#Pale Wizard Records

[gbhbl]

Album Review: Sergeant Thunderhoof - The Ghost of Badon Hill (Pale Wizard Records)

Consistently brilliant, Sergeant Thunderhoof have, once again, delivered something truly special with The Ghost of Badon Hill.

Psychedelic, groove rock from the dark realms of Somerset, it’s Sergeant Thunderhoof and on November 15th, 2024, they will release their fifth studio album ‘The Ghost of Badon Hill’ via Pale Wizard Records. An album that finds the band delving deeply into local history, mythology and folklore to deliver a true conceptual piece, set in the 4th Century AD and positively charged with raw emotion and…

[satans-finest]

Back at it again with the Wizard worship ☠️

[prttygirlposts]

mapping out malfoy manor while reviewing the Malfoy legacy !!

front exterior

Fun fact! The iconic shots of Malfoy Manor from the Deathly Hallow movies were actually shots of the real Hardwick Hall in Chesterfield, England. While this could not be the real home of the Malfoys, that is due to location rather than sociability.

Considering the Malfoys were still fraternizing with Muggles during the Elizabethan era (Lucius Malfoy the First was even a suitor for Queen Elizabeth the First) and that Hardwick Hall is an Elizabethan manor, the Malfoys could've bought it out. However; this isn't the case because their land is found in Wiltshire, England.

Since Hardwick Hall is the official shot of the home's exterior, I'll be using it here. Hardwick Hall is most well known for its extravagant windows. Similarly, Malfoy Manor also has these windows.

The fourth picture I have provided is not an overview of Hardwick Hall. It is actually a rendering of the description from the Deathly Hallows book: "They turned right, into a wide driveway that led off the lane. The high hedge curved with them, running off into the distance beyond the pair of impressive wrought-iron gates barring the men's way... the source of the noise proved to be nothing more than a pure-white peacock, stirring majestically along the top of the hedge."

This actually brings me to my little Malfoy theory about the peacocks. In the Goblet of Fire, during the Quidditch World Cup, the golden trio spots a tent with seven albino peacocks milling about: "Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance." This is so clearly a Malfoy Easter egg to me, and no one talks about it. My theory is that the peacocks represent extravagance, their albino condition represents purity, and there being seven peacocks (that's an assumption on my part) is supposed to bring good fortune. Hence them being at the Cup, because Lucius was probably betting on the game.

the entrance hallway

The entrance hallway to Malfoy Manor is described in Deathly Hallows for a brief moment: "The hallway was large, dimly lit and sumptuously decorated, with a magnificent carpet covering most of the stone floor. The eyes of the pale-faced portraits on the walls followed Snape and Yaxley as they strode past. The two men halted at a heavy wooden door leading into the next room, hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, then Snape turned the bronze handle."

I actually want to take this section as an opportunity to discuss the Malfoy lineage. Mainly because this is where we see the portraits of former family members and because I imagine the decorations are actually family possessions (I think this since Lucius hid his personal artifacts in the cellar.)

I am going to go chronologically about every Malfoy we know about prior to Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco.

Armand Malfoy - He brought the Malfoy family to England in the 11th century. He came from France as a soldier in the Norman Conquests. He rose to wealth through his connections to King William the first. Armand actually did magical, shady jobs for the king. He stole the Wiltshire property that would expand into Malfoy Manor.

Nicholas Malfoy - He lived in the fourteenth century and he knocked off his muggle adversaries under the guise of the black plague. While it's implied Armand was a murderous Malfoy (with him being apart of the Norman Conquest, him doing "shady" jobs for King William, and him stealing muggle land) Nicholas is the first recorded murderous Malfoy.

Lucius Malfoy the First - He was a possible suitor for Queen Elizabeth the First. He was rumored to have jinxed her when he wasn't chosen.

Brutus Malfoy - He was an editor in the 17th century, anti-muggle periodical "Wizards at War." In the spin off book The Tales of Beedle the Bard, we actually get to see one of his pieces. He wrote, "This we may state with certainty; any wizard who shows fondness for the society of Muggles is of low intelligence, with magic so feeble and pitiful that he can only feel himself superior is surrounded by Muggle pigmen."

Septimus Malfoy - He used the Minister of Magic, Unctuous Osbert as a political pupper in the late 18th century. That relationship mimics the one Lucius and Cornelius Fudge would have many years later.

Abraxas Malfoy - Outside of the family we meet in the books, Abraxas is Malfoy we know the most about. He was Lucius Malfoy the Second's father. According to Draco in the Half-Blood Prince, he was in the slug club ( DM: "Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?" HS:  "Yes. I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it wasn't unexpected, dragon pox at his age...") We also know that he lived a fairly long life and he died of dragon pox. Most criminally, Abraxas was known for being involved in forcing the first muggle-born Magical Minister to step down early.

You might've noticed there aren't any Malfoy women mentioned. It's a shame that they don't have any descriptions. Though, with the amount of portraits mentioned, it's likely their paintings are present in the Malfoy household.

the drawing room

In Deathly Hallows there's two descriptions of the drawing room- one from the meeting where Professor Burbage is murdered and one where Harry is kidnapped by the snatchers. They go as follows:

"The drawing room was full of silent people, sitting at a long and ornate table...Illumination came from a roasting fire beneath a handsome marble mantelpiece surmounted by a gilded mirror."

"The drawing room dazzled... Harry could make out the wide proportions of the room. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceilings, more portraits against purple walls."

This brings me to the green ick I have. Everything with the Malfoys is dark green in fan media. Please guys they had a drawing room with purple walls. Also, I think it's interesting that purple was chosen. Purple is the color of royalty, so of course the Malfoys have it in their home.

Then there's this mirror. It's brought up multiple times, which leads me to think it's pretty damn noticeable. Almost like a centerpiece. Knowing the Malfoys and Lucius's interest in dark artifacts, I believe this mirror to be a magical heirloom. Mirrors are actually spiritual veils in traditional witchcraft, and in HP we see mirrors/glass be used as magical tools twice. Once with the Mirror of Erised and again with the glass the Marauders used as a communication device. It's just a headcanon, take it or leave it.

There's also a description of the marble fireplace under that mirror. When the death eaters aren't meeting, there are chairs set next to it. Apparently it's big enough to illuminate the entire drawing room when lit. Actually, it's big enough for Lucius to be stupefied into the hearth. This leads me to believe the drawing room used to be a lot cozier. Which makes sense, considering how much schmoozing this family does. A drawing room is where you entertain guests, and if you want the Minister to be in your pocket you want the drawing room to be comfortable. In conclusion, this drawing room was nice before Voldemort over took it.

Finally, I included a picture of a pine organ because I swear I read something about one being featured in the drawing room. I can't find it, but I know I saw someone say that. I'm still including it, because it makes perfect sense to me. Like yeah, these people have a pine wood, pipe organ.

Narcissa's bedroom

These three bedrooms are a complete, self-indulgent headcanon intermission, but I will include fun facts about the characters.

Narcissa- the queen- is up first. I do think Lucius and Narcissa have their own rooms. I mean they were an arranged marriage, neither of them slept well (due to the first war), and they seem like two people who need their space.

Narcissa's room would be a cross between who she was as the youngest Black sister (star themes, moody lights, and fancy mirrors) and who she is now as the Malfoy queen (feminine colors, indulgent decorations, and luxurious furniture.)

I do think the Malfoys are a mirror to the Blacks. They are both extremely powerful families, but they go about it differently. The Black family is strict- hardened by centuries of discipline. Every action must align with their motto, "always pure." Meanwhile, the Malfoy family motto is, "purity will always conquer." Malfoy's are less strict because they have the mindset that they'll come out on top no matter what. Narcissa is brought to a strange intersection: continue to survive or begin to live. You can see that in her bedroom.

The room is always filled with flowers/candy because Lucius's love language is gift giving.

She keeps Draco's baby pictures in golden, floral frames on her vanity. It embarreses him terribly.

She has a piano in her room. The pine organ in the drawing room is actually for her. She's a very skilled musician and loves to play.

Sirius took the enchanted, communication mirror idea from his cousins. It makes sense the Black Sisters would find a way to speak to one another when Bella went to Hogwarts. Narcissa has a compact mirror (with a narcissus flower on it) that used to be a communication device. She keeps it in her nightstand drawers. On harsh days, she opens it and hopes she'll catch a glance of Andromeda.

Lucius's bedroom

I'll save my Lucius/bird metaphor ramble for another post, but his room is filled with bird motifs.

His room is surprisingly simple compared to the rest of the Manor. He has a smaller bed, coffee mugs/shot glasses laying about, and books falling off their shelves.

Part of it is rebellion and another part of it is entitlement. His room is simple as a stark rebellion against his forefathers. He's not brave enough to give up all his riches, but those riches bar him from individuality. Lucius will never be his own person: just another blonde snake. So, his room abstains from the typical Malfoy luxury. Then, it's always a wreck because he assumes someone will clean up behind him (poor Dobby).

Contrary to popular belief, I do think Lucius was a loving father. He definitely wasn't a perfect father, but he did love Draco. So, I think his room is filled with presents from Draco and pictures of him.

He's also the type of parent who keeps all of Draco's achievements in files. Best junior seeker certificate from summer camp? Yeah he's got it on standby.

His windows are open- no matter the weather. Closed windows make him feel claustrophobic. He only closes the windows when he sleeps.

He also closes the curtains when he sleeps. He's a bit paranoid. He's got a lot of enemies.

Boring ministry paperwork is everywhere. Not only do his superiors pay him to commit shady crimes, they also pay him to do their paperwork. He hates it. He'd rather be black mailing a political figure.

Draco's bedroom

Draco's bedroom has really cool dragon wallpaper. Get it? Draco is latin for dragon (under-rated symbol for him).

I do think his favorite color is green. His room is covered in dark greens. He thinks it makes him look more refined.

That's also why there are no posters on his wall. He used to have quidditch posters all over his room, but Pansy made fun of them. Now, if he puts something on his walls, it's displayed on a shelf or it's framed. It's also always something he can brag about too- like a trophy or signed quaffle.

Malfoy Manor is the hangout house, so Draco keeps food in his room. There's a bowl of apples on his dresser, a jar of sweets on his nightstand, and an enchanted cabinet that acts as a mini fridge for butterbeer. All of this storage becomes handy when the death eaters take over the manor. He doesn't have to leave his room as much.

Additionally there is a bathroom connected to his room.

You're telling me this rich kid came out this dramatically and doesn't have a balcony to sit at? You're wrong. The balcony is also where he and Pansy gossip. Many rumors were planned up there.

SImilar to Narcissa, his room is also filled with presents. His lean more towards clothes and colognes though. Lucius just loves buying stuff.

I want to emphasize how spoiled he is, so Draco has a fireplace. However; he didn't originally have a fireplace. He wanted one when he was twelve. He mentioned it during winter break. By summer break, there was a fully functional fireplace in his bedroom. He adored it, by the way.

the gardens

Alright, headcanons are over. Kinda? We know there is a large garden surrounding Malfoy Manor, but we don't know a lot about its contents.

We can assume this is where the peacocks reside. There is probably a small barn/coop for them.

To go into full imagination territory, I also think there are more birds in this garden. I mean beautiful quails and swans- just to exaggerate their wealth.

I am going to say there is a small apple orchard in the gardens. I mean Draco always has one in the films, so I'm guessing they have some significance to the family. Maybe a fruit of knowledge situation? Regardless, I think Draco always has a full supply, because he gets sent apples from the garden.

The Malfoys clearly have a thing for collecting artifacts. I don't think the garden is excluded from that. Perhaps a lot of statues of former Malfoys (particularly the women/children, which I'll explain in a later post).

This is a headcanon I will not budge on. The Malfoys have a family cemetery deep in the garden. I mean it's a while away, and it's hidden. It is a very off-putting place and a breeding ground for dark magic.

Okay, time for my favorite fun fact. Are you ready? There was going to be a scene of Draco and Theodore Nott talking in the Malfoy gardens, but it got cut.

This is from a post on JK's old website (It's okay! She can't hurt you on this blog! It's just a source!): "However, in this scene Theodore's father (the same Nott who was badly injured in the closing chapters of 'Order of the Phoenix') goes to visit Lucius Malfoy to discuss Voldemort-related business and we see Draco and Theodore alone in the garden having a talk of their own. I really liked the scene, firstly because it showed the Malfoys' home, and the difference between the place where Draco has grown up and number four, Privet Drive; then because we rarely see Draco talking to anybody he considers a real equal, and he is forced to see Theodore as such, because Theodore is just as pure-blooded as he is, and somewhat cleverer. Together these two Death Eaters' sons discuss Dumbledore's regime at Hogwarts and Harry Potter, with all sorts of stories that the Death Eaters tell about how this baby boy survived the Dark Lord's attack."

That is really interesting to me. There's just this whole other side of the story that happened, but we don't get to witness it. I might write it out one day.

This took forever to make. If you read all the way through, thank you. I did cut a few rooms, so I might make a part two. I was just ready to get this out into the world. Please, please reblog/comment your thoughts or headcanons. This is my favorite topic in the whole world. I am so interested in the Malfoys. Thank you again for reading!!

[tragedybunny]

Dance With Me Under the Diamonds, See Me Like Breath in the Cold - Astarion x F!Reader

I've been waiting to write this for some time. I'm absolutely thrilled with it and I hope you think it's beautiful.

Reader and Astarion have come a long way since that meeting on the beach. They've made it all the way to their wedding.

“Where in the hells is Gale?” Astarion fusses while fidgeting with the brocade crimson overcoat he’s wearing. “That man is always late.”

“He’ll be here Love,” you give him a small kiss on his cheek and take his hand, trying your best to keep things calm. "He's not even actually late yet."

“Still haven’t found patience to be a virtue I see,” Shadowheart strolls over to the two of you where you wait under an arbor of night-blooming jasmine, her arm hooked in Lae’zel’s.

“Would you expect any different,” Lae’zel adds a wide smile to her words, an attempt to make it clear she’s joking. The Githyanki has certainly seen her share of change since you met her, really hadn’t you all though?

“While I’m glad you two have finally developed a sense of humor, I’d rather not be the subject of it.” You can feel his agitation rising and it’s your turn to silently plead with the universe for Gale to hurry up.

“Perhaps he’s nervous,” Lae’zel turns to her partner, pretending Astarion isn’t right there fuming.

“I am not!” Before he gets any more worked up, they both pull the pair of you into a sudden embrace, leaving Astarion stuttering and you trying not to giggle at his expense.

“Congratulations you two, we’ll go mingle and pray for Gale’s safety if he’s any later,” The two of them join arms again and make their way back over to the crowd greeting an enthusiastic Mol and her gang of children that’s expanded beyond just the original tieflings. They’re becoming quite the criminal enterprise. There are so many people here, lives you’ve both touched. Originally you’d planned to just stay at your little house for the event, but when more requests to attend kept coming, you had to choose somewhere else. Duke Ravenguard had graciously offered you private use of Bloomridge Park.

“You are nervous, aren’t you,” you whisper mischievously and watch him try to hide it.

“Of course not, I managed to convince you to come this far, now it’s all formality,” your heart skips a beat when he smiles, the tips of fangs peeking out from under his lip. Smiles like that were all too rare when you first met him.

“I don’t recall needing much convincing.” Truthfully, you don’t remember what had brought the subject up, but Astarion had reminded you that it wasn’t a point, legally speaking, as neither of you technically existed.

“It doesn’t have to be in an official record anywhere, it’s just a promise we would make to one another. And we do know the perfect Cleric for a nighttime ceremony.” The way he’d just stood there for a moment you thought you'd said something wrong. Perhaps it was bringing up a Cleric and making it a sworn oath, he didn’t exactly have any love for religion. But then he was dropping to his knees, taking your hands in his, and begging you to be his wife. It was appropriately dramatic for him. And now, here you were, gathered with friends and found family, waiting on a late wizard.

“Brother!” Beside you, Astarion braces and a pale figure collides with him, embracing him tightly

“Hello Dal,” he gingerly returns her hug, as you notice Aurelia remaining a respectful distance behind them. “It’s good to see the both of you too,” he nods in Aurelia’s direction. His relationship with his “siblings” is complicated, but the horror they shared bonds them, and some of them have tried to make a family out of what is left to them. Dalyria seems to be the most persistent, she even had the two of you come visit their home in the Underdark.

“I’m so happy for you Astarion,” she finally releases him but leaves a hand on his arm fondly. “You’ll have to come visit again. I’ll even make Petras promise to behave.”

There’s turmoil in him only you can see, he would love to forget about anything that reminds him of Cazador, but the sisterly love Dal tries to give him is something he’s missed in his life. “At least it will be safer for him that way.”

“Stop,” she smiles and gives him a peck on the cheek. “We’ll talk more later.” As she walks away, Aurelia gives a stiff wave.

“His time is up, he's de-” A flash of light interrupts and when it fades two figures are standing amongst the crowd, a wizard you know well and one you briefly met.

“Sorry for the wait,” Gale begins awkwardly, trying to ignore Astarion’s considerable glare, “we were occupied in a bit of an undertaking…”

“But I am sure you will find the reasons most acceptable,” Elminster takes over, giving your floundering friend a reprieve.

Another flash of light as two more figures appear and you can't believe your eyes. Your heart leaps and you shout inadvertently. "Karlach! Wyll!" Without a second thought, you launch yourself at both of them, Astarion following along more reservedly.

"Steady on there, Soldier," Karlach pulls you into a smothering hug.

"How," you ask, smoothing the cream lace of your dress as she lets you go, still stunned she's outside Avernus without exploding.

"Wizards," Wyll smiles, glancing at Gale and Elminster. "We had to find a way back, there's no way we'd miss this."

"It won't hold forever, but we think we've got a way I can come back for visits. Until we get something permanent. Good news is Zariel's seemed distracted by something lately."

