#Like a lament for this fallen city

[breadmecoshy]

The beautiful Lady Marissa in hollow knight

The most beautiful and peaceful memory in the game is associated with her wonderful song

And, yes, I'm going through the game for the fifth time хD

This time, my thoughts turned to Marissa, because even after so many walkthroughs, her song and look fascinate me

This is a portrait that Lurien drew for Marissa shortly before becoming a Dreamer. As a last gift and thanks for all she does for the city, and still can, to spend the last quiet moments together before the eternal goodbye

I think she and Lurien were close friends, and he liked to draw quick sketches during her concerts. Perhaps he would have liked to portray her one last time as bright and cheerful as she usually was, but her beloved city and its people were already slowly dying, and a good friend was sacrificing his life for some higher purpose, so she just couldn't portray joy, and she didn't want Lurien's last portrait to be fake

[mononijikayu]

city of loving angels — gojo satoru.

angel! satoru who was assigned to be your guardian angel.

angel! satoru who thinks about how it's his duty to keep you safe from all unseen harm.

angel! satoru who doesn't understand human emotions or senses and yet still finds it interesting

angel! satoru who watches you, a doctor, lament to yourself in silence at your failure to save your patient.

angel! satoru who becomes transfixed in your daily life, trying to understand everything your expressing and saying. every feature of emotion, of relief— what your smile and tears mean.

angel! satoru who thinks about how many times he's asked human beings what their favorite thing in life is and yet none of them satisfied him more than just watching you express things he couldn't understand.

angel! satoru who finally reveals himself to you and found how you were kind to him the moment you saw him.

angel! satoru who thinks there's something about you, with how warm your hands are and how genuine your smiles are.

angel! satoru who thinks that every bit of his long, immortal life has become consumed by wanting to spend it looking at you.

angel! satoru who thinks that if there is anything worth doing, it would be protecting you from the uncertainty of life.

angel! satoru who meets masamichi yaga, his old mentor in heaven who was your patient in the hospital.

angel! satoru who is surprised but he thinks that its been a long time since his old mentor had fallen from heaven.

angel! satoru who is surprised that his old mentor didnt fall from grace but chose to leave and live a human life.

angel! satoru who asked what sort of life would that look like, thinking about you. his old mentor smiled and said, that human life is everything.

angel! satoru who returns to heaven and says that he can no longer serve the father when all he can think about the paradise of serving you.

angel! satoru who is no longer quite an angel, returns to the human world and starts to be overwhelmed by feelings.

angel! satoru who is no longer ignorant of what it means to be consumed by love, by humanity, by you.

angel! satoru who comes to you at the hospital and brings a bouquet of flowers as a gift.

angel! satoru who notices how lovely that scarlet blush was against your soft, supple skin.

angel! satoru who asks you if you'd like to have dinner with him that night.

angel! satoru who feels his heart beat wildly for the first time when he heard you say yes.

angel! satoru who lives his life devoted to you and taking care of you in all the ways he knows how.

angel! satoru who thinks that there is no regrets when it comes to leaving, because he is finally living, as he should, with you.

angel! satoru who thinks that he would love to just do laundry and taxes with you for the rest of your mortal lives.

angel! satoru who thinks about how he would like to go on and marry you one day.

angel! satoru who realizes that there are things he could not protect you from.

angel! satoru who finds out from you that you were diagnosed with terminal illness and that there is no cure.

angel! satoru who is devastated at the thought of losing you when he had just gotten to be with you.

angel! satoru who is comforted by your loving arms as he cried over and over about how he can't save you.

angel! satoru who starts to think that he should have stayed an angel, so he could have guided you back to health.

angel! satoru who thinks he should have loved you from afar so that you didn't have to be ill.

angel! satoru who stops thinking that when you tell him that his love being yours is what gave your life meaning.

angel! satoru who can't help but be overwhelmed with love for you when you tell him that no matter what, he was the best of life itself.

angel! satoru who devotes his entire self, his love, his soul, what remains of your life.

angel! satoru who lets himself put away the grief and pain to try and make you smile everyday.

angel! satoru who wonders how he could ever let you go knowing that he loved you too much.

angel! satoru who could sense everything knowing that today was that day.

angel! satoru who stays with you in bed all day, taking in the warmth of that last good day.

angel! satoru who felt your sweet tender kisses on his neck as you wrapped your arms around him.

angel! satoru who took in your weak voice speaking those sweet little lies, those sweet little nothings.

angel! satoru who asked you what your favorite thing in life was and you smiled at him and replied that it was him. because he loved you.

angel! satoru who watched you slipped away as you leaned closer to his embrace.

angel! satoru who could only be inconsolable as he held you even closer knowing your warmth will depart soon.

angel! satoru who holds your funeral and only a few had come but that didn't matter because he was there.

angel! satoru who gets a visit from angel! suguru as he watched him unfold in rough grief.

angel! satoru who looks up when angel! suguru asks him if all this suffering, this grief, this loss — if it was all worth it.

angel! satoru who looks at your memorial photo and laughs at the question angel! suguru asked him.

angel! satoru who without hesistation says that everything was worth it, because he was human with you.

angel! satoru who was so happy because he got to experience being so very loved by you.

angel! satoru who looks at angel! suguru and said that he had no regrets because everything was perfect even if it wasnt.

angel! satoru who looks at an appalled angel! suguru and continues to smile back, telling him that one day he'll understand.

angel! satoru who witnesses the first dawn of life without you in his life that morning.

angel! satoru who yells out a loud thank you, that he was human, that he was ever allowed to be one.

angel! satoru who starts crying and smiling all at once because he knows you heard him from above.

angel! satoru who promises to live on, because you know one day, you'd love to hear all the stories of his long life when you meet again.

[valeriianz]

Here’s another half-formed dreamling fic with them stuck in a snow storm while flurries currently whistle past my windows (and cover my screens in white).

Dream, sitting on the floor of his kitchen, surrounded by candles because the power is out, and sipping a glass of red wine. He’s bundled in a blanket and desperately failing to conserve battery on his phone, by texting Hob, who’s also lost power.

Dream slouches back against his oven, of which the burners are on to give off some blessed heat (thank God his oven is gas), while he reads the latest message from Hob, lamenting how bleeding cold it is in his own apartment, a newly renovated chrome building on the edge of the city, where everything, including the heat, was electric.

Dream mourns for him, even though Hob makes light of the situation with his witty texts and flirtatious hints of how Dream could warm him up.

They’d only been on a handful of dates, not yet fallen into bed together… Dream awkwardly explaining to Hob that it took a while, if at all, for sexual attraction to form within a new relationship. Hob had, surprisingly, taken it in stride. Becoming patient and thoughtful, always communicating, and never pushing Dream’s limits. 

It was refreshing, and– to Dream’s complete surprise– he’d found himself falling hard for the other man. Who knew a simple acknowledgment to boundaries would get him so wound up? His pulse quickened with every smile Hob gave him, his stomach tying itself in knots whenever Hob would take his hand, and his brain completely shutting off when Hob would kiss him. Chaste things that had progressively turned more and more heated with every encounter. Promising something more and more each time they met.

Currently, the sounds of his windows rattling from the flurries outside fill his dark apartment, along with the flutter of the open flames on his stove, and the quiet drip, drip, drip of the kitchen tap (to prevent frozen pipes, Dream had learned that lesson the hard way last winter).

After about an hour of texting Hob, Dream nearly halfway done with the bottle of wine, he receives a text that makes his heart jump.

So, what if i told you im actually outside your building?

Dream stood up so suddenly the candles around him nearly snuffed themselves out.

He yanked on his boots and pulled on his oversized winter coat, stumbling to his front door and marching down the stairs of the apartment complex he resided in, the age of which you could smell in its walls, see in the cracks and warps in the wooden floors. He made it down to the entrance and pulled open the door, the ice cold wind smacking Dream in the face immediately.

But then he saw a smudge of brown in the whiteness approaching. Dream kicked down the snow that had piled up at the door and waded forward in knee deep snow to meet Hob halfway and help him past the threshold.

Once the door slammed shut behind them, Dream took a proper look at Hob.

“You look like the abominable snowman.”

Hob laughed. He was absolutely covered in snow, piled high on his shoulders, his boots, even on his eyelashes.

“I feel like one.” Hob said, his voice cracked and breathless.

Once they’re back inside Dream’s apartment, and Hob’s outer layers have been stripped off and hung in the shower to drip dry, Dream sets off to boil water on the stove top for tea.

They sit on Dream’s couch, sharing a blanket and sipping tea while Dream admonishes Hob for coming out in the middle of a storm. What was he thinking?? To which Hob just shrugs and curls his nearly numb fingers around the hot mug, snuggling even further into Dream’s side and sighing.

“Worth it, to see you.”

“You’re insane,” Dream says, but smiles through it. 

Hob’s skin glows with the orange and yellow flickering of the candles, his features softening and barely noticeable in the limited light. But Dream knows them by now. Knows the curve of Hob’s thick, dark eyebrows, down to the scruff of his jaw, and back up to the prominent shape of his nose. He’s always handsome, but right now, shadowed in soft light and his cheeks still pink from the cold, he’s lovely. And Dream can’t help but set his mug down, taking Hob’s as well, and kissing him.

His lips arm warm from the tea, and he tastes of lavender and honey, and it makes Dream want. Want to climb onto Hob’s lap and crawl inside him. Make a nest for himself– warm and safe and cared for under Hob’s breast bone. There he could listen to the rhythmic beat of his heart, how it thunders now, under Dream’s hand as he caresses down Hob’s sweater and gets teasing fingers under the hem, touching the soft flesh of his hips and stomach.

Hob moans into his mouth, making Dream’s skull vibrate and he nearly gives in, something dark and unknown swirling in his lower belly that drives his fingers to press harder, feel the texture of Hob’s skin, the smattering of hairs at his stomach, but he forces himself to slow down, to take it easy, to enjoy and luxuriate in what they have now. 

Hob, miraculously, follows along. His own hands cupping each side of Dream’s head and only getting his fingers in his hair, matching Dream’s pace, kissing back with no intention of more unless Dream initiated. Moving his mouth at Dream’s pace, breaking apart and nudging his nose and lips under his jaw and nuzzling behind Dream’s ear and making him shudder pleasantly.

“Dream, Dream…” Hob mumbles, seemingly content in just kissing, just holding one another. “I could do this for hours.”

Dream grips the hem of Hob’s sweater, holding tightly as to prevent himself from ripping it off Hob. Another time, very soon, he knows. Dream has every intention to give into the temptation that is Hob Gadling, but the waiting is so much more fun. The anticipation, the slow understanding of his own feelings brimming up to the surface, will be that much more satisfying when he’s certain Hob will reciprocate them.

Hob just might love him back, right now. But Dream waits. Though, he does allow himself a confession:

“I could do this forever.”

[misc-obeyme]

Lesson 36 spoilers below, including the locked lesson & hard lesson...

Sorry it's a little screenshot heavy but there was a lot happening in this lesson and I was having a lot of feelings. I think I screenshotted my way through the whole thing lol.

SO. MUCH. LORE.

We got so much lore!??!?!

Things I'm freaking out about:

Mephisto's whole lecture about the underworld and its rings

the fact that trains were seen as commoner's transportation 'cause they were used by demons who couldn't fly

SOLOMON (as if he wasn't hot enough) walking through all the rings of the underworld

Solomon just kinda laughing about it and then agreeing that it's really just a tourist attraction now???? THAT'S THE UNDERWORLD YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT.

He talks about the city of Dis which is straight up from the Divine Comedy. Does this mean Dante has been their resource all along?! That could explain Diavolo's Italian name...

Because he also talks about Minos who also made an appearance in the Divine Comedy... I'm just sayin!!

They said they're taking Lucifer to Cocytus?!? (Which is also in... you guessed it, the Divine Comedy. Where it's stated to be the home of traitors.)

Isn't that the same thing as the River of Lamentation?!?!

What're they gonna do, drown him???

Okay okay my list should have ended several bullet points ago.

(Though on that last one, if they're going full Dante, then they'll bury him in ice instead.)

ANYWAY.

Mephisto buying all those sweets for his little brother was the cutest thing ever. He needs to stop being precious. I was resisting so well and then he had to go and be a good brother and also be concerned about MC and ask if they were all right and yeah he's annoying but it's kind of endearing too....????

This whole part where he was just asking MC questions & worrying about them being hurt. STOP THAT. This is exactly the kind of thing I live for, you're doing on purpose, aren't you??

You are not supposed to care!

I warned you before to stop making me like you...

THAT'S IT. HE'S A KEEPER.

Also do you think that when they say commoners are demons that can't fly... are they saying that demons with wings are the only ones that can be nobles? Or are they saying demons with enough power to fly whether that's with wings or not? Because isn't Barbatos actually like a duke or something? Are you really gonna tell me that guy is a commoner? Even if he does work as a butler... maybe it doesn't count 'cause he can portal himself around?

But also! We know Mephisto is a noble so does this mean his demon form has wings? I thought for sure they were going to go with a tail.

BUT ALSO ALSO do the bros not count? They should all be nobles, but they clearly aren't, but they also aren't commoners? Maybe they're neither 'cause they're fallen angels? And we know three of them have tails, so...? I'M CONFUSED ABOUT HOW THIS WORKS.

Okay, sorry I'm getting off on a bit of a tangent here. There's just so much info that we suddenly got in this lesson about the world! And while I've been wanting more such stuff, I was hoping it would clarify some things not make things more confusing.

So anyway, there's a whole lot of underworld which they've mentioned before but only briefly, so it was cool to get more info on that!

Don't worry, Luci. MC has to travel through time as well as space and I don't think a trip through the underworld is going to cut it. I like it when you compliment Solomon, though.

I don't know how to tell you guys that the idea of Solomon walking through the underworld and laughing about it later makes me insane. So I'm just telling you straight out. I'm insane about it.

Are we still talking about the underworld? Because when I hear "tourist attraction" I tend to think of things like the world's largest ball of twine, not playing chess with Minos, Judge of the Damned.

That whole phone conversation with him was just so good. I know I recently wrote a whole post about him being sus and he still is because it's him, but do not misunderstand me because I love that man. I love his cute little laugh that he always does.

Then again, he's clearly terrible at lying. Good at just not saying stuff maybe, but lying directly? I'm not so sure...

So anyway, Lucifer's gonna be executed, huh? I like how both he and Mephi were like nope Diavolo is gonna fix this. They have such unwavering faith in him, it's precious.

Also, I LOVED THIS ENTIRE PART.

Lucifer saying he knows? He knows, but this is home now for him and his brothers? And then MEPHISTO coming right back with then you should understand why MC wants to go home??

I was not expecting Mephistopheles to understand and be concerned about MC wanting to go home like that. It wasn't something like yeah you should go home you're a human and don't belong here. He didn't say anything like that at all. It was just immediately like you must miss your family. Mephisto confirmed family man!

HARD LESSON: Solomon was being a complete menace. He locked Lucifer's brothers in a room??? What's he gonna make them do!? Eat his cooking?? No, he gives his cooking to people because he loves them and wants to make them happy. So it can't be that. My mind... it goes to dangerous places... why did they have to cut off the lesson without telling us what Solomon's intentions were??

...

I wouldn't mind being locked in that room with them all, though.

Please take this selection of screenshots of him being insufferable with that cute lil smile on his face.

To be fair, he's not wrong... it was pretty funny.

I CAN'T.

Also in the LOCKED LESSON: Barbatos my true love. This whole interaction was amazing. Simeon and Luke are so cute. Diavolo clearly doesn't know Lucifer super well yet and it's so adorable watching him figure it out. And now he's all like Barbatos how can I fix this? And Barb is just like sorry it's too late. LOL he's so strict.

Dadbatos mode activated.

Luke my sweet baby angel, never change!

Diavolo's sad face is so cute, I don't know how Barb ever manages to resist it. I'd just give in to everything he ever wanted all the time. I also love how he is straight up calling Barb mean lol.

They both look so serious. Cut him some slack, Barb!

And lastly, I only wish to leave you with this:

Everybody knows nobody can make tea as good as Barbatos does. Not even Lucifer.

Don't be angry, Luci. You're no Barbatos, but I'm sure your tea is delicious.

[whencyclopedia]

The Death of Ur-Nammu

The Death of Ur-Nammu is a Sumerian lament over the passing of the king Ur-Nammu (r. 2047-2030 BCE), founder of the Third Dynasty of Ur, who was killed in battle fighting the Gutians in 2030 BCE. The poem is frequently cited for its depiction of a great banquet in the underworld, usually described as dark and silent.

Even so, the image of the realm of the afterlife is still far from pleasant as, "the food of the underworld is bitter, the water of the underworld is brackish" (lines 83-84; Black, 59) and the soul is aware of what has been lost and the grief of those left behind on earth but can do nothing to change its fate or comfort the mourners. The soul is completely self-aware and completely powerless once it has descended to the realm of Ereshkigal, Queen of the Dead, and this understanding of the afterlife contributed, in part, to the belief in ghosts in ancient Mesopotamia: some souls, in trying to assert their autonomy, would escape and return to the world of the living.

The poem, also known as The Death of Ur-Namma and The Death of Ur-Nammu and His Descent to the Underworld, dates from the reign of Ur-Nammu's son and successor, Shulgi of Ur (2029-1982 BCE), and may have been performed as part of the funerary rites. Scholar Samuel Noah Kramer notes that many of the details of the funeral in lines 31-42 no doubt reflect actual practices, and a performance of a lament for a fallen king would not have been out of place.

