#and then any time a woman just lets her hair exist naturally it becomes a huge statement

[jakeperalta]

it's actually so fucked how it's taken as a given that women will dye their hair the moment it goes grey until they're ready to be disregarded as an old lady by society. like even women who have no interest in things like fillers and botox will spend decades regularly spending money to have a bunch of chemicals put in their hair because it's so automatic that it's barely even a choice

[eldritch-spouse]

i-is it possible to get the full, delicious sex scene of this? uwu 'cause the idea of kalymir taking y/n frantically due to her matching his angel-killing-and-woman-in-robes-dream is so fucking hawttt https://eldritch-spouse.tumblr.com/post/769523379185319936/pinnie-pinnie-pinnie-pie-i-thought-of

[Yahoo, pain time!]

TW: NONCON; Gore; blood loss; delusional states; panic attacks; unhygienic moments; Kalymir's caps lock.

You didn't really have time to prepare.

It makes you think about how wars start, at times. How, in some circumstances, people are just outside performing their daily routines, before being subjected to unimaginable horrors at the hands of a force they'd never guess would show up.

Humans and monsters alike have always been tempted, it's natural, it's what leads to deals being established with those who aren't native to the surface. There had been rumors your city was hardly any different, and you've always thought that one day there might be consequences for the figures in power who think they can flirt with the fires- Pull the wool over the eyes of creatures who were made to deceive. Stories of high-ranking beasts unleashing punishment on those who break contracts always terrified you as a child.

There was no way to force judgement on them, their laws are different than ours, you sign and receive your goods on their terms, so any violations of protocol are also dealt with on their terms.

For all that childish fear your parents worked so hard to eventually snap out of you, they must be tearing their hairs off by now.

Because the very city you live in has angered a being so foul and tremendous that you felt the ground heat and shake before they even emerged.

Your night terrors couldn't have made this justice.

As screams rang ever closer, drowned out by belted roars and the horrid sounds of flesh being zipped apart, time seemed to slow down to a wounded crawl. You had barely the energy to breathe, forcing your head up towards the epicenter of the ruckus.

One look at him was enough to clamp your windpipe shut with terror. A sensation of vulnerability and hopelessness so nauseating that, when it finished raking down your spine, your stomach tightened into a marble and you held back your dinner.

That's no high-ranker.

That is so much more.

One of them. The embodiments, the focus points of each Ring, the demons who syphon all the sin around them like endless black holes of power. To provoke one of these things is to cast despair upon everything and everyone you've ever known.

This city will be nothing more than a corpse pile when he's done with it.

His generals -if you can call them that- spread out in a circle of gleeful gore. Smashing into crowds, letting no one escape their savagery and going as far as to toss each other people, playing volleyball with the lives of those they shame as weaklings. They seem equally as uncoordinated as they do strategic, hysteric with the freedom to cause as much death as possible yet still sharp enough to let none weasel out.

You've never seen a street get painted in red so fast.

Whatever chants and howls they emit do nothing but cause a ringing to take over your ears, buzzing into your brain. You can't even feel the tears running down your face.

You're outside of yourself in that moment. No longer a bystander in the massacre unfolding, you exist in a separate layer, watching it from above, everything muted to a much more bearable level.

Only the persistent, foggy sensation of touch keeps breaking that barrier. You try to shake it off, to ignore it, but it succeeds.

With a blink, the stench of innards and blood fills your lungs. You've become wet with crimson, things are now on fire. The force at your left ankle tugs again, some kind of gargle following, making you instinctively kick hard at whatever's grabbing you.

It was a man.

It is a man, more dead than alive, his lower body hanging but by a thread to the rest of him, so disfigured that you're sure adrenaline is the only thing powering his leaking, crushed body. When the force of your outburst makes him roll back, he heaves wordlessly, what you can only describe as a massive clot of blood pops out of his dismantled jaw. He stops moving.

And you vomit.

The shriek you let out felt like daggers through your acid-burned throat.

Louder still manage to be the cackles of the demons around, stopping to stare and taunt as if you're no more than a silly clown.

This mess, unfortunately, raises the attention of the entity you least want to think about. A spiked head bolts towards the general direction of the commotion, gluing itself to the miserable sight of you immediately.

Both of you freeze in burning time.

Where are his eyes...? A gaze of scorching intensity fixes you in place, but for the love of you, there seem to be no eyes on his gnarled face, just streaks of marred skin descending from a depraved crown of horns, and exposed teeth.

Aside from his hulking height, you can only focus on the sharp protrusions coming from his chest, the ones torn off his back and regrowing steadily, stalagmites of what you might guess to be bone. You wonder, briefly, sickly, if some of the scars on his form are from tearing these growths off.

When the rest of his body turns, when one heavy clawed foot steps forth, towards you, it must be towards you- It takes too long for you to react.

One step. Two steps. Three steps.

Something like incredulity in the way he moves, but not quite hesitation.

Then sprinting.

Even if the whole city were between you, it wouldn't feel like enough distance was established.

Your heart begins thunderously pumping blood everywhere, limbs throbbing with the energy of a lone rabbit in a wolf's den before blind instinct takes a hold of you.

You run faster than you ever have your entire life. Faster than you ever thought you'd be able to.

Frantic legs carry you through sharp debris that stab through your shoes, tripping past corpses and obstacles without landing on your face, dashing and batting everything away with no clear goal. You dare not scream, saving every bit of air for the blood cells racing in your organism.

Large wrathful demons mockingly stand aside, going as far as to cheer -Not that you can hear much with the ringing of your panicked ears- You don't need sound to feel the thump of gargantuan footsteps behind you.

Your chest tightens, physical effort making you spit like an animal when gasps become desperate inhales.

He's too fast, too large, too much- You're going to die.

A swipe of claws across your back disorients you, ripping through your shirt and leaving bleeding welts in its wake. Like a whipped horse, you can only try to run faster.

Not fast enough, however.

Maybe it's because you're in debilitating panic, maybe just because you could never physically compete with such a creature, but everything starts hurting, the muscles in your legs almost pulling wrong, slowing you down, the pain in your chest now a raging headache.

You could have never escaped the shove that throws you to the ground.

Didn't even have the energy to shield yourself.

A wave of agony spreads through your whole face when you make contact with concrete, you fear you might have broken something when blood bubbles from your nose.

" FINALLY. "

His voice barrels through your entire body. He doesn't sound one bit exhausted, not even strained, just mortifyingly excited.

The demonlord rolls you over without a crumb of resistance, your open-mouthed, panting visage weakly staring upwards.

Towering over you is death himself, you don't waste time thinking about how he'll torture you for his own amusement. You don't think at all, waiting for the first blow. Will he kick your ribs in? While he crush your face with a foot? Will he pick you up and twist you in two?

Instead, the massive monster tries to pull you up by the already torn collar of your shirt, growling when that doesn't work. He tears it off brutally, knocking out the air you'd been trying to catch. You're yanked up by the arms instead, likely because if he did that to your neck, your head would have popped clean off.

" WHY AREN'T YOU WEARING YOUR ROBES?! "

...

Robes?

A terrified mind races to understand.

You've never once come in contact with him, he's mistaking you for someone else.

The pain coursing through your arms and shoulders only allows you to grunt, not that he seems very intent in getting an actual response from you.

The Icon of Wrath looks around, easily throwing you onto something hard and vaguely chipped. You realize it must be hood of a car, perhaps a truck, from the way it squeaked upon impact.

No time is wasted as he traps you there, studying you for a pause. There's the sound of something slapping onto the ground, though you can't possibly see it from this angle. In fact, all you can see is his intimidating physique casting darkness upon you.

" THE FOOL I WAS. TO THINK YOU'D COME TO ME IN THE PERFECT CONDITIONS... "

You shiver, though it has nothing to do with temperature.

Something about the way you're being regarded screams trouble is coming. A whole new type of fear encompasses you.

" WHY HERE, OF ALL PLACES?! " A balled up fist slams so hard against the car hood that you're jostled up for a moment. " YOUR HOME IS NOT WITH THESE MAGGOTS! YOU BELONG IN WRATH, MADE AS MY TROPHY FOR THE AGE OF BLOOD I'LL BRING FORTH. "

What can your shaking mind even respond with?

" ... W... What? "

He doesn't deign your squeak of a noise worthy of attention, this rumbling sound emitting from his chest, loud and low, the rattle of a satisfied predator. All at once, he uses both hands to grab the hem of your pants, lifting your lower body when he tugs up and rends the fabric apart, easily peeling it out from under you.

Animal instinct kicks in before you even confirm the gravity of the situation, flailing and kicking with sore muscles.

The beast laughs, this racuous sound devoid of any care, amused, easily holding you down by the midsection while his dominant hand comes to rip senselessly at your shoes, your underwear, your bra. All of it goes flying back. You don't even notice the shards of glass that have stabbed into the soles of your foot.

" Stop! Stop! " The scream rips out your throat, a pathetic sob.

" YES... " He nods, confirming something to himself at the sight of your now bare body. You realize idly that he's allowing you to scratch and hit however you please, entirely unfazed.

Incredulously, disgustingly, he strokes a hand upon his dark, blood-soaked skin, then slaps a warm wet paw over your body. You don't understand what's happening until both meaty hands are caking you in blood.

There's a different quality to his breathing as he paints you in red, it becomes harsher, his chest heaves like a bull about to charge. The knowing revulsion within you causes you to jerk and attempt to weasel away, but every time you get on his nerves too much, he lifts and slams you against the car.

The third time he does that, a sting spreads across your spine, vision swimming. You decide it might not be a good idea to encourage this. It's all you can do not to shake too much while warm and sticky crimson is spread all over your form. He seems to be thinking as he does this, trying to imitate some kind of pattern, deciding the zones where you should be most covered in the gross, foul-smelling results of his slaughter.

Whose blood is this? Your neighbors'? Your friends'?

A bit of it wedges past your lips, you're glad your stomach has already flipped everything it had.

When he passes by your tits, both hands squeeze and roll too hard, catching your nipples in a sharp pinch that zings through your whole figure. Desperation has you opening your mouth to say something pointless, to plea, to cry, but all it does is whimper when you take note of the growth bulging his unique loincloth.

With neither shame nor hesitation, as soon as he notices where your gaze has fallen, the massive monster uses one hand to untie the cloth, toss it aside, revealing a length that nearly makes you feel lightheaded.

It's not just the comparative size, something he seems very eager to display, it's the barbs flaring underneath, no doubt meant to tear into any hole he claims and anchor his cock as deep as possible. The mental image of your body stretching disgustingly to accommodate it is sickening. He looks incredibly hard, you're sure that there's no give to his shaft, that it's heavy and unmanageable for most partners he attains.

Partners... As if this beast doesn't just grab people randomly like he's doing to you.

There's a snort, you realize he's studying the newfound horror on your face.

" YOU DON'T REMEMBER ME. " It's not a question. " I'LL JOG YOUR MEMORY, WHEN I RATTLE THAT FUCKING BRAIN OF YOURS- "

" H- Hu-?! "

In a blink, the Icon is blanketing you in a suffocating closeness, panting against your face as the hand that isn't pinning you by the ribcage darts to his cock and pumps aggressively. While the lurid sound haunts your ears, all you can focus on are his misaligned blade-like teeth. The bits of flesh caught between them when he no doubt bit sections out of people. A dark tongue hovers behind them, wet with drool and shimmering in excitement. His breath is far from pleasant, though there's hardly a way to escape it.

When your head turns in an attempt to abstract from the situation, he forces it back in place and hunches further to lick the mess on your ruined face. A scratchy, far too hot sensation that claims the red he previously caked you in, then bridges over your nose to collect the river that flowed from it when you fell.

The god-awful agony of that location being nudged has a scream belt out of you. Flailing legs thump uselessly against his thighs, your foot nudging his dick at some point. Fuck if he cares. All force you have goes into slapping and scratching at his head, another fruitless effort seeing as he doesn't even flinch. It gets him to stop assaulting your face, to bite your right hand instead.

It wasn't too hard. You know he has the force to tear it right off, to sever all those ligaments and tissue. All he does is give you a taste, aggravate your suffering, cackling at your shriek.

It feels like your extremity's been crushed, fingers struggling to move when a frightening numbness sets in.

Your intact hand has no direction and no goal, furiously swiping at his neck in hopes that it would get him to back away. You mostly succeed in chipping nails.

The demon groans however, apparently incensed by the effort.

" FIESTY LITTLE FUCKTOY CAN'T WAIT FOR MY COCK, CAN YOU? "

...

He's interpreting your fight in the worst way possible.

" I'LL MAKE SURE IT'S ALL YOU GET WHEN WE'RE HOME. "

Home? Home?!

As soon as your bitten hand regains some feeling, the avalanche of trepidation within you just at the implication of being taken to Hell -to this beast's dwelling- makes you swing as swiftly as you can towards his jaw. A punch that pops the fluid between your aching joints yet hardly molds his rictus.

You try everything. Bruising your arms, letting the pain flare through them. There's little hope in your motions by the time you curl both fists around the horns sticking out his head, yanking aimlessly.

" TEAR THEM OFF! " He demands, the want in his insufferable voice utterly transparent.

You can't.

You pull and twist and try to snap them off his skull, but the protrusions stay lodged there as a crown of morbid victory.

" BAH- THE SURFACE HAS MADE YOU WEAK. ANOTHER THING I'LL HAVE TO FIX. "

The demonlord's disappointment is palpable, though enthusiasm quickly replaces it, you can't disappoint him enough to avoid being assaulted, it seems.

His focus shifts to your nethers. You're anything but wet, though he pays no mind to it, suddenly pushing your hips apart so he can frame your pussy.

" TINY FUCKING THING. " He chuckles, observing your fear-clenched hole.

Clawed thumbs trace the rift of your entrance casually, on occasion nudging the bud above in lazy rolls. It's not as if you wish to get aroused, the amount of pressure he uses behind every motion is just inescapably stimulating. The first jolt of your hips, entirely reflexive, is rewarded with a wanton hum.

He slips a thumb inside with some resistance, then the other. You can only wince at the stretch, alarmingly aware of how those claws might slice through your vaginal walls if you shake too much. The fear causes you to tighten further, a painful feedback of sensation that appears to excite him.

A visceral hiss escapes through the gaps between your teeth when he pulls, spreading you out forcibly and mercilessly.

With no inch of lubrication to be found, a burning Hell settles and you start crying quietly again.

" I NEVER GOT A GOOD LOOK AT YOUR CUNT BEFORE... WONDER IF IT'LL FEEL BETTER! "

And that's all you get.

Hot-flashes have you sweating when his thumbs finally leave you alone. A thick tongue swings around, preparing a ball of spit that unceremoniously lashes against your genitals. You realize then that his spit is the only semblance of help you'll have to handle that torture device of a cock.

He slaps it on top of your mound, and you don't look down.

You don't want to see how much he'll hollow you out, don't want to see where it reaches, don't want to think about the weight and heat of it on top of your skin.

Your body... Your poor body. What evil did you commit to warrant this?

" I WANT YOU TO SCREECH MY NAME, THE SAME WAY YOU DID IN MY VISIONS. " He giddily reveals, dragging himself lower to line up properly. A foul maw leans to snarl in your ear. " KALYMIR. "

The sound echoes in your mind, adding to the stab of terror when the tip of his much-too-large dick prods at your entrance. You can't breathe, for a second, wondering how he thinks this is actually going to work, morbidly questioning if this is really how you'll die.

As soon as trepidation releases your lungs and the first crack of pain from his pushing arises, you babble hysterically.

" Stop! Oh God stop- I'm gonna die! "

Kalymir does pause, likely because the sound of fear must be arousing to him in some way. He's already smirking before you even say another word.

" Listen- I'll do anything, please I'll do anything, anything you want- "

" HAH. " Bold teeth get a coating of saliva, one brutish hand holding onto your neck just hard enough to silence the rest of your whining. " I WANT YOUR HOLES AROUND ME. "

Perhaps it was a small mercy that he rammed into you.

Maybe, if he was less excited, he'd have taken his sweet time pushing inside, dragging out the pain until your throat is hoarse from screaming.

All you feel is a flash of indescribable agony, vision going black and body tensing like a coil about to break. There's no direction to go and nothing comforting to hold onto as Kalymir's member carves its place within you.

This must be how vivisected bugs feel.

Writhing is all you're allowed.

Distantly, you realize you're bleeding. You can sense the way your torn body tries to lessen the pain, tries to lubricate itself, tries to contract in pulses meant to shove him out, yet only cause him to groan happily.

Every single time Kalymir throbs inside you, he presses into everything and offers a contradicting mix of feedback. There's the scorching of your poor insides begging you to remove the unwanted intrusion, and the creeping pleasure of sensitive spots being crushed into submission.

The monster himself looks vaguely out of breath, drooling openly onto your stomach while he recovers from the suffocating hold your body has around him. Kalymir cants his hips to somehow slide more of himself inside you, but there's no space left, he merely ends up sliding you back.

" LOOSEN UP ALREADY- " The Icon huffs, a note of incredible cruelty following. " OR WILL I HAVE TO FUCK YOU OPEN? "

You know those barbs aren't in use when he pulls back, and thankfully, your insides don't shred into ribbons.

There's no describing the vacant sensation of his retraction. The split second where air chills your abused hole as it tries to pitifully shrink anew, only to be rammed wide again in yet another nauseating piston.

He's too hot to handle, too rough, the mere contact of his war-hardened hide against your skin causes scratches and rashes from unrequited friction.

You wish you were wet. Maybe you are, but it's hardly enough. Only blood can periodically ease the torment of his jarring, mercilessly mechanic thursting. The truck hood bounces while he damn near crushes you to the vehicle, frantic claws finding purchase on squealing metal, perhaps mocking your own cries of pain.

The stimulus becomes too much.

No matter how hard you might want to alienate your mind from the situation, he won't let you. Kalymir's barking comments, the way he'll clumsily paw and grip at your softer sections, the press of teeth around a bare neck- It all stabs alertness into you, forces a figh or flight heave of primal panic whenever you so much as manage to vaguely dissociate.

Perhaps you instinctively can't abstract from this torment at all.

Kalymir yanks at your soul, chewing and tearing into it, all-demanding and all-consuming.

There's no escape from what's being done to you.

A confused body, unable to escape, fights for a different kind of preservation by drowning you in waves of arousal. It's unavoidable, you think through the slightly muted burning, it's predictable. You don't care to stifle the way your cries have shifted, don't try to mask twitching legs and curling toes.

You don't want this, you never wanted this, whatever is forced upon you isn't evidence that your mind has changed.

You just want it to end, really.

Ignoring your own creeping orgasm is impossible, though you try to focus on breathing evenly, shoving away his snarls of pleasure by listening to the squeak of the vehicle beneath you.

You're not too sure what you screamed when he hilted inside you in a telltale erratic grind, when you were claimed in a way so vile it chilled your bones. When it seeped out of your ruined orifice, onto the car, a pinkish hue that reminds you of sickly discharge.

The rest of it coated you, the monster grinning and huffing with pride at his work.

At this point, most of the pain you feel has become unreachable, replaced by an ambiguous throb of physical exhaustion and trauma. You cannot move, as if your limbs were made of cement and your back had rooted itself to the metal contraption beneath.

Yet your eyes still find Kalymir's face.

Inside them, burns an animal rage that creases your complexion into something borderline inhuman.

This demon will die by your hands.

Kalymir must have felt the silent, sweltering fury showering you from head to toe, releasing a delighted swoon as he picks you up like a soaked rag.

You wonder what Hell is like.

[marzipanandminutiae]

I'm pulling you back onstage, what's this about the dangers of white lead makeup being known already at the time it was used?

They were!

Giovanni Paolo Lomazzo, writing in 1598. For anyone who's struggling with the typeface (spelling preserved):

OF CERUSSE, AND THE EFFECTS thereof. The Ceruse, or white lead, which women use to better their complexion, is made of lead and vineger; which mixture is naturally a great drier; and is used by the Chirugions [surgeons] to drie up moiste sores. So that those women which use it about their faces, doe quickly become withered and gray-headed, because this doth so mightely drie up the naturall moysture of their flesh. And if any give not credite to my reporte; let them but observe such as have used it, and I doubt not but they will easily bee satisfied.

That's putting it mildly- ceruse could also cause skin peeling, hair loss, paralysis, seizures, organ damage, a host of other symptoms, and even death. But still, they were at least aware that it was Not GoodTM, and it's possible other sources I haven't read more accurately stress the gravity of the danger. Certainly it was known to be deadly by the 18th century, when the death of 27-year-old socialite Maria Gunning, Countess of Coventry was ascribed to her alleged use thereof. (I've never seen proof of this, and it's important to remember that as an Irishwoman, she may have faced undue hostility in English high society- and had very light skin naturally).

It's also difficult to trace just how popular ceruse even was, because less harmful forms of white face paint and powder also existed. One could speculate that this woman or that used ceruse, but nobody did a survey of such things. It was definitely real- cosmetic white lead tablets have been found dating as far back as ancient Greece -but whether it was the Sephora foundation of its day or the BBL (ie a dangerous beauty aid that a few devotees turned to but most eschewed) cannot truly be known.

