#opulence and decay | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cursedmoon-doll13 · 9 months

Text

Blackhearted

(Sirius Black x Reader)

Cw: Noncon, Angst, Smut, Afab Reader, Dark!Sirius, PnV Sex, Somnophilia, Unprotected Sex, Fingering, Crying, Forced Orgasm, Tender But Nasty™️, References to Alcohol Abuse, Reader has head + pubic hair, this got kinda bleak and depressing

READ WITH CAUTION

Word Count: 3.5k

Summary: 12 Grimmauld Place is a miserable home.

But for now, it is yours. A lost and vulnerable soul, you find refuge in the owner of the house; a man as troubled as yourself. Unbeknownst to you, he’s sunken his teeth in far deeper; clutching onto you like a lifeline, and the dark, harrowing isolation of winter may drive him to commit acts unforgivable…

Ao3 || Masterlist || Dividers by @/saradika

In mid-February, it’s so cold, so desolate, it reminds him of sharp, icy fingers, clamping down on— His childhood home, decrepit with neglect and age, is the last place Sirius ever hoped to return to. It’s lost, crumbling into undignified ruins, deteriorating into filth. With his pest of a house elf still clinging to the old family values, it’s properly gone to the dogs, and he’d gladly let them pick off the carcass.

But now you’re hiding alongside him - not by choice - you’ve taken it upon yourself to try and ‘fix it up.’ Sirius almost scoffs at the mere thought of it— At you, whose nose wrinkles distastefully at the grime and mould that gracefully adorns his kitchen. You don’t understand that the disease has progressed far beyond the point of recovery. It’s everywhere; it’s in the air you breathe, in the walls, in the carpet. It’s lurking inside the very infrastructure, festering like cancerous growth. The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, haunted by its rotting opulence: the decaying decor, the cursed, priceless artefacts, the tattered, hateful portraits, courtesy of mum.

Sirius, who has long since forgotten the luxury of owning his own clothes, wraps himself in the same mothball ridden finery his father died in. Sometimes he feels— He’s eaten alive by the fabric. By vestiges of the past. It still stinks of stale drink, and on nights like these, Orion’s son glares down at the bottom of an empty wine bottle, and thinks that he might be following in his footsteps after all.

On a night like this, the aged floorboards squeak under his heels as he prowls the dilapidated halls. Sirius’ stalking route leads to you, as it usually does, far past midnight. Your bedroom door is sealed tightly shut - probably to keep the heat in - but you never lock it. As if he isn’t dangerous.

Gripping the weathered knob, he twists it, and lets himself in. The dim, yellowy glow of the gaslamp bolted to the corridor wall is his only light, flickering as it pours into the musty guest room he’s lent you. Sirius lingers on the precipice, his fingers still curled around the handle, sobering up rapidly.

Blinking slowly, he looks down at you.

You’re lying on your side, both arms grasping the pillow, dressed in that novelty pyjama set (‘to ward off the draught,’ was the unspoken function of it) Tonks had gifted you for Christmas; a sort of consolation prize. Greatest sympathies, to prepare you for the sordid husk you’ll now inhabit— With him, no less, a man you thought at first to be a killer.

And you, well… You’ve been left skittish from whatever you’re on the run from. He reckons that’s why you’ve latched onto him so powerfully, hoping this unredeemed convict will see fit to protect you from the isolation and the horrors. To help fill the long stretches of time when it’s just been the both of you to keep each other company. Sirius can’t deny his own strong attachment towards you.

Your presence is comforting, and he’s fallen deeply. Too deeply. It’s why he so often finds himself standing here, watching over you. Sirius envies you, the peaceful sleeper. But he also covets you; if only you’d stay and lay beside him, to heal wounds never spoken of… But he doesn’t know how to ask.

Silently, he crosses the boundary.

Rising over your unconscious form, he lifts the quilt, a heavy, lumpy thing, and tentatively rests his knee on the mattress. You sleep peacefully on, even as the rusty old bed-springs squeak underneath him. Sirius slides his exhausted body in behind you, and the dark mass of his own scraggly black hair spills over the cushion. For a moment, he lies there, unmoving and quiet. Even at this safe, chaste distance, your body heat, radiating off you in gradual waves, is enough to soothe the permanent chill that’s seeped into his bones… Sirius can’t resist. He shifts, before placing his forefinger over your throat.

Sirius can feel your pulse, throbbing with blood; you’re a real, flesh and blood human, warm and alive. Merlin, he’s been deprived for so long, a strong vein feels like it’s a lifeline. This is all he’s ached for, but— No... No. He’s already overstepped a line, one he shouldn’t have ever— He needs to stop, he needs to leave, now, before this all goes too far and he ruins it; ruins you, as he knows he inevitably will.

But he doesn’t. Sirius’ breath catches in his throat as he tilts his chin ever-so-slightly, and he presses his cold mouth against your exposed nape. You twitch, but do not stir. Sirius licks his dry lips and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, as he nudges down the fleeced collar of your pyjama shirt with his thumb. The slope of your neck is covered in fine, delicate hairs, and he can’t help but smile affectionately down at you. Your defenceless state is sweetly endearing. To be so close to you like this, almost holding you, tender as lovers.

Sirius hesitates, then, squeezing his eyes shut as he endures the lurch of churning revulsion in his gut (he shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t—), he leans forward and plants a string of wet kisses over your bare flesh. So human, so vulnerable… You twitch again, shivering as the ticklish brush of his whiskers rubs lightly over your naked skin. Shame burns like acid in his stomach; but his need for you burns brighter, hotter than fire now, all-consuming… He heaves a jagged sigh, and, unable to stop himself, drags the starving flat of his tongue over your neck, lapping up hungry stripes of perspiration. Sirius tightens his grip on you and shudders with relief— He’s finally quenched his thirst, if only a little. Your intoxicating scent, your taste…

He’s stolen things, too, before this; he’s not proud of it, but he’s done it. It’s convenient enough to blame it on Kreacher, who hoards all sorts of objects in the first place… What is the difference, really, between the Black family heirlooms and soiled knickers from the wicker basket? No, It hasn’t been so hard to convince you it was Kreacher; to lie and to fib— his old, senile house elf is simply a raging kleptomaniac… You trust him so much… And now Sirius has gone and betrayed that trust entirely.

Merlin, he needs to stop, he needs to… This should be enough… No, it’s not enough… It’s never enough, he’s barely touched you… Sirius groans feebly into the nape of your neck, slipping the palm of his hand under your nightshirt, desperate for your sacred, lifesaving heat, just a little bit— And then he’ll stop, immediately— just a tiny bit more… You shiver once more, twitching repeatedly as the pads of his fingertips skim over your stomach, still asleep… Sirius brushes his lips over your throat again, as he locks you in wiry arms, inching up your shirt, exposing you to the dark and cold. He traces the slats of your ribs, searching further, until he comes to knead coyly at your breast, teasing your nipple. He dips, finding the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, thumping robustly… Proof of life.

And you’re definitely real, aren’t you? Not a hallucination, not some illusion… He’s sleepless for the nightmares, but the dreams are always worse, because they remind Sirius of everything he can’t have, not ever again… But he can have you. This stray thought, forceful and insidious, leaks into the dark recesses of his brain. Yes, He can have you— It’s his house, his rules, isn’t it?

Fuck, he’s disgusting. The realisation of what he’d just conceived of, even momentarily, assaults him with a new stab of remorse. Sirius flinches away, pulling his offending hand out of your pyjamas; but the damage has already been done. By now, he’s pressed flush against you, leeching off your comforting warmth, and his dick is straining tightly against his trousers. Merlin… He’s perverse.

He throws his forearm over his eyes, blinding himself. Sirius intended for this to be a wholesome encounter, to be sweet and innocent. And now… Have all those years of degradation truly rotted him to the core? Is this what he’s become now? A lustful wretch? This has gone too far, too far— He should leave—

But now, Sirius has known your touch, and it’s embedded itself parasitically into his mind. He’s swiftly hurtling into addiction; he can’t settle for mere table scraps— To retreat with his tail between his legs, only to find a cold and lonely bed, would be unbearable... Sirius rattles a breath, grasping onto that frayed rope of inherited entitlement he’d meant to cut off a decade ago— He deserves this one thing, surely, after a life of torment… Right?

You twitch again, mumbling incoherently. Sirius grimaces. He needs to be careful… You might be a heavy sleeper, but he’s already disturbed you too much. If you wake up screaming… He wouldn’t like to think of what he might do. But he’ll stop— He’ll stop after this, he swears it to himself, licking his lips, feeling harder and hungrier than ever.

Sirius’ forearm props up your leg for him to gain enough access, spreading your thighs open. It’s awkward, but he manages. He tugs down the waistband of your pyjama bottoms, just a bit, so he can touch you, feel you so close to him… Sirius’ hand brushes over a soft tuft of your pubic hair, and he twitches a faint smile… So endearingly vulnerable, before dipping his fingers into your pussy.

You’re not aroused, but the heat of your core is enough to satisfy him, if only temporarily. Sirius hasn’t done anything like this for a long time; it feels unfamiliar, like all human contact does. He nudges away the curls, tracing your labia, before recalling the shape and form of it, and gently rubbing your clitoris. Fondness, mixed in with his sickening shame, rushes into him, and he presses his lips to your nape again, pleading and soothing like an apology.

Then, Sirius bites his tongue, justifies himself with the excuse of repaying you with sweet dreams, and pushes his index finger deeper inside your pussy. He hums quietly, indulging in your little twitches, the way your walls flutter around him. It’s not particularly romantic to pleasure you without receiving consent, but lying back-to-chest in the darkness, planting scorching kisses down your neck, he can use his mind to fill in the gaps. Easing out his intruding hand, Sirius tastes the heady flavour of your slick— Merlin. He licks his fingers greedily, drenching them in spit, before plunging them back into your warm cunt, spreading wetness over your folds.

You let out a sleepy whimper at his touch, and he pauses, going completely stiff with alarm. But— But you haven’t woken up… And now he’s uncontrollable, beyond all morality, relishing in your soft, breathless gasps as he toys with your clit, his damp fingers sliding easily in and out of your pussy. You moan faintly, and the noise vibrates straight to his cock. He’s throbbing, now... Groaning, he forces down his guilt and remorse, discarding them as trite, worthless things. You’re enjoying it, aren’t you? Though you’re still fast asleep— Yes, maybe you’ve hoped for this all along… Secretly. Secretly. Of course, you’ve just been too embarrassed to admit it, but that’s fine… Right now, you’re all his.

But that’s still not enough.

Sirius knows what he truly needs; to bury himself inside of you, to merge with you entirely, to steal your warmth for himself— This aching desire, it’s wrong, so revoltingly wrong, but so is he; the entire expanse of flesh covering his body feels like prison, mired in filth, and he’ll never be clean again… He only wishes you could alleviate his pain— Oh, but you can, Sirius will find solace in your heat even if he has to take it from you. He grinds his palm against his temple as he decides. He fights it, but his selfishness wins… Yes, he needs it, needs you— Fuck, he’s about to do something unforgivable, commit a genuine offence; but he’ll make it up to you, of course he will—

Sirius carefully shuffles down your pyjama bottoms until they’re bunched up around your ankles, followed by your moist panties. He shifts, now painfully hard and weeping in his trousers, and allows your thigh to fall momentarily to unbutton them and release his erection. Rigid and leaking precum, his dick falls over your ass. He readjusts his position on the bed and strokes himself roughly, before hooking his forearm around your leg and lifting it. You jerk unceremoniously and mumble, stirring, but he ignores you— He’s too close, he’s gone too far now… Gritting his teeth, Sirius guides his cock into you, finding you elusive and slippery in the dark, but— The slick of your folds sliding along his length feels heavenly. Sirius licks his lips, smearing precum over your inner thighs, and finally enters you.

He stifles a raspy moan into your neck. The hug of your tight, wet heat is almost overwhelming— Shuddering, he wholly eases himself inside you. Merlin, you feel so perfect around him… Sirius, gasping rapturously, begins to move, savouring every long, torturous drag against your gummy walls. You’re rousing, now, slurring confused murmurs— “What, what’s going on, hm…”

Sirius doesn’t miss the flutter of lashes, a sharp intake of breath— But he continues, regardless, thrusting in slow, tender arcs. Flinching, you let out a strangled, high-pitched noise, and that’s how Sirius knows you’re truly awake— But he’ll make it up to you, he will— he spreads your thighs wide, to penetrate further, sucking affectionate bites into your neck as he ravishes your quivering body. You tremble and shriek, and your panicked struggling fills him with guilty regret. But he needs this now, he needs you now, he’s been alone for too long— And he’s not going to stop until he’s finished taking you… Feverish, Sirius’ other forearm digs underneath the pillow you’re clutching onto, white-knuckled. He tightens his grip on you before he sinks in deeper, spearing into your intimate core

You whimper, spasming involuntarily. Sirius rumbles with approval, his lips still latched onto your throat. He grabs your thigh firmly, bracing himself against the old headboard. He growls and snaps his hips upward, hitting that delicious spot over and over, trying to elicit more of those sweet noises from you. Even if you’re being frustratingly reticent - too shy, he pretends - you’re still unable to muffle your cries, twitching and writhing in his relentless grasp.

The bed creaks noisily as he hastens his pace, showering wet kisses on your rapidly bruising flesh. His movements are heated and urgent now, growing increasingly desperate— Now he’s inside you, he must fill you utterly— He longs to feel alive with you, slipping a hand down towards where you join together and connect, feeling the way his cock effortlessly slides in and out of your pussy. He dips further to rub harshly at your clit, and you whine, arching. Sirius strokes you mercilessly, his wrist cramping from the awkward positioning—

But it doesn’t matter, you’re spurring him on with your ecstatic moans, croaky with tears. He doesn’t let up, teasing in sloppy, frantic circles as he bucks into you, revelling in the stickiness of your skin against his; the lewd, wet sound of flesh-on-flesh is obscene. Sirius groans hoarsely, his hips jerking and stuttering as your cunt squeezes around his dick with his every forceful thrust— You are enjoying this…

Fuck, he is too— Hot pleasure jolts up his spine like the tightening of a knot; and you, crying out with loud whimpers as your spongy insides clench and squeeze around him— Sirius can’t take it anymore. He forgoes gentleness, pounding into your cunt with beastly intensity. You choke out a sob, lurching away from him, but he overpowers and holds you down, still abusing your sensitive clit— He’s going to fuck you until you cum, whether you want it or not— And his hungry mouth returns to sink livid, red marks into your neck, teeth grazing your artery. Something in the wooden bed frame cracks ominously—

But he ignores it, his breathing growing laboured and husky as he slams his hips into you, again and again, forcing you to whine until your voice breaks. You’re shaking violently in his grip— He can sense it, and you’re close, so close— He’s getting sloppier; rapidly approaching orgasm, and your reactions are boiling his blood, whipping up a primal frenzy in his brain— Sirius pinches your clit, and you climax.

