#grove passage

[flamingpudding]

(Un)fortunate Courting (Request)

Requested by @silverblueglitter

Original Prompt Post this is based on by @diabolichare

A/N: Thank you for the request! I hope this will not disappoint. I am slowly getting back into the grove of writing and out of my block. Also on a side note I am not posting / writing as much right now because work is currently keeping me busy.

Danny was very sure he was doing everything right in regards to ghost culture. Clockwork and Pandora had been educating him very well on that. Sure they did it with some ominous explanation in regards to his future but Danny had shrugged that off. Clockwork had always had a way with words that didn't make sense but somehow did too. Now as he had learned if a ghost wants to cross through another ghosts haunt an offering needs to be made. Ideally the offering is in regards to something the other ghosts likes.

So if he would need, for example, cross through Embers haunt, he would offer her something like guitar strings or something other music related stuff that could be useful to her obsession. With that logic, Danny knew that if he wanted to use the short cut to his collage through Red Hoods haunt he would need to offer the other something. Like he had offered something to Lady Gotham for his stay in Gotham for his collage education. The thing was he would have to offer Red Hood something every time he needed to go through the others haunt, unlike with Lady Gotham who had just accepted a single offer since he wasn't constantly going in and out of her haunt.

But that also left him with what to get the other Halfa as offering.

He had contemplated offering something Red Hood might need for his duty. You know? Maybe some self engineered bullets he could use against ghosts, though Danny knew that was probably unnecessary considering Gotham's protector spirit, Lady Gotham, had a pretty good handle on everything here. Which good, because that meant Danny could fully focused on his studies for once.

That was until Danny realized how much the core of that other Halfa was malnourished. Which gave Danny the perfect chance to catch two ghosts with one thermos, okay bad joke. But seriously, that gave Danny an idea of what to offer for his right of passage through the others haunt. So he made simple care packages that would help the other Halfa. He had thought about supplying some Ecto-Dejecto directly but that felt a little to on the nose and someone who didn't know his family would probably think Danny insane, as if there weren't enough people in his collage thinking that already. Besides he was in Gotham and with villains like Scarecrow and Joker he didn't think a syringe with glowing green contents would be a trustworthy offering.

Anyway, Danny decided to be a bit more discreet, infusing ectoplasm into simple foods, that most importantly, COULD NOT COME ALIVE. So Danny's care packaged ended up consisting of chocolates, snacks and other sweets that would NOT start fighting back. He also figured out how to mix ectoplasm into drinks so it wouldn't taste to overwhelming.

Danny did not anticipate the side effect offerings like that would have or realise what his offerings looked like to someone who did not know about ghost culture.

Jason was torn as he found the n-ed little present box during his patrol route with a little card stating it was for him. He eyed the box having gotten familiar with these boxes over the past month. He lifted the lid and yep.... chocolates.

"Again?" his distorted voice came through his voice modulator as he eyed the chocolates suspiciously. Either he had a very insistent admirer or one of his enemies cooked up a new idea to make him paranoid. Not like his brothers didn't joke about him getting Bruce's paranoia when he had run the sixth box of chocolates through the substance tester to figure out if someone was trying to poison him.

Turned out poison was not in the chocolates but something else. An unknown substance but in small dosages. Jason was currently allowing Tim to run wild in figuring out what was mixed into the chocolates. Also the seasoned vigilante had to admit, that there was something tempting about these sweets. Like something inside him really urged him to eat them. It was only his self-restraint and discipline that helped him resist the urge to taste test some of these chocolates.

Also sometimes there were drink in these packages too. Yes, Jason had run them through the tester too and got the same results like with the sweets and chocolates. No poison but that other strange substance. At first Jason didn't really want to bother with it but these boxes appeared every damn night when he was on patrol, but strangle not on weekend or holidays.

"Oh got another little present, Little Wing!" Jason barely turned around as his older brother dropped onto the roof next to him. "Chocolates this time! How cute! They must really love you!"

Sometimes Jason wished his helmet could portray emotions better as he gave Dick a deadpan stare. "More like wanting to poison me." He muttered his voice changer doing nothing to support the sarcasm in his voice.

"You have to admit it is kind of cute! You have a little fan or admirer! And look these chocolates are even heart shaped! Oh and pralines are in there too!" Dick gushed on about Jason's admirer, while Jason rolled his eyes under his helmet. It would be cute if there wasn't an unknown substance mixed into the stuff left for him. Though he had to admit, whoever left that stuff was getting creative. From what Jason saw they rarely used the same brand of chocolates or sweets to give to him twice. Like they were trying to figure out what he liked. For a brief moment that made Jason wonder, if he actually ate one of these for once, would his admirer present him with the same brand again the next night?

He shock that thought off, no way was he going to eat something with an unknown substance in it. So instead he shoved the box at Dick. "Take that to the cave Dickibird. Gives Pretender more materials to test with."

Dick, to his credit stopped gushing for at that and chuckled. "Can do, but seriously though, what did Oracle say. Did she catch your little admirer on the security cameras at least."

Shaking his head Jason let out a sigh. "No, its like these boxes appear out of nowhere."

"Well at least they are harmless."

"For now." He grunted in response. While they didn't pose a danger, Jason didn't like the implications behind their appearances. For one no matter how much he changed up his patrol routes, these boxes would still appear. There is no video proof of someone placing the boxes. They just appear out of thin air or roofs or his path right when he comes by. If he could believe that the videos that Barbara had showed him weren't manipulated then they just appeared like a couple of seconds before he would find them.

It was suspicious and Jason was determined to find out who leaves them.

Danny hummed his latest earworm song, which happed to be Embers newest hit in the Ghost Zone, as he prepared his next offering to Red Hood. He had thought about leaving these boxes by Red Hoods Safe house during the day on his way to collage but he figured with his own history of being a hero. Secret identities were important and should not be revealed against the others wish.

This time he had gotten the expensive brand of pralines. He hoped Hood would actually like them and eat them hopefully. Danny threaded the moment he would have to try infusing ectoplasm into something other than safe sweets, chocolates and snacks that won't come alive if he didn't find something Hood would eat soon.

The Halfa was so focused on his task of infusing the pralines with ectoplasm that he did not notice the arrival of three of his old ghost rogues, until he got grapped by the collar and throw across his own appartment.

"OW! What the...?!"

"Long Time not seen Pelt." Danny blinked as Skulker stood over him, Ember and Wulf a bit further behind. Wulfs presence explained how the other two managed to show up in his place.

"What are you guys doing here?" He was so not up for a round of ghost body that could potentially destroy his flat.

"Fixing your love life." Ember grinned down at him with Wulf nodding.

"My love life...." Something was definitely wrong. Danny does not remember currently dating anyone. He also didn't have crush, well not a obvious one he thought at least. He was distinctively pushing way that fleeting image of Red Hood out of his mind.

"Yeas your love life Baby Boop." Ember reaffirmed. "Didn't the old ghosts teach you anything. You don't use the human of giving presents when you court a ghost!"

"I... what?" Danny's brain currently really had trouble catching up with what was going on.

"Pelt you need to assert yourself, fight your damn object of attention to proof your worth." Skulker added arms crossed.

"Don't worry we will help you! So you wont fail!" Ember added.

Before Danny could answer or ask what the hell they were going on about though Skulker grabbed him by the back of his collar again and promptly dragged Danny long with him flying out of his flat to who knows where. Distinctive Danny swore he heard laughing that sounded suspiciously like Lady Gotham.

"WAIT SKULKER!" The shout escaped him as his brain finally caught up but before he could go ghost and actually do something he was thrown against someone. Whoever he landed on let out a deep 'oof' that sounded distorted and Danny had a sinking feeling as he hurriedly sat up and came face to face with Red Hood.

"Aw shit...." Danny muttered instantly choosing to turn invisible and hoping that Red Hood had nod seen him long enough to get recognised, worst of all Skulker had dragged him all the way to Hoods haunt when Danny didn't even have an offering! Now he owned Hood two offerings!

"What are you doing Pelt! You are supposed to challenge for the right of courtship first! The courtship presents come later!" Skulker shouted at Danny to which while still invisible Danny choose to flip the other ghost off. Something he would have never done as teen but now that he had come to some sort of understanding with his former rogues was not rare happening, as long as Jazz wasn't there to witness it.

Meanwhile Jason was sitting utterly confused on the roof now, just a moment ago a twig of a man had landed on him and he had seen the other guy for a brief moment before he had disappeared out of nowhere again. He grumbled muttered curses and knew he would have to go though the video footage of his helmet to get a clearer picture of what or rather who had knocked him over.

But he had a feeling it was related to the boxes of sweets and chocolates.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some Architecture Vocabulary

Arcade: a succession of arches supported on columns. An arcade can be free-standing covered passage or attached to a wall, as seen on the right.

Arch: the curved support of a building or doorway. The tops of the arches can be curved, semicircular, pointed, etc.

Architrave: the lowest part of the entablature that sits directly on the capitals (tops) of the columns.

Capital: the top portion of a column. In classical architecture, the architectural order is usually identified by design of the capital (Doric, Ionic, or Corinthian).

Classical: of or pertaining to Classicism.

Classicism: a preference or regard for the principles of Greek and Roman art and architecture. Common classicizing architecture is a sense of balance, proportion, and “ideal” beauty.

Column: an upright post, usually square, round, or rectangular. It can be used as a support or attached to a wall for decoration. In classical architecture, columns are composed of a capital, shaft, and a base (except in the Doric order).

Cornice: the rectangular band above the frieze, below the pediment.

Dome: a half-sphere curvature constructed on a circular base, as seen on the right.

Entablature: the upper portion of an order, it includes the architrave, frieze and cornice.

Frieze: the wide rectangular section on the entablature, above the architrave and below the cornice. In the Doric order, the frieze is often decorated with triglyphs (altering tablets of vertical groves) and the plain, rectangular bands spaced between the triglyphs (called metopes).

Metopes: the rectangular slabs that adorned the outside of Doric temples, just above the exterior colonnade.

Order: an ancient style of architecture. The classical orders are Doric, Ionic, or Corinthian. An order consists of a column, with a distinctive capital, supporting the entablature and pediment.

Pediment: a classical element that forms a triangular shape above the entablature. The pediment is often decorated with statues and its sides can be curved or straight.

Pronaos (pro-NAY-us): the entrance hall of a temple.

Triglyphs: a decorative element of a frieze consisting of three vertical units.

Vault: an arched ceiling usually made of wood or stone, as seen on the right.

Writing Notes & References ⚜ More: Word Lists

[theepitomeofamess]

tiktok's hype over harpy hare feels the same as their hype over too sweet when hozier release "unheard."

don't get me wrong, both songs are phenomenal in their own right (and props to harpy hare for encapsulating the unbridled joy of playing and performing with your friends only to learn years later what the nursery rhymes you'd sung were really about), but oh my god are the other songs overlooked. yaelokre is out here awakening wonder i genuinely don't remember ever being given space to have.

Hartebeest? adrenaline like running as fast as you can and rolling down hills.

And The Hound? haunting like campfire stories and realizing that a parent lied to you.

Neath The Grove Is A Heart? "foolish dreamer, be awakened," "how do i begin when the roof is ever changing?" i will never not weep to this song, it will play every time i do inner child work.

not to mention the story they're weaving? meadowlark is such a fucking rich world created through one of the oldest methods of storytelling and passage of a culture's history from generation to generation. and the dynamics between the members of the Lark, the found family of it all is so heartwarming i can't watch "meeting milestones" enough.

i don't know what happened in the fandom about "crickets" and whatnot? i just got here this morning, all i'm saying is yaelokre is a master storyteller, brilliant musician, and deserves the world.

[tylermileslockett]

Theseus #6 (The Abandonment of Ariadne)

Having succeeded in his mission to slay the Minotaur, breaking King Minos demand for yearly sacrifices of Athenian tributes, Theseus flees Crete with the Princess Ariadne in the cover of night. A terrible storm forces them to stop on the Island of Dia (Nexos), where they find rest and respite in the safety and warmth of each other’s arms. But that night, Dionysus visits Theseus in a dream, threatening death if he does not abandon the princess, for Dionysus has also fallen in love with her. With a heavy heart, Theseus sneaks away in the night and puts out to sea, leaving her behind. Dionysus takes Ariadne as his wife, eventually bringing her to Olympus, making her immortal, and begetting many children with her.

there are many different versions told of princess Ariadne’s fate. According to the cryptic passage in Homer’s Odyssey, on the island of Naxos, she was slain by Artemis with Dionysus as witness; suggesting a blasphemous act of lust within the god’s sacred grove (mirroring Ovid’s later ending for the Atalanta myth).  Plutarch, in his Life of Theseus chapter from his work “Parallel lives,” recounts an array of variations; from her hanging herself upon abandonment, to her settling down with a Dionysian priest. There’s even a version that tells of Ariadne being turned to stone by Perseus! Ovid says that Dionysus set Ariadne’s jeweled Cretan crown up into the night sky, becoming the constellation “Corona Borealis.”

Another fascinating version is the Roman poet Catullus’ “Poem 64”, which has a furious Ariadne calling on goddesses to curse Theseus for abandoning her, which results in the many tragedies that follow in the hero’s life.

Like this art? It will be in my illustrated book with over 130 other full page illustrations coming in Aug/Sept to kickstarter.  to get unseen free hi-hes art subscribe to my email newsletter

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Thank you for supporting independent artists! 🤘❤️🏛😁

[gremlin-girly]

Flufftober Day 5

Prompt: Acorn, Chesnut, Pinecone ( @flufftober )

Pairing: Halsin (BG3) x Gn!Druid!Reader

Warnings: None! (Not beta'd and a little rushed so I apologise)

Tags: Love confession (that I didn't write haha), but we assume it happens (I just had another idea for it and I didn't want to write another 2k on it), mutual pining

Summary: All children in Emerald Grove take part in an annual game to find 3 things within the forest. Having never played this before, and being a new member of the grove, you are ecstatic to play (despite being an adult) and challenge the arch druid himself to beat you in the game.

Word count: 1.7k

I hope you enjoy! Likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated 💜 Dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

A/N: Another late one... I'm trying my luck here haha.

Prev | Next | Masterlist

“But... you are an adult.” Halsin's deep voice rumbles with amusement as he looks down at you, desperately trying not to grin and failing miserably. You were looking up at his broad frame, eyes glimmering with mischievous challenge.  You never ceased to amaze the giant elf. It was no wonder he was sweet on you.

“But it’s a passing rite for all of the children of the grove,” you counter, hands on hips.

“Yes but it’s a game for children.” Halsin leans closer, gritting out the words so that the children nearby can’t hear. “it’s not a true rite-“

“Am I not a child of Silvanus?” you say loudly, giving Halsin a smug grin as some heads turn in your direction. He sighs, defeated, cracking a wide grin as he shakes his head.

“Yes, I sup-“

“Then it’s settled.” You say firmly, prodding at Halsin’s enormous chest. “I will complete the rite, as everyone else has. I’m not above taking part – am I?”

Halsin raises his hands in surrender, still smiling at you pleasantly.  By Silvanus, he was utterly smitten. You could ask for anything from him and he would give it, more than willingly. “No, you are not.”

