#do not turn your wretched gaze upon me im just having a moment

[soullessjack]

having a normal 4:38am as you can see

[hotcupoteckla]

Benevolio didn't ask for much from life, really.

He was Charming's right hand, and got to adventure nearly all the time. He was fed & clothed each day. He even enjoyed helping Charming as a squire, even though he technically was a knight, and no longer had to do that.

Charming had Never allowed him to be treated as the Whipping Boy, even when both of them were in the wrong. Ben smiled. In fact the King was SO impressed with Charming's ability to reason, as well as Charming's upholding the chivalry that was key to his being a great king, that he outright banned the practice at court.

So, no. There wasn't much to ask for at all... except...

Did it have to be a full moon /quite/ so often?

He felt it for the past 3 days now: his temper becoming shorter, snapping at the squire who was mishandling the swords AGAIN, but you Cannot! Hand! A! Sword! Unsheathed! BLADE FIRST! It's just asking for someone to get injured.

"Go! Practice in the scullery with the knives! At least there will be clean dishes!"

"But sire, Sir Cuthbert & Sir Chauncey-"

Sir Benevolio said nothing, just looked. Just gazed into the soul of the young squire, and saw him as a wolf had spied a hare. Intensely & intently peered into the brush colored eyes of the /child/ that trembled before him.

"Hie. Away. Squire."

Off the hare-child scampered, caught without the secret they carried so near to their heart it could have burst the binding cross their ribcage with each beat.

Benevolio changed his wish that moment as he stood staring across the grounds after the squireling.

He dreamed to dare live a life without secrets.

"Ho, there! Bennie! What troubles you so?"

Ah, Cuthbert. WithOUT Chauncey, a relief.

"Nothing, really. Just caught Squire Harry trying to pass a sword to Squire Damian without a sheath, tip first."

"What? Such small concerns for such dire eyebrows, Bennie Goodbean! Surely there is something else that holds a sway over your wretched puss?!" Bennie reached out to smack Bertie upside the head, but missed as the rogue ducked and laughed slackjawed.

"If I'm to be Charming's friend, I need to guide the youth to safety and level headedness, lead by example," Ben clarified for his friend.

" Then you should stop acting as though you have a death wish, Bennie."

Ben started, and glanced back - Bert had stopped mid-stride, grabbing Ben's hand. There was a certain sort of sadness & helplessness - both looked at the hands between them, not knowing where else to start.

"Bertie, I'm not-"

"Have you told Charming about the attacks?"

Ben drew his hand away, as the sun passed behind a cloud, and started marching to the stables.

"Ben, you have to tell him." Bertie followed behind. Ben walked faster.

"You know what happens in court to the Cursed-" Ben walked /faster/

"-and Now his Fiance is One of Them, and Somebody Will Figure It Out and Tell Her, or Tell Him without you," Ben stopped, and Bertie crashed into him from jogging to keep stride.

"No. They won't. I'll be in armor during the ball. We'll leave shortly thereafter for the dragon's lair. Then I'll be /injured/ again, and will go to worry about the other side during my recuperation. Nobody Knows."

Bert wrapped an arm around his friend and spun Ben around until they were face to face. Bert stared at Ben's chest as he whispered,

" Ben, I think the King knows. He knew you were involved slaying the beast. He knew it was Cursed. He knows you were injured, and now he knows that you get injured... for a week... a lot " Bert's lower lip trembled.

"Posh! That's nothing. What has he done about anything? I'm still here. Im still in charge of squire training. He hasn't called upon me in court. Even if he suspects-"

"BEN, it was HIS idea for Charming's Engagement!" Bert's shout drew eyes & glances from the courtyard upon them. They turned away to face the wall and bowed their heads as though in conference. Ben sighed in frustrated exhaustion. The rumor mill has been set to turn and grind their feet.

Ben heard a choked sob from Bertie, but he couldn't look. He was too afraid to face his brother in arms as he worried.

Over nothing. Yes, Bertie was always a worrywort.

Ben put his right arm around Bert's shoulders as Bert shook his head, as though that would shut the gates of welling tears. As though they didn't leak through.

The clouded cover grew thicker and the wind had become chilled.

Benevolio assured his friend that there was nothing to fear. He would tell Charming when the time was right, and the Fiance seemed to be ensorcelled by him rather than the other way around, so wouldn't say a word either.

Eventually, they would live in a court where that sort of shit wouldn't matter, or could possibly be cured.

Bertie wiped his cheeks and his eyes from the tears, and started nodding & agreeing everything would be okay, when Chauncey jumped in a crouched position in front of them, hands splayed wide, tongue out in a grotesque smile, his red hair flouncing into his open mouth as he did so.

"Mleahhhhhh, Gits & Gamblers! Did you wee your pants?! Are you in tears because I scared you?!"

Benevolio stoically replied, "Nope. He's in tears from a joke I just told him." Bertie nodded, wiping some snots into his jerkin's collar.

"Ooo, what fun," Chauncey punched Ben in the arm, rather hard for a comrade in arms should. "Who knew Bennie had a sense of humor, eh?"

"Your mother did."

"What-"

"Your mother knew I had a sense of humor."

"When would she know of such sorcery-"

"When I was done /enchanting/ her last night!"

Ben ran for the stables, Chauncey close on his heels, Cuthbert shortly behind them.

He has to keep Chauncey fit somehow - otherwise wine & goose livers would cause him to lag behind & be a sore spot for Charming's accoutrement. This way was usually the most effective, even if it was uncouth.

Ben could also tell if Chauncey was left behind there would be little else to stop his plots, and given Ben's current... entanglement, he couldn't keep an eye on him in court. It would just... there would be too many eyes, too many lives- too many complications. It was better like this until he could tell Charming.

Bertie was right, though.

It had to be soon.

Daughter of fantasy villains decides to rebel against her parents by actually going through with her arranged marriage to a local golden retriever of a prince instead of running off with some local villain-to-be or conquering said golden retriever’s kingdom and ruling it solo like her parents expect her to. Plus, sue her, she’s into the clean-cut earnest look.

At the same time, local prince charming discovers that he’s actually very into the gothic fiance his parents have landed him with in order to try and establish peace with the local evil lair down the lane, he would never have guessed a spiderweb pattern could look so fetching on a ball gown…?

Meanwhile, two pairs of parents in a tizzy because they both expected their offspring to whole-heartedly reject this union and give them an excuse to conquer their goody-two-shoes/evil neighbours, they’re not supposed to actually like each other-!

[jaskiersvalley]

I just reached the bottom of your writings and felt the need to say that i appreciate you. You’re really cool and im happy I stumbled upon you.

You are far far too sweet. This has been sat in my inbox for so long because I don't think anyone has called me cool before and I wanted to bask in that. I really appreciate you too and I'm really happy you stumbled upon my blog. So I hope you're still in the fandom and enjoy this little bit of odd zombie AU.

CW: Zombies, apocalypse, Resdent Evil/Last of Us inspired AU.

Last Hope

Nobody expected the Continent to turn to shit. War had been on the horizon, Nilfgaard was advancing but not once did anyone expect them to have been experimenting with creating superior soldiers to fight for them. Allegedly the idea had been to harvest some of the Continent's monsters' attributes and imbue them into soldiers, creating a new class of warriors. It hadn't worked. But what Nilfgaard did manage to create was a virus like no other before. It turned humans and animals into mindless, violent creatures whose sole purpose was to feed, preferably on human flesh. The virus spread like no other, bringing the whole Continent to its knees.

Pockets of survivors remained, walled up in thick stone keeps. Kaer Morhen was one such sanctuary. Witchers, it turned out, weren't immune to the virus. Letho had watched Serrit and Auckes succumb to it, had put them down before setting light to where they'd been trying to stay safe and he set off to find somewhere, anywhere, that would accept him. The cold didn't impact much on the undead, they still moved just as deadly fast, unencumbered by things like fatigue, hunger or frostbite. Still, he made it up to the keep and was welcomed in. It was probably the most full Kaer Morhen had been in a long time. There were witchers, sorceresses, humans, dwarves, vampires and who knew what else, all coexisting and trying to make the best of their lives.

"I heard rumours," Letho said over dinner. "There's someone immune to this whole wretched thing down South."

"And I heard a rumour that taking a shit over the parapets cures piles," Lambert shot back with a snort. Being cooped up with so many people didn't exactly suit him, even when Aiden was there along with Eskel too.

Yennefer sat up straighter. "I've heard that rumour too. Sent word out that if it's true, we're probably best placed to try and find what makes the person so special. Maybe derive a cure from them."

Not long after, Gaetan arrived with Guxart. And with some news.

"There's a man and a girl travelling North. Allegedly with the hope of a cure."

The others exchanged looks, not wanting to believe rumours. Hope was a dangerous thing, but they could all use a dose of it. Things had been bleak to say the least.

Guxart picked up the story. "There's a lot of people gunning for them. So far they've evaded being captured, left quite a bloody trail too. We saw what remained of a tavern. Allegedly the group living there had been luring in weary travellers with the promise of safety, only to throw them into a fighting ring." Unfortunately such stories weren't unusual, humans had the most disdainful ideas of entertainment at times. Guxart pressed on, "If it was those two then I hope they're not headed here. They left no survivors, cleared out the place of humans and undead alike. It was a massacre."

There was nothing to do but wait. A week passed, then another. The hope they'd felt at the mention of a possible path to a cure dwindled and turned into bitter disappointment at the backs of their minds. It was almost three weeks later that there was a commotion on the path to the old keep. The undead who lurked in the trees were snarling and howling as two figures broke into a sprint on the last stretch of the path, pursued by quite a hoard of hungry zombies.

"Get the gate!" Vesemir bellowed and it was a mad dash to open the gates while armed. They weren't quick enough and a scuffle broke out as the two travellers were up against the gates, the undead descending upon them. A sharp scream went up from what sounded like a young girl. The gate opened and Eskel reached out, pulling her in first before Lambert gruffly yanked her protector in too. The others pushed to slam the gates shut, bolting it once more.

"Cahir! Are you okay?" The girl ignored them all in favour of checking over her guardian, wisps of blonde hair sticking to her sweaty face.

"I'm fine." A gruff answer and the so called Cahir looked up at them with an exhausted, hollow gaze. "This is Kaer Morhen, right? We were told this is where we had to come. She's Ciri, I'm Cahir."

Vesemir stepped forward with a brisk nod. "Welcome. Let's get you settled. From what I hear, you had quite the journey."

Yennefer ushered Ciri away and the others trailed after her, curious to see what someone immune to the virus looked like, acted like. The left Eskel to lead Cahir to a room of his own.

"Nilfgaard's quite a way," he said by way of conversation, ignoring the way Cahir rubbed his wrist under his cloak.

"Vicovaro is even further." The answer was a little prim and offended. "I'm not Nilfgaardian."

"My apologies. If you want to clean up, we have a communal bath in the lower levels. You're welcome to join us."

The offer seemed to go ignored as Cahir simply flopped on the bed and closed his eyes without even kicking off his worn boots. Eskel couldn't begrudge him, such a journey was long and tiring even before the world went to shit. To then have to cross the Continent while chased by who knew how many people wanting his precious charge and the unending masses of undead no doubt made the whole thing exhausting.

Dinner was bubbling away in a large cauldron over a fire and the chores for the day were done. It was quite common for most of the residents of Kaer Morhen to settle in the baths, one of the few remaining luxuries left for them. To everyone's surprise Cahir bumbled in a little while later, still sleep rumpled but without his cloak. It left his ragged and torn shirt in full view, including where one sleeve had been ripped off at the elbow. On his lower arm was a freshly applied bandage with blood that had seeped through in an all too telling pattern. Cries of alarm went up as they spotted the bite.

"You've been bitten!"

"How could you endanger us like this?"

"You idiot!"

It was a cacophony as various witchers jumped out of the baths, reaching for their swords and heedless of their nudity. There was a very real danger in their midst that needed to be taken care of. Cahir held up his hands in a placating manner, surrendering without a fight.

"If I may?" He pulled his shirt over his head and the others tried to make sense of what they were seeing. His body was littered with scars from bites. Some were healed, others still scabbed over. When the trousers slid down, Cahir's legs were no different.

"What the-?" Lambert scowled.

It was the exact moment Yennefer arrived, Ciri in tow. She gave Cahir a once over. "It would seem we made some assumptions. Cahir, when you're rested and fed, I'd like to take a sample of your blood and hair please."

Next to her, Ciri giggled and tucked a strand of hair out of her face. She walked up to Cahir and took his bandaged arm in hand, inspecting his handiwork.

"You're getting better at this," she announced. "Hopefully it's the last one you've taken for me or anyone else though."

Her words were followed by an eerie silence in the baths as the others mulled over everything.

"So-" Eskel rubbed the back of his neck with a small frown, "-is Ciri your daughter?"

A bright laugh bubbled out of Ciri at that. "If only I was so lucky. I was his escort and bodyguard. Our pursuers often assumed that me being so young looking meant I was the immune one and Cahir was protecting me. That deception worked well for us."

Guxart cleared his throat. "We saw a tavern that was a fighting ring."

Both Ciri's and Cahir's faces darkened at that. It was Cahir who answered.

"We survived. But barely." His hand rubbed over his shoulder where a large chunk had been torn out, leaving a visible dent. "Had to lay low and recover for a while after that. Ciri injured her throat."

"And you got a bitch of a fever. You're the worst patient ever, always fidgeting and poking. It's a miracle only that bite got infected so bad."

Cahir stuck his tongue out at Ciri and she poked him in the stomach. In turn Cahir ruffled her hair and danced away. Taking it as a challenge, she dashed after him and gave him a shove that sent him flying, landing with a big splash in one of the baths. Spluttering and laughing, he surfaced.

"Oh you little bitch!" He playfully splashed water in her direction but Ciri let out a scream and the water froze mid arc before dropping into a sad little puddle on the ground.

The others stared at her in awe and horror. She grinned at them with a shrug. "You didn't really think they'd send some random, helpless girl as a bodyguard, did you?"

A hand landed on Ciri's shoulder as Yennefer smiled down at her. "You and I have a lot to discuss. How would you feel about learning how to control your powers even better?"

For the first time since the news that there might be a solution to the virus, hope trickled back into the lives of the residents of Kaer Morhen. It wasn't going to be an overnight solution, they knew it wasn't going to be easy. But they were one small step closer to a safer, happier life and that was more than enough for them after years of despair.

[vynnyal]

Throwing random thoughts, headcanons, and a variety of pasta at the wall (but only those having to do with vessels and/or their biology this time): The Thrilling Third Installment™

...aka pretending i can be dark and dramatic jskhdfd

Thk's larger form is not the standard, but the exception. Thk was cited as being "raised and trained to prime form", which people take to mean pk assisted in the vessel's natural growth. However, that conclusion leaves a lot of unanswered questions, most important of which being “then what about Ghost?” In short, I think that train of thought is backwards. Vessels can't grow- they are ageless, and immortal. We know this due to Ghost, despite living as long if not longer than thk, being completely unchanged over the years. The only thing pk trained into "prime form" was thk’s mind and fighting prowess. Their body... well, I think it was mutated. Most likely either directly by pk, or ordered by him- and with the shenanigans happening over in the sanctum, I wouldn't be surprised if Soul was involved, too. In any case, it was in no means natural. Vessels are corpses reanimated by void; neither corpses nor void tend to make drastic changes on their own all that often. Whether pk predicted the vessel’s “issues” and intended to manually “upgrade” them from the beginning, it's hard to say. But... yeah. Unless Ghost goes out of their way to make themselves grow- if its even possible, now that pk is gone- its fairly safe to say, they never will.

...with that in mind, we are promptly gonna ignore that for the rest of this post lmaooo

Grown-up vessels wouldn't look like thk; while they are described as being raised into "prime form"... prime form, to whom? Rather than looking like an idealized pk soldier, it sounds much more fitting that they’d have an entirely different, natural adult form. Consider: their cloaks being longer and fuller, perhaps filling out into something with a more practical use to their “species”. Better yet, they could even grow up to be more beast-like. Feral vessels, YEhaW

The black egg temple is cited as being "built to sustain [vessels]", yet it can't be their lifespan that is sustained. Rather, it seems the egg is specifically designed to keep the radiance from tearing thk apart, physically and/or mentally. Ngl its p obvious, but worth noting.

Sorta-au where Ghost’s shade has 8 eyes, and/or is generally all-around more cryptid-looking.

@ the sharpshadow charm and the strange, 6-eyed creature their shade turns into: kudos to this post, they bring up something super interesting- the creature not only resembles the Shade Lord, but the lord outright becomes it during the Embrace the Void cutscene.

makes me respect the ol’ civilization a whole lot more if a single charm can turn a baby shade into a baby lord.

The concept of finding ghosts unconscious body, laying next to a corpse, while they battle in their dreams. Alt: when ghost enters the dream realm, their shade leaves their shell... And protects their body from harm.

If steel soul mode is taken as canon, just how did ghost and the shade meet? Alt: Ghost may never have “met” it at all, as it technically doesn’t exist in that mode- instead, its more of a metaphor than an actual entity.

What the vessels looked like- or were supposed to look like- before the void. Alt: a story following a child, alive and untouched, that somehow managed to be spared. They could even have a gender. Alt alt: the void intentionally spared them for some purpose, or even out of simple kindness- or at least, something that resembles kindness.

Re: the shade inexplicably having a nail: all the vessel's swords are crafted from “will-bearing rock”- of which i’ve come to lovingly call living stone- and as such, are of void themselves. That's how the shade seems to conjure up its own copy; it merely shapes it, from the ground, using void. And, while more of a stretch, Ghost’s nail being some sort of living stone/pale ore alloy could explain just how Ghost can do seemingly pretty crazy things with an otherwise ordinary nail. Better, while 100% a baseless hc, its material might actually enable Ghost to build it up and modify it to suite their size as they grow older. finally, a logical reason adult Ghost has an adult-sized nail-claymore. hdsfghjfghdsjf

On that same thought: Ghost outright invented the "art" of manipulating- or creating- living stone to make their nail. ...gimme a sec. The other escaped vessels have nails, too, right? Either meaning they also discovered this ability... or that theres some legitimate ground for the “vessel gang” hc. Or, yanno, i’m reading too much into Ari’s sprites but sHHhh

How did all the vessels know to race to the top? They seemed to be falling merely because they had just been born and had literal, actual baby strength; yet not only did they inexplicably risk everything competing to the top, they somehow knew death was waiting if they lost. Alt: pk just, bringing a fucking megaphone and telling them like a sports announcer.

What if Ghost made it, and instead of falling, they managed to joined thk at the lip? What would pk do? Push them off the edge??? Or just adopt them both?? Oh fuck au where they're raised as twin sacrifices. Or worse yet, they’re raised unequally, and one is trained only as an afterthought. As a backup.

Alternatively, pk keeps all the vessels au, only a few years later when they're grown. Pk now has a literal army of pure knights. Radiance is fucked.

Hm. If vessels were fully coherent entities from the moment of birth, why was there a crib in the white palace? Did... did they use it? I have a feeling team cherry made that asset before the abyss scene lmaooo alt: they did, uh, use the crib. Cue a very awkward scene of thk, clearly not a normal baby, staring at wl with like... idk, the poofy baby hat and pacifier. I can’t tell if the image is more funny or more sad rn shdfgfjsdgg

The og notes that inspired this post, in case my rambling makes more sense (and w/o the awful comic hjsfgjsdfhj): Oh oh OH i GET it now. The void is all about "will" and whatnot, right? And shades are "fragments of a lingering will"- will, like the one you leave after your death, but instead of inheritance its the vessels' desires...last regrets.... DAMN team cherry, that symbolism is clever as heck. That took me a while. Kinda funny how a will is, technically, a person's last regrets Like I knew they were last regrets but I didn't understand WHY. Duh, it's because they're literally Made Of Will. They are the vessel's "wills". I'm so stupid.