An especially interesting aspect of the piece is the depiction of the gods and Ur-Nammu's charge that he was betrayed by them. He trusted the most powerful of the gods, Anu (An) and Enlil to protect him but, instead, they let him die on the battlefield. His personal protector, the goddess Inanna, seems to have been purposefully sent away on an errand to distract her, and when she returns, she is outraged. There is no reason given for the gods' decision to withdraw their protection from the king who has always faithfully served them, leaving the question of why good people suffer and die unanswered.

Summary

Lines 1-75 describe Ur-Nammu's death and funeral including the gods' reaction in lines 8-14 where Enki, the god of wisdom shuts the door of Eridug (Eridu) and Utu, the sun god refuses to light the day. The city of Ur is given as Urim where the king's body is brought from the battlefield. Lines 76-197 describe his soul's descent to the underworld, the gifts he brings to the gods associated with the afterlife, like the hero Gilgamesh and Nergal, consort of Ereshkigal, and the great banquet held in his honor.

Lines 155-197 give Ur-Nammu's lament for his life and this transitions to Inanna's rage at finding he has passed to the underworld and the gods' reaction in lines 198-233. The poem concludes with praise to the god Ningiszida, a vegetation and underworld deity who was the son of Ninazu, the god of transition to the afterlife and transformation. The last lines, which are fragmentary, are thought to be appealing to Ningiszida to comfort the soul of Ur-Nammu amidst his tears and lamentation.

Continue reading...

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 9.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 4.0k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

so sorry for the long wait. ):

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence, decapitation, death

story playlist

The sound of paper furling and unfurling were the only ones heard. Then the slam of a fist on a wooden desk. Then a sigh. 

“This is ridiculous,” Rhaenyra hissed, reading over the missive stamped with the Velaryon sigil for the near hundredth time. “Absolutely ridiculous— borderline treasonous.” 

The letter spelled out, in so many words, that Vaemond Velaryon was contesting Lucerys’ inheritance claim to Driftmark. Lord Corlys had apparently fallen ill in the Stepstones— damn that accursed place— which brought up the question of succession. There had been whispers over the years of Rhaenyra’s first three sons’ true parentage belied in the seed of a certain late Commander of the City’s watch. Such accusations have been unfounded and swatted away like flies if the argument was ever brought up in the small council chamber or throne room. 

Upon looking at them, the three Velaryon boys were only such in name– that much was obvious. Their brown eyes and curled brown hair struck a decided resemblance to someone that was not Ser Laenor Velaryon. 

Even if the rumors, as they may be, were plain as day truths, such things couldn’t be acted upon, much less said about the heir to the iron throne, could they? 

“How can Alicent even entertain this… this mummer’s farce?” she continued to seethe, resorting to pacing now, twisting the rings on her fingers. Her throat felt a bit dry at the situation. Her and Alicent had struck a comfortable balance since returning. This felt… it felt akin to a slap in the face.

“‘Tis not just Alicent entertaining it,” Daemon muttered, swirling wine in his cup. He was lazed in the chaise, one leg over the other. He seemed particularly laissez-faire about the situation at hand, as if it were nothing more than a mere annoyance to him, like a leg cramp or an annoying bug. “That snake of a father she has has his fangs in every pot. Whatever suits him— and this would seem to be one of those things.” he glanced to his wife, wanting to say more about the queen, but thought better of it. Daemon Targaryen was, in all accounts, a man who spoke his mind– but he didn’t wish to ruffle his pregnant wife’s feathers by calling her ‘girlhood friend’ a cunt like her father. 

“Otto Hightower is a conniving man, that much is true. What could he hope to gain by currying favor with Vaemond?” 

“The Velaryon fleet. The Velaryon coin. The Velaryon connections. The well of opportunities for conniving cunts like Otto are endless.” he punctuated each point with a wave of his glass.

Rhaenyra’s mouth snapped shut. She was silent for a long while before finally speaking again. “Well, Lord Corlys is not dead yet. This will be fought and we will be heard.”

—

The morning after the gala was… eventful, to say the least. She hardly remembered going back to her room, it all felt like a hazy, dizzy dream. 

Aemond had escorted her back to her chambers in (comfortable) silence, giving her another goodnight kiss before leaving her for the night. She had been reeling from it all, the adrenaline of their interaction.

She could feel his lips on hers and a delightful buzz on her face and… another unfamiliar sensation deep in her body, nestled behind her navel. It felt like a pulling sensation, like a thread connecting her and Aemond. Just the slightest tug on the string had her feeling warm and fuzzy— she wanted him. The implication of wanting him could mean a myriad of things. She was fond of him, of course, she always had been. His possessive declaration, to any normal person, could be deduced into one thing. But in Shera’s mind, there were many interpretations of such an action, it couldn’t be assumed to mean one thing! 

He said she belonged to him— that didn’t necessarily mean he… loved her, he just wanted her near him. The kiss… she had started it, of course! It was merely… something of comfort between them, like a soft blanket or a favorite smell, right? Nothing so deep as… as one might assume.

 But it was also… melding into one another with ease, like their lips coming together had been second nature, their feelings inevitable. 

She kicked her legs in bed, spooking Moongeist slightly. Burying her face in her pillow, she gave an uncharacteristically loud squeal— to personify her current feelings. This was girlish and so very silly! Her face was red, she knew, feeling the heat radiating off of it.

No, no— ‘twas not love. It… Aemond didn’t love her, he couldn’t, it was a passing fancy. Yes, he was possessive and had mentioned marrying her twice. But that didn’t… mean… 

She glanced over at the dozens of drawings and sketches they’d done over the past few weeks on her side table. Her eye immediately caught on the portrait she did of him in blue and purple pastels, fingers wrought over the etching as she thought back to when she presented it to him. 

“I do not look like this, Shera,” he scoffed as he rolled his eye at her depiction of him. “You made me look like a child getting their portrait done for the first time. I look like I am being held at swordpoint.” 

Her mouth opened, brows flying to her hairline. “What do you mean? This is what you look like to me,” she snatched the paper from his hand and put it up next to his face to compare. “And you wouldn’t sit still, you basically were a child. I thought you had more discipline than that– Ser Criston would be disappointed.” she tutted.

Of course, it was a stylized portrait– mayhaps overly stylized. It was lines and angles and he did look quite pointy in it. But it felt like him, harsh around the edges but there was a glint in his eye that was soft, something few people could catch in Aemond Targaryen. He had been agitated when she made him stand still and it was surprising that she didn’t capture that overbearing emotion– rather, she caught the softness reserved only for her that hung in the back light of his eye.

“You are blind.” Aemond huffed, turning away.

“Yes, we have established that,” she pushed his shoulder playfully.

Love. Love? Love!

She screamed herself hoarse again into her pillow until Moongeist tugged it away from her. 

She loved him. She was in love with Aemond Targaryen and had been for a very, very long time. 

She was still giddy about it, getting out of bed with a spring in her step, as if she were some sort of sprightly hare. She peppered Moongeist’s face in kisses, to which he returned sleepy chuffs and whines, cooing soft noises to him in lieu of words— her throat hurt from her girlish squealing.

She had almost forgotten about the incident. The warging. She wasn’t even sure it had been real, if not for the bruises where Aemond held her so tightly to stop her from falling to the floor, she thought it would’ve been a dream. 

Shera knew of warging– every Stark did, every Northman did. It was a seemingly supernatural phenomenon told by stewardesses to children. It was a thing of wonder and utter horror. She remembers her own stewardess, the very fleeting memories she had before King’s Landing of Winterfell, keeping her afraid with the threat that if a skinchanger died while inhabiting another being, they would be trapped in said being’s skin forever. 

“Some skinchangers are more beast than man, Shera,” the older woman said, wagging a finger in the little girl’s face, who was no more than four at the time. “If you keep up your antics, don’t be surprised if you wake up as a beast, you little hellion.”

Shera promptly bit the offending wagging finger.

Unfurling the paper left with her breakfast, a hearty plate of hot eggs and bangers (which looked ravenously appetizing), she skimmed it. The message was clear in its intent: the move back to Dragonstone was delayed. Biting into the sausage, she threw Moongeist some eggs.

One more thing to be delighted about– she felt like everything between her and… those who resided in King’s Landing was on borrowed time. 

‘Twas a pity about the hearing for Lucerys’ inheritance. She didn’t care much for Lucerys– but she didn’t really know him. She wonders if he even remembers taking Aemond’s eye, and Shera subsequently shoving him into a wall where he hit his head.

She ponders it more over breakfast, even asking for a second helping of sausage before reporting to the throne hall. The maids that dressed her had brought a separate garment, one unfamiliar and most certainly not something she brought with her.

“Princess Rhaenyra wishes for you to wear this at the hearing,” one of them murmured. 

Shera eyed the dress– it was deep, blood red with black and gold trim. There were embellishments of dragons and wolves across the chest and a sash belt that looked like it had wolf claws embedded into it. It was… nice in its own way, except for the ghastly color. The maids were relentless in the cinching of her waist and she shifted uneasily from foot to foot as she regretted her second helping of breakfast. The women didn’t say anything to her, really, but exchanged looks that said more than words. 

As she slips into the throne room, she feels a whoosh of air beside her. “You look garish in that color,” a familiar voice sneered. Aegon blocked her way, brows raised. “Some little birdie told me that you prefer blue.”

“... mayhaps I do,” she murmured. “And how exactly do you know that?” 

“Again, my little birdie. But also, I was at the gala and saw you and my brother eye-fucking each other. You two are seriously shameless, debaucherous almost.”

“That is truly rich coming from you, Aegon,” Shera cracked a small smile. 

Continuing her walk, Jacaerys sweeps her up into his arm and leads them over to… their side. Rhaenyra, Daemon, Lucerys and Rhaena are waiting. Across the opposite side of the room are Aemond, Aegon, Helaena, Alicent and Otto. In the center, stands Vaemond, swaying ever so slightly to the Queen’s side. The room is so clearly divided that it's almost sickening. Just the previous night, they had been making merry without all of this division. She sees Aemond, who gives her dress a onceover– his expression is reserved and she can’t tell what he is thinking. He looks at her for half a second, nostrils flared, before looking away from her. 

While the proceedings are happening, she swims within her own mind. She stands near Jace, who has his arm looped in hers in a protective manner. Scattered words of Vaemond come through her muddled thoughts, ‘Velaryon’, ‘Blood’, ‘Survival’, ‘House’. Her eyes were glazed over as she counted the cracks in the stones of the floor.

One, two, three… four… 

She doesn’t really pay attention to what’s going on until the heavy doors of the throne room open with almost silencing impunity, quiet chatter and shocked whispers pulling her from her reverie.

“King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!” the Kingsguard announced as His Grace, who still looked all the part of a royal corpse, hobbled into the room. He declined any assistance to walk and take his seat.

She gets a sinking feeling in her gut– something telling her that everything is about to explode. 

“I must… admit… my confusion,” he wheezes, winded by the small walk. Shera feels a small twinge of sympathy at that, understanding the feeling. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession.”

“You are of sound mind in that, father,” Rhaenyra bowed her head, unfurling another paper, walking to the King to present it. “This is a whit and declaration of betrothal between my son, Lucerys Velaryon, and Lord Corlys’ granddaughter, Rhaena Targaryen. It is signed and stamped by Lady Rhaenys, who upholds her husband’s declaration that Laenor’s son shall inherit Driftmark. This betrothal shall only strengthen his claim.” 

Viserys gave a small smile. “Thank you, my daughter,” he skimmed the paper, obviously with some struggle. “The matter… is settled, Ser Vaemond. It has been and it will… stay affirmed… that Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon is heir to Driftmark… the Driftwood Throne… and the next Lord of the Tides… and the children… of him and Lady Rhaena… will inherit it after him.” 

She feels the intensity in the air, it’s almost palpable. She feels sick as the voices raise, the blood in the room rises. 

Vaemond looks like he is about to burst, his body shaking in clear anger. “You break law… and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me… who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon,” he pauses for a moment as if to consider his next words, “No.I will not allow it.”

“‘Allow it’? Do not forget yourself, Vaemond,” Viserys struggled to sit up, returning Vaemond’s vitriol with his own– as labored and unthreatening as it was.

“That,” Vaemond pointed to Lucerys, with a look that could raze an army. “is no true Velaryon, and certainly no nephew of mine.”

“Lucerys is my true-born grandson. And you… are no more than the second son of Driftmark.” 

“You… may run your house as you see fit… but you will not decide the future of mine. My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides. And gods be damned… I will not see it ended on the account of this…” Vaemond looked back to Lucerys and Jacaerys. The rage in his eyes were palpable as a humid day, the anger emanating from him sticking in the room like cloying smoke.

“Say it.” Daemon whispered, eyes trained on the second son of Driftmark. The rogue prince was disarmingly calm, his voice like Caraxes’ hiss. 

“Her children… are bastards!” Vaemond boomed, stomping his foot and pointing again at Rhaenyra’s sons. 

Shera’s breath left her lungs. She remembered what happened the last time someone called them bastards. She glanced to Aemond, who was looking right back at her. 

“And she…” Ser Vaemond turned his damning finger to Rhaenyra, “is… a… whore.” 

The swing of a sword was all she heard. 

It is silent, save for the hushed and shocked breathing of everyone watching. One would think that people would scream, would gasp. But no, it was quiet as a mouse, quiet as Vaemond’s head was removed from his body and the gentle seep of blood staining the stone floor. 

Shera had never seen anyone die before– not like this. She can see into the passages of his skull, his eyes still open. Shocked, she looks at Daemon, who is wiping his blade against his doublet. Her eyes were glued to the ground, to the cracks she was counting before. They were soaked in his blood, the divots and fissures of the stone opening way for the blood to fall into, branching out into jagged rivers.

One, two, three… f-four…

This is what is he capable of, isn’t it? No one came to truly seize him, to arrest him for killing a man in broad daylight, in front of the King, in front of the Hand, in front of courtiers, in front of the Kingsguard. 

Alicent’s mouth was opened, her eyes wide. Even Otto was shocked, his fist clenched. It was as much emotion as Shera had ever seen the Hand express.

Her saliva feels cloying in her mouth as she glances across the room. Helaena has her ears covered and Shera wishes she had done the same. Aegon was staring off into space, pupils dilated. The scuffle of blades and minds beginning to come to a sense of what just really happened.

Aemond’s face finally held some emotion: enamorment. For the power that Daemon held, the prowess, the act of brutality itself– Shera couldn’t parse which. All she knew is that it scared her. That darkness lying just beneath the surface that she’d tried so hard to ignore–

Her extremities feel numb, the sharp sting of icy needles crawling up her arms and legs. She began to sway, unknowingly clasping onto Jacaerys. The room was spinning and shaking, the intense smell of copper— Vaemond’s blood— tainting her senses. 

A high pitched ringing overwhelmed her hearing as she slipped from consciousness into darkness. 

—

Alicent held Rhaenyra’s arm, hand over the length of the scar she gave her so many years ago. It seemed like a fever dream; that night. Her thumb traced the raised skin as the two women shared a moment in silence.

“I— I will return, Alicent,” the princess murmured, her hand over her belly. “I will take the children home and return for Shera. We… we have overstayed our welcome.” her throat bobbed as they spoke softly in the corner of the maester’s room. 

The queen’s eyes roved over Shera’s sleeping form. Her chest rose and fell softly and she seemed… troubled in her unconsciousness, soft whines emitting from her every so often. Her wolf stayed at the foot of the bed, standing at attention. Amber eyes vigilant, guarding. 

“How… how shall you transport her? She hasn’t woken up yet, Nyra,” Alicent asked, tilting her head. “The maesters say she is fragile.” 

“Syrax is a smooth flier— a makeshift cot is being constructed on her saddle as we speak. The flight wouldn’t be long and it would be much less taxing than a wheelhouse or horse.” 

Alicent nibbled on her lip anxiously. She had never been fond of dragons, despite most of those closest to her connected to one in some way. 

Targaryens and their queer customs. 

“Is… is that wise?” she pressed, brow knitting. “They do not even know if she will wake.” 

“I made an oath to her brother that I would keep her under my care, Alicent— we must go back to Dragonstone, our affairs cannot be put off any longer. I do not wish to birth my babe here, nor do I wish for Jacaerys to marry here.” 

But I wish for you to stay. I wish for you to leave that ingrate of a husband. She punctuated her unheard thought with a meaningful squeeze to Rhaenyra’s arm. A silent plea— it was the first time in years that something had felt right. 

But it wasn’t her place to say anything about it, the words were better left unsaid. “If you think that is wise, Rhaenyra,” the queen responded, her hand dropping from her skin as if it burned her. Mayhaps it did. “At least let our maesters monitor her for a few days— then you may take her.” 

Rhaenyra’s jaw clenched as she recused both hands to her belly as if to defend herself. “Very well, my queen.” 

They were so close, yet so far. 

—

It was hazy. Hazy and dreary— silent but all too loud. Her steps were calm and measured as her heart thumped in her chest. Shera felt light in her steps without any inhibition or reproach. Feeling no pain or vertigo, she flew down the staircase, skipping two or three at a time, giggling. This had to be a dream, didn’t it?

