#THEY COULD BE ANYWHERE IN THIS GOD FORSAKEN CITY

[v-tired-queer]

MY CROCHET OCTOPUS FELL OFF ON MY KEYCHAIN AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE THEY ARE THIS DAY FREAKING SUCKS 😭💔😭💔😭💔

[opens-up-4-nobody]

Listen. Probably my favorite thing about The Terror is that because the story is one planned out season, the arcs and parallel scenes are set up so cleanly and nicely that it echos.

[fqrcefields]

checkmate!

summary _ , jennifer barkley despises every citizen of pawnee indiana. except for one.

⋆ tags : smut-adjacent? not really sure how to tag this. mature! ⭑ࣶࣸ 

read on ao3.

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From the moment she steps out of the impossibly cheap cab, Jennifer could feel the dullness in the air. Though she appreciates the lack of typical Washington humidity, there’s a replaced sense of total unhealth, of total lack of spirit and verve. As she enters Pawnee City Hall for the first time, it takes all of her might to not turn around and flee. She doesn’t like to use the word poor, but…

Who is she kidding. She loves to use the word. And this town, if one can even call it a town, is dripping in it. 

Jen hates to speak to these people. Anyone dressed in business casual attire is not worthy of her time. So, she finds her way to the competition’s office herself. Her heels stick to the floor with each quick step— she moves far faster than any of the sluggish clerks and absurdly high-ranking city officials that don’t seem to really be doing any work at all. Every door she pulls open is also covered in this same sickening stickiness. Thank God for the invention of handkerchiefs.

“Oh, Jesus.” Jennifer can’t help the words from spewing out when she pulls open the door to the Parks and Recreation offices. It’s just all so… sad. The menial workers don’t react to her entrance, barely do anything at their desk anyway. She scowls at the sight of it, of the aging employees typing with only two fingers at a time and the younger ones who stare at their phones instead of doing anything meaningful. Everything is so slow, nothing like the pace of a D.C. election circuit. A real election, something actually worth Jen’s brain power. But hey, it’s easy work, and she’d be damned not to take it. The moment she and the man-child win this town over, she’ll be off to summer on an island. What island, she could not possibly care less. As long as it’s far away from Pawnee, Indiana.

Not seeing the yapping, overexcitable blonde anywhere, Jennifer’s eyes land instead on a much more pleasant sight. The youngest employee who sits with her feet propped on the desk in front of her, reading a book. She has a jadedness about her, as if in this building filled with people who barely know how to do their job, she is the one that wants to do it the least. While Jennifer would usually find this disinterest so stale, especially on someone of this age, there’s something beneath the sideswept bangs that intrigues her, attracts her.

Jen straightens herself, takes the few steps it takes to make it to the younger woman’s desk, leans over it a bit.

“Excuse me,” She says louder than necessary in the near-silent room. The raven-haired employee does not reply, only sticks up one finger as if to say my book is more important than you, continues reading. Jennifer is… impressed. A smirk rises to her lips at the action, and she waits patiently. Though she’d never accept such a thing in her own office, she appreciates the challenge. At least there’s one other person in this God-forsaken town that’s willing to play chess where the others play checkers.

When her challenger finally finishes her chapter, she sets down her book and raised finger, finally glances up at Jennifer. Her eyes widen for a moment, a minute expression that would barely be caught if it weren’t quite literally Jennifer’s job to catch such a thing. The smirk still evident on her own face, Jen speaks up again.

“I’m here to see Leslie Knope.” She leans over the desk a bit more, wishing she weren’t so damn buttoned up, wishing to see that bewildered expression on the intern’s face again.

“Uhm, yeah.” The other says plainly, her voice shockingly deep, carrying the same indifference that the rest of her does. She then realizes her place, must recognize Jennifer Barkley for who she is, and sits up straight in her chair, feet dropping to the floor. She points to the door at her left. “Her office is in there.”

There’s the blush that Jennifer had been looking for. She pulls back, straightens up, flicks her hair over the shoulder once, twice. She turns on her heels with ever the dramatic flair and walks to where the black-painted nail had directed her. Even though this meeting would be excruciating, at least she’d have this little memory of Knope’s pretty receptionist. Or whatever lousy job title the woman held.

“Hey, aren’t you that lady that called Leslie a dog murderer?” The deep voice calls out again, eliciting a silent laugh from Jennifer. As she enters the next room, she looks back over her shoulder, winks to the girl. Jen hates to wear a smile as she enters this meeting, but the puzzled expression she’d been met with could only bring such a thing.

She exchanges false pleasantries with the overzealous blonde, barely registers a word said. They’re discussing campaign strategies, billboards, yard signs… something like that. Who knows. Jennifer is too busy looking out the door to the desk so perfectly placed in direct view. Well, not exactly direct. She has to arch her back and pretend to be looking away out of boredom, but once she has subtly shifted her chair backwards just enough, her apathetic piece of eyecandy is back in view. She can’t take her eyes off of the woman whose nose is deep into her book. Jennifer finds herself far more interested in finding out the title of the book than she is in Knope’s incessant chattering about candy bars and voting procedures. Once she finds out just what sort of book it is that she likes, Jennifer will buy her an entire library’s worth. It’s not like she’d be taking any away from the avid readers of Pawnee, of which there are none. She’d probably be able to buy out the town’s public library with the money she’s making from the Newport family alone. Maybe she will, if it’ll force that straight line into a smile.

It feels like truly an eternity that Jennifer is sitting in this office, though she doesn’t mind it for the view that she’s given. There does come a time where she actually does need to reciprocate the conversation, to act aghast at the implication that she’s not paying attention, and as painful as it is, she turns her attention away from her new obsession. She continues in witty banter for the rest of their allotted time, outsmarting Leslie’s campaign moves with outrageous ease. Seriously, Jennifer Barkley is good at her job. No wonder she’s paid so much.

When she’s finally allowed escape from this small room that smells so much like the most obnoxious cologne known to man, she takes it. Though she could spend hours wheedling out Leslie’s ideas, spinning them into her own far better planned knock-offs, Jennifer is desperate to leave. She can feel her brain actively slowing down with each second spent in this wretched building. So, with the sweetest possible goodbye she can muster up with those last few remaining cells of energy, she leaves.

But, before she does, she allows herself one more little visit to the desk by the window, to the girl who has reassumed her previously relaxed position, her book now propped open on her lap, her eyes moving far too quickly to actually be reading. Jennifer smiles to herself, appreciates the attempt at disregard for what it is, knows that the blush is threatening the intern’s cheeks again. She can tell that she’s chewing the inside of her cheek, forcing her vision away from Jen, but she doesn’t mind. She’ll get the eye contact she so deeply desires soon enough.

The standing of the two reaches into her purse, the bag that she would never let touch a surface in this building, and produces a business card. She slides it down into the open-faced book on the woman’s lap, laughs softly when it elicits a jump out of her.

“Call me.” She purrs, once she finally has the latter’s attention. She sends another wink her way before finally leaving, feet still fighting un-mopped floor.

And as for April… April watches her leave, jaw hanging open as if she’s just seen a ghost. She feels incredibly dirty for the way that her vision glues to the swinging hips, but the curvature squeezed by pencil skirt begs to be worshipped as it disappears into the hallway.  

__________________________

It doesn’t take many days for Jennifer to grow painfully bored of her hotel room. One can only watch Joan Callamezzo ramble nonsense for so many hours in a day. And though she does not feel like entering into Pawneean society, there must be somewhere where she can get an actual mixed drink instead of another bottle of hotel wine, so she turns to the internet. It comes to no surprise that Pawnee’s nightlife is far from illustrious, and though her only options are clubs of the night and strip varieties, she settles for the former. She doesn’t even want to imagine what beasts will haunt the night scene on a Wednesday night in the middle of nowhere, but she finds out soon enough upon entering the bar whose name she forgets before even reading it.

Jennifer is caught by surprise that the inhabitants she finds aren’t so monstrous, that she can actually stand to look at them. She may find her way to the dance floor eventually, but even still she’d promised herself not to get too messy in her time here. There’s no way she’s embarrassing herself in front of people whose normal is Jennifer’s idea of sloppiness.

She orders whatever stupid gimmick drink is at the top of the list, needing something that will actually ignite her tastebuds no matter the sugar content, and takes a seat at the bar, surveying the room. It’s quite literally the antithesis of a Washington club. Jennifer’s sure the heaviest drug done in this room is tobacco, if these people even have the gall to smoke a cigarette. They’re all so painfully boring, it nearly puts Jennifer to sleep where she sits. Though she’s far from the life of a party, she could stand to loosen her blouse and make out with a girl or two.

Just as she’s slid an unnaturally purple drink, Jennifer locks onto a form at the end of the bar. It would be impossible to ignore, the swooped bangs and striped shirt, jeans that are neither work appropriate nor fit for a club. The hunched posture was what truly gave it away, her aloof attitude would stick her out like a sore thumb in any crowd, at least in Jen’s eyes. She definitely doesn’t want to be picked out of the crowd, probably isn’t seen by anyone other than Jennifer. They’re both here for the same reason, to have a cheap drink and be on their way.

After a few minutes’ worth of staring, Jennifer’s target begins to move. Not toward the exit nor the dance floor, but to the bathroom, where Jennifer eagerly follows suit after throwing back whatever rancid, over-flavored vodka tonic she’d been served. She pushes past the sweaty bodies of dancers that she figured must be from out of town— there’s just no way this many people even exist in the city limits of Pawnee. Jenn huffs and growls at each body that she forces her way past, hating the feeling of dirty hands on such expensive fabric. She holds herself close, rolling her eyes when several people stumble over her feet.

It's with a dramatic sigh that she finally enters the bathroom. Though she doesn’t mean to be, Jennifer will always be keen on the dramatics, on making her emotions well known. Though careerwise it’d be much better for her to keep a sophisticated mysteriousness such as her impervious intern, she finds it much more fun to tell people exactly what she finds annoying about them.

Jennifer primps herself in front of the mirror; makes sure the string of pearls is on straight, lays down her hair so that it stays in its barrel curls. She’s also quite the stickler for appearance, a trait that the rest of Pawnee so seems to lack. While she looks over herself in the glass, a door swings open behind her, and out emerges her raven, who, when her eyes finally lift to find Jennifer standing at the sink, stops in her tracks. It’s an adorable color on her, this shock and awe on a face so fit for lack thereof. Once again that smirk returns to Jennifer, a grin that’s so easily faked yet in this instance could not be more genuine.

“Aren’t you going to wash your hands?” Jennifer asks slyly, firmly patting the sink beside her. The younger complies, Jen watching her through the mirror as she does so. She notes the serious focus that takes the dark features, the control forced over muscles to cease a smile or a reaction of any kind. Jennifer loves it, the resistance, the denial to admit ones feelings. It’s out of her own book. It’s so intoxicating to have a cat to play with instead of yet another mouse.

“You didn’t call me.” Jennifer continues, lower lip protruding into a false pout. “Such a shame. I’ve already gotten so lonely…” She shrugs, pulls lipstick from her purse, begins to apply it liberally. Though the action forces her attention to her own visage, that of the girl beside her is not lost, still in her peripheral.  “At least tell me your name, hm?”

“April.” The shorter replies— though, she may not truly be shorter, it’s only that Jen wears five inch heels where April dons low-top converse. She finally ceases her inattentive hand washing, turns to take a paper towel. When she turns back, however, she is met by a body much closer than it had been, nearly pressing her against the wall. There’s no hiding the rush of blood to her cheeks this time. April must finally face the fact that she is truly, deeply enthralled with this woman. She has been since the first time she’d appeared on the television set spewing that nasty rhetoric about Leslie Knope, her manner of speaking so outwardly charismatic it charmed April right away.

There’s something to be said about charisma and lack thereof attracting each other.

April stutters for a moment, something she’s quite literally never done, brain seeking for something to say along the lines of you’re a dick to my boss, I hate you, but the words never come. Mostly because she doesn’t want to say them. As much as she loves Leslie, how much she wants them to win and for the woman in front of her to stop badgering their campaign on live tv, she is also wholly infatuated with the pantsuits and wicked words.

Jennifer chews her lower lip, which is still curled up into that shit-eating grin, enjoying the mess she’s turned April into far too much. She’d not dare interrupt her babbling nor her bated breathing with words of her own. The ball has now been swung into April’s court, and as greedy  as she feels to lay a kiss on those trembling lips, Jennifer wants to wait to see what her opponent swing back.

Though, instead of witty banter or biting criticism, Jennifer is met with hands on her jaw, lips on her own. She accepts it hungrily, not at all needing even a second to realize what’s happened nor to adjust to the touch. It feels all too natural, and it’s instinct that leads her hands down to slide into the back pockets of April’s jeans, her thumbs into the belt loops. What wretched material, denim. She’d hate the rough feeling on her palms were it not for the soft flesh it covered.

They’re both starving for this, tongues dancing for dominance in the other’s mouth, dark red lipstick smudged against skin that hasn’t seen this amount of makeup in quite a while. Jennifer pushes her weight into April with such fervor that she’s forced up onto the sink, the former settling between the latter’s thighs, kissing her until her back hits the cold mirror.

They each elicit soft groans out of the other, that smug smirk ever present on Jennifer’s lips when April gets too loud. Jen’s lips stray downward, down to the strong jaw, trailing her scarlet down onto the clean flesh. Her hands sneak below the woven fabric of April’s sweater, the soft skin rippling in reaction, so cold against Jen’s warm hands that is almost shocks her. Not at all in a bad way, though. It only offers more surface area in need of her kisses, desperate to be warmed by Jen’s coaxing touch.

It's that very thought that forces Jennifer backwards. She stands upright, looks at the mess of her own creation, frowns a genuine frown when April whines from the sudden lack of touch.

“Oh, baby.” Jennifer sighs, pouts more, licks her thumb and lifts it to April’s mouth, which instinctively opens to accept it, yet the thumb swerves to wipe some of the lipstick from her chin. “I’m sorry. But you know I can’t in good conscience fuck the competition. As much as I want to.” Then, she smiles, watching intently how April reacts to this news. The way her brows furrow, her hand lifts and slightly punches the sink below her in anger.

No, Jennifer certainly does not imply to stand by this rule. They’ll find themselves in this club bathroom again quite soon. But she can’t very well allow April her checkmate this early into the game. So she turns on her heels, grabs her purse, leaves with a third (certainly not final) wink over the shoulder.

“I’ll see ya!” She calls, and disappears behind swinging doors. 

[mimikw]

Random Edward Nashton HCs

>> This is very short and also VERY random,,, slight suggestive/nsfw-ish hcs mixed in too

>> g/n reader ლ⁠(⁠^⁠o⁠^⁠ლ⁠)

At some point he got depressed and started eating more than usually, causing him to become chubby

There was a cat outside his college building and he would bring it canned foods, he sometimes forgets to because of how busy he gets.

He had crushes back in the orphanage, a boy and the other one's a girl.

He first had a crush on the boy who confessed to him (He believed that he actually liked him). He eventually finds out that it was just a dare from the boy's group of friends and cried himself to sleep.

He makes anagrams of your name

Constantly thinks of you. He couldn't even focus on his work sometimes.

When he misses you he would text you riddles.

It's shown in the comic that he listens to podcasts. I think he would listen to podcasts often after work or when he's in the train.

When you're out for a long time, he cuddles your shirt or jacket to sleep.

Has back/chest acne scars. He really doesn't like them

I think he'd be very clean, and by clean I mean he would wash his body twice, doesn't like the thought of being dirty so he makes sure he had cleaned every spot.

Makes random doodles on napkins or notepads.

Definitely has a thing for your thighs and love bites

Will show you off in some of his Livestreams, and ofc, his followers floods the chat

Does the sharing the other side of the earphones thing

Always holds your hand in the subway, diner, litteraly anywhere you go together

He collects random tiny trinkets/figures and places them on his desk

Has like two anime figures, sitting on his desk, I'm thinking of those chibi Miku figurines (He doesn't know who Miku is he just thought it was cute)

He goes to surplus stores, it's where you can buy random second hand stuff. He just looks around when he's free or when he feels like it. That's also where he found the Miku figurines.

If you have fluffy hair, he'll play with it when you're cuddling, stroking and petting your head. When you tell him to stop cause it always gets messy and covers your eye, yeah he'll stop for a little while, he keeps coming back to playing with it but quickly stops himself, He'll eventually play with your hair again.

Likes kaomojis, he thinks they're cute and silly.

When he comes home from "cleansing the city" and finds you still awake and waiting for him... He'll start cooing sweet things at you, telling you how much you don't deserve to live in this god forsaken city... ends up with you making out... and then to something else.

You never go out for groceries alone, he always has to be with you, specially when it's dark.

Goes to the local library and buys 15 puzzle books regularly.

He has a small Totoro keychain

Yk how most people dream of writing handwritten love letters for your partners, he's like that but in a more lovesick seial killer insane way

Used to be a part of a debate club and every opponent he gets hates him, he always defeats them anyway.

Has a few candies in his jacket's pocket.

He doesn't usually drink or get drunk, but one time he did and started saying random shit, also said to himself a little too loud how much he always wanted to make you feel good, that he could spend hours fucking you dumb. He wakes up completely forgotten about everything he said.

That's all I can think of for now, when I get more random thoughts i'll make a second part. (⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

Thank you for taking your time to read all of this!

[raaorqtpbpdy]

Mother Gotham and Her Beloved Children

This is yet another fic I wrote for the @batfam-big-bang, this time for @red-hood-redemption's gorgeous artwork, which they posted here! This one is a one-shot, so I'm posting the entire thing here, but you can also go read it on AO3 if you want.

[Warning for minor violence]

Selina had never been the sentimental type. Through a significant stretch of her life, everything she owned had fit in a single suitcase. Ever since her mom died and she was left alone, she'd never gotten attached to anything. If she left something behind somewhere, it was lost to her forever. She didn't grieve. She didn't linger. It was hers and then it wasn't. That was how her life had always gone.

When she left Gotham behind, she thought she would never look back. Her whole life, she'd been trying to get out of that god-forsaken hellhole of a city, to get away from the wretched slums she was forced to live in, from the skeevy club where she had to work with rancid, drugged-up men eyeing her like a piece of meat, and especially from her scumbag father. Although... he wasn't an issue anymore, was he?

Maybe she should feel something about that, anger or depression or whatever those stages of grief were supposed to be, but all she felt was relief. Now that he was gone, she felt freer than she had ever been, and the very first thing she'd done with that freedom was get the hell outta dodge. Her dark and ugly past was in that dark and ugly city. Her bright future was supposed to be anywhere else.

She had a whole world at her fingertips, so why would she ever go back to the rotten apple that was Gotham? Because she was born there? She'd been raised there? Because her mother, completely inexplicably, had loved that city? Ha! Of course not.

Sentimentality was the kinda thing that got a girl like her killed running back for something she left behind someplace in the middle of the night, or baselessly believing someone who fucked her over in the past could turn a new leaf. So why in the hell was she going back to Gotham? For one score? It wasn't any better than the DC job she could be pulling right now, just closer.

She could deny it all she wanted. She could pull out any excuse in the book to justify her choice to return. But she knew the real reason she was going back wasn't some ancient treasure in some museum.

It was Gotham.

It was like the city itself was calling her back, drawing her towards it, trying to bring her home—no matter how much she wanted to leave and never think of the grim, grisly town again. It was like, even with Falcone dead and her debts paid, the city still had some kind of hold over her. Even though it had killed her friend, and her mother, and chewed her up and spit her out, she owed it something, somehow.

Less than a year had passed, but a lot of the city had already been rebuilt since the Riddler flooded it. The stadium at Gotham Square Garden had been drained and torn down, but construction had already started on a shiny new one. The sea wall had been the first thing to get fixed, patched first as a stop gap, then rebuilt taller and stronger. Given actual security measures so no one could drown the entire city with seven rental vans and a few homemade explosives ever again.

The fact that it had happened even just the once was a testament to what a shit-hole the city was, and how downright awful the people who lived in it were. Not that Selina needed any more evidence than her own personal experience had already given her. She had known that all her life, it was why she wanted out so badly. And she'd gotten out. She'd had exactly what she wanted after the flood. She was free, and gone, racing away as fast as she could, like a cat outta hell.

Now, here she was, driving back across the Brown Bridge on her motorcycle.

Driving ever closer to the hell of her nightmares.

And yet, rather than feeling like she was a helpless kitten, trapped in a sack and drowning in a river... she felt like she was coming home. Like the city was embracing its prodigal daughter.

It made her stomach turn.

She wouldn't be staying, she told herself. She was only there for that museum exhibit, the Jewels of Jeresta, which was on display at the Gotham History Museum, on loan from a small country in South America whose name she couldn't rightly pronounce. God only knows why anyone would let a valuable treasure like that within a hundred square miles of Gotham City, but she sure as hell wasn't about to let this golden opportunity slip past her. Gotham was her home turf, and she knew that museum top to bottom, backwards and forwards, inside and out.

All she had to do was make sure she didn't run into Vengeance and she would be in and out and gone like a whisper on a breeze before the police knew the treasure was missing. Of course, avoiding the Batman was easier said than done.

Even having met him, the Batman was a mystery to her, almost, but not quite, a myth. They said he was the shadows, that he could be anywhere at any time, and that he knew every single thing that happened in the city of Gotham. And though she knew that wasn't entirely the truth, a part of her, however small, still sort of believed it.

Once, Selina had even heard some batty theory that he was the soul of the city itself, a physical manifestation of it. She had laughed at it then and she laughed at it now. Batman was smart, and strong, and resourceful, but he was just a man. Albeit a strange, obsessive, mysterious man, but a man nonetheless. And she was an expert cat burglar. And Gotham was a big city. Surely, she could hide under his nose for a few short days without too much of a problem.

Once she was in the inner city, she got herself a hotel room. She could afford a pretty swanky one these days, between the money she had stolen from Falcone and the jobs she had pulled while she was away, and she wasn't about to deny herself any luxuries after a lifetime of struggling to get by. As soon as she had her cat taken care of—Patch, the only one she'd been able to take with her—she prepared to case the museum.

Selina already knew all of its standard security measures, of course, this was hardly her first time around the block, but there were bound to be some extra features set in place for the jewels.

