#ITS NOT MY FAULT NOR WAS IT MY INTENTIONS

[comatosebunny09]

carpe noctem [ rising action ] | sylus

— summary: you’ve convinced yourself that this is normal. routine. that you’re used to this, sitting like a fly on the wall while their relationship blossoms like a flower turned towards the sun before you. so why does it still hurt? — cw: reader is not mc, reader implied to be femme, assassin!reader, unrequited feelings, mentions of blood & injuries, jealousy, profanity, sexual content, fade-to-black, self-destructive behavior, somewhat of a slow burn, mdni — notes: thank you so much for reading! [ part 1 | part 2 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 ] — now playing: bmf - sza

Breakfast is uncharacteristically quiet. 

At least, for the three of you, it is. The silence makes way for the lazy swish of cars on the road, the clatter of cutlery against plates, and the idle chatter of the cafe’s other patrons. 

It’s balmy outside. The type of weather that pastes your blouse to your skin and creates a fine film of sweat on the back of your neck. The kind that welcomes mosquitos and makes showering beforehand pointless. And it’s so obnoxiously bright out, nary a cloud in the sky. But you figure you're being unreasonably antsy because you’re hungover and still a little tired. 

Despite the climate, your ragtag team is seated beneath a cafe’s awning, scarfing down food to battle the effects of your collective hangovers before jetting back to Linkon.

Typically, Ms. Hunter would be on about something, filling the space with her animated talk, with you and Sylus occasionally chiming in to tease her or exchange covert words concerning upcoming missions. But she’s still a little worse for wear, with dark lenses perched on her nose and a wrinkle between her brows as she pushes food around her plate.

You snort around a mouthful of eggs at her plight, tucking your amusement behind your hand. Decide to incite a little mischief to distract yourself from the weather and the creeping feeling of unease brewing in your gut. 

“Someone had a rough night,” you tease, reaching for your orange juice.

She glowers at you. Sticks out her tongue, flipping you the bird. You snort into your drink, nearly sending pulp flying every which way.

“Not my fault you have the tolerance of a three-year-old.”

Your eyes crease at the corners whilst you watch her work up to a retort, mouth hanging open like a fish out of water. But before she can get a word out—

“Ladies,” Sylus interjects like a distant clap of thunder pushing across a dark horizon. He’s seated between you at the round, iron-wrought table, arms crossed over a broad chest. Sunglasses shroud scarlet intentions, but you don’t miss the twitch of a silver brow nor the humor meddling with his voice. “Play nice.” 

There’s finality there. He speaks to you like a referee. Like a father who’s caught his children roughhousing, and you both shrink beneath his mock disappointment. 

“Besides,” Sylus continues, casting his amused gaze on you. “You weren’t in the best of shape yourself last night. Are you really in any position to talk?” 

A hot rush of mortification wades over you. You're unsure of its source, whether at your memories of last night or how quickly he came to her defense. 

And so what if you stumbled a bit down the hall, searching for your room? 

You didn’t think he noticed after your exchange. Figured he retreated into his room, or worse—slipped across the hall to keep his hunter friend company into the wee hours of the morning while you tossed and turned, driven to hell by thoughts of them doing everything besides sleeping. 

The recollection makes you bristle, and you turn a scowl down to your food. Grumbling, you plop a slice of toast onto the hunter’s plate. She glances at you, confusion pulling her lips down. 

“Eat,” you order. “Feed a hangover, starve a cold.”

“I don’t think that’s how that goes,” she counters, a pout evident in her voice. But she doesn’t protest, sitting up in her seat to nibble on your peace offering.

You resist an impulse to pat her head, your ire sloughing off, traded for something like fondness. You want to ruffle locks of silken ebony because she’s effortlessly adorable, pulling at those little heartstrings you’d worked so hard to conceal. 

Sylus beats you to the punch, leaning forward to mold long fingers around the round of her head. The world slows, casting a special spotlight on the pair of them. 

You ignore how your chest tightens at the scene. At the affectionate little tug of his lips as Ms. Hunter cants her face towards him, cheeks full and expression doe-like. You try to pretend like it doesn’t make you sick with resentment. Once upon a time, he used to look at you like that. 

Fuck. 

What are you thinking? He is your boss, and she is your charge—your friend. There’s no reason to feel like this, especially considering you practically shoved Sylus into her arms, reasoning you never stood a chance in hell with him. 

You snap back to the present, and suddenly, breakfast isn’t so appetizing. You push around your cold eggs as Sylus and Ms. Hunter slide into easy conversation. You feel like a husk of yourself amid them. Like you’re impeding on something intimate, and your stomach lurches when they draw you into their chat every so often as if pitying you.

You’ve convinced yourself that this is normal. Routine. That you’re used to this, sitting like a fly on the wall while their relationship blossoms like a flower turned towards the sun. And yet, you’ve never been more eager to return to the N109 Zone. To leave these green-eyed thoughts on this island and get back to your distracting life, luring terrible people to their demise and wiping the scourge of man off the face of the planet. 

You suddenly straighten, clearing the phlegm from your throat. Your silverware clatters against your plate as you shove it away, eyes regretfully shifting between them.

“So, what time do we leave?” There’s a whisper of exasperation in your tone, but you quickly conceal it with that playful arrogance you’re known for. 

Sylus and the hunter trade looks of confusion and humor, blind to the turmoil of your mind slowly creeping through the folds and staining your pride like ink spilled into water.

“Eager to get back to work, aren’t you?”

You scoff, taking up your fork, clueless to scarlet eyes studying the crown of your head, narrowing at the apprehensive slope of your voice. “You have no idea.”

—

It’s a pleasure to dance. Of course, it always is. It’s one of the few times you feel desired. Wanted. Useful when your hands aren’t speckled with blood and your knuckles aren’t purpling from bashing someone’s face in for taunting The Devil. 

Dancing is a versatile skill you’ve acquired with time and practice. It's one of the few pleasures you’ve drawn from this fickle life. One of the few things you kept from a past veiled in darkness, the rest tucked away in the hulls of your psyche.  

All eyes are on you. Gazes burning with assorted degrees of desire, envy, and awe beneath the tawny glow of the stage lights. The attention makes you warm and tingly, and your lips salaciously curve as you move your body in time with the music, casting an inadvertent spell on all who dare to watch. 

You’re the center of attention without trying to be and without the influence of your Evol. Of course, you usually are. He’s even told you so. Customers often flock to Sylus’ nightclubs to see you dance, hoping to one day have your affections. 

Or to fuck you. 

You rarely entertain these people. Not unless you have to. Not unless Sylus sicks you on them to further his goals or take down his competition. You’re ever the faithful lapdog, tuned to your boss’ every command, and it makes you sick with how loyal you are to him sometimes. A part of you feels you owe him for this life you lead. He’d snatched you from an impenetrable darkness. Renewed your sense of purpose and redirected your desire for revenge. 

For now, you have this. The recognition of others despite how misplaced it is. They want you for your body, for the promise of what your facade offers. Deep down, you crave something more, something real. But you tamp down those feelings as you bite your lip, putting on a good show, hands smoothing over the surge of your hips. And you’re spurred by the whoops and whistles and shouts of your name as the lights dim, signaling the conclusion of your performance.

Your chest heaves with the effort of breathing, and your cheeks ache with a smile as you pose. The crowd's cheers dampen the violent thrum of your heartbeat—chase away the cacophony of your mind, adrenaline spuming through you like an erupting geyser. 

You look over your shoulder towards the ceiling, catching scarlet-spun eyes from the upper floor’s rail, and your grin twitches the slightest bit. It’s a rush, having the attention of strangers. Having their desire, their yearning. But his attention is much more addicting like Nicotine furling between your teeth. For a moment, you feel seen. Like you’re the center of his universe, and not the pretty, bright-eyed damsel with enough room in her heart to house the galaxy.

Something flashes in his eyes, and the world fades. You mistake it for tenderness. Just wishful thinking. He would never choose you. He’s had four years to make you his. 

Why would he suddenly choose to acknowledge you now?

—

Once the adrenaline ebbs and clubbers flood the dance floor, you’re nestled behind the crowd, leaning against the sticky countertop of the bar, clutching a glass of something acrid and glacial between your fingers—something to take the edge off. To mute the insistent pulse of your nerves.

The music thumps beneath your feet, accompanied by the sparkling chatter of the club’s other clients. Yet you still hear him amid the chaos—the familiar curl of a voice around the vowels of your name. You fix him with an amused, sultry look beneath Lux’s customary red hue. 

“When are you gonna let me take you out on a date?” he asks, worn knuckles easing down the slope of your arm. You track his audacity with your eyes, jerking away from his unwarranted attention, ignoring the goosebumps igniting across your skin.

This, too, is routine—one of Lux’s regulars throwing himself at your feet, begging for an opportunity to court you.  He’s been on like this for months, entertaining your game of cat and mouse. Maybe you’ve given him a false sense of hope because he’s yet to let up. In fact, he’s grown bolder with his advances lately, often popping up when you least expect him, vying for your heart.

It’s endearing, really, having someone who genuinely wants you. Or maybe he doesn’t, but you convince yourself otherwise. Play a sick little game with yourself, fooling yourself into thinking that maybe there’s more to you than your reputation builds you up to be.

You turn towards him, crossing your legs, the leather barstool sticky beneath your thighs. You lean into your knuckles, studying dark brows, whiskey-infused eyes, and full lips. You end your excursion at the thick of his throat, excitement prickling like static in your chest. He’s easy on the eyes, tone velvet smooth. Had you not been a femme fatale, you might’ve given him the time of day.

But for now—

“You couldn’t handle me,” you counter, reveling in how the smugness melts from his face.

He chuckles at your cheekiness, sweeping the tails of his blazer back and stuffing his hands into his pockets. Squares his shoulders, standing akimbo like he’s preparing for a fight, though he might as well be, stepping to you like this.

“Still holding out for that old man, I see.”

It is your turn to wear a wavering smile. Your turn to look silly, the proverbial knife driven into your stomach and twisted. 

You scoff with a sneer, dumping the last vestiges of your drink down your throat. You tear yourself from your seat, reaching past the gentleman to snatch your coat from the counter, pinning him with a haughty look. 

“I’m not holding out for anyone, fucker. And even if I were, it wouldn't be your slow ass.”

With a huff, you brush past him, wending through the crowd gathered on the dance floor to retreat into your dressing room. 

You try vainly to contain a scowl, knowing you’ve been read like the deckled pages of a book deep down. 

Maybe you refuse to move on because you feel like you’d betray Sylus if you did. How, exactly, you’re unsure. He’s had no problem betraying you, quietly shoving you out of the picture in favor of someone who’s hardly seen him bleed. 

—

“Do you like anybody?” Ms. Hunter asks above the steady purr of the SUV’s engine.

Her question nearly floors you. Your grip on the steering wheel tightens slightly, and you almost choke on your spittle. 

You’re stuck in traffic together. 

Knowing the holidays loomed around the bend, someone decided it would be an ideal day to go to the mall. Of course, you weren’t the only people out on the road. 

So naturally, she’s bored, unused to the silence stretching between you. The low croon of the music spilling from the speakers does nothing to ease the tension.

You glance at her, and she’s wearing a Cheshire Cat-like grin, studying you from the passenger seat. You swallow thickly, adjusting your shades on your face, staring at the cars sluggishly easing up beyond the windshield. “I don’t like very many people.”

An exasperated sigh later.

“C’mon! There’s gotta be someone you like. Ya’ know.” She pitches herself closer, her mischievous grin curling in your periphery, and she pokes your side with a pointed finger to get a rise out of you. 

“Someone that gets your heart racing. Someone who makes your face all hot. Makes butterflies swarm in your tummy.” 

You know exactly where this is going. Had you not valued your friendship—or whatever you call this complicated mashup between you—you would reveal the inner workings of your mind. But how insane would you sound, telling the hunter the person who gets your blood racing is the very same man she has tucked in her back pocket?

So, you deflect. With a sardonic smirk, you jest, “You get my heart racing when you fuck up our meetings.”

You squint and flinch away with a laugh in your throat as she swats you, whining at your cruelty. 

“You suck,” pouts Ms. Hunter, falling back into her seat with crossed arms. “Bet it’s that guy who always stalks you at Lux.”

You side-eye her in the rearview, placatingly patting her head. “I like you, stupid. Isn’t that good enough?”

Maybe one day. 

One day, you’ll have the intestinal fortitude to tell her the truth—to tell them both the truth. How you’re falling apart at the stitching, the world you know falling away from beneath your feet.

—

You’re not as strong as you let on. You’re human beneath that flirtatious exterior—still a woman with wants and needs, not immune to the temptations of the flesh. Which is why you find yourself at his doorstep, a glacial, errant breeze ruffling the tails of your coat as the silvery moon haloes your silhouette.

He leans against the doorframe, brown eyes simmering with intrigue as he takes you in. Dark hair sweeps over raised brows. “What made you change your mind?”

You shrug, hands stuffed in your pockets, a quirk to your lips. “Maybe I just need a friend.”

He chuckles low, arms crossed. “A friend, huh?” 

“Yeah.”

There’s no mistaking the pitch of your voice. The air charges with something amorous as he ushers you into his apartment. You brush past him, tamping down your dignity as you disappear into the warm sanctity of his home, his hand reassuring at the small of your back.

Had you taken the time to survey your surroundings, you would’ve noticed a set of beady, crimson eyes peering through the inky night, watching you from their perch atop a powerline.

And had you further investigated, you would’ve heard the familiar whirr of machinery as the iridescent outline of sleek feathers recorded your every move.

conflict | masterlist | climax

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

big question. i'm cis (afab) and my gf is trans (amab) and i'm sorta having a hard time reconciling something. i've been a hard line feminist since i was about 8, by 12 i was a practical library on everything and anything womens lib. i'm spending a lot more time around trans people especially my gf now and i'm sorta struggling to reconcile the trans experience with my feminism. like- i'll see trans women being like "i hate my body :(" "my voice is awful" "i need [x thing to try to pass] ugh" and like my first thought is always "NO! THATS HOW THEY FUCKING GET YOU!!! THE PATRIARCHY WANTS YOU TO HATE YOURSELF SO YOU ENSLAVE YOURSELF TO CAPITALISM AND LIVE IN A CONSTANT STATE OF NEED FOR NEW PRODUCTS TO WARD OFF THE EVER PRESENT SELF HATRED BROUGHT ON YOU BY SOCIETY" and they go "well then how do i pass/transition?" and i honestly don't know and i also don't know how far it goes before its no longer dysphoria but instead the intentional subjugation of women by patriarchy for profit. i wanna help my fellow ladies but i honestly don't know how to like- apply the feminism i was taught as a child to trans women and i want to learn as soon as possible so that i can start doing it like yesterday

hi there,

I'll be honest: if it feels hard to apply the feminism you learned as a kid to your trans friends, that's probably because the feminism you were taught didn't have trans woman in mind.

luckily, the answer to this is something that I consider to be feminism 101: what a woman does with her body is, ultimately, her fucking business.

listen: I agree with you that the beauty industry(TM) is evil. it's misogynistic, it's exploitative, it thrives by making women feel bad enough about themselves to make them spend money on shit they don't need, etc. we all know this.

now, having said that: women who like makeup or wear heels or get laser hair removal or whatever other asinine thing are not my oppressor, nor are they my enemy. dare I say, we have bigger problems.

we also need to consider that many trans women are coming to these choices from a VERY different place than many cis women are. while I think my fellow cis women really benefit from reminders that they're allowed to stop shaving or wearing eyeliner or dieting or whatever, that's because most of us have had those actions forced on us from very young ages and may genuinely need a hand to feel secure breaking out of those behaviors.

the majority of trans women are not coming from a background where they were encouraged to partake in the same personal grooming habits and modes of presentation as cis women; many of them have, in fact, been ostracized, bullied, threatened, and otherwise hurt because of forays into forms of presentation that are considered feminine. no matter how good your intentions may be, approaching your advice indelicately can, unfortunately, make you come across as no different than any transphobe on the street trying to enforce cisnormative societal expectations. it also must be said that, for many trans women, the ability to "pass" is a matter of security - for having their status as women recognized at all, and to avoid harassment and abuse in public spaces. if you live in America, like I do, politicians in power currently have an extremely explicit anti-trans agenda that can make it harrowing to be visible as a trans person, and trans women in particular are frequently targeted for violence.

there are absolutely critiques to be made the way the many trans women are expected to perform hyperfemininity. the notion that someone is duty bound to drastically change their appearance in order to transition at all is itself extremely rooted in cisnormativity, and "passing" is often contingent on being young, thin, able-bodied, reasonably wealthy, and hewing as closely to Eurocentric standards of beauty as possible. that's not awesome! but that's also not the fault of any individual; no trans person asked to be born into a world where gender norms are so narrow and failing to pass can come with a very real risk of physical danger.

also, if I can circle back to this: again, women who participate in aspects of the beauty industry are not our enemies. there are always going to be some number of women who enjoy doing their makeup or like spending time fussing over their little outfits or want breast implants or whatever. some of those women are going to be trans. my official feminist stance on this is that I don't give a shit, because I believe in bodily autonomy even when it involves things I would not do personally and the choices that individual women make about how they want to style their little meat body don't even crack the top 100 things that I'm worried about right now. it's actually kind of vitally important, politically, that trans people be able to safely pursue their preferred gender expression; while it's not particularly revolutionary for a cis woman to go outside all dolled up, whether a trans woman can do that safely is a pretty basic litmus test for how safe a given space is for queer people. it's a ridiculously low bar, and many places will still fail to clear it.

so, yeah, I don't know, dude. be there to talk to your trans girlies if they want to start unpacking some of the pressure they feel to conform to a very rigid idea of womanhood, but whether or not they can walk down the street in your neighborhood safely is a WAY bigger issue than whether they decide to do voice training or not.

if you really want to cut to the root of the insecurity and vulnerability that the beauty industry thrives on exploiting, your time is much better spent working to ensure the trans women in your life feel safe and supported and have a community where they can find support regardless of how they look.

necessary disclaimer I'm a cis girl, any transfemme folks please share your voice here and feel free to clap my ass if I've said something out of line.

[robinvomit]

†  a flare in green. : damian.

♦ request: yes - jealous damian.

♦ beta'd: never lol

♦ a/n: it's probably not as flashy fanon as most would enjoy but, ig, complain in my inbox if you feel the need.

it starts small. the kind of thing only someone who truly knows damian wayne would notice. a slight shift in his posture, the barely perceptible narrowing of his eyes, the way his fingers flex then curl into a fist before forcing themselves to remain at his sides.

it isn't anger, not exactly. it isn't jealousy, or at least not the kind that's irrational and baseless. but it is something, something sharp and restless, something that coils in his chest and refuses to settle.

you, of course, remain blissfully unaware.

it's not your fault.

you've always been magnetic, always drawn people in without trying. it's never been about charm or beauty; it's the way you exist in a space, the way you make people feel heard, seen, like they matter. people linger when you speak. they gravitate toward you like the sun, seeking warmth, seeking light. damian has never faulted you for it. how could he, when it's one of the very reasons he was drawn to you in the first place?

but tonight, it's different.

the gathering is casual; an event filled with idle conversation and polite laughter. nothing like the grand galas he's used to, where masks are worn in more ways than one. this is smaller, more intimate. and yet, there are still eyes that linger too long, hands that hover too close, words that come with just enough intention to make something in him bristle.

the man speaking to you is unremarkable.

he does nothing overtly inappropriate, crosses no lines, but his presence is wrong. damian sees the way he leans toward you, the way his fingers twitch, hesitating before thinking better of resting against your arm. he hears the way his voice lowers, not in a whisper, but in a way meant to create something shared between just the two of you. he watches, and though his expression does not shift, the weight of it grows heavier, sharper.

damian doesn't react impulsively. he's been trained against it, conditioned to remain still until it is time to strike. but he isn't blind to his own emotions, and tonight, they are louder than usual.

he moves before he fully decides to, closing the space between you with a quiet efficiency that is neither rushed nor hesitant. he doesn't interrupt, doesn't place himself between you and the conversation- but he is there, suddenly, entirely. the presence of him is not just seen, but felt. his hand finds the small of your back, not gripping, not claiming, simply resting there as if it has always belonged. his fingers press lightly into the fabric, an anchor, a silent message meant only for you.

you glance up at him, amused, a knowing smile teasing at the corners of your lips. "hey, you okay?"

his gaze flickers down to yours, and for a moment, his expression softens, something unreadable shifting in his eyes before it disappears beneath careful control. "fine."

your attention shifts back to the man in front of you, who is suddenly less confident, less sure of his place in this conversation. damian doesn't glare, doesn't sneer, doesn't offer a single threatening word. he doesn't have to. the weight of his presence is enough. his posture is relaxed, but intentional. his eyes, sharp but unreadable, settle on the man with all the weight of a predator sizing up something unfortunate enough to wander into its space.

it takes only a few more moments before the man laughs, awkward, forced, his words becoming shorter, his body shifting away inch by inch.

and then, finally, he is gone.

you exhale a quiet chuckle, turning fully toward damian now, tilting your head as you study him. "that wasn't necessary, you know."

damian lifts a brow, unimpressed with your amusement. "it was entirely necessary."

a slow grin spreads across your lips. "were you jealous?"

