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plutoswritingplanet · 2 months

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It's A Special Death You Saved (Feyd Rautha x Female!Reader) pt.3

a/n: so i lied about this being the last chapter, there's one more, i know im sorry....... also shout out to my friends, who were unbelievably helpful with the smut part because oh, there's smut here

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (yuuuh yuuuuuuh), Alcohol, like....a tiny bit of Humiliation.

Summary: The month-long courting comes to an end with a bang! As your engagement party commences, wine flows and darker feelings rise to the surface

Pt. 1, Pt.2 Pt.4 (finale)

In the darkness of the night, he still comes to you in your dreams, knife in hand, body taunt and ready to strike. Every single morning, you awake with a gasp, as visions of your tormentor plague you. In some, he slits your throat, reveling in the way red cascades down your nightgown. Other times, it's a quick and brutal stabbing, your insides twisting as you wake.

But then, there are those rare nights where you rise from your bed, sweat clinging to your skin, as you fight with the pressure in your stomach, try to rid yourself of the images, before making yourself presentable for breakfast.

Those dreams, nightmares, are the worst.

White, elegant fingers, grabbing, pulling, pinching every surface of your exposed skin. Defined arms around you, squeezing your pliant body in an embrace that is as tender and romantic, as a snake suffocating its victim. Deceivingly soft lips, mapping a trail down your front, pulling back to reveal teeth, which make that same trail visible, hurting.

In those dreams, he paints you with black. Taints you, until you're molded into his perverse image, until there's no telling where he ends, and you begin. He makes you into a sculpture, in a way that an artist cuts away pieces of clay, slowly robbing you of all agency, until there's only what he wants to see. And you let him, with a trembling smile on your lips, hands twisted into the stained sheets of your bed.

Ignoring him has become an art form as well.

Since your faithful tangle at the training barracks, you did everything in your power, to never appear in the same room as him, or at least, never alone. You became a shadow in your own home, a whisper of the person you used to be. Shame is a powerful thing, and you wore it like a wedding veil over your face. Paul would always help you, silently. Never asking outright what had happened between you and the Harkonnen, but somehow always knowing. Your brother, your salvation, breaks your heart everytime he grabs your hand, and leads you away from the predator in the room.

The date of your engagement party has been set a week into the future. The nervous bustling of the court only heightening your already wracked thoughts, as the inevitability of your situation begins to haul you to the ground.

Your Mother took most of the preparations on her back, directing the servants, the kitchen, the musicians. She picked out a dress for you, some flowing abomination, which hung in your closet, reminding you every morning, that you will have to wear it with a smile. You hoped, there will be wine at the feast, hope that it will be sweet enough to dull your insides.

As the date of the feast comes closer and closer, you begin to spend more time outside.

The air is crisp and smells of seawater, and you can't help but inhale fully, every time. You want it seared into your brain, so whenever you're taken away from your home, you can run back to this memory, to the feel of grass under your fingers.

- You'll catch a cold, if you keep sitting here.

Paul's voice brings you back from your dark thoughts, and you look up, from your spot in the grass. He stands a couple paces back, hands folded behind his back in a manner, that is reminding you of your Father more and more every day.

- Do you want to join me? - you ask, your lips quirking up into a small smile - Or would you prefer to stand there like a pillar of salt?

Your brother shakes his head, before coming closer and plopping down next to you, his skinny legs stretched out in front of him. The both of you sit in silence for a while, enjoying the breeze ruffling your hair, the smell of ocean and the waves crashing into the cliffs. There are seagulls flying over your heads, and you feel the moisture from the grass seep into your clothing.

A wistful sigh escapes you, before you can stop it, and you let yourself fall, laying flat on the hill.

Paul looks down at you, undescribable sadness swimming in his eyes, and an instinct of sister awakes in you, a need to comfort, despite being a wreck yourself. So, you offer him a smile, a tired one, but a smile nonetheless.

- Do you think we could take the horses for a ride today? - your brother asks with naive hope, his eyes turning to the sea.

- Mother won't allow me to go, she wants me to spend my pondering the proper behavior during the feast - try as you might, you can't hide the bitterness in your voice - Besides, I could fall off and hurt the merchandising.

Paul's hand finds yours, and he squeezes your fingers tightly. It's hard not to break, in moments like these. When you're forced to remember, you'll most likely never see your family again.

- If I could do something, anything... - you recognize that feverish note in your brother's voice, it's devoid of reason, impulsive, too much like you.

- But you can't, so you won't.

A frustrated sound escapes his mouth, and he turns back to the sea. You watch him through half-lidded eyes, eyelashes falling heavily on your cheeks. He looks like a Duke, you conclude, and that thought feels strangely comforting. No matter where you'll be shipped off, no matter what life has in store for you in the future, somehow, you know your brother will persevere.

- Do you remember that time Gurney made us train on the beach? - you ask, a sudden wave of nostalgia washing over you, as the clouds float in the sky above you - Cause of the... The balance. We had to try to balance in the sand.

Paul twists his head towards you, surprised at the turn of the conversation, before cracking a smile.

- Yes, he slipped on the rocks, nearly broke his backbone - he starts to wave his hands around in a wonderful reenactment of your mentor's fall, before collapsing next to you in the grass.

Your laughter mingles with the sounds of the sea, as the both of you, the future of House Atriedes, share memories, scenes from the life you've lived together. The good and the bad. The horse races through plains and hills of Caladan, the many, many food fights. It's hard to tell, how much time you spend together, laying in the grass, but when you finally fall into silence, the air has become considerably more chilly. A sign, it's time to return to reality, to your duties.

- You should've been me, and I you - Paul whispers suddenly, and you close your eyes in a pained expression.

Perhaps it's true. Perhaps Lady Jessica made a mistake, and gave a Daughter where she should've given a Son. Now, it's no longer important. Your roles have been set in place, all you could do, is fulfill them. Somewhere back, in the direction of the Palace you can hear a voice calling your names. A reminder, that the world outside this grassy sanctuary exists, and can't wait any longer.

You move to stand, Paul gathering himself up closely behind. Your clothes stick to your body, and you're shivering from the cold, but if you could spend just one more moment exactly like that, you would've taken that chance without question.

An arm snakes around your elbow, and you lean onto your brother's shoulder, as you start to walk back, steps swaying like a pair of drunkards. Then, Paul tugs you closer, you can feel him tense suddenly, as he leans with a sullen expression on his pale face.

- I hate the way he looks at you - he confesses, waves upon waves of righteous Atriedes fury crashing in his voice.

You don't know how to respond to that, so you stay silent, giving his arm a reassuring tug.

That was the last conversation you've had with your brother.

*** While the House Atriedes is characterized by a rather mellow temper, there was one thing they took extremely seriously. And those, unfortunately for you, were engagement rituals.

So, that's why you sit posed like a porcelain doll in a deep chair, next to your soon-to-be husband, at the foot of a long table, surrounded by music, and dancing, and food. There are ribbons hung from the high ceilings, and flickering lights float around them like little fireflies. You watch, as they dance above you, the ridiculous headdress placed on your hair digs into your skul. Color surrounds you, your own dress flowing like a waterfall, elegant, yet delicate. The pools of fabric gather around your legs, a chiffon monstrosity, that you know, is supposed to make you beautiful.

And perhaps you would've felt beautiful, if this was any other occasion. A birthday feast, perhaps. Dare you say, and engagement party with someone you actually loved.

Speaking of which, your betrothed sits beside you, sticking out like a sore thumb. He looks utterly bored, eyes following the celebrating masses, hand playing with a steak knife. Not enough blood for his tastes, you suppose. He's dressed in traditional Harkonnen attire, which you think, doesn't really look that much different from all the other outfits you've seen him in. Black, sleek, efficient. You must be a curious pair, a mass of colorful materials and a black-stone pillar.

The wine, thankfully, is sweet. It warms your face, and turns your insides into a pleasant mush. You should've eaten more, but then again, it was a celebration of your imprisonment, and if you wanted to get drunk, you would. And you did get drunk. Quickly.

The dress moves with you, as you slowly slide down the chair, one leg resting up on the seat. A frightfully unbecoming sight, but you can't find it in yourself to care. Another, clumsy drink from your cup, and you sigh deeply, blinking a couple of times to rid yourself of sudden dizziness.

Your betrothed gives you a look, whether it's of warning or amusement, you're not sure. And you don't care. Your nose scrunches in the general direction of his smooth head, and you take another sip, just to spite him.

- Shut up - you grumble, a slurr entering your words.

- I haven't said a word - he counters, and this time you can see him smile.

- You're thinking, it's annoying.

Feyd Rautha has an unpleasant laugh.

Sharp and low, and very rough around the edges. It's like listening to an old spaceship try to take off, and you're sure you don't want to hear him laugh ever again. That's it, your goal in this, frankly, fucked up marriage, will be to never make your husband laugh. Although, it's best not to think about it so loudly, he might be a hidden mind reader, and would most likely laugh in your face every day, just to torture you.

God. You were going to regret every sip come tomorrow morning.

- You're wrapped like a present - Feyd Rautha leans down with a smirk playing on his full lips, and you have to crane your neck to look him straight in the face - Shall I unwrap you here, while your family watches?

Despite the light tone, you shiver under his gaze. Something in the way his body seems relaxed yet tense at the same time tells you, this shameless man would do it in a heartbeat, if you as much as inclined your head.

- Gross - you groan, hand untangling itself from the amassing of chiffon to push back at his face.

It's the first time, you've touched him out of your own volition, and even in your drunken daze, you note the sudden glint in his eyes. Fingers grab at your wrist, keeping you in place, as he leans further into your touch, turning his head slightly. Wine mixes with sudden embarrassment, as his lips brush against the meat of your palm. Then, black teeth shine and your heart jumps to your throat, as he bites down on your skin, hard enough to make you jump. Tongue darts out, licking a stripe up your thumb, before giving your fingertip a tiny nibble.

You tear your hand away from him, pressing it into your chest with an appalled expression. There are indents just below your thumb in the shape of his teeth, and the confounding feelings you've been trying to stoke for almost a month now, come crashing down upon you.

He looks satisfied with himself, returning back to his seat, and his steak knife. The utensil reflects the flowing lights, and despite yourself you swallow thickly, turning back to your cup, which is quickly becoming empty.

God, it was getting incessantly hot in this cursed dining hall.

Whether it was the wine, or the sudden wave of knee-bending arousal washing through you, you couldn't tell. (It was both, you were fully aware it was both) And you're uncomfortable, terribly so. You fidget in your seat, almost painfully aware of the heat, which has now spread further down. The fabric of the dress slides against your body, skin becoming far too sensitive, too hungry for touch. You try to relieve some of your torment, legs squeezing and rubbing together. Treacherous tongues of self-awareness rear its ugly heads, and you look up, and...

Of course he noticed.

Feyd Rautha places his chin in his hand, and he observes you with a knowing look, which turns dark and terrifying as soon as your eyes meet.

- Careful, lest the court starts talking - he warns you, his voice somehow becoming deeper than before, and you take a shuddering breath.

Dagnerous, this is dangerous.

You're seated far away from your family, from any consolation, and even if they were close enough to intervene, the masses of dancing people, the sound of their laughter... Your heart stops, a snake curling itself around your insides. Truly, if that beast of a man wanted to, he could make do of his threat from earlier, and take you where you sit. Haunted by that thought, both terrifying and arousing, you down the rest of your wine.

It doesn't taste as good anymore. Hell, it threatens to come back up, until you force it to sit in your stomach.

Duncan, you need to find Duncan, or you'll do something incredibly stupid. You'll do something incredibly stupid either way, but at least the regret will be less biting. So, pulling yourself up on trembling arms, you shuffle out of your chair, your betrothed's heated gaze following you on your way through the hall.

People don't even look at you, too enraptured with free food and drinks, and the music, which flows loudly through the air. Good, in any other case, the Duke's Daughter, stumbling drunk through corridors, would certainly lift some eyebrows. Your feet carry you towards the training barracks, a familiar route you've followed many times. Indulging in sex with your Father's most trusted advisor was not the healthiest form of regulating emotions, but you needed something, and God knows, you'd rather die than get it from anyone else. From Him especially.

The choice is made for you, however, as a strong hand wraps itself around your arm, just above your elbow, yanking you backwards, behind a stone column. The world spins in front of your eyes, and for a second you worry the company of wine warming your insides is about to abandon you along with breakfast.

- Do you truly thought, you could sneak away from me?

Finally, your eyes focus on Fey Rautha's face, almost demonic in the low light of the corridor. Shadows play on his expression, falling heavily over his eyes, and you try to wrench yourself from his grasp.

- What I do is none of your business - you slurr out, wringing your arm every which way, his fingers digging painfully into your flesh - Let go of me.

The Harkonnen presses himself closer to you, trapping your body between the stone and himself. His nose nearly crushes itself into the juncture between your neck and your shoulder, taking a disturbing long whiff. You can feel his chest vibrate against your own, as he groans deep within his throat. It sobers you up in record speed, and you start to thrash in his hold. He subdues your outburst, as if he was made for it, before dragging his nose up, towards your hair. You snarl like a wild animal.

- Let me go.

His body moves on its own accord, tearing itself away from you in an instant, legs tripping over themselves, to put distance between your bodies. He looks up at you, muscles tense and an expression of shock painted across his pale face.

The ability to use the Voice was something you rarely took part in. Training sessions with your Mother went well, as expected of a woman, but you still had a lot of work ahead of you. You blink forcefully, steadying yourself against the wall behind you. Then, you notice the borderline murderous look on your soon-to-be husband's face.

- Witch - he spits out, baring his blackened teeth at you.

- I am the Daughter of Duke Atriedes - your voice carries a note of righteous pride, despite dread climbing up your spine - And you will treat me with respect, wedded or not.

He straightens himself with petrifying speed, and as he takes a step towards you, actions overtake reflection. Your hand winds back, and you bring a resounding slap across his sharp cheekbone. While your palm blooms with pain, he seems to barely react, closing the distance between the two of you after a tense beat. Before you have a chance to react again, his hands grab at your face, and his lips crash against yours in a punishing kiss.

Teeth clink together and the momentum of the kiss makes your head collide with the stone pillar behind you. He's fingers dig into your cheeks and your jaw, as he devours you completely, bringing down all your defences in one swoop. You kiss him back, almost immediately, opening your mouth to let him in, to meet his tongue halfway. It's almost grotesque, how much you hate and love this at the same time, the buzzing of the wine mixing with the sound of your racing heart, with the sound of his unabashed sounds of pleasure.

Hands flail at your sides, as you grab all you can take, pulling him even closer by the thick fabric of his tunic.

His hands however, know exactly what they want, and as he lets go of your face, they both sink down. Fingers hook into the neckline of your dress, and he tears it down, your entire body swaying with the force of his movement. Your breasts are freed for only just a moment, cold air hitting them in a way that would be uncomfortable, if they weren't immediately covered by your betrothed's large palm. He palms at your chest, as if he wants to crush it, and you bite back a whine, which threatens to spill from your abused lips.

- Don't - he growls a warning, unoccupied hand tangling itself within your hair - Sing.

And you do. As his mouth descends upon your neglected breast, where he alternates between licks and bites that make your back fly off the wall. Once again you don't know what to do with your hands, finding them entirely useless in the Harkonnen's overpowering grasp. One, grabs at his shoulder, undecided on whether to push him off, or pull him in closer. The other one scratches four lines into his skull, as he sucks on the sensitive skin under your ribs.

Finally, he detaches from you completely, standing straight and regarding you with a look so intensely ravenous, it shakes you to your core. Your exposed chest rises and falls in tandem with your heaving breaths, and you shiver, as cold air hits your skin. His gaze drinks in your dissheveled hair, the way your lips are puffy and red. A beautiful sight for his blackened eyes.

- I know who you went looking for - he starts, stalking towards you once again - Can't have that, can I?

You debate feigning confusion, outrage at such accusation, which hasn't really been uttered yet. But, as Feyd Rautha stops just short of the bottom hem of your dress, you suddenly find yourself unable to speak. Instead, as a last ditched effort to rid yourself of him, your hand extends, a half-hazard attempt at liberation. He swats it away, as one would a mere fly, before sinking to his knees in front of you.

- Lift up your dress, Viper - his voice is like thunder in your ears, and you bite your lips at the sight of his eyes, dark and surprisingly eager.

Hands move clumsily in an effort to gather all those translucent layers. You nearly trip over yourself, earning a rather nasty chuckle from below. As soon, as your legs are visible, he dives between the chiffon, his head dissapearing from sight. You can feel his lips, traveling up the expanse of your calf, giving a light bite under your knee.

Anticipation siezes your gut, and you grab onto the wall, as if that would save you. His hands grab your leg, skin incredibly warm to the touch for someone who looks so cold, and then, with forceful tugs, he starts to manouver you.

You let out an unbecoming squeak, as he yanks your leg over his shoulder. Strong hands keep you in place, and he reaches out around the upper part of your thigh to all but tear your undergarments off of your core. The force of this action makes you jump in place on your one available leg, just to hold your balance, and for a second you consider swatting at him.

That thought leaves you almost immediately after it appears, as an onslaugh of kitten licks unleashes downward. A vague, head like shape moves under your dress, the chiffon floating from place to place like a hypnotizing river. The wine must've heightened your senses to an alarming degree, because as soon as Feyd Rautha begins his ministrations, you're a mess.