There was going to be some big, fancy, charity party at the museum to reveal it. Several of Gotham's elite had already been invited to it, but anyone could buy a ticket, and the proceeds and donations were all split fifty-fifty between a foundation for the cultural restoration of the country who'd loaned the exhibit, and another one for cultural enrichment right there in Gotham. Selina, of course, had bought her ticket online in advance.

A year ago, before the flood, she might have been pretty worried about some of the people there recognizing her, and there was still a decent chance that some would, but since Falcone's death, and the inauguration of Mayor Reál, a lot of the city's old fat cats had been replaced with new ones, ones who wouldn't know her face, or at least not as well. Still, she had decided that a new wig and some heavy contouring were in order.

She had chosen the name Catarina Abbot as her cover, and she'd been practicing a traditional southern belle accent as well. No one would ever suspect it was really her, of that, she was all but certain. Or at least, no one who wasn't already in on the con.

It didn't take her too long to get ready, although the stark contrast between the sleek black gown with its rhinestone trim extending down to her ankles, and the tight club outfits she once wore that never dropped below her mid-thigh, would take a little bit of getting used to. She took a taxi to the museum, stepping out onto the long, maroon carpet that had been laid out from the curb all the way to the front door. Clouds hung low in the sky, but the weather forecast had promised that it wasn't going to rain, and it hadn't yet. Selina wasn't about to start holding her breath for it to stay dry though.

Gotham and rain were like cats and claws, to remove the latter from the former would be inhumane. Gotham needed rain like it needed gargoyles, and lead paint, and the sound of gunshots varying distances away every half-hour. These were the things that made it uniquely Gotham, and not some other urban city that smelled like pollution and hot garbage, and looked haunted beyond belief.

Selina smiled at the news cameras, waved, said nothing. As soon as she was inside, her shoulders drooped with relief. Hopefully the makeup was enough that no one would be able to recognize her in the photos, at least not for long enough that she could make her getaway with the goods. She unconsciously tightened her grip on her clutch purse, her sharp, expertly manicured nails digging into the black satin, and sashayed confidently toward the wall.

The main hall of the museum, where the party was being held, had high, arched ceilings with a row of short, wide, windows at the top of the walls. Colorful paintings of nature by a long dead local artist of some renown hung liberally on the cream colored walls, with little brass plaques next to each, declaring the titles and some commentary of the paintings. In the center of the room, was the same tall, black marble statue that had been installed when the museum first opened, decades ago, of a woman cradling a pair of snarling grotesques like babies in her arms.

If Selina's memory served, there had been quite a lot of controversy around the statue. The artist had been commissioned to create a statue which encapsulated natural history in Gotham, and there had been a minor uproar about what the artist had actually delivered not fitting the bill. The artist had argued intensely in the statue's favor, and in the end, refused to make a new one, but accepted a reduced payment for the commission provided they actually displayed it, and as the museum had not had enough money to hire another sculptor, the statue remained.

It was called Mother Gotham and her Beloved Children, and as the years passed, patrons and employees of the museum alike grew quite fond of the marble woman and her monstrous young. Selina herself had stared at it in awe for nearly an hour when she'd gone on her first field-trip to the museum as a schoolchild. She couldn't help staring at it a little, even now. They sold smaller versions in the museum gift shop, when the museum was actually open—paper-weights and key-chains. Perhaps she should come back during normal hours and buy one.

She tore her gaze away from the statue to take in the crowd of guests. Women in luxurious gowns, and well-dressed men in suits mixed and mingled throughout the room. Many of the men stared at her, even here, but not in quite the same way they did at the Iceberg Lounge. Their lasciviousness, though certainly present, was much better concealed. It was a nice party, after all, and they had to be on their best behavior. A woman in a dark purple gown, one with layers of tulle and ruffled shoulders, stopped Selina to compliment her on her dress.

"It suits your figure so well, dear, wherever did you get it?" the woman asked.

"Versace, I believe," Selina laid the accent on thick, but spoke casually, as if she couldn't be bothered to remember which luxury clothing brand had made the most expensive gown that she had ever worn in her life. "But of course I never wear anything that I haven't had fitted by my personal tailor. I do say, she's an absolute miracle worker."

"I can see that," agreed the woman, looking Selina up and down enviously. "Although with a waistline like yours I'm sure it's not too hard to be. Delia Maracus," she introduced finally, gesturing to herself with one hand, and then to the rest of the museum with the other. "My husband, Simon, is the museum curator."

"Catarina Abbot," Selina introduced, placing a hand delicately over her sternum and tilting her head politely, "Collector of fine things."

"Ooh, well doesn't that title have a nice ring to it," Delia remarked, her golden curls bouncing as she leaned closer with interest and then back again with a gentle shake of her head. "I wish I could call myself something that classy, but all I collect are vintage perfume bottles and dusty old books." She laughed at herself, and Selina smiled gracefully.

"Those things are plenty fine, Miss Delia," she said kindly. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all. I just so happen to be partial to a cat's eye."

"That's nice of you to say. I've got more of a sheep's eye, most of the time, ha ha." Delia's attention was diverted by something over Selina's shoulder. "Looks like I'm needed elsewhere. It was so lovely meeting you, Miss Abbot, do enjoy the party, won't you."

"Please, Catarina," Selina told her, stepping aside so she could walk past. "And thank you, I intend to."

The Jewels of Jeresta were displayed under bulletproof glass casings in a smaller exhibit room off the main hall, all the way on the far side from the front entrance, and Selina began to make her way toward it as inconspicuously as she could—slowly, keeping to the edges of the floor, smiling politely and making idle small talk with those who approached her, putting forth a concerted effort not to be too reciprocal of their interest in her, so as to discourage them from taking too much of her time.

Then a small voice spoke from behind her. "You look beautiful." Selina turned to see who had spoken, and when she saw him, she blinked in surprise. Though he was quite a bit taller than her, the slope of his shoulders and the angle of his head made him seem slightly smaller than he actually was. His eyes were fixed on her face, but didn't quite meet her own eyes. "My name is Bruce."

"I know who you are, Mr. Wayne," she told him. Reclusive as he was, or had been before she skipped town, everyone in Gotham knew who Bruce Wayne was. She had heard that he'd started making more public appearances ever since the flood, but she definitely hadn't expected to run into him herself during the brief period while she was back in town. He smiled when she spoke, a small, sweet smile, with a hint of humor in it.

"Bruce is fine," he told her, his eyes finally locking on hers for a few seconds before they shifted away. She thought it reminded her of someone else, but wasn't sure. Maybe it was more of a vague aura than an actual person. He certainly had an air about him. "And you are?"

"Catarina Abbot," she said in answer. "You may call me Catarina, if you'd like."

"Catarina," he repeated, and that hint of humor flickered a little brighter behind his blue eyes, like somehow he got the joke, even though there was no way he could have. "That's a lovely name."

"Why, thank you."

"Are you an aficionado of culture, history, or rare and beautiful treasures?" Bruce Wayne asked, swirling the honey-colored drink in his champagne flute. "Or are you just here for the champagne?"

"I have been noted as a collector of fine things," she answered after allowing the joke an airy laugh. "An experience like this one is a fine thing indeed."

"So the treasures, then. Have you seen the exhibit yet?" he asked. "It's quite a sight to behold."

"I've been moseying that way," she admitted. As a guest, she was all but expected to go back and look at the exhibit at least once. There was nothing suspicious about that. "I have been looking forward to it for some time."

"I'd be happy to escort you," he offered, extending an arm for her to take. Though a bit surprised, she accepted, and allowed him to walk her back to the exhibit room where the Jewels of Jeresta were being displayed.

The jewels were breathtaking, and she couldn't wait to steal them. Unfortunately, with Mr. Wayne in the room, watching her with that dopey look on his face, she couldn't look too closely at the security measures without arousing suspicion. Selina made mental notes of the ones she could see without being too obvious about looking. Cameras, of course, motion sensors, the glass casings were sealed against the display podiums, but she couldn't see the release mechanism from where she was standing, and trying to look behind or under would be too obvious.

"Gorgeous aren't they?" Bruce Wayne asked her, and she was struck again by just how soft his voice was. She'd never imagined a billionaire CEO would speak in such gentle tones.

"They are just ravishing," Selina agreed. "Some of the most stunning pieces I have ever laid eyes on. Why, it's a privilege just to look at 'em. I ought to thank the museum curator for his good work."

"I'm sure it was no easy feat, convincing the country of Sanamiguay to loan a collection like this to Gotham," Bruce said. "They've loaned these jewels to museums around the world before, but Gotham's... reputation tends to deter some."

"A reputation well deserved," Selina scoffed, her accent almost, but not quite, slipping as she said it.

"Perhaps," Wayne agreed, nodding and looking back at the jewels behind the bulletproof glass. "But I have faith that Gotham can change. At least, I think it's worth the effort to try."

"Why, Mr. Wayne, you're much more of an optimist than I ever imagined you'd be," Selina remarked. "Listen to you, all starry eyed and dreaming of sunshine."

"Have you lived in Gotham long, Catarina?" he asked. "Judging from your accent, I'm guessing you're not from around here."

"No, I'm from Georgia, the city of Savannah," she told him, "but my family's done business in Gotham since I was a girl. I've seen the city you have faith in, and I wouldn't be so bold as to say that faith is misplaced, but... well, let's just say that I am not of the same opinion."

"I guess you're not entirely wrong to disagree." Wayne shrugged and shifted his weight so he further obscured the camera she was trying to see behind him. "Most people disagree with me. I just don't think everyone should be so quick to write this city off as a lost cause. At the very least, we can have a little hope, can't we?"

"I suppose."

Wayne kept her talking for some time before someone finally interrupted them and dragged the man away, his face scrunching up in displeasure for a moment before he visibly forced a more pleasant expression and allowed them his attention. When the opportunity presented itself, finally, to properly inspect the room, Selina took it. Then she slipped away, out of the exhibit room, and out of the museum, before Wayne tried to engage her again.

It wasn't that she didn't like the man, but he seemed to like her a great deal, and she couldn't afford someone like that getting attached, not when she was planning to disappear without a trace after the job was done. Men with his resources could find her anyway, if she wasn't careful, and in her experience, no matter how polite and seemingly respectful they were, wealthy and influential men could not be trusted.

The next few days, she spent planning her heist. Marking up her entry and exit routes, acquiring or making the necessary tools to enact her plan without any snags. She had every detail accounted for, from the entry to the escape, as meticulous as her pointed nails, and as clear as her objective.

She broke in through one of the high windows, scaling down the wall on a rope she'd tied to the roof. Those windows didn't lock, since they were considered too high up to present a viable security risk. The room with the Jewels of Jeresta had no door, just a wide arched entryway with motion detectors near the floor which activated when the museum closed, but were laughably easy to step over.

Upon inspection, she saw that the sealed glass covers required a key-code to unlock. Lucky for her, she had no intention of unlocking them. She had gotten her hands on a diamond-edged cutter, which she used to slice a circle into the bulletproof glass and reach inside for the jewels. Diamonds really were a girl's best friend.

So far, everything had gone off without a hitch, which of course meant it was time for someone to throw a wrench in her well-oiled machine.

"I'd almost be impressed if I wasn't so disappointed in you, Selina," came a voice from behind her, and she whipped around to see the Batman standing there. "I've already set off the museum's security alarm. The cat's out of the bag. Police are on their way now."

"Then I guess it's time for me to go," she said, snatching up the jewels from the case she'd already opened and sprinting at the Bat. She had hoped that, by rushing him, she could catch him off guard and slip past. She should have known better.

Her back slammed hard against the wooden floor as he hit her in the chest and shoved her down. She was only pinned for a moment before she wriggled out, wrapping her legs around his neck and forcing him sideways before he wrenched her off of him.

They continued their little back and forth with Batman snatching the jewels from her grip one after another and Selina slowly rotating the fight until their positions in the room were switched. Her hands were empty by the time she was on the other side of the archway with her exit route finally clear, at least until the cops arrived. She wished she could nab at least one of those jewels, but if she didn't split now, she'd be caught.

"Thanks for mucking everything up for me again, Vengeance," she sneered at him, and sprinted full-tilt back to the rope she'd climbed in on, scaling it with record speed and cutting it behind her, letting the Batman, who was climbing up after her, fall to the floor. "This was supposed to be easy. Damned Bat."

She wouldn't admit, or even acknowledge, that it had been kind of nice to see him again, despite the circumstances. To see that he hadn't gotten himself killed on his stupid mission just yet, to fight with him, that little back and forth that constituted the first contact she'd had with the man since leaving. No. She was too frustrated to acknowledge any of that.

She ran and leapt across the city rooftops with feline grace, and was halfway down the block before she saw him chasing after her. Apparently the setback of the rope being cut hadn't slowed him down for long. She cursed under her breath and sped up, running as fast as she could as long as she could.

Glancing over her shoulder every few minutes, she kept going, and going, waiting for one of them or the other to trip, let coincidence decide her fate, whether he would catch her and turn her in, or whether she'd escape to steal something else another day.

Finally, she came up against a rooftop with nowhere to go. She couldn't turn, the gap between the roofs on either side was too wide for her to jump it, and she couldn't keep going straight unless she wanted a three story drop into a face-full of sand, broken glass, and whatever other shit ended up on Gotham Beach. Selina skidded to a stop before she accidentally hurled herself over the edge, and looked frantically around for another way out, finding none.

Taking heaving breaths, she tried to recompose herself, and she looked back at the man in pursuit of her. Once he got to her, she'd have to fight her way out again, and she didn't really like her chances, if she was being honest. Her experience and lithe body gave her the edge over a lot of opponents, but not Vengeance. He was bigger, stronger, just as fast, and as much as she hated to admit it, more skilled. His training must've been a lot more extensive than hers.

By the time he reached her, she still hadn't caught her breath, but she stood her ground nonetheless, and lashed out with her nails, aiming for the few square inches of flesh his suit left open. He blocked her easily and countered with a fist, which she narrowly dodged. Their exchange of blows continued, back and forth, a kick blocked, a swipe dodged, an elbow landed, but the recipient recovered quickly.

"You ruined everything!" she complained through labored breaths. "Do you have any idea how much money I would have made on that job?!"

"Is money more important than a nation's cultural treasures?" Batman asked. "More important than your city's reputation?"

"This city's reputation is garbage already," she insisted harshly. "You don't get to decide how I live my life, Vengeance."

"I'm not," he said, dodging another slash of her nails and countering with a sweep of his legs which she somersaulted over before launching herself into his abdomen. "But your life circumstances don't make you above judgment," he grunted, forcing her off of him, "or the law. You're free to do what you want, but not free of consequences."

"You couldn't have left me alone for one damn job?" Stumbling slightly, she regained her footing, but was too winded to attack again. She thought for sure he would be on her as soon as she stopped moving, but he wasn't. He allowed her to catch her breath, his imposing figure blocking any exit, but not making any attempt to catch or cuff her.

"No. Because stopping crime in Gotham is my job."

"Well, you've done your job now, crime stopped," she panted out. "You can go now, unless you plan to put me in handcuffs. That could be fun."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" His voice was as deep and even as it ever was but she would almost think those thin lips of his turned up at the corner, ever so slightly.

"Isn't that what you law enforcement types are into?" she asked, smirking back at him. "If that's what you wanted, you didn't have to go through all this trouble." He took a step forward and she almost took a step back, but she stood her ground.

"You seem... different now," he told her, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"What do you mean?" she asked. He took another step forward, and she straightened her posture, almost daring him to keep closing in on her and see what would happen. He'd already chased her across two and a half miles of rooftops. It was a challenge she knew he'd take.

"Since you've left... you shoulder less," he said. Another step closer, and this time she had to fight herself not to meet him halfway. "Or you carry it differently."

"I like to call it financial security," she purred, then shrugged vaguely before adding, "and the knowledge that the bastard abuser who probably killed my mom, definitely killed my friend, and tried to kill me, is six feet under. I sleep a lot better these days."

"You really feel that much more comfortable knowing he's dead?" Batman asked her, disapproving but obviously unsurprised.

"I really do," she confirmed, and finally took a step his way. The sky was growing lighter, she noticed. The sun would be rising soon. "Don't you sleep better knowing a bastard like that is off the streets?"

"Someone else has already taken his place," came the response, and he took another step. The space between was only a few feet now, but it felt impossibly wide. At the same time, she wanted to close it and wanted him to stay far away. "That's how it goes. A falcon, a penguin, there's always someone that needs to be stopped."

"And a Bat's gonna stop them?" she asked, a light scoff on his name as she edged ever closer, but never quite close enough.

"I'm gonna try," he said. "Although, you certainly don't make it easy."

"Oh, come on, Vengeance, if it was easy, it wouldn't be fun," Selina teased, resting one hand on her waist and reaching the other up to his face. They were so, so close now, almost pressed up against each other. All she had to do was dig her claws into that pale flesh of his face, and she might distract him long enough to disappear. Her internal debate didn't come to any sort of conclusion before he caught her wrist and held it in a firm but gentle grip, rendering the question moot. "You do know what fun is, don't you, Vengeance?"

"I've heard of it," he answered, his voice so deadpan she let out a huff of laughter. Ever so gently, ever so sweetly, she pushed her hand further, caressing the side of his face, his mask, and his own grip loosened, his heavy black glove sliding down her forearm to settle on her bicep. She had to lean back, to look into those sharp, bright eyes of his. Absently, she wondered if he was wearing those strange video contacts he'd had her use to scope out 44 Below. If he was—and he probably was, since he was a paranoid son of a gun—they really weren't visible from the outside.

The sun was rising. Though the sun itself was hidden behind the city's ever-present cloud cover, it bathed the Gotham skyline in a beautiful orange-yellow glow as it crept up over the churning sea. The scene was too perfect, too beautiful, and Vengeance must have thought the same, because as she stood up on her toes, he leaned down to meet her, and their lips pressed together in a kiss, soft, but needy, gentle, but charged with emotion.

She deepened the kiss and he raised no complaints.

Then, finally, after a very long moment, which felt simultaneously like not nearly long enough, they broke apart. He searched her eyes, and she searched his, but what either of them were looking for, Selina didn't know. Then the Batman took a small step back, and released his steadying grip on her arm.

"Don't try to steal the Jewels of Jeresta again," he said firmly.

"What?"

"They should be appreciated through glass, and then returned to their country," he said. "Leave them alone from now on."

Selina looked at him curiously, wondering what was going through that head of his. "Alright," she agreed at length.

"Then go." She blinked at him in shock.

"That's it?" Her shoes clicked against the rooftop to punctuate her surprised step backwards. "You're letting me go? Are you even gonna call the fuzz?"

"I can still change my mind," he reminded her, and that was all the incentive she needed to walk slowly back toward the other edge of the roof and climb carefully down the drainpipe to the ground.

Once safely back on the sidewalk, she took off at a run toward where she'd parked her motorcycle. It was still there, even after several hours, which was a bit of a wonder, given the locale. She straddled it, revved the engine, and took off toward her hotel to pack up and get out of this city once again.

Patch greeted Selina at the door of the hotel room. He meowed softly and she knelt down to stroke the silky fur between his ears. "It's time to leave, again," she told him, stepping past the cat with purpose. She gathered together all her things, and packed them neatly away in her suitcase. This time, when she left Gotham, she really wouldn't be coming back. This time she'd go somewhere farther away, Metropolis maybe, or maybe somewhere even farther than that, like Chicago, or Detroit.

Anywhere but here.

For years Selina had been telling herself that same thing. Anywhere but here.

"Come on, Patch," she said, scooping up the cat once everything else was in her suitcase. He didn't complain when she gently placed him in the cat carrier. He'd always been so well-behaved when it came to traveling. It was what enabled her to take him with her when all the other strays she had taken in had to be left at an animal shelter. "Time to go."

It took one trip to take everything she had down the elevator to check out of the hotel. She secured Patch and her suitcase to her motorcycle, and she was off again, driving down the streets of Gotham, still early enough to beat commuter traffic. Skyscrapers flew past as she rode down the city streets, neon lights blurring in her periphery. Mist from the perpetually damp streets rose up in a plume behind her.

She was ready to leave this god-forsaken city in her rear-view mirror for good this time. Or so she thought.

The sea wall was in her sights, and Selina didn't slow until she'd almost reached Brown Bridge. Then it was looming in front of her, its towers a gateway to a greater world than Gotham, and yet... she veered to a stop, staring at it. She'd told herself that across the bridge was freedom, was a new life, but she'd already crossed it once, and already, she was back on the Gotham side again.

She'd had her freedom, and with it, she had returned home. She had enough money for now to live the life she pleased, to steal what she wanted and make even more without having to worry about resources. Freedom meant she could do or have whatever she wanted.

And yet... all her belongings still fit in a single suitcase.

She could carry everything she owned in the whole world on her motorcycle.

Maybe freedom wasn't packing up and leaving, going somewhere new every week, and never having any place to come home to. Or maybe it was, after all, what did Selina really know about it? She had been trapped under the thumb of rich assholes, of poverty, of debt, fear, and shitty circumstances her entire life. But if it was, maybe that wasn't the kind of freedom she really wanted.

Maybe freedom was traveling the world, stealing what she wanted, and then coming home, to a nice apartment with more than just Patch, who would get lonely all by himself while she was away. She twisted in her seat to look at Patch in his carrier, at the black duffel bag that held all her mortal possessions. His big yellow eyes stared back at her, glistening in the early morning light.

As a kid, living in an orphanage, the thing she'd wanted most in the world was an actual closet, and not a black garbage bag stuffed under her bed. She had wanted to be one of those women she only saw in movies and magazines, with a new dress every day and dozens of pairs of shoes, and jewelry for every occasion. That had been her idea of decadence, of luxury. She owned two pairs of shoes now, six outfits, three wigs, and hardly any jewelry. It wasn't like she couldn't afford it.

Maybe it was time for Selina to try being a pampered house-cat for a while... after all these years of being a stray. If she didn't like it, she could always go back. If she kept running, she might not have this chance again, this chance to have an actual home. Her hands moved before she had consciously made up her mind, revving her motorcycle and making a U-turn back into the city.

She could spend another few nights at a hotel while she looked for apartments, then once she was settled in, she could look for her next score, and it could be anywhere in the world. And when she finished the job, she would have someplace to come back to. Back in Gotham. Back home.

She rode back past the dingy buildings, past the broken signs and flickering lights, past the cracked sidewalks, past the boarded windows. It was a shit-hole of a town, and that would never change, she was sure. But she'd never truly hated Gotham for what it was. It was a filthy, crime-ridden city full of wretched, awful people.

