#dissatisfaction is a plague

[tleeaves]

The art is lovely and now I'm gonna ramble because that's what I do when I care about something.

For the love of women, please PLEASE can fan artists remember to add muscle to their Shadowhunter ladies? I'll commend Bowater for cleverly giving James that sculpted and lean look without making him a beefcake (nothing against beefcakes, I'd love to hug them), but Cordelia is once again suffering from Arms And Shoulders Too Slender It's Hard To Even Imagine Her Picking Up A Sword. There is some there, yes, but artists shouldn't be afraid of giving particularly Female Main Characters weight and toned muscle. Cordelia is supposed to be nearly the same height as James as far as I can remember, and she's curvy, and full, and she wields a sword like it's second nature to her. Please explain why she looks so tiny in James' lap.

Also I'm pretty sure marriage runes are supposed to go over the heart whenever possible (thinking about Will's parabatai rune being over his heart instead -- he didn't get Tessa to draw over the scar, did he??) and... either I'm looking at the picture wrong or James' rune is not over where his heart should be.

For the matter, where are their other runes and scars?? James' Voyance rune isn't even on his hand. And I'm pretty sure he's right handed. I could have that wrong though.

Another thing: no one can ever decide what Cordelia's hair looks like and it's the funniest thing to me. This is what happens when all you do is vaguely say the colour is like fire but also like rose petals but also a flowing river of those things but also is Red (probably for redhead, but then from there I never understand where the rose petal analogy comes from considering the typical rose is a deep bloody colour -- I do acknowledge the existence of those light orange varieties though which might more closely resemble red hair). In the end, I'm glad readers can infer what they want and imagine the characters how they like.

Anyone else think James looks like he's built like a tennis player? Oddly specific, maybe, but it was a thought I had. Mostly the arms and somewhat narrow body.

James' hair is nice, his eyes are an interesting take on gold in the shadows. Bowater managed to also make him look closely related to his father, so bravo for that.

In the end, the focus is obviously on the marriage runes and not other physical aspects outside of it being clear that this is James and Cordelia. Bowater's style is very beautiful and elegant. Love the way fabric and lighting is done too. I'll add also that it is possible to be a smaller person who is slender but still strong so I mean Cordelia's not necessarily done wrong, I just interpret her appearance differently. Obviously, they're both hot and they're both attractive and I have my qualms with the series, chronicles, and author -- the fandom I am so-so on, though I'm still here, aren't I? And I'm taking the time to ramble about my thoughts on a piece of fanart -- but this is good. Gorgeous, even. Both James and Cordelia are beautiful.

[perenians]

take two of this conversation because something about it bothered me. i'm still not satisfied but i'm gonna call it a night

Edér finds Ahria on the deck, staring into the deep black of the ocean, the stars twinkling above her as they sail through the Deadfire. He walks toward her, making his footsteps audible, and leans on the railing beside her.

Ahria's voice cuts through the silence. "Do you think he's yours?"

"Elafa's son," he says, and it isn't a question. Ahria nods an affirmative.

Edér exhales heavily. "I don't know," he says honestly, and glances at her face. Her eyes stay trained on the waves, expression neutral. He clears his throat. "Elafa will, though. Maybe she'll even explain everything if she's in a good mood," he jokes.

"What'll you do if he isn't?" Ahria asks.

Edér shrugs a shoulder. "Leave'em be, I guess. Elafa knew where to find me, but I never did hear from her again. I reckon she's done well enough on her own."

Ahria crosses her arms a little tighter. "And if he is?"

"I don't know," Edér says again. He frowns at the sea, uncertain. "I figure I oughta at least see the kid once if he's my son. Help Elafa out, if I can."

He pauses, and thinks for a second. "...Apologize, maybe."

Ahria makes a noncommittal sound and pushes off of the railing.

"What's she like?" she asks, changing the subject. She finally looks at him, the light of the moon reflecting off her eyes. "Elafa, I mean."

"Well," Edér starts, rubbing the back of his neck. "We used to, uh. Get together, every so often. Told you as much already. She had freckles all over. Red hair, brown eyes, about yea high," he holds up a hand around his chest, "but with the temper of a giant. She knew what she wanted, Elafa Maesy, and she'd tell you exactly what even if you didn't ask." He smiles. "Had no problem tellin' you what you wanted, even."

"She had a Hollowborn baby, last I saw her," he continues. "Helped'em run to New Heomar and haven't heard from her since. And now it turns out she's in the Deadfire, same as us."

A silence hangs between them for a second or two before Ahria speaks up. "Were you—" she starts, and grimaces. "Did you love her?"

"No," Edér replies truthfully, and he's surprised at how quickly the answer comes. "No. Not romantic-like, anyhow. But..." He hesitates. "She was something to me, once."

Ahria hums in acknowledgment and her eyes soften ever so slightly. "You miss her?"

"Sometimes," he admits. "Sometimes I think I might just miss the times before the war. Before the Purges, even." He huffs out a laugh. "I thought things were bad then.”

“And that was before you were ready to hang,” Ahria muses, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Edér snorts. “And before you dragged me out of Gilded Vale."

He sobers up. “Never imagined I'd have to worry about my god rippin' the souls right out of kith and maybe ending the world."

Reminded of their situation, Ahria slumps against him, and Edér catches her. "What are we gonna do?" she asks him, quietly, and Edér wraps an arm around her as he considers her question.

A moment passes before he speaks. "Hel if I know, Watcher. Don't know if there's any stopping a god on a warpath, but if anyone could do it..." he trails off, thinking his meaning clear.

Ahria holds the hand on her arm and squeezes. "...it'd be us," she finishes for him, and Edér hides his smile in her sea-blown hair.

'Us'. He thinks he likes the sound of that.

[thatnewweeb]

Maybe | Bakugo Katsuki

Summary | Bakugo can't help but think about how much more he wants with his FWB as she sleeps next to him

Content | Fluff, fem reader, kinda suggestive content, reader is in a FWB relationship with Bakugo

Word Count | 0.7k+

A/N | I think this is so cute, I might make a part two to this. Maybe...

Bakugo didn’t ever think he’d fall in love. He didn’t think he’d be the type to want to settle down, to spend his life dedicated to another person.

As he lays in bed on his side, awake before you, as always, he can’t help but rethink that.

Sure, you’re using each other, that’s always been clear in your relationship, but he doesn’t really feel that way anymore.

You look so pretty when you sleep. It hasn’t been long since you started staying over sometimes after you sleep together, only starting because you were so tired that the pro hero didn’t trust you to get home safely. He would’ve taken you home himself but he had an early patrol the next day and needed to sleep. Of course, you offered to sleep on the couch, but he would’ve felt bad, using you for sex and then expecting you to sleep on his couch.

Your face always looks so relaxed when you’re asleep, the worries that plague you during the day completely gone, free from concern, from bother, from the stress of your daily life, of being associated with a man with such a high risk job, even as loosely as you are.

With a soft smile on his own face, sleep threatening to drag him back in, he reaches out his large, calloused hand, smoothing down your sleep tousled hair.

He can’t help letting him mind wander. Sometimes he imagines what it would be like if you were actually dating, not just friends with benefits. How it would feel to be able to lean over and kiss you softly when he wakes up, your soft lips his to claim whenever he wants, not just the few times he’s gotten the privilege of tasting them when you both got really into your time in the bedroom.

The imagined images of you, rolling over in bed, cuddling up closer to him as you slowly regain consciousness, whispering a morning greeting, mumbling something about how much you love him. He’d kiss your forehead, holding you close, telling you how beautiful you are.

Or he’d get up early and make you a nice breakfast with coffee, proper coffee, not that instant or convenience store shit you’re used to, turning to the door when he hears your soft footsteps plodding out of your shared bedroom, a blanket wrapped around your body, complaining about waking up to an empty bed, all dissatisfaction disappearing when you see the breakfast set on the table.

He snaps out of his delusions when he feels the bed shift next to him, your eyes slowly opening. He let himself get too distracted by his fantasies.

You sit up and stretch next to him, covering your breasts with his bedcovers.

“Good morning, Bakugo,” you smile, looking down at him laying next to you.

He mumbles a morning greeting back to you, quickly getting out of bed, cheeks dusted in pink. Which he obviously turns around to hide, getting dressed.

When he turns back to you, you’re fully clothed, brushing your hair. Smiling softly, he wishes he could walk up behind you and wrap his arms around you, or take the brush to brush your hair for you.

He knows he shouldn’t though, so instead he just asks you if you want any breakfast before you go.

You decline his offer, knowing he has to be on patrol soon, not wanting to bother him or risk making him late. His heart swells a little, realising you know his schedule by now. He supposes it’s to be expected, you’ve been part of this arrangement for quite a long time now, but it still makes him happy.

“Well, I’m gonna go now,” you smile, turning back to him. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Yeah, see you later,” he says. “I’ll grab food after my paperwork’s done, yeah?”

You nod, looking up at the tall, muscular man in front of you. “Sounds good.”

Not long later, you walk out of his apartment, smiling as you say bye to him again.

He bites his lip as he watches you leave, feeling both happy and dissatisfied simultaneously.

Maybe one day he’ll tell you how he feels, what he wants. For now, he isn’t quite willing to take that risk, to risk the arrangement you have now, the friendship. He isn’t willing to chance losing you altogether. For now, he’ll take what he can get. Maybe one day.

Little does he know, you’re wishing you just had the guts to kiss him as you left his apartment, just once, to let him know how you feel. Maybe one day.

Maybe.

[nashusglasses]

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(background to this nsfw drabble)

thinking of marriage of convenience AU with jing yuan and general’s daughter!reader from xianzhou yuque. a rogue sect of the disciples of sanctus medicus try to execute a plot to destroy a jade abacus warehouse on the yuque—important machinery is destroyed, two critical injuries reported, one death—and intra-alliance tensions among the populace start to boil over. arrests are made. citizens are scared. general yaoguang knows the cloud knights are smart and resource-savvy enough not to respond to any taunts from angry yuque residents of the luofu, but he’s champing at the bit trying to quell public dissatisfaction on either ship. it’s fu xuan who suggests it in one meeting with jing yuan and yaoguang.

“great relations,” she says, “start with an even greater union.”

you’ve been married for five months. you’re lucky if you see jing yuan more than twice a week, and today he’s holed up in his home office signing off on contracts for the alchemy commission to order new supplies. he’d said good morning when you entered the kitchen for breakfast, and you could only offer a nod before he bade you farewell for the day. a typical conversation. you’re not unhappy, but you are awfully bored. 

your handmaiden, lihua, promised a new harvest from the garden today. she’s back by the time you’re done with your speech lessons (you still struggle to adapt to the local dialect, but jing yuan has always been kind not to fuss about your vowel inflections), and you help her wash and spread the fruits on bamboo-woven trays in the cool heat of the afternoon. 

“does jing yuan have anything to drink on days like this?” you ask lihua.

she hums thoughtfully. “i’m sure he’d appreciate his wife coming to greet him with something sweet. can i show you how to make simple syrup?”

it’s simple enough. you make a pitcher of iced lemonade in no time, and lihua prepares a tray for you to bring a glass to jing yuan’s office. you shake with every step you take. internally, you scold yourself for feeling so anxious — this is your husband. jing yuan, who asked you personally for your allergies and food preferences to curate a menu for your daily consumption for the kitchen staff to follow. jing yuan, who had a room specially built for you in the east wing after you’d told your father how much you’d miss seeing the sunrise from your window. jing yuan, who’d once accidentally walked in on you in the hot springs on his rare day off, and grew as red as an angry tuskpir, leaving with a hasty apology. (you didn’t see him for three weeks after that.)

you steel your resolve, and knock on the door. when he doesn’t answer, you gently creak the door open, jing yuan coming into view as he’s hunched over sheets of paper, hair tied haphazardly with his red ribbon. he holds his pen so rigidly. you wonder if he’s taken a break at all today. 

you tiptoe in, lest you break his focus. “sorry,” you whisper. “i brought this for you.”

jing yuan spares you a single glance, watching you position the glass at the edge of his desk. he does not say a word. 

you think… he might be a little peeved. yes. why would you even think of interrupting him? oh god. his schedule must be packed tight, his rhythm stunted with your unannounced arrival. you immediately open your mouth for an apology, feeling the pinpricks of tears at the thought of disappointing him.

he’s already looking away. his writing is even faster than before. you leave with a bow and nothing else to say.

(jing yuan drinks your lemonade in three gulps after you’ve closed the door behind you. he reminds himself to have a bundle of flowers delivered to your bedroom door by sunrise the next morning. for the rest of his working day, your face, so beautifully concerned, plagues his head.

he wants to know what else makes you cry.)

[meanbossart]

I have another intense ask about bhaalist AU drow...

Would drow be “forced” to procreate? And how would Asatrion take that information? If Astarion is his consort, would he be jealous of concubines? Would this also contribute to his overall dissatisfaction during his time trapped at the bhaal temple? Or Would he be happy that his lover has distractions, so he can have time alone - maybe plotting his escape?

I’m overall curious about how drow and Astarion’s relationship falls apart in your AU

I don't think so! Not that I care about biblically following canon or anything like that, but there was nothing throughout the story that made me think procreation was a requirement in Bhaal's plan. If you take the scrapped ending into consideration, it seems to be more of a punishment first and foremost.

Not to say I don't believe it to be a part of the man-made gospel in some form or another. Sarevok seems fairly invested in this idea of generating bhaalspawn that are pure of blood, and this is an agenda that he subtly pushes onto DU drow throughout their years operating the temple: that said, like it often is, Bhaal is silent on the matter.

There seems to be a lot of conflict within the cult about what Bhaal wants and how he wants it, and I choose to interpret his failure to clarify as part of the Murder God's nature, as well as a fun nod at the (dys)functionality of real-life cults where you have several people claiming to have a direct connection to a god.

But back on topic, there IS the heavily implied Dark Urge To Multiply. A few instances where durge or someone around them suggests that, eventually, having children will be an irresistible biological necessity. There are a few ways to interpret this! But I can't help but notice that this theme is absent in a route where you do willingly become Bhaal's chosen - maybe its a failsafe Bhaal cooked into The Dark Urge in case his child became a weenie? To possess them with the need to spread their seed around until SOMEONE down the family tree stepped up to the role?

This definitely turns out to be the case in DU drow's redemned route, where he is plagued with bouts of breeding-related mania and depressive episodes that come and go as a result of a nest remaining empty, But I hadn't really considered this for his Bhaal-embracing self He definitely harbors an obsession with procreating in that AU - but... I'm not sure that's Bhaal's doing anymore. I think he just wants for there to: A) Be more of him around. B) Create a tangible, undeniable connection between himself and Astarion that cannot be severed.

A theme with DU drow is that he is aggressively monogamous. This remains constant in every possible iteration of him and it's a pillar of the character - he is devout to a partner until the end whether they want him or not, and so, Bhaalist DU drow would be violently opposed to the idea of being sexually involved with anyone besides Astarion. If Sceleritas or members of the temple insisted otherwise, he would balk and them push them off into a Chasm. If Bhaal demanded him do it, he would jerk off into a vial and hand it to whoever he deemed pretty enough to mix up with, and then probably kill the child as soon as it was born, anyway - because it's not right.

DU drow (again, in all iterations) almost believes there to be a magical component to true love that affects a person's life beyond just their choice in long-term partners. Just like he once decided that Orin was his forever-mate, he's now decided him and Astarion are intrinsically linked, that they are stronger together than they will ever be apart again. And It is particularly romantic to him (a matter of ironic fate, really) that the Murder Prince's true love would be undead. In DU drow's mind, and SPECIALLY in his Bhaal-embracing version, this is simply the universe's plan for him, and to divert from it in any way (by, for example, procreating with someone else) would be blasphemous.

Now, obviously him and Astarion can't have biological children for a plethora of reasons. But this is fantasy. Bhaalist DU drow would simply not stop until he found the best way to create someone that could be, spiritually and physically, considered their functional blood-offspring. Through Alchemy, magic, ritual, whatever it may be - as long as it works and works according to his high-standards. I suspect he would have specialists shipped in from wherever they may be in the realms to look into the issue, and probably someone who's sole job is to research the matter, though I'm not sure he would ever be satisfied with the results.

I think Astarion would be utterly checked out of the matter.

[dontsh0vethesun]

a forbidden desire

kinktober 2023 masterlist

stepsister!wanda maximoff x reader

18+: smut; stepcest, somnophilia, fingering, degradation, kinda inferred pervy behaviour

Wanda’s hands had always wandered when it came to you. Her eyes liked to observe you with a lengthy gaze that often made you shrink, so exposed whilst she unabashedly examined you. She’d taken a liking to you all those months ago, her pretty step-sister with merely a wall separating your bedrooms.

