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anjelicawrites · 6 months ago

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Homophrosyne

Paring: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader Synopsis: homophrosyne: a thinking and knowledge that is shared between two people. When your soulmate decides to come after you, you try to escape him. Too bad he’s Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, he’s never going to give you up. Warnings: blink and miss reference to the Baron’s abuse of Feyd, blink and miss reference to Feyd killing his mother, soulmate bonding considered as a curse, Feyd being very done and also horny, Feyd’s fascination with reader’s hair and body hair, switch!Feyd, switch!reader, attempted murder (not from Feyd to reader), murder, kissing, oral (f and m receiving), hair pulling, titty sucking, biting, blood licking, overstimulation, marking, Feyd’s pierced cock, a bit of ball torture. A/N: reader is AFAB, the only descriptor is that they have long hair. Where needed, they/them pronouns used.

You were one year old when you first learn that having a soulmate is more akin to a catastrophe, than a blessing. You shouldn’t remember the horrified gasp both your Bene Gesserit and your adoptive mother had exhaled, when they discovered your soulmate’s words on your body, yet you retrieved the memory when your Bene Gesserit mother taught you how to meditate. The two women had instilled the distrust of the bond in your heart, in hope to avoid what was unavoidable: the gravitational pull between two soulmates, before the forging of the bond.

Was the universe conspiring to realize this goal, when you felt compelled to follow your soulmate’s energy, the dark thread that pulled you towards him during that fateful afternoon you were meditating all alone? How could that sad, bald boy be a curse? He looked so alone in the big, dark room: how could you not go to him, when you felt him so strongly within yourself, for the first time?

All your parents, both biological and adoptive seemed keen in convincing you that stunting the newborn bond was the safest way for you to live: you couldn’t break you adoptive father’s heart when you had seen how ashen his face had become as soon as you told him the name of your destiny. You were but a child of six, still learning the ways of the world and put all your energies in forging a wall between you and him, learning to ignore the tug of your soul towards him, until you could pretend you never visited him. It was a fool’s errand, a wall made of feathers, not bricks, the one you, so desperately, crafted to make your family happy. Through the cracks, tendrils of the bond had, slowly, made way for themselves, as you deluded yourself with believing you were safe, that you could escape your destiny. You were a fool, your whole family was. He was biding his time, patiently waiting for the tendrils to envelop the bricks of your defenses and destroy them: if his uncle had taught him something, was the patience of the spider that weaves its web and you, little fly, were going to be ensnared. It was destiny, after all.

You haven’t seen him since that fateful encounter. Stupidly your brain expected him to still be a child of five, sad and alone the way you first met him, you struggle to recognize him in the grown man observing you like a predator would its prey.

“Found you.” He says, his voice a gravelly drawl that makes goosebumps explode on your dream skin.

He’s grown, dream you thinks, of course he’s an adult now.

“You are a stubborn little thing, aren’t you?” He deadpans.

There’s a sort of tenderness in his blue eyes, in the way he assess you from his perch. The irony doesn’t escape you, your first meeting had happened in his bedchambers, your positions the same: him sitting on the bed, you standing in front of him, two curious children who had been playing with forces beyond their understanding.

You want to look everywhere but at him, yet your eyes are drawn to his naked form under the black bed sheets, the strong planes of his hairless chest and the raw, masculine energy you feel coming from him in waves. Even though this is a dream, you can feel your dream body react to his non-presence, your nipples stiffen under the soft cotton of your nightgown and your cunt pulsates with the need to be filled by him.

“You have no idea.” You growl back.

His dark gaze travels down your body, clad only by the soft material of your nightgown and you have to steer yourself from covering your skin from the hunger in his gaze.

“Join me.” He says, beckoning you with one hand. “You know you want to.” “You’ll soon realize how little you know about me.” You spat back, disgusted by the desire coursing through your dream body.

You know that, if you were to follow the desperate howl of need you feel, the pleasure he’ll give you will be unparalleled, it will ruin anyone else for you. There will be no escaping.

With a speed that only exists in a dream, he stands in front of you, glorious body naked, pierced cock erect and straining towards you.

“Why make this harder than it should be? You’re made for me and I am made for you. It’s no use fighting this.” He drawls, the sound a low rumble you feel in your bones. “Because I forge my own path. And I have no use for a fool.”

You’re surprised by how firm your voice is, all the training kicking in without you even thinking about it; he laughs, a deep, rich sound that reverberates through you.

“I’m coming for you, soulmate.” He says, his voice calm, his tone final and sure. “If you can find me.” “I always know where you are.”

You force yourself to wake up, body sweaty and aroused under the soft cotton of your own sheets; you’re ashamed by the desire that burns your body, and by the fact that you have to bury your fingers in your wet cunt, forcing yourself to come again and again, biting your pillow to stifle the desperate moans of his name: Feyd.

To leave both your biological and adopted family is the only solution you have, not when you have to tell your mothers and fathers that Feyd coming for you is not an ‘If’ anymore, but a ‘When’.

“It is too slim a chance that he will not come after you, in the end.” Your mentat father repeats you in the vain hope to stop you. “I’d rather seize that, than wait like a sitting duck!” “You can’t run forever.” Your adoptive father puts his big hands on your shoulders, stopping you from packing. “You’re safer here, where guards are.”

You stare at him, your trained eye sees the stunted micro expressions and the way he’s trying to hide his anxiety from you.

“I’m not sacrificing our people’s on his blade, he will stop once he’ll realize that I have no interest in him and that he can’t reach me; Harkonnen care more about power than anything else. And then I will be able to come home.”

You have to keep yourself awake, swallowing pills after pills, using all your training to force your exhausted body to endure the never ending trip to the furthest limit of the Imperium, jumping from a smuggler vessel to another, hiding your true path from Feyd by trying to use the bond to manipulate him into going on a wild goose chase.

Sometimes you can hear the low rumble of his voice like an echo in your mind, his fleeting image randomly appears in your mirror, his dark eyes pools of desire that have you tremble in the deepest recess of your core; you're so tired now that you don’t know if it’s the bond becoming stronger, or your exhausted brain running on fumes that makes you feel the fleeting warmth of his touch on your skin or his presence by your side. It is torture not to follow what your body wants: just let yourself become one with your soulmate, and rest in the safety of his presence. You are too stubborn to surrender yourself to biology, and to Feyd, so you soldier on, blocking him out as much as you can as the bond erodes the last, frayed, defenses you have left.

Hidden under a false name you wait to set sail to the last leg of your journey and you have to bundle yourself into thick layers of clothes to survive the frigid weather of this small planet, as you force yourself get a breath of fresh air whenever the walls of your rented room seem to become smaller and smaller. It’s paranoia, yet you seem to feel the eyes of the owner of the inn scan you every time you go out, weighting you against the other patrons and finding you too different to truly blend in: when is the vessel coming? You ask yourself again and again, as you navigate the crowded market, vibrating with the need to simply go and finish this demented trip.

You walk aimlessly, pressed in the crowd that protects and smothers you at the same time, trying to interest yourself in the trinkets sold while you study your surroundings, feeling the power you have on the simulflow slip: as much as the Bene Gesserit have total and utter control on their body and its functions, there’s still a limit, and you know you are reaching it at full force.

When you see him, for a second you think that’s your brain playing tricks on you: he can’t be here, not without you feeling him through the bond. Have you finally lost your mind? You can’t truly analyze what’s happening that your body seizes, torn between the extreme stress you’ve put it under for weeks, and feeling the bond finally snap and settle; you faint on the cobbled road, all your muscles trembling violently, your head banging against the pavement as the people make room around you, your ears deaf to their horrified screams, or to Feyd calling your name.

Finally you can rest.

You open your eyes to a dull ache in the back of your head, your eyes focusing slowly on the rustic woodwork of the ceiling above you as you feel your mind assess your memories, and block Feyd from knowing you’re awake, out of sheer instinct, knowing full well this is going to work partially: you will need to face the man, not now though, you’re not ready. You want to assess the bond, understand it: what you haven’t done in your entire life. Escaping is not in the cards anymore, now that Feyd knows where you are, you just need some more time, before you can face him. You’re still surprised he’s been apt enough to manipulate the bond to this extent: you thought he was wasting time in a wide goose chase! This level of deviousness leaves you speechless and, if the circumstances were different, you’d be happy to take Feyd as your lawfully wedded husband; but you can’t.

You have no idea how long you’ve been out, probably long enough to feel your strength and clarity being restored, albeit partially. Quick and silent you bundle yourself up in your warmest clothes and throw the survival kits you have in the backpack, before opening the window and use your mentat training to assess the best route to escape the village, using the roofs as your route. Feyd will realize soon enough that you’re gone again and you need to cover as much ground as you can manage. This planet is so backward, even compared to the standards of this side of the galaxy, that the only mode of transportation is on horseback; for a split second you consider stealing one form one of the stables of the inn, but that would bring too much attention to yourself, and you don’t need that.

Feyd reaches you when you’ve arrived at the high cliffs, the only known feature of this small planet. You knew he’d be on your tracks as soon as he’d realize you weren’t asleep anymore, the block on the bond only partially shielding you from his awareness: you have to confront him, finally, but on your own terms, not his.

“Stay where you are!” You shout over the howling of the wind, as soon as he dismounts from the horse. “If you come any closer I’m chucking myself off this cliff!”

You see Feyd stop on his tracks immediately, and you know he knows, through the bond, that you’re not lying.

“This is the moment you turn around and go back to your home planet!” You shout. “You know I can't do that.” “No one is forcing your hand!”

Your foot slips a little but you manage to regain your balance; a shot of pure, unadulterated fear courses through the bond: it's Feyd’s and it takes your breath away.

“Come closer!” He shouts over the violent wind. “I don't trust you, Harkonnen!”

Frustration, anger, sadness all explode through the bond and you know he's forcing himself not to jump at you and drag you off the cliff, kicking and screaming, even risking you jumping backwards; with the bond having settled, the connection is unavoidable, thus keeping him out completely will never work, there will always be a part of him linked to your soul.

“I'm not going to hurt you!” “You’d never be able to! Not even in a million years!”

Frustration again, and a hint of amusement: he believes his swordsmanship to be better than yours. You fight back, focusing all your anger on him, the strength of it pushing him backwards.

“You can try to best me!” He shouts.

He's positively amused now, despite the situation, he finds you amusing! You're so incensed you’d carve his eyes out! And you’d do so, if fat drops of rain didn't start pelting the two of you, drenching the two of you to the bone in seconds. The sky has turned black and the wind is so violent that you have to abandon your perch on the cliff and get closer to Feyd.

“There's…” You try to make yourself heard over the brutal howling. “Caves!” You shout, pointing to the point where the cliffs fall directly into the ocean. “Go back!” He shouts back. “Too far!”

The crack of a too close thunder scares the horse. The animal rears violently on his hind legs, forcing you and Feyd to move aside before it runs away, mad with fear. You elect to ignore that Feyd has put himself between you and the scared horse.

“We need to go!” You shout, pulling the hood tighter over your head.

You're drenched to the bone and so cold that it's only thanks to the prana-bindu training that you're not trembling like a leaf. Feyd doesn't look any better than you do: his black clothes have absorbed all the water possible and are sticking to his long body; it's the light shade of blue of his lips that’s concerning: without the horse, going back to the village is impossible in this weather: you two need to find refuge as soon as possible!

You don't need to tell him, you simply start walking, trying to orient yourself under the wall of rain that's still pouring over you two to find the cave system you know exists in the cliff that slopes into the ocean.

The wind makes walking a feat, you have to bend forward and push against the violence of the element. Through the bond you feel Feyd and the strain his own body is put under to follow your path, how cold he feels; and it’s affecting you as well. A full grown bond between soulmates it’s not that different from the Other Memory, yet it’s deeper. It’s not simply sharing one’s ego, it’s fusing two cores, while maintaining one’s consciousness: the most deep connection of two people’s experiences, lives and feelings, the biological need to help and protect the other side of the bond. What you’re desperately trying to fight. On a genetic level you want to share your prana-bindu control over to Feyd, to protect him from the chill in his bones, your rational mind stops you from doing so and you’re torn between those two needs battling in your chest.

You two stumble inside the first opening you see and keep walking until you two are away enough from the draft coming from the mouth of the cave; you two quickly scope it, and you finally let your back rest against the cold stones when it is apparent that there’s only one way in and out.

“What is this place?” Feyd’s voice is even lower, raspy with tiredness. “Bandit’s cove. The ruling House of this constellation has eliminated the threat years ago and never went through the hassle of emptying the whole cave system. Some reports say that no planetologist ever studied it as a whole.”

All around the two of you lay broken pieces of furniture and even older equipment, perhaps you two can even find some dry blankets to add to what you have in your survival kits.

The slap of Feyd’s over layers of clothes being thrown on the floor snaps you out of your thoughts: another side effect of being in the presence of one’s soulmate is the instinctual fall of every self-protection response, and you didn’t even realize it’s happening to you!

“We need to start a fire.” Feyd tells you.

You force yourself to ignore the way the remaining layers of wet clothes cling to his long body, enhancing the strong muscles as he moves around to break the furniture into smaller pieces; you know he knows you’re watching, and he likes it. Hurriedly you open your backpack, looking for matchsticks, hoping they are all still dry in the deepest pocket of the survival kit, electing to ignore his smugness again: you don’t know what will happen between you two, one thing is certain, you will slap that smirk off his face, probably sooner than later.

“You shouldn’t threaten me with the promise of a good time, if you’re not going to deliver.” He drawls, and you feel warmth explode in your body.

You throw the matchsticks at him, who grabs it blindly, too focused on creating a small pile of wood to look towards you; despite the shaking of his hands he manages to start the fire. You get closer to the small flames and let your palms hover for a moment, knowing full well you have to change into the dry clothes in your pack; Feyd doesn't seem to care that you're there, he simply removes the remaining layers covering his torso, before rummaging through his own backpack. You can't help yourself, you stare, almost transfixed, at the way his muscles move and play under his white skin, the tight control he has on his movements scream of the training he had subjected himself to: he is so powerful and a part of you wonders how sheathing him within yourself would feel, how would your body manage the feat; you turn around as quickly as you can when he stares at you, embarrassed by having let your mind wonder.

“Are we still playing this game?”

Again, amusement floods from his side of the bond, surprising you.

“It's common decency.” “Was it when you were ogling me?” “I wasn't. I was thinking and you were in the way. Now will you turn around?” “You are weird.” He says, cocking his head to the side.

He talks! You think. Has he ever looked at himself in a mirror? Do they even have mirrors on Giedi Prime?

“We do have mirrors. It would surprise you how common those are back home.”

You jump at his answer, not being used to having someone else camping in your head.

“Stay out of my mind!” “Easier to say than to do.”

He's right and you know it. You know he's not watching as you undress and unpack the dry clothes from their protective layers, yet you feel his presence, his warmth, as if he were touching you; you shiver, you can't help it, the deeper, the baser triggers of your biology taking over a lifetime of training. It is strange, having to manage the rapidly growth of his soul inside of you, find a balance between yourself and him: you can alter your body functions all you want, yet you can't stop yourself from feeling what Feyd does, his tiredness, the warmth seeping back in his bones, his hunger and not only for food.

Now you understand why the Bene Gesserit are so wary of marked sisters.

You try to focus on your body, the flow of your breath and the movements of every single muscle as you change clothes and then eat. You had thought you could have simply shelved the bond in one of the planes of the simulflow, but it encompasses everything and slithers in your every thought. You are not sure how you're supposed to be still yourself and house Feyd inside of you, manage his presence and the layers of your being: is this tiredness in your bones yours? A leftover from having abused pills for too long, or is it him?

“I’ll stand guard, you sleep.” He tells you after you both have finished eating. “I'm not sleeping with you awake.” “Afraid I might steal you away?” “Would you?” “I don't know. Would I?”

His eyes focus on yours as you feel him poke you through the bond.

“How come you're so apt at this?” You ask, needing to change the subject and fishing for information. “I reckon one of us has to, after you blocked me out. It came handy in the long run.” His full lips twist in a smirk and you can see he hasn't the black pain on his teeth; isn’t the na Baron supposed to wear that? “Both of us sleeping is dangerous. If I truly wanted to take you, I would have done so when you fainted in the middle of the street.” “This planet is safe, all the reports say so.” You retort back. “And you know because you’ve read all of them.” He answers, sarcasm tinging his voice.

So he doesn't know, you realize. Even though he knows how to manipulate the bond better than you do, what you are hasn't seeped through, yet.

He will, though, soon enough.

“If you're tired, I am tired. It's irritating.”

It's more than that, it fucks with both your rogue mentat and Bene Gesserit training: it’s harder to understand how to live with another’s soul inside of yours when you feel like you’re battling running on fumes. You know he knows you're not telling the truth, not the whole of it, but the sharing between you two is still happening: you two aren't completely barren to one another.

“We sleep with our backs to the stone and I am laying in front of you. That's not negotiable.” “Don't tell me an Harkonnen has developed the ability to care.” You bark. “I trust my knives more than any report.” He answers.

He's not lying, you realize, he’s not being a gentleman, he simply believes more in his swordsmanship, than he does anything else.

You huff and busy yourself with creating an insulation layer, by putting on the stone floor the ancient blankets stored in one of the trunks Feyd used to feed the fire, before opening your sleeping bag.

Before laying down, you hang all your wet clothes on a small trunk, as close to the fire as possible, hoping they will dry through the night. Feyd does the same and you can't help but notice the stark difference between your earthly tones and his solid black. He then lays the blankets from your survival packs, and his, over the sleeping bags, hoping to ward the cold and humidity away; it’s not ideal but it’s just for one night, back home he’ll shower you will the comforts that come with being his spouse, because you’re going back to Geidi Prime with him.

Uneasy you slither inside your sleeping bag. Hiding a small dagger under the pillow you turn to face Feyd, who is lying on his back; you’d rather sleep on your other side, but you still don’t trust him.

Despite all odds, you fall asleep, a deep, dreamless slumber that envelops you in darkness and quiet; beside you Feyd sleeps the sleep of the hunter, light and ready to be awoken by the gentlest of sounds. He has to force himself not to follow you into the deep sea of unconsciousness, has to fight the natural soulmate instinct to lose all survival instinct, because one’s other half is finally by their side.

The sudden stop of the rainfall is what awakens him. In the darkness he can make out your features, slackened with the relaxation of sleep. A stray lock of hair has escaped the loose plait you braided to help dry them; he longs to move it out of your face, feel the actual texture and not the phantom he does through the bond, but then you would wake and he just wants to observe you. You are beautiful to him in the way nothing is permitted to be on Giedi Prime, you’re also a headache and a half, trying to send him on a wild goose chase and still rejecting him. It would have almost worked, if he hadn’t gone through the pains of learning the ways of the bond, while you had been rejecting it ever since you two were children. He had to be devious about it, hiding from his uncle, pretending to ignore it to not incur in his wrath again and he had to do it all on his own, alone and abandoned by you, who never visited him again. He’ll know soon enough if your family had punished you for having a soulmate, for wearing his words on your skin, the way his uncle did when he first saw the words hidden in the crease of his right thigh.

You become restless in your sleep at this thought, and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do.

The long years you left him alone in navigating the bond, he had hated that you left him to his own devices, had imagined to hurt you as punishment for the wall you had built between you two, had longed for you and punished himself for it. When he saw you again, in that too short dream, he felt like he had received a personality transplant: all his rage gone, substituted by this array of feelings foreign to him, that he couldn’t name, and lust for your body. There’s no love, nor gentleness on Giedi Prime, or in the Harkonnen family, yet all he could think was that his daggers existed to protect you, that he would never raise his hand in anger against you. Even on that cliff, where he was ready to just drag you by the hair away from danger, it wasn’t because he wanted to hurt you, just protect you; and you’re making everything so difficult, stubborn little thing that you are.

“Is it always going to be like this?” Your voice is a light murmur, your eyes stubbornly closed. “You think while I am asleep, thus waking me up, Feyd?”

It’s the first time you’ve used his name, still emerging from your slumber your defenses are lowered, or so you like to think.

“You’ll learn.” He says. “You could have had a head start.” “You’re such an asshole.” You growl back, opening your eyes.

His face is not fully turned towards you, mindful of the distant opening of the cave, and you can only observe his profile. He’s as handsome, his features only enhanced by the lack of hair, as much as he’s devious and smart: of course he hits all the targets with you, the universe shaped him for you, if only…

Before you let your thoughts wander anymore, you stand up abruptly and start collecting your belongings.

“And you are making this harder than it should!”

You can feel his rage through the bond, it hurts you, yet you know this is the only course of action.

“Why can’t you understand there’s no other way? I’m not coming to Giedi Prime with you, and I am not bringing you home with me!”

Now it’s his turn to stand up, his massive hand curls around your arm and even through the layers of clothing you can feel his warmth, his words on your skin burning.

“I’m not some stray puppy you found at the side of the road!” He bites back.

Before you can answer, from the darkness, countless knives fall upon you two.

The cave you two have camped in must have had another entrance, hidden, because there’s men pouring in from everywhere. Before you and Feyd can go back to back, you two are separated, forced to parry and dodge the hail of stabbing and blows. The more people you two wound and kill, the more appear; they seem to focus mainly on Feyd, who is fighting brutally, cutting through the wall of men that’s, inexorably, closing upon him, in the vain attempt to reach you and the exit from the cave. You’re backed against a wall, desperately trying to carve your way out, but more men jump you and you know you’ve been wounded.

Feyd is one of the finest fighters of the whole Imperium, fast and cunning, but he’s just one man against a never ending sea and as much strength and speed you can infuse your movements, you two outnumbered, you realize, assessing the situation with the inward calm you have been lacking these past few weeks. Knowing that there’s only one solution doesn’t scare you, perhaps it’s the key to solve this entire issue. You focus on the four men blocking you against the stone wall: you forget the daggers in your hands, forget the pain coursing through you body and simply concentrate all your energies on your vocal cords.

“Kill all your companions!” You order, knowing full well how hard it is to use the Voice on a group of people.

The four stop their advance and stare at you, confused, as if assessing your words, before turning around and attacking their own friends. The ensuing chaos is what you and Feyd need to gain the upper hand and cut through the whole host of enemies, now too stunned to pose a threat anymore, until only the four you used the Voice on are still standing.

Another person would be horrified by the look in their eyes at the realization that they have help massacre their own people, you can’t find it in your heart to care.

“Finish the job!” You bark, too busy to assess your internal damages to observe the ensuing bloodbath.

You let your body fall onto the ground, you know you have some broken ligaments in you ankle and a gaping wound on your side; and your cells proliferating hurts more than being stabbed.

You feel, more than hear, Feyd kneel by your side.

“You’re one of the witches.”

Surprise courses through the bond, a sneer tinges his deep voice; perhaps this is the way to convince him to let you go.

“My birth mother was, still is in a way. She’s just given me renegade training, ah!”

Your body tenses when a fractured rib snaps back into place.

“No Bene Gesserit can be marked by soul words.”

“That’s what they want everyone to believe.” You open your eyes and fix your gaze upon him. “Marked sisters exists, like my mother. They are a minority and are not fully trusted to follow whatever is the Bene Gesserit end goal.”

A cursory check of your injuries shows you that you’re left with minor scrapes.

“Feyd, you don’t want to associate yourself with the mess that’s my family. And I can’t let the Baron have any control over my training.”

The training your birth parents forced upon you as protection against your soulmate, the training that makes you accepting the bonding so dangerous. Idiots, all of them! And you as well!

You let your head fall back against the stone, in your mind eye you can see yourself the way Feyd does, still bloodied and covered in perspiration, the most beautiful thing he’s seen in his entire life.

“You’d really think I would let my uncle play you like a puppet on a string?” “You know you’re a pawn in his game. Everyone in your family is, and I can’t risk him using me to gain even more power.”

Sadness fills the bond, it comes from you in waves; you’re not telling him the whole truth, though, he realizes, this is but one of the reasons why you’ve been avoiding your shared destiny.

“That is not a problem anymore.”

Your eyes snap open and land on his white teeth, again.

Why isn’t he wearing the black paint? He’s the na Baron, he’s supposed to! You finally let yourself analyze this change in him. The only reason why he’s stopped…

“Yes.” The low drawl of his voice halts your rambling thoughts. “I had to follow you around the Imperium, right after my beloved uncle passed away, unexpectedly. A shame I couldn't mourn him properly.”

Flashes explode through the bond: the Emperor’s Truthsayer, the body of the old Baron on the floor, his neck broken. Feyd says ‘beloved’ but you can detect no love towards the old man.

“You passed the test. You couldn’t be accused of anything.” “Accidents happen, soulmate. Some are happier than others.” He deadpans.

Another flash: child Feyd, why is he naked? Why is his uncle there with him? You feel his pain, his shame, your words on his body. Pain! You feel like you can’t breathe when you see though his child eyes the blade, and his mother's lovely eyes. Great Mother protect us! Hate, respect, greed, hate so much of it, having to scheme every single second, knowing death and only death.

You lose control of your feelings and thoughts, flooding the bond with hate, and the images of what you would have done to the old man, for what he had put Feyd through.

“I’m glad he’s passed, I wouldn’t have been able to wait for an accident to happen.” You say. “And I wouldn’t have passed the test.”

Pride comes from him, and relief, like a warm embrace and it would be so easy to surrender to him, to your destiny.

“Why are you still trying to run?”

Feyd’s voice is so low, you feel his words more than hear them, warm they settle in your lower belly and you want nothing more than to let yourself go.

“Because having a soulmate is a curse, don’t you understand?”.

Gently you take his hand. His palm is so big and warm, with your fingers you trace the callouses his training left behind; you don’t trust yourself to share this memory without skin on skin contact.

Now it’s Feyd’s turn to see through your eyes and, at the same time, from the outside, like a spectator, you as a child of one year old and two women fussing around you, he knows it’s your mothers, one biological, the other adopted. He feels your panic when your biological one brushes your hair and sees the newly formed words hidden by your thick locks, the wail that leaves the two women’s mouths: what have you done wrong?

“My Bene Gesserit mother had a goal, all of them do.” You say, your hand still holding his. “She wanted to show the sisterhood she could be trusted, even with the soul words on her skin, that a marked sister could be as trustworthy as an unmarked one. Then she met my father.” “The heir to his House.” “His mentat.” You smile at his surprise. “I told you my family is a mess. They forgot their training, their loyalties, only their bond existed. It was only the sheer respect my adoptive parents held for my father, that saved them. They couldn’t even raise me as their own, and I have to believe having a soulmate is a blessing?” “It is not. But I’d rather work with it, than against it. Think of what we could achieve together.”

