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writtenfangirl · 9 months ago

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Madness

I wrote this so long ago and then abandoned it because I didn’t know if the ending was satisfactory or not. I thought it would have a greater plot as well but when I couldn’t find it, I was dissatisfied until I reread it and realized the prose was too good not to publish.

Fluff but also a little bit of angst if you squint hard enough.

In which Benedict Bridgerton finally reveals the truth.

She was beautiful. Too beautiful, if Benedict was being perfectly honest with himself. Not the kind of beauty that had him picking up a paint brush and painstakingly striking an easel with lovely swirls of color but the kind of beauty that distracted him, made him brood in a dim corner of the room, watching the little twists of her mouth and the subtle way she arched a brow. Beauty to the point of distraction, like spending hours watching shooting stars dash across the night sky, not realizing as dawn approached on the horizon.

It was utterly maddening.

She was utterly maddening.

How was he meant to live, to exist and breathe, to witness such great beauty and yet have none of the capacity, the right, to keep it?

Just a glance from her, a single curve of her lips, and Benedict could feel his faith in God strengthening as easily as he could deny the Lord’s existence. Only a benevolent God could create such ecstatic beauty and yet no benevolent God could exist in this world if Benedict had to bear the cruelty of Y/N’s indifference.

Maddening.

He sighed, the sound bereft as he continued to watch her charm the eligible men of the ton. She had a veritable cabal of men gathered around her and if any other debutant had been in her position, they surely would have been overwhelmed by now.

But not Y/N.

Never Y/N.

With her head held high and her smile demure, she directed the men as easily as if she was holding court. A slight clearing of the throat and already, someone had a glass of lemonade in their hand while a flap of her hand would have the men falling over themselves in an attempt to get her a chair.

A queen holding court, indeed.

Benedict rolled his eyes at the man to her right, who practically shoved at the man on his left in order to catch Y/N’s attention. Not that it really mattered though, especially not when Y/N’s attention was focused on Benedict.

Even from across the room, the tension between them felt palpable. Exhilarating. It always had been with Y/N. Thick and smooth, the connection between them as tangible as their own beating hearts. Just a shared look between them and the world fell silent, the edges of his vision practically darkening at the edges until he saw only her.

Beautiful. Even as her face contorted with hurt for the briefest of seconds, her eyes pulling away from him and returning to the crowd of men that surrounded her.

Benedict gritted his teeth, the only sign of annoyance he let himself show.

“I see you are not quite so enamored with our diamond.”

Benedict’s head whipped to the left, finding Lady Danbury watching him with those shrewd eyes of hers. The old crone had her cane gripped tightly in her hands and Benedict fought his grimace at the phantom pain that shot up from his ankles. The dowager countess had a terrible habit of whacking gentlemen she didn’t like with that sturdy cane of hers and Benedict had felt the brunt of that pain far too many times for his liking.

Still, as a gentleman, he couldn’t very well ignore the woman. It would have been terribly rude of him to and it went against every fiber of the etiquette that had been drilled to him as a child.

He spared Y/N another glance before he spoke. “You think all those men enamored with her?”

“I think they think themselves enamored by her,” Lady Danbury said. “She is quite a beauty and accomplished too, I hear. Are you acquainted with the young lady?”

He had been, when he was young. As recently as a few months ago, Benedict had counted Y/N as one of his dearest friends but with everything that transpired between them…

“We are familiar with one another.”

Lady Danbury arched a brow, directing her attention back to Y/N. She was animatedly speaking with Anthony and Colin, the only time the entire evening where her smile didn’t seem a little bit forced. “Your brothers seem friendly with her. Why aren’t you?”

Because he was a stupid, bloody, idiot who didn’t know how to keep his damn mouth shut, that’s why.

But his pride would never let him say that, especially not in front of Lady Danbury. “We are familiar with each other.” He repeated, voice tight.

Lady Danbury’s eyes flickered. “I seem to recall your mother telling me about how you and the Lady Y/N were thick as thieves not so long ago.”

Bloody hell, the old crone was relentless. He didn’t want to talk about his and Y/N’s falling out, especially not with her.

He suddenly whirled, cocking his head to the side. “Oh, I believe I hear someone calling me.”

No one was calling him but not even his impeccable manners could make him stay.

Lady Danbury harrumphed. “I may be old, boy, but I am not deaf.”

“Definitely hear someone calling me.” Benedict even cupped a hand, placing it on the side of his mouth before he yelled a quick, “I’ll be right there!” He turned back to Lady Danbury, who was looking at him as if she knew his claims were a lie. “Lady Danbury, if you’ll excuse me.”

The dowager countess simply gave Benedict a knowing look yet let him go.

He ducked into the crowd towards… bloody hell he couldn’t find anyone he would rather talk to. His brothers were still off speaking with Y/N and he didn’t feel like speaking with his mother, who would likely hound him about his fight with Y/N. Which left the last person of their party, Eloise. A quick scan of the room revealed his sister in the other side of the room, conspiratorially whispering to her best friend, Penelope Featherington.

He zoomed towards them, turning his back on Y/N and Lady Danbury.

Eloise caught his eye as he approached and her lips pursed in displeasure. “Why do you look as if you’re expecting me to bail you out of a horrible situation.”

“Can’t I see my favorite sister with joy in my face without being suspected of ill intent?”Benedict said with a grin before bowing to Penelope, who returned the gesture with her own curtsy.

Penelope ducked her head to suppress a giggle.

Eloise rolled her eyes at him. “What do you want?”

“To ask you why you’re sulking in a corner instead of dancing despite—“ he pulled at the dance card in her wrist, every single line filled with names that were unfamiliar to him. “Did you put fake names in your dance card?”

Eloise snatched her wrist back. “Yes. I thought that with Y/N grabbing the attention of so many of the gentlemen, I would be spared the embarrassment of having to entertain any gentlemen tonight. Unfortunately, I was wrong.”

Benedict turned to Penelope. “How many approached her?”

“Six,” Penelope smirked, “and those six quickly turned right back around.”

“Well with a full dance card, I’m not at all surprised.”

Eloise rolled her eyes in annoyance. “Spare me the lecture, brother. I’m sure I’ll hear enough from mother tonight.”

“She caught you?”

“After Eloise turned down the sixth one, Lady Violet began to suspect,” Penelope explained.

Benedict grinned. “When have you known me to lecture you?”

She gave him a saccharine smile, the kind that Benedict always knew would end with her barbed words. “Aren’t you meant to be fawning over Y/N? You’d done it most of our life.”

He bristled at her words.

Penelope shot them a curious look. “You never told me you were acquainted with the lady?”

“Hadn’t I?” Eloise frowned. “Lady Y/L/N’s family and ours have been acquainted for ages. Of course, she rarely ever came to London and if it hadn’t been for her father’s recent passing she wouldn’t have had a season at all. Mama had held hope that perhaps one of my dear brothers would begin to take some responsibility and marry her.” She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial whisper that was so loud, it still reached Benedict’s ears. “Personally, I always thought Benedict would offer. He and Y/N had a special bond growing up. Even Daphne thinks so.”

Benedict had never hit a woman before but perhaps, just this once, excuses could be made for one’s sisters.

“So, well acquainted then,” Penelope said with a slight smile.

“I do recall Benedict pining after Y/N for years,” Eloise mused, uncaring as Benedict’s mood soured. “You never did tell me why it is you suddenly became estranged”

“Not that it’s any of your business.” He grumbled.

Eloise batted eyes innocently. “Irritable today, aren’t you, brother? Could it possibly be because of the cadre of men that hound every one of Y/N’s footsteps?”

“I have changed my mind. Francesca is now my favorite sister.”

“I love you too, Benedict,” she all but grinned.

He turned his attention back to Y/N, who, to his surprise, had taken her leave.

“She’s in the garden, if you wish to speak to her,” Eloise said, noting his wandering eyes and nodding towards the open veranda at the side.

“What gave you the impression that I would like to speak to her?” He tried to do his best nonchalant impression but not even Benedict was convinced of his own performance.

Eloise simply rolled her eyes at him before tugging Penelope’s arm. “With Y/N taking her respite, I imagine there will be a sudden influx of gentlemen who would like to dance. Let us make ourselves scarce.” And she pulled Penelope along, the red head offering Benedict an apologetic look.

He glanced at the crowd once again before letting his feet carry him through the veranda and out towards the garden. There were still many people milling about outside that granted them protection from scandal but it was much more intimate than the loud din of the ballroom.

The night was cool, the spring air serene compared to the humidity of the ballroom.

He spied Y/N, her back turned against the door. Upon hearing his approach, she sighed. “Good sir, if you did not understand me, I wish to be al—“ she turned and her words died at her lips at the sight of him. “Oh. It’s you.”

She looked even lovelier up close. She always did. Whether dressed in a simple frock with her long hair flowing down her back or dressed ornately with jewels adorning her, she always looked lovelier up close.

“What do you want, Benedict,” Y/N said, dropping that societal mask she employed inside.

“To apologize.”

She shook her head. “There is nothing to apologize for. You asked for my hand under false pretenses, I rejected you. End of story.“

“Under false pretenses?” He echoed, his own tone turning sharp. “You think my proposal to be insincere? Is that why you rejected me?”

“I did not think it insincere, I knew it to be insincere. I heard you and the Lady Violet discussing me. I heard when you declared your intention to ask for my hand in marriage simply because she had asked you to.”

Oh.

He remembered then, the conversation he had with his mother right before he proposed.

“Propose to her,” Violet had urged just as breakfast had been served, with only Benedict and Violet dining.

“I am not even courting her, mama,” he replied exasperatedly. It had been far too early in the morning to entertain his mother’s insistence on seeing him wed to Y/N. She’d pestered him about it in one form or another even before the Y/L/Ns had come to visit the Bridgertons and Benedict knew she would not stop until he and Y/N were formally engaged.

But Y/N had just ended her mourning period for her father. And though societal mandates dictated that it was perfectly reasonable for Benedict to ask for her hand in marriage, he knew how deeply she mourned the man, especially since his death had placed her in such a precarious position. The late patriarch of the Y/L/N family had been fond of his only child, even if she had been born a girl. And Y/N had loved him, even if his death left her and her mother saddled with financial debt despite coming from the longest line of barony in England.

“What does it matter that you are not courting?” Violet demanded. “You have known her since you were both children. You’ve been courting her all your life.”

“Mama, please leave it well enough alone.”

“What is it that you do not like about her?” She insisted. “She is beautiful and accomplished and you have known each other your whole lives. Any young man would be fortunate to be bound to her in marriage.”

“I never said anything that would imply otherwise.”

“Then why do you refuse to ask her for her hand in marriage? Doing so would spare her a season in London and limit their financial troubles.” And then she had gasped in indignation. “Or is their financial troubles the very reason why you refuse? I never raised you to be avaricious!”

Bloody hell. “I am not avaricious, mother. I do not care about her dowry or lack thereof!”

“Then what is it? Do not tell me it is because you do not love her. I have seen the way you look at her.”

Benedict had eyed his fork, had wondered if perhaps, it would be a better to shove it in his ears than listen to his mother’s hullabaloo.

Instead he took a scone, spreading a generous layer of clotted cream and jam so his hands had something to do rather than maim himself.

“And how is it I look at her, mother?” He drawled.

“The same way your father used to look at me.”

At that he had paused, scone half-raised to his mouth. He hadn’t known what to say anymore. Mentions of his own father had always been capable of silencing his mind.

Finally, he had decided on telling her the truth, that his mother may finally stop pestering him.

“Asking Y/N for her hand in marriage had always been the plan, mother,” Benedict relented. “I was simply waiting for the perfect moment.”

Violet smiled at her son kindly. “There are no such thing as perfect moments, dearest. Only moments that can be made perfect. And whether you ask her later or tomorrow or next week, that moment will be perfect by virtue of you asking.”

She was right, of course. Violet Bridgerton was so rarely incorrect especially in matters of the heart and love.

Benedict had given her a smile, and said, voice dripping in sarcasm. “Well, since you so graciously asked me to, I shall propose to the Lady Y/N, if only to make you happy.”

That must have been what Y/N heard. Not the whole story but the end, when Benedict had teased his mother.

Now he was convinced that God existed and that he must be cruel. Only the machinations of a cruel God could have lined up the timing perfectly.

Y/N’s eyes flickered as she regarded him. “I do not wish to bind you in marriage with someone you do not hold any affection for. You have fulfilled your promise to your mother and have asked for my hand. I rejected you. We no longer have any obligations with one another. Good night.” She made a move to pass him, to walk back to the ballroom to her gaggle of men but Benedict’s hand shot up, gripping her arm and keeping her to him.

His hands were gloved and even Y/N’s arms were sheathed in silk. And though he had never felt gloves to be particularly offensive, he wished to burn the ones that covered their hands. If only so he could feel her smooth skin beneath his fingers.

The heady scent of her perfume wafted through his senses. She smelled divine, like walking through a garden of roses under the cover of moonlight as the stars twinkled above his head. Utterly mouthwatering, and capable of driving even the sanest of men into insanity. The scent of distraction.

Always so distracting.

Benedict forced his mouth to speak before his brain could forget the words he needed to say. “Do you think so little of me? Capable of such cruelty especially when it comes to you.”

Y/N’s brows met, a flash of pain in her eyes and then it was gone. “It is the opposite, really. I think the world of you, Benedict. Only a gentleman would offer to marry a girl he has no obligations to simply because of her precarious position in life. You are an honorable man and any woman would be lucky to call you their husband. It is why I cannot accept your proposal, not when you do not love me. Not when there is no one on this world more deserving of love than you.”

Benedict frowned at her. “Why do you continue to insist that I do not love you?”

“Because you do not!” She pulled away from him, wrenching her hand from his grasp. Her eyes were pure anguish as she looked at him and the very sight of her pain had him staggering back. “If you truly held any affection for me, I would know. I have studied you all our lives, Benedict. And in all the time we shared together, you had never shown any affection for me beyond that of a friend. Your proposal hurt, Benedict. I have loved you in every way a man could be loved for so long and for you to ask for my hand in marriage out of pity—“ She choked, eyes widening as if she didn’t mean to say the things she’d said.

“You love me?” He echoed, heart beating quickly in his chest. He wondered, briefly, if his fast beating heart marks the day he really lived. If Y/N’s confession had been the reason he truly felt alive for the first time in his life.

Her face crumpled in pain as she stepped back. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have said those things. Please take your leave, Benedict. That I may salvage whatever scraps of my dignity is left.”

But Benedict did no such thing.

Instead he took her hands and lowered himself into a kneel, setting his eyes upon her. The arching light of the manor spilled over the veranda casted her in a soft glow that took his very breath away.

Y/N’s eyes widened in alarm and whatever pain she held there was washed away by her surprise. “Benedict, what are you doing?”

“Begging you for forgiveness.”

“What? Benedict, get up.”

But he held firm, his determination cementing his knees to the ground. “Forgive me, Y/N, for my grave transgressions against you. That you had ever lived your life doubting my affections for you, or wondering if I cared for you as more than a friend are sins I will carry with me to my last breath. It will be my great shame that I had not made it abundantly clear that I love you. Because I do love you. Most ardently.”

“Benedict, get up. This is madness—“

“You are right. It is madness. The way I feel for you would drive the sanest of people into lunacy. But if loving you is madness then I don’t ever wish to be sane.”

Her eyes gleamed silver with unshed tears that threatened to fall from her pretty eyes. “B-But that morning, the day you proposed—“

“I did not propose to you out of pity for you, I did it out of pity for me. I needed to put myself out of my misery and finally marry the only girl I ever had the privilege of falling in love with rather than continue pining after you in secret.”