Ghost, walking thru the abyss, getting increasingly fed up / freaked out, ducking into a crack in the wall. They follow the crack into the Scream Chamber, pause, then exhale in relief that this was EXACTLY what they needed.

Ghost's shade rolling up its void-sleeves like “fuck it, ima defeat thk myself”

Why was thk's sword there? Was its pedestal decayed? Did it fall from their body? Was it place there as an afterthought, or hurriedly? alt: taking thk's sword before freeing them, but doing the mom thing like you're grounding them hdhfjchjch

I can’t believe it just occured to me now, but... as objectivley stupid as the vessel’s test was, Ghost... technically came in second place. What if that whole scene was a metaphor? Because really, it’s just too silly to take seriously. To do so isn’t too far fetched, either; many other elements in the game’s story are better taken as symbolic or metaphorical, anyways. Take the PoP cutscene- while it could’ve been a literal moment, where they just happened to find themselves standing around and took the moment to appreciate each other... imo it makes much more sense to read it as the concept of their faint ~forbidden love~ and parental pride itself. Or, better yet, the scene at the end of the 4th pantheon. Sorry, but I severely doubt that was an actual event. What I’m trying to get at is the significance of “second place” in the cutscene. My brain is too fried to chase down any other possible connections to this theme rn (if thats even what the theme is), but even without proof, the theory smooths out a few interesting tidbits related to just how Ghost could tough it out when all others failed. All except for #1, anyway. Either way I’m just happy to take this as an excuse to pretend that cutscene didn’t literally happen because like, l m a o

The story of a small group of vessels as they work together to escape hallownest. (aka the aforementioned vessel gang hc... im sure theres a more formal name but you get the idea). Its impossible to tell how long it took them to discover that near-invisible hole, the last exit remaining after the king ordered the abyss to be sealed up. Once they did, however, the remaining vessels were quick to make a desperate scramble to escape- only for the entrance to suddenly crumble shut, far, far too soon. The remaining 8 slowly made their way through deepnest, their numbers quickly dwindling as the jouney started to take its toll. The group was nearly wiped out by those terrible, spiney-legged creatures that used their own kinship against them. Only three finally escaped the deep, yet only two made it through the basin- the third, largest sibling, left to fight alone againt a hopeless battle, just to buy the others time. It was in greenpath, so close yet so far to their goal, that the second succumbed to the infection. It was a mercy killing, that nail through the heart. The last, after all of that, finally made their way to the very precipice of howling cliffs, hesitating for just a moment to gaze out upon the still-fresh ruins of hallownest. But only for a moment, before Ghost jumps down to begin their journey beyond this wretched place.

A vessel running from its shade as it tirelessly pursues them, the vessel refusing to put it to rest.

tw: suicide, + personal on main

Ugh ugh ugh ugh Either thk was fully conscious and in terrible pain for all those years... or they couldn’t feel anything at all. The former is horrible, but imagining thk waking up, chained, unable to do anything but wait for Ghost to heed their call? Did they turn their nail on themselves to help Ghost, end the pain, or some awful mix of both? For someone who has personally dealt with close friends and family that struggled with suicide themselves, hollowknight is one of the worst horror stories I've ever seen. And the fact that the story is so personal, so open to interpretation? The fact that each character is so genuine yet vague enough to be read completely differently to someone else’s biases? Its why hollow knight- the game, and the character- will forever be one of the most powerful stories to me.

in short, good LORD THIS GAME IS SO FUCKING SAD

[aspiring-wildfire]

MAG 165

Oh no its the stranger

Oh nooooo

Oh this is gonna be weird

Oh my god its a giant merry-go-round that’s... actually such a dope world design i love that

Martin being like ‘lets just... not walk straight through?’

OH MY GOD DID JOHN GO ON THE MERRY GO ROUND AS A GROWN ASS PERSON

God i fucking love this dork

“Went quite fast, actually. Surprisingly thrilling” DORK

“I was in a weird place. Had a good time though” god im just imagining a 20-something Jon quietly having a mental breakdown on a merry-go-round i love him

THEIR BANTER

THE TEASING

I LOVE THEM W MY WHOLE HEART

Oh my god oh my god its not!sasha and i am not!ready

I’m glad they’ve got a lil system worked out thats nice

Oh fun this statement is already eerie

The lyrical element of the whole thing is so off putting its great and AWFUL

Jonny’s voice acting on this is so good the cadence of the statement really feels Wrong, somehow, which is ideal and the fact that it sounds like a song or a poem twisting around you like YO

Mechanisms background really jumped out huh

The way it’s simultaneously hopeless and desperate, like its entreating you not to give up but laughing about the futility of the whole thing fuck man that’s A Lot

The focus on identity and the fragmentation thereof is. Alarming.

God the stranger’s aesthetic is never gonna stop being super cool and super fucking unsettling to me like the whole idea of everything being just Wrong in some inexplicable way that just makes your skin crawl like woah uncanny valley lets go

Omfg Jon and Martin critiquing the strangers poetry is fucking hysterical

Y’know, for being in the middle of the actual apocalypse, Jon has these moments that sound almost uncharacteristically happy and carefree like IMAGINE HOW HAPPY THEY COULD HAVE BEEN

GOD JONNY STOP HURTING THEM

Lmao of course Jon used to be a staunch anti-poetry person he’s so JON god i love him

Martin wanting to listen to the strangers poetry to critique it babe i love you

NOT!SASHA DO NOT INTERACT FUCK YOU

Not!sasha i fucking hate you GOD

“I won’t warn you again” MONSTER JON MONSTER JON MONSTER JON MONSTER JON MONSTER JON MONS-

All the threats about wearing them oh my god nope nope nope

FUCK HER UP JON

God him psychologically picking monsters apart is fucking great

Okay so the eye is still the top dog in the new world, even though everyone’s been pulled through

“Not as pathetic as your little friend when I ate her life” a) FUCK the not!them and b) “what did you say” fuck her up

Oh my god did she just apologize

Jon genuinely scaring fear monsters is s o g o o d

The soundscaping on this is excellent like the way the merry-go-round starts speeding up when Jon uses his powers on her is so fucking good Alex you’ve outdone yourself

“There is more suffering than you can ever experience, so much more. The horror of your victims, their constant, senseless agony. Feel it now, understand it. You’ve drawn out so much despair and now finally, it’s your turn. Ceaseless watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing” FUCK THAT WAS EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED IM LOVE HIM

God martin’s like laughing heart eyes about Jon’s smiting is so cute like yeah Jon has the horrific fear god powers but Martin is SO DOWN to use them its amazing

But god Jon sounding so shaken and afraid of himself and what he did makes my heart hurt

Also all the sasha content in the first couple episode went a LONG way towards reminding me how much i fucking hate not!sasha and i commend Jonny on that

[moody-bloosh]

mirror, mirror (Illuso)

for some reason, i was in a bit of a fairy tale mood. so here’s my take on snow white ~! fem!reader too btw im sorry i couldn’t make it gender neutral :( here’s one of the passion projects I’ve been working on since last year <3 <3 I hope you all like it! 

tagging @a-nonnie-mousse​ bc she’s the only other illuso stan i personally know <3

content warning: yandere, manipulation, mind break, homicide, gore 

As the newest addition to the king’s harem, the latest flower in his blooming garden, you knew you should be thankful for the opportunity. For someone like you born the second daughter of some countryside lord, a spot in the king’s harem meant comfort, riches, and if you were so inclined, power. 

But for the sweet and simple you, you were already happy to be allowed such a privilege. There was no greater honor than to serve the king, you believed. Besides, some part of you marveled over how romantic it was. Innocently, you imagined that perhaps in the palace, the king would show you the love and affection you’d only known of in passing, just like the ones you were so fond of reading about in your books. 

And so even though it pained you to uproot yourself from your home, the only world you had ever known. You had taken the king’s outstretched hand and agreed to be his newest concubine. 

On your first day in the harem, the king gifts you with a mirror. A large ornate, full length mirror inlaid with pearls and gold. How it had filled your heart with so much love and adoration, you’d never had such finery back at home. 

Oh, if only you’d known that this was common practice for the king. 

If only you were a little wiser to the nuances of the palace. 

If only you had known better, you would have tried harder to seduce the king. You would have worked even harder to try and secure allies. But you did not know any better. You were the second daughter of a countryside lord and you were not wise at all to the politics that brewed in court. 

Before you knew it you were painfully alone. Seeing that the king was beginning to tire of you, the other concubines took it upon themselves to curry favor with him again. Pushed to the side, alone, isolated, you yearned for your home and yet you could not return. 

You were the king’s concubine now and you were his property. 

You had nobody in this painfully beautiful palace. Consigning yourself to a slow and silent decay, you decided to keep to yourself. Your heart too fragile to keep up with courtly intrigue and the painful words of the other concubines. 

All you had now were your books. Your books and your beautiful mirror. 

One lonely afternoon, you were lying in bed, reading when you heard the most peculiar thing. A distinctly male voice sounded through your room. Too youthful, too deep to be the king’s. You froze, fearful of an intruder. You held the book close to your chest, a makeshift weapon as you looked around your room. 

Your room looked painfully ordinary. Looking here and there for any sign of an intruder, you hesitantly walked around your room. 

“Over here~” 

You froze immediately. 

D-did the mirror just talk?! 

Bringing your hands up to your mouth to suppress the frightened scream that threatened to tear out of your throat, you considered the mirror once more. It was painfully maddening in its normalcy. Perhaps...perhaps you were just imagining things. Hesitantly, you gently brushed your hand against the mirror’s surface. When nothing happened, you breathed a sigh of relief and your expression softened once more. 

Maybe it was all just your imagination. 

“That’s a nice expression,” the voice said again, “you look pretty when you smile.” 

Your heart falls and your expression falters, as the mirror in front of you reveals a handsome man. With hair tied up in neat pigtails and his eyes seeming to pierce through you, you trembled. Biting back another scream, you found your knees buckling, too frightened of the supernatural happenings. 

However, before you could find yourself tumbling down to the floor, you felt strong arms wrap around you, holding you safe and secure. Looking up into the stranger’s eyes you found yourself transfixed by its beauty. Red eyes glittering like precious rubies, full, soft-looking lips curled into a smug smile that sent your heart pattering wildly against your chest. 

Illuso smirked. 

“See something you like, your highness?” 

“I-I...” 

You trail off, too confused by the sudden turn of events. 

“Hm? A little tongue tied I see, I admit, I do have that effect on people~” 

“Y-you... the mirror...” 

“Ah yes, it’s an interesting ability isn’t it?” 

“Who are you?” 

Illuso caressed your cheek tenderly. He drank in your flustered, embarrassed expression. So adorable, so pure. Holding you closer and leaning forward so that his lips were merely inches away from yours, Illuso whispered. 

“I can be whatever you want me to be, your highness.” 

“T-then...” You said softly, shyly averting your gaze from him. 

Illuso hummed. Of course, not even you would be able to resist him. As if considering his words, you took a moment to think before you looked back at him. He was still holding you tightly. Your heart pounded fiercely against your chest as you opened your mouth to tell him your wish. 

“Will you be my friend?” 

Illuso is true to his words, you find. Soon, the boring days you were trapped in began to be filled with happy memories that you would spend with Illuso. You found yourself smiling more often recently. Some days you would catch yourself smiling as you selected books for you and Illuso to read from the library or you would find yourself thinking of what he might like to have for tea that day. 

Naturally, the other residents of the castle begin to take notice of the sudden shift in your behavior. The concubines would gossip, jealous about how you could devour so much snacks by yourself and still retain your lovely figure. Suddenly, they were inviting you to spend time with them, to read with them, to be with them as they went about their sewing. You were pleased to discover that they weren’t as terrible as you had initially thought. Soon enough, you were swept away in tea parties and plays and private viewings at esteemed art galleries. 

It made you a little anxious at first to spend so much time with such intimidating noble ladies, you began to ease up around them. Even though at first, you had been loathe to part with Illuso, you found yourself spending less and less time with him. At the very least, you would make time in your evenings to sit with Illuso and tell him about your day. You would apologize that you couldn’t spend as much time with him as you had used to. And though he wasn’t one to openly complain you did take note of his huffy demeanor and promise to make it up to him soon. Sadly, and much to Illuso’s displeasure, you never really were able to keep your promises to him. 

Even, the king himself had taken notice of you. Your innocent joy and sweetness reminding him of why he had taken you to be one of his concubines in the first place. That was another thing you needed to be grateful to Illuso for. You had regained the king’s favor. You would cheerfully spin around in front of Illuso showing off the new dresses and the pretty jewelry the king would lavish onto you. You would tell him how happy you were that the king was finally paying attention to you again, blissfully unaware of the jealousy in his eyes. 

“It’s all thanks to you, Illuso,” you said to him. “If you hadn’t rescued me from loneliness then I would have spent the rest of my life sulking alone.” 

You grasped his hands gently, looking up at him with a sweet smile on your face. You looked at him so adoringly, so reverently. The sight of you, looking at him so lovingly had his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He worried that you would hear it. 

“I’m so very grateful for you,” you told him, giving him a small, chaste kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, my dearest friend.” 

Something ugly and dark rears its head in Illuso’s heart. 

Was that really all you saw him as? A friend? 

No. No. He couldn’t accept that. He would not accept that. 

You were his Queen, the only bright light in his dark world. And he was your savior, wasn’t he? The reason you had even begun to smile again, the one who had saved you from a dull life. 

As you spoke to him about the king, that wretched vile bastard who dared to monopolize your time, he thought long and hard about how he would bring you back into his arms. 

All he wanted was for you to be his and only his again. 

It is all too easy for Illuso to slink around unnoticed and whisper slanderous words about you to the other concubines. Soon enough they do his job for him, he watches as you are shunned once more. The target of vicious bullying and vitriol. You would quietly tell Illuso all about the horrifying ordeals you were forced to endure. And he would play the part of your every loyal, always understanding friend. 

You are the fairest of them all,” Illuso whispers, his tone as sweet as honey, and his touch so inviting. 

“They are simply jealous of you, my Queen,” Illuso would say, sweet, comforting, “you know that they are nothing compared to you.” 

His red eyes glimmered like rubies as he leaned out of the mirror, his lips coming dangerously close to your own. “I hate to see you so sad...” 

“Just say the words your majesty,” he says sweetly. “I’ll take care of them for you.” 

You aren’t as foolish or as innocent as Illuso thinks. Spending so much time in his company, it was only inevitable that you’d come to be corrupted too. You know full well what Illuso means when he offers to take care of your problem. Your fingers clench, ruining the delicate fabric of the new dress the king had given you. If Illuso notices the conflicted look on your face, he doesn’t comment on it. 

“Please,” you whisper. “Please help me, Illuso.” 

Lately, you wake up with tears in your eyes. Every night, Illuso would come to you with a smile on his face. Every morning, a new corpse would be found. Each and every death hangs on your conscience, makes you wash your hands and clean yourself with a little too much vigor. Tensions rise in the palace, the other concubines beg the king to let them leave. Your numbers dwindle and dwindle until only you and a handful of other noble ladies are left. 

You are the King’s favorite and you have lasted the longest. 

When he crowns you Queen as thanks for your loyalty, you assume that maybe this time you will be happy. You confide in Illuso and as always he nods and tells you that he is happy that you are to be Queen. 

When you tell him that you are excited to move into the king’s quarters, he stills. But he does not let any of his unsightly jealousy show. Instead, he digs his nails into his palm, hard enough to draw blood. He keeps up his gentle facade at least until you fall asleep. He watches you sleep, you sleep peacefully for the first time since his killings. He takes in the soft rise and fall of your chest and when you turn over to the other side, he finally makes his move. 

Stepping out of the mirror, he softly pads over to you. Caressing your cheek, he leans forward to plant a delicate kiss on your lips, just as he had done every night since he had ascertained his feelings for you. 

He thinks, thinks as hard as he can about a way to keep you out of that disgusting king’s clutches. It takes him a moment or two before he understands. Illuso chuckles softly, as the solution comes to him. Painfully simple. 

He just had to get rid of the king.  

The newest addition to the king’s harem: a sweet girl with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood. She was beautiful, so painfully beautiful you felt physically sick in her presence. When she is introduced to the king, he gives her a mirror. 

Almost identical to the one he gave you. 

As you are prone to do now, you run to Illuso. You ask him, voice dripping with betrayal and heartbreak how many? Illuso has the gall to look surprised and that breaks you just the slightest bit. 

“I know, Illuso. I know I’m not special. Tell me how many concubines have you offered your friendship? Your companionship? Did you give them something more?” 

And oh, how quick he is to step out of his mirror and hold you in his strong arms. Blanketing you in a warmth, you were loathe to admit you wanted. 

“Only you, my Queen, it’s always been just you.” 

“Then why me? Why someone like me?!” 

“Because,” and with his free hand, he hooks his index finger under your chin, prompting you to look him in the eye. “You are the fairest of them all.” 

The fairest? Really? How stupid did Illuso think you were? You looked so pathetic, so shameful reflected in his eyes. As if scalded by his sincere words, you try to tear your gaze away from his but you find yourself transfixed by him. He was handsome, he could have anyone in the harem. Before you can even say anything else, Illuso kisses you. 

And it is sweeter than any wine, more passionate than anything you’ve ever experienced, you close your eyes as you give in to his affections. The kiss is brief but you find that it is enough. 

When he caresses your cheek, you can’t help but blush as you lean in to his touch. You’ve never known what it truly meant to be wanted, to be desired. To be loved. You’d never received the love you truly wanted, the love Illuso was so willing to give you.

When he leans in to kiss you, you lean forward to meet him halfway. When his hands begin to rove around, you let him. 

You wanted him to give you the love you were so desperate for. And he was kind enough to acquiesce over and over through the night. 

Even now, the people still whisper about that dreadful day when the Queen had invited the king and all his concubines to a banquet, how she had given them all beautifully baked apple tarts, how even though she had taken a bite of one of those apple tarts she had survived the deadly poison within them. 

No one had dared to oppose you, dissenters were hushed, even people who would whisper insults about you would suddenly be found hanged in the town’s square. 

The New Queen is a witch. The New Queen was granted powers by the Devil, himself. 

The New Queen is always talking to her mirror. 

You were crying again, hysterical and of course, only Illuso could soothe you. 

Just as he had wanted. 

“It’s so terrible what the peasants call you,” Illuso had murmured softly as you nuzzled closer to him, “they call you the Evil Queen, the Mad Queen, even.” 

Illuso sighed as he cupped your tearstained face to wipe away your tears, “oh, if only they knew how lovely you really are.” 

You clung to Illuso all the more, you held him as if he was  your only hope and in a way he was. You don’t sleep well at night anymore. The images of that gruesome banquet forever imbedded in your mind. How they all retched and vomited blood after taking a bite of the apple tarts, how the king desperately grabbed your neck, trying to take you down with him until Illuso had appeared to slit his throat. 

In this horrible, horrible world, you could lean only on Illuso. He was the only one in this world who really loved you, and how fortunate you were to find someone like him.

Illuso cups your cheeks, using the pads of his thumb to wipe away your tears. 

So lucky, you were so lucky to find someone like Illuso. Illuso drinks in the devotion, the ardor in your eyes like it is the finest of wines. Smiling as he leans forward to seal a passionate kiss on your lips once more, you are only too desperate to please him. 

“My darling, my Queen, my _____. You truly are the fairest of them all.” 

[damienthepious]

okay at least one of y’all guessed Scattered so CONGRATULATION, FRIENDO. also. jesus fuck i’m sorry i keep doing this. ONE more chapter. ONE more. I think.