Oh, his cunning brain. You were bought up reciting the Litany Against Fear, but he had been the one truly growing up following it and you have been acting like a fool for your entire life: you can’t inherit your adoptive father’s dukedom, you will have to take a husband to share the power, as the laws of the Imperium force you to. Would you rather marry a stranger, maybe stupid and short sighted, or someone as cunning and ruthless as Feyd is? Why did your whole family never thought of this? Your adopted parents were terrible at their jobs, they were so painfully short sighted, thus crippling you!

“Enjoy this moment because I will never say this again: you’re right.”

Feyd grimaces at your words and his pain takes hold of the bond, he can’t keep it under control anymore.

Your hands cup his face and you push your forehead against his: you’re not sure you’re doing this right, not without feeling him under your palms.

“What are you doing?” He manages to say. “I’m trying to assess your internal damages, shut up.”

Your nails embed themselves in the soft skin covering his skull as you feel every cell of his body as if they were yours: strained muscles and ligaments, one shoulder hurts and edema is forming, what else? You pinpoint the stray point of a broken rib that has ruptured his spleen: he’s bleeding on the inside!

“This is going to hurt, I’m sorry.”

Your lips connect with his to force his body to heal, his muscles to move the stray point of the rib back where it is supposed to be and mold itself to the stump, his spleen to close the wound and reabsorb the non clotted blood. Under your hands his body twists and you have to use your prana-bindu strength to keep him in place, until you’re done and every injury has healed.

“What was that?” He asks against your lips, his breath coming out harsh and fast. “A witch never explains their tricks.”

Amidst the dead bodies and the blood, Feyd kisses you, his tongue in your mouth eager, your soft breasts against the solid planes of his chest: you taste better than anything he’s ever eaten, the metallic tang of your own blood only enhances his need to absorb you within himself. You straddle him and you feel his cock, hard and thick, you can’t help but grind against him, reveling in the pleasure and the pain he feels: battling the bond and your desire towards him is impossible now.

“Not here.” You manage to moan when he releases your mouth. “Dangerous.” “Still bossing me around.” He groans when you don’t stop grinding against his erection. “I thought you liked it.”

Disengaging from one another is hard, it’s a miracle you two manage, drunk as the two of you are on post-fight adrenaline, murder and lust.

“No bandits, eradicated.”

You feel his eyes on your body, the heath behind his words: he’s not mad at you, he’s hungry. He’d have you in this mass grave, if he knew no more assailant would come.

“Who would have come and check? No one cares about this planet.” You answer.

You two make a quick work of all your belongings and head back to the village you came from.

The sky is still dark, covered by clouds that promise rain, the thick forest that surrounds the path looms on you and Feyd; perhaps there’s more enemies hidden and ready to attack. Through the bond you feel Feyd’s readiness for a fight, he’s also ashamed of having almost lost in front of you. What should you do? How does one comfort a Giedi Prime native? Would he even accept your words?

You jump out of your skin when the horse appears from the forest. The poor animal looks worse for wear, having hidden from the storm somewhere, yet it lets you grab the reins and caress his mane, before it allows you and Feyd to mount his back and rush back to the village.

You hug Feyd from behind, your arms as tight as possible around the bloody backpack and his torso as wind and rain whip your face. Despite the awkwardness of your temporary position, you feel lust grow in your belly, now that you’re not fighting the bond. You know that a part of it comes from Feyd, from having wanted you for years, from having tried to quench his thirst in the arena and with concubines who, he imagined, looked like you. The rest is all you. No lover you had ever managed to satisfy you: none of them was truly built for you the way he is and now that your know what he tastes like, you know you’re hooked and lost forever. How stupid you had been in letting the fears of your family dictate your actions, depriving yourself of him and chipping at your own strength: so much time lost!

The horse almost collapses in front of the inn, tired and foaming at the mouth it drinks from the waterhole in front of the building and ignores you and Feyd dismounting.

The owner of the inn pales when he sees you two, you can only imagine the ways Feyd might have threaten him, while you were out of commission; you don’t feel sorry though, you will, but not now, all you care is climb back to your room and fuck your soulmate until you both collapse. You feel Feyd’s eyes burn holes in your back, his lust for you clouding his senses; it spills trough the bond and you almost choke on your own saliva with the force of it. In your entire life you’ve never wanted someone as bad as you do Feyd right now, only decency stops you from taking him on the creaky stairs.

The door locking behind is final: you have nowhere else to run and hide.

You throw your backpack on the floor and turn around to truly observe your soulmate. He’s imposing in the small room, impossibly tall and hulking, he blocks your way out; only now you notice the freckles scattered on his cheekbones and you think how out of character that is: he’s Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the psychotic Baron of Giedi Prime, his name puts the fear of the Gods, old and new in the hearts of men, and he has freckles so light you can barely see them.

Slowly you walk towards him and lift the tip of your finger to trace them, creating constellations on his skin; Feyd lets a low groan of pleasure escape his lips at your soft touch. One day your words on his skin will stop pulsating when you touch him, his cock will not stand into attention immediately, just because he’s got a sniff of your smell; one day, in the distant future, now he moves his head to capture your fingers with his lips, sucking the digits in with a low moan. Your mouth finds his pulse point and latches there, your teeth worry the soft skin, your tongue licks his heady taste: you want to devour this man, mark him as yours for everyone to see.

“I might need a quick shower.” You murmur in his ear.

Fast, faster than what you would have expected, one of his hands grabs your hair (God the way he groans at the touch), the other lands possessively on your hip.

“You’re not going anywhere.” He growls, menacingly.

You find yourself slammed against the wall, unceremoniously, his hand the only protection for your head. You feel the recoil in your whole body, you want to cuss him, but his mouth is on yours, hungry, his teeth ready to draw blood from your lower lip. You plaster yourself against him, grab at his back with desperate hands as you reciprocate the kiss, blindly following his taste, deaf to the sound of your teeth clumsily clashing against his: you’ve kissed many, but no one had felt like him, tasted the way he does.

You try to push the two of you away from the wall and towards the bed, but your strength liquefies when Feyd simply stands his ground and plasters himself better against your writhing body.

“I should let you hang like this as punishment, soulmate. Tease you until you cry.”

You let your eyes roll for a moment at the heath in his words, then your teeth snap again on the soft skin of his neck and the moan that leaves his lips tells you that there’s more to this man, than his harsh exterior and his reputation.

You pull at the soft skin with jerky movements, clenching your teeth with as much strength as you dare use; Feyd snaps his hips against your clothed core: you can feel his raging erection through the layers of clothes you two are wearing, his lust flashes through the bond and you think you’re going to come by the sheer strength of it. When you taste blood, Feyd knows and moans, a rich, deep sound of pleasure that shakes you: no other lover has accepted your need for pain and violence the way Feyd is doing right now.

He kisses you savagely when he sees his own blood on your lips and you moan at his pleasure, your hands fly to his shoulders to brace yourself against the onslaught of his teeth on your mouth, of his tongue seeking his own taste inside of you; you don’t even realize you can, yet you’re chanting his name through the bond, your lust only enhancing his. He needs to be inside of you, yet he can’t stop kissing you, feeling your needs meld in the bond: it’s heady and better than any sex he’s ever had in his entire life.

“Bed.” You moan when he releases your lips, only to bite your neck like an animal. “Make me.” He growls back.

You have to center yourself against the pleasure and the torment he’s giving you, his hands mold themselves around your breasts, only to squeeze your tender flesh to the point of pain, his hips jackhammer against yours and you know the right angle will make you come like a horny teenager; desperate you focus inward, on your muscles and nerves, willing the pleasure to fade in the background of your conscience and your attention to be on your body, to move you two away from the wall.

Not feeling Feyd through the bond is almost worse: pulling the broadcasting of his pleasure in the background makes you hear his moans and groans even better. He’s unabashed in his lust and knowing that’s you causing all of this makes breathing difficult, yet you manage to push against his bigger frame, forcing him to walk backwards a few steps, before you let one leg fall on the floor and propel the two of you more; he digs his heels against you, effectively stopping the two of you from moving.

“Seems like we are not going anywhere.” He drawls and you feel the amusement through the bond. “And there I thought you wanted to taste me.” You murmur in his ear. “I was told I am delicious.”

A flare of jealousy courses through the bond, his hands grab at your body with such a strength you know you’ll wear his marks for days. Unceremoniously he throws you on the bed, his hands on your knees stop you from closing your legs.

“Who are those who have already taste you?” “Many.” You shrug. “I couldn’t always be good and proper, could I?”

The growl his dangerous and you can’t find in your heart to be afraid: you want him charged up, want to feel the full force of his passion; you laugh in his face as he cuts and rips the clothes away from your body, until you’re naked and ready, your own hidden weapons fallen and forgotten on the floor. The dagger he’s used to cut your clothes, now travels from your neck to your torso, the sharp edge almost touching your skin, but not really.

“Taste my blood, Feyd.” You moan. “It’s something else I’m thirsty for, soulmate.” It’s his dark answer.

He drives the knife through the mattress, next where your head is in a show of dominance that has your hole clench around nothing.

Feyd dives between your legs, he leaves you no chance to speak when his lips curl around your clit and suck, harsh and fast, with filthy moans of pleasure that reverberate through your whole being. Your hips try to push up, stopped by his big hands, your tights clench around his head as you try to escape the pleasure, escape him, pitiful whines flow from your lips as he pushes you higher and higher, until you come with a scream. Dazed by pleasure you expected Feyd to stop, to give you respite; his tongue in your hole forces your body in overdrive, his nose is pure torture against your puffy clit. With horror you realize that you have no purchase against his onslaught, no way to control his movements, but with the clenching of your legs around his head. You try to leverage against his body and his hands shoot out to grab yours, the risk of you snapping his neck enhances his lust, the lack of oxygen only spurs him on to fuck you faster, harder with his long tongue until you explode, breathless and desperate.

“Feyd! Feyd! Let go!”

A harsh bite on your thigh is your only answer, followed by a low growl, like a rabid animal that's finally found food. Through the bond you can feel his pleasure, his hunger, his lust: everything enhances your own reactions, your own blind need for his body. You’re panting now, almost no oxygen enters your lungs, because Feyd’s long tongue is licking you, with clockwise motions he explores your wet heath, only to nibble at your clit, forcing your body to squirm under his weight; the kick of your heels against his back only spurs him on: he can feel how overstimulated you are and it only amps up his own libido, the pain you’re causing him blanks his mind and he almost comes untouched in his trousers when your pleasure becomes painful and your body is shaking wildly under his.

One of his arms falls on your tummy to block you, three fingers of his other hand are already inside of you seek that spongy part that has you jump under him when he finally finds it. You start crying when his lips suck your abused clit: there’s no mercy in the way he’s handling you, just a mindless focus on pleasure. He’s canting his hips against nothing, needing your taste and, at the same time, to be buried inside of you; the way you’re trying to escape spurs him on, his fingers fuck you faster, rougher they scissor your clenching muscles as you kick and scream wildly, almost as if possessed when his soft lips suck following the rough rhythm of his fingers inside of you. You tense under him and arch, the tears falling from your eyes blind you, wail like moans choke in your throat as you feel your body reaching your end, your nerves burn where he’s pleasuring you, so much pleasure, too much! You squirt all over his face, and almost pass out when his fingers don’t stop fucking you a his tongue leisurely licks your essence with obscene moans of appreciation at your taste.

“You truly taste delicious.” He murmurs against one of the bruise on your tight. “Too bad I will have to hunt down every single person who’s had you.”

You can’t answer immediately, your brain is still tying to come down from the barrage of orgasms he forced you to go through, your skin feels oversensitive to the soft touch of his lips.

“Who are those people?” You ask, breathless. “I only remember you.”

Through the bond he knows you’re telling the truth: your past lovers, however many they were, don’t exist anymore, in your mind there’s only him and all the pleasure he’s given you.

You try to find purchase on his slick skin, until you reach the neckline of his jumper to use it to pull him up for a long kiss. You moan when you taste yourself on his lips, your taste and his mingle when his tongue massages yours slowly, his only goal is to savor you, until you are the only thing he can taste for the rest of his life.

“You’re overdressed.” You moan against his full lips.

You don’t leave him the chance to answer. As tired as you are, already, you grab a fistful of his thick jumper and pull upwards, forcing him to remove it, or be choked, leaving him with the other layers of thinner jumpers and thermal shirts. Through the bond you send the image of his knife slicing through his clothing, he laughs but undresses hastily, leaving clothing and weapons on the floor: he’s overheating and sweaty, moreover, why denying himself the feeling of your skin under his?

You’ve managed to push yourself backwards to enjoy the view of his powerful body being revealed: the thick cords of muscles and the pink nipples, his raging erection and the piercing running horizontally, through the shiny head of his cock.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, concerned. “Not anymore. It enhances everything.” He answers.

Slowly he lays on you, his weight strangely familiar as he kisses you again, slowly, feeling every inch of your body with his, savoring the way your full breasts cushion his sturdy chest and how your hips are the perfect cradle for his. He’s surprised to find himself on his back, when you use his distraction to switch your positions; not that he’s complaining, you’re towering over him, giving him a nice view of your full breasts and perky nipples, while his cock is cradled between your lips, warm and drenched. His eyes fixate on the patch of hair between your legs, focused as he was on tasting you to your core, his brain has bypassed everything else and now he’s fascinated by the soft, wet curls he can feel against his body.

“Is it strange?” You gently ask. “Everyone on Giedi Prime is hairless. It’s not bad, just peculiar.” He answers with a shrug.

His long fingers tentatively touch your lips and you shudder, still so sensitive, and you haven’t had his cock yet.

“I’m not shaving, anywhere.” “I didn’t ordered you to, and I will not let you bare yourself like that.”

You pinch his nipple as punishment for his answer and his cock swells under you.

“I don’t need your permission.” You growl back. “I wanted to ride you, now I have to postpone that, and it’s all you fault!” You add, with a wicked smile.

With as much speed your tired muscles let you, you turn around and hover your cunt over his face; you smirk at his satisfied growl and the way his hands go to your hips: it’s cute he believes you’re letting him have a taste again. You flick his reddened head when he tries to pull you down to his lips, he yelps in pain and you don’t miss the beads of precome that appear immediately: he’s truly made for you, and you only.

“You’ve had your taste, now it’s my turn.”

You ignore your hunger when you slowly lick his head and moan at the taste, heady and masculine on your tongue, and envelope his head in your lips, sucking gently, taking your time to have more until you hear his groans and his desperation through the bond, only then you take more, and more, ignoring the way his hips try to push upwards, simply blocking his movements using your prana-bindu strength, reveling in the curses and in the pain he feels. When his head hits the back of your throat he shudders, his muscles shake with the need to move and fuck your face; perhaps if he behaves you’ll let him, one day, but now he is to suffer. You relax your muscles and swallow him with a moan that reverberates through the whole of him, tortured by your lips and the sight of your hole clenching over his face. He desperately tries not to come when the velvety muscles of your throat start massaging his erection and your hand caresses his heavy balls; he arches with a howl of pain when you squeeze them cruelly, and pull at them viciously, until he comes, tears streaming down his cheeks.

You swallow what you can and lick what escapes your ravenous hunger, until it pools on your tongue and you can turn around to kiss him, making him swallow his own essence, his pleasure heady in the bond.

You abandon your body over his, feeling his satisfaction and the warmth of his body; you nuzzle his long neck, so smooth and marked by your teeth. You could almost fall asleep: you feel finally sated and happy after sex, like never before. Through the bond you feel Feyd purr his satisfaction, his big hand caresses your back, following the knobs of your spine leisurely.

“Don't fall asleep. I'm not done with you.” He growls. “Hmm, yes please.”

You feel his cock stir between your bodies and prop one leg over his hip, spreading yourself for him and letting his half hard member between your lower lips. You should feel embarrassed by the renewed wetness, all you can think of is sheathing Feyd's thick cock inside of you.

“You're coming to Geidi Prime with me.” He says, cupping your cheek. “I need to go home, lest fathers believe you’ve kidnapped me and are keeping me there against my will.” “As if.” “You forget this communication goes both ways. Drag me by my hair?” “From the cliff.” He rolls his eyes. “I had it under control!” “You almost fell, I felt it!” “Don't mention it. To my family, I mean.” “The cliff or the hair?”

You're surprised by how amused Feyd feels through the bond or that he has a sense of humor.

“We have that too, on Geidi Prime, as well as mirrors. Incredible, I know.”

You know you’ve dehumanized him in your head for all your life: he was your personal boogeyman, not a man, albeit volatile, not someone with feelings and needs, not your soulmate, but your nightmare. You shouldn't be surprised that he's more than the warrior, and the heir to his family's name: who has been the monster, between you two, for all this time?

You cuddle closer to his warmth, your eyes falling on your spidery handwriting almost hidden by the crease of his tight; you follow the words with the tip of your finger, and cringe at how ill behaved you had been from the start.

“I should have known you’d be hard to pin down, just from that.” “‘Are you sad because you have no hair?’ Great Mother, what a heinous bitch I was! You should have kept me at arm’s length!” “Show me my words.” He asks.

There's a heath in his voice you don't understand, but know it's not because you constantly moving means his cock gets stimulated into full hardness.

Gently you start parting your hair and he finishes the work from you. He enjoys the foreign feeling of your hair on his fingers, almost ticklish but not really, soft and rough at the end of the strands, strangely fascinating since none of his past lays had hair, he's not sure what he is supposed to do with yours.

“You can pull.” You say with a shudder when he touches his words on you. “You need to be gentle, though. You can caress and play with it, I can teach you how to braid, if you want.”.

Feyd’s hand finds home in the roots and pulls, tentatively at first, only to use more strength when you softly moan.

“I think I’ll stick to this.” He growls and you know he’s unlocked a new kink.

He uses his hold to pull you closer to his face and kiss you, his tongue languid in your mouth explores you, taking his time to commit your taste to memory; you scratch his neck in the attempt to gain control back, you liked having him at your mercy too much to let go and he simply tightens his hold on you, drinking down your moans of pleasure.

You straddle him, making sure your warm cunt envelopes his erection and start grinding slowly, letting him feel how wet you are, and ready for his cock; he turns you two, towering over you and you simply arch your back towards him, feeling his eyes on your breasts and perky nipples when you start massaging them, keening and moaning with need. His control snaps, his teeth find your soft flesh to nibble, his lips to suck marks as your legs curl around his frame to cradle him as close as possible to yourself, your nails stretching and raking down his long back in retaliation: the more you hurt him, the savager he becomes, in a cycle only enhanced by your shared brain.

“Now! Now!” You squeal after a particularly harsh bite, feeling your cunt clench painfully around nothing.

Feyd releases your breast with a pop, observing his handiwork with pride: you’re covered with his teeth marks and your cunt is so puffy and leaking sweet cream, only because he’s hurt you, and you him.

His hard cock is exquisite torture, so heavy between his legs he’s in agony when your hand starts jacking him, making sure he’s wet and beyond ready for your cunt, to the point he has to slap your hand away, or he’ll come all over your tummy; he can’t have that, not when your hole is clenching and wet and ready. You arch your back when he breaches you, his head is fat and the piercing only enhances the feeling of him against your wall; through the bond you feel his pleasure, how hard it is for him to control himself and not come, it all amplifies your own lust and need, your hips snapping upwards to take him faster and it’s the sweetest pain, being stretched too early, having your cunt pummeled open and molded to fit his thick cock, until he’s fully seated inside of you, with a long groan of pleasure.

Feyd has to keep his eyes closed, the thin thread of his control almost snapping with every breath he takes: he’s imagined this, he’s spilled in his own hands countless times to the fantasy of you sheathing him inside yourself, and reality can’t compare. Your insides are the softest velvet, your muscles the cruelest of vices around his cock that he can barely grind against you when you start whining. His strength deserts him and he falls on you, managing to catch his weight on his bent arm when your cunt tries to suck him; he can barely breathe your scent in, his body almost in overdrive with pleasure when your hands grab his buttocks to push him in deeper, desperate to feel him in every crevice of your body.

You lock your feet on his tailbone, forcing him to grind against your puffy clit, battered muscles as tight as possible around him in the desperate quest to fuse him with yourself, the piercing pure torture against your G spot. You scratch his back savagely when your orgasm starts to crest, your body squirms under him, clutches his tighter as the band in your belly tightens and tightens, your shared pleasure only enhancing his own need to lose himself inside of you. It hurts to grind against you, it hurts to wait for your pleasure to explode and he can barely contain himself when you sob your pleasure as if he’s hurting you, your nails stabbing him when you come, howling and crying, him following you with guttural, animal sounds he can barely suppress against your skin.

You caress his back and hug him as close as possible as he keeps coming inside of you, his orgasm almost never ending fills you to the brink with his thick cum, his whines of painful pleasure cause a smaller orgasm to rip through you torturing him even more, until all his strength is lost and he’s trembling in your arms, skin so sensitive your caresses feel like lashings.

You feel all of it through the bond, along with his unwillingness to stop touching you through the torment your skin is for him now. Awkwardly you try to send soothing feelings to him, helping him to calm down from the incredible high that the coupling had been for him. You know, because he remembers disjointed memories of his dreams of you, of him waking up hard and desperate and alone, needing your soft touch and having to settle for his own hand. He had hated you in those moments, his body shaken by those painful orgasms that tasted like ashes, that were never truly satisfactory. With a stab of jealousy you see the people he fucked, brutal and fast, imaging you in their stead, and even that wasn’t enough to sate his hunger, now? Now he’s in heaven, having felt pleasure like never before in his life.

You have to use all your prana-bindu strength to roll you two on the side, Feyd is basically dead weight in your arms, before you hug him as tight as possible, only wishing to have a knife at hand to protect you two in this unfamiliar environment, the one embedded on the bed has fallen and you can’t reach it.

“The owner would rather kill himself than dare disturb us.”

Feyd’s voice is tired and low, a rumble you feel in your whole body.

“What did you do?”

You can feel Feyd’s wicked smile against your throat.

“Nothing. Just exchanged a few friendly words after you fainted.” “I’m electing to ignore whatever has happened.” You say. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come around.” You add, awkwardly

You feel how tired he is, moving his head away from the crook of your neck is almost impossible for him.

“You have all the time to make up for it. Now sleep, you’re going to need it, that I can promise.”

You shiver against him. Neither of you are going home any time soon and there’s all the time in the world to negotiate the route back.

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x y/n #feyd rautha harkonnen x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen x y/n #feyd rautha #feyd rautha harkonnen

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slitheringghost · 5 months ago

Text

"And Cain Repented Not Of What He Had Done": Harry Potter as Retelling of Cain and Abel, Part 1

Then Cain, the hard-hearted and cruel murderer, took a large stone and smote his brother with it upon the head, until his brains oozed out, and he weltered in his blood, before him. And Cain repented not of what he had done. “I regret it,” said Voldemort coldly. He turned away; there was no sadness in him, no remorse. Thereupon Allah sent forth a raven who began to scratch the earth to show him how he might cover the corpse of his brother. So seeing he cried: Woe unto me! Was I unable even to be like this raven and find a way to cover the corpse of my brother? Then he became full of remorse at his doing. // And he became of the regretful. “But before you try to kill me, I’d advise you to think about what you’ve done... Think, and try for some remorse, Riddle…”

Section 1.0: Introduction

The Harry Potter series is, at its heart, a retelling and performance of Cain and Abel, the biblical story of the first murder, of Cain telling his brother Abel ‘let us go out into the field’ and killing him. In this retelling, the characters of HP put on different masks, perform different parts, play several characters at once.

Like most stories, Cain and Abel has many different interpretations, and JKR has weaved every single one of those interpretations into HP in a gigantic intricate web that's one of the most fascinating and formative parts of the series, yet one that goes unnoticed by most of fandom.

JKR essentially wrote HP like one long Cain and Abel web weaving post, and in this meta I’ll be quoting all the various interpretations in Jewish, Christian, and Islamic tradition with the corresponding passages in the HP books alluding to them.

Despite the original Cain and Abel story, it's not just about brothers - because HP as a retelling is about brothers and sisters killing their brothers and sisters. And at the center of it all is:

1) the events between and attempted murders of Voldemort, Harry, and Lily by each other

2) the murders of “sisters” Ariana Dumbledore, Merope Gaunt, and Lily Evans by their "brothers" (brothers loosely referring to any familial or symbolic familial dynamic) - Ariana murdered by Albus, Aberforth, and Grindelwald; Merope’s murder by Marvolo, Morfin, and Tom Riddle Sr., and then the six men leading to Lily’s death - Sirius, Snape, Wormtail, Harry, James, and Voldemort.

Some of these characters are Cain in the traditional sense, cruel intentional murderers - such as Voldemort as the main Cain of the story, Merope's family, Wormtail, perhaps Bellatrix depending on how you interpret her. Others are Cain much more symbolically and allude to their unintentionally bringing about the deaths of their loved ones and the subsequent guilt - such as Sirius's guilt over bringing about the deaths of his "brother and sister" James and Lily, Harry's guilt over Lily dying for him, etc.

Notice how there’s a heavy emphasis on twins and sibling dynamics in HP, and it’s because all of that links to the story as a Cain and Abel retelling:

“Fred and George, who were identical to the last freckle.” Fred and George turned to each other and said together, “Wow — we’re identical!” “Parvati Patil’s twin’s in Ravenclaw, and they’re identical. You’d think they’d be together, wouldn’t you?” "Or was it Potter’s identical twin in the Hog’s Head that day?" Albus and Aberforth wore matching lacy collared jackets and had identical, shoulder-length hairstyles. Albus looked several years older, but otherwise the two boys looked very alike, for this was before Albus’s nose had been broken and before he started wearing glasses. “You will suggest to the Order of the Phoenix,” Snape murmured, “that they use decoys. Polyjuice Potion. Identical Potters.”

Harry and Voldemort are framed as "twin brothers" (brother wands, the twin cores, etc), as Cain and Abel are brothers and in some interpretations twins too, and the lightning scar on Harry's forehead is the mark of Cain.

Voldemort as Cain is driving the story - he murders or nearly murders almost every familial relationship he has, from all his living relatives to Ginny as a "sister", to Snape and Bellatrix, to of course, his "brother" Harry. Voldemort also turns his followers/“true family” into Cain as they become more and more like him - i.e. Barty Crouch Jr. murders his father, Snape is made to murder his father figure Dumbledore, Bellatrix ordered to kill Tonks, etc.

And, Voldemort marking Harry as his equal, turning him into someone like himself, has multiple meanings - because just like he did with his followers, Voldemort who is Cain himself marked Harry as Cain too, Harry marked to one day kill his "brother" Voldemort, as well as marked to inadvertently lead to the deaths of his loved ones, to become a killer of his "family" the way Voldemort is, due to Voldemort's choice regarding the prophecy.

Additionally, in some interpretations, Cain and Abel have twin sisters, which is also weaved into this text in integral ways - one being that Lily is framed is Voldemort's symbolic sister the way Harry and Voldemort are "brothers", which you can read about in my meta Unweaving Canon Lily: Parallels to Voldemort.

