#but she preys on very real ingrained fears

[il3x]

brief compilation of lines that made me go Ohhhh. Ough. Yeah. otherwise known as why I'm a chrisblogger. scrutiny as touch as violation just hits different

[tallstars-rewrite]

Chapter 9

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Tallpaw crouched low to the ground, minding every one of his paws to step as lightly over the damp heather as he could. Tail down. No swishing. The wind blew the rabbit scent directly into his nose so strong he could taste it on his tongue. He was downwind of his prey and there was no way it had scented him yet. The small brown animal had its back to him and was nibbling at the grass. Tallpaw bunched his hindquarters to ready his dash. The rabbit raised it’s head suddenly but it hadn’t turned around. It’s not looking at me...quickly, before it turns--!

 He shot out of the heather and made a leap for the rabbit as it took off sharply to the right just as fast. Tallpaw pushed his legs faster and faster, he was less than a fox length away from his prey and he kept on its trail, his long tail turning to angle his momentum as he pelted after it. But before he could make his leap, the little creature vanished under his paws and was gone down a small burrow in the ground. Tallpaw stuck his head down it, but it was far too small for him. 

“Fox-dung!” He growled down the hole, tail lashing angrily.

“That was excellent! You very nearly outran it with how fast you picked up speed!” Dawnstripe called to him as she weaved her way through the heather.

Tallpaw sat with a dejected huff, his ears drooping slightly. “But I missed it again!”

“We’re only practicing technique and form right now, Tallpaw. And you’re improving very fast! But do remember that a rabbit's eye can detect you even when you think you’re behind it. Just because it’s not turned towards you doesn’t mean you don’t have it’s attention.”

I should have known that it was paying attention…Tallpaw thought miserably. He’d hardly caught more than a mouse in his quarter moon of training, but it was the rabbits that made a real impressive hunter. He had to be good enough to catch one on his own soon. 

He shook away his self pity and got to his paws “Can we join the dusk hunting patrol? I was even closer this time than I was this morning. I’m sure if I work at it the rest of the day, I could get it right!”

“I admire your enthusiasm to learn, but there’s no need to push yourself so hard. You’ll have more than earned a rest by sundown. Temperance and patience make a skilled hunter as much as endurance and speed.”

“Indeed!” The deep voice made Tallpaw jump, though Dawnstripe, clearly having detected the senior warrior's approach, only calmly dipped her head as Hareflight stepped gracefully forward, his spotted brown pelt blending easily into the grass.  “Patience and discipline is of utmost importance for all young warriors to learn.”  Hareflight went on in a haughty voice.

Shrewpaw was close at his mentor's heels and flashed a smirk at Tallpaw. “So is being aware of your surroundings,”  he snickered quietly.

Shrewpaw must have seen him startle. Tallpaw whapped the other apprentice with his tail and looked away to hide his embarrassment.

“You're right on time as expected, Hareflight.” Dawnstripe said.

“Of course.” Hareflight lifted his chin. “Punctuality is also of the utmost importance. It’s as I always tell my apprentice. What do we say, Shrewpaw?”

Shrewpaw let out a very heavy sigh and droned, “A warrior true always rises precisely when the day is new.” He caught Tallpaw’s gaze and dramatically rolled his eyes. Tallpaw stifled a snicker himself and mouthed ‘wow.’

At Dawnstripe’s signal he sat back up, ears at attention. “Since you’ve been so eager to learn quickly, we’re going to try out battle training. Hareflight’s an experienced warrior and has seen many battles, so listen closely to him.”

Tallpaw perked his ears at attention, but inwardly he wasn’t especially excited. Shrewpaw stretched and flexed his claws, tearing at the grass. Of course the wiry apprentice spent their whole kithood play-fighting, a game Tallpaw had never particularly enjoyed as much. He had over a moon's head start training on top of it, and would surely be eager to show off.

 Couldn’t I have done this with Briarpaw the first time? Tallpaw thought glumly.

Hareflight gave them a very long diatribe on the importance of silent communication and how the heart of the clan comes through well coordinated and disciplined teamwork. In order to fight together, they had to know how one another moved. Tallpaw couldn’t tell whether he or Shrewpaw were more bored. It was astounding the way Hareflight had of making things that should be interesting sound so dreadfully dull.

Dawnstripe nudged Tallpaw gently and he tried very hard to pretend he hadn’t been spacing out looking at the clouds for most of the explanation. “Remember, today is about practicing technique. It’s alright if you don’t come out on top.”

Hareflight looked at the two apprentices through narrowed eyes. “Dawnstripe and I will be watching you closely, so keep your senses and wits about you, you must take this seriously. No futzing about!”

“But don’t feel nervous either. It’s not an assessment, we’re here to learn.” Dawnstripe added hastily.

“But certainly don’t think that means you shouldn’t take it as seriously as an assessment. I, personally, will be taking careful note of your missteps.”

“Yes, mentor.” Tallpaw and Shrewpaw said in unison.

“Now enough talking, there’s no better teacher than experience, as I always say!” Hareflight called.

If only he could have said that before talking for half the morning! Tallpaw thought as both apprentices positioned themselves. As he and Shrewpaw began to circle each other, Tallpaw had to admit to himself that fighting hadn’t been a part of warrior training he’d dwelled on much. The idea of plunging his claws into another cat made him wince. But of course it was only training, and their claws were to stay safely sheathed. I can do this, how hard can it be? he thought.

Unfortunately that confidence left him rather quickly. Shrewpaw feigned to the left and Tallpaw only barely managed to dodge his paw swipes. Momentarily he was unsure how to go about this, overly concerned about hurting his attacker. Pretend he’s an enemy warrior! But that didn’t help much either. Tallpaw kept blocking, swiping his strikes to the side and leaping nimbly out of range. He heard Dawnstripe encourage him to strike back, but his first attempt was far too clumsy and hesitant. Before he knew it, Shrewpaw ducked his blow with ease and darted under Tallpaw, tripping him as his gangly limbs got tangled and he face planted into the dirt.

“You’re fighting like a cornered rabbit!” Shrewpaw said, “Come on, just hit me!”

“My apprentice is right, you are far too hesitant. Momentary distractions will land you in trouble in a real battle.” Hareflight called out. Turning to Dawnstripe, he added “perhaps we should practice team fighting first. It’s an important skill for WindClan as other clan cats often have an advantage of brute strength. So, Tallpaw and Shrewpaw, you will work together and I will act as your enemy. Keep track of each other, follow your partner's lead, if Shrewpaw aims for one area, keep your target distracted from the other side. If you work together, you can take down an enemy much bigger than yourself. The most important thing is to keep track of your battle partner.” He stared hard at the two apprentices. “And remember, a cornered warrior alone is a dead warrior.”

“Yeah, so don’t let me die, flea-brain.” Shrewpaw said.

Alright no pressure, Tallpaw thought.

As they got into position to act as if they were ambushing the senior warrior from the long grass cover, Shrewpaw hissed in Tallpaw’s ear, “Whoever knocks him down first gets to have the other do their chores tomorrow,”

“Do you think he count’s competing as ‘futzing about?’” Tallpaw whispered.

Shrewpaw’s eyes gleamed. “Not if he doesn’t notice.”

Tallpaw bared his teeth. You’re on, he signaled silently. If he could show up Shrewpaw, maybe it would make some of his stress and exhaustion worth it. And better still, if he was good at this, Sandstone wouldn’t have to worry about him falling behind. Maybe it didn’t matter if Shrewpaw had more practice. He was also overly arrogant, and that was always a weak point.

The first strike didn’t go well for either of them. Shrewpaw leaped at Hareflight’s back and Tallpaw pounced at his side. 

Hareflight shook them off with surprising nimbleness for a warrior his age. “Work as one unit, not two!” 

 Tallpaw tried to get around him so they could leap on from either side, but Hareflight ducked out of the way and Tallpaw went crashing into Shrewpaw. The momentum sent them both tumbling down the hill and into a bracken patch.

When they hit the bracken, something went streaking out the other side. A small rabbit had been hidden out in the open, staying stalk still in a bid to not be seen until they’d scared it into running. The two apprentices barely glanced at each other for half a second before ingrained hunter instinct took over, prompting them to charge after the fleeing prey. No way was Tallpaw going to let this opportunity get away. And if I get this, it will make up for earlier!

The rabbit bounded ahead and turned sharply, trying to throw them off, but the apprentices were neck and neck on its tail. 

“Better pick up the pace, Wormpaw.” Shrewpaw huffed between breaths as he started pulling ahead of Tallpaw. Tallpaw didn’t respond as he pushed his legs faster. I will not let him get this! His frustration added an extra burst of speed to his stride. He was so focused on his prey he barely heard Dawnstripe’s warning yowl behind him. 

“Tallpaw, stop!”

But it’s so close, just a bit further! The rabbit's scent was so strong he could taste its fear scent against the roof of his mouth. Suddenly, another scent hit him so hard he almost gagged on it. Cat scent, and not ones he recognized. He heard Shrewpaw cry out in alarm and screech to a halt so fast Tallpaw barreled into him and the two toms toppled over each other into the mud. The rabbit had dipped out of sight. Tallpaw spat a clump of dirt from his mouth.

“That was quite an impressive tumble,”  A raspy voice purred from somewhere above Tallpaw’s head. “Seems WindClan’s young aren’t as graceful as they used to be.” 

Tallpaw gasped and sprang to his paws with a start to meet a pair of cold slitted amber eyes and a mocking toothy grin surrounded by messy fox-red fur.  Three shadowy feline shapes sat side by side just under the shadow of the Thunderpath tunnel. Tallpaw hadn’t realized they’d run so close to the marshy grass under the treeline and now were right up against the path that separated their territory from ShadowClan’s. 

“If that’s how WindClan is hunting now, it’s a wonder they haven’t gotten even scrawnier than they already are.” hissed another.

 Tallpaw suddenly felt as if he’d lost his voice, but Shrewpaw hadn’t. The bristling tom scrambled to his paws and stepped in front of Tallpaw, the dark brown fur along his back spiking as he hissed back, “who asked you!? You’re the ones who messed us up!”

The ShadowClan cat growled and moved to step closer but froze in place as Dawnstripe and Hareflight leapt through the bushes with a warning snarl and moved to stand beside their apprentices.

“It would be very unwise of you to take another step further.” Hareflight warned.

“You’re beyond your border. Turn back.” Dawnstripe added.

With his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Tallpaw could make out the figures better. They reeked of the scent Tallpaw often caught wafting under the thunderpath, a mixture of sour rotting plants and peat, and strangely reminiscent of a rancid decaying snake body he’d stumbled across once. The two taller forms were no bigger than Dawnstripe or Hareflight. They looked lean with messy unkempt pelts and thin curved claws that scratched at the wet stone under their paws. Sharp muzzles and wide eyes, pale and strangely hungry looking. Tallpaw had never seen an angry fox before, but he imagined they looked something like this. The one who’d insulted them was a wiry gray flecked molly with cold yellow eyes, likely apprentice-aged as the smallest of the three. She stood beside the warriors, tail swishing in excited agitation and claws flexing as if waiting eagerly for a chance to use them as she eyed the WindClan apprentices. Tallpaw felt a defensive growl rise in his throat, and he hoped his fear scent wasn’t noticeable.

Beside the fox-red tom sat a tall dusky gray-brown molly, her fur was smooth and her stance unaggressive as she cooly replied, “I apologize for the rudeness of our apprentice. They are merely my escorts. We’ve gone beyond no border. Neither of us mark inside the Thunderpath tunnel.”

“There is no reason to go through the tunnel unless a cat is looking for trouble.” Hareflight said. For once, Tallpaw was grateful the senior warrior was around, his unwavering stoicism gave him a shred of confidence.

“Perhaps. But I am ShadowClan’s messenger.” She replied, and she cast her gaze down to Shrewpaw who looked like he was preparing to leap any moment when given command, “And you’ve no grounds to attack me.”

Hareflight stepped in front of his apprentice, ignoring his annoyed growl, and said, “I know who you are, Deerstep. If you have something to say, then get on with it, so you can stop standing around the outskirts of our land.”

“That may change very soon,” said the red tom, barring his long teeth in a grin. “You know, you’re standing on a marshy woodland that your clan doesn’t put to good use.”

“And that doesn’t really belong to you!” cut in the gray flecked molly.

“Doesn’t belong to us? This woodland has been part of WindClan territory for seasons!” Dawnstripe hissed. “If you’re planning on just waltzing onto our land when you see fit, you’re more hare-brained than you look.”

“Please be polite Ashpaw,” purred the messenger. “You know messenger escorts don’t go on raids. There’s no clan law against them looking, is there? That’s all we’ve done. We have no quarrel with you today. I’ve only come to say our clans will have matters to address at the next gathering, that is all. You may inform your leader that Cedarstar wishes to discuss land negotiations, as we have done in the past. Good hunting to you.” She dipped her head and the three cats turned and padded silently into the dark tunnel back to the shadowy woods beyond.

Shrewpaw arched his back and looked as if he wanted to take a swipe at the ShadowClan cat as she turned, but Hareflight put a large paw in front of him and gave him a stern look. “If they are part of the messenger's escort party, we cannot attack without direct provocation, Shrewpaw. WindClan does not take the first swipe, especially not from behind. Besides, Tallpaw has not had enough training for a real battle today.”

Tallpaw flattened his ears indignantly. I’m not a kitten! I could have used my instincts...

“So? We three could have taken them!” Shrewpaw argued. “They were purposely trying to make us angry for no reason!”

“Exactly,” said Dawnstripe. “ShadowClan always tries to invite the first hit so they have a justified cause to hit back. At least they are finally taking an upfront approach instead of sneaking around and making us nervous. I don’t know what that cat was trying to imply about territory negotiations, but it can’t be anything good.”

“I’m afraid I may have an idea of what they were referring to,” Hareflight said, and then added under his breath, “but why in StarClan anyone would care to bring it up now, I haven’t the slightest idea.” He turned back to the apprentices. “And as for you two running off like that, I’m very disappointed. You have the restraint and attention span of a kitten chasing a feather!”

“Sorry,” Tallpaw ducked his head. “It’s just, the rabbit was right there and I thought I could get it quickly.”

“Yeah, you can’t just put a rabbit in front of me and not expect me to chase after it! It’s not my fault it ran at the border. I would have got it if those fox-breaths hadn’t gotten in the way.” Shrewpaw argued.

“We’re going to have to have a long talk about your self control,” Hareflight sighed. Guiding a still bristling Shrewpaw away with his tail, he called back to Dawnstripe, “But first we’d better get back to camp, Heatherstar will want to know about this. I’m afraid the training session will have to be put off for a bit.”

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[midnight-tremors]

The Boogeyman

“Do you believe in The Boogeyman?” 

She’d been asked this many times throughout her childhood. How could she forget? The story had been ingrained into her mind at the young age of seven and with it came a fear that was etched into her very being. A figure that seemed to meld into the shadows, forever watching. Looming. The shape in the darkness. The embodiment of evil. She was told he hid in children's closets and watched them as they slept. The stories changed with her age and The Boogeyman became a stalker of babysitters. How fitting, since she was now a babysitter herself. 

She knew the true story by now and was able to distinguish between the exaggerated myths and horror stories meant to scare children into being good or silence a group around a blazing campfire. Michael Myers was, in fact, real. Disturbed by some force as a child, he murdered his sister at the young age of six and was sent away for 15 years before escaping, only to attack again. 

Haddonfield was never the same. 

However, that’s all it was to her as an almost graduated high schooler. A series of unfortunate events that led to a mentally ill man slaughtering innocent teenagers. The tragedy of the event was palpable and real and yet so many focused on the murderer himself. “The Boogeyman,” an apparition, a name, a myth. Fake. Why give power to someone who’s committed atrocities, instead of honoring those who were taken? The older she got, the less she believed in his supposed supernatural abilities and the less she feared him. He was gone. Locked up.  The Boogeyman became nothing more than a name to her. She would no longer give him power and he would no longer have any power over her…  

Oh, how wrong she was. 

Mere feet in front of her was the monster in the flesh, standing over her friend, or what once was her friend. He had brutalized her. Stabbed, strangled and beaten, her body was painted red with blood and purple with bruises. Forever disfigured. His head tilted as he watched the life leave her eyes, analyzing every detail with sick fascination. She exhaled, barely even noticing she was holding her breath, and the smallest whimper escaped her. His head slowly turned to her, eyes training on her like a piece of prey. Ice filled her veins and she found herself unable to move. 

“Do you believe in The Boogeyman?” Her mind echoed the question once more… 

She wished she had listened. She wished she had never questioned his existence and the evil that resided within him. The fear that had dissipated all those years returned like a punch to the gut and she stumbled backwards, her legs suddenly going numb. Trembling, no doubt. 

The Boogeyman had returned… and she was his next victim.

