mind for days on end, just before he stills and a shudder rolls through his body. As tight as he says you are, he never fails to press himself deep enough that he releases that pent-up desire as close to your womb as possible.

"Mine. All mine. You promised."

In the next moment of bliss settling in and a groan erupting from his throat, the world blots out into darkness and you jolt up from the floor with a start.

"Shit!"

The curse just flies from your mouth on instinct, the heat having disappeared and the pressure of a body on top of you making way for cold, aching emptiness. An uncomfortably warm, sticky wetness pooled between your legs has your attention immediately, but you've got no choice but to cringe and ignore the discomfort for now. Your breathing labours in your chest for minutes upon strained minutes before eventually quieting, and only then do you groan and shift in your spot to glance at the time just to remember that you aren't in your bed nor at home. As you would hope not, considering how stiff your back is from sleeping on the ground.

Without windows it's impossible to tell just how long you've slept, and a glance around the empty room offers no clues either. So when you manage to get up and stretch, the only thing you notice fluttering down from where you'd let go of it is that same photo of yourself and Leon–with that dream in the back of your head, however, you can't bring yourself to look at him and shove it back into the plastic holder in your wallet.

Still, with that being a normal practice for you being around the person you've been harbouring feelings for, that dream in itself was stranger than most. The last thing you want is to dwell on it right this minute, but Leon's words still echo in your head regardless; what did he mean when he spoke those words? Did they have a shred of truth to them, or were they just the frantic machinations of your brain still trying to make sense of his death?

Either way, you don't really want to know. You just want to leave this place altogether–but with that option out the window, the least you can do is leave this church and get some fresh air. With the skill and briskness of a trained agent, you gather your things and briskly slip on your newly-dried clothes downstairs, a few bites of a protein bar all you need to sustain you at least for a couple hours.

Upon pushing on the heavy entrance doors, the crack of light between them opens up into a bright horizon with the sun beating down on the soil, the burst of morning light blinding you temporarily as you take those first few steps outside. It's just long enough for your surroundings to come into focus that you get a whiff of the humid air–and in seconds your nose scrunches up, the foul stench of decay pervading your senses in the instant that it takes for you to take a look around.

Lying in droves around the cemetery, piles at the bottom of the hill, and strung in pieces all around your feet, are the bodies of the Ganados. The sight of it strickens you immediately with shock, but then nauseates you to the point of clutching your mouth to keep what little food you brought from coming back up.

The corpses have been strewn around like some sort of macabre dollhouse; lying in pieces splayed every which way, facedown in the grave dirt or strung up in the trees for the crows to peck at. Some have been gutted and others dismembered. A few have their heads missing. Intestines and gore lie in bloody wake around the site of the massacre, sticking to the soles of your boots from one step into the aftermath, and you want to vomit. God, how can you not want to vomit at the sight of it all? What god could be so cruel, even to monsters?

It's sickening to the point of panic–run, you just want to turn tail and run far, far away, but your destination hasn't been decided quite yet. Ideally you would have sat down with your map and plotted it out, found your next objective, maybe would've scoped out the closest place to rest once you're finished your search. You would've been thorough and confident like any rescuer should be.

But the cowardice in your heart screams louder than courage. In a moment, you're rushing down the path and running out the gate, frantic in shoving it open just enough to slide yourself through but too disturbed to look back towards the carnage. In seconds the church is far behind you, and in a matter of minutes you're on a new path you haven't yet considered the danger of.

All you know is that you want out of this place, you want to go home–even though home has been within arm's reach since you got here. It's never too far away, especially when you inevitably follow the road that leads right towards that infamous castle gate, and your destiny.

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #plagas!leon kennedy #plagas!leon kennedy x reader #yandere leon kennedy #yandere leon kennedy x reader #re4make #resident evil #resident evil 4 #spicy writing #ellie writes #series: retrieval #<- see this tag for chapter updates!#5k

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amara-among-the-stars · 5 months

Note

Do any of the ghouls/ghoulettes have any hobbies outside of band practice? I'm curious to know your thoughts!

-🪸

THEY DO!! I'm so glad u asked me Coral.

