#ignisfate

[phantcsmic]

#2 for the spice meme for Blue and Az

gif meme | @ignisfate | Blue + Az

Azrael does love a romantic night out. They haven't made it out of the house yet, but they're certain that they'll have a wonderful time when they do. Almost as good of a time as they're having right now.

Azrael straddles Blue's bare torso, one hand carding affectionately through his hair and the other hand reaching behind them to palm over his cock. They smile to themself when they realize how hard he is already. He mouths along the inside of their thighs, and they press closer in response. His tongue darts out to lap at their core through the fine lace of their lingerie. Azrael tightens the hand in his hair.

They tsk, giving his cock a firm squeeze over the fabric of his underwear.

"Manners, love," they tease along his waistband, their touch feather-light, "ask nicely and I'll give you what you want. Speak up."

[bowstringbound]

Giggling happily, Aubrey snuggled up to Clint's side with Lucky on the other side, running her fingers through her hair to get it out of her eyes, which only wound up getting food stuck in her hair. Hearing Lucky growl the instant Clint lifts a hand to take the food from her hair, Aubrey can't help but to giggle again.

Reaching over, she pats the dogs head calmly, not worried even for a second that the dog might bite her. "Be nice to Daddy-" she declares, only to freeze when she realized what she said. Slowly turning her head to look over at Clint, she peaks up at him to try and gauge his reaction.

Unprompted heartwarming ask.

"Luck," came Clint's warning to the golden, his nose wrinkled in confusion, wondering why his beloved companion was growling at him. Bared teeth had rescinded the moment Lucky felt Aubrey patting at his head. The canine then let out a high pitched whine of approval followed by a happy pant, pushing his head into her hand to encourage her affections.

Hearing Aubrey's words, the hero tried to hide his own shock but was failing miserably, some spy he was. Clint's brows lifted, his eyes widening before he found himself blinking a few times to stop the tears from pricking at the corners of his eyes.

His mouth curled up into a smile as he found himself lowering into a squat to get down on Aubrey and Lucky's level. Lucky seemed to be content with Clint being closer to the ground and didn't growl again. Clint's eyes darted between them before he took one of the girl's hand to kiss the back of it, his whiskers tickling at her skin. He then shot Lucky a smug look of triumph.

"You hear that, Lucky? You need to be nice to daddy, my baby girl said so."

[scorchbloom]

@ignisfate: Youre just like your father

A disgusted look flickered across his expression for a moment of a second. Before he buried it under forced public politeness, his lips twitched at the corners, barely holding together that smile. He'd gone completely still for a moment, his spine straight as he eases the bottle of water in his hand down onto the countertop. His fingers flexed around the bottle, crinkling the plastic as he pressed his lips together with a strained hum.

"You shouldn't.". Even in a moment of tension, Maren hadn't been expecting to hear them bring up a man that Maren preferred to not think about on a good day. His hands had stilled over the middle of that sentence. Placing them palm down on the counter top instead, to pin them with a focused unnerving stare.

[bowstringbound]

🔥 (Emma, duh)

Send “🔥?” and my muse will admit whether they find your muse attractive or not.

Homeland

"Is this a serious question? I mean, look at her. If she wasn't hot then she wouldn't be my girlfriend, duh."

[malafxde]

“Spread your legs and let me see how desperate you’ve gotten.” (Blue)

Dominant! || Accepting!! || @ignisfate

She wanted to cover herself. Cross her arms. Hide. But she also wanted him to keep looking, wanted to feel the heat of his attention like a physical thing on her skin, and the contradiction made her tremble. Her thighs pressed together, squeezing, trying to create pressure where she needed it most. It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough. This was raw. Wanting. The way you say someone's name when you're asking for something you don't have words for. His mouth traveled down. Ribs. Stomach. Each press of his lips made her muscles jump, made her breath catch in uneven stutters.

