#end my life please i am in unspeakable suffering

[nightstandart]

Monstrous Forms

[miraculousweb]

If Gabriel was, while not a good person, was a good father, partner and friend AU

The Wish Aftermath

Gabriel Agreste, the last will and testament/the last letter (or something):

"I leave my trusted friend, partner and confident , Nathalie, with whom I've asked too much already, my butterfly brooch. To my son, Adrian I leave his mother's peacock brooch, know that I am so proud of you. To my dearest wife, Emilie,I return to you the tome I've had within my possession, and I give you my sincerest apologies and regret for the mess I've no doubt left behind. I'm sorry that you have to find out this way, that I've done too many unspeakable things that I can't even begin to list them, I regret that I'll never get the chance to tell you in person or express how sorry I am for all of this. All I can offer you is perhaps hollow excuses and explanations. Duusu, though they owe me nothing, has agreed to pass on my follies and my failings, for you to judge and decide if or how you wish to remember me by.

I regret, so so many things, I am regret that I never got the chance to say goodbye to you my wife, my love, my heart and soul, then or now. I regret that I am not brave enough to face my precious child, my son, my light, before my final moments. I cannot even begin to ask for either of your forgiveness, for these transgressions against you and against those whose lives I've hurt, for the tarnished legacy I leave behind, and all the broken pieces I've left behind for you to pick up in my stead. As the end grows closer I am both terrified and relieved, I know I have no right to make any last requests of anyone but I beg of you, please don't blame Natalie, she did everything she could to mitigate my actions. Do not condemn her for my mistakes. I am sorrowful and guilty for all the pain and suffering I've caused and I alone take the full responsibility for it, she is not responsible for my wrongdoings.

I leave you with these final words, and though I know they are not enough, I know I must press forward still, and write them.

Emilie, I've missed you, with all my heart, mind and soul, and I love you, more than I could ever love myself, more than enough to trade my life for yours in a heartbeat. Please live your life, and take care of Adrien for me, won't you?

Adrien, my darling boy, my only son and child, in the darkest of times, you have been the brightest light that shines, never lose sight of that strength within. I never said it enough, I never told you, not in so many words, just how much I love you and how proud I am of you. Be there for your mother, but don't forget to take care of yourself too. I know I've always demanded too much of you, so consider this my blessing to make your own demands from life and live it to the fullest in whatever way is best for you. It's your turn to decide what life you want to live.

Nathalie, my oldest and dearest friend, thank you. Thank you for everything. I'm sorry for leaving you behind, for putting you through all this, and abandoning you to pick up the pieces in my stead. I wish you nothing but the best, and I want you to know that no matter what anyone says, you are family. I will forever be grateful to you. Goodbye old friend

I love each of you, may you be able to rest easy from here on out without me

Sincerely

Husband, Father, and Friend

Gabriel Agreste "

[rkvils]

OH MY GODS YOUVE GOTTEN INTO BTD/TPOF??? AAAAAAAA ((o(^∇^)o))

PLEASE TELL ME ALL YYOUR THOUGHTS. I NEED TO KNOW EVERYGHINGGG

-blusherbaker (I'm back, at least for a bit!! hi!!)

YOU'RE BAKC OH MY GOD FALLS TO MY KNEES STARTS TO SOB AND THROW UP OH KY GODH MY OHHSFGODBSEBSD DYES UHM IT HAPPENED WHIKE I WAS IN A MENTAL HEALTH BREAK (ironic) I WAS IN YOUTUBE AND SAW A VIDEO WITH LAWRENCE IN KT AND I WAS LIKE "men 😼" WORST MISTAKE OF MY LFE PLAYING BTD2 I WAS IN SHOCK BECAUSE IT WAS SO FUCKING GOOD LAWRENCE IS LITERALLY SO CUTEEEEE HES SUCH A SILLY MY AUTISTIC GF I WANTED TO EAY MY SCREEN AND THEN I MET REN AND I WAS OIKE HOLY FUCK I NEED TO KNOW MORE!!!! spent 30 MINUTES trying to figure out how to play btd 1 in my cellphone I SUCCEEDED...WORST MISTAKE OF MY LIFE

Lawrence is literally taking over rmy life im sick i feel sick he's ao cute he's such a cute polite young man he's such a silly he's so sploinko he's so whshshshshshshsh 😿😿😿😿😿 all his endings are so fucking good he's my little autistic girlfriend i am desperately in love with himi cabnt!!!!!!! He's also kind of real ngl my poor girlfriend :( suffered so much....i need to make him happy.. AND REN...AUGH....BTD2 Ren was so interesting to see i really really enjoyed all his endings and the fact he changes his personas based on your choices??? Ugh i can't believe he's just a background character his route is so good!! I wasn't really crazy about Ren but then i played TPOF and augh...ough.....i am ill...sick even...Fox is the love of my life he's my wife my babygirl i want to do unspeakable things to him he is such a tragic fucking character he's written so well AND HES ACTUALLY FUCKING EVIL! i loved that they didn't try to justify anything he did he was cruel and sadistic for his own selfish desires and RAAAAAGHHHHHHH RIPS MY SHIRT OFF AND STARTS SPINNING i love fox so much...

i also unfortunately love Derek but i want to kill him so bad i refuse to write a paragraph on why i love his character he doesn't deserve this

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #1

I have already written to you a great big letter. It's very long. I gave a physical copy of it to some very important people who may or may not be able to read it, since I wrote it in English. But it's with them all the same, and I hope they'll give it to you. I know that they probably won't. But I'll try to keep my hopes up anyway, because you're worth hoping for, and worth the pain if those hopes don't pan out.

You're also worth writing another short letter to. I know you'll probably never see it, but I'm going to do it anyway; maybe something good might happen, who knows? So here goes...

It's close to when those of us who appreciate you like to celebrate your birthday, so I'm thinking about you. Naturally, we don't know when your birthday actually is, but we think that it's worth celebrating anyway, so without any kind of planning or discussion, a set of dates was kind of collectively agreed upon over time amongst the people who care about you, and that was that. Isn't it beautiful when people can just decide something for something they care about like this?

Some folks like to celebrate it on the Solstice - the 21st of December, or the day when the light begins to return to us again. I find that poetic - to celebrate your birth on the day that things get steadily brighter over time. I'm personally a fan of this one, but I might be a bit biased because I like to celebrate the Solstice, generally.

Other folks like to celebrate it on Christmas - the 25th of December. This is a great day to celebrate it, too, because on this day, lots of folks celebrate light and the spirit of giving. Though your birth and life have been very hard for you up until this point, your existence has been a wonderful gift to so many people, so this is a beautiful day to celebrate your birthday, too!

Regardless of whether or not you know when your birthday is, it's still good to celebrate it all the same. You're worth celebrating. Your life is worth celebrating. Maybe it doesn't seem that way when you look back at all the things that have happened and all the suffering you've been through and some of the things you've done. But those of us who've tried to observe the events that have unfolded around you with sensitivity and empathy can see, within you, kindness, compassion, integrity, courage, tenacity, determination, and so many other wonderful adjectives. You've been a guiding light for me and others like me who have had to struggle to overcome their trauma and pain, and struggle to try to remain steadfast and gentle despite the world trying to tear us to pieces.

It's not easy to live in a world when you're different, is it? Because it seems like everyone around you wishes you'd disappear. I've struggled with that and with a variety of other unspeakable things for most of my life, so... if not for you, I wouldn't even be alive today. So thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you for being born. Thank you for existing. Thank you for enduring everything you've endured up to this point to be who you are today. Thank you for being you. I'm so glad that you're here.

It is only the 20th of December where I live. But it is the 21st of December in Japan already, so I am going to take this time to tell you, with all the love and joy in me:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SEPHIROTH!

Please remember you are loved and wanted and that you belong and that you can fit in anywhere you choose, if you meet the right folks. You can find chosen family, even if it's not the same as the biological family that you were born to. You can make good choices, and weave beautiful circumstances with your own two hands. You can change the end to one in which all are safe, including yourself.

You are loved, so please keep shining in the way that you do.

I've got a little song for you that makes me think of you when I hear it. So I'll send it along. I'll even include how I translated it, below the link, just in case:

I translated it this way - the beautiful thing about Japanese music is that so much of it is often so wildly open to interpretation! Here:

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—- I tried not to allow today to be swallowed up by yesterday, but I ended up being swept away anyway. I tried to ignore my sighing heart, but then you jumped in with a smile. I took another look at the deadline that I thought I had decided was final, and pushed it back just one more time. If the scenery can change just by taking a single step, if anything can finally change:

Shine as brightly as you can, even if you get laughed at, because I'll be right here, holding your hand. It can't be someone else - it HAS to be you. Tears alone don't have the power to save anything; You have to shine on, to a tomorrow that has never before been seen. I'll be here, singing to you, waiting for you. I'll always be right here, singing a little song for you, and waiting for you.

I tried to wash away these feelings I have for you because I thought they were ridiculous, but they swirled around endlessly anyway. The tears that I didn't want to acknowledge were shed for you refused to return from whence they came. The scattered gaps in my vision made the path forward seem hazy. For better or for worse, you gave me a reason to continue, so I did.

Shine as brightly as you can, even if your path seems endless, because I'll always be right here, with my hand outstretched to you. No one else can do this - it HAS to be you. Wishes don't come true by themselves; You have to shine on, to a tomorrow that has never before been seen. NO ONE CAN TAKE YOUR PLACE!

Shine as brightly as you can, even if you get laughed at, because I'll be right here, holding your hand. It can't be someone else - it HAS to be you. Tears alone don't have the power to save anything; You have to shine on, to a tomorrow that has never before been seen. I'll be here, singing to you, waiting for you. I'll be right here, waiting for you, until you can sing together with us in this place, too. —-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—- FLARE Written by Milet

Please, please, please, please... stay safe out there. I know you're doing a lot of stuff to try to create peace and safety for those on your world, but remember to take care of yourself, and remember that you, too, are worth the peace and safety that you're working towards.

Until next time...

Your friend, Lumine

[the-mediaeval-monk]

My Writing:

Decessit Vita Matris-(Available as an ebook and physical book on Amazon!) 13th Century Devon. Demons roam the earth, looking for prey to create half demon children, called cambions. They transform their victims’ bodies and do unspeakable things to them. Brother Gilbert of Buckmoor Abbey is one such man. After his brutal attack and subsequent postpartum psychosis, Brother Gilbert is sent to his cousin’s castle to recover. While there, Brother Gilbert’s cousin puts him under the care of Thierry, a noble and incredibly handsome knight. Thierry doesn't really know what to make of the emotionally and physically scarred monk. Brother Gilbert suffers from melancholy and disgust at his new body, causing him to lash out at those around him. Even so, Thierry is determined to help Gilbert heal from the mysterious and horrible demonic attack he suffered less than a year ago. However, Gilbert’s feelings regarding Thierry are complicated. And they are made even more complicated when he knows what he did to the last man he loved…

Decessit Vita Matris takes place in the Tales From the Monastery Universe. The Tales From the Monastery Universe is a set of interweaving stories about various monks and nuns living in a very magical medieval Europe. They mostly take place in 9th to 10th century England, but some take place later. There, humans live amongst demons, fae, merfolk, and a variety of other magical beings. Sometimes the humans and supernatural beings get along. Other times they do not. However, the greatest threat to the humans are the demons...right? 

Shameless Self Promotion:

My Patreon--Where you can read rewrites of my stories before they are published in physical form/new stories and see some art!

My Inprnt Shop--Where you can buy my art (mostly of characters from my Tales From The Monastery Universe stories)

My Substack--Where I send out newsletters sometimes

My Tales From The Monastery Universe Blog--where I post about TFTM. You can also ask my characters questions here :)

My AO3--where you can read Tales From The Monastery Universe stories

My Website--I am learning HTML, so it is extremely simple at the moment. I try to update it at least once a week. Has old stories that were removed from AO3 on it.

***

Some of my webnovels available on AO3 (please mind the tags!):

The Completely Unerotic Adventures of Brother Cellanus Volume I--In 9th century Jorvik, after failing to convert various pagan creatures, Brother Cellanus decides on an easier goal: ministering to the local prostitutes. With his handy pastoral manual and a whole lot of optimism, Brother Cellanus is sure he can help his new lady friends embrace modesty and religion. It is harder than he anticipated.

Abbot Gunter's Monastic Punishment for Sinful Monks and Arrogant Princes--After Abbot Gunter discovers two of his monks together in the woods, he makes a show of punishing them both. His decision has surprising consequences.

The Tragedy of Theobald--The Tragedy of Theobald is a about an angsty melodramatic 9th century gay teenager trying to be straight and failing horribly. Sometimes there are demons. Lots of bible quotes and kennings. Despite it being called "The Tragedy of Theobald" Theobald doesn't die. He'll get his happy ending...eventually.

Gutted Like A Pig--Abbot Gunter copes after being attacked and made pregnant by a demon.

Eawynn’s Catastrophically Disastrous Wedding--A gay medieval monk returns home with his lover to attend his ex-fiancé's wedding...and said ex-fiancé is determined to get him back.

The Seaside Demon--Percy wants a lot of things in life: a good job, a partner, a family, and to transition. Unfortunately, his life circumstances won’t let him do any of those things……Except one. In his desperation and determination, Percy summons a demon. Luckily for Percy, the demoness is more than happy to knock him up. She’s less than happy to stick around. However, Percy and the demoness keep running into each other...Is it possible for a demoness to love a human? And is it possible for a human to safely have a family with a demon?

[crimsontroupe]

Hello I am awake now. Now I can write the thoughts in my little head. Under read more due to probably length since I have no idea. And also for heavy content. (please read the tags on this post)

There's a lot of things that I could write about yesterday's session (and. on friday. Why did we play for 13/14 hours between two days again? insane people) and while I am bad at making such things apparent during session, writing down makes it clearer to me. These are all very discombobulated stream-of-consciousness thoughts so if it doesn't make sense. Bear with me here.

I am thinking about the incredibly hard choice between betting on a spell that might not work, and something that involves ending a life to take on a much harder gamble of resurrection. And how normally - and with a Pharasmin cleric by their side - this would be a no-brainer. Something so easy to choose, something they all know.

Something so hard to do when the circumstance is a kid who had unspeakable things happen to him and was still struggling with the consequences of his actions - actions that he knew he took, but that people did not blame him for it. 'You have gone through something terrible, because people did something horrible to you. You are not guilty of this, you did not choose this fate. You are so very young, and you have so many things to see still'.

There is something to say here about one of his anathemas as one of the Eldest: harming children is the easiest way to get on his bad side. Even if you are his friend, he will firmly oppose you. And again, there were many thoughts running across his head in a few seconds: that he did not want to be removed from the room (he had to see to make sure all would be right), that he could not be left unattended (what would stop him from acting out of impulse and ruining things/his own intrusive thoughts of stopping people doing harm to children no matter the cost/knowing it'd almost be better if he was tied down if he did not want to leave) but ultimately deciding to stay and observe. To stay and hold this kid's hand and calm him down and tell him all will be right. Ignoring how - internally - it took all of his willpower to simply not do anything about it.

Adonia, who is capable of great kindness but unspeakable violence. Violence that runs contrary to everything he stands for and looks like/talks about. Violence that he only applies in very specific cases: when people cross the threshold of what he deems as 'evil' and 'unacceptable'. Meddling with people's free will, with their minds. How that easily makes him turn on you. Adonia very often prefers to hit vital points so his enemies do not suffer even in death. That it will be painless and swift, nobody deserves to suffer even in death. So you really have to wonder what it means when that elegance - that restraint - is gone. When he fully embraces the violence he himself says most of the time that he abhors.

Adonia is a man who clearly judges you based on your virtues and your actions, and the extent of how nice or merciful he is depends exactly on that. What does it mean when he decides to - instead of piercing his enemy's chest and ending it right then and there - ignore his own wellbeing, strategy that he values above all and go clear for your head. And while knowing you are dead, still waste time making sure to hit you again. Once more, ignoring something he values very clearly.

Strategy to him is incredibly vital, and while he might suggest a reckless plan here or there... Adonia is a man that really applies calculated risks to almost all that he does. Something to be said when that all drops and you have a clear reminder that there is a huge part of his brain that has ceased to behave in any way that is resembling human! That there is something either wrong or amiss with him, the clear warning that while he is very composed and serene he is very willing to commit either unspeakable acts of violence or put you through a horrifying death if he thinks you deserve it!

(Not to say there were not other factors in play: he was disrespected as a fey and that already puts you in a hostile position towards him, the very clear threat to a person he loves and the necessity to protect the people he considers family are also present in his decision-making and affected a lot of his decisions. 'I can go down because Arlas will not let me die'/'I have to keep at this no matter how terrible it might seem because if we do not stop this it will only get worse'/'I am the only person that can do effective damage that would make this end sooner'/'I cannot stop and close my own wounds because that would buy time for the enemy to do something we are not prepared against'. These were all there and valid! He has seen his friends throw their highest spells and attacks and have that not do much so he knows it ultimately boils down to a kill-it-before-it-kills-you situation)

Something also to be said about his aversion to having the blood of people he considers 'evil' on him/his clothes. It doubled as 'there is a kid here and I cannot be seen drenched in blood because I voluntarily decided to decapitate another man', but truly is because he was disgusted. Not at his actions, but to be sullied with what he sees as 'irredeemable'. People who manipulate others, beings who take free will away from others. Individuals that see no worth in life - in nature - and decide to trample over such essential values. 'Harming children', 'perform mind controlling magic', 'destroy nature' would all be (and are) parts of his anathema as an Eldest/Archfey.

Adonia himself is all of these things - a person who, if he viewed his actions without his named attached to it, would think of himself evil - and a 'clear but unintentional' parallel to. well. (points) if you know you know. Adonia, who hates mental effects but would do it if he needed to (and often does it). Adonia who sees no problem in necessary sacrifice - although he might struggle about it - and gambling with things above his own power because he is not going to avoid taking risks to get what he wants. Adonia, who is a hypocrite. Adonia, the personification of 'do as I say but never as I do'. Adonia, who deep down is selfish and struggles with it. (me repeating what I said to lux on discord) What is the difference between a conqueror and a savior? Are they both not working towards a goal that would benefit them first and foremost?

[very-grownup]

'Yes, I spent the evening yesterday with Cardinal Rospigliosi and they were speaking of some kind of stay of execution having been granted to one of the two condemned men.'

'To Andrea Rondolo?' asked Franz.