Your euphoric moan chokes into a loud sob. Sirius growls at the way you clench around him, and pins you down with his body weight. His hand slips and pushes your leg up high, fucking you harder still through your orgasmic tremors— He’s following right behind you, on the cusp— You’re impossibly tight—

Merlin, you’re so damn tight— Sirius barely remembers to— He pulls himself out with a heavy groan, and his seed spills messily over the inside of your thigh. Hazy static pours over him, smothering the guilt, the emptiness… As it gradually tapers out, he feels the absence of your heat, of your closeness, and it pangs like the pain of starvation. It takes a moment for him to recover, lying beside you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. Then, he pushes himself up onto his elbow.

Panting, Sirius’ damp hair clings to his forehead, stinging his eyes. He wipes it, and fog clears, revealing only desecration.

As if murdered, you lie very still— Or try to, but your breathing is ragged and uneven. You’re glistening with orgasmic sweat, chest heaving as he rests your trembling leg back onto the mattress. You jolt, as if hiccuping, still wracked with sobs. Sirius’ heart aches for you— Merlin, no, what has he done?— He wants to take this moment back, but it’s too late now. The only fix he can think of is practical, like ridding a crime scene of evidence…

Sirius pulls out his wand, flicking shakily, evaporating his cum, but the scent of your lovemaking still lingers, thick in the air. With as much dignity as he’s able to grant you, he tugs your pyjamas and knickers up your hips. He tucks himself in and buttons his trousers, swimming in post-climax numbness. For a few minutes, he resumes his vigil behind you, as if he’d never done it at all. But you’re colder and distant; farther away than he’s ever felt you. Sighing, he gently strokes your hair. You don’t flinch or shiver away from his touch, but lie still, perfectly still… Your tear-stained cheek is still stuck to the damp patch on your pillow. Sirius passes over it deliberately. You’ve been asleep this entire time, blissfully unaware… That’s a lie he’ll peddle for both of your sakes, until this all melts safely into a nightmare.

It’s agony to tear himself away from your warmth, but Sirius knows he’s ruined everything by violating you, and lingering will only hurt you more. He presses one final, adoring kiss to your neck, yearning to embrace you, then slips wordlessly out of bed.

To forbid himself, he uses magic to bolt the lock.

Morning brings clarity.

He walks into the kitchen, and the stone tiles clack under his boots, echoing, echoing… You’re there, also, preparing a slow, tedious breakfast.

The silence is heavy. Sirius wants to break it, but the quiet feels impenetrable; a chasm of his own design. For a moment, he frowns, looming uneasily over the dining table, aggravated by the clinking of the jar as you spread jam on your toast, eyes downcast.

Then, he pulls out a rickety chair and sits down.

You don’t smile at him today. You don’t return his probing gaze. You knife up more slimy jam— Too much, now, and the bread has gone soggy.

If you’d only burst into tears, he’d gladly take you in his arms to hold you now. Sirius could be your solitary comfort, as you have been his… Only, your new, withdrawn, gloomy state unnerves him. His face darkens… Your bond has truly been broken.

But there’s something else, too.

Remorse gnawed his flesh until daybreak, and was scarred over by something cruel and hard, burrowing gruesomely inside him like an infection.

He could think of it this way: returning to his old childhood home has done very, very strange things to him. Yes… That’s it. Sirius has never had anything so warm and lovely in this place... And indeed, he’s spent much of his life out of control and powerless… But he does have power over you. It occurs to him abruptly. He does have power over you.

Sirius leans back in his chair with a squeak. His guilt, hot and shameful, broils fiercely in his gut, but it intertwines with a kind of grim satisfaction.

It’s his house, his rules…

So why shouldn’t he have you?

#harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #harry potter smut #sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black smut #dark sirius black #dark sirius #post azkaban!sirius #post azkaban sirius x reader #tw noncon #smut #angst #my writing

488 notes · View notes

hs-transfusion · 2 months

Text

> ARADIA MEGIDO

HEMO: Fuchsia (#99004D) TROLLTAG: ariolatesAftermath [AA] SIGN: Piari, Sign of the Vengeful STRIFE: 2x2dentkind MODUS: Sacrifice LUNAR SWAY: Prospit MYTH. ROLE: Sylph of Doom LAND: Land of Glaciers and Ruins

AA: there is n()thing the v()ices have been inc()rrect ab()ut as ()f yet

Once upon a time, Aradia was a worthy candidate for the ALTERNIAN THRONE. That was before she was SACRIFICED to her lusus B'AHBLAHK as part of a VICIOUS REVENGE CYCLE. She now roams Alternia as a GHOST, diligently working to SET THE EVENTS OF SGRUB IN PLACE, along with a few detours to PETTY ACTS OF REVENGE.

At present, Aradia has NO INTERESTS beyond being a COSMIC PLOT POINT. Before her ill-timed demise, she had a strong passion for HISTORY, working hard to maintain her PERSONAL MUSEUM of STRANGE ALIEN RELICS. She also had a fascination with THE WORLD OF THE ETHEREAL, knowledge that has served her well in her LITERAL AFTERLIFE.

Aradia's SACRIFICE Fetch Modus requires her to sacrifice a NEARBY ITEM to retrieve something from her sylladex. Thankfully, her WORN-DOWN PALACE is filled to the brim with RANDOM CHUNKS OF RUBBLE she can use as cannon fodder.

Aradia's lusus is dubbed B'AHBLAHK, BRAYER OF THE BLEAK. A massive, curled mass of TENDRILS AND HORNS, this eldritch sea-goat threatens to extinguish ALL EXISTING TROLL LIFE should its voice be raised too loud. It is said that anyone naive enough to MAKE A DEAL WITH IT will get whatever they wish for, but at a much steeper price than expected.

The Land of GLACIERS AND RUINS is an arctic area, covered in DECAYING RUINS OF AN ANCIENT CIVILISATION of consorts. Though they may have lived to see The Sylph through her personal quest, it seems denizen THANATOS didn't see fit to maintain a world for a player that has ALREADY MET THEIR END. Or perhaps that's just a defeatist attitude on his part...?

Aradia's ancestor is known as HER IMMORTAL OPULENCE, otherwise known as THE IMMORTAL. Though most fuchsiabloods live for FREAKISHLY LONG TIMES, HI() has lived longer than any other empress by a landslide. In fact, unbeknownst to many, she has walked the soils of Alternia on its VERY FIRST DAYS, witnessing each and every significant event in ALTERNIAN HISTORY personally. Alternia's bloodthirsty environment was influenced by her for nothing more than SHEER ENTERTAINMENT VALUE.

#homestuck #transfusion au #aradia megido #hiveswap #bloodswap

212 notes · View notes

ataraxiaspainting · 4 months

Note

hiiii i have a request! yan chrollo and how he would treat darling during valentines day?

he gets a +10 buff of being creepy, essentially. turns it up to eleven, and this behavior does not go away until at least february 21st. that is if you're lucky. if you're not just pray for march 1st or whatever to come around as soon as possible.

Yan Chrollo + Valentine’s Day.

How Chrollo acts, as always, depends on you and your current relationship, be it with him or with other people. Do you know of his existence yet? Is his stalking still in its earlier stages? Are you interested in anyone romantically, and plan to confess to them on this day?

To Chrollo, you are the direct cause of all of his actions. He knows you don’t mean it because most likely you either don’t know he is always following you or you think that he is simply a good friend to you. The latter is much rarer though, because as much as Chrollo knows how to manipulate others, he’ll show his true intentions around you to keep you on edge, be it when you are at home cooking a meal for your family and he has been invited from said family, or when you are walking home from the bar and he just so happens to be there when you inevitably slip because you are drunk. He may or may not have put something in your drink too if that is the case. He won’t tell you that though until you are so vulnerable, that he snatches you up, either for just the night or what is intended to be the rest of your life. He doesn't care if this is seen as wrong by the rest of the world. He is a thief. His job is to steal away treasures. Why should his intentions with you be any different? If you tell him that this is wrong, the same response will occur, albeit with a few more mind games. Perhaps it is best not to poke the bear, even when it has already had its fill.

If you haven't been taken by him yet, be prepared for one of two scenarios to unfold. Firstly, he may discreetly deliver an assortment of gifts and an anonymous letter to your mailbox, or perhaps even leave them on your kitchen table (if he's feeling particularly unsettling). Alternatively, if you're open to dating, he may attempt to arrange a blind date with you. He would enlist Shalnark's assistance to ensure that he becomes your chosen companion for the evening. However, it's important to note that the likelihood of a blind date is rather slim, as it ultimately depends on your preferences. Regardless of your plans for the night, Chrollo has no qualms about sending you an anonymous letter and gifts. It matters little if you're alone, confessing your feelings to someone else, or already on a date with your partner.

Resting on your table lies a crimson envelope. Its sight prompts your eyes to widen, expanding to the size of saucers. However, its presence pales in comparison to the other objects adorning the tabletop. A plush teddy bear, two grand bottles of opulent wine, a duo of boxes containing your favorite foods, and an arrangement of roses nestled in a glass vase, a purchase you know was not made by your hand. These roses, in hues of ivory and peach, exhibit not a trace of withering or decay. The person who broke them in to put them in here was extremely careful with them, along with the other gifts.

Despite the icy tremors in your hands, you pay no mind to the numbing sensation. With cautious precision, you proceed to unseal the envelope, taking care to avoid tearing it. You find yourself in a situation where no one believes you anymore. You no longer share the details about your stalker with anyone. Unfortunately, they always seem to vanish without a trace or become the center of attention in the news. And sometimes, to your utter dismay, both things happen simultaneously.

You don’t scream either, anymore. That’s probably what your stalker wants. Whoever they are. You don’t know anything about them, aside from the fact that they are always watching you. You are always right under their thumb, one of the only houses you could afford, when paired up with the traveling fees, that is far away burning to the ground before you could pay it was sure evidence of that.

As you begin to peruse the letter, a sense of dismay washes over you, realizing how distant you have strayed from prioritizing your well-being.

“Dearly beloved…”

If, by chance, he has already whisked you away, a task that requires minimal effort on his part, Valentine's Day will bear a resemblance to this scenario. The card and an abundance of lavish presents will still grace the kitchen table, but at least their origin will be known to you. Chrollo promises you a "date", provided you conduct yourself properly today. As always, the destination is up to you, or so he feigns. Deep down, he already has the “date” planned. It would be wise to hope he doesn't subject you to anything too dreadful on this day.

#aya abstractions #yandere #yandere x reader #hxh #phantom troupe #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere hxh #chrollo hunter x hunter #chrollo lucilfer #chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo x reader #yandere hxh x reader #100 followers event #yandere chrollo lucilfer

116 notes · View notes

voidpetrova · 8 months

Text

art deco — damon salvatore x reader

☄. *. ⋆

content warnings and genre: blood, violence — angst(ish) (?)

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

synopsis: art was as long as life was short, something you and damon knew entirely too well.

✧.*

in the dimly lit, abandoned museum, the air hung heavy with the scent of history and dust. faint moonlight filtered through cracked windows, casting ethereal glimmers upon forgotten canvases and sculptures. every corner of the place breathed with the remnants of bygone elegance, a silent testament to a world long past. amongst this solitude, you stood, a figure of timeless grace dressed in an opulent gown that whispered of old money. the art in this decaying sanctuary spoke to you in ways only a fellow aficionado could comprehend. the cracked masterpieces adorned the walls, their colors faded yet their stories vivid. each stroke of the brush or chisel seemed to echo through the ages, a symphony of artistic expression transcending time itself.

as you moved from one masterpiece to another, your fingers brushed lightly against the gilded frames, tracing the intricate carvings that held the essence of centuries. your eyes, pools of liquid appreciation, gazed upon the paintings with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics. the strokes of genius laid bare before you – from the haunting chiaroscuro of a renaissance masterpiece to the avant-garde chaos of abstract modernism – all whispered secrets to your heart.

but amidst this silent communion with art, you couldn't help but feel a presence, a shadow that moved with grace and purpose. you turned your head, and there he stood—damon salvatore, a man of another era, his eyes a deep well of secrets. his attire, tailored to perfection, exuded the same timeless charm that you cherished in art.

he smiled, a slow and enigmatic curve of his lips that hinted at a world of knowledge hidden behind his captivating exterior. “you have exquisite taste,” he murmured, his voice a velvet melody that danced through the gallery. you inclined your head, acknowledging the compliment. “and so do you,” you replied, your eyes returning to the artwork that surrounded you.

for a while, the two of you stood there, side by side but lost in your own worlds. the art, the sculptures, the remnants of human creativity encapsulated you both, weaving an unspoken connection stronger than words could convey.

it was as if the museum itself had come alive, the masterpieces breathing, sighing, and pulsating with the essence of creativity. damon, seemingly enthralled by your presence, broke the silence. “you know,” he began, his tone almost wistful, “art isn't just what's on the canvas. It's the stories, the emotions, the beauty found in unexpected places.” you turned to him, curiosity dancing in your eyes, “elaborate.”

with a mischievous glint in his eye, damon extended his hand toward a forgotten statue tucked away in the corner. it was a fragment of antiquity, a delicate hand emerging from a block of marble, frozen in time. "this," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial, “this is a masterpiece of its own. a testament to a sculptor's skill, yes, but also a tribute to the endurance of beauty. this hand, emerging from the stone, tells a story of transformation, of potential realized.”

you studied the sculpture anew, seeing it through his eyes. it was as if he'd breathed life into the lifeless, giving you a glimpse into the world beyond the surface.

as the night wore on, you and damon continued to traverse the labyrinthine corridors of art. each piece held its own unique charm, and damon, with his profound insights, revealed hidden dimensions to you. it was a dance of minds amidst a symphony of aesthetics, and you were enchanted.

but the final masterpiece of the night was yet to be unveiled, and it was not on the canvas or in the cold embrace of marble. it was the crimson masterpiece that damon had been crafting, a composition that was dark, brutal, and utterly enthralling.

in a secluded corner of the museum, far from prying eyes, the two of you stood together, surrounded by darkness and the echoes of history. damon's eyes bore into yours with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. you were not unaware of the darkness within him, the primal force that lurked beneath his charming exterior, but in this moment, it only added to the allure.

he leaned in, his lips dangerously close to your ear, his voice a seductive whisper. “art is subjective, my dear. and this, this is my masterpiece.”

before you could react, his lips met the tender skin of your neck, and the world exploded in a symphony of sensations. pain and pleasure intertwined, a chaotic dance that defied reason. as his fangs pierced your skin, you gasped, your vision blurring as a rush of ecstasy washed over you. the world around you dimmed as your senses heightened. you could hear the rhythm of your own heartbeat, the whisper of blood flowing through your veins. the metallic taste of your own life filled your mouth, and it was both repulsive and intoxicating.

damon's grip on you tightened as he drank, his movements possessive and primal. in that agonizingly beautiful moment, you realized the true essence of art – the collision of beauty and brutality, creation and destruction, life and death.

as the last vestiges of your humanity slipped away, you became a part of his masterpiece, a work of art in your own right. the abandoned museum, with its forgotten treasures, had witnessed another chapter in its history, a tale of immortal passion and boundless darkness. and in that timeless night, surrounded by the relics of a bygone era, you and damon salvatore became a living testament to the endless possibilities of art, where boundaries blurred and beauty was redefined in shades of red.

art, indeed, was subjective, and in the world of vampires, it was a canvas that knew no limits.