It's honestly humiliating, the way you fight for any purchase on the wall behind you, as he begins to lick in earnes, parting your legs further with one hand, while the other wraps securely around your used leg. While there, he cops a feel of your behind, fingers biting into the soft flesh, and you lock your lower lip between your teeth so hard, you can taste blood on your tongue.

As if he's developed some new telepathic talents, his hand leaves your ass, in favor of winding up, and slapping it harshly. The action makes your jump in place once again, a sound stuck between outrage and glee fleeing your throat, before you have the chance to stop it. Right, "sing", you remind yourself, and immediately feel him change his tactics.

Your bundle of nerves opens new possibilities of torment, and as his lips close around the bud, you can't help the whine, escaping through your lips. The music is loud, you remind yourself. They won't hear, no one will hear. His hand pushes your dangling leg further up your shoulder, and your back arches from the stone. You will be sore as all hell after this is done, but for now, it doesn't matter. Nothing really matters, except the way your betrothed eats you out, like a man who's been starved for decades.

- Oh shit - you curse, hands flailing uselessly - Oh fuck!

All of a sudden, everything stops, and your building peak subsides into a dissatisfactory simmer. Feyd Rautha's head emerges from under the fabric, a terrible, shit-eating grin on his wet lips.

- Such language? - he teases, tongue darting out to lap at your arousal - So unbecoming of a-...

- Fucking don't stop! - there's panic in your movements, as you grab the back of his head, and shove him right under your dress again.

The laughter should be unsettling for you, but he returns to his post with twice as much motivation, and however more strength, and before you know it, your orgasm sneaks upon you. A sudden tightness in your core is all the warning you get, before the coil snaps, and your entire body starts to spasm in pleasure.

It's good. Incredibly so. You'd risk saying it's the most intense you've ever came, but never out loud, never to him. That shameful secret was between you and whatever God that was listening. Stars erupt behind your eyelids, your breathing stopping for just a moment.

And then you go deliciously limp, legs giving out completely.

To his credit, the Harkonnen catches you before you hit the floor, the arm curling around your leg proving to be an unmeasurable support. His head emerges from under the dress once again, and he lets you slide down the wall, until you're seated. He sways on the balls of his feet, still towering you, even as he crouches.

You swallow, throat slightly raw from all the noise you've done moments ago, and he follows the movements of your neck muscles with greedy eyes. Still greedy, after taking so much. Truly, he was a Harkonnen. And before you can stop yourself, a thought materializes in your brain, a treacherous little information, which would shake you to the core, if your muscles weren't currently made of taffy.

He blushes pink. Your betrothed blushes pink, from the exercise of making you cum on his tongue alone. God, what a precious sight.

He must've noticed the serene smile playing upon your lips, and his nature to ruin comes to light. His hand reaches back, and you freeze in your spot, as you recognize that damned golden steak knife. The blade shines in the dimly lit corridor, making your breathing faster, questions swimming behind your eyes. You don't really want to fight him in this state, but you fucking will, if he tries anything.

- An engagement present, for you, Viper. - he rasps, licking his reddened lips in an obscene display, which doesn't repulse you quite as much as it should.

- I have nothing to give in return - your voice is stern, and your betrothed flashes you an evil grin.

Then, he presents you the tip of the knife, golden utensil hanging between his slender fingers, and you look up at him, not understanding what is expected of you. Placing one knee on the floor, Feyd Rautha lowers himself to your eye level, for the hundredth of times surprising you with the sheer grace in his movements.

- Kiss - he whispers, into the space between the both of you.

Your eyes fall to the knife, then, to him and you take a long, deep breath. Pride, your biggest flaw, takes a deadly hit, as the man twists the knife in his fingers, looking at you expectedly. You hate him, truly and deeply, and it must be showing on your face, because he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, as soon as your eyes meet.

Swallowing your pride, you keep his gaze, leaning towards the blade. Your lips press delicately against the cool metal and the Harkonnen flashes you a nasty, self-satisfied smirk, before slipping the knife up his sleeve and standing up.

- I'll see you back at the feast - he gives you a small bow, and you press your lips tightly together.

- Fuck you.

- After the wedding, my Viper.

And with that, he turns around.

You're left there, on the floor, your dignity in shambles, the exertion catching up to you all at once, as if his presence alone was the only thing keeping you from feeling pain. A stupid thought, you chastize yourself, before slowly pulling yourself from the cold tiles.

It takes you a couple of shameful minutes, trying to put yourself back together again. The ridiculous headdress, which has slipped all the way down from your hair, will probably never look the same, as when your Mother has styled it, but you can't find it in yourself to care.

The music still plays, as you enter the hall, and thankfully, no one notices your arrival. No one but your betrothed, who raises his drinking cup in your direction, as if nothing had happened. His face is annoying, you conclude, and turn away, your aching legs taking you towards the center of the room, where people danced and sang in celebration of your engagement. What a lovely sight, what a lovely couple. Opposites attract, right?

Bitter, aching and humiliated, you throw yourself into the crowd, let it sway you from place to place, as you dance away this whole wretched week. The whole month-long courting rituals, which were just a bullshit attempt at torture.

It's said, that when Death comes to take your soul, you're allowed one more dance before the eternal void.

So you dance.

#my writing #dune part 2 #dune x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd rautha smut #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #tennis ball strikes again #i would also like to thank tiktok editing community for giving me material to daydream about #im seeing this movie again on thursday totally not because i want to write the most accurate smut in the next chapter

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historiaxvanserra · 2 months

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These Violent Delights | Chapter Two

Summary: A High Lords meeting goes awry and you find yourself thrust into the foxes den.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader (brief mentions of Azriel x reader)

Word Count: 6.4k

Chapter 1 of These Violent Delights on my Masterlist

The Hewn City’s state rooms are ugly, you think as you stalk the emissary of the Night Court through the winding, narrow corridors of Hewn City. The palatial chambers had been carved into the dark stone of the mountain by the Gods of old; and the high, domed ceilings are held in place by onyx pillars decorated with twisted carvings of beasts and fornicating demi-gods that line the Gothic archways.

Lurid, ill-fated omens, you think.

Harbingers of your undoing.

The emissary appointed with escorting you is adorned in ceremonial robes; a fine damask tunic in a deep indigo silk that is almost iridescent in the artificial light. You fall into step with him as he approaches a set of gilded iron gates. Two armored sentries fall into rank as you cross the threshold of the council chambers and you offer a courteous nod to the sentry as he meets your eye.

The antechamber of The Moonstone Palace is plunged in a suffocating blue-darkness with only the silvers of silver faelight, like artificial stars, to light the faces of the High Lords. The atmosphere is oppressive and the smell of hemlock and moonflowers stain the stagnant air. For a few moments, while you’re lost in thought, the world is silent and still. Feigning peace. But there is no peace. Not here, where the eyes of every High Lord in Prythian are upon you.

Hewn City is a dark mirage. A metropolis of hedonistic desire and vulgar frivolity

It is here in the dark that you find yourself adrift; lost somewhere to the sea of time. You abandon yourself to the tide of memory. The happy recollections of your childhood; to the thought of home. Someplace far from here, where the sunlight touches your skin and the smell of salt from the coast becomes tangled in your unbound hair. Somewhere, in the recesses of your mind, where you know your mothers love and your fathers face is something more than a mere memory.

It occurs to you that this is a home that never existed.

Home had always been burning; the acrid smell of woodsmoke beckons you like a funeral pyre and your salt-cracked lips chafe and bleed in the wake of blistering winds from the violent sea. And that’s the thing about mothers, you and she exist as some wretched mirror or one another; as hatred and guilt.

You’ve been thinking of your mother a lot as of late; something in your dreams, the echoing of a coming storm. A fine line between love and hate. It is something strange and prophetic that makes your skin crawl uncomfortably from your body.

In a flurry of movement against the black you are brought back to the present as you take your place amongst the ranks of the Inner Circle.

The silhouettes of the other High Lords, that had been flickering wildly against the dark stone of the mountain, cease to move. Cease to be, as shadows envelop the room, melting into the darkness as Rhysand glides into the room his violet eyes glinting in the dark. His eyes shine with a cold violence that draws you from thought and the visions of a home long forgotten turn to ashes in your trembling hands. He’s dressed all in black and violet, his tan skin looks pallid in the low light. By his side Feyre’s skin looks as though it is wreathed in starlight against the backdrop of the twilight-- you catch the scent of chamomile and moondust in the air.

It smells like Nyx you think, smiling lightly to yourself at the thought of your nephew.

A tremor of dark power ripples through the air and you feel the shift in the atmosphere when shield after shield locks into place around each High Lord and his retinue of courtiers. The shield that Rhysand had already placed around the Inner Circle; made stronger in response. Night magic glitters in the air like stardust and you swear you can taste it on your tongue. That same cold rage and an essence of icy violence fortifies you against the hostility in the room and you school your expression to remain neutral when you seek out a pair of strange amber eyes in the crowd.

A gentle warmth burns though your chest and your eyes scan the crowd.

Eris Vanserra moves like a predator; resolute and obstinate. Amber eyes burn like fire glow in the dim light and each of his long strides are punctuated by the echo of boot clad feet on the marble. In this light, his face is almost ethereal. Unearthly even. Set in a painfully neutral expression as he slinks through the halls of the city below the mountains of Velaris. Eris Vanserra burns bright against the other Lords of Pryhtian; his copper hair, like burnished gold in the dim lights, and his eyes. Those fucking eyes. Haunting and evocative as he meets your gaze with a feline smirk.

It is a wicked, false thing, that glitters with malice.

He watches you with a wrathful sort of reverence. He is so very lovely, even in the pallid light. Even as his father and brothers flank his sides like a pack of hungry foxes; hungry and baying for blood.

You watch him carefully as Eris takes his seat at the foot of the large black table, he’s careful to make a show of the way he languidly reclines in his chair, rolling his shoulders back and angling his hips in such a way that the whole room is displayed to him at once.

It’s almost voyeuristic in nature.

That summons a storm within you; a violent, lonely, sort of thing, that washes over him with the force of a raging tempest down the scarcely accepted bond and his eyes, glittering and amber in the dying light, finding yours again. For a moment, Eris Vanserra sees himself through your eyes; for the first time in centuries he doesn’t hate the man staring back at him.

By his side Eris’ mother’s skin looks as though it is wreathed in fireglow against the backdrop of the twilight-- you catch her dark glassy eyes and she smiles softly at you. There is a deep sorrow there, in the depths of The Lady of Autumn's eyes, that feel kindred to you.

A shared pain, perhaps.

Turning as Rhysand and Feyre push further into the darkness of the antechamber, you are drawn from thought once more.

The rest of The Night Court look like some savage celestial army as they enter on a night-kissed breeze. Cassian and Nesta look like warriors hardened by war and ruin, all dressed in black and faces coloured with cold caution. They’re followed by the Shadowsinger, who is shrouded in dark wisps of shadow and his skin glows golden against the dark. His face is set in an unreadable expression, though, when your eyes meet a flash of recognition flashes in those hazel eyes.

Rhysand stops dead in his tracks when he regards the High Lord of Autumn.

Beron Vanserra; cruel and tyrannical, keens when he notes the flash of surprise in Rhysand’s violet gaze. His eyes simmer with a dim fire as his eyes land on you. Beron’s teeth are like crow-picked bones as he offers you a feral smile.

“We weren’t expecting you, Beron.” Feyre’s voice is distant and cold as she speaks to the High Lord and his sons.

Rhysand rises to his feet from his throne, waving his hand to the attendants, “Fetch the High Lord and his Lady a seat.”

The attendant presents Beron with a chair and he settles between Helion and the Lady of Autumn, neither Helion nor the lady seem to acknowledge each other but you can feel the shift in their demeanors as Beron’s ire sparks in his eyes. He doesn’t even spare The Lady of Autumn a glance before he moves on to inspecting his fellow High Lords.

You pay Beron no heed and instead your eyes find the Lady of Autumn as she settles into her seat beside her husband and eldest son. The Lady of Autumn is like one of Feyre’s paintings; arresting and darkly beautiful. Her romantic eyes are shaded in the colors of sunset; a warm amber that looks almost golden in the low light and her dark auburn hair glitters in the dying fireglow and her eyes-- so rich that you get lost in their glassy depths. Those haunting eyes. They’re Eris’ eyes you realize as they meet yours. Though she doesn’t linger long she gives you a soft smile before returning her gaze to her long slender fingers that twitch in her lap. They’re adorned with many gold rings and crystals that she wears like armor to fortify her against the hostile atmosphere.

You see something of yourself in her you think, looking down to your own attire. An opulent and finely boned corset, cinched so tight, that even breathing feels like a luxury and the heavy black damask that covers you in swathes of pleated fabric acts as barrier between yourself and the many eyes in the room that trail over you without care or warning.

“Nor was I expecting to be here,” Beron drawls, “But alas, it seems we have business to discuss.” Beron’s fire rages dangerously against the black. Torrid and angry, his face unflinching and cruel as he turns his gaze upon Rhysand. Something treacherous passes between the two High Lords at that moment and something in your chest begins to stir like a storm inside of you.

A warning of a coming storm.

“Rumor claims that your allegiances are elsewhere, these days.” It is your voice that counters and Beron croons. The High Lord of Autumn assesses you keenly, his gaze shifting-- from the darkness of your eyes-- down. To the sulk of your lips. Further still to the exposed slope of your shoulders and coming to rest on your chest, where the swell of your breasts spills over the corseted bodice of your gown. His eyes darken luridly as his eyes meet yours again. Beron Vanserra scrutinizes every minute detail of your dark armor; every errant hair, every nervous twitch of your jaw, every flutter of your dark lashes.

It’s disarming the smile that spreads across his handsome face and his eyes shine with a maniacal sort of joy that sparks a wave of fury that runs through you like water-- and you swear you can feel Eris’ own fiery rage in answer.

“And what would you know of my allegiances, girl?” The false smile he offered is soon replaced with a deep loathing in Beron’s eyes that practically burns through you.

In a way, it feels strangely comforting to feel his ire.

To feel anything at all that isn’t paralyzing dread or hirearth for a home to which you will never return.

Helion waves a scar-flecked hand in front of him, “Let’s just get on with it, shall we?”

The High Lord of Day glows with the radiance of the golden sun and he looks at you with such a strange mixture of boredom and curiosity that almost seems like reverence. He doesn’t dare look at The Autumn Lady in her seat though you notice the careful glances she makes towards him in those spaces between the seconds when no one is paying much heed.

“I know you met with rhe Prince of Rask.” you say and all the idle chatter in the room dies at once. “And he’s working with the Koschei, isn’t he?”

Beron opens his mouth and you brace yourself for the torrid flames of his wrath. You see the violent delight dance across Beron’s eyes and Rhysand just holds his stare. Hold it with a face like icy death. And beneath the surface you see untempered wrath as it ripples beneath his carefully curated mask. A sharp pain in your chest has you seeking out Eris at his father’s side. His face is the picture of cataclysmic rage; writhing and burning in those eyes.

To anyone else Eris Vanserra is the image of infernal rage. A righteous son to a wronged father. But to you-- all his fear comes home to you.

A warning fire.

“Never mind, we can discuss the happy news of your heir’s birth another time,” Beron smiles again at Rhysand and Feyre. It is Feyre who regards him with a snarling fury at the mention of the son she had almost died to bring into the world.

She would give her life again if only to protect him from the clutches of a tyrant like Beron. Of that you were certain.

“I believe we have business to discuss?” Beron questions again when no one responds to his taunt.

All the eyes in the room turn to you when you loose a laugh, “I didn’t realize we were in the business of discussing plans with our enemies.”

Eris Vanserra looks as though he might just vault over the table and silence you himself. His eyes smoulder in the dark and the scathing look he sends your way is enough to make you weak in the knees.

“Make no mistake girl,” Beron muses, his eyes sparking with feral delight, “I am not your enemy,”

“You are advised to keep it that way.”

In that moment you are bereft of every thought and sound in your mind as the room stills.

Rhysand and Feyre falter and look between you and The High Lord of Autumn-- and his heir.

Your mate.

Eris himself remains poised, his fingers wrapped around the arm of the chair, the wood straining under his cruel grip until his knuckles turn as pale as the sea foam that swirls atop the Sidra.

It is the Shadowsinger who rises from his seat in response, “Threaten her again, old man-- I dare you.” Azriel’s voice wraps round you like cold death and you can’t help but stare impassively as he places his body between yours and Beron. The flicker of flame is smothered by Azriel’s darkness.

Beron sits in his chair without so much as a word. Though you see the taunt in his eyes as he looks at you again. Azriel’s imposing figure still stands over you, a scarred hand that strokes languid circles into the skin of your shoulder. The bond in your chest hums violently.

“Call off your dog, Rhysand.” Eris’ voice is dangerously low as he eyes Azriel.

Rhys shrugs, smiling faintly “Very well,” he muses.

Azriel takes his seat beside you, though his scarred fingers remain fixed on the arm of your chair.

“Tell me, Azriel?” Eris laughs coldly, his voice devoid of any humor and he opens his mouth to speak, “Does it pain you knowing that both of your brothers have been given a sister as a mate?”

