#best case mark decides its on sight

[bameme]

We gotta keep up the public pressure on billionaires who own private jets until they start carpooling on chartered flights instead.

Not only will it help the environment, it also raises the odds of Elon Musk getting accidentally sat next to Mark Zuckerberg and I find that funny as hell.

[liveontelevision]

MY FAVE POOKIE.... BY ANY CHANCE CAN.. CAN YOU WRITE FOR A VAMPIRE LUCI?? <3 I FEEL LIKE YOU'D CAPTURE HIM PERFECTLY

YOU'RE ONTO SOMETHING HERE BBG

(You're drawing of vamp Luci is literal eye candy and I'M IN A SUGAR COMAAA) I got way into the lore here I literally did nothing but write and edit this today - THAT BEING SAID this may need a 2nd part but lmk what y'all think

CW: He's a vamp, so.. blood in suggestive situations obvi

♡♡♡

Bite Me | Vamp Lucifer x Reader

"Isn't it just amazing?" You hold a book, opened to a certain illustration, far too close to your friend's eyes. They push the book back a bit just to get a peak, considering their nose was essentially in the pages. The paper reeked of dust and mildew. They subsided a sound of disgust to inspect the illustration you were so eager to show off.

"Oh! This is that weird mansion on the other side of town, but.. it looks..." 

"Stunning? This was what it looked like when it was first built and look-" You excitedly point out a certain tower, it was so thin and far back, that not even the pencil of the original artist could capture its true detail.

"Wait,  that's not there anymore, is it? Weird." Your friend shrugged it off, clearly not as invested as you. You scoff, pulling the book to your chest.

"Well.. not in the daytime, at least." You muttered. This was your hometown's rumor that's been spread for centuries. On the highest hill, past the overcrowded forest, sits the darkest and most foreboding manor anyone has seen. Even the oldest living relatives of those who have seen it, never recall what it looked like in its glory days. No one's quite sure when it was first built. It's as if it had always been there.

No one would really talk, only the seniors and the more.. eccentric.. People would even mention it. A tower that exceeded the height of the full moon, which was the only time it was visible to the naked eye. You've seen it yourself. But you were too inspired, too invested, to be satisfied with a little rumor and a single sighting.

You did your research. You scowered the forest, only to get lost for hours. You managed to find the manor, but in its close proximity, there was no sign of that tower. You found a book, shoved away under some shelf in your public library, depicting poorly written journal entries and illustrations. From what you could decipher, it was older than the town.. it must belong to its original tenants.

The handwriting was almost entirely illegible, which was disappointing, but the pictures inside.. they were crafted beautifully. Scenic drawings of the forest, animals, and a few of a stunning woman were scattered throughout. Every historian you tried to contact left your messages unopened. Any townspeople you'd show the pictures to, to see if they’d recognize the woman at least, looked at you like you were crazy.

Well.. crazy or not, there's only one real way to settle this.

You mark your calendar, circling every full moon for the rest of the year. And it nearly took that long to finally spot the tower, again. After all this time, restless nights where you'd fall asleep with the book in hand, strained sessions of trying to decipher the wording, yet it all got you nowhere. You'd lost friends because of this. You've skipped dates. All because of this damned tower. 

But finally, here it is! Ready to throw yourself from your bedroom window, you take the bag that had been packed for months in case of this very instant, but decide it best to leave through the front door.

You had memorized the path to the manor at this point. What could possibly be drawing you in so deeply? What history could this place possibly hold? Who was the woman drawn in this book.. and who was the artist? You stood in awe, finally seeing the tower up close. The manor itself seemed to be made of an entirely different stone. You jot down your notes and the differences you're seeing in a small book.

You nearly squeal at the sound of the creaking double doors, as you step inside. It wasn't your first time here, you reach into your bag to obtain the little map you had drawn out a few weeks back. Were you going insane? Who's to say? You traced your finger across a path you had drawn, then with determination, went towards the corridor that should lead you to whatever you were looking for.

You stopped and took pictures on occasion, observing things you have seen countless times over the past few months. It still managed to take your breath away. You turned around, stepping backward, to observe the intricate detailing of the high ceilings, letting out little ooh's and aah's you'd assume no one would hear. But you couldn't be sure.

You nearly stumble, turning to face the corridor head-on. A crumbling noise had sent a shock of fear and curiosity into your heart. Was this place ready to cave in? Did something else cause the destruction?

As you continue on, you decide it best to place headphones over your ears. With one ear still slightly free, you do your best to distract your fears and keep exploring. As you hum along, occasionally breaking out into song, your eyes are drawn to a small doorway that definitely was not there during your previous visits. It's made of a different wood than the other doors. It looks.. newer. The handle seems used as If the oils of a hand had worn down its clean coating. This has to be it. Your hand is shaking as you reach for the door, and your heart drops for a moment. It’s warm underneath your touch. With a final breath, you open the door.

It’s.. not exactly what you were expecting. The door led to an impossibly long spiral staircase, you weren't sure if you could make it to the top before daylight. It's too late to go back now, though. You dredge on. As you start your climb, the music from your headset turns to static. And what you expected to be a mile-long staircase ended in mere seconds. Confused by the distortion of the building, you pull out your little journal to document your new discovery as you continue on. 

The steps lead into the tower, you were sure of it. The bricks of the walls and the wood of the doors, it was all different than the manor below. It opened into a short hallway, with a few doors on either side. Opposite to you was a window. It wasn’t shattered or cracked, or even dusty. You press your hands against it and lean forward to see the view of your town. In a stereotypical, I can see my house from here! moment, you pull out your phone to take yet another picture, but.. it's dead. After being fully charged before your arrival. Of course. It's a magical tower that only appears on a full moon and has disappearing staircases, you weren't too shocked by sorcery after what you've exposed yourself to.

As you take in the terrifying height of the structure from the window, something happens that officially startles you for the first time tonight. You hear a gruesome cackling from behind a nearby doorway.

You quickly find its source, pressing your ear to the wooden door. You couldn't make out any specific words, but there was a voice. It was a man's voice. He seemed to laughing, then groaning and complaining about something, then talking some more.. quite a blabbermouth for someone who seems to be alone, you don't hear any other voices.

You have a weapon in your bag. It's nothing fancy, just a little switchblade, but you assumed it'd be enough to ward off at least a single person. Just in case. You decide to go in.

"Oh, who am I kidding, this sucks!" An exacerbated groan, and the sound of something crashing, can be heard as you crack the door open a bit. You peek inside.

A pacing man is surrounded by trinkets, books and tools in some kind of workshop. He looks human.. almost. You notice his skin is nearly paper white. It has a beautiful glow to it, that contrasts against his mostly black wardrobe. You clock his clothes as almost Victorian, a puffed blouse that cinches in at his waist with the assistance of a red-laced vest. His heels seem a bit tall for the time period, but even then, he's actually rather.. short. Despite that, his hair was slicked back but seemed to be coming undone. You watch him pace around for a while longer, finally capturing his arms running through his hair. They're tapered black, as if his hands were dipped in soot. How odd. You want a picture. You want to talk to him, to ask him questions.

You're too engrossed in the view you were spying on to notice he had stopped his jabbering and was now frozen in place at the sight of you. An awkward amount of time passes before either of you make a decision on what to do next.

You decide it best to just forget about this random encounter. This was obviously just another dream. It wasn't, but this wouldn't even be the strangest one you've had. You finally break eye contact, pulling the door shut behind you.

You lean your entire body against it, desperate to keep him contained until you can get your thoughts straightened out. Maybe he's nice! Maybe he's not an insane, inhuman, tinkerer who talks to himself. Before you can think a moment longer, the door opens and thoroughly knocks you to the floor. You scuff your knees and palms against the stone floor, hissing at the wounds before turning on your back to face your attacker.

Okay, it wasn't an attack, exactly. He just opened the door you were standing in front of. You were a little shocked, considering you were putting your full weight on it and he swung it open like nothing was there at all.

your widened eyes were met with his yet again. They seemed different than before. His irises were suddenly glowing a crimson red, staring down at you with a look of disgust. Your heart rate quickens as you finally catch more of his features. The glow of his eyes and the moonlight from the window show off a set of demonic horns, twisting and turning from his temples, and pointed ears. Then finally, you spot his frown- then his fangs.

You slowly crawl backward, making as much distance as you can before your back hits the cold stone of the wall. Your breathing rapidly as he kneels down, continuing to observe your tense body language from such a close distance.

"What is this- how did you get in? I made a whole fancy labyrinth for you little humans and you still manage to pester me." He seems curious now, still annoyed by the interruption, but curious. He catches the sight of your blade, taking it from underneath your hand.

"And you thought this could kill me?" He scoffs, tossing it to the side. "I thought the ones smart enough to get in would put more effort into their weapon of choice." He finally stands, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down at you. His piercing red irises had you staring for an inappropriately long time. He looks around, then behind him, in disbelief that you'd be this lost in his eyes. He clears his throat to get your attention.

"N-no! I don't want to kill you, I swear! I just.. I wanted to..." Why were you here again? To find what's inside the haunted tower? To explore a rumor and find the truth? You'd hate to consider it.. but could you have been wasting all this time after finally being faced with the anticlimactic answer? Your silence doesn't seem to amuse the stranger.

"What, you just stumbled upon my hidden tower? That doesn't sound right. Well, I'll tell you now, I'm not some genie or wizard- I won't grant you wishes or anything stupid like that." He starts to head back to his office. "I have nothing to offer you, so just pretend this is a nightmare or something and go home." You see a little flame puff from his lips as he speaks, clearly irritated by your presence. 

"Wait- wait! I forgot!" You stumble to your feet, wincing at the pain in your scraped knees, but still going on to fumble through your bag. You find your tattered book. The relic that started this all.

"Is this yours?" He takes the book from your hand, skimming through the pages then glaring back up to meet your eyes. 

"Did you steal this?" You shake your head with haste, watching him continue to examine the book. "Then.. yes. This is mine. I'm surprised it's still in one piece." He stops at one of the drawings of the woman. He brushes his hand across the illustration with a dreamy sigh.

"She's beautiful." Your voice breaks his concentration and you see his pale skin turn ever so slightly pink. 

"She is, isn't she?" With a warm smile, you almost forget his threatening nature.

"Who was she?" He looks away from you, letting the book shut.

"It's not important. You need to leave." He leads you to the door. You try to keep up with his strides, only to fumble, your knees weak and bruised from the previous fall. He spots the bleeding scuffs and groans.

"Good lord, you humans are so fragile." You hear him grumble before he's turned on his heels and is dragging you back towards that workshop you intruded on. He grabs you by your arms and guides you to sit down at a little table he had set up. You examined the room after he had walked away. You saw his workbench. It held numerous little springs and gears, paints, and brushes. Looking to the side, you see a shattered figurine, probably what he had thrown during his little tantrum you spied on.

Seeing him standing above you stops your wandering eyes. He kneels down, already wrapping your wounded knees in gauze. You watched him silently. You were surprised at how comfortable the space seemed, considering a man with a demonic presence was currently tending to you like a nurse.

"So.. what are you exactly?" You finally blurted out. You had so many questions, but this was a good place to start.

"Oh. Um.. I think I hear humans referring to me as a vampire." Your blood runs cold and you squeeze the edge of your seat on either side. You feel his hand tremor for a moment, letting his eyes linger on your legs before finishing up one knee with a neat tie. He moves on to the next.

"So you're immortal and drink blood and all that?" He scoffs at your questioning shaking his head. You sound like a curious child.

"That’s.. Mostly correct. Actually, your human literature seemed to accurately portray a lot of my abilities. I'm almost impressed."

"Should I be scared?" You ask with an almost teasing tone, as if that weren't possible.

"Why? Do you think I'm scary?" He looks up for a moment, meeting your eyes. Its subtle, but you see them glowing just slightly. And it almost makes you nervous. Enraptured in an emotion you have to assume is fear, you watch his hands trail around and calf to bring your leg a bit closer. He sticks out his tongue. It's similar to a serpents’. Your eyes follow his tongue to your knee, where he licks the entirety of the wound.

In a state of shock, all you do is tense in your seat, wincing from his action. His tongue reels back, stained with the blood from your own wound. He lets out a breathy hum, before realizing his place.

"E-excuse me, I uh.. have healing properties..?" You cock your head to the side, the confusion in your mind quickly replaced with curiosity.

"Woah, really?" He finishes off your other knee.

".. No. Okay, all patched up. You have to leave." He said hurriedly before the realization could set in. He was embarrassed by his actions sure, but the sunrise softly lighting the room seemed to make him anxious.

"Wait- no! I have so many questions! Why do I have to go? How does this place just vanish in the daytime? Why are you here all alone?" You start to ramble as he manages to move you with ease. "A-at least tell me your name!" You say quickly, breaking from his grasp just before he can shove you out the door. He stops and lets out a sigh.

"Fine. Here." He reaches into his shirt and pulls out a small golden crystal attached to a necklace. Forcing your eyes down to his dipped neckline made you a bit red in the cheeks. With a quick motion, he swings it over your neck.

"This is an Asmodean crystal. You'll be able to see and enter my tower on any night now. You.. you're welcome to return when you see fit." You stare at the small gem in amazement.

"And.. you're just trusting me with this?"

He shrugs, smiling at you for the first time tonight. "You haven't given me a reason not to. You're definitely not a threat." You hum in response, despite his obvious condescending nature. giving the gem one last examination, you tuck it away into your own shirt.

".. And it's Lucifer."

You can't help but grin. “Okay! Time to go! The sun’s almost up!” He rushes you.

"Hm! I'll be back, then, I promise! I'll see you, Lucifer!" You excitedly wave and head back down the stairs. Lucifer.. Your mind was running with possibilities as you left. You turned to the door before leaving, but by the time you looked back, it was simply.. bricked over. You felt almost disappointed. But feeling for the necklace and twirling it between your fingers reminds you that this was all real. He's real.

Lucifer said you could visit. And so you did. While you passed out almost immediately once you returned home, you waited eagerly for the sun to set the next night. You check your window, again. With the crystal squeezed tightly in your fist, you see the familiar tower yet again, despite the full moon being nowhere in sight.

Unfortunately, you are human. You do have a life to live. It took you a few days before you could visit, again, but eventually you did. And it was perfect. Looking down upon in your hometown, it was refreshing to have a new friend. You told him about your own life, giving him some brief history lessons on things he might not know, and bringing him the stereotypical vampire merchandise from current media. He deemed it offensive.

You got him to talk about his past after some pushing. He was one of many brothers, all of them were bloodsuckers of their own accord.

"Wow.. so you came from a whole family of vampires? I mean.. if you don't mind me asking, why aren't you there? What brings you to my glamorous little town?" You say your last question with an eye roll. You were seated at a little bench, a comfortable nook that was set at the window in his workshop, as you watched him working on some sort of mechanical toy. You notice a slight frown tugging at his lips in response to your question.

"Hm. My brothers aren't exactly a fan of me. And you speak sarcastically, but it is actually quite nice here. The air is clearer, and there's much less fire." You look out the window as he's talking.

"Wait.. less fire than where?" He slipped up. You've noticed over these past few visits that he's not too keen on disclosing certain parts of his past. You see him stop what he's doing and curse under his breath.

"I.. I'm from a different realm, of sorts. It's dingy and dark and everyone there cares for nothing but bloodlust." He explains carefully.

"Damn, that sounds like Hell." You pull your knees to your chest, just attempting to sympathize with him by your words.

"You have no idea." He chuckles in response, seeming disarmed enough to continue his tinkering.

"Do you ever go back there? You have to see your family sometimes, right?" He's groaning quietly at your questions.

"Well, yes and no. I'm always here in my tower. And I put a lot of work into making it my own. I'd keep it here forever if I could, but it takes quite a bit of energy from me to keep it in good shape in this realm, so when the sun is out-"

"You return to your own realm! Wow.." you wished you had your book on you to write all this down. But it seemed unnecessary to bring a survival kit here. You felt so safe. 

"How about that lady? In your book? Is she someone from that realm? A family member, maybe?" You bombard him with questions yet again. You do that a lot. He looked over at you with an unenthused glare. You laugh nervously and wave your hands. "N-Nevermind, sorry."

He's made it clear that he doesn't appreciate all these questions. But when he does open up, you can't help but appreciate his fantastical stories.

Looking for a change in topic, you approach his bench, looking over whatever he was working on. With one final screw being turned in, he looks up to you and shows you the small trinket silently. You take it, a bit nervous of its delicacy, and examine it.

"It's fine, it won't break." He rolls his eyes at your nerves. "Like this." He places a hand below yours to steady your grasp and lifts the top of the little round structure to reveal a little sculpted scene. It’s of a pond, with some fish and ducks visible on the pond. It looked so real, despite its size. He smirks at your enthralled expression, reaching for a small key on the back and turning it. It releases a gentle tune, the ducks suddenly spinning and dancing across the pond.

"A music box..?" You question. You look towards him and notice his reaction. He looks almost nervous like he was expecting some harsh critique.

"It's beautiful, Lucifer! Did you use magic or something? This is so cool!" Your outburst leaves him slightly surprised, and just a bit blushed.

"Y-Yes, it is pretty, isn't it?" He says softly, looking away with a smile. By the time he's looking back to you, still enjoying the little trinket, the sun is just peaking from the hills. He should rush to get you out of there. Humans don't belong in his realm, definitely not this one.. but he doesn't want this to end. He wants to show you more, while he listens to you rant about something useless. He shakes his head to reality. He can't have these feelings. Not again.

"It's morning. I'm afraid you have to go, dear." You look just as disappointed as he does, but follow him to the exit either way.

"Wait, here-" You hold the intricate music box back out to him, but he closes his hands around yours, encasing it in your grasp.

"Keep it." His hands are cold. You notice that his skin is always cold, no matter the weather. You wonder if he thinks about the warmth of your hands just as much. Your hands are held together for a bit too long, but the sight of your face in the golden light of the sunrise has him frozen in place.

"What happens if I stay?" Your hasty question snaps him away, quickly tucking his hands behind his back.

"Absolutely not." He says sternly, reaching around and opening his door. "Sorry.. I just.. It’s not safe. You’ll be back though, right?." He smiles, and it always disarms you. Briefly disappointed, you nod and give him a quick wave. You head back to your regular vampire-free life for the time being.

You find yourself back in his workshop, a few months later. The visits were becoming more frequent and neither of you seemed to complain about it.

Since then, the room has been decorated with pillows or blankets you've brought. On occasion, you'd go to see him just to sleep uncomfortably on the small cushioned nook near the window. He never seemed to mind. He'd wake you up carefully before the sun rose.

Other times, you'd bring him tools or gifts from your hometown that he might like, and occasionally you'd get him to eat actual food.

One night you set out one of your blankets on the ground and forced him to sit with you, after seeing him get flustered with whatever he was working on.

"Can you actually eat? Does it do anything for you?" He shrugs in response to your question, popping a little chocolate confection into his mouth.

"Not really. It's more for enjoyment than anything. And these are definitely enjoyable." As he hums at the sweets, he moves to lie down across the blanket, resting his head in your lap. "Where are they from?"

You look down at the little heart-shaped box you've both been taking the treats from and cringe.

"A.. uh.. person. It was a gift. Someone tried to take me out for Valentine's Day, but I wasn't interested." You say quietly.

"Right.. it’s Valentine’s Day… Well, what was wrong with them? Were they rude to you? Ugly?" He asks between bites. You laugh and take a chocolate for yourself.

"No, nothing like that.. they just..." They weren't you. "N-not my type is all." You stammer, quickly shoving the chocolate into your mouth. What are you thinking? He's laughing at you now.

"So you'd rather spend your Valentine's Day with an old crone?" He was joking, but he was right.

"Yeah.. I think I would, actually. I love visiting you." You said calmly, trying your best to keep the compliments.. platonic. Peeking down at him for a second, you notice his tense posture and pink cheeks.

"I-I just- it's not that big a deal, I mean, I've never really celebrated Valentine's Day anyway, so.." You start to fidget with your crystal necklace, picking at the thread and running your thumb along its smooth surface.

"Well..! Then... I'm glad you're enjoying my company, I suppose." He tries to de-escalate the brief tension. You change the subject matter.

"Well, if we're getting on my social life, then I have a question." You finally say. He seems nervous for a moment but is playing it cool to the best of his ability.

"Shoot."

"So, you stay in your tower all day, don't see your family, I don't even hear you talk about that woman from your drawings.. Have you just been alone this whole time?"

He freezes for a moment, before putting a chocolate back into the box and clearing his throat.

"No.. not the whole time." He sighs, standing and going to fetch something. He returns to sit across from you and you’re a little disappointed he didn’t return his head to rest in your lap. It was a journal, it had a similar binding to the one you had found over a year ago.

"Her name is Lillith." He starts, flipping the pages and stopping at one of her drawings. "She's from my realm, and.. we fell in love." For some reason, your heart ached at his words. "I decided to show her this place many years ago, and she wanted to see a nearby village, so.. we went down there together. It was disgusting. People were treating each other so foul, it was loud and dirty, and there was no sign of intelligence." His voice goes dark for a moment, allowing you to flip through the book. "But Lillith loved them. She saw their potential and.. wanted to stay with them. So we made a deal. She'd explore the village when the full moon was out and then return to me the rest of the time."

You look up from the book, seeing that her drawings had stopped about halfway through. The rest of the book was empty.

"So is she.." you mutter, letting the book drop to see his pained expression.

"I haven't seen her in years. Might be decades at this point, but.. it's hard to keep track. I have no idea where she could be, but if she ever returns then-"

"You're waiting for her?" You interrupt, your voice has a hint of irritation to it.

"Hm. I guess I am. I've given up trying to find her, but I still keep this place standing. Just in case." His face reads dejected as he speaks.

"Do you still love her?" You ask. Of course, he does. He's a romantic, waiting for his long-lost love to return. But he looks at you, with a worried expression. Like he wanted to reassure you that wasn't the case.

"I..I do." He says softly. You feel your chest aching still, and you clench the blanket in your fists on either side of you. "I think so? I-I'm not sure." He groans, running his hands through his hair. "Is that terrible of me?" 

You think for a moment. You have to tread lightly. If he truly loves her, it might be best for you to keep your distance to avoid any.. confusion. You let out a defeated sigh, placing your hand on his shoulder to bring his panicked attention back to you.