But it was also full of empathy, of compassion. Not from the crime-lords, and gang-bangers, and skeevy, greedy socialites who cared only about themselves, of course. But the general population of Gotham understood better than most that they were all in the same rotting boat. And if that boat was sinking, and lord knew it was sinking, they'd teach each other to swim.

And Selina? She knew how to swim.

Her bike roared down the road as the city began to wake up.

On a rooftop, overlooking the streets, the Batman smiled.

[shimmerbeasts]

Temporary Alliance||closed

The thorn piece of tunic flapped in the hot, dry air, crammed between their fangs. The Noxian senator, who had worn the shiny, white silk, was stewing away in Naafiri's guts. The Darkin dune hound pack had devoured him after he had, under torture, revealed that the local city council had sent some lone mercenary to dig up Shuriman treasure not too far away from here.

Disgraceful! The mere preposterous assumption of these invaders that they could take items, which belonged rightfully to a long-gone Empire was disgusting. Normally, Naafiri could not care less, however, they had overheard what kind of treasure the Noxians had been after. Someone had uncovered another one of her brethren - a Darkin weapon without a host, buried underneath a desolate temple in a forsaken, sandy grave.

Naafiri remembered what it was like to be stuck in this immobilising hell with nothing but the thoughts in your mind for company. All your dreams, all your regrets, all your rage. No wonder so many of their brothers and sisters had gone mad from their isolation. Naafiri remembered the resentment they felt upon awakening in a pack of dune hounds. They had seemed so beneath the god warrior. Now, they considered the yapping and growling animals, who had made her into more, their salvation.

The sun had reached its peak in Shurima's pale blue sky when Naafiri finally spotted the temple. It was buried half in the sands, surrounded by hills of dunes. A colossal square of an arch with a gateway, yawning into the abyss, was the only thing, which seemed to peek out of the yellow mountains. From up where they stood, Naafiri could make out very little, though they thought they could spot hieroglyphs carved into the pale stone.

The Darkin could not tell whether or not the mercenary had headed already into the temple. Body shivering with excitement at the hunt possibly soon starting, Naafiri finally bolted down the sandy hills, several of their pack mates rushing ahead. It was a big mistake as suddenly out of the sand snapped various snares in a crescent shape with hard, iron teeth. They clamped down upon the pack mates' sensitive bellies and crushed their rib cages. Naafiri flinched and put their ears against their head, gasping for breath as they felt themselves die multiple times.

Traps! Somebody clearly did not want visitors!

Digging their paws into the hot sand, the main body growled in frustration. Something shimmering and flashing into the corner of their eye made them turn their head. Naafiri caught the smell before she saw the mercenary. It smells of the desert winds. It is Shuriman. The mercenary was a woman, skin brown and tanned from the unrelenting sun. She had long, sleek black hair, and was dressed in cyan and brown with some rough-looking leather pads on her thighs and shoulders. On her forehead flashed a diadem with a turquoise stone.

However, what worried Naafiri, was the weapon this woman carried. Even though it had been strapped to her back, the Darkin would recognise those curved blades and cross-shape anywhere. This strange golden disc was the chalikar, which had banished so many of her fellow brothers and sisters into their weapons. If that mercenary knew how to use that weapon, Naafiri was in danger of losing their so sought out freedom all over again.

The Darkin's jaws rattled as they growled at the thought. They were not going to roll over and beg. Naafiri pressed themselves down onto the ground and began to creep towards the mercenary, planning to flank her and attack. If they killed her before she entered the crypt, then they would not get the chance to use the chalikar against them. Alternatively, maybe whoever was buried down there, would appreciate the vessel, Naafiri had just found for them!

@nameaprice

[ladygoofball]

What happens when Luana and Minsc remember they used to be lovers?

I only have a draft but it's LOONY as fuck.

Luana stumbles on a landmine

Luana fights the emperor to bring Minsc into their party. Even though she does not have any channel divinity charges, she was able to project a big anvil over the emperor’s head and kept dropping it on him until he agreed. Gale failed an insight check to see why she was fighting so hard to get Minsc in their party and decided that he would not try to cause another fight with Luana over how Gale was being over protective of her time and space. 

After about 4 days of having Minsc in her party, Luana starts feeling the echoes of memories that she was granted for defeating Gortash and getting a second nether stone. Luana’s tadpole connection with Minsc helps her fill in the details, they used to fuck when she was fighting with Nesram in Mulhorland.

She demands Jaheira come walk with her and Minsc as soon as possible because Gale was RIGHT around the corner in elfsong tavern and he had the senses of a god damned blood hound when it came to who Luana spent her time with in camp ever since she had used her avatar form to fight myrkul. She tries to communicate that she absolutely cannot get Gale’s attention with her leaving the room because he would probably lose his shit if he heard she was going out into this city without him with her eyes, and Jaheira only understands what she is saying on a critical success roll. 

Next scene is Luana hanging upside down in the sewers where they had originally found Minsc. Jaheira says “I did not think it was possible, but you two have just given me the worst fucking headache I have ever had in my entire life. And that is not hyperbole. [in elvish] Where is the wine in this gods forsaken sewer?” 

Minsc: Minsc kept a secret stash just at the feet of where he made his bed. 

Luana: Did you have to show me those fucking memories that you had of me right in front of my current partner? 

Minsc: Minsc had no idea he was sharing this image with you! He would not dream of going anywhere near the blast radius of the time bomb you call a lover. 

Luana [Succeeds in an intimidation check, pulls a dagger to Minsc’s throat]: Careful, srinna you forget who you speak to. I will not have you assign such a disgusting label to my current partner. You will apologize, or you will see exactly how quickly I can regain the emperor’s favor by cutting you where you stand. 

Boo comes out and Luana starts to tear up and casts speak with animals. She kneels in his presence.

Luana: Boo…I cannot begin to express the depths of my own self loathing that I will sink to knowing that my mind allowed you to slip away. Allow me to make amends after we are not in immediate danger of being blown to smithereens because my partner won’t be able to handle the idea that someone who is sleeping in the same suite as we are has seen me naked. Minsc has put us all in a lot of danger by sharing that little tidbit via the tadpole connection we share with my partner, and I am a very bad liar. The only one who could reach my partner’s tender heart in this particular juncture is the indomitable Boo. 

Boo glares at Luana. 

Luana: I understand your reservations, if I were to meet him just now I would never ask you to do this favor for me because I would also believe he was incapable of seeing reason when it comes to me. You must use your divine judgment to see the man I love, he is unwell, but I swear on my Oath that if he was of a clearer mind and out of these incredibly dire circumstances he would never raise a hand to you or put you in harm's way at all. Will you help us? 

Boo considers the request. Luana and Minsc sigh and thank the stars that he will consider the request. 

Minsc: I believe Minsc owes you an apology now. It is nice to see you, and with someone who enriches your life. 

The tadpole connection shares the last time Luana saw Minsc. At Nesram’s funeral. Luana was forced to perform a ballad detailing the moment that Nesram sailed into Osiris’s care in the Land of the Dead. He watched the life force drain from her in order to finish the song, and she crashed. He had decided that she was his prey and he would bring some life back into that face if she would let him near her. She had been avoiding him the entire evening so far, but they had exchanged a couple knowing glances. 

Well, Minsc wouldn’t go so far as to say he was knowing what she meant but he had seen that look enough times to know that she was looking for a distraction once this was over. 

Just as he started making his way towards her, Gale of Waterdeep steps in his way and breaks their eye contact. He bumbles out some fluffy words about how spectacular that was and that she must be celestial if she was able to conjure such imagery. Minsc glares at Gale and sinks back to the corner. When he turns back around, he sees Luana regard what Gale had just said to her and give him a confused look that melted into jubilant laughter. The sound cut through the somber mumbling among the Mulholandi nobility who all sent a disapproving glare her way for being so joyful at her lover’s funeral. 

Minsc: Well Boo, it looks like Minsc is going to need to find another distraction. 

[bakuliwrites]

Ignite, Part One- Reversed Julian x Reader

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI)

Fandom: The Arcana

Relationship: Reversed Ending Julian Devorak x Reader

Summary: Julian struggles to come to terms with the idea of living the rest of his life as a "monster." You set out to prove to him that he is still the same wonderful, beautiful man he was before his transformation, and there's nothing he should be ashamed of. If you're looking for the spicy parts, skip to Part Two, which is here.

Read here in this post or over on my AO3.

Starless

The night above is starless, a void above the earth. A wool hood has been pulled over the whole of Vesuvia, stifling and entrapping. You wander aimlessly, roads that were once as familiar to you as the back of your hand now twisting and confused. They all seem to lead in circles or spit out into shadowy realms that whisper vile things in your ear. The closer you think you are to finding your way, the further you seem to be. You hold tight to the thin, invisible thread that connects you to Asra, a reassurance that he’s somewhere out there, waiting for you to return. But you can’t return just yet. You have a mission, one you’ve given yourself. And there’s no way in hell you’re going back without completing it.

You pass a fountain, the same one you’ve passed a thousand times already, it’s water putrid and blood-red. The sky above mocks you, what sliver of a moon there is sneering hatefully down. If you could, you’d shoot the eerie crescent from where it rests. Watch it crumble feebly down from its pristine heaven and sprinkle over the corrupted world below. It would belong there, scattered amongst the rubble of a broken city.

You wander for days, weeks, months, years. Nothing is certain, except the number of times you’ve passed that god-forsaken fountain, its foul water burbling loathsomely. But even that number you begin to lose track of. You hope Asra hasn’t been waiting too long. You hope he hasn’t given up. The pulse of warmth in your invisible thread reminds you he’s still there, a comfort in this liminal space. A reminder of permanence. He’ll wait for you as long as he needs to.

And then, as if by some miracle- or maybe some cruel, cosmic joke- you stumble upon it: The Rowdy Raven. It’s familiar sign swirls out of the humid mist, illuminated in crimson, swaying ominously in a sweltering breeze. The lights inside dance demonically in the starless night, wavering and undulating statically. The silence is deafening: no raucous cheering, no bustling crowds, no raised voices, or joyous cries. It feels just as much a void as the night above. You take one final glance up at the moon, cursing its fiendish form before boldly entering the tavern. You brace yourself, but for what, you don’t really know.

You’re hit first by the acrid scent of salty-bitters and something burnt, like settling ash. Things within are much the same, yet unfamiliar all at once. Tables and chairs are overturned and glass litters the floor, glinting dangerously in the reddish light. Broken bottles adorn the bar and empty tankards are strewn haphazardly around. And then you see him, in the center of the quiet chaos, hunched over, his sorrow fixated pointedly on the tankard in his hands. You’re startled at first by his appearance, wondering if it actually is him. But you’d know his lovely soul anywhere, the feeling of his warmth radiating benevolently out from the center of that disarrayed room. His warmth is dim, but no less powerful. You suspect it’s what drew you here, in this direction, even if it took you ages. You call his name, gently so as not to startle him, and meet the gaze of your most precious Julian.

“Come on, my love,” you begin, striding confidently towards him, “Asra and I have a plan to fix all of this. But we need to act quickly.” 

He’s hesitant at first, not really believing that it’s actually you there, in that tavern. The Devil really did a number on him. But in the end, the brightness of your own soul is all too familiar to him. You escape that transient space, follow your thread back to Asra, and set to work. 

Ritual

Julian watches you from the corner of the shop, stormy eyes filled with worry. He stands awkwardly beside Portia, who has tried her best all evening to comfort her older brother. Though he’s grown in stature, Julian seems small, timid. He crouches in the shadows, hiding himself from view, ashamed of his form. In the dim lamplight, his feathers darkly gleam, their sharp, straight edges like hundreds of daggers. He keeps his talons folded into his palms, as if they’ll shred the very fabric of this distorted reality. Julian shies away when you approach him. When you reach out to him, he trembles at your touch, like he’s worried he’ll pass on his corruption to you. 

“We’ll fix this, Julian,” you reassure, taking his hands in yours and giving them a firm squeeze. They’re rougher than you remember, but they’re still your Julian’s hands. He nods, but you sense his skepticism. He looks at you and Asra askance while you prepare the final touches to your ritual. You don’t blame him. You’re not really sure this is going to work. In fact, you’re almost positive it won’t. But you have to try. For the sake of Vesuvia. For the sake of the world, you have to.

You and Asra join hands as you give the room one last glance. Nadia and Muriel stand solemnly aside Portia. Your friends give you small smiles, smiles filled with anticipation. When you turn back to Asra, his purple eyes grace yours with a look of confidence. There’s a glimmer of hope in him. Holding tight to one another, you begin your ritual. Magic, electrifying and pure, pulses in the air. It radiates outwards from the two of you, fills the room with a cozy, all encompassing warmth. You close your eyes and dream of a world, renewed. 

The World Renewed

A few months have passed since you and Asra managed to return Vesuvia back to some semblance of normalcy. It had taken much of your combined strength, and recovery has been arduous. There are days where the two of you sit, wrapped in each other’s arms, silent and unmoving. You watch the sky fade from light to dark, unable to speak except to ask if Julian wants to sit by you. And then the three of you rest in uninterrupted silence, Julian hovering at a bit of a distance from you, your minds practically blank. But the three of you are on the mend, thanks to all your friends. Nadia, Portia, Muriel, all of them had come together in the end. You are healing. Vesuvia is healing.

The world beyond your shop window carryies on as it had before, hardly skipping a beat. In the first few weeks, there had been a level of wariness. Was the world going to suddenly go back to being twisted and strange? Was the plague going to come back? Questions swirled through the general public and a quiet worry settled over the city. But as the weeks crept on and things began to ease back into the familiar, so did the people of Vesuvia. Now, it's as if they have all forgotten the terrible events that have come to pass. You and your core group of companions, however, aren’t able to forget. Especially Julian.

You watch from your place behind the shop counter as Julian fretfully arranges bottles and trinkets on shelves. He's being extra careful not to knock anything over with the onyx wings sprouting from his back. On more than one occasion, he’s swiveled around and brought down a whole case with him, much to his deep humiliation. You know Julian is growing antsy being holed up in the shop, but it isn’t as if you had forbidden him from leaving. No, he had imposed that rule on himself. He still shudders every time he passes his reflection, still hides in the shadows anytime someone enters your store. 

Things have been a bit tense around the shop lately. The space feels suddenly quite small with all three of you there. Julian is becoming increasingly withdrawn, something you and Asra are struggling to cope with. You aren’t used to Julian being so taciturn and nothing either you or Asra does seems to remedy his woes. This whole ordeal is taking its toll on all of you. 

Asra had left earlier in the week, just to find some space of his own for a while. He promises he’ll return, and you know in your heart that he will. You hope he can find the clarity and the tranquility he needs on his journey. When he made the announcement that he’d be leaving for a little while, you could see the glimmer of bereavement in his dark eyes. This whole affair has taken pieces of each of you, sapped you of vigor. You understand Asra’s need for space. You and Julian would be waiting for him in the shop, ready to welcome him back whenever that might be. 

Julian turns to look at you, feeling your pensive gaze on his back. He smiles woefully before returning to his task. You, Asra, and Julian hadn’t been intimate in the entirety of the time since he’d transformed. You so desperately want to be, but Julian just can't yet. He's hoping somehow he’ll magically transform back. He's hoping that you can wait until then. But you miss him. You miss him terribly. All you want is to hold him in your arms. Just the simplicity of drawing him close. But he's so afraid of hurting you, and you are terrified of rushing things and pushing him away. 

Damn it all, you think to yourself, growing weary of being held at arm’s length. You come around the counter and sidle up to Julian, taking one of his hands in yours. His gray eyes flash with mystification as you drag him to the back of the shop and up the stairs to your room. He’s built a nest for himself in the center of it, a tight ring of blankets and garments he’s carefully selected from around the house. You guide him to it and sit him down before settling yourself in his lap. His breath fans gently across the top of your head, breathing shallow and shaky. 

“I love you, Julian Devorak,” you utter, smoothing the feathers on his chest, “In all forms. Every iteration of you.”

A Cloak

“I’m a monster,” he whispers to you, insistent and fearful. But you cling to him, nonetheless, there in the sanctity of your bedroom. He’ll whisper this to you a thousand times more. And you’ll dismiss his fretfulness every time.

“But I’ll hurt you,” he retorts, a frantic worry glinting in his storm-gray eyes. 

You shake your head, a gentle reassurance that he could never hurt you. Your soft smiles do little to assuage his fears at first, but he warms when you take his hand in yours and press gentle kisses to his palm. His taloned fingers so carefully caress your fragile skin, the mere ghosting of his nails along your cheek serving as a reminder of his sheer power. But he never showcases that strength. He only graces you with his brightness, with the embers of his warmth. The fires that burn softly in his soul will ignite again one day. But it will take time for him to be comfortable with himself. He’ll fan those flames soon, you know it in your heart. Just as you know Asra will return to you one day.

For now, Julian wraps you up in the cloak of his wings for the first time in months. Relief washes over you as you feel the tickle of his feathers settling against your back, hear the thrum of his heart against his ribcage. He’s warm and he’s comforting. You feel safe in his embrace, but more importantly: Julian feels safe in yours. He hums softly against you as the two of you fall asleep in each other’s arms for the first time in what feels like forever. Nestled in the encompassing coziness of the nest he’s built, you nap for a short amount of time. You hold onto that feeling for the rest of the day, letting it wash over you and fill you with hope.

Storms

You can see Julian’s reflection in the standing mirror before you. His sorrowful gaze looks hurriedly away, as if guilty for staring. He’s seen you naked plenty of times, but here in this new form of his, he seems to punish himself every time you strip to change. 

“You look at me as if I am forbidden,” you venture, turning around to meet his gaze. Brazenly, you opt to remain unclothed, hoping he might glance at you just once. You feel the electrifying flutter of excitement burst in your core when his eyes sweep along your curves. He blushes, pink spreading across the angles of his cheeks, the dark feathers framing his face doing little to hide his embarrassment.

“In this monstrous form, you might as well be,” he returns, unable to meet your eye. 

Storm clouds rage in the silver-gray of his irises, crestfallen and confused in their tumult. How many times have you heard him call himself a “monster” or something similar? A beast? A wretch? A fool? How many times have you refuted every one of these claims? Tried to show him he was wrong? Julian is nothing but gentle. He doesn't have it in him to be anything otherwise. But in his gentility lies fear. Nothing you say, nothing you do seems to convince Julian that you are not a fragile piece of glass. You are made of heartier things than he wants to believe. And he is not the abomination he is so convinced he is.

He refuses to look at you again, even as you take a few steps closer. When you reach him, you grasp his elegant hands and place them gently on your hips. He whips his gaze to yours, wide-eyed and shimmering. 

“I am made of tougher things than you might think, Julian Devorak,” you whisper with a tender smile, “And you, of softer elements. I won’t break under your touch.” 

Julian frowns despondently, before closing his eyes and resting his head against your chest. With a heavy sigh, he draws you into him, settling you on his lap. You feel the roughness of his scaly, feathered hands on the small of your back, different than you’re used to but no less wonderful. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, running your fingers slowly through the feathers at the nape of his neck. Their edges are soft, while their cores are sturdy and unbending. He lets you groom him, combing every feather back in its rightful place, fluffing and smoothing the delicate down on his chest. 

Progress, you think to yourself. This moment doesn’t last long, but it’s a step in the right direction. You kiss Julian softly before you return to getting dressed. The rest of the day is spent organizing the shop. Julian is smiling for once.

Crimson

“Oh God! See? I’ve hurt you!” he exclaims one evening, staring mournfully at the trickle of blood that runs down your cheek. You chuckle, having hardly felt a thing. He’d been wiping some tears from your eyes, grazing his talons just beneath them, when you felt the slight pressure break your skin. It's hardly an injury worth being upset over. 

“It’s okay, Julian,” you hush, pressing your lips to the talon that made the injury, forgiveness in your kiss. You’d long forgotten why you were shedding tears in the first place. Julian’s earnestness always brings a smile to your face. You grab a clean cloth and wipe away the blood that's pooling on your cheek. It smears a bit, painting your cheek like a macabre blush, so you dab the cloth with some water from the little basin by your bed and wipe up what remains. The bleeding stops almost immediately. 

“See, my love?” you reassure him with a beam, “Good as new!”

Julian flashes you a skeptical look, his gray eyes sorrowful in the dim evening light. You’ve graduated from napping in his nest of pillows and blankets together, to sleeping beside one another in your bed at night. The two of you miss Asra’s warmth, but you know he’ll be back someday. Things will go back to the way they were, you keep telling yourself.

You card your fingers through the crest of feathers atop Julian’s head. His eyes flutter shut in contentment. It’s only been a few weeks since Asra left and in that time, Julian has made a fair amount of progress. He’s warming to the idea of letting you groom his feathers. And he’s entertaining the possibility of letting his hands roam a bit more (you hope this little mishap doesn't deter him). Asra will be delighted upon his return. 

You can tell Julian is aching to be with you. Every brush against him, every gentle caress or even passing glance seems to kill him just a little more. You don’t want to push him, in fear that it will alienate him. But you can tell that the fire in his soul is building, slowly but surely. You can feel the embers burning brighter. However, they are still just timid flames, dancing softly in the darkness of a starless night. 

Julian retreats from you, folding into himself. He’s injured you and he will punish himself for that. Tonight, he sleeps alone in his nest on the ground beside your bed. You weep silently, hoping this doesn’t entirely consume him. With every step forward, you can feel Julian’s hesitance clashing with his eagerness, holding him back. 

You calm yourself, watching the subtle rise and fall of his back. He’s sleeping soundly now, but you know the nightmares will begin soon. You’ll be there to comfort him, to hush away his shuddering breaths and wild heartbeats. He doesn’t have to worry about hurting you, or being alone anymore, you’ll whisper to him. You wonder if he can hear you. 

Frustration

Julian refuses to sleep beside you, opting to stay in his little nest, at a fair distance. Every time he looks at his hands, it’s like they’ve committed a thousand atrocities. Like they’re stained with the blood that runs through your veins. His face is twisted with anguish in his sleep. He wraps his hands in cloth at night, afraid that he might suddenly snap and rip you to shreds. You’ve seen no such sign of him doing anything akin to that. He doesn’t believe you.