"I suppose overall this is an appropriate excuse for being late," Astarion finally relents.

"Aww, come on Fangs, don't be sour, it's your wedding." Karlach has a wicked gleam in her eye.

"Do not," but it's too late, the tiefling picks him up in a crushing hug. "I missed you too Karlach."

Tears suddenly start to form in your eyes, seeing them all together again, it was something you feared might never be. Wyll gives Asatrion a less brutal greeting and you turn to Elminster. "Thank you. You will stay right," it's the least you can do.

"Gale has assured me there are to be many culinary delights after, and of course, I've never seen a vampire spawn get married. So I believe I shall."

"Ah. I see Father made it," Wyll waves to Duke Ravengaurd who had been waiting a respectful distance away. "Best go see him, we'll catch up more after."

"You both better save a dance for me," Karlach calls over her shoulder, taking his arm, and kissing his temple.

"Tell me you have them," Astarion has fixed his attention back on Gale, and you rush to his side before he can begin another tirade.

"Worried I would eat them?" Gale has recovered himself from Astarion’s initial onslaught and is smiling brightly.

"Yes," your beloved is still in no mood for jokes.

"Honestly Astarion," you give him a look.

"Ugh, fine, I'll calm down. Once he hands them over." You're lost as to what Gale has that's so important considering the occasion.

"Never change my friend," he laughs and pulls a small box from a pocket on his robes and opens it gently. Inside there are two gold rings with small red stones set in them, you can feel the hum of magic in them.

“Sending Stones?” You glance at Astarion as he takes the box from Gale.

For a moment he seems almost shy about it. “I thought it would be nice if we were always able to speak to each other, no matter what. I know it’s not feasible to never be separated.” The two of you had spent almost every moment of the last couple of years in each other’s presence, but as Astarion continued to heal, he seemed more comfortable with time spent apart.

“You’re adorable, you know that,” your lips brush the tip of his nose, the gift is an incredibly sweet sentiment, and you’re so proud of how far he’s come.

Under the right circumstances, vampires actually can blush. “I..” he starts, sounding like he’s going to grouse about something, probably being called adorable in front of everyone, but stops. “I don’t know if I’ll ever understand why you think that my Love, after everything I’ve done.”

You reach up to brush his cheek and run a finger through his curls. “That wasn’t who you really are.”

“I take it, we're ready.” Isobel joins you under the arbor, eyes already fixed on the moon above, and you both nod in response. “Then let us begin,” her voice carries to the crowd and silence falls. “We come here, under Our Lady’s Light, to bless this couple and sanctify their bond.”

You honestly don’t remember many of Isobel’s words after that as Astarion takes your hand and you get lost in his soft, crimson eyes. Maybe it’s a bit terrible of you to ask Selune’s blessing and then not pay attention, but you think she can understand. “The rings,” Isobel prompts and Astarion retrieves them from his pocket, opening them so the Cleric can bless them. “May the Moonmaiden’s light ever guide your hearts toward each other.” A nearly imperceptible mote of silver light seems to land on them and lends the jewels in them an unearthly glow.

Astarion tenderly picks one up as you proffer your finger. Isobel had agreed to let you both speak your own vows, as long as they didn’t directly offend any of Selune’s teachings. You’d reassured Astarion every step of the way that you didn’t need it to be a sworn oath in front of clergy, but he’d oddly insisted, saying he wanted to swear himself to you to the fullest. “As long as it’s Isobel though, she’s the only trustworthy one.” Shadowheart was still figuring out how much religion she wanted in her life, though it seemed Selune was patient as she continued to have a Cleric's gifts.

The ring slips on your finger perfectly and your heart stutters, your vision getting watery again. You do the same for him in turn and you both entwine your hands, speaking in unison. “Unto thee, I vow, mine heart and home, mine life and love, for now, and all seasons. Let me never from thy side be parted, and unto thee, no evil do. Until, at last, my life shall leave me, this my beloved, is my pledge to you. So I do swear.”

“And so sworn before our Lady, I do pronounce thee wed.” The crowd behind you applauds, and you can barely see Astarion through the tears.

Lae’zel and Karlach are shouting raucously, “Kiss! Kiss!”

You start to lean forward and notice his eyes are just as wet as yours. “Hells, why did I agree to do this in public,” he laughs, dabbing his cheeks with the cuff of his sleeve.

“You couldn’t miss being the center of attention,” your laugh is lost in a happy sob. “Damn it, kiss me before I pass out or something.”

Softly, he pulls you in, lips finding yours. The chaste peck turns deeper, giving the crowd what they want judging by the noise. But then something unexpected happens, there’s the tinkle of mischievous laughter, as though a woman stands near to you. A voice that’s both honey-sweet but radiating power whispers in your ear, “congratulations my dear child,” and you feel a surge of fae-touched magic, reminding you of that day you took a different oath.

The kiss breaks and Astarion is staring at you, surprise clearing away his tears. “I know you.”

Everything goes numb in the rush of terror that follows, he’d learned some of who you were before the Nautiloid, but there was much still to tell. “Astarion I’m so-”

A slender finger is pressed to your lips. “Hush Love, tomorrow. And it changes nothing, I still love you with all my unbeating heart. Now let’s indulge everyone since they came all this way to celebrate us.”

The night is full of feasting, drinking, song, and dancing. The two of you mingle with old friends and those whom you met only briefly, the scents of a delectable feast wafting through the air. When the music starts, you share a waltz under the night sky, Astarion holding you close and whispering in your ear, “love you Sunlight.”

True to her word, Karlach insists on a dance with both of you, surprising you with her talent for it. “I’ve been teaching her,” Wyll looks over at her and Astarion lovingly from where he’s dancing with you. “Once you find a safe place to rest, Avernus can be a bit boring.”

You stumble across Lae’zel, angrily giving gold to Mol and her crew. “She lost a bet,” Mol says proudly.

“Oh really, and what sort of scam bet did you get her to agree to, my favorite tiny criminal” Astarion asks fondly. Mol comes to visit you sometimes and you’ve decided you’d rather not know what he’s been teaching her.

“She thought you might light on fire as soon as it got religious,” Mol laughs and scampers off.

Astarion pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’ve seen me in temples before.”

“Chk, but never swearing an oath.”

“She has a point,” you nudge him playfully.

“Oh you are going to pay for that later,” he leans in to nip at your neck, causing you to shiver.

Dawn nears much too soon and you can see some of his happiness evaporating. There still was no solution you’d found to let him live in the light. “We should go,” you whisper in his ear, “what’s a wedding without the wedding bed?” Ever so lightly, you let your tongue brush against his ear, a spot of divine torment for him you’ve found, and listen as he gasps softly.

“Indeed my Love,” his mood revives and the two of you make your good-byes, your friends having promised to clean up the aftermath of the night. A young woman you think you recognize passes you an open bottle of wine on the way out of the park, “a gift from summer’s best,” she says and it fills you with a strange sensation for a moment before Astarion’s mouth is on yours again.

Your house isn’t far from Bloomridge and the two of you stroll the streets in a blissful, dreamy state, wrapped in each other’s arms, sharing drinks from the wine that tastes of sweet berries and summer rains. Lights dance in the morning mists and everything feels transcendtly perfect as you ascend the steps to your home. Astarion pins against your front door, kissing you hungrily and letting his hands wander your body. “My wife,” he breathes against your skin as his lips travel down your neck.

Heat sparks inside you, ravenous for him. “My husband,” you sigh, lost in your love for him.

[fbfh]

Had to take this to the professional 🫡

We need more dad tony stark content (literally anything you got)

Literally starving

Thank you 😌

thank you for giving me more excuses to talk about this. Tony is such a good fucking dad in general, but he's especially great when you get sick. if you're in new york, he probably notices cause you're not up as early as usual. idk where this came from, but I can hear him clear as day walking into your room and smoothing your hair to wake you up, saying

"Hey pumpkin, sun's out." you only grunt in response, but it's not your usual sassy I don't wanna wake up grunt. It sounds softer, like you actually can't get up yet.

"You feeling okay?" before you can answer, he's totally on it. "jarvis, run a vital scan."

He rolls you over onto your back so he can look at you. you look... pale. you don't have the usual vibrance to your skin, it's gray and faded. you look like if you weren't lying down, you'd pass out. Your eyes are puffy and watery, your lips are chapped. You're not yourself. While Jarvis runs a diagnostic scan on your vitals, Tony also gets to work. he carefully sticks a microneedling patch on your arm to check your blood - something Strange helped him whip up, among many other ways to monitor your health without all that clunky invasive hospital equipment - as Jarvis gives him the low down.

"Elevated body temperature of 101.3 degrees fahrenheit, swelling of the sinuses, elevated white blood count..." Jarvis rambles on and on while describing your simptoms, only interrupted by an agressive coughing fit.

"And a rather nasty productive cough."

You look up at him and try not to get teary, you know crying will just make you feel more dehydrated and achy.

"Dad... I don't feel good..."

He looks down at you so warmly, and with so much love.

"I know, kid."

He stands up, determined to do everything he can to kick this cold in record time.

"Alright, your schedule for the week is cleared." He cuts you off as you object. "Ah-bup-bup-bup. I don't want to hear it. You are officially on bedrest until further notice. Jarvis, order out for some of that soup we like, some cough drops, and popsicles."

He looks down at you.

"You want ice cream? What am I saying, of course you want ice cream. Jarvis, throw in a few pints of Stark raving hazelnuts and bunny tracks."

He grabs the remote for your tv, putting on your favorite movie and has dum-e wheel you in a box of tissues. He grabs some vaseline and cold medicine, along with a fresh cold water and your favorite flavor of sports drink.

"Now. I want you to lay back, I want you to stay cool, and I want you to get some rest. And you're a Stark, so staying cool should be no problem." He gives you a kiss on the forehead, then stands up to move all his work to stuff he can do at home, and tell Pepper to cancel or reschedule the rest so he can spend the rest of the day watching movies and tv shows with you between naps. You can hear him muttering to himself as he calls Steven over to come check on you. If you weren't so tired, you'd find it funny that the only person your dad trusts to be your family doctor is also a wizard.

"Can stop aliens from invading earth, I can make an arc reactor that can fit in the palm of my hand, how have we not cracked this cold and flu season thing yet?" he mutters, making a mental note to discuss it with the rest of the Avengers at the next team meeting. you drift off to sleep feeling a lot better than you did when you woke up, and thinking about debrief folders titled Avengers v. Rhinovirus.

[lonelyasawhisper]

Queen: A Night At The Garden

Kris Nicholson, Creem, 1st May 1977

Queen's music is like strong mouthwash. It takes my breath away but that initial rush is as temporary as it is abrupt. This probably has something to do with the discrepancy between what Queen is and what Queen would like to be. Queen IS a good studio band-cum-variety show with a flair for novelty, a patent on mock opera and Rock of Gibraltar guitar harmonies. What they would like to be is a good studio band and a great live act. Unfortunately they've mastered a studio perfection that does not lend itself to accurate live interpretation. Whether or not they choose to approach the two mediums separately, the fact remains: kids are amazed at Queen records and they expect to be doubly amazed by their concerts.

If Queen—without the assistance of tapes—could reproduce their studio sound live, they'd certainly be one of the most impressive bands on the rock scene. But they can't and they aren't and it's the vocals that cause most of the problem. They'd need at least five Freddie Mercurys [Aaargh!—Ed.] to do it right. (Imagine Mercury quints; five golden-throated, leotarded, stiffly posed fools.) If only Freddie Mercury could sing two notes at a time!

There is a gadget known as a harmonizer that provides a delayed echo and allows Freddie to harmonize with himself, but this effect has its limitations and is reserved for special occasions like "Killer Queen" and Freddie's spotlight solo in "White Man."

Lacking a consistently believable production of their music, the least Queen could do is compensate for aural imperfections with visual delights. Try as they might, their use of flash pots and strobe lights is old hat and the five basic postures in Freddie's crude ballet are amateur still life, pale in comparison to the volume and the ideas of the band's music.

Let us proceed to the actual scene of a Queen concert and see if we can discover just what keeps this band alive.

It is February 5th at Madison Square Garden. I see a sign bobbing and weaving through the upper aisles of the arena. At first it looks like it's moving of its own free will and then two heads become visible at either end of the banner. This is a familiar one. In three-foot high letters it boasts, "Queen is King." Behind and way above me, up in those seats in the clouds, (that us rock writers never get stuck in) there are two more signs held by fans. They read: "Queen A Night At The Garden" and "Queen Takes My Breath Away."

I wonder how many of these kids have seen Queen before. Will they be disappointed? Darkness sets in. The PA system blasts solo piano recital music that eventually fades into a tape of one of those majestic guitar intros Brian May likes to embroider around the beginning of his songs. The first chords of "Tie Your Mother Down," hit like thunder, maybe even induce butterflies in the stomach, temporarily.

The image of Freddie Mercury strikes. Decked in some kind of baggy white karate jump suit the singer looks sexier than he ever did in those ridiculous striped suspender shorts. For a moment Freddie has me believing that he's cut his overbearing physical exposure from the act. But by the third song he's stripped down to a second skin of white, commonly known as leotards. In Freddie's case they're pain in the ass leotards. Every five minutes he becomes distracted as a leotard strap shimmies down his shoulder. He searches for a moment when he can inconspicuously slide it back up before the whole damn thing falls off. Unfortunately Freddie is not cool about it. By the end of the set I'm almost more intent on calculating the next time a strap will drop and how he'll get it back up, than I am on hearing the music.

Freddie is a strange cookie on stage. He waves his magic wand (actually it's a mike stand but you can use your imagination) and the flashpots explode. No big deal. Personally I think the Wizard of Oz had better flashpots and that movie was filmed decades ago. Freddie addresses the audience, "Listen my darlings, let me do the talking for a change." Yecch! Too coy. I don't believe him.

"Somebody To Love" comes early in the set. This is what is called strategy. It comes early in the set because it's impossible to do justice to in concert. If everything else goes right, by the end of the show the kids will have forgotten how punchless the live version is in comparison to the lush production that stole thousands of AM hearts.

Deep down, underneath the black nail polish, there is some talent.

Besides Freddie, the only really visible member of Queen is Brian May. May is the exact opposite of Mercury— a real Yin-Yang combination. In the words of Chuan Tzu, "The perfect negative principle is majestically passive (May). The perfect positive (Mercury) is powerfully active...the interaction of the two results is that harmony by which all things are produced." Somehow it DOES work.

Wanna puck? Monreal Mercurys owner displays the franchise's new uniform. (Note the hand-tailored sleeves and custom-fitted mouthpiece).

May appears silent and serious. He plays guitar as if he were studying constellations. There is nothing silly about him. Even the starch in his Elizabethan white shirt fits. He looks elegant, contemplative, (a misplaced 18th century poet?) and yet he plays with all the erotic energy and guts of the heaviest and dirtiest of rock 'n' rollers. You could say he doesn't look like he sounds. But this inconsistency serves to make his character all the more enchanting.

During "Brighton Rock" Brian takes a long solo. With the use of two echoplex systems he manages to produce the sound of three guitars. It's a well-crafted solo with lots of showmanship and lots of clean, thoughtfully executed riffs. He hardly moves while he's playing. All the energy is flowing from head to fingers. It's one of the few moments in Queen's set where nothing threatens to cancel out the emotion of his playing. Looking back on this a moment later, it's easy to understand what Brian has in mind when he says, "I want to be good in the sense of being more expressive."

Queen dares to attempt May's Mccartneyish " '39." It doesn't fare too well. Freddie sings it. Freddie sings all the songs. Funny, on the record Brian sings " '39." Maybe he feels that singing would be too much of a diversion while he's playing guitar.

In introducing "You Take My Breath Away," Freddie announces, "Maybe next time we'll come back with an orchestra." (While he's at it I hope he remembers to bring a choir, too.) Freddie adds, "You are what we call our sophisticated rock audience." Is he laughing because he knows it's a joke or is he uneasy because that's what he'd like to believe?

Imagine (Freddie) Mercury quints; five golden-throated leotarded, stiffly-posed fools.

Meanwhile the set has been embellished with intermittent gimmicks; a roadie hands a triangle to bassist John Deacon to hit one solitary note. What drama! Brian May plays a ukelele for five seconds during the band's instrumental version of "Bring Back Leroy Brown," etc. etc.

Freddie's vocal exhibition in "White Man" is impressive. He manages to sound like a voice and an instrument at the same time. It offers substantial evidence that deep down, underneath the black nail polish, there is some talent. Too bad he has to mask it in such demeaning external distractions as his unsteady Ian Anderson pose and his off-time dances to the music.

"Bohemian Rhapsody" is the evening's anti-climax. When the song reaches the really ornate vocal rounds Freddie disappears from the stage and all twenty thousand of us are left sitting in the dark. It's like faking an orgasm (need I say that the real thing is so much better?). Of course this maneuver is done so that Freddie can change his costume but it doesn't sit too well with me, not to mention the fifteen-year-olds behind me who think they're being ripped off. After all, they can hear the record at home. They want to see Queen do the humanly impossible, and when they're slipped a fast one they know it. "This is unforgivable," says one kid. "Yeah, they're gonna haveta do somethin' big to make up for that," his friend replies. Hear that, boys? You can't fool Mother Nature.

Freddie returns in black tights. He looks much better in black, especially now that he's got one of those real slick short hairstyles. White is too feminine. Again, strategy saves the day. The kids have been screaming for "Stone Cold Crazy" all night and now, when they're feeling cheated, "Stone Cold Crazy" will pacify them.

"Stone Cold Crazy" is perhaps one of the most breathless hard rockers that Queen does (on record) but somehow it loses its bite when a series of strobe lights begin to flash to the beat and eventually wind up totally off-beat, turning the frenzied effect into gaudy confusion.