[dudeandduchess]

HGW, Day 7: Forbidden Love | Giyuu x F!S/O [NSFW]

NOTE: Hey hey, bbys! Finally, I finished this. Ahhh. I finished HGW! Albeit I was a day late but better late than never, amirite? Ahaha. Hope you guys enjoyed Hurt Giyuu Week as much as I did.

Stay tuned for Infinite Feels Train Week. Lmao.

***

Warning: Angst with Happy Ending, Fluff, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Fingering, Creampie, Wall Sex, Mentions of a Breeding Kink, Choking Word Count: 3,456

Once (Y/n) had been stowed within a blanket, with her head firmly attached onto her unconscious body, the three Hashira had set on back to the Ubuyashiki estate to settle things.

They had called for an emergency meeting, which was received and accepted promptly by Oyakata-sama himself; so it stood to reason why Giyuu felt so breathless and weak.

He had knowingly gone against the rules that were ingrained into him from a young age; he knew that he should have been ashamed of himself and what he had done, but he couldn’t find it in him to regret his actions. He felt so breathless and weak not because he was sorry, but because his conscience harped at him so heavily about not feeling guilty.

A trial had been held to judge him for his crimes, but the end judgment had ruled out for the best— with Oyakata-sama’s kind consideration.

Had he not interfered on Giyuu’s behalf, (Y/n) would have been long dead; and Giyuu would have followed with the same fate as well.

But Kagaya had brought up the Water Hashira’s years of service to the Slayer Corps, as well as the fact that (Y/n) had never killed a human being before, so it served to back Giyuu up from his comrades’ harsh verdicts.

The Ubuyashiki patriarch also recounted the story of how (Y/n) was someone extremely important from Giyuu’s childhood, as told to him by the young man himself, which helped curb some of the anger directed towards him for his betrayal.

However, the fact remained that he had still committed treachery and that he needed to face the consequences of his actions.

And so, that was how he had ended up being saddled with more missions. On top of that, his pay was also going to be halved for three months; and (Y/n) was going to stay at the Butterfly estate— inside a shed that was surrounded by wisteria trees— as a prisoner.

It was either that, or be sent to Fujikasane to serve as prey for incoming Slayers. So Giyuu immediately acquiesced to the plan where (Y/n) was a prisoner, as it was better to have her be trapped and alive, rather than be hunted down— or worse, dead.

And so, the days where Giyuu frequently visited the Butterfly Mansion began.

He wasn’t allowed to go anywhere near (Y/n), especially without supervision from another Hashira, as there was no guarantee that Giyuu wouldn’t break her out of her prison if given the opportunity. So he made do with standing atop the estate’s eastern fence to gaze longingly at (Y/n).

Once a week the Water Hashira would take some time out of his busy schedule to check up on her; and he was just thankful that Shinobu granted him some privacy— at the very least— during his visits.

Her aura would hang around the area heavily, and Giyuu would always feel eyes on the back of his head, but not once did anyone try to make him go away.

All for good reason, as (Y/n)’s agitation would grow nonexistent when she could feel his presence; thus putting the entire Butterfly Estate at ease, even if only for an hour.

She knew that she had it easier than most demons, as she was actually left alive, but that didn’t diminish the irritation she felt at being trapped like an animal.

Due to the lack of any human contact, she settled for reading the tomes that Shinobu had been gracious enough to lend her. Most of them were medical books, but she didn’t care; as long as it kept her busy, then she would read them from cover to cover.

Still, reading couldn’t dull out the hunger pangs she felt. She wasn’t really hungry, as she could never feel hunger again, but more like extremely tempted; as the scent of humans permeated her senses over the smell of the wisteria flowers that surrounded her little shed.

Yet she had no choice other than to endure; because becoming a demon— though involuntary— was the card she had been dealt, and she had to wait… just until Giyuu found a cure for her.

She had to be strong, even though her heart yearned for her lover’s touch once more.

***

“I’m willing to compromise, Kochō. Just let me…” Giyuu’s eyebrows knitted together in ill-concealed frustration, before smoothing out when he sighed heavily. “Please let me give this to her. At the very least, let me see her up close.”

Then, in a much quieter tone, the young man added, “Please. I need to see if she’s fine.”

His eyes flitted back down to the blue spider lily in his right hand. The moment he’d seen it while on Mount Yoko— to assess the overall state of the resources on the mountain, as was part of his punishment— his mind had immediately gone back to (Y/n) and how she would adore such a strange colored flower.

So he’d picked it up from the cluster it had been in, and carefully held on to it while on the way to the Butterfly Estate.

Shinobu felt a pang in her chest at that; maybe it was pity, she wasn’t too sure, but she found herself sympathizing with her fellow Hashira. If it were her in Giyuu’s position, she would want to know how her loved one was faring along, as well.

The worst that could happen was that he would break (Y/n) out of her prison. But really, the demoness wouldn’t even be able to make it past the wisteria trees before she perished. Not with all the wisteria-laced traps Shinobu had put in place; which she knew that the Water Hashira knew well about.

The desperation in Giyuu’s eyes were evident; it was the first time that she had ever seen such an expression cross his features. So, even if she was on the fence about it, the Insect Hashira still found herself sighing and nodding her assent.

If it were her in his position, she would have done everything possible to be as close as possible to the one she loved.

“You have until sunrise to spend with her.”

Giyuu was surprised at that answer; not only because he had already begun to formulate a crafty plan to sneak in to (Y/n)’s makeshift prison, but also because never had he thought that someone would understand him to the point of sympathizing with him.

It was a first; especially since it was him and Shinobu that were involved.

Still, he didn’t miss another second after that. He merely nodded at her, before breaking into a sprint for the shed that was tucked away within the estate’s grounds. He easily bypassed all of the traps without setting them off— as he knew that that would only serve to piss his comrade off.

(Y/n) sensed him nearing before she smelled his familiar scent; and her heart immediately thrummed with the overwhelming feeling of elation and fear coursing through her. She had known the stipulations of her confinement, and him coming towards her could have only meant that he was going to break the agreement.

Still, she could do nothing but wait in anticipation for him to open the door.

And when he did, Giyuu was immediately wrapped up in a tight hug. He hadn’t even closed the door fully when she jumped at him.

No words were exchanged between them as he returned her embrace, and pressed his lips against the crown of her head. Then slowly, he began to pepper her hair with the kisses he’d long since wanted to bestow upon her.

His heart felt so full of love for her, that he couldn’t hold back the numerous tears that began to roll down his cheeks. He then held her closer to him, if only to feel if she was actually real, which caused a sob to break free from his lips.

At that, (Y/n) pulled away from him— holding him at arms’ length— and ducked down to see his face, as he had turned to look down at the floor; in order to hide his shameful tears from the woman in front of him.

A sad smile lifted the corners of the young woman’s lips, before she cupped her lover’s cheeks in her hands and pulled him down so that their foreheads were pressed together.

With him she could control the unbridled thirst inside her; and for him she would try to control it— even if it took her lifetimes to do so. Because she knew that, no matter how sweet Giyuu’s promises to her were, they were nothing but pipe dreams.

The only solution she knew to cure her was to kill Muzan himself; which would also kill her, in turn.

Gently, she began to press her lips against his— first in tentative, fluttering touches that left her already breathless with sheer happiness.  Then, she took in a deep breath and licked her bottom lip, before tilting her head to the side and fusing their mouths together in a deep kiss.

The action seemed to rouse Giyuu from his tear-laden reaction to seeing her again. He responded to her kisses, moving his mouth pliantly with hers, while his right hand lifted itself up and cradled the back of her head.

His thumb and middle finger squeezed the base of her skull gently— a long-established signal for her to open her mouth for him— which she wholeheartedly complied to.

Giyuu then slipped his tongue into his lover’s mouth; tasting her sweetness after so long. He groaned against her, before moving on to bite her bottom lip.

However, instead of taking things further, he pulled away from her— lightly tugging at her lip along the way— and rose up to his full height.

Tears still stained his cheeks, but his eyes were brighter; much more radiant with the lust and excitement that bubbled up inside him. And that made a gentle smile touch upon (Y/n)’s lips.

His answering smile was faint, but she didn’t mind. She knew the full extent of his happiness, because it mirrored hers. They didn’t need to validate their emotions with words; they just felt it, just like how they felt the storms in themselves quieted down when they were together.

They had a connection that most people could only ever dream of.

“I brought you something,” Giyuu began softly, then held up the blue Spider Lily that had been in his left hand the whole time.

(Y/n) felt something incessantly knocking inside her head; like a memory that she had long suppressed. It was trying to break out of the thought space she had put it into, but she refused to let it free; as that thought space was kept locked tight because they were all somehow related to Muzan.

Gingerly, she accepted the flower and cast a full-blown grin at her lover. “It’s very pretty. It reminds me of your eyes. Thank you.”

The grin served to knock the breath out of the Water Hashira, and he had to struggle with trying to maintain his composure, as he made a conscious effort to not take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.

(Y/n) didn’t make things any easier for him, however, as she got up on her toes and pressed another kiss to his lips in a show of her gratitude. She then sashayed away from him, while he lifted his hands up and wiped the tear tracks off of his cheeks.

Still, his eyes never left her as she moved around the sizeable room with ease. It seemed to have been a guest house before being turned into (Y/n)’s prison, which further eased Giyuu’s worries of her having unsavory living conditions.

She took a chipped cup of tea from inside her bedside drawer, then filled it up with some water from the water basin inside the small bathroom.

When she returned back to the main room, she set the cup down on top of her bedside drawer and set the flower in the water. It kept tipping over, however, so she propped it up against the wall with a quiet huff of irritation.

The chuckle bubbled out from Giyuu’s lips before he knew it, as his expression softened into one of sheer love and admiration for her. And slowly, he closed the distance between them to move her hair to her right shoulder, before lavishing open-mouthed kisses along the soft skin of her neck.

Instead of shying away from her lover’s touch, however, (Y/n) practically melted against him. She rocked back on her heels and pressed her back against his warm, clothed chest.

Giyuu set his hands on either side of her waist, kneading gently before letting the right one snake towards her center. His fingers then pressed against her cunt through the smooth fabric of her yukata, before rubbing her clit in circles. It still amazed her how well Giyuu knew her body, as he could always map out her pleasure zones without much effort.

But that was beside the point at that moment, because a pleasured moan cut through her thoughts. It reverberated off the walls with how quiet their surroundings were, but that only served to make Giyuu’s cock harder in his pants.

His left hand moved to untie her obi— successfully loosening the bindings— only to give up on it when actually unravelling it proved to be a challenge. Out of sheer frustration, he tugged at the ties to loosen them as much as possible, until the front of his lover’s outfit fell open to reveal her naked breasts.

She also wasn’t wearing any underwear, which was highly arousing; but if he didn’t know any better, he would say that she had been anticipating his visit. Her readiness reminded him so much of all the times when she would wait up for him on that mountain, completely bare as she fingered herself to thoughts of him.

He had walked in on her too many times to count, but each and every time was more pleasurable than the last; as they would try out new positions and kinks that Giyuu picked up during his travels.

His favorite was cockwarming, but he was too impatient for it at that moment. He just wanted to savor the taste and feel of her body while he could. Besides, he didn’t have enough time to fill her up with his cum until she got pregnant from it— if that was even possible— as much as he wanted to.

But he wanted to breed her, bad.

He continued lavishing her neck with kisses and love bites, even though the bruises disappeared the moment his lips unlatched themselves from her skin. It still made Giyuu so hot to see that, even for a moment, he could mark her as his; in a way that he couldn’t when they had been apart.

“I’m already so wet, Giyuu. Please,” (Y/n) mewled through needy pants, only to cry out when he slipped his hand beneath the slit of her yukata and ran the tip of his index finger along her wet slit. He then flicked her clit repeatedly, which made her knees shake with so much pleasure that her hands flew to both of his arms to hold on to something.

“Not yet. Not until you cum,” The Hashira whispered against her neck, before biting down on the supple skin and leaving a bright red set of teeth marks— which faded away after a few seconds.

The young demoness gripped tighter onto her lover’s arms, trying to find purchase as he delved his fingers further into her cunt and slipped two fingers inside of her.

Giyuu scissored his digits inside (Y/n)’s tight walls, trying to loosen her up for his cock, as it had been quite some time since they’d last had sex. Demon or not, he didn’t want to cause her any pain.

When he began moving his hand, however, she had to bite down on her bottom lip to keep from letting everyone within the Butterfly Estate know just how amazing Giyuu’s fingers felt inside her. As it was, she already knew that Shinobu knew what they were up to; but she really couldn’t care less.

While he was pumping his fingers inside her, Giyuu moved his left hand up to encircle (Y/n)’s neck. He moved his lips up to her ear, just resting there and nibbling on the shell of it every so often; while his hand squeezed her neck gently until her breath hitched in her throat.

Her pulse thrummed so frantically beneath his fingers, that he couldn’t help but get lost at the pleasurable thought that he could still make her heart race like he did at that moment.

“I want you to cum around my fingers, before I let you cum around my cock,” He stated quietly, before increasing the pace of his hand’s thrusts.

(Y/n) was reduced to nothing more than a moaning and quivering mess as her orgasm rocked through her. Her knees felt so shaky that she was afraid of accidentally falling, but she was also confident in the fact that Giyuu wouldn’t let that happen; so she surrendered herself to him.

Giyuu smirked at that. “Good girl.”

He then loosened his old upon her neck, and pulled his fingers out of her— only to bring the digits up to his mouth and suck them clean— before making her bend over with her hands against the wall in front of her.

The Hashira made quick work of his belt and pants; unfastening and unzipping, before tossing his sword onto the bed right next to them. And when he pulled his cock out, the groan that left his lips was so pained and needy that it made (Y/n) even wetter.

She could only wait in anticipation, as her lover bunched the hem of her yukata up to her waist, before lining himself up to her sopping entrance.

As much as he wanted to bury himself to the hilt in one thrust, Giyuu took his time and gently eased his cock inside (Y/n). He thrusted lightly to help take some of his edge off, and moaned so deliciously when he managed to bury his dick all the way to the hilt.

His first few thrusts after that were slow and gentle; trying to establish a good rhythm. And when he did manage to find a good pace and angle to thrust, he gripped her hips tightly to keep her from getting lifted off the ground with how rough he was being.

Still, despite his effort to keep her grounded, her feet still bounced off the floor with every other thrust. She had also resorted to bowing her head and biting her tongue to keep from screaming out in pleasure, because sex with Giyuu felt so amazing; like it always did.

“I want you to fill me up with your warm cum, Giyuu. Please, I need it,” The young woman pleaded breathlessly, then resumed biting down on her tongue when the Hashira’s thrusts grew more frenzied to the point of being borderline sloppy.

But she didn’t care about his technique; not when her legs were shaking with the pleasure that another imminent orgasm entailed.

Giyuu felt (Y/n)’s walls begin to pulse around him, which had him trying to chase his own orgasm quicker. His grip on her waist tightened even more, as he reveled in the feeling of his own peak starting to draw nearer.

And when it came crashing down upon him, his hips snapped jerkily, as he tried to push his cock as deep into (Y/n) as it could go. He knew that the chances of her getting pregnant were little to none, but his libido flared up even more at the thought of having her carry his child.

Thick ropes of his cum shot out of him in spurts, filling (Y/n) to the brim and triggering her own release.

She felt her pussy clench down on Giyuu’s cock, as her lower abdomen clenched tightly at her orgasm. Pleasure flooded her senses once more, which caused the tight reign she had on her concealed thought space to loosen enough for a memory to play through the momentary lapse in her control.

Completely breathless and spent, she leaned most of her weight onto her hands— which were still flush against the wall— before casting a glance at the blue spider lily that had fallen out of the makeshift vase that she had put it in.

She wasn’t sure about it, but she felt like she had the cure to her demonism.

[maruzzewrites]

Every breath you take. - 8

The drive was quiet, if only for the lack of attention you had for your surroundings. Each curve and streetlight was ingrained in your brain, your hands following the journey to your house with ease, allowing your mind to wander to the magic, dreamy land where you could imagine being safe and sound away from those men. Free and untroubled, allowing yourself to relax to the point of destruction, welcoming the contained stress of those months.

Before you could think too much, you were right in front of your house and your car was parked in the usual spot. You were in a trance, with your overworked brain straining to stop tearing and aching for the thoughts plaguing it. You slumped against the seat and turned off the car, enjoying the complete silence that came with the engine shutting down and the emptiness of the street. When you closed your eyes to give yourself away even more, they burned with the intensity of fatigue. You even felt yourself drift to sleep, slowly, before a swift knock on the car’s window made you jump.