'No ...' the count replied casually. 'To the other ...' (he looked at the notebook as if to remind himself of the name) '... to Peppino, alias Rocca Priori. That means you will be denied a guillotining, but you still have the mazzolata, which is a very curious form of torture when you see it for the first time -- or even the second; while the other, which in any case you must know, is too simple, too unvaried. There is nothing unexpected in it. The mandaia makes no mistakes, its hand doesn't shake, it doesn't miss and it doesn't make thirty attempts before succeeding, like the soldier who beheaded the Comte de Chalais and who had perhaps been particularly chosen for this victim by Richelieu. Ah, come now,' said the count in a scornful tone, 'don't talk to me about Europeans where torture is concerned. They understand nothing about it. With them, cruelty is in its infancy -- or perhaps its old age.'

'Truly, Monsieur le Comte,' said Franz, 'anyone would think you had made a comparative study of executions in different parts of the world.'

'There are very few types at least that I have not seen,' the count replied coldly.

'Did it please you to witness these horrible spectacles?'

'My first feeling was repulsion, my second, indifference, and my third, curiosity.'

'Curiosity! The idea is terrible, isn't it?

'Why? There is only one serious matter to be considered in life, and that is death. So! Isn't it worth one's curiosity to study the different was that the soul may leave the body and how, according to the character, the temperament, or even the local customs of a country, individuals face up to that supreme journey from being to nothingness? As for me, I can assure you of one thing: the more you have seen others die, the easier it becomes to die oneself. So, in my opinion, death may be a torment, but it is not an expiation.'

'I am not sure that I understand,' said Franz. 'Please explain. I can't tell you how interested I am in what you say.'

'Listen,' said the count, his face flushing with the gall of hatred as another face might be coloured with blood. 'If a man had murdered your father, your mother, your mistress, or any of those beings who, when they are torn from your heart, leave an eternal void and a wound that can never be staunched, and if he had subjected them to unspeakable torture and endless torment, would you consider that society had accorded you sufficient reparation just because the blade of the guillotine had travelled between the base of the murderer's occipital and his trapezius muscles, and because the person who had caused you to feel years of moral suffering had experienced a few seconds of physical pain?'

'I know,' Franz said. 'Human justice is inadequate as a consolation: it can spill blood for blood, that's all. But one must only ask it for what is possible, not for anything more.'

'Moreover, the example that I gave you is a material one,' the count went on; 'one where society, attacked by the death of an individual among the mass of individuals which compose it, avenges that death by another. But are there not millions of sufferings which can rend the entrails of a man without society taking the slightest heed of them providing even the inadequate means of reparation that we spoke of just now? Are there not crimes for which impalement a la turque, or Persian burial alive, or the whips of the Iraqis would be too mild a torment, but which society in its indifference leaves unpunished? Answer me: are there no such crimes?'

'Yes,' Franz replied. 'It is precisely to punish them that we tolerate duelling.'

'Ah, duelling!' exclaimed the count. 'There's a fine way, I must say, to achieve one's end, when the end is vengeance! A man has stolen your mistress, a man has seduced your wife, a man has dishonoured your daughter. He has taken an entire life, a life that had the right to expect from God the share of happiness that He promises to every human being in creating us, and turned it into a mere existence of pain, misery and infamy; and you consider yourself revenged because you have run this man through with your sword or put a bullet in his head, after he has turned your mind to delirium and your heart to despair? Come, come! Even without considering that he is often the one who comes out of the contest on top, purged in the eyes of the world and in some respect pardoned by God ... No, no,' the count went on, 'if I ever had to take my revenge, that is not how I should do it.'

'You mean, you disapprove of duelling? You mean, you wouldn't fight a duel?' Albert asked, joining the conversation and astonished at hearing anyone express such an odd point of view.

'Oh, certainly!' said the count. 'Make no mistake: I should fight a duel for a trifle, an insult, a contradiction, a slap -- and all the more merrily for knowing that, thanks to the skill I have acquired in all physical exercises and long experience of danger, I should be more or less certain of killing my opponent. Oh, yes, indeed! I should fight a duel for any of these things; but in return for a slow, deep, infinite, eternal pain, I should return as nearly as possible a pain equivalent to the one inflicted on me. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, as they say in the East, those men who are the elect of creation, and who have learnt to make a life of dreams and a paradise of reality.'

'But, with such an outlook,' Franz told the count, 'which makes you judge and executioner in your own case, it would be hard for you to confine yourself to actions that would leave you forever immune to the power of the law. Hatred is blind and anger deaf: the one who pours himself a cup of vengeance is likely to drink a bitter draught.'

- The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas

[x-akari-xv]

I'VE BEEN THERE

Let's talk about how hard to survive this year. Isn't? We encounter a lot of unexpected happenings. We cried, we give up, we surrender and we almost die. So answer me in a honest way, what keeps you going?

Since there's a lot of unsaid words, unspeakable feelings and not answerable thoughts there's also a lot of things to give thanks.

Written this on December 8 at 9:03 PM but i don't know when will i publish this. I guess it's up to my mood? opps no! I'll surely upload this soonest as much as i can.

But before we go dig in, i want to say thank you!

Thank you for reading, i honestly don't imagine that someone like you will read this blog. It's really appreciated, no words can expand how grateful i am to have you as my reader. I mean, i do not know what will be the outcome of this letter after i publish this but i promise to give you more chapters. So let's cheers for surviving the whole year!

A message to my past, present and future self

2021 thank you.

A thousand thank you for you. 3000 sorry for myself. And forever praise to the Lord for letting me survived this year.

No one saw me drowning in pain, but You saw me. No one notice that i disappear, i escape and i give up but You saved me. No one thought me to fight for this but You gave me a thousand reason to continue.

I encounter a lot of people, the permanent ones and a people for a short time. Most of them used me for their own satisfaction, some of them hurt me physical, emotional, spiritual and mental. It caused me trauma to trust people, it made me hard to believed what love really feels like. I mean, not a romance pov but in some way, how can i tell somebody to love themselves but i can't do it by my self?

She have a thin body, thin eyebrows, dry hair, ugly nose and it's hard for her to accept who really she i is. And when ever someone call her pretty it made her really anxious because she really don't believe that she is beautiful. Btw, SHE IS ME.

In my whole entire life, all that I've experienced is they're bullying me, using me and no one can listen to me. And you know what's the hardest? people knew me for being so confident and not shy over nothing. But it's not 〒_〒 I am the happiest and the saddest person you've ever met.

I've been there.

For a long time that i suffer and cried over the things that they have done to me i realized that all of the people that caused me trauma are fully moved on. They are okay. And i hope me too.. (napag iiwanan na ako...)

I'm still drowning from my own thinkings that, "why would they do that?" "what did i ever do to deserve a life with so much pain?"

It kills me everyday.

It so suffocating that I'm swallowing my pride just to forgive them without hearing any sorry. It's really hard 〒_〒

But praise forever the Lord for letting me feel all the kinds of feelings. Because one thing i knew is that, i am very brave. His love made me brave.

I've been there.

And i thanked God for allowing me to know Him. Coz you know what? if i don't know Him, i am now dead. I tried many self harm, thinking that if i end my life i will be living in peace. But thank God because He let me encounter Him and by that, the fear that i'll go to hell is the one who keeps me going. Believe it or not, I've been there.

And to my future self,

promise to love you more

It's hard but i know you will find rest in His presence

I know you can forgive them in order to open your heart to love them once again

Take your time to heal from the pain they caused to you and make it more easy to find the reason to continue

It's almost Kez, it is

You will finish the race, and you will continue because i know you

You may feel tired but you don't really want to give up

I'm so excited to see you happy again, to see you growing and healing.

Please hang in there for yourself, walk for your dreams and go fight alone. I know you can do it!

i love you and happy new year. ♡

New start for all of us, and you, the one who's reading this. Fight for yourself okay? if nobody can fight for you. YOU can do it by YOURSELF. I know, i know that it's hard for you to trust yourself at this moment but please believe that even if the time is running you have your own race, and you must run for YOURSELF.

Because you don't have to compare yourself to what others achievement. Because YOU HAVE YOUR OWN. You just don't see it right now, but YOU HAVE YOUR TIME and you must wait for it. Please stop praying for the things that really don't work out. I know, i know it's hard but can you change your mindset from i can't to I MUST CAN?

I mean, you must can because you are you! You know your self more than anyone else. Even if your mother has given birth to you, she has no idea what is your other side, believe it or not you only know your self. And the ability to believe that you can, CAN help you to survive.

And at this year, let's declare that "I MUST SURVIVE!"

Declare that upon your lungs,

Say it to your heart

Believe it to your mind

Change for yourself

You must love yourself

Because at the end of the day

YOU MUST CAN.

[a-queer-seminarian]

Hello, you seem to be knowledgeable about god. Do you know where to find him and what his weaknesses are? I have dedicated my life to hunting him down and killing him for the indescribable amount of suffering he has directly or indirectly caused.

cw: violent language, including about fighting / killing God; as well as discussion of the Shoah / Holocaust later on in the post

(gonna start this long-ass response by saying that yes, i know this anon is probably joking about dedicating their life to hunting down God, but i’m gonna answer it like they’re serious because that’s the kind of person i am haha)

honestly anon, all power to ya! it sounds like my own understanding of God is quite different from yours (for instance, i would claim that God’s main weakness is actually Their best strength, which is compassion and steadfast solidarity) -- but the question of why God allows suffering is one i come back to all the damn time.

if you do track God down -- if God turns out to be a Being that can be tracked down to one location and time -- please do deliver my regards and my sincerest “WTF??”

you’re not the first to demand God answer for the suffering that’s happened on Their watch --

for if God is truly omnipotent, and truly all-loving, why don’t they do something about all this pain??? Indeed, the Bible is rich with similar demands -- from the psalmists to Job to Jesus himself from the cross (quoting a psalm, he cries, “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me??”).

You might already know all this, but if not, the question of God’s place in suffering is often referred to as theodicy, at least in Christian circles.

That term comes from the Greek for god + justice, so what it literally means is “justifying (or vindicating) God”....which I’m not a huge fan of, because it implies that when we explore this question of where God is in suffering, we already know the result will be that God will be proven innocent (or at least “not guilty”).

But do we know that?? See the bottom of this post for an example of a time people of great faith found God guilty!

Anyway, theodicy describes intellectual efforts “to jerry-rig three mutually exclusive terms into harmony: divine power, goodness, and the experiences of evil.“ - Wendy Farley

If you want to learn more about theodicy and the way some theologians have “made sense” of suffering, check out this introductory post I’ve got.

Or wander through my whole #theodicy tag over on my other blog.

I invite you to explore theodicy not in any attempt to convince you of anything, but so you know some of the arguments you’re up against! Honestly, the more i explore theodicy, the less satisfied i am with any justifications for why God doesn’t intervene in the face of so much suffering...so if you do the reading and still conclude God is guilty, i’m not gonna tell you you’re definitely wrong.

Anyway. Like i said, you’re not alone in wanting answers for why God -- however, i don’t know that i’ve seen anyone else with your determination to find and kill God!

(Except, and i hate that i know this lol, that’s apparently the plot of the final season of Supernatural -- they find out God’s a total ass who not only is guilty of negligence but also directly responsible for a lot of suffering for his own sadistic enjoyment. so. they kill the bastard.)

Still, while i don’t know that i’ve seen too many people who want to take God out, the idea of wrestling God is pervasive -- especially within Judaism, but also among some Christians.

i’m very into wrestling God, myself, finding it far more faithful to the God who gifted us free will and invites us into true, mutual relationship than unquestioning obedience.

i have a whole #wrestling God tag over on my other blog.

For the most intense example of wrestling with God i’ve yet seen, with God put on trial and found guilty, keep reading.

_________

cw: discussion of the Shoah / Holocaust below

You might connect to Elie Wiesel’s play The Trial of God, or the movie that was made based off it. Wiesel survived Nazi concentration camps but ceased to believe in God after what he suffered. His play was inspired by something he witnessed while a teen at Auschwitz:

"I witnessed a strange trial. Three rabbis—all erudite and pious men—decided one winter evening to indict God for allowing his children to be massacred. I remember: I was there, and I felt like crying. But nobody cried."

Robert McAfee Brown wrote more about this trial Wiesel witnessed:

“The trial lasted several nights. Witnesses were heard, evidence was gathered, conclusions were drawn, all of which issued finally in a unanimous verdict: the Lord God Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, was found guilty of crimes against creation and humankind.”

Note that in 2008 when commenting on this event, Wiesel clarified that “At the end of the trial, they used the word chayav, rather than ‘guilty.’ It means ‘He owes us something.’”

In the chapter “No God, Only Auschwitz” of his book Embracing Hopelessness, Miguel A. De La Torre comments on this verdict by explaining that if God wasn’t going to intervene, then God must at the least speak -- but instead, God was silent:

“God must be held accountable for refusing to speak to those yearning for God’s voice. Something. Anything. A note of solidarity. A testament of love, accompaniment. But they hear and receive nothing. The trial...ends with God owing us something.

De La Torre goes on to describe the play Wiesel wrote based on this memory, which actually takes place in a 1649 Ukranian village, rather than at Auschwitz. The Cossacks raid the village and kill all but two of its Jewish residents.

“In Wiesel’s play, he has the inkeeper Berish voice the same questions those sitting in death camps centuries later asked, if not audibly, then silently:

‘To mention God’s mercy in Shamgorod [Auschwitz] is an insult. Speak of his cruelty instead. ...I want to understand why. He is giving strength to the killers and nothing but tears and the shame of helplessness to the victims. ...Either he is responsible or He is not. If He is, let’s judge him; if He is not, let him stop judging us. ...

‘[I] accuse Him of hostility, cruelty and indifference. ...Either He knows what’s happening to us, or He doesn’t wish to know! In both cases He is...guilty! Would a father stand by, quietly, silently, and watch his children being slaughtered?’”

De La Torre continues with his own thoughts on all this:

“The horrors humanity faces indict God as being less loving and attentive than sinful parents. I hesitate to make any pronouncements as to the character of God because in the final analysis, I lack any empirical knowledge upon which to base my study. Still with all my heart and being I want to say: my God is the God of the oppressed who incarnates Godself among the least of these.

I want to make this bold claim based on the testimony of the gospel witness. But in the midst of the dark night, I confess this hopeful belief is at best a tenet accepted by faith, lacking any means of proving the truth or falsehood of the claim. In the shadow of Auschwitz, though I am not Jewish, nonetheless I am left wondering if the precious Deity who notices the fall of a sparrow is blind to God’s children crushed in the winepress. Do I dare wonder if God is the God of the oppressors?

...Or maybe this is a God who really wants to do good, but lacks the power to do anything in the face of inhumanity. ..."

There’s one more piece to this tale of Wiesel’s witness of the trial of God at Auschwitz. And that is that, after declaring God guilty (or chayav)...

...after what Wiesel describes as an "infinity of silence", the Talmudic scholar looked at the sky and said "It's time for evening prayers", and the members of the tribunal recited Maariv, the evening service. (McAfee Brown)

...That ending is the part that astounds and awes me. These Jewish prisoners at Auschwitz find God guilty -- and then proceed to pray as they always do. I am reminded of what my Jewish friends as well as various Jewish scholars have told me: that Judaism is totally compatible with wrestling with God and even with disbelief. Whether these Jewish prisoners believed God even existed, they prayed -- because that tradition of prayer is what unites them to one another, to their people.

As De La Torre closes his telling of Wiesel’s story,

“At the conclusion of the movie God on Trial, based on the events Wiesel described, shortly after the barrack inmates find God guilty, and those chosen are marched to the gas chamber, they cover their heads and pray. ...

Believers and unbelievers who took the audacious act of placing God on trial do what is totally illogical -- in the midst of their hopelessness they demonstrate their faith as they march toward the gas chambers, or they defiantly embrace who they are while still remaining in heated conversation, damning God. It matters not if God still hears their prayers, or if there even is a God to hear; they still pray, they still debate -- not for God’s sake, but for their own.”

And that brings me to the one bit of actual advice I’ll give you, anon:

If you want to spend your life “hunting God down,” as I said, all power to you! But I do suggest you ponder for whose sake you do so -- and whether you do so for justice or just revenge. What good does such a quest do for those who are suffering now? Are their other paths you could follow that would bring more good? What about your own healing? I imagine you’re not interested in repairing any relationship with religion -- would walking away from God rather than hounding God be a more healing and fruitful path for your finite life?

I’ll close with one more quote from De La Torre, from the very end of his chapter:

“As I stroll through what was once the concentration camp of Dachau, I am cognizant that this space witnessed the unspeakable horrors that befell God’s children at the hands of Christians hoping for a better, purer society and future. ...So do not offer me your words of hope; offer me your praxis for justice. ...In the midst of unfathomable suffering, the earth’s marginalized no longer need pious pontifications about rewards in some hereafter. Nor do they need their oppressors providing the answers for their salvation. What is needed is disruption of the norm to push humanity toward an unachievable justice.

When there is nothing to lose, when work does not set you free, not only are multiple possibilities opened up with new opportunities for radical change unimaginable to those playing it safe; but also a venue is provided by which to get real with whatever this God signifies. ...”

[ilovefandoms102]

Part 3-Where Loyalties Lie

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Potter!Reader

Summary: A forbidden romance is betrayed when the very dark wizard who is out to kill you is your lovers master...

Taglist:

@jeyramarie​​​ @drewswannabegirl​​ @teamnick​​ @jiaraendgame​​ @agirlwholovescoffee​​​ @outerbongs​​ @jaxxandcomet​​ @velyssaraptor​​ @baby-pogue​​ @they-write-once-in-a-blue-moon​​ @must-be-a-weasley-92​​ @kaitieskidmore1​​ @ma10427​​ @ifilwtmfc​​ @lasnaro​​ @justcallmesams​​ @judayyyw​​ @lonely-kermit​​ @gviosca​​ @iamaunicorn4704​​ @jellyfishbeansontoast​​ @fernweh-fangirl​​ @runway-to-my-aid​​ @eb15​​ @hurricane-abigail​​ @tangledinsparkles​​ @amanda-rotigliano​​ @hxfflxpxffs​​ @bannerbubble​​ @hybridfamily​​ @coldlilheart​​  @fandom-phaser​​ @sunwardsss​​ @http-cherries​​ @bibliophilewednesday​​ @evaporatedrosepetals​​ @thetomatosaucee​​ @tomatosauceagent​​ @redosmo​​ @ilikealotofpeople-younotsomuch​​ @susceptible-but-siriusexual​​ @kindahavefeelingskindaheartless​​ @obx-direction-sos​​ @they-reblog-once-in-a-blue-moon​​ @iraniq​​ @nekee-lilac02​​ @gracielou0518​​​ @aplaintart​​​ @wollymalfoy​ @thefandomplace​ @poguestyleskye​ @butterflydior​​ 

Part 2

Note: I’m so happy for the love and support you all have given me! Thank you for 500 new friends, I am grateful for each and every one of you! I can’t wait to put out more stuff for you guys! 