Descending, down… down… 

She was in the Red Keep, she knew. But it felt different, somehow. Younger in its stones, in the bones of its foundation, there was still some give. 

And yet, despite the airiness of the walls, there was a shadow looming

Two somewhat familiar figures were conversing near the skull of Balerion. She recognized them from portraits– young Rhaenyra and a much healthier, much more alive version of Viserys. 

She had always been fascinated by him, Balerion. Despite her heritage being very non-dragonesque, she always felt a childlike wonder whenever someone would speak of Balerion. It was hardly fathomable to her to imagine a dragon that would blot out the sun– one that even rivaled Vhagar’s gargantuan size. 

Viserys spoke softly but firmly to Rhaenyra, who was so young. She had just lost her mother and brother— the claim to the Iron Throne and named heir were up in the air. 

“Aegon saw absolute darkness riding on those winds. And whatever dwells within will destroy the world of the living. When this Great Winter comes, Rhaenyra… all of Westeros must stand against it,” Viserys urged softly as the candlelight flickered against his features, fingers skimming atop the flames

“And if the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne. A king,” he paused, looking at Rhaenyra once more, “or queen, strong enough to unite the realm against the cold and the dark. Aegon called his dream ‘The Song of Ice and Fire.’ This secret… it’s been passed from king to heir since Aegon’s time. Now you must promise to carry it… and protect it. Promise me this, Rhaenyra,” the king looked directly to where Shera was standing, looking right into her eyes, as if he could see her, see into her. “Promise me.”

The metal of the Catspaw blade heated up atop the coals to a bright and almost fluorescent orange. Goosebumps prickled on Shera’s skin in tandem with the rising heat of the room. It was so warm, no, it was hot, scorching. The air vacated her lungs, replaced by flames licking at her insides, burning, consuming.

Young Rhaenyra had left the room, leaving Viserys to look at the skull of Balerion. He picked up a single candle, peering into the flame like it held the secrets of the world. 

He spoke again, but his voice wasn’t that of the era of King that Shera was looking upon. It was old, weezing– just like in the throne room from earlier in the day. The form of Viserys slumped, hair falling out and skin graying as he held the candle like a lifeline. He fell to his knees and the sound of his bones shattering could be heard, breaking and splintering into nothing but dust. 

But the candle was still lit. His hand, now nothing but bone and sinew, was fused to the wax. 

“No… more,” he coughed and sputtered, blood leaking from his lips onto the stone. Wax dripped, mingling with the blood. Finally, he focused on the flame of the candle. “My… love.” 

He blew out the candle with his last breath. With that, all of the candles in the room blew out.

Shera was left alone in the darkness and swirling smoke. 

It was cold.

–

She awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. But she was still cold, shivering. The smell of smoke was still lingering. 

Her chest was heaving as she sat up and tried to walk, wanting that same flighty weightlessness she felt before. Her body failed her and she crumbled to the floor, a broken doll once again. Arms wrapped around her and helped her up. The familiarity of sandalwood lulled her frantic nerves as she wholeheartedly buried her face into Aemond’s chest. She knew it was him. His arms laced behind her as he lifted her up easily as if not to taint her with having to stand on the ground. His nose buried into her hair, holding onto her as if he was afraid she would slip away.

There was the sound of a throat clearing near the corner of the room. The two of them were not alone– but she didn’t care. She clung to Aemond like her life depended on it, peering behind him slowly. 

Aegon was sitting behind them, knee bobbing nervously. He looked… disheveled, more than usual. Even more so, he was wearing… the crown of the conqueror. He was wearing the crown of his namesake. “You’ve missed a lot, Shera,” he muttered, eyes dark.

“Aegon?” she croaked, voice sounding hoarse and broken from disuse.

“‘Tis ‘your grace’ now.” Aegon said bitterly.

[ya-bug-boy]

Great! hhhhh its been awhile since ive seen more pkmn swsh raihan and piers x reader !

May i request raihan x piers x gn!reader where raihan and piers are like dating but suddenly has feelings for gn!reader and wanted to work things out with them? Like the reader was like their wingman or something in the past and now they just want the reader as their third!

Hopefully this works for you! Take your time! i have like another request but if its okay i’ll get to you once you’re done ! Hopefully it isnt too much pressure! thank you so much!

Raihan x GN Reader x Piers!

Everyone's got that same question to ask you, how did YOU date both Raihan and Piers, two of Galar's regions most sought after influencer boyfriends? Those two were always known as an exclusive set, having not sought after anyone in consecutive years!

Well first off the whole reason why the two idiots even started dating each was directly because of your influence.

Before you were put in the spotlight of dating two of Galar's well known leaders, you basically helped Piers get the courage he needed to confess to Raihan, having been his friend prior to his gym leader career.

Piers would always sigh and lament, forlornly staring out the rainy weather out from his room that he had fallen into a sort of, Beauty and the Beast situation.

Piers had his eye on Raihan for a while since both were picked to be gym leaders at around the same time from a list of candidates. The two were known to be close friends at the time, but after they became gym leaders, both of them had grown distant.

Piers took it as some kind of puppy love crush that he had on Raihan but it's clear that he never really got over it.

So you being the little investigative twerp you are, you decide to befriend Raihan to get to know him as well. Raihan agrees to be your friend cheerfully but you start to note that he asks a lot of questions about Piers.

How is he? Is he doing alright?

You ask Raihan why he cares about Piers though they don't speak anymore and Raihan reveals a secret about the selection process of being gym leaders.

Spikemuth is known to be the least popular city in all of Galar because there's no stadium to dynamax there.

There seems to be something more to this story though. You investigate and question your two friends a bit more about what happened.

On Raihan's side, when they were both selected to be gym leaders, Piers brushed him off and left him without closure.

On Piers' side, he thought Raihan looks down on him/pities him for being Spikemuth's leader after overhearing the other candidates complain about Spikemuth. He never willingly chose to be Spikemuth's leader but once he was selected he had to do something to help the locals, which led to his music career down the line. Due to his position, Piers was misled into thinking that Raihan thinks ugly of him.

You get the two idiots in the same room and just get them to talk.

Their dating starts off slow and steady, it had been a couple of years since they last saw each other outside of work, but they eventually did become an item because of your encouragement.

But eventually, they start asking you to tag along to their dates. You're weirded out by it but they're your friends so why not. You're more than happy to spend time with them, even if it's on their date.

but then they happen more often. The three of you together.

You eat together, you play together, you take care of your Pokemon together, it all starts becoming very domestic.

On an afternoon when you're sitting down, with the two coming to join you, you openly ask, "Hey are we dating," and Raihan immediately goes, "Yes."

You immediately turn your head to look at both of them. "Well it would have been nice if either of you told me!!!!" You start hurling sofa pillows at them. Raihan starts laughing while Piers immediately starts apologizing.

Since you couldn't decide who you should kiss first, they decide for you. Piers on your left, Raihan on your right, kissing your face cheeks at the same time.

[apomaro-mellow]

Whispers of the Night

Steve is content to spread the word of the Lord among the people of Hawkins, unaware that a demon has their sights set on corrupting him.

Ficlet inspiration / Read on AO3

Steve started every morning by thanking the Lord for allowing him to wake up to a new day and promising to spread His good word as gratitude. Which started with watching the morning news while eating breakfast. The morning stories were usually quite tame, catching everyone up to speed in case anything happened the previous night. But in a town as small as Hawkins, it was mostly fluff pieces and traffic.

Before the program ended, it always capped off with a preview of stories to come later in the day. One of Indiana’s senators had been caught having an elicit affair with someone and he had to tune in at eight to find out. Also there was something spreading around the youth that parents should be on the lookout for, also at eight.

Sufficiently notified of what he needed for the day, he set out for his mission. He was entrusted by the Reverend Brenner, who led their parish and was a shepherd for lost souls. Today, Steve would be tending to his own flock, the inmates of the prison just outside the town limits. Usually Jason led the service there, but he had fallen ill and so it was passed on to Steve.

He was more than happy to oblige. Besides, Jason seemed to have ambitions to head a church much larger than Hawkins could hold. Something in a real city. Commendable, to be sure, but Steve was content with their little community. Their goals aligned nicely. As Father Brenner’s son, Jason might’ve been considered the one to take over when his dad stepped down. But he talked more and more everyday about building a grand temple of his own.

And if Father Brenner saw fit to pass his post down to Steve instead, well…

“Don’t get too proud now Harrington”, he said to himself as he parked.

He checked himself over in the mirror first before stopping himself. He’d already made sure his suit was ironed right and hair looked perfect. Well, as perfect as it could be anyway. His tie was blue and neither too loose nor too tight. He entered the prison and went through security just fine. The only thing he needed on him was the Good Book. 

A guard led him to the room he’d be working in and it was simple, as to be expected. They didn’t have a single room dedicated to worship, like a larger facility might. A fact Jason often complai-lamented about. But there was a podium for Steve to put his book and chairs for the men. 

“Did we finally scare that lil boy away?”, one of the inmates gruffed as he came in.

“Poor thing probably got tired of Gus always making passes at him”, said another.

“I only hoot at the pretty ones”, a third, apparently Gus said as he looked Steve up and down. “This one’s safe.”

Steve’s lips tightened together. He wasn’t offended that a random man thought Jason was prettier than him. Certainly not. Vanity was sinful and what did the opinions of his appearance matter? Especially from the likes of these men? Steve blew out a calming breath. They might be criminals, but they were still God’s children. And through him, they might be able to find salvation. He turned to the page Jason had bookmarked for him, planning on continuing from there. 

“I invite you all to join me in prayer”, Steve said, hands coming together as he bowed his head. 

He considered for only a split second that he was making himself vulnerable to these men and he didn’t even know what their crimes were. But there was a guard in the corner and surely they wouldn’t try anything with a clergyman.

Steve read the scriptures as he’d been taught and didn’t falter when the men’s eyes glazed over with what could only be boredom. In an effort to bring up the energy a little for both them and himself, he grabbed the book and walked from behind the podium, pacing back and forth. When he looked up from the pages to meet their gazes, he noticed most of them did seem more engaged. But their eyes were a little lower than he expected. Almost as if they were watching his-

“Ahem”, he cleared his throat while snapping the bible closed. “Let us end today’s service with the Lord’s prayer.” 

He checked the clock discretely and was relieved to find that his time was nearly up anyway. He led them in the closing prayer and then nodded to each of them. All seven. Not a grand congregation, but it was seven potential souls saved. Just as Steve was preparing to leave, he jumped and yelped. 

Someone had just smacked his ass.

“Jackson!”, the guard yelled, coming over.

“Worth it”, he grinned at Steve.

Steve took in the man who had touched him, looking so self-satisfied while Steve was red in the face. A few of the other men looked on appreciatively or with what could only be called jealousy.

“How’d it feel?”

“You could bounce a quarter off it.”

“Shit, I’d wear that ass out.”

“The slacks were a great choice, Father.”

Steve was escorted out before the remarks could turn more vulgar but the damage had been done. Had they ever done anything like that to Jason? If so, why had he never said-Well it was obvious why he’d never say anything. 

Once in his car, he deflated like a balloon. His butt still tingled. It didn’t hurt it was just…different. Steve very vividly remembered the last time he’d been spanked. He had been six. He couldn’t remember what he’d done, just that the lesson had stuck. Do bad things and you get the belt. Even now, as an adult, when he worried about making the right choice, his behind felt the phantom of his parent’s punishments.

This hadn’t felt quite like that. He certainly didn’t enjoy it, no of course not. But it was the principle. Who went around slapping people on the behind and then bragging about it to his buddies?

Steve shook himself as he went to his next stop. A mother of their church had asked for some help in guiding her son back to the path of light. It was an intervention of sorts and Steve had done these a couple times before. It didn’t always end nicely, but it was the effort that counted.

She welcomed him into her home, serving coffee in the living room while calling her son down. The Klines had moved to Hawkins just a few years ago and while Mr. and Mrs. Kline had become regulars quickly, Steve had only seen their son in passing while in town.

He looked just about a couple years younger than Steve, but there was an unease about him as he sat down on the couch next to his mother. Steve had the armchair.

“Where’s your whole…”, Kline Jr gestured to Steve’s body. “The costume?”

“My vestments are saved for church services or other special moments”, Steve explained. “But let’s talk about you. Your mother has expressed some concerns.”

“Devil worship”, Mrs. Kline said suddenly. “He and his friends participate in it and I’ve been telling him to give it up.”

“It’s not devil worship! It’s just a game!”

“Games can start innocent but end dangerously”, Steve said, hands clasped in his lap. He imagined the young man and some of his friends standing around a fire, or perhaps a pentagram made from rocks and calling upon Satan. Something that might seem silly to those who weren’t devout.

“No, it’s literally a game. It’s like, pretend. But with math and you get to make your own character. And mine doesn’t even believe in god, any god! Which means he doesn’t believe in the devil either.”

“They call that atheism and it’s a slippery slope”, Mrs. Kline said. “My sister told me all about it and you’re going to end up just like your cousin if you’re not careful…”

Mrs. Kline ended up taking over the conversation and Steve was left to simply nod and say ‘mhm’ whenever she deigned to turn to him. After about ten minutes, it began to grate on him. He did come to share the Lord’s perspective after all, not just sit and cosign whatever she had probably already told her son.

Then the son had an outburst that brought Steve back to the present. “You’re not even listening to me! That’s the problem! You don’t listen! You don’t even care. I’m not the way you want me to be.”

Mrs. Kline got silent. “...What do you mean?”

Her question was simple and yet the atmosphere shifted. The son looked to be going over the options in his mind before deciding to just stand up and walk off. “Nevermind. Forget it.”

He walked out of the house and seconds later they heard a car drive off and Steve figured that was the end of the visit. He thanked Mrs. Kline for inviting him into her abode and offered his prayers for her family.

When Steve got home that evening, he removed his suit jacket and then checked himself over in the mirror by the door. Normally he did this before leaving just in case there was something that kept him from being presentable. But now, he stood with his back to the mirror and twisted around. In his black slacks, his behind sat rather prominent. He was aware of his body. And he could somewhat understand that if this feature of his was found on a woman, he might be enticed by it.

What he didn’t understand was a man finding it attractive on another man. Hard time changed people he supposed. He was able to catch the news story of the evening. And it turned out that the danger threatening children was the same game Mrs. Kline was worried about. At the time, Steve couldn’t make neither heads nor tails of it. But in the hands of a professional journalist, he was able to learn more about Dungeons and Dragons. 

It did seem ghoulish as he listened to them explain how kids playing the game quickly lost touch with reality. Steve worried as he heard that this was happening across the country. But all he could do for now was take care of his town.

The last part of his bedtime ritual was prayers of course. And most days he was able to fall right to sleep. Tonight though, sleep alluded him. He tried to figure out why, today didn’t feel incredibly eventful besides that slap.

The slap.

To have one guy call him ‘not-as-pretty’ only for another to basically proposition him anyway. Could they make up their minds? Clearly they were all interested anyway. Steve saw the way they watched his behind. But such feelings were immoral. Man should not find pleasure with another man, even when women are unavailable.

And bodily pleasures like that were the devils’ wicked ways in the first place. Steve had been told so years ago, when his own father had caught him with his pants down. Steve hadn’t touched himself since, saving his seed for the woman who would one day bear his fruit. He hadn’t met her yet. But God would present her to him soon. 

Steve’s hopes usually led to sweet dreams, but tonight was different. He was at the podium again. The one in the prison. Except instead of sitting in front of him, the men were on all sides. Words from the day echoed in his head but he couldn’t remember the voice, asking him about his vestments. He needed to change into them. 

He had an audience, but there was nothing wrong with changing in front of men. He’d played on teams in school and spent plenty of time in locker rooms. His tie melted off and he undid the buttons on his shirt. The eyes on him felt hungry. What happened to him happened when he had been fully clothed. What would they do to him if he was naked?

Everything else faded from his body like mist and he was bare for the world. He didn’t want them to just look anymore he wanted them to..to…

Steve was on his back, surrounded by darkness. There was something there, above him, something with hungry red eyes.

He was on his front, rutting desperately into his mattress as the dream slipped away from him and his eyes blinked in the morning light. He froze when he realized what he was doing, still panting on his pillow as he came down from it. He moved his hips a little trying to remember what had happened to get him so worked up but couldn’t recall any details. Only a shadow. A dark phantom that had overwhelmed him and-

He stopped that train of thought when he noticed the wet stickiness inside his underwear. Lord, help him.

Part 2

Taglist

[feyhunter78]

Chapter Twenty - Jon finally is allowed to taste the forbidden fruit.

NSFW content below the cut CH 21

Jon’s feet hurt, he has been given far too many toasts and wishes for a son by men he has never before met. And though he tried desperately to avoid drinking, Robb was still able to force two or three glasses of wine down his throat. He wished to be clear-headed when he took you to the marriage bed, wished for nothing to rob him of his memories or his senses.

When you grab his arm, a controlled look of apprehension and annoyance on your face, he bristles, all the wine and revelry draining from him. Who has upset you? Who has dared to wipe the smile from his bride’s face? Then Tyrion appears, looking as insistent as you, and Jon simply pauses, waiting for you and your father to silently decide who should speak first.

He should not have paused; he was a fool to pause. The call for the bedding ceremony rings out, and you are pulled from him, from Tyrion, swallowed up by a crowd of hungry noblemen. He has no sword, why would he, it is his wedding day, but he is still Ser Jon Dayne, still your sworn protector, he should not have let his guard down.