"i was irritated."

your eyes gleam with something delighted, something dangerous. "so, jealous."

damian exhales, slow, measured, but the faintest ghost of something resembling a smile betrays him. "you are insufferable."

"you love me."

his fingers tighten at your back, pulling you closer, the warmth of him now entirely against you. his voice is quieter when he speaks again, something lower, something meant only for you.

"yes," he murmurs, "i do."

[cloversnstrawberries]

"nestling" platonic!yandere!jareth & teen!gn!reader [oneshot] ! !

masterlist !

description; Beth couldn't have known any better-- she's a kid, it wasn't her fault she wished her older brother to the Goblin King, because as far as she knew, it was just a story. As far as you'd known, it was a story-- come to find out, it very much is not, and you're scrambling to try and take her place and run the Labyrinth to get little Richie back safe and sound.

Unbeknownst to you, you've fallen right into the Goblin King's trap. Hook, line, and sinker.

additional notes; hello yes.. i'm back... been having a bit of mental health trouble lately, so why not write for one of my comfort movies :] PLEEEAAASE request jareth i love this devious fae man and there is a sore lack of platonic jareth & reader...

*jareth refers to reader as 'nestling' in a few spots, because owl. haha. compared to him you probably are actually considered a baby. like a newborn. dudes OLD by human standards. also reader is a babysitter and babysitting beth & richie. i didn't know where else to mention this.

warnings; possessive behavior, jareth being cryptic, jareth is non-human therefore does not abide by human culture/morals nor understand it fully, terror, slight horror (the goblins...), kidnapping, talks of transformation presumably against reader's will (human -> fae), panic, and i cannot for the life of me remember anything else :( please let me know if I forgot something major!!

w/c; 3.7k

She didn't mean it, that much you know.

For God's sake, she couldn't have meant it-- she's four! She just entered kindergarten, can hardly remember the ABC's. If anything, it's your fault this happened in the first place. Even tangentially so, you're still willing to take full responsibility.

It was a storybook, that's all you thought it was. Something about it drew you in, into that quaint little antique shop and right to the book section of it. Instinctively, like you were in a trance-- your eyes scanned the shelf, immediately landing on a book with a plain, textless red spine.

Once it was in your hands, it was like the owner came out of nowhere. The way her hands shook should've set you off, as she told you, in no uncertain terms-- "Hah-- I didn't think we had that anymore. It's been here for years."

Then, she'd patted you on the back, and said she could tell you really wanted it. She gave it to you for free-- but something about her demeanor told you there was a far less benevolent intention lying beneath the act of kindness.

The ways her eyes shifted from the book, to you, then to the book-- she threw a glance to the wall behind her, and as you followed her eyes, you saw her looking at an old cuckoo clock hanging on the wall.

It must've been some kind of movie prop or novelty item, because-- while you weren't very good at roman numerals, which it was numbered in for some godforsaken reason; you could still count the number of markers-- of which, there were 13.

Her panic was almost palpable, as she all but shoved you out of the shop-- saying that she forgot to do something important, closing the door right behind you and switching the sign from 'open' to 'closed'.

And as you stood on the sidewalk outside of the little shop, you don't know how you didn't question it further. A part of you wanted to believed you dreamt it-- but the book bound in red textile, embossed with bright gold letters and a black border that made up its front cover, said otherwise.

For a while, it just sat on your desk. The next weekend, you popped by the shop again-- the woman was working, and she apologized for how she acted. She didn't explain herself, though.

Maybe the strange cuckoo-clock had been sold, and in its stead was a near-identical looking one, but this one only had 12 markers. Or maybe you'd imagined that part, so flustered that your eyes did a goof.

A few months after-- you finally picked the book up, the weirdness and anxiety surrounding the way it came into your possession had mostly worn off, and you found yourself enjoying the story.

Enjoying it so much, that you took it with you as you babysat the Hamilton kids, Beth and Richie. 4 and 5 1/2 years old, respectively-- they were good kids, but they were still kids.

Still got into silly fights, and this one had been over who got to choose the movie you said you'd watch with them tonight. Beth wanted to watch ET, while Richie wanted to watch the Carebears movie.

They wouldn't listen you, wouldn't compromise-- you tried saying you'd watch both films tonight, but then they started arguing on which movie would be first. Both said they'd fall asleep before the second one would start-- which, you'll give some props for admitting that, but it still caused problems.

You tried a few more alternatives, until Beth got fed-up, shoved Richie, and shrieked "I wish the Goblin King would come and take you away," as she stormed up the stairs, and when she got to the top-- her face red and scrunched, as she finished with

"Right now, Richie!"

The whole thing lasted maybe a minute at most, and you'd stayed glued to the couch for the duration of it. A strange, sinking sort of... fear, settled in your gut.

Anything said by a 4 year old should not have that amount of finality, shouldn't have been enough to make the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

It was a story, but that didn't make you any less afraid. Maybe it's because it's dark out, and the Hamilton's live just on the cusp of the town-- it was a good 5 minute walk to the nearest neighbor-- that set your teeth on edge,

Whatever it was that spooked you so bad, it made you stand. For a moment, you just stood there, looking between the stairs and Richie, who was standing still. The little shove Beth gave him wasn't enough to send him toppling,

But he had this... vacant sort of look about him, and he didn't answer you when you asked if he was okay. Torn between two options, something prickled in the back of your mind. That you shouldn't be here right now, shouldn't be near Richie--

"I'm... gonna go check on your sister, you stay right here, okay?" You kept your eyes on him, not moving an inch-- hoping for a response. Whether it'd be an 'okay' or a 'stay here' was fine by you,

But you didn't get that. He didn't say anything, didn't move at all. His face looked pallid, and a thin sheen of sweat covered his face-- even though he'd just been complaining about how cold he was.

"Ooookaaay..." You drawled, concern lacing through your tone as you tore yourself away from the strange sight, heading up the stairs-- you heard a window open, halfway through the trek.

Beth screamed, and you know damn well she couldn't have opened that window on her own. It sounded like it came from her bedroom, and the only window there was your standard up-and-down sliding sort of window,

The lock was on, and even if it wasn't, there wasn't nearly enough muscle on her little frame to exert the force necessary to open that window.

It sent you into a panic, tearing up the rest of the stairs and down the hall-- screaming her name, you put your foot down on top of a stuffed toy you could've sworn had been downstairs.

You heard shuffling, manic little giggles around you. Paying no mind to that, you picked yourself off the ground and hurdled toward the room. The door was open, but it was the kind that swung out.

The hallway felt narrower than usual, like the house itself was trying to choke you out. A feeling of wrongness invading every sense of yours-- little hands grasped at your ankles, pulling at the ends of your sleep-pants, little sharp nails digging into the flesh of your leg as the panic reached a fever pitch--

"You aren't supposed to be here," One raspy voice said, barely a whisper. Another one, distinctly different, expressed a similar sentiment "This doesn't involve you, go away."

Upon reaching the door, it slammed shut. Right before that, you heard a voice that was so achingly familiar, yet so new. Like you'd heard in a dream or something--

A click of the tongue, almost sounding chastising-- a woosh of air, and the door had slammed closed. In your panic, you looked down-- there were.. were little creatures surrounding you, and terror made your throat close.

Lifting up one leg, you shook one off-- tried doing the same to the other leg, only to find that the one on there was adamant on hanging on. Its terrible little fingernails shredded at your sleep pants, leaving you no choice but to grab it by the scruff and toss it down the hall.

"Beth!" You screamed, looking back down the hall-- it was distorted now, like something out of your nightmares. Beth's room was getting further and further away, and you ran to it, only for the goblins-- and yes, you're quite sure they were goblins-- to grasp at you again, slowing you down.

Despite the perceived distance, you could still hear a male voice, wispy and otherworldly-- clear as day, through the door, as he said "Persistent little thing, aren't you?"

And-- and you don't know how to explain it, but in an instant you knew it was the Goblin King. That was the only... logical explanation, though this situation was anything but logical. If you went to a trusted adult about this, you'd probably get set up for a psych evaluation ASAP.

Chest heaving, no other option-- you scrambled your brain for any way out of this. The door was getting further away, and you felt your legs give and your knees bash into the unforgiving, hardwood floor,

"Please! Please, Please just-- Please! I'll do anything, just-- I-- uh, Jareth! Jareth, you have to-- uh, just stop for a sec--!" He was a fae, right? The Goblin King-- how much the rules you'd read about in other fantasy stories applied to him, you have no idea; but whatever it was, your desperate plea seemed to catch his fancy.

In an instant, you felt a million times lighter. No more scratching, clawing hands at your ankles, no more rasping, childish taunts; the hallway was normal again, and you sat back on your haunches-- the door to Beth's room was wide open, and you sat right in the doorway.

Inside was a crying Beth, and oh, how badly you wished to reach your hand out and comfort her-- but now wasn't the time. Not as your gaze trailed up, taking in the extravagant, otherworldly detail of the man's outfit.

You could've sworn that the whole place was doused in glitter, and maybe some of it got in your eye or something-- eyes watering, blinking rapidly. Or maybe you were about to cry right alongside Beth,

Knowing full-well what it meant for the Goblin King to be here, suddenly it clicked why Richie hadn't responded to you. Why he looked so far away, like he was in a trance.

His smile was sharp, but not cruel-- teasing, not mocking. Like he was endeared to you, as the heels of his fancy, knee-high boots clicked against the wood of Beth's room. Getting closer to you, slowly-- like he was approaching a spooked cat.

"So you're the one that found my story, hm? Odd, that you weren't the one to wish the little boy away." He made no comment on any debt you may owe him for saying please, or any debt he may owe you for knowing his true name.

It was all too quick, one moment he was near the window on the far side of the room-- and the next, he stood right before you, head tilted like an inquisitive bird.

An inquisitive owl, which, if memory serves you right-- the story said he could transform into at will. His smile widened to a lopsided grin, as he addressed you with far too much amusement given the current situation. "Well? Are you going to sit there all day, or will you stand and let me have a look at you?"

Scrambling up, you nearly pitched right into him. He wasn't tall per-se, but his presence was suffocating nonetheless. In a last-minute save, you stumbled back.

The wind was knocking right out of your lungs-- what little you had, as you held your breath in an attempt not to hyperventilate so hard you pass out-- as your back collided with the wall beside you.

The lightswitch dug right into your spine, but you paid it no mind. More pressing matters, and all-- the more pressing matters being how the Goblin King reached out, and you expected him to roughly grab your jaw and flip your head around, have a look at you, he'd said.

instead, it landed innocently on the top of your head. Shaking like a leaf, you look at him with wide, confused eyes. He still had his head tilted, smile gone-- overtaken by a thoughtful sort of expression.

You said nothing, despite the millions of questions running through your head at the moment. Let him mull over whatever he had in his head--

Of course, when he opened his mouth to speak, is when you decided it was a fantastic time to speak. A stupid decision, to cut him off-- that's definitely rude, isn't it? Fae don't like rude people.

"If-- I wanna run. For Ric-- for, uh, the little boy." You caught yourself, not knowing how far the 'names have power' thing went with the Goblin King in particular.

It left you absolutely shocked and bewildered, when in lieu of a stinging reprimand or maybe a clipped scold about cutting in-- the Goblin King simply smiled again. Taking no issue with your (albeit accidental, but still) rudeness.

Straightening his neck, he replied with "Ah, little Richie?" The Fae seemed to take immense pleasure in the way you went stock-still at that little revelation. You settled for a simple nod, throat closing up so bad that you doubt you could speak coherently by then.

The Goblin King hummed, pretending to think it over-- and with an overly cheerful tone and demeanor, he pulled his hand from your head, cryptically proclaiming "That won't be necessary, nestling."

You took a double take at the... term of endearment(?), but did your best to brush past it. You looked at Beth, who was shaking just as bad as you-- no, worse. You want to pull her into a tight hug and tell her it wasn't her fault, that she couldn't have known.

"Wha-- She's four, man!" You don't know what got into you, fear turning to foolish boldness in an instant. Goblin King straightened his posture a bit, a bit of surprise painting his features. "You-- You can't make her run the Labyrinth, she'll die!"

Placing a hand over his heart-- or where it'd be on a human, you're not very educated on Fae anatomy after all-- in a dramatic show of faux-offense, he acted like you'd offended him.

Like he had any right to be offended, if that was actually the case.

"Is that what you think of me?" Narrowing your eyes, squaring your shoulders as you grasped desperately at the last shreds of your sudden, unexplainable bravery; you silently questioned him.

He dropped his hand with a little smile, and looked over at Beth-- she squeaked, and you twitched. A knee-jerk reaction, to take one step forward, maybe to try and stop the Goblin King if he tried anything.

If he noticed it, he didn't say anything about it. Still looking at Beth, he sighed, voice eerie in a way you couldn't figure out as he said "That was never the plan, making her run my Labyrinth. I don't make a point of answering these sorts of calls, most times. Children don't have developed enough brains to realize what they're really doing."

"...Oh." Your mouth went bone dry, arms hanging limply by your side. Fingers clenching and unclenching, not knowing what to do with yourself. "You say that like it's a surprise, that I'm not cruel." Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned to face you.

You couldn't have predicted how he'd look at you next. Angry? Maybe, or perhaps frustrated-- a sly sort of amusement, a smirk on his face. But that look on his face isn't any of those,

He looks sad. Wholly, and humanly sad, at the idea that you think a non-human would have such sound morals when it comes to this topic. But that didn't make sense, what...

"Then why are you here?" Like a switch got flipped, any and all traces of sadness was off of his face. Replaced a frightening sort of glee. It made your skin crawl, the way he looked so human, but there was something so... wrong with it. A baser part of your brain screaming at you to not trust him, that he wasn't human, no matter how similar he appears.

He made a non-committal swing of his hand, like he was trying to grasp at the air for a response-- "Why else? I've grown lonely in my immortality, and find myself needing an heir."

Oh no.

Oh hell no.

Like a Phoenix, the dying embers of your seemingly short-lived bravery have come back full force-- burning hot as you took a few daring steps forward, then a few more,

Until you were right in front of the Goblin King, right within grabbing distance. You could sock him in the stomach, if you didn't know any better-- instead, you jabbed your finger in his face, nose scrunched with anger.

"You are not taking Richie to be your heir! You must have hundreds of kids wished away every year--" He raised an eyebrow, making you sputter for a moment before regaining your footing-- "okay, fine-- maybe, maybe not hundreds, but you're probably not at a lost for them--" His eyebrow went down, as he patiently waited for you to end your tirade.

"But out of all of them, you are not taking Richie-- or Beth, not on my watch-- if you try, i'll go right to the kitchen, grab the salt shaker, and smash it against your head!"

So many little slips, if the other folklore was true/included the Goblin King, you're well and truly done for, in every measure of the sentiment.

Instead of being angry at your outburst, he just laughs. He laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs-- your face goes hot with embarrassment, with frustration, as you resist the urge to shake him.

"Stop laughing--!" You're so busy with him, that you don't realize the floor begins to give out from beneath you. How the hardwood floor is changing to multi-colored, uneven stone, how you can't hear Beth's little sniffles, and don't bother to notice the change in lighting until it was too late.

Once he stops laughing, is when you realize it. Taking a step back, your foot catches on the edge of a particularly high-set stone in the floor, sending you toppling over and right onto your butt.

The Goblin King was gone from your sight-- and before you could panic, you felt hand grab under your arms and heave you upright. It takes all of your strength not to let your legs buckle and say hello to the floor again.

"What makes you think I'd want a young child? I find them to be far too much work for how I live, so easy for them to wander off and get caught up with the Fireys." He turned you around, brushing imaginary dust off of your well-loved t-shirt you used to sleep in. He hummed something under his breath, a lilting sort of tune that-- against all odds, put you to ease.

Swaying in place, the Goblin King stopped dusting you off to hold you firmly by the sides of your arms. Your head lolled to the side, adrenaline crash hitting you like an absolute truck.

"No, I think you'll do quite nicely. You've indebted yourself, after all." Your brows furrowed "But that's... huh?" Your brain was sluggish, moving at a snails pace as your eyelids begun feeling like a ton of bricks.

The Goblin King didn't mock you for your totally complete and understandable question, just smiled against, took one hand off your arm-- and gently tapped the end of your nose with his fingertip.

It reminded you of your parents, in a way. In made your stomach flip-- what about them? What about Beth and Richie, will they remember this--

Will anyone remember you, or will the Goblin King place some spell to make it seem like you were never there in the first place.

Oblivious-- or maybe just uncaring-- of your impending hysteria, the Goblin King continued as usual "You asked for my help. It's not very binding, but it does mean something."

"...Jareth." You clumsily said, and he had the gall to not act surprised at all-- as he drug out "Yeees? Does my little nestling need something?" Your face scrunched in confusion, but his smile only widened further.

"Jareth, take me home." You venture to say. For what it's worth, it does have a little bit of an effect on him. His eyes go wide for a moment, jaw dropping open-- for a second, you thought you'd found a hail mary.

Only for him to throw his head back and laugh, sounding like chiming bells now. Inhuman, as he pressed you against him-- arms wrapped around you, it takes a little to put two and two together.

He's hugging you.

"My, you're a quick learner, aren't you?" One hand pressed on the back of your skull, guiding your face to the crook of his neck. As a compromise, you hook your chin over his shoulder-- staring wide-eyed at the large, glass-less(?) windows behind him. The scenery below.

The entirely inhuman, fantastical, and frankly terrifying scenery below-- outside, creatures of all shapes and sizes walk the street; from how high up you are, you can't make out anything distinct with what their saying. It all sounds like meaningless noise.

Your ears are ringing, you think.

"But... But it's your true name, isn't it?" Your voice was so small, so thin and fragile, that you hardly realized it was your own. Your arms continued to hang limply by your sides, but Jareth didn't mind as he continued to hold you close.

"Yes, it is."

he doesn't elaborate, so you push a little more "Why isn't it--" Floundering for anything else to say, your mouth opens and closes a few times, before Jareth seems to catch onto what you mean and answer the unsaid question.

"Why am I not bending to your will?" He sounded way too amused in contrast to what he was actually saying in the moment, "I'm not a lesser fae, things sort and bend and break around me. Maybe you could've gotten an average court member with that-- perhaps even a duke, but certainly not a king."

Breath caught in your throat, your eyes started watering-- you'll blame it on the weird, otherworldly glitter-- as Jareth continued to hold you, trying to... comfort you, maybe, with what he meant to be reassuring words.

In the end, it felt more like a prison sentence-- as he cooed oh-so-softly "It's alright, nestling. I'll keep you here, all safe and sound until all that pesky humanity is gone. I wouldn't want my guards to think you're a runner when you visit the town, now do I?"

[sevs-corner]

Tf 141: Price and his marriage problems with you

Angst to comfort 'cause I just can't deal with leavin' it hangin' and being angry at the writer (me) for just endin' it like that Playlist Inspo: Yaur, it ain't a song but a whole ass playlist 'cause we in for a hellavu ride *fire sound effects*

Price just sometimes gets too prideful for his own good, his bravado taking the step forward instinctively when it comes to serious conversations involving you.

Deep down, he always wants what's best for you-- for you and him together as partners.

But that sometimes doesn't get translated in the way you would understand his intent, and this is proven true once again when he comes to learn that you driven home drunk after a night out with your friends.

"You could've gotten hurt."

Price, whenever in an argument with you, would never shout. That to you, speak volumes from the way he positioned himself to a wide legged stance, arms crossed to the way his icy glare seeped into the words coming out of his mouth.

But you've had enough of it.

"Well, you look like you could care less." You huffed out, slamming your front door closed and tossing away your shoes.

"Care less?" He hums, one eyebrow raised as he takes in your disheveled appearance. "Then my texts asking where you were and offering a ride home are just nothing to you?"

"No!"

"Then tell me," he steps closer but you step back. "how does it look like to you?"

This feels like he's cornering you, badgering for an answer he wants to hear and not about how you feel-- but you just can't seem to gather the courage to speak on it, after being denied of such things for so long.

So you bit your lip, backing up so far with your arms wrapped around, that you hit your back on the door-- and you had half a mind to run away from this, from everything, and most of all-

From him.

Price sees the panicked look on your face and feels his hand tucked under his armpit twitch, but his rational brain stops him-- knowing that if he let his inhibitions go right now, he'd see you hurt even more.

"Darlin'," he softly calls out this time, "tell me." But the demand remains the same-- and for a moment this made you believe he'd finally get the point and ask how you feel.

About him. About how this relationship have crumbled into.

"Y'know what John," you scoffed, "you wouldn't understand anyways."