Also note that most of these characters play the role of Cain, as well as playing multiple other roles - there isn't just one Cain and one Abel and one the Lord and one Cain's twin sister, etc. Indeed that’s the point, because they’re “twins”, they’re not just Cain and Abel, but often Cain and Cain.

In Parts 1 and 2 I'll explore all the different interpretations of the original passage, and then in Part 3 I'll expand on the passage itself in Genesis 4:1-18. Read Part 2 here. Read on Ao3 here.

Some disclaimers and notes: 1) This meta is meant to unravel a lot of the symbolism and allusions JKR weaved into the story, and isn’t necessarily a literal interpretation of these characters.

2) Some of these may seem strange to emphasize, because obviously they're words or phrases that appear often and may not be intentional references to this narrative thread, but some specific details and JKR's writing style makes me think they are - i.e. see how JKR weaved in Dracula passages in this post; there's also Tom Riddle’s “burnished gold shield” borrowing from a passage in the Aeneid in this post, etc. So an extremely close reading of the text and paying attention to the exact wording (sometimes even just a single word) does matter a lot here to catch the allusions.

On that note, I’ve done my best to elaborate on the quotes, but since this is sort of like web weaving, many times the quotes are the meta, so make sure to pay close attention to them.

3) There’s a lot to unpack and it’s really hard to fit everything in one meta series - so bear with me on some of loose threads, I plan to elaborate on them in future metas.

4) Admittedly I got lazy with citations - my main sources are the article Why Did Cain Kill Abel? and this article on the Quran, and you can find elaboration on these interpretations and the sources for them there.

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Section 2.0

2.1 Now the brothers rejoiced in different pursuits. Abel, the younger, had regard for righteousness and, believing that God was present in all the things that were done by him, looked after virtue; and his life was that of a shepherd. On the other hand, Cain was both most wicked in other respects and, looking only to gain, was the first to think of ploughing the earth; and he killed his brother for the following reason.

It seeming best to them to sacrifice to God, Cain offered fruits from the cultivation of the soil and plants, while Abel offered milk and the first-born of the grazing animals. God took greater pleasure in this latter sacrifice, being honored by things that grow automatically and in accordance with nature but not by those things that grow by the force of grasping man with craftiness. Consequently, Cain, provoked that Abel had been valued more highly by God, killed his brother and rendering his corpse unseen, supposed that he would escape notice.

The following quotes may have weaved in the first passage, as Cain is often referred to as "the wicked one" - in HBP, “Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction” and “This time, as you will have seen, he killed not for revenge, but for gain.”

As for the second passage, Lily’s sacrifice isn’t just referring to Lily as a Christ figure - it’s also the sacrifice Cain and Abel offer to God. There are several ways it could fit - one being that Voldemort and Harry as Cain and Abel respectively, offered the same sacrifice which is Lily's death.

Voldemort doing so was looked upon with disfavor by God, because he was murdering his symbolic "sister", which lead to his partial death, while God favored Harry’s sacrifice because he got his mother willingly sacrificing herself for him, which led to Harry surviving the Killing Curse.

The jealousy aspect then, which is the most common interpretation of why Cain killed Abel, refers to Voldemort's jealousy over Harry's immortality:

“Well,” said Riddle, smiling pleasantly, “how is it that you - a skinny boy with no extraordinary magical talent - managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord Voldemort’s powers were destroyed?” (CoS)

Harry’s immortality is one way in which Voldemort and Harry are twins, and in a way is tied Voldemort’s name (meaning “flight from death” in French) - because Harry is Voldemort’s “twin brother” Flight From Death #2 (and Lily is Voldemort’s “twin sister”, Flight From Death #3 - more in this in future metas).

Another interpretation is that Voldemort and Harry are both Cain, and like the twins they are, both again offering the same sacrifice, and here both offering Lily as a sacrifice alludes to the guilt Harry feels at (inadvertently) being Cain and bringing about Lily's death for his immortality. Both offerings were looked upon with disfavor and rejected by God, and both Voldemort and Harry as Cain were exiled elsewhere, made to restlessly wander ("You will be a restless wanderer on the earth" from Genesis 4:12) - Voldemort in Albania, Harry with the Dursleys.

The last line of this passage - Cain, provoked that Abel had been valued more highly by God, killed his brother and rendering his corpse unseen, supposed that he would escape notice - is extremely important to analyzing Lily, but that’s for another meta.

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2.2 She gave birth to an infant and his color was that of the stars. He fell into the hands of the midwife and (at once) he began to pluck up the grass, for in his mother’s hut grass was planted. The midwife replied to him and told him, “God is just that he did not at all leave you in my hands. For, you are Cain, the perverse one, killer of the good, for you are the one who plucks up the fruit-bearing tree, and not he who plants it. You are the bearer of bitterness and not of sweetness.”

Interestingly, Sirius and Snape as narrative mirrors were inspired by the same passage - both of them are Cain, Sirius for causing his "brother" James and "sister" Lily's deaths through the Secret Keeper switch, and Snape for causing his "sister" Lily's death by conveying the prophecy.

"Color of the stars" refers to the Black family's star naming pattern, while "grass planted in his mother's hut" refers to Snape's connection to Eileen Prince and Potions, and Snape is shown "plucking up the grass and fruit bearing tree" in this scene in The Prince's Tale:

“Oh yes, they’re arguing,” said Snape. He picked up a fistful of leaves and began tearing them apart, apparently unaware of what he was doing. “But it won’t be that long and I’ll be gone.” “Dementors are for people who do really bad stuff. They guard the wizard prison, Azkaban. You’re not going to end up in Azkaban, you’re too —” He turned red again and shredded more leaves. Then a small rustling noise behind Harry made him turn: Petunia, hiding behind a tree, had lost her footing. (DH)

That refers to Snape plucking up the forbidden fruit of knowledge offered by Voldemort as the snake (see this meta by @ashesandhackles). The line about being the bearer of bitterness may refer to how Petunia and Snape, as Lily’s “sister and brother”, both have similarly negative names - Petunia flowers symbolize bitterness, anger, resentment; Severus means serious, grave, stern.

Fandom has pointed out that Snape is often associated with feminine figures i.e. Lady of the Lake; it's possible that Snape wearing women clothes (i.e. wearing his mother's clothes while sitting on the ground facing Lily - facing her as her reflection/"twin") is an allusion to Snape as Cain's twin sister (Cain in this case could be Lily, Voldemort, Harry, or Sirius).

Snape is also all but explicitly called Harry’s identical twin in OoTP - the joke here is that while Fudge was referring to the DA meeting in the Hog's Head, it was once upon a time Harry's “identical twin” - a.k.a Snape - in the Hog's Head:

“Yes, do let’s hear the latest cock-and-bull story designed to pull Potter out of trouble! Go on, then, Dumbledore, go on — Willy Widdershins was lying, was he? Or was it Potter’s identical twin in the Hog’s Head that day? Or is there the usual simple explanation involving a reversal of time, a dead man coming back to life, and a couple of invisible dementors?” (OoTP) “The Hog’s Head Inn, which Sybill chose for its cheapness, has long attracted, shall we say, a more interesting clientele than the Three Broomsticks [...] Of course, I had not dreamed, when I set out to meet Sybill Trelawney, that I would hear anything worth overhearing. My — our — one stroke of good fortune was that the eavesdropper was detected only a short way into the prophecy and thrown from the building.” (OoTP)

The "infant the color of the stars" additionally refers to Bellatrix, who also is Cain, killer of her “brother” Sirius, and later of Tonks; she also plays the “twin sister” of Cain (in this case Sirius).

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2.3 And the time arrived when Cain and Abel had gone up toward their fields. Two demons resembling Cain and Abel came. Now, one demon reproached the other demon. He became angry with him and took a stone sword, which was of a transparent stone. He cut his throat and killed him. And when Cain saw the blood, he went quickly and took the stone in his hand(s).

This passage corresponds to the scene of Ron destroying Slytherin’s locket - the stone sword is Gryffindor’s sword, Riddle-Harry and Riddle-Hermione are the demon resembling Cain and Ron as the other demon, Riddle-Harry and Riddle-Hermione “reproach” Ron aka torment and taunt him, Ron becomes angry and kills Riddle in the locket with the “stone sword”.

The imagery of "cutting his throat" may also refer to how the locket strangles Harry:

All he could do was raise a shaking hand to his throat and feel the place where the locket had cut tightly into his flesh. It was gone: Someone had cut him free. (DH)

All of them in that scene resemble Cain (in this case Voldemort), because the Riddle-Harry and Riddle-Hermione, distorted versions of the real people, verbally abuse and humiliate Ron using his insecurities exactly like Voldemort does to others.

Ron here also resembles Cain - when Harry sees Ron's red eyes, he fears that Ron too has become Cain, that he's become like Tom Riddle and will kill him, his "brother".

“Ron, stab it, STAB IT!” Harry yelled, but Ron did not move: His eyes were wide, and the Riddle-Harry and the Riddle-Hermione were reflected in them, their hair swirling like flames, their eyes shining red, their voices lifted in an evil duet. Ron looked toward him, and Harry thought he saw a trace of scarlet in his eyes. “Ron — ?” The sword flashed, plunged: Harry threw himself out of the way, there was a clang of metal and a long, drawn-out scream. Harry whirled around, slipping in the snow, wand held ready to defend himself: but there was nothing to fight. (DH)

The Cain and Abel passage then continues, and now this part corresponds to the scene of Voldemort killing Snape, with LV as Cain and Snape as Abel.

2.4 But when Abel saw him coming, he begged him, “Do not make me die, O my brother Cain!” He, however, did not accept his prayer and he spilled Abel’s blood in front of him.

And now Snape looked at Voldemort, and Snape’s face was like a death mask. It was marble white and so still that when he spoke, it was a shock to see that anyone lived behind the blank eyes. “My Lord — let me go to the boy —” […] “You have been a good and faithful servant, and I regret what must happen.” “My Lord —” “[…] While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot be truly mine.” “My Lord!” Snape protested, raising his wand. “It cannot be any other way,” said Voldemort. “I must master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I master Potter at last.” [...] He pointed it at the starry cage holding the snake, which drifted upward, off Snape, who fell sideways onto the floor, blood gushing from the wounds in his neck. [...] He did not know why he was doing it, why he was approaching the dying man: He did not know what he felt as he saw Snape’s white face, and the fingers trying to staunch the bloody wound at his neck. (DH)

Interestingly, once Snape realizes Voldemort's about to kill him, he protests and begs Voldemort not to kill him three times, echoing Lily begging Voldemort and how she offers her own life in exchange for Harry's three times.

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2.5 It was said: Cain killed Abel by throwing a rock at his head while he was asleep. It was also said: Cain choked Abel violently and bit him to death as beasts do.

Not sure what throwing a rock at his head refers to, but the latter sentence ties to the scene where Voldemort tries to kill Harry and Snape via Nagini, and then Merope’s locket horcrux choking Harry, with Voldemort as Cain, and Harry and Snape as Abel.

The snake struck as he raised his wand: The force of the bite to his forearm sent the wand spinning up toward the ceiling; [...] He could not get enough breath into his lungs to call back: Then a heavy smooth mass smashed him to the floor and he felt it slide over him, powerful, muscular — “No!” he gasped, pinned to the floor. “Yes,” whispered the voice. “Yesss... hold you... hold you...” “Accio... Accio Wand...” But nothing happened and he needed his hands to try to force the snake from him as it coiled itself around his torso, squeezing the air from him, pressing the Horcrux hard into his chest (DH) “[…] The snake bit you too, but I’ve cleaned the wound and put some dittany on it...” He pulled the sweaty T-shirt he was wearing away from himself and looked down. There was a scarlet oval over his heart where the locket had burned him. He could also see the half-healed puncture marks to his forearm. (DH) Then something closed tight around his neck. He thought of water weeds, though nothing had brushed him as he dived, and raised his empty hand to free himself. It was not weed: The chain of the Horcrux had tightened and was slowly constricting his windpipe [...] Thrashing, suffocating, he scrabbled at the strangling chain, his frozen fingers unable to loosen it (DH)

And Voldemort swiped the air with the Elder Wand. It did nothing to Snape, who for a split second seemed to think he had been reprieved: But then Voldemort’s intention became clear. The snake’s cage was rolling through the air, and before Snape could do anything more than yell, it had encased him, head and shoulders, and Voldemort spoke in Parseltongue. “Kill.” There was a terrible scream. Harry saw Snape’s face losing the little color it had left; it whitened as his black eyes widened, as the snake’s fangs pierced his neck, as he failed to push the enchanted cage off himself, as his knees gave way and he fell to the floor. (DH)

In general there are quite a few similar scenes involving choking and strangulation - i.e. Marvolo attempting to kill Merope by choking her, Vernon strangling Harry in OoTP, etc. It also evokes a dementor’s/Death’s hands wrapping around someone.

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2.6 And so they went on, until they came to a lonely place, where there were no sheep; then Abel said to Cain, “Behold, my brother, we are weary of walking, for we see none of the trees, nor of the fruits, nor of the verdure, nor of the sheep, nor any one of the things of which you told me. Where are those sheep of yours that you told me to bless?” Then Cain said to him, “Come on, and presently you will see many beautiful things, but go before me, until I come up to you.” And Abel was walking in his innocence, without guile, not believing his brother would kill him. Then Cain, when he came up to him, comforted him with his talk, walking a little behind him. Then he hastened and smote him with the staff, blow upon blow, until he was stunned.

This refers to the scene of Voldemort's vanquishment, with Lily as Cain and Voldemort as Abel. Because the text reveals Lily, far from being solely the Virgin Mary, is also Cain in several ways, and reveals that Lily killed Voldemort intentionally (more on this in future metas).

This is Voldemort walking in his innocence, without guile, not believing Lily would kill him:

He could hear her screaming from the upper floor, trapped, but as long as she was sensible, she, at least, had nothing to fear... He climbed the steps, listening with faint amusement to her attempts to barricade herself in... She had no wand upon her either... How stupid they were, and how trusting, thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons could be discarded even for moments (DH)

Then Lily comforted Voldemort with her talk when she pretended to plead and begged him for mercy and to take her life instead. Then Lily smote him blow upon blow, until he was stunned:

“I miscalculated, my friends, I admit it. My curse was deflected by the woman’s foolish sacrifice, and it rebounded upon myself. Aaah… pain beyond pain, my friends; nothing could have prepared me for it.” (GOF)

The phrase “blow upon blow” is alluded to in the wording used for Ariana’s murder by Dumbledore:

“Though Ariana had been in poor health for a long time, the blow, coming so soon after the loss of their mother, had a profound effect on both of her brothers.” “You see, I never knew which of us, in that last, horrific fight, had actually cast the curse that killed my sister. You may call me cowardly: You would be right. Harry, I dreaded beyond all things the knowledge that it had been I who brought about her death, not merely through my arrogance and stupidity, but that I actually struck the blow that snuffed out her life.” (DH)

And now note that in the next quote, Dumbledore doesn't say that Lily "died to save" Harry - he instead uses active phrasing, and very similar to the phrasing he uses for Ariana’s death, again establishing both Lily and Dumbledore as Cain - Lily striking the death blow on her “brother” Voldemort, as Dumbledore fears he did with Ariana:

“Tell him that on the night Lord Voldemort tried to kill him, when Lily cast her own life between them as a shield, the Killing Curse rebounded upon Lord Voldemort, and a fragment of Voldemort’s soul was blasted apart from the whole, and latched itself onto the only living soul left in that collapsing building.” (DH)

I'll further expand on the significance of “walking a little behind him" in a future meta, but to explain some here, the phrase is weaved in PS with the Mirror of Erised, setting up Lily as the true killer of her "brother" Voldemort and Dumbledore as killer of his "sister" Ariana:

He looked in the mirror again. A woman standing right behind his reflection was smiling at him and waving. He reached out a hand and felt the air behind him [...] (PS) He looked behind him. Sitting on one of the desks by the wall was none other than Albus Dumbledore. Harry must have walked straight past him, so desperate to get to the mirror he hadn’t noticed him. (PS)

The reason Lily is right behind Harry, presenting Lily as Cain to Harry, is referring to Lily’s guilt at that fact, similar to Harry's guilt at getting Sirius killed, etc - because it was Lily’s choice that deflected the Killing Curse, Lily who fulfilled the prophecy and landed Harry in these circumstances. More on this in section 2.10.

Lily's arms are emphasized because they're Death's arms closing around Voldemort from behind - hence "walking a little behind him":

he felt arms enclose him from behind, thin, fleshless arms cold as death, and his feet left the ground as they lifted him and began to carry him, slowly and surely, back to the water, and he knew there would be no release, that he would be drowned (HBP) now little lights were popping inside his head, and he was going to drown, there was nothing left, nothing he could do, and the arms that closed around his chest were surely Death’s... (DH) [...] and there she stood, the child in her arms. At the sight of him, she dropped her son into the crib behind her and threw her arms wide, as if this would help, as if in shielding him from sight she hoped to be chosen instead... (DH) His job was to walk calmly into Death’s welcoming arms. [...] the end would be clean, and the job that ought to have been done in Godric’s Hollow would be finished: Neither would live, neither could survive. (DH)

The phrases “Come on”, “until I come up to you”, “when he came up to him” may be alluded to in the repetition here, and also that the Killing Curse’s deflection happens on the upper floor of the house.

“I have been waiting for you to appear since we arrived here. I knew you’d come. I have many questions for you, Harry Potter.” (COS) "Time’s nearly up. Potter’s had his hour. He’s not coming.” “And he was sure he’d come! He won’t be happy.” (DH) “I thought he would come,” said Voldemort in his high, clear voice, his eyes on the leaping flames. “I expected him to come.” (DH) “The Dark Lord will rise again, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban; we will wait! He will rise again and will come for us, he will reward us beyond any of his other supporters!" (GOF) “Now it was just Father and I, alone in the house. And then... [...] My master came for me.” (GOF) “Your mother’s coming…” he said quietly. “She wants to see you… it will be all right… hold on…” And she came… first her head, then her body… a young woman with long hair, the smoky, shadowy form of Lily Potter blossomed from the end of Voldemort’s wand (GOF)

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2.7 At that time Eve told Adam, “My lord, Adam, in my sleep I saw that the blood of my son Abel was pouring into the mouth of Cain his brother, and he drank it without mercy. And Abel beseeched him to leave him (a little) of his blood, and he did not agree to hearken to him but he drank it completely … and it could not at all be removed from his body.”

This corresponds to Voldemort taking Harry’s blood inside him - however it also refers to Lily, Voldemort taking a bit of Harry and Lily inside him, both not able to be removed from his body:

“I wanted Harry Potter’s blood. I wanted the blood of the one who had stripped me of power thirteen years ago... for the lingering protection his mother once gave him would then reside in my veins too...” (GOF) “He took my blood,” said Harry. “Precisely!” said Dumbledore. “He took your blood and rebuilt his living body with it! Your blood in his veins, Harry, Lily’s protection inside both of you! He tethered you to life while he lives!” [...] “He took your blood believing it would strengthen him. He took into his body a tiny part of the enchantment your mother laid upon you when she died for you. His body keeps her sacrifice alive, and while that enchantment survives, so do you and so does Voldemort’s one last hope for himself.” (DH)

This could also refer to the horcrux inside Harry, a piece of Voldemort that can't be removed from his body, and also the description of Ginny here, and how that ties into the way Voldemort's parasitic to his followers/"family":

"Voldemort put a bit of himself in me?" Harry said, thunderstruck. (COS) "So Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted... I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, more powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul into her..." (CoS)

Note the repetition of the word "pouring" ("the blood of Abel was pouring into the mouth of Cain", "poured out her soul", "pouring a little of my soul into her"), and how words like "diet" and "feeding" evoke the idea that Voldemort’s drinking Ginny's soul like drinking blood, and likewise she’s made to drink his - tying into the Dracula parallel mentioned in this post.

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2.8 Cain was brought punishment very soon afterwards. On the same day he killed his brother, Abel, his foot was tied up to his thighbone and his face was forcibly directed up to the sun disk. His face used to go where the sun goes as a way of punishment and penalty in return for what he had done to his own brother.

On the same day when Voldemort killed Harry in the Final Battle and Harry was once more resurrected, Voldemort's "foot being tied up to this thighbone" likely means that Voldemort finally dies, his feet are no longer leaving the ground and landing lightly, he's no longer flying from death. And as he dies, his face is "forcibly directed up to the sun":

A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them as an edge of dazzling sun appeared over the sill of the nearest window. The light hit both of their faces at the same time, so that Voldemort’s was suddenly a flaming blur. Harry heard the high voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the heavens, pointing Draco’s wand: “Avada Kedavra!” “Expelliarmus!” [...] Harry saw Voldemort’s green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling [...] The fierce new sun dazzled the windows as they thundered toward him, and the first to reach him were Ron and Hermione, and it was their arms that were wrapped around him, their incomprehensible shouts that deafened him (DH)

This is also an allusion to Voldemort as a vampire (the Dracula influence is obvious), melting in the sun.

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2.9 However, Abel's saying when Cain threatened to kill him: {If you do stretch your hand against me to kill me, I shall never stretch my hand against you to kill you

This corresponds to Voldemort using Avada Kedavra while Harry only uses Expelliarmus and also Harry walking to his death, never stretching his hand against Voldemort to kill him.

It also ties to Lily not directly fighting back while Voldemort kills her with his wand, and the fight between Aberforth and Dumbledore:

Aberforth shouted that it was all Albus’s fault that Ariana was dead and then punched him in the face. According to Bathilda, Albus did not even defend himself, and that’s odd enough in itself, Albus could have destroyed Aberforth in a duel with both hands tied behind his back. (DH) when at last he flung himself across Voldemort’s path, and did not raise a wand to defend himself, the end would be clean (DH)

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2.10 What were they arguing about? They said, “Let’s divide up the world. One took the land and the other [took] the movable goods. This one said, “The land you are standing upon is mine.” This one said, “What you are wearing is mine.” This one said “Strip” [so you are not wearing my clothes]! and this one said “Fly” [so you are not on my land]! As a consequence, “Cain rose up against Abel…”

They both took lands and they both took movable goods. What were they arguing about? One said “the Temple will be built in my territory” and this one said “in my territory…”

“You know,” said Sirius loudly [...] “I think I’d prefer it if you didn’t give orders here, Snape. It’s my house, you see.” (OOTP) “This is my house, Bella, you don’t give orders in my —” (DH) “Stand aside, you silly girl... stand aside, now.” (DH)

Voldemort is giving Lily orders in her house, on her land, in her territory - and she doesn't obey (And, well, since James died first, Lily inherited all his stuff, so I guess it was truly her land).

Both the Godric’s Hollow house and the blood wards on Privet Drive are also Lily saying to Voldemort, this land you’re trying to stand upon is mine, Voldemort can’t enter without her express permission:

And his scream was Harry’s scream, his pain was Harry’s pain… that it could happen here, where it had happened before… here, within sight of that house where he had come so close to knowing what it was to die... to die… The pain was so terrible… ripped from his body And then he broke: He was nothing, nothing but pain and terror, and he must hide himself, not here in the rubble of the ruined house, where the child was trapped and screaming, but far away (DH)

The same applies to the graveyard scene in GoF, where Priori Incantatem first makes both Harry and Voldemort fly away from where they’re standing after Voldemort points to his father’s grave and mentions Lily, alluding to Lily’s grave (which comes full circle in the graveyard scene in DH):

“You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late father,” he hissed softly. “A Muggle and a fool... very like your dear mother. But they both had their uses, did they not? Your mother died to defend you as a child... and I killed my father, and see how useful he has proved himself, in death...” And then — nothing could have prepared Harry for this — he felt his feet lift from the ground. He and Voldemort were both being raised into the air, their wands still connected by that thread of shimmering golden light. They glided away from the tombstone of Voldemort’s father and then came to rest on a patch of ground that was clear and free of graves (GOF)

That’s Lily telling her "brother" Voldemort, you mentioned my death, therefore this land you’re standing upon is mine, and Fly [so you’re not on my land!].

You could say the territory Voldemort as “brother and sister” are fighting over is Harry - Voldemort says "Mine!", and immediately Lily's magic comes to save Harry and says no, he's mine:

Barely gripping the plummeting bike with his knees, Harry heard Voldemort scream, “Mine!” It was over: He could not see or hear where Voldemort was; he glimpsed another Death Eater swooping out of the way and heard, “Avada —” As the pain from Harry’s scar forced his eyes shut, his wand acted of its own accord. He felt it drag his hand around like some great magnet, saw a spurt of golden fire through his half-closed eyelids, heard a crack and a scream of fury. The remaining Death Eater yelled; Voldemort screamed, “No!” (DH)

While Voldemort tries to claim Harry as his, Lily is claiming Harry as hers; while Voldemort marked Harry as his equal, Lily marked Harry as her equal:

"Love as powerful as your mother’s for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign [...] It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good" (PS)

But there’s another meaning to this - that Lily also inadvertently marked Harry as Cain, because it was Lily’s choice that forged the connection between Harry and Voldemort, and therefore Lily’s choice that resulted in all the pain Harry’s going through, Lily’s sacrifice being what is truly responsible for that scar on Harry’s forehead, and Lily's subsequent guilt the way Dumbledore feels guilt about Ariana etc.

"What you are wearing is mine" and "So you are not wearing my clothes" refers to Death's Invisibility Cloak - which represents the aegis and Lily and Harry framed as the two “true owners” (see my meta “When Lily Cast Her Life As A Shield": Analysis of the Shield Charm for elaboration). Those lines are weaved into this highly significant passage:

“One: He’s sitting on my chair. Two: He’s wearing my clothes. Three: His name’s Remus Lupin...” (OoTP)

This joke actually has an important hidden meaning relating to Lily, but more on that in future metas.

"This one said 'Fly'" also refers to Lily, Voldemort, and Snape's ability to fly unsupported, as well as Harry's Quidditch skill and him being Voldemort's "twin brother" Flight From Death #2.

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Read Part 2 of this meta

See also: this post

#lord voldemort #voldemort #tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #sirius black #harry james potter #lily evans #lily evans potter #severus snape #hp meta #albus dumbledore #ariana dumbledore #bellatrix lestrange #bellatrix black #bellatrix black lestrange #gellert grindelwald #aberforth dumbledore #harry potter meta #ginny weasley

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animelovelover123 · 6 months ago

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V's Yandere Alphabet v2.0

Synopsis: An updated and improved version of my original with more content. For those who have read the original, the big changes can be seen in entries L, P, Q, V, X, and Y.

