#Corpse Party: Another Child

[lexie-squirrel]

[crimsoncorpse03]

Oc stuff lol

[simp-ly-writes]

Gentle-Fellow's

─────── · · A Smosh Fanfic

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x gn!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: You, Spencer and your fellow cast mates Angela and Shayne all star in yet another Don't Win Mario Party, Gentlemen addition!

─ · · TAGS: gender-neutral pronouns, part social media au, use of dated terms as comedy, swearing, smoking, fluff, attempt at humour, cute.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 1,463

─ · · A/N: thank you so much for the ask, anon! sorry it took so long, had to brainstorm some jokes and scenarios but it was a load of fun! 😄

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"Oi! 'ello Chaps, I'm here with my fellow gentle-lads and t'day we'll be playing some good old fashion mario party, just how I like my liquor-" you began to intro to the camera before Spencer was slapping you gently on the shoulder, his body acting out more impact than you actually received but you still fell off the couch for comedic benefit as he put his shoes up on your supposed 'corpse' in good taste.

"Well enough with what that fellow was going on about, I must say we shall play. This game is better suited for a trio rather than a quartet- the same philosophy can also be said for working in the navy. Was much better to night-watch with a trio-"

"Ah yes, I do believe three-and-some is an adequate amount. I have yet to try four but it sounds you would not recommend?" Shayne leans forwards on the couch to fully face Spencer who adjusts his tophat while looking down at you, silently asking if you were okay while laying down off camera. You shot him a smile upwards, rolling over and returning back to the couch.

"Yes, I would not recommend such activities. Too many men with not enough places to go and scope out. Much better to have three, did you not serve to learn this?" Spencer asks with a tilt to his head, his top hat already falling off again as you hold back a chuckle to his playful glare in your direction.

"I in fact did serve! I was a leader, and I good one at that too. Took my whole group to one of the colonies, we had to strip ourselves of layers from how humid the climate was," Shayne clarified, pretending to light his cigar as Spencer lit his own, passing his lighter towards you.

"Thank you, gentleman," you responded, lighting your two cigarettes, wearing them like vampire fangs that had Angela near tears at the end of the couch. "I do remember being down to my undergarments at multiple points with my men, I'll have you know we were all in position within the ama-zone. Quite the discoveries we made there, so uncivilized."

"AYE!" Angela corrected, pointing a finger, her moustache slipping down her face, "I'll have you know my third mistress is from those parts, and she is the best. You mustn't make such hastily claims gentlemen, it is unbecoming of you!"

You nod your head, "yes, yes, very unbecoming. What are we? Boys like our sons? I can't remember the last time I had ashes in my lungs with that child's work," you continue as Angela agrees with a huff, the game seemingly long forgotten as you all carry through conversation, trying your darnedest not to break character.

"Ah yes, I think I have a son or two, I can't quite remember. I think to name them all William, a strong English name," Shanye comments once you all get... gently reminded to play the game you intro-ed over half an hour ago, you hoped that the editors would be able to find something distinguishable in these files.

─────── · ·

"I do believe it is your turn, gentleman," Spencer comments, casting you a wink. "My, I have seen to misplaced that powered-device. Does anyone see it?" Everyone starts to feel around the dips in the couch, Spencer was the first to stand, walking closer to the cameras from where you rolled to during the introduction bit and comes back with your controller, dipping it towards you with a bow.

"Thank you, my, you must be quite the bachelor, charming a fellow like me, oh my," you add with heated cheeks as Spencer returns to your side, his leg nocking against your own as you shout out in disbelief to obtaining a star you DID NOT want. "This is outrageous, I demand a re-play of my turn! I did not intend-"

"We must play by the rules," Shayne cuts you off, tilting his hat down as you stick out your tongue. Angela is focused on not winning the next mini game as you and Shayne continue your staring contest in the following two rounds before you claim victory. "Haha! I have trained with only the best, you can read a lot about another man through his eyes. Have you been hunting before? I love that wild look." Spencer jumps to respond.

"Yes, I must say, you really can tell a lot..." and in that moment you both look at one another. Shayne and Angela are both screaming over something on the screen but you both sound it out, lost in this little moment before realizing your both won... or well lost.

"It appear we have lost," Spencer says, emitting a sigh. "No, I would say we have won," you tease loving the way his cheeks heat up to his ears before you both return to the game more driven then ever to not win.

─────── · ·

Jokes have you all toppling the couch at some point from your rambunctious laughter, Angela is struggling to breathe through her sentence much similar to you over just how funny Spencer manages to be wearing sweatpants and a cheap half tux.

Spencer immediately went to protect your head with his arm as you all fell backwards with a large crash, the crew all gasped out in shock before your laughter only grew more boisterous. "I think I hear a little man again," Shayne comments, forcing himself upright to look over the couch as stars begun to be distributed.

Like snipers at position you all kneeled, your eyes only visible from the turned over couch. Top hats giving away your cover and you had placed second, falling back to the ground in fake shock and relief. Spencer teased mouth to mouth that had you pressing a hand to his mouth and narrowed your eyes at his large ones filled with glee and adoration.

─────── · ·

Angela had lost in the end in first place. you second place. Shayne in third and Spencer being the ultimate winner in fourth.

"FUCK!" and the video ended abruptly to quickly cute to her wearing a dog cone while trying to light a cigarette, only for them to keep collecting down by her neck.

"Thank you all for viewing our game time today, I have had the most splendid time today with you chaps, as I hope you all have ventured the same?" Shayne asks the now upright couch and cast.

"Yes, I was quite filled with delight," you replied, nodding your head and tipping your hat to everyone on the sofa.

"I do agree with my fellow gentleman, here" Spencer replies, clapping you on the wrist this time, very much close to holding your hand, your fingers interlacing while watching Angelas 'winning' speech.

"I hate you all-"

"Why that id not very gentlemanly of you, do you wish to handle these matters outside in more space for our thoughts?" Shayne rebuttles.

"Yes, I rather have a few thoughts to show you," Angela challenged, brow raised as she begins to roll up her sleeves, Shayne doing the same. Alex closes the video by panning upwards and the screen fades to black.

─────── · ·

🔔 Smosh Games just posted! watch now?

─────── · ·

Gentleman's Rules: Don't Win Mario Party (Again!)

Smosh Games ✓ [Subscribed] 👍 67k | 👎 7.78M subscribers 300k views 1 week ago only the politest of games... click to read more

1,110 Comments

username01 (name) and Spencer out here being the cutest even while cosplaying as colonizers, iconic behaviour you two!

username88 09:45 "Ah yes, I do believe three-and-some is an adequate amount" - Shayne Topp 2024

↳ username70 OMG why did I not catch this earlier LMAO 🤣 ↳ username91 or what about 20:01 " What are we? Boys like our sons? I can't remember the last time I had ashes in my lungs with that child's work..." - (name) was UNREAL for sayin' this XD ↳ username70 OMG YES! 🙌😂

username22 I don't know about you but I'm feeling like I'm ready for a whole series of just this cast and just this game. I have had this video and repeat since it's come out! Please. Make. More. 🙏

username14 Literally so in love with how gentle Spencer was being with (name), dropping the persona to held them find their controller and even making sure they didn't fall hard?? 😭

↳ username91 and did anyone notice those little winks? UGH 😩

username40 this is not good material to be eating to, almost choked from laughing so hard, would not recommend.

userame66 That little exchange about seeing into one another's eyes was so poetic, like that bit did not need to go that hard 💗

─────── · ·

─ · · SPENCER AGNEW TAGLIST: @lisiliely @missflufffanfics @little-stitious-studios @thejourneyneverendsx @sibsteria @lizzylynch1 @babble2 @delaneyburghardt @thevintagefangirl @uniquely-haunting @maricarorp

[rileyslibrary]

Since Ghost forgot readers birthday, let's maby turn it around? How is the lieutanants big day celebrated on base? I know he scolded reader for not telling him that it's their birthday, but I really can't see him running around with a party hat, giving out cupcakes and demanding birthday wishes either to be honest...

Birthday?

What birthday?

He hasn’t celebrated in a long time—the days passed, and he treated that special day just like any other.

What was there to celebrate anyway? He took lives. How audacious it would be of him to celebrate his own.

He buried that day deep within his subconscious, alongside all the other memories he wished to forget.

But occasionally, the memories would blend together and manifest themselves as nightmares in his sleep. He was a little boy in them, blowing birthday candles on a pile of corpses while other soldiers on the battlefield were running for their lives.

Price was the only one who knew Ghost’s birthday. After all, he was the one who removed that date from his file.

You asked him about it one day when Ghost wasn’t around. You and the rest of the team were joking about Zodiac signs and wanted to know what Ghost was.

But the captain clicked his tongue and told you he couldn’t disclose such information. You asked why he was so secretive about it, and he smiled. It was unlike the smiles you were used to seeing from him. It was a smile of pity—like the one you give to a stray cat who’s curled up on your car’s roof on a cold night.

He said he had wished the lieutenant a happy birthday a few years ago, and it didn’t go well. So Price kept trying to find more indirect ways to celebrate with him—ways that would make him feel more comfortable.

He remembered that one time when he invited Ghost for a couple of beers at the pub, but Ghost became suspicious.

“Why today, of all days, brother?”

Price acted shocked as if it was a coincidence and Ghost rejected his invitation. He had something else to do.

On that day, every year, the lieutenant would go to his mother’s grave instead. He would take a few flowers with him, sit in front of her grave, and think. His mind often wandered, and other painful memories threatened to resurface—memories unrelated to war, engraved in his mind from an earlier stage in life when a child’s only job was to have fun. And he did anything but that.

Inspiration struck you then, and you came up with an idea.

You decided to create a card for the lieutenant. It was a plain white sheet folded in half—nothing special on the outside, but its beauty lay within.

You all wrote him wishes and expressed gratitude for his guidance, teachings, and the countless times he came to your rescue. You placed the card in an envelope, sealed it shut, and handed it to him on a random day. You told him that, even though you didn’t know when his birthday was, the card was there, and he could open it whenever that day arrived.

He took the card home and left it on the coffee table. Sometimes we’d look at it, and other times he would use it as a coaster, hoping it would get ruined so he wouldn’t have to confront his feelings.

And that day came, and he followed the same routine: he went to work, visited his mother’s grave, and then returned home.

But there was something else waiting for him at home; that card. It was stained and warped, but it was there for him, just like all of you were.

He opened a fresh bottle of bourbon. And then he opened that card.

He smiled. Yes, he rolled his eyes and facepalmed himself, but he smiled.

He hid it in one of his nightstand drawers, and every now and then, he would revisit it. Lying in bed, he would pull open the drawer, retrieve the card, and read it like a bedtime story.

It was just like his mother used to do every night—his mother, who gave birth to him that day and tragically passed away.

But, within the card, he found another kind of family—a silly group of Zodiac sign-pestering nuisances, but nevertheless, his family.

———————————————————————

A/N: I didn’t expect this to turn out that way. But I’m glad it did.

[aurora-darling]

Lost to you - part 1

Halsin x F!Reader/Tav

a spin on Halsin's confession, my dearies.

NSFW warning; adult themes - some mentions of death and sexual stuff :>

In all his 350 years he had never seen a beauty like yours. You were a kind soul, with a loving heart that radiated affectionately. You were by his side through it all, and you never asked for anything in return. You had saved him from that barbaric Goblin camp and stayed by his side ever since. He was astounded by your commitment to helping those in need and your selfless way to protect the innocent. There wasn’t a day that went by that you weren’t assisting someone and you continued to do so with Halsin. 

And it got you hurt. 

You were fighting the shadows, keeping them from the portal while Halsin looked for Thaniel. You had begged to come with him and he refused, telling you he needed to do this alone. No matter how much you protested to go with him, he declined. Halsin stood his ground, telling you it was something he needed to do on his own. His only focus was saving Thaniel, lifting the curse and you might get in his way. When he finally returned, carrying the Fey-child in his arms, he saw your companions standing over you. You were motionless on the ground, your quarterstaff thrown far from your body. You had been tossed like a doll across the sand. You were deathly still - a corpse. Halsin felt torn as his blood ran cold since you weren't moving. “By Balduran's bones, no! Get her up, now!” He heard Wyll shout as your warlock dashed toward you. The others followed quickly, your ragtag party hovering over your body as they worked to resurrect you. 

You had startled awake, coughing profusely as you sat up and gasped for air. Your hands shook, your fingers grasping your necklace tightly as Wyll knelt to soothe you. Your red locks fell across your shoulders, your gray eyes hidden from Halsin. His heart pained at your stature, it was obvious you were in shock. You were crying, sobbing into Wylls arms as remnants of the curse lingered through your tiny body. Halsin stood still, his childhood friend also unconscious in his arms. His teeth pulled at the skin on his bottom lip as he contemplated his next move; should he be at your side or bring Thaniel to safety? Before he could make his decision he watched as your warlock, Wyll, picked you up in his arms. You were small for a human, your arms around Wyll's neck as he cradled you. Halsin felt a feeling foreign to him, a jealousy as he wanted to be the one to care for you. He watched Wyll walk away with you, his teeth gritting together as your face pressed into Wyll’s neck. Halsin shook the thoughts from his mind and made his way to your camp as well.

Halsin kept himself busy, avoiding all thoughts of you until he saw Wyll approach him, still carrying you in his arms. Halsin’s pointed ears perked up at the sight of you. Your robe had been removed and someone had dressed you in your night gown. He hushed as Thaniel began to question him, tugging on Halsin's shirt and waited for Wyll to speak. “She’s alive but could use some healing,” Wyll reassured him, he could read the expression on Halsin’s face. Wyll’s hands tightened his grip on you, his left eye looking over your body as you mumbled in your sleep. You were shaking, your lips still a blueish tint and your grip on Wyll’s clothing was just as tight. Halsin remained silent as he watched you, your life essence had yet to replenish. His heart dropped as he saw the dark color of your fingertips and the ghoulish hue of your skin. You were far from alright, you were on the balance between life and death. It was as if you were a ghost and he couldn’t bring himself to stare at you. His eyes drift to the ground as his heart falls to his feet. 

How could he do this to you?

How could he let this happen?

You were his savior and because of you, his Grove had their archdruid back. He gave you one night of celebrations after your victory with the Goblins before he asked for another favor. Halsin could feel his throat tighten, the feeling of crying out overwhelming him. He wanted to apologize profusely, to beg for your forgiveness. No, he wouldn’t break down in front of you. He wouldn’t burden you with the task of saving him, again. Of having to help him with another task, ever again. Halsin steps forward, “Tavlena.” he says, his brows lowered with concern. You groan at the sound of his voice and rub your face into Wyll’s chest. Halsin’s thin lips pursed together, his teeth biting them both. He clears his throat as he watches Wyll soothe you, that feeling of jealousy building in Halsin’s chest. “Little duck..” Halsin whispers as you finally open your eyes slowly, and tilt your face in the direction of his voice. Your eyes were glazed over, almost white and you seemed to look through him. Your spirit was broken, the once maiden of the forest he fell for long gone. You needed healing, and soon.

Halsin can feel tears swelling in his eyes as he blinks them away. He would not leave you, his savior, in this state. “I shall heal you, my heart.” He whispers and rubs the sweat away from his brow. “Please, take her to my tent. This way.” Halsin could barely speak, his voice cracking as he beconked Wyll to follow him. Wyll’s eyebrow raised at the site of Halsin’s tent, or lack of it. There was fabric strung up on poles to give shade but no privacy. Wyll could feel his concern for your safety building immensley and held you tighter, his fingers curling into your soft flesh. “My friend with all due respect. I can’t lay her on that.” Wyll motions toward a blanket that covers hay, a makeshift bed. Halsin looks at his bedroll and shakes his head. “Apologies but this isn’t the time to be finicky. She needs to be whole again.” Halsin motions for Wyll to lay you down and walks to obtain potions he stored away in his pack. Wyll sighs heavily but obliges and kneels to lay you gently on the ground. Halsin looks over his shoulder behind him, carefully observing the warlock’s actions. He watches as the Blade of Frontiers whispers over you, his hand stroking your cheek and stands his attention now at Halsin. “Be careful with her, please.” Wyll looked at Halsin intensely, his last word bearing more meaning that just the word. Halsin nodded, holding a healing salve in his hands. He cleared his throat as he knelt beside you, his hand over you as he spoke his incantation. “Te curo.” He whispers, his heart torn over almost losing you. Again. 

Once your healing had begun, Wyll excused himself to check on the others, leaving the two of you alone. Halsin repeated his spell once more, watching the bright blue glow engulf your fragile body. His mind started racing. How many times would he put you in danger? You were far more important than he, your veins flowed with the blood of Toril a rite you undertook when you were young. Halsin had heard the tales of the beautiful priestesses of Chauntea—the Goddess of life itself, the Earthmother. He worshiped you at your feet, your very presence a gift to him. Silvanus would be disappointed in his servant, his archdruid letting a maiden of the forest perish in front of him. Halsin sat next to your sleeping body, his large frame casting a shadow over you. His eyes focused on your breathing, counting the breaths you took until you were stable. He kept his composure, his focus on your health most important. Halsin sighed in relief when your cheeks flushed a shade of rose, his healing worked. There was an errie silence, only noises coming from the torches burning by his tent. Your companions had retired for the night and Thaniel was taking a stroll by the creek. Halsin lifted his fingers to brush your arm, his lips curled into a smile as he realized how soft you were. You were so brave, so powerful, and yet so delicate. He yearned to protect you, to serve you. He was your Green Knight after all.

Halsin had moved to sit in front, his back facing you. He had removed his armor for the night and passed the time carving, his attention entirely on his task. Your eyes fluttered open and you were instantly overwhelmed with the rush of consciousness, your head spinning. Halsin’s ears perked up immediately, his face turning to look at you. His eyes opened wide as he failed to collect his thoughts. He tried to speak, his hand almost reaching out to touch you. “Tavlena.” His voice is low and thick with concern. You try to sit up on his bedroll but hiss at the pain in your abdomen and fall back just as quickly. Groaning you throw your arm over your head and sigh, shaking your head and asking your earthmother for guidance. “Mother of all flowers, please release me of this pain- it’s unbearable.” You laugh and pull your arm away, winking at Halsin. You loved to tease him, your large protector. He would  normally blush, the tips of his pointed ears a deep red, and chuckle, his gaze averting yours. This time however you noticed Halsin looking at you with painful eyes, his lips turning into a frown. You could sense something was troubling him so you smiled and rubbed your face and thanked him. “I could feel my life slipping, thank you for saving me.” You stared at the ceiling of his tent, the stars present in the small opening of the top. Halsin smiles as he looks for Thaniel, watching the fey child skip stones across the water. “I wouldn’t dare let a daughter of the Great Mother perish.” He says, his face turning to look at you now, his expression is solemn. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, ever. Is what he wanted to say. 

