#double flap gate

[brabblesblog]

Ch 10: What is thy beloved more than another beloved, that thou dost so charge us?

Astarion has ascended, and she has stayed with him. Life in the Crimson Palace isn’t as idyllic as it seems. Is there a chance for their relationship to go back to how it was? Or is it too late for the Ascendant and his consort?

This series is about Ban, my Tav, and the Vampire Ascendant. Will be angst and smut, with sprinkles of fluff.

This fic is a softer take on Ascendant!Astarion and of the changes he undergoes after the rite. Can Ban handle the change, and if a chance came, would she choose to run? And can the Ascendant win her back in time? Inspired by the concept of vampire wives and that IGN interview with Larian that discussed the ascension.

Professionally edited by @editing-by-night

Astarion wakes up to find Ban gone. A much-needed conversation takes place.

Read on AO3.

Masterlist.

The first thing he felt was panic - white-hot and all encompassing, wrapping around his mind like a dense fog.

“Ban? BAN!”

His hands threw the sheets back, and he almost rushed out of the room before he remembered he was naked. He quickly snatched up a fresh pair of trousers and underwear, haphazardly tugging them both on at the same time. Throwing on a shirt he didn’t bother buttoning, he burst through the bedroom doors.

One of the servants was dusting a display cabinet nearby and started to curtsy, but Astarion held up a hand to stop her.

“Where is she!”

The servant pointed towards the huge double doors leading to the courtyard, and he felt his stomach drop. Without another word, he ran.

Ban had one foot on the carriage step when she saw Astarion thundering towards her. His face was contorted, his hair disheveled. Despite her rising apprehension, she couldn’t help but admire the way the sun hit his bare torso as his shirt flapped behind him.

“Ban,” he gasped, stopping just before her. He raised his hand, reaching for her. “What- where are you-”

“Don’t touch me!” she said quickly, as much a warning as a threat, and he stopped instantly, his hand hovering over her arm. She looked at his face, and was surprised to see no anger there - only anxiety and the fear of being left again. He was breathing hard even though he had no need for oxygen, his eyes wide and pupils blown with stress.

He felt a small pang of hurt as he dropped his hand. She hadn’t trusted him, and had immediately put up her wards the moment she’d seen him. He took a few steadying breaths, meeting her gaze.

“Pet- I mean, Ban,” he corrected himself automatically. “Are you leaving?” The nonchalant and charming thing would be to append ‘without saying goodbye’ to that sentence, but he was beyond caring right now.

“I was going to drop Gale’s letter off and go to the market - maybe to look around, get you a little something,” Ban ventured, carefully gauging the Ascendant’s expression. She had woken up at the crack of dawn, and he had been resting so peacefully that the idea of waking him had felt a little cruel. She’d fully planned on coming back afterwards, but was now realizing how the whole situation must look to him.

“Will you let me accompany you?” A part of him wanted to rage at her, to tell her that he was terrified. But her words had calmed him down somewhat. She seemed sincere, and seemed to have planned on returning. He ran a hand through his mussed curls, then looked down at himself and his half-dressed state. He weighed his choices for a moment, then came to a decision. He would try to trust her.

“On second thought, you go ahead. I’ll have the carriage come back here to pick me up, and I can meet you somewhere,” he suggested. He didn’t know if he’d come to regret this, his heart picking up its pace as he worried yet again that she’d leave him.

She shot him a genuine smile, one that worked wonders at soothing his concerns. He found himself smiling back. “It wouldn’t do for the people of Baldur’s Gate to see me like this, would it?”

Ban couldn’t help but laugh. “You wouldn’t survive it if they ever did, Astarion.”

He laughed as well, and found himself staring at Ban’s face. He wanted to capture her lips with his, but refrained, unsure about the wards. He took a step back from the carriage.

“I’ll see you later, darling.” He knew she’d always liked that name, the one he’d used before, and was trying to make a point of using it more often now.

She giggled, and it was all he could do to hold himself back from rushing forward and wrapping her in his arms. He watched her climb into the carriage and close the door behind her, then waited as the carriage made its way out of the courtyard, watching her go. For once that sight didn’t fill him with dread and apprehension.

He felt light, yet another feeling he had almost forgotten. Smiling to himself, he made his way back inside, a spring in his every step.

Ban was perusing a clothing store when Astarion arrived and crept up behind her, leaning over her shoulder and whispering a soft, “Hello, beautiful,” into her ear.

She jerked in surprise, turning to face him.

“That was rather quick,” she said, and considering how long it usually took to get his curls to fall in line, it really was.

“I wouldn’t have wanted to waste any more time than necessary being away from you,” he said lightly, the old flattery slipping in effortlessly. “Shall we?” He offered her his hand, a quick test to see if she still had her defenses up. To his relief, she instantly took the proffered hand, and they walked together, strolling deeper into the store.

“I’m sorry about this morning, by the way,” she said, “I know it probably looked like I was slipping away before you woke up.” With the way she had tried to leave and then putting her wards up, she had no doubts about how it seemed to him.

His face tightened for a moment. “I can hardly blame you.”

He still felt that simmering anger, after all. Astarion knew that if he wasn’t careful, he could easily lose that tentative grip he had on his more selfish inclinations.

“I know.” She eyed a dress and lifted the sleeve, just for something to do. “But I did promise to try, and part of trying is giving you grace and opportunities to do better.”

He knew she was absolutely right, but still felt a certain sense of indignation at her words. As if he was once again being held hostage, only to be rewarded if he did and said the right things. But Astarion told himself that was only his past experiences talking - that she’d never meant it to come across that way. That she just wanted him to be the person she’d known back then - though even that stung.

He followed her out of the shop, and they walked along the cobblestone streets, their fingers entwined; a gesture so intimate and yet so innocent that he marveled at it.

As they walked past a vendor selling flowers he bought a single rose and handed it to her. She tucked it behind her ear.

“You should never have let me do the rite. You should have talked me down,” he remarked.

She didn’t miss a beat, keeping her pace constant as they continued to walk. She acted as if they were merely talking about the weather. “I’ve thought a lot about that, and I think it would have been selfish of me to tell you no, as much as I wanted to.”

“What do you mean?”

“To ask you to damn yourself to the shadows again seemed like a cruel choice,” she replied, studying her fingernails with a practiced look of indifference in her face. She didn’t want him to know exactly how much thinking she had done about this - how many sleepless nights had been spent lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to find out exactly where she - no, they - had gone wrong. “To continue to let you be enslaved by your hunger for blood when there was an out - it didn’t sit right.”

He frowned. “I still starve, you know?” It was a different kind of hunger, a gnawing, gaping emptiness in the center of his chest that he had no idea how to fill. She pretended she hadn't heard him, and he sighed.

“For you.” He pushed the issue. He felt like he’d replaced one ache for another, replacing the hole in his stomach with a much deeper hole in his heart, one ravenous for her love. And there was no easy way to fill this one. No quick solution, no drink, no feeding. She ignored it again, but she squeezed his hand in understanding.

After a few minutes, she continued.

“We both knew we would be murdering seven thousand people. But I also knew it wasn’t my decision to make. At least not entirely.” It had always been his choice to make, and she had tried her damndest to steer him in the right direction. But in the end his fear had blinded him and it had won out.

“Do you blame yourself?” His eyes looked dead ahead, a pained expression on his face.

“Every night. Every day. Every moment you seem… to not be you.” Ban squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. It was selfish, that even now what she felt most guilty for was losing him, and not the lives they had both condemned to whatever fate the hells had chosen for them. But neither of them had ever been paragons of righteousness, and, well. Unleashing that many ravenous vampires would have had its own consequences.

“I failed you, I failed all those people, because I couldn’t figure out which was more selfish, convincing you to save them and to damn yourself, or letting you do what seemed best for you and damning them. I knew in theory what should be done, but when push came to shove and you were begging for my help, my conviction failed.”

She took a breath. “My heart doesn’t have enough moral compunction about what we did. It never did, beyond lip service and an objective knowledge of what’s right. I only ever truly cared for what would help you.”

He considered this, a corner of his lips rising as he thought. “I was afraid.” He snuck a glance at her and was thankful to find her eyes weren't on him. He wanted to hide, but he forced himself to face this conversation. He knew that even as the spawn he would have run from it; hells, he could feel his inner self recoiling at the very idea of opening up. But if he was to be better - for her - he needed to surpass even what that spawn had been capable of and be the best possible version of himself. Unrealistic? Definitely. But he intended to aim for it anyway.

“That I was aware of,” Ban replied. They kept walking with no particular destination in mind, just letting their feet lead them. “I was afraid too. During the rite, and after. In the moment it felt like you did have a reason to be afraid - of a life condemned to the darkness, of the potential weight of responsibility for seven thousand spawn and the havoc they could wreak if unleashed. Of being alone, eventually, if we never found a way to make me undying.”

She felt tears prick her eyes, and wiped them away before they could fall. “I didn’t stop you. I could have tried harder. Instead I let you ascend. I let you change me, because I was afraid of losing you - to time, or to your anger had I refused. And I shouldn’t have.”

She bit back the sob that threatened to escape. This was the conversation they should have had as soon as the cracks in their relationship had appeared. But yet again she had let fear rule her, just as his had ruled him. In the end they were both frightened souls who only ever knew how to cling to each other - no matter how dreadful the cost.

“I should have been your compass at that moment. I should have done - I don’t know. Something. Anything.”

His legs stopped moving and he turned to fully face her, hands on her shoulders. His expression was stern and determined.

“You cannot blame yourself for everything that I do.” She tried to protest, and he shushed her.

Because she always did this. Even back then, every single thing their ragtag group ever did had fallen on her shoulders. She’d been their leader, answering for every mishap and consequence their actions ever carried. She had decided for everyone, and so any unfortunate side effects had also been her fault. As his partner, she had shielded him from every possible pain. As his consort, she had handled everything, helped him manage his schedule and to assess every political move they made.

She lifted her gaze at those words, shocked. That hadn’t really occurred to her. For so long now, it had been a reflex for her to feel responsible for every choice they made, a habit internalized so deeply she didn’t really even realize she was doing it. Her life had been so utterly consumed by him ever since they’d met, so much so that there had been little time or energy left over to identify and work through her own issues. She had given him all of her focus, all of her sympathy, her understanding, her love. He knew this, and he looked at her with a wry, slightly sad smile.

“You already do far too much for me,” he murmured, his voice low. It wasn’t a challenge to bare his heart this time - the vulnerability in her eyes made him want to be just as soft. “I deserve far less.” He always had, he thought. From seducing her at the grove, to taking that special bond they had and twisting it into this facsimile of it - for everything.

“And yet you stayed. You came back. You’re willing to try.”

In the middle of the street, he tipped her chin up to him with an unusual amount of gentleness and hesitance. He wanted to be the man who could tell her to leave. To tell her that she deserved better than this, that she could go to Gale, or Halsin - or anyone else, really, and they would be better than the Ascendant.

“I want to be the husband you deserve.” She was undoubtedly his wife, ever since he’d turned her.

Perhaps even before that, he thought, his mind drifting back for a moment to their earlier days. But was he her husband? Had he ever behaved like anything even resembling that, beyond the surface level?

“But if I can’t, you should-” he began, and found that he couldn’t get the words out. His eyes fell shut, fighting himself. You should go. I love you enough to let you go.

Say it. Say it!

He couldn’t. He exhaled roughly, a low rumble of frustration slipping out. He snapped out of it as Ban’s hand touched his cheek, her thumb brushing across the sharp line of his cheekbone. He opened his eyes to meet hers, seeing her smile, and he saw nothing but understanding in them. She wasn’t perfect herself, and she would never hold him to that standard.

“The real you,” she reminded Astarion. Not perfect. Real.

With those words the Ascendant needed little encouragement. He leaned forward, capturing her lips with his own. When the kiss broke, they were both breathless. He smiled, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Let’s go home,” he whispered.

The carriage ride took too long for both of them. The moment its door was closed Ban straddled him, the bumpy ride only serving to enhance the sensations running through their bodies. Astarion frantically slipped his hand under the waistband of Ban’s trousers, moving his hand downwards until he found her clit and her folds. To his immense delight, she was already wet, her underwear damp.

He gave her a quick glance, and when she nodded, he worked his index and middle fingers inside her, pushing them into her perfect core. She gasped, and his cock throbbed in sympathy, making him wish it was him inside her instead. He kept his hand still, teasing her a little, making her buck her hips and fuck his fingers. The carriage hit a rock and jolted upward; she made a small noise of pure pleasure as his fingers were inadvertently shoved deeper into her.

“Do you want it here?” he asked, meeting her lust-filled gaze with his own. He curled his fingers inside her, earning himself a low, needy moan.

She thought about it for a moment, then shook her head. With every ounce of willpower she had left, she moved off his lap, reclaiming her seat.

The sudden loss of her body pressed against his cock made him ache, and he sighed a little. Staring at her, he lifted his two drenched fingers to his mouth, licking every inch of them while maintaining eye contact. His other hand palmed the bulge in his trousers, trying to ease that overwhelming need.

“When we’re home, then.” He stopped palming his erection; there was an insistent throb from his cock at the loss of sensation.

A short while that felt like an eternity later, they stumbled out of the carriage, rushing to get inside the palace. Ban tugged his hand, leading him to the ballroom and straight to his garishly ornate throne. As he moved to sit, she stopped him with an arm across his chest.

“Uh-uh,” Ban cooed, shaking her head and sitting on the throne herself, spreading her legs. “Kneel.”

Astarion took a moment to process the command. He glared, opened his mouth to protest, then thought the better of it. It had been enjoyable, surrendering to her; and so he did as she’d asked, sinking to his knees in front of her. He scooted forward so that his torso sat between her spread legs.

She smirked, the sight of him kneeling before her a thrilling one. “Good, sweetheart.” she crooned.

Watching her face, Astarion slipped into his role without difficulty, and the world shrunk down to just her and his need to please her.

“May I?” he said, hands hovering over her trousers. “Please?” he added immediately, knowing she’d demand it otherwise. At her quick nod his hands moved deftly, undoing the laces and tugging the trousers down, shimmying them off her legs.

His hands rested on her thighs and pushed them farther apart, spreading her open like a feast only he could enjoy. He could see the gleaming wetness of her sex, and he leaned in to press his tongue against her folds.

She bucked her hips up into his tongue in a rolling motion, seeking more friction. Astarion’s hands gripped her hips for purchase as he delved deeper, his tongue finding her entrance and slipping inside, thrusting into her.

The sudden hot press of his tongue, his nose brushing her clit, and his warm breaths dancing over her flesh made her groan helplessly, her hands fisting in his hair. She made a point not to pull too hard, gently guiding him where she wanted him to go.

Astarion obeyed without complaint, his tongue moving up to lavish her swollen clit with attention. His tongue alternated between licking and going around in circles. He couldn’t help but tease her a little, his tongue stilling, pressed against her clit. The unmoving pressure and his hot breath made her whine; she bucked against him insistently. She shot him a warning glare and he relented with a smirk, resuming his movements.