#tvd #tvdu #the originals #legacies #damon salvatore #damon x reader #damon salvatore x reader #damon salvatore angst #damon salvatore smut #damon salvatore fluff

162 notes · View notes

merakiui · 10 months

Text

thinking about a concept in which you clean houses of the rich and famous. you've yet to meet the homeowner. often, a servant or housekeeper greets you in place of the owner themselves. or no one's home and your payment is simply left in an envelope on a countertop, along with a list of instructions. it's a job that pays well and has little to no social interaction. it's perfect and peaceful.

but then, while cleaning one particular house, you find a door locked tight. every space is accessible to you; it must be in order for you to clean it. so the fact that this one is sealed up, protected with a strange assortment of locks, has you raising an eyebrow. you explain it away with a shrug, assuming that it's probably protecting something valuable. besides, this is the home of someone wealthy, and if the expensive abstract art and sculptures littering the place isn't telling enough then this door certainly takes the cake for "eccentric and opulent." it's normal for someone rich to possess all manner of odd excess, or so you tell yourself as you ignore the door and continue cleaning.

you try not to let curiosity consume you, but a month later you're contacted by the same owner. you return to clean and the door is as you remember it. there are cameras poised in the corners of every room and hall, mostly for the homeowner's safety and so that they'll know if you steal anything. you can't linger near the door for too long; they could be watching. still, each time you pass the door it becomes less of a cute curiosity and more of a foreboding omen. what's hidden behind that door that would warrant such extreme protective measures? the morbid side of your brain says it's a corpse, but then if that was the case you'd smell the rot and decay.

if not a corpse, what else could it be?

you knock on the door, expecting a response. nothing happens. so you continue onwards, leaving the door and what lies behind it in peace. you want to ask about it, but then it's none of your business. you're only here to clean the house. nothing more, nothing less.

a few months pass and you're called back to clean. you pass the door again and, like before, you knock thrice. oddly enough, something sounds back. it's muffled, so you can't make out what it was. you knock again. no response. you knock again before remembering the camera and you hurry along. you miss the muffled whimper of someone crying on the other side.

within that same week, you're asked to return. you think nothing of it until you see the state of the bathroom. it's more than a mess; it's a crime scene...or something like it. organized chaos is what you might call it if you were delusional to the strange crimson stains on the tile, not expertly scrubbed out of the grout, or the medicine cabinet in complete disarray, cracks spider-webbing through the mirror. you question it while you clean, not oblivious to the faint streaks leading out of the bathroom. as if something heavy and possibly bloody was dragged from the room.

but you're not paid to scrutinize or theorize. you're paid to clean.

somehow you find yourself drawn to the door after cleaning the bathroom, the only space in the house that required cleaning. there's a bucket of water in your hands, and as you near the door you, rather clumsily, trip and drop it. water sloshes out of the pail and, for the sake of the camera, you curse and groan loudly, storming off to retrieve a towel.

your phone is wrapped in the towel when you return, and you bend down with your back turned to the camera. hurriedly, you fumble to unravel the towel, your shoulders hunched, and you unlock your phone, hastily swiping to the camera. you click record and slide your phone under the crack in door, hoping to capture something that might explain the locked door, the weird state of the bathroom, and that phantom noise you thought you heard all that time ago.

maybe it's nothing and you're making yourself paranoid. maybe you're the suspicious one for jumping to such grotesque conclusions. you let your phone record while you clean the spill, and just before you stand up you quickly pocket your phone. you pray it looked natural to the camera's red, invasive eye.

after collecting your payment and retreating to your car, you sit in silence. two and a half minutes were recorded. it felt much longer than that, but you were rushing to finish. for a moment, you consider deleting the video. if it's nothing, you won't see it. if it's something, you won't see it either. ignorance is bliss, right?

despite this, you watch the recording. the first minute is taken in shadowed silence, so eerily quiet it's nearly static. but then a light flicks on. it's so quiet you have to strain to hear it, and with your volume turned all the way up you begin to hear tiny clicks being made at specific intervals. with each click, the light flicks on and off. and in the near corner, you catch sight of what looks to be photos plastered to the wall and ceiling, illuminated only slightly by the light. you can't quite decipher the contents of these photos, but there are so many that they're almost like a second wallpaper.

and then the video ends when you yank your phone out from under the crack between door and floor to stop the recording.

puzzled, you sit there in deafening silence, wondering what in the world you just watched. mindlessly, you view the video again and again to dissect every piece of information in those two minutes and thirty-something seconds.

the light flicked on a total of nine times in sets of three. the first three were fast, the next three were slow, and the final three were fast. cold, raw horror descends upon you as you watch the video for the nth time to prove a terrifying theory.

the flickering light is a signal, specifically an SOS signal.

someone's on the other side of that door, likely helpless and trapped, and they want out. and aside from the captive and their kidnapper, you're the only other person who knows of their existence.

#meraki mumbles #alternatively you can switch this concept #and it's [insert character here] who cleans the houses while darling is the one trapped on the other side of the door #and so when [insert character here] sticks their phone under to record they capture footage of you in captivity :)

232 notes · View notes

xlycorisxradiatax2 · 7 months

Text

Cozy edits ✨

Modlists:

(AT) Geometric Rugs

(CP) Grace's Wood Lamps

(CP)(DGA) Retro Style Furniture

(DGA AT) HxW Fairy Garden Furniture

[AT] Grace's Beds

[JA] DAILY PANTS SET

[JA] DAILY SHIRTS SET

[JA] DL HATS SET

[JA] IYAHO All Shirts Pack

[JA] IYAHO Hats 58p

[JA] IYAHO Hats 58p Small

Alternative Textures

AntiSocialNPCs

Asta Cute Navy Outfit (FS)

AT opulence wallpapers

AT Opulence

Better Artisan Good Icons Fix

Better Artisan Good Icons

Cat Replacements

CJB Cheats Menu

CJB Item Spawner

CJB Show Item Sell Price

Content Patcher

Cottagecore Fences

Woomeewong Villagers Portrait (CP)

Crops Anytime Anywhere

Custom Music

Custom Wallpaper Framework

Customizable Baby and Children

Cuter Crops and Foraging

DaisyNiko's Earthy Recolour

DaisyNiko's Tilesheets

Dog Replacements

Dynamic Game Assets

Earthy Interiors

Expanded Preconditions Utility

Extra Map Layers

Farm Type Manager

Fashion Sense

Fishing Made Easy Suite

Forest Meadow Farm

FS - SH's Animal and Mythological Creatures Stuff

FS - SH's Gloves and Sleeves Pack

FS - SH's More Accessories and Stuff

FS Simple Farmer Dresses

FS The Coquette Collection

FS Wabi's Wardrobe

FS Clothespack1

FS Clothespack2

FS_Daily hairstyle

FS_HatsPack

Generic Mod Config Menu

GH's Peach Body type (female)

GH's Peach Tall Body type (male)

Gwen's Path

Hats Won't Mess Up Hair

Horse Replacements

IdaIda Wallpapers and Floors for CP

IdaIda's Furniture Recolour (for AT)

JA - Luo Li's top and skirt2

JA - Luo Li's top and skirt3

JA_Uniform Pack

Json Assets

Kitchen Replacements

Lnh's Cellar

Lnh's Farm

Lookup Anything

MailFrameworkMod

Miss Coriel's NPC Unique Courtship Response 5

MissCoriel's Unique Courtship Response CORE

More Grass

No Crows

No Fence Decay

NPC Map Locations

Old Cola Interface

PyTK - Platonymous Toolkit

Sabrine's Cottage (AT)

SafeLightningRedux

Script Font

Shop Tile Framework

Show Item Quality

Simple Foliage

Simple Resources

SkullCavernElevator

SpaceCore

Spanish Revival Buildings

StarAmy's Comprehensive Walls and Floors

StarAmy's Cozy Walls and Floors

StarAmy's Natural Patterned Wallpapers

StarAmy's Wild Greenhouse Furniture for DGA

Sweet Simple Greenhouse

Take a Break

TMXL Map Toolkit

Tractor Engine Sounds

Tractor Mod

Transmutation Time All

Way Back Pelican Town

West Elm Furniture (AT) by Atlas

Wildflower Grass Field

Winter Grass

Yandere Sebastian Dialogue Expansion

Yellog Flower Dialogue UI

127 notes · View notes

whocaresimnothere · 2 months

Text

Melody of the Radio Demon

Alastor x Reader

The descent into Hell was not marked by fire and brimstone as one might expect, but by an eerie silence that settled like a suffocating blanket over the landscape. As you crossed the threshold from the mortal realm into the infernal abyss, a chill crept into your bones, a sensation that seemed to seep from the very ground beneath your feet.

The transition was gradual, almost imperceptible at first. The world around you blurred and shifted, colours bleeding into one another until all that remained was a monochromatic haze. The air grew thick with a heavy, cloying scent, like the musk of decay mingled with the acrid tang of sulphur.

And then, with a jolt that sent shivers down your spine, you found yourself standing on the banks of a river of molten lava, its fiery currents snaking their way through the barren wasteland like serpents in search of prey. The ground beneath your feet trembled with each step, a constant reminder of the tumultuous nature of the realm you now found yourself in.

As you surveyed your surroundings, a sense of dread washed over you like a tidal wave. The landscape was desolate and inhospitable, a twisted mockery of the world you once knew. Jagged rocks jutted from the ground like the shattered remnants of some ancient civilization, their sharp edges gleaming in the dim light of the crimson sky.

The gates of Hell rose like colossal sentinels, their twisted spires scraping the blood-red sky, while the sulfurous stench thickened the air, a tangible reminder of the realm's infernal nature. As you crossed the threshold, the ground beneath your feet felt unnervingly solid yet volatile, as if the very earth were writhing in torment. The cacophony of wails and screams echoed in the distance, a haunting symphony that reverberated through your bones.

Each step forward felt like a descent into madness, the landscape unfolding before you in all its grotesque grandeur. Jagged rocks jutted from the ground like the shattered remnants of some ancient civilization, while rivers of molten lava snaked their way through the barren wasteland, casting an eerie glow upon the desolate terrain.

Amidst the chaos, the Hazbin Hotel stood as a beacon of defiance, its grand façade a stark contrast to the surrounding gloom. Its ornate architecture spoke of a bygone era, a time when elegance and opulence reigned supreme. But here, in the heart of Hell, it stood as a refuge for lost souls, a sanctuary where sinners sought redemption.

As you approached the hotel, a towering figure emerged from the shadows, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent. "Well, well, well, what do we have here?" he purred, his voice dripping with honeyed venom. "A lost soul seeking refuge in my humble abode?"

You swallowed hard, the weight of his gaze bearing down on you like a leaden shroud. "I... I suppose so," you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.

The demon's grin widened, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. "No need to be shy, my dear," he chuckled. "Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel, where every sinner has a second chance at redemption... or so they say."

With a flourish of his hand, the demon gestured for you to follow him inside, the doors creaking open to reveal the bustling interior of the hotel. As you stepped across the threshold, you were greeted by a whirlwind of activity – demons of all shapes and sizes going about their business with reckless abandon.

The lobby was a symphony of chaos, the air filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and the occasional scuffle. Demons lounged on plush couches, sipping cocktails and engaging in animated conversation, while others darted to and fro, their eyes alight with mischief and mayhem.

You couldn't help but marvel at the sight, the vibrant energy of the hotel filling you with a sense of hope you hadn't felt in ages. Perhaps, just perhaps, this place could offer you the fresh start you so desperately craved.

Lost in thought, you barely noticed the demon leading you through the crowded lobby, his voice fading into the background as you took in your surroundings. It wasn't until he spoke again that you snapped back to reality, his words pulling you from your reverie.

"Well, my dear, it seems you've arrived just in time for the show," he chuckled, his grin widening as he gestured towards the stage at the center of the room. "Care to join me for a little entertainment?"

You hesitated for a moment, uncertainty gnawing at the edges of your mind. But as you glanced around the bustling lobby, the infectious energy of the hotel washing over you like a tidal wave, you knew that this was where you belonged.

With a nod and a smile, you followed the demon towards the stage, eager to see what other surprises awaited you in this strange new world called Hell.

The demon led you through the maze of tables and chairs, his every movement graceful yet predatory. You couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease in his presence, a primal instinct warning you of the danger that lurked beneath his charming facade.

As you approached the stage, the sounds of laughter and conversation faded into the background, replaced by the soft strains of a melancholy melody. The spotlight illuminated the figure standing at the center of the stage, a lone demon with a violin cradled against his chest.

He was unlike any demon you had ever seen – tall and slender, with a shock of fiery red hair and eyes that burned with an otherworldly intensity. His features were sharp and angular, his every movement exuding a sense of power and authority.

But it was the music that truly captivated you, its haunting melody weaving its way through the air like a siren's song. It spoke of pain and longing, of a world lost to darkness and despair. And yet, beneath the melancholy notes, there was a glimmer of hope, a flicker of light in the midst of the abyss.

You found yourself drawn to the stage, unable to tear your eyes away from the enigmatic figure before you. It was as if he were speaking directly to your soul, reaching out across the vast expanse of eternity to touch something deep within you.

As the final notes of the melody faded into silence, the demon lowered his violin, his gaze meeting yours with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. "Well, well, well, what do we have here?" he mused, his voice smooth as silk. "A new face in the crowd, perhaps?"

You nodded, your throat tight with emotion. "I... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. I was just..."

The demon waved away your apology with a dismissive gesture. "Nonsense, my dear. You're more than welcome here," he said, his smile sending a shiver down your spine. "In fact, I daresay you might just be the most interesting thing to happen to this place in quite some time."

You blinked in surprise, unsure of how to respond to his cryptic words. But before you could say anything, a commotion erupted from the back of the room, drawing your attention away from the demon on stage.