Dew - he LOVES slack lining. The fam does not get how he keeps his balance!! Or some times he'll do tight rope walking as well. And he's oddly good at tumbling/gymnastics

Aether - this bitch KNITS. The infirmary is stocked with cute baby blankets and hats and mittens. Omega once told him to slow down. Aether said no bc how else is he gonna IMPROVE CMON OMEGA

Mountain - gardening but he also has his massage therapist license and loves giving his family nice massages. Especially Copia who is a stressed man. Mountain also likes yoga.

Swiss - very ADHD HOWEVER!!! This ghoul LOVES drawing. Either digital art or charcoal art ect. If he can draw it he'll try to! He has many notebooks filled with drawings

Rain - he loves to bake and cook! Hes always creating new recipes for the family to try out. Phaeon is usually is taste tester. Sometimes Rain gets Dew to also be a taste tester but it usually ends with Dew making out with Rain bc he thinks Rain baking/cooking is cute (thats a story for another time)

Phaeon - He got hooked into video gaming. Sunny and Dew set up his stream stuff up after tour. He will stream on whatever platform is the most popular. Has a small but mighty streaming community. Loves playing red dead redemption 2 and dead by daylight and horror games. His chat will try and jump scare him. He does stream un glamoured but his community thinks its just a costume and Sister Imperator and Copia let him get away with it.

Aurora - she loves to make jewelry! AND she loves make up! Will film GRWM videos and talk about the latest make up trends. Shes also into SFX make up so when she does un glamor, she pretends her horns and fangs are fake depending on the SFX Look shes doing! Like Phaeon, Sister Imperator and Copia let her get away with being un glamoured at times due to the SFX parts!

Cumulus - she writes is her free time! And will do cross stitching! It helps calms her down along with crocheting. She makes gifts for everyone and they adore it!

Cirrus - PHOTOGRAPHY!!! She does a lot of nature photography and has a cute lil website for her photos that people can get as prints! She also helps with the ministry's newsletter and does also do like a "day in the life" type photos! Theres many candids of Dew slackling, Swiss drawing, cumulus cross stitching ect ect

Sunshine - now that shes retired she does a lot of glass making! The siblings and the papas love it. She made Primo some really cool cups and stuff :)!!

Mist & Ifrit have started wine making after they retired. They get the fruits and ect from Mountain or Primo. Its a great side hustle tbh! And now Terzo doesnt spend a shit ton of money on mediocre wine!! Huzzah!!

Alpha - woodburning! He makes a lot of signs. He also really likes karate. Dont... ask... its a thing okay? Omega teases him for it lovingly at times. He did try pole dancing... but he broke the pole and his ankle... so Omega and Terzo put an end to the pole dancing.

Omega - CALLIGRAPHY!! He LOVES it. He likes writing fancy and likes to try out different calligraphy pens! Sometimes he gets together with Cirrus for Siblings of sin who get married and he'll do the wedding invitations while Cirrus does the photography!

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fandom-imagines-stories · 7 months

Text

Phantom

Aramis x Reader (The Musketeers)

Words: 3631

Part One of Three

Summary: Aramis’s paramour is proclaimed dead by the man she was set to marry. Having escaped her murder attempt, the reader tries to reach Aramis before a worse fate can befall him at the hands of her betrayer.

Notes: I really wanted to write my own interpretation on what happens to Adele and what Aramis’s reaction would be. I didn’t use the Cardinal though because I wanted a character more expendable for revenge purposes. I also know that Pinon is much farther away, but for the sake of the story, I’m making it closer. Also was only meant to be one part, but we all know I can’t write short things. Sorry!

Warnings: The usual- violence, mentions of death/assault, Aramis steaminess (of course)

More Musketeer imagines: HERE

“She died screaming your name, musketeer scum!” Visage sneered. The horse trampled over fallen leaves, each step thundering in Aramis’s ears. “She pleaded for you to come to her! To save her.” The wretch aimed his pistol, but Aramis continued running after him. “You failed.”

He fired. The shot rang past the musketeer’s ear. He kept running but his speed was no match for Visage’s horse.

“Come back and fight me you coward!” Aramis screamed. “Visage!”

Athos broke through the trees, followed closely by the other two.

Visage fired again. Again, it failed to find its mark. Porthos called out to Aramis. He didn’t hear him.

“I’ll be back for you, filth! The embarrassment you’ve forced upon me will be nothing compared to the pain I have planned for your death!” Visage shouted. He took something from his bag. “Have this token as a promise.” A glint of gold fell to the forest floor and Visage disappeared into the morning mist.