You’d not thought much of it when she found immediate comfort in your presence; she didn’t think twice about changing in front of you, nor with helping you try on lingerie. She encouraged you to shop with her, guising her predatory idea under the false pretense of sibling bonding. She didn’t let you know that she’d heard the hitching of your breath when a daring hand touched your waist, nor the goosebumps she could see beneath the harsh dressing room light. 

She kept it all to herself. The times she’d caught you watching her, drinking in her figure when she’d come back from a run. The way she’d seen your tongue lick over your lips while you kept your sights set on her when she’d teasingly come into your room in nothing but a towel after a shower. Wanda knows the effect she has on you and the ideas keep her company at night; with her fingers venturing south in the confines of her bedroom she likes to imagine you’re doing the same thing next door. 

There’s only so much one can take, though.  

There’s only a certain amount of yearning and aching she can bear and so it’s only a matter of time before the secret watching of your sleeping form becomes too little to satisfy her desires. She’s almost annoyed at you with the way you’ve plagued her mind so furiously that you’ve begun to appear in her dreams.

Just now, with her head on your shoulder in front of the television, you’d appeared again. Her thighs squeezed together without her knowledge as scenes of you and she played on in her mind, your body whimpering beneath her whilst her teeth marked each piece of soft skin she could reach. Whispered mewlings of her name made her skin blanch and the heat of her back woke her up into that familiar dissatisfaction she’s used to; the harsh feeling of being thrown into consciousness again.

She so often awakes to the ache between her legs, the heat in her cheeks she can only quell with her own hand. But, this time, there you were. You looked so sweet and peaceful with your breaths even as you slept, your head against a pillow without the knowing of the preying eyes on you. Wanda adored the way you slept, how she knew how easy it’d be to touch you; she let her hand rest on your upper thigh with her fingers daringly creeping upwards and she knew you were none the wiser. 

She kept her stare on you musingly when she cupped your clothed sex in her palm, feeling the radiating heat and the twitch of your hips that you were not privy to. She smirked at the way you shifted at the pressure she pushed against you, unknowingly moving further into her touch. She’d be lying if she claimed to not have influence over what you often wear - she knows you’re eager to please her - so, the underwear that served as the only barrier between her and you was working in her favour and she could see the hardening of your nipples beneath the material of your t-shirt. 

Wanda readjusted her seated position to take you in fully, to see each small change in your slumbered expression as she danced her fingertips across your torso. Her teeth pulled at her bottom lip at the way your chest arched into her as she pinched a pert nipple through the material of your shirt, squeezing at the pillowy flesh just as she’d always fantasised. 

She’d always thought she’d take her time with you the first time but having you here and at her mercy, begging to be touched yet unable to push her away, made that hunger in her become ravenous. She had to take you for herself. 

She took the opportunity to play with you, to tease you with her hand dipping past the waistband of your underwear pushing against you just enough for you to feel it. She nudged at your clit with the heel of her palm, feeling the wetness begin to pool with the soft ruts of your hips chasing the pleasurable feeling. 

Her lips glided over your jaw with her tongue and teeth swiping against you, and she listened to the way your breathing sped up, how you became restless in your seat and you began to stir. 

When your eyes blinked open with tired difficulty you were met with hers looking right at you; it was hard to determine what precisely was happening in your dazed state - the reason why your heart was thumping or why you ached with needy arousal. 

“Wanda? I-”

“Sh, sweet girl,” she breathed against you, pressing a kiss to your neck while her fingers drew circles over your swollen bud. “Just makin’ you feel good, okay?”

You could hear the rasp of hunger in her tone and you could feel it in the rhythm of her fingers toying with your clit, swiping through the slickness of your folds you hadn’t even known was there. 

Svelte fingers inched into you with ease, curling within you whilst the pad of her thumb paid attention to your throbbing clit and her teeth dug into the skin of your breast. The way she was so eager to have you made you dizzy, how she pushed the fabric of your shirt out of her way just so she could flick her tongue across your nipple. You knew you shouldn’t be doing this - that you shouldn’t be enjoying it with such fervour - but that forbidden concept only made it taste much sweeter. 

“Fuck, I’ve wanted to make you cum for so long,” she breathed. “I’ve heard you at night. Fucking yourself like a needy little slut. But, I can fuck you so much better.”

Her breath was burning hot as it tickled the soft flesh of your torso, the kisses, the words and the sublimely perfect feeling of her fingers made you moan. Mumbling out her name with your choked voice breaking. 

“And I know you’ve been wanting me too,” she murmured. “A dirty whore like you just can’t keep her eyes to herself, hm?”

With each sensually uttered sentence, her fingers kept up their pace, burying deep within you with the soaked sounds of your cunt accompanying them. The coil in your stomach tightened and tightened, readying to snap at any second.

“God, Wanda, I’m so close,” you stuttered out. She didn’t hide the cocky smirk that pulled her lips, smug at how easily she’d got you to fall apart. 

“Cum for me,” she stated. She watched on intently as you took her fingers, clawing at the sofa’s cushions beside you with your knuckles paling with the strain. It was even better than she’d thought. The parting of your lips as your body began to shake, the whimpered sounds of your orgasm washing over you as you drenched her fingers. She knew it’d be a pretty sight. 

You didn’t think twice when you took her glistening fingers into your mouth, licking them clean of any remnants of yourself until she pulled them away to replace them with her lips. The kiss was bruising and desperate, as though this had only touched the surface of the deeply harboured cravings you’d both been keeping. 

With her straddling your lap and your hands on her hips just as you’ve wanted them to be, you were all consumed by the woman. Her tongue pushed against yours with control and she hummed into your mouth at the semblance of your taste still lingering. Her pussy ached to be touched and you could tell by the subtle pushing of herself into you; she pulled away to catch her breath and, for a moment, you thought she was going to claim regret. 

But she pulled you to stand with your fingers laced with hers and dragged you behind her to her bedroom.

[gumbootillustrations]

day 20 - quote

"you are garroth, protector of the innocent, sworn to care and love for those in need"

my take on what should've happened at the end of s1. context and uncensored image below the cut (tw // mild gore (blood splatter))

so uh... yeah. at the end of season 1 of ashes, ashes, garroth kills zane in irene's cathedral.

the setup for this series of events goes wayyyy back, back to the first war of the magi. in ashes, ashes, xavier was a divine warrior, the justiciar - i've talked abt this in a few of my other posts (specifically in this one), but essentially he founds the jury and carves off nine pieces from his relic to form the juror relics, which give the jurors their uh, for lack of a better term, juror powers. however, during the first ru'auni-tu'lan war (about 400ish years before the main story of ashes, ashes takes place), the relics went missing - leaving the jurors as little more than figureheads for a good few centuries.

then, about 20-25 years before aph shows up on the outskirts of phoenix drop, the high priest of o'khasis at the time figures out a way to give the jurors their juror powers without the relics via a blood magick ritual. said ritual is successful, but it upsets the balance of the universe so badly that the primordial gods intervene and sick a plague on o'khasis, killing roughly a quarter of the population and almost including lord garte ro'meave in that statistic (yes, this is the "near-death experience" that is cited as turning him from a kind-of-asshole into a right cunt). during the plague, a toddler-age garroth gets really sick, and goes for a wander throughout the ro'meave residence and ends up in the attic, where he finds a strange, glowing rock that seems to be calling out to him... he remembers bugger all of this, and what he does remember he puts down to a fever dream.

later on down the line, after nicole fakes her death and disappears about three or so years before the start of ashes, ashes, zane begins to show signs of what garte believes to be dissatisfaction with his regime, and in an effort to bring zane back under his control, he forces xavier's relic into his only remaining son. if zane had the spiritual constitution to wield said relic, this would be all fine and well, but because he doesn't, he begins to suffer the effects of relic corruption, which slowly drives him insane until he's the mad, devoted-to-his-interpretation-of-irene-and-her-doctrine-above-all-else, lawful-evil, war-criminal priest that he's introduced to us as during the wedding arc of season one.

then, during the battle for phoenix drop, garroth hands himself and the amulet over to zane in an attempt to save phoenix drop from a battle that he knows they're doomed to lose. and zane turns him into a juror via the ritual - and because garroth has (unknowingly) been holding esmund's relic in him this whole time, everything turns to custard, and garroth is rendered effectively comatose for pretty much the entire confrontation between zane, lillian, and the phoenix drop gang (aph, aaron, laur, and katelyn) - until zane moves to attack and kill aphmau right after she's absorbed irene's relic.

so you know how in starlight we're told that the relics are sentient? and you know how in starlight we're told that the relics have the ability to control the bodies of their hosts?

well uh. esmund's relic reacts to the threat against its matron that it senses. and with garroth essentially catatonic and in no state to fight back against the possession, he stands up, corners zane in a barrier, and rips xavier's relic out of his brother's chest - killing him almost immediately - before collapsing again, leaving the others to drag him out of the cathedral when zoey shows up with the portal. the entire time, zane is screaming at him to snap out of it, to remember who he serves, to remember who his brother is, and all the while the others can only watch on in horror as garroth condemns the one man hes spent the entire season trying to save to death.

garroth doesn't find out that he's killed his only remaining sibling (to his knowledge) until he wakes up two days later.

so yeah. ro'bro angst.

let me know if u have any questions! :3

[rippersz]

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐃𝐨𝐠𝐬

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Fem!Named!Reader x Larissa Weems; (Fluffy, romantic, ships in the night, angst) (8K word count)

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Why are you here?

Why are you here if you’re so tired? So exhausted? So bored?

Why are you looking for meaning in a foreign country? And why can’t you find it? Don’t you know passion isn’t found in the street? Don’t you know it doesn’t just exist beneath the light rain and cold wind? Your shaking body won’t get you anywhere but across the cobblestone bridge - and even then, you must trudge. Wade through the distinct desire to fall asleep.

Why are you trying so hard to stay awake?

You have come here for a reason - for an escape - and yet, you are plagued with the same thing that haunted you back home. It is inescapable, this distinct feeling of emotional helplessness. You feel too much or you feel too little. You explode with desire, with sadness, with anger, or you are cool and detached. You cannot find an in between. You cannot find a warm, soothing balance. You walk the line of extremes and get upset when the grey areas cease to exist.

So you run away to France and think that you can find yourself in what? Hm? In the Eiffel? In the lights? In the love? Please. You have not felt love. You have not felt real love. You have not felt anything beyond passion and lust, and even then those feelings were artificial. Forced, almost. You have looked at men and you have seen their shoulders and you have witnessed the bobbing of their throats and the easy fluff of their hair and you have been thoroughly unimpressed. For what exists for you there? What is in their strong arms? What is in their DNA? What lies in them that cannot be discovered elsewhere? Why are you expected to view them and want them?

Why are you expected to love?

So many questions, not many answers. They swirl around inside like the milkiness of an oatmeal bath, opaque and bottomless. They swirl and you watch. Utterly mesmerized. Hypnotized until you feel the distinct desire to fall asleep. Constantly tired, you are. Always so exhausted, dragging your feet along the pavement. Blindly clutching the collar of the black coat that covers your arms and back. Its hood leaves your face bare for the elements. Wind sweeps and rain smacks and you are certain you’ll get sick from walking out so late at night in the cold.

What on Earth came over you? Who could ever be so stupid?

Shivers run the length of your body. You feel like a wet dog thrown out in the street, proving far too difficult for the family to continue dealing with. Too loud and too needy and too caked with mud everytime you walked into the house, so they had no choice but to discard you. It is better, after all, than having a defective animal. No one wants a dog who cannot love. No one wants a dog who cannot be understood. No one wants a stray. And no one-no one-wants a shivering pup walking slowly on unsteady legs. No one wants that. No one wants you.

Except for the sign in the distance, blurry and far away - past the stoplight and across the street. A golden light flickers brightly above an evergreen background, and you can just barely make out, through squinted eyes, the bold gold lettering. ‘Madame: A 1920’s Brasserie’. You can’t help but think that it’s a rather silly name. Madame. Can’t get more French than that. And, it appears, can’t get more authentic. The restaurant stands out in a way that borders on tacky. It is all dark mahogany, golden accents, and small details of matte red and green. The sconces on the walls glow like mini-fires, and you find yourself… drawn. Intrigued. It is inviting and it is late. The windows are dark; the world inside is its own. And you need an escape. A proper one. None of this wandering shit that leads you to nowhere but a random spot with aching feet and the distinct feeling of dissatisfaction. None of this waiting around emptiness.

You are cold and it looks warm and you are just an abandoned dog. How can they expect you to deny yourself some peace?

–

The very moment your boot slides over the threshold, tapping down lightly on a dark wooden floor, your body is changed. A veil of something different flows over your shoulders, draping behind you, and suddenly you feel as though you’ve stepped into another world.

Have you? Or were you just hit by a car in the middle of the road and slipped into the Afterlife?

If that had happened, and you were indeed dead, then the Afterlife was an absolute treat. It seems like a small speakeasy, with a stage at the very back of the restaurant - lit up by a few spotlights and otherwise empty aside from a single microphone stand and a piano. In the dark corner beside it, there’s a cello, a trumpet case, and a deconstructed set of drums. The lights are dimmed so intensely that only the flickers of tabletop candlelight and a few burning wicks by the bar help you squint through hazy darkness. It feels like a dream as smoky hands curl into the air and caress your lungs as you breathe, creating something intoxicating when paired with the heady scent of mixed perfumes. Mixed perfumes that all seem to belong to women. Only women. It’s not crowded but a few souls linger. Couples leaning into each other at their booths, their pupils melting into hearts. Friends sitting lazily at one of the center tables, toasting to something you can’t hear. A group of flirts. A lonely soul or two nursing martinis by the stage. A woman at the bar. The bartender. One server drawing in a notebook, tucked away from the rest of the world. All women. All… dated. Old fashioned. It feels like you’ve stepped into the 1950’s - or something like that. You’ve never been very good with time. But they are different. Wearing dresses with pulled in waists, collars, square necklines, bateau necklines, coats and hats and heels and gloves. Not a phone in sight. Some are in suits, too. Marlene Dietrich type suits. Tipping The Velvet type suits. Very dapper. Very clean. You’re overwhelmed.

Distantly, somewhere, the gentle keys of piano jazz fill the buzzing room - and you feel lightheaded. Dizzy with warmth. The rain purrs against the windows, blowing with the wind trying to get to you. But you have reached safety. Nirvana. And you find yourself itching to shrug out of your coat and disappear into a glass of something tangy and sweet.

“Amaretto sour,” you murmur to the lady behind the bar, sluggishly pushing back the hood from your head.

“Choose somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

The response is immediate. And annoying. You pause, halfway out of your coat, and look from the polished mahogany of the bar’s surface to the amused glint in the bartender’s eyes. There’s a cloth thrown over her shoulder and a dark loose vest sitting tight against her button up. White. Sleeves scrunched by the elbows. A smirk on her lips. Your gaze melts into a glare.

Stop looking at me like that. I’m just a dog. I don’t want whatever smiles you have to offer.

“I don’t know,” you growl, tugging the coat from your body so harshly it nearly tears your arms off.

But she doesn’t seem to mind your irritation, and better yet, she doesn’t really seem to care. Her eyes only track the way you throw your coat over the back of your chair and push yourself onto the high-top stool. You reason your anger is probably out of place in such a dreamy world, just like your choice of alcohol, but you’re too tired and cold to bother giving her a smile. And being kind has proven to be more and more exhausting as the days go by. It’s not like she deserves it anyway, being so casual with you. Standing so tall, with such confidence, not even the slightest bit weary or weathered from the long day. You don’t even know what time it is - only that it’s late. Past the twinkling stars kind of late. Way past sunset kind of late. So late that you think the restaurant may be closing but you’re not even sure. No one has left. The women are still happy, buzzed and delighted by the concoctions in their glasses. Still all lonely by the stage. Still knee-deep in the quiet place of Madame.

Still a silly fucking name.

“Bailey’s Colada then,” you drawl, running a hand through your messy curls. “And an extra shot of pineapple juice. I dunno.” You shrug, leaning into your hands as your elbows press into the wood of the bar. They’re cold, covering your eyes. Damp. Tense with the chill from the rain you just escaped. And eager to feel something grounding.

Too bad the bartender is still a bitch.

“I’ll give you one more try.” She thinks she’s so clever, smiling at you like that. She thinks she’s so charming.

You want to rip her happy eyes out.

You want to sleep.