“Fucking savages. Jon, get y/n out of here.” Tyrion yells over the noise of the crowd, scrambling out of the way as Jon pushes away from the noblewomen who have flocked to him, eager to tear the clothing from his body. His tunic rips as he wrenches himself free, his sleeves being torn from his shoulders, and he lets the fabric flutter to the ground, his arms and half his abdomen exposed to the cheering onlookers.

It is chaos, and he remembers how Lady Catelyn used to fawn over his uncle’s words even a decade later. His proclamation that there would be no bedding, for he did not think it right to break a man’s jaw on his wedding day. But Jon has no such qualms, and you are not Lady Catelyn. He shoves men aside, elbows, trips, punches, throws them away from you, his knuckles bloody when he breaks through the circle of lechers and grabs you. You, who fights like a lioness, your claws bloodied as well.

You startle, ready to claw his eyes out, then recognize and cling to him, yelping when he throws you over his shoulder and continues on. The two of you leaving the noblemen to fight amongst themselves, unsure of who hit who, blaming old rivals and new enemies.

Jon has done this twice before, glad of his strength that allows him to swiftly take you away from danger. Though he laments the fact that his blood will stain your gown and skin, his busted knuckles dripping red onto the marble floors. He makes it to the nearest opening, a balcony overlooking Lannisport, and sets you down gently, in the corner, the climbing ivy shielding you and him from the doors. It is quiet now, the roar of the crowd muffled, the bright candlelight dimmed, the wind cool as it tumbles down the Rock and onto the city below. “Are you hurt?”

You look down at your gown, pure white painstakingly embroidered by Sansa and Myrcella with threads of gold and precious gems. It is torn, dirtied, stained with drops of his blood and the blood of others, and your hair has fallen from its intricate updo, gathering about your shoulders. “No, but my gown is ruined.” You say in a small voice, clutching your skirts tearfully.

Jon gathers you in his arms, resting his forehead against yours. “You still look beautiful. The most beautiful bride in the Seven Kingdoms.”

You release a shaky breath and smooth your hands down his arms, leaving small streaks of red. You must have gotten a few good scratches in as you defended yourself. “My father invited the fucking dragon queen to our wedding.”

His mind stalls, akin to a wheelhouse stuck in mud, then it lurches forward free of the muck. “Has he gone mad?”

You shrug, still dragging your hands up and down his arms, a soothing gesture he believes is more for you than him. “Perhaps.”

“He cannot think to overthrow the king here, The Rock is all but impenetrable, and will not fall to dragonflame.” Jon’s fingers splay across your back, and he shakes his head. “We swore an oath to the king.”

He feels your head raise, your lips brushing against his own as you speak. “You swore an oath to me, a stronger one, as I did to you. That is the only one that matters.”

There is an ache in his gut, an unease crawling up into his chest and making a home. “I have already broken my oath to the crown two times over…”

You nod, your hands on his back now, one moving up to tangle in his hair, resting at the nape of his neck. “They were not fit to rule, you did what was necessary for the realm.” Your voice is soft, barely above a whisper.

“You would ask me to break my oath again?” He asks, his nose bumping against yours, your eyes a dark forest green in the shadows of the night.

“I…” The word is tinged with uncertainty, and he silences you with a kiss.

You lean into his touch, tightening your grip on him, nails scraping against his scalp as you pull him closer. Your body melds to his, soft and yielding, the taste of honey and cinnamon on your lips—from the cake made specifically for the wedding—your breath warm against his, mingling, the feel of you, the taste of you intoxicating beyond all measure.

“How many kings must I fight against to have you?” Jon breathes, trailing his hands down your sides, fingertips finding where parts of the fabric has been ripped away, exposing your skin to the night air.

“You already have me.” You say, shivering when his hands ghost over your hips, your breath catching in your throat when he slowly lowers himself to the ground kneeling before you.

Jon looks up at you, and swears he can feel his pupils expanding, desperate to take in as much of the sight before him as he can. Bathed in moonlight you are a goddess, and when he rucks up your skirts and presses his lips to your core, his tongue desperate and eager, the sound you make is truly divine. Jon wants to hear it again, needs to hear it again, so he pulls your small clothes to the side, and feasts, your skirts draped around him, hiding him from the world. His hands grip your thighs, easing them apart, and when your hips shift, he realizes you have leaned back and gripped the stone railing, opening yourself further to him.

“How many kings must I fight to keep you, then?” He asks, cock beginning to stir as he rolls his tongue over your bud, parting with you only momentarily to nip at your thigh, marking you as his own.

“Jon, oh gods, please.” You beg quietly, the skirts on his right side bunching up from where you have gripped them.

He lazily laps at your core, nose pressed against your bud, smirking when your breathing picks up. “I do not know that number.”

You let out a flustered, strangled sound, but rock your hips against him. “You have me, you may keep me, even if you do not fight another king.”

“Is that so?” He hums, watching as your thighs clench in response to the vibrations.

“Do not tease, Husband.” You whine, sounding so desperate that he debates giving up his line of playful questioning.

“How can I deny My Lady Wife anything she desires?” Jon eases a digit in careful as he knows you are still a maiden, and he never wishes to hurt you.

You tense for a moment, and he freezes. Then light floods in, and he finds himself looking up at you. You hold out your free hand to him, and he takes it, intertwining your fingers, chuckling softly when you throw your skirts back over him.

Jon curls his finger experimentally, biting back a groan when a small moan slips past your lips. He adds another, his thumb circling your bud slowly, waiting to hear or see any signs of discomfort.

“Jon…” You gasp, and he hears the diamonds on your sleeves clatter against the railing, your core pulsing around him. “More.”

He curls his fingers, searching for that sensitive spot within you, his lips attaching to your bud, tracing nonsensical shapes as his fingers coax you closer and closer to the edge.

Moans spill from your lips like music, and he cannot help but echo them, tongue joining his fingers in their devouring of you, mouthing at you like a man starved. Finally, he rips your small clothes free, slipping them in his pocket, to allow himself the use of both hands.

Jon shoves your thighs apart, offering a silent apology as his beard scratches against the sensitive flesh of them, too enraptured by the taste of you, divine and delightful, just as you are. His cock aches, straining against his breeches, desire driving him mad.

Your high comes abruptly, and his eyes nearly roll back into his head at the way you drip around him. Your arousal running down his hand, mixing with the blood still sluggishly flowing from his broken skin.

You pull him up and grab at his breeches, freeing his cock from the restricting fabric, as you whine, “now, Jon, I need you now.”

He leans forward, gripping the railing, forcing his lust back, attempting to regain any semblance of control. “Y/N, we should go to our chambers, anyone could come upon us.”

“I cannot wait any longer.” You grip him tightly, thumb grazing the head of his cock as you pout up at him, lightning shooting through his body, your touch burning to the point of pleasure pain. “Please, Jon?”

He backs you up against the railing, swearing under his breath, and pushes in, head falling forward as he is engulfed in your walls.

You make a stifled pained sound, and he curses himself, raising his head to press chaste kisses to the plains of your face. His hand moves between your bodies to your bud, stroking you softly as he waits for you to adjust.

“Breathe y/n, breathe.” He urges, his free hand leaving the railing to brush the hair back from your face, his thumb smoothing along the apples of your cheek.

You take a deep breath, then another, and he feels your muscles relax, but your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, and your eyes will not meet his.

Jon presses a kiss to your temple and pulls out slowly before tucking himself back into his breeches.

You blink at him, a frown marring your perfect face. “Jon?”

He cannot do it, he will not take you here, in the open air where he cannot calm you properly. “I will not risk us being caught.” He takes your hand in his and presses it to his lips. “We have a fine bedchamber awaiting us, let us make use of it.”

Jon should feel bad, he knows he should, sneaking you past all the guests, your family, his family, the servants. All while he salivates like a hound over the thought of you bare before him on the silk sheets of your shared bed.

It is not right to take you like this, spread out, his body above yours, your gown, his clothing discarded, the windows open so that all can hear. You are a lady, his lady, his Lady Wife, he should act with decorum and honor, but it is so very difficult when you beg and praise so perfectly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, how—gods, how are you so good at this?” Your breasts are heaving with each breath, your words broken up by moans.

Jon chuckles, tweaking your nipples, ravishing your throat with his teeth and tongue, his cock driving you higher and higher, his hand in your hair, keeping you from turning you head and hiding from his gaze. “I dreamt of this, of you, I practiced many times in my dreams.”

Your back arches and your core pulses around him, liquid fire filling his veins.

“My starlight.” He coos, his free hand groping your perfect breasts, groaning at the feel of your soft skin. “My wife, how beautiful you are.”

“Jon, oh gods, I do not underst—” Your words are cut off by a desperate moan, your emerald eyes glazed over with lust, your pretty lips parted as you frantically take in air.

“Trust me, I have got you. You need only enjoy, can you do that for me?” Jon asks, caressing the curve of your cheek, admiring the way the candlelight plays across your skin. He has claimed many of your firsts, and he intends to be the last to do so.

“Yes, yes, I can, I can.” You say, and he bites back a groan at the way you look up at him, so trusting and eager.

“Good girl.” He praises, brushing a kiss to the corner of your lips as he thrusts into you, harder, faster, finding that spot within you that makes you sing and focusing there.

You whimper in response, squirming in his hold, hips rolling to meet his incoming thrusts, warm walls clenched around him, making him lightheaded.

“Jon, Jon, Jon, please, please do not stop.” You beg, nails digging into his shoulders, your eyes screwed shut.

“Never.” He promises, releasing his grip on your hair to trail his fingers down your bare body until he comes upon your bud, setting a cruel rhythm that makes your body tremble, cries of his name growing louder and louder.

He wants the whole of The Rock to hear you, to know you are his, to keep their filthy hands off you.

“Swear it to me, swear you will never let anyone separate us.” You say desperately, your eyes open now, pupils blown wide, but there is a clarity within them.

This has been your fear since King Stannis took the throne, one he has not been able to banish from your mind. “I would fight the gods old and new to stay by your side, none shall tear us asunder, I swear to you.”

“So would I, Jon, I love you, I love you.” You say, pulling him closer to you, smashing your lips to his hungrily as if you cannot get enough of him.

“And I love you.” He whispers, nipping at your earlobe, liquid lust and pure unfiltered adoration raging in his veins.

Jon TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo, @legolastheleafyelf, @faerie-film, @wifiatthetrainstation, @duskypinki, @tartine-de-pain, @rebeccawinters, @taylorsfemalerage, @rax-raxus, @certainwonderlandperfection, @nymeriiiia, @burkgolden, @drewsivy

[arisu-artnfics]

“A trip to Paris” 7

Notes: 

Chapter: 7/12 Previous Next (First). Versión en Español

Also on:     A03 || FF || DeviantArt || Facebook

Chapter 7: “And they talked”  

“Think it’s an akuma?” Sam asked, getting ready to jump into action.

“Could be...” Danny knew that if it was an akuma, he would be allowed to use his powers, but that didn’t mean he was going to transform out in the open. They needed to gather more information before doing something irrational like that. Even if it did seem obvious that the pigeons were the result of one. “Let’s get a closer look.”

They followed the lead of a few fans, hiding behind a nearby bush to watch the birds perform their strangely coordinated aerial manoeuvres. 

After a minute or two, a weird looking man with an even weirder looking whistle–if it had a specific name, they didn’t know it– appeared, flying on top of a ‘plane’ made of pigeons. That was definitely the strangest thing that they had ever seen, and they were from Amity Park! They were used to ghosts attacking the city almost daily, but this had Team Phantom feeling befuddled in a way that they hadn’t been in a long time. 

Danny was just thinking about how he would even start to handle a situation like this, even with his powers, and that he would take ghosts over this any day, when Ladybug and Chat Noir appeared. 

“Wow! They really do look like the statue… but, you know, with colours…” said Jazz, a bit surprised at how well the sculptor had captured the likenesses of the two new heroes.

“Yeah, they do!” said Danny, also recognizing them from the very statue that stood not too far from where they were right now. He pushed aside a branch to get a better look. “Man, I can’t even tell what they’re saying!”

“Oh, right!” said Sam, smacking a hand to her forehead. “You can’t speak French!” Between the three of them, she was the only one who had a chance at understanding what the villain, if they could even call him that, and heroes were saying. 

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Jazz lamented. It was such an obvious thing to overlook! Unless the heroes started speaking English for some reason, they weren’t going to understand a word they said. She mentally crossed ‘become international spies’ off her list of things to do in Paris.

Danny looked around. “Why does everyone else seem to be, like… bored about all this?” he wondered. At least in Amity Park, people actually hid when there was an attack. 

“I don’t know…” said Sam. She had also noticed that most of the fans were just sheltering under park benches to avoid pigeon poop rather than truly hiding, as anyone who looked could easily see them.

“Yeah, it’s… odd,” added Jazz. She was used to people running and screaming as they ducked for cover, dodging ectoblasts and whatever the ghost-of-the-day’s weapon of choice happened to be.

A shout from the heroes drew their attention back to the fight. “Lucky Charm!” called the one they now knew was Ladybug. It was the only English they had heard so far. 

Even though the battle was a fair distance from their hiding place, they could still hear the heroes very clearly. Although that Charm, power, thing was the only thing they had understood so far. At least until Chat Noir screamed “Cataclysm,” or that’s what it sounded like he said, destroying the weird-looking whistle. From the ashes in his hand fluttered a black tinted butterfly. 

Now Danny was very confused. After listening to Marinette and her family explain akumas, he had been pretty sure he knew what to expect, but that hadn’t been anything like what he had imagined. 

As they watched, Ladybug expertly snatched the butterfly from the air with her yo-yo. When she released it again, seconds later, it was as white as new-fallen snow. “Bye bye…” she whispered as it flew away. Then the battle was finished with the cry of “Miraculous Ladybug!” and that same incredible magic that they had seen once before swept over them, cleaning up all the pigeon poop and putting everything back to normal.       

“Okay… please tell me I’m not the only one who didn’t think that’s what an akuma was… right?” asked Danny, voicing his thoughts. “I mean, Marinette said that they were kind of like possessed people… So, like, what just happened?” 

“No idea… no idea… ” murmured Jazz, just as lost as her brother.

“Maybe,” said Sam, “maybe they were possessed by the butterfly…”

“Oh, Ancients! They’re getting away!” said Danny, pointing out the retreating figures of the Parisian heroes as they bounded across the rooftops.

“And everyone’s just going back to what they were doing, as if there wasn’t a superpowered pigeon invasion less than five minutes ago…” Sam added.

“Even the photographer is back at his set,” said Jazz, nodding her head in that direction. “If you can call a fountain and some extra lights a ‘set’”

“It didn’t seem like a very dangerous akuma villain guy,” Danny commented. “Just based on how everyone was acting.”

“Maybe he’s like their version of the Box Ghost,” Sam suggested with a shrug.

“We should probably take their cue and get back to what we were doing too,” Jazz suggested.

As the trio from Amity Park started making their way back to the hotel once again, they nearly collided with another teen that was going in the opposite direction.

“Oops!” said the girl they recognized as Marinette’s friend. Followed by what they assumed was an apology.

“It’s all right,” said Jazz without a second thought, even though she didn’t understand her. She had been the one that was almost run over by Marinette’s friend, much the same way as she had almost been crashed into by Marinette herself not that long ago.  

“Oh, you speak English!” the girl sounded surprised.

Yeah… ” Jazz replied, a little confused. Surely English wasn’t that out of the ordinary, they were pretty close to a big, famous hotel, after all. And some of the locals in the area had spoken English with them already. 

“Sorry about that,” she said, in English this time. “I was looking for my friend instead of watching where I was going. That girl pulled another one of her famous vanishing acts on me.” She shook her head fondly.

“No worries,” Sam said. “We know someone who’s like that, too.” At this she gave Danny a teasing look.

“I suppose there has to be one in every group,” the girl said with a laugh. Then, with a snap of her fingers, she switched to reporter mode. “So, if you guys don’t mind my asking, how long have you been visiting Paris? Did you see the akuma just now? Would you mind being interviewed for my blog?” she asked very enthusiastically, raising her camera phone to the trio of Americans. 

“Umm… ” Danny hummed noncommittally while gently pushing the camera away, kindly rejecting the offer.

“Oh, uh… Sorry,” the girl apologised again, realising that she was probably invading their personal space. “I got a little carried away there for a moment, Marinette says I have a bad habit of doing that. Let me introduce myself, I’m Alya. I run the ‘Ladyblog,’ Paris’s number one source about akumas and heroes, if I do say so myself.” She stepped back to a more socially acceptable distance and showed them her blog, pulled up on her phone in English. She had correctly assumed that their French was lacking. 

After a couple of seconds while they looked through her blog, she asked, “So… Could I get an interview? Or at least a statement? It’s always so interesting to hear what people think of their first akuma.” 

“That’s… wow!” said Jazz, after checking as much as she could without reading ahead of Sam and Danny. They had checked out the Ladyblog before, on Marinette’s suggestion, but to meet the girl who ran it, and to see how much effort and enthusiasm went into it firsthand? That was something else.

“So, how did all this,” Sam made a sweeping gesture toward where the pigeon battle took place, “start?” she asked. She knew firsthand what caused the ghosts to start appearing in Amity, but the situation in Paris was a complete mystery for them.