She let out a a laugh through her tears, the sound like bells chiming during a storm. Light and beautiful despite the pouring rain that threatened to drown it out. “Ask me again.”

His heart leapt to his throat, pounding so quickly he struggled to get the words out. But they came nonetheless, the words clear and betraying none of his anxiety. “Y/N, will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

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salaimoi · 9 months ago

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𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: GUYS THIS IS NOT A DRILL!! I finally wrote a fic that isn’t about GOJO?! whaaaaaaat is the world as we know it coming to an end? D:

Past lover Sukuna who originally took no interest in you being his wife, but eventually, your abiding love taught him to do so. But, it was far too late when you established that he was indeed capable of loving someone other than himself. Your demise caused him to lose the individual he held dearest in this world – replacing the affectionate sentiment that had been coursing through his heart with resentment.

Past lover Sukuna who had anticipated your fated return once more since the Heian Era, only for your rebirth to never arrive, even though millennia went by. The benevolent soul he eagerly waited for became ensnared in the depths of the underworld, unable to reincarnate into the mortal world.

Even then, he was more than certain that you weren’t at eternal rest because of the longing, the nostalgia, and the need to be together again that he felt.

He knew your anima was among the 7 realms somewhere; all he had to do was wait for your return. Heaven could wait as long as it meant laying eyes on that precious face of yours once more.

Past lover Sukuna who noticed the spitting image of his deceased wife walking down the street that fateful day. He couldn’t pass up this opportunity to have you once more in this lifetime as well – even if it was borderline selfish.

To bring back those good old times; to bring back what was his.

To hold you. To own you. To conquer you. To possess you. To control your soul. To do whatever he wanted to with you.

To be with you once again, reverting to a time when he could feel affection – the way he liked best.

Past lover Sukuna who gripped your arm vigorously out of the blue among the crowd, because Sukuna never knew boundaries – not when it came to his beloved.

“You look familiar,” he said, “not only the uncanny face shape and the exact same expression… but also your scent.” His gaze unrelenting as he scanned every aspect of your being as if you were his property, to make sure it was you – and he was correct.

You were the same woman Sukuna fell in love with 1000 years ago. Alas, his delicate swan had returned to him after eons of suffering, like he knew you would.

Past lover Sukuna who noticed you squirming under his grip and scolded you, sharp nails digging at your flesh.

“You shouldn’t be acting like this; it isn’t decent behavior for the reincarnation of my cherished wife to act in such a manner.”

But you didn't remember a life before this one, nor did you recall his name or even the fact that you were once his most prized possession.

Past lover Sukuna who waited over a thousand years just for his beloved to reincarnate into a mortal. He knew he wasn’t capable of loving anybody nearly as much as he loved her. And now...now she's back.

When you left this world, you took all – if any – of the sense of compassion he had. No one in the history of sorcerers and curses alike could come close to comprehending the misery he endured with each passing day.

Time and time again, reliving his wife’s death in his subconscious. Powerless to intervene as he witnessed the life drain out of her and transfer onto his fingertips.

“I missed you all those years, and I can't have the same fate happening again. I'm not going to let you die the way you did in your past life, got it?" Never forgetting to conceal the anguish in his words, as to not let himself be too vulnerable.

Past lover Sukuna who was hellbent on evoking in you the sentiment of what it was like to be his spouse. Even if it meant having to recreate every single romantic scenario he ever experienced with you a second time.

“I finally have you with me again. All I need to do is make you remember the feelings you had for me in your previous life, and then you'll have your past self fully restored.”

To you, it would entail falling in love with him all over again; to him, it would be a refresher on what you once shared. A win-win scenario.

Past lover Sukuna who began to notice the essence of that past life slowly merging with your current self, fusing the two identities into one. The love she felt a thousand years ago was slowly reawakening. All while Sukuna stood there in awe of the magnificent sight he was witnessing; the sight of his beloved being reborn again. The reunion of two souls was happening before his eyes, and it was almost emotional to see.

Past lover Sukuna whose heart felt heavy from the weight of joy and relief that he felt. He finally reunited with his once-lost lover. The essence of her former life was fully restored once more as she was standing right next to him. It seemed unreal to see her with his own eyes – his beloved was back, at long last. The eternal years of hardship for the sake of his plan were finally worth it.

Current lover Sukuna whose fingers ran through the locks sprawled over his lap – calming the both of you to no bounds when his fingernails rake through your scalp. His free hand holding onto your wrist tightly, because he had to be sure no one would snatch you from his grasp a second time.

“I missed you so damn much…more than you could ever possibly imagine.”

Current lover Sukuna who finally admitted to his feelings for the first time in millennium, because he missed you more than anything in this infernal world.

Current lover Sukuna who admired you with a soft expression, shocked at how angelic you were even after a thousand years.

“You still look as gorgeous as you did a lifetime ago.” words dripping with genuine adoration as he gazed down at his wife.

Current lover Sukuna who wondered how that was possible in the first place. Surely, granting him access to a companion of your caliber – with such a pure heart and soul – was a mistake of some kind?

Current lover Sukuna who thought, “All is right in this world again.” to himself. Because it was. You were by his side once more – right where you belonged.

#⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ 20ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀᴄᴏᴍʙᴏ ɪꜱ ᴏɴʟɪɴᴇ .ᐟ #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #reader x sukuna #sukuna angst #sukuna fluff #jjk fluff #sukuna ryoumen x reader #sukuna ryoumen x you

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madschiavelique · 5 days ago

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A Crown Of Ink : Chapter 10 - Three of Cups

summary : you are invited to a masquerade, and between battling to find a decent dress and the expectations of conducting oneself in high society, you manage to pull it off

content warnings : masquerade shit idk, reader putting men back in their places because duh, for reference here are the link to reader (the pic on the right) and viktor's outfit for the masquerade (art made by me)

word count : 8,5k

author's note : omygoodness, i’m so dubious about this chapter. i could NOT not give viktor some khôl sexy eyes okay. i just did and i don't regret it. also!!! i moved the taglist down the doc now hehe

proofread by the lovely @yaffles-world <3

masterlist : here

"Really now?"

You looked at yourself in the mirror, your head barely visible above a fluorescent orange collar with multiple layers piling up on top of each other like lasagna.

Who would have thought that finding a dress was such a long and difficult job?

You'd already been in a few shops in Piltover for a good hour each. You'd been going from boutique to boutique for nearly three hours already, and you were beginning to lose hope about the possibilities open to you regarding your outfit.

Tonight was the gala, and you still hadn't found a dress. You'd probably imagined that the matter would be sorted out quickly. That, by some miracle or other, you would find a dress that was chic and presentable enough to wear to a masquerade.

But the clock was ticking, while your search continued unabated. Sélène and Sky had both come to accompany you, and the two of them had enough in common that the teacher-student barrier was forgotten and she just saw her as a friendly aunt.

Sélène had this extraordinary ability to always be open, to see everyone as an equal, no matter what their age or background was. It was an immense and admirable quality, coupled with her extraordinary patience to hold out and persevere in finding you a superb evening outfit.

You had tried on so many dresses that you thought you could now recognise every possible material a dress could be made of. You'd tried silk and velvet, pleats of tulle or organza, all sorts of cuts that made you look either too invested in this evening or far too casual.

You knew that, once you entered the gala hall, it would be an arena. A constant battle of eyes tearing at the others, comments on their appearances, their words - passive-aggressive phrases disguised as condescending benevolence.

You could understand why Jayce didn't want to face such a world, always so hungry for crumbs that left stomachs screaming to invent new words and cover the world with a layer of sneaky ridicule.

Speaking of ridiculous, the outfit you were now wearing completed the criteria.

You turned to Sky and Selene who, with a knowing glance, sighed in turn. You returned to the cabin, removing the dress and putting on your clothes again with annoyance.

"Maybe I should just tell Jayce I can't make it," you concluded as you left the cabin.

"No way in hell," chuckled Selene.

"Maybe we should try the other side of the river?" Sky suggested, after seeing that there was no one around to overhear.

Zaun owned huge dressmaking houses, however they clashed with Piltover’s aesthetic. If word got out that one of the guests at this prestigious gala was wearing couture from the enemy city... you didn't know what that would do to your reputation and the strings that would be pulled to constrain you in your aims.

"No," replied Selene, her eyes fixed on you as a flash of lucidity seemed to cross her mind. She gave you both a wise smile. "There's still a wardrobe in Piltover where you'll probably be able to find something."

She then turned to Sky, offering her a charming smile and taking both her hands, squeezing them gratefully.

"Sky sweetheart, I'll be taking over from now on. I thank you immensely for your time and your very pleasant company." She turned to you for a moment. "Dear, give me one of those tickets Jayce gave you."

You complied, handing her one of the tickets still looking crisply printed, which she handed to Sky.

"Go on a little shopping trip and get yourself some treats. You've earned it."

Sky looked deeply surprised, exchanging a glance with you for a moment as you shrugged, equally confused.

Selene turned to you. "As for us, we've got some real archaeological work to do."

The two of you returned to Selene's flat as Sky had left, exchanging one last minute and promising to tell each other absolutely everything once you got back from the Gala.

"What card did you draw today?" she asked as she opened the door to her dressing room.

You watched as she grabbed a small stepladder. "Three of Cups."

"Aha," she smiled as she climbed onto it, scanning the shelves above, "the cards know about this little soirée."

The little booklet was starting to feel a lot more familiar now: Joy shared with others. Friendship and celebration. The expression of love and warm feelings.

It all seemed very positive, you thought, as you continued to read the page. The Cups reflect the sacred triad of creativity and growth. This card reminds you to share with others. Empowering others increases your happiness, health and wealth. Surround yourself with people who uplift you.

Talk about elevation, you'd find yourself surrounded on all sides by aristocrats and other big heads, where the only level that could rise would be that of clever condescension camouflaged under dishonest smiles.

Selene's graceful hands, full of rings, clutched a large black leather suitcase. She blew on it, a cloud of dust rising into the air as she passed it to you.

“What's this?” you questioned as you picked it up, its weight comfortable in your arms as you observed the trunk.

She bent down to grab the handle of a second briefcase, brown and with the varnish starting to peel off the corners.

"I was around your age when I started getting invited to Galas and other balls of the sort." She descended the small steps of the stepladder, facing you. "I kept all the dresses that some men had offered me."

You smiled, amazed and surprised. "Offered?"

Selene giggled, kneeling on the ground as you did the same.

"They offered me drinks, and the drinks went to the bed, and from the bed came enough adoration that I have to my credit two or three divorces in which I am the centre of the affair." She sighed as she undid the two golden buckles guarding the sealed chest. "They covered me with jewels," your eyes passed over her hands again, "flowers, and on special occasions, dresses."

She opened it, and your lips parted at the beauty of its contents. She pinched an emerald-green piece of fabric, lifting its heavy velvet into the air before you and revealing a winter dress all embroidered with carmine and obsidian stones, dripping like blood.

Another slipped through her fingers, a summer dress in a fine, peachy pink, its sleeves made of organza embroidered with gold embellishments.

Another made you open your mouth until your jaw hit the floor. A long golden dress, with a loose neckline reaching down to just above her navel, while the bare back almost reached her sacrum.

"You wore that?" you almost choked out.

She smiled, raising her eyebrows. "Some of them wanted to uncover me more than cover me."

You laughed softly, opening the black trunk in your lap. The glitter of a black sequined dress was immediately reflected on your skin.

"These are all so beautiful..." you said almost absently, your hand running through the fabric.

The thought then occurred to you that you were going to wear something so expensive and beautiful tonight, but you felt almost unworthy to have any of these dresses on your skin. You were first in the Academy, of course. And you had worked hard to get there. But a masquerade that would surely be attended by all the most important people in Piltover was no mean feat.

"Now," Selene broke through your incessant internal doubts, clutching the first dress that came her way, "let's see how beautiful you look in them."

You smiled softly at her, shyly accepting the piece of art as she stepped out of the dressing room and gave you time to change.

You held the fabric close to you, the sequins reflecting off your hands as your eyes tried to visualise you wearing that same dress tonight. I must be perfect, you thought.

As you began undressing to put on the dress, a reflection caught your eye. Your attention was drawn to a dark patch peeking out from under an old pink dress.

Drawn in, intrigued, you gently pinched the shoulder of the dress to discover the one hidden beneath. A soft, violet fabric, approaching a dark blue, gleamed in the light from the ceiling, lines of small blue and black stones streaking it from top to bottom.

Purple, you thought, the conversation from the day you visited the museum coming back to mind.

You took the dress in your hands, rising up and letting it unfurl like a waterfall at night. The fabric seemed magical, shimmering like stars on water, glistening like the moon on snow. The neckline ran from around the neck in a V-shape to the centre of the valley of your breasts, a dark, almost black bodice hugging the waist while the skirt came down to the feet. The shoulders were covered, the sleeves parting loosely halfway down the arm until they met at gold bracelets around the wrist.

It was sublimely elegant, dark and mysterious, perfect for a masquerade. You carefully replaced the dress Selene had originally given you in the suitcase, and slipped it on. The fabric was soft against your skin, a slight reassuring weight on your shoulders as the bracelets closed around your wrists with ease. You felt neither too tight nor too loose – a perfect balance.

Maybe purple wasn't such a bad colour after all.

"So?" called Selene from outside.

You inhaled, hesitantly opening the dressing room door. Selene was at her vanity, looking in her drawers for the few palettes that might embellish your eyes. She looked away from her search, resting her eyes on you, and her gaze softened.

"Where did you get this one?" you asked, your finger pinching the skirt gently as you gazed at the stones glinting softly in the light.

She moved towards you, tender, as a thin smile stretched her lips, gazing wistfully at the dress on you.

"It was given to me..." her hand came to rest on one of your shoulders, sliding down your arm, "by a man I loved."

"You loved?" you repeated in wonder.

"Mhm," she hummed, her hand reaching for the gold bracelet, index and middle fingers together as if to trace its pulse. She seemed to come back to reality, regaining your eyes. "I'm glad you're wearing it."

She then turned her head to the mirror on her dressing table, taking your wrist gently and pulling it so that you came to sit in front of it. In your reflection, the dress looked stunning, highlighting your figure to perfection and lighting you up.

Selene then picked up a black circular mask, hanging over the mirror.

"Now," she brought the mask up to your face, placing it to make sure it would fit, "it's time for the world to figure out how to resist you."

Your heart was pounding as the music came closer to your ears and your heels echoed in the huge hallway you were walking through.

Selene had done your make-up after you'd showered, spending a good while on your eyes, since they and your lips would be the main attractions. She fixed your hair, gave you a few accessories and found a pair of heels in your size.

You made your way to the masquerade building without much trouble, the cool night air calming the heat in your cheeks. And now that you'd reached the big ballroom, your heart was starting to race in your chest.

What if you stumbled and made a fool of yourself? What if you said something wrong that didn't fit in with high society etiquette? What if you made a mistake?

You tried to breathe, to calm yourself down, to not assume that you were going to fail no matter what. You were the top of the Academy, after all, and defeat feared you. You thought about all the possibilities, and resigned yourself first of all to finding Jayce, who was probably just as lost and scared as you were.

You took one last breath, and turned into the chamber with your head held high.

The room had a high ceiling from which modern crystal chandeliers shone, illuminating the space where all sorts of silhouettes mingled. Some were standing by banqueting tables piled high with petits fours and amuse-bouches, while others were forming clusters of discussion groups, each carrying a champagne flute.

Do as they do, you thought, on the lookout for a waiter who might pass not far from you. With great luck, a charming butler came towards you as if a radar for people without champagne flutes had been grafted onto his eyes.

