#carried on her back from her youth all the way to the current day

[folkdances]

let’s talk about franziska and grief in justice for all.

the narrative that the games, at first glance, appear to be pushing is that franziska is aware edgeworth has not committed suicide. she repeatedly affirms this, most notably in turnabout bigtop, when she tells phoenix that she believes her brother to be alive and hiding somewhere. however, one thing we need to keep in mind is that franziska and edgeworth were not shown to be close in the interim between jfa and the prequel cases in aai — in fact, it would go against both their characters and the writing of their relationship for them to have kept in much contact at all.

franziska is, if anything, rooted in the past. her hair is cut almost boyishly short and choppy. she carries around a whip because she is so used to being spoken over and ignored, having started her career so young. her youth underlies her every professional achievement; and if not her youth, then her lineage. her physical design is meant to reflect the uniform of a jockey, and taking her aristocratic surname into account, it makes sense: horseback riding, obsessive as it is, remains a pastime for the social class she inhabits. it’s only logical that, in the absence of a real connection with her brother, she would base her understanding of his character on the most recent version of him that she knows, being the vain and easily affronted rookie prosecutor wracked between ambition and guilt that she grew up with. she has no way to know how to fill in the gaps between a suicide note and the brother she knew, because to her, there is no gap to fill in; it seems a logical conclusion to her brother's story and life that he would rather run away than face his own failures. it is consistent with the younger version of edgeworth that we see in trials and tribulations. it is difficult to reconcile that individual with someone who might actually take his own life, at least outwardly speaking. franziska has no hands-on knowledge of her brother and his mental state beyond what she might have seen in the press or heard filtered down from her father. it’s only natural that she draws the conclusion that he simply turned tail and ran away in order to preserve his dignity. it is an obvious conclusion to make.

however, this interpretation completely overlooks the fact that franziska is not stupid. she is well aware that her brother had very recently been 'betrayed' by the man to whose standards he strived to rise to almost his entire life and is aware that the driving force behind this desperation to prove himself was his father's murder. manfred von karma was their father; there is a tendency in both the games and their surrounding fanbase to portray the senior von karma as being nothing more than a teacher and mentor, but if we examine the (limited) dialogue the three share in aai, edgeworth and franziska address von karma as one might a particularly volatile and austere parental figure, and he responds in kind. he employs and underlines a pattern of the same types of verbal abuse and neglect present in many fictional case studies of the paternal abuser; to edgeworth, he shows the former and to franziska, often the latter (what comes to mind is a piece of dialogue wherein franziska, aged 13, asks her father if he will attend her courtroom debut, to which he responds, "i'll consider it"). she frequently demonstrates her emotional intelligence, again, particularly as a child, such as a short exchange in which von karma berates edgeworth rather cruelly and is met with silence. rather than let the topic linger, franziska very deliberately changes the subject, asking von karma who he thinks is the culprit behind the current investigation. later, when edgeworth thanks her for it, she acts as if she does not know what he's talking about.

back in the 'present day', her insistence that she defeat phoenix wright in order to avenge her family name is also rendered moot; franziska places a lot of pride in her family name, but her defense of her father is lackluster at best. she, too, is left to grapple with the weight of his legacy and has (seemingly) decided that her father simply does not live up to expectations. he instilled in her such strong convictions regarding the meaning of the law and the von karma family name, and it only makes sense that, once he failed so utterly to exemplify them, she would instead shift her understanding of those convictions onto herself and the only other person she believes she can see those qualities in, being miles edgeworth.

the initial theory, that franziska believes edgeworth to be in hiding, while a version of the truth, would not appear to be the truth to someone who has repeatedly demonstrated the emotional intelligence and understanding of the subject necessary to read between the so-called lines; to me, it is obvious that franziska believed, at least in large part, that edgeworth really had killed himself, and her actions and dialogue in jfa shift subtly into a much more interesting light if one runs with this interpretation. she goes from presenting herself — something i'm going to touch on in a moment — as an almost cartoonishly dense and vain girl into someone desperate to deny the truth staring her right in the face; that she has been virtually abandoned by every figure she loved and trusted in her life, left to uphold a legacy with no room for error, bound to rules so straight-edge and self-imposed that no single person could ever walk only in their light. anyone would resort to staunch denial — and franziska, so attached to her past, does so with aplomb.

finally, i want to point out that it's very easy to take franziska at face value. as unfortunate as it is, she's only present in four games — aai, aai2, jfa, and t&t — and she usually isn't in the majority of cases in those games. there is a stark yet subtle difference in her comportment in the investigations games, though, which can be very clearly explained: in every game she speaks to the player character, and in jfa, the player character is phoenix wright, her self-ascribed enemy. it makes complete sense that she would present herself a certain way, speak in certain manners, and act rash and overconfident in front of him, because she hates him.

all this to say, franziska is a very potent case study of grief and how it can change people, especially when that grief gets caught up in a messy tangle of ambition and a legacy whose stipulations border almost on mania. also, i love her very dearly and thought this would be interesting to talk about. obviously, this is not the entirety of the situation, as i mostly focused on franziska's relationship to edgeworth, but i think this is long enough as is.

[kazumist]

WHY DON'T WE FALL IN LOVE TONIGHT ?

✩ — in which you found yourself executing a ruse with the known duke of meropide, wriothesley. what could possibly go wrong? (many things, apparently.)

✩ — prompt: panache — you agree to a fake courtship with another. (for @xianyoon's "a night to remember" event (event two hehehe))

✩ — includes: wriothesley x f!reader. royalty!au. fluff, angst if you squint, hurt/comfort if you also squint, comedy squeezed in just a teensy bit. cw: alcohol consumption (reader ends up taking a shot or two) one crazy scene in the garden but it's nothing too explicit i swear they just get a little carried away OOPS. wc: 8001 yes you read that fucking right (i went insane). fake dating trope went a bit overboard my bad (heavily based by bridgerton season 1 minus the explicit scenes LMAO). one pride and prejudice and meme reference line sneaked in (if u get my reference then ilysm i need to kiss u). other fontaine characters make a cameo yipee!! full fic of this silly post i made back then but i changed things up. kinda

✩ — please reblog !! it wld help me tons :,)

love at first sight was a frivolous belief for a man like wriothesley.

romance, in general, was a frivolous belief for him in the first place. as much as his father pushes him into the marriage market for all of the women in the kingdom of fontaine, he would always find his way out of it. but he does admit—the nagging could get quite... overbearing sometimes. romance almost never crosses wriothesley’s mind. he shuns every vigorous mother that presents their daughter towards him in hopes that he’ll take an interest in them (which he never does; wriothesley believes that marriage is too big of a responsibility for him).

a ball is never uncommon in society at this age. and certainly it isn’t uncommon for his father to urge him to grace these balls with his presence on behalf of his former duke of a father. and tonight wasn’t so different from the other balls he previously attended. wriothesley holds back the urge to roll his eyes after he excuses himself (for the nth time, he thinks) from another mother who tried to offer her daughter up for his hand in marriage. it was exhausting, to say the least. wriothesley wants nothing more than to leave at the moment. however, to his dismay, the ball had just begun not too long ago.

it’s another long night for him.

sharing some conversations with queen furina’s royal advisor, neuvillette, wasn’t a bad way to pass the time. and it certainly was effective because people were far too nervous to approach him with the queen nearby. the friendship he shared with the royal advisor wasn’t new knowledge to society. almost everyone and their mothers had heard about the tale of the current duke meropide and the queen’s royal advisor being close friends during their early days of childhood and onwards. though wriothesley sometimes admits—he surely misses his youthful days.

it’s not like he's that old now. he’s currently thriving at the young age of twenty-five! not too young, not too old either. “and just how long are you going to stand by my side tonight, wriothesley?” neuvillette asks, his eyes focused on the crowd below him. there were pairs dancing gracefully in the middle of the venue as the quintet orchestra played by the side. wriothesley doesn’t glance at him as he answers. “just a bit longer, i suppose. i could still feel their eyes boring holes into me.” he mumbles the last part, leaning closer only for neuvillette to hear, as he refers to the mothers that attempted to make their advances on him earlier. neuvillette simply chuckles at his remark.

“still refusing marriage, i see?” he replies. 

“i’m confident that you’re well aware of what my answer to that is going to be, neuvillette.”

wriothesley feels comfortable like this. but he’s aware that he couldn’t spend all of his time by his friend’s side. soon after, wriothesley decides to take his leave after making sure his coast is clear. he then exited nearby and found himself wandering into the garden. surely, the workers at the house of hearth had done a splendid job maintaining this garden. he reminds himself to commend duke arlecchino for this if he ever gets the chance.

the wind tonight was quite cold, yet it’s nothing wriothesley couldn’t handle. he stumbles upon what seemed to be the center of the garden, surprised to see a fountain there. the moonlight shines brightly in this area—but what actually made wriothesley curious was who was sitting by the fountain? he steadily approaches, careful not to make the wrong move and sits by the fountain as well. there was still some distance between the two of you—a lot of it. it would be indecent of him to burst into a woman’s personal space. his father did not raise him to be that sort of man.

“what brings you here tonight?” he suddenly finds himself asking. it was a poor attempt at small talk, he thinks (he could do much better than that, he swears). wriothesley doesn’t even dare steal a glance at you, as much as he wanted to. you hesitated before answering him, still sinking in the fact that you suddenly have company in this garden now. “avoiding society as usual, especially the members of society who cannot give up offering their hand of marriage towards me, i suppose,” he hears you sigh. huh, how ironic. did wriothesley just bump into someone who suffers from the same problem as him? 

the answer was most definitely yes.

“oh, what a coincidence—i suffer from such a predicament as well.” he chuckles bitterly in reply—too bitter for his liking. he didn’t want to suddenly ruin the mood now; the conversation had barely even started. “is that so? i’m delighted to know that i’m not alone in this boat then.” the tone of your chuckle was different from the chuckle you got from wriothesley. a comfortable silence was then enveloped over the both of you, enjoying the scenery around. he takes this as his chance to steal a glance, and he quickly takes it back. yet he finds himself glancing again.

and again

and again. 

he doesn’t quite understand it himself. however, there was something about you that had this alluring effect on him of some sort. he just couldn’t tear his eyes off of you for some reason. “enjoying the view much, duke?” you asked, meeting his gaze. wriothesley then turns away suddenly, embarrassed that he was caught red handed in the act of practically ogling at you. his father did not raise him to be like this at all. he did not spend his childhood and teenage years training how to be a proper gentleman for his debut in society just to be ogling at a lady he just met at a ball. he needs to snap out of it.

“my apologies, but how could i resist putting my attention on a stunning lady like you?” he tries to play it cool. (keyword: tries.) it was a strategy that he learned to adapt every since he made his debut into society. playing it cool always works for him—surely his old trick wouldn’t fail at him now of all times, right? but wriothesley soon snapped out of his thoughts, and he then asked another question. “wait, you know who i am?” 

you were taken aback by his words. is he seriously asking you that? “who wouldn’t know you? you’re quite famous with the other ladies.” you asked him back. he simply replies with a short “fair point.” and silence takes over once again. but this time, it was a bit awkward. you decided to introduce yourself to him, stating your name and title. he nods in acknowledgement of your introduction. he has heard of you before, of course. your family has quite a reputation in society, making you get quite a bit of attention at formal parties as well. 

wriothesley doesn’t dare steal a glance at you again, as he has seemed to learn his lesson from what happened earlier. you, on the other hand, took this as your chance to take your leave. “although your company has been quite interesting, duke meropide, i’m afraid that i must take my leave first. i seem to have forgotten that i excused myself from lord jackson earlier.” you got up from your seat, already walking away from the fountain—that is, until wriothesley speaks.

“lord jackson? you mean the lord jackson who’s known for his… awful history in relationships?”

“i don’t believe there’s any other lord jackson in this society, duke meropide.” you turn around to face him.

“what business do you have with him?” why am i even asking? he thinks.

“he’s simply another one of the men who my mother had decided to set me up with for marriage. i was told to accompany him for tonight but you see, his company isn’t really... the best.” you replied, choosing your word carefully. despite you not liking lord jackson at all, it would be informal for you to speak ill of him when he could be the man you’ll actually marry.

actually, scratch that. as if you’ll ever allow yourself to marry a man like him. lord jackson was a creep, to say the least. you were aware of the talk that goes around him. but your dear mother is still kept in the dark about these stories, and she decided to set you up with him without your prior knowledge. so by technicality, you really had no choice. “you can’t marry him.” the man in front of you suddenly says.

“i beg your pardon?” you asked, afraid that you misheard him the first time. “you... you can’t marry him.” he repeats and then he continues. “i mean, surely you have heard the news about him—his temper makes him vicious. your marriage with him wouldn’t prosper at all.” you held back the urge to scoff at him. “i appreciate your concern, my duke, but our society works in an unfair way at this age. i cannot just declare that i do not wish to marry, unlike you. that is a privilege that i cannot simply afford.” you shot back at him.

wriothesley suddenly feels like a light bulb in his head has switched on.

“we could pretend to form an attachment.” he then says. you were getting more baffled by the second this conversation held on longer. “whatever do you mean?” you weren’t stupid. but you refused to believe that what he’s hinting at is also the one you foolishly thought. “with you in my arm, people would think that i have finally found my duchess. as for you, your mother would raise her standards and find more suitable candidates for your hand in marriage. because although i could be wrong, but have you ever told your mother what traits you find in a man?” he replies, a small smile slowly tugging on his lips. he clearly enjoys this idea.

“i… i suppose not.” he got you there. “but this is an absurd idea.” you protested.

“i find it quite brilliant, if i do say so myself.”

“you do know the risks of what you’re proposing right now, am i correct?”

“i do. but you do not wish to marry me, and i do not wish to marry you, so whatever should you have to lose?” he’s insisting. he’s insisting like this plan would work perfectly fine for the both of your benefits (well, if you were to be completely honest, there is a chance for it to be successful. but you grew up to believe that you shouldn’t expect for things to go so smoothly in your life). “i…” a lost of words. that’s what you are. too many possibilities are running through your head at the moment.

however, the duke did have one hell of a good point.

“fine. you got yourself a deal.”

and that’s how you got roped into the situation you have now. with an arm interlocked with the duke meropide’s, all eyes were bound to set upon you both. wriothesley could see the amusement in neuvillette’s expression; the same goes for the hint of amusement in queen furina’s eyes as she spots them in the crowd. wriothesley slowly guides you towards the dance floor, just in time for another dance to begin. gracefully, you took his hand as you step onto the dance floor with him. a familiar song started to play, one that you remember memorizing as dance class was mandatory for being a debutante in society.

“are you bothered?” he then asks in a whisper as he twirls you around. “whatever for?” you ask him back. “the staring. i could feel all of them looking at us right now, honestly,” he chuckles lowly. “hm, i’m trying not to mind it that much. but i suppose you’re probably enjoying all of this attention now, aren’t you?” a simple tease on your part, and wriothesley smiled at that. “my, are we on casual terms now?” 

“chemistry should be a major factor that we should have in this plan, yes? so we might as well start by being more casual with one another.”

“indeed. glad to know that you’re quick to pick up on things.” he says. “of course i am. what do you take me for, duke meropide?” you asked him, a slight pout forming on your lips. and wriothesley smiled at that again before replying. “nothing offensive, that i can assure you.”

“i’m delighted to know that the ever-so-famous duke of meropide doesn’t harbor any sour feelings towards me then.” 

it was a bit suffocating, all of the staring. yet at the same time, you understood why they’re staring in the first place. wriothesley, the current duke of meropide, is suddenly on the dance floor with a young woman. and he seems to be quite interested in her as well. people would assume you’re the reason why the duke has rejected so many marriage offers up until now—because he already had you in the first place.

the other unwanted attention you’d get from that assumption alone was enough to make you distracted to the point where you almost stepped on wriothesley’s foot. “i—my apologies, duke.” you stammered. “it’s alright. just look at me,” he says. you scrunched your eyebrows at him in confusion. “pardon?”

“just look at me; don’t focus on anyone else. it will help ease your mind.”

with hesitance, you followed what he said and locked your eyes with his. the duke’s eyes were a fine shade of grey. a unique color, if you do say so yourself. and surely he was correct. shifting your focus and thoughts to him did ease you from all of the other eyes that are locked onto both of your figures that’s moving along with the music.

time felt like it had stopped, as it also felt like you were the only ones present in the room.

to wriothesley’s surprise, the night passed by faster when he was with you. because before he knew it, he was already accompanying you back to your carriage. a lot of things had happened in the span of just a few hours. but wriothesley does not regret a single second of it, now that he recalls everything again. he wonders why—was it because he encountered you in the garden tonight?

maybe. that’s where it all started anyway.

he quickly snapped out of his trail of thoughts as he heard you speak. “i suppose i’ll see you soon then?” you asked him. “mhm, i suppose so. safe travels, m’lady.” he bids you his farewell by gently grabbing ahold of your hand and pressing a soft kiss onto your knuckle, refusing to break his eye contact with you as the footman closed your carriage’s door.

“safe travels as well, my duke.”

— — — — — — — — 

word spread fast about you and the duke of meropide. your mother was shocked at the news—yet happy that you finally became “independent on finding your match” as per her words. you had no specific agenda for the day, so, as you usually do whenever you are free, you decided to visit the modiste—where your good friend chiori resides. 

the sound of the bell chiming as the door opened made chiori perk up to see who would possibly need help making a new dress. but when her eyes met yours, she just knew you weren’t here to ask for a new dress. “i heard about the commotion last night.” she says, setting down a cup of tea for you as she takes a sip from her own cup, waiting for your response. “commotion is a vulgar term for it, chiori. i prefer to call it a memorable event.”

“i suppose it’s memorable for you to enter with your arm wrapped around the duke meropide just like that. how did it even happen? i vividly recall you telling me that you had no intention of marriage.”

“it’s… a long story,” you sighed, taking a sip from your own cup of tea. “oh? are you implying that there’s more to this than meets the eye, then?”

“i guess you could say that.”

“well, then tell me all about it.”

“i… i can't. my apologies, chiori.” it's not like you didn't trust her. in fact, there are more secrets that are held within this fine modiste’s place than one could ever imagine. but it was a silent and automatic agreement between you and the duke that no one must know of your plan. (although you already hinted to chiori that there's more to it than meets the eye.) besides, chiori is a smart woman who has known you before she could even have her place built.

she doesn't need to be a genius to find out that there's something up. she'll pick up on it sooner or later.

“it's alright. there’s no need to feel pressure to tell me now, but do promise me one thing: you're not doing anything against the law, right?”

you couldn't help but burst out in laughter at her question. “chiori! do you take me as a criminal? of course, i’m not!” you replied, laughing in a fit of giggles in between your words. “thank goodness. well, how was i supposed to know? you almost never stop by so we rarely have the chance to catch up. every bit of news i hear from you is usually from the other ladies who sometimes talk about you.”

“don’t worry, my friend. i’ll stop by more often from now on, but seriously, are you still eavesdropping on your customers? i thought we were past that.”

“it isn't my fault some of them whisper way too loudly for my liking,” chiori scoffs.

as you two have a few more conversations, it is about time for you to take your leave, as the time has reached for the hour when chiori would usually have customers. “it was truly a pleasure to catch up with you, chiori.” you said as she escorted you to the door. “a pleasure indeed. do drop by more often, alright? it can get quite lonely here, you know.” a giggle leaves your lips at her response. “will do. i believe i might need a new dress soon for the upcoming firestone ball?” you say and you notice how chiori’s had some sort of sparkle at your mention of needing a new dress. she had always loved making dresses for you.

“is that so? i promise to suggest some designs that you might like once you return.”

— — — — — — — — 

the fountain of lucine was a famous spot for a walk in the park type of day. every day, you’d see different individuals make their wish upon the fountain. whether that is a prosperous marriage, being blessed with a beloved child, or even gaining wealth, everyone wishes for all sorts of desires towards the fountain. but you never found yourself doing the same. it’s most probably because you've already been content with your life up until now. you never had any struggles when it came to growing up.

but again, that is up until now. 

you took a step further towards the fountain, silently stating your wish and threw the coin into the fountain’s small pool of water. “penny for your wish?” you heard someone say beside you. quickly turning your head to the direction of the voice, you were surprised to see the duke there. “duke meropide! i—i didn’t expect that you were going to be here today.”

“i decided to go out for a stroll; the weather is quite nice today, is it not?” 

“ah, yes, i suppose it is,” you replied, looking around. the weather was indeed nice today. perfect for a quick stroll around the area. “would you mind taking a stroll with me today? it would be a shame to waste this fine weather talking in the same spot.” he says, offering his arm for you to take. “i’d be delighted to.” your arm gets hooked on his.

“how are you faring lately? it has been quite a while since our last meeting,” wriothesley starts. he personally prefers his attempt at small talk today to his attempt at small talk the night he met you. it has been a few days since the ball held by the house of hearth. and within those few days, you haven’t spoken to the duke since. though, your house suddenly has suitors calling for you during your calling hour. all hopeful to gain your interest in them instead of the duke.

(however, you all shut them down politely. you found yourself repeating your apologies to the lords that have called upon you during those times.)

“i’ve been well. certainly, the stunt that we pulled during the ball held in the house of hearth did not go unnoticed. my social energy has been drained because of the suitors who called me.” a sigh leaves your lips. “oh? i apologize for that then. i hope that your social energy isn't at it’s lowest right now,” he chuckles. you gave him a playful glare at his remark. “are you making fun of my previous predicament, duke?” 

“oh, heavens no. my apologies, did that offend you?” he says, holding back a smile at his words. he was definitely not apologetic. “you’re not that sorry for it, aren’t you?”

“perchance.”

“you cannot just say perchance!”

a laugh erupts from wriothesley at your response. it was the first time you heard him laugh like that. and in the public eye, you two would seem like a joyful couple spending some quality time walking around the fountain of lucine as a pastime. well, that was technically the goal. to show the public that you and the duke of meropide are madly in love with one another. what could possibly go wrong?

— — — — — — — — 

by the time the firestone ball had taken place (which is nearly just a week after the ball from the house of hearth), you and the duke were on the dance floor once again.

“i believe we have yet to discuss our other terms and agreement for our plan, your grace.” you said, following his lead in the waltz. “ah, you’re right. well then, why don’t you start? ladies first.” he says. “i was hoping that you’d have some ideas on what terms we should have; after all, this was your idea, if i may remind you.”

you continue speaking as wriothesley continues to lead you through the dance. “i am starting to be convinced that this will be more than just a simple game of pretend just so we could fool the members of society, or my mother, or the women you have wanted to get away from every time you step foot in public. a life is at stake here, your grace, my life, and i just simply cannot have this go wrong. so if you are not in agreement with that, then you should tell me now.” the duke never broke his eye contact with you as you spoke.

“i shall agree… on one condition.”

“your grace, i believe that you do not understa—”

“you must call me wriothesley.” 

there’s only one word to describe you at the moment: speechless. and wriothesley takes your silence as a chance to continue his words. “if we are truly to be courting, and if we are truly to prove that this is a match like no other, then you should call me by my name. after all, weren’t you the one who suggested that we should be more... casual with one another?”

he was right, and he had yet again another one hell of a good point. you mentally sighed, “very well then… wriothesley.” a laugh dares to escape your throat but this does not go unnoticed by the man who has his hand held in his at the moment. “is there something funny about my name?” he asks you, raising an eyebrow at your reaction. “no, no. it is a perfectly fine name. it is also quite unique, if i may add.” you replied, calming yourself down. laughing loudly while you’re in the middle of the dance floor would raise questions, after all.

“oh, perfectly fine? very well then… (name).” wriothesley’s voice seemed to have lowered itself an octave lower as he said your name with a slight rasp. your eyes looked away from his as you shifted your gaze to his collar instead. both of you went silent, yet you were still moving to the rhythm of the music.

wriothesley’s hand, that was supposedly at your waist, trailed upwards. just below the nape of your neck and also before your spine starts. your breath hitched at the contact of his cold finger tips there.

“i do hope that this plan will be successful.” you said, gaining your composure.

“have faith in us.”

— — — — — — — — 

meetings with the duke of meropide became more frequent than you expected. whether that may be a coincidental meeting or a planned one—no one could really pinpoint it, much to their dismay. 

it started off with a simple meal. then another walk. then an official invitation to accompany him to a ball or two. or three; in fact, he has invited you for a lot of them now. you haven’t thought much about the future as of late, always focusing on the present, where you’re definitely by wriothesley’s side. there was never a dull moment with the man. it was always entertaining to be with him. whenever another man (a man whose appeal is not to take interest in a sense) would approach you, wriothesley would pull some sort of stunt that’s connected to his “wild jealousy” of some sort. it’s a bit hard to hold back a laugh whenever this happens. there are times when he would talk to you about the other nobles present in the party and how he’s acquainted with them, and you’d admire the fact that he has many connections (something that a duke like him should have; he’s doing well in his duties, you’d note).

there are also times when you two will find yourselves alone, secluding yourselves from the crowd. these were, personally, your favorites. with the moonlight shining brightly upon you both once again, you’d always be reminded of the night you met. at these moments, this is when you and the duke would share… more personal things with one another. things that neither of you had expected to share with anyone else. like how he avoids marriage because of the huge responsibility that comes with it. or like how you doubt that others, especially men (minus the duke), would understand your struggles as a woman in this society.

wriothesley might have a lot of connections, but he was just the same as you. both of you kept your circle quite small (and by small, you both have only one person you truly trust to confide in). but even if you both wouldn’t admit it out loud, trust had also bloomed between the two of you.

(yet is trust the only thing that has actually bloomed?)

tonight, you found yourselves in yet another garden. “have you ever heard of why a flower wilts, wriothesley?” you decided to start this time. “hm? i suppose it’s because nothing good actually lasts long in life.” 

“how… pessimistic of you to say.” you sweatdropped at his response. he chuckles yet again, you noticed that he always chuckles apologetically while looking away before he actually says his apologies. a habit of his, perhaps. “my apologies; i must repeat myself. the less a person sees of me, the happier their life is.”

“why so? i enjoy your company quite well.”