Would anyone like for me to continue the series for how Draco and y/n raise Scorpius and go through the trials of parenthood? Maybe even include their wedding and wedding night😛...let me know in the comments or message me!

================================

Draco pushed me into the main room, his family eyeing me now. I spotted Hermione on the ground, I went to move towards her. I was stopped by an unspeakable pain, a screech left my throat as I fell just feet from her.

“Crucio!” Bellatrix shouted, waving her wand at me again.

I convulsed on the floor, screaming as the pain shot from my head to my feet. I rolled to my side, heavily breathing. I scooted to Hermione, her hand barely mustering the energy to hold mine. 

“Since this filthy Mudblood won’t talk, perhaps you will Potter. Where did you get the sword?” she seethed.

“Even if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you!” I panted.

“Draco! Your wand at the ready, torture this disgusting Halfblood until she admits her faults.” Bellatrix commanded.

“She said she doesn’t know, maybe they’re telling the truth for once.” Draco answered, trying to hide his fear.

“Either you do it, or your father kills them.” Bellatrix hissed, Draco’s face going pale. 

They cleared to the other side of the room, leaving just Draco and I with Hermione limp on the floor. Tears started to leak from his eyes, my heart shattered. His hand shook that held his wand, bending his head to let out a sob.

“It’s ok, do what they say.” I spoke, Draco shaking his head.

“I can’t, I can’t do it.” he sobbed, fervently shaking his head.

“Draco please! It’s the only way we’re getting out of here!” I pleaded.

“What is the meaning of this Draco!? Do it!” Lucius boomed, Draco still sobbing.

“I can’t hurt the girl I love!” Draco shouted, his family gasping. 

“You cannot be serious!” Lucius shouted, Hermione’s grip on my hand tightened.

“Fine, if you cannot man up to the task...CRUCIO!” Bellatrix shouted, repeating the spell over and over.

Draco tried to come to my aid, but his father fought to hold him back. He cried as he watched me suffer one of the three Unforgivable Curses, shouting my name as I screamed in pain. I couldn’t even put into words what the pain felt like, an excruciating void of unending beats was the best way to put it. 

I tried to reach out for Draco as blood started to fall from my ears and mouth, him trying to do the same with the restriction of his father.

“Please Bella! Stop, please!” Draco yelled, falling to his knees as Lucius scrapped to get a hold of him. 

“That’s enough Bella,” Narcissa spoke, pulling on her sister’s arm.

“Consider yourself lucky you belong to the Dark Lord Potter. For your friend, I can’t say the same.” Bellatrix sighed.

There was a sudden commotion as Harry and Ron burst into the room, firing off spells. Draco pretended to drop one of ours, rolling it my way. I fired one at Lucius, knocking him several feet away. It was a struggle trying to get up, only to be snatched by Narcissa, my muscles too weak to fight back. Bellatrix held a knife to Hermione’s throat, Harry and Ron dropping their wands at her command. 

I looked at Draco, his eyes wide with worry. There was a squeaking sound from above us, looking to see Dobby unhinging the chandelier. It came crashing down, giving enough distraction for Hermione and I to break free. I launched myself at Harry, he held me close as we all huddled to apparate out. I took one last look at Draco, he mouthed those three little words. I mouthed them back, tears shining as we apparated away.

===============================

Harry was headed to the Ravenclaw common room to find the Grey Lady, while I tried to make the Room of Requirement pop up. Just when I was about to give up, I heard creaking behind me, turning to find the Room of Requirement. Harry appeared next to me, dragging me with him. 

We looked around the disastrous area for what felt like hours, clapping my hands over my ears when I heard the telling sound of the Horcrux’s. I whipped around to find Harry holding the tiara that belonged to the Helena. Just as I reached him, a voice I knew all too well sounded in the room.

“Well, well, well, look what we have here. What brings you two here?” Draco taunted, Crab and Goyle holding their wands at us as Draco did. 

“I could ask you the same,” Harry answered, tugging on my wrist so that I was behind him.

“You have something of mine,” Draco spat, eyeing me before looking back to my brother.

“Why didn’t you tell her? Bellatrix? You knew it was me, and you didn’t say anything.” Harry asked, tilting his head.

“I would never hurt her,” Draco whispered, the other two Slytherin’s giving him a confused look.

“If you truly loved her-” Harry hissed, now my turn to grab his arm to pull him back.

“Harry!” I exclaimed as they all held their wands higher, at the ready to fire at us.

“Don’t be a prat Draco, do it!” Goyle seethed, Draco gulped before moving his eyes to meet mine.

In a split second, I whipped my wand out. Firing at Draco, disarming him. He turned and ran as his friends continued their assault, Hermione coming to aid. I shouted for Draco, watching as Ron ran after the Slytherin’s. 

After some digging, Harry and Hermione plopped back to the ground. Ron came out of nowhere, snatching Hermione’s hand as he claimed that Goyle set the place on fire. Indeed he did as a giant fire in the shape of a snake came bounding after us. 

I grabbed Harry’s hand as we weaved through the stacks of rubbish, not finding a way out. I whipped my head in search of Draco, wondering if he made it out alive. My chest burned from the fire, and the thought of the love of my life being dead in the very same room. 

We bumped into some brooms, taking off to find the exit. I looked all over for Draco, not spotting him. Harry then caught my attention, whisking around to go back from where we just were. I sobbed in relief when I saw Draco, his eyes lighting up when he caught sight of me. I grabbed his arm, tugging him so he could jump on the back of the broom. He held tightly to my waist, his lips moving to kiss my cheek. 

The blast from the fire knocked us off the broom once we reached outside of the Room of Requirement, Draco kissed me before taking off. Harry stabbed the tiara with the Basilisk fang, knocking both of us back. 

==================================

My heart crumbled after Harry and I took Snape’s tears to watch his memories. Not only did both of us have to die to completely destroy Voldemort, but that we might not come back. I thought of Draco, that we would never get married, have children, and grow old together. Neither would Harry, but this had to be done. 

We found Hermione and Ron at the bottom of the stairs just in front of the castle. huddled together. They stood once they saw us, knowing what Harry and I were about to do. Hermione crushed Harry into a hug, Ron leaning down to hug me tight. 

“We all had a feeling this is how it would have to end, no one just wanted to accept it.” I spoke, pulling back to smile sadly at Ron.

“After us, it’s just the snake. Kill it, and you’ll kill him.” Harry said.

Hermione tugged me to her, crying into my shoulder. I rubbed her back, sniffling to hold in my tears. Once I pulled back, I took Harry’s hand as we made our way to the Forbidden Forest. Harry found the Resurrection Stone in the snitch, holding my hand tightly. We looked around to see our parents, Remus, and Sirius. Our mother held her hand out, I instantly went to her. My hand went through her’s, my heart clenching when I couldn’t feel her.

“You’ve been so brave my babies.” she spoke, her voice melodic as it rang in my ears. How I wished I could have heard her voice my whole life.

“You’re nearly there,” our father said, his features resembling Harry so much they almost looked like the same person. 

“Does it hurt? To die?” Harry asked Sirius, my eyes leaving my mother’s to look at my Godfather.

“Quicker than falling asleep.” Sirius quipped, a small smile gracing his lips.

“I wish more than ever that none of you had to die, not like this.” I croaked, Harry nodding in agreement.

“I never wanted any of you to die for me,” Harry spoke, looking around at our lost loved ones. 

“Remus, Teddy he-” I started.

“Others will tell him what his parents died for, and one day, he’ll understand.” Remus smiled, his eyes looking between Harry and I. 

“You’ll be with us?” I asked.

“Until the very end.” our father answered.

“Stay close to us.” Harry said, grabbing my hand again.

“Always,” our mother replied, my eyes tearing up as they disappeared. 

===========================

Voldemort had been defeated, finally freeing Harry and I from our life long torture. No more looking over our shoulders constantly, no more people that we loved would have to die for us. I could be with Draco...if I ever saw him again. He fled with his parents after Harry and I revealed to everyone that we were in fact still alive. 

“We did it,” I gasped, laughing as Harry and I embraced one another.

Harry, Ron, Hermione and I were walking across the bridge that separated the castle from the outside world, mindlessly kicking the cement that littered from the battle. 

“So what will you do with the most powerful wand in the world Harry?” I asked my brother, turning to face him.

I watched in horror as he broke the wand, throwing the pieces over the edge. He did the right thing though...

“Y/n...” Hermione mumbled, pointing at something behind us.

I turned around hesitantly, my heart soaring at the sight in front of me. Draco stood at the other end of the bridge, once he saw me turn he began walking. I took off in a sprint, tears rolling down my cheeks. He jogged the rest of the way, meeting me in the middle as I crashed into his arms. He spun me around, both of us laughing joyously. I pulled back to look into his eyes, a second later his lips were on mine. 

Draco held tight with his arms around my lower back, my feet still off the ground. I licked my way into his mouth, challenging his tongue into a dance of passion. I moved one hand to fist it in his hair, tugging it slightly to hear him moan into my mouth. He sat me down gently, pulling away to lean his forehead to mine.

“You came back,” I sniffled, intertwining our hands.

“I’ll always come back for you my love,” he whispered.

“I love you Draco,” I smiled.

“I love you more y/n,” he sighed, pulling me into his embrace once more.

[theodora3022]

Love You To Hell And Back(Yandere Claude)

Pairing: Yandere Claude Faustus x F!reader

Summary: Upon running away from home due to an unwanted arranged marriage, you took up a maid position in the Trancy household. You thought it would be simple, lay low for couple of months then the other family would cancel the engagement. Being a maid should be easy right? Just wash and clean the house and saying yes to their lords. You never thought you would end up in such a bizarre and dangerous household.

Notes: I am a Claude simp. If you do not know before, you do now. Do not get the wrong idea, Sebastien is handsome alright, but there is just something about those golden eyes makes me shiver in the best kind of way. (Also I love the French pronunciation of his name but whatever)

Word count:2k

Warning: Non-con touching, coercion, possessive behaviour, general Yandere content

SFW

As a lady on exile, you do not have many options. Your relatives were out of the question since they could inform your parents of your whereabouts, and so does all of your friends. Luckily, you figured out the perfect solution: disguises! And who is more unnoticeable then a maid? They blend naturally in the background of drawing rooms and parties, no one will bat an eye if there happen to be an extra one. Nobles do not care for servants, so a forged name and documents would get the job done. 

Answering advertisements seems to be a good way to start. Ah, there is one right here. The Trancy Estate? To your knowledge, there is only one young lord there, and you are not acquainted with the family. Seems the ideal choice: “Only for two months, as a replacement.” You know being a servant would be unpleasant, compare to your noble lady life now, but you had chosen between this instead marrying a man you despise.

Packing some essentials, you thrown on a simple cotton dress borrowed from your maids and sneaked out. You thought you had escaped from hell, not knowing you are better off staying. Because, you had quite literally, walked into a spider’s trap.

 A dark-skinned maid welcomed you, explaining how she has to leave the household for some personal business while giving you a small tour of the building. She seems nice enough, although you were curious why her right eye is covered by bandages. The manor is dead quiet and empty, giving you an illusion of how you can hear your own breathing.

“Miss Hannah, where are the other servants?” You shiver, tightening your clock just a bit. Although it is only autumn, the winds are chillier in this house, or so you felt.

“There is only five of us. Me, the triplets, and Sir Claude the butler. Our master can be...difficult, one could say.” Handing you a basket of maid attire, Hannah seem to be terrified of this master she speaks of.  

I wonder why he is so difficult. You thought as you thanked her and settled down in the little servant room you were given. Better put on these maid clothes soon, getting use to them as fast as possible. Blue and white does not look so bad together.

Kitchen duties are not so bad since all you need to do is chopping up vegetables and wash the dishes while the triplets took care of the cooking. Dusting is a nuisance, but with enough efforts it was taken care off. The triplets are an odd flock, as they never speak unless necessary. All your befriend attempts had failed miserably, you felt as if they look down on you somehow? Since you only do backstage work, you had yet to meet the master and his butler. Not that you mind, you want to kept your existence covert, after all!

You were trying to dust off the chandelier in the drawing room when you first met Claude. The stairs you use are a bit unstable, which causes you to have major anxieties about falling.

“Ahh!” You squeal as your staircase finally deciding to let you fall. Closing your eyes in horror, you were certain you are going to suffer at least bruises. But the expected pain never came. Instead, you felt a strong set of arms had caught your body mid-hair.

 Gazing up, what did you see?

Oh did that gorgeous face make this fall worth it. The tall man in black reminds you of those flawless Roman statues, of King David. You never thought humans can be this magnificent.(Well you are still right, as he is no human)

Gently placing you back on your feet, Claude started to examine you behind those clear glasses. You quickly smoothed the wrinkles on your skirt as you dip your head for greeting.

“Greetings, kind Sir. You must be Sir Claude. My pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am (y/n), the new maid.” Gods, he is handsome. You were not even sure words can describe how those golden eyes made you feel. Are you blushing? Ugh, get it together, self! He is only a butler here. It is beneath you to swoon over him. You put on a smile, then courtesies to the stoic man in the most elegant way possible.

The lack of callus on your fingers and your sophisticated manners informs him that you, are no ordinary maid. As a servant to his lord, Claude needs to make sure no sketchy individual can harm him. Some investigation would need to be done.

How interesting...Why would a high-born lady such as yourself ran away from your prestigious noble house, only to serve as a humble servant here? Just where did Hannah dig you up? Ah, that is no matter at present. Surely your cheerful spirts can light up the dull days of this mansion. The only thing Claude need to ensure is you do not expire as quickly as others. Alois can be such a spoiled brat; however no harm should befall to you as long as he can help it.

Your voice reminds the demon of little birds of forest mornings, chirping delightfully to a new day no matter how horrid the night before was. The way you thank him stuttering then trying to go back to your duties are just adorable, and amusing. It is clear as day:you are fascinated by Claude’s pretty face. Quite bold for a lady to do so. Claude had met a lot of people in his long life, but none of them intrigues him so as you do. He cannot grasp what exactly, but there must be something enchanting about you, that makes him want to pull you close and do unspeakable things to your good, pure body.  

Tender and cautious, that is what the knocks on his office door suggests. It is late, way past Alois’s bedtime. Who could have business with him this hour, apart from his demanding lord? “Come in.” Claude’s curiosity had spiked up.

It is you, still dressed and with a plate in your hands. What a pleasant surprise. And are those pastries?

“I...baked these for you, Sir. I want to thank you for your help earlier today.” Looking away, you quickly remind yourself how you should never indulge too much. However you had already spent two hours of your free time trying to bake something decent.

Did your parents taught you it is improper to visit a man’s quarters this late at night, alone? How rebellious of you, not that Claude minds anyway. You might appear to be demure and good at first sight, but under that nice façade is a bold maiden who does not care for modesty, how complex.

Chocolate chip biscuits, but with distorted shapes. “I am not very good at this, so I totally understand if you do not wish to eat them. I jus want to properly show my gratitude, that is all.” Nervously fidgeting your apron corner, you bit your lip when he raises one of them to his lips and took a small bite.

Edible, but has lots of room for improvement. Claude can practically taste your eagerness to please from the chocolate spheres. Seeing your gaze fixated on him, expecting his comments on your work, Claude let out a quiet laugh. Which made heat rush up to your cheeks. Is that a good or a bad response? It cannot be that terrible can it?

“Come.” He signals with a hand wave, and you hesitantly walked beside his chair. How cute, the butler and the little maid. It would be a shame to just give you some half-hearted praises and send you out, wouldn’t it? It is what a gentleman would do, of course. Claude on the other hand, has never been one. He could entertain that appearance for his lord’s sake, but in this little room with just you, there is no need for charades.

You were shocked when one gloved hand pulled you swiftly onto his lap, with the other locked around your waist, pressing you against his chest. Of course, you fantasized the idea of being the lover of such a fine specimen of mankind, but only the idea of it. Even though you are nothing more then a lowly maid now, you are still a lady of nobility with conducts of propriety.

Your shrinking pupils made Claude realize he might be pushing a bit too fast. But human lives are so fragile, so short compare to demon ones. If he does not seize this opportunity, who knows when is next one going to arrive? Whether it is your intention or not, Claude is now mesmerized with you. Now that he is holding you this close, breathing in your intoxicating sweet scent, the old demon had his first epiphany of a millennium: you are lovely, and he intends to keep you this way, one way or the other.

Squirming with protests, you tried to get out of his suffocating embrace. “Sir, this is not proper, please let go of me.” Yet you achieve no results, those iron grips still hold you firmly in place, those same arms that spared you an embarrassing fall this morning.

  “Little bird, finally thinking about propriety? You should know better then coming to my office this late unless you want something to happen.” Claude is close, too close, you can feel his breath fanning your ears gently. Gloved fingers trace down your jawline, making you tremble with fear. “Am I right, Lady (family name)?” You froze. What how did he-how do he know you are not a mere commoner? Had he already done a thorough investigation on you?

“Now, repeat after me, little bird.” His golden eyes shifted its color to pink, round pupils bending into a thin line. In normal circumstances, you would be terrified of how his features suddenly changed, but now you are too possessed by his intense gaze to think of anything else. Those eyes, you felt as if you could drown in those two magenta pools.

“I love Claude Faustus forever and I would do anything should he asks of me.”

“I-I love Claude Faustus f-forever...and I would do anything should....should he-e asks of me.” It is still your voice, although those words are defintely not your own. What is happening? Why do your tongue just moved on its own like man possessed?

“Perfect.” Running his bare fingers through your hair, Claude left a light kiss on your forehead, ignoring the horrid expression you are wearing. “You will behave, right little bird?”

“Of course, Sir Claude.” You did not just say that !There is no way. What has this evil man done to you? You never should have come here. Your terrible fiancée at least could not cast spells on you!

“I’ll take good care of you, my dearest little bird. After all, your fate is defined since the moment I lay my eyes on you. We are destined to be together.”