When his tongue dipped into her navel, she let out a sound that was embarrassingly close to a whimper, a small, desperate thing that she would have been mortified by if she'd had the capacity for mortification anymore. She didn't. Her entire world had narrowed to the path his mouth was tracing down her body and the ache between her legs that was growing unbearable. His hands found the waistband of her pants. She felt his fingers hook beneath the fabric of both the pants and the underwear beneath, the slight tug of it against her hips and then he paused.

The witch could feel him looking up at her from between her breasts. She could feel the weight of the question he was asking without words, the restraint in the pause, the effort it was costing him to wait. And something about that about the way he was holding himself back for her, her familiar, the being she'd summoned by accident and bound to her side and somehow, impossibly, fallen for made the ache between her legs throb so hard she thought she might die from it. He dragged her pants and underwear down in one motion. The fabric slid over her hips, her thighs, her knees, and then she was bare beneath him.

Completely exposed on the sheets they'd shared for weeks without crossing this line. Cool air rushed between her legs and kissed the wetness there, and she shivered so hard her teeth nearly chattered. She was acutely, horrifyingly aware of how wet she was. How long she'd been getting wet. How obvious it must be her folds swollen and slick, her clit hard and aching, the evidence of weeks of wanting glistening in the lamplight. Her thighs pressed together instinctively. Some deep, protective instinct screamed at her to hide, to cover herself, to shield this much vulnerability from view. She felt her own heartbeat pulsing between her legs, could feel how swollen she was, how ready, how desperate. The muscles in her thighs trembled with the effort of keeping them closed.

Hands found her knees. Warm. Steady. Not pushing. Just resting there, a gentle pressure that was somehow more devastating than force would have been. She could feel him waiting. Could feel the low, patient heat of his attention on her face, on her body, on the space between her legs that she was trying so hard to hide. The silence stretched. Her breath came in shallow, rapid pulls. Her skin was flushed from her face to her stomach, crimson spreading across her breasts, her ribs, down to where her thighs were clenched together so tightly they ached. And then his voice low, rough, almost gentle, but with something beneath it that made her pulse spike so hard she felt it in her throat:

The words landed in her chest like a lit match dropped into gasoline. Her breath stopped then came back ragged and uneven. Heat surged through her so sharp and sudden it was almost painful, flooding her face, her chest, her stomach, concentrating between her legs until the ache became a throb became a pulse she couldn't ignore. The witch felt her thighs tremble. Felt the slick wetness between them, undeniable evidence of everything she'd been trying not to feel for weeks of sleeping beside him. Felt every nerve ending in her body narrow down to the place he was asking to see.

Desperate. The word echoed through her. He was right. She was desperate. weeks of his body beside hers in the dark, weeks of wanting, had built up inside her like pressure in a sealed vessel, and now he was asking her to show him exactly how bad it had gotten. To open herself up and let him see. Her thighs fell open. Slowly. Shaking. She felt every inch of the movement, felt the cool air rush in and kiss her wet heat, felt the slick folds part slightly as her legs spread, felt the exposure like a physical thing, like being turned inside out. She watched his face as she did it. Watched his jaw tighten. Watched his eyes darken. Watched his gaze drop to the space between her legs where she was swollen and glistening and utterly, devastatingly exposed. She couldn't close her legs. Wouldn't, because he'd told her not to. But every instinct screamed at her to hide, to cover herself, to protect this much vulnerability. She stayed open. For him.

Her chest rose and fell with shallow, rapid breaths. Her hands fisted in the sheets at her sides, knuckles white. She could feel her own heartbeat between her legs could feel how swollen she was, how ready, how long she'd been waiting. weeks of him in her bed. weeks of careful distance maintained in inches. And now she was spread open on those same sheets like an offering, trembling, flushed, desperately wet. She couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. Could only lie there exposed, shaking, waiting for whatever he decided to do next.