“And yet the Mother still deems you unworthy of a Mate -- desitined to pity fuck the spare sister.” Eris muses with a lilt of his voice when he realizes he has the upperhand.

A twinge of heat in your chest from the bond makes your scowl deepen.

Azriel blinks at first, his face twisting in rage before rising to his feet once more, barrelling over the table with an inhuman growl. Azriel grips Eris by the lapels of his emerald tunic. Coming together in flashes of flame and smoke as they struggle against one another. Eris swings a leg over Azriel’s thigh bringing them both tumbling to the floor, while the other High Lords watch on with varying degrees of amusement and frustration on their faces.

Your face heats under the scrutiny. Unable to move or speak-- your stormy facade rendered useless as the tears begin to well in your eyes.

You are a storm-- but in the face of their wrath there is naught you can do but watch and abide.

Rhysands commanding voice cuts through Azriel’s cursing and Eris’ insults. The room falls silent as the males pull away from one another. Azriel’s nose is bloodied and his hair falls around his face in messy strands. Eris’ lip is split, spilling crimson along the column of his throat. You trace the line of scarlet as the droplets stain the neckline of his white shirt. You can hear his heartbeat as it flutters wildly. His eyes meet yours and a look of resignation and shame crosses them for a moment; obscuring the perfect amber of his gaze.

Azriel wipes his blood on his leathers; wears it like armor as he turns to Eris “Something to remember me by.”

Azriel spits the words like venom at Eris whose face radiates with a dark and fiery wrath.

Feyre looks between the two males and then to you; her face softens then as she regards you. Your hands shaking wildly, and a heartbeat like an echoing war drum, the bond in your chest singing a mournful song as it rages inside you.

You look utterly devastated.

She’s not used to seeing that kind of defeat on the face of her elder sister; the sister who had weathered so much, always headstrong and ardent, who had suffered every injustice with a straight face-- she hadn’t quite prepared herself for the type of sorrow that realization would bring with it.

Taking in the scene unfolding before you-- the descent into violence and the blood that pools like rubies at Eris Vanserra’s feet you loose a shaky breath. “Enough--enough” You wave your hands between Azriel and Eris.

The males both take a tentative step away from one another and further from you.

“Who shares my bed is of little concern, I assure you, My Lord,” You insist firstly, setting your shoulders straight and facing them now with all the stormy determination you can feign in that moment, “from what I’ve heard you yourself have quite curious bedfellows.”

Beron sneers and scoffs from his seat at the foot of the table at the insult. A lie, at that. If anyone does share Eris Vanserra’s bed they are a mystery to you.

“Preferring the company of hounds - or so I am told.” Azriel adds.

And in truth you and Azriel haven’t so much as locked eyes since that night in Hewn City. After the mating bond between you and Eris had made its home in your chest you hadn’t been able to think about anyone or anything else.

Just him. And those amber eyes.

“We are here because once more someone is threatening the tenuous peace we have established here,” Helion nods his head thoughtfully and Thesan, who had remained silent throughout the whole ordeal looks at you with genuine encouragement and utters his agreement. Kallias and Vivianne remain silent and imposing on the other side of the table.

“It is our duty-- our privilege-- to ensure Prythian and its people are not ravaged by war again.” You look to Kallias then, unimpressed by the needless violence that had passed but somehow enamored by your words.

“Hyburn took so much from us-- from all of us.” You say, gesturing around the table and the High Lord’s faces are all shaded in sympathy and regret for all they had lost, “and Amarantha made slaves of you all.”

You cast a glance to your sister; who had fought and died for these great men and their courts. And to Rhysand who had subjected himself to being her plaything. Something like grief flashes in those violet eyes that sparks a storm in you.

“I will not be a slave again,” You vow and you notice then how all the High Lords seem rapt withal as you speak to them, and the storm inside you rages on, “to anyone.”

The tensions around the table seem to dissipate when Helion raises a chalice and smirks fondly at you and it seems that they see you as more than a bed warmer to a dark God or the mate of some High Lord’s heir. Talons scrape menacingly along your mental shields and Rhysand’s dark presence makes itself known to you. Bed warmer? Darling you are a storm-- everyone here knows it.

A force to be reckoned with.

The rest of the meeting seems to come to pass as intended, laborious hours of negotiating and political games as you come to terms with each High Lord in turn. By the time the moon hangs in the sky like cut quartz, almost all of the High Lords have already departed, leaving only The High Lord of Spring and The Autumn Court’s entourage.

“Where did you find this one, Rhysand?” Tamlin asks, his tone measured and light.

Rhysand looks between Feyre and you smiling lightly, the corners of his mouth twitching as he opens his mouth to speak.

“I heard they found her in a Hyburn cell, after the war was over.” It is Beron Vanserra’s voice that cuts in, “what was left of her anyway.”

“Perhaps we should be asking where your loyalties lie?” It’s the middle Vanserra brother that speaks. His russet curls glow warm in the dim lights and his stare is cruel and malignant as he hones in on you.

“Hyburn whore” It’s whispered, accusatory, on an inhale of breath.

They way it is uttered with an air of repulsion and venom reminds you of those stories told in human villages; of woods women named ‘witch’ by those who do not understand.

People fear what they do not understand.

It seems that Fae are no different than mere mortals in that respect.

“You’d be wise to bite your tongue, brother.” Eris’s voice is a cold echo as all thought and sound eddies out of your mind. Flashes of black and gold as the visions come back to you; those days spent cowering in the darkness of your cell, your feral anger directed at any man who came too close-- all biting fury, canines and claws, and the screams they tore from your like the howling wind over a violent sea.

A fury spreads through you, taking root in the dark caverns of your chest, slowing your heartbeat to a dull aching thud as you lose yourself to it; give yourself over to the tempest of emotion that courses through you. You try to fight it as the first ebbs of that dangerous storm embrace you. Lest you surrender yourself to the tempest; let it open you up and pour out into the world in floods of ravaging power.

It brings forth a storm the likes of which the world has never seen; a thing of ugly rage.

You were born angry, your mother had told you once.

But rage is a learned thing. Your rage. It had been your mother’s first, before that it had her mothers, and her mother before her.

It is an inherited curse; a wicked and wretched thing.

It is a storm enough to drown in.

A howling wind whips around you and for a moment you are standing at a great precipice. From the cliff’s edge, peering down at a violent sea as it coils and breaks against the jagged cliff face of some distant shore, where the world looks as though it is dappled in fireglow, the smell of woodsmoke and bonfires wafts from inland. The sea-soaked wind is so palpable that you taste its salt-kiss on your lips with the ardent fervor of the most savage lover.

There is something sacred in salt, you think.

For a moment you consider what it would feel like; to plummet into the watery abyss. How the sunlight would look as it fractures and splinters on the water's violent surface.

How it might cascade into the murky green depths. A secret held between you and the sea.

“My Lady,” It is Eris’ voice, practically feral and dripping with an aching desperation as he all but vaults around the corner of the dark wood table, parting his brothers with a rehearsed type of brutality as he claws his way to you. His commanding aura draws you closer to him and his pale hand offers a strong and comforting weight on your arm as he takes your trembling palm in his rough hold.

“You’re bleeding,” Eris says, cupping your palm into a fist with his own, applying light pressure to the wound while he assesses it. Turning it over in his tentative grasp. Through your lashes you take a moment to assess him as he towers over you. He’s tall and much broader than you remember but he moves with an inhuman grace. His nose is long and straight and his jaw strong and regal. His amber eyes linger dangerously over the hand cupped in his own. You hadn’t even realized you had stood up. Nor had you registered the blood you had drawn from your own palms until you see the crescent moons, indented in the tender flesh, like a taunt as they stain Eris’ fingertips scarlet as he presses the fabric of his handkerchief to your grazed hand.

“It’s nothing, My Lord,” You say softly, your voice low and you feel his eyes burning into yours; it is a slow, searing ache that almost feels like a kiss. A fragile thing, full of reverence and a strange tenderness. A vein of hurt throbs through you, quickly soothed by the press of his palm to yours.

Eris Vanserra holds a power over you; commands you in a way that should feel unpleasant. The knowledge that you would give yourself over to him if only he asked.

“It is only a little blood.” The words live and die on tongue, they fizzle out just as soon as they are uttered before he is calling for Rhysand -- his voice is swallowed by the din and your heartbeat echoes like a wardrum in your ears and the sound of the violet sea breaks against you and you feel your body go lax.

You wait for the dull ache as your body meets the cool marble of the floor only it never comes; instead your weight is suspended in the embrace of Eris Vanserra’s arms, you vaguely hear your name from his lips before the world turns to darkness.

You feel like lull of his heartbeat as he brings you closer against his chest.

The smell of cedar and smoked bergamot follows you into the abyss.

The room seems to come back to you like the tide; swiftly and cruelly as it materializes before you. It comes back in flashes of the dark; the oppressive pillars of dark marble that hold the domed, onyx ceiling in place, the silver fae lights like pallid stars and the visage of contorting demons and chimera’s like half formed ghosts.

“What happened?” You ask looking around the darkened council chambers; once filled with the idle chatter of courtiers and High Lord’s and their entourage now only the Inner Circle is gathered in the darkness contained between these walls.

And Eris.

He burns golden against the black.

“Well one thing is for certain,” It is Morrigan who stands over you, her shoes shine like rubies in the low light, “You know how to make a scene.” Her voice is light and jovial, laced with concern.

“You fainted,” Feyre says plainly as she sinks to her knees before you. It is then you feel Eris’ solid frame as he radiates warmth behind you, where you are propped against his chest. Your body feels foreign and unlike your own as you move, transferring your weight from his arms and into the arms of Feyre who helps you stand on uncertain feet.

“I’m sorry,” You say earnestly to both Rhysand and Feyre and turning to Eris again to mutter your thanks. He looks displeased at that. The distance between your body in his, the unfamiliarity you regard him with as if you hadn’t just allowed yourself to revel in the feel of his arms wrapped securely around you. “I’m sorry.”

“You should return to your father, My Lord.” You laugh humorlessly, using the hand that isn’t wrapped tightly around the lip of the chair to smooth a hand down the pleats of your gown reflexively.

A knock, resounding and resolute echoes through the chamber and the Inner Circle seem to bristle at the intrusion. Through the blanket of the dark a figure emerges; Keir stands tall with an air of arrogance about him as he steps into the antechamber. His hair is dark and graying and his face, though handsome, has begun to show signs of age. His eyes glitter menacingly as he finds you amongst the inner circle.

“My apologies for the intrusion, High Lord.” Keir says, his voice full of dark promise as a second figure steps from the shadow, “but it appears there is a rather urgent matter that has come to our attention.”

The rooms seems steeped in solemn silence as Beron Vanserra reveals himself through the din; dressed in fine merlot robes and embroidered with gold threads and leaves. He looks like Autumn personified. All fire and wrath as he stalks into the room.

“It appears you have been keeping secrets from me, Rhysand.” Rhys takes a step forward approaching Beron with little regard for the fury that burns behind his hazel eyes. The High Lord of Night laughs cruelly as Beron advances further into the room, seeking out his son, who reaches for you almost without thinking. His fingers flex around your forearm and push you further into Feyre as he steps in front of you both subtly.

Beron looks suspiciously between the three of you.

Beron smiles.

It is not a thing of fondness or affection-- It is dark and laden with malevolence. A whisper of amusement lights in his golden irises and Eris feels like a boy again; alone and afraid as the shadows of his fathers wrath descend upon him.

“You knew,” The High Lord of Autumn charges forward, tearing through Azriel and Cassian, as he raves. His voice is dangerously low and full of malice as he advances towards Eris. His eyes blaze against the dark as he casts his wicked gaze upon his eldest son.

“You knew,” He repeats frantically, “That whore is your mate, and you lied to me.”

Accusatory.

Without thought or care, Eris lunges forward and takes one long stride so that his body shields yours from Beron’s grasp as his fire burns vengeful and angry as it bands around Eris’s arms. The putrid smell of burned flesh brings bile rising in your throat and you feel Rhysand’s shields fortify around you and the rest of the Inner Circle in response.

You wait for someone to do something, but as is the nature of these things Rhysand is not permitted to interfere in the affairs of other courts. And whether he likes it or not, Eris is subject to his High Lord and father.

And as it stands he is a traitor to both.

Eris falls to his knees before you and you feel the bond die in your chest; his scream is something akin to dying. It sears through you, burning like fire until you feel like a phoenix rising from its own ashes as your body moves of its own volition.

“Stop, stop!” You plead with Beron advancing a pace towards him as you pull away from Feyre’s secure hold. Not even Cassian dares hold you back when you claw your way from the safety of his arms, “Please, he didn’t know.”

Beron pays you no heed as his wrath brings Eris to his knees.

“Please.” you beg, your voice aching and angry as you address the High Lord, ignoring the warnings of Azriel and Cassian, “He didn’t know.”

“W-we hid it from him.” Your lie desperately, your voice though strained comes out in violent waves of anger as Beron continues to inflict his fire upon Eris.

Your mate.

In a desperate bid to spare him you beg once more.

“Please, whatever you want, you can have it, I swear it.” And all the fire ceases.

Eris heaves a heavy breath and he collapses in a swath of burnished gold and emerald, strewn lazily against the marble. You sink to your knees beside him, his hands, though shaking, are firm against you as they grasp at the many layers of your skirts as he hoists himself up. Even on his knees he towers over you. His hair drapes like spidersilk over one side of his sculpted face as he peers down at you with dark amber eyes. Despite all the eyes in the room Eris brings a tentative hand to cup your cheek and all his remorse and grief flood down the bond that runs golden and brilliant from your body to his; as if to say no use hiding now, little fox.

Eris rises to his feet before his father who looks on with a mixture of feral delight and complete apathy as Eris’ pain subsides.

Keir retreats into the shadows and with him the air shifts; the room, once shaded in the smell of hemlock and moonflowers, is tainted with something more. Something darker. Earthy.

The smell of wildflowers; smoke-kissed juniper and foxglove, all undercut with the smell of salt and iron.

It occurs to you then that it is the smell of your mating bond.

Beron loses a dark laugh and approaches you slowly, like a predator circles its prey. Deliberate and calculating as he takes your chin in his bony fingers and commands you to look at him. His eyes are much darker than Eris’, so dark that they almost look black in this light and even in his age you admire their depths, haunting and arresting. Beron cuts an intimidating figure, you think as he flashes you a smile that is all Eris.

You sometimes forget how alike father and son are; though Eris is undoubtedly more striking; with his strange amber eyes and baring a broader physique than his father, with strong arms and shoulders and that beautiful copper hair which he had inherited from his mother.

“Anything I want?” Beron muses deathly quiet as he brings you closer to him, so close that the heat of his breath against your face causes chills to rise along the skin of your arms and neck.

“Anything, that is within my power to give.” You clarify, unwilling to be tricked into a more heinous bargain than you had prepared yourself for. Feyre protests loudly, calling your name, begging you to see reason though her pleas are useless against the thunder of your heart in your chest; like the sound of a storm rolling in from the sea.

Rhysand holds his wife by her forearms as she attempts to fight her way to your side.

A bargain offered of your own volition cannot be undone or unmade.

All that’s left to do is come to terms.

Beron smiles again, a saccharine smile that turns your stomach as his free hand cups your hip harshly, his brows rise in question and you realize how he’s looking right through you to his son who stands defeated behind you.

“And if I want you?” You swallow hard as his hand on your hip tightens to a bruising grip.

The High Lord of Night protests and a dark ripple of power separates you and Beron, you stumble backwards until you’re pressed up against the dark wood table as it cuts into the backs of your thighs. Beron laughs playfully and raises his hands in mock surrender to Rhysand. Keir smiles with a sense of sick satisfaction as Beron nods for Eris to join him.

Eris joins his father on the side of the room and Beron inspects him in carefully; scrutinizes every furrow of his brow or the tick of his jaw as charred flesh gives way to pale unblemished skin.

Beron claps a hand over his son's shoulder and offers his half-hearted explanation.

Filling his ear with poison.

“Your mate has deceived you, my son; she is yours by right,” Beron preens like an over-satisfied cat, offering a wave of his hand as he gestures to you, “Is she not?”

Eris swallows thickly and through the bond you can feel his wrath as it burns silent and deadly through you. His fire burns ferocious and wild. Dark and untamed. It ignites a similar storm in the pit of your stomach as Eris regards you with feigned malice much to the appeasement of his father.

His gaze, once soft and vulnerable, is cold and predatory as he takes his time to trail over the swell of your chest and the curve of your hips like a hungry animal.

“She is,” His voice is sharp-edged as he nods impassively to his father, the glimpses of his true self now little more than a trick in the light as he adorns his facade like a suit or armor to spare him his father’s fire.

“You mean to claim her?” Eris questions pointedly. Eris’ eyes move around the room with a careful, almost pensive, precision.

He can’t pretend that he doesn’t want it. Some primal, territorial part of him wants it more than anything. It’s animalistic and carnal.

Wholly perverse.

He wants you, terribly; he aches for you in a way that he has never ached for anything.

And you want him.

But not like this.

Not as a pretty pawn to bring him to heel.

“She will do well in Autumn,” Beron says in lieu of an answer.

Rhysand and Feyre stand firm against the hostility in the room even as Beron approaches them once more. “An alliance between our two most ancient and noble courts,” Beron says in a celebratory manner, his arms outstretched in a show of arrogance, “made strong by the oaths that you will swear to my son and my court.”