You smile and twirl your hair around your finger, your eyes observing the amber highlights in the torchlight. “She would be angry with me if she saw the blow I took.” You sigh, your face turning to observe the area around you. Halsin had hung gourds full of herbs for healing salves and potions. You smiled as you knew those exact ingredients, spells, and recipes only passed down to those of your clergy. There were scrolls depicting plants and a few animal bones scattered about. He was untidy, keeping no furniture and you would mostly catch him sitting in the dirt. To anyone else it was barbaric, to anyone else he was a wildman. Yet to you, he was beautiful. He was connected to nature, a true servant of Silvanus.“She would be proud.” He responds and your eyes look toward him, his face is apologetic. Halsin looks as if he’s about to break, his green eyes filling with tears. “You were magnificent. You were so brave, so-” He stops himself, shaking his head and sniffing back tears. “Ah, forgive me I don’t know what came over me, I-” He stops again and turns to look at you. 

His heart swells at that look on your face. Did you have to look so loving?

“Halsin.” You say in a tone that has his member throbbing with desire. “What troubles you love?” You had moved your arms above your head, you were a sight to behold. Your bright gray eyes shined with kindness as always, your cute way of scrunching your nose when you caught him looking at you. You would smile and shake your head lovingly, your red curls falling across your forehead. You lie still before him and nudge him with your toe for an answer. He looks across your body and his heart warmed at the idea that his bedroll would smell like you, like honeysuckle. Halsin nodded in agreement as you whine and teased him with his name again, he knew he should tell you. That he should let go and confess his feelings for you. Silvanus had delivered you to him, he could feel it in his soul. He felt it the moment his eyes saw you, the little wrath of Mother Nature standing up to Goblins to free him from his prison. He loved you since then, his heart now in turmoil that he chose Thaniel over you. But no matter how he felt, he was still a servant of Silvanus first and foremost. 

And you came second. 

Halsin sighs and moves to sit next to you, dusting his palms on his pants leg. He kept his gaze from you, staring at the wood carvings to avoid throwing himself at you. To avoid begging for your forgiveness. “I’m sorry.” He says, his fingers scratching the large scars across his face. He had joked about the story behind it and regretted telling you, would you ever see him as your strong Archdruid again? Or did you see him as a pathetic excuse of a leader? You breathe in deep and Halsin can sense your frustration. “For what?” You ask your arm over your eyes again. He looks as you bite your bottom lip, your teeth raking over it as you await his answer. “You were injured. I asked you to stay behind and I took too long. I shouldn’t have asked you to.” He responds simply, his large hand rubbing his forehead. He didn’t want to admit his guilt, he was terrified that you would agree. 

What if you blamed him?

You prop yourself on your elbows, your eyes looking across the camp as you gather your thoughts. You could see the candle light flicker in Wylls tent, your eyes looking back at your archdruid. “Yes, but you healed me and I’m alive because you did so. I was the one who made a mistake, not you.” You say with the same tone as Halsin. You could play this game too. Halsin sighs this time, his eyes looking at your abdomen. “Yes, but you’re still in pain. I couldn’t heal you completely.” He retorts, his nose wrinkling as he thinks of his failure, he couldn’t even heal you entirely. You groan in frustration as you move your arm to touch him, your hand clasping his shoulder. “Please don’t burden yourself with that. I’m fine, see?” You squeeze his shoulder and Halsin can feel himself faltering, he leans to press his lips on your fingertips. He breathed in your scent again, sweet honeysuckle. He could feel his desire building, his eyes betrayed him as he looked at you, your gaze trapping him instantly. 

Halsin moves immediately over you, his face leaning over yours. You can see the symbol of the oak father displayed on his camp ensemble, his necklace dangling over your lips. “Oak Father.” He moans, his green eyes glowing as you tease him with your expressions. You smile devilishly, your eyelids closing slowly, your tongue gliding over your bottom lip before you bite it slowly. “Ursidae.” You call him, your fingers reaching up to trace his lips. “Preserve me.” He pleads, his hands grasping fistfuls of the blanket under you. “You’ll be the absolute death of me.” You breathe sharply as your desire for him builds as well, your breasts rising and falling as you crave his touch. 

Halsin notices, his eyes taking in every curve of your body. He loved how fertile you looked, the shape of you sending him spiraling. He could recall the nights he spent in the woods, lost over thoughts of your beauty. Of your legs. Your hips. Your breasts. 

Halsin groans as you spread your legs for him, the sight of your night dress sliding up your plump thighs. He could feel his need to sink his teeth into them, to devour your legs with kisses while he pleases you. You notice the lustful look in his eyes and test him, your fingers tracing up his shirt, over the small opening that exposed his large chest. His body felt so warm, so smooth and strong. You giggle as Halsin takes ahold of your hand and buries his face in it, inhaling deeply. “Please.” He whispers into your hand, his eyes looking into yours. “Please what?” You ask, your thumb stroking his cheek. “Do you know how hard this has been? How hard it’s been to contain myself?” He asks, his eyes closing as he holds your hand against his face. “I’m afraid to-” He stops himself again, his fear of showing you his weakness consuming him. You remained silent, your eyes observing the gentle giant above you. Halsin smiles painfully, his heart torn between giving in and keeping himself from what he feared most. “I won’t stop until I devour you whole.” He confesses.

He was afraid of losing control. 

You smile with your eyes as he watches your lips form to whisper those three little words he longed for, his heart swelling as you say them.

 “I trust you.” 

[ysabelmystic]

“I just came from r/196” ask game

Saw another post. I think I should invite y'all to one of our longstanding traditions. Answer the questions then tag 10 (or more) people. I'll go first.

Name? Frankie

Pronouns and gender? he/they/it, transmasc

Sexuality? Lesbian

Country? USA

Top 5 fandoms? Bungou Stray Dogs, Cosmere, All for the Game, Fundiesnark (not a series but I'm too deep in it to not consider it a fandom), .....the tornado fandom? (they're my special interest)

What is your Most forbidden snack? The preserved bones at the Atlanta Bodies Exhibition. They looked so crunchy...

Would you pet a bug? If it's big enough, it is pettable.

Share a weird fact/story about yourself with the class. I like to drive around rural areas and photograph old, sometimes abandoned locations in the dead of night. I have been literally chased out of towns by foot and by car on two separate occasions. The second time this happened, "See You Again" by Miley Cyrus came up on shuffle and that's the soundtrack my friend and I tore out of town to. Also every "guy" I've dated except for my most recent ex (who has big egg energy) is a lesbian now.

What does the color blue taste like? Creme brulee

What is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen? The appalachian mountains of Tennessee in the middle of summer. There's kudzu everywhere. On the backroads, there were several old, dilapidated Baptist churches barely hanging to the side of the mountain. I wonder how many of them were still in use.

What is the stupidest thing you've ever done? Short version: my friend's house almost got broken into by this dude who'd been stalking us for months while we were home alone. Instead of calling the cops, we decided to confront him with a bow and arrow (me), a hatchet, and a baseball bat (him). The plan was that if it went badly, we would simply throw his corpse into one of the many lakes in the neighborhood and let the alligators eat his remains (this was Florida). Why? Because we were afraid of having our home-alone privileges revoked. Luckily for us all, the guy fucked off and we never saw him again.

Stupidest thing you've seen/heard someone else do/say? My ex thought that Jackalopes were real. Also, a nurse I was doing rotations with apparently thought that "Witness Protection" was for Jehovah's Witnesses.

Hyperfixation song? Young Enough + Bleach by Charly Bliss

Is there any meaning behind your profile picture and/or username? Profile pic; I'm transmasc and I'm currently obsessed with TriStamp. Username; It was my fake internet name when I was like 13. I won't change it because I want my mutuals to recognize me, and because I do have a viral post associated with this name.

Dream career as a child? Doctor (funnily enough I'm now in nursing school)

Dream career as an adult? Professional Jester. Not a comedian. I just want to be some weird little guy who dresses silly and you can hire me to roast your boss at work parties.

Thoughts on cilantro? Delicious

Have you ever been banned from a location and if so, why? I honestly can't remember? Probably... but in recent memory I've mainly banned people from places.

What is your cursed food combination? Pineapple on a hotdog with grilled onions. It Slaps.

Trans rights? TRANS RIGHTS

Tagging: @rocket-mankoi @mostlymarco @atleast8courics @jazzlike39 @gemsweater72 @limbobilbo @ameliaaltare @redcrane112 @theoneofwhomisblue @twinkenjoyer @theultimatecarp and anyone else who wants to jump on

[humanpurposes]

Come So Close That I Might See, part i

Desperate to secure her position, Aegon's wife turns to Aemond for help // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x OFC

Warnings: 18+, language, infidelity, smut (p in v, female receiving oral), breeding kink (kinda), and also a bit of fluff.

Words: 4800

A/n: this is my first oneshot! I've been sitting on this for literally months and finally got round to editing it. Also available to read on AO3.

Every breath Lucia took was like ice in her throat.

Her fingers came to toy with the Valyrian steel band around her ring finger. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take. Five years of whispers behind her back, agonising audiences with the Queen, the Hand and her Westerling and Lannister uncles. “The realm needs a son,” they all said, as if she hadn’t known that the moment she had said her vows to Aegon fucking Targareyn.

Her husband knew what he was doing. He had all but confessed countless times how he resented his position, how he did not wish to be crushed under the weight of duty despite the ambitions of his mother and grandsire. 

She knew her duty, to give King Viserys another grandchild to dote upon, give the Hightowers the heir they needed, and secure her own position as the wife of a future King.

For Aegon, a child would be a burden, another duty to squander. He demanded use of her hands and her mouth of the few occasions he bothered to visit her bedchamber, but otherwise he was content to pounce upon the nearest serving girls or fuck his way through Fleabottom.

Five years of humiliation.

She anticipated what talk might stir with the arrival of the King’s guests at court. A great feast had been planned, to celebrate the new additions to their family. Helaena and Martyn Hightower were due to arrive from Oldtowen to present their daughter, Rhaella, while Princess Rhaenyra had delivered her second son with Daemon, another silver haired Prince, named in honour of the King.

She delighted in seeing Helaena again and could hardly contain her excitement when she saw a flash of cobalt blue in the sky that marked the arrival of Daeron and Tessarion. The Prince and Princess had been both sent to Oldtown so soon after Lucia’s marriage to Aegon, but she missed them more than she did her own siblings in the Westerlands.

Then came the party from Dragonstone, Rhaenyra, Daemon, and their small army of children. Aemond had tested her memory before their arrival; Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey, Baela, Rhaena, Aegon and Viserys.

Aegon was nowhere to be found when they were welcomed into the throne room. Lucia half hoped the captain of the city watch would come to her with news that his corpse had been found on the floor of a tavern. Instead she stood between Queen Alicent and Prince Aemond.

When the three boys with Velaryon blue cloaks and unruly dark hair bowed before the King, Aemond leaned into her ear. “That’s the bastard I have to thank for my sapphire,” he whispered.

Aegon eventually made an appearance at the feast later that night, sauntering in as the main courses were brought out. He already had a glazed look in his eye and dark purple stains in the corners of his mouth. Lucia shared a pointed glance with Aemond as her husband took his place beside her.

She did not have to suffer Aegon for long. Once the music picked up and the dancing began, Daeron was the first to lead her to the floor. Then, from the other side of the table, Jacaerys took Baela’s hand and joined them, the four of them dancing, twirling and laughing together, regardless of the scowls that came from Prince Daemon and Otto Hightower. Then came Lucerys and Rhaena, and after them followed Helaena and her husband. 

After a few exhaustive rounds, Lucia thought she might need a glass of wine to recover her strength, until her eyes fell to Joffrey, looking a little abandoned. She took his hands and led him through a dance, which mostly involved them spinning in circles rather than following the steps. The boy looked up at her in awe as she twirled them around the floor.

“The Strong boys” were not so bad, she thought, they were gracious and lively, but in the back of her mind she couldn’t quite forget the terrible scar that slashed across Aemond’s face. She looked back to him as she danced. She expected to see that stoic, silent fury she had become so accustomed to, instead he looked rather… she settled on amused. His eye was softer than usual and his lips curled ever so slightly into– not quite a smile but it was hardly a frown either. 

And each time she turned her head he was already looking at her.

She felt the whole thing had been a success. Until Lord Tyland came to her the morning after Rhaenyra’s departure for Dragonstone.

He barged into her chamber, standing over her as she took her breakfast. “We cannot delay any longer.”

“Good morning to you too, uncle.”

“How often do you share a bed with your husband?” He hissed.

Lucia swallowed her mouthful of blackberries. “Not often.”

“Speak plainly,” he demanded. “You are the wife of the King’s oldest son, you are not entitled to privacy.”

Clearly. She took a breath. “He will not come to my bedchamber, if he can help it, only if he is too drunk to remember he despises me. And then he… is never able to fulfil his marital duties.”

“This cannot go on.”

“And yet it has been the case for four years, uncle. Aegon simply does not wish to make me a mother. You may seek to ask the Queen to lecture him, but I am not the one at fault.”

“That is simply not good enough.”

“So what would you have me do?”

“Whatever it is you must do. You have seen how disputes of succession cause instability, and without an heir, Aegon’s position, our position is not secure.”

She knew little of the arrangement between the Hightowers and the Lannisters. Perhaps her family thought her too young to understand when the pact of loyalty was made, and yet they were happy to let that alliance rest upon her shoulders. As long as her womb was empty, she would remain a Westerling orphan to the eyes of the court.

“She will never give Aegon a son,” she had heard one of the Tyrells say, “the King should cast her aside, make her a septa and marry the Prince to one of our girls.”

She spent the rest of the day in the gardens, walking for hours until she came to the rose garden. There was a bench, concealed amongst bushes of red, pink and gold flowers, looking out over Blackwater Bay.

Had the small council truly been so startled by the very presence of Princess Rhaenyra in the capital? Even with the rumours surrounding her three eldest sons, her extensive family was a show of strength and stability, something she and Aegon had so far failed to provide.

The sun seemed to go black for a moment and there came a colossal roar that shook the foundations of the city. She looked up to the sky to see Vhagar soaring out over the water. She couldn’t make out much of her rider, save for a small glimmer of silver hair.

An idea came into her head. 

She tucked her knees into her chest and began to gnaw at her lower lip until she tasted blood. She sat there, frozen in thought until the sun began to set and a chilling evening breeze swept in from the sea. Her gown was relatively thin, a day dress for Spring, but she did not shiver and she did not flinch.

As twilight approached, she heard footsteps crunching against the gravel path.

“You’re expected for dinner,” Aemond’s voice came from behind her.

She rose from the bench and came to stand before him, close enough to smell the leather on his jerkin and the faint scent of smoke in his hair.

He frowned and brought his thumb to her bruised and bloodied lip. She watched his eye as he inspected it, gently swiping and tugging. “What’s this?” He asked in a soft and scathing tone.

“It was my own fault,” she muttered, “I didn’t realise I was doing it.”

He pulled back with a dissatisfied “hmm,” but his gaze soon softened. “The Queen was getting rather worried.”

Lucia weaved her arm through his and began to lead him back towards the castle. “We should not keep her waiting then.”

*

Aemond followed Lucia into the dining room and settled in the seat across from her, beside Daeron. Helaena and Martyn Hightower were not present, apparently Rhaella had managed to come down with a cough and they would not leave her side. 

The King had decided to dine with them this night, a rarity. Mostly they sat in silence, the Queen occasionally attempting to make conversation. She asked Aemond how Vhagar had been that morning. He said “very well mother,” and drew his fingers along his knife. She turned to Daeron and asked how his studies were progressing. He said “very well mother,” and went back to eating. 

“Sunfyre is well too, dear mother,” Aegon added sarcastically.

Aemond caught Lucia’s eye as she tried to stifle a small smile.

“Rhaenyra is with child again,” the King said, “I do so desire a granddaughter.”

His mother pursed her lips. “You have a granddaughter, dear husband.”

“And perhaps I desire more.”

Aemond watched Lucia as she toyed with her duck breast, tearing apart the meat but never putting it near her mouth. He had watched her rather closely over the last five years, as her life had become a well rehearsed act, feigning smiles and indifference when she needed to, but he always saw right through her.

When Aegon glanced at her, she kept her gaze down and tightened the grip on her fork. 

“I might ask Helaena to stay a while longer in the capital,” the Queen said, “so we might spend some more time with our grandchild.”

“Do you presume the presence of my sister’s babe will offer us some encouragement?” Aegon sneered.

The table paused. No one dared to breathe, except Aegon, who took a long draw from his cup and finished it with a gasp of satisfaction. He glanced around at the bewildered faces of his family. “Is something the matter?”

Aemond kept his eye fixed on Lucia as she drew her lip between her teeth. Her cheeks glistened in the low candlelight as tears began streaming from her eyes. She stood quickly and calmly, and was out of the room before Alicent could even utter a single word.

The room fell to silence.

Until Aegon decided otherwise. “Do you think I upset her?”

Aemond made a point of hitting his fist against the table as he followed her.

She was in the corridor, standing with her back against the wall and her hands clasped behind her. At the sound of a single footstep her eyes darted to him.

He came to stand before her. Her cheeks and eyelashes were still damp, but she had stopped crying. 

The Queen’s furious shouts began to bleed into the corridor.

��Are you alright?” He asked.

Lucia nodded.

He offered his hand. “I’ll walk you to your chambers.”

She looked up at him with those wide and glistening eyes as she placed her hand in his. His heart ached to feel her skin, their fingers curling over each other, his thumb settling against her knuckles. She felt cold, but he would have been content to stay within her hold, as long as she would allow him to.

She stayed close as he led her through the stillness of the Red Keep, her skirt brushing against his leg with every stride.

Ser Arryk Cargyll waited outside her chambers, and she slipped from his grasp as easily as she had accepted it. She stopped as the guard opened the door though, and turned back to Aemond. “Would you stay with me?” 