“oh? and are you sure those words aren’t forced because you’re stuck with me with this little ruse we have ongoing?” he asks back. these exchanges became frequent. one would ask a question, and the other would ask another in return. “i’m being quite honest, wriothesley. i really do enjoy your company quite well.”

“the feeling is likewise, (name).” there’s something satisfying about how your name rolls off of his tongue. he pronounces it the same as everyone else does yet how does it feel different when he says it? it’s baffling, that’s one thing for sure. “is it awful that i’m actually quite enjoying this?”

“you mean my wild jealousy?” he asks, playfully offended.

“fooling society.” you corrected. “there are some in the crowd who secretly know everything about everyone. yet we have them utterly convinced that we are mad for one another.”

“we are awfully clever then.” he says in amusement. “indeed we are.” you chuckled at his reply.

if there’s one thing you would always notice between the two of you, it would always be how you were glued to one another. like there’s some magnetic pull that automatically drags the other to their side. 

this moment is no different because you could feel his knuckles grazing against yours ever so lightly. it starts with the hook of your pinkies, then slowly turns into you grabbing a hold of his other fingers. wriothesley could feel his heart beating fast at the contact. he glances at you, admiring your features underneath the moonlight once again. you glance at him as well. was he already this close to you when you started walking in this garden? because you swear your faces are inching even closer to each other. wriothesley’s other hand gently grabs your nape, guiding you as he gently pulls you in for a kiss. 

his lips were soft against yours, something you didn’t expect from him. he kisses you like you were delicate (to which you were, delicate to him, at least), eyes closing themselves as he enjoys the sensation of your lips against his. you kiss him back in the same way, not really knowing what to do next—but you kiss him back. that’s all that matters. his lips leave yours as wriothesley latches his lips onto your neck, continuing the light kisses against it.

you let out a gasp at the contact as you lean your head back so you can give him more access. he intertwined his other hand with yours; it was quite scandalous. having a moment like this on someone else’s property. you extracted him from your neck, pulling him in for another kiss. this time it was a bit more rough—desperate, even.

well, that was until he pulled away from you abruptly. you looked at him in a daze yet you were confused. “we must return; we’ve been out long enough,” he says, letting go of your hand in the process as he fixes himself. he tries to catch his breath, processing what has just happened. did he really just kiss you? he supposes (or, in other terms, hopes) that it’s normal. ultimately, this should’ve been part of your agreement in the first place, right?

“i… you’re right. my mother could be looking for me any moment now.” what could possibly go wrong, you ask? well, apparently, many things could go wrong.

but if there’s one thing that got stitched into your mind tonight, it’s only one thing:

the duke of meropide is one good kisser.

however, what will become of your relationship now?

— — — — — — — — 

you found yourself going to chiori again. the familiar sound of the bell chiming against the door notified chiori of someone entering her place. and once she saw you, she could just feel the distress radiating off of your body.

“what happened this time? i haven’t heard any good news about you two from last night’s party.” she says, pouring you a cup of tea. “good news? more like insane occurrences,” you sighed, watching the tea leave the teapot as it transfers onto your teacup. “ insane occurrences? what happened to ‘memorable event’?” she asked, confused with your choice of words.

you let out another sigh, finally revealing everything to chiori. luckily, today was her day off. with another ball just held last night, she would get at least a day or two of good rest before she opens up again. chiori takes in every detail of your story well, surprised that this is what you’ve been up to.

as soon as you were done talking, you decided to take a sip of your tea. “so you’re worried that you almost slept with the duke of meropide?” chiori states. and you choked on your drink once you heard her. “you didn’t have to word it like that! have some decency!” you exclaimed, embarrassment surging through you. 

“i don’t get it, though. what are you so worried about? it’s almost as if… wait.” she pauses.

“it’s almost as if what, chiori?”

“do you love him?”

“huh? love who?”

“don’t play dumb with me, (name). do you or do you not love the duke of meropide?”

this time, it was your turn to pause. do you? well, certainly, he is nice company. and he treats you well despite neither of you having the wish to marry each other. he is also a good kisser (something that you don’t really feel like counting but it’s still a fact). recalling everything that has happened now, the only things that come into mind are the things you’ve noticed about wriothesley. how his eyes are the most remarkable shade of grey, his scar below his right eye. the feeling of the callouses on his hands as you held them on the dance floor.

it can’t be. there’s just no way. he’s a duke of all people—he’s out of your league in so many ways. he’s too far for you to reach. and besides, this is all just a game of pretend, is it not? surely that kiss would’ve meant nothing to him. 

fuck.

“i do.” you replied to her in a whisper

“i’m glad that you’re not dense.” chiori says, flicking your forehead. you yelped in pain at the contact. 

yes, you do love the duke of meropide.

and you stand by that.

meanwhile, on the other side of the coin, wriothesley had a crisis himself. “you’re quite lucky today, to ask for my presence while queen furina is occupied with duke arlecchino with her. so what assistance can i offer for you today, wriothesley?” neuvillette states, pulling his chair so he could take a seat before the man in front of him. wriothesley leans back on his seat, an elbow propped on top of the chair’s arm rest as his index finger is rested upon his lips. 

wriothesley sighs. before spilling everything to neuvillette. his friend’s expression grew more amused as he continued on with the story, finding every detail unexpected for a man like his friend. “i see. so that’s how it is. well, let me ask you a simple question then, my friend.” 

“shoot.”

“do you love her?”

wriothesley pauses. neuvillette’s questions echo repeatedly in his mind. do i love her? he then asks himself. he was not stupid. wriothesley did not need to become some sort of genius to find the answer to that question—because the answer is no. he doesn’t love you. yes, he has grown to trust you with things he would never even dare tell anyone else. but he’s scared. wriothesley is scared because he has never thought of commitment in this way before. romance was just a frivolous belief to him, after all. so surely, this would all just mean nothing.

he ponders about it for a few more moments. he’s too scarred—too damaged—to be loved by someone like you. he feels undeserving of it. he knows there’s another man out there who could be the man you want to be. someone who will make you happier than he does. someone who is willing to commit himself to you. someone who could love you with nothing holding him back. 

“i don’t.” wriothesley firmly says.

no, wriothesley cannot be in love with you.

(neuvillette gives his friend a sigh as his friend takes his leave. he returns back to the room where queen furina is currently spending time with duke arlecchino. the duke had a habit of bringing the queen sweets from their travels abroad. the queen has excitement written all over her eyes as she makes eye contact with the pastries set in front of her.)

— — — — — — — — 

it wasn’t hard to put two and two together to realize that wriothesley has been avoiding you.

it has been a few months since you decided to start your ruse. although he still accompanies you, once it’s quite crowded, he will deliberately avoid your presence like a plague, and you have no idea why. you first thought that may be he was just feeling unwell but it has occurred more frequent now and it just stings, really. it stings because you thought that you two had formed quite the bond over the past few months.

“wriothesley, is something wrong? you know you could always talk to me, right?” you asked him, finally cornering him as he had successfully avoided you for the past two hours ever since the party started. “it’s nothing of your concern,” was all he said before leaving you again. but that answer wasn’t enough—hell, it wasn’t even a proper answer for you. so you decided to follow him.

“where are you going?” you asked him. speeding your pace up to catch up to him. wriothesley doesn’t answer and just continues on walking. he ends up going into a secluded room, not even bothering to close the door. you followed him in and shut the door behind you as you faced him. he had his back facing you as you heard him take a deep breath. “wriothesley, what’s wrong? and don’t even dare say that it’s none of my concern because it is.”

wriothesley could feel himself going mad. he can’t do this tonight. what even caused him to behave this way?

ah, he remembers. it was that unbearable sight of you interacting with marquess lyney. he should’ve been happy that you finally seem interested in someone else because all you two have to do now is plan how you should end things. but that thought made wriothesley realize two things. one, he cannot bear the sight of you with another man (but why? it’s not like you’re actually his in the first place). and two, he doesn’t want things to end between the both of you. whether it's a ruse that feels too real for his own liking or whatnot, he doesn’t want to lose you in his life.

he loosens the buttons on his top so that he can breathe more properly. you got closer to him, but only if you knew that was a dangerous move on your part. you grabbed his arm in hopes of getting a view of wriothesley’s expression at the moment.

he then faces you, his eyes searching for something in yours but you just can’t find out what. it was silent; neither of you dared to speak a word. and wriothesley finds himself pulling you for a kiss. it was a bit rough how his lips crashed against yours. he then pulls away, his eyes widening at what he just did. “i… my most sincere apologies.”

and he leaves. just like that.

the familiar door to the modiste is presented at you as you knocked. it was late at night. the party you attended earlier with wriothesley was long over. but you knew your dear friend would still be up even at this late hour. 

“(name)? what brings you here at this hour?” chiori asks, opening the door wider so you could enter.

“i need a goddamn drink.” you said.

— — — — — — — — 

“so you’re telling me that he just… kissed you again, and then he left the party? just like that?” chiori repeats. you take another shot of the alcohol chiori provided for the both of you. “hey, calm down. this one is actually pretty strong, you idiot.” chiori warns you.

you lean back, slamming the shot glass against the table. “just like that, chiori. like what is wrong with him? is he perhaps sick in the head?”

“i honestly don’t know if i should be at least grateful that he apologized.” she says, taking a shot as well. you glare at her remark and she raises her hands in return. you sighed this time, “are men always this… complicated?”

“hm, i don’t think so. maybe it’s just the duke.”

“you’re not helping!”

“you never said you wanted help in the first place.”

— — — — — — — — 

seven days.

seven days since you last spoke to wriothesley. seven days since you last heard of him. it has been seven days yet he hasn’t made any attempts to contact you since. 

just what was up with him? he was fine before. did you do something wrong? did you accidentally say something that was offensive to him? everything has changed now. wriothesley is treating you like he treated you before he actually met you—cold. 

your mother has decided to throw a ball this time—something about her not wanting to fall behind the other mothers. you complied, having to accept that society is nothing but competition against one another. and on the day of the ball, you found yourself lonely. if only chiori wasn’t busy with her other orders, then maybe this night would’ve been more entertaining.

wriothesley has yet to make his appearance (or perhaps he is already here yet he has decided to avoid you again). but you have decided on one thing tonight: you will talk things out with that stubborn man no matter what it takes. because you cannot just bear to stand idly by when wriothesley could be struggling alone. you once heard from your mother that love makes you do the craziest things and tonight was the night you realized that she was right. but isn’t it worth it if it’s all in the name of love?

the outdoor area of your home was also used for the ball, and decorations are displayed here and there to make the area look more eyecatching. to your family’s dismay, it has begun to rain. making all of the guests head inside to continue the festivities. but as you made your way to follow the crowd, you spotted someone too familiar—it was the man you’ve been looking for all evening, wriothesley.

looking around his surroundings, wriothesley spots you getting drenched in the rain. his eyes widen as he quickly makes his way towards you, removing his coat to drape it over you instead. “are you insane? you’re getting drenched!” he exclaims in worry. you scoff in return, pushing yourself away from his coat and allowing yourself to get wet by the rain.

“am i insane? i should be the one asking you that!” you said, glaring at him. “how… how could you? do you know how worried i have been because of you? you avoided me, then kissed me, then avoided me even more! i had no idea if you were okay because you didn’t even dare speak with me while i was here stuck waiting for you. why? because i didn’t want to pressure you into telling me what’s wrong!”

wriothesley is at a loss for words at your outburst. he just stares at you in return, guilt written all over him. he deserved your anger. but he didn’t mean for things to go this far, yet he also didn’t know how to handle things. you continued speaking, “wriothesley, i have no idea what’s clouding over your heart but i do know one thing: you musn’t keep it to yourself.”

“(name)...” he softly says—hesitantly, even. like he’s scared to even say your name in the first place. you take a step forward, both of your hands reaching out to hold his face. your touch was gentle on his skin, making sure you weren't making him uncomfortable. “tell me what’s wrong, wriothesley. i’ll listen.”

and tell you, he does. he voice shakes at first yet he begins to steady it as he unravels to you everything that has been bothering him up until now. his jealousy, his inner turmoil, and his insecurities. and you listen to him, understanding every word that escapes his lips as your hand never leaves his face, your fingers gently brushing over his scar below his right eye. and once he’s finished, you choose your next words carefully.

“there’s something that i realized in life that i believe you should know. just because something is not perfect does not make it any less worthy of love. you made yourself believe otherwise. you made yourself believe that you had to be without fault just so you could be loved but you’re wrong, wriothesley. should you need any proof of the matter, then look just here.” you weakly laugh at the last sentence, and wriothesley just stares at you. you couldn’t find out what’s going on in his head but you know that he’s listening.

your voice shakes as you continue. “i am tired of this sick game of pretending. i am tired of pretending—of acting as if i do not love you, because i do. i love you more than you could ever imagine. every scar, every flaw, every imperfection—i love all of you. you may think you’re too damaged or too scarred to allow yourself of happiness but you can choose differently, wriothesley. you can choose to love me as much as i love you. that should not be up to anyone else—that cannot be up to anyone else.”

“it can only be up to you.”

he was still silent as you slowly let go of his face but wriothesley was quick to catch them. he grabs ahold of your hands, and with his slight shaking, he takes a deep breath. he realizes something when you profess your love for him. he puts two things together: commitment and you. and the conclusion he draws from that is that he doesn’t mind commitment, as long as he’s committing himself to you. that’s how much of an impact you have on him. yes, he’s scared. and yes, this might not go like he hopes it will. but that doesn’t matter to him because he knows it will all be worth it for you. wriothesley is a coward when it comes to love and the like—that, he admits. but he isn’t allowing himself to be a coward for the rest of his life. why deprive himself of the serene type of happiness that he could only achieve when he has you by his side?

he kept his eyes on the hands he’s holding now as he began to speak. “i.. i do not wish to be alone. i know that now. but what i do not know is how to be the man you wish for me to be—the man you truly deserve. i do not know how to do any of this, but i do know another thing: i love you too. i love you. most ardently.” he then meets your eyes as he notices one thing in them. love.

“you stay. you stay and we’ll get through this. together. that’s where we’ll start. we have all the time in the world.”

“may i… kiss you?” he hesitates to ask. but you give him a nod of approval before you’re met with the familiar pleasure of his lips on yours. he relishes every second of the kiss, taking this as a chance to ground himself into reality—refusing to believe that this is some sick dream that his mind decided to play in his head. a hand slithers its way to the nape of his neck and wriothesley groans at the feeling as his hand grabs your waist tighter. wriothesley thanked his lucky stars for the night he met you because this wouldn’t be possible if it weren’t for them.

love at first sight was a frivolous belief for a man like wriothesley. 

but he knew otherwise the moment he laid his eyes upon you that night in the garden.

[feelmyskinonyourskin]

Worship You

Pairing: Frank Castle x AFAB Reader

Main Masterlist

GIF Source: Papa-Evershed @papa-evershed

Summary: You’re feeling a little nervous and insecure about your postpartum body, Frank just wants to show you how much he loves you.

Warnings: SMUT/18+ (don’t interact if your age is not in your bio). Mentions of pregnancy, birth, and postpartum AFAB body. New mom insecurities and fears. Lactation kink, oral (F receiving), fingering, protected P in V, use of lube. Pet names (baby, sweetheart, mama)

WC: 2600

*I never give permission for my fics, manips, or any other original creation I post on this site to be copied, posted elsewhere, translated, or fed into any AI program. The only platform I currently post anything on is Tumblr. Thanks!*

Four and a half months, that’s how long it had been since you’d given birth to the precious angel that was your daughter. It was the best day of your life and changed so many things so quickly.

Particularly, your body. You were so proud of it; growing and carrying a life for 9 months, enduring 14 hours of labor and delivery, producing daily nutrition to feed this tiny human you loved so dearly. You lamented all the times in your youth when you would pick and pull at your skin, over analyzing the ways your body could “improve” and wishing to abide more by the over photoshopped standards you saw in magazines. How foolish you were.

Now you loved your body. She was a warrior. A Goddess.

But still, even with your new found appreciation for her, it was difficult some days to not feel like a stranger in your own skin. You knew pregnancy and birth would bring about irreversible changes to your body. But nothing could have prepared you for the emotional wave of grief and confusion that came with all the new feelings and quirks that come with life after pregnancy. 

Which was probably why you had been avoiding having sex. 

Sure sex had been uncomfortable towards the end of your pregnancy, you and Frank inventing the most insane positions just to find a comfortable way to do it. Your body had already changed so much then, but even more so now. Would he still love you like he used to? Would the things you used to enjoy still feel good? Would there be any pain?

You’d been cleared at your 8 week postpartum appointment to move forward with all sexual activity, but still had put it off.

Frank, of course, never pushed the issue. In fact he never brought it up at all, too tired and busy doting on your daughter and making sure your recovery went smoothly. Daily, you got to witness the strength and determination he showed to welcome this second chance despite the demons of his past. He was the epitome of a perfect father and partner, which only turned you on and made you love him even more.

“Ithinkweshouldhavesextonight” you finally blurted out one morning, need for intimate connection and relief outweighing the anxiety.

Frank had just gotten your daughter down for a nap and was at the kitchen sink washing out your pumping equipment. 

He turned around so casually to face you and leaned against the counter, as if you had just asked him what the weather was. God, did he have to look so sexy when he was just existing?

He looked you up and down and with an eyebrow corked replied softly “Yeah? That somethin’ you’re ready for?”

You were still reeling from the shock of actually saying it out loud and stuttered out “I… I think so.”

Frank nodded calmly. 

“Okay.” 

And then he was back to his task without another word.

He didn’t bring it up for the rest of the day, going through the evening routine of dinner, diaper changes, and bathtime with your daughter as he normally would.

Meanwhile, your nerves were on edge, half with anxiety, half with anticipation. 

The last feeding of the night was done and your daughter drifted to sleep in your arms as you rocked her. You gingerly set her down in her bassinet, careful not to wake her and have to start the whole routine again.

It was typical to find Frank leaning in the door frame of the nursery, happily observing the site of his family. So you weren’t surprised when you turned around and found him standing there with a grin plastered across his face.

“Hey beautiful.” 

“Hey big guy.”

“You still feeling up to…” he asked

“Yeah,” You nodded. “C’mon let's go to the bedroom.”

You reached for his hand, but he pulled it away.

“I got somethin’ for you first.” 

The bathtub was to the brim with bubbles. Based on the aroma in the air, you could tell it was the good kind you liked to buy at cute little boutiques in Brooklyn and not the Johnson and Johnson brand you used for your daughter’s baths.

Frank pressed his chest to your back and placed a gentle kiss to your crown.

“Gotta get you relaxed first.”

Docile fingers danced under the hem of the shirt you wore; a dingy, grey henley that once belonged to him, as he slowly began to undress you.

You silently cursed at yourself for not putting on something sexier earlier. Not that any of your old lingerie fit you, but anything more put together than this would have been better.

“Where’s that brain of yours goin’ now?”

Goddamnit how could he read you so well?

“Just wishing I put a little more effort in to seducing you.” 

“Eh, you know you don’t need nothin’ fancy to do that.”

The kisses he peppered to your now exposed shoulder sent a shiver up your spine as he continued.

“My woman’s so goddamn pretty, it’s been torture keeping my hands to myself.” 

Frank’s plan worked wonders as you found yourself emerging from a half-hour in the scented warm water feeling relaxed and floaty.

He was waiting for you in the bedroom, wearing nothing but clean grey sweatpants that rode low to tease and tantalize you. Good to know he still remembered just what you liked.

He eyed you up and down as you walked towards him, closing the gap between you and pulling you flush to him.

A gentle hand ran down your cheek as you lovingly gazed into each other's eyes.

“Okay, here’s how this is gonna go,” he said “I’m gonna go nice and slow,”

You let out a huff, which caused Frank’s eyebrows shoot up.

“And you’re not gonna whine about it.”

“Fine.” you conceded

“If at any point, anything hurts or makes you uncomfortable, even a little, you tell me and we stop. You got that?”

You nodded your head gently, leaning into the hand he still had resting where your jaw and neck meet.

“Atta girl.”

His lips were soft when they met yours, gentle but not hesitant. He took care to guide you backwards and sit you down on the bed gingerly.

It always fascinated you how hands that inflicted so much violence and death could show you such tenderness and love, could provide so much pleasure. Even moreso now seeing how docile he was with your newborn.

The tie of your robe undid easily and the soft fabric fell off your shoulders and pooled in your lap, exposing you to him.

His eyes were full of reverence as he once again stared at you, admiring with a boyish grin before he dove in and covered your skin in the sweetest of kisses. Each meeting of his lips to your shoulders, your neck, your chest was the rising sun of spring, reigniting your body from hibernation.

His nimble fingers gently grabbed at your breast as he continued tracing his lips across you, giving it a small squeeze before twirling your nipple under his thumb.

It was just enough stimulation to release a few small drips of milk, followed by a tiny stream.

You pushed at his shoulder to get him off and attempted to stop the liquid with a bit of your robe.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I thought about pumping before we got started, but I was hoping maybe she had enough before bed that it’d be alright.”

“It’s okay baby.” Frank practically whispered, swiping at the opaque fluid with his thumb.

“They sore?” he asked

“A little.”

“Can I help?”

You practically felt a flood rush between your legs at his request and nodded eagerly.

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees before you. His breath was hot against your skin as he licked all the way up from your ribcage to your nipple, gathering the warm nectar on his tongue. 

He hummed in satisfaction as he took your nipple fully into his mouth. The divine mix of building pleasure and sweet relief filled your body as he began to suckle, soft pouty lips encompassing your breast.

Big hands wrapped around your lower back, pressing indents into your skin with his calloused fingers as he held you close to him, his eyes now squeezed shut as he continued to nurse.

You threw your head back, groaning at the borderline overwhelm of feelings that ripped through your body.

Frank laid you down slowly, upper lips dragging along your skin as he released your breast and began to kiss down, allowing a spurt of milk to fly into the air.

As he moved down, your hands instinctively flew to cover the loose skin of your stomach, still laden with lighter stripes from where your daughter stretched your flesh as she grew in utero.

His thick fingers grabbed at your wrists to stop you.

“No.” he commanded and instinctually you groaned in rebuttal, trying to free your hands from his grip.

“Ain’t no hiding from me baby. C’mon.”

The low roughness of his voice always made you want to obey whatever he requested. You looked at him with pleading eyes.

“Look, I know you’re still gettin used to all of it, but you’re still my woman and I love you. Shit, you’re even more my woman now that you’ve had my kid. You think I ain’t gonna worship every bit of you? This beautiful body that gave me my daughter, that gave me a second chance I don’t deserve. You think I ain’t gonna love every inch of you just as much as before?”

You couldn’t help but grin at his praise and nodded, leaving your hands at your side and permitting him to continue his work.

Done with taking his time, but still a certain gingerness to his movements, he finally kissed his way to between your legs. You were practically squirming with need as he teased his hot breath against your core.

The sweet relief when he finally ran his tongue through your folds had you practically jumping off the mattress with how calico-like your back arched. You were sensitive, having had no stimulation there in months. You hadn’t even dared to touch yourself in any way that wasn’t medically related, afraid to even test the waters.

Once he was satisfied with the amount he slicked up your petals with his tongue, he went back to being slow and careful, experimenting with your limits by tickling your entrance with the tip of his finger.

Another nod from you and he pushed in just to the first knuckle, then the second. All you could do was whimper with the pleasure of finally feeling him again, bucking your hips to encourage him to go further.

He massaged your walls a little before adding a second finger and you were in heaven.

It was so familiar the way he worked you over with his fingers and mouth. More and more of your fears dissipated with every movement, the luminous pleasure building inside took them over. 

Your orgasm crashed into you unexpectedly, taking not much at all to get you there. It made you feel normal and human and real again. 

Tenderly, he kissed at your thighs as you worked to steady your breathing.

“How you feeling, sweetheart?”

Another nod. Usually it was Frank who was mostly silent and you doing all the talking. But not tonight.

“That good, huh?”

A giggle escaped you.

“Talk to me pretty girl, what you need now?”

“You Frank, wanna feel you inside me.”

“Okay. How? Gotta do whatever’s gonna be most comfortable for you.”

“I think I should be on top. Have the most control that way.”

“You got it.”

Frank rummaged around the nightstand and pulled out a condom and the bottle of lube. He shed his sweatpants and made his way back to you. 

Spreading your legs, he applied a generous amount of lube, using his fingers to push it inside you a little. Satisfied with that preparation, he layed down beside you and put the condom on. You tossed your robe to the floor and crawled to him, maneuvering to hover over his length.

He held you in place with one strong hand and ran the back of his finger down your cheek with the other.

“Remember baby, anything hurts, we stop.”

You nodded, then reached down to guide him to your entrance.

It was a delicious stretch as you slowly sank down, relaxing away the last of your fears about pain. It felt good. It felt different. But it felt good.

The sigh of relief once he was fully seated inside you echoed around the room. You sat there for a moment, enjoying the pleasure. It felt like coming home after being away for too long.

You gave a rock of your hips, steady and easy, feeling the drag of his cock against your velvet walls. 

Again. And again. 

Until you found a comfortable rhythm and lost yourself to the pleasure.

Meanwhile, Frank’s hands continued to explore, reveling in the feel of your skin under his touch after missing it for so long. Observing the way pleasure twisted and contorted on your face as you rode him, he couldn’t take his gaze off of you.

Temptation won him over, he raised his hand to paw at your other breast. Just a few pinches to your tender nipple and the leak began.

Rising to his elbows, he once again took your breast in his mouth. The warmth of his soft lips latching and sucking sent a wave of goosebumps across your skin as you continued to thrust against him.

Carding your fingers through his cropped hair, you held his head to you, encouraging him to continue.

His fingers found the other breast, squeezing so the stream of milk began once more, flowing down the curve of your tit.

“Frank, I’m so close.” you said, punctuated by the slap of skin.

He moved to bury his face between your boobs and kissed your breast bone, husking out “That’s it baby, let me feel you. Atta girl” 

Every dial in your body was cranked up to maximum capacity and it wasn’t long before you erupted, white hot pleasure coursing from head to toe as you rhythmically clenched around him.

You grabbed at his shoulders in an attempt to not fall over and he shushed at the whimpers you released with every spasm of your walls.

Frank wasn’t far behind, cradling your face as he pulled you to press your forehead to his.