“And neither are you.”

Halsin raises an eyebrow at you curiously. “No, I’m not.”

Your mischievious smirk  grows into a beaming, toothy grin. “Then you should take the rite with me.”

Halsin barks a laugh, which attracts more attention  from the residents of the grove.

“I’ve already completed the rite. And once again, it is a game.” He chuckles, onlookers smiling knowingly as they continue about their preparations for the upcoming event.

“You completed it over two centuries ago,” You point out, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of your scheme. “And if it’s just a game... where’s the harm in playing it?”

“I’m sensing a challenge.” Halsin smirks and shakes his head, braids swaying softly in rhythm. “I’m the archdruid. I have things to do. I-“

“Please?” you cut him off again, giving  your best doe eyed look to the gentle giant before you, watching his shoulders sag in defeat.

“How can I deny you? You make an excellent point.” He says, cheeks pinkening with a little embarassment at the prospect of playing a children’s game in front of his grove. Worse yet, he was actually slightly worried about how he’d fare. You, however, are just happy he’s agreed.

“Wonderful!” You clap ypur hands together excitedly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Halsin.”

Halsin watches as you make your way towards Kagha, animatedly discussing decorations and procedures for tomorrow, wondering how on earth he became so lucky to have you in the grove.

The following morning was a blur.

Decorations had been set up the night before and the children were ecstatic. Restless to begin the scavenger hunt that was a “rite” of passage to the grove. Colourful streamers hung from trees danced in the autumn breeze and smoke billowed from the fire pits that were already cooking food for the evening’s feast.

You had been trying to pry information for Kagha all night , whilst you helped her tie the streamers, about what the test would be like but she’d refused to answer.

“You’ll find out tomorrow,” she chuckled. “Like the rest of the children.”

You’d omitted to tell her that Halsin would be joining the festivities. A small piece of revenge for refusing to tell you what to expect.

When the sun was at it’s highest peak shining down across the woodland near Emerald Grove, the members of the grove gathered to watch the children being the “rite”. As it turns out, the “rite” was a treasure hunt. Specifically, a treasure hunt for random foragable items in the forest that tested a young druid’s ability of recognition. There were no rules as the game – rite – was simple. Find your items and return to the grove. The children were split into pairs and handed a piece of paper with their items listed, before being sent on their way into dense forest beyond the grove.

Naturally, you were paired with Halsin. As the only two adults taking part, Halsin had spun it as watching over the children to save himself the embarassment of telling everyone he’d be taking part. Not that you hadn’t told a handful of people already why he was taking part – or that some of the elders already knew why.

You looked at your list with furrowed brows of concentration. Chestnut, pinecone, Acorn. You’d already found a pinecone and knew where the chesnut and oak trees in the forest were, so the other two were going to be an easy find. You hated to admit it but Halsin had been right.

It irked you more that he was being so pleasantly smug about it too.

“You could have told me the kids go in pairs.” You huff, trapsing through the undergrowth in the direction of a chesnut tree. The scent of damp woodland was all around you, a comforting sense of home you couldn’t escape.

“It must have slipped my mind.” Halsin said cheerily, offering you a large hand to help steady you as you clambered over a fallen log. You take it but pretend to be begrudged by it, making Halsin chuckle.

“It’s not a real challenge either, is it?” You grumble, narrowing your eyes at him. So much for your grand plan of impressing him.

“No. But I did try to warn you.”

You kick a pebble trying to hide your frustration at your plan going so unbelievably sideways. You don’t realise you haven’t let go of Halsin’s hand.

“Oh!” you gasp, tugging your hand away quickly. “Sorry, wasn’t thinking.”

You wipe your sweaty palms on your clothes and your cheeks flush. Halsin says nothing, he only smiles adoringly, as you both make your way to a small clearing.

The sun beams filter through the trees, illuminating the clearing, bathing a chesnut tree in golden light. It looks magnificent. You stretch your arms wide before picking up a fallen chesnut, turning it in your hand to admire it. There were no marks , no worm holes. Utterly perfect. You hand it out to Halsin, who holds it between his gigantic thumb and forefinger.

“A perfect chesnut,” he comments, tucking away into a leather pouch on his belt with a smirk. “Congratulations. You only have one more left to find.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You mean we.”

“Of course. We.” He gives you another smile like butter wouldn’t melt. You’d swear up and down he was the embodiment of sunshine itself. Your eyes rake over his form with a resigned smile before you realise something.

You prod at the emblem on his chest. “Found the acorn.”

Halsin looks surprised and looks down to where you’re prodding him. The acorn emblem of Emerald Grove is engraved in his leather coverings. Halsin rumbles with laughter, his shoulders shaking with mirth and you struggle to stifle a giggle.

“Ah, I suppose you have. Although, I believe the rite calls for an actual acorn.” He can’t even speak to you without cracking a smile. You swat and his large chest playfully.

“The rite didn’t say anything about that.” You point out, and then press your palm over his emblem. Halsin stiffens and watches you carefully. You didn’t seem to notice you’ve placed your hand directly over his heart, and he’s trying desperately to stop it beating so hard; he’s too worried thinking you’ll feel it.

You smirk up at him with the mischevious glimmer in your eyes he’s grown to love, hand still pressed over his heart.

“So I believe I win. Or, we win.” You chuckle sweetly, smirk morphing into a beaming grin. Halsin looks at you awestruck as the sunlight bounces off your skin, illuminating all of your beautiful features as you smile just as radiantly as the sun. His sun-kissed skin tinges pink, along with the tips of his ears, for once unsure of what to say.

“Halsin?”

He blinks down at you. You’re looking at him expectantly, but your hand hasn’t moved. He clears his throat.

“Sorry.” He mumbles, fighting the the redness that threatens to rush to his face.

“I said; do you want to head back? Try and enjoy some of the food before the kids eat it all?” you raise an eyebrow at him, waiting for his answer.

Halsin swallows thickly. “I – yes. We could.”

He doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

You’re both looking at eachother, daring the other to pull away or to address the tension that had been building between you for quite some time. Your fingers trace the indents of the emblem idly and you open your mouth to speak but Halsin beats you to it.

“Why did you insist I come with you?”

You take a breath, not quite sure what to say. You offer a sheepish smile and a small shrug.

“Thought it would be good for you to get away. Have some fun.” You meet his soft brown eyes with your own. “Maybe I just wanted you to myself for a little while.”

Halsin’s shoulders sag with relief, one of his large hands envelop the hand over his heart. “You don’t have to bring me out here to have my attention,” He chuckles, squeezing your hand lightly. “You never have to ask for my attention.” His eyes have a playful glimmer as he looks at you. “And you don’t have to make an elaborate ploy to get me to spend time with you.”

Your breath catches and heat rushes to your cheeks. You chuckle timidly, caught red handed.

“Well... as we’re here then.” You look about the beautiful clearing, still bathed in golden light. “Shall we sit a while?”

By the time you return to the grove, you’re both strolling hand in hand with beaming smiles and adoring, bashful glances.

“Did you get all over your items?” Kagha calls out to you with a knowing smile.

Both you and Halsin blush. “I found something better.” You quip. “And I’m sure the Oak Father would be proud.”

[rainbowloveletters]

The sun hung low in the crimson skies of Greece, casting long shadows across the cracked earth. Hercules, the mighty demigod, strode through the olive groves, his bronzed skin glistening with sweat in the fading heat. His bulging muscles rippled beneath taut, olive skin as he walked, drawing the eye of every onlooker.

Lost in thought, Hercules failed to notice the slight figure crouched by a gnarled tree root. The young man, who could not have been more than eighteen, was forehead to knees, scrubbing the dirt with scrawny, calloused hands. He looked up briefly as Hercules' shadow fell across his face, then quickly averted his gaze in deference.

Hercules paused, taking in the sight of the slave boy. Despite his small stature, there was an undercurrent of strength about him, like a coiled spring waiting to uncurl. His short, dark hair stuck up in sticking sweat and dust, and his eyes, when they flickered up briefly, were a deep, burning brown. Slender, almost delicate fingers gripped the brush he used to clean the dirt. Hercules felt his blood quicken.

"Get up, boy," Hercules commanded in a low, rough voice. "Let me look at you."

The slave boy scrambled to his feet, keeping his eyes downcast. "I am called Alphaeus, sire," he said softly.

Hercules stepped closer, putting a finger under the boy's chin and tipping his face up. Alphaeus resisted for a moment before yielding, allowing Hercules to search out his gaze. "You are a pretty thing," Hercules murmured. "Too pretty to be moldering in the dirt. Come with me."

Hercules led the way, not waiting to see if Alphaeus would follow. The boy had little choice, after all. As they walked, Hercules felt his heartbeat quicken, his skin flush. Urgent, unfamiliar stirrings began in his groin.

By the time they reached Hercules' villa, Alphaeus had a hard time keeping up with the demigod's long, purposeful strides. "Fetch me a bath," Hercules ordered brusquely when they arrived. He turned to leave the boy standing in the atrium, but a sudden lurch in his groin made him turn back. "And you," he added, voice roughening, "see that you wash this dirt from yourself. You will attend me tonight."

Alphaeus bowed his head, hiding the flush that rose to his cheeks. "Yes, sire. It will be done."

The promised night fell in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets. Hercules took his time with the slave boy, mapping out the planes of his body with calloused hands. Alphaeus' skin was smooth and cool beneath his touch, quivering at the contact. He traced the knobs of the boy's spine, dipped into the hollow of his hip, the furrow between his buttocks. Alphaeus made a sound, high and breathy, squirming against Hercules' hold.

Hercules ran his thumbs over the boy's small, brown nipples, feeling them stiffen. "You like this, don't you," he growled. It wasn't a question. He could feel the proof of it against his thigh, a long, thin line of hardness.

Alphaeus whimpered, arching into his touch. Hercules wanted to devour him. He rolled the slave beneath him, settling between his legs. Alphaeus' passage yielded easily to the press of his cock, sheathing him in silky heat. Hercules began to move, finding a deep, driving rhythm.

The night passed in a wordless tangle of flesh and sweat and the slap of skin on skin. Hercules lost himself in the tight, dripping heat of Alphaeus' body. Time fell away and the world narrowed down to the taste of the boy's skin, his needy little moans, the flex of his passage around Hercules' cock. It was a kind of madness.

They came together in a rush, Hercules emptying into the slave's passage with a last, hard thrust. Alphaeus' own release painted Hercules' stomach, his thighs. They collapsed together in a tangle of sated limbs.

From that night on, Alphaeus became a fixture in Hercules' bed. The demigod made no secret of his desire for the boy, putting a possessive hand on the slave's hip or shoulder whenever others were near. It was a kind of open boast: see what beauty I have claimed for myself.

Weeks passed in a haze of pleasure. Hercules' body came alive with lust every time he looked at Alphaeus. The boy seemed to draw it out of him, a moth to flame. They coupled in the bath, on the couch, on a discarded tunic in the gardens, too impatient to make it to the bed. Alphaeus took his fill of the demigod's cock, and Hercules emptied himself in the slave's passage again and again.

It could not last. One morning, Alphaeus woke sick and shaking, his stomach churning. He retched into a basin, feeling Hercules' hands on his back, offering support. As the days passed, his sickness only deepened.

It was not hard to guess the cause. Hercules' heart leapt with a sudden, fierce joy when he realized Alphaeus might be carrying his child. A strange, unfamiliar tenderness swelled in his chest at the thought.

He called for a physician, demanding to know if the slave was with child. The man examined Alphaeus, pressing at his belly and lifting the cup of his scrotum. "Yes," he pronounced after a moment. "The boy is breeding."

Hercules felt a grin break out across his face. "Good," he rumbled, laying a hand over Alphaeus' belly. "Good."

Alphaeus looked up at him, eyes wide and wondering. "You...you are pleased, sire? That I should bear your child?"

"Yes," Hercules said. The word came out rough and raw, edged with unfamiliar emotion. "I am pleased."

The months passed in a kind of blissful blur, Hercules lavishing attention on the softly swelling curve of Alphaeus' belly. He never thought to feel such a rush at the prospect of fatherhood, but the thought of Alphaeus bearing his child filled him with a fierce, possessive pride.

Hercules gently caressed Alphaeus's swollen belly, tracing the curve of their womb with tender loving care. At seven months pregnant, Alphaeus was positively glowing, his once lithe and supple body now ripening with new life. Yet to Hercules, he had never looked more beautiful, more alluring.

"Gods, how I love you," Hercules murmured huskily, pressing his lips to the side of Alphaeus's neck in worshipful kisses. His large, calloused hands continued their lazy exploration, skimming over the swell of Alphaeus's breasts before dipping lower to palm their pregnant stomach. "Carrying my child, my seed... You are exquisite, my love."

Alphaeus shivered and arched into Hercules' touch with a soft sigh of pleasure. "I love feeling your hands on me, even more so now with our baby growing inside," he purred, voice thick with desire. "I am so filled with our love, in every way possible."

Hercules groaned, his prominent erection straining against his loincloth as Alphaeus' sensual words stoked the flames of his lust. "You tempt me sorely, sweetling," he growled, nuzzling into Alphaeus' silken curls. "I must have you. Now."

"Yes, oh gods yes," Alphaeus gasped, reaching back to fumble with the fastenings of Hercules' loincloth. "Take me, fill me, claim me anew. I need to feel you inside..."

With a low, feral sound, Hercules pushed down his garment and kicked it aside. He gripped Alphaeus' hips and pulled them back onto his thick, pulsing shaft, sheathing himself to the hilt in Alphaeus' welcoming heat in one smooth stroke. They both cried out at the sudden, exquisite union, Alphaeus' velvety walls gripping Hercules like a silken fist.

"By Zeus, you feel incredible," Hercules grunted, beginning to move, his powerful muscles flexing as he thrust into Alphaeus' lush body. "So tight, so wet for me..."

Alphaeus mewled and undulated their hips, meeting each deep, driving plunge. "Always for you, my love," they keened, throwing their head back in bliss. "Only for you..."

Hercules set a swift, punishing pace, pounding into Alphaeus with primal need. The wet, obscene sounds of their coupling filled the room, joined by their mingled moans and gasps. Sweat slicked their straining bodies as they moved together, lost to passion, drowning in sensation.

"Harder," Alphaeus begged, nails scoring down Hercules' heaving flanks. "Deeper, I need to feel you in my womb, reaching our child..."

Hercules snarled and complied, hips pistoning, going impossibly deep. "Yes, take it, take all of me," he panted harshly, feeling his release swiftly approach. "Gonna fill this sweet cunt, paint you with my seed, mark you, breed you..."

"I'm close, oh gods I'm close," Alphaeus babbled incoherently, jerking and quaking as their peak loomed. "Come with me, my love, fill me, please!"

With a roar that shook the rafters, Hercules slammed into Alphaeus one final time and exploded, flooding their spasming channel with his thick, potent release. Alphaeus wailed and convulsed against him, milking Hercules for every last drop as their mutually devastating climax crashed over them in unending waves.