[malafxde]

I spend my life waiting for you. (Blue :3c)

Romance (Goodbye) || Accepting! || @ignisfate

The studio had gone quiet in that strange, hollow way places did after midnight, when even the walls seemed tired of listening. Gabriella stood just inside the back entrance with her keys still caught between her fingers, the metal biting into her palm harder than she realized. She had expected darkness, silence, maybe Lemon waiting somewhere with his little wings tucked in, offended that she had left without saying much of anything. She had expected to slip back inside unnoticed, patch herself together before morning, pretend the cracked ward around her wrist and the dried blood under her nails were not signs of another night gone nearly wrong.

She had not expected Blue. Of course, some part of her should have. He had become annoyingly good at appearing exactly where she did not want him to be and exactly where she needed him most. He lingered like smoke after a fire, stubborn and impossible to ignore, leaving traces of himself in places she had not meant to make room for him. It should have irritated her more than it did. Maybe it did irritate her. Maybe that was easier to admit than the way her chest tightened at the sight of him waiting there, solid and real, as if the world could tilt off its axis and he would still be standing at the edge of it, watching for her return.

Her throat worked around words that did not want to come. The night clung to her coat, to her hair, to the torn sleeve near her wrist. She could still feel the leftover hum of magic beneath her skin, low and restless, exhausted but not asleep. It had been one of those nights where distance had seemed like mercy, where leaving without warning had felt kinder than letting anyone close enough to be caught in the backlash. The witch had told herself she was being responsible. She had told herself she was making the safer choice. But now, with Blue standing there and guilt blooming hot under her ribs, all those excuses suddenly felt thin enough to tear.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Gabriella said quietly. The words came out colder than she wanted. Fear had a habit of dressing itself up as anger before she could stop it, and by the time she heard herself, it was already too late to soften the edge. Her eyes flicked over him anyway, betraying her before she could hide it, checking for injuries, for blood, for that familiar scent of smoke and trouble. She hated how easily concern rose in her. Hated how natural it had become to look for damage on him before she even knew what she wanted to say. “I didn’t ask you to wait.”

That was the worst part. It was true, technically. She had not asked. She had not written him a note, had not reached through whatever strange tether existed between them, had not said his name into the dark and hoped he would hear it. But somewhere in the quiet, selfish corner of herself she was still ashamed to look at directly, she had known. She had known he would wait. She had known that if she returned at some terrible hour with blood on her hands and her magic scraped raw, he would be there, and the knowing made her feel both safer and infinitely more afraid.

Gabriella took in a shallow breath and glanced away first, staring past him at the darkened studio floor, at the faint shape of the mirrors reflecting nothing but shadows. “You have your own life, Blue,” she said, softer this time, though the tremor beneath it was worse than the anger. “You have your brother. Your own past. Your own wounds you keep pretending don’t hurt just because you can still stand.” Her fingers curled tighter around her keys. “You don’t have to make yourself responsible for mine too.”

The silence pressed in around her, thick and intimate. She wished Lemon were there to flutter and break it, to give her something small and warm to focus on, but he was nowhere in sight. Maybe sleeping. Maybe hiding. Maybe smarter than both of them. “I don’t want to become another chain around your throat,” she admitted, and there it was at last, the ugly little truth she had dragged in with her. Not that she was afraid he would leave. That would have been simple. Painful, yes, but familiar. No, what frightened Gabriella more was the possibility that he would stay. That he would stay and stay and stay, through every bad night, every flare of magic, every moment she turned sharp because softness scared her too much. That he would keep making himself a shield until all that remained of him was loyalty, blood, and scorch marks in the shape of her mistakes.

She looked back at him then, eyes bright in the dimness, hazel threaded with a faint, unwilling green. “I mean it,” she said, though her voice had lost most of its force. “You can go. If this is too much, if I am too much, you can walk away from it. From me. I won’t hate you for it.” It was a lie, and they both knew it. She would not hate him, no. She would understand. The witch would forgive him before he ever asked. But it would hurt, and some wounded part of her would take it as proof that she had always been right to expect the ending. That was the cruelest thing about abandonment. Even when it was deserved, even when it was logical, it still knew exactly where to cut.