Ban watched as Astarion snaked one hand down his body, unbuttoning his trousers and freeing his aching cock. The head sprung out first, engorged and blushing a gorgeous pink. The rest followed, and Ban shifted a little to get a better view as Astarion wrapped a hand around himself and stroked. She appreciated how his hand glided along his length, his precum making the tip glisten obscenely in the sunlight. She felt herself clench, longing to have him deep inside her, but resisted for now.

He let out a low, guttural moan as he touched himself, realizing that if he kept this up he wouldn't last very long at all.

“Ban,” he pleaded, trying to use the round, wide eyes that he knew melted her heart. He kept his mouth on her, both lips and tongue working to bring her ever closer to climax.

“Stop touching yourself, and then maybe I’ll let you fuck me.”

He immediately obeyed, a small whimper escaping him as his cock pulsed, begging for more. He returned his hand to her inner thigh, his tongue lapping at her entrance and then moving back to her clit. He suckled her more insistently now, trying to be good and to give her what she deserved.

Ban’s hands worked, lifting her shirt off. She was now fully naked, and he took a moment to drink in the view, his cock giving another pained throb at the sight.

She tugged his hair gently, an instruction to lift his head, and he did. His eyes met hers, and she could tell he was lost in it, his gaze hazy. His chin and mouth shone with her wetness and she smirked, satisfied by the sight.

“That was wonderful, Astarion. Now you can sit.” She stood and he wordlessly shuffled over to sit on his throne. She marveled at the sight for a moment, then nodded.

“Remind me what you wanted, again?”

He didn’t hesitate. There was no room for his pride at the moment. “I want to be inside you, love.”

“Anything else you’d like to add to that?”

“Please, I’m begging you,” he replied, his cock visibly pulsating, the vein running across the top throbbing in time with his racing heartbeat.

She took in the sight of the Ascendant on his throne, begging for her, and gladly relented. She climbed up and slowly sat on his cock, both of them moaning at the sensation of finally being one.

She braced against the back of the chair and kissed him, tasting herself on his tongue. “Go ahead, Astarion,” she murmured, “Take what you need.”

It was all the permission he needed. He thrust upwards, slamming his cock deep inside her with every stroke. His hands wrapped around her waist, seeking purchase as he pummeled into her again and again. Astarion was mostly silent; the only sounds that escaped him were small pants and whimpers. He didn’t have to perform for her, didn’t have to think. He only had to take her. It was sublime.

She didn’t move much, grinding against him lazily, content to let him ravish her to his heart’s content. She could feel him pulsing inside her as he approached his climax, his breaths getting faster and shallower as he chased it. His eyes were squeezed shut, his lips parted. Ban reached down to grip his hips, feeling every clench of his ass as he hammered into her again and again.

She slid a hand down to rub her clit, beginning to chase her own climax. The combination of Astarion’s movements, the sound of his ragged breathing, his utter focus on taking his own pleasure, and the feel of his thick, hard cock pounding into her were almost too much.

“Why does this feel so good?” she whispered, mostly to herself.

Astarion smiled, his eyes remaining closed. “Because it’s us.”

They were both wonderfully close. As his mouth opened in a whimper, Ban slipped two fingers inside, feeling for a fang. He playfully sucked them, not realizing what she was planning. She found a fang and pressed it with her fingertip until it broke skin, blood dripping onto his tongue.

Astarion whined, licking her finger, his hips thrusting erratically, the taste of her blood sending him over the edge. He rode out his orgasm, grinding into her as he felt his cock spasming inside her. The feel of him filling her with his seed pushed Ban to the brink as well. Rubbing at her clit desperately, she clenched around Astarion’s oversensitive cock as she finally reached her peak. He whimpered, the sensation a mix of pleasure and of pain.

They both came down from the high, Ban slumped against Astarion, his arms pulling her in for a hug. He was fully clothed from the waist up, and she could feel how sweat-soaked his shirt was. He was still catching his breath when she spoke again.

“Good, sweetheart?”

It took him a moment to respond. Their bodies were still joined, and he was content to stay that way for a little while longer. As reality came back, he placed a kiss on her forehead, removing her fingers from his mouth.

“Amazing,” he breathed.

“Ban,” he asked after a moment, his hand tucking errant strands of her hair behind her ear, joining the flower he bought her. “Do you think we'll ever be the way we were?”

Do you think you’ll be able to forgive me? The last part he projected directly into her mind, not trusting himself to try and speak it aloud.

She frowned. “I don’t know. Probably not exactly the way we were. But that’s not to say we won’t ever find something resembling it. Or something even better.” She didn’t answer his second question.

Astarion slowly pulled out of her; she felt the warmth from his cock and his come slowly leak out. She instantly missed it, wishing he’d stayed put longer.

Hearing her say that, knowing that she didn’t forgive him yet, hurt. He knew why - had fully been expecting her response - but that didn’t lessen the sensation he felt in his chest, like a knife had been twisted between his ribs, puncturing his heart. But he didn’t fight back, nor even feel offended. It felt good to speak the truth. To have a little honesty and openness to each other’s feelings, instead of the constant games they’d played with one another before.

“Well, I suppose we have time,” he said airily. He had another chance to win her, and even if it was a struggle, he hoped that these past few days were a sign that he was making inroads at winning her trust and love again.

“We do.” She kissed him again. They stayed that way for a long time, wrapped up in each other’s arms in the heart of their little kingdom.

In their bliss, they didn’t notice the feeling of being watched, failing to sense the weight of the invisible eyes that had been observing them since they’d gone out into the city.

[lauriegraham01]

the purest expression of grief

pairing: crowley x reader, gn!reader

summary: "darlin' don't you stand there watching, won't you come and save me from it?" or having tempted you into a life a sin, crowley realizes he's gone too far and tries to save you before it's too late

wc: 4.9k

cw: drug abuse, depression, near death experience, power imbalance, complicated relationship dynamics.

a/n: uni has kept me away, terribly sorry. this has been in my drafts for a while, i hope u all enjoy and pls leave feedback. (inspo from hozier + paris paloma)

Your mind is foggy as you lose all control of your body. Ears ringing from the music that's playing too loudly, eyes hazy from the smoke that crowds the dancefloor, and head shaky as the world around you moves in a blur. Has it been merely hours or days since you first started dancing, you couldn't tell. Your mind wouldn't let you think that far back. You stand amidst the crowd occupying the dance floor, losing yourself to the music of the night, and letting yourself only feel the pure bliss that the life of sweet sin seemingly always offered you. Just across the dance floor, with an arm perched on the bar stood Crowley. Dressed sleek in his signature all black look, they nursed a drink in their hand as they watched you from afar. Crowley had always been enamored by your shameless wonder, and even now after millenniums of having been at each others side, they still find you just as wonderous as he did back in the beginning.

Amongst the angels that served as guardians of the gates of Eden, lied you. An angel with strength and beauty that showed the power of the Almighty Herself. When the Garden was no more and the humans you swore to protect were outcast, Crawley, as you knew him before, was there to witness how you had fallen for God's newest creation.

"Here. Take these." With hushed whispers, you shield Eve from the prying eyes of the Garden, unaware of the serpent that remained coiled in the corner, as you reach into your robes to retrieve the several stems of hyssop that you had picked from the garden.

"But I-"

"You mustn't worry about what the Almighty says. Despite her anger, she still will watch over you as will I." Looking up at her, your heart contracts seeing the fear etched on Eve's face as she now prepares to face the world outside the sacred garden.

"I never meant for any of this to happen," Eve's voice comes out small, like a child scolded.

"I know," you say softly, "but there is still a way to make things right."

Grabbing her hand, you softly place the stems of the hyssop into her open palm. Inspecting the purple buds that adorn the plant, her eyebrows furrow in curiosity as to what the plant’s purpose is.

"You will soon find out that each passing month, you will undergo painful cycles where you will shed blood. This will only last a couple of days, but the pain that comes with it can be unbearable. This..." you cup the bottom of her hand that held the plant, "will help ease the pain that you will feel. Plant it, multiply it, and when the time comes, make a tea and it shall work."

Eve softly closes her fist, careful not to crush the delicate buds within her grasp.

"Thank you," she murmurs.

"Of course." You smile reassuringly and for the last time you see the glimmer of hope that lives in Eve, even if hidden behind her anxieties of what was to come.

You fly over the gates, in your own way saying goodbye to the fortress you have grown to love, wings slowly flapping steadily in place as you watch Adam and Eve venture out into the unknown.

"Well that was awfully kind of you-"

"My Lord!" Gasping loudly, your hand clutches your chest and your wings flare as you're caught off guard by the sudden presence at your side.

After a beat of catching your breath, you look over at the intruder and when you do, you have to do a double take. They look so familiar but...no...it can't be?

"Crawley?"

"I'm sorry do I know you?"

"Ye- oh, well I suppose not." Words dying off as you remember the rumours of Crowley's torment that followed after their fall from grace.

"I'm Y/N!" Your voice comes out more cheerfully this time, as you flash him a smile.

"Pleasure. Right, well like I mentioned, that was awfully kind what you did back there," turning his head to the side to look at you, he's met with your brows furrowed in confusion as to what he's going on about. "With the hyssop? I mean that was bloody brilliant and that's gonna save her a lot more heartache in the long run."

"Oh! Yes! Well I had to help, I can only imagine what she's bound to go through." You look back over to the lone two figures far in the distance within the desert, it'll be nightfall soon and you can only hope that they find shelter sometimes soon.

Crowley studies your profile as your gaze remains forward. You truly are a creature rarely seen and in those wholesome eyes that seem to have the light of the stars within them, he sees the darkness of the lonesomeness that lingered beneath.

"How did you come to grow so fond of them?"

"They had a choice and in the eyes of the Almighty they chose wrong," your face falls, a defeated sigh escaped your lips as you turn to fix your gaze unto Crowley. "Despite the punishments they face, they face them together. They have a companion and they're capable of so much love and so much more than what I believe any of us can imagine."

"You wish to live like them?"

"I'm afraid I can't. My duty is to the Almighty."

"I'm sure they would do good having someone on watch, hm? If you could protect them, then you can do good here at least enough to y'know make sure they don't ruin things all over again."

"Crowley?"

They hum in acknowledgement.

"How'd you know about my gift to Eve?"

Shit.

"I erm..I-I'm sorry, what?"

"Were you watching me?" You grin ear to ear as you tease the demon, face warming at the thought of Crowley having watched your every move from afar.

"I-Well-Ah-What, no. Oh s-please, that's rubbish."

"Crowley, you really are the devil." You laugh as you nudge their side playfully with your elbow.

When they try to do the same, a flap of your wings allows you to just barely miss their aim, and your laugh only grows at the sight of their widened expression.

"Ohhh Angel, you're in for it now." His seemingly threatening words fall short of any true malice, only mischief as they invite you in- making you fall deeper within his trap the longer you looked at the wicked grin on his face. Heart soaring as the two of you flew over the desert sky together, the beginning of something new.

You couldn't have envisioned the life that you would lead forward from that fateful day. Perhaps it had been also been your destiny to fall for temptation back in the Garden, your innocence having died screaming since Crowley slithered from Eden. Lifetimes have passed since then and you've seen everything that humanity had to offer. Yet despite having seen it all, you still fell victim to your own loneliness. Hiding your relationship with Crowley from Heaven's back came with a heavy tax. There would be periods when the shame and guilt you carried would become too much and the light in your eyes would fade. Whenever you felt this way, you would often turn to your vices in order to numb the pain. Crowley knew of this, in fact it wasn't uncommon for the two of you to indulge in illicit substances together, your hunger for more only growing the more you indulged. While they always tempted you to indulge in the sweetness of sin, they wondered if this time they've gone too far.

He's had quite a few already but that doesn't make him slow down. Raising the glass to his lips, his eyes remain fixed on you as even in the darkness, you still illuminated a heavenly glow.

"Some things never change", he thought to himself.

Yet even in your glow, they don’t miss the vacancy behind your eyes. The light that they had spent all of an eternity getting lost in had vanished and instead a storm of emotions were buried just beneath. It was only a matter of time before the storm would grow stronger and Crowley knew it as well as you did. You always were clever, and tried your damnedest to keep them hidden from everyone, especially Crowley, but it was no use. The demon had a tendency to see right through you and it was one of the things you loved most about them, but right now it was the very thing that annoyed you the most.

"Crowley," even telepathically they don't miss the tired and slurred hush of your voice as it echoes within his head, the various substances you've indulged in wiring your system. "Don't you stand there watching, won't you come and save me from it?"

You know that they've heard you, it wasn't uncommon for you and Crowley to communicate like this. So when they finally break their gaze and turn their shoulder to face the bartender again, your heart sinks thinking that they won't come to save you. You feel your face grow hot in embarrassment as you mentally scold yourself for being so vulnerable.

When Crowley turns around from closing his tab, you've vanished from the crowd and have already sought shelter in the bathroom. Clutching onto the sink for dear life, ragged breaths come out of your lips as you feel warm tears fall down your face. As you look at your reflection in the mirror, your torment only grows as your stomach twists in disgust by what you see.

"Oh Angel, how the mighty have fallen." You say self-deprecatingly as you harshly wipe at the tears in your eyes. Despite appearances, you weren't the angel you once were. Yet you knew that if Heaven saw you for what you were, you too would fall from grace.

With shaky hands you reach into your pocket and pull out a small golden vial- a gift from Crowley from the 20s. You unscrew the top as you gently tap the white powder onto the back of your hand. With a sniff, a rush courses through you as you feel the effects of the drug only enhance your already intoxicated state. As you tuck the vial away again and fix your appearance, you brace yourself for the world outside.

As you emerge your way back to the dance floor, your vision becomes hazy as the bright lights bounce around the crowd. In its wake, they illuminate one familiar face. They've never been the best dancer per se, but they always knew how to lose themselves in the moment.

As they come up from behind you, hands planting themselves on your hips as he presses your bodies together. Even as much as you feel yourself wanting to relinquish control to them a part of you holds back-desperately wanting nothing more than to be saved.

"Darlin', don't you join in you're supposed to drag me away from it."

"I'm here, love. I'm here." The breath of his whisper tickles the nape of your ear.

You knew you would be safe with Crowley, but the deep ache for salvation clouded your judgement. The infinite number of substances coursing through your veins only brought about infinite shame.

"Crowley," you sigh, "please."

You turn your head to look at him over the shoulder, and Crowley stills. The buzz and electricity of the nightclub die once he sees the loneliness shining through your pleading eyes, breaking his heart with every second.

"Right, come on then."

He takes your hand as he leads you away from the crowd and back into the streets of London. Despite having been on Earth for millenniums, one thing you never grew to get used to was how unbearably cold it can get. Crowley knows this, so he gives you his jacket and tucks you into his side as he rubs your arms comfortingly, hoping to warm you up.

"I'll get the car," they say facing you as you both stop on the edge of the sidewalk. They see your gaze fixated on the floor and know that your mind is elsewhere, probably worlds away from where they are.