“Just. Get. Me. A. Fucking. Drink.” Your gaze shoots daggers, piercing her right through the heart between the gaps of your fingers.

If you were any more aware of your surroundings, instead of just appreciative, then you’d notice that the only liquor they serve is the kind produced during the 1950’s. The popular drinks back in the day. True to the time. Devoted to the piece. Overall very good with details. But details are not something you have the energy to notice. And there’s not a damn thing on Earth that can tear you away from the drugged feeling of your eyes slowly drooping. Growing hazy with fatigue. Vision blurring. Body shivering, still dripping small beads of water from your coattails onto the floor. Distantly, you hear the bartender speak.

“Hey- are you okay?”

No, you want to say. No, fucker. Can’t you see I’m not okay? Just get me a damn drink and-

“If you don’t mind my interrupting,” a voice - deep, English, breaks through your haze. “I suggest a Tom Collins.”

Great. And I suggest you shut the Hell up.

“That work for you, princess?”

You want to reach across the bar and strangle her so bad that your cold fingers twitch, but something stops you. No- someone stops you.

“She’s exhausted, Leslie. Leave her be.”

Yeah. Finally a person who has a fucking clue.

You want to speak, and perhaps tell the person to go away, or throw your hands up in the air and yell ‘Halle-fucking-lujah!’, but before you can open your mouth, the seat next to you squeaks. It spins around, dragged lightly by a white-gloved hand, before it moves to accompany a figure. A figure with a lot of misplaced confidence and a lot of audacity. A lot of self importance and a lot of gall. A lot of… oh.

You swallow.

A lot of height, as well. A lot of height and a lot of elegance. She slips into the chair with practiced ease, placing her hands in the right places and her heels on the right rungs, tugging the chair to spin around and face- you. You. Of course you. You, who are the odd one out. You, who waltzed in from 2024. You, who are not one of them. You, an abandoned dog and you, who are cosplaying as a content human. Of course the stranger turns to face you. And of course she is beautiful. All pale skin and shining blue eyes and snowy curls pinned extravagantly atop her head. A jawline that is softer than fresh downy pillows and could cut glass if it grows tense. Long arms. Long legs. Red lips. A scar-so faint you have to squint-but a scar nonetheless. You wonder where she got it from. You wonder why you wonder.

“It’s palatable,” the stranger speaks. The tip of her nose moves with her words. It’s cute. She has a very distinct face. Sharp features. Eyes not too hooded but not too wide. They don’t look at you directly, and instead focus on a spot near your hand. On the mahogany, where it’s (thank god) clean.

The bartender turns her back to make the drink and you take that moment, away from her bastard prying eyes, to speak.

“I hope so.” It’s ruder than intended, but doesn’t seem to offend. Those red lips quirk into a smile, and she looks at you- finally- from beneath dark lashes. Her makeup is fresh. Her skin looks warm.

“The Amaretto Sour and Bailey’s Irish Cream only rose to fame in the 1970’s,” her covered fingers run along the smooth wood, “The Mai Tai, Tom Collins, and Sloe Gin Fiz, on the other hand…” She tilts her head, shrugs one shoulder, and flicks her eyes from you to the bar. It’s endearing, annoyingly enough. And you’re sure that for a second, the blush on her cheekbones is a figment of your imagination.

For some reason, you shoot her a wry smile.

“Lemme guess… popular in the 50’s?”

An auburn eyebrow ticks up, splashing feigned surprise across that pretty face.

“How did you know?” Her tone is pitched a bit too high as she gasps. A bit too hysterical. It makes you roll your eyes and look away, taking a moment to glance at the dark floor beneath your feet. You shake your head.

Maybe it’s her beauty. Maybe it’s her humor. Maybe it’s the fact that she understands you’re so tired you could fall asleep right there where you sit.

“Tom Collins,” the bartender steals your attention. The glass is full, sliding across the bar at top speed, and you can barely hope to reach out and catch it before the stranger’s white glove is stopping it from tipping right over the edge. Only a splash of the sweet drink spills onto clean leather. You watch. You get the distinct urge to lean over and lick it clean.

Just like any other mutt. Eager to lap up the scraps. Even when they’re not yours.

“Shouldn’t you be finishing up, Leslie? I thought the bar was closed.” Leathered fingers curl around the tall glass, squeaking lightly beneath the strength of her pressure.

“And why would you think that, Larissa?”

Larissa. Name fit for a dream.

The bartender doesn’t look too happy. There’s something acrid in her expression, something that pulls at her lips in a way most unpleasant. She looks sour. Jealous. Of her? No. No, not of her.

Of you?

Yes. Absolutely of you. You can see it in the way her green eyes shift- running from your face to Larissa’s and back again. Upset. Betrayed. Let down. It makes you want to smile. Larissa seems kind. The bitch behind the bar isn’t, you’ve decided. Not fucking kind at all. And you’re happy when Larissa’s pretty red lips stretch into a bright smile. The very lingerings of derision hide in the sweet lines beside her mouth.

“It’s a quarter after midnight, Leslie. And you close at-”

“11:30, yeah I know. Whatever.” And with that shit attitude, Leslie tugs the cloth from her shoulder and walks away; leaving you to your precious company.

Your precious company who takes the glass from the bar and holds it out to you, completely unphased by the cold condensation wetting her glove. It’s later than you thought it was, but you don’t have anywhere to be, do you? No. No, you don’t. So you hide your surprise and stare into Larissa’s eyes instead.

“A peace offering?”

Her smile, this time, is genuine. Wide and perfect, showing off those white teeth and the delightful little scrunch of her nose.

“Yes,” and the warmest chuckle rumbles up from her pale throat, “a peace offering.”

You nod and take the glass. It’s very cold, but you don’t feel it. Not when she’s looking at you like that. Watching you raise it in a silent toast and a quiet thanks. Her eyes follow you when you bring it to your lips, when you drink, and when you allow your expression to scrunch up only the tiniest bit. She lets out a loud laugh at the sight of that, and brings a large palm up to cover her open mouth, probably finding her exquisite joy to be too unladylike. You almost tell her to take it away, to allow herself to cackle freely, but it’s not your place. You’re just a dog. And you’re too busy swigging down more ‘zesty lemonade’ to pause and perhaps mention that her bright laugh is something to be marveled at. To be joined in.

You’ve never felt this way.

This way… what is this way? Amusement? No. You’ve felt that before. Happiness? No, because it’s not that. You’ve felt that - a long time ago. Contentment? No. You don’t feel safe. You don’t feel like you want to stay forever. In fact, you kind of want to leave. It suddenly feels too stifling. Too… romantic. Ah. That’s it. Romantic. Looking into those twinkling blue eyes and finding genuine intrigue there. Interest. She is beautiful and you want more. More conversation. More of her voice. Because there she sits, waltzing over to your spot, making your eyes widen, and giving you a drink. One that isn’t too bad either - after getting over the initial tartness that sort of stings your tongue. And she just sort of expects you to be okay with it? To not want more? And more? And more? You are a dog and you want to tell her that.

I am a dog, Larissa. I have learned to be desperate. I have known what it is to want for more. Can you give me more? Just another smile for a sweet stranger?

“I don’t mean to laugh,” her voice is gentle, becoming clearer once she takes her hand away from her mouth, “but your face was- it was…”

“What?” You lick your lips, tilting your head. “What was it like?” And you can’t help but pull another face, exaggerating it, crossing your eyes and frowning, smoldering, and sneering all at the same time. Thank goodness it seems to do the trick as in the next moment, you hear a surprised stuttering laugh fill the air. It makes for the most beautiful harmony with Madame’s soft piano music; lilting and light and gorgeous. A silver lining. A golden undertone. You follow in her beautiful steps and join her in laughing.

“Was it like that?” You grin, taking another sip. “Just like that?”

“Yes,” Larissa gasps and nods, pressing a hand to her chest, “Precisely.”

Your combined chuckles eventually fade and silence falls like the rain outside. Softer, now. A light brush against the windows - like the storm decided to calm as soon as Larissa sat down beside you. But that’s a silly thought. Storms don’t bend to the actions of women.

Except, you ponder, watching Larissa pick invisible fuzzies off of her beige coat, they may make exceptions.

“Where are you from?” You say it so quickly you don’t even realize it comes from your own mouth. Just your luck that your inner thoughts betray you.

But Larissa only looks charmed, and possibly grateful for a conversation starter. She straightens up in her spot, giving you her full attention. It is excruciating. It kills the shivering you’ve been indulging in since your outside excursion - and fills you with something just short of… giddy.

“The United Kingdom originally, but Vermont is where I stay now,” she responds, resting her palms along the bar’s edge.

Vermont? Odd.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Long way from Vermont, aren’t you?”

Those red lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. True, you think she says in her head. Very true.

“Indeed,” blue eyes sparkle, “I figured I needed a holiday.” She tilts her head and you know the question is coming. “Are you a long way from home as well?” It’s a wonderful question. A good question. A perfect question, truly. You want to tell her yes but you’re not sure if that’s the truth.

“I-” Well. Abandoned dogs don’t have homes, Larissa. Can’t you see that in me? Can’t you recognize it? Don’t you know?

Apparently not. Her beautiful face is still open and inviting, unshaded by judgment. Unperturbed by your unfamiliarity. You don’t know how to react to that. How to respond to her kindness. Her patience. She is unknowingly opening a can of worms and you are knowingly staring at her, mouth flapping open and closed, trying to conjure up words that don’t sound like I have no home.

“Please don’t feel obligated to answer,” Larissa waves her hand in the air, “I understand it’s quite personal.”

Oh. How sweet you are to a stray.

“No, I just… I’m a little lost right now,” you admit with a sigh, tipping the glass back until you can swallow the rest of the liquor in one smooth gulp. Something shifts in Larissa’s expression while you lose yourself in the feeling of alcohol sitting in your throat. It’s a miniscule difference when you look at her again, but you spot it anyway. Sadness. Melancholy. Understanding. Pity. All scuttling around in the depths of her eyes and the furrow of her brows and the downturn of her lips.

Normally you hate pity. Normally you despise it. Normally you figure it isn’t for you. You don’t deserve it. You’re just a person with no wind and no destination and no path. You’re just a dog overdue. So why do you need pity? Why do you have it? Why do you get so angry at anyone who wants to give it to you? And why is Larissa any different? She’s still a stranger. Just one with a pretty face. And beautiful hair. And the most gorgeous voice…

“Doing a bit of soul searching then?” Her tone is intentionally light.

“Yeah,” the glass makes a small ‘clink’ against the bartop, “I guess so.”

Kind of. Sort of. Yes? And no. Whose soul are you searching for? Which life do you want? Why are you so lost, when they say that everyone has a place on Earth? Where is your place?

Do you have one?

“Why France?”

“Good question,” you shrug, not really knowing the answer yourself. “City of lights, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” Larissa nods, drumming her fingers against the wood. “City of love, as well. In case you haven’t heard.”

Yes. She’s right. Very right. You lick your lips and nod along. City of love, indeed. City of love with the way that dress looks on her, for sure. City of love with the way she looks at you, too. City of love with the way she smells. Like vanilla and jasmine. Strong, intense, a cologne that probably costs a million dollars - for a woman that looks like a million dollars. City of love. It’s written in the piano that fills your silences. In the air that breathes between your bodies. In the bubble of privacy that lives on when Leslie disappears from behind the bar with a heavy clang of its trapped door. She throws the cloth onto the wood, shoots one last glare at the two of you from over her shoulder, and fucks off into the dark of the stage area. Probably to pick up some other sad woman that’s just as lost as you.

On any other night, I may be the person she takes home. But right now I’m with Larissa. And that’s where I’m gonna stay.

“Not for her,” you snark, watching Leslie retreat before turning back to your company.

Larissa hums, but her eyes don’t follow the bartender like yours did. Instead, they stay on you. Glued to the side of your face, then to the full of your features when you give her a small disgusted expression. You’re rewarded with a light chuckle. “Yes, except for her,” she clears her throat. “Unfortunately, Leslie has always been…”

“Rude?” You start, putting an elbow on the bar and leaning on your palm, “Annoying? Flirty? Shitty? To name a few,” you roll your eyes, flipping your hand in the air.

Larissa only closes her eyes and snorts. “She has always been… eager? I guess that’s the right word. Eager.”

You don’t like the sound of that. Eager people are desperate people. Desperate people are loose cannons. They’d do anything for- well- anything. And Larissa is not an ‘anything’. Larissa is not a reward. And you are not a desperate, eager person. You are not a loose cannon. You’re just a lost one. A rusted lost contraption that was thrown off of the side of a pirate ship. Silly loose cannon, searching for land. No reward.

“For you?” The disapproval that colors your tone does not seem to surprise Larissa. In fact, it only makes her nod.

“Yes, I’m afraid. Though I can’t imagine why,” those broad shoulders of hers shrug, “I’m not nearly as fascinating as half of the women that grace this bar.”

That’s what you think.

“I beg to differ.” It comes out so confidently you kind of want to punch yourself in the mouth. What the fuck do you mean you beg to differ? What would you like to follow that up with? What would you like to say? Oh no, Larissa. You are WAY more fascinating than the people that ‘grace this bar’. You are WAY more intriguing. Leslie has good taste, sure, but a shit attitude about it. I can imagine why she fancies you. I can imagine why anyone would. Yeah right. You can’t say that. But you’re still curious, so instead of giving her a moment to register and respond, you ask the burning question. “How long have you been on holiday if you’re so sure?” But really the question is: How often do you come here?

The pink in porcelain cheeks has deepened. You’re sure it’s from your comment, but you refuse to allow the buzzing of your heart get any worse. It’s already filling your ears, drowning out the piano, and you yearn for the safety of contentment. The same contentment you didn’t feel before. Is this still romance? Or was this never romance at all?

“About three weeks. An extended stay. Though I must admit, I’m nervous about returning to work. I fear I’ve left it too long,” she frowns, twisting her lips in a way that says ‘But what can you do?’.

“Three weeks! What do you do for work?” If there were some more drink in your mouth, you probably would’ve spat it out by accident. Three weeks? Sort of a long time. A long time to be away from work and a long time to be alone.

Unless she isn’t alone… to which you’d actually like to leave right now if that’s the case.

There's hesitance in her eyes. "I'm... a school principal," she says slowly, looking away. “But I needed it. Prolonged stress isn’t good for me. Or for anyone, really.” Her voice softens, carried away by the music as she glances down at her hands. You get the strange desire to hold them. It pops up first as a soft urge in your mind before barrelling forward and pressing hard against the front wall of your thoughts. Reach out and hold them. Hold them. They are soft. They are the kind of hands that reach out and pet the strays. Feed the strays.

But you’re too scared you’ll bite.

“Preach,” you murmur, unsure of how to continue. What are the duties of a school principal? “But- ya know. Good for you I guess. Are you returning to Vermont soon?”

“My flight leaves at seven tomorrow. I’ll get back at approximately half past five in the morning if I’m lucky.”

“Hm. And if you’re unlucky?”

Another small smile.

“Then I’ll never get back.”

You find that to be quite interesting. She’s not worried about her job in a way that speaks to severe anxiety, but in a way that speaks to nervousness regarding her passion. Regarding the children she has to look after. The parents she has to (no doubt) reassure. The world that she is important in. The oil that runs through the machine. She keeps them going - and she has been gone for three weeks. You’re rather curious about the aftermath, and about the scene she will return to upon arrival, but it’s hopeless and misplaced. You will not see what happens. You will not spot the relief on her face. You will not know how life continues for her. Because she is leaving, this beautiful stranger, and she has a home. And you are a stray dog. Abandoned. Hungry. More, more, more. She does not want. She is satiated. Larissa has lived out her dream here, her relaxation, and now it is time to turn around and face the music. Return home. And be part of the family again.

How does that feel? Family?

“How long do you plan on staying?” She asks, looking just as curious as you feel.

A sigh rattles your bones as you lean your head back and push out your chest, relishing in the pops that run down your spine. Exhaustion is creeping again. You didn’t even notice it was gone.

“Probably… forever?” It’s not the truth.

“That can’t be true.”

“No,” you groan, “it’s not. So I don’t know. Maybe forever. Maybe I’ll leave tomorrow, too. We’ll see, I guess.”

That pretty gaze burns into the side of your face. It is full of questions, even when you’re not meeting it, and you’re suddenly sort of scared to look at her again. Scared that she’ll know everything. Scared that she’ll realize what you really are. Not just lost, but hopeless. No way of being found. Because what will you do and where will you go? Nothing and nothing. That seems to be the answer these days. Nothing.

“Do you have any family you’re traveling with?”