You took one, offering him a polite smile. As he prepared to leave, already looking for new people to please, you thought hesitantly to ask him if he'd seen Jayce Talis. But you stopped yourself, instead bringing the drink to your lips to prevent making a fool of yourself. You were in a masquerade, the very principle of which was the doubt and mystery of those with whom you were sharing a discussion.

Fortunately for you, however, you knew Jayce well enough to recognise him in a crowd. Had Viktor even arrived? You had no idea. Perhaps you were alone here, a shrimp trying to pretend to be a shark when an ocean of danger could bring a deadly current at any moment.

You looked around the room a little more closely. On either side, pillars of white marble rose up to a vaulted ceiling covered with superb frescoes. The floor was almost a mirror of it because of its intensive polishing, the black and white tiles creating intricate rosettes which you could no doubt start counting if the evening ever got too boring for your liking. At the far end of the room, three huge windows, almost embedded in the domed ceiling, let you discover the night and its mysteries. There was even a small band playing a steady stream of classical music, much to the delight of everyone it appeared.

The setting was magnificent, the scents of expensive foods and fragrances mingling almost to the point of suffocation. Everyone was wearing quite different colours, but the majority were still in Piltover's gold and white.

Finally your eyes found Jayce, dressed in the colours of his house. It's all about subtlety, you thought as you walked towards him. You hoped that by some miracle he would turn his head towards you and recognise you, so that you wouldn't have to worry about interrupting a conversation.

Alas, he did not. You walked towards them, a sentence ending as you arrived.

"I thought I'd never find you," you said, Jayce and his chatting companion both turning to face you.

Jayce looked confused for a moment, frowning and hoping he wasn't a complete idiot.

"Do I know y..." You feared the worst when a flash of genius crossed his eyes. "Oh it's you!"

Your shoulders relaxed as the stress subsided.

"I almost didn't recognise you," he admitted, apparently taken aback by your outfit. He turned for a moment to his conversation companion. "If you'll excuse us."

The latter nodded politely as you and Jayce walked away, along one of the buffet tables.

"This place is terrifying," you started, your eyes going around the room as you noticed a few glances being on you relentlessly.

Jayce shrugged, grabbing an appetiser that looked far too sophisticated for you and Sky to be lucky enough to find in the corner shop. "It's not as bad as I thought it would be," he said with his mouth full.

"That's because you're a social butterfly, Jayce," you remarked, your stare stretching across the room as a few eyes rested on you and smiled in what looked like an attempt at flirting from a distance for some. "You're the sunlight of this room."

He stopped chewing for a moment, looking at you with big eyes. "That's probably the nicest thing you ever said to me."

"It's not that complicated - all of them look like they were dipped in wax and can barely crack an actual smile."

"I take that back," he sighed, swallowing his bite.

You turned your attention back to the buffet, plates probably costing more than your salary, containing all sorts of arrangements mixing puff pastas and all sorts of garnishes.

You ventured to take one, exhaling a hum of relief as the taste was absolutely divine. Perhaps you'll be staying near the food this evening? The advantage with them at least was that you didn't risk having to talk yourself to sleep.

"So," you licked your fingers, "will you introduce us to your girlfriend?"

He sighed, his shoulders drooping. "Chances are she'll find you before I find her,” he mumbled, his eyes roaming the room in search of the aforementioned lady. "She's in her element here, but I think you'll recognise her once she comes to you."

You'd seen Mel Medarda before. Selene, who had a metaphorical place on the council, used to take you along from time to time when public meetings such as trials took place. You knew each of the councillors, like most of the people in Piltover, and would no doubt recognise them if the occasion arose.

Mel Medarda, sumptuous woman that she was, had left her mark on you in her beauty, her eloquence and her generosity. You hoped to honour your memory and her greatness by recognising her this evening.

"Is Viktor here with you?" you asked, curiosity winning out over silence.

"Yes," he smiled, raising his eyebrows, "I think he managed to temporarily escape to the toilets."

You brought your champagne flute to your lips. "Smart man."

From across the room, a guest raised her flute to Jayce.

"Duty calls," Jayce confirmed as he rubbed his hand off of any crust before placing his hand on your shoulder, "don't sweat it in here, just... mingle."

And with that, he left, leaving you at the mercy of a world you despised.

You looked at the dishes, taking a second one in your hand so as not to stand there like another statue in the background. You took a few steps out of sight, trying to savour what little quiet and time you had on your own before anyone requested your attention.

"That is quite an unfamiliar silhouette that I meet."

You turned, your eyes landing on a young woman covered in a dress combining saturnine white, black and gold.

Mel Medarda.

In her long dress with a skirt slit up her thighs, she looked like an elegant bottle of poison, an addictive elixir that gave you the serenity and comfort of knowing you were in control and that you had someone to talk to if any worries arose.

She had a mouth shaped like a chameleon, ready to take any shape or colour that might interest or uninterest her auditor. Her dark lips quirked into a smile as her eyes crinkled, all covered in gold and dark glitter. There was power in her grin as she moved forward, murmuring I've got lies so handsome you'll never want to believe the Truth, and that would make her jealous. I've got excuses so beautiful you'll want me to betray you to listen to them, so powerful you'll forgive me anything.

She was the fiercest shark in the pond, and she was coming towards you.

"Councillor," you raised your flute in introduction, trying to gain the same calm and consistency of diplomatic discussions, "I don't think we ever officially met before."

She sighed as she came up to you, shaking her head. "Let us drop the formalities – you're not going in for a discussion joust with me."

You looked startled, Mel dropping her shoulders.

“I know you're a friend of Jayce and Viktor, you're not a part of any of..." she described a graceful circle in the air with her flute, "them."

You relaxed a little. ‘Thank the Hells, I thought I'd have to behave myself and have conversations about a multi-polarised conflict of international importance, or anything of the sort."

She smiled at you, all charming. She was young, if not the same age as you. So how did she go about her day-to-day life, pushing herself to act like an adult whose shoulders bore the weight of big, heavy decisions?

"To simplicity," she toasted.

You raised your flute to hers before taking a sip. Its contents were beginning to dwindle already.

"How did you and Jayce meet?" she asked after her own swig.

"Two years ago, when I first started at the Academy, I was transferred to his class after three months."

"Really? For what reason?" she inquired.

You shrugged. "I'd made enough progress on my year's programme that they were considering moving me to another class. Skipped two classes in my life," you smiled.

"I'm beginning to understand why you're in first place in the rankings," she nodded, arching an eyebrow.

"Determination can take you a long way," you confirmed. "Jayce passed me the notes of the classes he'd taken since the beginning of the year, and wire by wire the title of classmate blurred into friend."

You thought back for a moment to the afternoons you'd spent poring over Jayce's notes, the question marks he'd drawn over and over again on his papers that you'd ended up completing for him. And when the weekends came and he came to see you at the café, he'd always wait until you had your break to talk about anything and everything with you.

“How about you?” you asked in return. “Haven't had many times this year to sit down and talk with him about his life, but I do want to know about you.”

“What don't you know?” she smiled. “The advantage of advisors is that a lot of their lives are biographed and catalogued.”

“Lucky then that I get to talk to a human being and not a pile of dead leaves,” you remarked.

She nodded gently before tilting her head to one side in consideration.

“I met Jayce after his trial. We had a long discussion and reconsidered his sentence after sharing it with the council. Since then, I've helped finance some of his projects, and the line between the professional and the romantic has blurred.”

“You're sure he's a good boyfriend, aren't you?” you inquired, ”if I find out he's not buying you a bouquet of flowers every week I may well have to perform an urgent intervention to educate him on the subject.”

She laughed softly, amused by your enthusiasm for making sure he was beyond reproach.

“No lesson needed, I assure you,” she confirmed, turning to the rest of the room and making a very subtle gesture with her hand for a butler to come and serve you both again. “How are you enjoying the night so far?”

“Well,” you sighed, ”I haven't made myself any new enemies so that's a good sign. You?”

“I think that if I hear another conversation about a love affair with a 62-year-old priest or a thesis on predictive models of pluripotent stem cell susceptibility, one of these drinks will end up poisoned by the end of the evening,” the butler reached you and poured you a refill, Mel smiling at him. “Thank you.”

She turned back to you.

“You are my breath of fresh air of the evening.” Her eyes drifted over your form for a moment, intrigued. “That's quite a lovely dress, by the way - I haven't seen such garments around here. Where did you find it?” she inquired as she pinched the fabric of one of your sleeves between her long fingers.

“Oh, my mother gave it to me,” you replied, pleasantly surprised that you could talk so calmly and simply without any pressure. “You probably know of Selene?”

Her eyes returned to yours. “Selene? Selene Phathe?”

You nodded, her lip stretching to the side.

“I wasn't aware she had a daughter.” she remarked.

“She has many children,” you smiled. “I'm her legal daughter.”

Selene had always had something very maternal, but had inherited the bitterness of infertility. Any child or young person she came across and helped became a bit like her spiritual children, and you knew your siblings were in good hands.

“I see,” Mel said, offering an understanding smile. “I ask her from time to time for readings and such. Everything she's shared with me has turned out to be true. I was quite skeptical about being carried away by such a science, but she managed to convince me of her certainty.”

“Started reading Tarot myself after a few years of getting readings, it's... startling how accurate they are.”

“Truly?” She pressed her shoulder against yours, “you'll have to come visit me to give me a reading someday.” She smiled. “And inform me of any of Jayce's mischief if he ever does any, I'll be sure to correct him on that matter.”

You raised your then-full flute, all smiles. “I'll drink to that.”

She returned the smile, taking a sip before her eyes found those of another guest in the room and she sighed.

“If you'll excuse me, I think I have another boring conversation to attend to.”

“Good luck - you have my support from afar,” you encouraged her as she gracefully made her way to the designated person.

Your eyes then roamed the room again, observing the few outfits the guests were wearing and all the high heels worn by the women who must have been killing their feet... But your eyes found the end of a cane, a cane you knew all too well and which almost appeared in your horizon like a real lifeline in this troubled sea.

You moved forward, your eyes still lowered on the end of the cane as someone blocked your field of vision and you bumped them.

“I'm sorry,” you uttered immediately, checking to make sure your champagne hadn't spilled as your eyes darted back to the masked ones of-

Tyler?

The fool's blond curls had been partially combed back with gel, his scarlet mask matched by a suit in Councilman Hoskel's colors: Black, Red and Gold.

He frowned, his eyes watching you completely before he realized where he knew that voice from.

“You?” he pronounced with as much disgust, shock and surprise mingling in his voice.

“Equally pleased, Tyler,” you grumbled, moving to extricate yourself from the situation when he grabbed your arm.

Your eyes immediately landed on where his hand was, moving slowly until they found his. How dare he even touch that fabric?

“What are you doing here?” he questioned, still not letting go of your arm.

“Got the invite for the biggest bastard competition, but it's just my luck that you got here. Now I can't win it, so if you'll excuse me-” you tugged again but Tyler kept his grip firm.

“How the hell did you get in there, huh?”

“Through the door, like everyone else. Can you let me go?”

“Where did you get such an empyreal dress?”

“Oh, you learned a new word.”

“It's Talis, isn't it?” He chuckled, finding the situation pitiful. “Thought he could just let you in like this?”

“Did your mother throw the baby away to raise the placenta? I was invited by merit, unlike you,” you almost spat at him. “Now let go of me.”

“Say please, and I'll consider it.”

“Tyler, I'm going to make you soluble so I can dilute you in my piss and dispense you into every flute in this room,” you threatened. “Let go of me.”

He nodded. “That's not how please is pronounced.”

“Her? Saying please, to you?”

You both turned toward the voice that had just spoken to you, the accent now inscribed in your ears.

Viktor.

Your breath seemed to almost supernaturally halt as your eyes fell on him. A purple, almost black velvet coat sat on his shoulders, the collar of his pierced shirt from which golden chain ornaments dangled, reached down to his vest, which elegantly outlined his waist. His black pants, flowing harmoniously down to his ankles, led to perfectly polished black shoes.

As your gaze returned to his face, your eyes locked on his, whose eyelids, beneath his mask of purple velvet and gold, were covered with a layer of kohl. His amber eyes possessed something mystical, mysterious and powerful.

“You too?" huffed Tyler. "It's an epidemic.”

“Tyler, I believe the Miss asked you politely to leave her alone. I suppose you wouldn't want any rumors to get out about the Hoskel heir and some of his violent behaviours,” Viktor remarked.

Tyler's eyes darted around the room, most of the masked faces turned towards him while many murmured unintelligible things as they watched the scene. His gaze reached yours again, one corner of his lips rising in annoyance as he finally let go of your arm.

“What's vermin like you doing here?” he asked, teeth clenched.

“We've been officially invited,” Viktor marked. “The efforts of the two top-ranking Academy students that we are have therefore been given the opportunity of such an evening to solidify diplomatic ties, with the hope later of obtaining alliances useful to our projects for the common good.”

You had no idea how quickly Viktor had combined all these justifications to give him an air of credibility. The possibility then occurred to you that Jayce and Viktor, before they came here, had probably rehearsed many times what they had to say in case fools like Tyler found themselves playing the curious.

“The standards have obviously gone down,” Tyler chuckled.

“Tell me about it,” you replied, looking at him almost apologetically, as if just seeing him made you feel sorry for him, so worn out was the little that served as his brain.

“Dearest Nephew!” Bombarded a voice.

Councillor Hoskel himself, then accompanied by what you recognized as Councillor Salo, strode towards your merry little group.

“It seems you have never mentioned such a beauty to be part of your acquaintances.”

The latter's eyes roamed over your figure as his tongue ran over his teeth. The figure was repulsive, one of his ridiculously thin arms against the enormity of his round beer belly nudging Tyler to make the introductions.

“Um,” he suddenly seemed to have lost his good-for-nothing tongue.

“Revealing our identity at a masquerade would defy the very principle of it,” Viktor sighed, exchanging a glance with you.

You had to play along, take on the etiquette of the discussion for an evening. “Exactly,” you declared with a tense smile that you offered to the trio of troublemakers.

“Is this your date?” Hoskel pointed, his slender finger unwinding from his flute to point at Viktor.

“Pardon?” you questioned, close to choking on your own spit.

“For tonight, is this young man your date?” he corrected. “Unless fate has miraculously brought you together with stylists,” he remarked with a greasy laugh.

Exchanging glances with Viktor and your two outfits, it was almost impossible not to notice the fact that, subconsciously, you'd been matching. Anyone seeing you side by side like that might have wondered about it, and the thought brought what you presumed was shame to your cheeks.

“Oh, no,” you laughed nervously. “Sorry, I did not understand.”

He shrugged and nodded arrogantly. “It's normal, pretty and intelligent is rare.”

You suppressed the urge to throw the contents of your flute in his face, given that he himself seemed not to be on his first one for a while now, and decided instead to play in his own court. “Yes, when ugly and stupid is quite common.”

Tyler's gaze narrowed as much as his uncle's and Councillor Salo's as Viktor lowered his head, a small smile spreading across his lips as he glanced at you from the side.

“Funny,” Hoskel struck a slight pose as he watched you, ”how being behind a mask gives you wings.”

You raised your chin, squinting your eyes as if looking down on him. “Funny how multiplying champagne flutes does so as well, only...” your eyes drifted to his red nose then his belly full of booze, ”one remains hidden better than the other.”

Hoskel seemed to chew air, grinding his teeth together as he grunted dully.

“My my,” Salo tilted his head down as his eyes remained on you, straightening, ”that's a sharp little one we have here with us tonight.” He cleared his throat, raising his gloved hand to point at the sky as if preparing to lecture. “Take care not to make a woman cry because gods count her tears. Whereas when a woman's up to something, the devil sits at his desk and takes notes.”

“A citation?” remarked Viktor, destitute as he was of a champagne flute while his free hand let only his thumb protrude from his pants pocket.