Scattered On My Shore (chapter 18)

[Ch 1] [Ch 2] [Ch 3] [Ch 4] [Ch 5] [Ch 6] [Ch 7] [Ch 8] [Ch 9] [Ch 10] [Ch 11] [Ch 12] [Ch 13] [Ch 14] [Ch 15] [Ch 16] [Ch 17] [ao3] [Ch 19]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum & The Keep

Characters: Rilla, Lord Arum, Sir Damien, The Keep

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Pre-Relationship, (for the three of them. it’s established r/d), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Injury, Injury Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, (this will also be), Enemies to Lovers, (for damien and arum eventually lol), Mutual Pining, canon typical Arum ignoring feelings

Fic Summary: Strange things wash up out of the lake near Rilla’s hut, on occasion. But this monster… this monster is certainly the strangest.

Chapter Summary: The Lord of the Swamp has returned home! An exciting event for all who live there, certainly. Arum's humans want some assurance that he will still be safe, when they leave him to return to their own home.

Chapter Notes: There's some discussion of mental health, depression, and suicidal ideation in this chapter, mostly dealing with past events in the fic. Take care of yourselves! I love you! aaaaaa kinda freaking out we're so close to the end now aaaaaaaa im. not ready

~

They stay an extra day. Just to be certain that the Keep's influence and healing are truly going to stick, Amaryllis says, but none of them are fooled.

Arum does not feel as if their time together is passing correctly; every moment feels distinctly present, his awareness heightened by their closeness and by the Keep's consciousness at his edges again, but time rushes past with the speed of a hunted hare. Arum does not know how to dig his claws into this day and make it stay, if only for a moment or so longer.

When they pull themselves from embrace in the late morning, they eat together again (as close by his side as the night previous, and Arum feels warm from his core). After, they explore the greenhouse more deeply, and Damien recites something that bounces such with clever rhyme that Arum can hardly keep up with the content rather than the form.

He takes them outside, then, because they are curious about the swamp itself, and because Arum cannot seem to deny them their curiosities. He cannot seem to, he does not want to- the fact that they wish to know his home is so intoxicating a realization that he can hardly prevent himself from gripping their hands and rushing to show them every single thing that they could possibly have an interest in.

The Keep opens the way, letting them out at the front, near one of the wider ponds, and-

And the noise strikes Arum first. Instinctively he spreads his arms, pressing Amaryllis and Damien behind himself, safe between his back and the Keep, and then he blinks and realizes what, precisely, he hears. What he sees.

His denizens. The assembled masses of the swamp, flocks and families all gathered on the water and among the low foliage and up in the branches, the venomous monkeys interspersed with brightly colored birds, egrets and lynxfish at the edge of the water, frogs and snakes and chittering rodents, every single beast with a touch of his Keep at its heart-

They have amassed here, outside his home, and their rustling feathers and trilling peeps and croaks and squawks, their hooting and scuffling all slowly die off as each one of them turns their gaze upon him.

And then, after that pause, that silence, the crowd erupts.

It is a decidedly cheerful eruption, but Arum still takes a step backward at the sudden noise, pressing the humans back with him as the denizens of his swamp give one enormous, celebratory noise.

Arum can feel the Keep behind him, all smugness and delight, and as the cheering begins to subside, a suspiciously familiar bird alights at to his left, its head tilted to fix him with bright, beady eyes.

"A-ah." Arum stares at the heron, and he hears Amaryllis give a stunned, breathy laugh behind him. "You- ah. What did I say… spread the word if you must," he mutters. "I see you took that instruction quite to heart, yes?"

The heron chuffs, and then preens as if distracted, and Arum laughs as well as the crowd fades back to silence entirely, staring up at him with obvious expectation.

"Er- they seem," Damien laughs nervously when Arum glances over his shoulder to meet the poet's eyes. "Rather- rather exuberant, I should say."

"I mean, yeah, but can you blame them?" Amaryllis adds.

"No, not at all, it is simply- I was not expecting-" Damien laughs again, and this time when Arum glances to check his expression the poet looks almost shy. "It is simply that… I am quite glad to know that you are so beloved, Arum."

Arum blinks, and then he glances back towards the creatures amassed, surrounding. He sighs, but- he cannot quite bury the wry smile that curls his mouth as he steps forward again, allowing his cape to billow behind him.

He waits for a moment, allowing the excited tittering to die back down after his movement, and then he straightens his spine.

"I suppose the lot of you were eager to see proof with your own eyes, rather than rumor on wing." He shoots a glance towards the heron, who makes an admirable show of puffing up its feathers with pride. "Well," he says slowly. "You may lay your fears to rest. I was separated from my purpose by treachery, kept distant by injury, but-" his voice fails, an unexpected hitch in his throat, and he shakes his head quickly. "But I- I am home. I have come home, and I will not be parted from it again. I- I apologize, for the length of my absence-"

He hears the humans behind him make simultaneous disapproving noises, and he shakes his head again.

"It was never my intention to be kept away for so long." He grits his teeth. "It was never my intention to be away at all. Though-"

He can feel the slight tickle of heat, the radiant warmth of the humans behind him, the safety of their presence at his back.

"Though I will admit that the distance has given me a rather inarguable dose of perspective . The Swamp of Titan's Blooms will be reassessing certain alliances and enmities in the near future," he says in a growl, "but- for the moment, it is sufficient that I am home. I will not be torn away again."

The heron cries out, and Arum attempts not to appear startled when the assembly of his denizens takes up the cheer in response. He manages, barely, not to allow his frill to flare. It ruffles at his neck instead, and he grumbles as the noise fades off again. The heron squawks a question as he is opening his mouth to continue, a pointed inquiry, and Arum bristles, but-

Well. The question is a fair one. Arum himself barely understands how this particular arrangement is even possible.

"These- they are-" Arum pauses. He swallows, and then he half turns to glance back towards the humans, and then he quickly turns his attention back to the front as the looks on their faces break through his control, causing his frill to flare partway. The assembled beasts shuffle, slightly, but they do not chitter or call through his brief silence, and he squares his shoulders. "Amaryllis and- and Sir Damien," he says. At the edge of his vision Amaryllis waves, the absurd, charming creature, and he feels Damien stiffen at the further attention. He inhales, and then he- he reaches back, opening his palms without looking behind himself again, and before he can harbor even a moment of doubt he feels their fingers twine with his own, and they step up beside him properly.

Where they belong, he thinks.

"They are… they are my… consorts," he tries, eying the pair of them, and Amaryllis raises an eyebrow with a wide grin. Damien flushes dark, which- is interesting. Worth revisiting at a later time. They do not seem… bothered, that he would claim them as his, however, so he exhales slowly and turns his gaze back towards the assembled creatures. "They are honored guests, under my protection. It was their efforts which allowed me to return to you as quickly as I have. It was their efforts which allowed me to return to you at all."

He pauses again, and the creatures titter with varying levels of excitement and confusion and enthusiasm, and Arum sticks his snout in the air.

"That will be all, then," he snaps quickly, turning as the Keep dutifully reopens a portal for the three of them. "This has taken rather enough of your time- and mine. This absence will not be repeated. Return to your homes and lives and all will be taken care of henceforth, good day."

Amaryllis and Sir Damien laugh rather enthusiastically in his direction once they are safely hidden within the Keep again. Arum attempts to maintain a dignified level of fury, but-

Wretched creatures. Amaryllis snorts into her hand and nearly doubles in half, and Damien makes a noise that approaches a squeak, and Arum cannot help but fall to laughter of his own as he gathers them into his arms.

~

Amaryllis' expression begins to cloud over with concern partway through dinner, and Arum is wary from the moment he notices the change to the moment when she finally opens her mouth after the meal is done.

"So," she begins, and Arum attempts to stifle his instinct to bolt. "I wanted to… to talk to you about what happens after we leave," she says.

Arum ducks his head slightly, sighing.

"There is no cause for concern, Amaryllis," he murmurs. "I can apply some salves well enough on my own, and obviously you need not fear harm to your species from my hand, either. Provided no knights come traipsing through my swamp, that is," he says, gesturing lazily. "I have no interest whatsoever in returning to the same work that nearly killed me. As far as I am concerned, this war did kill me. I will not be dragged into it again."

Amaryllis winces. Damien's lips press tight together, and he squeezes Amaryllis' hand for a moment before she releases her grip on him, and shifts closer to Arum's seat instead. "That- that's kind of exactly what I wanted to talk about. Arum, I… I need you to tell me you're going to take care of yourself. That you're not-"

"I said, not moments ago, that I am perfectly capable of-"

"Not the injuries, Arum," she says quickly, and he pauses, narrowing his eyes. "I need to know that- that you're not going to hurt yourself if we're not here with you," she manages, and Arum feels his breath go shallow.

"Amaryllis," he says. "Don't- don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not," she says. "I'm worried about you."

"Absurd," he hisses, looking away. "I am home, entirely thanks to the pair of you. I should be the one worrying over you, going back into the wilds. I could not possibly be safer."

"From yourself?" Amaryllis says, her brow furrowed with worry. "Look, I- I know this is uncomfortable, Arum, but- but I know that you've tried to get Damien to- to-"

"What? Wh-what did you tell her?" Arum says, turning towards Damien, and he means to snap but his tone sounds more hurt than furious. Damien only sits, his hands clasped in his lap, his lips pressed tight together. "What did you say, knight?"

"He didn't tell me anything, Arum." She shakes her head, angling her body a bit more between them, leaning closer. "Nothing specific, at least, but I'm not stupid. I heard you goading him plenty of times, and he said you told him about your- your work before we left, and he said that if he killed you then, it wouldn't have been a slaying and really there's only one way to interpret that evidence-" she pauses, cringes, bites her lip. "You tried to get Damien to kill you."

Arum freezes, his mouth going dry.

"I don't know if it was because of guilt or- or depression or panic about the trip or what, but- but I already told you, Arum. I didn't put in all this hard work just for you to die. Just for you to throw all of it away-"

"I am home, Amaryllis," he manages in a whisper. "You brought me home. There will certainly be no reason for me to- to endanger myself now."

"No?" she says weakly. "There wasn't any reason for you to try to goad Damien into killing you back in the hut, either, Arum, but you did it anyway."

"I-" Arum glances away again, his hand flexing, but she reaches out and takes one of his hands, squeezing tight. His eyes flick to Sir Damien, sitting quiet though his worried eyes are fixed on the pair of them. "I- that was- different-"

"Different how, Arum?"

"I did not want you to endanger yourself for me, Amaryllis," he hisses, turning towards her with his tail thrashing. "You- you make the world less cruel, by your actions, your choices, your existence. The both of you. You try, if nothing else, and for you to leap to action and danger for my sake is- was-"

She stares up into his eyes, her hand clasped tight around his wrist, and he clenches his teeth and pretends that his throat is not aching.

"If helping me destroyed you, it would be the worst of cruelties I have inflicted upon this world. And I, Amaryllis, have inflicted more than my share of cruelties already."

"So you try to take yourself out of the picture instead? Arum-"

"The little knight did not bite when provoked regardless, so I hardly see how it matters," Arum growls, and in his periphery he sees Damien flinch, his head ducking.

Amaryllis' grip on his wrist tightens. "You do know that's not comforting, right? It matters because I- because we love you, and because if you die, Arum, you'll be dead. Even if you were trying to protect us in some roundabout way-"

Arum flinches, and she pauses, pressing her lips together for a moment as she visibly chooses a different phrasing.

"If you had managed to convince Damien to do it, it'd be cruel, first of all. He doesn't deserve that kind of guilt weighing on him. And second, again, you would be dead, Arum. You implied that you and the Keep exist in a symbiosis- what good would you be to it if-"

"Another would come after me," Arum hisses. "I am not the first, and I will not be the last. The Keep will always have a familiar, no matter my own mortal status."

"That-" Amaryllis makes a noise, small and uncertain. "I- okay. Okay, explain that. If you dropped dead right now, would the Keep just- generate a new familiar instantly? Would I be talking to your replacement in a minute flat?"

Arum flicks his eyes away again. "No. Don't be foolish, it doesn't work like that."

"Explain it to me, then," Amaryllis repeats. "Of course I don't know how it works, Arum. So explain to me why you would think that your death would be in any way an acceptable option."

"It- another familiar would be created, yes. They would require- time to grow, however. The Keep nurtures us from infancy. It would have a hatchling-"

"So," she says calmly, "obviously this is the preferred option. You can protect your home better than an infant could."

"But-"

"Would the Keep want you to die?"

Arum flinches again, twisting his body away from Amaryllis though he still will not pull his wrist from her grasp. The Keep gives a sharp, swift reply of its own, near discordant in its vehemence, and Arum ducks his head with a hiss. "N-no."

"I can tell you love the Keep, Arum," she says, more quietly. "I have to imagine that it loves you too."

"It-" Arum inhales, sharp and panicked, then exhales something like a laugh. "I-"

The Keep trills again, and then it reaches with gentle vines to grip a wrist on his other side, echoing the way Amaryllis is holding him. The contact is too gentle, and the feeling of the Keep's affection in his mind is too raw, too close, after so long missing the feeling. He closes his eyes, clenches his teeth together, and pretends not to feel his eyes heating, his throat constricting.

"Yes," he says in a whisper so low he is not confident that Amaryllis' ears will be able to discern it. "Yes, my Keep loves me." He swallows, then lifts another hand to grip the vine the Keep is holding him with. "It loves me," he repeats, a little more steadily, and if he refuses to open his eyes, then perhaps he need not acknowledge the wetness on his cheeks at all. "The Keep loves me, just as I love it."

Amaryllis makes a soft sort of noise, and Arum feels her hand- feels her thumb on his cheek, feels her gentle away the evidence of his ridiculous surplus of emotion. He waits until her hand retreats, and then he opens his eyes again with a sigh.

"You can protect the Keep and care about yourself too, Arum," she says quietly, and her own eyes are bright. "I just- I need to know you're going to be safe. I can't just leave, not knowing if I'm going to see you again-"

"If we are going to see you again," Damien adds gently, moving closer at last, arranging himself behind Amaryllis and reaching to brush his fingers down Arum's arm. "I know, Arum, that it is not so easy as to simply decide that the demons of one's own mind are conquered. It is not a matter of willpower alone- that is why we wish to speak of it."

"We want to help," Amaryllis says, her voice wobbling very slightly. "We want to understand what you're feeling, and we want you to know that we're here, and we care about you, and you matter to us. Even when we leave, even when we're away from you- you matter to us and it's important to us that you know that you matter, that you're not- you're not replaceable. Not to us."

Arum attempts to ignore the way his heart is racing, the way his eyes still feel too hot, and he finds himself failing when the Keep hums, vines embracing him as it echoes the sentiment firmly.

"I- I have- surely you understand that I have precisely zero intention of harming myself," he breathes, quick and harsh. "I do not want to die-"

It is only that sometimes, in the past, when he was exhausted past his means or when the creeping gray of his mind clouded him… it would have been so much easier. Only the Keep would mourn, and soon enough even it would be drawn past that grief by his replacement. Arum very rarely considered those thoughts, outside of those moments of darkness.

They are watching him, watching whatever must be playing out in his expression, patient and fond and worried, and Arum exhales very slowly.

"I do not want to die," he repeats, his voice coming steadier. "I… I can understand…" he sighs, ducking his head. "It is not unreasonable for you to… to concern yourselves. But I have been- I have been speaking with my Keep, since my return, and- and we will not be parted again, least of all by my own hand. I meant what I said, this afternoon, when I spoke to my subjects. If nothing else, my recent proximity to death has given me a rather jarring dose of perspective. I wish to live, to protect my home, to-"

Arum snaps his teeth together, stifling the words that wish to come next, but then-

His shoulders relax, and he allows a smile to curl his mouth. He need not hide such words. Not anymore.

"I wish to live," he repeats. "I refuse to die before I have loved the both of you as well as you deserve, and I imagine that will take rather a long time."

"Oh," Damien breathes, clinging to Amaryllis as she gives a watery sort of smile. "Oh, Arum- oh, my lily-"

Arum's breath catches, and Damien freezes, his jaw snapping shut in obvious mortification.

"Er- rather, that is- that was- rather presumptuous of me, of course-"

Arum presses forward, draping himself over Amaryllis as she yelps and cackles a laugh, pressing her back so that she and Damien both are trapped between Arum's chest and the cushions below, and then he nuzzles Amaryllis' neck, nuzzles past to press his snout into Damien's ear, nipping gently as he crowds closer, closer, warm and safe as he remembers again that they will not push him away, they will not scorn him.

By all the incomprehensibility of the Universe, they will claim him.

"My honeysuckle," he hisses into the crook of Damien's neck, and Damien gasps. "Mine- my love-"

It is wild, it is absurd, maddening, the things he is allowed- what they allow him-

Amaryllis laughs even harder, her hair falling into her face as she unconvincingly pushes at his shoulders. "You- you are such a-"

"I love you, my Amaryllis," he growls, and his heart swells as her breath catches too.

They have given him so, so much. They have given him everything.

He knows precisely the gift he intends to give them in return.\

~

The next morning dawns bittersweet, though the resplendent peach-and-gold of the sunrise does not appear to have been informed. The light pours warm through the portal when the Keep pulls it open to the very edge of the swamp, and Arum does not know how, precisely, to feel as he watches Amaryllis' posture stiffen and Damien's shoulders sag, when the reality of the parting strikes the three of them in the same moment.

The Keep presses wrapped packages into the humans's hands, bundles of supplies that should more than keep them fed until they reach some semblance of human civilization again. Arum suspects, but has not pried such to confirm, that the Keep has also stealthily added in portions of sweets, as well as other small gifts and trinkets, possibly some bunches of local herbs that it observed Amaryllis taking a particular interest in.

They tuck the new gifts into their packs, and Damien presses his lips together tight, flicking his eyes to draw down Arum's face, rather obviously committing his sight to memory.

"I don't…" Amaryllis sighs, and he and Damien turn their attention towards her. "I don't know how long it'll be before we can manage another trip like this," she says, frowning, and Damien presses a hand to her shoulder, his own expression going mournful.

Arum forces his expression flat, burying his nerves and his hope both. "It may not be so difficult as you think, to see each other again."

He's gratified when Amaryllis' eyes dart to him, surprise and skepticism on her raised brows.

"You better not be threatening what I think you are," she warns. "Magic healing or no, I do not wanna find out that you decided to take a big solo trip so soon after recovering, even if it means we get to-"

"I do not intend any such thing," he says mildly, suppressing the urge to grin, and he nudges the Keep in his mind to fetch his surprise. "Do you… trust me, Amaryllis?"

"Stupid question, Arum."

"Even if what I tell you will sound impossible?"

"Most of what you say sounds impossible," she hedges, narrowing her eyes.

"We love you," Damien says, a little tearfully, and Arum struggles to maintain his composure as the poet takes his hand, lifting it to press a kiss to his knuckles. "Of course we trust you."

Arum squeezes Damien's hand, and he knows his voice will tremble if he attempts to answer that, so he simply nods before he tugs Damien's hand to his own mouth to echo the gesture as Amaryllis rolls her eyes at the both of them.

"Good," he says eventually, when he knows his voice will come steady. "Good. Then- I have something for you."

"A present?" Damien smiles. "Oh, Arum-"

"I suppose you could call it that," Arum rumbles, looking away for a moment as the Keep deposits the bundle into his free arms. "Though, it is a rather self-serving gift, if anything," he adds in a murmur. "Here."

He hands Amaryllis the linen-wrapped ball of roots and soil, watching as she carefully cradles it, her eyes bright as she tilts her head to better see the dark brown sapling with the shining green and purple leaves sprouting small and fragile from the bundle.