“Aramis!” The three chased after him. D’Artagnan stopped to examine the item from Visage.

He ran until his lungs felt that they’d burst. Even after he couldn't see him anymore, he sprinted with fire in his blood and tears in his eyes. It couldn’t be true. He’d catch Visage and force him to confess the lie.

It couldn’t be true.

“Aramis, stop!” Athos called. He caught up to his breathless friend and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Stop. He’s gone.”

“We can’t allow him to escape,” Aramis gasped. His mouth tasted bitter. His lungs heaved for air.

“We won’t.”

Porthos joined the two. In the distance, D’Artagnan hurried after them, examining something in his palm intently.

“What the hell happened?” Porthos asked. “Was that who I thought that was?”

Realization struck Athos first as Aramis hit his knees. His shaking breaths turned to sobs he couldn’t bring himself to suppress.

“Where is she?” Athos froze in place, his words carrying his understanding panic. “Aramis, where is she?”

Aramis looked at the ground.

“What is this?” D’Artagnan held up a lilac-colored ribbon. Aramis reached a hand to take it from him. At the end of the ribbon was a metal locket, spattered with the gore of dried blood. Aramis opened the latch and a small note of his writing fell to the ground before him.

Paradis.

Heaven.

It was the name he’d given Y/N, whispered in intimate moments in the dark.

“He killed her,” Aramis said, words heavy with the guttural pain gnawing at every inch of his being. He glanced up at his companions with tearful eyes. “He killed Y/N.”

The charcoal swooped across the page, creating the line of the sheet draped over his stomach, concealing what lay underneath. You shaded the defined curves and lines of his chest, biting your lip in concentration.

“Are you nearly finished?” Aramis teased, eyes still twinkling in the way you’d drawn them on the paper in your hand. You peeked up over your sketchbook. His gaze grew lustrous and wanting. “I’m not sure I can be still much longer with you looking at me like that.”

You smirked. “I’m nearly there. Be patient.”

“Patience is a virtue I haven’t quite gotten the hang of.” He cocked a brow and lifted his foot to graze against the flesh of your thigh in an attempt to coax you back to him. Though his touch left a tingling spark in your nerves, you persevered in your resistance for a few more strokes of your charcoal.

“Just a few more details…” You mused. You finished the shadow on his arms, crossed comfortably beneath his head, and added a few more strands to his dark, unruly mane. “There. Finished.” You beamed proudly at your work and flicked your eyes up to your bedmate to compare the drawing’s likeness.

“Let me see,” Aramis said, holding out his hand for your book. You clutched it to your chest. He sat up to reach, but you jumped up, scurrying away from his grasp. His mouth fell open with an amused whine. “I’ve just laid here for an hour so you could draw. I think I’ve more than earned a preview.”

“Well, then you’ll have to come and get it.” You stepped back, your back brushed against your curtains.

“Very well.” Aramis tossed the blankets aside and stood before you.

Naked.

You erupted with laughter.

He marched across the room, prompting you to hurry away again, but he gave chase despite his lack of clothing. Your squealing giggles filled the room and his arms locked around you. He plucked the notebook from your hand and examined his portrait with a victorious smile.

“This is actually quite good,” he said.

“Madame de Visage doesn’t fund me for my looks,” you snorted, wriggling to try and escape, but his arm was firmly clamped around your waist.

He set the sketchbook aside and flipped you around. “Now, we have approximately an hour before your patroness returns, correct?”

You nodded, beaming.

“Then may I suggest…” He peppered kisses across your decolletage. “We finish what we started before your artistic endeavor?”

“Aramis-” You sighed breathily, cut off by his lips on yours. His hand slipped under your chamise while he leaned you back onto the bed, muttering what he often did when wrapped in your arms. The same phrase over and over as he hovered over you, continuing his nipping across your shoulder.

“Tu es mon paradis.”

Porthos lifted the water-soaked towel to dab at the cut across Aramis’s brow, but his hand was swatted away. The four men sat in silence, each with his eyes fixed on the table where Y/N’s necklace sat, ribbon frayed and metal tarnished with dried blood. A heaviness filled the room and sunk into their hearts.