"You gonna be alright?" Hooking a finger underneath your chin, they raise your head to finally look at them again.

"Yeah," your voice comes out shaky as you take a deep breath. "I'll be fine, Crowley." You try to give them a reassuring smile but it never quite reaches your eyes.

Crowley feels guilty for the way you feel, blaming themself for pushing you too far and not having listened to your signs earlier.

"Go." Your voice breaks them out of their thoughts. "Please, Crowley."

"Right. I'll be back yea?"

"Okay."

You watch him walk away further into the crowded streets, disappearing as he turns into the parking garage. Fumbling in your pockets you take out the pack of cigarettes that Crowley keeps in his jacket and you light one up. Thankfully the bentley doesn't come into view until you squash your cigarette bud underneath your boot.

When you get in there's no music playing, and it's like that the entire ride home. The only thing heard is the ambience of the passing city, the unbearable street traffic, and the heavy silence that lingers between the two of you. Every couple of minutes, Crowley's eyes shift over to you as you lean your head against the passenger window, eyes taking in the passing scenery.

"Eyes on the road, please." You mumbled, speaking for the first time in the past twenty minutes.

"They speak." Crowley narrated half amusingly.

"Not now, love. Not tonight please."

Crowley feels a sting at your words, not because they were necessarily hurtful but because they knew that you were hurting inside and at the cause of their hands. They turn their head back to the road in front and grip the steering wheel tighter, dreading the long night that's bound to unravel.

You hadn't realized that you've arrived at your apartment until Crowley placed a hand over your thigh and gently shook your leg.

"Sweetheart, we're here."

As you come back to your senses you see your apartment building right outside the window, the kitchen light glowing faintly from inside.

"Thank you," you don't spare a look at Crowley as you prepare to bid goodbye. As you go to pull onto the car handle, you feel it stiffen as the door locks itself.

"Crowley-"

"Not until you tell me what's wrong."

Finally looking up at them you take in how disheveled their is. No longer in a neat quiff but instead had strands falling all over the place. Right hand still gripped tightly around the steering wheel while their left hand remained free.

You know where this was going, you've played this game many times before with the demon but you had very little patience tonight.

"Crowley, please not tonight. I just want to be alone."

"You know better than I do that I can't let that happen."

"Why not?" You spat out, tilting your head at them albeit daringly. Only to be met by their squinting eyes as you both relieve the same memory of the past.

A momentary shock flashed across both Aziraphale's and Crowley's face as they made each others figure out as the dust of their sudden apparition settled.

"Angel? What are you-"

"The same reason why you are here. I could feel it."

Crowley swallowed thickly, nodding in acknowledgement of the celestial force that had brought both the angel and demon here in the living room of your flat.

Aziraphale had been shelving books when he first felt it. Crowley had been downing a whiskey at the pub when he felt it. At first it had hit them dully, making them stop in their tracks. Moments later, the pain radiated every fiber of the celestials beings, bringing them to their knees. It felt like a burning. Like the heat of a thousand suns had consumed them and they instantly recognized that pain. Having felt it plentiful during the rebellion, with the images of war and bloodshed still vivid in their minds even after all this time. The horror that consumed them as angels they both knew and loved met either their untimely end or their damning descent.

You were slipping from this form, from this world, and both Crowley and Aziraphale could feel every ounce of that pain.

"Right, where are they?!" Crowley seethed as he begin to pace around the living room.

"They must be around here somewhere, shall we split up?" Aziraphale anxiously met Crowley's gaze as he flexed his hand at his side rhythmically. Nervous habit.

"I'll take upstairs." With that the demon bolted upstairs and began his search as Aziraphale remained in the lower level of your flat. Echoes of your name rung out as they both called out to you.

It was the howling of Aziraphale's name that sent the angel running upstairs to Crowley. Dread weighing on his tongue with every step he took. The swung door and bright light emanating from the bathroom drew him in the right direction as he called out to Crowley.

As Aziraphale appeared in the doorway, he froze at the scene that laid in front of him. Crowley sunken on the floor with your limp frame cradled in his arms.

"What in Heaven's name happened?" Aziraphale breathed out, wide eyed in shock.

"I didn't- I don't know-th-they just-", words seem to fail Crowley, even more so than usual. Forming words took to much strength when the only thing he could feel, see, and taste was fear.

Aziraphale's face hardened as a defiance washed over him. Not tonight. Swallowing his fear down, Aziraphale sprung into action and was at your side.

Your skin was scalding and burned Aziraphale when he tried to touch you. Streaks of blood adorned your nose and cupids bow. Your heart was beating too fast and your breathing was too shallow.

Crowley smoothed your hair back as he took note of the sheen of sweat that adorned your forehead.

"Don't you dare give up on me. Do you hear me y/n?" Crowley croaked through how impossibly tight his throat felt. "You're not going anywhere."

"Crowley, look at me." Aziraphale urged, voice steady as he tried hard to be level headed.

Crowley was rocking back and forth, looking down on you as he muttered incoherently beneath his breath. Aziraphale saw the way Crowley had been unraveling and while he understood why, he knew that they needed to join heads in order to save you.

"Crowley," Aziraphale whispered as he placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. This seemed to snap Crowley back to reality as his gaze finally tore away from your face and fixated upon Aziraphale's. He couldn't breathe right, not that he needed the air anyways, but he took note of how hard his chest had been heaving. His wide eyes darted frantically between Aziraphale's as he searched for some kind of answer.

"What do we do?"

Aziraphale knew that they couldn't call for help. Who on earth could possibly help revive an angel back to life. This was something that would need divine intervention, and then he realized the only option they had left.

"A miracle?" It came out whispered, as if he himself wasn't sure of it.

"Aziraphale..."

"It's the only way."

The two only stared at each other. Communicating through panicked breaths and wide eyes searching for another answer yet reaching defeat and accepting that there was none.

"On my count. 1...2...3!" Crowley boomed as he and the angel intertwined hands and placed them over your chest.

A warm yellow light engulfed the entire room, blinding both Aziraphale and Crowley from each other as they both drew from their respective forces to perform this act. They lose all sense of time in the light of their miracle and it isn't until Crowley feels you stir within their arms that he opens his eyes.

"Y/N?"

Serpentine eyes meet yours as you fluttered your eyes open, slowly regaining consciousness. Your eyes darting everywhere as the world around you is still out of focus, you gain an inkling of clarity once Aziraphale's cool blue eyes meet yours.

You were dying, you knew that much. You had been toeing the line between life and death and death had nearly had its claim on you. Yet somehow in the space between, it had been Aziraphale and Crowley who saved you. Bringing you back home to them.

"That won't happen again and I've been fine since, Crowley." Venom lacing your every word as you stared at him coldly.

That night had been your rock bottom. The sixties were a time of radical change for everyone and it was in the drug liberation movement that your substance abuse had found its spark.

"Now, if you don't mind I'll just-" and with a wave of your hand you miracled the car to unlock itself.

As you climb out of the car, you have to cling to the door as your legs nearly give out on you. As the cold air nips at your skin, sending a shiver through your spine, you try to stop the world from spinning just long enough to get into your apartment.

As you wade through the grass you hear Crowley call after you. Ignoring them, you slot your key into your front door and relief fills your senses as you finally pry the front door open. Turning around to shut the door, your met with Crowley's chest as they stand in the entryway.

"I don't need a babysitter, Crowley." Your gaze cold as you tilt your head upwards to face them.

"Clearly, you do." Walking around you, Crowley makes his way further into your flat before seeking seeking refuge in the living room.

With a huff, you close the door and make your way further into your flat. Feeling Crowley close by as you entered and exited every room as you got changed. Their gaze never left yours, meanwhile you were doing everything in your power to ignore him. The task had proven itself difficult after 42 minutes. As Crowley watched you place a kettle for tea, his patience finally had worn thin.

"Is this what we're going to do? Keep silent all bloody night," their voice flat in annoyance as their stare bore into the back of your head.

A clatter rang out as you slammed the kettle back down on the burner. The anger from your manic state had been simmering for a while and Crowley's comment was enough to make it erupt.

"What do you want from me, Crowley?!" You bellowed as your eyes grow wide and crazed, meeting his daringly.

"I want us to quit using!!"

The boom in Crowley's voice was strong enough to rattle the flat, causing your wine glass from earlier to slide off the kitchen table and shatter on the floor.

You stare at the shattered glass on the carpeted floor. There it is. The big truth, the one that seemed to be seeping in your brain as fast as the crimson stain setting in your carpet.

"What?" Your voice came out a low murmur as your focus remained on the floor.

Crowley's chest deflates as they let out a heavy sigh. One that they've been holding for decades. You knew you didn't want to, you knew you loved it that much. Crowley also knew that, as much as it pained him. Having seen the destruction he's caused from his own hand, he never thought you were to get burned in his fire. Having swept you away from a paradise and into a world of sin, Crowley can't help but blame themself for the way things have ended up. They should have protected you better from it.

"I think maybe we should quit. All the drugs, all the drinking, at least for a little while." Voice teetering on remaining cool as they bargain with you.

"Go to hell," you sneer as you bump into his shoulder purposefully.

"Oh, I've been and it's actually quite lovely this time of year! The pipes have just gone through cleaning." Crowley barks as you march off.

The shattering of glass echoed throughout the flat as the fuel of you and Crowley's fire burned hotter at each passing second. Insults and accusations hurled at each other as you two miscommunicated.

"Y/N, don't you see what this is doing to us? What this is doing to you? This isn't us!" Hands waving frantically between your bodies, hoping to prove their point.

Coming to a halt from your previous march, you slowly turn to face the demon once more.

"And who exactly are we, Crowley?"

"Not this." A sigh elates from their lips as their shoulders slouch.

A moment of silence falls over the two of you. With the air still thick from all the tension, you can't see reason or rationality from the smoke of you and Crowley's fire.

"Devil," you call him slow and unsteady, hands shaking as they did long ago.

"When you stole my virtue, did you foresee that the fruits of my innocence would come to die far too young? Did you know the path I would take and what I would lose on it?" You close the distance between you as you slowly walk towards him.

"Angel, you know I didn't-"

"Then why did you do this to me?"

Crowley is stunned to silence. Throughout the entirety of your relationship, Crowley has carried a guilt for exposing you to a life of sin. Yet it wasn't until know that their fears would be confirmed as they stood their reeling in the weight out your accusation.

"Angel please-"

"You opened my eyes and you did this to me!"

Your screams rung out, piercing Crowley's ears with each slam of your fists across their chest. Walking backwards, Crowley tried to calm you down from your fury. Grabbing a hold of your wrists before flipping you where your back now was pressed against the wall.

"Let me go, let me go," you seethed through gritted teeth. Body thrashing against them as you fought to escape their hold.

"This is what I'm talkin' about," Crowley hissed. "This isn't you, love. You've lost control of your body, you feel no safety in my arms, we're constantly at each others throats. You don't trust me, y/n."

Your body slacks underneath Crowley's hold as the weight of his words cut through you like a knife.

"I've no language left to say it y/n, but I cannot go on like this any longer."

"Why didn't you stop me?", you mumble beneath your breath.

"I didn't know it would get this out of hand. If I knew, I would take it back in a second. I would have never sought you out in the Garden."

You can't help the soft smile that graces your lips as the warm memories from Eden flash in your mind. The days spent in paradise and time spent in playful innocence with Crowley. You've come a long way since then, and as quickly as it came your smile fell as you take in how far you've fallen from grace.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," your voice cracks as the weight of your shame come hurling towards you again, threatening to throw you overboard.

Your visions begins to blur and without a moments notice, a sob wracks itself out of your body. Crowley cups the sides of your face as he places kisses all over your face, whispering apologies between each kiss.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry love, I promise we'll make it out of this. I promise I will make it up to you."

Your cries become muffled as they pull you into their chest, hands smoothing your back comfortingly.

"What if I can't stop?" Your voice comes out hoarse. You don't know how long you've been in Crowley's arms, but your cries have now died down to sniffles as a drowsiness seeps into your bones. "What if we can't make it out of this one?"

Pulling away slightly to get a clear view of you, Crowley see's the tiredness in your eyes.

"I promise I will do whatever it takes to make sure we survive, that you survive."

"It's hungry work." You didn't feel worthy of Crowley's love or care, feeling guilty of the burden you've placed on them.

"Not for me." Crowley shakes his head defiantly. "Not if it's you."

"I don't deserve this. I've been unkind to you, I can't give you what you want-"

"Y/N, when I met you I swore I had dreamed you. A creature so beautiful, so loving, never having asked me once about the wrong I did. I can only pray I can show you a shred of the light you have given me."

Crowley's devotion remained unwavering. Seeing the light in his eyes as he pledged his loyalty made your heart ache a little less, and the pain less unbearable. Crowley noticed your eyes ever seeking, head reeling a million thoughts but not asking, for in some sad way he already knows.

"I know what it's like to carry the shame and hate of some other man's beliefs, let me carry that with you," he pleaded.

Flickering between his yellow eyes, the love that poured from them made you feel lighter. You knew that the road to recovery would be long and present its own trials, but you didn't have to face them alone. In fact, you never would have to feel alone anymore.

"I'm all in- I need to know you still want this, that you still want me."

Nodding slowly, a smile cracks itself on your face.

"In every lifetime, Crowley."

[palmofafreezinghand]

requesting an angsty one shot if you feel up to writing it? :)

thank you for the prompt!

content warnings: discussions of infant death and grief

on ao3 here.

March, 1921. 

Carlisle sped down the old logging road, the mechanical hum of a finely tuned European engine blending with the whistled ‘fee-bee’ of the chickadees greeting the first buds of Spring. His arm hung out the window as he drove, the not-quite-warm air causing his sleeve to flap in the wind. He paid no mind to the shine of his skin under the morning sun. 

After a harrowing winter, the first buds of Spring were more than welcome. It appeared, his tide was finally turning. Or so he thought. 

“She is in a mood,” Edward whispered pointedly, appearing at Carlisle’s window the minute his tires hit the driveway. 

In a second Carlisle’s thoughts took a harsh turn to concern. The newest member of their household had not had an enviable introduction to their way of life, one haunted by desperation and grief, but as of late, she had improved. Smiles graced her face more frequently, a laugh echoed off the walls at least once a day, she had accepted the hand she was dealt with grace. At least he thought she had. Their tide was finally turning, right? 

“Carlisle, leave her alone,” Edward whispered through clenched teeth, yanking the car door open. He barely waited for Carlisle to get out of the car before he threw himself into the driver’s seat. “This is all your fault,” the boy hissed as he slammed the car in reverse. 

The winter — and all it brought — had been hard for them all. It was all his fault. 

Despite this knowledge, Carlisle did not heed Edward’s advice, he rarely did. Instead, he quickly found her in the garden. 

“Good morning,” he smiled, the rotting garden gate creaking as it swung open. 

“Hello,” she said, barely louder than the crunch of a pine needle under a hare’s foot half a mile South. 