Aemond held his breath, hoping neither she or Ser Arryk would somehow notice his heart drumming furiously in his chest.

“Not for long,” she added, “but I wish to speak with you.”

“Of course,” he said, and followed her inside.

The Princess’ chambers were not entirely unfamiliar to him. With Aegon’s elusive nature and Helaena and Daeron’s absences, it only felt natural that he and Lucia often found themselves in each other’s company. She enjoyed the library as much as he did and as she had developed interests in riding on horseback and marksmanship, he was all too happy to entertain her. Her chambers were not a place he visited often, not unless he wished to return a book, or take her on a walk through the gardens before dinner.

The room was immaculate, and it smelled like her, bittersweet and warm.

She stood before the fireplace. The glow of the flames flickered across her face and caught the faint strands of gold in her dark hair.

“Aegon will not give me children,” she said. 

He kept his expression soft. “What makes you think that?”

With every word she spoke, the gentle facade began to fade, the light and shadows of the fire only added to the look of fury on her face. “He knows a lack of an heir undermines his position. He will happily fuck whores and sire bastards but he will not fulfil his duty to me, his wife. He is a coward.”

Gods, she was beautiful when she was furious.

Her lip was still red and swollen. Before he knew it his thumb was against it again, hypnotised by the way her lip moved under his touch. His eye drifted up to hers. “On that much we can agree,” he muttered.

She took a slow step into him, bringing her hand around his wrist, gently pulling him away.

His heart stopped. Perhaps he had overstepped a line.

But she leaned in further, until their noses touched and all he could see was her. He felt her other hand settle against his jaw on his blind side. She leaned in further still, and pressed her lips into his.

He froze for a moment, but as her lips moved over his, he found himself unable to tame his impulse, the impulse that he’d been fighting for little less than five years. He allowed himself to melt into her softness, her warmth, the bittersweetness and the sharp taste of her tongue.

His hand snaked down to her waist, and only when he squeezed her flesh through her gown did he realise what he was doing. 

He knew what he should do. He should leave her, lock himself in his chambers and forget her. Forget her smile, her wit, the way his heart felt brighter when he watched her dance, the way he craved her sparse touches and her eyes finding him across the chaos of a crowded room.

Everything about her was perfect, his brother’s wife.

In his hesitation he retreated slightly. He could hardly think, hardly breathe…

And her voice cut through the fog of doubt in his mind. “You could help me.”

“How so?” 

Keeping her hand on his jaw, she brought the other to trace the highest silver buckle on his jerkin. Her thumb stroked against his cheek, featherlight over his scar.

And suddenly he understood.

He clamped his hand over hers. “It would be treason, Lucia.”

Her eyes were longing, pleading. “No one would need know,” she whispered, “there would be no question of parentage.”

His heart felt heavy. It would be a complete and utter betrayal of his family, not just Aegon, but his mother, his grandsire, and a risk to everything. They’d be no better than Rhaenyra, trying to pass a bastard off as an heir, and yet, there would not be much room for doubt, so long as the child had silver hair.

But suppose he gave in, bent to the will of those pretty eyes and perfect lips, only to stand aside for Aegon to claim what he would never deserve. 

He could feel himself on a knife’s edge, to stop, or to linger and let his desire consume him. He wasn’t sure what scared him more.

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” he breathed, but with every moment he felt himself leaning deeper into her touch. 

“Aemond,” she said his name like a spell and brought their foreheads to rest against each other. “There is hardly an aspect of my life which is under my control. If I should have some choice in this matter, then I would choose you.”

“Over him?”

Her breath echoed over his skin as she whispered, “above all else.”

His grip of her waist tightened, noticing the way her breath hitched as he traced his thumb over the fabric of her gown. 

“Aemond,” she whispered, bringing her lips to the corner of his mouth, “I want this, please.”

He caught her lips between his, kissing her with all the want he had spent years trying to suppress. 

His sudden urgency seemed to take her off guard but she met his efforts with just as much fervour, now with both hands cupping his face and fingers teasing over the soft skin of his neck, pulling him in further and further.

Lucia began to groan, falling into him arms and grinding her body against his.

He pulled away and took her hands in his. “Patience, Princess,” he hummed, and led her to stand at the foot of her bed.

Her eyes trailed over his jerkin while she ran her teeth over her lip.

“Turn around,” he ordered and she followed.

Cautiously but effortlessly, he undid the braid keeping her hair from her face. He ran his fingers through it, until he gathered it over her shoulder, exposing her neck to him.

He breathed in the bittersweet warmth as his hands traced over her body, over her torso, along the curves of her waist, the soft pouch of her stomach.

“Tell me,” he whispered, grazing his lips over her cheek, “how does my brother fuck you?”

“He doesn’t,” she uttered, watching his hands as they roamed, “he takes his pleasure in other ways, but never in such a way that would lead to a child.”

It was a dangerous confession to hear. If he wanted her before he was almost ravenous now, starved and fulfilled by every breathless gasp, every little twitch of movement in her body, desperate to feel her, claim her.

He hummed hungrily, and began to drag a hand further down, skimming over the fabric that covered her centre. “And would you like to be fucked, Princess?” 

She nodded.

“I said–” he pressed his hand firmly between her legs– “would you like to be fucked?”

“Yes,” she whimpered, writhing and leaning against him at the friction, “please, I want you to fuck me.”

He smiled into her. How could he ever deny her when she asked so nicely?

His fingers traced over the laces of her bodice before he began to pull them apart, agonisingly slowly, but he relished the anticipation and the little hitches in her breath. Once it was off, he moved to the clasps and drawstrings of her skirt, letting it pool around her ankles.

He offered a hand so she could step out and went to lay her clothing over a chaise. When he turned back to her she had removed her shoes and stockings, left only in a corset and a linen shift. 

He allowed his eye to rake shamelessly over her. He had never seen her in such a simple state, without the ornate gowns or the jewellery, her hair loose and tousled about her shoulders, the bare skin of her arms as she held her hands behind her back, her teeth running over her lip– a nervous habit, he realised, one that had somehow managed to evade his notice after all this time. He was the same with his hands.

He came closer and drew his fingers through the laces of the corset, while her eyes looked up to him. He made no protest as she reached up to slide off his eyepatch. 

She looked between his violet eye and the sapphire, and smiled dreamily. “My beautiful Aemond.”

His heart was shattered and welded back together. Hers. 

He watched her as she began to undo his belt and the buckles on his jerkin. Once it was off he pulled his undershirt over his head, leaving his chest bare. She traced her fingertips from his collar, over the hair of his sternum, the lines of his abs, until she let her fingers snag at the waist of his breeches–

He grabbed her by the wrists and pushed her to lie down against the mattress. “All in good time,” he promised with a glimmer of a smile. He released his hold of her wrists. “Keep your hands where they are.”

He dragged his hands down over her scarcely covered body, to gather the hem of her shift and bring it past her waist. He almost growled at the dampness of her small clothes, and pulled them from her legs, uncaring of where they fell. He gripped her thighs, prising her legs apart to reveal her glistening cunt to him.

He brought his thumb through her folds in slow, upward strokes, swiping over her bud just enough to make her squirm before he withdrew again.

“We can’t be too loud,” he whispered, “can you keep quiet for me?”

She hummed impatiently. “Yes, Aemond but oh–”

Her voice faded into a sweet moan as he licked through her. He liked the teasing, dragging his tongue to her entrance and savouring her taste before he moved up, flicking over her clit until her hips were moving against him. He pressed a wide palm over her stomach to keep her in place while he brought all of his attention to where she needed him most.

When he slipped a finger into her she groaned, pressing and biting at her lips to keep herself quiet, but her breath betrayed her pleasure, haggard and heavy. 

He could already feel how tight she was, stroking slowly against her tender flesh while his tongue circled over her pearl. And through it she kept her hands in place, just as he had asked.

The hardness in his breeches was starting to strain now. He couldn’t wait to feel her around his cock, soft, wet and warm.

Her hips started to buck again and her cunt twitched around his finger.

“Are you going to come for me, Princess?” He muttered against her.

Her voice was breathless and hazy. “Yes… I want to, please… please…”

“Not too loud,” he muttered, pushing a second finger into her, “you don’t want your husband to find out, do you?” 

She clasped her hand over her mouth, shaking her head as he pushed her further and further towards her high, until her body tensed at her release. He stifled his own moan against her flesh as she clenched around him.

She was utterly breathless, sprawled before him, drenched and dripping onto the mattress. He thought he could have kept her like this for hours, drawing orgasm after orgasm from her, savouring the sound and the taste of her pleasure.

But he had already stayed long enough, and he had no intentions of giving the guard something to be suspicious of, especially not when his family had seen him chase after her from the dining room.

Another time, he promised himself. For now he knew what she needed.

He finally rid himself of his boots and his breeches, freeing his hard and weeping cock. With her wetness still on his fingers he began to stroke over himself.

She watched him with wide eyes and parted lips, coming to sit up with her palms behind her.

Suddenly he stopped. “We don’t have to,” he said quietly, “are you sure this is what you want–”

Lucia came to her knees before him, silencing him with a soft and gentle kiss to his lips. Her hand brushed down his front to replace his hand around his cock, sending white hot shocks of pleasure rippling through his body.

“I want you, Aemond.”

His restraint snapped. He tugged her shift up over her head and then his hands were everywhere, gripping at her breasts, her hips, her rear, while she continued to tug at his cock.

Somewhere in the mess of hunger and lust his mouth moved along her jaw, teeth, tongue and lips grazing over her skin. “Lie down.”

Lucia stared back at him, resting her hands against his chest.

“I said, lie down.”

The darkness of his voice had her shuffling back until her head fell against the pillows. 

He came to kneel on the mattress and hovered over her, his silver hair falling around her face and brushing against her breasts. Finally he lifted one of her legs and hooked it around her waist, lining his tip against her entrance. “I’ll be gentle,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple.

With that he began to press into her. He immediately felt how resistant she was to him, even with her slick, but inch by inch, he buried himself into her.

“You’re so tight,” he growled, “so tight for me, my sweet girl.”

Her back arched against the mattress as her eyes fluttered close and her face began to twist.

“Tell me how it feels,” he said, his voice rough as he fought the urge to fuck her quickly, thoroughly. She’d suffered enough these last years married to his cretin of a brother, he wanted to be the end of it, he wanted her to feel safe and adored, as she should have always been.

She brought her arms around his neck and her other leg around his waist. “Deep,” she whined, “so deep… so good…”

“Open your eyes," he pleaded, "let me look at you."

She pulled her face from his neck and opened her eyes, those perfect eyes, as deep, dark and endless as the night sky, glazed slightly with tears of bliss.

He could feel her easing into his size now, and he was getting restless, still gentle, but pushing in and out at a heightening pace.

He’d been wondering what she might be like longer than he cared to admit, dreaming of having her skin against his, his name on her lips, clawing at the memory of her when he entertained his carnal desires with his cock in his hand. And now, holding her, fucking her, having her beneath him and begging for her pleasure was beyond what he could have ever imagined. He felt euphoria with every thrust in her, so tight, so perfect, so willing. 

While one of her hands gripped the side of the pillow she lay against, he guided the other down between them. “Stroke that pretty clit for me,” he said, “I want to see you cum again.”

Her voice was a slur of moans and curses. “Please, Aemond, please.”

“I’ll give you what you need,” he hummed, “my perfect girl, I’ll always give you what you need.”

She came with a pleading cry, milking him of his own release. He kept thrusting until he had spilled himself completely inside her, biting down on her shoulder to muffle the sound of his pleasure.

He pulled away to watch his seed drip from her twitching cunt before he dove in with his tongue again, pushing it back into her.

He felt her fingers in his hair and glanced back to her dazed expression. They stayed there for a moment, gazing once again into the eyes they each craved. 

Until he crawled up the bed to lay beside her, pulling her into him, bodies intertwined under the bedsheets.

She traced a finger over his scar. She had never known him without it, never known the weak, naive child he was before Driftmark. “I used to be terrified of you,” she said.

He hummed a small laugh. “You hardly spoke to me for almost a year.”

“I always thought you were formidable, always absorbed in your studies or your training. That and the eyepatch.”

“It is better than what lies underneath.”

Her fingers came down to his cheek, turning him to face her. “No, I think I prefer you like this.”

He held her a little tighter. He knew he’d have to pull away, eventually, but for now he was content to have her in his arms, the girl who hadn’t cowered when he had finally shown her his scar. The girl with wide brown eyes, who looked upon him as he was, broken, marred, damaged, and had managed to find beauty.

[storiesforallfandoms]

they forgot ~ corpse husband

word count: 2022

request?: yes!

“Corpse husband asks his S/O why they are upset two days before their birthday and they reply, "I just got a text from my parents saying to have a happy birthday today." ”

description: in which an early birthday text sends her mood on a downward spiral just days before her actual birthday

pairing: corpse husband x female!reader

warnings: swearing, shitty parents, some self hatred/insecurities due to shitty parents

masterlist (one, two, three)

I never liked my birthday. Cliché, I know. That’s how every sad story with a happy birthday ending starts.

I was a cliché from my high school days, too. I only had two friends, so “birthday parties” were always just the three of us in my basement watching the same movies. I tried to have an actual birthday party once for my Sweet 16. Only because my mother insisted upon it. Made me send out invitations to my entire class and decorated our house before leaving for the night so we could “have a real good time”.

No one showed up besides the usual two friends, and we ended up in the basement watching movies yet again.

That was another issue: my parents.

I know they loved me...in their own way, anyways. Most years we didn’t celebrate my birthday. Not how I would want to celebrate it, anyways. If it were up to me, we’d go out on the night of my birthday to one of my favorite restaurants and maybe have a board game night or something. Just be together as a family for my day. But that’s never how it went. My parents were always “busy” the day of my birthday. Mom made the mistake of telling me once that she forgot it was even my birthday and booked a day out with her friends. She didn’t ask if I wanted to come with them. If we ever did anything, it was usually whatever they decided with very little input from me.

I thought I was weird for disliking my birthday, until I met Corpse.

Corpse didn’t like his birthday either. When it came around the first time when we started dating, I didn’t make a big deal over it as he asked. I got him a gift and a cupcake with a candle in it, but that was it. He did the same for me - small gestures as to not make such a big deal over my birthday.

But, as time went on, Corpse started making a little bit of a bigger deal about my birthday. He’d order in take out form my favorite restaurant, make me dinner (once he also tried to make a cake for dessert), invited over a few of our friends once just to hang out for my birthday. I didn’t notice at first, and by the time I realized what he was doing, I was too happy to be upset. I was finally enjoying my birthday for the first time in...well...almost ever.

Until my parents dragged me back down to Earth.

I was getting ready for work when my phone chimed signaling I had gotten a text. I ignored it at first, figuring I’d answer whenever I finished getting ready. But when it went off a second time, just moments after the first, I figured it was important. I picked up my phone and the screen lit up, displaying two unread texts from my parents.

“Happy Birthday sweetheart. We hope you have a wonderful day.”

“We love you very much and we are so proud of you.”

It would’ve been a really sweet series of messages if it weren’t for the fact that my birthday wasn’t for another two days.

I sat down on the edge of mine and Corpse’s bed. I kept re-reading the texts until they burned into my eyeballs, the words “Happy Birthday sweetheart” standing out every time I blinked, until welling tears washed the image away.

I thought things were different. I thought I was actually becoming someone worth celebrating, or at least worst remembering my fucking birthday. But if my own parents couldn’t even be bothered to remember when their only child was born, how could anyone else be bothered to remember or care about me?

“I thought you had work.”

I jumped at the sound of the deep voice I usually loved so much. I hadn’t heard Corpse come out of his editing room. It had been another night of Corpse’s fucked up sleep schedule keeping him up from sun down to sun up. I had gotten used to our sleep schedules often conflicted, especially when my work required me to wake up semi-early in the morning. I guess I had momentarily forgotten he wasn’t in our bed while I was getting ready for work.

I quickly wiped my eyes and shoved my phone into my pocket. “Yeah, I do. I got distracted, I guess.”