“You mean the akumas? Or the heroes?” asked Alya, for clarification. As if she wouldn’t tell them the entire history of Ladybug and Cat Noir and their battle against the forces of evil at the drop of a hat. 

“Both,” Danny replied, now curious. Aside from the akumas, Paris seemed like an average big city.

“Right,” said Alya, settling into her role as storyteller, “Actually, they both appeared at the same time– well, same day. The akumas were first though. You see, at the beginning of the school year– I remember it well because it was my first day at a new school, and, well, everyone was in class when it all went down…” she began. 

“Wait,” Sam interrupted. “It happened at your school?” She had thought the girl only knew all this stuff because she was obsessed with the allure of heroism, at least, that’s how it looked on the blog. She was pleasantly surprised to find that they had met someone who had been there since the beginning and not just someone repeating the story for clout and attention.  

“Well, yeah… in a way… I mean, part of it did– Oh, thank you,” she interrupted herself when Jazz handed back her phone. She pocketed it and then continued her story, “Now, where was I?”

“You were telling us about your first day of school here… what happened next? When did the akumas show up?” asked Jazz, already opening up her Notebook to write things down. She wasn’t one to miss a valuable learning opportunity, after all. She knew enough to realise that this whole akuma business had to be a recent thing. Maybe New York had its heroes and villains, but not Paris, at least not until recently.

“Well…” said Alya, thinking back on that day. “Like I said, one moment we were in class, just before lunch break if I am not mistaken– we were just a couple of hours in, you know– and then out of nowhere, one of the other students was a huge rock-like creature!”

“Woah! So one of your classmates just, like, transformed into a rock monster right in the middle of school!” Danny said. “That must have been wild to see!” 

“Well, I didn’t actually see him get akumatized…” Alya corrected him.

“Wait, then how could you tell who it was?” asked Danny. He was a little surprised at that, since nobody has figured out his identity yet and not nearly that fast, not even the ghosts. And he’d transformed in the middle of the school!

“Oh, no, no, no… I learned that after…” Alya shook her head, “Anyway, as I was saying—” 

“Hey, Alya!” a familiar French voice interrupted her, “I’m sorry for disappearing like that!” 

Alya turned around to see her best friend running over to join them “Oh! Hey Marinette! I thought that you were back in the bakery…” she replied, speaking French as well.

“Hello Marinette,” Jazz greeted their new friend with a wave. She spoke English rather than butchering the French language more than she had to.

“Oh! Hi guys!” said Marinette, switching to English when she realised just who Alya was talking to. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there…” She rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly.

“We aren’t invisible, right?” whispered Danny, looking himself and his companions over, just to be sure that they were actually visible.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. What did you just say?” asked Alya, switching back to English as well. 

“Nothing! Nothing.” said Danny, waving his hand dismissively. He didn’t think that anyone except his friends would hear him. Obviously he was wrong, but at least they didn’t understand his whispering.

“Okay…?” said Alya, a bit doubtful, but let it go as it didn’t seem important.

“I’m really sorry you guys, it was rude of us to speak in French in front of you. I didn’t mean to make you feel left out,” Marinette apologised. “I just didn’t expect for you to be talking with Alya… I didn’t realise you knew each other…” She let her sentence trail, an unspoken question in her tone.

“Oh! We don’t… Not really,” Alya explained.

“What? Then what… What were you guys talking about?“ Her eyes lit up in horror, “Oh no! I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important! Did I?” She felt a bit bad for that, she had thought that maybe Alya had already met them but forgot to mention. 

“Oh, no, nothing like that! I almost ran into…” Alya paused, realising that she didn’t know what to call any of them. She turned to the taller girl, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“No worries, I’m Jazz,” she replied with a smile. They had skipped the second half of introductions and jumped straight into interviewing each other, but social conventions were never her family’s strong suit anyway.

“Nice to meet you.” She turned back to Marinette. “I almost ran into Jazz here and, well, noticed that they seemed to be watching the fight, and, well, you know me…” Alya shrugged, she knew Marinette would get exactly what she meant. 

“You just asked them for an interview, didn’t you?” Marinette said, blinking at her friend, unimpressed by her antics.

“Actually, we asked her. She was telling us about what happened in Paris the day the heroes and akumas showed up,” said Sam. She was getting the feeling that they weren’t going to get answers anytime soon. Especially if they kept getting distracted. 

“Oh yeah!” Alya exclaimed, remembering what they were talking about just before Marinette got back. 

In that moment a bright flash of light caught their attention and everyone turned to see what it was. That’s when they all remembered that Adrien was supposed to be having a photoshoot right now. And so he was. Adrien had returned to the park as well and was doing what he did best, being a model. He had been working the whole time they had been talking and the flash was from the photographer taking pictures. 

Sam scoffed and rolled her eyes, unimpressed. He was probably some rich kid whose parents had paid for him to be a model or something.

“Adrien…” Marinette sighed, a bit too dreamily and loud enough for the rest of the group to hear her. That caused some soft laughing from her companions, and Marinette’s mouth clicked shut in embarrassment.

“Sorry,” said Danny apologetically. He had noticed the discomfort coming from his new friend and didn’t want to hurt her feelings or anything like that. 

“Ohhhh!” Marinette lamented, covering her face with her hands. No matter how many times she embarrassed herself, it was never a good feeling.  

“Sorry,” Sam and Jazz echoed Danny’s apology, realising that it hadn’t been very nice of any of them.

“Don’t worry,” said Alya, calming her friend with a hand on her shoulder. “That’s Marinette for you… and that’s Adrien, the teen model of our class.” She nodded toward the photoshoot, confirming the information that they thought they had. 

“He’s in your class…??” asked Danny. He was a bit surprised because he thought that models would need to be privately tutored or something like that so they could learn around their work schedules.

“He is,” Alya confirmed. “And he’s a literal ray of sunshine. Nothing like you would assume from a teen model, honest!” She herself had judged him harshly when they first met and she didn’t want these people to do that too. 

“Sunshine?” asked Jazz. She had never thought of anyone like that before, not even when she was their age. Of course, she had always been mature for her age, so maybe she had just skipped over that developmental phase. 

“That’s our secret nickname for him, to be honest. He is the nicest person that I know,” said Alya, glad that she had gotten to know him better.

“Oh, he is even better than that…” Marinette gushed. “He isn’t just a model, he does fencing, plays piano, speaks English as well as Chinese and a few other languages that he has learned over the years,” she explained, listing off all his talents by heart, counting them out on her fingers.  

“He was homeschooled until this year. Nobody knows how he managed to enrol himself without his dad knowing, but he did. Although that probably is explained by the fact that he was friends with Chloe…” said Alya thoughtfully. It was a bit sad, to be honest, that he only knew friendship in the form of Chloe. 

“Chloe…” growled Marinette. Just thinking about her bully annoyed her. 

“Who’s that? Judging by your reaction, she doesn’t sound like a very nice person,” said Sam. She had a feeling that she knew where this was going, and hoped that she wasn't like Paulina back home.

“Oh, you know… just the Mayor’s daughter, the brat that nobody likes… except maybe Adrien, but that’s because he didn’t have any friends until we arrived in his life,” said Alya matter-of-factly with a small eye roll. 

“Wow, that’s terrible!” said Danny. He couldn’t imagine his life without his friends. Well, he did have an idea, a terrible idea, of what would have happened if he had never met Sam.

“Yeah, you can say that again! He was terrible at making friends at first” said Alya, as a matter of fact once again.

“I did judge him bad as well…” Marinette admitted with more than a little regret for that day, well, that morning. Once she understood him better, she realised that she had been in the wrong and tried to apologise. Although it didn’t quite go to plan as he apologised to her instead, and she fell head over heels in love with him. Something she was still trying to confess to him.

“So… you are all friends now?” Jazz asked curiously. She thought that’s what they were saying, but wanted to make sure. 

“Well, yeah, of course we are! I’m actually dating his best friend, and this clumsy girl here is my BFF, so that makes them friends automatically. Although I bet they would be friends even if that wasn’t the case…” said Alya with a wink at Marinette. She knew that they wouldn’t be friends, but a couple as that’s what the other girl had been working toward for so long now.

“Uh, Right…” said Danny uncertainly as he processed the information.

“So… ” said Marinette, trying to change the topic. “What have you visited since I saw you? You guys said last time that you are here for two weeks, right?”

“Oh, yeah. Danny here needed a holiday and so his family decided to travel all the way to the other side of the world,” said Sam. While that was true, if they had been anybody else, they would have just gone to another state or something. 

“Oh! That’s a bit far for just a holiday…” said Alya. She didn’t doubt their claim, that they were from the US was obvious, or at least she assumed that’s where they were from since they didn’t have the British accent to be from England. She wondered what had brought them this far. 

“Well, let’s just say that if you ever visited Amity Park, then you would understand why it’s necessary…” said Sam. She knew that they were right, it was far, but living over there was full of surprises. And, sure, they could have gone somewhere closer… but, well, with Danny and his powers, they couldn’t risk it.

“Wait… Amity Park?? Like where the ghostly hero is from?? Danny Phantom?? Did you guys know him??” asked Alya, with eyes big and full of surprise. She never thought that she would meet people from there, and so soon after his debut. She had been thinking of ways to conveniently make her way to that small American town, just so she could meet him too. 

“Oh, uh, well…” Danny stammered, caught off guard by the sudden barrage of questions about, well, himself. He hadn’t expected to find a fan of his ghostly alter ego all the way in Paris and he wasn’t in the mood for that kind of interview. He was on vacation after all.

“Alya!” chided Marinette. She didn’t want to annoy her new friends, even if she would only see them whenever they went to the bakery or if they were around the area like today.

“Sorry,” Alya apologised, hand coming up to rub the back of her neck. “It’s just that while akumas and the heroes here are cool… I always thought all heroes are amazing! We went to New York not that long ago… and, well… IT WAS AWESOME!” The grin crept back onto her face, stretching from ear to ear.

“The heroes must have made a really good impression on you then,” said Jazz. She could understand her though. 

“She almost couldn’t believe that she was seeing her heroes over there! Even though some of them don’t have secret identities, we didn’t expect to just see them around. It’s so different over here, we don’t think that Ladybug and Chat Noir would ever share their identities,” said Marinette, remembering the time they saw that the teacher from the American school was the hero that gave her and Chat so much trouble when they had to fight against him and the rest of the American heroes under the akuma’s power.

“Yeah, and it sucks because if we knew who they were, then we could help them! Isn’t that right, Marinette?” said Alya and turned to look directly into Marinette's eyes.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” asked Danny, worried that maybe this girl was getting into trouble trying to figure out who the heroes were. He might need to be careful around her in case she started to look too closely at him.

“Nah! Ladybug would put everything back to normal,” Alya said confidently, “and that is if something happened to me at all.”

This, surprisingly, did little to calm Danny down, so Sam squeezed his hand in hers to reassure him that everything would be okay. She had taken his hand at some point during their conversation out of habit.

“Alya!” Marinette scolded. She was worried about her friend, as she knew very well that she had a terrible tendency of getting into trouble and putting herself in danger when it came to heroes.

“It’s all right Mari, I’m always keeping my distance,” Alya assured her friend. “I promised Ladybug that I’d be careful if I want to keep filming all the battles for my blog.” And, well, she doesn’t like it when an akuma gets her. 

“Wait… I thought you didn’t know who Ladybug is?” asked a very confused Danny. He had thought that they didn’t share their identities. 

“Nah! I wish, but nah. I know how important her secret identity is, you see. She has rescued me a couple of times–” 

“Yeah! Me too!” Marinette added quickly.

“Uhh… and well, once she stopped me from failing from a high place, and, well, that’s when I promised, I mean, It wasn’t my idea of being that high, but the akuma put me up there…” said Alya, as to explain the reason for her promise.

“So, are all the akumas like that pigeon man?” asked Jazz, all business, with pen and notebook in hand.

“Who? Mr. Ramier?” Alya asked, pointing back to where the attack happened to indicate who she was referring to. 

“You know who he was?” Sam was surprised, thinking about how the akuma hadn’t looked much like the man he transformed into, except a certain resemblance in the face, perhaps. 

“Welllllll… he has been an akuma victim so many times, that everyone knows him by now… I feel bad for the guy sometimes, he just wants to feed the pigeons in peace, you know?” said Alya. Most people only knew him as The Most Akumatized Man in Paris, but he was so much more than that. It was sad, if you asked her. “That reminds me, I need to update the number one more time!”

“I feel bad for him too,” Marinette added. “I wish we could do something against the ‘Papillon’ but, well, we aren’t heroes…” she giggled in a way that sounded fake, even to her own ears.

“Yeah…” said Alya, not noticing the fake laugh and continuing as if nothing had happened, “Sadly there’s not much we can do…” She pulled up her blog on her phone to update Mr. Ramier’s page.

“So you guys just, what? Sit and do nothing??” Sam asked incredulously. She was already mentally preparing a motivational speech-slash-civilian combat lesson. Even without the powers there was a bunch of stuff they could do to help, just like she and the rest of Team Phantom did on a regular basis.

“Sam…” Danny warned. They didn’t want to impose the hero life on regular teens, they got the chance to be normal, something Danny didn't have, and he didn't want to take that away from them.

After a moment of awkward silence, Jazz said, “Mmmmm… I see… That makes sense actually.” She didn’t want the Parisians to feel bad for keeping to the sidelines, in fact, sometimes she wished that she could ignore the ghost attacks too, but she wasn’t about to let her little brother fight those by himself. 

“What?” asked Marinette, startled out of her reverie. She had noticed how Sam’s hand never seemed to leave Danny’s and was a bit ashamed that she kind of forgot that Jazz was there. She had just been so quiet that she kind of disappeared. 

“Oh, no, nothing! Just, I can understand why you guys wouldn’t do something so dangerous and it’s better for you to leave it all to Ladybug and Chat Noir. The situation here is very different from what it’s like back home, in Amity Park at least people have the tools to fight back. Most people still just hide and hope for the best, of course, but ghost hunting gear is becoming a lot more common over there, and over here you don’t have that available. From what I gather, especially after reading your blog, I can see that each akuma victim is very different from the others, with unique abilities, and therefore it would be hard to predict any efficient system to fight them. That makes it more difficult for civilians to help, and any that tried would just be put in harm’s way, making things more complicated for the heroes.” Jazz explained. 

Everyone just blinked at her a couple of times, their expressions blank.

Danny and Sam recovered from the impromptu lecture first, fairly used to this sort of thing from Jazz. And while they knew what she was saying, having experienced both ghosts and akumas, or rather, one akuma and hearing the explosions from a second, it looked like the Parisians were struggling to make the comparison. While the kids from Amity Park didn’t have that much to compare to, it seemed like it was more than enough for Jazz to make a connection. It was very clear that ghosts and akumas weren’t the same, but the concept was the same: if something supernatural starts attacking the city, take cover.   

“I guess you are right,” said Marinette, who was the first one to break the silence.

“I suppose you guys are really used to hiding as well, right?” said Alya, understanding what the other teen meant.

“In a way, yeah…” said Sam. Even though they didn’t really hide, but fought. It was just that neither Marinette or Alya needed to know about that.

“Yep!” Danny added with a tight smile and awkward thumbs up, hiding the fact that he was the one who fought the ghosts most of the time. When he ran, it was towards the danger.

“Yeah…” said Marinette, “if we don’t get trapped… or something, I think hiding is the best we can do. I mean, what else is there to do, right?” she continued with a small laugh. It wasn’t even that funny, but she was just glad that it didn’t sound as fake as before. 

“Unfortunately that’s true,” Alya concluded. If things got really dangerous, she tried to take shelter, she needed to be okay to film, after all. 

The conversation lapsed between the teens once again. They hadn’t made it very far from where they started, still standing in the middle of the park between the bench and the fountain. They shuffled their feet awkwardly, unsure of what to say next, unaware that another teen was heading their way. 

With Mr. Pigeon stopped once again, Adrien returned to the park, and, unfortunately, to his photoshoot. Just when he thought that for once, he might get an afternoon off, too. 

His father had told him that after the shoot today, he was free to do as he pleased, so long as he had all his homework done. With that promise in mind, Adrien had rushed home after school and started his homework as soon as possible, finishing just before his bodyguard picked him up for the shoot.

If only the rest of the afternoon had gone so smoothly. 

After they got to the park, they discovered that news of today’s photoshoot location had been leaked and they were swarmed with adoring fans. Normally, he didn’t mind his fans, but they did slow down the photoshoot and today he had been hoping for a short session. He briefly thought about asking the photographer if they could move to a new location, but when he saw his friends, Alya and Marinette, in the crowd, he changed his mind. He knew Marinette wanted to be a fashion designer and how much she loved seeing how things worked behind the scenes. So he forgot his annoyance and set to work as peacefully as he could with an audience.

All that changed when, once again, Mr. Ramier was akumatized into Mr. Pigeon. Adrien used the chaos caused by the fans running for cover from pigeon droppings as an opportunity to escape to a nearby alleyway and transform into Chat Noir. He returned to the park just in time to meet Ladybug. Luckily, he had already been there for the photoshoot, but she had arrived on the scene in remarkably good time. His Lady was just amazing like that. Together they kicked bird butt, just like always, and far too soon Adrien was back at work.