“From one of my books,” said Salo, proudly, resting his hand on his chest.

Viktor didn't seem any more enchanted than that to be taking part in the discussion, but no doubt had to try to find some fictional interest in all that was being told. “Do you write?”

Salo took a sip of his champagne, swallowing it quickly enough to respond with airy hand movements. “The Gods kindly offer me the first verse. What is difficult is to write the next ones which will be worthy of their supernatural brothers."

You brought your flute close to your lips. “Yes, otherwise who'd write the scripts for beggars,” you mumbled, before taking only one more sip.

Viktor huffed. Salo frowned, not seeming to have distinctly heard your words. “I beg your pardon?”

You swallowed, pressing your lips together to collect the rest of the contents of your sip. “Yes?”

“I don't think I quite heard what you said a moment ago.”

You thought you wouldn't be heard, your eyes shifting from Salo to Viktor for a moment before returning to the counselor and closing your eyes, a nervous smile spreading across your lips as you tried again to be diplomatic.

So you tried a graceful exit, shaking your head. “I think the champagne bubbles must have started their little rise, I'm thinking of getting some air to release them.” Just before leaving, you repeated the formula you'd heard so many times this evening. “If you'll excuse me.”

You looked at them one last time, lingering a moment longer on Viktor's gaze as you left for one of the balconies.

The night air bit into your cheeks like apples, the winter coolness slapping you in sharp contrast to the warmth inside. The cool air filled your lungs and you thought for a moment you'd end up frozen from the inside out. There was no wind, just the muted calm of the cold and the murmur of the city below.

You stepped forward, placing your glass on the edge of the balcony. You didn't care if it fell, if it flew away, if a pigeon shat in it. The mere fact that the crystal of this flute had touched the lips of so many people who had destroyed so much hope for your own made you want to grab it by its stem yourself and send it waltzing off to the stars.

You brought your hands to your arms, as much to prevent yourself from needlessly accessing this hatred as to gain warmth. Your eyes watched the horizon, the lights of Piltover in every window. How many knew what their consumption was bringing from the other end of the river? Your gaze drifted towards the latter, the lights much dimmer as they gleamed from the very bowels of the city. You thought back to Eris's letter for a moment, but what did she want to talk to you about?

Your hips touched the guardrail, your fingers running over Tyler's previous grip as if to dust off any DNA that had settled there. It was a good thing Viktor had arrived, or Tyler's nose would surely have had a few stitches.

A warmth rose in the back of your neck, familiar from Viktor's breath when he'd saved you from a nasty fall in the library. He'd gone ahead and helped you. There seemed to be this mutual recognition, this acceptance that, whatever happened, you were there to take the lead from each other.

Your hand instinctively went to the back of your neck, trying to banish this feeling, or to recover it on your fingers in the hope of getting a little warm comfort. Was this a reaction to the trauma of his presence? Surely it could be, unless shame had crept under your skin and lingered there.

You drew your fingers up slightly until you found the string of your mask, undoing it and letting the fresh air spread over your face.

The distinct tinkle of a cane snapped you out of your thoughts, and you didn't even need to turn around to know who it was.

“You've left me in the lurch of a thorny conversation.” he said, his voice warm in the night air as he approached you, staying a reasonable distance to your left.

You sketched a smile, not yet turning towards him as you watched a fictitious dot in the distance. “What were they discussing?”

You felt him remove his mask, dropping the loop of black ribbon holding it to dangle from the handle of his cane. “I left as soon as they'd mentioned the matter of therapeutic obstinacy.”

“A discussion like that should have had you hanging on to their every word,” you joked, finally turning your head towards him.

The prince of the night offered you his profile, his darkened eyes watching the horizon in the distance. He had a presence that froze you, a power so strong that it held you in place. You felt worthy of being the rival of a man like him. But were you still assuming this title?

“I think I'll let Tyler take it from here,” he smiled softly, turning to you.

His amber eyes planted themselves in yours, and you only managed to support it for a few seconds before your eyes drifted to his shoulders.

“You...” you breathed in, observing his elegant, sophisticated outfit, ”you look nice.”

He parted his lips, tilting his head slightly to one side as he squinted with a slight smile.

“Was that a compliment, miss?” he questioned.

“Don't get used to it,” you sighed, rolling your eyes, then reaching for your champagne flute, ”this is a special occasion after all.”

You brought your drink to your lips, the sensation of champagne making you feel a little freer, a little lighter and able to loosen your tongue to say or accept things you'd normally refuse.

You could feel his gaze on you in your peripheral vision, skirting the length of your body, your back illuminated by the interior of the room while the rest of your dress looked like a piece cut straight from the night that embraced you.

“That colour,” he began, his gaze drifting back to the horizon, ”it suits you.”

You thought back to what he'd said what seemed like an eternity ago. ‘It's beautiful, it's calm, in lavender as well as plum, in cassis as well as grape, in wisteria as well as... whatever, it's the one I prefer.’

It's the one I prefer.

You tried not to dwell on that thought, to move on.

“Who'd have thought Tyler would come all this way to bother us?” you huffed.

Viktor chuckled lightly. “He can't get enough of us.”

“I've rarely seen anyone scrape so deep into the depths of incompetence.”

“I believe you've met his uncle, though,” Viktor remarked. “And he, so far, holds a place on the Piltover council.”

“I guess it runs in the family to fall victim to one's own mediocrity.”

“And you had the gift of reminding them of it.”

You smiled, regaining his gaze for a moment. “Don't tell me you didn't want to either.”

He shrugged, pretending to think about it. “Yes, although I must applaud the success of your execution.”

“Would that be a compliment, Moravec?” you stressed.

He earned your gaze, eyes crinkled with a slight sneer. “Like you said - this is a special occasion after all.”

You nodded, shaking your head as if it were a song you'd heard too many times already.

A moment of silence passed, a slight quiver taking hold of you as the hour advanced and the air grew fresher and fresher.

“I've been thinking about the clauses for our truce.”

You turned towards him, arms again crossed as if to hold any ounce of warmth close to your body.

You smirked, grabbing your flute as if to help you listen to him and make those decisions.

“I'm listening.”

“Firstly,” he began, ”we shan't have any rivalry that doesn't engender some obsession pushing us into critical health situations.”

You rolled your eyes. “That was a one-time thing-”

“That is my first clause,” he cut in, his kohl-rimmed eyes insisting on the fact. “Second, mutual aid. If one of us experiences a difficulty somewhere, they must share it with the other, no matter how big their ego and pride.”

“Well that's going to be easy,” you sighed, pressing the crown of your flute close to your lower lip.

“Thirdly,” Viktor straightened up, tilting his head slightly forward as if in a short bow, ”let's be friends.”

You pressed your lips together, considering the offer truly.

Was there even a downside to becoming friends with Viktor? Besides the fact that you had to question your animosity towards him since the beginning of the year, what were the pros and cons?

Sure, he could get on your nerves in discussions, but it had been ages since you'd tried your hand at verbal jousting so constantly, and you were beginning to get used to it.

But apart from that, he wasn't a threat, he was inclined towards progress and advancement rather than stagnation and stubbornness, and he'd already considered you friends for a while, if you went back to Agrane's attribution of detention where he'd wished to come to your defense.

Besides, he was from Zaun - few students here could say as much and understand you on certain points.

“Agreed,” you replied, and his shoulders relaxed slightly. “But be careful, don't expect me to hop like a flower around you.” You huffed. “Jayce has already had to chase me around for quite a while before I'd officially consider him a friend.”

He shrugged, pressing his lips together slightly as if indifferent.

“That's fine by me. Fourthly,” he continued, ”clauses can be added in the future. Of course, they won't be imposed and can be discussed.”

You arch an eyebrow, huffing. “Do you have many more clauses?

“Do you agree to this one?” he asked, frowning.

You looked at him for a moment. This seemed to be very close to his heart. “Yes.”

“Good.” he smiled.

“Is that all?”

His eyes trailed over your shoulders for a moment. “Just one last one.”

He set his cane down against the marble railing, unclipping one of the pins that held the chain holding his coat to his back. He pinched the shoulders of it, taking a single step towards you to place it on yours, pressing his hands lightly on them as you felt the warmth his back had spread over the fabric against your own. He took care, with his long, slender, cool fingers, to reattach the chain neatly.

“My last clause for tonight is for you not to get cold,” he said, his voice more tender as he took a step back as if to observe the vision you were. “Luckily, we wore the same color.”

You took one of the sides in your hands, bringing it close to you to cover yourself with it.

“Won't you get cold?” you asked.

He shrugged, regaining the grip of his cane as his eyes remained on your coat-covered figure. “If you think Jayce won't get rid of his coat at some point this evening, you're wrong.”

You crack a smile, wondering what would happen if Jayce overindulged in champagne and Viktor had to go home with him tonight. Unless, of course, Jayce and Mel ended the evening together. He slipped on his mask again, replacing it gracefully over his features.

Viktor was getting ready to go back inside, and you didn't know if the magic of champagne bubbles was making you say things, or if out of sheer urge you were calling him.

“Viktor?”

He turned to you for a moment, one part of his face bathed in the warm light of the interior while the other remained in the night like a crescent moon.

You parted your lips, the simple two words coming pouring out without doubt or regret.

“Thank you.”

He seemed amazed, even with his mask over his face. But the astonishment quickly gave way to a softening, until his lips stretched into a smile and he stepped back inside.

Some people won't get any magic words out of you, but Viktor was worthy of them. You brought the collar of his coat close to you. His scent was sweeter than you'd expected, that of sun-warmed stone mingling with a lingering coffee fragrance.

Your eyes returned to the city, the vision of his kingdom, of streets he would split with his cane to hit the color purple on their cream walls.

It's the one I prefer.

The evening had come to an end. You had tried to fit into some of the conversation circles that came and went as time went by, remaining mostly silent and listening without interjecting, laughing when they laughed, nodding when they nodded, and trying not to simply stuff yourself with petits fours.

You'd thought of finding a way to take a handful with you so you'd have a little variety to bring back to give Sky a taste of how the evening was going. But you expected that, of course, you'd be looked at strangely for this behavior if you went through with it.

Some of the guests began to leave one by one, and you took the opportunity to do the same. Jayce, Mel and Viktor seemed nowhere to be found, so you dropped the idea of venturing into such a building in search of them. Who knows what you might stumble upon in the surrounding rooms? You didn't want to accidentally walk in on the feverish one-night stands of the guests, so you just took off.

The city had been asleep for some time, and the quiet yet illuminated streets were deserted. Had it been Zaun, venturing out at such an hour of the night in such an outfit would have been worth a lot of trouble. But Piltover had real rules of respect and a very different general upbringing, so you didn't feel in any danger of advancing like that.

Your heels were starting to hurt seriously and you would have given anything to be carried home. But there was no vigilante Jayce in sight to catch you if you fainted, nor any gentleman gallant enough to carry you like a princess.

How nice it was to be looked after, to have someone take care of you simply because they could.

The memory of Viktor dozing beside you as you recovered came to mind a moment before you chased him away as you turned a corner. Viktor's scent had permeated your nostrils all evening, and it was the only familiar, reassuring thing that kept you going.

The vision of the dormitories appearing in your line of sight was the greatest relief of all.

You passed silently through the doors of the building, taking the opportunity to remove your heels and sighing at ease as the soles of your feet finally settled on a surface that didn't need to be arched.

You slowly climbed the stairs, the soft feel of the red carpet almost tickling your feet as you inserted your key into the lock. It was late, perhaps Sky had not stayed awake and had gone to bed, and you had no wish to disturb her peace.

You turned the knob, entering the still-lit apartment, Sky lying on her bed with a book. Her eyes turned to you, her mouth opening wide as she looked at your outfit, which she hadn't had a chance to see. You smiled, closing the door behind you and dropping your heels to the floor.

“Girl,” she'd chuckled, watching you as you took off the coat and folded it neatly to let it hang over your arm like a waiter's towel, ”give me a twirl.”

You performed, spinning around before finishing with an exaggerated supermodel pause that made Sky laugh.

She snapped her book shut and sat cross-legged on her bed. “I need every detail you can give me.”

You picked up a hanger in the dressing room, hanging Viktor's coat which you hoped to return in the next few days before returning to Sky and sitting down with her to tell her all about it.

She had you turning your back to her, helping you remove the few decorations in your hair as you described everything to her. The hall, the dresses, the atmosphere, all the endless discussions, your meeting with the famous Mel Medarda, your altercation with Tyler and his idiot uncle.

“In any case, you didn't miss a thing. Apart from a few exceptions, the room was filled with the heads of bankers who hadn't gotten laid for twenty years.”

She laughed softly, pausing in the unraveling of your hair, her eyes watching a point in the void.

“Doesn't it make you dream a bit?”

You turned to her, confused. “To be a banker who looks like she hasn't gotten laid in twenty years?”

“No,” she chirped, giving you a little nudge on the shoulder, ”the mystery of the masquerade, the richness of being able to organize such an event without having to worry about much?”

You rested your head on her shoulder, pondering her question for a moment. Finally, you raised your head, staring into space.

“I think I would rather spend my life close to the birds than waste my time thinking I can carve myself wings.”

Sky sighed, probably dreaming of the golden life of the princes and princesses the world inhabited and longing for more. You didn't envy them - you felt scorn for their privileges and their inability to act for change. But you had no intention of crushing your friend's hopes.

“Who knows, maybe one day you'll be one of them and laugh as you drink champagne with infinite bubbles.”

She smiled softly, wrapping an arm around you.

You didn't tell her about your discussion on the balcony with Viktor, preferring to keep your exchange a secret for the time being. perhaps you'd bring up the subject when she asked you where the dress and coat came from.

But for now, you kept the secret of the purple close to you.

It's the one I prefer.

✦﹒ previous chapter ✦﹒ next chapter

taglist : @doctorho @6selkie @yunloyal @kryscent @hypocritic-trash-baby @kapitankarate @a-lovers-card @ababanerb @lolixsstuff @forget-me-not-my-dear @smolanchovy @shugar0cone0alt @harrys--ferret-blog @suuummerrr @stillinracooncity @noxturnalmoth @dlbitch @cloufire @csolya @kathyholdsagrudge @furblrwurblr @potatointhedirt @atrocioushaircut @ren-ni @schrodingersraven @urmommt @enoojnij @stilinskisensation @emlovesya @soupsaurus @luvreadingfics @the-valars-sapphire @solbringer @adorabluesposts

#a crown of ink #acoi #arcane #arcane x reader #viktor #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #arcane viktor x reader #viktor arcane x reader #viktor x your #viktor fic #viktor fanfic #arcane fanfic

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xueyuverse · 4 months ago

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It's ironic to me that part of the fandom insists so much that Hua Cheng's personality revolves around Xie Lian when in fact MXTX created Hua Cheng first and then had to make Xie Lian his ideal type. Like, the truth is that Xie Lian was molded for Hua Cheng. I find this contradiction very funny, I'm sorry.

But they were indeed created for each other.

Hua Cheng has a strong personality, he is firm in his ideals and beliefs, assertive in his opinions, cold in his justice and someone who does not bend the rules just to fit in, he creates a third way instead of adapting to a world that hates him and was cruel to him.

His ideal type would have to be someone as confident as him, who not only does not bend the rules, but also does not get corrupted by difficulties, someone benevolent enough to see people like him with kindness, because only someone faithful in his beliefs would be able to be so different from everything that the world says is right — because the right thing is for you to annihilate people like Hua Cheng, whether they are innocent or not, just because of a supposed curse that they did not ask for.