I stood and made my way out of our bedroom, pausing only to give Corpse a quick kiss. I mumbled a “Goodbye, love you” as I exited our apartment, leaving before he could notice I was upset.

~~~~~~

The day passed in a blur. I couldn’t stop thinking about the text. I hadn’t responded, which didn’t trouble my parents too much. Part of me hoped they would realize their mistake if I didn’t respond and would apologize for mixing up the dates. But that never happened. They didn’t text me back at all. Didn’t even acknowledge that I hadn’t responded. They probably hadn’t even noticed.

I couldn’t wait to get home and crawl into bed and end this shitty day. If I was lucky, Corpse also would’ve forgotten my birthday and we wouldn’t do anything to celebrate the day I was once again dreading the most.

Corpse was laying in our bed, re-watching Death Note for the hundredth time. I kicked off my shoes and shrugged off my jacket before getting into bed with him.

“I can’t believe you started without me,” I teased, trying not to let my upset show in front of him.

“There was nothing else to watch,” he responded.

“We have Netflix, Disney+, and Hulu, but there was nothing to watch?”

Corpse put a hand over my mouth and shushed me. I giggled and rested my head against his chest. I was starting to feel somewhat better after the day I had had.

He moved his hand from my mouth to my back and started running his fingertips up and down my spine. “How was work?”

I made a grunt sound in response. “It was okay, I guess.”

“Only okay?”

I shrugged. “Nothing especially good or bad happened. It was just a day.”

His hand ran from my back to my hair. I shivered from the cool feeling of his metal rings against my skin, leaving a tingling feeling in their wake. His fingers tangled through my hair as he started to play with it.

“What’s on your mind, honey?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I responded, although it didn’t come out very convincingly.

“You’ve seemed upset since before you went to work. Did something happen this morning?”

Tears started to prick my eyes again. Corpse always knew when something was wrong. It was like he had a sixth sense about when I was upset, and he wouldn’t let up until I talked about it even a little bit. It could be annoying since I was so used to just dealing with my upset and sadness myself, but it did always help me to feel better when I talked to him.

Corpse paused the show and moved so he could face me. He wiped away the fresh falling tears with his thumbs. “What happened, baby?”

“M-My parents,” I sniffled.

That was really all he needed to hear. Corpse knew about the relationship I had with my parents. He had only met them once and decided that was one too many times for him. His once soft gaze at my sad face immediately darkened when I told him. “What did they do?”

“They...they sent me a text this morning,” I said. “Two, actually. Wishing my a happy birthday and telling me they love me and they’re proud of me.”

His brows furrowed in confusion. “But...your birthday is...”

He trailed off as I started to nod. The dam officially broke within me and I began to sob. Corpse quickly pulled me to him, burying my head in his chest and allowing me to cry into his shirt. At least he loved wearing black clothing so it wasn’t like I was staining the material with my sadness.

“Th-They couldn’t even be bothered to remember,” I said. “All these years I thought...I thought I was finally becoming important enough for other people to even...remember the day I was fucking born.”

“Of course you’re important enough.”

I shook my head. “Not important enough for my own parents to remember my birthday. My own fucking parents, Corpse! They were fucking there when I was born! You’d think, of all people, the person who popped me out of her fucking vagina would remember what day she did that. But she doesn’t, and she’s never given enough of a fuck to remember that day and make it special for me. Never! So why would anyone else care that much about me when my own parents can’t?”

Corpse pulled me away from his chest and looked down at me. He wiped the tears from my face again, gently running his thumbs under my eyes and down my face to catch the tears.

“I care,” he said. “I have since the very first day that I met you. If you hadn’t told me that you didn’t like your birthday, I may have thrown you the best party I possibly could just to celebrate you.”

I couldn’t help but let out a shaky chuckle. “You hate people.”

“I love you, though. And if you wanted a party, I’d try to give you a party.”

I shook my head. “Everything you’ve done for me since we got together is more than enough.”

“You say that, but to me it feels like it’s far from being enough. Your birthday is one of very few days that I actually want to celebrate throughout the year because you are something I want to celebrate. I don’t know what I’d do if I never met you.”

“Probably be doing the same thing you’re doing now: watching Death Note all night until you fall asleep at 5am.”

He chuckled. “Okay, yes, but I wouldn’t have someone to do that with me. And that’s what means the most to me. Since I met you, I haven’t felt as alone as I once did. You make me feel so happy, (Y/N). More than I think you could ever know.”

I could feel my eyes welling up again, but this time it was happy tears. I leaned forward to kiss Corpse, before pulling away to wipe my face again. Kissing someone while you’re crying, or while your face is still wet from crying, can be slightly awkward. Not that I thought Corpse would’ve minded at all.

“You make me happy, too,” I told him. “I’m glad I found you, and that we’re building this life together and starting our own family. Well...our found family.”

“One day it’ll be a real family. Whenever I start feeling better.”

I took his hands in mine and kissed them. “I can wait. As long as I have you.”

He eventually coaxed me to lie down with him again and pressed play on the show. I tried to stay awake to watch it with him, but after working most of the day and having cried a number of times, my eyes were feeling very heavy. I had to fight against my eyelids to keep them open, but it was a losing battle. At one point I had even managed to drift off to sleep for a few seconds before a sound on the TV caused me to jolt awake.

Corpse chuckled. “Do you want me to turn it off so you can sleep?”

I shook my head. “No, that’s okay. I don’t mind listening to it while I fall asleep.”

“Falling asleep to Death Note. And I thought I was fucking weird.”

If I had the energy I would’ve playfully hit his chest. Instead, I just grunted and turned into him more.

I felt his chest vibrate as he chuckled again. “Goodnight, baby. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I mumbled before finally drifting off to sleep.

[worddevourer]

I think the perfect set up for a false hydra is actually a party of newer RPG players.

For the unfamiliar: A False Hydra is a monster with a very particular gimmick, namely that it makes itself, and its victims, be forgotten using an enchanting song.. It's essentially 'The DM gets to gaslight the players a bit, as a treat' the monster.

Usually, the setup is the players arrive in a town where things seem peaceful, if quiet, and steadily realize that people that should, by all rights exist, simply aren't there. The innkeeper has a child, but claims she doesn't even know the man in the family portrait. If you press the matter she gets upset. You eat fresh baked bread for dinner, but in the morning, there has simply 'never been' a baker. That kind of thing.

And of course, the classic of 'You wake up. There's an extra bedroll. you don't know why, but the fact that it's empty fills you with dread.'

But of course, implying you had another party member who just got eaten and forgotten kinda fucks over the story you've been telling this whole time. Shouldn't all those fights have gone differently? How are the players going to care about a character who literally exists only as a supposed hole in their memories?

That's why, for this to work, I recommend new players (or just act like you're running a slightly laxer table).

Essentially, figure out what basic utilitarian weaknesses the party has, and then, without any great fanfare, handwave them. Suppose they don't have a wizard. They find a magic item. You say, 'yeah, you get it identified, and it's a ...' Without particularly specifying how or with whom. They're in a dark cave, and the one human of the group is like 'hey, can I even see?' and you tell them, 'oh, yeah, don't worry about it, just pretend you had Darkvision cast on you.'

If they press the issue, you make up a joke, not-actually-real character, who you say is actually doing all this stuff. Blinzki the Narratively Convenient Wizard or whatever. Just a narrative construct, there to grease the wheels of gameplay. (Though, keep score a bit. Remember where things by all rights shouldn't have worked)

And then, they'll get to this town, and you'll feed them a potentially magical item, and they'll ask what it does, and if you're very, very lucky, you'll get an exchange to the tune of

'Do you know anybody who could identify it?'

'We've always been able to identify things before.'

'Yeah. You think about that, and shiver with a sense of wrongness.'

You find the corpse of a wizard. Her journal references people with your names, and she talks about how lucky she's felt to be traveling with you. She's not a great combatant, usually hiding when battle starts, but she's made herself useful with in other ways, casting darkvision on the fighter when they're in a dark cave, and enhancing abilities at opportune moments.

You don't know her.

You're crying at the sight of her corpse.

[littlejuicebox]

Midnight Chimes 4 / Ringleader

Pairing: Astarion x F!Reader Warlock.

Word Count: 2,415

Summary/Setting: You and Astarion have met before, though you think it meant more to you than it did to him. You are an apothecary shop owner that has recently gained some mysterious Warlock powers; Astarion is, in your eyes, a rake that you wouldn’t trust as far as you can throw him. You two run into one another again after the nautiloid crash.

Preview:

It hadn’t really been you that found the three new party members, after all. It had been your patron. The blasted thing seemed to alternate between completely ignoring you and positively strong arming you into submission.  And it seemed unfortunately hellbent on collecting every straggler along the way of this little adventure. Though you supposed the cleric, the githyanki, and the Blade would likely prove to be more useful additions than the pale elf sitting nearby.  But how could you explain the connection to the celestial being to Gale or anyone else if you did not truly understand the connection yourself? How could you explain they were putting their trust in the wrong person for the job? Gods, you needed to get back to Baldur’s Gate and head to Sorcerous Sundries. Surely they would have some information about this unwilling bond. And speaking of unwilling bonds…

Warnings: eventual smut and gore 18+ / in game spoilers / angst, trauma, fluff

A/N: Finally feeling (almost) 100% back to my normal, healthy self! Thank you for the good vibes and well wishes! <3

The warlock, the wizard, and the rogue.

This little group started off with the makings of some ridiculous fairytale your parents would have read to you before bed.

Though, despite your parents wishes, you hadn’t really been a child interested in fairytales and make believe. Your penchant for pragmatics had developed early on, and before long mama and papa had all but given up on their dreams of a perfect princess daughter. In her place stood some sort of mad scientist… at least in their eyes.

You hadn’t actually been mad. Not then, at least. Though you were starting to worry that between the parasite and your patron, you might truly be going crazy now. No doubt the two were at war, trying to determine who would wrestle ultimate control of your mind.

Should you simply choose between the lesser of two evils, when your fate already feels sealed as it is? 

Gale and Astarion had blindly followed your lead the first day, and remained silent every time you decided to stop and change course, prodded in another direction by the celestial being playing with your psyche. This abrupt switch in traveling plans led you all to Lae’zel, where you convinced the tieflings to let her go, and Shadowheart, as she desperately tried to break open the door of some abandoned ruins. 

Astarion had simply picked the lock of the ruins, earning him some clout among the others for his skill set and further suspicion from you. After all, why exactly did a man like Astarion have any need for a skill like that? 

Subsequently, the five of you explored the dank, dilapidated building. After downing a handful of humanoids and some reanimated corpses, the group happened upon a strange, skeletal being named Withers. He said he would see you again soon.

After a relatively restless night in camp, you all happened upon the Grove on the second day of exploration. Some druid named Halsin is missing, though it turns out he may be the answer to your little predicament, Nettie tried to poison you (stupid, really, to try to poison an apothecary with one of the most basic tricks in the book), you saved a little tiefling thief from death, and then you met Wyll… all in a couple of hours.

The Blade of Frontiers is looking for some devil he’s supposed to kill; he’s also got a tadpole in his head, and like Gale, seems in relatively good spirits for such a grim situation. Those two seem suspiciously well-adjusted. 

The entire journey thus far had only been two days long and exceedingly… well, odd. 

It was certainly a much different experience from your day to day of brewing potions and tending the shop. You wanted nothing more than to return to the comforts of city life. But instead, you were forced to be the unwilling ringleader of this circus, despite your protests on the matter.

You are discussing your concerns about leadership with Gale as the group takes a short rest not far from the Grove. Wyll is gathering the last of his supplies and will meet up with all of you in mere moments. 

“Oh, but you’re doing a fantastic job, Demetria!” Gale exclaims, somehow unfailingly supportive of a woman he barely knew. 

Oh, how you wished to trust anyone half as much. 

“You have such remarkable intuition. We wouldn’t have found Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Wyll, or all this great loot without you!” He continues, before gesturing to a handful of gold and scrolls while positively beaming.

The wizard clasps a friendly hand on your back and then scans the surrounding area. He smiles at you once more, “Now I plan to make myself useful and harvest some flora! If you plan to make use of that newly procured cauldron, I best give you materials to work with.” 

You smile softly and nod at the wizard before he disappears into the shrubbery. Brewing potions was easy; you could craft all the basic ones by memory alone. But leading a group of people through the wilds based on some sort of fabled intuition and instinct? You weren’t so sure about that. 

It hadn’t really been you that found the three new party members, after all. It had been your patron. The blasted thing seemed to alternate between completely ignoring you and positively strong arming you into submission. 

And it seemed unfortunately hellbent on collecting every straggler along the way of this little adventure. Though you supposed the cleric, the githyanki, and the Blade would likely prove to be more useful additions than the pale elf sitting nearby. 

But how could you explain the connection to the celestial being to Gale or anyone else if you did not truly understand the connection yourself? How could you explain they were putting their trust in the wrong person for the job?

Gods, you needed to get back to Baldur’s Gate and head to Sorcerous Sundries. Surely they would have some information about this unwilling bond. And speaking of unwilling bonds…

Astarion is perched on a fallen log, basking in the midday sun’s rays. He’s the picture of relaxation, as if this entire sordid affair is a holiday away from Baldur’s Gate.

Sure, the pale elf had been helpful in battle, and he seemed to have a strange knack for opening locks, but as far as participating in camp efforts went, he certainly left a lot to be desired. You should have guessed as much. With the princely attitude and haughty confidence, it was likely he was merely another spoiled, rich elf. He reminded you of…

Nevermind.

You look to Shadowheart, hoping to pursue a conversation with the woman, but she is a few feet away, resting on her knees in prayer. Lae’zel is also preoccupied as she meticulously sharpens her already deathly blade. You’ve spent almost all day trying to intentionally avoid Astarion and keep any conversation with him to a minimum. But as everyone else seems busy doing their own thing, you’re left with no choice but to take a few minutes of reprieve near the rogue. 

You sigh and nestle yourself on the ground, unwilling to take the empty spot on the log next to Astarion; sitting like an animal in the dirt seemed the better option for your pride. As you lean back to stretch your aching muscles, the warm country breeze picks up, swirling around the elf’s silver curls. You are sitting downwind from the rogue, and the gust pushes a whiff of bergamot and rosemary in your direction. 

You can’t help it. The fragrance angers you. Astarion hadn’t even written to you once, even to send a simple rejection or at least compliment your sample. He’d wasted your time on your last few hours of vacation three years ago. All for what, exactly? 

He hadn’t even gotten to bed you, which had surely been his goal, in the end. 

You glare at him, in all his world-endingly beautiful privilege, as he simply lounges about in the sun as if nothing is wrong.

“It seems you liked my perfume sample enough to procure a rip off of it, but not enough to write.” You state coolly, watching the pale elf as he snaps his eyes open to study you. You notice him thinking, no doubt calculating some sort of smooth response.

“You can save the piss-poor excuses, Astarion.” You sigh, now reaching into your pack, trying to find the small vial of perfume oil you’d had inside your robes when that ship snatched you up. You open the vial and take a deep breath, basking in the comfort of familiarity.

It smelled like home. Like your quaint little townhome, in Waterdeep. Too bad scents can’t transport you back in time… at least not literally. 

There are a few beats of silence as Astarion watches you.

“I do apologize for not recognizing you before, and for not writing…” He begins, slowly, as if trying to soothe a wild animal, “I lost your card. I have a tendency to be… forgetful. And I lose things a lot. But, I did quite like the scent, as you can tell.”

You nod, acknowledging the apology but not willing to acquiesce any further. You cannot decipher if Astarion’s words are the truth or if they are simply honeyed lines meant to subdue you. Your pinky finger presses against the perfume bottle’s rim and you rub a bit of the fragranced liquid behind your ears.

The wind shifts, blowing your thick, dark hair forward around your face, obscuring your vision. You cap the small vial and then quickly tie your hair back. When you are able to see again, Astarion is almost gawking at you, scarlet eyes blown wide in surprise. 

He shifts and recovers quickly, jerking his gaze away and running a hand through his windswept curls. When he speaks, his voice has a manufactured, airy nonchalance to it, “It is quite windy out here, isn’t it?”

You don’t respond, and he turns to face you once again. His jaw tenses for a moment, and then he leans back, assessing you once more. He tries another tactic.

“That is… another lovely scent that you’re wearing.” He murmurs, and this time, the genuine, hesitant intrigue in his voice catches you off guard.

“Thank you,” You begin, and despite yourself, you are flattered by his statement. You truly love when others notice and compliment the artistry of your craft. You shrug and offer the vial to Astarion. Perhaps a small olive branch is due, if the two of you are stuck tethered together for who knows how long. 

The rogue takes the bottle and inhales the fragrance, and then he emits a noise that sounds something like a soft moan or groan. It’s a deep, uninhibited sound from the back of his throat, almost as if he’s absolutely losing himself in the scent. When he focuses on you again, there’s a relaxed look in his eyes paired with a soft, unguarded smile. It reminds you of the way he looked at you in your parent’s tavern. 

“Delicious…” He murmurs, his tone dropping into that salacious one he’d used on you at the tavern all those years ago, when asking if you planned to murder someone with poisons. Something about the way he said the word while staring directly into your eyes, his pupils blown from the fragrance he’d just inhaled, made your face grow hot.

You aren’t interested in a rake, and you won’t be fooled again, you remind yourself. No matter how beautiful the bastard truly is. 

You extend your hand out, motioning for the vial and he obliges with a disappointed tut.

“It’s a combination of lavender, sage, and vanilla.” You explain, tucking the precious vial back into your pack.

“And what else? There’s something else, isn’t there? It’s the same thing that was in the sample you gave me.” He responds, eyebrow cocked in curiosity.

You laugh in genuine surprise, “Good nose. Are you trying to steal my recipe so that when you return to Baldur’s Gate, you can have an exact duplication instead of the lesser version you have now, Astarion?”

You are partly joking, partly serious. 

The elf shakes his head, brows crinkling together in absent thought, “No… merely curious, I suppose. I’ve never smelt anything quite like your concoctions. I have to admit the memory of the scent from that night has… stayed with me. I would have written to you to tell you as much, if I could have. If I hadn’t… lost your card.”

You squint your eyes. There is something genuine in Astarion’s statement, despite the strange excuse about losing the card. Sure, he may have truly lost it. But then, he could have simply returned to the Drunken Dragon and asked your cousin for your address.

The next time you visited your family on holiday, after your conversation with the rake, your cousin indicated the elf hadn’t been by since that night. When you asked about Astarion every year, feigning nonchalance, your family always indicated he hadn’t been seen. 