“Very well, High Lord.” You acquiesce and Beron smiles as his words hit their mark

You swear that Eris could burn the city to ash then and something in him cools then under your watchful gaze; it burns blue under the surface and you can see it tempering to a cold unmoving stare cast in his father’s direction.

It’s grotesque, the anger that runs hot in his veins that sears its kiss into the place where your body and his are joined.

You seethe. A raging tempest that comes off of you in violent waves of temper that threaten to swallow the room whole. And Beron Vanserra with it. It is almost enough to bring you to your knees before him as your skin burns under his rising fury.

Your eyes meet the strange amber eyes of Eris Vanserra at his father’s side and you think then, that you will happily suffer his fire if burning always feels so profound.

#acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #eris x reader #eris vanserra #eris x you #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #pro eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris fic #eris headcanons #eris vandaddy

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tobiasdrake · 4 months

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The three pillars of ambiguity.

1 - The explanation is there if you're willing to search for it. It's kinda cool that they didn't spell everything out but left it for you to think about!

2 - The creator deliberately left this open to interpretation. There isn't an answer, and there isn't supposed to be. It's designed on-purpose to make you really sit back and think about the themes of the story and what you personally believe.

3 - Plot hole. There is no answer. The fandom has a comprehensive 4000-word essay as a substitute for a canon answer but they made up like 95% of it so take it with a grain of salt.

Always be wary about mistaking one for another.

#media #writing #fandom

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blacksapphrodite · 7 months

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🍅 Tomato Magic for Love and Prosperity ❤️

Like most everything I cook, this sauce gets the magic treatment. It makes adding magic to other meals I cook during the week a breeze! I always make this in the slow cooker on a weekend when I can babysit it. Sauces like this should be cooked low and slow, and it’s less likely to burn in a crock-pot. It can, of course, be cooked on the stove as well, but it requires a lot more monitoring. Whatever you use, treat this sauce like it’s your baby, and it’ll come out amazing.

With the main ingredient in this sauce being, well, tomatoes, it lends itself very well to love and prosperity magic. Tomatoes are considered an aphrodisiac and are tied to Lady Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty.🩷 They’re also known to dispel negativity and bring wealth to the home. So this would be a good recipe to help inspire a happy marital home, or to serve on a date night, or bring about love or wealth in general! I like to think of it as a spell for a loving and prosperous home.💕 I use cans of crushed tomatoes, but you can use fresh as well if you have some nice ripes ones. My last attempt at fresh didn’t end well, but I’ll try it again soon and let you all know how it goes! Now let’s get to the actual recipe.

Ingredients

2 large cans of crushed Tomatoes (prosperity, passion, love)

Garlic, minced and/or roasted* (love, purity, banishing negativity)

Water or Broth (about a can’s worth)

1 small can of tomato paste (guard against negativity)

1 medium Onion, minced (endurance, stability, banishing negativity)

A couple glugs of olive oil

A glug of red wine

Half of a roasted, skinned and pureed red bell pepper (optional, but so good!)*

Bay leaf (love, passion, harmony)

Basil (wealth,love, faithfulness)

Oregano (ward against negative energy, happiness, peaceful energy)

Thyme (positivity, prosperity)

Parsley (happiness, passion, protection)

Sage (prosperity, mental clarity)

Rosemary (beauty, love, general magical boost)

Marjoram (happiness, love, money)

Sea Salt (purity, protection)

Pepper (passion)

Crushed red pepper (passion, a spell booster)

You can go about making this sauce two different ways. In one version, you just toss everything into the pot, give it a good couple of clockwise stirs, turn the heat to low and let it cook all day long. This, of course, still tastes amazing and it’s incredibly easy. You can draw some sigils on the pot or crock-pot in dry erase marker for an extra boost to your spell, too!

The second method is also easy, but takes a bit more time and mess. In this version, you’ll want to saute your onions and garlic in some of the olive oil. Then, add the tomato paste with some water and cook that down. Add your wine and cook it down some more. If you’re using the roasted bell pepper, add that to this mixture too. Dump this amazing smelling concoction into your crock pot with the tomatoes and other ingredients and then let it cook all day. You’ll have an extra pan to wash, but even more depth of flavor!

Say your intent and affirmations every time you check on the sauce to stir. If you have a red and/or gold or green pillar candles or tea lights, light those as well and place them in the kitchen. As you add and adjust your herbs and spices, continue to charge with your intent. At the end of the day, serve over some steaming pasta with parmesan cheese (or a good vegan substitute!), and enjoy!

I always make extra to save and use throughout the week in other dishes that could use a love or money boost. Plus it tastes amazing. So make a night of it, and enjoy!

*I use. A lot of garlic. You could use as much as a whole head, but I usually use about half of one. If you have the patience to roast it, do so. It’s sooooo good. To roast, peel off some of the outer skin of the head, cut off the top, coat it in olive oil and roast it at around 350 degrees for an hour. You can just squeeze out that garlicky goodness.

*To roast a red bell pepper, coat it in oil, broil it until the skin blackens. Place it in a paper or plastic bag and close it so the steam continues to cook it and loosen the skin. Once it’s cool, peel the skin off! You can then chop or puree it for your sauce.

Keep in mind that you can alter the purpose of this spell with your intent, using different herbs, etc. This is a base recipe and you can tailor it to your needs. :)

(I'm cleaning up my blog and reposting some of my spells/etc that were once hosted on my website.💕)

#witchcraft #witchblr #kitchen witchcraft #kitchen magic #kitchen witch #spells #love spell #money magic #kitchen spell #magick #grimoire

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wheredidhiseyebrowsgo · 10 months

Note

Hi I’m looking for fits where derek leaves beacon hills and stiles finds him living somewhere and somehow they end up together. Possibly in a bed. So…thanks?

Hi @rosplace! There are so many great ones.

You Have Reached... by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

(1/1 I 5,074 I General)

“Why did you listen to the voicemails?”

“I like hearing you talk,” Derek said.

There were many things Stiles had been expecting after asking that question. That answer hadn’t been one of them.

“Any time we ever spoke before, it was always about what next problem we were facing and needed to solve. The voicemails are just you... talking.”

“Oh.” Stiles had never considered that.

A Growl-to-English Dictionary by churkey

(4/4 I 14,688 I Teen)

In which Derek finds his words and Stiles learns to growl.

it took new york to make me a cowboy by piratetattoos

(1/1 I 15,154 I Mature)

After Beacon Hills, Derek heads back to New York. He doesn’t look back, lest he be turned into a pillar of salt. He leaves it all behind, a monument, a tomb, a thousand fuck ups and betrayals left to gather dust and slowly rot away to nothing.

He read somewhere once, that time is cyclical, that the universe repeats over and over, and that he will be reborn and make the exact same mistakes over and over again, helpless to change anything. He thinks Stiles told him about a Vonnegut novel like that once.

He doesn’t think about Stiles.

(or: Derek leaves Beacon Hills, finds himself, and waits for Stiles to find him.)

Welcome To New York by Okaylittlebrother

(4/? I 36,657 I General)

Derek has been on Stiles' mind ever since he saw the werewolves initials in the library during Senior Scribe. He plans on attending NYU in the fall just to be close to him.

Come As You Are by Welsh_Woman

(16/16 I 55,684 I Teen)

Derek has finally found a bit of peace after the hell that was his return to Beacon Hills. He has a routine, a warm home, he even has a dog!

Then, one ordinary day, Stiles Stilinski shows up at his door with shoulders broader than he remembered, still carrying far too much.

Maybe Derek can share the peace he found and ease the burden that Stiles bears...

The Moon's Gonna Follow Me Home by turningterrific

(2/2 I 82,866 I Explicit)

Derek doesn’t want to call the window repair guy. He doesn’t want to sweep up the glass. He’ll inevitably miss a few shards and pull them out of the bottom of his bare feet for weeks.

He doesn’t want to try to make this place feel like home when it isn’t.

Derek stayed in Beacon Hills and tried to make it work because he wanted pack, wanted purpose. He gave his best effort and found himself back where he started: alone, with a few begrudging allies. He’s tired, and even though his werewolf body heals quickly, he feels the weary ache down to his center.

He packs his car with the few things he cares about enough to drag them from place to place. He locks the loft and calls a realtor about listing the building he’d bought in a misguided attempt to secure a future.

And then he leaves.

#teen wolf #sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #derek leaves #angst #hurt/comfort

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ineffable-sideburns · 5 months

Text

In this post, I'm going to tie numerous observations on screen together to make a single season 3 prediction

it relies on this premise, which i'm about to build a case for:

the way the characters interact with the story is informed by the mythical/historical figures they are directly and indirectly coded as, but it’s not always in the way you’d expect, and some characters are coded in more than one way. we can still use these relationships as Clues to postulate where the story might go and how the characters will interact with one another.

this is by no means exhaustive, obviously. i’ve seen people say that Crowley is coded as Jesus, Aziraphale as Mary, and numerous other figures. i’m just pointing out some things i’ve noticed that I haven’t seen brought up as often.

we’ll start with Crowley, then go on to Sandalphon and Saraqael, then Gabriel, then Aziraphale. yes, it'll all lead up to something and i chose these characters in this order for a reason.

Crowley

so we obviously know he’s coded as Ashtoreth when he dresses up as Nanny Ashtoreth in season 1. yes, we will note that in the book, it’s very vaguely implied that Crowley and Aziraphale both hired Ashtoreth and Francis

in season 2, when trying to get the deets on bae, Beelzebub offers Crowley a “hefty” promotion and then later tells him “you could be a duke of hell".

in researching Beelzebub, at some point I found out about Milton's Unholy Trinity in Paradise Lost, which includes Lucifer, Beelzebub, and Astaroth as the first heirarchy in Hell, and which has (seemingly) lent that idea to demonology in general.

Astaroth is often referred to as the "Great Duke of Hell."

so now with season 2, Crowley has been coded in the show as both the feminine and masculine demons derived from the eastern goddess Astarte.

note: coded != Crowley is literally Astaroth/Ashtoreth. it means we can infer things about the story through the coding

the obvious would be him becoming a duke of Hell somehow in season 3. i personally am not convinced the story will take that route, and it would be sad to see him end up back in hell. this coding is the least compelling for me. it could just be a Milton reference, or maybe, since at this point in season 2, we don’t know why Beelzebub wants Gabriel, this could be a Clue that Beelzebub was sincere. maybe it just shows how powerful Crowley could have been if he’d accepted the deal. or maybe it just adds weight to parallel the decision Aziraphale makes later when offered his own position of power. people have analyzed Crowley and Ashtoreth/Astarte before, and the book/show discrepancy is always brought up, so i'm ignoring that and just addressing the added layer of Astaroth coding. anyway, let's move on to the more interesting observations.

Sandalphon and Saraqael

i’m doing these two together because i’ve found what i believe to be a major connection between them based on Neil’s answer to this ask, a shared trait their mythical figures have, and Saraqael’s actions in the show.

when Sandalphon is introduced in season 1, we learn that he was smiting and turning people into salt during Sodom and Gomorrah. then we see the direct connection Saraqael has with Sandalphon at the end of season 2, when Michael asks her to turn Maggie and Nina into salt pillars and her hand flys up.

but that’s not secret, is it?

you know what is, though?

the fact that she immediately recognizes Metatron in his human form, looks scared shitless for multiple shots, and then proceeds to act like it never happened when he starts addressing all the angels. she doesn’t let anyone know that she recognized him.

do check out this post by @most-normal-eccles-cake-ignorer with more shots and analysis of her reaction to Metatron.

still don’t believe me and think that reaction is nothing?

well, let me tell you something both the mythical figures Sandalphon and Saraqael have in common.

they both saw Metatron in his human form.

according to one source, Sandalphon was Metatron’s twin brother, and Sandalphon, like Metatron, was originally human.

in the book of 2 Enoch, Sariel/Saraqael was one of the angels who brought Enoch (human!Metatron) to Heaven.

if Sandalphon had been in that room at that moment, he’d also be secretly recognizing Metatron.

obligatory: remember what I said at the beginning of this post? we are using this coding to analyze the story and how the characters interact with it and eachother. you don’t believe that Sandalphon or Metatron were literally human at one point in GO? that’s fine. i’m just giving a reason why the author may have chosen Saraqael and Sandalphon to serve the same purpose in this scene

it isn’t crazy to think that a lot of the historical lore was used to inform the characters, and if you think it is, at least read about Gabriel first.

Gabriel

Gabriel is being coded…as the actual archangel (fucking) Gabriel. (and as Lord Jim from the novel of the same name by Joseph Conrad - the book Aziraphale glances at before choosing to call Gabriel Jim. but you can google the plot of Lord Jim and how it relates to Gabriel on your own time. it’s too much to get into right now.)

Gabriel is an archangel with the power to announce God’s will to mankind. He is associated with messages, vision, telecommunications, and revelation…

…and in the Bible he announces the birth of John the Baptist, and later, Jesus.

30 And the angel said unto her, Fear not, Mary: for thou hast found favour with God.

31 And, behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son, and shalt call his name JESUS

Luke 1:30-31

"hey Sithis dude you will not believe this… God now grants that you may conceive seven more children…yippe!!”

let’s get back to that thing about him delivering messages and revelation though.

Gabriel starts off season 2 carrying a box to the book shop (that we think was empty but later find out had a fly in it as well as a message scrawled on the bottom about where his memory is)

he also tells Aziraphale that something terrible was going to happen to him so he had to give him something. you can take that as being the fly, and consciously it probably was, but throughout season 2 Gabriel is unconsciously and unintentionally giving other people messages.

ex.

technically, a message “delivered” (dropped) by Gabriel, found by Muriel

after Crowley not-so-nicely commands Gabriel to remember, Jimbriel says, in a voice that shifts to sound like God’s voice, “I remember when the morning stars sang together and all the angels of God shouted for joy." Crowley recognizes this as what God said to Job, and then another flashback of Job begins.

later, during another vision caused by Crowley mentioning the word tempest: "There will come a tempest then darkness and great storms and the dead will leave their graves and walk the earth once more, and there will be great lamentations... every day it's getting closer."

in the Hebrew Bible, Gabriel appears to the prophet Daniel, and explains his prophetic visions. in Good Omens though, Jim IS the prophet having prophetic visions through Gabriel.

when in the book shop with Aziraphale, Jimbriel starts to hum every day, which is what causes Aziraphale to search down the pub with the jukebox playing that song on repeat. we know from what Terry and Neil have said about every day that it’s the song of the apocalypse, but none of the characters know that, Gabriel included.

what does a song do?

each message the archangel of (fucking) messages delivers is unconscious. not how you’d expect him to live up to his name, right? of course, if they are actually God’s messages, it makes sense that they’re useless, vauge, and well, ineffable. one last thing: spiritually, Gabriel’s messages and prophecies are often believed to be delivered through dreams (or in other words, the unconscious)

edit: this post by @noneorother actually inspired me to look at the mythology of archangel Gabriel, so it’s crucial you check it out. i’ve also seen a post somewhere that posits Gabriel shouldn’t even have some of the memories that go by really quickly before the flashbacks of him and Beelzebub, but i lost the link to it.

edit II: just wanted to add this post by @drconstellation, which analyzes the symbols coded into Jimbriel's clothing.

Aziraphale

it’s hard to ignore the fact that Aziraphale’s name is similar to Raphael, and that we’re missing an archangel Raphael. i’ll link some analysis on the meaning of Aziraphale’s name and share a quote from Terry, but this has all been said before. i want to look at who Raphael is mythologically to see if there’s similarities in Aziraphale’s character, and i also want to see if we can find out the relationship between Gabriel and Aziraphale, and why the latter was a suitable replacement.

Terry said about the name's origin:

"It was made up but... er... from real ingredients. [The name] Aziraphale could be shoved in a list of 'real' angels and would fit right in..."

For instance, Islam recognizes the Archangels Jibril, Mikhail, Azrael (see also the annotation for p. 9 of Reaper Man ), and Israfel (the subject of Edgar Allan Poe's well-known poem of the same name), whereas from Christianity we get such names as Raphael, Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel.

the excerpt above was taken from here

NOW that that’s out of the way, who is archangel Raphael, the mythical figure?

Raphael’s name means “god heals.” it’s believed he helps people heal and overcome their struggles spiritually, physically, and mentally, and that he protects people on their journeys. he’s also considered to be the angel of joy, love, marriage, matchmaking, and travels.

as an example, in the Book of Tobit, God sends Raphael on a journey with a man named Tobias so that he can meet and woo his future wife. Raphael is also sent to heal her and Tobias’s blind, ageing father.

all the people and things i can count just off the top of my head that Aziraphale has healed or protected:

Anathema (healed)

Anathema’s bike (healed)

the dove he accidentally killed (technically healed by Crowley in the book)

Jimbriel (literally tells Jim he promised he would protect him)

Maggie and Nina when the demons enter the bookshop (tells them he will protect them)

bonus: in a scene cut from season 1, he stops a baby’s stroller from crashing

…and one he couldn’t:

collection of gifs of Aziraphale being full of joy:

you just have to look at Aziraphale smiling, especially at Crowley...