Freddie dedicates "Keep Yourself Alive" to the audience. "Liar" is followed by "In The Lap Of The Gods." There are two encores, so l'm told. I didn't stay for them. I came to see if Brian May still knew what he was doing—I didn't need any more Mercury shenanigans.

We turn now to the scene of the post-Queen party. It's held at Oh Ho So in So Ho and it's so-so. Freddie is reputed to have a fascination for the Oriental and that's as good a reason as any to jam 500 press people into a 250 capacity restaurant. The food in this joint is really good, I come here all the time. But food is not what I'm interested in. Standing well over six-feet-tall, Brian May is easy enough to spot but he's busy holding court. I can barely justify barging in on the ladies in waiting, the men in waiting, the fans in waiting...later.

"Yeah, I know Frampton sold millions of records, but I don't think you can capture the whole thing outside of a studio."

In the meantime my friend Liz and I have decided that we're going to corner Freddie and ask him what brand nail polish he wears. She sees someone she knows who knows who we want to meet (Freddie) and she manages to get introduced while I play voyeur. Alas, the best-laid plans of mice and women... Freddie's nails aren't black or white. They're just old plain old fingernails. But, we do manage to find out that Freddie has been asked to pose with Mr. Pumping Iron himself, Arnold Schwarzenegger. Whether or not the event will take place is still a mystery. Freddie wasn't giving any clues.

Queen poses at left, shortly after Brian May's guitar mysteriously exploded sending slivers of wood and steel into the eyeballs of the rest of the group, causing temporary blindness. The matter is under investigation by Scotland Yard. Below, Roger: "Aye likes to put me boogies in me pant cuff 'cause it keeps 'em clean...Wot about it?"

Freddy: "Aye think ee wants one on 'is lens, eh?"

After at least an hour of anxious waiting for parking space beside Brian I finally score. Yes, he remembers doing the interview last year, but he says I look different. Yes, it must be the glasses. I don't have them on tonight. I'm blind as a bat but you know what they say about girls who wear glasses.

Pulling no punches; I explain to Brian that I'm doing a Queen story for America's Only Rock 'n' Roll Magazine. I am totally understanding as he apologizes, "We haven't been doing interviews 'cause we're so busy. We're playing all big concert halls and we're in a different city every night. We travel about five hours every day. It's just too hectic." If he wasn't such a nice guy I'd be saying, bullshit, everyone else does it, but he is SUCH a nice guy and I sympathize with every word he says. Two points for the power of smooth talking.

I proceed to find out that the next album will NOT be named after a Marx Brothers movie, that Groucho owns an official Queen II jacket and that Queen will be meeting him in L.A. Rock on Groucho!

On the subject of the band's incessant use of gimmickry, Brian comments, "A Day At the Races can be seen as an extension of A Night At the Opera". Though last year Brian's favorite album was Queen II, this year he professes to like A Day At The Races despite its similarities to Opera. He had once expressed discontent with Opera due to the switch of emphasis from guitar riff-based rockers to experiments with instruments like the Toy Koto, the genuine aloha ukelele and "Good Company's" guitar jazz band, not to mention Freddie's obsession for music in the movie musical genre.

A Day At The Races is the first self-produced Queen album. Previous albums had been stamped with both the band's name and that of Roy Thomas Baker—the man who served as scapegoat for numerous accusations regarding overproduction. A Day At The Races bears a pattern of excess remarkably similar to that of A Night At the Opera. Of producer Baker, Brian said: "We grew together and now we've got our own things to do. We always had a lot to say about the production anyway," he added, hinting at the possibility that Queen's vices have long since been self-inflicted.

Considering the vast amount of time and money spent on studio technique it is not surprising to discover that even before May had heard the influential playing of guitarists like Page and Hendrix, he was fascinated by Phil Spector's productions. "They were very emotional and very slushy," he explains with a gleam in his eye. Strange combination this romanticism, this background in astronomy, this technician who built his own guitar from the wood of an antique fireplace, this man whose songs are to him "very personal." Strange that all these experiences convene in one brain and come out with a split vote, half in favor of the schmaltzy sentimentality of numbers like the Beatle-ish "Long Away," the other half thrashing out in malevolent waves of heavy sound and male chauvinism, witness "Tie Your Mother Down."

Getting back to the matter of production. Brian recognizes the discrepancy between the live and studio version of a song like "Somebody To Love." It doesn't seem to bother him. Being dead set against the possibility of a live album, why should he worry as long as he's so busy filling big arenas that he doesn't have time to do interviews. Still, his heart is into making good studio recordings. "If we did a live album, it would have to be really good, but I can't imagine it. I think live albums are a cop out." He pauses and smiles, "Yeah, I know Frampton sold millions of records, but I don't think you can capture the whole thing outside of a studio." This was all said with a degree of sincerity that I'd like to believe but a conflicting report challenges his position. Reliable sources seem to believe that Queen is considering the possibility of recording live in Japan this summer with the able assistance of none other than Roy Thomas Baker.

So Queen and success have met. So far the two are getting along. A year ago Brian May proudly announced that the only tape the band used was "God Save The Queen" at the beginning and ending of concerts. "We don't like the idea of using tapes as backing tracks," he explained. Considering the role tapes play in their current show, suffice to say times have changed.

A year ago Brian believed there were things Queen could do in a small theatre that they could never do in Madison Square Garden. "When you start playing those places you have to change your whole act. A group can become like a picture in a frame. Communication in arenas is much more difficult and needs to be approached carefully." Now that Queen is playing only big arenas Brian expresses a feeling of comfort within the new atmosphere, explaining that the band feels geared towards it now. Queen certainly manages to fill large halls with sound but whether they know it or not, they've not mastered a way of filling their new frame with a coinciding picture.

It's deadline day and devoted soul that I am I've taken it upon myself to listen to all the Queen albums in order. The first two are a breeze, Queen bouncing from melodic early Yes style to heavy Led Zep riffing and then on to the sledgehammer stance of Deep Purple at their most menacing.

By Sheer Heart Attack the seeds of gimmickry are planted and they begin to grow like a small malignant cancer. Freddie Mercury has stopped singing about mercury and biblical references are less frequent. The band's image becomes less majestic, more decadent, killer Queen, and then a complete turnaround with A Night At The Opera wherein the boys abandon guts for cutesy cleverness. It is by this album that Queen have become definitely Queen. Maybe the novelty twist is their only surefire approach to originality: heavy metal novelty? A Day At the Races, as accounted for earlier, is more of the same as Opera.

I can still hear Brian talking about Jimi Hendrix with a sense of awe: "He was the man." At the same time the image of Freddie comes into view. He is posing for pictures. He keeps an eye on his reflection in the mirror. He primps his jet black hair and snickers in a barely audible but intentional tone, "Got to keep up the image." It's hard to imagine a more diverse marriage of ideas. It's transient, it's experimental and it's confusing as hell.

Ever since their 1973 debut I've followed Queen. I've reviewed every album with enthusiasm and then somehow forgotten them until the next release reminded me that I like the last one. I get all excited when a Queen record comes out, but it doesn't last. What's the answer? Staying power? Preservatives? It's driving me stone cold crazy.

Retrieved from The Creem Archive

[slytherinspired]

Yet - A Remus Lupin Imagine (smut)

Following the same story and universe as Tell Me About series! Here I am... 10 years later?

Remus stood before the counter, his hands trembling with a desperation he struggled to suppress. His clothes, worn and faded, hung loosely on his frame. His voice, when it came, was loud yet strained, as if it had been dragged from a place of deep frustration. The clerk in front of him sat behind a towering mahogany desk, her fingers moving in swift, precise gestures, as though casting spells without a wand. Her face was pale and angular, softened only by the shadow of dim candlelight that flickered along the Ministry’s endless corridors. The clerk was dressed in the neat, sober attire of Ministry officials, a crisp grey uniform with silver buttons that reflected the cold, bureaucratic glow of the room. Her brown hair was pinned back tightly, not a strand out of place, except for a thin streak of white that curled at her temple. 

“You don’t understand!” he shouted. The words felt twisted, as if they fought to balance on the edge between civility and rage. The witch behind the counter flinched but remained still, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk. She had no more to offer him than the faint apology etched into her expression. “I need to work.” 

He needed the money. That need pulsed in the room like a living thing, thickening the air between them. But all she could offer was silence, her eyes downcast, her hands empty. Papers floated softly to her from unseen corners, filing themselves with barely a flick of her wrist. Behind her desk, a charmed quill wrote furiously on a long parchment, recording the day’s tasks with an efficiency that bordered on eerie. 

“Like I told you –” she said, “Mr Collins needs help with his books, but I don’t have anything else right now for you.” 

Remus shook his head. “Mr Collins won’t work with me. You know it.” 

There it was—unspoken but palpable. The reason why each request was met with hesitance, each job prospect slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. He didn’t need to say it aloud anymore; the label had been burned into his very being. Werewolf. In the wizarding world, it was more than a condition—it was a curse. Few wanted to hire a werewolf. The fear lingered in every interaction, no matter how mundane. The Ministry had their own discreet policies on “dangerous creatures”.  

“I am sorry, Mr Lupin.” Her voice was smooth and low, tinged with the practiced indifference of someone who had seen many come and go from the Ministry’s endless halls. Her brown eyes showed nothing but disinterest. “Just come back next week.” 

“I’m here every week,” he sighed, “asking you for work, and each time it is the same. Why don’t you send me an owl if there’s something in the meantime? It would spare me from having to come here and bother you.” 

The witch raised her eyebrows and smiled mockingly. “Oh? And to what address should I send it?” 

She knew too well he didn’t have an address. He lived in his damn car – had been living in it for months now. The Ministry’s endless red tape, combined with the stigma of his condition, had shut every door before him. Each job interview, each opportunity, crumbled the moment his lycanthropy was mentioned or even hinted at. It was as if the wizarding world had no place for him outside the fringes of society. 

He turned away without bothering to say goodbye. There was nothing for him there. 

Finding work in the Muggle world had proven just as impossible. At first, it seemed like an escape—no one in the Muggle realm knew about werewolves, and the Ministry couldn’t interfere as easily. But even there, he couldn’t outrun his condition. Each month, as the full moon approached, he would feel the familiar dread tightening in his chest. He couldn’t just call in sick for three days without raising suspicion, and disappearing every month had quickly made him unreliable. Employers grew wary, questioning the strange absences. He had been let go from more jobs than he cared to remember, dismissed for being "untrustworthy" or "inconsistent." 

Remus had been careful with the modest inheritance his parents had left him, stretching every Galleon to make it last. For a time, it allowed him to rent a small flat near Diagon Alley, a place where he could be somewhat connected to the magical world. But even that fragile stability crumbled after two years, when Mrs. Daisy, his elderly neighbour, had complained to the landlord, claiming she didn’t feel safe living next door to a werewolf. No one had said it outright, but the eviction notice came soon after. 

Afterward, he managed to find a tiny studio in London, outside the magical community, but the rent required sterling pounds, not Galleons, and even without his affliction, finding work in the Muggle world have proved nearly impossible without the proper credentials. He had no Muggle schooling, no tangible proof of any experience, and no one was willing to take a risk on a man with an incomplete story. For a brief spell, he worked at a small café, washing dishes in the back, but his frequent absences around the full moon quickly made him expendable. “It’s just not working out,” his manager had said, barely meeting his eyes as he handed over the final pay check. 

After that, it had been a string of odd jobs—cleaning homes, scrubbing cars, whatever he could find that didn’t require questions or paperwork. But even those jobs dried up after a few months, the repeated absences stacking up like a curse he couldn’t escape. It didn’t matter how hard he worked or how much he tried to hide his condition; sooner or later, the same pattern emerged. He’d disappear for a few days, recover in secret, and by the time he returned, the whispers had already started. They always ended the same way: with him packing his few belongings and moving on to the next temporary refuge, the shadows of his secret following him wherever he went. 

But then, happier days came. And he embraced them as much as he could.  

Mr. Collins had been one of the rare few to take a chance on Remus, inviting him into his home with little fuss or prying questions. The old wizard had an impressive collection of books and papers in desperate need of organization, and Remus had relished the work. The house itself felt like a sanctuary—a sprawling estate tucked away from the bustling wizarding world, with its heart being the grand library that stretched wall to wall with ancient tomes and fragile manuscripts. For six peaceful months, Remus had lived there, surrounded by books, his evenings filled with the quiet companionship of Mr. Collins. They would often sit by the fire, sipping tea or scotch depending on the mood, talking about the wizard’s past adventures and far-flung travels. Remus had almost allowed himself to believe that he had found a place where his affliction didn’t matter. 

Everything changed overnight. 

The trouble had started with a routine trip to the Ministry to pick up his Wolfsbane Potion. With the full moon only days away, Remus needed it to maintain control during his transformation. But that day, there had been none. The Ministry’s supplies had run dry, and in a rising panic, Remus went to every apothecary in Diagon Alley, pleading for them to brew it for him. The answer was always the same—there was no Wolfsbane to be had, not until a delayed shipment of rare herbs arrived. Desperation clawed at him as the full moon loomed closer. 

When the night finally came, Remus did the only thing he could—he locked himself in the cellar beneath the guest house on Mr. Collins’ estate, far away from the main house and anyone who could be harmed. He chained himself tightly, trying to prepare for the agonizing transformation. But without the Wolfsbane, Remus knew that the wolf was savage, uncontrollable. As the change tore through his body, so too did the creature’s instincts, stronger than any chain he had prepared. The bonds snapped, and the beast roamed the grounds, its hunger and rage unleashed. The wolf howled to the moon, its cries cutting through the still night air as it hunted the estate, searching for prey. 

Mr. Collins’ housekeeper had been outside that night, restless and unable to sleep. She had been wandering through the gardens when the wolf appeared, a massive shadow with glowing eyes. In a split second, it lunged. Only the quick intervention of Mr. Collins, who had been awakened by the howling, had saved her. He subdued the wolf before it could do any real damage, but the incident left its mark. 

The next morning, Remus awoke in human form, bruised, aching, and filled with dread. He didn’t need to hear Mr. Collins' words to know what was coming. When he entered the kitchen, his pay was already waiting for him on the counter, along with a leather trunk packed with his few belongings. On top of the trunk rested a book from Mr. Collins' private collection—Remus's favourite, one he had admired during his long nights in the library. The wizard had even engraved the trunk with Remus’s initials, a final gesture of parting kindness. 

Beside it, a note in Mr. Collins’ elegant script read simply: Thank you for your service. 

It was over. Whatever peace he had found there was gone, lost in a single night. 

When Remus came back to London, the weight of his situation bore down on him like a suffocating fog. He needed a place to live, but the few Galleons he had saved were barely enough to cover the cost of a small studio, let alone food and the Wolfsbane Potion that he relied on every month. He ran the calculations over and over in his head—if he paid for rent, he’d only have enough to survive for a couple of months before everything dried up. 

That was when he met a young wizard at the Leaky Cauldron, selling an old, battered car for next to nothing. The decision had been easy. The car was cheaper than rent, and living in it meant he could stretch his money long enough to eat and scrape by while searching for work. So, Remus took it, and for two months now, the car had become his home—an old, rusting shelter parked in the backstreets of Muggle London. But work never came. Not for someone like him. 

Each Friday became a routine of survival. Remus would head to the Leaky Cauldron, where the kindly innkeeper allowed him to sit down with a free bowl of soup and a cup of tea. Sometimes, if the inn wasn’t fully booked, he was even allowed to use one of the rooms to take a hot shower, a luxury he was rarely afforded. Those brief moments of warmth and comfort were fleeting, but he clung to them like a lifeline. 

After his shower, he’d walk back to the Ministry, heading straight to the Wizarding Work Bureau, where hope flickered and died week after week. Every Friday, he found himself standing before the same brown-haired clerk. And every Friday, her reply was the same: nothing new, no work available. The expression on her face was always tired, indifferent. Remus couldn’t blame her—his situation was just another file in a growing stack. Another life falling through the cracks. 

He’d leave the bureau and step into the great hall of the Ministry, watching witches and wizards bustling about their business, oblivious to the fact that his world was crumbling. He wondered sometimes if he could even blame them. After all, his affliction was real, dangerous, and he understood their fear. But understanding didn’t make it easier to live with. He had grown thinner, his clothes hung loosely on his frame, and his face had become gaunt, his eyes shadowed by dark circles that deepened with each restless night spent in the backseat of his car. At just 28, streaks of grey had already woven through his hair, and he looked older than his years—like the ghost of the man he had once been. 

He was about to leave the Ministry, ready to disappear into the crowded streets once more, when something stopped him. A glimpse of black hair. For a moment, he thought he was imagining it—his tired mind playing tricks on him—but then he saw her again.  

Eliana. 

It all came rushing back to him in an instant, as if the past had never let him go. Eliana had arrived at Hogwarts during their sixth year, transferring from an old, distinguished town in Italy. Her beauty had been striking—impossible to ignore—and it wasn’t long before she caught the attention of everyone. Sirius, however, had despised her from the moment he noticed the colour of her tie. Ellie and her younger sister had been sorted into Slytherin. But Remus had seen the look in his friend's eyes, the disdain that masked something deeper.  

It wasn’t just the house she’d been placed in; it was the undeniable pull she had over him. She was one of the most captivating girls Remus had ever laid eyes on, and though Sirius never admitted it, Remus knew he felt the same. They had fought constantly—Sirius and Eliana—bickering in the halls, trading insults in class, to the point where even the professors made a point of keeping them apart. 

But everything shifted that summer. Sirius had run away from his family, severing ties with the House of Black once and for all. When they returned to Hogwarts for their final year, something about him had changed. Remus noticed how Sirius’s silver eyes lingered on Ellie now, no longer filled with resentment, but something softer. By Christmas, they were holding hands, sitting together at meals, whispering in quiet corners. They were inseparable, and it wasn’t long before everyone was talking about how perfect they were for each other—two rebels who had found solace in each other’s arms. 