“I thought she’d left me,” Aramis spoke quietly, lips pressed against his clenched fist. “When her servant told me she’d gone through with Visage’s proposal and moved with him to the country I did nothing.” His throat burned with a hatred directed inward. “I thought she betrayed me. So I. Did. Nothing.”

He slammed his fist on the table, making the necklace skid across the wooden surface. Aramis lifted his eyes to the others and all they saw was loathing. For Visage. For the world. But, most of all, for himself.

“He strapped her to a tree and beat her like a dog because she loved me,” he said. “And then he shot her through the heart while she begged for my help.” Each word choked him until he felt he couldn’t breathe. His chest heaved as it had in the forest, the guilt and despair overtaking his body like a disease. “I doomed her the moment I laid eyes on her.”

“This is because of that pig, Visage, not you,” Porthos said, fury boiling with every word his friend spoke. “We’ll find him and make him pay, Aramis, I promise you that.”

D’Artagnan nodded in agreement. Athos said nothing. He just examined his companion’s despondence with an understanding eye.

Aramis stood and left them, an air of emptiness in his wake.

“If I find Visage…” Porthos seethed.

“That’s what he wants,” Athos said, finally breaking his silence. “You heard what he said. He wants Aramis dead next.”

“Of course, he wants him dead,” D’Artagnan said. “The woman he sought to control fell in love with another man. And now that he’s killed her…” His words reflected the disheartened feeling deep in his chest. D’Artagnan knew Y/N well. She’d come around the garrison often and befriended each of the musketeers. She was sweet and bright and courageous. It pained him to know that such a light had gone from the world. It pained all of them.

Porthos clenched his fists. “We’ll be ready for him. And when he shows his face again, we’ll show him the same mercy he gave her.”

“We have to be smart about this. Visage has a small army of men to do his bidding. It’s how they were able to overtake Aramis once already,” Athos sighed. “If we hadn’t shown up, Aramis would have joined Y/N in the grave.”

Lord knows how much he wished he had and Athos knew it.

They sat for a moment, contemplating this. D’Artagnan looked toward Aramis’s quarters.

“Should one of us check on him?” He asked.

“No,” Athos said grimly. “No, I think he needs to be alone.”

From behind the closed door, the sounds of items thrown and glass shattering filled their already heavy hearts with woe. When the destruction ceased, there was a silence, and then a deep, desolate scream burdened the air.

Porthos moved toward the horrible sound, but Athos put a hand on his shoulder. He knew, better than either of them, that Aramis needed to feel.

Aramis had the biggest heart of all of them and he’d given it to Y/N completely. Athos worried that, even if they did kill Visage, it would destroy him.

The small room filled with barely conscious, painful groans. Jeanne called for her father to hurry.

You were waking up.

“Where…” You opened your eyes, finding them sore and still recovering from being so swollen. “Where am I?”

“We brought you to Pinon,” the girl hovering over you said. “My name is Jeanne, my father is Bertrand. This is our inn.” She brought a towel to your forehead. The cool drip of water down your jaw was a welcome sensation compared to every nerve in your body screaming at you as you started to remember what happened.

Visage.

Every blow, every cut, and every cruel word resurfaced in your memory. His threat- No. His promise sent a jolt of energy through your aching limbs.

“He’s going to kill him,” you gasped, sitting up. A sharp pain rattled in your ribs. The girl held you down. “I have to find him before he… he…”

“You’ve been in and out of consciousness for nearly a week,” she said. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

The terrible ache in your battered body prevented much resistance on your part and you laid back down. You blinked, taking in the room around you. Where were you? How did you get here? Who were these people? The echo of a gunshot pierced your brain.

How were you alive?

“I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in,” Jeanne blew out a low breath, “but you definitely angered the wrong person. You’d be dead if it weren’t for that thing under your cloak.” She motioned to the table beside the bed. Your eyes grew wide.

Your sketchbook sat, the leather cover and pages curled around the scorched chasm in the center. Reaching a shaking hand, you opened it and, sure enough- though singed by the hole in the middle, the drawing you’d done of Aramis smirked back at you. Somehow, the pile of papers and sketches saved your life. For a long while, you just laid there, staring into the smudge-drawn eyes of the man you loved. The man you put in danger.