He feels the ire grow from the way his hairs stand on end at your dismissiveness, your unwillingness to give an olive branch and just let him help you.

"Tell me anyways." He insists and you couldn't help how you obviously rolled your eyes at his one insistent dialogue option. Persistent in his ways of getting you to talk.

"And I said," you growled, "you wouldn't understand nor care to anyways!"

"THEN FUCKING MAKE ME!"

He cracks.

You crack.

And something inside both of you does as well.

Like a snap of a cord, the tension in its high rise grow cold.

Silence permeating the area you once found comfort in and called- "home."

Price sees the terror in your eyes and he just fucking knows he fucked up.

Fucked everything up just because he broke first-- snapped too hard at someone who held so dearly, but has now broken himself.

And he's panickily trying to fix it. Fix you. Fix each other.

His deepest nightmare coming into reality, the side of him he tried so hard to keep from you resurfacing, the acknowledgements of his faults getting the better of him as he you stare each other soullessly-- eyes not showing the same spark it did the first time he took you out.

Price knows he gets scary and unreasonable-- its part of his identity and how he deals with the other aspect of his life that he tries so damn hard to keep away from you.

Yet here it is- making its appearance in the worst. fucking. time. possible.

The silence is now broken with a sob coming from you.

You, who is unable to take in the state of the proud John you know and love now look to utterly destroyed from the one sentence leaving his mouth.

And the fact that its now out there, speaking a thousand emotions behind the four words he released in desperation.

You do love him. You love John so much sometimes it hurts to see him hurt you.

You're so damn frustrated with yourself that you can't handle being hurt by the man you love- you feel so pathetic, unable to take his concerns guised in criticism, his messages of tough love behind the formal texts on your phone, his small actions of appreciation from respecting your space and letting you breath after another argument.

"Are we done for John?"

You ask, through hiccups, forcing the matter on hand-- one of which you both desperately avoided for so long.

You wait.

You could hear the air still once again, it taking a chokehold on you, making you more desperate of the deprived oxygen.

You hear him shuffle to you.

The arms you previously wrapped around yourself were now around someone else, a different set now covering your own torso.

"My love," he chokes out, a soft "...Please" is all that he could manage.

"Please what?" You, yourself could barely respond but you knew you had to. He had to as well.

"Don't..." he sighs, head falling onto your shoulder. "...don't say such things."

"Why not?"

He feel him still.

"Tell me John."

He feels your position now. Vulnerable, wounded, and cornered without a choice.

"I'm sorry," he finally says with his chest heavy, "I'm so sorry my love, please."

He grabs your face desperately, hands now cupping your face instead of your waist.

And you could just see- how equally broken this man is.

You never saw Price cry, but that one time he slotted that ring on your finger and finally called you, 'his.'

But this... this is completely different.

From the way his eyes are dilated, not in love, but in genuine distraught. His hands shaky, not in nervousness, but anxiousness. His hands soft, not in care, but of fright.

If this is destroying him, then it did for you too.

Price continues to beg and plead, wiping your tears and dismissing his own. It doesn't matter if he can taste his salty tears and snot-- you just mattered more, and refusing to just stand there and watch you cry.

With a shaky breath, you finally raise your hand to his hand softly grabbing it and Price thinks he finally got to you.

But you pull it away.

Instead, you pull in downward and intertwine it with yours, slightly swinging it between you.

"John."

You call out and he opens his ears, replies, anything to get you talking--, "yes my dear?"

"I'm hurt."

He's about to ask why, where, how-- he wants to know everything.

"And I think I'm hurting you... well, more like us."

He shakes his head, disagreeing immediately.

"Darling, no." He fumbles his words, "its me- I'm hurting you, hurting us, and I-."

"No, its my fault."

"No, its mine."

"No, I just sometimes can't take it."

"Then its me! I'm at fault."

But you both insist and it seems endless until you both run out of breath again, yet... your intertwined hands persist. Grip so tight that you wouldn't even think of letting go.

This...makes you laugh, a soft one, and John swear he could hear bells ringing again.

You test it and try to pull away but he doesn't let you.

You giggle again and its infectious that Price couldn't help doing it as well.

"Why..." his chuckles die down but a smile stays painted on his lips, "why were you laughing?"

You shook your head and continue swinging your hands with more energy, "don't know..."

"But," you raised your head- eyes connecting once more, "this is just so silly."

"Silly?" He scoffs, so confused at the how quick the emotions are changing.

"Silly." You insisted but end of sighing, hands slowing down.

"I think," you began with your voice down back to a whisper, "we should be honest and talk."

Price immediately nods in agreement and adds a, "and take a step back?" And he does this literally too, making you chuckle.

Realizing as well at how cold the room has been, contrasting the warmth of your hands.

"yeah..." you mumble and unconsciously reach out for him again. "let's try... again?"

He reaches for you but this time, his grip is soft as if he was ready to let you pull away again.

"Together."

A/N: gonna be makin one for the other boiyos too so... part 1/4? :>> Masterlist for my other works here!

[munsonsmixtapes]

Paint Me

Benedict Bridgerton x fem!inexperienced!American!reader

summary: An unfortunate funeral causes you and Benedict come face to face and he is your surprising shoulder to lean on. And after a secret moment in the garden, you become closer than ever before.

word count: 4k

taglist: @syraxnyra @turtle-cant-communicate @sublimepenguinpeach-blog @intothesoul

part one part two part four part five part six part seven

February 13, 1817

There was a knock on your door after you had gotten home from the gallery. You had embarrassed yourself enough when you had insulted Benedict's painting and weren't in the mood to speak to anyone, especially not who you knew was on the other side of the door.

You had already felt like a disappointment to your father and you didn't need to hear him tell you as such. But he entered the room anyway and sat on the edge of your bed next to you. He went to wrap his arm around you, but you pulled away, moving closer to the other side.

"I am afraid that I have not been there for you when you needed me most," he went to reach for your hand, but you pulled it away, fully turning your back to him.

"I am afraid that is true and I do not wish to speak to you at this moment."

"Bunny," he went to use his beloved nickname for you which caused you to stand from the bed, turning to face with a kind of anger you didn't even know was possible.

"You do not deserve to call me that. I understand that you are my father, but you were also my best friend. So where have you been?" You asked, your voice getting louder. "Where have you been when your wife, my mother betrayed me? If you love me as much as you claim to, then why have you never defended me when you saw the two of them treating me so horribly? I know why. It is because you are nothing but a coward and I do not wish to speak to you any longer."

With that, your father left the room, leaving you alone again. All of your anger was getting the best of you, everything that had happened throughout your whole life, weighing on you. You went under your bed where you hid away your art supplies and began to sketch, the pressure of your hand pressing the charcoal to the page, causing it to break, both it and the tears that were falling from your eyes, ruining the picture completely.

It seemed that not even your form of therapy was working. The one thing that made you feel better in fact did not. As your anger reached its peak, you threw everything across the room in a loud clatter and changed into your nightgown, getting into your bed, pulling the covers over you and crying until sleep claimed you.

But your sleep did not bring you any rest whatsoever, the only thing happening behind your eyes was your father. You saw his carriage crashing into a tree, the ship he was on going down, him falling off his horse, all leading to his demise.

The guilt was eating at you for the way you spoke to him. Even though everyone was asleep, you couldn’t sleep any longer without apologize for the way you spoke to your father. Whether he accepted it or not didn’t matter. You just needed him to know that you didn’t mean a single word.

You snuck out of your room with every intention of heading to your parents’ room at the end of the hall only to your mother sobbing in the foyer. She was on her hands and knees while Lilith held onto her, rubbing her back while he cried tears of her own.

You approached them, looking around for your father only to not see him, and you expected the worst. It seemed that all of your nightmares were in fact not that, but premonitions.

You felt lightheaded, your vision going hazy as your sister told you what had happened. Augustus had gone for a late night horse ride and had experienced a heart attack, causing him to fall off and pass away right there because there had been no one had been around to give him the proper care nor get him to a hospital.

It was all your fault. Or at least, that was what you were telling yourself. He did, however, die in one of the ways you had dreamed about, so you supposed that you had spoken it into existence.

The next few days, the house was quiet, neither you nor your mother or sister uttering a single word, nothing feeling quite right to say as far as the loss was concerned. The funeral was the next week and the three of you stood together, weeping over your father’s grave.

You were approached by Kate and Anthony who pulled you into a group hug as your cried into their shoulders and they held you for as long as you liked. When you pulled away, you saw Benedict standing behind them, his eyes already on you. For once, the flirty look in his eyes was replaced with a look of sorrow. 

For a second, all of your dislike for him dissipated as he pulled you into his arms, his hands rubbing up and down your back as he whispered nothing but nice things into your ear as you cried into his shoulder. 

Kate and Anthony turned away to give you a private moment and whispered to each other about what was possibly going on between the two of you. Kate thought it was sweet, but Anthony was ready to nip it right in the bud. There was no way that he was letting his brother anywhere near you, not even in a friendly way as  Benedict was unable to be friends with women. He only bedded them and there was absolutely no way that could happen. 

You pulled away from Benedict and he was quick to wipe your tears. You hadn’t seen him that soft and gentle since you had moved back to England and you were happy to have your old Benedict back, even if it was just for a moment. 

Benedict didn’t know what had come over him. He wasn’t sure why, but seeing you so heartbroken broke his own heart. When he saw you sobbing when he got to the graveyard, he swore that he could actually hear his heart crack. Usually, he would only comfort a woman going through a loss for the sole reason of getting her into bed, but this time, that wasn’t even a thought. He just wanted to make sure that you were okay. 

He didn’t leave your side the entire day as everyone followed your family to your house to enjoy a meal together in your father’s honor. He kept his distance out of respect, but he wanted nothing more than to wrap you up in his arms and let you stay there as long as you wanted. He knew how close you were to your father and just how much it had crushed you to lose him. 

As day turned to night, you could feel your cold shoulder towards Benedict start to thaw. You were beginning to think that maybe you were being too hard on him when he had genuinely been trying to right his wrongs with what he had done to you almost a decade ago. You didn’t think that you should have let it hurt you for so long and that the grudge you were holding against him was really only hurting you in the end.

February 20, 1817

As a way to see your artwork, Lady Danbury had one of her friends host another gallery. You had told her that it wasn’t at all necessary, but of course, she didn’t listen to you. She assured you that everyone would love whatever you decided to submit and that they would all be lining up to purchase commissions from you.

You, however, thought it was a bold claim. Sure, you wanted people to see your work, but now you were nervous that none of them were going to appreciate it the way that you did. It was all very personal and you weren't sure that you wanted it hung for everyone to see.

Despite that, you still submitted your most personal piece. A painting of your father that was your own way of honoring him. A way to forgive him for all he had done to you and to let go of all of the guilt you felt for what had happened to him. It was the best form of therapy you could have ever asked for and easily your best work to date.

Benedict's piece had been coming along great as well. For once, he wasn't thinking about every single brush stroke and just went along with it, letting the brush guide him. He was going off of memory since he didn't have a proper photo of his subject, but he thought it was turning out rather well considering.

Instead of going to the studio, he decided to work in the garden, the sunlight being the best thing to point out all his imperfections if there were any. He was not going to have a repeat of what had happened last time. It was far too embarrassing.

"Ah, there you are, brother," Eloise spoke as she approached him.

"Here I am," he replied and was quick to stand in front of the painting so she couldn't see it, but it was too late. She had already seen it. She pushed him out of the way and let out a gasp as the painting before her.

"It that-"

"No," Benedict cut her off, trying to block her view of it again, a shade of pink apparent on his cheeks. Eloise just laughed and pushed him out of the way again, careful not to knock over the easel.

"It is!" She gasped. "It's the l/n girl that Kate and Anthony have befriended!"

"It is not." He didn't know why he was denying it. All the proof was right there.

"You cannot deny it. It seems that you have befriended her as well." Eloise could see the way that her brother looked at you and it seemed like he was attracted to you. She hadn't had many interactions with you, but according to Kate, you seemed like someone who keep Benedict humble and ground him.

"She doesn't like me, Eloise," he shook his head as dipped his brush into a shade that was the color of your skin tone and did some shading where he thought it would look nice.

"Why not? Did you hurt her, because Anthony will certainly-" Oh, Benedict knew exactly what Anthony would do.

"I did," Benedict nodded. "Eight years ago. When her family lived down the road, we painted a lot together in the study while Francesca played the piano, but one night-"

"What did you do, Benedict?" Eloise wasn't sure he wasn't going to say, but what she did know was that she wasn't going to like it.

"She told me-she told me that she loved." Her eyes widened at that and she wasn't surprised that she didn't know that fact because you would have been too scared to admit it to anyone and Benedict just felt horrible about the whole thing and didn't want to revisit it.

"And what did you say?" Considering the fact that you were ten and Benedict was twenty-one at the time, she could assume what had happened.

"The only thing I could. She was a child and I was certainly not interested in her and so I told her as much. Maybe a little too harshly and she ran."

"Benedict," Eloise gasped. So that was why you always paid almost attention to him. All of the dots were finally connecting. Now she was thinking that she liked you even more. That you were the first woman to not fall for her brother’s charms even though you were the exact one who should have. He definitely had a type.

"I know, and now she's here and beautiful and I'm afraid I've fucked it all up." Eloise was wondering what had gotten into him that he had such a defeatist attitude. He was never that way towards the women he was interested in even if they weren’t interested. In fact, that usually only motivated him even more.

"Maybe this might seem like a foreign concept to you, brother, but have you ever thought about apologizing like a normal person?" Benedict actually had thought about that, but he didn't think that was good enough, so that was why he had done the painting of you. He hoped that would help you see just how much he cared for you.

"I think it might be too late for that." He decided that his work was done and started to clean his brushes.

"It's never too late for an apology," she rested a hand on his shoulder and gave is a squeeze, leaving Benedict with much to think about.

February 21, 1817

You sat in the study with one of your books in your hand, but you couldn't focus on it. Your letter letting you know whether or not your artwork was accepted into the gallery was going to be there any second and you were terrified. There was a lot of riding on it and you were very afraid that they hadn't accepted it.

Kate and Anthony had insisted on being there when you got the good new and Kate clutched your hand as a servant entered the room with the envelopes on a silver platter and you reached for yours, feeling like time had stopped as you ripped into the envelope.

You read the first few words of the letter and let it drop to the floor, feeling your body go cold, collapsing into one of the chairs as you accepted defeat. They didn't want your piece. You should have known since they wouldn't have since you were a woman. They hadn't said as much, but you were able to read the lines.

Despite your sadness, you told the couple that you would join them at the gallery and felt horrible that Lady Danbury went through all that trouble for nothing. You didn't want to have to look her in the eyes, but the only worse thing was not going an accepting defeat. You were going to show everyone just how strong you were.

February 25, 1817

Practically everyone was already at the gallery when you had arrived and you felt dread come over you as you accepted that you were going to have no part in it. You had been rejected from many things like that before, so you weren't sure why it hurt so much.

Lady Danbury had approached immediately when you arrived and you really didn't feel like speaking with her but you plastered on your brightest smile, faking like you had interest in the conversation even though you would have much rather been in the study with your paints.

"Ah, there's the artist," she greeted. "You left last time before we were able to talk about your critique of the Bridgerton boy." Normally you would have felt guilty for something, but this time you couldn't have cared less. Benedict Bridgerton could have stood to be knocked down a few pegs and you were really enjoying being the one to do it.

"And I apologize for that. I was just letting my own issues take over." You were only apologizing because you felt like it, not because you meant it.

"No apologies necessary, dear. I loved it. I wish you would speak your mind more often. More people could benefit from hearing your thoughts. Especially ones like Mr. Bridgerton." Lady Danbury didn't mind Benedict, but often times she felt he had a big head and let his ego get in the way.

"I appreciate that, but unfortunately, I don't think that I'm up for it tonight."

"But what am I to think about the artwork without a lovely artist to give her opinions?" There was something odd about the interaction and you couldn't figure out what.

"You do flatter me, Lady Danbury. I suppose I wouldn't mind joining you."

So, you led her around the gallery and told her what you thought about the pieces, promising her to not hold back this time, suddenly not afraid to speak your mind. And Lady Danbury was loving every second of it, very entertained by the shy wallflower coming out of her shell.

She quite liked your company, amused by your little quips that you had come with on the spot. And she appreciated how you felt like you were able to be your true self around her, not the shy person she had met a few weeks ago. You were growing on her and easily becomg one of her favorite debutants of the season.

"Lady Danbury, who do you think your favorite artist is?" You asked as she got to the second to last piece. All this time you had been talking about the pieces in front of you, but you were curious as to what kind of art she liked since you thought a person's favorite artist said a lot about them.

"You." You were surprised to hear her say that considering that she hadn't even seen any of your work.

"Oh, that's very nice, but-"

"No, dear, it's you!" She cut you off and forced you to turn to the piece on the wall. You let out a gasp as your face stared back at you, feeling something very strange coming over you.

You stepped closer to the painting and turned this way and that, convinced that you were looking into a mirror, but you weren't. You could very clearly see the paint strokes when you got close enough. Who the artist was was a mystery. You had absolutely no idea who could have done it and wanted to know their identity and why you had been their subject.

You couldn't stop staring, wanting to reach out to touch it, but you knew you weren't allowed, even if it was your face on the canvas. It was amazing how well they were able to paint your features and you wondered what they had used for reference.

"I hope this isn't too amateur for you," a voice whispered in your ear and you felt a chill go down your spin as their hot breath hit the back of your neck.

You turned around only to be face to face with the seconds eldest Bridgerton brother. You eyed him, wondering why he would have done something like that and what he would have gotten out of it. That had to be the reason why he would have done it...right?

So many questions were swirling around your mind, your main one being how he was able to make the painting so accurate that it felt like you were looking into a mirror without having you sit for it.

"What is this, Benedict?" You pointed to the painting and he just chuckled. You didn't like how much you enjoyed making hearing the sound and wondering how you would have been able to hear it.

"It's you." He was smiling brightly and you wished he had done it more often. The look was just too pretty on him to hide away all the time. You wondered why he always seemed to always look so serious. In the many times you had seen him, he had only smiled when he was with Eloise.

"I'm aware of that...but why?"

"I think the better question is why not."

"How were you able to do it without me sitting for you to paint me?"

"I will answer all of your questions, but right now, we must see the final painting."

He offered you his arm and you grabbed onto it, letting him lead you through the rest of the gallery.

"But this was the last one." 

"Not quite,” he winked and stopped at the last piece, causing you to let out a loud gasp as your own painting was staring back at you. But it had been rejected. How did he get a hold of it and why was it there? The man was confusing you even more by the second. You were convinced that he had just been trying to get you to forgive him just so he could feel better about himself, but now you weren’t so sure. 

You felt tears well up in your eyes as you turned to him. No one had ever done anything that nice for you before. Something so selfless that they only did because they wanted to and not to make themself look good. Maybe he wasn’t the same Benedict that your remembered. Maybe he was finally turning over a new leaf.

Benedict wiped your tears away and even though it was entirely inappropriate, you threw yourself into his arms and he was quick to catch you, almost falling backwards because of how much force you had used to push yourself in his direction. You squeezed each other tight, avoiding the gasps of the people around you. Lady Danbury shooed them away to give the two of you some privacy as you both pulled away. 

Without a word, you pulled Benedict away from the gallery and you both discreetly made your way through the crowd to get outside for some much needed fresh air. You looked out into the garden and couldn’t help but feel like home there.There was something that was so comforting about it that made it seem like you belonged there. You could see yourself there with Benedict right by your side, the two of you facing each other with your own easels as you painted your own portraits of each other. 

You hadn’t thought about him in that way in a long time and wondered where that had come from. Maybe you were overcome with gratitude to him, but that didn’t matter. What did matter was the fact that you couldn’t stop yourself from staring at his pretty lips, wondering what they felt like between yours. And how you could have taken the chance and it would not have been inappropriate.

Without a word, you grabbed him by his coat and pulled him down so that his face was only inches from yours. You pressed your lips to his with so much force that your teeth clinked together and you both were quick to pull away covering your mouths in pain. You couldn’t believe you had done that. That was exactly why you never acted impulsively. It always just ended in embarrassment. 

You just shook your head as you felt your cheeks heat up and turned back to enter the gallery. Benedict wasn’t going to let you get away this time, though. He lost you once and he wasn’t going to let it happen again. And this time, he was actually attracted to you and he was going to let you know just how beautiful he thought you were. 

He grabbed onto your arm just as you were going to open the door and turned you around to face him. His hazel eyes bored into yours as he grabbed onto your chin, lifting it as he bent down. He slotted his lips between yours and you tried to move along with him, mimicking his actions exactly even though you had absolutely not fucking clue what you were doing. 

Your hands moved to his face and pulled him closer to you so you had more access to his mouth, becoming addicted to the feeling of his lips on yours. You had only gotten a little taste, but already wanted to do that exact thing for the rest of your life. Benedict pulled away to let the both of you breathe, but quickly dove in for more as he grabbed onto your waist and pushed you against the pillar that was behind you. You let him lead, taking exactly what he wanted from you as you were pliant under his touch. 