Then he said it.

Gabriella went still. Not frozen in fear, not startled in the usual way, but struck silent by something that moved too gently to defend against. The words did not crash through her. They sank. They slipped past every ward, every practiced deflection, every careful lesson she had taught herself about not needing too much. They reached some bruised, quiet place inside her that had never learned what to do with devotion when it was not dressed as obligation or hunger. Her grip loosened around her keys. One slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a small, bright sound that seemed far too loud in the quiet.

“That’s not fair,” she whispered.

It was not an accusation. Not really. It was a confession of damage. A warning. A plea for him to understand that words like that were not small to her, not casual, not something she could hear and leave untouched. He said it like it was simple, like waiting was just something he did, like making himself a fixture at the threshold of her chaos cost him nothing. But Gabriella had spent too much of her life being treated like something difficult to love. To be waited for felt dangerous. To be wanted with patience felt almost impossible. “You can’t say that like it doesn’t mean anything,” she said, her voice quieter now, rough at the edges. She took one step closer before she could decide not to. “You can’t look at me like that and tell me you spend your life waiting for me, like I’m supposed to know what to do with it.”

Her mouth trembled, and she hated that too. Hated how stripped bare she felt beneath his attention, how he could make her feel seen even when he was not trying to pry her open. She had been touched with cruelty before. Desired in ways that felt like consumption. Watched like prey, worshipped like an omen, feared like a curse. But this was different. This was not a hand closing around her. This was a door left open and someone still standing there when she came back, no matter how late, no matter how ruined.

“Waiting for me is not easy,” Gabriella continued, words spilling faster now because if she stopped, she might lose her nerve. “It means waiting through the nights I disappear because I convince myself it’s safer that way. It means waiting through the silence when I don’t know how to ask for help. It means watching me flinch from kindness because some part of me still thinks it’s going to turn into a weapon.” She swallowed hard, throat tight enough that it almost hurt. “It means dealing with someone who wants to be loved and is terrified of what happens when she actually is.” The confession hung between them, tender and humiliating.

The witch let out a faint, shaky laugh, but there was no humor in it. Only exhaustion. Only truth. “I’m not good at this,” she said. “I’m not good at letting someone choose me without trying to talk them out of it. I’m not good at being the person someone waits for.” She closed the rest of the distance slowly, carefully, like approaching him too quickly might make the moment vanish. Her hand lifted, paused, then settled against his chest with a gentleness that made her own breath catch. No magic. No tether pulled taut. Just her palm over him, feeling the shape of him beneath the fabric, grounding herself in the fact that he was still there. There was something painfully intimate about it, more intimate than a kiss in some ways, because it was not hunger and it was not desperation. It was simply contact. A quiet, trembling check that he existed and had not become another ghost in the long hallway of her life.

“I don’t want you waiting like you owe me something,” she murmured. “I don’t want you standing at the edge of my life like a punishment you chose for yourself.” Her fingers curled slightly, catching in the fabric near his chest. “I don’t want your whole world to become watching mine fall apart.” Her eyes lifted to his, and the green in them had softened now, no longer the glow of power pushing through her restraint, but emotion too honest to hide. “But if you mean it,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “if you really mean it, then don’t wait for me like a guard outside a locked door.”

Her hand slid higher, hesitant but deliberate, until her fingertips brushed the side of his jaw. It was light enough that he could ignore it if he wanted, but she did not pull away. The touch lingered, warm and careful, her thumb resting just shy of tenderness before giving in and tracing the smallest line against his skin. “Stay because you want to,” she said. “Stay because you choose it. And let me choose you back.” The words scared her immediately. She felt the panic rise as soon as they left her mouth, the old instinct to retreat, to laugh it off, to bury it beneath a sharp comment before it could become too real. But she stayed where she was. She stayed with her hand against his face and her heart beating too hard in her chest, letting herself be seen in all her fear and want and uncertainty.