"Not at all. It's.. nice. That you can love someone that much, especially after all this time." He smiles in return, placing a hand over top of yours.

"How long has it been, do you think?"

"Hmm.. From what I remember.. when were hot air balloons invented?" He genuinely questioned.

"Good lord."

(The answer is over 300 years ago)

You stopped visiting him for a while. After that night, you needed to step away and consider what you were really doing. He's not just an immortal vampire, he's an immortal vampire still holding out hope for a woman he hasn't seen in centuries. And you're just a human. That kind of relationship only works in movies. The sleep schedule you've created has nearly destroyed your social life and you barely have energy in the daytime anymore. Maybe it was for the best to keep your distance. But you have to tell him that. You can't just disappear, he doesn't deserve to feel that pain, again.

You enter his tower as usual, bringing an empty bag to escort some of your belongings back home. To your apartment, your awful tiny apartment. You avoid comparing it to the elegant manor, it's only making you want to back out. You go through the hall, swinging his workshop door open.

"Luciferrr! Sorry to be away for so long, but I think we should talk." You look around to realize you are speaking to an empty room. You look back to the hall. You've never been through any of the other rooms, but he had to be somewhere. And he wasn't responding to your calls.

You open each door carefully, seeing mostly empty storage and cobwebs. One of the rooms was filled to the brim with clothing from all decades. You make a mental note to tease him for playing dress up, later.

You knock at each door, finally opening one that greets you with the warmth of a bedroom. And by warmth, you mean it. You take any coat you were wearing off, finally spotting Lucifer lying in the elegant bed in the center of the room.

"Huh.. I thought you said vampires don't need sleep." You call out, letting your eyes scan the room as you approach the bedside. He's curled up and unresponsive. His sudden panting briefly eased your nerves, at least he’s breathing.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to just barge in, but.. Lucifer? Are you okay?" You reach out and place your hand to his shoulder. He's hot to the touch. You move his body so that he's lying on his back, and he seems even more distressed.

"L-Lucifer..? Lucifer!" You try to speak quietly, but his actions are making you nervous. He finally shoots upward, gripping his bare chest in an attempt to calm his rapid breathing. He does a double take, not believing that you were at his side. Not to mention your scared expression, which is only causing him more concern.

"I-I'm alright! I'm okay.." He lets out a sigh, brushing his hair back. He scans the room, peering out the window. "Ah, nighttime already? I'm sorry, darling, I didn't mean to worry you." He turns back to you, seeing your still-shaken expression. "I slept in! It's okay!" He reassures, patting the side of his bed. You hesitate, but sit down either way.

"I thought.. You didn’t need sleep." You say softly, looking to calm yourself.

"I don't, but it is relaxing sometimes."

"That didn't look relaxing at all."

"Well.. I did say only sometimes." You let out a quiet chuckle and it brings a smile to his face.

"I rest when I'm feeling a bit weak, usually a quick nap helps. But.. sometimes I get nightmares and they're-" You interrupt him.

"Weak? Why are you feeling weak? Did something happen?" You lean in, still feeling uneasy.

"... Just a bit. Don't get me wrong, I am quite powerful-” He loves to gloat about his abilities, your usual reactions of amazement never got old. “-but.. this tower takes its toll on me sometimes. It takes a lot of energy to set up illusions and tricks to keep humans out. I just needed a quick pick me up, that's all." That seemed to calm you a bit, but it did bring up another concern.

"Lucifer.. why do you keep coming back here? Is it worth the trouble? Is.. she worth the trouble?" You ask timidly. His eyes are soft, looking in your direction. It turns you a bit red, you hope you can blame it on the heat of the room if he asks.

"I don’t know.. I’ve been thinking. I-If Lillith has any plans on returning, I'd think she would've done so by now." You feel hopeful, but you attempt to not let it show. "But, I've been here for centuries and I've grown rather fond of... the atmosphere." He tries to reason. He pulls your chin forward, greeting you with a sweet smile. "I'm alright, I promise."

You can't help but return the smile, but you miss his touch once he pulls away. At this point, you're finally taking in his appearance. He's covered in sweat, the bags under his eyes are tremendous and his lips are trembling a bit to keep up a smile.

"Are you sure? You still seem.." You reach your hand out, as if you were about to touch his face, but you see him reel back.

"Clearly, I didn't get a good night's rest.. maybe you should head home, dear, I'm not much fun to be around when I'm like this.." He sulks, making it a point to avoid looking at you. With just the sight of you, he might as you to stay.

"No!" His wide-eyed expression shows that you've clearly just embarrassed yourself. "No, I mean- I don't want to leave. Can I help? Can you.. drink my blood or something? Would that do anything?" He's immediately blushing at your suggestion, right to the tips of his ears. He quickly declines.

"No. Nonono.. That is not happening." He crosses his arms over his still bare chest, which neither of you has mentioned yet. That’s not to say you haven't been staring.

"Would it help?" You ask. He sighs and nods. "Would it kill me?" He shakes his head. "Not if I'm careful.."

"Will it turn me into a vampire or something?" He shakes his head, again.

"Then do it. I want to help you! It's the least I can do since you’ve been so sweet to me." You say sternly, beginning to move the strap of your shirt, revealing a bare shoulder.

"Woah woah, okay. Fine.. I’ll just take a little. Since you're so insistent." He moves your strap back up your shoulder carefully. "And there's no need for that, dear, don't get too excited." He teases. He looks like he’s on the brink of death, yet he still manages to make fun of you.

"I-I'm not excited! Shut up.." you stammer, as you feel him pull your hand towards him, keeping a grip just below your wrist.

"Whatever you say." His smirk has you blushing, again." you ready?" You nod your head, attempting to keep a straight face despite the reality of the situation.

He leans forward to face you, and you move closer to be more comfortable. With his clawed hands still holding your arm delicately, he brings your palm to his lips. You feel his hot breath against your skin and instinctively flex your hand. He stops abruptly and looks at you.

"I-I'm fine, just do it already!" He rolls his eyes and positions his fangs right at the pulse point on your wrist. With a deep breath from both of you, he sinks his teeth into your flesh. The skin is thin there, so it wasn't as painful as you thought it would be.

It's awkward for a moment, you don't feel any different at first. But looking towards Lucifer, you see his eyes turning that glowing crimson red that had startled you when you first met. Sure, it still startled you now, but it was Lucifer. He's not as scary as he looks, you tell yourself. You feel a breath of hot air from his nostrils, realizing he had been holding his breath this whole time. His eyes fluttered shut, and that's when you felt it.

It felt like getting your blood drawn, but his fangs were less painful than the needles somehow. You'd only notice your hand start to fall asleep after a while. But his expression stopped you from saying anything. His heavy breaths against your skin, as he occasionally pulled away to lick the wound clean, only to sink his teeth back in the same spot. You placed your free hand over your mouth to prevent any noises from escaping your lips. He pulled off for a moment, then sunk his teeth in another spot, feverishly placing multiple bite marks across the entirety of your wrist. You attempt to speak up through your hand.

"L-Lucifer.. I-I'm..!" He stops almost immediately, sitting up straight and blinking his eyes back to their usual hue. He looks down to your wrist, a mess of bite marks, all still leaking your crimson blood. Your hand had fallen slack.

"Sorry! Sorry-" He runs his tongue across the wounds, it seemed to stop the blood for now. "How do you feel?" Your eyes are dazed a bit, and when you go to prop yourself up on your previously ravished wrist you fall forward. He catches you by your arms, before you can fall away from the bed. You shake your head, finally looking at him through half-lidded eyes.

"I'm okay.." you say weakly. He's nervously trying to keep your head up, and brushing hair away from your face. He moves to the other side of the bed, and brings you along to lie down beside him. He sits on his knees to examine you, keeping a hand cupping your cheek. It's cool to the touch again, a relief for you. You shakily place your hand on top of his, then look towards him. "You look amazing, Lucifer~" You say with a dizzy smile. Despite the wording, you were right. His skin had brightened up, and he instantly lost the bags from his eyes.

"I might've done too much.." He mumbled, tracing his free hand across your wrist. "You're starting to sound crazy."

"No..! I mean it, you're just.. beautiful.. quite a sight." You're delirious. He starts to worry, suppressing his excitement for the oncoming compliments. He'll have to let you rest, no matter how disappointed that made him. He'd missed your company these past few days.

"Whatever you say, darling. Go ahead and rest, I'll get you some water." And he does just that.

You had left some water bottles and snacks here a few months ago, so he hastily took those and brought them back to you. He set everything on the nightstand and went over to open the glass doors to the balcony of his room, bringing in a fresh night breeze. He put an actual shirt on, finally, on the way to look over you from the side of the bed. 

You were just sitting up, leaning against the headboard as you took a very needed gulp of water.

"So? How did I taste?" You tease, stretching your hand now that you’re regaining feeling.

"Delicious." He sounds flirtatious but almost serious. It has you blushing.

Lucifer had gone off to work on something after you insisted you'd be fine and just needed a few more minutes of rest. That didn't go how you expected. You came here to set some boundaries and here you are in his bed, covered in bite marks. The implications alone made you groan from embarrassment.  And slightly in disbelief. You huff and attempt to stand, it’s not too bad, then move to the balcony and lean against the railing. The breeze ran through your hair and across your heated face, you let out a sigh of relief.

"Feeling better, dear?" His voice has you turning your head a bit, and you greet him with a smile. You nod your head before returning your eyes to the town below.

“I’m glad. Thank you, for.. Letting me do that.” He says, sounding a bit shy. He joins you, leaning against the railing by your side. You both stand in silence for a moment.

"I think I'm in love with you, Lucifer." Maybe it was the blood loss or the sheer exhaustion, but something just forced those words from you. You keep your eyes away from him. If this could be the last time you see him, bringing this dream to an end, then you might as well let it out.

"O-Oh..! Hm! Well, that's uh.." He hoots, and you see his hands flexing against the railing. He can't even form a real response.

"It's stupid, I know. I'm a human, and you're this crazy immortal being. Plus, you just drank my blood. Maybe I'm still delirious.." You continue to toy with your gifted necklace, still keeping your eyes low. You don't know how you would react if you could see his expression right now.

"So.. you would... you want to be with me?" That's what he asks? That's his response?

"I-I mean.. yeah. You're my best friend, you're handsome and smart, and you're inventive and... I just love being around you. I want to.. I want to make you happy, but I just don't know if that's something I can do." Your gaze is finally brought to his when his claws gently guide your chin towards him. His expression is that of pure infatuation. You'd never expect to see him look like this, not when looking at you.

"You make me plenty happy, darling." Your eyes go wide.

"You're bright and fun, and you're adorably curious- I just worry as well. I'll outlive you. I've been locked up here for so long, I don't know how much I can offer you.. but it's definitely less than you deserve." His words send a pain to your chest. You both know, based on fact alone, it just wouldn't work.

"I only want you to be happy as well, love." His words force a nervous sigh from you. This seems like a night for bold decisions, so you decide to make another. You turn to face him, bring him in by his collar, and press your lips against his in one fell swoop. Giving him no time to comprehend the situation, he lets out a muffled exclamation into your lips. It felt like hours before you feel his hands on your waist, and his lips desperately ravishing yours. He pulls you closer to him, his hands now reaching your hips and gripping you tighter. You pull his lower lip down with your thumb, keeping a hand on his jaw as you do so, and begin to explore his mouth with your tongue feverishly. A small yelp at the boldness comes from Lucifer before his forked tongue is dancing with yours. You can still taste your own blood on his lips.

He turns the both of you, having your back pressed against the railing of the balcony, giving him the chance to corner you into being as close as possible. He leans his chest into yours, moving in even more. You're leaning over the railing just slightly, but one of his hands is firmly planted against your back, giving you a sense of security. The other is still gripping at your hips, occasionally slipping upwards to brush the bare skin beneath your top, his cool touch acting as a reminder that this is really happening. He props his knee between your legs, having to force them apart gently to do so.

You pull away with a deep exhale after realizing you've been anxiously holding your breath this whole time. Even leaning away from him, your mind was running rapidly with thoughts of his body. You trace your thumb over his lips, parting them just slightly to examine his fangs. He's turning red with the close inspection.

"W-What are you doing..?" You understand what he's trying to say, but his words are still muffled by your hold on him. He sees your eyes ponder for a moment before you look back to him.

"Bite me." You say sternly. Your hand slips away from his mouth and you start speckling small kisses across his forehead and cheeks, lifting his head slightly with a kiss to his jaw.

"Excuse me?? You want-" You hush his stammering by pulling back, to look into his eyes one more time.

"I want you to bite me.. my neck, I mean." You clearly weren't budging. He still seems hesitant but proceeds to move any hair away from your shoulder

"What, does someone enjoy being bitten?” He asks in a teasing tone, looking at you with a smirk. With a deadpan expression, your eyes brimming with lust, you take a hold of his collar again and pull him into a messy kiss. When you pull back, you see a dazed Lucifer, struggling to keep eye contact.

“Yes.”

He huffs, completely enthralled in your enthusiasm, but still seeming nervous. He pulls the strap to your shirt to the side, examining your collarbone and neck. You hear him gulp, as he runs his hand upward until it’s cradling the back of your head.

“I tend to lose myself a little. You saw what happened before, are you sure-"

"I'm sure. I'll tell you if you have to stop." Still very adamant about it, Lucifer pulls your head to one side as you keep your grip on his shirt, balling the fabric in your fists with anticipation.

He places a small kiss first, the action causing you to flinch slightly. You feel him smile on your neck, clearly enjoying your reaction. He kisses every inch of you, each one becoming sloppier than the last.

After thoroughly leaving you in a dazed state of affection, he traces his face to the softest part of your neck, just above your collarbone, and quickly snaps through the skin. With a startled yelp, you glide your hand upward until you've taken a tight grip onto his hair. You barely have time to appreciate how soft it is before you feel the sensation of his fangs piercing a different spot of flesh.

He doesn't seem to be taking much blood.. Definitely not as much as before and not as quickly. It's leaving your head slightly fuzzy, making any sensations, any marks he's leaving on your body, blur into an overall bliss. You're thoughtlessly letting out little moans and gasps at each bite, only encouraging him to keep it up. You feel the vibrations of his groaning against your skin as he moves to hold you tightly around your waist. After a few moments, you start to feel a bit woozy, your body completely melting into his touch. You tap his shoulder quickly,

"Ah.. Lucifer-" Just as before, he made sure to clean any wounds that were still dripping with blood, but he went on to embellish each one with a kiss before pulling away. He looks at you with concern, cupping your cheek and bracing the weight of your lulling head. You smile and hum into his palm.

"How are you doing, darling?" He actively inspects your entirety before meeting your eyes again.

"Lovely~" You say with a drunken chuckle. He pulls you in for another kiss, before easily scooping you up.

"Alright, then.. let's get you to bed, you little perv.” You hit his chest to the best of your ability in your weakened state. His laughter is music to your ears. You’re too tired to worry about how this will affect your relationship. Or your physical health for that matter. But for now, nothing has felt more comforting than his arms wrapped around your body, the cold soothing the heated moment, and your dizzy mind.

♡♡♡

!Taglist!

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[lavenderstobins]

Hopper’s talking to her, telling her to breathe, but all Nancy can focus on is Robin, dead, in front of her.

She barely registers when Steve stumbles in. Hopper’s moving before she processes it, trying to gently escort him out.

Steve’s a mess. Wild-eyed, his face streaked with tears, hair unkept.

“I need to say goodbye,” Steve begs, fighting against Hopper’s steady arms. “I need—I need to tell her I love her and that I’m sorry and—and I need to find the fuckers that did this—”

Steve knows about her ‘gift’. He looks directly at her, a plea on his face.

Nancy thinks of Barb, still and silent in her arms.

“Let him stay,” she croaks.

“Wheeler—” Hopper starts. She shakes her head.

“Let him stay.”

Hopper relents. Steve scrambles over, faltering when he sees Robin.

Nancy understands. It’s not a pretty sight.

At open-casket funerals, the deceased undergoes hours of careful preparation to make them look presentable. To make sure they look as close to how they did in life as possible.

That is not the case here. Robin’s skin is a sickly white, freckles stark in contrast. Ugly purple marks cover her throat and neck. Strangulation, from the looks of it. Nancy doesn’t want to imagine it.

Steve strokes Robin’s hair, the gentlest Nancy has ever seen him. Fresh tears have started running down his cheeks.

“Steve,” she starts, equally gentle, because how can she tell him this? How can she describe the sensation of having your whole world stopped, started, and stopped again?

“I know,” he says, not taking his eyes off Robin. “I’m ready.”

She wants to say, You can never be ready.

Instead, she nods, and taps one finger to Robin’s cheek.

The effect is instant. Robin gasps, eyes flying open, one hand automatically going to her throat.

Steve lets out a sob, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I should’ve been there, I’m sorry—”

“Dingus,” Robin rasps, and she’s crying too. Nancy averts her eyes, a pang in her chest.

Hopper must decide to let them have their moment because nearly five minutes pass before he comes over. He asks Robin questions, the standard procedure, and Robin answers shakily, her hand held in Steve’s.

Robin didn’t fully see her attacker. It was a man, that much she knows. She’d managed to flee the initial attack but he’d caught up to her when she tried to lose him in the woods. She thinks he was less prepared because of it, but things are hazy. She remembers being pinned down, hands around her throat, and these cold, terrifying eyes. His face had been covered with only his eyes visible.

Hopper takes notes, frowning. Finally, the questioning comes to an end, Robin out of answers. His head slowly swivels to Nancy.

Steve’s still clutching Robin. They both look at her with a sad understanding on their faces.

“I’ll find him,” Steve says quietly, resting his forehead against the top of Robin’s head. “I’ll find whoever did this and I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him.”

Robin just smiles sadly. She murmurs something too quiet for Nancy to hear, but she doesn’t miss the devastation that flits across Steve’s face.

They look at her expectantly, both clearly trying hard not to cry. They’re still holding hands.

Nancy can’t do it.

“Wheeler,” Hopper says, low, a warning.

“I can’t,” Nancy whispers. She knows what will happen if she lets Robin live. The same thing that happened when she couldn’t let Will die again, when she couldn’t let Eddie die again.

The universe rights its wrongs in its own way. If it can’t have its death, it will take another. When she’d brought Will back and kept him alive, a well-loved local, Benny Hammond, had died. When she’d let Eddie live, Jonathan and Will’s stepfather Bob had a heart attack out of nowhere. There’d been seemingly nothing to cause either death.

If she lets Robin live, someone else will die in her place.

The worst part is that Nancy finds she doesn’t care.

She can’t let Steve lose his best friend the way she lost hers. She can’t let this be the end of Robin’s life.

Kind, funny Robin, who has always been so full of life, so loved by everyone around her. Nancy’s never gotten the chance to really get to know her, but she’s always wished she had.

“I can’t,” she repeats, her voice steadier now. “I won’t. It’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair.” Hopper’s voice is kind. She doesn’t deserve it.

“I won’t do it. Steve—”

Steve looks stunned, a hopeful expression dawning on his face. Hopper looks at him and sighs.

“I can’t force you. But… well, on your own head be it.” He shakes his head. “I’m going back to the station. You’re causing me a lot of paperwork.”

As he leaves, Steve turns to her. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you—”

“As far as you’re concerned, Robin survived the attack.” Nancy keeps her voice steady, avoiding eye contact with both of them. “Robin…”

Robin’s eyes are on her. Curious, focused, like they’re studying her. Nancy swallows hard.

“Robin, you should avoid going anywhere alone for a while. If your attacker thinks you could identify him he’ll try and finish the job. I won’t be able to do this twice.”

Robin gives a short nod. “I’ll lay low for a while.”

Her voice is soft, raspy. Steve, maybe afraid Nancy might suddenly change her mind, thanks her one last time before helping Robin up and ushering her out.

Nancy watches their retreating backs, a heavy weight in her chest.

In the nicest way possible, she hopes she never sees Robin again.

[adelheidvonschicksal]

hi i love your writings smm 🥺😩💞💞and i was wondering if you can write something for shy quiet , innocent fem reader whos like Literally an angel and very kind who haves healing techniques and also yuji's distant cousin with sukuna ?

A/N: I'm not the best at Sukuna, but here's a try! I kinda wanted to try to write him simped.

His predatory eyes have been on you for a while now.

Initially, it’s barely a development for Sukuna to learn that the vessel he’s stuck in has a cousin. It’s a distant relationship, separated by a couple of centuries, but it’s there. It isn’t a mark for concern until he sees your powers. Healing others isn’t special, but bringing back a missing limb, fixing a soul, the chance you could bring a body back, that’s more interesting.

“I didn’t manipulate their soul. The shape was wrong, so I gave it enough that it could put itself back to the way it wanted to be, and it worked out!”

You didn’t seem to really realize the extent of your own power, chirpily going on with life like a colorful bouncing baby bird from what he could tell. And as his interest in your technique starts to grow, it leads to something else he can’t explain.

Sukuna blames this body that he’s in for the reason his attention always sparks up whenever he hears your voice echoing in this body. Whenever Itadori interacts with you, there’s a torrent of happiness proliferating throughout his entire body, including to where Sukuna’s soul maintains itself. That’s where he decides this interest in you comes from.

That’s where the deliciously darkly satisfied sensation upon seeing fluster spread across your face whenever he decides to interrupt you and Itadori comes from. The way you squeak and shy into yourself, resisting that urge to tremble at his presence – which he can still make out – is mouthwateringly delectable. Sukuna presumed this was an easy way to piss off the other soul in this body, but that isn’t the case.

There’s a rush of something indecipherable when that innocent smile appears on your cherub face. The faintest hint of life threatens to lurch into his chest when you place a hand on this boy’s shoulder, sending that heat all the way down to him.

It irritates him because those actions aren’t caused by him but by the brat whose body he inhabits. It irritates him because he shouldn’t be thinking about these things in the first place. Desiring them. Desiring you. Never having the time to remember what this type of desire was in the first place.

At least not until now.

This body is failing, puddling with its own blood from the loss against a pitiful opponent.

Maybe Itadori should have brought you with him after all instead of leaving you behind at the mission start. Sukuna is already aware of the reason. His “precious little cousin” is the only family he has left after all, by his own miserable words.

(“How pathetic. You think you can’t protect her.”)

The brat was right to leave you behind if he died that easily.