...to know that he represents joy and lo--

oh, but wait, he’s known for hooking people up, right? in case you forgot: Maggie and Nina va voom? originally his idea

similarly to the book of Tobit story I mentioned earlier, who did Aziraphale protect on his journey to meeting his beloved?

remember: the characters don't know they're being coded as anything and they don't know what kind of story they're in, so while Aziraphale didn't know he was going to be reuniting two lovers when he protected Jim, he played the role Neil made for him. it doesn't matter that he didn't know in the same way that it doesn't matter that Crowley could have (potentially) been powerful, or in the same way that it doesn't matter that Gabriel's messages were delivered unconsciously.

one more thing. Raphael heals people spiritually, physically, and mentally, right?

so is it any surprise that Aziraphale thinks he can heal the *ahem* spiritual corruption in Heaven?

we're going to tinfoil hat theory-land now ya'll, but I swear all of these observations are leading up to something cohesive...

Why did Aziraphale replace Gabriel?

i'll spare you all the long theories about Metatron's reasons, although i quite like the idea that Metatron was listening in ever since Aziraphale opened the portal to discorporate the demons attacking the bookshop, and he saw Aziraphale use his halo to declare war in order to protect Maggie and Nina. this shows Metatron that when pushed into a corner, or when it means protecting someone, he can force Aziraphale's hand...even to war.

But can we find a link between Gabriel and Raphael mythically to explain it instead?

if you've made it this far, you know i've got an answer for you. i withheld one detail about Gabriel earlier. in Christianity, he is often associated with blowing the trumpet at the end times to announce Judgment Day.

"okay, so?"

well, do you remember the quote from Terry and the excerpt from lspace I mentioned earlier? when mentioning the origins of Aziraphale's name, the excerpt mentions both angels in Islam and Christianity. the counterpart to Raphael in Islam, is Israfil/Israfel...

who blows the trumpet to signal the Day of Judgment.

"but Aziraphale wouldn't do that!"

he wouldn't intentionally do it. he's not a villain.

you remember who didn't intend to start the apocalypse in season 1, but who was there and given a role to play, regardless of whether he wanted to?

…the one who said no to heaven and hell and refused to be their pawn this time around when offered powerful positions by both?

Aziraphale, after nuking some demons with his halo, with painful foreshadowing: "I think I may have just started a war."

obligatory reiteration: the way the character-coding manifests is not literal, and it isn't always in the way you'd expect. there may be no literal trumpet. but i'm just pointing out the potential symmetry with season 1 in it being Aziraphale who "starts" apocalypse II.

one last thing: Raphael protects people on journeys, and helps them overcome their struggles — but now Aziraphale is on his own journey, and he will have to overcome his own moral struggles (ironically what Crowley helped him with)…alone.

#good omens theory #good omens season 3 #good omens speculation #good omens 3 #good omens analysis #good omens meta #good omens sequel #good omens spoilers #good omens #good omens clues #gabriel #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #crowley #sandalphon #saraqael #raphael

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simply-whump · 6 days

Text

Hard to Find (难寻) - Whump List

Whumpee : He Lian Xi played by Zhao Yi Qin

Synopsis : Princess Feng Yuan of Yongzhao and Young Master He Lian Xi of Linchuan were a pair of "Lian Lizhi" who were destined to live in harmony with each other. However, they made a private decision for life, which caused great changes in the clan. Three years later, the two reunited again, starting a battle full of temptations and pulls. (MDL)

Genres : Historical, Romance

Warning! Possible spoilers below!

He Lian Xi

Ep 1 : (03:15) Grabbing a blade with his bare hand — (04:30) Falling to his knees, crying

Ep 2 : (Flashback) (03:15) Tied, bloody, seems to have been tortured, stabbed — (Present) (09:20) Crying — (17:10) Emotional, crying

Ep 3 : (12:45) Bitten

Ep 4-7 : None

Ep 8 : (00:40) Uses himself as a shield to protect someone, robe catches fire, hand on fire as well, concern for him, burns on his back and hand — (03:20) Burns on his back treated, bandaged — (Flashback) (14:11) Waking up bloody, heavy breathing, screaming, crying — (Present) (14:44) Having a nightmare, holding his chest, wakes up, shaky breathing

Ep 9 : (16:35) Has to stab himself to save someone, concern for him, bleeding from the mouth — (18:05) More bleeding, collapses on one knee, using his body as a shield, hits a pillar, passes out

Ep 10-13 : None

Ep 14 (Flashback) : (19:00) Painful “operation”, in a lot of pain, screaming

Ep 15 (Flashback) : (00:35) Very weak, concern for him, sweating, passes out

Ep 16 (Flashback) : (04:20) Poisoned, unsteady, holding his chest, spitting blood, face grabbed, fighting, hit, more blood spitting (Gif Set) — (09:00) Tortured, cut multiple times with a knife (like a lot), tied, bleeding heavily, passes out, splashed with salt water, screaming in pain, barely alive (Gif Set), stabbed, shaky breathing, dies

Ep 17 : (04:55)Treating his injury, in pain

Ep 18 : (3:45) Cuts his own hand — (08:40) Crying — (11:50) Crying

Ep 19-21 : None

Ep 22 : (09:50) Cut on his back, fighting, worried for someone

Ep 23 : (Flashback) (02:20) Crying

Ep 24 : None

Ep 25 : (15:08) Stopping a blade with his bare hand, concern for him, hand bandaged

Ep 26 : None

Ep 27 : (09:50) Very worried for someone, distressed, screaming, crying

Ep 28 (!TW for suicide!) : (13:25) Stabs himself in the heart to die with his loved one, bleeding from the mouth, in pain, dies

>> More Whump Lists

#hard to find #whump list #whump #asian whump #zhao yi qin #cdrama #chinese drama

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starksvinyls · 9 months

Text

Title: Shoot To Thrill Rating: Explicit Pairing: Peter Parker/Tony Stark Tags/Warnings: Exhibitionism, Semi-Public Sex, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Foot Jobs (sort of lol), Dry Humping, 5 + 1 Things Summary: Peter has an exhibition kink. Tony takes full advantage…or at least tries to. Or: the 5 times they’re interrupted and the 1 time they’re not. Notes: this fills square B2 'exhibitionism' on my @starkerfestivals Summer Bingo card! AO3 Link

one.

Peter’s moan turned into a groan of pain when the back of his head hit the wall. It wasn’t enough to deter Tony, though, who was doing an impression of a vampire on Peter’s neck, doing his best to turn the pale skin a deeper shade of red with every suck and nip. His fingers were threaded through Tony’s salt and pepper hair, holding his older lover in place. The din from the living room was loud in Peter’s ears from around the corner where they were hidden in the hallway, and he knew they were going to have to make this quick so none of the others would get suspicious. That was probably a moot point with Natasha, though, she knew everything.

A muscled thigh was shoved between Peter’s legs and he ground down, moaning again at the pressure on his hard cock. There were two super soldiers in the living room, and Peter knew they could probably hear him moaning, but it just ratcheted up the heat pooling in his belly. The idea of getting caught…the idea of doing things right in front of people, for all to watch - god.

“C’mon, honey,” Tony rumbled against Peter’s neck. “Get yourself off.”

Peter was hasty to comply, working his hips faster and faster, grinding on Tony’s jean clad thigh. He was so close already, the noise from the living room urging him along. He’s on the cusp, he could feel it tingling in his belly-

He shoved Tony off, the man nearly colliding with the opposite wall. He looked back at Peter in confusion before Clint appeared around the corner.

“Are you two coming, or what?”

Peter had to bite his lip and turn his head away to keep from laughing at the archer’s word choice.

“Yeah, yeah, Legolas,” Tony drawled. “Don’t get your arrows in a twist.”

two.

The alcove Tony had drug Peter to was dark, the noise from the charity gala in the ballroom was muffled even to Peter’s enhanced hearing. His back was pressed against a pillar and Tony was working his belt open.

“Gonna jerk you off, baby,” The belt buckle clanged as it fell open. “And you’re going to cum in your underwear and then go back to the party and pretend that you haven’t been naughty.”

Peter moaned. “Please, Tony, god.”

Tony smirked and pulled Peter’s zipper down so he could get his hand in Peter’s pants. “Do you think they’ll be able to tell, huh? Think they’ll all know what a dirty boy you are, getting off knowing people could hear you, could see you?”

Another moan, this one higher, more like a whine, escaped Peter and he pushed his hips forward as warm rough fingers wrapped around Peter’s hard cock. Tony got in two strokes before a door down the hall banged open, the cacophony from the ballroom getting louder for a moment before the door shut again. Then there were heels clicking on the floor, growing closer.

Both men groaned and righted themselves.

three.

They were in the lab, this time, and it had started out innocent enough. They were working on their suits, and Peter had the specs for his web shooters of the Iron Spider suit pulled up. After hours of work, Peter had finally had a breakthrough on how to get them to be more streamlined with the rest of the suit. He whooped in joy and Tony came over to see what he had done.

“So smart, baby,” Tony pressed a kiss to Peter’s temple.

Peter smiled wide, turning to kiss Tony properly. When he pulled back, he could see heat in Tony’s eyes.

“Your brain turns me on.”

It wasn’t the first time Peter had heard some iteration of that from Tony, but it never got old, it always made warmth pool in his belly. Tony crowded Peter up against the holo table he had been working at and reached for Peter’s hips, holding him in place to give him another kiss - not that Peter would go any where. He would happily accept all kisses from Tony, thank you very much.

“I think you deserve a reward for all your hard work.” Tony took a half step back and then dropped down onto a low stool he had hooked with his foot and drug over.

His knees were too bad for the hard concrete floor of the lab anymore, but they made it work. Peter wasted no time in undoing the button and zip of his jeans and shoved them down his thighs, ignoring Tony’s soft chuckle and whisper of eager.

The lab’s glass walls weren’t frosted over in privacy mode, anyone would see what they were doing if they happened to walk by, but that just made Peter harder. It would be so easy for someone to see as Tony took Peter into his mouth, sinking as far as he could go in one smooth movement. Peter’s legs shook, and he gripped the edge of the table.

Tony set a steady rhythm bobbing his head, flicking his tongue along Peter’s slit every time he pulled back; that was playing dirty, he knew that would get Peter off the fastest. Suddenly he could hear heels clicking down the hall.

“Shit, someone’s coming.” He panted, trying to get Tony to pull off.

The older man didn’t, he bobbed his head a few more times, keeping eye contact with Peter. The younger moaned, hearing whoever it was getting closer and closer to the lab. God, would they be caught? Would whoever it was see what they were doing and be disgusted? Or would they stop to watch?

“Tony-”

Tony pulled off and wheeled back over to his own work station. Peter quickly did up his pants, trying to hide his erection by tucking it up under the waistband of his briefs, just as the lab door slid open and Pepper walked in, staring down at the tablet in her hands as she called out to Tony.

four.

Director Fury was talking, and Peter really tried to pay attention, but there was a sock clad foot rubbing over his erection. He glanced over at Tony, still trying to appear as if he was paying attention to the briefing, and could see the man blatantly staring at him. They were sitting kitty corner to each other and Tony was slightly slumped back in his chair in order to reach Peter with his foot.

Peter was doing to best to swallow all the noises that were trying their damndest to escape as Tony curled his toes to pet over the head of Peter’s cock through his suit. They were at the back of the room, and everyone’s attention was faced forward, on Fury, but the idea that any of them could look back and just know sent a shot of electricity down Peter’s spine.

Another curl of Tony’s toes and Peter’s hand was shooting down to grab Tony’s foot and hold him in place. If he moved again, there was a very really possibility that Peter would cum in his Spidey suit and it was impossible to hide that, he knew from experience. They were about to head out on a mission, there was no way he would have time to clean himself up before they needed to be on the QuinJet.

Peter could see Tony smirking out of the corner of his eye. The man slowly started to move his foot again, causing Peter to make a surprised noise, that he quickly covered with an awkward cough when everyone turned to look at him. Sure, he liked the fantasy of being caught, of putting on a show, but not in the middle of a meeting!

“S-sorry, Director.”

Fury eyed him, and then went back to explaining the intel they had received the night before. Peter turned to glare at Tony for almost getting him in trouble at work, but the man just grinned and dropped his leg.

five.

The honking of New York City traffic surrounded them as they headed towards another gala. Happy was up front, cursing idiot drivers under his breath as he navigated the streets. Tony was typing away on his phone, no doubt answering last minute emails from Pepper. Peter reached across the backseat and rested his hand on Tony’s thigh, just a hey, I’m here. The older man, dropped one hand down from his phone and rested it on top of Peter’s. Hey, back.

As they moved through another intersection, it seemed the traffic was getting worse, and Peter sat back and let himself relax. Galas weren’t his favorite thing in the world, but he knew he was expected at at least a few a year as Tony’s Stark’s significant other, though Tony kept telling him to screw what those people think. Peter was still having a hard time with not letting what others thought of him affect him sometimes.

Peter was pulled from his thoughts by a hand creeping over his crotch. He turned his head to see Tony had scooched closer on the seat, and had put the partition up. Peter’s breath hitched. Happy knew exactly what they were doing when they put the partition up, it wasn’t exactly sound proofed and Peter could get loud. The man never said anything, though, would just give them each the stink eye before wandering off.

Peter flushed thinking about how Happy was right there and could hear everything and knew. God, that always made heat simmer in Peter’s belly when they did this. Not to mention the passengers of other cars on the road. The windows were tinted enough that at night there was no way to see in, but during the day, there was a chance if someone were to look hard enough.

In his distracted state, Peter didn’t even realize that Tony had undone his slacks. He lifted his hips just enough to slide the material down enough to free his cock, which was rapidly hardening. Tony took his in hand and started a fast pace rhythm, Peter wondered if they were near the museum the gala was being held at, or if Tony was just being quick because he had other ideas.

Tony started up with filthy words intermingled with praise whispered into Peter’s ear, making the younger shudder, and his hips jerk up, chasing the sensations of Tony’s work rough hand. He was so close already, the spider DNA making him extra sensitive for the first orgasm - Tony could usually wring three or four out of him when they weren’t being interrupted.

Peter was sure he jinxed it with that thought because there was a knock on the partition, the signal that they had arrived. Peter’s head fell back, thumping on the headrest. Tony actually had to give a speech tonight, which meant no playing. Peter wouldn’t get to cum until they got home, or unless he snuck off to a bathroom.

They hastily straightened their suits and then Happy was there, opening the door at the curb to the flash bulbs of many cameras lining the red carpet into the museum.

+ one

The dressing room of the boutique was small, only a curtain separating them from the other shoppers and employees; a simple cream colored curtain was all that kept everyone in the store from seeing Peter on his knees, Tony Stark’s cock down his throat.

Tony had come into the dressing room under the guise of helping Peter with a complicated bondage-esq looking shirt, and within a minute Peter was on his knees and sucking Tony’s cock down to the root.

Gentle hands ran through Peter’s hair, pausing to cup the back of his head for a moment after every pass. Peter loved how gentle Tony could be with him, but he also loved when the man got rough. Peter could take a lot more than the average human, and they had taken full advantage of that once they figured it out. Now, the softness was just what Peter needed, a reminder that while they were doing something risky, Tony would take care of him no matter what.

Peter bobbed his head, saliva pooling in his mouth and starting to leak around Tony’s cock, making Tony groan softly.

“Such a good boy,” He whispered, staring down at Peter with nothing but love in his eyes.

The younger man dug the heel of his hand into this crotch, trying to relieve the pressure on his aching cock. The combination of the cock in his mouth and the fact that they could get caught at any moment, plus knowing that as soon as they walked out of the dressing room that the sales women would know what they had been doing, was making Peter so hard. He moaned around Tony and looked up through his lashes at the older man.

“Oh, Christ.” Tony swore, gripping Peter’s hair a bit tighter and shallowly thrusting his hips, chasing his release.

Peter knelt there obediently, waiting for Tony to cum down his throat. A few sharp thrusts, and the bitterness was hitting the back of Peter’s tongue. With one last press of his hand to his dick, he came in his underwear.

When they walked out, Peter was flushed, but grinning as he carried his items to the counter. Tony paid for everything and then slipped the embarrassed looking girl a crisp $100 bill with a wink. Peter giggled as they headed to the car.

#sfsummerbingo23 #starker #ironspider #starker fic #peter parker x tony stark #starksvinyls fic

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secretdiaryofcrowley · 1 month

Text

Things to Do Tonight

Drink

Get drunk.

Get very very drunk

Don't want to sit in a pub. Pub's full of people and if I miracle-shoo them all out, I will just draw attention to myself. Don't need that now. I draw enough attention as it is. I'm taking out the bottle, walk over the bridge and look at the Thames.

Pretty little stars in the water. Not the real thing, but still pretty. Glittering like anything.

Why does everyone always seem to know where my car is? I keep driving the Bentley around, don't want to stay in one place for too long. Other demons can spot me, of course. But these little notes and letters from Maggie and Nina and Muriel keep finding me, too.

Bla bla bla coffee. Bla bla bla talk. Bla bla bla we're here for you bla bla bla you don't have to go through this alone.

Go away. Just go away.

I've been on my own for 6000 years, I don't plan on changing that now. And least of all with humans who shouldn't be dragged into this. Friendship with humans never ends well, someone always gets turned into pillars of salt.

Or killed. One minute Kain's a baby pulling my hair and puking all over my robes, next thing, you know, he's an angry teenager smacking his brother with a stone. Broke Eve's heart. Should've stayed away.