A group of demons had gathered around a table, their voices raised in heated argument as they gestured wildly at each other. You couldn't make out what they were saying, but the tension in the air was palpable, a storm brewing on the horizon.

Without thinking, you found yourself edging closer to the fray, a sense of curiosity overriding your better judgment. But before you could get too close, a firm hand closed around your wrist, pulling you back from the edge of danger.

You turned to see the demon from the stage standing beside you, his eyes narrowed in concern. "Best not to get involved in that particular... altercation," he said, his tone laced with amusement. "Things tend to get rather... messy around here."

You nodded, grateful for his intervention. "Thank you," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

The demon smiled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Think nothing of it, my dear. After all, what are friends for?"

And with that enigmatic remark, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving you standing alone in the midst of the chaos.

As you watched him go, a sense of unease settled over you, a nagging feeling that there was more to this demon than met the eye. But try as you might, you couldn't shake the feeling that your fates were somehow intertwined, bound together by the invisible threads of destiny.

With a sigh, you turned and made your way back to the safety of the sidelines, eager to put the events of the evening behind you. But deep down, you knew that this was only the beginning of your journey into the heart of darkness, a journey that would test your courage, your strength, and your very soul.

And as you gazed out into the sea of faces, each one a testament to the sins of humanity, you couldn't help but wonder what other secrets this strange new world called Hell held in store.

#alastor x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #fanfic #radio demon #x reader

37 notes · View notes

42lolita · 1 year

Text

Guide To Ouji Fashion For Beginners: Dos And Don’ts

Boystyle (ボーイスタイル), also referred to as Ouji (王子) in pop culture is a fashion style that is frequently associated with lolita fashion. Although it is not Lolita style per se, it is more of a masculine counterpart of the fashion style. It shares many of the aesthetic elements of the Lolita style. If you are a Lolita fan, you are bound to fall in love with the Ouji fashion, also called Kodona Fashion.

The Ouji fashion follows its rules and can be pretty different from the Lolita fashion. Given that the word "ouji" means "prince," it contrasts with the princess-inspired Lolita aesthetic. However, this is just a brief overview of the world of Ouji fashion. Keep reading to dive deep into the beautiful world of Ouji Lolita fashion!

A Short Introduction To Ouji Fashion

The Ouji fashion is a Japanese trend frequently considered the Lolita fashion’s masculine counterpart. Don't mistake it for a sub-style, though; it is a full-fledged fashion item in itself. Since “Ouji” means prince in Japanese, you may think of it as the male Lolita fashion or even as the “Prince” to the Lolita fashion’s “princess.”

The primary distinction between the Ouji look and its feminine counterpart is the use of pants rather than skirts. The Victorian clothing style has also had an impact on the pants, which come in a variety of lengths. Vests and blouses will go with them. Most outfits may pair a waistcoat with it to complete the look.

So a typical Ouji outfit consists of the following: a blouse, pants, a vest or a jacket, shoes, socks, and, if desired, a hat. When you put these together to create an Ouji coordinate, it should look masculine yet elegant. A vital factor to note is that, although it’s supposed to be "masculine" fashion, anyone –regardless of gender- can wear it.

Types Of Ouji Fashion Style

There are numerous sub styles and themes for Ouji fashion. It has the same three primary substyles as Lolita: classic, sweet, and gothic. However, there is a lot more overlap between these sub-styles, which aren’t as clearly defined. Even so, let’s look at the different types of Ouji fashion styles -

1. Sweet Ouji

The sweet Ouji style refers to more adorable, youthful, and innocent coordination. This style adheres to some of the same guidelines as Sweet Lolita, a sub-style of the Lolita fashion. But this style has a lot more of a “Shota” or young boy vibe.

People who wear this style often pair it with a cute Lolita to twin with them. Some common themes or motifs are school-style, circus, sailor, and white rabbits. There aren’t many hard and fast rules for the set.

But generally, the outfit should include a blouse with ruffles. The pant length will depend on the person’s tastes, but pumpkin or puffed ones are more common. Other common elements include cropped or high-waisted vests, ribbon neck bows, mini crowns, or mini hats.

2. Classic Ouji

The emphasis on elegance and a refined air characterize classic Ouji. This substyle has a more traditional “Princely” feeling. It is more sophisticated than sweet—most Ouji that aren't overly sweet or gothic fall within the classic Ouji substyle. The whole coordination should give off a refined and more mature vibe.

People who practice this style frequently wear boots. They also have specific buttons and structures for the jacket to be considered Classic Ouji, and even the pockets are unique.

The Classic Ouji fashion follows a significant historical influence. The typical elements of this style include – knee-length or longer pants, full-sized bicorn, tricorn or cavalier hats, waist-length or longer vests and jackets, and elegant jabots or neck-bows. The most common themes or motifs can be military, pirate, or royalty.

3. Gothic Ouji

Gothic Ouji exudes a sense of darkness that can take the form of opulent decadence, distressed decay, or a simple, angular design. Generally, Gothic Oujis favor darker color schemes, makeup, patterns, and fashion—people who follow this outfit typically twin with the Gothic Lolitas.

To perfect the Gothic Ouji look, you must have a lot of specific details, just like the two styles mentioned above. The buttons, bows, and pockets should follow the particular Ouji rules. This Ouji style often gets inspiration from Visual-Kei elements such as big hair, platform boots, and flamboyance. The most common aspect of this Ouji style is the color black.

The outfit features jewel tones like navy or Bordeaux to contrast the black. The Ouji style also uses a lot of textures instead of colors, such as jacquard, velvet, or distressed fabric. Another common element is capes and overskirts made from long flowing fabric. The most common themes include vampires, priests, and crosses.

5 Simple Dos And Don’ts about Ouji Fashion You Should Know About

If you are a beginner in Ouji fashion, there may be various elements of this fashion world that you may want to know before delving deeper. Mainly because many people tend to confuse Ouji fashion with Lolita fashion, the more widely recognized fashion style of the two.

So we bring you some simple dos and don’ts in Ouji fashion that you should keep in mind as a beginner.

1. Ruffled Blouse Over Plain Blouse

When you are doing an Ouji look, plain button-ups work fine. But when you pair them with a jacket or vest with a longer neck, the simple button-up can look a bit too simple. So you may opt for a more extravagant and frilly shirt that brings detail to the neck. Ruffles, jabots, neck bows, lace, and big collars are some details that favor the Ouji style.

2. Pants Define The Ouji Look

Pants are one of the essential elements of the Ouji look, as they are the main element that set the style apart from Lolita. Shorts and knickerbockers are the most common styles and lengths of pants that bring the Ouji vibe to an outfit.

Pants will also determine your Ouji style for the day. Long pants work best if you want a gothic and mature look.

3. Accessorize A You Want

When it comes to accessories, only the sky is the limit for you. Simply play around with it. If you already have a lot of Lolita accessories or other gothic ones, they may also complement the Ouji style. Some of the most common accessories in Ouji fashion are ties, bowties, jabots, lace, pocket watches, waist chain, etc.

4. Invest In Real Top Hats

Hats are most probably the most common element of the Ouji look. The two hat types most frequently seen in the style are top hats (mini or not) and tricorns (mini or not). Nevertheless, wearing newsboy hats and bowlers is also possible.

It’s best to avoid buying costume hats when you’re out shopping for hats. Authentic top hats look much better and aren’t even that expensive. Please note that if you buy these hats internationally, the shipping fee usually will be very high as the hats will involve volumetric weight.

5. Try Not To Look Too Casual

In the Ouji style, it’s best to avoid looking "too casual." Simply pairing a button-up with shorts or capris does not look boyish. Such an outfit seems uninspired and boring. Adding a few small accessories allows you to turn even the most basic style into something more attractive.

Conclusion

For everyone starting their Ouji journey, the new terminologies and overlapping substyles can be a bit overwhelming. So for all the beginners out there, we share a guide to Ouji fashion in this article.

I hope it has helped you start your journey with a clear idea of the beautiful world of Ouji fashion. Thanks for reading up till now.

#ouji lolita #42lolita #ouji fashion #ouji #male Lolita

164 notes · View notes

jahiera · 8 months

Text

this isn't really coherent, I might turn it into an actual structured.. something something later, so don't take this as anything but my brain notes getting jotted down, especially since the nature of discussions on class, wealth, capitalism, vampire symbolism, gothic themes, etc. are all a lot to get into casually here. but I'm. endlessly fascinated by cazador's reputation as a socialite in baldur's gate, the rat motif, astarion's obscured history as a magistrate, and how the game fucks around with classic gothic vampire aesthetics to an almost egregious degree. zero trying to pretend they're not calling back to what the "vampire" imagination evokes here.

the ostentatious yet dilapidated state of the mansion. the egregious wealth but the floorboards are moldy and bloody and miasma fogs the hallways. the rooms are dark yet opulent... the corridors loom over you and are strewn with many fine paintings you can barely see for the lighting, the floors are plush and carpeted and red. but the whole place at the same time is disgusting. bloody. thick with rot and feels almost rundown. I cant remember the exact line in the companion dialogue with shadowheart and astarion where shadowheart asks what to expect of vampire lairs, but it ends with him describing them in a way that's almost--fetid. cazador's wealth is on display and yet the whole place is rotten to the core, meaty and disgusting and full of horrors.

and this works in conjunction with the way astarion plays at class, elitism, and wealth. he plays the part of it quite well; he sniffs and turns his nose up, offers to take karlach to the upper city, his introduction is him telling the player that they "move in different circles," (the implication that astarion moves in elite circles, when in fact in act 3 he reveals he mostly spent time in lower city taverns). I'm not sure how to elaborate what I'm trying to get at here with the play between the rotten wealth & astarion's "playing" nobility; astarion's mortal life is only gestured to, as a magistrate, but you can feel the bones of it in astarion's character still. he plays the role shallowly well, when everything we learn about him directly counters any notion he was ever the social elite he plays at in the beginning. how astarion interacts with the others through his still distinctly elitist + wealth-centric lens despite quite literally being enslaved for the last 200 yrs (my life was bad but at least I'm not you. that mindset is rife for unpacking in terms of how he places himself above others so often, and recoils + is aghast when he sees himself especially paralleled with those he sees as lesser or weaker). if he came close to touching high society, it would have only been through cazador's own social parties with the upper nobility of baldur's gate (and even then, we don't know if he attended, if he was expected to play a role there, or if he was sequestered away). like the mansion's finery, astarion's own display of elitism is hollowed out, rotten when you actually see it, down to the worn out hems of his finery.

astarion, whose most often reoccurring animal motif is a rat; vermin, unfit for consumption; the symbolism there is RIFE. rats play double; coward, vermin, unfit for the finery of the house; rats as symbolism for disease, decay, infestation. vampires infest and feed on baldur's gate. astarion is, in many ways, a rat himself; a schemer and fearful. the game doesn't really try to comment intricately on social structures, classism, or vampires as symbols for the parasitically wealthy; in act 3 the focus is much more on the fucked up family dynamic, the social hierarchy between cazador and the spawn (and that's an entire thing in of itself; astarion weaponizes the cycle of abuse over the spawn as quickly as he expresses sympathy for them). or if it's trying to do a real critique of wealth & using vampire tropes to do it, there's nothing necessarily.... intentionally placed there as critique. but it's still very much in line with the gothic horror symbolism that oftentimes does utilize the vampire as a way of cracking a bit at the Horrors of the Rich. intentional or not, it's very interesting. rats! the way the rich are parasites on the land! the way the cycles of power rotate between the spawn as they all claw for favor and security and power in the house but ALSO hold themselves higher than the human servants or the werewolves!

#bg3 meta #stuck in fucking ACT 1 when I want to REPLAY THE CAZADOR MISSION RIGHT NOW. I'm SICK.#does this make sense to anyone. do you see the dots being connected here.#it needs something structured & I'd want to collect screencaps + quotes to make it all work but #woe the horrors of parasites and the wealthy and the way that power + wealth + social image still clearly play a role in #how the spawn interact with each other and also with cazador and also how they view their victims --#or well. at least how astarion does #bg3 spoilers

110 notes · View notes

theladyofbloodshed · 8 months

Text

Neris Week - Day 4 - Love

High Lord Meeting from Eris’ POV (aka the first time he sees Nesta) - Majority of the text is word-for-word from ACOWAR including all of the events, but switched to Eris' POV rather than Feyre's.

There was just enough time to glimpse the polished, marble floor and the deep-cushioned oak chairs arranged in a circle that his father would recoil at. Delegates from Winter, Day, and Night had already assembled alongside Thesan’s number. They were gathered around the gem of the chamber; a reflection pool with pink and gold water lilies floating upon the dark water. The atmosphere was tense enough to be cut with a knife. Eris spotted Mor, thin-lipped and pale, refusing to glance their way as he filed in behind his parents. The Night Court had their hackles raised though they were not the only court which had stiffened at the arrival of Autumn. It was to be expected for a court in a state of perpetual decay.

They had come as allies, not enemies. Apparently. Hostility seeped from those gathered but Beron merely gave a brief glance to the high lords. Eris noticed his mother’s shoulders stiffen as her head swept through the room. No Lucien. That was the only reason why she had petitioned and begged to be allowed to attend the meeting. All of those nights pleading and needling at her husband, promising to behave and do whatever he wanted, for a son who was not here.

His brothers sneered which ruffled the feathers of the Peregryns and had one of the Summer Court princes baring his teeth in warning.

‘Enough,’ murmured Eris, pulling them back into line since Beron wasn’t about to do it. He needed today to go well. Needed to prove to the Night Court he was worth aligning with. He had heard rumours of the mortal sisters forced into the Cauldron; one had been blessed with foresight, the other was more complex. The world had shuddered when that one came out. Eris imagined something grotesque and wicked, warped by the might of the Cauldron.

Beron paused halfway through the room, surveying it again with his keen, brown eyes. Disgust had his top lip curling.

Rhysand stood. ‘It’s no surprise that you’re tardy, given that your own sons were too slow to catch my mate. I suppose it runs in the family. Mate—and High Lady.’

The female levelled a flat, bored stare in their direction. Eris met it with an amused, if not bland smile. He had known the instant that Feyre Archeron had crossed into his court thanks to his smoke hounds. It would have been too easy to drag her before his father. No, Eris had his eyes on a bigger prize. He could feel the burn of Cassian’s eyes on him. Eris deigned a glance at the Illyrian general and inclined his head in invitation, subtly patting his stomach. It was always too easy to push the general’s temper. To see how she’d react, Eris turned his amber eyes to Morrigan. A blank stare was his only response. Her white-hot anger writhed beneath the surface, but it had been her own blood who had driven the nails in, not him.