This meta is based on this excerpt from the afterword that MXTX put in TGCF ↓

When it comes to character designs, the Shou’s were decided on first for the first two novels, but I was torn over the Gong’s for a long time, and needed a run-in period. Hua Cheng, however, was an exception. Inspiration struck and there he was; inspiration struck again, and I blinded one of his eyes.

[...]

It was actually the Shou, Xie Lian, who tortured me for up to half a year’s time. When the novel started serializing, I was still torn over him for a long time.

[...]

But the most important thing is, by my instincts, someone like Hua Cheng will most definitely love someone like this. So, after a good half a year’s worth of qualms, in the end I still typesetted him: It’s you!

Speaking more about this postscript, I found it interesting how for MXTX, Xie Lian was the most difficult character she has ever played. People tend to think that Xie Lian only has two personality traits: (false, for many) kindness and idiocy. The idiocy may even be right lol, but when you stop to think about it, Xie Lian is a really difficult character to create and, mainly, to develop.

For all the layers he has, he could easily be a snobbish prince, a vengeful and bitter ex-prince, a fallen prince who rises again to reconquer his kingdom and reclaim his throne or a spotless saint who is always intelligent and wise and is above things like sadness, anger, lust, etc.

We know that Xie Lian is none of these things, he was not made for these plots. But if he is none of these things, then what could he be? Honestly, I find it very difficult for anyone to come to the conclusion that your protagonist is a "loser" who failed and has no ambition to rebuild his kingdom and become the new king. It's bold to make your protagonist a poor and extremely unlucky nomad, especially with the princely background that you gave him, we can see from the amount of stories out there about protagonists who lost their kingdoms and then have a path of reconquest that it's difficult not to be tempted to follow that path.

Of course, Xie Lian is a god, something greater than a prince or king, but he is a poor god, known as "the joke of the three kingdoms", he has no wealth and for 800 years he only had 1 believer that he didn't even know existed and he is also known as the "god of plague" and "immortal scrap collector", unconventional titles in the literary world lol

He must experience youthful ignorance, overestimation of his own abilities, have been laughable, been foolish, made mistakes, despaired, felt hatred, gone crazy. But he can’t run, and he can’t hide; everything is what it is. All this was killing me. Not just within the text, but outside the text too. My mediation was useless, and I’ve no energy anymore either, so in order not to be affected, I stopped looking at comments altogether. Since I always habitually vaccinate myself before a serialization begins, speculating on all the worst possible scenarios and preparing myself mentally, by the time serialization started I had already expected how all the negative comments would go down. But after much hesitation, I still thought, why not try all different kinds of characters? I haven’t tried writing a main character like this before.

— MXTX

#tgcf #tgcf meta #xie lian #heaven official's blessing #tian guan ci fu #hua cheng #hob #hualian #crown prince of xianle #mo xiang tong xiu #mxtx tgcf #crimson rain sought flower #meta

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clanborn · 4 months ago

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star climax that i would personally enjoy: splashtail's got frostpaw pinned in their final confrontation, he's this close to finally killing her, and all of frostpaw's fears culminate and leave her frozen, unable to struggle free. curlfeather, through sheer willpower ignited by this immediate threat to her daughter's life, summons all the energy she can muster to project her image into the physical world, visible to both splash and frost. her sheer fury, her mangled corpse--here, present, clawing her way out of splashtail's dreams and into a waking nightmare, here to drag him down to hell with her--spooks splashtail to the core. this either frightens him so bad he suffers cardiac arrest, or he instantly bolts and abandons the clans forever (for the case where he could be brought back as a villain who is ideally no longer lame). once more, curlfeather saves frostpaw's life, this time from beyond the grave, so great is her love for her daughter. with the image of her bloodied mother burned in her mind, frostpaw's conflicted feelings bubble to the surface, feelings she's desperately forced underneath a layer of anger and resentment. frostpaw faces the truth: that her mother manipulated her for her own gain, but also that her mother loved her, and ultimately cared for frostpaw more than her own life. curlfeather was not entirely good or bad, she was simply just a cat, a flawed one, one capable of both good and bad things. hidden in all of her misdeeds was a cat that could be forgiven--and in turn, frostpaw too could be forgiven, and no longer needs to blame herself for every misfortune that had befallen her and her clan. frostpaw is also just a cat, a child under incredible duress, forced to make decisions that no child should have to make. she thinks of every cat that pushed that responsibility onto her--yes, her mother, but also splashtail, her older clanmates, every clan cat around the lake that turned a blind eye to her desperation. even starclan--her all knowing, benevolent ancestors--had stood by while she suffered, had caused her suffering, had used her not unlike the way curlfeather had. what made them different? why was curlfeather punished by cats who were no better? why was frostpaw punished for doing everything right? what distinction did starclan make between "good" and "bad" when all cats were capable of both, including starclan, in all its alleged, unerring kindness?

frostpaw once again does starclan's bidding, touches her nose to the moonpool and receives her nine lives. with each life, cats flash before her vision--harelight, riverstar, jayclaw--but they aren't the cats she sees. in her mind she sees curlfeather, blood on her paws and love in her eyes, and newly named froststar decides what sort of leader she will be. this is the last time she will follow starclan's path, no more will riverclan be subject to their will and their hypocrisies. relying on starclan is what destroyed them, their ancestors standing idle as riverclan tore itself apart for their favor. no more will riverclan force warriors and apprentices in certain roles, no more will it allow complacency, letting desperate voices go unheard. splashtail rejected starclan, but that is not what drove his bloodthirst and desire for power. under froststar's leadership, power would not solely lie in the paws of her and starclan, but shared among her clanmates, unable to be ripped away by a lone instigator, shattered by a single break in the chain.

maybe she'll be the kind of leader curlfeather wanted to be. maybe she'll be better. either way, froststar will lead riverclan into a golden dawn.

#when your clan goes starless #something came over me #curlfeather #frostpaw #asc

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lillotte17 · 1 month ago

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Mythal thoughts this morning:

Morrigan said that the "closest" word for the kind of spirit Mythal came from was 'Benevolence' and my immediate reaction was:

Because even her idea that 'when kindness is denied it becomes retribution' doesn't really hold water. That's...not really how kindness works. I would think that a spirit formed around the idea of benevolence would have the same sort of path as Compassion if it became corrupted. Something more like Desperation or Despair.

To me, the idea that seems to fit her is Protection.

Protection is good! It's a feeling and impulse born from kindness and a desire to take care of others! It is also one of the oldest and most primary emotions people have. Desire and Fear came into being, and then Protection must have followed soon after. Because what else can you feel when someone you love is afraid? And a universal symbol for that feeling is a mother guarding her children, which is what Mythal always touted herself as being. "She was the Mother, protective and fierce." The Caretaker calls her 'the protector'. And the name of Solas' regret that you have to fight about her is called 'Fall of the Protector.'

But protection pushed too far becomes overbearing and oppressive. Controlling. 'Just do what I say, this is for your own good.' The cat who eats her kittens so they don't starve. The mother who breaks a precious golden mirror to teach her daughter a lesson.

Solas was Wisdom. He wanted to learn and to teach and to reflect, but even as a spirit, I think he wanted to give his knowledge purpose, and it suits him that he would be drawn to an embodiment of Protection. He could share what he knows and she could use it to keep others safe, and they will both find fulfillment in the exchange. It was mutually beneficial for them, and it was helping other people. A kind of symbiosis and even dependency, to some extent.

And then Elgar'nan makes a body. And he convinces Mythal to do so as well. And it's all downhill from there.

But you can see the thread of how Protection could convince Solas as that kind of spirit, not only as his friend, but because of what she embodies. For example, “it’s not wrong to build bodies from the titans, it gives us strength to protect ourselves and others” and “it’s not wrong to sever the titans' dreams, we’re protecting our people by ending the war” and “it’s not wrong to become a god, because the people need someone to watch over them.” Every bad step she asks him to take with her still echoes with the purpose of her original being, even though it is being pushed to harsh and terrible extremes.

Solas being Wisdom sees how she is wrong, but also doubts his convictions because protection is her nature. They have had a mutually beneficial partnership for thousands of years. He relies on her for fulfillment of his nature just as much as he believes she still relies on him for hers. And he loves her. And he trusts her. And for so many thousands of years, she has wanted to do nothing but good, so what she wants can’t be THAT bad, right?

Narrator Voice: It was, in fact, Much Worse.

And everything spins outward. He is Wisdom and he is a spirit, and spirits don't handle sudden change well, and Wisdom does not handle being wrong well, and the more things fall apart, the more he has to try and fix them. The more he has to justify the choices he made as being right. The more he has to defend the idea and the memory of Mythal being Inherently Good. Because if she wasn't good, then he put his trust in the wrong place. He was not Wise. He has lost not only Mythal, but himself and his true nature in allowing her to lead him to horrible places even when he knew better. He has to make the world the way she wanted it not only to soothe his conscience about what happened to the elves after the Veil, but because he is still clinging to the base of his initial partnership with Mythal. Mythal wanted the world this way because she was Good, and I was helping her which made me Good, and anything I have to do to achieve this goal is Acceptable because the results are Good. He can do what they have always done together. He will give his Wisdom for what she wanted to achieve, and the people will be Protected. Their contract and their natures will be fulfilled. And maybe everything else he did can be justified, even if it cannot be forgiven.

#dragon age: the veilguard #mythal #solas #oops this got much longer than i intended #who is surprised lol

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corvus-frugilegus · 7 days ago

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Spite Meta! Riffing a bit on a solid post from @antivancathedral and some thoughts i've been stewing on about spirits and demons for a hot minute here.

I've been chewing on this line from Morrigan towards the end of regrets of the dread wolf for a while now:

"But like any spirit when ANGERED or twisted against her purpose, a more violent aspect arose." (emphasis on angered mine)

This is the line for me that really cinches the idea that Spite isn't a demon. And reinforces that spirit-demon seems like it's maybe a false dichotomy. Sure some spirits get stuck at an extreme, but vascilation along a scale of emotion feels normal right? Like Wisdom and Pride can't strictly exist in isolation they go hand in hand and aren't necessarily always in conflict either. So while spirits in the Dragon Age universe tend to focus on a single facet of human emotion it's also true that they're a reflection of the mortal world and we know that spirits struggle with the idea of the world as a static entity- So why would their very natures be fixed?

There are a few things that support this fluidity to the nature of spirits that we see throughout the series.

Mythal and Solas both in some ways vascilate between their two aspects. We see in conversation with the fragment of Mythal that she manages to hold the duality of both benevolence and retribution. Even as a fragment she carries both. We see this in Solas too, he's wisdom twisted by pride but even as he misses the big picture on things he's close to it's true he simultaneously shows wisdom in how he speaks and acts and the thoughts he shares. This is perhaps more good natured in inquisition, especially so in a Lavellan romance, but even in veilguard his cunning and trickery relies on wisdom too- he knows when to be subtle and when to push. He too is simultaneously embodying both ends of a spectrum.

So coming back to the Morrigan quote above: Angered is a really key word here. It's easy to focus on twisted beyond their purpose, and I think that's what we see most often in the series. The back against the wall possession of mages and this extreme depth of feeling / extremity of circumstance that forces a spirit to stay within a more violent aspect of its nature. It's also true that most of the examples of possession we see and the way demons are framed earlier in the series is that malicious spirits are always lying in wait to take hold of the mortals to exit the fade (in light of the elf knowledge this feels much sadder actually, especially given the camaraderie we see between spite and manfred). This is largely the Chantry line. The examples of "good" natured spirits and spirit possession we do have feel much closer to the version of Spite we see in veilguard (if less inclined towards stabbing- arguably this is the influence of Lucanis).

So angered is what I keep coming back to with Spite. Is Spite a permanent state of being- the totality of Spite's being? Or has both Spite and Lucanis's experiences pushed Spite into fight or flight. (let's be real it's fight Spite loves a knife). This really tracks with Spite's role in the narrative too- Spite is an allegory for Lucanis's trauma, and like all spirits a reflection of the world, in this particular case Lucanis's mental state.

Anger is a protective emotion. Anger is something we tend to feel in repsonse to a violation or an injustice. Both Lucanis and Spite have SO MUCH TO BE ANGRY ABOUT. It's through the violation and injustice Spite and Lucanis have experienced that Spite's nature has shifted in the way it has. Spite is the determination to survive. Spite is what carries both of them through the Ossuary. Spite is what keeps them "safe" (heavy on the quotation marks here) when Zara and her lackeys are doing everything in their power to break them. Spite is Lucanis trying to protect himself. Spite is this spirit of Determination trying to protect itself.

At Spite's core the facet of the human experience it reflects is Determination. Anger pushes it to something more intense, but Spite has never actually shifted away from its original purpose. And, in a route where Rook completes Inner Demons, as Lucanis heals and begins finding peace, It feels like Spite does too. Given time I suspect Spite will find its way back to determination.

This is probably a whole separate post and deep dive but Spite's role as an allegory for Lucanis's trauma is really important here too. Lucanis has lived through so much and kept going anways, even before the Ossuary. He carries all of these deep wounds and bottles up his emotions so tightly, and I suspect there is so much anger in him deep down from all the hurt and abuse he's endured. Knowing Lucanis it's probably anger he's afraid of. And Spite reflects these feelings too (here as a narrative device more than in a literal sense), Spite reflects the things inside Lucanis that he tries his best to avoid acknowledging. Spite forces him to confront this, forces him to confront the Dellamorte family dynamics. And again, as Lucanis starts to heal and move forward, we see a shift in his relationship with Spite too- because what's also happening is a shift in his relationship with himself. He's accepting the ugly parts of himself and starting to address his problems. As as result Spite itself seems calmer and more agreeable.

Spite was never a demon, Spite is Lucanis protecting himself and we only think of Spite as a demon because Lucanis does. Because that's how Lucanis sees himself.

Spite is a benevolent spirit simply responding to its environment.

There's so much more to this too! Spite's nature is so interesting and there's so much in the lore that I think really solidly supports that 1. Spirits and demons aren't that cut and dry and 2. Spite falls more into a benevolant nature than a malicious one.

#Spite #lucanis dellamorte #dragon age the veilguard #datv meta #dragon age meta #I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS #and spite is such a clever narrative device for a closed off character like lucanis it offers us so much insight into him #and like spite being a very literal trauma but also serving as an allegory for trauma??? magnificent #also antivancathedral if you would like to not be tagged lmk!! i just felt odd putting this into the void without acknowledging you!#i did not edit this i am very eepy #spite dellamorte

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blueberrypancakesworld · 4 months ago

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The fish lord and his falcon wife

Oscar Tully x wife!reader

warning : fluff, comfort, kiss, cuddling, grover tully dies

Summary : To secure the power of the Vale, the heir to the House of Arryn is married to the heir of the Riverlands. A young couple with a great inheritance, duty and burden to bear but even in the most hopeless of times they had each other. Through gestures and words they show each other that they can manage power and love.

info : Oscar is just such a sweet innocent and cool character i can't wait to see how he will be in season 3. Enjoy reading and have a nice day

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun had just risen over the castle Riverrun sun lit up the bright stone and seemed to awaken even the fish and other water creatures that began to move, as did the castle inhabitants and the household of the great house. It would be another day of tasks and endeavors while the court hoped Lord Grover would recover from his illness but old age was something that could not be cured but hope was there.

Hope was also in the hearts of his grandson and his wife the Lady Arryn, the young couple who had only been married for a few moons to secure the loyalty of the noble house up on the Vale. But even though they were both young, they seemed to take their duties with such devotion and responsibility that they both knew the importance they held.

Tasks they undertook together with the advice and help of the masters of the councils and the other houses served, who were also aware of the young couple and the tragic nature of the circumstances.

But one could speak of blossoming love, as chaste as they were sometimes, they were childishly insecure at other times when they faced the true horrors of ruling and decision-making. But it was one such moment that came, breakfast had just been served and in the hall sat Oscar his wife, a few knights, the Master and the Lady's own representative for decisions.