"Arum, what-"

"Trust me," he says, and she shoots him a look, scowling though he knows- he knows that she will bury her curiosity for his sake. It will be worth it, he thinks, for the surprise. "Bring the plant home with you. Ensure that the soil is not lost- it is just as important as the flora itself. Place it somewhere it will be safe-" he pauses, breathes a laugh. "Perhaps you could find some room beside the Jungle Flame, out of sight of the kitchen window. If you can bear to clear the stack of notes cluttering the corner there-"

"Watch it," Amaryllis grumbles, and Arum laughs again.

"Give it a home," he says quietly. "Mix the soil provided with some from your own garden. Not too much- no more than half again. It will bloom quickly, when it is settled, and when it does-"

She tilts her head, calculation in her eyes as she commits his instruction to memory.

"When it does," he murmurs, "if you wish to see me again, all you need do is ask."

"If," Amaryllis snorts, and Arum ducks his head. "Yeah, dummy, if we wanna see you again- Saints you're ridiculous-"

"Oh, Arum," Damien murmurs, and then he- goes up on his toes and flings his arms around Arum's shoulders, embracing him tightly and pressing his face against Arum's neck. "Oh, I can safely assure you that my heart will ache with your absence the very moment we are parted, oh my lily-"

Arum returns the embrace, squeezing tight and lifting Damien fully off the ground, though he growls and glares at Amaryllis over the knight's shoulder. "And you call me ridiculous."

"You both are," she says, utterly fond. "I've got a type."

Arum laughs, and clings more tightly, and when Amaryllis steps close enough to grip his arm and kiss his cheek, it takes more strength than Arum knew he possessed to release the both of them from his grasp.

He does let them go, eventually, murmuring his affection close against their skin until they can no longer justify delay. He watches them leave, smiling despite the ache in his heart, despite the utter strangeness of being parted, at last, after so long beside them. He smiles, willing the Universe to grant them swiftness and safety.

The sooner they are home, the sooner he will see them again.

[->]

[mrkanman]

never understood calling jonathan sims """"feral."""" or """"unhinged.""""

like im not that into tma anymore but ive been relistening and. realizing.

hes wimpy and pedantic and an honest to god just. GOOD PERSON. with the outer surface of "my classmates would ask me out as a joke and make fun of me behind my back as a kid so now i script everything i say and act cold so they can't hurt me."

but he's also real lonely too. and not in the Lonely(tm) sort of way but more in the sense he feels like everyone else seems to have their shit together but he's always lagging behind and floundering to do what ppl expect him to.

and like. my initial impressions of him in season 2 were unfair. what happened with prentiss and finding gertrude BELOW THE ARCHIVES is--fucked up!! horrifying!! and while jon's behavior, while not justified, does not, mean he's entirely at fault....he was going through a very scary delusion basically alone and like. that kind of paranoia fucks you up and can have you come to conclusions you wouldn't if you didn't just go through a traumatic incident!!!

he is also. very. very forgiving. and...a bit of a doormat...WHICH has a lot to do with why the web affects him the way it does!!

yeah yeah badass sims moments "ceaseless watcher turn your gaze upon this wretched thing" but he is above all else a good man who. ended the world. pretty badly. he knows that everyone else's sacrifices to prevent it were in vain and it's all his fault.

idk where i was going with this but he was always just unequivocally more ethical than a good 3/4's of the cast.

[imreallystressed]

nothing is okay /j (pt. 1?)

word count: ~2000 pairings: general angsty platonic DLAMPR, more specifically platonic roceit and the creativitwins, and some angsty (platonic) anxceit because we’re here anyway.  warnings: angst! so much of it. angry virgil, yelling, self-deprecation (thanks ro) and the like, crying, remus and his remusy ways, spoilers!! if you need something tagged shoot me an ask! notes: WOW this got out of hand. im almost definitely continuing this oops!! also while this is not meant to be unsymp virgil AT ALL, it could potentially be perceived as such just because we don’t know his reasoning. if you want it tagged let me know! there is. a cliffhanger. at the end,, but it is 100% optional and if you want to imagine a happy ending go for it!! ill write one too, i promise, but i need a break oops next! AO3 LINK

“Right,” Roman had said, or something along those lines, and then he had sunk out. Left. Always too scared to own up to his mistakes, and always too arrogant to even admit he made them.

He had sunk out, ended up in his room, because it was the only place he could ever feel safe anymore, what with the looming threat of his brother, who only came with some fun and terrifyingly complicated emotions he always chose to ignore. He’d never related so much to Logan.

He was in his room, and then he was in his bed, the tears in his eyes and guilt cloying at his chest making every movement feel clipped, like the whole world was moving at three frames per second, jumping around instead of the steady stream of ideas his room usually provided. Yes, his room was safe. But he was so, so alone.

He’d collapsed into his bed, wrenched his hands in the soft duvet until he swore he could feel the fabric tearing, and there he’d stayed for God-knows-how-long. He would guess somewhere around the three hour mark, at least since Patton knocked on his locked (always locked) door and he’d given no answer. Then again, Roman always had a way of losing track of time, helplessly locked in place as the hours flew by.

It had been, in fact, three hours and twenty-eight minutes since Roman had done his sort of... controlled free-fall into the bed, and hadn’t moved. His face had a print on the side, likely from the sequined pillow that he had fallen onto by chance - he hadn’t noticed the uncomfortable prick of plastic shards until he got up, rubbing his face with sore hands. He had, in fact, torn the cover of his duvet, but it was nothing he couldn’t imagine away when he was feeling better, or even take a needle to.

His head still felt stuffed full of cotton, but the feeling of guilt worming its way around inside his chest, up his throat was all too sharp. His first course of action was to apologise.

After that, well.

He would burn that bridge when he got to it.

He made his way over to the attached bathroom, splashing some water on his face with sluggish movements, trying to cool off his burning eyes or clear away the redness on the right side of his face. The water helped, however little, and he felt marginally better, more clear-headed at the very least.

Of course, with his senses now unimpaired, he was able to hear the yelling.

At first, it just sounded like some general voice - vaguely Thomas, but could also just be a stock audio of a man shouting into a microphone. Just under that, though, when Roman blinked tightly and focused a little more, was a faint gravel, oh-so-familiar, one that matched neatly with a grinning face and easy banter - Virgil. Virgil was yelling.

Roman dried his face roughly, irritating his skin more, and zoned out completely as he waited in front of the mirror for the red blotches to fade. Virgil’s voice faded in and out, sometimes stopping entirely. Roman couldn’t tell if someone else was interrupting him or if he was just that out of it.

Finally, after what felt like an hour of choppy-but-definitely-not-pleased dialogue and the sound of waves and misplaced bits of the conversation from earlier washing over his head, myriad colours and shapes dancing across his vision, Roman glanced back up at the mirror.

He looked normal - or, well, the normal from the past few months. Before that, there might’ve been a little more colour in his cheeks, or light in his eyes. He smiled, just to test it, and found his smile both reassuring and wholeheartedly wretched. Pretty, yes, enough to fool anyone looking, including himself - but just that. Pretty. Nothing behind it, no real emotion.

Roman straightened his sash. He could work with pretty, right?

“Don’t touch me!” shouted Virgil’s muffled voice, and Roman opened his door.

The first person he saw was Remus, lounging on the sofa cross-legged, his smile just as deranged as usual but his eyes pinched, like he was making a real effort to keep up his... peppy attitude. God, Roman could relate.

Then Patton and Logan, who both brightened upon seeing him, if you could call relief brightening. They were standing next to each other, but several feet apart - almost like they were ready to move, hold someone back. Patton wore a peacemaking smile that was obviously slipping off his face, his glasses sliding down his nose. Logan looked significantly more composed, his hands clasped behind his perfectly straight back (the only straight thing about him, Roman thought automatically) instead of hovering, like Patton’s. Like Remus, his mouth was set in a line normal for him, but his eyes were lidded slightly, not quite glaring but certainly not approving.

And then, of course, like the centerpiece in an odd stage, Virgil and De- Janus. Janus’ stance was defensive, pulled back with his hands raised by his sides. Virgil’s stance was none of that - he’d leant forward, hands thrown out beside him, gesturing wildly. Janus’ face was unreadable, eyes conveying some sort of sorrow, possibly, but mouth set in a classic smirk as he met Virgil’s eyes.

Virgil looked absolutely furious. 

Roman’d seen him angry, sure, plenty of times. A lot of the time directed at him. But he’d never seen Virgil truly upset. Like end-of-the-world, life is over, “I’m going to stab you to death with a kitchen knife” upset.

Roman stepped into the living room. Patton threw him a brief smile - a real one, not a “please don’t kill each other on the carpet” smile. Logan gave him a nod, and raised one eyebrow in a silent question, which Roman answered with a smile. His fake smile, but a smile nonetheless, and Logan didn’t seem to mind.

Virgil barely seemed to register that he was even there, continuing whatever point he had started. Roman heard a lot of words, angrily shouted, but none of them that he hadn’t already thought about.

Janus glanced over at him quickly, almost unwilling to look away from Virgil, and gave him a tiny smile, or just the ghost of one. Roman felt a tiny shred of guilt fall away from his chest.

Sudden movement caught his eye, and then Remus was next to him. His smile was gone, and instead of looking insane and slightly worried, he just looked like... well, like Roman.

Back in the beginning, right after the Split, both Roman and Remus were told, separately, that they tended to mirror each other. Completely subconsciously, one would copy the tiny mannerisms of the other. According to Logan, it was painfully obvious, especially when they stood next to each other.

Some far-off part of Roman’s brain wondered if he was doing that now.

“They’re fighting,” Remus said.

“To answer your question, I do have eyes,” Roman responded instantly, forcing down a panicked wave of nostalgia and memories of Thomas’ carpet on his face.

Remus didn’t laugh, but the side of his mouth did quirk up a little bit, and Roman felt like they were kids again, watching Logan and De- Janus debate.

“Oh please, like you’d know anything about being honest with feelings-”

There went that happy thought.

“How long have they been like this?” Roman asked, in part to distract himself from how dry his mouth was all of a sudden.

Remus screwed up his face. “Ugh, time. Long enough for a horse to bleed out.”

Roman blinked at him.

“Like two or three hours. You know I suck at time. We both do.”

Roman had to suppress his flinch at that one, turning his gaze back to the two in the center of the room. “Two or three hours? And they’re still going like this?”

“Oh, you should’ve seen Virgil when he first found out. Entertaining stuff,” Remus said, but it lacked his usual screech of laughter.

“Has anyone tried to interrupt?”

“Almost got decked.”

Roman sighed. “If I asked to talk to... Janus. Alone. Would Virgil kill me?”

“No. You’re the only one he hasn’t actively screamed at.”

“I was in my room this entire time, of course he hasn’t-”

“Or about,” Remus continued. Roman avoided his eyes, suddenly finding the ground very interesting. “In a negative way.”

Remus nudged his shoulder, and headed back for the sofa. Roman didn’t have time to shove away the feelings box that time - but he did have the foresight to hide his reaction to it.

“Janus!” he called, before he could talk himself out of it. Both Virgil and Janus paused, and suddenly Roman had four pairs of eyes on him - Remus was fiddling with some kind of string contraption that Roman really hoped wasn’t going in his room later. “Can I - can I talk to you? Alone?”

Janus looked back at Virgil and then to Roman again, his expression a closed door, and took a step towards him. Roman gestured to his room, and Janus made a beeline for it without hesitation. By the time Roman was closing the door, Patton had already clasped his hands on Virgil’s shoulders.

The last thing Roman saw before he shut the door was Virgil’s face, utterly heartbroken.

“If he asks you to pick a side, don’t,” Janus said the moment the handle clicked.

“Huh?” Roman responded, very eloquently. “Oh! Uh, sure?”

“It’s- he’s already mad at Patton. And that’s my fault.”

“It’s really not,” Roman responded instantly. Janus gave him an expectant look. “I assume he’s mad at Patton for... being your friend? Or something. And that’s fine, I don’t know what happened, but it’s not your fault, right? ‘Cause Patton made that choice and he seems to be sticking with it, and that’s his choice, not yours. So- yeah.”

Janus looked absolutely baffled, and Roman realized all in a rush that nothing he had just said made any sense, but Janus interrupted him before he could say anything.

“I- thank you, Roman. I appreciate it,” he said softly, and wow, did he actually understand any of that?

“No problem,” Roman said, rushing on. “I wanted to apologise. I didn’t - I shouldn’t have made fun of your name. It was mean, and I was lashing out, and I’m really sorry, and it’s actually a really cool name and I didn’t know you were into mythology-”

“Roman.”

Roman shut his mouth so fast there was an audible click.

Janus looked slightly pained, glancing around the room awkwardly. His tongue was moving inside his mouth, but he wasn’t saying anything, like he was thinking of the right words. Roman toyed with his fingers nervously, waiting.

“Okay,” Janus said, and Roman’s head shot up. “I accept your apology, even if I think it was unnecessary.”

“I-” Roman began, but Janus held up a hand to cut him off.

“I apologise too. Comparing you to Remus was low blow, and it didn’t make much sense anyway. Neither of you are evil. You’re nuanced.”

“We weren’t,” Roman mumbled.

“You are,” Janus repeated, frowning. “Years of personal growth have that effect.”

Roman smiled faintly. “Thank you.”

“Just common courtesy-”

“Not for that. But that too, I guess.”

Janus met his eyes, and they shared some kind of look, before he looked at the door again, sighing.

“I guess I should get back to that.”

“I can ask him to calm down.”

“It won’t work, and he has a right to be upset,” Janus said, pointedly avoiding Roman’s silent question. “You should sit with Remus. Make it obvious you don’t want to be involved, and we part as neutral.”

Roman frowned a little bit - neutral certainly didn’t sound good - but nodded anyway.

Janus opened the door.

(stop reading here to avoid the AngstTM cliffhanger and come up with your own ending :7)

(i can’t put another break so we’re using parentheses babey!!)

They stepped into the living room, eyeing Patton, Logan, and Remus, who all wore different shades of “distinctly guilty”.

The room was quiet.

Virgil was nowhere in sight.

[lokissceptres]

Better than him

Pairing: Loki x female!reader

Warnings: implied smut

Summary: The reader is bethrothed to Thor but upon meeting the official meeting with Odin and Frigga, Loki tries to convince her to change her mind

—

The golden doors swung open, the weight of them sending a large echo through the room as they set firmly into the walls. You stood at the end of those walls, dressed in the finest dresses, adorned with jewellery, meant to impress the family you were soon to join. In front of you sat Odin on his regal throne with Frigga beside him. Thor stood at the front, in well polished armour, with a stern face, his brother Loki far to the left, hands behind his back and concealing a smirk. Your eyes seemed to stay on Loki more than was needed, so much it was noticeable. He held eye contact with you, inviting you to keep staring. Averting eye contact you picked up your dress and began to walk to greet the royal family.

This was your first official meeting with the family, though you had met both brothers before on numerous occasions from when you had snuck into Asguard.

“Your highness” you bowed once you had walked to the stage, your guards trailing behind you. “I am y/n of Valhalla” you said politely.

“The realm of paradise for the deceased” Loki mumbled, eyes not leaving your face. His expression was one of childish curiosity. In that moment you felt a slight pang of guilt, you had never told Loki you were the princess of Valhalla or that you were going to marry Thor.

After the formal introductions, Odin had declared that you rest before the banquet this evening, to which you were thankful as you were itching to get out of this dress and escape the suffocating stare of Loki.

On your way back to your chambers you felt a presence next to you, though you were sure there was no one there except the guards behind you. Magic? Ushering the guards away you stepped into your chambers and closed the door quickly.

“Who is it?” you asked, you were familiar with sorcery, you had seen many witches and tricks in your lifetime. So much so that you were no longer afraid.

Instead of answering a green glow erupted from across you revealing a smirking God of Mischief. He seemed impressed that you had managed to notice him.

“I deeply apologise for coming into your chambers uninvited” he chuckled, “I am Loki, Laufeys son, God of Mischief” he bowed mockingly imitating the formal introductions that had happened just moments before.

“Laufeyson?” you questioned, you hadn’t heard this before.

“Yes, laufeyson” he said, his voice warning you to ask no further questions. There was a pause, Loki’s eyes gazed at the floor for a moment before meeting your own. “I have to say, Princess Y/N, what made you willingly want to be betrothed to that wretched brother of mine?” he said sourly.

“How direct. Have you come here hoping that I would change my mind? Onto you perhaps?” you smirked in return, walking over to your dresser beginning to remove the complicated jewellery that was starting to irritate you. Loki’s smirk widened, he was impressed by your answers and how you took no notice of him playing tricks on you.

“And if I did?” he said boldly, walking to stand behind you, “would you do it?”

“to cause chaos?” you huffed, knowing exactly what was up this tricksters sleeve.

“Mm” he hummed, hands gripping the back of your chair, “you smell divine” he said huskily. You chuckled and turned to look up to his expecting face.

“I was told to pick from you two brothers” you began, watching as Loki’s eyes shifted slightly, “and I picked thor” you finished, spinning back round to fidget with another piece of jewellery.

Loki’s hands slid to your neck as he unclasped your necklace. “Why?” he said lowly.

“Are you that curious?” you teased. He hummed again, hands tracing your back which was exposed by your dress.

“I was advised that he was the better choice. That he would treat me better, and be a better King”

Loki’s hands went back to gripping the chair but rather firmly this time, something had snapped in him and you could tell he was trying very hard to contain it.

“I could always prove it to you” he sang, pushing himself off your chair and walking to your side.

“Prove what?” you questioned innocently.

“Prove that im better than he is. That i’m a better King than he is. Name it and I will prove it to you...” he said, voice barely audible as his fingers crept under your chin, lifting it so you staring into his curious eyes that never left yours. You allowed him to bend down and take your lips in his in a soft kiss.

But the God of Mischief wasn’t here to play, he now had something he needed to prove. Defending a truth that he knew could never be changed. Within seconds Loki had pulled you up and placed you in his lap so you were straddling him, deepening the kiss. He gave it everything he had, your lips feeling like heaven against his own. His arms slithered around your waist, pulling you closer against him, one of your own hands tangling itself in his hair. You pulled his hair back for air, earning a groan from the Prince under you.

His eyes searched your face for an answer, slightly stunned that you had allowed him to do that. Though his confident demeanour was back quickly.

“Convinced yet?” he said revealing his signature smirk.

“I’m afraid it’s going to need more than a kiss to convince me” you returned, your hand still gripping on his hair firmly.

“What more do you have in mind” he growled, eyes darkening.

“I have a few” you smiled, hands snaking round his neck, adjusting yourself on his lap.

“but first...” you said, biting his jaw gently, “get me out of this dress.”

“With pleasure”

[ship-ambrosia]

Shatter Point

(Dimitri x Marianne, Blue Lions timeskip spoilers!)

Hey y’all! Got another dimitri x marianne fic for ya! You can blame @breakers-nim for the insane amounts of dimitri x marianne content im about to bust out lol

Here is the link to the fic on AO3 if you wanna read it there.

Marianne is assigned to watch over the unconscious prince as he recovers from his wounds in the Battle of Gronder Field. He is a monster. She is a beast. They do not intend to tame one another.

 The warm water that the bandages beside Marianne were soaking in was ice cold on her skin.

  She sighed, gathering herself before reaching out again and gently lifting one of them to place it on the prince’s freshly cleaned wound. Though the rest of her body was still trembling, her hands were steady and precise, honed by years of study in healing. Her mind replayed over and over again the events of the last day. The battle. The hilltop in flames. Chaos as blue and red and gold clashed, men unable to tell their enemies from their allies. The death that littered the field where they had once held their traditional mock battle only five years prior. Their professor almost felled by Claude’s bow. The savagery with which Dimitri slaughtered his foes, with which he stormed Edelgard and attempted to kill her. The assassination attempt on his life. She remembered the silent scream that rose in her throat as she watched the woman plunge her dagger into Dimitri’s chest, her feet carrying her forward toward him without her even thinking, hands already preparing to cast healing magic, hoping she was fast enough to save him, willing to even throw herself in front of that second plunge if necessary...