He pushed your mouth open as he slid his tongue inside, letting it swirl around your own and a sound escaped your mouth that Benedict definitely needed to hear again. And the fact that what you were doing was considered wrong only made him love it more. He continued to kiss you like his life depended on it as his hand moved up to your breast, massaging it the best he could over your dress as you let out another moan, this one louder. You pulled away as you felt a weird sensation between your legs, a lot of wetness collecting there. You began to panic as you pushed Benedict away, embarrassed about what was happening. 

“I had a lovely time tonight, Mr. Bridgerton, but now I must go.” You curtsied and then rushed inside, gathering your dress in your hands as you did so. 

You made a beeline for the restroom and locked yourself inside it before grabbing the nearest towel-like fabric and pulled up your dress before wiping. You pulled the towel away not to find blood like you were expecting but found that whatever was between your legs was almost clear. You were convinced that there was something wrong with you, having never seen anything like that before. 

While you were panicking in the restroom, Benedict was pacing in the garden, debating running after you even though he was sure that you had already left. Had he made you uncomfortable? That must have been it because you looked so scared. He had taken advantage of you and now he was going to beat himself up over it. Not reciprocating your feelings when you were a child was one thing, but taking advantage of you was another and now he had ruined his chances with you because he was selfish. He didn’t think that another painting was going to fix it either. Perhaps it was time to finally let you go for good and let you find a man who was actually worthy enough. A man that was actually able to keep you.

[transformers-spike]

Heyy I noticed that you put TFO among the stuff you might write for. Pls pls, if it's alright w/ u, Megatron x reader angry sex? Like, you might be a human he found after being banished and kept with him, and he trusts you bc u are nice, pose no real threat and ur good to blow off some steam :))))))))) but ofc he cares abt u, so it's more like angry sex + tender aftercare thank uuuuuuu i love my big metallic man with anger issues

My brain decided to do its own thing and for the sake of not writing a full length novel about it, I had to cut it short (and of course I made it sad because the boy is just dripping with angst - so I'm going to give him more.) So here:

He was advised to abandon you. Found in the deepest recesses of a Quintesson ship they’d shot down, you were still shaking from the crash. Not Cybertronian. Nor Quintessonian. A completely different being, with soft mesh, warm extremities and strands of something falling from your helm. An animal perhaps? Much like the strange quadrupeds traveling the surface? No, your optics move with intention, taking in your surroundings and wrinkling your optical ridge in clear contemplation. You are incredibly tiny, even next to a cogless miner. He wondered, briefly, when he first saw you, if you were another casualty of Sentinel’s tyranny, a forgotten being he sold off to the Quintessons without a second thought. He does not understand your language, nor can you speak his, but you observe the context and carefully come to associate certain words with objects, actions and designations. You cannot reproduce the subtle tones of Cybertronian with an organic vocalizer, much like the Quintessons – but you do not reject it. You learn to live despite your muteness. Many times he’s watched you draw figures in the sand with a twig the size of your arm, depicting what he could only assume to be a spaceship flying away from a distant planet as the Quintessons surround it. Sometimes you draw more of your kind, together in an embrace. You would stand over your creation, watching wistfully as the wind erased the fine traces of sand. A memory of your people. He wishes he could tell you about him and Orion, the pain of losing him, the crater in his chassis that will never mend – but guilt keeps him at bay. Soon enough, your provisions will run out. What they found on the Quintesson ship were rations made for your specific type of biology, with no guide to recreate them from, not even Shockwave could reverse-engineer the process. It’s simply too late. One orbital cycle, your life will come to an end, but he will give you the dignity of dying at his hands, painlessly. He is no stranger to starvation, but unlike him, you must refuel at various intervals during an orbital cycle, else he senses how you grow restless on his shoulder, fiddling with your servos, mesh growing pale and optics sluggish, growls emanating from your inner mechanism. You are not made for suffering Your life will come to an end, and you know this better than any other Decepticon; as though reading his thoughts behind the permanent scowl scratched into his face. Perhaps this is why he indulges in you even if he’s been advised against it. You’re eager despite your size, pressing yourself against his frame, ignoring your discomfort. He’s still getting used to his new body, including his strength for better or for worse. Yet you do not fault him when he leaves bruises. You kiss him and rub up against his spike, transfluid trickling down to his valve even before he comes undone. You squirm and laugh and pull him into a hug, helm to helm, a moment so perfect he’s ready to rip the cog from his chassis if it means staying like this forever, servos clenched into fists as he curses at Primus for the happiness he will shatter.

[cerastes]

Right, that psych/mental health post reached farther than intended. It’s nothing new, without trying to suck myself off here, for a post to embark on a journey through lots of dashboards and consequently bring new followers. Every time that happens, I fire rent-lowering gunshots and shave off that number a little. But it’s a first for me that a post of that nature breaks out, so,

First of all, it’s bittersweet that that post resonated with so many people, but I mean it, validate your emotions; the point isn’t breaking plates is fun and cathartic, you misrepresent my intentions if that is what you focus in, it’s about getting everything on a level field and not seeing these feelings as nebulous poison that cannot be avoided or curbed and thus shouldn’t be faced.

And, second but not least, that’s an exception to the rule when it comes to my posting. Normally I’d spam some anime feet and armpits, and let that sort itself out, but out of respect for the struggles and hope to improve some may have following the OP of a post like that, instead I prefer to tell you upfront that I don’t post about therapy and psychology often, nor will I start now. If you followed for that, swing and miss, dear. It’s my day job, and I make it a strict rule of mine to keep work and the rest of my life separate. I enjoy my craft, and its practice. I am proud of it. But it’s my craft, and it’s not what I do with the rest of what and who I am. It’s not what you’ll find here. In fact, the OP tag on that post is “I never do this but”, funnily enough.

I wish you the best in your own journeys because they are not easy indeed. All I can say, regardless of situation, is step out of your comfort zone, at your pace, and that does include both validating your “negative” feelings (again, those don’t exist), and acknowledging that remaining static and stagnant because of the bad things that have happened to us is a very comfortable place to be in, paradoxically, and we need to get out of that “victim’s comfort” to improve ie: “My parents made me hate myself so it’s their fault I am so miserable” vs “My parents made me hate myself, it’s their fault but that won’t define all I am and I’ll prove them wrong like the hateful idiots they are” let it be your fuel to take those hard but important steps, whichever they may be.

Anyways, I reblog risque stuff and talk about video games, so feel free to unfollow if you wanted more psych stuff, no hard feelings.

[cannibalisticskittles]

wingmanning - pt. 1

also on ao3 here :)

Lucanis has become accustomed to waking in odd positions in the months since Spite was forced into him, so finding himself half-crouched on the floor, thighs tensed like he’d been in the process of rising, isn’t much of a shock. 

What he is less accustomed to is regaining consciousness with another person present. 

Ward Ingellvar, called Rook by everyone around her and holder of his current contract, is currently peering down at him, worry etched between her brows.

“...Lucanis? Are you… back?”

Is he in control, or is Spite?

But Spite does not press at his mind, clamoring to wrest control away. Instead, he skulks about the edges of Lucanis’ consciousness, faintly grumbling – and yet, relatively quiet. 

“...yes.” For now. Which means he should get up and figure out what damage has been done while he was out.

Rook’s fingers twitch at her side, but she has the good grace not to offer him a hand up and worsen his embarrassment as he stands. She does, however, stare at him with that same look of worry. Intently. Lucanis takes a moment to assess his surroundings more thoroughly.

The last he recalls, he was writing notes, and now… well, at least Spite has not brought them far. He is still in the Lighthouse, not far from the pantry he has recently taken residence in; Spite’s escape attempt only brought them as far as the dining room.

The fire is out. The scent of wet woodsmoke hangs heavy in the air. There are potatoes scattered across the floor – as well as a few of the place settings that were formerly at home on the table. 

What exactly was Spite doing?

“What… happened?” he asks carefully. The words are spoken with great reluctance. It is… less than pleasant to have to rely on others to get answers for these missing moments.

“Spite… got into a few things,” Rook says. “Well. A lot of things. Tried to talk him out of the more, ah, dangerous ventures, but that wasn’t hugely effective, so then I tried to… distract him.”

“With – the potatoes?” 

Rook laughs, suddenly, then claps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. You just sounded so – …sorry.” She clears her throat. “No, the potatoes are my fault, but it wasn’t intentional. I came in to take stock of how many we had; Harding wants to make stew. But when I went to check, it… drew his attention, I suppose? He came out of the pantry, startled me, I dropped them, they scattered everywhere… then he started to poke around the room.”

“Just in the room?”

“Mmhmm. He said something about leaving, or wanting to leave, but he didn’t seem to be actively trying to go anywhere. More… seeking new sensations?” She shrugs. “I imagine there’s a lot here that was not present… before.”

In the Ossuary, she means. 

It’s been mere days since stepping foot on solid ground, and in that time alone, the demon has witnessed far more than he ever did when they were trapped down in that accursed place. It should be more than enough to keep Spite occupied – but it is not. 

Spite has been incessant with his questions since getting out, pestering him about new sights, new concepts – and yet, between all this, Spite makes demands to leave no matter where Lucanis goes, and complaints of being trapped when he declines. It makes no sense. The demon has always been insistent when he wants something, and he does seem to struggle to understand much about this world that is different from his own, but how could walking free of their prison have made Spite more restless? 

Now, it’s like he rankles whenever Lucanis isn’t in motion. Even in the Ossuary, the grousing was less frequent. It’s enough to drive a man mad. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to it, nor does there seem to be any rhyme or reason to what Spite has been doing here.

But… he considers Rook’s words. Is that what it is? Curiosity? The desire for these new sensations? Mierda. If that’s true, he’s not sure the demon is ever going to be satisfied.

Lucanis spots a bent spoon amidst the fallen tubers, and a fork with its prongs bent back by the fireplace. “Spite’s handiwork, I assume?”

Rook nods. “Mmhmm. He did get ahold of a few more than that, though I’m not sure where they ended up.” She peers around the room as Lucanis sighs, then  adds, “it’s not so bad – there weren’t enough place settings when we got here, but the Fade spit more out, so I’m sure replacements will show up eventually. And while he was preoccupied with that, I was able to move the knives out of the way.”

“The knives?” 

Lucanis glances at the far corner of the kitchen, where he can detect a flicker of violet – a telltale sign that Spite is lurking nearby. The demon does not deign to chime in, though. His silence feels purposeful. 

…or perhaps he is simply bored and wandered off. Maker knows he did it often enough in the Ossuary, even if the wards in place kept him confined to their erstwhile cell. 

“Half the kitchen knives were laying on the countertop,” Rook says. “Felt like the sort of thing he should probably know his way around, but not without some… supervision. So. I moved ‘em. Set ‘em outside the doors, on the little balcony.”

Spite does pipe up now. “No fun,” he grumbles, then disappears from view, in the direction of the door.

“It’s not supposed to be fun,” Lucanis fires back.

He realizes too late that he has spoken aloud, when Rook stops in her tracks and shoots him a puzzled look. That’s a habit in need of breaking. 

“That… was for Spite,” he explains with a sigh. 

“Ah!” Understanding dawns in her eyes immediately. “Is he – still here?”

“He’s never far,” Lucanis says, “but I believe he has left us for the moment.”

Rook nods, but her eyes still drift in the general direction Lucanis was facing when he spoke to Spite. “I wonder how far he’s able to wander from you,” she murmurs. “And… does actual, physical distance have any bearing on how well you can communicate with each other? Are there sound waves moving through the air and it’s a matter of attuning to it, or is it entirely magical and facilitated by, or through, the Fade? Is there a way to become attuned to it?”

As she muses, Lucanis surveys the damage once more. It could be worse, all considered. Though the fact that Spite was able to take charge so soon – so easily – is… worrying. But there is little to be done about that now besides fixing the disorder the demon caused. He bends to pick up one of the wayward potatoes at his feet. 

This, at last, breaks Rook from her reverie. “Oh! Sorry, here, let me help.” And she begins to do just that. She takes to the task with fervor, scrabbling on her knees to scoop up nearby tubers and coax them out from the nooks and crannies they have rolled into. 

“Rook,” Lucanis says, “you don’t have to do that. It isn’t your mess to mend. It’s Spite’s fault – which means it’s mine to handle.”

But Rook is not to be deterred. 

“Oh, no,” she says. “There wouldn’t be a mess if not for me. Not this one, anyway; I suppose he might have still gotten to the silverware later on. Even so, this?” She waves a potato in the air demonstratively before, for some reason, tucking it into one of the many pockets adorning her coat. “This one’s my fault.”

“You were only preparing for dinner. There’s no fault there.”

But she grimaces. “Weeeell, if it was that simple, I might agree with you. However…” Another potato, another pocket to stash it in. “I… may have come to, ah, hide them.”

“To hide them,” he repeats. “Is that why you're keeping them in your coat?”

Rook pauses, shoots him a glance, then… tucks yet another potato into her coat. “Yes. Better here than within reach.”

“And why exactly is that?”

“Harding wanted to make stew.”

“Yes,” he says, “you’ve mentioned that.”

“Ah. Right. You weren’t here the last time this happened. Harding made potato stew once before, soon after we came to the Lighthouse, and it was… well…” 

She pauses for a moment, staring off into the middle distance as though beset by a terrible memory.

“The taste was… passable.” Yet the wrinkle around her nose and the way her lip curls slightly as she says that suggests otherwise. “But the texture… I don’t understand it. It’s like every mouthful, there was something different wrong with it. Crunchy, then mushy, then gritty, and sometimes even rubbery.”

“In a stew?”

Rook nods. 

Suddenly, a comment Bellara made the previous night about acquired tastes makes sense. 

“I don’t know if it’s a Ferelden thing, or if it’s because we’re in the Fade, or what,” she says. “When it was just her and Varric and me, we almost never had access to a kitchen, so I can’t say I really had a reference point for her cooking skills outside of the sort of things you could throw together on the go. But I know she could make a killer sandwich. I had so many of the Lace Specialty when we were tracking down Solas, and her yam and jam slam was perfect for traveling, too.”

“...yam and jam slam?” The words sound bafflingly foreign together. 

Rook nods. “Y’know, just… buttered toast, slices of roasted yam, and some butter in between. Keeps for a surprisingly long time.”

That… sounds heinous, but he lets it pass. He won’t bother asking about the Lace Specialty – it might be best to keep that one a mystery. 

“Whatever it is, though, when Harding said she wanted to make it again tonight, it seemed like it might be for the best if the main ingredient was to be… conveniently lost. But they were heavier than I expected, and I dropped the bag the first time I tried moving them, and then Spite came out, and I dropped it again and spilled them… so really, if I hadn’t been so uncharitable, maybe Spite wouldn’t have come to investigate in the first place. No noise, no mess.”

“Or,” Lucanis says, “perhaps Spite would have done more than bend a few spoons – he may have wandered off without any eyes on him.”

He is loath to admit the limitations of his ability to control the demon, but it does no good to ignore the potential threats it poses. 

“Mmm.” She considers this. “You may be right. Still, I say I’m at least half responsible for the mess,” she says, and resumes her efforts to tidy. 

Lucanis does the same. 

A few minutes pass in silence this way, filled only by the sound of quiet shuffling and tiny clang of silverware being scooped up.

Lucanis is the first to speak. He has done much for the sake of a contract in his life – much that was miserable, or injurious, or torturous, even – but the thought of rubbery stew will not leave his mind. That… cannot come to pass. 

“What did you plan to tell her?” he asks. 

“Hmm?”

“Harding,” he says. “When you went back to her empty-handed. Surely she would find that odd, knowing that there had been plenty here, before.”

“Honestly, I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Rook says. “Maybe that we misremembered what we had? Or the Fade did something to them? Or… I tripped and fell and lost them all in the abyss.”

“And… what did you plan to eat, then?”

“Had not thought that far either,” she admits. 

He makes a contemplative noise and picks up what seems to be the last of the ruined silverware. Unless, of course, Spite has stashed more elsewhere in the room. Lucanis wouldn’t put it past him. 

“You know,” he says, “I do know how to cook.”

“You do?”

Perhaps he ought to be offended by her tone, but amusement wins out. “I do,” he confirms. 

“The master assassin has kitchen skills?”

“The master assassin has to eat.” 

“I suppose so.” She cocks her head to the side and blinks owlishly at him. “Wait – are you saying you’d be willing to make dinner tonight instead? Really?”

“Seems a waste of perfectly good potatoes to hide them away,” he says. “That is, of course, if you do not mind a master assassin handling your food.”

Rook scoops up the last handful of potatoes at her feet and rises. “If you poison me with something edible, I’ll die happier than I’d live if I ate that stew again.” And then her expression reflects a sudden panic. “–not that I really think you’d do that!”

“It’s natural to worry about,” he says. They ought to consider the possibility, at least. He won’t be poisoning anyone today – but a little more caution on their part wouldn’t go amiss.

“But I really don’t think–” She cuts herself off before finishing. Instead, she worries her lower lip between her teeth, then asks, “are you sure you’re alright doing this for us?”

There is apprehension in her voice, in her expression, but he is unsure of the reason for it. “I would not offer if I did not mean it,” he assures her. 

“I only mean – we’re asking a lot of you, as it is. Killing… gods, or ancient mages, if that distinction means anything. That’s your contract, not… playing scullery maid or chef. We really should be providing for you, not the other way around.”

Ah. The fear of overstepping. That, he can do something about. 

“If I allow myself to be sickened by tainted food and am too weak to hold a dagger straight, my odds of fulfilling my contract become… low,” he says. “And I do not fail contracts.”

Rook nods slowly at that. “Point made. …you don’t think it would do any harm to tell Harding a little white lie, do you? Say that you were already making food when I came in – something with potatoes, so, alas, we’re fresh out, and dinner is taken care of for the night. You know a recipe that involves potatoes, right?”

A recipe?

“I'm sure I can think of something,” he says mildly.

“Excellent. And… maybe Harding will just forget about stew by the time we get more.” She rolls her shoulders. “…I suppose there’s no need to hold on to these, then.”

Rook crosses to the kitchen area and begins to set tuber after tuber on the countertops, first arranging the ones from her arms, and then pulling them from her coat pockets. Lucanis brings his armful over as well, placing them beside her pile until there is a nice, tidy row. 

“We’ve got sort of a hodgepodge of various ingredients,” she says, “and they’re a little… scattered.”

“I’ve noticed.” The pantry has plenty of root vegetables, but not nearly as many essentials beyond that, and while he may not have had much time to examine the areas of the Lighthouse besides his erstwhile living space, even a quick perusal of the cabinets did not turn up much more.

“Honestly,” she says, “it’s been difficult to keep track of what was here before we got here, what we brought in, and what’s just… appeared. Still! There ought to be enough to make… something other than that stew. Would you like some help?”

But as she asks this, another voice steals away his attention. 

“Smells. Like earth.”

Lucanis has the composure not to jolt or visibly startle when the demon speaks into his ear – but it does delay his response by a moment. What was it she said? She asked if he needed help? 

“There’s no need,” Lucanis says, “you’ve already done more than enough, straightening out Spite’s chaos. I shouldn’t require any further help.”

“I’m sure you’re quite capable in the kitchen and you don’t need help,” she says, “but would you accept some anyway? To speed it up, or to give you less to do? I can’t say I’m particularly practiced – I never spent all that long on a cooking rotation – but I also never had my rotation ended early after giving the whole hall food poisoning like some of the other Watchers did, so…”

Spite chooses now to hover around her, craning to peer over her shoulder, and then looks back at Lucanis. “Lucanis. Why?”

Lucanis does his best to ignore the demon and process her words.

Does she ask out of that fear of overstepping again? Not wanting to give him too many duties outside of his contract? Lingering distrust, despite her insistence on the contrary? Wanting to be sure he isn’t going to slip something in the food and poison them after all? Or is it simply a genuine desire to be helpful?

He’d like to think he would have a better read on that, normally – when there isn’t a demon speaking incessantly into his ear. 

“Different. From potatoes. Different. From the others. Lucanis.”

“...Lucanis?”

Rook, this time. Her brow is once again knit with something akin to worry. She has said something else, he realizes, that he did not catch, preoccupied with Spite as he was. 

“It’s… Spite,” he admits. “He is… curious again.” 

Rook tilts her head and narrows her eyes as though doing so will allow her to hear the demon. As though this is something to desire instead of something to endure. “What is he asking?”

But Lucanis shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Best not to indulge him, it will only encourage him to try this again.”

She frowns and opens her mouth as if to protest, then shuts it again. Which is just as well, because Spite continues to pester him, needling him with increasing agitation. 

“Are you okay? Do you need anything?” she asks, just as Spite growls, “Lucanis!” 

He needs —

A moment to himself. Some quiet. Rare though that may be.