Author's Note: I wrote the original during a troubling time and it resulted in the project taking 6 months and me hatting it by the end. However, after being encouraged by someone asking me if I would write for the other guys and my completionist side being bugged by how the original alphabet was not complete, I went back in and felt more motivated. I actually kind of want to write for the other guys now! Still no promises though.

The yandere alphabet I am using is an edited version of one made by no gender bee on tumblr. I added missing letters, changed some of the letters/descriptions, and altered some of the grammar (like using Canadian spelling).

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction for personal entertainment. If you are reading this, please understand that drawing/writing/reading/imagining things of this nature does NOT equate to desiring or supporting real-world assault.

Abuse = Could they ever hurt you physically or mentally? What would be the reason?

Physically? No. Mentally, kind of. He would not do it with the intent of causing harm, but some of V’s mental manipulation can hurt. He’ll pull at your heartstrings, saddle you with guilt, and talk in circles to get you to comply with his wishes all while using flowery language to mask the manipulative web he is weaving.

A big one, and the most common form of mental strain he gives you, is when he is desperate for attention and at the end of his rope. He will plead for it, reminding you that neither of you knows how long he has left to live and that he only wants to spend it with you. He does this to show you how much you mean to him, but he is also aware that he is inciting guilt in you. He does not realize how deeply and long it can affect you though until you tell/show him.

Both = You are a Yandere too, what’s their reaction?

V is intrigued and finds it amusing at first. His obsessive tendencies take longer to form, and he also does not believe he will live long so he sees your invasive and manipulative actions as entertaining with no fear of long-term repercussions. Even if you think you are being sneaky, he sees everything you are doing and he enjoys watching your reactions as he either plays along with your schemes or effortlessly evades them.

But once he finds himself falling for you in return, he gets rather depressed. He sees how desperately you want him, yet he knows, no matter how much he wants you as well, that all of your attempts to show your love will be in vain. He’ll try to pull away from you, but the more you chase, the more he wants you.

Then he finds out a way to live longer and his restraints are finally broken. You and he revel in your shared obsession, happily lavishing each other with love and attention. He sees your quirks and views them as romantic gestures. He finds out you have been stealing his things? How it warms his heart to know you want him close at all times even when home alone. Why don’t we move in together darling to save you the trouble? You’ve cancelled his plans with others behind his back? Well, why didn’t you tell him you wanted a night alone? He would love nothing more. You’ve killed a supposed love rival? Snuffing out another's life just because they threatened to take his love, though not necessary as you already have his heart, is such a beautiful display of adoration that he just has to give you a reward~

Crazy = How easy do they enter crazy mode? How do they act when they are in it?

It takes a lot for this man to snap. He is the essence of calm and collected, able to keep his composure in circumstances where most would panic and/or become angry. You could rage at him before walking out the door claiming you will never return, and though he will put up a bit of a fight, he knows deep down that you are just lashing out. After you have time to calm down you will be back in his arms soon enough. Whether by your own means or his, that was yet to be seen. This man could be in the middle of getting arrested and he would comply because he knows that this is not the end. He could easily escape prison and find his way back to you. The only true end is death, and that is what will cause him to snap.

Not his own death per se as that mental break will be directed and contained to himself. If his plan for extended life starts failing, he will fight tooth and nail to survive while rushing through the stages of grief. The most this will affect you is that he will disappear for a while as he tries to find a solution before returning when he realizes there is no hope for him and begs you to stay with him until his last breath.

The true snapping point would be a result of your life almost being lost, particularly if you try to take your own. Knowing or, worse, catching you trying to end your life flips a switch in him. He already had a lot of stress from trying to preserve his own life, but when he realizes that he could lose the primary reason he fought so hard to live all of that effort, panic, and stress gets funneled into caring for you. Now that he perceives a proverbial ticking clock for both of your lives, he will no longer allow a single second to go by without you. He will lock you up in his home and become your caretaker, tying you up so you can’t hurt yourself and taking care of all of your needs himself like feeding you and bathing you. You are his everything, and he will not let a second of both of your possibly short lives not be spent together. (see Kidnapped)

Difference = When can you notice a difference in behaviour in them? What are the first signs that their love for you is unhealthy?

At first V’s yandere tendencies were subdued and easily hidden. For the first couple months of knowing you he was under the belief that he was not long for this world. His body was actively deteriorating and soon he would have to return to Vergil.

But then he found a way that he could continue living as his own person. Maybe through killing and absorbing Urizen’s life force rather than merging with it or by somehow stealing it from others. Either way, there was a chance for him to survive and pursue a relationship with you. That is when he changed and that is when you start noticing his obsession with you.

He won't totally indulge in his attraction to you until he has proof that this lead is viable, but he will suddenly become more affectionate. Where he once kept any compliments and flirtatious remarks shrouded in flowery language so that you could not quite tell if he meant it that way became more direct and regular. The few feet he always put between you two was shorted as much as you would allow.

When he does gain evidence that his plan for a longer life is working, all restraints are off. He immediately goes to you and confesses his love. He may even tell you right then his true origins, why they resulted in him being distant at first, and how now that he has a long life ahead of him he is excited to spend it with you.

Enjoy = Do they enjoy what they’re doing to you, your life and the people around you? Do they show it?

V does worry about how some of his actions affect you. He is a bit of a philosopher type, often getting lost in thoughts or conversations about the deeper meanings and effects things have on people and the world as a whole. He is also introspective so he will occasionally worry himself over what he is doing. This line of thought doesn’t only trigger when you show hints of discomfort or hesitation. You could be perfectly happy, but he is privy to the manipulation and trickery of his that you are falling for. He considers and speculates on how his actions could warp your mind in the long run. And when he pictures the worst-case scenario, he might just guilt himself into admitting to, and apologizing for, a recent misconception he gave you.

He did not say those things with malicious intent, he just wanted to protect you from the cruel world and keep you loving him.

Force = What, if any, kinds of things will they force on you? Isolating from friends and family? Going on dates? Physical affection and/or sexual acts?

If you are a demon, to any extent, V will force you into a contract with him, assuming he is unsuccessful in his initial attempt at convincing you to join willingly. Depending on your battle prowess he will even call you to (relatively easy) fights along with his other familiars. Seeing you in battle is just as beautiful as seeing you dance to him so he will gladly do it as long as the risk of permanent harm is practically nonexistent. No matter how skilled you are in combat though, your primary duty as one of his demons is as a companion. With you being bound to him he can call you to him whenever he wishes to be with you, which is most of the time. He’ll try to offer you space and as much free will as he can, but the more obsessed he becomes the more he will abuse this power over you. One thing to note though is that he will not force you into romantic or sexual acts, even if he technically could through your contract. No matter how much he desired you, he would never hurt you in that way.

Alternatively, say you were a human. He would force you, again assuming you don’t fall for his flowery words, to take on a demon familiar. Not just any demon though. Specifically, he wants you to bond with one of his familiars. If you want more than that that is your prerogative, the more safety you have and empowerment you feel is only a boon, but being partially bonded to one of his familiars is his requirement. He tells you that he wants to keep you safe by giving you access to one, or more, of his demons for protection, and this is true. Though V is their primary master, V will willingly put himself at a disadvantage in battle by allowing you to call one of his familiars for protection. And if you don’t call them V will send them to you. He also advertises the practical benefits of having creatures at your beck and call. One aspect that he does not fully disclose though is how being bonded to a demon under his command also acts as a tracking device for when you try to run. (See Hide)

Gross = What is something they think is really romantic/sweet but is actually horrifying?

He writes letters and notes to you using his blood as ink. Sometimes it is just his signature coloured burgundy, and other times you find whole notes or poems scrawled in thin, inconsistently faded cursive which he delivers to your home or work with a bandaged arm.

He already puts his heart and soul into these letters. To him, offering part of his body with them shows you his complete devotion.

Hide = How easy is it to hide from them?

Depends on if he has bound you to one of his familiars yet.

First, let's assume he hasn't. Then, honestly, it’s pretty easy as he is but one man with not a lot of connections. He can send out his familiars to scan the area for you, but they can not go too far from V. That is only if he works alone though because the few connections he does have are with people who hunt down living creatures as their profession. Sure, hunting a demon is not quite the same as hunting a person down and his friends will initially question why you would run off, but V just has to string together a tail of how you are being influenced by a denizen of hell and that they must find you before it is too late. Sure enough, he will convince the morally just crew of demon hunters to find his love and now half a dozen people are calling in favours and travelling the country looking for you. And when they do find you, even if you try to tell them that you ran away from V willingly, V’s story has already cemented itself in their brains so they will drag you back anyway. A caveat to this plan is that the crew will get more and more suspicious if you run away multiple times and V keeps asking them for their help.

One of the benefits of binding you to one of his demons is that he won't have to risk growing doubt within his friends. With you bound to one of his demons (see Force), no matter where in the world you run V can track your location by getting his familiar to appear around you, scan the area to gather information, and relay it to him. And when he is close enough, the familiar can just pin you down and call out like a siren so V can easily find you.

Improve = Will they be willing to recover from this psychotic state for their lover?

Working off of E for Enjoy, V can find the conviction to be better for you. The problem is that he does not really know how to be better. He has only existed as his own entity for a relatively short time and has no experience with having a healthy relationship. He has only ever had you and the, sometimes maddening, urges to be with you. But because of his overwhelming love for you and the fear that his actions risk harming you, he will work towards being better.

He has to look to healthier relationships, like Nero and Kyrie’s and what little memories of Sparda and Eva’s he retains from Vergil, to understand what they look like and how he himself is failing. And if he can’t make the headway he wishes, being unable to stop himself from telling you subtle lies and trying to monopolize your attention, he will talk to someone about his feelings and urges. He understands that he does not yet really understand how to be human and is not above asking for aid in learning, for his own well-being yes, but mostly for yours.

Justification = Why are they acting like this? When and how did it start?

Upon being created, V knew that he did not have long to live. Soon he would join with Urizen and become Vergil once more. When he first started to fall for you, he knew it would not last due to his minuscule lifespan so would not pursue a romantic relationship. He could not, however, stay away from you. You were like a work of art, so utterly perfect that it was a miracle you even existed in such a cold and cruel world. He tried to accept the brief moments of connection you shared as enough to have him return to Vergil without regrets, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

His body was failing though, crumbling away. Perhaps when he becomes whole again Vergil will be able to be with you. But that would not be the same for you or V, and he knew that.

And then, he found a way to continue living as his own person (See Difference). Now he had a chance to have a life with you. But always lurking in the back of his mind is the fear that this means of sustaining his body and life will fail. He does not know when he will disappear or how quickly it could take him. This is why he needs to always be with you. He doesn’t know how much time he has left and he wants to spend as much of it with you as he can. You understand, don’t you darling?

Kidnap = Are they willing to kidnap you? If so, how will they do it? For how long will they keep you and where?

He will kidnap you if you make the drastic decision to try to end your own life (see Crazy). He has given you the freedom to do what you want, far more than most yanderes would, despite the dangers in the world because he trusted you and himself to keep you safe. But now that even you are a danger to yourself, that shattered any trust V had.

When he finds out what you were trying to do, whether it be through catching you in the act or finding out in the aftermath of a failed attempt, he will bring you to his home. He will tell you, and anyone else privy to your attempt, that he wanted to give you a safe place where you can be monitored, rest, and offer an ear to which you can discuss your feelings and thoughts without judgment. And with him being your partner, if other people knew of your attempt, they would trust him to watch over you and stop you from trying this again. And that was exactly what he would do.

So you spend the night with V in his home where he refuses to leave your side for more than a minute at a time. It was understandable though, right? He was just shaken from what you tried to do. But when you woke up you found your wrists belted together, as were your ankles, and were chained to the bed’s headboard and one of the bed’s end legs respectively.

“My love, you are awake.” V greets as he enters the room, a bowl of oatmeal in his hand. “How wonderful it is to see your beautiful eyes finally open.” You can ask him what is going on, but no matter if you question him in fear, anger, or confusion, he will smile sympathetically as he helps you sit up. “I know this may be a bit frightening my dear, but this is all for your safety. You have somehow come to the heartbreaking and erroneous belief that you should not live and have become a danger to yourself because of it. But worry not, for I love you unconditionally and will care for you in your stead. Now, open up~” He coos as he holds out a spoonful of oatmeal.

V keeps you bound for as long as it takes for him to trust you not to attack him. Still, whenever he leaves the house he chains you to the bed to make sure you don’t try anything. Soon enough he stops going out, instead spending every waking moment coddling you. He feeds you by hand, dresses you, bathes you, and loves you through any bout of emotions, be they positive or negative. You don’t get to step foot outside until after you are knocked out by drugs and discreetly transferred to a new home out in some forest. Once there he will be willing to take you on walks, if you can prove you can behave. Even if you do try to escape though, the forest is enchanted so any human without a demon guide will be lost to endlessly loop through the same areas.

After years of living like this and proving that you don’t intend to leave him or harm yourself, you may just be lucky enough to find out how V was able to keep you locked up and disappear without anyone coming to look for you. You see, your friends and family were devastated when they heard from V that you had killed yourself by running off into a demon nest and letting yourself be eaten. And then it was unfortunate but unsurprising when V, now without the love of his life, spiraled into depression, became a recluse, moved away from the city where he and his love spent their time together, and soon after joined you in the afterlife.

“What a tragic tale, isn’t it dear?” He asks you with a proud smile on his face as he feeds you your lunch.

Lonely = They are feeling lonely but you are busy with something else, what will they do?

V is a patient man. If you are busy with an activity or responsibility, he will wait patiently for you to finish. He has his limits though (See Non-Stop). Also, depending on how urgently the task must be done or the rules regarding it, V would like to get involved.

“What are you doing my songbird? Watching something? May I join you?” “What is that craft you are making? How fascinating… Would you do me the honour of teaching me how to do it?” “What are you so furiously researching love? I would so dearly like to hear all about it, and perhaps I can help you search.”

V wants to learn everything he can about you and be involved with your interests and hobbies. And even if you are doing something that he can not assist in, such as writing a paper for school or work, then he will still insert himself by delivering to you snacks, drinks, messages, or simply his silky voice reading out his poetry to calm you and act as white noise while you focus. As long as it does not harm you or put you in danger, then V wants to support you and uplift you in any way he can.

Moving On = If you die or escape, will they be able to move on? How easy will it be for them?

You are his light, his world, and the number one reason that he fought to stay alive. If you were to leave him, he would be devastated. With you gone so is his will to live, and so he will follow you into the beyond. However, one deciding factor for how he will come to his end is how you met yours. If it was some unforeseen tragedy then he would chase after you into the next world immediately. But if your death was in any way his doing, he would drag out his death. Whether it be through starvation or letting his body deteriorate, whichever was more painful and a fitter punishment for the sins he has committed.

Alternatively, if you were to escape and he could not find you, his will would slowly drain. He would spend more time and energy looking for you and despairing over not being able to find you, he would neglect what he needs to do to stay alive. Slowly his failing body would wither away or, if the option is still available, he may just make a last-ditch effort to become whole again. He knows that death would be an easier option than reforming, but his lingering feelings may unconsciously drive Vergil to keep looking for you and you wouldn’t hide from Vergil, right? Knowing you were at least alive would give V’s broken heart and soul some levity while it rotted away somewhere inside Vergil.

Non-Stop = How clingy will they be when you’re in a relationship? How possessive are they? And how much free space do they give you?

V will give you a great deal more space than most yandere’s. He is fine with you spending time with others, whether he is present or not. He will even allow you to go on multiple-day-long trips, like road trips or vacations, with others. Seeing you happy and hearing you excitedly recount your outings was a joy in it of itself for him. Hearing you talk with exuberance and seeing your radiant smile as you describe the event you attended, the activity you did, and the conversations you had was just enough to make missing you worth it. It also helps that he is an introvert so is more than okay with spending some time for himself.

There is a limit to this though. If you have a job or attend school then he can get by with having you in the morning and evening. He will encourage you and praise you for your hard work before and after each day while enjoying having you all to himself. But if, on top of this, you are going out with friends two or three days a week then he’ll get antsy. He won’t get in the way, but he will get a bit needy and clingy, doing things like wanting to walk you to and from places just to spend more time with you and inviting you on more dates and activities to offset how much you go out with others.

But if others try to take up more of your time than that, V will become a lot more proactive. Suddenly you start ‘forgetting’ your phone in the other room all the time, meaning you miss calls and texts. Your calendar and alarms start messing up more, giving you incorrect times and dates causing you to miss events. V seemingly becomes more worried about your well-being. Do you have a bit of a cough? Feeling warmer than usual? A bit of a headache? Well, then it is best if you stay home. Even if it seems small now, exserting yourself by going out could just make things worse. Besides, the weather report said it might rain. So just rest at home today, V will be there to care for you.

Other = Someone else speaks to or flirts with you, how will they react?

V is usually very confident and trusting of you to not betray him so does not mind when others speak to you. He doesn’t blame the person either because you are a truly fascinating person that V can’t get enough of, so others wanting to get to know you is only logical. Other’s flirting with you is usually a similar story, as he trusted you implicitly. But that does not mean he is always complicit. If you or the person give him a reason to worry, such as you seemingly reciprocating that flirtation or the person overstepping boundaries, then V will act.

It won’t be a full-on assault, physically or verbally, it will be a subtle, insidious poison that he seeps into the bothersome person. Through his words he will gracefully belittle and insult the person while showcasing his superior knowledge and sharp wit. Most of his comments don’t even immodestly register as insults, instead, they will weigh the person down bit by bit until their confidence is but dust in the wind and they realize that they have no chance in besting V in his control over your heart.

Persistent = You have rejected/ignored their first attempts at gaining your attention. How many more times will they try and how quickly will their actions ramp up in intensity?

Before discovering a means of sustaining himself, he will see your rejection or obliviousness to his signs of affection as signs and reminders to not pursue you as it will only end in heartbreak. However, if, after proving to himself that he can indeed survive his once-set expiration date and he confesses to you (See Difference), you somehow misunderstand his confession, perhaps as some kind of bout of manic joy from being able to extend his life, then he will take time to calm down so you know he is being serious and tell you honestly and blatantly. He has already waited for so long, suppressing the calling of his heart and soul, and he will not waste another moment of his life not cherishing and worshiping you as you so deserve.

Questioned = How do they react if someone catches on to their odd behaviour and questions them?

V is calm, composed, levelheaded, and a master at manipulation and the ways of the English language. If someone starts questioning his actions then he can easily lead, twist, loop, and end the conversation like a conductor to an orchestra with the other speaker left satisfied and a bit confused on the topic and point of the conversation.

Risk = How risky will they be with getting rid of rivals?

V has no intention of killing anyone. He loves you and, though you may not see it now, he knows you love him too. But if he really feels the need to dispose of someone, he has to be careful. Not so much because he fears the police or the friends and family of the victim. They could easily be tricked and manipulated into cooperating. It was his own family and friends that posed a problem. Dante, Nero, Kyrie, they would never understand. They don’t understand how deep his love is for you. If they found out he killed someone to protect his relationship with you, they would try to intervene or, worst of all, try to get you away from him. V can’t risk that.

So he carefully plans out his assassination. He can’t use his familiars because there is a chance that as soon as the police/family realize the murder was done by a demon they may call Lady or Dante’s businesses for help and they can spot Griffon, Shadow, and Nightmare’s work easily. And a physical altercation, even with the aid of weapons, would cause too much of a scene. So instead, V will kill with discreet methods, such as poison, or a disposable method, such as forming a contract with a demon, sending them out on their elimination mission, and then killing the new demon familiar so it could not be traced back to V.

Sweet = Even when they’re Yandere they can be sweet. What’s their sweet Yandere side?

You are his world, his everything, and he will tell you that often. Every day he tells you and shows you how much he appreciates you and all you do, for him and others. Being able to wake up beside you, spend time with you, and hold you at night is a blessing that he will always cherish, no matter how long you are together.

Type = What type of Yandere are they?

Going off of the Yandere Fandom Wiki’s list, V would mostly be a Manipulative Yandere (Focuses on working a series of situations to prevent losing their love.) with a bit of a Submissive Yandere (Only in love with one specific person and will carry out any task asked of them.).

V has a way with words and with his ability to stay calm and collected no matter the intricate lies he is weaving, he will subtly manipulate you into things like spending more time with him and fending off anyone who seriously threatens your relationship (See Other). He won’t just have you wrapped around his finger, as he will also make others question themselves or change their mind through his poetic, complex, cryptic wording. This can range from telling your family and friends that they should not make you go to some even, claiming things like how tired and stressed you are when in reality he just wants more time alone with you, to even beneficial things like convincing your teachers or boss to treat you better because you are such an amazing student/worker.

There is also little he wouldn’t do for you. He will of course do small things if you ask like taking you to and from appointments no matter the ungodly hour it is happening and taking you on dates to all the places you are interested in. But he will do so much more if only you ask it of him. For example, if you come to him for help, telling him about some person or group that is hurting you somehow, either directly or through association, and ask him to get rid of them, he will.

Unsure = How much trust do they have in you? What happens if you break it?

V trusts you a great deal, more than most yandere. Even when you make small mistakes he will quickly forgive you and assure you that he understands that you are doing your best and don’t truly mean any harm. If you do something drastic though, that is different. There is what will happen if you try to hurt yourself (See Kidnapping), but if you do something like cheat on him he will be devastated. He will blame himself for the most part, assuming he has failed to provide you with the love and affection you desire and is determined to be better. He will follow you without being too pushy, not quite a stalker but he will reappear in your life every couple of weeks to try to win your heart back. And between each meeting, he would work on improving himself in any way he thinks he is failing you, from physical to social to financial. At times he may even consider leaving you be, letting you go free, but he can’t help but be drawn to you. In the end, he would rather give up on life rather than give up on you.

Vexation = What is the one thing that you could do to piss them off or worry them the most?

V does not really get angry, being levelheaded enough to stay calm and give you and himself some space if he is getting frustrated. As for worrying him, the thing that will unsettle and worry him the most is if you suddenly, without plausible reason, start claiming that you love him and saying overly sweet things. If you were to say ‘I love you’ without complete sincerity he would see it as the complete opposite. You must be upset and/or unhappy in some way. Though he does not want to pry, if you keep forcing words of affection out it will eat away at him until he pleads for you to stop and instead tell him what it is that is driving you to hurt him like this.

Welcome = Let’s say they’re Yandere for you but you’ve not had your first meeting. How do they initiate it?

If you two have not officially met but you have caught V’s eye, he will avoid approaching you due to the belief that he will return to Vergil soon. He does not wish to hurt you by charming you and then disappearing, though that does have a romantic air to it. So perhaps he will allow himself to be seen once or twice if the situation requires. For example, if you are attacked by demons he will jump in to save you, maybe take a moment to let his mysterious and alluring aura seep in before disappearing like a masked hero, never truly known but leaving a sense of mysticism. At least this way, when the being known as V does disappear from this world, he will live on in you to a small extent.

If/when he knows that he can prolong his life, he will search for you right away. He’ll want to keep up his dark, mysterious, romantic aura as much as possible to make a good impression. This includes not giving you all the answers right away, slipping into the shadows and reappearing for the first few meets, and not letting you meet the blabbermouth Griffon or the horrific Nightmare, at least not at first. Shadow you may meet because he trusts her to not ruin the moment and may even add to his allure as he has a powerful jungle cat at his whim.

He has read countless poems and stories of romance, and he will use that to his advantage to make your introduction to him as perfect as possible.

Xeric = What is an innocuous thing you do that hits a nerve in their twisted mind and really turns them on?

Whether it is done casually during a time when you are relaxing and holding each other or if he is in the middle of something and your wandering mind leads you to do it, having you lightly trace the patterns of his tattoos sets his body and heart on fire faster then he is able to ask you why you are doing it. Having your fingers delicately glide along his skin has him twisting, arching, and bending into your touch, trembling slightly as soft gasps that sometimes sound more like moans, slip from his lips.

Yearning = They want you but you are already with someone else. How will they win you over/steal you from your current partner?

V will not even try. He is already hesitant to get close to you with his mission of becoming Vergil again. You being in a happy relationship with another offers him a melancholy peace as he knows that once he is gone you will be taken care of. In this circumstance, he will not even bother looking for a way to extend his life and simply complete the task he was created to do.

Zealot = If everything fails, will they be able to kill their partner? For the most part, no. Even if you fight, run, reject, and abandon him over and over he will never be pushed to kill you. The only circumstance in which he would take your life is if you have been irreparably damaged, physically or mentally. If, because of a demon attack, the cruelty of the world infecting you with an incurable disease, or you have lost your mind, if your life is nothing but suffering, he will mercy kill you. And he would follow you soon after, to be able to hold you in the afterlife and watch you be free of this pain.

#devil may cry imagine #devil may cry x reader #v x reader #devil may cry #yandere v #v dmc #v devil may cry #yandere v dmc #yandere #yandere male #soft yandere #male yandere #yandere devil may cry #dmc v x reader

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itsabouttimex2 · 8 months ago

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In your opinion who is most likely to be scary Yandere for you? Like what is the most terrifying Yandere that you are GLAD that you are not their obsessions?

Oh, this is an interesting question! I’m happy to answer. There’s four in total to go over here- and thank you for asking!

I’ve only written twice for Huntsman, (mostly because I can’t find gifs for him) but I genuinely find him to be the scariest Lego Monkie Kid yandere. His obsession with you is based almost entirely around your skills, either as a hunter equal to him or as prey worthy of pursuit. The love present between is mutual, in a way- grindstones alike, whetting your skills in lethal pursuit and escape. You invite his predation, then struggle to escape it. It’s a perpetual, equal race to the mastery of his and your respective skills, hunting and escaping.

If Huntsman does catch you, he’ll likely end with him stuffing your body as a dinner table prop or having you for dinner outright. At least he’s got a nice recipe for you.

Then again, you might just do the same to him if you win.

Either way, neither of you will ever forget the impact that the other has made on you.

Unlike Huntsman above, Tang Sanzang (also criminally few gifs) isn’t on this list because his intention is to harm you, or because he’s willing to follow through with actual butchery of your physical being-

No, it’s because he will win. There’s no escape from the pious pilgrim. He finds you, snatches you up, snaps a golden circlet or two onto your body somewhere, then forces you along on his journey, intending to make something better of you.

And after enough tightening sutras and lectures and escape attempts that are thwarted by his loyal disciples… you break. Confidence, stubbornness and rebellion can only last so long before you are left wearied and in need of comfort.

One moment you’re sniffling and clutching at the bands that cover your wrists, the skin long worn raw from repeated punishments. You stand on shaky feet with your head bowed, trying to stay strong in your quest to abandon this long, arduous journey.

The next moment you’ve got your head in his lap, sobbing your eyes out into the pants of his cossack. You apologize for every last thing you can think of, desperate for his kind touch and forgiveness. Sanzang offers you both in plentitude, his hands stroking down your hair and rubbing at the bands that have tortured your wrists for so long.