  And Rodrigue doing so himself, saving the prince’s life with his sacrifice.

  Dimitri had shrugged off every attempt to heal him once they had gotten off the battlefield, culminating in his collapse while at war council. Then he had been rushed to the infirmary where Professor Manuela stabilized him, then put Marianne in charge of him as she had other patients to attend to.

  That was how Marianne found herself alone in the infirmary with the unconscious prince, cleaning and changing his bandages. Despite the feelings for him that she just couldn’t shake, she found no embarrassment due to the severe nature of his injuries.

  “Oh Dimitri,” she mumbled to herself. “I understand your thirst for revenge but why does it have to come at the cost of your health? Why do you neglect yourself?”

  Her heart clenched as her gaze wandered again to his missing eye. She had no idea how he had acquired the injury, but only that it broke her heart such a thing happened. When she had heard he’d been executed she had cried for days. The moment she saw him alive her heart soared; until she saw how much pain he was in.

  “You can’t tame a wild beast,” someone said from behind her. “You are a fool for trying.”

  She gasped, swiftly wiping the small tears forming at the corners of her eyes away before she turned to face him. Felix stood in the doorway, his hair unkempt and his face ashen. She did not blame him, but she did not like how he spoke.

  “Excuse me?” Marianne got to her feet, wiping her hands on her apron. They were covered in blood. Dimitri’s blood.

  “I’m talking about the boar prince there,” he narrowed his eyes. “I know how you two acted when we were at the academy. You still have feelings for him. You should forget about them; he’s never been the prince you thought he was.”

  She was taken aback by his words. It didn’t happen often, but they made her angry and she took a bold step forward.

  “You know nothing about our relationship if you think I only saw him for how he acted. You do not know the things we talked about, the secrets we shared. You honestly think me just a fool who swooned because a prince took an interest in me? I knew about the darkness inside him. He knew about the darkness inside me! But above all of that-“ her voice cracked, confidence slipping, but she continued anyway. “I am here to do my job. To serve my prince. I am doing my duty. You should consider the same.”

  “My duty?!” The other young man sounded offended. “My father is dead because of him!”

  “Your father is dead because he believed it more important that His Highness remain alive,” she snapped. “Maybe you should consider why that is.”

  Felix stared at her for a moment, some sort of emotion flashing through his eyes that she couldn’t place. With a huff, Marianne spun around and planted herself back on her stool. “If you only came to mock me, kindly leave me to continue cleaning His Highness’s wounds in peace, please.”

  He gave no answer, and all she heard was the echo of his boots as he left the room. Marianne gave another sigh, telling her pounding heart to slow down before she continued her work.

  Only when she turned back toward Dimitri, her heart picked up at twice the rate upon coming face to face with him.

  “Prince Dimitri!” She recoiled instantly, knocking the entire bucket and the bandages over in her surprise. Though half his gaze was gone and the other half was still slightly glazed over from drowsiness, he bore straight through her soul.

  He had heard everything. She was mortified.

  He was sitting up in bed now, the stab wound only half covered and so it had begun to bleed again. He made no move to stop it or even acknowledge its presence.

  Before she could even say anything, or get embarrassed, his hands found her waist. Large, strong hands that grasped her and took her breath away. She had witnessed these hands break so many things, from weapons to tools to other humans. Yet still, Dimitri’s touch electrified her.

  “He is right, you are a fool,” were the first words out of his mouth. “Wasting all of your time on me.”

  “Maybe so,” she replied. “But I disagree.”

  “Why did you come back to the monastery, Marianne?”

  She could see the slightest muscle twitches in his arms as he traced the outlines of her curves with his hands. She felt almost like he had stolen her ability to speak.

  “Because I no longer felt welcome in the Leicester Alliance,” she answered gently, longing to reach out and press her fingers against him, but found herself frozen. “I went to find the class.”

  “Is that it?” His tone of voice meant he knew it wasn’t.

  “I had to know,” It was now she blushed, if only because he was making her admit how she felt. “I heard you had been executed. I had to know if it was true.”

  “I have not been executed,” Dimitri brushed his hands over her chin. “But the man you seek is dead. He died in Duscur. I was merely wearing his skin.”

  “If that were true, we would not have connected as we did,” she insisted, and though it hurt she wretched herself from his hold and stood back to her feet. “However, I am not interested in taming you! You understood me, and how difficult it was to be the one who survived. All that I intend to do here is what I told Felix - I’m going to take care of you so that you will be able to rise to the throne of Faerghus.”

  The last thing she expected was for Dimitri to pursue her. He rose out of the bed and closed the distance between them and then some, pressing and trapping her to the wall. Marianne let our another gasp, unsure of what he was doing.

  And then Dimitri crashed his lips on her.

  She jolted awake as the feeling spread throughout her body, the fierceness with which he kissed her keeping her from truly keeping up. She finally gathered the courage to push her hands into his bare chest, holding on to him tightly while a new blush spread across her cheeks. One of his arms snaked around her again and pulled her close while the other spread out against the wall next to her head. His lips moved to her neck. He was rough, he was overwhelming, and he coaxed soft noises from her she had never imagined herself making. He kissed her until she felt herself about to shatter.

  And just as quickly as it occurred, he was gone. He was still close as he stared into her flustered expression, her lips aching from his ferocity and his release. He leaned on his elbow above her head against the wall now.

  “You’re too delicate,” he spoke with a husky tone to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “I am a monster. I will break you.”

  “If you are a monster, than I am a beast,” Marianne answered softly. He knew. He knew it and yet he still tried to push her away.

  Dimitri didn’t answer. Instead, he let Marianne quietly finish changing the bandages on his wound before he stalked out of the infirmary even though he had not been cleared to leave. She let him.

  Marianne looked to the window, at the darkening sky as storm clouds were beginning to roll in.

  “What if I wanted to break?”

[doubledeaky]

im back to sending you a million requests because those last two were SO FUCKING GOOD (from @deakyfordays) ok so can i get a gwil fic where hes like 'oh u can draw, let me see ur stuff' and basically u draw some like ~nude~ things that are classy but also gets him horny af and hes like oh shit let's fuck???

sorry this took me like a week, but ok I’m an artist and this made me super happy, thank you for supplying me with that good stuff @deakyfordays

okay so you and Gwil are supposed to be hanging out at your apartment, a Friday night tradition between you two, but Gwil knocked out half way through the movie you were both watching and instead of waking him up from a nap you knew he needed you decided to retire to the comfy chair by the window and work on a few of your incomplete sketches

Gwil was aware of your knack for art but wasn’t exactly informed to the extent at which you drew. Most of your pieces were anatomy studies and the occasional full blown piece, a nude model/figure at its center. The human body happened to be your muse and there was no shame in that. Gwil had never seen your art, and you had no intentions of showing him said art. 

You were idly working on a self portrait, a very nude self portrait, when Gwil began to stir and grumble from your couch. You grinned, but continued to drag your red drafting pencil across the sketchbook in your hands. You were so entranced in the motion of your hand that you didn’t notice Gwil get up and settle himself behind you until he spoke. 

“That’s really good.” He mumbled, his voice thick and raspy with sleep. 

“Shit!” You squealed, your entire body jumping a few inches from the comfy day chair. You instinctively shut your sketchbook and tossed it to the side, your cheeks burning in embarrassment. Gwil raised a questioning brow and reached for your sketchbook.

“Can I see?” He said, reaching his long arm over you to grab at it but was stopped when you snatched it out of his grasp. 

“Um, no.” You mumbled, his face fell and guilt wretched in your gut. “Sorry, I don’t really show people my stuff.” He seemed dumbfounded and his light laugh surprised you. 

“C’mon, Y/N. I wanna see. I promise I’ll be nice.” He pleaded, widening his bright blue eyes to seal the deal. You playfully rolled your eyes, the grip on your sketchbook tightening before you relaxed your muscles. 

“Fine, but I get to flip the pages.” You warned, pointing a stern finger in his direction. He held his hands up in defeat before joining you on the couch, planting himself just centimeters away from your side. Your breath hitched momentarily before you cleared your throat and hesitantly opened the leather-bound book. 

“This is an anatomy study I did a few months ago.” You explained, tracing your finger over the sloped lines of the drawn figure. His eyes were concentrated, scanning precisely over each line and area of shading. They also held another emotion, seemingly one of admiration and it made your heart flutter. 

You turned the page, the drawing a portrait of your good friend. His eyes widened, “Wow, this one is incredible.” He mumbled, thumbing the end of the page to draw it closer, careful not to bend or tear the image. Your grin widened and the pace of your already frantic heart quickened. 

“Thank you.” You smiled, absentmindedly flipping the page to an image you weren’t intending to show him, the nude portrait of yourself that you had been working on just minutes before. 

“Oh, shit.” You mumbled, flipping over a few pages and hoping he hadn’t noticed. But, he did.

“Woah, woah, wait. What was that one?” He asked, trying to flip back to the drawing. He looked at you with raised brows and your face somehow grew exponentially warmer. 

“It was nothing. It was the one I was working on earlier. “ You explained, trying to keep your voice calm and level. He smirked, gripping the end of the sketchbook in his hand. Your throat grew dry and you struggled to swallow the growing lump there. 

“Can I see?” He crooned, obnoxiously batting his long lashes as he did. You pursed your lips and considered the idea for a moment. The drawing was essentially one of your nudes and you’d be showing this nude to your best friend. You concluded there would be no harm in it, as long as you didn’t tell him who the figure was. You reluctantly flipped back to the designated page and held it out to him. He took the book in his hands and studied the figure with squinted eyes. Your stomach churned and the pressure in your chest tightened as he continued to scan the drawing. 

“Who is this?” He suddenly said and you tensed, your heart stopping in your chest. The figure was unfinished and had no face yet, so only you truly knew who it was. You twiddled your thumbs and tried to not fumble over your next sentence.

“Um, no one in particular.” You mumbled, not meeting his eyes. 

“Oh, please. The detail is incredible. You’re telling me this is all from memory?” He questioned, arching his brow and sending a sly smirk your way. You shifted uncomfortably, picking at the sleeves of your sweater and still not meeting his gaze.

“Um, yeah.”

“Y/N..” 

“Fine, fine. If you must know. It’s a self portrait.” 

“A…self portrait? This is you?” He seemed stunned, and his tone made it hard to determine if he surprised or disgusted.

“Yeah, it is. Is there a problem?” You asked, tone growing defensive and hands just seconds from snatching the sketchbook from his hands and vowing to never draw around the man again. 

“No, no. There’s no problem. It’s just…”

“What?” You were growing impossibly nervous, your gut clenching uncomfortably. 

“It’s really beautiful. I’m… almost speechless.” He laughed, his speech airy and hushed. Your eyes widened slightly and for a fleeting moment, you saw him shift slightly in his seat. 

“R-really?” You mentally chastised yourself for making a complete fool of yourself if front of the man you had a huge crush on. The man who was essentially studying a nude photo of yourself in front of you. 

“Yeah, I mean. Wow, it’s incredible. Beautiful and talented.” He mumbled, handing you the book and immediately placing a throw pillow in his lap when you grabbed it from him. You were stunned, did he just compliment you or the drawing? 

“Well, thank you. It means a lot.” You stuttered, giving him an appreciative grin. He nodded, watching your form intently as you put away your sketchbook and rejoined him on the couch. 

“Bet it’s even more beautiful in person.” He mumbled, probably intending for the words to go unheard but you caught them, every word. He noticed this, the way your body froze as you reached for the remote indicative of that. His heart dropped and he had to restrain himself from running through your window. 

“Sorry, that was..”

“Do you mean that?” 

His blue eyes widened, your reaction completely unexpected. You looked up at him expectantly and the way you eyed him sent he to his lower stomach. A sudden confidence bloomed in his chest and he shifted to face you fully.

“Every word.” He whispered, bringing a hand up to cup your heated face. Your breath hitched and despite yourself, you leaned into his touch. 

“You are art.” He was so close, you felt the words fan over your lips and your eyes fluttered shut in anticipation. He softly pressed his lips to your and a relived sigh escaped your nostrils. You immediately melted into his touch, bringing your hands up to card through his soft brown hair. He whimpered against your lips, his own hands now gripping your hips tightly. He pulled away, his breaths coming out in heavy pants. 

“I’ve wanted you for so long. I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long. Wanted to see that beautiful body.” He breathed, pulling your body closer, nearly into his open lap. 

“Nothing’s stopping you.” You breathed out, taking it upon yourself to climb into his lap and lace your arms behind his head. He gives you a somewhat shy but appreciative grin, and reattaches his lips to yours. He tastes exactly how you’d imagined he would. Sweet, minty from that gum he always chews, and a flavor that’s unidentifiable but him nevertheless. 

His hands are leaving a fire in their wake. Everywhere he touches set ablaze and you whimper into the heated kiss. His fingers dip below the hem of your sweater and you wordlessly pull it over your head. Gwil’s blue eyes darken and his hand immediately begin working the clasp of your bra, eyes never leaving yours. 

You let him take it off, you’d let him do anything at this point. He eyes you hungrily, bringing his lips to mouth at your chest softly, the touch pulling soft whimpers and moans from your lips.

“Even better than the drawing.” He says, words muffled against your skin and you laugh lightly. His lips then surround your left nipple, nipping at it gently and you have to bite down on your lip to cage desperate moans. The pressure in your lower tummy is unbearable now and your body involuntarily brushes against his clothes lap. His actions falters and he lets out a heavy, pained sigh. 

“Fuck, do that again.” He commands before continuing his assault on the delicate skin of your chest and breasts. You anchor your hands on his shoulders for leverage and begin to softly grind your hips against his lap, his cock hardening underneath you. Your head falls into his shoulder, the friction he’s providing satisfying the ache you’ve suffered with since the day you’d met him. He can hear your soft whimpers and moans right next to his ear and he shifts his hips uncomfortably with each sound, his jeans now unbearably tight. He sits back for a second and removes his shirt, and you gaze at him appreciatively for a moment before he brings his lips to yours. 

“Can I take these off, love?” He breathes, his prying fingers referring to your shorts. You nod wordlessly, and lift your hips to make the job easier for him. He removes both your shorts and underwear in one motion and you nearly faint when your pussy makes direct contact with his Jean clad lap. His hand settles on your hips and he gestured for you to continue your motions, his grip guiding you against him. You breathing is heavy, coming out in pants, whimpers, and the occasional moan of his name. He’s loving every moment, watching your shaking form behind hooded eyes. The way you draw your lip between your teeth occasionally, how your eyes close every time he presses your body harder against him. 

“Fuck, Gwil.” You whine, feeling the tightness in your belly grow. You stop suddenly and bring your hand to his zipper, desperately fumbling with it. He laughs and removes his jeans without issue, giving you a soft peck before drawing you closer, breasts flush against his strong chest. 

“You look so pretty like this.” He whispers, brushing fallen hair from your face. You smile, bringing your lips to his in a searing kiss. You toy with the waistband of his boxers, silently begging him to remove them. He complies, sliding them off of his long lower half slowly. Now, nothing seperates you and him and it’s almost overwhelming. 

“Do you have a condom?” You whimper, his lips working at the skin on your neck. He nods, leaning over to fish one out of his wallet and immediately returning to you. You grab it from him, quickly removing it and sliding it over his length. 

“Eager, aren’t we?” He teases and you narrow your eyes, playfully sticking your tongue out as you settle above him. He grips the base of his cock and run the head through your folds, both of you breathing out heavy moans at the sensation. He catches your gaze and you smile lazily, pressing your lips to his as he slips in. You moan against his mouth as he buries himself to the hilt within you, groaning loudly as he bottoms out. 

“Fuck, you’re tight.” He groans, his head lolling back onto the arm of the couch. You're too overwhelmed to speak, only lucid enough to grip his strong shoulders and moan. 

“Can I move, love?” He asks after a moment and you nod, eyes still shut tight.

He thrusts up into you and you fall limp into his chest as he settles on a steady pace, the head of his cock brushing against that certain spot and bringing you close to your edge faster than you had anticipated.

“Feels so good, Gwil.” You gasp, clinging onto him, his own hands gripping your hips and ass tightly. 

“You feel so amazing, sweetheart. So tight for me.” He groans, his thrusts picking up speed. You cry out, burying your head into his neck, the stubble scratching your cheek. 

“Im close, Gwil.” You whimper, walls clenching around him almost involuntarily. His grip on your hips tightens.

“Yeah, gonna cum? Cum for me, angel.” He growls, thrusting up into you with an almost brutal strength. Your orgasm suddenly rips through you, the sensation sending shockwaves throughout your entire body. Your walls clench around him violently and the way his thrusts falter indicate he’s right behind.

Fuck, sweetheart. Gonna make me cum.” He groans before stilling inside of your and releasing into the condom with a broken moan. Your mouth falls open but no sound escapes, and your body falls limply into his strong chest, the aftershocks of your orgasm still rocking you. Gwil holds you, his hands running softly up and down your back, his lips pressing soft kisses onto your temple. 

“Did so well for me, sweetheart.” He praises, smoothing down your hair, pressing kisses to your sweaty forehead. Your eyes are hooded and lazy but you manage to give him a sweet smile. 

“There’s my girl.” He coos, giving you a smilier smile. He then gingerly lifts your hips and pulls out, quickly tying off and discarding the condom after. He returns to you, pulling you against his chest, his hands resting comfortably against the small of your back. 

“My girl.” He whispers into your hair. You hear him, but it's distant, sleep washing over you quickly. He watches as you drift off peacefully, smiling widely because he knows he’s got the most beautiful work of art in the known world. 

this isn't great and it didn't really proofread it, but Im happy I finished it. now back to homework -macy:) 

[searchingwardrobes]

Of Earth and Sea: 8/9

My fic for the 2019 @cssns will drop this Friday, so to celebrate, I’m re-posting my fic from last year (and also because I was a tumblr newbie back then and didn’t post the chapters here, just the link to Ao3)

Gorgeous art by @shipsxahoy!

Also check out the additional art that @cocohook38 made for this chapter here. I flailed like crazy when I saw it the first time! Our Captain Swan family dressed in elvish clothing is brought perfectly to life in her drawing.

Summary: Five years after their wedding, Emma and Killian are ready to start a family. But Emma discovers that raising a family isn't that simple when your husband is a Dunedin (half-elf) and your mother-in-law is neither dead nor alive.

Rated T

Also on Ao3

Tagging:(let me know if you want to be added or removed from this list) @welllpthisishappening @kday426 @jennjenn615 @let-it-raines @snowbellewells @profdanglaisstuff @wellhellotragic @mythologicalmango @xhookswenchx @resident-of-storybrooke @thislassishooked @lovepurplepumpkins

Chapter Seven:

“Lend dreams nin mel

  Glenn-nai i even lands

  Lend songs bo i thul

  Im tur-feel ha in i nen,

  Im tur-feel in i coe,

  Im tur-smel ha in i gwilith”

Tauriel ran her hands soothingly through her little boy’s dark brown hair as he drifted off to sleep in her lap. Every year his hair got a shade darker. When he became a man he would mostly likely have black hair like his father’s. His eyes were already that stunning shade of blue. He still had Tauriel’s freckles, but those seemed to fade as the years went by. She sighed as she watched the eight year old’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. Oh, how she hoped her son would choose a different path than that of his father!

It worried her that he had fallen asleep like this. He was so thin and hungry. Life as a slave boy on that ship was much too cruel. A tear slipped down her cheek as she stroked her precious boy’s face. This wasn’t the life she wanted for him. Her heart broke at how she couldn’t even care for her own child. She couldn’t even pass any of her elven strength on to him, since she wasn’t fully alive. She found berries in the forest for him to eat, but what he really needed was lambas bread. Hopefully he would dream deeply enough tonight to find himself in the elven lands, and her people could give him better nourishment. She waved her hand over him and muttered in elvish.