Lucanis runs a hand through his hair as he gathers his thoughts. “…didn’t you say you were going to tell Harding her efforts were no longer needed?”

“Yes!” Rook clasps her hands together. “Right. I should let her know. Then she can rest of it longer, after all that rock magic she did today. Why don’t I do that and then I can come back and… peel? Stir? Scrub? Any of those tedious little tasks you don’t feel like doing, foist them onto me, yes?”

“Yes,” he agrees, though really, he has only ever been able to tolerate the presence of others in the kitchen with him in small doses, aside from those who had the kindness to teach him the basics in the first place – and Illario, though his cousin usually tested his patience before too long.

He shouldn’t refuse, though. What grounds does he have to turn her down?

Rook nods, and then she is off. 

When she is gone and Lucanis is as alone as he can be, these days, Spite redoubles his questioning. 

“Like dirt,” says the demon, “earth. But not like. Harding.”

“No,” Lucanis sighs. “Not like Harding.”

Harding smells like… loam. Fresh, healthy soil, flecked with green and growing things. Rook smells more like… old earth. Drier, dustier. 

“Why?”

“Why does it matter?” He cannot keep the exasperation from his voice any longer. 

“You notice. But won’t. Say why.”

He does notice. It’s an old habit, and one he intends to keep sharp. Things left unnoticed are things he cannot account for, and even a scent can be a warning sign of some danger lying in wait. 

“It isn’t important enough to interrupt,” he says. “Spite, I cannot focus when you’re speaking over someone. Others… notice.”

“But why? Why not. The same?” 

“It’s just different. There doesn’t have to be a reason.” Even if there is, it’s not one that the demon is likely to understand. What does he know of gardening, or catacombs? And he does not have the time required to give Spite an answer that would satisfy him.

“Is,” Spite grumbles. “But Lucanis. Never wants. To say. Why.”

Spite continues to voice his discontentment, but Lucanis turns his focus away from the demon and towards the task at hand, taking the opportunity to take stock of what’s in the cabinets.

It isn’t much. The shelves are in dire need of restocking. But… there’s olive oil. And several glass jars with the names of various spices written on them in what looks to be Bellara’s handwriting. 

Below, pots and pans of… sufficient size and quality, at least for now. Right. He can make something of this. 

He diverts, briefly, to the pantry, and returns with root vegetables, as well as a few onions. It won’t be the stew Harding envisioned, but there is enough for soup. 

As he sets these on the counter, besides the row of potatoes, he says, “Spite.”

Spite is entirely uninterested in his attempt at conversation, preferring instead to stare intently at the vegetables. He bends until his face is almost flush with the countertop, then reaches out and pokes at the pile, watching one of them wobble.

Lucanis isn’t sure if that actually does push it forward or if it’s simply unbalanced. Truly, he’s not certain how much influence Spite can exert on the world when he isn’t considering Lucanis’ body. There wasn’t much to test this on in the Ossuary; the venatori did have enough sense not to provide a practiced assassin with anything that could be used as a weapon. Which was, well, anything, when you’re a Crow. So the only thing Spite could consistently attempt to influence was… him.

If Spite is able to influence physical objects even when incorporeal... well. It’s something to watch out for. Another layer of danger to this whole situation. Even if Spite is only using this influence to poke around at root vegetables. 

“Spite,” he says again, firmer. 

The demon glances his way, which might be the most acknowledgment he’s going to get.

“You cannot – we cannot – be walking around whenever you want. And you cannot just… take over like that. My body isn’t yours to do as you wish with it, and – besides that, a demon in the midst of everyone, outside of the Fade, it scares people.” As it should. 

“Wasn’t. Outside it! And she. Already knows! About us!” Spite protests.

“Yes,” he says, “but losing control like that – not knowing where I am? – it’s… unprofessional.” 

Spite grumbles but makes no other reply. Lucanis opens the cabinets again and begins sorting through the jars of spices. 

“We – I – seem less… competent. Less trustworthy when this happens.”

Spite doesn’t even bother to grumble in response this time, only presses his face closer to the counter, watching how light filters through the glass jars. 

Lucanis sighs. His professional reputation has surely been marred enough by his absence; that he has been made an abomination and cannot seem to keep a tight enough leash on Spite for this fact to stay secret forever… well. It will not help that. The whispers back home may not have started yet, but it is only a matter of time, and all his past deeds, all the respect and good regard he once had earned, may crumble in the face of his new, permanent guest.

And he can’t even say this isn’t exactly what ought to happen. Who would trust a man – an abomination – who could lose himself at any moment to the capricious whims of a demon? Even here, now, amidst all their kind words, these excursions cannot foster encouragement about his ability to fulfill his contract. 

“What must they think…”

Spite pokes at a potato now.

“Rook thinks. You have. Nice hands.”

Lucanis pauses. He closes the cabinet to get a clearer look at Spite.

“…Spite,” he says quietly, voice carefully restrained, “how do you know that?”

Spite barely spares him a glance between examining root vegetables. “She said so!”

“Yes, but – why did she say so?”

A thousand different scenarios flash through his head. Rook said Spite bent silverware, chased potatoes, was interested in knives, but… what part of that could have inspired a comment like that? What else could Spite have done while Lucanis wasn’t in control?

Spite spares another glance at Lucanis, but seems faintly baffled by the question. “No. Fun.” 

That’s hardly an answer. 

“Spite.” Lucanis is terse, now. “What. Exactly. Did she say?”

“Careful, Spite. Don’t want to ruin. His nice. Hands.” Spite makes a face – with his face, which should feel stranger, but doesn’t, after so many months with only reflection of his own face gazing back at him as his only company. “And then!” the demon says, no longer mimicking, “she put. It. Out!”

“The knives?” Lucanis asks. 

“The fire!”

Spite’s expression – his expression – suggests this is an offense of the highest order. He practically pouts, jerking his chin towards the fireplace, which he now gazes balefully at. “Wouldn’t. Let me touch,” he complains. 

“…ah.” That… makes sense. The smell of wet wood, the decidedly damp logs in the fireplace… “Spite, fire is not to be touched.”

“Why. Not? Rook makes fire.”

“And Rook still doesn’t go sticking her hands in fireplaces. You shouldn’t, either.” He sets another jar on the counter, then adds, “or ovens. Or candles.”

Spite’s lips twist down. “Lucanis is no. Fun. Rook. Is no. Fun. Only want. To see! Not fair!”

“Touching is not seeing, Spite.” Lucanis can hear the sound of footsteps, faint but growing nearer. Rook is returning. “You’re welcome to watch and see all you like, now, but keep quiet. …I’ll see about relighting the fireplace if you can manage it.”

This, at least, elicits a positive response from the demon, and Spite is grinning as he says, “deal!”

It is a deal Spite is likely to break before long, but Lucanis will cherish the brief moments of silence he gets all the same. 

[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

chapter xxiii – gust & flame

Eris Vanserra x Reader

Eris Vanserra has been a prisoner in his own home since the day he was born. He has done what he had to in order to survive and protect the few he loves. And he is playing the long game. Waiting, waiting, and waiting for the right time to make his move, to usurp his wicked father and become High Lord of Autumn Court. But things become even more complicated when a human girl drops into his life. Perhaps Eris can wait no longer to take his throne.

Word Count: 4,500+

masterlist

“You are being awfully quiet, my dear.” 

Y/N blinked, getting mentally awoken by Leonora’s comment. “Sorry, I just…I don’t think the hand-made gown tailored specifically for me was necessary.”

Leonora looked confused. “And why is that?”

Y/N’s gaze couldn’t lift from the floor as she answered, “I do not think it is wise for me to attend the celebration.” 

All of the servants and seamstresses froze from the statement and subtly looked at their Lady of Autumn for indication of how they should react. 

But Leonora, calm and collected per usual, just gave Y/N a gentle smile. She nodded to the seamstress that was kneeling at Y/N’s foot to continue her work. 

Then she looked up at Y/N without judgment or worry, but with an encouraging smirk and soft eyes. “Why would it not be wise for the mate of our new High Lord to attend his coronation, Y/N?” 

The witch finally looked up from the ground to meet her gaze. “Will it not give the people of his Court the wrong idea? I am not the next Lady of Autumn, nor have I accepted his bond. I do not wish to put Eris in an uncomfortable position.” 

Leonora gave a sad nod. “I see…” she sighed. 

She turned around and gave everyone in the room a soft request to leave the two of them. 

Y/N’s heart started beating faster as she watched them all quietly exit. 

Was Leonora about to scold her? Yell at her for refusing to accept her son as his mate? 

No, that couldn’t be it.

Leonora had been nothing but kind to Y/N since they met. Never once did she pressure her on behalf of Eris. She hardly ever brought up their relationship. Most of the time, Y/N felt like Leonora was just happy to have a new female friend in the Forest House, especially after so long of being a prisoner here. 

Leonora offered Y/N her hand to help her off the platform she was standing on for the seamstresses. Then she held both of her hands gently as she told her, “You forget, Y/N, that you are more to Autumn Court than simply the mate of its new High Lord.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed. 

Leonora smiled. “You are their savior. Yes, it was Eris who slayed Beron in the end. But he would not have had the courage or strength to do so without you. Most in this Court despised and feared Beron Vanserra. You have given this Court a chance for change.”

Y/N’s face grew hot from the praise. 

Leonora gave her a sympathetic look before adding, “But also I cannot say that as Eris’ mother, I do not also have selfish motives, as well. You make him stronger. I worry how he will be if he if he goes through such a coronation alone.” 

“But you and Lucien will be there,” Y/N tried to argue. 

Leonora tilted her head and gave her a look. “It is not the same, and I think you know that, my dear.” 

Then she looked down at the beginnings of the dress on Y/N’s body that the seamstresses had begun.

“As for the dress, Eris wishes to spoil you with finery and I can’t argue with his intentions,” Leonora teased with a smirk. 

But her expression sobered. “However, I know neither he nor anyone else will fault you for avoiding such a celebration. So much has been thrust upon you, and in so little time. You must do what is best for you.” 

Y/N frowned and looked down at herself. “I will let them finish the dress – if only to please everyone. I would feel bad for throwing away all their hard work they’ve already done.”

Leonora nodded. “I think that is a wonderful idea.” 

–🍁–🍁–🍁–

In the following weeks, the Forest House was bustling with activity. 

Apparently, the coronation included inviting every High Lord and Lady of of Prythian. 

Which meant the servants and cooks were frantic with preparations. Lucien had explained to her that the staff saw this as an opportunity to show why Autumn Court should be considered the best of Prythian. With a new High Lord came a new chance to prove that Autumn Court could change for the better and they were not to be overlooked. 

Therefore, Y/N tried to stay out of everyone’s way. She either hid in the library, continuing her personal research or she was in her workshop, keeping herself busy with spells and potions. 

However, on the day of the coronation, she stayed hidden in her bedchambers, scared that leaving would only bring attention to the fact that she would not be attending the festivities. 

Maids and seamstresses had knocked on her door early in the morning. But Y/N simply ignored them, not wanting to see the looks of disappointment when she told them she would not be going to the coronation. 

Y/N tried to distract herself by the fire, sitting on a chaise lounge with a romance novel in hand when more aggressive knocking came at the door. 

She planned on ignoring it again, but then she recognized the group of voices on the other side. 

“Y/N, if you do not open the door, we will break it down!” Nesta threatened loudly. 

She jumped up and hurried to the door to whip it open. 

On the other side, were her three Valkyrie sisters: Nesta, Gwyn, and Emerie. 

Not only that, but they clearly dressed and done up for the coronation.

Nesta wore a simple black, velvet dress. But it was not simple in the way that it fit her body like a glove and edged toward risqué. Y/N had always appreciated how Night Court attire never strayed from being seductive and showing skin. Gwyn wore a more elegant black dress, which made Y/N wonder if Nesta was using her mate’s money to buy her friends luxurious gowns. Emerie wore leathers, that could have been a warrior’s uniform, over pants. Though less feminine, they were still formal and lavish in their own way.

When the Illyrian saw Y/N eyeing her outfit, she shrugged. “I was never really one for gowns…”

“You all look beautiful,” Y/N muttered. “B-But w-what are you doing here?” Y/N gasped in shock. 

“We’re here for you, obviously!” Gwyn urged and pulled Y/N into a warm hug. 

“Eris invited us,” Emerie confirmed with a smile, also walking into her rooms. 

“Why aren’t you dressed?” Nesta asked, looking Y/N up and down as she closed the door behind them. 

Y/N frowned. “I…I am not going.” Her eyes stayed down, scared to see their reactions to such a confession. 

But, without hesitation, Gwyn announced, “Then we will stay in here and drink ourselves silly!” 

Y/N’s jaw dropped at how unfazed her friends were. “B-But you will miss the festivities. And you all look so lovely.” 

Nesta rolled her eyes. “This will not be our last opportunity to dress up. We would much rather hang out with you than all the stuffy High Lords and their nobles.” 

Then Emerie nudged Nesta. “But we must still tell her our plan.” 

“Plan?” Y/N questioned, eyes scanning all of them. 

“Helion Spell-Cleaver will be in attendance!” Gwyn squealed. 

Y/N’s brow furrowed, immediately thinking of Leonora and Lucien. She wondered if the Lady of Autumn would ever reveal to her past lover and her youngest son of the secret relation. Or if Leonora would ever follow her heart and return to Helion. 

“Yes, all of the High Lord’s have been invited…” Y/N muttered, not understanding their clear excitement. 

“Helion is the sole owner of the last of the pegasuses,” Emerie explained. 

Nesta rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “And he makes sure to remind everyone of it, using them as his transport to any event he possibly can.” 

Y/N’s amusement dropped for concern. “Please, please, please tell me you do not plan on stealing Helion’s pegasuses.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Gwyn brushed off. “However, we do plan on sneaking into their enclosure to give them some pets.” 

“And perhaps seducing Helion into giving us one or two…” Nesta added while looking at her nails. Y/N gaped at her. “What? He’s already propositioned me to join an orgy once when I visited Day Court.”

“Yes, before you accepted Cassian as your mate!” Emerie pointed out. 

Nesta quirked a brow. “Who said Cassian would not be participating?”

“Those smutty books of yours have given you too many ideas,” Y/N laughed. 

“More like inspiration,” Nesta corrected. “And inspiration that my mate is very enthusiastic about trying.” Then she pointed to the book Y/N had been reading when they arrived and quirked a brow. "Do not pretend you are above them."

“OK. Enough about your bedroom habits!” Gwyn interrupted. Then she turned her attention to Y/N. “Are you in or are you out?” 

The witch smiled. “Of course I’m in.” 

Minutes later, they were sneaking around the Forest House, Y/N led them toward where she assumed any guests horses would be quartered for the night.

But before they could reach it, a gust of wind wrapped around the females. 

“He…needs…you,” The wind whispered to Y/N. “Go…to…him. He cannot…do this…without you.” 

Y/N froze in the hallway. 

“What? What is it?” Emerie asked. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Y/N whispered. “Eris needs me. I will catch up to you later.”

“Oh, for Cauldron’s sake!” Gwyn cried. “As if we would make you go alone.”

“She’s right,” Nesta added. “Someone needs to do your hair and makeup.” 

–🍁–🍁–🍁–

Eris swore his back had a metal pole along his spine with out tense and stiff his posture was. He knew his expressions were cold and unwelcoming. But he was in a room with too many people he had yet to decipher friend or foe. The nobles of Autumn Court smiled at him, but most only wanted good favor with the new High Lord. And for those that weren’t smiling, there were plenty that looked at him with fear or uneasiness, trying to gauge if he was just as bad as Beron. 

His mother kept giving him tense, but encouraging smiles every time he spotted her in the crowded hall. 

When to use his mask and when to reveal his true self, Eris did not know. 

It was easier when Y/N was by his side. She eased him, reminded him of who he truly was. The mask never felt needed when her scent surrounded him. 

But his mate was not here, nor was she coming. 

And Eris couldn’t blame her. These events of politics and groveling were conniving at their best and boring at their worst. If he could skip it too, he would have. But that was no way to officially take over the throne of a broken court that needed mending. 

Eris once again caught sight of a group of courtier daughters. They whispered and giggled at him, hardly even bothering to subdue their staring. And it hadn’t gone unnoticed how they seemed to edge closer and closer as the night went on. 

Yes, Eris was handsome and powerful. Female attention was not something he was unaccustomed to. But he knew what those females were truly after were the wealth and power being married to a High Lord would bring. It didn’t matter that everyone knew of his mortal witch mate. They wanted him for themselves regardless. 

His attire did nothing to help him blend in to the crowd. New, custom armor glinted against the thousands of candles and faelight surrounding them. And the blood red cloak stood out – even in Autumn Court.

Eris threw back the rest of his faerie wine, hoping he could get drunk enough to keep his wits about him, while also making the evening go by faster. 

“Another?” A male voice offered from over his shoulder. 

Eris turned to see Rhysand handing him another full glass, Feyre glued to his side with a knowing smirk. 

“I promise I did not poison it,” Rhysand added.  

“At this point, you would be doing me a favor,” Eris grumbled, taking a sip immediately. 

Rhysand smirked. “Already over being High Lord, Eris?”

“I became High Lord to make my Court a better place, not to rub shoulders with nobles and courtiers who wish to use me to gain favor…”

“And I’m sure being away from Y/N is only making your mood more sour,” Feyre muttered more teasingly. 

“She may do what pleases her. I’m sure her Valkyries have found her by now and are keeping her company.” 

“Are you quite sure about that…” Feyre asked as she looked behind Eris. 

The High Lord of Autumn Court quickly turned to follow her gaze. 

At the entrance of the great hall stood Y/N. 

Eris felt the invisible string attached to his heart go taut. A feeling Y/N had not experienced, and probably never would. 

Despite her entrance not being formally announced, many had gone quiet and began to stare. 

Someone had pulled Y/N’s hair up and done her makeup. Though Eris found her beautiful regardless, the level of glamour around her made her magnetic. 

Meanwhile, Y/N held her head high as she slowly, yet confidently, walked further into the room. She was doing a good job of ignoring the scrutiny, but Eris could tell that she was more than aware of the staring. 

Her dress fit her perfectly. And while most attendees wore green and the rustic browns of the court, Y/N had not strayed away from vibrant red, almost looking as if she were glowing like fire itself. Eris realized it matched with his own cloak. There were strips of black in her gown that felt like a call out to her short time in Night Court, where she had already gained respect and acceptance.

Eris wanted to go to her immediately. But he had to hold himself back. There was a reason she was late and walked in alone, instead of on his arm. It was clear that she worried about making his court believe she had accepted the mating bond. 

But if Eris had his way, he’d use his magic to shove everyone out of the path from Y/N to him. He’d stop any conversation he was having – no matter how rude or undiplomatic it was – to give her his full attention and affection. 

“Will you not go to her?” Feyre asked, concern obvious in her tone. 

Y/N’s friends of the Night Court were unaware of the the change in her relationship with the High Lord of Autumn. They did not realize how far the two had come, how much had changed. Everything was so much more complicated than how it had begun: a male desperately hiding his mate in a court that was not his. 

–🍁–

Y/N felt the eyes on her. She wondered if all of them were judgment or if there was also just innocent curiosity. 

She wished she’d forced the Valkyries to drink heavily with her before leaving her bedchambers, because being sober for this felt like a cruel torture. 

The three of them convinced Y/N that she needed to walk in without them. That she needed to walk in confident and independent.

But Y/N underestimated how many stares she'd receive in return.

So, she decided to straight line to where refreshments were being served. Feyre had once warned her away from fae wine, for it is far too strong for mortals to consume in the same manner as fae.

But right now, Y/N didn’t care. 

Of course she couldn’t make it there without overhearing a group of females. Whether they had noticed her arrival, she had yet to discern. 

“Now that his dreadful father is dead, I wonder where the High Lord will find his…entertainment,” one female said somewhat quietly. 

Another chimed in with, “I once heard he would only bed harlots at pleasure halls in other Courts, in fear that Beron would kill any female who could sire a child from him.” 

“But now he has a mate. Surely that means any and all of our efforts will be wasted,” a third female added. 

“Oh, please.” The first female scoffed. Y/N didn’t have to look at her to know that she was rolling her eyes. “She is not even a fae. Truly, how long do you believe we will have to stay away before her mortal life ends?” 

This is a terrible mistake, Y/N thought. She should have never shown her face here. This was exactly what she had been wanting to avoid. 

Obviously Eris was a desired male – High Lord or not. And who was she to get in the way of him finding a suitor that was of his Court, of his own kind? 

But, suddenly, the females stopped talking abruptly. 

Had they finally noticed Y/N’s presence? Did they even care enough to make sure she didn’t overhear such things? 

“High Lord Eris,” the first one greeted overly sweet. “How lovely of you to join us.” 

Y/N whipped around to find Eris’ eyes already locked to hers as he stood a few feet away from her. 

He ignored the female High Fae entirely, not even glancing in her direction. 