“Oh, do try to behave. It would be a shame if something should happen to your dear family. I would hate if you end up like your other human predecessors.” His lord, despite his young age, is a master at torture and inflicting suffering. There is a unfortunate reason why there is only a few servants in this manor, and the fact that they are durable demons too. Claude knows exactly where you would end up had he not intervened. Do not worry, he would never let you go. Demons mate for life, didn’t you know that? Why resist?

“I love you my dear, to the hell and back. We shall stay together until the end of time.”

[be-dazzled]

The Art of Falling

Chapter II LOVE, AN ABSTRACT CONCEPT

Gray Fullbuster, Juvia Lockser, Gajeel Redfox Alternative Historical Universe Genre: Old World Vibes, Period Romance All Chapters: Click here

Writer’s Corner: I think we have to make this one alternative historical since, Juvia will obviously maintain her blue locks. She isn’t Juvia if she won’t. Also, as promised, this is going to be a monthly update. So, see you next September! Let me know what you think. Show your girl some love.

Masterlist

“Let me put this into perspective,” Lady Mika Fullbuster slowly started, trying to make sense out of Gray’s proposal, “this woman you speak of, the woman who left you beaten out in the cold, is the woman you wish to marry?”

The gentleman seated opposite her inside the carriage was looking out the window, at the passing scenery through the small frame of the horse-drawn carriage. He expelled a breath of exasperation as he repeatedly answered the question since the first night he proposed the notion.

“Mother, no matter how many times you ask, the answer will remain unchanged.” Gray did not take his eyes off the window as he answered; finding the herd of cattle tended by an old cattleman far more interesting than to keep repeating himself. So, he only heard his mother turn to the patriarch for confirmation.

“And we are going to allow this?”

“The Locksers aren’t a bad family, dear. I’ve met the gentleman many times.” There was a rustle of paper as Silver turned the page of the periodicals he was reading. “As a matter of fact, their family was one of the original settlers of Magnolia. They still have some connection, although very little.”

It took Gray a week or two to finally find the peculiar woman he met at the night of his welcome party. It came as a surprise to him when he learned that Juvia Lockser, one of the daughters of the Lockser family, had lived her entire life in Magnolia. She didn’t seem to share the genteel modesty expected of the ladies of such prestigious town. But who was he to judge as he only met him through those humiliating affairs.

“That wasn’t what I meant, dear.” The other half of the Fullbuster couple swiftly rectified. There was a slight embarrassment in her tone as she feared that her question was deemed critical of the Locksers. “I am only concerned for our son’s well-being. For him to marry a woman he just met in such an extraordinary circumstance…” She trailed off, mulling over her next words.

Gray had an idea what his mother was most worried about – that he would be bringing an unrefined lady into the Fullbuster family. It was, after all, his mother’s duty to see to it that the woman he chooses to marry was fit for the Fullbuster name. That meant that his future wife must possess all his mother’s requirements. Unfortunately, Juvia Lockser seemed to have fallen short of those requirements. So, why was he squandering time travelling to the Lockser household? He could simply not tell them the true reason. Hence, he covered with, “She is the woman I choose.” As if his words offered any explanation but certainly resolve.

“If she tickles his fancy, my love, there is nothing either of us can do about it.” He folded the paper and turned to his wife, saying his next words with finality and resignation. “The heart desires what it desires.”

His father’s words pulled Gray’s attention towards the couple who shared a look filled with silent adoration. It made Gray consider about ‘his heart’s desire’? It was preposterous to think that a heart, a living organ inside his chest, a mere tool for his blood circulation, had the ability to contemplate on wants or desires when the heart lacked a brain on its own. The mind, logic, those were the things that seek for purpose, for desire, for ends and, without a doubt, not an organ like the heart. What a preposterous notion.

Silence once again settled above their heads as the carriage continued to traverse the dirty road towards their destination – the Lockser Home.

…

“My dear, my dear! Come downstairs this instant!”

The Lockser patriarch, with his dull, blue hair sticking flatly to his head, descended the steps with lazy strides.

“What is with this commotion so early in the morning?” he riled, not sparing a glance at the woman jumping at the landing of the staircase, something she’d never done in decades.

“What’s lighting your bottoms, my dear?”

“Oh, my dear, Mr. Lockser,” she swooned beside her husband, feeling lightheaded with the news that came to her this morning, “you have no idea what fortune is about to befall our suffering family.”

“Our family is only suffering from your cry of woes, Mother.”

The Lockser sisters trailed behind their father with Eliana, Juvia and Wendy falling in line on the narrow staircase. The eldest, disapproving of Juvia’s attitude, reprimanded her with a loud slap on the shoulder.

“Don’t speak to mother in such a manner, Juvia. A proper lady only speaks politely.”

As Juvia opened her mouth and about to retort, Eli knew better to cut her off.

“What is this good fortune you speak of, Mother?”

“Oh, my loveliest daughter Eliana!” she exclaimed, caressing the eldest Lockser’s smooth skin of her cheeks with her palms. “Lord Fullbuster has sent word that they are heading to pay our family a visit!”

There was no other news that could send Mrs. Lockser into a high spirits other than even the slightest prospect of an offer of marriage from a wealthy gentleman.

“Oh, Eli!” Elmara flatted the strands of hair into Eliana’s clean and tight bun and pretended to brush imaginary dust on the Eldest’s shoulders, preparing the young lady for the destined meeting. “You must have captured the heart of the Lord’s son. Oh, what beauty!”

“But I haven’t met the Lord’s son, Mother.”

Juvia had this bitter feeling starting at the pit of her stomach. The Lord’s son? She would not have the chance to know the Lord’s son since she did not stay long enough to meet him. But somehow, she felt something she could not place a finger on. Like, something was amiss. Strangely, her mind travelled back to the night she met that debauch of an opportunist and her anger with his shamelessness made her blood boil. An ugly idea crossed her mind, but which she quickly dismissed. There was nothing noble about that lad except for his expensive coat he forced upon her which later, she realized, she badly needed. Catching herself thinking about him again, Juvia dragged herself back to reality – the bothersome reality of her mother preparing the eldest Lockser for a possible destined meeting. She couldn’t fully sort out her feelings about it; about the possibility that Juvia might have to lose her eldest sister in marriage and that saddened her. But to Eliana, she seemed enamored about the idea.

In a rush, the family’s help broke into the living room with an announcement.

“Lord Silver Fullbuster, Lady Mika Fullbuster and their son, Lord Grayden Fullbuster.”

Elmara did everything in her power not to squeal and embarrass herself and, in extension, her entire family. Fearing that she was in earshot of the guests, she restrained her voice as Mrs. Elmara Lockser spat out her orders, forcing her family to arrange some staged presentation to somehow make the Fullbusters believe that the Locksers still possessed the gentry they once held, to which her family fell uncomfortably into.

“Tell me why are we pretending to be something we are not again?”

“Just be quiet, young lady.” The reprimand was spoken through gritted teeth and an awfully pretentious smile. “Do not ruin this opportunity for your sister.”

But to this kind of larking around, Juvia saw an ally. She threw a knowing glance at her father. They shared a resigned smile and a shrug of the shoulders. Her father has long accepted that Mrs. Lockser’s priority was finding a suitable mate for their daughters. That if she failed to do so, Mrs. Lockser deemed herself an unfit mother. As the head of the family, however, Mr. Julian Lockser still had the last word.

The old wooden floors of the house creaked as it welcomed the nobility that paid the Lockser household a visit. It was Lord Silver Fullbuster himself, aided with a cane, who introduced himself first, his wife and then his son, Grayden Fullbuster, who was the one who had business to discuss with the family.

Juvia’s expression was one which seemed like she saw a ghost or thought that maybe her eyes deceived her. But her vision was clear as day. The shameless man who did all sort of unspeakable things to her back at the party now stood before her and her family, walking in with one of the most powerful and influential families in Magnolia. There was a bad feeling gripping at her, disliking the road where her thoughts led. She wanted to leave, to discreetly escape from the house. It was a tad too late as the moment his dark blue eyes locked with Juvia’s, Gray immediately recognized the woman who visited his mind quite frequently. She sternly met his gaze and he held her foreboding glare as long as he could.

Oblivious of the staring match his second daughter and the son of his guests engaged in, Mr. Lockser invited one and all to the parlor. Mrs. Lockser, who was pleased more than anyone, apologized for the current state of the room, only to give off false humility.

“We were not expecting your arrival, Your Lordship.” Elmara waved the help into the room and offered the guests her finest tea and bread. “Please, help yourself with the refreshments. I understand you have travelled far only to meet our humble family.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Lord Silver accepted, resting his cane against his chair’s armrest and made himself comfortable on his seat. The Lady, on the other hand, was still quite reserve; contrary to the friendliness her husband displayed. Lady Mika has yet to make her mind about the Locksers. So, as her husband enjoyed himself with the offered treats, Lady Mika stated their purpose.

“We apologize for coming without prior notice.” She started. “However, I believe my son has a matter to discuss with your daughter. One which cannot be simply delayed.”

All expectant blue eyes, varied in shade, landed on the aptly dressed young lord. He was initially surprised by the sudden attention. Then, he coughed into his fist and cleared his throat before speaking.

“Yes. Our purpose for coming here.” He said inaudibly, as if reminding himself of their goal. Finally composing himself, Gray met those expectant eyes without waver. “I would like to request a private audience with your daughter...”

Juvia prayed he would say the right name as the rest of the Locksers, save her father, held their breaths.

“Ms. Juvia.”

Juvia knew what everyone was thinking; she thought of it too. How could a man of his stature look pass the real beauty in the family? Was he blind? Has he lost hold of reality?

“My daughter Juvia?” Elmara repeated, releasing the breath that hitched in her throat and voicing the question the rest of the Lockser family had in mind.

“Yes.” Gray reiterated, meeting the doubtful eyes of Mrs. Lockser, and then turned to the woman who was the purpose of his long journey. “The second daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Lockser, if she would allow.”

Albeit still quite confused, Elmara turned to her second daughter, uncertain of what to say or how to react, exactly.

“Then, Mr. Fullbuster…” Both men of the Fullbusters answered, making Juvia realize her mistake. “I meant, Mr. Grayden, please come follow me.” Juvia excused herself from the room, expecting the lad she requested to follow her where they could discuss their matter more privately.

Juvia gathered the skirt of her dress, only to pull the hem above her ankle, so she could ascend the stairs more quickly, without sparing a glance behind her. If Mr. Grayden Fullbuster lost his way around the Lockser home, she’d feel much better. She traversed the narrow hallways to bring the man to the room she shared with her sisters, only to have him keep himself behind the threshold, reluctant to take another step.

“Would it really be alright if I…” the gentleman’s voice trailed off, his dusky eyes inspecting the small room, taking inventory of its minimal contents, until he met Juvia’s reticent stare. “If I enter your personal room?”

“I invited you, haven’t I?” If he wasn’t too confident or too sure of himself when he spoke to her parents earlier, Juvia would have assumed that the gentleman who refused to enter a woman’s room without permission was a nervous wreck. She watched him hesitantly cross the threshold into her room but maintained a distance between them.

“I shall not waste your time any longer and quickly state my business.” He took a deep breath, making it quite obvious that it was his first time to be in such a situation. “It is of common knowledge by now that I am to inherit my father’s estate. It is estimated at about–” Gray’s speech was abruptly cut when something textured hit his face and darkened his vision. He removed the clothing and realized it was the coat he lent the woman the night they met.

“I assume you are here for that. It must be expensive, after all.”

This time, when Gray met her eyes, he caught him staring at the strong-willed pools, same as those the night of the fateful meeting. There was no more of that modesty she pretended she had around her family. She was, once again, the defiant girl who left him in cold blood, out in the streets after the air left his body with a single punch. This was the girl who he came here for and he was unsure why he was quite relieved when Juvia behaved more like the peculiar woman at the party.

“Ah, yes. Thank you.” Confronting a woman like Juvia left his mind all befuddled that he, for the first time in his life, was at loss for words. Gray shook his head, finding the act ironically useful to clear his mind. “But my purpose for coming isn’t just about this coat. No.” He corrected himself. “My purpose for taking the journey isn’t about this coat at all.”

With a clearer mind, his intention swam into focus. Gray stepped forward, bridging the small distance between him and the woman, and settled the coat on the bed nearest to Juvia.

“I, Grayden Fullbuster, would like to ask your hand in–”

“No! Don’t speak of it!” Juvia’s blue eyes turned into angry oceans.

Gray had to take a step back, to keep his distance as her harsh tone made him feel unwelcomed. He beseeched her eyes, searching for a reason that could possibly explain how his attempt to ask her hand in marriage might offend the woman. All he found were her deep-seated ire to his audacity and a buried ache that she probably did not wish for him to see. Perhaps Juvia saw the confusion in Gray’s remorseful stare that she chose to hide and turn her back on him. The young lord felt a bitter taste stir in the pit of his stomach, burning its way up his mouth. How a gentleman could cause a lady such pain?

“I just wanted to take responsibility for that night.”

Juvia faced him again, her face twisted in an expression of pure arrogance. “I never asked you to.”

The declaration came as another surprise. This woman, the woman standing her ground so firmly, so determinedly, was no one like any other he had met before. Gray was growing impatient that despite himself, the young gentleman had raised his voice over the lady.

“We found each other under circumstances that must only transpire between married couples. I invaded your personal space. You look at me defiantly as against tradition. I put my hands on you without permission. Yet you refuse my proposal?”

There was no more pain but her eyes held such fierce fury that burned Gray’s skin. “I am not aware of how you perceive a man and a woman should behave around each other nor would I give it time in my day. Despite appearances, Mr. Fullbuster, I am a woman who will only marry for no other reason than love.”

Before taking the journey to the Lockser Household, Gray Fullbuster had practiced his speech, selecting the words with utmost consideration. Doubts frequented his mind about the second daughter accepting his offer. With the way she carried herself so differently from the women that came before her, he had expected Juvia to act and decide reasonably. To accept the gentleman’s offer of mutually beneficial partnership was, in all sense, very logical. Grayden Fullbuster was a man who had a lot to offer: fortune and prestige as among others. Any woman would be induced to accept his proposal of marrying into the noble clan of the Fullbusters. Hence, he could not seem to fathom how a sensible woman such as Juvia would even entertain the idea of love. But Gray Fullbuster ought to laugh at himself for expecting something so usual and ordinary from an extraordinary woman such as Juvia.

His silence stretched on, making the young lady uncomfortable. In her final act of rejection, she turned away from him again, and broke the silence with her own proposal.

“I understand your Lord and the Lady have traveled this far only for it to be unfruitful. I am not the only daughter in this household.” There was a slight twinge of ache in her chest that ran deep than the mere rejection of the marriage for the wrong reasons. “You might have noticed the beauty might eldest sister possesses.” Who could have not seen and appreciated the beaut that is Eliana Lockser? “Perhaps, you’d take fancy on her.”

If she was being honest to herself, a part of Juvia wanted him to reject the idea. A part of her wanted to believe that the proposal of marriage was Gray’s sincere offer. A part of her wished he’d noticed her own charm in spite of the presence of the most beautiful Lockser sister.

A part of her, however, believed that in a world where Eliana existed, Juvia could not.

“Perhaps.”

And that part of her, laughing at her own silliness to dream, had always been right.

…

Like the way they arrived, the Fullbusters travelled back home in silence. But despite the lack of exchange between the parents and the only son, the heir of Lord Silver Fullbuster, Gray’s head was far from at peace. Juvia’s words about seeking marriage for love had Gray question his own belief system.

Love? Wasn’t love a mere chemical reaction in the brain? A by-product of the need to procreate?

“Did she accept?”

Gray lifted his gaze to meet his mother’s inquiring look. “She imposed upon me a condition.” He answered.

“What condition?”

“That I make her fall in love with me.”

Love. An abstract thought which cannot be seen nor held. Something Gray had yet to understand the concept of. That which no one could ever fully explain, not by his books or any accounts to those who fell victim to it. How, then, could he make Juvia Lockser fall in love with him?

[mxstyassasxin]

Ministry Business or Minister’s Pleasure (E, 20k)

When Minister For Magic Hermione Granger drops her children off at Kings Cross for another year at Hogwarts, she has two problems on her hands. One, her imminent divorce from another third of the Golden Trio, and two, the fallout from her removal of funding for a certain blonde's research project. The first is a given: Her marriage just hasn't been the same since Hugo started Hogwarts, since the emptiness became much more obvious. The second though? Maybe she can use the free time she suddenly finds herself with to help in some way...

on AO3

Excerpt:

“I’m really not in the mood today, Draco,” she groaned into her desk, refusing to lift her head from her arms despite how unprofessional she knew it looked.

“You’re not in the mood?” She heard him ask through gritted teeth before the door slammed shut, presumably in Miranda’s shocked face.

Hermione smirked at the image in her head and then realised that Draco had faltered, halting his attack before it had even begun.

“Why in Merlin’s name are you sat in the dark?” he asked confusedly.

“Because I’ve literally just got back from a very draining meeting and wanted some peace and quiet.”

Hermione lifted her head to glare in his direction and realised just how dark her office was.

“You’re welcome to cast a lumos if you must,” she waved a hand half-heartedly at him and, a second later, a soft glow wordlessly filled the room.

She realised that Draco was not stood near the door as she had assumed. Instead, she had to look up from her desk, squinting in the new light until his face, fury etched into it, came into focus. She sat up straight in her wing-backed chair as he towered over her desk, still in the dark suit he had been wearing at the station, all long, clean lines, broad shoulders and trim waist that was emphasised by the waistcoat visible beneath the matching jacket. He pressed his palms into the toughened leather that topped her desk and, as he leant towards her, she noted that the smell of steam still clung to the material.

The fury she had seen briefly on his face had disappeared during her onceover of him and his sly mask had returned, the only visible sign of his agitation was the wisps of pale hair that had come loose from his usually impeccable braid.

“I don’t care if you’re not in the mood, Minister,” she sneered her title. “I dropped my son off at the Hogwarts Express today for only the third time without his mother, the second since we buried her. I’m sure you noticed the look on his face.”

Hermione nodded, guilt flooding her body again, twisting around her organs.

“How am I supposed to tell him, Astoria’s sweet boy, that the cure I have spent half his life developing is never going to exist now because his mother died.” Draco raised his voice making Hermione flinch inwardly.

“Screw anyone else in the world who might suffer the same curse,” he threw his hands up in the air and slammed them back down on her desk. “Is that it, Granger? Just a big eff you to them?”