“I came back,” Gabriella said, softer, as if the words mattered more than she knew how to explain. “I know that sounds small, but for me it isn’t. I came back instead of running until morning. I came back instead of convincing myself you’d be better off if I didn’t.” Her eyes lowered to his mouth for half a heartbeat, quick and unguarded, before lifting again. The mistake of it made heat bloom under her skin, but she did not move away. Maybe that was its own kind of bravery. Maybe desire, for her, had always felt safest when wrapped in honesty first. “I don’t know how to do this perfectly,” she admitted. “I don’t know how to be loved without waiting for the other shoe to drop. But I know I don’t want you spending your life in doorways, Blue. I don’t want you waiting for me like I’m something always coming and going.”

Her hand slipped from his jaw to his wrist, fingers wrapping there gently, thumb resting where a pulse might have been if his body obeyed the rules she understood. It did not matter. He was warm. He was here. “So don’t spend your life waiting for me,” The witch whispered, the words trembling but sure. “Spend it with me.” A breath passed between them, quiet and charged, close enough that she could feel the space narrowing without either of them crossing it fully. Her expression softened, vulnerable in a way she usually only allowed in darkness. “There’s a difference,” she added, and this time, the faint curve of her mouth was small, frightened, and real. “And I think… I think I’m starting to want the difference.”

[bowstringbound]

The instant Clint steps into the apartment, the weight of the air presses down upon him, the door opening easier than usual as if to hurry him inside and take control of what was happening within. The apartment that Emma lived in with Clint was abnormally quiet, void of the usual joy and happiness that came with Aubrey being there... she was gone somewhere, that much was clear.

And just where was Emma?

Sitting at the table, her back to the door, she gave no indication that she knew somebody was inside of the home now. Sitting hunched over in defeat, Emma reaches for something, the sound of some kind of liquid pouring into a glass heard... and as Clint nears her, he'd see exactly what the gods were trying to get him to understand:

She was drinking again. And judging by the entirely empty, large bottle of crown whiskey, and the second one a quarter of the way gone, she was well on her way to being drunk out of her mind.

Either she didn't register that Clint was home, or she didn't care, as she stared straight ahead, her usually glimmering pale blue eyes void of any and all light as she stares at nothing in particular.

Unprompted evil. UNPROMPTED.

The door behind him closed with a sharp snap, a deliberate move on his part. He wanted Emma to know that he was home even if today his efforts were moot. The bottle had been spotted upon his entry and immediately set off warning bells in his head. Even in his haste to reach her, the assassin moved forward in silence, a habit that Clint was sure he would never break.

Hyperaware of her drunken state, he wasn't surprised that he had gone unnoticed. A calloused hand reached out to give her shoulder a light squeeze before his head inclined to look down at her. Trained eyes met her glazed ones, a look that Clint was overly familiar with. Just not with Emma.

The Avenger moved to crouch next to her, to grabbing her by her both shoulders, his grip firmer than it had been before but not unkind. "Emma," he called quietly, the utterance laced with disbelief but lacked any true judgement.

Things had been hard for her, Clint knew. It had been hard on their entire family and he could hardly blame her for being in her cups again. Barton also knew that coercion and conversation would be without purchase; a waste of words. From experience, he understood that trying to take the bottle could easily lead to hostility which he didn't want, not until he got some answers. Even with that being said, he was certain she wouldn't remember a majority of this on the morrow. "Emma, sweetheart," he coaxed. "What happened?"

[malafxde]

I've been raising hell just to get your attention (Blue)

Ceremonials & Ruin! || Accepting!! || @ignisfate

The witch only stared at him. Not because she didn’t hear him. She heard him perfectly. Every word landed clean, heavy, and ridiculous in the worst possible way, settling somewhere between her ribs where worry had already made itself a home. The room around them still carried proof of him: scorched sigils along the floorboards, a shattered lamp, smoke curling lazily near the ceiling as if it had been invited to stay. Outside, something wailed in the distance, either a siren or one of the things that had decided to follow the mess he made.