“Uh, Sukuna?”

The King of Curses lifts his head; there’s cursed energy and light flooding this body, barely enough that his own soul clings on.

“Are you still…” a small cough, “in there?”

Sukuna wastes little time cracking an eye open. It’s a worth sight to see. Your cheeks are wet with the beginning of tears, a meek and scared gloss to your eyes when you notice him leering up at you from his head’s position in your lap, and your chest pumped up with a shaky gasp that makes him smirk.

“Isn’t this a surprise? Called on by the little lamb herself.”

Just like the name suggests, you tense and frightened like the fragile creature, a fear so palpable that he can smell it wafting in the air.

“Since this is such a rare occassion, I'll give you three seconds of my time. What do you want?"

Fearfully, you struggle to ask, “You can heal people, can’t you?”

Sukuna isn’t sure why you would ask that when you’re classified as a healer yourself. He’s positive the only reason he’s still here is due to your influence then it dawns on him.

“What’s the matter?” he cackles. “Not enough curse energy left to finish the job?”

When you fail to respond, he knows he’s got it right, and his brain already begins to turn with how many ways he could take advantage of the situation when you finally nod.

“What would I need to do for you to help me heal him?”

“You dare try to bargain with me.” His tone is brusque, pure intimidation mixed with amusement. “What could you possibly have to offer me that’s better than watching this punk sorcerer die?”

You’re as much of a fool as the boy, he thinks. The difference though is that unlike him, there’s more that the King of Curses wants from you: your power, your body, your soul, and the innocence comprising it and displaying in the doe-eyed look that you give him as you gently bite on your bottom lip.

“Please,” you shakily air out, tears spilling out in the weakness of your voice, “I’ll give you anything you want.”

“You.”

“Me?” you ask. There’s a moment of hesitation as your eyebrows knit together. “I-I don’t understand. Why me?” you question; there’s an air of confusion about the question, brewed from the innocent nature that can’t even begin to think what you would have that could benefit him.

“Do you want the deal or not?” he asks, patience artificially short. You’re hesitant, unsure what to say as you stare at him. “I’m not going to keep the offer up for long, woman.”

Slowly, the fear starts to drain from you, which causes him to go silent as your fingers brush your fingers along Itadori’s forehead, pushing the messy blood-soaked tufts of hair away. Your eyes waver, flooding with another layer of tears that collect on your eyelashes, but you quickly blink them away.

“I accept,” you finally relent, a forced smile stretching across your face; a fragile attempt to offer him, or rather yourself, a little optimism and sweetness that sends a lustful pulse down his stomach. “I’m yours.”

There it was, easier than he ever imagined, and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing at the irony. This boy’s decision to protect you would be the very thing leading you to him.

[cafeinthemoon]

It's a Fire - Chapter II

Chapter 2

Wordcount 4,4k

Title The Porch and the Table

Fandom Kimetsu no Yaiba / Demon Slayer

Previous chapter

1

Symbols ⭕➕🖤

Warnings: mentions of grieving and parent loss; alcohol consumption

Tagging ? (If you want to be tagged in any of my stories, just leave a comment on this chapter or send an ask or a message)

N. A.: So this chapter is a bit longer than the first, but I think I should've stopped worrying about this by now hahaha I need to concentrate on what happens in each chapter and how the events move the story forward.

In this one's case, I've cut off rhe details of her arrival at Rengoku house and jumped to the beginning of her adaptation there, which includes her interactions with the staff and, specially, with her stepson, Senjuro. Of all the elements I want to explore in this ff, their relationship is one of my favorite things, so expect a strong bond to be created between them 🥺💜

About Shinjuro's appearances: I'm trying to bring a sort of growing tension each time he's around instead of just making his unpleasant traits too evident right from the start, bc I want reader to figure out the problems in her new house little by little, then trying to deal with them and make herself as comfortable as possible until she snaps and decides otherwise (spoilers haha)

I already know how I want this story to end though I just started writing it, and I believe I'll too much fun unveiling the light and and darkness in each of these characters.

Hope you enjoy this exploration mission with me 🖤

The servant sent by your father was walking in and out your new room at that moment, to bring your belongings to it. Since he was the only person who came with you, you offered to work with him, but the man declined, stating that there weren’t many things to carry and that he would soon be done.

— You made a good work packing your things even in such a small time, y/n-sama — he commented with gentleness — It made things easy.

You laughed.

— Well, I’ve tried my best. But if you’re okay with this, I’ll leave you alone. Thank you for everything.

You entered the room and, out of his sight, checked the spot where you left your sword, a place where it’d be difficult for someone to take it from; you sighed in relief with the vision of the weapon, and left to take a walk outside. There was a few spaces where you were given permission to wander – all of them separated from the parts of the house where the deceased members of your husband’s family used to stay – so, not having much to do right now (and, honestly, not knowing what to do), you were going to use the walk as an excuse to deliberate.

The wedding happened in the morning, but now it was almost midday. Your mood was no better than earlier, but you already sensed part of you accepting your new reality. You didn’t know if it was good or not, and didn’t want to figure it now, preferring to leave your mind free to think about how to act towards the circumstances.

The Rengoku House was as large and solemn as a samurai’s residence, with a wooden, rectangular structure to mark its entry, followed by a short path that led to the front doors. The building itself was raised under the traditional architecture, with two wide wings on each side and a porch to surround its premises. On the outside it was surrounded by trees, bushes and flowers; besides, the maid who led you to your room talked about the existence of a garden, but didn’t let it clear if you could visit it or not. Whatever the case, you thought it was a beautiful and silent compound you had there, despite the sensation of sadness that lingered in each spot you’ve passed by. Another thing you observed was the low number of servants, considering the house’s size, a suggestion that the Rengoku were facing problems that were similar to the ones in your father’s house – that was the only reason you could find for them to accept the good dowry that was offered alongside your hand. It was unnerving, you thought, unable to shake the feeling that you came to live there at the worst moment possible.

You then started to consider your new life as a married woman, and came to the conclusion that you weren’t getting such life at all. As soon as you arrived, you were informed that you wouldn’t share a room with your husband: yours would be in the same corridor as his, but in opposite sides; apparently, he was a man who cherished his privacy enough to organize things in a way that many would consider uncommon, to say the least. This idea seemed correct when you were led to meet your room, because as soon as you entered the house, Shinjuro ordered a maid to take care of you and walked to the other direction, disappearing from your sight, and until that moment you haven’t heard of him. Now that you remembered this, the prudent part of you was relieved that you weren’t going to share your personal space with an individual you just met, but another one, prideful, was a little outraged by the fact that you were dismissed right in your first day as a wife. Were you that uninteresting?

As you walked to an open area, your thoughts changed to lighter directions. You were content to see that the few servants you’ve met were kind enough to give you clear instructions and answer your questions concerning locations, meals and general rules, even though you couldn’t shake the sensation that they were a bit skittish, specially when they thought Shinjuro was near, but since he hasn’t appear to cause any problems you tried not to think of it. You were also relieved to observe that they did their best to keep the house clean and organized, which included your room: though you weren’t at ease with your situation, it was good to have a positive thing to point out in it.

You were thinking about this very thing when you looked around and realized your feet led you to the house’s entry again. You looked ahead and saw you weren’t alone there: a boy, not older than fourteen, was using a broom to clean the area; he worked slowly, perhaps taking care not to raise much dust, and you noticed his concentration from your spot, meters away. But what really caught your attention was the fact that he wasn’t dressed as a servant… and, well, he could never be, for he was the living reflection of the house’s head.

You remembered your mother told you that Shinjuro had two sons, but she didn’t tell you much more; maybe she never met this one. But the same silence coming from his own father was incomprehensible.

He didn’t tell me anything about this boy. Not even his name. What the hell…?

Your throat tightened when you wondered what kind of environment this kid must have been inserted.

Before your imagination could go any further, the boy saw you and stopped working. You approached him and one look at his face made you realize that the concentration you first observed wasn’t but sadness. You also noticed that his resemblance with Shinjuro was limited to his physical looks: apart from the thick eyebrows and the flaming hair, he carried a much kinder expression, with a freshness you doubted his father has ever owned, even in his youth days.

You decided not to bother him by asking about his moods, instead opting for a gentle approach.

— Hello — you smiled; and, looking around, — It seems a lot of work for one to do by themselves.

The boy showed you a hesitant smile, and his tone matched it when he replied to you.

— I know, but I don’t mind. It’s a good way to pass the time.

A moment of silence, and you noticed he wanted to continue the conversation, but struggled to find the words.

— It looks like you want to ask me something — you encouraged him.

— Yes, I do — a note of relief was sensed in his voice, as if you just did him a favor — I just don’t know how to ask this without bothering you. So… are you my father’s new wife?

The tight in your throat returned, but you forced a smile on your lips.

This is enough embarrassing for me. It doesn’t need to be like this to him as well.

— Yes, I am. My name is y/n. My family is from the (…) land. And you must be Rengoku-sama’s younger son.

— Yes. I’m Senjuro.

— That’s a good name, Senjuro-san — and, trying to imprint a comforting note in your voice, — And don’t worry, you could never bother me simply by asking this. I’m really content to meet you. You know, it’s relieving to talk casually to someone for the first time in days. It’s been a busy week, this one.

Now, Senjuro seemed to be more at ease. Maybe his days have been busy in their own way, and speaking with a new acquaintance was a welcoming change in the routine.

— I can imagine that – he commented – By the way, do you need help with something, y/n-sama?

You suddenly waved your hands in a gesture of refusal.

— Oh, no please, don’t call me like that! Y/n will do — you laughed — And, thank you, but I’ve already organized most of the things in my room. The rest will find their place with time — you sighed — For now, I just want to breathe fresh air. Fortunately, it’s a beautiful day we have now.

Senjuro observed the sky, the vivid blue spotted with big, white clouds, and agreed. You imitated him and looked at the weather with a smile.

— It's almost midday… – and, turning to him, – You know, when I was at my parents’ home, we used to eat our lunch on the porch on sunny days. Is there any problem in doing this here? What does your father think of it?

The boy shrugged.

— He doesn’t care at all. But he hates to see leftovers on the porch.

— It’s understandable — you giggled — So, how about we have lunch together on the porch? I’m still a bit lost here, so eating at the table won’t make me feel at will, but I’d still like to have company.

— It’s okay for me — he smiled.

You were afraid that Senjuro was going to see your approach as invasive, so it was with relief you heard him accepting your invitation.

— Right! I’ll ask the maid to bring our food to my room’s porch, then.

He frowned.

— Where is exactly your room? I thought you were going to, you know, stay with my father.

Your heart skipped a beat at that question, but you didn’t let out your discomfort.

– Your father decided that I’m getting a room of my own. Don’t ask me why! – you shrugged, a low laugh escaping your mouth.

You then explained the location to him, and he replied he would go there in a few minutes.

***

Lunch time was quiet and pleasing.

You found the maid who showed your room and asked her to bring food for two to your chambers. When you explained your plans to her, at first you though she was going to argue, maybe considering the possibility of having Shinjuro scolding her for allowing his wife to make a mess right in her first day at the new house, but she just agreed and asked you to wait until she brought the bowls for you and Senjuro.

After the meal itself, you’ve spent some time sitting on the porch and talking. At the same time you spoke to him about yourself, you’ve found out interesting things about your new family from your stepson.

– So… How did you and my father meet, y/n? – was his first, natural question.

– The story is a bit long, but if you have patience I can tell you – you smiled – My parents use to know your family, or so I was told. My mother was a member of the Demon Slayer Corps. She was a (…) Rank, and came in contact with your father during work. She never explained in details how missions work in the Corps, but apparently she was given a task that proved to be more difficult than it seemed at first, so she and her group were supported by Rengoku-sama. They’ve became acquaintances since then – you took the cup of juice from the tray where your bowls were brought – She met your elder brother once, when he was just a child.

You saw a glow of excitement appearing in the boy’s reddish eyes.

– She did?

– Yes! – you laughed – And she always spoke good things about your family – your smile faded a bit with the next sentence – It was like this until she passed away.

– I’m sorry for this – he replied – You know, my mother passed away when I was little. I can barely remember her.

You put a hand on his shoulder.

– It’s difficult without them. I know.

He nodded in agreement.

Talking about your mother, even though it required remembering her absence, was the easy part of the narrative, and your heart was calm while telling it. What would come after it, however, was a different story. Still, verbalizing those events to an attentive listener like Senjuro did you some good, for you managed to leave the bitterness out of your tone.

– Unlike my mother, my father never revealed to be familiar with yours until days ago, when he told me he contacted Rengoku-sama to ask for help.

– Help? How so?

– There has been little to no protection against Oni in our lands since my mother’s death, so the people who lived in the villages around have been suffering – you explained – Things became difficult even in our house, and half of our servants were fired or decided to leave. My father thought it was a good idea to contact yours and offer my hand in marriage in exchange for his protection, and somehow your father said yes – you put the cup back on the tray, lying your hands on your lap and trying not to show the trembling in them – I didn’t know about the offer until the week when the wedding should take place, and your father and I have never met before the ceremony’s day.

That part of the story seemed intriguing to Senjuro as well. Maybe he didn’t think his father was the type of person who’d accept a contract with such terms, or he was simply caught in surprise by being informed about the wedding with a few days in antecedence just like you. Whatever the case, both of you could easily agree that this situation was embarrassing, to say the least.

– That’s why I was a bit afraid earlier, you understand? – you shrugged – It’s been probably years since the last time my father saw yours, and without my mother to support us, I had no idea what I was going to find once I arrived at your house – you giggled – So, thank you for accepting my invitation and eating with me.

Senjuro imitated your gesture and left his own up on the tray, between the bowls.

– That’s okay, y/n. I've actually had my meals alone for a long time, so it was good to have company today – he replied with gentleness – I really liked to meet you.

You were intrigued with the revelation of him eating alone in his own house, but you wouldn’t question him right now. Instead, you replied that you liked meeting him as well.

The boy stood up and nodded, thanking you for the meal. But, before leaving, he turned one more time, as if he forgot to tell you something.

– You know, when I found out my father was going to marry again, I was really afraid.

You frowned.

– Afraid? Why?

He hesitated.

– Well, I… thought he was trying to replace my mother with someone else, but I’m relieved to see this isn’t true – and, urging a shy smile to let it clear that his words had no hostility, – You’re a good person, y/n.

You gave him a smile of comprehension. Of course, the worst fear of a young boy who lost his mother so soon in his life and then his big brother was concerning the kind of people his father would decide to bring under the same roof as him. Your father never met anyone after your mother, so you never had to worry about this, but if you were Senjuro's age, you’d feel the same way.

– No one can replace your mother, Senjuro-san. Actually, no one should try, me included. But it’s going to be good if we continue to get along.

For the first time, you saw him opening a smile with no signs of embarrassment or mistrust.

– I agree with you.

***

After Senjuro left to continue his tasks, you took the tray with the bowls to give them back to the kitchen. You were planning to come back to your room and carry on with the organization of your belongings: though you said to your stepson that the work was almost done in this sense, you knew you weren’t going to finish it that day.

You were walking through the corridor, thinking of this, when a shadow appeared: someone was blocking your way. You startled and raised your eyes to find Shinjuro standing before you. No word came from his mouth; his mere look was enough to make you step back.

– Rengoku-sama – you murmured – Can I help you?

Instead of answering your question, he lowered his eyes to the tray.

– Who ate lunch with you? Senjuro?

You promptly confirmed. The man stared at you for a moment, and it was impossible to tell if he was surprised or displeased.

You tried to justify yourself.

– I paused the organizations at my room and took a walk outside. I met Senjuro-san at the house’s entry. I invited him to eat lunch with me and he said yes.

Shinjuro seemed to accept this explanation, though no contentment was detected in his expression.

– I see. I hope he hasn’t bothered you.

– Absolutely not – you frowned, confused – I don’t see any reasons for him to bother me.

Again, he seemed to approve your reply, but that didn’t mean he was happy with what he heard, and his next words made it clear.

– It’s good that you’ve shown patience towards him. He can be too soft sometimes, even talking too much.

Talking too much? That Senjuro, who was constantly trying to measure his words when asking things to you? Were you speaking about the same boy?

Well, you couldn’t understand why your husband was saying such things about his own son, but considering that he didn’t even mind telling you his name, it didn’t seem reasonable for you to take his words into account.

– Well, I was very pleased to meet my stepson – you stated, taking a step to the side to indicate you were heading to the kitchen that moment – And, to me, he spoke enough. Not much, not less.

Maybe Shinjuro wasn’t expecting your reply, or maybe he didn’t want to carry on with that conversation just like you, but he commented that “at least you two got along” and how much discomfort you were all spared from thanks to this. He walked past you and left with no additional words, leaving you with intriguing thoughts.

***

Apart from other few times when you spoke to the maid or when you met Senjuro, you’ve spent most of that day by yourself, unpacking clothes and other objects, trying to figure out the best way to keep them together in your new room. The place itself was similar to your chambers in your parents’ house, both in place and shape, which somehow made things easy, yet the whole aspect of the room, aside the conscience of not being in the house you grew up in, wouldn’t let you feel entirely at will inside it. The color of the walls, the room’s position in the building, the texture of the floor, the smell of it… Everything screamed that you weren’t at home.

Your husband’s whereabouts were a mystery and, honestly, you weren’t missing his rigid presence and stern tone. He hasn’t said a word about his routine and habits, so that you didn’t know if he left the house at some point during the day, if he spent his hours in his own room, an office or anywhere else or if you should expect to see him again before the next day; being left in the dark was unnerving, of course, but not getting much useful information from the few contact you had with that man, you’d rather not to seek for him.

Shinjuro himself was a mystery to you, too.

Now that you had time to think about this, you found yourself trying to understand his real reasons to accept this marriage. Sure, your dowry was very encouraging, but one day that money would end and you would still be there, and then what? Would he kick you out of his house and replace you for a richer girl? It was too soon to tell if he was capable of such thing, but the money excuse still sounded superficial to you: accepting someone you’ve never seen before in your house just to receive a financial benefit? It didn’t make much sense. Or did he want someone to look out for Senjuro? Well, you already let it clear to the boy that you weren’t there to replace his mother, and nothing about parenting was said in the contract. Besides, Senjuro was no longer a child; the type of education he needed was beyond the one you could ever give to him: you were a well educated woman, but your education was still a female one, so that apart some lessons in Literature and sword movements you were sure he already knew, there weren’t much you could teach him; it was better to hire a tutor or invite a relative.

You were holding a pile of folded clothes at that moment. You put it on an open drawer, sat on the floor and sighed. There you had a mission you didn’t ask for.

Wasn’t it enough to make me move to this place? Do I really need to try and unveil what goes on in this man’s head? As if he would let me...

You decided to take some rest both from your task and those annoying deliberations.

***

It was only in the next morning that you heard of him again.

That time, you decided you were going to have breakfast at the table, so you woke up early, washed your face and prepared yourself.

When you arrived at the kitchen, Senjuro was already there, filling his bowl in silence. He raised his eyes when you approached and knelt in the spot in front of his.

– Good morning, Senjuro-san – you gave him a soft smile while taking your own bowl.

– Good morning, y/n.

The meal had all the reasons to be calm and quiet, and you were glad for it. You haven’t had a good night of sleep, so the last thing you needed was tension right in the morning…

But the sudden shift in the air and the change in Senjuro’s posture let you knew you weren’t going to get what you wished: you turned your head to the entry and saw Shinjuro passing through it and walking to the head of the table without a word or a look to his son or to you. He sat and just started filling his bowl, something that wouldn’t mean anything if it wasn’t for the fact that he landed a large, already opened bottle of sake on the table.

You swallowed.

Drinking at this hour? Seriously?

You glanced at Senjuro, and the boy, as if knowing better, immediately turned his attention back to his food. You tried to do the same, but Shinjuro had another surprise, this second one directed related to you.

You saw his hand pushing a paper toward you over the table. You left the hashi aside and took the paper; it was a letter.

– A letter? To me?

– It’s from your father – was the reply – He told me he would be writing to you right after you moved to my house.

You stared at the folded paper for a while, without giving him a verbal response. When you heard that it was written by your father, your curiosity somehow died inside you, and any wish to read what was in there disappeared. You left the letter on the table and grabbed your hashi again.

The gesture didn’t go unnoticed by your husband.

– Won’t you open it?

You raised your eyes to him, not hiding the tiredness of the last days.

– No. I won’t.

Shinjuro naturally thought you were saying you were going to read it later, and the same could be said about Senjuro. So it wasn’t without confusion that they observed you giving up on the food for the second time, taking the letter and standing up.

There was an oven on the other side of the kitchen, which fire has been fed with coal. You calmly headed to it and, not thinking of how what you were doing was going to be seen by the presents, you tossed the letter in the flames.

You went back to your spot and found father and son staring at you in disbelief, each one for different reasons. Senjuro was probably shocked to see someone dismissing the words of a parent with no hesitation; you were actually content with that, for it was a sign that he has been taught good family principles. Shinjuro, on the other hand, had nothing but indignation with what he just saw: what kind of daughter treats her own father like this? Well, if only he had a father who treated him like yours, maybe he could understand.

They were waiting for a verbal explanation, of course, and you gave it to them.

– Senjuro-san, I’m sorry that you had to see this, but I won’t apologize for what I did. I just cannot – you said to the boy; and, turning to his father with a much lower tone, – Thank you for giving the letter to me, Rengoku-sama, but I ask you to do the same thing I did if more come. I don’t want to read them.

You saw the twist on his lips and knew exactly what he was thinking. Brat. Stubborn, ungrateful girl and many other unpleasing ways to describe a young woman who didn’t act as expected might have come to his mind that time, as well as the idea of a long, difficult path he was going to follow in his life beside you. You certainly didn’t want things to be this hard between you, and an ache in your heart reminded you of this, but this has already started in the least favorable circumstances; what should be expected, then?

What your husband said to you after this, however, had more to do with the practical aspect of things than with his personal opinion on ungrateful girls.

– Why didn’t you at least read it first? How could you know there wasn’t something important in it?

– There wasn’t – it was your prompt reply, not completely devoid of sadness – If my father had anything important to say, he would’ve done it before I left his house.