You threw your head to the side, your vision a bit fuzzy, and saw the figure of a man right outside your car. Panic washed over you, but when the face that was looking at you become clearer, your fear morphed into worry and regret. Your fiance, or ex-fiance. You swallowed the lump in your throat, but figured he deserved any type of clarification or closure he asked for. He even deserved to yell and get angry, tearing into you to destroy what little hope you had left and push you fully into the cold feeling of not caring what would happen to you, giving up the prospect of freedom completely. You shook your head at the notion, and climbed out of the car before you could allow yourself to drown into your anxieties more.

When you were standing up, in front of him, you forced yourself to look him in the eyes. No matter how many times your gaze slipped and lowered, you pushed yourself to raise your head and wait for him to speak; no matter what, your throat was too dry to allow you to talk first, even if it was your duty to apologize and let him go. Despite a few seconds passing from the moment you were standing in front of him to the first words coming from his mouth, you felt the weight of each single second that ticked away and dropped on your mind, making you feel even more oppressed than you needed to.

“You look tired,” his voice didn’t betray any sentiment that wasn’t worry or apprehension, and you hated yourself ten times more with each note of concern. Any good resolution to keep your gaze steady and somber collapsed along with your eyes, pointed down and burning with tears. But you had to contain yourself, in front of him, so that he could just walk away. It didn’t matter if it was with bitter feelings or resentment towards you, until it meant he was far away from harm. Yet, you could head in his tone he wasn’t inclined to go along with your plan, “You don’t have to shoulder this, I’m here for you.”

It was a blow, hard and fast, knocking you out. You didn’t know how to answer or how to convince him to leave you alone, build his life differently, most of all because your heart ached at the thought. You didn’t want him to abandon you and find someone else, create a family and a future with them, it was supposed to be you. Selfish, and egotistical, but you wanted nothing more than to turn back and prevent yourself from throwing your life to those brutes who were only tearing it to shreds. You were allowing them to do so and no matter what path you would take, someone would suffer from it – never them, it seemed.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t leave you like this.” The finality, with the sweet consideration, it choked you to the point you couldn’t keep your tears from spilling, your voice cracked before even coming out. Your mind shattered for the umpteenth time, and your fiance was there to avoid losing the shards. He approached you, held you in his arms, reassured you that he would back off if you wanted to, but his words were clear and loud in their veiled self-assurance that you didn’t desire for him to go away, not for real.

All the while, you breathed with shallow and forced mouthfuls, your throat shut tight for the anxiety, the guilt, the hatred and the shame. All your fault, it was all your fault, it didn’t matter how much your rational thoughts screamed your innocence; if only you weren’t so weak and passive, those men wouldn’t see an inviting prey to their twisted game. Your fingers wouldn’t dig into your fiance’s back in an ambiguous tug to bring him closer and push him away. You wouldn’t fear your parents seeing you from the windows of your home in a way that you wouldn’t be able to explain without the whole story. And you were too tired, exhausted, to really conjure excuses and lies, cover the truth just for the peace of your loved ones.

In the safe embrace of your beloved, you crushed. It was ugly, but it was silent, kept intimate by the lingering terror of those assassins. And it was done before you could allow yourself to really let it all out, just to explain that you needed a bit of time, just patience to recompose yourself. In time, those men would leave you alone and you could come back to him, you begged for his forgiveness and his understanding, but you pleaded for him not to wait for you. The hurt in his eyes was enough to break what remained of your heart, and the promise he made to be there for you was the final cut.

“It’s not for you. It’s for me.” He answered your last supplication for him to move on with a curt and gentle statement, and you were left with nothing to do but exhale a shaky breath. He offered the subtlest of smiles to you, leaned in to give you a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth, and walked away slowly. You kept your head low, and didn’t raise it until his steps couldn’t be heard anymore. You scanned the street and found it empty, the feeling filling you a mix of calm and regret. You turned you walk towards your house and found the entrance door open. You frowned at the carelessness of whoever left the apartment complex open to intruders, but figured one of your neighbors just left it like that for a quick errand. You stepped in the common grounds, locked the door in a way that would prevent it from closing and walked towards the first steps of the staircase, deep down the vast courtyard.

Oddly enough, the door slammed shut on the other side. You turned quickly, but saw no one there to enter. You were alone and the wind was too weak that day to be of much help with the violent bang. At first, you considered going back and opening it again, but decided against it just in case someone sneaked in and was waiting to ambush you. You bit your tongue at your paranoid thought, just another deformity brought to you by the last months, but you reassured yourself with the knowledge that it wouldn’t be too out of the ordinary, in that city.

With the assumption that you would prefer to avoid any danger, you sprinted up the stairs and threw some glances towards the front door. No one in sight, not even trying to run after you, so you relax right before the entrance could disappear before your eyes. Climbing the stairs is a dreadful affair, if only because of the sensation of being at home, inside those walls that offered security for your entire life. You could allow yourself to fall apart in that privacy, show the weariness, and strain of that burden. The soft click of the key opening the wood door felt like the alarm that warned your brain of safety. Oddly enough, your idea of safety shaped into the possibility of torturing yourself in complete freedom and privacy in a few months; the taste of that thought was bitter and sour, leaving you with a grimace.

Once inside, you debated with yourself about announcing you were home, but you were anticipated by the quick steps of your mother from the living room. You knew the rhythm of her walk, somewhere between excitement and confusion, ready to rush towards the source of news that more easily could provide her with the right information. It just happened that you were the source, that time. She surfaced in a few instants at the door separating the hallway from the living room, and her face lightened up when she was sure it was you.

She nudged you into the room, window wide open and two cups of mugs peacefully sitting on the dining table, the one she would always insist on leaving without a stain and only using during the holidays. You frowned at the odd display, but her voice came to talk about someone. Someone who was there right before you arrived, and maybe you met him on your way up. Your mother wondered if that was the reason you took so much time outside your house, as she noticed your car coming up from the window and the stranger quickly excusing himself to meet you right outside the door. She giggled as she recollected the sound of a man’s voice outside the window, in the silent street. And your frown only deepened, with the muttered question of who she was talking about.

“Your friend,” she sounded genuinely confused, her head tilted as if she didn’t hear correctly. She blinked once, looked over the open window and then down the hallway where the front door was. She turned back to you after a second, a note of thoughtfulness in her words, “Blonde, slim. He introduced himself as a friend of yours, someone you knew very intimately.”

Her gaze turned soft, with strokes of complicity painting it. She lowered her voice as if she was sharing a secret with you, “You don’t have to hide it, you know,” her tone was aggravating to your nerves, your mind already working and turning to make sense of everything presented to you. You weren’t that naïve that you didn’t understand what was happening, not with your mother description of this man who walked into your house, but deep down your irrational brain was pushing the notion away so that you didn’t have to process it to its full extent. However, you weren’t granted that luxury, not with your mother continuing to talk, “Is he the reason you were nervous lately? And you ended your relationship?”

You were incredulous. The mixture of emotions inside of you, too overwhelming to be separated and named with precision, made you dizzy and unable to react properly in the seconds right after her questions. By the way her face changed in a look of pure confusion and light worry, you could understand your own features morphed into the close approximation of your internal turmoil. In the confusion in your own head, your mind scrambled and trashed to grip anything to anchor an emotion, any among the amalgamation, and eventually settled on indignation. Cold, vicious outrage that was born from abuse you had to endure, unable to take concrete form before melting into anxiety for the entirety of your permanence in that house.

“Don’t you dare insinuate that.” Your answer was final and cutting, more frigid than anything you had ever said before, especially to your parents. Your mother’s disbelief was so genuine and sudden that she didn’t have time to berate you, grumbling about misunderstandings and moodiness while she collected the cups from the table and disappeared somewhere. You didn’t follow her with your eyes, too focused in front of you. Then you turned to the window, with the gentle breeze coming in and leading you to the edge to look down.

There, kissed by the sun, was Prosciutto. Leaning on the side of your car, close to the front door of your apartment building. He was smoking, and the cigarette was lazily hanging from his lips as his head with tip back. His unfocused gaze shifted to you when he detected motion at your house’s window, and his hand left his pocket to take the cigarette between his index and middle finger to let out a puff of smoke. Barely anything changed in his behavior, he didn’t wave, he didn’t smile, just looked at you while lounging in front of your house. In your space, where you could be safe and away from their prying hands, their creepy and frightening presence.

It was impetus, a surge of anger you bottled up for far too long, that made you move away from that window in a hurry. You barged in your own room, bringing all that negativity inside of your calm and placid sanctuary, and threw your drawer open. You didn’t ponder on it too much, grabbing whatever could be caught in your trembling hands and letting everything else fall to its destiny, on the floor, with a noise that sounded too loud in your ears. Yet, you didn’t pay any mind to the mess or the highlighted senses, storming into the living room with heavy steps, hasty and unsteady with emotion fueling them.

Your hand found the windowsill, gripping it tightly in a matter of seconds. A quick look down and you could see Prosciutto was still there, his feet now crossed and his eyes looking in front of him, his head lightly tilted in the direction of the front door. The flame inside of you flickered in a last sparkle of bravery, just what you needed to raise your hand and throw whatever was in your hand down. The pocket mirror and the jewelry hit the ground, and the noise cut the air into a loaded silence as Prosciutto’s head whipped in the direction of the ruined trinkets.

Time seemed to have stopped, if only enough to let your courage cool down, solidify into a monument for the fear building up. Prosciutto’s eyes raised, slowly, and you could imagine the narrow slits of his eyes wound your skin, bruising your resolve. Despite seeing the entire scene in front of you, the details seemed foggy and distant, helped by the distance between you and him. However, you could feel the burning glare dragging the bile in your throat up, up, until it lapped at your tongue and palate. It felt corrosive, and alien, almost too much to bear; Prosciutto’s hand raised again, and you flinched as if he was about to strike you across the face.

He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, holding it between his thumb and index, and then he flicked it away from him and onto the street. It landed somewhere near the remains of their gifts, still lit, and when your gaze shifted towards your car, Prosciutto was already walking away in the direction that would bring him farther away from the right path for his house. You followed his silhouette as it got smaller and darker, a simple dot in the gray of the street, and then your eyes dropped to the mess you made.

Shattered, broken in small pieces, all across the narrow street. Tomorrow, you would probably find it there to greet you when you stepped outside. The cigarette continued to burn, consume itself on the concrete, falling apart with agonizing slowness. Despite being so far away and so small, you felt like you could smell it, for how much you grew to know its shape and scent. Slender and elegant, so common at his lips that you could barely imagine him without, and you wanted to puke at the familiarity of that image.

The show in display to you, of the corpse made by your own hands, was enough to make your stomach close, twist and knot in painful, disgusting ways. It had been an impulsive choice, dictated by false safety and the violation of the only fantasy you allowed yourself in your situation, a dream where you could close the door of your house and the would disappear, not cross the imaginary boundary you set to feel as if you could escape or, at least, pretend to. Even then, when you retreated in your room, you felt your throat tighten dangerously at the sight of what was left on the floor, as clues of your fleeting rage.

You bent down to pick up the hairband and twisted it between your fingers, stretching out the cheap rubber band keeping it together and functional. You were suddenly captured by an odd state, where your mind couldn’t stop thinking about what you did – no, what happened, you did nothing – and, yet, it was like your mind was completely blank. A static silence in your ears, pushing any sound outside to be ignored, while your brain run after a thought, the concept of the chaos you may have created for yourself. However, it was a confused chase in the dark as you couldn’t grasp and focus on the current situation.

What could happen, would Prosciutto really tell his teammates what you did? Or was he too proud of a man to really confide in the only people who could be called his friends or confidantes? It was unnerving how little you knew of them and, no matter how much you felt their eyes on you or how much they deluded themselves, they knew next to nothing about you. They barely seemed to know anything about other human beings, how they operate and how they would build their lives outside the line of organized crime. You swallowed the lump in your throat, suddenly coming back in room after the gloomy thought shoved you back to reality to defend yourself from other dark considerations.

You left the hairband on the desk, unsure about finally dumping it inside the trashcan you left in your room. Then, you noticed the phone you left at home all day, checking the notifications that you had. Obviously, some calls from numbers you didn’t memorize, but could identify at first glance. After getting rid of those notifications, you noticed how some of your own friends attempted to call you during the day and, in the end, a single missed call from your fiance.

Conflict started inside of you, but you forced yourself to ignore his attempt to call you. After all, you were sure he did so only to talk and before he started to wait for you outside your house. You grimaced at the thought that he could have met Prosciutto, getting out of your home just before leaving, and for a moment a cold flash of horror crossed your brain. Prosciutto did go in the same direction as your fiance. For your peace of mind, you shook your head at the notion and pushed yourself to call your friends.

All it took was a few rings, then a familiar voice greeted you with cheerful energy. You responded, but she didn’t even notice the evident drain in your tone before she went on a rant about how she met a nice man that day. There was a note in her voice, as if she was trying to communicate a complicit wink with her voice. You didn’t like it at all, making your hand clench with the implications that you didn’t want to understand. She continues, about a bony scientist with odd hair and an even weirder outfit approaching her in the streets, as if they knew each other. He said he was a friend of yours, how much you talked about her and the rest of the group, he even showed a photo of you without much on that could indicate anything but closeness with him.

Your lips felt too dry to open and speak, your eyes fixed on the wall in front of you as you slowly lowered yourself on the bed. You felt ill at the second instance of invasion of your privacy and your personal sphere; no matter how much you wanted to convince yourself that it could be pure coincidence that the description matched one of the demented men who was harassing you out of a life, you couldn’t even attempt to deflect the evidence presented to you. So you stayed silent while your friend threw you question after question about this new, mysterious suitor of yours.

“I gotta be honest,” her tone took an annoying pitch, a turn that you couldn’t foresee or forget once your brain registered it. You didn’t know what to expect by this exchange when your friend didn’t have the context of the whole situation. Not that you had any intention to let her know, if that could spare her. All the same, her words started to cut worse than knives, “He was way better than your ex. At least he seemed to have something going on for him!”

You dry heaved at the idea and at the hints, covering the motion and the noise with a sudden fit of coughs that shook your body with violence and tremors. Your muscles strained, and you heard your friend inquire about your well being, a trace of concern in her voice. You recuperated as soon as you could, but your tone was shaky when you talked, “Don’t say that, please.”

It was different from the treatment you reserved your mother earlier, now that your anger melted into meek exhaustion and inconveniencing apprehension. You couldn’t bring yourself to yell or demand, just metaphorically dragging yourself on your knees to beg them to reconsider any idea those first encounters instilled in their heads. Your friend, however, didn’t catch the nuance in your voice as you silently pleaded with her, and simply insisted that he seemed like a nice man, someone perfect for you and your future away from the fatigue of illicit work inside strangers’ houses. Those words sent shivers up and down your spine.

“He isn’t what he seems.” You couldn’t gather the strength to counter further, that statement all your mind could pierce together to argue against the good intentions of that vile person who wanted to slither inside your life. She didn’t let go though, still stubborn that he couldn’t be dangerous, or that bad if you allowed yourself to be looked at in such a plain fashion by him. You gritted your teeth at the answer, at the attitude, at the misplaced irritation and at the frustration building up as you couldn’t scream at the world what you were going through. With a rushed decision, you ended the call as she was still talking, and ignored the subsequent call as you left the phone hit the bed under you.

Your forehead found your hands, and you dragged the palms up and down your face as if to wake yourself up from a long, delirious nightmare of a life. Tomorrow, you would wake up as if it was the day before your first day on the job, and you would walk in hesitantly. You would clean and leave them lunch, but you would come back to find them relaxing in their house, not minding you at all. Ignored and neglected by those dangerous men, only some words exchanged for requests and compliments on your cooking, but nothing more than that. You felt your eyes getting misty at the wishful desire in your heart.

You bit your tongue when your phone ringed again, a quick glance over your shoulder letting you know that it was one of those men calling. You didn’t know if it was Melone, as he was the most recurring culprit of flooding your phone, or someone else, but you really didn’t want to find out. Unluckily, the flashing number on the phone’s display made you remember the horrible idea that hit you a bit earlier: how Prosciutto was, supposedly, on the possible pursuit of your darling, sweet fiance. The dreadful notion poisoned your mind, making it impossible to think of anything else as you tortured yourself with all the possibilities, all the scenarios where your beloved would be threatened, ruined, beaten or worse. All pictures of vivid realism, terrifying in their sharpness, as they drowned your mind, your eyes, your ears.

You felt like you were chocking on your anxiety, and your fingers trembled as you picked up the phone, now still and silent. You weren’t sure what to do, if calling your fiance would be any good, if you would simply hear Prosciutto’s voice greeting you with nonchalance as you heard your fiance pained wails and the crack of a whip, the click of a gun, the barking of dogs, any clue of the immense cruelty that could wreck your spirit just a bit further.

All too much, your mind floating in suspension again, but the vibrating motion of your phone anchored you to reality. Your fiance's number, flashing on the screen, making you cut your breath short. You felt lightheaded as you clicked the key and let the device near your ear, far away enough that the sound was more muffled and softer. You were ready to hear the derisive laugh of Prosciutto, taunting you about how foolish you were for thinking you could save him, but the soothing tone of your fiance reached you. You felt your muscles relax, and they trembled from the constricting tension taking hold of them.