Everyone agreed they were made for each other—everyone except Eliana’s family. Her parents couldn’t accept that their eldest daughter, heir to an old and revered lineage, was in love with the disowned son of one of the most infamous wizarding families. The Blacks may have been prestigious, but Sirius’s rebellion had tarnished their name in the eyes of the pure-blood elite. Yet, despite the tension, Eliana stood by him. She had promised that one day, she would confront her family, make them understand. But that day never came. 

Everything fell apart. Darkness had crept into Sirius’s world, and when Remus told Eliana what he had done, to Peter and James – and Lily, the crimes he’d committed, she refused to believe it. She couldn’t. They fought—terribly, violently—words flung at each other like curses. A month later, she disappeared. Without a word, she left, and no one knew where she had gone. Remus had tried to reach her, sending letters to her parents, even tracking down her younger sister, begging for answers. But there had been no replies, just silence. A year later, he found out her family had sold their house in London. Ellie had vanished from his life, as though she had never existed at all. 

She left the Ministry, and Remus followed, keeping his distance, too afraid to call out, too afraid to shatter the fragile image of her that had lingered in his mind for years. What if she wasn’t the same? What if the Eliana he remembered—the one who had disappeared so suddenly—was gone, replaced by someone colder, more distant? Her hurried steps echoed in the quiet streets until she reached the door of the Leaky Cauldron. Remus watched from the shadows as she slipped inside. He hesitated for a moment, then followed. 

She made her way to the bar, her movements quick and deliberate. He stayed back, watching, listening, his heart hammering in his chest. He heard her voice, unmistakable even after all these years. 

“Fire whiskey, please.” 

That voice—it sent a shiver through him. It was hers, no doubt about it. He could have recognized it anywhere. 

He stood at a distance, watching as she downed the glass in one swift gulp, her fingers gripping the empty glass as if trying to hold on to something far more elusive. 

“One more,” she said, her voice steady, but there was an edge to it—something raw and unguarded. 

The bartender frowned but obliged, pouring another glass. She tossed it back just as quickly. 

“In fact,” Eliana said, placing a piece of gold on the counter, “just give me the whole bottle.” 

The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Careful with that,” he warned. “It’s strong.” 

She scoffed. “Strong is exactly what I need right now.” 

She grabbed the bottle and turned—only to find herself face-to-face with Remus. Their eyes locked. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, suspended in the charged space between them. The bottle slipped from her grasp, but before it could hit the floor, Remus caught it with a quick flick of his hand. 

“Careful with that,” he echoed the bartender's words, offering her a small, shy smile as he handed the bottle back to her. 

Eliana stood there, stunned, her expression unreadable. She blinked, seemingly unsure of what to say, then turned back to the bar, grabbing an empty glass. After a long pause, she took a deep breath and finally spoke. 

“Shall we... sit?” she asked quietly. 

Remus frowned, feeling a twinge of disappointment. He hadn’t expected her to rush into his arms, not after everything, but he hadn’t expected her to be so... indifferent. They found a quiet, dimly lit corner, away from the crowd, and sat down. The air between them felt thick, like an unspoken question hanging there, unanswered. 

“I didn’t know you were in London,” Remus said, breaking the silence. His voice was softer than he intended, as if he feared that if he didn’t speak, she might vanish again. 

“You weren’t supposed to know,” she replied, pouring the fire whiskey into two glasses and sliding one toward him. 

He took it, feeling the warmth of the liquid as he sipped, the heat spreading through his chest. “How long have you been here?” he asked. 

“I arrived yesterday,” she said, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” 

Remus frowned. “Do you come to London often?” 

Her eyes stayed fixed on her drink. “First time in five years,” she muttered. “I wasn’t supposed to ever come back.” 

That, he had guessed.  

“So, why are you here?” His voice was barely more than a whisper, but the question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the years between them. 

She took another sip, her gaze distant. “It’s Clara’s birthday. I came to visit her.” 

“Clara’s in London?” Remus was genuinely surprised. Eliana’s younger sister had left the city around the same time she did. 

“She’s been here for two years now,” Eliana replied, finally looking up at him. “She studied healing in America, but she got an opportunity to be a resident at St. Mungo’s.” 

Remus felt a pang of guilt. He hadn’t known. He’d never seen Clara in all this time, never even heard whispers of her name. 

“Usually, she comes back to Italy for her birthday, but this year she’s on call, so I thought I’d surprise her,” Eliana continued, her voice quieter now, as if the weight of everything was pressing down on her. 

“And you?” Remus asked, his voice low. “You’re in Italy now?” 

She nodded, but there was no warmth in the gesture. He had thought she had returned to her family after leaving London, but he didn’t know where nor did he have the means to search for her. Over time, he had accepted that she was gone, that she didn’t want to be found. 

“I looked for you,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The first year. I wrote to your parents. They sold the house, and I couldn’t find where you had gone. I wanted to write, but—” 

Eliana reached out, her hand resting on his. The touch was sudden, unexpected, and he nearly flinched from the warmth of it. He hadn’t felt her touch in years. 

She used to be so kind to him. They’d study together when Sirius was too tired to care. They’d spend whole nights in the library, preparing for the next test. Often, they’d compare their answers and have burst of laughs. And when she had guessed his condition, she never pulled back, on the contrary, she used to help him and the boys prepare for the full moon. She took care of him after, bringing him hot chocolate the following mornings after a transformation.  

“I left for a reason, Remus,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of something final, something unspoken. “I didn’t want to be found.” 

“Why?” he asked, his voice breaking slightly. 

She looked away, her fingers slipping from his hand as quickly as they had touched it. Remus could see the hurt in her eyes, the grief she had carried for so long. She had been mourning—Sirius, their future, everything she had lost—but was it enough to leave without a word? Was the pain of losing Sirius worth abandoning everything else? 

She didn’t answer the question burning on his lips, but she took his hand, her touch soft, hesitant. “I never meant to hurt you,” she whispered. 

He knew she had been angry—angry with him for not believing in Sirius’s innocence, for standing against her when she had tried so hard to defend the man she loved. Their last conversation had been bitter, sharp words exchanged like hexes. She had called him a horrible friend, accused him of betraying Sirius’s memory, of believing that his best friend could be capable of murder and treachery. And he, in his grief, had thrown her words back at her, refusing to believe that she could still defend the man who had killed Peter, who had betrayed James and Lily’s trust. Who had made his own godson an orphan.  

Remus shook his head, squeezing her hand gently. “I didn’t mean to either.” 

She laughed softly, but it was a sad, hollow sound. She pulled her hand away, running her fingers nervously through her dark hair. “I didn’t plan on seeing you again,” she admitted. “I wasn’t supposed to be here.” 

“You must have known I wasn’t far...” he replied quietly, studying her face, trying to read the thoughts behind her guarded expression. 

She shrugged, her lips curving into a faint, almost wistful smile. “To be honest, Remus, I thought you’d have left London by now. You never liked it here.” 

She was right, of course. He had always craved the quiet solitude of the countryside, the peace it offered compared to the chaos of city life. But circumstances had tied him to this place. “I don’t really have a choice at the moment.” 

Eliana’s gaze flickered with curiosity, but she didn’t push. She could see the weariness in his face, the gauntness in his frame, and he didn’t want to burden her with the details of his life. Not after all this time. 

“So,” he said, changing the subject as he poured them another round of fire whiskey, “what are you doing now, back home?” 

She hesitated for a moment, as if weighing her words. “I’m a barrister,” she said finally, her voice soft but steady. 

Of course she was, Remus thought. She had always had a fierce sense of justice, always fighting for the underdog. It seemed fitting. She studied him with a small, knowing smile. “It suits me, don’t you think?” 

She had not been able to fight for Sirius.  

Remus smiled back, but there was something faint about it, as if he couldn’t quite summon the warmth he used to feel. “And are you happy?” he asked, his eyes falling to her left hand, where he had noticed the glint of a ring earlier. 

Eliana glanced down at the ring, as if surprised to see it there herself. “Yes,” she answered softly. “I am.” 

“He’s a lucky man,” Remus said, his tone genuine, though there was a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. 

Her expression faltered for just a moment, her gaze clouding over with something unreadable. 

They talked for what felt like hours, dancing around the past, avoiding the name that hung between them like a shadow. They didn’t dare speak of Sirius, both too afraid that the mention of him would reignite the pain and bitterness that had driven them apart all those years ago. Eliana tried, more than once, to ask about Remus—how he was really doing—but it was clear she already knew. She could see the struggle etched into his skin. 

At one point, she offered to order dinner, but Remus refused, his pride too strong to accept her charity, especially from her. He could feel her pity, and he hated it. The night wore on, and eventually, Ellie glanced out the window, watching as the sky darkened and snow began to fall, dusting the streets in a soft, silent white. 

“I should go,” she said, standing up reluctantly.  

Remus rose with her. “Let me walk you outside,” he offered. 

She shook her head. “There’s no need.” 

But Remus reached for her hand, and she let him take it. His eyes locked onto hers, his voice low and serious. “If this is the last time I see you, Ellie, at least let me walk with you. I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye last time.” 

She hesitated, then nodded. 

Outside, the air was crisp, the snowflakes catching the glow of the Christmas lights strung along the street. The festive scene felt oddly out of place, the cheerful lights at odds with the heaviness between them. Eliana walked beside him in silence for a while, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. 

“Are you living far from here?” she asked, glancing sideways at him. “I’m just around the corner. Maybe we could walk together?” 

“I’m fine,” Remus said, offering her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

She stopped, then, looking up at him with concern. Before he could protest, she stepped into his arms, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. He rested his chin on the top of her head, breathing in the faint scent of her perfume, a familiar comfort from a time long past. 

“I can’t shake the feeling that you’re not,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. Her green eyes shimmered with tears, and for a moment, Remus felt something in him break. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he said lightly, scoffing to cover the ache in his chest. He pointed to the old red car parked just a few feet away. “I’ve got all I need.” 

Eliana pulled away from him, frowning as she walked up to the car, her brow furrowed. “Is this... yours?” 

“Not bad, eh?” Remus said with a laugh, trying to brush it off. 

But it was absurd. She came from a world of wealth and privilege, and here he was, trying to play off the fact that he was living out of a beat-up car. 

“Well, it’s got style, I’ll give you that,” she said with a soft smile, but then her expression shifted. She peered through the windows of the car, her face growing serious. 

“Remus,” she asked, her voice quiet, “are you... living in your car?” 

He sighed, tilting his head back to look at the sky. “It’s just temporary,” he said, the words feeling hollow even as he spoke them. 

Eliana stepped closer, her hand finding his once again. Her face was filled with concern, the same look she used to give him at Hogwarts, whenever she worried for his well-being. 

All those years, always worrying about him. 

And here she was, still doing it. 

She wore the same worried look when Sirius would show too much affection towards her in front of him. She always glanced at Remus, a quick look to make sure he was alright. And every time, he ignored it—ignored that pitiful gaze he despised so much. 

“Let me show you something,” she said, her voice soft but firm. 

She took his hand, and together they walked through the blurry, illuminated streets. The night felt strange, the lights of the city glowing brighter than usual, casting everything in an almost dreamlike haze. They stopped in front of an old Victorian building, its weathered brickwork speaking of better days. Without a word, Eliana opened the front door, and Remus stepped in, his heart heavy but his feet following her without hesitation. 

The entrance led through a narrow, dimly lit hallway with a winding staircase, where the sounds of distant conversations echoed faintly from above. Inside, the flat was modest but charming. Tall sash windows framed the streets below, and the living room, with its classic crown mouldings, felt warm despite the unused fireplace. Wooden floorboards creaked beneath her feet. 

“Clara’s rented this place when she came back to London,” Eliana said as she flicked on the lights with a casual wave of her hand. “But she moved in with her partner six months ago, so now she just uses it as storage. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s comfortable.” 

“It’s nice,” Remus murmured, still standing in the doorway, hands shoved deep into his pockets. 

Ellie frowned and gestured for him to come in properly. “Please, make yourself at home.” 

Remus cleared his throat and stepped further inside, still cautious, as if he were afraid he might knock something over or leave a mark where he didn’t belong. Eliana removed her black cloak, revealing an all-black outfit underneath. The simplicity made her seem almost otherworldly in the soft light. 

“There’s a small living room here, the kitchen’s just over there,” she said, pointing to a tiny space to her right. “An office through that door, and a decent-sized bedroom next to it. The bathroom’s at the end of the hall.” 

As she spoke, Remus couldn’t help but wonder why she was describing all this to him. This was the kind of flat he couldn’t even dream of renting. He wasn’t sure why she had brought him here—until he felt something cold press into his hand. Looking down, he saw a key. 

“What—” 

“Clara’s moving to France in a couple of months,” Eliana explained, cutting him off before he could protest. “There’s still two years left on the lease, and it’s a nightmare finding someone reliable to sublet. The owner’s a witch who only rents to people like us. It would be a waste to leave it empty when I know you could use it.” 

Remus shook his head, immediately trying to hand the key back to her. “I can’t accept this. It’s a kind offer, but—” 

“But what?” she interrupted; her tone sharp but not unkind. “It’s almost winter, Remus. You can’t live in your car. I won’t allow it.” 

He scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping before he could stop it. “You haven’t cared where I’ve lived for the last five years. Why now?” 

The words sounded harsher than he had intended, but he couldn’t take them back. 

Eliana didn’t flinch. She didn’t even seem angry, just... resigned. “I understand why you’d feel that way,” she said softly. “I know I’ve hurt you, but believe me, Remus, I didn’t want to leave you behind like that. It wasn’t just my choice.” 

“Then why did you?” His voice was low, but the question cut through the space between them like a knife. 

She sighed, running a hand through her long hair. “I was angry. Angry that you could believe such awful things about him.” She didn’t dare speak his name. “I needed you to fight with me, to at least give him a chance, to hear his side of the story. And when you didn’t... I felt like I was losing everything. You didn’t just turn your back on him—you left me alone too.” 

Remus closed his eyes for a moment, trying to stave off the familiar sting of guilt. It was the same argument they’d had all those years ago, and yet here it was again, haunting them both. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I wasn’t the friend you needed. I’m sorry I abandoned you.” He held out the key again, offering it back. “But I can’t accept this, Ellie. I don’t need your pity.” 

She let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “Pity?” she echoed. “Is that really what you think this is?” 

What else could it be? 

“You’ve always tried to protect me,” Remus said quietly, his voice strained. “Even back at Hogwarts. I know you knew... how I felt.” 

He hesitated, but there was no need to finish. She knew. She had always known how he felt—how much he wished she didn’t love Sirius the way she did. And how much he wished Sirius didn’t love her back just as fiercely. They were soulmates, and it had always crushed him, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. 

“This isn’t pity, Remus,” she said, sitting down on the couch, her fingers pressing into her temples as though she could push away the weight of the conversation. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “It’s care. It’s love. I can’t stand the idea of you being homeless, living in your car. I had no idea things were this bad.” 

Remus sighed, his exhaustion overwhelming him. He sat down too, sinking into the cushions beside her, his body heavy with the burden of everything left unsaid. 

“Has it been this way since I left?” she asked, her gaze fixed on him. 

He shook his head, not wanting her to carry the full weight of his struggles. But he didn’t have the strength to lie, either. The truth was somewhere in between, and as they sat in the quiet flat, the years of pain and silence between them felt heavier than ever. 

“It was fine for a while,” he began, hesitating. “But being what I am… you know. People fear me. They’re right to.” 

Eliana edged closer, her expression softening as she reached for his hand. “No one should fear you.” 

Remus gave a hollow laugh. “I’m a monster, Ellie. Quite literally.” 

Her hand moved to his chin, gently turning his face toward hers. “Look at me,” she said firmly. “You are not a monster. You’re the kindest, most thoughtful person I’ve ever known.” 

“Kindness doesn’t matter much when I turn into a wild animal every full moon,” he muttered, eyes drifting to the window. “Even with wolfsbane, I’m just a shadow of myself, too drained to do anything but exist.” 

His gaze traced the night sky, as if searching for answers in the stars. “It’s coming again… two days from now. I’m already worn out. Everything hurts.” 

Eliana’s voice broke as she whispered, “I’m so sorry.” A tear slipped down her cheek. 

“It is what it is,” Remus replied, standing slowly and moving toward the door. 

“Stay,” she called after him, her voice trembling. 

He paused, eyes closing against the weight of her plea. 

“Please, Remus,” she said again, stepping closer. “Let this be your home, just for a while. Let me give you a chance to rest, to not worry about where you’ll sleep tomorrow.” 

His heart clenched painfully. He turned to her, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “There’s only one thing I want, Ellie,” he whispered. “Don’t leave. I can’t be alone anymore. I need a friend.” 

He broke down, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession. Eliana was at his side in an instant, pulling him into a tight embrace. 

“I can’t stay, Remus,” she said softly. 

He looked down, his heart sinking further. He knew she had a life elsewhere, with someone waiting for her. Someone she loved. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice hollow. 

Ellie gave a nervous laugh. “I didn’t want to see you again,” she admitted, her gaze locking with his. “I was terrified of this moment…” 

“Am I that frightening?” he tried to joke, though his heart wasn’t in it. 

She traced the scar on his face with a gentle touch. “Not at all,” she whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss on his cheek. “You’re everything but.” 

Her hand lingered on his skin, their faces now inches apart. Remus felt the pull, the uncontrollable urge rising within him, the wildness that came with the moon. But he fought it, grounding himself in the moment. 

When she kissed his other cheek, the rawness of it nearly undid him. Her breath warmed his neck, and before he could stop himself, he leaned into her, eyes closed against the flood of desire. 