A grunt escaped him as he thrusted up into you a final time. His gaze bore into yours as he released, attempting to say a million words he couldn’t form right now.

Cautiously, he tipped sideways and laid you down beside him on the bed, pulling you to lay on his glistening chest. 

“You feeling good?”

“Yeah, Frank that was perfect.”

“Good baby, I’m glad we…”

But his words were cut off, the siren cry coming from down the hall stopped both of you in your tracks.

You moved to get up but Frank pushed at your shoulder.

“Shh shh shh I got her mama. You stay put.”

You closed your eyes as you listened to him coo her back to sleep from down the hall, content to live in this little bubble of joy forever.

For you @itwasthereaminuteago

[darkdemeter]

Hey hey, could i please have a request?

So imagine that the reader is traveling with death to restore the humanity and they get along so well and are kind of flirty and the reader is falling for him. One day they meet Vulgrim and she out of curiosity falls into his serpent hole and is transported to the past to meet the young and unruly death, who we know was a menace when younger. And then they have their interactions the reader goes back to the current version of death. How do you think that would go?

Have a lovely day and thank you for your work!

EVEN DEATH WAS ONCE YOUNG

◤✘DARKSIDERS COLUMN | Death x Female Reader

NOTES: ↳ OH. MY. GOSH. ANON! Writing this was the bomb!! Interesting concept, a wonderful opportunity to explore pre-horseman "younger" Death. I tried to keep a balance between his more mature personality while also having some fun with giving him a bit of spunk -- I couldn't stop giggling! WARNINGS! ↳ Just death being a bit of a young menace, but he kinda cute doing it sooo.... but like there's also fluff/hurt stuff?

✎5.4k ────────────────

When people used to say: “I wish I could meet the younger version of you.” They don’t actually know what they’re asking for. Because who in their right mind would want to meet Death in the prime of his bloodlust? 

The thought struck a fancy with you after your encounter with the demoness, Lilith. Her presence exotic and threatening without explicitly doing anything remotely violent. It was the sensual octave that carried her words like a lullaby you had found forbidding to hear, yet you fall prey to the temptation to hear just one more word.

That didn’t stop you from hiding behind Death, his back rigid to the point the knocks of his spine straightened slightly when her hand lingered a little too close to brush a stray framing of hair out from your face. 

But it was what she recounted that piqued your curiosity. Her children. Enriching lore of a species most loathed from long ago, a bloody crusade where they met their end by Death’s hands. From her retelling and the mystical pulse of life that beats in the embedded shards in his chest, even speaking of them appeared to pain him both physically and mentally. A burden you could never carry for him nor tell him to abandon. 

For a human, whose patience often wanes at the smallest of inconvenience, you show a lot of compassion and understanding for the weight on his shoulders. And never would you know exactly how thankful Death has become for your company. At times almost yearning for it whenever you are but a few feet away, or the thought crosses his mind to take you back to the Tri-Forge and leave you in the Maker’s care. Your fragility means more to him now than it has before, sometimes just looking at you eases just a fraction of that guilt he pushes deeper down. 

You’d both formed far too much of a bond so unnatural to the opinion of others, yet it fell into some assortment of right for you. 

You can’t possibly imagine being left behind, not now. Not after how far you have come all this way together. 

But yes, that saying. Did people ever realise what it was they were saying? 

“Meeting the mother-in-law already, baby albums and all.” Your voice crackles on the hot, muggy wind that travels through this slice of inferno, sky a spiral of darkness and hellfire smog. “Dare I say it, I wish I could meet the younger—”

“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence,” he warns with a low and thorough rasp that rattled in his chest. 

You cannot help but spare him a teasing wrinkle of your nose and puckering your tongue out between your teeth, body twisting from side to side innocently.

You can’t help but chuckle with a slight bounce in your step. “Sounds like you were quite the bad boy.”

You merely roll your eyes as he gruffly replies with a huff, “Your perception cannot possibly begin to fathom the prime of my youth… or handle it.”

Despite his attempt of coming off cool and collected, you could hear the bitter coil of something else underline his words. 

Oh, how mystical and dark and brooding he always was and portrayed himself to be. You’re sure that there is something a little less grim beneath that rough exterior. Hell — and that saying excludes your current locale — you have witnessed it before in the engagements of fun conversation that go back and forth to the point that a victor who gets the last say is indeterminable sometimes. So he’s not completely a lost cause of being impenetrable, he’s entertained you before with quite a few situations that you classified as flirting. Who knew that Death himself could make you blush bright and red?

He was close to claiming that title of victory this time, until you pad along to stop right in the middle of his tracks, his chest barely able to stop from bumping into you and causing your balance off kilter for a moment. 

“Come on, Death, at this point of travelling together, I can handle anything.”

He looks past your nonchalant grin and over your shoulder, seeming to cock a brow beneath the greying bone of his mask.

“Really now?” he hums, “Duck.”

“Wh—” you dare not finish to question him as you immediately take to assuming position, ducking low to the ground in preparation of an oncoming ambush unseen by you.

But it never comes. You hear a gravelly rumble of a chuckle emit from the reaper before you, his shoulders jostling a little with the motion. Your lips purse together and you scowl at him with everything you can muster to no avail of affecting him.

“Oh, ha ha. Very funny,” you snark back, walking alongside him as he continues to set your traversing pace. 

Noticing that he was heading back the way you came, you jutt a thumb to point behind you “Aren’t we meant to be going that way?” 

“Your sense of direction has improved astonishingly, girl,” Death snickers dryly, the slur of flirty endearment almost lost in his words. He continues, “We’re paying a visit to Vulgrim.” 

Ugh, even saying that name brings a ghoulish, slimy chill to climb your spine uncomfortably. 

“Horseman,” The greenish bulbs of his eyes shrink behind a wrinkling brow of pale, craggily skin. Then his eyes see you and the form in which they almost bulge from their sockets sickens you. “And your little human companion! Your scent is just as… lovely as ever, my dear.” 

The gaping maw of his lipless mouth twists into a creeping grin so unnerving it causes knots of fear to tie in your gut. 

“Uh, no,” you say with an adamant shake of your head. No way in this life or the next would you trade your soul to Vulgrim of all fiends. Death had warned you to just keep your soul to yourself in general if offered to sell it for a little something in return. 

“Your dealings are with me, Vulgrim.” Death is clear and quick to establish your presence before the serpent hole. The demon trader, sighing grimly with a black, slimy tongue ringing over his cracked and deformed fangs, addresses Death. 

“Very well. Let us see what I have to offer… and what you can afford.”

Vulgrim usually dances about his serpent hole but never ventured too far if he can help it, usually to usher you away from it with a warning, “If you know what is best for your longevity, stay away from there.” 

And most of the time, Death kept a watchful eye on you to keep you from falling face first into the next trap of trouble. However, this time around, the pool of green mist is left surprisingly unguarded. With a curious tilt of your head and scrunch of your nose, your boots pad on over as you walk towards it. 

You can’t make out a bottom through the wafting cloud of mist that rises from the hole. Still you arch your body to peer over the edge and down into it as though you’d find something soon enough if you just inch that little bit—

“Human!” Death bellows as he rushes to you, only just seeing your form stumble and fall forward. A yelp of surprise turns into a blood-curdling scream as you sink into the smoggy abyss. The green haze around you fades into a darker shade until all around you is black nothingness. Your voice throws over into a thousand echoes that follow you. You’re still falling. At least it feels that way and for a moment you think you’ve closed your eyes; it’s hard to tell with the inky black around you.

A bright tone paints onto the surface of your closed eyes and you fall onto ground, dusty and hard, small rocks jab and scrape as you land. The brunt of the fall knocks the wind from you and you take a moment to recover your bearings, soon to rise to your feet and brush off the smears of dirt on your clothes.

“Okay. Duly noted: do not go anywhere near serpent holes,” you affirm strongly with newfound belief, only to be met by silence.

No scolding words that apprehend your actions. Not the familiar grasp of a cold, large hand that strangely warms you and causes your heart rate to pick up a little faster. No, you turn and shift on your heel to scan all directions about you. 

“Uhm… Death? Vulgrim?” You’ve spun yourself into a circle a million times over by now. “Anyone? Hello?”

For certain this is not the same slice of hell you had accompanied Death to and no serpent hole was in sight. Instead, you're in some cavernous valley of dust land and patches of grass and foliage, in the distance stands the mounds of high reaching cliff sides. 

Where exactly are you? 

As a human evidently from earth, you had never once had the ability to traverse any realm unfamiliar. In fact, you never knew of the possible existence of them. And after meeting Death, you were strictly told to stay close. Realms harboured dangers of their own, a breed of some civilisation that undoubtedly hurt you if you ran off by yourself. 

And now you’re beginning to feel that seeping dread of despair dawn within you. That sulking hopelessness that you have cast yourself to some unknown corner of the cosmos, and Death has no idea where you dropped off to. 

“Death?” You ask aloud again. Were you lost forever? 

You begin to head off in a direction, putting the sun to your left as you look around for ideally any serpent holes that can hopefully drop you back where you belong. With Death. Without him here, you feel like a newborn fawn stumbling on its legs. He always made you feel safe, always ensured he was between you and whatever threat that tried to get you, even if he got hurt because of it. 

You continue to call out to the wind that sweeps over you, the sun beating down hard. You brush aside a flurry of hair from your face, your pace slowing exponentially as you practically stumble through this unknown territory.

That’s when that sixth sense kicks in. You’re not sure if you had been ignoring the signs before or if the feeling just came, but all the same you feel that you’re being watched.

You’ve barely dived out of the way before something large crashes behind you, the scraping of claws digging into the crusty soil and the shifting balance of weight kicks up a cloud of dust behind the force of the leaping attack. Turning to face whatever it was, you grimace at the sight of a mangy looking hound that dwarfs you. Its skin is a burnt hue of reddish pink like it suffered constant exposure to the sun, what matted fur that lined its spine and cuffed around its ribs was a dark, sandy brown with dark, faded stripes. Its ears twitch as a high pitched wheeze passes through its open jaw that pries open like a snake. Rows of black teeth are coated in an oily surface of dripping saliva. 

You see another grapple down the cliff face to join the first, this one notably smaller, but not by much. Then another of the same size joins the second, each one stalking closer to corner you in. 

A piercing sharpness fills your chest and your hand grasps at the handle of your dagger. A simple form of defence, highly unlikely to fend off the predators easily, but better than nothing. 

Right about now, that favourable reaper of yours would be excellent company. There were so many things you wished you had said, times you procrastinated moving that bit closer to his side by the evening campfire meant for your safety and sanity. You fear that this is your end. For your quest in restoring humanity, one more human will be lost today, and Death will have to bear that burden. It saddens you in a way. That the guilt would eat away at him. 

One of the smaller hounds takes no more than a few steps forward, just about ready to pounce at you before a humming force sings through the air and with a meaty crunch of bone and mushed brain, an all familiar scythe fatally sheathed in its skull. 

You fall back on your arse, a relieved grin digs deep into your cheeks as you think Death has somehow found you. 

You look around, eager to see him, barely catching something fast cut through the corner of your vision. The next thing you know, the head of the second smaller hound rolls over, its tongue hanging loosely between its jaws, the decapitated appendage just resting at the heel of your boots. The sight makes you grumble in dull disgust.

However, you are brought into the shadow of the larger creature that now towers above you, caught with a gulp in your throat. By your lucky stars, its attention diverts from you and to your rescuer and dives forward. 

You only just turn your head when a pained shriek howls through the air and a severed limb flies some distance away. Followed by another and then a third limb, leaving the defeated creature to begin crawling away with a distorted whine. 

His silhouette bathed in the scorching sun is a sight of relief, though his attire had changed. Not the draping tabard of violet tied about his waist or the deep purple scarf hung over his shoulders. Mostly an assortment of bandages wrapped and woven around his arms, clad in iron fittings. He steps after the beast, following along the weeping trail of blood smeared into the dirt, scythes coming together as the long staff of Harvester and placed to his back. 

Your face contorts in response to the sheer brutality before you, visage twitching in your frazzled comprehension. Yes, Death had a very violent tendency to be dangerously savage, but he was well versed in being precise, but never at this level. Seeing him utilise naught but his inhuman strength at his disposal and his hands, he rips the hound’s upper jaw clean off until sheets of sinew and muscle were reduced to hair-thin threads. 

He drops the unhinged part to his feet with a wet, clumpy thump. Even you have to internally argue that Death may have lost himself a little there. When his head turns over his shoulder, the flicker of an amber glow catching you in his sights, you cannot help the reaction to freeze as you roll onto your belly. 

Something unfamiliar resides in his gaze like he’s seeing you for the first time. But rather than the confusion of an older entity seeing one of the many souls still alive, there is a frenzy of anger – adrenaline running a high river through him, driving him bloodmad. 

His upper body then begins to turn only to halt when you utter his name, form rigid in his study of you. Again, you try, “Death? Hey, it’s me.”

Immediately you’re met by the unsheathed blade of Harvester aimed against you and you skitter back with a hiss as the massive blade knicks your cheek. 

“Hey! Careful with that— what’s gotten into you?”

“Who are you?” 

Your face scrunches, a morphed complaint of your confusion. He only attempts to raise his scythe to your neck with a threat to render you headless at his whim. 

“I-it’s me, hello!” you laugh with bitter nervousness, “you know me. Y/N, the human you’ve been travelling with.”

He gives no form of recollection. Not that he’s easy to read with that mask of his, hiding all but the expression in his eyes. Or the way he narrows them upon hearing one word: Human. Call it intuition, a gut feeling, a divine touch; you feel that that word held some powerful trigger to the Horseman before you. And none that you had seen in him before. Almost a zeal of intense excitement flourishes in the furnace heart of his eyes. 

“A human?” Harvester balances in his grasp to lean against his shoulder, a curious tilt of his head somehow influences you to mimic the action with an affirmative hum.

“Uh-huh. We were on our way to restore humanity. We went extinct, remember?” 

“Really now?” 

When he begins to stalk closer and inching the gap between you shorter, you find yourself taking a few steps back. Something was… off. Death isn’t like his usual self. The concept of humans didn’t really phase him in such a way before. He just thought of humanity and their restoration as a mere key to gaining his brother’s freedom. Somehow integral to the balance but never once serving importance to him. But now, before your very eyes, he appears with a dark excitement as he looks you over. Like your very existence piques him. 

Was he flirting with his leash ten yards behind him? 

Now that’s very unlike your old reaper—

There’s a thought: he is not… that old. Sure, old by some standard in the scheme of time, but compared to when you were travelling together, you come to realise how noticeably younger he is. And still, he advances towards you until his shadow overthrows you, drowning you in it. 

Even if you wanted to chalk up your thoughts to some conspiracy, you also notice that there is a sore lack of soul-cursed shards embedded into the taut muscle of his chest. 

Alright. Now you’re beginning to put the pieces of this puzzle together. You have somehow landed in the great, great past.

It’s like your wish became a manifested reality. 

Bathed in the sunless dark of his shadow, your feet intend to shuffle back, only for his arm that handles his massive scythe extends forth, the pole of it acting as some guard that keeps you from moving any further away. 

You mumble to yourself then, resigning in your compliance to remain where you stand. He may not be trying to directly hurt you now, but if given the motivation, you could yet stand corrected. 

He continues to stare at you, long and hard pressing, you feel like an ant under the heated blink of a glass scope that is threatened to burn. A matter of curiosity is all you can surmise it to the way his neck extends forward, bending down until the bone form of his masked nose hovers over you, near deathly silent but still largely inhaling your scent.

The act is enough for that heated flush to deep into your skin. 

“Hey—hey, easy there, big guy,” you warn, voice wavering from the way he merely tilts his head before leaning in again. “No, I said n-no! Stop that—no, that tickles!” 

Upon you practically beating him away with the ferocity of your mitten gloves, he then circles you like a predatory beast. 

“How is this possible? Humanity’s creation has not yet come,” he inquisitively says. 

You give a shrug, choosing to be a little more careful of your words. Would anything you do or say alter time itself and affect your supposed present? 

Just with you being here would be enough to do just that if Death’s claim that humans weren’t born yet is true. 

“Uh, well… it’s not so simple to explain. You see, I er—”

Shit this was getting more and more difficult to explain with the growing anxiety dangerously lurking over you like a foreboding cloud. 

“I’m not from here.”

You can almost see his brow curve upward under the mask. “Evidently,” he drawls deeply in response. 

With a roll of your eyes you try again. 

“All I know is that I somehow fell through some serpent hole and got transported back in time. Now, I gotta find a way back.” 

“You mean to leave?” 

Already turning your back on him – unaware of such a grave mistake – you only nod in response, your eyes last to leave him. Who knows how much longer you will have to endure here before Death finds and rescues you from his younger self. 

But that just isn’t in your stack of cards. Again you’re almost blown to the four winds and land on the cushion of your arse, grumbling in pain as you stare up at him, standing right in the way of your path.

Your lips purse tightly together, you hiss, “Death!” 

He crouches in front of you, ignoring the way you attempt to pry him and push him away as he moves a hand forward. He holds your wrist at bay before you can land a firm push to his mask to shove him away, his amber eyes dance with a certain level of intrigue and his head tilting to the side leaves his raven hair to saddle alongside the motion. 

He peels the grubby article off your hand to reveal the bareness of your skin and you find yourself holding your own breath. 

His own hand measures yours, palm to palm and you feel the roughened contour of his skin. His body radiates with an off-centred heat, not entirely cold as he is in the present with you but the morph of warmth isn’t so smothering unlike some infernal realm you know. You almost see the softness that crosses his features beneath the boney helm of his mask, like the cracks of emotion are being revealed without your exact know-how. 

But you’ve known Death for some time now. You’ve been in his company. If this is some revelation of a breakthrough, then you see it before your very eyes. 

Each finger lines to one another. A curtain of silence falls over the both of you until your eyes meet. A smile creeps over your lips then. 

“Must you truly go?” he’s sudden to ask beneath the gravel baritone of his chords. With a sigh, you only nod your head. 

His eyes harden at this, something distraught lines his concealed face only to be betrayed by the levelled glow of his eyes, but nevertheless he stands, no longer keeping you from running off. As you make your way to stand on your own two feet, brushing off the particles of dirt off your clothes, you notice Death’s prolonged stare. 

“What is it?” 

He only shakes his head, a gruff response of, “Nothing.” 

Though his reply is suspiciously vague, you both venture off into the great unknown, however much you believe that Death is more accustomed to the land than you. 

Hours pass as the sun begins to ride your backs and no sight of any serpent holes, leaving you with a feeling of exhausted anguish. As the night creeps in as a shadowy blanket over the sky and turns the humid air colder, you pull your shawl over your body as a chill licks your spine. 

Death — no not your Death, the younger one — takes notice, eying you from the side of his vision. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You jerk your head in his direction with eyes wide in your perked alertness. “Hm? Oh, I’m just cold is all. Usually I’d have a fire set up by now to rest…”

Would it be wise to add that it was him — older him — beside you and ensuring you settle into your makeshift camp? Unsure, you keep that to yourself. 

When he places an overly large hand to your shoulder, you stumble on your heel and pause, watching Death’s head scan the horizon and the upper cliff faces until he stops. You turn your head and notice just in the crevice of shadow and fading sunlight the blackened mouth of a cave. 

Your eyes light up at the thought of rest despite your circumstances and you already begin your trek towards the rocky climb, though you now see the rather steep slope it resides to reach the haven. With a grumble, your determination steers you to climb anyways, your feet stumbling and causing small pebbles to scatter down the face. 

Hands then grab hold of you and before you’re able to fight or protest, Death scuttles up in a matter of seconds with you hanging on for dear life. After he sets you down, you huff out, “Thanks.” 

He gives a gruff sound in response with a curt nod, then turns to scour the new site of camp. It wasn’t so much as a cave as you thought, moreso of a sheltered crop in the rocks, providing enough area to protect you from the elements but also invites the cool winds to breeze on past. 

Making a fire was a challenge than it usually was, making due with what you had on hand, and Death sets Harvester to his side, leaning it against the wall. He doesn’t think you pose that much of a threat to warrant its persistent sheath. 

He however finds some interest in how you kindle the birth of flames, crafting it from almost nothing. 

Looking up at him from your position, you laugh softly to yourself. “Yeah, I know. Humans are so weak and strange. But it’s what we do. How we were made, I guess.”

“I didn’t say anything like that,” Death says with a clearly risen brow. His answer does bring you surprise. After all, Death had many times sighed and chuffed about how humans did the most silly of things – things that were key to your survival, keeping that in mind. 

“Well… you will. Someday.”

“How is it that you know me?” he asks, crouching on the fire’s opposite side, facing you. As much as you think it unwise to share anymore knowledge, you cannot deny that you feel almost safe around him, no matter the fact that he’s younger. In the prime of his bloodlust. 

But he hasn’t killed me yet. Tried to, but hasn’t. 

“It’s going to sound strange but… I’m from the future. And in that future, we are travelling together.”

“Because you said something of Humanity’s demise.” 

He’s Death alright. A keen observant to detail. You nod in reply before continuing, “and as I said, I fell through some sort of timeline and landed here in the past. The way, way past. So far that humans aren’t even created yet, as you’ve said.”

To this, he nods in turn and it brings you to smile. You feel as though he silently applauds your own recollection for detail. 

“Death, how old are you?” 

Yes, it is indeed perhaps a very stupid decision to ask his age, but the nature of curiosity humans are notoriously known for gets the better of you. His eyes flicker with momentary stutter, taken aback by such a question, but one he doesn’t ultimately deny in answering. 

“Today is my day of creation… I’m a thousand-and-one—”

Your eyes go wide and you shoot up to your feet with a cheer. “What? Happy Birthday!” 

Your voice is a loud noise to the shell of his hearing and it spurns him to the defence, beckoning Harvester to fly to his hand within an instant. You’re quickly covering your mouth, uttering your apologies at spooking him. 

Settling back down, this time to his side, you flash him a shy, toothy grin. “But that’s exciting!”

“What is a ‘birthday’?”

You gasp at the shocking revelation. “It’s a celebration. When humans are born on a certain day, it’s a tradition to celebrate it every year.”

Then it pops into your mind, again sending the nephilim beside you to flinch at your motion, you stir up a fuss of plucking a twig from the flames before it’s entirely devoured. Holding it, single flame slow to eat away the kindle, you beam as you stare at Death with large, doe-like eyes. 

“Make a wish!”

“A what?” He scoffs, only to see you dramatically roll your eyes until they’re nearly rolling out of their sockets. “A wish. You make a wish, something you really want, and then blow out the flame. Another tradition on your birthday.”

His eyes narrow to thin points, sceptical that perhaps you were using something to your advantage. When he sees that you don’t have any ill intent to deceive him, he shuffles in his spot slightly to face you, body arching ever so over yours; his height even at this level towers over you. 

You whisper softly, “Like this.” 

Making the motion of blowing out the makeshift candle with your mouth, the campfire casting an orange hue to your skin paints you in a fine detail that the nephilim cannot help but study closely until a there’s a skip in his chest.

His hand raises to his mask but stops and you see the hesitance to continue any further. Understanding that it very well could be because of your presence, you tilt your chin down and squeeze your eyes shut. 

A gust beats across your face, skirting the wisps of hair away and then just as promptly as he’d lifted his mask, he’d lowered it just in time for you to peel your eyes open. Again, you smile. 

He’s the first to crack through the veil of tension between you both, standing on his feet. 

“Get some rest, girl.”

The next day, you finally see in the distance the familiar halo of green and sick looking mists, but it is your ticket home nonetheless. You skip ahead and towards it, laughing at the thought of reuniting with Death and telling him of your adventure.

But then you stop. Not another skip in your step. You turn around to see Death, body rigid but his chin is aimed down and his eyes don’t exactly meet yours. Approaching him cautiously, you halt a few feet before him, hands pinned behind you. 

“I guess this is goodbye…”

You don’t very much like the eternal sound to your farewell. Like you’re losing him forever. 

He drawls out, low and lessened of any sort of emotion, but you swear you note a hint of sadness in his tone. “My wish didn’t come true.”

“What was your wish?”

His eyes rise to meet yours and you feel your heart splinter. Why did it feel so wrong to want to go back to Death in the future? Why did everything that wasn’t with him feel so, so wrong?

“I wish that you would stay here.”

“I can’t stay. I’m not from this time.” Your words do little to ease that which internally troubles him. Your hands coax his jaw to lift upwards until he stands, prouder and much taller over you that you have to balance on the toes of your feet. Then, you sweep your arms around him. His body is stiff to meet your hug but you care little in that regard. He’s always been one less evident of his affections, a tendency you’re completely fine with. 

“But I promise that we will meet again in the future. After all, that’s who I’m going back to through the serpent hole. To you.”

There it is, that flicker in his eyes that reveals in them a shiny glow of fire that you feel warms your heart in many ways. Pressing a chaste kiss to the toughened chin of his mask, you offer one last smile and bid your farewells with a wave, promising that you will see each other again before you jump into the serpent hole, disappearing into the green mists. 

You yelp as the void sends you crashing yet again and you fear that you have stumbled into yet another realm in another time. But for the first time, you find yourself relieved to hear Vulgrim’s slimy voice announce your arrival. 

“Ah! And there she is, the curious little mouse who doesn’t keep away from serpent holes,” he snides with a raspy coil like a snake getting ready to strike. 

“Vulgrim,” you poke your tongue out, brushing your hair from your face and you look to see Death charging his way to you. 

“There you are,” he says almost wistfully, hands pressed to your shoulders. A tender action even with the glare clear in his gaze. “What were you thinking? What happened to you?”

You know that beneath the roughness of his callous tone, he means well. He was worried and the look upon his younger self’s face as you left, you find yourself pulling yourself into him and embracing him. 

“I promised you that we’d meet again.”

His arms weave themselves around your waist, holding you to bear you closer in his embrace. “Yes, you did.”