They collapsed together onto the sweat-soaked sheets, Hercules still buried inside Alphaeus, unwilling to withdraw and break their intimate connection. He gathered Alphaeus close, reverently kissing their slack, blissful face.

At last, the day arrived. Alphaeus labored for hours, Hercules at his side, gripping his hand, coaching him through his pains. In the dimly lit room, the air was thick with the scent of sweat and anticipation. Alphaeus lay on the makeshift birthing bed, his body wracked with the final stages of labor. The walls of the modest dwelling seemed to close in on him, mirroring the relentless pressure within his own body. Hercules, his towering figure usually a symbol of strength and invincibility, was now a pillar of support, his face etched with concern and helplessness. Io, the knowledgeable midwife, moved with practiced grace, her presence a calming force amidst the storm of childbirth.

Alphaeus's breathing was ragged, each exhalation a small victory against the tide of pain that threatened to overwhelm him. The contractions came with merciless frequency, each one a crescendo that tested the limits of his endurance. Hercules held his hand, his grip firm yet gentle, a silent promise that he would not let go. Io, with her wise eyes and soothing voice, encouraged Alphaeus to push, to harness the primal power that coursed through his veins.

The room was alive with tension, the silence punctuated only by Alphaeus's labored breaths and the occasional whispered word of encouragement. As the baby crowned, a new level of pain seared through Alphaeus, a fiery trial that pushed his physical limits to the brink. His body, once a vessel of grace and agility, now trembled under the strain of birth. The muscles in his abdomen contracted with a force that seemed beyond his control, each spasm a painful step toward the life that awaited.

Hercules, witnessing the agony etched across Alphaeus's face, felt a surge of admiration and awe. The man he loved was a warrior in this moment, battling not with sword and shield but with the very essence of his being. Hercules's heart ached with a mixture of fear and reverence, his own strength rendered irrelevant in the face of Alphaeus's profound struggle.

Io, ever watchful, saw the signs of the final push. She urged Alphaeus onward, her voice a beacon in the fog of his exhaustion. "You are almost there, Alphaeus. Your body knows what to do. Listen to it, trust it, and let it guide you."

With a roar that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, Alphaeus bore down with all the strength he had left. The baby's head emerged, a moment of triumph and relief that flooded the room with a sense of awe. Io's experienced hands supported the delicate life that was now partially in the world, as Alphaeus mustered the last of his energy for one final push.

And then, with a rush of fluid and a newborn's cry, the child was born. Io gently lifted the baby, presenting the new life to its fathers. Hercules's eyes brimmed with tears as he gazed upon his son, the product of his and Alphaeus's love. The pain that had contorted Alphaeus's face just moments before was now replaced by a look of serene exhaustion and overwhelming joy.

As Io tended to Alphaeus, cleaning and wrapping him in warm blankets, Hercules cut the umbilical cord, a symbolic act that severed the physical bond between father and child. The baby, now nestled in Alphaeus's arms, instinctively sought out the warmth of his father's chest. The room, once filled with the sounds of struggle, was now filled with the soft coos and murmurs of new life.

In the aftermath, as Alphaeus's body began the slow process of healing and recovery, the bond between the three of them—Alphaeus, Hercules, and their newborn son—grew stronger. They were a family, forged in the fires of labor and united by an unbreakable chain of love and respect. The drama of childbirth had passed, leaving in its wake a profound sense of peace and the promise of a future filled with hope, laughter, and the many challenges of parenthood.

[pespillo]

one thing abt the gods its that it does seem that Its Necessary for the humans to BE near the Rift to pass thru it and become a god, so considering humanity´s timelines and all that , a human needs to be really willing to travel ALL the way to the Grove and become a member of the community to be pushed to election, so it is HIGHLY unlikely that the humans came from other parts of the earth that werent already near the grove in ancient times, i think only Thespius and Clickclack came from Outside the grove in all honesty, at MOST Huzzlemug would have probably done some crazy shit to stumble upon it and become part of the community. But i think Mitternacht, Bauhauzzo n Cobigail were all born and raised there and have lineages spanning for like, millennia, thing is that for Mitter n Bauhazzo the passage of time has made it all too fuzzy to pinpoint whoever has ancestry from the grove, but for Cobigail its pretty clear as shes only been a god for 99 years or so.

[dark-and-kawaii]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ Tainted Dreams ˖⟡˚౨ৎ⋆

✧₊⁺ Summary: As Zevlor sleeps, a dark shadow named Aradin creeps into his dreams, twisting his peaceful rest into a horrific nightmare. Zevlor dreams about Aradin taking away everything that he’s come to love… ♡

✧₊⁺ Pairing: Zevlor x F!Tav/Lofn

✧₊⁺ Content: Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Nightmare | Character Death | Jealous Aradin | Happy Ending | Sleep Cuddles

✧₊⁺ Notes: Another story I hope you all enjoy xoxo I’ve been wanting to write some angst involving Aradin so here it is!!! Heh heh to be honest I’m a sucker for a story involving some Aradin angst ♡

In the quiet embrace of night, Zevlor lay entwined with his beloved, Lofn, his arms holding her ever so close to him- always acting as a safe haven for her as she slept. Her body a comforting weight against his chest as he too slowly slipped into slumber. When she stirred gently against him in her sleep, her head nuzzling at his neck, his tail gently coiled around her thigh as he returned the gesture, their bodies blending as one.

As the night wore on, their bodies pressed close, their breathing synchronized in that gentle rhythm that lovers fall into with the passage of time, their hearts beat a gentle, steady rhythm of love, contentment, and peace... Until it was shattered by a shadow creeping into Zevlor's dreams, twisting his peaceful rest into a vivid nightmare. His body tensed, clutching Lofn tighter, his tail pulling up into the air, as if in warning. The darkness seeping into his dreams, like the blood of a wound left untended.

His mind's eyes filled with visions of betrayal- a group of men turning against their cherished princess, all because of her love for him, a so called foulblood, a hellspawn who was meant to rot- to die at birth for being what he was... The men who had once looked at him with respect, now looked at him with loathing... The nightmare deepened, his body trembling with each haunting image, a cold sweat breaking out over his body.

Zevlor saw the men first slay her dragons, Aetherion the first to be overwhelmed and slaughtered. His great form lying still in the dirt, his blood soaking the ground... Vyrmoth, the younger of the two tried to take flight only to be brought down and stabbed again and again, until his cries were silenced...  Then they set their sights on her... Lofn, bound by chains that kept her powers in check and helpless, her face, tear streaked and pale from the pain of her dragon's deaths- feeling everything that they had felt... 

One of the men laughed, his hand gripping her face harshly as he leaned down and spoke to her, “The lot of us could have given you the world, but you choose this abomination instead.” 

Forced to her knees, Lofn was made to suffer before Zevlor. He watched helplessly as the man pulled out his blade and slashed at her back, yet she did not cry out, she would not give them the satisfaction... Zevlor's eyes trailed down to her stomach, the faint swell of her pregnancy barely visible under her torn dress... His eyes filled with tears as he realized just what they were going to do, to the unborn children she carried... His child... Their child.

“Please don't,” Zevlor pleaded, his voice broken, “I beg of you. She is still the woman you all admir-”

A famiilar voice- a familiar smug tone cut him off, “Beggin, like the foulblood you are.” Aradin stepped forward, his hands grasping Lofn's head and forcing her to look up at him, “This foul blood has poisoned her, tainted her with his vile touch.” he looked at the men around him, “I aint going to allow it no more.”

Zevlor's brow furrowed his eyes hardening as he stared at Aradin, “You bastard! What has she ever done to you? To deserve this? She saved you! Your people!” He tried to fight the men holding him back, but failed, “I should have done you in the moment my fist connected with your jaw back in the grove…” the hatred and loathing clear in his voice.

Aradin sneered, “I shoulda done her when I had the chance, before you poisoned her.”

Lofn struggled weakly against Aradin's grasp, her voice low, “You were nothing, Aradin, nothing. Just some lowly adventure looking for his fortune.” She spit in his face, “A pathetic boy- not even worthy of calling you a man” her words dripping with venom.

“Shut it wench,” her head was yanked back, then forced forward to look Zevlor in the eye's. Aradin's blade traced a cruel path across Lofn's chest, his gaze locked with Zevlor's then the group of men circling around, “I witnessed it myself, how this devil stained your princess.” 

Lofn's eyes, brimming with pain and unshed tears, never wavered from Zevlor's face. Her sorrow was not for herself or her unborn child, but for him... Knowing the torment he was enduring- the pain he would never cease to forget... 

Zevlor whispered a plea, “Aradin, I beg you. Please. She has done nothing, take me- Like I know you've always wanted to- Rip my horns off, let my foul blood stain your boots- but please... Not her-”

Before his mind could register what was happening, Aradin's blade pierced Lofn's belly, “I should have gutted you and this tiefling back in the grove.”

A yell tore from Zevlor's throat as Aradin's blade descended upon Lofn again... She lay lifeless before him, her eyes wide and empty, her blood pooling towards him…

With a jolt, Zevlor awoke, his heart pounding like a caged bird desperate to escape. Zevlor's heart still raced as his hand came up to Lofn's cheek, her serene face turned towards his, a soft smile on her lips as she slept. He was grateful that she hadn't woken to his distress- grateful that she was still at his side and very much alive... “Thank the gods…” He gently ran his thumb across her bottom lip, his own curving up at the corner as her lips parted and she sighed softly in her sleep. He reached out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, reassured by her peaceful breathing. Taking a deep breath, he slipped quietly from the bed, careful not to disturb her rest.

Crossing the room, he approached the crib where his newborn daughters lay nestled in soft blankets. Two small newly hatched dragons perched nearby, their eyes watching over their girls vigilantly. Zevlor smiled at the creatures, reaching out to rub one of their necks affectionately with the back of his fingers, “Quite the nightmare I had,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, “But I know you'll keep them safe.”

As he gazed down at his sleeping daughters, a tender ache filled his heart. They were so small, so innocent, and the thought of Aradin lingered like a poison in the back of his mind. Zevlor shook his head, his jaw clenched tight. It would never come to pass- could never. Aradin would have to kill him first, and Lofn's dragon's, well... Zevlor knew the nightmare lied about how easily they would go down- even Lofn, no such chains could ever stop her from unleashing her wrath… Not to mention their son, now more grown than ever, had his own dragon and was quite good at wielding a sword and magic... And Lynnania, the Queen… Zevlor’s tail twitched, giving away his fear at the thought of what she would do… 

But still, Aradin's eyes always lingered on Lofn since their days at the grove... And now the piece of trash was in Thay for whatever reason... Now, with a life built on love and family, Zevlor couldn't shake the fear that his nightmare might one day creep into reality no matter how hard he tries to find it foolish…

He sighed, brushing his hands against both his daughter's tiny fists, “I won't let anything happen to you, or your brother.” He whispered, his voice a low rumble, “I promise. I'll protect you all.”

Sitting on a lush chair, Zevlor stayed at their crib for some time, watching them and their mother as they all slept, making sure that there was no shadowy figure lurking in the darkness... The tiny dragons lifting their wings in warning to any who might dare approach.

[anonymousewrites]

Pearl of the Sea Chapter Seven

Found Family! PoTC Cast x Teen! Reader

Platonic! Will Turner, Elizabeth Swann, Jack Sparrow, Tia Dalma x Reader

Chapter Seven: Stranded on an Island

Summary: Abandoned on a deserted island, Jack, Elizabeth, and (Y/N) console themselves, and Elizabeth plots.

            (Y/N) waded out of the water and sat down on the sandy shores of the island. They took deep breaths. Behind them, Elizabeth—burgundy dress gone—and Jack struggled to land after an exhausting swim. (Y/N) wasn’t tired, but they were nervous—scared—about being stuck on an abandoned island without fresh water or food. This could and probably would be their doom.

            Jack stared back at the Black Pearl as it sailed away. “That’s the second time I’ve watched that man sail away with my ship,” he said, frustrated. He turned and stalked into the grove of trees.

            “You were marooned on this island before!” said Elizabeth, following him. “We can escape the same way!”

            (Y/N) nearly followed, but, feeling more secure where they sat, they remained by the sea. Behind them, the argument continued, and (Y/N) sighed. They just wanted to think.

            “To what point and purpose, young missy?” said Jack. “The Black Pearl is gone! Unless you and the laddie have a lot of sails hidden in your clothes, young Mr. Turner will be dead long before you can reach him.”

            “But you’re Captain Jack Sparrow!” said Elizabeth. “You vanished from under the eyes of seven agents of the East India Company! You sacked Nassau Port without a shot. Are the pirate I’ve read about or not?”

            (Y/N) sighed and ran their hands through the sand, trying to calm themself as the threat of death hung over their head.

            “How did you escape the last time?” demanded Elizabeth.

            That had (Y/N) glancing back. They were curious about that since sea turtles felt pretty much impossible, even if magic and curses existed. Jack frowned and turned away from Elizabeth. (Y/N)’s intense gaze bore into him, and he hesitated before speaking again.

            “Last time I was here a grand total of three days, alright?” he said. “Last time…” he opened up a hidden cellar door. “The rumrunners used this island as a cache.” Jack avoided their gazes and went into the cellar. “They came by, and I was able to barter passage off.” He grimaced as he lifted a bottle of rum out. “From the looks of things, they’ve long been out of business.” Jack huffed. “Probably have your bloody friend Norrington to thank for that.”

            (Y/N) sighed. It was more than a little disappointing that Jack didn’t have a way off the island, but at least they had a better explanation than “sea turtles.”

            “So that’s it, then?!” said Elizabeth. “That’s the secret, grand adventure of the infamous Jack Sparrow!” She narrowed her eyes furiously. “You spent three days on the beach drinking rum.”

            “Welcome to the Caribbean, love!” said Jack cheerfully. “Now, who wants a drink before we die? Laddie?!”

            “I like to keep my wits,” said (Y/N).

            “What a depressing idea,” said Jack, swaggering off towards the sea to get wasted.

            Behind them, Elizabeth looked at the bottle of rum, and an idea came to her. She looked back at (Y/N) and Jack and decided to keep her plan to herself. For one, she didn’t trust Jack. For two, she didn’t want to give false hope to (Y/N) in case her plan didn’t work out and they got stranded.

            “(Y/N),” said Elizabeth.

            “Yes?” said (Y/N), looking at Elizabeth.

            “Thank you for coming,” said Elizabeth. “It was extraordinarily brave of you.” She hugged (Y/N). “I’m so sorry you got stuck here.” She held them tightly. “I’m going to get you out of here. I promise.”

            “Of course I came for you, Lizzie. You’re my sister,” said (Y/N), smiling.

            Elizabeth held them tighter. She really loved this kid. “Come on, (Y/N). Let’s go celebrate that we’re alive right now.”

l

            “We’re devils, we’re black sheep, we’re really bad eggs!” Elizabeth, (Y/N), and Jack danced around a bonfire on the beach. They sang as they went, and Jack was completely wasted. (Y/N) had drank a bit to keep from being thirsty, and Elizabeth was slightly tipsy. However, despite the varying states of inebriation, they were having a great time. “Drink up, me hearties, yo-ho! Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate’s life for me!”

            “I love this song!” said Jack.