“Ellie…” he murmured, his control slipping. 

“This is the last time we’ll see each other,” she whispered against his skin. “Don’t ruin it.” 

Her hands found his bare skin, fingers tracing the edge of his shirt, moving lower. His mind spun. He felt as though he were betraying the memory of his lost brother, but the weight of her closeness, the tenderness he had craved for so long, was too much to resist. If pity was all she had to offer, then maybe… maybe it was enough. 

The memory of one past night haunted him—one of those memories that never faded, no matter how much time passed. It was their last year at Hogwarts. The entire school had descended on Hogsmeade for one last wild celebration, all the houses mingling, no divisions, no rivalries—just freedom and exhilaration. Remus had felt it too, for a while, but exhaustion caught up with him before the night was over. He decided to return to the dorms early, slipping away unnoticed, or so he thought. 

He hadn’t realized that Sirius and Ellie weren’t with the rest of the group when he made his way back to the Gryffindor Tower. He had planned to take a long bath and go to bed, hoping to escape the noise and chaos that usually drained him. 

But when he opened the dormitory door, something stopped him cold. 

There, pinned against the wall, was Eliana. Sirius was with her, moving against her, his breath heavy. Her hands had been tangled in his hair, her back arching into him as if seeking more. Remus had frozen. Sirius’s trousers were bunched around his ankles, his shirt barely covering his body, and Ellie—her clothes had been dishevelled, exposing enough for Remus to know what was happening. 

He had been wanting to turn around, to give them their privacy, but something held him in place. Ellie’s eyes met his. For a heartbeat, he was sure she saw him. Her lips parted, and for that brief moment, he swore there was something more than surprise in her gaze. Was it… desire? For him? 

No, he had imagined it. 

Shaken, he had flown back to the common room, trying to focus on a book, anything to erase the scene from his mind. Half an hour later, Sirius and Ellie had reappeared, laughing as though nothing had happened. Sirius joked about Remus turning in early, while Ellie said nothing, avoiding his gaze completely. He had never brought it up. He convinced himself it was a trick of the light, a figment of his imagination. Surely, she hadn’t seen him at all. 

And now, with a broken heart and trembling hands, he gave in.  

She was kissing him, and as he pressed his body against hers, he couldn’t help but recall that night—couldn’t help but recreate the image of her against the wall, except this time, it was him pinning her there. His breath came ragged in her ear, and he fought to keep control. He had imagined this for so long—what she might taste like, how her body would feel wrapped around him. 

Ellie unbuckled his belt, her hands steady, as his trousers fell to the floor. When she pulled off her shirt, revealing herself to him, he couldn’t breathe. She was perfect. More perfect than he had ever dared to imagine. 

For so long, he had envied Sirius, envied him for knowing her in ways Remus never would. But now, with her in front of him, he felt a shame deeper than anything he had known. 

But the desire, the wildness in him, wouldn’t be silenced. He bent to kiss her skin—her lips, her neck, her collarbone—his breath hot and uncontrolled. He wasn’t a man anymore. He was something primal, something desperate. Ellie tilted her head back, and he slid his mouth lower, removing the last barrier of clothing between them. 

When his lips found the warmth between her legs, her quiet moan broke the silence, sending a shiver down his spine. She grabbed his hair, pulling him closer as his tongue moved between her folds, tasting her. She moaned again, her fingers gripping him tighter, and for a moment, he forgot everything. Forgot who he was, forgot who she was. All that mattered was the taste of her, the feel of her skin under his tongue. 

He could stay like this forever, he thought. But the ache between his own legs, the pressure building inside him, refused to be ignored. He stood, lifting her in his arms, carrying her to the couch. Ellie’s legs parted without hesitation, inviting him in. He saw that same look in her eyes—the one he had seen all those years ago. Perhaps, he hadn’t been imagining it after all. 

His breath hitched as he nudged at her entrance, and when he pushed into her, they both let out a gasp—surprise and pleasure all at once. He moved slowly at first, trying to remind himself to be gentle, to be soft. But he couldn’t hold back. Not with her. He wanted to feel her completely, to lose himself in her warmth. 

Her moans grew louder as he quickened his pace, the sound of his body moving against hers driving him to the edge. She arched beneath him, her breasts rising and falling with each thrust, and he was lost—growling low in his throat, forgetting everything but this moment, this need. 

Her legs wrapped around his waist as he pounded into her, harder now, his humanity slipping away. And then, he felt her tighten around him, her body trembling with the release he had been chasing.  

With her eyes closed, he wondered for a moment if she was thinking of somebody else, of him or the man that awaited her back home. 

But Ellie whispered his name in a breathless gasp, and it was all he needed. He followed her over the edge, spilling into her with a moan, his body shaking from the force of it. 

For a moment, the world stood still. 

As the last waves of pleasure faded, Remus pulled away, his mind reeling. What had he done? His heart pounded in his chest, guilt flooding him as he ran a trembling hand over his face. He wasn’t meant for this—not with her. Not with Ellie. Not with the woman who had once belonged with his best friend. 

Eliana leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder, her voice soft and broken. “I would have loved you so much, Remus… if I hadn’t loved him.” 

“I know,” he whispered, his chest tight. 

Her words hit him harder than he expected, words he had longed to hear but never allowed himself to hope for. He had known, from the moment they met, that she would always belong to Sirius and Sirius to her. But to hear her say it—it tore him apart. 

“In another life, maybe,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. 

He let out a bitter chuckle. “Maybe.” 

“I wanted this,” she said, her voice trembling. “I hope you did too.” 

He looked at her, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She was beautiful, even in her sadness. But it wasn’t him she loved. It never would be. 

“I wish it had been you,” she whispered, her voice cracking.  

“But it’s him,” he replied.  

“It’s always going to be him,” she whispered with a trembling voice. 

He nodded, understanding in the pit of his stomach. “I get it.” 

Ellie touched his face, her thumb brushing against his cheek. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. You deserve to be loved, Remus, if only you could see yourself the way I see you.” 

Remus closed his eyes, fighting back the tears. It was selfish to want more from her, to ask her to stay. He knew that now. He’d never have her fully, but this—this was something. Wasn’t it better than nothing? 

“One day, you’ll meet someone,” she said softly. “Someone who will love you completely, without fear or hesitation. Please, don’t push them away when you do.” 

He let out a hollow laugh, the same words James had told him countless times. It had never felt true, and it didn’t now. No one would accept him, not as he was. But he nodded, if only to make her stop crying. 

Ellie kissed him once more, her lips lingering for a moment longer than before. “I don’t think our paths will cross again,” she whispered, tears spilling down her face. “It’s better this way.” 

Remus shook his head, his heart aching. His eyes pleaded with her. “This is goodbye, then,” he said, his voice breaking. 

She nodded. “This is goodbye.” 

Defeated, Remus rested his head against the cushion, his eyelids growing heavier with each passing second. The weight of exhaustion settled over him like a thick blanket. He felt her arms around him, warm and familiar, offering a fleeting comfort. Ellie’s embrace tightened gently, and she pressed a soft kiss against his cheek, lingering just long enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath on his skin. 

For a moment, the world seemed to quiet, and he let himself sink into that small, stolen tenderness—something he knew would soon slip away. 

“I’m sorry you lost the love of your life,” he said, the words catching in his throat. 

Remus quietly surrendered to the sleep that had been tugging at him for too long, its embrace pulling him deeper into a long-overdue rest. As the weight of consciousness slipped away, he felt himself sinking, drifting into the quiet abyss where exhaustion finally gave way to peace. 

When Remus woke the next morning, soft sunlight filtered through the window, casting a golden glow across the room. The duvet from the bedroom had been gently draped over him, a small gesture of care left in the silence. The apartment was still, empty. 

Ellie was gone. 

Rising slowly, he walked to the kitchen, where a folded note lay beside an envelope. His chest tightened as he opened it, reading the words in her familiar handwriting: 

“You’re sorry I’ve lost the love of my life, Remus. But I’m sorry you haven’t met yours.” 

He hesitated before opening the envelope. Inside, the key to the flat rested, cold and waiting. Etched into its surface was a single word: "Yet." 

[thesorcerersapprenticeu]

Chapter 5: Tip Toe

After the events of the mission, the conversation between Vander and Vi and Mylo's testimony against you, you still have to continue. Strangely enough, Vander calls you for a private conversation.

---

"Lever"

"Le-ver!"

"Exactly!"

You were back in the Basement of The Last Drop. You and Powder were sitting on her bed, leaning against the wall. In the background, music was playing through an old record player, which also had something like a trumpet on it. It was quiet, relaxed and almost made you forget what you had both been listening to a few minutes ago.

 "What the hell were you thinking?"

"They are a Problem."

 "They made a mistake" - "Name one time they haven't"

 "You were twice the person at half their age."

The sentences echo in your head, one popping up again and again, making you feel the emptiness in your stomach. Powder was with you, you ran away from the Thug together, but you threw the bag into the sea.

And now, you're giving Powder something like a lesson again. You've been doing that since you were all taken in by Vander. For your young age, you could already read and write, a privilege no one from Zaun had. Most people can't do math either, whether it's money or goods. Since Vi already knew the letters, but Powder couldn't do either of those things, you taught them.

Even if you preferred to stare into Powder's sapphire blue eyes and get lost in them during this lesson, it went really well. Powder learned incredibly quickly, after just two days she was able to memorize all the letters, much faster than Vi, who only repeated everything in a hurry.

And so here you are again, but not really in class mentally. You can't stop thinking about the big notebook from the Academy apartment, the Holy Wizard Corpse. Since you learned from one of the pages almost an hour ago that there are corpse parts in Zaun and Piltover, you can't clear your head. You kept thinking about which of the Nine Parts are hiding here, in this hole, in Zaun... And what they can do. Does it have something to do with magic or some natural force of the world?

But all the while thinking about it, the whole job pops into your head about how you and Powder screwed up and all the loot is gone.

"And this Lever is an object." You say, not with as much conviction as usual, but enough to make it sound like educational words. You look to your right, to Powder, and expect a definition for object.

"An object..." Powder replies, actually quite quickly. She looks to your left for a moment, makes a thinking face and turns right again. She stretches her arm forward, grabs a piece from a metal mesh-like box and tinkers with her gadget. "Soooo...A Thing?"

Should I talk to her about Vi's statement? No, I can't do that. They're sisters, hearing something like that from your own must be much worse than from someone like Mylo.

"Yeah...A Thing." You say after a few seconds. Your mouth utters the words while your other senses automatically focus their attention on her. Her hair, her soft pale skin and everything about her was perfect. She didn't see herself that way, neither do you, after all you're both the weaklings of the group. But who cares if you have each other?

"A lever is a simple tool that helps you to move or lift heavy things more eas-

You stop talking and see Vi out of the corner of your eye. Her red hair immediately stands out in the dim light. She walks towards you, a light smile tracing her lips as she sees you both sitting there.

"What are you calling this one?" Vi asks quietly as she stops in front of the bed and leans forward slightly.

Your eyes immediately fixate on her, a few things wander through your mind.

What is she doing here? And why is she asking about Whisker, as if she's really interested? She wants us both to train or something. Or is she here to tell us what an embarrassment we've made of ourselves today? After all, she agreed with Mylo about what he said to us.

"Whisker" This time Powder waits a few seconds before answering. It even sounds slightly broken, as if she hesitated to answer. She was probably thinking the same thing you were: that Vi wants to address what happened today and distract you for now.

Powder takes the little gadget in one hand and starts drawing on it with the other. She does this with each of her creations and you could watch her for hours. It's an art how her slender fingers spread the color on the metallic surfaces and it becomes an invention.

With that, Vi suddenly moves towards you, onto the bed. While you hold on to Powder, she sits down next to you on the left, a slight distance from Powder, after all it was clear what was coming next.

"Wanna talk about today?"

Neither you nor Powder look over at her. The mood is pretty shitty, after all, she's addressing the two who lost the Haul. You think, the simple "no" answer definitely won't satisfy Vi. She's a pretty direct and determined person, so if she wants to appeal to your feelings, she can.

So you answer, dazed and in a depressive mood, but you answer.

"Why? I Ruined Everything." It sounds like rubbish coming out of your mouth. How many times have you apologized to the others just because you didn't get something right? "I'm sorry I'm so weak." Or "I didn't know, I'm sorry." If you think about it, you've already lost count of how many times you've apologized for something like that. Definitely too many times.

"Oh, I almost forgot..." Vi starts, not even a second after you've spoken. You turn your head towards her, a few strands of hair obscuring a completely clear view of her head, but her light blue eyes stare right through you. "Vander wanted to talk to you."

What, Vander wants to talk to me? Does he know what you and Mylo said about us and wants something like an apology from you to us? But does he want to talk to me alone or with Powder-

"In private."

That's all Vi had to say. You immediately push yourself over the sheet, even though you would have actually been further into the conversation, it's probably better if the two sisters talk about it among themselves. Powder can probably answer much better than you, after all, she's rather articulate with words.

The last thing you see before you leave the room is Vi moving into your now vacated seat and starting to talk to Powder.

There you are, sitting opposite Vander's tall, strong and serious stature. You just walked up the stairs again, and there he was. He stayed here, where he'd been talking to Vi privately an hour ago. But she was definitely not sitting right in front of me, but in the single chair where she always sat.

"Why do you think I want to talk to you?" Vander's voice rings out across the room. It's deep, bold and the complete opposite of yours. You shift a little in your seat because of your trembling knees, your pounding heart and your head that just can't stop thinking.

Why? It's obvious, because of what happened today. Is he perhaps angry because I lost the haul? Or does he like it because there's no more evidence against us, after all, the things should be at the bottom of the sea now.

"About...today." It sounds more like a question than an answer. Your shaky voice only makes it as far as his ears, you can't hear it yourself. But you see him slowly and quietly sighed, his eyes drift to the ceiling and he adopts a more relaxed posture on the couch opposite you.

"You do understand, right?" He takes his time before answering you, a calm voice and a confident response.

What?

"Vi's leader sense isn't wrong, but she really needs to watch what you're pulling." He finally replies. He gets out of the relaxed position and stretches his arms out in front of him, pressing his hands together. You can see the muscles in his arms, the individual veins flowing through them and the strong skin tone. "You should understand that... After all, you have a good brain."

You immediately understand what he means: you shouldn't just stand by. But you like the way he says it, he doesn't say like the others that you need to train or eat more; he emphasizes your strengths. You are the smartest one in the group, even if you don't show it and don't talk about it. Even if you have a good idea for something that would keep you out of trouble, you never say it.

Vander is the person you trust the most, followed directly by Powder. After all, Vander took you from the bridge soaked in red smoke, not only that, he showed you the other world, and at the same time showed you what it really means to live for something. He always listens to you when you tell him something, whether it's a story or something that bothers you.

"I see what you mean..." You finally answer, your thoughts running like some kind of cogwheel.  You sit down a little better, lean back and put your hands on your knees.

You don't say anything for a few seconds, and neither does he. You take deep breaths from your nose, feel the oxygen literally bring your body to life and get ready to compose your thoughts so that you won't regret it in the future.

Because you are a person who is always thinking about the mistakes from your past.

"In terms of the course of war.... It comes down to one move. One move we make wrong can end really badly for the underworld...My people." He sits up straight, a strong straight stature and his eyes fixed on you. He continues to squeeze his hands together and now interlocks some of his fingers. "What you did today was really dangerous. I've already talked to Vi about it...But you know how she is."

One Wrong Move and the Underworld is torn apart by the Enforcers. But why is he talking about it like he has so much power to manage that one move?

Vander just keeps looking at you, raising an eyebrow as you continue to stare at the floor. You shift slightly from left to right on the comfy couch. Your head is literally seething with questions and theories about Vander's statements.

Yes, he could have a deal with the Enforcers. That would make sense, as long as Vander can make sure that no one from Zaun gets into their business or causes any problems. On the other hand, enforcers don't come down here every day and savagely slaughter the people in their way.

"I understood, Vander."

"So I understand you've already disposed of the Haul?" Vander says, fixing his eyes on your hands and seeming to recognize something. He probably seems to be looking at the light slashes you have from climbing, your skin is more sensitive than others.

"Yes." That's all you say, you just can't get it together. Your mind won't let you process anything more than you just did, apparently you're the only person who's come to the conclusion: Vander has a deal with the Enforcers. The Enforcers, who see the people of the underworld as scum.

"You're a smart boy Y/N, don't let anyone tell you otherwise." He finally says as he slowly rises from the couch across from you. His eyes follow his broad back, and somehow you can't think of anything else but:

I had only just seen his back at the time. The same back that challenged them all on the bridge with the Red smoke. So he made this deal afterwards? How many had he killed on the bridge, in the battle?

But just before he walks out, right at that moment, he stops. At the door of the room, after everything that has happened, it looks for a moment as if he is dead. Slain by the deeds and sins of all the inhabitants of Zaun. You shift slightly in your seat, your eyes fixed on his back, your mind blank, preparing for his words.

"You have potential, Y/N. Just don't waste it." He doesn't turn to you, still facing the door with his massive stature, with you still sitting on the couch anyway. "I don't care if you have too fragile a body, it's the brain that counts. The one who can use small power perfectly will win every battle."

Every battle. But for what? Is he trying to tell me something at the same time? Is something bad going to happen soon?

"By the way, you have to go into hiding, you can go into the little hiding place with the box machine. But you have to remember one thing...

No One Wins in War. " With that he's gone, a slam of the door and your view changes to a normal room without a human soul.

You forget the incident with your assignment. You think about everything that has happened in this short time. No thought escapes you, everything flows through your big memory and is spit out like a computer. It has all happened far too quickly, not only is time moving too fast, everything has happened at once, and you have the strange feeling that Vander's words will stay in your head for a long time to come.