[heaven-s-black-box]

No Second Chances- Al Haitham x Azar's daughter! wife!Reader

Return to File

Recovery date: April 26th, 2024

Description: Hello sorry if I'm bothering you but I got an idea from this video. (https://youtu.be/ZcMI-CQcZ_c?si=Ri1SQU-0DO6PMtIV) What if the reader is the biological daughter of Azar and is currently married to Alhaitham and they have a toddler who's almost two years old and the reader wants nothing to do with Azar because of what he did though she was willing to try and keep a somewhat healthy relationship with him because at the end of the day Azar was still her father and her child's grandfather, the reader is a gentle, humble and soft-spoken woman who does try to avoid confrontation.

Notes: This work was recovered in conjunction with an anonymous researcher, we thank them for their contributions. This one was a little hard to write, so I'm sorry if it's not very good.

Word count: 640

Back to directory

Al Haitham is not known for his empathy. He comes off as cold, he is calculating, and he doesn’t care for other people's bullshit. Those traits serve him well, they keep him out of trouble and on time, and they make it abundantly clear what he thinks of people.

He can count on one hand the people he tolerates excess complaining and illogical arguments from.

“You don’t have to see him,” Al Haitham whispers into the quiet room, tightening his hold on his wife.

She stops squirming, finally, but he knows she’s not done. He’s proven right when she fights against his hold to turn towards him and he opens his eyes to find her staring into his. Y/n places her hands on his chest, above his heart, and takes a deep breath. He can feel the pounding of her heart.

“I want Ehsan to know his grandfather.”

“He will.”

“Beyond what the history books will say,” Y/n sighed.

Al Haitham bit back a sigh. He couldn’t say he agreed with her, Azar hadn’t even been particularly present in her youth, but he understood what she was trying to do. When Azar had come to their wedding, she’d been ecstatic. When Ehsan had been born and he’d sent flowers, she’d started planning a day to bring him by the Academia. To her, Azar’s absence had always been explained and was never malicious so she was willing to give him a chance in her life.

That illusion she’d created, that her father carried, was now teetering after the recent events with the Akasha terminal. It was always so fragile, and now she was looking for a way to break it completely.

“It’s making you anxious,” Al Haitham said instead, resting his chin on her head and rubbing a hand up and down her back. “You hardly ate today.”

“I want my father to meet his grandson at least once, and you and Cyno went through all that trouble-”

“Y/n. We don’t care.”

She lowered her gaze, staring at her hands as she drummed her fingers against his chest. Al Haitham slid his hands around her waist to hold hers and placed a gentle kiss against her ring.

“Ehsan has a wonderful family already.” He nudges her chin up. “And if you tell any of them I said that I will put salt in your coffee.”

Y/n cracked a smile, and Al Haitham put his chin back on her head while wrapping his arms back around her.

“Get some sleep,” he whispered. “You can decide in the morning.”

---

Y/n took a deep breath before nodding at Cyno who opened the interrogation room door and let her in. She stepped in, fiddling with her fingers, and stared at the floor as she made her way to the empty chair. Azar watched her with stern eyes, hands folded on the table.

“I hear you’re being sent to Avidya forest.”

“Yes.”

Taking another deep breath, Y/n pressed her palms flat against the table and squeezed her eyes closed before meeting Azar’s eyes.

“Good luck.”

She got up from the chair and headed back towards the door.

“Is that all?” Azar asked, frowning.

“That’s all.”

“How’s Ehsan?”

Y/n stopped with her hand raised to knock for Cyno.

“He’s good, very smart… like his father. I think it would be better if maybe you take some time to think about things and then, if you want, we’ll come visit.”

“But he’s my grandson,” Azar snapped, making Y/n tense up and dig her nails into the palm of her hand.

“You’ve never met him, and the idea of seeing you makes me so nervous that he gets worried. So, for my son’s sake, goodbye,” she breathed, the shaky exhale causing her shoulders to relax as she knocked on the door.

[jinnie-ret]

MY YOUTH | SKZ NINTH AU

stray kids x ninth member!reader (platonic)

<---------- back to my youth

<---------- back to main masterlist

chapter 2

genre: fluff content warnings: swearing (?) word count: 0.9k

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Lou was exhausted.

She didn't know if she was built for this. As she stood in the corner of the practice room sipping some water she was feeling a headache coming on, eyes wincing shut as a vision appeared in her head.

"If you don't stay away from our oppas, we'll post that photo online," a girl with a pointed nose said in Lou's face as she shoved her against the wall.

"I'm in the same group, I can't just leave, and, what photo...?"

"Oh you know, caught it clear as day, the one where you-"

"Flo you good?"

The girl looked up to see Changbin sat with her, wait, when did she sit down?

"Yeah, just got a bit of a headache, think I need to drink more water or something..." Lou trailed off.

"Ah, you need to look after yourself more, you sure that's all?" Changbin tilted his head at such an angle to keep eye contact with Lou who was looking down at her lap, confused.

"I think so," Lou nodded, after all, it was hard to make sense of her thoughts when something had entered her brain and interrupted them.

"Okay, you've just been a bit more quiet than normal. Is it those girls again?" Changbin said in a protective tone.

"No, no it's all good, don't worry Binnie," Lou smiled lightly to reassure him.

"Let's go then," Changbin stood up, still cautious that Lou wasn't revealing something to him.

Lou stood up with him, thankful that practice is over and that he didn't keep asking questions. Don't get her wrong, she loved Changbin, in this reality and as a fan too, but she couldn't keep up with trying to always think of answers when she didn't know what her past was here. At least she knew one thing and that Changbin was someone she could talk when she needed, they were just like what she saw on YouTube. The amount of videos she'd watch, all the two kids rooms, the vlogs, she loved it. She guessed that was something she'd have to prepare for too when the time comes.

"We're going to work on some songs now, wanna come with us or you going to your studio?" Chan turned to Lou as they joined the rest of the group.

"I think I'll work on my own, got some ideas I want to use," Lou nodded happily. She had her own studio?!? This was her dream. She loved making beats and her own songs from her current reality, so she was happy that aspect carried over to this one too.

"Well, let's hope you can whip up another 'My Pace'," Felix proudly said to Lou, hauling his bag over his shoulder.

Holy shit she made My Pace?

She wondered what else she had helped to produce for the group.

This day just keeps getting better and better.

"I'll try my best," Lou bashfully said, scratching the back of her neck as she smiled back at him.

"Wow, I get what Stays mean now, you two really do look alike when you smile," Jeongin pointed out.

"Oh wow they do, wait, turn this way guys," Hyunjin commented holding his phone up.

However, with the way Felix and Lou both turned to him in sync, it gave more of a creepy effect than a cute one. Their eyes widened and grins lasting for an uncomfortable amount of time.

"No not like that!" Seungmin burst out laughing at the image whilst Hyunjin dramatically widened his eyes and pretended to faint in horror.

"It's so scary!" he whined from the floor.

"Whyyy?" Lou walked over to Hyunjin and grabbed his phone, before seeing the image and bursting out laughing too, her whole body crumpling from her giggles.

"What is it?" Lee Know raised an eyebrow at his members in fits of laughter.

Lou held up the phone like a white flag in surrender, and when the other members finally saw the photo they understood too. If this ever got out to Stays, they'd have a field day.

"We need to change their name from sunshine twins to devil twins," Han chuckled at the photo.

Their manager suddenly returns from a coffee break to see the group still in the practice room.

"Why are you kids still here? You have free time now," the manager, Sejun, raised an eyebrow.

But that didn't stop their laughter as Changbin and Seungmin recreated the faces of Felix and Lou in the photo.

"I'm out," Sejun left.

•••

Finally in her own space, Lou took in what her studio looked like. It was perfect, soft tones of green dotted around the room, the comfiest wheelie chair that she could spin in, and recording equipment to die for.

The other thing on her mind was that she needs to find some sort of journal. There must be something here or at least at the dorms that she wrote her thoughts down in. If she liked producing at home and here, then surely she'd have a diary like she did at home too?

Opening a draw at her desk she found a book, but written on the front was lyrics. Well, it wasn't a diary but she could worry about that later. Now it was time to be in her element.

As if.

As if it was her same notebook from home. This is perfect. She really has things working out for her here.

Turning the page to the one she knew had a song needed finishing, she found the start of some lyrics to 'She Plays Bass'. She couldn't wait to finish it and share it, she guesses it would be uploaded as a SKZ Player.

Flicking the book to the next page she grips her pen ready to write more words down, yet there were some already there.

I hate hearing the knocking, the warning that they're waiting

What does it mean?

Knock, knock

Oh shit.

<-- previous chapter next chapter -->

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

tagged: @skz-streamer @kiraisastay @hannahhbahng @kpopmenace143 @sakufilms @kai-lee08 @arloo00 @dunno-wut-to-do @splat00z @cheesemonky @his-angell @turtledove824 @2minstan @royal-shinigami @yangbbokari @lixie-phoria

[fancyfeathers]

For Fancy,

Moon and Rain Zhongli was convinced not to conceive with MC, but I’m curious, is their marriage consummated?

The answer is yes, but I’m not going to go to much into that besides the answer since writing sexual content is a bit out of my comfort zone atm

But I never said he was not convinced to not have any children, he did want children, but she had a few Adepti in her corner who managed to defend her enough and talk him out of it…

But that’s written in the second book of the series when MC was talking to Lyney about the topic of children (which is funny cause I feel as the story progresses she is just adopting the mortals of Fontaine /j). I’ll put that scene below the cut.

Spoilers for When the Soft Rain Comes from the Moon and Rain are Bound to the Earth series on Ao3…

“You are very kind, Mademoiselle (Name).” Lyney spoke as he hoisted himself over the balcony railing, his feet landing on the other side of the edge, just inches from falling at least fifteen to twenty feet onto the pavement below. “You know you would make a good mother.”

“While that is very kind of you, Monsieur Lyney. I consider it a blessing that I have not bore any children, the world I have lived in has not been kind to me and I would not wish to bring life to see that world my husband created for me.” Your words carried a thick and heavy message in them, you have lived a long life and the topic of children was one that has come up many a time. If your husband had his way you surely would have had many children by this point but you were lucky enough to have a few Adepti in your corner, who somewhat defended you enough , and were able to talk your husband out of it. And by a few Adepti, you mean three out of the many that exist, Streetward Rambler otherwise known as Madam Ping, Mountain Shaper, and Menogias, only two of which live on today. Madam Ping was the one who defended you the most, the one having the gaul to stand up to your husband and speak up on your behalf when he would not listen to you, especially a number of centuries ago when she still had the face of a youthful beauty, before she chose her current form, but she did not mind helping you out still either. Mountain Shaper was more gentle in his approach as if afraid of your husband’s disapproval, suggesting in different ways that you were not ready, he was much more kind to you in private when your husband was not around and you were alone and perhaps in the company of the other two, especially before Menogias’ passing. On the day Menogias passed you do not think you have cried more besides the day when you were sealed in that prison-like cave for five hundred years. You shook all those thoughts away, you need to forget about those things now, you had your whole life ahead of you now. You looked at Lyney who was ready to make his grand escape from your balcony and smiled. “Perhaps one day I will wish for children, with the right person, someone who will not turn to dust in the next hundred years, someone who can stay by me throughout my exceptionally long life, and who will be gentle with me, kind, and loving. Things I have been deprived of, then I may wish for children. Until then I am content where I am.”

“I am sure you are, Mademoiselle (Name).” You watched as he gripped the railing with one hand and lifted up his top hat with the other and took a bow, leaning back and sweeping low. “Until we meet again, I bid you adieu.”

[feralfather]

If you're taking requests, could I have something with Spider being manhandled by the recoms and Quaritch? Like, he's literally just being carried around over Quaritch's shoulder bc he wouldn't go when he was told to, or he's just held in the air until he tires himself out when he's trying to attack them, etc. Just the recoms taking advantage of their size and Spider being about as effective as an actual child against them (hopefully inspiring some Dad!Quaritch feels as well?) Sorry if this is too detailed!

Oh yes yes yes! I accept requests! I love it!

If there’s one thing Spider got from his father, it was his stubbornness and anger… definitely his anger. That boy could blow up like a grease fire when provoked; try and douse it out with water, and it’ll only grow. You have to smother it.

Now, that isn’t to say Quaritch actually smothers the boy whenever he gets mad. He wouldn’t never.

No, instead he’s found it easier to snatch the kid up by his armpits and hold him at arms length while he screams curses and tries to punch and kick Quaritch in the chest. He learnt the hard way not to hold him close, after receiving a hearty kick to the chest, resulting in Spider rocketing himself backwards out of his grip and onto the floor, nearly giving the Quaritch a heart-attack while the other Recoms burst into laughter. Sometimes it was easy to forget how strong Spider was, but his bruised chest left him with a reminder of that strength for the following week.

Even if he had scolded Spider’s ear off for it, he couldn’t help but feel pride at the boy’s strength. He’d never say any of this, of course. He didn’t want to encourage Spider’s violent behavior towards him… but it made Miles feel better to know his son could wipe the floor with anyone who made the mistake of thinking he was an easy target.

And if Spider could bruise a Na’vi, he could only imagine the damage that kid could do to another Human with a single kick.

Maybe he should be more concerned with the amount of anger Spider seems to fall in, but he had his fair share of anger issues in his youth, and still does, so when someone pushes Spider’s buttons a little too much, Miles isn’t too hard on the kid when he blows up.

But none of this matters, as currently Miles is dealing with a different kind of situation. This isn’t angry Spider, this is stubborn Spider.

Z-Dog had been messing with the kid all day as they traversed through the jungle, like the absolute child she is, and Miles could only roll his eyes at the immaturity of it all. They taunted, poked, and argued with each other like children.

Spider eventually got fed up with her, and planted himself defiantly on the next large root they passed.

Miles had an ear tilted back towards the kid, so when he heard the crackling of Z-Dog’s laughter, he expected his kid to snap something back, but was met with resounding silence.

Brows furrowed, he turns his head to make sure he was alright, only to come to a halt at the sight of Spider sitting grumpily on a root, arms crossed over his chest, and Z-Dog bent over and snickering at his expression as she popped a bubble in his face. The rest of his squad paused at the sound of Miles’ growl.

“Zdinarsk!” Miles snapped, causing her to shoot up and snap to attention, looking like she got caught doing something she shouldn’t have. “The hell happened?” He continued as he quickly walked over to the two, frowning as he scanned Spider for any injury.

Z-Dog tried to keep a straight face. “He refuses to move.”

Miles couldn’t see anything wrong, but his tail still lashed in worry as he leans down to place a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You hurt?”

Spider only huffed, giving Zdinarsk a side-eyed glare. “No, she’s being a stupid butthole!”

Miles deadpans at the boy, ear twitching at the sound of Z-Dog’s snort of laughter. “Whatever you say, Tarzan.”

“I don’t even know who that is!” Spider snaps back, snarling up at the woman, who only popped another bubble at him.

Quaritch finally blinked, letting out a harsh sigh. “You’ve gotta be shitting me- alright, enough! Both of you!” He scolds them, letting his hand slip from Spider’s shoulder as he stood. “Get up.” He orders the kid, motioning for him to stand.

The boy only sneered and shook his head. “Not until she leaves me the fuck alone!”

Miles took a deep breath in through his nose. Lord, give him patience. “Zdinarsk, go bother Lopez.”

Said marine perked his ears. “What? Why me?!” He protested.

He was ignored.

“Yes, sir.” Z-Dog salutes.

“Liar!” Spider hissed, puffing up when she sticks her tongue out at him.

“What did I just say?” Miles growls, to which Zdinarsk raised her hands in surrender before leaving to pester someone else. He turns back to Spider. “There, now get up. We gotta get a move on before we run out of daylight.”

Spider didn’t move, still not convinced Z-Dog wouldn’t bug him again the moment they start moving again.

“Spider. Don’t test me, boy.” He threatens, eyes narrowing and a stern frown in place as his tail flicked in agitation.

The boy didn’t budge.

Lyle made his way over. “Maybe we should set up camp, night will be on us in a few hours.” He tries to pacify, but Quaritch only hissed as Spider side-eyed them.

“No. I ain’t givin’ in to this tantrum. We’re moving.”

With that, he swooped down and snatched Spider up before the boy could properly react, throwing him over his shoulder as he strides forward back to the front of the squad. He held tightly onto the back of Spider’s legs and ignored the kid’s hissing, cursing, wiggling, and kicking as best he could. He also ignored the other’s snickering coming from behind him.

It took about half an hour, but Spider finally tired himself out enough to allow Miles to slightly loosen his grip on his legs, and the boy rag-dolled against his back, head pressed into Miles’ vest and arms dangling in defeat as he tried to catch his breath.

… With Spider calm and not fighting him, Miles began to feel a light feeling building in his chest, like the weight of the word was slipped from his shoulders and replaced with the comforting weight of his son… he didn’t want the feeling to leave. It felt.. nice, oddly enough.

They carried on like this until Spider grew bored.

Quaritch jolted slightly when little fingers brushed against his tail, causing it to lash away from the touch. He clears his throat as some of the others chuckled. “The hell you doin’, kid?”

“I’m bored. Put me doooowwwn.” Spider whined into his back.

“Hell no. Can’t have you tryin’ another stunt like that and slow us down.” Was the excuse Miles came up with, unwilling to admit that the idea of putting the kid down was feeling more and more unappealing by the second. He didn’t realize how much he would enjoy holding his son, until this moment, and he was unwilling to part with the boy.

Spider only groaned and went back to trying to catch his tail.

… and if Miles indulged the boy by flicking his tail near his grabbing hands, no one said a word against it.

[cilil]

Manwë Week Day 2

"Behold," Varda said at last, "your little kingdom looks like a gem in the distance, set among a crown or stars." 

Day 2: Friends & Love | Rain & Clouds Relationship(s): Varda x Manwë Synopsis: As the Valar shape the world, Varda takes Manwë to her own kingdom Warnings: Some smut (Ainur soul sex), size difference AO3

It was in the days of Arda's youth that Varda took Manwë with her to the stars and showed him what she considered to be her kingdom — the vastness of space and all the wonders that lay therein. 

Out here, she resembled a galaxy, appearing like a terrible and beautiful Queen of Stars with a core of outward flowing light and spiralling, luminous limbs that ever moved and shifted around her. Manwë appeared as he did on Arda, like a great Lord of the Children to come, yet was dwarfed by the cosmic magnificence of his wife and cradled lovingly in her hands. 

The pretty plumage he had grown for her on his wings and shoulders and around his neck made little difference, even if he were to add long tail feathers like the peacocks he had devised possessed, but he didn't mind; her light neither burned nor blinded him and the way she carried him made him feel warm and protected despite the freezing cold of space. 

"Behold," Varda said at last, "your little kingdom looks like a gem in the distance, set among a crown or stars." 

"Beautiful, is it not?" Manwë sighed, admiring the sight. When he stood on the surface of Arda, not even his keen eyes could perceive the true scope of his wife's domain, the innumerable stars and galaxies dotting a blanket of everlasting night. 

"It is. You and the others have made great progress in my absence," Varda agreed and smiled at him. "And now I wish to create new things in this realm as well, together with you."

"However may I be of service?" Manwë asked. He was surprised by her proposition, but not at all unwilling; in fact, nothing would make him happier than being able to put his talents to good use for his wife. Yet the depths of space and time were quite different from the little kingdom where his father had sent him, and his breath didn't go far within these regions. 

Still, Varda lifted her hand to her face and kissed his smaller form, causing air to flow from him in small gasps of excitement. 

"Yes," she mumbled, twirling the remnants of her husband's life-giving breath around her finger, seized by the pull of her presence. "Yes, that will do nicely." 

"What is your idea, beloved? What do you want me to do?" Manwë continued to question, and Varda opened her mind to him. 

Within it, he caught glimpses of giant, marvellous clouds of gas with stars in their midst, like a beautiful veil set with pearls, and he was awed by the sight, wishing to assist in bringing these designs into being. 

Sensing their shared desire, Varda gently nudged Manwë so he lay flat on his back and kissed him again. 

"Let us make music together and become one. Only us, as husband and wife," she whispered. 

"Like when we bonded?" Manwë was as of yet uncertain how such an act would play out in the physical realm, especially with the size disparity of their current forms. They had come together and made love in spirit to consummate their marriage after receiving Eru's blessing and a few times thereafter, but not yet in their chosen vessels.  

Varda caressed him with her thumb. "Worry not, beloved. Relax and let me lead you." 

Ever faithful, Manwë obeyed. His fána rejoiced at his wife's touch and his voice sang her praises as her lips, tongue and fingers toyed with his form, particularly the area between his legs where his flesh hardened and silently begged for her attention. From his mouth more and more gas flowed forth, the very substances Varda wanted from him, and she rewarded him generously for his efforts. 

The pleasure he felt aided his ëala in opening up, joyfully baring his very being to his queen whose own surged forward to become one with his. As both physical and spiritual boundaries blurred between the two Valar, she filled Manwë with her light, and he sensed that it was spilling forth from his eyes, mouth and every other orifice his current fána possessed and caused his veins to glow; but he was neither afraid, trusting her completely, nor in pain, his consciousness wandering beyond physical confines and sensations. 

With Varda's sheer might and magnitude amplifying his own power, his song rose to new heights and his breath filled the emptiness around them with pulsing, writhing, budding potential of life. So taken was Manwë by the glorious feeling of being one with his beloved, so focused on his task and their vision, that the climax of his fána took him by surprise and coaxed more and more out of him until his voice broke and his lungs were empty, leaving the Breath of Arda himself, for the first time in his life, utterly breathless. 

Now silent save for the final gasping notes of their cosmic symphony, Manwë lay limp in Varda's hand and enjoyed the tender sensation of her tongue preening him. 

"You were so wonderful," she praised and slightly bent her fingers to support his head so he could look without needing to sit. "Behold the beautiful cloud you brought into being. Many stars will I be able to kindle, so that they may shine upon Arda from afar to welcome the Children one day." 

"I am glad," Manwë mumbled and made himself comfortable. "Though perhaps I must return there soon to help Ulmo make more rain for Yavanna's and Vána's seeds —"

"You need to rest now," Varda said firmly, "you have exhausted yourself for the moment and done more than enough. The little kingdom will have to wait until its king has slept." 

She then placed Manwë on her shoulder instead, her hair shielding him like a veil of night, and he happily snuggled up to her. 

"I feel like Estë would be quite cross with me if I didn't advise you to be cautious with your strength," she chuckled lightly, and Manwë cooed in agreement. 

And aside from that — as beautiful as Arda was, this was one of his favourite places to be, and if his wife thought it wise for him to rest, then he would; and while he was at it, he would watch her shape new stars. 

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @asianbutnotjapanese @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @bluezenzennie @edensrose @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @melkors-defense-attorney @singleteapot @stormchaser819 @wandererindreams @manweweek

[kydrogendragon]

For Valentine's Day I think Daniel needs some love too. With Hob, of course, 29.

Daniel does need some love! Thank you for the request, nonny!!

Pairing: Dreamling 2.0 Words: 1039 Warnings: None Ao3 Link Here

It’s been a year since Hob dreamed of his friend’s funeral. It’s been a year since he woke up, having had way too much cheap ale in a run down building at a ren faire only to have Death show up and confirm that it was all true. It hurt. At first. How could it not after all? His dearest friend, the man he’d loved... he was gone.

But, apparently, not truly gone. That, too, took some getting used to. When the doors to the New Inn swung open to an unfamiliar face, but a very familiar presence, Hob didn’t know what to make of it. His friend — Daniel, as he know goes by — greeted him with a hesitancy he’d not seen on his friend before. He was younger, both in looks and in the way he carried himself. It was as if death stripped him down back to his youth, but with it, took all the confidence he used to carry.

It was a strange sight, to see the least.

But Hob told him to stay, to have a drink and to catch up. He told his friend that he’d missed him and his friend has smiled. So Hob talked. And his friend talked as well. More than he’d talked before. He learned of his function, of what he is — something Hob heard very little of in their meetings in the twenty-first century. In some ways, he knew this version of his stranger even more than he had his old one.

The fondness for him, Hob thinks, is also something unchanged.

Daniel sits on the couch beside him currently. They’ve retired up to his flat for the evening after enjoying some... well, we’ll say interesting poetry to be nice, down at the monthly poetry slam they hosted. Most were uni students. Hob even recognized a few faces, but it was nice. And guaranteed some business. Daniel had enjoyed it, given how intensely he’d been listening to each reading. Hob should have figured that, though. No matter what face he wore, he was always a sucker for the arts.

“So I said, ‘If Sarah thinks she’s so much better at reading in Middle English, then she can come and say it to my face!’” Hob recalls, pointing his glass out for emphasis. Daniel smiles, reclined along the length of the couch, their legs just barely touching. Hob tries to not think about that too hard, though. “Of course, that led to talk between the departments and next thing you know, we’re swapping out our lunch break for a Middle English face off. And you know what the worst thing was?”

Daniel hums in curiosity.

“They had the audacity to say that she won! Her! I think it was a setup. There were far more English professors among the votes than History professors. I think it was rigged.” Daniel swirls his own glass of wine — another difference, he’s seen. Daniel will drink. And eat, occasionally. He’s a propensity for chocolate covered biscuits, which Hob ensures to always have stocked.

“Are you so opposed to being bested?”

Hob scoffs. “Yeah, when it comes to matters of my native tongue, I am. You’ve no idea how close I was to screaming out how I should have won cause I bloody lived through it. Didn’t though, but God’s Wounds, was I ever tempted.”

Daniel chuckles. “You are a fool, Hob Gadling.” There’s affection in his voice that stirs something within his chest. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the way he looks at him from over his wine glass with those breath-taking star eyes of his. They’re green, usually. When there’s other around. But here? Just the two of them? They become like the night sky, but the night sky of old. Where the closer you look, the more stars you can see. No light pollution, just the heavens above.

“Hob?” Daniel’s a lot close than he used to be. Oh... That’s because he moved. He was no longer leaning back against the arm of the couch but was now hunched over his knees, peering up at his friend.

“I’m your fool,” he whispers, his vision consumed in the inky darkness of his friend’s eyes. Hob can feel his heartbeat quicken as his eyes flick down to Daniel’s lips. They part, ever so slightly and there has been nothing more that Hob has ever wanted to do than to lean forward and press his mouth against them.

“Hob…” Daniel’s voice was strangled.