By the 19th century, ceruse makeup had passed completely out of use as far as I know. Its legend grew as a cautionary tale on the dangers of vanity; the "fact" that Queen Elizabeth I used it was repeated over and over until it became common- if totally unsupported -knowledge. They had arsenic complexion wafers in the latter half of the 1800s- although one brand much advertised in the US was tested by contemporary scientists and found to be mostly lactose with only tiny amounts of arsenic or none at all, so cost-cutting entrepreneurs may have accidentally prevented illness or death. IF the wafers were popular at all, which once again remains unknown- certainly few letters and diaries I'm aware of mention them, if any.

(Interestingly, there's an echo of Maria Gunning's legend in Victorian newspaper stories about socialites "enameling," or applying a plaster-like layer of semi-permanent toxic makeup to their faces. Enameling was alleged to be undetectible but It's Definitely There; Trust Us; A Friend Of A Friend Of Alva Vanderbilt's Cousin's Underbutler Said, etc. This is similarly lacking in any solid evidence; recipes for a product called "enamel" do exist in period texts, but it always seems to be more akin to liquid foundation today, and I've personally only seen one such preparation containing lead. Many even included zinc oxide, which might have provided some unintentional SPF.)

[0lshadyl0]

Any HCs or scenarios on Yandere Hancock boa ?? I think she an interesting character 🥰

Of course, my dear, she is a fascinating character, in fact, she is my favorite female character after Nico Robin, I am weak to black haired women with cool powers and sad past.

Yandere Boa Hancock headcanons

• Brave of you to assume that she is not a yandere in the canon, that is, she has all the points to follow for her character to be a yandere, especially a delusional yandere

• sad past with traumatic events, no friends, position of power, no one contradicts her, she gets lost in her own fantasies, lives in her own reality and obsesses over a person beyond what is sanely possible, yeah she checks all the marks 

• But, she would only become obsessed with her romantic interest if he has a very specific personality (for example, Luffy)

• Ok, let's say that the key for her to fix her eyes on you is that you have heroic tendencies, that is, she likes people with a good heart, willing to do what others would consider crazy in order to help others. the others (such as hitting a Tenryūbito, better yet, killing one)  

• or just a very kind person with a great charisma, very positive mind but who doesn't take shit from anyone

• if things happened naturally, I'm pretty sure Hancock would be obsessed with a woman, Luffy is an exception to the rule (call it the power of the script thanks to being the protagonist of the series)

• Let's remember that the first men in her life that she met were the Tenryūbito and they are the worst experiences that a young woman like Boa could have, emotionally, physically and sexually (I'm 200% sure that she was raped by a good number of them, that's why despite being in love with Luffy she never sees herself having children with him… probably she can't even get pregnant due to irreparable damage to her sexual organ or simply they removed the ovaries so that she could not get pregnant by the Tenryūbito since she was a slave and the slaves are not worthy of having a child with a being as noble as a Tenryūbito is)

• Anyway, when she fixes her eyes on you, in her head she already begins to live in a world apart

• You've probably seen each other a maximum of five times and most of it in battles, possibly you saved her from some dangerous situation but not paying much attention to her, but in her head, you two are already engaged

• Yes, she is the type of women who, from a very young age, dreamed of getting married and having a large family full of love, a dream that has been transformed into only having a partner to love and be loved by because of the Tenryūbito and all their shit

• She is a relatively easy yandere to deal with, since the word of her s/o is divine law for her, she will never question you, nor will she go against you, she will not hesitate to put herself in danger or give her life for you, she literally will kill for you

• But, keep in mind, she is very jealous and in an unjustified way, nobody can look at you because she is already asking questions and imagining scenarios where you abandon her.

• Because, despite all that she says about being the most beautiful woman in the world, she actually has low self-esteem due to her past as a slave, she doesn't feel that she is worthy of you, because she is dirty

• But if you tell her that you are not interested in that person or deny knowing about the existence of the person who made her jealous, she will believe you without a shadow of a doubt.

• You can tell her that the sky is green and for her, yes, ultimately the sky is green and she will turn anyone who says otherwise into stone

• She is a stalker, she will follow you everywhere and will always be watching you, of course, at a respectful (Hinata-Naruto style) distance if the two of you get into a relationship, she will stick to you like gum, she is unbelievably clingy and has no idea of the meaning of personal space

• She is one of the few yanderes who have no sexual intentions, because she is traumatized with sex (she has never known about vanilla sex or consent) and considers it torture, she loves you too much to do you any kind of harm

• Oh, but if she were to get over her traumas and discover that sex can be enjoyed and is a way to stay connected to the one she loves, man, get ready for a long ride

[blade-liger-4ever]

Something I've noticed that makes me liquid angry.

Queen Rani, leader of the Night Pride and ruler of the Tree of Life, wife of Prince Kion from The Lion Guard.

Her parents were killed in front of her right outside their home, which also resulted in her scar and deeply traumatized her.

For this she likely had to act maternal for her little brother, Baliyo, while finding other methods to cope with her own trauma.

Was forced to take up leadership of the Night Pride around the time Kion formed his Lion Guard, at least.

Was also being trained to become queen at the same time, while said territory was about three times the size of the Pride Lands and her grandmother, Queen Janna, was a hair's breath from death for years.

Thus she had much pressure on her from a young age, lots of trauma, and rightly founded convictions against allowing outsiders inside, especially if they were powerful individuals and not fleeing animals seeking sanctuary from clear threats.

This gives her some friction with Kion in the first two episodes featuring her, but quickly smoothes out as they fall in love and she matures past much of her struggles through their romance.

Is branded with ❌️ by the fandom.

This is largely because of how Rani "ruined" the TLK/TLG fandom's preferred ships and, in some cases, was mean to Kion in their early interactions. However, Rani canonically proves herself as not only competent and reliable, but also mellows out and grows a great deal of respect and love for Kion, while also managing to admit her wrongness of her first impression of him. Time and again she proves to be his equal in intelligence, strategy, leadership, morals, convictions, and combat prowess. This is important because Kion is a pinnacle of goodness, and despite her rough start, Rani is similarly a pinnacle of goodness with her selfless nature and dedication to defending the Tree of Life and not only its hundreds of miles of land, but its thousands to millions of lives.

Mara Jade, infamous Emperor's Hand, former Dark Side assassin, and later wife of Luke Skywalker in Star Wars Legends.

Is raised in the heart of evil with no source of love or compassion.

Is trained from infancy to be a remorseless killer.

Somehow given autonomy for no discernably good or well-founded reason beyond being favored by Palpatine.

Magically retains a conscience despite having no one give her a heart or morals.

Tries to kill her future husband numerous times.

Blames him for her luxurious life being destroyed, despite not having a real life that exists outside of killing and hunting targets when not on vacation.

Only lets go of her attempts to kill Luke Skywalker after murdering his clone in battle.

Receives no trial or punishment for her crimes.

Does not even provide information of any sort to the New Republic.

Jumps straight into Jedi training, with no one, not even Han Solo, questioning this decision.

Retains her abrasive and snide personality when married to Luke and when she becomes the mother of their son.

Continues to choose morally gray options when her husband is staunchly Light Side aligned.

Is given ✅️ by the fandom while these issues are ignored.

This is a problem because like Kion, Luke Skywalker is a pinnacle of goodness. Despite the clear need for an equal and supportive half of the same moral convictions as him, Luke is married off to a woman who continually chooses underhanded/dark methods to accomplish her own personal goals rather than sacrificing and doing good for the sake of good like he constantly does. Furthermore, she always treats Luke like trash, never apologizing for her behavior, and gets away with attempting to murder him while no one tries to kill her for the threat she posed to Luke. I cannot and will not believe that Leia and Han just shrugged and welcomed her into the family the way they did in Legends. It is wrong, out of character for all of the movie characters, and unjustifiable with all of the above taken into account. Mara Jade never changed from her relationship with Luke, and yet everyone praises them to the sky while Kion and Rani are abused to no end for maturing into adulthood and growing stronger from their romantic bond.

This is an unfair treatment on both sides, and I will not tolerate either viewpoints, nor will I forgive the accusations from either fandom on each pair.

Anyone who becomes incensed at this, I have news for you:

I.

Don't.

Care.

(Source.)

[say-hwaet]

That's the Way it Is

Chapter Fifteen: When a Man Loves a Woman Previous Chapter: Fourteen Next Chapter: Fifteen Summary: Arthur can't take it anymore. After all that happened in Rhodes, the loss of Kit is too much. So what does a man do when he loves his woman? He goes after her. Warnings: Language, Mature themes, suggestive language Word Count: ~11,900

Arthur feels your hands on his chest as you push him away. This forces your lips to part and he feels the dread of it, knowing it is time to go.

“No…” he groans and he takes your face in his hands. Seeing your smile, he goes in for another kiss, your lips parting to let in his tongue, his breath, with a longing that’s almost painful in its intensity. It tastes of a bittersweet flavor of impending separation, making him lose his willpower to pull away from you.

And just as his lips part, you begin speaking. “We have to go back…” your voice is barely above a whisper, trying to catch your breath. “They’ll be suspicious.”

“Let ‘em,” he says huskily, letting his hands fall down to grip your waist. “It ain’t like I get to spend time with my woman whenever I please.”

“Arthur…” you chide. “You think this is easy for me, either?” You place your hands on his chest again, thankfully not pushing him away. “We’ve managed this secrecy for almost two years. They’re bound to have caught on by now.” Your eyes soon express worry. “Especially that new man, Micah. He’s always watching me.”

Arthur pulls you close to him, his protective nature expressed in the gentle way he holds you. “If Micah even thinks of doin’ anythin’, he won’t live long enough to try.”

You pull away, looking up into his eyes. “Do you think Dutch knows? Hosea?”

Arthur shrugs. “Maybe, but they’ll never know just exactly what all this is.” He leans in and kisses your neck softly. “That I love you.”

He feels the vibration in your neck as you hum, your head falling back. “You’re too good to me,” you moan. “Such an honorable man…”

There have been moments, he will be the first to admit, where it has become too difficult to bear. To have to hold back his desires to touch you, to feel you in ways that you’ve never had been touched before, it can be torture. He’s grateful for the days in camp that he has to keep his distance, for there are times where the mere smell of you sets his blood ablaze with a fire he dares not unleash in the open. But tonight, under the cloak of the trees and the promise of secrecy, he allows himself this small slip into the world where only you and he exist. Where he can at least be near you without the several pairs of eyes of the gang watching him.

"Arthur," you whisper again, your breath catching as his lips trace your collarbone, sending visible shivers down your arms and neck. “Careful…”

And that is your way of telling him to not go any further. Settling himself, he pulls away from you and exhales slowly. “I’m sorry.”

You card your fingers through his hair, your nails sending chills down his back. “It’s okay…”

He gazes deeply into your eyes, the moonlight casting shadows that dance across your soft features, your plump lips and dazzling eyes. “Kit,” he begins, his voice a blend of frustration and tenderness, “I admit this ain’t easy sometimes. It’s like livin’ with a ghost of someone I can barely touch. But I'd rather have you like this than not at all.” He sees the milkiness of your skin, the red welt he left on your neck, the redness in your cheeks. “You’re a hard woman to resist.”

You tuck your chin, chuckling bashfully. “Arthur, honestly…”

He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles tenderly. “Honestly.” As the wind whispers through the long grass, you both stand in silence for a moment, the weight of hidden truths pressing between you like the cool night air. Arthur's hand tightens around yours, and reaches his other hand to brush a stray lock of hair from your face—an intimate gesture that makes you smile warmly. “I guess we should head back now.”

You nod. “Yes, Arthur.”

He lets go of your hand and you both begin to head back to camp. Walking through the trees, the space between you grows wider and wider. It’s what you’ve always done: return back to camp from different directions at different times. Sometimes, Arthur has even left from your meeting places to go hunt or rob a stagecoach, to return after a few days. He’s always liked to hear your plans of secrecy, using your creative ways to develop new excuses to be together without any suspicion.

But he knows you’re right. You won’t be able to keep it a secret forever.

But if being with you has taught him anything, it is that it is all worth it.

***

There has been a thickness in the camp. A restlessness from some members, while it feels like others are twiddling their thumbs. Karen continues to mourn the loss of Sean, and she seems to be taking up the bottle more than normal. Despite Tilly and Mary Beth’s efforts to keep her sober, she shoves them off, sulking and mourning in a corner where she can’t be disturbed.

And Arthur, poor Arthur, is eager to go to Saint Denis, find this Bronte, and get you back.

He’s tried to not take out his frustration on anyone, though his replies are usually short and without feeling.

He sits at the table, hands around a cup of coffee that has gone cold, his face imprinted with a pinched gaze.

And stirring him out of his thoughts, a hand is placed on his shoulder.

He looks up and sees Hosea.

“Arthur, you need to rest.”

The thought of rest makes him angry, and Arthur shrugs Hosea’s hand away. “No.”

Hosea goes to sit down beside him, his voice carrying tenderness and empathy. “I’m trying to do the best I can. I’ve even sent John to go looking, but Arthur…” Hosea pauses. “You’re no use to Kit if you’re too weak to function.”

Arthur exhales. He knows he’s right, but every time he closes his eyes, it’s another dream. Another thought of you and the way you make him feel. “I just can’t sleep, Hosea. We killed all those people, stirred up such a mess…nothin’ is goin’ right.” He lowers his head even more, as well as his voice. “Every time I close my eyes I see her starin’ back at me.”

Hosea nods, his eyes softening with the weight of understanding. "I know, son. I know it's hard. But Kit—she's tough, tougher than most. And if there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that she’s out there waiting for us to find her."

Arthur would like to believe that. But after the last time, he isn’t sure how many second chances he’s allowed to have.

He then feels the presence of someone else behind him and seeing the look on Hosea’s face, he knows who it is.

“Is he gonna listen to you, Hosea?”

“Trying to, Dutch.”

Dutch pulls a chair and sits on the other side of Arthur. “You need your rest, son.”

Arthur finally brings the coffee to his lips. “So everyone keeps tellin’ me.”

Dutch pats Arthur’s shoulder. “Kit will be fine. She always seems to talk or blast her way out of anything,” he says with a wry chuckle that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Remember how she faced down those bounty hunters in Montana? Walked right into their camp bold as brass." Dutch's voice carries a hint of admiration mixed with bitterness.

Arthur sets the coffee down, untouched again. His jaw tenses as he recalls the echoing gunshots, the scent of blood and gunpowder on your clothes, and how you went to sleep as if nothing had happened. “Yeah,” he mutters, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s got more guts than most men I know.”

Dutch nods solemnly, his eyes drifting off to the lake. “Trust me, Arthur. She doesn’t need you worrying over her. We will go to Saint Denis, and see what we can—”

Suddenly, Lenny’s voice calls out from just outside of camp. “Dutch! We’ve got a problem!”

Dutch and Hosea look out while Arthur turns his body around.

Being escorted by an armed Lenny are two men in suits and bowler hats.

Arthur narrows his gaze, recognizing them immediately. Pinkertons. Agent Milton and Agent Ross, to be exact.

“Not a problem…” Milton says, strutting into their camp like a peacock. “Visitors…” Arthur quickly stands to his feet, watching them closely. “…A solution.” And soon, others from the camp begin to gather, conveying their distrust of the two men walking in here.

Milton stands too boldly amongst men and women who are no stranger to killing. “Good day, fine people.” His eyes wander to Dutch, who remains seated, unperturbed by his presence. “Mr. Van Der Linde…” And then he gazes upon Hosea who comes to stand beside Arthur. “Mr. Matthews, I presume?” Then his eyes meet Arthurs. “Ah, Mr. Morgan, so good to see you again.”

Arthur isn’t falling for this false sense of formality, given the last conversation they had a month or so ago.

And Dutch doesn’t seem to either. He doesn’t even glance the agent’s way when he speaks to him flippantly. “What do you want, Agent Moron?” His voice is smooth, layered with a thinly veiled hostility that only those who know him well can detect.

Milton clears his throat, adjusting the brim of his hat with a gloved hand, a smirk playing on his lips. “We are here on official business, of course. It wasn’t difficult to find your lack of human decency amongst the civilized world.”

That’s when Dutch rises from the chair, moving steady, his voice between a growl and a threat. “This place…ain’t no such thing as civilized. It’s man so in love with greed, that he has forgotten himself and found only appetites.”

“And I suppose that gives you leave to take and kill as you see fit?” Agent Milton retorts, his voice sharp like a blade sliding across a whetstone.

Arthur watches the exchange, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The tension in the air could be cut with that knife. He can feel the angry glares from the others around him, sharing in Dutch’s view of the world around them.

Arthur knows that Milton is far from righteous, too far from heaven to cast judgment.

Milton continues, “You aren’t nothing but a killer, Mr. Van Der Linde, but I’ve come to make a deal.”

“You’ve made your deals,” Arthur says, emboldened by his desire to see Milton off and to focus on his true priority. “I didn’t take it the last time, and none of us will, either.”

Milton narrows his eyes. “I had assumed you were a degenerate, Mr. Morgan, but I never took you for a fool.” He looks at Dutch. “If you were given the opportunity to sacrifice yourself to let the others live in peace, I don’t think you would have the guts to actually do it.”

Then, there is a sudden harmony of clicks, hammers being pulled back as the others standing around pull out their guns.

“I think it’s time for you to leave now,” Susan hisses towards Milton.

He takes a step back, his brow furrowed into a scowl. “You’re making a big mistake, all of you.”

And Dutch, emboldened by the surge of loyalty surrounding him, takes a step toward Milton. “No mistake here, Mr. Milton. You see, we know exactly what we are. But you, you wear a badge thinking it cleans the blood off your hands.” His voice lowers. “Stop following us. We’ll be gone soon.”

Milton’s face tightens, his lips a thin line of restrained fury as he scans the circles of cold steel aimed at him. “I’m afraid I can’t, and when I return I will be back with fifty men. You can run from this place, you fools! But we will never stop until every one of you dies!”

Lenny reaches for him. “Get goin’!”

But Milton pulls his arm away. “Get your hands off me, boy!” And without saying another word, he turns to walk away, Agent Ross following close behind.

They are all silent for a moment, waiting for the repulsive agents to be out of earshot. Lenny, eyeing them, follows after them, undoubtedly to make sure they go. 

Arthur feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to see Dutch. “Thank you for having my back there, Arthur.”

Arthur nods. “What are we going to do now, Dutch?”

“We leave. We find a way out of here, and get gone.” And seeing the look on Arthur’s face, Dutch exhales. “We will get Kit back, too.”

“Thanks, Dutch.”

“Don’t know why you’re so worried…”

Arthur swallows. “She…Jack said she tried to save him. That’s how they got her.”

Hosea, who has been listening, adds, “It’s clear she risked her neck for him. I have a feeling that Jack was the main target, which leaves the question…”

“Why her instead?” Arthur asks.

“Exactly. John should be back soon, we will see what he has to say.”

“For now,” Dutch says with finality. “We need to pack and find a new place to camp.”

“Maybe I can help.” The three men turn to see Lenny, who has come back from following the agents out. “I know a place not too far from here. A big house. Called Shady Belle. There are some men holed up there, but if we take ‘em out…”

“Say no more, Lenny,” Dutch interrupts and turns to Arthur. “Arthur, you, Lenny, and Javier go and clean up the refuse. We will meet you there once we are done here.”

Arthur nods, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing down on him like the hot breath of the southern sun. His heart, still raw and aching for you, fuels his determination to clear out Shady Belle. He leaves to gather his pistols and rifle from the weapon wagon and checks the load.

"You alright, amigo?" Javier asks, eyeing him with a concerned gaze.

“I’m Fine.”

“That isn’t really convincing, but I won’t pester you about it.” Javier claps a reassuring hand on Arthur’s back and after arming up, the three of them mount their horses and they make their way out of camp.

“Follow me,” Lenny calls out and he picks up the pace.

The ride to Shady Belle is laden with a tense silence, the only sounds are the rustling leaves and distant animal calls that resonate through the dense woods. What a mess they are making out of things. Sean, Mac, Davey, Jenny, who else will fall before freedom? Or will death be the end of them all?

He doesn’t know, but Hosea’s warning to leave only grows louder and louder in his mind. But if he is to do that, there’s no way that he is going to leave without you. For there would be no point otherwise.

After kicking up red dust, the humidity making it stick to their horses’ legs, they reach the road that leads into a rundown mansion. They dismount their horses at a distance, and stop at the entrance to the property, a brick wall that acts as a guardian.

Their backs to the wall, Arthur glances around. He sees wagon carts full of dynamite, men standing all around. They look and breathe like Lemoyne Raiders.

He’s had enough of these fellers. Enough of these games that they all play. He’s coming to his own crossroads and he isn’t sure how long he can walk down this path without collapsing under the weight of his own heart. A heart that bleeds endlessly for you, even if he believes you to be lost to fate’s embrace.

Inside, his mind races through the plans, counting exits, and memorizing faces. Beside him, Lenny nods, waiting for him to formulate a plan that will ensure their victory.

And so, with his rifle in his hands, his eyes regarding the two men at his side, Arthur finds his resolve hardening like the dried mud on their boots.

And readies himself for the fight.

***

After removing the bodies and reaping the rewards from their onslaught, Arthur doesn’t meet Dutch and the gang at the front of the mansion with Javier and Lenny. He goes on to Saint Denis to find John. He hasn’t been back, and doesn’t know that they have moved camps.

He keeps a close watch on the road as he heads east. The deeper he gets, the more marshes, bayous, alligators, and odd sounds he encounters. He’s grateful that Montana doesn’t start easily, lest he get thrown off and left in unknown territory.