He’ll hold you close the rest of the day and then all through the night, his gentle fingers patching your wounds with herbal paste and untangling the knots in your hair.

And you’ll wonder why you ever wanted to leave in the first place.

Power, wealth, status. Big Mama has all three in abundance. She’s got a collection of mystic baubles and magical curios as far as the eye can see. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of servants and slaves gladiators.

And she’s very, very, cunning.

The webs she weaves to deceive are more than tangible- they’re snared to achieve a position where you’re forced into submission.

Big Mama will have you.

With an arcane bibelot to tamper with your mind and leave you unsettled. Using a rather disposable servant to stage a rescue that leaves you indebted. Sending a Yōkai to demolish your workplace and leave you in desperate need of her ‘generous’ offer to sign you on to her staff.

By brute, overwhelming force, if she must personally collect you. If you fight her too much here, she’ll leave you strung up from the ceiling with web over your eyes and ears to deprive you of your senses. Only for a while, of course. It wouldn’t do to damage her new little darling too much, even if her method of procural leaves you bruised and battered.

No matter the manner, she will have you.

(I held off on writing for this guy for the longest time, because I wasn’t sure if my followers would enjoy darker content. But I got the go ahead!)

Dabi’s a monster. He’s a man who prioritizes the downfall of his father above all else, and he’s a mile-long sadistic streak to pair with it.

He enjoys hurting people. Innocent people, to boot. No regard for their friends, for their families. No regard for the snuffing of precious, fragile life.

His mind is fractured from the strain and heartbreak of being cast aside by his father, replaced by his brother, and forgotten by his family in short turn.

You’re a outlet for Dabi, not someone he loves.

I don’t think he’s capable of love anymore.

You scream when his flaming fingers jab deep into your skin. You cry when his fingernail cut into your skin and ignite. He grabs big fistfuls of your hair and burns them off, chuckling as you sob, stinking of charred keratin.

His touch is tricky, mixing torturous pain with gentle relief. His softer actions are not true kindness- he’s only patching your wounds and stroking your hair so you’ll never now exactly what his next touch will consist of. Is he going to beat you? Pat your head? Rip out your fingernails?

You can’t know, not with the deliberate duality he displays. Every time he comes close to you, you tremble and whimper, smelled of burning hair and charred flesh. And Dabi hurts you, again and again and again.

But he won’t kill you. If there’s even a single, infinitesimally small speck of love left in his heart, it is dedicated solely to not killing you.

That is not a mercy.

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere LMK #Huntsman #Yandere Huntsman #Tang Sanzang #Yandere Tang Sanzang #Yandere ROTTMNT #Yandere Big Mama #Yandere MHA #Yandere Dabi #TW: Torture

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artyandink · 5 days ago

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𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐬 | 𝟐

𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐬

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You were the only one Sherlock ever truly loved, and it was true. No lady ever caught his eye, no woman stole his attention the way your wit and charm did. He supposed it was his own fault for losing you, his own fault that you walked out his door, leaving a young child with him that was now old enough. Old enough to want to find her mother. He wanted to find you. But he also didn’t want to. It meant to face his own truth.

𝐓𝐖: angst, set after Enola Holmes 2, bad father-daughter relationships, child abandonment, heartbreak, stubborn Sherlock, oc!daughter, another oc, stubborn daughter so the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, identity concealment

𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓/𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆

𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆: OLDER BY LIZZIE MCALPINE

𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭��𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 were a maze, a tangled web of cobblestone paths and narrow alleys draped in soot and damp. Clara’s steps were careful but quick as she navigated through the crowded thoroughfare. She pulled her coat tighter, feeling the drizzle seeping through the fabric despite her attempts to stay dry. Every few steps, she glanced at the crumpled note in her hand, one of her father’s letters where he'd once written, in his untidy scrawl, of the case that first brought her parents together: The Manchester Mincer. Clara had read and re-read that line until it was nearly burned into her memory. That case had sparked their partnership—and whatever complicated love they had shared.

Manchester itself was rougher than she’d imagined. In London, she could blend into the city’s flow, but here, the sounds and smells were sharper, more insistent. There was an unfamiliar edge in the voices of passersby, a hardness etched into their faces. Even the children running in the alleyways looked shrewd, eyes flickering from her face to the fine quality of her coat and gloves. Clara tried to look like she belonged, but every detail seemed to mark her as an outsider. She wished, briefly, that she could speak to her father about it, to hear how he'd navigated this city with his keen, merciless logic. But Sherlock, of course, would hardly have noticed his surroundings in the way she did; his mind would have been on clues, his sharp eyes filtering the world only for information relevant to his case.

Clara inhaled deeply and folded her map away. She’d arrived at one of the addresses she'd found in his notes, a narrow lane wedged between tall buildings that loomed over the cobblestones like silent, watchful giants. Her father had mentioned that this was where the investigation began, in a factory district where the Manchester Mincer had claimed his first victim. The nickname alone sent a chill through her; she wondered how you’d had felt when you’d first heard it, if the sheer brutality of the name had set her on edge the way it did Clara now.

As Clara made her way deeper into the heart of the district, she glanced around, her gaze falling on the thick blackened windows of the factories, where exhausted faces appeared every so often, looking out only to retreat back into the darkness. The people here moved differently—heads bowed, shoulders hunched, as if they were forever bracing themselves against the weight of the city. It was easy to imagine her father, with his long coat and sharp eyes, weaving through these same streets, chasing after some elusive hint or cryptic clue. And you… well, Clara could only imagine you, steadfast and fierce, your head high and your sharp mind keeping pace with Sherlock’s.

You’d been fearless, according to the bits and pieces Clara had managed to uncover. You’d fought for the things you cared about with a quiet but unyielding strength, a quality Clara had always admired in theory but felt unsure of in practice. In a strange way, it was your resilience that Clara was looking for in Manchester. Maybe by retracing her parents’ steps, she could find some sliver of that strength within herself.

She was jolted from her thoughts by a voice calling out to her, rough and unwelcoming. “Oi, miss! Y’ lost?”

Clara looked up to find an older man watching her from the shadows of a nearby shop, his weather-beaten face partially hidden beneath a cap that looked like it had seen better days. His gaze was sharp, suspicious, his posture wary. In this part of the city, strangers were rarely welcome, especially ones who looked like they didn’t belong.

“No, sir,” Clara replied, doing her best to sound calm and confident. “I’m looking for information on… an old case. I’ve reason to believe my parents were involved.”

The man’s brow furrowed, his gaze becoming even more guarded. “Parents, eh? An’ just who might they be?”

She hesitated, realizing too late that her usual confidence could draw the wrong kind of attention here. “My father’s Sherlock Holmes,” she said quietly, hoping the name might lend her some credibility. "And my mother… well, she assisted him in the case of the Manchester Mincer.”

At the mention of the case, the man’s expression shifted, a shadow flickering over his face. He glanced around as if to make sure they were alone, then stepped a little closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “That was dark business, that was,” he muttered. “Not many folk want to talk about it, even now.”

Clara leaned in, feeling a strange mix of dread and determination settle in her stomach. “I just want to understand,” she said. “To know what it was like… what they went through.”

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying her. “If yer lookin’ fer stories of yer parents, I dunno what ye’ll find. But if it’s the case ye want…” He shook his head, as though reluctant to continue. “Best look down by the old mill, out near the canal. There were rumors, whispers o’ things happenin’ there.”

She nodded, heart pounding. “Thank you.”

With a terse nod, the man disappeared back into the shadows, leaving Clara alone once more. The canal. That would be her next destination, though the idea of wandering further into the maze of Manchester’s alleys made her hesitate. She steeled herself, drawing her coat closer as she pressed onward, ignoring the strange glances that followed her. Soon, the sound of rushing water filled the air, and she knew she was nearing the canal district.

The canal ran thick with dark water, its banks lined with warehouses and abandoned mills. The place had an eerie stillness about it, a silence that seemed to press in on her as she stepped closer to the water’s edge. Clara could almost feel the weight of the past lingering here, the unspoken memories of the case her parents had tackled together. She imagined her father here, his keen gaze darting over every inch of the dark, narrow passageways; her mother, matching him step for step, determined to see justice done.

As Clara walked along the bank, she stumbled upon a rusted iron gate, hanging crookedly off its hinges. Beyond it lay an overgrown path that wound between the warehouses, leading deeper into the district. She hesitated for a moment, casting a wary glance over her shoulder. Part of her wanted to turn back, to let her parents’ past rest, but the other part—the part that longed to understand them, to feel connected to them—drove her forward.

The path led her to a narrow courtyard, enclosed by crumbling brick walls. The ground was littered with broken glass and discarded bits of machinery, remnants of the city’s industrial past. Clara’s footsteps echoed as she crossed the space, feeling the weight of history pressing down on her. This was a place where secrets had been kept, where shadows clung to the walls and memories lingered in the air.

She could almost see her mother here, standing beside Sherlock as they pieced together the twisted puzzle of the Manchester Mincer. She could picture her father, deep in thought, his mind racing with theories and possibilities. And her mother, a steady presence beside him, her own sharp intuition guiding him forward.

As Clara stood in that silent courtyard, she felt a strange sense of closeness to them, as if she were touching a part of their shared history. She could almost hear her mother’s voice, calm and unyielding, urging her forward, reminding her that strength didn’t come from fearlessness, but from the courage to face the darkness.

Lost in thought, Clara nearly missed the sound of footsteps approaching from the alley behind her. She spun around, heart hammering, to see a young man standing there, his figure half-hidden in the shadows. He was tall and lean, with a wary look in his eyes that reminded her of a fox, poised to either run or attack.

“Yer a bit far from the comforts o’ London, ain’t ya?” he drawled, his accent thick and unmistakably local.

Clara met his gaze, feeling a flicker of defensiveness rise within her. “I could say the same about you,” she replied, trying to sound unbothered.

The young man raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Aye, fair point,” he said, stepping a bit closer, his eyes flickering over her in a quick, assessing manner. “But see, I live here. Don’t reckon I’ve ever seen the likes o’ you round these parts.”

Clara straightened, meeting his scrutiny with as much confidence as she could muster. “I’m here… researching a case.”

He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “A case, eh? Yer a bit young t’ be a detective.”

“It was my parents’ case,” she replied, feeling the weight of those words settle over her. “They were… involved in the Manchester Mincer case.”

The smirk faded from his face, his expression darkening as he looked at her with something akin to respect—or maybe wariness. “Aye, I heard o’ that,” he said quietly. “Dark business, that was. Folk here don’t much like t’ talk about it.”

Clara nodded, the gravity of the case pressing down on her anew. “I just… I wanted to understand,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “To know who they were. What they went through.”

The young man studied her for a long moment, his gaze softening slightly. Then, with a small nod, he gestured toward the path behind him. “Come on, then. If it’s answers yer lookin’ fer, I might know a place where ye can start.”

Clara hesitated for only a moment before following him, her heart pounding as they made their way deeper into the shadows of Manchester’s underbelly.

As they walked through the winding alleys, Clara's suspicions grew. The young man kept glancing over his shoulder, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. His posture seemed just a bit too casual, his steps just a touch too hurried. She felt a knot tighten in her stomach. Instinct urged her to turn back, but she didn’t want to let fear overpower her. She was here for answers—about her mother, her father, and the path that had somehow bound them to this place.

Still, she couldn't shake the prickling sensation at the back of her neck. “Where exactly are we going?” she asked, injecting a note of skepticism into her tone.

“Patience, miss,” he replied, offering a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nearly there.”

As they rounded a corner, Clara saw a low, ramshackle warehouse up ahead, with boarded-up windows and shadows creeping between its narrow gaps. She slowed her pace, her feet reluctant to carry her any closer to the derelict building. But the young man stopped and turned to her, his expression cool, calculating.

"See," he murmured, "here’s the thing about folks like you." His smile shifted into something colder. "You come waltzing through our streets, flashin’ yer nice coat, thinkin’ you’re better than the rest of us. Lookin’ for things you oughtn’t be findin’.”

Clara felt a chill sweep through her, but she held her ground, meeting his gaze with steady defiance. "People don’t just take others' belongings because they envy them," she replied icily. "It’s usually because they lack the strength to make something of their own."

He laughed, a hollow sound that echoed off the narrow brick walls. "You’ll learn soon enough."

He took a step toward her, and Clara's mind raced, instincts finally taking over. She took a swift step back, then another, her pulse quickening as she realized he was moving to cut her off. She bolted.

Clara dashed through the alley, her boots pounding against the wet stones, her breath coming in short bursts. Behind her, she heard his footsteps quicken, but she didn't look back. She veered left, then right, navigating the maze-like streets of Manchester as if her life depended on it—which, she supposed, it very well might.

The narrow alleys opened up into a bustling market square, the crowd thick with vendors shouting their wares and patrons haggling over prices. Clara merged into the mass of people, pushing her way through as she tried to put distance between herself and her would-be captor. She glanced back, catching sight of him threading his way through the crowd, his eyes fixed on her with unmistakable intent.

Clara shoved past a fruit vendor, sending a small pile of apples tumbling to the ground. “Oi!” the vendor shouted, but Clara didn’t slow down. She ducked around a stall selling wool shawls, then dipped down another row, hoping to lose him in the labyrinth of stalls and patrons.

Her heart raced as she slipped between a group of gossiping women, keeping her head down as she scanned the market for a way out. She spotted a narrow path between two carts and darted toward it, only to feel a rough hand clamp onto her arm. She yelped, twisting desperately in his grip, but he held on, a sneer crossing his face.

“Think you can get away that easily?” he hissed.

With a surge of desperation, Clara raised her knee and drove it hard into his shin. He cursed and his grip faltered, just enough for her to break free. She spun around, shoving her way back into the throng. The market crowd was thicker now, and Clara ducked between a row of barrels, keeping her head low as she moved quickly, heart pounding in her chest.

Gradually, the noise of the crowd began to fade, and when Clara finally dared to look back, she couldn’t see him anymore. She let out a shuddering breath, her hands trembling as she steadied herself against a nearby stall. Her lungs burned, but relief flooded through her as she realized she’d escaped. Her heart still pounded, her fear mixed with an unexpected thrill of victory.

Clara took one last, careful glance over her shoulder, then straightened her coat, brushing the dust off her sleeves. She wouldn’t let herself feel shaken; this was her first encounter with Manchester’s shadows, and it likely wouldn’t be her last. As she melted back into the crowd, her resolve only strengthened.

If her parents had met on a case like this, then she would continue to search, no matter what Manchester tried to throw her way.

The streets of Manchester were as unforgiving as ever, thick with the odor of coal smoke and damp cobblestones, and the kind of chill that sank right through the skin. Nick Hawthorne pulled his cap lower, letting the brim shadow his sharp gray eyes as he surveyed the afternoon crowd. Just past the mill gates, the streets were busy with men off work, trudging home with weary, soot-streaked faces, and mothers tugging along dirty-faced children.

Nick’s gaze drifted from face to face, a habitual calculation flickering behind his eyes as he looked for a mark. He’d been good at this for years now, ever since he’d learned that a pair of sharp hands could work as well as any back-breaking job, if you were clever enough to stay out of trouble. He didn’t like pickpocketing—he would have been the first to say so if asked—but it served a purpose, kept a bit of coin in his pocket. Today, though, he hadn’t been lucky, and he was growing impatient.

Then he noticed her. A girl, moving through the crowd as if she didn’t quite belong. Her clothing was too clean, the cut of her jacket finer than anything you'd see from these parts, and she held herself with a calm certainty that was out of place here. She wasn’t hurrying along with her head down or checking her pockets every few minutes to make sure they hadn’t been turned out. No, she looked like she was trying to blend in, but failing.

Nick’s mouth twitched in a faint, humorless smile as he made his way toward her, weaving through the bustling throng with the practiced grace of a street fox. He’d done this a thousand times: the slight brush of his shoulder against hers, his fingers quick as a shadow dipping into her pocket. Her purse was small, surprisingly light, but it was something, and he slipped it out in a single, fluid motion.

But as he began to draw back, a slender hand clamped firmly around his wrist, and he froze.

"Hold on there," she said, her voice calm and unruffled, with a sharpness that belied her appearance. Nick felt a jolt of surprise at her grip; it was stronger than he’d expected, and as he looked down at her hand, he realized she wasn’t some unsuspecting rich girl after all.

He forced a smirk, meeting her gaze with a hint of defiance. "Didn’t think you’d notice," he said, feigning an easy confidence. His Mancunian accent thickened a little as he spoke, a habit he leaned into when he needed to sound less polished and more street-smart. "Figured someone like you wouldn’t miss a few coins."

Clara’s expression didn’t waver, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You’re right. I noticed, and I don’t mind." She released his wrist, and Nick barely resisted the urge to rub it, feeling the sting where her grip had pinched. "But let’s say you’ve caught my attention now. What’s your name?"

Nick hesitated, sizing her up. Her eyes were sharp, too sharp for someone with money to spare, and her voice held a tone he couldn’t quite place, neither fully local nor exactly foreign. It was the voice of someone who’d seen a bit more of the world than just one soot-covered corner of it.

"Nicholas Hawthorne," he said finally, slipping the purse back into her hand. "Nick, if y’like."

"Nick," she repeated, her eyes steady on him. “Well, Nick, I have a favor to ask.”

“A favor?” he echoed, a bark of laughter escaping before he could stop it. This was the last thing he’d expected from her. “That’s a bit rich, seein’ as I’m the one nearly robbin’ you blind.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, with a casual wave of her hand. “A few pence won’t ruin me. But you seem like someone who knows their way around, and I could use someone with… local knowledge.”

Nick’s brow furrowed as he tried to read her. She looked at him with a steadiness that left him unsettled, as if he were under scrutiny, not the other way around. “Look, miss… people don’t just go around askin’ strangers in the street for help, y’know. They usually mind their own.”

“Well, I’m not one for ‘usually,’” she said, her voice smooth and unbothered. “It’s not as if I’ve got anywhere else to go.”

The words hung between them, and for a moment, Nick thought he caught something vulnerable in her expression, something she was quick to hide. But it was enough to stir his curiosity, even if he didn’t trust it.

“All right, what’s the catch?” he asked, arms crossing over his chest as he took a half step back, instinctively keeping his distance.

“No catch.” She shrugged, and the glint in her eyes softened. “I need a place to stay. I can pay. And you seem like you know your way around here. That’s all.”

Nick eyed her warily, trying to decide whether she was being serious or just making a fool of him. But if she had money, he couldn’t afford to be too suspicious. He glanced around, taking in the nearby alley and the curious onlookers who were starting to notice the two of them standing in the middle of the street. “You really don’t have anyone here, do you?”

She shook her head, and he thought he saw a hint of loneliness in her expression. “No. But I do have this.” She held up her purse, a small but obvious reminder of the money he’d tried to take. “So… do we have a deal?”

He weighed his options, feeling a mixture of intrigue and wariness. She wasn’t from here, and by the looks of it, had no idea how unforgiving this city could be. But her offer was tempting, especially if it meant he’d have some extra coin in his pocket by the end of the night.

"All right," he said finally, a reluctant grin tugging at his lips. "I know a place. Won't be fancy, mind, but it'll keep the rain off yer head."

“That’s all I need,” she replied, her face softening just a fraction. “And you can call me Charlotte.” Was it best to lie? Probably.

"Charlotte, eh?" He smirked, raising a skeptical brow. “Seems a bit posh, don’t it?”

"Just Charlotte," she said with a shrug, but the way she looked at him made it clear she wasn’t interested in further explanations.

Nick led her through a winding maze of alleys and backstreets, his feet moving with practiced ease over cobblestones slick with the city’s grime. He was keenly aware of her presence just behind him, the faint scent of lavender and something distinctly foreign lingering in the damp air. She was quiet, observant, but he could feel her gaze on him, as if she were studying him just as closely as he was watching her.

They finally reached an old boarding house on the outskirts of a quieter street, where the clamor of the factories dulled into a distant hum. Nick pushed open the creaking door, letting her step inside first. The building was shabby and dim, smelling faintly of must and the lingering trace of boiled cabbage, but it was safe, and the landlady didn’t ask questions so long as the rent was paid.

“It ain’t Buckingham Palace,” Nick said, a touch of irony in his voice as he watched her look around, taking in the threadbare carpet and chipped plaster. “But the roof keeps most o’ the rain out, and the beds don’t squeak too much.”

Clara gave a faint, appreciative nod. “It’s perfect,” she said simply, setting her purse down on the rickety table by the door. Her calm acceptance of the room surprised him, and he couldn’t help but feel a pang of curiosity. There was more to her than met the eye, but he wasn’t about to pry—at least, not yet.

“So, what brings someone like you to Manchester?” he asked, leaning against the wall with a casual shrug, hoping to glean something from her that might satisfy his lingering questions.

She met his gaze, her expression unreadable. “I could ask the same of you.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. “Ah, well, born and bred, me. Not much choice in it. Not like I had the coin for grand adventures. But you… you don’t seem the type to land here by accident.”

Clara only shrugged, her eyes drifting out the small, grimy window toward the distant skyline of factory smoke. "Let’s just say I needed a change of scenery.”

“A change of scenery?” Nick echoed, chuckling softly. “Well, you sure picked the best place for it.” His voice softened a bit, barely a whisper as he watched her. “There’s plenty to see here, all right… if you know where to look.”

Clara turned back to him, and for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of understanding in her expression, as if they were both just trying to survive in a city that never paused to make room for anyone’s dreams or second chances. She gave him a faint smile, and he found himself returning it, despite himself.

“Well then,” he said, straightening up and pulling his cap down low once more. “Welcome to Manchester.”

“Thank you, I suppose.” Clara couldn’t help but smile.

He shrugged, not seeming to care, but then he spoke again. “S’ alright. Look, if you need me, you can find me or my mates by The Old Crow. The local bar here, just tell ‘em I know you, yeah? Take care.” He slipped out of the door, shaking his head a little as he closed it.

“What a strange girl.” He muttered as he jogged down the stairs, cap pulled low.

Clara looked after him with slightly raised eyebrows, subtly checking that her purse was still on her person. “What a strange boy.” She mused.

Sherlock paced the small confines of his sitting room, a whirlwind of thoughts and anxieties tumbling through his mind. The shadows of the afternoon loomed heavier than the gray clouds outside, pressing against the tall windows of Baker Street. He had never been one to succumb to worry, yet as he walked back and forth across the worn carpet, he felt a tight coil of dread in his chest. Clara had left the flat nearly two hours ago with little more than a word and a promise to return shortly. But the hours slipped by, stretching painfully thin, and there had been no sign of her since.

“Sherlock, you’ll wear a hole in the carpet,” John remarked dryly from his perch by the fireplace, where he had taken to reading a newspaper, though his eyes were glued to the detective’s agitated form instead. John’s expression was calm, an anchor in the storm of Sherlock’s thoughts, but the concern behind his eyes betrayed him. “She’s likely just lost track of time.”

“Lost track of time?” Sherlock shot back, his voice rising higher than intended. “In London, the city filled with dangers and distractions? That’s hardly reassuring, John.” He turned sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You don’t understand. She’s not just my daughter; she’s a girl of sixteen wandering about in this wretched city. What if—”

Before he could finish, Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door with a gentle knock, her presence always soothing amidst the chaos of his mind. She carried a tray laden with a steaming teapot and delicate china cups, a familiar routine that never failed to comfort both men.

“Now, now, Mr. Holmes,” she said softly, setting the tray down with a careful hand. “A cup of tea will do you good. I’m sure she’s fine.”

Sherlock shot her a glance, his brow furrowed. “I don’t want tea, Mrs. Hudson. I want my daughter to return safely. I need to find her.”

“Sherlock,” she chided gently, placing a hand on his arm. “You know how these things go. Clara is young and adventurous. She’ll be back before you know it.”

“But where has she gone?” he pressed, shaking off her comforting touch as frustration bubbled just beneath the surface. “What if she’s lost? What if—”

“Sherlock!” John interjected, standing up and moving closer to him. “Listen, we’re not going to help Clara by worrying ourselves sick. Let’s think rationally. If she had a specific destination in mind, she would have told us.”

Sherlock paused, his eyes darting away, lost in thought. “She mentioned something about wanting to know more about her mother,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The thought brought a fresh wave of anxiety. “Do you think she—”

“Wanted to seek her out?” John finished for him. “It’s possible, but she wouldn’t be foolish enough to go off on her own without thinking it through, would she?”

“She’s still a child, John,” Sherlock replied sharply, though the edge in his voice softened as he glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who poured tea into the delicate cups with a practiced hand. “She may not fully understand the dangers that lurk outside these walls.”

Mrs. Hudson set a cup in front of each man, her gaze steady. “I believe Clara has more sense than you’re giving her credit for, Mr. Holmes. You’ve raised a smart girl. She knows how to take care of herself.”

“Smart, perhaps, but naïve when it comes to the world outside,” Sherlock replied, finally taking a seat at the edge of the armchair, his body tense. “You know how easily things can spiral out of control in a matter of moments.”

John watched him, concern etching deeper lines on his forehead. “We’ll find her, Sherlock. I promise. Perhaps we should split up and search the neighborhood. I can start by asking around at the local shops—see if anyone’s seen her.”

The detective shook his head, the spark of frustration reigniting. “You don’t understand. She could be anywhere, John. It’s an entire city filled with countless possibilities for danger.”

“Which is why we need to remain calm and rational,” John urged, reaching for his cup of tea. He took a sip, letting the warmth settle before continuing. “If she’s gone looking for answers about her mother, she might have gone to someone who knew her. We should focus our search on people connected to that part of her past.”

Sherlock let out a frustrated breath, the rhythm of his thoughts still storming within him. “How do you suggest we do that? It’s not as if we have a list of people to question. The case is so long in the past, it’s nearly an enigma.”

“Perhaps you can start by thinking about where Clara might look,” Mrs. Hudson interjected softly, her voice soothing like the steam rising from her cup. “After all, she inherited your mind. She’s bound to follow the same clues you would.”

“Which only leads to further complications,” he muttered. He ran a hand across his face, battling the urge to rise once more and resume his pacing. “If only she’d listened—”

“She’s a young woman, Sherlock,” John said, his tone firm but gentle. “You can’t expect her to live under your shadow forever. She needs to find her own way.”

“Don’t you see?” Sherlock replied, frustration seeping through his words. “I don’t want her to live under any shadow; I want her to be safe! She deserves to have the chance to live her own life, away from the darkness that envelops this world. But if she’s out there on her own, then—”

“Then we’ll find her,” John interrupted. “You know we will.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded in agreement, her warmth radiating through the room. “Exactly. Let’s not spiral into despair. We’ll sit here, drink our tea, and when Clara comes back, we’ll be ready to welcome her home.”