“I polod im-gar, im on-na cin.”

Tauriel let out a relieved breath when some color came back into her son’s cheeks. Using magic in her condition was always a guessing game. One thing was for sure; it wasn’t enough to change her son’s circumstances.

Tauriel heard course words and laughter coming from the clearing on the other side of the trees. She eased Killian gently and swiftly from her lap and into a pile of soft moss. She waved her hand over the child once again.

“Taur, coe; beri-hi hen. Lore, nin red, lore tovon a lor.”

The moss and earth obeyed her command, wrapping Killian like a blanket. The roots of the tree nearby rose up and arched over him. No passerby would guess that a child slept there. Tauriel turned and moved on her soft and soundless feet towards the voices. She almost gasped at what she saw through the cover of leaves.

A man, of dark hair and strong, slender build, had a petite, buxom maiden against a large tree. She was laughing merrily, her head tipped back as the man trailed passionate kisses along her neck. His hand cupped her bosom.

The man was Brennan Jones.

Memories assaulted Tauriel of that painful day when she had found him with another woman. His hands caressing another in the same way he had caressed Tauriel just the day before. His lips drinking in the taste of someone else. It was a jarring image that no one should have to endure. The woman Brennan was with now wasn’t the same one she had caught him with that fateful day. Seemed he was faithful to no one.

Brennan moved to loosen the woman’s laces as she buried her fingers in his hair. He began gasping out, “Loreena! Oh, Loreena!”

Tauriel rolled her eyes as she turned to slip back to get Killian. The last thing the boy needed was to see the wretched man again. Not after the year of misery the poor child had endured. All because Brennan Jones knew nothing of faithfulness and commitment. But before she could take even a step, Brennan’s female companion corrected him.

“My name is not Loreena.”

The coldness of the woman’s voice gave Tauriel pause.

“Sure it is,” Brennan chuckled, flashing the woman that charming smile of his. Only someone who knew him well, like Tauriel, would be able to see the slight nervousness in his eyes. Tauriel bit her lip to keep from chuckling. The man had known so many women, he was bound to have difficulty keeping them all straight.

“No. It is not.” Then the woman transformed right before his eyes. Gone was the head of light brown curls, gone were the petite curves, gone was the upturned, freckled nose. Instead stood a woman of regal bearing, tall, with long, straight raven tresses and milky white skin. Tauriel clapped a hand to her mouth to keep from gasping.

“Carabosse!” Brennan cried. It was the mistress he had taken when wed to Tauriel!

“Yes, it’s me,” the woman replied coldly. “I’m surprised you remembered my name. What was it . . . Margeurite? The blonde you left me for? And you were married to the redheaded elf when you took me as a lover.” She chuckled wryly. “You like a sampling, don’t you?”

Brennan sauntered close to the woman, reaching out to stroke her shiny ebony hair. “Yet none were as exotic as you, Carabosse.”

“Your flattery will get you nowhere, Brennan Jones,” the woman told him, taking a step back. “You should know better than to become entangled with a witch. Especially if you do not plan on being faithful. What is that expression? Ah yes, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

Brennan’s eyes widened and he went suddenly pale. “Come now, Carabosse, surely we can – “ His words were cut off suddenly as he clutched his throat and gasped for breath. He lifted a trembling hand towards the witch for a moment, but then collapsed to the ground.

Carabosse knelt beside him, brushing a lock of hair from his face. “Sleep well, my former lover. Sleep long and fitfully. For I do not think there are any upon this earth who feel any kind of love, much less true love for a despicable man like you.”

She leaned forward and brushed her blood red lips across Brennan’s forehead, then stood. Still looking at the still form at her feet, she called out, “I know you are there, elf.”

Tauriel startled, and quickly began to head back to where Killian lay.

“Show yourself,” Carabosse called after her. As if Tauriel had any intention of doing her bidding. Until the witch added, “I know your son is with you.”

Tauriel froze in her tracks. She shut her eyes tight and pressed her lips together. She couldn’t risk the witch hurting Killian, so she squared her shoulders and stepped out from the copse of trees. Carabosse smiled serenely at her.

“You can thank me,” she told Tauriel, gesturing at the man sprawled upon the forest floor.

“You knew I was here the whole time.”

Carabosse shrugged. “I could have put him down in the room at the tavern. But I sensed your magic in the woods, and I thought to myself, now that would be awfully poetic.”

“So you’re just going to leave him here.”

Carabosse’s eyes widened in surprise. “You worry for his well -being? After the pain he put you through?” The witch gestured at Tauriel’s body, which had begun to fade slightly. “This whole wasting away thing you elves do. Surely you hate him.”

Tauriel looked down at Brennan’s handsome face. He had a way of charming a woman, of making her believe she was the only one so beautiful, so desirable. Looking back, Tauriel realized his praise was always for her beauty: her hair, her eyes, her figure. He never really knew her heart, her soul, or her mind.

“I gave myself to one who was not deserving. I should have opened my eyes before it was too late. And now I pay the price.”

Carabosse spoke with surprising tenderness. “A grieving heart can make desperate decisions.”

Tauriel’s gaze snapped up to the woman’s face, so cold, so seemingly indifferent. Yet there was a tiny bit of softness in her eyes. “H-how did you know?”

Carabosse shrugged. “Word gets around. Especially when it’s an elf and a dwarf. Two races who are supposed to hate each other. Besides,” she inclined her head towards the trees, “you named your son after him.”

This wasn’t a topic Tauriel wished to discuss with a stranger, so she lowered her gaze back to Brennan. “We can’t just leave him here. Between the wild life and the elements, he’ll be killed.”

“You elves,” Carabosse scoffed as she turned to go, “always helping. Always caring too much.”

“It is against our nature to turn our backs on the weak and suffering.”

“You can’t undo my magic.”

Tauriel tilted her head, “I can change it.”

Carabosse rolled her eyes, “Fine, suit yourself. As long as he spends many long years in that red, burning room of torture, it will be enough for me.” And with that, the witch disappeared in a cloud of blood red smoke.

Tauriel worked quickly once the witch had disappeared. Killian’s presence helped her stay corporeal for much longer than normal, but her time, even with her son, was coming to a close. She didn’t have much time left, and she still wanted to see her child back to his ship. So she first erected a protective coffin of sorts from roots and moss. Then she put a protection spell around it, so at least Brennan wouldn’t be eaten by wolves or freeze to death. Then she spoke a spell over him.

“Lore tenna sanda mel hir cin, lore mal an i lumenns-o tindu, lore.”

Essentially, the spell allowed Brennan to awaken during the brief time between twilight and midnight. Most likely, he would only be partially awake, for Carabosse’s magic was powerful. To most, he would appear like a bedridden, sick man, but at least he would be freed from the torture of that horrible red burning room. Tauriel’s counter-spell also allowed the sleeping curse to be broken if Brennan could find a true love. Tauriel rested her hand upon the twisted branches of the make-shift coffin.

“May you find a woman with a heart so pure that she can make yours finally faithful.”

Then she turned to walk back to their son.

****************************************************

The journey from the land of the woodland elves to Rivendell was normally one of many long weeks, so Emma was thankful for the pouch of beans that Anton had given them. She was ready to go immediately, but Killian insisted they stay the night so she could rest.

“Killian, I can’t possibly sleep with Elien still so far away,” she argued.

Killian reached out his hand and cupped her cheek, his expression a mixture of tenderness and concern. “You died earlier, love.”

Emma chuckled wryly as she grasped his hand and kissed his palm. “Only with us is that a normal occurrence.”

“And you will sleep, I can promise you that,” Galadriel told her, “many have come here to be refreshed on their journeys. You will feed on lambas bread and drink of sweet, refreshing springs of water. And by the time you have finished, we will have a bower ready for you.”

Emma pressed her lips together. She had to admit, she was starving and her legs felt like rubber. “Okay,” she finally relented, “but we leave first thing in the morning.”

“With you, that may mean eleven o’clock,” Killian quipped.

Emma smacked him, “So wake me up, sailor!”

He laughed lightly as he pulled her close. “I won’t let you sleep the day away, Swan, I promise. But I will make sure you rest.”

The elven meal they were brought didn’t seem like much: two squares of lambas bread, a wedge of cheese, and a small bowl of wild berries. Yet it satisfied Emma’s hunger completely, and every bite of the lambas bread sent a pleasant warmth all through her. Then she and Killian were escorted up the winding staircase of one of the enormous trees. One of Galadriel’s maidservants opened a door made of birch branches and thick opaque glass. It lead into a room that reminded Emma of both a giant bird’s nest and a domed hut. The bed was sunken into the bowl shaped floor, padded with the softest moss Emma had ever felt and piled high with blankets of soft deer skin. There were also piles of down stuffed pillows woven of silk. Killian told her the elves harvested the silk from the husks of the cocoons that hung in the trees.

Even though they had complete privacy inside their woven bower, the songs of the elves still filtered through.

“Lend dreams nin mel

  Glenn-nai i even lands

  Lend songs bo i thul

  Im tur-feel ha in i nen,

  Im tur-feel in i coe,

  Im tur-smel ha in i gwilith”

“It’s the same song you sing to Elien,” Emma said with a yawn as she curled up beneath the blankets.

“Aye, love,” Killian replied as he lay down behind her, wrapping her in his arms and pulling her close until she was tucked under his chin, “elvish lullabies. It’s why we know you will sleep long and deep.”

“You said we,” Emma said drowsily, her words beginning to slur, “I thought you didn’t like being called an elf.”

“Sometimes I don’t mind,” he answered, his own voice fading into sleep.

Emma turned in his arms to rest her cheek against his chest. Between his warmth, the rise and fall of his chest, and the song of the elves, fighting the pull of sleep was impossible. I feel almost like the bower is rocking gently, was her last thought before she drifted off, like sleeping on the Jolly Roger . . .

********************************************************

Elien Jones sat at the edge of the pool of water, gathering sticks and smooth, colorful pebbles. The mist from the waterfall that spilled into the pool dampened her strawberry blonde hair, curling the wisps that framed her face. She gnawed on her lower lip in concentration the way her mother often did.

“Is that a fairy house you’re building?” Elrond asked her kindly.

“No,” Elien answered simply, shaking her head. She picked up a waxy leaf and carefully stuck the largest stick through its center. Then she flipped over the sticks she had woven together and pushed the tall stick with the leaf through the center. “It’s a pirate ship,” she explained.

Tauriel pressed her fingers to her lips to suppress a smile as Elrond frowned. She schooled her features then turned to the eldest council member imploringly. “I beg of you to reconsider this plan. Elien is a special little girl. She doesn’t belong here.”

“Of course she’s special!” Elrond exclaimed. “The daughter of the savior, a product of true love, and a Dunedin? She is the perfect match for my grandson in every way. And one day, they will rule our people. United and strong once again.”

Tauriel shook her head wearily. “That’s not what I meant. Her magic is bigger than the elves, bigger even than her mother’s destiny. I have seen it. To keep her here would be like . . . trapping a majestic Eagle in a cage.”

Elrond gazed at her with furrowed brow, “They would rule more than just the elves then, a united kingdom of men and elves. A mighty force for good, for peace.”

Tauriel scowled openly. “Her destiny is more than preserving bloodlines. More than who she will wed.”

Tauriel turned away from the elf to go to her granddaughter. She watched as Elien pushed the little boat gently into the water. It promptly sank. She tilted her golden head for a moment, then lifted both hands towards the water. Her magic pulsed forth, the water bubbled, and the little boat popped back up on the surface. A shimmer swirled around it, and then it bobbed merrily along until it disappeared in the mist at the base of the waterfall.

“What a lovely ship,” Tauriel told the girl as she knelt next to her and wrapped an arm over her shoulder.

Elien smiled as she gazed into the mist, dimples appearing in both cheeks. Tauriel brushed the child’s hair back from her face, her heart aching at how much the child looked like Killian at times. He argued that she looked like her and Emma. But Tauriel often felt she was looking far into the past as she gazed into the little girl’s face.

“Effie,” Elien said, turning to her grandmother with a furrowed brow and a serious expression, “I knew you would come.”

Tauriel smiled as she cupped the child’s face in her hands. “Of course I did. And your mama and papa are coming too. We came to save you.”

Elien’s gaze drifted to the ground, the long lashes she had inherited from Killian brushing the tops of her cheeks. “No. You didn’t. I’m the one who will save you.”

Tauriel’s eyes widened in confusion. “Why do you say that, child?”

Elien’s mossy green eyes looked full of wisdom beyond her years as she held her grandmother’s gaze. “I have seen it in my dreams.”

**************************************************

Killian’s suggestive grin as he helped Emma up after they crashed through the portal was more irritating than attractive. Since she was more focused on dusting herself off and picking leaves out of her hair.

“What?” she snapped, then immediately sighed as she rubbed at a bruise on her elbow, “I’m sorry, babe. I’m just on edge and, you know, slightly battered.”

Killian’s gaze softened as he rubbed her arms gently. “I know, my love, no offense taken. I was merely admiring this look on you.” He then pressed a lingering kiss to her cheek.

Emma smiled and blushed even as she shrugged. “Guess I’d make a good elf, huh?”

Killian’s eyes took in the dress of rich burgundy velvet with gold trim. Emma’s fair skin was milky white in contrast, and the gold brought out the honey-colored hues in her hair. Lambas bread always made skin and hair brighter, but Emma’s seemed to positively radiate light. Her hair was held back from her face in the traditional elven way, braided in loose knots. Emma lifted her hand to pat the braids gingerly.

“These aren’t literally knots are they?” she asked hesitantly, “Cause that would be a pain in the ass to comb out.”

Killian blinked, not really sure what she was saying, more distracted at the shape of her arms as the wide sleeves of the dress slipped down to her elbow. The movement also gave him a peek of her cleavage against the scooped neckline. Emma just laughed and shook her head.

“You can take this dress off me later, pirate, let’s go get our little girl.”

The portal had deposited them only a half hour’s walk away from the borders of Rivendell, so they didn’t have far to go. Killian’s elven senses directed them, and they walked in silence for a few moments. Emma glanced his way, admiring the soft leather breeches he wore beneath the green tunic cinched at his waist. Over that he wore a cloak of lighter brown, edged in bright green thread. He had grumbled when the elves brought the garments to him, but in the end he had to admit that his jeans and leather jacket were not only worse for wear after the run in with the spiders, but weren’t warm enough for the woods they would be traveling through. Emma liked him in the outfit; she swore it made those ears she loved so much seem more pointed, made the flecks of green in his eyes more pronounced. Of course, she honestly liked him in just about anything. Captain Hook, “Prince Charles,” Killian Jones of Storybrooke, or Killian the Dunedin, he was all of those things to her. And she loved every part of him. He glanced her way and arched a brow.

“Admiring something, love?” he teased.

“Always,” she told him, grasping his hook in her hand. She didn’t let go as they made their way along, and finally worked up the courage to ask him something she had been wondering for quite some time. “Killian? Why did your mother stay away so long?”

He stopped abruptly. “What do you mean?”

Emma wet her lips nervously. “When she showed up right before our wedding, you said you hadn’t seen her since right before the curse was cast. That was a long time, and I thought she was cursed to wander after the one she loves most. So . . . “

Killian clenched his jaw, his eyes darting, landing anywhere but on Emma’s face. “I’m sure she was around, but . . . “ he finally met Emma’s eyes, releasing a long breath, “I told her I never wanted to see her again.”

Emma’s brow furrowed. “But why? What did she do?”

Killian lowered his head as shame washed over his face. “She did nothing. It’s what I did. The last time I saw her . . . it was also . . . the last time I saw my father.”

Emma’s eyes widened as she put it all together. “Oh.”

Killian ran his hand wearily over his face. “I was leaving that hut, leaving my father there cold on the ground, and there she was. She looked so . . . distraught. She begged me not to leave my little brother alone. Said she knew it would haunt me.”

Emma stepped closer, cupping his face in her hands. “Hey. Look at me. I’ve heard this story, remember? It didn’t change how I felt about you then, and it still doesn’t now.”

Killian nodded, blinking away shameful tears, and turned his face to kiss her palm. Then he grasped one of her hands with his and laced their fingers together. “I responded to my mother in the only way I could at the time – with anger and rage. I already was ashamed of what I had done, but I wasn’t about to let her know that. So I told her I had finally done what she never had courage to – I made our father pay for all of his crimes. I never saw my mother weep like that. How could I ever look her in the eye again? After what I had done? After I had become so dark?”

“And that’s why you told her you never wanted to see her again.”

Killian nodded. “And she honored my request. But I’ve always wondered. If it was because she – stopped loving me. That I had become such a villain that even she couldn’t love me.”

Emma shook her head as she drew closer. “I have heard your mother talk about you enough to know that could never happen.”

“My father’s love had its limits. Why not hers?”

Emma kissed him softly, first on the lips then on his nose, then each cheek. She then wrapped her arms around him, pressing her lips to his collar bone. “Because she’s your mother,” Emma whispered against his skin, “nothing could ever make me stop loving Henry or Elien.” She pulled back to look into his eyes again. “And she’s so much like you. You could never stop loving any of us either. It just isn’t in your nature; and it isn’t in hers.”

Killian stroked her cheek, a peace settling over his features. “In my heart, I know you’re right. That’s why I just can’t believe that she would take the Arkenstone.”

Emma took a step back, tugging lightly on his hook. “When have we ever let fate determine our future? This family fights for each other, sees the best in each other. I really don’t give a shit what you’re grandmother’s pool says.”

Killian chuckled as he walked alongside his wife. “That’s the Emma I love.”

*****************************************************

Emma had to admit that the towering waterfalls of Rivendell were a sight to behold. And she understood now what Killian meant about the air here. It strengthened her as she breathed it in, and the light seemed . . . not brighter, but more rich, making every color more vibrant.

Yet she cared little about her surroundings once a familiar voice cut through the air. “Mama! Papa!”

She and Killian’s elven escorts, though armed, were no match for their determination to go to their daughter. They both shoved the guards aside heedlessly as they dashed through the doorway into Elrond’s throne room. They then fell to their knees as they gathered Elien into their arms, peppering her with kisses. Killian had been right; the elves had taken good care of their little girl. She was well fed, and even seemed happy. And Emma had to admit she looked adorable in her tiny elven dress of lavender and silver.

“Can we go home?” Elien asked with a frown as she pulled away.

“Of course we can, cygnet,” Killian told her as he scooped her up.

“This should be her home,” Elrond spoke up, “with her people.”

Emma marched right up to the elf and without hesitation punched him in the jaw. “That’s for kidnapping my child. And for the record, her people are in Storybrooke.”

“But elven blood runs through her veins.”

“Well, so does human blood,” Emma snapped back.

“The fate of her people hang in the balance!” Elrond shouted. “We’re talking about the greater good!”

“And I’m talking about what’s best for Elien!” Emma was in the elf’s face now. “I know what it’s like to sacrifice having a family for the greater good. My daughter won’t suffer the same thing.”

“Then you and your husband can stay here,” Elrond argued, more calmly now.

“I don’t think your listening,” Emma seethed, “we’re taking her back to Storybrooke where she has grandparents and an uncle and godparents and friends.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t your decision.”

“Says who? I’m her mother.”

“Enough!” Tauriel shouted. It was the loudest Emma had ever heard her speak. “Elien is my granddaughter, not a pawn.”

“Besides,” Killian interjected, “it isn’t the elven way to keep a child against her will.”

Elrond’s brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed before he lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. His royal guard rushed into the room on their silent elven feet, their arrows making a soft, yet eerie swishing sound as they pulled them from their quivers in perfect synchronization and notched them to their bows.

“I stand corrected,” Killian muttered. He set Elien down gently. “Get behind me, little love.”