People he passes by don’t smile at all, a characteristic of this region. It is every man fending for himself.

The trees open up to sandy and wet marshes and he crosses a bridge, under a sign that reads Saint Denis.

In the sky, a plume or dark smoke fills the air, causing Arthur to flare his nostrils in disgust. The foul smells fill his nose and his brow furrows as he takes in the dirty streets and low glares.

He’s here. This is what Milton calls civilization.

He’s far, far away from open country. Land that he loves.

He needs to find John, but upon taking in the city, he can see that this task is not going to be as quick and easy as he had hoped.

It’s been a while since he has set foot in a city as large as this, most of the places he’s been can be reduced to an entry and an exit, with a few buildings in between. If he isn’t careful, he could get lost before even trying to turn around.

He follows the road he came in on, the street passing by trains before leading him deeper into the city.

Now, if he were John, where would he be?

Then it occurs to him, the saloon.

Riding along, he sees a man walking and calls out to him. “‘S’cuse me, partner…” he begins and the man lifts his head to look at him. “Could you tell me where the saloon is? Could go for a whiskey in this heat.”

The man nods, as though agreeing with him. “I know what you mean.” Then he points out in front of him. “Stick to this street until you reach the second corner, then make a right. Can’t miss it.”

Arthur tips his hat. “Thank you.” Then carries on.

He nearly reaches the street corner, when he hears jeering coming from behind him. Looking back he sees an oncoming trolley and quickly steers Montana out of the way.

As it passes, he sees a string bean of a kid hanging onto it calling out to something behind him. “C’mon! Run like the goats got loose!”

And a raspy voice shouts back to him. “You come back here, you little runt!”

He’d recognize that voice anywhere. It’s John!

And sure enough, John gallops right past Arthur, riding a new horse.

“Marston!” Arthur calls to him, but it is clear that John hasn’t heard him. Whatever mess he’s gotten himself into, Arthur isn’t about to abandon him. He grips the reins tightly, and with a quick nick of his spur, Montana gallops forward and down the street.

Turning down the street, Arthur catches a quick glimpse of John as he dismounts the horse. The boy must have jumped off the trolley and John nearly rams into a vendor before disappearing into an alleyway.

“Sonofa—” Arthur groans, and swings off of Montana, who whinnies excitedly. “Stay here, boah!” And then he takes off after John.

He tracks him by the wake he leaves behind. Women shrieking and men yelling, “Hey, get back here!” Arthur doesn’t need to ask where a snipe-legged kid and a man with a scar went. All he need do is follow the chaos, John’s typical signature.

Somehow, Arthur starts to find it comical. If he were to go back in time, though he most certainly can’t, he would be in a similar situation. Only, he’d be the young boy they are chasing after. Arthur lets out a cackle, pushing through the crowded street as a vendor hollers, “Watch your step!”

The next alley John ducked into is shadowed and narrow, cluttered with wooden crates and stray cats that scuttle away at the sound of his boots. Arthur slows his pace, narrowing his eyes to adjust to the lack of sunlight, listening for any sign of John or the kid.

He suddenly hears a crash and he runs.

Pushing through a metal gate, he turns his head to the left to see John leaning over the boy as he has a hold of him by his collar. “Give me my stuff, you brat!”

Arthur approaches from the side and sees what the boy has in his hand, John’s hat.

The boy offers it back to John. “Here!”

John rips it out of the boy’s grip with his free hand and puts it firmly on his head. “And Bronte? Where’s he?!”

“Out on Flavian Street…Big House…across the park!” The boy sees Arthur at the corner of his vision and changes his expression. “Help me, sir! This man’s beatin’ me!”

Redirecting John’s attention, he turns to see Arthur walking up to them. “Kinda looks like you deserve it,” Arthur smirks.

“Arthur,” John greets before looking back at the boy with a raised fist. “You better not be lyin’!”

The boy’s eyes widen, looking at the two towering men with intimidating faces. "I’m a good boy, I wash!”

Satisfied, John lets the boy go, letting him fall hard on his back.

Arthur takes an aborted lunge at the kid. “Now, get lost!!”

The boy scrambles to his feet and runs away, disappearing around the corner.

Arthur lets out a chuckle, slapping his leg. “Are you in the habit of chasin’, Marston? Chasin’ sheep, chasin’ O’Driscolls, chasin’ derelict boys?”

“Shut up,” John sighs, kicking a pebble. “Ain’t no way to talk to me after tryin’ to help you get your woman back.” This stops Arthur and he turns to John, who gives him a knowing look. “You really think folks don’t know by now? It’s clear you’re sweet on her.”

But no one knows that you’re his wife, and Arthur will keep that secret for as long as he can. Arthur tries to downplay it, waving John off. “It ain’t just because of that,” Arthur admits. “She’s been with us since the beginnin’.”

“You don’t got to explain it to me, Arthur. She’s been like a big sister to me. I know that if I were gone, she’d do the same for me.”

Arthur nods, the lines deepening around his eyes as he goes to John and pats his shoulder. “Thank you, John.”

And not one for sentimentality, John waves it off. “Ain’t nothin’.” He casts his eyes to the sky, above the roofs of the buildings that stand like tall trees, a concrete wilderness. “It’ll be dark soon.” Then he looks back at Arthur. “We can go see about this house, then we can go back and report to Dutch.”

Arthur shakes his head. He can’t wait that long. Dutch is the one who makes the plans, but it is he and the others that execute them. And as of late, Dutch’s plans have been far from glorious, or successful. “I say we find Bronte and confront him ourselves.”

John’s brow pinches. “Just us? Arthur, we don’t know how many—”

“We will look less intimidatin’ that way. Maybe we won’t have to do any killin’. I’m tired of it.”

John's eyebrows shoot up, surprise flickering across his face before it settles into a reluctant nod. "Alright then, just us two," he agrees, clapping Arthur on the back with a loud smack. "Let’s hope your plan is better than Dutch’s would’ve been."

***

If Arthur is to describe Angelo Bronte’s home, big would be the word to use. Not as large as the mansion they just found in Shady Belle, but it is new, clean, and well-maintained. Fine living, for certain.

John stands beside Arthur as they view it from across the street.

“So, we’re doin’ this?” John asks, clearly still skeptical.

“We are,” Arthur answers with finality. “Unless you wanna just head back to camp?”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Arthur is thankful. Perhaps the experience with Jack has shifted something in that half-eaten brain of his. He seems more sure now, as though he knows what stakes are hinged on their actions tonight, but is willing to help Arthur in his plight. They cross the street, their spurs jingling with each step but settling just as quickly as they are sounded, a silent testament to the subtlety needed for what they’re about to do.

They need to appear inconspicuous, so all large weapons are tucked away with their horses. Arthur, being naturally intimidating, tries to make himself look softer by relaxing his face and his hands.

As they approach the house, they stand in front of the gaze, where an armed man stands behind it. “State your business,” the man demands, his tongue laced with an Italian accent.

“S’cuse me,” Arthur begins. “We’re here to see Mr. Bronte about some…important matters.”

The man eyes Arthur suspiciously. “Such as?”

Arthur has to play aloof. He needs these men to think that he isn’t here to rescue you, it’s possible that they don’t know who he is or who he’s affiliated with. “I hear he’s come across someone…special recently. And I’m interested.”

The man steps closer to the gate, lowering his voice. “Are you an investor?”

Arthur is quite surprised to be handed such an opening, but he isn’t one to shy away from it. “I represent one. You think they’d come themselves?”

He looks Arthur up and down, nodding. “Should have known by your attire.” And with a gesture to another man beside him, the gate is opened. John and Arthur share a look, one that unveils surprise while also communicating, “We better not mess this up.”

“Follow me,” the guard instructs, walking toward the house.

As soon as they step inside, they are greeted by the opulence of dark-stained furniture and gold-framed paintings. They make an immediate left into a parlor and the guard gestures to a sofa right in front of them.

“Sit down. Mr. Bronte will be here to meet you shortly.” And he quickly leaves the room.

Arthur feels it odd that they aren’t being watched, but somehow, it wouldn’t surprise him if they actually were. With careful movements, he sits down on the sofa and John sits beside him.

“Keep your head, Arthur,” John speaks quietly.

Arthur lets himself chuckle. “I was just about to tell you that.”

John fidgets in his seat, unable to calm his jittery nerves as they both wait. His eyes dart around the luxurious room, taking in every detail from the lavish furnishings to the intricate artwork hanging on the walls. "Fancy place," he comments, trying to sound nonchalant.

Arthur nods, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Shoah is."

Sensing that Arthur expects him to stay quiet, John takes the opportunity to scan the room once more, trying to distract himself from the tension building in his gut. "I suppose you want me to let you do all the talkin'?" he finally asks.

Arthur's eyebrow raises in amusement. "Why, you think you got somethin' better to say?"

Feeling already defeated, John turns away with a shrug. "Just askin'," he mutters under his breath. The weight of their mission and the looming possibility of failure weigh heavily on him as he awaits their fate in this opulent setting.

And suddenly, footsteps approach and a loud voice greets them. “Gentlemen!” Jumpy, Arthur, and John quickly begin to rise, turning to see a well-dressed man with dark hair and dark eyes. The man, Arthur assumes as none other than Mr. Bronte, motions for them to sit back down. “Oh please, please, remain seated.” Hesitating, Arthur and John slowly sit back down. Smiling, Mr. Bronte walks to the sofa across from where they sit and sits down, with three guards standing nearby with guns in their hands. “I was told that your investors sent you here to speak with me. I am quite curious as to what they have to say.” He leans back into the sofa, making himself comfortable. “But first, I’d like to know who your investors are.”

Arthur corrects him. “Well, it’s just one investor, Mr. Bronte.”

After a pause, Bronte chuckles, almost incredulously. “Who is it?”

“Leviticus—Cornwall.” Arthur fumbles with the answer, having to come up with it on the spot.

And Bronte clicks his tongue. “Ah. The oil magnate who is trying to take over the whole…continent!” He laughs, and his men chuckle with him, as if on cue. “Yes, I’m sure he’s got many fingers in every pie, does he not?”

Arthur nods. “Indeed he does. He’s very skilled at dealin’ with people as well as oil.”

Bronte's laughter echoes through the room, bouncing off the expensive oil paintings on the walls. “Of course, of course, but why has he sent you all the way to Saint Denis? There’s no oil in Saint Denis.”

“Well, no, but there are finer things than oil,” Arthur answers eloquently.

Then Bronte’s smile changes, and his eyes reveal recognition. “So you are interested in what I’ve recently acquired?”

“Mr. Cornwall is interested,” Arthur replies coolly. “Mr. Cornwall would like to know what’s so special about her.”

“How did he hear that I have her?”

Arthur goes quiet for a moment, carefully choosing his words. “The best way that I can explain it, while keepin’ my employer’s matters…as private as possible…There’s few things that don’t reach his ear, especially when it comes to where she is from.”

Bronte leans back in his chair, studying Arthur with a shrewd gaze. “Ah. So you do know?”

“Yes, we do,” Arthur confirms.

“And where is she from?” Bronte presses, as though testing him.

“She’s a prized member of a gang, is she not?”

Bronte tosses his head from left to right. “Yes, I suppose she is, but I was hinting at something different.”

Arthur knows you better than anyone, so these questions are almost too easy. “What, the fact that she was in a circus?” he chuckles, as though it is now common knowledge.

“Mr. Cornwall’s sources must be well-informed for him to find that information so quickly. It’s quite a secret!”

“Well, how did you come to know it, Mr. Bronte?”

Bronte grins, eyeing Arthur closely. “You are quick on your tongue, Mister…?”

“Kilgore, Tacitus Kilgore.”

Bronte looks at John, expectantly. “And you?”

“Rip Van Winkle,” he answers without missing a beat.

“Ah. I see.” Bronte pauses then claps his hands once. “So, what does he need my…investment for? What services does he require?”

“Mr. Cornwall ain’t prepared to say until he knows what she is capable of.” Then he leans forward, putting on a mischievous grin. “If you catch my meanin’.”

Bronte chuckles, nodding his head. “Yes, yes, I understand you completely, Mr. Kilgore. In fact, you’ve come at the most perfect time!” He begins to rise from his seat. “I have some other investors here as well.”

Arthur blinks. He hadn’t thought of that possibility. “Do you?”

Bronte nods slowly. “Oh yes, word travels fast, Mr. Kilgore. She is about to showcase her skills this evening. Would you like to join us?”

Arthur and John share a glance. Then Arthur gives the answer. “We’d be delighted.”

“Very good! Very good!” He pauses a beat as he eyes the two men up and down. “Unfortunately, your attire is not suitable for such a high-class event. It is a very formal affair, you see.”

Arthur stands up, slightly flustered, and John follows suit. “Well, I do apologize, but we came as soon as we—”

Bronte dismisses the apology with a wave of his hand. “Oh, there's no need to make excuses to me, Mr. Kilgore. I will make the excuses for you,” he chuckles. “Now, if you would kindly follow me this way, you will see the precious treasure we have acquired from the marshes of Lemoyne.”

They obediently follow Bronte and his entourage down the dimly lit hallway. The flickering light from ornate lamps cast shadows on the walls, creating an eerie atmosphere. Not a sound can be heard except for their footsteps on the plush carpet beneath their feet.

Arthur's heart pounds in his chest as he feels a sharp nudge in his shoulder and John's urgent whispering beside him. "There's more people," John says, panic lacing his voice. "How are we gonna—?"

"Keep your head, John," Arthur replies quietly, trying to hide his own fear.

"But what if she gives us away?" John asks, his words trembling with anxiety.

"She won't," Arthur assures him, but he fears his own heart will betray them.

They cautiously enter the large room, one side bathed in darkness while the other is brightly lit. The air is heavy with the scent of rich wines and exotic fruits, an ominous sign of the sinister gathering taking place. Two men in sleek black suits stand at one of the circular tables, their presence alone radiating danger and power. These must be Bronte's other guests, and Arthur knows they will not take kindly to uninvited intruders.

Arthur also notices several armed men lining the wall. 

Bronte greets the two men with a gesture of open arms. “Gentlemen, gentlemen! We have other guests that are joining us this evening.” He turns and gestures to Arthur and John. “These men represent none other than Leviticus Cornwall, the wealthy oil magnate. This is Mr. Kilgore and Mr. Van Winkle, come fresh from the oil fields.”

Ignoring the dig, Arthur nods politely to the two men. “Gentlemen.”

Bronte begins by introducing the younger of the two. He’s tall, has a dark mustache, and slicked-back hair. “This is Colonel Alberto Fussar—”

Mr. Fussar suddenly stands, his face contorting into a sinister smile that sends shivers down Arthur's spine. "I am all too familiar with Mr. Cornwall," he says in a low, menacing voice. "We have had quite an...arrangement."

Arthur's throat tightens as he forces himself to move forward and shake Fussar's hand, feeling the weight of their lives hanging on this one false introduction. “He speaks highly of you, sir. Had he known you would be here, he would have come on over himself.”

Mr. Fussar seems to like that remark, as he smiles smugly. “Give him my regards, Mr. Kilgore.”

Arthur nods, and Bronte continues with the introductions, gesturing to an older, stout man whose buttons threaten to pop from his dress shirt. “This is Hobart Crawley, a Confederate major in the war. A grand hero!”

Crawley tucks his double chin. “You flatter me, Mr. Bronte.”

And as if that was permission to quit, Bronte discards any further compliments toward the man and goes right to the business at hand. “Now, I need to remind you, gentlemen, the purpose of the evening. If this investment pleases you, I accept certain monetary donations for my cause,” he chuckles in a near-suggestive way and the wealthy men join him. “Now, keep in mind, that it is first come, first serve, as the Americans say, and she will make you great riches.” Then he claps his hands. “Portatela dentro!”

It is then that a light focuses on the other side of the room and you step out with two musicians.

John grips Arthur’s arm, but quickly lets go.

Your attire is sparse, revealing your alluring body. A long, flowing skirt in shades of gold and red drapes over your curves, with a daring slit up the side that exposes a tantalizing glimpse of your thigh. Your bodice is adorned with a tightly woven, exotic garment, a shimmering gold girdle that matches the colors of your skirt, as it wraps a thin chemise that falls off your shoulders. On your head sits a regal headdress, intricately designed with delicate beads cascading down the sides of your face. Your lips and eyes are expertly painted, enhancing the milky white complexion of your skin under the glow of the lamps. But it is not these adornments that catch Arthur's attention. It is your countenance - eyes cast downwards, mouth unsmiling - conveying a sense of shame, sorrow, and perhaps even defeat.

It is everything Arthur can do to not stand up and go to you, but he knows it isn’t time yet. Instead, he grips the armrests of his chair, his knuckles turning white.

Keep your head, Arthur. Keep your head!

And Bronte, with a flamboyant tongue, introduces you. “May I present, Dáma Motýl!”

You stand there a moment, your eyes still not looking up. Arthur wants to call your name, to get your attention. He wants you to know that he’s here, that he has come for you. But the lights on Arthur’s side of the room go dim, enshrouding him and the other men in darkness.

Just as you look up.

The musicians begin to play a seductive tune and as though controlled by it, you lift up your arms, bending them, and you begin to dance.

Your movements are fluid, hypnotic, a mesmerizing blend of strength and vulnerability. Each sway of your hips and every arch of your back speaks a silent story of longing and loss. You weave through the shadows cast by the flickering lamp light, each step an echo of your circus days, yet tinged with a feeling of sorrow that only Arthur can seem to grasp.

To the other men, who have immediately grown silent, it is merely a dance of pleasure and seduction.

But as your husband, it enrages Arthur. What did Bronte say or do to you to put you up to this?!

“Superb…!” Crowley gasps. 

Bront emits a guttural chuckle. “She’s also skilled in…other things, of course. But she’s easy on the eyes, which doesn’t hurt.”

Arthur swallows, nearly stammering as he poses a question, afraid to learn the answer. “Mr. Bronte, does she…is she a…?”

“No, no, no.” Bronte shakes his head. “If I understand what you are thinking, the answer is no. This is one of those instances where you look, but don’t touch.” Bronte chuckles, wagging his finger at Arthur. “No touching, Mr. Kilgore!”

The other men laugh and Arthur leans back into his seat. “I see.”

“Are you meaning to say that Mr. Cornwall is looking for something more physical, hm?”

“It’s just a question. Leviticus Cornwall doesn’t leave one stone unturned.”

“That is a true statement,” Mr. Fussar agrees. 

Bronte seems to be swayed by Fussar’s validation. “A wise approach, but people are more likely to spend money on things they cannot have.”

John nods, lifting his brow in a sign of recognition. “A wise approach.”

And Bronte smiles at him, the darkness making his features more sinister. “Indeed.”

It is then that Arthur asks another question. If he can keep Bronte talking, maybe he can dig up some information that will help him later on. “Have you ever met Leviticus Cornwall?”

“Oh, no, I’ve only heard of him. You know, it’s quite interesting how they never show a picture of that man anywhere. Is it because he’s too ugly to show his face?” He begins to laugh and his men and even Mr. Crowley, but not Mr. Fussar, join him. “So ugly that he needs to pay someone to dance with him?”

It is clear to Arthur that Bronte enjoys the backhanded compliment, but he isn’t too afraid to insult someone openly. 

“The only thing Mr. Cornwall likes people to see is his moneh,” Arthur answers. 

Bronte stops laughing and studies Arthur. “Ah, a very-well spoken answer, Mr. Kilgore.”

Suddenly, the music changes. A sharp, jagged melody that shows suspense. All of the men turn their attention to you again, and you have a long stick in your hand, the end of it alight with fire.

“Oh!” Bronte exclaims. “This will be good.” He leans toward Fussar. “This was my special request.”

You move about your side of the room, the trail of fire following you as you spin once. He can see how your hand begins to shake, as you slowly bring the flaming end to your mouth. Then suddenly, in a burst of light and glow, you breathe the flames in a far stream of heat. 

Arthur’s heart catches. He knows while you are drawn to fire, the very same act of fire breathing is what killed your parents. 

But he watches you do it again, dancing on your feet delicately as you turn in the opposite direction and spew flames like a dragon. 

And just as quick as it happens, it stops. In a quick motion, you put the end of the torch in your mouth, extinguishing it, and smoke escapes your lips. 

Bronte rises from his seat, applauding. “Bravo! Bravo! That was perfect, my little butterfly.” Though you can’t see him, he waves you off. “You may go now. Let the men speak business.” A laugh rolls off his tongue and Arthur watches you bow your head and be escorted out by the musicians. The lights return to his side of the room and Arthur’s eyes need to adjust, though still not leaving where you had vanished from his sight. “You seem entranced, Mr. Kilgore. I hope you’ll pass it along to your investor.”

“Indeed, I will.” Then something occurs to him. “She stays here with you?”

“Of course, we must protect her at all costs. She’s very valuable.”

Arthur is quick to ask, “How soon are you accepting investors?”

Bronte seems amused by his question, nearly looking ravenous for the opportunity to have more money and power. “Well, of course, you all need time to think about it.” He clicks his tongue. “Why don’t we…do something a little bit different? The mayor is hosting his ball in a few days, as you all are aware. Would that be plenty of time for you all to make your offers?”

The men nod their heads collectively. “Yes, of course.”