Thesan, as host, began once they had all seated. ‘Rhysand, you have called this meeting. Pushed us to gather sooner than we intended. Now would be the time to explain what is so urgent.’

Rhys blinked—slowly. ‘Surely the invading armies landing on our shores explain enough.’

‘So you have called us to do what, exactly?’ Helion challenged, bracing his forearms on his muscled, gleaming thighs. ‘Raise a unified army?’

Unification? Beron would rather see all of Prythian turn to ash than stand alongside the Day Court.

‘Among other things,’ Rhys said mildly. ‘We—'

Like a crack of lightning, vicious as a spring storm, Tamlin winnowed into the chamber itself. Now this meeting would be interesting, Eris thought. Never one for opulence, Tamlin did not bother with the landing balcony, or the escorts. He did not have an entourage. He had never needed one to assert his dominance; the size was enough and the brute force.

Absolute silence. Absolute stillness. Shields locked into place. He felt the soft hum of his father’s covering all of them. Tamlin was not to be underestimated. They'd chased naga from the border only to run them into Tamlin's claws where they were shredded like ribbons. Eris did not want to be on the receiving end of those. His clothes were too expensive.

Eris skimmed his eyes over the Night Court, tantalised with anticipation of the expected maelstrom headed their way. Rhysand appeared bored but Eris could see the tightness behind his expression, just as he used to wear when carrying out another of Amarantha’s more savage punishments. The ever-dramatic Morrigan made a show of her disgust, but it was the female beside her that Eris was more interested in. The cold caution on her face made her look as though she was made of ice, but there was a flame in her heart that flared. Eris felt his own chest go tight at the sight of her, the breath catching in his lungs on an inhale. Pale gold hair was drawn into a neat coronet to highlight the sharp planes of her elegant face. There was no mistaking the relationship to the high lady of the Night Court, but while the latter was more restless and freer, the sister seemed steadier. There was a sophistication to her; a trained stillness that ought to come from holding court. Her grey eyes flicked towards him, noticing the attention. For all the steady calm she displayed, those eyes churned like storm clouds barrelling his way. She was the riptide waiting to drown its victim and Eris would be happy to step into her path.

Thesan rose, his captain remaining seated beside him—albeit with a hand on his sword. ‘We were not expecting you, Tamlin.’ Thesan gestured with a slender hand toward his cringing attendants. ‘Fetch the High Lord a chair.’

He was more used to sleeping on floors as a beast, Eris thought. Tamlin did not tear his gaze from his runaway bride. His smile turned subdued—yet somehow more unnerving. More vicious. Eris knew the male well enough; enough to know that he could shred his enemies quicker than any spell could be cast. He wore his usual green tunic—no crown, no adornments.

Beron drawled, ‘I will admit, Tamlin, that I am surprised to see you here. Rumour claims your allegiance now lies elsewhere.’

He was feeling brave because Tamlin’s gaze had not moved from Feyre Archeron. It landed on her ring finger then the tattoo beneath the glittering, pale blue sleeve of her gown. Then it rose—right to that crown on her pretty, little head. Rhysand’s play thing, all dolled up for the show.

The attendants hauled over a chair—setting it between Autumn and Day. Alastar was smart enough not to physically recoil as Tamlin’s arm brushed against his own as he took the seat.

Helion waved a scar-flecked hand. ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’

Although Thesan cleared his throat, no one looked toward him.

‘It would seem congratulations are in order.’ Tamlin’s words were flat—flat and yet as sharp as his claws, currently hidden beneath his golden skin.

Rhysand only held his once-companion’s stare. Held it with a face like ice, and yet utter rage roiled beneath it. Cataclysmic rage, surging and writhing. This would be a fun day, Eris thought. Perhaps there was a bet to see who was most likely to draw first blood. His money was on the holier-than-thou Night Court who were always above any restrictions.

‘We can discuss the matter at hand later.’

Tamlin said calmly, ‘Don’t stop on my account.’

‘I’m not in the business of discussing our plans with enemies.’

A pissing contest between the high lords then, that was what it was to be.

‘No,’ Tamlin said with equal ease, ‘you’re just in the business of fucking them.’

Eris pressed his lips together to fight back a grin. Tamlin had never been one for subtlety. Despite the mounting tension, Eris found it all highly amusing. These fragile males and their egos. Tamlin had spent years in war bands; his words could be crass and brutal.

‘Seems a far less destructive alternative to war,’ replied Rhysand.

‘And yet here you are, having started it in the first place.’

Claws began to slide from Tamlin’s knuckles. Eris measured the space between himself and his mother – how quickly he could winnow her away if Tamlin leapt across the pool to rip out Rhysand’s throat. He wasn’t the only one calculating the space. Kallias had drifted a hand over to the arm of his new wife’s chair.

‘If you hadn’t stolen my bride away in the night, Rhysand, I would not have been forced to take such drastic measures to get her back.’

Feyre said quietly, ‘The sun was shining when I left you.’

This was better intel than any of their spies had managed. Perhaps they should make these meetings a regular thing.

Kallias asked, ‘Why are you here, Tamlin?’

Tamlin’s claw dug into the wood, puncturing deep even as his voice remained mild. ‘I bartered access to my lands to get back the woman I love from a sadist who plays with minds as if they are toys. I meant to fight Hybern—to find a way around the bargain I made with the king once she was back. Only Rhysand and his cabal had turned her into one of them. And she delighted in ripping open my territory for Hybern to invade. All for a petty grudge— either her own or her … master’s.’

‘You don’t get to rewrite the narrative,’ she breathed, colour dotting her cheeks. ‘You don’t get to spin this to your advantage.’

Tamlin only angled his head at Rhysand, a cruel glimmer that Eris was familiar with lightened his green eyes. ‘When you fuck her, have you ever noticed that little noise she makes right before she climaxes?’

A bit of a low blow, sharing bedroom habits. This was a war between two egotistical males, he supposed. Eris had no doubt that his father would be grinning.

It was the shadowsinger’s cold, deep voice that spoke. ‘Be careful how you speak about my High Lady.’

Surprise flashed in Tamlin’s eyes—then vanished. Vanished, swallowed by pure fury as he realised what that obscene tattoo coating her hand was for. ‘It was not enough to sit at my side, was it?’. A hateful smile curled his lips. ‘You once asked me if you’d be my High Lady, and when I said no …’ A low laugh. ‘Perhaps I underestimated you. Why serve in my court, when you could rule in his? They peddle tales of defending our land and peace. And yet she came to my lands and laid them bare for Hybern. She took my High Priestess and warped her mind—after she shattered her bones for spite. And if you are asking yourself what happened to that human girl who went Under the Mountain to save us … Look to the male sitting beside her. Ask what he stands to gain—what they stand to gain from this war, or lack of it. Would we fight Hybern, only to find ourselves with a Queen and King of Prythian? She’s proved her ambition—and you saw how he was more than happy to serve Amarantha to remain unscathed.’

An impassioned speech, but Tamlin had never been a wordsmith. A razor-sharp claw through Rhysand’s skull was a better avenue for his rage.

Rhys let out a dark laugh. ‘Well played, Tamlin. You’re learning.’

Ire contorted Tamlin’s face at the condescension. But he faced Kallias. ‘You asked why I’m here? I might ask the same of you.’ He jerked his chin at the High Lord of Winter, at Viviane—the few other members of their retinue who had remained silent. ‘You mean to tell me that after Under the Mountain, you can stomach working with him?’ A finger was flung in Rhysand’s direction.

He supposed Tamlin had a fair point. They had all been at the mercy of Rhysand’s tyranny for fifty years and he had certainly delighted in selecting members of the Autumn Court to enact his punishments on as if that might have bothered Beron. He cared little for his people, only saw them as possessions himself.

‘We came here to decide that for ourselves.’ The soft, silvery glow that had been emitting from the Lady of the Winter Court had dimmed somewhat under Morrigan’s scrutiny. Eris knew there was a bond there. An old one, rarely used, but strong. Did Morrigan know how many children died under Rhysand’s command? How much Winter Court blood soaked her cousin’s hands.

Rhysand said softly to them, to everyone, ‘I had no involvement in that. None.’

Kallias’s eyes flared like blue flame. ‘You stood beside her throne while the order was given.’

Eris remembered that day. It was near the end – although there had been no signs that the end was near. The guilt and horror had threatened to drown him. Worse was the relief that it was not their children. Not Autumn Court children. Another court would pay the debt for rebellion. Another court would bleed.

‘I tried to stop it.’

‘Tell that to the parents of the two dozen younglings she butchered,’ Kallias said, voice as cold as the season he owned. ‘That you tried.’

‘There is not one day that passes when I don’t remember it,’ he said to Kallias, to Viviane. To their companions. ‘Not one day.’

‘Remembering,’ Kallias said, ‘doesn’t bring them back, does it?’

‘No,’ Rhys said plainly. ‘No, it doesn’t. And I am now fighting to make sure it never happens again.’

Noble. Noble to say when he was stood on the winning side until the tide changed – as did his allegiance. It wasn’t his court which bled. It wasn’t the Night Court who prayed to the Mother that their children would be safe.

Viviane glanced between the two high lords. ‘I was not present Under the Mountain. But I would hear, High Lord, how you tried to—stop her.’ Pain tightened her face. She, too, had been unable to prevent it while she guarded her small slice of the territory. It was a miracle, really, she had survived unscathed without Amarantha – or Rhysand – finding her.

His father snorted, unable to suppress his comment. ‘Finally speechless, Rhysand?’

‘I believe you,’ said Feyre.

‘Says the woman,’ Beron countered, ‘who gave an innocent girl’s name in her stead—for Amarantha to butcher as well.’

That one had given Eris nightmares. The damn mortal female had locked eyes with him as she begged one of the fae to help. It still happened sometimes, even now. He’d wake in a cold sweat after dreaming he was back in that place with a young woman crying and begging for her life even as she bled out across the obsidian floor.

‘When your people rebelled… She was furious. She wanted you dead, Kallias.’ Viviane’s face drained of colour at Rhysand’s words. He went on, ‘I… convinced her that it would serve little purpose.’

‘Who knew,’ Beron mused, ‘that a cock could be so persuasive?’

That was too far, even Eris could acknowledge that. He did not fancy his father’s odds with the Night Court staring him down. He had no love for his father, but his mother didn’t deserve to be hurt in the crossfire.

‘Father.’ Eris’s voice was low with warning.

But Rhysand went on to Kallias, ‘She backed off the idea of killing you. Your rebels were dead—I convinced her it was enough. I thought it was the end of it.’ His breathing hitched slightly. ‘I only found out when you did. I think she viewed my defence of you as a warning sign—she didn’t tell me any of it. And she kept me … confined. I tried to break into the minds of the soldiers she sent, but her damper on my power was too strong to hold them—and it was already done. She … she sent a daemati with them. To …’ He faltered. Rhysand swallowed. ‘I think she wanted you to suspect me. To keep us from ever allying against her.’

How convenient for Amarantha – and Rhysand – that there was another daemati in play all that time. One who had never stepped out of the shadows. Eris picked at his nails, bored by the tale being spun.

‘Where did she confine you?’ The question came from Viviane, her arms wrapped around her middle.

‘Her bedroom.’

‘Stories and words,’ Tamlin said, lounging in his chair. ‘Is there any proof?’

‘Proof—’ Cassian snarled, half rising in his seat, wings starting to flare because he could never quite manage those emotions.

‘No,’ Rhysand cut in as Morrigan blocked Cassian with an arm, forcing him to sit like an obedient hound. Rhysand added to Kallias, ‘But I swear it—upon my mate’s life.’

Tamlin rolled his eyes. Eris was not convinced either. He had seen enough schemes, enough masks, to know when one was not truly honest. It wasn’t Eris that Rhysand was trying to persuade. Whatever Kallias read in his face, his words, it was believed. He pinned Tamlin with a hard, blue stare as he asked again, ‘Why are you here, Tamlin?’

A muscle flickered in Tamlin’s jaw. ‘I am here to help you fight against Hybern.’

‘Bullshit,’ Cassian muttered. If the Illyrian learned to hold his tongue, amongst manners, he might not be as uncouth.

‘You will forgive us,’ Thesan interrupted gracefully, ‘if we are doubtful. And hesitant to share any plans.’

‘Even when I have information on Hybern’s movements?’

Silence. Tarquin, across the pool, watched and listened. For one young and inexperienced, it was the best option. Maybe they’d battle it out amongst themselves and he and Tarquin could rule a new Prythian.

Another sharp-toothed smile was offered by Tamlin. ‘Why do you think I invited them to the house? Into my lands? I once told you I would fight against tyranny, against that sort of evil. Did you think you were enough to turn me from that?’ His teeth shone white as bone at Feyre. ‘It was so easy for you to call me a monster, despite all I did for you, for your family.’ A sneer towards the beautiful sister, who was frowning with distaste. ‘Yet you witnessed all that he did Under the Mountain, and still spread your legs for him. Fitting, I suppose. He whored for Amarantha for decades. Why shouldn’t you be his whore in return?’

‘Watch your mouth,’ Mor snapped.

Tamlin ignored her wholly and waved a hand toward Rhysand’s wings. ‘I sometimes forget— what you are. Have the masks come off now, or is this another ploy?’

‘You’re beginning to become tedious, Tamlin,’ Helion said, propping his head on a hand. The low timbre of his voice had Beron stiffening. ‘Take your lovers’ spat elsewhere and let the rest of us discuss this war.’

‘You’d be all too happy for war, considering how well you made out in the last one.’

‘No one says war can’t be lucrative,’ Helion countered.

‘Enough,’ Kallias said. ‘We have our opinions on how the conflict with Hybern should be dealt with.’ Those glacial eyes hardened as he again took in Tamlin. ‘Are you here as an ally of Hybern or Prythian?’

The mocking, hateful gleam faded into granite resolve. ‘I stand against Hybern.’

‘Prove it,’ Helion goaded.

Tamlin lifted his hand, and a stack of papers appeared on the little table beside his chair. ‘Charts of armies, ammunition, caches of faebane … Everything carefully gleaned these months.’

That was priceless intel. Autumn was already exposed to Hybern sweeping in from Spring and Summer; they needed that information.

‘Noble as it sounds,’ Helion went on, ‘who is to say that information is correct—or that you aren’t Hybern’s agent, trying to mislead us?’

‘Who is to say that Rhysand and his cronies are not agents of Hybern, all of this a ruse to get you to yield without realizing it?’

The gorgeous female carved from marble murmured, ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘If we need to ally against Hybern,’ Thesan said, ‘you are doing a good job of convincing us not to band together, Tamlin.’