Her voice is soft again. Colored with feeling. What is she feeling? Is it still pity? You glance at her, out of the corner of your eye, just to check. No. Yes? No. Maybe. Could be. Or it could be something else. Could be hope. Could be sadness. Could be something better. You can’t clock it, so you return with a question of your own. It stings you to say it- embarrasses you to wonder- but you can’t help yourself. You’re just a dog. You need more.

“Do you have anyone that will be waiting for you at 5 in the morning?”

Her eyebrows twitch for the smallest shade of a second. It’s barely there, but you see it anyway. You see how she frowns and recovers. Maybe that was too far. Maybe that was too blunt. Maybe you should just hold your fucking tongue and stop digging into other people’s business-

“Honestly? No. I’ll probably have to grab a taxi from the airport.”

Oh.

For some reason that’s worse. Worse than if she said yes. Worse than if she started to go on a tirade about a lover waiting for her. Worse than if she mentioned a gaggle of friends or even a coworker. How can she just have- that? That? A taxi? You can’t hide the way your face falls. You just can’t. And you can’t contain the way your heart breaks a little. Crackling like a burning fire, pounding away behind the frailness of your chest. Dropping pieces all over the floor of your innards as you see Larissa get lost staring into space. Probably looking over the different types of liquor bottles as she figures out how best to get a cab from the airport with the least amount of trouble. You kind of want to reach over and shake her shoulders. Take her out of her own head. Insist that it’ll be okay. But of course it’ll be okay - she never said it wouldn’t. She never made any indication that being alone was something she didn’t like.

However, she did walk over to you, didn’t she? And she did sit down next to you. And she was alone at the bar. So maybe the isolation is getting to her. Maybe she needs to go back home. Maybe you need to go with her.

Maybe you need to shut the fuck up.

“I don’t have any family,” you respond, figuring it’s only fair. “So it’s just me.”

Larissa gives you a distracted hum before she takes her eyes away from a place over your shoulder and moves them to your face. To your eyelashes and your eyebrows and your cheeks and your nose. You don’t know what she sees. Hopefully not a dog.

“And no prior commitments? No one waiting for you either?” She seems hesitant to ask, but you know it’s just because she doesn’t want to be impolite.

Oh, Larissa. You can’t offend dogs, Larissa. Others can but not you.

“No. No roots, if that’s what you mean.”

She nods. “I see.”

“Do you?”

A long leg goes sliding up to cross over the other and for a second, you’re lost in the smooth length of them. Her calves and thighs are gorgeous. The hem of her dress falls below the knee. A little restricting but classy. She is very beautiful. And slowly, as the night progresses, you’re beginning to fear what will happen when she leaves. Which is silly, because she’s still a stranger. She doesn’t even know your name. And she has a home to return to and you’re doomed for the rest of your life.

“I believe I do, yes.” And that’s enough of an answer for you.

From that sweet point on, you fall into silence.

The ambience of Madame hasn’t shifted in the slightest. The earlier smoke only renewed itself once certain cigarettes ran out - and the piano looped into another song. Probably playing over a speaker system you couldn’t see or a record player somewhere in the dark. No one takes center stage. No one leaves. It’s still empty drinks, empty hearts, empty heads, and full laughter. Easy chatter. Women getting closer. Women holding hands. Women with their palms on each other’s thighs. Women with lipstick marks on their cheeks. Women with perfectly pinned hair, like Larissa’s, are left with loose curls and messy ends - easily destroyed by a wandering hand or a particularly heavy kiss. You refuse to blush at the sight of that when you turn around and make eye contact with a woman at a booth, but your body doesn’t listen. Your body finds it scandalous. Your body finds it exciting.

There are no threats. There are no men. No shouts, no loud drinking, no busy football games, no beer-stained tables and hugs that hit a bit too hard. There’s no gag-worthy cologne and no clumsy feet stepping on the toes of ladies and no drunken asks for a number or company home. There’s only peace. Sweet and fragile, not even broken by the wind and rain that beats and floats against the windows. You wonder when the place closes if it’s already so late.

You wonder why there’s so many women.

“There was no um-” your throat grows hoarse before you clear it, putting a hand up to your mouth while you look at Larissa. She’s waiting patiently for you to continue. “There was no… advertisement? I guess? That said this place was- is it like… a lesbian… bar? Or something?” You sound more and more childish the higher your voice goes but Larissa’s smile is gentle.

“There’s no advertisement needed. Everyone knows Madame in Paris is a place of community acceptance. However, it’s apparently more popular in the Spring. Tourist season and all that.”

“Oh.” Oh.

Larissa’s brows furrow. “Something wrong?”

Well, yes. Sort of. Kind of. Uh…

“No I just- it’s not Spring now?” You frown, lifting your elbow from the bartop and putting your arm in your lap. What does she mean?

“No,” Larissa shakes her head slowly, stopping the light drum of her fingers. “It’s Autumn. November, actually.”

November? But…

“Huh,” you blink, “must be more lost than I thought. Weird.”

The very beginnings of a frown pull at those red lips, giving away her worry; and for some reason, you’re hasty to reassure her.

“But it’s probably just the exhaustion or something,” you huff out a self-deprecating smile, “No biggie. Maybe I’m like- too buzzed to comprehend. Or too hungry. I don’t know,” you gesture to your head, waving off the concern that she was going to show you.

But it doesn’t work.

“Perhaps you need dinner then,” Larissa tilts her head, looking at you from beneath her eyelashes.

In that moment, she’s perhaps the most glorious thing you’ve ever seen. Lit by low candle light. Shadowed by her own form of mystery. You kind of want to lean over and kiss her - which is weird, because her lips are just like any other person’s lips, and you’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly before. But dogs change sometimes, don’t they? Just like any other creature. Dogs change. And instead of wanting for more, they want for something different.

“Yeah. Perhaps I do.”

Your company takes a moment to look behind you, running her gaze over the interior of the restaurant. You see her blue eyes flit from couple to couple and group to group and crying woman to the next crying woman. You see her nose wrinkle when she spots all of the cigarettes and you see the twitch in her kitten-heeled foot before she’s uncrossing her legs and moving to stand. Every nerve in your body jumps to stand with her. To follow her lead and let her whisk you away. But you don’t know if that’s what she wants - and you don’t want to assume just to be let down. You don’t want her to look at you like ‘What the fuck are you standing up for?’ so you stay in your seat and watch her fix up her coat, straighten her gloves, and grasp the purse on the back of her chair. Everything about her is so elegant. Smooth. Maybe you’re hallucinating and she’s only a dream.

“I know a place nearby. Do you want to join me?”

You look from her hands to her face, caught frozen by the timber of her voice. Do you want to join me?

“Is- are you sure?” Your heart is screaming.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?” Larissa gives you a small confused smile.

You lick your lips. “You don’t even know my name.”

“Alright. Do you want to tell me on the way?”

No one ever asks. Everyone stopped a long time ago. There’s no need to wonder, to know, when everyone understands that you’ll just disappear sooner or later. Abandoned dog with an abandoned mind. But here she is asking - and it would be rude to ignore her.

“Sure.”

—

The weather is still brisk when you step outside. The rain is not as harsh and the wind not as bad, but the chill is just as strong. It seeps through your coat rather quickly and you have to shove your hands in your pockets to hide the way they shake. Larissa seems to be faring much better, walking along at a steady pace and adding to the clicks your boots leave behind on the pavement. Despite the dreary weather and the dark sky, threatening to break with another downpour at any moment, the streetlamps are beautiful. Guiding you both through the midnight haze and the swiftly settling fog. You feel like a ghost, floating along there by your company’s side, trying to keep yourself from staring up at her. The bar’s seating apparently did her no favors as when she stood up and led the way outside, you nearly tripped over yourself upon noticing the height difference. She is… she is something extraordinary. You wonder why you’re the one there beside her. Maybe Leslie had a better chance. Maybe you’re just a placeholder until she leaves.

“Are you going to make me guess?” She says eventually, pausing mid-stride to look down at you.

There’s only a few inches difference. Maybe a near foot. You’re not sure. You haven’t asked. But you want to. Curious dog.

“Sure,” you shrug, amused by the way she sighs and continues forward. “It’s not that hard.”

“Elizabeth,” she starts.

Cute.

“No.”

“Emily.”

“No.”

“…Erin?”

“No. What’s with all the ‘E’ names?”

“Would you prefer I start at ‘A’?”

“Might make it easier.”

“Nothing will make this easier.”

The walk feels like it goes on for ages the more she speaks. One name after the other after the other. You smile at the ones that are close and snort at the ones that could never suit you. Larissa only rolls her eyes and tries again. It’s silly and fun and lighthearted and you feel something inside you lighten. Though maybe it’s the Tom Collins, finally kicking in after a day of no food and one boozy drink. Larissa doesn’t seem to mind your occasional giggles and huffs - she even joins you, especially when you almost trip over your feet walking along the curb and she has to reach out and tug you back from the street and the ground. Her coat is cold but her body feels warm. There’s a small droplet of rain that hangs off of a strand of white hair behind her ear and you’re desperate to brush it away, but you don’t. You can’t. Can’t gather the energy to reach out. Can’t gather the energy to get your hopes up. So you move away and the game continues.

Down the street, along this turn and that, through rights and lefts and around lamp posts and street lights and intersections and parks. Far far away and all over the place. You walk for so long your legs begin to twinge - and then she says it.

“Jasmine?”

“Nope.”

“Lilith.”

“No.”

You’re waiting for a stoplight to turn red, but Larissa breezes past you. Head held high. Strides long. Back straight. The world does bend for her. And so do you.

As soon as you reach her side, she takes a steadying breath.

“Iris.”

Why your heart decides to take that moment and skip multiple beats is something you’ll never understand. Maybe it’s just the way she says it. The way it tumbles off of her tongue and slides from between her teeth and disappears into the ether. Maybe it’s the look she gives you and the way she stops when you’re a bit too quiet for too long and the corners of your mouth can’t help but quirk up. You’re not proud of her - that would be silly - but she certainly looks proud of herself. If that slowly spreading grin is anything to go by.

“Iris. Is that it?”

You nod and watch as her nose scrunches up with joy and her gloved hands make little muted claps in excitement. You think you can get used to the way she says it. Like it’s something to be cherished - something delicate and soft. Iris. Eye-riss. Iris. Slow and measured. Careful. She wants to take as much caution as she can when she says it. And when she finally goes to resume your walk, she lets out a little hum and glances down at you from the corners of her eyes.

“It’s a lovely name.”

Oh, Larissa. You’re killing me here.

“Larissa is nice, too. Very… elegant,” you respond, trying desperately to take the attention off of you. It’s been so long since you last heard a compliment like that, you’re unsure how to react. How to be normal about it. How to stop yourself from circling her body and pulling her close and pushing your head against her chest to listen to her heart. To see if she’s real. Because only fake people pay attention to strays - and she’s too wonderful to be anything aside from a figment of your dear imagination.

“That’s very kind of you, Iris.” Oh say it again. Please god, say it again.

But she doesn’t. And you don’t push it. And you don’t look at her for fear of bursting into flames. And you continue your walk until you come across a park bench and you sit down - drawing her attention and luring her back over to stand while you rest your legs.

“Feels like we’ve been walking forever! Where are you taking me?” You glare at her, all playful looks and pouts.

“To my lair. Are you scared yet?” She shifts on her white heels and you can’t help but give her a small chuckle.

“Me? Scared of you? Yeah, right. In your dreams, blondie.”

“Oh you haven’t seen anything yet. I can be quite terrifying when I want to be,” Larissa defends, crossing her arms and cocking out a hip.

“Yeah. To school children maybe,” you grin, spreading your arms out over the back of the bench to sit comfortably. “But not to me.”

“Hm. Not yet, anyway,” her tone is airy, making you blow air out of your nose with amusement.

“Uh huh.” You pause, close your eyes to bask in the chill that bites at your skin, and then open one to look at her. “How tall are you, anyway?”

She towers over you there - standing beside the wrought-iron arm of the bench while you sit and crane your head back. Outlined in the soft glow of the park lamps, you begin to wonder if Larissa is not an imaginary friend or a ghost but instead an angel. She certainly looks the part. You really wouldn’t be that surprised if huge ivory wings sprout from the defined lines of her shoulder blades.

“How long have you been wanting to ask that?” Oh, she’s teasing me now. You roll your eyes.

“Since you first stood up.” The truth is always best. And it makes her smile softly.

“Six foot, three.”

Your lips part, falling open before you catch yourself. Six feet and three inches?! Jesus, woman. You swallow around your delighted shock and push yourself off of the bench - bringing yourself to your full height on the backs of your heeled boots.

“There’s no way,” you snark, crossing your arms.

“Oh really?” Those red lips grow into a smirk and never in your life have you wanted to feel something more. Never.

“Yeah. Really.”

And of course that’s how you sign your heart away - for a split second later, there she stands. So close you can smell the old wine on her breath and see the individual lines in her face. It’s only half lit by golden light, but that doesn’t matter. You’re beginning to think your eyes were made for seeing her. And you’re beginning to think your body was made for standing so close. She smells like the rain now. Like the rain and the stars, which twinkle brightly behind her head as you resist the urge to step back and look at her. There is no backing down from this. There is only matching her height head-on, even though that’s impossible. But that’s the joke. So you move to stand on the tips of your toes and get into her personal space and only when you do, do you realize your mistake. She’s even closer. And her blue eyes have gone wide. You see a deep black abyss take over the oceans of her irises and suddenly, you think your name is very inadequate in comparison to the gorgeous cerulean of her gaze. To the way it envelopes you and electrifies you and warms you all at once. She is a vision. She is everything you want to look upon. And her eyes dart between your own, carrying shock and admiration with them. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what’s happening. This doesn’t feel like romance anymore. This isn’t contentment. You don’t know what this is. You don’t know why you want to lean into her and fall.

And you don’t know why she decides to pull away.

“I’m sorry,” she says so quickly, so quietly, you think it’s just a whisper of the wind. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Her eyes are still wide, but they’ve been captured by something terrible. Something sad. You open your mouth - to say what? - you don’t know. But she’s taking a few steps back and you close it. Her hair is still perfect, but there’s one strand loose. It flits wildly in front of her ear. A sign of her loss of control, perhaps. A sign that someone got through. She’s not a guarded woman and yet she is. She’s not private and yet she is. You didn’t have the deepest talk of all time and yet you did. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to say to get her to stay. So you just say her name.

“Larissa-”

“It’s been very nice to meet you, Iris,” she murmurs, interrupts, clears her throat, and adjusts the purse on her shoulder. Those blue eyes glance around madly, like she’s scared of being caught. “But I’m afraid I have to go now. I have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Your flight leaves at seven.” You don’t know why that’s the thing you say. You don’t know what that’s going to do - but before you can even hope to say anything else, she nods and looks at you again. With unwavering strength. With a hint of an apology.

“Yes. It does.” Her lips press together firmly. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

And with that whisper, softer than the distant break of your heart, she’s turning around and walking off into the rain.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Lazily waves my hand around before walking away. - Rip x

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

TAGS (please keep in mind Tumblr won't allow me to tag certain accounts): @oddball21 @kaymariesworld @bloommushroom @readingtheentrails @thegoddamnfeels @theonefairygodmother @theflashesoflove @sweetderacine @opalthefrog @gwensfreak @shyladyfan @erablaise-blog @bellatrixsbrat @sunnyanon @emilynissangtr @lex13cm @sugipla @hasthebaconinhispants @deongocrazy @nocteangelus15 @eveymay @one-pining-queer @azu-zu @niceminipotato @hopelessly-sapphic @barbarasstar @enchantressb @syrenacrainn @im-a-carnivorous-plant @willowshadenox @aemilia19 @ladylarissaweems @scarlettssub @ladysdraga @willisnotmental @gela123 @h-doodles @zillahofviolets-bayolet @weemssapphic @the-bearr @amateurwritescm

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[scribblestatic]

Heeey back with some more Amputee SY. I think I may write more for Sheepzun soon, too. Eh, I'll figure it out.

Anyway, narratives are paused for now and we're back to summary drabbles :D

Prev: Part 9

---

After all that, Luo Binghe did in fact finalize his divorce with Qiu Haitang. She went with the Cang Qiong group when they left, a new member under Qi Qingqi's tutelage, cursing Shen Jiu's name the whole time and vowing to murder him.

Her vows quieted rather quickly after she began having strange dreams of her brother tormenting her. Despite only experiencing the incidents through dreams, she would wake screaming and proclaiming that her brother wasn't like that.