Y/N didn’t know how to address him in such a setting. She looked around before starting to lower her head into a bow. 

You do not bow to anyone, Rhysand’s voice suddenly snuck into her head. 

With her dress and fanciful jewelry, Y/N had removed her protective amulet that stopped any daemati from entering her mind. That meant the High Lord and Lady of Night Court were free to speak to her mind freely.

Ignore them, Rhysand added. He has been waiting for you all night. 

Eris didn’t greet Y/N verbally. Because nothing would’ve felt right. 

But his eyes said everything. 

And slowly he offered her his hand. 

Y/N’s chest heaved as she put her glass down before stepping forward and lightly placing her hand in his grip. 

Without breaking eye contact, Eris lowered his mouth and kissed it. 

Without hesitating, he pulled Y/N to him and tucked her hand under his arm so it gripped his bicep. Then he placed his other hand over it, securing her further to his side. 

Without asking for direction, Y/N quietly followed him as he guided them to the center of the room. 

There was suddenly a female gasp from behind them. Eris didn’t turn, but Y/N looked over her shoulder to see that the first female from the group was covered in red wine. So much so that it was dripping off of her fine gown.

And there was Nesta… holding an empty glass with a smug, but melodramatically innocent look. Gwyn and Emerie were trying to hide their amusement.

"My mistake," Nesta gasped deviously.

Y/N didn’t know when her friends had joined her, but clearly it was early enough that they had caught the dreadful things those females had been saying about her and her mate with their fae hearing. 

Then there was a screech of fear and a soft growl. 

She looked down to see that her new little pet fox, Ronan, was nipping and growling at the group of rude females. How he escaped from her bedchambers was beyond her. But clearly he didn’t like being away from her. 

Y/N bit her lip to stop herself from laughing at the sight. 

Then she whistled softly and Ronan’s head snapped in her direction. He didn’t need another command, so he floppily ran to her and Eris, trotting along beside them. 

When she turned forward again, Y/N realized Eris was leading them to the throne. 

And with the wave of his hand, Eris pushed his throne over a foot and a second one appeared magically beside it. 

Y/N’s head whipped to him, wanting to ask him what in the Cauldron he was doing. 

But then she realized he was making a statement. There were some who would question her and her relationship with their new High Lord. But Eris was announcing to everyone that she was to be treated and respected as their High Lady, whether she accepted his bond or not. 

“Eris,” she whispered in a hiss. 

Her anxiety was skyrocketing at the statement he was about to make. 

But he ignored her subtle plea, and instead just said, “Head high, little witch.” 

He guided her carefully up the steps that led to the throne and waited for her to sit before he took his own. 

The room quieted and turned their attention to Eris. 

Y/N controlled her expressions, but her heart was racing from confusion of what she was meant to do. 

They will crown him now, Rhysand’s voice entered Y/N’s mind again. He wants you at his side, therefore you belong there. Act like you know it. 

Y/N found both Rhysand and Feyre in the crowd, which was fairly easy since they were the only people wearing black in a sea of mostly Autumn Colors – except for the other High Lords that were in attendance. 

The couple gave her encouraging grins. Then she found Cassian, Nesta, Gwyn, and Emerie standing next to them, doing the same. 

Cassian gave her a proud and beaming smile. 

Y/N listened as one of Eris’ advisors started speaking the ritual of crowning the newest High Lord. 

It was shorter than she expected. Though she struggled with paying attention, too focused on maintaining her posture and composure while being put on the same display as Eris. 

Then the advisor was standing behind Eris, slowly lowering a rustic golden crown atop his head. It was in the shape of fallen leaves, with subtle hints of autumn red and green in the detailing. 

As soon as it settled on his head, Eris turned to Y/N with his hand outstretched to her. 

Without hesitation, she took it.

Together they stood. 

The room immediately lowered into a bow – except for the other High Lords, who only subtly bowed their head in respect. 

Y/N found Leonora’s gaze amongst them and she had a proud smile on her lips, but it was not only directed at her son. 

Eris helped Y/N sit once again. 

People started moving closer toward the throne. 

Y/N realized the courtiers and lords were swearing their allegiance now. 

A male high fae stepped forward first, bowing his strawberry blonde head deeply. 

“Lord Foley,” Eris greeted indifferently. 

The male bowed his head again and then turned his gaze to Y/N, opening his mouth to formally introduce himself to her. 

“You are Eoghan Foley?” Y/N asked him before he could speak. 

The males eyes widened in surprise. 

“You own the majority of farms in the south east territory, correct?”

The male looked even more surprised. 

Eris smirked at his mate, deciding to let her speak while he watched. 

“You are known for paying your farmers the most, even when Beron underpaid you in an attempt to raise competition amongst other lords.” 

Eoghan bowed his head. “My workers deserve a fair wage, Lady Y/N. When treated with respect they are more inclined to stay and there is less loss.” 

Y/N then turned to Eris, having a silent conversation with their eyes. 

“And for that, you shall be rewarded,” Eris’ voice came out strong and confident. And the entire room could clearly hear it. His gaze moved about the room. “The days of exploitation are over. Those of Autumn Court deserve to be paid for their work. Such competition only turns us against each other.” His eyes moved back to the lord. “A bonus will be delivered to you before nightfall tomorrow, Lord Foley.” 

The male looked taken aback at such a decision. He half-expected to find that Eris was no better than his tyrant father. But he was instantly proven wrong. 

“T-Thank you High Lord Eris,” he said with another bow. Then he looked up at Y/N before turning his gaze to the floor. “And to you, Lady Y/N. Our people are already indebted to you for bringing Autumn Court back into the light.”

“I hear your wife is a talented sculptor, Lord Foley.” Y/N noted with kindness in her eyes. “I hope to see her work for myself someday.” 

“Any time you wish, Lady Y/N.” 

“Enough business and politics for tonight,” Eris announced once Lord Foley had moved back into the crowd. 

Then he eyed the other High Lords who were in attendance. All of them had been studying him and his interactions carefully. “Otherwise, we shall be spilling Autumn’s secrets to our guests who have their own Courts to govern.” 

His courtiers laughed lightly at his joke. 

With the swipe of Eris’ hand, the lighting in the room darkened to a moodier setting. And the symphony took their signal to begin playing music. 

The guests started coupling up to dance. 

Once again, Eris stood and offered Y/N his hand. 

She took it, but moved close to his side so she could whisper, “I do not know these formal dances.” 

Eris squeezed her hand tightly. “Trust me,” he simply whispered back.

When they entered the center of the dance floor, Eris pulled them into the proper stance. “I will lead. Just relax and do not overthink it.” 

And Y/N did just that. 

Either the steps were not as complicated as she had presumed or Eris was good dance partner. But they swayed across the floor. And despite hundreds of eyes watching them, the room disappeared around them, and it was just them. 

“Thank you for saving me,” Eris whispered in her ear as he pulled her even closer. 

Y/N knew this closeness was more immoral and informal, but she needed it. And if it was improper, Eris didn’t seem to care one bit. 

“I hardly did anything,” Y/N admitted softly. 

“You did more than you could ever understand,” he countered quickly. “You continue to be my savior, Y/N.”

“I didn’t want you to be alone,” Y/N confessed softly. Her lips quirked as she added, “The worst loneliness is felt while surrounded by others.” Repeating her past statement from the night he had confessed how lonely he'd once been in this court.

Eris stopped abruptly, pulling their dance to a halt.

His eyes slowly went from her eyes to her lips. 

Y/N knew he wanted to kiss her. She could feel it. And she would be lying to herself if she said she didn’t want him to, as well.

Eris was calculating how safe it was to show such affection to his mate so publicly. Another voice in his head was telling him he should to whatever he damn well pleased. 

A deep voice cleared their throat behind her. 

They turned to see Cassian standing with his hands clasped behind his back. 

He gave a polite bow to them. “I was hoping to share a dance with my favorite witch.” 

Y/N smiled at his playfulness. But she also saw the hidden message in his gaze. Her friend was trying to save her if she so wanted it. 

She turned back to Eris, half expecting him to be giving the Illyrian a death glare. But the High Lord only nodded, and slowly removed Y/N from his grasp. 

“She has much to share with her friends,” Eris offered him.

“Shall we?” Cassian asked her with his hand offered. 

The Illyrian's dancing just further proved how skilled Eris was. But Y/N didn't mind Cassian's clumsy feet.

“I am the only witch you know,” she glared playfully at him. 

“Yes, but if I were to ever meet any more, you would still be my favorite.” He spun her sloppily, ignoring the steps everyone else was following. 

He lowered his voice as he said, “I only wanted to offer you an escape. It seems tensions are high between the two of you…” 

“Thank you,” Y/N told him with a frown. “I fear I am lost.” 

His brow furrowed as he turned them. “How so?” 

Her eyes surprisingly welled with tears. “Cassian…I-I-I love him.”

-------------------

I know it took me a long time to update. But I worked really hard on this. And I loved putting together everyone's outfits. 🥹

Please leave a lovely comment. You know I love a book report. @pancakefancake

[alieinthemorning]

Deepest, Darkest, Purest Love [Sylus] 

Content: World Underneath: Sealed in Dust Spoilers, Sylus Story Speculation, Angst, Soft Sylus, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert

Pronouns: None

Reblogs: Let me know that you enjoy my work and want to see more, so don’t forget to like and reblog (and comment in the tags. I love seeing people’s rambles in the tags)!

This work’s concepts, plot and original characters are my own which means I do not allow any sort of creative theft nor do I allow my work to be entered into any sort of A.I. bots. Thank you for respecting my space and boundaries.

Sylus…was an enigma to you. After the Nest, the forced resonating, and being told that he wanted to achieve his goal, he needed you to like him in some capacity. Now, you’ve ended up here in one of his many safe houses, wrapped in his arms on the couch while some movie played. Domestic bliss as its finest, but how did you end up here? You knew that it wasn’t just him playing with your feelings while you hopelessly fell for it. No…you knew that his feelings for you were real. His actions and words, although not always obvious, were always clear in the intentions. 

“You know very well that I adore you. There is no love purer than mine.”

Despite how you acted toward him, or tried to deceive yourself. You knew you loved him. You loved this man something fierce. And honestly? 

It scared you—terrified you.

You understood that you and Sylus shared a past. One of your many pasts, over your many deaths. Unfortunately, you couldn’t remember much (not that you think you ever could). Since EVER had gotten their hands on you and the Aether Core, memories come up spotty and painful. You want to remember, you really do, but it doesn’t seem like you have an actual say in the matter. But from what you can remember…you’ve both died…many, many times. Pitted against each other for some reason or other, then forced to become close—fall in love, just to do it all over again—Oh.

Oh.

“You know very well that I adore you. There is no love purer than mine.”

You were pitted against each other for the Aether core. That’s what wants to devour him—this damned Aether Core. 

“Sweetie?” His thumb brushed against your under eye, catching the wetness there. “Why are you crying?” 

“I’m sorry!” You wail into his chest. “I’m so sorry for hurting you!”

“I’ve told you before that it was my fault for pushing you—” He grunted as you shoved away from him, shaking your head violently. 

“I’m talking about before! Way back when—I still don’t remember it all, but I know that I hurt you, so—” You looked up at him, tears caressing your waterline. “How can you love me so deeply?” 

“I’ve told you this once, and I’ll tell you as many times as you need.” He smiled, and you break. 

“You know very well that I adore you. There is no love purer than mine.”

You know, and you hate yourself for selfishly enveloping yourself in that love. 

A love you do not deserve. 

I was trying to do Soft Sylus, which! for the two lines that he speaks, he is in fact soft, so I'm counting it! But it ended up as angst regardless lol.

Now, let's get into what might be his Myth or one of his many pasts with you. I think that the two of you were pitted against each other for the Aether Core. Whoever the hell had y'all fighting wanted to make one of you stronger, and having one kill the other for the core seemed a lot more fun than just choosing one. But! I don't think it worked, y'all got tired of fighting and choose not to take arms when it was time, which not the best idea because you'd be punished, but hey, it did eventually get the message through to them. However, they took another approach, which was getting the two of you closer, so when they did pit you two against each other again, one of you would have to throw your life down for the other, and in this case…it was Sylus.

At least! That's what I'm thinking lol. Just a little theory!

I'm on Bluesky btw~

Ko-Fi | Masterlist

[auburnitzy]

KAHIDLAW

CHARACTERS – NAWA + MK (OC X CANON)

DISCLAIMERS – Unintended/Accidental Cause of Injury

SUMMARY - "It's all for you."

“... Don’t tear your head off nor stick your neck out for me.” Nawa murmured out of a blue. Her gaze was still trained on the distance, away from him, perhaps on purpose or hesitance.

That came out of nowhere.

Still, it doesn’t silence the lives around them. The push and pull of waves crashing on the shore. The sound of children giggling in the distance. Some chatter as the people on the docks pass by. None of them would be ingrained in his mind unlike the words that just spilled out from her lips.

“Why not?” With a tilt of his head, MK shot her a look of confusion and worry, something that he should have grown accustomed to in his years of friendship with her. “I’m starting to think like you’ve got something under your sleeves…”

“No, I’m just telling you in case something happens in the future.”

“... Okay, that definitely doesn’t sound ominous.” He squinted his eyes, studying her for any signs of trouble before sighing. “You know you’re making it sound like you have a death wish, right?”

For a split second, her eyes widened before she raised her hand to wave him off. “That’s not… is that how I really came across? That wasn’t my intention… but you get it, right?”

“... Yeah. Doesn’t mean I’ll stop worrying about the stuff you’re gonna get yourself into.”

...

… Is this what you meant?

He watches as a blue lotus floats past, followed by one and another before it eventually gives way to more, leaving blurs of blue blooms wading past their boat.

It wasn’t until a quick snap of fingers reeled him back in surprise, his attention returning to that of the other passenger in this quaint little boat.

“They’re utpalas,” Nawa murmured, that same infuriating smile that he grew to both despise and adore settled on her face as she held up a bloom to him. Now, it was just a reminder to him that it was just her way of trying to bring light into such a grim reality. “You probably know by now that…”

“... Each petal represents a death.” he murmured. It still doesn’t ease the revelation that weighed heavily in his shoulders. He’s not sure if it’ll even go away. Maybe it’s just something he’ll live with for the rest of his life, knowing that someone would willingly put themselves through different stages of hell just to get him where he is now. “Your deaths.”

A low hum breathed past her lips before she set the flower back into the waves, letting it float past along with its other kin.

“You still think it’s your fault, don’t you?” Nawa placed a palm on her cheek, staring at him with what could be called amusement and slight censure. Calm. How could you be so calm? How, in the face of such a terrible circumstance? “I told you it’s not. It will never be your fault. I’ll keep saying that until you get it.”

MK doesn’t respond, unsure if he’s even able to at this point. He wants to rip his hair out, maybe even lash out and throttle her– but he knows he wouldn’t ever really lay a finger on her. He simply can’t bring himself to.

“Flower petals fall–” Her hand settles in his hair, a familiar sensation he still finds comfort in, yet this time, it only brought forth frustration and indignance in its wake.

He finishes it before she can. “–But the flower endures.”

“The form perishes, but the being endures.” A grin curled into her lips once more before settling into a smaller one. “I’m surprised you even remember the stuff I say sometimes. It’s sweet. That’s why I adore you.”

And the dam breaks. He feels his eyes burn as his vision blurs, big fat tears welling in his eyes before it devolves into ugly, guttural sniffles and sobs. It honestly makes him feel like a baby, unsure if these tears were out of anger, sadness, or a torturous concoction of both.

Some part of him wants to hate her. Push her away so she could finally be free from the chaos that was him. Sever the threads of fate and destiny that tangled them both – but he knows he cannot. She won’t let him.

A thumb brushes a tear away from his eye. Even then, he couldn’t bring his gaze into hers, giving nothing but clenched teeth and furrowed brows in exchange for her worried glance. It frustrates him to no end, how she could care for him despite his harsh treatment and attempts to push her away.

He hates how genuine it is. How genuine she is, because it makes it more unbearable for him to hate her in general. Even the thought of it unsettles him. The feeling was scary, the direct opposite of what he truly felt.

He condemned her to this. The least he could do is to stop being ungrateful and be honest with both her and himself– because deep down, that’s what he wanted. The only thing that made him hesitate was the fact that she’s being punished for the sin of simply caring for him– both as a friend and a lover.

His hand grasps her wrist, clutching it with an iron grip. “Why won’t you hate me?!”

“I love you.”

“Hell, even abandon me?!”

“I love you.”

“Why do you insist on protecting me?!”

“I love you.”

“Stop saying that and tell me the truth!”

MK’s chest heaved up and down, his grip tightening to the point that purple splotches slowly started to form on the skin of her wrist.

Realizing this, he quickly lets go and shoots her a look of contrition and panic, only to be met with the same irritatingly calm and resigned smile she held only for him.

“... What else can I even say?” She spoke as if he didn’t just harm her. Grip her to the point that it left ugly bruises on her skin. “I love you and that’s all there is to it.”

[edwoonnie]

Just finished chapter 1 of my new fic~ (WC 5.8K) https://archiveofourown.org/works/66615115

Pair: Shadow Milk cookie/Pure Vanilla cookie

All can be found in the picture:

If it's not loading for you, here are the warnings.

TW for suicidal thoughts/attempts, actual suicide, temporary character death, depression, burnout, and eating disorders.

Over here, it was quiet.

Quiet for as long as he'd like it to be.

Quiet enough for him to hear his own breathing, calm, steady and undisturbed. The slow-paced but rhythmic heartbeat that pounded in his chest and pumped the precious life through his dough as his lidded eyes filled up with silent tears. He didn't try to fight them back.

"I see you're back here again."

No response. Silvery beads trickled smoothly down his delicate cheeks, each tear a condensed drop of the deluge of his anguish and guilt—yet his expression remained serene, indifferent. Not swaying for a second, his facial muscles as relaxed as those of a sleeping newborn.

"Was it intentional this time, too?"

The Light of Truth spoke in words that cut like daggers—not to taunt, not to pour salt onto the wound, but rather to reach out, to guide him through.

Yet, again, no response. Its attempt tripped and plummeted onto the ever-growing pile of unanswered questions Pure Vanilla couldn't get himself to address—not right now, not yet.

He was actively letting everybody down.

His kingdom. His guards. His subjects. His friends. His role.

He had been avoiding everything, leaving a series of worried faces and broken promises in his wake.

None of them should know, he made sure of it.

A comforting darkness blanketed him like a sick, tired child as he embraced this state of nothingness. He could sleep here for days. Sleep indefinitely, until he couldn't sleep anymore. Get carried by the leisurely tides of this mirage, cradled into unconsciousness in the familiar arms of this merciful oblivion.

Until he wakes up back his room, tucked in bed carefully by the only person who knows about this secret habit of his. Only he could know. They were cosmically intertwined after all, it was almost ridiculous how well they could understand each other. There was no point in trying to hide anything from him—not when their souls were connected by the decree of their creators, not when they could read each other like an open book. It would be foolish.

He should be thankful he never brought it up.

He layed still as he drifted into an extended slumber, waiting for his body to heal the damage he had done prior to arriving here and return to its living state. It wasn't his fault. Everyone needs a little rest sometimes, no? It ached him to know his lover would find him like this soon, but as long as neither of them spoke of it, it was no big deal.

~

Shadow Milk has snuck around the Vanilla Castle so many times already, its layout was practically imprinted in his brain. The overwhelming, golden beams of light that burned through the whole place didn't seem to bother him as much anymore, nor does he shortly stop to ponder and criticize the shortcomings of his other half when it came to his tasteless decorative preferences. The long corridors seemed to get shorter with every visit, the engulfing sweet vanilla scent growing familiar over time. It was endearing, almost, how unmistakably "Pure Vanilla" this place was. It was even more endearing how that was the only reason he had slowly warmed up to it.

One final turn and the jester was already in front of the king's bedroom. He flung the door to his beloved's room open with the excitement of a giddy schoolgirl as a welcoming whiff of vanilla permeated his lungs, his anticipating eyes scanning the room for him.

When his gaze landed upon the Soul Jam of truth, laying pale, bare and uncased on the undone bed, its owner nowhere to be seen, his words caught up in his throat, his smile fading. Pure Vanilla had done it again.

Near the bed layed an almost empty flask of a thick, purple liquid—one he could unmistakably identity as some type of poison, with small seemingly days old splatters staining the carpet in front. Shadow Milk closed the door behind him.

Many crumpled pieces of papers scattered away, forgotten and torn in the corner of the room—those were probably drafts of the final letter Pure Vanilla sent the guards to notify them he would be gone for a while.

As he always did.

Never did Pure Vanilla do this without taking the extensive and tedious measures to ensure that no one would find out. Shadow Milk knew him too well—always selfless, putting others first, even at his lowest. If any of his friends were to find out, they'd likely drown in worry and dismay, and that was his biggest fear.