            Elizabeth laughed, and (Y/N) whooped and spun. Jack copied them and swayed on his feet. He fell to the sand, and (Y/N) sprawled back with him.

            “When I get the Pearl back…I’m gonna teach it to the whole crew!” declared Jack, his words slurring. “And we’ll sing it all the time.”

            “You’ll be a singing pirate,” laughed (Y/N), letting free for once on the seashore. “Feared in all the Caribbean!”

            “Not just the Caribbean—the entire ocean! The world!” said Jack earnestly. “I’ll go wherever I want to go, I go!” He grinned at (Y/N). “That’s what a ship is, you know. It’s not just a keel and hull and deck and sails. That’s what a ship needs. But what a ship is…What the Black Pearl really is—”

            “Freedom,” said (Y/N). They gazed at Jack, eyes bright. “It’s freedom.”

            Jack grinned at them. “You’re a bright one, laddie.” He tilted his head and waved his bottle of rum. “You want that freedom, don’t you? The sea air, the waves, the lack of rules…” His face twisted in disgust at the idea of being confined by “polite” society.

            (Y/N) groaned. “I hate the rules. They make no sense.” They sat up and looked out at the sea. “I like it much more out here. With the sea.” They took a deep breath of the salty breeze. “I like freedom.”

            Jack looked at (Y/N), the words cutting through his tipsiness. That was a spirited speech awfully reminiscent of his own thoughts, of his own self when he was their age. Yes, his father had been a pirate so he had always been one, but he, too, had looked at the world and decided that the rules and limitations weren’t for him. Jack wanted freedom; the sea gave it.

            And now a kid was looking at him with that very same look in their eyes—the glint of freedom. (Y/N) had a taste for it, and now nothing would ever be enough if they didn’t have it.

            Jack smiled at (Y/N) and raised his bottle. “To freedom!” A small part of himself, beneath all the drunkenness and braggadocio, hoped that spark wouldn’t be smothered.

            (Y/N) grinned back. “Aye!”

l

            (Y/N) awoke to a terrible heat on their face. They groaned and sat up from where they had found the shade of a tree to rest. Their eyes widened, and they jumped to their feet. Elizabeth was throwing barrels of rum into a bonfire, and a dark smoke was flying into the air.

            “What the—Lizzie, what are you doing?!” said (Y/N), alarmed at the sudden actions of their usually rational sister. That was the only liquid they had to drink.

            “Saving us,” said Elizabeth firmly.

            “No! Not good! Stop!” Jack ran up from the beach at the sight of the flames, also awakened by the smell of burning alcohol and trees. “What are you doing?! You’ve burned all the food, the shade, the rum!”

            “Yes, the rum is gone,” said Elizabeth.

            “Can you actually explain your thinking?” said (Y/N).

            “Why is the rum gone?” bemoaned Jack.

            “One, because it is a vile drink that turns even the most respectable men into scoundrels,” snapped Elizabeth to Jack. She looked a lot kindlier at (Y/N). “Two, that signal is over a thousand feet high. The entire royal navy is out looking for us. They’ll see it, there’s no chance they won’t.

            “But why is the rum gone?!” said Jack.

            (Y/N) sighed, and Elizabeth rolled her eyes. She sat down on the beach and looked out over the water.

            “Just wait, Jack Sparrow. Give it out hour, maybe two, keep a weather eye open, and you will see white sails on that horizon,” said Elizabeth.

            Jack looked ready to draw his pistol and shoot, but a glare from (Y/N) made him freeze. He hadn’t been on the Interceptor when the pirates attacked, so he hadn’t seen the fury their eyes were capable of. Now, that exact storminess was turned on him, and he knew if he tried to harm Elizabeth, (Y/N) would fight to the end. Jack wasn’t interested in that. So, instead, he turned and stalked off in a huff.

            “Do you really think it will work?” said (Y/N), sitting down next to Elizabeth.

            “There’s a very good chance it will,” said Elizabeth, smiling at (Y/N). “And then Norrington and my father will find us, we can save Will, and then we can all go home.”

             (Y/N) smiled up until the final statement. They faltered and looked back at the sea. “Right.”

            Elizabeth furrowed her brow. “Are you alright, (Y/N)?”

            “Yes. I don’t want to be stranded here. It’s just that…” They trailed off and shifted uncomfortably. “I liked sailing. I liked being away from Port Royal.” I liked the sea. The freedom.

            Elizabeth’s gaze softened. “You enjoyed not having my father’s expectations on your shoulders.”

            (Y/N) let out a dry laugh. “I can’t quite live up to them, can I? I can try, but I’m not what ‘civilized’ society wants.”

            Elizabeth smiled at them. “I know.” She nudged them and looked at their clothes. “You left behind the dresses the moment you could, the first bit of polite society you were pushed into.”

            (Y/N) smiled. “Yes…” Their smile fell. “But I must return. I know that. I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t stay on the sea.”

            “I’d prefer you to be somewhere safer, yes,” said Elizabeth. “But don’t worry. I’ll be with you. I promise.”

            “…Even if your father wants you to marry Norrington? You won’t leave me?” said (Y/N), looking at Elizabeth.

            “Never,” said Elizabeth, hugging (Y/N) tightly. “You’re my family. I’m not leaving you behind.”

            (Y/N) hugged Elizabeth back. “Thank you.”

            “Even if you are the stubbornest, most reckless child I’ve ever met,” teased Elizabeth. “Running off with pirates for me.”

            (Y/N) laughed sheepishly.

            Elizabeth smiled as their good spirits returned and looked out at the sea. She froze and stood. A grin split her features. “There!”

            (Y/N) scrambled to their feet and peered over the slight hill of the island. There, beyond the curve of the tiny isle, white sails of the British navy flew against the bright blue sky.

            They had been found.

l

            “We’ve got to save Will!”

            Elizabeth wasted no time in declaring her intentions to help Will against Barbossa. She, (Y/N), and Jack had been brought aboard the Dauntless where Governor Swann and Norrington awaited them, and she was instantly on the offensive and trying to get them to help her.

            “No,” said Swann. “You and (Y/N) are safe now. We will return to Port Royal immediately.” He looked at (Y/N) harshly. “And we will be having a long discussion about your actions, young lady.” (Y/N) winced at the word and held their shirt tighter. “Helping a pirate escape jail, stealing a ship?! What were you thinking?!” Swann groaned. “You even stole the clothes of a pirate.”

            “Will and I paid for these,” said (Y/N) quietly. Already, they felt the press of polite society and social rules closing in around them, strangling the freedom they’d had.

            “And that makes it alright to go gallivanting after pirates with other pirates?!” snapped Swann.

            (Y/N) flinched. Jack narrowed his eyes. Elizabeth pulled (Y/N) to her side protectively.

            “(Y/N) and Will saved me!” said Elizabeth. “I would have been lost if not for their actions. We cannot leave Will behind now. If we do, we condemn him to death.”

            “The boy’s fate is regrettable, but so is his decision to engage in piracy,” said Swann.

            “To rescue me! To prevent anything from happening to me,” said Elizabeth.

            “If I was in Will’s place, would I be left behind, too, for going to save Lizzie?” said (Y/N), eyes raising to face Swann and Norrington.

            “I—Of course not,” said Swann. “You’re my ward. You are a misguided child.”

            (Y/N)’s eyes narrowed as they slid to Norrington. He hadn’t reacted. For a moment, their eyes were stormy with barely contained fury, and they spoke coldly. “But Will isn’t important enough for you?” Norrington and Swann didn’t respond, and (Y/N) knew what the response was. No. Will wasn’t important enough to save. “You’re willing to throw away a life just because he isn’t of high-enough status for you.” (Y/N)’s hands clenched into fists, and Elizabeth saw the same storm stirring within them as it had against the Black Pearl. “Disgusting.”

            “I would watch your tone, young lady,” said Norrington. “It is the grace of your father that excuses you from the harshest consequences of your actions.” He looked at Swann. “Clearly, they have been quite misguided by the pirates. I’d suggest a boarding school to teach them proper manners, but it is your choice, Governor.”

            “Manners? I’ll teach you—”

            “If I may be so bold as to interject my personal opinion,” said Jack, moving between Elizabeth and (Y/N) and the two men.

            After (Y/N)’s speech about throwing away lives due to status, Jack was reminded of the one time he tried to live a “proper” sailor’s life. He remembered what people had deemed cargo fit to buy and sell—other people. Jack had refused to allow that, refused to believe in such a disgusting view of human beings. And now here was the kid, the same one who chased freedom, being pushed around and wanting to help those being thrown away like Jack had. Something in his cold black heart thumped, and he decided to finally speak up.

            (Obviously, it wasn’t so that Norrington and Swann would stop speaking so cruelly to (Y/N). No, it was just so Jack had a chance to escape and get the Pearl. Or maybe it was both. He decided not to consider that).

            “The Pearl was listing after the battle,” said Jack, continuing before anyone could stop him. “It’s unlikely she’ll be able to make good time. Think about it—the Black Pearl. The last real pirate threat in the Caribbean, mate. How can you pass that up, eh?”

            Norrington narrowed his eyes. “By remembering that I serve others, not only myself.”

            (Y/N)’s heart sunk, and they looked at Jack. They hoped he could see they were thanking him for trying to get them to go after the pirates and Will—even if it was just for his own gain since he was undoubtedly going to try to get the Pearl for himself.

            “Commodore, I beg you,” said Elizabeth, moving forward before Norrington left. “Please do this. For me.” She swallowed. “As a wedding gift.”

            Norrington whirled. (Y/N) sucked in a breath. Swann stared at her in shock.

            “Elizabeth?” he said. He was pleased. “Are you accepting the Commodore’s proposal?”

            “I am,” said Elizabeth. To save Will, she’d do anything.

            “A wedding!” said Jack. “I love weddings. Drinks all around!” The air was too tense for him. Norrington glared at him, and Jack cleared his throat. “I know.” He held out his wrists. “ ‘Clap him in irons,’ right?”

            Norrington’s jaw tensed. “Mr. Sparrow, you will accompany these fine men to the helm and provide us with a bearing to Isla de Muerta. You will then spend the rest of the voyage contemplating all meanings of the phrase ‘silent as the grave.’ Do I make myself clear?”

            “Inescapably clear,” said Jack.

            (Y/N) frowned as Jack was pulled to the helm by two guards and Norrington went with him. They knew he’d try to bargain for the Pearl, and that would lead them into danger. However, they had a feeling Norrington was aware of that. That being said…they also knew Norrington had no idea just how dangerous the crew of the Pearl were. (Y/N) did.

            They exchanged a look with Elizabeth, and they found her gaze was as determined as their heart felt. They knew that they’d have to be the ones to ensure Will escaped. They couldn’t leave his fate in anyone else’s hands.

            One more adventure until they lost their freedom—Elizabeth to marriage and (Y/N) to society. They’d have to make it count.

Taglist:

@slytherinroyalty16

@aew-kun-age-regression

@grippleback-galaxy

@andsoigotabutterfly

@insomniacneedssleep

@painstakingly-juno

@kitkatlover015

@chronicallybubbly

@froggyisfriend

@elliottheidiot2007

@paastaboi

@urlocalsabito

@speckle-meow-meow

@dmitrytherat

@vanessa-boo

@ohimjustagirlidrathetnotbe

[misscammiedawn]

Gender, Dissociation and Clinical Stigma - The Third Person

Before I begin I just want to note that typically Media, Myself and I entries are aimed at depictions of dissociative disorders in popular fiction. Today's entry is a graphic novel memoir by a transgender woman with dissociative identity disorder. As it's both not in the public zeitgeist and good representation by virtue of being lived experience of someone who struggled within the mental healthcare system I want to recommend people buy the book (or check it out of their local library). I fully support the artist and want to prop up something good and beautiful.

With that said, let's begin...

CW: therapy abuse

With all the recent hysteria in the US and UK media over transgender healthcare it can be easy to forget the hurdles we all have to climb to receive care. Though Informed Consent is becoming more of a standard practice these days the DSM-5 Criteria for Gender Dysphoria indicates a 6 month requirement for observation before HRT can be prescribed. Many of us needed to jump the hoops of living 6-12 months "in the gender role that is congruent with their gender identity" before we were allowed to begin our gender journey in earnest.

Of course. This requires a clinician (or two for surgical options) to observe this, monitor it and sign off on it. But therapists are humans and are full of prejudice, bias and their own beliefs. They aren't guaranteed to think it is medically necessary or positive for a person seeking gender affirming care to receive it.

So where does DID fit into this picture?

A study, published in 2015, states clearly that 30% of transgender individuals met the criteria for a dissociative disorder.

Yet even still, The World Professional Association for Transgender Health (WPATH), the gold standard for transgender care included this warning in their Standards of Care up until September 2022.

(source)

Fortunately that passage is no longer included in WPATH guidelines as of the 8th revision released in 2022. I shall say the above passage did grant a scare for us, though, as it was very much the practice when we were going for our surgery.

Standards of Care improve and medical understandings of both gender and dissociative care are becoming kinder towards clients.

Even still. There's always that fear. That months of therapy could be wasted on a clinician who was never going to sign off on HRT and was never going to believe our lived experience as a system.

We wouldn't have gotten nearly half as far as we have gotten without our therapist helping us identify our condition, manage our symptoms and develop cooperation and communication.

It's terrifying to think what life would be like if our symptoms not only went unmanaged, but we were made to feel fake and attention seeking by the very person we paid to take care of us...

-

With that intro in mind, The Third Person by Emma Grove is a memoir told in graphic novel format over 920 pages covering the period of life where she began therapy in hopes of receiving feminizing HRT not realizing she had an undiagnosed case of dissociative identity disorder.

When one opens the book they will see an Author's Note declaring that every word in the book is as accurate as Emma's memory will allow and any edits are to streamline the story, not to tailor anything to match the author's point of view and there is a dedication:

"For Katina - We finally did one together"

The story proper begins in media res Winter 2004, as Emma asks her therapist if he would like to hear about the book she was reading and the therapist responds asking why the client decided to speak with him "as Emma" today. Emma, confused, does not understand the question and is probed about her parts, about Ed and Katina and about her childhood. That last word being enough to cause Emma to freeze up, dissociate and...

This simple intro gives us all the context a reader needs to understand the antagonistic dynamic between Toby, the therapist, and his patient(s). Both client and patient are unable to understand the other and harbor suspicions about the other's intentions.

Without the context we only know Emma had a book, she no longer has a book and she suspects her therapist of being a mean person who is playing tricks on her.

We will get context later.

The first chapter of the book provides an introduction to the author's late teens and early 20s where they explore their gender identity and have their first experiences with their masked dissociative disorder.

The book goes to lengths to show the stress of the author dividing themselves between having to present male in their public life and sneaking out to bars where they can wear make-up, wigs and outfits to present female.

They take on their legal name, Ed, during their public life and when going out to clubs take the name Katina, from the first bar they visited presenting femme. The name Emma comes later when the system is working to transition into living as a woman in all aspects of their shared life.