The morning was spent in silence, with a few exchanged words, glances and jokes, it was clear that everyone was still tired from the night, ,,I thought we could go for a ride today for the falconry,” Oscar suddenly suggested, looking around questioningly and giving his wife a gentle smile, knowing that the falcon was her symbol and that he had given her a white falcon as a symbol of his benevolence.

Something she was very pleased about, the animal stayed in her room and slept on her hand and could also be stroked by Oscar, but the animal would try to bite anyone else. ,,A wonderful idea, I would love to see the lands,” she replied, returning his gaze and waiting for the adults to give their opinion, they were men of honor and duty, good men who would give their all for their Lord and Lady.

,,Well, an early morning ride would do the highborn couple good. It would be a good opportunity to get to know each other better,” the Master suggested and seemed to give his protégé an assuring nod, which pleased Oscar, who was always thinking and writing down what he could do with her, which pleased her as she was so far from home.

,,I would join the hunt and send a few men with no more than a handful” her advisor and weapons master suggested which was agreed to, not too large a group to attract attention but large enough to withstand an attack.

Statements that made the young couple smile and she took Osacr's hand, squeezed it lightly and he gave her a chaste kiss on the back of her hand, the men at the table smiled to themselves at the love of the two that was so much more innocent than the one they had experienced.

As the group turned back to their meal, the oatmeal with egg and bacon was still warm when the wooden door was torn open and a servant ran in breathlessly, ,,Lo-Lord Grover he's died!” he gasped, followed by a few more servants who did the same to give the old paramount the medicine but then we saw that he was gone from the world.

The men rose quickly and hurried to the door forgetting the couple who remained seated in shock, she saw tears well up in the young man's eyes as the news had hit him like a blow he must have been trying to pull himself together as his lips began to tremble slightly but the first tears ran down his cheeks and he looked at her his voice making no sound as he opened his lips.

She hastily rose from her chair and rushed to him, just holding him as he cried on her dress, feeling her own grief, the fear of what was to come, the few but loving moments with old Grover who had been so happy for them both bringing tears to her own eyes.

,,I-I could have…I could have,” Oscar cried, his words trailing off as he continued to cry and she knelt down to him, her own tears wetting his clothes as she took his head in her hands and kissed him on the top of his head, feeling him hold her hands tighter, ,,It…it was bound to happen eventually, I'm sorry," she murmured to him, sobbing as he brushed a hand across her cheek, wiping away her tears.

The two of them held each other for a moment, wiping away the tears, before Oscar stood up and helped her up, wiping her tears with a tissue while she used her handkerchief to straighten herself and dry her tears.

She turned to him and saw that he was trying to straighten his clothes with shaky fingers and she interrupted him and did so, ,,You don't have to,” she said avoiding his gaze as he put his sword to his belt and she straightened his fish pin.

,,I know… but once we step out together we are the paramount couple of the Riverlands…rest assured husband I will be there for you” she replied wanting to give him the go ahead as he took her hand gently and gave her a soft thankful kiss before the couple also set off to his late grandfather's room.

A sight they both walked through she held his hand, always at his side and when she saw him threatening to forget himself she did the talking while he was her shield of sharp unbridled words.

The two of them managed to get through the mourning ceremony, and the silent sisters, to look at the dead and Osacr swore to carry on the legacy with duty and she swore to always help him.

The hour was used to send ravens to the surrounding Houses to make arrangements, which was done, and the royal couple found themselves in the hall, hunched over a map, ,,My lord must go to Prince Daemon and Ser Simon the Riverlands must be united in this war,” said the Master of the Household of House Tully, pointing to the great broken castle that was to be the destination of this journey.

It was clear that the riverlands also had to choose a side, ,,My cousin has already received word from heir to the throne Rhaenyra…offers and apparently dragons,” she said, making her position clear on which side she stood, Viserys had named his own daughters, she herself had been there when her father had sworn allegiance to her.

Murmurs broke out House Tully had also sworn allegiance to Rhaenyra but the rumors and murders that had been committed showed from another side, ,,Girls offers are offers but the green ones do them-” one of the men began but Oscar interrupted him.

,,My wife is addressed as Lady Tully or Lady Paramount, the late King Viserys recognized his daughter as heir, my own grandfather swore allegiance to her and I will do the same” he said in a voice of determination and pride in what he had before taking her hand under the table letting her know they would truly do this together.

The pair decided to leave at sunrise for Harenhall to meet their good friend and tutor Simon and take the power they would be in this war. As the evening turned and she had already sent her servants away to be alone for the rest of the time, the last few hours had been exhausting and she couldn't stop thinking about the Vale and what her family was doing.

Before a knock at her door pulled her out of her thoughts she pulled her evening cloak over her nightgown and opened the door, ,,Oscar?” she asked but let him in seeing that he had taken off his armor and the official cloak the fabric had to be adjusted to his size but now it fit perfectly. While she had commissioned a new dress in blue with fish engraved on it and small falcon buckles holding it together, a sign of her heritage and devotion.

,,I wanted to see you, to ask you if you would accompany me to Harrenhal as my wife, substitute and follower,” he asked out faster than he probably wanted to and smiled slyly as he looked at his hands being taken from her and shortly afterwards she fell into his arms and an excited screech came from the falcon who was probably happy for his owner which made the couple laugh.

She placed a hand gently on his cheek, feeling her own warmth on her cheeks and ears, ,,Gladly my lord husband I will follow you Oscar and the Prince Regent can listen to our words, it is us he brews and not the other way around” she reminded him seeing the seriousness enter his eyes for a moment before he gave her another chaste kiss on the hand and seemed to slowly withdraw from her.

He wished her a good night and a good night's sleep until morning and was about to open the door when she got over herself, ,,Oscar…would you…you might sleep in my bed with me my heart is a little restless with worry and I would like to know your safety” she admitted seeing his cheeks turn pink even in the dimmed light of the fireplace she saw his embarrassment before he nodded and the two of them lay down together under the furs and blankets.

She had taken off her coat and was lying there in her nightgown, Oscar himself lying in just his pants, not quite knowing what to do until he took her hand, stroking her fingers lightly over it and giving her a gentle smile before moving a little closer to her and pulling her close. ,,I'll take care of you,” he murmured. She could feel his calm heartbeat as her head lay on his chest and he suddenly began to tell her a story from his young life, a day when he was fishing with his grandfather.

A story of which she felt nothing but peace and joy as she closed her eyes and imagined the warm sun, the colorful fish in the sun, Oscar proudly showing his grandfather his catch, beautiful images with which she fell asleep in his arms knowing that they were safe, that they would get through anything together and that their hearts belonged to each other.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@sobsasifsworld

#hotd #hotd season 2 #hotd s2 #house of the dragon #oscar tully #oscar tully x reader #male x female #archie barnes

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deathmetalunicorn1 · 13 days ago

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Did you watch One Piece Fan Letter?! Oh my goodness it was so good!

What if Eri ended up also inspiring a few others as well? Mainly a few marines, civilians and even Tashigi about being brave since she’s a small and delicate child, yet she ran headfirst into the war to save her big brother Ace without any hesitation even though the odds were definitely against her (She might’ve even ended up with a Fan Club)

The Benevolent King of the Waves was my freaking favorite because of his reactions to Chopper’s cuteness (And who’s to say he wouldn’t have Eri’s wanted poster and a few pictures of her alongside Chopper because both are ridiculously cute?) and he was going to stop the weapon out of fear that Chopper and Eri were going to get hurt

I actually just watched this! I kept putting it off and decided to watch it while I was sitting here stuffing my face! lol

Eri definitely winds up with more fans after the Whitebeard War, to see a child willing to protect her big brother and her grandpa, even putting herself at risk to do so, is so inspiring to everyone. So many civilians see this child facing danger head on made them realize that they're braver than they seem and made them stand up to their own fears.

Many marines became fans of her bravery (ballsyness) while many others were disgusted to see how many tried to take her, now knowing what she was able to do with her ability. Tashigi admires Eri's bravery and knows that she seems to be safe with the Straw Hats, at least for the moment, while Garp is the Eri Fan Club leader in the marines, as grandpa is her number one fan and if anyone else tries to claim this it's hands on sight with Garp.

The Benevolent King of the Waves was such a funny character! I loved seeing how powerful he could be, but the moment he saw Chopper I couldn't breathe I was laughing so hard. He would also adore Eri, wanting to adopt her as his daughter and shower her with so much love! And Chopper could come too so he could just admire and love them both so much! However, if he sees or hears anyone threatening Chopper or Eri (especially Eri), I feel like he will be just as scary as an angry Garp.

I feel, during the time skip, knowing how many people, pirates, marines, World Government, etc. were looking for Eri, civilians and other allies of Eri, like Zeff, the inhabitants of Cocoyashi Villages, and civilians all over, without being asked to, in order to throw everyone who was looking for Eri off, told them false rumors that she had been seen, or that they had her, anything to keep them off Ace and Eri's tail.

#one piece #eri reader

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fleshwerks · 22 days ago

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I see a lot of big mad from solas and solavellan fans for how solas was #butchered in Veilguard.

Was he butchered though? Because I think he's consistent as fuck, he simply by and large took his mask off. His entire deal is betrayals upon betrayals upon betrayals. Everyone, and I mean everyone around him keeps dying except for the Inquisitor whom he betrays and neutralises anyway. His entire thing hinges on 'him' being the one to have to do it, always. It was the same since Inquisition: this man does not trust anybody to pull off anything unless he personally intervenes or pulls the strings. The moment you've lost your usefulness to him, you're gone from his life. He'll make a big song and dance about how sad he is about having to do it, but it's always been this sort of benevolent chauvinism, the 'look at what I have to do to these poor people :((('

The argument 'but in Inquisition he says blood magic is okie-dokies!'?

Well, given how Varric behaves post-death, would a god associated exclusively with lies and betrayals, and who freely himself admits that he likes to play fast and loose with truth and directness 'for the greater good', I don't know, lie to Rook to keep Rook from guessing that Solas is all but puppeteering Varric's corpse with blood magic just to still be able to be 'involved' while he himself squats at his own fade prison? Why would the god of lies and backstabbing ever lie?

And finally, the issue people take with a pissed of him telling Rook that he's a god and Rook's just some ant... like I said, mask off.

because no other god has this many goddamned mass produced worship statues and altars dedicated to him in all of thedas as the bloody dread wolf. And not just one type of statue, but two! There's the dog statues as well. This man loves being worshiped. Always has. The way Lavellan and friendly Inquisitors only get approval if they suck up to him and acknowledge his wisdom and never, ever challenge him on his paper thin logic (or else he'll slap you with 'disapproves'). He just also loves acting like he's too humble for altars, thousands of statues (one as large as a mountain, dammit). He loves being a god, he knows he's functionally a god because he understands that gods are made through worship, and he certainly has never said 'please don't' to these aforementioned wolf and dog statues littered across thedas in such numbers that you'd think that he's Jehovah in Catholic country, OR taken a chance to draw something else than himself having the Sads, or himself freeing the slaves so magnanimously, or himself i don't know, wanking himself to completion in the euphoria of his own intelligence.

It was always him lying to your face. It was always him knowing and liking being god who could sway people with words. He was always big mad that his wisdom was rejected or unneeded. And somehow he even made the life and death of Mythal about himself.

The mask just came off.

And if he were any kind of good lover to the Inquisitor Lavellan at all, he'd tell her that she has a responsibility to her own world that's currently blighted and in ruins. That there are friends and family who love her and need her and miss her dearly. To go live out her life to the fullest among people who love her, and he, Solas, will always be there in every spell she casts from this day on, she'll touch him every time she dreams at night.

But no. Because Solas is afraid to be alone, even though his aloneness is always his own making, and now some poor mortal girl he hasn't even spoken to in 8 years is stuck with his arrogant ass in the Fade forever while he tells her all about his true love Mythal for whom she damn near killed the world twice. And she'll listen with her mouth open, like she always does, because the Inquisition required you to be as dumb as a bag of rocks for any of Solas' hot bullshit to not be questioned to hell and back.

#veilguard tag #solas critical

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saphira-approves · 1 year ago

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Something something professional artist jargon something something insert art knowledge here—whatever I want to talk about the book covers

So you’ve got Eragon, with a 3/4 portrait of Saphira; she’s giving a benevolent side eye with almost a Mona Lisa smile, she’s got that gleam in her eye, she’s looking at you but not head on—listen, this was the whole reason I picked up the book in the first place when I was eleven, she was so clearly full of life and personality and I just really wanted to meet her. It’s a really good glimpse of her character before even opening the book. She’s engaging you, but also maybe judging you a little bit, and she has a lot of thoughts but she’s going to keep them to herself for right now, thank you.

We’re skipping Eldest for right now because I have a point to make. Shush.

For Brisingr, we get a perfect side portrait of Glaedr, the grumpy old man. He’s not even side-eyeing the viewer like Saphira does; he is eyes forward, goal-oriented, noble and regal and, unless you’re worth his time, not really going to bother with you because he has Important Business to attend to. He is The Last of the pre-Fall dragons, his Rider is The Last of the pre-Fall Riders, he represents a bygone era that will never fully be resurrected, but can still inspire the present to fight for the future; he is no longer fully his own dragon, but a Relic, a Memory, a Symbol. He’s not anxious about it the way Eragon or Saphira might be; he has grieved for a century, he couldn’t be anxious about it if he tried. But he knows that keeping his integrity intact is important, and so this is how he presents himself: Noble. Regal. The Survivor. The Last.

Fírnen graces the cover of Inheritance, bookending the original series by almost perfectly mirroring Saphira—and seriously, it is so satisfying to line the books up with these two at the ends. Though he’s got a 3/4 profile like Saphira, Fírnen is much more reserved. No Mona Lisa smile, no mischievous gleam in his eye; he simply looks at you, and you look back, and you wonder what he’s thinking. He is, in fact, a lot like Arya—anyone who’s read the previous three books up to that point and hasn’t been spoiled for the ending might be able to guess, just from this portrait, who the final egg would hatch for. It’s also a perfect expression for the Final Book, with the fate of Alagaësia and the dragons hanging in the balance: what world does this mysterious dragon emerge into? A war-torn apocalypse? A hard-won victory? What does his future entail, and thus, what do the futures of our favorite characters entail? You ask him so many questions, but all he will ever do is stare deep into your soul with his somber, too-knowing gaze.

And now for the main event:

My beautiful precious son, the red-scaled Thorn, staring you down from the covers of both Eldest and Murtagh. I have loved the cover of the second book ever since I first picked it up, and my appreciation has only grown with time; needless to say I was very excited when the Murtagh cover dropped, and I got to see both of my favorite characters in one place. For both of these, Thorn takes the same stance: a full-frontal combative position, looking You, The Viewer directly in the eye, daring you to judge him, daring you to get in his way. I’ve always had my own opinions about what lay behind this show of force, and the context we get in Murtagh does not disappoint. He may be terrifying, he may be the scourge of the war, but underneath all that, Thorn is terrified. He’s traumatized, he’s claustrophobic, his body is too big for his age; he is painfully young still, and yet treated like a dragon ten times his age because that’s how he looks. He’s also sweet, and playful, and cares so much about his Rider, and wants desperately to keep Murtagh safe and happy. Just like Murtagh, he hides all of that—the fear and the softness both—behind a visage of ferocity, playing into the fears and preconceived notions people have of him, warning enemies away so they can’t get too close to what will actually hurt him. He dares you to try. He’s terrified you will try. He will fight tooth and nail if you do try.