Thankfully some of the fans went home after the akuma attack and he was able to finish his shoot without further trouble. Now that it was over, he decided to find where Marinette and Alya went so he could say ‘hi’ to them, as spending any time with any of his friends was great in his book. Eventually, he spotted them talking with three people he didn’t recognize. Adrien thought it would be a good opportunity to meet some new people, he just hoped that they weren’t fans. He wasn’t willing to deal with that any more today.

Adrien greeted the group in French as he hadn't heard them talking in English.

Everyone jumped in surprise at his seemingly sudden appearance. One of them may have even jumped a bit higher, stayed in the air a fraction of a second longer than normal, but if he had, no one noticed.

Marinette stuttered out a hello, going between French and English, eventually settling on an awkward wave and a nervous smile. 

“They are from Amity Park. You know… America…” Alya said in English as an explanation for Marinette's language mix up.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” said Adrien, switching to English as well, “I saw Marinette and Alya over here and thought I could come say hi… I didn’t realise…” he trailed off, scratching the back of his head. “So what are you all doing over here?” he asked, full of curiosity. He hoped whoever said that curiosity killed the cat was wrong, because he was certainly very curious, and he wasn’t ready to die quite yet. He wondered if these Americans were in trouble, maybe he could help!

“Don’t worry, Marinette over here did the same earlier, when… Alya, was it?” asked Sam. She didn’t have anything against the girl, but she had launched straight into her interview spiel and her introduction had been practically buried by questions. So forgive her for forgetting the other girl’s name, jeez. And really, they should be the ones asking the questions. They needed to find out what was going on in Paris, without Danny having to play superspy.

“Yes, that’s me!” Alya replied. She suddenly remembered just what Marinette had interrupted, “Oh, right!” She was supposed to be asking them questions, or, well, getting answers to the questions, for her blog.

“What?” asked Adrien, lost in the conversation.

“Alya was, uh, about to… interview us about the akuma attack, though I think she changed her questions when she learned that we are from Amity Park… but we distracted her by asking about Paris.” explained Sam. They were in a distraction within a distraction within a distraction, a babushka doll of distractions and she was getting tired of all this. They were supposed to be going back to the hotel to plan for their outing with Tucker.

“Alya!” scolded Marinette. She had already half-forgotten that’s what she had returned to after fighting Mr. Pigeon once again.

“Hey, I’m sorry, okay! I noticed them on my way to your home, and obviously thought that they were witnesses of the akuma, even though it was just Mr. Pigeon,” Alya defended herself. So maybe she didn’t notice them, exactly, but she would prefer to keep that for herself. 

“Don’t remind me!” Adrien groaned, drawing their attention. “I hate when it’s him! Uh, because…his birds make my allergies act up.” he added as an afterthought to distract them from why he was really upset. He almost mentioned how tiresome it can be fighting the same person that many times. 

“Right… Mr. Sunshine here is allergic to feathers. Actually, I don’t remember seeing you and all your sneezing during the attack, where did you go anyway?” asked Alya. 

“Oh, wellll… you know… further…?” the words came out more like a question than a statement. He couldn’t tell the truth after all. 

“You mean back to your car, didn’t you?” Alya teased, with a smile on her face.

“Heh… you got me…” said Adrien, rubbing the back of his neck in a way he hoped made it look like he was embarrassed rather than lying. It wasn’t like he could just say he ran to an alleyway to transform into a superhero, after all.

“I thought ‘Sunshine’ was a secret nickname,” Danny whispered to Jazz and Sam, who only nodded.  

“Anyway, now that the introductions are all done, we should probably go somewhere else and do that interview… You guys are still up to one, right?” said Alya, as if they had said yes from the start and just now they remembered that they were doing one.

Danny shrugged. “I don’t see why not, but I don’t think we have that much to talk about, do we?” He was used to interviews as Phantom, so he was sure whatever Alya wanted wasn't going to be a problem. He just wasn't sure what to say as Fenton, and nothing else. 

“Of course, anything you have to say would help! You guys aren’t from here, that gives me an outside perspective, just like…” Alya gestured to the girl with red hair, trailing off as the name escaped her. Just before the girl could say her name again, it came back to her. “Jazz!” Alya exclaimed, “Just like Jazz said. Sorry, my mind went blank for a second there.”

“It’s okay. Like I said before, I’m Jazz, and these two are my little brother Danny and his girlfriend Sam,” she reintroduced their group for Alya’s and Adrien’s benefit, since Danny and Sam hadn’t given their names earlier and Adrien had joined them later. 

“Some reporter I am,” Alya said with a wry smile, “I completely forgot to ask for all of your names! Well, it’s nice to meet you all, officially.” It was always good and fun to meet new people.

“Nice to meet you all, I’m Adrien by the way,” said Adrien, “Adrien Agreste. I wish I could say something for your blog Alya, but I couldn’t really see much from the car, you know?” he shrugged apologetically. 

“Nice to meet you, too,” Danny, Sam, and Jazz chorused, although they already knew his name thanks to Marinette and Alya.

“Don’t worry Adrien, Danny, Sam and Jazz can help me enough for today,” Alya said while opening her blog on her phone and editing an entry. She had been half doing that the whole time. 

“Wait Alya, you are writing the article now?” asked Marinette. She knew that Alya normally used her laptop to edit her interviews for the ‘Ladyblog’ before posting them.

“Nah, I’m just updating the akumatization number for poor Mr. Pigeon. Did you know that he has already passed the fifty times mark?” she asked casually after checking the post on her blog.  

“WHAT?” they all cried in surprise. Even though Marinette and Adrien knew that it was a possibility, it was still a lot for one person in that short of a time. 

“Well, yeah… he is actually closer to sixty than fifty, to be honest,” replied Alya, as she read what her blog post said. She had long since asked their friend Max to help her set up a program that automatically updated the number of times the same person had been an akuma. It was a great way to get better statistics to possibly see if there was a pattern, and also because people were just curious.   

“Wow! And I felt bad for the guy before,” Sam exclaimed. “You guys said that he mostly just wanted to feed the pigeons in peace, right? What’s so bad about that?” 

“Well, it’s not exactly legal…” Marinette explained, remembering that he had been banned from several parks for it. “I think it’s because it attracts more birds than usual and makes them poop more than normal, considering that most of the time he gets scolded for making a big mess in so many public areas…” 

“Yeah, I think he was even banned from most parks… if not all,” said Adrien, as if he was reading Marinette's mind. 

“Wow…” said Jazz. She thought that was a bit harsh. 

“That bad, huh? Who would have thought,” said Sam, seeing what they were saying. 

“So different from ghosts that’s for sure,” commented Danny. As far as he knew, nobody in Amity Park has been banned from anywhere just because that would bring ghosts or something like that. 

“What do you mean?” asked Alya. 

“Oh, well, I guess, that while ghosts just kind of… appear and do whatever they want, including just fight m– Phantom…” Danny said, quickly correcting himself before he said too much. “Well, here you still have a lot of rules, right?” 

“Danny, Amity still has rules and stuff. Just because they get ignored most of the time doesn’t mean that they don’t exist,” said Sam. She was well aware that they may have broken more than their fair share, especially the ones that say ‘don’t fight the ghosts, report all sightings to local authorities.’    

“Oh! right…” Danny rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, reconsidering what he just said.  

“Okay, I definitely need to know more about what it’s like living with the ghosts! You never said… Do you guys know the ghostly hero? Does he really look like that? Like a teen?” Alya asked in a rush, her curiosity getting the better of her. She just thought it was very interesting, is all. 

Danny shrugged, “I mean, we’ve all seen him at least once… Ghosts like to attack our school for no reason,” he said. ‘Other than fight me,’ he didn’t. “So yeah, I think he really does look like that. Uh, assuming you mean the statue, right?” he asked, once again remembering that there was a giant statue of him holding up the world somewhere in the city. 

“Yeah that.” Alya confirmed. “Have you seen it then?” It was a very curious looking statue. On the day of its inauguration she had dragged Marinette and Nino along with her, and tried to do the same with Adrien –but of course his father hadn't allowed him– to see it. That day she had also started another blog for her new hero, Danny Phantom. 

“The one that's in Amity, yes. The one here… uh, not- not yet?” said Danny. He wasn’t actually planning to go see it, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. 

“You haven’t even thought about it, have you?” asked Alya. She remembered just as Danny said it, that they do have the original statue in their hometown. 

Danny sighed, “No, not, really.” He felt like there wasn’t any use in lying about it. 

“I bet it’s the same as the one that's over there,” said Marinette. She thought coming all the way to Paris to see the same thing that’s back home didn’t sound very fun. There were plenty of things unique to Paris for them to visit already, after all.

“We had assumed so…” Danny responded with a shrug. 

“I’ve been wondering, why didn’t they just put it here in the park, with the local heroes. I doubt that they would mind sharing a space, you know?” said Adrien. He certainly didn’t mind at all. He could ask Ladybug how she felt about it later on as Chat, but he felt sure that she would be okay with it too. 

“Yeah…” said Marinette, thoughtfully. It had crossed her mind, but it’s not like she could do anything about it. Maybe the next time she saw Chat, she could talk to him about it.  

“That would be amazing!” said Alya. It would be so nice for her blog if she could take a picture of all the heroes' statues in one place, as that would be much better looking.

“I assumed they would just put it where anyone put their presents from other nations, the city hall or whatever the name is here. Sorry for that,” said Sam.

“If you mean the ‘Hôtel de Ville’ that is an excellent guess, but that isn’t where it is,” commented Alya. They had chosen an odd location to put it, but it certainly was… a location. 

“It isn’t?” asked Adrien, who hadn’t been able to see it yet either. Although if he thought about the couple of times that he’d been to the ‘Hôtel de Ville’ as Chat lately, he would have noticed that, indeed, it wasn’t there. He wished his dad had allowed him to go with Alya back when she tried to drag them to see it, but that wasn't the case. It’s almost as if his father didn’t care about the statue at all.

“Nope,” said Alya, pronouncing the ‘p’ more than necessary. “It’s in the ‘Place de la Concorde’, as having it next to the ‘Luxor Obelisk’ was necessary, for… some reason?” She couldn’t stop thinking about how odd of a choice that had been.  

Tucker had shown Team Phantom a picture of the Paris statue at one point and it did look like it was in a strange place, though it was hard to tell from the angle the photo was taken, but they didn’t know much about it until now.

“Huh, that is an odd place. I think,” said Jazz. She was the one who had looked up the different places around the city that they could go and visit, but now she may need to adjust their schedule and not go see the Obelisk. 

Everyone nodded in agreement.  

The group of teens fell silent, the flow of conversation interrupted. They looked at one another and, through a series of shrugs and gestures, all agreed that maybe it was about time to leave the park. 

They began meandering slowly in the direction of Marinette’s house, as it was the closest, and, well, it was getting late. Nobody would fault the kids from getting some sweets before continuing their conversation upstairs in the cosy living room above the bakery.   

To be continued :D :D

[gandalfsalt]

Solavellan Angst and Dido & Aeneas

Here's an "essay" (more like notes) I wrote about a year ago after finishing Trespasser, and surprisingly it holds up ok! You can watch a video essay version on my TikTok @gandalfs_alt. I think the video version is a bit more polished because I wrote it yesterday, this old one is pretty rough.

Unfortunately no citations... feels weird to post w/o citations. Future posts I think I will start citing my sources.

A great love story that I see relating to Solavellan is the story of Dido and Aeneas. This story is even older than Tristan and Isolde, dating back to ancient Rome (specifically Virgil’s The Aeneid, completed in 19 BCE, about 2000 years ago). It is widely considered the archetypal love story that symbolizes the tension between love and duty in Western literature. 

Dido was the Queen of Carthage, a city located in North Africa. In some versions she is a sorceress, and she is beloved by her people. Aeneas was a Trojan hero who escaped the fall of Troy. Aeneas and his fellow Trojans fled across the Mediterranean Sea after the fall of Troy. They landed in Carthage, and were welcomed by Dido, who offered them hospitality.

Dido and Aeneas spend a significant amount of time together, and fall deeply in love. Over time their love became increasingly intense. In some versions they marry. However, Jupiter (Zeus), the king of the gods, sends the messenger god Mercury (Hermes) to remind Aeneas of his duty to establish a new homeland in Italy (what becomes modern day Rome). After contemplating staying by Dido’s side, Aeneas feels that he must fulfill his divine mission to re-establish his homeland and he abandons Dido, departing for Italy.

Dido is devastated by Aeneas’ departure. In her anguish, Dido constructs a funeral pyre, on which she places Aeneas's belongings, including a sword he had left behind. She then took her own life by falling on the sword. Aeneas, unaware of Dido's fate, continues his journey to Italy, where he eventually fulfills his destiny and founds the city that would become Rome.

I think some of the parallels are pretty clear. A mysterious wandering hero fleeing the aftermath of a fallen civilization joins up with a group of people and falls in love with their leader. He then abandons said leader to fulfill what he believes is his divine mission, which is to re-establish what has fallen in a new place.   

There’s two ways I think this story is helpful for understanding Solas, Lavellan, or Solavellan:

It has inspired so much art, we can look at how other artists have handled this theme to get insights into the characters, learn more about them, and learn about different ways this conflict (love vs duty) can be interpreted or represented.

If this story did in fact inspire the DA:I writers, learning more about it can possibly help uncover where they may take Solavellan in DA:D (dear god, I hope they don’t go the Dido route with Lavellan, pls no 😭)

Even though Solas is a pretty clear Aeneas type, I actually see him share a lot of attributes with Dido as well. One of the most famous versions of Dido and Aeneas is an opera (yes, opera again, lol) composed by Henry Purcell in 1689. It is one of the first operas composed in English, and is pretty much considered the premiere retelling of the Dido/Aeneas story in the English language. One of the most famous pieces from the opera is Dido’s Lament, and it’s the song Dido sings after she decides she can’t live without Aeneas, and is about to, literally, fall on a sword. 

The lyrics of Dido’s lament are:

More I would, but Death invades me:

Death is now a welcome guest.

When I am laid, am laid in earth,

May my wrongs create no trouble, no

trouble in thy breast;

Remember me! Remember me! But ah!

forget my fate. 

To me, this is 100% Solas’s psychological state when he leaves Lavellan. The lament is obviously very tragic and sad, but there’s something extremely stubborn and self-centered about it. It feels like a lot of self-imposed misery. In Dido’s case, she was certainly wronged by Aeneas, she was treated very unfairly and it’s not her fault at all, but her reaction to it is very self-pitying and self-sabotaging, literally and figuratively. I got the same feelings from Solas during his final confrontation with Lavellan. 

“Death invades me, Death is now a welcome guest,” - Wait a minute, who says anyone has to die? Why is dying the only option here, Dido and Solas?

“May my wrongs create no trouble in thy breast,” - It seems like Dido and Aeneas have the option not to commit these wrongs or additional wrongs, so why act all stubborn and resigned about it? 

The “wrong” I think Dido is referencing is her impending suicide. Solas may be referencing the same thing if he knows he is going to die, but in his case destroying the world and loving then leaving Lavellan are some other wrongs. But again, based on what we know, it seems like he has the option to stay and not destroy the world a second time. So why so stubborn?

“Remember me! But forget my fate.” My dudes. It seems to us like you’re choosing this fate. And you think we can remember you and not remember how you left us? You want Aeneas/Lavellan to hold the torch, but just forget a very monumental decision you made? That’s a little delusional. This line is so simple, but it does an excellent job of underscoring the conflict between love and sense of duty. In both cases, the heroine/hero want to be remembered by the ones they love, but at the same time they don’t want their choices to impact their lovers, or their lover’s recollection of them. Which really is impossible.  

[star-farer]

lamenting the lost

Summary: Tipoca City has fallen, destroyed under the wrath of the Venators, burning where it has sunk to the unfathomable depths of Kamino’s seas. AU: Imperial Taglist: @kybercrystals94 @fionas-frenzy @padawancat97 @margindoodles2407 @dreamsight73 @comfy-vember

Comfy-vember 2024, Day 9: Scars, Day 10: Sharing a bed

The first time she wakes up in the aftermath of Tipoca City's desolation, curled in Hunter’s warm embrace, lifting dreary eyes to the rack above, she cries like a freshly decanted tubie.

Her eyes meet the small white hand imprinted on the metal first, and the memory of the arms that lifted her, strong and dear, reduces her to a sorrow she cannot describe.

He’s gone, the hole in her heart screams, a bleeding wound she knows will scar with time but never heal, He’s gone.

She tries her best not to waken the father beside her, tries to stifle her sobs into a fistful of sheets. He needs his rest. After all they've been through, all her vode need their rest.

A soft voice speaks, and a thought dulled by grief tells her she has failed. Arms draw her sweetly against her buir’s chest, she hides her wet face in the corner of his neck and shoulder.

“K’uur,” he whispers, breath rustling the locks around her ear. Even half-asleep, even mourning his own loss of a brother, he comforts her with a kind voice soothing her pain and a gentle stroke of the hand along her back.

Clinging to his side, she wonders if this is what it’s like to be shot with a blaster. This agony is unlike anything she has been subject to, and as Nala Se’s medical assistant, she has held pain’s hand like an acquaintance, if not friend.

She wonders when it will end. She wonders if it will end.

“Buir,” she breathes, sobbing quietly as she shakes in Hunter’s steady arms, “Buir.”

“I’m here, ner runi. I’m here.” His arms wrap tight around her, fingers threading into her hair, her head held against his collarbone.