Sherlock met her gaze, the concern in her eyes serving as a balm to his frazzled nerves. She had been a constant source of comfort since Clara’s mother had left, and even though he tried to push her away at times, he felt a flicker of appreciation for her presence. She had always cared for him like a mother, tending to him during times of distress.

“I should have been more careful,” he said at last, the tension in his shoulders beginning to ease ever so slightly. “I should have protected her better.”

“Clara is capable, Sherlock,” John reassured him. “You’ve raised her well. She’s intelligent, resourceful, and she knows how to navigate this world—probably better than you give her credit for. Trust in her abilities, just as she trusts in yours.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock replied, pouring himself a cup of tea and cradling it in his hands as if the warmth might seep into his troubled thoughts. He took a sip, the taste familiar and comforting, though it did little to quell his unease. “But it’s the unknown that worries me.”

Mrs. Hudson leaned forward, her brow furrowed in concern. “What’s truly troubling you, Mr. Holmes? Is it Clara’s safety or your own guilt? You can’t keep blaming yourself for every little thing that goes wrong.”

He looked down into his teacup, swirling the liquid in thought. “It’s a mixture of both,” he admitted. “I thought I had moved on, that I could raise her without fear of repeating the past. But it seems I’ve failed.”

“Not at all,” John said firmly. “You’re not responsible for what others choose to do, Sherlock. You’re doing your best to be a father to her. Clara knows you care deeply, and she’s going to come back. We just need to wait and have faith in her judgment.”

“Faith.” The word hung heavy in the air, filled with irony. Sherlock chuckled darkly, the sound laced with bitterness. “Faith has often proven to be a foolish endeavor in our line of work. It’s facts I prefer, not wishes.”

“Facts can be maddening, too,” John countered, his patience unwavering. “But you’re right in wanting to find the truth. We all are. Just remember that you’re not alone in this.”

As the minutes ticked by, Sherlock found himself quieting, the conversations around him flowing like a steady stream while his mind finally began to settle. He took a deep breath, letting the scent of tea mingle with the air in the room. Perhaps it was time to put aside his own fears and let action replace his worry.

“You’re both right,” he said finally, setting down his cup. “It’s time we got moving. We need to gather information. If Clara’s left in search of her mother, then we must find out where she might have gone.”

“Where do we start?” John asked, the faintest glimmer of hope igniting in his eyes.

“Let’s check the local libraries and archives,” Sherlock suggested. “If Clara is anything like me, she’ll seek out information. We may find a clue there—something she could have learned about her mother’s past.”

“And if that doesn’t lead us anywhere?” John questioned.

“Then we’ll expand our search to the places she might frequent,” Sherlock replied, his voice firm with purpose. “We will find her, John. I refuse to lose her.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly, her heart swelling with pride. “I’ll pack a few biscuits for you, just in case you don’t find her right away.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replied, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. He could still hear the underlying worry in her voice, but it was a reminder that he had allies in his corner.

As they prepared to leave, he turned to John, a newfound resolve hardening in his expression. “We’ll follow every lead. I won’t rest until she is safe, back under this roof where she belongs.” Then it hit him.

Manchester.

Clara stepped out into the bustling streets of Manchester, the air thick with the smell of coal and the sounds of industry echoing around her. The vibrant market stalls lined the cobbled streets, their colorful awnings a stark contrast to the drab buildings surrounding them. She felt invigorated by the energy of the city, but the weight of her mission pressed heavily on her shoulders. She had come to uncover the truth about the Manchester Mincer, the infamous case that had intertwined her mother’s fate with that of Sherlock Holmes. Now, she needed to piece together the remnants of that dark history.

As she wandered through the throngs of people, Clara stopped at a nearby stall that sold fresh produce. The vendor, an elderly man with a weathered face and gentle eyes, looked up as she approached. “Can I interest you in some apples, love?” he asked, his voice warm and inviting.

“Actually, I was wondering if you could help me,” Clara replied, her curiosity piqued. “I’m looking for information about the Manchester Mincer case. I heard it was quite a scandal back in the day.”

The man’s expression shifted, a shadow crossing his features. “Ah, that old tale,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “A dark time for this city, that’s for sure. My wife used to tell me stories about it. It was said there were a few blokes who got caught up in it, but they weren’t the only ones involved.”

“Do you remember any names?” Clara pressed, her heart racing with anticipation. “Anyone who might have been persecuted?”

“Old Murphy was one of them, I reckon,” he said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “He owned the butcher shop on Cross Street. Never did have a good reputation, mind you. Rumor was he dealt with more than just meat. But in the end, it was the wrong man who paid the price.”

“Why was he wrong?” Clara asked, intrigued by the story.

“Because it was the wealthy who often had the power to shield themselves,” the vendor replied, his eyes glinting with something that bordered on bitterness. “They got away clean while the poor took the fall. That’s the way it always goes, isn’t it?”

Clara nodded, feeling a surge of determination. “Thank you, sir. This is really helpful.”

As she continued on her way, she reflected on the vendor’s words. The injustice of it all lingered in her mind, fueling her desire to uncover the truth. She approached another stall, this time a woman selling handmade hats, her shop vibrant and colorful. Clara introduced herself and explained her quest.

“I heard you might know something about the Manchester Mincer,” Clara said, watching the woman’s reaction closely.

The woman’s brow furrowed, her hands stilling for a moment. “That case brought a lot of fear to our community,” she said, her voice low. “I was just a girl then, but I remember the whispers. They said the murderer had ties to the upper class. There was one party that everyone talked about. It was the talk of the town, you know.”

“A party?” Clara repeated, intrigued. “What can you tell me about it?”

“It was held at the Blackwood estate. Quite the spectacle, they said,” the woman continued, her eyes distant. “Fancy dresses, music, and a guest list that read like a who’s who of Manchester society. But after the case broke, people started to wonder what really went on behind closed doors.”

“Did you know anyone who went?” Clara pressed, sensing that this was a significant clue.

“Oh, I wouldn’t have been allowed near,” the woman replied with a chuckle. “But I heard my cousin, Margaret, was there. She saw things—things that were never mentioned in the papers. You might want to ask her. She still lives near the park.”

“Thank you! That’s very helpful,” Clara said, her mind racing with the possibilities.

As she continued her exploration of the market, she approached a group of men huddled by a corner, their laughter booming over the din of the market. They stopped their banter as Clara approached, eyeing her curiously.

“Excuse me,” she said, trying to muster confidence. “I’m looking for information about the Manchester Mincer case. I’ve heard it involves a man named Murphy and the Blackwood estate.”

The tallest man among them, broad-shouldered and brimming with bravado, leaned in closer. “You’re not scared of that old tale, are you, lass? Most folk don’t want to dig too deep.”

“I’m not scared,” she declared, meeting his gaze steadily. “I want to know the truth.”

“Truth, eh?” he chuckled, looking around at his companions. “Well, there was plenty of truth hidden in that case, lass. Murphy might’ve been the butcher, but he wasn’t the only one with blood on his hands.”

“What do you mean?” Clara asked, her pulse quickening.

“There was talk of a woman involved. Beautiful, they said. Had the ear of the powerful. I can’t recall her name, but she was always at the parties,” the man replied, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “She held sway over the men. They did her bidding, and if she wanted someone silenced…”

“Who was she?” Clara pressed, her curiosity piqued.

“I wish I could tell you, but it was all hushed up,” he said, shrugging. “You might check the taverns. They know all the secrets, or at least think they do.”

“Thank you,” Clara said, grateful for any lead.

With renewed purpose, she made her way toward the nearby tavern, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses spilling out onto the street. The dimly lit interior was filled with the scent of ale and smoke, and Clara felt her heart race as she stepped inside.

The patrons glanced at her with mild curiosity, but she focused her attention on the barmaid, a stout woman with a no-nonsense demeanor. Clara approached her and leaned against the bar. “Excuse me, I’m looking for information about the Manchester Mincer. I’ve heard there are some interesting stories from this area.”

The barmaid raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. “You’re not the first to come digging, lass. This town loves a scandal. What do you want to know?”

“Anything you might have heard about the case,” Clara replied, leaning in closer. “I’m especially interested in the Blackwood estate and the people who were involved.”

“Ah, the Blackwoods,” the barmaid said, her expression growing serious. “Rich folk with their secrets. They had their hands in everything, I hear. But don’t go getting yourself tangled in that web. There’s a lot more at stake than a few lives.”

“I can handle it,” Clara insisted, her resolve unshaken.

“Fine,” the barmaid said with a sigh, glancing around as if to ensure no one else was listening. “Word was that a young woman—one of the Blackwoods—had a lover. He was a nobody, a laborer. Rumor has it they fought about something important, something that could ruin them both.”

“Do you know his name?” Clara asked, her heart pounding at the thought of a romantic scandal being tied to the Mincer case.

“No one knew for sure, but I heard it might’ve been one of the factory workers,” the barmaid replied. “Always seemed a shame for someone so lovely to be caught in that sort of mess.”

“Thank you,” Clara said, taking in all the information. She scribbled notes in her little book, piecing together the stories she had gathered like fragments of a larger puzzle.

Leaving the tavern, Clara felt the urgency of her quest. With each person she spoke to, she could feel the story of the Manchester Mincer coming together, but she sensed that there was still a vital piece missing.

As she walked through the market once more, she spotted a man selling newspapers, and her heart skipped a beat at the thought of potential leads. She approached his stall and scanned the headlines. One newspaper caught her eye: Upcoming Masquerade Ball at the Blackwood Estate—This Saturday Night!

Her mind raced as she processed the implications. The ball would be a gathering of the elite, a perfect opportunity to dig deeper into the world of the powerful who had once danced amidst the shadows of the Mincer case. Perhaps there, she could discover more about the mysterious woman who had captured the attention of the wealthy and the man whose life had been marred by the darkness of that night.

“Could I take a look at that paper?” Clara asked the vendor, pointing to the article.

“Of course, love. It’s a big event this weekend,” he said, handing it to her with a smile. “You planning to attend?”

“I might,” she said, her mind racing with the possibilities.

As she read through the article, she learned that the ball would be held in honor of the estate’s new heir, a celebration of their return to Manchester after years abroad. This would be the perfect chance to gather information and perhaps find the connection that eluded her.

Clara took a moment to breathe deeply, gathering her thoughts. She knew what she had to do: she would find a way to attend the ball and uncover the truths hidden within its walls. The air was thick with anticipation, and she felt a sense of purpose swell within her.

Returning to her lodgings, Clara couldn’t shake the excitement coursing through her veins. She needed a plan. The ball would be her gateway into the world she had only heard of in whispers. There, she could find the answers she sought and perhaps even face the ghosts of the past that haunted her mother and Sherlock. The Mincer case had been a turning point in their lives, and now it was her turn to unravel the threads that tied them all together.

With determination, she began to prepare, her mind already racing with the possibilities that lay ahead. Clara was resolute; she would not rest until she uncovered the truth and brought it to light, no matter the cost.

Clara awoke the next morning to the distant sounds of the city—horse-drawn carriages clattering over cobblestones, vendors shouting about fresh produce, and the faint, echoing rhythm of machinery at work. As she pulled on her well-worn dress, her thoughts raced back to her mission: she needed to attend the masquerade ball at the Blackwood estate, but for that, she needed a way in, and more importantly, a companion to keep her grounded in this unfamiliar world.

She had just stepped out of her modest lodgings when she spotted a familiar sight: a group of young men gathered outside the Black Crow, the local bar that always seemed to buzz with life. Among them were Nick’s mates, Charlie and Tom, their laughter ringing through the morning air as they leaned against the weathered brick wall, playfully jostling each other.

“Oi, Charlie, did you see the way she looked at me?” Tom boasted, puffing out his chest as he glanced in Clara’s direction.

“Oh please, mate. She was looking past you,” Charlie replied, rolling his eyes. “It’s the jacket that’s got her confused. It’s like she’s staring at a walking scarecrow!”

Clara approached, rolling her eyes at their antics. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she called out, her voice laced with playful sarcasm.

“Good morning, Charlotte,” Tom said, stepping forward with an exaggerated bow. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“There’s no pleasure here,” Clara shot back, trying to suppress a grin at their obvious flirting, even if it did make her stomach turn a bit. “I’m just here for the entertainment, not to be the subject of your jokes.”

“Aw, don’t be like that!” Charlie chimed in, a mischievous glint in his eye. “We were just trying to make your day brighter! You must be tired of dealing with grimy blokes from the factories.”

Clara raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I deal with enough ‘grimy blokes’ without your help. But tell me, have you seen Nick? I need to talk to him.”

“Nick? Why would you want to talk to him?” Tom asked, feigning surprise. “You could do so much better, you know.”

“Because I need his help, you oaf,” she said, exasperation creeping into her tone. “Besides, he’s the only one around here who isn’t too busy trying to impress me with their endless bravado.”

“Yeah, well, Nick isn’t exactly known for his charm either,” Charlie joked, nudging Tom. “But I suppose he’s got that whole ‘brooding hero’ thing going on.”

Just then, the door to the Black Crow swung open, and Nick stepped outside, his demeanor instantly shifting the atmosphere. He wore a threadbare coat, its edges frayed but still stylish in a way that suited him. His hair was tousled, and his steely gray eyes narrowed in irritation as he surveyed the scene before him.

“What’s this? A circus?” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you lot are finished flirting with the lady, perhaps you can return to the important task of throwing rocks or whatever it is you do to amuse yourselves.”

Tom held up his hands in mock surrender, while Charlie grinned, unphased by Nick’s brusque attitude. “Relax, Nick. We’re just being friendly.”

“Right. Friendly. Or is it just your idea of charm?” Nick replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Charlotte doesn’t need your ‘friendly’ nonsense. She’s got enough to deal with, I’m sure.”

With that, he turned to Clara, his expression softening slightly. “What’s up? You look like you’ve got something important to say.”

Clara hesitated, the weight of her request settling heavily in her stomach. She had never been one to ask for help, especially not from someone like Nick, whom she barely knew beyond their odd encounters. Yet, she had to try. “I do,” she said finally, her voice steady. “I need you to be my escort to the ball at the Blackwood estate.”

Nick blinked, clearly taken aback. “You want me to escort you to a ball?” He laughed, a genuine burst of incredulity. “Is this some kind of joke? You must know I’m not the sort of chap who gets invited to fancy parties.”

“I’m serious,” Clara insisted, her tone firm. “I need someone to go with me, and you’re the only person I know who can handle the absurdity of the situation without falling to pieces.”

“Why me? I mean, surely you’ve got other options,” Nick replied, still skeptical.

“Because I can’t trust anyone else. You’re the only one who isn’t a pretentious git and won’t be intimidated by their wealth,” Clara explained. “Besides, you’re familiar with the area and might even know some people there. I can’t do this alone.”

Nick rubbed the back of his neck, his brow furrowed in thought. “And you think I’ll be useful at this ball? What do I know about high society? I’m more accustomed to dodging factory foremen than dancing with lords and ladies.”

“You’d be surprised,” Clara said, her tone earnest. “You’ve seen the way these people act. You understand their world, even if you don’t belong to it. Plus, if I’m to uncover the truth about the Manchester Mincer, I’ll need someone like you by my side—someone who can keep their head when everyone else is playing the fool.”

There was a moment of silence, and Clara could see the wheels turning in Nick’s mind. She wondered if he was considering the implications of what she was asking. “You really want me to come with you?” he asked, skepticism lacing his words.

“Yes,” she affirmed, meeting his gaze with sincerity. “If you agree, we can figure this out together.”

He paused again, glancing at Charlie and Tom, who were now watching the exchange with mild interest. “Alright,” Nick said finally, a hint of reluctance in his voice. “But if I’m going to this ball, I’m going to need a bit of time to get ready. I can’t show up looking like I just crawled out from under a wagon.”

“Deal,” Clara replied, relief flooding through her. “We’ll meet in the late afternoon and plan our approach.”

“Fine, I’ll see you later then, Charlotte,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk as he turned back to his mates. “Try not to scare off any more chaps with that charm of yours, alright?”

Clara rolled her eyes, but the playful banter was a welcome distraction.

Clara moved through the streets of Manchester, her gaze flickering from the factory buildings stretching upward, dark against the late afternoon sky, to the narrow alleys she passed, each offering a glimpse into the labyrinth of the city. The market’s din faded as she ventured farther into a quieter part of town, her initial certainty beginning to waver as she realized she’d strayed from the bustling main streets. For a moment, she hesitated, glancing over her shoulder to retrace her steps.

But as she took a turn, the buildings grew closer and the street narrower, her footsteps sounding hollow in the empty alleyway. Shadows loomed high and dark around her, and the once-bustling city felt suddenly silent and isolated. She walked with purpose, hoping to find her way back, but her instincts sent a ripple of caution through her, the hairs on her neck rising as she heard footsteps behind her.

Before she could react, a low voice spoke up from behind her, rough with an edge of malice. “Look what we have here,” it sneered. Three men emerged from the shadows, blocking her way forward. Another two closed in behind her, sealing off her escape route.

Clara’s heart thudded, but she took a steadying breath, schooling herself to stay calm. She didn’t let her fear show; instead, her expression turned defiant, meeting each of their eyes in turn. She’d been taught by the best, and she knew how to defend herself—but five men would be a challenge.

“Out for a stroll, are you?” one of them mocked, a twisted grin on his face. He took a step forward, arms wide as if to usher her deeper into their trap. “Not the safest part of town for a pretty thing like you.”

Clara clenched her fists, calculating her odds. “I’m not lost,” she said coolly. “And I’m certainly not helpless.” Her voice was calm but carried an undertone of warning.

“Oh, she’s got fire,” the man said with a chuckle, his companions echoing him in jeering laughter. They inched closer, forming a tighter circle.

Clara knew the moment would come soon. She steadied herself, her fingers flexing as she prepared to throw her first punch, when a sudden flash of movement from the alley’s entrance caught her attention.

In an instant, one of the men was yanked backward, his grunt cut off abruptly. A second figure dropped beside her, then surged forward. Clara’s heart leapt as she recognized him—Sherlock.

Without a word, Sherlock grabbed the nearest man and flung him against the alley wall, his movements precise, cold, and effective. Another lunged at him, but Sherlock sidestepped, catching the man’s arm and twisting it with enough force to send him stumbling to the ground. The other two men exchanged glances, their bravado shrinking as Sherlock turned to them, his gaze icy, daring them to try.

One of the men advanced, hoping to catch Sherlock off-guard, but Sherlock sidestepped again, a swift uppercut sending the man reeling backward. Within seconds, the gang scattered, stumbling away as Sherlock loomed over them, his eyes as sharp and unyielding as blades.

Clara watched, speechless. She had seen her father in action before, but something about his resolve, his focus in that moment, filled her with awe.

Once the last of the men had disappeared into the shadows, Sherlock turned to her, his eyes narrowing. There was no hint of relief on his face. Instead, his mouth was set in a tight, angry line, his gaze piercing as it held hers. For a moment, he said nothing, his silence more intense than any reprimand.

“Clara,” he said finally, his tone clipped, almost dangerous. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

Clara swallowed, opening her mouth to respond, but his words cut through the silence, stopping her.

“What possessed you to wander into this part of the city alone?” he continued, his voice cold and measured, though she could hear the anger simmering beneath the surface. “Are you aware of the danger you’ve put yourself in?”

“I was gathering information,” Clara replied, lifting her chin defensively. “I had to find out more about the case, about—”

“Information?” he interrupted, his brows knitting together in disbelief. “You could have been hurt—or worse. Is that worth the ‘information’ you thought you’d uncover?”

Clara’s pulse quickened as the weight of his words sank in. She’d expected him to be frustrated, but not this level of barely restrained anger. She opened her mouth to speak again, but he held up a hand, silencing her.

“Do you think this is a game, Clara?” he demanded, his voice soft but heavy. “Some youthful adventure that allows you to play detective without consequence?”

Clara’s eyes flashed with defiance. “I’m not playing at anything. I wanted to understand what happened with you and—” She caught herself, swallowing the name that had been on the tip of her tongue: her mother.

“Understand?” His voice softened slightly, though it lost none of its edge. “And did you think I wouldn’t notice when you suddenly disappeared without a word? You think I wouldn’t have known you’d be here?”

“How did you?” she managed, frustration slipping through her resolve.

“I know you, Clara. And I knew you’d come here, to this very place, because of your… curiosity.” He took a sharp breath, searching for control. “Manchester holds answers you want. But answers are nothing if you’re not here to hear them.” His gaze, though still stern, softened at the edges, carrying the weight of a father’s worry.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, and Clara’s defenses softened as she realized the depth of his fear.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her tone more vulnerable than she’d intended. “I just… I felt I had to know. To understand what happened here, where you and… where everything began.”

He exhaled, his expression tightening, yet there was a flicker of something else—perhaps understanding or even empathy. “You think I don’t understand that, Clara?” he replied, his voice gentler now. “I know the need to uncover what haunts us. I understand the pull of answers, the desire to illuminate every shadow. But you have to understand that some darkness fights back.”

Clara nodded, the weight of his words settling over her. She could feel the tension between them easing, though the intensity in his eyes remained.

“Do you know why I keep my distance sometimes?” he asked softly, surprising her with the unexpected shift in his tone. “It’s not because I don’t want you involved. It’s because I fear that if I show you too much, you’ll run headfirst into these very dangers, thinking you’re invincible.”

She looked down, her expression softened. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just… I wanted to follow in your footsteps. To understand the things you’ve done, to see the world as you see it.”

Sherlock’s gaze softened further, a look of something like sadness or regret passing over his features. “You already see the world in ways few others do. And I don’t want my ghosts becoming yours.”

Clara hesitated, absorbing his words. Then she met his gaze. “Maybe I don’t need to inherit your ghosts. But I can’t pretend not to care, or pretend that the mysteries you’ve uncovered don’t call to me too.”

For a long moment, Sherlock was silent. Then he stepped closer, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. “Then understand this, Clara: If you’re going to seek answers, you’ll need more than courage and skill. You’ll need to temper that courage with patience and know when to let go. It’s a hard lesson, and one I had to learn the long way.”

She nodded, feeling the weight of his words and the warmth of his hand, a touch that was both comforting and grounding.

“I’ll be more careful,” she promised quietly. “And… I’ll let you know before I disappear next time.”

A faint smile crossed his face, a flicker of relief melting the tension in his expression. “That would be much appreciated,” he replied, the slightest hint of humor in his tone. “Come on, let’s get you back.”

They walked in silence for a moment, his presence a silent reminder of both his worry and his respect for her determination. As they made their way out of the narrow alleys, Clara stole a glance at him, feeling a surge of gratitude—and a deepening respect—for the man beside her.

For all his walls and his icy demeanor, he was her father, and he cared more than he would ever openly admit. And, despite her own stubbornness, she knew that his anger was born out of fear—a fear that came from a love she could now see clearly.

As they neared the familiar streets, the tension fully eased between them, and Clara couldn’t help but murmur, “I didn’t expect you to follow me here.”

Sherlock’s expression softened, a warmth in his gaze that was rarely visible to anyone but her. “Then you still have much to learn, Clara. There’s no place I wouldn’t follow if it meant keeping you safe.”

She looked up at him, feeling a deep, quiet gratitude.

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐔𝐏:

Nick’s eyes darted away from hers, uncertain of how to respond. No one had ever looked at him like that, not with the quiet admiration he saw in her eyes. To mask his discomfort, he gave a small, awkward laugh. “I reckon the lads back home wouldn’t know me like this.”

“Oh, you’d certainly turn a few heads.” She took a step back, giving him an appraising look. “There’s something… dignified about you, Nicholas. This suit just brings it out.”

He snorted, brushing off her compliment with a wave of his hand, but the way she looked at him made his heart pound. “I’m just a lad from the mills, Charlotte. You don’t need to pretend I’m more than that.”

“But you’re not just anything,” she said, her tone firm. “You have intelligence, wit. This suit doesn’t make you more than you are; it just lets others see what I already know.”

Nick’s eyes widened at her words, his chest tightening at the sincerity he heard in her voice. He wasn’t used to such kind words; his friends were more likely to poke fun than pay compliments. He stared down at the polished shoes, feeling a little like an actor unsure of his role. “I dunno if I’m cut out for this,” he murmured.

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @goldngguk @sweetpeachbombshell @slut-for-stiles @staple-your-mouth @daddyscrimsstuff

@dob-4-life @marcis-mixtapez @nonoreas0n @gabrielasilva1510

@lucyholmes13 @pandadork-blog1 @nicolstancu @malusinhaaaa @dybalabandolero

@a-cup-of-nightshade @tomatoessoup @sh0rtcakee @fall-06 @mckaykay-fandoms

@b3th13

@demonxangelomegaverse @deanwinchestersgirl87 @capailluiscedove @i723l-interrupted2323 @niyomiii

@all-the-fan-fic @eviekinevie8 @sunflowerlover57 @1-800-dean-winchester

@darichvep @idk-usernme @supernaturalmarvel3000 @ega2025 @deanbrainrotwritings

@targaryenluvs @bucky-hydra-hoe-barnes @leigh70 @aintnowayboi @ripoffsteveharrington

@gleefulleve @sacrosankta

@riteofpassage77 @eevvvaa @thedevilortheangel @thorsballhair @barbienotdoll

@4e1h3r @wolfieblue03 @kianaleani @vicky199625 @sassyslut2003

@impyrz

@didisull @miwp @lastcallatrockysbar @rizlowwritessortof

@zepskies @angelbabyyy99 @autisticgothic

@yourgoldengirls @deansobsessedgirl @mrsjenniferwinchester

@aylacavebear @lailawinchesterr @brightlilith @arcanaa @hobby27

@lyarr24 @ximm19

@a-girl-who-loves-disney @jeneelsworld @deans-spinster-witch @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @kayleighwinchester

@cheynovak @d3ndroslim3s @phantomtea19 @homewreckingwreck @annoyance-for-u

@i-have-no-life-charlie

#sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes imagine #sherlock holmes x fem!reader #sherlock holmes x y/n #sherlock holmes smut #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #henry cavill characters #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavil x reader #henry cavill smut #henry cavill #henry cavill x female reader #miles of us #artyandink #arty writes #cloudless climes and starry skies #miles of us chapter two

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twinklecupcake · 5 months ago

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Random Spider Demon headcanons:

Spider Queen and her boys are not the last remaining Spider Demons. (Thank goodness.) Their numbers are very small compared to what they were in the past, and they’re a lot fewer than most demons, though. Instead, they’re scattered in small groups throughout China. It’s hard for them to find each other, but they’re aware of each other’s existence.

Spindrax is Spider Queen’s niece (from her twin sister) and left the nest years ago. She’s kind of off doing her own thing/looking for another group.

Similarly, Huntsman and Goliath are her nephews from her older sister.

Spider Queen was one of the Seven Spider Sisters. She was the youngest - she had a twin sister, but said sister kept insisting she was older (her egg hatched a whole thirty seconds earlier).