Emma inched her way over and she and Killian kept their daughter safely sandwiched between them.

“I don’t want to threaten you,” Elrond said.

“Could have fooled me,” Emma replied sarcastically.

“Elrond, you can’t seriously be considering forcibly removing a child from her parents,” Tauriel argued, “this isn’t the elven way!”

“Not the elven way?” Elrond snapped. “Soon the ways of our people will die out. More and more of our youth are leaving these lands, intermarrying with the race of men. Our magic is weakening, our lands dying.”

Tauriel laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Then perhaps it’s time we joined the race of men instead of keeping ourselves apart.”

Elrond’s face contorted with grief and sadness. “You sound like my daughter. My precious Arwen who will suffer your fate when her true love dies.”

“That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?” Tauriel asked gently. “Giving her a bloodline that will help her hold on as I have done.”

Killian exchanged a look with Emma, and then he stepped forward slowly, pulling the Arkenstone from the satchel at his hip. “If I may, my Lord, offer an alternative?”

“The Arkenstone!” Elrond breathed, reaching for it with a trembling hand.

Killian pulled it back against his chest. “Aye. The stone that will take away your daughter’s immortality. In exchange for my little girl, of course.”

Elrond’s eyes flashed. “Or my army takes it by force.”

“Or I take it!”

Every eye in the room turned in shock at the sound of the small voice. Elien Jones stood in the middle of the throne room, her green eyes flashing fire, magic tingling between her fingertips. She raised her hand towards her father, and the Arkenstone flew into her hand.

“What are you doing!” Elrond screamed, racing forward. Elien flung her hand, and Elrond was frozen in place.

Emma and Killian shouted their daughter’s name, but they found they were frozen in place as well. The stone pulsed an even brighter red in the little girl’s hand. Emma lifted frantic eyes to her husband, but he looked just as frightened as she did.

“Elien, honey,” Tauriel said gently, easing down on her knees in front of her granddaughter, “you need to put the stone down.”

“No, Effie,” Elien said in her little girl voice, “it’s meant for you.”

Elien placed the stone into Tauriel’s palm, then she placed her tiny hands over her grandmother’s. Magic sparked, and snaking red lines poured forth from the stone, enveloping Tauriel. When it cleared, she collapsed to the ground, and the stone rolled across the floor. It was no longer red, but a dull glassy color. Elien released her hold on the others, and Killian and Emma raced to Tauriel’s side.

“Mother,” Killian said gently, helping her up to a seated position.

She moaned and held her head, and Killian grasped her arms, half laughing in disbelief as he squeezed her shoulders, then her hands between his. She hadn’t felt so solid since he was a tiny lad.

“You’re . . . you’re . . . “

Tauriel put her chest to her heart. “I’m mortal.” She reached up and cupped Killian’s face in her hands, marveling at the stubble beneath her palms. Her little boy, all grown up, and she could finally really, truly feel him. “Oh my precious, precious boy.”

Killian embraced his mother then, holding her tightly as he hadn’t been able to in so many long centuries. Tears filled Emma’s eyes as she watched them. Elien flung her arms around both her papa and her Effie. Tauriel turned to her granddaughter and peppered her face with kisses. Then they yanked Emma in for a group hug.

“The stone chose you.”

The Jones family looked up to see Elrond standing over them. Emma smiled at Killian.

“Galadriel didn’t see your mother taking the stone, she saw Elien giving it to her.”

Tauriel shook her head. “But why? Why me?”

Elrond reached out and took Tauriel’s hand, helping her to her feet. “Because of the many long years of sacrifice for your son. You have earned your rest, Tauriel of the Woodland Elves.”

She turned to her son, her daughter-in-law, and her granddaughter. “And I know just where I’ll spend my final years.”

[fixaidea]

Paris, 1840

It was in the early days of the year 1840 when Monsieur Nicolas Barré, a young, moderately successful novelist fell in with Augustin Perrault and his group of friends. Perrault, done with University, was pursuing a career in journalism and met M. Barré for work related reasons. The working relationship quickly turned into friendship (a quick and easy thing with the young journalist), and soon enough, over a shared glass of wine, Perrault invited him to meet up with the rest of his closest friends.

‘I must say’ Nicolas huffed, clinking his glass against Perrault’s ‘Whatever you told your friends about me, they better lower their expectations. Sure I’m a delight, a true treat to have around’ he winked ‘But political I am not. Not nearly as much as you are.’

Perrault waved his hand in airy dismissal.

‘Never fear. You are no monarchist, and that is all they need. Clavier is more hands-on when it comes to politics but the rest like to hold such issues at arm’s length. No one will begrudge you for not keeping a pet guillotine in your backyard.’

Nicolas chuckled and refilled their glasses.

‘So you’re telling me buying a closetful of red caps to impress them was a waste? Ah well. Now, we are men of the pen, you and I, even if we employ our words quite differently. How about the rest? All writers?’

‘Alain Clavier certainly is, he’s a playwright. Well, in theory at least. In reality he’s a true Renaissance man, doing all things Theatre. Manager, designer, stand-in actor, all of it. René Giraud is an engineer, or rather, currently an assistant to one, Yves Belarbre is a painter. A portraitist, but he has some novel ideas about painting dreams, you’ll see.’

After a couple of more glasses Perrault announced that he still had some obligations to attend to. Just as they were about to part, he turned to Nicolas.

‘I must warn you about one of my friends though, Giraud. He has some peculiar habits, but the one that most concerns you is that he’s rather picky about who gets to touch him. He’s going to allow a handshake, but do not attempt anything more. If he takes a shine to you, he will come to you in his own time.’

Nicolas smiled and nodded, although he did not understand why he needed such a warning – certainly he was affectionate, but nowhere near as much as Perrault, pawning at random strangers was usually not the first thing on his mind. Surely keeping his hands off of one would not be much of a hardship. His nonchalance regarding the matter lasted exactly until the moment of meeting the man in question. René Giraud was on the shorter end of average height, thin and tired looking and, at least in Nicolas’ humble opinion, utterly adorable. He had fluffy, white-blond hair and big, pensive blue eyes.

They did not get to talk too much that first day – as Nicolas later learned this was not simply because Perrault and his friend Alain Clavier dominated every single conversation they took part in, but also because of Giraud’s own quiet nature. Still, all through the evening Nicolas kept sneaking glances at the man and, to his immense satisfaction, found himself being watched in turn. Just before the company disbanded for the night, Giraud sidled up to him. He cocked his head to the side and spoke, eyes fixed on the floor:

‘What do you call a medical-minded dog?’

Caught off guard, Nicolas scratched his beard.

‘I have no idea. What indeed?’

‘Un physi-chien*’

Nicolas blinked. For a moment he was not sure if he truly heard what he did, but René was watching him expectantly out of the corner of his eye. Nicolas’ big body began to shake and soon he was howling with laughter. Giraud, proud of his work, bounced on his heels and smiled, blushing with joy. Nicolas raised his hand to clap him on the back, but caught himself in time and hastily showed his fist into his pocket.

He wiped off his tears. That was it. He needed to win his René-touching privileges as soon as possible.

***

It was the end of May, but the weather resembled the worst of August and Nicolas was painfully stuck. Again. His serialised novel was running out of pre-written chapters at an alarming rate, he needed to catch up with it and soon. He could practically feel his editor breathing down his neck. He was sating at a blank page. In fact, he had been doing just that for the last half an hour, but the words stubbornly refused to manifest. With a deep sigh of defeat he donned his lightest coat and hat. If inspiration would not come on its own, the best he could do was to try and seek it out. After a brief consideration he headed to the Louvre.

He regretted his decision to leave the flat the moment he stepped out of his building. The streets were scorching hot, vibrating above the cobblestones. Dust filled the air and the sun was so blinding, that without the straw hat to protect his eyes, Nicolas doubted he would be able to see a thing. Still, he steeled himself and faced the inferno of the city.

He was richly rewarded for his effort – the inside of the museum was shady and blessedly cool. Few people took the effort or had the time to drag themselves here at his hour, so it was also mostly deserted. He sighed again, this time in relief, and was about to zone out and let himself get lost in the centuries of art surrounding him, when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a familiar mop of blond hair. René Giraud was sitting on a bench, an open notebook in his hands, though when Nicolas stepped closer he noticed he was staring at his feet rather than at the pages. He started when Nicolas greeted him.

‘Ah, hello there, Monsieur Barré! I mean. Nicolas.’

Nicolas smiled and plopped down beside him. He was pleased René was finally gave up on the formal ‘you’ with him, even if he still called him by his surname sometimes.

‘You must be quite the patron of arts to cross the city on such a wretched day just to look at pictures! Or are you, like me, in need of inspiration for something?’

‘Neither, I’m afraid’ René answered. He kept his gaze on his notebook. When they first met Nicolas wondered if he did this because he did not like him or was especially flustered in his presence, but had since come to learn that this was simply something he did with everyone. Avert his eyes or, remembering that you ought to look people in the eye, fix his unblinking gaze upon you.

‘I am here exactly because the day is wretched’ René went on ‘My quarters are unbearable and so are the streets. Everything seems to be so much more intense in this horrible weather. The people are loud and irritable and they stink. I stink, the horses stink, I can barely see, everything is bleached white by the sun, even the sky. It’s either white or that unsettling shade of lilac.’

‘Lilac? I never noticed that.’

‘It is though. A pale lilac. I find it deeply disturbing. Here though…’ he looked up ‘Here it’s cool and quiet and the smells are subdued. I like this place.’

‘Still, it must be boring to just sit here. Walk with me?’

Nicolas thought of offering his hand as they got up, but René was on his feet before him. They wandered the halls in silence for a while. Nicolas knew his friend was not exactly loquacious, but he wondered if this silence was stretching too far. Testing the waters, next time he spotted a particularly interesting painting he stopped before it and quietly started to explain what he knew about it. With others, he tried to guess what the artist might have meant, making up stories on the spot, one wilder and more colourful than the rest. René mostly kept quiet, but seemed to be enjoying himself none the less. Every now and then he inserted his own small remarks or chuckled lightly at Nicolas’ jokes. Encouraged by this, Nicolas was gaining momentum, spinning one astounding, ridiculous tale after the other, compensating for the low voice he kept with sweeping gestures and exaggerated expressions. Soon René was pressing his hand against his mouth, his whole body shaking with the laughter he desperately fought to hold in.

And then he froze.

His smile faltered and slowly disappeared as something behind Nicolas caught his eyes. Nicolas turned, following his gaze.

They were standing in front of a large painting. The canvas was populated by a crowd of figures, faces and bodies contorted by the pain of grief. In the centre, a male figure, a warrior, cradling the body of his fallen companion, face twisted into a mask of anguish.

‘Achilles and Patroclus.’ René whispered.

Nicolas nodded. He waited for his friend to turn away and move on, but he seemed to be hypnotised by the painting. They stood there in silence for a long while, before René finally spoke again.

‘I envy him, in a way.’

‘Who? I cannot for the life of me think of a single enviable character in that story.’

‘Patroclus. How much Achilles loved him, unashamed. He was no dirty little secret.’

It took the both of them a moment to fully realise what he just said. René, scrambling to save face, blushing so fiercely it was visible even in the dim light of the museum, and rushed to continue:

‘I-I mean it’s a touching story no matter how you look at it, I mean, anyone would be grateful for such loyalty from a friend…’

Nicolas took a deep breath and, momentarily forgetting himself, laid a hand on René’s arm. The little engineer froze. Nicolas quickly released him.

‘I understand.’

René peered up at him from under his curls.

‘Do you? Truly?’

Blood was rushing into Nicolas’ face and he suddenly felt very light and somehow detached from his body, as if he was watching the conversation from afar. Still, his friend laid his soul bare before him, if only on accident, he had to know he was not alone.

‘I do. I understand what you meant.’

René kept his big eyes fixed on him for a moment then slowly, so slowly, reached out and laid his hand on his arm. Nicolas’ heart leapt to his throat – carefully he raised his own had and covered René’s with it. They held the connection for a second before René stepped back. He cleared his throat.

‘I must be going now, I have some plans I need to double check. Thank you for this afternoon.’

‘My pleasure’ said Nicolas, eyes fixed on his toes ‘See you back at our café?’

‘Yes. Yes, certainly.’

***

Nicolas wondered if things will change between them and indeed, there was a small but noticable shift in their interactions. Nothing dramatic – unlike Augustin, Nicolas still was not allowed to just walk up to René and cuddle him. Though of course he never tried. Still, at least René would now touch him every now and then. Nothing too personal or overly familiar, rather he simply did not go out of his way anymore to avoid contact. Nicolas tried a little bit of flirting but as the engineer did not respond – or even seemed to notice his attempts – he soon ceased.

It was now July, and Nicolas was in the middle of revising his latest chapter (or more precisely re-arranging the bookshelves while thinking very hard about how he should be revising said chapter) when the knock came. He left the bookshelf somewhat begrudgingly – he was hard at work, creating, how dare people hinder his genius! – and went to answer it, grumbling all the way. He schooled his features into what he hoped was a polite but slightly haughty expression and he opened the door.

The corridor was empty.

Nicolas rolled his eyes – was the half a minute it took him to get to the door truly too long a wait for his visitor? He was about to retreat when he noticed a sheet of paper at his feet. A message then? A prank? A strongly worded appeal from his editor? It turned out to be neither. It was a poem. It was not written in pen, but in letters carefully cut out from a newspaper and glued to a sheet.

TO THE LOVE I DARE NOT NAME

FROM THE SHADOWS I SING YOUR PRAISES SCRAMBLING IN VAIN FOR THE RIGHT PHRASES YOU ARE ROUND AND WARM LIKE THE SUN IN JUNE THE COPPER OF YOUR HAIR IS THE CAUSE OF MY DESPAIRE

HAVE MERCY ON ME, O MUSE

He read it – and read it again. And again. It seemed to be a sincere if terrible love poem. Nicolas tugged at his beard. Was this dedicated to him? The mention of the subject’s bodily proportions and hair colour suggested so, but he was still uncertain. Humming lightly, he folded up the paper and got back to work. He resolved to show the strange little letter to his friends and thought nothing of it for the rest of the day.

When he did in fact pull the sheet out on their next get-together, the reaction of the group was, in the mildest possible terms, explosive. Alain ripped the letter out of his hand and studied it for several minutes, muttering to himself all the way through, before he was forced to relinquish it to a nagging Augustin, and then to Yves. René, reserved as ever, did not attempt to grab for the page, but followed the proceedings with eager eyes.

‘Well then’ Nicolas said ‘What do you gentlemen make of it?’

‘Why, my dear fellow’ said Augustin, leaning back in his seat ‘It is quite obvious. You have a secret admirer!’

Nicolas propped his chin on his hand and laughed.

‘Well, there’s no debating I’m a right catch, any lady would agree I’m sure, but don’t you think it more likely that this would be a nervous amateur trying to show his work off? Maybe try and get a foot in the door of publishing through me?’

Yves waved a hand with a little huff of dismissal.

‘Quite unlikely. If this were a poet interested in getting his name known, surely he would have included just that: his name! No my dear, this is quite obviously a love-stricken if unusually daring and forward lady!’

‘A true little firebrand!’ Alain exclaimed.

René remained quiet. Nicolas searched his face with a slight flicker of hope for any sign that he might be the one behind it, but then dismissed the idea. He could not picture him resigning himself to such bold a move.

‘All right then’ he said, folding up the sheet ‘I suppose my best bet now is to wait and see.’

And see he did. The very next day, about the same time, the knock sounded again. Nicolas, hard at work on his novel (he was cleaning his windows), took some time to answer, so the mysterious visitor was long gone by the time he got to the door. In her – his? wake he left an elegant box of high-end pralines. Nicolas inspected the gift for a message, but found none.

Well then. This certainly seemed to underline the ‘secret admirer’ theory, opposed to the ‘hopeful amateur poet’. Smiling to himself, Nicolas plopped a piece into his mouth and retreated. Excitement was starting to bubble up in his belly – who could this be? Sure, he had his secret hopes for a certain engineer, but with all his loveable qualities, René just did not look like the type for grand romantic gestures. Who else then? Nicolas made a list of all the ladies and gentlemen he knew, but found it entirely unhelpful. He had half a mind to drop everything and go seek out Augustin, even though they were not meant to meet up that day, but decided against it. The group regularly met on Tuesday and Friday nights, sometimes on weekends, and it was only Wednesday. Let’s not rush anything, let’s wait and see what happens next!

Thursday brought him a nice set of steel-tipped pens, complete with ink, all tied up with a bow. Now Nicolas was all but crawling out of his skin with excitement and resolved to catch the person responsible in the act.

On Friday he was fully expecting the knock, but he made a fatal mistake. The weather turned damp and cold, so Nicolas decided to make himself a cup of tea as he waited. The problem was only that his visitor was a full hour early compared to the previous days, so he had a kettle full of boiling water in his hands when the knock came, and by the time he managed to carefully put it down without spilling any of it on himself, his mysterious suitor was gone again. In their wake they left a bouquet.

Nicolas snatched it up and inspected it excitedly. It was a nicely arranged collection of reds, blues and yellows. On a whim, Nicolas quickly averted his eyes. He was keen to find out what message might be coded in there in the flirty language of flowers, but he wanted to decipher it in the presence of his friends. He placed the bouquet in a vase and resolved not to look at it for the rest of the day.

It was an excruciating exercise in temperance and patience and he came close to failing several times, sneaking glances at it every now and then, but miraculously he persisted. Still, it felt like the longest day of his life. He tried to proceed with his writing, but his thought kept floating back to the mysterious gifts and the sound of footsteps fading in the hallway.

When the clock finally struck five he practically flew out the door and did not stop until he reached their café, the Poule Rouge. René was already there, nursing a cup of coffee at his usual seat. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Nicolas flung himself down beside him. He looked up – only be greeted by a mass of flowers shown in his face.

‘From your admirer?’ he asked around the clump of vegetation.

‘I’m assuming yes!’ said Nicolas, leaning in close ‘What do you think?’

René regarded him solemnly for a long moment, then looked down.

‘I think it’s pretty. It has happy colours. I think whoever gave it to you wanted you to be happy.’

Nicolas could feel his lips stretch into a grin. He was about to answer but Alain’s booming voice cut him off. The man entered with Yves on one arm, Augustin on the other. Nicolas held up the bouquet like a trophy.

‘Well, well, well’ said Alain as he slid into the seat across Nicolas and pressed a cup of wine into his hands ‘What have we here?’

The three newcomers – all experts in courtship and all the delicacies it involved – pulled the bouquet into the middle of the table and began to pour over it. Nicolas watched in excitement, but his enthusiasm began to falter as their faces fell. After a couple of minutes they sat back and exchanged some deeply confused glances.

Yves scratched the back of his head.

‘Well this… All right, let’s see. The good news is the cornflower, which means wealth and fortune, the yellow rose, which stands for joy and friendship and the blue iris for faith and hope. But we also have marigold for jealousy and yellow carnation for disappointment and rejection. Also red poppies which mean consolation. So. There’s that.’

Alain propped his chin on his hand.

‘It might not mean anything at all.’

‘No no no, let’s not give up on this so quickly’ said Augustin ‘The lady went out of her way to play this intricate game, surely there must be some sort of message in there. So what do we have? Wealth, friendship or joy, consolation, hope or faith but also jealousy and either disappointment or rejection. This to me speaks of someone who was for some reason disappointed in you, but who values your friendship more than her pride and has hope in repairing your relations. It’s simple!’

‘I don’t think that’s it, not at all’ Yves objected ‘Look at this closely! The poppies and the yellow carnations out-weight the rest – to me, that says the sender has been disappointed to the degree she wants to now part ways. She includes the rose, the iris and the cornflower as a reminder to why she started this game to begin with, but does not wish to continue.’