#why does tumblr keep tagging this post as mature when i hadn’t even posted it yet???#IM not labeling it mature what is going on #is saphira too sultry or something #murtagh spoilers #anyway yeah i just wanted an excuse to talk about thorn’s character in the book covers #i love him okay #i may disagree with john jude palencar about what a dragon looks like #but i CANNOT deny he is extremely good at giving dragons personality #at some point i may to shruikan and vermund also i just mostly wanted to yell about thorn #there's definitely parallels to be drawn between shruikan and thorn but also vermund and glaedr #...sigh. yeah i guess i'll be doing them at some point in the future #inheritance cycle #christopher paolini #murtagh (inheritance cycle)#thorn (inheritance cycle)#saphira bjartskular #glaedr (inheritance cycle)#fírnen (inheritance cycle)

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yandere-paramour · 18 days ago

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I think Atalanta made a terrible mistake trying to darling me. I hate being controlled (pairs well with a yandere fetish) and am very oppositional defiant disorder coded. If I discovered that I could not simply overpower her or kill her, I would go for the one thing she can’t really do much about: Her reputation.

I’d wait till she brought me to some big, highly publicized rich people party, preferably something being broadcast live (Doesn’t matter how long that takes, I’m very petty and very patient). I’d make sure that I am especially affectionate and clingy to her that night (in front of as many cameras as is possible). Then, at some critical moment of the party, I would climb up on a visible table (preferably the buffet table), pull down my pants/skirt and underwear, and begin pissing while loudly declaring I’m a prostitute Atalanta hired because she gets off on public humiliation. If I have time before security tackles me, I will also imply that Jamie had his way with me. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t true, what matters is that it is a scandal that will never, ever go away no matter what the Montclairs do. Given the Streisand effect, there efforts to bury it will probably make it more well known.

My logic is that Atalanta has three options after this. Kill me (I no longer have to live with her, I win). Free me and pay me to never talk to her or her family again (I win). Or fall for her yandere tendencies and desperately try to re-frame our relationship as secretly very deep and loving and try to rationalize away what just happened. Publicly, because she is presumably still trying to wife me. There is effectively no way to do this that doesn’t involve admitting that maybe you kinda kidnapped your future wife and this indecent was her being so traumatized and unhappy with that that she acted out. Given how much effort the Montclairs put into maintaining the image of benevolent, morally pure and good rulers who never do anything wrong, that would likely become an even more nightmarish scandal for them that would irreversibly damage their popularity (I win).

Exactly how much danger am I in once I implement this plan? Round to the nearest minute I have before a Montclair does something irreversible to my body. Keep in mind that i will not apologize and will phone in any public statements they try to make me give so that it sounds like they are paying me off.

I hope you know this ask haunted me all during finals. I've been ruminating on it for days. I made my real life friends look at it and try to help me but they too were horrified and confused.

I have no idea how to answer this, bro. This would RUIN Atalanta's life. Like, not even exaggerating, this would ruin the Montclair name for generations, especially in the age of the internet. Atalanta would be beyond angry with you, absolutely furious, furious enough to sob. Asteria would be enraged, Jamie would be scared and betrayed and probably angry too. There's not enough PR managers in the world to fix this and any public statement trying to fix it would be insincere at best. You have done something that is so damaging to the Montclair family that they might have to leave the country. You might actually end up dead and then they'd have to spin a story about decades of mental illness and Ata loving you regardless and make it seem a miracle you lasted this long.

It would take years of lying low and reframing the Montclair reputation but they might be able to do it. Atalanta would be forever changed from this betrayal though. This would ruin her.

Why would you do this to her? Why would you do this to me??

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themadlu · 11 months ago

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Do Not Open That Door

Astarion is sure his leader's unflinching morals will lead him to another unwanted grave. He is also sure she is putting on an act because people like her do not exist, clearly. He decides to test his assumptions.

TW: None I think

WC: ~3000 words

Tagging: @spacebarbarianweird for the encouragement!

Astarion is livid. Well, maybe livid was an overstatement—he is annoyed. Annoyed and confused. Such feelings are still a vast improvement over the fear and shame he's been accustomed to, but they make him restless nonetheless.

Especially because their cause is walking steadily next to him without a care in the world for his inner turmoil.

Zélie, their oh so great leader, has managed to spoil what could have been a perfectly enjoyable afternoon on multiple fronts. First, she decides to talk to the goblins ambushing them instead of treating them like the savages they are.

(“We don’t know how many of them are in this village Astarion. What if there’s a little army and we’re outnumbered?”)

After confirmation that there were, in fact, quite a few goblins (and a couple orcs to boot), she managed to get free passage through the village by leveraging their wriggly alien parasite. He isn’t happy about it. Not at all.

He has to begrudgingly admit hers was a wise call after witnessing just how large and hungry those orcs were. And of course they even agree to help a fellow true soul in need. Just what he needs to undermine what little influence he has on her.

(Her blood is in his body after all.)

In the last tendays she had made it her mission to remind him how despicable murder is, under most circumstances, aside from self-defence. This beautifully idiotic mindset of hers almost got her killed twice in front of his very eyes.

(She doesn’t know he has taken to finish off the enemies she leaves unconscious while she isn’t watching.)

When he had pointed out the suicidal flaw in her morals, she had given him her signature scolding look, crossed her arms, and started breathing in that funny way of hers.

In, hold, out.

(She says she is not trained as a monk, but he’ll be even more damned than he already is if that is true. The way she fights and holds herself—and those sickening ideals she has—tell a different story.)

“Honestly, darling,” he hisses at her as they walk through the village, squinty eyes trained on their every move. “I thought we agreed that benevolence and honour,” he spits the words out like a curse, “get you nowhere but to an early grave.”

“Astarion,” she always says his name when she speaks to him—even in annoyance— and he hates his constant surprise at hearing it. His elven name had been replaced with other titles over time, more befitting of his status—boy, spawn, whore, slut, beautiful, toy, love…

Truly, it’s a small miracle he managed to hold on to his name. It’s one of the few things left that are truly his, yet hearing it spoken from that solemn woman's lips makes something in his chest preen.

“I thought we agreed to disagree on that front. No, don’t give me that look. Killing someone is never justifiable. No matter what we tell ourselves, we are taking away something that wasn’t ours to begin with. Something irreplaceable. Even—” she held up her hand as he started to complain, “in self-defence, even then, I will make sure to exhaust all alternatives, and even then, it will be a failure on my part.”

You moron.

“Too bad the rest of the world doesn’t think like you, darling,” he snapped. Hers was an act. There was no way in the hells anyone could survive to their…whatever age she was, he was never good with human lifespans, with that mindset. It was ridiculous, because if she actually was like that—if two–hundred years of shit didn’t teach him better—she should either be dead in a ditch or have ascended to godhood on her saintly behaviour alone. The only explanation he has for her standing close to him is that the mask she wears is as fake as his own. That, or she is a child of Ilmater. He bets on the former, given her complete ignorance of any deity on Toril.

“But you lied,” he counters, snapping his fingers. “You said we are here on Absolute business. Doesn’t that go against your precious code of honour?” he singsongs in her ear.

“I didn’t lie. My tadpole reacted to theirs, and they drew their own conclusions. Technically, we are going to their camp on Absolute business too, if you count removing these,” she tapped her index to her temple.

He smirks, victorious. “Circumstantial. One day, the tadpole won’t do the work for us and you’ll break your own code or doom us to death. For one, I’d rather not repeat the experience,” he says in a quiet voice, pointing at his chest.

Their companions are still unaware of his condition—another occasion his holy leader conveniently withheld information.

(“It’s your secret, it’s your decision.” Hypocrite.)

“Astarion, I know you take me for a fool, and I would normally pay more respect to a man—elf—my senior by centuries, but really. I can be practical and have a moral compass, and that means that when the choice is between lying and killing, I will pick lying any day, even if I don’t like it.”

Enough.

Her words incense him, annoyance suddenly turns into rage and something else—what’s that, envy?—he pivots on his left heel and closes the distance between them so fast she has no time to react. Zélie is left pinned to the wall, their bodies a breath away from touching, and he internally celebrates the surprised look on her face.

He stares at her down his nose, ducking his head and planting a slender hand on the wall beside her head.

Astarion has to make her stop before he tears her self-righteousness out of her throat. Before she realises how useless it all is—how useless and tainted he is—and either stakes him or banishes him. Because even her sickly, do-gooding self, fake or real it be, must have limits. If he pushes hard enough, they’ll crumble, and then he’ll be proven right. She is not what she says she is because creatures like that aren’t real.

“Let’s make one thing clear, darling,” he growls, nostrils flaring, “you may be our great leader, but you should get off your high horse before someone shoots you off it. I don’t know what perfect little corner of the universe you grew up in, but you know nothing of this world and its dangers.”

He flashes his fangs at her to drive his point across. The others are out of sight, looking for supplies in some ruin or cellar. Gods, he misses the city.

Zélie is staring back at him, bristling, but lets him continue. She never interrupts any of them, not even him.

“I thought humans were all about developing and living fast, but you, my dear, are as ignorant as a babe. I am trying to make sure we keep our collective hides safe and do not get sidetracked by other pitiful creatures on our path.”

He realises just how close he is to her when she straightens up again and their noses almost touch.

Pale eyes go darker with a flash of anger.

There. Come at me. Prove me right.

“Spoken like a true man of the law, lord magistrate.”

Why the hells is her tone so collected when she has a literal vampire at her throat?!

“You seem forgetful, so I’ll remind you that it was my ignorance that stopped Shadowheart from connecting her mace with your head. And it was my stupidity that convinced her you could join us, and that we should give you a chance at trust.”

She makes no move to get closer, but he recoils as if scorched by fire.

“And it is the same trust I placed in you yesterday when I let you bite me, even though it’s not how I envisioned a night of rest to go. I trusted you to stop, I trusted you to keep your word and not leave me a corpse.”

There it is. Reminding him of what he owes her. Of his debts. They say the quiet ones are the most depraved, and she is the strong and silent type. But he is nothing if not an expert in the art of subservience at this point, and if it gets her to keep giving him blood and protection—

“I trust you.”

Then you’re doomed.

She says it as if it were a challenge. Her gaze is unwavering and he is left speechless yet again. Cazador would admire this quality of hers.

“I hope you can trust me in return.”

Impossible woman.

“Well, I suppose you’re not wholly incompetent,” he manages to croak out. His nonchalant mask is harder to slip on this time.

She huffs a breath of a laugh, a tiny thing, but it’s enough to transform her whole face. The weight she carries on her deceivingly flimsy shoulders seems to lift, leaving behind a young woman smiling softly at a…well, a monster. Talk about inexperience.

Happiness suits you, little leader.

The fact it’s his prattling that caused this marvel of a transformation stokes something in chest and in the pit of his stomach that he promptly pushes down.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Zélie says. She moves away and he is left staring at the crusty wall. Her body never touched his own during their exchange.

Wait. That’s wrong. He was meant to make her see the reason in his ways, not the other way around. So why is he at her heels like a lost puppy the minute she walks away?

(“You are nothing by yourself boy. You owe everything to me.”)

He is weak. So weak he has leashed himself to a human who can barely read common, fuck's sake.

His temper rises again once he catches up with Zélie. He doesn’t need her condescension, nor her chiding (she doesn’t even know his full story yet, nor she ever will unless absolutely necessary, so pity isn’t there yet). He’ll show the wretched woman how wrong she is.

Karlach and Lae’zel jog behind them as they reach a barn with a door locked shut. Zélie thinks nothing of it at first, but Astarion can smell what’s inside.

(His senses born anew from her blood.)

He smells the ogre and bugbear and their horrid affair before the rest of his companions hear the grunts and noises.

“Oh God, someone’s fighting!” exclaims Zélie.

Fighting, you say?

An idea strikes him.

See what your misplaced goodness gets you when you try to help an ogre.

“I don’t know soldier, they don’t sound like fight noises to me,” says Karlach leaning towards the barn, but even she seems unsure. Astarion’s talents may be limited to a specific area, but in this case it works in his favour. He is very familiar with what those sounds mean. The half-ogres that fucked him into the bed so hard he bled were not so different.

(He still remembers how much it hurt, how he was left in a puddle of mixed releases, sweat, and what little blood he had).

“Well, even if they are fighting, it is clearly not our problem. I say we leave them to it and focus on what’s really important,” he says, using his annoyance as a hook. Zélie may be the most restrained person he’s come across, but he knows how to read people, and he knows she will do the opposite of whatever he says when it concerns morals.

She falls for it. His smile is harder to suppress.

“Astarion! We’ve just talked about this!”

Her voice raises a bit, but it’s almost eclipsed by another loud grunt from inside the barn.

“So long as my blade can be sharpened on my enemies’ bones, I am ready.” Lae’zel is almost as ignorant as Zélie when it comes to their world, which is usually a hindrance, but now it’s the push their little leader needs to run to the rescue.

Zélie tries to open the barn door (after cutting another withering look at the vampire lazily strolling at her back), finding it jammed.

The crescendo of grunts and bangs coming from inside is extremely loud now.

Gods, they must be disgusting.

“Hello?! Help is on the way, hang on!” the little human shouts as she frantically tries to get the door unstuck.

“Oh hells, let me do it, darling, before we turn into tentacled freaks,” Astarion says in mock-annoyance. She eyes him suspiciously and he shoots her a winning smile. His nimble hands make quick work of the lock, and he pushes the door open.

He needs just a peek to know his assumption about what was happening in the barn is correct, and turns to face his now horror-stricken companion.

“Gods, they are disgusting,” he comments with his lips crooked in a satisfied smile.

Zélie scrambles to compose herself and turns her back from the scene (the prudish) as she fails to find words to explain herself. “I—I am, I apologise, we thought—”

Oh, she’s in a state. Her cheeks flush redder than rubies (he can practically hear her delicious blood pooling there), whilst the rest of her is paler than after Astarion’s feeding. She opens and shuts her eyes as if trying to physically erase what she just witnessed.

The bugbear slides his now soft cock out of the ogre, and looks at them in rage.

“W–what the hells are you doing?!”

Oh, Astarion is thrilled. He doesn’t remember when last had such fun. He hears Lae’zel’s tsk’ and Karlach’s gags behind him, and he closely watches Zélie fumbling as he didn’t think was possible.

“Apologies! I, you—you were making a lot of noise and I, we, thought you needed help,” she holds her hands in front of her in a peace offering. “I apologise for the intrusion! We’ll leave now—”

“Ruined! SMASH. I’ll smash you!”

Oh. Astarion didn’t expect that. He just wanted to show Zélie how ungrateful the world is to idiots like her, not have her turn into orc food.

Before he can think, he is tackling the woman to the ground, the orc’s club crashing a few spaces to his left. Karlach and Lae’zel’s throw themselves at the aggressor, and the fight starts in earnest. Astarion is more a stalker than a fighter, but he had his first fill of human blood only hours before, and his senses have never been that sharp, so he doesn’t miss the bugbear rushing towards their prone form.

Daggers at hand, he braces to parry the onslaught (this may hurt) when his worldview shifts, his back in on the ground, and chilly afternoon air replaces the heat of his leader on his chest.

What just happened?

He turns his head to see the bugbear crashing to the ground, Zélie crouched on one leg and tripping him with her other. “Go help the others! I’ve got this!” she shouts, as she wraps her limbs around the assailant in a tight bind. “Wait! It was an honest mistake—”

He doesn’t want to hear her voice now. Doesn’t want to think how the little moron literally threw him away from danger. Even worse, he will refute the idea he protected her from an angry orc till his last breath. He only got his body back recently. That’s it. He still is unsure of how to use it.

And she's dinner.

He doesn’t want to dwell on what happened, so he nods and throws himself at the female orc while she is distracted by his companions.