But — and it breaks her heart yet another time to admit this — she isn’t calling for him. Her tears are not for the clone keeping her safely in his hold. She weeps with the knowledge of absence as keen as a vibroknife.

“Crosshair,” she chokes, her voice pitching like choppy waves, hoping he understands, praying he understands. Her throat now fails any other word that begs to be spoken, hoarse and raw with crying. If she tries, she will only sputter incoherence.

Some small, bitter, and frightened part of her expects Hunter to pull away with disappointment. To cease this kindness, this love he wraps around her gently.

To leave her.

Just like the man on the platform left her.

But he doesn’t, and it makes her weeping grow distraught with relief.

His arms wind firm around her, he draws the sheet close under her chin, his head bows so that they are tucked against each other like the pieces of puzzle.

He won’t leave her. He won’t leave her.

She presses close against him, fleeing the terrors and sorrows that plague her mind for the refuge of his beating heart. She keens like the howling wind into the bones that twine around his lungs.

She almost doesn’t hear his broken confession, so low and repentant like the rain in a thunderstorm, where it trickles thin into her ear.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, syllables fracturing with heartache, “I’m sorry.”

And those simple words, carrying the weight of a thousand suns, render her tears an immeasurable ceaseless flow. Nothing will return to its former glory. All joy, all hope, is lost with Kamino.

As she lies cradled in grief and her father’s arms, she listens to the sounds of her world being unmade.

“I’m sorry,” whispers a clone-sniper into the rain, staring at the storm-clouds that hide the starry skies, “I’m sorry.”

[gwaedhannen]

[Excerpt from Sorrow Beyond Words: Collected Testimony of the War of Wrath, 4th Edition; ed. Elrond Peredhel. Archive of Cîw Annúminas, inaugural collection]

“Simply reaching Menegroth was a struggle. Doriath had become a twisting nightmare of overgrowth and rot and mists, as Morgoth’s power warred with the remains of the Girdle and our old songs. Ai, our home, our haven! I know the name of every holly in Region, before the exile. We found deadfalls surrounded by dozens of animals who’d lain down beside the trees and rotted before they died. Blind moose more antler than flesh staggered towards us even after a dozen arrows. Vines covered in dripping thorns reached for our eyes. The cherry trees were overladen with fruits that smelled like gangrene. Deildhod stumbled into a nest of maddened vipers, and only escaped because their tails were all tangled together into a festering mass and could hardly move. We never saw or heard a single bird. I’m amazed we lost no one in that whole push through Region. No, I speak a lie. I know how we passed through with nothing worse than scrapes. Elrond was with us, and the ghost of Melian’s love still recognized her kin.

“Esgalduin had nearly been dammed by one of Hírilorn’s fallen boles, but the bridge still held. We crossed and reached the ruined gates, wrought twice and broken twice. Within there was only darkness to be seen; we knew not what manner of horrors Morgoth had sent to infest the city, but Ingwion was unwilling to leave them at the rear of his forces as he moved north, if it could be helped. Celeborn stood at Elrond’s right and myself at his left. Far less an honor guard than the heir of Elu Thingol and Melian Besain deserved. Yet in those dark days it was all the honor we could muster. King Dior Eluchíl had known thirty-six summers when he was unrighteously slain. Queen Elwing Nimaew thirty-five when despair took her to the sea. Lord Elrond Peredhel beheld the city of Elu for the first and only time in his twenty-ninth summer.

“Elrond stood before his inheritance and Sang. He sang a lament, for the lost endless years of joy and peace, for deep halls lit by birdsong and echoing with wisdom, for the Forsaken People who awoke the forest and earth with many voices, for the works of beauty never to be seen again on this side of the sea. He sang a promise, that the glory of Menegroth will be remembered in the songs of Middle-Earth for as long as its children endure. He sang thanks, for the protection the halls granted us until it could shelter us no more. As his song at last ceased, I thought I heard nightingales answering him.

“Stars shone on his brow, and his hair glistened as the vault of night, and the memories of our once-eternal bliss in the woods of Thingol’s realm under Elbereth’s gifts arose in my mind. Let Oropher dream of a deep hall for his own; let Celeborn reign where he will at his wife’s side! I knew in my heart, as the echo of nightingale songs faded, that there was no lord or king I would ever stand beside save Elrond Elwingion.

“The living stone in which our kingdom once thrived knew his voice, and at long last laid down its burden and passed. The darkness over Menegroth was lifted, and we went forth into its corpse, and no beast or orc could stand before us. I do not sing of what we found and left behind when we cast down the bridge and gave leave for the river to flood the caves. It is not worth remembering.”

[effloradox]

cornelia street; robert m. renfield.

track nine of LOVER

pairing: robert renfield x f!reader

synopsis: your soulmate’s first words to you are written on your wrist

word count: 3.2k

The modern world was confusing. Renfield had watched the world change rapidly around him during his century as Dracula’s familiar and the way humans had changed never failed to surprise him. It had made life more difficult for him, Dracula’s need for good quality blood was harder to fulfil in a world where the influence of the church was increasingly slipping and sour blood was more common than ever before. His master didn’t understand that, of course, and just berated his familiar for doing such a poor job in attending to his needs.

Finding DRAAG had been a good twist of fate. New Orleans wasn’t quite what he’d expected, slightly more lawless than he’d initially assumed, but it had plenty of derelict buildings that he could move Dracula between if they were to be discovered and people went missing frequently enough that taking victims to his master wasn't going to alert too much suspicion. The group had become something of a lifeline for him after a few weeks in the city. He’d followed Bob inside after thinking he would make a good victim, and five weeks later he was still coming to the group. Everyone was so desperately sad, and a part of Renfield had identified with their stories and that kept him coming back.

It was especially hard listening to the people who had realised they were codependent with their soulmate. To watch them lament that this was meant to be the perfect person for them and they had fallen into destructive patterns with them had hit a sore spot somewhere deep inside Renfield. He’d never met his soulmate, his marriage to his late wife had been one of convenience rather than based on a soul bond, and it didn’t mean he loved her any less but his heart had always ached that he’d probably never meet his soulmate. Him and his master had moved so frequently that he was sure his soulmate had passed him by like ships in the night, or day really since he and his master did all their travelling by night.

If his master had ever noticed him absentmindedly tracing his words, he had never commented on it. His master didn’t have any words, Renfield had checked one time when he’d been tending to his needs, and he was sure if he ever brought up being lonely his master would begin another speech about how he didn’t need a soulmate, that they had each other and that humans were beneath them. The lectures had been focused solely on bringing his master back to full power recently but they had been happening more frequently, like tonight for instance. He’d been ready to go to the DRAAG meeting when Dracula had started another lecture about having to consume sour blood again and wanting Renfield to find him some nuns to eat.

He’d arrived late to this meeting, nervously babbling out an apology to Mark and the others as he took a seat in the back circle. It had taken him a few minutes to realise that there was a new face sitting with the group. She was sitting next to Carol, and the two seemed to know each other based on how they’d moved their chairs to be closer together. They were whispering quietly to each other, not quite loud enough to be audible but enough that he knew they were doing so. He tried not to stare, but there was something about Carol’s friend that had entranced him. He began to trace his words again, a nervous habit he’d developed over the years, only stopping when he saw Mark take notice. He waited for Lawrence to finish his share before looking to Renfield.

“Renfield, do you want to share today?”

“No, I’m good I think.” Mark sighed lightly at the denial, clearly having expected it.

“You’ve been coming here for a few weeks now, and you don’t have to say anything, but you’re always welcome to share. This is a safe space for you to speak your truth.”

“I suppose so.” Mark and the rest of the group were quiet for a moment, clearly waiting for another round of pushback from Renfield but when he gave none, Mark proceeded in a gentle tone.

“Is it your soulmate?”

“No, I haven't actually met them yet.” There were a few sympathetic noises from various people sitting in the circle. If they felt bad that a man who looked to be in his thirties hadn’t met his soulmate, he didn’t want to think about how they’d react if they knew he was almost one hundred years old and hadn’t met them. They’d probably refer him for a psychological evaluation if he said that part out loud though; whilst he didn’t exactly take pride in his appearance, Dracula’s ability to stop his body ageing meant he hadn’t physically aged for almost as long as he’d known the Count.

“And do you think the person you’re in a codependent relationship with is taking advantage of that?”

“Honestly? No. My boss he, uh, he’s blank. I don’t think he particularly minds but that also means that he doesn’t care about me and finding my soulmate.” Being blank wasn’t particularly common, and it always invoked a specific sympathy from everyone who found out. The idea that you were a person without another half in a society where that was the norm always tended to put people on edge. Renfield had always been somewhat relieved that Dracula didn’t have a soulmate, the idea of having another vampire to tend to the needs of and transport around seemed like much more hassle than he cared to entertain. One Lord of Darkness was more than enough, thank you very much.

“That must be hard for him, but that doesn't mean that you have to put off your chances of happiness just because he’s blank. Has he ever taken any interest or even acknowledged that you haven’t met your soulmate yet?”

“I don’t think it’s even occurred to him to be honest. I think if anything he’s probably glad, I think it would be fair to say that meeting my soulmate may influence my ability to do my job the way he expects me to.”

“So what would happen, hypothetically speaking, if you were to seek out your soulmate?” The question drew only a blank in Renfield’s mind, and he noticed the flicker of pity that passed over Mark’s face when he struggled to imagine a world where he prioritised himself rather than his boss.

“What do you mean?”

“If you went off and tried to find your soulmate, what would happen?”

“I couldn’t leave my boss for that long.”

“Well, why not?”

“He has this medical condition you see, it means he can’t go out in the daytime, or much at all. If I’m not there to help him, well it doesn’t bear thinking about really.”

“Oh so you’re like a carer then?” Renfield wasn’t sure who spoke up, but it occurred to him that his relationship with his master would sound very strange if he disagreed with the interjection.

“I suppose you could put it like that.”

“I understand that it’s more complex when there are medical needs involved but listen to me Renfield, you cannot put your entire life on hold for someone else. You are important, you have value, and you are more than what your boss seems to see you as.” Renfield shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wringing his hands together. It was much easier attending the meetings when the spotlight wasn’t on him. He stayed quiet in the hopes that someone would interrupt his share but no one came to his rescue and he was left scrambling for something to say next.

“I guess it’s just hard because if he doesn’t have me then there’s no one else who could take care of him. After working for him for so long it wouldn’t feel right to just leave him.” Mark seemed to notice that he was getting more uncomfortable and mercifully decided to open the discussion back to the rest of the group by talking about the sense of duty that came with being codependent before announcing that the meeting was over. Renfield stayed in his seat as most of the group migrated towards the exit. A few people were still inside when he finally stood and went over to the refreshment table, his throat aching for a glass of water. He made quick work of the glass and stood for a moment, cursing himself for speaking ill of his master. He was so in his head that he didn't hear the footsteps coming up behind him until the person spoke.

“I like what you said about your boss.” The world seemed to shift on his axis as he heard the soft voice behind him speak. He turned around and saw the shy smile you were sporting, completely unaware that you had just turned his world upside down in a single sentence. You'd spoken his words.

His words had always confused him slightly, and that had only grown when he's become Dracula's familiar. He'd never been able to imagine a scenario when he'd be freely talking to people about his master, but this made perfect sense in a weird way. He realised that he hadn't spoken yet, and he probably looked like a deer in the headlights and it took him a few beats to come up with a response.

“It’s you.” He watched as it dawned on you what had just occurred between the two of you. The smile that grew on your face made you look truly radiant, like an angel sent directly from above. It felt like he was being saved and being damned all at once and any and all trepidation he’s had about this moment vanished from his mind as he took you in.

“Hey.” The word is soft, you’re clearly still trying to process what’s just happened after all, but it feels like it echoes in his mind, a pleasant change from the way his master’s voice booms through his skull when he deems it fit to communicate like that.

“Hello.”

“I’m, uh, I’m (Y/N).” You gesture to the name sticker on your jacket, and he smiles when he sees a small smiley face drawn next to your name.

“Robert. Robert Montague Renfield.” He holds out a hand to you, trying to hide the slight tremor, and when you take his hand it feels like a shock running through his body. It’s electrifying and relaxing all at once and it’s perfect. You’re perfect.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“It’s funny really, of all the places in the world I never expected it to be at a codependency anonymous group.” It occurred to Renfield that you hadn’t spoken at all during the meeting and he truly hopes you’re not here because of some awful person you can’t escape from. All his anxieties are put to rest when you reply though.

“I’m not codependent actually, I’m just here to support Carol. But, if you’d like help with your situation, I’d be more than happy to listen. Or if not, we can just grab a coffee, get to know each other?”

“I’d like that very much.” You beam at him before turning to the refreshment table and picking up one of the small business cards that had been scattered amongst the snacks. You grab the pen that lay next to the name tags and write something on the back of the card, handing it to him.

“I need to take Carol home but you should call me. We can go grab that coffee.”

“I will. Yes, definitely.” He watched as you turned to face Carol and the two of you made your way to the exit. You turned back to face him, giving him a small wave as you walked out into the cool night, and Renfield was left alone in the gymnasium. It was only then that it occurred to him that he had no plans for people to bring to Dracula to satisfy him tonight. He cursed himself lightly under his breath as he walked outside and began the walk back to the hospital. The closer he got the more anxious he became, and it was only when he passed the church that his luck seemed to change. He spotted a woman, maybe in her late twenties or early thirties, leaning against the wall and looking to be in rather bad shape. He’d been cautious upon approaching her in case she was with someone but when she drunkenly slurred out that her friends had ditched her, her fate was sealed. It hadn’t been difficult to overpower her, the chloroform in his pocket had done its job as quickly as ever and, with the aid of a bug, it had been easy to pull her into a bridal hold and walk the rest of the way back to the hospital.

Luck seems to remain on his side as he makes it the entire walk without spotting a single patrolling police car, and once he got to the hospital it was easy for him to drop the body onto one of the gurneys he always left near the entrance and then push that the rest of the way. He made it through the hospital without hearing his master until finally reaching the room his master spent most of his time residing in.

“Renfield! Where have you been? Where’s my dinner?”

“Right here, master!” He pushes the unconscious body off the gurney to the ground just shy of the makeshift throne his master was currently sitting in. Dracula didn’t look at all pleased by the offering, slowly rising to his feet. His recovery from their run-in with the vampire hunters had been a slow one, but his skin had finally started to grow back and, whilst he was revolting to look at, it meant he was nearly fully healed again.

“Is it a nun?”

“Um, well, no, but she was hanging around outside a church when I found her?” The answer seemed to satisfy his master enough for the vampire to start feeding from the body. It had been fairly easy for Renfield to become accustomed to the blood and gore that came with being a familiar but the sound of Dracula ravenously feeding on some soon-to-be corpse never failed to make him queasy.

“Not as sour as most of the other trash you’ve brought me. Bring me more like this one Renfield.”

“Yes master.” Renfield went about his usual tasks whilst his master fed; moving the depleted corpses to the pile he’d made a few rooms down from the main chamber of the hospital and trying to keep himself occupied until he could move the fresh body. It didn’t take long for Dracula to drain her fully, but his master’s mood seemed to shift when Renfield approached.

“You smell different, Renfield.”

“I’m sorry?” He watched as Dracula rose to his feet, shifting rapidly around him and coming to a stop just in front of him after a moment. Renfield’s eyes dropped to the floor automatically as he waited for his master to speak to him.

“You met your soulmate.” It wasn’t a question, Renfield realised, but an observation. It was all he could do to nod, questioning how on Earth his master could possibly know he’d met his soulmate from his smell.

“How did you-?”

“It changes the blood of a man, meeting his soulmate. Sweetens the blood, makes it sing.” Dracula’s voice lilted slightly at the mere idea and Renfield felt his heart drop. His chance of having a normal relationship with his soulmate seemed to be going out the window with every word his master spoke.

“Oh.”

“I do hope that this won’t change your fealty, Renfield. I would hate to have to…remove any distractions that come your way.” The hand on the back of his neck makes Renfield flinch, and he listens as Dracula chuckles deeply whilst tracing his carotid artery with one of his nails. He never presses deep enough to draw blood, but the warning is heavy in the air. He hates the way he quivers under his master's touch but after almost a century of knowing just how lethal Dracula’s clawed nails are, the reaction is uncontrollable.

“I, uh, of course not, master.”

“Good.” As Dracula slowly shuffled away from him, Renfield was left with the impression that this wasn’t the end of the discussion. He doesn’t move until Dracula tells him to leave, and it’s with a sigh of relief that he realises that the conversation is indeed over for now. He walks out of the main chamber, leaning against one of the walls after a brisk walk, and slides down until he’s resting on the floor. He’s not sure how long he spends sitting on the floor trying to quiet his mind and failing. The only thing that pulls him back to reality is when he slides his hand into one of his suit pockets and feels the business card with your number on it. He pulls his phone from his back pocket, tracing his fingers over your number on the business card in his other hand. He types your number in, toying with the idea of what he should send to you. He types multiple messages before trying something simpler and more to the point.

Hello, (Y/N). It’s Robert Renfield. Would you still be up for grabbing that coffee?

He presses send before he has time to debate whether it’s a good first message to his soulmate, and he locks his phone, letting it flop down onto his chest. He lets out a sigh, and closes his eyes. He only opens them when he feels his phone vibrate, and he looks down to see if you’ve responded.