At night, you cry yourself to sleep. All you want is Julian’s warmth. All you want is for him to see how beautiful he is. To really believe how beautiful he is. How precious and sacred he is to you. Your frustration grows with each passing day. Your sorrow mounts to an unbearable height. You want to scream, but know better than to alarm your quiet neighborhood. Is this how the rest of your life is to carry on? Is this how the rest of Julian’s is to carry on? Cowering in the shadows, afraid to live?

Memories

“Julian?” you speak, keeping your voice hushed, for whatever reason. You’re in the safety of your bedroom, with no need to keep quiet, yet you feel compelled. As if worried you’ll frighten Julian away. You glance over your shoulder at him, your dusky gaze meeting his perplexed one. He’s worrying over one edge of his nest. The blanket he so carefully placed there moved a bit in his sleep last night. He’s trying to remember the exact configuration he had it in before it went askew. 

“I need to wash some of my clothes that are in the nest,” you venture, seating yourself in front of the wash basin, “I’m on my last outfit.” 

He’s pilfered a lot of your clothing (and Asra’s) over these last few weeks, as if he can’t help himself. He always looks a bit ashamed when you discover one of your shirts laying in the pile of comfort he’s built. You really don’t mind, though. You think it’s actually rather sweet, a sentiment you share with him constantly. He merely looks away, embarrassed.

The steam rising off the surface of the soapy water bathes your face with a clean, comforting heat. As Julian bends to gather some of your clothes from the pile, you become acutely aware of some other kind of heat sparking deep within you. You watch the way his wings arch over him, a canopy of feathers like a veil of night above his head. You observe the bend of his back, the way his soft down curves gently over his groin. You’ve not seen how he’s changed down there, yet. He’s been too shy to show you.

As Julian approaches, the talons on his feet clacking against the woodgrain of the floor, you glance demurely away. You don’t want him to see how suddenly aroused you’ve become. He's handsome to you, both in his human form and this new form of his. You’ve been lamenting and wallowing in the last week or so. Since his incident when he accidentally cut you, Julian has been keeping as far away from you as he can. He’s hardly touched you, hardly embraced you. In fact, he seems to lurk in the shadows, fearful and despondent. You miss him desperately. Everything feels so frustrating now.

A sweet scent hits your nose when Julian passes you the first shirt, a scent that’s musky and pleasant. You know Julian can smell it too by the way he’s avoiding your gaze. At first you wonder: is Julian in heat? Is that something he'll go through? The two of you kneow so little about what he might experience in this avian form of his. It has been many months of trial and error. 

You bring the garment to your nose and inhale deeply. It’s only then that you realize the scent is something intimately familiar to you. It’s like you’ve been holding your breath these last few months. Like you’re smelling it for the first time ever: the simple scent of you and Julian, combined. The way the sheets smell after sleeping beside one another, wrapped in each other’s embrace. It was the scent of Julian’s shirt that first night after you’d slept beside one another at Mazelinka’s. It was the whisper of him that lingered on your clothes after your clandestine meeting in the library. The trace of you he carried on him after your last embrace before his arrest. 

Your tears soak the garment in your hands, shuddering breaths muffled by cloth. Julian swiftly kneels to comfort you, forgetting all about the vow he made with himself not to touch you. Your needs, to him, come first, always. You collapse into his waiting arms and weep into the crook of his feathered neck. You can feel his tears trickle gently onto your shoulder. He presses so hard into you, it’s as if he’s trying to occupy the very space you hold in the universe. His embrace is crushing, his strength astounding, but you welcome it. Let him crush you. Let him absorb you. How long has it been since he’d held you like this? 

As quickly as he knelt to hold you is as quickly as he draws away. There’s panic in his eyes when he looks at you and his mouth is agape, ready to apologize for gripping you so tight. So you hush him in the only way you know how. Your lips crash against his, months of yearning conveyed in mere seconds. He tenses in surprise, mouth rigid and unyielding. But soon, he’s melting into you, lips moving against yours again, and again, and again. That memory of intimacy had been enough to break you. And it had been enough to remind Julian that he needs you just as much as you need him. 

Sunlight

You cast open the curtains in your bedroom, sunlight flooding the room, soft and hazy. You want to see Julian, all of him. And you want to bear all that you are to him. He stands in the center of his nest, hunching his hulking form, making himself appear smaller. His wings are wrapped around him, hiding his body from you, shading it so that you might not look upon his “monstrous form.” He dithers in the middle of the blankets for a moment, eyes cast timidly away from you. 

You step out of the simple slip you wear, the light of the sun warming your bare back. Julian looks to you, silhouetted against the brightening day, and his eyes are filled with wonder. Slowly, you approach him, laying a hand gently on his wings, as if asking them permission to part. Hesitantly, Julian draws them behind him, settling them on his back, allowing you to drink the sight of him in. You’ve felt so parched, and his form is utterly thirst quenching. In the pure light of the morning, you can see him for all he is, and he is stupendously beautiful.

“Stand up straight,” you command gently, smoothing your hands over the soft feathers on his stomach. He obliges, straightening his posture, towering over you now. Julian was tall before, but now he’s even taller. You smile warmly up at him, having to crane your neck a bit more than before to meet his eye.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” you ask. Julian beams down at you, and you can feel the embers in his soul ignite.

“I’m ready.” 

[queenlucythevaliant]

Such a Blaze You Seldom See

Written for the Inklings Challenge 2022 ( @inklings-challenge ). Inspired by Robert Service’s “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” 

January 6, 1897 

Dear Lena,

Men say that strange things can happen in the Klondike. I never quite believed them till now. Now, I tremble to recall what happened to Sam and me a month ago when we crossed from Fort Yukon to Dawson in late December, a rough trip to be sure. I halfway suspect that what I saw was the strangest thing ever to happen in that frozen expanse. Whatever the case, it was a miracle.

You know better than anyone that Sam was always keen to leave Idaho. He would have liked to go anywhere else, but from boyhood his favorite notion was that he’d go back east for a fancy college education and become an engineer or an architect. Even more than that, though—more than anything, he wanted to marry you and start a family. He would have done right by you, Lena, if only he could have.

But God was unkind. Sam never went east, never got to college, and he broke your engagement, though it broke his own heart to do it.

Da was a wandering soul, you know, and he went out the door when I was ten after years of struggling to stay put. I started getting nervous fits after Da left, though I mostly grew out of it within a couple years. They hurt like blazes and I had to treat with laudanum, but I never fell dependent on it the way so many people do. I had Sam, who was carefuler and more precise than any doctor. He watched over my laudanum use and cared for me when I was hurting.

I started healing, and that was when you and Sam finally got engaged. But then Ma fell sick with consumption. 

Sam told me what you said when he broke the engagement: “I’ll wait, but not forever.” Those words were like some morsel of food to a starving man. He put your engagement ring on a chain after you returned it and carried it around his wrist as a bracelet: “So I can wear my hopes on my sleeve,” he would say.

Ma died last summer. I’m not sure if you know that. You were long gone by then.

Sam called it a miracle when the letter came. Dear sons, it said, If you are reading this letter, you are still in Pellton where I left you. Now I have the chance to make amends for my absence. By some stroke of luck, I was in Seattle when the news of Klondike gold came down. I have staked a claim worth six dollars a pan and begun construction of a cabin on site. Come to Dawson City and join me. Five hundred dollars advance enclosed for the trip. At the bottom of the page was my Da’s unfamiliar signature. 

Of course, getting to Dawson would be difficult, but Sam and me conferred and decided to go for it. Soon as possible, we said, else Da or the gold or both might have run out by the time we got there.

*

Six days before Christmas, we were making our way over the God-forsaken trail from Fort Yukon to Dawson. It was freezing—"Proper cold,” Sam said, which I later found out meant thirty below. Our eyelashes froze and stuck together. The hair in our noses froze and it stung when we inhaled. Even through our parkas, the wind stabbed past our skin down to the brittle bone.

“Hell on earth,” I complained. It wasn’t an exaggeration either. “Didn’t some fellow once write that Hell was someplace frozen?”

“That was Dante, I think,” Sam hollered back, “’S not in the Bible.” I couldn’t see his face through the hood and the cap he had on over it, but I could picture the way his lip quirked up at the edge when he said it.

“Want to stay in back another turn? I can keep going,” he offered. It was near my turn to walk out in front of the sled and break the path for the dogs while Sam took his turn walking behind.

With sled dogs, someone has to go out front of the team on snowshoes and clear the way, else the dogs would waste all their energy fighting through snow that might come up past their noses. It’s hard work, being out front, but it would be harder still heading to Dawson without a good dog team.

Sam’s brows would be furrowed together in worry when he made me that offer. I could just see it, and it bothered me. Even all these years on, Sam was always fussing after my health.

“Naw, I’ll manage,” I said. I didn’t want Sam wearing himself out on my account.

Of course, a few miles later, he insisted and back behind the sled I went. I never could talk Sam out of anything once his mind was made up.

*

That night, we were packed beneath the snow in the shadow of the sled, which served as a windbreak. It was near fifty below, but the stars were dancing overhead in a show the likes of which you just don’t see in Pellton and I felt, if not comfortable, then at least contented. Sam turned over then, from being on his back looking up at the sky to sideways and looking at me.

“Cade,” said he, “we’ll pass near the Belle Isle Altar on Christmas day. I’d like to make an offering.”

“Mmmm. Whatever you say, Sam.” I was damn exhausted, as you can imagine.

I’m sure you’ve heard about the Altar as a legend or a fairytale, but the folks up north will swear that it’s real. I’d heard talk of the Altar a thousand times over the last few months. Once we got up past St. Michael, everyone had something to say on the subject. A tall, burly man from Oklahoma called it a miracle and a mystery. The captain of the boat that had carried us to Fort Yukon said it was the closest thing to magic that any man had ever seen. Yet plenty of people also said it wasn’t worth adding the extra hours to the long, grueling trek to Dawson.

“I’d like to offer up Lena’s ring,” said Sam.

That got me awake. “What?”

“Her engagement ring, Cade.”

No no no, I thought, You can’t!

What I said was, “It’s your token, Sam. But don’t you want to keep it so you can go back and give it to her again once you’re rich?”

Sam was quiet for a long time. “Lena’s gone, Cade. She waited, and then she left, and I expect she’s found someone else by now. And that’s alright.” Were it not for our wraps, he would have reached out and ruffled my hair.

“Now wait a minute, Sam—”

“And I’m never gonna pass by as holy a place as Belle Isle Altar again in my life, most like. I want to offer God the most precious thing I have as a sacrifice, and what better time than on the holiest night of the year?”

“You shouldn’t be so rash—”

“I ain’t being rash! Been thinking about this since we decided to come this way. If the good Lord does see fit to give me the second chance I always prayed for, then I’ll tell Lena what I did with her ring and I’ll buy her a big diamond instead of a little silver band. But if, as is my suspicion, I never have that chance—well then, that’s alright too. I’m praying for other things now, Cade.”

I bit my lip hard to keep the tears in. “You ever regret all the things you gave up to care for Ma and me?”

Sam didn’t hesitate. “Never. Not once.”

He turned a little in his snow-bed and I could just see the glint off his eyes in the starlit darkness. He was looking at me with more love than I knew how to take in.

“I’ll always wish I could have married Lena and gone east and all—but I never could have left you and Ma while either of you was ailing. Wouldn’t have been fair to Lena either, if I could only give her half my worry.”

And that was that, I guess. We dozed off, slept hard, and woke in the morning with miles and miles of frozen expanse ahead of us.

*

About midday, we were picking our way across the flats when a squall hit us flat outa nowhere. One moment, the horizon was clear, then an instant later an enormous cloud of silver was racing towards us and Sam was yelling “Hurry! The dogs! The sled!”

Well, we got the dogs dug in as fast as we could and dove beneath the sled before the worst was upon us. We bundled up tight in the snow and prepared to wait it out, both trying to work out in our heads how far it might set us back. The light had dwindled to little more than five hours each day and it was costly to lose any of it.

Then, slowly and then all at once, my vision lit up hot. I felt a pain in the base of my head, right in the place where my skull met my spine.

“Sam,” I said. “Sam.”

There must have been something about my voice, because Sam knew at once. “You’re having a fit,” he stated in a pitch-black tone.

Strange, that. I hadn’t had a fit in nearly four years. I’d been healthy, but somehow Sam just knew.

I nodded. When I remembered he couldn’t see me, I cleared my throat and murmured, “I am.”

I could sense Sam’s indecision. His muscles were taught and there was a grim look on what little I could see of his face. The moments lengthened and ticked by until finally, Sam let out a sigh. “Your laudanum’s in the sled, way down towards the bottom. Can you bear it?”

“Yessir,” I said, trying my best to be brave.

I don’t know how much time passed. Pain is timeless, even worse when you’re in the middle of a white-out storm. I only know that eventually, the pain got too much to take. I started screaming.

Sam was up in a flash. He climbed into the sled and got me the laudanum. Then he was beside me again pouring a measure in my mouth, and a short time later the pain began to leave me. (Or was it hours? Never can tell.)

I slept. Sam didn’t. The storm ended eventually, but we stayed put till morning.

*

When we rose the next day, I could tell Sam wasn’t right. Those few minutes in the storm the day before had stolen away his body’s heat and he was still chilled, even after the long rest in his hood beneath the snow. “Don’t you worry,” Sam told me, but his voice was dry and cracked like last year’s autumn leaves. He was moving real slow.

He was staggering and stumbling about before noon, muscles stiff and uncooperative. I decided to halt, but Sam wasn’t having it. “Am I in charge, or is my baby brother? We’ve got thirty miles to make today. We go on.”

“You may be older, but you’re not in charge of me. Right now, I know what’s best and I say halt.”

We halted.

I built a fire, but that blue tinge that he had all over wasn’t going away. I pulled out the extra blankets, but Sam pushed them aside. “Too darn hot,” he said, teeth chattering.

After a while, he fell into delirium. Last thing I remember my brother saying while he still knew me is, “Steady, Cade. Death ain’t such a big thing.” After that, he just clung to the sled and raved. Ma and Da, his plans for college back east, bits and pieces from Scripture, and you. “Lena, Lena,” again and again. It was all jumbled and after a while it just ran together in a long stream of nonsense.

“’S it snowing?” Sam asked.

“Not right now,” I answered.

He never moved again.

It took me a bit to realize that my brother was dead. When I touched his skin, it was blue tinged and cold as ice.

It was only then that I realized I didn’t have any way of burying my brother. The ground was frozen solid, even by the river where the snow pack wasn’t as bad. There was no way I could possibly dig a hole to fit him. I knew what he’d tell me if he could: “Leave the body and go on; it’ll only weigh you down.”

But Sam was gone, and I wasn’t going to leave my brother’s body to freeze in the snow and be food for some animal. He was a good Christian, read his Bible at night and went to church most every week. He deserved a Christian burial.

The sled had a little room free, but not near enough to fit Sam’s whole body. I thought about just trying to tie him down on top of everything, but I knew that adding him to the heap would upset the stability of the sled and tire out the dogs. Even a good team can only haul so much. For a desperate moment, I thought maybe I could somehow carry him on my back—but when I tried to lift him, I found my brother’s body a great, unwieldy block of ice. It took nearly my whole strength to pick him up at the torso and carry him all of six yards. I set him back down with a grunt and for a long moment I considered dosing myself with a little more laudanum. I wanted to be numb.

(I didn’t want to think on the laudanum too hard, else I’d think about Sam going out in that storm to get it. If I let myself think on it, the guilt would destroy me and I couldn’t let it. I’d as good as killed my brother. I owed it to him to survive.)

But wait. One of the crates on the sled was Sam’s clothes. There was no need now to bring them to Dawson anymore. I would never wear them; Sam’s a good head taller than me, and I’m not likely to do much more growing.

I didn’t want to part with Sam’s clothes. Even if I couldn’t wear them, they’d still carry his scent. But I reasoned that it was more important to give my brother a proper burial than to hold onto sentimental objects. I tossed the clothes out into the snow and chopped up the crate for firewood.

The same logic applied to most of Sam’s half of the food and the few precious books he’d decided to bring. By the time I was though, I had space on the sled big enough to stow his body.

Then, just as I was shoving him onto the sled, I caught sight of your ring on its silver chain and I remembered about Sam’s offering.

I was three days out from Belle Isle Altar. I could still sacrifice the ring for him. Even though he was dead, I had to believe that God would still honor his offering.

So, as I finished chopping the crates and packing up and I prepared to move out, my heart swelled with a new strength of determination. It was up to me now to offer Sam’s most precious treasure to the Lord on Christmas day, just like the Wise Men did. I swore I would not fail.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death as I started away that morning. The winds let up and I made good time. Maybe even enough that I wouldn’t be hard pressed to reach my destination by Christmas. I was hopeful, at least. I had promises to keep.

I tried not to think of what the Eskimo at Fort Yukon had said: “It is good that you have each other. Only a fool ventures into this country on his own with the winter at his heels.”

I halted for the night at the edge of one of the Yukon River’s little braided tributaries. It took me two tries to get the fire started all on my own, but I managed it in the end.

When I crept beneath the snow to sleep, I could almost feel Sam sitting there above me on the sled. I must have laid there for ten or fifteen minutes, keener and keener discomfort growing in my gut, until finally I said aloud, “It’s a mighty grief not to have you down below with me, Sam.”

In my mind, I saw his eyes crease and heard him reply, “You can come join me if you like, but it'll be a tight squeeze. You’ll have to toss your own things out in order to fit!”

I chuckled softly in the silence, momentarily comforted. I talked to Sam until my eyelids drooped shut.

*

In the days that followed, I kept up a steady stream of talk for Sam. I crossed several more tributaries telling him what the new cabin in Dawson would be like: “Wood floors, windows facing west, and a little reading corner, just like you said. Da’ll give us anything we ask for, just wait.” As I went across the Flats, I talked about you and him as though you could still get married for real: “Oh, but she’s a beauty, your Lena Lindquist. Long dark hair down to her knees and a pretty little smile that turns big when she laughs. She’ll make a beautiful bride, and your children will be prettier still. Can you imagine, you and her with a strapping boy and a half-pint little girl?” I hauled myself over a series of toothy ridges one at a time, grouching and cussing and hearing Sam chide me for my foul language. “If you’re gonna cuss, leave the Lord out of it!”

I felt half-mad. I found that I didn’t much care if I was. 

Sometime in the middle of the next-to-last day before Belle Isle, I started to sing Christmas carols. “Here’s ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ for you again, Sam!” I would cry before launching into another of his favorites. In lonely, fleeting moments when the winds blew hard, I saw Sam’s body grinning at me from the sled. “Always did love that one, Cade,” he seemed to say.

As I sat and supped that night, a kind of fierce, lonesome sorrow came over me, different from the constant ache in my chest that was Sam’s death. It was Christmas Eve and I had naught but my brother’s corpse for company. It was silly, but I guess I never really believed that anyone spent Christmas alone.

“Wish you were here,” I said. The wind whistled, but from the sled, Sam spoke not a word.

“I wish you were really here,” I said again. “Wish you hadn’t gotten me that laudanum. Wish you’d let me suffer. Wish you’d let me die, if it came to that. Wish you’d just listened to me scream and not moved a single inch.”

Sam wasn’t really on the sled. Only his body was.

“Wish you were selfish,” I said. “Wish you’d gone off to Yale or somesuch after Da left and married Lena while I was still sick and never looked back. Wish you could have had the life you wanted instead of freezing and dying in the middle of the Klondike. Wish you’d had a different brother. Wish you hadn’t had any brother!”

I was nearly yelling by this point and the dogs were getting agitated. I made myself settle and softly I muttered, “Wish I had died instead.

“You never would have let me, would you? You spent up all your life making sacrifices for your kin, so naturally you had to go and die on my account. You wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

The snow fell, and my tears fell. They froze crystal on my face. My brother didn’t answer.

*

I came to Belle Isle Altar after lunch on Christmas Day. It was right on the edge of the lake facing the water, closed in by a squat little stone building with a chimney on top. Out from the chimney, maybe half a mile into the air, came a continuous billow of smoke.

“Alright Sam,” I muttered. “Alright.” I climbed to the back of the sled where I’d left your ring with its chain still wrapped around his wrist. I felt for it. It was gone.

Immediately, my thoughts began racing. I remembered making the decision to put the ring back and go through with Sam’s offering. So, I figured, it had to be here somewhere.

I wrapped my arms around Sam’s torso and dragged him off the sled, then climbed back into the place where he had been. I scoured the whole area, raked my hands along every surface, but I couldn’t find it. Panic began to rise in my throat.

One at a time, I pulled every crate and box and item off the sled and piled them there in the snow. The sky scowled down at me as I carefully opened each and found that the ring wasn’t inside. My throat was closing up, somewhere between rage and despair. I didn’t know whether I wanted to scream to heaven or curl up in a ball and weep.

Finally, as I was pulling all the bits of firewood off the sled, I caught sight of something shiny and let out a whoop. I reached down for the engagement ring, but an instant later I realized my mistake. In my hand was only a broken-off piece of tarnished silver chain.

It must have gotten caught on one of the crates when I dragged them off the sled to chop them up, I realized. The ring itself was likely still lying there in the place where Sam had died, long since covered by drifts of snow.

Now I really did weep. I sat down on the edge of the sled and howled my woes out to the dreadful wind and snow. No offering. It was Christmas Day and I was at Belle Isle Altar without anything to burn.

No, wait. That wasn’t true. All my worldly possessions were there with me. We hadn’t brought much from Idaho, and less still had made it onto the sled when we left Fort Yukon, but I still had plenty of options. Surely, somewhere in that great pile I had a fitting treasure for Sam to offer. I turned and stared at the stack of crates and boxes. There was the monogrammed handkerchief that Da had once given Ma as a Christmas gift. There was the old family Bible, and all of my clothing, including my one good Sunday shirt.

There, leaning up against it all, was Sam’s body.

Bodies ought to be buried, but I remembered hearing once how some people prefer to cremate their dead and scatter the ashes.

“Here!” I cried aloud, and I wasn’t sure if I was talking to myself or my brother or to God. “Here is your offering!”

All in a rush, I stashed everything back on the sled except Sam’s stiff, frozen body. Then, with all my strength, I grabbed him tight beneath the arms and dragged him towards the squat little building where the Altar was waiting.

I blinked when I stepped inside. There were no windows, but it was brighter than the snow outside had been.