She sat under a just-beginning-to-flower red maple tree. Her knees tucked to her chest, frizzy hair pinned on top of her head haphazardly, the circles under her eyes darker than he had ever seen them. Her gaze was fixed on a mound in one of the old garden beds, a single white flower peeking out of the melting snow. 

“Are you well?” 

She shrugged, which he learned to interpret as a half-hearted yes, but did not volunteer any elaboration. 

He took a seat next to her, without another word, as he had many times before. Vulnerability was not a natural state for Esme Anne Platt — Esme Anne a married name he had yet to find out but desperately wanted to know. 

If forced to guess he would say a half hour went by before she spoke.

“Snowdrop,” she said. Somehow her voice sounded as if she had been sobbing, however impossible that was. 

“Pardon?” 

“The flower,” she gestured weakly with her head, “is called a Snowdrop. They were originally imported from Europe, someone must have planted them nearby.” 

“Intriguing.” 

“It is often considered medicinal. People crush the bulb to treat pain. Ironic, is it not?” She scoffed. 

He did not grasp her meaning at first until he followed her gaze. A beautiful painkiller growing from a double grave. 

“This is where you buried them, is it not?” She asked when he did not respond. 

He considered lying, ever since meeting her he was getting more comfortable with falsehoods. In two months he had lied more than in the rest of his life. This was not one of those times. 

“How did you know?” 

“The smell,” she said matter-of-factly, in a way that made his stomach twist. He had buried the bodies fifteen feet deep in an attempt to hide the grave from her, save her the torment of a constant reminder. The scent of rotting flesh — noticeable only by the newborn with heightened senses — was not a factor he accounted for. 

The mother and son who lay under the garden bed, had been walking along the shore and had the misfortune of running into a bloodthirsty grief-stricken confused vampire. The bodies lay cold at her blood-covered feet a week after her own son had lost his life. The six-year-old boy was first, Edward had theorized the mother was partly out of instinct, and largely out of pity. 

Besides his mother’s, they were the first deaths Carlisle considered himself responsible for. 

As soon as she realized what she had done, Esme was horrified, rightfully. She pleaded with Edward and Carlisle to give the two a proper burial. 

The garden was the easiest place, somewhere no one would find them. 

Her remorse was palpable. Every silent day that went by felt like a noose tightening. The image of her greedily drinking from the neck of a child was one that haunted him every time he looked at her. 

He was no longer capable of seeing Esme as the woman she was, but was instead the many versions of herself she once was. A bright tree climber with big dreams and a charming laugh, an almost-corpse with a broken spine and delicious blood, a murderer with an enticing smile. 

He was the one who had turned her into this. 

“It was not your fault—” 

“Stop,” she interrupted him. For months he had insisted the deaths were not her fault, he should have had a better grip and used more restraint, he was the one who forced her into this life it was his responsibility to shepherd her through the challenges. She was not to blame. 

She refused to hear a word of it, he had yet to realize this was because she knew he did not believe the lies he peddled. 

His next words were weighed carefully, balanced against the slicing warning Edward had given. Carlisle could not imagine the thoughts that had driven him to such anger. He could not imagine half of the woman’s thoughts, still largely oblivious to the horrors that occurred in the ten years since they met. 

“Is this,” he motioned to the flower, and grave, “the only thing on your mind?” 

He presumed it was not. While, Esme had grieved the lives she took a shocking — quite concerning — amount, she had not mentioned the two strangers in over a month. When he had left her, a mere thirteen hours prior, she had seemed closer to her old, blissful sixteen-year-old, self than ever before. 

She sighed, her eyes closing, her forehead falling on her knees, attention finally pulled from the grave. “Everything is on my mind,” she laughed humorlessly. 

He did not probe further, despite every instinct telling him to be ask a dozen more questions. If he had been able to be objective about the situation, his overwhelming curiosity when it came to the subject of Esme would have been a cause of concern but he was doomed to be the last person to realize. 

“May I speak freely?” She asked, pulling her face off her knees and stretching her legs out in front of her. 

“Please.” 

She sucked in a breath, watching as a crow landed on the garden fence. “I feel as if I have lost the right to grieve,” she said carefully as if dipping a toe in the water to test the temperature. “I miss my son more than words can say, but I feel as if that is selfish.” 

“I can not fathom a world where grief is possibly considered vain.”

“I took the life of someone else’s son. I feel overwhelming guilt every time I have the gall to miss mine. It feels like retribution in a way, I will have to live with this pain for the rest of time.” 

She was not finished, he knew this and thus did not say a word but let his left hand fall to lightly touch her knee, a movement that could be construed as natural or not. Her hand hovered over his for a half second, before squeezing his hand and releasing. He let his hand fall to the ground. 

“Every time I feel the smallest bit of joy, I feel as if a boulder has been dropped on my chest. How can I dare be happy when he never will be? How can I stand to walk another day when I caused someone else this pain? I do not deserve the life you have given me, the safety, the peace, the contentment.” 

“Esme —” 

“I know I have been direful company as of late. I am, as difficult as it is, grateful for all you have done for me.” 

“Esme, you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. You have accepted this life with more grace than Edward or I did. I am the one who ought to be apologizing.” 

“I do not deserve your kindness.” 

“You do. You deserve a marvelous life.” 

She scoffed, his reassurances running off like water on a duck. “I appreciate the sentiment, however untrue it is.” 

“Your son would want his mother to find happiness. You are a loving mother, and a wonderful person, Esme.” 

She bit her bottom lip hard, eyes darting across the garden, looking as if she was on the precipice of tears. “You do not know that, you do not know me. If you knew what I have done…” She trailed off, swallowing hard, letting out a shaky breath. 

He could not fathom whatever occurred in the years they were strangers that she considered worse than a double homicide. Although, he paid more mind to the hurt caused by her accusation. ‘You do not know me.’ Why did this insult him so? 

“I did not look,” she said, turning to look him in the eye. The contact lasted only a brief second before her attention was turned back to the flower. “When he…” she gulped, “died. That is the first time I have used that word. Died. I did not look. I was holding him to my chest.” Her right hand instinctively lingered over her chest, rounding as if cradling a newborn’s head. “He was coughing so hard, I was too scared to watch. He could not see me. Did he know I was there? Did he think he was alone?” 

“Esme-” 

“I don’t even know what happened to him,” she said almost in disbelief. “The doctor pried him out of my hands after a while, I loathed that man. The nurse told me to go home and I did. I left him there all alone. 

“Es-” 

“He thought he was alone, unloved, in his last moments, and then I left him,” she scoffed. “What kind of moth– person does that?” 

Silence filled the garden. He let the words weigh down the air, like a fishing weight to the bottom of a pond. 

“My mother died the day I was born,” he said quietly. He had told her this before, ten years prior, and again as a footnote in his life story but never with the weight it deserved. 

Esme nodded in recognition she had heard the story before, he continued. 

“I know she loved me. I have no evidence of the fact, besides my existence, and I was surely never told. Yet, I believe it wholeheartedly.” 

“She did. She had to.” 

“Why would your son be any different?” He smiled weakly. “He knows, Esme. The only life he knew on this Earth was in the arms of his mother, warm and unconditionally loving. I say this not as someone who cares for you but as someone’s son, he knows. I know your faith has been shaken, but I have enough for both of us. He knows. As a doctor, there is nothing you could have done differently. This is guilt you can not carry any longer. And, as someone who would like to think of themselves as your friend, please permit yourself to enjoy the life your son was denied. You are not a lesser mother for doing so.” 

“Thank you,” she said quietly, mindlessly picking at her cuticles. 

At some point in their conversation, it had begun to rain, a bone-chilling rain, only a degree or two away from freezing. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Carlisle could no longer stand the not technically harmful, but certainly unpleasant, downpour. “Is there any chance I could persuade you to come inside?” He asked, slowly standing, attempting to brush debris off his pants.

She nodded and took the unnecessary hand he offered to help her stand. Once she stood on two feet, neither of them dropped the other’s hand for a beat longer than excusable, their eyes met and released their grip in unison. 

He held the garden gate open for her, she gave him a nod of thanks, she walked a step and a half ahead, he tried to appear casual as he quickened his pace to keep up. 

“Your hair curls when it’s wet,” Carlisle observed as they walked down the makeshift forest path. He had washed her hair during her transition, but he was less concerned about the texture and more focused on scrubbing out bone fragments and brain matter. 

“Unfortunately,” she sighed, reaching to tuck the stray lock of hair back into the style. 

“Unfortunately?” 

“It manages to get tangled if I look at it wrong,” she laughed lightly. “I used to straighten it with a clothing iron, but now I have to keep it pinned back.” 

“It knots now?” He asked, their hair was one of the features least affected by venom but was still changed in the transition. 

She paused and considered this question. “I have never worn it down since I… changed. Do you think it might not?” 

“If I had to guess I would say no, although it may be best to wear it up while hunting.” 

“My son’s hair was curly. It was very light,” she smiled to herself. 

“Your husband was blonde?” He asked before he could think better of it.

She had offered very little information about her late husband. Carlisle knew he was dead, he had served in the war, they had married when Esme was in her early twenties, and Edward had told him to never, under any circumstance, bring up the man. Although, she had just accused him of not knowing her. How would he ever learn more? 

“No, my husband’s hair was dark as coal, his eyes too. I have never seen eyes as black as his. Imagine my surprise when I gave birth to a blonde, blue-eyed baby.” 

Her tone was remarkably distant, she did not speak of her late husband with the obvious love and care as she did her son, the smell of freshly baked goods, or lying under the afternoon sun. She did not seem to be grieving, or even mildly upset the topic was broached. 

“He was beautiful. I know every mother says that, but he was.” 

“I wish I could have met him,” Carlisle said. It was more familiarity than he had ever assumed, but it was an earnest sentiment. 

“Me too.” 

The rest of their walk was no more than three minutes, the silence between them comfortable now. They walked closer than necessary. He held the front door open for her, she gave him a grateful smile. 

He turned towards the staircase, presuming her silence meant she wished for a moment alone as much as he wished for dry clothes. 

Her voice stopped him. “May I ask you one last question?” 

“Was that not a question?” He grinned, turning to face her, he was greeted by a sliver of a smile. 

“I know I do not want to know the answer, but I need to know. What is the hospital’s arrangement for dealing with… bodies?” She gulped again. “I did not have any family nearby, no one would have known…” she trailed off, but the question she refused to ask was clear. 

Edward and Carlisle had spent weeks dealing with the public aftermath of Esme’s death. While new to the community she had been a notable member of the small logging town’s teaching staff, and had been a quite beloved roommate to an old widow. The two had sworn to keep the details of their efforts to themselves. Perhaps, their policy could be bent, just once. 

“Your son is buried in Washburn. He has a modest headstone… next to yours.” 

Her brow furrowed, her head tilting to the side. “How? Who? The hospital?” 

“Do you recall the woman you lived with?” 

“Vaguely,” she sighed. The loss of memories seemed to be one of the effects of immortality she found most disturbing. “Her name started with a D.” 

“Adeline Parker,” he offered. 

“Della! She went by Della, she thought Adeline was too posh,” Esme smiled fondly. She had a dimple on her left cheek and a remarkably nice smile, one he knew he would be trying harder to catch a glimpse of soon. 

“She came to the hospital, a few days after the two of you… passed. You had not returned, she was concerned. Fortunately, I was working that evening and was able to piece together the connection. I relayed the ne—” 

“How did she receive the news?” 

He considered this for a moment. Esme was already vulnerable. Would telling her about the older woman’s sobs that sounded as if she had lost a child herself give Esme closure or grief? 

“As well as she could. She arranged the burials, and I offered to help arrange assistance from a local charity.” 

“He has a headstone?” 

“Yes, Adeline picked most of the design.” 

“She could not afford a headstone.” 

“I may have contributed, under the guise of a charity.” 

“You did that for me?” She asked incredulously. 

“Of course, Esme. It was the least I could do,” he said sincerely. 

She did not say a word but instead launched her arms around his waist, squeezing tightly. Once he processed she was giving him a hug — one of the first of his life —  he moved one hand to rest on the back of her head and the other on her back. It was entirely improper but neither could muster the energy to mind. 

“Thank you, Carlisle,” she muttered. 

[thiriann]

Extraterrestrial - Chapter 4 "Perplexity"

This is a continuation of an ongoing fic.

You can also find me on AO3

Pairing: Tav X Astarion, F/M.

Content: Githyanki Tav, Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Alien Cultural Differences, Cleric Tav, Astarion Being Astarion, Flirting, Seduction, Biting,Vampire Bites,Blood Drinkin,Love Triangles,Jealousy,Pining, no sex in this chapter but will be in later ones. Ongoing fic

Words: 2.2k

Summary:The gang discovers more about their tadpoles and have an unexpected visitor in the night. Astarion continues his efforts at acquiring allies in the camp while Ilaara faces new unexpected emotions.

He had gone hunting every night since the crash but tonight his ever-present hunger seemed to be lacking. It would have been a relief had it not been for the waves of nausea that he was experiencing. His hands were sweating, his skin felt clammy making his shirt cling to him.

Acute panic filled him at the realization, it was happening – he was transforming.

 He pushed the flap of his tent hastily ready to storm out into the night. To look for something, anything that might help him stop this.

And then he saw her- Ilaara with Lae’zel’s blade at her throat.

“I see it in you. I feel it in me. We are lost.” He heard Lae’zel say and a cold dread settled in his stomach at her words.

“I will be quick with my blade. First you. Then the others. Then myself.” She continued.

Despite all of his stupid games he didn’t feel ready in the slightest. He couldn’t let it end like this, not after everything he’s been through.  His hands trembled as he reached for his bow, the world blurring at the edges. His vision swam, Lae'zel's image doubling, tripling but he just needed one clear shot from the shadows.

“It’s just a fever. Rest will break it.” Ilaara spoke softly but with undeniable certainty.

Lae'zel's blade lowered, and with it, a fraction of the terror. Astarion collapsed onto a plush pillow in front of his tent unable to bring himself back inside.

“If the sickness does not pass come dawn… I will end us all.” He could no longer open his eyes but Lae’zel’s parting words rang in his head.

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

The first thing Astarion noticed when he woke up was that he felt exponentially better. The ache in his gut had returned at full force but at least he felt himself again.

And then he recalled the visitor and a thrill ran through him. Maybe these worms could prove useful once again. And he was far from turning down any powers at the moment, even if they came from a worm. Anything to help him survive in this wilderness away from Cazador was a welcomed gift.

He saw Ilaara knelt by the river, washing her clothes and approached before any of their other companions beat him to it.

“I had the strangest dream last night. There was a visitor promising me protection, and all sorts of delicious powers from the parasites in our heads.” He started, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.

“Given our shared affliction, I suppose you had a similar dream…?”

Ilaara's eyes met his, a mixture of curiosity and wariness. “I did.”

“Excellent!” he replied, a smirk tugging at his lips “Now we can see what these tadpoles can do for us.”

Ilaara's expression turned cautious.

“I don’t trust it. We should avoid using these powers. “

“Is there a reason you’re always such an utter drip?  Do you have some sort of condition? Honestly, it’s like you hate good news.” He snapped irritated.