Hi Robert! I’d love to, how does 9am sound?

The fact you responded so quickly makes him smile slightly, and it almost makes him forget about his master’s threat. Almost.

That sounds perfect.

Awesome, see you outside the gym? I know a great coffee shop nearby :)

I look forward to seeing you.

He shuts his phone off after sending the final message, letting his eyes close once again. He doesn’t have a bed here, hasn’t for a long time now, and he feels the edges of sleep start to close in on him. His last thought before falling asleep is that he needs to come up with a cover story for when you inevitably ask him about everything he shared at the codependency group because there’s no way you’ll believe that he’s a vampire’s familiar.

[clangenrising]

Month 10 - Leafbare

This leafbare was turning out to be a grim one. Yarrowshade was still trying to keep his spirit up, but it only got harder and harder. Goldenstar had been distraught after Scorchplume’s abduction and he had tried to be there for her but it had honestly been too close for comfort.

“I didn’t get to tell her I love her!” she had wailed into his side, “I just- I can’t believe she’s gone!” and he hadn’t been able to avoid his own, similar laments. He hadn’t been able to say any of the things he wanted to Nightfrost. He hadn’t been able to grapple with the fact that she was never coming home. Every day he would wake in the morning and look for her only to die a little again when he remembered she was gone. 

He honestly had very little memory of consoling Goldenstar. It seemed he had slipped into some kind of daze that had only broken when he woke up the next morning. Goldenstar had apologized but he had laughed her off and assured her it was fine. They hadn’t talked much since then, in fact, if it weren’t for Floodpaw, he had a feeling she might have disappeared from Clan life entirely. 

So, once again, he had focused on being there for Barleypaw. Being around her was a lot easier than being around other people. She still laughed at his jokes, she didn’t stare at him with pity like everyone else, and besides, he loved to see her smile. It made everything feel easier. No matter how helpless he felt, he could do one thing and that was make her life better. 

“I can’t believe we still haven’t found anything yet,” she complained as their hunting trip started to stretch into the evening. The sun was starting to hang low in the sky, turning the snow orange, and they hadn’t caught a single thing. Maybe that was his fault for taking them into the southern side of the territory, but he was worried about over-hunting the other areas and he wanted her to get more familiar with all of RisingClan’s land. 

“I’m sure we’ll find something, Barley-girl,” he said, trying to sound unbothered. “Didn’t Sparrowpaw say there were rabbits up this way?”

“That was on EarthClan’s land,” she said, “remember?” Yarrowshade winced. How could he forget? The incident had caused friction between the two Clans that was extremely poorly timed. He was honestly surprised that Russetfrond hadn’t punished Sparrowpaw more harshly for it. The rogues had been stealing Clan prey but so far nothing else had happened and Orangestar had visited to tell Goldenstar that she wasn’t sure she could continue to support the alliance at the upcoming gathering. Luckily, Sagetooth had been helping EarthClan in Stormwhisper’s absence and that appeared to be enough to keep the alliance intact for now. 

“Oh, duh!” he exclaimed, “Next thing you know, I’ll forget how to walk!” Dramatically, he flopped over on top of her, and she squealed in delight. 

“Stop it!” she laughed, pushing against him with her little paws and he rolled back onto his feet with a chuckle. “You’re so silly.” 

“Yeah,” he grinned, “but you like it.” 

She giggled and adjusted her feathers, replacing one that had fallen out of her makeshift mane. “Yeah…” 

“Alright, come on,” he purred, “last one to find a catch is a rotten egg.” She laughed and they set out even further, looking for any sign of prey among the dry, dead grass. Yarrowshade quizzed her on the different kinds of stalking techniques, what challenges different kinds of prey presented, and even all the different birds she could name. He was enjoying himself so much, he almost didn’t spot a pair of cats moving through the grass ahead of them. 

He caught them out of the corner of his eye then stopped and looked at them more clearly, stretching out a paw to stop Barleypaw as well. “Hold on,” he whispered, “There’s city cats over there.” Barleypaw gasped and crouched down to hide. He sank into his haunches as well, relying on his stripes to hide him among the grass as he stared at them. 

Both cats wore kittypet collars. They strolled side by side, laughing and talking between themselves without a care in the world. They were farther from the border than any city cats had been found before. Yarrowshade shifted his weight uncomfortably. This was not good.

“Barley,” he breathed, “I need you to go very carefully and quietly back to camp and get Russetfrond or Goldenstar, okay?”

“On my own?” she asked, big ears trembling. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m going to try and distract the cats until you get back, okay? You’re gonna do great, just pretend this is a hunting assessment. I know you can do it.” 

“Okay,” she nodded. After a moment she started to creep backwards then turned and slunk into the grass. Confident that she was safely on her way, he started to approach the kittypets, stealthily at first then slowly rising out of his crouch to raise his tail in greeting. One of the kittypets, a brown and white tabby tom, spotted him before the other did and muttered something to get his companion, a white tom with a black cap and saddle, to look in his direction. 

“Hello there, strangers,” Yarrowshade called, “What brings you all the way out here?” 

The white and black tom squinted at him darkly and said, “Just walking around. None of your business.” 

Yarrowshade already felt anger building up inside him. “Well, it kind of is. Don’t know if you noticed, but you crossed into RisingClan territory a while back.” He was pretty certain that they had noticed but was doing his best to be diplomatic about it. 

“Are you calling us stupid?” the tabby asked, squaring his shoulders with a glare. 

Great, Yarrowshade thought, so much for that approach. 

“Not at all,” he said, “Just trying to give you the benefit of the doubt.” 

“Well, good for you,” said the bicolor tom. “You can run along now.” The tabby chuckled and nodded in agreement. Yarrowshade grit his teeth.

“My name’s Yarrowshade,” he said, trying to stay friendly, “What can I call you?” 

“Are you thick?” the tabby snapped, rolling his eyes. “He said get lost.” 

Yarrowshade couldn’t help himself. “Actually, he said I could run along. That’s different.” 

The tabby gave a low, building growl as his hackles started to rise. “Listen, wise guy, we were just minding our business. You should learn to do the same.” 

Yarrowshade felt his own fur bristling in kind. “You are my business if you’re on RisingClan territory. If you want me to leave you alone, you should go back to the city.” 

“You don’t get to tell us what to do!” the tabby hissed as he gave a warning lunge. Yarrowshade tensed, moving back instinctively as he sized the tom up. He was younger, probably a couple years old, but still strong looking. The white and black tom was closer to his age and seemingly unmoved by the interaction, staring coldly back at him with his ice chip eyes. 

When Yarrowshade gave ground, the tabby laughed and seemed to puff up with pride. “Scared, wild cat?” he asked, tail lashing expectantly. “Some savage you are.” He glanced backward at his companion who remained stoic.

Yarrowshade bared his teeth and said, “You would know about savages. I’ve seen what you do to cats.” 

“Yeah?” the tabby asked, prowling closer, a threat. 

“Yeah,” Yarrowshade glared, matching his posture and slowly starting to circle with him. “I’ve seen how you tear them up inside, leave them broken.” He thought of Aldertail and her eternal jumpiness, of Scorch and her compulsive obfuscation. If it hadn’t been for cats like these two, maybe he and Scorch wouldn’t have been fighting. Maybe she wouldn’t have gone into that trap to spite Goldenstar. Maybe-

The tabby laughed at his words and shot Yarrowshade the filthiest smirk he’d ever seen. Chest puffed out he said, “You’ve seen it, have you? Didn’t realize you wild cats were picking up our sloppy seconds.” Yarrowshade frowned in confusion for a beat before realization dawned on him and he let out a disgusted noise at the vile innuendo.

“What is wrong with you?” he asked, reeling back. The tabby chuckled again and even the other tom huffed a laugh under his breath. Yarrowshade’s blood was boiling. All thoughts of stalling the two were drowned out by the need to make them pay. Before the tabby could get another word in, he ducked low and lunged, eyes locked on the tom’s soft neck. Teeth bared, he went to strike, imagining hot blood pouring over his muzzle like it had when he saved Branchbark from that fox. A good warrior didn’t need to kill to win his battles, but maybe he wasn’t a good warrior. A good warrior would have been able to save his Clanmates. He would just have to settle for avenging them.

Movement flashed in the corner of his vision and, like a serpent, the bicolor tom sprang into action, a heavy paw striking Yarrowshade hard across the forehead. Dazed, he stumbled sideways, momentum lost. The tom pressed his advantage and slashed his claws through Yarrowshade’s ear, then across his muzzle in the other direction. 

“Get him, Oreo!” the tabby jeered. Yarrowshade pivoted to face his attacker as he dropped into a defensive crouch. His eyes were watering from the strike to his nose, but he could still see the outline of Oreo’s ears against the bright orange sky. His claws flashed in a series of swipes. None of them connected, but they kept the kittypet at bay long enough for him to blink the tears from his eyes. 

“Stay down,” Oreo snarled, arched up on his toes. 

Yarrowshade wasn’t thinking properly and the command immediately galvanized him into doing the exact opposite. He darted forward, staying low, and snapped at Oreo’s paws. Teeth caught flesh and Oreo hissed, rearing upward. Then, he slammed back down, bringing his weight onto Yarrowshade’s head again. The warrior crumpled into the ground as his vision blurred and his ears rang. He tried to roll sideways, out of harm, but teeth sank into his fur and pulled. It seemed the tabby had taken the opportunity to get a hit of his own in.

The tom tugged at Yarrowshade’s neck, near the shoulder, and he cried out in pain. Luckily, the bite had only caught his loose skin but that didn’t stop it from hurting like the Dark Forest. He whirled his hindquarters around to kick at the tabby and his claws caught something fleshy. The tabby hissed and pulled backwards and Yarrowshade crowed triumphantly. 

The victory was short-lived. Oreo reared up again and brought his paws down on Yarrowshade’s ribs hard. His breath evacuated his chest in a wheeze and before he could suck it back in, Oreo reared up and bashed his ribs again. Something primal in Yarrowshade’s body screamed at him. He was in trouble. 

“You think you can mess with us?!” the tabby spat, swatting roughly at his head. “I’ll show you how broken we can leave someone!” Yarrowshade scrambled backwards, unable to see and out of balance. As he withdrew, the tabby’s claws snagged his lower lip and tore and Oreo got a good swipe on his shoulder, tearing out a chunk of fur. Blood dripped down his face. The two city cats loomed closer in the blazing light of the sunset.

Yarrowshade growled a warning but it was an empty threat. If they kept on him like that, there wasn’t much he could do. At least I’ll get to see Nightfrost again, he thought briefly but immediately banished the thought. No, Barleypaw needed him. Goldenstar needed him. The whole Clan needed him! He tried to weigh his options in the brief respite and none of them were great. He knew the territory better than they did. Maybe if he ran, he could lead them to an old badger sett and lose them in the tunnels. 

“You stupid bitch,” the tabby started advancing again. “This is Exalted territory now, you hear me?” He came in with a few short swipes which Yarrowshade dodged. Yarrowshade countered with a sweeping claw attack that nicked the tabby’s muzzle, but even before he had finished he knew that he had gone too wide. The tabby spat furiously and punished him with a bite on the other side of his neck. That bite, while still not serious, hit more solidly into muscle instead of skin, and Yarrowshade screeched in fury. 

He rained a few blows down around the tom’s ears and they broke apart again. Both of their tails were bottle brushed and their eyes wild. Yarrowshade wheezed with a wince. His ribs were not happy about the move he had just pulled, that was for sure. In his periphery, Oreo had paused to stare off into the distance. 

“More savages, moving fast,” he said. “Seems like the party’s over, Milo.” 

“Dammit,” huffed the tabby, following his gaze. “Things were just getting good.” 

“Let’s go,” Oreo droned, sounding bored. He turned with a swish of his tail and started back towards the border as if nothing had happened. Yarrowshade glared but couldn’t do much more than try and catch his breath. 

The tabby, Milo, sneered at him and said, “We’ll have to finish this later, pretty boy.” Yarrowshade frowned in confusion. Was the kittypet hitting on him? It didn't feel like it, but what kind of insult was calling someone pretty? Turning, Milo ran his tongue over his muzzle and bounded to catch up with Oreo. Once they had disappeared in the grass, Yarrowshade let himself topple onto one side and threw back his head to pant for air. 

Not long after that, he heard Goldenstar’s voice calling his name. Stars, she sounded afraid. 

Guiltily, he inclined his head in her direction and shouted, “Here,” then hissed sharply in pain. It seemed like using his lungs was going to upset his ribs for a while. The sound of pawsteps grew nearer and soon Goldenstar, Russetfrond, Ospreymask, and Barleypaw emerged from the grass. Goldenstar was at his side immediately.

“Yarrowshade!” she gasped, hovering over him with an anxious twitch in her tail. “Stars, are you alright? Someone get Sagetooth-” 

“I’m fine,” he wheezed, dismissively waving a paw. “Just resting… Got a few bruised ribs is all.” Russetfrond was sniffing at the flattened grass while Ospreymask perked her ears and stood watch. 

“Looks like they’re heading back to the city,” she said.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “they left as soon as they saw you coming. Seems like they don’t care for fair fights. Ow…” He shifted a bit, trying to figure out exactly how bad standing up was going to be. 

“I’m sorry,” Barleypaw whispered. “I wasn’t fast enough.” 

“No, no, no,” he said quickly even though his sides ached. “You did perfect Barley-girl. I’m the one who messed up.” 

“What happened?” Goldenstar asked. She settled down next to him and started grooming the wounds on his neck and face with a worried firmness. 

“Uh…” he groaned. “I was gonna try and stall them ‘till you arrived but…” He paused to catch his breath then continued, “but they just pissed me off. You should have heard the crowfood they said.” Glancing at Barleypaw, he added, “or, rather, be glad you didn’t.” 

Russetfrond growled disapprovingly. “So they said some mean words and you started a fight you couldn’t win?” 

“Russetfrond,” Goldenstar frowned, but Yarrowshade laid his tail over her paw to stop her.

“Yeah. I wasn’t thinking right.” 

Russetfrond scoffed and looked away, tail lashing. Goldenstar sighed and gave his muzzle one last lick. 

Standing, she said, “Let’s get you back to camp before dark, okay?” 

“Sure thing, Goldie,” he said. “I can’t wait for Sagetooth to chew me out.” 

“Maybe my Papa can fix it,” Barleypaw offered. “He won’t chew you out.” 

“Thanks, Barley,” he smiled. Holding his breath, he heaved himself to his feet then let the air out slowly between pursed lips. That particular move was not a pleasant one, that was for sure. 

“What about the rogues?” Ospreymask asked. 

“I’ll go find the border patrol,” Russetfrond said, “update them on the situation. Maybe now Orangestar will start taking things seriously.” 

“Yeah,” she frowned. 

Goldenstar stepped up close to support Yarrowshade and he gratefully leaned his head on her shoulder. She didn’t need to say anything. He knew she would do anything within her power to see him well again. He felt painfully unworthy. 

Barleypaw slid into place on his other side, barely touching him but keeping close. He imagined that was more for her sake than his and he gladly twined his tail with hers in the hopes that it would be a reassuring gesture. The walk back to camp was not going to be pleasant, but at least he was with friends. He thought back on the encounter and emblazoned the tabby’s face into his mind. That made the fourth city cat he owed a beating. He was going to have to put in some battle training if he ever wanted to repay them all.

UPDATES: - Yarrowshade gets into a fight with rogues and has to take time off of his duties to heal from the injuries.

[northerngoshawk]

Huanglong I

Rating: T

Chapter: 1 of ?

Story Summary:

A memory of a fallen star. A dream of a lapping ocean. A vision of a snarling dragon. When Rover awakens with no memories, she finds herself thrust into a world of desolation and danger. Joined by companions from various walks of life, she sets out to explore the region known as Huanglong, battling strange, inhumane creatures called Tacet Discords and being swept into the day-to-day life of the civilians living in the city of Jinzhou. But as she digs deeper into the history of the catastrophe known as The Lament, she finds that perhaps there is more to this world than meets the eye... and it may hold deep connections to her forgotten past. Or: a retelling of the Wuthering Waves storyline, featuring a mix of elements between the beta version and the currently released version.

Prologue: Utterance of Marvels, Part I

Preview:

“Can you hear me?”

The first thing she sees when she opens her eyes is a woman. Long black hair, a blue hat on her head. Bangs frame a gentle face with worried gray eyes, a face that lights up with a relieved smile as soon as she meets the woman’s eyes. “Thank goodness, you’re finally awake.”

Hesitantly, she braces herself against the ground as she pushes herself up. The tingle in her wrist is quickly forgotten as she takes in the scenery around her.

She sits at the bottom of what appears to be a gorge. Towering rock cliffs jut out from the ground, curling slightly inwards at the top. In front of her, a trampled dirt path lined with half-dead, yellow grass wound its way on either side, disappearing into the distance. The occasional tree with twisted trunks spurted from the edges of cliffs, its leaves gently rustling in the breeze. The air feels… heavy, she thinks. Like a storm brewing.

She turns her attention to the woman kneeling in front of her, absentmindedly noting her attire—blue tank top, tactical belt, sword sheath. Those gray eyes—like the clouds, she can’t help but think—scrutinize her intently, but the woman’s expression is kind, patient.

“Where am I?” Her voice comes out raspy, as if she hadn’t spoken in eons. She clears her throat and tries again. “How… how did I end up here?”

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