In the center of the squat, stone room stood a pillar of flame which started at the ground and went all the way up to the ceiling where its smoke escaped through the chimney. It was untended, and no fuel sat beneath it. From the untouched snow outside, I didn’t even think anyone had set foot in the place in at least a week. The Fire never grew or shrank. It danced and flickered, but never wavered. The light it threw off was bright, brilliant gold.

Yet it was a true fire; the smoke smelled like smoke, and the flame was blistering hot as I approached it. I came away with my parka singed.

It was all true. The Standing Fire at Belle Isle Altar was real, and as near to magic as I had ever seen. A miracle.

Would you take my meaning if I said that place covered up all my grief with a feeling altogether heavier and harder to bear? And yet the Fire was beautiful. Even now, I don’t really understand it.

Beside the Standing Fire was a stone slab big enough that I could have laid down and slept on it. It was far enough from the Fire that I could stand at it without turning red, but near enough that I was always aware of just how awfully hot it was. This was the Altar itself, erected, I assumed, by the Eskimos, or else by whatever fur trader first found this place a hundred years ago.

I left my offering a few feet from the Altar and returned to the sled for some wood.

*

I started singing again as I prepared the Altar. I started with a funeral dirge because it seemed only proper, but before long I found myself on Christmas carols again. The jolly tunes should have been at odds with the somber work I was doing, but I didn’t think Sam would have minded. Matter of fact, he’d have enjoyed it.

I arranged the kindling like I was making a bonfire, mostly because I couldn’t think of another way of doing it. Once all was set, I chose a long branch and carefully reached it to the very edge of the Standing Fire. A few seconds and it caught. I lit the kindling, and before long the flames of my Altar-fire were soaring high.

I figured there were probably words you were meant to say when you make an offering to God, but I didn’t know any of them. Then again, I didn’t think anyone had ever offered a corpse before. I was already doing the thing all wrong, so I might as well do it as best I could figure out.

“Lord, here in your presence, at the Standing Fire on Christmas Day we do bring this offering—that’s Sam and me both, Lord. He meant to give you his engagement ring, the one he’d intended for Lena Lindquist, but it got lost. I’m sorry about that; it wasn’t his fault.

“But Sam here was the best brother you ever gave anyone. I treasured him, and his body is the most precious thing I’ve got with me. If an offering is supposed to be something precious—well, I hope this is alright with You.

“But Lord, maybe it’s right that his body gets to be an offering. All his life was a sacrifice, you know. Every bit of it.”

With that, I burrowed a hole in the glowing center of the fire, and I hefted my brother’s body in. Then I turned round and fled out into the cold. I didn’t want to see him burn.

The wind was blowing hard, howling cross the frozen expanse. It was proper cold, but I could still feel the heat from the Standing Fire licking all over me. Sweat rolled down my forehead and the small of my back. I went back to the sled to get something to drink.

I made camp, melted some snow for water, and ate a little food. The stars came out overhead and I don’t know why, but they seemed prettier than ever that night. I tilted my head back in awe.

I don’t know how long I waited before returning to the Altar, but I think it was a good long while. I padded back cautiously, almost frightened—though I don’t really know what I was afraid of. I opened the door.

Sam was sitting cross legged on the Altar in the midst of the flames, cool as you please. When he saw me, he looked up laughing and called, “Close the door, won’t you? Don’t let the heat out.”

It was all I could do to stop myself lunging into the fire to grab hold of him.

“Sam?” I choked out, “Is that really you?”

“I told you, Cade: Death ain’t such a big thing.” My brother reached out his hand from inside the flame. I touched it.

Living flesh.

We laced our fingers together for a moment, and his hand was just like it always was. I could feel the calluses on his palm, the little raised scar on the back of his thumb he got making a fishhook when he was nine, the strength of his grip.

And then he was gone. The fire on the Altar burned with his ashes, and beyond it the miraculous radiance of the Standing Fire blazed on.

I don’t know what you’ll make of all this, Lena, but every word is true. Like I said: strange things happen in the Klondike. I know. I’ve seen them. I burned my brother Sam’s body on the Altar of the Standing Fire at Belle Isle, but I swear he was alive again in those flames.

[wolfontheloose]

|| Grey & Ryden ||

Having always been a child of the concrete jungle, a kid raised on asphalted streets breathing in the city air, Ryden had surprised even himself just how much he was enjoying his newfound love for spending time in the nature. Given, it took a lot of research to properly prepare for venturing into the true, deep wilderness of the Hollowed Forest, considering he had no prior experience in trekking through woods unless he was on all fours, getting lost by his wolf whose memories and plans he did not share or have any insight into. He’d spent almost a year of trial and error, waking up with no clothes on in the middle of god forsaken nowhere with little to no recollection on how he even got there. But once someone had kindly pointed out to him what he’d already suspected deep down - that he was a werewolf now - it became quite clear why he sought to get lost in the woods at least once a month if not more often.

So, Ryden had become a true hiker, an unofficial forest ranger, a volunteering explorer for his own enjoyment and mysterious purposes. Not something he would recommend to everyone, especially because the woods around Opulence were far from empty. Mythical beings and monstrous creatures lurked everywhere, considering the land beneath the ancient trees their home. The only truly safe place Ryden could guarantee for was the trailer park the pack used during full moons. Every other corner was potentially full of danger for the really unlucky ones. That did not stop this daredevil though, even after a few unfortunate encounters he experienced during his life as a lycanthrope in Opulence. 

Walking through the woods, with a backpack packed full of trekking gear, Ryden didn’t mind their promise of potential danger. Instead, he found peace and serenity in this new hobby of his, the sort he rarely got anywhere else. Ryden was almost never in touch or in tune with anything - as a matter of fact, he was very much that one single tone that chirped into the synchronized choir only to create discord. In the arms of mother nature though, he calmed down, became almost docile, bringing the thoughts within his hectic mind to a steady flat line with only one thread to follow out of many.

On his way to do a quick checkup on the pack grounds in the forest, Ryden took his time following the familiar, safe trails that would take him there, in no rush and with a whole day to spend on this. Here, the stink of the town subsided, giving way to more natural smells, letting his senses expand and sharpen. His hearing cleared, no traffic or the annoying buzz of electronic devices to interfere with it. His keen eyesight adjusted to the earthy green shades around him, every change of color among them instantly noticed and singled out with pinprick precision. 

Therefore, the transition from being perfectly alone with no other soul around to being aware of someone’s impending approach was quick, barely needing a second to register. Ryden came to a slow stop in his tracks, chin raising so perceptive grey orbs could scan his immediate surroundings, ears listening and nose smelling, trying to determine what he should expect - a friend or a foe, someone lost and in need of help or someone approaching with intention that may not be entirely benevolent. 

@greylapinski​

[aspiringauthorintraining]

Sands of Eon (2/2)

(A/N): hoped you liked the first part. Enjoy! Read with sad music cause I wrote it with sad music. I hope you cry lol.

Part 1 here!

Fighting in a battle changes a person. But surviving an Archon war destroys them.

At least now, you had a better understanding of what Xiao went through before. And seeing how it affected you, it made you all the more thankful that you could suffer in place of Xiao.

Once you arrived in the past, you had successfully prevented the contract between Kubira and Xiao from coming to fruition. It was simple really. Kubira wanted a servant to do his bidding, and figured Xiao would be perfect for the role. But if the god were to find someone before Xiao, someone who was willing to become his bloodhound instead, there would be no reason for him to actively search out the adeptus. In short, you took over Xiao’s role in the war. It was the only plan that would change the outcome of the war and the future the least, without having others get involved.

All it took was offering yourself. You had surprised the god, who was amused that a mere human would want to serve in his army. But he decided to humor you, and in exchange for your obedience to his orders, he granted you immortality and increased power. By the end of the forsaken war, your power had become strong enough to rival an adeptus’. At the price of insurmountable bloodshed.

You hadn’t seen Xiao during the war, something that you were thankful for later on.

Not a day would pass that you wouldn’t think of him; hesitating, wondering if you would be able to face him after all that you had done. If he would look at you in disgust, knowing of all the deeds you had done for your master. If it would be worth facing his hatred, just to get a glimpse of his face once more.

Once the long war reached its end, Rex Lapis freed you from the chains of your blood-filled servitude. You had considered asking the archon to bring an end to your curse of immortality, but decided against it.

You could have had a merciful death, spending the last of your days as a human. But you didn’t deserve such an easy death, not after all the inhumane sins you committed. What you truly deserved, was to live every day of the rest of your immortal life; remembering every life you had taken, every drop of blood shed with your polearm, never being able to escape the horrors you submitted yourself to. You would continue to roam Teyvat, neither human nor adeptus, barely surviving, barely hanging on the thread of sanity left in you. Never forgetting that you had chosen your fate.

And the selfish part of you urged you to keep your immortality as well. You held onto the selfish desire to see Xiao one day, smiling and celebrating, surrounded by the people of Liyue. Blissfully unaware of what you endured and suffered, in his stead.

And as a millennia passed, you never once regretted changing your fate with Xiao’s. You had made your choice, and you now lived with it.

Your life followed in the steps of Xiao’s original fate, spending your days and years protecting Liyue; an atonement for your sins, as well as gratitude to the Geo Archon who saved you. On quiet days, you ate Almond Tofu at the Wangshu Inn, finally understanding why the adeptus had craved the dish so much before. It was the texture, rather than the taste that made it so alluring.

Avoiding the yaksha in the millennia had been easier than you thought. The only way you would hear about Xiao was through the Geo archon, who came to visit every now and then, checking up on you from time to time. He would update you on the man’s whereabouts and health during each visit, keeping the adeptus nameless, per your request.

“I don’t remember my real name.”

“Xiao isn’t your real name?”

“No, it was given to me by Morax after the Archon War…”

Xiao wasn’t his name anymore, and you figured not knowing his name would prevent you from ever seeking him. The less you knew, the better.

“It’s the last night of the Lantern Rite festival, (Y/N).”

Verr Goldet informs you as you greet her on your way up the stairs.

“Is it that time already?” you asked with a small smile. You reached down to pet the cat who rubbed her back against your leg with a purr.

“The traveler stopped by to let you know his invitation to join him and his flying companion at the festival still stands.”

You looked out at the terrace, watching the violet, sunset sky turn darker with each minute.

“You know me. I’m fine watching from the roof.” you responded, shaking your head.

The Wangshu owner gave a sigh at your response.

“At least go to the mountains for a better view. I’ll pack you an Almond Tofu so you can eat dinner up there while watching the ending festivities.”

Seeing her pleading face, you couldn’t reject her suggestion.

You finally reached the top of the mountain, giving you a good view of the city of Liyue, as well as the lanterns floating in the sky. Looking down into the city square, you could see the people of Liyue celebrating the last moments of the festival: children running around with last-minute made lanterns, lovers gathered near the bridge hand-in-hand, and Ruijin explaining the rules of her new game to the curious crowd. But it was the crowd gathered in the center, dancing in a big circle that grabbed your attention.

You spotted a figure dressed in teal, playing a flute instead of his usual lyre, providing music for the crowd to dance to. You smiled seeing the anemo archon having the time of his life. And it seemed that one more figure was having the time of his life, in the center of the dancing circle, wearing a mask and dancing along to the bard’s wind music.

Your breath hitched at the sight of the figure. Even with the mask on, you could recognize him anywhere. It was your first time seeing him in over a millennia, and you could still remember his face, down to every last detail.

Before you knew it, tears streamed down your face, the sight of finally seeing him overwhelming you with emotions.  

“Looks like your wish was granted too.” you laughed happily through your tears, remembering what he had wrote on the lantern you once gave him long ago.

“For a day to come to wear the mask, not to conquer demons, but to dance to the tune of that flute amidst a sea of flowers.”

                                                                                           - Xiao

As he continued dancing, you were entranced, never being able to see this side of him before your time venture.

It was only when the ending rite began that he had stopped his movement, taking his mask off to properly watch the show. Your heart stopped at the sight of his face, a small smile gracing his features. And it wasn’t until the ending fireworks rang in your ears, that your heart was reminded to beat again, realizing you had spent the whole ending festival watching him.

You took a moment to look out at the vast sea of lanterns, wondering if Xiao had made one of his own, and what wish he had written on the lantern. Taking one last look at the brightly-lit night sky, you turned your attention back to the city, watching as a group of people surrounded Xiao with smiles on their faces. And at the sight of his responding smile, all the pain you had endured up til now was forgotten.

“Xiao.” you called out quietly.

It was the wrong name, but it was the only one you knew him by.

The yaksha darted his eyes around the crowd, seemingly as if he had heard you call out to him. Although, it was far too loud with festivities in the square, and the distance between the two fo you, that it wasn’t likely.

“Happy Lantern Rite.” you whispered, a tear falling down your cheek.

It was worth it. Seeing the smile on his face, surrounded by the people of Liyue who respected him. It was worth your loneliness and pain, to save him from his. Being the only one to remember everything would be a suffering you would gladly take for his happiness.

So, you forced yourself to tear your eyes away from the his figure, away from the lantern-lit city. And silently, you headed down the mountain, back to Wangshu Inn, alone.

(A/N): AhhHHH!, you’ve made it to the end! Thank you for reading! I felt so sad playing the story quest for Xiao during the Lantern Rite festival. I planned on having a happy ending but just ended up going on an angst spiral. Let me know what you thought! I’m thinking of doing another part with a possibly happier ending, but we’ll see if I’m up for it lol. Again thank you for reading! Safe readings!

Like, comment, subscribe, ring the bell for notifications for more videos. jk lol, this isn’t youtube. Just play some Genshin.

[carrotmakar]

Not Going Anywhere Without You

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Word Count: 2.6k 

Summary: When Y/N finds out that she’s expecting, she’s scared out of her mind. She doesn’t know how she’s going to get through it all. She doesn’t know if Harry even wants to be a father. Fortunately, Harry’s more than ready to take a step back from the stage for a while to start the family that he’s longed for his entire life.

Warning(s): unplanned pregnancy, nerves, pet names, a brief argument (idek if you could call it an argument tbh), fluffiness, dad!harry

A/N: this is one of the pieces that have been on my mind since i saw the dadathon that @tbslenthusiast​ is hosting!! Everyone should go read the masterlist of submissions and join if you want to!! Also a warm thank you to @taintedwonder​ and @sunflowers-styles​ for beta reading/getting me through writing the whole thing!!! and @havethetimeofyourstyles​ for listening to me tell her about how i cried writing/editing this (ily jill) !!!!! 

Masterlist | Taglist | Request - Guidelines | Come Talk!

Reblogs help a lot and are greatly appreciated!!

*

There’s absolutely no way that this can be happening. 

She stares down at the two pink lines on the pregnancy test and has to hold back the sobs that are threatening to overtake her. How could this be happening? No. This simply just cannot be happening to her. 

Except it is. She’s pregnant. She’s carrying the child that she and Harry have created together.  The truly awful part though? She doesn’t even know how to feel about it. 

Of course, she’s excited. She’s happy. All she has ever wanted is a family with the man that she loves, but she's also nervous. She has no idea how he’s going to react to this. She doesn’t know how any of this is going to work. He’s in the middle of a world tour and she doesn’t even know if he’ll be done by the time she’s due. 

Hell, she doesn’t even know when she’s due. She doesn’t know how far along she is and the amount of unknown facts threaten to send her spiraling. 

What if he’s mad? What if he doesn’t want the baby? What if she has to do this alone? She doesn’t think she can be a single mother.

There are so many unknowns and there’s no way that she can do this on her own. For the time being, however, she knows she has to figure this out herself.  She’s in  their house in London while he’s in the States performing to thousands of screaming fans every night. There’s no way that she can drop this news on him in the middle of that chaos.

No, she reminds herself instead that he’ll be home in less than a month and she can tell him then. It’s better to do these things in person anyway.

Fortunately, that also means that she has a few weeks to calm the nerves that are coursing through her entire body. She also has that time to figure out how she’s going to break the news to him. She can’t just come out and say “Oh by the way, hey, I’m pregnant.” Can she?

*

“I’m pregnant.” The moment the words tumble out of her mouth she hears the excited squeal coming from her mother. 

She needed to tell someone about the news, and since Harry wasn’t an option yet, her mother had  automatically been her first choice.

“Baby, I’m so happy for you!” She shrieks through the phone and Y/N can see how excited she is even though the FaceTime quality isn’t great. The image of her mother all but jumping up and down from excitement brings a beaming smile to her face. “Does H know yet?” 

That question causes Y/N’s smile to falter and her mom immediately catches it. “Why doesn’t he know?”

“Well he’s not here and I didn’t want to tell him on the phone, and I don’t know, really. I just found out the other day and I guess I’m just a little scared.” She’s trying her best to not tear up, and the newfound hormones are not helping the cause, but the lump in her throat is letting her know that she’s not succeeding.

“Why are you scared?” Her mother questions softly, trying to get Y/N to open up about what’s bothering her without pushing too much.

“I’m not sure… just scared he isn’t going to be happy with me.” She’s surprised when her mother audibly scoffs at her words. 

“Y/N, sweetheart. If you really think that he’s not going to drop to his knees the moment that you tell him you’re carrying his child, you’re delusional.” She lets out a light chuckle before continuing. “He’s so head over heels in love with you that there’s absolutely no way that he could ever be upset over something like that.”

“Yeah but what if he’s not ready? He said he had wanted to wait a bit.” The tears that she’s trying so desperately to suppress are beginning to pool in her eyes and she wants to kick herself for letting this get to her again. 

“Honey, H is the only person I know that is completely, without a doubt, ready to have children.” The first tear rolls down Y/N’s cheek as she observes the way that her mother’s face softens at the mention of Harry being ready to start his family. “Y/N, the moment that you break the news to him, his entire life is going to get a million times better.”

She nods and knows in her heart that she has nothing to worry about. She continues to converse with her mom for a little while longer, moving on from the topic of the pregnancy and Harry. Her mother’s words had calmed her nerves considerably. 

After the phone call ends she decides to text Harry; it feels like they haven’t been talking as much recently, and she feels bad, knowing that her nerves have partially been the reason for that. 

Hey babe, how’s everything going? Where are you this evening? 

His reply comes in an instant, almost as if he had been waiting for her text.

St. Paul :) it’s been pretty great here! The show was great last night! Haven’t really done much lately though, it’s just been hotel room after hotel room and show after show. 

The thought of him sitting in his hotel rooms alone, more than likely nursing a drink to calm his post concert adrenaline, makes a frown appear on her face. She knows how he gets when he’s away on tour and has to watch everyone around him pair off and go out to enjoy the city that they’re stopped in. He hasn’t been up for going out as much recently and, despite her efforts, she doesn’t know why. He’s usually always up for going out to let the adrenaline run its course, but every time they’ve talked lately, he’s just been shut away up in his room. 

Why don’t you go out and enjoy the city with the band, sweetheart?

Feels wrong to go out without you, angel. Miss you being here with me.

Her heart clenches in her chest and she can’t help but feel guilty. He had asked (more like begged) her to come on the North American leg of the tour with him. She had refused, thinking that she needed to stay at home so she wouldn’t have to take so many days off of work. Looking back on it, she probably could have taken the time off  and not had to explain. It was just one of the things that seemed to happen when her boss had found out she was dating Harry Styles.

I’m sorry for not coming with you :( I miss you, though. So, so much.

The awful feeling in her gut doesn’t subside - in fact, it only grows stronger. She suddenly realizes that if she had said yes, she would be with him right now. Not only would she be getting him out of those god forsaken hotel rooms but she also wouldn’t be withholding the life changing information that she has.

It’s alright, love. I’ll see you in a few weeks and then we can be together for a while. No worrying about tour. 

The prospect of him being at home for a while, possibly even more than a year, causes excitement to course through her veins. Maybe if he’s home for long enough to where he can start raising their child with her, then he’ll be happier when she tells him the news.

I can’t wait until you’re back in my arms, bubs. I miss cuddling with you.

She can’t see him right now but she knows that - most likely - he’s got that soft smile on his face that he always says is reserved for her. He always does so when he lets himself take a moment and think about cuddling with her. 

You’ll get all the cuddles the moment that I’m home. Promise.

Their conversation doesn’t last much longer. With the time zones being so different and the two of them being in different countries, with their sadness eating away at them.

*

She’s in his arms the moment that he swings the front door open. The force of the surprise impact knocks him back for a moment, but he eventually regains his balance and wraps his arms around her. 

She sighs in content at the feeling of  warmth radiating from his body to hers. He’s always been warmer than her, but right now, after he’s been gone for months, he feels warmer than all the blankets she’s tried to keep herself cozy with. 

“Hey, baby.” He mumbles into her hair, not making any move to pull away or even shut the door.

“I missed you so much.” He can hear the crack in her voice and he immediately squeezes her tighter. 

“Missed you too, darling.” 

She’s the one to pull away first. She unwraps herself from his arms and moves to shut the door behind him. She avoids meeting his eyes knowing that he’s already sensed that something is going on. She never pulls away first, and she’s afraid that he’s going to notice and ask her about it. Hopefully, he’ll just brush it off as the fact that the door needed to be closed or that dinner still needed to be cooked.

Of course, he doesn’t just brush it off. “Is something bothering you?”

She turns away from him and begins to make her way towards the kitchen. “I’m fine, H.”

“Love, please don’t lie to me.” Her breath hitches and her steps falter. That’s the last thing she wants to do  but she knows if she looks at him and tells him what’s really going on inside her head, she’s going to completely crumble. 

“I’m not lying to you, honey. I’m fine.” He scoffs at her words. He knows they’re not true, but he chooses not to push her too far. If he continues to pester her about it, she’ll close herself off to him and then there will be absolutely no way that he’ll be able to figure out what’s bugging her. 

“Do you want me to cook dinner, petal?” He comes up behind where she had stopped and wraps his arms around her from behind. She immediately leans into him and he knows that all she needs right now is his love. 

“I can do it, honey. You’ve been busy lately.” She hesitantly turns in his arms and peers up at him biting her lip. 

Now seems like as good of a time as ever to tell him.

“H, can we maybe wait a minute on the food?” She tries her best to not let her voice waiver but she knows there’s a slight wobble that won’t go unnoticed by Harry. 

“Yeah, of course.” He keeps his arms wrapped around her and waits for her to make the first move.

She stands still for a few moments, barely moving an inch. She inhales but it’s shaky and she feels the tears bubbling up to the surface before she can stop them.  She tucks her head into his chest as the sobs that she’s been holding in for weeks escape. 