“Thank God,” you couldn’t stop yourself from muttering those words, and your fiance suddenly stopped with what he was about to say, seemingly cautious. He asked if you were safe, if anything happened to let you sigh with relief so casually, and you shook your head before you could really think about the fact he couldn’t see you. You answered with the little voice you could still muster, but you forced yourself to speak more, to reassure him of your safety, “I just had a bad evening, that’s all. I’m happy to hear you.”

The chuckle coming from the other side of the speaker was gentle, yet coated in heavy defeat. He didn’t question anything you said, just making you notice how it was barely an hour, maybe something more, since you two saw each other outside your house. He was calling to let you know he was fine, everything was good, and your spent brain didn’t pick anything odd in his tone, no matter how you tried to activate the paranoid parts of your brain to detect anything suspicious. You were too relaxed, a pounding headache emerging from the tension snapping suddenly, and your body slumped over the pillow on your bed. An hour, he said. You must have been too focused on your misery to notice anything outside, not even your mother knocking to let you know dinner was ready or to ask if you needed the bathroom to shower.

You exchanged few words with your darling, as if nothing in your relationship changed at all, despite all the sorrow you noticed earlier in his gaze. You said your goodbyes, and then you were alone in the solitude of your room. Evening was settling, the sky was tinted in soft hues of spring and warmth, but you couldn’t find in yourself the strength to stand up to live the rest of the evening before bed time. So, you settled on sleeping earlier than usual. Your rest was hollow, as if it didn’t happen at all, and you were left confused the next morning.

Your routine was sluggish, that morning. Your mother was worried, peeking at you from the kitchen each time you attempted to stay alone in the living room or at the table, but you could understand she was concerned about your behavior from the day before. All you could offer, in the fog of your turmoil, was a polite smile directed at her. Barely a plaster over the gaping wound, but you had to think about other things, like how you could face your tormentors during your next visit at the house.

Them as your eyes drifted to the desk and to the headband resting on it, the idea that came to you during your car trip to return home flashed in your mind. Maybe your mistake could be twisted into the right light if you played your cards right, not even as dirty as they were doing. You spent the rest of the week preparing, the only moments of pause you conceded yourself were the short calls with your fiance or your friends, who insisted on complimenting you on the good scion of wealthy origins that was chanting your praises. It would be annoying if the notion of Melone talking to your group of friends didn’t keep you from approaching them anymore. But it fueled the feeling of needing to plant the seed of discord among those men who wanted to tear down your life, just to build over the ruins.

Eventually, the designed day came and you stepped outside your house for the first time in an entire week. You winced when you saw that the broken mirror and the scattered jewelry were still laying on the street, simply shoved to the side so that they wouldn’t cause any trouble to those who were passing. You closed yourself in your car and breathed deeply to regain the lost composure, calm your nerves before your exhibition.

The drive felt slower and shorter at the same time, as if the space and the time separating you from the was distorted in horrible ways, but you reached your destination. Your grip on the wheel was tight, and you were about to give up on the plan now that you could see the towering house looming over you. However, you swallowed the fear, and stepped to the door. There, you straightened yourself up, adjusted Formaggio’s shirt and Ghiaccio’s hair accessories, and then unlocked the entrance. The click of the key was loud, if only because you were hyper aware of everything around you.

Once you were inside, your eyes on the floor, you left your belongings at the usual spot. When you raised your head, Prosciutto was there, leaning on the kitchen’s door with pretend serenity. When he eyed you up and down, you gave him a civil smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, and he narrowed his eyes at the motion. He turned around, separating from the wall, and headed up the stairs with visible disdain in his stance. You took a second to calm yourself after this first step, then walked towards the living room to check who was in there.

It seemed like only Formaggio and Illuso decided to hang out in the room, but both of them looked over when they perceived the movements at the door. Both their faces lightened up in a twisted happiness that felt like a punch in the guts, but you stomached it as well as you could. Formaggio raised his hand to wave at you, and you reciprocated the gesture, to his surprise. Then, Illuso motioned to do the same, but you turned your head before he could and went for the stairs. All you could hear behind you were the barks of laughs and the barely concealed murmuring of threats.

You exhaled shakily, and grabbed the rail so that you wouldn’t fall down as you climbed the stairs.

[ofisolaticn]

A BROTHERLY THREESOME REUNION

featuring: henrik mikaelson, kol mikaelson, niklaus mikaelson. tagging: @troubleson��@aregentsruin summary: renuion(s). warnings: attempting formatting. v v v v long. 

KOL MIKAELSON

He's been going in and out of it, he has no idea how to stop this-- Or if he even wants to at this point. Has the curse gotten ingrained into his brain? No, no. If it had, he knew he would have done so much worse. Hurt someone he didn't want to hurt. He had managed to stay away from Davina just fine, hadn't seen her in what felt like ages. Now, he was nothing but FERAL. Like an animal lurking in the shadows waiting for his next prey, hour after hour. It was a good thing there were more than enough people trapped, right? A heartbeat picked by his ears, and his mouth watered. Throat aching for the quenching of his bloodlust. Just a second later, he showed up right in front of the unlucky guy of the night. "Having a nice night?" He wasn't a complete animal. Still holding back enough for small talk, go figure.

HENRIK MIKAELSON

It was like a ghost of a memory. Henrik remember quiet nights when his big brother Kol would make them loud. He remembered loud nights, with lots of smiles from Rebekah, Klaus, Elijah, Kol and a disapproving Finn. He remembered piggy back rides and forts and his elder siblings being--- well, amazing. But then, they were vikings. And sometimes Henrik couldn't help but wonder, had that been real? There were times he was so sure it was, then sometimes he was so sure it wasn't. This was one of those times. Because Kol looked not a day older then he knew of him. The same exact face as he wore when Henrik was only a child (1000 years ago? Didn't feel right but it was) but while Henrik had aged it seemed a moment hadn't passed for Kol. Different hair, different clothes and different way of looking at him. "Kol?" Henrik exclaimed, familiarity clear in his tone.

KOL MIKAELSON

There is something on this guy's face, an expression that Kol can read as surprise or confusion. Naturally, he wouldn't give a second though, especially not now. It would be the usual reaction of someone who just had a stranger show up in front of them at the middle of the night. In other cases, the fear kicked in the very first second, but he hadn't done anything yet. Still, there was more to just that-- It seemed like he recognized. "Am I supposed to know you?"  Thick eyebrows gathering in a small frown. There really isn't much for him to think. He'd lived for a long time after all, some people became distant and faded memories they no longer mattered. "I happen to forget people who don't cause an impression."

HENRIK MIKAELSON

"Of course you don't know me." It was said, more to himself them to actual Kol. It made sense, actually. Perfect sense. Plus, out of all his siblings Kol was usually the slowest to catch onto these things ( he was faster though, with things like pranks and magic. Faster then Henrik had ever been. ) "You would tell me stories of goblins and monsters and you used to scare me and I'd keep you up all night and you used to give me rides and-" Oh wow, he should most likely start with his actual name. "It's me--- Henrik. Hey." He spoke, anxious but all the while HAPPY to set eyes on Kol. "I know I don't-- I'm not ten years old anymore. So..." His eyes connected to Kol's. "I know it's hard to believe." And he wouldn't be surprised if Kol didn't. "Sometimes I barely believe it but.... yeah."

KOL MIKAELSON

His mumbling didn't go unnoticed, yet the only reaction Kol gave was a slight narrowing of his eyes, especially as he started talking as if they were long lost friends. Kol would remember a friend, even in this state, but he didn't remember him. As far as he could tell, his memories hadn't been tampered, and as he continued telling him stories of a life that seemed so far away, there was a brief name slipping in his hazy head. "Henrik." The name drawing out and matching the reveal, a shake of his head and a scoff. "That's impossible. " Would it? When people were returning from the dead? When he'd done so more than once in the past? When Klaus and Elijah were alive and as well as they could too? "Even if it were-- you'd still be a kid." The love for a younger brother wasn't lost, but it had been so long ago. Henrik was nothing but a memory now, especially as his blood smelled so sweet from here. "Are you expecting a parade? Welcome back party?" Did he meant to be this rude? Maybe not-- But he was so hungry, and his sanity continued slipping by the second.

HENRIK MIKAELSON

He said his name, didn't mean he believed him but it was something. "I think so too--- thought so," He said, slipping tenses and grimacing at his own self. "It feels impossible all the time. I mean, we were vikings and mom was a witch and there were werewolves and they-" A flinch, and then a pained look touched his gaze at the memories of that horrible night. Of their teeth in his skin--- ripping him apart... "Sorry," Henrik apologized for his abrupt departure from actual speech. "Oh, well," Here goes nothing. "I was brought back 16 yearsish ago. By mom. She put me with a family and then she yeeted." Would Kol even know such a word? Henrik didn't know his brother's story after all, what he'd been up to. If he was new to this world or old to it. "She just... never came back." Then the not nicest stuff happened, but that didn't need to be said in this moment. He fought a frown and instead his lips pursed. "I don't know what I was expecting, it wasn't those things but I-" A sorrowful look. "I kinda thought you all were dead. So...." He hadn't been expecting anything.

 KOL MIKAELSON

This was not a good time for reunions. Would it ever?  Henrik talked, but despite being mere steps away from him, his words sounded like an echo. The sound of his heartbeat, beating against his chest, pumping blood through his veins. The blood he's been indulging himself with at every given moment, the blood he needed. Kol tried, he did, to make sense of his words. To make sense of the situation. "She died." Not before he'd died first for a second time. A shake of his head-- Had he been brought back along with him and Finn that time? "How do I know you're not working with her?" Was she also back? His head was spinning, was this him or was this the curse that made him sound like Klaus. He wasn't the paranoid brother. Against himself, he'd taken some steps closer, for a moment the veins under his eyes popping and darkening. "You should go." Stay away from all of them, stay away from him in this precise moment. In any other moment, it left room to think-- Would've he welcome him with open arms? Or think that he'd go the best end of the stick. Definitely the better end of the stick. "LEAVE."

HENRIK MIKAELSON

"I kinda figured it was something like that." It was casual in his words, because of course Henrik mulled over the thought before. How could he not? But it didn't change the fact she left him with strangers to begin with, it didn't change that she wanted to force his siblings to change and only be a family in her way. None of it changed the fact that she left him. "Didn't you just say she died?" He frowned, confused. "plus I haven't seen her in over a decade." Still he remembered her face so clearly, just as he did the rest of his family. Faces so important, faces so clear and unforgettable. Something--- something was wrong though. He should have seen it before but had been lost in his excitement. "Kol...?" Veins. What the hell? Henrik stumbled over his own feet as he pulled himself away, he had to run. As much as he wanting a touching reunion with his brother he had died before and wasn't wanting to do it again. He wanted to say something good like 'I'll find you again' or 'Wel'll figure this out' but nothing came out. Instead he ran like hell.(edited)

KOL MIKAELSON

There was a scoff, clearly he didn't know all of their mother's ways. Or theirs. Each one of them with several chips at their shoulders. His words started to mean nothing. This could be a set up. Juat like how Esther did with Finn. This could be Finn. That bastard-- Kol only wanted to see him back to give him a taste of his own medicine. Maybe it could be now. No. Put yourself together, Kol. There wasn't clarity-- His thoughts starting to fuse up, what was real? What wasn't? All that mattered was to fill his   cravings. Who was this again? Henrik? Finn? A simple stranger on his final night? Oh yes. His name was called, as his eyes darkened again. Part of him, the smallest rational part of him, screaming to stop himself. The sole of his shoe giving a slight brush back, as if it was trying to pull him back yet-- He ran. And with that, his resolution shattered to pieces. Like a fox dashing behind his prey.    All it took was a second for him to catch up, and pull at his shoulders with such strenght. To push him back at the wall and let his fangs pierce through his neck like a starving animal. How good it felt to finally quench the thirst.

 KLAUS MIKAELSON

Late night streets and alleys enveloped in the enigma of moonlight. It's the perfect hunting ground of the nocturnal predator, even when so long ago they befriended the sun again. Klaus Mikaelson may not actively seek out to prey anymore, but he does thrive off the unsettling serenity of late nights. Plus, it's a morbidly perfect time to tend to business. A lot more DISCREET. And this is usually the case. No one around to meddle with his duties, no one with prying gazes to dodge. And, yet, here he is, ceasing his motions as a distant rumbling grows closer. Running. That is the sound of rushed footsteps. He doesn't move. He knows the trampling being is going to get to HIM first. And that's exactly what happens. A young man turns corner, bumping right into the Original Hybrid's chest. It's so quick it's almost instantaneous, but... it's enough. Klaus catches a glimpse, a very brief glimpse, a frozen second when he looks at eyes that peer back at him with a familiarity that swallows his chest and renders it the size of a flea. No time for developings, though. Surprise, surprise --- KOL rushes in to ruin it all and he cannot help but notice the painfully obvious WRONGNESS floating in the air. A flash of vampire speed and the hybrid forcibly removes his brother from the victim, giving him a mighty shove into the ground. "If I hadn't known any better, brother, I would have been tempted to say you have forsaken all your manners. Have you been watching too much National Geographic lately?"

 HENRIK 

He was running--- running as fast as his legs could take him. Something was wrong with Kol--- that was obvious. Kol would never hurt him, the brother he remembered didn't even like to hunt. He preferred tricks and traps  and laughter. Something was beyond wrong and Henrik didn't have the time to even ask. He'd been ripped apart once before and he would rather it not happen again. He was running and running and then--- damn. He only caught a glimpse of their face--- of Nik. Niklaus. The brother who was full of smiles, the one who took the brunt of their faces abuse yet would always still fight. The brother who was by his side that night before the wolves came after them, before they tore him apart. "Nik-" He began only to be cut off by the event of Kol--- KOL ripping into his neck and fuck that hurt. It really did. Henrik hadn't known pain alike this since his initial death so long ago ( though he did know other variations of pain, none of them else involved teeth ). Then Nik--- Nik was ripping him off (and the short hair suited him, Henrik couldn't help but note). He almost fell to the ground in pain but fought against the impulse, instead remaining on his feet even if the world was a bit drowsier now. "Nik?" He questioned again, this time louder and less coherent then prior.

 KOL

Kol had never minded an audience as he feasted-- What were they going to do? He was an original vampire, it was like the title already brought in the narcissistic tendencies in their genes. (To some siblings more so than the others). Henrik stopped-- and in that moment, he wasn't his brother the one he was viciously gripping and tending his hunger from. No, Henrik was his prey, and it didn't matter that only for a fleeting moment, a tiny instinct within Kol tried to stop it. The blood was all that mattered. All he NEEDED. Until, his meal got literally interrupted by a pull and push-- Frenzied look against the one who interrupted; such a laughable surprise to see Klaus of all people. Klaus who he'd resented for centuries-- The one who stole years from his life, over and over. The one who did the same things as him, or worse, and still it was Kol the brother who often got neutralized and tossed inside a coffin.  "Nik--" he growled out, a surge of anger coming through him as he pushed his arms away from. NO. The clarity tried to claw itself from the surface. Kol had decided, after his death, that he should bury those resentments-- But how hard it was. It wasn't just Kol acting, it was the curse that so freely brought back and magnified those grudges. Nik. Henrik's voice drew out through the air-- Henrik. Their younger brother.  The one who at the moment he wanted nothing more but to drain the blood from. Oh, what a crusade this was-- Between wanting to fight his older brother, and wanting to kill his younger.(edited)

KLAUS

Nik. A nickname. But more than a nickname. A name. But more than a name. It's the line between a time long lost and what is in the now. It's the remnant of a time before he decided he no longer wanted anything from Mikael, name chosen by him included, and before he turned himself into Klaus Mikaelson, the nightly terror dreaded by monsters themselves. So few still hold those remnants in their hands. Few enough to actually reel a reaction out of him. Very small, but something far from indifference. It stirs a brief recognition, petrifying as the young man with those familiar eyes gets dragged away and feasted upon. One issue at a time, however. And, in his mind, the most immediate one is the one involving the brother he does know and view as a certainty. "While I'm aware you have never been the most cordial of fools, it appears that I have stumbled upon one of those instances when you truly manage to outshine yourself." He's still speaking to Kol, back turned to the one that continues to call his name ( that particular name ), pretending that if he just elects to ignore the other, he won't have to wheel around and face a figment of his imagination or a painful remnant ( both options are equally bad ). "Don't tell me." He holds a finger up, "That haywire trail of forlorn bodies making the scenic route all the way here. Your doing?"