“Very well. I look forward to seeing you all there.”

Mr. Fussar and Mr. Crowley both rise from their seats, bow politely, and are promptly escorted out of the room by two guards. 

John pulls on Arthur’s arm. “Let’s go…”

But Arthur pulls away, walking over to Bronte. “Mr. Bronte, if I may…”

“Of course, Mr. Kilgore.”

“I already know Mr. Cornwall is interested. He trusts my judgment in decisions like these. But, you see, I will have to return to him and let him know before he wires any moneh.”

Bronte clicks his tongue. “Mmm. So you’re wanting to…take out a loan, perhaps?”

Arthur feels himself bristle. The idea of loaning you out is far from appealing to him. “I don’t know what’chu mean by that, but what I was gonna propose, was that we take her with us now.”

Bronte tilts his head from left to right, his brows lifted. “Well, that leaves me short-handed, does it not? I’m going to need some assurances or some sort of collateral before you take my treasure with you.”

“What kind of collateral?”

“Well, there is something that I am…missing and I would appreciate two…brutes like yourselves to retrieve it for me.”

Arthur raises a brow, the tone of Bronte’s voice making it all seem suspicious. “What is it?”

“You’ll know it when you see it. It is in the cemetery.”

Grave robbery? He wants Arthur and John to rob graves in the cemetery? He should have known this would be coming. No matter where he is, there is always a job. Always something for him to do so others don’t get their hands dirty.

But if it can build trust, and if it satisfies him, you will be let go, albeit on a temporary basis. But that will be a problem for another time. What matters is bringing you home with the least amount of bloodshed. 

“And that will be enough to satisfy this…collateral you’re wantin’?”

Bronte nods his head. “As long as you bring her back to the party. That will be the second part of our deal.”

Arthur blinks. He had hoped that he would never have to return to Saint Denis again. “You still want us there? Our thought was to bring her to Cornwall tomorrow.”

“Why, of course! Mr. Cornwall can’t be the only one to experience Dáma Motýl. He will just get her first, and the party is the perfect time for investors to see her in her full form.” He pauses, grinning mischievously. “Unless you just leave her and take her after the party. Your choice.”

“I understand.” He looks at John, who nods, then he looks back at Bronte. “We will take her now.”

“Excellent. Bring me my lost treasure and she’s yours for the next three days.” 

Arthur nods, not saying anything more, and takes his leave. John follows close behind and he hears the steps of two armed guards escorting them out. 

Once they are back into the humid air, Arthur sees how much time has passed. It’s pitch black and while Arthur is disgruntled that another day has gone, he’s glad that this will give them cover as they go to the cemetery. 

“I guess we go now, Rip,” Arthur says. 

“Looks that way, Tacitus.”

They walk out of the front gate and make their way back to their horses. Montana perks up upon seeing Arthur and once he’s close, Arthur gives him a good pat. “How’ya doin’, boah?”

With almost a rehearsed synchronization, John and Arthur mount their horses and ride away from the hitching posts. “Follow me, I know where it is.”

Arthur lets out a chortle. “Been all over town, have you?”

“Shut up,” John snarls.

They ride together for a minute or two in silence. Arthur looks up at the lights, the wires for the trollies that are suspended above their heads. Hardly any trees. There aren’t even any stars in the sky. 

And finally, John speaks. “That was too easy.”

Arthur lowers his head and nods, speaking in low tones. “That’s just what I was thinkin’.”

“You think he’s usin’ us?” 

“He most certainly is. But we need to keep bein’ polite and well-mannered. We don’t want to mess this up.”

John shakes his head, his pinched brow revealing the deep lines of worry etched into his face. The shadows cast over his scars only accentuate his troubled expression. “I feel so uneasy about this, Arthur. I just keep thinkin’ if it were Jack we was tryin’ to get...”

Arthur’s gaze softens as he thinks about the boy and what his fate could have been. “I know. I’m glad he is back at camp. Safe.”

John looks down, letting himself be vulnerable. “I blame myself.”

Arthur looks at John, shaking his head. “You can’t think like that, John.”

“If I had been there to watch him, if I weren’t so…Kit wouldn’t’ve risked herself to save him.”

Arthur lets out a heavy sigh. “If I know Kit, and I think I do, she don’t regret savin’ him.”

“I owe her, Arthur.”

Arthur sighs. “We both do.”

***

They find the cemetery in short order. It feels as though it is tucked away in the darkness, but it isn’t too far from the main business of the city. Arthur and John dismount quietly and try to approach the cemetery as calmly as possible.

John reaches it first, and finds the gate to be unlocked. Perfect. As he pulls the gate open, it lets out a soft creak, making them freeze for a moment.

They wait. And after a second or two, John opens the gate the rest of the way.

They enter.

The moon, half hidden behind scudding clouds, casts an eerie glow over the gravestones and mausoleums. They tiptoe between the plots, the only sound the crunch of gravel under their boots and the distant hoot of an owl. Arthur can't help but feel the weight of all those souls long gone; it's a heavy feeling, like a sack of flour strung across his shoulders.

John whispers, almost too low for Arthur to hear, "How are we gonna find anything in this place?"

Arthur nods, his eyes scanning the darkened landscape. "Yeah, I know. But Bronte said we’ll know when we see it.”

“Maybe he just wanted to get rid of us, then do whatever he wanted to Kit.”

This hits Arthur like a brick. “Don’t say that, Marston…”

John’s breath hitches, realizing that probably wasn’t the best thing to say right now. “She’ll be fine, Arthur. C’mon, let’s keep lookin’.”

As they move deeper into the labyrinth of tombstones and statues, a sense of urgency suffuses Arthur’s movements. The ground underfoot is uneven, the threat of stumbling ever-present, but his mind barely registers these physical distractions. His thoughts are consumed with you—your memory like a lantern guiding him through the darkness.

They come near the edge of the cemetery, with a row of family columbariums and mausoleums. That’s when Arthur hears a scraping sound.

“John!” he breathes. 

“I hear it…!”

“Let’s go.”

As they near it, it seems as though the world grows more quiet, a thick suspense as they walk steadily toward the source of the sound.

The sound grows louder, like fingernails scraping against wood, making the hairs on Arthur’s neck stand on end. As they draw closer, the source of the sound becomes clear—coming from behind two large doors.

Someone is in there, undoubtedly with Bronte’s treasure.

Moving synchronously, they flank the sides of the doors, readying their weapons. In the faint light of a nearby flame burning on a mausoleum, they look at each other.

Counting on his fingers, John numbers one, two…

And in a burst of energy, they kick the doors open.

“You boys find my pappy’s watch ye—?!” John’s outburst is cut short when they discover that there’s no one there. Just a series of urns.

That’s when they hear a burst of gunshots behind them.

Great. They’ve been spotted!

Turning around, they find cover behind some gravestones as bullets fly by in their direction.

“I think this was a trap!” John yells.

“You think?!”

Arthur peeks over his cover. Aside from small torches attached to some mausoleums, there is little light amongst the fog. The flashes when bullets rip from their guns are the only indicator of their positions. But if Arthur and John are to make it out of here alive, they will need to fight through these attackers.

Arthur’s mind races, not just with the adrenaline of the firefight, but with the thought that you are still in Bronte’s estate. Could this have been a distraction meant to draw them away from you? The possibility fuels his resolve as much as it twists his gut. He leans out, fires three quick shots toward the last flash of gunfire, then ducks back as a bullet chips the edge of the gravestone near his head. Hearing a collection of moans in the distance, he knows he has hit his targets.

"We gotta move, Arthur!" John shouts, reloading his gun swiftly. The cemetery sprawls out like a macabre maze, and their attackers are using the tombstones and statues as cover—ghosts in the foggy night, eerily silent between the thundering reports of gunfire.

Arthur nods, his jaw set. "Alright, on my mark," he mutters, scanning the inky darkness. His eyes, now accustomed to the low light, pick out shadows that don't belong to tombstones. He tightens his grip on his weapon, the pistol as familiar as the weight of his own heart, aching for the moment he can return to you.

"Three... two... one..." Arthur counts under his breath and then, with a warrior's yell, they dash from behind their cover. Bullets slice through the mist, weaving deadly patterns in the air. Both men zigzag toward their attackers, they see they are no mere shadows; they're flesh and blood, desperate men probably hired by Bronte to keep them distracted. Arthur feels the weight of each bullet he dodges, the stakes higher now knowing you might be in danger. He catches glimpses of his foes—a glint of a gun here, a silhouette darting there.

And as though time has slowed, Arthur raises his gun and annihilates his enemies with dead precision as they flee.

John, in likewise fashion, takes down several others.

The oncoming bullets stop just as they slide behind another set of graves.

“Is that the last of ‘em?” Arthur asks while catching his breath.

John peeks out from behind the tombstone and looks around. “There’s a light, Arthur! In one of the tombs.”

“Probably another trap,” Arthur figures.

“I don’t think so. That is where they was comin’ from…” John rises to his feet and moves in the direction of the light.

“Marston…!” Arthur calls, but the man ignores him. After a moment of hesitation, Arthur grumbles and follows after him. “We better make this quick. I don’t doubt that gone unnoticed.”

The light flickers, casting shadows that dance across the aged stones, creating phantoms in the dark. As they draw closer, the source of the light becomes clear—a small, solitary lamp, resting on a partially opened tomb, its marble lid scantly resting.

Daring to peek inside the tomb, John notices a small, velvet pouch. He picks it up and opens it. “Ho-ly…!”

Arthur hurries to him. “What! What is it?”

John holds it so that Arthur can have a look. And when he sees what’s inside, his eyes widen.

A gold watch, some rubies, and a pair of pearl earrings.

“Treasure…” John sighs. “And my pappy’s watch.”

Arthur allows himself a chuckle and pats John’s shoulder. “Trap or no, this should be enough to satisfy the Italian.”

And suddenly, in the distance, a police whistle echoes from the other side of the cemetery. Arthur curses under his breath.

“Time to go, John,” Arthur hisses, his eyes darting around for the quickest escape route.

“You don’t have to tell me twice…!”

Together, they crouch low and make a dash for the cemetery’s wrought iron gates, their boots pounding against the cobblestones, echoing in the quiet night like a death knell.

It is time to return to Bronte.

***

“We could have had our own carriage brought,” Arthur says while they exit Bronte’s estate. “Cornwall spares no expense for his interests.”

Bronte waves off the notion with a flick of his hand. “It is my pleasure. He can apply the expense to his donation when he wires me my money,” he chuckles. “I do want to thank you for retrieving my belongings. It is difficult when you hire men and they turn out to be complete buffoons. I’m sure Mr. Cornwall understands.”

Arthur makes a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “He most certainly does.”

Seeing movement from the corner of his eye, Arthur turns to see a large man carrying you in his arms. You are fast asleep, and this worries him. “What—what’s wrong—?”

“Oh, do not worry, Mr. Kilgore. We gave her a little something to help make your journey easier. She can be a little…feisty.”

Arthur tries to sound appreciative. “Oh, erm, thank you for accommodating us.”

“Where are you staying?”

Hell, Arthur hadn’t thought of that. It wouldn’t be smart to lead them to camp. But he doesn’t know where there would be any—

“The Bastille Saloon,” John answers confidently. “We got two rooms there.” John looks at Arthur quickly and nods, conveying, I got you, brother.

Bronte seems pleased with this. “Ah! Perfect. My men shall see you safely there.”

This makes Arthur uneasy, but if he argues, it might raise suspicion. He nods his agreement, keeping his expression neutral as he follows the man carrying you out to the carriage. John keeps pace beside him, his eyes scanning for any signs of trouble.

Once seated, the carriage moves forward, and Arthur hears Bronte call out to him.

“Remember, Mr. Kilgore! Look, but don’t touch!” And then his laughter rings into the night, soon fading into the night’s fog.

As the carriage rattles down the cobbled street, Arthur sits next to you, watching as the moonlight dances across your peaceful expression. He’s eager to hold you close, but given the urgency of the situation, and John’s watchful eye, he merely adjusts the blanket you are wrapped in.

“Why did he give her that damned stuff to make her fall asleep?” John asks with a snarl.

Arthur shrugs, his eyes not leaving you. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe to prevent her from escaping? From fightin’ back?”

“It don’t matter now.” Arthur looks over at John, determination etched on his face. “We have to find a way out of Saint Denis. We can't risk being followed.”

“They seem to be watchin’ us.”

Arthur nods. “I know. We may have her back, but this ain’t over.”

“It never really is.” The weight of their situation weighs heavily upon them, reminding them of the constant danger they face in their line of work. “I’ll kill ‘em if they hurt my sister.”

The carriage stops right in front of the saloon and John is the first to step out. He nods his head at the driver and eyes the two armed men who have been following close behind this entire way. A couple of men who step out of the saloon eye the carriage, whispering fearfully to one another before quickly making themselves scarce.

Arthur looks to you, still sleeping. He doesn’t know how long you will be asleep for, but he isn’t going to waste any time getting you as far away from Bronte as possible. Carefully taking you in his arms, he maneuvers out of the carriage without fumbling or missing a step in his descent. Your head falls into his chest and his heart catches. Trying to be as calm as he can, he backs away from the carriage and turns to Bronte’s men. “Please give Mr. Bronte our gratitude. We will see him in three days.”

They nod wordlessly, and don’t make any motion to leave.

John tugs on the elbow of Arthur’s shirt. “Let’s go, Tacitus.”

Arthur begins to back away slowly toward the saloon, his eyes still watching the men on horseback. And then, finally, his back reaches the saloon’s front doors and he lets himself in.

Inside, the saloon's clamor dulls to a murmur as patrons turn, their curiosity piqued by the sight of you cradled in Arthur's arms. The air smells of tobacco and stale beer, a stark contrast to the crisp night outside. Arthur navigates through the crowd, his demeanor that of a man on a mission, determined yet cautious. He doesn't speak, merely nods curtly to those who acknowledge him. His eyes scan every corner, every face, looking for signs of trouble. John follows closely behind, his hand resting on the butt of his revolver, ready for any sign of danger.

Arthur reaches the front counter, which acts as a bar while also as a guest check-in. The man, who is in the middle of cleaning glasses, has his back turned.

Arthur clears his throat. “Ahem. Pardon me, mister, but can we have a couple of rooms please?”

The man’s posture changes as he turns around. “Yes, I believe we—” And as soon as he looks at you, his eyes widen. “My god, is she alright?”

Arthur looks down at her. She does look concerning. He looks back up. “Oh, she’s just tired from the long journey. It’s been a long couple of days.”

The bartender nods his head slowly. “I can tell.”

John begins to exhibit impatience, as he steps as close as he can to the counter and leans into it. “The rooms, mister?”

The bartender, momentarily lost in his concern, snaps back to attention. "Right, of course. That will be four dollars a night.”

Arthur, his hands not free, looks at John pointedly. After a pause, John sighs, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out some cash before slipping it to the bartender. Taking the money, he reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a pair of keys, sliding them across the polished wood towards Arthur. "Room seven and eight, upstairs to your left. You and your…” His eyes look down at you.

And Arthur replies softly, almost tenderly. “My wife.”

“—Wife, can have the largest room, that is eight. And your…friend there can take seven. If you need anything, holler."

John grabs the keys and starts for the stairs, his boots thudding against the wooden floor. Arthur, still holding you in his arms, follows him. As you both ascend the steps, the creaking of old wood under your collective weight seems to echo through the building. The atmosphere feels heavy, laden with the unspoken fears and secrets of all those who have stayed here.

At the corner of his vision, Arthur sees John eyeing him as they walk up the steps. “What?”

“Nothin’…It’s…just that you said she was your wife.”

Arthur furrows his brow, using aggression to dismiss the notion. “People would’ve been askin’ questions if I didn’t say she was.”

And John mirrors his expression, asking a pointed question. “Since when did you care what folks thought?”

“It ain’t about me…” And he looks down at you.

John seems to understand, his expression softening. “Right. I just…just the way you said it.”

Arthur shoots a defensive look at him. “How did I say it, John?”

John shrugs, quick to want to leave the discussion. “I don’t know. It’s just weird.”

“The whole day’s been weird. C’mon.”

They reach the top of the stairs and walk down the quiet hallway. Rooms seven and eight are at the very end and John, with the keys, unlocks room eight.

It is completely dark, with only the moonlight coming through the window. Arthur, once his eyes adjust to the darkness, spots a large bed and carries you over to it. He gently sets you down, and pulls the throw blanket over you, tucking it gently around your shoulders. "Rest now, Kit," he murmurs, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead. His touch is tender, belying the roughness of his hands.

Arthur stands there a moment longer, watching you in the moonlit room, then turns to see the shadowed form of John as he stands nearby. “Alright, I don’t know how long she’s gonna sleep, but I figure I’ll get us all somethin’ to eat.” He begins to leave. “You good to watch the door?”

“Outside the door?”

Arthur replies as though he’s stating the obvious. “Yes, John, outside the door.”

John pauses, and Arthur can see the silhouette of his head shaking. “No. You watch outside the door, and I will get somethin’ to eat.”

Arthur lets out a long sigh. “Fine. Bring somethin’ with strawberries, will you?”

“Yes, I will. I know those are her favorite.”

“Thanks, John.”

They both head out of the room. Closing the door behind him, he watches John head back down the hallway where they came. Feeling the fatigue and weight of the past few hours events, he leans against the wall beside the door, his eyes momentarily closing. The corridor is quiet, save for the distant sound of a piano from the saloon below, playing a somber tune that seeps through the floorboards. They're not out of danger, not by a long shot, but for now, this silence is his reprieve.

***

A bone-jarring crash jolts him awake, and he recoils from the wall as adrenaline surges through his veins. The sound came from the hotel room, violent and chaotic—nothing like the groggy stirrings of someone emerging from deep slumber. 

And he had left you alone in there, vulnerable.

Panic tightens around his chest; he didn’t even think to check the windows. What if someone had broken in?

Driven by urgency, Arthur bolts to the door and flings it open. The darkness of the room envelops him, pierced only by a faint glimmer creeping through the window. Heart racing, he whips his head toward the bed.

You are gone.

“No…!” he gasps, dread clawing at his throat as he rushes to the window.

That’s when he hears it—the soft pad of footsteps on the carpet behind him, followed by an unexpected weight crashing onto his back.

The figure is surprisingly light but their grip is ironclad; long nails sink into his flesh like daggers.

Wait, long nails?

“I don’t care that you work for Mr. Cornwall…!” hisses a voice laced with defiance. “I am not going anywhere with you!”

Though low and sharp, the voice drips with a sweetness that sends conflicting emotions spiraling within him. He struggles to speak as your chokehold constricts tighter around him. “K—Kit…!” His breath catches as desperation mingles with the slow lack of oxygen.

But then your grip loosens, and your voice raises. “Arthur…?” The recognition in your tone is a mixture of confusion and relief, washing over him like the first rains after a long drought. 

He reaches for his neck, gasping for air. “Man, thought I’d try not to get scratched again…” he chuckles bitterly.

You quickly release him and go to the floor. Arthur whirls around, his hands reaching out to steady you as the moonlight filters through the window, illuminating your features—hazel eyes wide, face flushed with the remnants of anger and fear.

And your eyes glisten with tears. “Oh, Arthur…!” You let out a soft gasp and cover your mouth. “Arthur…! I’m so sorry…!”

“It’s alright.”

You reach out, your fingertips brushing against his smooth, clean-shaven face. “Is it really you?”

“Yeah. It’s me,” he replies, his voice a low murmur that visibly stirs something deep within you.

You blink in disbelief, and a single tear escapes, rolling softly down your cheek like a precious gem. “You came for me.”

“Of course, I did.” He takes your trembling hands in his strong grasp, enveloping them with warmth as he gently caresses your knuckles with his thumbs. “When a man loses– loves –his woman, he goes after her.”

You blink again, stunned. “What?” your voice trembles and Arthur feels his heart racing with a whirlwind of emotions—relief, joy, and an overwhelming sense of love that had been missing for far too long.

“You heard me.” He’s willing to risk so much in telling you, but it can’t wait any longer. “I love you, Kit. Have for a while, have for a long time. I’ve been so scared since you’ve forgotten…” He bows his head. “We kept it secret for more than two years…until…” Then his voice falls as his lip begins to quiver. 

You don’t speak for a moment and it is almost agony for him, but then you smile. You smile bittersweetly, sympathetically, as you reach up to cup his face. Your hands so gentle, so sweet, Arthur could die now and be content. “I’m sorry, Arthur. What’s in our past…is lost to me, now, but I’ve felt something. A pull towards you, even though my mind couldn't remember.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but in the quiet room, it echoes like a confession. “I’ve loved you…I do love you.”

Arthur’s face softens, the lines of worry and time smoothing out for just this moment. “That’s all I needed to hear,” he says and lifts a hand to wipe your tear with his thumb.

“I’m afraid I might not ever remember everything, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Arthur's voice is tender, his eyes gentle as he looks at you. "Don't be sorry for things beyond your control, Kit. We've both seen enough to know life don't always give us what we plan for. What matters is now, this moment."

You nod and you lean into his touch. “It’s like we’re starting over, isn’t it?” You say it so softly, posing the question as though you are afraid to admit it.

Arthur smiles at you. “I guess so.”

You search his eyes as you speak barely above a whisper. “So, what do we do?”