It was almost as if he were avoiding the Drunken Dragon altogether for those three years.

You’d ultimately assumed he moved away… or perhaps died, murdered by one of his jealous lovers.

“It’s dragonsblood… just a drop.” You admit, eyeing the silver-haired elf with suspicious curiosity.

A sudden bark of laughter escapes Astarion’s lips. And then his head tips back and he positively cackles in a mixture of amusement and delight. He seems to find this information exceptionally hilarious. Your brows stitch together in confusion as you watch the rogue chortle.

Sure, it was an unusual additive. But it wasn’t exactly hilarious, was it? 

“Dragonsblood!” He exclaims, clapping his hands together in front of him as his eyes crinkle with mirth, “How… unique. You are quite the artist, Demetria.”

You feel the flush rise in your cheeks at the compliment while you murmur another thank you. Surely he’s flattering you, trying to ingratiate himself and hoping you’ll forgive his slight against you, isn’t he? 

Astarion’s eyes flit between yours now, and he hums in thought, “You look… different. From my memory at the tavern.”

“Really? Well you didn’t actually remember me at all until the parasite helped you, so I’m not quite sure how reliable your memory of me is. You look the same as I remember.” You deadpan, instantly trying to deflect from his observation. 

You know what he means… the ring hadn’t just affected your mind. It has permanently altered the color of your eyes into a strange purple, reminiscent of the cosmos itself. But you aren’t ready to share anything about your patron or the damn ring with anyone else just yet.

Astarion cocks his head, and he is about to say something more, but then Gale is bursting back through the brush. His eyes are wide with apprehension as he looks between you and the rogue. The concerned expression on your otherwise affable campmate causes everyone in the vicinity to quickly rise to their feet.

Gale grimaces as he addresses his new traveling companions with some level of unease, “I think you all might want to see this.”

And then he disappears back into the brush without another word. Part of you thinks you shouldn’t follow him, but you do anyway. After all, how could this possibly get stranger than it already is? 

Your patron is laughing again. Poor little apothecary, you have no idea.

[lexie-squirrel]

Corpse Party: Another Child

Прошлая часть манги Corpse Party, Musume, надолго отвратила меня от прочтения Corpse Party, потому что хоррор превратили в какой-то тупой и нелепый эччи. Но, к счастью, Another Child оказался гораздо лучше и вновь вернулся к ужасам в жуткой школе. Правда, ничего особенно нового по сравнению с десятью томами первой манги они так и не сказали. Тот самый Another Child вдруг появившийся наравне с Сачико и жуткими детишками, как по мне, только запутал дело. Рисовка тут была плавающая (как и любительский английский перевод). В общем, лучше Musume, но хуже первой Corpse Party. Очень рассчитываю, что следующая манга Book of Shadows выйдет не хуже первой манги, а ведь еще и одноименный фильм есть (но я и первый пока еще не видел).

[taevbears]

Magic Shop - 13

Every coin has two sides

⤑ pairing: OT7 x witch!reader, Namjoon focused ⤑ genre: magic au, romance, angst, hurt/comfort, found family, domestic/slice of life, action/adventure ⤑ rating: 18+ ⤑ word count: 10.3k ⤑ warnings: descriptive violence, body horror, near-death of a main character, prejudice and oppression of mages, heavy angst. ⤑ note: lol bc last week, i had already written out the entire chapter and just meant to edit and post it last weekend. but then another idea struck me while i was at work, and even tho i meant to just change ONE scene, it started leading to a completely different ending. so lol here i am, one week later, after rewriting half this chapter 💀 this chapter is also heavily inspired by "A Village Under Siege" and "The Attack at Nightfall" quests in Dragon Age: Origins + the world of necromancer bells from the "Old Kingdom Series" by Garth Nix

Chapters: Series Masterlist | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

From the distance, an old windmill is spotted over a hill. Its turbines spin slowly with the breeze, and the weathered bricks keep it standing tall after all these years. The distinct landmark signifies one thing.

Hawthorn Village. You’re finally here.

And it’s just as Namjoon remembers it.

Nostalgia hits him as you all cross the bridge that leads into the village. Thatched roofs and walls made of stone and wood. A large well near the center of the square where he used to make wishes upon as a kid. The elementary school he went to, the old church that his parents religiously attended, and the farmlands with livestock and crop mazes.

Much to his dismay, the aftereffects of the nightly terrors have taken its toll on his beloved hometown.

People are trying their best to get through another day, distributing produce to feed the hungry and burning the dead. A blacksmith with tired eyes insistently pounds iron with a hammer to make new weapons that will give them a better chance against the enemies. A militiaman tries to keep up morale, although most of the remaining men are just farmers and workers – none of them trained to fight. Survivors step out of the infirmary tents, wrapped in bandages but still in pain. A small child cries, looking for their parents.

Doom hangs in the air. Haunted and defeated are the faces of Hawthorn’s residents, as the looming threat of another unsettling fight is set before them.

“What’s happened here?” Seokjin asks one of the villagers.

A middle-aged man’s light up when he sees your group. “I haven’t seen you folks before. Have you come to help us? Did our notices finally reach someone?”

It isn’t long until the group is ushered to the local church. Gathered by the altar is the mayor of the village. Dark circles are under his eyes from sleepless nights, but he looks at you all with hope as the villager announces you’re all from a guild. Then, he explains to your party their dire situation.

Decomposing corpses return to life at night with the hunger for flesh, and they have been attacking this small village for the past few nights. From dusk until dawn, these attacks on Hawthorn are relentless. Each night, they come in greater numbers. Due to the necromancer and dark magic being involved, no one has been responding to their urgent calls for help. The local hunters have been summoned to the capital, and guilds often overlook their tiny settlement when they pass by.

All of Hawthorn fears that tonight will be the worst attack yet.

“You’re our only hope,” the mayor pleads. “Hawthorn won’t stand a chance otherwise.”

The Oathkeepers look at Seokjin, but his eyes are on Namjoon. He feels the rest of you looking at him too. As if it’s up to him to decide whether his hometown is worth saving, or if the quest at hand is deemed too dangerous to assist. Allowing him to back out now before they’re obligated to see things through, no matter what the risk.

“Of course we’ll help,” Namjoon decides without hesitation. “Tell us what you need.”

Tonight, things look pretty grim.

Morale within the village is at its lowest. After multiple perilous nights of terror and gruesome deaths, the ones still alive are worried they’ll be next. That nothing will remain of their beloved Hawthorn once the sun goes down.

“Someone has to know something about the necromancer. We have to find out who is terrorizing the village and what their motive is,” Namjoon concludes as you all gather outside the church to debrief. “We also need to help the residents prepare for tonight’s battle: teach them how to properly hold weapons, encourage every able-body to help with the fight, and inspire them to defend the land and their community.”

“Leave the villagers to us,” Seokjin offers, gesturing at himself and the members of his guild. “We’ll do our best to get everyone ready before sundown. You just focus on finding that necromancer.”

“Taehyung and I are going to look at their resources,” Hoseok informs, surveying the infirmary tents. “I might be able to make something for the injured.”

“We’ll check on the blacksmith,” Yoongi says, putting a hand on your shoulder. “He was in rough shape when we passed by. Half of the villagers aren’t wearing proper armor and are carrying broken weapons. Repairs need to be done if they want to stand a fighting chance.”

“Taverns are a great source of information,” Jackson mentions as he eyes the local pub. A smile touches his lips as he wonders out loud, “Maybe I can even convince the owner to give out free shots of courage to the fighters.”

“Then Jungkook and I will talk to the farmers,” Namjoon decides as he looks at his familiar, who nods his head in agreement. “The notice mentions that they’re the ones who suspect dark magic is at hand. Maybe one of them saw something that can give us a clue to where our necromancer is.”

With a solid plan set, the party breaks off to their assigned tasks.

Tonight still looks grim, but there’s hope.

With success, they might be able to turn everything around before nightfall.

“Any luck?” you ask when you see Namjoon and Jungkook circling back to the village square after a while.

“Not really,” Namjoon mulls with a sigh.

“They said the horde comes from all around the village. One night, they’re skeletons from the village’s graveyard. Another night, they’ve come from the nearby lake or from the thickets of the woods,” Jungkook explains with a frown. Whoever they talk to seems to have different descriptions of the undead creatures. “Most of the villagers are too busy trying to stay alive to keep track of what’s been causing the dead to rise.”

“They did confirm one thing, though,” Namjoon adds before he throws a glance at his familiar. “They heard the sound of bells.”

“Bells?” you echo, looking between them.

“It’s how the necromancers summon the dead,” Jungkook simply explains. “Without them, they’re just like any other mage.”

“Good to know,” you mutter, shivering at the thought of hearing strange bells in the middle of the night. At least, if nothing else, you’ll be able to take away their advantage.

Still, a mage that has the skills to control the dead must be incredibly powerful.

“How is everything here?” Namjoon asks as he looks around.

“Good. Jin is a natural at raising morale,” you reply, looking over to where a small crowd chants Seokjin’s name. The others in his guild have been teaching them how to use their weapons, and although they’re still clearly unskilled, their progress is still quite an improvement from before.

“Hoseok-hyung looks like he has things under control in the infirmary,” Jungkook points out. The nurses and patients around him are in awe at the simple potions he had given them, claiming that he must be a miracle doctor. They also look smitten over Taehyung, who’s soothing voice calms and comforts the bedridden a bit.

“Yoongi-hyung, too,” Namjoon notes when he looks at your familiar, sitting over an anvil and helping the blacksmith craft weapons of steel. With assistance, it seems like the blacksmith will be able to get repairs done in time after all.

Shouts and cheers from the tavern show that Jackson, somehow, persuaded the bartender to give out free ale to the villagers. Although tipsy, their spirits are high, and they seem eager to fight after a round of complimentary drinks.

“I’ll help Yoongi-hyung,” Jungkook states, interested in what they’re doing. He approaches the blacksmith, who seems elated to have additional assistance.

“We should probably check on Jackson. Maybe he’s heard something,” you suggest, turning toward the tavern. But Namjoon grabs your hand and pulls you back.

“Actually,” he starts, suddenly a little nervous. He takes a deep breath before he tells you, “There’s something I need to do first. Before it’s too late.”

At age thirteen, Namjoon awakened the power of magic. The feeling of bestowment is like fire. The initial spark of energy courses through his veins and spreads within him. Mesmerizing, alluring, and dangerous. No matter how much he reads and tries to understand his abilities, there’s always something new to learn, to incantate, and to master through his connection to the Veil.

Magic is both a blessing and a curse. Two sides of the same coin.

At first, Namjoon hated what he was. He hated that he became a mage.

Every night, when he was locked away in Alterwood Keep or WIndshire Tower, he questioned what he had done to be damned with such misfortune.

Magic is what burned his family’s home to the ground. Magic is what got him taken away from his parents, his friends, and his village – everything he knew. Magic is what lured the hunters into killing Ignis, turned Adriel into a beast, and shunned him from his home for so long.

The same home he stands before now.

“This is it,” Namjoon tells you, looking at an ordinary-looking house.

It’s been rebuilt over the years. Shabby, but somewhat similar to what it used to be. The curtains are identical to the ones his mother had put on the windows, down to the same shade of color. The front has pots of flowers that she liked to grow, and as the weather warmed, she’d smile as they began to bloom. Inside, Namjoon is certain he’d find a small collection of books his father would’ve read, and upon his favorite chair, he used to emphasize the importance of education and the pursuit of knowledge.

Your fingers thread through his. “Are you ready?”

He looks at you and nods his head.

At age nineteen, shortly after he was transferred to Blackstone Castle, he finally started to see magic as a positive force in his life.

Magic is what brought you all together, intertwining your fates with each other like red strings of soulmates. Magic is what makes the ordinary, unassuming shop at New Haven come to life and keep you all safe and happy. Magic is what brings him back to where it all started, with you by his side.

Years have passed since that fateful day he was taken from his parents. He’s started to accept that magic is a part of him. For all its wickedness and destruction, and all its serenity and wonder. Two sides of the same coin.

He just hopes, as he raises his hand to knock on the door, his parents will accept him as well. Magic and all.

The door swings open. An older woman stands on the other side. “Yes, can I help you?”

There’s a polite but cautious smile on her face, and deep dimples on her cheeks that match Namjoon’s. The resemblance between them is unmistakable.

“Hi Mother,” Namjoon greets her with his own nervous, dimpled smile. His hand squeezes yours for assurance. “It’s me. Your son.”

Confusion turns to recognition, which turns from surprise to disbelief. You watch as the woman looks at Namjoon like he’s a ghost.

“Y-You. You shouldn’t be here,” she stutters, lip trembling as her eyes water. Her hand is pressed to her heart as she steps away from the door. 

An older man notices his wife’s distress and comes to the door as well. He puts an arm around her and frowns at you two, not seeming to recognize the young man who has his height and strong build. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Father, it’s me,” Namjoon tries to say, but his voice is small. He’s starting to think that this is a bad idea. “Kim Namjoon. I’m your son.”

Like the woman, the man is initially shocked by the news. But then, his eyes narrow at Namjoon angrily. “What are the likes of you doing here, boy? Don’t we have enough to deal with?”

Namjoon visibly stiffens at the harshness in his father’s voice. “I’m here on a quest. I’ve come to learn that our village is under attack.”

“My village doesn’t need your help!” his father yells, spit flying as he holds his wife protectively. “Magic is what got us into this mess! Magic will make things worse!”

“Let’s get out of here,” you quietly urge, frowning at their hostility.

This is like his nightmares. Their looks of hatred and disdain burn under his skin, searing themselves into his memories. It’s hard for him to breathe, it’s hard for him to think. Suddenly, he feels so small. Like he’s a child again, standing before the fires that destroyed his home and took everything from him.

“Get away from him if you know what’s good for you, little girl,” the man warns, finally noticing that you’re there. “He’s something Wicked. His magic put us all in danger and ruined our lives!”

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon chokes out. The words that he wanted to tell his parents after all these years. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Get out! Do not come here again!” his father interrupts as his mother bursts into tears, burying her face into her husband’s shoulder. He grabs whatever is closest to him and waves it in a threatening manner. “Get away from our house before you destroy it!”

Namjoon obliges, stepping away from the door. He looks deeply hurt as he tries again. “But Father—”

“Do not call me that!” he barks as he gives him one more hateful glare. “We don’t have a son. Not anymore.”

Then, he slams the door shut.

“That went well,” Namjoon comments, sarcasm thick in his voice. He sits on a broken crate in the alleyway the two of you end up in and sighs. “I feel like an idiot.”

Part of him had known that, maybe, his parents weren't going to give him the warmest welcome. Part of him even thought that, perhaps, his parents wouldn’t recognize him.

Still, it hurts.

It hurts that he had expected otherwise. That he had hoped his parents would listen to him and forgive him. That they’d come to accept him.

But they’ve made it more than clear that Hawthorn Village and the house he grew up in is no longer his home. And that the parents who raised him are no longer his family.

Namjoon always knew this scenario could’ve been a possibility. And yet, he foolishly wanted to be wrong.

“Joon…” Your voice calls out from behind him, but you seem at a loss of words.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he apologizes, feeling incredibly dejected as he keeps his back to you. “I shouldn’t have bothered. I should’ve known it’d be a waste of time.”

And it hurts. It hurts so badly.

Knowing that all his efforts to return home — and all the punishments he took for running away — were fruitless. That no matter how hard he tries to be good and understand his magic, nothing will change.

In the end, Ignis really died for nothing. And that’s probably what hurts the most.

Namjoon half-expects you to scold him for dragging you along. For you to comment how you knew this was a bad idea, and that you both have other important things to worry about right now.

Instead, you approach him and gently wrap your arms around his neck. Your body is pressed against his back, hugging him from behind. Neither of you speak as he stiffens under your touch. But he places his hand over your arm in a wordless request to stay.

And you do. You stay with him, kissing his tear-stained cheeks and wishing you could do more to comfort him.

But to Namjoon, this is enough. Being with you is more than enough.

When the sun goes down, the dead awakens.

Villagers of Hawthorn scramble indoors, locking themselves inside and barricading the doors and windows. The church bells are quiet, not to be rung until morning light. Everywhere is an eerie silence, and those left to fend off the inevitable enemies swallow their fears as they train their eyes on the horizon.

There, a green fog mixes with the misty air, and the putrid stench of rotting flesh slowly advances toward them. Death is coming, and with it, alarming numbers of the undead.

“All right, everyone!” the mayor begins, taking command of the last line of defense. The odds are heavily against them, but he has to keep up what little morale they still have left. “We’ve driven off this evil before. We can do it again for one more night. We fight, or we die trying!”

With that said, the villagers charge in. Battle cries ring out as they use their pitchforks, shovels, and scythes to attack the incoming herd.

But they only get so close before the fear sets in.

Death looks them in the eye. Corpses with lifeless, glowing eyes, flesh rotten and decayed, and bones visible as they unhinge their jaws and let out an unsettling groan.

Some of them flee the opposite direction, running away from their foes. Some stand frozen, panic seizing them in place. Some, unable to stand the horrid smell, drop their weapons and retch out their stomach’s contents.

The villagers don’t stand a chance.

Then, they begin to hear it.

In the dark, rural farmlands, the sonorous sound of bells toll. Yet, when their eyes gaze to the local church, the large brass on the tower is completely still. If it’s not from the church, where are the bells coming from?

A scream pierces the air. The mayor turns to see a woman swinging an axe around violently. Her eyes are wide with terror, fixed on something before her, but there isn’t anyone around her. She continues to scream at something to get away from her as she slashes the air.

Two friends suddenly turn on each other. The two men have been buddies for years, and it’s like they don’t recognize their friend. They have that same, wild look in their eyes as they grab each other and raise their weapons.

The mayor’s heart hammers in his chest as they turn against each other, mistaking alley for enemy. “Men, what are you doing? Stop it!”

But it’s too late.

Blood splatters. Followed by cries of agony.

Horrified, the mayor gets away before they try to hurt him as well. As he runs, he grabs a woman’s shoulders and tries to warn her not to listen to the bells. But when she turns to face him, her face is completely disfigured. The flesh looks like it’s melting off her skin, bone and muscle peeking as she smiles wickedly.

“What’s wrong, mayor?” the woman asks, but her voice sounds off. Another voice is layered over hers – deep and raspy, almost demonic – that clearly isn’t her own.

The mayor lets her go and shrinks back in fear. As he looks around, he sees that the undead have somehow surrounded him. They stand there and watch him with their lifeless eyes. Their rotting flesh. Pitchforks, shovels, and scythes in hand.

Mysterious bells continue to echo, drowning out his screams.

“Do you hear that?” Hoseok asks from beside you. The two of you are stationed a little away from the village, near a part of the woods that locals claim was one of the spots the dead have risen from. It’s foggy and creepy, and you’ve been eyeing the thicket and expect a horde of undead to stumble from beyond the trees.