HENRIK

His neck hurt like hell and ya know, maybe he should run. He should probably run, Henrik knew. Yet his feet refused to walk, not even drag. Eyes too intent on the two men right before him that he thought to be long dead. "Kol. Henrik whispered, wanting nothing more then to understand what was wrong with his brother and maybe help him if he could. Then, his attention fell to Niklaus. Nik. The one who took his hand and lead him away to his death. The one he loved, and would continue loving, despite that. Nik was speaking but it was different then Henrik too, different in mannerisms and matter. Even tone. More guarded, perhaps? Not the same brother he once knew, but rather fragments of him. Remnants of the malice he endured. He was, oh he was ignoring him. "Seriously?" He expressed, words falling under his breath. "Could someone tell me whats going on--" Or should he run? He really should. Henrik did value his life but.... he valued his family too. "Please... whats going on?"

KOL

The struggle was, to put in few words, real. The rationality within Kol's mind flickered. He was trying to stop this, to stop himself, to realign his thoughts into what truly were at the time being. He was Kol Mikaelson, the wily troublemaker, the happy homicidal maniac-- but even with those titles-- Kol Mikaelson was not a man with a lack of control in himself. So he tried, he pushed himself for clarity. Forcing himself to listen to Klaus' voice instead of the rapid heartbeat coming from behind him, or the smell of blood lingering in the air, or the aftertaste on his tongue.  Words fight against him, wrestlng each other in what could be a cry of help or a cry for war. To push his ego down or to make it go head to head against Klaus. "I was cursed." Yes, the answer was yes, and oh how much he's done while cursed, he can't think at the moment. "He's--" A swallow, throat dry again despite having the crimson liquid still fresh on his lips. "Henrik."  Words short, rapid, chopped. As if he was running out of time, because... quite frankly, he felt like he was losing it again, especially as the brother in question spoke again. Why was he still there? Kol pushed himself against the wall, he was losing again, ready to lunge at their younger at any given second. Instead-- "Stop me." Words let out in a heavy breath, hands clasping Klaus' jacket as he looked at him, baring his teeth. The telltale sign of the darkening veins pointing on what was about to happen for another time.  A last beg for Klaus to do what he knew best-- And in another time, Kol would think that if he ever asked for something like this to anyone, he'd would've lost his mind. alas.  "DO IT."(edited)

 KLAUS

Kol speaks ( or something close to speaking, as much as he can seem to muster ). HENRIK. Henrik? The same kind of Henrik? He knows a brief bolt of bewilderment strikes his features, but one question topples into another as Kol clutches the rims of his jacket and does something he can't say he's ever seen him often do. There's hesitance, as well as confusion. But... But... He knows this is a race against time. No answers will come from his brother, not like this. He swallows up the surprise, the confusion and only offers a certain nod, a silent assurance in his eyes as they lock with the other original's, as erratic and drowned in bloodthirst as they are. It's the last thing he does before his hands speedily rise -- and twist his neck until his own brother's body falls limp to his feet. "Slumber well, Kol," he mutters, silently, letting his gaze shortly linger on the vampire. And finally, finally, he turns to his next immediate issue. Silently. Stiffly. A hardened glare sits in his eyes, as jumbled pieces come to form a puzzle. What does he know? So far, only what he could see: Kol, cursed and tormented, and this person, with the claim of kinship on his lips, smack in the middle of it. His vampire speed lunges him at the young man in the blink of an eye and, just as fast, Klaus has his hand coiled around his neck and him pressed to the wall, lifted just slightly off his feet. "You have precisely ten seconds to explain what you have done to my brother and why you dare parade yourself as Henrik Mikaelson," he drawls, readjusting his fingers as to allow the other to speak, "lest you would rather I leave you and your gashing wound to the mercy of vampires, the same way I would hurl a lamb to the slaughterhouse."

HENRIK

Kol was begging Niklaus to stop him--- *Kol believed him. * Then, Niklaus twisted his neck. Henrik couldn't help it. He let out a scream watching Kol's body hit the ground with the next twisted. Eyes became glassy at the sight of it, the fear of it. "Is he dead-- Oh my--" He looked to Niklaus, knowing he could do nothing against someone who could twist anther's neck with their bare hands, let alone his big brother whom he loved. "He's dead." Then Niklaus turned to him, and Henrik expected something. Not sure what it was. Sure wasn't such fast speed directed at him and a-- a hand against his neck. Not choking him, thank god, but still threatening nonetheless. "There is no parading!" He began with. "And I haven't done anything to him--- I found him and I recognized him-- even with the new haircut!" His neck did hurt, still. The wound was still prevalent. "Vampires." He repeated, his face twisting into an anguish of emotions before finally landing on pure relief. "So that mean's he's still alive then? --- undead? And you--- are you-" Are you a vampire too? He took a deep breath in, and then, he spoke. "I could--- I could rattle on this whole list of memories and things and so many facts but I don't think--- do you want to believe me? Because I have this--- this feeling, if that's not what you want than nothing I say with change it. Will it?"

 KLAUS

There are times when the fact that his world is not necessarily others' world basically eludes him. That not everyone is just used to seeing necks being snapped and expecting everything to be fine and dandy. This is one of those times. "Relax," he proclaims, a small curve of his lips and a raise of an arm that points toward Kol's uncoscious body, "he's only napping. Much to your benefit, I would argue." After all, wasn't Kol munching on him just moments before? Either way, Klaus has his focus on Henrik-- the alleged Henrik, countless scenarios whirring in his head, very few ones that would see this reality as a TRUTH. Explanations, explanations, and he makes sure to listen carefully, to the heartbeats. He makes sure to envelope his eyes in a coating of bright golden, dark veins rooting into his cheeks - just as little extra step of intimidation. "You are even more clueless than you appear," he remarks. "I suggest paying less mind to Kol's otherworldly whereabouts and more to your own current predicament. It can so easily end unwell." And then the other says something that makes his eyes narrow. He's silent for a moment. Considering. Pondering. Remembering how he ruined everything with Freya, at first. "Henrik was a child," he begins, lowly. "I wasn't aware death also causes growth spurts."(edited)

HENRIK

It would be easy to say something snarky in retribution to such word as relax. The best response, Henrik could think of at least, was simply how.  "Napping?" He repeated it, wondering if thats what vampires always called it when their neck was snapped. It for sure sounded better then 'temporary re-dead'. "Something was wrong with him." Henrik noted, concern evident on his features. "He came after me but he didn't want to I saw it on his face. He didn't want to." He was sure of it, without hesitation saying it. Then. WOAH. Henrik blinked his eyes as he watched Niklaus' turn golden, almost sun reflected. "That's not..." He was fairly sure normal vampires couldn't do that. He was confused. "How--" Oh that wasn't nice. Even if it was fairly true. "How?" He couldn't help but ask. "I-- I don't plan to fight you or have any motives, I don't---" Would Niklaus truly just kill him on a whim? Would their 'unwell' ending be because he sneezed in the wrong direction or stumbled wrong? Then there was silence and Henrik felt his heart, in his chest, hammering. Not fear, necessarily. Just anticipation. "I uh, it doesn't. I came back-- " What was the exact years?  "A while ago." He didn't remember. "Mother, she brought me back as I was. She said- she said some stupid crap about changing everyone and she'd come back for me. But then uh, never did. Just said 'yeet' I guess." He spoke, attempting for a bit humor to lighten their atmosphere. "And so I just... bounced around I guess."  He was sheepish as he spoke, as he explained. "Now I'm here."(edited)

KLAUS

Truly, for someone like Klaus Mikaelson, every draining second is a race against time - for whoever is unfortunate enough to be his PREY in that very moment. He doesn't like circling the drain. He doesn't like those moments of uncertainty. He's not a patient person. Can you tell? "Do you usually find yourself at an inability to properly string together a sentence or should I blame it on the slight stress currently bestowed upon you?" In other words: say what you have to say already. And, at last, the other does. He listens, eyes narrowing slightly as he makes sure to analyze every single word, every single letter. He can't help but remark that the bit about Esther's desire to 'change everyone' seems to largely match up with what was the truth. "A fine tale," he concludes, appearing to retreat just slightly, only for his grip on the other's throat to lower itself toward the collar, tossing him on the ground in a move of pure impulse. "However, even if it turns out it does prove your identity, it does little to vouch for your intentions. As we have it, you are not the first grazed by mother's so called generosity, with all your predecessors being siblings she has turned against the rest of us in order to conduct her evil schemes."

HENRIK

"Well..." He grimaced, knowing the answer he had was not what his brother was looking for. ( his brother his mind reiterated to remind him how special and momentous this occasion was). "I was never good in English-- grammer class." He confessed sheepishly, knowing it would make no differance but still having that yearning desire to talk about a normal topic with his brother (his brother !). And then, well, ouch. It'd hardly be the first time Henrik was manhandled to the ground, not the first time in a bad way (though he'd had experience with the good way too) and so he was fast to recover. Flinching but not mewling over the injuries. "What intentions do I have I mean--- you're a vampire, right? You-- you both are. Can't you hear my heartbeat and see if I'm lying? And for pete's sake what reason would I have to lie? Before I saw Kol I thought each of you were dead." He confessed, the sorrow in his tone unyielding and without intention. Just pain from the fact he'd thought them dead when they were right before him now. "Did you just say evil schemes?" He exclaimed, be founded. "What--- I mean, I could for sure see mom as the evil villain type but-" Right now you're not seeming all too heroic. A sigh left his lips. "I'm not gonna beg on my knees for you to believe me or- or anything like that. Honestly, in this moment," His voice broke, just a bit, as he went on. "I'm just really happy. Even with all the blood and bites and shoving--- my brothers are alive. I'm just... I'm happy."

KLAUS

The heartbeat. True, a valid point. He often uses the thumping noise as his own personal lie detector ( he elects it's not the place or time to correct the other and mention he's not a vampire ). But, then again, anyone vile enough to have vile intentions often knows how to bypass this check-up. The other talks and Klaus' mind gets frayed, spiraling into an ocean sprung only the moment he'd welcomed a daughter into his life: reason. Or, maybe, a particular kind of weariness. The one that screams he's tired of fighting against everything and everyone. Would it truly be so terrible to have their family truly and fully whole? It's a thought. But it's clouded by other, darker, rumbles. "Evil schemes, abhorrent deeds, contemptible ploys," a raise of his arms, "name it whatever you wish." A proper deflection of the real topic at hand, Klaus. He's looking down at this person, this person who claims himself to be his brother. He's different, obviously, but it's hard to deny there's a certain familiarity. It's different from Freya. He'd never known Freya. He had known Henrik, whose eyes he had to watch fade into a lifeless darkness as he gave his last breath in his arms. For a moment, that memory alone rattles him and he needs to drag his gaze away, with a conflicted clench of his jaw. "Why now?" His voice is small, a mumble of paranoia. "Why would you show up now? Why would mother-?" He's getting angry again, though he wagers it's a result of his flurry of confusing emotions. "Henrik or not, I would not rush to rejoice if I were you. Your presence here alone can only be a harbinger of terrible things to come. This is the only way our joyous familial rekindlings have unfolded."

HENRIK

"Those names are awfully cartoonish." Henrik couldn't help but remark. "Reminds me of that show-- Phineas and Ferb. Curse you Perry the Platypus." He mimicked the accent of Doctor Doofinsmirth, almost butchering it. He grimaced, watching Niklaus' reaction. "I uh," He swallowed, suddenly feeling even more sheepish. ( small too, oddly enough. being around his big brother, brothers, made him feel small and Henrik didn't know if it was a good thing or not. ) "I lost my-" God, should he even be saying this? It wasn't necessary but it was already slipping from his tongue. "I lost my accent growing up. Discarded, I guess. Just made things easier." He admitted, not diving into how so ( Nik didn't need to hear hat crap, and Henrik didn't like to go into it. He made points not to with his kids, friends, or other people. It was easier that way, wasn't it?). "I got trapped in the city." He said simply as answer. "I came here trying to help Lisa-- she's this little girl and her... her parents died recently. So I took her to her big sister in the city and then I got trapped." He confessed. "It was total accident. Honest. I never even knew you guys were alive--- sometime's I'd even think that I made you all up." He admitted grimly. "I was so young when everything happened and then I was brought back... it was hard to believe sometimes." Her pressed his lips together, listening to his brothers words. "It doesn't... it doesn't have to be. If it has happened before I'm sorry but I'm not--- I'm not that person. I won't bring terrible things, I won't be a harbinger. I'm not interested in seeing anyone hurt, vampire or not. I just want some answers, and frankly... I want a chance to know my family too."

[mtr-amg]

I’d like to begin by recounting of one of the bravest acts I’ve ever seen. Earlier this year I attended the Australian Romance Reader Awards, where Melanie Milburne was the guest speaker. At the table beforehand, she told me that she wasn’t sure how her speech would be received, that she was nervous because what she had to say was controversial. And then she got up and said that after a stellar career and nearly 80 titles to her name, not only were there some books that she wished she could go back and rewrite, but that there were some of which she was actively ashamed.

Melanie’s growth as an author and as a person meant that books she had written earlier in her career were now deeply uncomfortable to her. She said that some situations, characters and scenes transgressed into areas that made her profoundly uneasy, and, given the option, she would have them taken out of circulation.

I was taken aback but also impressed that in this age of backlist gold and constant self-promotion an author would not only admit that some of her books made her uncomfortable, but also that she would do so publicly and unreservedly.

Melanie is not alone—there are aspects of our history and traditions that we need to talk about, which raise uncomfortable questions for all of us, as readers, writers, publishers and advocates for the romance genre.

Romance has always existed in the margins of the literary world. Not economically, of course, but within the broader literary landscape, romance is kind of equivalent to Wakanda, the mythical land in the Marvel movie Black Panther. Those outside it see only a desolate village, starved of real culture and devoid of literary merit. But once you find the book that takes you from outside to inside, you’ll find a vibrant, thriving community that is supportive, organised and running on a mythical, powerful element that the rest of the world does not even know exists.

In Wakanda, the element is Vibranium—used to make weaponry previously unheard of—but in the romance genre, that powerful element is something else entirely. Romance harnesses hope.

Hope has been built into romance stories from the very beginning, and it’s tied so strongly to what has made this genre so subversive for so long—the idea that women’s lives can be better. It’s what the ‘happy ever after’ ending means. It’s the kernel of motivation in every one of our stories—that no matter where we are now, or what is happening, things can get better. Things will get better.

At the beginning, hope in romance was tied to finding the right husband—one who would make sure her emotional needs were met as well as her physical needs. We hoped that he would see her as a whole person and not just a possession.

But it didn’t stop there. Romance hoped new hopes for women: personhood, careers, ambition, self-acceptance, self-love, sex, great sex, mind-blowing sex, sexual autonomy, bodily autonomy, lively and nourishing friendships, and passionate and enduring love affairs. But mostly romance hoped for women’s lives to be well-lived.

Along the way, romance also hoped that emotional would no longer mean weak, that fear would no longer turn to anger, that feminine would no longer be an insult. It hoped that men would be able to cry, dance, feel joy and unshakeable love, and express those things out loud. It hoped that everyone would be able to find a happy ever after with whomever they loved. Romance hoped a lot of hopes for many different people, but mostly it hoped for a world better than the one that currently exists. In our own little bubble, we read and wrote and edited and published and shared our stories and hoped.

But what does romance look like in 2018? What hopes are we hoping for ourselves and for our future, for our daughters and sons and their children?

Suddenly, stories of triumphant women matter more than ever. The world is both bigger and smaller and the strides that we have taken forward seem to be but a façade for a deeper, more insidious malevolence, one that hides behind humour and innuendo and the demand for hard proof. One that requires a constant, exhausting vigilance.

Many of the behaviours that are now being called out—sexual innuendo, workplace advances, stolen kisses because the kisser couldn’t resist—feel in many ways like an old friend. They exist in the romance bubble. They show up in our stories, with a long history of providing a way to hope when we weren’t sure how to do so, and they readily tap into that shared emotional history over and over again in a way that feels familiar and safe.

Something that a friend once said changed the way I think about the romance genre and our responsibility to the greater world. She said: the media and the art that we consume are the most powerful influencers on our lives and our actions. If that art is romance novels, then we have the potential—and the obligation—to affect women around the world.

I keep coming back to this idea of potential and obligation. Because I think this is why romance has been so important to so many women for so long: it shows the potential within all of us, and it honours its obligations.

Now, obligations are slippery. And in a genre as big as ours, they’re hard to pin down. The romance readership contains multitudes, and it’s impossible to be everything to everyone. And, as one cogent argument goes, we’re not the only genre. Why is romance being held accountable in a way that other genres are not? Why must we answer to this ingrained malice in a way that no one else is expected to?

Because it’s obligation. If we want to call ourselves a feminist genre, if we want to hold ourselves up as an example of women being centred, of representing the female gaze, of creating women heroes who not only survive but thrive, then we have to lead. We can’t deflect and we can’t dissemble. We need to look to the future and create the books that women need to read now. We’ve been shown our potential. To rise to it is our obligation.