He looks into your eyes and feels the weight of the past lifting, replaced by the promise of a new beginning. He feels a deep resolve the determination not to repeat the mistakes of yesterday. He begins to lean toward you, speaking softly. “How about…?” he starts to say, his breath mingling with yours, but it makes his heart flutter in a way that words seem impossible. 

His lips find yours, hesitant at first, afraid you might break or fade away like a mirage in the desert sun. But you press deeper, confirming the reality of the moment, the connection that defies memory and time. His kiss grows bolder, a silent language of years unsaid, weaving through the spaces between you two.

And as your fingers weave through his hair, the door opens.

“You’d think they don’t know what strawberries are, by how they—” John immediately stops talking as soon as he sees your two forms in the light of the window, still entangled in the gentle embrace. His expression flips from bewilderment to a knowing grin. “Well, it’s about damned time.” And he quickly tips his hat in apology before slipping away, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

The interruption breaks the spell momentarily, but Arthur gives a low chuckle, his voice resonant in the quiet room. "Guess I shoulda told you John’s here too," he murmurs, his smile lingering as he gazes down at you.

You let out a quiet laugh, the tension easing from your shoulders. "Maybe," you reply and he can feel the pounding of your heart against his as it still races from the kiss and the sudden interruption.

Arthur knows it is late. And while he has so many questions, you all need your rest before you try to escape Saint Denis. He tucks some of your loose, dark hair behind your ear and plants a soft kiss on your forehead. “Get some sleep, Kitten,” he whispers. “We can talk in the mornin’.”

“Okay,” you reply. And hearing you yawn, he takes that as his cue to leave. He gently removes himself from you and heads for the door.

“Arthur…?”

He stops mid-stride and turns to look back at you. He sees your elegant form, even in that simple black dress, you are the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. His heart aches with a longing he thought had died months ago.

“Yes, Kit?” Arthur’s voice is soft, filled with the warmth of the emotions swirling within him.

“Don’t go far,” you say quietly, the vulnerability in your voice almost making him reconsider his decision to leave the room. “I mean…well…”

He turns back to face you. “What, Kit?”

You begin to fiddle with your hair, looking down at your feet. “Can you…stay with me? Not like…I mean…”

Arthur smiles softly, stepping back toward you. "Of course, Kitten," he replies, his tone gentle, reassuring, for nothing else matters but granting this simple request. He crosses the room and pulls a chair close to the bed and you pull back the covers and climb in. Sitting down, he reaches out and takes your hand as you lay down, feeling your gentle fingers in his.

You turn your head on the pillow to face him, looking into his eyes. “Goodnight, můj král.”

And hearing that name flow off your tongue, sets things right in his world, even for just a little while.

“Goodnight, Kitka.”

And he watches you fall asleep. You’re his again. 

Thank you for reading! :D

Tag Requests:

@photo1030 @eternalsams

[themadlu]

A Star's Purpose

Part of the Spelljammer challenge by @spacebarbarianweird!

Astarion is happy, truly happy, in the safety of his lover's affection. The troubles of the Underdark have no sway on his mood as he relishes simply existing with his Zélie.

Until a call for help takes them to the depths of the Astral Sea on a Spelljammer vessel, and he'll be damned if he lets his maddening hero face the dangers of interplanar space on her own.

TW: None, I think. Maybe a smidge of self-worth issues? And end-of-game spoilers.

Not beta read and minimal editing, sorry for any mistakes!

This is mostly non-canon to Zélie and Astarion's story (I think).

@amywritesthings, in case you wanna check it out!

A year and a half has passed since the Netherbrain’s defeat. Zélie stayed in Faerun with Astarion, who’s now confined in the shadows due to his vampiric nature. They have settled in the Underdark, after concluding it was their duty to guide the 7,000 spawns towards a semi-functional society and a second chance at life. The lovers live in the magic tower near the sussur tree and have made it their own haven. A home, Zélie would say, but she is home to Astarion, and where they are matters not. 

He just wants to keep falling into reverie with her warm body tangled in his, keeping his demons at bay, and welcome the day with her wild, owlbear-esque hair all over his face. To live in the comfort of each other’s embrace, as nauseatingly cliche as it sounds. Not that she would allow it on most days, his precious, maddening woman. They have responsibilities, she says. Obligations. To the hells with them, he thinks, as he walks with her towards whatever bothersome issue they need to attend to next.  

So what happens when a message comes from a dear friend asking for their assistance in the cold void of the Outer Planes? Astarion knows. His steadfast hero will do what heroes are expected to do: run to the rescue, even if she’d rather not risk their lives again so soon after…well, everything. “You don’t have to come, Astarion, really. Actually, I think it more appropriate for you to stay here, now that we are making progress with your siblings.” As if. Aurelia and Leon can make themselves useful for once and hold the fort on their own. The pale elf is no hero and never will be, but his heart beats in her chest and her soul is his own, so he’d be damned if he doesn’t follow her into this new, gigantic mess. She (“We, Astarion”) already slayed a Netherbrain; what’s a lich queen in comparison. 

______________________________________________________________

Well, that’s impressive.

Astarion examines the raiding ship that Lae’zel somehow managed to secure. The very thing that is going to sail them into the cold, deep astral sea. The technology is clearly Illithid—since he woke up inside that fleshy pod, he’s become familiar enough with their tentacled technology to recognise it when he sees it. But the Githianki’s influence is evident: the large, fan-shaped sails stand proud against the moonlit sky like a dragon’s wings, ready to take their riders towards their next conquest. The front of the ship has what he can only describe as teeth; fanged protrusions, not unlike his own, ready to swallow whole whatever unfortunate creatures they’ll meet. A silent but unavoidable promise of war echoes off the vessel. It makes Astarion antsy. 

He has no issue with violence–he still revels in it at times, the need to own, to consume and not be consumed, so typical of his kind, exasperated by the horrors he suffered. But his bouts of spite and aggression have been fading since her. 

He turns to look at Zélie only to find her staring at the ship with eyes so wide they mirror the moon perfectly. Her mouth is the slightest bit agape in wonder, the closer her stern face can get to a surprised expression. Perfect thing. Gods, over a year together (A year, five tendays and eight days.), barely leaving each other’s side even in dreams, and his little hero still leaves him speechless with the smallest quirk.

(The way she smiles at him when she thinks he isn’t looking makes him want to scream, weep, beg her for forgiveness—for all he has to his name is a used body—and ravage her for days. At the same time.)

You’re a gift, my love. Let me keep you. 

Astarion isn’t worthy of her devotion and mercy, no angry huffs and puffs from her will convince him fully, but gods below he wants to be. He’ll do anything, become anything to keep her safe, happy, looking at him as if he were some miracle of the heavens. 

(Do it. I dare you, he thinks to the silent gods, Try to take her from me. See what happens next.)

“Seen something you like, darling?” He jests in an airy tone, both because he likes to prattle and because her attention scalds him kindly, completely, like the sun never could. Insufferable woman, making him feel so alive. 

Zélie flips her head towards him, frizzy curls bouncing wildly. “Oh Astarion, this ship! I know we’ve been on a mindflayer vessel before, but this is incredible!” She takes his hand in hers and he burns in the best way possible. 

Precious thing, so enamoured by technology, human or otherwise. He pulls her into his arms so he can feel whole one last time before he has to share her with their friends. Astarion kisses her softly, a grin on his lips at her inexorable embarrassment. She is not one for public displays of affection—most of the time.

(Part of the reason he prefers it when it’s just the two of them, so he can worship her properly in the temple of their home.) 

Fuck. 

He is getting hard just thinking about it. He needs to distract himself or else he’ll end up with a wet patch on his trousers that Lae’zel will ridicule until the end of days. 

Jealous prick. Green suits her.

The pale elf grips Zélie tighter, his familiar hardness pressing into her stomach, and her already wide eyes become impossibly larger, paler. (He so wishes he had a reflection in times like these.) 

“I stand by my point, my sweet. Size does matter, it seems.” Astarion winks at her and the woman’s flustered expression turns unamused. Oh, he so adores riling her up, his fierce hero. 

It seems he has underestimated the effect he’s had on her since they met—he can’t believe it’s almost as deep as the one she had on him—because suddenly she presses into him, burying a hand into one of her coat’s pockets so she can grab his length without being seen. Astarion hisses under his breath with poorly concealed pleasure. It’s his eyes that widen and darken now.

“You, cheeky, little pup,” he murmurs, rattles, heat spreading through him so that he would surely combust if he weren’t a cold corpse. 

“Mhm. I guess you do have a point, my dear,” Zélie says, face still unamused as she looks at him and gives him a gentle squeeze to emphasise her statement. 

(It takes all of his self-control not to buck his hips into her hand.)

“Although size doesn’t mean quality. Both are necessary. What good would such a huge ship do to us if it couldn’t sail properly, don’t you think?” She whispers the last few words in his sensitive ear and Astarion almost whines, the desire pooling in his underwear threatening to stain the fabric.

 If it were anyone else touching him like she does, Astarion would rip their throat and limbs out or die in the attempt. But it’s his Zélie and, gods and hells, he wants her, this, all of it, desperately. Her hands are so gentle to him, always, as if he would break should she press a little harder. He thought it was her relative inexperience at first, or worse, pity. The idea that she could be so tender with someone like him purely because she wanted to was unfathomable; now, he has no interest in living without it.

Only she can come to him unannounced. She can do anything she wants with him. 

(He trusts her more than he trusts himself.)

“T’chaki, you two never cease to be revolting,” a cutting voice calls out from behind them. Ah, right. Lae’zel is here. And a few dozen other Gith warriors loyal to Orpheus, all looking equally disgusted. 

Astarion scowls at them while his love-addled brain quickly sobers up at their most untimely appearance (Thank you very much, Lae’zel.) 

Only then, he notices the strangeness of his predicament: it’s his usually stony Zélie who’s all but moulding their bodies into one, it’s her smaller frame in his arms and her fingers caressing his still-hard length. 

Oh? You’re more worried about this journey than you let on, aren’t you, darling?

He recognises the signs from their last life-threatening adventure, her need to have him close to her so she could keep him safe. Impossible thing, always shielding him so fiercely, he is starting to consider his centuries of captivity as a due price for having her to himself. 

(A mortal human protecting a vampire should be laughable, but she saved him in every possible way already.)

Astarion snarls in warning at the burdensome company that ruined what could be the last moment of private intimacy with his person in a long while. “With all due respect, Lae’zel dear, go fuck off for a bit, would you?” 

Lae’zel’s warriors look just about ready to use him as a practice target (They can try.) when the woman in his embrace clears her throat, “It’s all right, Lae’zel. We’re revising last-minute arrangements for the journey. We’ll board in a moment, thank you.” 

The Gith does not look happy, but she and Zélie share a close friendship (And a stick up both their backsides, Astarion used to think.), so she listens to her and heads to the ship with her crew, cursing some pretty mild threats. Small mercies. 

“Oh,” Finally alone, Zélie realises she is still gripping Astarion’s length, colour draining from her face in mortification. “I’m so sorry Astarion, I got carried away,” she tries to move her hand away but he grabs her wrist, keeping her in place. 

“You don’t have to apologise, love. I know I’m simply irresistible!” His attempt to lighten her mood is met with a sceptic glance. Silly, precious thing, always caring for his well-being. Let me help you. “Truthfully, my sweet,” his next words are the truest ones he’s ever uttered, “you know I’m yours.” 

Zélie raises an eyebrow, “you are your own person, Astarion. We went through this, multiple times in fact.” 

He laughs, “To you, with you, darling, it doesn’t matter. As you can clearly see,” he squeezes her hand around his dripping cock.

His stubborn woman studies him carefully, searching for any of his masks and finding none. “Very well,” she concedes. She turns to her left as noises filter from the ship. “Last chance, Astarion. If you want to remain in the Underdark, you must tell me now. Lord knows how long this expedition will last, and I reckon your siblings would benefit greatly from you being there to—”

That’s what it is, then. She worries for him still; and it still unravels him. 

Let me care for you, idiot.  

“Hush, you,” Astarion places a finger on her lips to shush her, “I am where I belong.” 

(Something inside him tears at the thought of being separated from Zélie. Of her alone in the face of danger.)   

His hero’s stance softens, finally relaxed. Her relief makes her look so much younger. “Oh, well, in that case,” she leans into him and kisses him. Truly, fearlessly, savouring all of him. Astarion barely suppresses a noise of surprise before responding in kind, fangs grazing her lips, never hurting her (Never.), devouring her. 

Zélie quietly moans into him. Astounding, how she is still pleasured by such a simple act when they have been entangled into way more complex scenarios during the last year. (As if he were not close to coming already.) If the Gith are watching, he’ll gauge their eyes out.

A tremble of the earth signals that the ship is ready for departure. Zélie detaches from him and this time he does whine at her loss. She gives one last gentle squeeze to his length, making him narrow his eyes at her. The cool night air flows between them.

“The moment we are alone, I will bury myself into your perfect little body so deeply they will have to pry me from you, love.” 

(There’s no holier sight than her tender ecstasy as she shatters around him.)

He expects her embarrassment but not her smirk, “Careful. Promises must be kept, Astarion.” 

She pecks him on the lips again, fully extricating herself from him to climb the steps to the main deck. 

Cheeky, maddening pup.

Yes, Astarion decides, he will make her shout his name so loud Vlaakith herself will hear. 

______________________________________________________________

The Astral Sea is not what Astarion expected. Not that he expected much of anything since he didn’t really want to come here in the first place.

Zélie is leaning against the taffrail in front of him, a multitude of celestial bodies surrounding them. She is so eager to examine every part of the vessel that she stepped onto the outer deck the moment the ship slowed down to pick up some more crew members (As if they weren’t cramped enough already.)

“Don’t you find it uncanny, Astarion? This works very much like a regular ship, and yet it doesn’t. The Astral Sea functions like any material sea, until it doesn’t. And those strange helms—” 

“A pinnacle of technology, taken from the Ghaik and immensely improved by the Githianki so that our empire may conquer and prosper,” comments Lae’zel. Her queen’s betrayal hasn’t quelled the admiration for her own people; if anything, she seems more determined than ever to see a worthy leader at the helm of Gith society. “With a spelljamming brig such as this, you can travel anywhere, anytime. Time passes differently in the Astral Plane. Open a gate into one of many material planes to plunder and pillage to your heart’s content!” 

Gods, intense as always I see. Good. 

A formidable trait in war; fearsome in a foe, welcome in an ally. 

(So Lae’zel can protect Zélie on the battlefield while he keeps her safe from the shadows.)

Zélie’s attention shifts to the mechanism supporting the sails as she speaks, “The travelling part sounds delightful, Lae’zel. The plundering and pillaging less so, for my tastes.” 

The Gith begins a rant about the istik’s inherent weak nature. She even dares to say his Zélie should have chosen her as a partner, back when she proposed, so her martial skills would not have been dulled by the puny vampire. 

Excuse me?!

“I’ll let you know, Lae’zel, that I can keep our dear leader on her toes just fine,” the elf interjects. Astarion is about to add a snarky remark (He was chosen after all.), but Zélie speaks first, “Oh Lae’zel, I would have just been an impediment and you know it. I would have slowed down all the conquering and deadly fighting you enjoy so much. Besides,” she turns to Astarion, a playful glint in her eyes. If he weren’t so attuned to her, he’d miss it.

 (He wonders how many silent gestures he has missed at the start of their travels.)

“I am where I am meant to be,” she concluded. The tips of his ears definitely do not blush at those words. 

(She’ll be the end of him and he wouldn’t have it any other way.) 

Astarion shoots his darling a winning smile, which morphs into a cocky grin as he looks at Lae’zel. 

There. Don’t be sour, you heard what she said. 

Lae’zel is unimpressed. “T’chk. Suit yourself, Zel. Your loss.” 

She marches off towards the helm of the brig when Zélie interrupts her, “Wait. You mentioned that time here passes differently, but how so?”

The Gith sighs, “Ignorants. It’s not the time itself, but its effects. They come to an almost complete halt; no hunger, no ageing—you’ll see when you won’t recall the last time you ate.” 

“Oh”. Oh. 

No ageing is almost as good as—

Immortality. 

Astarion has heard about the Astral plane before, but it seemed so out of his reach he never bothered to learn more. He pickpocketed a book or two about it from some of his liaisons, but they were confiscated immediately and he was handed to Godey for his insolence. It’s not as if Cazador ever had any interest in entertaining his spawn’s curiosity. 

Time is of no consequence to him, but to know that Zélie’s limited lifespan (Because of course the impossible woman had to be human, of all things.) could also be endlessly extended— 

Astarion faces her, her eyes already on him, lit up with the same realisation. He doesn’t dare to hope it’s going to be that simple, but gods, if anyone deserves eternal life is her. And he deserves some happiness without such a dreadfully finite time limit, he fucking does. 

He sees how Lae’zel looks at him, then Zélie, and sighs loudly. She stomps off, shouting, “Boarding is about to be complete. I suggest you two get inside soon enough, if you don’t want to end your dull lives swept away by the astral winds.” 

Astarion nods as she passes by him—her people-reading’s skills have improved enormously since they met. The moment she is out of earshot, he speaks, “Darling, did you—”

“I don’t know—” Zélie says, at the same time. 

The elf lets out a shrill, small laugh, “You first, my sweet.” 

She smiles, a “I don’t know what to think, Astarion. Being immune to the effects of time, it all seems so impossible, so…” He knows what she is thinking, that it’s unnatural, that it’s not how things, people, are supposed to be. When he thought ascending was the right choice for them, when he failed to convince her to embrace becoming his eternal bride, she recoiled, attached to her mortality. 

She doesn’t understand. 

He would outlive her even if he were not a vampire because he is an elf and she, holy as she is, is human. There is no facet of reality where she won’t leave him behind and go where he can’t follow—

“I think we should try,” Zélie stands taller, back straight, like a general making an important call, “After we help your siblings and all the others settle down. Who knows, maybe we can even get our own astral skiff. Do you think dogs will be fine here? I wouldn’t want to leave Scratch behind.”  

She talks faster, excited, and Astarion’s breath catches, head spinning even though he doesn’t need air. He darts forward to cage her between himself and the taffrail, causing her to let out the most adorable little breath. 

(Perfect.)

Zélie composes herself again, “And if we can travel between material planes, there may be a chance to find mine…to find my family. Even if just to tell them I’m well and to introduce you to them.”

Astarion feels like he’s falling, so he catches himself with centuries-old sarcasm. “To—what? Love, you can’t be serious. Introducing a vampire spawn to your oh-so-proper family is a moronic thing to do, even for an impossible woman such as yourself.” 

They would scorn you my sweet. 

She speaks of her family, her planet, sometimes. The image of stern faces, so similar to hers, twisted in fear—or worse, disgust—at the monster their precious Zélie is in love with leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He isn’t fond of children, but even he wouldn’t want his daughter to have anything to do with something like him. 

Zélie exhales in offence, “Of course I want you to meet them, ridiculous elf. I have nothing to hide. I am proud of you, all of you, infinitely, and I know they would be too. You complete me, and for that they would welcome you with open arms.” She stares him down in challenge. 

Astarion studies her expression as he presses his forehead to hers. He seeks for unwillingness, for embellishments of the truth—because lying is a sin to her— and finds none. 

You mean this. Gods.

“Yes, love. We can bring the pest. We can even ask Halsin for the owlbear if you’d like. We will travel through every single material plane if we need to. Anything,” he kisses her parted lips, “Anything,” pecks her cheeks, “Anything,” her forehead, “Anything,” her nose, “Anything you want.” His grip on her tightens. 

She smiles at his onslaught, “All right, all right. We’ll find out how to make it work. For a while!” Zélie points her index finger at him in mock sternness, “I don’t think an unchanging eternity wandering the Astral Sea is something we should limit ourselves to, even if I want to. What purpose would it serve?”

“Purpose?” Astarion snarls the word as if it personally offended him, “We are purpose enough, stubborn woman.” He lifts her up and she clings to him on instinct. He strides inside the ship, ignoring the disapproving looks of the Giths. 

“Astarion! What are you doing?!” 

He whispers, fangs grazing her ear, “I’m finding a private space on this overcrowded thing, darling, so I can fully demonstrate how purposeful I can be.”

Zélie pales and flushes at the same time, and Astarion can feel himself basically purring at the thought of what he’s going to do to her—

“I’m glad you learnt to keep your promises, Astarion,” she murmurs, the outline of a smile into his neck.

Oh love, you have no idea.

[nkirukaj]

I Want You, Simon

So here’s the deal, I’m in love with Simon Petrikov and I need more content of him existing in a romantic sense, so I’m writing a multi-part fic.

Pairing: Simon Petrikov x Fem! OC

Warnings: implied sexual feelings I guess?

Genre: Angst and Fluff I guess?

Word Count: 1.07k

(Sorry, I’ve never done this before lol)

Simon Petrikov was tired. Traveling the multiverse trying to save the world of his new adopted daughter and looking for the love of his life that had become a cosmic deity, Simon didn’t really know what to do with himself on th regular. He spent all this time being poked and prodded at his work/home, and since having weekly meetings with the Minerva bots, and moving to a more secluded area; he noticed that his restored sense of self didn’t cure his loneliness. Maybe it had something to do with him not leaving the house after moving, and not calling anyone? Eh, probably not, right? Everyone has their own issues to deal with, they didn’t need to be burdened with his.