He frowned, a gesture that in his case would draw more attention than in any other individual, and spent a moment in silence, staring at you and measuring your words before grabbing the bottle of sake and drinking directly from it. You observed the firmness with which his hand left the bottle on the table after it, making a thump on the wood, and couldn’t help wonder that if you were a boy and he was angry, he could’ve yelled at you and even smacked you, but having you putting all your politeness in your words was enough to hold himself in place.

The rest of the meal went in uneasy silence, each of you lost in your own thoughts and you claiming to yourself the task of dissolving the connection with your father and keeping an eye on your stepson whenever your husband was around.

Chapter 3

[transflynnscifo]

Words with deeper meaning- Yuri and The Second Star

If you remember a post I made some time ago about a certain something that Flynn says, well, here is what I would call "the Yuri version"! I've decided I wanted to tackle his iconic sword Second Star. Shoutout to my friend Choc for discussing it so extensively with me, and for also providing good ideas for thought :)

This goes without saying, but everything further down the post includes spoilers for the game! I also ramble semi-extensively about language, like I have the previous time.

So let's take a look at the sword! For the unaware, the guaranteed way to get it is as a drop from fighting Estelle (which is overall one of my most favorite parts of the game).

My own screenshot, in English. Here is the flavor text:

Second Star “The first one is for him...” A sword named with a deep message.

Skills you can unlock for this are "Special" (a requirement to perform mystic artes) and "Combination 2", a skill used for combo building. Given this is more or less what I would call his "canon" sword (as it's seen in multiple illustrations featuring Yuri, and even the opening of the game), the availability for his mystic arte through this checks out. Otherwise, nothing too notable yet.

There are two ways to read into what "the first one" means:

This could be referring specifically to Flynn's sword, Radiant Star. Here is my screenshot of it:

flavor text:

Radiant Star A sword designed in the image of an especially bright star. The star at its tip is a mark of its strength.

The skills here are "Hero", "Rival Surge" and "Rival Surge 2". The first skill is unique to Flynn and how he plays against non-humanoid enemies, with the latter two skills being different boosts based on Yuri's actions in battle.

And of course, in order to gain access to it, you need to win the 100-man melee as Flynn. (It's particularly fun because you need to face off against Yuri)

Further comparison between the two swords will be done further down the post.

2. "The first one" could represent Flynn and Yuri's feelings about him.

My friend Choc says that in this case "the first one" is not truly a specific object but an abstract concept that illustrates Yuri's feelings on Flynn and himself. And I agree with it wholeheartedly.

Based everything the narrative puts down in the game, this is simply another instance of the fact Yuri considers himself second best to Flynn, while simultaneously putting Flynn on what I love referring to as "the pedestal". Even the game itself, through flavor text and descriptions, loves reminding the player that Flynn is essentially the hope and shining light for the knights. This is also, in my opinion, an indirect reflection of Yuri's feelings.

2.5 I'm opening this point based on an idea suggested by Choc:

Let's first recall the legend behind the Vesperia star: and how it's about a brother that went to save the world from the end of the world, while his sister stayed behind to protect the world. The game eventually reveals that this is a fantasized way to say that Zaude is the core protecting the world, while the Vesperia star is in fact the blastia that hid the Adephagos out of sight, keeping it at bay. But what is also worth noting is that this is supposed to draw a strong parallel between Yuri and Estelle with those fictional siblings.

(hey, if you want to feel emotional, the track that plays during the Estelle boss fight is called "The Full Moon and the Morning Star")

Why am I mentioning this? Well, one fun thing that Choc has pointed out is that the audience becomes explicitly aware of that intended parallel, and particularly of Yuri's comparison to the brother who sacrifices himself for everyone else. The hero that steps up and leaves his family behind. Compare that to Yuri's tendency to sacrifice his well-being and tendency to "do the job no one else wants to do."

However, let's imagine we're in Yuri's mental headspace for this. Is it possible to argue that Yuri would hear such a legend and have his own interpretation of it? Choc has proposed that it's one where Yuri thinks that this kind of hero would befit someone like Flynn, instead. He obviously isn't aware of how the narrative intends the legend to be perceived in regards to him, and on top of his (eventual) idealized look at Flynn, it certainly seems worth considering.

As to whether 1 or 2 is the correct answer, it was actually a trick. I believe both are ideas that can coincide here.

Now, let's go to the Japanese flavor texts to further discuss the swords!

flavor text for Second Star:

ニバンボシ 一番はあいつの為にとっておいてやるさ…… ……ってワケでもないが意味深な名前を持つ刀

flavor text for Radiant Star:

レイディアントスター ひときわ強く輝く一つ星。そんな思いをこめて作られた剣。剣先の星が強さの証

I will try not to go too much into the language use here, because this post would otherwise get even longer than it is.

But for the sake of comparison, while both sword names use the Katakana script, Flynn's sword is English transliterated into Japanese, while Yuri's is in Japanese, but using Katakana.

(many weapons in Vesperia, including ones with Japanese names, are written with Katakana, as opposed to Hiragana and Kanji. It's mostly done for flair/style.)

Here's where it starts getting interesting. Let's look at the Japanese closer:

レイディアントスター ひときわ強く輝く一つ星。そんな思いをこめて作られた剣。剣先の星が強さの証

ニバンボシ 一番はあいつの為にとっておいてやるさ…… ……ってワケでもないが意味深な名前を持つ刀

I've marked certain instances that I will be discussing here.

一つ星 (hitotsu hoshi)

Now, the flavor text for Flynn's sword uses this, which is translated as "single star" or "a star". In the dictionaries I use, this also translates to "evening/morning star", which seems to invoke the fictional Vesperia star again.

I need to mention the fact that Japanese has a lot of possible variations for counter suffixes. for "一つ", this is using the the general one.

2.一番 / ニバンボシ (ichiban / niban boshi)

Do not mind the fact they're using kanji and katakana respectively. Under normal circumstances, ニバン would be 二番.

These are two counter suffixes in Second Star's name and flavor text! "First" and "Second", these are used to count an order for things.

What I particularly enjoy about this here is that Radiant Star's counter suffix is not used to invoke an order for first, second, etc. It's a single bright star. So it's only with Second Star where the order is invoked, indirectly through Yuri.

Let's look at the two other interesting instances of the text in Second Star!

3. あいつ (aitsu)

This goes without saying, but Yuri is extremely impolite in Japanese. He uses a lot of informal/short forms in sentences, many of which are considered very rude. I won't dissect every instance of Yuri opening his mouth to prove this, but one notable instance is this word (and variation) that Yuri enjoys to use regularly. He uses it for people he isn't close with, he's used it for people he's close with. I've found an instance for him using it with Judith, so he doesn't even limit it to gender. And, of course, he's used it to refer to Flynn.

Now, what does this word even mean? Well, it comes in a set of three, こいつ, そいつ, あいつ. (koitsu, soitsu, aitsu), which are informal/rude ways of referring to people. The main difference between them simply depends on the position of the subject. In the third one's case, it's referred to someone who is "far away from both the speaker and the listener".

Fun fact, Rita also regularly uses these words when she speaks.

Anyway, I just wanted to translate the phrase "あいつの為に", because it's basically "for that guy's sake/for the sake of that guy". thank you

4.ワケでもない (wake demo nai)

Now here is the part that stumped me while reading the flavor text. Normally, this phrase would be written as わけでもない, but the marked in green is in Katakana! でもない is a form of negation, and I've grabbed an example of it from this website:

梅雨時でもないんだから、傘は要らないんじゃない。 "Since it's not the rainy season, there's no need for an umbrella."

ワケ/わけ is most likely 訳, which can mean conclusion/reason/judgement.

When I was looking into the phrase, I also came across "わけではない" (wake dewa nai), which from what I understand is a variation of the negation above. It's used to indicate "It doesn't mean that..."

So, because I wanted to challenge myself, I also wanted to try translating the Japanese flavor text!

warning! amateur translation! (and if it's got a severe error please feel free to let me know) (shout out to the multiple dictionaries I've used)

一番はあいつの為にとっておいてやるさ…… ……ってワケでもないが意味深な名前を持つ刀

"The first one is set aside for him (that guy) / his (that guy's) sake..." Even if he said it had no meaning, the katana carries a meaningful name.

The flavor text offers us the option that Yuri essentially said "The first one is for him" casually, but in reality, the naming of the sword holds a deep meaning to him. The localization shortened it, but ultimately carries the intended message.

I assume this was done to cut out the repetition found in the usage of the word "meaning". Japanese has several ways of saying it, but English is much more limited.

Finally, let's actually move away from the two swords, and point to something closer to late/endgame. Vesperia No.1 and Vesperia No.2! Screenshot from Hyouta:

What I wanted to point out is that the party never ends up using Vesperia No.1 as intended, right? Because it is at a point in the game where Flynn needs help on Hypionia. Yuri, in a surprising turn of events, makes his first selfish request from the others, doesn't he?

That's right, he asks to use the first one, for him.

And later on, when Rita repairs and perfects it, No.2 becomes a sword that Yuri can equip in battles!

So now you can sit with this knowledge too.

Thank you for reading this post! Yuri Lowell is gay

[freetobeeyouandme]

Chapter 11: We Prepare For the Big Boss Battle

Things are definitely starting to pop off now, and also oh god this fic is already so long and the chapters ahead aren't going to be any shorter...we'll be breezing right past that 100k mark, huh?! Anyway, in this one the party witnesses some horrors, gets caught in a snow storm, and then Mike has his heart broken :)

Tags: M, Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Fantasy AU, Canon Typical Violence, Canon Typical Horror, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn

Summary:

Mike Wheeler hates High School, so when he almost dies and falls through a portal to another world, he’s not going to complain. Especially not when that world does not only have swords and magic but seems to work exactly according to the rules of his favorite tabletop role-playing game. But his euphoria might be short lived because the party of adventurers he falls in with turns out to be the target of an evil god and the fate of the world might rest on their shoulders. So, exactly like his games of D&D. Except the wanna-be Paladin soon realizes that being a hero is much harder in real life than it is in-game. - Or, Mike gets isekai’d into a world where D&D is real.

An excerpt and taglist below the cut:

Excerpt:

Lucas and Hop spend breakfast arguing with that part of Kali’s group about the best path up the mountain and then lead them out of town through the northernmost gate. The Prince falls back towards the two Sorceresses once they’ve left Blackhollow behind, joining the discussion that had broken out between them, Max and Funshine about how to best approach their homicidal brother. Somehow, despite the topic the conversation seems almost boisterous as laughter and delighted squeals make their way to the back of their now even longer procession, where Mike is shuffling along.

Jonathan joins his stepfather in the front, falling into easy conversation. His mother has to try a little harder as she and Dustin try to connect with the rest of Kali’s group, who have taken up post just behind their leader. Eric and Max flit in and out of sight as they scout ahead, leaving the guarding of the rear to Will and Mike. Considering his state of exhaustion it’s not a bad place to be in. He’d rather walk in silence with Will than try to have a conversation with a woman he’d seen murder someone last night – and besides they’ll be rethinking and overthrowing their plans more than a dozen times on their trek up the mountain. There’s time for Mike to join that conversation, maybe even be invited to it, later.

For now he sticks to Will, although the Cleric is more quiet than usual. Mike doesn’t mind, though. They talk for a bit as they set off, small talk about where they’re headed and how soon they can expect to reach the top of the mountain, and then fall into a semi-comfortable silence. Will seems deeply stuck in his head, likely just as exhausted as Mike and unsettled by last nights events, and as the silence stretches on Mike follows, his thoughts drifting.

He spends the first day’s walk trying to connect to the magic around him, focusing on channeling its energy into this sword to create a smiting effect. Having taken his oath he should be at level 3, in game terms, and that should allow him to create more magical effects, including dealing elemental damage with his weapon attacks. But only in theory. He half considers snapping Will out of his reverie to ask him for help, but stubbornly decides against it because none of the smiting spells are on the Cleric spell list and besides, being a Paladin the magic of his oath should allow him to create these magical effects intuitively. He just needs to practice more, is all.

Not that things go any better when he gets the chance to do that.

They make early camp just outside the next village, sending Dustin and Jonathan in to gather some more supplies and otherwise fanning out around their camp to practice, just like Mike had predicted. Hop already gets on his case during warm ups, which Mike supposes is fair because he is distracted by their new allies training around them. Which doesn’t mean it doesn’t still piss him off – and it doesn’t get better when they finally move on to practicing his stances and sparring. Mike’s not much more than a training dummy for Hop to practice his own swordsmanship on, is still only helplessly hacking and slashing at the other Paladin, barely able to parry strikes that would cut him to pieces in seconds, while apparently not just everyone in this party but everyone in the god damn world is better than him at fighting. And Hop seems to be solely capable of criticizing and yelling at him.

So, it’s almost a relief when Hop kicks him to the floor, sword hovering dangerously close to Mike’s neck, and announces they’re done unless Mike can stop acting like a damn Barbarian.

It only makes him wonder if he’s in too deep with his Paladin oath to switch classes over to Barbarian instead. The anger boiling in his chest sure feels easier than trying to harness magic, that’s for sure.

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[lostinhisworld]

secret hideaway- JJ MAYBANK

warnings: nothing really. brief mentions of illness, divorce, heartbreak and rumours. written while very tired. jj being wrongly accused. she/her pronouns. based on a tiktok i saw of the left and right images. might make a part 2 if it’s wanted. unedited.

word count: 634

hope you enjoy x

Air twisted and turned, tugging at JJ's hair in all directions as he gazed ahead, fixated on the waves crashing against sharp rocks. Finally, he allowed himself to breathe.

It had been at least ten minutes now, stretching longer than usual as he sat on the broken side of the hill, hiding from the trouble he'd unwittingly caused.

Unlike his typical antics, today was a mistake, an accidental incident born from bad luck and unfortunate timing. JJ Maybank, notorious for finding himself in situations where he emerged as the 'villain,' now found fingers pointed at him when he was discovered near a recently vandalized store.

He knew it wasn't fair; he was entirely innocent this time. Yet, he understood the odds stacked against him. Hence, when the store's owner nodded in his direction, prompting the officers to look his way, JJ sprinted off, finding refuge in the concealed cave he now occupied.

His secret hideaway wasn't common knowledge among the Outer Banks residents, sparing him the anxiety of discovery. Only a few adventurous souls had stumbled upon it, marking their find on the left wall with over twenty initials carved or drawn.

JJ himself had stumbled upon the spot a few years ago, despite spending his entire life on the island. It was as accidental as most things in his life—discovered after one too many beers at a boneyard party and a case of drunken wandering.

He'd been returning whenever he needed solitude since, never revealing its location to another soul, not even his best friend.

So, when he felt a rock shift, his immediate thought was that he was about to plunge into the ocean's turbulent waters.

Y/n Y/l/n was a newcomer to town, the latest resident of the Cut. She had moved to her mother's childhood home upon hearing of her grandmother's illness.

It was challenging to let go of the life she'd built for herself in Charlestown, but she knew it was the right choice for both her mother and grandmother.

The initial weeks had been tough, witnessing the transformation of the older lady into a mere shell of her former self. To make matters worse, news of her arrival had spread quickly, with malicious rumors swirling around her.

It was a Wednesday afternoon when she found her only refuge in this new town, following a particularly tough day at school. She had been returning there whenever she needed a break from the sadness at home and the cruelty at school.

She had never encountered another soul there before, believing it to be her private sanctuary tucked away on the side of a large hill. However, at the sight of golden hair peeking from behind a boulder, her dreams were dashed, sinking into the ocean beside her now frozen body. "Oh, no," she whispered, taking a step back in the hope that the stranger hadn't noticed her intrusion.

"Hey to you, too," the boy chimed in, amusement in his voice as she cringed.

"I didn't expect anyone else to be here—there never is. I usually come here to be alone, but obviously, I can't do that now," she babbled, uncertain about what to say to the smiling stranger. "Oh, my God. You probably came here to be alone, too, and now I've interrupted. I'll just go."

JJ sat up straighter, his face momentarily falling. "Or you could stay? We could be alone, together," he said, his words slipping out without him realizing it.

"Alone, together?" she repeated, confusion etched on her face. She thought for a moment, considering whether sitting in a secluded space with an unknown person was wise. Still, with the memory of what she was trying to escape, she decided to take the risk. "Sure, if you're okay with it."

"Of course," he replied, a bit hastily, then cleared his throat and tried a different approach. "I mean, yeah, whatever."

Y/n chuckled as she continued her descent down the hillside, using the cave's walls for balance. She hadn't yet mastered the perfect way to enter the secret spot, often tumbling rather than walking.

"I'm Y/n, by the way," she offered, her eyes fixed on the ground to prevent falling.

"Yeah, I know," JJ responded, watching her gaze snap to his. "You're new in town, and word travels fast."

Her eyes returned to the ground as she took a seat on one of the rocks, her hands fidgeting in her lap. "Yeah, right. I guess you've heard all the stories, then?"

"I've heard a few," he answered easily, not sensing her sudden tension. "But I'm not big on gossip. I know how nasty rumors can be."

She looked over at him, searching for any signs of dishonesty but found only sincerity. "Well, I promise you I'm not on the run from the law, avoiding a baby-daddy, or escaping from a mental institution," she joked, a trace of sadness creeping through.

JJ furrowed his eyebrows. "Is that really what they're saying?" he wondered, receiving a shrug in response. "All I heard was that you got into a fight at your old school, and no one on the mainland wanted to take a chance with a flight risk. It's not much better, but damn, I didn't know they could be that creative."

She laughed, relaxing a bit. "Believe me, I was surprised too. One girl told me I got knocked up by my old principal."

"Wait, she said that to your face?"

"Yeah, she randomly sat next to me and told me without even looking at who she was talking to," Y/n said, rolling her eyes. "She totally freaked out when she realized."

The boy laughed genuinely, something he hadn't done in a while, as he looked into the girl's shy eyes. "I'm JJ," he said softly, his lips curving up as he extended his hand between them.

"Well, it's very nice to meet you, JJ," she returned the gesture, her gentle hand wrapping around his rough skin. "Good to know not everyone thinks I'm some scandal."

"Hey, I never said that," he joked, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he held her hand. "Come with me."

"What?" Y/n sputtered as he pulled her to her feet, leading her out of their private hideaway. She didn't argue, prompted by the encouraging smile on his face and the subtle tug on her arm to keep up. She followed a few steps behind, her fingers interlocked with his.

She had known him for barely five minutes and was already chasing after him like a lost puppy. It wasn't a huge surprise to her, though.

She had always been a romantic at heart, a sucker for a good rom-com where the girl mysteriously meets her soulmate on a random afternoon.

When she was younger, lying in her pastel room, she had dreamt of the day her knight in shining armor would appear, saving her from the dragon and living happily ever after.

Regrettably, life hadn't unfolded as she had hoped. Heartbreak had found her the moment she tasted the sweetness of love. She had witnessed her parents' separation due to clashing opinions, seen her partner's joy slowly ebb away as days grew longer, and witnessed countless people walk away from her and her heart. Despite it all, it had never deterred her belief in "the one."

Y/n wholeheartedly believed that there was someone, somewhere, uniquely crafted for her, a person who would love her perfectly — she was simply waiting to cross paths with that special someone.

On the contrary, JJ was not a firm believer in love. His past experiences had soured his perception, leaving him disenchanted. He acknowledged that love existed in the world but believed it wasn't meant for him, at least not in a romantic sense.

As a result, he sought solace in meaningless hookups and unattached relationships, giving him control over his emotions and desires.

However, something had stirred within him as he watched her smile and heard her laughter. It was a sensation he had never experienced before.

And he was determined to decipher the meaning of that newfound feeling.

[thedeafprophet]

The Boisterous Author plans to take their final leave of the palace. Things, of course, can never go that easy.

(Do read the tags on this one before reading)

Also On Ao3

Word count: 2.8K

Relationship: The Captivating Princess/Original FL Character

Rating: Mature

Tags: Consent issues, Forcefully Shoving Fingers Into Someones Mouth, The Princess Being The Princess, Minor References To The Gift, No Smut (feel the need to point that out with the rating lol)

Jamie had turned the office half upside down as they scrambled around the room, looking for the few items they couldn't bear to leave behind. The whole palace could damn itself to an even deeper hole in the ground, but Jamie would not be leaving without their favourite pen. 

They had reached their limit, one thing after another, and had come to a final decision to take their leave of the palace. No title or renown was worth…whatever the hell all that was. Best not to think too hard on the details. They learned more than they ever wished to know about the royal family. They'd seen things they'd never wished to see.

On the few nights Jamie slept in their room in the palace, so gratefully lent to them, they were up half the night, knowing about what lurks below. The greater threat, however, came from their worry about the goals of one particular member, and how much Jamie had done to make an enemy. They shiver at the thought of the countless horrors they have witnessed all at the results of her schemes. 

No, the more they stayed at the palace, the greater their risk was. They needed to get away. As far away as possible, actually. Perhaps more trips away from the city proper were in order. They had become particularly fond of trains.

By the time they find their pen, their mind has already started drafting a new novel idea of an outlawed monster hunter on the run, papers and books all mixed around. Somehow, they'd left it by the back of the bookshelf, cap left undone. Why on earth they put it there, they don't know, but they grab their beloved writing tool at last. Its well worn nib and incidental bite marks they’ve left behind a familiar and comforting sight. Jamie happily stuffed it back into their jacket pocket where it belonged. Now, at last, they could take their leave. 

They tried to sort the room back into a somewhat organized manner, finding more things they sought to bring back to their real office. A few pages of once discarded notes, a book of their favourite poems, and a manner of ink all were put into their case. There was no way they could take their secondary typewriter without making the length of their departure obvious, so they begrudgingly set it aside. 

They took one final scan around the room before they made their departure. They can’t say that they’d overly miss the location, but they had spent many nights working away at their writing here. That was, in a way, at least some form of connection. They give the room a final salute before they head to the door. 

Of course it wouldn't be that easy. Why would they have ever assumed it would be. 

A set of startlingly blue eyes meet theirs as soon as they open the door, and Jamie half jumps back in shock. Had she been waiting for them, listening in on their actions? No, surely it was just a coincidental matter of timing. They had not, however, heard any sort of knocking.

“Oh do tell me you aren’t going to just stand there staring. Though I of course can understand the urge.”  The Captivating Princess stood in the doorway to Jamie’s office, raising an eye at their apparent staring. Jamie’s heart immediately starts beating faster, anxiety pulsing in their chest.