And this is where it gets tricky, because as a community, we have to do the one thing that romance has never taught us how to do: breakup.

It’s okay to grieve the loss here. It’s healthy. After all, in a relationship as long as the one that romance has shared with these familiar behaviours, there were good times, and we should acknowledge that our relationship with these behaviours was healthy for a time. They allowed to us to begin hoping for women’s sexual authority and gratification. They allowed us to write and publish the first descriptions of women’s sexual desire and satisfaction in such a way that she didn’t have to die at the end for the ignominy of having enjoyed an orgasm.

Our decision to move forward now—to recognise the toxic underpinnings that exist underneath these behaviours��doesn’t erase the good aspects. It just recognises that this relationship has run its course, and that we as a genre have grown beyond it.

Be strong, because no break up is easy, and this one is especially hard. There is still seduction in stolen kisses. An intense romantic onslaught can still provoke excitement.

We have been conditioned to respond to coercion. The pursuit. The games. The inclination to play hard to get. The value judgements wrapped up in our responses to our bodies and our desires.

I read an article once that said you should never trust your first response, because that is how you’ve been trained to respond—by your family, teachers, the media, society. Your first response is your conditioned response. But the second response, which follows immediately afterwards, is your thinking response.

We have been conditioned to respond to coercion. Now it’s time to start relying on our thinking response.

And part of this breakup needs to include compassion for ourselves for the things we weren’t yet aware of. We must forgive ourselves for not knowing what we didn’t know until we learned it. But we do know better now, and that comes with an obligation to do better.

Much of my thinking here has been informed by sex positivity, and how it can be applied to fictional worlds. There are two key principles to the movement: first, active, informed consent in all aspects of sexuality, and second, anything that happens between consenting adults is natural. I particularly like how principle the first flows into principle the second: if you have active, informed consent, then anything consenting adults do afterwards is natural.

And yes, it means consent for everything. Recognising the heroine’s bodily autonomy, her right to decide what happens to it at every point is crucial to these discussions. We need to divorce the idea of sexy from the idea of surprise. Your heroine can be pursued, but she must not be prey.

It means empowering your heroine’s choices—write that contraception scene. This is the genre where it should become so ingrained that women engage only in safe sex—protecting themselves and their partners—that it becomes cliche. Empower your heroines to demand safety, and empower your heroes to deliver it without being asked.

Write options. Secret babies are a treasured part of our genre, but unwanted pregnancies have serious financial, emotional, and professional repercussions for women without a support system around them. Use this plot point, by all means, but be deliberate in your choices and don’t romanticise it. You don’t know who’s reading.

Progress isn’t made without sacrifice. Privilege isn’t shared if the privileged don’t make space beside ourselves. It won’t be an easy transition—none of it. But the alternative is to continue normalising coercion and domination and disrespect and powerlessness in our romantic relationships.

We are all in the business of imagination, and we’ve all chosen the genre of hope. I hope that you understand the power that you hold in your hands to influence the world and make it better. And I hope that you continue our long tradition of hoping for better lives for our heroines, and the heroines around the world who read these stories and learn to hope for themselves.

[spideychelle-romanogers]

oh! i was just thinking! can you do all of the headcanon questions for james parker???

Their physical weak spots

James has no reflexes. So going for his limbs is very effective. You could trip him in a second and it would take no time to use his arm to twist him to the ground. James also isn’t the kind to cry out when he’s in pain but that almost amplifies the sensation for him. He has more of a panic reaction, so essentially causing him any pain can be very crippling for his self-confidence, which is part of why he can be so mousy now.

Their emotional/moral weak spots

We can all just be grateful nothing has happened to his brother or aunt. He can’t bare another loss. James tends towards either a very euphoric state or a very depressed one. Since he’s never really sought out help anytime something has happened (with his parents or Ben), I don’t think he really knows how to cope with loss and another hit could deeply wound him.

Scars or painful spots

He’s got a few minor childhood scars from one too many risks he took with his bike or in the park. He has a very limited ability to judge the extent of his abilities. He often thinks he’s braver or stronger than he is. He’s probably all marked up but so subtly no one could really tell. 

Best places to kiss on their body

Not to be a sap or anything but the second I saw this question I just imagined someone kissing him on the cheek and tbh his entire face scrunches up like he’s the happiest human on this planet. He turns completely red, he kind of freezes and doesn’t know what to do but he loves it. He normally doesn’t like being touched but once he really knows and likes someone I feel like there’s nothing cuter than that reaction. That just tore me up ngl.

Guilty pleasures

James and Peter used to have a lot of video games when they were kids. He would sell his soul to play again. It’s almost an addiction, because most of the reason they got it taken away was because James gets obsessed with whatever new game he gets. Eventually he’ll learn to curb this but for now if you mention a video game he’ll launch into a giant speech before ending on “not that I care or anything. I don’t play video games.”

Their vices (physical or emotional)

Aggression. Thankfully no one tries to hurt the people around him when he’s such easy prey. If he ever saw anyone taking aggression out on other people, he’d probably get very forceful. He forgets himself in his anger, and he has such a high threshold for rage with everything else he goes through. Doubt. He has a hard time trusting people. He doesn’t even fully trust Ned, Michelle or Peter. The only person with his absolute trust is May. Which is saying a lot because he doesn’t actually have a reason to distrust the others. Lying. James couldn’t tell people the truth about his condition if he tried. He just doesn’t want to talk about it. Revenge, if he had a surefire way to make someone pay for what they’ve done,  he’ll take it.

Jealousy, his greatest vice, James would do anything to be like Peter and he’s spent his entire life fighting to compete. Peter has always stood as this goal for him. If he can be like Peter, or even beat him at something, then maybe he has a shot at living a normal life.

Their tickle spots

Jc everywhere. I mean he hates being touched, but once he’s okay with it he’s still super sensitive. Just touch him and he cries out. He also kind of enjoys it. He hates his laugh though. When he’s being tickled it gets into this high pitch that people think is hilarious.

Bad memories/experiences

James actually hates thinking about the times where he’d just shut down. Every day was a struggle for him because he watched people break down over his behavior but he also couldn’t exactly change things. He just felt like he couldn’t talk anymore, and he couldn’t force himself back into talking, so he just had to sit there and watch his family members crumble as if he was doing something selfish.

Fears/phobias

Pity. James can’t stand to be treated like he needs some kind of treatment for nothing other than the way he was born. That isn’t fair to him. He tries so hard, so much harder than everyone else, to accomplish the same things. To be given free handouts of compassion because people want to see him as some freak, that’s his living nightmare.

Bad or petty habits

He basically doesn’t trust anyone. And if you had even a little of his trust but then lose it, you’re hardpressed to ever get that back.

Grudges and vendettas

Nada. No one’s ever spited him too badly.

What gets them flustered

Any affection or praise whatsoever makes him squirm. In a good way, but still he shrinks into himself because he can’t believe he did anything to deserve that sort of kindness. He loves the attention, though, don’t ever let him fool you.

Ingrained habits/forces of habit

Corrects even minimal mistakes, especially when it comes to grammar. Forgets to take in the emotional implication of words.

He never corrects, judges, criticizes, or even remarks on anything Peter does because he just assumes Peter is doing the right thing, in the most passive aggressive way possible.

What it takes to make them cry

Hurt his family. Tell him he’s nothing more than his condition. Remind him he’ll never be as good as Peter, because that’s all he ever really thinks about when he’s feeling low.

Dark secrets/’skeletons in the closet’

All he wants is to beat Peter sometimes. It’s sad but true. People make him think Peter is what his life would be if he hadn’t be born the way he is. Nothing in his life has led him to think he can be his own person. He hates living like that.

Regrets

Letting any and all competition or goals consume him. That he never relaxes.

Things they’ll never admit

That he feels anything but love for Peter. 

People they’ve hurt or indirectly killed, and how it affected them

No one.

What-ifs/Alternate Timelines

In a world where James was bitten and not Peter, James never would have had the impatient impulses that Peter does. He doesn’t want to prove himself. He just wants to help people.

 In a world where he ended up with Michelle, that relationship would not have been anywhere close to perfect but it would have been decently okay.

Turning points in their life

James was very sheltered before his parents died. No one dared mess with their family, so all he ever knew was pity from others. He was used to everyone being nice to him for no reason at all.  After their parents died and they started going to another school, James started getting bullied for the first time in his life and he realized that people would start to treat him worse than they would his brother.

Still, he’s learned to appreciate the reality of this situation. It hurts. It’s sad. It’s painful, but it’s real. He’s not being lied to all the time. That’s worth it, in his opinion. He finally gets to see the world for what it is.

 People who’ve influenced them greatly

Peter, of course, just because James does everything he can to be just like or better than Peter at everything. Peter doesn’t know he’s competitive, and James doesn’t mean to be, but it’s true.

When the Parker twins were dropped on her lap, May did not know anything about autism, nor did she really understand that James was different. For a few weeks, she and James had a hard time adjusting to each other. James liked that she wasn’t treating him differently than she treated Peter. When Peter outed him, James was very upset, but May didn’t change much because she didn’t know what to do about it. This was the best part about her. All she could do was try her best and that meant more than enough to James. 

If he succeeds at anything in life, it’ll be to show people the kind of compassion May has shown him in just doing her best to understand him. She’s perfect because she’s imperfect to him. He doesn’t know how to tell her, but she is his role model. Whatever other successes he meets, he wants to have a heart like hers.

[itsmooglepom-blog]

How I Learned to Not Hate Myself (And Other Women)

I grew up in the 90’s, and like most other millennials, I flourished in a unique and unusual time span also known as “The Age of Technology.” With the revolution of the internet and the explosiveness of the media, it was (and still is) easier than ever to spread thoughts, notions, and ideas.

During my most formative years, I was a huuuuuuuuge “Tomboy.” Imagine: A small girl who fancied video games, comic books, action figures, and computers as opposed to the expected barbies, baby dolls, purses, ponies, and/or anything else obnoxiously pink. Don’t worry- Even as a romp I had my fair share of stuffed animals, too, you can ask my mom. She had a hay day when she finally donated them all to the Salvation Army, believe me. Not many girls were very nice to me when I was in elementary school. The majority of my friends were boys. I saw girls as these mean, catty creatures I didn’t understand. I avoided them and refused to associate myself with them. I was DIFFERENT. Even at a young age, we’re taught to compete. And in this competition, I wanted nothing more than to WIN. Even from as far as I can remember, I didn’t want to be like “other girls.” Being like “other girls” meant you were bland, boring, and outright insufferable. It meant you didn’t have any ideas of your own and you conformed to a predictable stereotype. Girls were seen as weak and incapable. If you did something “like a girl” it was seen as an insult. And, of course, I did not want to be insulted. Why would I want that? I had a lot going for me, I already didn’t like the same things I thought other girls liked, so I was good.  …Right?

These impressions became fundamentally etched into my being. They allowed me to be “The Cool Girl™” and quickly I adopted the moniker of “One of the Guys.” Because, to me, being (like) a guy was way more desirable than identifying as a girl. Sometimes, I would even say things like, “Aren’t you glad I’m not like those other girls? They’d be mad if you said/did xxxxxx thing. But not me.” I was an obelisk of obscurity, a commodity to be coveted.

Latching on to those sentiments was so easy for me. I didn’t have a great history in dealing with other double x chromosomes; it just fit like glove. Throughout junior high and high school, I had a handful of female friends, but only clung to those with similar interests. I recall very distinctly feeling both a sense of jealousy and superiority toward other girls simultaneously. Jealousy because I suffered through unsurmountable insecurity as a teenager, and superiority because I was nestled in the perfect presumption that I would always be better or smarter than them collectively. These were thoughts that existed somewhere deep, down in the darkest reaches of my being only to resurface later in life.

As I got older and matured, I found myself in some questionably abusive relationships. Often, I would agree with their misogynistic tendencies and somehow blame myself for the mistreatment I endured. These types of relationships became a pattern, resulting in a few different things: -Me hitting rock bottom in terms of dealing with my own self-esteem.

-My hatred for other women reaching an all time high.

-The eventual realization of how and why I was wrong all along.

These realizations started in my early twenties. Becoming an adult was exceedingly difficult for me, because I already had so much mental and emotional baggage I lugged with me. Around the age of 22, I started getting over an eating disorder I had been battling. Anorexia was a problem of mine that stretched from my teenage years to my early adulthood. And, admittedly, it’s all because of misogyny.

The magazines, the ads, the books, the posters; every where you looked, there was a thin, beautiful woman in your face. That was desirable. That was what I needed to be. What I needed to maintain. Sometimes, I would eat only a small sandwich and a banana in a day. Other times, I would restrict myself to oatmeal and juice. I kept justifying why I wouldn’t eat to make myself feel better. “Oh, I’ve been so busy with work. I didn’t have time to stop and eat.” I’d be with guy friends and they’d see an overweight woman jogging and it was open season. “Haha. Look at that fatty!” They would cry out, laughing.

I felt a knot in my stomach, it didn’t feel right to judge her. I mean, she was trying! Look, there she is! Making an effort!

“At least she’s running, though!” I replied, vehemently trying to defend her.

“Yeah! Running to go eat a donut, I’m sure.” One of them would bleat. I knew that feeling. I spent endless hours at the gym doing cardio to punish myself for a single cosmic brownie I didn’t have the will power to say no to. I would run and sweat and sweat and run, until my face was numb. Sometimes, I saw double. I remember looking in the mirror, blacking out, and waking up on the floor with a bump on my head. I was so dedicated to confining myself within this small body. I wasn’t allowed to take up space. Eating less and working out more was the answer. My overall health didn’t matter as long as I was “desirable.”

Fitness and gym culture became a large influence on my day to day life. One of my other more prominent epiphanies resulted from a common argument: “Why do girls wear makeup to the gym?” At first, I assumed it’s because they want “attention.” They must be there with a full face of foundation, perfect eyebrows, and contoured cheeks because they NEED constant validation. I mulled it over and realized that my views were a result of internalized misogyny. Not everything women do is a performative action to appeal to men. Women wear makeup for a plethora of different reasons. And the fact that I wanted to knock them for it was simply out of jealousy. I wasn’t brave enough to wear makeup to the gym, nor did I ever look as good as they did while doing it. Why did I even care in the first place? What caused me to be so brash? Why did I want so badly to dislike someone for something so simple? I became honest with myself and the answers flowed in. As a result, more topics of scrutiny  began to arise. Dress codes, for example: I used to think that women should cover themselves as to avoid negative attention from the male gaze. I recalled the abuse I dealt with and how I was called a whore, a slut, a skank, you name it, for wearing a skirt, a tight shirt, and eyeliner. When discussing sexual assault or rape, people say things like, “Look how she was dressed! She deserved it!” trying to place blame on the victim as opposed to the perpetrator. I thought of myself, as a victim of rape and assault. I thought of how my abuser tried to make it my fault and how I reflected those actions unto others in the same situation. The fact of the matter is, a lot less rapes would happen if a lot less people would stop raping other people. Period.

My early twenties consisted of working in a largely male-dominated industry. I was often the butt of jokes, the target of blatant sexism, and a victim of harassment. A lot of my male coworkers expected me to balk to this behavior, but I was growing ever tired of the constant barrage of backhanded remarks and unwanted advances. I was accused of working at a video game store to “impress men.” But, I wasn’t. That wasn’t my intention at all. I loved video games. I always had. Yet, now, somehow, I had to PROVE that I loved them and that it wasn’t for attention. I saw myself as the woman in the gym with makeup, the one who wore it just to wear it, but got accused of doing it for someone else. Everything was starting to make sense to me. All of these circumstances were linked. My hatred toward women was more of a coping mechanism than anything else. It let me feel better about myself and provided me with a false sense of security. What I kept forgetting is that *I’m* also a woman, no matter how much I try to set myself apart. I couldn’t justify the disdain.

Ironically, fitness also acted as a significant step in my healing process. I connected with women who power lift and dare to look “masculine” without fear of judgement or ridicule. I learned to eat and treat food and respected my body as a vessel of my mind, as opposed to a temple of temptation. I started lifting weights and doing yoga. It was for me. Not for anyone else. And it felt great. I started wearing compression shorts, not to show off, but to be comfortable in my movement. Each time I would stretch them up my waist and walk out the door, I would recall how I used to see women who would wear them and think to myself, “How wrong was I!?”

What remains constant is that women can (and should) like what they want, but it never comes without ridicule. Ridicule is a reaction that is bred from one of three things: envy, projection, or insecurity. People are so ingrained to automatically have contempt for anything a woman does. Society takes any and every chance it gets to paint women in a negative light and perpetuate the terrible stereotype that has become commonplace. When you start seeing women as people with value, and not as objects, competition, or second class citizens to scorn, you become more satisfied with yourself as a result.