The Corpse Parts. Magic that you could literally feel in the Academy apartment. The Spinning Weapon of the Enforcers. A secret power in this world. But everything was... connected.

But even when everything takes over your brain, you still think about Vander's statement.

No One Wins in War. War brings pain to everyone, no matter what side you are on. In the end, it doesn't matter if you win, because you still lost a lot to get there. But it's Told by Vander who has only been on the losing side of a war, plus he apparently has a deal with the Enforcers, it doesn't make any sense. No... this phrase refers to human lives, not political power. He's a pacifist, at least I think so.

Also, he doesn't necessarily have to have a deal with them, maybe I'm just thinking too much. But it would still be possible, Vander is definitely the best known from the underworld, it would make sense of all people to make a deal with him.

But after a few minutes of sitting over his statement and thinking about it until you can't do it anymore, you've figured it out.

Nobody wins, but one side loses a lot less.

You get up, rumble to your feet and look around. No one is there, the others are most likely already in the hideout, you should go there too. Before you leave, you take the book with the notes about the Corpse Parts and the Enforcer's gadget. You put on the long black coat you were already wearing when you came here, it was too big for you, but you can easily store both items in the side pocket.

Now make your way to the hiding place with the others.

---

[ghostofnoir]

WIP Snip

Thank you for the tag @faiell *I’m still thinking about yours. What a gift you are 🥹

An excerpt from the slowest writer on earth. Who is grinding out this long WIP one overwritten paragraph at a time 💪🏻 Sharing is so vulnerable!

———

Draco turned to face Harry. Harry did the same.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Draco whispered, a hint of vulnerability seeping through. Harry could feel it ache in his chest.

He didn’t know what the look on his own face betrayed; maybe Draco thought it was pity. But Harry thought it might be closer to the look of a man who knew with absolute certainty in that moment that he was fucked. He couldn’t help but let his eyes roam over Draco’s face as he took him in fully, standing face to face. The flickering picture lights bounced the saturated colours from the painting Draco stood next to onto his pale skin, highlighting his sharp angles and dipping into his hollow, concave shadows.

“You know, I’ve never seen you outside of London,” Harry mussed as his eyes roamed, as if Draco himself were a newly unearthed classical portrait to be appreciated for the first time.

“You haven’t seen me in almost a decade.” Draco unfolded his sleek black coat from his arm and pulled it on. The collar stood high and stiff on his neck, elegant and impenetrable, softened only by the plaid cashmere scarf he layered. The scarf’s varying shades of grey brought out his silver, midnight-misty eyes and made them more poignant. Harry realised then that they were a singular colour that he had never witnessed on anyone else. “Do you find I’m easier to tolerate on foreign soil?”

“Draco, I think I can help you–”

“Help me?” Draco scoffed. “There’s a reason people go untraceable, Potter. You shouldn’t have even been able to find me in the first place.”

“I also shouldn’t have been able to defeat Voldemort,” Harry responded calmly without missing a beat. Draco didn’t flinch at the name, which was at least refreshing. “Or be one of the few known Wizards in history to have resisted a powerful Imperius Curse before I even finished puberty. Or mastered the complex nature of wandless magic by eighteen. Or have an eight-year-long seamless Curse Breaking record, never once having broken my hold over volatile dark magic, but here we are.”

Something flashed in Draco’s eyes. He opened his mouth to say something. Harry had no doubt that he was about to be on the receiving end of a scathing retort to what Draco had probably perceived as Harry’s inflated ego, in need of being brought down a few notches. He had just simply stated the facts though, and that had been the shortlist.

Instead, Draco frowned, put his head down, and withdrew a pair of black leather gloves from his coat pocket. Harry watched, transfixed by Draco’s refined hands gripping the supple material. Even Draco’s veined knuckles somehow managed to be attractive. A single onyx-stoned gold ring was the only thing that disrupted the slender lines of his fingers, catching Harry’s attention like an alarm and bringing him back to the moment.

“Why did you go untraceable, Draco?”

“To be left alone.” His voice was flat as he carefully pulled on his gloves. “I thought that should have been pretty obvious, even to you. But if it wasn’t, it is now. And it might be a hard concept for you to grasp, but you need to respect that.” He dropped his hands by his side and turned to walk away.

“Go back to London, Potter,” he added without turning back; his long strides had already taken him halfway down the corridor, his voice echoing in the cavernous room behind him.

“But I’ve already booked my stay,” Harry called after him.

Harry stood and watched Draco’s tall, stark figure disappear like a phantom through the museum’s back doors into the frigid January afternoon.

———

Tagging to share if you like @dracoandthehounds @romaine2424 @greattemptation @roseharpermaxwell @drarrymyheart @starquestingfordrarry @fluxweeed @garagepaperback @apricitydays-lazynights @hoko-onchi-writes @elskanellis @gotoemopunk @annanother-thing -and anyone else who would like to join 🤍🤍

[synnthamonsugar]

DESTINYTOBER: Day 28 - Found Family

Read it on AO3

. . .

Under a flawless blue sky, Zavala, Ikora Rey and Cayde-6 stride three abreast into the Midtown crucible arena. Fans crowd into safely-distanced stands, their cheers blurred together into a low roar.

"I still can't believe the two of you talked me into this." Zavala's deadpan is belied by the faint upturn at the corner of his lips.

Basking in the attention, Cayde twirls Ace of Spades as he swaggers forward. "We fought a god. And won! You can withstand a little mano y mano."

"Besides, it's for charity," Ikora reminds, Invective held proudly in her hands. An occasion this special called for the best in her personal armory. "Shaxx is thrilled to have us. Near-record for ticket sales, he says."

"I can't recall ever seeing the seats so packed." 

"I can," Ikora boasts. "Game twenty-five of my win streak. Standing room only."

"I missed your Crucible stories," Cayde says sotto-voice, holstering his cannon to pat the Warlock on the shoulder. "You'll have to get me caught up."

Expression softening into something more wistful, she slings her shotgun over her back and returns his gesture. "There isn't much to catch you up on … not with everything happening."

"That just means we'll make new stories together today," says Zavala, patting Ikora on the opposite arm.

Approaching the center of the arena, they link hands — lifting them overhead to a wave of rambunctious applause from the audience and the swell of triumphant drum music from a small marching band as they approach Lord Shaxx, master of today's ceremonies.

Holding the microphone to about where his mouth would be beneath his helmet, Shaxx speaks. The stands quiet to anticipatory murmurs. 

"Hailing from Tower North, Last City, our first team requires no introduction. Please give a warm welcome to your Vanguard: Commander Zavala, Ikora Rey, and the newly returning Cayde-6!"

Ear-splittingly loud despite the distance, cheers erupt from the stands — as do banners, flags and hand-written signs bearing words of encouragement.

From the other side of the arena, the opposing team begins to file in. 

"Our first challenger should be known by all. Originally from Old Russia but joining us today from Empress Caiatl's War Council, make some noise for Lord-Valus Saladin Forge!" 

The crowd responds in kind, nearly drowning out Shaxx's booming voice over the P.A. as he enters. 

"Vanguard," Saladin smiles, walking down the line to give each a warm greeting.

He pauses at Zavala, clapping him on the pauldron. "It's been too long since we've spared."

"It has indeed," Zavala replies with a return of his gesture. "I look forward to it."

As he circles back and takes his place opposite, hands clasped at the hilt of the battleax drawn before him in a picture of knightly valor, Shaxx announces the next contender.

"Originally from —" a pause as he checks his notes, " — and hailing now from a utility closet in the Tower Annex; don't tell the Vanguard! Drifter is here!" 

Appropriate to his notorious reputation, hisses and jeers join the raucous cheering. Drifter struts with a wide grin and hands held aloft, working the crowd effortlessly. 

"Finally get to settle up with you over that twenty-thousand glimmer bar tab you stuck me with when you croaked," Drifter chuckles as he sizes up Cayde, drawing him into a surprisingly familiar handshake. "Hah — just messin' around. I cut my losses on that years ago. It's good to have you back, buddy." 

"Word on the street's you've been the resident smartass in my absence," Cayde responds, pulling him into a half-hug. "I'm glad I had you to carry the torch. But I'll be taking it back now."

Drifter saunters next to Saladin, flipping a coin across his knuckles to increasing frenzy from the audience.

"Last but certainly not least — making her crucible debut, and representing the Lucent Brood all the way from the Throne World, welcome the Guardian of the Pale Heart: Luzaku!"

The Lucent wizard approaches with a flourish of her arms, the swarm of incandescent moths that orbit adding to her ethereal appeal. The enthusiasm from the crowd is barely contained, clumps of attendees jumping up and down in the stands, others gesturing with heart-shaped hand-signs. Handshakes aren't a part of hive culture — wouldn't work even if it was, given the disparity in height — but she greets each of her competitors personally. 

"Ikora Rey! I've read so much of your work on circles — we all have. It's an honor to meet you, and a thrill to face you in the Crucible." 

"The honor is mine," Ikora responds. "I admire your defense of the Traveler and the Light. Your bravery at the final battle won't be forgotten."

She flits over to her team, towering above them. 

"Now if you'll excuse us, me and the band are going to seek cover! When I give the signal, the competitors may retreat to their positions, and the match shall begin!"

"Regardless of how I feel about participating in spectator sports, there's no place I'd rather be than at the sides of the finest Vanguards to ever serve — " Zavala says, " — and more importantly, my best friends."

"Cheers to that," Cayde agrees.

Ikora's smile shines as bright as the late summer sun, and infectious as the crowd's enthusiasm as it spreads to her teammates. Crowd silent with anticipation, they ready their weapons and prepare to move out as they await the opening shot from the Crucible Handler.

[whump-card]

Undertaking Alchemy: Chapter 3: Specimen Collection

CW: intimate whumper, captivity, noncon undressing and voyeurism, restraints

Previous, Next, Masterlist

Read on Ao3!

~~~

The overnight reduction was a failure. It rendered down into a blackened sludge that gave no magical response to any test that Ailen put it through – and he wasted the day trying them all. It went down the toilet and the alchemist struggled to find a new approach, cross-referencing his notes with books and scrolls and reagent compatabilities and forever stumbling across his own records of tried this, tried this, tried this. No result.

His panic grew as the sky outside his narrow windows darkened; he started distilling spirit of hartshorn just to be doing something, watching numbly as pale liquid dripped into the receptacle.

Edelgard would return soon; Ailen had nothing to show for his day. He would be beaten again, he was sure of it. His dread grew as the hours slipped past; he didn’t touch the meal that Marbles brought.

It was almost a relief when the iron bolt slid with an announcing clunk. No more waiting. They could just get it over with.

Ailen rose to stand a few steps from the door, facing it, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed to stare at the floor. Edelgard paused when he entered, taking in Ailen’s presentation.

“Little alchemist?” he questioned, closing the door behind him.

“I have nothing,” Ailen said, completely resigned and exhausted, “I have nothing. Sir.”

Edelgard inhaled, held it, and exhaled.

“I’ve been doing some research of my own, Ailen,” he said, almost casually.

“… Sir?” Ailen blinked, frowning slightly.

“I have provided you with a world of ingredients to work with. But there is one that you do not have access to, considering your… anatomy.”

Ailen’s blood ran cold. Don’t say it, don’t say it.

“The seed of life, as it were,” the wizard’s voice rumbled low, “I thought I might provide you with some.”

“You don’t have to do that, sir,” Ailen said quickly. Edelgard laughed.

“What’s a bit of effort on my part in service of discovering the philosopher’s stone? I’m happy to provide… though,” he stepped closer to Ailen, his sulfuric scent enveloping the alchemist, “I may need some assistance in collecting.”

“No,” slipped out of Ailen’s mouth.

“What was that?” Edelgard took Ailen’s chin in his hand, lifting it slightly. The alchemist kept his eyes trained downwards.

“Sir, please,” Ailen whispered, “I can’t…”

“Oh, you won’t have to do a thing!” The wizard patted his cheek – making Ailen flinch – and stepped around him, approaching the central table. “I just need you to… hold still.”

Ailen turned to face him, keeping his eyes trained down even as they blurred with tears.

“Please don’t do this, sir.”

“Don’t be dramatic, I won’t even touch you.” Fabric rustled as Edelgard started undoing the buttons of his robe. “Undress.”

Shaking, Ailen wrapped his arms around himself. This was a line he would not willingly cross.

“No,” he choked out, “No, I will not.”

He could feel the wizard’s eyes on him for a long moment, then two mage hands, blue-white and spectral, materialized in front of him and seized his wrists before he could react. They dragged his arms out to a T, and Ailen yelped and stumbled as they were nearly yanked out of their sockets. A second pair of hands appeared before him, and started unbuckling the belt of his leather apron.

“No,” Ailen said, “No, no, stop, please!”

“Look at me, Ailen.”

The alchemist’s breath caught. Throughout his entire time here, anything close to eye contact would result in Edelgard lashing out, punishing him. This conflicting request led to uncharted waters. What did it mean?

Regardless, Ailen knew the order couldn’t be refused, and he looked up at his captor. Edelgard’s robe was open, and the front of his trousers unbuttoned to reveal a sizable member, flushed and engorged, resting in the wizard’s hand as he leaned his hips back against the table’s edge. Ailen dragged his eyes up to Edelgard’s face. The wizard’s mouth was stretched in a lazy smile, his cold blue eyes meeting Ailen’s in a lustful stare. He had crow’s feet wrinkles that might have made him look friendly, had they met under different circumstances, had his face borne a different expression. Instead the smile, the stare, the fine lines, they painted a picture of man who salaciously enjoyed the suffering of others. Who enjoyed Ailen’s suffering. Ailen instantly lost all hope that Edelgard could be reasoned with; pleas tumbled out of him anyway.

“Don’t do this,please, sir, don’t do this!”

Even as he begged, more mage hands formed and began to manhandle him in earnest. His apron was lifted away and dropped to the floor, and his arms were twisted and forced upwards as his sweater vest was peeled off over his head. Hands plucked at his shirt buttons, his arm garters, his hair tie. Ailen shook his head and tried to twist away but the mage hands were relentless, as was Edelgard’s stare.

“Stop!” Ailen sobbed, “Stop this, please!”

The wizard was stroking himself, his head tilted back slightly.

“Keep fighting,” he grunted, “Just like that.”

Ailen dry heaved, overcome with horror. Cold hands slipped inside his open shirt, ghosting over his bruised ribs and working the garment off. His legs felt gelatinous, and the only thing keeping him from collapsing in shock was the many gripping, grasping, pulling hands. Now that he was shirtless a pair of the ghostly claws started on his trouser ties, while one groped his thigh, one fisted in his braids, and many more squeezed and fondled his arms and torso.

“Please,” he cried out desperately, “Please, stop it!”

“Hush now,” Edelgard breathed, “Just keep looking at me.”

The wizard gave a flick of his free hand and a cold palm clamped over Ailen’s mouth, stifling his pleas into whimpers. Ailen screwed his eyes shut, refusing to cooperate.

“I said, look at me.”

The hands holding Ailen’s left arm twisted violently, and the alchemist screamed through his nose as muscles and ligaments were strained to a near-tearing point. He opened his eyes, frantically blinking away tears, and focused on Edelgard. The wizard’s smile broadened, an expression that made Ailen feel faint.

“Good.”

The hands on his arm eased. Fingers slid down into Ailen’s trousers, easing them and his undershorts off his hips. A hand gripped his ankle, lifting his foot. As much as Ailen tried to kick them away, the mage hands removed his shoes one at a time; his trousers and undershorts followed. Ailen found himself half-standing, half-held up, supported by the many hands; his clothes were scattered around him, leaving him in nothing but his knee-high stockings. Fingers dug into his hips, his calves, the bruises down his side, his biceps and wrists. His nostrils flared as air rushed in and out in a panicked staccato.

All the while Edelgard was touching himself, his breath rising as he gazed at Ailen. The alchemist refused to look at what he was doing, but focusing on his captor’s face was just as upsetting. The way the old man’s smile twitched with pleasure and effort, his eyebrows slightly drawn, and the overt, undeniable excitement in his pale eyes made bile rise in Ailen’s throat and tears roll down his face. His struggles weakened; his movements became purely reactionary, twitching away from icy fingers whenever they shifted on his skin. But he found his footing again, and felt some small relief there – but it didn’t last long.

Edelgard lifted an eyebrow, and Ailen’s stomach sank.

“Let’s take a closer look at you.”

The mage hands tightened in sync, and dragged Ailen downwards. He whimpered through the palm covering his mouth as his knees hit the floor, then his ass, then his back. Then, hands lifted his knees and spread them, exposing him for the wizard’s easy viewing.

Ailen screamed and sobbed through his nose, struggling with all his might, kicking his legs and bucking his hips – but the mage hands held him fast. Through the fog of panic in his own head he heard Edelgard laugh.

My distress is what he wants, Ailen realized, This is what he enjoys… And yet, Ailen couldn’t make himself stop struggling and crying. Some deep instinct had been triggered, that of an animal in a trap, and Ailen would have gnawed off his own limb if it meant escape.

At the very least, he was no longer being forced to look at the wizard. He stared wide-eyed at the vaulted ceiling, dusty crossbeams, and antiquated chandeliers, but nothing could distract him from the sheer humiliation of being put on display against his will. Worse, the cool air against him highlighted that he was slick with arousal once more. He could only hope that Edelgard didn’t look too closely or, God forbid, touch him.

“You’re beautiful… My little alchemist.”

Edelgard’s breathing grew more labored and heated. Ailen twisted against the mage hands relentlessly, his face burning up with shame and disgust – disgust with Edelgard, and disgust with himself. What about this situation was activating him? How could he make it stop?

The wizard groaned and sighed. Glass takked against wood as he set a cup down, and Ailen could just barely hear fabric rustling over his own panting and whimpering as Edelgard rearranged his garments. Without warning, the mage hands vanished as one. Ailen’s knees snapped together and he curled up in a ball on his side, pressing his forehead into the floor. His whole body ached, inside and out, from muscles struggling so hard they strained to many new bruises from the rough manhandling. With his mouth free he sobbed, loudly, wordlessly, hopelessly.

Footsteps approached him.

“Now now, Ailen. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Edelgard crouched, taking one of Ailen’s braids and rolling it between his fingers, “I didn’t fuck you, did I?”

“Go away,” Ailen said in a trembling voice. The wizard tsked.

“I just provided you with a precious resource, and that’s all you have to say?” he leaned in closer, “Say thank you.”

Ailen grit his teeth in silence.

Edelgard gently rested a hand on Ailen’s hip, sliding it over the curve of his captive’s rear.

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you!” Ailen choked out, hating himself for complying – but the fear of being violated further won out.

“Good.” Edelgard stood, straightening his robe. “Don’t let it go to waste. Work through the night if you have to.”

Ailen hugged his limbs closer, shaking uncontrollably, as the wizard left. He stayed there, on the floor, surrounded by his clothes, unable to think or breathe or move. There was only the icy horror, the gut-churning disgust, the burning shame.

Eventually, the discomfort of the cold, unforgiving floor pressing against Ailen wakened his rational mind. It was a slow, arduous process, standing up; he had to push himself upright, get his feet under himself, grab a nearby cabinet’s trim for support, drag himself inch by inch upwards, onto his jelly legs, until he was standing, almost like a person.

A small glass measuring cup on the main table caught Ailen’s eye. He knew what it was immediately; it contained a small amount of while fluid. He stared at it dully. All his humiliation, for as little as that? A hysterical, sickly laugh bubbled out of him, and he slapped a hand over his mouth to kill it, scrunching his eyes shut in a wince. He stood there, shivering, until a thought crept in.

What if it makes a difference.

Ailen was a great alchemist for a reason. His curiosity outweighed many of his inhibitions; and here, that curiosity rode on the back of desperation.

He dressed, quickly. Splashed water on his face. He spared a glance in the mirror over his sink, and saw bloodshot eyes and frizzy hair, puffy new growth at his roots.

How long had he been trapped here?

He turned away from the sight of himself, finding it hard to bear. He returned to the center of the laboratory with a vigorous step.

If the “seed of life” was the key to the philosopher’s stone – and by extension, his freedom – he’d take it.

Do better. Be better.