All Spider Demons can produce webs, but the quality of the webbing varies depending on the demon. Spiders like Huntsman and Goliath have incredibly strong webs for weapons or shields, but others might have softer and more delicate webs because they use it for weaving.

Spider Demons carry their children everywhere in the first few months of their life. Usually in a silk bag on their back or chest.

Full Spider Demons lay eggs. But a half (or less) Spider child is a live birth. (Do not think about it too long.)

Spiders are matriarchal. If Spider Queen were to have a consort, he’d still be called the king, but she’d be the one in charge. There would be no question.

Spider Queen’s spider body is a mobility aid. She can walk and stand on her human legs, but only for so long. She also likes the added height and intimidation upgrade the mech gives her.

It took the Spiders a long time to stop eating humans. They were one of the few city-dwelling demons that still did. (You see those empty silk cocoons in ‘Noodles or Death?’ Yeah…) After being rescued from Spirit Jail by MK and crew, part of the truce was they had to stop.

Huntsman can and has taken down game several times his size. He brought down a bear.

Spider Demons absolutely cannot survive without meat. There’s no such thing as a vegetarian Spider.

All four of our Spider Demons have nightmares about the furnace, Not the Mayor, and LBD. Spider Queen’s lasted longest.

Spiders adopt ‘strays’ and orphans into their group. Any Spider who’s alone, won’t be for very long. Spiders are also very protective of anyone they deem as ‘theirs.’

Spider courtship mainly involves giving gifts of food. Huntsman had to explain that to Sandy later. It was hilarious.

Spider Queen considers all the spiders in the caves to be her children - this one is sorta canon though as it was mentioned in one of the tie-in books. Prior to her attempt of fighting LBD, she sent them all away for their safety.

Goliath looks tough and can punch a hole in stone, but he’s a big softie.

And a horrible tragic one: once, Goliath and Huntsman were looking for a new home before Silken Web Cave was relocated to the sewers. They found one cave that showed signs of Spiders having once lived there, but it clearly had not been used in centuries. Then Huntsman found old eggshells from smashed eggs. He urged himself and Goliath out fast, and was pretty messed up by it for a few days.

#q #monkie kid #silkteashipping #<- mentioned

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couldsewyouastitchandsavenine · 10 months ago

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Dancing In The Dark [Javi Peña] 01

summary: Javier Peña knows all the answers to all questions but one... what if? pairing: javier peña x fem!reader word count: 3.7K a/n: my first Javi fic. feedback is appreciated.

warnings: language, mention of self-esteem issues,

Part 01 Part 02 Part 03

Javier Peña was no friends with sleep.

To him, sleep was a dance he would consciously opt out of, never quite catching the rhythm—perpetually a step behind.

Throughout the years, Javier Peña had mastered the skill of pretense; with his eyes shut and body appearing relaxed and at ease, yet sleep remained a territory he intentionally steered cleared from.

For Javier Peña was all too aware of the things that lay in wait when he’d close his eyes.

The harrowing memories of what he had seen, all the horror he wished he could unsee, and the lingering cries that never seem to fade. Every ally he had lost, every enemy that had been born, and all the innocent lives entangled in the web he helped to weave.

The irony of it all was almost laughable.

By day, Javier Peña was the epitome of unwavering strength. His bravery unchallenged. Yet, when the night draped the world in darkness, he allowed himself a different truth; he was afraid, too hesitant to welcome the vulnerability that came with being asleep.

Thus, Javier chose to stay awake, inhabiting a space where he could maintain a safe distance from his inner demons. It might have been the easier choice, the lesser evil, so to speak. But, in his mind, it was still better than facing the ghosts that sleep would so easily usher in.

And it was in the midst of his self-imposed insomnia that Javier’s attention was abruptly drawn to an unusual sound that night. A strange, distinct rattling, right outside his door, slicing through the noise of the city’s distant hum and the intermittent barking of a stray dog that echoed from a few blocks away.

Rising from his seat, Javier’s hand instinctively reached for the cold metal of his weapon, buried amidst the chaotic sprawl of reeking dust and aged ink that had consumed his days, perhaps weeks.

Each scribbled one, every photograph and file, all the tapes and transcripts, they all blurred the lines between his duty and existence, between the man that Javier was and the role he had assumed.

Advised to never bring his work home, Javier had not only brought it, but allowed it to become a tangible reflection of his overburdened mind. So much so that his modest apartment had long since ceased to be a sanctuary, but a vast repository for fragments of his professional life, making his few personal items seems almost foreign.

Moving with the kind of stealth and silence born of experience, Javier cautiously approached the door—the gun in his hand providing a near-comical sense of comfort. It felt like shaking hands with an old friend; familiar and oddly comforting in its solid presence.

Javier paused. Held his breath. Took a moment to collect himself before leaning in to peer through the peephole. As he did so, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly—a flicker of recognition flashing across his face.

With a swift, deft motion and a heavy exhale, he slid the lock open, pulling at the door-handle with more force than intended.

"¡Hijo de puta!" Javier exclaimed instinctively as his gaze fell on your figure on the other side of the brassy chain. "What are you doing here at this hour, nena?" he blurted out, stealing a quick glance at his watch while subtly tucking his gun behind his waistband. Even though he knew you were no stranger to the constant presence of his weapon, brandishing it now felt strangely out of place. "How did you even get here?"

Your response was a broad, unabashed smile, radiating a confidence that you half-suspected might annoy him.

"I biked over," you declared, stretching up on your toes. It was was as much an attempt to diminish the height difference between you and Javier as it was a reflection of your restless energy.

"You biked over?" Javier echoed, his tone a mix of disbelief with a touch of concern.

"Yes, I biked," you affirmed calmly, observing his eyebrows knit together in a frown. Then, with a quick motion, he unhitched the chain and opened the door just wide enough for you to sidestep into his world.

As you moved past his shirtless figure, Javier instinctively leaned forward in order to scan the dim corridor. Gripping the door frame with firm assurance, his gaze shifted right, then left before eventually settling on your old bicycle, chained to a metal pipe outside. The racer, adorned with rust streaks, appeared strangely out of place in this setting—a seemingly uninviting target for theft, yet it was secured with a robust, heavy-duty chain as though it were a rare jewel.

Javier mentally noted to have a word with Murphy about giving you the bike. It was a foolish decision on Murphy's part, rivaled only by your own eagerness to accept it without hesitation.

"There's nothing wrong with biking, Javi," you called out with a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders as though navigating through the streets of Medellín in the middle of the night were nothing more than a casual evening adventure, rather than a flirtation with potential danger.

Javier reacted instantly to your casual demeanor. He closed the door with a resounding thud, a sound that echoed in the cramped apartment and made you flinch. Locking it quickly, he followed after you—his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in either an attempt to fend off a headache or to perhaps stall his rising irritation.

"Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be out at this hour?" he asked, his tone stern. "You could've been followed, robbed, or worse—"

"—Javi, please, look at me," you interjected, a blend of humor and seriousness in your voice as you gestured towards yourself. "I seriously doubt I'm anyone's top target for kidnapping."

Despite giving your best, your attempt to lighten the mood didn't seem to alleviate the concern etched deeply in Javier's features. If anything it only made him more annoyed with you—his posture rigid with unease.

Deciding to shift the conversation, you effortlessly took off your backpack and began unzipping it. “I thought you might want some food.”

Javier's expression then morphed into something almost humorous—a mix of annoyance and disbelief, tinged with a reluctant smile at your boldness.

"You brought food?" he echoed, his voice laced with surprise. "At two in the morning?"

“Empanadas,” you clarified, presenting the plastic container wrapped in a crinkled bag, as if the unconventional timing was an insignificant detail.

He opened his mouth to say something, perhaps to protest, but then as if realizing that it wouldn’t make any difference to you, he wordlessly accepted the food from your outstretched hands.

With the container now in Javier's hands, you slipped your own into the back pockets of your worn, stain-splattered jeans before following him to the kitchen, leaning against the chipped counter near the sink—its door hanging off one hinge.

"Thanks," he mumbled, breaking the quiet before opening the refrigerator, which gave a angry, buzzing hum. As he placed the container on an upper shelf, you noticed the rows of similar, mostly untouched containers inside, resembling abandoned relics in a museum dedicated to his usual diet of nicotine and alcohol.

You've seen those containers before. After all, it was you who meticulously packed them.

Strangely, the fact that he, more often than not, ignored the food you brought him, didn’t bother you. At least, not anymore. If anything, your tango of offering and overlooking has become an accepted, if not slightly amusing part of your friendship.

“Looks like Steve hasn’t been dropping by much lately,” you commented lightly, a teasing tone in your voice. "He's always had a thing for Lupe's lentejas.”

Javier acknowledged your comment with a grunt that seemed to carry more weight than a simple throat-clearing as he delved in the fridge, emerging with two bottles of cold beer. Using the edge of the kitchen counter to pop them open, he held one out to you, his lips curved into a half-smile, tinged with irony before walking towards the living room.

You grinned to yourself before following, navigating the path to the seating area with familiarity, only taking a halt once Javier paused to casually put on a crumpled tee.

As his muscles shifted under his tanned, taut skin, a routine gesture of always making sure to be dressed in front of you, turned into something more.

Something that made your gaze linger. Something that made your eyes trace the lines of his form—a reaction that hadn’t occurred before, leaving you momentarily unsettled.

The moment stretched, filled with the uncomfortable ripple that made waves inside your chest, before you quietly cleared your throat and looked away, a slight warmth rising to your cheeks.

"I was actually asleep," Javier said suddenly, turning to face you as he reached for his Marlboros on the cluttered coffee table.

His words seemed to hang in the air, their lack of conviction almost making them seem like an afterthought. They floated, as if trying to find a place to land, yet they never quite did.

You could tell he was lying.

Over time, you had come to understand Javier Peña in a way he might not fully realize himself.

However, you chose not to confront him about it. Instead, you opted to play along to his charade. "Oh, did I wake you? Should I leave?" you asked, injecting a hint of feigned concern into your voice.

Javier responded with a casual wave of his hand, brushing aside your question as he focused on retrieving his cigarette.

In his eyes, though, there was a resigned but silent invitation, a non-verbal cue suggesting you should stay. So, you obliged, sinking into the armchair that carried the familiar scent of tobacco and an unmistakable trace of Javier himself before letting the silence settle between you.

—

After over a decade of wandering through Colombian cities, it was in Medellín where you unexpectedly found yourself pausing, staying longer than in any other place you had considered home as an adult. Initially, you had no plans to stay beyond a few months. However, the deep, lingering sadness from your father's passing and a life that seemed to drift aimlessly compelled you to seek solace and stability with your Aunt Lupe.

Her declining health was another reason; the thought of leaving her to fend for herself while unwell was something you couldn't bear, had only further anchored you to Medellín.

In the warmth of her presence and her offer of a permanent roof over your head in exchange for some care and company, you found reasons to stay, to find some solid ground once more. Part of that plan involved attempting to re-enter school—an effort to piece back some normalcy and purpose. However, instead of classrooms and heavy textbooks, you ended up behind the bar of a local spot, nestled just a stone's throw away from the DEA's imposing presence.

The bar was like any other slightly rundown establishment in the area, with its chipping paint and a jukebox coated in a layer of dust. Yet, in this unassuming place, you found an unexpected sense of belonging. It wasn't just your haven, but also a refuge for the regulars who frequented it, and a slice of respite for those burdened by the weight of their badges—their holsters as much a part of their attire as the deep lines of worry, etched across their faces, narrating the tales of silent worries. Stories that were perhaps too deep, or simply too raw too be voiced

Among them was Javier Peña — a man as intricate and tough as the streets of Medellín themselves.

You quickly became acquainted with the rumors, swirling around him. Tales of his sharp intelligence, relentless determination, and a certain ruthlessness in pursuit of his professional goals seemed to float through the dimly lit bar, much like the cigarette smoke, lingering in the air. Then, there were other rumors; whispers about his private life—open secrets, passed in hushed tones from one patron to another, or shared among his colleagues in a blend of admiration and disdain.

A smooth-talker and a maverick, an enigma to some and an asshole to others.

Unpredictable.

A living, walking paradox.

Straightforward in his professional dealings, but layered in his personal life.

Tough, yet had a charm that was hard to ignore. And he wasn’t shy to use that charm whenever he pleased, especially with women who unabashedly flocked towards him as if he was the the flame to their moths.

The kind of man whose activities in both business and pleasure often took him to the darker corners of the city, the parts where questions were seldom asked and answers were rarely needed.

From the very beginning, your resolution had been firm and clear: maintain a respectful, cautious distance from Javier Peña, consciously steering clear of the seemingly endless procession of the lonely, the lustful, and the longing that perpetually trailed in his wake.

However, on a particularly quiet Wednesday evening, breaking this self-imposed rule felt as natural as pouring a glass of aguardiente: smooth, effortless, almost instinctive.

That night, he appeared different, enveloped in a visible weariness — his gaze distant and unfocused. It was a sort of melancholy that seemed to weigh heavily upon him, a kind of sorrow that the parade of drinks sent by hopeful women – who had become almost as much a fixture of the bar as the stools they perched on – could not dispel.

And that caught your attention. It stirred something in you, a sense of understanding. You knew what it was like to feel that kind of loneliness; it was a feeling you had become all too familiar with.

Without a second thought to the why or the what-ifs, you reached for another tumbler and the familiar bottle of amber whiskey. Weaving through the crowd, you moved with determined steps toward him, where he stood as a lone figure by a high table near the entrance.

“You know,” you started, your voice carrying a light, almost teasing tone as you poured whiskey into the glass you set down in front of him, “even without ordering anything yourself, you’re surprisingly good for business tonight.” The fact that his eyes only briefly met yours before drifting away again didn’t deter you. “Seems like you’re a bit lonely tonight.”

"For someone who needs a step stool to see over the bar, you sure keep tabs on everything," he shot back, a flash of sarcastic amusement in his eyes meeting yours for just a moment before he lifted the glass he was drinking from to his lips.

You grinned in response, casually gathering empty glasses with your free hand—their clinking a familiar tune to your ears. “Not here to force you do anything, but maybe a bit of appreciation for your admirers could lift your spirits,” you suggested playfully, hoping to break the awkward silence.

"Tonight, it's just me and the drinks," Javier responded, his shoulders dipping in a faint but unmistakable gesture of resignation. He took a moment, seemingly lost in thought as he studied the cigarette smoldering between his fingers before continuing, “Though, I might reconsider this one,” he mused. “So, whose generosity am I indebted to this time?” he asked, casting a half-hearted glance over his shoulder.

Briefly, his eyes, met those of a tall brunette at the other end of the bar. She held his gaze for a second longer than necessary—a playful, inviting smile playing on her lips. But his interest seemed to wane as quickly as it had been piqued.

He turned back his glass, seemingly unperturbed by the brief flirtatious moment.

"Oh," you responded with an easy shrug, noticing out of the corner of your eye a group at the bar trying to catch your attention. With a quick and familiar gesture of your free hand, you signaled that you'd be right with them, then turned your focus back to the brooding agent. “That one’s on me.”

Without missing a heartbeat, Javier’s gaze returned to you, less subtle this time, searching. His eyes dragged themselves over your silhouette and your hand-me-down outfit, as if trying to see what might be hiding underneath the layers of denim and plaid. There was a brief pause where he seemed to contemplate something, finally settling on whatever answer to his unspoken question.

And when his eyes met yours again, they carried an unmistakable glint—lips curling into a smile that held more than just friendliness. It was suggestive, loaded with charm that brought out his right dimple.

"And what's in it for you?" he asked, his voice a blend of curiosity and cautious probing—eyebrow arching in a silent, questioning challenge.

Your response was calm, accompanied by a small, knowing smile as you turned around, ready to walk to tend the rest of the bar. “Nothing, really. It’s just a drink, agent Peña.”

—

“C’mon, nena, out with it. Why are you really here?” Javier’s voice cut sharply through the quiet of the room, scattering your thoughts like fallen leaves. You made a mental note to collect them later, lifting your gaze to meet his. “You didn’t cycle all this way just to drop off empanadas,” he pressed, fixing his gaze on you.

Your reply came with a casual shrug as you rested your eyes on the bottle you were holding—your fingernail absentmindedly picking at its peeling label.

“You just haven’t been around much lately,” you said, not quite sure what more to add.

“Sounds like you missed me?” Javier teased, a hint of fatigue lacing his smirk.

Leaning back slightly, he took a long drag from his cigarette before languidly reaching over to tap the ash into a tray on a nearby table. His movements were unhurried, characteristic of someone who was comfortable in his own skin yet weary from the world.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Peña. Just got me worried, that’s all,” you grinned, setting your beer down on the table as your eyes caught a sight of a pair of women’s underwear, poking from underneath the coffee table. “But it looks like you’ve been managing just fine,” you added with a suggestive smirk.

“Sharp as ever, aren’t you, nena?” Javier shot back with a hint of admiration.

"Doesn't take a detective to notice, Javi, especially when you don't clean up after your... 'girlfriends'," you said, the word 'girlfriends' lingering a bit sourly on your tongue even as you managed a grin. Standing up quickly, you leaned over and deftly hooked the garment with your index finger, lifting it with a combination of amusement and feigned surprise. Settling back into your seat, you held up the red fabric, examining it. “Wow,” you breathed out, “this doesn’t exactly leave much to the imagination, does it?”

“That’s the point, nena.” He quickly reached over before smoothly taking the underwear from your hand, flinging it to the other side of the room with an effortless gesture—his demeanor unfazed and confidently indifferent. Looking back at you, he pinched the cigarette between his thumb and index finger as he leaned into the seat again. “Tell me.”

You started hesitantly, attempting to maintain a casual air. “It’s probably nothing,” but your voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty.

“It never is,” he countered, his voice holding an edge of seriousness.

You hesitated for a moment, feeling a knot of apprehension in your stomach. Taking a deep, subtle breath to steady your nerves, you glanced down briefly, gathering your thoughts. When you looked up again, your voice was casual, but your eyes were intently focused on the faded print on Javier tee, unable to face him.

"There were some people at the bar the other night. Not our regular crowd. They seemed... out of place, a bit shady."

Instantly, Javier's relaxed demeanor shifted. He straightened up, putting his cigarette out with a deliberate, careful motion. "Shady how? Did they talk to you? Did you interact with them?" His questions came quickly, his voice laced with a newfound urgency, the usual weariness in his eyes replaced by a piercing focus.

"They just made small talk, nothing noteworthy," you responded, maintaining a casual facade. "They seemed more interested in observing the crowd than engaging in any deep conversation. I ended my shift early, and Chema took over. That's about all I saw."

Javier’s expression hardened, mirroring his deepening concern.

“Listen, you need to stay alert. Those guys might be involved with the cartel, even sicarios.” His expression was growing more stern with each second as he looked at you intently. “You shouldn’t be talking to those types of people or getting involved in conversations with them,” he cautioned, his voice heavy with concern.

“I was just doing my job, Javi. I’ve been at that bar long enough to know how to handle different types of customers,” you interjected, a touch of annoyance creeping into your voice at his overprotectiveness.

"You know that it isn't that simple. You're in a prime spot to overhear things, see things. This isn’t about your experience at the bar, it’s about the dangers you might not see coming—"

"—I'm fully aware of the risks," you snapped back sharply, interrupting him.

Javier's jaw clenched in response, his eyes reflecting the deep-seated concern of someone all too familiar with loss and danger. "If you truly understood the risks, you wouldn't be so casual about this," he shot back, his tone edged with frustration.

Reacting to his words, you leaned back slightly, as if physically distancing yourself from the gravity of his concern. Your eyes momentarily shifted away in a silent display of rebellion, then returned to meet his gaze. You crossed your arms, not so much defensively, but as an instinctive effort to compose yourself under his intense gaze.

The room was then enveloped in a heavy silence, charged with words left unsaid. Javier’s intense stare didn't waver from you, betraying the whirl of thoughts behind his stern facade. After a moment of palpable tension, he broke the silence with a firmness unusual in your interactions.

"Okay, that’s it. No more biking around Medellín, not day or night. It’s too dangerous."

Raising an eyebrow, your independent spirit surged, laced with a touch of sarcasm. "Really, Javi? And what do you suggest I do instead? Are you going to be my personal chauffeur around town? Maybe drop everything mid-mission because Lupe needs her asthma medicine?"

Javier didn't respond, and you gave a self-assured nod, almost rhetorically confirming your point.

Of course, he wouldn’t, couldn't do any of that.

For a moment, Javier just looked at you, his expression a blend of concern, frustration, and a deep-seated sense of responsibility. But then, abruptly, he stood up—his movements decisive, cutting through the tension like a sharp blade.

"You're also staying here tonight," Javier declared firmly. "It's not safe for you to go out alone at this time."

The seriousness in his voice left no room for argument, you knew that, but you still immediately began to shake your head, ready to refuse his directive. However, his stance was serious.

“This isn’t up for discussion, nena. It’s too dangerous out there right now.”

“I can’t stay here,” you insisted firmly, hoping to assert your independence, but quickly softened your expression and your tone. “Can’t you just… drive me home?”

“No, I can’t,” he answered as he took a few steps towards the window, peering out into he darkness. “This isn’t about me being controlling. It’s about what I know, what I've seen out there. You may not be used to taking orders, and I’m not the type to give them, not to you. But when it comes to these things, I can’t compromise.”

You watched him, his attention still captured by the world outside the window. His usual confident posture was now replaced by a hint of weariness, revealing a seldom-seen vulnerability beneath his tough exterior.

"So, this is your 'saving the damsel' moment, huh…,” you trailed off—the dry response sounding harsher than you wanted it to be.

“Think what you like, nena,” he said, definitely done with conversation as he moved towards his bedroom. “The couch is yours for the night. You know where the blankets are.”

#javi peña #pedro pascal #javier peña #javier pena x you #pedro pascal character fanfiction #javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier pena x reader #javier pena fanfiction #javi peña x f!reader #javier pena narcos #javier peña x fem!reader #narocs fic #narcos fanfiction #agent peña #javi pena

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justadeadreaper · 11 months ago

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Hybrids between Ethereals were rare, in fact they were near nonexistent as most species tended to keep to themselves so a hybrid between an Ethereal and Angel was unheard of. A hybrid of that nature was deemed impossible as the Angels that did reproduce were nearly all outcasted an eternity ago, then you also heard the fear that also reigned over the minds of most Angels as it was not uncommon to hear rumours that if an Angel did have sex in general that they would be outcasted. But, this did not take into consideration hybrid Angels that were experiments; holy creatures made by the Almighty in an attempt to improve the powers that certain types of Angels had to make them more useful against the creatures of Hell.

That was when the first hybrid between the structure of an Ethereal and an Angel was born.

For the first one to be ever made the Almighty wanted to go all out. Even a creature such as the Almighty was sceptical as to if it would work as even in all the time that the Almighty had been alive something such as this had never been made. Once the Seraphim heard about the experiment it got to the Cherubim then the Thrones then the Dominions until all of Heaven had heard of the experiment. The elders of the Seraphim and a few other Angels disagreed with the idea saying that it was bad and could cause chaos but most of Heaven agreed with the idea which led to a competition being born. Whichever Angel could find all the parts of different Ethereals and have the Almighty agree that the parts were perfect would be blessed with a reward of their wildest dreams.

A young Angel, a simple Virtue who had grown attached to the babies that the humans cared for, came to the Almighty with the parts needed for the experiment. The pincers and legs of a spider that had been killed by a horde of Demons when it was weaving its thread and silk to form a new part of Heaven; the horn of a unicorn that had been ripped off due to the unicorn’s failure to keep their maiden a virgin; the claws of one of the wolves that had saved her from a Demon attack; the fangs and horns of the weaker Krampusse under the rule of Krampus, weird creatures of Hell that were the only Demons accepted into Heaven under the watch of Powers as their cause was seen as purer compared to other Demons that did not fully care about tormenting Angels or spreading sin on Earth. The parts were barely damaged, perfect to be used for the newest experiment that the Almighty planned. The Almighty deemed them as useful and acceptable for the experiment and in return for helping in this experiment, the Almighty blessed her with an important role that would fulfil her desire. She would be the “mother” of the hybrid as unlike the Angels that were born as adults this hybrid would be born a baby due to the unstable nature of the hybrid and as a backup plan in case anything went wrong as a weak baby that knew nothing was easier to kill than an adult.

The day or well the event itself was a spectacle. Everyone wanted to see the birth of this experiment, to see what would happen when Angels and Ethereals were brought together into one being. A perfect mix that was left to incubate until it was stable enough to be able to exist. The tension was palpable as all of Heaven gathered around the star Muscida to see the unique being that would hatch forth. It was not long before it finally hatched as if it could feel the expecting eyes watching it, waiting for it, everyone wanting to see it. The star began to glow as it slowly began to expand and expand.

Bang.

It exploded, releasing an array of colours that spread out creating a web around the remains of the shell which the new creature had hatched from. The thing was wrapped in a layer of light that even blinded the Angels, no one could see its true form as it was hidden behind the light and before the light had chance to dim that experiment had been taken away by Michael to be given to the Almighty and the awaiting mother.

The creature was raised by a caring heart but was trained as soon as it could understand commands, its only purpose was to keep the Almighty safe and kill as many demons as it could find. A Seraphim mutated by the pieces of other creatures, a monster, an abomination. Never accepted by other Seraphim or the Cherubim who had to begrudgingly tolerate it while it was praised by the masses of lower Angels for massacring any Demons that came to close or even broke into Heaven; a balance of hate and love that was enough to fuck up anyone’s mind especially an Angel that only chased after the blood of Demons like it was a source of food.

For a creature so praised that was even welcomed alongside the Powers even if it was a completely different rank, no one knew what it looked like. Yes, Angels knew the rumours that had been passed from the Seraphims in a game of telephone. It was supposed to be monstrous, horrid even compared to creatures like the Thrones, a slight against the Almighty who must have been out of mind when creating the damned thing, the epitome of the phrase ‘Do not be afraid’. Most did not believe it as they could slightly see the chiselled body which was hidden behind robes that hung loosely from its body, although some Angels believed that behind the wings and veil that covered the face was the thing that was the true horror as all they ever got glimpses of were three icey, blue eyes on the left side of the face that never blinked but instead had a red tint to it whenever light caught it.