Her jaw tightened and then her eyes narrowed. “You’ve been what?” Her voice was quiet, which was usually far more dangerous than if she had yelled. Lemon, perched high on the curtain rod, gave a nervous flutter of his wings and wisely decided not to come down. Gabriella took one slow step forward, then another, her arms folded over her chest as she looked him over. Not for intimidation. Not entirely. She was checking him for blood, burns, tears in skin that hadn’t healed right, anything hidden under that cocky little confession of his. That was the worst part. Even angry, she was still looking for damage.

“You raised hell,” she repeated, each word more disbelieving than the last, “because you wanted my attention?” A humorless laugh slipped from her before she could stop it. She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, breathing in through it like Azar had taught her to do when her magic started crawling too close to the surface. When she dropped her hand, the anger was still there, but underneath it was something rawer. Fear. Exhaustion. The ugly tenderness of someone who had spent too long pretending not to care too much.

“You do understand that you can just talk to me, right?” she asked, looking up at him. “You don’t have to set off half the city, pick fights with things older than my bloodline, or make every ward in the building scream like it’s being murdered just because you feel ignored.” Her fingers curled against her sleeves, gripping fabric instead of letting her hands shake. “And before you say something stupid, yes, I noticed.” Her voice cracked slightly at the edge, though she tried to smooth it out. “I noticed you were restless. I noticed you kept disappearing. I noticed you came back smelling like smoke and iron and trouble. I noticed, Blue. I just didn’t realize you were turning it into some demonic temper tantrum.”

The last word had bite, but her expression betrayed her too much. She wasn’t only angry. She was hurt. Gabriella looked away first, gaze falling to the blackened mark on the floor where one of her protective sigils had burned itself out trying to contain whatever mess he had dragged too close to her doorstep. It made something cold twist in her stomach. “You scared me,” she said finally. The words were quieter now. Smaller. “I know that probably sounds stupid to you, considering what you are. Considering what you’ve survived. But you scared me.” She swallowed, throat tight. “Because when everything started going off, I didn’t think, ‘Oh, he is being dramatic.’ I thought something had gotten you. I thought something finally hit hard enough that you couldn’t come back from it.”

Her eyes lifted again, hazel threaded faintly with green. “And I hate that my first instinct was to wonder if I’d feel it if you died.” The confession left her before pride could stop it. Once it was out, she hated the silence that followed, hated the way it made her feel too exposed, too soft, too much like the frightened girl she worked so hard not to be. So she covered it the only way she knew how, with exasperation. “You absolute idiot,” she muttered, stepping closer until she could jab one finger lightly against his chest. “Do you know how many normal methods of getting someone’s attention exist? Knocking. Calling my name. Standing in a doorway looking pathetic. Lemon does it every day and he has no hands.”

From the curtain rod, Lemon gave a tiny offended chirr. Gabriella glanced up. “You do.” Then she looked back at Blue, and the edge in her expression softened against her will. Her hand flattened where she had poked him, resting over his chest for one brief second. Not magic. Not a command. Just touch. A quiet check that he was still there, still solid, still alive enough to annoy her. “I don’t need you to raise hell for me to look at you,” she said, softer now. “I already do.” That was the dangerous truth of it.

“You want my attention?” The witch asked, voice low but steady. “Then stay. Be annoying. Be loud. Ask me for something. Hell, bother me while I’m grading choreography notes or making tea. I don’t care. But don’t make me chase smoke and broken wards just to find out whether you’re alive.” Her fingers tightened briefly in the torn fabric near his chest before she let go. A faint, tired smile tugged at her mouth, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Because congratulations,” she said, brushing ash off his shoulder with a little more care than her tone suggested. “You have my attention.” Her gaze held his. “All of it.” Then, after a beat, her expression sharpened again. “And if you ever pull this shit again, I’m putting a bell on you.”