Hermione pushed herself out of her chair, glowering at him, and manoeuvred around the end of her desk until she was right in front of him, immediately regretting that she had kicked her heels off under the desk earlier. Those extra few inches would have really helped her out.

“I could still put you on probation for the development of that time-turner, Malfoy,” she snarled as she pointed a scolding finger up underneath his chin. “So, don’t you dare get short with me about this.”

Hermione glared as Draco’s lips pressed together in a thin line and he raised a single eyebrow, looking down at her. She spotted the amused twinkle in his eyes just before he burst into loud guffaws.

“Stop it, Draco. Don’t you dare!” she shouted at him indignantly.

“Short, Granger?” he choked out between the laughter. “I’m getting short, am I?”

Hermione picked up a stack of parchment from her desk and began hitting him in the chest with it while he continued to laugh.

“Oh, stop it, would you?” She groaned, exasperated, as hitting him seemed not to have any effect whatsoever.

“Alright, alright,” Draco said, taking deep breaths until he calmed down, and then sat in the visitor’s chair at her desk, motioning that Hermione should resume her own seat.

She narrowed her eyes at him for ordering her around in her own office but shook her head and took her seat anyways, removing her wand from the pocket sewn specially inside her robes and lighting the lamp on her desk as she did so. Draco followed the motion and quirked an eyebrow as she slid her wand back into the customised pocket.

Hermione laced her fingers together on top of her desk and waited for him to begin the conversation afresh.

“I apologise, Minister, for my behaviour,” he smiled charmingly at her. “I’m sure an intelligent woman with two glorious children like yourself can understand my position.”

“Get your head out of my arse, Draco. It doesn’t suit you,” Hermione grinned back at him causing him to chuckle slightly in response.

“You do understand though,” she continued, “that in my position, I have to make difficult decisions like this. That the Ministry only has a certain budget and I am the one responsible for where those funds are diverted and allocated, even if I don’t like it.”

“Of course I do, Granger. I’ve invested enough over the years to understand those kinds of decisions.”

Draco paused for a second and let out a long sigh, looking down at his hands in his lap where he was twisting his wedding band around his finger.

“Can I at least carry on the project myself? Just, hear me out,” he continued hurriedly when Hermione went to speak. “I’ll instruct my assistants to move on to other projects and I’ll continue researching this one myself. I won’t even make it a priority, but don’t halt it completely.”

Hermione could see him studying her face for any hint as to what she was thinking.

“You don’t even have to pay me for it and we both know it’s the only reason I came on board as an Unspeakable in the first place. I’ve spent so long on this. Please, Granger, don’t throw it away.”

Hermione couldn’t stop her eyes from widening as Draco Malfoy of all people pleaded with her for something. After studying the sincerity in his expression for a moment, she closed her eyes and, letting a sigh escape her lips, she ever so slightly inclined her head to him, giving her ascent.

When she opened her eyes again, his eyes were sparkling and his smile actually showed his perfectly white teeth.

“Thank you, Minister. Thank you,” he reached across the desk and grasped one of her slender hands between his larger ones, squeezing gently with his platinum wedding band scraping her gold one.

“You’ll still get your salary, but the project is still defunded, Draco,” Hermione met his eyes carefully, ensuring he could see the kindness in them. “Any resources you might need, any resources that aren’t already in your lab…” she trailed off and Draco nodded his understanding.

“Of course. I understand.”

[carelessgraces]

@clpdwings said: five times nikolai was not a gentleman and one time he was! ( five times | accepting )

one. 

The sound of metal on metal rings through the air, and so does the sound of his laughter. It’s distracting enough that Astoria almost wishes she hadn’t risen to the challenge.

  In her defense, Sturmhond had been looking at her directly, lips quirked in that crooked grin that always drives her haf-mad, and he’d twirled the saber in his hand and actually bowed to her, arms held out at his sides and eyes on hers. He’s made a proper sailor out of her, though not so much a proper fighter; she’s slender, shorter than him by near a foot, and her greatest asset is her speed, not her strength. The rest of the crew is watching, too, and it’s not her fault that he knows how to issue a challenge she can’t resist.

  And so she’d shrugged off her coat — the sabers they use to spar are dull enough that she doesn’t worry about being cut without it — and she twists her hair in a knot at the nape of her neck before accepting the offered weapon.

  He winks at her as she walks past him, and there’s mischief in his eyes. She would like very much to kiss him.

  And then they’re moving, moving, moving; she’s able to avoid being struck but that’s about it, and even that is a far cry from how she’d started. Sturmhond looks pleased with that, eyeing her movements with obvious pride, and when he lands a hit on her arm, he tempers the blow the best he can. It’ll leave a little bruise, nothing more.

  “You’re getting better,” he says warmly as Privyet calls out the hit and the crew cheers amiably. Astoria grins, scrunching her nose at him.

  “I still doubt I could win a fair fight.”

  “Then why not fight dirty? We both can. For instance, I can tell you that the sight of you wearing my shirt is almost too distracting to bear.”

  So he had noticed. Astoria laughs, taking a step back from him to get back into a starting position. “I’m curious as to how you fight dirty.”

  Sturmhond only laughs, and he lunges at her again. And again, they are locked in a dance with one another, her feet moving as quickly as she can make them, her saber flying in an attempt to block him, and he easily takes the lead.

  “Another thing I could do,” he says quietly, conversationally, and he sounds only a little out of breath, “is tell you that I have been thinking about how striking you looked on your knees for me last night. The top of your head is one of my favorite views.”

  “Oh?” Where he sounds perfectly natural, speaking as they fight, she sounds as though she’s been running for the past hour. “And — your favorite?”

  “It changes, week by week. Today, I think my favorite is your bowed back with my hand fisted in your hair.”

  Astoria stumbles at that, and he lands a hit, slightly sharper this time, on the outside of her thigh.

  “I look forward to taking care of that later,” he teases, and he takes a step back before she gives in to the near-overwhelming urge to grab him by the front of his shirt and kiss him breathless. The crew roars with cheers, and Privyet calls the hit, winking at Astoria as she steps back into position. Sturmhond turns to his adoring audience and bows theatrically before turning back to his opponent. “Has that satisfied your curiosity?”

  “Not even close,” Astoria calls back, and this time, she lunges first.

  And even with Astoria on the offensive, he takes control of the match as easily as if he had set the rules himself. When he lands his final hit, it comes without any ceremony, even without any teasing, though he does wind an arm around her shoulders after his contested victory, laughing as much as she does.

  “That’s my girl,” he says under his breath, almost as if he doesn’t mean her to hear.

  Astoria hands the saber over, graciously accepting her defeat, and Privyet links his arm through hers once she’s stepped out of the circle. “You’ve gotten better,” he says, and the cheer that rises behind them suggests that someone’s stepped in quickly to take her place. Astoria flushes at the compliment, looking almost shy for a moment, and then Privyet leans closer. “You and the captain?”

  That, she wasn’t expecting. Astoria whirls around to look at him, but Privyet waves away any excuses she might make, barreling forward, and she vows to herself not to react to anything he might say next. She’s not sure if Sturmhond intends to keep this a secret; she’s wondered on occasion if it would embarrass him for anyone else to know that he’s taken a crew member to bed, more than once, that she’s grown attached almost to the point of absurdity. Would it embarrass her, for people to know?

  She glances over her shoulder just as Sturmhond lands a hit on his opponent. No; it wouldn’t embarrass her in the slightest. It’s why she rises to his challenges, why she nicks his shirt on occasion: she wants to be claimed, and wants him to be the one to have claimed her.

  “It’s good for you. Him, too.”

  For all her intent to remain unmoved, that gets her attention. “Really?”

  “Mm.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He’s sharper. More focused. Doesn’t spend all his time mooning over you and rehearsing things to say like he’s a lovestruck teenager at a village dance. I thought he’d slack, but he works better. Faster. Like he wants to impress you.” Privyet nudges her with his elbow and snickers. “It works. You’re the same with him.”

  “It’s obvious, then?”

  “Only if you’re aware of anything. You should tell him.”

  “Tell him?”

  “That you’re in love with him.” He releases Astoria and takes a step back, doffing an imaginary cap at her. “I’ll marry you two when I’m captain.”

  Of all the people she’d have guessed would leave her speechless, Privyet wouldn’t have made the top ten, but she stares after him for a long moment, turning his words over in her mind. It’s not that he’s wrong — far from it. She’s been in love with Sturmhond for more than two years, now, and she’s long since accepted it. It’s that it suddenly occurs to her that there’s something to be done about it, now. Now that he’s said it, put the thought of telling him into her mind, she can feel it consuming her, and all she can do is sink back against the rail of the ship and press her fingers to her mouth as if to keep the words from spilling out, here and now, for the whole of the crew to hear.

  When the sparring ends and the crew disperses, he catches her eye and winks as she lets her hair down, and he gathers her coat to deliver back to her. “You fought well,” he says quietly as he gathers her hair for her so she can settle the coat on her shoulders.

  “And you fought unspeakably dirty.”

  “I thought you’d like that.”

  “I did. Very much.”

  His laugh is loud, and contagious, and she nearly says it then — I love you, I am in love with you, I would like to spend the foreseeable future with you — but she refrains, if only barely.

  Instead, she clears her throat, then says, “Privyet knows.”

  “Hm.” He doesn’t look particularly bothered by this, and instead he leans forward, resting his elbows on the railing and looking out over the sea. “He said something?”

  “He said you’re good for me.”

  “That’s true. You smile more, now. Did you know that?” It fills her with an absurd, overwhelming giddiness, to imagine that he’s counting her smiles, that he’s realized that his presence in her life has only made it richer. “Anything else?”

  “That I’m good for you.”

  “Even truer. Anything else?”

  She hesitates, then shakes her head. He looks as though he doesn’t quite believe her, but he doesn’t argue it; she allows him his secrets, and he grants her the same courtesy, certain that if there’s anything he needs to know, she’ll tell him when he needs to know it. “Does it bother you,” she asks after a moment, “if the others know?”

  He shrugs, seeming unconcerned. “They’ll never let me live it down,” he chuckles. “And I like having you to myself, but — there’s something appealing to not worrying whether or not we’ll get caught. Everyone already suspects you’re my favorite, so what does the confirmation matter? And you could stop pretending you sleep on the foredeck. And,” he adds, eyes bright with mirth, “you’d be able to steal my clothes more often. I could get used to that. Does it bother you?”

  She doesn’t have to hesitate this time. “No. Not at all.” In fact, the more she considers it, the more it feels... a little thrilling, to be able to lay a claim on their captain. Not that she thinks it’s necessary; with the way he’s looking at her now, the way she looks at him, she doubts anyone could miss it. Some part of her balks at this — she doesn’t know his true name, doesn’t know his surname, doesn’t know his people. He has told her nothing of his past, except that he’s Ravkan, and that he looked up at the stars when he was a boy. She’s dreamed up a thousand potential histories for him; she’d guess that he’s from a wealthy family, quite likely a noble family, given the breadth of his education, and likely a younger son, given his ambition and his willingness to work. Elder noble sons are soft, untested. He has fought for everything he’s gained. Perhaps the son of a sailor, given his ease with the ship and his youth. But all she has is speculation, an there is some part of her that rebels at giving her heart over to someone who remains such a mystery.

  The rest of her is intoxicated by him, utterly enchanted by the way he looks towards the future. Her own past is riddled with tragedy and suffering; he has had the good grace not to pry, and she is happy to offer him the same courtesy in return.

  There’s a strange, almost longing expression on his face. Wheen he realizes that she’s watching him, the look vanishes — he grins, taking her jaw in his hand to guide her close enough to kiss. She hears a whoop from a nearby member of the crew, but they ignore it, Sturmhond’s hand keeping hold of her jaw. “There we have it,” he says simply when he pulls back, punctuating the words with another, swifter, kiss. “Now everyone knows. Or, if they don’t, they will.”

  He releases her jaw, and she responds only by grabbing the front of his coat and pulling him back to kiss him again. She’s weak at the knees when she breaks the kiss, grinning like an absolute fool, almost deliriously pleased. Tell him, she screams at herself, but not yet. Not now. Not until she does have him to herself, and she can tell him in every language she knows, and she can learn new languages simply for the thrill of telling him, over and over, I am yours, I am wholly, entirely yours.

  Sturmhond grins, reluctant to leave her, but he does after a moment, and she turns back to the sea, cheeks flushed a deep red, that absurd smile still on her lips.

  “Tell him,” Privyet mutters when he walks by.

two.

There are only a handful of people with regular access to her rooms, most of them the servants who move throughout the palace. They keep her well-stocked with the tea she prefers and soap that smells of plums and raspberries, and her uniform is always clean and her boots are always shined. It makes her a little uneasy — mostly that anyone has such regular access to the only space where she has any real privacy — but the convenience of it is more than enough to help her over the hurdle.

  The only other person who lets himself in with any regularity is Nikolai. It seems to be more and more frequent that she comes back to her room after training, sore and exhausted, to find him there, curled up on her bed with a book in his hands or waiting for her with a meal she’d missed. It feels almost domestic, and not entirely unlike the time they spent on the Volkvolny: his eyes are bright and his smile is contagious and she could listen to his laugh for hours. There is some stress, now, some strain, but he takes it in stride and he bears it with admirable grace.

  She wonders how much of this attention is his attempt to make amends, though she’s not entirely sure what he has to make amends for, really. Adjusting to him as Nikolai took time, as anything would, but she’s mostly got it now; she’s grown terribly fond of his true face, and fonder still of the man behind it. ( She had told him to expect as much — he was all apologies and explanations, their first day at the Grand Palace, and she had waited until he finished speaking and simply shrugged. Give me a bit of time to get used to the changes, but everything important is the same. I chose Sturmhond and that means I chose you. The rest is just... details. )

  ( He had looked shocked, then amazed, and then terribly in love, and Astoria felt her heart leap into her throat and thought to herself that there was, perhaps, nothing she wouldn’t do to see that look on his face again. )

  And so there is no great surprise when the door of her room opens and someone slips inside — the only surprise is the timing. She has been lounging in her bath for forty minutes now, unmoving except to keep the water at the right temperature, and the room smells sweetly of plums and raspberries. She is so comfortable that she doesn’t hear him come in, doesn’t realize anyone is with her, until she feels familiar hands gathering her hair back.

  She smiles, eyes still closed, when he leans forward enough to murmur hello, beautiful in her ear, tipping her head back further, and when she does open her eyes he’s smiling indulgently down at her. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything too strenuous,” he says, and Astoria laughs.

  “You are, actually. I am trying to remember what it feels like to have a part of my body that doesn’t hurt, and I’ve been trying to quiz myself on how to take apart and clean my rifle since I got in here.”

  “So target practice went well?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “You know, I did serve. I could help you.”

  “Mm. I remember. I remember you holding out on me for years with that uniform, too.”

  “I didn’t think that would do it for you,” Nikolai laughs, and Astoria grins and lifts one hand to flick a bit of water in his face.

  “You’ll have to make it up to me,” Astoria sighs contentedly, closing her eyes again. “I expect you to wear it often, particularly when you’re giving me orders. You’ll have to remind me what your rank was, so I can address you properly.”

  “Major.” He sounds amused, and she thinks she hears him moving. “You mean you haven’t memorized all of my titles yet?”

  “No, but I always remember my favorite.”

  When he speaks again, his voice comes from right beside her. She opens one eye to see him kneeling beside the tub, a hand trailing idly across the water. “You’ve done well,” he says quietly. “Adjusting to everything, I mean. I have to imagine it hasn’t been particularly easy.”

  Astoria lifts a hand from the tub and reaches up to muss his hair; he accepts good-naturedly, grinning at her. “I think it’s been easier than you imagine,” she muses. “It’s easier than it was when I ran years ago. Then, I was alone while the world changed. Now, I have you.”

  To emphasize this she wipes her hand across his cheek, leaving a streak of water there, and he laughs, looking relieved by her answer. He sits back, still facing her, one arm leaning against the edge of the tub, and he shakes his head.

  “I should have told you sooner,” he says, and Astoria waves her hand.

  “You told me when you were ready. And I’m still here, aren’t I? No harm done.” But she sits upright, leaning forward until they’re barely a foot apart, and she thinks for a moment before she speaks. “My full name is Asta Viktoria. I just pushed the two together for Astoria, but I think it fits. I was deathly afraid of rabbits when I was a little girl. I hate the texture of mushrooms, but I love the taste. It took me nearly a year on the Volkvolny before I could read Ravkan as well as I could speak it, and I didn’t want to ask anyone for help in case they thought I was a fool for not knowing. When I was very young, I thought my father left because he didn’t want me, and that was the only reason my mother told me he didn’t know about me at all. My favorite time of year, wherever we are, is the night when you can smell winter on the horizon. And I fell madly in love with you the night you danced with me in the Wandering Isle, and I spent two years trying to think of a way to tell you that I’d follow you to the ends of the earth.”

  His lips are curling up in a slow, sweet smile, and he leans forward as well, voice dropping to a stage whisper. “I didn’t know those things.”

  “That was the point; you didn’t before, and you do now. You shared your secrets, and now I’ve given you some of mine.”

  His expression softens, and he pushes his sleeve up before he lowers his hand to the water again, and he frowns suddenly. “Rabbits?”

  “I was a strange child. I wish I knew why.” She moves just enough to kiss his cheek before she settles back in the tub, eyes falling closed again.

  He laughs, a warm rumble in his chest, and he dips his hand beneath the water, where he curls it against her knee. “Thank you,” he says after a moment. “For taking this all in stride.”

  “That’s how it works, I think. Granted, I’ve never really done this before, but — does it count as loving someone if you leave the moment things become difficult? You need me, so I’m here.”

  “And when I stop needing you? When I simply want you here?”

  “Then I’ll be here.” It feels like the simplest choice in the world. Where her captain goes, she follows. They’re silent for a long moment, Nikolai rubbing absentminded circles against her knee with his thumb, before she speaks again. “Oh, I almost forgot — Vasily cornered me yesterday.”

  “He did, now?”

  “Nothing untoward — he wanted information. Tried to flirt it out of me, actually. I was impressed. He reminded me that so far, he’s the one most likely to take the throne, and that if I want comfort at court, he’s the one best positioned to give it to me. He wanted to know if you had any plan. to take the throne for yourself.”

  “And did you tell him my schemes?”

  “Oh, every detail. Grisha sleeper agents, a deal made in the dark of night during a storm in Kenst Hjerte.”