“Shh. It’s okay, petal. I’ve got you. Just let it out.” He smooths the small wisps of hair on her head and slowly rocks their bodies back and forth. The gestures calm her and soon enough the tears start to subside. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” She sighs at his question and he’s scared that he’s crossed a line, that he’s asked too much of her too soon. He knows that he hasn’t, however, when she slowly nods her head and takes a step back. 

He releases his hold on her and she wipes the remaining wetness of her cheeks. She glances around the kitchen and Harry gently lifts her up onto the counter so that she won’t have to stay standing. 

“Um, so I have to tell you something.” She starts, and she busies herself with picking at her nails to avoid his gaze. “And I don’t want you to be mad, okay?” 

She still doesn’t look up at him, but she pauses, giving him the time to answer. After he hums his agreement, she takes a shaky breath and continues. “I didn’t plan for this to happen, I promise. I just… I don’t know… somehow it happened and I just… this is terrifying. And I’m probably making absolutely no sense right now, I’m so sorry.” She can feel the lump in her throat returning yet again and she buries her face in her hands to take  a minute to breathe.

Harry hasn’t moved from the spot that he was in. He feels like his feet are stuck to the floor. He can’t come up with a reasonable guess as to what she could possibly be talking about and it’s making him more nervous that being on stage does. 

“It’s okay, baby. Take your time.” He doesn’t want her to feel like she has to rush to get the words out. 

“Um, so, I know you’re on tour and you have a career that doesn’t slow down for anyone, which is why when I tell you this I want you to know that you don’t have to stick around for it. I can do it on my own, okay?” His stomach drops when she says that, but he doesn’t say anything yet. “I’m… I’m pregnant, H. Like I said, you don’t have to help if you don’t want to, you’re terribly busy, and---

“Y/N why would you even say that?” He tries to hold the harshness back, to not snap at her right now, but the fact that she thinks he wouldn’t want to be completely present in his child’s life makes him see red. 

“What do you mean?” She’s suddenly on alert, the tone of his voice taking her completely by surprise. 

“How could you even let the thought cross your mind that I wouldn’t want to be around? You know me, love.” He’s trying his hardest to not let his emotions take over because honestly, he’s not entirely sure if he’d start yelling or break down sobbing. 

“Harry, you’re a singer. Your entire career is touring the world. Singing is your dream, and there’s no way that I’m going to ask you to give that up.” She didn’t think that he would be offended by her giving him an out, but by the cracking in his voice, it’s clear she’s never said something more hurtful to him.

“Yeah, music is my job, and I love that. But my dream, Y/N, the thing that I want more than anything in this entire world, is you.” His voice catches in his throat and she finally looks up at him. He looks broken, like the things she said, the things she thought would help, really just ripped his heart into shreds.

“H, I really can’t ask you to give that up in any way.” She wants to give in, to say that everything will be fine, that he can take time off of touring if he wants. The rational part of her, however, the part that remembers asking him to give this up to any extent could make him resent her, fights against it.

“Baby, listen to me, please.” He pleads. “You’re not asking me to do anything. Regardless of whether or not you want me in our child’s life… which I pray to the lord that you do, I’m taking time off after the tour. I want to spend time at home, with you, with both of you.” He gently cradles her face in his palms and strokes her cheek with his thumb. 

“Are you sure?” She doesn’t want to keep fighting him on it. All she wants is to raise the family that she’s wanted for her entire life with the most extraordinary love. 

“Absolutely.” He promises.

He bends slightly so that his face is directly in front of her stomach. “Daddy's going to be here for you and Mommy every step of the way, bub.”

*

Thank you so much for reading lovelies!!!!! Again, reblog the pieces that you like and don’t be afraid to leave feedback!!

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[dreamingofaizawa]

Seraphim

This has been stuck in my head for days, okay? I know it's not MHA. But it's been plaguing my thoughts. My teratophilia is swirling like a hurricane with this man at the epicenter:

Anime: Blood of Zeus on Netflix

Yandere(ish) Seraphim x Fem! Reader

***18+ Fic***

Please make your way out of the current window if you are not over the age of 18. Thank you.

Warnings: Dub-con, body horror (?) he’s a fucking demon okay?, cumflation, overstimulation, belly bulge, creampie, size kink, kidnapping, kinda yandere-ish behavior if you think about it for a minute

Word Count: 2k

Author’s Note: Alright, this man is a mass murderer and a complete psychopath with horrid trauma. But he’s hot, and my teratophilia and size kink are THRIVING. I couldn’t find his height anywhere but he’s probably like 7 feet tall or sum cause he TOWERS over the other people in the anime. Idk what possessed me to make this so weirdly soft. Anyway, days of horny thoughts of this man have accumulated to whatever this bullshit is.

*Polis = A Greek city-state

Enjoy the filth~

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You'd managed to duck down behind a low stone wall gating off a farmhouse on the outskirts of the polis. The demons had appeared in the treeline when the full moon was high in the sky, flooding the land in cool blue light. There was no warning as people were either killed or gathered into the square, fear wreaking havoc on the minds of men and women alike.

You had to run, get to another polis and warn them of the oncoming bloodbath. But you needed to know what was going on. Quickly, quietly, you snuck past and through homes, sticking to the shadows and creeping up on the square. You were just close enough to hear the commotion among the townspeople. The beating of large wings and a loud ‘thud’ silenced the square, and a voice boomed out.

“I am Seraphim. Leader of the people of Melidoni, the people you call demons.” You listened as he offered strength and power to those who chose to convert to their creed, their species. Those who didn’t would be slaughtered. The choices were to convert, or die. You didn’t stick around to hear who chose which fate, instead beginning to move through the shadows again.

As you neared your previous hideaway, you figured you should try to pack supplies for your journey, especially considering you had no idea how long you’d be travelling. You slipped into one of the homes and searched quietly, gathering supplies as you loaded a burlap sack. You’d been so focused on your tasks, so convinced you’d been silent and sneaky and could slip away, that you were shaken out of your focus by a loud thud just outside the stone wall lining the yard.

You froze, heartbeat in your ears as you waited with baited breath. A loud crack rang in your ears, making you jump and cower backward away from the splintered door. The figure that stepped in struck fear into every fiber of your being. He was huge, having to bend down to fit through the entrance, his shoulders nearly too wide to fit in the frame. 

His skin was deep blue-gray, darker on his extremities and the horns protruding from his head and shoulders. Red marks littered his body like rivers of lava, and his eyes were pitch black with blood red irises. His left eye was different, a gold band in a strange shape surrounding the pool of red. Long white hair held with leather bands fell over his shoulder and down his bare chest, save for the leather strap holding his cloak on his back.

As he stood back to full height, your legs began to shake. If you weren’t paralyzed with fear, you’re sure your legs would have given out underneath you. The demon towered over you, all corded muscle and thick skin. Slowly, he lumbered closer to you, heavy footfalls vibrating the earth under your own feet. He stopped just in front of you, your chest nearly touching his abdomen as you looked up and he glared down at you.

A small smirk curved at the corner of his lips as he lifted a clawed hand, a thick finger hooking under your chin to keep your gaze up. “Hello, pretty.” His voice was deep, and you recognized it nearly instantly. This was Seraphim. The gods had forsaken you, and you’d been caught. You had a choice to make now. Convert, or die. A thumb swept across your cheek, swiping away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. 

A sound rumbled in his chest, something between a hum and a chuckle. “Don’t cry, pretty. You won’t die.” His statement had your mind reeling. Was he going to force you to convert to a demon? He wasn’t giving you a choice like all the other townspeople? He bent down so his mouth was at your ear, his breath hot on your neck and shoulder. “You’ll live, pretty, as a human. So long as you give me what I want.” 

You were afraid to ask, but it was necessary. “W-what do you want?” Your voice was so quiet you almost thought he couldn’t hear you, but his pointed ear twitching next to your face told you he could hear even your smallest breath. A hot, wet tongue laved at your pulsepoint and travelled up to your jaw. Large hands grasped your waist, squeezing and gripping lightly as his voice sat heavy in your ear. “I want you.”

Tears fell down your cheeks at the realization of what was about to happen. You were going to give your womanhood to a demon. Though it was a small price to pay for your freedom and life. You were suddenly lifted off the ground, a gasp leaving your lips as you wrapped your legs around his waist and gripped his thick neck where there weren’t horns jutting from his body. His hands moved down to encompass your ass, squeezing the supple flesh as he moved and licked at your neck.

You were placed on the bed and he got to work undressing you, and soon your robes were a pile of fabric pooled on the ground as you lay naked before the demon. You grasped the pelts underneath you, shaking as his blood red eyes greedily raked over your form. You squeezed your eyes tight, trying to distance yourself from your current predicament, but a large hand wrapped around your throat and squeezed just lightly enough to be a threat.

Your eyes snapped open and Seraphim leaned close, his breath fanning over your face. “Don’t close your eyes, pretty. I want you to watch me take you.” With that, he released your neck and began to undress himself. Your eyes blew wide at the sight of him, a heat twisted with fear beginning to seep into your belly and between your legs. Was he even going to fit inside you?

He was as thick around as your wrist and nearly as long as your forearm, veins running up his length. Your body shook at the thought of taking him into you, afraid he’d split you in half. A deep chuckle bubbled up from his chest at the sight of your trembling. “Don’t worry, pretty. I don’t want to break you so soon. Especially since you are untainted, pure.” He lifted a hand and you watched as the claws shrank down and gray skin turned tan. His hand was now human, though no smaller than it was previously.

You didn’t know how he could know you were still a virgin, but at this point it didn’t matter. A thick finger teased up and down your folds, gathering the little slick there and moving to rub at your clit. The contact had you gasping and jerking, and his other hand gripped your hip, keeping you still as he rubbed that little nub. It didn’t take long to have you soaked, and he stopped his ministrations on the little bundle of nerves to dip a thick, long finger into your tight heat.

Even just one of his fingers was a stretch, and your walls clamped down around the intrusion. He pumped and curled his finger until you relaxed around him, then pushed a second passed the tight ring of muscle. Your fingers dug into the pelts beneath you and you clenched your jaw as you winced, the stretch burning for a few moments before you relaxed once again. His fingers curled up and hit a spongy spot inside you, making you let out a breathy moan. 

A third finger pushing into you had you squirming and whimpering, the burning stretch becoming uncomfortable, and the fourth was painful as he maneuvered his digits inside you, stretching your walls further than you thought possible. It took a bit for you to finally relax, chest heaving and sweat beading at your forehead, and he rubbed your clit harshly. It only took a few swipes for you to cum on his fingers, clenching down hard as your back arched off the pelts and your mouth fell open in a silent shout.

When you came down from the high he pulled his fingers from your core and licked his fingers clean, groaning as he sucked your juices off his digits. The feral look he shot you made your breath hitch. His hand turned back and he gripped the back of your knees, bending them so your thighs were pressed into your chest. “Hold your legs for me, pretty.” You obliged, and he lined himself up with your core before pushing into you slowly.

Even just the tip of his thick cock had you wincing, nails digging into your thighs as you tried to relax around him. He growled as he slowly pumped himself into you, bit by bit, until he hit your womb and you cried out. It hurt, but it felt so, so good. He stilled his hips, allowing your fluttering walls to adjust to his size. His large hands came around your thighs to cup your face, trailing down to your breasts and toying with the flesh.

The demon had far more patience than you thought he could possess, waiting until your cunt stopped clamping down on his length before replacing your hands with his to grip your thighs, pressing them into your chest as he pumped his hips into you. With every thrust his pace became heavier and quicker, pulling heavenly, sensual noises from your throat. Your voice rang out with every snap of his hips into yours, your body on fire as the pleasure washed over you in waves.

One of his hands pulled your leg and rested your ankle just beside his neck, then moved down and began rubbing at your swollen little clit. The knot in your belly tightened quickly, burning hot in your abdomen until it finally snapped and your legs shook with your orgasm. He slowed to a stop and pulled out of you, flipping you over and yanking your hips back, a hand pressing into your back so your face was in the pelts and your ass was high in the air.

He filled you in one thrust and began a bruising pace, bending over you and biting marks into your shoulders, claws digging into the flesh of your hips. Growls and grunts filled your ears, Seraphim’s deep voice harsh and heavy with lust. You were extremely sensitive from your orgasms, tears beginning to roll down your face at the pleasured pain wracking your body. His hand rubbed over your lower stomach, feeling his length pounding into you.

He grabbed your hand and held it to your stomach, his voice gravelly and heavy. “You feel that, pretty? I’m right here.” Feeling him through your skin had you falling over that edge once more, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull, mouth dropping open and drool falling to the furs below you as you came hard around him.

He thrust a few more times before halting completely, filling you up with a long, low growl into your shoulder. His cum filled you, your belly distending a little with the sheer volume. Slowly he pulled out and lay you on your back, smoothing a hand over your stomach and pushing down on the bulge. You moaned out and he watched his seed gush from your gaping hole, your body trembling with exhaustion.

Your breath was ragged as you tried to steady yourself, and Seraphim dressed you just as easily as he’d disrobed you. “Can I go now?” you asked, still in a bit of a daze. His laugh shook his chest and shoulders. “No, pretty. Of course not. Your fate lies with me now.” Your brows scrunched together in confusion. “But you said…” He lifted an eyebrow. “I said you’d live if you gave me what I want. And I said I wanted you. You’re mine now, pretty.” 

You resigned yourself to your fate, too exhausted to try and fight him. He lifted you in his arms and carried you out, mounting his manticore and lifting off into the sky. You rested your head against his solid chest, soaking up the warmth from his body as you drifted off. You vaguely registered Seraphim’s voice over the whipping wind. “That’s right, pretty. Rest up. You’re mine now, you’ll need all the energy you can get.” You didn’t let his words linger in your head before your mind faded to black.

[harrypotter-imaginess]

Part 1 Here! / Part 2 Here!

A/N: maybe two more parts after this

Commission info for a Love Letter from your favorite HP character here - close 3/10/21!

You sigh as you lean your head back on the arm rest of Draco’s couch

You can see him extending a glass of wine towards you, and you take it gingerly into your hand

“I think I want to quit my job”

He doesn’t say anything, just raises an eyebrow and takes a seat in the arm chair next to the sofa you’re sprawled over like you’re at the therapists office

“Planning to coast along on your good looks?” He finally says, trying to keep his face as stern as possible.

Despite himself a smile arch’s onto the corner of his mouth

“I’m being serious!” You say, sitting up.

Draco openly laughs now, and he doesn’t stop until you throw a pillow at him.

“Well what do you expect when you say somethin’ like that out of nowhere.” He manages to say between bursts of laughter

You both have been dating for a while now, almost a year- you even brought him to a company holiday party

Life has been good

Having to hide his wizardry from you isn’t all that hard, he just had to completely reprogram the way he operates as a human being and now he’s fine

...

It’s been a little challenging

You sigh, a hand threading through your hair, eyebrows threaded together

Well now he’s a little worried, he figured you were just joking around but-

“Did something happen at work?”

Did someone say something to you- or maybe someone did something to you

Draco’s already running a list of curses in his mind by the time you sigh and shake your head

“Nothing that hasn’t been happening- not really.”

The cruciatus curse seems a little to far, maybe boils? No that’s too obvious

“It’s a nice place to work, I have it really good, it’s just-“ your eyes flicker from your glass of wine to Draco

“I always figured once I had a steady income life would be exciting yknow? And I would travel and be making memories but-“

You should be grateful, you have a good life. A comfortable job, a cozy house and-

Your eyes flicker to him, taking his impeccably handsome face, that ash blonde hair, and vibrant grey eyes

And you’ve got Draco

But even though you have all these things, you can’t help but feel like life is just passing you by, and before you know it you’ll be 80 on your death bed having done nothing at all

Draco’s quiet for a moment, picking up on the unspoken sentiment

Maybe you shouldn’t have unpacked on him like that- he’s got his own problems too after all

“Let’s go on Holiday”

Huh?

Draco picks up on your confusion and elaborates on his reasoning

“You’re just a little burned out, you need a break.”

It happened to his Dad all the time when he was a kid, he’d get caught up in all of his dark magic council meetings and his board positions and wonder if this is just life was- an endless power struggle

And that’s when his Mum would swoop in with an elegant family trip to some exotic location, and they would all come back like new people.

Right now you need someone to show you the joy in life. That it’s not just going to work for fifty years and dying

There’s a long stretch of silence between the two of you

And Draco starts to wonder if maybe his Mum had it all wrong

Maybe he should have just offered to make you his spouse, he makes enough money for the both of you- you don’t have to work if you don’t want to when you’re his

He’s internally rehearsing his proposal speech, picking out which moments he should highlight

Which is pretty hard because every moment with you feels like a highlight

“Where would we go?”

Your voice is soft, almost hesitant, but Draco doesn’t overlook the twinkle in your eye

He grins

“Anywhere you want”

You find out pretty fast that Draco is a meticulous planner- everything is carefully decided

“Alright we’ll get off the flight, and we’ll get one of those mu- I mean we’ll get a car from there so we don’t have to worry about transportation-“

Literally everything is reserved, the hotel you’re staying in the city at for the first few nights, the car you’ll be using while you’re in France, the bed and breakfast Draco found out about in a small village in the French country side, even all the restaurants you’ll be eating at

Which is totally fine, some structure isn’t a bad thing

It’s just Draco’s never struck you as someone who plans everything out

“Is everything alright darling? Is this a personality trait of yours I’m just going to have to grow to love?”

You wrap your arms around his torso from the back, your chin resting on his shoulder to glance at the travel documents he’s reviewing

“Oh I never do this when I’m traveling alone- I don’t even take a travel bag most of the time, I can just buy whatever I need when I land- one time I didn’t even take my wallet because your phone is a wallet these days.”

You raise an eyebrow, what a little rich boy

You can’t think of all the times your family packed everything they could possibly need when going on vacation so they wouldn’t have to pay for anything when they got there

“So what’s the difference this time?” You ask, has hitting the quarter of life struck him with a lightening bolt that’s transformed him into a dad now?

“Because I’m going with you”

So everything has to be perfect. You’re taking a whole two weeks off of work, he’s got to make sure you don’t regret it, and give you the best time possible

“Don’t tell me you’re planning on proposing”

You’re only joking, but the disgusted look that crosses Draco’s features makes you flinch

You know it’s probably a little early to mention marriage, it’s only been a year after all, but you would be lying if you said that didn’t hurt

“I would never propose in France (Y/N), I have taste”

That whole country is just overhyped, and Paris is way too dirty - like most cities.

But it’s where you want to go- you like art museums and fresh baked bread so here he is

Going to god damn France

But he’ll be hexed before he proposes to you in that god forsaken country

“Oh so there’s going to be a proposal?”

“Of course there is” he says off handedly, verifying that both of your passports are up to date

And then he realizes what he just admitted and feels a ruby red blush creep onto his face from his neck

“W-wait-“

He turns around to face you, face bright red, only to see you smiling like you’ve just won the lottery

And he should be hopelessly embarrassed,

he’s been trying to play it cool for the last year, to play at your pace in terms of relationship development

Only to let it slip through his fingers in a single moment

But you look so happy to know he see’s a future with you

“Alright, sounds good. Just give me a heads up a few weeks before so I can get a spa appointment to look pretty for all our pictures”

You’re joking.... kind of

You don’t put it past Draco to have a photographer follow you both around and take pictures of the whole engagement thing

Draco’s actually taking your joke quite seriously though, a dopey grin on his mouth

“I’ll give you a hint the weekend before”

That should be enough time to get all your affairs in order

It’ll also give him enough time on how to break to you that he’s a wizard and well- his parents probably hate you

You’re smiling, an embarrassed expression crossing your features as you change the topic to which places you’ll be visiting

But there’s a shadow on Draco’s face

He sighs when you leave, saying you have to go back to your house to pack-

It’s always so lonely when you’re gone

He collapses on his arm chair, twirling his wand so that there’s a glass of fire whisky in his hand

He’s going to have to tell you soon- not just about his wizardry, but also about his family

His Mum’s already got half a guess there’s something going on here - but he bets the worst she believes is that he’s dating someone beneath him, maybe a muggle born at worst

Certainly not an actual muggle

His father’s clueless as always - too busy with his council positions and appearances

His mother will be fine , she would be upset of course, but she would come around eventually

His Father would disown him

He’s fairly confident about that

The second he says he’s in love with a muggle- it’s over for him

His dad might actually curse him when he finds out he’s marrying a muggle- bringing dirty blood into their bloodline

And Draco might curse him back

Because they can say whatever they want about him, but not about you-

Nothing about you is dirty

You’re the purest, kindest, loveliest person he’s ever seen

And he still can’t believe you’re his

You shouldn’t be surprised when you find out Draco booked you both first class seats

Or when you get to the airport and see a Mercedes convertible waiting for you

Or even when you get to the hotel - which turns out to be The Ritz

The tipping point is when you find out the “room” Draco booked is actually the penthouse

“Well that was exhausting, should we take a nap before going to the Louvre?”

You’re sitting on the sofa in the living area, your head in your hands

Draco doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy pouring Perrier into two crystal glasses.

“Draco, love, do you remember before we went on this trip, that I insisted paying my portion- even though you said there was no need?”

Draco looks up from the Perrier. But you’re still staring at the ground

“And then when I asked why my portion was so low- you said you got a really great economy deal from a travel package.”

That was the excuse he used wasn’t it

“Well there was a discount travel package, I just didn’t book it.”

Honestly he’s not sure what his end game was here- honestly he was just hoping you would believe this was all included in the package

Your palms are pressed together, your head resting against them

Draco extends a glass of Perrier towards you

You look at it for several long seconds,

he probably got it out of the mini fridge that charges 10x mark up

“I’m paying for our next trip” you say, accepting the glass with a sigh

Draco only grins

“So there’s going to be a next trip?”

You almost snort laughing

“Are you seriously asking me that after you basically proposed to me last week?”

Ah, you’ve got him there

You smile as you tug his towards you, pressing a kiss to his mouth

“Of course there will be you dork”

He smiles as he holds you close, kissing you again

Being in Paris is really cool

You go on a tour of the catacombs

“Watch your step” Draco says, offering his arm for support

“Thanks” you hold his hand as you make your way through the dark space

And the Louvre

“Am I supposed to be feeling something right now?” He asks

You’re both looking at the Mona Lisa, and you’ve got tears in your eyes, feeling very small

You’re almost humbled being in her presence, the painting that has withstood centuries

“Yes” you sniffle, taking the handkerchief Draco’s extended towards you

“You’re a rich kid, aren’t you supposed to be super invested in art and stuff?”