~~~

Previous, Next, Masterlist

Taglist: @inhurtandincomfort , @flowersarefreetherapy , @onlywhump ,

[weaveandwood]

Hey bestie!

Here is one of my favourite songs for your writing prompt!

Love ya <3

Thank you bestie! This song is perfect for these two! Summary: Gale and Auroria get engaged Pairing: Gale/Named Tav (Auroria) Word Count: 1127 Warnings: None (Fluff and Romance ahead) AN: This is probably one of the sweetest things I've written. This is a expansion of two sentences from my fic Midwinter In Waterdeep, but you're fine if you haven't read it.

Sunlight streamed in through the gap in Auroria’s tent, signaling the start of another day. If she was counting correctly, it was almost spring. The frigid nights of winter were staying further and further behind her with each sunrise, and with that, so was Gale. It had been five tendays since he had surprised her with a cabin in the woods on Midwinter and voiced his devotion to her. Five tendays since she was finally able to accept it. 

The sun glinted off the small band of silver on her finger, the symbol of his love for her that he had returned to her that night. The ring was her constant companion, never finding itself forgotten ever since. Though if she was being honest with herself, it was never forgotten. The ring and everything it symbolized ran through her head constantly in the year they were apart, and the many years since reconnecting on their too-short nights each Midwinter. He had never forgotten it either, confessing to her that he had only stowed it away in a drawer two tendays before their fateful meeting on that very first snowy evening. 

The crackle of magic and her favorite voice ran through her head as she pulled on her armor, preparing for the day’s events.

“Good morning my love. Please keep safe, I miss you more than you know. I love you.”

“I love you. I have a big day, we are striking this morning. Go easy on your students today, Professor,” she replied through her sending stone. Gale always got worked up when he knew she would be battling, and his students were the ones who suffered - the amount of pop quizzes he gave over the last year had set a record at Blackstaff. 

“Ready, Auroria?” came a voice from outside her tent. It wasn’t the same as before. Nothing ever would be, but it was nice to have a party for this hunt. She finished lacing her boots and grabbed her bow and arrows. Time to finish this and go home, at least for a little while. She smiled to herself at the thought. Home. She had been all over this continent, and longed for her tiny cabin deep in the woods outside of Waterdeep. 

******

Auroria heard him before she saw him - some things would never change, even after all this time. As she watched from the window in the living room, she couldn’t help laughing to herself as she saw a very worried, very handsome wizard rush down the path to their cabin and seemingly find every brittle twig that existed in this forest to snap with his steps. Maybe she would offer yet again to help with being a little more stealthy in his movements, though she knew he would decline. “Wizards aren’t meant to be stealthy” was always his reasoning. She always assumed it was because of his creaky knees. 

She opened the door and, after a second of utter shock, his expression became one that could only be described as incandescently in love as she pulled him inside and kissed him deeply. He led her to the bedroom, a trail of discarded clothing following them as they reunited.

That night he cast dancing lights as they lay in bed. She ran her fingers through his hair and watched his elegant fingers effortlessly perform the spell movements and then manipulate it easily, making the small lights float around and illuminate both the room and its occupants in a calming, pale blue glow - not the purple he used to favor before. He made the lights twirl around Auroria’s outstretched free arm, then rest near her head to become a crown of light, and finally form the shape of a heart - delighting her and making her laugh with each new trick. 

How different they were from the day she pulled him out of a portal. How different they were from the night he brought her the stars and she begged him to choose to live, to love. How different they were from the day she walked out the door of the tower, never believing she’d return to Waterdeep again. 

Something about the moment hit her with a stunning amount of clarity. 

He turned to face her, catching her staring at him and smiled softly. “What is going through that beautiful mind of yours, Ora?”

“Marry me, Gale.”

The dancing lights froze in place as his breath caught in his throat, his eyes darting back and forth between hers. She could only imagine the worst, that past hurts were playing through his mind. A scenario playing out much like it did shortly after their defeat of the Netherbrain, where they push each other away and hurt each other worse than any enemy, curse, or spell ever could. 

“Ever since I pulled you out of that portal, you have been the only one for me. It was like I was blind before I met you, living in a cloudy haze of chaos and death and solitude. The only time I feel any peace is when I am with you. We’ve only spent one day together over each of these last years, but…I need you. I love you,” she paused, feeling tears starting to form in her eyes. “Days and locations all blur together, but one thing has remained clear to me. You. Us. Even when I’m away, I want you to be my home. I want to be your home.”

She took a breath, letting out her biggest insecurity. “I know this is probably different than what you wanted, or planned, or dreamed about but -”

He pressed a hand to her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped confinement. 

“Ora, your face was the first face I saw when I got out of that portal. If anyone had been blind before, it was me. I was on a path of certain death, ready to accept it before meeting you, and you changed everything. You don’t have to convince me. I could see you only one day a year for the rest of my life and I would still be the luckiest man on the entire continent because you are my wife.”

She smiled, warm tears easily sliding down her face. His wife. 

“So…that’s a yes?”

He laughed. “Yes, my love. Let’s get married. This week, while you’re home. Greengrass is the perfect setting.”

“So quickly! I really think you like me,” she teased. 

“I really do,” he said, kissing her deeply. The dancing lights hovered above them as he pulled the covers back up over them, the two of them spending the rest of the night lost in each other’s love, the sound of laughter and pleasure echoing throughout the tiny cabin deep in the woods outside of Waterdeep.

[hey-heigo]

Chapter 21.5

im still on hiatus but this was for funsies...a break away from byakuya's pov for a moment hehe

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

this is just like wizard of oz if the wizard was junko enoshima. pay no attention to the girl behind the monitors....

featuring a special surprise guest!! :) (:

@digitaldollsworld (^^)//

Content warning tags: passing mention of surgery and blood

< previous - from start - next >

“I am done.”

The voice behind her is dull and gravelly with lethargy, belonging to someone both young and aged. Junko Enoshima hadn’t heard the door open, but she’s hardly startled - she’d been expecting him, after all - and with a flourish, she leans back from the grid of monitors before her and shoves off the desk to spin her chair, knees tucked up to her chest. One, two, three clockwise spins later - a new record, nice - and she slows to a stop, angled perfectly to face the man before her.

And she smiles, as she notes the blue latex gloves still on his hands, the blood splattered up his arms to the rolled-up sleeves of his white dress shirt. “Aw, thanks Zuzu! You’re a treat,” She winks and blows an exaggerated kiss, to no reaction. Not even a half-raised hand to try and catch it. “Was it hard?”

Izuru Kamakura doesn’t respond at first. He’s wiping off the blood - still shiny and slightly wet - off of his pale arms with a stained handkerchief, his hair swaying like a dark curtain around him. “...Not particularly.” He replies in his usual monotone, as if the whole ordeal had been terribly boring to him. ‘Not particularly’ he said, as if the whole process hadn’t taken several weeks, with multiple surgeries - including one where he had left the operating table with his scrubs still on to find a better donor, because the one she had on hand just happened to not be a very good match. “If that is all, I will leave now.”

“Noo, come on! You just got here,” She complains, childishly, needling, despite knowing full well that he’d been here far longer than he originally intended already. Well, it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be, and all the action was here anyways.  “Don’t you wanna see how your precious juniors are doing?”

He doesn’t reply, but she knows he does. Otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered turning up in the first place, whether she requested his help or not; they’re just like each other, in that way. Reaching behind her, she grabs a remote, and points it at one of the monitors, and immediately its previous image of the empty second-floor hallway fizzes out, replaced with a replay of the day’s highlights, edited and cut by hers truly.

It opens with a theme song. A lovely little leitmotif that she composed, one for each of her dear classmates, this one full of violin and koto. A quick intro montage of photos they had taken throughout their high school careers, and then-

“No need.” He deadpans, interrupting the opening credits she’d bullied Ryota Mitarai into making. “I know what happened already.”

“Geez, but I made this special for you!” She whines, though there’s no real bite to it. She expected this outcome, so it wasn’t like she made her edits particularly interesting either. “Wish you’d play along a little. Come on.”

Instead of replying, he snaps off his gloves and flicks them and the towel into a nearby trash can without looking. He spins her chair to grab his jacket, pinned between her back and the seat, and tugs it so sharply it actually lifts her up a bit.

“Hey, that’s no way to treat a lady,” She sulks, tucking her skirt back down. “I was keeping it warm for you.”

Her only response is an impassioned glance, as he shakes the garment out with a sharp snap.

She watches him prepare to leave, rolling down his sleeves and smoothing out his shirt, pulling the jacket on with a practiced, mechanical grace. “Is it really that much better, being out there?” She grumbles. Outside was a wasteland, shattered remains, rot and destruction. The few people still alive were either on the edge of death, or insane with despair - either way, they’d fallen into a dull, predictable pattern. Starving, stealing, killing, dying, wailing. So much wailing. How strange it was that even these things became uninteresting after so long.

“They all behaved exactly how I expected.” He says, in an approximation for an explanation. He adjusts his cufflinks, thumb swiping over the polished brass. They’d been shaped like Hope’s Peak’s logo, but countless passing touches had nearly buffed out the enamel inlay - they were little more than tiny mirrors now, if she leaned forward and squinted she could almost see herself in them, check for stuff stuck in her teeth-

“Why did you not confront them after they discovered the AI?”

The question interrupts her train of thought, and she blinks, then grins, utterly delighted. “Why? Did I surprise you?”

He levels her with a look, a dark stare from those bloody, bloodshot eyes. “There are several reasons to possibly explain why you behaved this way.” He continues. “The most simple reason, you were distracted-”

“Nope. Glued to the cameras the whole time.”

“The most predictable reason, you wanted them to think they had a chance.”

“Hmm...mayy-be?” She pulls her legs up to sit criss-crossed in her chair, and rocks side to side, hands resting on her ankles as she thinks. “I mean, there are ten of them left. Would be a shame if they gave up already, right?”

“...And, based on your current interests. You thought it would make for a more interesting development. Especially in regards to Togami.”

She smiles, teeth splitting her face. “Congratulations, a hun-dred points to dear Mister Kamakura,”  She sings in an exaggerated falsetto, and claps her hands in mock applause. “I was thinking about it, but then he and Kyoko went and had that absolutely lovely little heart-to-heart in the hallway…how could I possibly interrupt my dearest friends?”

He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes narrow slightly, the corners of his lips pulling into a thin line. A look that screams - or maybe just mutters, in his case - ‘what the hell are you talking about.’ “He smashed her hand in a door. She belittled him for his blindness.”

“Yeah, and? Don’t you know what foreplay is?” He doesn’t scoff, but the just-audible exhale he lets out is pretty close. “Oh, shush. Like you would know anything,” She sniffs. “But anyways, I definitely wasn’t expecting them to reach this stage already. I thought it’d take a few more years at least!” She lets loose a laugh, a sharp, bright sound that gets swallowed up by the dense, packed-foam soundproofing around them. “Letting them get away with Alter Ego was totally worth the show!”

He doesn’t look like he agrees, but then again, those old Hope’s Peak scientists hadn’t included ‘Ultimate Clear Emotion Conveying’ among his repertoire of talents, so maybe he was jumping for joy on the inside right now. “Togami’s blindness was an unexpected development,” He agrees. “But that is all. He hasn’t demonstrated any behavior that couldn’t be predicted.”

“You were pretty intrigued by him before though, weren’t you?” She’d had her suspicions from the start, when Byakuya’s first day after waking up was spent squinting and fidgeting with his glasses, but he couldn’t be called an Ultimate for nothing. If she didn’t know him as well as she did, she might’ve even been halfway fooled. 

And the best developments were the ones that hadn’t been planned beforehand. Watching him walk away from the A/V room without even playing his motive disc was such a fun twist that had her raising her brows, even as Mukuro had gotten all pissy, after all the work that she had put into capturing that old butler alive. Even better than that was his breakdowns, when Junko watched him fall into a sinking spiral in his room, muttering to himself and pacing before finally passing out. The difference between his usual hoity-toity self and his total helplessness made for an absolutely delectable kind of gap moe.

“I have no interest in him. Rather, the source of his blindness is what intrigues me.” Izuru corrects her bluntly. “It is unclear what might have caused it. He never displayed symptoms of it prior to the game’s beginning.”

And if she had to be really honest, she wasn’t sure either. “Who knows?” She shrugs. “Spontaneous genetic condition? Maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow morning and be totally bald?”

“The Togami family is obsessed with genetics. Sudden cataract development, or anything of that nature, would have weeded out long ago.” He rebuts. His eyes, a deep, ugly, unnatural red that could make Celeste jealous, fix on her for a moment, and then travel up to look at the monitors, pupils shrinking like a cat’s as they dart from screen to shining screen. “Could it have something to do with the memory wipe?”

“No way!” She snaps back to him immediately, almost affronted. “My process is totally perfect. Do you know how many people I tested it on?” Sure, she’d had plenty of lab rats get seizures, comas, go crazy or just straight-up die, but none of them went blind. “If you don’t believe me, you wanna try it yourself?”

Now that was an idea. Maybe if she could induce an artificial amnesia in Izuru, and completely make him forget how he became this way - gosh, but that could be interesting. An Ultimate Hope who didn’t know what his purpose was? Or, better yet, a Hajime Hinata who didn’t know what he really was?

She could almost drool over the idea of it. Seeing the man, the boy in front of her, twisted, despairing, and utterly ruined - how thrilling would that be?

“Do it to yourself.” Izuru replies sullenly, shattering her daydream in an instant, and she pouts. Spoilsport.

They fall into a comfortable sort of quiet for a moment, as Junko turns back to the screens. Without her sister around, she had to take the role of surveillance onto herself, and that was a 24/7 ordeal. But at least it was something to do, she supposed.

Byakuya was making his way to his room from the cafeteria, apparently completely oblivious to how Toko was stalking him from a few meters behind. Hina and Sakura were working off their post-trial grief through vigorous physical activity - swimming, because of course it would be - Celeste was being comforted by Hifumi, and Hiro was chasing after Mondo, who apparently had given up on trying to eat anything and was now meandering aimlessly through the halls, the dead look on his face evident even through some of the grainier footage. Makoto was wandering, probably trying to repair his broken heart by distracting himself with some good old-fashioned adventuring, or maybe Kyoko.

Waaaait a minute. She frowns suddenly, leaning in closer to scan each of the monitors in quick succession, starting from the camera feeds of the third floor, and working down. Wait a damn minute. There was a suspicious lack of pale, skulking figures in her peripherals - just where was her darling detective?

She feels a little thrill of a delicious dread run up her spine. She went through all this trouble to give Kyoko a full wipe - to clean out every last memory that might give the detective a clue to her own identity - and yet here she was, managing to crawl under Junko’s skin like a centipede, a stubborn parasite. There were only so many unsupervised places that Miss Headmaster’s Daughter could be hiding, and Junko couldn’t help the grin spreading across her face; she could always count on Kyoko to make things interesting.

“Hey, Zuzu. You wanna make a bet?” She hums to Izuru. No Kyoko, but Makoto’s pointed cowlick was coming into view on one of the stairway cameras leading into the second floor, soon accompanied by the rest of him. 

“On what?”

“Oh, anything. Which one of them will die next. If one of them will snap and start trying to kill the rest of them…” She rewinds through the camera recordings of the last hour, speeding through the frames until they’re all mere blurs of color and light. Her eyes dart, and spy the pale, round shape of Kyoko’s head, as she walks into the dark entryway of the second-floor boy’s bathroom, not even half-an-hour ago. “If they manage to figure out the details of Togami’s blindness.”