Deciding they were taking too long to respond, she brushes past them to enter the room fully. Her eyes scan around, taking a moment to look over the contents on their desk. 

“Is everywhere you go subject to this kind of mess? I had thought the repellent state of your lodgings had been an outlier in the matter, but clearly I was mistaken.” 

Jamie pushes themself out of their shock, closing the door behind them and doing their best to force their mind to clear. It was dangerous, entering the dance of conversation without any time to prepare. 

“Ah, my apologies, your highness, I had not been expecting your presence.” Their hands fidget slightly as they speak, nervous energy running through them. “Why exactly are you here, if I might ask?” 

The Princess looks at them as if they just said something particularly stupid. “You do remember you're in the palace, don’t you my dear? I can go wherever I please.”

“Of course, of course. But this is my office, where I work. Not a prime locale for socializing, and I do prefer my privacy in manners of creation.”

The Princess just laughs at them. “Oh how adorable. This space is only yours because it is permitted. Every room, every object, every worker here belongs to the palace.” She smiles. “By all accounts, you do too.”

Jamie bristles at the comment, truly tiring of all these entities in power who seem to think there was any right to lay claim on them.  

“Well then, is there any reason you've come to this particular office of the palace, or may I get on with my afternoon plans?” They mentally remind themself over and over that they need to be polite, of the amount of danger they could be in if they toe out of line. It is a task they are always so dreadful at keeping to. 

“I’m sure whatever dull ongoings you had planned can wait. I am having a direly dull day and am in desperate need of some sort of distraction.” She edges closer towards them. Jamie instinctually takes a step back. “Is that not what you're here for, to entertain?”

Irritation grows inside Jamie alongside their fear. They are an artist, the best of the best, and here this woman was, acting as if they were nothing but a toy to be tossed around. Before, Jamie would have respected her as someone worthy, due to her position and title. Now? Now they know better. What good is the opinion of a monster?

“My job,” Jamie emphasises their point with a gesture at themself,” is to compose for events and special occasions. If there is a particular function you have need of my talents for, do feel free to make an appointment. However, if you're still in need of a playmate at your age, I cannot assist you in that matter.” Really, half the time Jamie couldn't believe she was nearly 13 years older than them.

That clearly wasn't the right thing to say. In an instant The Princess' eyes narrow in anger, and Jamie does their best to avoid her direct gaze. They know how people get around her, they know how weak their mind can become. 

Her voice has a dangerous edge when she speaks. “You should rethink your words. I came here for a solution to my boredom, do not make yourself useless to me.”

Jamie doesn't look at her as they speak, hands moving to point at the objects in the room. “Oh I see! And shall I use the lamp to set the stage lighting? The window curtains to create the scene? But of course, the desk could be a stage! It is a pathetic facsimile of a set piece, but naturally it would serve for such a repugnant audience, who has such little care for the actual depths of artistry.”

They shouldn't say that. Why did they say that? Yes, Jamie is well aware of their habits with snappy remarks, but they normally were able to hold back around her. Instead they found the words stumbling out, fear ignored in the long built up rage. Regret cuts deep through them the moment after their words spill out. 

Jamie knows as their eyes meet hers that this was a fatal mistake. Certainly, it was a mistake to stand against her from the start. Why would they ever stand against someone so graceful and elegant; how could they speak such falsehoods against such beauty. 

Jamie's thoughts are slippery and poisonous as they grapple with them, trying to stand their ground.

The Princess has an outraged sneer from their words, her voice vicious and dangerous as she speaks. 

“Sit down.”

Jamie grits their teeth. “No, I-”

“I said. Sit.” They're moving before they can fully process the command, falling back into one of their own office chairs. The spot seems far less comfortable than it was on the nights they had accidentally fallen asleep here.

The Princess follows their movement, looming over where they sit with a frightening expression. Jamie swallows an ever growing lump in their throat as their pulse rushes in their ears. Their hands grip the edge of the chair to try and keep from shaking.

The Princess is seething as she grips their chin, Jamie almost feeling the scratch of sharp nails through her gloved hand.

“How dare you speak to me that way. You are nothing but an ignorant little pest who should cower beneath my feet, thanking me for even gracing you with my presence.” If Jamie wasn't so caught up in their fear and rage, they would notice the glint of intent behind the anger in her eyes. “You need to hold your tongue.”

Jamie lets out a small humorless laugh. It wasn't the first time they've heard such a sentiment, and it wouldn't be the last. “By the very nature of the job, my profession dictates my use of words, your highness, or have you already forgotten that? Maybe if you-”

What remains of that sentence will never be spoken, as Jamie's eyes widen at their words suddenly being cut off. 

 The Princess had moved her other hand to jab her fingers into their open mouth, pressing down forcefully on their tongue to keep them from finishing. Jamie's hands instinctively reach to scramble at her arm to pull away the intrusion, but all that does is make her push harder. Saliva pools at the edges of Jamie's mouth as they choke around the insistent pressure.  

The Princess sighs at their reaction, looking the image of transcendent boredom, despite her actions and the glittering intent in her eyes saying otherwise. Her rage, it seemed, had died down, replaced with burgeoning entertainment as Jamie swallows heavily around the intruding fingers. 

“Of course, you have such pretty words, and yet I'm met with nothing but slander.” Her lips form a mockery of a pout. “What a waste. No, I know you can do better than that for me.”

Jamie mumbles what would be intended as an argument or a defense, but nothing can come out with their mouth otherwise occupied. Their disjointed noises seem to only further serve The Princess’ amusement.

“Oh, has the little songbird lost their words?” The statement is met with a pinch against their tongue. Jamie whimpers at the pain. “What a shame.”

Gloved fingers move to stroke delicately over their teeth, tracing over each as if examining them, hand mapping every inch of their mouth. The soft fabric brushes against Jamies tongue as they move, not altogether an unpleasant feeling. The urge to bite is strong, but even they are not foolish enough to attempt such a move. Jamie is in enough trouble already, fully at her mercy.

They know how strong those hands could be.

Jamie's thankful they don't have too much of a gag reflex as the back molars are touched, hand stretching further into their mouth. Jamie can only fathom at the image they must make, as tears threaten to edge at their eyes from the pressure, face quickly becoming very flushed. 

It's easier, they decide, to just sit and let her take whatever strange entertainment this seems to be for her. 

Her other hand comes up to stroke their hair, and Jamie shudders at the memory of the first time she did so, freed only by the mercy her sister seemed to possess. Jamie didn't even have the option to talk their way out now, their only line of defense taken. 

Despite the tension, the fear, and the adrenaline, Jamie can't help but relax at the soothing movement, their head leaning into her hand. The actual format of the situation couldn't change the fact that they craved attention, that it felt good, to have such focus on them and them alone. And what focus it was! Truly, they did not deserve her attention. 

The hand in their hair tightens with a sudden sharp tug as Jamie is made to look up at her, half choked with the angle. They can't tell if their struggled breath is from the position or their racing heart.

The Princess coos at them, her voice a patronizing tone as her hand twists russet locks further, tears pricking at the edges of Jamie's eyes. Still, they meet her gaze, and follow the direction she pulls them. 

“How delightful. I knew you could be good, if you only bothered to try.” Her grip relaxes again, and Jamie sinks in relief. “Little songbirds shouldn't say such nasty things - you should be so grateful you have me to help.” 

Of course she's right, how could they have spoken so harshly. How kind of her, of such beauty and grace, to take them in hand. How generous to show them the wrong of their ways. 

They don't know how long they stay like that, their hands still loosely griped on The Princess’ wrist as she pokes and prods, seemingly fascinated by the responses she can receive. They're not sure the passage of time even matters anymore.

At last, The Princess seems to feel that she has made her point, or at least has finally gotten bored. Jamie barely breathes out a sigh of relief as her fingers leave their mouth, not daring to make a sound and have her change her mind about releasing them. 

Jamie looks up at her through half lidded eyes, mouth still open where a trail of saliva connects to her fingers. Their jaw aches. 

She makes a half disgusted face at her glove, moving to wipe her hand off on Jamies suit jacket, before cupping their chin once more. The Princess’ eyes sweep over them with a pointed interest, a sharp jolt of fear washing through Jamie despite the flush of their face. 

Her smile is still so radiant. 

“Have you learned your lesson now little bird?” Her voice is delicate, like a chime, and all of Jamie's senses scream predator. There's nothing they can do but gently nod their head. 

“Is that so? See, I don't think you have. I think that once I leave, you'll go right back to your insufferable little habits, and we'll be back to square one, now won't we?” Her hand lands back to twist in their hair. 

It's an audacious concept, really. Jamie hasn't been changed by anything yet, of course they haven't now, no matter how highly The Princess holds herself.

Jamie is expecting her to tug again, but to their surprise, her hand moves to push their hair out of their face, back behind their ear. She follows down to cup their cheek, thumb stroking slightly. “Unfortunately for you, I have more important things to do today then spend it all on you.” Her hands begin to draw away. “We will deal with this behaviour another time.”

Jamie is barely processing the implication of that before she's fully stepping back, and Jamie has to startle to hold themself back up on the chair. They barely manage to look up as The Princess finally stalks out of the room, as if she hadn't just shoved her hand halfway to Jamies throat, as if she'd just come in for some casual conversation. 

The second she's out of the room, whatever spell that had fallen over Jamie immediately drops. Exhaustion sinks into their bones, their jaw and tongue ache, and most of all their mind runs over what the fuck just happened. 

They spend a few minutes leaning back in their chair, trying to keep their breathing calm, trying not to think too hard on what level of danger they've gotten themself in. Their clothes have become exceedingly uncomfortable, and they were in desperate need of a drink. They shift in their seat and grimace, moving to wipe their mouth. A bath was in order too. 

Soon, they'll manage to push themself up from where they're sitting, and scramble together what remains of their exit plan. They'll take their final leave of the palace, with intent to never return to their writing work here, as much as that could be managed. They'll do their best not to think about the encounter, though it will continue to replay in their mind for many days.  

Most of all they'll try to ignore the imprinted image of red eyes that will surely come to haunt their nightmares, both dreading and wondering what ‘later’ would entail. 

[ladyduellist]

Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

After Tav gleans information about a hunter looking for Astarion, tempers flare over a discussion.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Chapter 11: Prey

Ao3

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Main Page & Chapter List

Word Count: 5.5k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Sexual Language, Blood, Slight CPTSD, Cazador, Act 1 Spoilers

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When it comes to considering your choices about who will best serve your final act, you must do so with a principled eye. There is nothing you cannot hold with the strength of your palms, if you prioritize your needs to exceed others. Tavelle is one such case. Happening upon her at the precise moment I knew I was meant for more in this life, must be have been my fate. I do love her—as much as any man could—I suppose. But, my ambitions are the mistresses that I will always love more.

— Algos, private journals 1477DR

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She had invited a killer into her bed.

The fox that lured the songbird with his knifed teeth under a cunning smile. And, oh, did he deliver on his vow to pounce upon her when the time came. Filling her with perfect geometric precision. Gnawing at her skin until it bled into his mouth. Marking her body with his scent. Without mercy, did Astarion knead her flesh with his paws. Pulling. Teasing. Encouraging her to let go and live for their lust. An animalistic joining that tricked her senses until she ruptured with white hot visions.

Afterwards, Tav woke several times to find him vacant from her side. Once, she saw him pacing around the vicinity of their finished coupling, restless with thought. Another time, he was leaning back against the tree he had held her against, captivated by the glittering stars. Later, she caught him peeking at her through those plume-like lashes—she wanted to adore with kisses—attentively watching her.

And then came the rising sun that saturated his body. The only entity considered alive by the ancients that gave the vampire any sense of relief. He revered under its lustrous glow easier than a person dedicated to serving the Morninglord. It was possibly one of the few times the bard found the aged lines on his face to be ironed out over his cadaverous skin.

“Oh, petal. Are you looking for a potion to subdue a future quickening in your womb?”

Tav turned to face Ethel, breaking her sight from the overhanging herbs in the quaint shop. She suddenly felt weak as the blood left her face. A figment of an ache pierced through her lower abdomen. Did she know about—?

“Um. Excuse me?!”

“Pardon me for mentioning it, but Auntie Ethel can always sense these sorts of matters. Your lover’s scent is all over you! You had quite the busy night, didn’t you?” The old woman turned towards her table to sift through her collection of potions. “Let me see which of these will poison his seed.”

His scent?! Oghma be fucked sideways. Tav wanted to curl up inside herself and perish. Just how many people did she come into contact with today that were being, oh-so-polite, enough not to mention that she STILL smelled like sex and a godsdamned vampire!

The bard turned a deep shade of red, rivaling the fruits in the Daleland farms. She bit her inner cheek uncomfortably. “He didn’t even—I mean, no, I didn’t come here for anything like that. Hells. I was looking for scrolls. A ‘Scroll of Lesser Restoration’ to be more specific.”

Spells to fill her with renewed vigor after Astarion drank her blood. Ones that she would need to stock up on given both of their encouragements for him to feed on her. She could feel his fangs seducing her skin in her waking hours and the compliance of his bite that she pined for to experience a nearness she had only known since meeting him.

Ethel halted her fussing over the bottles. Tav briefly wondered what sort of concoctions were in each of them, considering how eccentric the brewmaker seemed to be. “I’m afraid I don’t have much here other than what you see. Tieflings bought up a majority of my potions and lotions, but if you ever need a special elixir to get someone on their arse, I can help you—for a price of course!”

“That’s right! They’ll be needing supplies for their upcoming journey in the future,” she nodded to herself remembering the group spoke about traveling soon. “Well, regardless, your help was much appreciated. I should probably check out another merchant here in the grove then. Please take care of yourself, Ethel.”

“Deary! Just one more thing before you head off,” Ethel grabbed Tav’s hand, squeezing it gently. “I don’t typically hand out information for free, but since this shitehead has loitered around far too long without giving me coins, there’s a hunter looking for a vampire spawn by my teahouse southwest of here. And since you have those fresh bite marks on your neck, you may wish to warn your sweetheart that trouble is afoot.”

Her heart started to race. “A vampire hunt—”

“That plausibly explains why the two of you left the forest this morning exactly 10 minutes apart from each other,” a familiar voice boldly announced.

In the bard’s peripherals, she noticed Shadowheart’s physique standing off to her side. Stony as usual.

She pressed a small donation of coins into the older lady’s palm. “My thanks Ethel. Excuse me while I go handle some mess I probably made.”

They stepped away from the strange woman’s canopied storefront. There was clearly an important subject pulling at the Sharran worshiper’s mind, but Tav knew to dismiss her concerns until Shadowheart was ready to offer her thoughts openly.

“Do carry on, I’m not one to judge,” the cleric grinned.

“Nor should you after what I saw you doing with Wyll last night,” Tav snidely remarked.

“Can you blame me? The man sure has a way with his tongue.”

The bard laughed at her cocky declaration and gestured for them to start roaming to a different section of the Hallow.

There was a stark contrast of sounds that now filled the grove from when they first arrived. Music could be heard echoing off the halls of splendid columns of rock. Children ran around with gay frolics, no longer bearing the weight of their guardian’s anxieties or the fear they carried from their narrow vanishing act in Elturel. Peace had been obtained, even should it only be temporary.

“Enough about my night. What about you and Astarion? How cozy did the two of you really get?” Shadowheart probed, following closely behind Tav.

Astarion. The name that made her stomach burst into a kaleidoscope of butterflies and surged her to pick off their wings simultaneously. A cursed word that stalled the process of her verses when it imprinted across her brain. An epithet calligraphed in each colony of her supple pale flesh, now an elegant bundle of scribbles penetrated inside of her aroused heat.

Tav was thoroughly smitten.

But, these admissions blurred lines. Astarion, for all his contemptuous sass, was right: they knowingly consented to be in each other’s bed. Though, she wondered if it really was so awful to yearn for his touch? For him to open one of the many pockets she had sealed shut to feel the sympathy and intimacy of another? Even should she continue to question if he sincerely wanted her companionship, wrangling his truth from those troubled garnet globes had put her at a stalemate. No, what they had—what they clung to—remained in the plane of circumstance.

She stopped abruptly, lifting her brow in curiosity at her inquisitor, clearly avoiding the topic. “I thought you had no interest in us becoming ‘friendly.’”

“I think after what we’ve been through thus far, trust is a bit unavoidable between the two of us. Besides, isn’t that how friendships start?”

They both smiled. The kind that had begun in a puddle of undistilled water, only to reverb with each dip of a raindrop.

“Knew you’d give in eventually,” Tav couldn’t help but tease, remembering how her first impression of Shadowheart had fallen rather flat. This was a welcome amendment.

The cleric leisurely planted her hands on either side of her hips. “Shush. Now answer the bloody question before I ask my Lady to inflict pain upon you to thrash out your answer,” she beamed mischievously.

“You can’t smell him on me?”

Shadowheart deadpanned her. “What in the realms are you talking about?”

Tav immediately felt shy. Her voice became soft-spoken. “Oh, uh, nevermind. But, to answer your question, we got…closer.”

“Closer. Uh huh. You’re hardly a celibate maiden. Have you also forgotten how much I value secrecy? Spill,” she smirked, most assuredly already knowing the answer.

We were intimate and it was beautiful.

We were intimate and it was confusing.

We were intimate and he seemed like he was withdrawn at times.

She swallowed down her doubts with a bright gleam and a coral shade creeping upon her ears. “Well, we ended up having sex last night.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard. Or maybe it was in Astarion’s case,” the dark haired beauty joked.

“Shadowheart! This is exactly why I had vowed to keep my trap shut,” the bard said mortified.

This was nice. A fresh start to their friendship already filled with laughter. Shadowheart had quite the different personality from Karlach. She possessed dry wit over the tiefling’s brazen humor, but it was a decent icebreaker to extend faith in her direction. They needed this; Tav needed this.

The only other person she developed a meager amount of trust in was Astarion. And even then, she questioned her ruling on that. She wanted to blend in, to give her companions a glimpse of her fragility and the cold nightmares she flew away from, but her wings were still so laden with scars beneath latticed barbules.

Straying to the world inside her, Avoiding the king of her hells. She’s damned if she does and damned if she doesn’t, It’ll all be over when the long night vanishes into the dawn.

“Do me a favor and keep this between us gals?” she apprehensively asked. “Karlach will figure it out on her own because she’s—well, Karlach—but I feel like it would mean a lot to Astarion if I kept details to a minimum.

"Though, I suspect the others may think we’ve already been involved for quite some time,” she added under her breath.

Admiring Shadowheart’s posture, she watched her nod her elegant head in agreement. The woman always managed to be so poise and confident unlike the melancholic hum she kept stitched behind her breast.

“Oh, they certainly do. I think it was Gale that asked first if you two were sleeping together yet. He was quite flustered over the whole ordeal because he has some personal issues with our local biter—not in a love triangle jealousy sort of way—but those are for him to sort out,” the cleric shrugged.

She crumpled her forehead, continuing her thought. “But, to put your fears to rest, you need not even ask. What happens behind the flap of your tent with Astarion is your business. The only thing I’ll say is: be safe with him. There’s dangers that come with vampires, but he seems…frail under the surface. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

Shadowheart flashed her a concerned expression. Maybe the first Tav had truly seen from their mysterious devotee. She saw it too, his brittle self underneath the hedonistic facade.

“Now, aside from gossiping about our recent intrigues, I was actually looking for you to discuss an important matter. Do you have time to spare?”

Tav refocused on Shadowheart. “Hmm? Yes, I do. Come with me while I search for some scrolls? We can talk on the way.”

“Perfect. Gale mentioned the conversation you both had with Halsin about a Temple of Shar in the Underdark. If—if there’s any possibility this has to do with Dark Justiciars, I will need to go there as soon as possible,” she assertively announced.

“Dark Justiciars? I vaguely know about them. Actually, there’s a fair bit I don’t know about worshippers of Shar—save for rumors.”

Shadowheart looked around them carefully, a degree of caution present by her mannerisms. “Here, connect with my tadpole. It’s safer this way. People are typically hesitant towards those that take up with the Mistress of the Night.”

Minds connected. Voices vibrated in echoes off their brains as the worms wriggled around in excitement, as if they were at a playground.

”Dark Justiciars are the most elite society of faithful to our Lady. It is an absolute honor should you be called upon to enter this sect of the priesthood. I have been preparing my whole life to become one, but my mother forbade it. Not my actual mother, but the Mother Superior in Baldur’s Gate.”

”I can imagine how important this would be to you then. What of the dangers? Anything we would need to worry about beforehand?”

There was a sudden hiccup in their link due to Shadowheart hissing in pain. “Ow! It hurts! Sorry—this is an old wound. I’m not sure why, but my Lady placed it there.”

The bard’s eyebrows knitted sympathetically at the blotted blemish on her hand. “As this may be none of my concern, understand when I say this, I do so because I care, but, that’s kind of screwed up to place on a worshiper if that’s true.”

The Sharran cleric paused as if to reassure herself. “I do not question the fate our Dark Lady has in store for me—not that I would know anyways. My memories have been heavily suppressed. The only thing I remember is the mission to steal the artefact from the gith with the group I was with; I’m the only one that made it out alive.”

Tav was unsure how to answer. Shar seemed to be a sinister deity dressed up as liberation for those following a path of nihilism: a religious cult of voided emotions. Except, by the time the goddess had the pious within her clutches, they were near husks of their former selves.

“And that dream visitor from the prism seems to be helping keep our transformation at bay from what we’ve gathered. I trust you will keep it safe in the meantime?” Tav canvassed, placing a hand on Shadowheart’s shoulder.

“With my life.”

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

The hum lingered from her mouth like fresh humidity on a summer's eve.

Tav tapped her finger on the spread map from their present location in camp, down to the assumed position of Ethel’s home, measuring a likely distance. The vampire hunter needed to be confronted swiftly before a stake was driven through Astarion’s chest and his fangs kept as a souvenir. It would be smarter to approach said foe during the highest point of the sun, since it was probably not common knowledge their vampire was now able to walk in the daylight.

A mighty hunter came, With quiver and bow for his game. Through the spaces of bones they empierce, To feed on the hunted riches so fierce.

Around two days worth of travel, She thought wearily. Someone has a target on him, but who? Cazador? The family of an old victim?