Sitting on his couch finally watching something other than ‘Cheers’ is where he was when he got a call from his first adopted daughter, Marceline.

“Simon!” she said in that same warm tone she always used when speaking to him, it always made him smile

“Hi Marcy,”

“So I’m performing at the Candy Tavern tonight, you gotta come see me!”

“Of course Marcy, I wouldn’t miss it for anything!

“Great, I’ll have a surprise for you when you get there!”

“A surprise? Wait Marcy hold on-”

“K bye Simon, see you there!”

He slunched down into his couch knowing that whatever she had planned for him was something he was sure would throw him for a loop.

Walking through Ooo was a new experience every time he did it. On this walk, he noticed a butterfly with a happy face on it. It filled him with a sense of comfort, seeing it flutter.

When he arrived, he slipped through the crowd towards the bar and ordered his usual. Of course he was willing to support Marceline in any way that he could, but he wasn’t feeling as social lately. He scans the crowd to see all types of beings, non-humans and humans alike. After all this time, he still felt slightly out of place. Through the busy noise of the packed tavern and the dim lights, Simon was able to focus on the spotlit stage, and the sound of a finger tapping on the mic, center stage.

“Hello Candy people! You all know me! I’m Marceline the Vampire Queen”

Many cheers are heard throughout the venue “But for the first time ever, I will be performing with the wonderful and talented Samira!”

Simon’s eyes darted over to the woman ascending the stage stairs. Short with long, curly, black hair, brown skin and…thick. She wore a neon green crop top, with a slightly longer orange cropt top underneath, jean shorts and a black wired necklace.

“Hi, I’m Samira, you might know me, but I’m here to sing a Pre-Mushroom War song, backed up by the one and only Marceline!” Her voice was rich and smooth, not soft, but with a bit of a raspy quality that made her seem hard, while her words made her feel soft.

Simon’s eyes were wide and fixated on this mystery woman.

“Who is that?”

“Dude, she just said her name,”

Simon did not respond, only kept his eyes on this woman with a thickness he had never experienced.

“So let’s get this started!” Marceline shouted before strumming on her axe bass.

An employee removes the mic stand and Samira presses on her necklace and her voice echoes throughout the venue.

Welcome to your life

There's no turning back

Even while we sleep

We will find you

Acting on your best behaviour

Turn your back on Mother Nature

Everybody wants to rule the world

She sways her body to the music and his eyes can’t help but follow.

It's my own design

It's my own remorse

Help me to decide

Help me make the

Most of freedom and of pleasure

Nothing ever lasts forever

Everybody wants to rule the world

Thick, thick, thick. That’s all that was running through his mind. He felt his face go hot and his throat fill his collar. He tried loosening it with his finger, but it did not help. What is going on?

There's a room where the light won't find you

Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down

When they do, I'll be right behind you

So glad we've almost made it

So sad they had to fade it

Everybody wants to rule the world

I can't stand this indecision

Married with a lack of vision

Everybody wants to rule the—

Say that you'll never, never, never, never need it

One headline, why believe it?

Everybody wants to rule the world

All for freedom and for pleasure

Nothing ever lasts forever

Everybody wants to rule the world

The music fades out slowly and Samira stands center stage with Marceline as they bow together.

“Goodnight y’all!” Marcy shouts at the crowd

with another strum of her ax bass. Samira waves at the crowd and descends the stairs. Marceline plays her out.

“I love you Samira!!” Candy people shout “Samira!!”

Samira navigates the crowd, walking closer towards Simon, and he turns his face to hide the red overtaking it. She walks past him, slightly bumping his shoulder and doing a double take towards him that he doesn’t notice. And exiting the venue. Simon shivered from the touch. He lifts his head slowly reeling from either the performances or the drinks.

“So what’d you think Simon?” Marcy threw her arm around Simon’s shoulders

“Who was that?” He turned toward her and ran his hand through his hair

“Dude,” said the same Candy Person from before, “Is this guy listening?”

Marceline laughs “Who, Samira? She’s a friend of mine from the Human City. Surprised you’ve never seen her. I’ve been teaching her old songs but this is the first time I’ve played with her. She’s a really great singer, right?”

“Well yeah, but she’s so-“ he cuts himself off from not knowing what words to say

Marcy smirks and raises an eyebrow “She’s so what Simon?”

He shakes his head, as though to clear it. “Nevermind. I have to go. Great show.” He later Marcy on the back then scurries out the door.

The cool air greets him like an old friend, he basks in it, cleansing himself of the thoughts he’d had just a minute prior. After his fourth or fifth exhale, he felt a slight weight on his shoulder, and as he glanced at it, saw the same butterfly from earlier.

Chapter 2

[shiorihyugawrites]

The Devil's Bride

Aurora Jaeger, Eren's long-lost childhood friend, was taken from him when they were children. After years of suffering under Marleyan control, Aurora is reunited with Eren while he’s undercover in Marley, igniting a bond neither of them expected. Despite her gentle nature, Aurora breaks her vow of pacifism to save Eren’s life, solidifying their deep connection. Secretly married before the Raid on Liberio, Aurora is swept into Eren's world of chaos and destruction. As the Scouts learn of her existence, tensions rise on the airship home. Mikasa’s heart shatters, and Levi demands answers. And Eren will stop at nothing to protect the only light left in his dark world—his bride, Aurora.

In this journey of love, loyalty, and war, Aurora must reconcile her innocent heart with the brutal reality of the man she loves, while Eren faces the truth of what he’s become. (Eren x OC)

Chapter Fifteen

Eren sat on the cold stone floor of his cell, his hands resting on his knees, head bowed. The dim light flickered above him, casting long shadows on the damp walls. The silence was suffocating, yet his mind raced. He couldn't stop thinking about Aurora—her soft smile, the warmth of her touch, and the love she had given him unconditionally.

But now, everything was clear. Aurora’s royal lineage wasn’t just a coincidence; it was the missing piece of the puzzle Eren had been struggling to assemble. Knowing the truth about her bloodline added a whole new layer to his plans. He would protect Aurora with everything he had. No one—no one—could ever learn what she truly was. Not yet.

Eren closed his eyes, sinking into the memories he had unlocked through the War Hammer Titan. He focused, pulling the threads of Clive’s past to the forefront of his mind, watching them unravel with vivid clarity.

…

He was inside Clive’s body again. Through his eyes, Eren saw the intricate, cruel world of the Tybur family. Clive stood in one of their elaborate, coldly decorated halls, surrounded by opulence. But all that wealth and power only masked the hatred and cruelty they harbored toward their own kind—Eldians.

The Tyburs had summoned Clive to their estate to unlock the mysteries behind their own power. In particular, Clive was tasked with studying Nadia, the beautiful, soft-spoken woman with platinum blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Eren felt Clive’s emotions swell as he remembered how Nadia had first been presented to him like an object, bruised and battered from the Tyburs’ abuse. She was an enigma, and the Tyburs were obsessed with unlocking whatever secrets lay in her blood.

Eren could feel Clive’s anger simmer beneath the surface. How could they treat someone so kind, so gentle, like she was nothing more than a tool? Clive kept his fury buried, knowing that to lash out would only ensure his own death. But over the months, as he spent more time with Nadia, he began to fall in love with her.

The Tyburs wanted to use her, to mold her into a weapon for their own purposes. But Clive wouldn’t allow it. The anger and love he felt for Nadia ignited something deep within him—a need to protect her at any cost. He couldn’t let the Tyburs have her.

And so, he devised a desperate plan.

…

Eren’s vision shifted to the moment of Clive’s betrayal. It was a chaotic scene—Clive sprinted through the Tybur estate in the dead of night, Nadia’s hand clutched tightly in his own. He had already injected himself with titan fluid, his heart pounding as he waited for the transformation to take hold. They were being chased, Tybur guards closing in on them, shouting orders to capture them alive.

Clive stumbled but kept running, knowing he only had seconds. As his body began to twist and contort, the terrifying agony of the titan transformation overtook him. With a deafening roar, his pure titan form burst forth, muscles rippling as he tore through the estate, scattering guards like leaves in a storm.

Eren saw everything through Clive’s eyes—saw him towering over the Tybur patriarch, who held the power of the War Hammer Titan. With a savage swipe, Clive's pure titan slammed the man into the ground. Before anyone could react, Clive ripped him apart, consuming his flesh and spinal fluid in a single, horrific bite.

The War Hammer Titan’s power surged through Clive’s veins, transforming him in an instant. White, sinewy armor encased his titan’s body, and a massive hammer materialized in his hand. The guards could do nothing but watch in horror as Clive wielded the War Hammer like a god, obliterating everything in his path.

With Nadia in his grasp, Clive fled the estate, smashing through walls and buildings, unstoppable in his new titan form.

…

The vision shifted again, and Eren found himself on a boat. The creak of wood and the splash of waves filled his ears as Clive—now in human form—sat beside Nadia. His clothes were soaked, his body exhausted from the transformation, but there was a fierce determination in his eyes.

He had stolen a boat, and they were sailing across the ocean toward Paradis. Nadia clung to his side, terrified but relieved to finally be free of the Tybur family’s grip. Clive wrapped an arm around her, whispering reassurances as the coastline of Paradis came into view.

…

Eren’s vision blurred as the memory shifted to their arrival at Wall Maria. Clive, still holding Nadia, transformed into the War Hammer Titan one final time to carry them to safety. Eren could feel Clive’s exhaustion—his body was weakening. But still, he ran, smashing through hordes of pure titans that tried to intercept them as they crossed the open land toward Shiganshina.

When they finally reached the walls, Clive collapsed in exhaustion. He had given everything to bring Nadia to safety. They found a small house in Shiganshina, moving in next to the Jaeger family, and began a new life under new identities.

Years passed. Clive and Nadia married. They eventually had a daughter—Aurora. For a time, they were happy, living quietly in their little home. But the Tyburs had not forgotten them.

The final memory hit Eren like a punch to the gut.

It was Clive’s last day. His body had grown weak from his thirteen-year curse, and he knew he could no longer protect his family. The Tyburs found them, with the Jaw titan assisting them and leading the attack. Clive fought back with everything he had, wielding his own War Hammer one final time.

But he was too weak. The Jaw Titan overpowered him, breaking through his armor. In his last moments, Clive looked back at Nadia and Aurora, his heart breaking as he realized he couldn’t save them.

Lara injected herself with titan serum and transformed into a pure titan— roaring as she devoured Clive, reclaiming the power of the War Hammer Titan for the Tybur family.

…

The vision faded, and Eren opened his eyes, his heart pounding in his chest. He sat in the darkness of his cell, his mind racing as he pieced everything together.

It all made sense now. The Tyburs had kept Aurora as a slave not just out of cruelty, but because of the bloodline she carried—the same royal blood that ran through her mother.

Eren clenched his fists. They took everything from her. From Clive, from Nadia. From Aurora.

And now, the Tyburs were gone. Eren had seen to that. He had taken the War Hammer Titan’s power for himself, and with it, he would carve a path toward freedom.

Aurora’s royal blood was the key to everything. And Eren would make damn sure no one ever found out. Not the Military Police, not the government. Not even Aurora herself.

With renewed resolve, Eren leaned back against the wall, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

No one would ever take Aurora away from him. Not now. Not ever.

And when the time came, he would burn the world to the ground to make sure of it.

As Eren continued to sit motionless on the edge of the bench, his hands resting on his knees, green eyes sharp as the dim light flickered above him. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and he tilted his head slightly, recognizing the soft but deliberate tread.

Queen Historia Reiss entered, her golden hair glinting in the faint light. Dressed in a simple but elegant gown, she carried the quiet authority that had come to define her reign. Her piercing blue eyes swept the cell with an unreadable expression. Behind her, two guards followed, hands resting on the straps of their rifles. 

“Leave us,” Historia ordered softly, not sparing the guards a second glance.

The two soldiers exchanged hesitant looks but gave curt nods before retreating through the door, the clang of it shutting behind them resonating through the chamber. The room grew still.

Eren looked up at her, his expression calm but watchful. Historia stepped closer to the bars, her arms folded loosely in front of her. “Eren,” she began, arching a brow. “What’s this I’ve been hearing about you bringing back a wife?”

Eren’s lips twitched slightly—a ghost of a smile, as if amused by how quickly news traveled. “Didn’t think it’d take long for word to get to you.”

Historia shook her head, leaning against the cold metal bars. “You’ve managed to leave everyone in shock—again. A wife, Eren? How did this even happen?”

Eren shifted slightly, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting hers again. “Her name is Aurora. We’ve known each other since we were kids in Shiganshina. She was my first friend.”

Historia’s brow furrowed. “Since Shiganshina?” she repeated, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. “Why didn’t you ever mention her?”

Eren exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because after she disappeared, I thought she was gone for good. The Tyburs took her and her family. They enslaved her in Marley. I found her while I was undercover.”

Historia’s expression softened, and for a moment, the hard edges of the queen disappeared, replaced by the kind-hearted girl Eren had once known. “And you brought her back with you,” she said quietly, understanding dawning in her voice.

Eren nodded, his gaze turning somber. “I had to. I couldn’t leave her there, not after everything they did to her.” His voice dropped, thick with emotion. “She’s been through enough.”

Historia studied him for a long moment, her blue eyes searching his face. “You love her.”

It wasn’t a question, and Eren didn’t bother denying it. “Yeah. I do.”

A brief silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken words. Then Historia gave a small sigh, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I can understand why you brought her back. But Eren… you know this complicates things.”

“I know,” Eren said, his voice low but resolute. “That’s why I need your help.”

Historia tilted her head slightly, her gaze curious. “What kind of help?”

“Aurora is with the scouts right now, and Floch is keeping an eye on her,” Eren explained. “But I’d feel better if she was with you. I know the scouts are on edge, and I can’t trust the MPs or the Garrison. But if Aurora is under your protection, no one would dare touch her.”

Historia’s lips pressed into a thin line as she considered his words. “That’s a big ask, Eren. The MPs are already on high alert after what happened in Marley. Bringing her here won’t go unnoticed.”

“I know,” Eren said quietly. “But Aurora isn’t just someone I love—she’s important. I need her safe, Historia. She’s…” He trailed off, his eyes darkening as he carefully chose his words. “She’s everything to me.”

Historia studied him, her expression softening. “Alright,” she said finally. “I’ll take her in. But you owe me for this, Eren.”

A rare smile flickered across Eren’s face—one of gratitude rather than triumph. “Thank you.”

Historia gave a small nod, but the weight of the situation wasn’t lost on her. “And what about you? What happens next?”

Eren’s eyes hardened, the warmth in his expression replaced by cold determination. “Floch is rounding up our people from every branch of the military. When the time comes, I’m breaking out of this cell.”

“And then what?” Historia asked, her voice low and serious.

“I’ll take control,” Eren said flatly. “The old brass has to go. They’ve already failed us, and they’ll fail us again if we let them.”

Historia leaned in slightly, her gaze steady. “You know they won’t give up without a fight.”

“They won’t have a choice,” Eren replied, his voice cold. “With the Jaegerists in place, we’ll dismantle the old system. And when the people look for guidance, they’ll listen to you.”

Historia crossed her arms, her expression thoughtful. “You’re expecting me to back you.”

“Yes,” Eren said simply. “You’re the queen. The people trust you. They’ll follow your lead.”

“And what exactly are you asking me to support, Eren?” Historia’s voice was sharp now, though not unkind. “Is this about the Rumbling?”

Eren’s jaw tightened. “You know the answer to that.”

Historia sighed deeply, rubbing her temples. “I knew this day would come. I just didn’t think it would come so soon.”

Eren’s eyes softened, just for a moment. “I told you this was the only way.”

Historia met his gaze, and for a long moment, they stood in silence—two friends bound by impossible choices. Finally, she gave a reluctant nod. “Alright, Eren. I’ll support you.”

Eren exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Thank you.”

“Just... make sure you know what you’re doing,” Historia warned softly. “Because once this starts, there’s no going back.”

Eren’s gaze was steady, filled with quiet resolve. “I know. But this is the only way to keep Aurora safe. To keep all of us safe.”

With that, Historia gave him a final, lingering look before stepping back from the bars. “I’ll get Aurora tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll keep her safe.”

Eren gave a curt nod. “That’s all I need.”

Historia turned toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance over her shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Eren. You might need it.”

Eren watched as the door swung shut behind her, leaving him alone once again in the dim light of the cell. But this time, he didn’t feel the crushing weight of isolation.

He had Aurora. He had a plan. And soon, everything would fall into place.

…

Aurora sat by the window in the room the Scouts had given her, staring out at the bustling streets of Paradis below. The sun filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows on the floor, but she felt none of its warmth. Her fingers twisted together nervously in her lap, her mind filled with questions that had no answers.

Where was Eren? Was he okay? When would she see him again?

The uncertainty gnawed at her. Every moment away from Eren felt unbearable, and the weight of being in this strange place, surrounded by people who didn’t know or trust her, made it worse. These were Eren’s comrades, the ones he had fought alongside for years. But to Aurora, they were strangers. Their eyes—especially Levi’s—followed her with a quiet suspicion, an unspoken doubt that lingered in the air.

She could feel it, the distrust hanging heavy in the room like a suffocating fog.

Mikasa, in particular, was the hardest to face. Every time Aurora caught Mikasa’s gaze, it was like being pierced with a thousand knives. Mikasa didn’t have to say anything; the way she looked at Aurora said it all—resentment, jealousy, heartbreak. As if Aurora had stolen something precious from her.

Aurora sighed softly, her fingers tightening around the hem of her dress. She wished she could just go back to the cabin. Back to the place where she felt safe, where she could be with Eren without the weight of the world pressing down on them. But that wasn’t possible, not now. She was here, in Paradis, far from the life she had grown used to over the past few months.

A soft knock at the door broke her thoughts. The door creaked open, and Hange stepped inside, her usual enthusiasm tempered by a cautious smile. “Hey there, Aurora,” Hange said, her tone light but gentle. “How are you holding up?”

Aurora offered a small smile in return, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m... managing,” she replied, her voice soft.

Hange walked over and took a seat on the edge of the bed, studying her curiously. “I know this is a lot to take in,” Hange said, her voice softening. “But I want you to know that you’re safe here. Eren... well, he’s in a bit of a situation, but he’ll be fine.”

Aurora nodded, though the knot of anxiety in her chest remained. “I just... I don’t know anyone here. It’s strange being surrounded by his comrades and feeling like an outsider.”

Hange tilted her head sympathetically. “It’s understandable. You’ve been through a lot, and now you’re in a completely different world. But trust me, the others will come around. They just need some time.”

Aurora glanced out the window again, her brow furrowed. “I feel like they don’t trust me.”

Hange’s eyes softened. “It’s not that they don’t trust you... well, not exactly. It’s just that Eren’s been keeping a lot of secrets, and bringing you back was a surprise to everyone. Levi, in particular, doesn’t like surprises.”

“Levi,” Aurora whispered, her fingers twisting tighter. “I can feel how much he distrusts me.”

Hange chuckled softly, though there was no humor in her voice. “Levi’s... protective. He doesn’t trust easily, especially when it comes to Eren. They’ve been through a lot together, and Levi’s just trying to figure out what’s going on.”

Aurora nodded, understanding, but it didn’t ease the weight on her chest. “And Mikasa?” she asked quietly, her voice almost trembling. “She looks at me like...”

“Like you’ve taken something from her?” Hange finished gently, watching Aurora closely. “Mikasa has... complicated feelings about Eren. They’ve been close for years, and she cares about him—deeply. Seeing you with him... it’s hard for her.”

Aurora swallowed, her throat tight. “I never meant to hurt her.”

“I know,” Hange said, her voice kind. “But feelings don’t always work the way we want them to. Give her time. She’ll come around.”

The door opened again, and this time Floch stepped in, offering Aurora a friendly nod. “You okay in here?” he asked, his tone casual but concerned.

Aurora managed a small smile. “I’m fine. Just... thinking.”

Floch crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Don’t worry about Levi or the others. They’ll get over it. Eren asked me to look after you, so you’ve got nothing to worry about while you’re here.”

“I appreciate that,” Aurora said quietly, though the uncertainty still lingered in her heart.

Floch glanced at Hange, then back at Aurora. “You know, Eren’s going to need all the support he can get when he comes back. He’s got a plan, a vision for this island’s future. And you’re a part of that now.”

Aurora’s chest tightened at the mention of Eren’s plan. She knew what Floch meant—the Rumbling. The weight of it pressed down on her again, the guilt she had been carrying ever since Eren told her what he was planning to do. She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

Just as Floch was about to say something else, there was another knock at the door. This time, it was Armin. He stepped inside cautiously, offering Aurora a gentle smile.

“Hey,” Armin said softly. “I just wanted to check on you.”

Aurora smiled, grateful for his kindness. “Thank you. I’m... trying to adjust.”

Armin nodded, understanding. “It’s not easy, I know. But we’re all here to help. Eren’s our friend... and now you are too.”

The sincerity in his words brought a warmth to Aurora’s heart, but before she could respond, Levi appeared in the doorway, his sharp eyes sweeping the room.

“We need to talk,” Levi said flatly, his gaze locking onto Aurora.

He stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and his eyes as sharp as ever. Aurora looked up, startled by his sudden presence, but quickly composed herself. His gaze was intense, as if he could see straight through her.

"Enough resting," Levi said, his voice curt. "I need to know what you can do."