  He has such a wonderful laugh. His hand slips farther up her thigh, fingers stroking gently against her skin. “Look at you,” he teases, “already a political mastermind. I have nothing left to teach you.”

  “You could teach me how to clean my rifle.”

  “Not here I couldn’t. I could quiz you. How’s your history coming?”

  “Dreadfully.”

  “Let’s practice, then. For every question you answer correctly, my hand moves.”

  That gets her to open her eyes. “Which direction?” she asks warily, and he grins.

  “The direction you’re hoping. Come, now. First Lantsov king?”

  “Yaromir the Determined.”

  His hand inches up. “What else was he known for, besides founding the Lantsov dynasty?”

  “He was the first king of a united Ravka.”

  “Very good. How did he take his meals? Heavily salted?”

  “You know,” Astoria hums, “if I kill you myself, Vasily won’t have to worry about doing it when the time comes,” and he laughs again, and he leans forward to reach her so that he can kiss her.

  “I’ll play fair,” he promises with mock seriousness, settling back to where he was. “Where were we? Tell me about the Ravkan crest.”

  “Two-headed eagle, holding a scepter in one talon and three arrows in the other.”

  “What color are the arrows?”

  “Black, bound with three ribbons. Blue, red, and purple, before you ask, representing the three Grisha orders.”

  “I think,” he says slowly, still grinning at her, “you’ve done well enough for today. Made plenty of progress.” And he slides his hand up farther, leaning forward eagerly when she lets her head fall back and lets out a quiet whine.

  She is, as ever, an instrument in his hands, and she sings sweeter than she thought she knew how at the attention of his fingers and the rhythm of his laugh.

three.

He is not himself here. Not Nikolai, the prince; not Sturmhond, the privateer; not the hybrid who frequented her rooms at the palace or drew her maps in the stars when the rest of the crew slept. She recognizes what’s been done to him — grief, she thinks, it’s simply grief, and grief hollows you out no matter how full of life you are before it happens. He is not himself, but she finds that she still has some of Asta in her.

  The Elbjen feel as familiar to her as anything in Fjerda could, these days. When they reached the Spinning Wheel she took Nikolai’s face in her hands and she smoothed his hair back and she said be with your family. Delegate, and before he could argue she began ushering out the refugees. She found some part of her is skilled in this — gathering the lost and frightened and directing them toward a purpose. She climbed up on the rail of the Kingfisher, Nikolai’s careful hand holding onto hers to keep her upright while she balanced, and she shouted sharply to get everyone’s attention.

  “Stay together, for now,” she called. “Once we’ve left the ship, everyone settle together at the center, under the dome. I want Summoners in teams of three — one from each discipline — with two Fabrikators as well, to take notes.” Not many teams, but it’s something. She takes a breath. “I need an Inferni, a Squaller, a Durast, and an Alkemi volunteer to accompany me as the first exploratory squad.”

  One of the Squallers opened her mouth to protest, and Astoria simply opened her free hand and, with a tired wiggle of her fingers, froze the water vapor around it until her fingers were dripping with ice. A shake of her hand and the ice was gone. So much for keeping it a secret.

  “Healers, tend to the wounded. I want Heartrenders and soldiers standing guard around civilians and personal guards for the royal family.”

  ( Tolya and Tamar are gone. Alina and Mal are gone. Zoya and David and Genya are gone. Fedyor is dead. All the most logical next steps for leadership roles are vanished or buried in rubble. )

  “You heard her,” Nikolai said simply, helping her down from the railing, and he squeezed her hand before releasing her, offering a quiet word of thanks, before slipping away to find his parents as the crowd began to move.

  And by some miracle they begin to settle, the abandoned observatory fit for habitation and use once more, her teams functioning together well enough after the initial hiccups. She has no title, no office, but she does what she can to shepherd the remaining Grisha, the battered remnants of their Second Army. ( Funny. Back on Fjerdan soil, and she keeps thinking of herself as Ravkan. ) Baghra refuses to teach her anything, no doubt deep in her own grief, but one of the Tidemakers sets aside an hour or two a day to help her hone her skills before turning her over to a Heartrender.

  In the first few evenings she reports to the King and Queen, Nikolai standing behind his mother with a hand on her shoulder, and she tries not to think about how weak the King looks, or how empty the Queen’s eyes are. At one point she commands Astoria to come closer; Nikolai looks bewildered and only shrugs, and Astoria considers, for a moment, telling her that she has no respect for her own King and Queen, let alone another nation’s — but she does so obediently, kneeling in front of the Queen while she reaches forward a thin hand to hold her chin up in a vise-like grip.

  “You said your name was Grim, girl?”

  “Yes, moya tsaritsa.”

  To her surprise the Queen shifts to perfect Fjerdan. “Any relation to Aleksi?”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. My mother never spoke of her family.”

  “I can’t imagine there were many drüsje by the name,” she says, more to herself than to Astoria. She hesitates, turning to look at her son over her shoulder briefly, before she says, “Look after him.”

  “Yes, moya tsaritsa,” Astoria answers in Ravkan, and the Queen looks at her red hair and releases her with a little shudder of disgust, as if Astoria reminds her of someone.

  In time the Spinning Wheel thrums with life and the remains of the Second Army are moving again, at least, and she takes some pleasure in knowing that she helped achieve it.

  The urgent secrecy that gripped them at the Grand Palace seems less necessary here. Astoria doesn’t bother finding a room of her own; no one questions it. She is still Nikolai’s guard but the Queen’s keen eyes aren’t the only ones that notice the tenderness that passes between them: the way Nikolai brushes the snow from her shoulders when she comes back in and that she presses her lips to his fingertips in return, or the way that she accompanies him on every run across the border for supplies, or the way that wherever one is, the other is sure to be found close at hand. Without Alina, with the Darkling sitting on a throne in the ruins of the Grand Palace, it hardly matters how the prince spends his nights, and for a moment she even convinces herself that this can work.

  They are coming to see Astoria Grim as an integral cog in the machine, loyal to her nation of choice before her nation of birth, the prince’s left hand. The others greet her with some warmth, and when she speaks she is heard, and if they survive this, she thinks, there are worse ways for a potential queen to be seen by the people. It’s a foolish thought, but one that plagues her: she has grown too used to waking up with Nikolai beside her, and there are moments when she sees the Queen fiddling with the Lantsov emerald on her finger and looking at Astoria as though she’s thinking the same thing. And there is, beneath all this, a romantic in Astoria that wants to daydream about a marriage to a man who looks at her as though she is a star in the night sky.

  It’s this romantic that rouses Nikolai from sleep early one morning, before the sun has had a chance to peek over the mountains. He groans something unintelligible, reaching for Astoria to pull her back against his chest and fall asleep wrapped around her warmth, but she’s sitting upright already and looking at him with an excitement too bright and eager to be ignored.

  “Are we being attacked?” he asks around a yawn, and Astoria laughs.

  “No, not being attacked. Come outside with me. It’s snowing.”

  “Astoria.” He maneuvers himself with impressive dexterity, considering that he’s still half asleep, and he shifts until he can reach to lay his head in her lap. “It snows three times a week.”

  “Not like this. It’s not a storm. Please? I want to show you my Fjerda.” Her hands sneak into his hair, and he almost purrs at the touch. “I promise to let you sleep in every other day this week if you come with me right now.”

  He’s silent for a moment, and then he sighs, turning his face toward her thigh. “Can I get dressed?” he asks finally, voice muffled against her bare skin, and when she promises that he can he pulls himself upright and presses a tired kiss to her forehead. “Only for you,” he says through another yawn, “and only because this is a lovely sight to wake up to.”

  A few minutes of clumsy dressing later — Astoria even kneels to help him with his boots, and he’s too tired to crack the joke she knows he’ll think of in an hour’s time — and they make their way quietly through the Spinning Wheel, careful not to wake anyone. When they’re outside, the snow is indeed falling in lazy whirls, the wind still too calm to do much more than move the flakes around. It’s the sort of snow that would send her outside at any hour of the night when she was a child, packing snowballs to throw at her unsuspecting mother, a far cry from the wet and heavy snow that freezes over the moment it reaches the ground.

  It takes a moment but Nikolai looks up in absolute wonder at the colors changing in the sky, at the patterns of wind visible through the falling snow, at Astoria’s laughing face, and for a second the dark circles under his eyes are invisible and the weight on his shoulders is lifted and he is Nikolai again, every version of Nikolai she’s known and loved.

  “Have you ever watched the sun rise from a mountain?” she asks, holding a hand out for him to take, and Nikolai’s eyes are soft and his lips curl up in a small smile.

  “Many times.”

  “Would you like to do it again?”

  He takes her hand in his and falls into step beside her as she leads him; the walk takes about fifteen minutes, the crisp morning air waking them, and when they reach the little plateau where Astoria likes to sit and watch the sky she releases him only long enough to thaw and dry a space for them to sit together on the ground. As soon as they’re sitting, he winds an arm around her waist, and she nestles as close to him as she can, her head on his shoulder, one hand resting on his thigh.

  For several long minutes they’re silent as they watch the sky change. She chances a look at him when the pink splits into a brilliant orange and her breath catches in his throat; he’s illuminated like a saint, and not for the first time Astoria thinks that even the sun itself is as in love with him as she is, to light him so intimately, so beautifully. He catches her looking and his smile grows, and he pulls her closer to press a kiss to her forehead.

  “This is your Fjerda?” he asks, and she gestures with her unoccupied hand, arm sweeping over the land around them.

  “This,” she confirms, “is my Fjerda. Harsh, but beautiful. Capable of greatness. Capable of change. There’s nothing that’s impossible when the sky looks like this.”

  There are little snowflakes freezing in her hair, and she can see her breath in front of her, and she sighs happily.

  A few minutes later she lets out a shriek of laughter when she feels his hand slip from around her waist, only for him to jam a snowball down the back of her cloak. He’s laughing, too, wiping his wet hand on her cloak; she can wick the moisture from the fabric, she can warm the water on her skin, but it’s about the intent of it.

  “This is beautiful,” he says, “and so are you, but you still woke me up far too early. Some payback was necessary.”

  “You cheated,” she answers, but she’s grinning too widely to be taken seriously. “So much for the chivalrous prince.”

  “I think you’d be bored if I was always chivalrous,” he teases, and he looks so alive in the snow with her that she can think of nothing except how badly she wants to kiss him. And so she does; she kisses him until she remembers the cold water on her back, and she pulls away from him with a reluctant scowl as she reaches behind her to dry herself off.

  He’s watching her with a sort of idle curiosity, and he’s silent for another long moment before he clears his throat.

  “Not that I’m not happy to spend the morning with you,” he says softly, “but what’s the real reason you brought me out here?”

  And Astoria nearly sighs at that, because he knows her far too well for her to keep anything hidden from him. She reaches up with one hand to trace her fingers along the outline of his mouth, resting against his chin. “Because you’ve been hurt,” she says finally, quietly, considerably sobered despite the rueful smile on her face, “and this isn’t something I can heal. And I wanted to tell you that even if I don’t have the right words for this, or the answers to how to make it hurt less, I am here all the same.”

  Nikolai takes in a long, shuddering breath, and he turns his face back toward the sky; she doesn’t push. “My mother misses him,” she says finally. “My father is disgusted with him. And I don’t know what to think anymore. He would have killed me in that moment, and he loathed me, but — he was still my brother.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s hard not to despise him for it. And it’s hard not to feel guilty for that. And somewhere under all of this it’s harder still to love him in spite of it. And if I stop to mourn, I’m afraid that I will not have it in me to start living again.”

  Astoria sneaks her hand into his and he squeezes gratefully, looking down at her once more.

  “But what do I have to fear?” he murmurs, tucking his nose against her hair. “I have an anchor, don’t I? Something to pull me back if I go too far.”

  “It won’t stop hurting if you never let the wound heal. And you always have me.”

  He releases her hand to wind his arms around her and pull her close, and when he buries his face against her neck she feels the moisture clinging to his eyelashes, and the shuddering of his breath against her skin, and she doesn’t speak, doesn’t push, only wraps her arms around him in return.

  They sit like this for a long moment, Nikolai’s hands gripping her cloak with a desperate sort of urgency, and when he sits upright again she only wipes her thumb across his cheeks before settling back against him. She says nothing about the redness of his nose or the shine of his eyes, and he says nothing about the way she pulls him closer, closer, closer, as though she’s afraid to let go.

four.

She misses him.

  There’s no other way to put it, nothing else that fully encompasses the hollow ache in her chest when whatever precious time they have is spent locked in an argument that neither can win. The crown he wears now is a wall between them, and Astoria shouldn’t be surprised by this distance, she knows. Power changes people — and it changed him, exhausted him to his core.

  Power limits people as well, and it’s a concept she seems to understand better than he does. And all they do most days is fight, Astoria armed with cynicism and Nikolai with stubbornness, neither one willing to give even an inch. She thinks sometimes that staying when her presence only makes things more difficult for him is a sign not of her love or dedication, but rather of her selfishness, and she has never felt so conscious of that selfishness in her life.

  It would be easier, Astoria imagines, if they had some time together to simply be. There’s something impossibly appealing about the thought of just being with him — no arguments, no debates that get out of hand, no one talking over the other to make a point that must be heard.

  I am allowed some selfishness, he insists, and that ache only worsens when it settles; yes, loving her is selfishness, and if she had any sense she’d remove the temptation.

  We need to consider public opinion, she retorts, and she can see the hurt in his expression when it becomes clear that she perpetually has one eye on the world around them, instead of on him.

  She misses falling asleep with him. The emptiness in the bed beside her always leaves her cold; she wakes sometimes with ash on her tongue, half-convinced that she’s on the road with the saint again and that Nikolai is far from her, too far for her to ever reach again. ( She had asked why he never showed himself to her and he had told her that he still held enough of himself to not want her to see him like that, but what good is loving someone if you cannot trust them to see the most monstrous pieces of you? )

  And he is exhausted, so exhausted, his eyes permanently rimmed with dark circles; he looks paler, thinner, at times even fragile. Whenever she asks if he’s sleeping he always tries to change the subject.

  ( When she asks to spend the night he always has an excuse ready. She wonders if the constant bickering is taking a toll on them, if he’s losing his taste for her, if she won’t need to try to convince him to take a bride with strategic value, if she’s pushed him away. She had imagined that a victory in this regard would be difficult for her, but she hadn’t imagined that it would hurt so badly to consider. )

  But on rare occasions, when the sun is high in the sky and he has an hour or two to himself, he finds her, and if she doesn’t bring it up and he’s careful not to push, they can know a moment’s peace. She opens the door of her room for him and he greats her with an exhausted smile and a lingering kiss pressed to her lips.

  “Long day?” she asks sympathetically, and he lets out a long, low breath.

  “Exceedingly. And it’s not even noon. Do you have anywhere to be, or — ?” He looks so hopeful that even if she’d had plans she would have ignored them.

  “Just here,” she says instead, “with you,” and he kisses her again at that, and then once more.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Theory. This-ness and that-ness. Zoya is adamant that I need to understand it to use my power practically, but I have a sneaking suspicion she’s just enjoying watching me squirm.”

  Nikolai laughs, a rasping sound with so little joy in it that it leaves her pained. She takes his hands in hers and she tugs him lightly after her.

  “Come sit with me. I’ll read it to you and if you can make any sense of it, you can try to explain it to me.”

  She thinks it’s a sign of how little energy he has that he doesn’t even put up a token fight at that. Instead, he sits beside her on the little sofa near her bed, his head lolling dangerously close to her shoulder, his eyes starting to fall closed.

  ( She wants so badly to take care of him. She cannot begin to imagine why he won’t let her. )

  It takes so little time for him to nod off against her shoulder, and once she’s sure he’s fast asleep she guides him, carefully, to lay with his head in her lap, his legs hanging off the side of the sofa and his hand grasping her kefta near the knees. He seems at peace while he sleeps, and she wonders, not for the first time, when he last slept untroubled.

  She returns her attention to the book, her hand carding gently through his hair whenever she doesn’t need to turn the page. She expects an hour, perhaps two, but he falls into so deep a slumber she’s almost amazed that he was functional at all before this. He sleeps there, unmoving, until it’s too dark to read without a light, and so Astoria sets the book aside entirely and turns her attention to her fingers in his hair and the rhythm of his breathing.

  It’s nearly six hours before he wakes; she’s stiff and sore when he finally moves, but she hardly minds. What she does mind is that he practically leaps away from her as though he’s been caught doing something terribly offensive.

  “How long — ?” he asks, eyes wild, and Astoria stands slowly, stretching as she does.

  “I think we’ve just missed dinner.” Her voice is carefully neutral, though there’s no disguising the hurt in her expression. ( Are things so much worse than she’d imagined? Has she done this to them? )

  “Saints,” he swears, scrubbing a hand across his face, and he moves as if to close the distance between them before stopping himself, hands hanging uselessly in the air. “I’m — I’m sorry, I hadn’t meant to be so careless — ”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve fallen asleep with me a thousand times.”

  “This is — ”

  “Different? How?” And then, some of the hurt creeping into her voice against her will, she asks, “Am I really so unappealing to you now?”

  He looks stricken by that, and he moves toward her before turning abruptly on his heel. “It’s not that,” he insists, “never that, but — ”

  “But?” she prompts, fighting the urge to cross her arms over her chest and slink away from him before anything else can be said.

  “It’s — you’ve been arguing for weeks that we need to abide by the rules. Play it safe. All this will do is stir suspicion, if I come out of your room looking like this, it’ll raise suspicion. It’ll make it seem like we’re...” His voice trails off miserably.

  Astoria raises her eyebrows coldly. “Then brush your hair.”

  “You don’t understand, Astoria.”

  She takes in a long, slow breath before exhaling all at once, throwing her hands in the air. “No,” she says, “I don’t understand. You don’t tell me anything, and then I don’t understand it. I can’t imagine how that happens.”

  “You’re not being fair,” he insists quietly, and she’s horrified to realize that her eyes are stinging.

  “I thought you were the one who wanted the world to know, and now you’re saying it makes you seem ungentlemanly if someone realizes you slept here? Why are you fighting so hard for something that makes you so unhappy, Nikolai?”

  “You don’t make me unhappy,” he protests. “This doesn’t make me unhappy.”

  She clears her throat and turns around, determined not to let him see her react any more than he has. “You should go,” she says, voice thick. “Before anyone realizes that you’ve been here.” When he doesn’t move, she crosses the room to open the door and hold it for him.