And Muriel keeps writing about all the books they've been reading and keeps asking stuff about customers and taxes and stockkeeping and why would I know any of this? Nina and Maggie run shops, too, they're far better with these things.

Do you actually want to get in trouble with heaven, little bee? Can you even imagine what they could do to you for hanging out with a demon?

'M not stupid, you know, I know it's you trying to reach me from the bookshop's number. I can only hope Shax was too stupid to read any of your little notes, when she put my mail under the wipers. I don't think she has back channels to rat you out to heaven, but you never know.

Did the real stars look as glittery as their reflection in the water?

Whatever. You don't miss what you can't remember, right? If I wanted to see stars, I could just go watch a Disney movie.

Now where did I park the Bentley? Why does everyone always seem to know where my car is, except for me, myself and I?

"Hello Crowley."

No no no no no no, not you. Not you, too.

Why can't you just all go away and let me wallow in my misery?

~ * ~

More Diary Parts:

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16 / 17 / 18 / 19 / 20 / 21

#good omens #crowley #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #crowley is a mess #crowley and aziraphale #crowley is drunk #crowley can't see stars

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kedreeva · 2 months

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I generally stay out of any discourse but there's one thing I read that makes me feel like I'm losing my mind and since I've been in love with your Good Omens meta since season 1 I figure you might help me shed some light on the issue.

I've read in a post that Crowley only stops Elspeth from offing herself because Aziraphale inspired him to do so with his own attempts to save Elspeth's soul and I feel this is...canonically incorrect? Like, not ambiguous or free for interpretation but literally canonically incorrect. The point of the minisode was foreshadowing on Aziraphale's lack of...not understanding of but willingness to accept Heaven's cruelty. It's Crowley who always jumps in first to sace everyone: Siti when she's about to curse God, the humans at the ball, Maggie and Nina when Saraquiel wants to turn them into pillars of salt.

Am I losing my mind or is the take about Aziraphale being the reason for Crowley rescuing Elspeth absolutely not canon? Because I fear if it was, I'd thoroughly misunderstood Crowley's entire character. The whole point is that he is good, that he protects and saves the innocent, without having to be inspired or prompted to do it, right?

I'd be very much obliged if you could shed some light on that for me 😅

I'm gonna level with you, I don't know who Elspeth is, or have recollection of Crowley saving her, or whether Aziraphale did or did not influence anything. I watched S2 once and went "ah, it's not finished, no thank you. I will await the finish before I engage again" and set it gently and lovingly back down. Through this method, I generally avoid wank like whether or not Crowley was influenced by Aziraphale to do a thing I don't remember anything about to a person I equally may as well never have met.

But, if I may say this, you're allowed to have a different headcanon to someone else. Heck, you're allowed to have a different headcanon than anyone else. You are allowed to interpret canon in a complete 180 way from someone else, and can do so without worrying about what they think happened, because the characters are fictional and canon is merely a corpse whose pockets we rifle through for loose beliefs the moment we're finished consuming it. Make your own post about how you think it went, there are bound to be people who agree with you. Maybe you'll find them, maybe you won't. Won't know til you try.

Good luck out there friend!

#asks #anon asks #sorry I'm not more helpful in this regard #if you'd like #come back after season 3 and try again #good omens

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themechaneer · 2 years

Text

Make your muse ft. My unseelie oc Ash(ley) Gentry (most definitely not his real name 😶) putting the barest fucking effort into his glamour (giving someone a v small peek more like).

#been thinking about him the past few days.#Joel was the first oc I’ve ever brought to tumblr but he wasn’t the first one I made #Ash is a piece of work…. in more ways than 1 but can also be a lot of fun if your heart (and more importantly your MIND) can handle him #once I get Joel sorted out I may begin entertaining the idea of bringing this bastard round #‟ i am but a sensitive pillar of salt ” || ooc

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awingedinsect · 3 months

Text

-Flood me like Atlantic-

Chapter 1

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: alcohol use, descriptions of drowning, swearing, sadness, eventual smut, non-con hurt, bondage, blood, let me know if I miss anything the warnings will be updated as we go.This is the first chapter of a series in progress :)

Note: this being the first post of a new blog, I do not expect a lot of traction. But to anyone who does read I hope you enjoy, and have an amazing day!!

The water is filling his lungs.

He scrunches his eyes to fight off the salt already burning deep up his nose, threatening to flood his whole body as he sinks, sinks…

He could swim up, but he doesn’t. He could be scared, but he isn’t. He’s resigned to die. To be buried in the cold, dark ocean, and become one of the many forgotten things that call it their tomb.

He’s sinking, deeper and deeper, feeling his body go stiff as the icy darkness wraps around his limbs.

The last blue light of the surface has abandoned him.

And he can’t be sad, can he? He knows that he chose this, after all. Even if he can’t remember it. Even if the tiniest inkling of regret is creeping up on him with each bit of light lost.

He goes limp, parting his lips to let the water in.

•••

“Hey, kid!”

His eyes flick open, a little gasp leaving his lips as a heavy fist raps on the bathroom door.

“Fucking finish up, you’re on in ten minutes.”

Fuck.

He doesn’t reply, just rubs his temple as the pain in his body registers. He peels his face off of the arm he’s resting on the paper dispenser.

Did he actually fall asleep?

The ache in his legs as he readjusts on the toilet lid tells him he’s been sitting here for way longer than he intended.

He stands up, cursing at the immediate stab of pain in his lower back.

“Kid, you in there?”

“Yeah… yeah!” He scrambles to the sink, prepared for the horror that must be his eyeliner after having his face smashed for the past 20 minutes or so.

It is… not good.

“Hurry up.”

“Okay.”

There’s a single yellow lightbulb dangling in the middle of the ceiling, illuminating what he hopes to god is a poor portrait of himself. His cheeks are hollow, his skin is pale. And not even the copious amounts of black eyeliner dredging his eyes- and now the side of his face -can hide the bags under them. The all-nighter he pulled in preparation for tonight shows, letting each and every one who will look at his illuminated face tonight know just how nervous he’s been for the past few days.

He just prays the other bands don’t get a jab in about it.

He rubs his cheek with the side of his hand, smearing the black off as best he can before swiping his bangs into his eyes to hide the whole mess.

He takes a deep breath.

He looks fine… really. Not like this is his first show. Not like he’s gonna fumble the hell out of it, even after weeks of practice behind closed doors. His fingers itch for the familiarity of the smooth keys on his sleek, black keyboard.

He knows them better than the feel of his own skin.

The second he opens the door he’s swallowed into the noise of the bar. The acoustics in here aren’t bad- he can hear every noise, every voice laughing with the rock music pouring out of old dusty speakers. He blinks hard to adjust to the light as he weaves his way through the crowd, eyeing the low-set stage against the far wall.

His stage.

He mounts it, hunching down besides the legs of the keyboard to look it over, adjusting a few knobs carefully.

“It’s tuned.”

It takes him a few seconds before he realizes that the voice is directed at him. He looks up, thumb swiping anxiously over the rim of the keys.

“Huh?”

“You shouldn’t touch that.” The man says, leaning against one of the concrete pillars to his left. He’s fiddling with the strings of his bass, And remarkably, he’s almost eye-level, even though his shiny doc martens are planted on the floor below. “It’s already tuned.”

He looks about the same age as him. 22, a few years older maybe. But the confidence he exudes is almost enough to convince someone that he’s only in this dive bar for kicks. A hardened veteran, disgusted at a spindly kid getting their eye-liner smudged fingers all over the keys.

“I know.” He says, barely giving the newcomer a glance. “But I’m about to play it. I want my songs to sound the way they always do.”

“Do they always sound like you’ve fucked up the keyboard?” Comes the reply. And oh boy, he’s on in five minutes. This joker needs to let him do his thing, otherwise he’s concerningly close to having a mental breakdown right here.

“No.”

“You oughta write music that works with a properly tuned instrument, Holmes.” The stranger swipes his long fingers through his bangs, dragging the stray beaded strands back to join the tight knot pulling the rest of it out of his angular face.

“S’what I do.”

“And you are?”

“III.”

Two minutes. A small smile creeps to the young musician's lips. “Yeah? Where’s I and II?”

“IV and II are at the bar, smart ass.” III says, stepping closer. His eyes bore down onto the hands now fiddling with the power cord leading into the wall. It’s dragged firmly across the stage to where it ought to be.

“-they’re not shitting their pants over a tiny dive bar gig.”

Now he’s pissed. And yet that anger is manifesting as what feels like tears in the corners of his eyes. If his eyeliner starts running even more, he’s gonna kill this man, and then himself. But before he can say anything the lights dim, and Highway to Hell fades out of the dated speakers.

His heart lurches against his ribs.

The tall stranger actually smiles, stepping back against his pillar. He folds his arms casually over the bass slung across his waist, settling down for the show.

The musician is half-certain he sees a wink from between the long strands of hair once again falling out of that obnoxious man-bun, but he ignores it. He doesn’t have a choice. Because in less than a second, there’s a pale blue spotlight illuminating his hunched shoulders and smudged, sleep-deprived face.

He hears his name announced half-heartedly by the same voice that pulled him out of his impromptu nap a few minutes ago, and a few faces in the spotty crowd turn to eye him expectantly.

Is this… what hell is like?

The mic positioned over the keys suddenly looks like the face of a monster, calling his name with every intention to bite. But he leans into it almost robotically, clearing his throat and hearing the sound bounce against the plaster walls.

“…Hello.” He says, a little too softly. He wonders if he ought to talk more, if they’re expecting him to introduce himself again or ask them if they’re having a good night. Somehow, this is the first time the dilemma has crossed his mind.

Then he settles with the simplest thing that comes to him.

“This song is called Atlantic.”

His shaky fingers start to move over the keys. He taps them lightly, hitting the first one too hard and compensating by barely brushing the next two. But nobody seems to notice, and he takes a deep breath, praying to any gods that can hear him that he gets this right. He knows this song. He wrote this song.

He feels the eyes of the bass player following his icy fingertips, willing them to fail as they glide across the row of white keys. And somehow, it serves to steady them, if out of spite. He steps closer to the instrument, bowing his head and jutting his knee forward as his lips graze the mic.

“Call me when they bury bodies under water…”

The room goes silent. The entire world does, and so does his mind. The notes drift softly from his mouth, falling into air full of listeners for the first time.

“It’s blue light over murder for me…”

His eyes drift close as the music consumes him.

His hands remember, now- they pull the notes out of the ivory delicately and powerfully, lapping at them like waves and stirring them with his voice in perfect cohesion.

This is who he is.

“Crumble like a temple built from future daughters, to wasteland when the oceans recede.”

Eyes are on him, freezing him and orbiting around him. But they can’t get behind his closed eyes, and they can’t tell him he’s playing his own song wrong. The worst they can do is hate it, and well… he tries not to think about that. Hopefully they've all had enough drinks to convince them this slightly awkward performance is a good one.

And hopefully he’ll be able to have enough drinks tonight that no matter what, he’ll have had a good time.

He’s nearing the end of the song, and he notices his hands going harder on the notes. “Don’t wake me up.” There’s a knot in his throat. “Don’t wake me up.”

And then there is silence.

He blinks his eyes open, fighting the shivers in his body as all sense tells him to look at the crowd. But all he can concentrate on is the black smudges on the white keys, and the blue light bathing it in a haze.

After a few seconds, his ears fill with a spattering of applause. One person “wooh!”s, and a few more nod approvingly once his eyes finally peel off his feet.

He feels a tiny smile crawl to his lips.

Then he looks at III.

The man is still leaning on his bass, watching him with dark but almost approving eyes. He doesn’t look ready to pounce on him anymore, though god knows, the great part of his confidence probably lies in how well he’s gonna mop the stage with that meager offering.

The singer looks away, trying his best not to scowl as he nods his thanks to the crowd and returns to playing, this time announcing a song he only wrote a week ago. There might be a little free-styling involved, but he thinks he’s up for it.

And thus his twenty-minute slot drags on. A slow beginning, sour glances from III, then shuffling his feet and nodding his head as he retreats to the darkness behind his eyes and lets his hands take over.

Near the end, he’s almost confident. He finds himself rocking back and forth slowly as the last notes of his final song die out, a few claps once again resounding in the tiny venue. “Thank you,” he whispers, blinking a tear out of his eye.

And then he steps off the stage.

He feels weightless, almost like he’s dreaming. The lights blur in his peripheral like jellyfish and he makes a b-line for the bar, feeling more euphoric and terrified than he’s ever felt in his life. His first show. His first show. And they didn’t boo him off the stage.

He plops down on a stool and rubs his eyes, ordering an old fashioned and hoping it will keep the elation going. Fuck, he’s tired.

Suddenly he’s being attacked. Or at least, slapped on the back so hard it zaps a few hours of energy back into his abused body.

He turns to the person beside him, blinking in confusion before he realizes that this is one of the men III had gestured to before the show. Either II or IV, he doesn’t know. The man is wearing a black t-shirt, two scythes making an ‘X’ dangling on a silver chain around his neck. his bright blue eyes are enthusiastic. “Nice show, man.” He says, taking a swig of his beer. “Loved that little bit in the middle, that depressing solo bit. You’ve got a fucking voice and an ear for those ivories, brilliant stuff.”

“Thank you.” The singer replies, hoping the compliment is genuine and not something a certain fellow bandmate put him up to. He reaches for the drink slid to him across the counter, taking a modest sip. He swirls the cherry in the bottom of the glass.

“Are you on next?” He asks, trying to make eye contact as he takes another sip. “Do you sing?”

“Fuck yeah, and fuck no.” The man giggles. “I’m on drums, see.” He points to the stage and the slightly sad, unassuming drum set in the corner. “Gonna tear it up. Hope you’ll stay.”

He’d like to stay. He loves music. But he’s afraid if he doesn’t get sleep soon, he’ll never make it home conscious. “Thanks, I’ll try.” He says, almost rubbing an eye before remembering the black puddles he’s turned them into. He sighs.

“…Tired.”

“Hey!” A new face says before the drummer can reply. It sounds like the voice of a woman, and is quickly followed by yet another unsolicited hand on his shoulder. He turns around wide-eyed.

“Nice show, kid.” Says a girl yet again no older than himself. Her head is shaved, clean black lips glistening in a smile.

“I’m Venus, the opening act. What’dya think?”

He, of course, had slept through it. But the pretty girl beaming at him can’t possibly know that.

“It was fantastic,” he says, trying his best at a smile. “V-very good.”

Something in her face tells him she might not be entirely convinced. But he’s relieved when she instantly changes the subject, manicured hand squeezing his shoulder playfully as she leans over him to eye the drummer.

“You with the next band?” She asks. Her silver snake bites flash in the neon light above the counter, stirring something in the singer's chest. He folds his hands over the sleeves of his loose sweatshirt, tipping his glass to his lips again and sighing.

The drummer takes a long swig of his own beer, nodding with a smile curling his lips. He pops off and says, “I’m II. And you’ll see me on the drums.” He directs both of their gazes towards the stage with the tip of his bottle, something twinkling in his eye as he says, “there’s III over there, and IV. Best Bass and guitar duo you’ve ever heard.”

Venus laughs, hunching casually against the singer's shoulder in a way that, if he had any more brain cells, would make him blush. He just eyes III over the rim of his glass, watching as he concentrates on tuning his own instrument. He’s talking to a guitarist in plaid pants and a black leather jacket, someone instantly nameable as IV.

“Yeah?“ the girl says. “Where’s I?”

II shrugs, big blue eyes still watching his band mates with a profound fondness; probably due to what was once the contents of the beer bottles stacking up around his elbows.

“Nowhere.” He says smugly. Then he’s swiveling around, hanging on the shoulder of his new extremely sleep-deprived friend and wiggling his fingers up at Venus. “Or maybe it’s you, huh?”

Both of them laugh, and there’s no clear reason as to why. But there’s now two attractive people hanging on either side of the singer, and he wonders how he came so easily to such an inconvenient honor. It’s all he can do to hunch his shoulders and finally take a long swig of his old fashioned, hoping he doesn’t look as terrible as he feels.

Then suddenly, IV appears, dragging II off of his stool without so much as a warning. “Five minutes, hon.” He says, swinging his guitar to the side to pull his bandmate into himself. “Let’s fucking go.”

“Nice talking to ya.” II says, smiling big and knocking his head against IV’s shoulder. “See ya after the show!”

The singer can’t help but smile, waving goodbye slowly before turning his attention to the cherry at the bottom of his glass.

“Come on.” The pretty girl says over the music, breath rustling the hair over his ear. “You look fucking beat baby, come on and hang in the back with the rest of my crew, huh?”

He slowly registers the words. “Oh-“ he looks around for a second, almost like his blurry surroundings might offer an excuse. “Like, in the back of the bar?”

“In the back room, man.” She says, and as she steps back she lands a playful smack on his shoulder. “It’s the place to cool down after a show, and you look like you could use a nap.”

He can’t argue there. Literally, he cannot. He’s about to fall flat on his face and if he doesn’t find some caffeine or sleep soon, there’s no way he’ll make it home safely tonight.