“I meant it, by the way. Still do.” He looks up, away from the rosy lips and back to his friend’s eyes. “I know we never really... talked about it before. You’re not much of a talker. Even less back before, but.” Hob sighs and leans back so he feels less like he’s cramming into his friend’s space. He watches and Daniel sets his glass down on the coffee table beside them. Hob mimics the movement with his own drink.

“Listen, I don’t expect you to reciprocate or anything like that. Never did, I just... I wanted you to know. That you were loved, even if it was just by me. So, just in case it wasn’t clear before, I— that love didn’t end with him, you know. It belongs to you too.”

Daniel is silent and still. Almost eerily so to the point where Hob has to look away because the longer the silence goes, the more worries he grows. It shouldn’t be anything new, just reiterated. Reassured. But when Hob glances back up and there are tears in his friend’s eyes, he’s beginning to wonder if somehow that memory didn’t transfer.

Finally, his friend moves. Slowly, he reaches out, a lithe hand brushes against his chin, raising his face. "I was the fool, before. For not accepting your affections as the gifts they were. I was afraid. But now..."

Hob’s eyes widen as Daniel leans in closer and closer. His eyes fall close as a pair of plush, warm lips brush against his own. He all but sobs as he wraps his arms around his friend, pulling him as close as possible. When they break, Hob pants, his face red. Daniel, looking perfect as ever, says, "Now, I am not."

[iamsherlocked-1998]

𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝕒𝕗𝕗𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕤

Warning: male x male, enemies to lovers? sex work, some violence, playing with cum.

Words: 1400

Summary: Leto feels like he has bitten off more than he can swallow.

This idea belong to @for-a-longlongtime and @oliveksmoked I hope you like it 🤗💕

Leto Atreides was reaching a breaking point, in his status as a powerful senator from a distant land he had encountered multiple unusual situations, but none of them were a thorn in the side like Marcus Acacius, a renowned and feared general of the city of Rome, where he was currently based as a diplomat. It all began with a lively debate in the legislative chamber about the current health of the troops. The duke's proposal regarding supplies did not sit well with the warrior, who did everything to ridicule him.

The confrontation escalated until it moved to other places in the city, among others while he was sitting in the common room of an old Roman inn. Across the room, Acacius held his gaze with fierce intensity. That almost turned into physical aggression, not that he was afraid of his opponent, since in his youth he underwent strict training due to the unstable nature of his birthplace.

Their accidental encounters had become strangely frequent, and each time their rivalry flared up with renewed vigor, causing even the commoners to whisper about it. But of course the strangest episode took place when, in an attempt to let off steam, Leto decided to pay a visit to the local brothel.

When he was preparing to satisfy his lowest instincts with the most beautiful woman he found, she offered him to go to the common room, which apparently that day was more than lively. The smell of the place was filled with sweat and depravity, bodies younger than his were piled up shamelessly, that was until he saw it.

Acacius was also there, already completely naked and close to ecstasy, his neck extended back succulently showing a neglected vein, a blonde girl was on her knees in front of him while he lost himself in the pleasure of colliding with her in his thrusts again and again. It seems as if he wanted to reach the depths of her being.

The duke swallowed, feeling his throat dry. His mind must have gone somewhere else but his body seemed more than interested. He tried to banish the image of his enemy from his mind and laid the woman face up on the carpet, proceeding to explore her body with the mouth. He did not linger long in his work when he found himself in need of quick release and pushed the legs of his companion over the shoulders, gaining access to her entrance. The worst thing he could do was divert attention to the front.

The general now held his gaze without any qualms, he had an arrogant smile on his face and gave a strong tug to his aching dick. The game of cat and mouse was frequent between them. This time, however, they seemed determined to outdo each other in a different way.

His soft curls moved noisily over his forehead and after a few seconds the chiseled muscles of his stomach contracted, decorating the prostitute's back with his release.

This vision pushed the duke to the limit, almost not having time to separate himself from the young woman before ending up on the ground, he did not remember having finished so quickly in a long time. His partner gave a displeased gasp, but at that moment didn't even matter.

Acacius gave a small nod while both finished the last replies of what happened, he went to the back to grab a piece of cloth that resembled a tunic and left the place leaving his opponent feeling dizzy.

════ ⋆★⋆ ═════ ⋆★⋆ ════

He was sorry to admit that this happened more times than he was willing to count, the behavior was always the same, to the point that they already knew each other's schedules and habits.

On one such occasion, while the few curious people looking for a break from the activities carried out watched them, the whispers began to spread, a widely experienced woman approached the duke cautiously. "Gentleman, is there something in this room that you would also like to taste? I mean, no one is bitter about a sweet, out of routine."

The mockery was accompanied by a soft caress on his back and a not very discreet look at the brunette with an irregular beard, she adding a tug to the hair of a beautiful redhead who was on her knees giving him pleasure with her mouth. Atreides groaned loudly.

-With that vermin? Rome is more likely to lose all its wealth before that happens.

A laugh echoed in Leto's chest as on the other side of the small space he was glared with hatred. The opponent's posture tensed on the cushion that served as his back during a moment of rest.

The prostitute looked uncertainly at the other guests, who had been captivated by the tense exchange. No one dared challenge the two formidable figures, one an esteemed military leader and the other a respected statesman. They could feel the underlying tension and pride fueling this unusual confrontation.

Time seemed to slow down as the two men continued their silent battle of wills. The air crackled with the unspoken challenge that hung between them, and even those watching could feel the weight of his unwavering determination.

Despite the awkwardness that permeated the room, no one dared to interrupt the fascinating confrontation. It was as if the fate of empires depended on this silent clash and everyone present was unwilling to risk the consequences of interfering.

Finally, as the night wore on, Leto and Marcus finally relented and broke their unbreakable eye contact. Without saying a word, they both rose from their chambers and left the common room separately, leaving behind a palpable sense of unresolved tension.

As the door closed behind them, the guests let out a collective sigh and the woman laughed nervously. "I guess we can add this to the list of strange encounters," she commented, trying to dispel the lingering unease that filled the room. The customers exchanged glances and knowing smiles, acknowledging that they had witnessed a rivalry of a different kind, one that transcended words and swords.

════ ⋆★⋆ ═════ ⋆★⋆ ════

The duke was in a separate room that served as a toilet for greater health in the brothel; a real bathroom had to wait until he reached his Domus. The water from the tub served as a balm for his aching joints and the small handkerchief as a purifier to cleanse his sins.

Suddenly footsteps interrupted the tranquility and before he knew it his back was pressed against the back wall after Marcus lunged at him, grabbing him by the neck. The man practically growled.

-How do you find all your little games funny? My wife knows where I am, does yours know? She is so far away…

Atreides defended himself by forcefully pulling his opponent's hair. Which earned him a punch to the cheekbone. After a struggle that lasted a few minutes they found themselves in the initial position, but the duke was on a small step which left him at the same height as the general.

It was at that moment that he became aware of his true situation... Why were they both still naked, and why was his manhood throbbing again?

They both knew they were walking a very fine thread and it simply broke when the warrior's hips instinctively moved forward and the hot and heavy cock present brushed against his own causing the control to dissipate.

-Do that again... (his brain and tongue seemed to reach separate entities).

For the first time the other man responded to his requests when he attacked in a devastating way, the moans were already escaping incessantly, but the senator always tried to hit back.

The next few moments were a fight for control until exhaustion overtook them, Acacio silenced his murmurs of pleasure with a kiss that was not such, as it felt like a clash of teeth.

The friction was too much and he spilled right there with a sigh, painting both bodies and the floor, all it took for Marcus was an aggressive bite on his neck and a lunge against his thigh to follow him.

When it was all over, he thought he saw a flash of softness in the opponent's eyes until the contempt returned, with his hand he collected part of their essence and licked his finger until it was clean.

The last thing he felt was a push and seeing how his hateful lover left the room, dirty and disheveled. He was ashamed to admit the reason why discussions on issues of armed conflict in the Senate proliferated more since that day, although so many proposals in his name were approved.

[jo-harrington]

Jo, oh you my love who puts the Jo in joy.

Give me your top 5 pieces of visual art about death and/or mortality.

<3

Oh Somna, my Angel of darkness and despair. I wish that I could bring you to a museum and talk for hours about art history and interpretation and all of that. This is my interpretation of a lot of these and some are not as straight forward as you might think.

A Dead Soldier - 17th Century- Artist Currently Unknown I had a visceral reaction seeing this one in person in London a decade ago. I probably looked crazy but we’ve been thinking about the futility of war and human life forever. What is the use to be born and live a life only to die for some futile cause of a king or a government and in your death you are discarded. Forgotten. It’s especially meaningful that we don’t even know the artist now. Death comes for us all, and even your memory will die but your work might live on.

Crucifixion and Last Judgement - 15th Century - Van Eyck Ok this one less because of the biblical elements (I actually have a whole feeling about biblical depictions in art I could give a lecture) but because of use of color. IM SURE YOU KNOW PIGMENT ISNT CHEAP especially historically. That’s why prominent figures like Jesus and Virgin Mary and all of that are painted with vibrant colors to kind of show off their importance and the wealth of the patron. But. In this, all of the living people who came to witness the crucifixion in their colorful garb (ignore Mary in her blue, she’s special) and then the masses of people after the last judgement who are muddy and dull. But Jesus, Mary, John the Baptist all of these prominent celestial figures in color because of their importance. The contrast. In life you can have everything, but in death you become the dirt. Riches in life mean nothing. Your goodness/virtue is your wealth. I could SAY MORE. But I won’t.

Descent from a Cross - 17th Century- Rebrandt OK I AM A FORMER CATHOLIC Religious things appeal to me but once again less the religious and more the fact of Jesus surrounded by disciples in death. Being carried being lowered so carefully. Your memory, your lessons, your impact in life will be felt and carried onwards after you die. Who are you? But who are you to the people around you? Obituaries mean nothing. Everyone will remember Aunt What’s-her-face was a bitch.

TBH ANYTHING BY IVAN ALBRIGHT I know that feels like a cop out. But all of his work makes me feel a certain way about life, not about death. How gross we are, how fragile we are. He has a lot that focuses on regrets. They’re all grotesque. The painting above was of Albright’s 19 year old neighbor who modeled and he chose to paint her as an old woman to say “here. Here is what you will become here is what we all become.” Cherish life, cherish youth, cherish beauty. Even if we all believe ourselves to be imperfect, time will only make us worse so choose to live peacefully and happily as possible.

It’s not this piece but this piece is cool but there is a Japanese practice called Kusozu that depicts the stages of decay after a person dies. I’ve seen several sets of Kusozu art in person and just…it makes you feel something. It was after I saw it for the first time that I decided I didn’t want my body embalmed after I die. It’s a beautiful process, to have your body give back to the earth that made it be. There’s a scientific thing that’s like…well I guess it’s spontaneous combustion actually but all energy in the universe is finite. We’re not gonna get any more. A river pushes a boat, the energy of the movement of the water propels the boat forward. If the water is still, the boat is still. We die and then the energy, the atoms, the particles of us should go back to the earth. What happens when we pump a dead body with chemicals to prevent decay? Do we know? How can we know the effects on the earth? But a natural decay? We are the earth and the earth is us and a wolf can eat your liver and live on for another few days. You fertilize the soil and become the flowers.

Death is life. This was fun.

[dainesanddaffodils]

FFXIV WRITE 2024 DAY 17: SALLY

Estinien considers partnering with the Warrior of Light | HW | Rated G | 878 words

“Hmmm. The Azure Dragoon and the Warrior of Light, sallying forth together to face the dread wyrm Nidhogg… I must admit, the mere thought of it does much to dispel my misgivings.”

In spite of his words, Estinien notes that Aymeric is carefully not looking at him, well aware this is a subject they had argued about only a bell ago.

-

“While I fully understand what you mean, you might do well not to refer to Nidhogg’s impending siege as a ‘great opportunity’ within earshot of our knights,” the Lord Commander had said dryly, continuing before Estinien could argue. “And what, prey tell, makes this timing so perfect to you?”

“At the Steps of Faith, the Warrior of Light’s presence allowed us an unprecedented victory. What more could be accomplished were we to intercept the wyrm before he could even begin his assault.”

Aymeric held up a hand. “That was an entirely separate circumstance, and you know it. Cimorene’s presence was bolstered by Eorzean reinforcements - the very people she is currently here seeking refuge from. What’s more, it was one thing to seek aid from her and her scions and something else to ask her to defend a place that had been meant to defend her.”

Estinien listened to this and crossed his arms. “You think she would refuse?” He asked, incredulous. No, he did not know the Warrior of Light as others did but one did not achieve the reputation she had by only aiding others when the timing was convenient.

“I think it is too much to ask,” Aymeric retorted. “But if you are so set on this path, by all means, you may speak to her about it.”

The words were an open challenge; his friend knew persuasion was hardly his strong suit. Estinien gave a noncommittal hmph, and left without another word.

It took him longer than he would ever admit to finally approach Fortemps Manor, but in the end his timing had been perfect, coming into earshot of a conversation between the young Master Alphinaud and the Warrior of Light about none other than their commitment to not abandoning Ishgard. Much as he had expected.

The plan the youth laid out wasn’t the worst idea Estinien had ever heard; he had no illusion that peace talks would work, but as a pretense for a delay that afforded Ishgard more time to form a defense, and a guide that could get them within Nidhogg’s territory largely undetected, this was a chance he could not pass up. He did not hesitate to join the conversation - and the party.

Still, partially to be perfectly transparent to the young lordling leading this expedition and partially out of his own pride with Aymeric’s challenge still in his ears, Estinien made clear his actual goal:

“With the power of the Eye at my disposal, and the vaunted strength of the Warrior of Light, we could conceivably slay the beast outright.”

There was none of Aymeric’s predicted outrage. Alphinaud immediately pointed out that it was their backup plan, but nonetheless did not discount that it would be an effective one. He’d take that.

The Warrior of Light, as silent in that discussion as he had always known her, appeared similarly unperturbed by the idea of her strength being used in such a way. While Alphinaud finished laying out his plan, Estinien caught her sharp yellow eyes on him, giving him a slow, appraising look much like the one he had given her when Aymeric had first introduced them. There was the distinct sense that she was sizing him up, judging his willingness to see this through, rather than the other way around.

Then Alphinaud asked something of her and her attention was brought back to the conversation. Estinien shook the strange, almost exposed feeling, and led them back to Aymeric.

-

“Go then - carry out your plan.”

Estinien can’t help but smirk at his friend’s acquiescence. No, it isn’t exactly his plan but as far as he’s concerned, he won.

He doesn’t gloat, though, and leaves the congregation alongside the rest of his new companions - only to find The Warrior of Light lingering just outside. Alphinaud is already halfway across the courtyard toward the Manor but, for once, she is not his shadow.

“Well,” she says. “That went better than expected.”

She speaks as though they are picking up from an earlier conversation, and not like these are first words she has ever spoken to him directly. Her voice, much like the rest of her if he’s being honest, can be best described as pretty. It’s almost enough to make her seem delicate, if he wasn’t well aware of her capabilities. If the simple look she had given him earlier hadn’t been enough to make him consider how glad indeed he was that she was not his enemy.

Estinien shrugs. “I will say this for your plan: it has made keeping secrets from the Holy See seem almost entertaining.”

The Warrior of Light raises an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a small smirk of her own. “Oh, I’m sure,” she says softly. Then, with no further comment, she trots ahead to catch up with her young companion. Estinien shakes his head and follows.

This will be a very interesting trip indeed.

[itsuki-minamy]

"SIDE GOLD"

CHAPTER 4: IKU AND THE BIRIBIRI GROUP (Part 2)

* List of Chapters

Translation: Naru-kun Raws: Anno

On that day, there was a storm across Honshu and unseasonable lightning was also observed on the Sea of Japan side. Even in Tokyo, a heavy drizzle that made the cold seep into the bones made the landscape seem smoky since the morning.

Although the conditions were the worst for outdoor group activities, the high morale of beginning a great task defied objective facts. The staff of the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau, who were about to be sent to work, had diverse backgrounds and personalities, and the breakfast room was busy and noisy.

Those who interact carelessly,

"Iyoda-kun~, give me the salt, salt~"

"Yes, here you have. Why do you put salt on rice every time you see it?"

A person enjoying a meal,

"Today's food is also really delicious."

"Hmm! Chika-dono's miso soup is exquisite!"

"Oh, that's right... the manager's pickles are delicious too."

Those who talk about work,

"We don't have practice at the dojo today, so it would be great to go out and have something to eat!"

"Normally people don't like to be shipped, but..."

The people gathered in the small dining room looked like young people who could be found anywhere, they were no longer wearing blue clothes or carrying swords.

Their title as members of the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau is a legal system and they do not actually work for the Ministry of Justice. The office where daily work was carried out, the living space where people slept, they were all located in a corner of the former state guest house that displayed Tsubakimon's luxurious appearance... or rather, it was in a building in the corner.

Next to the simple entrance, which only looks like a back door, there is a plaque with the name ''Ao Mamoru-sha'' written in Somei Nazumi's handwriting, but in reality, this building was used as an office and living space for the exclusive servers of the guest house. Permission to use the main building has not yet been granted (although it is clear that they will not be able to handle the current number of staff).

The dining room is so transparent that you can enter directly through the outside door and the adjacent kitchen is only separated by a curtain. It was a very simple installation for service, separate from the kitchen for guests.

Somei Chika, dressed in a triangular sling and a Japanese kappo uniform, emerged from the kitchen.

"Today's dispatch is likely to be a long battle with those with abilities. Be sure to maintain your strength!"

Everyone responded in unison, worthy of the loud cheers.

An old woman called softly to Chika from behind.

"That's enough, so Chika-san, please enjoy your food."

She gave her a tray with breakfast in a natural and discreet way.

This old woman is not only the guardian of "Ao Mamoru-sha", as Nazumi calls her, but of the entire guest house.

She has been protecting the state pension since the war and, even after her husband, who was also her colleague, died in prison at the hands of the special high police, she continued her work with calm and dedication. She led a small group of servants and kept the entire vast state guesthouse beautiful, and she possessed a mysterious ability that even Nazumi admired.

Chika bowed to the respectful woman and accepted the tray.

"Yes, I appreciate your words."

Of the members of the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau, only Nazumi and his wife travel from their nearby home. When they have to leave early like today, they usually have breakfast there, which they usually do at home. Chika not only eats, but she also helps the manager cook, so there will be one more food item for breakfast the day she comes.

This is the reason why the morale of the youth has increased considerably.

Chika walked behind them and sat in the reserved seat in the back, facing Nazumi.

He had already eaten his breakfast and there was not a single grain of rice or a drop of miso soup left. The tray had been pushed aside and a thick pile of books was piled between them.

Chika was a little taken aback.

(I wonder what kind of job it is.)

She has not heard that there was work to be done before being sent.

Beyond that mountain, Nazumi seemed to rise and reveal his face.

"Thanks for the food."

"That was a bad job."

After calmly responding to the polite voice, Chika asked.

"Nazumi-san, what is that book?"

If you look closely, you will see that it is not the usual bundle of government documents or an assembled file, but a collection of poems or Chinese classics. Apparently it was taken from the library of the State Guest House.

"My "Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau" also wants to have some kind of behavior or words that express the links clearly, so I've been looking at various documents... but it just doesn't fit very well."

Chika could easily imagine the worried face on the other side of the stack of books. Not only that, but she was also able to see through two or three levels of deep worry that were swaying like a fine mist.

"Do you have any concerns that will distract you from today's deployment?"

He wouldn't be surprised if someone could see through him now.

Rather, with the joy of being seen, Nazumi revealed his true feelings.

"I'm sure the plans and arrangements are perfect. But for some reason, I just don't feel like I can finish it..."

"Are you saying that when that "Red King" appears, the calculations go wrong?"

"The only thing I can say is that it is close, but different. When the matter reaches the "King", the mystery that governs that "Slate" is not clearly solved... and I feel very bad."

The superhuman irritation in her husband's voice.

With a single word, his wife returned him to the human horizon.

"Isn't that good?"

"Huh, is it?"

"The power of that "Slate" and the "King" are definitely things that exist in the floating world. As with anything else, isn't it okay to be in a bad mood because you can't get things done?"

"......"

On the other side of the stack of books, Chika could easily imagine Nazumi's no-nonsense face examining his opinions. The questioning tone of voice she had imagined returned.

"That is what it is?"

"That's right."

Chika dared to say it simply.

After a brief pause, Nazumi added.

"...I'm not convinced, but I understand. Chika-san."

"As you say."

"Your food is getting cold, please eat it quickly."

Chika took off her sling and put her palms together with a smile.

"Yes, Itadakimasu."

The unnamed intelligence agency was located in Nanakamado, Tokyo.

The facility's predecessor was an international Christian general hospital. Fortunately, the chalk building, with its magnificent bell tower, was saved from air raids and immediately after the end of the war it became a valuable medical center accommodating a wide variety of patients.

However, some time ago, it became the headquarters and research facility of an intelligence agency, with a fake sign reading "Infectious Disease Control Research Institute", a thick iron gate, and a high fence with a tap.

Today you could say that it has become a reality.

All the powers that had been established by them were revoked by official notification.

It was supposed to be done, but there is still debris moving around inside the room.

The noise was especially noticeable in the westernmost rooms on the top floor. It was established when the organization concentrated its personnel and functions there, and it is a command post that controls both internal analysis and command, as well as external reception and transmission.

The windows are covered with thick concrete, preventing the passage of wind and light. An electrical panel representing the Kanto region is installed on the wall and continues to display the movements of the objects being monitored. The tense atmosphere inside the room was created by those who operated the screens, those who provided information for their operation, those who received and transmitted information from outside, and those who reported and made adjustments derived from it.

Behind them, from a raised floor, a military-looking American gave instructions one after another.

"Keep all the generators running, okay, everything!"

Before it expired... his title was Director of the Extraterrestrial Intelligence Agency, in other words, Commander of Nanakamado.

"Never let anyone hang up on Atsugi's "Demodori"! If a conflict really breaks out, they will be looking for an opportunity to unite! No matter how trivial the data is, send them all the information to stimulate them!''

The scene was neither brave enough to be called anger, nor fierce enough to be called frenzy. In other words, it was a delusional movement that arose from the impatience of being cornered.

"Yokosuka's "Yaseppochi" hasn't come out yet?! Just one word is fine, keep calling until he answers! As long as we have the facts of the answer, we can negotiate with the CIA and the Pentagon as accomplices!"

Then, one of the engine members brings in a report containing new information.

After reading it, the chief engineer threw it away violently.

"Don't bring weather information! What do you mean the rain will turn into snow?! Today we are different from before! We are in a position to attack here...!"

After shouting, the chief engineer was shocked.

Everyone at the command post looked at him with worried faces.

As an intelligence agency, they are about to do something completely different than what they have done so far... gather information, capture targets, cover up operations, illegal experiments, etc. They were about to be forced to do so.

In other words, the act of undermining the systems and organizations that established them, and even the national structure.

Even if they had US backing (as the chief engineer insists), it was too risky a gamble to be taken lightly. Even so, the reason why they can barely maintain unity to the point of choosing to entrench themselves under the command of the chief engineer is due to their own status as intelligence agents.

That is...

"Listen, the person who knows the secret of an unprecedented phenomenon has become useless. Surrender and you will be detained by Headquarters, you know what will happen!"

This was because everyone was passively accepting the chief engineer's insistence that it had already happened for the umpteenth time.

"We will be accused of various clandestine jobs that will be imposed on us and handed over to our country of origin... At best, we will be deported and imprisoned, and at worst, we will be used as guinea pigs for investigation!"

Despite such instigation, there was no one in that organization who was clean and innocent enough to accept surrender. The fuel for their out-of-control behavior was the fear that "if they moved away from the side of manipulation and investigation, their position would be reversed".

Members of the intelligence service who spent their days committing shady deeds and even had a sense of pride in their actions attempted to crush them because Headquarters did not consider them that important, in fact, they looked down on them. The thought did not occur to them that their punishment would be lighter if they did nothing unnecessary.

Having no choice but to hide their feelings, they returned to their work.

The chief engineer, who had subdued his subordinate, turned his suspicious and hostile gaze towards the electrical panel on the wall.

The flashing light bulb on the map indicates the location of the convoy approaching the center, Nanakamado. It didn't seem like there was much time left.

"Tch."

After clicking his tongue, he gave new instructions to the two people behind him.

"Colt, help the doctor select interceptors. Anyway, quantity is more important than quality, okay?"

"Yes!"

One of them, Thomas Colt, responded with a salute, but there was no tension in his voice or his movements.

Despite the failure of the recent operation, and although he complained to the chief engineer about the danger to the king and others, he was able to remain head of the execution unit. This was because there was no one in the organization with more character and ability than him. In short, the previous operation was a crushing defeat for Nanakamado, who took it too seriously and lost the main strength of their active forces.

Colt himself suffered a crushing defeat to the point that the chief engineer no longer cared and, although as expected, his efforts to persuade Colt to cooperate failed. Although he felt ashamed, his feeling of boredom was not only due to his debt to these organizations.

There is no plausible theory that Nanakamado is advancing a pointless rebellion or that they are trotting out a Japanese Strain for that purpose. However, ever since that battle with the "Red King" Unno Yutaka, a word came to his mind from the bottom of his heart.

(What am I doing?)

As a "talented American" with no place to live, as an accomplice to Nanakamado's various actions, he must have had no choice, and he must have understood and agreed with him. Still, for some reason, he was captivated by those words, and the more he thought about them, the more he lost his inner strength.

Or, on the contrary,

"Come on, Colt-kun."

After receiving the order, another elderly Japanese man named Doctor put on his white coat and left the room. Even in that situation, he was still triumphant and led the way down the hallway with legs like dead branches.

This person was a scientist who was recruited from the former Ninth Army Technical Research Institute (also known as Kyuken or Noborito Research Institute) on the condition that he would be exempt from prosecution for war crimes, and was the main Strains researcher. in Nanakamado. He is also the leader of the analysis team that created a temporal structure from the initial "too conceptual and I don't know what it means" stage and systematized and theorized it to the point of forming a combat unit based on Strain.

Colt couldn't understand his attitude.