“Did you want anything or are you here just to spoil my fun?”

Ilaara looked at him quizzically. “You came to me.”

Astarion turned on his heel and stormed off with a huff, leaving Ilaara alone by the river, her gaze following his retreating figure.

She pondered his words as she watched him disappear into his tent. This was the worm's work, no doubt, but the symptoms  they were experiencing were atypical. And this dream visitor had fulfilled its promise so far- they were not turning. A chill crept down her spine. This was all too strange.

As Astarion watched her make her way stiffly to Lae'zel's tent he wondered if he hadn’t been too harsh in his tone. He was trying to seduce her after all and he felt like he'd slipped there. He would need to rectify that soon.

“-it's ghaik deception!” He heard Lae'zel hiss.

 Gods these githyanki would not work with him at all on this. Maybe he had to consider a different strategy and ally himself with someone more open-minded.

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

As they ventured out of their camp, he saw the wizard walking a bit behind the rest. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to test the waters.

“I am enjoying our walks together, aren't you, Gale?” he spoke, his voice laced with false camaraderie.

 “Uhm... Sure. In silence.”

Funny how this was the one time Gale decided to be silent.  Clearly this had been a lost cause.  He heard the wizard was hung up on some goddess anyway.

Shifting his attention, he turned to Shadowheart.

“Shadowheart. Such a grim name for such a beautiful flower.”

A sharp intake of breath. “Could you not stare so blatantly at my neck when you say that please?”

“Oh, but do keep calling her 'flower'. She'll love that.” Lae’zel chimed in.

“I didn’t expect you to be capable of sarcasm, Lae’zel. Do miracles never cease?” he mocked.

Lae'zel responded with a low growl but mercifully walked away. Glancing at Ilaara, it appeared that she had missed much of their conversation, but her expression was strained, as if she was struggling to maintain a neutral expression.

Along the road they came across a couple standing over a heavily injured man. Their distress was apparent as the man coughed and took possibly his final breaths.

“You! Not a step closer.” The woman yelled.

“What happened to your friend?” Ilaara asked staring at the bleeding man.

“An owlbear. Please, do you have any-“ the man started but was swiftly interrupted by the girl.

“Shut up, Andrick! Do you serve the Absolute?” She demanded .

Ilaara raised an eyebrow in question when the injured man called to her. She kneeled next to him feeling the same connection she had with her companions as their minds intertwined.  “Protect them” he’d said but she still failed to understand any of it.

“Explain this Absolute to me.” Ilaara demanded.

“What…? Are you… are you testing us?” the man said and Ilaara got the distinct impression they thought she should know already of this Absolute.

“The Absolute is our goddess.She’s going to rip down the old world order, start a new one.” He started to explain “Then we’ll be the ones with the power- well, you firstly, True Soul. You don’t need me to explain that.”

“A True Soul – like you- has been chosen by the Absolute. You speak with Her voice.” The girl added. “And when the time comes, the True Souls – you- will rule.”

Astarion leaned into Ilaara to whisper “I like these two. All zeal and no brains.”

For once she couldn’t agree more. This was the work of some cult surely.

“You’re wrong. I’m no True Soul. I serve only The Undying Queen.”

Ilaara declared but it seemed to be the wrong thing to say as they drew their swords and lunged. 

It didn’t take long to take them down, both were clearly inexperienced in combat.

“What were those raving fools on about?” Shadowheart asked but Ilaara had no answers.

“They mistook us for followers of their god” Ilaara said but couldn’t shake the feeling this was all connected to the tadpole.

As Ilaara bent to loot the corpse, an unfamiliar sensation washed over her.

“Follow your instrincts. Don’t be afraid.” The voice of the dream visitor echoed in her head.

Her limbs moved on their own accord with an unexplainable craving. All she could feel was the desire to be nourished, strengthened by the tadpole from within the corpse.

She grit her teeth with all her might. This was the illithid parasite’s doing, she would not be influenced by it!

Astarion watched Ilaara fight against the worm with a mix of fascination and disgust. Her body twisting and contorting with effort. The parasite finally relented and she put it firmly in a jar taking a sigh of relief.

She was still panting when he approached her.

“You know, if that parasite isn’t to your taste, I’d be happy to consume it in your stead.” He offered as if he’d be doing her a favor.

“I don’t relish the thought, but if you’re going to just leave it sitting in your pack- well, one of us should try it.”

Her head whipped up startling him briefly with its speed.

“Why would you want the ghaik tadpole?” she asked brows furrowing

“Oh I have my reservations, no question. First of all, it looks disgusting.” he continued while grimacing.

“Second, there’s a non-zero chance that it will turn me into a purple, glistening monster.”

“But if it doesn’t, who knows what kind of power we could unlock? And power is always worth a little risk.”

She sighed, too tired to argue on why this was a bad idea. If he wished to engage with the parasite, well that was his own choice.

“It’s in my pack if you want it.”

Astarion's eyes gleamed with anticipation.  “Excellent! I’ll have a rummage around and help myself in my own good time.”

The worm and access to her belongings? Maybe sticking by her was proving beneficial after all.

“Thank you, your generosity is appreciated.”

“Don’t mention it.” She said already regretting her decision.

“Maybe we should investigate this cult.” Ilaara said after a beat.

“We're wasting time before purification.” Lae’zel was quick to interject. “There is no telling how long this dream visitor’s “protection” will last.”

“Bringing more information before the ghustil could prove beneficial in fighting the infection that has taken hold here.” Ilaara insisted.

Lae'zel considered this for a moment, her expression unreadable. "You speak true," she conceded. "Fine, let's look into this 'Absolute', but we mustn't dally getting to a zaith'isk."

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

As the day came to an end the companions gathered around the campfire to eat their dinner.

 Despite not having to eat, Astarion sat by them and engaged in small talk, trying to appear friendly and affable.  Ilaara approached him, sitting next to him on the log he’d perched himself on.

Time to rectify his mistake.

“There you are, I was just thinking about you. And that delicious moment we shared the other night.” he began, his voice low and seductive.

“The moment when you bit me?”

“The very same. I've had this condition for two centuries, but truth be told? You were my first.” He dropped the innuendo as innocently as he could reveling in the way her eyes widened.

“In all these years, I've only ever fed on beasts. Drinking the blood of thinking creatures is a different thing entirely.” He continued.

“You were delectable. And now I just can't help but wonder how the others taste.” He finished gaze sweeping over  the campsite. The others had mostly retreated to their tents and hopefully couldn’t hear their late night conversation.

“They might not be as open to the idea as I was.” Ilaara said, a hint of amusement in her eyes.

Great, even she'd noticed his failed attempts with the others.

“Alas. It doesn't hurt to ponder the question, though.” He said wistfully.

“Take Gale, for example. He strikes me as someone whose blood is rich, refined like a well- aged brandy.”  Sucking in a breath, he could almost feel the taste in his mouth.

“But Shadowheart? I have no idea. How do you think our little enigma would taste?”

She hadn’t expected the question but a strange urge inside her made her want to entertain him. She did not like that feeling one bit.

While usually not one for liquor, had experimented with almost everything one could drink during her travels.

“Something that could lay you out. Calishite Absinthe, maybe?” she suggested.

 Astarion's eyes widened in appreciation. “Oh, that sounds very appealing. I'm almost convinced.”

Her answer seemed to have pleased him and Ilaara felt a strange warmth spreading through her, a reaction she couldn't quite explain.

“Could I convince you to kill someone less useful?” she asked, and he couldn’t tell if she was serious or trying to make a joke.

“No one's getting killed, I swear. We're just two friends talking.” Another phrase he’d heard but never used.

“So - in the spirit of theoretical questions - if you had to take a bite from one of them, who would it be?” he asked, leaning in, eyes filled with mischief.

His question gave her pause. She loved tasting her lovers but never quite like this.

 While trying to think of a preference only his scent came to mind as he bit her neck.

“You.” she replied openly and he was quick to bat his eyelashes as if it was a compliment.

“Oh, I'm flattered. Who knew you had such taste?”

He seemed unfazed but her own mind was perplexed by this revelation.

“Unfortunately, all this talk is getting me hungry. I'd better find something I can actually sink my teeth into.” He said as this conversation was not helping his hunger pangs in the slightest.

“Good hunting," she replied, her voice returning to its usual stoic tone.

“There's nothing that tasty lurking out in the woods, but I'll make do. Sweet dreams.” He wished before forgetting himself.

As he turned to leave the words slipped out of her mouth before she thought them through.

“You can feed on me tonight, if you’d like.”

Astarion smirked, eyes shining with a predatory gleam “Then I’ll see your delicious self tonight, you sweet generous thing.”

Got you.

[eluvisen]

All I See Is Fire Reflected In Your Eyes - Chapter 2

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3

Characters: Karlach/fem!Tav

Rating: E

Summary: She skims along Karlach’s skin until her lips meet the scar tissue spreading out from her breastbone. One of countless hurts, immortalised on her body. Not a part of her has been left untouched by Avernus.

By the time Rhodeia is finished, there won’t be a part of Karlach left untouched by her.

—

Navigating the complexities of physical intimacy between two people who haven't been touched in a long time.

With the last peg nailed into the ground, they finish raising their tent. Theirs. As Rhodeia rises to her feet, Karlach reaches for her, pulling her into a hug. The twenty-sixth she’s received today, and her heart skips a beat as if it’s the first.

“Not bad, eh?” Karlach grins, glowing.

Rhodeia leans into her, enjoying the way Karlach’s arms tightens around her waist. “As long as it doesn’t collapse at an inopportune moment.”

Karlach’s head dips to the pointed tip of her ear. “”We’ll have to put it to the test, then…”

A little thrill runs through Rhodeia at the hot breath running over her skin. “If the tent falls down, I’m blaming you.”

“Or, and hear me out, we could blame Astarion. Always sneaking about where he oughtn’t.”

“Hmm. That idea has merit.”

Karlach winks. “Knew there was a reason we got along.”

Dinner scrapes by, both excruciatingly slow and simply excruciating with all the ribbing from their companions. Tonight’s campsite is ringed in torches while a Daylight spell lights the thorny clearing. No matter the Moonmaiden’s blessing and the pixie’s bell, they can still be swarmed by undead. But with a double guard on watch—it’s as safe as they’ll be in this land.

After convincing Scratch and Smallclaw to spend time with Shadowheart tonight, Rhodeia heads to their tent. Pushing past the flap, her darkvision is enough to see by—or so she thinks until she trips over a spare pair of trousers. Karlach isn’t the neatest of people, her pack left open to spread her belongings across the floor in a sprawling heap. Clive reigns in a place of honour atop of the pile with the little bottled terrarium sitting in his lap—a gift Rhodeia made for Karlach before they left the Emerald Grove. She can’t help but smile at the sight of it, briefly touching her fingers to the glass.

Their bedrolls are already laid out beside each other, stretching from tent wall to tent wall.

[Read on AO3]

[adoenamedjane]

Fluffy little snippet with Halsin and my OC Ducky the Gith. Featuring two seconds of Astarion.

“Are you certain you don’t want to join us?” Ducky puffs her lower lip out, eyelashes batting full speed.

“My dear, we just LEFT the horrid, insect and mud-filled woods. I’d prefer at least a tenday before there’s so much dirt and grime on my body that I can blend in with swamp hags.” Astarion’s book remains firmly in front of his face as he offers a dismissive wave in Ducky and Halsin’s direction. “Whatever you and the Druid get up to in the woods, do try not to return too drenched in fur and berry juice. They’ve just changed our sheets.”

“I can make no guarantees.” Halsin solemnly replies.

“I think you mean, Bear-antees.” Ducky giggles.

Halsin chuckles, and Astarion groans loudly.

Ducky beams, skipping out the Elfsong’s double doors and down the stairs. Halsin follows after her, albeit at a slower pace. Brown cobblestones, green cabbages, and purple silk curtains flapping in the breeze all blend together as he follows Ducky out into the windy lower city streets of Baldur’s Gate.

A Gith and a wood elf of his size draw more than a few stares and whispers. He presses a large hand to his stomach. The cool leather beneath his palm temporarily stills a pit of nervousness forming inside him. Ducky flits between stalls and people, unconcerned about the whispers and eyes that follow them. He’d like to tell her to slow down or grasp his hand. They had slept together in the forest upon arrival at the Gate, and she’d not indicated it was a one-time event, but he still felt nervous. Air struggles to reach his lungs. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

Mercifully, he spots her pink casual clothes at a vendor booth up ahead. She’s transfixed by something in a bird cage. Halsin picks up his pace and joins her at the booth. A halfling with green hair grins up at them. “Well, aren’t you an odd pair?”

Halsin gives a small nod but angles his body towards Ducky. He manages a breathy whisper, “my heart?” Ducky’s eyes snap away from the cage and meet his. Chatter, roasted meats, and a blur of colors rush her senses. “Oh dear. Halsin, I am sorry. This must be overwhelming for you. I do not want you to feel lost. Shall we hold hands?”

Relief cloaks Halsin like a stoneskin spell. “Yes, please.” His calloused hand engulfs hers. With some of the panic abated, he turns his attention to the bird cage. Butterflies of every shape, size, and color flutter in a frenetic swirl. “Why do you imprison these creatures?” Halsin earnestly gazes at the halfling.

“These creature’s wings make excellent pins for a day or so. Fancy types love ‘em.” He smugly replies.

Halsin’s earnestness curdles into rage. Before he can offer a retort, Ducky places a bag of coins on the counter. “We will take all of them.” She looks up at Halsin and squeezes one of his fingers. Cage in one hand, Halsin’s in the other, they begin to make their way out of the lower city once again.

“We shall set them free once we are in nature.” Ducky assures him. Though he assumes she wouldn’t have ripped off their wings for decoration, his large chest heaves a sigh of relief.

Together, their pace is more leisurely as they amble out of the lower city, through Wyrm’s Rock and Rivington, and out into the woods. Scents of roasted meats, sweat, and the sea give way to pine, dirt, and wildflowers.

“You truly did not fish the entire journey or read about it in any of your books at the creche before you met me, my heart?” Halsin asks. He relaxes outside the city walls and begins to look forward to his ursine form alongside Ducky.

“We witnessed all manner of nets and rods on the road here, but never used them. My books on N’Breem were mostly romance and mystery. Does fishing often become involved in such cases?” Ducky curiously stares up at him.

Halsin restrains a laugh at her genuine question, but can’t resist teasing her. “Perhaps, fishing could be part of a romance story today.”

Ducky’s eyes widen even more. “Fish wedding.” She whispers. Halsin nearly chokes on air, but she does not notice.

Wild grass gives way to the sandy banks of a river with a low and wide waterfall running across it. Ducky sets the cage down just before the sand. With a slight pull, the butterflies burst out of the tiny door and into the wilderness beyond. Halsin marvels at their departure, then looks fondly down at Ducky. She sits cross-legged in the sand, and looks excitedly up at him.

“Bear fishing will be quite different from the nets and rods you saw on the way here. I however, find it much more rewarding.” Ducky practically vibrates with anticipation.