‘I am simply warning you that they might present the guise of honesty and friendship, but the fact remains that he warmed Amarantha’s bed for fifty years, and only worked against her when it seemed the tide was turning. I’m warning you that while he claims his own city was attacked by Hybern, they made off remarkably well—as if they’d been anticipating it. Don’t think he wouldn’t sacrifice a few buildings and lesser faeries to lure you into an alliance, into thinking you had a common enemy. Why is it that only the Night Court got word about the attack on Adriata—and were the only ones to arrive in time to play saviour?’

‘They received word,’ Varian cut in coolly, ‘because I warned them of it.’

An interesting development. Now, what business would a prince of the Summer Court have with the Night Court? Especially as Eris had heard a whisper on the wind that blood rubies had been sent north. Tarquin whipped his head to his cousin, brows high with surprise.

‘Perhaps you’re working with them, too,’ Tamlin said to the Prince of Adriata. ‘You’re next in line, after all.’

‘You’re insane,’ breathed Feyre to Tamlin as Varian bared his teeth. ‘Do you hear what you’re saying?’ A trembling finger pointed towards her sister. ��Hybern turned my sisters into Fae—after your bitch of a priestess sold them out!’

It was true then, the rumour carried on wings. Two mortal women went into the Cauldron and a pair of high fae emerged, one beautiful, one terrible. Eris surveyed the female again. Her spiked ears were hidden amongst the soft threads of her hair. She was more than high fae. He could not explain it. Her eyes were different; a never-ending grey that spelled the end of worlds. The elegance of her face would not be out of place in an ancient tale. It was one that could spark wars; a face that males would die for. Her attention flickered to him again, eyeing him warily like a predator deciding whether he was worth the chase.

‘Perhaps Ianthe’s mind was already in Rhysand’s thrall. And what a tragedy to remain young and beautiful. You’re a good actress—I’m sure the trait runs in the family.’

The female, Nesta, let out a low laugh. Hatred simmered in her expression. ‘If you want someone to blame for all of this,’ she said to Tamlin, ‘perhaps you should first look in the mirror.’

Tamlin snarled at her. Cassian snarled right back, ‘Watch it.’

Oh. The brute had set his sights on this one then. She was too good for a bastard like him. Tamlin looked between the pair —his gaze lingering on Cassian’s wings, tucked in behind him. Snorted. ‘Seems like other preferences run in the Archeron family, too.’

Surely this beauty wouldn’t truly sully herself with a male like Cassian? He had no love for Illyrians but surely a shadow singing one was better than the average, grunting one.

‘What do you want? An apology? For me to crawl back into your bed and play nice, little wife?’

‘Why should I want spoiled goods returned to me?’ Tamlin growled, ‘The moment you let him fuck you like an—’

One heartbeat, the poisoned words were spewing from his mouth—where fangs lengthened. Then they stopped. Tamlin’s mouth simply stopped emitting sounds. He shut his mouth, opened it—tried again. No sound, not even a snarl, came out. There was no smile on Rhysand’s face, not a glint of that irreverent amusement as he rested his head against the back of his chair.

‘The gasping-fish look is a good one for you, Tamlin.’

The others, who had been watching with disdain and amusement and boredom, now turned to Rhysand. Now possessed a shadow of fear in their eyes as they realized who and what, exactly, sat amongst them.

‘If you want proof that we are not scheming with Hybern, consider the fact that it would be far less time-consuming to slice into your minds and make you do my bidding.’

Only his damn father was stupid enough to scoff and draw attention to themselves. Eris angled his chair, ensuring he would take a blow from Rhysand rather than his mother.

‘Yet here I am,’ Rhysand went on, not deigning to give Beron a glance of acknowledgment. ‘Here we all are.’

Absolute silence. Then Tarquin, silent and watchful, cleared his throat. ‘Despite Varian’s unsanctioned warning…’ A glare at his cousin, who didn’t so much as look sorry about it, ‘You were the only ones who came to help. The only ones. And yet you asked for nothing in return. Why?’

Rhys’s voice was a bit hoarse as he asked, ‘Isn’t that what friends do?’ A subtle, quiet offer.

‘I rescind the blood rubies. Let there be no debts between us.’

How terribly boring.

‘Don’t expect Amren to return hers,’ Cassian muttered. ‘She’s grown attached to it.’

Rhysand turned to Tamlin. Were they enemies or allies now? Eris couldn’t tell. He doubted they would never see eye to eye again. Rhysand dipped his head. ‘I believe you. That you will fight for Prythian. War is upon us. I have no interest in wasting energy arguing amongst ourselves.’

Beron said, ‘You may be inclined to believe him, Rhysand, but as someone who shares a border with his court, I am not so easily swayed.’ A wry look. ‘Perhaps my errant son can clarify. Pray, where is he?’

Beside him, his mother sat straighter in her seat, hope lifting her. Just one glimpse of Lucien. That was all she wanted. All she ever asked for. I just want to see my son while he still lives.

The curt reply from Feyre was, ‘Helping to guard our city.’

Although his brother could wield a blade as good as any, Lucien had spent his patrols charming females, singing to their mothers or slipping away from their fathers. His life in Spring had been no different. But, perhaps, if a mate had been created by the Cauldron for him, Lucien might have turned over a new leaf. Eris snorted and surveyed Nesta, who stared back at him with steel in her face. He liked this one. He fancied testing her mettle.

‘Pity you didn’t bring the other sister. I hear our little brother’s mate is quite the beauty.’

Mor replied smoothly, ‘You still certainly like to hear yourself talk, Eris. Good to know some things don’t change over the centuries.’

An unnecessary jab from a female who still clung to the past like a shield so she never had to face the truth. Eris’s mouth curled into a smile at the words, the careful game of pretending that they had not seen each other in years still in play. ‘Good to know that after five hundred years, you still dress like a slut.’

The wood shattered beneath him. His head met the floor with an agonising intimacy as scarred hands wrapped around his throat. A wall of blue was in his blurred vision as the Night Court’s shadowsinger unleased his wrath on Eris.

A knee pressed into Eris’s gut. It was the silence that unnerved Eris most. Not wholly the shadowsinger but the entire room had fell into quiet.

His vision began blotting as he choked for breath. A blur of orange met the blue shield but could not manage against the writhing shadows.

Azriel stopped.

The high lady was there, a hand against the shield. Eris gasped for air as those scarred hands loosened. She extended a hand to him, but the rest of the room was revulsed. Mor, the female that Azriel wished was his, had gone pale and shaky. Eris hid his gloat.

‘Come sit beside me,’ the high lady crooned like Azriel was nothing more than a child.

The shadowsinger leaned in towards Eris as he sucked in breaths. His voice was low enough for only for Eris to catch it. ‘Your father will be interested to know about your alliance with us. Yours and your mother’s.’

He wouldn’t. Azriel wouldn’t implicate his mother in a plot that had nothing to do with her. The shadows around them lightened to sunshine but Eris was sick to his core. It wasn’t only his life on the line by gambling with the Night Court. His mother would be an unwilling pawn in their blackmail. Lucien’s life balanced against hers.

Beron struck—only for his fire to bounce off a hard barrier.

A smug look was plastered on Feyre’s face. ‘That’s twice now we’ve handed you your asses. I’d think you’d be sick of the humiliation.’

Helion laughed at the comment. As Eris expected, Mor had recoiled from Azriel. She looked as if she’d like nothing better than to be away from this room, from him.

Feyre took a deliberately slow walk to the table to fill a glass of wine for the feral one. ‘They are my family,’ she said, handing Azriel the wine. She met Eris’ gaze. ‘I don’t care if we are allies in this war. If you insult my friend again, I won’t stop him the next time.’

With his mother’s neck at the mercy of the Night Court, Eris straightened the lapels of his jacket. ‘Apologies, Morrigan.’

Thesan rubbed his temples. ‘This does not bode well.’

But Helion smirked at his retinue, crossing an ankle over a knee and flashing those powerful, sleek thighs. ‘Looks like you owe me ten gold marks.’

Helion waved a hand, and the stacks of papers Tamlin had compiled drifted over to him on a phantom wind. With a snap of his fingers—scar-flecked from swordplay—other stacks appeared before every chair in the room. ‘Replicas,’ he said without looking up as he leafed through the documents. A handy trick—for a male whose trove was not in gold, but in knowledge. No one made any move to touch the papers. Helion clicked his tongue. ‘If all of this is true,’ he announced, Tamlin snarling at the haughty tone, ‘then I’d suggest two things: first, destroying Hybern’s caches of faebane. We won’t last long if they’ve made them into so many versatile weapons. It’s worth the risk to destroy them.’

Kallias arched a brow. ‘How would you suggest we do that?’

‘We’ll handle it,’ Tarquin offered. Varian nodded. ‘We owe them for Adriata.’

Thesan said, ‘There is no need.’ The High Lord of Dawn folded his hands in his lap. ‘A master tinkerer of mine has been waiting for the past several hours. I would like for her to now join us.’

Before anyone could reply, a High Fae female appeared at the edge of the circle. She bowed quickly, displaying her light brown skin and long, silken black hair. She wore clothes similar to Thesan’s, but her sleeves had been rolled up to the forearms, the tunic unbuttoned to her chest to show a golden hand. It clicked and whirred quietly, drawing the eye of every immortal in the room as she faced her High Lord. Thesan smiled in warm welcome.

‘My Lord.’

Thesan gestured to the female standing tall before the assembled group. ‘Nuan is one of my most skilled craftspeople.’

Rhysand leaned back in his seat, brows rising with recognition at the name, and jerked his chin towards them. ‘You might know her as the person responsible for granting your … errant son, as you called him, the ability to use his left eye after Amarantha removed it.’

Nuan nodded once in confirmation, her lips pressing into a thin line as she took in the Autumn Court delegate. They weren’t the ones who caused it, Eris thought bitterly. That had been Tamlin sending his emissary into the lion’s den and expecting Lucien not to argue back. His little brother had never learnt to tame his tongue in matters of love or war.

‘And what has this to do with the faebane?’ Helion demanded.

Nuan turned, her dark hair slipping over a shoulder as she studied Helion. And did not seem impressed. ‘Because I found a solution for it.’

Thesan waved a hand. ‘We heard rumours of faebane being used in this war—used in the attack on your city, Rhysand. We thought to look into the issue before it became a deadly weakness for all of us.’ He nodded to Nuan. ‘Beyond her unparalleled tinkering, she is a skilled alchemist.’

Nuan crossed her arms, the sun glinting off her metal hand. ‘Thanks to samples attained after the attack in Velaris, I was able to create an … antidote, of sorts.’

‘How did you get those samples?’ Cassian demanded.

A flush crept over Nuan’s cheeks. ‘I—heard the rumours and assumed Lucien Vanserra would be residing there after … what happened.’ She still didn’t look at Tamlin, who remained silent and brooding. ‘I managed to contact him a few days ago—asked him to send samples. He did—and did not tell you,’ she added quickly to Rhysand, ‘because he did not want to raise your hopes. Not until I’d found a solution.’

Always so clever and ahead of the curve, that Lucien, the clever fox. He had kept Eris on his toes when they were younger. Their chess games would last for hours with only a handful of pieces even moved across the board.

Nuan went on, ‘The Mother has provided us with everything we need on this earth. So it has been a matter of finding what, exactly, she gave us in Prythian to combat a material from Hybern capable of wiping out our powers.’

Helion shifted with impatience, that glistening, white fabric slipping over his muscled chest. Thesan read that impatience, too, and said, ‘Nuan has been able to quickly create a powder for us to ingest in drink, food, however you please. It grants immunity from the faebane. I already have workers in three of my cities manufacturing as much of it as possible to hand out to our unified armies.’

Tarquin asked, ‘But what of physical objects made from faebane? They possessed gauntlets at the battle to smash through shields.’ He jerked his chin towards Rhysand. ‘And when they attacked your own city.’

‘Against that,’ Nuan said, ‘you only have your wits to protect you.’ She did not break Tarquin’s stare, and he straightened, as if surprised she did so. ‘The compound I’ve made will only protect you —your powers—from being rendered void by the faebane. Perhaps if you are pierced with a weapon tipped in faebane, having the compound in your system will negate its impact.’

Quiet fell. Beron said, ‘And we are supposed to trust you’—a look at Thesan, then at Nuan—'with this …substance we’re to blindly ingest.’

Eris’ toes curled in his shoes, bracing himself for whatever would spew from his father’s lips next. He did his best not to grimace.

‘Would you rather face Hybern without any power?’ Thesan demanded. ‘My master alchemists and tinkerers are no fools.’

‘No,’ Beron said, frowning, ‘but where did she come from? Who are you?’

The others assembled weren’t old enough to remember little beyond the war five centuries ago. Beron’s memories ran deeper. The war had been brewing for a long time with small battles, ambushes and assassinations. He had only spoken of it a handful of times to Eris as though the words had fought their way to the surface. Beron had only been a boy of eleven years when his own father was betrayed and taken to the Continent. They only knew he had been murdered when the magic transferred to Beron. Then, his tar-dipped head was delivered to the boy high lord days later.

‘I am the daughter of two High Fae from Xian, who moved here to give their children a better life, if that is what you are demanding to know,’ Nuan answered tightly.

Helion demanded of Beron, ‘What does this have to do with anything?’

Beron shrugged. ‘If her family is from Xian—which I’ll have you remember fought for the Loyalists—then whose interests does she serve?’

Helion’s amber eyes flashed.

Thesan cut in sharply, ‘I will have you remember, Beron, that my own mother hailed from Xian. And a large majority of my court did as well. Be careful what you say.’

Before Beron could hiss a retort, Nuan said to the Lord of Autumn, her chin high, ‘I am a child of Prythian. I was born here, on this land, as your sons were.’

Beron’s face darkened. ‘Watch your tone, girl.’

‘She doesn’t have to watch anything,’ cut in Feyre Archeron. ‘Not when you fling that sort of horseshit at her. I will take your antidote.’

Foolish, he supposed, or a way to freeze them out from the antidote. The effects of the faebane were catastrophic. If the caches couldn’t be destroyed, the Autumn Court needed access to the antidote.

‘Father,’ murmured Eris. He was met with those hollow, chestnut eyes as Beron lifted a brow.

‘You have something to add?’

Eris didn’t flinch, but he chose his words very, very carefully. ‘I have seen the effects of faebane.’ He nodded toward Feyre Archeron, thinking of her bumbling through his court with her stolen powers stripped away. ‘It truly renders us unable to tap our power. If it’s wielded against us in war or beyond it—'

‘If it is, we shall face it. I will not risk my people or family in testing out a theory.’

‘It is no theory,’ Nuan said, that mechanical hand clicking and whirring as it curled into a fist. ‘I would not stand here unless it had been proved without a doubt.’

Conscious of the storm cloud grey eyes trailing over his face, a moment of rashness overwhelmed Eris’ sense. ‘I will take it.’