Although he was in an obvious situation, there was no difference from his usual situation. Maybe he just doesn't feel the battle that is about to begin, or maybe he has a strong spirit that never forgets to dedicate himself to his duties... or is he optimistic that the results of his own investigations will guarantee his safety, no matter what the result is?

Despite his confusion, the Doctor continued through the house, which serves as his garden, and soon entered a section that smelled of chemicals.

It was a detention center for Strain, with almost the entire floor taken up by a series of small rooms.

A person who is too fierce or too cowardly to be used. Someone who is strong or too weak to be used. Those who cannot be classified, those whose investigation and trial have not been completed, are allowed to stay for the time being. The last trump card left for Nanakamado, who has lost his main force, is the "interception personnel candidates in an emergency situation", who can be forced to follow them at gunpoint from the rear.

Normally, it was the rule to carefully evaluate the use of personality skills and aptitude before requesting cooperation, but in the current emergency, it is impossible to worry about such a pretense.

The Doctor continued forward, ignoring the countless looks of fear and resentment that peeked through the thick acrylic board. At the same time, he pressed the buttons under the room number one after another.

Each time the button is pressed, the red indicator light changes to green. That was the signal that "mobilization was possible", and the escort team was supposed to take him downstairs immediately.

Colt heard the Doctor murmur.

"No. 311, common, capable of killing, with a history of injury, good. No. 312, common, capable of killing, no history of injury, good. No. 314, common, non-lethal, with a history of murder, good. No. 315, Beta, has the ability to kill, has a history of murder, good. No. 317, without lethal capacity, has a history of injuries, good."

He looked away, feeling somewhat horrified that he seemed to be judging others calmly, even cheerfully, without referring to anything.

And there,

"No. 322, common, no lethal capacity, no history of injuries, bad."

A surprising verdict came.

There was someone who couldn't press the button.

Feeling a strange sense of relief, Colt looked towards room 322.

He looked at him and couldn't help but ask.

"D-doctor, is this child...?"

The Doctor, already making a decision several steps ahead, stopped and responded with a lack of interest.

"Hmm? No. 322 has the ability to generate electricity at the level of static electricity. She doesn't have the physique or physical strength, so she won't be of any use."

That judgment was completely correct.

Sitting in the middle of the room, cowering in fear, was a girl who wasn't even old (Colt had a hard time estimating the age of this skinny girl born in Asia). The marks of crying were clearly visible on her haggard and dejected face.

"Who are the parents of this girl?"

"She's a vagabond. I've made inquiries, but she has no family. The report says that the Strain group that attacked a US military transport vehicle did not manage to escape. Number 327, has the ability to kill, has a history of murder, good."

As he answered Colt's question, the doctor resumed his judgment process.

So far, several cases of Strains children have been confirmed. Most of them are locked up, hunted like monsters, or used by unscrupulous adults... in any case, they are said to be in even more dire circumstances than ordinary children.

Basically, Nanakamado doesn't see them as objects of use. The reason for this, of course, is not morality or love, but the fact that children with abilities are generally weak and have no value beyond statistical research. Still, for a while there were some people who advocated that they should secretly protect those children, but this is the current situation.

"......"

Colt, who had come into contact with the girl as a real human being and not as a series of characters on a sheet of paper, instinctively reached into his pocket and pulled out a bar of chocolate. Food that was normally used as bait to obtain information on corners was thrown through the food container. The girl looked up slightly.

"Do your best. You might be able to get out in a while."

He said that in clear Japanese while putting on his best fake smile.

Although the girl understood the meaning of the words, she did not seem to understand what he was trying to convey. All she could do was stiffen and look at him with suspicious, teary eyes.

"Colt-kun, what are you doing?"

"Oh, nothing."

When he responded to the doctor standing before him, there was a heavy impurity mixed with his fake smile.

(Seriously, what am I doing...?)

As if leaving his words and actions behind, Colt quickly left.

The girl who was left behind didn't even reach for the chocolate, she just lowered her head and called out to her.

"Iku-chan, please help me..."

The name of a very, very strong "Queen" who will help them.

+++++++++++

There are rows of power transmission towers in the western suburbs of Tokyo. Under dark clouds and drizzle, a girl stood on top of what appeared to be a group of sotoba trees devastated by the cold.

She is not a beautiful and strong figure.

She has a young, dirty face and a forward-leaning posture.

She was around 10 years old and was wearing a tattered trench coat over her thin, petite body, but for some reason she has the hood down over her back. The way her chin jutted forward, along with her flowing hair, gave her the appearance of a wolf searching for prey. Both eyes peeking out of her bangs are closed.

It is not a peaceful dream.

It was a look of concentration and a deep expression.

And...

"...!"

In an instant, lightning exploded beneath her feet.

The girl simply opened her eyes without showing surprise or fear.

Her large eyes scanned the horizon where the electrical cables were strung.

"I found it."

A gigantic and complicated circuit diagram was constructed in the moaning girl's field of consciousness. It is a model of the area's transmission network, including the electrical cables under its feet, with the vibrations and flickering of it. She knows the strength and weakness of electrical currents, and even the content of communications.

What she found was a name that was nothing more than a communication.

"Someone gave a lot of importance to Miya-chan..."

Even now, there are people who continue to send information about people's names, characteristics and powers. Among them was the name of the friend she was looking for. Other information proves that she is definitely a friend who was taken away by the occupation forces.

The girl's forward-leaning posture leaned further, gathering strength to jump.

Just when,

"Huh, which one?"

She didn't know which side captured her friend, the one sending the message from the east or the one receiving it from the west. As she gathered more strength, she concentrated on that communication and investigated further.

Most of them were words she had never heard before, but it was easy to guess their meaning from the excitement in their voices and the way they structured the language (although she didn't know the words taii or suisoku).

The sender desperately seeks help and persistently relents.

The recipient seems reluctant and rarely responds.

The girl struggled to find out what role her friend plays in these communications, although she is anxious.

In communications sent from the east,

"Please send me as many talented people as you can as soon as possible!"

A voice shouted.

There are a lot of talented people on the receiving end in the west.

She is sure that there are many people with abilities, that is, there must be some friends who were taken away.

That's right, the girl who makes decisions based on reflexes instead of careful consideration wasn't wrong...

The girl turned her head towards the west.

"Let's go everyone!"

In response to the howl, dozens of shadows rose from the field below the power transmission tower. They were all skinny, dirty kids about the same age or younger. On those sharp and carved faces, there was a sense of fierce power similar to that of the girl.

A hand rose out of nowhere.

When everyone on the field raised their hands, the girl on top of the steel tower did the same. She's the only one who doesn't just raise her hand. She was raising her index finger as if to stab the sky.

"Come on!"

In an instant, lightning descended from the dark clouds, accompanied by thunder.

The explosive power of lightning erupted from the girl who raised her finger at the top of the group to the children below who raised their hands, connecting everyone with green sparks and electric shocks.

"Biribiri-dan, shuppatsu!"

And with that, the girl gathered all the strength she had accumulated and began to run.

As if she were flying, gliding on electric wires lying in the air.

The children who were on the ground are attracted by the strength of their bond and go together.

The "Green King" Tsunogui Iku and "Biribiri-dan" destroyed maintenance and disrupted stability, and they were completely wrong. However, it was a storm-like departure that made the shock that much greater.

On a gloomy morning under stormy skies with mostly freezing rain, residents near the Research Institute for Infectious Disease Control evacuated. They loaded their few household belongings into a large car, carried them in furoshiki wrappers on their backs, and, holding hands with their families, walked frantically toward their designated evacuation destinations. There were complaints from many people that it was too late to evacuate, but if it were a message from Headquarters, it would be undeniable.

At first glance, it seems reasonable for Headquarters to say:

"This is a precautionary measure along with sampling for infectious diseases".

Despite that, a large number of police and even the Occupation Forces were sent to establish a strict blockade. Everyone couldn't help but wonder about the truth that was openly kept secret.

Some of the demobilized soldiers understood that this blockade line was prepared for movement from the inside, but at the same time they noticed the serious looks on the faces of the American police and soldiers guarding the area, and they remained silent and did not want to get involved.

The evacuation, which had since sparked various speculations, and the deployment of personnel in jeeps and trucks, which had been transported upriver, were completed at noon. It was so cold and rainy that bonfires were even allowed in several places.

The Research Institute for Infectious Disease Control where Nanakamado hides quietly.

Police and American soldiers surround the chalk building, which is surrounded by a high concrete wall and has a very bad reputation among local residents. They formed an orderly formation even in the rain and placed their gun barrels on piles of sandbags, but they advanced no further. Its only function was to build a siege and capture fugitives. That was decided the night before at an emergency strategy meeting.

Similarly, the number of personnel responsible for the invasion and suppression was determined by the Fourth Legislation Bureau of the Ministry of Justice, headed by the "Blue King" Somei Nazumi, who had clarified the confusing meeting. Even including Nazumi himself, there are only nine people with that ability.

The nine of them lined up in front of the main gate of the research institute, holding umbrellas.

The row of umbrellas, some restless and others motionless, watched the ceremony to prepare for the formality of the execution. A messenger from the Second General Staff Department, armed with an order from Headquarters, rang the bell, a ritual that may seem modest but is also a decisive declaration of war.

There was no answer to the doorbell.

The messenger pressed the call button and read the document.

When he finished saying that, if they didn't comply, they would be executed, that is, forcibly seized, he ran out the door like a rabbit.

The messenger stood in front of the "Blue King" in the center of the row of umbrellas and greeting.

"Report! No response from external organizations! Request from the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces Headquarters! Since the order was clearly violated, the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau will quickly enforce it. That that's all!"

Nazumi folded his umbrella and placed it at his feet, then responded with the correct fold.

"Accepted by the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau."

When the messenger left, a row of umbrellas folded their umbrellas one after another and placed them at their feet.

While catching the raindrops on his hat, Nazumi looked around the research institute.

"It seems that they have no intention of prolonging the negotiations and gaining time."

While her husband looks at the board, Chika helps him read by talking to him.

"What kind of winning strategy do you plan to find in this desperate situation?"

"That's right. If they wanted to engage in urban warfare, they would have launched it before the siege was completed."

As he smiled and enjoyed the conversation with his wife, Nazumi immediately got to the point.

"In that case, the operational posture is interception and the target is the assault force. That is to say, we are the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau. Since we are the biggest nuisance to them, we must be exterminated within their base as soon as possible."

The staff members on both sides responded lightly depending on their courage.

Nazumi continued with a smile on his face.

"I think the goal is to create a stalemate with the surrounding forces that have already settled. What they fear more than anything is that the talented forces in Atsugi will not be able to arrive. That's why they want to crush us, the opposing force of reinforcements that come, with their first move. If we can crush them, we can use it as material to move Atsugi."

As the game progresses, the pieces of the puzzle come together one after another and the players' intentions come together. So far, he didn't have the overwhelming feeling of foreboding or unease that worried him in the morning. The reading continued with great clarity.

"When reinforcements arrive, we will concertedly break the siege, both internally and externally, causing unrest in Tokyo. They will then negotiate with Headquarters or the Japanese government for a pardon on the condition that they withdraw their troops. Then they return in triumph. home with their glorious war results and political achievements as souvenirs... Well, the best scenario would be something like that."

He then added with a smile on his face.

"Of course, that's impossible."

Chika added more to prevent her husband from becoming irreverent.

"Never forget that the other person also has the power to cancel the impossible."

"It was certainly premature."

Nodding solemnly, Nazumi stepped forward.

The officers once again straightened their backs at the act prior to the order.

But for some reason, instead of the usual orders, a long explanation came.

"Today's deployment is a monumental moment for us, the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau, which has been officially entrusted with full authority to deal with individuals with the capacity to induce anomalous phenomena by breaking the chain of command between the Occupation Forces and the Armed Forces."

The staff, including Chika, were attacked by a bad feeling.

His especially logical explanation was determined to be an unavoidable incentive, even indirectly, to influence someone from a logical perspective, "something that is difficult to accept immediately".

"Right now, so to speak, is the place to reveal it... This morning during breakfast I came up with a gesture that would demonstrate to the viewers that I am willing to commit crimes against people with abilities, and also show them the model of order that must be maintained."

As expected, a proposal came that they couldn't immediately accept, but from which there was no escape.

"From now on, when we prepare for battle on the field, we will all draw our swords in order shouting a certain number. Following my order, each person please respond with their name and report having drawn their sword. Now, let's go "

The "Blue King" gave the orders, with the air of a cheerful driver and the voice of a stern superior.

"All members draw your swords!"

"To the order..."

Somei Chika, who was the deputy commander, or, in other words, the one who had to take the lead among the "vassals", was guarded by the staff and, although her cheeks were flushed, she followed orders. As soon as she picked up her naginata that she carried on her back, she put the sheath on her waist.

"Somei Chika, battou!"

With a loud, mesmerizing sound, she swung her drawn naginata and smashed the stone onto the ground.

Behind them, a scream escaped from the surrounding troops, exactly as Nazumi had anticipated.

Then, the last member of the station, who had been hesitating, finally moved after receiving an elbow in the side.

"I-Iyoda, battou!"

This time, his voice and his movements were moderate, so he was silent from behind.

With the assistance of both the good and the bad, the staff continued doing the same without hesitation.

"Rokugo, battou!"

"Hakizawa, battou~"

"Uh, uh, Nizuka, battou!"

"Hoizumi, battou!"

"Hentani, battou!"

"Toneyama, battou!"

After watching with satisfaction as everyone drew their swords, Nazumi slowly, but with a masterful movement, revealed the white blade.

"Somei Nazumi, battou!"

Naturally, he took a step forward and the station staff followed in line.

Because Nazumi was advancing at a regular pace,

"We're also working hard on creating other things, like extended front-end speeches. Look forward to the future."

For some reason, no one responded to proposal number two.

When the execution began, the telephone lines leaving the research institute were cut simultaneously in several places. They probably have backup lines buried underground and radio communication equipment, but the effectiveness of the measures is not the issue. That was a response to the enemy's declaration of war, which they ignored, and a signal for the start of the battle.

Next, the main door was hit by the stone tip of a naginata accompanied by blue power.

The thick iron gate was torn free of its bolts and fell onto the stone pavement of the front garden. When the glow of the earth's tremors faded, only the waves of freezing rain remained. There was no sound of movement in the barren front garden leading to the front door.

"As expected, there was no deployment of forces outside and no firing from inside. I guess it was a stalemate after 41 moves. As I thought, the real battle will only begin after we rush inside."

As he looked around from behind his hat, Nazumi gave them his final instructions.

"Originally, I would send the sword-shaped Radiant Schwert to strengthen them, but I don't want to irritate the "Colorless". I would like it to be a true test of skill."

The "King's" assessment was that it was possible to control the area with those nine people.

The confidence of the ''vassals'' in the evaluation of this ''king''.

They both took steps without hesitation and finally stopped in the middle of the front yard. It is a perfect place to observe the board, offering a panoramic view of the interior of the entrance, both ends of the house and even the bell tower above. After looking around,

"First move, reach the observation point... I will leave command to you from then on. Be careful."

Without bending down or bending his stretched back, he confided it to Chika,

"Yes. You should do your best."

Chika also looked forward and resolutely returned a response to Nazumi.

Then, leaving Nazumi in his place,

"Come on!"

The horizontal line resumed execution with Chika giving the order.

The tension in the formation increased with each step and finally, at its climax, eight people lined up at the entrance. The two wooden doors that once housed a general hospital are large and tall, and greeted them with an eerie silence.

Chika, as vice commander, looked left and right.

Although everyone was nervous to some extent, they did not hesitate.

After lifting her chin back in a slightly satisfied manner, the vice commander of the Fourth Legal Affairs Bureau issued a sharp order.

"Run!"

"Yes!"

"Come on!"

Hakizawa and Nizuka each kicked in the two doors, throwing everyone inside.

Before they could fall to the ground, the tremendous gunshots from inside would blow them to pieces.

To annihilate the intruders, countless bullets fell from beyond the barricade installed in the entrance hall, not only from pistols, but also from automatic rifles and machine guns. Furthermore, invisible shockwaves, blows, and cuts came like an avalanche.

To confront it head-on, Hentani and Toneyama erected a solid blue power shield.

"Wow, this is the first time I've seen the entire shield shake!"

"The impact of the "force" is greater than that of a bullet."

As they stopped to take cover at the entrance, swords imbued with power silently approached from behind the thick stone pillars to their left and right.

Immediately, Iyoda and Hoizumi killed them.

"Wow?!"

"It smells elegant!"

At the same time, Chika hit the two people falling directly on top of her with the flat part of her naginata, knocking them down. After confirming that the unconscious people had collapsed inside the mantlet, she asked Rokugo, who was staring at the center of everyone.

"How is?"

"There are no signs of bombs or gas."

Before he could say that, Hakizawa and Nizuka stepped forward and moved the position of the mantlet forward.

"Iyoda-kun, you are very strong in real life."

"Hey, two tablecloths are formed!"

The collision between the bullet and the force became even more intense.

Ignoring that, Hentani and Toneyama pressed harder and harder.

"Prevent shielding, advance further!"

"Secure the cutting position."

Once the shield was erected a short distance from the barricade, Chika gave an order.

"One, two, three, take it!"

Iyoda was first, followed by Hoizumi.

"Gaaah!"

"Keep formation!"

Following them, Hakizawa and Nizuka,

"Come on."

"Oh, wait."

Following them, Rokugo, Hentani and Toneyama as well.

"Keep pushing!"

"Understood!"

"Come on."

They jumped onto the barricade one after another, and fortunately, they were able to hit the barricade, expanding their control area from the front to the left and right, and then to the surrounding area. Finally, Chika, who had been setting up a shield at the rear, silently entered the barricade and obtained a bridgehead to control. There weren't many interceptors lying around inside, maybe they evacuated as they approached.

(After all, the other party is not exempt from measures either.)

Chika looked around her, preparing herself once again.

Located at the rear of the entrance hall, an empty hallway extends to the left and right. In each case, similar barricades were erected along the long road, with white swords and gun muzzles flashing.

This time, the officers prepared for the next attack while hiding behind barricades.

Rokugo, the security guard, shouted.

"Left hand, heavy weapon!"

A brief whistle was heard and bursts of rocket flames erupted from beyond the shield placed outside the barricade. The common sense that it's not something to shoot indoors seems to have lost its meaning in this situation.

"Prepare for a surprise attack by the talented!"

Chika perked up and stood like an unbreakable pillar in the center of the barricade.

(So far so good... now I'll gather the ingredients for Nazumi.)

Nazumi watches her efforts from the front yard.

(Heavy weapons, again from the west, 34 moves.)

To be precise, he was observing the battlefield and trying to understand the factors that made up the battle situation.

The initial location of the force, the behavior of talented people who seem to have a squad commander behind them, the direction in which they will retreat when attacked, the direction in which reinforcements will be sent, the density of the fire that they rain and the weapons of the interceptors. The types of weapons used are not only those of the battlefield.

(Grenade from above, 35 moves.)

The plan of the general hospital before its renovation, the appearance of the research institute after its renovation, the slight pipes and unevenness exposed in the wall, the route of the canal to drain ice and rain, the construction of the front garden and the damage to stone pavement. Until then, he mentally lined up everything that could be verified.

(Wave of attacks by talented people, 36 moves.)

In order for the actions that take place on the battlefield to be possible, it becomes clear what kind of structure the buildings must have and where the people must be. When that becomes clear, you will have the entire war situation in your hands.

And now,

(Reinforcements on the left side of the atrium. The pillars cannot be removed, so even if it is renovated, the structure will remain the same. The route of the bullets, the position of the barricade, the stairs to protect and the use of gas now. Chika-san, are you okay? 37 moves.)

All the phenomena were intertwined and the puzzle was completed.

In other words, reason and phenomenon have been clearly separated.

(Is that where the command post is?)

Nazumi looked from under his uniform towards the west end of the top floor.

The walls were exactly the same as the others, with the windows covered in concrete and disguised as shutters.

However, all battles occur around that area and they move to protect it.

Nazumi turned towards that, keeping his back straight. Due to the sharpness of his movements, his rain cape spread for a moment, pushing away the freezing rain particles. The regular steps began.

(Approach, 38 movements.)

In his mind, the "King" begins to count his own movements.

This was proof that the mission was in its final stage.

Finally, his steps began to gain strength and a blue crystal step formed beneath his feet as he stepped on them with an unchanging rhythm. Before long, he reached his destination, facing the west end wall of the top floor, without any hesitation or confusion.

(Accomplished, 39 movements.)

He held his saber upright in front of him like a guard of honor, then brandished it three and four times before returning to the same position. The thick concrete wall was cut into a blue line and collapsed inwards.

(Cut, 40 moves.)

The scene in the dimly lit room... electrical panels that had been smashed and sparks scattered, information equipment lined up all over the place, and the engineers looking at him stiffly proved that his assumption was correct.

The "Blue King" stared at them, throwing his saber forward and announcing his sentence.

"Forty-one moves, you are paralyzed. I recommend you all to surrender."

But,

In the end, when Nazumi visually checked the board, he should have immediately accepted the surrender. The expression of the man, the chief engineer, made him feel very uncomfortable.

"Ah, "Blue King"...!"

That harsh but trembling voice had a tone of desperation much darker than expected.

When Nazumi saw that, that feeling of foreboding and disgust suddenly came back to him from the depths of his heart.

Something was wrong. It was large and misaligned.

The chief engineer revealed to him the true nature of the discomfort.

"Is this... also... your doing?"

After saying that, Nazumi finally caught on to what he was pointing out.

A large communication device that had probably been chewing on it just now.

From that speaker overflowed the noise of the battlefield mixed with noise.

Nazumi had heard that the communication was coming from inside the house where a battle was taking place, but the truth was different.

[I urgently ask for help! I urgently ask for help!]

He understood it only from the word he received.

The interlocutor was not there.

[We are being attacked by a group of strangers!]

The person seeking help comes from a completely different place.

Apart from that institute, there is only one other partner with whom they could collaborate in that critical situation.

In other words, they were the source of support for Nanakamado's rebellion plan.

[I repeat, this is the Atsugi base!]

It was the Atsugi American military base where the talented troops were stationed, which was supposed to be the side that was supposed to provide support.

[We are being attacked by a group of strangers! I urgently ask for help!]

A cry of despair shook the atmosphere in the room that was supposed to have surrendered with a fever of restlessness.

[The Japanese skill corps was wiped out! What are those brats?]

[They're coming, they're coming! The door will break!]

Behind the transmission, the sound of metal being struck began to rumble irregularly. It sounded like someone was playing the drums recklessly, ignoring efficiency and regularity.

Of course, the first thing that ran through Nazumi's mind was "Colorless", but something wasn't right.

(Did he drive to neighboring Atsugi Prefecture? What about the children?)

That doubt created an unpleasant hum in Nazumi's heart that he had never felt before... even when he was fighting with all his might against the "Red King" Unno Yutaka or the strange monster "Colorless King".

A whisper, similar to the feeling you get when you turn something over.

Meanwhile, the level of panic on the other end of the communication rose through the roof.

[The radar site that fell due to lightning has been restarted! The Hoigaku moves on its own!]

[You're an Idiot!]

[Is he! That color "green"...]

The voice stopped suddenly.

A sudden silence descended upon the command post.

The chief engineer and the engineers were stunned.

For them everything is over. That was the end.

However, for the ''Blue King'' Somei Nazumi, it was different.

Now that things were being cleaned up, something was starting to happen.

There was no point in giving up.

There was another player who turned the entire board over.

[..."Green"..."]

A voice came from the speaker, as if in response to Nazumi accidentally spilling it.

[Where?]

Nazumi felt the voice, or rather the medium, and felt the pressure running through his entire body.

The voice was not only emitted from the large communication device with which the chief engineer communicated.

It was broadcast from all the communication devices installed in the command post.

(No way, this communication... is not allowed!)

The established order will be ruined.

Faced with so much certainty, Nazumi felt lost for the first time.

It seems like he couldn't understand it all at once.

[Miya-chan, where are you?]

The voice that reached him was that of a small child.

[Whoever knows, answer me... I am...]

That voice said the decisive words.

[Oh... "Green King"...]

The turmoil of that day had barely begun.

+++++++++++

That day, Daikaku Kokujoji had been sitting in a certain subcommittee meeting since morning.

He didn't want to get caught up in other things on a day when they had an important dispatch for the King and people with abilities, but as long as he has one foot in this world, there are many duties that he has to fulfill. This is especially true if it is an important official mission, such as accompanying and escorting the president of the ruling party.

The reason for the subcommittee meeting was a motion to punish a member of the ruling party for misconduct, and since the conclusion of the punishment was clear, the decision was made quickly. However, after that resolution, a private draft of the statutes circulated within the party. After reading it, the president wordlessly handed it to Kokujoji, who was standing next to him.

Kokujoji was secretly surprised as he looked at the document, wondering what the escort was doing.

"Security system project for party members."

The agenda was trivial, but extremely important. The party wanted to officially incorporate "Tokijikuin", who had been treated as an outside collaborator, into a part of the party organization.

In recent times, the ruling party administration has finally entered a period of stability and is now negotiating with the General Headquarters on the path to complete peace and withdrawal from the occupation. At this time, the opaque relationship with private organizations such as the pre-war extra-parliamentary group needs to be clarified. There is no point in trying to expand the strength of the party.

Even within the organization, the words were full of artificial rhetoric, saying that the organization would gain more success if he became an official official.

When Kokujoji turned his attention to him, the president let out a ridiculous snort and shook his head slightly. In other words, it is a surprise move by a rival faction within the ruling party that he has no knowledge of. With the ruling party's dominance in the political situation almost firmly established, the rival factions seem to have had enough leeway to carry out unnecessary political maneuvers.

The purpose of the recruitment must have been to take control of "Tokijikuin", who had been controlling the political world from the position of bodyguard, formally incorporating them into the ruling party. Even within the dominant faction led by the president, there are many who wish to use "Tokijikuin", who possesses supernatural powers, more conveniently. As the opposing factions discuss the draft, they will compile these requests and turn them into the opinion of the entire party. If it becomes the will of the entire party, it cannot be ignored, and if it happens, it will be an opportunity to undermine the president and take control of the party... There may be other considerations.