But it’s been dead quiet.

Even as you hold your breath and stand perfectly still, you can’t hear anything.

“What is it?” you ask, your voice a whisper.

Hoseok glances over at you with a frown. “I hear the ringing of bells.”

The sound of footsteps crunching on leaves and twigs catch your attention. Seokjin calls out to you and Hoseok as he and Namjoon appear from the fog. “We need to regroup. Something is happening at the village.”

“What do you mean? Are they under attack?”

Neither of them answer you. The concern on both their faces only makes you worry more as you and Hoseok follow them toward the old windmill where the rest of your party is waiting. It’s a little closer to the heart of the village, and you can hear some commotion going on, like the villagers are in the throes of battle.

You spot Taehyung in his raven form, flying from the direction of the village and landing before you and Hoseok. When he transforms into his human form, he reports, “The recently deceased have risen, but they’re not the biggest problem.”

“Then who are they fighting?” Namjoon asks, eyebrows furrowing together.

Taehyung leans against Hoseok for support, bringing his palm against his forehead like he has a migraine. “They’re fighting each other.”

Silence follows the unsettling news.

Seokjin is the first to break it. “What the hell is going on?”

As if to answer him, you all hear it too.

The haunting, sonorous sound of bells in a nearby distance.

Hearing them sends a chill up your spine. And knowing that they’re beckoning death makes them even more terrifying.

“We need to get the bells,” Jungkook reminds you, turning away from the village to look you in the eye. “It’s the only way we can stop their madness.”

“We’ll have to be quick,” Namjoon agrees. “Or Hawthorn won’t make it to sunrise.”

There are seven necromantic bells. Each is more difficult to wield properly as their size and power increases. And, without proper care, the bells have a negative effect on the ringer that could backfire to certain death.

As you and the others approach the village, you hear the chime of the first bell.

It’s been a long day. Traveling the long roads to the village by carriage and on foot. Helping the residents prepare for the gruesome attacks tonight. Getting ready to face a powerful mage hiding somewhere nearby.

Sleep. The first bell sings. And you’re hit with a wave of drowsiness.

Yoongi catches you before you collapse on the ground. His eyes are tired, as if he hadn’t slept for days. In a slurred mumble, he commands, “Stay with me.”

The others aren’t faring any better. Long yawns and slow steps plague your group. Some of them look like they’re about to slump over and fall unconscious. You and the other mages ignore the lull of the bell and stay awake and alert. With tired eyes, you try to scan for the source of the sound and see a shadow slip into a building.

“There,” you point out, readying your wand. You follow after it with half your party close behind you. Seokjin stays behind with his guild, promising to catch up. Jungkook looks lethargic as he kicks open the entrance a few times before nearly tumbling inside.

A home abandoned is what you’re met with. The people living here seem to be gone, hurriedly leaving in the middle of making dinner. Flies swarm the rotting food, but it doesn’t look like anything else has been touched.

“Be careful,” Jackson warns, going further into the house. He uses his wand as a light, cautiously going from room to room to make sure the coast is clear.

It looks empty. But you know it isn’t.

You feel someone watching you all from the shadows.

When you turn to face the main room, your eyes widen when the figure emerges. Shrouded in tattered robes and carrying a bandolier of old bells is the necromancer. Deathly pale as a ghost, thin and bony like a skeleton, and decayed like the very creatures they summon. 

The necromancer — a truly Wicked creature — isn’t human at all. It’s a phantom.

It towers over you, face covered in darkness. In its hand is the second bell, which rings and beckons the dead with every step it takes toward you.

A burst of flames comes from your wand, aiming right at the necromancer’s face. Fire catches on its robes, but the necromancer seems unphased. Even as it’s burning alive.

Behind you, wooden boards split and break, and arms of the dead reach through the window to grab you. A startled scream escapes your lips when something does.

You’re pulled tightly to Namjoon’s chest as he leads you away from the doors and windows. He keeps a wand pointed at the necromancer as he holds you protectively. From your peripheral vision, you see Jackson, Hoseok, and the familiars trying to keep the horde out.

Distracted, you don’t notice the necromancer tucking the second bell away and taking out the third one from the pouch. With two hands, it rings the bell – up, down, left right – each toll causing different sounds from one bell, but they make a dancing tune that compels your legs to move on its own.

“Namjoon!” you gasp, trying to hold onto him. Mechanically, one foot marches over the other. Against your will, you leave his side. Neither Namjoon nor the other boys could stop you as their own feet seem planted in place, unable to move.

By its command, you spin around and start to slowly head straight toward the window, into the reaching arms of the undead. The boys call out to you, and you try to resist the magic. Every fiber of your being tries to hold you back from being torn apart by their greedy hands and mouths.

But your body won’t listen. You continue to march forward.

With all his willpower, Namjoon leans as far as he can and reaches toward you. His fingers grasp the back of your clothes and he yanks you backwards. You stumble a bit, but you reach back and cling onto him, anchoring yourself as he pulls you closer.

“I got you, baby,” he assures you, wrapping both of his arms around you.

Relief washes over your face, even as your legs continue to move on its own, you and Namjoon hold onto each other. With the wand still in your hand, you manage to point it at the necromancer and cast a spell of frost, just as it takes out two more bells.

The necromancer freezes. Icicles form around it for a few seconds before it shakes it away. Namjoon’s eyes widen when he realizes something.

Magic is very effective against the necromancer.

Just as he realizes this, the phantom necromancer starts to rapidly swing the bell in its left hand.

Whispers from beyond the grave seem to float around the room with the fourth bell, disembodied and ambiguous. The voices are in every direction, layered with the quick and steady rings. And Namjoon swears one of the voices is calling out to him.

His eyes look for who is calling him, and his gaze turns toward the crowd of undead by the window. Then, his eyes widen when he hears the chime of the fifth bell.

One of the skeletal remains starts to look familiar to him. The clothes are tattered and weathered, but the scraps of what’s left are the same from that day, slightly charged from when the hunters burned him. Flesh and muscle start to form around the skeleton, bringing back the teenage boy Namjoon once left behind.

Impossible.

Ignis, alive and well, is among the horde. His first friend since he’s become a mage.

“Namjoon,” Ignis calls out to him again. His voice is echoing and weak, but it’s still very much the same as he remembers.

Hoseok, and Jackson are looking in the same direction, stunned. Namjoon would’ve thought they’re also seeing Ignis until he hears the names they call out.

“Mina?”

“Adriel!”

A sense of confusion draws Namjoon out of the spell. He doesn’t see Adriel or Mina in the crowd, but he sees Ignis. Are you two seeing someone different?

Taehyung grabs both Hoseok and Jackson before they could step closer to the window. “Don’t. You’ll get hurt.”

Yoongi and Jungkook block the window as well, trying to keep you and Namjoon safe. He doesn’t realize it, but Namjoon’s grip loosens around you from the shock. The spell from the third bell still lingers, causing you to move away from him again, but Yoongi easily catches you this time.

“Is that—?” you begin to ask, but Yoongi shakes his head.

“It’s a trick,” he says as he tightens his hold around you. “Whoever you see isn’t there.”

Namjoon’s heart drops a little when he realizes the fourth and fifth bell must’ve brought back memories of a deceased loved one. An old friend to each of you that had passed on. Their voices. Their likeness.

“Hyung, you have to get the bells, Quickly,” Jungkook reminds him as he glares at the phantom necromancer. “Before it uses the seventh one. That’ll cause death to everyone who hears it.”

That means there’s only two more bells left, and the last one is deadly. If there’s a chance to stop the necromancer, it has to be now.

The necromancer tries another combination. It exchanges the fourth and fifth bell for the second and sixth ones. With the second, it’s able to summon the dead, beckoning them to come to it from beyond the grave. And with the sixth, it has complete control over them, binding them to its will. Within its shrouded face, its eyes begin to glow an eerie yellow the moment it wields the sixth bell.

Namjoon casts a bolt of lightning from his wand, but the necromancer vanishes before it hits. The bells ring somewhere that he can’t pinpoint, and he sees you and the others regain control of your bodies and try to look for the necromancer all over again.

“It couldn’t have gone far,” Namjoon reasons, scanning around. All of you are on high alert, wands ready to strike the moment the phantom necromancer appears.

Then, he hears the sound of wood breaking. More reinforcements join the previous herd and start to come inside. Namjoon completely loses sight of you and the others, using gusts of wind to blow the undead back and knocking them against walls and furniture. He calls out to you, but the disembodied groans, the stench of rotting flesh, and the sight of disfigured creatures keeps him from looking for you.

One of the creatures he comes to face is Ignis. Or at least, what looks like him.

“Stop. I don’t want to hurt you,” Namjoon says, pointing his wand at him. It feels like his Harrowing all over again. Being forced to face his biggest regret.

Ignis has his wand pointed at him as well. It’s a broken stick. The old, dirty clothes that he wears barely covers his chest and waist, but there’s a deep wound where the hunters have stabbed him through the heart. There are burn marks from when they had set him on fire.

Namjoon feels a burst of hot air as a fireball flies past him. He counters it with a water spell, dousing the flames before it hits him. The two elements collide as steam fills the room, causing Namjoon to lose sight of his old friend.

Sparks of lightning flash to his right, and he barely dodges an electrifying bolt. The attack hits a picture frame behind him, and the glass shatters as it falls on the floor. Wind sweeps up the broken glass and hurls it toward him, and Namjoon levitates the broken boards in front of him and uses them as a shield to protect himself.

Spells after spells become a dance between offensive and defensive attacks between Namjoon and Ignis. He can feel himself getting tired. The overuse of magic is causing his hands to blacken. He’s breathing heavier, and pain shoots from his arm when it got hit with a critical ice attack.

But Ignis is slowing down too. He’s proven to be an incredibly difficult opponent. But like Namjoon, Ignis is panting for breath and from the tips of his fingers down to his wrist is inky black of magic overuse. The wound on his chest expanded, bleeding heavily, yet he still stands. Stubbornly, he continues to point his wand at Namjoon, still wanting to fight.

However, Namjoon knows he needs to end it now.

While in battle, it seems like the others have taken care of the undead herd, but the necromancer’s whereabouts are still unknown. He can hear them shouting at him, but he doesn’t know what they’re saying. All he can focus on is the opponent before him.

Needing to end the fight, Namjoon tries a new spell.

Keeping his eye on Ignis, he slowly crouches and puts his hand on the ground. The earth moves beneath his fingertips, and covering the house are thick vines. They come from one side of the house, through the window, reaching across the floor and ceiling, and finally snagging Ignis. He seems surprised when they wrap around his wrist and disarms his wand, and around his ankles to immobilize him. 

The surprise turns to worry when one of the vines wraps around his neck.

Then, they begin to tighten.

Namjoon tries not to react as he watches his old friend die by his hand once again. He feels the sting of tears threaten his eyes as the wand falls on the ground and Ignis begins to choke.

As much as Namjoon wishes he could go back in time and undo his old friend’s death, as much as he’d like to think this is the real Ignis and not some undead creature wearing his skin, he knows his friend is long gone.

He points his wand at Ignis, the tip of it heating with a fire spell.

But before it’s cast, Namjoon is knocked to the ground. As he comes to his senses, he realizes three horrifying things.

First, the phantom necromancer had been there the whole time. It’s been ringing the bells, conducting them like a puppeteer. And Namjoon is its puppet with strings.

Second, it isn’t just Namjoon that was being controlled by the bells. His party has been immobilized, forced to watch as Namjoon fights Ignis. But Jackson – who was standing closest to the phantom – manages to break from the spellbound restraints, covering his ears to block the sound. Out of willpower and determination, he puts one foot over the other to sneak up on the necromancer. Until, finally, he yanks the hoister of bells before the necromancer has a chance to grab the seventh and deadliest one.

Third, the moment that the necromancer is no longer in control, Yoongi lunges at Namjoon with his hand curled into a fist. Jungkook manages to grab Yoongi’s waist, but they both topple over and knock into Namjoon. The three of them are on the ground, and Namjoon realizes that Hoseok and Taehyung are yelling at him too, but their voices are where Ignis is.

Or what he thought was Ignis.

It isn’t an undead creature caught in the vines of his spell.

It’s you. This whole time, it’s been you.

“Let her go, Namjoon!” Hoseok screams, trying to yank the vines away from you. Every time he pulls one away, another takes its place. They start to tangle around him and Taehyung as well. He can feel it grabbing his ankles and see it wrap around Taehyung’s hand as he tugs on the one around your neck.

Fuck, he doesn’t even know if you’re even breathing. Your body looks lifeless as they continue to constrict your chest and your neck.

Taehyung curses and tries to shake off the vine that’s spreading up his arm and toward his neck. Hoseok’s mind is spinning, wanting to use a fire attack to burn the vines, but afraid that it’ll hurt you and Taehyung. And Namjoon is still dazed from the effects of the bells.

Seokjin finally catches up after helping the surviving villagers. His eyes widen when he sees what’s happening and immediately rushes to you with his sword at hand.

“Hyung!” Taehyung exclaims as Seokjin carefully cuts the vines to free the three of you. Hoseok immediately catches you, and to his relief, you’re still alive. You’re still breathing, but barely.

“Is she okay?” Seokjin asks, his hand still around his sword. The Oathkeepers have jumped into battle with Jackson, trying to take the necromancer down with standard magic spells now that the bells are not with it.

“She’ll be fine,” Hoseok says as he sees Yoongi rush toward you. He hands you off to him. “Watch over her, hyung. We have to help Jackson.”

Yoongi merely nods. His hands are trembling a little as he holds you in his arms, taking you somewhere safe from the fight.

Namjoon finally snaps out of it when he sees Yoongi passing by. He catches a glimpse of you too, but Jungkook shakes his shoulder and urges, “Hyung, come on, let’s go. They need us.”

Slowly, Namjoon stands and his eyes narrow at the necromancer. The spells are aggressive as it targets Jackson, trying to get its bells back. The Oathkeepers surround him, protecting him as they use their weapons against the powerful mage.

“Push it toward the vines,” Namjoon instructs, and they do. Each swing of an attack that the Oathkeepers land, and each spell cast from Hoseok and Jackson causes the necromancer to step closer and closer to the vines where you were.

One of the vines manages to snag the necromancer’s ankle. Another starts to wrap around its arm. Everyone watches as a being associated with death struggles to free itself from the plants that are full of life. But that only tangles it up even more, constricting it until it can’t move at all.

Then, Namjoon stands before the necromancer. He still has a bit of magic in him, and with it, he unleashes a small fire. Just like he had accidentally casted all those years ago, when he first awakened his power.

This time, it’s with purpose as the flames engulf and destroy everything before him.

There’s an unnerving feeling that settles throughout the remains of Hawthorn Village.

All night, the Oathkeepers gathered everyone they could find and brought them to the church. They figured it would be easier to protect everyone if they’re all in one place.

Priestess and the faithful Devoted clasps their hands so tightly in prayer, their knuckles turn white. Mothers hold their young children close, comforting them as best as they can. Men guarding the inside of the chapel anxiously pace with their hands hovering over their weapons, anticipating that they’d be the last line of defense if your party fails to stop the necromancer.

It’s been a long night.

The fighting and shouting beyond the church door lasts for hours.

But beyond the horizon, there’s a silver lining of hope. Dawn breaks, and a new day begins. As the sun rises, so does their salvation.

Word spreads of what you and the others have done. How you all saved the village. How Namjoon defeated the awful creature that’s been terrorizing them.

“Didn’t you have a son named Namjoon?” one of the villagers asks, but Namjoon’s father shakes his head and denies it. There’s a frown on the old man’s face as others have gathered to talk about the news.

It’s finally over. Their village is saved. They’ve survived those perilous nights. And it’s all thanks to the guild that came to help them.

Stepping outside, the morning light greets them. Fighters return to embrace their loved ones after the long battle. Children cheer with joy for their heroes, and tears are shed from relief between reunited families and partners.

Among the fighters, there’s Namjoon and his group.

One of the boys – the one with a slender build and a sharp face – has you on his back. The others are worn and exhausted, but seem okay from the distance as they help support each other back to the village. And Namjoon, with two of his comrades holding him up, keeps trying to disregard his own injuries as he worries about yours.

The concern on his face, the remorse and sorrow in his expression – it’s just like when he was a kid on that fateful day.

“How do you reckon they did it?” another villager asks him, looking at the direction that Namjoon’s father is staring at. It would be easy to reveal the truth. That Wicked mages are among them, and the entire village would be full of distrust and anger toward them.

“Who knows?” the old man says instead, and turns away from the group with a frown.

Magic may have gotten them in this mess, but in an ironic twist of fate, magic is what saved them.

For the first time in days, Hawthorn Village is promised a good night.

The mayor and the surviving villagers hold a small ceremony to honor the deceased and to hail your party as heroes. It will take time for their tiny village to recover. Even with the threat of the necromancer gone, there’s still fear of the night and what it could behold. But the mayor is confident that they can rebuild.

You’re then taken to Hawthorn’s inn to recover. Luckily, no one else is severely injured, but you and Namjoon have the worst of it.

Hours pass, and you’ve yet to open your eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” Hoseok reminds him, wrapping a cloth bandage around Namjoon’s arm. “That necromancer made you guys attack each other.”

It doesn’t make Namjoon feel any better.

“I nearly killed her,” he laments. At Blackstone Castle, Hoseok once swore that if Namjoon ever hurts you, he’d kill him. Truly, this warrants his friends to turn against him like others have done before.

But somehow, they don’t.

Hoseok finishes up and examines his work. “To be fair, she did a number on you too.”

Namjoon is told to rest, but he can’t bring himself to let his guard down. He keeps thinking there must be a catch. That, perhaps, the others are still angry with him and are starting to resent him.

“Namjoon-ah, come eat,” Seokjin calls out for him, gesturing for the mage to sit at the table. He serves him a bowl of stew the innkeeper made. “Be careful. It’s still hot.”

“Hyung, are you healing okay?” Jungkook asks again – probably for the fourth time that hour alone. He frowns at the bandages Hoseok put on him, and there’s genuine concern in his big, doe-shaped eyes. “If you need anything, let me know. Got it?”

“Be careful, hyung. You don’t want to hurt yourself again,” Taehyung scolds when Namjoon nearly bumps into something. It’s the closest any of them have been stern with him all day, yet Taehyung frets over him like he does with you and the others.

Even Yoongi strikes up a casual conversation with him, flipping through a book of Devoted scriptures he’s found. “What is this garbage they’ve been teaching you?”

Namjoon frowns. “Hyung, what are you doing?”

“There’s nothing else to read,” he states with a scowl.

“I mean, why aren’t you angry at me?” Namjoon asks, his heart still full of guilt. You mean so much to all of them, and what he did is unforgivable.

“You didn’t mean to hurt her,” Yoongi simply replies.

“But I did it,” Namjoon protests, feeling a bit frustrated. He doesn’t get it. “Why are you all so nice to me after what I’ve done? Why don’t you hate me?”

Isn’t this how it always goes? Why is it so different this time?

“You’re family to us, Namjoon,” Yoongi tells him. “We could never hate you.”

Namjoon wants to believe that, but he doesn’t feel like he deserves to. Not after what he did to you.