Depending on the answer, was she prepared to take his side in the matter? Shouldn’t the loved ones of his past sacrificial lambs be justified in holding Astarion to a jury of the people? Who was anyone to tell them no? To dismiss the everlasting grief they would take to their own coffins for a lover she barely knew.

But, all these actions were commanded in the name of the bishop of blood: Cazador Szarr. He was the one to send the spawn away on his tyrannical missionary work. Blessing them with rat’s essence swishing in their bellies. Promising, always promising, he would allow them to feed on their master.

Astarion had no will—no choice—to enact on his own. Cazador’s brand was imprinted in their veins to ordain them with the master’s ownership before worshiping him with tithes of victims. Having a moral conscience meant nothing when someone was in control of the hunk of pulp and sinews that was your body. It was bade to fuck, capture, and think only for their exalted master.

And then, there were other parts of Astarion that stole her breath away. His curls of evening stars that she climbed upon with the galactic swirls of her fingertips. The man whose odes of affections stuck to her like crystallized honey. He who she continued to search for in the sea of shades.

She realized all of these notions—these damnable thoughts—ended in one question that tightened around her, cutting off her circulation: Would she kill for him?

“There you are, my little treat.”

A familiar pair of hands, ones that murdered her with tiny deaths in the moonlight, encircled around her waist, spinning her around.

The vampire held her close, moving his mouth closer to hers, before changing direction to place a sloppy kiss to the side of her neck. “I’d wondered where you ran off to. It’s been a little over half of a day and I missed your face already. Have you resumed your escapades as ‘the hero of the wilds’ or did my quirks frighten you away?” he murmured gleefully into her skin with a sly grin.

She suddenly felt bashful. Wanted by him. Every negative misgivings she ever had about his feelings towards her washed away, leaving her with buckled knees. When he placed his hand on her lower back, perching his pads on the warm skin there as if she belonged to him, she silently masked her nervousness.

Her hands found his biceps to rest upon, lightly gasping as he placed another playful peck on her lobe. “Mmm. I-I missed you too,” she replied faintly under her breath.

“Tell me about your day,"" Astarion urged.

“There’s a smith we met named Dammon in the grove that is willing to help cool Karlach’s engine if we find more infernal iron. ‘Starion, she looked so happy at the prospect of being able to touch someone again. I wish you could have been there to see.”

“Well, good for her and the bedfellow she may snap in half!” he said merrily, stumbling further into her.

“Are you alright?” she asked, grinning at his fumble. “Oh, while I have you here, there’s something I need to—wait, are you drunk? I’ve never seen you so…chipper!”

He giggled. Actually fucking giggled like a child being tickled to death. “I have drunk. A lot. Would you believe that I found a bear to drain all of his blood from? Don’t worry, I’m sure it wasn’t one of those druids playing animal dress-up—or at least I hope. Can never be too sure with those leaf shitters. Ha!”

Tav laughed with him, smelling the fresh soaps in his hair. “I didn’t know vampires could get drunk or whatever this might be called. Vamprunk? Undrunk?”

“You’re truly the most insufferable woman,” he lifted up to look at her with a pout.

The songstress chuckled softly. She noticed his cheeks and ears had a light dusting of frosted pink on them. “So, a bear’s blood not only got you drunk, but also caused your skin to react with this adorable mortal shade?”

“Adorable? I am a beautiful and sensuous vampire, not a shawl you’ve knitted together,” he tutted. He leaned down to nuzzle his lips in the hollow of her throat. “But, I will say this, a bear will never compare to the vintage delicacy of your blood.”

Tav sighed, running strands of silvery-white through her hands. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to play with your food?”

She could feel him opening his mouth to suck on her peach-like flesh. The flat of his tongue laid around the zone he wanted to worry with a few very slow preliminary licks.

“And hasn’t anyone ever told you that a prey that sings your name from their lips is worth the hunt?” he drawled, as if the answer itself didn’t even need a question to proceed it.

With an eager-like magic rising up, the length of his half-erect cock rubbed into her thigh. Her breath hitched when memories of him sliding the crown of it against her aching clit filled her thoughts. Gods, he was out to destroy her. And she would allow him to do so. Anything to feel this longing inside of her sated by his closeness.

He suctioned her skin into his mouth, suckling bursting blood vessels to the surface, leaving a bruised mark. His mark in an area everyone would surely point out. She shivered thinking about belonging to him in this way. Belonging to him at all. Tav reacted by pulling tufts of his hair, earning her a growl. The tadpole swam around in a frenzy from her roused craze, nearly begging her to connect with his own.

A forced heavy cough interrupted them. Astarion stopped his patronage to her neck glancing over at a very stern looking githyanki shaking her head at them.

“Ah, Lae’zel. Did you want to join in? I’m sure your taste has quite spice to it,” he jested, straightening his posture.

“I will not repeat myself on keeping those teeth of yours away, Astarion.” Her golden eyes flickered between him and the blushing bard still hanging onto his arm for support. “He tears apart your flesh and now your body? Had he not already made his claim for your blood, I may have chosen to take you for my own. Now, if you mean to mate, go elsewhere to feast so I can meditate in peace. This is not a suggestion.”

Tav ducked her head into his chest in humiliation. She could feel his chest rumble when he spoke again. “Don’t worry sweetheart. We’ll be sure to come gather your freckled cuddly self up if we decide to make love on a pile of corpses. I know you wouldn’t want to miss out on the fun!”

Lae’zel shot him a final warning by running her index finger across the expanse of her throat, as if to threaten him with a finality to his undeath should he continue. She returned to her tent, ignoring his afterthoughts casted at her without another word.

“Well, I should at least be grateful it wasn’t her I started flirting with in that temple instead of you. I’m sure I’d have a leash around my throat and serve as her personal footstool by now. Happy accidents!”

Tav reflexively slapped his arm jokingly. “In that case, I may have considered coming to save you from your misery.” She stepped back a few inches from him, biting at her lip circumspectly. “Shadowheart and probably Karlach know. I guess Lae’zel now too. Probably everyone else, if we’re being honest about this—ahem—us.”

The spawn grabbed her chin gently, his head tilted. “Darling, your body is doused in my scent. They would be bigger imbeciles than I originally imagined if they didn’t pick up on that fact alone.”

She smiled fondly at him.

He wasn’t embarrassed by her.

What a wonderful feeling.

“Ethel said the same thing earl—oh gods! Of course. Come here,” she turned back around to stare down at the map on the table, pointing towards a location. “Tomorrow morning, we will start heading here. And you will need to come with me this time.”

Astarion moved to stand next to her. “If we’re headed down there to collect some ridiculous item because so and so’s mother’s cousin’s father liked them, then I would rather spend my day actually trying to persuade Lae’zel to let me bite her.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I wish it were as simple as that, but we unfortunately may have an issue on our hands—concerning you.”

“The attention is on me for once? Now I’m intrigued. Go on,” he smirked.

Her head turned to focus on him while he still studied the map. “Do you remember that elderly woman, Auntie Ethel? When I was out shopping, she approached me about a hunter searching for you near her teahouse. It seems they’ve only been there for a short time, but Astarion, do you know of anyone that may have discovered your location so quickly?”

The habitual breathing he kept at a constant, ceased. Muscles visibly strained in his neck. Tav noticed his jaw clamped tightly shut, enough to fracture the ivory of his teeth. Bead-sized drops of sweat surfaced at his temple.

“Cazador. ”

“Your former master,” she affirmed. Tav tried to remain calm, as she watched Astarion become paralyzed with fear and an overwhelming desire to exact his revenge. “So, we’re possibly dealing with a hunter-for-hire situation.”

“Honestly, I expected one of his lackeys to show up much sooner,” he commented harshly.

Concerned for his mental state, she placed a caring hand on top of his that had been plastered against the map. He flinched, pulling away from her immediately. Scarlet eyes rapidly swarmed at nothing in particular as he started to pace uncomfortably.

“You know, for the first time in my very shitty existence as a puppet, I obtained and earned the freedom to do as I please. And I can’t fully get there without first becoming powerful enough to grind Cazador to dust. We need to embrace our squirmy tenants for all the power they're worth!" he muttered almost in a daze.

Tav’s heart clenched tightly. Memories don’t easily fade away, not after years of loss and torment. The road had bushes of nettles that scraped against anyone that searched for respite with each step forward. It contained unexpected hardships that caused those who sought analeptic blessing, to falter back to the comforts of living in the shadows of their trauma.

Sometimes, it was easier to claw out one’s own grave than face the ghosts that put them there.

Her voice was soft like rabbit’s fur. “I understand you’ve been through unimaginable strife being under Cazador’s command—you do deserve what’s best for you—but do you think having power is the end all be all answer? I’m not referring to using such a thing against him, in particular, but in the general sense.”

Astarion halted all at once, contorting his brow in her direction as if she asked him a dumb inquiry. “Well, of course! Look at the world around you, dearest, and tell me I’m wrong. It wasn’t the champions of the Sword Coast or deities that came to my rescue: it was mind flayers.”

He wasn’t wrong. But, still—

“Exalting power for power alone leads down a bastardized road most won’t return from. You will never live the life you deserve if you decide to go down it. And you have the right to claim much more than what that path could grant you. But right now, you can choose to live a better life,” she challenged.

“The better life I deserve? You mean as in pet bunnies and that sort of thing? I won’t object to being nice, but only after I have the power to bend others to my will,” Astarion sneered.

“I know that seems objectively tempting, but there’s different kinds of power that will provide you with an actual life instead of walking the tightrope of an autocrat. You can grasp power through learning about yourself, healing, finding things you truly care about. The list is endless,” she continued patiently, attempting to reason with him.

He laughed mockingly at her, shaking his head in disagreement. “Well, that sounds much less fun! These tadpoles can help us influence others and manipulate them to do as we please. They could help us with far more than we’ve even scratched the surface on. It was a gift given to us and I’d rather stick to a power well-received instead of wasting it on cheap tricks.”

What was this? She folded her arms against her chest—a natural gesture to guard herself from unpleasant discussions—deep in her process of thought. Astarion had no one by his side in over two hundred years. He was forced to live in the sickness inside. All he saw was the trajectory of power and the tilled promises of its vile seeds. A consistent fact that has proved to be true in his former darkened world since time immemorial.

She had this conversation before. In a previous life; a different situation. And she could feel that sticky clamminess seducing the baby fine hairs at the nape of her neck. He was here, as was his wont to show up when her past wounds wanted to be alive. Algos. With hushed tones, reminding her of why he chose her. Her role in his life. The crowned archfiend, burning flames in places he favored—her unwavering conviction most of all.

“Hells, what’s wrong now?” Astarion asked discontentedly, shaking her out of her onset neurosis.

“N-nothing. You just sound so much like him…" she paused. “Be ready first thing in the morning.”

He reached out to grab her arm as she turned from him. “Hold on. Just like who?”

“Forget it. I screwed up saying that and I’m truly sorry. You’re not him. No one will ever be him. Goodnight Astarion.” Tears welled up in her ducts. She was unable to tell him. It was too vulnerable of a subject.

The tone in his larynx shifted to a balmy breeze and she could feel his thumb rubbing a relaxing circle over the sleeve of her shirt. “I asked who?”

“Who isn’t the problem; it’s what you’re saying,” she replied combatively, trying to dissuade him from pressing further.

“I can’t believe I’m actually going to indulge you on this, but why not save us the time and get straight to the point? You’re obviously dissatisfied with me.”

Tav felt ill. Unable to look him directly in the face. He wasn’t going to let this go and mayhaps he had every right not to. She unintentionally baited him with her comments and knowing Astarion’s innate penchant for dramatics, did not serve her well in the moment.

“Is that what this is between us?” Tav motioned back and forth with her hands. “Not a short-term amusement to take our minds off our troubles, like you said, but a con to use me as a pawn in your vision of power? Is that what we all are to you?”

Algos wanted to ascend beyond the cards dealt to him in life and he got it. He dragged everyone down with him into the pits of despair. Taking and taking and taking until those closest to him became shriveled up versions of themselves. Until the day was right for him to grasp that which was more precious to him than love, honor, or devotion: power absolute.

“Look at you, such a chatterbox tonight. Has the tadpole eaten away more of your brain? Your words, my sweet.”

She bristled under his intentional deflection. “You just gave me a speech about your desire to control others if the opportunity arose. What am I supposed to think? I don’t know what to believe with you sometimes.”

Releasing her arm, she noticed his lips twitching. He was upset. “Whatever is that supposed to mean?”

"You pull me in with your overbearing charms, then you talk about things like this. Did you even listen to anything you said tonight? Using others for your own means, right? To get what you want, right? What happens to them be damned, right?” The bard’s blood was boiling and her emotions were scattered, whipping them out one after the other. “And, gods, we had sex last night! I let you fuck me because I stupidly thought you liked me. Despite the agreement we have and despite knowing the risks involved. I’m a fool. Maybe even a bigger fool for starting to feel—”

The vampire was unnervingly silent. His hand dropped away from her and he widened his eyes as her revelations spilled out.

Tav knew a part of her was projecting, but she also knew some of her concerns were warranted. All her earlier qualms about Astarion and her past she could never entirely escape from, blinded her. She had hungered like a madwoman for mutual intimacy, and here she was, finally lifting the veil for him to see a shred of what lies in the dusk of her heart, and it was leading to her own crucible.

“It would seem I’ve failed your morality checks for the night. All this bickering and we aren’t even officially lovers,” he responded cynically. “I’m not like you, songbird. I’m not the kindhearted fool running amok to cater to everyone’s needs. You already knew this about me before we slept together. But, if this has suddenly become a problem for you, then I’ll concede to your expert decision-making.”

Hells, what just happened?

Astarion wasn’t wrong, she did know about his unsavory idiosyncrasies. And yet, she still allowed him to crawl inside of her, gnashing his sharp canines, baying throughout her arteries. She stood before him in atrophy, ashamed and hurt, with a bullet lodged in her chest wondering if her decisions with him had been a mistake.

“I don’t know what happened to you in the past, but you’re right, I’m not him. So, Tav, I'll ask only once: what are we doing?”

She swallowed hard. “I-I don’t know.”

[whoreviewswho]

By Morning, We Might All Be Dead - Horror of Fang Rock, 1977

Horror of Fang Rock marks a significant turning point in Doctor Who's history which is odd because, insofar as what actually makes it to screen, it would seem reasonable to assume that this serial was just business-as-usual. For the past three years, under the watch of producer Philip Hinchcliffe and script editor Robert Holmes, Doctor Who had overgone a successful transition from an action-packed, primarily earth-based series into a more macabre, gothic-horror infused programme. Despite this turn away from what was a very successful and family-friendly approach, Doctor Who was suddenly at the height of its popularity with the fourteenth season, that finished airing in April 1977, pulling in ratings of approximately eleven million viewers each week. Tom Baker’s fourth incarnation of the eponymous hero was riding an enormous wave of success but, nonetheless, it was decided that things must come to an end. Following vocal criticism of the series' violent and adult direction, including some infamous comments from Mary Whitehouse, the BBC informed Philip Hinchcliffe, during pre-production season fourteen's final serial, that he would be quietly moved on from Doctor Who. Hinchcliffe was redeployed onto a different, notably less family-oriented, programme in the form of Target, a police drama. Swapping in this place would be the creator of Target and its original producer, one Graham Williams.

Williams took up the reigns under strict instructions to reshape the series into something more palatable for the younger viewers. Under his watch, Doctor Who would undergo a drastic, though steady, series of changes away from gothic horror film-pastiches into something more camp, absurdly comedic but high-concept science-fiction adventure serials. This was the beginning of a period where Douglas Adams would be regularly writing and script-editing for the show. Intentionally or otherwise, this was a tonal and stylistic shift that took place over the entirety of season fifteen and, in my opinion, would not entirely find its feet until Williams’ final season. However, at the very top of his reign is something quite different and a story that feels rather fittingly like a last hurrah to the old guard. 

Horror of Fang Rock, if you did not already take the hint, could more than comfortably pass as a Hinchcliffe era Doctor Who. So much is this the case that I frequently stumble across claims that this story was commissioned under his watch even though there is no evidence to suggest such a thing. In fact, it would be impossible. As previously mentioned, Hinchcliffe was made aware of his new assignment before production on The Talons of Weng-Chiang, had even wrapped. All that was set in place for season fifteen while he was still producing were the contracts for our two leading actors and both were negotiated by Williams. Louise Jameson was convinced to sign on for a second year as Leela, despite her difficult working relationship with Tom Baker, on the condition that she would no longer have to wear the uncomfortable brown contact lenses from season fourteen. This stipulation accounts for the somewhat left-field moment in this story's climax where Leela is temporarily blinded only for her sight to return but with different pigments in her eyes. The script does its best to make the scene into a character moment with Leela naively disobeying the Doctor and then asking him to slaughter her when she becomes maimed but it remains a pretty terribly tacked on scene. Tom Baker was unimpressed with Jameson's renewal. Following his insistence to Hinchcliffe and Holmes that he did not need a co-star at all after Elisabeth Sladen's departure, he had grown to dislike Leela as a character finding her too violent and sexually provocative for the programme's audience. Regardless, he signed on for the new season with the suggestion that it would perhaps be his last.

Even though Hinchcliffe had left the series, Robert Holmes remained in his post for the first half of season fifteen and, as such, a very smooth transition can be seen occurring from his sensibilities into that of his successor Anthony Read. For the first story of the season, Holmes called upon his immediate predecessor Terrance Dicks and, aware of the programme's horror sensibilities at that time, offered a script originally entitled The Witch Lords. Later renamed The Vampire Mutation, the scripts were a pastiche of classic Dracula adaptations in the same vein as the previous seasons’ forays into classic literature and cult films such as Frankenstein, Agatha Christie, Sherlock Holmes and so on. However, due to the BBC’s fears of such a production impacting their forthcoming, prestige adaptation of Dracula, the serial was abandoned forcing it from first in production to second and beginning a scramble for a late replacement*. 

Horror of Fang Rock was devised after Holmes suggested an historical based around Edwardian lighthouses, citing Wilfrid Wilson Gibson's 1912 poem Flannan Isle as a basis from which begin. Entirely unfamiliar with lighthouse operations of the period, Dicks frequently claimed that this was Holmes’ attempt at a comeuppance for when he was commissioned by Dicks to write 1973's The Time Warrior with no knowledge of feudal English castles. The Flannan Isle poem is based upon a real incident from December 1900, when a supply ship discovered that the three-man lighthouse crew on Eilean Mòr, one of the Flannan Isles in the Outer Hebrides, had vanished without a trace. Dicks clearly took the basic premise of the poem and the imagery and aesthetic to craft this particular tale. The poem is directly quoted in the serial itself and, yes, it is a very lovely piece of writing that Tom Baker delivers excellently. I do struggle, however, to find a particularly interesting subtextual connection between it and the serial that aired. The story could have actually been Horror on Flannan Isle and nothing would really change which makes me wonder why Dicks just didn't go for that (besides Fang Rock being an obviously more pulpy and memorable title). As is, the poem recital just feels like an unnecessary in-text acknowledgement of Dicks' inspiration.

Given how late a replacement Horror of Fang Rock was, director Paddy Russell had already begun preparing for The Vampire Mutation and was disappointed that the story was abandoned. Russell had already worked on the series thrice before, most recently for season thirteen's Pyramids of Mars, and Fang Rock would prove her final contribution. Russell felt restricted technically and creatively by the lighthouse setting and when scheduling difficulties forced the production to the lesser Pebble Mill Studios, the working environment only became more difficult.

Perhaps it is in part thanks to these tensions, however, that Horror of Fang Rock comes out so well in the wash. This story is dripping with tension and drama. There is an extraordinary claustrophobic quality to the serial that is surely enhanced by the smaller studio space and even more cramped than usual sets. Aside from some occasionally laughable CSO, the disappointingly dodgy model ship and one other awkward effect I'll get to later, Horror of Fang Rock is a stellar production from the costumes to the lighting to the film excerpts to the wonderful score from Dudley Simpson. What Horror of Fang Rock captures better than, dare I say, Pyramids of Mars is a genuine gothic horror flavour. All of the iconography one could expect from such a tale such as foggy nights, ghostly apparitions, grisly deaths and devious characters are all on display here and the story feels incredibly accurate to the era it is calling back to. Horror of Fang Rock has an incredible sense of atmosphere even in the less noticeable choices such as the foghorn which only gets creepier and more intense as the stakes escalate across the story.

None of this is where Horror of Fang Rock excels the most, however. Where this story really shine is in its script, more specifically, in its characters and this is a mightily impressive feat for something assembled in crisis. Despite his closest association with Doctor Who, and his most prolific one, is with the Pertwee era, there is a good case to be made that this is Dicks' tightest script. Every member of this ensemble is wonderfully well-realised, even those with quite little screen-time. Each character feels three-dimensional and distinct from the others. It helps immensely that Dicks' simplistic approach to storytelling stands apart from Holmes' who would have likely shifted focus further away from the cast, relegating them to caricatures rather than characters, and onto the unholy, universe-ending threat. The story begins introducing us to the three keepers; Reuben, Ben and Vince. Immediately, the dynamic between the trio is clear and compelling. We have Reuben as the old hand who is set in his ways and performed excellently by Colin Douglas, Reuben is set in his ways; “In England we have proper customs”. He is a superstitious, sarcastic, racist and arrogant figure. Ben on the other hand, is his counterpoint; embracing the turn of the century. He is all in favour of electric technology, is highly intelligent yet he also carries an air of superiority, quick to boss around his crew mates and scold them. And then there is poor Vince, the naive, new recruit whose innocence and charm serves to make him the most endearing supporting character in this cast by a wide margin. 

The beginning of this serial is just excellent. Again, the whole first part is dripping in atmosphere and makes for an incredibly tight watch. Without ever mentioning the year, the setting is made abundantly clear. Fang Rock story offers some wonderful establishing moments such as the philosophical argument between Vince and Reuben that just plays out like a discursive of the period in the best way possible. This is how you can communicate setting and themes in a script in a way that is clear but not insulting to the audience. That being said, Dicks clearly did his research into lighthouses with a pretty blunt, however delightful, dumping of period accurate facts at every opportunity. It is always nice when Doctor Who returns to its educational roots in some way. Dramatically, a lighthouse is a brilliant setting for a thriller like this with its isolated location and limited cast, stranded, allowing for a lot of suspense and discomfort in the plot. On paper, there is little to seperate this from the Troughton era base-under-siege yet the tone and approach just feels a world away. Even on a basic thematic level, this setting also proves a delightfully rich choice. Lighthouses, after all, signify dangerous coasts. They are used to warn off ships and this is exactly what it is used for in the conclusion of this story. Albeit, not for that kind of ship. 