Internalized misogyny is a very real thing. It’s what caused me to see myself as less of a person due to my gender, develop an eating disorder, allow myself to be abused, and convinced me that I should act a certain way just so I could be called “cool.” That’s right, I used bigotry against other women just to gain brownie points with other people. And I’m not proud of it. What’s important is that I admit it, and hopefully my honesty will influence others to understand how easy it is to fall prey to this phenomenon.

Women are wonderful. Women are powerful. And there’s nothing to be ashamed of if you’re a woman.

[aurorascripallus-blog]

Their Manic Pixie Dream Girl

Their Manic Pixie Dream Girl.

She was their manic pixie dream girl. All they saw was a pretty face. For when they saw her walking down the street, their eyes would involuntarily latch on. They’d see her glide down the pavement and, with their breath caught in their throats, they’d swear that her feet never touched the ground. All they saw was a pretty face. For she had hair that moved with a life of it’s own, dancing, swaying, breathing under their clammy fingers and her eyes, oh they held storms of a thousand whispers, whispers that threatened to leak through her plush lips. All they saw was a pretty face. But they should know that pretty is never just pretty. Pretty can be ugly.

She wasn’t just a pretty face. But who would believe that perfectly manicured nails would chip in the middle of the night, straight white teeth biting at them, anxiety clawing at them. She was more than just a pretty face. But how could you possibly know? You would never see the trenches mined under her eyes by ghosts that tore at her chest in the middle of the night, drawing terrors so cold that you’d faint at the shrill screams that never escaped her perfectly molded chest. She wasn’t just a pretty face. But you wouldn’t want to believe. Because how is it fair that a pretty face could be pretty and like you? No, she was too pretty to be intelligent and too entrancing to be authentic. At least, that’s what she heard people say, as she shed tears that didn’t grieve the earth. She wanted to scream at them, she wanted to fight and rise and burn, but a good girl never did any of those things. A good girl was submissive. And she was ingrained with submissiveness. So she sealed her lips and covered them with a second layer, a layer that would mechanically laugh and smile and parrot pretty things.

She never memorized proof tables, for she could draw the lines between each hypothesis and each law as easily as she could draw the lines of her own name. She untangled physics the way you might untangle a knotted necklace, cautiously at first, but speedily and surely later. Formulas slipped out of her intoxicating lips as easily as fake laughter did. She might have gotten B’s in high school, but she did so without ever opening a book, only solving questions an hour before every exam. She never felt the need for poetry to be explained for she felt poetry with a heart that thumped with the poet’s passion and a pulse that jumped in time with the rhythm. She tasted every word in every book, felt every emotion, and died every death. No, she had a beautifully sculpted mind.

 But haven’t you learned? Beauty is a crystal blue lake that hid crystal clear beasts. For her mind was drowning in oceans of demons that refused to let her sleep. Demons that screamed failure at her. Failure, even though she has had the material memorized since day one. Failure, even though she solved every question in every practice sheet flawlessly. Failure, even if she got the highest score in her math class. Failure. Always failure. Failure, even if she succeeds.

Sometimes she wished she were just a pretty face, with a very pretty smile, for in this world we prey on women who think. Scott Fitzgerald once wrote, “I hope she’ll be a fool, for that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.” But then she’d catch herself, the same way she’d catch herself whenever she leaned into submissiveness, for if she was their beautiful little marionette, then she was insignificant. She would stay still and lifeless until a man picks up her hook and gives it twirl. And she could never be insignificant. It was her greatest fear. Sometimes she wonders if it’s because of all the people that thought her to be a manic pixie dream girl, a divine being that’s beyond insignificance, or because of all the people that left her behind when they realized she wasn’t.  

 Her holiness isn’t bestowed upon her by God, but by the halo you shackle her in. You consecrate her to be your hallow ground, and lay a bed of daises on her in order to ‘save her’. Even churches have their graveyards, and the dead never rise up. No matter how many flowers you smother her in! She isn’t your fallen angel. She’s just fallen. You tell her you want to see her real smile, but you never will for her real smile would only appear at night, lighting up her room, shedding light on the pages of the books that she so happily consumed. Her nights were as bright as the burning stars, for that’s when she lived her thousand lives. But you’d never bask in that starlight, for her real smile never came in front those who thought she was but a pretty face, and so those who thought her to be but a pretty face never saw more than a pretty face, and so she remained just a pretty face, cursed to roam this earth haunted by the ghosts of those who thought her to be arcane and out of this world, only to leave her once they’ve solved the mystery, never staying, never lingering, always leaving. 

[theonceoverthinker]

Marital Bliss? : Prologue

Summary: Angered by Rumple’s last-second clause to her curse and her mind changed by a passive aggressive move on her mother’s part, Regina decides to marry him off to his archenemy, Killian Jones. Twenty-eight years later, and the couple are living a happy life together, but when Rumple is awoken from the curse, what will it spell for their relationship?

Disclaimer: I don’t own Once Upon a Time or Once Upon a Time in Wonderland or any associated characters.

 A/N: So, it’s been over two years since I first published this story, and finally, I decided to bring it to Tumblr!

Now for a bit of context! A few years ago, I came across a few posts joking about Rumple and Killian’s relationship and pretending it was romantic. I thought they were funny, but mostly shrugged them off. However, after a night out with a former Once buddy (who is still a buddy buddy and the best buddy to ever buddy) where we roleplayed Rumple and Killian bowling together in a comedic setting, Afterwards, I began to get curious and looked into the Golden Hook tag. Needless to say, I had a very fun time (Read: I read almost every fic in the tag). After about an hour of browsing and reading, it became my favorite crack ship! I think, just as characters, they have some of the best chemistry on the show, and arguably have one of the most important relationships given how they are foils to one another in many respects.

I’ve seen a couple of users come up with the idea of Hook and Rumple being married under the Dark Curse (Specifically, "He Asked for Comfort” by Crysania and "Fool's Gold" by Akaiba, both of which can be found on tumblr and AO3), but I wanted to expand on the basic premise and delve more into how it would affect the two going forward for the series after. My plan is for the story to be spread all the way from before the First Curse to the end of the Frozen Arc.

As I said before, I’ve been working on this fic for a little over two years. Obviously, if I only had one chapter (and a short one at that) to show for it, that would be pretty pathetic. I actually have fifteen chapters at the time of this posting. However, while of course you’re free to check out the rest of them on either my AO3 or fanfiction.net accounts (ProtoChan is my username), I’m currently re-editing every chapter so I can get them in their best form, so if you’re interested, I’d appreciate if you just be patient with me so you can get the best reading experience! Thanks!

This fic has been a real passion project of mine, and given the unorthodox pairing, especially given the fandom neck of the woods I’m usually in, it’s been a fun writing challenge! I write for it everyday in some capacity and it makes me feel so good having something I can consistently do. I hope anyone who reads it has a good time!

Without further adieu, please enjoy!

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                                                   Prologue

“My Queen!” Regina’s slave’s sky blue visage plastered itself over every mirror in the Queen’s chambers; there were panicked features everywhere she looked. He appeared a little after her now late father’s corpse had fallen cold on the floor, just as soon as Regina had finished gathering the dust that surrounded her feet and placed them into something she could carry. 

A slammed door in the face was the response the Magic Mirror received to his cry for answers. Regina wasn’t in the mood to give him what he wanted, though really, when it came to her servant, she never was.

This time though, she shared in his panic and despair. How could she not?

Daddy is dead.

The thought struck once more, like a bell that was repeatedly chimed on the hour at a church.

Her father was now dead, his body that was once so open and comforting was now still as a stone, and it was all thanks to her.

All magic came with a price. That was the mantra that had been ingrained into every step of Regina’s magical training since the beginning. It made sense that the price for her revenge would be as steep as it was, and Regina felt silly in hindsight for thinking something as relatively small as her steed would suffice in its place. The casting of the Dark Curse was to be her Magnum Opus, so to speak.

…That didn’t make crushing her father’s heart any easier.

The fact was, like it or not, the deed was done and Prince Henry was no more. Regina’s adrenaline had all but run out and the guilt was beginning to settle like sand on the ocean floor after a hurricane. She decided that needed to get him out of her thoughts, for if she didn’t, he would remain there, trickling doubt into her mind like rain on a roof. If he stayed in there long enough, she feared she would end up taking the his advice, and talking herself out of ultimately casting her curse like a fool. The last of the ingredients needed was said to arrive in just a few hours, and there was little preparation to be done elsewhere. All that sat before her was time, time begging to be filled.

The Evil Queen had taken to pacing across one of the castle’s many long hallways, her form moving back and forth gracefully across the floor. It wasn’t much, not as conventionally distracting as having her way with her prized Huntsman, but it kept her heart racing and her anger sharp, the latter of which she could never have during sex. Wax dripped down the candles lined up along the walls of the scantily lit space and the only sound present was the sound of the tapping of her shoes as she treaded the stone ground. Regina had soundproofed the hallway beside her bedroom as well as banished all mirrors with a wave of her hand. Though her guards were no strangers to her fits of rage, she’d rather not have anyone hear her right now, just in case her latest murder plagued upon her heart too much for her to mask the guilt.

Regina tried to focus on her triumph. Here she was, The Evil Queen, mere hours away from casting her curse. At last, Snow White would pay for Daniel’s demise, and the fates would regret the day they ever frowned down on her. She had prepared the location, and had stolen nearly all of the ingredients she formerly needed other villains for, the last of which was presently en route to her castle. No, after the failure that was her first attempt, she would not waste time with underlings at her side during what was truly only her moment of victory.

Or rather, she wished she would not have to.

Unfortunately though, to even attempt to cast the curse this time, she had had to reach for the help of one other monster, one who unlike the others, wasn’t as easy to rob of his contribution.

Rumpelstiltskin.

In that moment, one of her problems was solved.

No, don’t think of Daddy. Don’t even think of your victory. Think of that imp instead. This is his fault after all.

The late Henry, whenever Regina thought about him, ushered love into her heart, and unfortunately, accompanying that love was a sickly sense of doubt.

Rumpelstiltskin, on the other hand, she could let consume her thoughts.

He didn’t fill her with doubt like her father did. What he did fill her with was venom, venom as repulsive to the soul as the monster’s visage was to the eyes.

“Comfort! He wants comfort,” Regina called out to no one in particular, nearly in hysterics as she circled the room once more. “I’ll give him comfort,” she mumbled.

Regina hardly understood it. Well, she did understand it, but she wasn’t exactly happy about her circumstances.

The cost of the curse was bad enough. Now though, the casting of the Dark Curse was set to take place this very evening, and yet, somehow, at the very last second, Rumpelstiltskin, the weasel that he was, got to put in a clause for comfort, wealth, and anything else he wanted that was accompanied by the word “please.” Regina wanted to believe that the deal would amount to nothing, but she, despite her protests, knew better than to assume as much when it came to her mentor.

How did he get the upper hand? I’m the one casting this curse here! He’s the prisoner, rotting behind bars!

She wished that Rumpelstiltskin was guilty of this insult alone, but it was clear once and for all that this just wasn’t the case. This was merely the golden straw that broke the crowned camel’s back, so to speak. When Rumple had first came into her life, he was almost equal parts a fairy godfather and a frightening new threat at the same time. After all, his ways, vicious as they were, were what ultimately led to her mother’s banishment from her realm. How could she not see him to at least some degree as someone to be trusted, especially once he began to teach her magic? However, it had become clearer as the year leading up to her curse had progressed. Regina had begun to see the push and pull that was her mentor’s handiwork as harsher and harsher decisions made with her goal still unresolved, and not from a lack of trying. Like the piece of the tapestry that at last revealed the grand design, this one confrontation finally showed off the imp’s true abilities and intentions. He made her his pawn for reasons unknown, and that fact shook every fiber of Regina’s being to the core with boiling resentment.

Once again, that little Imp has taken influence over me. This was supposed to finally be my moment of triumph, where everyone was to fall prey to me and me alone! But still, even as I am about to accomplish my greatest feat, he crawled his way back into power.

Maybe there’s still a way that I can make him pay…

Regina’s musings, while only in their infancy, were put on hold. A door slammed open. A guard, cloaked in dark armor and metals of the earth, as all of her knights were, approached. Regina greeted him with a steely, unforgiving glare.

“My Queen,” the guard started, his voice stiff with obedience. “We have urgent need for you in the dungeon. In your absence, a man appeared in the throne room right before the throne itself in a cloud of purple smoke. We moved him to the dungeon until you could come and see him, but I wish to note that he was gagged and tied up when he appeared. He attempted to fight us off, but we rendered him unconscious swiftly. He was no match.”

In a huff, Regina rushed into the dungeon, only raising a flawless eyebrow upon glancing at the person of focus in the back of the cell.

Well, at least my guards are honest.

Just as the guard had said, a man was incapacitated and tied up right on top of the bed in his cell. What the guard had neglected to point out, however, was the identity of the prisoner. Had it not been for the unusual mode of entry into the castle, she may have just shrugged him off as an ally of Snow White’s. This man, however, was not just an ordinary peasant.

This was Captain Hook.

Also known as Killian Jones, he was the infamous one-handed and one-hooked pirate of legends, known for terrorizing the seas on his ship, the Jolly Roger as well as his quest to seize the Dark One’s life.

Until this moment, he was also her employee.

Yesterday, she had sent Hook to go kill her mother, and bring back her body. However, if the sight before her was any indication, it looked like he had failed at his task.

I should have known better than to trust others to take care of my dirty work.

Regina walked towards her prisoner, a fireball emerging from her right hand, as she glared at him. She never did enjoy incinerating inanimate objects. All it made for was a mess and a waste of possessions.

Humans, even unconscious ones, on the other hand, made for much more amusing targets.

Oh pirate, you’re about to learn what happens when you let down your queen!

Just as the Regina was about to prepare a roasted pirate, she stopped in her tracks, for something had caught the corner of her eye.

A white envelope with a small red heart upon the seal was popping out of Hook’s jacket pocket, standing out from his all black clothing. Regina extinguished the fireball, and gently took the letter into her hand. She broke the seal, and opened the envelope.

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Dearest Regina,

Has your disappointment with you life grown to the point where you truly wish to end my life?

If you do, I suggest trying harder.

I take pride in not making things easy.

May I suggest coming by yourself next time?

Minions can only be counted on for so much.

Anyway, take pride in your power now, but know that we’ll be reunited just as soon as this curse is lifted.

In the meantime, have fun with this little present.

I’m sure you can fit him in there somehow.

Best of luck!

Love,

Mother

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Regina clenched her free fist, and glowered at the letter before her. Now her mother was mocking her? Reminding herself of the company in the dungeon, she did her best to hide her rage. Once again, Cora escaped retribution, still one step ahead of Regina’s wrath.

Just like Rumpelstiltskin…

Regina’s attention was drawn once again to Hook’s unconscious body as it laid before her. She remembered when the two of them first allied against her mother. Regina was so sure Hook would be capable of a much better job with the promise of revenge on Rumpelstiltskin upon her mother’s death, considering his almost obsessive passion when it came to killing The Dark One. She even had him kill his own father as a test of his abilities when dealing with matters of the heart, and he did it!

And look at you now as you lay bound, gagged, and with every bit of dignity taken away from you.

What a miserable little worm. If Hook couldn’t take down Cora, what hope did he have in taking down…?

Regina froze in her tracks, an evil grin quickly appearing on her face.

Hmm. How funny.

I come across not just one person that I hate, but two. Two souls who can’t stand one another, and here I stand, on the crux of altering their very fates.

Perhaps I can get my revenge on this failure of a pirate and Rumpelstiltskin all in one fell swoop.

The only question was how. She couldn’t make Rumple suffer; that was part of their deal. Comfort. As for Hook, well, a one-sided hatred hardly changed anything for either of them. Hook’s soul was already tortured by hating the Dark One. How could she make it worse?

Hmmm…

Regina decided to cast the curse so Snow White would suffer. The only thing was, the girl would be deprived of her memory after the fact. However, in order to ensure Snow’s pain, she would still suffer from the absence of love, but also the feeling that love was supposed to be there.

That got Regina pondering.

…Could the opposite work too? How would it feel to have love, but to wonder how that love could be, to have something feel weird, almost wrong about it, but not wish to do anything to stop it?

Why not stick two souls who repel each other at every turn…together?

At the very least, it could be worth a laugh.

“I promised Rumpelstiltskin comfort, and what could be more comforting than the company of a loving husband,” Regina mused, sarcasm practically dripping off her tongue.

“Guards,” Regina called, her voice harsh and a stark contrast to the otherwise silent room. Immediately, the two guards in the prisoner’s hallway were at her side. “You are to ensure that our newest guest stays exactly in place. Make sure that he remains alive and in captivity until the curse is cast, unless you want me to make you the ants beneath my feet in the next world.”

Can I even do that? Who knows!

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the guards chorused before situating themselves outside the cell doors.

“This,” Regina said, ecstasy appearing on her face, “will be rich.”