The book patiently explores the stress of having to divide ones own self for their safety in spaces where they cannot present their truth without threat from an intolerant society. If 30% of transgender people suffer from dissociative disorders then a much higher number of them know the stress of having to compartmentalize themselves into different presentations for different audiences.

For us, we know that pain all too well. Our birth identity remains with us as a member of our own system. Less a ghost of our past and more a remnant of a mask we constructed to perform the version of self required for our safety.

The artwork does a good job of displaying switches and co-consciousness with subtle expression work, the hair style/wigs that each alter favors. For example we have the left displaying co-consciousness and a switch.

As the years go on, Katina finds ways to go out to the club and exist in her comfort and Ed labors hard to ensure that they can live for the times they get to "become" themselves.

Katina is established to be a fierce personality who will get aggressive when people push against her. She loves to dance and sing and party at the club. She is both a free spirit without inhibition and a fierce protector who will keep the system safe.

I recall feeling a deep fondness and connection towards Katina when we first read the book.

Once the narrative has firmly established the history that lead to the system seeking HRT we are brought into the meat of the book. A white void with a sofa and an armchair. The therapist's office where Katina, Emma and Ed speak with Toby.

Toby is a trans man that Katina believes to be an ally who will sign off on their HRT once the prerequisite 3 month waiting period is over. Unfortunately over the course of those months Toby becomes aware of Emma and Katina's switches and is convinced that it would be unethical for him to sign off on HRT when it is possible that there may be another 'guy part' in there who will 'wake up' one day and decide that he did not want to transition.

To his credit, once Toby suspects a dissociative disorder he does offer Emma a referral to a specialist. They do not take it as they just want to be signed off for HRT and have no interest in exploring their situation beyond transitioning. So they stick with Toby, convinced that another transgender individual will support them.

Toby, however, sticks to his guns and refuses to agree until they manage the DID.

In the opening, sampled above, Emma switches out at the mere mention of her childhood. Here we find that Katina will front any time Emma is made to think about her past and she refuses to allow Toby to force her to think about it or discuss it. She goes as far as to demand Toby promise not to push which, again, Toby refuses.

During this conflict both sides have exaggerated gestures of frustration, many exclamation points and underlined words. This is not a healthy dialogue at all. Toby is refusing to find middle ground or guide the therapy towards its intended destination. He denies all Katina's attempts to negotiate around the need to talk about her childhood (something she is convinced at this point has nothing to do with her stated goal of HRT) and continuously pushes that she needs to talk about it, without elaborating as to why.

Toby, untrained in dissociative disorders, is focused on getting her to open up about her childhood trauma. Katina, uninterested in exploring trauma, wants to be signed off for HRT. Neither side is willing to budge.

This isn't therapy. This is an argument.

Recently I wrote a Tumblr post about the "Hair Dryer Incident"

The Hair Dryer Incident is a story about a patient with OCD whose life was being massively disrupted by the fear that they had left their hair dryer plugged in at home and it would burn their house down. The clinician advised them to take the hair dryer to work with them every day so that they could see the hair dryer with them and not have to drive home to ensure it was safely unplugged.

There was debate in medical circles about whether this was "enabling" because it did nothing to treat the illness, only managed the life disrupting symptom of needing to drive home to check that the dryer was not plugged in.

For Toby in this scenario he believes that allowing Emma to transition would be "enabling" the sickness that he perceives, that being dissociative identity disorder. He has brought his own baggage into the office and only views Emma and Katina as parts of Ed. No amount of Emma and Katina self-advocating in his eyes will change his mind because they are not "real" in his view.

Of course, he is not fully sold on Emma's condition being real either. There is a sequence in which Emma is left alone in the room and she, having a fascination with books, checks out Toby's bookshelf. This causes Toby to become suspicious and decide that Emma has been reading the medical textbooks on dissociative disorders in order to fake an illness and trick him.

This is not a healthy therapeutic alliance and Toby is breaking all 3 key pillars of establishing a strong patient/client partnership.

Much of modern therapy techniques are based on the concept of Therapeutic Alliance. The history of which dates back to Sigmund Freud and the concept of transference but was refined and redefined by Carl Rogers in the modern Patient Centered Therapy (sometimes referred to as Rogerian Therapy).

With that in mind let's examine the 3 key elements of successful PCT(*) and how Toby failed.

Lead with a Patient Centered Approach This means to check all baggage at the door. Cultural biases have no room inside the clinic (during the book Toby openly mocks Emma's faith in God) and that the patient's priorities are the ones that should be focused on. Both client and clinician should be on the same page of what treatment is being sought, what goals are and how they will be achieved. Toby and Emma (or Katina and Ed) never establish this agreement during their time together. Katina/Emma/Ed are firm in their desire to transition and Toby is firm on his refusal to allow this until the DID is addressed.

Set clear goals with a treatment plan. A good treatment plan will have dates, targets and regular review and reward honesty for both/all parties involved in the alliance. Toby is telling Emma and Katina that they need to open up about their childhood but does not explain how this will benefit or what their goals are. Simply "it's good to talk about it" with no direction or assurances.

Regularly review satisfaction with the therapeutic process, relationship, and treatment plan. This element states that it is important that the clinician be upfront with any potential misdiagnosis and discuss any skepticism in the process and lead from a position of patient satisfaction. I do not need to highlight how Toby failed to lead from a position of patient satisfaction here.

Clearly Toby has a personal concept of what the correct approach is and is holding Emma/Katina's gender affirming care hostage until they can satisfy his unspoken objectives. Correctly applied PCT should be a discussion of mutual agreement and achievable goals worked over a period of time. Toby is not applying these principals at all. His modality simply seems to be "talk about it." I'll be an ethical writer who discloses their biases and say I despise PCT/Rogerian therapy. It is, however, the leading modality within western therapy and it is well researched. Not to mention it is the modality Toby appears to be utilizing in the book. I firmly disagree with Freud on all things (except the concept of infant experiences have lifelong ramifications. A broken clock is right twice a day) and disagree with Rogers on the idea that the client has all of the answers and needs to get out of their own way. An issue with this is that DID is a covert disorder and it will do everything it can to stay hidden. PCT does not offer an environment where patients will be able to navigate their condition as unless they are aware of their symptoms, how and when they manifest and are open to discussing those facts they will naturally steer away from circumstances that would lead to a diagnosis. Most people, including myself, have to exist in the mental healthcare system for 5-12 years before being correctly diagnosed with DID(*) and will experience a number of incorrect diagnoses before finding appropriate care. For us it was 9 years and 7 diagnoses. So. Toby's directive is that the system needs to get to the root of the condition and neither Katina nor Emma are willing to open up about their childhood. Katina continues sticking to her guns and refuses but Emma, desperate to start her medical transition, agrees to open up and the two form a shaky alliance where week by week the pair go back and forth between alliance and conflict. In time Emma describes her childhood being raised by her grandfather who was physically abusive towards her. All too quickly Katina's fears are justified by Toby's combative approach to patient care. One session Emma demands to know why she cannot work on her DID while she transitions and Toby states firmly that she is "not transsexual" which triggers Emma to dissociate into a black void that no one can reach her within. She wanted to be seen and regarded as a woman and a trans man told her flat out that he cannot and does not see her as such. Going back to the hair dryer incident as a reference for a moment. Ed is a member of the system and does show up for therapy on some days. At a point Katina, fed up with being denied treatment, makes a plan to quit their job and start a new life living as a woman 24/7. Ed creates a safety net to prevent this from ruining their collective life and continues to work in the meanwhile. Ed's role in the system has been ground down to working and working alone. He spends his days keeping so busy that he cannot dwell, a panel having the thought bubble "I can't slow down! If I slow down I have to think!" which is depressingly relatable to how we were in the worst years of repressing our gender identity. If Ed is unhappy living as a closeted man who has to occupy himself 24/7 to stop from caving in on himself, if Emma and Katina are both completely stunted by their inability to transition; is it ethical to allow them to transition and to work on their condition while allowing them the freedom to live openly as their chosen gender and prevent a circumstance that is harming the entire system? Toby seems to think it is enabling.

30% of the transgender individuals in the study above were observed to meet the criteria for a dissociative disorder. Living a life where one must mask has severe detrimental impacts on a person's psychology. This is true not just for transgender individuals but for those with autism (*) and other individuals on the LGBT spectrum (*) where the cognitive dissonance between who a person values themselves to be versus how they must present to the world causes the mind to dissociate further and allow contrary thinking to exist in individual pockets of a person's life as well as creates an alienation of the self. Healing under these circumstances requires accepting and embracing oneself, not creating a further divide.

After Toby "caught" Emma looking at the bookshelf he became convinced that she was faking her condition. That she had been plucking symptoms from a book and performing them for him. That she fit the criteria "too well"

Emma rightfully demands to know why she would complicate her receiving HRT by doing something that prevents her being able to. The pair bicker and Toby cuts off the session abruptly.

in the heat of the moment, assuming that Emma was an attention seeker who does not deserve care, Toby declares "Your grandfather was right to hit you."

Even Emma later admits later that therapy should have ended with Toby right there and then. Hindsight is 20/20, as they say. Alas, a mixture of finances and sunk cost keep Emma returning to the chair week after week.

Being trans and having DID are terrifying. In order to receive care and treatment we must insist to a world that what is happening in our hearts and minds is true in spite of all that the world outside tells us is true. We need to not only reach that conclusion within our own lives but must express that truth loud enough that the people around us see it, regard it and accept it.

As so many things in this world are, it's so hard to earn and so easily burned.

"You're faking it for attention" is such an easy sentence to fling at someone and in a therapeutic setting all things should lead to curiosity. Even if a person were faking, it's not normal and healthy behavior for someone to do that. Toby is displaying a complete lack of curiosity and compassion. He is framing himself as the victim in a potential deception from someone who is paying what little money they can put together to receive his care.

I hate Toby.

As the story continues, Emma and her system begrudgingly continue, flitting back and forth between a healthy and unhealthy dynamic with their therapist that shares a lot of similarities to abuse honeymoons. It is worth noting that as the book is a memior it will inevitably be painted with the author's personal view of past events because, as discussed in the Umineko article on recontextualized memories, a human mind cannot avoid applying present understandings to past experiences when recalling memory. This is seen in the book when we see things that Emma cannot possibly have witnessed, such as Toby's facial expression after she leaves the office.

This is not to throw shade at how Emma depicts her former therapist, as he was quite horrid to all 3 of them and quite obviously did more harm than good during their time together. I just wish to note that skewed perspectives are an inevitability. Even still. They do make some progress in talking about the situations. We come to learn of the system origins and how Katina was a friend to the young and lonely child they used to be and that their abusive childhood was centered around physical abuse from their grandfather. While discussing this Emma notes that she could make Katina go away forever with a single phrase. A few short words that she can never ever say and mean or Katina would go away and never come back... and I think that's where I'll stop with the synopsis. I (specifically me, Dawn) broke down in tears the first time I read the book and I have no will to put myself through that again at this exact moment and I wish for you all to have the catharsis of experiencing it for yourself.

I will say in way of positivity that the story is quick to make its conclusions in the final chapters by displaying therapy done right and the fact that even if parts can no longer be heard or even felt, they will always endure in moments where they can add a little color to the world.

They got to write this book together, after all.

For all the sadness this memoir elicits it speaks an honest and hard truth of the desperation, isolation and confusion that can be found in managing sentiments of identity and gender in a time when there was so little understanding and acceptance, particularly for transgender people.

We are lucky these days to have the internet as it is where we can create community and find our people and in finding our people have a better understanding of who we are and how we can live our truths. Visibility of transgender and plural populations has been increasing in part due to the fact we are able to feel unalone and forge community.

2004 did not have those luxuries and I am saddened that Emma Grove had to live through that stigma and lost so much time to unethical and prejudice care from a clinician.

I do hope that in the future we can continue accepting and encouraging one another and living lives where we are not forced to hide, mask or pretend.

-

For other Media, Myself and I articles, please check out the following:

[firawren]

An ode to em

One of the reasons that I love Jane Austen's work is that she loves an em dash. Just how much does she love an em dash? Behold:

That's right, baby—Emma has 3102 em dashes in it! Not hyphens—this is just the count of true em dashes alone. It's glorious.

Let's all bask in the em dashes in this famous Emma passage:

“The best fruit in England—every body’s favourite—always wholesome.—These the finest beds and finest sorts.—Delightful to gather for one’s self—the only way of really enjoying them.—Morning decidedly the best time—never tired—every sort good—hautboy infinitely superior—no comparison—the others hardly eatable—hautboys very scarce—Chili preferred—white wood finest flavour of all—price of strawberries in London—abundance about Bristol—Maple Grove—cultivation—beds when to be renewed—gardeners thinking exactly different—no general rule—gardeners never to be put out of their way—delicious fruit—only too rich to be eaten much of—inferior to cherries—currants more refreshing—only objection to gathering strawberries the stooping—glaring sun—tired to death—could bear it no longer—must go and sit in the shade.”

31 em dashes in that sequence alone! And that's not even the whole paragraph—there are 9 more em dashes in the rest of the paragraph before that quotation! Iconic.

[autistichalsin]

One thing that gets me in a good way is how repeatedly Halsin says or implies that traveling with you is one of the best memories of his life, highlighting just how miserable he was as First/Archdruid.

Asking how he's faring at camp in various scenarios in acts 1 and 2:

A fine respite from the world's troubles, this camp of yours. I daresay I may rest more easily here than I did at the grove... ...and certainly better than I did while languishing in the goblins' cages.

And

Wonderfully! If I'm honest, the grove was too comfortable for my tastes; I felt removed from nature.

And

I'd rather the shadow curse didn't linger just beyond the campfire... but your company more than makes up for it. It's not easy, seeing the ravages of the shadow curse... but your camp is a most welcome solace. You've shared your fire with me, your company. A small pocket of light against the darkness, but one I couldn't do without. Thank you.

After being asked if he'll miss being First Druid:

Miss it? Oh dear no. It's a terrible burden; takes you away from nature and forces you to deal with others' problems and personalities[...] I'm just glad to be out here amidst the Oak Father's creations.

In the epilogue:

The Oak Father has been kind to me this past while, yet I cannot forget the bond we all forged together. It is one that can weather any distance, any passage of time. I know it can, for I feel the longing for old friends in my heart each day.

And, lastly, from Halsin's letter to the player in the epilogue, if the player never broke the Shadow Curse, causing Halsin to stay behind in the Shadow Cursed Lands:

My friend, I was truly heartened to learn of your success in the fight against the Absolute- the whole of the Sword Coast and beyond owes you a debt that can never be repaid. I dearly wish I could have joined in your moment of celebration, but the Shadow Curse remains, and so my vigil must continue. Perhaps I shall yet discover a way to restore light to this place, but until then, the memories of my time traveling with you shall sustain me through all manner of hardships. If the Oak Father is kind, one day I shall feel the warmth of the sun and know the joys of your company once again. Yours until the end, Halsin

This one is particularly poignant, because while facing darkness that might last the rest of his life, he specifically points to the short time he knew the player's friendship as getting him through the difficult memories, with not a single nod to anyone else- not from the Grove or elsewhere. Maybe it was an example of recency bias, but it still hits hard.