Another bet. Another meaningless wager on top of the hundreds, thousands, millions of other ones that she’s made and won, but this one might actually surprise her for once. She hopes it will.

“How pointless.” He sighs. But despite that, he hasn’t turned to leave yet. And actually, the fact that he responded at all meant that he was, even just a little bit, curious. “What would we wager? We have nothing of value, and nothing we value enough.” “Hmm, true…and it’s not like we care about either of our lives either.” She fast-forwards the cameras, and watches as Makoto looks left and right, nervous eyes casting up and down the hallway, before he enters the second floor boy’s bathroom. She needs to get moving now, if she was going to make sure her darling detective didn’t go and ruin the game too early, and she shoves aside some empty snack wrappers, the pieces of an unfinished puzzle, a book so dog-eared and worn it was on the brink of disintegrating, and Monokuma’s controller to grab the authentic luchador mask that was hanging off the edge of the table. “We got all the time we need to figure that out, after all. So in the meantime, how about you stick around and see how it goes?"

< previous - from start - next >

[hyacinthi-mortem]

Anderperry fluff- wizard!Neil

I wrote most of this while in the car lol, I hope u enjoy :p

Info:

• this au is set 10 years later than the original dps, so they would've gone to hellton in 1969, I wanted to be able to use Bowie

• songs used are Lady Stardust and Soul Love by David Bowie

• there's another wizard!Neil au post that will help the first part make a bit more sense if you haven't already seen it but it's not necessary to understand this

——————————————————————————

June 1974

The smell of fresh pancakes wafting through the air shakes Todd from his sleepy daze, and he stumbles out of bed, drawing the blanket closer like an oversized cloak as he walks towards the door, and watches as a tendril of soft blue light flips the record over and gently sets it down, the needle falling into place, and listens for the sound of static taking over the silence before the first notes of a song invade Neil's brain, mixing with the magic flowing through his veins as he cooks.

On the windowsill Neil's cat Oberon basks in the sunlight, fur shining a coppery brown, and the golden blur cast across the kitchen highlighting the warm yellows of the walls against the pale greens of tiles, a harsh shadow cast against the backsplash behind Neil as he sways, a soft smile gracing his lips.

A gentle blue light surrounds the bowl of batter and pours it into the cast iron pan resting on the stove, as Neil begins to chop fruit, the sweet smell lingering in the air, quietly singing along as he does.

'People stared, at the makeup on his face, laughed at his long black hair, his animal grace...'

Todd smiles, leaning on the doorframe as he listens to neil sing, and the soft hum of his magic fills his senses. In that moment, to him, the air feels alive, electricity pulsing through it and settling around him; he can almost imagine tendrils and coils of warm blue light reaching towards him, embracing him, and drawing him in deeper, and deeper, until he is surrounded by it, by the part of Neil he could never have believed was real.

'That maybe there was a chance Neil could, the boy he could never have believed would maybe, just maybe love him like that too.'

'...Boys stood upon their chairs

To make their point of view

I smiled sadly for a love

I could not obey

Lady Stardust sang his songs

Of darkness and dismay...'

He relaxes, and as he watches the scene unfold Oberon steps down from his perch, and pads over to Todd, bringing Neil's attention with him. And even after all this time, in the soft light Todd thinks he can see the hawthorn crown gracing Neil's head, the summer sun lighting up his face and bringing with it a sparkle in his eyes that feels like all the stars in the sky are shining just for him.

"Todd! I didn't see you there, I-"

Neil smiles, a sheepish grin plastered on his face as he realised he's been caught.

"This was supposed to be a surprise." He laughs, and walks over to Todd, brushing the soft blond hair from his eyes as he leads him into the kitchen, humming along to the music in the background.

"Well who wouldn't love to wake up to you cooking breakfast" Todd smiles as Neil brushes the hair off his face, and if he notices his fingertips linger just a moment longer than they usually would be doesn't let it slip.

He pulls a chair out and lets the blanket slip from his shoulders as Neil turns the stove off, bringing to the table plates laden with berries and pancakes, and the blue haze of his magic surrounding them slowly disappears into the morning.

Conversation fills the air as they eat, and he just can't get enough of that soft lilt to Neil's voice, Todd could hear him talk for hours on end, letting the feeling of contentment wash over him like magic, as he gazes into those caramel eyes

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

Curled up on an armchair after a long day of dealing with customers, Todd sips at a cup of peppermint tea, steam fogging up his reading glasses when he lifts the mug to his face. After setting the tea down he takes the glasses off, rubbing the sleeve of his (Neil's) jumper over the lenses; watching over the top of his book as Neil sets up the record player, as he lifts the needle and drops it in place, listening for the faint crackle before a song begins to play.

Once again music fills the room, various candles dotted around flicker to life, and Todd relaxes, the faint glow of candlelight setting his mind at ease.

"Dance with me?"

He glances up in surprise as Neil stands in front of him, a hand outstretched that he takes with ease-

"Always."

As he's led into the center of the room, book abandoned on the side, the music gets louder, the soft blue light of Neil's magic surrounding them as Neil's arms wrap around Todd's waist, while they begin to sway together, the evening slowly fading away as they dance and sing, Todd's eyes reflecting the golden stars that are blinking into existence above their heads, stars that are just for him,he thinks, as he smiles and leans into Neil's gentle embrace listening to him sing along, voices merging together in the flickering light until they collapse to the floor, exhausted, and lay together, a tangled pile of legs and arms with his head on Neil's chest listening to his heartbeat while the record plays along into the night.

'New love, a boy and girl are talking

New words, that only they can share in

New words, a love so strong it tears their hearts

To sleep through the fleeting hours of morning'

Todd thinks, 'maybe, just maybe, in this moment they could live forever.'

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

[cilil]

Day 7 ~ Remembrance & New Beginnings

AN: My contribution for day 7 of @silmarillionepistolary and quick side note: I am aware that the Hobbits are said to stay on Tol Eressëa, but I prefer to hc that they went to the gardens of Lórien to hang out with Irmo and be healed by Estë and possibly visited other locations in Valinor as well.

𓂃🖋 Characters/pairings: Bilbo & Manwë 𓂃🖋 Synopsis: Bilbo receives an invitation from the Elder King himself. 𓂃🖋 Warnings: / 𓂃🖋 Oneshot (~600 words) | AO3

Dear Mr. Baggins,

I hope you are well and enjoy your stay in the gardens of Lórien. 

It has come to my attention that, during your time in Middle-earth, you wrote a book about your adventures. Now, I hear that you didn't take said book with you on your journey — which, as sad as it may be for those among us who love and cherish such stories, myself included, was a wise choice. It appears that written records are currently the safest and most convenient way to preserve tales and knowledge for future generations of Ilúvatar's mortal children. 

Even so, your memories remain, and I have been wondering if you would like to tell us about your adventures. My wife and I, as well as our friends, would love to listen. Your stories could, if you wish, also be recorded for the libraries of Valinor — though do not worry, you will of course not have to write everything down again, our dear friend Vairë and her Maiar would be happy to do so for you. 

I am certain you have wonderful tales for us, Mr. Baggins, and my birds tell me that you are a very entertaining storyteller as well. What they have told me over the years was lovely already, though their record of events would naturally pale in comparison to yours. 

Please let me know if you would be willing to entertain such a request. Either way, we would be honoured to have you as a guest, should you choose to visit us on Taniquetil — or, alternatively, we can also visit you in Lórien. The other Ring-bearers are, of course, welcome as well; after all they have their own stories to tell. 

I look forward to hearing from you. 

King regards,  Manwë Súlimo 

Pleased with himself, Bilbo folded the letter and caressed the fine paper. He reached out with his free hand to pet the bird that had delivered it to him — some species of falcon, if he wasn't mistaken — and smiled when it leaned into his touch without question. 

Even the animals are different here in the Undying Lands.

"Well, wouldn't you know that," Bilbo mumbled, addressing no one in particular, "who would have thought that an old Hobbit like me could get a letter from the Elder King himself?" 

He omitted the fact that he hadn't been entirely sure of his existence at times and instead thought of the birds Manwë had mentioned. So he had heard bits and pieces of his grand tales before, brought to him by them? Bilbo thought about the birds he had seen in the Shire, mostly tiny songbirds, and how they may have listened to idle Hobbit gossip and brought it home to their esteemed lord. 

To think that the Elder King may have heard us argue about silverware... The thought made him chuckle, and he carefully pocketed the letter. 

As for Manwë's request, Bilbo already knew what his answer would be. Of course he was going to seize the opportunity to tell the King and Queen of Arda about his adventures — especially when at least one of them seemed curious, which was quite flattering to say the least. And he would be able to leave another book behind, one that would be written and kept by immortal hands in an immortal land. 

He would leave this world one day, but his tales would remain. 

The bird stayed where it was even as he headed for his desk, watching him attentively. Perhaps it was going to wait until he had composed his answer, Bilbo thought, and sat down to do just that. 

"A long and wonderful tale indeed," he mused aloud, "and at the beginning, I would have never thought that an old wizard knocking on my door would one day lead me to the Elder King's palace."

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @elanna-elrondiel @i-did-not-mean-to @saintstars

[princeblack]

Regulus wakes to a knock at the door, followed by a creaking sound as it opens immediately. Blinking bleary green eyes open, he doesn’t see anyone standing in the doorway, so he knows it’s Kreacher. Sure enough, the house elf’s voice follows. “Good morning, Young Master… Kreacher is here to wake you on behalf of Mistress’s orders. She requests you are ready to depart for King’s Cross by nine o’clock, so you must dress and eat now–”

“Yes, good morning, Kreacher…” Regulus’s voice is groggy and his patience thin, because despite how endearing it always was that the house elf took his job very seriously, it also quickly became exhausting when at the crack of dawn. “Tell Mother I’ll be down in ten minutes.”

Kreacher walks to the edge of his room, folding his hands together as big pale eyes gaze up at Regulus, who’s still in his pajamas. “Yes, Young Master. Kreacher is happy to serve…”

Sitting up, he glances down thoughtfully at the house elf. “Go make yourself some tea and have some eggs and toast, okay?” 

Sometimes his mother would ‘forget’ to give the loyal house elf his breaks, something that Regulus made sure to command him to take. “That’s an order, so you must.”

The house elf sniffs a little, the way he always does when he thinks someone might be contradicting Regulus’s mother in any way, but he ultimately agrees. “Yes, Young Master… Master Regulus is generous and will make his mother proud when he’s sorted into the noble house of Slytherin.”

Regulus smiles, unable to contain his natural reaction to the elf. “And I’m looking forward to it. Now, get out of my room so I can change.”

The small house elf bows before leaving, closing the door on his way out. It leaves Regulus in silence, contemplating the future. He’s sixteen and finally going to attend Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, just like his predecessors. He would no doubt be sorted into the same house as the rest of his family, and if his home-schooling grades were to be trusted, he would be even more talented in an official academic setting. Everyone expected him to succeed, from his parents to his extended family, including Lucius and Bellatrix. They had already placed their trust and expectations in him, allowing him to attend secret and lavish meetings with the Dark Lord at the Lestrange mansion and various hidden places. Lucius would often say that Draco had much to learn from Regulus, only ‘hoping’ his son would amount to as much both magically and academically. Draco wasn’t allowed to attend the parties or meetings yet, with Lucius claiming he had maturing to do, but Regulus had met Lord Voldemort. Lucius explained he was in a specter form after Harry Potter’s ‘defeat’, in a weakened state and requiring a body to fully walk in their realm again. From what Regulus could tell, Voldemort was smart and well-spoken, only wanting to protect the wizarding world from outsiders and even itself.

It was hard for Regulus to imagine, after living in a wizard’s village the entirety of his life, why muggles would be allowed into their society when they wanted them dead for most of recorded history. Would anyone who wasn’t brought up in their ways truly understand them, or would they be biased to their muggle roots, always defending them even when the magical world was at risk? His father always said that despite the Black family’s riches, their heritage and family was the most important valuable of them all, and they were to protect their magical blood with their lives or it would bring shame upon their fathers and their fathers before them.

He’s heard from his family about the state of muggleborns at Hogwarts, being admitted in just the same as those from wizarding families. Every student was even designated to use muggle transportation to get to the school, in the name of cohesion (“That crackpot old fool doesn’t want to admit he’s boot-licking the muggles”, as Lucius had said to his father). Regulus thought it was an overreaction on his relative’s part, but he did see the fear beneath, and he felt it all around him as muggles were integrated into their society more and more. What if their secret was to be found out, and they were hunted to extinction when their numbers were already dwindled to so few? What if magic was bred out of their bloodlines completely? Even the paintings of Grimmauld Place talked about it and it was never far from the back of Regulus’s mind.

But something else that never left his mind was Sirius’s dusty room, still untouched at the topmost landing of the mansion. There were Permanent Sticking Charms on a lot of the decorations on the wall, including the Gryffindor banners hanging everywhere. Regulus had often wondered how Sirius was the only one in the family to become sorted into Gryffindor, and what exactly had happened between him and their parents that led to his disownment. But his mother and father were tight-lipped, telling Regulus he’s a murderer and a blood traitor. This didn’t quite match up with Regulus’s research, which indicated that Sirius was immediately escorted to Azkaban upon the murder of muggles in broad daylight, all because of his maddened support for the Dark Lord. But none of his family was willing to talk of the incident, and none of the death eaters either. If Sirius ever supported Lord Voldemort or if he was a fraud who de-famed their organization with careless murder in the streets, Regulus never knew. All he knew was his brother’s image was burned from the family tree and the remains of his life here were frozen in time in his bedroom at the top of the stairs.

He thinks about all of these things as he gets dressed, wearing a dark brown cable knit sweater and a black cashmere coat. It isn’t until he finishes getting ready, stopping by his bathroom, before he finally goes downstairs to greet his mother at the dining room table.

There are two plates of food already placed, his mother waiting, giving him a thin smile as he approaches. ”Well, go on. Hurry and eat up before you make your father late. He’s leaving work to pick us up in the ministry car to see you off, but he needs to get back to the office in a timely manner. There was a duel between two goblins in downtown London that needs cover-up… Blew out the side of a residential building and the muggles are in an uproar.”

A portrait of Regulus’s great grandmother, who was positioned near the entrance to the dining room, gives a derisive cough. “I say leave it blown up… The Muggle scum deserved it.”

“I quite agree, Hesper,” Regulus’s mother says, starting to eat her eggs. “But they can’t know of us, so Orion does his job dutifully.”

“I don’t have much left to pack, anyways,” Regulus says, moving to sit down. “I’ve been waiting for this day my entire life, so I’m a little over prepared…” It’s hard to even worry, he’s so prepared. He knows exactly what happens when he gets to Hogwarts and he’s positive he’ll be in Slytherin.

“Nonsense,” his mother shakes her head. “There’s no such thing as over prepared. But, Regulus, we need to talk about your priorities when you get there. I don’t want any distractions, or assosiacting with blood traitors. I hope to be able to trust you, and not lose you like we did with your brother.” Her tone is brittle, but he can see in her eyes that even the thought of Sirius has made her upset. “If I hear of you fraternizing with any of those muggle-loving fools, I’ll bring you straight back home. Do you understand?”

Regulus stiffens, not eating for a moment as he glances up at his mother. “I understand. I’m only interested in my studies, anyway.” Truth be told, he’s never liked her iron grip, telling him what he can and can’t do. But he respects his family and doesn’t want to end up alone (or worse, in Azkaban) like Sirius. Besides, she knew better, didn’t she? And the Dark Lord was a powerful wizard with influence and a community; someone he wanted to be like.

So he finishes his breakfast as his mother rattles on about his first semester, thinking about all of the belongings he needs to put in his trunk before they depart.

His father arrives late in the ministry car afforded to him by being Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. His mother ushers them all in, bickering with his father the entire way to King’s Cross. They just barely make it to the platform in time, his mother planting a kiss on his cheek and his father giving him an encouraging pat on the back before sending him on his way.

Regulus already knows what to do; pushing his trolley to the bricked barrier and running through it, magically appearing onto platform nine and three-quarters. The Hogwarts Express is exactly as he expected it to look; a large, red steam engine with billowing steam. There was a chattering crowd around him as other students said last minute goodbyes to their parents closer to the train, something that made Regulus jealous as he passed by. Instead, his father had been more concerned with his job, rushing back to the car to return to the ministry, as usual.

Compared to his family, formal and strictly business, a lot of these families seemed close almost. One girl clung to her mother in tears, as if she couldn’t bear to let her go for the term. There were animals everywhere, from cats wandering the platform to owls hooting in cages. Most everyone was starting to file onto the train, Regulus finally bringing in the rear.

Just as he reaches the stairs, he notices someone else struggling with their trunk, trying to get it up the steps. He can only see her back, but she’s wearing an orange sweater and a dark plaid skirt, matching her small brown boots. She has auburn curls and he can see flowers woven into them, which catches his interest. 

Finally seeming to realize she was standing in the entrance for too long, she turns to look at him and he’s stunned into silence for a moment. She has the prettiest face he’s ever seen; a small, delicate chin, high cheek bones and big blue eyes that almost sparkle. Remembering he should probably say something, he quickly tries to cover up his reaction. “Hello,” he starts, almost nervously. This is the first person he’s spoken to that’s going to Hogwarts and isn’t from Grimswood like the Malfoys or Greengrasses or Rosiers. How was he supposed to know if she was from a pureblood family? He pushes aside the thought of his family, instead focusing on the present. “Let me help you with that,” he offers, stepping forward to take the trunk from her. His hand brushes hers as he takes the handle. Lifting it, he puts it on the top step before turning to get his own luggage so he can follow behind her. / @devcted