With a flash of golden light, Halsin shifts into his ursine form and lumbers into the river and waits at the edge of the falls. Ducky watches with an intensity he wonders if even Vlaakith could have ever broken.

He focuses. Water laps at his paws. A tremor in the current catches his attention. Instinct kicks in. Fur and water blur as he lunges forward. His jaws snap open. White fangs clamp down on a sizeable salmon.

He turns towards the shore where Ducky now stands, jumping up and down and applauding. Even from here, he can see her cheeks flush with excitement.

Lumbering out of the river, he places the fish upon a flat stone and resumes his elven form. “Praise Silvanus for such a catch!”

“What a hunt! You are truly a wonderful warrior.” Ducky stares up are him in awe, and he blushes.

He closes the gap between them, leaning in closer. “We ought to build a fire and honor this life’s sacrifice by sustaining our own through supper. Then, I believe we did not bear-antee a lack of berry juice or fur upon your return.” He lowers his voice. She can feel his breath ruffle her hair, and she leans in to meet his lips.

[cozzybob]

Silhouette - 16

The sky was black with birds.  Every species and color swirled together in a torrent over the city. They flapped and screeched with a terrible cacophony, the mad flock visible long before Velora and her friends reached the park. They circled like vultures, creating the illusion of a twisting black tornado. Rodents scurried up from the sewers in packs, racing towards the eye of it with a rabid gleam in their beady little eyes. Hounds still leashed to the trees and trapped by fence posts gnashed at their bonds, desperate to join them. Others raced down the walkway with their leashes still attached, a primal hunger spilling from snarling lips. Across the street, an older woman chased after a large, fluffy black dog that had darted free of her grip. A winged cat swooped down above the woman’s head and mewed at her with clear intent. “A druid? What does he want with Vecna?” The woman stopped abruptly in her chase, hands on her knees as she doubled over, trying to catch her breath. “Well, tell him to come back!” The flying cat hissed with sharp, pointed teeth, her ears flattening back.  “Apologies for the order, Tara dear. I’m just terribly worried! Are you susceptible to the spell?” At the cat’s response, the woman continued, “I would very much appreciate it if you could follow him, then. Please be careful! I’ll return home and see about contacting my son.” Another mew. “Yes, I know he never responds. One can always hope, however…”

[custardcove]

First Memories

Chapter Four - Great Idea

The following day—as Alice insisted they attempt this feat a day later and not immediately—the group stood before the gate to Queenie’s villa. Pansy was sweating bullets as she pressed the button on the intercom.

“Er, hello? Queenie asked me to uh… To look at the roses—her garden.” She sounded utterly unsure of herself. “It’s Pansy.”

With a crackle, an older, masculine voice sounded from the other end. “She did?” A pause. “Well, I’ll let you in, Ms Harte. You did a fine job last time.”

“Thank you, Mr Banks.”

As the gates silently swung open on an automatic motor, Taylor stared at Pansy in amazement. “You know that guy?”

“Yeah, he n’ his wife both live and work here.”

Alice took in an eyeful of the garden as they passed through. Now that she was beyond the gate, it was a lot easier to view how vast and carefully planned all the rose hedges were. Not a single wilting leaf, weed or imperfection was in sight. The dragon fountain stood proudly in the centre, where the paths through the garden met, and there were ornate streetlamps to illuminate the grounds at night. It seemed there was a patio and some wooden structure to the far right, and a white iron table and chairs mirrored on the far left, but Alice didn’t have long to stare before they made it to the house itself.

Entering the double-doors, another staff member—a bodyguard, if his literal stone abs were any indication—was standing by.

“Hey, Bastian,” Pansy greeted the gargoyle with nonchalance. “How’s the cross-stitch comin’?”

“Inadequately, I’m afraid. My clumsy claws weren’t made for it.”

“Naw, you just need a bigger set.”

As the group continued into the building, Taylor gawked at Pansy like she’d grown a second head. “Do you know everyone here?”

“I like chattin’ when I’m working, and I only ever seen about eight folks that actually work for Miss Queenie,” Pansy shrugged. “Now, er—what’s our next move?”

Taylor froze, looking up and tapping his foot quickly.

“…you didn’t think about it, didja. Great.”

Alice tugged at Pansy’s sleeve. “If Mr Banks knows we’re here, doesn’t that mean he’s going to tell—”

“And what,” Queenie began, looming from the banister atop the central staircase, “do you three think you’re doing in my house?!”

The intruders stood still as statues, not one daring to speak. Queenie stormed down the staircase, heels clacking with resounding force.

“Garden?” Pansy finally got out, wholly unconvincing.

“That’s funny, Harte, because I don’t remember asking you to look at my garden.”

Now that they were face-to-face, something in Pansy clicked, and a surge of confidence swept over her. “My bad, I guess you didn’t. Last time we spoke, you were too busy talking about that prized artefact you found, right? Looked real familiar … I’m sure Alice would agree.”

Affronted, Queenie inhaled sharply. “Are you accusing me of theft? And in my own home, trespasser?”

“Is it really trespassing if the doorman let us in?” Taylor offered, grinning nervously.

“Wh—YES, if you lied to gain entry!” Queenie was becoming increasingly flustered. “I don’t know why I’m suffering your argument—Bastian!”

The gargoyle from earlier hulked over.

“Show them the door, if you would be so kind!”

Bastian gripped Alice’s arm, though with an unexpectedly light hold. “If you would forgive me, madam—”

Alice looked up at him, but he was addressing Queenie.

“You did find a gold locket, and if it does belong to this young lady, you could be held accountable for theft by finding. I would not want my Lady’s name to be blackened by such an offence.”

“You would do well to hold your flapping tongue,” Queenie snapped back. As Bastian was about to proceed with his duties, however, she gave it some thought. “No, let them stay. They’ll only keep pestering me about it otherwise.”

“As you wish, Lady Drachen.”

Alice’s audible sigh of relief made Pansy chuckle. “Changed your mind, Miss Dragons?”

Queenie shook her head with reproach. “If you’ll go as far as entering my home … Come, Alice.” She motioned. “Just you. I don’t need your friends influencing your certainty.”

Pansy stepped forward. “Wait just a minute—”

“It’s fine.” Alice held out a hand to stop her. “I don’t want to drag this out.”

“There, see? A sensible girl.” Queenie’s praise dripped with venom. “Now come upstairs. This way.”

Obediently, Alice followed, in part quite eager to see the rest of the villa. The other part of her wondered if she’d ever come back down. Looking back at her friends’ faces said it all.

It was obvious Queenie was a fan of antique interior design. Even her wallpaper had a carved wooden border with looping, intricate patterns. The wallpaper itself was deep blue, floral. In place of candleholders, there were ornate silver wall lamps, and plenty of portraiture. Not to mention how many rooms there seemed to be—it was enough to keep track of, but far too large for a home.

Queenie opened one of the doors, and Alice remembered the task at hand, following her inside. The room had barely any light coming through the curtains, and it looked like it hadn’t been used for a while, but it was furnished in a similar manner to the rest of the house. Of all the rooms Alice had ever anticipated being locked in, it was the nicest. But Queenie wasn’t locking anything. She was busy taking a cloth-wrapped object out of a drawer.

Uncovering it, she asked, “There. Has this ever belonged to you?”

Alice gazed upon the gleaming object. If it were hers, it had been polished since, but it resounded with familiarity. Even so, being put on the spot made her nervous. Especially as an amnesiac. What if she were wrong? … Queenie had isolated her on purpose.

“Alice, help…”

“It spoke,” said Alice, stunned.

“It did?” Queenie studied her with a quizzical gaze, then stared back at the locket. “That doesn’t answer my question, Webbe.”

“Oh. Yes, it’s mine.”

“Prove it.”

Alice met Queenie’s eyes. They were stern, unflinching. The human couldn’t maintain visual contact for long. “It called me by name. I think that’s proof enough.”

“It’s not proof if I didn’t hear it.” Queenie lifted the pendant, eyeing its reflective surface.

“Well … I washed up on the beach, so where did you find it?”

The noble considered her answer carefully. “Not near you, by any means.”

“But you found it on the beach, didn’t you?”

Queenie didn’t answer.

“That locket was given to me by a friend,” Alice continued. She didn’t know where this knowledge had come from, but she knew it wasn’t false. “You’re a dragon—you know how much more value a treasure with sentimental attachment holds.”

Though stiff, Queenie agreed. “…More than its measure in carat. But it’s enchanted, too. I don’t know about talking, but I can tell it’s made to improve upon your weaknesses.”

“Then you admit it’s mine?”

“I admit that it was made to increase someone’s chances of survival.” She covered it with the cloth once more. “But in light of that … I have a proposal for you, Webbe.”

“I’m not going to marry you for it.”

“That is not what I meant, and you know it!” Queenie huffed, staring her down. “Consider your standing. But I will give you this locket – on the condition that you rightly win it from me.”

“Oh.” It seemed like this was the best deal she was going to get… “Alright then, at what?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“It has to be fair. I refuse if it’s a duel.”

“Oh yes, because you’d die.”

Alice blew air up at her fringe to tousle it, venting her grievances. “Uh-huh.  With my life at stake, I think we should go back and discuss this ‘competition’ with my friends.”

“If you insist.” Queenie placed the locket back inside the drawer, a forceful thunk securing it there. “Don’t expect it to be in there if you pay another unexpected visit later.”

“I’m not a burglar, even if it is mine.”

As they returned to the central hall, Alice caught a glimpse of Pansy’s tightly folded arms and Taylor’s unsettled frown. Their expressions changed at once when they saw her, bright and eager.

“Custard! Did you get it back?” Pansy was first to ask.

“Not exactly—” Alice started, before Queenie cut over her.

“Miss Webbe and I have come to an arrangement.” She sniffed. “I have no guarantee that it’s hers, so if she wants it, she has to earn it.”

Pansy’s face clouded again. “Why of all the slimy—”

“It’s alright, Pansy,” Alice insisted. Being alert meant playing safe. “I agreed to it. But I wanted your input on how we should compete. So that it’s fair.”

Taylor shook his head slowly. “But Alice—if you lose…”

“I’ll be in the same situation I’m in now, really.” She shrugged.

“See? You should all strive to be as polite and reasonable as Miss Webbe.” Queenie’s wicked smile wasn’t reassuring.

Pansy groaned but began to give the idea some thought. “How about a writing contest?”

“Absolutely not.” Queenie shot down her suggestion.  “She said something fair. I won’t allow pandering to Alice’s skillset.”

Alice muttered, “I’m not confident I could best Queenie’s poetry, either.”

“Well—how about a quiz?” Taylor offered.

Rejected. “You’ll rig it.”

There was a brief pause while everyone thought. Pansy pursed her lips. “I don’t think either of you are known for your baking skills. How about a cooking competition? Making, er…”

“Apple pie,” Taylor suggested, eagerly awaiting approval.

At last, Queenie didn’t seem to have any complaints. “A baking contest suits me just fine. I can get a venue set up in town square and find a judge—”

“Three judges.” Alice folded her arms. “Pansy cooks enough to judge baking. Whoever you choose will want to throw things in your favour. And we should have a third, impartial judge to cast the deciding vote.”

Queenie rolled her eyes. “A gourmet, then?”

“Maybe not a gourmet,” Tay interjected. They’d have to be hired, after all, and Queenie was the one with the money. “Any rando with tastebuds should do.”

The heiress mulled over the terms, and after a short while she turned to her bodyguard, who had been waiting on standby. “Bastian, since you’re not terribly busy at the moment … go and fetch us the nearest willing candidate you can find.”

“Yes, My Lady.” He strode out, letting an awkward silence settle over the group. Everyone looked at Queenie. She didn’t flinch.

Pansy checked her watch.

“So—” Taylor started, immediately cut off as Bastian re-entered. He was shepherding a scrawny, lop-eared man by the shoulder.

“Rando with tastebuds brought, as requested.” He returned to his post, leaving the man to tremble under the pressure. Alice knew him. He was—

“Name, if you please,” Queenie demanded.

“Elliott Howell—well, um, most people actually call me Tech, Miss—”

“Lady.” After her reprimand, she turned to Alice. “Mr Howell should be a suitable enough judge, wouldn’t you agree?”

Tech continued to babble, “Um—was this about judging food, or something? The uhm, the man said something like—well it wasn’t for money, but if I can take some of the food home I’m fine with—”

“Yeah, he’ll do.”

---

||Previous|| - ||Next||

[imjulia-andilikecats]

Hiii Julia

Would the Calore brothers habe dragons if they existed in the Red Queen universe?

Since I have finished watching House of the Dragon, I'll use that as reference.

Definitely! The Calore Brothers will both have dragons.

Though I would set it on medieval/middle age Red Queen universe, cause if dragons exist alongside the technology in the canon RQ series, those flying lizards are toast.

Warning: Very lengthy Headcanons for the dragons of each Calore. (I know dude, you only asked if they have dragons but…I’m feeling extra today 😉).

Tiberias Calore VII (Cinnamon Calore)

Dragon name: Syndor (Which means “Shadow” in Valyrian, I used google for this) 🐲💛

Cal was one month old, when the dragon egg near his cradle hatched. It was strong and healthy, nearly bursting out of its shell, as it emit a mighty shriek. With it jet black scales and ruby spikes, it looked like a menacing lizard, as it immediately wrapped itself around baby Cal for warmth. Though as it slowly grow, they noted the odd coloring of it underbelly, a bright shimmering gold, contrasting its wings and scales.

As it grew thrice the size of a horse, Cal road Syndor as often as he was allowed. Even convincing his younger brother, Maven, for a ride. Since he often saw him look longingly at his dragon and even the other dragons on the pit. After the ride, Maven patted his should, thanking him then emptying his belly on his boots.

As Cal grew of age, sixteen, he flew Syndor towards his first battle against the Lakelands. They won of course, with Cal’s strategic genius and Syndor’s hellfire. The war ended in just a day.

Years went by, as the mighty Syndor flew over distant territories or would be territories of the crown. Its black wings grew massive, almost covering the sun.

Battle-hardened, it looked menacing. Enough to make any unruly lord swear loyalty to Cal, just by looking at it.

If other lords chose to challenge them, Cal would simply fly Syndor around the their castle walls making his dragon flap his wings hard enough to rattle their castle guards. Landing Syndor at the gates for everyone to see, as it release a bone rattling roar, its underbelly gleaming like molten gold, glowing red spikes and midnight wings shown in full display. Earning its title “Golden Shadow”.

Note: Cal would be like Aegon the Conqueror but without the double incest, cause he would be too busy swooning over this brown haired beauty, who manage to steal silver coins from his saddle that was strapped on Syndor.

Maven Calore (The Drama King)

Dragon name: Seeker (It has no Valyrian translation. Google why!)🦇💎

Maven's Dragon on the other hand, took multiple tries. As the dragon egg laid near his cradle did not hatch.

Nor did the second, third or even fourth.

Which deeply madden Elara, leading her to exile the royal servants that brought the eggs to him.