Traveling with the player, even with the threat from the Absolute and everything else, really was one of the best memories of his life, just because the camp of weirdos were the first ones to want him for who he was- platonically or otherwise. He could be himself, be free from the burden of leadership, and still do good. Which is one of three things- the others being breaking the Shadow Curse and having a child- that he wanted the most. And in the good ending, all three of these come true for him.

[kimberbohwrites]

Prompts for a story? How about - Rolan, hot for older Tav (elf or whatever really), thinks she (AFAB but totally fine with whatever you feel) hates him but she's working up the courage to ask him out and bang the fuck out of him. He thinks she hates him cause she clams up when he's around - she finds him that sexy/intelligent/edible...

Well your patience has been rewarded my friends, I ended up smooshing these two prompts together and what they caused was thousands of words of hot smut. Please enjoy Chapter One, Chapter Two is almost done and ready. Thanks for your prompts @crowwolf, also shoutouts to @lemonsrosesandlavender for always encouraging me to dom that wizard.

Ma’am

Rolan has been pining for an older Tav for some time now. They both think they other hates them and when they realize their error, smut ensues.

Rated: Explicit, MDNI, Smut

Word Count: 2272

Chapter 1/2

READ ON AO3 (also continued below the line)

Please note: In this I’m writing as Rolan in his 30s and Tav in her 40s with a 10 year age difference.

If there was a spell he could do to reset time, Rolan would reset back to the very first moment he’d met you at the Druid grove. He’d leave a note in his pocket for his past self to not be a total ass when the beautiful woman comes to save the day and to go easy on the drink. But he had no such spell available and the damage was already done. 

She can’t stand you and you deserve it, he tells himself. It’s hopeless, why would an accomplished older woman like you be interested in him? 

Not that you were old, you were only 10 years older than him or so which as a human put you around middle aged if his judgement was correct. As a tiefling he understood that beauty really was only skin deep better than most, for what many believed ugly was actually beautiful, but feared. Not that it mattered with you — age had only made you more lovely. You were confident and graceful in nearly everything you did, the awkwardness of youth long behind you. He found himself too often wondering if that sureness extended to everything you did. Inevitably,  his mind would then wander to musings of your strong hands on his body, pressing him up against the nearest wall and putting your mouth to his. 

Get it together Rolan, he chided himself again and shaking his head like it would clear the vision from his mind. 

After all he’d done to you — the terrible impression he’d made, you were so shy with him that it was silly of him to think of you this way, you weren’t even friends. Every romantic interaction he’d known had been the same, they were both too shy and eventually things just fizzled out. There was never the passion or the fire that he wanted to feel. He felt like you would be different, he’d pined for you for months and months with no end in sight. If anything, his desire for you only grew stronger with the passage of time. But alas, every time he was near you seemed to focus on everything but him, always avoiding him.

With a final shake of his head, he rubbed his eyes and refocused his tired brain back on reality. It was late and near time to close up the shop for the day. Cal and Lia had long since set off to meet their friends at the tavern. He was grateful they were already gone so he wasn’t caught staring off contemplating his feelings for you, again. Daydreaming, his siblings had called it as they mocked him. 

Insulting really, wizards don’t daydream, he huffed to himself. 

The sound of the door gave him a start. Maybe it was his truly terrible luck or maybe his contemplations of you had simply plucked you from the weave by magic, he’d never know. Either way you strolled through the door of Sorcerous Sundries just a few minutes before close with bleary eyes and a nervous look. Upon spotting him you looked around to see if there was anyone else available, he tried to ignore that and focus on the papers in front of him that were very important. 

He could hear you sigh deeply as you turned back toward the door to leave, moving quietly like you might still pass unnoticed. 

“Did you need something?” He asked, trying not to look interested or offended by the fact you were leaving without so much as a word to him. 

“No, sorry,” You sniffed, your eyes looked puffy like you’d been crying. 

“Really?” 

“Fine… I was hoping to talk to Cal and Lia, I could use a friend is all,” 

“They’re gone for the night, the tavern I believe” 

“I see, well, thank you Rolan” 

You turned again to leave and he felt an anxious energy well up in him, he wanted to check on you but he didn’t know how to and you were leaving. It was now or never. He’d like to believe that’s why he said it. 

“Are you okay, ma’am?” He winced as soon as he heard the last word out of his mouth. 

“Ma’am?” You reacted immediately, turning back around. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I’m just nerv—“ 

“As if today wasn’t bad enough, having someone walk out halfway through a date because I have the audacity to be the same age as them and not some young little thing, now I have to have YOU of all people calling me ma’am! Great!” 

Fresh tears streamed down your face and Rolan found himself wishing the ground would open up beneath him and swallow him whole. 

“Gods! I’m sorry! This is why you hate me, I’m such an ass!” Rolan came out and around from behind the counter. He hesitatingly approached you, stopping several feet away. 

What happened next truly surprised him, you laughed, even with tears in your eyes. The way your laugh made him feel, he was sure in that moment that he’d do anything to make you laugh again.  

“I don’t hate you Rolan,” You sniffed and wiped the fresh tears away through a dazzling smile.

“What?! Of course you do, you and I never talk, because I was rude to you,” 

“Lots of people are rude to me Rolan, I don’t go around hating everyone for it” 

“Then why… why aren’t we friends?” 

You sigh and run a hand through your beautiful hair. Gods how he has to fight to not whimper at the thought of you running your hands through his hair, grabbing a handful as you guided his head to where you wanted him. 

“Because, Rolan…Gods… Why is this so hard, I faced down the chosen of Bhaal, okay” You take a few deep breaths like you’re bracing for something. 

“It’s okay, I shouldn’t have pried,” He says trying to deescalate the situation, “I don’t want to upset you it’s just… I’m sorry about your date. I… I don’t know how any one could walk away from you…”

Your eyes snap up to his and he covers his mouth with his hand quickly like he can stop the words but it’s too late. 

“Rolan, you don’t mean that “ 

He dropped his hands to his sides stubbornly, drawing his gaze up to yours — he wasn’t exactly brave in this moment but he was unwilling to cower before you 

“I do,” 

“Rolan you don’t even like me,” You interject 

He is shocked at your words, him not like you? Wasn’t the opposite true, he sputters and starts before he manages to get out the words, 

“No — it’s YOU who doesn’t like ME!” 

His cheeks are flushed with anger and nerves, he can feel it. There is a little smile playing at the corner of your lips as he grows more exasperated by the moment. Are you actually enjoying how frustrated he is? He thinks as he reminds himself to stop looking at your lips in time to notice you’re staring at his mouth as well. It’s only been a split second since he spoke, but the moment feels like it’s drawn on for minutes. 

Suddenly time catches back up all at once as you close the distance and grab the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss him hard. The rush that runs through him in the moment threatens to bring him to his knees and he actually has to fight his wobbling legs to stay standing. But as suddenly as it’s started it’s over and you pull away looking guilty. 

“I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have, I should have asked, I’m so sorry!”

There is a blush on your cheeks that he’s never seen before, like he might be affecting you the same way you affect him. The feeling it fills him with is something like desire and it runs through his body like electricity. 

“Don’t be s-“ He tries to tell you it’s okay but you are rushing to explain yourself and continue apologizing. 

“I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have done that, it’s just so hard to think when you’re around but that is no excuse. That’s why I have just been avoiding you and I don’t know what came over me, I’m terribly sorry” 

He approaches you slowly as you ramble on your apologies. Gently he places a hand on your arm and with the other he takes your chin in hand gently drawing your face to his.

“It’s okay, I liked it,” He says softly, “and… and I wish you wouldn’t avoid me.” 

Your eyes widen in shock at his words and your mouth opens ever so slightly. His eyes dip down quickly at the sight, wanting to feel your lips on his once more. 

“But why? You’re so handsome and smart Rolan — there are so many girls your own age out there. Unless… do you just like older women?” 

You sound almost scandalized at the thought but a small grin gives you away. 

“No it’s nothing like that,” He grows nervous once more in your presence. Dropping his hands from you and clutching at his own arms nervously as his tail coils tightly around his leg for comfort. Feeling so close to being seen in this moment he is filled with dread and a heady anticipation. 

You pause to think for a moment as you take him in, clearly sizing him up. Your instincts always keen, always sharp, much to his chagrin.  

“Is it because you like when other people are in charge… Rolan?” 

You ask the question innocently enough but it’s far too late. His tail coils so tightly around him that he prays to any god available that you won’t notice. On his cheeks he can feel the burning sensation of the deepest blush rising and his gaze shifts to the ground. He wills himself to answer you. 

“I… I’ve never tried it before,” 

Your mannerism changes almost immediately at his answer, the smile that has only been forming in the corners of your mouths grows to a grin and your eyes light up with mischief and excitement. Gone are the tears that you’d come in here crying, your gaze is singularly focused on him now. In his anxiety-addled mind he feels the need to defend himself lest you to think he’s some sort of pervert. 

“It’s not just that… I also think you’re smart and beautiful and—“ 

“Shhh, It’s okay Rolan.” 

You approach him and gently place a finger over his lips. 

“Do you want me to be in charge?” You ask firmly but softly and then remove your finger only a bit so he can answer you. 

It’s unnecessary because at the moment he can’t speak. He just gives a slight nod in response while nervously looking away. 

“Good boy” you murmur while turning his head back to you and leaving a soft kiss on his lips. 

The response is immediate; a desperate whine from the back of his throat. It’s a sound he’s sure he’s never made before and he would wonder what the cause was if he wasn’t immediately half hard at your praise. You notice immediately, your smile growing even larger like a fox that’s cornered its prey. 

“Alright, I’ll be gentle with you. Your safe word is ‘Wulbren’ if you say that I will stop immediately, no questions asked. Understand?” 

You instruct him in between pressing soft kisses to his jaw and throat. His heart is thundering in his chest as all the blood in his body rushes down to his cock. He nods eagerly. 

“No, no, I need you to say it,” you say as you give a little nip right where his neck and shoulder meet, having pushed his robes aside. 

“Yes! Please! I understand, just please!” He blurts out all at once and he would be humiliated if he wasn’t the most turned on he’d ever been in his life. His knees wobble again under your touch. He is clay ready to be molded in your hands. 

You kiss him hard on the lips in reward and he whimpers in to the kiss, feeling himself get walked backward in the process. 

Before too long his back finds a column near the counter at the Sundries and he remembers all at once where he is. His hand shoots out quickly to cast arcane lock on the front doors of the shop, making sure that not a single soul can interrupt a moment he had dreamt about for some time. 

You smile at the spell and then press him flush against the column. The air nearly crackles with anticipation he feels as you survey him like a prize. That unmistakable authority about you that has always attracted him is returned and he is eager to be the subject of it. 

He keeps trying to lean forward to kiss you but you keep him firm against the column. Now he’s desperate, nearly driven mad with need. 

“Please,” he whines.

You shush him again and he tries not to whine again in response. 

“I think you should be more respectful when addressing me… you can call me…” 

You trail off to think and then that glint of mischief returns in your eyes. 

“You can call me ‘Ma’am’” 

Rolan can’t help but blush in embarrassment at the reminder of his own mistake. He nods quickly. 

“Yes ma’am” 

“Good boy” 

Rolan groans again, now he’s so hard it’s become almost painful. 

“Now, let’s take this upstairs,” You say sweetly as you brush a lock of hair behind one of his ears. His head tilts into your touch almost instinctively. 

“Yes ma’am.” 

[fruitgoat]

Mapping/Routing the CTA

I'm still blaming @copperbadge for all of this.

As I am taking this trip in my mind, I have chosen to ignore a lot of the challenges the physical world brings.  Like road construction, neighborhood block parties, day of the week, trains that only stop there once a day in the opposite direction, buses that only run a few hours a day, the actual passage of time, etc.  This trip should not be attempted in the Real World – every route and stop apparently still exists, but you might need to wait hours if not days for the correct bus/train.  For the Extra Bonus Points of LOLs and Nostalgia I have included sections of the Metra (Milwaukee Districts North and West and South Shore Electric), Big Bus Tours, and the Water Taxi.

Again, do NOT try this route in Real Time.  Yet.  My ADHD brain may or may not get back to you in a few days on how long it would actually take just so we can all laugh at the idea of getting lost and being forced to sneak around and spend the night in a mattress store at the Golf Mill Shopping Center or whatever.  (Actually, that’s a hell of a meetcute.  I… I might need to go write something now….)

Starting at Linden.

Ride Purple Line to Howard.  Transfer to Yellow Line.

Ride Yellow Line to Dempster-Skokie. (Resist the muscle memory to catch the bus all the way to Deerfield. I really hated that commute.)

Bus to Morton Grove Metra.

Ride (MN) Metra to Mayfair.

Walk to Blue Line (Montrose).  Ride Blue Line to O’Hare.

Stretch legs and bathroom break.  Refill water bottle.  Refuel if needed.

Ride Blue Line back to Harlem. Bus to Fullerton.

Walk around my old neighborhood.  (I think the walk to Caputo’s is worth it, but maybe don’t buy any fresh squid if you’re getting back on the train.)

Ride (MW) Metra from Mont Clare to Grand/Cicero.

Bus to Blue Line (Montrose).  Ride Blue Line to Forest Park.

Bus to Green Line (Harlem/Lake).  Ride Green Line to Cottage Grove.  (I’m stopping along the way to visit family, get something to eat, and maybe nap while charging my electronics.)

Bus to Green Line (Ashland/63rd).  Ride Green Line to Garfield.

Walk to Red Line (Garfield).  Ride Red Line to Dan Ryan.  Hang Around Like An Idiot.  Ride Red Line to Lake.

Transfer to Pink Line.  Ride Pink Line to Cermak/54th, then back to Cicero.

Bus to Midway.  (Unhydrate.  Rehydrate.)  Ride Orange Line to Halsted.  Walk to River.  Or I think there’s a bus that’s just not showing up at the moment.

Water Taxi to West Loop.

Walk to Willis Tower.  (Bonus point for each instance of calling it Sears Tower.) Tour Bus to Museum Campus.

Metra Electric back to Millennium Park Station.

Walk to Washington/Wabash.  Ride Brown Line to Kimball.

Ride Brown Line back to State/Lake.  (Stop at Fullerton if it’s morning.  Walk to Orange and order the pancake flight and watch them fresh squeeze your citrus juice.  Walk to Molly’s if you like cupcakes.  Double Extra Bonus points if you pointedly reminisce about the Meatloaf Bakery when you pass where it was.  Crash a wedding at my old apartment building if you’re really bored. I really miss my neighborhood at the moment.)

Transfer to Red Line.  Ride Red Line to Howard.  (I’m going to stop at Granville for the Memories.  This was my first address in Chicago – even if I technically wasn’t supposed to receive mail because I wasn’t on the lease.)

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

☠️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter One

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: Allusions of Domestic Violence.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~2.6k

Masterlist | Next

The night is darkest at dawn. Just before the first rays of the new day strike the horizon, the night draws infinitely black, offering the last bit of night before being smothered by the sun. You love the silence it brings, giving you a break from the cumbersome and structured life you live. Yet that indulging peace is fleeting, never long enough for you to taste what you truly long for, only taunting you with something that you’d never reach. Sighing, you rest your chin on your gathered knees and enjoy what will be your last sunrise at Bonn Manor.