“I can’t stay here,” you sighed, letting your body adjust to every movement as you again tried to get out of the bed. Jeanne moved to stop you, but you held up a hand. “The man who did this to me isn’t finished.” She pursed her lips and moved to the other end of the room where a pile of your clothes and pair of boots sat. You stretched, catching a glimpse of your reflection in the bowl of water beside your sketchbook.

You gasped.

Your cheek was swollen and turned an awful purplish color. A large cut stretched from your temple to the inside of your brow, just missing your eye. Your lip was marked with a bloodied scab. Worst of all were your hands. You hadn’t looked at them until now, but the flesh of your knuckles was badly torn apart and your fingers trembled terribly. You wondered if you’d ever be able to draw again. It seemed such a stupid thing to fret over now, but it brought tears to your eyes.

“W-where did you say we are?” You asked through the shock.

“Pinon.”

You turned back to Jeanne, the name striking something in your mind. “I know a man who speaks of this place. His name is Athos.”

Jeanne stiffened.

“Do you know him?”

“He was the Comte de la Fére,” she spat. “He doesn’t do anything for us now.”

“Do you think you can send word to him?”

“We’ve been trying for ages, but it just won’t work.” Her anger softened with sadness that came from desperation. “He just ignores any letter we send as far as I know.”

“Trust me.” You tore a sheet of charred paper from your scrapbook. Your hands shook as you tried to hold the charcoal steady enough to write. “He won’t ignore this one.”

Perhaps he would spend the rest of his days in that blinding numbness that consumed everything. Perhaps he would drink away any feeling and pretend everything was fine, as Athos had for years. Perhaps he would die by Visage’s hand and find an end to this misery.

But not yet. Not now.

Now, he had his rage.

Aramis sat at the base of the steps, sharpening yet another blade. The sun had not yet risen over the city, but he could feel the approaching daylight signal his need to hurry before the others awoke. Three more, two short swords and one rapier, lay out before him, glistening and prepared for battle. He could see your face in it, like a phantom reflection in the blade.

When that was finished, he moved onto his musket.

“You’ll have to teach me how to handle it one day,” you’d said once.

He remembered chuckling and shaking his head, taking your sweet, soft hands in his. His fingers had traced splotches of paint and charcoal under your nails.

He’d smiled. “Your hands are made for artistry. Not violence.”

It felt as though your hands were upon him now, your touch haunting his every motion. He readied his weapons and gathered them in front of him. It was certainly enough for a one-man army.

He knew the others wouldn’t hear of it. They’d insist on coming with him and taking on Visage’s men together. But Aramis wouldn’t allow them. This was his fight and he intended on going alone.

Of course, the other three had already figured this out and had been plotting for the past hour.

“Visage can’t have gotten far from the city if he’s left at all. Luring Aramis into the forest was merely a ploy to get him alone,” Athos whispered.

“A ploy he’s about to fall for all over again,” Porthos huffed. His fists clenched at his sides. If it’d been up to him, they would have started the hunt hours ago. But Athos said they needed a plan, especially if they were going to convince Aramis not to lose his head.

Athos put a hand on his shoulder. “Not if we can help it.”

“He’s moving,” D’Artagnan said.

Aramis gathered his weapons, hooking his pistols onto his belt and strapping his musket to his back. One rapier hung from his hip while he gripped the other in hand, ready to fight at a moment's notice. He would not be surprised again.

The three stood from their place in the shadow, forming a line before the entrance and blocking Aramis’s exit. He halted, grip on his weapon tightened, along with his jaw, setting his face in a deep frown.

“You didn’t think we’d actually sit by and let you get yourself killed, did you?” Porthos asked.

“Move aside,” he growled. He kept his eyes over their heads, staring down the enemy he knew lay beyond the buildings around them.

“We’re going with you.” D’Artagnan stepped toward him.

Aramis’s sword was at his chest in an instant.

“Get out of my way!”

Two more swords crossed his, forcing the blade away from the youngest member of their group. Aramis’s chin trembled.

“I have to do this,” he whispered.

“But you don’t have to do it alone.” Porthos lowered the sword and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Let us come with you. Visage has a small army, you’ll never reach him.”

“I cannot ask you to join my fight.”

D’Artagnan shook his head, again stepping forward. “Y/N was a friend to all of us. It is our fight as well. I’ll gladly give my sword in the cause to avenge her gentle and kind spirit.”