Whenever he feels overwhelmed and stressed, Namjoon likes to run to clear his mind. Usually, it’s along the river near New Haven, where he can relax beneath the shade of a tree he liked afterwards. But as he lets his feet take him somewhere, he finds himself by the Hawthorn Lake.

Most of the villagers have gathered here as the late afternoon sun colors the skies with reds and oranges of twilight. To honor and mourn the lives that were lost the past few nights, they’ve decided to hold a small ceremony for them. And standing a short distance from them is a familiar face.

“Where’ve you been?” Namjoon asks, walking up to him.

Jackson is quiet as he watches them. The villagers pray and hug each other, and some sing hymns and play instruments by the shore. Paper lanterns are lit and sent off into the water, representing both hope and remembrance, as well as grief and loss. With the setting sun hitting the water’s surface, it matches the small flames being carried across the lake.

It’s a beautiful ceremony.

“I wish we could’ve done something like this,” Jackson quietly confides without looking at Namjoon. “For Adriel, Mina, and everyone else we lost at Blackstone.”

“We still can,” Namjoon tells him, facing the lake as well. It might be difficult now, but maybe when things settle down with the hunters, they could go back to the lake by the castle and hold a memorial for them one day.

Silence passes as the sun continues to sink. For once, it’s a peaceful evening. And the somber songs start to turn to ones of celebration as a relief washes over them. Tonight, they no longer need to fear the dark.

“You know, I wanted to take up this mission so I could bring them back,” Jackson confesses. “Adriel sacrificed himself to give us our freedom. I’ve been trying to enjoy the gift he gave us, but it isn’t fair that he’s dead while I get to live outside the prison he desperately wanted to escape from.”

Namjoon frowns. “Necromancy is dark magic, Jackson. What if it backfired?”

“I didn’t care. I would’ve used whatever they had to bring them back: bells, tomes, ritual circles,” Jackson lists as he looks at the stash of bells he’s been carrying with him. “Whatever it took. Wouldn’t you want to do the same for that old friend you told us about? The one you saw during the fight?”

Ignis.

Immediately, Namjoon thinks of how the bells convinced him that his old friend had come back. How it took his shape and form, and how it used his voice.

“If I did, he wouldn’t have been the same.” He’d probably be no different from any of the other undead they saw last night. A shell of a human with its spirit gone. A mere illusion of what he once was.

“I probably wouldn’t have been the same either. Had I tried, I would’ve lost a sense of who I am and become a monster like that necromancer phantom,” Jackson concludes with a frown. “That thing we fought… it wasn’t human. It was truly Wicked.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon agrees. The necromancer felt like it had lost its humanity a very long time ago, and now just wanders into towns and villages to torment and cause chaos.

“Here.” Jackson holds out the bells to Namjoon. “Make sure to destroy them.”

Namjoon takes it, and he can feel the weight of its power in his hand. “What’s your plan now?”

“Don’t know yet. But I’ll figure it out,” Jackson replies with a small shrug. “I might stay here for a bit and help them rebuild. The guys at the pub really liked me.” 

You’re not sure how long you’ve been asleep.

For a while, you drift in and out of consciousness. You feel the warmth of Hoseok’s healing magic before he applies an ointment to your wound. You hear the sweet tune of Jungkook’s song as he sings to you. You feel Taehyung brush the hair away from your face and press his lips against your knuckles. You hear Seokjin bargain with you – a kiss from your handsomest boyfriend if you open your eyes. When you do, you see Yoongi sleeping on a chair nearby, and you’re certain he hasn’t left your side since you were brought here.

But you don’t see or hear from Namjoon. You force yourself to sit up as the memories of last night come back to you.

In all the years you’ve known Namjoon, he’s always been a strong person. He has thick skin and a level head, and is eloquent and witty with his words. He shoulders a lot of the hard work so you and the others don’t have to. Whenever you need advice, comfort, or someone to rely on, he’s always the first person that comes to mind.

But Namjoon is also human. He can’t always be strong.

And while the details of the fight are still a bit foggy to you, there’s one thing that haunts your mind. The absolute horror on his face when Namjoon finally realizes it’s you he was attacking.

Yoongi stirs when he senses you’re awake. “Where are you going?”

Caught halfway to the door, you stop mid-step and ask, “Yoongi, have you seen—”

Just then, the door opens. Jungkook blinks in surprise when he sees you out of bed. “Oh? You’re awake?”

The others start to crowd in when they hear you’re up. You’re met with relieved sighs, lingering touches, and questions about how you’re feeling from all of them. But as you look around, you notice someone is missing.

“Where’s Namjoon?”

The boys look at each other, exchanging glances as if they don’t know what to tell you. Then, Jungkook speaks up. “He went to get some fresh air. He feels really bad about what happened.”

“I should talk to him,” you decide, determined to find him. You want to look for him anyway. “Do you know where he went?”

Soon, all of you are outside the inn. It’s incredibly empty by the square, and you learn that it’s because most of the villagers have gathered by the nearby lake. From what you’ve heard, it seems Jackson and Namjoon heeded over there as well.

“You’re the girl that was with that boy, aren’t you?”

For a second, you almost didn’t realize someone was talking to you. Then, you turn to see a familiar face. A woman that looked at you with terror and coldly slammed her door at your face yesterday. Namjoon’s mother.

“I am,” you answer, honest but a bit guarded. Now that you have a good look at her, you can see how much Namjoon takes after her appearance. He has the same high cheekbones, the same shape of her eyes, and the same deep dimples in his smile. She stares at you as well, but she doesn’t say a word. Self-conscious, you ask, “Is… Is something wrong?”

She blinks and shakes her head. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to stare.”

You don’t sense any hostility from her this time. Rather, you feel like she’s genuinely curious about you. Perhaps, after the battle and hearing people talk, she had a change of heart about her son.

“That’s all right. I must look terrible.” 

You laugh awkwardly, trying to dust off any dirt from your clothes and fix your hair. Magic helps make you look presentable enough to go out, but you’re still exhausted from fighting all night. Your spells are still weak from overuse, your current clothes are battle-worn, and you’re in a dire need of a bath.

“Actually, you’re quite beautiful,” she quietly admits, and you’re taken aback by the compliment. She looks away from you. There’s a sadness in her eyes as she asks, “How do you know him?”

She doesn’t need to name him for you to know who she’s talking about.

“We’re…” Friends? Lovers? Housemates? Family? “Together. He’s my partner.”

She still doesn’t look at you, but you can see the frown form upon her lips. “And you know what he is?”

“That he’s a mage? Of course I do.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

You blink at her, confused. “Why would it bother me?”

Her gaze lifts to meet yours, and she stares at you for a long time. It begins to occur to you that, although she knows that Namjoon is a mage, she doesn’t know that you’re one as well. To her, it seems outlandish that a human would willingly love a mage.

“He’s a monster. At least, I believed so,” she finally tells you. “I blamed him for ruining our lives. Don’t you know how shameful it is to have a child cursed with magic? The whole village shunned us for years.”

“Perhaps that’s a problem with your village’s beliefs and not your son,” you retort with a scowl. “His affinity to magic isn’t the only thing that defines him. He’s a good man with a kind heart, and while he’s many things, a monster is far from it.”

Remorse flickers on her face. “Forgive me. It seems you care an awful lot about him.”

“Of course I do,” you tell her so earnestly. “Whether he’s a mage or not, he’s still Namjoon. And I love him.”

Again, his mother stares in silence. She seems baffled, and, perhaps, a bit guilty. For a moment, she hesitates, and just when you’re about to walk away, she asks, “And… is he happy?”

You glance back at his mother. “You can always ask him yourself.”

“No, no. It’s too late for that now. It’s better that he doesn’t know I talked to you,” she backtracks, but there’s a small hint of relief to know what’s become of her son after all these years. “Thank you for indulging an old, shameful woman. I’m glad that he has someone like you who loves him for all he is.”

Night has fallen over the village of Hawthorn. But for once, it’s met with laughter and festivities of celebration. Jackson spots his new friends from the pub and introduces them to him. A guy named Mark invites them both for a drink and to hang out as the lantern ceremony continues.

The moon shines brightly as its light reflects against the lake’s surface, and the glow from paper lanterns being carried across the water is a breathtaking sight.

“Namjoon.”

But despite all the people and festivities around, all you see is him.

Namjoon leaves Jackson and the others and sprints toward you, but stops himself before he gets too close. His hand reaches out to touch you out of habit, but he holds it back. He swallows the fear and hesitation building within him before he plasters a nervous smile. “Hey, baby.”

You look him over, not saying anything at first. Your eyes seem fixed on the bandages he has around his arm. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

His smile fades. A short chuckle of disbelief escapes his lips. “How is that the first thing you ask me when I’m the one that hurt you?”

“You didn’t know.”

“I could’ve killed you!” His voice raises, causing a couple passing by to look at you two. He steps a little closer and frowns. “I’m sorry, baby. I swore to myself that I’d always protect you, and I put you in danger. I don’t ever want to put you in that situation again.”

“Namjoon…”

“So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

You seem to know where this is going. He could see the shakiness in your breath and the way your eyes water. “Namjoon, stop…”

“I think it’s better that I stay here at Hawthorn.”

This decision didn’t come easy. But after hearing that Jackson planned to stick around, he figured he’d stay with him. Help the villagers rebuild. Reconnect with old friends and maybe even his parents. Make this place feel like home again.

It seems like a reasonable idea, but the hardest part is leaving you, the family you brought together, and the shop that became your home. As Namjoon stands before you, he knows he doesn’t deserve any of them. Not you, not the others, not the shop.

“You don’t mean that.” You’re crying now, and even as you wipe your tears, you can’t bring yourself to stop.

In all the years Namjoon has known you, you’ve always been a strong person. You carry an admirable confidence when it comes to your magic. You’re as kind as you are protective of the people you care about. You’re capable of handling yourself when faced with difficult situations.

Before he realizes it, he reaches out to you again. His hand cups your face and his thumb gently strokes your cheek, wiping your tears away. “I’m so scared of hurting you again.”

“And I’m scared to lose you.”

But you’re also human. There are times when you’re not always strong.

It dawns on him that you, like him, are terrified that your magic has hurt him. That you think the reason he wants to stay at Hawthorn is because you attacked him.

“You’ll never lose me,” Namjoon promises. Because he knows, even if you’re far apart, he’ll always think about you. In his dreams, in his thoughts. You’ve already claimed every part of him like a fire. “I love you.”

“Then don’t stay here,” you tell him. “Come home. With me.”

And it strikes Namjoon that this is what he’s been searching for his whole life. All the times he’s tried to return to his family, and all his efforts to understand his magic were to get what you’ve given him all along. Acceptance, trust, love. 

Namjoon nods his head, swallowing back his own tears. “Okay.”

“Okay,” you repeat, smiling with relief. And on that beautiful night, with the moon shining brightly and the paper lanterns glowing in the water, he kisses you.

Hawthorn is just as Namjoon remembers it.

The small, farming village with a tight-knit community. Every morning, the villagers rise at the crack of dawn, tending to their animals and crops, fishing by the nearby lake, and selling their produce at the marketplace. His parents still live here, and so do many of his childhood friends and their families. And when he looks around, he sees the familiar buildings of the old windmill, the local church, and homes made of thatch roofs and mud and stone walls.

Even when he was forced away, he couldn’t imagine anywhere else could be his home.

Years later, after finally returning to the village, Namjoon realizes he couldn’t be any more wrong. He had once thought – while trapped in a tiny room in Alterwood Keep – if he ever made it back here, he’d never want to leave. That this place was his village. This place was and will always be his home.

“Ready?” Hoseok asks, looking at you, Namjoon, and Jackson. The three of you nod as all wands are drawn over the necromancer bells.

With the power of four mages, the powers are sealed away and their tempting call to beckon the dead is nearly silenced. They look like ordinary bells, but should anyone try to ring them now, it’d be muffled and mute. Its effect is significantly weak with the magical seal intact, and the bandolier of bells tucked away in Jungkook’s pack.

“Let’s get out of here,” Seokjin decides once the spell is done. His hand slips around your waist protectively, weary eyes double-checking that none of the villagers have seen you guys use magic.

“It was nice seeing you guys again, man,” Jackson says, hand clasping Hoseok before he pulls him into a quick hug. He does the same to Namjoon and adds, “I’m glad you changed your mind. It doesn’t feel right to separate you all for some reason.”

Namjoon smiles a little at that. “Feel free to stop by at the shop anytime, Jackson.”

“I’ll know where to find you.” There’s promise in his voice that he’ll keep in touch.

Your party heads out of the village, receiving final thanks from the mayor and some of the other villagers for your help. Namjoon pauses when he sees his parents among them. His father merely nods at him and says, “Take care of yourself, Namjoon.”

“Thanks. You too,” he replies, a bit stunned. His parents leave it at that, shuffling away as Hoseok calls for him not to fall behind, but for Namjoon, that is more than enough.

When he catches up to you, you’re at the bridge that enters the village. He pauses and takes one more look around at the old windmill, village, and the farmlands. It really hasn’t changed that much since he was a child.

But Hawthorn no longer feels like home to him.

“Ready?” you ask, offering your hand to hold.

Around you, the others state how they’re looking forward to going back to New Haven. Yoongi complains that he needs a bath and a long nap. Jungkook wrinkles his nose at his muddy pants and mutters how he’s eager to start his meticulous laundry routine. Hoseok and Taehyung invite the Oathkeepers for food and drinks at the shop once you’re all back, and Seokjin complains how he’ll end up doing the majority of cooking.

Namjoon smiles fondly as he watches you all. Then, he nods and takes your hand.

These days, home to him is a small, ordinary, and unassuming shop in a bustling trading town. It’s a building that’s much bigger and more extraordinary on the inside than it is on the outside, with a tavern, a parlor, a mysterious door by the entrance that fulfills a person’s greatest desires, and bedrooms on the upper-floor curated to their residents’ tastes and styles.

Lately, home is waking up to bread baking and coffee brewing when Seokjin and Hoseok wake up early to start the day. It’s afternoons when he’s reading a book and listening to Yoongi playing the piano in the parlor, or Taehyung and Jungkook giggling as they play games with each other. Home is evenings when Jimin stops by with a bouquet of flowers for you, and all eight of you are gathered together for dinner as the weariness of the day melts away in each other’s presence.

To him, home is picnics by the river with you, basking beneath the sunlight of a gorgeous day. Home is debating what fruit is the best at the marketplace, and ending up taking home both of your favorites anyway. It’s childishly teasing each other with pranks and mischievous spells, and then finding ways to be in each other’s arms by the end of the day.

Home is with you.

Thank you for reading ♡ Comments & reblogs are greatly appreciated!

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[pennysperfectpolls]

Adoption poll preliminary match 21

Sachi Shinozaki (Corpse Party: Blood Drive)

Kai Satou (Your Turn To Die)

Ortho Shroud (twisted wonderland)

Kenji (Ghost Hunt)

Only two will move on

Propaganda under the cut

Sachi Shinozaki (Corpse Party: Blood Drive) Propaganda

My poor fucking girl. She never got to be born. No one knew she even existed. Only a single tooth came out of the womb. She became a vengeful ghost child over this; since she never got a name, she’s named after her sister by the rest of the cast, partially because she kept saying “Sachi” but that was because she was ruefully cursing her twin sister for keeping her from being born. A lady swallows her tooth and promises to give birth to her, and then that lady fucking dies in the “traps your soul when you die” dimension. In fact, the lady knew she was gonna die soon before she made that promise, so Sachi straight up got scammed!! Within the fandom, she’s only known as “Sachiko’s crazy twin sister that isn’t as good a villain as her” and she only exists in a game the fandom considers to be the worst of the series, so she can’t catch a break even in the real world.

Kai Satou (Your Turn To Die)

No propaganda given

Ortho Shroud (twisted wonderland)

No propaganda given

Kenji (Ghost Hunt) Propaganda

He is a ghost child which is already sad enough. He was left at a church orphanage while his dad had to leave for work and was told he’d be back by next Christmas, but his dad died shortly later. Kenji was mute so when playing hide and seek the other kids would give him a stick to signal when he was ready. While the church was under renovations he climbed up into the alcove next to a statue but the scaffolding broke under him, the staff looked everywhere on the ground for him but couldn’t find him. His body lay there for thirty years.

Every so often he would possess another kid to go play “stick” and would leave once they were found. But as the possessions became more frequent our team of ghost hunters were called in to help. Kenji thought one of them was his father cause they looked similar and became incredibly clingy, much to the grumpy assistant’s dismay. Most of the time we see Lin he’s either focused or glaring at Mai, so this was pretty funny, especially after Kenji possessed Mai. Lin did snap eventually and Kenji ran off in Mai’s body. The team got the kids to help look for them but noticed that none of them were looking up and put the pieces together. They found Mai up in a tree and Kenji showed them where his body was. He finally was found and was able to reunite with his dad.

In summary; sad Mute Ghost Boi who just wants his daddy and is so very sweet.

Pollrunner note: oops all ghosts? Ghost hunt means a lot to me.

[wheresmycontent]

Modern Life [Castlevania]

Alucard, Hector, Sypha, Trevor

C|TW: mentions of suicide,

ALUCARD

His mother loved him unconditionally and spoiled him with affection. She allowed him to express himself, never forcing him to bottle his emotions because of his gender. She was the reason Alucard loved learning history even though she had a career in science. The day she was murdered after being falsely accused he genuinely believes he died too. He’s never felt anything other than sadness and despair and it’s been years since she was taken from him.

Alucard couldn’t go to his father for comfort because he was dealing with depression. Any attempt to talk to him was met with silence or something being thrown close enough to scare him off. Although he wasn’t the best father to him, Alucard was still traumatized to find his dad bleeding out in his bedroom. The suicide was already enough to shake him but seeing his father dead in his child-sized bed was forever ingrained in his mind. For this reason, he’s always slept better on couches.

Inheriting generational wealth from his father, Alucard didn’t have to attend college or get a job but he decided to become a historian. His career takes him around the world as he researches artifacts and gives lectures at universities across the globe. The reason Alucard is dedicated to his work as a historian is mostly due to his unbearable loneliness. The minute he steps away from his work he’ll be reminded of his unfortunate childhood and the lack of friends he has.

Outside of his career as a historian, he visits museums, bookstores, and any place that has a bit of an educational experience. It gives him time away from his empty home and forces him into socializing, even if it’s a short conversation. That’s how he was able to meet Sypha. It was the first time in years that he enjoyed someone's company, meanwhile, he could’ve lived peacefully without meeting Trevor. He found him annoying and would bicker with him until Sypha forced them to separate but they’ve come to care about one another deeply.

HECTOR

Having a neglectful father that was absent for plenty of his childhood and a mother that despised him for it caused Hector to become detached from other people. He thought he was a burden to people and would be better off keeping to himself. That’s why he loved animals, not that his parents cared. Hector was lucky that the old neighbors were willing to let him come over to play with their two kittens. Eventually letting him have one since he was right next door, but that didn’t do him any good since his mother forced him to return it.