He gives you a mischievous grin

“I look at you everyday don’t I”

You manage a laugh, lightly smacking him in the arm

Things are going really well, you’re both having a really good time, and then something happens-

It’s your last day in the city before you head out to the french countryside,

you and Draco decided you would spend the morning souvenir shopping before heading there in the afternoon

You’ve put in an order for some macrons for your friends and the people at work

“Do you think they’ll still be good by the time we get back home?”

It will be at least a week until you head back, and longer until you see any of your friends

“I think as long as we freeze them” Draco assures

He’ll put a charm on them for good measure

“Malfoy?”

The second Draco hears that voice he goes rigid

You see, being with you for a year has been utter bliss.

Draco’s had a good year, the best year of his entire life-

The thing is though, he got so caught up in who he was becoming-

that he completely forgot who he used to be-

Until this moment

“Weasley. Granger”

Weasley looks the same as ever, flaming red hair and a splatter of freckles across his nose and spilling onto his face

Still that tall, lean, but muscular build he had when he last saw him.

Granger looks great though, she’s got her curls framing her face, smooth dark skin glistening against a clean cut pant suit

“Lovely to see you both”

Draco seems composed

But on the inside he’s on the verge of having a panic attack

Maybe they’ll just give a wave and be on their way

Yes that’s entirely pos-

Nope. They’re walking over to you two

F*ck

“Are you going to introduce us?” You ask with a teasing smile

Oh crap, he forgot the social protocols a situation like this calls for in his panic

“R-right, (Y/N) this is Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger-“

“Actually we’re both Weasley now” Ron says with a proud grin

“- well she was Granger now she’s Weasley too, we um-“

Were sworn rivals. Mortal enemies. Fought on opposite sides of a great and tragic war.

“Went to school together”

He can honestly say that isn’t a lie.

They all did go to school together

A magic school in the mountains of Scotland, where they rode brooms and befriended magical creatures

Somehow he gets the feeling that’s not the type of experience you’re picturing though

To his surprise things are going pretty well, the conversation is mostly revolving around Paris, you and Granger seem to share a similar love for Mona Lisa

“And when you stand in front of her-“ Granger starts

“It’s like she’s judging you!” You finish

The two of you are only a moment away from embracing

Weasley looks like he couldn’t care less about Mona Lisa

And for once Draco thinks they’re in agreement

Maybe it’s because they’re from pureblood families

Because something surviving 500 years isn’t all that big of a deal to wizards

Not when the average wizard can live a few hundred years, his great grandfather even lived until the ripe old age of 652

“So are you two on Holiday?” You ask and Granger shakes her head

“No, we’re actually here for work on behalf of the Au-“

“On behalf of their museum I’m sure” Draco cuts in quickly

He was so comfortable in the fantasy  where his previously sworn enemies might become causal aquantinces that he completely forgot there were three wizards and one muggle in this conversation

“”They um-“ Draco clears his throat giving a meaningful look to Granger and Weasley before lowering his voice “they actually work for a rival museum. Managed to get an exhibit from right under me”

The lies just seem to stack on one another.

Draco’s not sure what’s worse- that he’s getting better with coming up with these lies-

“Is that why they aren’t invited to your hangouts with Blaise, Theo and Pansy”

Or that you trust him so much you wholeheartedly  believe each and every lie

“That is exactly why they’re not invited”

Some force in the universe must like him, because luckily enough that’s when your order number is called.

“Oh looks like it’s ready, I’ll see you in a bit darling” you press a kiss to his cheek before making your way towards the counter

And Draco’s so caught up in the subtle affection you’ve just shown him he’s completely forgotten all about the situation at hand until Granger clears her throat.

Ah yes, the mountain of lies he’s haphazardly built.

How could he forget

Granger looks like she’s got the gist of the situation,

Weasley on the other hand looks just as dumb as Draco remembers from school

His mouth agape

“Are they a muggle??”

Draco flinches at how loud Weasley says the word Muggle

“Yes, they are could you please keep your voice down”

He looks in your direction

Oh good it looks like you didn’t hear

He turns back to his old enemies

They both look like their mind is broken

“But your family they hate-“

“That’s my parents, that’s not me” Draco snaps quickly

But it was him, wasn’t it

All those times he tormented muggle borns at school, the dark magic artifacts he toyed with-

He looks at Granger

All the times he called her mud blood

He’s not as bad as his parents

-but he’s still not good

“Since I was there I got yours too-“

The second you’re back you can tell something is off

The tension hangs in the air like fog

Draco looks like he’s just seen a ghost, face pale and thin pink lips trembling

“What’s wrong?” You ask

Draco was a monster, that’s what’s wrong

“Nothing,” he puts on his most believable smile “we should get going or it will get dark before we get to the manse”

You nod, taking his hand in yours

It’s trembling

“It was lovely meeting you, maybe we’ll see each other again soon”

Granger who’s been awfully quiet for this whole ordeal smiles

“Yes, I hope we do”

The look Granger gives you is genuine and warm

- like she already considers you a friend

and it makes Draco feel twice as bad

It’s not like anything has really changed as you two drive through the countryside

You’re still joking like you always do,

Draco’s driving and he stops in several places on the way there so you can take polaroids in the French country scenery

But something feels...off

Like he’s just pretending to be happy

You really shouldn’t be surprised when you roll up to a large iron gate,

Draco types in the code into a keypad and they creak as they open revealing a rather impressive winding drive

At the end of which is an absolute unit of a mansion

“This isn’t a bed and breakfast is it?”

For one there’s not even a parking lot, Draco gives you a fleeting look before taking your bags out of the car.

“This is my family’s manse, we would come up here during the summer for vacation”

He was on the fence about bringing you here, but his Mum always had a rule that all dark magic artifacts would be kept away from their vacation home

His father could have free reign over the manse near London, but not here when they were on vacation

“You grew up here?” You say, taking in the fountain, the thirty windows you see in the front face alone, and the massive rose garden to the side

“Not really, we would just come here to vacation, it was really for my parents. I spent most of my time climbing up trees-“

And playing with the house elves, which his mother would later reprimand him for

It was always worse for them though

At least Father pays them a wage now, however meager it may be

“There’s no servants right now though, so it will be just us”

He says it as he leads you through the manse, passing the drawing room, a rather impressive parlor, up a long pair of winding steps into the east wing into a rather lavish room

“I hope you don’t mind staying in my old room, my parents used to use the master and that just seems... icky”

you laugh And he gives you another smile, and this time you know somethings wrong.

“We can go to the village nearby and grab dinner, or we can stay here but I doubt the pantry has-“

“Draco,” you stop him mid speech about getting dinner “What’s wrong?”

Draco does his best to smile for you

“Nothings wrong-“

“No, something is wrong” you cut him off quickly, taking his hand in both of yours

“You’ve been...sad”

that’s what it is, the emotion he’s been trying to cover up

He thought he was covering up his internal turmoil pretty well

Draco won’t lie, the fact that he’s more transparent then he thinks hurts

“Ever since we saw your old classmates at the bakery”

The way he flinches when you mention it tells you all you need to know

You feel a protective flare swell inside you

“Did something happen? Did they do something to you?“

you’re already thinking about how you need to protect you Draco from them, they work in the same industry so they’re bound to cross paths. Maybe-

“I’m the one who did something to them.”

Draco breaks you away from your thoughts

“What?”

“I-“

Draco looks into your puzzled face, and his heart squeezes

He didn’t want you to find out, not like this

Pretty soon you’ll be thrust into his history headfirst-

His hand is held in both of yours,

your eyes are so warm as they look up at him.

And all he can think is that he doesn’t deserve any of this

The truth is he didn’t want you to ever know

“I wasn’t a good person” he croaks

He knows he’s just as much a victim as the others, he’s got the scars and the death eater mark to prove it- both things he didn’t really want

It was coercion, they told him.

He grew up in an environment where he was punished for showing any original thought, his therapist had said

He’s a victim too

But that doesn’t mean it was okay for him to treat people like that- for him to call people that word-

“I was a bully, a monster, I was-”

Draco’s cut off when you pull him into a hug

Draco stumbles back when you throw yourself at him,  wrapping your arms around him

“Stop. Don’t talk about yourself like that.” You say

He doesn’t understand why until he see’s  the tears drop onto your hair

Oh, he’s crying

“Shh, it���s okay” you hum, holding him close as he sobs into your shoulder

And you two stay just like that for a long time

“I just don’t want you to think less of me” Draco murmurs, you’re both on his bed now, you’re both sitting cross legged across from each other

He looks so ashamed, it’s like he’s admitting he killed someone

In all honestly, you figured something like this might be the case.

Draco’s a rich boy, he doesn’t seem like someone who’s experienced financial struggle,

He’s  someone who experienced life with a sense of entitlement

You look at him, rim of his eyes tinged pink and swelling. The almost pitiful sniffle he lets out

But the Draco in front of you isn’t like that, not anymore at least.

His kindness is still a little rough...but it’s there

You know that, you see it every time he picks up on your mood, every time he comforts you when you have a bad day

You’ve seen it during this trip, where he catered everything so you would have a good time

You just have to make him see that now

“All of that, it’s in the past now Draco” you squeeze his hand, and he finally stops looking down and up at you

“You have a past, I do too” you give him a warm smile. “but that’s all behind us now, all that matter is where we’re going from here”

Your reassuring expression and tender words make him feel like he might cry again, but this time for a different reason

“We don’t have to talk about it, not until you’re ready” you tell him

he feels his eyes sting

“I don’t deserve your kindness”

And from another man you would think it’s a plot to earn your sympathy, but looking at Draco you know he means every word

He looks like a broken man

Like he’s haunted, worn down to the bone

So you do the only thing you can think to do, knees pressing into the mattress you hover over him. Your hands cup each side of his face, tilting it up so those brilliant grey eyes are looking at you

“You deserve every part of me my love” you murmur, peppering his face with kisses

Scattering them across his cheeks, his hairline, down his thin nose, and across his jaw

Before finally catching his lips, your mouth gently caressing his

“(Y/N)-“ your name leaves him in a breathless voice- half in want and half concerned

His hand caresses your face, stopping you as you kiss down his neck

He wants to tell you that You don’t have to do any of this just because he’s feeling emotional

But he doesn’t have to say anything, because you understand immediately, giving him a kind smile

“I’m doing it because I want you-“ you take his hand , pressing kisses to the end of his fingertips

“Do you trust me?”

And Draco, who doesn’t trust his voice, can only manage a nod

“I’m going to be good for you” you murmur against his hand, and you feel him shiver underneath you.

Draco’s made love to you countless times, felt your burning skin against his hands so many times he’s lost count.

But it’s never been like this

It’s so....

He looks at you underneath him, your eyes are warm as you look up at him, and full of so much love

It’s.....Comforting.

This time making love to you is comforting.

Your hand presses against his lower abdomen, right above the place you both are connected, and it earns an involuntary shiver from him

But you don’t stop there, your hand trails up his stomach, across his chest, fingers lightly brushing against the nape of his neck before resting on his face

The action, mixed with that warm look in your eyes, feels so tender

“You’re so pretty” You murmur, your thumb rubbing tenderly across his cheek.

Caressing his face.

“My pretty boy Draco”

And he feels emotion well up within him once more.

A tear slipping down his face as he leans down to kiss you

He doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve your love

But he’s so grateful that he has it

That he has you

“Being good for him” extends past the bedroom it seems, because the next morning he wakes up to an empty bed, his body littered with kiss marks, a hot bath drawn for him with flower petals scattered across the surface, and a note

‘Took the car to the village, will be back soon. P.S take a bath and relax until I get back, I have your favorite tea in the kettle for when you’re done.’

Draco can’t help the goofy grin that spreads across his face

“I really don’t deserve you”

You come back only fifteen minutes later, while he’s still soaking in the tub.

You walk over to him wordlessly, rubbing his shoulders as you lean against the rim of the tub.

“How are you feeling today darling?” You murmur, kissing his temple.

“Better now that you’re here.” And he means it, he loves what you’ve done for him, but it’s always so lonely when you’re gone

He takes your hand in his, looking up at you with shining grey eyes.

“Will you join me?”

You laugh, your other hand caressing his face

“I have to go get things ready for our picnic- I thought it might be nice, there’s a place the locals told me about- a hill a few kilometers away from here.”

“That can wait can’t it?” He asks, and when you make no move to undress he adds -

“please?”

He looks like a little boy, and you find yourself relenting, pulling off your sweater with a sigh

The tub is massive, probably half the size of your bedroom, so you give Draco some room, sitting on the other side of the tub

Last night was intense, for you and for him, you don’t want to overwhelm him with too much stimulation

But Draco doesn’t let you stay far away, beckoning you to him. Only satisfied when your back is pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around your chest and stomach

“I’m sorry-“ he starts, but you silence him with a simple squeeze of his hand

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for”

And it’s true. How many times has Draco comforted you- bringing you dinner when you pulled late nights at work, or kissed your tears away?

“It’s nice. Seeing another part of the person I love” you reassure

There’s a moment of silence before Draco opens his mouth again

“When I was in school, I-I -“

“ you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to” you reassure,

the two have the rest of your lives to talk about these things, there’s no rush

But Draco shake his head, and offers you a small smile

“I want to talk about it, I want you to know”

And so Draco tells you as much as he can without giving away his secret

He tells you his family comes from old money, and he internalized certain messages from that

“It’s not an excuse,” he clarifies, “but it’s part of the story too”

He tells you how he was a bully all through this childhood and into adolescence.

Even early adulthood.

How he basically tormented the people he bullied-

“Granger... I was terrible to her.” He admits, you’ve since moved away from the bath tub, and you’re sitting in the garden, drinking tea and eating scones. “I called her terrible things”

He means he called her a mudblood, the greatest insult a person can get

You’re thinking he probably called her a b*tch or a c*nt.

Honestly I’m not sure which version is worse

“Did you have a crush on her?” You ask, and Draco sputters. His cheeks blooming red

He remembers being jealous of Granger, she was always at the top of their class, and he always came in second to her.

He remembers getting lectures for it everytime he came home for the holidays

His Father always fuming how Draco  was so inept that even a ‘mudblood’ could surpass him.

And some of that did transfer to his dislike for the person

He does remember thinking she looked awfully beautiful at the Yule Ball though, in that pink dress

“She’d look better in green” he had thought and then realizing what he just thought blushed and looked towards his date.

“Maybe I did.” He admits to you, almost a decade later.

And you laugh

“I bet you were a cutie” Draco only blushes even more

What you wouldn’t give to see a teenage Draco, you wonder what it would have been like if you met him when you were younger

How different would things be?

You watch Draco flush bright red, trying to cover his embarrassment with a sip of his tea

Well, the way things turned out isn’t so bad either

You spend the rest of the trip at Draco’s family’s manor, in domestic bliss

You stand on your tip toes, trying to reach a pair of mugs on the top shelf

“Here let me get that” Draco says reaching them with ease while standing behind you

You drink tea in the garden

“Draco darling, will you pass me the preserves?”

You’re both dressed like something out a a historical drama, he’s in a suit and you’ve got on a tilted sun hat and white gloves

Playing like you’re nobility vacationing in the Parisian countryside

Which... Draco sort of actually is

.... let’s not think of that

And go on picnics on the nearby hill

“Oh no” you mumble

“What’s wrong?” Draco asks while setting down the picnic blanket

“I forgot to bring glasses for the wine” you sigh

Draco shrugs

“We’ll just drink from the bottle”

You make a face and he laughs

“What does the thought of an indirect kiss make you nervous?”

You lightly shove him with a laugh

And late nights spent in their family library

“Your family sure has a strange book collection” you say holding up a book titled ‘witchcraft in the mid-1800’s��

Draco scrambles towards you

“Y-yeah that’s probably my dad, he’s kind of interested in that occult stuff...for fun, not like, because he’s apart of a cult or anything”

Not anymore at least

“I wasn’t thinking that he was apart of a cult... but I am now” you joke

You’ve moved on, scanning the rest of  their collection, but Draco’s looking at you-

This last week has been like something out of a dream

He can’t imagine how happy he would be to have this everyday

He watches your hand brush against the spine of a book

He extends a hand over your own, stroking your ring finger

“Make sure this finger is empty for me, okay?”

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 39)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Hi! I have nothing to say here lol, thank you for reading, hope you enjoy! Love ya!

Today there’s two chapters! You can find Chapter 40 right here

Run if you want to; fight, kick, scream.

You told him the Greeks being alive changed nothing, and while he argued and insisted otherwise, you remained certain. Now, now you realize Ivar was right.

Them being alive meant being an Anassa was not some distant title awaiting for you somewhere in Greece, them being alive meant the Priestess you once were wasn’t allowed to rest amongst the dead where she belonged.

Them being alive meant that there would come a day where your bond to them and your bond to Ivar would pull you in two different directions, and that you would have to let go of one of them.

And now they have come to find you, they call for you with their familiar language and their warm memories and their land of flower fields and nostalgia. And yet at your back is the man you love, and he offers you a lifetime of strange customs and cold nights and his kingdom of iron and death.

And you can’t pretend there isn’t a choice to make for any longer.

You can’t pretend you haven’t known what your choice would be for a long time, maybe since the start of it all.

Because you are asked to give up one night in the familiar warmth of your bedroom and at the same time you are asked to forget for one more night that there isn’t a world past him; and you realize there isn’t a difference between one night and one lifetime.

Fate will drag you home by the wrists, child.

The sky remains the same as the Gods demand you make your choice, the earth is still solid under your feet as you walk the path you have chosen, the wind is biting and cold even if it speaks of the change of spring.

You leave behind a part of you, on the path you didn’t take, on the choice you couldn’t make; and as your heart breaks in two, as your eyes fill with tears, as a part of you dies and descents, you can’t help but think bitterly that the world now should be as changed as you are.

And you realize then, as you force shaking legs to move, that the world didn’t change when Persephone made her choice, but that didn’t mean she didn’t make one.

The skies didn’t tremble and shiver as when Zeus condemned her, the earth wasn’t split in two as when Hades first took her, the fields and flowers didn’t wither and die as when Demeter mourned her.

The world didn’t change, and so the stories never spoke of the day she made her choice. And us mortals were nearsighted enough to believe there hadn’t been a choice to be made.

You know how this tale goes.

You close your eyes tightly against Zephyr’s cries, and your tears leave a burning trail down your skin. When you lick your lips, the salt of your tears tastes sweet, like the sweetest of fruits.

It has been so many years since you were allowed a bite of it, but you still remember what it tasted like. Like the unknown, like freedom, like temptation.

You hold on tightly to the wood at your side, stopping only for a second.

For a second, you can close your eyes and be there again, surrounded by tall stone walls of the temple in a time before the mark of soot and pain on your heart, with the soft lull of the Aegean lapping at the soft sands of the shore filling your ears.

Narses’ warm and raspy voice calmly talking his men through training, the elders’ always-cold and always-soft touches as they passed you by during the day, the wide-eyed look of the younger girls that wanted to become Hiereiai, Galla’s secret smile as you two shared a look and the shine in her dark eyes that spoke of trust and understanding.

But the woman that lived among them is not the woman you are anymore. You haven’t been her for years. Even on the day you were first called Anassa, the woman that could have been it, been their leader and queen, was already dead and gone.

And try as you might, you can’t imagine a life where you can come back to it, to them.

The wood creaks under your tightening grip, and the screech of the falcon rings in your head. And you look back, and whisper an apology.

And close the door.

You once imagined if maybe all of this had been nothing but your descent, and it isn’t too hard to imagine all that has happened to be nothing but the path that leads to your death. That has led to it.

And if the Gods let you, you want for nothing other than this death. Let the Hiereia that died in Eleusis amongst the flames rest with those that perished for her and with her; let the Anassa that out of guilt and the burden of legacy earned a hollow crown die too.

Let you be reborn.

Because you sink into familiar warmth surrounded by an unfamiliar world, and you can’t find it in yourself to wish for anything to be any different.

Drawing your legs up, you curl your body behind Ivar’s, your face buried between his shoulder blades and your eyes shut tightly.

More than once you imagined what a life alongside him could have been, if you had never known the binds of legacy that kept you tethered to Greece and her people. More than once you almost wished for your Fate to had been other, and a world where you could have never been anything other than a healer from the Silk Roads.

You never dared imagine, or wish for, a life at his side after you were made Anassa of the Attic Greeks. It felt like a betrayal of who they wanted you to be, to want to stay at his side, to love him, to see a future in this realm of cold and death.

But that is what you have chosen, that is…what you’ll have.

A murmur of your name, quiet and a little slurred by sleep, and you tighten your hold.

“I’m here,” You promise, an incredulous smile on your lips. And because you can, because you choose to, you vow, “I’m not going anywhere.”

You try to chase away with the soft sounds of his breaths the cries of the falcon that circles the longhouse almost till nightfall. In your mind, in your dreams, it flies over you with that mournful cry until the morning.

When you wake up it is due to the by now familiar sounds of Ivar moving about the room. When you force yourself to open your eyes, he is already dressed and the braces on his legs safely secured.

He seems to linger, debating with himself whether to leave or to wake you. It is unusual for him to start his day apart from you, and you have made sure in these months to try to be there to offer, if nothing else, a quiet murmur of his name and a smile before he is to leave. You never actually considered it meant much to him, if you’re honest.

When you sit up in the bed, Ivar greets you with a soft mumble of your name, before deciding to lean against one of the nearby tables, watching you as you start your routine as well, patiently waiting for you to walk to him and turn your back for him to lace up your dress.

You turn around, remaining close, and let your hands settle over his chest, idly correcting the way his clothes set over him.

His hand is surprisingly gentle as he tilts your head up. Pale blue eyes search your face, and he asks, “You look tired. Dreams?”

You shake your head, “No, I…Galla was here, last night.”

He blinks, almost owlishly. “Here?”

“Outside Kattegat.”

Whatever ease that was written in his posture, whatever openness that was clear in his eyes; vanish before your eyes and the unfaltering edge of the man that you faced during those first months is all that is left.

And you cannot look at the carefully held distance, the perfected façade of the man in control, so you lower your gaze.