  She doesn’t listen when he tries to appeal to her as he leaves. She’s still angry two days later when she sees Genya slipping out of his room as she’s going there to pick a fight, Genya’s good eye widening at the sight of Astoria.

  “I can ask him,” Astoria says slowly, “or I can ask you,” and Genya takes a step to the side to grant her a wide berth.

  “Ask him,” Genya insists, pressing a key into Astoria’s hand before walking as quickly from her as she can.

  She’s prepared for a lot but not for this: Nikolai, still clothed, chained to his bedframe, in the early stages of sedation. The blackened fingertips and veins in his hands seem especially bold tonight, and he looks up at her and beams.

  “Storya,” he says warmly, “c’mere,” but his consciousness is fading fast.

  She does the only thing she can think to do: she drags a chair to his bedside and loosens the chains on the headboard enough for her to gather one hand in hers.

  She sits watch for a demon that never comes, falling asleep in the early hours of the morning.

  She wakes only when he withdraws his hands from hers, looking mortified, and as soon as she lifts her eyes to his he’s apologizing again, like he had a few days before, looking her over nervously as if he expects to find her covered in wounds.

  Instead Astoria stands and moves to sit on the bed beside him, to undo the shackles around his ankles before freeing his wrists, and she flings her arms around him.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, “I hadn’t known, I hadn’t realized — ”

  Gingerly, he returns her embrace, and for the first time since returning to Os Alta, something feels right.

five.

The arrival of the Kerch delegation requires some degree of ceremony. Money is tight and resources are limited, but if they do nothing, it will be seen as an insult; if they do too much, it will be seen as a mockery. You ask us for help and then provide nothing as thanks? You wish us to bankroll a country that wastes money on such frivolity? Finding the balance between the two has been utterly nightmarish; even the parade of bridal dossiers has come screeching to a halt in order to plan this instead.

  And so they have managed it. It’s a marriage of Ketterdam and Os Alta, from music to food to fashion, something at once intimate and spectacular; dancers from the capitol’s ballet academy dressed in the costumes of the Komedie Brut, musicians plucked from pubs and taverns rather than churches and among them the enthusiastic fiddler from the Volkvolny, Grisha officers moving among the guests in their finest silken keftas. The Triumverate flanks Nikolai, and there are no more than fifty noble guests, all of them hand-chosen in a process that screamed exclusivity rather than limited funds, and all of them providing something to the fete as a display of their personal wealth and taste.

  One brought several crates of a wine made from blackberries, and Astoria is on her second glass of the evening. She attends not as one of the Grisha, but instead as Nikolai’s own chosen guest — it is a concession to their constant arguments now, his desire to have her at his side in conflict with her worry for public opinion. ( He has enough to deal with; no need to add more. ) It means that instead of a kefta she is dressed entirely in Kerch styles — the fiddler from the Volkvolny had brought it with him with a wink. From the kapitan. She can fault Privyet for plenty — his betting and his ego among them — but not his taste, or his memory of her tastes, or Nikolai’s. High-necked, laced up the back, form-fitting to the point where she almost feels exposed, with a looser skirt in layers. The grey and black of the dress is offset only by the red of her hair, curls shaped but hanging loose down her back, and the red painted across her lips, at Genya’s insistence.

  It had seemed like too much but Nikolai’s eyes haven’t left her for more than the length of a conversation with any of the bankers and delegates, and so she really cannot complain.

  The blackberry wine is almost tart, as though the blackberries weren’t completely ripe. She thinks she likes it better like this than if it were too sweet. One of the Kerch delegates approaches her, apparently on Nikolai’s suggestion — another Fjerdan, and her delight at being able to speak in her mother tongue is visible on her face. She watches from the corner of her eye as Nikolai’s own face breaks into a smile, boyish and even bashful, to see her so pleased, and she makes a mental note to thank him later.

  “It is a far cry from the celebrations in Djerholm,” the man says, and Astoria laughs.

  “Certainly very different. It’s been difficult to adjust to, at times — the weather is, truly, what does me in. The summers are sweltering here.”

  “Why do you remain here, then?” he asks, more out of curiosity than nosiness, and Astoria’s eyes flicker toward Nikolai again.

  “Loyalty,” she says. “King Nikolai is dearly loved, and with good reason.”

  For all Nikolai’s constant exhaustion, he puts on a good show. He laughs when he must, and when one of the bankers’ daughters, a girl of no more than sixteen, is left without a dance partner he gallantly sweeps in, leaving stars in her eyes when the song has ended.

  When the evening wears on and Nikolai and the Triumverate retire, along with a handful of bankers, to discuss an arrangement, Zoya hooks her arm through Astoria’s to lead her after them. “He wants you there,” she says, and not for the first time, Astoria wonders what Zoya must think of this — they are hardly subtle, no matter her rules, and Astoria’s continued presence has only made things more difficult in the matter of finding a queen — but Zoya is, as always, eminently practical, infinitely professional. If the evening called for someone to be flipped over and left with broken bones, Zoya would no doubt have done it with grace, but for now, she simply leads Astoria back with them.

  Her entrance is hardly noted, except by the Fjerdan in the group, who smiles warmly at her presence. At Nikolai’s gesture, she comes forward to read the agreement offered — figures and interest rates and loan requirements, all of them blending together until she can take a moment to focus. She has knowledge enough of striking a bargain and encouraging negotiation, but she feels as though this is less a testament to her skill than a chance for her to learn. Nikolai intends me to be his queen, she reminds herself, scraping her teeth across a red lip as she reads. That only works if I know what I’m doing.

  “It is a fair deal,” she says finally, slowly, “but this interest rate — ”

  “To protect our bankers from any suffering. It is not as though we can simply force the issue, should your King default on payment,” says one of the Kerch bankers, and Astoria nods sympathetically, setting the agreement down on the table. She leans forward just a bit, eyes wide, lips curled in a small, sweet smile. This is where she shines: convincing people that what she wants is what they want. It’s the only reason she’s been able to bully Nikolai into considering adopting the stray cats that frequent the gardens.

  “Certainly,” she says, tone soothing. “I can’t imagine a more necessary gesture — but perhaps we can do better.”

  She feels Zoya stiffen beside her, just as she feels Nikolai rest a hand on the small of her back, in part as a show of support, mostly so he can gesture for Zoya to wait without the Kerch seeing.

  “If we can marry the loan to a trade agreement, we have the foundation for a long-lasting friendship between our nations. Now that the Unsea is no longer a threat, we can truly commit to real partnerships.” She looks to the Fjerdan, her smile bright. “You’ve seen the wealth of the Ravkan nobility; and in the aftermath of war, we have little to spare in the way of luxury. If our nobles cannot turn to us for fine leathers and fabrics, surely we can send them to you.”

  The Fjerdan has been in Ketterdam too long, Astoria thinks, pleased. The thought of profit makes him grin like a fool, and Astoria slides the agreement across the table, back toward the nodding bankers.

  “Perhaps we can find common ground. A gentler interest rate, and agreements that send our nobles and their disposable wealth to you.”

  “And what will that do for Ketterdam as a whole, besides helping a handful of merchants?”

  “Six of the dukes in that room have teenage sons daughters. One countess present tonight has fourteen, just by herself. All of them will need education, and all of them will choose Ketterdam’s University, if encouraged by the Crown. After all, our own King was educated in those halls — where better for our nobility to learn than in the same place? Where they will spend years, with frequent visits from their parents and purses heavy from their allowances?”

  The delegates look between one another for a moment, then one says, “We will consider it, and report back to you in the morning.”

  Nikolai raises the hand from Astoria’s back and waves it magnanimously. “Enjoy the evening’s festivities,” he insists, voice warm. “We can meet in the afternoon. Please, gentlemen, my home is yours.”

  Zoya kicks her lightly under the table, offering her a quick smile, and Genya reaches around Zoya to squeeze Astoria’s hand. Even David looks surprised and pleased. The Fjerdan hangs back, waiting until the Triumverate has left and Nikolai has busied himself with gathering papers from the meeting, before he speaks.

  “We will be in Os Alta for at least another week,” he says in Fjerdan, “and I would like to see you again. Perhaps we could speak of you coming to Ketterdam someday, to visit.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she sees Nikolai look up. “I am flattered,” she says warmly, “but I should tell you — ”

  “I wish, of course, to court you appropriately,” the Fjerdan says hurriedly, afraid that he’s insulted her, and Astoria smiles and shakes her head.

  “Her attentions are occupied, friend,” Nikolai says lightly from the other end of the table, his Fjerdan accented but certainly clear, and the delegate’s eyes widen in realization. Well, she thinks, if we were aiming for subtle, we’ve failed.

  “I see,” says the Fjerdan, “my apologies,” and when Astoria assures him that no offense was taken, he leaves, Nikolai following behind him only to lock the door in his wake.

  She turns towards Nikolai and is preparing to say something, anything — to ask if she’d done well, to tell him that the experience had been exhilarating, to tell him that she thinks perhaps he was right and that she wouldn’t be terrible at this — but he closes the distance between them in a few long strides and he silences whatever she’d been meaning to say with a bruising kiss.

  When he pulls back from her, his eyes are fierce, and he sneaks a hand into her hair to pull it lightly. “Finally,” he rasps, sounding as though the wind’s been knocked out of him. “I’ve watched that fool flirt with you all night and I haven’t been able to take a minute to tell you that all I can think about is tearing this dress to shreds.”

  “You’re the one who sent him my way,” Astoria points out a little breathlessly. She loves seeing him like this — all that energy, all that power aimed at something. “You like the dress, then? Privyet sent it to me. A late birthday gift.”

  “He’s Fjerdan. I didn’t think he’d be so bold.” Nikolai pulls back enough to let his eyes sweep across her frame, lips twitching up into a pleased smile. “Privyet is a menace,” he says, “but he has good taste. And he knows me too well.”

  Nikolai looks over her shoulder at the table, before shaking his head — too low, she imagines — and after a beat he rests his free hand on her hip to guide her back to a credenza against the wall. The hand at her hip moves to knock the trinkets decorating it away, a bowl clattering to the floor loudly and a few decorative books falling with a thud.

  “If I hadn’t spoken, what would you have told him?” Nikolai asks, his hand fisting in her skirt to pull it up, and Astoria grins.

  “That I was flattered by the offer, but we could never be.”

  “And why is that?” He manages to find the hem of the skirt, and he slips his hand beneath the fabric, fingers stroking along her thigh, at the top of her stocking.

  “Because the king is dearly loved,” Astoria says with a quiet gasp, “and because I intend to spend every possible moment showing him exactly that.”

  His hand moves higher, and he grins wolfishly when he realizes that she isn’t wearing anything under the skirt besides her stockings. “Is this for my benefit?”

  “Entirely. I know you as well as Privyet does. Though, truth be told, I was expecting you to cave in before dinner, and sneak me into a pantry.”

  “Wicked girl,” he laughs, and she lets out a strangled whine when he touches her. “Say please.”

  “Please.”

  He kisses her again, and again, fingers moving slowly against her, her own hands making quick work of his belt and his trousers. When he withdraws his hands to lift her onto the credenza, she winds her legs around him, offers up a strangled please again, and he groans when he sinks into her, face buried against her neck, a hand pressed against the wall behind her.

  “Tell me what you want,” he commands, voice muffled against her dress, and Astoria lets out a breathless, tinkling laugh.

  “You,” she swears, “just you, always just you.”

...and one. 

How strange, she thinks, to be walking beside Sturmhond once again. It’s been long enough that it takes her some time to expect his face when she turns to look at him. How strange, how wonderful. She’s grown so fond of Nikolai’s face that she’d forgotten how much she loved Sturmhond’s, with all his strange angles and his just-barely-wrong colors. 

   And she appreciates the privacy — they can walk down the streets of Ketterdam together, arm in arm, Sturmhond pausing occasionally to tug her into a shallow alleyway to kiss her half-senseless, or pressing his lips to her temple almost without paying attention to what he’s doing, as if the intimacy and affection is second nature by now. Genya had pulled Zoya aside at one of the merchant carts with a grin at Astoria, as if to say escape now, while I distract Zoya, and Astoria has taken full advantage of the silence and the space granted to them. 

   “If you’re intending to ravish me behind a building,” Sturmhond says conversationally, “you should know I like to be romanced first.” 

   “I know what you like.”

   “Of course. Forgive me; I would never dream to presume otherwise — ”

   His eyes are sparkling, and this is what Astoria missed. This is why her breath caught in her throat when she saw Sturmhond’s face again: he looks lighter, freer than he has since taking the throne. He looks like himself, even with the wrong face and in the wrong country. 

   “I ravish you plenty,” she laughs. “And I will ravish you later. Twice, if you like. But right now, I’m hungry, and we haven’t had a chance to be somewhere public together in...” Saints, it’s been years, hasn’t it? Since they were on the Volkvolny. “We should enjoy it.” 

   He stops to kiss her again, this time right in the middle of the street, and it’s only Astoria’s hands in his pockets that prevent any of the countless thieves around them from nicking the handful of kruge he’s carrying with him. 

   But it’s too good to last, and Astoria should know this. They make it to a cafe that seats them looking out over the harbor, a cup of coffee apiece and a plate of pastries between them — she’s tearing apart a little cake made from layers of pastry and even more layers of butter, fat little sugar crystals across the top — and they’re halfway into their coffees when Sturmhond lets out a sigh that sounds less like Sturmhond and an awful lot more like Nikolai. 

   And she can hear it coming in that sigh alone, the thousandth conversation on the same theme. “This doesn’t have to be rare,” he says airily, reaching to tear off a bit of pastry to try. “We could do this all the time, if we wanted.”

   “Are you suggesting relocating to Kerch?” she asks dispassionately, full well knowing that isn’t what he means, desperate for playing dumb to work just this once. 

   “How many different avenues do we need to explore and find lacking before we do this?”

   Always one more, Astoria thinks, until you see sense and you realize that this would be a disaster for you, and that we would never recover from it. She doesn’t answer, simply takes another bite of the pastry. 

   “Do you even want to be with me?”

   She looks up at him sharply, swallowing hard. The little sugar crystals scrape at her throat going down, but she barely notices, any more than she notices the slosh of coffee over the edge when she wraps a hand around her cup. It’s not a conversation she wants to have, but that he’d even ask...

   “You seem more at ease with me now than you have in months. Now that no one is watching, now that no one knows who we are — but this has a time limit. And when we’re back home, will it be back to the same rules? We can only touch on the third Tuesday of the month? I can’t look at you for more than two minutes consecutively, five minutes cumulatively, over the course of a single day? You can only come to my rooms if you’re shrouded head to toe in mourning clothes?”

   “What gave it away?” she asks, and there’s more bite to her voice than she cares to admit. “The hours I’ve spent learning ancient Ravkan to comb through centuries-old books? How about the way I’ve shot down every single candidate?”

   “Then what will it take, Astoria? I know what I want. I have known what I wanted since we got back to Ravka. It hasn’t changed.” 

   I know that, she wants to scream, and what you want is not compatible with what you need, and if we do this there will come a day when you rightfully lay the blame at my feet for letting you, and you will never forgive me. Instead, she reaches for another pastry. 

   “If you don’t want this anymore, then at least have the courage to say as much.”

   “You idiot,” she says then, voice rising in anger, “you absolute fool, there hasn’t been a single second since we met that I haven’t wanted to be with you.” 

   The couple from a few tables over turns to look at them, and Astoria clears her throat and looks back down at her pastry. She hears the shuffle of steps approaching, and the elderly Kerch woman who’d served them their coffee crosses the shop to replace their near-empty cups with fresh ones. When she’s gathered them, she points a knotted finger at Sturmhond, who looks taken aback by this. It’s rare that someone scolds him now that he’s king. 

   “You shouldn’t rile up your wife like that,” the woman says sternly, and Astoria coughs to cover up a laugh, lifting the coffee to her lips.

   “She isn’t my wife,” Sturmhond says after a beat, looking surprised and even a little chagrined, and then he looks at Astoria with mischief in his eyes before looking back at the woman. “But I want her to be. I ask and I ask and every time, she tells me no.” 

   “I don’t say no,” Astoria hisses, leaning over the table, and she looks up at the woman with a flush creeping up her neck. Soon enough she’ll be as red as her hair. “I don’t say no,” she repeats emphatically. “I say not yet.” 

   The woman scoffs and she sets the empty cups back down on their table, stepping away only long enough to bring a chair over to sit between them. “Why do you say not yet?” the woman asks, with all the authority and nosiness of a woman long past the concern for social niceties. “You love him, don’t you?” Sturmhond sits back in his chair, looking triumphant. 

   How to begin to explain this? Astoria clears her throat, opens her mouth, clears her throat again. 

   “That’s what I tell her,” Sturmhond says, exasperation audible in his tone, and the woman shoots him an impressive glare to silence him. 

   “Let her talk, boy,” the woman snaps, and Astoria chokes on another suppressed laugh before the woman whirls around on her. “And you, don’t stall.”

   “I do love him,” Astoria says finally, “of course I love him, more than anything, but — ”

   “But?”

   “But?” Sturmhond echoes.

   “He inherited his father’s business.” A lie close enough to the truth. “And he could lose everything — everything — if he doesn’t make a good match.”

   “What will it take for you to be a good match?”

   “Different parents. Different heritage. More money, a title...”

   “But you say not yet instead of no.” 

   He should employ her with his interrogators. Astoria’s face is bright pink now, and her cheeks hurt from the intensity of the blush. “I say not yet because I hope I’ll stumble across a miracle.”

   “Ach, stupid girl. Miracles don’t come like that.”

   “I know.”

   The woman scoffs. “So, you love him enough to not want him to lose this. And you, boy? Why do you keep asking?”

   “Because I love her enough to walk away from it.” Sturmhond’s answer comes immediately. 

   “Foolish. Men who give up their dreams for their women just end up resenting them.”

   “Sometimes dreams change, don’t they?”

   “Only if you’re fickle and foolish.”

   “I can live with that.” 

   The old woman looks between them and she laughs, suddenly, shaking her head. “Young lovers,” she says, and she lets out a derisive snort. “All you do is bicker and waste time. Either leave him or marry him, girl, and you, either stay with your father’s business or walk away. You make things too hard.” The woman pushes her chair back and stands, gathering the empty cups again. “Married fifty-three years, I was, until he died. He was rarely right. Husbands rarely are. And he never listened to me and he always thought he knew better than anyone else in the world and if I could marry him again tomorrow I would do it. I would never have gotten the chance if we sat around and argued in cafes all day.” 