At first, Hector studied to be a mortician. He was able to handle corpses and grieving family members without being morose. It was also enough for him because he didn’t have a goal in mind, simply going with the flow and doing what he needed to pay bills. It wasn’t until he realized he could be a veterinarian that Hector suddenly switched career paths. It made him feel complete, caring for furry companions and being able to work with animals. He doesn’t adopt a pet of his own because he keeps himself busy with work and in his free time volunteers at animal shelters.

Hector doesn’t have a lot of confidence in himself and still believes he’s better off being alone but people genuinely love his company. His kindness and natural humor are enough to have people invite him to parties and hang out outside of work. It makes him feel fuzzy and warm knowing he’s not as bothersome as his parents made him feel. Though he’s still careful to not be too trusting since people take advantage of his kindness, the only person he can call a true friend is Isaac.

SYPHA

Sypha comes from a family of scholars and was raised humbly even though the family has a comfortable amount of money. She has been fascinated with history and art for as long as she can remember. Her family would travel around the world to teach her about other cultures and traditions, teaching her to be respectful of each one regardless of the differences. It was no surprise to her family when she studied to become a museum curator, also dabbling in psychology because she loves helping people.

Whenever she has the time off she loves to have road trips to different cities, never having a goal just wanting to eat around new places and meet people. She loves to collect different mugs and postcards from each place, often sending them to her family letting them know that she is doing well. Even though she’s wildly popular she likes to take these trips alone so she has her own schedule and isn't forced to move at everyone else’s pace. Besides she’s always in the company of others, it’s the perfect time for her to relax and have time to herself.

The only time she’s had a road trip with friends is after meeting Trevor and Alucard. Both are rough around the edges and seem to be in need of a break indulging in food and enjoying the scenery. She regretted it immediately, the two bickering and purposely getting on each other’s nerves. Sypha was quick to drop them off on the side of the road forcing them to figure things out unless they wanted to catch a bus home. It was a good time nonetheless she just wouldn’t do it again.

TREVOR

The lone wolf bounty hunter with a grudge against the police department and government. His family has served the country for years working as officers and soldiers, loving to protect the people around them. Once his father realized how corrupt his superiors were and pushed to have them removed his family was targeted. Most lost their jobs and pension, and few were murdered as a warning. Trevor hates how his family was wrongfully treated for calling out injustice and has held a grudge against government workers for as long as he could remember.

He’s no longer able to join the police or military force because the minute they see his name they’d throw his application in the shredder and send hell his way. Yet that hasn’t stopped Trevor from being the protector he is. He still hunts down fugitives that have done heinous crimes to make the world a bit more bearable and to collect money. When he does have to encounter officers of any sort there’s always a thick tension because he doesn’t hold back one bit and openly lets his hatred be known.

His idea of a fun activity is going to a bar and getting drunk. He tries not to do it often but because of his life, he’s always had trouble putting down the bottle. It helps him be numb for once. Trevor acts like he doesn’t care but all he ever thinks about is the problems of the world and his life. When he drinks he’s able to have a brief moment to be somewhat happy. That’s why Sypha tries to help him find happiness in places that aren’t a bar. So at least then when he does have his low moments he won’t think to drink his sorrows away.

[akronus-writes]

Natures wrath

he can't remember what his "real" name was, but he can remember what his mother called him "her little crow" which made sense, he was relatively small compared to the other kids and fond of all forms of nature. Mother was a lovely woman, she always helped him when he didn't really know how to garden or take care of his pet crow, Corvius.

He always spent his time gardening and roaming the woods with Corvius, even as he entered Highschool and the other kids became more obsessed with cars, partying, and sex. which led to some expected bullying.

while he was used to this bullying, he always found some comfort with Corvius, no matter what the bullies tried, until one day they went too far. after he offhandedly compared the lead bully to a pathetic bird, he earned a harsh beating from his peers, their positions as the star players of the schools football team allowing them to get off scott free.

later, Crow would spend his after school time on walking through the woods, Corvius a few metres in front of him. Crow couldn't help but appreciate the way his closest friend flew through the air gracefully, and he couldn't help but envy his friends freedom and power to fly through the air.

suddenly, he was broken out of his stupor by a sickening "Crunch", as a rock hit Corvius and sent the corvid directly into the ground. panicked, Crow ran up to his injured friend, to focused on the bird to notice the group that surrounded him.

Crow felt every single kick and punch, as he struggled to shield his injured friend. and as the teenagers left, he continued to lay there, crying next to the bird, even as the sun fell below the horizon, and a search party came looking for him.

the search party was only slightly successful, finding the dead corpse of a bird which neighbours would later identify as the missing boys pet crow. but never found the actual child.

three weeks later, the star players of the local football team disappeared, one of the boys trucks was found destroyed in the woods, somehow already overgrown by plant life.

the next day the 8 boys were found in the same clearing of Corvius, their feet and legs either horrifically mangled or severed, covered by hundreds upon hundreds of crows which has cut into the boys skin with their claws, which refused too move from on top of the boys until police shot at them.

it took another 5 weeks to get a single one of the boys to talk, and even then police can draw no real conclusions.

"w-we were driving on the road, yeah some of us where drinking, but johnny (the owner of the truck) wasn't, but suddenly the damned car just... swerved off the road! we were thrown into the woods when the truck crashed, and I can barely r-remember anything but that, that thing. I-it was like a man, but it had giant wings, like a crows, and th-those crows they were under its control! I-it had them tear into our legs and scratch at us, it wanted to torment us"

the boy would refuse to make any further comment, though one would later draw what he claimed too be the attacker. the drawing was that of a man wearing a plague doctors outfit with a hood instead of any hat, covered in vines and other plant life, with a large pair of crow wings behind him.

authorities would later ban entering the woods due to the strange, and unexplainable hostility that the local wildlife showed to anyone who entered.

@f4y3w00d5 @gobodegoblin @good-wizard @monsterfucker-research-wizard

[themadlu]

A Simple Thing – Pt. 1

Astarion x Zélie

It's done. Cazador is well and truly gone, Astarion is finally a free elf and his first desire is to give all that's left of his body and soul to the one who saved him from his master and from himself.

Not out of need, but of want. He wants his Zélie so bloody (pun intended) much that he takes her to his grave, and on top of it too.

So when she leaves him behind, when she realises Cazador is only one of the endless troubles plaguing him and her human life is too short to fix even a fraction of those, he breaks. Like the pathetic child he's always been.

TW: Nothing much, mentions of Astarion's past, self-worth issues, very unreliable narrator (he's still working on himself, it'll take time). Some light smut, emotional hurt/comfort.

WC: ~2,5K

Not really proofread, and written with little time, so sorry if it sucks.

Part 2 should come out sometime next week (but it's Easter, so don't quote me on that).

Taglist: @spacebarbarianweird (thank you for the idea as always!), @amywritesthings

The room is stifling, heavy, with red brocades and somewhat pretentious ornaments covering wooden walls and glass windows with a funereal flair. Dim light from the moon and the outside streets filters through thick curtains in skeletal rays, outreached towards ghostly pale fingers hanging off the side of a bed. Astarion’s dark eyes stare, unblinking, chest still in the stale air and skin so pallid he looks more dead than usual. A pretty corpse sprawled on an unmade bed, ready for burying or taking. 

He hates this; despises how the first civil accommodation they could find in weeks was so reminiscent of his own coffin, of the last two-hundred years of torment. Phantom pain grips him as unwelcome memories of bloody fingernails and mossy grave dirt invade his mind. He opens and clenches his fist to dispel the rising panic, the only sign of life coming from his prone form, and holds what’s been the one meagre comfort during the last centuries to his chest. The elf curls into a ball around what is left of his burial shroud, a once refined cotton cloth now reduced to tattered rags. 

Dirty and disgusting, but his. 

Where the hells is she?!

Cazador was waiting for his new spawn in the cemetery that night, but Astarion relishes in knowing that the vampire lord will not claim him again anytime soon. Never again, actually, as unbelievable as that was. His little hero made sure of that, a couple days before; thorough and proper as always, even in front of a hell-sent ritual, merciless as he’d never seen her before. Only for him. She cut with his dagger through the flesh and bones of her (his, theirs) enemies using techniques he taught her, marching through the horde to free him from his prison. She momentarily let her “oh-so-holy” ideals loosen enough to keep him safe and the thought stirs something wild and warm in the pit of his stomach and his chest. 

Hunger for blood is familiar enough, but hunger for another, that restless longing is still foreign to the elf. Being with others meant manipulation, sweat, sex, pain, a performed debauchery, but not with Zélie.

(Even though he’s been a whore longer than he’s been anything else.)

Living with her is…simple. Scarily so. Natural, even when his (perfectly sensible) selfishness clashes with her (absolutely infuriating) courageous generosity. They disagreed and fought so intensely at first, in the wilds (well, he fought her while she stayed next to him in silence, cutting him a look that could make an Aasimar fall.)

Astarion picks up a discarded book from the bed, trying to resume his reading. It’s a childish collection of Faerunian fables, yet he finds himself drawn to it whenever his fears resurface.

If he were capable of honesty, he would admit that he reaches for that dusty volume whenever Zélie is not with him, because she gifted it to him at the grove as she turned down the offer of an unforgettable fuck back at that pitiful excuse for a party. The elf can still remember the onslaught of contrasting emotions all at once: relief, annoyance (because, really, when otherwise would someone looking like her ever manage to bed someone like him?), thankfulness and fear. 

If sex was not on the table, what else could he give her? 

What would it take for her not to discard him when his limited usefulness runs out?

And what now, that his tormentor is nothing but a pitiful heap of ashes and the pale elf is doomed to remain a useless spawn forever more? 

That same fear slithers through Astarion again, wounding around his chest so tightly he almost snaps the book in two. Justice was served. The evil vampire lord was killed and the pathetic spawns were freed. He is free, and yet he is confined in a stuffy room that makes his skin crawl with past nightmares. Astarion groans and tries to concentrate on the words on the page again, even though he’s already finished the book twice, with little success. Barely two nights have passed since he took Zélie to the cemetery and claimed his rebirth by laying with her on top of his grave. Warmth fills him at the image of his stern, solemn hero paying respects to the patch of dirt he crawled out and to the long-forgotten elf who did not survive the centuries of horror. That night, Zélie knelt and bowed so deeply her forehead touched the cold ground, murmuring something he couldn’t understand. His ruined soul trembled so strongly at that act of reverence he cupped her cheeks to lift her face away from his burial, noses bumping together. Grave dirt stuck to her forehead and he gently wiped it off with his thumb while tutting in mocking disapproval. “Honestly, darling, no need for the theatrics,” his usual smirk faltered a little as a sudden wave of affection surged through him at her misplaced respect. She, holier than any of them, was whispering prayers to some useless deity on his behalf. He felt anger and shame lodge in his throat. 

You’re the only creature deserving of worship, my love.

“Not to seem ungrateful, but prayers never did me any good. Do not waste precious time,” her chapped lips were raging fire against as took them between his own. “Not when death could find us tomorrow.” His passionate kiss morphed into a loving peck when Zélie raised a finger between their faces, solemn as ever. “I am praying for the Astarion Ancunin,” she brushed her fingers on the tombstone and the undead shivered as if he could feel her touch in his very bones, “who was left behind. May he find peace in seeing his resilience finally rewarded.” 

She then trained her gaze on him in that way that made him squirm. He used to hate her for it, back when he lived in terror of what she’d do to him after all his masochistic pushing and prodding; now, he craves it evermore. Her palm splayed on his chest and he cursed whatever entity kept her away from him for so long. “And I pray to my god for the strength to guide this Astarion,” she tapped her index finger against his dead heart, “to see his worth in this world. To me and to others.” Astarion barely noticed his mouth parting in stupor at his lover’s words. 

Infuriating, precious woman. 

Astarion fully abandons his book, letting it fall on the bed, as the weight of her sentiment nestles inside him with disturbing ease. As if he were made for it. Her stalwart presence has the downright annoying capability of robbing him of his masks and his snark and his spite—the foundation of his entire being. He is left entirely exposed to her assessing eyes, yet he has never felt safer, more alive. He never wants to be out of her sight again, he decides. Never wants her to lose herself as he once did. Zelie’s spirit is near unbreakable and stupidly just (She would never agree with him on this, but he witnessed it first hand, after weeks of failed temptations and rancorous conversations), and Astarion will happily murder and steal and torture their path through the world if it means she can hold onto her ideals a little longer. He already did, when she was but a weird stranger to charm, as he finished off the enemies she so generously spared. 

Astarion lets out a strained chuckle, because he cannot believe he fell so irreparably for such an idiotic creature, let alone an honourable one. And now—now that she has saved him in any way a person can be saved, she leaves him in a stale tavern room. The elf covers his eyes with his pale hands in frustration. The voices in his head—Cazador’s taunting timber—tease him that his Zélie has finally come to her senses and seen him for the wretch he is. He will never be more than a lowly spawn, and leaving him in camp is her polite and proper way to ensure he doesn’t hinder their world-saving mission with his selfish ideas and his weaknesses. 

The world can rot. 

Astarion has already decided. the moment things go awry he’s dragging Zélie away from Toril itself if he must. She can glare and hate him all she wants, but he will not let the only one who ever mattered to him to protect a bunch of ungrateful, unknown bastards (The same bastards who took any part of him for themselves.) Gods, he sounds—is—so disgustingly desperate. 

He claws at his biceps with his hands, and tryings to distract himself from his worries again. It’s almost evening and Zélie hasn’t returned from the city. So haven’t Gale, Lae’zel and Jaheira, but Astarion is not a selfless being, and he only wants his precious hero to come back to him. He focuses on the night at the cemetery, on how he all but pounced on the woman who just destroyed his last defences with few thoughtful, honest words. He crawled on top of her like the monstrous thing he was, and she held his face so gently, caressed his ears and hair so devotedly he couldn’t contain a laughing sob. 

He gets hard at the memory of her letting him take the lead—trusting him, a vampire enamoured with her blood, so completely that he flipped them over and almost begged her to take him in any way she wanted. In her mouth with his back against his tombstone, clutching the stone as he moaned in the moonlight, in her core on top of his grave, where his coffin was laid, trying not to shout his name too loudly. Astarion, the one in the Elfsong, shuts his eyes as he feels himself and discovers a growing wet patch seeping through his trousers. 

He groans, tender and ready. 

But Zélie is not with him this time, so the familiar disgust at his defiled body and soul grips him again and makes him gag with the certainty that night was a one off, a way to celebrate a successful rescue and nothing more. It’s not like they can reach those peaks of pleasure at will anyway—Astarion is still too broken for that, too pathetic to offer his only saviour the one reward he can give her. He can hear Cazador’s laugher echo in his mind. 

No! She would never—she loves me! She doesn’t lie, it was real, what we have is real!

The laughter doesn’t stop, forcing Astarion to curl on his side and press his hands against his ears. Zélie loves him—he knows this, because she told him twice, even though she’d rather throw herself off a cliff than deliver declarations of affection so openly. 

“Shut up, shut up, just shut up!” 

“Astarion? Are you talking to that awful book again?” His little human’s voice cuts through the nightmarish laughter and the pale elf clings to it. 

He schools his relieved expression into a more neutral mask and sprints off the bed towards Zélie, his Zélie, safe and whole and… stepping backwards to put some distance between them. Astarion cannot stop his dark eyes from going impossibly wide at her behaviour. He panics for a moment, fearing Orin used her skills to take his leader from camp, but the vampire would not be fooled by a cheap imitation—he would recognise his love anywhere, her minute idiosyncrasies and the smell of her and her blood engraved into his memory evermore. This is definitely Zélie, keeping her distance and studying him as if he were a ghoul (He is.) 

Then, her gaze shifts downwards and her brows arch. 

Shit.

The cooling wet patch on his crotch stares back at him in mocking. “Ah, darling, I…” 

Fuck.

Astarion has been thoroughly trained on keeping up a flawless, polite, desirable front over the centuries, but he cannot think of how to best express his utter mortification at this moment. Pathetic, a consummate lover—a prostitute—like him wetting himself at the mere thought of–

“Astarion, are you—well, are you—well, uh, are you...well?” It would have been extremely satisfying to witness the rare sight of a discombobulated Zélie—something he seemed to be the cause of most times, a point of pride for him—if only he did not find himself in the same predicament. 

Say something, you wretched imbecile!

“I…I was…thinking of my brave, perfect hero,” he inched closer to her, seductive act shackling his creeping terror in the dark corner of his mind he hasn’t escaped to since the woman in front of him accepted him into her life. “And I just could not stop myself from remembering your delicious cries from the other night…and how you took me so well—” 

He should know by now that his Zélie can see him better than he’ll ever see himself. “That’s very, uhm, flattering, Astarion, but it does not answer my question. Are you well?” She is focusing on his face, keeping her gaze averted from his crotch with that impossible, utterly incomprehensible respect (They have already slept together and he all but threw himself at her in earnest.) and how could she just not understand?!

“Am I well? Oh, why darling, I’m simply marvellous! I’ve had the pleasure of lounging in this fine establishment the whole day, laying on a heavenly soft bed and staring at this tasteful walls,” Astarion’s frustration and insecurities bubble up his throat and he cannot stop himself. He is lashing at the one person he reveres, again. Proving he does not deserve her (He never will, but he is a selfish monster of the night after all.). “And all this while you were out on your merry way, gods know where, with a senile druid, a joke of a wizard and a murder-happy Githianky!” 

“You are ‘murder-happy’ too, Astarion. And more senile than Jaheira, if we’re talking about years and not physical ageing—”

But they’re not me! 

“That’s not the point! You swore you’d be guiding me or what meaningless, shallow promises you made, then I let you fuck me on my grave, then—” 

Then you left me behind. As I knew it would happen. 

“Are you quite done, my love?” Astarion stills, then sniffles in indignation. His—Zélie has only called him “love” twice so far and both times she did so to call him back from whatever spiralling thoughts sent him cowering in the furthest corners of his mind. But she clearly has no interest in having him at her side now, so hearing that so-rarely-used term of endearment makes a pained rattle come from his still chest. She is going to end whatever fever dream was between them. The certainty is so encompassing his hands shake from it, and he promptly hides them behind his back.