He can't believe it was a coincidence that they submitted the draft that same day. It's like they're going to put pressure on the leader of "Tokijikuin", who will prioritize protecting the president over a serious case of talented people, that they're going to put him on the table and pressure him into submission?

(I see, humans are truly insatiable creatures.)

Kokujoji was smiling like it was no one else's business.

(Although only three years have passed since the destruction and death that tore the country apart.)

Until now, "Tokijikuin" has tried to avoid being absorbed by its greed and stay out of political conflicts. However, the trend of the times may gradually make it no longer possible to do so.

In the future, regardless of whether they are involved or not, as the world stabilizes, interference from those who desire power will increase. The situation in which they are becoming the reason for the conflict demonstrates this.

Power moves people and creates a flow just by being there.

It is like a cluster of stars that he expanded through his daily training.

(I never expected the beginning to appear so quickly.)

That draft is only a small part. The power that has been lost in the postwar chaos will become more visible as it settles. It's time to think about making a change.

The sensation of being faced with a proposal for which he had carefully searched for the answer invaded him.

The proposal is,

(How should we "Kings" be treated?)

Will it remain hidden in the background like before?

Or will it turn around and appear?

(If not, is there another way?)

Although it was a proposal, it did not seem that the direction would be easily determined.

After all, he didn't even recognize the faces of all the "Kings" who should be punished.

While he was lost in these thoughts,

Unexpectedly,

[Where?]

A voice came from the radio installed in the chamber.

Not that it was time, he didn't even have time to think about it.

It is as if the proposals he has discarded, such as caution, now face a harsh reality.

(......!)

An almost physical shock, incomparable to the moment he saw the draft, passed through Kokujoji.

Hearing it for the first time, perhaps a child's voice, unleashed a power unique to them that no one else can use.

[Miya-chan, where are you?]

(You, no way.)

In the noisy chamber, only Kokujoji had a hunch about the situation.

Even when the staff hastily fiddled with the radio switch, the voices continued to come out. Before he knew it, all the speakers inside and outside the chamber were emitting the same loud voice that no one else could stop.

[Whoever knows, answer me... I am...]

(I guess everything is ready... now, finally!)

An indescribable feeling of euphoria warmed Kokujoji's heart.

It was no longer worth hiding it.

Everything will appear as it is.

What will this bring for him, for them and for this country?

He must accept this along with them and confirm it.

He stopped doubting a long time ago.

Since that comes, he will accept it with determination.

Suddenly, Kokujoji stood up to say the decisive word.

[Oh... "Green King"...]

(The last one... "Green King"!)

He had to go to them.

In order to determine if it is a desired miracle or not.

Or, to turn it into a desired miracle...

"Kokujoji-kun."

After hearing the familiar title, the president finally turned to look at him.

Kokujoji, who received his gaze, spoke with a smile.

"I will respond after considering the draft."

The president noticed that the man who answered seemed to have grown larger.

He is not big enough to be belittled and repressed.

He was so big that he naturally looked up and turned his back to him.

The burly man took a deep breath and the entire assembly hall burst into loud applause.

"To those in the House of Representatives who want us, know this! We are both a sword and a flame! You can see the full extent of this, so prepare to swallow it all!"

Before the lingering effects of the impact from his cheeks to his stomach wore off, his large figure had disappeared from the chamber.

This time, the remaining president smiled as if it was no one else's business.

[separatist-apologist]

Buried Alive Inside My Dreams

Summary: An evil enchantress has locked Princess Feyre Archeron in a tower, secluding her from her family and removing her entirely from the outside world. Trapped and alone, Feyre turns her gaze to the stars, dreaming of returning home to her sisters- of finding peace. She's determined to escape before her birthday and the annual starfall that marks the occasion just as soon as she can figure out a way down.

When a thief breaks into her tower, Feyre takes her chances and leaves with him, unaware of who this man is and the price freedom will try and extract from her

Happy @officialfeysandweek2023

Read on AO3 | Chapter 1

Grass. 

Soft, warm grass tickled the bottom of Feyre’s bare feet. Forgetting Rhysand was just behind her, Feyre fell to her knees to touch it with her palms. She was going to cry and she didn’t even care if the criminal she’d blackmailed into helping her saw. Nor did she care what he thought when she stretched her body against it like a cat, pressing her face into the loamy, cool earth.

“I’m free,” she whispered, eyes fluttering shut. 

Sure, Rhys wasn’t willing to take her to Ellesmere, but that was a small thing. He’d take her to Avalon where Feyre hoped she might figure out a plan that would get her to the palace from there. Maybe, she reasoned, she could plead with the king. Tell him what she knew…what she could do. She’d be another pawn, but a pawn of her own making, at least.

If that was better or worse than what she currently was, Feyre didn’t know. What Feyre did know about herself was that she was a survivor. She’d survived all those years in the tower when it would have broken so many others. And she’d survive Avalon, and her step-mother, and whatever else was thrown at her because that was all Feyre knew. That was who she was.

“How long are you going to lay there?” Rhysand asked impatiently, drawing a shadow over her. “I would hate to rush you, but we are wanted.”

Sighing, Feyre clambered to her feet, checking that the ring was still in her pocket before facing off with him. In the sunlight, he was far more beautiful than she’d first thought. That golden brown skin of his seemed to shimmer with silvery moonlight, branding him a star stranded on the mortal plane with her. Those violet eyes watched her with unguarded suspicion, framed by dark lashes no man had any right to. Those sharp cheekbones, defined jaw, and sensual lips felt like insults heaped upon injury.

“You’re wanted,” Feyre reminded him, wiggling her bare toes in the grass. She’d never been allowed shoes for obvious reasons, and now dreaded trekking through the woods without them. Still, it was better than another day alone in that tower. And Rhysand was better company than no one at all.

Not that she’d ever admit that to him. If anyone was a princess, it was the criminal towering over her. He oozed arrogance and that annoyed her. 

“We both will be now. Unless you’re not a prisoner?” he questioned.

Feyre wasn’t answering that. It was too risky to tell a man with a record of stealing that she was carrying the secret to eternal youth in her veins. She was a prisoner, too, which was what convinced her to shrug her shoulders. “Lead the way, criminal.”

He flashed her a heartbreaking smile—the sort that made her dislike him intensely. There was no denying that Rhysand was beautiful, and it annoyed her that he knew it. Who had she stolen the ring from, she wondered? Perhaps he used it when he was robbing women, tricking them with promises of marriage he never intended to uphold.

If she was kind, she’d throw it in a river. 

Feyre wasn’t kind, though, and she wasn’t about to relinquish the little leverage she had. Like it or not, Rhysand was the best option she had for escaping Amarantha’s grasp, reuniting with her sisters, and taking back their home. 

Besides, Feyre knew with absolute certainty that Rhysand would try to betray her. He’d be stupid not to—and she’d be disappointed if he didn’t. Might as well let him get her as far as he could from here in the next few days and maybe get the jump on him, first.

Feyre regretted not pocketing his coins, too. 

Rhysand was quick thanks to his long legs, causing Feyre to half jog to keep up. “So,” he began, smoothing a hand through his thick hair. “How long have you been up there?”

“My whole life,” she replied, unwilling to admit the full truth. He didn’t need to know anything. “Why?”

“Because you’re half feral and you don’t have shoes,” he replied with that stupid, roguish grin of his.

“What's your excuse then?”

“I have shoes, Feyre darling. See,” he said, sticking out one booted foot in time for Feyre to kick him, sending him sprawling face first into the grass. Laughter exploded out of her at the sight of him and it felt good. When had she last laughed like that? Her smile faded to nothing by the time he looked over, wiping dirt from his palms and knees.

“Amused?” he grumbled, back to his quick pace. 

“Yes,” she said truthfully. It had been fun to watch him eat it, if only a little, but reality couldn’t be ignored. Feyre and Rhysand settled into a quiet jog, making their way to the forest on near silent feet. It was here that Feyre realized she was in trouble. Tiny rocks and sticks cut into her soles every few steps until she was wincing and limping, her pace slowing.

“Why aren’t you allowed shoes?” Rhysand gritted out, realizing she was going to get them caught. Feyre wanted to throw her hands up in the air in cry. This was impossible and Amarantha absolutely knew it. 

“You know why,” she replied, reaching for the rough bark of a tree to brace herself. Rhysand hesitated before sliding to his knees right in front of her, back facing her.

“Get on.”

“I’m not—I won’t—”

“Then stay here and die,” he replied, looking over his shoulder with a set jaw. “I’m not gonna stick around and watch, though.”

Looking upward at the leafy canopy, Feyre stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. Rhysand grunted, rising to his feet and hooking her knees under his arms. “We’ll have to make a stop tonight.”

“No stops—”

“It’s only getting colder and the terrain rockier,” he replied firmly. “You won’t survive another day barefoot, let alone a week. I know someone…we’ll get you some shoes. And a cloak. And maybe a knife.”

“What’s wrong with my skillet?”

“What isn’t wrong with your skillet?” he grumbled, glancing down at the iron bouncing off his chest with every step. “Why not use that against your captors?”

“Blackguards are resistant to my charms,” she replied, thinking of how often she’d dreamt of bashing their faces in.

Rhysand hesitated. “You’re not someone's important child—”

“I’m no one,” she replied quickly. How much did anyone really know about Feyre Archeron? Anything? She’d been so cut off for so long that Feyre had no idea what Amarantha might have said to explain her disappearance, and how much of that someone like Rhysand would have absorbed. So much of this plan seemed like a bad idea in retrospect. She’d merely jumped at the first chance for escape without considering the ramifications of Rhysand being even a little perceptive. 

If he realized who she was truly, he’d turn her over without a backward glance. She’d be given right back to Amarantha, who would find a far worse prison than the one Feyre had been trapped in.

Maybe she ought to let him gift her shoes and leave him before they went any further. Feyre began to solidify her plan while Rhysand talked about anything and everything—about his every passing thought, questions she answered vaguely, and anything in between. At some point, Feyre rested her chin on his shoulder, almost disappointed at the thought of telling him goodbye.

No one had ever taken this much interest in her—even when she’d been living with her family, Feyre often felt forgotten. Like an afterthought. Rhysand had called her feral, which was a common insult Nesta had lobbied at her, too. Back then it had made her so angry.

She would have given anything to hear her sister insult her now, if only to know she was safe. Maybe they’d see each other soon—Feyre didn’t believe for a minute that Nesta was being allowed to visit. If she’d thought otherwise, she’d have stayed in that tower. Amarantha had made similar promises over the years to be cruel, though never one so explicit. 

Maybe she knew Feyre was becoming more murderous by the day and wanted to placate her. Or worse, it was a taunt for Feyre, who still believed her sisters were somehow alive when so often, Feyre was certain they must be dead by now. If she didn’t have hope, what did she have? 

What was the point of going on at all? She might as well run away and start over entirely. Change her name, her identity, pick some seaside village and work as a seamstress—which was crazy. Feyre didn’t even know how to sew. Still, that was a viable backup plan just in case.

Feyre would be damned before she ever went back to that tower. 

The village was really just an inn and tavern, overseen by the most beautiful blonde woman Feyre had ever seen in her life. Rhysand dropped her to the floor the moment he stepped inside, shaking out his arms which she noticed seemed to be bulging with muscle. He’d given no indication he’d been struggling, but looking at him now, Feyre thought he looked worn down.

Good. It meant he’d sleep like the dead tonight. 

“Rhysie,” the woman crooned, brown eyes lighting on him. “You’re alive.”

A pang of something slammed into Feyre’s stomach. Maybe it was seeing this beautiful man brighten under the attention of a beautiful woman and know that she would never elicit such a reaction. Or maybe just knowing even someone like Rhysand had friends and lovers made her feel worse about herself. No one was ever going to look at her like that. The woman, dressed in a red tunic and tight, brown pants that showed off her shapely body, came around the counter. 

“Who's your friend?”

Rhys glanced at her. “Feyre. I’m taking her to Avalon.”

“Avalon, huh?” the woman tucked a piece of the bright blonde hair behind her ear. “What’s in Avalon?”

Feyre only shrugged. She wasn’t going to tell this woman anything.

“I need a room and I need a pair of shoes. You got anything?”

“For you? No. But for her…I could dig a few things out. Feyre,” she added, stretching out the syllables. Fey-ruh. Feyre liked the way she said it. “I’m Morrigan, but my friends call me Mor. And you can, too.”

She almost told Mor she’d never had a friend, but clamped her mouth shut so Mor could sashay her hips back behind the counter. Rhysand, to his credit, wasn’t looking at her at all. His attention was on the bar in the background, and a man wearing a dark black cloak, face obscured in shadow.

“Show her the room,” Rhysand mumbled, his expression difficult to read. “I need to settle up with an old friend.”

Feyre was tempted to follow him, but Mor shook her head when Feyre took one step after Rhysand. “No point,” she said, sliding a key across the counter. “They go way back. How much has he told you, anyway?”

“Nothing. Besides his name,” Feyre replied, immediately curious. “What should I know?”

“About Rhys?” Mor laughed, a pretty sound as she gestured for Feyre to join her behind the counter. “Probably a lot. But he’s a good man, and someone I’d want to have in my corner if things were bad.”

“How do you know him?” Feyre asked, hating how jealous the question sounded. 

“He’s my cousin,” Mor replied with that same pretty smile. “He introduced me to my wife, Em. She’s not around or I’d introduce you. Her and one of our waitresses took off looking…well, that’s not important. If you hang around long enough, you’ll meet them.”

“Is that what Rhysand—”

“Call him Rhys,” Mor interrupted. “Only his enemies call him Rhysand.”

Feyre wasn’t sure she wasn’t Rhys’s enemy, though she absorbed that knowledge, too. “Is that what he’s doing out there?”

Mor only shrugged. She wasn’t going to tell Feyre her cousins business, at any rate, which meant Feyre would have to pull that out of him later. “Here. Shoes, and other things. Take whatever you want if it fits. Dinner starts at five and ends at nine but the bar is open all night. Breakfast is at dawn.” And then Mor was gone, closing the back door behind her. Feyre took in the boxes of left behind clothes and shoes and other items, digging through until she found a pair of lace up trousers and a flowing white shirt that cinched around the middle, giving her a shape she shouldn’t care about but did. 

Feyre dressed quickly, pulling on stockings and boots that fit so well she almost cried. Her hair was still a mess, braided  to keep it from dragging along the floor and heavy against her scalp, but that couldn’t be helped.

One day she’d cut it off, but for now, Feyre felt like her own person. Her own person, who, instead of coming back out the door Mor had led her through, turned toward the back end of that small, poorly lit room where a cool draft was emanating from. All Feyre had to do was move some dusty boxes out of the way and shove a rock slab to the side to find an old smugglers tunnel.

No need to sleep with Rhys at all. Leaving the key by the door, Feyre turned to the tunnel.

And freedom.

RHYS:

“Did you find him?”

Azriel glanced over from his tankard of ale, a whisper of a smile on his face. “I did. He’s escorting a princess of Ellesmere to her sister, if you can believe that.”

Rhys couldn’t. “I didn’t think he needed money that badly.”

“He doesn’t. You didn’t see her face,” Azriel chuckled, insinuating there was far more Cassian of Illyria might appreciate about a princess of Ellesmere. “I’d have assisted her, too, if she’d asked.”

Liar. Rhys didn’t bother mentioning that, though. Azriels had spent too long trapped as a beast, rescued by the wife Rhys had yet to meet. Azriel kept her in Illyrian, far away from those who might look to hurt him, and as consequence, Rhys had never met her.The last thing Rhys could afford was for Azriel to retreat back to his fortress, to lock the gates and shut them all out. Again. “We’re set, then?”

“As soon as Cassian returns, you’ll have your armies so long as we have our gold. Until then, though..." Azriel slid over a pouch of coins which Rhys pocketed quickly. "From supporters in Velaris."

Rhys nodded. “Any news of Keir?”

Azriel shook his head. “Same old, same old. He thinks he’s untouchable, but Avalon just lost their king—”

“What?”

A wicked smile spread across Azriel’s features. “Beron Vanserra was murdered in his sleep. Assassins…though I’d put my money on his oldest son. Scythia’s young queen has abandoned her seat and the middle Ellesmerian princess is missing…or has eloped with a farm hand, depending on what rumors you believe.”

“So…we can kill him?”

Azriel’s smile was vicious. “We can kill him. Did you find what you were looking for in Illyria?”

Rhys sighed. “She’s dead. I thought maybe she and my sister…it doesn’t matter. They’re gone, and it’s just me, now.”

He’d been so hoping his mother had managed to smuggle his youngest sister out of his home the night of the coup. There’d been a little grave marker in a cottage another terrible witch had taken residence in. She wasn’t half as horrible as Amarantha, and far easier to kill—and she’d taken no care with his sister and mothers graves. Still, they’d lived there for a time, and Rhys would never know what had killed them. Amarantha might have, but disease, too, could have just as easily killed them.

He’d gotten her ring back. Kind of, because fucking Feyre still had it. 

“Then there will be no one rallying for your throne, at least. But I’m sorry to hear that,” Azriel murmured, clapping Rhys on the shoulder out of solidarity. 

“Let’s meet back here in two weeks time,” Rhys said, thinking it would take him that long to get Feyre to Avalon and return unimpeded. “Cassian will be done by then?”

Azriel shrugged. “I assume. There is a palace estate not too far from here. Cassian will likely beat you.”

There was a question beneath that statement. Why are you wasting two more weeks?

“Good. Make sure everything is in order, and our contacts are set. I want this to go smoothly and most importantly, no one can know besides us. If we give that bloody witch a heads up, she’ll slaughter us all in our sleep.”

“She seems preoccupied lately,” Azriel murmured, ever the clever spy. “Eris Vanserra is keeping her well occupied in the west.”

“I—”

“Just so you know,” Mor interrupted, a pretty smile on her stretched over her face, “I think I’ve given the lovely Feyre enough time to escape you. Just in case you wanted to go after her.” Azriel raised his brows. Rhys nearly waved Mor off—good riddance. Feyre was a miserable weight incapable of even holding up her end of a conversation.

“She has my fucking ring,” Rhys swore, scooting from his chair so quickly it toppled over. “Nothing has changed. I’ll be back.”

Fucking Mor. Could just one thing go right for once? Could just one thing work in his favor? Apparently not, because when Rhys opened the back stockroom, he found the key to the room he’d planned to sleep in sitting atop a dusty box lid and the back smuggling tunnels wide open. Foolish. Those caves were ancient and crumbling—not to mention dark. Feyre was just as likely to step off a ledge and fall to her death.

And take his mothers ring along with it. 

“Fuck,” he whispered before plunging into the dark. Rhys knew these tunnels, at least. He could have navigated them in the dark, eyes closed, and blindfolded, having run through them as many times as he had. Blackguards were after him, too—for petty crimes, listed on their endless wanted posters. He’d be hanged for crimes against the crown while Amarantha cackled, having destroyed the last heir to Velaris. Keir would continue ruling as a puppet king until she no longer had use for him.

Rhys needed the King of Avalon to hold strong. And he needed Cassian to come through. He’d made very specific promises—Illyria had always been a territory in his kingdom. Untamed and wild, with a tribal people prone to infighting. Cassian was the first leader in centuries who’d managed to unite them all under one border. 

Rhys had sworn to recognize them as a distinct state, with a leader of their choosing that would represent them in government affairs, making him still king, but with shared power of Illyria. 

He was risking far too much for one ring. In his head, Rhys could hear his father screaming at him to let it go. There would be other rings, but his throne was already precarious and he’d been away for far too long. His support and allies were waning, growing tired of waiting on him.

His mother, an Illyrian woman so beautiful his father had fallen in love with her the second he laid eyes on her. He’d given her that ring and though their marriage had never been particularly happy, his mother had cherished that ring. She’d promised it to Rhys to give to his own wife one day, and more than that, it was all he had left of his mother.

His father had left him a crown he’d never particularly wanted, and his mother left him her ring. Rhys did want that. He wanted love, wanted a family, and he wanted to give that woman his mothers ring. It was more than just a trinket, but a symbol of something so strong, so potent—true love. The kind the poets wrote stories about.

And it was currently in the hands of a thief, or an enchantress, or whatever Feyre was. How long had she been gone? It couldn’t have been longer than half an hour. It was tempting to yell out her name as he made his way through the tunnel, avoiding the turns that would send him careening to his death. He merely had to pray Feyre had done the name. 

Please let her be alive so I can strangle her myself. 

Rhys picked up his pace, boots echoing against the cavernous walls. Loose pebbles and dripping water filled his ears until a pinprick of light and the sound of struggling. 

“Wait until her majesty learns about this,” a roughened voice threatened. Rhys paused for just a moment, swearing it was because he didn’t have a weapon on him and not because he wanted to try and untease the mystery that was Feyre. “She’ll have you killed just like your sisters.”

“Fuck you,” Feyre snarled, defiant until the last. “You better kill me—” Her voice choked off loud enough it echoed. That was enough for now, Rhys decided. Any enemy of Amarantha’s was a friend of his—or, at least, an ally for the moment. Her frying pan was at her feet, suspended in the air as two blackguards crowded her. One held her by the throat, squeezing so roughly Rhys could see the blue tinge of her skin, even in the dark. 

They weren’t going to kill her—just incapacitate her, and maybe break a few ribs, if Rhys knew the blackguards. Curling and uncurling his fingers, Rhys rushed forward unseen and body slammed the blackguard holding Feyre. She crumpled to the ground in a heap, gasping loudly. Rhys, on the other hand, was immediately rewarded with an elbow to the gut. 

“Run!” he managed, twisting so he straddled the armored soldier. They couldn’t fight them without weapons, couldn’t—

“Take that!” Feyre screamed, swinging her iron skillet with such ferocity that the second blackguard hit the ground, twitched for a second, and then went utterly still. The three of them stared for a second, wide-eyed with shock.

Rhys was kicked off the blackguard with force, boot slamming into his ribs with enough force to send Rhys careening over the edge of the path he’d been fighting on. This was it, then. This was how he died. Chasing down a woman for his mothers ring, and bested by one lowly blackguard.

Gripping the edge with his fingers, Rhys waited for the stomping, for the rush of air, for—clang. 

The blackguard toppled over him, falling into that black abyss just as Feyre dropped her pan and reached for him.

“I don’t think I can pull you up,” she breathed, grabbing his wrist all the same. 

“Pull,” he breathed and to her credit, Feyre did. She could have been rid of him. She could have left him there to die and instead she pulled with all the strength in her body while Rhys leveraged himself and did the rest. He laid there for a minute, hand on his stomach while he tried to catch his breath. 

“I thought…” he didn’t finish that sentence. Feyre sat beside him, frying pan resting in her lap. 

“We should probably keep moving. Just in case.”

Rolling to his stomach on shaking arms, Rhys nodded. “We could be in a quiet room taking a bath, but sure. Let’s keep running through the woods.”

“You might have time to waste, but I don’t,” she snapped. 

Rhys didn’t bother to remind her that they were only here because of her impulsive, selfish actions. “Give me the ring,” he breathed. “And we can part ways. You clearly don’t need me. I got you out of the tower, you can do the rest—”

“Rhys,” Feyre whispered, tilting her head toward the ceiling. Something was rattling, causing debris to rain down on them. “Rhys, I think we need to—”

“RUN!” he yelled, but it was too late. The ceiling began to crumble under the weight of some shuddering explosion—either manufactured or from time itself. Rhys would never know what made him reach for Feyre, shielding her body with his own tucked up beneath his chest. Only that, in that last moment, instinct overrode every other thought. Maybe he just didn’t want to die alone. 

The fall was breathlessly endless and somehow so short it was over before he truly understood what was happening. They tumbled not to rocky earth, but splashed into frigid water that was rapidly rising. All at once, Rhys understood what had happened—somewhere, in the distance, the dam had broken and the old smuggling caves would soon be underwater.

They were going to drown. Utter darkness surrounded them as rushing water sucked them through the channels. It was all Rhys could do to hold on to Feyre, even as the pair of them were battered against rough stone walls and jutting rocks. Falling debris splashed around them, and more than once a narrow opening pulled them beneath the water's surface for so long he was certain this was how it ended.

They slammed against a debris field blocking their path out. Rhys shoved his hands against immovable rocks, looking for any purchase that would allow him and Feyre to escape before the tunnel was completely submerged and they drowned.

Beside him, Feyre clung to his neck, weeping softly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, as if the collapse was her fault. Rhys was inclined to believe Amarantha was already aware they’d escaped, though perhaps that was giving her too much credit. That dam was old like most of Ellesemere’s infrastructure. Perhaps it had finally just collapsed at the worst possible moment.

“It’s not your fault,” Rhys told her, taking maybe one of the last breaths he’d ever take. “Maybe this is what I deserve.”

“I don’t believe that,” Feyre told him, forehead pressed to his cheek. “I made a wish, Rhys. It can’t end like this.”

But it was going to end like this and no wish on any star could stop it. The stars had long stopped listening, turning disappointed eyes away from them here in the mortal plane. Rhys shuddered, the water dipping below his chin. He’d tried, right? Azriel would go to Mor, would rally the armies around his cousin and Velaris would be liberated. That was enough, he told himself. 

“I never got to see my sisters,” Feyre whispered, lips wet against his cheek. “I never got to cut my hair.” Rhys turned to her, taking one last breath. “I’m never going to see my home again,” he told her, saying his most desperate fear out loud. What did it matter? They were seconds from drowning anyway. 

Feyre’s starbright eyes snapped to his face. “My hair,” she whispered, running her hands over the loosened strands floating around them. It was so goddamn long it was just as likely to smother them as the water. “Rhys, my hair—” Her words cut off in a choked garble as the water finally reached the ceiling. This was it. He was going to die an unremarkable death. No one would know what happened to him—he would just be gone, snuffed out entirely. 

Or, he thought, anyway. Rhys had nearly made peace with the thought of dying, lungs burning, when the dark water illuminated with light. Feyre had become some kind of living candle, ethereal like a goddess—an enchantress. He’d been right about her, and right then, he didn’t care. Feyre’s body allowed Rhys to see a tiny hole in the plug of rocks. He swam to it, shoving that crack with his shoulders while Feyre kicked with booted feet until the wall collapsed.