Aramis still opened his mouth to argue. Athos silenced him with a wave.

“Think about it, Aramis,” he urged sternly. “What do you want? A fruitless death? Or justice?” He looked at him with such intense feeling, that Aramis couldn’t ignore it. “What would Y/N want?”

She would want to live. Aramis wanted to say, but couldn’t find the words on his tongue. He could only nod and let the fire in his chest cool with thoughts of her. Athos was right, of course. The only thing that mattered was making Visage pay.

Porthos gave him a reassuring smile with a determination that matched his own. “Then let’s go find this bastard, eh?”

Aramis allowed himself to be led by the three to saddle their horses. As Porthos and D’Artagnan kept an eye on him, Athos was drawn away by a young man waving him down with a letter in hand.

“A letter for you, monsieur. From Pinon.”

A shot like ice rushed up his spine. He crossed his arms in dismissal. “You may dispose of it. There’s nothing there that concerns me.”

“I’m told it’s urgent.” He held the parchment toward him.

Athos started to deny him again, this time with a tinge of annoyance, but the writing on the front stopped him. In soft, swooping letters read his name- Athos of the King’s Musketeers. He took the letter from the young man, perplexed. Of the letters he received from the home he wished to forget, he’d only ever been addressed by anyone there as the Comte de la Fére- something he’d never call himself again. Perhaps they’d finally accepted his decision.

He could still throw it out. What good could come of it? Anything from Pinon could only bring him heartache. And yet, the letter weighed heavily in his hand.

“Thank you,” he said, paying the man for his efforts.

With his back still to his companions, he tore open the envelope, finding two papers inside. The first, a small note, and the second a sketch, charred in the middle from what appeared to be a gunshot.

I’m sorry to contact you in such a mysterious manner, but my circumstances have given me little choice. I’m sure Visage has revealed the news to you and my dear Aramis that I am dead. I write this letter to tell you he has failed. By the grace of God, I survived Visage’s attack and am now recovering in your former home of Pinon. I provide this drawing I once did of the four of you training on a sunny day several weeks ago. You told me it seemed the swords moved right off of the page. I hope this is enough to convince you that this is no trick.

I write to you because I know you will grant me this request- do not tell Aramis. Not yet. I fear that Visage will find him too easily if I were to reveal myself to him. I beg of you to ride to Pinon to help me save him before Visage can enact the final part of his terrible, jealous plot. Urge Aramis to stay away from him, to stay safe. I cannot bear the thought of any harm coming to him. Though I know prolonging my return can only cause him more grief, it is for his own protection.

Please, Athos, I need you now more than ever. If this letter has been intercepted by any but you, I fear my hope will be lost.

Y/F/N Y/L/N

Athos’s eyes darted between the note and the drawing. Sure enough, it was the very image Y/N had drawn during a particularly laid-back day in the early days of summer.

But it couldn’t be. Visage was a violent, unforgiving man. He would not have just let the woman who fooled him escape. And the necklace D’Artagnan had found was filthy with Y/N’s blood.

The writing of the letter could be hers. He hadn’t seen enough of her handwriting to be sure. And the drawing… who else would know what he’d said to her that day?

“Athos!” Porthos called. “Aren’t you coming?”

The somber musketeer stuffed the letter and the drawing into the top of his boot and turned back to his friends. As he rejoined them, he could feel Aramis’s suspicious eyes before he even spoke.

“Something has come up,” Athos said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to join you later. When you find Visage, do not attack. Wait and send for me.”

“What could be more important than this?” Aramis spat. His hands tightened his grip on the reins and his horse whinnied.

“I assure you, I would not leave if it wasn’t absolutely essential.” He mounted his own horse, feeling the burning stares of all three of them as he moved. While he wished to tell them, to give Aramis even the slightest bit of hope, he couldn’t in good conscience until he confirmed it was true. “You will understand later.”

He rode off before they could ask anything else.

D’Artagnan watched until he could no longer see him. “What could that be about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aramis said. He urged his horse forward. “Come on.”

The three departed shortly after Athos, driven by vengeance, while their separated friend almost dared to hope.

#aramis x reader #aramis bbc #the musketeers imagines #the musketeers bbc #santiago cabrera #athos #d'artagnan #porthos #all for one and one for all

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