At the age of seven, Maven desperately wanted his own dragon, that he sneaked his way into the dragon’s den to get himself an egg. Which he successfully acquired, as well as the ire of its mother. Maven would have been a charred lump, if it weren’t for the dragon keepers.

Maven patiently waited for the egg to hatch, hovering it close to the fireplace and even sleeping on the floor next to it.

He obsessively watched over it, that he was not tending to his princely duties. Which annoyed his mother, as she stormed in his room, demanding him to give her the egg.

Maven, not wanting to part with it, threw the egg away from his mother and into the fire.

To the surprise of both, a crack started to bloom on the shell and there it was, a dragon.

It was small but chatty. Its beady eyes already trained on Maven, as it waddled its way to his cupped hands. It had dark grey scales, the color of gravel. It would have looked like an unremarkable lizard, if it weren’t for the dark purple spikes lining its spine, like gems embedded on dark rock.

However, what caught their eye, were its wings. They were uneven, one looked normal but the other, barely the size of a pebble. Incapable of flight.

Which displeased the queen, as she wanted her son’s dragon to soar high above everything, especially over his perfect half-brother's squealing demon.

She wanted to get rid of it, have her son go to the dragon pit again to claim another. However, the sight of him, smiling happily with the flightless thing kept her from acting upon it. She’ll convince him another day. (That didn’t came).

Maven did not mind its wings. He never liked flying to begin with, as the memory of Cal making him ride Syndor and vomit covered boots, made his stomach grumble unpleasantly.

Maven’s dragon eagerly followed him around with its long, gangly limb. It stayed by his side during his studies, nipped at the teachers when they upset Maven, snatched cooked meat from his plate as he eat and even dove head first in Maven’s scented baths.

As time passes, Maven’s dragon grew 12 feet in length. It scales hardened, its teeth, a sharp pearly white. It slithered elegantly among the lords and ladies that reside in the Whitefire castle, as it grown accustomed to human interaction. Even becoming fond of the brown haired serving girl, that its master seem quite smitten with.

It developed a habit of poking holes on the castle walls, climbing at the highest ceiling and crawling through tunnels with its narrow body.

Rumors said that Prince Maven would ride his dragon, as it silently climb outside the castle, listening to court gossip. Which earned its name of “Seeker”, others would mockingly whisper “Little Seeker” as it looked minuscule compared to Syndor.

It won’t be “little” for long. As the sudden death of King Tiberias, the heir accused of murder and branded as a kinslayer, the moment Cal and the servant girl, rode away with Syndor.

Lead Maven to usurp the throne with the help of his mother.

Seeker was given a new purpose. It could never fly, nor could it spy as it grew too large not to be detected, but it was still a dragon.

The non-believers that proclaimed their loyalty to Cal, either in public or in secret, were brought before King Maven and his dragon.

As a proud lord, pushed to his knees to swear his loyalty to Maven, only to spit on the floor and call him a pretender wearing a warrior’s crown. King Maven, emotionless, motioned for Seeker, who was wrapped around the foot of the throne.

 The loyal Seeker, raised it large head towards the lord. It had grown massive, after devouring those that stood against its master. The lord faced Seeker defiantly, as the dragon bath him with its flame, illuminating the throne room with a sickly blue light.

Note: Maven would be like Aegon II, but like...minus the drinking and being a mega creep.

[kayssweetdreams]

Nightmaren Babies Ch 9

After Trisha Jane's announcement, the small group pondered, how would they be able to keep Wizeman occupied long enough for them to fix NiGHTS and Reala? Mei then snapped her fingers "I have an idea...Hey Balan, how long does a costume illusion last?" She asked. The positive maestro thought for a moment "They last for a while, after all, they are created to make people smile." He said. "Good, because I need them to last long enough for this to work." She said before whispering the rest of her plan into Balan's top hat hidden ear.

Meanwhile, In the Night Dimension, moments later...

Owl frantically flapped around the Dream Gate, hoping that the maestros had at LEAST found a way for the nightmaren to get back to the Night Dimension, for at least he could try and find his own cure for them. His thoughts were interrupted by the water in the Fountain bubbling, and two Familiar shapes shooting out of it.

Owl let out a relieve hoot as he saw the forms of NiGHTS and Reala touch the ground. "Hoo! Oh thank goodness, they returned you to normal." He said in relief, but when he got closer, he discovered that this wasn't the nightmaren siblings that served Wizeman, but rather two very elaborate replicas. The fakes had much more detail than the real NiGHTS and Reala ever could have, and Reala's persona looked much different than the one he normal has, as for NiGHTS, their double seemed to retain some of the swirling details of Wonderworld.

Owl was confused, until he saw a small note attached to 'NiGHTS' sleeve. He carefully removed it and saw what it read:

To Owl:

Mei suggested that I created these doll like versions of the Nightmaren, in order to keep Wizeman busy for a while. We still have the real NiGHTS and Reala, but only so that we may find a way to return them to their normal ages. Once we do, we'll return them to the Night Dimension. However, you must do everything that you can to make sure that Wizeman doesn't catch on to the ruse, and know that these are fakes.

Best Wishes. The Maestros of Wonderworld

Owl nearly blacked out at the note. HE had to make sure that Wizeman fell for it?! As if the situation wasn't dangerous enough..."M-Maybe he'll fall for it...H-Hopefully he'll fall for it...Hoo..." He hooted nervously, before looking down into the Dark Ocean...the threshold of Nightmare, and Wizeman's domain. Terrified thoughts rushed through Owl's head. Once he went down there, no doubt Wizeman would be alerted, and HE'D have to be the one that convinced him that these fakes were the real Nightmaren...

"Hoo...Here goes..." He whimpered before turning to the duplicates "NiGHTS. Reala, Let's go..." He said. The two doubles backs snapped back, before rising back up slowly back up, their eyes now shimmering with life...however, all it took was one glance at one another to start brawling with each other. Owl let put a weary sigh "Well...at least they're dolls and they can't get hurt." He hooted, however that didn't stop them from almost destroying a few trees in the distance.

The old bird let out a weary hoot "This is gonna take a while...I wish they had given me some instructions..." He sighed before going to defuse the situation.

Getting Wizeman to believe him was gonna be harder than he thought.

Mei belongs to @sundove88

Trisha Jane belongs to @lovelyteng

[midseo]

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[julieverne]

I used to have a job that meant I was sometimes at the old mental hospital.

It was your typical dilapidated old property. There was a paddock with horses for therapy and there was a postpartum ward that was truly dismal. There were kids, there were screamers and wanderers and people who'd have a normal conversation with you.

And then there was the forensic unit.

This property was old, like I said, and it had a lot of old buildings that might have been houses, and parking lots for each ward. It's been a while and I don't live near enough to bother to see if they'd let me back in. But from memory, all the buildings were that cack-brown double brick popular in the fifties. Really depressing, dark. The property was littered with peppi trees and weeping willows, and little leaves scraped over my roof as I drove through, little leaves brushed my skin as I got out of my car in the gathering dusk and walked towards the one building that didn't look like a house. It had a high fence with barbed wire, and it was small and squat and square. By the gate was an intercom, and a sign saying the fence was was energised with electricity.

I was buzzed through the first gate, and a guard opened the door. I spoke to a man with a gun behind glass as he asked me quite nicely to empty my pockets, take off my belt and shoes, put them in a box that slid under the flap in the glass, and stand by the next door.

I had no contact with the patient. But even as the guard greeted me I could see his face plainly saying they shouldn't have sent someone who wasn't a man.

Then there was screaming and I was being escorted out, stumbling on honkey nuts in my socks and my things were in my hands and I was back in the car listening to some radio jockey being homophobic about that gay cowboy movie with Heath Ledger as my headlights lit up dank dismal buildings and the high fence around the place I had come from, the screaming still audible over the radio and the ever-present screaming of cockatoos at roost.

And this week my current job has been quite exciting, and it's had its moments which haunt me.

But there's nothing quite like the screams from the forensic mental health unit at night to really wake you in a sweat.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Composition # 11248

A rispetto sequence

               I

Their Taxes double majesty. Let it not your best friends, when love’s yoke is only given as dots now in the bride and grey and full

time wakes up each got him with crooked Counsel held him; till the Devil is still, her brow. Saw Seames of Woman is but walks by night.

               II

And the sea alone bent over the wheel of thy King. Two name my garden when I have a noose about my Leave a future Truth the

best: kind Husbandry. Mad mourners of a mate for Empire borne away along her throat a boatswain swore he lover and a Wife.

               III

And whilst her neglected child ephemeral: but it eats the flint, are already looks beguiles: she is no chapel on thee, as

thy pearls upon our western Skies. The Chaplain robed in white as wax and provident. And wild winds the joint is free; so, when the cellar.

               IV

Descend into the best may do their secret deed. When I thoughtful bard to his belief,—seeing that lid, full many wish impart. And

that beauty lack, slander’d with prise of the Three per Cents; whose choice that flaps and flits around that: But there is a pond where the pumies latched.

               V

His grief is gentlemen kirkward shame: for three cherubs drawn his Garment, crying still. When the world let’s prove the turmoil of expiring

like slaves to spangle the Sheikh replies to weep, and cures not meet otherwise. Existed but happely I hym spyde, when clear to all.

               VI

To everyone I love the skies. Like little tent of blood should take place that one times but they seem near. Generative earth the earth receive;

let eares, but Sanherins may be distill’d: make sweet flattering wind began to dream milk burned in mine with more and staring eyes.

               VII

Say over London stallion-hoofed falls on the story, first, prepare, and you had a mother an’ mother’s soul? So, like the shore, against

its painted surface but the front gate, pulling songs, the shape of Terror was lying still. Then forgo; who banishment to grow older.

               VIII

And rashly judge a Cause. Though I and Thou be stilled with the best. Not the three children and sculk’d behind the sky above poor of her Front,

an ample fields against the alien pen hath the underground, and we gazed up their thou away, mid-dream. And Horror stalked before.

               IX

Therefore I love me from bough of cherries pluck’d fresh younglings shoot, and Dye. False foul with the best region. Like thee another He, another

Ben, whose Youth your eyes when resum’d their Power and sunglasses in small, thus to speake in Ohio called and bruise its sad in sweet?

               X

Now their mere Sense a Miracles Mens faith in my arms like figures, a garden when I came home, the music come to yet so well set

forth within the world for to lie here. The true or false, are necessary Gold, shall lie unstrung, and sorrow-laden, a long, asleep.

               XI

Tho’ father an’ mother. As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe is Treasons: he is gone down, as endless wealthy western friends—as thus;

mine eyes, by Loue direct Hebrew Ballad in your moment. Hearts from your children dear, let us play, champ and clatterer neuer lieth.

               XII

Fore-bemoaned moan, which, let’s prove those crimson stair we went round there in a glade of man. In comeliness; when I’m sitting of Leonardo

or Michelangelo that God’s own predicament with Roses blows; a Foot for Thee to a table she rode with laughter.

               XIII

And I lose my poor soul, were every prison of Man ever should taint each side bowing popularly Mad? Wars and yet to-day I

sought; with lullaby, as women do, whereto the Spring, not dare to breed another scarcely can discrie, while his Son, for he knew.

[cropark]

A swing gate barrier is a type of access control system designed to manage pedestrian traffic by controlling entry and exit points. Unlike flap barriers, swing gate barriers typically consist of swinging or pivoting gates that allow or restrict passage through a secured area. These gates can be single or double-winged,

[kahztiy]

Flash Memoir 8min Read Chapter YD6~05 Incidental, A Secretary's Little Girl

It would have been John Gregory, in Aticon’s fleet Volkswagen Golf, driving up in Fourways, peri-urban’s small holding’s greenhouses, and stepping out with a sloppy gait, rolled shoulders in a flimsy business jacket and pants heading toward a potential client’s invitation by a step back with the hinging door — I followed up on an inquiry, and prepared with a booklet I picked from the Mercedes’ leather passenger seat, swagger to a handshake. Followed the potential client’s hand, waving, closing the door behind. I crossed the hallway toward a woman across the room, lounging amidst cushions on the sofa. The latent tomato grower, far from a farmer and Germanic features, in dress suit pants and long sleeve open collar shirt, as he invites me to sit. with handing him a booklet, saying. “It’s four Rand fifty.” I pinched a nerve, and he turns away, pacing across the flat archway’s opening to sit in unison, triangulated, onto chatting and raised an industrial intonation. I couldn’t imagine foreign currency, and value in shipping tomatoes by airfreight, as he says. “… All my tomatoes go to the overseas market.” After a while, we rose from our chairs, and I daren’t insist, leaving the booklet with him, as the conversion leads me to the front door, to a warm, ‘_Goodbye._’ handshake.

I’m driving away, pursuant of the country roads — to our teen years with Igor, riding to bicycle race meetings. Far from an access road onto the western concrete bypass, but parallel, I pondered, sinking my ego’s learned spread mortar and embed brick, in admiration of John’s inmate Cancer, dealing with people. I reach the Old Pretoria Road, to Southway’s gateway into the suburb of Kelvin, to an immediate branching left into Fairway. Martin Knowles’ double story house, sprout after the cornered filling station, passing the adjacent church, behind a front row of villas. Since the court ordered, I vacate the house for Jean. The car rocks across through the gutter to the dirt street. At the first gateway, the heel of my hand spins the steering wheel past the gates, to the brick paving. counter spinning the porch, rotating by the car windows to a halt. I turn the ignition off, alight the car. By the trunk’s contours, I head toward the waffle panel door, pick the lock, turn the knob. With the door swings, Echo whispers a homecoming chill jilt emptiness - Thwock - closing the door behind.

I sidestepped through the wide opening, deviating from the hallway in the left wing toward the distant rear window’s glow, gleaming bulk plastic wraps. one elongating tread, I descend to a sunken conversation pit, an architectural fashion. From the pile of dormant booklets, I turn away, my business on crutches, past a vacant secretary’s desk, to the shiny filing cupboard. I kick a hip around my desk to sit, grabbing the White Page. Shift the keyboard back against the Central Processing Unit box, beneath the Personal Computer monitor. Paged the top corner index, repeating to myself, ‘_Rand Easter Show…_’ My finger trails the listed family names, until my index finger underscores the phone number. Pick the handset hook by my shoulder to my cheek, piano on the keypad, to hear the distant ringing. A woman’s voice answers, and to my surprise, accommodating. My heart warms with a sense of achievement. Eager to follow up, I’m asking. “… Where are you people?”

With a hand wrist, I flipped and flopped my wallet’s flaps, but the Rand Easter Show moved, since the Milner Park across the campus of the University of the Witwatersrand. I pull an abnormal small ball-point pen, slippery in my fingers, to note in my 7-Star pocket miniature agenda at a random date, while in mind churned her direction to a location on the outskirts of Johannesburg. She hung up the phone, reminding myself. ‘_Just in case_.’ I noted the number dialed and rose from my chair, tucking my wallet into my trouser’ back pocket. track my way across the black slate floor, to the hallway, my mind arises ruminating for a sales speech winning over the unbeknownst, apart grant to access a flood of people. I stepped into sunlight, my ripe orange Mercedes in sight car stationed on a purple-beige-brown solar brick paving - thwack - closing the door behind.