Tumbling into the grass over the debris left Rhys bruised but alive, gasping for breath while Feyre half vomited water beside him.

He gave himself just a moment to compose himself before rolling to his aching side. “You’re a witch,” he whispered with no true malice. That was why Amarantha wanted her, then? There could only be one, and from what Rhys knew about Amarantha, she was too jealous to ever let someone possibly outshine her.

“Rhys,” Feyre replied, sitting up with wide, panicked eyes. A bruise had begun to form along her cheekbone, stark in comparison with her freckled, fair skin. “Rhys, you’re bleeding.”

Dragging his eyes from the white shirt plastered to her body—revealing every fascinating inch of her chest—Rhys found blood blooming over his own shirt.

“Oh,” he whispered. “I guess I am.”

It was the last thing he managed to say before the darkness overtook him.

[nightmaretist]

TIMING: Current PARTIES: Max @screadqueens & Inge @nightmaretist LOCATION: Inge's office SUMMARY: Max pays one of Siobhan's hottest colleagues a visit. CONTENT WARNINGS: Child death (past), torture (threatened)

It was hard for Max to decide which of the rogue banshees who’d left their mark in this wretched Maine town was the more disappointing of the two. Regan’s mistakes were humiliating, to be sure — cleaning up her mess would certainly take some time — but that was to be expected. Regan had been a failure since the beginning, since the first day she’d shown up to train with Max and Tina despite her age. Siobhan was a failure in her own right, of course, but she’d at least been raised properly. The fact that she had managed to fail so spectacularly was just… sad. 

Especially when Max found the corpse in her contact list.

It wasn’t the fun kind of corpse, wasn’t the proper kind that you could sit and watch beautifully decay. No, this corpse was a disgusting thing. The kind that walked around, the kind that defied Fate. The mere concept of the undead was sickening, and yet Siobhan had been out and about befriending one. It was horrifying, really. Regan had something of an excuse in her sad human upbringing, but Siobhan? Siobhan should have known better.

It was no matter, though. Max was more than willing to correct the mistake.

It was luck, perhaps, that the corpse found employment at the local college. It made Max the perfect banshee for the job, what with her youthful looks and her sharp wit. Blending in with the human children was an easy thing to do, a simple one. She looked like she belonged, and so the idiotic humans assumed she did. She listened to them talk about stupid things, she waited for an opportunity. And when the corpse was spotted, Max wasted no time on goodbyes before getting up to follow it.

“Excuse me,” her Irish lilt lifted the words, carrying them to the corpse’s ears. There was something dully fascinating about the unnaturalness of it, she thought; she found interest in it the same way one might find interest in an unidentified puddle with a heavy stench. The mind was drawn to disgusting things, sometimes. Max wondered if that was how things had started between Siobhan and Inge. Maybe. Maybe not. It wasn’t important either way. The corpse was a mistake Max would correct. She was sure of that. “I missed your office hours, but I’d like to discuss a few things with you. Mind extending them?”

—

She had been healing. In the slow pace of any mortal human, Inge’s injuries had started aching less, her muscles regenerating somehow. She didn’t care about the biology of it, really. Didn’t much care about most of it, as long as there was process. And so she’d been returning to her classes, opting to sit on her desk in a position that seemed casual but just hurt less than standing and walking around. 

It was good to be back. There was something about teaching that wasn’t entirely despicable to her, something about it that she did like. Maybe it was just that she wanted to be the smartest person in every room and being a professor of art did tend to ensure that. It helped that she was an undead one, as she’d certainly outlive all her students if things went her way. Perhaps it was a pitiful thing to gain confidence from, but wasn’t that the point of being a teacher? To know better? 

She’d take all she could, these days.

And so she walked the hallways again, with less trouble than she had a few months back, but still with some trouble. Sometimes she was afraid there would be permanent damage to the muscles that kept her upright, those in her lower back. Inge refused that kind of reality, though, and so she bit through the pain. 

When someone addressed her, she looked at the voice the words belonged to. She didn’t recognize the student, which made her crease her brows. In all fairness, she’d been absent-minded, if not physically absent, these past months. “Hi …” There was an empty space there where the other’s name would go if she’d known it, an open invitation for an introduction. “What is it you’d like to talk about? I have some time until my next lecture, but…” She smiled and there was a hint of sourness to it. There was an implication there, something along the lines of it better be worth my while. The other was lucky, as they were near her office. Inge looked at it down the hall. “Well, don’t be too long.”

—

She moved like she was in pain, and there was some idle fascination to that. A corpse that ached was a funny thing, Max thought. There were banshees back home, she knew, who felt some pity towards the undead. It was hardly their fault that they’d outlasted their fate, after all, and they were surely suffering because of it. But Max had no room in her heart for things like this. When she saw this body, this dead thing that Siobhan had adopted as some sort of hideous pet, all that stirred in her chest was disgust. It was humiliating, in a way; Siobhan had brought embarrassment on their entire community, hanging round with trash like this. Shouldn’t she have known better?

“Max,” she introduced herself, though not without considering it first. It didn’t matter much if the thing before her knew her name. It would be dead the way it was meant to be dead before long now, would be ‘laid to rest’ the moment it let Max into its office. A scream would be the best way to do it, she thought, though it would bring unwanted attention. Was there a window in the office? It would be simple enough to slip out after. In a town like this, surely something else would take the blame. No one would ever think to point a finger at Max, and she’d be long gone before anyone even considered doing so. Unlike Regan or Siobhan, Max had no intention of sullying herself by remaining in this town a moment longer than she had to.

“Don’t worry,” she assured the corpse. “What I have for you is very important. And something you need, I think!” It wasn’t a lie. Upholding Fate was the most important thing a banshee could be tasked with, and the corpse was in need of finding its end. Perhaps there would be peace for it, in the moment. Perhaps it would even be grateful. With a sharp smile, Max followed the corpse into its office, shutting the door behind them both.

—

Maybe this was one of the students who’d taken on the class in the time she’d been absent. Inge had offered some forged doctor’s notes to those that stood above her on the academic hierarchical ladder and spent most of her days away from lecture halls. She wasn’t very good at remembering her students on top of that, with some exceptions here and there. Some of them made art or wrote essays that stood out – negatively or positively – and those names she remembered. But Max was a stranger to her.

She moved towards her office, not bothering with the usual slew of small talk she was good at. Professor Endeman was a professor who liked to talk, after all — usually, that was. She had little to say now, though, was more focused on moving as fluently as possible. She shouldn’t have worn trousers that closed around her waist where her scar was still developing.

“Ah?,” she asked at the other’s very confident words. Whatever could it be? A project, a piece of art she’d seen at a museum, something she had read? Inge offered a smile, moved towards her desk and sat down in the chair, stretching one of her legs to put less pressure on her injury. She despised that painkillers didn’t work. She hoped the sun would go down soon, so she could return to her dear astral. “Well, don’t keep me waiting Max. Take a seat, tell me whatever it is you have for me.” Despite her fatigue (funny, considering she hadn’t slept in over forty years) she offered a look of enthusiastic intrigue. It better be worth her while.

—

Max studied the corpse, the fascination something she found herself unable to shake. She hadn’t seen many undead in her life. She hadn’t seen many people who weren’t banshees in her life, really, given the isolated nature of their community in Ireland. She’d heard tale of the abominations that defied Fate, of course, seen the disgust in the expressions of those sharing the stories, but she never imagined she’d see one up close. She didn’t think she’d have time to dissect this one the way she yearned to, but there were others in town. According to their findings, the place was crawling with them. Maybe she could find another when she was done here, now that she knew what it felt like to be in the presence of one. Maybe she could take it apart piece by piece.

“You’re friends with Professor Dolan, aren’t you? I’ve heard the two of you are close.” Max made no move to sit in the chair she’d been offered; instead, she continued to stare at the corpse, allowing her head to tilt ever-so-slightly to one side as if she was working out a particularly difficult puzzle. “What is it you think she sees in you? Does she actually enjoy being around you, or is there just something interesting about a corpse that walks and talks?”

She took a step closer, reaching out a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it quick. It’s not your fault you’re an abomination, is it?”

—

If she had any functions in her body that could make her respond instinctively, the hairs in her neck would have stood upright now. The mention of Siobhan was concerning — it was hardly like they interacted a whole lot professionally but there was of course the case of the chopped off leg and her being left stuck to a wall. Inge tightened her jaw, screwing it even tighter when Max asked her about their relationship, called her a corpse.

Something was amiss. It wasn’t paranoia crawling over her skin this time — there was something wrong with the girl who remained stranding and inched too close. “I don’t think she sees an awful lot in me,” she said, fingers inching towards the drawer in her desk. She’d placed self defense measures there – of course she had. The weapons could cost her her job, but she’d rather risk that than her head. “It’s more that she envies me.” The drawer opened during that  sentence. “Because I am capable of more than she has ever been.” Love, wasn’t that what it had been? She didn’t get the banshee. 

Inge got up to her feet, staring at the younger creature, fingers wrapped around a switchblade. “You’ll not do a thing,” she said, “Besides get the hell out of my office and leave this campus.” 

—

The corpse’s hand went to the desk drawer, and Max watched it inch its way there with a faint spark of amusement behind her eyes. There was something funny about it, in a disgusting sort of way. Here was this thing that had cheated Fate once already, existed in a world that had moved on without it long after it should have been gone, and all it could think of was ways to cheat further. Wasn’t it exhausting? Shouldn’t it be tired? Max didn’t understand why it was fighting so hard. If anything, it should be honored. Such lucky few were allowed to be delivered to Fate by a banshee’s scream. 

But the corpse didn’t want the honor, it seemed. It pulled a blade from the drawer, and Max’s lips quirked upwards in a smile that turned into a bubbling giggle, unable now to hide the amusement dancing across her features. Was the blade even made of iron? She doubted it. “You should be careful with that,” she crowed, shaking her head. “You’ll hurt yourself. Not that it matters much. You’re dead already, right? A few more cuts won’t change that.”

As if the words had reminded her of it, Max allowed her hand to dance down into her pocket and retrieve a blade of her own. It was thin and sharp, gleaming silver. “You don’t have to do it yourself, though. I’ll help you with it. I’m not used to things like you, so maybe you can help me here. If I stab you in the throat, does it end you? No, right? The throat is only a vulnerable place because of breath and blood flow, and you’ve neither. What of your arteries? If I cut them, what does it do to you?” She paused, humming. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve changed my mind. We won’t be doing this quickly after all. I’d like to know more about you.”

—

Her mind was racing and she hated that it was light out, that she was once again in a situation where she was confined and bound to the earthly plane that was filled with horrid things. Inge stared at the other, wondering what she was, why she came here asking after Siobhan and accusing her of being dead. She didn’t seem a slayer — a slayer wouldn’t pull out a glinting knife and ask how best to kill her. But wouldn’t it be presumptuous to think the other something as rare as a banshee?

She stood there, putting most of her weight on one foot to keep her body from straining too much. If her job here was compromised too, what was left? What was to keep a slayer from bursting in next? Inge felt the tug again, that instinctive urge to run. “I don’t intend on using it against myself,” she said. “What would a few cuts do to you?” She flicked the blade open, small and pointy yet plenty effective when she needed it to be.

If the other wanted to talk, Inge could do that. She preferred to cut with weapons. She preferred to stall, to figure out a way to avoid being murdered and turned into dust in her office. “You are inexperienced,” she concluded, which was a relief. She had evaded wintered hunters before. A girl with a knife who didn’t know how to kill her could be bested too. “Why should I tell you the best way to kill me? Do you think me such a fool?” She offered a smile, saccharine and unemotional. She eyed the door, considered her chances of running around the other and returning to the hallway – but she knew the knife would find her body before she would be able to. Especially with her limited agility. And even if this Max didn’t know how to kill her, a knife was still a knife. It still hurt. “But fine, ask away. Feel free to sit.” She sat down herself, gesturing at the chair. “Office hour, right?” 

—

Did this rotting corpse really presume itself so capable? How had Siobhan been around this thing for as long as she had without putting it in its place? How had she been around it without sending it back to Fate, the way it was meant to be? It was embarrassing. Humiliating, really. Max wondered if those back home had any idea just how far Siobhan had fallen. Surely this proved that they had been justified in their decision to cast her out of the aos si in those years before Max had been born at all. Surely Max herself was better for having lived in a community that Siobhan Dolan had not been a part of. This was disgusting. This was a shameful thing.

“You’ll never know what a few cuts would do to me,” Max replied, tilting her head to the side. “You’ll never get close enough to find out. Do you think I should be frightened of you? You, who have been dead so long you’ve started to stink? I’m an agent of Fate, and you’re a fugitive of It. I want nothing more than to send you where you belong. You should be grateful. You should be asking for this.” If it had any pride at all, Max thought, it would have been. Nothing should want to exist as this thing did, and yet here it was, fighting for a life that had left it years ago. 

Inexperienced? The muscle in Max’s jaw twitched, nostrils flaring briefly in a quiet display of fury. It was something she’d heard before, of course. Even back home, even leading up to this particular excursion. We should be sending more experienced banshees, someone had said. Not children. Max’s mother had insisted that this was the best way to turn children into banshees, had put a foot down. Max would not prove her wrong. “I think you nothing at all,” she countered. “I think you a stain on the very fabric of this world. I think you a thing that ought not exist, a thing worse off for its state of being. I think you an embarrassment, a mistake. I don’t think you a fool, because in order to be a fool, one must be a person first. And you’re not that. You’re not anything at all. You’ll be less than that soon. Or more, perhaps. The only way for you to get better is for you to finish what you started doing when you were made into this — for you to finish dying. I was going to help you do it quickly. I really was. But I want to see what your blood looks like now. I want to find out if you ache, if you hurt. I won’t sit when I ask you my questions. I want to see them proven first. So…” She trailed off with a sharp smile and, with little warning, thrust her blade forward. “What does your blood look like? You don’t need to answer. I’m going to find out.”

—

Would Anita come to her aid? Or better yet: would Inge get over her pride to ask her to help her? She’d aided her, that day in the woods, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to reach out for her now that she was still unharmed and some young thing was threatening her. It was pathetic, wasn’t it? And so she didn’t reach for her phone, just eyed the intruder with narrowed eyes and thought of escape routes. She’d be damned if she went down in this stuffy office, in a school, of all places.

“I think I have a better idea than you have about me,” she said coolly. As the other went on, she sounded like a zealot. A banshee zealot. She thought of her conversations about death with Siobhan, always held easiest online where the other wouldn’t have to see her face as she bared herself. Fate sounded awfully similar to ‘God’s plan’ and because of that just as boring. She defied it, by roaming this earth, and she thought it a good thing. “Do you not get bored, being so limited by your worldview? I don’t think you should be frightened. I think you should reassess your life, perhaps, and sound less like a mouthpiece to whatever person told you these things. And you should get your nose checked.” She wore expensive perfume and was incapable of sweating. She smelled delightful.

While the insult to her scent didn’t insult her, the tirade this Max went on made Inge halt a little. It wasn’t like she hadn’t heard these things before as she was no stranger to people who thought she ought to be dead in a more definitive way. Still, it wasn’t like music in her ears to hear these things. To be called a thing, a stain, something unfinished. As if she hadn’t transformed into something more powerful and beautiful after she’d awoken post-death! As if this wasn’t the best thing for her to be! She opened her mouth to retort as the other trailed off, but in stead of a cutting reply, she let out a furious yelp as the knife made contact with her lower arm, cutting through skin and making glittering energy pour out. “You —” She bristled, used her other arm to reach for her paperweight (a one of a kind one, mind you) and aimed it towards Max’ head. She was quick to press her now-free fingers against the laceration after she’d thrown the thing. There were too many scars that had originated in this town, now, and there’d be another added. “You’re boring, you’re narrow and you’re going to get out of my office now.”

—

Limited? It was so clear that the corpse had no idea what it was speaking of, what it was speaking to. To call a banshee, of all things, limited? It was as preposterous as it was insulting. How had Siobhan managed it all this time? How had she been in the presence of a thing that not only disrespected Fate with its very existence, but disrespected banshees with its words? More than ever, a fire burned in Max’s chest. She had half a mind to hop a plane, to fly back to Ireland and confront Siobhan herself, to take her by the shoulders and shake her and demand to know why, why, why. She didn’t understand it, didn’t understand any of it. She couldn’t comprehend why Siobhan had come to care for this town, why Regan did. She wanted to. There was a part of her that wanted, desperately to understand the appeal. Was there something she was missing? Some unseen piece, some hidden part of this puzzle? Max intended to find out, sooner or later.

But first, she was going to dispatch the corpse.

Her blade found the corpse’s arm, slicing the skin and revealing the hidden secrets beneath it. Max marveled at the shine, tilting her head to the side as it shimmered on its journey to stain the floor of the office. “Oooh,” she gasped, looking as close to delighted as she’d ever allowed herself to be. “Do you have a jar? I’d like to take some of this with me when you’re dead. I think my sister would get a real kick out of it. Do your pieces turn to dust when I take them off? I know vampires’ do. Found that one out the hard way. It would have been a lovely finger to watch decay.” How would the corpse’s limbs decay? Would they do so slowly, or would they make up for lost time and crumble all at once? Max wanted to know. 

She looked back up at the corpse just in time to see a paperweight flying at her head. She ducked quickly enough to avoid a concussive contact, but not soon enough to keep it from hitting the side of her forehead hard enough to send stars flying into her vision and rage burning through her. What did this corpse presume itself to be? What right did it think it had? Max glared, teeth grinding together as she took a step towards it. “Just for that,” she said lowly, “I’m going to cut off your fingers one at a time. I think we’ll start with the thumbs. Harder to throw things without those.”

—

Her blood – or whatever one was supposed to call it – was a thing of beauty, Inge agreed. She vaguely remembered the first time she had seen it after having nicked her finger while peeling an apple for Vera (she had hated apple peels and she had been indulgent, especially after they’d moved to Amsterdam) and staring at the glitter on the cutting board. Sometimes on sunny days she’d look at herself in the mirror, admiring the way the energy beneath her skin glimmered. But the reasons she found it beautiful were different from why this Max found it beautiful, that was for sure — hers was an obsessive intrigue and Inge was sure that she wouldn’t be able to swindle her for five thousand dollars like she had another.

No, she would be lucky to get away with her life, which was a rotten way to be lucky. 

Inge wasn’t sure what would happen with her blood should she die. Perhaps those little jars of blood on Parker’s and Rhett’s shelves would turn to dust along with the rest of her and that thought was strangely comforting — even if she had no intention to die. The thud of the glass paperweight was satisfying, as was the look that washed over the maybe-banshee’s face. She was no good at fighting, lacked the finesse and technique, but she was very good at fighting like hell. Tight corners were hers to escape, “You are so confident for someone so ignorant,” she bit to the other, clutching her arm. “And you will remain just that.”

There were tighter corners she’d been in before. She had full control of her body now, was not restrained by rope or salt or stuck to a wall, which was apparently an option as well these days. She would not be reduced to dust by a child who didn’t even know what a mare was. Inge bristled, the threat of her fingers being cut off eerily familiar to the way Siobhan had undone all of Rhett’s toes. “Who do you think you are?” She didn’t move, kept her shedding blood from view. It was not the other’s to see. “Here to teach me a lesson? For some higher purpose that, like all purpose, is a farce?” At least her purpose was selfish and not dedicated to some God or entity. She was trying to gauge how fast the other was, how her chances would be. There was nothing heavy left on her desk to throw, and she would lose a knife fight — but she had more than her knife. She had her nature, which the other despised but she revered. “If you wanted to cut off my fingers, you should have restrained me,” she said, provoking, “Siobhan, the woman you mentioned, she knew to do that before cutting off a man’s toes. What is it you’re going to do? Hold me down with your tiny body, struggle and squirm? You should have planned this, Max. You should have at least brought some fucking rope.” Maybe this was an office hour, after all.

—

The dead had no right to arrogance. They had more rights than some might believe, of course — the rights of the dead were important to uphold — but arrogance was not among them. Things like that, Max wouldn’t even afford to the living unless they had a scream like hers. Banshees were the only ones with any claim to such things, were the only ones who could boast being above anyone else. An argument could be made for other fae being above humanity, but even that felt like a stretch Max wasn’t quite ready to make. In her mind’s eye, you were either banshee or inferior. And this body in front of her now, this pile of bones and skin that spoke despite its heart that did not beat, was certainly no banshee.

So why did it believe it had some right towards arrogance? Why did it think it had earned any ability to speak to Max this way? She was its better. How had Regan or Siobhan stomached this for so long? How had they managed in a world where no one knew how low on the totem pole they really were? If she didn’t hate them as much as she did, Max might have found room to be impressed. Instead, it was disgust that curled up in her chest, tendrils of it spreading down to her stomach and up to her throat. They should have corrected this way of thinking, she thought. They should have shown this thing just how disgusting it truly was, should have never allowed it to escape Fate for as long as it had. It was cruel, almost. Like letting a sick animal suffer instead of ending its misery. 

Max would not be so cruel.

She would experiment with it, sure. She would peel back its skin, take out its eyes, see what happened when pieces of it were removed. But she would only do these things so that she might understand, so that she might know better for the next time. The way this thing existed was no way to continue, and Max wouldn’t force it to do so. She would use it for learning, yes, but she would be kind in a way SIobhan hadn’t. She wouldn’t suffer an abomination like this to continue its existence. No one should.

“This is a school,” Max said, “and I want to learn. You’re a professor, so you’ll teach me. I’ve never seen a thing like you before. It would be a disservice not to allow me to learn from you. It would be a disservice to others like you, too. The next time I run into one of you, I want to be able to take care of it quickly. Don’t you want that? Don’t you feel loyalty to your kind? You’re already dead. This way, it can mean something.” 

It was a silly notion, the idea of restraining a corpse. It shouldn’t have been necessary. Max didn’t particularly want to tie up the body, didn’t want to rely on such things. Her mother wouldn’t have, if she were here. She doubted Clare was using rope on the one she’d gone after, either. The mention of Siobhan — and the implication that she knew better than Max did — filled her chest with a that disgusting hint of fiery anger again. “Siobhan is a disgrace,” she replied flatly, repeating something she’d heard a thousand times before. “If she weren’t, I wouldn’t have to do this. She should have taken care of you herself, you know. If she were any good, she would have.” Perhaps she was wasting time here. Maybe she should find another of this kind, one more cooperative. Maybe the best thing she could do for this one was to simply end it. Would her scream be too telling? Would it get her into trouble? She’d heard tell of a screaming moose roaming this town — perhaps the sound could be blamed on that. 

Clicking her tongue as she debated, Max relented with a shrug. “Okay. If you don’t want to teach me, I suppose I can’t make you be good at your job. We’ll do this quickly, then.” Stepping forward, she grabbed the body’s cold wrist and put another hand on its shoulder. One scream, with this physical contact, and it would explode in a beautiful shower of blood and viscera. Max wondered if it would sparkle all the while.

With a cruel smile, the banshee let her eyes go black and opened her mouth to scream.

—

She had thought herself to be wrong at two points in her unlife. First, when she had initially been transformed. When she had died in her sleep and come back like something else, something capable of moving between planes of existence, something that lived through cruel consumption. She had hated what she was then. Something that died and had come back, that should not exist by the rules she had been taught in youth and church. Death was followed by heaven, should you be forgiven, and that was that. And yet she had continued to exist, without judgment or afterlife — and it was wrong, was it not? Godless.

But she had learned to find the rightness in it. She had claimed it, this unlife and made it a life – had loved it and reveled in it, had indulged and created. She had gained a freedom her mortal life had never offered. And then came the second time she felt her existence was wrong. When her daughter looked older than her and was withering away in a hospital bed it had seemed like a cosmic fuck-you. The not aging was no longer something to be glad for, but rather something perverse. The inability to get sick was a boon, but one that only she had received. 

Inge had gotten over that. Not the death, nor the grief — those were pains you didn’t grow out of as a parent of a deceased child. But the self-hatred. It was in part because of that, that she found the views of people like Max so grating. Who were they, to tell her that her existence was a mistake? If she could appreciate it, despite the pains and discomforts, then why should she give their closed mindedness any consideration?

And so she didn’t, “This is a school. But you are no student of mine. You are rude and petulant.” The idea of Max going after others like her if she didn’t give her more insight didn’t really stir her. She would go after undead regardless of what she offered her in information or demonstration. (Though Ariadne would most likely volunteer to show her more of her blood and tell her more of her nature — she should warn her, once this was over and done with.) “My death and subsequent life mean plenty already — maybe that can be your lesson.”

It was interesting how the other spoke of Siobhan. Inge wasn’t sure how she felt about the banshee any more these days – there had been a few moments of raw honesty with the other, or at least more raw than she was with most others these days. She’d shared her grief over her daughter with her, had shone a light on her life before this new one. But she’d also hung on a wall, left behind as Siobhan had refused to kill two people that should have – by her calculations – died. What would this Max think of that? “Siobhan is much more fun than you,” she said, in a strange moment of defensiveness. 

Before she could consider any more ways to jump to Siobhan’s defense, the other moved in with haste. Inge was in her grasp, bare skin meeting bare skin, and she was not sure what the other was capable of doing in a moment like this. Did it matter? She knew what she was capable of. She focused on the area where Max’ fingers closed around her skin and pushed forth a sense of fatigue, making the banshee grow drowsy. “Here’s your lesson,” she bit, before letting the young fae fall asleep properly.

She caught her before she fell on the ground, pushed her into one of the seats she’d refused to take. Inge watched, for a moment, how peacefully the banshee slumbered. It would be so easy now, to kill her. To take that knife and slit her throat or stab her heart — but she knew what the cycle of violence looked like, now. A bloodied factory floor, a sword in her gut. She sat at her desk, got a bit of stationery and wrote in cursive, Mare 101. After underlining those words, she skipped a few lines and added: Class dismissed. She placed the note on the other’s lap, took her knife from where it had clattered on the ground and spent a few diligent minutes locking her drawers and other things. Soon enough she got up, plucked her coat of its hanger and took her leave. It was her best survival tactic, after all. To run from the corner she’d been backed into and hope nothing would nip at her heels.