“She came to find you,” It isn’t a question, you know it isn’t, but you can’t help but wonder if a part of him wants you to deny it. You can’t exactly blame or judge him for wanting to believe their return a mistake, if you’re honest. Ivar takes a breath, “You didn’t go.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“They want you with them.”

“But I want to be here.” You sentence, maybe a bit harshly.

You lift your gaze to look into familiar blue eyes, and find a tentative something looking back, something that a less cautious man would let become hope.

Ivar swallows, eyebrows lifting slightly as if to question you, before he keeps the words at bay, lips forming around the beginning of your name but falling short of uttering anything.

Leaving your lips there should be words about how there was never a choice to be made, or how it was something you had chosen a long time ago but never dared admit; there should be promises that you chose, and the world didn’t change but you did and that you do not regret a thing; there should be apologies to the woman you were and the people that loved you for proving right those who said to love a Hiereia of Persephone is a cruel fate; there should be reassurances that you never spoke truer words than when you told him you loved him above anything and above anyone.

But you choke on shame and guilt, and your words are kept at bay not only by the voices of your past demanding to know why you have forsaken them, but by the press of Ivar’s lips on yours.

When you part, he motions for you to go get ready, tells you to get on with your day. You aren’t certain if him holding on to normalcy like this is a good or a bad thing anymore.

____

It was always frighteningly easy, to forget there was a world past him, but as you step out of the longhouse, the cloak wrapped tightly around you, you cannot help but take your eyes to the skies, searching for a bird, a messenger, that you know won’t be there.

You told her you’d be there if they needed you, you told her to send Zephyr to the skies with the certainty that you’d answer the call. But the time came, and when they needed you and he needed you, the choice was frighteningly easy, and you couldn’t answer their call.

You notice the cold in your hands when delicate and dainty fingers wrap around yours, and Freydis’ deep blue eyes look at you with countless questions. You realize then you’ve walked to the edge of the city, and stand before the tallest stretch of the wall, the barrier to the forest, to another realm, to a life you had left behind long before you were brave enough to admit you had.

Freydis doesn’t say anything, taking you to her home with the same ease as that night when she guided you through darkened streets to the place where you could cross that barrier and embrace your oldest friend and remember what the warmth of Eleusis felt like.

You stand in the small and humble home, and you cannot keep the words from your lips,

“You saw Zephyr, you saw the...the falcon, right?”

“I did,” She confirms, unwaveringly honest as she adds, “I went past the walls, I met the woman. Galla.”

That she did what you did not should hurt you, should make the pit of shame and guilt at the base of your stomach grow tighter, but you only have breath for one question,  

“D-Did she tell you why she was here? What did they need, wh-…?”

“She is well, and so are the rest, as far as she told me,” At her silence you almost want to ask for more, but the blonde is quicker, and explains, “That is all you need to know. That is all you want to know.”

You drop down on the chair behind you, your head held in your hands and your breaths shaking their way past your lips.

“That’s unfair.” You say, but she remains impassive, unnerving you.

“You could have gone to them, but you didn’t.”

“No,” You are forced to accept, the word leaving your lips in a breath. Lifting your head, you state, “Freydis, I-…they needed me, and I…”

“And you stayed with him.” Freydis finishes for you, but there isn’t bite in her tone, there isn’t an accusation. You almost wish there were.

You grit your teeth at the sob that threatens to break free, but pride and something else keep you from closing your eyes tight, stubborn resilience and something else make you straighten your back and raise your chin.

“I did.”

Freydis betrays a smile. It is faint, it is still tainted with something like pain and something hidden.

“And do you regret it?”

And past the loss of the familiar, past the unsteadiness of walking without chains, past the guilt of making a choice…you smile.

The answer that leaves your lips is unwavering, “No.”

The blonde’s smile widens, and her eyes crinkle a little bit when she does, dark blue shining more vibrant than you have seen in a long time.

“You chose, and you chose him.”

“I did.” You tell her, smile wobbling but honest.

She sits down in front of you, voice quiet and eyes on yours with an openness born out of too many similar scars. Her hand grasps yours and she squeezes tightly.

“Freedom is a terrifying thing, isn’t it?”

____

You find yourself following your routine -the world didn’t shake, or tremble, or change- and you enter the apothecary home, grateful for the reprieve from the biting cold of Kattegat’s winter.

“Witch!” Valdís calls out, her grudge against you for making Aghi insist that his mother dip him in the river like Thetis did to Achilles seemingly forgotten for the time being.

You greet her with a smile, and as she tells you she is working on some remedies for fever for a family near the outskirts of Kattegat whose five children came down with a sickness due to the winter; you sit next to her and start helping.

“My boy has stopped insisting I drown him in some river, by the way.”

“It is not drowning, it i-…”

“I really don’t care, witch,” She interrupts, but there’s jest in her tone, not malice, and you only roll your eyes at her, but still smile. The shieldmaiden chuckles, “At least he has forgotten about that, and about threatening the sun with arrows. Aghi won’t let go about that boat of black sails, though.”

“Theseus?”

“The idiot that forgot to change the sails for white ones.”

Gods, for a moment it is like talking with Sieghild once again.

With a nod of your head, you confirm, “Theseus.”

Valdís shares a reluctant smile with you, fond exasperation in her pale gaze.

“Frigg help me, my boy will go raiding one day and insist they put white sails on his boats.”

For the first time you let yourself imagine it, seeing Valdís’ son grow to become a man. Seeing him go raid and explore when the time comes.

Unbidden, Aghi’s image in your mind is replaced by images of children of your own, children that too will one day grow and go raid and explore, maybe alongside their father, maybe even alongside Aghi.

And maybe they will insist on putting white sails on their boats for the sake of their foreign woman of a mother that waits for them to return.

And for once the dream doesn’t seem impossible, for once the hope doesn’t have to fight against nostalgia.

____ ____ ____

Soooo...? I’m really curious to know whether her choice surprised you or not tbh

Of course, there’s the particular aspect of telling him, but she’ll get there. Let it be known that she tried to tell him, but he didn’t wanna hear it bc pessimism. Anyhow, I hope this was okay, I’m not so sure but I hope it’s just my insecurity talking. Thank you for reading!

You can find the second part of today’s update, Chapter 40, right here!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick @punkrocknpearls @ietss   @itsmysticalmystery @revolution-starter @chibisgotovalhalla @the-a-word-2214​ @fae-sedai​ @crazybunnyladysworld​   @funmadnessandbadassvikings @stupiddarkkside  

[melancholia-cressa]

Weakness

So, one random morning, I was listening to a certain song for the first time. Once the lyrics sunk in, I just had this idea for a Dio and female reader-insert fic. Hope you enjoy it, even if I do hate the guy lmao.

warning: angst, implied child abandonment, mentions of blood and death, swearing, and minor spoilers for those who have not finished Part 1

Addendum: I actually forgot to mention that I based my interpretation of Dio's personality and thought process mostly from the Over Heaven light novel. It's a good read and it helps you understand his character better, so I say give it a shot

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"How many times has it been this week?"

Dio grunted, turning his cheek away from the girl in front of him. Your arms were crossed over your chest with a brow quirked in a silent question. He felt the bruise on his cheek sting and smart by the slightest brush of the wind. If anything, the painful sensation was intensified by your glare. His tongue flicked over the cut on his lip in a fruitless attempt to wipe off the blood. Your exasperated sigh reached his ears; nothing more than a whisper in the breeze.

"Come here, you stubborn mule." Before Dio knew it, you had grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the bustling streets of urban London. Passersby didn't spare a glance for the two teenagers dressed in soiled commoner clothes.

Dio, hoping to spare himself from the embarrassment of allowing a girl to drag him around, watched the crowd go about their mundane activities. Women gossiped with each other, hands covering their mouths to stifle scandalized gasps, while men languidly talked about adult matters—business and what other dull subjects they had in mind. His gaze drifted to the hollowed junction between a clothing shop frequented by aristocrats and an apothecary that had seen better days. The blond already sensed the death and neglect in the air before the sight made his skin crawl. He caught a glimpse of a man in tattered rags whose back hunched over, shoulders sagging from the weight of his head tucked towards his chest. His hand loosely held the neck of a bottle of booze, empty and hidden in the shadows. The hairs on the nape of Dio's neck stood on end, but a harsh tug from you brought him back to reality.

"We're almost there," you told him. You looked at him from the corner of your eye before focusing on the road ahead. Your hand, small and thin with a bony wrist, squeezed his arm before abruptly jostling through the crowd. The throng of people parted, cleaving a path towards the outskirts of the city. Dio scowled, directing his attention to the cobblestone path and ignoring the pain blossoming in the palm of his clenched fist. Murmurs from the socialites rang as clear as the church bells, but you paid no mind to it. Something about your indifference made his indignation and annoyance worsen; his blood dangerously close to boiling over what little patience he had. Another squeeze of his arm and a quick glance from you told him this was a losing battle, one he had never won before. With a scoff, Dio grudgingly remained silent and continued to let you drag him.

From how long Dio knew you and vice versa, he wouldn't be surprised if you somehow noticed his apprehension and discomfort. He never understood why you went out of your way to help him. The first time he met you, Dio had slapped your hand away when you tried to help him off the ground. He expected you to either cry or throw a tantrum, like all the other girls he observed from his time in the slums, but you didn't. Instead, you looked him in the eye with a glimmer of emotion Dio couldn't describe.

"Sod off. I'm helping you, and that's that." The look in your eyes remained even when you roughly pulled him up and dragged him back to your home to tend to his bruises and cuts. Now, here he was again, being dragged by you and your insufferable pity suffocating him. Its spindly fingers ghosted over his neck, which uncomfortably tickled his skin; sharp nails poking the soft flesh that one squeeze could puncture it. Every time your eyes met his, Dio could see the swirl of indiscernible feelings in your gaze, forlorn and soft, just like his deceased mother's. The one who died thinking about others on her deathbed and wishing his son to do the same. The woman who lost her life in return for compassion and kindness. You resembled his mother—the gentle grasp on his arm, the feather-light brush of fingers tucking a lock of his hair behind his ear, the small smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes, the warmth in them—to the point where he found it disgusting and wretched.

He hated it, everything about you, but why did he still keep you around?

The cold, trickling sensation that dripped down his cheek made him jump in his seat. A cough echoed in his ears, followed by a faint snort that told him someone refrained from laughing at him. The corners of your eyes wrinkled in mirth while you held a cold, wet rag to his bruised cheek. He must have looked comically bewildered because you stuffed a fist over your mouth to keep in your giggles. A frown tugged the corners of Dio’s lips as his brows furrowed.

“What are you laughing about?”

“Oh, nothing,” you hummed. Your free hand grabbed his to replace the other one holding the cold rag, ��Hold still while I get some more ice from the ice box.”

With that, you left with your skirt swishing from the rush towards the kitchen. A grunt rang in the living space, courtesy of the blond begrudgingly holding the cool cloth to his bruise. Upon looking around, he noted that nothing much had changed from the last time he was here (which was around a week). Moth-eaten curtains hid the windows, most likely coated in dust and grime, and the floorboards creaked at every step you took. The wooden chair he sat on felt cold and sturdy, indicating how you rarely sat on it due to your apprenticeship in the city, while the table across him bore scratches hidden under a doily you embroidered. A basket with a few apples and grapes tempted him, but he didn’t act on it. The house, smaller than his own, is located on the outskirts of the city, and he still couldn’t understand how you lived here by yourself like this. Knowing that women can’t own property of their own, Dio had asked you a question: how did you keep the house to yourself?

“I lie about father sending me on errands,” was your simple reply despite the fact that your parents were long gone. One morning, Dio had found you dragging your feet in the streets and, when you had suddenly leaned into him, the quiet sniffles told him everything. He had taken you home that night—damn his father, he never even cared where he went as long as he brought back a bottle of alcohol—and stayed upon your request. The moment he led you to your room, glimpses from an open door showed him emptied drawers and a barren wardrobe. A drawer box was left hanging from its cabinet, as if it was pulled out in haste. The candle was barely touched. Its wick remained spotless and barely any wax dripped down the candle holder atop the cabinet. He didn’t need to see the rest of the room to know what happened.

His ten-year-old mind didn’t know why he stayed, much less took you back to a cold, lifeless house. Yet, he did all that and more—he kept you by his side without a single, logical reason. You didn’t follow him around like a lost puppy would. If anything, he seemed to be the one drifting anywhere near you. He would wander the slums and traipse through the bars for scraps, mostly booze for his deadbeat father, then his gaze would land on you. You were there every single time, whether it was for apprentice work in that dress shop or buying bread in the bakery, and it drove him mad. Dio, the one who survived alone in this shitty reality of his, subconsciously seeking your company like a besotted fool. The very thought makes him scoff and laugh. Every time he asked himself about these coincidences, he came up blank. His mind conjured nothing but the image of your tear-stained face and the devastation that set itself in place of your usual smile.

Dio didn’t know why, but he’d rather not see you in that condition again. Never.

The creaking floorboards announced your arrival. With a sweeping flourish, you switched the warming rag with a new one wrapped around ice and firmly pressed it to his cheek. Dio hissed, throwing you a venomous glare at the amused smirk on your face. You shrugged, the damning smirk remained, and only laughed when he ripped your hand off the rag to grasp it on his own.

“Stop acting like a child,” you tutted, mocking him as if he was the child in the situation. Heat crept up his neck and ears, skin flushing a slight red. Whether it was from embarrassment or indignation, he didn’t know. All he knew was the annoyance fluttering in his stomach and the twitch of his fingers, ready to smack your hand away should it be necessary. Another laugh came from you, and the fluttering feeling increased tenfold.

“We are children. Speak for yourself,” Dio snarled, but this only earned him another smile from you. The soft, small one that always resembled his mother’s.

He hated it, how you sorely reminded him of his mother, but why won’t he leave?

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“Oh, aren’t you…”

Your wide eyes shifted into crescents, a smile gracing your lips, as you told Jonathan your name. The blue-haired aristocrat gently took your hand and kissed its knuckles, which caught you by surprise. The slight flush of your cheeks said it all. Dio could feel his eye twitch at the predicament unfolding in front of him.

Is this what it felt like when God has forsaken you? Not that Dio believed in the supernatural, but it best captured his feelings at the moment.

He coughed into his fist, diverting your attention away from his stepbrother, and asked as nonchalantly as he could, “I thought you’d be working in the dress shop today? You told me you couldn’t come to the rugby game.”

“Oh, w-well…” You trailed off, fiddling with your thumbs and looking away from the blond. You gnawed your bottom lip, a tic Dio associated with nerves, as your eyes flitted between him and Jonathan. Somehow, this irked him more than it should. Jonathan watched the scene in curiosity, only recognizing you from the time he had seen twelve-year-old Dio walk after you in the city once. The oblivious boy asked about you, and Dio immediately glared at him until he was cowed into silence. Dio was about to demand an answer—childish, really, but his patience was being tested—until you finally answered him.

“Mrs. Smith allowed me to leave early—” once she knew you were playing, was what you thought but chose not to divulge that information—“so here I am.”

Dio let out an amused huff, the swell of relief almost choking him, “Well, what did you think of the game then?”

You hummed, placing a hand on your cheek with a mock thoughtful expression. Dio subconsciously tapped his shoe on the grass as he awaited your response. The raucous beating of his heart dulled his senses the longer you mused, which wasn’t that long in all honesty. It only took a mere three seconds before you spoke.

“I think you and Jonathan were amazing. I would have never expected him to pass the ball to you, then you taking the winning score.”

Dio would have basked in your compliment, which was a rare occurrence unfortunately, if it weren’t for the fact that Jonathan was included in it. Regardless, he sported a triumphant grin and clapped you on the shoulder with a hearty laugh. Your eyes widened in surprise, but this had gone unnoticed by Jonathan, who knew nothing of your relationship with Dio, and the man himself. The confusion swarming your mind remained even when Jonathan bashfully grinned and expressed his gratitude.

“Oh! Well, thank you, but this victory is all because of Dio,” he told you. You sighed, knowing that would stroke Dio’s ego, but the latter felt his heart stutter at the sight of your smile. If he didn’t despise Jonathan and plotted to take the Joestar fortune for himself, then he would have been grateful to Jonathan at the moment. That was not the case, but he took the compliment in stride with a boastful grin.

Unfortunately, his heart dropped when you dismissed it with a wave. “Nonsense! You deserve the recognition as much as he does!”

It felt wrong seeing you smile at Jonathan; the one that always reminded him of his mother. His blood simmered under his skin as his jaw clenched, teeth painfully grinding together. His heart hammered in his chest; mind screaming and urging him to lead you away from the spoiled, ignorant Joestar. He didn’t like this: how you and Jonathan are in the same space and breathing the same air. He felt those ghostly fingers grip his throat and prick his skin, the phantom sensation of nails scratching the sensitive area. Yet, he kept the polite smile and the pretense that he’s friends with his stepbrother. Dio Brando will get everything he wants soon. He can’t afford to ruin his carefully sculpted plan all because of a girl.

You are not worth the repercussions.

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“How many times has it been this week?” You smiled, but the disgust and spite associated with the expression disappeared in a sharp inhale from Dio.

Blood stained your dress, splattered over your skirt and apron, as your fingers clutched at the arm embedded in your torso. Drops of blood found their way to your boots, the worn leather speckled with scarlet dots. A cough sent a spurt of blood to dribble down the corner of your lips as a terrified cry of your name echoed in the hall. Jonathan—it was Jonathan’s voice, followed by the voices of his companions Dio didn’t even bother to acknowledge. The muted horror of what he had done registered in his mind, and the blond vampire immediately ripped his arm away from you. The force propelled your body forward, falling towards the stone floor of the castle, but an arm hooked itself around your waist.

“You bloody idiot,” Dio hissed, dropping to his knees from the momentum of capturing you. One of his hands cradled your head, fingers buried into your hair, while the other held your body flush against his chest. “You bloody fucking idiot.”

“How many times have you taken lives this week?” Your voice warbled, hints of melancholy in your teasing tone. Dio briefly barked orders for the zombies to attack Jonathan and his comrades before he returned his attention to you. His heart clenched, cracks starting to form at the unsightly hole in your stomach, but his rage at what you have done made his mouth run.

“Why?” One of his arms supported your back, gripping you closer in a futile attempt at clinging to your life. He had no warmth—no comfort to spare for your dying body. It was the first and only time Dio cursed the consequences of his immortality, but he couldn’t dwell on that now. Not when you, the girl he had known since childhood and the one he shared a strange bond with, were waning between the realm of life and death. You looked at him, and Dio’s rage grew at the soft smile still on your face. It spoke of promises and hope, the things Dio had forsaken ever since his mother died and his father began to further drive a stake into his future.

They were empty and meaningless, but not with you.

“Why?!” He demanded, visibly trembling at your silence. Dio didn’t need to elaborate. You knew what he wanted to know. He wanted to know why you jumped in front of Jonathan to take the hit. The light in your eyes began to dim, but you shakily placed a hand on his cheek. The same bruised cheek you had tended to before his father died and he had been adopted by the Joestars. The memory made Dio shudder and he moved to evade your touch, but you stubbornly clasped his cheek with the remaining strength your fragile, bleeding body had.

“Should there be a reason?” You rasped, chuckling a little. The gesture resulted in another harsh cough and more blood to spill from your mouth. The red coated your lips akin to the lipstick of those aristocrat beauties Dio observed during the parties George Joestar hosted. The color mocked him, taunting him for his dependence on the wretched substance. The vampire’s eyes widened, then narrowed into slits. The rage festering inside him threatened to break through his cool façade. He was about to snap at you for your foolish remark when your thumb ghosted over the skin under his eye.

"This is a first," you whispered, chest heaving and eyes flickering between dark and light. "I thought I'd never see the day you'd cry."

"Save your breath," Dio fumed, cursing once more for the obvious tremor in his voice. "Just save your strength. I can save you—just—"

"Silly boy," your smile grew as you looked into Dio's eyes, finding semblances of the bruised boy you had bumped into when you first met. "I wish you wouldn't look at me like that, or I might regret my decision."

Before Dio could say anything, scream at you for your audacity in your last moments, your lips brushed against his cheek. His breath hitched and his hold on you slackened the tiniest bit. He felt your lashes flutter over his pale skin, the receding warmth of your body, and the dainty caress of your hands on his cheeks. Faintly, in the back of his mind, he yearned for more. Dio yearned for more time with you—to relive the days when you two were nothing but gullible children in a world dominated by greed and power-hungry beasts lurking beneath beautiful masks.

The moment shattered when your body sagged against him; your head lolled to the side and unceremoniously bumped against his shoulder. The blood from your lips marred his skin, but he paid no mind to it. His hands scrambled to hold you—keep you close to him—as his breath came in short, panicked bursts. Dio didn't care if he looked like an idiot in front of his army. He didn't care if Jonathan and his parade of fools saw him in his moment of weakness.

He only cared about you.

He lifted a hand, shoulders shaking a bit, to take a look at your face. The soft smile you always adorned, one that lit your expression, now painted itself on your pallid complexion. Your eyes remained close, and you looked nothing but peaceful the moment you died in his arms. The blood on your clothes and the hole he created didn't deter nor ruin your blissful image. He hated it. He always hated that smile.

It was the same smile his mother gave him before she died.

The ghostly, spindly appendages found their way around his neck. They ruptured his skin and crushed his throat as the back of his eyes stung. A lone tear dripped down his cheek and landed on your own, devoid of the flush it once had when you were still alive. A silent, choked sob slipped past his lips and he brought you closer; his nails digging into your arm from how tight he gripped your corpse. He brought your face into the crook of his neck. Dio couldn't bring himself to look at you, knowing what you meant by your last words.

You wanted to die as a human. This thought made him curl his body over yours, shielding the ghastly sight of your corpse from the others, if only to provide him some sense of comfort that you didn't shun him. You never did, not when you saw him discard his humanity and not even when you decided to join Jonathan to search for him. Dio never understood why you'd follow him to the ends of the earth. He never understood why you didn't leave him when he chose to become immortal. He never found the answers to these questions. Although, he understood why he never left you—he saw himself in you, a girl abandoned by her family and scorned by society. Dio couldn't find it in himself to leave you; his pride prevented him from stooping to their level. There was another reason, but the crushing weight of this revelation only served to choke him in his guilt-ridden wrath.

He loves you.