Those protests also faded, making way, instead, for confusion as to why Shen Jiu never killed her, considering how her punishments in his body occasionally came because of a comment she made. So, she too had been an instrument in Shen Jiu's suffering.

By that point, though, she was already back at what remained of Cang Qiong Sect, burrowing deeply into Xian Shu's female-only population, having gained a temporary but fervent fear of men. And, from the outset of their last attempt, no one of their peak was to contact the Empress of the Merged Realms on any personal level.

He was pretty well firm in his assertion that he wanted next to nothing to do with them for a long, long time, if not for the rest of any of their lives.

At the same time, Cang Qiong Sect's reputation took one hell of a blow. Among demons, well, they were already pretty bad, so it wasn't much worse. No it was the remaining cultivation sects that took the opportunity to voice their dissatisfaction.

Of course, it was a well-kept secret back then that Shen Qingqiu was plagued by frequent qi deviations. The fact he managed to survive them all out of pure will was admirable. But, if his sect siblings knew he had once cultivated the demonic path by force under Wu Yanzi, why hadn't their previous generation or their current one done anything to help cleanse his body and meridians before attempting spiritual cultivation?

Given, it wasn't exactly common practice for a rogue demonic cultivator to try joining a sect, already deep into their devious ways. But the fact Shen Qingqiu had turned a new leaf should have been celebrated, should it not? Instead, his sect didn't give him proper care and let him fester.

The humans who relied on cultivation sects didn't quite allow these details to stop them from calling on Cang Qiong. However, their reputation as a righteous group had not only been smeared, but filthied. As it turned out, despite their talks of righteousness, Cang Qiong Sect was no different than the smaller sects who were more secular and only professed righteousness while plotting and scheming on the inside.

It took Cang Qiong Sect down from it's elevated status. They were now, simply, normal but numerous and large. But normal all the same.

Yue Qingyuan's kind demeanor shifted. He wasn't any less kind than before, but he was, perhaps, less approachable. Without Shen Qingqiu or the ghost of what "he'd done" haunting the sect, he no longer had anyone to apologize for but himself. His mistakes became all the more evident, and his impulsiveness all the more detrimental.

But, as he'd promised to Shen Yuan, he was working on himself to fix that. That included getting help for the binding of his soul and sword, a demonic cultivation tactic he'd used to try to reach Shen Yuan faster, only to hinder himself even longer. Mu Qingfang headed the studies into his recovery...as well as studies into treating qi deviation symptoms from dual path cultivation issues. After all, perhaps as karma, Yue Qingyuan had begun to suffer from them as well as he began to undo the damage he did to himself.

Unlike with Shen Qingqiu, Cang Qiong Sect carefully rallied around him for support.

Perhaps it was because he was the sect leader. Perhaps it was because their own sins had been laid bare. Perhaps it was because they, too, wanted to make amends with themselves.

Whatever the reason, they would deal with it on their own.

...Of course, Shen Yuan was, generally, unaware of these details.

He'd made it a point to ignore anything and everything to do with Cang Qiong Sect for at least the next three years. Unless it was of severe import, of course. As lazy as he was, he would be taking his job as empress seriously.

('...Lazy where?' his attendants wondered, watching as he held two scrolls open and wrote in another with his qi, writing down every detail he knew of what flora and fauna could help reduce deviation symptoms from dual path cultivation despite the fact his problem had been fixed with a different kind of dual cultivation. This was, of course, after he'd finished writing a report about a demon tribe Luo Binghe was supposed to meet with soon, ensuring he was aware of their body language and cultural specificities.)

("Don't tell me the results. I want to know nothing of it," his 'anonymous' letter demanded of Mu Qingfang, the doctor staring at the supplies sent to them, pangs of regret searing through his soul.)

("The Cang Qiong Sect leader seems to be doing well," Xiao Jiao would murmur as she served his morning tea.

"Who asked about him? Pah. Leave those righteous cultivators to themselves."

He still slipped her a few taels for the information.)

Ahem.

Right. Anyway. He genuinely didn't care for correspondence with them, and sought to live his life separately.

For example, rekindling a better relationship with Ning Yingying.

Her confession caused her reputation to take a blow as well, though less so since Shen Yuan himself openly forgave her.

"This lord had been conniving and callous. If anything, she merely learned from the best, did she not?"

With casual jokes like that, he easily saved face for Ning Yingying, and not to long later, she finally went to see him for tea as he'd desired.

Their reunion had been incredibly tearful, the girl apologizing to him on her knees at his seat. Shen Yuan wanted to comfort her and pat her head, but he couldn't do that. While his handling on qi was sophisticated and he could grab and hold things, he couldn't quite mimic the feeling of a hand. So, instead, he asked her to look up at him. When she did, he smiled at her as radiantly as he could.

"This master understands, Ying-er. Please, you aren't a servant, you're a guest. Come, sit, sit."

She did sit, but she just continued crying. He tutted and dabbed a handkerchief at her tears.

He didn't lie and say he hadn't felt betrayed, but he understood and didn't hold it against her. She was just a child, and he had raised her to seek her survival. He hoped that now, with his mind in a better place, he could be someone better and more reliable to her. And she, sobbing, said she would never betray him ever again.

Because of this forgiveness, she and Sha Hualing slowly began reconciling as well.

Slowly. Very, very slowly.

---

With Shen Yuan officially crowned empress, Luo Binghe, who was already chipping away bits of his harem, chipped further, finding more wives to relinquish back to the wild.

After all, he really married them for power and to manage the symptoms of Xin Mo. However, ever since he began speaking and dual cultivating with Shen Yuan, Xin Mo's troublesome nature has waned quite significantly. He also learned to recognize when the sword's malicious nature was pushing thoughts in his mind, Luo Binghe realizing to himself that perhaps Shen Qingqiu, as he had been then, was probably experiencing something similar the whole time. The sword's name was "Heart Demon," and Shen Qingqiu's were a constant thorn in his side, to the point of significant and frequent qi deviations.

He and Shen Qingqiu, as he had been then, hadn't been so different, huh...

Sometimes, when Shen Yuan felt like talking about narratives and thoughts, he'd speak of the "cycle of abuse." He did it early on when he still thought he wasn't Shen Jiu.

(And, to an extent, he wasn't. He was, but he wasn't. The spells Luo Binghe had tried to use on him to summon the "kind shizun" into his body had all been for naught. Not until he used a spell to reform a broken soul. Shen Jiu had been a shattered, broken man: insane, psychotic, and missing pieces of his souls for reasons unknown.

Perhaps Shen Qingqiu lacked major parts of his hun souls, the remaining po souls existing without a significant part of his humanity. When Shen Yuan expressed that, in his life, he'd been a sickly man unable to grow healthily, he wondered if that was because he was missing some of his po. Perhaps he'd managed to form some of them, but not the others, and vice versa.

Together, in one body, the current Shen Yuan was what Shen Qingqiu could've been. Snappy, sometimes callous, contradictory, full of an undying loyalty, affectionate beyond all reason, and the kindest, most forgiving person Luo Binghe has ever had the pleasure of knowing. That is his wife, his Shizun, his empress.)

Anyway, this cycle of abuse made him think about how similar his story was to Shen Jiu's. Shen Yuan expressed it as well, sighing with regret as Luo Binghe braided his hair into a large plait in preparation for sleep.

"...If only I had realized how similar we really were. Maybe I would've had the mind to treat you better... But, I suppose there's no use in 'woulding' and 'coulding' ourselves to death."

"It's as you say, Shizun."

"Aiyah, who's your shizun? You grew more mature than me."

"This lord firmly doubts that," Binghe hummed, kissing his cheek...and starting to kiss down his neck.

Even without his limbs, Shen Yuan made such a pretty picture. The nape of his neck was enough to arouse.

"Oi, you..."

But he didn't tell him to stop, however. And didn't tell him to stop when he kissed him all over. And didn't tell him to stop, even as he complained, face flushed and staring at his cock, talking about his, as he put it, "ridiculous pillar."

But he never told him to stop, leaning closer to him and pressing what he could of his small, amputated body to him.

And despite being told not to "would" or "could" or "should" himself to the grave, he did think, well, it would be nice if, somehow, some way, Shen Yuan became able to hold onto him. To wrap his arms and legs around his body. To hold him close like he so obviously wanted to, unable to because of Binghe's sins.

...If he could somehow alleviate that point, even a little bit, that would be nice, wouldn't it?

A little "woulding" and "coulding" perhaps wouldn't hurt.

---

It's because of his inquiries that Mobei Jun mentioned he could ask his advisor.

He hadn't mentioned much of him to Shen Yuan, not deeming the man very important. Besides, his beloved wanted nothing to do with Cang Qiong Sect, and that was precisely what the advisor was...somewhat.

He was former peak lord of Cang Qiong who had steadily adopted a strange mixture of a bombastic yet timid demeanor. He'd had a way of sucking up to Mobei Jun with words that led the pureblooded demon to scowl and beat up on him frequently (never with full strength, not really, but enough to make him bleed), but there was a shift in him into someone like himself but also not like himself.

A while back, nearly three years ago now, he and Mobei Jun had been locked in battle with demonic beasts that had left them somewhat vulnerable. During said battle, he used Xin Mo, but his blade had seemed to cut...something. He wasn't sure what. But it was during that time that he was quite suddenly sucked into a portal, causing him to meet and change places with a version of himself that he could now at least admit had been taller, thicker, and tanner than himself.

(He'd gotten thicker now with both fat and muscle, and he no longer straightened his hair, much to Shen Yuan's delight. Despite not having fingers, he quite adored rubbing his cheek against his curls. He also quite liked resting his head on his chest, too, much to Binghe's quiet pride. Ahem. Anyway.)

Once he'd gotten back, he had thrown himself into looking for ways to bring the "nice Shizun" to his world instead, and when that failed, he attempted to summon him in Shen Jiu's body. All the while, Shang Qinghua, who had been at Mobei Jun's side, inching away from the battle when he last saw him... Well, the ice king later reported that, as though having a final, strange change of heart, he threw himself into the fray, even getting himself injured to protect him, something the lying weasel never did before.

From that day on, he'd fully turned into a dormouse, eating his way through bags of melon seeds and seeming to cry about nothing at random times, cycling between whining and silence, and saying those strange words he sometimes did with his full confidence instead of expressing mild confusion when he said them. Once tidy and uptight, smiling with false deference, he fell into disarray, his hair becoming a bit of a mess and wisping all over his head with curls somewhat looser than Binghe's own. In some ways, he became more pathetic than he'd ever been, but in others, he became someone Mobei Jun could genuinely rely on.

After that incident, whenever Luo Binghe heard the man call out to Mobei Jun with, "My king," it actually sounded like he wasn't hiding behind layers of subterfuge and meant whatever emotion came with his cry.

Mobei Jun still beat up on the man, but they were both lighter and had taken a different context now. Instead of genuine irritation and anger, he was, essentially, bullying him to show his affection. However, the dormouse man, being human, apparently still hadn't caught on to the difference. Not that Luo Binghe could blame him, honestly. Having been raised human himself, how was he supposed to tell when beating someone up meant they wanted to court you? Cultural differences.

Regardless, the former peak lord, perhaps forgotten even by his own sect, dwelled quietly in Mobei Jun's domain, running it like a well-oiled machine even when he was absent. The ice demon was, apparently, quietly considering crowning Shang Qinghua after seeing Shen Yuan's crowning ceremony, but Luo Binghe doubted the tired cultivator was wizened to that fact.

Regardless, if Mobei Jun truly thought that the man could possibly do something to assuage his concerns, then he might as well ask. He'd ask Shen Yuan, honestly, but he sort of wanted to keep this idea a secret and surprise him with the success if it worked out the way he'd like. Anyway, he took the lord of the Northern Desert up on his offer.

So, there he was now, staring at Shang Qinghua from the doorway as the small man, bundled in all manner of coats and cloaks to fend off the cold, stared at him with wide, amber eyes that had well-set dark circles under them. He'd been holding a pile of scrolls, though now, a few had dropped to the ground.

"...Ah. J-Junshang. This humble one wasn't, ah, aware you were coming to visit so soon. I mean, my king did say you were coming, but..."

"Hmm."

"Oh, goodness, uhm, please, ah—" He flustered, dropping even more of his scrolls before he gave up, scurrying over to a table and dropping them down haphazardly. He scrambled back and picked up his other scrolls, a wavering smile fighting to stick onto his face. "Come have a seat, come have a seat. Eh hehe. There's no need to stand over there and be a stranger."

Between the time Luo Binghe made his way to the soft chair sitting in front of Shang Qinghua's desk (what a strange thing to do...he'd started putting chairs in front of his working desk like that when his personality started shifting), the man had cleaned up the scrolls, fully closed the curtains around the windows and thrown more wood into the furnace to reduce the loss of heat.

After scrambling around, he slumped into his chair with a sigh, opening a rectangular container out of habit and scooping something that wasn't tobacco into an ornate, clearly gifted pipe. He snapped his fingers, creating a small flame at the tip of his index finger, and lit the contents. An earthy scent hinted with spice and pine began wisping from the end, which Shang Qinghua took a deep huff of before breathing it out in a faded cloud.

"So, ah, how can this one be of assistance, Junshang?"

This was the man who could call Mobei Jun's title from nearly anywhere and immediately summon him, huh.

"This lord was considering a gift for his empress. However, acquiring the materials for it would be difficult. You have much experience from trading, sales, and reviewing materials, so I shall seek your guidance for this matter."

"I'm unsure I can be of any service, but if possible, I'd be happy to oblige."

"Then... What do you know of methods to replace limbs?"

Thankfully, the man was quickwitted, seeming to immediately understand what he was going for. With a hum, he placed the tip of his pipe in his mouth, thinking.

"Junshang likely seeks prosthetics, however, the sort that currently exist can be a bit troublesome. They're rudimentary and may offer less in terms of mobility than one would prefer."

"Is there nothing that can mimic hand movements?"

"Ah...erh, I'm afraid I don't know of prosthetics that can do such fine-tuned work. However, this one is sure a dedicated manufacturer with some financial sponsorship would be able to make something. Though, if we consider how Junfeng* has developed his qi skills...perhaps something made custom for him would be best. That would also be difficult and take a while, but the results would likely be much more satisfactory."

As he settled into deep thought, the mousiness faded to reveal his more shrewd nature. Rodents all had a certain level of it, being herbivorous and desiring survival. In that sense, had he had more tact and grace, perhaps Luo Binghe could somewhat compare him to his A'Yuan.

Still, there was something else Mobei Jun mentioned to him. Just a little whisper of an idea.

"This lord was hoping for something that wouldn't take too long. Perhaps something more natural rather than constructed."

"Hmm?"

"You see, A'Yuan has quite a bit of knowledge regarding the flora and fauna of the three realms, and since the merging, he's been discovering further, previously uncovered creatures and beings. This lord one heard him mention something like a mushroom or seed or something that grows..."

"A mushroom, hm..." He rubbed at the side of his head, trying to think.

"Perhaps, would you know of some sort of plant or organism that can mimic limbs?"

"To mimic limbs... Ah." He breathed in, sucking in more of the smoke from his pipe, and pulled over a scroll that was apparently empty. He opened it, breathing out through the corner of his mouth as he got his inkwell and brush. "I believe I know what you're referring to. The Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed is more of a mushroom than a plant, but one could use it to grow another body. I can't believe I forgot about it... While this lord doesn't quite remember where it is, it was somewhere in the Bai Lu Forest, I think. If you search there..."

But as he wrote, he suddenly stopped, a frown curling between his brows.

"Ah, but, the merging..."

Right. The merging of the realms disrupted many places. The ecology of the world was altered, and some locations, animals, and plants were no longer available where they once were. Some may have even gone extinct over the last few years.

"If the realms hadn't—ah. Ah, no. Hah. Please don't take that the wrong way, Junshang. This humble one nearly misspoke. The merging of the realms happens every few hundred years. You simply brought about its next cycle. One could consider its occurrence as inevitable as the wind."

He gave off those little laughs of nervousness, sweat budding easily at his brow as he rambled placatingly. Luo Binghe didn't really care, honestly.

Inevitable as it may have been, he did indeed bring it about himself. The loss of lives—human, demon, spiritual, natural, or otherwise—were on his head. The ink of his name was made with the blood of millions.

Eventually, Shang Qinghua lost steam for his useless pandering, sighing and taking another deep breath of his pipe, apparently to calm himself.

"Then, if it's possible that the plant you mentioned is no longer available, do you know of anything else? Something else that could help."

This was where the thing Mobei Jun mentioned could appear. Possibly.