Shadow Milk caressed the Soul Jam's hard surface carefully, picking it up into his palms. It flickered weakly, its usual bright shine when Pure Vanilla wore it on his chest diminished into a lifeless, dull metallic blue.

"Ugh. You and your self destructive tendencies," he groaned. His voice was dry and monotonous, devoid of its usual sing-songy pride, as if the sight had knocked the air out of his lungs. There was no getting used to this.

He bought it near his own, watching in awe as they harmoniously synergized together, recognizing each other almost immediately in an angelic choir of euphonious frequencies. Subtle vibrations and a gentle light of their shared blue against his concerned face, Shadow Milk wondered if Pure Vanilla could feel it in there too.

Probably not. He was in deep sleep.

He was in deep sleep most of the times these days. More often than not, Shadow Milk's visits would be cut short by the same predicament—and it felt like a stab to the guts every single time.

Shadow Milk recalled the last time he was invited over for some tea. Pure Vanilla wore that same relaxed face he always has on—eyes closed, smile faint, voice soft. Yet under that meek guise lived a troubled soul—one Shadow Milk could easily place a finger on, yet never brought up.

Not that he knew how to articulate his feelings into words, anyway. Knowledge falls short when application is stiff. Shadow Milk had long forgotten how to give out genuine reassurance, and Pure Vanilla never learned how to receive it. Simple.

"Hmph."

He clumsily plopped himself onto the ruined sheets, letting gravity do the work for him before he landed on his back. Soul Jam of Truth in his palms, he wondered.

"How come when I do something like this, you rush to scold me," he exhaled, voice barely above a whisper. There could be guards outside. "But when you do it, I'm supposed to be okay with it?"

He rested the sombre gemstone on the nightstand and glanced towards the flask. The contents suggested this was a mixture brewed from some kind of poisonous berry. It held a thick viscosity and a distinct rancid smell. Had it gone bad or does it just smell like that? He crushed the thing to bits with his palm, glass penetrating his dough. The remaining liquid dripped slowly onto the bed, mixed with a trace of his own blood. Not that it mattered.

He floated upwards, head only a few inches below the ceiling. With a flick of his trusty blueberry staff, Pure Vanilla's room was back to brand new. The torn papers perished, the once stained carpet was spotless, and the formerly disheveled beige sheets were done and clean. Perfect. His hand can bleed on, it'll stop eventually.

Once he was done with that, his eyes landed on the Soul Jam again. Still, motionless.

"Oh, Pure Vanilla Cookie, you mewling old fool."

Shadow Milk floated towards the balcony and leaned against the luxurious vanilla balustrades that lined the whole thing, chin resting on the back of his good hand. He glanced downwards as the wind ruffled and toyed with his hair and cape. Pure Vanilla's room was pretty high up. He couldn't supress the smile creeping up his face when he recalled the memory of that one time he dropped him off the balcony just to teleport to the ground and catch him in his arms, bridal style, right before he landed. Must've been quite the long fall, now that he properly thinks about it. No wonder Pure Vanilla was so panic-stricken and distraught when he fell into his arms.

A fair prank, don't judge him. He saw the opportunity, and took it. And he'd probably do it again.

There was no point in that right now, though. Dropping Pure Vanilla's unconscious husk of a Soul Jam off the highest floor and rushing down to catch it wouldn't be unlike playing fetch with his own self—a waste of time, energy, and Pure Vanilla wouldn't even feel it, so it was ultimately worthless. Not fun, he didn't feel like it.

He almost burst into laughter again when he remembered that other time he replaced the sugar with salt on their tray when they were dining out here. When the blonde wanted to sweeten his tea by adding some sugar, it was only a few seconds later that he spat the drink out all over the table, followed by immediate apologies for his poor table etiquette. It was true comedy to Shadow Milk, to put Pure Vanilla in such situations.

Many memories were born on this balcony, undoubtedly. It was where they first reunited after Shadow Milk resentfully showed up to the Vanilla kingdom after his "retreat". It was where Pure Vanilla welcomed him with open arms, despite his friends' initial rejection towards his beastly counterpart. Against all odds, they somehow worked.

They've eaten together, kept and raised plants, chatted all night over here. They've argued, then made up, then argued some more, then made up again.

All on this balcony.

Outside the king's bedroom, a few footsteps came from behind the other side of the door, and Shadow Milk's ears twitched, snapping him out of his daydream world. A few knocks, and he knew he had to move. Urgently, he rushed back in, grabbing the Soul Jam of Truth off the nightstand, before swiftly whooshing away to hide under the balcony's soffit, the gemstone held tightly against his chest, only mere seconds before the cookie started speaking.

"I'm telling you! This room is locked," a high pitched muffled voice exclaimed from the hallway. Wait— the door was locked? No wonder Shadow Milk had to put in some extra effort this time to slam it open. He must've broken the lock, in that case. "I know the king is away for now, but how am I supposed to clean the room up?"

An undecipherable murmur of acknowledgment from another cookie followed her complaints as she yapped on. It seems this cookie was the maid tasked with tidying the king's bedroom while he was away. Shadow Milk knew Pure Vanilla, he knew he'd rather his subjects not be limited to such tasks. But judging by the million portraits, sculptures, and artworks that were made in his image and adorn every nook and cranny of the castle—not to mention the massive stained glass windows, they were likely doing this out of their own free will and passion.

Up there, the guard placed a hand on the knob and twisted it, and the door smoothly creaked ajar. "It... doesn't seem to be locked."

"What!" Under the soffit, Shadow Milk giggled. He just had to wreak mischief, he couldn't help it. It was in his nature at this point. Even involuntarily, it follows him around. "I-I've been trying to get in here for four days, I swear!"

Four days, hm? So that's when Pure Vanilla did it. If four days have passed, it is likely he'll return in day or three.

The cookies' rambling was soon drowned out by his thoughts. It was funny for a few seconds, but it grew old quite quickly. He had to take Pure Vanilla somewhere. He needed... supervision, for the lack of a better word. Actually, scratch that. That was precisely the perfect word. He did need supervision, whether he liked it or not. Or what, he'll go drift away endlessly in the mirage of his Soul Jam, until he is but a shell of his true self? A pitiful existence—Shadow Milk won't let him have it.

In fact, he knew precisely where to take him.

"Wait, something isn't right," the maid cookie stated, interrupting his thoughts—again, and earning an alert 'hm?' from the guard. "I think someone has been here. Look there, the lock is broken, isn't it?"

Shadow Milk smiled. Quite the vigilant cookies you have in your kingdom, Pure Vanilla, eh? Well, either way. It was time to go now. He summoned a thin swirly passage and swooshed through it. Come catch him, if you will.

~

A day had passed. Then another, and then another. Shadow Milk had grown bored and impatient from waiting—it was like watching paint dry on a wall, yet he couldn't leave Pure Vanilla alone for too long. Not when he was trapped in a deep slumber, not in a land entirely foreign to him.

The air over here was cold, imbued with a distinct earthy mushroom smell. The sky was a permanent shade of orchid purple, blanketed by a thick layer of teal clouds. It's such a stark contrast to the Vanilla Kingdom's cool weather and clear skies that it might startle Pure Vanilla after such a long sleep. Plus, who knows, he might end up developing some allergy to the spores here. They're everywhere, anyway.

Not that he hadn't been to here before, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Although, Pure Vanilla with an allergy would be quite entertaining to watch. The blueberry cookie fidgeted with his hands, rolling his eyes.

Out of nowhere, the Soul Jam started to flicker intensely, immediately earning his attention, and Shadow Milk looked up. The light got brighter and brighter till it engulfed the whole cottage, and the gemstone started humming loudly. After one more blinding beam, lay Pure Vanilla's sleeping, dormant form, tucked under the thick blankets Shadow Milk enveloped around him.

Hopefully that didn't alert the rest of the village.

He quickly approached him, poking his cheek with his finger. He didn't seem to be awake yet. He usually took some extra time off after returning.

"Just how long do you plan on making me wait, you mammet?" Shadow Milk groaned under his breath, his hair growing into a mess. "Unbelievable."

He ran a finger up his face, touch so faint he barely felt it. He'd stalked Pure Vanilla in his sleep more often than he'd like to admit, yet he still looked as peaceful as he did the first day. His cheeks were as plump and soft as a comfortable pillow, even if his figure was on the thinner side.

And then it hit him.

Pure Vanilla must be starving when he wakes up. He didn't exactly have the greatest eating habits. Sometimes he'd get headaches from the hunger, and even then, he wouldn't eat unless Shadow Milk practically forced him to. He had his own ways. How could he have it in him to refuse the dishes Shadow Milk oh so graciously cooked for him? If guilt-tripping is the only way he could get Pure Vanilla to eat, then so be it.

Some mushroom stew could do. Mushrooms were abundant around here, the entire village was made of them. It'd be easy on his stomach, too.

He got up and headed towards the door. With a tiny squeak, it creaked open and he went out to get some ingredients, shutting it behind him lest the cold air fill the cottage and make Pure Vanilla sick. He could probably buy what he needed from the cookies living here instead of picking his own—he doesn't really like doing too much work.

~

The frigid air surrounded him like a prickly smog, and he only found himself delving deeper into the soft warm of the sheets, twisting and turning until they reached his nose. His heavy eyelids fluttered sheepishly as he forced them open, trying to reach for his staff. He could not see without it.

He took a deep breath, inhaling a mysterious foresty smell but also the unmistakable scent of blueberries—Shadow Milk had been here. Oddly enough, his surroundings seemed to lack that common vanilla odor he'd often wake up to in his room. Strange.

Not to mention, the sheets felt quite different. They were fuzzy and soft quilts, unlike the foamy duvet blankets at the kingdom.

After he cautiously clutched his staff, his misty, mismatched eyes widened in disbelief as his system was forcibly thrust into alert mode—this wasn't his room. He wasn't in any of his friends' kingdoms either, he could tell from the architecture and the menacing purple sky that loomed outside the window.

Panicked, he shoved himself out of bed. His body must have not woken up yet, his legs helplessly shaking as he stumbled onto the hard wooden floor.

Using his staff as leverage, he managed to stand up again, this time slightly more stable. His limbs felt heavy, like his dough was made of cement.

"Shadow Milk?"

He trudged around the little cottage, dragging his feet against the hard floor as he looked for signs of his lover. He knew he was near, that blueberry scent from before was unquestionably his. "Are you here?"

Radio silence. Seems nobody was home.

Why is he here anyway? Did Shadow Milk bring him here? Was this another one of his elaborate pranks? Or perhaps, he could still be dreaming. This place did look straight out of a children's fantasy book, after all.

No, that couldn't be. The pain from that fall felt too real. In fact, his knees still ached a little.

He stared at his hands, and then at his Soul Jam, which glowed dimly in response. Yes. This was definitely real.

Pure Vanilla reluctantly walked towards the door, and when he twisted the door handle, a gentle, a cold breeze of petrichor swept through the interior, his robes waving in the process. The door opened slowly, and he slid through the thin frame.

The grass under him was surprisingly mushy—it seems this area has generous amounts of rainfall around this part of the year. Near the cottage was a unique array of damp vegetation—the plants seemed a little familiar, but he couldn't remember exactly where he'd seen them. And a lot common mushrooms too, literring the cyan grass beneath them. Stepping back, he realized the hut itself was shaped like a giant mushroom, with little holes for a door and some windows.

In fact, many such cottages spread across the whole village, warm light radiating from the windows—there were other cookies here. That much was confirmed to him when he overheard a cookie yelp in pain, before devolving into a series of profanity. Pure Vanilla covered his mouth as he attempted to identify the source, slowly walking towards the commotion.

It wasn't too long before he realized the village's blacksmith had injured himself while working. A bunch of other cookies entered the scene, and they all seemed to have one thing in common—they all wore large mushroom hats on their heads, everyone with a different color, shape and specimen. Pure Vanilla hid behind one of the taller mushroom stipes and observed, his vision blurry from all the way over here.

The blacksmith in particular had a amber colored flat mushroom hat on his head. His attire consisted of a work uniform and some protective glasses, and his hand seemed to be bleeding. That must've been where he hurt himself.

"Well, what are we supposed to do?" spoke a random cookie in the crowd. "Our medic just departed for some herbs."

"It's fine," the blacksmith replied in a strong accent, grabbing the bloodied hammer with his good hand to clean it up. "It's nothing time can't heal."

Pure Vanilla was still disconcerted. He had been out for days, and when he woke up, he found himself in this foreign fantasy land he had never been to before, filled with mysterious yet innovative architecture, and plants that gave him a strong feeling of deja vu.

"Wait!" Pure Vanilla called, emerging from behind the stem and walking towards the crowd, the entirety of it, including the injured blacksmith himself, turning to face him almost immediately. "May I take a look at that?"

"Hm? Sure," the bleeding man responded, giving his hand out. "You think you can do something about it?"

"I'm sure I can." Pure Vanilla cupped his hand between his two palms and recited a brief spell in whispers, a faint light emerging from the small cracks between his fingers before he pulled away. The blacksmith's hand was completely healed, leaving behind only a tiny scar. The crowd gasped at the sight, and Pure Vanilla couldn't help but smile at their endearing reaction.

"What—" the now healed man jerked his hand back, examining it closely from different angles. "How did you do that?"

"Ah, healing is my speciality," he uttered softly, eyes closed.

"Are you a medic of some kind?" A cookie in the crowd inquired.

"I suppose you could say so."

"He's way better than *our* medic," another complained.

"I'm sure they're great at their job, too," he deflected. "You all look very healthy."

"What's your name, anyway?" The blacksmith asked, tilting his head. "I don't think I've seen you before. You don't look like you're from here."

"Oh, my name is Pure Vanilla Cookie," he smiled. "And you are correct, I am not from here."

"You must be the other foreigner that blueberry cookie talked about," he responded. "Name's Anamite Cookie, by the way."

"What a lovely name, but," he couldn't help but wonder. "Did you say blueberry cookie?"

"Yes, her name was Blueberry Farmer Cookie, if I remember correctly." Anamite Cookie put his hammer down and looked into his shop. "She passed by around an hour minutes ago and bought a pan and some other kitchenware. She mentioned bringing someone with her, too, before running off to our greengrocer. I wonder, was it you she was talking about?"

"Ah, it appears that must've been another blueberry cookie," Pure Vanilla chuckled, not recognizing the name. "The one I'm looking for is a male, and his name is—"

"There! There he is!" A young cookie skipped towards Pure Vanilla and tugged at his robes. She was a pale-dough cookie with a round, purple mushroom hat. "I found him!"

Behind her, her similarly dressed mother rushed to scold her. Another cookie followed her from a distance, carrying a bunch of plastic bags. She looked awfully familiar. "Do you not have any manners?" She grabbed her daughter's arm and pulled her towards her. "Sir, I am so sorry."

"Oh, it's—"

"Thank you two!" The final cookie caught up shortly after, pulling a generous sum of coins out of her handbag and giving it to the mother, who showered her in grateful pleasantries in return before departing with her small one.

It didn't take Pure Vanilla anything more than one close-up look to immediately know who she was. Despite the long, white hair and the frilly indigo dress, her heterochromatic eyes and devious smile disclosed her to him.

"Ah, speak of the devil!" The blacksmith laughed heartily. "We were just talking about you."

"Good things, I hope?" She giggled back, aggressively interlocking her arm with Pure Vanilla's, earning a quiet flinch from him.

"Of course, I would only speak good things of a customer."

"Splendid. Well, if you'll excuse us~"

"Of course."

The white haired cookie dragged the stunned Pure Vanilla away from the blacksmith's store and out of the crowd, back towards the cottage he had initially woken up at. Not until they were out of sight did the vanilla cookie speak.

"Shadow Milk?" He whispered, voice unsteady with hesitation. "Is... Is that you?"

"Who else would it be, silly?" The woman answered, poisonous sarcasm in her speech. "Don't ask stupid questions. Just can it and follow me."

Pure Vanilla nodded, letting her guide him back to the cottage. She opened the door swiftly and they entered together before she dropped all the bags she was carrying onto the table near the entrance.

"You should call me Blueberry Farmer Cookie around the villagers, by the way," she fixed her dress. "That's the name I gave them."

"Why are you..."

"Why am I what? A woman?" She teased. "Well, I've... terrorized this particular village in the distant past. It's a pretty long story, really. Anywho, that was months ago. Can't have them recognize me, no?"

"Months? Months is not—" Pure Vanilla crossed his arms. "Months is not that long ago!"

"Oh please, just shut up and go sit down somewhere, you dramatic little thing," she rolled her eyes, storming off into another room. "I'll be busy in the kitchen, don't interrupt me."

Pure Vanilla followed her. "Ah, so that's what all those groceries are for."

"Sherlock Holmes over here," she murmured, pouring water into a pot. "Why'd you sneak off, anyway?"

"Wait, let me help you," Pure Vanilla cut in, carrying some of the plastic bags into the kitchen.

"Oh, no no no, you will not, you staledough. Look at you, all frail and tired," she quickly interrupted, shoving him back with a wooden spoon. "And don't you ignore my question! Do you know how unsettling it was to come back home and see you gone?"

Pure Vanilla stayed silent.

"One minute you show no signs of waking up soon, the other you're running off and blending into random crowds. I had to pay money to get people to search for you, you know."

"Shadow Milk..." he sat down on a wooden chair.

"It's Blueberry Farmer Cookie. Don't mess it up. You'll blow my cover."

"Blueberry, I... I couldn't stay here, I had no idea where I was."

The blue cookie's eyes narrowed at the little nickname, but she didn't stop slicing the mushrooms for a second. "Whatever, whatever," she answered, dragging the vowels. "Just go back to sleep or something. Look at you."

Pure Vanilla didn't resist. She was probably right—he was in no condition to be running around like this. Whenever he woke up from one of those slumbers, he'd be incredibly exhausted for a day or two before returning to normal. This time wasn't any different, other than the fact that he felt like he had to act urgently.

Not to mention, a good nap would be great right now. The cold climate of the village left him craving the warm embrace of a comforting bed, and it was getting late anyway. There was no denying that when the sky was transitioning from a dark purple to an even darker one, blanketing the village in a cozy atmosphere.

"...Fine, I will," he exhaled, plodding back to the room he woke up at.

Blueberry Farmer Cookie sighed, getting back to work. She tossed the free recipe that came with her purchase away into the trash bin—no need for instructions when you know it already.

~

A gentle breeze seeped through the window, quietly waking the blonde cookie up from his dreams. It had been a while since he had felt the welcoming wind on his skin. The Soul Jam's mirage was dark and devoid of any wind at all times—and when he woke up last night, it was already sunset, and the air was crispy cold. He hadn't gotten to feel this soothing touch in a while—especially not the misty one of this forest place, wherever it was.

That reminded him—he hadn't asked his other half why they were here yet, or what this place even is anyway.

He got out of bed, limbs feeling a little less tense than last night. Grasping his staff, he headed to look for her. Which didn't take too long, as she was still in the kitchen, sitting down in front of the table, seemingly reading something.

"Well, look who's awake," she cooed, standing up and dropping the magazine she was reading.

"Good morning, blueberry," he responded. "What are you reading?"

"Ugh, nothing," she groaned. "Say, do you smell something?"

"Smell what?"

"Oh, you know~ something delicious?" She bragged, smiling.

"Now that I think about it, yes I do."

"Soooo?"

Pure Vanilla's face stiffened. He hadn't eaten anything since he woke up in this place—not to mention that he was out for a few days before. Still, that didn't change the fact that he didn't feel like eating right now. His head hurt and his hands were shaky, but he couldn't get himself to think about food at all. "I'm sorry, I don't think I—"

"No, no no, nonononono, none of that! I know what you're about to say. SHUSH!" The white haired cookie caterwauled, an accusatory finger pointing at him. "I did NOT spend forty five minutes on that last night just for you to say you're not hungry. Go get yourself a bowl and sit down."

"Ah..."

Now that Pure Vanilla thought about it—it's true. She did go through the extra trouble to make these, just for him. And judging by the thin steam that hung above the bowls, she probably reheated them just this morning, too. "Okay..."

"Hehe, fabulous," she chirped. "And get yourself a spoon while you're at it~"

Pure Vanilla sighed before sitting down on the opposite side of the table, facing her. He placed his bowl before him, letting the stew cool. "Blueberry..."

"Hm?" She smirked. She had to admit, the nickname was slowly growing on her.

"What's going on?"

"You're asking me what's going on? Let's talk about you, instead. What's going on with YOU?" She scolded, her eyes narrowing into thin slits.

"Hm?"

"I rarely visit your castle and find you whole anymore. Always on something."

Oh, so that was what she was talking about. Pure Vanilla dreaded the day they'd have this conversation. It was almost inevitable, but he liked to bask in the possibility that the other simple wouldn't bring it up. His face went pale as he stared at her dumbfoundedly. He wasn't sure how to address this.

And she sensed it. She didn't know how to address this, either. What a predicament. "Ugh, anywho. Just eat your food for now."