But those who had seen it would not truly call it a monster even if it had the features of one. The only few people who had seen the true form were its “mother”, the seven Archangels, the Almighty, and other Seraphim. In her deranged state the “mother” of course accepted it, no matter the appearance she would have been accepting because that was the baby that she had dreamed of. The Archangels did not care as why would they? They were too important, too busy to care about another experiment, yes a few of them thought it was a bit horrifying but most of the higher Angels were horrifying so in their opinion it fit right in. The Almighty did not care at all, in fact pride was the only thing the Almighty felt towards the experiment even with its appearance as that was just a testament as to what it was, it was all that was dreamed of, a perfect being of destruction that at first glance would be believed to be a total failure or impossible but it was not, no not at all. It was the first and was proof that it could work, to make hybrids that had the abilities of the Ethereals that could make Angels even more powerful than they already were like how in Hell they had been making hybrids to make Demons more stronger. All it was was proof to the Almighty even if more hybrids would be weaker or mixed with only one or two Ethereal types. But for the Seraphim it depended on who was the one answering the question. Most believed it to be a horrifying abomination, an insult to their kind to have their form mutated with the parts of less holy beings, although a minority of the Seraphim were accepting as it was not their place to judge as it was the Almighty’s favourite pet out of them all.

So, what did it look like? Was it truly horrifying under the mask? Well it depends on what is deemed as horrifying which depends on the person who sees it.

Like all Seraphim it had six wings: a pair to hide the face, a pair to fly that were not hiding anything, and a pair to hide the feet. The feathers were pure white at first glance but when the light hit at certain angles or they were tilted a certain way each feather was tinted with its very own colour, no colour was the same making each one unique. Its skin was slightly tanned but riddled with scars and the freckles, the scars were golden and were mostly slash wounds from when it had fought with Demons while the freckles looked like stars had been scattered across its chest, back, and face. Its hair was long and consisted of three forms, the first where it seemed to be lines of pure gold that was fluffy like cotton candy, the second a great blaze that could be lit on command as a way form of a threat as it was a wild mess, and the third was for after the hair had been turned to fire as it was consumed in soot to the point that it looked like obsidian as it was thing and like thin branches. Most of the time loose strands of hair were in front of its face or it was held behind its horns. It had three horns, a spiralling horn that curved into a point which would change colour depending on its mood while on the side instead of ears were two ram horns either side that had a slight raised spike of a horn at the base which would be considered an extra pair of horns if they were not attached to the other horns. The mouth would stretch far wider than humanly possible to show a set of teeth mostly made of canines with a tongue could wrap around most creatures easily as two chelicerae lay at the corners of the lips ready to inject Demons with a poison that would surely kill them in a moment. Technically it had four arms, all of which ended with claws, attached to its body as pedipalps attached to its arms looked like arms while it already had two normal arms attached to a body that was chiselled but chiselled to be a tank that could withstand attacks as the muscle was hidden under a protective layer of fat. On its face was a total of five eyes, three on the left and two on the right. All were an icey blue that looked like you were staring at the ocean through ice as the main right eye had one above it as the main left eye had one above and one below. And a crooked nose that had been broken a far few times due to Seraphim that just did not like when it opened its mouth to brag. What it was most embarrassed about though was the tail due to the sensitivity of the poor appendage. A long, tapered thing which was covered in a soft, silk-like fur before near two thirds through it bushed out into a soft pillow.

Compared to most Seraphim it was large, very large. Taller than all the others except for a select few as it towered over not just the other Seraphim but most of the beings in Heaven except for the Thrones that tended to be double its height. But, it was not just its height or mutated appearance that set it apart from the others, it was also the halo. Yes it may have been made up of light and was a circular disk, acting much like it was from a painting of a Saint as if it was a golden disk attached to the back of its head, but it did not just have lines of light coming out of it, no, it was slightly more disturbing. Arms circled around the halo, then eyes circled the arms, before it was finally circled by more beams of light.

Although it was not just its appearance that had it hated but instead some others that had directly dealt with it hated it for the egotistical personality.

Now how would one deal with many conflicting emotions and what sort of creature would it create? The emotions of technically being the only one of your kind, being at the time the only hybrid and when the other hybrids were made you were the only hybrid like that and the species you belonged to as a hybrid either seemed to praise you as a saviour or hated you for just existing. That same species that rejected you were so powerful but made you feel so much smaller as they bullied and ostracised you for what you were even though you could crush them under your feet. Then due to their ostracisation you could not do the job you felt you needed to do as it was in your nature as none of them trusted you, instead you were trained to become a mindless killer like the Angels so below you in righteousness. But how did that mix with being praised and glorified by your creator for just existing and being the perfect model as everyone eyes seemed to be watching you, waiting for you to screw up to be killed as you had such higher standards put to you compared to the mindless drones of creatures that adore you and kissed at your feet for being a killer and such a holy thing.

It created a mess, an unstable mess. A volatile cocktail of a violent, insecure, paranoid, cocky thing with too much confidence while being riddled with anxiety as a God complex was filled by all the praises that it had heard its whole life causing such an inferiority and superiority complex that did nothing to help the anger issues. No being wiser to the unholy thoughts that riddled its mind and actions due to the Demon and somewhat mortal structures that affected its nature as it could get away with most of the things it wanted since who would dare attack him for taking his frustrations out on others.

It made him.

König.

The King of the Hybrids, the experiment, one of Heaven’s finest killers.

#angel!cod au #cod #angel #konig cod #könig cod #könig call of duty #konig #könig #angel könig #angel König

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minecraftbookshelf · 9 months ago

Text

In the Age of Icons: Mistakes Are Made

Chapter One: The Day Of

A Marriage of State AU Fic

[AU Masterpost (includes the AO3 link)]

Characters: Jimmy Solidarity, Xornoth, Katherine Elizabeth, Mythical J Sausage

Relationships (for the AU as a whole): Eventual (very slow burn) Flower Husbands, (established) Shadowbeans/Jizzie, (obnoxiously new) Jornoth, Eventual (very far future) Nature Wives

Wordcount: 4214

Rating On AO3: This particular fic is rated T, future installments in the AU may go all the way up to E for graphic violence but most will be between T & M

Chapter POV: Jimmy Solidarity & Xornoth

Summary:

The Codfather weaves his fingertips together so that the slight webbing between his fingers touches. It's the first time in a while he's had both hands away from his shoulder, where at least one has been hovering near his sword hilt almost the entire time, despite Katherine's glares. "It's a marriage treaty, between the royalty of the oppositions, bound in blood and salt, for peace and mutual gain." His voice has gained a slight sing-song cadence to it, even through what is clearly a slightly stumbling translation, that Xornoth recognizes from their own anytime they are reciting something from their childhood lessons, even to this day.

Warnings: A sort of general reminder of the narrative tool "Unreliable Narrators"

This AU features multiple arranged marriages across the spectrum of platonic-romantic and the complicated nuances of chosen and arranged.

Any section from Xornoth's POV does have parts that read like very violent and occasionally graphic intrusive thoughts due to the whole "there is a demon living in their head" thing. If that's something you think you might have issues with, please proceed with caution if you choose to proceed at all.

Jimmy spends the majority of his flight to the Overgrown fuming and imagining the many different ways he could kill Sausage. It's cathartic indulgence and if he's busy imagining swarms of axolotls and pufferfish descend on the Mythlandic king in his minds' eye than he isn't worrying about the actual situation and what it could potentially mean for him and the Swamp.

Much. He isn't worrying about it much.

The fact that Sausage had made it past the Swamp border and all the way to Jimmy's house without being seen or stopped is...fine. It's fine.

The wind catches Jimmy's elytra at an odd angle and he dips alarmingly low for a heart-jolting moment; his tail flailing out on instinct in an attempt to steady him in a non-existent current. He catches himself before he actually crashes into the treetops, though he does have to bank hard to the left in a way that pulls the harness sharp against his shoulder. The joint twinges at the strain and he grimaces. He'll probably feel that tomorrow. He's been skipping out on his stretches, in all the chaos of the escalating tensions, and his bad side has been worse than usual. He can feel the tension of the old scar tissue at his elbow and the tightness of the muscle down his neck and shoulder.

Joel will yell at him for that.

On the bright side, maybe he'll go to war with the Mythlands and then he'll be too busy to get yelled at. He thinks Pix would call that 'silver linings.'

The trees thin out and give way to green grass fields dotted with sheep and flowers and Jimmy angles his trajectory downwards. The magic saturating the Border of the Overgrown brushes his scales as he enters and he shudders. It doesn't matter how many times he comes to visit Katherine, every time is just as unsettling. It feels like the time he bit an electric eel as a fry. A tingle and a buzzing that leaves the webbing between his fingers numb and his teeth hurting.

Katherine's house materializes on the horizon, the layers of glamour falling away and Jimmy banks into a spiral to land. He's been airborne for so long that he's barely even damp and, last minute, he decides to land in the water feature instead of on the grass surrounding it. He lands in the fountain with a splash and a sigh, the water closing over his head and offering blessed relief. His gills flare, water flowing freely through his right side and even managing a pass on his left. He allows himself a moment to settle beneath the surface and let the itchy dry feeling of his scales fade, away from the biting cold and thin air of the skyways.

He rolls over and stares at the sky, taking a minute to just exist. It's uncomfortable; his elytra, his trident, and his sword all pressing into his spine, but at least it is calm and quiet.

His view is almost immediately obstructed by a far, far too familiar silhouette tinted red and gold.

Jimmy bolts upright and almost slams his forehead into Sausage's.

He scrambles back and to his feet where he stands, dripping, in the fountain to the backdrop of the displeased gazes of Katherine's door guards and the giggles of the King of Mythland.

How did this go so wrong so fast?

"Hello, Jimmy!"

He manages to clamber out of the fountain without tripping and falling flat on his face at least. He splashes Katherine in the process, where she is hovering off to the side but he can't really be bothered to worry about that. All he can manage to do is stare at Sausage's smirking face.

"Hello, Jimmy!"

Katherine's greeting is much less mocking and Jimmy looks back down to acknowledge it. Way down. Katherine is the shortest emperor and the white tips of her ears barely clear his elbow. She is smiling up at him as if she hasn't invited him to her house only to ambush him with one of his greatest enemies. As if he hadn't trusted that her home was safe. As if he hadn't trusted that she would stand with him.

"What is he doing here?" He jerks his chin at Sausage, who is still giggling like a child. He sees Jimmy looking and grins at him, all teeth.

Behind the mask, Jimmy bares his own teeth and takes some comfort in the knowledge that he has more of them; and they are sharper. He straightens his spine and does his best to stand at his full height instead of curling slightly to the left. His sword and trident clank softly together over his shoulder.

Katherine looks briefly unsure before she sets her expression and gestures at her door. "We should all go inside and talk there. I would like to help negotiate peace between The Swamp and Mythland."

She's using her official voice. Sausage keeps giggling and Jimmy can barely hear it beneath the roar in his ears. He leans down to try and whisper into the faerie queen's ear.

"I really need your alliance right now, Katherine." He hopes his desperation doesn't show in his voice.

She gives him a reproving look that throws him right back to his brief time spent in a classroom. "I'm allied with everyone, Jimmy. You know that."

"He invaded the Swamp," Jimmy hisses, his ear-fins flaring, ignoring the shudder down his spine from her use of his Name, even in part. "He crossed our borders. Again. He's threatened war." He's no longer whispering by the end, standing to his full height, shoulders back, sword hand by his shoulder.

"And according to him, you've threatened it right back!"

It's almost a physical blow, the way the betrayal hits him. He manages to keep from physically staggering back only because Sausage appears beside him and throws an arm over his shoulder. Something the Mythlandic king has to stand on tiptoe to accomplish. It yanks Jimmy uncomfortably sideways and down and his trident almost slips from his back.

"Come on, Jimmy! Let's talk!" Sausage smiles, all teeth like an alligator, lurking on the surface of the water. "We can make peace!"

Jimmy knocks his arm away and straightens, doing his best to loom over the other ruler. His extra foot of height should be more of an advantage than if feels like. He grabs for the hilt of his sword and is only stopped by Katherine, who flies right up into his face to frown at him.

"No weapons!" She shakes her finger right in front of his mask and Jimmy clamps down on the instinctive urge to yank up the Codfather head and bite it. That would be no help to anyone, especially himself. No one takes him seriously as it is. Except maybe Pix. Maybe.

Instead he focuses on glaring at Sausage over Katherine's shoulder. The king of Mythland beams back at him, hands clasped innocently in front of himself (well away from the hilt of his own greatsword), head cocked to the side. The picture of harmless amiability were it not for the malicious sparkle in his eyes. Ohhhhhh how Jimmy would love to feed his organs to Lizzie's axolotls. He flexes his claws before Katherine grabs his arm and tugs him towards her front door, six tiny fingertips digging into his scales above his vambraces. (The embossed leather the only armor he'd worn, he hadn't realized he'd wish for more.)

Sausage trails behind them and as much as Jimmy reminds himself that not even Sausage would have the audacity to attack him in Katherine's house (probably) he can't quite shake the prickling tension from having an enemy at his back. It feels like the first time Lizzie and Joel took him to clear an ancient monument and he'd stalked through the twisty corridors and boxy rooms with the creeping feeling of being stalked in turn.

Sausage slips and almost falls on some of the tacky slime he'd accidentally tracked in and that does help. Even if he does feel bad for messing up Katherine's floor. He can feel the impassively judgmental stare from Katherine's guards, who's features do not change but still somehow radiate disapproval. He knows he probably shouldn't take it personally, most fae don't think highly of outsiders but it still feels personal.

Sausage recovers quickly and shakes out the fur lining of his coat. "Is it just me or does it smell fishy in here, now?"

"Sausage," Katherine looks disapprovingly back over her shoulder. "That's rude."

"Oh," Sausage blinks at them both, "I'm sorry, Jimmy, I didn't realize."

Jimmy wants to stab him so badly, he sets his shoulders and refrains. He can do this. He's technically trained for this, even if the skills are rusty, fallen aside before the more hands on duties that rebuilding the Swamp has required.

"Oh, this one is new!" Sausage immediately changes the subject, pointing at one of the skulls hanging on the wall of the hall. It's some kind of middling-sized land animal...a sheep maybe? with poppies filling the eye sockets and woven in a crown, there are delicate lines of gold painted across the surface of the bleached bone.

Katherine beams, her irritation at the rudeness forgotten (or at least set aside, fae never truly forget breaches of etiquette) "It is! It's a gift from a childhood friend," she looks fondly upon the skull for a moment. "We've been reconnecting lately."

Sausage nods sagely, "It is always good to spend time with your friends."

"It is," Katherine's ears twitch and her wings flutter briefly before she resumes walking. "Which is why we are going to fix this."

She leads them down the hall towards her library, a room so thoroughly warded that Jimmy can feel the magic against his scales when he passes through the door in an echo of the fae-realm boundaries.

It is a cozy room, despite the elegance and delicacy. It makes Jimmy feel out of place and reminds him a little bit of Lizzie's war room, if a better lit and less damp version. Every corner is full of plants and flowers and books and crystals, and blessedly free of guards and staff and other judging eyes. It's just Jimmy and Katherine and Sausage and the Elvenking sitting in the corner.

Jimmy may or may not do a full and proper double take.

Huge white and black wings, glittering obsidian antlers, an incongruous cup of tea on the side table. Apparently this meeting has interrupted the...reading time? of the King of Rivendell. Jimmy grits his teeth at the presence of one more ally for Sausage and turns his attention to the other two rulers instead. He'll worry about the Elvenking if they decide to become a problem.

In retrospect, Xornoth probably should have left as soon as Katherine escorted Sausage and The Codfather into her library, her expression tense and serious despite the cheerful tone to her chatter but in all honesty they were so startled at first that they froze. Now its been just long enough it would be too awkward to get up and leave. And the others are in-between them and the door, which just makes it worse. So they sit in the corner, tome in hand, trying their hardest to pretend they aren't getting a front row seat to the latest incarnation of the Mythland-Swamp dispute, featuring The Codfather's tangible rage and frustration over Katherine's stubborn neutrality.

(Which is understandable, but arguing a fae over their nature is a futile task and The Codfather seems too much a fool to realize it.)

The palpable hostility in the room has Xornoth's feathers fluffing against their will. Katherine is doing her best to mediate but she might as well try to climb a cliff-face in a blizzard. Sausage seems more interested in taunting The Codfather than coming to any kind of agreement and The Codfather himself stubbornly refuses to even consider any kind of negotiations until...a disc is returned?

Meaningless frivolity.

Xornoth isn't quite sure of the intricacies of the Mythland-Swamp conflict, since most of it happened during Rivendell's seclusion and so they don't even have any accounts of it other than what has been acquired in the past few decades. Accounts that are, somewhat understandably, for the most part slanted towards the Mythlandic perspective. (It is Mythland that Xornoth is allied with and it is Mythland that writes things down while The Swamp seems to lean heavily towards oral histories.) They don't think they've heard anything about a disc before, that might be new.

Both Sausage and The Codfather are known for their chaotic natures. If this does escalate to war (as both have threatened multiple times in the past hour) they will both involve their allies. As much fun as it would be to go toe-to-toe with the King of Mezalea in the arena, if Xornoth has to deal with wartime logistics because of these two acting like elflings not yet out of the home, they will just walk off into the mountains and wait for the winter to take them.

Do not pretend such reluctance. I see the truth.

Xornoth turns a page.

"At this point," The Codfather snarls, leaning on the back of the sofa he is standing by, looking inches away from leaping across the library to strangle Sausage (or try to at least) regardless of Katherine's policy on unapproved violence, his speech has been steadily growing more formal as the debate raged on, but also with a lot more insults in a multitude of languages. (Which Sausage had been more than happy to return.) "I don't think I'd trust even a-" he makes a series of humming, clicking syllables that Xornoth recognizes as Oceanic, but does not understand "-from you lot!"

That, of all things, is what grinds the entire conversation to a halt. Even Sausage stops his mocking dance around the edge of the room to look at The Codfather in confusion. "A who now?"

Katherine is frowning in concentration, mouthing words to herself while she tries to translate. "An...in-law treaty?"

"You know," The Codfather waves a hand dismissively. "A Binding Agreement."

At least he's speaking Mythlandic again, a language Xornoth supposedly understands.

"No, we don't know," Katherine still looks confused by also speculative. "Please explain. What kind of binding exactly is this?"

His voice has gained a slight sing-song cadence to it, even through what is clearly a slightly stumbling translation, that Xornoth recognizes from their own anytime they are reciting something from their childhood lessons, even to this day. They've never been able to quite shake the "student voice."

You are still only a student. And you will be so long as you refuse to take what is rightfully ours.

"Oh!" Katherine's face lights up with recognition and she bounces on her toes, wings aflutter. "I read about that! It's an Oceanic thing!"

Oceanic, not Swamp. Interesting.

The Codfather tilts his head to the side, radiating bewilderment despite the mask completely obscuring his features. "Um...yeah? Wait, do land-folk not do those? At all?"

Both Sausage and Katherine shake their head and Katherine expands verbally, talking right over the Codfather's hushed 'oh.'

"Not between empires, not since the Worldspawn Treaty. It's not uncommon for different families within an empire to form alliance through marriage though."

Xornoth wisely stays silent, though they can't quite help but touch the enchanted jewel fastening their cape at the shoulder. Only Katherine notices, but she's the only one of present company who knows what it means anyway.

"Oh," The Codfather seems a bit taken aback. "I thought it was just that it hadn't happened recently, not that you didn't at all."

"No," Sausage looks intrigued. "We don't."

"We could though," Katherine says suddenly, looking ecstatic. "The treaty just rendered those kinds of alliances of limited use, it didn't forbid them. What about a marriage truce between The Wither Rose Alliance and The Swamp!"

All three of them stare at the faerie queen like she's crazy. (At least, Xornoth is assuming that's what The Codfather's emotions are.) Sausage's eyebrows alone are conveying enough skepticism for the whole room. The Codfather's tail swishes uneasily.

Like a fish on a hook.

Sausage latches onto the movement with a smirk. "Aw! Do you not want to marry me, Jimmy?"

"I would rather move to the desert," The Codfather says without hesitation. "Or the Nether."

"Maybe not the two of you," Katherine says, even her spiteful optimism clearly powerless against the reality of what the outcome of that would be. Wise of her. Xornoth doesn't trust them to not kill each other before they make it to the wedding night. If they even made it to the wedding itself. "We are trying to make peace, not break it irreparably. But the Wither Rose Alliance is the largest alliance. Surely something can be arranged. For a...Binding Agreement the two parties have to be of equal or near-equal standing, right?"

"Well yes, but-"

"So," she says triumphantly, cutting The Codfather off before he can even get started. "One of the other emperors?"

There is a moment of silence as they all contemplate, even Sausage looking more focused than usual.

They are going to hurt themselves, trying that hard to utilize what little intelligence they have.

"Fwhip?" Sausage eventually offers, somewhat unsure, but also clearly just trying for a reaction.

And he gets one; a loud, rattly, snarling hiss that, despite usually considering The Codfather's threat level somewhere between "negligible" and "non-existent", Xornoth find themself sitting up straighter and even has Sausage taking a step back, visibly startled. Deep in the corner of their mind that Xornoth does their best to ignore, a shudder of disquiet resonates for a moment before being cut off.

Katherine's eyes are wide and, seemingly without realizing it, she takes to the air slightly, hovering over the floor, set to evade any attacks. Xornoth realizes that their hand is on the hilt of their sword and slowly, so as not to draw attention, they withdraw it back to their book. Their wings stay mantled, primaries brushing against he walls of their alcove.

"Okay, not Fwhip," Katherine says hurriedly, slowly dropping back down to the floor and smoothing her skirt out in a nervous gesture she's had since she was small. Usually she does better at controlling herself. She'd had the unphased exterior trained into her well before Xornoth ever met her and, however amiable and relaxed she likes to appear, they know its always there beneath.

If we pinned her wings to the wall like a butterfly and made her watch, that would phase her.

Xornoth contemplates smashing the side of their head into the wall. Unconsciousness has about a 50/50 chance of bringing peace and quiet with it. Unfortunately, the hangings in this library nook are imported from Rivendell, several layers of thick woolen brocade. It probably wouldn't be a very effective attempt. And would have them looking crazy in front of two allies and a...not quite enemy. (Though if they don't sort this out that will probably be changing very soon.)

Let there be war, one step closer to our full power.

Katherine has moved on. "What about Gem?"

Sausage snorts a laugh but also looks a little terrified at the idea of even suggesting such a thing. Perhaps the wisest he's been all day, based off what Xornoth has gathered about what seems to amount to a neighbors' spat between him and The Codfather. (Albeit a neighbors spat with centuries of animosity behind it and that is now threatening war.)

The Codfather shakes his head a little frantically, the copper-beaded tassels on the side of the mask clinking against the trident slung across his back. "She's scary."

He seems to realize that he said that out loud and quickly scrambles like a fish suffocating on a rock to cover for it. "And, uh, Great Wizard isn't a title with a lot of..." He flounders a bit. "There could be a new Great Wizard tomorrow, if someone beat her. It has to be a more permanent title."

Personally, Xornoth finds the likelihood of anyone replacing Gemini Tay at any point during a mortal lifetime (and possibly longer) very, very unlikely. It takes a lot to outshine bringing the dragons back. But The Codfather is right. And not only is Gem scary, she's also mean. Which most people don't realize because she spends so much time keeping Fwhip and Sausage from getting themselves killed. Xornoth has been to enough Wither Rose meetings to fear her though. She would eat The Codfather alive.

They do also find themself a little bit impressed, they hadn't thought he had that level of awareness of the internal workings o the other kingdoms.

If we gutted him like a fish he'd squeal so nicely.

It's been a while since Xornoth turned a page. They turn a page.

"Pearl can't be that closely tied to any other ruler," Katherine keeps going. "Too many people across the Empires rely on their trade with her and it isn't fair to your people to risk their well-being that way."

Honestly, if it came to war, Xornoth is fairly certain that Pearl would fight to remain neutral. It would destroy her, being unable to help her friends. Rip that golden heart of hers right out of her chest and shred it in the dust, but so many people from all the lands depend on Helianthia's crops and herds to remain fed. And her sense of duty, to her own people and all the others would take precedence over her loyalty to her friends, and that would kill her swifter than any blade.

If the war did not destroy her lands, and her with them, first.

The page in their white-knuckled grip begins to tear on the edge.

Rip them all to pieces, give the farmer the fight she wants.

Rivendell would follow Helianthia, Xornoth acknowledges. They are not as selfless as Pearl. And even if they were, they could not condemn Rivendell to another harsh winter of starvation and death. They would stand to defend her against all comers (and there would be many who came, lured by the resources she guarded) both as a friend and as a political alliance. Rivendell is not back to the point of being able to sustain themselves, not if the winters continue to worsen the way they have been. Loathe as they are to admit it, even inside their own head where no one can hear.

Well, no one but-

Wheat fields burn so easily, all it would take is a single spark in the right place and all of Mythland would be in flames.

Carefully, carefully, Xornoth sets their book down on the table beside them and places their hands in their lap. Katherine will stop allowing them to borrow her books if they start spontaneously combusting them. Hopefully she doesn't notice the slightly singed cover.

"Joey?" Now it is Katherine who's skepticism is betrayed in her voice and Sausage actually snorts a laugh. All three of them look over at Xornoth, though The Codfather quickly looks away again.

Free us of the silly bird.

"Good luck with that," Sausage says, giggling, and waggles his eyebrows at Xornoth. They pretend to not see, giving their full attention to the tapestry on the wall beside them in a vain attempt at pretending that their painfully un-subtle affair is not the most gossiped about topic among the emperors at present.

This is an old one, probably gifted by their grandparents to the House Blossom Lady of the time. The knot-work symbol in the corner is one they are unfamiliar with, not the signature of any artisan from their lifetime.

"And Xornoth is already married," Katherine doesn't acknowledge Sausage's behavior, beyond an annoyed look, which is probably for the best.

The Codfather jerks his head sharply to the side, "and that's all the royals in your alliance." He sounds almost smug. "None of them work."

And that is when Xornoth makes what they will refer to for centuries to come as "The Mistake." They pick their book back up and affect disinterest as they impulsively decide to wipe the smug grin they are imagining off The Codfather's face. "There is my brother."

There is a long moment of silence. Xornoth eventually looks up and gets their first inkling of how badly they might have just messed up when they see the astonished expression on Sausage's face, and the slowly dawning delight on Katherine's. They stubbornly ignore the blank cod-face staring directly at them.

Why do you consistently choose to prove your incompetence.

"Your brother is alive?" Sausage says but is cut off by Katherine.

"Oh!" she says, bouncing on her toes, hands clasped under her chin. "That's perfect!"

Chapter Two [TBA]

Chapter Three [TBA]

#marriage of state au #solidaritygaming #xornoth #empires smp #flower husbands #empires s1 #katherineelizabeth #mythicalsausage #MoS Icons Arc #marriage of state fanfic #rain rambles #i am so excited to finally start posting this au #literally shaking #aroace author writes massive fallen fantasy au featuring marriages of convenience and politics #it goes exactly the way you would imagine #happy valentines day nerds #mos: fic

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