"This humble one doesn't know. Begging your forgiveness," he murmured, gazing up at him.

"Surely you can think of something. I... This lord owes it to his wife. After all I'd done to him."

The man's expression shifted quickly between a wince, a sympathetic grimace, and something thoughtfully soulful. "Erm, well... I mean, this one...isn't sure."

Another push, then.

"Maybe if, for example, the Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed changed with the merging of the realms. Would such a thing be possible?"

"Well..."

Shang Qinghua looked off to the side, frowning and sweating, tapping his finger against the desk and the partially-inked scroll. Smoke curled around his head, and the furnace crackled behind Luo Binghe's body.

"Something like that..."

His eyes narrowed further as he thought.

"...Might be possible."

Shang Qinghua blinked.

Then, his expression eased a bit. Not so nervous, but more thoughtful.

"...Something like that...hm."

...This might be it.

Luo Binghe focused, thinking on what to say next.

"...What do you remember of the Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed? How could it change?"

"Hmm?" Although his eyebrows rose, the cultivator didn't look up from where he'd started staring at a blank part of the scroll in front of him. "Well... The Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed is not really a flower. It's a mushroom. Rather, a type of fungus. Plants and fungi are different families. Though, a few of their traits can be a bit similar."

The amber tone of the man's irises brightened at the centers and darkened around the edges. Wisps of smoke from his pipe seemed to shift, somehow. Like they had begun dancing.

A qi Luo Binghe hadn't felt before sifted in the undersides of his conscious awareness of the room.

"Fungi... Right. You can't kill fungus in a way that matters. So, even if the Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed is gone, its fungal properties would likely allow it to survive. It has a mix of plant and fungal family properties...ah likely a mistake of mine..."

As Shang Qinghua continued murmuring, he began writing again, eyes focused on the scroll in front of him. The light from the fire paled in comparison to the glow from is irises.

"Underneath the ground...the mycelium that make the Sun-Moon fruiting bodies would probably still be there. While they would make the dew flower seeds using spiritual energy...hm. Fungi are adaptable. Plants are, too. Especially the wild ones...

"Fungi typically consume dead matter, while plants create their own food. A body made of Sun-Moon Dew cells wouldn't need to consume much of anything but sunlight and maybe water. Difficult to grow, but once grown, incredibly durable...yeah. So, no, the merging wouldn't kill them."

"...This...plant...fungus you speak of. How did it work?"

"Mm...by absorbing energy. If you prepare a body using it, if the soul leaves, it loses all function. So, it both consumes energy and creates its own. If you were to use the mycelium and feed it with qi, spiritual...or demonic. Why not demonic too? Yeah. Both. Either. Feed the mycelium with blood and qi, and it could create a body. If you attach it to a body missing a part of it...hm.

"...Yeah. That could work. Feed it, and it becomes a replacement for a limb. Maybe even an organ. The mycelium could work like nerves. Attach it to the right parts, and it can grow what's missing. It can't be easy, though, I don't think. It's not easy to grow a Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed into its mature state, so this...hm... What would I call it?"

He leaned back, eyes gazing toward the ceiling.

It felt as though the air went still.

"...Sun-Moon Dew Celium, I suppose. Mimics cells if you can use your qi. Cultivators and demons alike can use it. Perhaps one could make organs for non-cultivators as well, but they'd definitely need medical prowess for it. I'd make it easier to work with, but this is a dog-eat-dog world, isn't it? Nothing's ever so easy."

The smoke danced around Shang Qinghua's body. He breathed out more wisps of it. If Luo Binghe focused enough, he could see a second pair of eyes���large, faded, and, gazing up, just like the man was—hazed over in contemplation.

And then he blinked.

A log shifted behind Luo Binghe in the furnace, and Shang Qinghua startled, his irises back to their normal color.

The imposing qi was gone.

"Ah. Sorry. I, ah...kinda...blanked out?"

"...So you did. But it was insightful."

"This humble one's glad to, erh, help. I think." He sweated, glancing to the sides, like he wasn't sure what he was talking about.

"Right. Then. Where would this lord find the Sun-Moon Dew Celium?"

"Hmm?" He seemed confused for a moment, but then realization spread. "Oh. Oh! Junshang, that's a genius idea! As expected of the Emperor of the Merged Realms!"

Luo Binghe frowned a bit. "What?"

"I can't believe I didn't think of it. How could I forget?"

Shang Qinghua dipped his brush in ink and started writing on the scroll. Luo Binghe could've sworn he'd already written on it.

However, the only writing present there was something he'd started when talking about the Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed. Nothing else. None of the words he'd written during his murmuring.

"While the Sun-Moon Dew Flower Seed's likely gone, the mycelium that formed it may still be there. If you take it and inject in his missing limbs, it'll feed off his qi and blood to form the missing parts on its own! It should work just like automail!"

"'Automail'?"

"Eh? Ah-haha, please excuse my ramblings, Junshang, that means nothing," he laughed nervously, finishing off what he was writing and quickly fanning it to get it to dry. "Junshang should find the Sun-Moon Dew Celium in Bai Lu Forest, or somewhere around it. As he is in charge of Huan Hua Palace's former quarters and holds such power, this lord believes it should be easier for you to find and work with than any prosthetic an engineer could make."

With the ink quickly dried (a type of ink he'd managed to make, apparently), he rolled the scroll up and wrapped it with ribbon, handing it over to him.

"Please make use of this lowly one's knowledge. I hope it works well for Junfeng."

"...This lord thanks you for your insight."

Once Luo Binghe was out the door, he acted as though he closed it. But instead, he peeked through a slight crack in it, watching as the dormouse of a man slumped back into his chair after standing to see him out.

He groaned, rubbing his head.

"Mmh. So tired."

It didn't take him long before he ended up nestling his head in his arms and falling asleep.

"...Mobei Jun."

The ice demon appeared before him from the shadows, his power stronger than ever in his own domain.

"Yes?"

"He's fallen asleep."

"Mmn. He often does after he creates something."

Perhaps the king of the Northern Desert didn't understand the implications. Or, maybe he did, and he simply let things be because the bullied cultivator was quite firmly loyal to him and under his thumb at any given moment.

But speaking something into existence was within the realm of the gods.

Because Luo Binghe had felt it. As soon as Shang Qinghua finished speaking, he felt, in the core of his soul, that this Sun-Moon Dew Celium he suddenly conceptualized truly existed in the world. It felt as real as any flower or mushroom he'd ever seen or eaten, like he'd already touched it despite never having done so.

Was Shang Qinghua some god from the upper realms made flesh? A vessel through which a god of some sort spoke? Was that the reason for his steady change into the person he was now?

"From what I know, it takes prompting from others and desire on his part. Then, he makes things that did not exist. What has he created?"

Ah, if you weren't there to witness its creation, did you not know of it?

How curious. Shang Qinghua certainly faired much better away from Cang Qiong Sect.

And he had to desire its creation, ah? So, it's possible that he wanted to help A'Yuan.

...Hm. Admirable. He would take that into consideration.

"Something that will help with my goal. As promised, you are relieved of your duties for the next week."

"Mmn."

"Also. When you do decide to crown Shang Qinghua, this lord would be honored to attend."

Mobei Jun hummed again, but he had a twinkle in his eye and a puff to his chest that somehow pissed Luo Binghe off a little. What was he doing, looking like he'd won? He could almost read it right off his face: my empress is better than yours.

God powers or not, he wouldn't give up his A'Yuan for anything. After all, he didn't need to be some vessel or something to make miracles happen.

Keep your hibernation-prone dormouse, his phoenix was waiting at home.

---

"...A'Yuan, this lord has a question."

"Mhh-huhhh...?"

"Do you happen to know what 'automail' is?"

Shen Yuan, covered in sweat and dozing off on his chest, suddenly sat up with as much physical power as he could muster, strands of his hair sticking to his forehead.

"Where did you hear that word?"

Luo Binghe grinned instead of answering. See? Shang Qinghua wasn't all that special. His beloved was probably a god, too.

----

I'm extremely baby at learning Chinese, so take my attempt with a big ol canister of salt, but since Junshang (君上) is basically "sovereign above others" and Luanfeng (鸾凤) is like saying "husband and wife," though the feng is literally "male phoenix," and a phoenix is traditionally the symbol of the empress where the dragon is the symbol of the emperor, I went with Junfeng (君凤) to kinda sorta make it like "sovereign phoenix."

Cause, I could've gone with the traditional term for empress, Hou (后), and put a "shang" on it for Houshang, but 1. Hou was rarely, if ever, the first symbol in the word or phrase, and 2. Hou (后) means queen and empress, yes, but it also means behind, rear, or after. And all things considered, I don't think Luo Binghe would want to give Shen Yuan a title saying he's behind him in anyway.

Moreover, considering that Shen Yuan died for the pieces of his soul to rejoin with the other pieces in Shen Jiu, and he went through the fire (Binghe torturing him) and came out renewed, well, the phoenix imagery seemed better. Also, the male phoenix is a symbol of joy, so, again, the language just fit better to me.

So, please excuse my partial bastardization of Chinese. I'm really trying earnestly though.

While called "empress" in English, Shen Yuan's official title in Chinese is Junfeng (unless someone who knows Chinese better comes up with something that fits a lot more haha).

*reread Airplane's adventures and has a rekindled and vibrant love for him all over again*

I couldn't leave him out of this AU. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, I said we were done with the narrative parts. Then I proceeded to write a lot of narrative. When will I stop lying to myself lmao

Parts 1-8: links on Part 9 Part 9 Part 10: here

Read on AO3

[cicibaebie]

. ˚◞♡  →  pretty lady, w. rojas

one shot trial one !

warren rojas | 4.5k 

just a fluffy warren one shot <3 awkward confession time, sweet kisses :-)

*not edited, forgive me for bad writing 🫶

warnings: the reader's nicknames that are given are predominantly female – girl, lady, woman + no use of reader having particular features – skin colour, hair type, body type, etc | mainly sfw – though much kissing at the end !, use of nicknames (darling, hun, pretty girl/lady, sweets, etc), mature language

“boo, no,” came the quiet exasperated sigh through your lips. you shook your head with a frown, and stared down at the crazed page before you; scribbles of chords, lines and a long series of notes that seemed to only get progressively more snappy. the sight only made the simmering agitation in your chest closer to its near-boiling point. you bit your lip, and squinted your eyes at the page. maybe if you stared incredulously at it long enough, it would burn to ash.

this shit was truly too tiring. 

another sigh, it felt like that was all you were doing, huffing endless long breaths. you loved music, really, cherished it too close to your heart. and it was all trial and error, you knew this. but fuck, it was tiring. the disappointment and anger that forms when you aren't satisfied with your creations are enough to doubt everything. and no one likes that feeling. the feeling of losing that grasp and love for your art. 

no one liked feeling the fear of not being good enough either. the fact that you had to hand this to other people to gaze upon and approve of only heightened that same, exact fear. (your fear was valid, of course. but honestly, the band was only ever supportive and constructive towards everyone’s input and pieces. so yes, your fear was valid, but truthfully, unnecessary.)

maybe it's all a bit dramatic right now, but it's true! 

you pushed your hair behind your ears, and with your eyes still on the page, you readjusted yourself so you were now lying on your stomach. you huffed as you settled with the paper in your grasp, and with one more quick scan of the notes, you felt the displeasure plaguing you only grow. you picked it up with narrowed eyes, and roughly crumpled it, tossing it across the room. see how exhausting this is? 

today was a bad day, a grumpy day. you never liked those. you rather liked the days when you found enjoyment through your craft, the days when you could just fucking blaze through writing without a single insecurity or doubt towards it. 

normally, you would write with the others. maybe as a whole group, maybe a one-on-one with graham or karen. maybe warren. shit, you didn't care. ʲᵘˢᵗ ⁿᵒᵗ ᶠᵘᶜᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᵇᶦˡˡʸ. but it was late at night, and everyone was asleep, just before you were about to do just that, you instead, felt that randomly adrenaline-rushing motivation to just write. you can imagine how it felt when you proceeded to do that exact thing and hated every single thing that you came up with. the anger you were feeling so largely now stemmed from the sheer dissatisfaction towards the sound of the string of chords you came up with. 

you were pretty sure you were beginning to see red. maybe you were possessed because you were starting to feel the urge to smash your pretty red guitar against the ground many, many times. and you cherished that thing like it was your baby. 

you rested your head in your arms with a small frown, and huffed. you decided that, yes, going to bed would be best. maybe tomorrow would be better. you stared at the door and pursed your lips. the good lawyer and bad lawyer in your head were currently having a nasty debate. go to bed and come back tomorrow with a fresh start or stay, and continue to get progressively angrier. the bad lawyer was sorely losing. 

the disappointment towards your work tonight was beginning to make you feel rather sad, instead of angry. and with that, you rapidly decided that it was, indeed, time to go to bed. 

you braced yourself before pushing yourself up, and sitting in a kneeling position. it was uncomfortable, the hard floor wasn't all that kind to your legs, it actually rather hurt. you took a moment to brush your jean-covered legs before actually standing. you pushed your hair over your shoulders and glanced over at your instrument. your earlier aggressive, heavily violent thoughts towards your instrument made you feel just a tad guilty. you paced over to it, and picked it up from its stand with gentle hands. you stepped over to the open case on the floor, the soft red velvet warmly inviting the guitar.

as you packed up, you began to zone out and get lost in thought. whilst closing the case and reaching to clasp each buckle closed, a soft, nearly impossible-to-hear knock interrupted your actions. 

your hands stilled, and you looked over to the door with your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. you were thoroughly convinced everyone was asleep. looking back on it, you should have known otherwise. nearly everyone went to bed before you, even those who went to sleep at a relatively late time. you were always a night person—but you weren't the only one. 

the door opened, and you tilted your head a bit to get a glance at the unexpected guest. when the sight of a cheeky, sheepish smile and brown curls came into your vision, you had to let out a soft laugh. he only smiled wider at the sound and looked down to hide it. “hi warren,” you sang, looking away from his shy form to get back to your earlier activity of packing up your things. 

warren rojas. you two weren't best friends, he wasn't your karen karen and you weren't his peaches, but he was something. you didn't know what, but you knew you did really, really like warren. you always thought he was cool as fuck. chill as fuck too. he was the easiest person to talk to, you could sit with him for hours and just talk about the weirdest things that have no relevance whatsoever. not to mention, leave it to him to know how to have a good time. he was fun, brought it everywhere he went, and simultaneously mastered the art of being a sweetheart. 

“hi,” he said, grinning as he eyed your form, still clad in your day clothes, a patterned halter top and your signature blue bellbottoms. “what are you up to this late at night, hm?” the curly-haired man walked in, shutting the door behind him and curiously looked at the various crumpled balls scattered across the room. 

you let out a small ‘shit’, his short look at your mess acted as a reminder that you probably should tidy it up. placing the guitar case back on the ground, you paced over to each of the white papers, gathering them in your arms. “well,” you huffed, “i was going to write, but it didn't really go the way i wanted it to…” 

softly smiling at your mumbled words, he walked over and quickly picked up the rest (the majority) of the papers. “what about you, cheeky boy?” you asked in return, dumping the crumpled balls into the trash. behind you, he grinned at the nickname. always smiling when around you, he was. you looked up at him as he came to stand next to you, following your earlier actions. he brushed his hands and turned back to you with a hum, “couldn't sleep, ‘nd heard you playing,” he tilted his head at you rubbing your eyes. 

a sheepish ‘oh’, passed your lips, “sorry if i woke you, war’, thought i was being quiet,” 

he shook his head at your murmur, and waved a hand with a small smile, “you can’t wake someone who wasn’t sleeping in the first place darlin’, don’t worry about it,” he wasn’t lying either, really. it wasn’t uncommon for warren rojas to pull all-nighters, and proceed to sleep most of the day. he’d usually pass out after hot-boxing his room. 

nodding, you bounded over back to your case and picked it up again. “okay, well, i’m gonna go to bed now, thanks for helping me tidy up,” you grinned softly at him, “i’ll see you tomorrow, war’,” 

“see you tomorrow, sweets,” came his gentle reply, still standing there like a moron just watching you. he considered stopping, not wanting to seem like a creep, but ultimately those considerations were put to rest within two seconds. maybe he could play it off well enough. you had to have known he had a crush on you, and he knew it. he’s such a sweetie, bless him, but not subtle whatsoever. 

you gave him one last pretty smile before walking to the door, and just as you were about to open it, your hand ready on the handle, you stopped. you pursed your lips as a thought passed your brain, and raised your eyebrows with a hum. “d’you wanna smoke some cush?” 

a beat of silence. 