When we do meet up with our heroes, we find Tom Baker and Louise Jameson on top form. Funnily enough, though, this serial was criticised by Jameson for doing her character a disservice, even going so far as to suggest that Dicks was writing with Sarah Jane in mind instead of Leela. Thankfully, due to her insistence, the finished product serves her a lot better. Whether it is ultimately down to Dicks, Holmes or mostly Jameson's performance, I think that Leela is written very realised in this story and it produced some of her best moments, such as her beautiful first scene with Vince and really every interaction with Adelaide. Pairing her off with what could almost be a more traditional companion archetype (how different are Adelaide and Victoria?) was a brilliant choice and very effective in selling her uniqueness as a leading lady in Doctor Who.

Behind the scenes, this serial also marked a turn for the better in Jameson and Baker's relationship. After being repeatedly upstaged by her co-star despite it not being what they rehearsed, Jameson confronted Baker about his behaviour. It is no secret that Tom Baker's behaviour throughout the Graham Williams era became something of an ongoing issue and that is no less the case with the second serial he produced. Baker severely clashed with Russell on-set due to the former's lack of respect for his director’s regimented and meticulous practice. Baker also became frustrated at Russell's disinterest in taking suggestions from him to alter the material. The most often repeated anecdote from this conflict recalls an incident where Baker flatly refused to take on Russell's direction and repeatedly entered the scene too early as to remain in shot. Following the difficult final block timing the confrontation between the Doctor and the Rutan, Russell decided she would never return to the show and later cited Tom Baker's "difficult" behaviour as the core reason why; 

"Tom Baker was easy to deal with at first, but the part went to his head completely. By the time I did Horror of Fang Rock, he was desperately difficult to work with. His input got totally out of hand. His attitude to his fellow actors was extremely difficult, his attitude to his director was extremely difficult, and his attitude to the crew was extremely difficult. For instance, it was always everybody else’s fault, and never Tom’s. His idea was to have that show to himself. He didn’t want an assistant, and he made their lives hell. Louise Jameson went through hell on that show, and that lady is a very good actress. Fortunately, she’s very tough, and she got a lot of support from everyone else. I found her excellent to work with, but Tom hardly spoke to her, and when he did it was usually something nasty".

Frustratingly, tom Baker's ego was not without reason. The Doctor comes completely alive in this serial thanks to Baker's captivating performance whose sour demeanour on-set manifested as one of the moodiest and most alien performances of his entire run. His performance is electric and he imbues so much presence and awe in every moment he deliberately plants himself in the centre of the frame. The Doctor has any number of charming moments and memorable lines in this serial (“The Malicious Damage Act 1861 covers lighthouses”) but the tone of performance is so distant and bizarre that it leaves him as barely even a comfort for the audience in this unsettling arena, let alone the cast around him. This story shows the Doctor as a fighter for the working class all the way through offering little to no encouragement to the toffs but immediately jumping to the defence of Harker and Vince. Like all of the best stories of this period, Genesis of the Daleks or Pyramids of Mars for notable examples, the Doctor's behaviour goes a long way toward selling the threat. Certainly there is levity and flippancy but those moments of whimsy, for lack of a better term, are complimented by the gravitas and seriousness when dealing with the matter at hand. The villain, the horror and tragedy of the story is never undermined with the humour and is expertly balanced. Horror of Fang Rock also shows that the Doctor is deeply fallible. This is a character who is allowed to make enormous mistakes, such as the chilling moment at the end of episode three when he becomes directly responsible for the situation escalating despite believing he is doing the right thing. It is something that I would have loved to see taken even further in this story and beyond, like how we would eventually get with the Twelfth Doctor. The Doctor's actions are pivotal to the plot changing for the worst and this is one of very few Doctor Who stories where the entire supporting cast is killed. Any form of acknowledgement and reflection from the Doctor about this would have gone a hell of a long way.

In the second episode, three new characters arrive in the form of Palmerdale, Skinsale and Adelaide. A trio of intensely dislikable, greedy, upper class idiots. Palmerdale is an Edwardian socialite attempting to climb above his class, Skinsale a war veteran turned politician and Adelaide who, if she ever worked for me, seems like the most hysterical and witless secretary of all-time. Despite being offered numerous opportunities to perform honourable actions, the three maintain no sense of loyalty to each other, no care for the crew of their ship, frequently betray their selfish morals and sexist values and are obsessed with upholding their respective reputations and statuses of being “honourable” gentlemen and a lady. How laughable. As the story goes on, their behaviour continues to jeopardise the lives of others and, eventually, their own with Palmerdale and Skinsale both being trapped and killed by the creature thanks to their own actions and greedy ambitions. 

Again, these characters are just incredibly well-written. There is a stark contrast in the use or language between the lighthouse crew and the gentry that effortlessly illustrates the cultural divide of the period without any dialogue directly acknowledging such a thing. When the toffs do speak to the keepers, they remain emotionally distant, referring to them only in generalities or by their surnames. Compare that to the Doctor and Leela who immediately talk amongst Vince and Reuben as their friends and equals. Horror of Fang Rock showcases the worst of what Edwardian England has to offer from people of all walks of life.

This, naturally, allows for some strong thematic beats to be teased out of these characters. The most blatant, of course, is the previously alluded to parallel between the perceived savage and the supposed enlightened lady. It is the latter of these who is seeking answers in horoscopes and the former who suggests broadening her mind with the world of science and education. Skinsale is an ex-military character and the natural parallel to the alien threat who itself is a scouting soldier. I am sure it is no mistake that the self-proclaimed exemplar of the British military dies in a pathetic scramble to get his hands on some diamonds. Unlike everybody else on the Rock, the Rutan is a perfectly adaptable creature yet it has no individuality. Perhaps Is this fact that makes it such a powerful, concentrated threat and the humans such an emotional, self-defeating rabble. None of the cast, after all, show any signs of being capable to adapt to survive. Save for Leela and the Doctor, everybody in the story is close minded and dies blindly sticking to their principles. Perhaps this is a more deeply cynical notion than Dicks intended to convey. Regardless his story creates a wonderful contrast of the animalistic/tribalistic notion that the Rutan embodies, killing everybody in sight to determine the strength of humanity, versus the supposed civilised qualities of Edwardian ladies and gentlemen who squabble and are selfish and ultimately bring about their own demise. Horror of Fang Rock marks the only appearance to date of the Rutans in Doctor Who, first mentioned in The Time Warrior as the arch-enemy of the Sontarans. I wonder if Dicks chose this threat specifically to subtly rib at Holmes for the difficult assignment. It is a very amusing choice to depict the villain of the stiff, squat and toadish Sontarans as a nebulous, shape-changing jellyfish but it has to be said that the realisation on-screen is less than remarkable. It does not kill the serial but I do think the threat is much more menacing as an unseen, bubbling threat. The special sounds from Dick Mills are decidedly more iconic and frightening than the design and operation of the puppet.

But a ropey monster effect is really the most minor of gripes to have with a Doctor Who story, especially of this period. Horror of Fang Rock is a hell of a good story. The production is remarkable with fantastic characters and a delightfully chilling threat. This is a serial that never fails to suck me in whenever I put it on and remains one of my all-time favourites. Yes, there are some lovely thematic ideas going on here that are deeply rooted in the culture of being English and the traditions of ghost stories and murder mysteries but this is not the core appeal. Let us not kid ourselves into thinking that this is a hidden Kinda or Ghost Light. Terrance Dicks did not do those kinds of Doctor Whos. What he does offer us here, in arguably his sole proper contribution to the Hinchcliffe/Holmes mould is a compelling, expertly structured horror story with just enough meat to it. As the Williams era begins to take shape in the serials following, I do feel a twinge of disappointment that stories of this vein so quickly disappeared from his tenure. The very last gasp of the gothic horror Who would come two stories later with Image of the Fendahl and the Williams era would never again aim for 'scary' as a target goal (by orders of the BBC, for what that disclaimer is worth). 

But perhaps this is what the beginning of the new era really needed; a positive affirmation of what the programme had become, demonstrating what it was at that time in as straightforward and effective a manner as possible. From this statement, we can move on and head into new directions. And let us be fair, even if Williams did go for the old-school scares again, could he really have peaked much higher than this? 

*The original vampire serial was not entirely abandoned. It finally made its way to screen in 1980 as part of season eighteen, albeit, heavily rewritten and retitled State of Decay. 

[thethistlegirlwrites]

By Invitation Only

When John opens the door to his apartment, he instinctively knows he’s not alone.

Part of it is the subtle undercurrent of his Second Sight, informing him of the slightly raised window sash, the displaced coffee table, and the marks on the rug that weren’t left by his own feet.

Part of it is the smell of blood permeating the air that he knows isn’t coming from him. Most nights, he might not question it, but he was stuck riding a desk tonight while the Harris case is under internal investigation. He’s positive it’ll get cleared up in his favor, he was defending a human who simply ran off before anyone could get their statement to confirm it, but until that staking is ruled justified, he’s out of the field.

The closest he’s been to blood all evening is filling out requisition forms for a new chiller unit for their clinic blood bank. 

He draws his stake and moves slowly through the room, past the kitchenette and down the hall, to where a few specks of bright red stop outside the bathroom door.

He opens the door, and Emma looks up from where she’s scrubbing her stained hands in the sink. The mirror is disturbingly blank aside from the flecks of blood. 

“It’s not mine.” She nods to the bathtub, where something wrapped in plastic bags is lying. “I was really hoping he was just going to dust on me.” 

In retrospect, inviting Emma into his apartment that one time she was running from some vigilantes should probably have told him it wouldn’t be the last time she’d show up here. She’s free to come and go whenever she chooses, now, unless he moves. 

“You brought a dead body into my apartment?” John asks, for lack of any other coherent response to the situation.

“Technically, two.” Emma gestures vaguely to herself, adding water and soap splatter to the blood speckling her scarlet blouse. 

John doesn’t dignify that correction with a response.

“What do you expect me to do with it?”

“Nothing. I just couldn’t deal with him before sunrise, so I’m going to have to wait until sundown. Then I’ll dispose of him.” She shrugs. “I staked him and cut off the head for good measure. He’s not going to wake up on you.”

“You can’t just stash bodies in my apartment!”

“I’d have taken him back to the club, but I don’t have a car, and getting in a cab with a decapitated corpse tends to raise a few too many questions. Your place was closer.”

John doesn’t even want to ask what Emma is doing on this side of town, well outside her own turf. 

“It was him or me,” She says, as if what John is worried about is the legitimacy of her kill. Apparently, old hunter habits die hard. “He brought a human host into my club, then bolted when I confronted him. By the time I finally caught up to him, he’d decided it would be in his best interests to get rid of me before I got him in trouble. Probably the only reason I did catch up to him. He was doubling back to get rid of me once he made it onto his coven’s turf.”

“And you couldn’t just leave his body laying around for the rest of his coven to find.” John is finally starting to understand the circumstances to this bizarre end to his night. 

“Exactly. I didn’t leave any ties to myself at the scene, the stake is still in him, but he had the Luna’s stamp on his wrist. It wouldn’t have been hard for his coven to retrace his steps and find out I’d tracked him onto their turf and killed him.”

Technically, by vampire standards, she’s in the wrong.

But in hunter books, keeping a human host is a far more serious crime than crossing boundary lines.

John won’t be writing this up any time soon. 

He pushes aside the shower curtain to inspect the body, just in case it’s someone tied to any open Chimera investigations. He doesn’t recognize the curly black hair or the puckered scar on the decaying cheek. 

Emma keeps telling him she’s left the hunter world behind for good, but the stake in the vampire’s chest is newly made and the kind of quality Chimera always expects from its employees. Sure, plenty of vampires are known to kill their own kind in turf disputes and squabbles, but most go for means that display their strength. Throats torn out that leave victims to bleed into a coma, heads severed and sometimes kept as trophies. Hearts impaled with anything from twisted-off rebar to combat knives.

Vampires who use wooden stakes are few and far between. It’s considered a hunters’ weapon. 

He grimaces and rewraps the plastic around the body. He really hopes none of the other building tenants complain to the landlord about smells until this body is gone.

They will if it stays in here all day. 

“I’ll deal with him, Em.” John says. “I’ll just tell the crematory people to keep it on the down low because technically I’m not supposed to be on active duty.” The stake kill will certainly sell his story. 

“You don’t have to.”

“I do if I don’t want my landlord busting in with the third complaint this month.” Okay, so he probably could have avoided the noise one, but it’s a crime to play Metallica on low volume. Apparently, it’s also a crime to play it on high. 

He glances at Emma. “You hurt?”

“Not this time.” Emma holds up her now-washed hands and arms, showing the lack of any damage.

“There’s a clean t-shirt and sweatpants that should fit you in the guest room. Along with most of the rest of my laundry.” So sue him, he hates folding and never has anyone staying over. “I know you can’t sleep without your home earth, but I can pick some up on my way back from the crematorium. And some synth-blood.”

“I really don’t need all that. Just somewhere to lie low until the sun goes down.”

“My momma would have my hide if she thought I wasn’t treating my guests right.”

“She might also have your hide for inviting a vampire into your living space.”

John shrugs. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

He looks into the stained bathtub at the body. No way is he carrying this thing through the halls and down the stairs, or risking getting stuck with it in the temperamental elevator.

Apparently, this guy’s going out the way he came.

Down the fire escape.

Well, as far as mornings go, this is only the third weirdest he can remember…

(You can read this story and more from this universe on my WorldAnvil here!)

@catwingsathena @nade2308 @the-one-and-only-valkyrie @telltaleclerk @ettawritesnstudies  @writeouswriter @whump-place

[linked-history]

Colors- First Split

First time posting any writing for the story but this was requested so here it is, a moment from Four Swords. I decided to attempt writing the initial split the four of them had, I hope its not too confusing but I struggled a bit in the beginning.

Sneaking out of the Sword Sanctuary wasn't too hard, sneaking out of the castle was a little harder; though growing up around the castle and having known the guard schedules and rotations helped, having an additional three sets of eyes who knew the schedules and rotations already also helped a lot.

Though if 'Link' thought about how there were three more people walking around with his face, and name, for too long it just gave him a headache so he opted to ignore it till they got back home and had a few moments to figure out how to move forward.

As he was moved down the another palace corridor a hand at his arm pulled him back just in time to hide before two guards could spot him as they rounded the corner.

The four held their breaths as he turned to give a grateful nod to the one that pulled him back. Their brighter blonde hair, and lighter blue eyes marked them as Link 3 with Link 4, marked by their more Strawberry Blonde hair and steel blue eyes, standing behind them with a hand over their mouth.

Once the guards disappeared around another corner and their voices faded the four continued moving, 'Link' making a mental list with the top thing being picking better names for each other when they were alone rather than calling each other Link 1 through 4.

Link 2 lead them further through the castle, taking a door on their right that would lead them out into the court yard where it would be easy enough to sneak to the wall and get out, hopefully before being seen. Luck was on their side though cause no guards were in sight and they'd already discussed a game plan for the courtyard.

With a silent signal Link 2 made their way across the courtyard and hid in the shadow of the wall, until they disappeared through one of the gates, Link 3 and 4 followed in quick succession though not full out running to avoid drawing any unwanted attention. Once the other two disappeared through the gate Link made his way calmly through the courtyard, he looked the closest to the original so it shouldn't raise any alarms to see him in the courtyard. 

Once the four met up outside of the gate, concealed by the shrubs that surrounded the palace walls, they huddled together and discussed plans to separate and meet up at Link's Grandfather's house as soon as they could where they would have actual time to plan and discuss how they would move forward. Links 3 and 4 agreed to go around the long way, leaving the town and cutting through the woods while Link 2 and himself split up to the different sides of the town and would leave through the separate gates.

--o0o--

Making it back to grandpa's house their lucky was still going as their guardian was still working away in the forge and hadn't noticed any of them as they snuck into the house and up to their room. Where they tore into Link's closet and tried to find ways to tell each other apart that wasn't related to their hair or eyes. It was Link 4 that made the best suggestion.

Link 3 initially held up some colored scrap of cloth, stuff used for cleaning and polishing, though it their case, long enough to tie around their waists so they were "Color Coded" as Link 3 explained. They then claimed the purple cloth for themself and secured it around their waist while finding scissors and removing the sleeves from their tunic while donning the one faded purple tunic that "Link" owned within his closet. So the other three picked a colored ribbon and altered their original brown tunic that got copied on each of them. 

Link 2 was quick to claim the blue scrap of cloth and practically dived for the blue bandana and the leather gloves that they had noticed in the pile. Link 4 picked the red cloth and found a faded red turtleneck, though they also took the scissors after 3 was done and opened altered the lower half of their own brown tunic, while typing their hair up with a red headband that Link usually wore while helping his grandfather in the forge.

That left him with the scrap of green cloth which he paired with the soft green turtleneck that matched 4's red one, which he paired with some fingerless gloves that had been sitting, forgotten, at the bottom of Link's closet.

"Great, so this makes it easier to tell us apart, but we can't keep using 'Link' as our names ." Link 2, now donning their blue clothing, pointed out as they sat at the edge of the bed, Link 4, adjusted their hair and headband as they sat on the other side of the bed.

"I suppose your right, but what could we do?" Link 4 asked, their hands pulling at the sleeves of their red shirt. Link 1 watched for another moment when an idea struck him.

"What if we still went by 'Link' if we are caught in town alone, cause that's what everyone will assume, but alone we can use the colors we picked as like nicknames?" He pulled on the end of his green sash that was secured around his waist, using his other hand to gesture to the matching ones the others wore.

"I guess that could work." Link 2 said, as Link 4 took a moment to point at each of them in turn. "So you'd be Green, Link 2 would be Blue, Link 3 would be Purple, and I would be Red?" 

Link 3, Purple, scrunched their nose is distaste, "You guys can stick with those if you're okay with them, but could we change mine? I'm fine with the colored nicknames just Purple doesn't really sound right." 

The four of them sat for a moment, Green and Purple(?) putting the clothing items back into the closet, as the other two mulled over a possible nicknames for Purple(?).

"I think I have an idea." Red spoke up from where they were still seated on the bed, though they've leaned themselves up against the headboard. "Instead of 'Purple' what if we called you Violet, or at least Vio for short." 

The one in question took a moment to think about it before nodding. "Vio works for me." There was a moment of pause before Green spoke up.

"Now let's figure out our next step."

[yeehanfrf]

Week 6 Recs: Show & Tell

Week 6's theme was "Show & Tell," which is all about expressing our feeeeeelings. I asked for love confessions, and I got some dreamy, some swoony, some heart-going-pitter-pattery, and some a little achy. Check below for recs from the Yeehan community, organized first by rating, then alphabetically by title!

Not Rated

With a Smile Like That by ieatgrassalot [3,831 words] Reccer comment: "this one right here, short and sweet, makes me smile like no other"

Three times Hanzo Shimada smiles and the one time Cole Cassidy decides to say something about it. a.k.a. Hanzo has a scary smile that only Cassidy is smitten by, and the people on base think its equal parts adorable and tooth-rotting-ly sweet. Genji is tired.

Teen and Up

Bend Down the Branches by vaguely_concerned [7,054 words] Reccer comment: "it's part of a series but can be read as a standalone! Yeehan meet again after years and years!"

“I love what they’ve done with the place,” Cole said, looking around the room. “I didn’t think they could go any more spartan than they already had, but now they’ve even removed the lampshades.”

“Agent Winston said the moths had gotten to them,” Hanzo said. “He is considering new patterns as we speak, he assures me.”

Well. That wasn’t quite the way he’d ever envisioned this conversation going, the few times he’d been dumb, drunk and masochistic enough to think it could ever happen. Something about how he’d missed him, maybe, or even simply if he’d been happy - Winston’s lampshades hadn’t figured anywhere in the scenario.

(The new Overwatch is still in its fledgeling days and they meet up again after a long, long time.)

Unaddressed by robocryptid [11,100 words] Reccer comment: "maybe not traditional love confessions, but each one is a treasure"

He gave twelve years of his life to the original Overwatch. He’s seen dozens of MIA cases, investigated more than a few of them himself. It’s not new. It’s just that now the organization’s so small; it makes it feel a lot more personal.

Winston gave the order. He can’t argue with the logic that he’s the one whose background best fits this particular task. But it was Genji asking him directly — trusting him with this in a way he knows it’s hard for Genji to trust — that made him agree to it.

So he rummages through Hanzo’s desk in search of anything that could help.

Wake-up Call by fishpoets [2,149 words] Reccer comment: "a beautiful love confession where nobody actually confesses anything ❤️"

Falling in love is deceptively simple. Admitting it is trickier.

Why Aren't We an "Us" by Kalikuks [1,511 words] Reccer comment: "“Why aren’t we an Us” might still have the old name but I find it very cute still"

Jesse and Hanzo are good friends; to the point where a good majority of the team thinks they're dating.

Turns out there's a bet on if they are or not.

Mature

Cowman and Dragonfly by FrostysaurusRekt [4,435 words] Reccer comment: "it’s not like an outright confession thing but like… it’s so sweet i couldn’t not recommend it this week"

When Hanzo falls, he falls hard and fast.

A month. That’s how long it takes for him to find himself completely lost in daydreams of too much cologne and western drawl that slides sinuously around his heart and cinches tight. It takes a month for Hanzo to open like sunflower, basking in the warmth of a stranger-not-stranger who is not here for his status or his money, but who is here because he thinks Hanzo is beautiful and because he chases after Hanzo’s smile and laughter like a faithful dog playing fetch.

Explicit

Acceptable Substitute by mataglap [47,494 words] Reccer comment: "the fucking LETTER"

Hanzo has lived without certain things for so long that he has all but forgotten about them. Cassidy is a bright red exclamation mark of a reminder, and Hanzo discovers that the saying "out of sight, out of mind" unfortunately also works in reverse.

Meanwhile, Cassidy is an exceptional liar, and the most egregious of his lies are the ones he tells himself.