Regina started for the dungeon’s exit. There was no further need for her presence there. Her shoes began to click against the stone once more as she began to depart from the damp, dark, depressing corridor.

Then, something stopped her. It wasn’t a guard and surely not her father.

What it was was a nagging notion. It was the threat of a loose thread, and it all stemmed from the very cell next to her newest captive.

It was the cell that contained Belle.

Capturing The Dark One’s beloved was a victory that gave Regina much pride. It was a victory of hers that while never expressed to him, would be a cause for despair that would loom over her monstrous mentor for the remainder of his days. She may have lost her love, but up until she spied upon the Dark Castle and seen them together, she assumed he never had any at all. Then the plan struck, and it had all felt right. Even before she fully understood Rumpelstiltskin’s dark shadow over her in its entirety, she did have her suspicions that he saw her solely as a pawn to at least some degree. Well, if she was to suffer for her stable boy, then he would suffer with the absence of his maid.

Regina stared into the door of Belle’s cell. Belle was asleep on her cot, the sole sheet that rested above her clutched tightly within fists for warmth. All of the cells were kept cold to torture her victims. The low temperatures would keep those she had deemed worthy of being her prisoners weak and at the same time, make sleeping a challenge. She never made the cells too cold to the point where they would kill the captives before she could, but never allowed them to stay warm enough where they could be called comfortable. With time, it drove more than a few of the captives mad from being forcibly kept awake with nothing to occupy the misery and pain that many hours the days supplied. Belle had been resilient. She complained about her conditions, but never brought forward any information on her lover in hopes of bringing her torture to a premature end nor had she gone insane herself.

What should I do with you, child?

As long as Belle was within the confines of the Enchanted Forest, she’d be included with the curse. Of course, Regina could control the girl’s fate, just as she planned to do with everyone else. She’d come up with a couple of plans for Belle, but nothing had felt quite right.

But upon thinking about Rumple’s love life, Regina had started to question her tactics. After all, Belle and Rumpelstiltskin had True Love. It wasn’t strong enough to break the Dark One’s curse, sure, but in a new land, one where her mentor wouldn’t have magic to hold onto like a crutch, their love could grow to be so.

Regina had read enough magical texts to know the one threat to her victory.

True Love’s Kiss.

She supposed she could keep the two lovers apart, but with both Rumple’s new clause and her familiarity with the tendencies of lovers to end up together, Regina began to doubt the practicality of that move. Besides, if Rumple were to ever discover her deception, he would give her more trouble than even Snow and Charming could.

No. It wouldn’t do at all.

She began thinking up another plan for Belle.

The thought of simply killing Belle came up, but the notion brought with it too many unpleasant memories of an equally kind heart that not one hour ago sat in her hand, unwilling to be crushed, but done so regardless. Her stomach churned as she relived seeing a familiar set of eyes lose all semblance of life. Even the idea of having a guard perform the action was enough to make her queasy.

No, there has to be another way.

Perhaps I should just leave her out of the curse altogether and be done with it?

Time was running short. Virtually all of the Enchanted Forest was to be consumed by the Dark Curse.

That wasn’t about to stop her though. Regina had just the thing to make that problem but a tiny detour in her grand scheme.

Jefferson’s Hat.

Her decision final, Regina got right to work. With a call, another guard was at her side. She led her silently into Belle’s cell and ordered the guard to gently take Belle into her arms. She had no doubt that if Belle woke up, she’d be able to render her unconscious once more, but she’d prefer to reserve her magic for the time of the curse and even with the assistance of her guard, Regina preferred to spare herself another hope speech that Belle had made a habit of giving every time she visited.

I almost pity my guards for having to deal with it on a daily basis.

Regina and her guard, with Belle-in-hands, made their way back to Regina’s private chambers. Regina opened her armoire, careful not to look towards the left side, where a mirror that told her a very unsatisfying truth once stood, and took out a box. Inside it, there was a black and orange top hat. Some would call it audacious in its design and impractical to say the least. However, much like herself, beyond appearances was where its true complexities waited to be found.

Without another moment to lose, Regina cleared off the center of the room and dropped the hat.

Alright, now just as Jefferson did it.

Regina gave the top hat a spin, and stepped back. Just as it had on her last trip, a purple swirling vortex emerged from the hat’s surface. Wind blew around the room, darkness took over what used to be eloquent castle walls, and papers flurried through the air like leaves during autumn.

“Excellent,” Regina commented. She signaled towards the guard with her head. “Into the hat, with the girl,” she ordered. The guard, who to her credit only gave off the impression that she was somewhat shaken, nodded.

“Y-yes, my Queen,” she spoke, aged and obedient, before jumping into the portal. Regina waited a moment before following.

As she landed, Regina decided to use a small bit of magic to ease her fall. The guard, not given the same luxury, seemed to be in quite a deal of pain, but kept to her task, and Belle, as it was, was still somehow asleep.

I’m beginning to think that the wrong princess got the nickname “Sleeping Beauty.”

Regina looked around. The duo and Belle found themselves in a circular room with all manner of doors positioned among the edges. Each door had a unique design, associated closely with the foreign worlds they led to. Regina had studied the hat after locking Jefferson in Wonderland, and her independent pursuits alongside the knowledge that her mentor had given her allowed her to conclude that almost every door would lead to a land unaffected by her curse.

Now the question begs: Where should I put her?

The problem with most of the lands in the hat was that getting back to the Enchanted Forest was all too possible. Knowing Belle, she would be crafty enough to easily find a way to return to their realm, possibly even before the curse was cast, and Regina wasn’t about to have that. No, the clichés of romance were not to win the day, not on her watch, at least.

Regina analyzed the doors, taking into account their strengths and weaknesses. She knew one place where Belle was definitely not going to end up was in Wonderland. Regina didn’t even spare the Looking Glass more than a passing glance before looking to the next door on the right. All Belle would need to do was say one unintentionally useful word to her mother and she’d find a way to use it and make her daughter’s life hellish, even more than she already had.

As Regina continued to go over the doors, she became increasingly displeased with her findings. They were all upon the Enchanted Forest’s border, and with a few hours until her curse was to be cast, Regina simply didn’t feel safe with any of the choices, even with a guard left at Belle’s side. After all, she had put up with Rumpelstiltskin somehow for months on end. Regina had a feeling that one guard, especially a recently injured one, wasn’t about to deter her.

Finally, though, fate seemed to smile upon Regina.

Out of the corner of her eye, ironically enough, directly next to the Looking Glass she earlier denied, Regina saw an emerald green door. The door was built as to look like a curtain, and had two symmetrical handles with the letter “Z” inside an “O.”

“Oz,” she mused. Regina had never been there before personally, but had had read books about the world. She knew that it was a mystical land that while home to exceptional magical artifacts, was very difficult to get in or out of. There were rumors that one could only get to Oz from other realms by means of cyclones. The odds of that happening within a few hours were negligibly low.

“Perfect,” Regina whispered, a positively wicked grin appearing on her face. “Guard,” she called. “Drop her in here.”

“Of course,” the guard replied, opening the green door. 

Beyond the passageway, there was a dark, grassy field in the midst of a forest, with nary a soul in sight. The leaves on the trees blew softly and a light but present green glow was visible across the landscape, the only sign of any intelligent life.

Regina gestured for the guard to vacate her arms of Belle. The guard gave a curt nod and softly dropped her on the ground, careful to keep her in her sleeping state. Regina placed a hand on the guard’s shoulder right before she crossed the border into the world herself, lest her guard be victim to the hat’s rules of passage.

“The same amount of people that go through have to come back. No more, no less. It’s the hat’s rule.”

Speaking of…

She looked out into the horizon, and upon noticing several distinct bright yellow lights floating a small ways past the clearing, gestured for her guard again.

“Grab a single firefly and bring it back through the portal before the girl wakes. That will close the portal and prevent her from coming through,” Regina commanded.

“Yes, my Queen,” the guard repeated as she had what Regina predicted must have been at least a hundred times before. Regina, still inside the hat, stood and watched as her orders were acted out. When the mission was successfully accomplished, the guard came back through the door. As soon as she and the firefly passed through the threshold, the door slammed shut, and Regina imagined that it disappeared altogether from the other side. “It is done, your Majesty.”

“Very good,” Regina praised as the two left the black and orange vessel.

And indeed it was. To add icing to the cake, as soon as Regina and the guard came back into the room, another guard came by to announce the early arrival of the final ingredient for the curse.

Regina smiled cruelly and transported herself to where the ingredient was said to be. In under an hour, birthed through the rage of a father lost, she had accomplished quite a lot.

Vindication for the sins of her mentor.

Retribution for a job poorly done.

Catharsis from a world that rarely offered her anything outside of pain.

Soon, her ultimate revenge against Snow White would be complete, and despite the forces of the universe fighting her at every turn, she had all the cards in her hand.

Payback, as all who ever slighted her were soon to find out, was going to be a bitch.

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Yeah, so I’m not much of a braggart, but this chapter is an AMAZING improvement over the original! It’s amazing what two years of experience can do for a writer.

Thank you for reading! If you would like to review, I would appreciate it a lot! I love interacting with other fans, so go ahead, I don’t bite…much! XD

Anyway, have a great day, and I’ll see you in Chapter 2!

[gilstrad-sanbox]

In the ranks of the vampires, blood is always thicker than water. While it is the fountain that which flows through them and keeps their new life akindle, it is also beyond the symbol of the pact that they share as it is the pact itself. All vampires are connected through their progenitors, their makers, and the sires that they have surrendered their loyalty to in exchange of their vampiric nature. But while siring is just as simple as an exchange of blood, every vampire is beholden by rules that they adhere to not because they are submissive, it’s just that the rules ensure their survival – after all what is the use of the eternal life of pleasure and indulgence when one shall fall too quick and too easy? And so as vampires have come and go in the lands of Gilstrad, it is known that four vampire clans reign supreme and all of them have had their own territories within the mountains of Storvoss. But lately, there have been a rumors spreading around about a new clan is slowly growing in number, something that might threaten the balance that these three ancient progenitors have been striving to keep.

THE BLOODLINE OF THE MARQUIS GRIMALDI

The Grimaldus as everyone know them collectively, is the biggest and oldest vampire clan in Gilstrad and thus the most prestigious. Some say that it was because of their aggressive siring of humans from noble blood lines that have garnered this reputable esteem, though some say that it was more because of the fact that they weren’t picky; which in the end have proven beneficial to them since among all the clans, it is known that they have kinsmen throughout the lands that it is rumored that there are Grimaldusmen among the nobles of Highhost. But the most interesting rumor about the vampire clan is that their population has blurred the visibility of leadership. It is very much a natural course of socialization that there are little groups and factions within the clan and killing each other wasn’t unheard of. But still, the line remains unbroken because in truth, no one knows who the main progenitor is. Little was known of the real Grimaldi line and the marches that they own under their name. Some say that maybe it was a cover so no one would know his real identity since even the vampires say that the Marquis probably lives in the Foglands instead of their main stronghold of Zargossa. Either way, he seems to take pleasure in the politics between his ranks just as much as how the mere mention of the Grimaldus name brings a chill down the spine within every men and women in Gilstrad. Their bloodline is known for having greater mastery in glamer that the old vampires of the Grimaldi line can put a whole group under their mind’s power, even have a hypnotic hold on their victims forever.

THE BLOODLINE OF IVANOV MARKOSHA

If anyone has bolstered the reputation of the Storvoss Mountains, it would probably be the marauding vampires of the Markoshan line. With their grip very much firm in the lands of the Chasm and Ceresza, they are known for attacking caravans and even small villages with such boldness due to their greater talent in mastering the discipline of vampiric levitation. It is known that they have tapped onto their form of swarming bats to make them grow actual wings on their backs. It is with this talent that there are desolate mountain-castles that people take caution of riding along by in fear that they are Markoshan strongholds.

THE BLOODLINE OF KATARINA FEROVNAREN

Indulgence and luxury are the things that the Ferovnarens are known for as no one throws a party like the Great Lady Katarina – which was ironic as legend has it that Katarina was a woman with great devotion to the Cathedral that was enough to spur her into becoming a nun. But she went missing one night in the very confines of the convent, never to be seen again – until that red full moon some years after her disappearance, already turned into the monster that she is today. The Shadow Lady’s influence is quite bold as she was the one who conquered Balwar and the Fallen Lands around it. But her grip is stronger within Gleamring and Ortensia, doing business to fund her lavish parties that sometimes turn into darker and more carnal fairs of blood revelry. Though for the unchosen nobles, they attest to such mysterious balls as so grand and indulgent – that while some go out of their way to take part in it in hopes that they get turned, most just come to it to experience such a sophisticatedly excessive affair. Some say that in Draav, her throne room is nothing but a giant pool of blood that which everyone can take part in as if it was some sacred yet celebratory communion with her. And while her masques and balls that the unknowing nobles close off to the public and even to the eyes of the Cathedral serve as their effective cover, they are also known for their elusiveness even in the streets as the bat isn’t just the only animal that they can turn into. The Ferovnaren elders can also turn into a cat, a wolf, a snake, and rat.

THE BLOODLINE OF ALEXANDRAS DEGUILLE

They are the reason why some people think that there are only three vampire clans that are keeping the balance of their politics within their ranks as the Alkerion vampires take no interest in such endeavors. What they do like to take part in, is business and endeavors of the coin. In a way, among the clans, they are the most ingrained within human society – so much that it is rumored that Alexandras himself is rooted in the very core of Gahvol and that he is actually the one who owns the whole enterprise of the blood trade. Some say that it was because Alexandras’ human life was spent at seas as he was a pirate captain with a stout reputation and now he couldn’t just part with it even in his transcendence into who he is now. It’s also rumored that he and his clan are the ones in the Cliff and they take pleasure into hunting down settlements and caravans that think that they are already safe from harm. They even creep up to Ordhovh and Reislach to indulge in these whims. It is probably with this skill in blending in or in Alexandras’ seafaring nature that had made the bloodline master a fine skill in transfiguration: the mist form.

THE BLOODLINE OF THE EXALTED

The new bloods. The Bloodline of the Exalted is a new clan of vampires of unknown origin, much more an unknown stronghold. But they have made their presence known with their own brand of aggressive attacks on the human population; a kind of massacre that leaves the dead piled up or skewered in spears or posts. Some say that these vampires have a connection to an infernal to which they have offered their devotion in exchange of such a nature, and the dead that they feed from are ceremonial offerings to empower the demonic deity. The Cathedral seemed convinced as no new vampire clan would be so bold unless they have a backing of such kind. And the already established vampire clans are not too keen on such reckless and arrogant group of vampires either. The story that is closest to the truth is that their paramount elder offered his whole bloodline for the power that the vampires have as he is too proud to be turned and end up to be subservient to his progenitor. And while his whole clan was either perished or turned into vampires themselves, there are rumors that the very last of his blood is living in Gilstrad with an oath to hunt them all down.

THE UNCLANNED

The Unclanned are a kind of vampires that have succumbed to the transition’s monstrous side that they have turned into it themselves: they have no agelessness as their skin turns white and wrinkled like leather. Their hair turns white as well until they fall, their ears turn pointy while their claws grow longer and their teeth turn into a row of jagged fangs. They completely abhor the light and their free will ebbs away along with the talents that come with being a vampire until they become merely cowered husks of who or what they once were. They only know hunger. They only know the need to feed over and over that they cannot share their blood for someone else to change. No one really knows how the Unclanned has come about – some say that it was because they lost their progenitor either by the hands of the Cathedral or by another vampire and such a thing have severed their lineage to the clan and made them lose their grip on their nature while some say that they were traitor vampires who pledged allegiance to a demon, only to turn into such macabre vision.

THE SANGUARSBANE

The Sanguarsbane are not vampires nor are they affiliated to the Cathedral or any other provincial ruling power. They are just a group of humans who took it upon themselves to do one thing: to rid the lands of Gilstrad of the vampires. They are proficient fighters and survivalists who have all been trained by the ones who came before them and they all usually converge in their lodges that are in each archpriory of the city – though it is known that their main grounds are somewhere in Bardelven as it is near the northern regions but at the same time, still teeming with the living wood. No one knows how they work, or their chain of command, but with their mission to kill those who prey on blood, no one really cares either. As long as they kill a threat to the lands, no matter how specific, it’s better than nothing.

Jonathan Wickham is one of the Sanguarsbane and while he’s not the leader, he is one of their most elite.

Radomir ‘Reid’ Abramas is a vampire hunter with a rather twisted past as he is the last blood of the paramount progenitor of the Exalted. The both of them might be apart by many generations and Reid has already been a descendant of such a diluted bloodline, but as the vampire offered his whole line to his quest of power, Reid is still part of the curse and it was something that he could not deny as the darkness of it has left a fragment that manifests a monstrous transformation that sometimes occurs in his hand. He has now made it a mission to find this ancestor of his in hopes of ending the curse once and for all.