“Alright.” He says, voice already a mile deep from exhaustion. He tries to smile kindly, but his lanky body almost flops off the side of his stool as he stands and he finds himself struggling to stay composed at all. He turns after her, prepared to follow for whatever solace she’s offering. She takes his hand and leads him through the crowd, sparing a glance back at the stage just as the lights dim and the radio fades.

His eyes follow her gaze, watching as the spotlight comes on and lands on three figures on the stage. ll at the drums, beaming, IV swaying softly with his guitar, and III; taking up center stage and swiping his hair out of his eyes.

Venus drags him through some beaded curtains and the crowd gathers around the stage as slowly, they begin to play.

#vessel sleep token #vessel #sleep token fanfiction #sleep token

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dark-falz · 2 months

Text

PSO Timeline of the Profound Sadness (Detailed lore timeline regarding Episodes 1&2,)

There's also stuff about Phantasy Star 0 in here too because they take place in the same universe! But I'm trash and didn't beat it and it was years ago so idr shit I'll go back to it one day ok promise anyway

LONG LORE POST completely spoiler

Inhabited planet Coral is drained of natural resources. The government, organizations called "The Alliance of Nations" (includes 10) , and "Black Paper" initiate the "Pioneer Project" to find a new planet to colonize. They are gifted from a passing asteroid with Photon energy. They use it to backtrack where it came from to find a place to inhabit. After approx. 7 years, Ragol is found. Coral mentions; Shino: RAcaseal, purchased & passed down to Zoke Dr. Calus: was working on an AI, also named Calus, who developed his personality. Calus dies before the AI is completed. Dr. Jean Montague: 11 yrs. old approx, researches D-Cells brought back from probes with Dr. Osto, create MAGs* which are the beginning of the MOTHER/Delta program 7 yearsish later (travel is heavily disputed among sources apparently but w/e) The people on Pioneer 1 included; Heathcliff Flowen: Deputy Army Commander Rico Tyrell: Pupil of Flowen, Scientist, Hunter Dr. Osto Hyle: Lead researcher Mr. & Mrs. Graves: Photon Engineer, Geneticist WORKS (Government military) AI: Olga, Calus, & Vol Opt (meant to assist with Pioneer 1 research and step 2 of MOTHER) - AI Purposes: - Vol Opt: Security - Calus: Information - Olga: Contact, nearly identical specs to Calus (unsure if these two count as AI as they aren't mentioned much) - MOTHER: evolution & control - Delta: Caretaker of MOTHER Established buildings Gal Da Val Island - Research Facility (Houses Delta/MOTHER Vortex and will house Olga) Mines - Robot building plant (+All mine enemies) - Houses Calus (EPI)& Vol Opt - Dr. Osto's first lab (mines 2) Forest - Central Dome: supplies, communication center

Exploration begins followed quickly by construction. Animals are noted as friendly and docile.

Dr. Osto & Graves create a mutant life form for unmentioned reasons, it starts off small, but has the ability to self-replicate.

Ruins are discovered by Flowen. Military WORKS sends in investigation team. Everyone becomes possessed, then dies turning into the bad guys as portrayed in the quest: From the Depths. Flowen leads a second team in. Falz is unsealed and kills everyone but Flowen, leaving him wounded. When he escapes, Falz is sealed again.

Flowen's wound is infected with both D-Cells and Parasitic Gene Flow, causing them to be alive in their own. Osto calls this a "D-Type Factor". Flowen knows his time is short, and pledges his body to Dr. Osto for research under 2 conditions. - A letter is set to his family informing them of his death. - That pioneer 2 is postponed/stopped from reaching Ragol (Spoilers: Neither request are honored)

Flowen is unaware of the Central Control Area's existance until he is brought there.

Olga is moved to the SeaBed, where Osto had been working on developing a super soldier. Construction of the Cental Dome is completed. Flowen's body is merged with Olga in hopes of controlling it. In failure Olga Flow is dumped into the Testing Subject Disposal Area.

Scientists tried moving De Rol due to his size. De Rol kills the scientists and escapes through the ducts. Its tentacles that stab you during battle is what caused the mutation of the cave's dwellings'. (Barbra Ray is a speculated open or salt-water variant)

War continues on Coral and the 10 Nation Alliance is weakening. Instead of telling the Government to stop Pioneer 2, Osto calls Ragol a "Paradise World" and gets the approval to make bioweapons.* Pioneer 2 starts route.

Animals becoming violent and infected causes Rico to begin investigating. Rico activates the pillars upon investigating them, being under the impression they were built to commemorate the landing of Pioneer 1 from the government, however concluding this was a lie. Rico investigates until her demise and leaves confirming messages that: the ruins is a spaceship from the Algo star system of the Original Phantasy Star series to seal Dark Falz, the reborn Profound Darkness every 1000 years to reborn itself from hate as the seal weakens.

On Pioneer 2, Dr. Montague is working on developing Elenor/Mother 00 and Ult/Mother 01 and Elly Person begins contact with Calus.

Pioneer 2 reaches Ragol (approx 7 years)

Explosion caused by Dark Falz in Central Dome occurs when connection is attempted, everyone from Pioneer 1 is killed with the exceptions of Mutated Rico & Mutated Flowen.

Vol Opt's security system is breached due to explosion and corrupted due to unusual Photons & D Cells causing everything in the Mines to attack.

Calus reaches out to Elly for "help" but has been corrupted and craves a human body. Elly backs up & stores his data before he shuts himself down.

Military attempts to take over Ult following Dr. Osto's plans. Eleanor & Ult fuse to become MOTHER, briefly, as due to abnormal Photon energies, its too much for Eleanor.

Calus data is used by Pioneer 2 to begin development of the "CALs system." This is part of a navigation system any Hunter can access. (Like Rico's messages, the floating things that drop you info in episode 2, is part of "Calus".)

Natasha Milarose receives a message from someone on Ragol leaving the impression that someone from Pioneer 1 is still alive on Gal Da Val Island.

Going through VR testing with Elly before permission to reach the island, Calus has form of a FOmar. (techincally there are 2 one with red eyes and one with blue eyes, one loves Elly and wants to be with her aw the other is always basically on the clock doing what its suppose to. ((Assuming this is due to abnormal photons and having 2 of the same system on top of each other which is CAL system active in VR field as well as on Elly, the operator, but no info.)))

Flowen leaves messages using Olga AI through the terminals you use to unlock the Central Control Area. (all terminals in the Seabed belong to Olga)

Calus enters the MOTHER vortex in expectation of being evolved with a true physical form to be with Elly.

Delta admits Dr. Osto abandoned her and the MOTHER system. (though the "abandonment" could have been due to a multitude of reasons with how full his hands were getting.)

I think this mostly wraps up the timeline covering entirely episodes 1&2

Extra stuff:

Flowen's full dialogue

MAG* - "A mag is a core of D-Cells surrounded by metal plating. The D-Cells are kept in control by an "Emotional AI". This means any mag is actually a cyborg of some sort, because they are a fusion of living and mechanical tissue. This is also why spraying them with various medical items causes them to change their shape so drastically.

"This is also why they can do the Photon Blast. The mag is able to absorb the energy from your photonic attacks on enemies, and also to absorb the pain from hits and turn it into photon. They had mags doing PBs on Coral, where the blasts did not take on a particular shape. The things you see in your PBs on Ragol look the way they do because the abnormal photon count, and D-cell count on Ragol is really high. The PB animals look like dark enemies, but with light color bodies. This is the influence of Ragol." - Translated from The Book of Hunters (Eleanor & Ult also carry D-cells)

Bioweapons - The bioweapons scientists of Pioneer 1 were making included using D-Cells, Parasitic Gene Flow, and living beings. This extended from animals, to plants, to even the scientists themselves in efforts of creating a "super solder". The reason behind this is because Falz is seen as an eternal entity, and that's what the scientists want to harness for themselves. Montague does a similar process, but instead using monster parts and photon energy from the mutated creatures, as oppose to mutated genes, to create weapons.

Links to information that helped me accumulate all this: phantasystardynasty PScave (I have dialogue with Flowen's text linked, if you want dialogue from another quest, just change the text between "script/" and ".html" to the quest of the dialogue you want to look out without spaces) Fandom Wiki (multiple pages from this one) This Tumblr post

#pso lore #FIXED THE READ MORE I'M NOT FIXNG ANY TYPOS tho because at first this post was too big to post and i'm not taking chances #lore #timeline

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rebeccadewinterthinks · 7 months

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Good omens The Book of life Conspiracy theory Part 4

the previous parts of this theory you can read here: part 1, part 2, part 3

4. Is he lying or not?

I'm not an expert on brain function, but when Gabriel comes to the bookshop, he behaves like a person who has lost their memory. You believe that he doesn't know who he is, where he is, and what he's doing here. He reacts and behaves like a curious child. At the same time, he has a vague sense of anxiety and a vague sense of recognition of Aziraphale, and all of this seems quite natural. However, at a certain point, it started to seem to me that Gabriel is lying. Let's start with the fact that he suddenly stopped asking questions, he no longer asks: who am I? how do you know me? who are you? what miracles are happening here? A person who has lost their memory is only interested in book trading and gravity, really?

Review the listed episodes. Don't you think the same as I do?

« – And now I will make a noise when I move around…»

He is clearly trolling Aziraphale, smirking and walking away, very pleased with himself, it's obvious. He's not a child, but a self-satisfied bastard [06:25 Ep.2].

Aziraphale talks to the Archangels on the street in front of the bookshop [12:45 Ep.2]:

The door opens, and Gabriel appears, loudly and joyfully declaring that he is Jim, the bookseller's assistant. Why would a person who has lost their memory, who knows that something terrible awaits him, loudly come out onto the street in front of strangers? Maybe because this is Gabriel-with-memory, who, of course, recognized the ones who came, understands that a hiding miracle of immense power has been performed, and is now simply testing the limits? When the miracle passes its final test (Michael doesn't recognize Gabriel up close), he mockingly calls after the angels:

« – What...what about me? Uh, guys, shouldn't you keep a close eye on me too?»

very recognizable audacity and self-assurance.

there is a theory that an angel cannot be punished outside of Heaven. After all, in the first season, Aziraphale had to be kidnapped first and then executed by Heaven. So, Gabriel, having regained his memory, must realise that with all his powers, he is practically invulnerable on Earth. This is indirectly confirmed in episode 6 when representatives of Hell and Heaven demand that the escapees be handed over to them. It seems like they are right in front of you, punish them all you want. By the way, humans don't have such problems, only Crowley's intervention saves Maggie and Nina from immediate transformation into salt pillars.

however, it's possible that Gabriel is just a very audacious son of a bitch.

there are more obvious signs that the fugitive is mentally sound: you can't fool Crowley so easily [21:24 Ep.2]. He carefully listens to the nonsense that Gabriel is spouting and says:

I think at that moment the Archangel realizes that it's better not to push Crowley further, "shines" his eyes, and delivers a biblical phrase. Think about it, if ALL his memory is in the fly, where did this piece come from? Well, the trick worked, and they back off.

Gabriel blurts out a prophecy about the Second Coming [38:45 Ep.3]:

«– There will come a tempest, and darkness, and great storms. And the dead will leave their graves and walk the earth once more. And there will be great lamentations. Everyday it's getting closer.»

Is this a conscious attempt to warn? Or a random trigger on the word «tempest»? The only thing that's clear is that his memory is with him again.

conversation with Crowley [41:35 Ep.3]:

« – You have no idea the trouble you're causing, do you? - No. Or yes. Or...no. - Yeah, I'll tell you something Jim, or Gabriel, if you're there somewhere. If any harm comes to Aziraphale because of this, I will…»

And Gabriel listens. VERY carefully. And he looks like he understands everything.

Crowley comes into the Archangel's room [14:20 Ep.5].

The demon openly berates him. Gabriel is visibly nervous. When Crowley says that Aziraphale wasn't at the execution, Gabriel asks in surprise, «He wasn't there?"». Not the reaction you would expect from someone who doesn't understand what's being talked about, right? And it becomes even stranger when Gabriel almost jumps out of the second-floor window. For a person, with or without memory, that's guaranteed injury (the floor is high, and there's asphalt below), and the action is completely senseless. But for an Archangel, such a jump poses no threat, but it's an excellent way to escape from an extremely unpleasant conversation. Then Crowley demands that Gabriel remember. He replies:

«– I don't have my memory. – Well, where is your memory, then? – In a matchbox. No, I took it out, first. I took it and put it in the box and I brought it here… And now it's everywhere.»

First of all, how do you know all this? Secondly, what do you mean, everywhere? It's no longer in the fly? You don't want to admit that you've already got it back, do you? I have a theory as to why the memory (partially) could have leaked back into Gabriel's head. And also why he doesn't hurry to get away from the bookshop, even though Heaven is already on his heels.

the part 5 is here

#good omens #go2 #go2 spoilers #good omens 2 #good omens season 2 #good omens spoilers #good omens meta #good omens theory #crowley #aziraphale

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penguinwithitsarseonfire · 1 year

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Didn't Have It In Myself to go With Grace

Part 1 | Part 2 (you're here!) | Part 3 | Part 4 |

Pairing: 10th Doctor x Reader

Word Count: 4,228

Warnings: We're getting some minor violence and body horror

Summary: The Doctor takes you and Donna to Arteides for the biggest wedding in the universe. You have a grand time, meeting the queens, taking in the music, and suffering the far too knowing gaze of one particular Queen. The party, unfortunately, is rudely interrupted.

A/N: So firstly, apologies this is so late!! I'm definitely continuing this, thanks for sticking with me! Also I was kinda misleading in the first part. This story will have an unhappy ending, the happy ending comes in the sequel, which is already in the works!

“It’s the biggest celebration in the universe!” The Doctor said with a grin, flicking several switches on the console.

“What is?” Donna asked, following behind him. She was taking careful note of what buttons he pressed.

He turned to face Donna, raising an eyebrow before side stepping away from the console. You poked your head to the side. If Donna couldn’t watch, then maybe you could.

“The wedding of Queen Karyia and Consort Inari,” the Doctor continued. He threw his screwdriver in the air, caught it, then pointed it towards you. “Just picture it, the entire city in the throes of a month long party. Technology, art, music, all the best highlights of the enlightenment age - which the pair ushered in, mind you.”

You shook your head lightly. “Doctor, we don’t know who they are.”

“Oh they’re the rulers of Arteides,” he said casually, as if that was something you were supposed to know. He reached over to the other side of the console where Donna couldn’t see.

She huffed, glaring at the back of his head. You tried not to laugh. This back and forth was a growing trend for them.

“Still don’t know what that is,” you said, stalking around so you could make note of what he was doing. He pressed down a couple of buttons, red, blue, then orange. You locked eyes with Donna, mouthing the order. She gave you a conspiratorial grin.

The Doctor’s face fell into shock as he turned to you, all preparations for flight forgotten. For a moment you blanched – had he seen you? As casually as you could, you leaned against one of the pillars, gesturing for him to speak. “The party?”

“Oh,” his face brightened. “Oh that’s right! We never went to the Arteides’ settlement on Pluto. We wound up in Kathra instead!”

You and Donna screwed your faces up at that particular memory. It had involved far more slime than either of you were comfortable with.

With a similar air of casualness to your own, Donna spoke. “The pretzel room would’ve helped out with that.”

She shimmied closer to where the controls were on the console.

The Doctor glared at her, pointing the screwdriver at her like it was a wand. “That-”

“Doctor please,” You said, because if you had to hear another argument about the pretzel incident, you were going to go insane. You gestured towards him to continue. “The Arteides’ settlement?”

If it made for a distraction for Donna, the Doctor was none the wiser.

He turned a rotor on the console. You were kind of impressed, it looked like an exact 45 degree turn to the right. You tried to avoid meeting Donna’s gaze and she leaned over slightly to see the rotor. You were not about to draw the Doctor’s attention to her.

The Doctor met her gaze, freezing Donna in her steps. “Salt and chocolate,” she said, feigning perfect ignorance in her behaviour. “I’m just saying, it would’ve helped a lot,”

You shot her a look. You were not getting into this again.

You noticed The Doctor pause, looking at her. There was this moment, a prolonged pause where no one said anything. A light tension crackled in the air.

Then the Doctor opened his mouth.

“Alight!” You jumped off the pole you were leaning on, scrambling towards the console before they could go at it again. “Tell us about this party Doctor, c’mon. Why’re we going?”

“Ah,” the Doctor began, and you were grateful for distracting him. “Queen Karyia and Consort Inari have been together for age’s, right. Like – I’m talking years, and just a decade off from her reaching the middle of her reign, Karyia marries her.”

You nod your head slowly, ignoring the notebook Donna pulled out and – where did she even get that? “Okay,” you prompted, refocusing on the Doctor. “So why’s it a big deal?”

“So think of what the greats have ushered in on Earth, Catherine the Great, Alexander the Great, Victoria, Anne Gloria,” he was gesturing into the air, Donna’s nosing forgotten. “When one of them gets married, it’s the talk of the century. Think of that,” he made a stretching motion with his hands. “But bigger.”

“So it’s like a festival?”

The Doctor grinned. “Sure – parts of it. But it’s also more.”

He danced around the console, flicking levers and pressing buttons. You tried to follow the movement. There were two red buttons he pushed simultaneously, or was it one and then the other shortly after? The Tardis made a whirring noise and he cranked something, but you couldn’t for the life of see what he held.