Silence filled the room. Pure Vanilla stared at the bowl and then back at her. He grabbed the spoon and stirred the stew. And then stirred some more, and kept stirring—watchful gaze of the other piercing him, until he opened his mouth to say something. Judging by the way Blueberry Farmer Cookie slammed the table in front of her and stomped towards him, she already knew what he was about to say.

"Listen here," she snatched the spoon right out of his hand and scooped a mouthful of stew. "You are not leaving this place before you eat your entire bowl."

"I..." he gasped. "Where even is 'this place' anyway?!"

"Well, eh. We're not at the Vanilla Kingdom, that's for sure."

Just what kind of ominous answer was that? They're not at the Vanilla kingdom—that was painfully obvious ever since he stepped outside last night. She was definitely hiding something. The climate and vegetation of this place seemed too foreign for his kingdom—in fact, too foreign for any of his friend's kingdoms. Was this even Crispia?

"What?"

"W-wait—" he was right. This wasn't Crispia at all. This was an entirely different continent, there was no other explanation. "Are we in Beast Yeast?!?"

"Hehe, maybe," she snorted.

"Maybe?! Shadow Milk— why?! That's like the other end of the globe!" He panicked. "I— I can't be here! I have duties!"

"First of all, it's Blueberry Farmer Cookie," she corrected him. "Second of all, will you shut your damn trap for a second? I am doing this for YOU, you know. Would you rather wilt away all alone or have a gorgeous woman such as myself take care of you?"

"But— but Beast Yeast?! That's... that's too far away."

"Oh please. You and your little friends hear "Beast Yeast" and immediately start trembling like little rabbits in your own skin. BLEHHH, that's why I love that pink lady one—Jollyberry or whatever her name was. Go ask her, this place isn't THAT bad," she objected. "Plus, look at the mushroom villagers. Aren't they lovely? They don't even notice it when you give them fake money! Ahahaha!"

"Blueberry..." Pure Vanilla clutched his robes where his heart would be.

"Hehe, I love that name," she smiled, a subtle blush resting on her cheeks as she poked his cheek with her free hand. "Call me that more often."

"This isn't the time for this—"

Before he could finish his sentence, she shoved the spoon into his mouth. "You're right, it isn't."

Taken aback, he flinched a little. He covered his mouth when she pulled the spoon back out, savoring the taste before swallowing. "This... This does taste pretty good..."

"What did I tell you?" She bragged.

"I..."

The words caught up in his throat. He sighed.

"I'll take you back in a few weeks."

"What about the kingdom? My people?" He quavered. "I can't leave my people alone..."

"Oh, psh, they'll be fine," she dismissed him, dunking the spoon back into the bowl. If this is the only way Pure Vanilla will eat something, then she had no issue with it.

Even after all this time, the vanilla cookie couldn't bear the guilt to leave his kingdom. Even if he knew they'll be fine, even if he desperately needed some alone time—and especially not without warning. The first time he had gone to Beast Yeast, he had to emotionally prepare himself for weeks. Waking up in the middle of another continent was such a shock to his system that the only reason he hadn't started panicking yet was because he didn't want to worry his other half. Despite that, the stress was hard to miss in his voice. "Do you really think that?"

"Mhm... Plus, if anything bad happens, I can take you back there immediately. In fact, you wanna take a look?" She summoned a palm sized magic globe and offered it to him.

"Yes, please. I have to."

"Okie dokie."

The scenery inside the globe swirled and blurred to reveal a clear picture of the Vanilla kingdom. It switched panels slowly between various areas—the bustling streets, the gardens, the school, and even the inside of the castle. "See? All good."

"I... I'm still not sure about this."

Blueberry Farmer Cookie lifted an eyebrow.

"But I suppose I can stay here shortly," he added.

"Ah, sensational!" She pushed another spoonful into his mouth, and Pure Vanilla gagged. "Now, eat your stew."

Starting to calm down, Pure Vanilla reluctantly nodded, savoring the taste. Only a short while here wouldn't hurt. And his other half was right—the mushroom cookies living here all seemed lovely.

Perhaps, he could even become their healer during his stay.

[coolestork]

Of Rituals and Yearning

Lorgar x Reader

Note: Another Lorgar fic for the religiously traumatized girlies. No NSFW this time either, just flaying and inner dialogue from the primarch. Enjoy :)

Warnings: Heavy Religious themes, Pain as corporal ritual, Implied sexual desires.

-

The sanctum was dim, lit only by the pale flicker of candles casting shadows that danced along the cold stone walls. The air was thick with incense, sweet and heavy, its scent mingling with the earthy musk of old parchment and ancient tomes that lined the walls. It was here, in this solemn, secluded space, that the ritual would unfold, one that demanded silence, discipline, and an unbreakable resolve. Lorgar could feel the weight of its purpose as if it was woven into the very stone beneath his feet.

He studied her—a human girl, kneeling before him with an awe that struck him somewhere deep, more than he would have dared to admit. There was a reverence in her gaze that was almost painfully beautiful, and it awakened a conflict within him, a duality that threatened to unravel the sanctity of the moment. But he forced himself to keep his expression neutral, withholding anything that might betray the tumult stirring within.

She bowed her head, her frame dwarfed by the towering figure before her. The holy connection they would establish tonight was not to be trivialized, nor diluted by worldly desires. Lorgar reminded himself of that again, silently reciting words he had memorized from long hours of meditation.

Still, he found his gaze lingering on her fragile form, on the curve of her neck, the softness of her hands clasped tightly in an effort to still their trembling. She had chosen this path willingly, he reminded himself. It was her faith, her devotion, that brought her here to endure.

“Are you prepared?” His voice was low, carrying a resonance that seemed to echo within the hollow chamber.

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice that betrayed fear and determination alike. The duality of it resonated with his own internal struggle, intensifying the strange pull he felt towards her.

With a measured hand, Lorgar raised the thin leather cord, a tool not meant for pain, but for purification. He knew he would need to be cautious, painfully so, his strength barely restrained as he let the whip land across her shoulder with a lightness that belied his power. And yet, even that slight touch was enough to make her flinch, a quiet gasp escaping her lips.

The sound sent a ripple through him, tightening something within his chest. He focused on his breathing, willing his mind to remain clear, but the quiet sob that followed forced his eyes to her again, drawn by the shimmer of a tear slipping down her cheek. She was crying—enduring what little pain he had inflicted with a faith that only added to her fragile beauty. There was purity in her suffering, something that both honored and unsettled him. It was the vulnerability he was witnessing, the rawness of her devotion, that made her seem almost too delicate to bear.

The whip fell again, even gentler this time, but she gasped once more, tears tracing new paths down her cheeks. He was meant to find beauty in this, to see it as her sacrifice, her offering to the divine. And he did, yet there was something else—a flicker of attraction, dangerous and alluring in all its wrongness. This wasn’t what the ritual demanded of him; it wasn’t what his purpose dictated. Still, the way her eyes lifted to meet his, the silent plea in their depths…

Is this wrong? The thought struck him like an iron bolt, harsh and undeniable, cutting through his disciplined resolve. His jaw tightened as his mind recoiled, battling against the intensity of his reaction. Anger flared within him—not at her, no. The fault was his own, his weakness a willing betrayal of the ritual’s sacred intent, an affront to the spiritual purity that was supposed to guide him. He was a Primarch, a being molded by divine hands, chosen to uphold purpose and honor. How, then, had he allowed himself to stumble, to let the basest of desires cloud his vision?

The whip dangled loosely from his fingers as he wrestled with the surge of emotions twisting inside him. It should have been easy—simple, in fact. This ritual had been performed countless times by disciples of his Word, a purification through submission, pain as a bridge to the divine. He knew that. Yet, in this moment, he felt like a trespasser, as if he were betraying not only his purpose but her as well. She deserved a leader, a guide, not a man whose thoughts were tainted by something as trivial as lust.

He gathered himself. When the whip came down again, the touch so slight it was barely more than a whisper, and he watched her shoulders shudder, her lips parting in a soft cry that lingered in the air between them. It was pain, yes, but it was hers, a voluntary gift in her quest for something transcendent, something that connected her to his divine purpose. He respected that, and it was perhaps this respect that drove him to continue, to press forward, even as he questioned his own heart.

“Why do you look at me that way?” The question escaped him unbidden, a whisper that betrayed the uncertainty he had so often buried. He hadn’t meant to ask it, hadn’t meant to even let the thought cross his mind. His voice, usually steady and unshaken, faltered.

Her lips parted, though no words came, only a soft breath that left a fragile silence between them. Her eyes shimmered with a mixture of reverence and vulnerability, as if she were seeing beyond the warrior, beyond the Primarch. It was a gaze that unnerved him more than any blade, one that challenged him to confront the man within the mantle he wore.

With renewed force, he forced his gaze back to the ritual, to the rigid purpose he had clung to for so long. Lorgar tightened his grip on the whip, drawing his breath in slow, measured lengths, as if doing so could extinguish the conflict raging inside him.

He could feel it, sharp and undeniable, like a crack splintering across a once-impervious shield. The question remained, coiled in his chest—a slow, searing burn.

Is this wrong?

-

Note: Hell yea, I love me when fine shyt is heavily conflicted by the undercurrent of desire. let me know what u weirdos think

[utilitycaster]

Do you think part of the D20 journalistic bias comes from D20 being edited? It gives the appearance of much more effortless play and lets them control the pacing in a way unedited play like CR simply can't do. They get to (potentially) hide a lot of stuff people would jump on as flaws while CR has no choice but to let it all play out. I greatly prefer CR's approach, despite it biting them in the ass a bit through no fault of their own.

Answering these both together to group cause and my opinions, and I do want to note this is specifically about journalism/press coverage, not their respective fandoms even though there's obviously some overlap.

I think there's a couple things, but I do want to note this was actually prompted by Daggerheart, not Critical Role. The response from several prominent voices in the Actual Play journalism community, whom I will not name here but whom I do not respect intellectually, really was, within hours of the open beta (which as far as I know they didn't have early access to - more on that later) "um it could be better, I don't like xyz and also it's sooooooo important to have criticism" and again, it is important to have criticism, but also you act like D20 has never had a mediocre moment and that Kollok is brilliant, so.

This...got away from me a bit. I'd say I'm sorry but actually I adore writing thousands of words about actual play and it will happen again but I'm putting the detailed answer below a cut. The short answer is I think a lot of Actual Play journalists actually sort of fell into their jobs through being vaguely involved in nerd spaces and aren't actually equipped to talk intelligently about TTRPGs and actual play as a medium that should, at its best, be a perfect fusion of narrative and mechanics. So instead they're distracted by flashy edits and bright lights and cool noises and some abstract concept of "novelty" and write only about that. Also Critical Role is the 700 lb gorilla in the AP space (though not, actually, the TTRPG space) and doesn't give them early access and that's meaaaaaan. Indeed, for all I think a lot of their coverage of D20 and Worlds Beyond Number is obsessively fawning, I also think it's extremely surface level, frequently factually wrong, and fails to get at what's truly excellent about those shows either.

I think, honestly, the biggest one is that I don't actually think a lot of Actual Play journalists watch series in full. I was looking for Polygon coverage of Fantasy High Junior Year and they have one glowing article but it's more about Fantasy High as setting and institution and D20 "changing the game" (also more on this later) to the point of outright contradicting the pull quotes they used from interviewing Brennan Lee Mulligan (also more on this later). So I started looking through their coverage and actually, quite a number of their write-ups are based on only one episode, or half a season. Clearly, they haven't read the full open beta (nor have I, but I think their complaints about the character build process belie a profound misunderstanding of what TTRPGs are, also more on this later). So editing is certainly part of it because it's really easy to see cool special effects and sound design within one episode and shit out a hacky article about it, whereas actually getting to the substance - character relationships, cohesive narrative, storytelling - requires work that I do not think they're doing. And on the one hand I do kind of get it, because yeah, if journalism is your livelihood then you perhaps do not have the time to watch 4 hours of D&D a week for 2-3 years if you're only going to get one article every six months out of it. But I don't think the answer is "focus intently on Microsoft Powerpoint-esque scene transition tricks while ignoring that nothing occurring at the table is actually fun to watch." For more on this, see this post.

The second, which is very relevant to Daggerheart but also is actually a big gap in D20 and WBN coverage in my opinion, and which I put in the tags, is that I actually don't think a lot of journalists have a solid understanding of TTRPGs nor of most genres. And I think Critical Role has a particularly good understanding of both these things, actually, if one skewed towards collaborative storytelling that is not rules-light. I think one really big example is that one person within the space is mad at the Daggerheart questions for the character archetypes because what if your character doesn't fit these. I think this is dumb as shit. I actually think that a common criticism of D&D - that you can't play ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING - is not valid, or rather, it's a valid opinion to hold but if you want to play a character who doesn't fit into the available archetypes perhaps you need to find another game. We all inherently understand that Blades in the Dark characters will be members of a criminal organization in a relatively low-magic setting, correct? That you can't show up to BitD and play a lawful good wizard prince because that's not the story being told? Or like, how in Honey Heist, you are a bear and you are trying to get honey, and you cannot play a human child investigating the old abandoned house at the edge of town, but there's a cool game called Kids on Bikes that will let you do that? Great! Why is this suddenly so hard to understand in the realm of heroic fantasy, that you will fit into specific archetypes? Why do people's brains, if they have them to begin with, vanish suddenly? I know I just did a big old rant that included this within it but genuinely I think a lot of people are deeply ignorant of heroic fantasy, or don't like it, and either is fine, but then they get mad at the heroic fantasy game for having heroic fantasy archetypes when the answer is "maybe this will never make you happy because it's not for you." (Frankly, I think this is also why they love D20, because it doesn't really do straight-up heroic fantasy, and that's fine, but they do keep acting like doing a Game of Thrones pastiche is equivalent to the invention of the wheel.) Like...I remember in the Midst Q&A that Xen said they tend to not like playing typical D&D classes, but their solution was to, you know, create Midst instead of sitting around going "actually, because D&D doesn't support cyberpunk narrative and the character archetypes within very well it is an utter failure." (I could go on forever about how actually TTRPGs are not a showcase for your already extant OCs to prance around but that's a totally separate post).

Mechanics and story are inherently intertwined, is what I'm trying to get at (sorry I'm really tired and have a lot to do but I'm passionate about this answer, it will be rambly, she says like 3 pages in) and I really don't think most actual play journalists get this. At all. And I do think that CR, and Daggerheart, and the people working for it, and especially Spenser Starke, Rowan Hall, Matt Mercer, and Travis Willingham, get this more than almost anyone else in the field. I also think Brennan Lee Mulligan and Aabria Iyengar get this, and the thing is, for all the praise showered upon them, much of which I think is deserved and most of what I think is undeserved is not because they are lacking but because the person writing about them is an idiot crediting them for things they (Brennan and Aabria) would never claim to have invented, their mechanical prowess is rarely if ever written about well. Fantasy High Junior Year's downtime mechanics actually fill in a famous gap in D&D, namely, downtime, and provide an excellent marriage of story and mechanics in my opinion, and I haven't really seen any discussion, because that would require watching the part of the TTRPG show where they play the TTRPG, and knowing the vague word on the street about D&D criticism that isn't just "*nods sagely* capitalism is the BBEG."

And finally: related a bit to the edit but Critical Role used to not be able to provide any early access to press, because it was literally a live show, and I suspect they never broke the habit, and I think that is for the best. As discussed a lot of D20 coverage actually feels like they watched the press screener and then never returned to the show. And I do not know the politics about them, but given that several of these publications (notably Polygon, but some others) have been shitting on Critical Role for several years, and just generally given the way CR's leadership vs. how D20's leadership respond to fandom pressure, I suspect Critical Role does not give these journalists a ton of early or increased, if any. Honestly, why should you, if you're getting interviewed in Variety? And I think the journalists are mad, because they think they're special and should get treated as such.

I do want to wrap something up, and I want to thank @captainofthetidesbreath for talking a little about this in game design/ttrpgs and giving me the idea, but in story, you should be challenging your audience, expanding their horizons, and being new and interesting. In the actual playing of TTRPGs, especially a new one, it is vital to be inclusive and easy to understand and patient and provide points of reference. I really feel like many Actual Play journalists and some TTRPG ones as well have this equation flipped and are looking for challenging concepts that most people will never be able to get a group to be willing to play, and bells and whistles in production, but leave story as an afterthought. Critical Role designs games to actually be played and to be used specifically to tell good stories, and puts story before production, and I think that undercuts those journalists' whole deal.

[attackurheart88]

Ooo if it’s okay, can I please request a Soft Yandere Morpheus x fem!innocent!human!reader where she somehow accidentally ends up in The Dreaming and Morpheus is fully ready to let out his wrath at her intrusion, but after talking to her spending time with her, he decides he doesn’t want her to leave, ever, and intends to make her his Queen

You weren't supposed to be here.

Morpheus watched in the shadows as the woman hummed peacefully to herself weaving flowers unaware of the danger lurking behind her. As soon as Mathew alerted him to your presence, Morpheus teleported over in anger. It was only a few months since his capture and his dislike of humans had increased greatly. The dreaming was the only place where he could live peacefully without any worries or fears he would not let a human ruin it.

The birds flew away and the deer and squirrels were quick to scurry. Once Morpheus made himself known the happiness in the air dissipated. He watched as you tensed finally feeling his presence and turned.

“Who are you?” his voice wasn't raised yet it carried such force you were quick to back up. “You're not supposed to be here.” he snarled.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn't know I just sorta appeared.” Your voice was so soft and sweet. It suited you. “I didn't mean to trespass, my name is Y/n.” Morpheus stared blankly at your outstretched hand. You were being kind? Why? You were clearly afraid so why go through the trouble? Was it a trick? A way to get into his head?

A small peep drew his attention behind you. There was a bird wounded by your feet. Morpheus anger sparked up again. “You dare come into this forest and harm its inhabitants.” A sudden force flings you back into a tree.

“Ow.” you slid down painfully watching in horror as he made his way closer. “Wait, please! I didn't hurt it. It fell from a tree I was trying to rebuild its nest.” your small hands were held up as you explained. Morpheus took notice of the small scratches and cuts on your fingers.

As quickly as that anger came it lessened.

One look at your doe eyes and tender expression had Morpheus’s head running. It contained glimpses of fear but no hint of lies. You were telling the truth.

Releasing you, Morpheus took a step back and waved his hand.

The bird flew in circles now fully healed and the scars that once littered your hand vanished.

“Incredible,” you whispered. “Thank….you.” But he was gone.

Morpheus made his way back to his palace. Scouring through the books of his library for information on you. He should have banished you, threatened you, captured you. But he didn't. He couldn't. Despite the way he acted he couldn't find any fault with you. Nor did you harbor any sort of anger, hatred, or evil in you. You were too kind. The animals of Fiddler’s Green were not welcoming to strangers and would have attacked if you held bad intentions. Instead, they danced and sang to entertain you, to please you.

Why? Why were you here? Why was the dreaming so welcoming to you? Why was it he found it difficult to hurt you? Why did he feel the urge to touch you, kiss you, devour you.

Morpheus wasn’t new to the feeling of love. But the emotions inside his chest were different. They weren’t pure or sweet or gentle. They were fierce dangerous addicting. It was only a few hours since he saw you. But his mind was flooding with images of you and impure thoughts. Thought to take you to own you to take your innocence and corrupt it. Your sweet voice will be for him to hear, your soft eyes his to gaze at, and your body? His to ravage.

You were a virgin he was sure of it. He could smell it on you, innocence and purity radiating in waves just begging to be taken away.

“Lucienne.” The woman walked over. “My lord. Have you taken care of the intruder?” “Just about to.” Morpheus smiled to himself. Lucienne furrowed her brows confused.

“Prepare a room. I want it fit for a queen.”

For the next few days, Morpheus waits anxiously for your return. He's made all the proper preparations for you transitioning as his queen. A large bed, mountains of presents, and in case there are any resisting, some lovely chains to keep you still. But he's sure he won't need them for long. Soon enough you’ll learn your place and accept your new role happily. Unlike his former lovers, there will be no mistakes as you’ll never be allowed to leave his side.

Your sniffles and sobs could be heard echoing throughout the room. Morpheus is there with his arms around you. Gentle rubs on your hair as he whispers in your ear to console you.

“I-I want to go home,” you repeated for the hundredth time. Morpheus only smiled and shook his head. “This is your home, now love.” he cooed. “There is nowhere else for you to be.”

You will soon love him and depend on him for everything. Morpheus would become you're only priority as you his. Anyone who gets in the way of that, friend or foe will suffer the consequences.

As his darling, be sure to be obedient and never escape or look in another person’s direction. The consequences will be severe. You could be starved for a couple of days or perhaps be delivered the bloody head of the man who dared to talk to you.

Morpheus is passionate about his love but is equally cruel. Slowly he’ll break you down with love and punishments until you're his perfect wife where he’ll be able to love you and cherish you to his heart's content.