Beron’s gaze promised retaliation when they returned to their lands for speaking too boldly.

In that unflinchingly cold voice of his, Beron only said, ‘No, you will not. Though I’m sure your brothers will be sorry to hear it.’

Rhysand said simply, ‘Then don’t take it. I will. My entire court will, as will my armies.’ He gave a thankful nod to Nuan. Thesan did the same—in thanks and dismissal—and the master tinkerer bowed once more and left.

‘At least you have armies to give it to,’ Tamlin said mildly, breaking his roiling silence. ‘Though perhaps that was part of the plan. Disable my force while your own swept in. Or was it just to see my people suffer?’ The claws came out once more. ‘Surely you knew that when you turned my forces on me, it would leave my people defenceless against Hybern.’

The high lady had no words to offer.

‘You primed my court to fall,’ Tamlin said with venomous quiet. ‘And it did. Those villages you wanted so badly to help rebuild? They’re nothing more than cinders now. And while you’ve been making antidotes and casting yourselves as saviours, I’ve been piecing together my forces—regaining their trust, their numbers. Trying to gather my people in the East— where Hybern has not yet marched.’

Surprising Eris, that beautiful female beside Feyre said drily, ‘So you won’t be taking the antidote, then.’

Tamlin ignored her, even as his claws sank into the arm of his chair. Eris braced himself to move if needed. She was too gorgeous to see her neck shredded by the beast.

Thesan cleared his throat and said to Helion, ‘You said you had two suggestions based on the information you analysed.’

Helion shrugged, the sun catching in the embroidered gold thread of his tunic. ‘Indeed, though it seems Tamlin is already ahead of me. The Spring Court must be evacuated.’ His amber eyes darted between Tarquin and Beron. ‘Surely your northern neighbours will welcome them.’

Beron’s lip curled. ‘We do not have the resources for such a thing.’

‘Right,’ Viviane said, ‘because everyone’s too busy polishing every jewel in that trove of yours.’

No. Nobody was allowed in there. His father believed everybody to be a thief and would entrust none to the vault.

Beron threw her a glare that had Kallias tensing. ‘Wives were invited as a courtesy, not as consultants.’

Viviane’s sapphire eyes flared as if struck by lightning. ‘If this war goes poorly, we’ll be bleeding out right alongside you, so I think we damn well get a say in things.’

‘Hybern will do far worse things than kill you,’ Beron counted coolly. ‘A young, pretty thing like you especially.’

Kallias’s snarl rippled the water in the reflection pool, echoed by Mor’s own growl. Beron smiled a bit. ‘Only three of us were present for the last war.’ A nod to Rhys and Helion, whose face darkened. ‘One does not easily forget what Hybern and the Loyalists did to captured females in their war-camps. What they reserved for High Fae females who either fought for the humans or had families who did.’ He put a heavy hand on his wife’s too-thin arm. ‘Her two sisters bought her time to run when Hybern’s forces ambushed their lands. The two ladies did not walk out of that war-camp again.’

Any trace of colour drained from his mother’s face as she stared down at the reflection pool.

‘We will take your people,’ Tarquin cut in quietly to Tamlin. ‘Regardless of your involvement with Hybern… your people are innocent. There is plenty of room in my territory. We will take all of them, if need be.’

A curt nod was Tamlin’s only acknowledgment and gratitude.

Beron said, ‘So the Seasonal Courts are to become the charnel houses and hostels, while the Solar Courts remain pristine here in the North?’

‘Hybern has focused its efforts on the southern half,’ Rhysand said. ‘To be close to the wall—and human lands.’

At the mention of her previous home, Nesta’s face tightened. He saw the grief for the mortality that had been stolen from her.

Rhysand went on, ‘Why bother to go through the northern climes—through faerie territories on the continent, when you could claim the South and use it to go directly to the human lands of the continent?’

Thesan asked, ‘And you believe the human armies there will bow to Hybern?’

‘Its queens sold us out,’ Nesta said, voice hard. She lifted her chin, poised as a trained emissary. ‘For the gift of immortality, the human queens will allow Hybern in to sweep away any resistance. They might very well hand over control of their armies to him.’ She gave a sweeping glance to the courts assembled. ‘Where do the humans on our island go? We cannot evacuate them to the continent, and with the wall intact … Many might rather risk waiting than cross over the wall anyway.’

‘The fate of the humans below the wall,’ Beron cut in, ‘is none of our concern. Especially in a spit of land with no queen, no army.’

‘It is my concern,’ Feyre said. ‘Humans are nearly defenceless against our kind.’

‘So go waste your own soldiers defending them,’ Beron said, dismissal ringing out in his tone. ‘I will not send my own forces to protect chattel.’

A crackling of magic was felt in the airy room along with a deathly silence.

‘You’re a coward,’ breathed Feyre to the High Lord of Autumn.

Eris clenched his jaw, unable to believe her daring. It had to be ignorance to ever speak against him that way.

Beron just said, ‘The same could be claimed of you.’

‘I don’t need to explain myself to you.’

‘No, but perhaps to that girl’s family—but they’re dead, too, aren’t they? Butchered and burned to death in their own beds. Funny, that you should now seek to defend humans when you were all too happy to offer them up to save yourself.’

Blood and bones. The girl’s wet breathing. Her sobs as she lay broken on the dais. And a family home burnt to cinders.

‘As my lady said,’ Rhysand drawled, ‘she does not need to explain herself to you.’

Beron leaned back in his chair. ‘Then I suppose I don’t need to explain my motivations, either.’

Rhysand lifted a dark brow. ‘Your staggering generosity aside, will you be joining our forces?’

‘I have not yet decided.’

His own amber eyes pleaded with his father to see reason. If war came to their shores and Autumn didn’t take up arms, they’d stand alone in times of turmoil.

‘Armies take time to raise,’ Cassian said. ‘You don’t have the luxury of sitting on your ass. You need to rally your soldiers now.’

Beron only sneered. ‘I don’t take orders from the bastards of lesser fae whores.’

A wave of rage and disgust washed over many faces in the room. His father’s prejudices ran thick and oily through his blood.

Despite the burn in Nesta’s eyes, she said coolly, before any other had a chance to speak, ‘That bastard may wind up being the only person standing in the way of Hybern’s forces and your people.’

Hm. Maybe Eris hadn’t read the situation fully. She didn’t so much as look at the male but his gaze was trained on her like a moth to the flame, pride blazing in his hazel eyes.

’Get out if you’re not going to be helpful,’ clipped the high lady of the Night Court.

Beron ignored Eris’ stare that was a desperate plea for him to stop talking. ‘Did you know that while your mate was warming Amarantha’s bed, most of our people were locked beneath that mountain? Did you know that while he had his head between her legs, most of us were fighting to keep our families from becoming the nightly entertainment?’

Tarquin murmured, ‘That’s enough, Beron.’

Beron ignored him. ‘And now Rhysand wants to play hero. Amarantha’s Whore becomes Hybern’s Destroyer. But if it goes badly…’ A cruel, cold smile. ‘Will he get on his knees for Hybern? Or just spread his-’

Fire exploded out of Feyre. Raging, white-hot flame that blasted into Beron like a lance. The shield went up quick enough to shield his father, but Eris’ clothes smouldered. Beside him, he heard the sudden gasp of his mother as red, blistered skin covered her arm. He shot to his feet torn between burning the world to ash and taking his mother far from this place. Eris pulled her out of her chair and onto her knees so she could plunge her arm into the cold water of the reflection pool in the centre as gold and silver fish scattered from them. He was only vaguely aware of the battle raging between his father and Feyre Archeron or the yelling around them.

‘That was how you got through my wards,’ Tarquin murmured as the magic in the room ceased.

Beron was panting so hard he looked like he might spew fire, but Eris helped his mother back into her chair.

Helion rubbed his jaw as he sat down once more. ‘I wondered where it went—that little bit. So small—like a fish missing a single scale. But I still felt whenever something brushed against that empty spot.’ A smirk at Rhysand. ‘No wonder you made her High Lady.’

‘I made her High Lady because I love her. Her power was the last thing I considered.’

Helion asked Tamlin, ‘You knew of her powers?’

Tamlin was only watching the happy lovers, eyes glinting with hatred. ‘It was none of your business,’ was all Tamlin said to Helion. To all of them.

‘The power belongs to us. I think it is,’ Beron seethed.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Feyre, eyes landing on his mother clutching the angry red splatter of a burn on her moon-white skin.

Beron spat, ‘Don’t talk to her, you human filth.’

Rhysand shattered through Beron’s shield, his fire, his defenses. Shattered through them like a stone hurled into a window, and slammed his dark power into Beron so hard he rocked back in his seat. Then that seat disintegrated into black, sparkling dust beneath him. Leaving Beron to fall on his ass. Glittering ebony dust drifted away on a phantom wind, staining Beron’s crimson jacket, clinging like clumps of ash to his brown hair.

‘Don’t ever speak to my mate like that again.’

Ah, so the Night Court could enact violence for those they loved, but not the Autumn Court. As always.

Beron shot to his feet, not bothering to brush off the dust, and declared to no one in particular, ‘This meeting is over. I hope Hybern butchers you all.’

But Nesta rose from her chair, that beautiful pillar of steel. ‘This meeting is not over.’

Even Beron paused at her tone. It was rare for him to listen to a female in any matter, especially not a once-mortal one, but there was something ancient and other worldly in her tone like the lure of a siren. Eris sized up the space between them. If his father reacted, sought retribution for his wife on the sister of the high lady, Eris would have a split second to send his own fire against his father’s to shield her. She stood taller than he expected, almost reaching his chin, and as beautiful and devastating as a storm.

‘You are all there is,’ she said to Beron, to all of us. ‘You are all that there is between Hybern and the end of everything that is good and decent.’ She settled her stare on Beron, unflinching and fierce. He’d like that spirit. Or scorn her for her lack of manners. It was like flipping a coin each day to know which Beron would greet him in the morning.

‘You fought against Hybern in the last war. Why do you refuse to do so now?’

Beron did not deign to answer. But he did not leave. Eris subtly motioned his brothers to sit and listen to her. If she could command their father here, she was a female worth listening to. Nesta marked the gesture—hesitated. As if realizing she indeed held their complete attention. That every word mattered. And it did matter. Eris wanted to hear everything she had to say. He gave her a small nod of encouragement, the corners of his mouth turning up at their interaction.

‘You may hate us. I don’t care if you do. But I do care if you let innocents suffer and die. At least stand for them. Your people. For Hybern will make an example of them. Of all of us.’

‘And you know this how?’ Beron sneered.

‘I went into the Cauldron,’ Nesta said flatly. ‘It showed me his heart. He will bring down the wall, and butcher those on either side of it.’ Nesta’s face revealed nothing. And no one dared contradict her. She looked to Kallias and Viviane. ‘I am sorry for the loss of those children. The loss of one is abhorrent. But beneath the wall, I witnessed children—entire families—starve to death.’ She jerked her chin at her sister. ‘Were it not for my sister … I would be among them. Too long. For too long have humans beneath the wall suffered and died while you in Prythian thrived. Not during that—queen’s reign.’ She recoiled, as if hating to even speak Amarantha’s name. ‘But long before. If you fight for anything—fight now, to protect those you forgot. Let them know they’re not forgotten. Just this once.’

Thesan cleared his throat. ‘While a noble sentiment, the details of the Treaty did not demand we provide for our human neighbours. They were to be left alone. So we obeyed.’

Nesta remained standing. ‘The past is the past. What I care about is the road ahead. What I care about is making sure no children—Fae or human—are harmed. You have been entrusted with protecting this land.’ She scanned the faces around her, imploring, begging. ‘How can you not fight for it?’ She looked to the Autumn delegate as her voice ebbed away. Eris was mesmerised by her. If he was high lord, they would already be marching to war with banners of crimson streaming behind them bearing Nesta’s alluring face on them. A champion of the quietest voices.

Beron only said, ‘I shall consider it.’

The look on his father’s face was the signal to leave. They hadn’t packed to stay. He wouldn’t ever leave his court overnight. Eris’ heart was tangled by duty and desire. An alliance with the Night Court meant more opportunities for his path to cross with Nesta Archeron. His people’s blood would water the earth if it meant he could ride into war beside her. He dipped his red head low, eyes meeting her simmering gaze as he winnowed away.

#the sjm bits are the ones with ten thousand dashes fragments of sentence and ellipsis #this was actually painful to flip POVs #but i kept in all the times feyre noted something about helion's muscled physique so it looks like eris is thirsting after him #neris #nesta archeron #eris vanserra

90 notes · View notes

brightlight-dazzlingeyes · 4 months

Text

CELEBRITY | chapter 01

rúben dias x original female character [+18]

SYNOPSIS: The protagonist knows for a fact she'll be famous someday. The way it happens is not as she planned, though. WARNINGS: dark romance; revenge p*rn; minor injury; mentions of blood; mentions of cheating; minors dni.

|[previous chapter]| — |[masterlist]|

CHAPTER I — THE VIDEO

The worst day of her life starts in a cramped apartment, a tiny box in a decaying building, a place where dreams wither and die.

The peeling wallpaper has witnessed too many damp nights, and the floorboards groans in complaints with every reluctant step. The window panes are coated with city filth, and they can barely let in the slivers of a gray day; the light looks worn out before it even hits the furniture.

And then, there’s the protagonist. Radiant, untouched by the dumpster fire that is this place. She glides through the chaos like a ghost of grace. Her presence is a sunbeam slashing through the fog, a reminder that even in the darkest corners, there can be a glimmer of something extraordinary.

Beyond the protagonist’s bedroom it's chaos incarnate. Dirty dishes pile up in the sink, and the hum of low-budget appliances mixes with the muffled arguments and laughter from her roommates and neighboring apartments. In the bathroom, the mirror is cracked and stained, reflecting fractured images of each occupant's struggle for normalcy.

Our girl sneaks into the kitchen and with ease, she starts brewing coffee, a sort of morning ritual of calm amid the storm.

As the bitter aroma begins to fill the air, she mechanically grabs her phone and dives into the vortex of her social media, seeking a quick escape from the madness around her.

She hears it before she realizes what it is.

A scream, raw and unrestrained. It's her own scream – a guttural reaction to something horrific she's just seen on the screen. The coffee, momentarily forgotten, sends ripples in its mug. She clutches the phone, her eyes wide with shock.

Fury courses through her veins, and she can't recall stepping into a car; all that matters is where she’s headed.

How dare he?

She doesn't know what’s worse – the damning video or the venomous audio that followed:

“You said you wanted to be famous! Bitch, I can make you famous.”

It's the video. The video is worse.

She searches her memory, but there's no recollection of consenting to being recorded. No agreement, just an invasion of privacy. Yet, it’s there – the video he felt entitled enough to send.