Burning Hearts and a Brand New Feeling by robocryptid [48,562 words] Reccer comment: "a surprise love confession that made me go all gooey"

It’s just like he told Angela: the thoughts take up too much space. He’s staring at the coffee maker, but in his head he can see Hana smiling and Angela pushing a lock of hair behind her ear and Baptiste flashing his dimples when he laughs. He can hear Winston’s noisy chewing. He can hear a song again, one he can’t place.

He leans his weight on his hands, fatigued by the onslaught of information. While he’s clenching his jaw and watching the steady drip of coffee into the carafe, he thinks of someone’s ass, fingers pressing into the meat of it. His face is already hot enough before he processes what that ass is wearing: jeans, light wash, with fraying on the back pockets, a brown leather belt in the loops, a red plaid shirt tucked into the waist.

It’s his ass. It’s his ass, and he’s not thinking of it like someone’s doing it to him — or he wasn’t, before now — but like he’s the one doing it, like it’s someone else’s point of view, someone else’s fantasy. What the hell?

--

Or: after an experimental treatment for his migraines, Cole develops the ability to read minds. It gets weird.

Raging Stallion by Phylix [138,903 words] Reccer comment: "incredibly horny and hilarious comedy of errors ends with a sweet confession"

It started with Drunk Hanzo pressing the nuclear option and getting his brother involved in his love life. All Hanzo wanted was a man that fulfilled his every need, instead, what he got was a brother who tried way too hard and a neighbor that may just fulfill every last dirty fantasy Hanzo ever dreamed of.

It shouldn't matter that Genji's the one with the blossoming career in the adult entertainment industry. It shouldn't matter that Jaxson McCoy, the world's greatest porn star's real name is Cole Cassidy, and he is living right next door, and he is even better looking in real life than on film. And it especially shouldn't matter then that a simple case of mistaken identity could lead him to a man even more interesting and more sensual than anything he had ever seen on screen.

How could any of this be Hanzo's fault?

Throwing Stones at the Stars by robocryptid [WIP; 92,329 words] Reccer comment: "Brilliant fic bridging a decade, the rare strangers-to-friends-to-lovers-to-enemies-to-friends-to-lovers dynamic, and *multiple* confessions that somehow become *more* affecting as they stack up"

Despite Hanzo's competence, the Shimadas chose to hire a new bodyguard for the heirs. The elders found the one they wanted: an American mercenary so deadly some called him a demon. He was remarkably skilled, insolent, and above all mysterious. Genji, of course, liked him right away, but Hanzo had his doubts.

Watcher in the Woods by Kalikuks [84,072 words]

Hanzo gets the uncanny feeling that he’s being towered over and instinctually tips his head up, even if he sees nothing.

“You can’t see me,” a deep honeyed voice rumbles from above, a good few feet above, Hanzo guesses.

“I—“

Hanzo’s reply is drowned out when the hunting party crashes through the foliage behind him and the screaming begins.

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

AU Where Hanzo is Blind and Jesse is an eldritch being of sorts that drives men mad when they look upon him. They fall in love.

And that's a wrap on the Week 6 recs! Thank you to everyone who submitted a recommendation! Keep an eye out for the Week 7 theme: "Fever Dreams," for crackfics and other wild and wacky rides.

In the meantime, you can also check out the Week 5 recs here or check the list of past and future themes here!

[steam-powered-chaos]

Chapter 2 (Faded Heart)

”Oh they’re so sweet…” Zoisite fawned, as she healed the cuts covering Violet’s legs and feet as they lay unconscious on the kitchen table. “Did you cut them?” She gave Nephrite an accusatory glare, as he paced back and forth at the sight of the intruder. He paused briefly, only to shake their head, before continuing to pace. Jadeite had decided to nap on a chair, having deemed teleporting back home not an option with such low energy, and Nephrite’s coat being used as a makeshift blanket to cover him softly. Violet stirred for a moment, but stayed passed out, a bruise forming in the back of the head where they had been hit. “Well, Nephrite, I think you should get rid of the mortal.” Kunzite gave him a cold look, although his eyes had some kind of kindness in them, thinking this was the best way to proceed in the situation, despite Nephrite’s clear discomfort at the implication of his brother’s simple, clear, statement.

“Well I think they should be punished for allowing something so weak to slip past his defences and into his own home! And for waking us all up at this hour.” Zoisite teased, Nephrite hissing at her in response sulkily. “That’s a good idea Zoisite,” Kunzite nodded slightly, considering the punishment, “…You can take care of the mortal, especially with that look you’re giving them.” He immediately began bristling, wiping the small smile Nephrite had on his face upon looking at Violet properly, and the air seemed to crackle with electricity, causing Jadeite to wake with a start. The sudden jolt of the table consequently woke Violet, who scrambled into a fetal position as they stared at the villains with a wide, terrified eyes, looking on the verge of bursting into tears on the spot. Violet was immediately scooped up by Zoisite, and shoved into Nephrite’s arms, where he automatically seemed to curl his arms around them as they trembled in fear. Zoisite cooed at the two of them, in a mixture of mocking and genuine reaction to the sight of Nephrite’s soft embrace around Violet’s stick-thin body, as they steadily began to realise the extent of their situation.

“Awww, you see! They fit right in with you Nephrite, your little pet mortal!” Zoisite couldn’t contain her laughter at this point, before Violet seemed to snap, finally pulling themselves together enough to lunge at Nephrite, pulling at his hair and snarling as the villain shrieked in shock. They pummelled his chest with their fists, barely leaving a mark, as he finally grabbed them by the scruff of their shirt, prying Violet off of them and snatching his jacket, smothering them under it in a desperate attempt to calm the squirming teenager down. After a while, Violet stopped thrashing so violently, exhausting themselves, and Nephrite slowly lifted his jacket off, looking at the shredded sleeve with dismay. “We’ll leave you two to it!” Zoisite chirped, grabbing Jadeite’s shoulder and teleporting with him, Kunzite watching for just a moment longer before it disappeared alongside the others. Nephrite hauled Violet up, sitting them down at the table and turning away from them and rootling around in the cupboards and fridge, giving them occasional backward glances as he shoved an instant meal into the microwave.

Violet stayed silent, not daring to move in case Nephrite decided to finish them off, as their muscles ached from running. He silently placed the now cooked meal in front of them, backing up into the hallway to gather his thoughts and properly examine the damage done to his jacket, that had almost lost its sleeve from their struggling. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, walking back into the kitchen and pausing upon seeing Violet with their head on the table, a cleared plate in front of them, and softly snoring, to which he scooped them up with care, carrying them upstairs and putting them in an abandoned cot in a room just along the hall from his own bedroom, before walking back to his room, sitting on his bed in silence and looking up at the ceiling.

“Gods… what have I gotten myself into?”

[devil-doll13]

The Cold Gun

Tw: Guns, Zach and Jude go to a shooting range and use it for its intended purpose, Zach getting roasted, Death mentions.

Cold Case In Harlem inspired me a little, you can consider it a moodboard for this fic? Sort of?

OCs Included: Zach, Jude, some hints to future OCs…

Dividers by firefly-graphics

“You’re terrible at this.” Zach muttered.

Jude almost whirled around to glare at him, but she was still locked onto her target and abandoned the action halfway through. He watched her straining her sunburnt forehead, white-knuckling like she always was when she was struggling. She fired off another shot that went way off mark and huffed in annoyance.

“You don’t have to be so insufferable, you know. Not everyone got a sponsor like you did.” She flicked her braid back over her freckled shoulder.

They were about the only people still using this decrepit shooting range. It was given sparse maintenance, and the old bullet holes in the targets could’ve been years old by now. The one she had chosen was already barely holding itself together. Zach was sitting on a bench at the back, watching. He rather wished he wasn’t, because Agent Judith Bell’s shoddy aim was a sorry sight to behold. She always fared better when she got up close and personal, but that was also pretty dangerous to do under most circumstances.

“Well, I have been doing this longer than you, so I suppose…” He leaned back leisurely, knitting his hands together. His seat creaked ominously.

Admittedly, he’d been well used to shooting cans off fences years before Jude even set a fingerprint on a gun (and she’d vowed never to touch one before then). It was a matter of experience as well as skill.

“Flexing your seniority on me again? Don’t start. Maybe give it a few more years and I bet I’d outshoot you.” She sniffed, tilting her chin forward defiantly. Zach supposed she must be in a rotten mood of some sort, one unrelated to her shitty aim. Jude usually wasn’t given to such a contrarian attitude.

That was mostly his thing.

“You really don’t wanna bet against me. Keep trying.” He said. He crushed his cigarette into an ashtray that was balanced precariously on the railing. Surprisingly, he was still allowed to smoke in here.

“Go away. I’m trying to get some practice in here.” She grumbled, and went back to hopelessly shooting at her chewed-up target.

Not too keen on getting too much on her nerves (since that was his specialty), he decided to leave her be and peeled open a newspaper that had gotten stuck together at the bottom of his pack. Here was the usual sensationalist drivel about celebrities’ love lives and weight gain, sandwiched between sports news and advertisements. What he was really looking for was reports on local crime, and sure enough he found it: “New York man found frozen to death in apartment in record-breaking heatwave.”

There was usually a whistleblower in every big law enforcement department they could manage to infiltrate, so he knew this one already.

It was the reason why they were here, after all.

“What are they saying now?”

Zach glanced over to see that Jude had materialised in front of him with her hands on her hips. She must’ve given up on hitting her mark. He rolled the newspaper back up and stuffed it into his bag. He’d only come here for her benefit (although it’d be good for both of them if she could actually hit something for once) so he was just about ready to go.

“Oh, just the usual. Your average pig’s about as useful as a wet paper towel when it comes to the paranormal. Should’ve learned years ago to trust us with it instead. Can’t believe we still have to pretend this shit doesn’t happen…” Zach blew smoke out of the side of his mouth forcefully.

“Well, that’s not their fault…” Jude said softly. “It’s probably for the best that most people don’t know about all this. Blissful ignorance and all.”

He stared up at her, frowning.

“... It probably is.”

Zach found himself focusing again on the crooked line of targets. He remembered this place filled with warmth and life. He used to go down here to metaphorically and literally shoot the shit with agents who were older and cooler than he was. Now, it was empty.

Most of those people were dead now, too.

An hour later they were loitering around the sidewalks of Harlem, grazing on street food. He’d bought Jude a cold chicken wrap to make up for her sour mood; and for his prodding. She couldn’t seem to decide whether or not she had an appetite, but he knew he did, and demolished his own tortilla. Right now he was leaning on a sign pole, waiting for the bus, blowing smoke rings into the city air.

“I can see why the cops are stumped.” She said between gulps of water. “Freezing to death? In this weather? It’s not normal…”

He flicked some ashes into a nearby gutter.

“This case is pretty straightforward for us, but yeah, for your average person it’s definitely strange. I’m sure the higher-ups will send in some hush money afterwards. We just have to do our jobs, save them the hassle.” Zach hummed pleasantly.

Jude looked disgruntled. “Is it straightforward? We’ve been running in circles for days trying to pinpoint where this asshole is.” She was selectively picking on various ingredients from her wrap, as if they were only parts of it she was able to stomach.

He turned back to give her a wry smile. It was unusual for her to swear. He took a mental note not to push her too far today.

“Well, If we can just rule out any of our high rollers… It might just be a particularly pesky imp.” Zach said. He supposed from her facial expression that his tone was a bit too casual, but that’s how you get when you do this sort of work for years.

“... It killed five people…” She murmured, sucking her finger dry of sauces.

Zach sucked in a breath, nodding. “... Yeah, It did.”

He saw the bus coming up and hurriedly discarded his cigarette on pavement and ground it down with his boot. It was stuck in rush-hour traffic, of course.

That was why it took so long to get back ‘home.’

Zach wrenched the door of their safehouse open with a groan. It was starting to get stiff and stubborn. Must’ve been just as annoyed with the nosy neighbours as he was. He often found old Mr. Galloway stooped down low to peek into the keyhole, ‘sneakily.’

Jude slipped in before him. “So we’re dealing with another ice spirit,” she said wearily.

Her face was grim. This had been how she’d started every conversation on this mission since they’d been assigned to it. He knew she hated the cold.

“Or an imp.” Zach followed in behind her.

He dropped his bag carelessly on the saggy coach, and Jude’s pack followed soon after it.

She waded through piles of books and folders into the kitchen. The flat’s walls were lined wall to wall with spreads of annotated maps, newspaper clippings and circled photographs. They had been using this place for half a year now - after the previous agent went ‘missing in action’ - and it had started to resemble the cluttered hideout of a conspiracy theorist.

“I don’t think it’s 530. That one usually doesn’t go this far into the city. Just the outskirts, and always farther North than here” Zach sighed.

At this, Jude just shook her head and switched on the coffee machine. On the bus, she’d brought up No. 530 and had seemed convinced it was the culprit. They’d had a minor disagreement over it. Zach rummaged through a locker and, after some digging, finally found the block of files they kept around for records.

“You know we can just hit up ‘Polly for these, right?” Jude made a face at him, setting two steaming mugs on a desk. It was so overcrowded she had to shuffle off some folders to make room.

“Yeah, but you know I’m old school…”

Jude rolled her eyes in response and snatched up some documents from his hands. “You act like you’re allergic to the Internet.”

She sat down and grazed on her tea.

“Yeah, well… The Internet’s not completely safe either. Remember that shapeshifting hacker we had?” Zach shot back.

This was the exact reason why he wasn’t overly fond of the decision to convert all their records into that shiny new AI. Jude set her cup back on the table.

“It would just be a lot easier is all I’m saying…”

She turned her attention back to the files.

“You’d think this thing would have the sense to at least wait until Winter. Summer is getting hotter every year now; you can practically fry an egg on our car’s hood some days.” She shook her head, peeling through papers and throwing unlikelies onto the floor. Zach gave her a sidelong glance. He knew she made the most of every Summer that rolled by.

“Not too smart, I’d wager.” He said, and lit himself another cigarette, perhaps the twentieth of the day.

“Sorry to say, but I think you share two minds.” Her hazel eyes flickered back up to glare at him. “When’s the last time you ditched the trenchcoat?”

He stopped. It was Nathaniel’s coat, and she knew that. She understood his reasons. Jude seemed to recognise this mishap and coughed.

“You know I can’t…” He said quietly.

Jude sighed. “I know but… Just promise me you wont let yourself boil in all that leather. I don’t need you sweating out all that remaining brain juice.”

He forced a chuckle, wanting to keep the mood light.

“Thought I didn’t have any?”

“Yeah, well… Maybe you have some, but you’re in danger of losing it.” She gazed at him sharply.

Zach’s throat felt unnaturally tight. He quickly changed the subject, flicking through his chosen files for a routine process of elimination.

“‘Victims were found frozen in carved sculptures…’ No… ‘Bite marks on the arms and chest…’ Nothing like that… We can rule out the yeti, I think.” He muttered.

“It really is just like 530...” Zach looked back up at her. She was staring at No. 530’s file in the same way she often did when she thought he wasn’t looking. He shook his head. Nothing good ever came of trying to understand these malicious entities’ motives. They were all rotten to the core, the lot of them. They’d always be quick to take advantage of misplaced sympathy. Jude was sometimes a little too kind for her own good, and still had a regretful splinter in her heart that made her easy to sway with pity.

“Not as famous, though. 530’s a bit more careful with its victims, it seems.” He said, gulping down a mouthful of his coffee. “And it prefers up northwest, and it goes for late night drivers, not people just living their lives in the city. We can rule it out.”

Jude still had a thoughtful expression on her face. “You know I sometimes wonder if there’s a reason fo-”

A heavy banging on the door interrupted her. The agents looked up from their files towards the source of the noise. Zach saw Jude start, but beat her to it:

“I’ll get it,” he said firmly. The stern glance he gave her left no room for argument. It might’ve been nothing much, but if anything dangerous came through that door he’d prefer it hit him first. In two strides, he cleared the small space and cracked it open a slice.

What met him instead was the aged face of ‘Agnes Tompetty’ - who some might’ve still considered dangerous, but to him was a trusted ally.

“Get your ugly face out of mine, lad. I like the girl better.” She spat out in a hoarse voice. Zach couldn’t help but crack a cheeky grin.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Tompetty.” He lay open the door for her like a gentleman, well used to ignoring her remarks. She didn’t mean it. Or at least, he didn’t care too much if she did.

“It’s the bloody evening!” She crowed, and hobbled inside with her walking stick. “And there’s nothing good about it. Hmph.”

He quickly checked his watch. “So it is…”

Mrs. Tompetty was something of a sleeper agent. She had fought monsters all her life until she went blind - then she adopted a fake name and ‘retired’ into the same block of apartments they were staying in. Zach was certain that if some silly vampire tried to drink from this old bat, they’d find themselves with a broken off cane stick shoved into their shrivelled up heart. Her reflexes were still unreasonably sharp.

The fact that she could still navigate her way through this mess was proof of how capable she still was, Zach thought to himself as she kicked away some stray debris.

Jude’s face had lit up at the sight of her.

“Coffee, Agnes?” And she got up, hurrying to wash out another mug before she even had an answer. “We actually have sugar this time.”

“No, don’t. Leave it. I said leave it! I’m only here to pass you a message from Mr. Roy.” Mrs. Tompetty batted the air like she was swatting a fly.

“For godssakes. It’s too hot for that shite anyway.”

Jude sat back down, looking disappointed.

“And why can’t he deliver it himself?” Zach furrowed his dark brows, expelling a puff of smoke. “We’ve been here for a week, he could afford to pay us a visit, right?”

The older woman turned around slowly to face him, her dull white eyes still and glassy. Zach had the feeling that, blind as she was, she could still see right through him. He’d heard of fellow agents who were so destroyed by what they’d seen in the field that they’d gouged their own eyeballs out. He supposed those as old as Agnes had developed senses beyond sight by this point, but he certainly did not envy her, seeing that he was halfway to blindness himself.

“I imagine he finds you dreadfully irritating, same as me.” Mrs. Tompetty said grumpily. She was searching through her purse for something.

Zach sighed. He’d invited Agent Roy many times for a drink, but the other man never took up his offer. He was starting to think Gabe didn’t like him!

And why wouldn’t he like him?

“Anyway. Shut your fat mouth and take this.” She snapped, and thrust a wrinkled hand into his chest. Zach realised it was holding a letter, now crumpled up and smelling of mints and hand lotion. He ripped it open and unfolded some lined paper.

Sure enough, there was Agent Roy’s neat, loopy handwriting. Zach stopped to squash the stub of his cigarette into a nearby ashtray before reading:

“Agent Johnson. You know what this is about.”

“Don’t bother scouring the city, because this slippery fucker doesn’t like crowds. You’ll find him down South, much farther down South than you were expecting. I’m talking Maryland, not New York. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Johnson, I’m just trying to set you straight. Of course, I can’t tell you his exact location because, like I said, he’s a little snake.“

“You’re probably aware of the five reported fatalities, but I unfortunately have to tell you that there are a lot more than that. A lot more. It’s a nasty business, I’m afraid. It involves- Well, I think you know personally that these creatures don’t discriminate based on anything, really. So you can feel free to torture him as much as you like. Just know that you’ll be delivering actual justice this time.”

(This choice of words made him raise an eyebrow.)

“Also. Stop mailing me gun magazines.”

~ Agent Roy

Out of force of habit, he turned over the paper to check the back of it, but it was empty. Still, he felt confused, as if there was a hidden passage he’d missed somewhere.

Where in the fuck does he get all his information? Zach shook his head in disbelief, and then he felt a twinge of annoyance. He should really just do all this himself…

“He was in a right hurry, that boy,” muttered the older woman. “Must think I’ve got nothing to do all day, hmm…”

Jude piped up. “Hopefully he can come tell us in person next time. He’s a nice guy, you know.”

When he’s around you, anyway… Zach thought.

“I should hope so! I’m not a carrier pigeon.” Mrs. Tompetty turned back with a huff and slammed the door behind her. Zach knew she would be back around talking his partner’s ear off by the next day.

“Well, um…” Jude rubbed her arm. “So what does it say?” She nodded towards the letter in his hand.

He glanced back up at her with a dubious expression.

“He’s got information on our target. Apparently Agent Roy has his own sources that he’s not willing to share.” He couldn’t help but say this somewhat bitterly.

“He’s just like you.” She remarked. “Sending letters in this day and age. Why not an email? A letter can be intercepted a lot easier.”

“Mrs. Tompetty’s got better security.” Zach said amusedly, shrugging.

“I can believe that. But still…” She sighed, then got up to dump the rest of her drink into the sink. It was too hot for enjoying coffee.

Zach was beginning to feel the heat too, and found the leather strips of his gun holsters were were now cutting into his skin. He stuffed the letter into his pockets and paced the floor, restless. “Gabriel says we’re way off mark. That our target’s down South in Maryland.” He quickly summarised for her.

“Maryland?” Jude repeated back. He could hear the sheer incredulity in her voice.

He scoffed. “I know… I’m not entirely sure if I should believe it to be entirely honest with you, but as far as I’m aware, Agent Roy has no reason to lie… Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been thrown off the scent like this, wouldn’t you agree?”

She bit her lip, still leaning against the kitchen sink. “But Cooper’s corpse was frozen. Do you think there might be more than one?”

“That’s entirely possible.” He turned back towards her and nodded. For a moment they stared at each other, and a moment of understanding flashed between them.

“Right… You go South, then.” She pursed her lips.

“You wanna stay in the city?” Zach couldn’t help but let the surprise show on his face. He was certain that she would prefer to leave it; crowds and smog and all.

Jude shrugged helplessly. It looked to him like she just wanted to be left alone. He’d been there, too.

“Okay.” He said, quickly downing his coffee and gathering up his equipment again with a groan.

“I’ll be taking the car. I assume you’ve got the gist of the city’s layout by now?”

Jude not being a city girl, he did worry for her in this situation. Might get lost in the alleys again…

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” Was all she said.

With that, he left her standing there, despondent, in the middle of the room, trying to push back strange, persistent feeling that he’d been sent into a trap.

(Taglist: @rottent33th, @slaasherslut, @the-pinstriped-hood, @goldrose-star, @soupbabe, @bluecoolr, @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better, @flower-crowned-lady, @probably-a-plant-thing, @solmints-messyocdiary, @myers-meadow)