You’ve been born on the grounds, raised in its elegant halls, and soon, you will be married in its chestnut grove. The wedding has been planned for nearly a year, your engagement? Years. Everything has been meticulously designed down to the length of a single blade of grass. Your mother is a bit of a control freak, and she hasn’t let you put in one word edgewise—and it’s your own wedding! Not that you are surprised, you’ve never once had the pleasure of even choosing your own outfits or meals.

In hindsight, it saves you many a headache for you haven’t lifted a finger in the entire process. The florist has been given strict directions on what bouquets, boutonnières, and accents should look like, not to mention the flower choice. The bakery in the heart of your island has no doubt been working overtime to supply the cake and other specialty confectionery, and the tailor has almost moved into the manor to finish the work on your dress.

Your dress.

It has been in production for nearly eight months. Your town, Kuri Island, while known for its chestnut trees, is also famed for its lacework. Leagues and leagues of lace have been stitched just for your dress, and that doesn’t even include your outrageous veil! It is enormous, beaded, and decorated with innumerable cloth flowers. Your mother really hasn’t spared any expense, tutting that this has been her lifestyle dream to see you married to a powerful man that will ensure that your noble bloodline continues to prosper.

That and the family business. The Bonn’s have a monopoly on the chestnut and lace industry on Kuri Island, ruling with an iron fist and ensuring that they remain the most powerful on the island. Your fiancé is the next in line, power-wise. As a Marine Commodore, Thomas Collins is the only man on the island worthy of your hand… and in just a few short hours, he’ll have it.

But not by your choice.

This is an arranged marriage drafted by your parents when you were just a teen, to a man very much your senior who cares little for your feelings. Worse? He isn’t a good man, or a good Marine. As much as your mother has tried to control the whispers that reach your delicate ears, you know the reputation Thomas has among the commoners. He isn’t a good man, he has a habit of cruelty to those far beneath himself, and you’ve even heard rumors of bribery. But politics and Berry have trumped over your personal feelings. You can’t refuse this marriage; your opinion can’t even leave your lips.

Just as the sun begins to rise above the horizon, your maids bustle into your room followed by additional ones to tackle the great task of getting you ready for the wedding in a few hours. Ann and Gerbera, your personal maids, hustle over to you. While Ann scans your lavender bedhead, Gerbera takes your hand and inspects your nails.

“I haven’t gone and ruined my nails,” you murmur, not taking your eyes off the glow of the morning sunrise.

“Your mother requested an inspection, my lady,” Gerbera replies, scanning your immaculate fingernails. “Lest you had made an attempt to flee during the night.”

“And where would I go?” you ask vaguely, your eyes taking on a faraway and clouded look. The maids often see it appear within your eyes the closer the wedding draws. They are not oblivious to the matter that you don’t wish to marry Thomas. They have most definitely witnessed your private breakdowns over the years as you slowly realize that your life has never been your own. They are good to you, excellent maids who take pride in caring for their lady… but they can’t even move a single finger to help you in your predicament.

“Never mind that, off to the baths,” Ann softly preens, trying to find light in the fact that you will be glowing with beauty once they are done dressing you for your wedding. You let Gerbera pull you from your lonesome and brooding perch, guiding you through your rooms to the grand bathroom that already steams with scented water. You can smell the strong scent of rose and argan oil rising from the bubbling water. You’ve been taking baths thrice weekly to soften your skin to that of the finest satin on your mother’s orders, and have started hating the scent. It makes you nauseous. This will be your last so you will bear it.

Standing in place, Ann and Gerbera delicately undo the strings to your nightdress, pulling it from your body to leave you naked. You don’t hesitate to step down into the bath. The hot water does very little to ease your growing nausea and discomfort. You know it won’t. But at the very least it feels nice on your stiff body. You have sat at your window for hours without moving, your mind spinning and descending into the dark depths of the pit of hell you’ll soon be living in.

Gerbera kneels behind you and takes your long lavender hair in hand, gently running an ivory comb through the tangled strands. You wince every time she catches a knot. Gerbera murmurs an apology each time and carefully unravels the knot of hair. Your lavender locks aren’t usually a mess, but you’ve tossed and turned all last night before getting up a few hours ago to wait for the sunrise. At the very least, once you are married you’ll have more control over the length of your hair. The extraneous length is cumbersome and almost like chains to weigh you down. Well, almost every part of your life is some sort of chain or prison.

So while Gerbera continues to tend to your hair, Ann takes to massaging oils into your hands and buffing your already immaculate nails. They take extra care in placing dabs of oil in key places on your body. Behind your ears, along your neck, and across your wrists. As you walk, the oils will diffuse into the air around you, perfuming you and leaving behind the scent of rose. A scent that drowns you in hatred. It is always rose this or rose that. Rose jewelry and rose dresses. Even a rose-themed bedroom!

If you never smell another rose after this blasted wedding you will die a happy woman…

You stay in the bath as long as you’re allowed, but the strict voice of your mother ringing from your bedroom has Ann and Gerbera pulling you from the bath and wrapping you in a towel. They dry you off in record time, no doubt saving you from a stern lecture, and wrap your wet hair in a drying towel. The three of you wince when your mother’s voice turns sharp and she nearly starts shrieking at the poor girl who added an extra rose to your bouquet.

“It’s not even seven o’clock yet and the madam is already angry,” Ann murmurs, almost hesitant to push you back into your bedroom.

“It’s a perpetual state I believe,” you reply, twisting your fingers together. “The day she is pleasant is the day the world has ended.” Toweled dry, you don a robe and reluctantly head back to your bedroom. Your mother is still harping on the poor girl who got the number of flowers wrong in your bouquet when you appear. She rounds on you like a viper and you have a brief momentary thought that she might give herself whiplash.

“You!” she barks out. “Why are you not sitting down for your hair and makeup?” You remain silent and simply lower yourself to the velvet and satin chair in front of your vanity. She continues to berate you for things you have no control over and complain over nonexistent errors. It will be all over in a few hours; you’ll trade one jailer for another.

Your hair is dealt with first. Being so long, it takes perhaps nearly half an hour to brush it out smooth and braid it. Then it is swirled and pinned into place upon your head with crystal-studded pins that dig into your scalp in a painful reminder. You’ve been complimented on how lovely the crystal and flower pins look within your lavender-colored hair, and combined with the minimal makeup being painted upon your face you are sure to look the picture of perfection.

“Heavens, Linaria, could you at the very least respect your mother enough to get sleep during the night!” Your mother huffs, fretting and tutting over the bags beneath your eyes the makeup slowly conceals. “I have worked tirelessly to perfect this wedding and I will not have you ruining it with an unsightly appearance.”

“Yes, mother,” you reply obediently. Her eyes, echoing your own but with a much harsher tint, narrow and she scoffs.

“Knowing you, you’ll make a scene at the reception or even ruin the vows. Commodore Collins isn’t expecting a wildling for a wife! He is expecting a well-bred, well-taught, and docile wife to meet him at the altar. Do not disappoint me.” Your eyes meet hers in the mirror for a brief moment before you drop your gaze. Your silence isn’t the answer she expects and taloned nails sink into your pinned hair, yanking your head back.

Yelping, your fingers dig into your robe as you are forced to look into her cruel and hard eyes.

“Am I clear? You are to behave, Linaria, do not disappoint this family again,” her warning is well and clear within her eyes. This is the last one she’ll give you. Swallowing thickly, you agree in the softest voice.

“Yes, mother,” your hair is released and you take in a silent breath of relief, grateful that she isn’t tugging on your hair still. You are sure that a few of the pins will have to be righted after her harsh hold.

“I have to greet our guests, get her ready to dress,” your mother snaps before striding from your bedroom in a swirl of heavy skirts. Rubbing your neck with a slight wince, Ann takes place behind you and quickly fusses with your hair to return it to pristine condition.

“We beg you, my lady,” Ann pleads, her fingers gently placing the pins back in order. “I fear what will happen to you the next time you go against the madam.”

“And where exactly would I go at a time like this?” you reply, looking at Ann in the mirror. “The manor and grounds are crawling with visitors, the help, and guards. I have nowhere to go. Besides,” you glance at the wedding dress on the mannequin in your room. “You think I could run in that? The thing weighs more than I do soaking wet.”

After Ann and Gerbera get your hair and makeup just perfect, they’re dismissed by your mother’s personal maids. She doesn’t trust you with your personal maids and has ordered her own to see to dressing you. So you are alone with maids that have no issue enforcing your mother’s orders. They have you get up and stand in the middle of your room, fluttering around while gathering up the layers of your outfit.

You are already in your underwear and bra, a decorative set that your mother has insisted you wear for the wedding, so when you peel the robe from your body you aren’t especially shy. Valeria, your mother’s favorite, brings over the heavy dress and with the help of Clover, maneuvers the top of the dress over your head. Despite being made from airy lace, the bones of the ballroom dress are metal and ridged, structuring the dress in the precise way your mother wants your body to look.

As you place your arms in the three-quarter sleeves with layered lace and starched silk, Valeria’s fingers are quick to work on the strings of the corset. She tightens it immediately, making a small noise of pain emerge from your lips, and only draws the strings tighter and tighter. As elegant and beautiful as you may look, you feel like you are being tied into a jail cell. Clover joins in on tugging the corset tight, and the bruising tightness only grows worse.

You want to bite your lip as your ribs begin to screech at you, not liking the pressure. But heaven forbid you turn up to your wedding with bitten and chewed lips. Clenched fingers it is. Several minutes later, after being jerked around and squeezed most viciously, the extravagant veil is being pinned into your hair. Another weight to add. Valeria departs to report to your mother while Clover remains to watch over you. Walking over to the grand mirror in your bedroom, you stare at yourself in dread.

You look like a trussed turkey heading for the dinner table.

You can admit that you look beautiful, the shape of your waist cinched in and the wide neckline decorated with fabric rose buds accented your collarbones. Months of work on the lace detailing has pulled out a wedding gown fit for a princess… or a lady from a very rich family. But you can’t enjoy your beauty, you can’t giggle or dance as the skirts of your dress swirl around your feet. You can’t enjoy anything about the dress, no matter how expensive or luxurious it is.

By some grace, an extra maid pokes her head into your bedroom with a red face. She begins rattling off a bunch of issues with minor details of the ceremony space that your mother is throwing an absolute fit over, and Clover glances at you with a worried look. You can see her thought process. She is supposed to watch over you, but the wedding will not commence without everything being perfect. Well, it isn’t like you are going to go anywhere. So Clover quickly follows the maid, leaving you in suffocating silence.

Suffocating is an understatement.

Your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest in pure fear. You have but a mere fifteen minutes before you will be truly locked in an inescapable prison. If you thought it was hard to breathe wearing this dress it is nothing compared to the looming doom that is mere minutes away. Your eyes flicker to the balcony of your bedroom; the doors have been locked after you tried running before… but with the cleaning of the manor in anticipation for the wedding, they are no longer barred from use.

Memories of what happened to you as a result of being caught and dragged back to the manor flicker into your mind. You’ve never been in that much pain. Fear of repercussion prickles in your veins, rooting you to where you stand. Eyes catching sight of the tops of the ships harbored, your throbbing heart leaps into your throat.

“I’ll never have another chance,” you whisper to yourself, desperation winning over fear.

Date Published: 11/13/23

Last Edit: 7/29/24

Masterlist | Next

[guapitas]

The Unwinding (Draco Malfoy x Reader)

Chapter Two: A Wizard's Guide to Tarot

Read chapter one here

Rated: Mature

Word Count: 4.4k

Summary: You take Draco to The Grove and work on your Divination assignment. (See the overarching summary for the future of this fic, here.)

Warnings: We dabble in foul language

An exasperated set of hands let go of a heavy textbook, until the edges flop out and onto the long, dark table beneath it. The drop echoes throughout your aisle of the library, meeting with the loll of Cedric’s head against the back of his chair. 

“I am thoroughly exhausted,” he says and extends his arms upwards, stretching out to wring a pop from his back. 

“Okay, you’re not even halfway through the text–”

“That’s the tragedy of it! I’m already done for.” Cedric drops his demeanor and pulls his head forward again. He leans in until his cheek squishes down against the pages. “Have you gotten anything?”

The textbook in your hands is smaller but thicker than his, filled with the accounts of decades upon decades of wizarding history. Whoever wrote it must love to hear themselves speak– or love to read what they write. A lobotomy might be easier to handle than trying to get through this convoluted mess, though it manages to spare a few sensible lines every now and then. 

And yet, you frown. “Nothing worthwhile.” 

His eyes shut for a moment, in brief meditation, you think, as he takes a deep breath. A hard exhale puffs up his one visible cheek and, when his chest is entirely empty, Cedric sits up again, this time with a new determination on his face. His fingers fly to turn the pages and his eyes scan the words at an almost comical speed– can he really be comprehending all of that, at this rate? He must be– or, for his sake, he better be. And now, rather than his complaints, desperate flips between chapters fill the air. 

You push your book far out onto the table, sick of looking at it. And whilst Cedric gets back into the zone of research, you let your eyes gander around at the surrounding bookcases. The shelf directly adjacent to your end of the table falls under historical genres, with a portion at the bottom specifically devoted to wizardry-related catastrophes and devastations. Cedric has already snagged the most promising one– a deep purple spine that reads Calamity and Mass Hysteria. He had been so excited to pick it up earlier. It was “just dramatic and cryptic enough to have potential!”— That was over an hour ago now, and there haven’t been any breakthroughs.

The library is grand, with thousands— maybe millions— of books. Every row secludes itself with high and cluttered bookshelves, granting privacy at every corner. And on another side of the building, there are aisles and aisles of muggle books, ranging from every different age group and genre. That section is a personal favorite of yours. Many of the novels remind you of your childhood, in which you were no stranger to the muggle world. 

An analog clock ticks along the wall on the other end of the walkway. Isn’t it odd that the longest hand represents minutes, when minutes are shorter than hours? Whatever— because it’s three forty-five, and the dining hall opens for dinner at four. Part of you longs for time to slow down, but the other is itching for it to speed up. 

“Wait— this! This might be it!” Cedric all but jumps out of his seat and shoves his nose down into the ridge of his textbook. “I’ve got it!” 

“And? What is it?” 

You perk up while he pauses to reread the passage. “A nineteenth century illness swept the wizarding nation, perpetuating a panic that spun into madness. Untamable savagery and barbarism… animalistic behavior, until those affected ultimately met the fate of a perpetual state of sleep. Their consciousness was consumed by and lost to the depths of their condition…”

“Well, that’s a tad grim.”

“It’s perfect!” Cedric clasps the book to his chest with a smile– the first you’ve seen since you started this process– until he pulls it back and hones in on it again. The relief on his face fades as his eyes move. “But that’s all it says? Maybe I can find a footnote, or a citation… something…” 

You close up your textbook and push it through the air, until the bookcase accepts and slides it back into its place. In his chair, Cedric mutters nonsense to himself– is there such a thing as method… researching? Like method acting, but instead, Cedric puts himself in the same mad headspace as the victims in his book. Either way, you reassure him. “It sounds like the best topic yet, so keep it up! Definitely weird and vague enough to look into.”