Aurora blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"

Levi stepped further into the room, his boots barely making a sound as he approached. "We don’t have time for passengers. If you’re staying here, you need to prove you’re useful. So what are your skills? What can you do to help?"

The tension in the room thickened. Aurora shifted in her seat, feeling the pressure of Levi’s unrelenting stare. The other scouts stood just behind Levi, their expressions curious but guarded. Hange, ever curious, leaned in slightly, clearly intrigued by where this conversation might lead.

Aurora took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. “I’m not a soldier,” she began, her voice steady but soft. “I’ve never been trained to fight.” She hesitated for a moment before meeting Levi’s eyes. “But I am a herbalist.”

“A herbalist?” Levi asked, skepticism clear in his tone.

“Yes,” Aurora said, more confidently now. “I’ve been studying plants and natural remedies my whole life. When Eren and I were hiding in Marley, I spent a lot of time gathering herbs and experimenting with different mixtures.” She reached into the bag she always kept close by, pulling out a small, worn notebook. “Here.”

She handed the notebook to Levi, who glanced down at it, his expression unreadable. Hange stepped closer, peering over Levi’s shoulder, her eyes lighting up with interest.

“What’s this?” Hange asked eagerly.

“It’s my notes,” Aurora explained. “Over the last seven months, I documented everything I learned about the local plants near where Eren and I stayed. I created elixirs and remedies, mostly to help Eren. He... he was tired often after gathering information all day, and I wanted to do something to help him.”

Levi flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the detailed illustrations of plants and the careful handwriting that filled every corner. Hange’s face lit up with excitement as she read over his shoulder.

Aurora reached into her bag again, this time pulling out several small vials filled with various liquids. “These are the elixirs I made,” she said, holding them out for the others to see. “I gave them to Eren regularly. They helped raise his stamina, increased his recovery time, and allowed him to transform multiple times in succession during the raid on Liberio.”

Levi raised an eyebrow, but it was Hange who reacted first, her excitement barely contained. “Wait, that’s how Eren was able to transform three times during the raid?” she asked, her eyes wide. “It wasn’t just his Titan powers? It was because of these?”

Aurora nodded. “Yes. He had been taking them for weeks before the raid. I... I didn’t know if they would work the way I hoped, but they did.”

Hange practically bounced on her heels, reaching out to take one of the vials from Aurora’s hand. She held it up to the light, examining the contents with a gleam in her eyes. “This is fascinating! You managed to create something that enhances a Titan shifter’s abilities? How did you even figure this out?”

Aurora gave a small, nervous smile. “It wasn’t easy. I spent a lot of time experimenting, trying different combinations of herbs and plants. Eren was... well, he was my test subject, I guess.”

Levi handed the notebook to Hange, who eagerly accepted it and began flipping through it with intense focus. He glanced back at Aurora, his expression still unreadable but slightly less skeptical than before.

“And these elixirs,” Levi said slowly, “they actually made a difference?”

Aurora nodded again. “Yes. They helped Eren recover faster, and they gave him the stamina he needed to transform multiple times. Without them... I don’t think he would have been able to do what he did in Liberio.”

Levi was silent for a moment, his sharp eyes narrowing as he processed the information. He then turned to Hange. “Thoughts?”

Hange’s eyes were practically glowing with excitement as she clutched the notebook to her chest. “I think we’ve just stumbled upon something incredible, Levi. If these elixirs can do what she says they can... this could change everything.”

Levi looked back at Aurora, his expression still hard but slightly less cold than before. “Alright,” he said finally. “You’re not completely useless.”

Aurora let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding, feeling a small weight lift off her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“But,” Levi added, his voice sharp again, “I’ll be keeping an eye on you. If you’re hiding anything else, or if those elixirs have any... side effects, you’ll answer to me. Understood?”

Aurora nodded quickly. “Understood.”

Levi gave her one last long look before turning on his heel and heading for the door. Hange, still clutching the notebook, followed close behind, muttering excitedly to herself about the possibilities of using these elixirs in the field.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Aurora exhaled, sinking back into her chair. The room was quiet now, the tension having lifted somewhat, but the unease still lingered.

She had proven herself useful, for now. But there was still so much more she was keeping from them—about Eren, about his plans, and most importantly, about her own past.

And she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep those secrets buried.

~

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[thebrimstonewitch]

A VERY DESCRIPTIVE PROFILE OF YOUR MUSE. Repost with the information of your muse, including headcanons, etc. if you fail to achieve some of the facts, add some other of your own!

NAME: Calamitas (true name "Ashri")

NICKNAME: None that she will permit anyone to call her yet.

TITLE(S):  Supreme Witch, Brimstone Witch

SPECIES: Demon.

SEX: Female.

NATIONALITY: Unclear if she has any such thing to speak of, though her voice actor has a British accent.

INTERESTS: Witchcraft, astronomy, astrology, tarot reading, palm reading, book reading, long walks through nature, cooking, knitting, various grandma activities.

PROFESSION: Witchcraft.

BODY TYPE: Gaunt and lithe, not much going on beneath the robes. Absolute stick figure of a woman.

EYES: Red-orange, like a blazing fire. If you stare into them for long enough you may even see them shift their hue, like the embers of a flame. As she grows calmer, they become yellower in their tint, and as she grows angrier they shift to become more scarlet.

FUR: She has none! Definitely! She has a tail beneath her robes. It's brownish with a tuft of fur at the end, structured almost like that of a rat or other rodent. But she would die before she let anyone see it.

HAIR: Stark white, shoulder length. Oft silky thanks to being well maintained, though there are days when she sinks into her sadness and forgets to care for herself. On those days, it becomes scraggly and knotted.

SKIN: Gray and craggy, with cracks in the epidermis as if it were made of stone. Notable horns upon her brow, ashy white and chalky in texture, yet hard and firm.

POSTURE: In all manners of interpersonal communication, she is straight-backed, dignified, perhaps even imperious––save for when she is alone, experiencing a moment of depression, or otherwise attempting to be vulnerable. In such a scenario, she becomes slouched and weary, letting the true weight of her world impress itself upon her shoulders.

HEIGHT: 190cm (6'2")

VOICE: As it happens, Calamitas already has a canon voice: Alice Kensington, or OtherButtons! It can be heard at the beginning of DM DOKURO's uploaded video of her theme, or if you want isolated vocals, this will do.

SIGNIFICANT OTHER: None currently, but she wouldn't be opposed to settling down if she found the right person. It might help her move on with her life.

COMPANIONS: Her life is a lonely one, now. Formerly she counted Yharim, Draedon and perhaps even the Devourer of Gods among her comrades, but... Not anymore.

ANTAGONISTS: The very same trio she once called friends, as well as any who would try to bring violence to her doorstep once again.

STRENGTHS: In the realm of brimstone magic, she has no equal––and in all other fields she remains an expert if not a master. Her ability to exert overwhelming offense is extremely high. In general, her capacity for violence remains incredible, despite herself. She is perceptive and possesses a keen eye for sorcery of all kinds. With her age has come wisdom, and she knows much of the world around her.

WEAKNESSES: Ironically, despite her specialties, Cal's heart has been quite frozen with time. She has trouble letting her emotions crack through the facade she has made for herself, which leads to some unsightly outbursts when she is pressed too hard. She is haunted by her past. In a sense, she has "given up" on herself, still believing herself a weapon that holds no capacity for love... Yet, in this, she is wrong.

FRUITS: Dragon fruit is her favorite. She will not explain why.

DRINKS: Tea. Specifically chamomile, with two sugars. No more, no less, to be added to the brew one after the other rather than together at once.

DRUGS: She drinks, on occasion––though not strongly. More so just wine and other classy drinks such as those.

DRIVER'S LICENSE: She can just fly. Also, I don't think cars exist in Terraria. Unless you count mounts, but, again... She can just fly.

Tagged by: stolen from @ama-tcra-su

Tagging: Uhhhh go for it, steal it

[koneko-pi]

Ask and you shall receive, Laura

Let your hair down

Summary: Briar goes on a hunt for Nozel, and what she finds appears to be a bundle of distress. So she helps him relax a little.

Fluffy

2700 wordcount

A bored Briar was never a good thing. She was the kind of person who never set free time off for herself, she was always working on some project or out doing something, be it in the woods or off in the city. Even at night she would for-go sleep in favor of something that stimulates her mind, though that situation was something entirely different.

So when she had her plate clean, schedule empty and, unfortunately, no friends; Briar would become a nuisance. And she was well aware of it. The hovering nature over other people's projects at the research division, the pestering of people in the library under the guise of offering help, stopping by Julius office to hand off a new little tool he would probably run off with. And then she could watch an estranged Marx go on a scavenger hunt for him.

Yes, she was well aware of this childish-like behavior, in its most subtle ways. Perhaps it was the remnants of who she used to be still finding its way up into her more hardened surface. And she would let it, because the bottom line was: she was still bored.

So today's unfortunate target would be the King Eagle himself. A man famously known for that royal stick up his butt in any situation. She wondered what kind of reaction he would have to her sudden arrival, or to whatever annoyance she would victimize him with.

Should she talk about his braid again? The Silva's odd choice of clothing? Bringing up that odd rumor about him and Fuegoleon was always good ammunition.

The knights in the Silver eagles base had no idea such thoughts were running through her mind as she strolled right in. Rather they were more taken aback by her clothing.

"Briar, what are you wearing?" Curtis had frozen in a doorway she was attempting to enter, it was a hallway that led down towards the more superficial part of the base. The personal library, storage, offices and such.

"Hm?" The woman glanced down. "Oh."

She had completely forgotten about it.

Her original plan for that day had been to attend an auction of magical items -A particular mirror had caught her attention- so she was somewhat dolled up. It wasn't anything fancy, but she did suppose… compared to her usual attire it was nice.

An off the shoulder cream dress with floral embroidery around the bottom. She had a bit of makeup on and her usual green clunky looking headpiece was swapped out for the fluffier white earmuffs she usually slept in. She had a shawl tightly wrapped around her torso to hide her scar and stones on her back.

Sadly the Auction had fallen through when one of the items intending to be sold reacted to something and took out almost half the building. Hence her now free schedule. She remembered thinking at the time this is exactly why her division existed, to regulate and prevent situations like that from occurring. But the world would be perfect if they managed to catch every magical tool in the city. The black market did exist after all. And witches were always making something new.

Her fingers played a little with the lace of her shawl. "I just dressed up a little. I'm actually looking for Nozel right now."

Many of the other eagles were suddenly very interested in the conversation. Curtis' eyes went surprisingly wide as the smallest of blushes appeared on his face.

"Oh… I see."

'Eh?' Briar blinked at his reaction, finding it out of place.

He coughed into his fist as if he was trying to compose himself. "Th-the captain isn't here right now."

"Oh he's been at home all day." Nil's was suddenly standing with them- when did he get there? "He said he had something important happening today and wouldn't be coming in."

Many heads suddenly turned to Briar; dressed up, looking for Nozel and the time of day was conveniently dinner time, now that she thought about it.

Oh wait…

"Ah-" her eyes widened slightly. "No, I don't have plans with him." She tried to wave her hands and deter anymore thoughts they might be having but…

"Sure sure." Another eagle said, rubbing his nose. "Nozel's always been a private guy."

"And you too. You like to keep things to yourself."

"This isn't-"

"You better get going, Clover Castle isn't very far!"

Briar couldn't get a word in until she was suddenly standing outside the base, her back to the door after she had hurriedly been shooed away. Unfortunately though, now she was alone.

"Huh…" she slowly looked up at the darkening sky. A flicker of constellations starting to make themselves known between the cloud cover. "This is a big misunderstanding…"

…

……

That was a problem for another day. She still had a bird to catch and was losing daylight.

Clover Castle was something else to her. It wasn't the biggest castle she had ever seen in her long life, but she still could be impressed with it, mostly because it was a rather nice blend of 3 completely different architectures.

If she remembered correctly, each part of the castle actually represented, and belonged to, each of the noble houses. The Vermillions stood out the most with their intense marble and squared off designs. Most likely due to their magical affinity, one would not be living in a wood house with fire magic.

"I wonder if Solara is there." She wondered curiously as she watched shadows move across warmly lit windows.

She turned instead to the section of castle off to the right. With elegant spire-like towers pointing up into the sky and pointed roofing, this was definitely Silva Manor. If it wasn't that then it was the metal Silva emblem hammered into their front doors. It was really hard to miss.

She knocked on the door, and as she expected, a maid swiftly answered it.

"Hello-" She looked taken aback to find Briar there. The maids' blue eyes flicked up and down to look her over. The first pause was at her earmuffs, the second was on her eyes before she jolted. "Uh- are you… Miss Rose?"

The brunette looked a little concerned. Why did the maids of the house know who she was?

"P-please come in!" She moved aside swiftly and ushered the woman inside. It was so sudden that Briar's old training just kind of kicked in and she quickly strode right into the building. A few other maids, who had been cleaning up nearby, all now stood in a line, bent at the waist to greet her.

"Welcome, Miss Rose."

'This is unnerving…' Briar thought as she stood there, suddenly very stiff. It had been a very long time since she had been treated in such a way. 'Why is this happening?'

"Please, stand up straight… I'm just looking for Nozel." She held a hand up to raise the Maids from their bent position. She almost felt bad now, being treated like this but having come to bother their Master…

"He's in his private office." The original maid stood beside her. "Right this way." She gave a small bow and ushered for Briar to follow, and what else could she do but? She followed the woman upstairs and down the halls. Only briefly pausing to look at paintings of previous patriarchys. The one of a young woman in a ponytail appeared to be the largest. She looked almost exactly like Noelle, the youngest Silva.

"He has her eyes…" Briar muttered out loud to herself.

"Here you are, ma'am." The maid bowed as she pointed towards double doors. "His private study."

"Thanks…" Briar gave a small nod to the woman who then quickly went on her way. The brunette took a deep breath and pretended not to notice the group of women peeking around the corner at the far end of the hall. She knocked once on the door.

It took a moment but there was a muffled, "Who's there?"

"It's Briar."

She definitely heard the sound of him dropping something in confusion then quickly picking it up. "Why?"

A valid question since she was certain this was unplanned, despite everything happening around her. Before she could respond though he spoke again.

"Are you alone?"

Briar blinked once then glanced down the hallways (Watching the maids vanish un-stealthily) to really make sure. "I am." Her tone made her sound confused, which was different from her curt nature.

"You may enter."

She was surprised by that reaction. She was certain her showing up here unannounced would have created some sort of kink in his day. Any other time she suddenly entered a room he looked like he needed to prepare himself for a headache.

But as she opened the door it seemed that the headache was already there without her intervention. She also noticed why he wanted her alone.

As usual his outfit didn't make any kind of sense to her. It appeared to be a short sleeved version of his normal attire, but it nearly hung off his shoulders. The thing about this outfit though is that it was lacking the high collar and gold choker he usually wore, which left his curse out in the open.

Briar was… surprised to say the least. Was he that comfortable with her..?

She almost didn't notice the sheer amount of paperwork covering both a desk and his coffee table. Which is where he currently sat, with more papers in one hand and his other hand against his forehead as he read through them slowly.

"What do you need?" He asked without looking up from his work.

"Uh…" Now she really felt bad. She couldn't just tell him she was here for her own entertainment. Especially after now seeing him in an obviously stressed out state. "The maids let me in."

Somehow that was enough for him, because he didn't argue with it. He just let out a frustrated sigh, as if this situation had happened before.

"How do they know who I am?"

His shoulders jolted a little, and the glance he gave between his fingers indicated he was not ready to relinquish the answer. Which was fine.

Just another reason for her to swing by in the future.

"What are you doing?"

"Work."

"Well, obviously." She narrowed her eyes slightly even if he wasn't looking at her anymore. But her tone demanded a better explanation.

Nozel let out a frustrated and guttural sound, something she really hadn't heard before. Was this a rare moment of actually catching him at a low point? "My work got backed up because another squad was interfering, so now I have all these reports to read and sign off on and double check property damage we might have to pay for. Or not, if I can find a decent reason to tell the parliament 'NO'. Now if you don't need anything, PLEASE LEAVE."

Ah…

Briars' hands balled up into her shawl for a moment. Her first thought was maybe another spar between their loving rivals, the lions, had gotten a bit out of hand. Then her mind quickly shifted gears into thinking… he has probably been sitting here all day going over word after word of paperwork, trying to get it all done within a reasonable time so it didn't affect the rest of his schedule.

When did this start?

Did he eat at all?

Was money that big an issue somehow?

All questions she could have asked the maids, but that opportunity had passed. Is this why everyone seemed so eager for her to be visiting him? To make sure he was okay?

She felt her cheeks heat up just a little. For a moment. She wouldn't give herself anything else.

Rather she pulled her shawl off and draped it over one of the chairs. She then slipped off her shoes so her heels didn't clack around loudly and finally walked around the couch so she stood behind him. The poor man was still so deep in his paperwork he didn't suspect the claws coming down upon him.

Nozel's whole body seized when he felt Briar suddenly grab hold of his head. The placement of her hands, one under his chin and the other on the top of his head, made him think she was going to snap his neck. But her grip was strong only to hold him in place should he try and run.

"What are you doing." It was not a question, it was a demand wondering why she had the audacity to be interfering with his work so suddenly.

"Put the papers down." She said.

"What-"

"Put them down."

He wasn't sure what compelled him to do as she said. Maybe it was the threatening position of her hands. But slowly he placed the papers in his hand down into his lap. Not really relinquishing them, out of spite.

And then she tilted his head back. Wide purple eyes looking up at her in confusion and surprise. And she stared back at him, her expression softer than usual, but nothing more.

"How long have you been here?" She asked.

He didn't answer her at first, but she didn't move to leave no matter how long they just stared at one another, so he let out a defeated huff and finally, "Since this morning."

"How early is this morning?" Her hands moved so that both palan were against the top of his head, fingers gently pressing down. It didn't hurt, quite the opposite actually.

"Six am."

The woman let out a sigh. "And have you eaten today?" Her fingers slowly began to move in soft, gentle, circular motions. The sensation immediately sent a reaction through Nozel's body to relax. Even his eyes fluttered closed.

"No."

Another noise escaped her as her fingers moved to his face. He was nervous, body tensing for a moment, till he realized she was undoing the clasp at the end of his braid. She put it to the side and then began to undo his hair, his scalp cried out in relief after having to hold the tight braid all day long. Normally he didn't feel it, but the headache overtaking his entire skull seemed to have made a difference.

He let her comb her fingers through his bangs several times to make sure all of it was undone and no tangle was left behind. She then pulled all of it back so it was out of his face, and once again began to dig her fingers in gently to massage his scalp.

Nozel didn't consider himself pampered. Sure he was a noble, but many times he forsook his own interests for family affairs and work. Hell his interests were those exact things most of the time. So he wasn't like some nobles where a maid would come in and give a massage, or a nice soak of hands and feet to relax.

He wasn't used to the heavenly feeling of fingers gently rubbing against his scalp in circular motions to alleviate the pain. Rubbing back and forth, against the backs of his ears and even down his jaw. He wasn't sure what compelled this woman to do this but dear god he was not going to question it now.

She even managed to pull a soft groan from him as she gently pulled her fingers back through his hair like a comb. And with his eyes closed he didn't see the flushed look of surprise on her face.

"Feeling better?" Briar asked after ten minutes of nice rubbing. Her fingers still played with his hair though as she spoke.

"Yes, it felt good." He would give praise where it was due.

"Good… will you eat something now?"

His eyes peeled open to stare at her. "Are you inviting me to dinner." She noticed the flick of his eyes to her dress.

"If it will get you to eat." Her tone was actually playful…

"I suppose… though I will have to change." He pulled his head away from her, albeit reluctantly, and cupped a hand around his neck to hide his curse mark.

"Tell me what you want, I'll have the maids bring it here." Briar offered.

"That does sound more appealing…" he wouldn't have to leave his office at least. "By the way… what are you wearing?" He turned his body to look over the back of the couch to really get a full view of her outfit.

"Ah… its a story. Which reminds me…" she glanced away looking a little sheepish, which made his eyes narrow at her. "The eagles… may have gotten the wrong impression of something…."

[sapphire-weapon]

Hi. As someone who really likes Ashley (and Eagleone) I obviously want her back. But having read your asks a few days back I kinda understand how that probably won't happen, having to keep a small cast so the focus stays on actually important characters (plus sadly is nowhere near as important or memorable as other one-off characters like Sheva, Billy or Carlos and even they don't have much prospect of returning). But still I let my delulu self have fun for a bit. And something stood out, and it's the conversation on the lift, right after the wrecking ball fight.

Ashley, for the first and only time in her existence, talked about her future after the game. And it is strange when a character discusses their future, because we as the audience will take that as foreshadowing of something about said charcter ultimately becoming true. But Ashley's not coming back; the devs are not gonna write her back into the games, right? So why, why choose that as the topic of their conversation? They really could've chosen something more casual, maybe keep their dialog as harmless and casual flirting that leaves no consequences to the future like they did in other sections of the game. But it had to be that. Why?

In 2021, ID gave Ashley a picture cameo after forgetting about her for 15+ years, with a more matured and beautiful (and less pixelated) image. 2 years later in 2023, RE4R came out with a new and improved version of Ashley, making her infinitely more likeable, and thus making people sadder that this is the only game they are gonna see her in. But in that same remake, she teased about becoming a US agent with Leon, fighting evil and whatnot. So is it ever possible that in the 2 years after RE4R we will hear from her again?