   She leaves them behind her, Sturmhond’s eyes wide and his lips curled up in an astonished grin, and Astoria presses her fingers to her lips to try and stave off another rumbling laugh that’s building in her chest. Carefully, he reaches across the table to curl his fingers around her wrist, and he brings her hand to his mouth, pressing a careful kiss to the backs of her fingers. 

   “A month,” he says finally. “If you have yet to find a solution in a month, marry me anyway. I want fifty-three years with you and at this rate we’ll never get started.”

   “A year. Give me a year.”

   “A week.”

   “Six months?”

   “Four days.”

   “My love,” she laughs, “I know you know that a negotiation doesn’t work like this.” 

   “Fine. Three months. If, in three months, you don’t have the answer, then marry me anyway. And if I have to step down, so be it. I would rather have you, anyway, and besides.” His eyes light up with mirth. “You’ve found all of my cousins. Any one of them could take the throne.” 

   Three months. Three months to find the answer. It isn’t nearly enough time. “I’m — ” But she wants fifty-three years, too. And Grisha outlive otkazats’ya; does she want to spend those final years, alone, wishing she hadn’t wasted so much time? 

   And he’s hated so much of this. Maybe it will be less exhausting without this hanging over his head. Or maybe he’s better off back on the Volkvolny, leaving this mess to someone else. 

   She hesitates, then she nods, and Nikolai’s face lights up and he moves around the table to kneel in front of her, his hands cradling her face with all the tenderness in the world before he leans in to kiss her. He tastes of coffee and sugar and when he pulls away from her he stands, offering a hand for her to take. Astoria leaves a small stack of kruge on the table for the old woman, who only lets out a huff when they move towards the door, and she waits until they’re out of the building before she tugs him by the lapels of his jacket and stands on her toes to kiss him again, and again, and again. 

   He looks like himself again, with that smile. She’s half-drunk on the sight of it.

   “Plenty of alleyways,” she says quietly, “and we can find a tavern, rent a room for a few hours.” 

   He laughs, and he presses a kiss to her mouth, her cheek, her forehead. “Absolutely not,” he says with feigned sternness. “I am taking you back to the Volkvolny and I’m carrying you over that threshold before you can change your mind and try to argue for six months again, and then I’m going to have my way with you, in my own bed, where there’s no chance anyone will disturb us.” 

   Astoria grins in spite of herself, and she wonders if she looks more like herself here, too. 

   “Lead the way, kapitan.”

[badreview]

First Review

Welcome to our first review of the weird and, sometimes, gross fanfiction that is out there. Before getting into it, we need to go over a few notes.

There will always be a link to the work reviewed, in case you really want to read it yourself.

The commentary is by two people, Isaac and Ness. To distinguish which person is commenting we will preface it with an I: or N:. There will also be a wrap up of our thoughts at the end.

Some works might need certain content warnings and they will be given before the review starts. If there is a warning that isn’t provided but should be please let us know. 

Now we will get onto the review. 

This work does contain forced sodomy and is between two real people. This should only be viewed by those who are okay with such contents.

Leon Trotsky Gets Me Hostky

N:This is an actual fanfiction of Leon Trotsky and Joseph Stalin, two real life people that were part of the USSR. I do not have words to describe my fucking confusion to why someone would make this. But, if you want to read it yourself...

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13393708/1/Leon-Trotsky-Gets-Me-Hotsky

Otherwise… let us go for it together. 

Mexico City was hot, so unlike the USSR's windswept tundras and snow laden cities. The sticky, suffocating warmth of the city stuck to the walls and crawled beneath Trotsky's skin. He sat back in his chair, spread his hands over his desk and breathed in the cloying air. He longed for the USSR, not just for the cooler climes of his native Europe, but for the culture for the noble workers he had moved among. Something akin to patriotism - something he should have denounced considering his ambitions for a worldwide worker's revolution - stirred inside him on days like this, filled his soul and cried out for his homeland.

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts and he turned around in his chair. He looked, but too late and in overwhelming shock as the familiar figure of Joseph Stalin burst through the door.

I: I do not like where this is going already. 

N: Yeah, I don’t either

"Stop!" He cried in THE VOICE OF STALIN. "TROT patrol!"

I: “In the voice of Stalin” cause Stalin had different voices that weren’t his.

N: Fucking Trot patrol, lol.

Trotsky nearly fell out of his chair, hyperventilating and praying to the spirits of Karl Marx, Engles and Lenin that this was not his last day. He did not scream or beg, but instead he raised himself out of his chair and faces Stalin calmly. "Have you come to finish me off?" He asked.

"Da, Comrade." Stalin replied, and Trotsky saw that he was gripping a menacing, gleaming ice pick in his hands. "I have come to finish you off, but not in the way you think."

N: No, no, no. Do not use that as I fear you are. Also he prayed to Karl Marx, lol

I: I knew this would be going a bad way… I am afraid

Trotsky panicked internally, but he did not allow that fear to show itself on his face. Stalin looked gleeful, eyeing Trotsky over with a manic hunger and Trotsky wondered what unspeakable methods, what horrific tortures, the mad-man had dreamt up for him. Stalin advanced, stepping menacingly toward Trotsky and turning around to close the door behind him. Trotsky was paralyzed with fear, his communist heart beating hard against his chest.

"Take off your clothes comrade." Ordered Stalin in a soft voice that seemed out of place considering the situation.

"Why comrade?" Replied Trotsky, his voice escaping as a tiny squeak from his terrified body.

"Just do as I say," said Stalin impatiently, advancing on his once-upon-a-time comrade with THE STEPS OF STALIN

I: No, Trotsky RUN

N: Not like this, please not like this…

Trotsky could feel sweat soaking through his shirt, the pounding thunder of adrenaline in his veins causing him to overheat more. Stalin had not stopped advancing - still wielding the icepick - and Trotsky could not see any way around it. He tore off his shirt without ceremony and stripped his trousers, kicking off his shoes and trying not to think about where this might be heading. He went to remove the ushanka from his head, but Stalin stopped him.

"No." Stalin said in a rough voice. "Leave that on."

N: Why keep the hat

I: For the vibe of it. I fear I know where this is going and I hate it

Trotsky dropped his hands to his sides at once and stood there, naked, confused and awkward, as Stalin pointed at his desk.

"Bend over it."

I: DO NOT USE THAT ICE PICK THIS WAY

N: NO

Trotsky obliged, placing his vulnerable neck against the cold wood of the desk and waited tensely for the deadly blow. He fidgeted, his hands twitched on the desk. He was ready to die, he was ready to have his skull split by the force of the ice pick, but instead of his head, Trotsky felt the cold metal of the ice pick teasing his anal sphincter. He jerked up, he wanted to look behind him, but in that moment the ice pick pushed at him and penetrated him entirely. He felt Stalin's warm hand caress his supple buttocks. His mind was awash with conflicted emotions. Initially he had thought Stalin had come to assassinate him, that his time was up and all was doomed. But this was something different. And he liked it.

"Yes, relax comrade." Stalin purred and Trotsky obliged. He felt the ice pick move further into his anal canal and shuddered with pleasure.

I: NO HE WOULD NOT LIKE IT. That should hurt, that should cause bleeding… why is this happening? What is this??

N: WHY?! NO! What the FUCK? I’d rather Stalin murder him with that ice pick

Trotsky moaned unwittingly, he could not help it. The pleasure was intense, teasing and it was slowly flooding through his system, intoxicating him. Stalin let out a pleasant sound and began to gently oscillate the ice pick inside Trotsky's rectum. Trotsky clutched the desk and let out a guttural sound. He panted, he whined, the sheer pleasure of it was terrifying and confusing and Trotsky fancied that he saw the meaning of life flashing before him, as glorious and bloody as the Great Revolution.

It was almost unbearable, teasing, ferocious and yet not quite enough to push him over the edge into glorious orgasm. He panted, he arched, he wept, he needed Stalin to increase the pressure, the depth, the anything just that little bit more. Stalin laughed at his desperation. Trotsky begged, he pleaded and Stalin was indeed merciful. He pressed the ice pick in just that little bit deeper, he changed the angle. Trotsky howled as ecstasy erupted behind his eyes like fireworks commemorating the fall of the tsars, they exploded and flared and they did not cease. Trotsky lost track of time, clutching the desk, and eventually came to surrounded by his own sticky fluids.

N: That would just have tore up his insides, that would’ve been pain and suffering. What the fuck? I’m so just confused

I: Yeah that would absolutely NOT be pleasurable. What the fuck is happening?? Why would someone do this

Stalin extracted the icepick with a satisfied laugh and Trotsky languished there. He finally understood why climax was called the little death in that disgustingly bourgeoise language that the aristocracy had once favored. He crawled off the desk after some time, he looked around at a loss, but Stalin was gone. He was alone in the heat, wondering if it had been a violent fever dream that had overtaken him. The boiling, empty room offered no answers, only repeated his own questions back to him.

He really missed the USSR.

N: Yeah is have questions too Trotsky

I: I really miss the time before I read this.

 Ending thoughts: 

N: Why would someone give this cursed work to this world? Haven’t we suffered enough in this life? Why, just why? Not only is it cursed, but it wouldn’t even be possible. That ice pick should’ve just torn up the inside of Trotsky's anus. That would’ve been just torture and not at all pleasurable. I’m so confused as to why this is a thing someone thought of and gave us.

I: I never thought there could be a story of Trotsky being sodomized by Stalin but here we are. You’re welcome too I guess. I feel suffering in my soul for this. Why would anyone make this? Not only because it is so cursed to think of but also it is just not how using an ice pick this way would go. I need a drink after this shit.

[trashficdumpster]

Rhea was pleasantly surprised to find out that Byleth seemed to take great satisfaction in helping others. It was only befitting of Sothis’ vessel to share the same benevolence the goddess possessed. It pleased Rhea even more that Byleth was willing to fulfill most any request she personally asked, no matter how menial the task. While most of the other faculty found their new co-worker’s subdued nature unnerving, Rhea could read Byleth’s face and tone quite easily. After all, Sitri had been much the same way. Until she met Jeralt.

Jeralt Eisner. Rhea was still rather fond of him, despite his apparent betrayal. She could allow him to keep his distance from her as long as he never raised his sword at the church. He’d taken his title as a Knight of Seiros back with less reluctance than expected. For this, Rhea thanked her mother above – Jeralt was an excellent soldier and commander. His presence around the monastery made Rhea more comfortable. In his youth, he reminded her of Wilhelm, which is why she supposed she favored Jeralt all those years ago.

As Rhea reflected on Jeralt, her thoughts were inevitably pulled to the last, painful memory she had of Sitri – her twelfth attempt at creating the ideal vessel. She had come to see Sitri almost as a daughter. Her poor health barred her from ever hosting Sothis’ power, but killing her to take the crest stone back was too cruel. It would have been no different from those monsters slaughtering Rhea’s kin in Zanado. When the sickly girl had announced her engagement to Jeralt, Rhea had given her blessing without a second thought. Jeralt brought Sitri to life. She was owed at least that much for all her suffering.

Sitri had come to her one day absolutely radiant with joy. She was pregnant. Rhea had schooled her expression into a gracious smile, hiding her shock. This was something the archbishop never would have anticipated. How was this possible? Surely Sitri would lose the infant early on.

But she did not lose the child.

As Rhea’s twelfth attempt lay on her deathbed in a pool of blood that could not be staunched, she asked that her last moments be spent with the archbishop, whom she saw as a mother. Jeralt had nearly been thrown from the room, not wanting to leave his wife’s side. The babe had entered the world without a sound nor a breath nor a beating heart. It would be even more painful for Jeralt to go on without even his own child. Rhea had held her…daughter’s hand gently, and leaned in close to hear her final words. Save the baby, Sitri had croaked, delirious in her death throes. Rhea’s mind had scrambled for anything to say, anything that might comfort the girl before her. In any other circumstance, she would have offered some platitude – that the goddess would prevail – but that seemed wrong.

And then Rhea had glanced at the stillborn infant. Perhaps not all was lost. Sitri’s body could not handle the power of the crest stone. Although she never turned into a demonic beast, her health had always been fragile. But Sitri’s child possessed Rhea’s blood – Sothis’ blood – from both parents. Rhea whispered to her dear Sitri that she would be able to save the infant, and though she hesitated divulging what the cost would be, Sitri had only sighed with relief and nodded as she lost consciousness.

With a heavy heart, Rhea had cut open Sitri’s chest and removed her mother’s crest stone. It seemed large in her hand as Rhea hovered over the stillborn babe. She’d carefully implanted the stone in the girl’s chest cavity, next to her un-beating heart, and sealed the wound with white magic honed over many centuries of healing wounds. There would be no scar to mar the child’s flesh. No evidence of the procedure.

Rhea had cloaked Sitri’s body in a white blanket and had her most trusted monks take her to be embalmed deep under the monastery. There had been a tense, hopeless few moments before the baby girl finally took a breath. She had leaned in to listen to the infant’s breathing, only to find that even her sharp hearing could not pick up on a heartbeat. The child began to move, but no sound left her throat. No scream to announce new life.

But the baby lived. Against all odds, Rhea’s hasty operation had succeeded. Nothing in her centuries of experience had ever suggested that this was possible. It was a leap of faith fueled by a dying wish. Rhea was torn between sorrow, having lost someone who had shone so brightly, and hope for Sothis’ return. Surely it was auspicious that the crest stone brought life to a still heart.

And so, Rhea had washed her bloody hands clean and swaddled the girl in clean blankets to present her to Jeralt. As she’d gazed at the newly minted father weeping as he held the puny life in his hands, Rhea promised herself she would prevail in her mission to revive the goddess. This loss would not be in vain.

Rhea was pulled out of her reminiscing as Catherine announced a visitor’s presence. “Lady Rhea, Byleth is here to see you.” As always, Catherine’s voice was loud and clear even through the thick wood of the doors to her personal quarters. Rhea crossed the floor of her room quickly to open the door herself. She saw Catherine guarding the entrance rather aggressively and Byleth standing there with a bewildered look in her large blue eyes.

“You summoned me?” The young professor asked. Catherine seemed suspicious. Rightfully so, Rhea reasoned, seeing as she rarely received anyone in her chambers.

“Yes, I did. Catherine, please let her come in.”

Catherine frowned, but obliged at once. She adjusted Thunderbrand on her belt and assumed a more relaxed stance.

“I believe Shamir has some information pertinent to your next mission. I think the professor is more than capable of protecting me in your stead.” Catherine’s brow twitched as it did when she was irritated, but only nodded curtly and left Rhea and Byleth alone without complaint. Rhea beckoned the other woman in and closed the door behind them. She pulled the only chair in the room from her private dining table for Byleth to sit.

“You will have to forgive my manners. It’s not often I entertain others here.”

Byleth took her seat without saying anything. She seemed a little apprehensive, but not afraid. Rhea took the opportunity to take in the sight before her. The muscles of Byleth’s arms and legs looked thicker, and her face was fuller than when she had first arrived. She looked strong and healthy. For a moment, Rhea allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to be held in those arms when her mother returned. It would feel safe and warm, she thought, and the world would be right again.

“You look well,” Rhea finally said, “I take it you are growing accustomed to monastery life?”

Byleth nodded slowly, still unsure. “Yes, Lady Rhea.”

“Please, when we are together like this, I am speaking to you not as the archbishop, but as myself.” Rhea smiled gently. “Ah, you must be wondering why I invited you here. I simply wish to know you better. Jeralt and I used to be quite close, so I feel as though you are something akin to family.”

“He…never mentioned you until we arrived at the monastery.” Well, that certainly wounded Rhea. It was clear that Byleth was like Jeralt – blunt – but honest. At the very least, Jeralt hadn’t turned his daughter against her.

“While it hurts me to hear that, I suppose remembering his time here might bring forth some unpleasant memories.” The way Byleth sat up straighter did not slip by Rhea’s watchful gaze. “Unfortunately, I feel that it not my place to disclose those particular memories. Would you like to hear about how we came to meet?”

If Byleth was disappointed, she did not show it. “I’d like that very much.”

And so Rhea told Byleth the tale of how Jeralt, a brazen young mercenary, took as blow meant for her. He’d been mortally wounded, and Rhea had taken it upon herself to heal the boy. She omitted exactly how she managed to save Jeralt’s life, of course. Rhea went on to explain how she had offered Jeralt a position as a Knight of Seiros and how he quickly earned the respect and admiration of his comrades.

“He quickly became the prime example of what every knight should aspire to.”

“I had no idea. Thank you for telling me.” Whatever tension Byleth held in her posture had long disappeared. “I was wondering if you know about my mother? He must have met her here, if he spent so much time as a knight.” Her large blue eyes were full of questions. Rhea’s heart throbbed in her chest. She had met many orphans over her long life. Not knowing one’s parents was unspeakably painful – and knowing one’s parents and having them ripped away hurt even more. And yet, Rhea had not figured out how she would tell Byleth about Sitri.

A loud series of raps on the door saved Rhea from an uncomfortable explanation. It was a double-edged blade, though, as it meant her time with Byleth was at its end. Rhea placed a hand on Byleth’s shoulder in a placating gesture. It warmed her that the other woman did not shy away. “That is for Jeralt to tell you. I would not betray his trust. But know that you are always welcome here.”

“I understand. Thank you again.” Byleth stood and made her way out, only for Seteth to come in. He frowned slightly, and Rhea knew he wanted to say something.

Her relative chose wisely and kept quiet on the matter. He finally spoke when Byleth was out of earshot. “We have word that Lord Lonato of House Gaspard is amassing troops to challenge us. The western church must be suppressed before they sow more discontent.” Rhea’s good mood spoiled in an instant.

“How many knights do we have in the monastery?” Rhea’s voice dropped low as she felt hot rage bubbling through her body. Those who dared bare their fangs at her would be crushed.

“Not very many. Many of them are out doing patrols or running drills.”

“House Gaspard does not have a standing army. A handful of trained infantry at best.”

“No, but Lord Lonato has received support from a local militia.”

“Those numbers are inconsequential. Send Catherine and her battalion. The Black Eagle House will join them. They will subdue Lonato’s men and bring the western bishops back here for judgment.” Seteth grunted his begrudging agreement and left to give the orders, leaving Rhea alone with her thoughts. The traitors would be taken care of shortly. This knowledge calmed her as she made her way to the Star Terrace to pray to her mother.

As of late, Rhea swore she could hear the faintest whispers in response to her prayers. What the whispers said, she could not tell. But when she finished her worship and took time to meditate, her mind was drawn back to Byleth’s hopeful eyes.