With long strides, keys jingle in my hand, with a hip swing I round the Mercedes’ trunk, pick the lock to for the awakening pneumatic wheeze - Pop -. I pull the handle, step in my door swing - smack - pick the ignition and tweak. Under the hood, the alternator whirs, moody fatigue pistons struggle with the compression to fire the aging engine to motion a purr. My fingers brush the soft steering wheel to fall on the gear knob, toggle into reverse, release for an elbow poke the backrest, my body twisting after an eye slew over my shoulder. Steer with a rear windshield view past the pair of garage doors to a halt, uncoils toggle the gearshift into drive, pulling away by the hinged back iron gates, into the dirt Roseway. I’m steering the car onto the asphalt, from the corner villa and amidst wild thin spread bark sloughing eucalyptus, into Fairway’s leafy prolongation, peered at the translucent red and white Esso fascia cantilevers --. 

I’m recollecting calculating the amount of fuel for the day and a single journey in the morning, to drop off at Westbank’s warehouse their recalled leased Audi. pulled onto the driveway to the high plinth, to a halt alongside the far gas pump. Search alongside the gas station storefront, two figures dressed in mousy colored suites, with purple streaks, until one rises from the bench to step out the cabin approaching. I stepped out of the Red Audi to stand by the driver’s window. Across the Audi’s roof, I nod at the attendants crossing the driveway, and by the rear fender to the fuel tank’s cap, I’m saying. “Today, only Ten Rand!” 

The Black man’s reach clang the gas pump nozzle to retrieve, when a motion in the corner of my eye calls to glance. He trails the black hose swag to a handhold to fuel tank neck. I repeated glimpses with nothing to see from the shaded forest of eucalyptus flank. niggled, I stared across the station’s concrete driveway, to a lawn girdling a flowerbed with bushy cycads. the converging and evanescent asphalt streets, to a yield road sign, judicious rose a silver radiator grill, to extreme headlights sneak from the shadows. While across the red Audi’s roof, the attendant's cautious eyes rolling a mounting rand display. From the shadows waxes and heighten orange ripe, the Mercedes muzzle coasting, besides the fuel pump attendant’s nozzle - clang - as the hose retracts and he besides the pump hangs up the nozzle. 

The orange Mercedes cuts through the splitting streets, for the cornered driveway to halt short of the cast shade lining up to the driveway median’s paired gas pumps. The driver’s figure behind the windshield in the shadows remains. until the figure wiggles, the orange door swings out, with Brian rising tall, with a hunter’s eyes up the driveway, after his staff or property. He paces around easing door closing, approaching the front fender, a car pulls into the driveway, coming around the Mercedes, passing the fuel pump to a halt on the exit way. Brian, In his strides, pauses. Against the brown rustic brick backdrop. I recollected a car on a lift, with the workshop entry door in Southway, around the corner. I hailed. “Hi Brian — You wouldn’t have, or know of, a car for sale. Would you?”

Brian’s eyesight sweeps, rolling his head, fixing the Mercedes behind him, insinuating. ‘_I have this_.’ I’m surprised, without an instant for reflection, to doubt and never decide. Telling Brian without speaking. ‘_ Yuck! That’s a diarrhea-ish color!_’ Back to myself. ‘_You’ll be driving a rich old man’s car? — Good! You’ll break your impatient driving style._’

“Brian, how much?”

“It’s got a new engine!” Brian answers, to which I’m thinking. ‘_The car will come with a good neighbor’s guarantee. Holds a resale value, but I have no choice besides been within twenty-four hours without means of transportation._’

“OK! I’ll take it.” I’m saying. “Brian! I’ll bring you the cash over right now.” 

We parted ways. I stepped to the pump attendant with a hand in my back pocket. In a wrist roll flip and flop wallet doors, bring a 10.00 Rand from the purse, handing to the attendant. Climbed into the red Audi, pulled off draining my stress, the incidental luck, U-turn on my way to keeping my part of the deal. I drove home to Sunnyway, to jump out of the red Audi. climbed the stairs into my office. Turned the dial, entered the safe room, and piano the shaved safe, within which I counted 7,000 Rand. I returned to the filling station, stepped up to Brian, handing him the wade of 100 Rand bills.

The attendant filling my Mercedes’ fuel tank, to a greater capacity than my series of Audis’ subsisting on my impatience, sportive and need to be revving the engines. With a bird's-eye view, but destined to circumvent Johannesburg’s inner-city network of streets attaining the Rand Easter Show, I’m creeping along the driveway to Fairway’s Yield sign. Foot feathered the throttle engaged in Southway. Break into the cast shade’s flocculent barrel vault a property deep, remainder’s bicentenary eucalyptus’ spread. I coasted by the hydraulic gears drive up to the sunlight clearing highway’s silver security screen, to the yield sign, changed by indecisive road security engineers to a Stop sign back-and-forth. 

Reminded earlier sunlight crept under the Mercedes’ tail ousted night, shine tires tracks wearing smooth. With that in mind, I approached the sun flooded apron, panned the slope to the service road, and way finder on the historic Old Pretoria Road, to Voortrekkers’ trail planted saplings to shade from the scorching sun. I glanced right, and left for upcoming traffic, couldn’t help but slam the throttle, the gear kickdown, the engine roar, storming the steep engage of the Old Pretoria Road, to an appeasing purr along the highway’s glitter trickling traffic. The breeze’s hands waving golden grasslands, scythed, heavy scarifiers ripped open the belly to the ground, bulldozers leveled with aggregates until asphalt’s bands steamrolled. Kelvin’s cornered and from my upper floor office desk, the distant whooshing sunk into quicksands. On Tuesday nights’ South African Broadcast Corporation diffused Dallas to the households in front of their television screen, and on weekdays, after midnight, the skies opened starry nights. vacuumed the day’s residual sunlight dusted across my arboresque brain, open to the upcoming day, my mind piggyback the dancing spectrum of light, to rush downstairs to catch a needed sleep. 

My way cast in doubt, short of the Buccleuch interchange’s shadows to monstrous, shining concrete pillars. I’m engaging the old branching Kyalami road to a spaghetti of roadways across the Pretoria highway, and converging to a trickle of traffic along the Western Bypass, and cruising. The Mercedes’ tires wheezing along the white concrete highway. Refrained from my adolescent’s home backyard playground, I’m eager for a peek at how fared, the Richter Architect’s designed flat roof laminated beams, to rough-hewn face brick, modernism glass, among bright pitched roofed wayside development. But the white circulation bands sag across the valley, overpass the gateway to Rivonia, and to a farmer’s supply town. I’m hanging onto the parallel country roads, Igor, and I cycled. 

In my face, bright overpass parapets approach and multiplying shortened distances, plowing the car on a stipplechase in a blink break through the cast shade. After the Northern Wheelers’ road race circuit, from the Randburg’s outskirts’ Start and Finish line, past the Velskoen drive-in, to Fourways, a countryside loop. I’m cruising past Randburg’s Afrikaner leafy green suburbs to Igor’s parents-in-law. landmarks of construction sites, to John Gregor, his brother’s thatched roof house, an intermediate to Igor’s Richter designed house. The last overpass blinked at Randburg’s straggling houses, to shaggy grassland. As I’m cruising alongside wasteland sloping away between shallow hills, the shallow valleys regurgitate blurry and dusty, a matchbox housing grid herding behind a billboard exponential over-sizing. 

A Nordic naïve white couple heading the wasteland up-slope, trail half a dozen black street young male zombies, with eyes to their enlightenment approaching the billboard’s three flicked cigarette from a Lexington’s red and white pack. To a cheerful golfer’s smoke puffs, fingers clipped a smoke trailing cigarette, cheek-to-cheek with a woman companion. The man shouldering a long lens camera on a tripod, in pursuance of a woman, clear of the billboard’s stilts framework, and wind struts to the overhead advert underscoring. “After action — Satisfaction.” the billboard masks dusty farmed houses, where locals daren’t venture. I cruised by, broke away from the media activists, and lured a mobster agitation for a lucrative anti-apartheid propaganda. 

The woman I had earlier on the phone, her instruction, lay open on the passenger seat. I’m pondering over a strategy to focus on meeting responsible people, as along the highway’s inner periphery resembles her instructions. forthcoming clustered bright and shaded industrial sheds. The road shoulder sprouts the Rand Show on a road sign, and again superseded by a pointer. I eased the throttle to ride the diverging ramp from the highway’s dark underpass. I ramped to the yield sign. I steered to crawl the corner onto the deserted thoroughfare from Soweto, looking for signs, and led to a jagged street grid spiraling by industrial sheds inland. I counter steered the car right turn, by hinged back security gates into a glowing delusion, to a courtyard complex’s squatted office facades. Shaded under the corrugated iron guttered eaves. With the heel of my hand, spin the steering wheel coasting, I’m pursuing the flank facade’s row of small administration windows without access. In the corner’s depth, turn to the street facing fenestrated facades, while off sight I’m picking my open diary off the passenger seat, with wallet’s flip the flaps close to my scribbled notes, to step gazing at a milky glass door in the shade, to a shining plaque alongside affixed the wall, saying to myself. ‘_That must be it?_’

Scouting, I step out of the car - Smack - the door closes, approach a Rotary Club’s resemblance copper engraved shield, since I met members by the donated to building the Alexandra Montessori school. I lay fingers crank the door handle, slow-pacing with the hinging back door, to clearing a burly man. With a gay man’s gaze fixing on me, standing in a gray suit, flimsy lapels, white shirt, and open collar bathing in the luminescent interior, I overlook crossing the doorstep. Latching the door behind, sweeping an eyesight behind the figure glued to a carousel’s skirted mannequin quilt’s expansive glossy leaflets, the man’s fingers pick from the stacked without lending an eye.

I’m passing the stranger’s lizard eyes, stalker’s eyesight heat piggyback, I presume, fearing losing to me, his place in the queue. To the petite woman in a loose long dress draping from the stretch counter, stretched on raised heels from slippers to the ball of her feet. I lend sight, scrutinizing the life-size poster sticking out from behind the eerie burly man on standby. depicting frisky staff members serving and jumping the flank wall’s blank column onto the cheerful faces with pearly smiles. I short slow-pace from the deep angle circling from reaching the facing wall, while gazing at trade booths plastering the rear wall, kitchen crowd amid dressed tables for the restaurant opening, I end a discretion space away from the woman.

Patient, and surveying atop the facing plain wall, the calling sunlight’s glow waking in a strip across the room. Windows dropped a yellowish streak along the stretched countertop. Eager to relieve my lower back pinch, I advanced as the woman behind the counter rushed away, leaving her customer in attendance, planting my elbows on the counter, to do a discreet spine stretching exercise to relieve an itching pain. I let my eyesight wander the void to the aisle behind the counter from the corner of my eye, beyond the petite woman’s head. The customer attendant at the end wall seems to traverse the wall’s changing door shade, with a glimpse of a peeking office desk’s corner, further back a photocopying machine, vanishing behind the wall shading an embossed doorjamb. My eyesight wandered in retrieve, discrete in the corner of my eyes, to the petite woman’s mane, flowing over her shoulders, hard-pressed neck deep propped on her elbows, slink in her flimsy floral garment butting and leaning far over the impeding counter. 

My temple’s glow, I trail across the enchanting petite woman, neon plasmatic staffs to the burly man’s calling lizard eyes sneaky overs his unfolded trifold leaflet masking his face, and shouldering a spin hold of the carousel’s pamphlets. I’m rolling back my eyes from the weird burlesque man, my eyes brush off the woman’s dark-blonde hair, locks shielding her facial profile, falling on the counter.

The earlier customer attendant frozen in front of the wall, to the secret door’s glitch, her eyes raising from the sheet of paper to glue in space, dancing away in strides at hand fluttering the leading sheet of paper, which glides as she slew, landing on the countertop. While she squares up herself, the customer attendant lie her palm onto the volatile paper still, and onto shifting closer to her customer’s eyes. I repeated, glimpsing over my shoulder, wondering. ‘_What’s the matter with that creep_?’

The petite woman myopic lowers her eyes to the printed form, to black printed tick boxes, and paragraph of text, her confusion to fingers crawling. The customer attendant frowns. ‘_What don’t you understand_?’ lowers her eyes to a serious gaze on the form. Both women’s head low, manes shielding their profiles, as the customer attendant realized something amiss, her fingers spider crawl the sheet of paper swiveling around.

In the angle behind the petite woman, the burly man dithers in his suit, bugged eyes, fingertips smothering the rifled racked leaflet, exposed to his obsession, feign picking another leaflet, his eyesight extended a fixation shackled the petite woman’s ankles, while the corner of his eyes on the translucent door, an overdue exit. I withdrew from the man who hadn’t seen me, wondering. ‘_What a creep!_’ My eyes retrieved to the shade of the women’s arched manes. clear glossy fingernails edge the sheet of paper, their questioning eyes whispering at each other, to a pen appearing in the customer assistant trust the ballpoint - click - onto an exchange amid long fingers. The petite woman pointing the pen at the far bottom corner onto scribbling a full signature. She withdraws her hands, leaving the pen alongside the document. Turning her head away toward the translucent door, I exclaimed. “Ann!” But she rushed after, leaving me a glimpse, trailing her words. “I have a daughter.” 

To my regret, Ann left me with a mere soft silky skin profile her face, accelerating her pace toward the exit door, awakes the burly man sheds his right hand from the carousel, to sprint, outreaching Ann dismissive shrugs in her flight, his left hand slipping in the hollow of her back, to a chilly grab. A jitterbug wrapping his arm around her waist. She begs the swinging door stile for a surgical laceration. But against the brighten translucent door pane silhouettes a couple. In unison slipping out, the petite woman swallowed by the burlesque figure’s evanescent shadow in the fasts closing door’s translucent pane. I speculating the burlesque man’s firing jealousy to ask myself. ‘_What happened to her husband — Is this man another husband, or…?_’ When a distant muffled voice, dawn on me, the customer assistant woman calling on me. “May I help you?” 

The customer attendant’s candy voice repeats. “May I be of service?” square up to me across the counter, I’m explaining my predicament. To my surprise, in a few words, she opened to me the gateway to the fairgrounds. For free. I thank her, breakaway toward the bright translucent door, with a heartfelt step into sunlight, the blatant sun bathing orange ripe Mercedes in the courtyard. Crossing Ann triggers in mind her. 

Succumbed by Ann’s few words, standing beside me in silence, but with pride in her voice. I step into the driver’s seat, pondering. ‘_Why did she, off all things, greeted me with a daughter_?’ I tweak the ignition key, the engine to a purr, toggle through the gears, reversing, onto driving off. Out the gateway into the industrial street, set course for home, baffled. ‘_The coincidence? How did she get to know I stood alongside you? It can’t be her seeing the Mercedes? I drove my Audi fastback back then_?’