The Doctors hands flew over the controls. A button pressed here would quickly pop upright as he made some other sort of movement over there. You struggled to keep track.

After a moment he paused, eyeing you, then Donna. “And both of you,” he said, his voice far too knowing. “It’s gonna take more than sneaking about to learn how to fly this old girl.”

Donna spluttered out a protest, your own face falling as the Doctor gave a giddy laugh. He looked up at the centre piece, pushing down the final lever. “Allonsy!”

The Tardis shook. You wrapped yourself around the nearest structure, the console room swaying. Donna let out a cry. She was knocked into the railing, her knuckles white by your side. You were used to this – you were supposed to be used to this. But the shaking was violent, like the Tardis was struggling against chains you couldn’t see.

The familiar wheezing, groaning of the Tardis was louder – harsher. It screamed sharp in your ears. You almost squeezed your eyes shut, as if that would drown out the noise.

Then it stopped. The Tardis settled. And the familiar chime of the final landing rang out through the room.

You looked around, slowly detangling yourself from the pillar. The Doctor’s hair was windswept, his eyes slightly surprised. “Well,” he said. “A bit more dramatic than expected.” “Dramatic?” Donna’s voice was hard. She unfurled her hands, knuckles still white as they closed into fists. One hand still deftly held the notebook. She turned to face the Doctor. “You have some explaining to do spaceman, what the bloody hell was that?”

“Well,” he drew out the word. “I may have been more theatrical with the controls than normal. Throwing you off the scent, as it were.”

You rocked your head into the pillar, taking in a deep breath. After a moment, you moved over to Donna, plucking the notebook out of her hand. “Please tell me we’re at Arteides,” you spoke into empty space. “I swear if we need pretzels or something-”

“No pretzels,” the Doctor said. At least he had the decency to look sheepish.

You ran a hand through your hair. “So, the party?” The Doctor brightened. Bouncing over to the door. “Yes! Come on you lot, plenty of time to get mad at me later.”

Donna snorted.

Subtly, you passed the notebook back to her, making sure the Doctor wasn’t there to see. You two could draw up a plan some other time, but the Doctor didn’t need to know. She slipped it into her handbag.

With another deep breath, you locked arms with Donna, following that madman out into a party you only had some understanding of.

Whatever warning the Doctor could have given you though, it would never have been enough.

It was vibrant.

Cobblestone streets wore sheets of oranges, purples, and greens. Confetti hung in the air, suspended in glitter and light. The music felt tangible, wrapping itself around your frame and holding tight. It was joyful, it was interesting, it was barely describable.

“The music,” Donna cried. “Is it 80’s music? Or like some sort of folk remix?”

It was the closest description you could agree with. The sound snaked through your body, drawing your focus to the smell. Spices, fruit, wine, you could barely pinpoint anything that was familiar. It danced around your head, dragging your attention through the crowds.

And the crowds. People wore colours here that you had never seen before. They were draped in gowns, fabric that sparkled, fabric that changed colour in the light. Others wore suits, or what you could best interpret as suits. They wore patterns you couldn’t explain, in colours you couldn’t name.

The people were baked in laughter, in conversation that felt so distant, yet so intimate – like all the best parties. They walked in pairs, or stood in small groups, animated in discussion. Some wore masks, others wore elaborate make up, the kind only those professional makeup artists on social media seemed to pull off. Some wore nothing at all, letting the light reflect against their eyes.

Glancing down at your old jumper, you felt sorely underdressed.

The Doctor was off, his laughter distant with the trail of his trench coat. In an instant you were following, Donna close by your side.

Up close, you were surprised to find that all the people here were human. You expected something… grander. Aliens with antenna, or with three eyes. Something to make them distinct, as completely unordinary and splendid as the rest of the place.

Instead, the humans – because they were human, down to the ways their noses turned and the way their hair folded, smiled as you passed. They waved as if you were completely in place, like your boots and jeans didn’t stick you out like a sore thumb.

Your thoughts were drowned by the music. It blended into classical, the transition nearly effortless save the way the dancing around you shifted. You found yourselves in a large open ballroom, with an orchestra lining one entire side. The orchestra was framed by the most brilliant view.

Oranges, purples, pinks, and blues painted the sky, intermixed by red and pink clouds. Sunset here seemed to stand still, suspended in one perfect moment. A ravine sat behind the orchestra, draped under the golden sky. There wasn’t even a barrier, one swell swoop and someone could tumble on down. You could hear a river run languidly, and itched to see it. Donnas arm in your own held you back.

“I parked us close,” the Doctor said, and, despite the music, you could hear him perfectly. His voice bubbled with excitement. “This party is happening all over the planet, but this is the place to be,” his eyes scanned the crowd until gently, he raised his finger, pointing towards a raised platform. “That’s them. The newlyweds.”

They were beautiful.

Queen Karyia, because in that crown she was clearly the queen, wore a golden dress. It went down her body in waves, a stark contrast against her rich ebony skin. Her hair glowed under the chandelier light above her, her tight curls giving a halo-like effect against her face. She smiled warmly at her partner, her eyes glittering.

Consort Inari – because who else would it be, stood by her side, caught in laughter. She was doubled over, a crease forming in her deep, navy dress. Her pale skin was adorned in silver, a small tiara caught in her short dark hair. She looked up, her eyes falling on you, Donna and the Doctor. She placed a hand onto Queen Karyia’s forearm, whose gaze followed.

A bundle of nerves curled in your throat, which you swallowed nervously.

Donna spoke before you could get the words out. “Is it a good thing that they’ve spotted us?”

“Oh it’s perfect,” the Doctor replied, his eyes wide. Excited.

They descended from the platform, though you couldn’t see any stairs, and made their way through the crowd. Their place here must have been as effortless as breathing, as they meandered through without as much as even a glance from the guests.

Queen Karyia broke out into a warm, giddy smile. “Doctor,” she said, her voice deep and warm, like a golden age Hollywood starlet. “Oh it is good to see you.”

Consort Inari stood by her side, her smile just as kind, but smaller, reserved. “You have kept yourself away for too long, old friend.” “Ah well y’know how it is,” the Doctor said. “Had places to see, friends to show the universe too – oh,” he gestured to you and Donna. “Speaking of…” Donna unwound her arm from yours, reaching out to shake their hands, before pausing it in mid-air. “Uh – do we shake your hands? I don’t know the proper etiquette for this.”

Queen Karyia laughed, taking Donna’s hand from its awkward hover. “Queen Karyia,” she said. “But any friend of the Doctor’s is a friend of mine. You may call me Karyia.”

“Inari,” her partner introduced, her gaze falling onto you. “You sure know how to pick them, Doctor.”

You swallowed again, suddenly self-conscious. You gave them a small wave, introducing yourself. Karyia’s gaze followed, and she gave you an appraising, if unsurprised look. Her eyes sparkled with mirth. “As bright eyed as the last, Doctor. Surely you have a type?”

Donna let out a cackle, and you watched, envious, as her nerves seemed to fall away. “Oh my god he does, doesn’t he! You should have seen the Doctor with Amelia Earhart-”

“Everyone enjoys flying,” you said, burning with embarrassment. You whacked her hand, which had begun to move animatedly as she spoke. You couldn’t begin to think that the Doctor thought of you like that, that he looked at you the same way he had looked at her. “Donna shut up.”

You met marvellous people all the time, that was par for the course when travelling with the Doctor. And it was wonderful – really, it was! But the Doctor looked at those people like they restructured the planets they walked on, that they grasped onto individual matter and shaped it into golden stardust.

You didn’t do that, so he never looked at you like that.

Donna raised an eyebrow at you, somewhat questioning, but mostly amused. She gave you that look often, especially in regard to the Doctor. Once, she had told you it was the look she gave you when you were particularly dense, but she had never elaborated on that, so you chose to do the same.

The queens gave Donna an equal conspiratorial smile, although Karyia’s was wider. “It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you,” Karyia said. “Doctor, where have you been hiding these two?”

The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck, skin flushed. Was he embarrassed? “Earth.” He told them. He rocked on the balls of his feet, the redness on his face clearing. “Early 21st century. Hell of a time.”

“Indeed,” Inari said. “You must share with us stories from your time. My Karyia is a fan.”

Karyia’s hands ghosted over your arm, securing onto your elbow. “Do let us show you around, won’t you? I would adore learning of your experiences.”

The hand on your arm was warm, solid, but light enough that you could brush out of her hold if you wanted to. You gave her a grin. “Yeah, definitely. I’d love to hear all about your world too.”

Inari turned towards Donna. “Do you dance?”

Donna’s face stretched into a somewhat awkward, apprehensive smile. “Maybe after a pint.”

The Doctor brightened. “Oh, they have excellent ginger beer here. Love the stuff, makes your nose itch,” his attention was swayed by a passing waiter, who held a tray of overfilling food. They were bright red, closer to the colour of paint than food. The Doctor’s eyes lit up. “Oh, they have nibbles!”

Inari let a small laugh. “Well then, let us get some.”

She gave Karyia a nod, one that was so subtle that had you not been watching her, had your eyes not been focusing on the way the silver jewellery in her ears caught the light, you would have missed it all together.

Karyia walked you away from where you had gathered, the others heading to... somewhere. You presumed a bar, but you couldn’t see one around.

Karyia was an excellent tour guide. Her free hand waved over the different people that were in this open space. She spoke about the meaning of different clothes, their shape, their style, their history – the reason why they wore what they did.

“…She’s wearing a bell bottom skirt,” she would wave towards one woman, her dress a pillow of pastry, her hair curled and shaped like the branches of a Japanese maple, red and beautiful. “Most likely because she knows she looks good in it, but the style was popularised on the banks of the Northern Sea…”

Karyia told you of the colours, the way they took up the space, weaved themselves through everyone at the party – the whole party, all over the planet. She spoke of the golds, silvers, and blues, the reds and oranges, the colours you couldn’t yet name, with the same sort of awe you felt when you first saw them.

“…And it’s delightful,” she would say, and she would direct your gaze to a wall of tear drop crystal, swaying in an unfelt breeze. “Colour is for all, it shapes us, builds us. We celebrate it the way it celebrates us. Without colour, we are nothing…”

She walked you to the orchestra. Some played instruments you were familiar with, violins, clarinets, flutes. Others were less so, they were made in odd shapes, twisted wood and bright metal. They sounded both distinctly different, and intimately familiar, and it washed over you.

“…It is my favourite form of music, classical,” Karyia would explain. “There is something so gravity defying, something so intimate about it…”

And eventually, she would pull you away, further from the crowds, further from the orchestra, and the colours, the music, and the noise. Karyia would pull you into a small corner, and with a twinkle in her eye, one that was coy, honest, she would ask you.

“How long has the Doctor been in love with you?”

And it didn’t matter that you were standing at the edge of open space, the wall of tear drop crystals framing your back. It didn’t matter that the crowds, the colours, the music, the Doctor, were all so far away.

The noise came to a stop, fell away until all you could hear, all you could feel, was the way your heart dropped.

Your voice came out in a stumble, breathless. “I – wait what? I – I don’t know what you mean.”

Karyia gave you a crooked grin. It was a lovely smile, bright and warm. But it looked odd on her face, like something imperfect shouldn’t sit there, shouldn’t form there.

“I am a Queen,” she told you. “And I would like to think I am a good one, an observant one,” her expression hardened slightly, daring you to argue with her.

Of course, you did not.

She continued. “If I did not know what a man in love looks like, I would have been felled years ago.”

The words were sobering, they wrapped around your hammering heart.

“I don’t know if that true of the Doctor though…” you said, doubt clawing against the back of your neck. “Like – he’s the Doctor. He’s…” your voice lost the words.

Karyia’s hand wrapped around yours, holding you firm. “What do you think of, may I ask,” she said. “When you think of home?”

Brown eyes. It should have startled you how fast they swam into your mind. Brown eyes, ridiculous gravity defining hair, a bright smile.

Home was the Doctor.

You shook your head, as if you could physically shake the image of him from your mind. “What are you getting at?”

“Maybe,” Karyia’s voice was soft, her eyes twinkled with knowing, stripping you bare. “You should consider what he thinks of – or rather, who he thinks of – when he thinks of home.”

“If I were a jealous woman,” a familiar voice interrupted, full of mirth. “I might think you were in a compromising state.”

You flushed, turning towards Inari. She gave you a satisfied smirk, nodding towards the way Karyia’s hand was clasped over your own, her other hand still on your arm. Donna stood by her side; eyebrow raised curiously. The Doctor, on the other hand, looked pensive.

You thought about the ridiculous hearing he had – had he heard? “Oh woe is me,” Kari laughed. “And during our wedding month,” she gave Donna a considering look. “Did you take her dancing while she is dressed like in that attire?”

Inari gave her a small smile. “I could not insult your orchestra like that my love,” she turned to Donna. “Or our friend here. You do deserve better clothing Donna.”

“Your friend,” Donna said, slightly miffed. “Is standing right here.”

You stayed quiet, eyes trained on the Doctor. He had his thinking face on, the one he didn’t think you – or anyone else, could recognise. It was a ruminating, near brooding expression, one he only wore when he was particularly stumped.

Karyia noticed just after you did, and turned her gaze to him. “And what of you Doctor, enjoying the music?”

The Doctor turned to you both, as if waking from a dream. “Oh me? Oh,” he drew out the sound. “I’m very happy, as happy as a happy berry.”

You frowned in confusion. It was… a bizarre sentence.

Karyia however, laughed again, and you figured the Doctor was referencing very specific planet humour here.

Inari’s small smile grew ever so slightly, before addressing Karyia again. “I found Luc, and have sent him to gather some clothing for these three.”

The Doctor looked affronted. “I’m dressed wonderfully thank you. I’m even donning my best coat; Janis Joplin gave me this coat.”

“And if we knew who they were,” Inari said with a near sarcastic drawl. “I’m sure we would be in awe.”

Donna shrugged. “It actually is a bit cool.”

The Doctor brightened slightly. “I’ve never thought about that much, being cool. But yeah, it’ll definitely grow on me.”

With a silent cue, Karyia guided you all back to the party. A stocky man with thinning hair stood by the orchestra, a clothing rack sat snugly behind him. “I-I have gathered everything you asked for miss – erm, queen – no, erm,-”

Inari waved a hand, cutting the man’s stuttering to a halt. She gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Thank you Luc, you have been most hopeful.”

The man’s – Luc his name was, brightened, his mouth growing into a large grin. “Oh excellent! I am most happy, erm – very honoured and… erm,”

Karyia spoke softly. “Thank you, Luc. That will be all.”

His mouth snapped shut. He nodded quickly, still smiling, and scurried off into the crowd.

Karyia clapped her hands together. “Delightful! Now you may all chose a gown,” she eyed the Doctor. “This includes you, Doctor.”

The Doctor went to reply, but was interrupting by a jarring speech, which cut off the orchestra. It ripped you from conversation. In the silence, you turned. Black smoke curled around the conductor, wrapping itself through her hair and up her baton. It pooled at her feet. Her orchestra sat frozen, hands still against their instruments, paused mid-note.

“How lovely,” the conductor spoke – except, it couldn’t be her. Her voice twisted down your spine. It was closer to a growl than anything human. It was low, distorted. It made your skin crawl.

“The greatest party of the century,” she continued, and turned to face the room.

You recoiled, your heart slamming into your throat. Her skin was pale, clammy, with a golden, bubbly shine. Her hair leaked, pearls of black wriggling against her hairline. Smoke turned to dust as it dripped onto the floor. Her mouth was pulled taught, a smile curled into a snarl.

Her eyes though. Her eyes were human.

And they were terrified.

She gnashed her teeth. “And I wasn’t invited?”

Tendrils of smoke whipped from her fingers, snaking their way to near a dozen orchestra members. The smoke liquefied, moving in an oil, tar like substance, and slunk into their skulls. It pooled over their eyes, and forced its way into their mouths and nostrils. Branches snapped themselves off, wrapping themselves around their throats.

Steam curled around them – or was it smoke? It gathered in waves around tight buns and cropped styles, burning at their hair. It was almost like the smoke was dancing. Almost.

Because their bodies fell from their heads.

The pungent smell of burning flesh didn’t hit you. Not immediately. It was slow, rolling like the bodies rolled down the stage. Their cauterised necks flopped by the barrier, like they were waving.

The remaining orchestra sat – frozen.

The string from a violin bow snapped.

The smell hit you, putrid and hard. It burned against your nose, tart and grating. It coiled itself into your gut, and clawed up your throat. No – that was the bile.

“Maybe then,” the black tendrils lifted the heads, their eyes going from black pools to bright red spotlights. They cast an eerie glow against the stage. “I’ll make my own party,” her voice moved like ice. Harsh and disjointed. It wasn’t human. “Think I can have your fun?”

The eyes of the head closest to you went hot, red growing brighter. In an instant, a jolt of electric energy shot forth, hitting a dancer by the stage. Her scream was lost in her throat.

A clarinet clattered against the floor.

And all hell broke loose.

A/N^2: Tag list - @fizzymilkduds @justfloatingthroughtime @girl-inthestars @howdidthishapen @hopefulfuturenovelauthor - let me know if you'd like to be included! The next part will be out in a week!

#the doctor x reader #tenth doctor imagine #10th doctor x reader #tenth doctor x reader #10th doctor #Doctor Who #DW #Didn't Have It In Myself to go With Grace

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