“fuck yeah, man.”

                                                          ��♡୧

“y’know, i love your hair,” 

you gently whispered, twirling a curly brown strand between your fingers, and surveyed his face. his eyes were closed, and his body was so relaxed you would have thought he was sleeping. maybe he was, you didn't know any better. warren had his head in your lap, the rest of his body slung across your bed. you had been playing with his hair for the past 15 minutes. once you started, he’d gone completely silent and shut his brown eyes. maybe he really was sleeping. 

he absentmindedly hummed in return, and you smiled at the sound. with one hand in his hair, you picked up the joint from the ashtray set on your bedside table, and took a puff. “it may possibly be even better than mine, i must say,” you declared, placing the joint in warren’s expectant hand. 

at your words, he scoffed dramatically, shaking his head. he took his own puff, before battling your words with his own. “no way dude, are you fucking kidding me?” he exhaled with a scrunched face, making sure to turn away from you as the smoke trailed out of his mouth. “i got a mop on my head, you got some farrah fawcett shit going for ya,” 

that whole sentence nearly shook you to the bone in your state. mop on his head? then saying you could compete with farrah fawcett? you couldn't believe it.“you’re putting me up against farrah fawcett?” you widened your eyes at him, brows furrowed in sheer disbelief, “the farrah fawcett?” he nodded dramatically at your shocked words, “shit, man,” you raised your eyebrows with a hum, bobbing your head. “damn,”

“i’m fully serious,” 

“yeah, i know you are. i just don’t know if i can trust your opinion, angel. i mean it’s farrah fawcett,”

he passed the joint back to you with a floppy arm, and you reached over to place it back in its respectful seat in your ashtray. “you better believe it, hun,” he murmured, closing his eyes once again as you played with his hair. 

“you’re so pretty,” at his whispered words, your hands, where they were making a small braid in his mane, ceased their movement. the sweet compliment was unexpected, and truthfully, popped up out of nowhere. you pouted down at him, feeling your heart swell at his words. maybe he was sleeping and dreaming about farrah fawcett. “warren, your eyes are closed, y’know,” he reluctantly opened his baggy, bloodshot eyes, and looked at you. 

“nuh-uh, not anymore they aren’t,” his brown eyes surveyed your face and he nodded to himself with finality. you cheekily smiled, nearly gushing, “warren rojas got a li’l crush on me?” you cooed, untangling your hands from his curls to pinch his cheeks. 

he tiredly pushed your hands away with a hidden smile, you quietly laughed to yourself. you felt adoration fill your chest. really, that pestering anger inhabiting your heart before had melted away as soon as your cheeky boy had popped up on the other side of that door. he didn't even need to do anything, he didn't even need to know that you weren't having a good day, or time, or whatever. warren rojas just had to be himself to make you practically beam like the sun. 

geez, he had a crush on you? you had a crush on him. a big one too. 

you clicked your tongue as he turned his head away from you, and you rested one hand on his chest and the other on the top of his head. warren had a smile covering his face, but he was shying away. you couldn't believe it, not only were you compared to farrah fawcett, you made the warren rojas shy. what a night!

“stop it,” his voice was partially muffled into your lap, and you brought a hand up to your lips. the big smile on your face felt permanent. “you got a crush on me?” came your voice again, this time quieter, not as teasing—just as filled with adoration. he wiggled around, still groaning. 

you lightly tapped his cheek, a silent ‘look at me,’ passing from you to him. a small smile was glued to your face as warren turned, brown eyes landing on your beaming face—to which he grinned. that stupid grin stayed on his face as you raised your eyebrows at him and kept eye contact, whilst he looked away and gazed at the ceiling instead. he wanted to keep eye contact with you, it was a continuous challenge between you two. he never lasted more than ten seconds—don't be cheeky! you let out a sigh, and looked away as well, trying to pull yourself together. you feared you were having a heart attack with how fast it was beating. the remnants of smoke clouding the air and your lungs only seemed to intensify your feelings—which were already so much. and you didn't know it, but he felt the same. maybe even more so.  

“shit, can you blame me though, sweets?” he exclaimed, sitting up. you jumped as he nearly knocked heads with you. even he didn't expect this, earlier before his mouth betrayed him! god, you plagued his mind, and it just slipped out. really, you were like a stubborn piece of gum stuck to the side of his brain, it was frustrating. warren was a complete ladies' man, and knew his way around the female anatomy like he was a master in the art. he loved women, went crazy for them. but there was just something about you, that made him ache. you were so, so, so pretty, and carried such an abnormally beautiful soul with you everywhere you went. you were passionate in what you did, you were kind, and god damn, you were too fucking funny. you’re so much. too much. warren was a confident man, a charmer, never afraid to speak his mind. then there's you, making him feel like a little girl crushing on paul anka. 

cheesy as fuck. 

“i mean—you’re crazy, girl. literally a fucking fox, it's ridiculous,” warren mumbled to himself, more ranting than anything. he gaped for a few seconds, trying to gather the words on his tongue. you folded your lips into your mouth as you watched him begin his big confession. he glared at the flowery posters on your walls with wide eyes. “listen, i’ve met women, right? many, many women, men even! a lotta people!” you had to hide a laugh behind your hand at his words, “but you, ah–,” he snapped his fingers and shook his head at you. 

“i am a confident man,” warren declared, pointing a hand at you. 

“yes you are,” 

after your small reply, he went quiet, still trying to figure out what it is he wants to say. he wasn't about to say he loved you, no matter how much he wanted to, he was sober enough to know that that was a bit too much. warren felt a lot towards you, you made him feel vulnerable, seen. you made him feel like a literal horde of butterflies were swarming his entire torso. you sometimes made him feel like he was dying, with the way you made his heart skip beats, or made it beat rapidly fast. how does one convey that feeling without sounding clinically insane? i mean, sure, he’d been able to charm his way with the ladies before, using cheesy pickup lines was his favourite thing. ever. they were his favourite. but (not to sound like a total dick) those ladies were different. and you were something. something really important. it didn't help that he was still high as fuck, so, he was relatively stumped on what to say—he did know that he wasn't up for humiliating himself in front of you tonight. 

you bit your lip as you watched him struggle, you considered simply just saying ‘i know, i know, me too,’ to make this whole thing easier for him. but you wanted to give him the time to find it. the man showed no signs of giving up, and therefore you kept quiet. you played with the rings decorating your fingers as he stayed groaning and shaking his head at the ceiling every so often. clearly, he was having a crisis. 

and just as you were about to say something, it came to him. slowly, oddly—not the way he wanted it to, but he couldn't exactly be picky, and he considered leaving this entire thing for later and instead writing you a letter, or maybe even a song! but, you didn't seem like the type of chick to dig that. and you were gazing at him expectantly, concernedly, he could feel it burning into the side of his face. he never wanted to leave a crowd waiting. 

“okay,” he turned to you with wide brown eyes, suddenly feeling a burst of energy. the relaxing effect of mary jane said its farewells, and warren, ever unaware in his state of mind, wondered if he had done cocaine instead. “you, pretty lady, ” he huffed, “make me lose my mind, it’s unfair,” 

you raise your eyebrows at that, and let out a small laugh, but quiet down with a small smile once realizing he wasn't done. “you—and, as i stated before, a fucking fox, i mean come on,” he shrugged before reaching over and grabbing the joint from the ashtray again, warren figured he needed his heart rate to go down, relax a bit. he took a puff, grey smoke flowing out of his mouth in a long exhale, before continuing; “i like you a lot, darlin’. so much too, it kinda hurts a bit,” he placed the joint, now a stub, in the ashy part of its respectful tray.

you nearly melted, the smile on your face became a mere slightly gaped mouth and you thought your eyes were hearts, big red ones like from tom and jerry. “just something about you,” he let out a loud ‘whew’, waving an arm and sending you an exasperated look to which you couldn’t help but laugh prettily. and to warren, that sound was his fuel through this. this awkward confession that had been weighing him down the whole time he’d first seen you play on that stage, this confession that he was convinced would make his chest burst eventually. you made it so easy for him, he didn’t care if he got rejected straight after or got laughed at, he still made you laugh. sleep, food, water, even fucking air was unnecessary, for the man believed he could live off of your joy and happiness forever. 

“you got me wrapped around your pretty li’l finger,” warren murmured. he slumped and looked at you, starting to feel the insecurity kick in. so, he sighed and looked away, pulling a fresh joint from the small tin he kept in his pocket, and ignored your observing stare—despite the fact he desperately wanted to return the eye contact. 

you watched as he placed the joint between his lips, and you quickly crawled and snatched the zippo lighter you two shared off the bedside table, making it out of his reach. he still didn't look at you, merely huffing with a small smile beginning to form on his face, and you had to grin at the sight. you folded your lips into your mouth, and your eyes flickered around his face. you crawled over to him next, kneeling in front of his relaxed cross-legged form leaning against the headboard. 

letting out a huff at his stubbornness to look at you, you raised a single eyebrow. he only looked away further. it was an odd sight, a vulnerable one, to see the ever-confident warren rojas, show shyness and insecurity. he felt exposed, to let his charming, goofy facade fall. 

you knelt forward and softly grabbed the side of his face, making him have no choice but look at you. to him, it felt like one of those scary fucking laboratory hypnosis sessions. like his mind just stopped, and was consumed by you, you, you. you were overwhelming, like he couldn't take a deep breath for a second. shit, he thought he might pass out when your hazed eyes flickered between his own, and soon landed on his lips for a split second. 

and he thought he might’ve died and been sent to heaven when you gently lifted his face to bring the lighter up to his lips and lit the joint still set between them. it was silent, aside from the soft breaths coming from each of you, and the crisp sound of the paper on the joint burning whilst he took an absent-minded puff. you watched as the joint burned orange, and proceeded to flick the lighter closed, and set it on your pale, flowery sheets. 

truthfully, you seemed relaxed, and understanding, like you just knew. but you were so happy, nearly bursting on the inside. you weren't quite sure how you were holding yourself together, you felt fully ready to fall apart. just because of him. warren rojas, sure to be the death of you. 

you turned back to him, plucked the joint from his lips and brought it to your own. he watched with wide eyes as your soft lips wrapped around the white papers, and you took a hit. you weren’t looking at him anymore, rather simply looking down, and he was feeling a bit glad about it. not because your eyes were so intense and burned into him just naturally–but because he was sure to truly lose his shit if you did. 

grey smoke trailed out of your mouth and you turned back to him with a small smile, tilting your head. at the sight, warren let out a sigh, and lightly hit the back of his head against the headboard. “you’re so cute,” you quietly said, delightedly, and he groaned again and shook his head, bringing his hands up to cover his own smile. “god, don’t—” he sighed, running a hand through his curls, “damn you, woman,” 

you beamed, and shuffled to grab his hands away from his face. with them in your grasp, you folded your digits with his and his closed eyes opened. warren looked at you exasperatedly, huffing, “minx i tell you, a minx,” he mumbled to himself, feeling like a crazed man on a drug. you laughed, the sound ringing clear in his ears like the prettiest bell he ever heard. again, he could listen to it for ages, like it was a lifeline. 

you gave him a knowing smile, released his hands, and readjusted yourself so you were even closer to him. you watched as he took a deep breath, processing the close proximity. your heart skipped multiple beats as you brought both hands up to cup the sides of his neck, he sighed as you rubbed your manicured thumbs along his jawline. this beautiful man, you thought. you were sure you could never get enough of his curls, big brown eyes, or his absolute hilarity. you were disgustingly attracted to him, all of him. his entire fucking being. 

he was leaning forward towards you now as you hovered before him. to him, it felt like he was being drawn in, he looked back on his hypnosis thought. your eyes flickered all across the other’s face, and he moved so you were now instead sitting in between his legs. warren, cheekily with a grin, placed his hands on your waist and you huffed a soft laugh, resting your forehead against his for a moment. it wasn't lustful, it was the final buildup of all the unspoken attraction, love, and need between each other. it was sweet, sensual. 

he nudged his nose against yours, and he was so, so close. you two moved fluidly and teasingly, closely hovering over each other and chasing the other's lips. it was like a dance, a silent, ‘you have me, now come get me,’. 

oh, and the reward was legendary. you had your hopes and dreams, but this? it was difficult to describe just how much better it was in comparison. your lips finally slotted together like puzzle pieces, and this time, you really did melt. your shoulders slumped and with a broken exhale, you curved into him. he didn't care, only softly laughed into your mouth and wrapped his arms around your waist tighter, holding you together, whilst you curved your arms around his neck. 

he was perfect, so much so, it ached. your feelings toward him before this were like a game of tag, and endless chase, constantly seeking him out in everything you did; even subconsciously. the attraction kept you going, something to look for, to stay motivated for. but this? this was so much better, being able to have him right here. he was overwhelming all of your senses, you felt like you were drowning in him. you’d happily die this way. 

and warren? the man thought he was living a fantasy. he really didn't know what the fuck was happening, if he had something unknown put in his coffee this morning that made him extra desirable in the eyes of others, especially towards someone like you. yes, warren rojas—ladies' man, a rockstar, but you were a princess in his eyes. someone he did not deserve, could and should not have. but here you were, and you were perfect in every sense imaginable. an indescribable beauty was carried in all of you, and he adored all of it. 

warren, his mouth still on yours (just as overwhelming), ran his hands up your waist and flat on your back, only pushing you closer into him. god, you were so close, but he wanted more. yes, he was already losing himself in you, but just a little more, just a little closer. he happily sighed into your mouth as one of your hands tangled in his curls and the other lightly scratched at the nape of his neck, and this time you were the one smiling. 

you had to reluctantly pull away to take a breath, and warren blinked his brown eyes open with a grin. he rested his head against yours, and drew gentle circles on the curve of your back. 

“does that mean you’re into me too, cheeky girl?”

[eldritch-elrics]

"character whose purpose is to seal an (ancient) evil" is always a trope that makes me go a little crazy, in all its incarnations. like ohhhh what if i was born and raised to contain within my body the evil force plaguing us all and i had to become a completely empty vessel so that it wouldn't corrupt me when it was forced inside my mind. what if i sealed away an ancient god of destruction but then was myself sealed in a crystal outside of spacetime for an eternity because others were afraid my power was too great. what if i was created as a failsafe mechanism to seal away my super-powerful engineered weapon of a sister in case something went wrong but my dissatisfaction with my existence eventually compelled me to break her free and absorb her powers myself. it's the play between power and freedom and objectification and never being able to truly get rid of the thing you're holding back, between being trapped in a cage and being a cage...

[hausofanya]

have your ramen and cry in it.

genre, feelings. ( talk to me. suffering in silence is futile to growth. ) featuring, cléo, chan, and chan’s terrible spice tolerance.

two hours. two hours spent encased in a glass box with nothing to show for it but her throat run a bit raw and wasted time. the strain in her voice is noticeable but amplified in her own mind. she can feel the weight of her own dissatisfaction hanging heavy on her shoulders, gaze dropped to the floor as a hastily shoved on baseball cap obscures her view.

two hours of his wasted time, too. but he’d never say it to her face. he was too nice. sometimes to a fault.

‘you’ve almost got it!’ his voice crackles in through the speakers and she thinks she nods or does some kind of head jerk to indicate she heard him. her gaze doesn’t move from the floor, her heartbeat thrumming underneath her skin. ‘we’re gonna run it back one more time, alright?’

she wonders if he knows about the whispers she gets when people think nobody’s listening. about the girl who wasn’t talented enough to debut in a ‘proper group’, so jyp stuck her with the ‘experimental one because he didn’t know what to do with her’. that she knows what people say online about her — attention seeking, crybaby, industry whore — and that she spends her nights scrolling through forums instead of getting her hours in. the makeup artists are starting to get frustrated with her, she knows. the boys are starting to get concerned, too. but matter how much she tries to push the negativity aside, it persists like a festering wound against the outskirts of her mind, plaguing even her unconscious hours.

if she really was the ‘golden voice’ of her school, where’s all that talent gone? she sounds like a shattered record lol. my two year old sister can sing better than that. kick her out omg

she probably slept with someone high up to have debuted in that group. and it’s not even like they’re famous anyway so why bother? just seems like a lot of effort going nowhere imo

when is jyp going to stop debuting kids who clearly need to grow up more than sing on stage… did we not learn from sixteen???

honestly glad survival shows exist bc u can really see it’s mostly just looks. yeah she’s pretty but that’s all she’s got going for her. most she’ll get is maybe two years and then a flop acting career.

she’d stewed over that last comment for days. even now, when she’s supposed to be improving, she can’t stop thinking about those comments, despite standing on her little soap box mere hours ago when hyunjin had expressed his own uncertainties. she’d sat there and listened and kept her own nasty swirl of fears buried deep enough, entrusted with someone else’s fears for safekeeping.

hypocrite. but fake it until you hopefully make it, right?

cléo starts back from the top once more, turned away from the eyes seemingly boring into her body on the other side of the glass. trapped, like a caged zoo animal. she’s suddenly glad there aren’t any cameras rolling.

paper clutched in her hands, her voice wavers in the slightest but she’s able to get through most of the lyrics and runs with no trouble. hope crawls a treacherous path from the balls of her feet and up to her heart. arms weak, it snags on any surface it can hold on to; a perfectly pitched riff, a smoothly sung chorus. and just when it finds the light, the end of the song just in reach—

her voice cracks. again, and again, and again.

no matter how many times she insisted on getting that one particular note right, her voice leaves her swiftly without second thought, all her progress depleting. hope trips and tumbles painfully back to the uneven ground. the paper crinkles in her hands, giving way easily from repeating crushing.

cléo takes a shaky breath and blinks back tears of frustration, quickly reaching up to wipe at her eyes under the guise of brushing her hair away from her face. ( she’s not fooling anyone, she knows. ) when she sneaks a look back at outside, she sees no one else in that room but him. her chest cinches painfully.

just as she’s about to try once more, his voice crackles in before she’s able to get a sound out.