The fight doesn’t last too long after that, and something takes a hold of his insides when he looks at Zélie. She is silent, staring at the large corpse on the ground, bugbear knocked out at her feet.

“Darling?” He moves towards her and the sadness in her eyes almost makes him apologise. Gods, what has he done? He didn’t think this was going to happen. And why does he care?! This was his intent, this and seeing the real her behind the strong, polite facade.

“I just wanted to help.”

“I know, darling. I—”

See now, how impossible it is to keep your ideals in this world?

“You knew,” she says, and while he words his excuses (the only real one being he didn’t think they were going to be attacked) her shoulders drop and a defeated huff leaves her mouth. A far cry from her happy smile earlier.

Astarion can’t wrap his head around how he caused both reactions in such a short span of time. But this look on her, this, he knows. He has seen far worse in the eyes and screams of those fools he lured back to his master, once they had his way with him and realised a bit too late they were as trapped as he was.

He expects her to shout, to berate him, kick him, punch him, stab him, banish him—but none of that comes. Zélie studies him intently, and something in her demeanour lights up, an internal judgement made.

“I still trust you.”

No. No no no, he’s not going to let her fool him into believing this—no!

Her face is suddenly level with Astarion’s knees, the now-awake bugbear readying a strike.

Astarion doesn’t need to think—he falls forward and sinks his dagger into the wretch’s neck. Blood spurts out, but after tasting Zélie’s Astarion has no interest in it; mud compared to a clear sky.

“Soldier!” shouts Karlach, ever the helpful friend. Zélie pants as the dead attacker slides off of her, eye to eye with Astarion again. He can feel her light breath on his face. Karlach pulls her up; he is cleaning his dagger on the bugbear’s clothes when an outstretched hand enters his vision. Hers.

“Come on,” she says, tired but steady again. “Let’s get back to camp.”

Astarion flinches from the hand as if it were a trap (it is always a trap), but Zélie is new territory for him, that much he begrudgingly accepts. She is apparently above the rules of their miserable world because she chooses to trust him, a vampire, a lying one, again.

He takes her hand, bracing for what may come his way, but she just helps him up.

“Thank you, by the way. For saving my life before.”

It’s a trick. It’s a trick. Don’t fall for—

She wraps her hand around his so delicately he thinks he may break, and shakes it. His thoughts and words are silenced yet again.

“Thank you.”

Fuck.

#bg3 #astarion x oc #astarion x tav #oc: zélie #tav oc #astarion #astarion fanfiction #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #human tav #I still feel bad for the orc and bugbear

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ch4singchase · 1 year ago

Text

The Ballad of Moths | LUKE CASTELLAN

Summary: A god decides to visit Hades' palace.

Word count: 2.7K

Warnings: Mentions of violence and death, mention of harm to children, existencial themes and emotional struggles.

chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four | series masterlist

chapter 04: 'Til The Road Begins…

A solitary, timid moth fluttered through the obscure recesses and shadowy corners of the realm beneath the living world. Its intricately detailed wings, painted in dark hues of black and brown, flapped tirelessly until the delicate creature gracefully alighted on the shoulder of a looming, broad figure.

The imposing man cast a benevolent smile toward the moth, “You've done splendidly, love. You may join the others.”

Yet, the moth remained unconvinced, steadfastly maintaining its chosen perch.

Unperturbed as well, the man reassured, “I shall return to you shortly, I promise. I have matters to discuss with a... Friend.”

If the moth thought about arguing, it gave up soon. The little creature knew well enough not to argue with a god. Familiar with the god, she also understood that the man had a good reason to wish to talk with the King of the Underworld himself, alone.

So, the moth flew away, following the way where others like her would go and rest.

The god observed her departure, a heavy weight upon his heart. Despite this, he swiftly composed himself, resuming his journey into Hades’ palace.

Much of what lay within failed to awe the god; it wasn't his inaugural visit. The intricacies of the doors, portraits, columns, and rooms were familiar details he had encountered more than once.

So, once he found himself in the throne room. The man was unfazed by the black bricks and the bronze decorations, the throne made of bones didn’t take a step back and the other one made of flowers didn’t surprise him either.

It was just another day where he found himself about to have a conversation with the god of death and riches.

“It has been a long time since you gave me the grace of your presence,” Hades’ voice echoed through the room.

The death god wasn’t in his throne; instead, he was wandering around the room, right behind the space where the thrones rested, as if he had been waiting far too long for the other’s arrival.

“It’s a surprise to see you away from your duty,” the King continued, a mischievous smile on his lips. “What has happened?”

The other man crossed his arms behind his back, closing his way to Hades, “I’ve come with a concern, I was hoping you could advise me on this.”

Hades circled back, his eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity. "A concern? You, my elusive friend, rarely bring forth concerns without significance. What is troubling you that warrants your visit?"

The man hesitated for a moment, the weight of the issue evident in his expression. "It involves my daughter, Eurydice.”

Hades paused, absorbing the weight of his friend’s words. The air in the room seemed to grow denser as unspoken implications lingered like a lingering mist.

“I thought she had died,” the god said, even though it wasn’t true. He was well aware the girl was alive; he would know if she had died.

The truth was that he had assumed, from the way her father never talked about her, that he had taken care of her passing.

Now, he was aware that wasn’t the case.

“I always have been intrigued about the choice of that mortal to give this specific name to your daughter,” Hades complained instead, narrowing his eyes to some of the flowers that covered his wife’s throne.

The other god sighed, that wasn’t the first time they had that talk, “She didn’t mean no harm.”

Looking back, he could remember one of the few times he visited Johanna Gaumont and their daughter. The girl was close to her 3rd birthday, already daring to take some steps by herself and pronouncing words like ‘mama’ or ‘birdie’.

Johanna had let him know how Eurydice was fond of birds lately. But that was just a phase, she told him that before, their daughter talked about leaves, fishes, and that just goes on and on and on…

In that very same time that he went to see them, she explained the reason for giving their daughter that name. The god could remember the sound of the woman’s laugh when he asked about it, his lips twisting in confusion.

“I want her to understand the circle of things, how all has its ending,” Johanna beamed down to their daughter, playing with her as she held a robin made of wood, “Eurydice once was a nymph, right? Nature understands how everything lives and then goes, and when Orpheus looked back… I believe she didn’t look at him with sadness in her eyes, but acceptance.”

His chest held a heavy weight at her words, a struggling sigh escaped from his lips, “That’s… A beautiful way of viewing their story.”

“Isn’t it?” Johanna giggled, “I want Eury to understand that same thing, to accept that one day, her friends will go away and the way fate works.”

He looked back at her, watching not sadness, but gratification fill her beautiful blue eyes.

“You know,” she continued, taking his silence as a reason to continue, “One day I’ll go away as well, and I don’t want her to hold on grief, all the sadness that there is when we talk about the end.”

Hades' adamantium eyes brought the god back to their conversation. The pounding in his heart weakened by the mere memory.

“Right, right,” the King nodded, a bitter smile in his lips. He still wasn’t convinced that the mortal didn’t name her daughter that name in spite of who they were- him and the father of her daughter, “What about you daughter? She has already reached her teenage years, right?”

The god sighed, the weight of his concerns evident in his eyes. "Yes, she has. And it's precisely that which troubles me. She's already veering toward the path of that prophecy... I don’t want her ensnared in our potential downfall."

The King of the Underworld paced a few steps, his gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the throne room floor. An intriguing expression played across his face as he mumbled, "Well-chosen words, my friend." He concealed his uncertainty about how to proceed, then asked, "You're referring to the cursed blade, aren't you?"

The other man nodded, feeling a momentary absence without the comforting presence of his moths by his side. To tell the truth, of a single and specific one, “She’s walking right into the great prophecy itself, despite all my attempts to keep her far from it.”

Slowly, the god sensed the King and his friend’s steps drawing closer. The next thing he felt was a hand on his shoulder. And, in an unexpected turn from the god of death, the last thing he anticipated was a smile.

A sad smile, almost sympathetic.

“I know all too well about prophecies shaping our children’s future, friend,” Hades averted his eyes, but the other god could sense where his gaze lingered. At a hotel, a long time ago—he had seen him soon after what had happened to his own family, “Alecto told me something one day, about how we can’t interfere in the laws of death. And she wasn’t wrong. If your daughter is destined to die in that prophecy, there’s nothing you can do.”

The god didn’t seem to be happy about his friend’s answer, even if he knew that he spoke the truth.

“But,” the palace’s visitor mumbled, unsure about his own thoughts and feelings, “It doesn’t make us hypocrites to love our children but not be able to protect them from their future?”

If any other gods had posed the same question to Hades, he would have immediately expelled them not only from his palace but also from his realm. However, this was his long-time friend, a god he had known since his first days as the caretaker of the world of the dead.

They had weathered many stories together, never stepping away when things got ugly. Regardless of their beliefs, agreements, or disagreements, they always had each other's backs. No matter how much time had passed since their last conversation.

Hades would always understand his friend’s frustration, not taking his words in a negative way, because he knew exactly how that feeling was.

Disappointment. Not only with himself but with their world, their rules, the prophecies, and the many oracles that had once proclaimed them before.

“Honestly,” Hades sighed, sitting at the steps of his throne, inviting his friend to sit beside him, “Until today, I don’t have an answer to that question.”

His friend accepted the invitation, taking a seat beside him. Reflecting on the events of the past, he cast a glance at the King, “How have they been doing?”

“They’re good,” the King answered, his tone expressing how tired he truly was. Perhaps, tired just from thinking about his kids, “Alecto and the others were keeping their eyes on them until a month or two ago; now, I’ve instructed them to monitor Zeus’ daughter… I won’t let what happened to my children go unnoticed.”

It took a few seconds for the other god to grasp the full implication, “You ordered them to take her life?”

“Before you judge,” Hades turned to his friend, a fierce determination evident in his dark, coal-like eyes, “I know how it sounds. But my brother needs to understand the consequences of his choices. He has to comprehend how they affected me and continue to affect me.”

The other god lapsed into silence for a while, finding himself without much to say. The memory of that fateful day still lingered in his thoughts—the consuming rage of Hades and the tears that had flowed until the River Styx nearly flooded the entire Underworld. The past was a tangled mess, a time when they were old yet too young, too reckless.

Mistakes had been made, but the notion of plotting harm against a brother's family was beyond his comprehension. He couldn't fathom committing such an act against his own brother, regardless of right or wrong. He would never intentionally cause pain to what his brother held dear.

However, matters concerning the Big Three and the Olympians were far more complicated than the dynamics of his own branch of the family.

It was his friend's fury, his pursuit of what he deemed justice. If it was the will of fate for such events to unfold, there was little the god could do or say.

He, more than anyone, grasped the relentless cycle of life. People live, and inevitably, they meet their end—doomed to confront their fate, sooner or later. How that end manifested was not within his control.

Accepting this truth stung, but reality is what it is. And sometimes, what brings a pounding pain, even for a god.

"May I ask you for a favor?" he ventured to inquire, finally.

Hades scrutinized him with narrowed eyes, a darkness confined in his icy gaze. "Does that mean you'll be in debt to me?" he questioned.

His friend almost reconsidered but nodded, saying, "If you wish."

"Proceed then," the King urged, a hint of amusement in his tone, "you're quite full of surprises today."

"Eurydice..." The man hesitated, choosing his words carefully, "She crossed paths with Thalia, Zeus' daughter."

Hades burst into laughter.

He simply laughed—a cruel, echoing laughter that filled the entire room.

There was bitterness in it, for he knew the implications that would follow this request.

"Let me guess, you want Alecto to go easy on your daughter if she happens to be between my Furies and Zeus’ daughter," he deduced, it wasn’t a question. The King knew the meaning behind his friend’s words.

The visitor nodded solemnly, acknowledging the accuracy of Hades' deduction. The air in the room grew heavier as the implications of the favor settled between them.

Hades, still chuckling, leaned back against the steps of his throne, the dark, ethereal aura surrounding him accentuating the intensity of the moment. The god of death fixed his piercing gaze on his friend, a mix of curiosity and amusement playing in his eyes.

"You claim that Johanna Gaumont meant nothing by naming your daughter that name," Hades mused, "but the more I hear you talk about the girl, the more it feels like a subtle jab directed at me."

His friend shook his head, holding back a chuckle, “That’s not… I really doubted that she really meant anything like that. I just want to shield Eurydice from a death that it’s not destined to her.”

“Yet,” Hades completed, raising a brow at the god beside him.

Reluctant, the man saw himself nodding to that.

Hades regarded his friend with a thoughtful expression, the laughter fading from his eyes. There was a shared understanding between them, a recognition of the burdens carried by gods who had witnessed the ebb and flow of mortal lives, prophecies, and the tangled web of divine machinations.

“If your daughter tries to stop them from killing the girl…” Hades spoke, the gravity of his words settling into the shadows that surrounded them.

“All I ask is that they don't hurt her,” the god mumbled, hesitation causing his hands to tremble, “As a father, I cannot simply stand by and watch my daughter succumb to a fate not of her choosing.”

Hades nodded in silent agreement, the weight of paternal love a bond that transcended even the divine laws that governed their existence sometimes.

"I’m granting you this favor," Hades finally said, to his friend's relief, "I’ll ask them to not hurt her once I hear from them.”

The two gods sat in contemplative silence, the echoes of laughter replaced by the grim reality of their shared concerns. In the tapestry of divine existence, their roles as distant and observant parents, never able to truly intervene for the best of their children. Always having to work around, make subtle decisions that wouldn't interfere with the order of things.

Was this what it meant to be a good father? Would this be the answer to the hypocrisy of being a god and the father of a demigod?

They would never know; it always felt like they were taking two steps forward and three steps back.

“Thank you, Hades,” the god, usually followed by his moths, said, a weak smile on his face, “I mean it.”

Both of them had duties to fulfill.

“Consider it a small favor between old friends, one I may ask for in return later," Hades responded, his tone carrying a rare warmth. “Just remember, my friend, we may not have all the answers, but we must navigate the complexities of our roles as gods and fathers as best as we can.”

As the two gods rose from their seats, the shadows in the throne room seemed to sway, sensing their power shifting in the air. Fate continued to weave its threads as both of them walked to the entrance of the palace, the King keeping his friend company before parting ways.

Once they reached the doors and they were opened, a solitary moth flapped its wings as it swung its way to a single god’s shoulder. The two gods turned their faces to the being, totally unfazed by its presence among them.

“Why am I not surprised?” Hades asked to himself, lifting a brow as he viewed the moth with dark wings and brownish details.

“I could ask the same question,” his friend stated, looking down at the moth upon his shoulder.

"May your journey back to your duty be uneventful," finally, the King said, a smile persistently in his face.

With a nod of gratitude, the god made his way out of the palace, the moth accompanying him like a faithful companion. The Underworld echoed with a solemn air as he traversed the familiar paths, contemplating the weight of his conversation with Hades.

However, his thoughts were interrupted by the soft fluttering of wings, and he glanced at the moth perched on his shoulder. Its delicate movements seemed almost comforting, a silent presence in the face of uncertainty.

Hades was right, if Eurydice was truly destined to fulfill her prophecies, there was nothing he could do to stop it. All he could do was hope, even if it sounded ridiculous to a god to hope.

But, he hoped. The god hoped that his daughter was strong enough to endure more loss.

Because, by the path she was walking into, she was destined to lose more than she already had.

Taglist: @2hiigh2cry, @yhaywhwvsh, @niktwazny303

(if you wish to be add to the taglist, let me know in the comments!)

#percy jackson fanfiction #pjo fanfic #pjo tv show #pjo series #dionysus pjo #chiron #percy jackson #annabeth chase #grover underwood #clarisse la rue #thalia grace #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #female original character

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