A voice in her head insists he won't share it, that he's married, and the consequences would be dire for him. But logic loses its battle against the graphic images on the screen – his face absent, only a hand and an even more inappropriate part of his anatomy.

It shouldn't matter. If he's unhinged enough to do this, she can't risk it. Panic sets in; she needs assurance that he deletes every trace he has of her. She's not Kim Kardashian; her feeble singing career would crumble at the exposure of a video with a married Premier League player. Recovery would be impossible.

When she arrives at his home, she feels like an intruder. It's a familiar place, one she's sneaked into countless times in the nighttime, when he had the house for himself. But being there for the first time in the light of day, she discovers the opulence of the house feels utterly alien.

The grandeur of the entrance foyer greets her like an unwelcome guest. An imposing staircase sweeps upwards, adorned with an ostentatious chandelier. The air carries the unmistakable scent of his expensive cologne and the lingering residue of privilege.

In the living room, she finds him surrounded by friends.

“What the fuck?” He's incredulous at her audacious decision, silently grateful that his wife is away with the kids. “You can’t just show up here. Are you crazy?”

“Oh, now I’m the crazy one? Delete that video. I won't let you ruin my life.”

At the corner of the room, the male lead sits down, observing the brewing storm. He quietly calculates his next move.

The protagonist holds her ground. "Delete the damn video."

And her demand hangs in the air.

“Fuck, no!” REDACTED answers.

The tension escalates and the confrontation reaches its boiling point. The protagonist feels a surge of frustration and helplessness, she clenches her fists, her nails digging into her palms. The pain is immediate, a sharp sting that momentarily dulls her emotional turmoil. Ignoring the throbbing ache in her hands, she turns away from REDACTED.

She finds a small decorative object on a nearby table – a delicate crystal vase. In an impulsive act of frustration, she grabs the vase without a second thought. The cold surface presses into her hand, and with a swift, unthinking motion, she throws the vase against the wall.

The sound of shattering glass echoes through the room. A shard of glass grazes her hand in the process and a small trickle of blood emerges, running down her fingers.

The room falls into a stunned silence.

With a timing reserved only for the most special characters in a story, the male lead speaks up.

“Come on, man. Do what she’s asking.” He directs his friend, breaking the tension with a straightforward command. It's the first time the protagonist takes a good look at him.

Rúben Dias. She knows him, of course, she knows everybody in the team, but she has never seen him up close before. He's beautiful, and in this moment, he exudes an imposing aura. Even though he's not speaking directly to her, she still recoils under the weight of his presence.

“Jesus, alright. I’ll delete it. Come on, I was just joking!” REDACTED raises his hand in a mock surrender, laughter dripping from his words. “I’ll delete it.” He repeats.

And he does, though not without silently cursing Rúben for being in the room and witnessing the scene. REDACTED knows if things went south, Rúben would open his big mouth and get him in trouble, leaving him no other choice. He shows his phone to the protagonist, revealing the file with her name on it, protected with a password. The contents are too much for her to bear, and she has to hold back a wave of nausea. Nevertheless, he deletes everything, and she leaves the house immediately afterwards.

The door closes behind her with a muffled thud. To her surprise, Rúben is right there, having followed her.

“Fuck off!” She says, her voice is a mixture of frustration and defiance.

“I’m not ‘fucking off’. Come on, let me take you to a hospital. You’re bleeding!” He insists with genuine concern on his face.

“I’ll just wash it, it’ll be fine.” The protagonist dismisses, attempting to downplay the situation.

“Seriously, my mother would kill me if I just left you here.”

She stops, hesitating for a moment, before finally saying, "Can you just drive me to a hospital and leave me there?" There's a brief pause, and then she adds, "I don’t want to be seen with you, no offense."

To her surprise, he doesn't look offended, and so she continues, "Also, help me text a friend so she can meet me there?”

He laughs, breaking the tension, and says, “That’s a good compromise. Now let’s go!”

|[masterlist]| — |[next chapter]|

#football fanfic #ruben dias #ruben dias x reader #rúben dias #football fic

32 notes · View notes

saintsenara · 4 months

Text

sirius black/severus snape explicit read from the beginning here masterpost | chapter summary | moodboard

chapter one: enif

in this chapter, despite everything in his body telling him that he should, sirius black does not go to the department of mysteries.

this decision will, unsurprisingly, have consequences.

more notes under the cut

i was asked by @ashesandhackles about all the blood in this chapter, so that seems like a very good place to start.

blood is - on the one hand - a metaphor for the social context sirius has always existed in. the wizarding world is obsessed with class, heredity, and lineage; sirius spent his youth trying to escape those forces but now finds himself shoved back into his childhood home, made to confront the fact that half of his blood relatives are on the opposing side and compelled to endure his mother’s portrait constantly reminding him that she considers his decision to turn his back on her and his father’s blood-supremacy to be an aberration against nature.

but the blood also serves a more literal role in this story - it shows that sirius’ body is a wreck.

both the canon text and many fan-fiction portrayals of sirius deal sensitively with his mental state during order of the phoenix - with his obvious depression, with his alcohol abuse, with the trauma he carries from azkaban, and so on - but it seems, in my experience, that far less space has been given to thinking about the ruinous physical trauma he must live with after twelve years in prison. all too often, sirius is written as someone who's struggling profoundly mentally, but is still healthy [and really, really hot] while he does it.

partially, i think this can be explained by the fact that the series generally doesn’t care very much about physical illness or disability - all injuries are easily healed; all damage or disability is rendered obsolete by magic. it prefers to focus on the impact of injury or illness on cognitive function - which it understands to connect to magical ability - and it sets up azkaban as something which primarily impacts the cognitive state of its inmates, rendering them unable to exist as functioning witches and wizards because their thoughts are so disturbed, as sirius himself tells us in goblet of fire:

‘He was screaming for his mother by nightfall. He went quiet after a few days, though… they all went quiet in the end… except when they shrieked in their sleep.’

but the prison is also located in the middle of a freezing ocean and canonically poorly maintained. the prisoners are clearly starved - both sirius and bellatrix are described as “gaunt” after their escape - and can be presumed to be sleep-deprived, denied access to healthcare, and plausibly subject to violence and mistreatment at the hands of the prison’s staff [both dementor and human]. these experiences have an undeniable impact on the mental state, but they also have a physical one - and the fact that sirius can be meaningfully described as chronically ill following his captivity [and how much he loathes being thought of as an invalid and why] is one of the key themes of this story.

although what, exactly, is wrong with his leg remains to be seen…

thinking about sirius’ body leads into another theme which will be important throughout the war of the roses: the twin states of beauty and disgust. sirius’ internal voice in this chapter focuses a lot on the aspects of embodiment which many people consider distasteful - shit, piss, blood, sweat - and which he connects mentally with the loss of the great physical beauty which made life so easy for him in his youth [something which even harry, who’s otherwise ready to go with a powerpoint presentation on how fit sirius is at any given moment, concedes during the series].

this symbiotic loss is present in other aspects of his life - grimmauld place is now filthy, bloody, and decaying, where it was once opulent - but one thing which i really wanted to draw out when writing this chapter was the fact that sirius becoming less physically beautiful transforms his relationship with snape. i see a lot in fan-fiction portrayals of snape the idea that he isn’t actually anywhere near as ugly as harry canonically claims - and i think that’s completely plausible; harry’s a bitchy teen boy after all - but i wanted to play with reversing this trope: snape’s just as ugly as harry thinks he is, but sirius is ugly too...

and so to our main lads, our central pairing - sirius and snape. this opening chapter was a great chance for me to indulge one of my favourite things about snape and sirius’ canon characterisation: that they’re absolutely fucking obsessed with each other. their mutual childish sniping throughout order of the phoenix [snape going out of his way to mock sirius about cleaning the house! literally everything which happens in that occlumency scene!] gives me energy, and clearly reflects the continuation of a dynamic they’ve had since childhood [sirius seems to do an awful lot of noticing snape in the flashbacks we see of them as teens].

i know that many fans have strong feelings - in either direction - when it comes to how snape’s treatment at the marauders’ hands should be understood. but something i think is worth noting is that snape canonically appears to be considerably less distressed by the memory of his teenage relationship with sirius than he does with the memory of either lupin or james. indeed, while he seems to be genuinely afraid of lupin - and to do as much as he can to avoid being alone with him - snape goes out of his way to antagonise sirius, in ways which suggest that he derives some sort of satisfaction out of getting his attention, even if that attention is negative.

no wonder, then, that the two of them fighting is so sexually charged…

i also wanted to set out another theme which will play a big part in how sirius and snape’s relationship will be written in this story: that the two of them are willing to speak the truth about each other.

when i re-read order of the phoenix in advance of writing this story, i was really struck by sirius complaining to harry that snape needles him about being under house arrest:

‘Oh yeah,’ said Sirius sarcastically. ‘Listening to Snape’s reports, having to take all his snide hints that he’s out there risking his life while I’m sat on my backside here having a nice comfortable time… asking me how the cleaning’s going -’

which harry later uses as a way to blame snape for sirius’ death when shouting at dumbledore.

but the thing that stands out to me is that snape… is right. sirius is useless to the reformed order [in fact, his membership of the group does nothing but make kingsley’s high-value position as a ministry-based spy all the more dangerous - although i love him misleading the investigation into sirius’ whereabouts in transparently ridiculous ways], but snape - and fred weasley - are the only people who are willing to confront that reality [dumbledore’s refusal to acknowledge sirius’ feelings of redundancy is something we will get into]. while neither of them are capable of communicating this effectively [yet!], i do think it’s important that snape’s refusal to pretend that sirius is doing something significant for the order is something sirius respects. deep down at least.

and i also think it’s important that snape is one of the only people - apart from harry and, it seems, voldemort - who understands that sirius’ sense of uselessness has the potential to boil over into pure recklessness [voldemort must select sirius as the star of his false vision not only because he knows that harry would risk everything to get him to safety, but because he also knows that harry would see sirius tied up in the department of mysteries and think ‘yep. he’s left the house and been captured. that’s plausible.’]. i wanted snape to be genuinely surprised to arrive in grimmauld place and discover that sirius hasn’t gone to the ministry, and for this to be the trigger for him snapping when sirius does try to run into battle with the rest of the order and telling him to stay put for harry’s own good.

this is the part of this author’s note where i reveal that this is not going to be a story which accepts uncritically that sirius is a good godfather to harry. i completely understand why the trope of sirius being the model of a father-figure is compelling to fans - and i have no interest at all in the nIcE oNe JaMeS manchild characterisation of sirius in the films [although i do of course think that sirius fails to appreciate that harry is rather less bullish about what he’s facing than james] - but i think that writing sirius as someone who’s fanatically devoted to harry’s welfare, always makes the most parenting-expert-approved decision in any situation, and is demonstrably the adult in their interactions is… kind of uninteresting.

after all, even though he suggests that maybe they should, sirius doesn’t actually tell harry about the prophecy once his fellow order members overrule him. sirius clearly accepts dumbledore’s explanation for why harry needs to stay at the dursleys’, and recognises that harry miserable experience there - particularly the summer after voldemort’s return, when he’s subjected to an information blackout by the order - is [if you’ll pardon the expression] for the greater good. sirius is remarkably dismissive of harry’s fear that he’s being possessed by voldemort after he witnesses nagini attack arthur weasley. and sirius clearly regards harry’s attempts to protect him as patronising, rather than recognising that his godson would prefer him to remain alive rather than get up to hijinks.

in fact, it’s very striking in canon that sirius’ clear self-destructive streak is a major barrier to his relationship with harry, especially in order of the phoenix. this is the cause of the belief he expresses in this chapter that his purpose as an order member is to die for harry - and, indeed, that this is something explicitly requested of him by james. one of the lines which i think about all the time - a line which will become a key theme in this story - is sirius to wormtail in prisoner of azkaban:

‘Then you should have died! ... Died rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you!’

because, on the one hand, sirius is completely right. but, on the other, there is a rigidity to him - a belief that dying nobly for a cause is the only reasonable course of action. snape says the quiet part out loud in this chapter - that sirius cannot simultaneously believe that his only concern is protecting harry and refuse to recognise that protecting harry means getting this reckless streak under control; and that sirius has seen before that acting first and asking questions later results in a potter he loves dying.

although, this being said, snape also just wanted to have a fight, partially because it’s hot to punch your rival in the face, but also because his defaulting to physical violence is another manifestation of the fundamental honesty which defines his character. in canon, magical violence is notable for how hands-off it largely is - it requires emotional heft, but no apparent physical power; the vast majority of curses we meet appear to leave no physical traces - and for how it therefore allows the perpetrator to distance themselves from the reality of their violence. there are some exceptions - above all sectumsempra, which clearly requires the perpetrator to feel profound rage [for enemies] but which actually registers that rage on the body.

the same effect can be achieved by snape decking sirius.

alongside the humans of this story, in this chapter we meet a bricks-and-mortar character who will play a big role as the war of the roses continues: number twelve grimmauld place. canonically, this is ten different gothic literature tropes in a trenchcoat, but one which has a huge fanon presence is the idea that the house is literally sentient. i don’t love this - mostly because it’s usually accompanied by lots of pro-aristocracy nonsense - but i do like the house being perceived as sentient by sirius' disturbed mind.

i also like the canonical portrayal of grimmauld place as a metaphor for azkaban - untouched by the happiness of the muggles in the outside world, freezing despite the hot weather; a place in which - as harry says - sirius is literally locked up against his will.

but i also like the fact that, canonically, grimmauld place is a domestic space as well. the order live and eat and hang out together in a quasi-familial way, and the contrast between sirius’ experience of this rag-tag found family and his experience of eating with his actual family will come up again…

this chapter also hints at some of the relationships which will be explored in more detail as this story continues. some of these are from sirius’ past - his relationship with his parents, with regulus, with bellatrix, with kreacher, with the malfoys and lestranges - and some are from his present - his relationship with lupin; his relationship with wormtail, who has escaped him; his relationship with moody, with kingsley, with tonks, with the weasleys, with ron and hermione, and so on.

but one relationship i want to mention now is sirius and buckbeak - i just love these two comrades-in-arms! i love in canon that buckbeak is the first creature harry feels able to uncomplicatedly confess to missing sirius to! i love that sirius’ care for buckbeak contributes to his death in canon, and to his survival here! i love how he spends so much time with buckbeak in order of the phoenix, as his depression worsens, and clearly finds comfort with him; and i like the idea that buckbeak would shed his wildness and dangerousness when around sirius in recognition of sirius’ love for him.

my heart!

#asenora fics #starprince #snirius #sirius black #severus snape #the war of the roses #twotr author's notes

22 notes · View notes