Is Ashley's reintroduction timeline just a coincidence? Yeah probably. But taking into account the nature of the conversation on the lift and this coincidence, it really really felt like I'm connecting dots. Will she come back? Not as a main charcater or anything, maybe just with Hunnigan-level of importance, but will she come back?

At the end of the day, I must admit I looked a bit too much into this. I just want to see her again, and I'm overthinking to make that seem more plausible. But I also really really want to hear your thoughts on this, on the foreshadowy conversation and timeline, on how Capcom went out of their way to make her lovable to the point of taking some of Ada's spotlight away. Can this be a preparation for an actual future role in the franchise, albeit small and insignificant?

And if you've seen that very AI looking RE 9 cover, who is that woman at Leon's side anyway. Her hair is light colored and her physique looked too small to be Jill's. And that hairstyle...ok I'll stop; that cover meant nothing and she's probably a new character. I just see Ashley everywhere now lol.

I'm gonna answer this backwards.

I'm assuming the AI lady is Jill just because of the leaks. But like. It's AI. So don't read too far into it.

Now, I'll admit that I always did find it weird that Ashley talking about becoming an agent is the single only unskippable "cutscene" dialogue in the entire game. You can even skip Leon and Luis's conversation on the elevator up to his death. But you cannot skip the one between Leon and Ashley on that lift after the wrecking ball.

But here's the thing.

One of the most important things that that German leaker, Andy, talked about was how RE games are made.

I talked about this a little already, but RE directors and producers are given free rein to write any story they want for the games, and they are in no way obligated to pick up where another team or game left off. He used Steve as an example -- no one was interested in bringing him back as a tyrant, so no one ever did.

But it wasn't just Steve. He also specifically mentioned that we will never see Sheva or Helena again -- because nobody in executive roles on the team cares about them. No one's going to go out of their way to bring them back. And they don't have to. No one's going to ever mandate it. That's not how these games work.

So the same kind of principle applies to Ashley. She'll only come back if someone wants her back. In this case, the likeliest candidates would be Hirabayashi or Kadoi, who both seemed particularly invested in her character for RE4make.

But, to our knowledge right now, both Hirabayashi and Kadoi are working on CVXR.

And RE9 started production before RE4make did. So there's no way she was planned for RE9. That wouldn't make any sense.

So this brings me back to my original point. She's not coming back in RE9. And if she's not coming back in RE9, she's not coming back. What would be the point of bringing back a character over 20 years later? Right at the end of the story, even?

They're not going to retroactively fit her into any remakes, either. Because she doesn't belong in them.

She's not coming back. She's just not.

[harleiquina]

The Cursed prince

A Snowhite retelling.

I've been thinking about this for a while, and as any writer can tell you: the best ideas come in the most unexpected times (in this case I woke up at 4 & something in the morning because my dogs needed to do their bussiness, and I just couldn't go back to sleep. So now at 5:22 I mentally finished this version of the story that was nothing more than an idea for the past few months). Enjoy! Because I know that I'll hate myself when I'll get sleepy at work later today.

So it was true.

Since birth he was destined to lose everyone he ever loved. His mother was the first one, the very same day he gave his first breath. He couldn't even see her once.

His father followed, a few years later. He was kind and warm but strict, as all kings should be. He loved his son but wanted to be sure that the power of their bloodline would never get on his head. What kind of king could that kid become if all of his wildest dreams were granted to him? The child needed limits, so the father gave him exactly that. He was an exceptional man.

Then came Father Solar. The King asked in his death bed for his son to be raised in the monastery that his family build, to have the best education he could have and learn how to be a man on God. All the priests there were dedicated to their task, but Father Solar would let the kid be a child, climbing trees, going fishing, running through the fields and playing with marbles (he taught the prince the most impresive tricks with them behind the other monks' backs). After his death, the prince, now a young man, went to his castle trying to leave the pain behind and to "grow up".

Many friends (because thats what they were, not just soldiers) died in foreing lands, sometimes in battle, others by believed-to-be friendly hands and others in minor incidents where, in a ironic twist of fate, they were trying to avoid any kind of conflict.

Many of his servants, that took care of him, like the cook that always made him smile when he needed it the most also died. Everybody tried to convince him that they were old and nature took it's course but then how could anyone explain that her little daughter, a child that the prince thought of as the little sister he never had, just never woke up without explanation?

The prince was more and more convinced that he was cursed. And now he had the worst reminder of it.

A year ago or so, he had to go to a neighbouring kingdom to participate in the wedding of the king, a long friend of his father. He was marrying for the second time, many thought that it was too soon, to a younger woman whose great beauty was a little suspicious to folks who believed her to be a witch or an evil wooden sprite under a glamour spell.

The prince got easily bored next to the other royals next to him that doubled his age (or even tripled it!) and kept on telling the same stories over and over again with more and more details as the wine began to flow. And then he saw her, the king's daughter, a lovely young girl almost his age with raven hair that made her look extremely pale. People called her Snowhite but he thought that it was a poor choice of a name because her smile alone was as warm as a summer breeze.

He couldn't take his eyes off of her. She was graceful, kind and smart enough to get one of her father's friends to back track a statement he made about his people's labour. She noticed the prince and every time she caught him looking at her, she'd smile as an invitation to join her. But he would turn and walk away.

Yet she was decided to breach that distance, so she asked him to dance. He tried to refuse but as soon as their hands touched, the wall that he was building between them fell apart.

The world disappeared when she was in his arms and so did any kind of fear he felt about losing her. They looked each other in the eyes and inside of hers he saw the possibility of having a future, a family, happiness at last. His entire existence was bound to hers, he could feel himself turning his own life, body and soul so she could do with them as she pleased. He was brought back to reality by her touch, she was concerned, wiping away a tear from his eyes. He apologized and left the party, the castle and country altogether.

A few months later came a letter requiring him to go back to that kingdom for a funeral, his heart was already breaking before he could read that it was the king's. He felt bad for his relieved sigh and the small joy of finding out that she was safe. At least for now.

The solemnity of the ceremony didn't helped with his constant dread. But how could he try to ignore her when she looked absolutely destroyed and alone? Without a word they hugged and she broke down in tears in the safety of his arms. They walked through the gardens to clear their minds. If there was anything he had enough experience about it was pain and how to deal with it. She asked him to come back to visit, he couldn't refuse and both promise to write each other whenever needed.

He returned a few months later, the queen gave him all kinds of attentions but he couldn't see where his friend was. His host tried to tempt him to join her to a hunting trip, or to watch a play, or read next to the fire but he didn't cared about those things so he said that the travel left him exhausted and needed some rest. Of course, instead of going to his room, he wandered through the palace until he saw her. She was dressed in rags like the servants, carrying a sack of flour to the kitchen. She tried to calm him down, it wasn't that bad for her... she always helped as much as she could in the castle, this wasn't new and she would prove it in the kitchen where she baked a delicious cake for them to eat. He still believed that it wasn't fair to her to live in those conditions, but she reassured him that the pain of her father's death made her realized that she needed a change. He wondered how much of that she thought herself and how much of it were her stepmother's words.

He came back many times and tried not to take too much time between his visits. The queen would always try to keep him busy but he always found a way to explore the forest with his Northern Star as he started to call the princess because the shine of her eyes and the contrast of her hair and skin reminded him of a starry night, and he would always follow her to feel like he was at home again.

Then, one day, she was nowhere to be found. The servants were too afraid to speak and the Queen ignored all of his questions. He left the castle and went to the forest to the place they both called their kingdom, where all secrets were kept like that first kiss by the oldest oak tree under the summer rain. She was there, waiting who knows for how long and held him tight while tears flooded her eyes. She told him that the queen was jealous, that expelled her from the castle and promised to punish anyone that wanted to help her. He offered to take her with him, to keep her safe, to be her loving husband and leave everything behind. But this time she refused, she knew about the queen's intentions towards him and couldn't risk starting a war. She assured him that she was well taken care of and that one day, when everything calmed down, she would go with him and never again part ways. It was a bittersweet goodbye, with the softest kiss that would've torn apart even the bravest of all souls.

He rejected any invitation and letter from the queen, as well as her delegations with presents. She even dared to try to reach him through other kingdoms, yet the response was always the same.

One night he woke up with a fear he hadn't felt in years. A premonition. The storm outside of his window darkened his troubled heart and decided to ride to meet his Northen Star again before anything could happen. He had to save her. He could not afford to lose her.

The wind and the water seemed to be against him, forcing him to take the longest road. Rivers were overflooded, the mud didn't let his horse move, trees were plucked out of the soil as easy as any other weed at hands of a gardener.

With the early morning lights, the storm started to fade away but he was still too far from her. His journey continued, he had no time to rest or eat.

And then he arrived.

It was too late.

His knees failed him, kneeling in the mud he cannot stop looking at her in a bed of flowers. Even through his tears she looked as if she was just sleeping pacefully under the morning sun. The townspeople were saying their goodbyes to their princess. Some recognized him and shared his pain, but there's nothing else to be done. If the rumours are true, the queen found a way to poison her and there is no antidote that could help now.

"What have I done? Is my existence such an offense to this world that I do not deserve to be loved? Life, what have I done to you? Why do you keep on taking innocent lives instead of mine? What kind if cruel game are you playing with me? Why her? She's done nothing to you, unless giving me a reason to believe that you are beautiful is a sin that can only be cleansed by death. Earth was greener, the air sweeter and the sun warmer with her alive. What do I have to do? Lock myself in my castle out of sight and wait to the end of my days, just living off the memory of her lips in mine? Answer at once! I beg you..."

People stared at him but just one old woman came to help him get back on his feet.

"My dear boy, I'm sorry. None of this was meant to happen if I followed the rules... but when you spend so much time among your kind as I did it's almost impossible not to get soft" her voice was kind and she was fixing his clothes like a mother would.

"Who are you?" he asked while she was cleaning his face.

"My name is long forgotten and humanity decided that I am two: Life and Death. But it's only me. I take care of both tasks, maybe it would've been easier if I was two different people" she grabbed his arm and guide him to a rock so they could sit and talk. "And that's why it all began. The night you were born, you were supposed to die but I knew that your parents wanted a child more than anything. They've tried many times and after your death, your mother would've never gotten pregnant again. They were very nice, loved by everyone and always put others first. They deserved a gift, a baby as they always wanted... even if that meant that someone else had to take his place in the Afterlife. Your father understood it, once he held you in his arms, that it wasn't your fault, that you were too precious to be blamed for your mother's death. So he loved you even more than you can imagine. However, consecuences come when things don't go the right way. Your parents and friends would've lived longer if you didn't existed, yes, but that doesn't mean that they died because of you... is the course of destiny, it's just that the dates were readjusted. In her case, you extended her life. If you didn't take her for a walk on her father's funeral, she would've gone straight into her bedroom where the queen would've killed her to make it look like a suicide. Her stepmother couldn't try anything later because she had many guests to attend but every single time that something bad was about to happen, a memory of you made her take a different decision... another road... another fate. But as I said, dates get readjusted, they are never erased. The Evil Queen got her anyway. Such a pity." The prince didn't felt any better "You are not cursed, my dear. You are blessed, you are the strongest testimony that life is a gift that should not be squandered. So live, and share your life with those that make it worthwhile." The woman caressed his hair and walked away. life is a gift that should not be squandered. So live, and share your life with those that make it worthwhile." The woman caressed his hair and walked away.

He stood there watching the others crying and leaving flowers, even if the pain was cutting deep they were not feeling it as bad as he. People would go back to their homes, move foward with their lives and eventually let it go. But not him.

He took some courage and got closer to her. He took her hand, kissed it and pressed it against his face. This time she couldn't wipe his tears like before.

"Life is a gift that shouldn't be squandered... but I only wanted to share it with you" he said before kissing her lips for the last time. Still with his eyes closed he pressed his forehead with hers and sighed. He tought that the morning breeze was fooling him pretending to be her breath he could even hear her voice in it. "You came back" she said, like every time they met again. He started to cry but his tears were stopped by a hand. He opened his eyes and saw her smiling at him. "You came back" he answered before lifting her in his arms and kissing her again.

[ghaazelle]

Blockers to your feminine energy

I spoke a lot about habits to grow your feminine energy, but it’s as important to work on blockers which are stopping you from truly stepping into your feminine energy. let’s talk about it!

Pointing out your flaws

It’s one thing to be self conscious but a whole other thing to make everyone around you know. What we say matters, so, the more you verbally express your insecurities the more they become “real” in your head. it’s one thing not liking your hair length but if you’re constantly bringing yourself down for having shorter hair, how will you enjoy life? Being optimistic and grateful especially for your appearance is so important for your mental health girls. If you have short hair, say “Marilyn Monroe had it too and she rocked it and so can i” that’s how a healthy feminine mindset is built over time.

Negativity & Aggression

Any woman that is consistently around negativity and/or aggression becomes defensive, unsafe and highly anxious. That is just pure nature. This can come from excessive negative social media consumption and being around wrong aggressive people, and many other triggers to that.

Try to take atleast one day per week away from social media and drama, and allow yourself to return to your calming self.

Cursing too much

Cursing a lot takes you to a low vibrational frequency as the words are fueled with negativity, aggression, hatred. And i’m all for joking around with your friends and cursing as you like with them. However, it doesn’t make you look smart if you can’t go one sentence without using curse words. A highly intelligent woman is able to hold many conversations and arguments without needing to curse to get her point across.

trying to control everything

Control comes from a lack of trust, but feminine energy comes from receptiveness and allowing things to happen as they do.

Things come and go, and what’s meant for you will find you without having to do anything.

Controlling experiences is not you thing, It’s God’s. Having trust in God and allowing things to happen as they will is feminine.

Hyper independence

We know you can do it by yourself, but that just makes you lonely. Accepting help shows that you’re confident in yourself and also in others to deliver. Show gratitude and don’t be afraid to rely on reliable people.

Victim mindset

Take responsibility for your own actions and let go of resentment that does not serve you or your relationships.

Be able to let go of situations. Have an abundance mindset, that makes you see the world in its magic once again.

Consuming content which hates on men is also a low vibrational thing to do. There are good men out there no matter how many shitty ones exist.

Neglecting your body

Your self care is the most important thing in the world, it’s nonnegotiable. The way you treat your body is a reflection of your self love. Treat it with kindness, love and so much attention. Pour all your investments and focus on your appearance, your wellbeing and your energy. You deserve it , love.

[meetthetruthblogger]

The 7th Law and Prophecy

Exodus 20:14 (14) VII. “You shall not commit adultery.”

- Likewise, Jesus speaking about the Seventh Commandment:

"You have heard that it was said to those of old, 'You shall not commit adultery.' But I say to you that whoever looks at a woman to lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart. If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out and cast it from you; for it is more profitable for you that one of your members perish, than for your whole body to be cast into hell.” (Matthew 5:27-29)

Jesus is judging you on the thoughts and condition of your heart. Have you sinned by lusting? Jesus had more to say about the Seventh Commandment:

“Furthermore it has been said, ‘Whoever divorces his wife, let him give her a certificate of divorce.’ But I say to you that whoever divorces his wife for any reason except sexual immorality causes her to commit adultery; and whoever marries a woman who is divorced commits adultery.” (Matthew 5:31-32)

The Bible consistently presents human sexuality as holy and natural within the context of the marital vows and just as consistently identifies all other sexual activities as condemned and sinful. The Bible expressly forbids adultery, fornication, homosexuality, bestiality, incest, prostitution, rape, sodomy and all other forms of sexual activity.

I feel compelled to add a portion of an article written by R. Albert Mohler, Jr. for “Holman Illustrated Bible Dictionary” copyright 2003: “Sexuality is one of God’s good gifts, and the source of much human happiness. At the same time, once expressed outside its intended context of marital fidelity, it can become one of the most destructive forces in human existence.”

“Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived. Neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor homosexuals, nor sodomites, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners will inherit the kingdom of God.” (1 Corinthians 6:9-10)

Prophecy:

    Isaiah 40:3 and Malachi 3:1 – The ‘voice of one crying in the wilderness,’ a messenger, will prepare the way for the Messiah.

Isaiah 40:3 “The voice of one crying in the wilderness: Prepare the way of the Lord; Make straight in the desert a highway for our God.”

Malachi 3:1 “Behold, I send My messenger, and he will prepare the way before Me…”

a. Matthew 3:1-4 – “In those days John the Baptist came preaching in the wilderness of Judea, and saying ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand!’ For this is he who was spoken of by the prophet Isaiah, saying: ‘The voice of one crying in the wilderness: Prepare the way of the Lord; Make His paths straight.’ Now John himself was clothed in camel’s hair with a leather belt around his waist; and his food was locusts and wild honey.”

b. Approximate date of Prophecy: (Isaiah) “750-722 years B. C.” and (Malachi) “420-415 years B. C.”

700 years before the birth of John the Baptist, he and his part in the story of our Redemption by Jesus Christ was foretold. Doesn’t that make you want to find the nearest priest or preacher and declare your repentance of sin and acceptance of Jesus as your Lord and Savior?

I hope you are seeing our journey through The Ten Commandments as a warning; much like if you saw a blind man walking toward a thousand-foot cliff, you would warn him. You would warn him of the danger he is in, wouldn’t you?

If you are not a born-again Christian, you are that blind man!

Thanks for reading. Each of you are in my prayers.

T. C. Maloney

[dadscarathon]

October 2024 Ahhhhgenda

For past Spooptober Scarathons I sort of wing it. I store up memories of movies and shows I want to watch all year, then hunt them up each day as I go. This year, I thought it would be fun to lay them out ahead of me, choosing one each calendar day. If nothing else, it will save me some time pouring through my Shudder queue!

I'll start with one that I hope will be on the list, but may not be. I'm a huge fan of the Terrifier series, and this year we get the third movie in the theaters! There's some chance I won't get to go to the theater, so we'll see, but that's my hope!

Here's the list in no particular order, with a rephrased synopsis and which service/method I intend to use to watch.

Destroy All Neighbors (Shudder) A prog rock oriented horror movie? OK!

Terrifier 3 (Theater) I haven’t read the synopsis, because trying to fathom a plot involving Art the Clown is a bit like pondering the existence of free will.

Mean Spirited (Shudder) An influencer goes on vacation and gets a demon.

YellowBrickRoad (Shudder) A town’s population disappears and “intrepid” (that’s a horror euphemism for “victim”) explorers go to find them. Seems like a horror take on OZ, which I also enjoy.

Let the Wrong One In (Shudder) A little brother turns into a vampire and the protagonist must make a choice.

Late Night with the Devil (Shudder) A rival to Carson ends up unleashing a hell on late night watchers.

The Pale Door (Shudder) Failed train robbers hide out in a ghost town and encounter some witches.

Blood Quantum (Shudder) There’s a zombie apocalypse, but for some reason the Mi'gmaq tribe are immune and must now survive.

Blood Relatives (Shudder) An old Yiddish vampire meets his possible daughter.

Hellbender (Shudder) Izzy was raised in isolation by her Mom, and once free to explore the world finds out something dark about herself.

Blumhouse’s Fantasy Island (Hulu) Didn’t read the synopsis… But I know what Fantasy Island is. And what Blumhouse is ;)

Bad Hair (Hulu) A woman gets a weave and… It attacks?

Down (Hulu) People trapped on an elevator turn out to be terrible.

Wounds (Hulu) A bartender picks up a phone someone left behind.

The Seeding (Hulu) A man lost in the wilderness seeks refuge with a stranger, then finds out she’s not there willingly or alone.

Mr. Harrigan’s Phone (Netflix) Some connections never die, apparently.

Eli (Netflix) A young boy undergoes some horrifying medical procedure

Insidious: The Red Door (Netflix) A demon haunts a family. Which, honestly… I guess “Insidious” sort of gave that away, eh?

Out of Darkness (Paramount+) 45,000 years ago some people are stranded on an island.

Jennifer’s Body (Hulu) Jennifer has some less than savory tendencies after an occult run-in. I can’t remember if I’ve ever seen this, but I wanted to watch it just in case, as there’s another movie in the same setting on this list.

Lisa Frankenstein (Amazon Prime Video) Lisa’s boyfriend is dead… But that won’t stop her.

Stopmotion (Amazon Prime Video) A stop motion animator has an experience

Arcadian (Amazon Prime Video) Nic Cage defending his family at the end of the world.

I Saw The TV Glow (MAX) Owen is introduced to scary stuff by his friends, and his reality cracks

In a Violent Nature (Amazon Prime Video) The victim of an ancient crime is resurrected to visit vengeance against trespassing teens.

A Quiet Place: Day One (Paramount+) The world goes quiet… Spooky.

X (Paramount+) Someone tries to make an adult film, and it doesn’t go well

Pearl (Shudder or Netflix) Set in 1918 a lonely farm girl goes to extremes for fame

Oddity (Shudder) A blind psychic’s twin is murdered and now she’s back to make it right…

Divinity (Shudder) Two brothers abduct a mogul and things get weird

Suitable Flesh (Hulu) A psychiatrist becomes a murderer and the story unfolds as to why that has to happen

Know a movie I have to watch that isn't on this list? Let me know in the next two days! Or, hell, any time in the next 31. Anything goes up to the last day, so I'm open to suggestions.