‘cléo.’ she hesitates, but turns despite every muscle in her body screaming at her not to.

chan’s expression is unreadable, but she can tell he’s not .. mad. or frustrated, or even pissed. which confuses her because she’s one hundred percent sure he heard every second of her disaster attempt at a recording.

he doesn’t say anything for a moment, staring at her with the same unreadable expression, and her skin itches from being stared at so closely. her gaze falls back to the floor before her eyes squeeze shut to prevent from crying.

‘are you hungry?’

huh? cléo swallows nervously and tries her best to scale her confusion back, absolutely sure he was going to comment on her lackluster abilities. she’s too late in answering what was probably a rhetorical question anyway.

‘man, i’m starved.’ chan then smiles at her through the glass and her eyes slowly begin to sting from the warmth radiating through the barrier. ‘i could probably eat a horse at this rate. let’s go eat, yeah? my treat.’

✶

one convenience-store-and-stray-cat-finding trip later, and cléo finds herself watching in budding amusement as chan tries and fails to act as if his mouth isn’t on fire.

when he’d told her he’d get the two of them whatever she wanted to eat, she’d suggested ramen because it was easy to make and didn’t require a lot of things to cook. besides waiting for the eggs to boil in his tiny little kitchen, the ramen was the best choice of a late night meal.

except .. she hadn’t been clear on how spicy it was. and she paid the price by watching in horror, at first, to see chan’s ears turn bright red — near cartoon-esque — to poorly hidden mirth as he down his second ( third? ) cup of milk while her bottled water remained unopened.

“you’re trying to kill me, i know it,” chan groans weakly, and scoffs loudly when it makes her stifle a laugh. “you’re laughing. i’m seconds away from my deathbed, and you’re laughing. cléo.”

it’s the mention of her name that finally makes her crack, bursting into a fit of giggles that nearly make her fall over in her chair. it brings tears to her eyes out of how weak her body becomes soon after, unlike the tears and sniffling coming from her companion’s lack of a spice tolerance. he puffs out his face in faux anger and it sends her into another round of laughter, clutching her stomach as she pleads for him to stop.

red cheeked but amused by her good mood, chan slowly eases the both of them into amicable conversation, steering clear from her ruined studio session. but the memories coming rolling back in despite his best efforts, and she goes from smiling and laughing to slowly answering with one worded responses, her expression closing shut.

silence hangs in chan’s tiny kitchen. cléo struggles to keep her breathing leveled.

it only takes one look and a gentle toned calling of her name for the first tears to stain her shirt, shoulders hunched up to her ears. her baseball cap long forgotten, she can’t hide from him even if she wanted to. shaking hands still attempting anyway — wiping furiously at tired eyes before his hands slowly pull them away least she hurt herself.

when she looks up at him, trembling nervously, she’s hit with a near painful amount of concern and sadness mixed in his expression. and that’s what hits the final nail in the coffin, her resolve crumbling before she bursts into tears.

chan rubs her back soothingly as it spills out of her without warning, his head resting on top of hers. she tells him about her worst fears, the resentment she held towards herself most of all, and those comments — hundreds of them aimed at her worst moments and badly timed mistakes, magnified by slow cuts and repetition. her fingers curl into his shirt as another horrid sob wracks through her entire body, her tears dissolving into the black fabric of his shirt. she feels him stiffen and her throat closes up, prepared for the worst; for him to agree, since he saw firsthand what they were talking about.

she wouldn’t blame him, honestly. he’d built this group from the ground up. maybe all she was worth was a life resigned to endless training leading to an attempt towards acting. assuming any company would want her once her failed attempts resurfaced.

instead, he hugs her even tighter, his voice firm despite its soft timbre. “we chose you.” her headache bangs the drumline of a death metal song against her skull. “no matter what, we chose you. they only know what’s edited and served to them on a platter.”

she can feel him smiling without seeing it. “stage fright is normal even if you’ve been singing since you were little. you’re only human after all. and what’s a few bad clips compared to getting the chance to debut? you’ll work hard and do better. i know you will.”

cléo’s chest tightens a bit, but not as painfully this time. a small part of her still has doubts, a bit skeptical of his unwavering faith in her. despite it, she allows herself to relax into his hug for as long as she can bear it before she pulls away and awkwardly stares at her lap. “now i feel kind of silly. but, um. thank you for listening.” even if i still don’t understand how much you still believe in me.

“it’s the least i could do when you have clear intent to kill me. one last good deed before i die from heart burn or inflammation or something.”

chan smiles as cléo threatens to swap bowls, wiping a stray tear from the corner of her eye.

[bonefall]

Can we ask about Bonefall Dustpelt? I always liked his arc going from kinda shitty bully to a responsible and supportive clan mate

[ID: Dustpelt from warrior cats. He has diamond-shaped markings on his chest, feet, and the end of his tail, with a large, flat marking on the top of his face. The background is the genderqueer flag colors.]

Since I made genders, BB!Dustpelt's story is coming together in my mind.

He's AMAB, or, ATAB. Assigned Tom at Birth.

Dust and Raven's entire family died a horrible death of plague about 6 months before TPB started. Dustpaw was one of the few who managed to not catch it; Ravenpaw survived with stunted growth.

That traumatic experience definitely prompted Bluestar to want to give them the strongest and most loyal warriors in ThunderClan as mentors.

Redtail is transgender and very disciplined, so he was given Dust who was pretty obviously gender-nonconforming and lashing out in the hopes they'd figure it out together.

This is how he got so close with Sandstorm! Her and Longtail are the kits of Redtail and Runningwind, from two different litters.

They're besties. It's completely platonic.

The mentorship wasn't perfect but it WAS working. Dustpaw was close with his mentor, but had a long way to go.

...And then the plot happened, of course.

He was really lost when he didn't have Redtail anymore, and associated poor Firepaw with that loss. It was made worse by his new mentor being Darkstripe. Him and Longtail became very close with Tigerclaw, supporting him and even joining the rumor mill about Ravenpaw.

Dustpelt regrets that pretty deeply now, that he did that to his own brother. It's something he did when he was young and susceptible, and he can't really make it right.

He was still trying to figure himself out through TPB, generally being antagonistic towards Fireheart out of anger and jealousy and dissatisfaction with himself

Sandstorm even started losing her patience with him

And yet, when the time came for Tigerclaw's plot to be revealed, Dustpelt didn't waver and proved his loyalty.

Even Fireheart's mentorships of Cinderpaw and Cloudpaw were both unfair because of his age and inexperience, AND ended disastrously. Fireheart knew when he was picking mentors for Fernpaw and Elderpaw that Dustpelt would need to be rewarded in some way.

But he wouldn't repeat Bluestar's mistake. So he had a solution;

Frostfur would mentor Elderpaw. Darkstripe would mentor Fernpaw. And for Dustpelt-- what he really needed was some way to put his paws to work.

One-eye came out of retirement for a while to grant him a third mentorship, as she had once been a nearly legendary builder and no one was ever truly able to pick up her skills.

He didn't need to connect with tom-gendered traits like patrolling and passivity. This felt right, and it felt good. THIS was what he needed.

And so, Dustpelt came into his own. He is genderqueer! After TPB, he becomes an important background character as the head of the Construction Patrol.

His surviving children are Spiderleg, Birchfall, and Lilyheart, and his grandchildren are Spotfur, Duststripe, Rosepetal, and Toadstep.

Foxleap and Icecloud are no longer his kittens; those are Bright x Cloud kids; in return, Lilyheart and Seedpaw are now his. Shrewpaw is Shrewface in StarClan and a guardian angel of Squirrelflight. Hollykit and Larchkit die similarly to how they do in-canon.

[floataaaa]

Undertale Hollow AU Backstory

*The timeline takes place in the Pacifist Ending, but this time, Clover doesn't choose to sacrifice himself and stays to live with his friends

* However, two years later, the core failed and stop working.

* The King Asgore asked Alphys the Royal Scientist to repair the core, and during the breakdown, the abandoned Steamworks was reactivated, and the power was maintained by white plants.

* However, the situation is not promising, and as time goes on, the problems of unemployment, productivity decline, and technological regression caused by the shutdown of the core become more and more prominent, the dissatisfaction and disappointment of the monster society with this situation is growing day by day.

* At the same time, the progress of the core repair plan is not optimistic.

*Dr.Alphys believes that there is still hope for monsters, and that with persistent research, no matter how long it takes, they will always find a way to repair the core and restore the underground energy supply system.

* In order to explore a way to fix the core, she wanted to use some of the materials left behind by Chujin, and Axis as one of the few thinkable robots in Steamworks, was chosen to negotiate with her.

* However, the two sides diverged their opinions, and in the end, after a major failure in negotiations, the two sides inevitably broke up.

*The Steamworks abandoned the monster and chose to cut off the power supply to the underground.

* This move escalated the friction between the two sides, and a civil war inevitably broke out in order to compete for the initiative in energy.

* The Underground,which has lost its power supply, has become extremely frozen, which is a cataclysm for all but Snowdin. The soil became uncultivable, food production was drastically reduced, and famine occurred in many places.

* And the war entered a stalemate, until an abrupt plague broke the stalemate.

* A disease named "Soul Illness" begins to spread underground, a disease will gradually deteriorate the soul of the patient , eventually causing die.

* The story of Undertale Hollow AU unfolds against such a hellish background

[eldritch-spouse]

Okay, first off, I ADORE your blog. You're writing style and creativity? *Chefs Kiss*

Secondly, I wanted to ask, how do the Icons of Hell react to a reader SO that is self-conscious, and\or has low self-esteem?

(I also can't help but wonder if Vorticas[I think that's the right spelling] name is a pun?)

[Thenk you very much, I'm pleased you're having fun. <:7]

Self-conscious reader and the Icons

Vesper is perhaps the nicest about it, realistically. You're Queen of Lust, everyone wants you and everyone admires you! What kind of madness is this?! What do you not like about to yourself? He'll make you sit down and tell him, just list it off. He's no psychologist, but Vesper's sure changes in your routine and self-afirming exercises will strip that out of you.

Vorticia has had many kids, all of which have already gone through their very hectic adolescent phases, in which they struggled with all sorts of natural self-esteem issues. She knows the types of things that can be weighing you down, and although her attitude is very "no nonsense", the Queen of Gluttony will crack at your tilted view of reality jarringly fast. She's the first to notice how deep your insecurities go.

Zizz is entirely out of his depth. He doesn't know what to do with you. He's not sure why you feel this way, and he's even more stressed out when his frantic declarations of your supposed perfection are just shunned. He even gets a tad irritated. He doesn't know what to tell you, so he forces you into dreams where you're worshipped from top to bottom- Physically and verbally, by numberless faceless demons and himself. He hopes repeating this achieves something.

Kalymir is a cunt. An honest cunt. He doesn't know what the fuck is in that shitheap you call a brain, but it's all wrong. It fucking grates on his nerves hearing you say that shit, get out, touch the ground, do something you moping little ball of misery! What are you, some fucking loser? Chin up, bitch- You're the Queen of Wrath! Act like it, dumbass. Do you think he would have picked you if you were worthless?

Rinx unfortunately has a very linear approach to dissatisfaction. Materialism. But how can you be insecure, when you have everything you could ever want laid at your feet, woman?! What is there to be insecure about? Come on, you're overthinking it. You'll have to be more vocal about it with Rinx, he will gladly get you help, but he doesn't really know how to tackle it on his own.

Cero... Will only assert your insecurities. He doesn't even mean to do it (unless it's a punishment), but it's not in his nature to praise or lift spirits. He thinks the correct way to go about this is to have everyone else praise and worship the ground you walk on, instead of adressing you directly. See, don't be a fool, look how superior you are to them. This is childish honestly, the two of you have better things to waste your time on.

Livius is someone you need to urgently avoid, like the plague. Remember, he mimics you. If you're deeply insecure and unwell, he'll take on those traits too. What ends up happening is that he'll adopt your insecurities and create a cycle of negative feedback. No, you're not ugly- He's ugly!!! HE'S STUPID AND USELESS. Congratulations, now you're both mentally unwell.

To address the name thing, a lot of these names are puns, and I've said it before too.

Vorticia = Vore + Morticia.

Rinx = "Rings".

Zizz = Catching Z's.

Kalymir = Derived from "calamity".

Vesper = Not exactly a pun so much as I'm determined to give vaguely religious names to sex demons as an inside joke.

Livius = From a roman origin, means "livid or envious". Liviu, a man who envies others.

(Di) Cero = Means wax in Latin, because this fucker waxes poetic. It also sounds like "zero" in some languages (including mine), and he's a whole ass 0/10. The name is also said to be associated with unstable, bitter individuals.

[plangentlyre]

On the rare times that Jessica shows any face of disgruntlement at Jennifer, it comes through in the form of bustling city streets, heavily looming rush hours and the sweltering heat of July summers. To name it more precisely, the perpetrator responsible for the tingle of dissatisfaction that licks across the arcanist wrongly falls solely on a certain blondie.

Her brows have remained furrowed for the past hours as she is dragged from shop to shop without a single hint that her lover acknowledges her presence. The way that Jennifer holds onto her like her designer bags and trendy pink brands without paying her any attention nor look at her way drives a certain surge of want to rush in her blood.

It boils her so heatedly that when Jennifer ignores the annoying lady's sudden closeness in proximity, how she disregards the hand that creeps along her arm and the stare of greed that seeks her as if she were the one who starved in an abandoned campsite under countless full moons with only stories of nightmares and memories to ground her, waiting in yearn for that certain girl to return, everything bursts at the seams.

I don't like this, she thinks and so she summons her critter friends and commands a well-aimed strike at the intrusive lady. A commotion of panic ripples across the boutique, triggering a mass of employees within their distance to shriek and scream at her in fear.

The guards run at her with a falter in their steps and a shiver crawling up their backs as they come to arrest her. She sees Jennifer hurry to pacify them, spewing out needless excuses to vouch for her good character. When she turns to her however, Jessica is already exiting the shop and stomping her way back home.

She rushes to catch her. "What was that all about? I was just about to get a great deal for that handbag and you went all berserk for no reason! What's with you?!"

Jessica's silent response allows Jennifer to continue. "H-Hey! Don't you dare ignore me! If this is some kind of twisted tactic for entertainment, then I hope you know when to watch yourself. You can't just do things so recklessly. You know how much your actions can hurt us."

"Then maybe Jennifer shouldn't have been reckless herself!" The sharpness in Jessica's tone catches the other girl off guard. "Letting yourself fall prey to a vapid lady, giving her more smiles than me... don't you know how much that hurts me too? I hate it."

"Jessica, what are you—?" She stops when Jessica faces her. A look of devastation mars her face and even without a trace of tears dampening her cheeks, the thick coat of blurriness that sheens over her pretty eyes is enough to tell her of its inevitable wreckage.

The way that Jessica shrinks in on herself ever so slightly and looks at her with a keenness akin to a wary animal twists a tight, painful knot at her heart.

Before she can gather her words, Jessica swerves and gallops quickly away from her, leaving Jennifer a permanent image of her hurt expression to plague her restless mind.

And soon after futile hours of searching, that face comes to fill her journal's pages with messily scripted apologies from the hand of its heartsick artist.