A heavy lump settled into Nicolas’ throat. Still, he tried to hide his disappointment, so he arranged his features into a smile and laughed.

‘Well, I suppose we shall see about that. We’ll find out if she truly wishes to quit before long – tomorrow at the latest. If the gifts cease I can assume the lady truly meant it and lost interest.’

Soon the topic was changed as Augustin brought up a play he was interested in seeing and the rest of the evening was spent with amicable chatter, though René excused himself early. He had not spoken a single word all evening and after a quick round of goodbyes he hurried away without explanation. As he retreated Nicolas could have sworn he had seen him rubbing at his face.

Nicolas for his part was crestfallen. The presence and chatter of his friends took away the edge of the blow but he was sad to see this interesting affaire come to an end. Not to mention he had no idea what he did wrong to put off his secret admirer this much. With one last sigh he downed his wine. Ah, well. It was nice while it lasted.

The next day he all but managed to put his disappointment out of his mind, though a shard of it was still lodged in his heart like a persistent thorn. He tried to concentrate on his work, failed, tried again, failed, gave up and went for a walk. He went all the way to the Jardin de Luxembourg in hopes of clearing his mind. He was in great need of that – he wrote himself into a corner and had no idea how to rescue his own heroine. Sadly the fragrant air of the park failed to deliver any flashes of inspiration, so with a heavy heart he returned to his flat.

He was almost through the door when a flash of red caught his eye.

A red rose was lying on his threshold. Nicolas carefully picked it up and turned it over in his hand. There was a note attached to it, composed in the same manner the very first poem was, of letters and words cut out from a newspaper.

I HAD NO IDEA FLOWERS MEANT THINGS. THIS IS WHAT I MEANT.

Nicolas stood there, rooted to the threshold for a long time, grinning.

Now he was almost certain of his mysterious admirer’s identity, but still, he was curious about the reactions of his friends. When he entered the tavern the company gathered that night he held aloft the flower like a banner of victory.

‘Confess, gentlemen’ he said ‘Which one of you tattled?’

The rest looked back at him with wide, all-too innocent eyes.

‘What makes you accuse us so?’ Alain asked in the high-pitched, affronted voice of a man who had carried the gossip over half of Paris already. Nicolas showed him the rose and the letter attached.

‘That doesn’t prove anything’ Yves muttered, though he too was reluctant to meet his eyes ‘Your lady may have learned of her mistake independent of our conversation yesterday.’

‘But in such short a notice? Gentlemen, if not someone you passed the news on to, I’m forced to believe it might be one of you!’

Yves and Alain protested loudly, Augustin did not comment, merely shook his head with an amused grin. René, Nicolas noted with some cautious hope, was beet red and refused to move his gaze from his drink.

***

The next week went by without further communication from his suitor. Nicolas was beginning to fear he might have scared him (…or maybe her) away.  He was close to despair when finally, on a rather wet, gloomy Saturday the tell-tale knock sounded again. Nicolas raced to catch him, but as usual, his visitor was quicker. He left a letter behind, this time written in ink but in all capital letters so Nicolas still could not recognise the handwriting.

DEAREST,

MEET ME AT THE PÈRE-LACHAISE, AT THÉODORE GÉRICAULT’S TOMB, ONE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON.

This time he did not wait for the agree-upon get-together, he flagged down a coach and raced all the way to Augustin’s lodgings. Luckily he found the man at home and, upon being let in, quickly pushed the letter into his hands.

‘Look at this!’

Contrary to his exuberant enthusiasm so far, Augustin frowned and scratched his head.

‘This could be very good or very bad news. All through this little adventure I had a feeling that all this is way too daring, shameless even, for a lady.’

Nicolas did not wish to draw unneeded attention to the fact that he was quite all right with the mysterious suitor being a man, so he merely hummed his agreement.

‘Still’ he said ‘What’s the worst that might happen?’

Augustin raised an eyebrow.

‘You could be ridiculed at best, robbed or even killed at worst. You will be in the middle of a graveyard. Secluded, with plenty of places for the members of a gang to hide.’

This gave Nicolas a pause.

‘None the less’ he finally said ‘I want to know who is behind this.’

‘At least permit me to go with you!’

Now it was Nicolas’ turn to frown and tug at his bear.

‘A kind offer, but I must decline. Actually…‘ he took a deep breath ‘I have a good idea who this might be, and in case I’m right, I do not want to compromise this person.’

Augustin chuckled lightly and swatted his arm.

‘A true gentleman! Very well then, but promise to be careful!’

Nicolas smiled and pressed his hand.

‘I promise!’

***

The graveyard was all but deserted – Nicolas came across a couple of elderly ladies, the sort that is a permanent fixture of cemeteries all over the world, but none of them paid any attention to him. Though he did ask for directions at the gate it still took him a long time to find Géricault’s grave in the dense labyrinth of tombs. When he finally did he found the scene deserted. Not a single sound, except for the distant murmur of the city beyond the graveyard’s walls. His stomach fell. Was all this an elaborate prank? All this for nothing? And the culprit would not even stick around to witness his humiliation?

He dejectedly kicked a pebble and was about to leave when there – just there behind the edge of the massive block of the monument – he spotter the rim of a top hat. In two quick strides he rounded the tomb.

René Giraud was standing there hunched over, dressed in his best dress coat and shiniest shoes. When Nicolas came to stand in front of him he made an attempt to raise his head and look him in the eye but the task proved too much for him. The rose clenched in his hand was trembling. He wordlessly held it out.

Warm fondness bubbled up in Nicolas’ chest. He yearned to pull René into a hug and never let him go again, but he knew better than to grab him without his consent. He took the professed rose and opened his arms. René shuffled closer, fisted Nicolas’ vest and hid his face in his chest. Slowly, carefully Nicolas completed the embrace. He took off his friend’s hat, set it and the rose aside and gently ran his fingers through his hair. René was trembling from head to toe – Nicolas could only imagine how much courage it must have taken him to go through with this plan. This courage evidently carried him to this point and no further. He looked ready to collapse on the spot. Nicolas held him tighter and began to rock him slowly, continuing to pet his hair.

They stood there for a long while, locked together in an embrace, gently swaying from side to side. Nicolas nuzzled René’s hair. The heart fluttering against his chest started to calm down a bit. Eventually René snuggled against him and spoke up.

‘I’m sorry about the first bouquet.’

‘Don’t be. I think it was beautiful, artificially assigned meanings be damned.’

René giggled and pulled back just enough to be able to rub the back of his neck. Not daring to initiate any other contact just yet, Nicolas quickly nuzzled his nose. René took a deep, shaky breath, latched on to Nicolas’ lapels and pecked him on the lips. Before Nicolas could react he ducked his head again.

Still carefully, as to not scare him away, Nicolas slid a finger under his chin. René allowed this and obediently tilted his head up at Nicolas’ gentle push. Emboldened, Nicolas cupped his cheeks and pressed their foreheads together. After a small pause he tilted his head to the side and kissed him. René’s lips were velvety soft and a little wet – he was clumsily pushing back against Nicolas, evidently unsure of what he was supposed to do. Nicolas slid his hands down onto his shoulders and moved on to kiss a line along his smooth cheeks and jaw. They broke apart, stepped back a bit – and dissolved in a fit of nervous giggles. Nicolas tried to stop but the laughter only intensified, relieved and yet slightly hysterical. Face burning, stomach flipping, Nicolas wiped at his wet eyes and swept René back into a tight embrace. René flung himself into his arms without hesitation. Nicolas smacked one more big, sloppy kiss on his cheek.

‘Sweet René’ he murmured ‘My sweet René.’

  *un chien = a dog

[ellrond]

short fic prompt: flinthamilton - “There’s blood on my/your hands.” could be pre-BS when james beat up the officers in the bar or sth post-S4 (bonus points if the blood is on thomas' hands).. or w/e u want im down with anything just give me angst :))

It was the butler that entered the parlour and passed through the small throng of people gathered there, invisible in his movements. He troubled no one, was noticed by no one, and whispered the quiet message in his lord’s ear with no disturbance at all. Thomas had always admired the butler for his discretion. He felt Miranda’s eyes on him as he listened to what he was being told, and his jaw clenched. She was by his side in a heartbeat. 

“What is it?” she murmured, glancing around the room with an easy expression that did not correlate with the concern in her voice. 

“The lieutenant is here,” came the quiet reply. Thomas was less skilled at hiding his discomfort than his lady wife. 

She glanced up at him and took a sip of her drink. “Go to him. Everything is fine here. We can do without you for a little while.”

Thomas looked down at her and gave her a strained smile before kissing her cheek softly, and she squeezed his hand. He would be lost without her.

No one seemed to notice him leaving the parlour, or at least, no one paid him any mind, and he strode briskly through the house to the library, the room closest to the front door. Inside, one of the footmen was waiting with James and Thomas sent him away with a nod of his head and small word of thanks. James did not look at him. His coat was wet and still about his shoulders, his hat dripping. 

“It’s raining, I see,” Thomas commented, his voice far calmer than his nerves. James was not the sort of man to appear anywhere unannounced, let alone anywhere after midnight. Something must be extraordinarily afoot for such a visit. 

James made no answer but turned to face him. There was a small droplet of blood seeping down from one of his nostrils and shadows under his eyes suggested the first sign of bruising. Thomas’ jaw clenched. It appeared not as if James had been assaulted on the street, given the complete and tidy nature of his coat and gloves. A bar fight, perhaps. 

“May I ask what happened, or would you prefer some small talk first?” Thomas asked lightly, walking over to him having hardly missed a beat. He stepped behind him to slip his coat from his back and slung it over the back of a chair before taking his gloves and hat and placing them atop it. James was too shaken to let the absurdity of it surprise him and instead he let it happen. His hair had come free from its tie. Some strands stuck to his damp face. 

“Forgive me,” he began, voice unsteady and hands restless. “I shouldn’t have-”

Thomas held up his hand. “It’s quite alright. We had not retired for the night yet.”

The movement of McGraw’s hands drew Thomas’ eyes to them and his lips parted. 

“There’s blood on your hands.”

Without thinking, he took them into his own and brought them up to the light to examine them, turning them this way and then that, looking for signs of breaks or bruises. Three of his knuckles were split and there was swelling in both his hands and Thomas gently touched his fingers to feel for any fractures. “What happened?”

“I... it was in... I was...” 

It was difficult to even know where to begin. How was James supposed to explain to Thomas what had happened? It seemed so foolish now to think about, how he had so easily played into the hands of those men who wished to paint him as some sort of uncivilised heathen, some underclass wretch in fine clothes. A monster in disguise. He tried to steady his breathing. Was it hitched from anger or distress? He couldn’t really tell, but it was only Thomas here. He was safe to feel however he felt with Thomas. 

“There were men baiting me at an inn. Other officers. They said... they spoke insults.”

“About you?” Thomas queried. 

“About you. And Lady Hamilton.” 

James pulled his hands out of Thomas’, unable to look at him. It was too shameful what had happened, what he had done, what that man had said. Too shameful. 

“What did they say?”

“I would rather not repeat it, my lord.”

“Thomas. Please, I might better understand if I could know what they had said.” 

“Thomas,” James echoed. He took a deep breath, reminding himself who he was with. This was Thomas. Just Thomas. He could speak anything and know he was safe with Thomas. “He said that working with you would bring advantages a man of my station could only dream of otherwise. That you could secure connections and future employment for me.”

“A patronising thing to say to an officer,” Thomas remarked almost lightly, “but hardly reason to bloody your knuckles against them. What else did they say?”

“I... I would rather not repeat it.”

“James.”

The lieutenant sighed uncomfortably and avoided Hamilton’s gaze. “He said that if you liked me well enough, you would let me...”

“I would let you what?”

James grimaced. “Bed your wife.”

Thomas let out a short and quiet laugh. “Is that so?”

“Forgive me, my lord-”

“Don’t be ridiculous, James. I thought we were well past formalities. Come, sit down.”

Leading him to the window seat, Thomas looked out of the window onto the rainy street outside. James paused, looking down at him, and the other man met his gaze. “Come on, it’s not a trick.”

Still a little unsteady on his feet, McGraw sat beside him. In the soft light of the library, long shadows were cast across Thomas’ face, making his features sharper, more defined. In this light, James noticed, he was quite beautiful. 

“I wish you had not assaulted someone over a comment such as that. It would not please Miranda, and it does not please me. We do not care for the rumours that are whispered around London about her, or about me for that matter, and our closest friends do not either. As our friend, I ask that you do not concern yourself with them again.”

James looked at him, his lips parted in shock and eyes searching. “You think me your friend?”

A small smile appeared on Thomas’ face and he reached out to take James’ hand and squeezed it gently. It must be sore. “Of course. And we protect our friends. Make your apologies to Admiral Hennessey and I shall see to it that your station and appointments are not impacted by this... lapse in judgement. All I ask is one thing in return.”

“Anything.” James’ voice was quiet now, his eyes heavy with weariness  and fixed upon Thomas’ mouth, watching how his lips formed over every soft word. 

“Do not allow anger to get the better of you again.”

James drew in a deep breath through his nose and let it out through his mouth before answering. “Of course.”

Smiling softly again, Thomas carefully squeezed his hand and stood up. “Come along. Let’s get you cleaned up before anyone sees. We don’t want anyone thinking you’ve been involved in a brawl.”

It might have been a trick of the light, but James could have sworn that at that moment, Thomas winked at him.

[electricgreen13]

Of Monsters and Men Chapter 1

Ch. 1- A New Enemy

It was a perfectly average night. The stars were shining, crickets chirped in rhythm, and people were sleeping soundly in their homes. 

Well. Most people.

A group of about twenty were gathered in a clearing, murmuring to one another over the crackle of a bonfire. But all fell silent as Reverend Marcus Callahan emerged from the trees, Brother Michael at his heels like always, the ever faithful watchdog.

Reverend Callahan strode to the center of the clearing to stand before his flock, who waited in rapt silence. 

“Tonight is a glorious night, my friends.” Reverend Callahan declared. “For tonight, we do the Lord’s work, and rid this world of a great evil.” 

He gestured, and two of his followers came forwards from aside the group, dragging someone between them. They brought the abomination over and forced it to its knees before him, the men pinning its arms back to hold it in place. Its head rolled back and Reverend Callahan was pleased to see heavily dilated pupils. The drug they had been utilizing kept the demon’s mind and body sedated, with the added bonus of stifling its access to its unnatural abilities. 

“All of you are here because you have proven yourselves to be true believers in holy justice, and I have seen in you the conviction and strength needed to eradicate Satan’s influence from earth. Creatures like this,” he gestured at the abomination, bearing the guise of a petite blonde female. “are Lucifer’s demons, sent here on that fateful day many years ago in order to sow seeds of chaos and darkness so that sinners may bring about the end of days. But we shall not stand idly by while the snake corrupts more of God’s great creation!”

Reverend Callahan signaled and Sister Eliza parted from the group, crossing over to the large bonfire and, after pulling on a pair of heat-resistant gloves, removed an iron branding rod from its position over the flames. Eliza approached, the flickering fire casting liquid shadows across her face from behind, an eager glint in her eye as she brought forth the glowing orange tip, which was twisted into the shape of an intricate cross. 

The false woman saw what Sister Eliza held and made a pathetic attempt to flee, sluggishly jerking her head back, pulling her shoulders away, slurring out indistinct noises of panic. But it was no use. His heavenly soldiers held her tightly in place, and one of them reached forward and pulled down the collar of her shirt so that the top of her chest was nothing but exposed skin, ripe for divine purification. 

The Reverend clasped his hands in prayer before the iron rod, his followers mimicking the action. “Oh Lord, we giveth unto you this blessing, that you may protect and guide us in the coming war. We ask that you anoint this iron cross as a weapon against sin, so that we may purify those that seek to corrupt man from your divine will. Glory unto you. Amen.”

“Amen.” They echoed.

With a nod, Sister Eliza proceeded to press the heated brand into the creature’s chest. It howled and thrashed but Eliza held firm, ensuring that the holy symbol was properly engraved into the skin. 

Glory to God, the righteous will out!

But Reverend Callahan’s sense of victory quickly turned to horror as a radiant light erupted, forcing him to shield his eyes to avoid being blinded entirely as the men holding the prisoner cried out. 

Blast! How could it possibly be accessing its abilities?

The Reverend wondered, for a brief moment, if this was it— the time for them to become sacrifices in the name of God’s mission. But as always, the Lord provided. 

After mere moments of blazing, blinding light, there was a thud, and the clearing returned to its previous state of semi-darkness. Blinking away spots, Callahan was met with the sight of Brother Michael, his most loyal and competent soldier, standing over the abomination with his rifle held butt-down, seeming to have bashed the heathen over the head, who was slumped in the dirt facedown groaning.

The two men that had been holding the woman in place were both howling in pain, their hands and arms now covered in what seemed like burns, but the kind caused by radiation or ultraviolet light. Sister Eliza fell to her knees next to him, branding iron dropped aside as she clutched at her eyes. He sent up a prayer that she was not permanently blinded.

“It seems that even with the drugs, her abilities managed to activate as a self-defense mechanism.” Reverend Callahan motioned for some of his followers to come assist their compatriots, who were quickly led away to be treated. “We’ll have to take that into account in the future.”

He nodded to Brother Michael, who grabbed the heathen by the hair and dragged her into an upwards position like before, a handgun pressed against her temple just in case. The woman merely slurred out nothings, her face now even grimier than before, but no part of her showed signs of illumination. The fresh brand across her chest was swollen and puckered  and incredibly red, dirt clinging to the intricate cross shape leaking pinpricks of blood. It was a glorious sight to behold.

The Reverend reached into his satchel, retrieving their most sacred treasure. He unwrapped the violet cloth from around it, and held it up for his followers to gaze upon. The historic texts said it was an angel’s blade, and Reverend Callahan could believe it, admiring the intricate hilt and guard, the gleaming silver edge. The perfect weapon for eliminating evil.  

“With this holy blade, I cast out the demon residing within this form. Your evil shall be purged from this earth by a warrior of God’s army. Now I send you back to the flames of Hell!” 

With that, Reverend Callahan plunged the dagger into the abomination’s center, twisting it for good measure. Its eyes went wide, gasping out a rattled wheeze, and it coughed a trickle of blood when Callahan finally yanked the knife back out. 

Its hands weakly palmed at the wound, gurgling on its own lifeblood, and Callahan revelled in the panic and terror he saw there. Good, let all these wretched demons fear the righteous hand of God. His hand. Brother Michael released his hold on the hair, and the abomination slumped into the dirt, quickly staining the ground around it a dark crimson. 

Reverend Callahan turned to his flock. “Tonight we celebrate a victory for heaven, my children!” Many in the group raised their hands in reverence and celebration. “We successfully eradicated a vessel of Satan’s army, this is another battle won for the soul of mankind!” 

He took in the sight of absolute devotion before him, then bowed his head. 

“Let us pray.”

*****

Elsewhere, a woman suddenly shot up in bed, chest burning and clutching at her stomach. 

She screamed. 

*****

[Secure Channel] — {Connection Established}

Sybil: Another one gone

Sybil: That’s 3 in 5 months

Kerberos: who

Sybil: Halo

Kerberos: shit 

Kerberos: im calling it 

Kerberos: tell Trace to send out an alert

Sybil: I will 

Sybil: And I think it’s finally time to reach out to them 

Sybil: They need to know if they’re in danger

Kerberos: agreed 

Kerberos: i'll make contact with them

Kerberos: then i’ll start looking into Halo

Sybil: Be safe

Kerberos: always 

[Secure Channel] — {Connection Terminated}

**************

Just started this story! Looking forward it! Follow it on Ao3 or FF if you want! My username is electricgreen13 on both. Hit me up if you’re interested in being the beta!