There’s no visible response as you pack up your things. You stand to sling your bag over your shoulder. “I should start heading over to meet Draco, but let me know if you find anything else! I’m happy to help you again– or to be here for moral support.”

His eyes flicker up at that, meeting yours with a hard stare. “Right. The Divination assignment.”

“Right,” you say, and give him a frank smile, rolling along the balls of your feet as you wait for him to finish processing. 

“...Okay. Have fun… hanging out.” 

You move past him with a little scoff, briefly placing a hand on the top of his head and shaking it around. He instantly swats you away with a laugh and half-heartedly shoves you out into the main walkway. 

“It’s just for class! No fun allowed,” you insist, and reach out for his head again, but to no avail against his blocks. 

“Alright, alright– go away now! I’ll see you later.”

You worm your way out of the maze of shelves until you reach the entrance lobby again. The thin, white-haired librarian wishes you a good evening, and the grand door with a stained glass window in it creaks as you leave. 

The University campus isn’t too vast, though the inside of every building seems to be more spacious than its exterior. Everything unrelated to coursework has its own designated lot- the library, dining hall, dorms, miscellaneous shops, etcetera. And while separated, dirt and cement paths connect each of the biggest structures. No walk between any given location is more than fifteen minutes. 

The distance from the library and to the dining hall, for instance, takes you twelve minutes– a couple more than usual, at your leisurely pace. Leisurely, or tentative. You can’t even will yourself to think about Draco Malfoy, or having to spend an uncertain amount of time with him, dragging the conversation along. An ache is already forming at the side of your head, alongside a pit of dread in your stomach– and, shit, you are thinking about him. 

When you arrive at the tall, double door entryway, there are a few familiar faces, however not the one you’re looking for. You give the inside a shot, half regretting not setting an official time in the midst of yesterday’s nerves. A roar of buzzing pushes past the crack of the door as you open it; the chatter of half the school, shoved into one– albeit large– building. 

The hall is flooded with hungry students, crowding every table and food stand. Similarly to a food court, bars and stands line up to serve various types of dishes, organized by region or food class. Where the Chinese food and tea parlors should be, there is a flock of students swarming them, waiting for their orders to be taken. 

You can’t will yourself to go any further inside, ill practiced with the way of the hangry mob. Getting to the hall right as it opens is not a regular occurrence for you. And as you spin around to leave, a voice yells out through the vibration of overlapping conversations. 

“Not lost, are you?”

It’s a loud call, but firm, calm, level. It lines up with the mouth of Draco Malfoy, who steps forward and divides himself from the others in your peripheral vision. In black slacks and a grey jumper- lined with dark green- he waltzes over to your side. A black leather bookbag strap sits neatly across his chest. Before you can get a word in, he pulls out two apples and hands one to you. 

“Hey. You bought me an apple?” 

He shrugs and takes a bite of his own. “I figured we weren’t going to eat beforehand.” 

“Thank you,” you say, cradling the fruit in your palm. There’s a beat of speechlessness as he stares back into your eyes, and when there’s nothing else you can think to say, you nod. “Let’s get going, then.” 

The silence that follows is deafening– though perhaps only to your ears– as you get back outside and lead the way to The Grove. A gentle wind brushes past and the paling sun, still in the sky, graces your skin. Most students have gone off for dinner, so there’s little noise beyond the sway of branches and the occasional bite of Draco’s apple. There’s also the faintest sound of metal clinks coming from right behind you– or beneath you. When you look down, a dainty silver chain hangs long from the left pocket of Draco’s trousers.

From the dining hall, The Grove is nearly a ten minute walk, only slightly off campus in a nearby direction. No words are spoken.

The Draco Malfoy beside you now does not appear as daunting or intense as the one you had once known of. He speaks minimally, but there is no sneer or notable distaste from him. There’s nothing to fear— as silly as that sounds— and yet, you match the reserved energy, with the uneaten gift still in hand. 

You make several attempts at conversation and fail at every one. The words can never leave your lips, getting stuck at the throat and tying up the tongue. Instead, you shut your mouth altogether and pick up your pace. Draco follows in suit, increasing the longevity of his strides, until your destination comes into view. 

“There it is!”

You’re greeted by a familiar, pink-roofed shack and wide entryway, tucked between a field of trees. A large sign stands at the entrance, a matching shade of pink with big, white printed letters for guests and travelers to see. Welcome to The Grove, with small painted butterflies around the words. 

“This..?” Draco finally makes a face unlike his typical, neutral stance. With pinched brows, his gaze lingers upon the beaten up building, then shifts to gape at you sideways. Something is on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. 

“It’s The Grove!” You insist, and grin over at his disdain. He doesn’t question you any further, but the look never leaves as you two move onwards. 

And like night and day–like a flipped switch– the entryway teleports you into another realm. Past the paint-chipped wood of the service shed, the shield of trees open up and welcome you into its expansive garden, with bright greenery and splashes of flower petals. The sunshine at this hour– though not at its peak– highlights particles of pixie dust in the air.  

A cobblestone track leads the main and widest way straight down the middle, breaking off several times to give way for alternate routes and locations, deeper into the abundance of undergrowth. At a distance, a couple of visitors play with the myriad of butterflies that swarm across The Grove’s sky. They stick their fingers out and meet the insects as they land, shiny with a sugar water mixture. 

You glance over at Draco with discreteness, gauging a reaction. He’s neutral again, but his eyes are everywhere, trying to take in all of the scenery as your pace increasingly slows. In contentment, you finally take a bite of the apple. 

When Draco gets lost in the flock of wings and specks of color soaring by, a pixie springs out from the forest and whips around his head. He yelps, stumbling backwards whilst the fairy stops you dead in your tracks. 

“You’ve brought a friend,” she says in a high voice, the shine of her tiny wings twinkling as she flutters them. Her shimmery lashes peer through dusty pink bangs. 

“Hello to you too, Flora.” You gesture to the friend in question. “This is Draco.” 

“I’m quite aware.” 

Flora and Draco match each other’s scowls as he flattens out the strays of his messed up hair. She does a little whirl around the two of your heads again, and huffs to a halt. She pierces Draco with a glare, and you intervene before she can burn a hole into him. 

“Is Ivy here? We have an assignment to get to, but I’d love to say hi!”

Finally tearing her eyes away, Flora brightens up. “She’s acorn hunting with some squirrels. I should be helping her out, actually, but you know my distaste for the chittering fuzzballs..” She does a sad little twirl and sighs. 

You sympathize. “They are pretty freaky. Fast too.” 

“Way too fast! One bad day and they could turn on you in an instant!” Flora shivers and furiously shakes her head. “You’ve at least got the size advantage. If they didn’t like Ivy so much, I’d be long gone.” 

“I’m sure the squirrels wouldn’t actually hurt you. The bees, on the other hand…” 

“The bees! I don’t know how she can love those things! If it weren’t for their work in the garden… if I had it my way…” 

While Flora spins off into an animated flurry of frustration, Draco’s pointed look softens over at you. You try to telepathically apologize for the delay. It takes a minute or so, but once she’s calm again, she gives Draco a long stare, then returns her focus to you. 

“Fine, then, I suppose I’ll leave you to it,” she says, and doesn’t leave room for any further discussion as she zips back into the cluster of trees. “See you tomorrow!” 

You smile as she disappears, picking up the steps alongside Draco again. “Sorry about that.” 

“Are all of the pixies… like that?” He’s back to scanning the environment, wary now, with a guard up. 

“No, that’s just Flora. Her and Ivy are really the only ones that bother with us measly humans at all.” 

“Tragic.”

There’s a lull of tranquility as he follows your lead deeper into The Grove. You take a left that directs you to a meadow, with a great field of blooming flowers and a spot in the middle where the sun breaks through the treetops. A family sits on a blanket with a basket at the center. Your two apple cores get tossed into a trash bin. 

“You’re coming back tomorrow?” Draco inquires as you skirt along the edges of the grassy field and turn deeper into the surrounding forest, going along an unofficial trail now. He watches the floor and dodges any rocks or questionable patches of dirt.

“Uh– yeah. I actually work here.” 

He hums, no longer interested in pursuing that route of conversation, you suppose. You approach a crevice of land, a spot in the woods with a small clearing of trees, and where nothing but flowers and a couple of butterflies stray. So deterred from the main path, guests are never in this region without the intention of getting lost. 

A shallow body of water starts and meets the grassy land, divided by a thick string of stones. The pond doesn’t go out very far, and every other side of it is blocked off by the barrage of oaks. But where you and Draco explore, a flat plot of grass gives you space to roam. Up next to bundles of brush, a wooden picnic table waits for you. 

Quick to unpack your necessary belongings, you and Draco sit across from each other. He shuffles through the tarot deck and you keep the guidebook ready at hand. Shiny, textured print on the cover reads Tarot Magic. 

“We could do a three card reading,” you say, pinning down a page at the back of the book that offers examples, “one for the beginning of the term, one for the journey, and one for the end.” 

Draco agrees wordlessly, concentration aimed down at the cards mixing around in his experienced palms. With movements so fluid, he mimics a casino dealer. And when satisfied, he neatens out the stack and holds it out for you, face down. “Go on and split the deck.” 

You do as he says, careful not to disturb the tidiness of his stable hands with your eagerness. “I hope we get good cards.” 

This elicits a huff of amusement from him as he sets the deck onto the table. He shrugs his shoulders, but lets them rest broad and straight, the posture silently coercing you to fix your own. 

“Well it’s all sort of hogwash, isn’t it?” 

“No way. Literal magic exists, and you’re gonna say there’s no chance that this is real?” 

He only gives a little tilt of his head at that and reaches for the first draw. The Fool. 

“Right. Well that one doesn’t need much of an explanation, does it?” He rolls his eyes as you flip through the guide regardless. 

You find him– the fool– in one of the first few pages, card zero. Matching his physical form, the image of the man wanders along the edge of a cliff with a little creature following alongside him. He’s happy, but clueless. 

“The Fool is representative of new beginnings… going in blind, inexperienced… willing to take chances in the new world… unaware of what the future holds…” you skim through the description’s main ideas and jot down the words on a stray piece of parchment. 

“Lovely.” 

Draco draws the next two cards in rapid succession. The Tower and then Three of Swords. 

“The Tower is sudden change, or collapse…” The analysis makes you slow, processing potential interpretations that don’t result in a few dreadful months. “Or some kind of event that, like, overthrows whatever’s been previously established.”

“And the Three of Swords?”

You purse your lips, speed through the pages, and read the first line. “Gloom permeates the Three of Swords.”

“We’re doomed!” Draco groans and crosses his arms against his chest. “We’re fucking gallivanting to our demise. We have to redraw.” 

“No, we shouldn’t just take back our pulls– can we even do that?”

“We can, because these cards don’t impact our future,” says Draco, defiant, “but our professor might.” 

Pause. “You think she would use magic to make our cards a reality? Just to prove divination is real?”

The two of you share a look as if the other is stupid, but you persist. “Even so, divination is ambiguous! A lot of it is up to interpretation.” 

Draco glances at the cards to give them one last chance and frowns. “Is there any other way to interpret this?”

The mini spread laid out between you doesn’t change. The Fool remains jaunty, The Tower glistens at you, and the Three of Swords has three massive blades piercing through a heart. It’s exactly as Draco put it, despite your pleas for an alternative– positive but realistic– spin. 

“Fine. Shuffle the deck again.”

He wastes no time and mixes the three cards back into the deck with a smug expression. When he sets them down, you pull first this time. Ace of Cups. You pull again but from the middle of the stack, then the bottom. Seven of Swords, then The Sun. 

The guidebook flings open, and Draco only spends a moment on each page before he’s able to give you the gist of each card. 

“The Ace of Cups is a new relationship or connection. It encourages reception, and embracing your emotions, rather than suppressing them. Seven of Swords is deception, or interference from others, or from within.” He scrutinizes the last page for a few moments, until he’s content. “As for The Sun, what lingers in the dark will be revealed. There may be blindness, but enjoy the moment, because good times are ahead.” 

You let his swift recaps register all at once. “Okay, so, for the most part, this reading is pretty much perfect.”

“Pretty much.” 

“Excellent!” You lean forward with giddiness and grab fresh parchment from your notebook. “All we need now is the analysis.” 

In silence, Draco gets to work. He retrieves a portable set of quill and ink from his bag, setting up a miniature station along the plank surface. The spick and span mannerisms– the pure technique of it all– paints a contrast against his background; the typically chaotic and jovial nature of The Grove that you’ve become so accustomed to. You might think there to be a green screen somewhere if the breeze wasn’t provoking one of his stray hairs. It falls away from his gelled comb over and hangs loose down his forehead. 

You aren’t sure what comes over you– besides a thick lull in conversation– but you figure that one partnered assignment is frequently followed by another. With an entire term ahead of you, and particularly with Draco as your deskmate, there’s no harm in getting to know the guy. 

The ballpoint pen snaps into your grasp when you blindly dig around your backpack for it. While your fingers fiddle with the cap, you peek up over at Draco. “Y’know, I was honestly surprised to see you.”

“In Divination?” His eyes remain fixed down onto the paper as he records the events of your assignment. 

“Well, yes, but also the school in general.”

There’s no immediate acknowledgement as he finishes up a sentence. Eventually, he glances up at you. “I’ve always been here.” 

“I know.” You resist a cringe at your speedy response. “But still.”

He drops again, returning to the task at hand. You fear for a second that you might’ve lost him, but he speaks up once more. “I do have a fine job lined up for me at the Ministry. I simply wanted to take some time for myself, to study alchemy.”

“And divination?”

“It’s only a major requirement.” 

You nod, mindlessly twirling the pen between your indexes and thumbs. “So… you’re taking Alchemy and Advanced Divination. What are your other classes like?” 

The tip of his quill drips as he leans it against its paired ink jar, collecting trickles at the rim. A couple of his fingertips hold his parchment straight and in place. “One is a music class.” 

“Music? No way!” This has your own work briefly forgotten now– regardless of the fact that you haven’t even begun. “What do you do? Is it like an appreciation course, or, do you play…?”

It takes a moment before Draco meets your eyes again, though with an unamused expression that makes you sigh, “Oh, come on.”

“I play the piano,” he says, humoring you. 

Of course. No other instrument would be so fitting. You can imagine Draco, young and preened, taking piano lessons with the finest instructors money might buy. And when he met his own expectations, he was probably thrilled to perform for his parents– back straightened, hair gelled, and thin fingers sprawled all over the grand keys. A big, toothy grin plastered on his face when he was done. 

You don’t know anything other than rumors and assumptions when it comes to Draco’s upbringing, but you can’t help doubting that any level of accuracy or perfection was enough to achieve his family’s standards. 

“Okay, not to boost your ego or anything, but that’s actually insanely cool.”

He looks away again, and with the edge of his mouth quirking upwards, he almost scoffs. The skin of his cheeks are pale and pinked, falling victim to the air’s oncoming chill. As he succumbs to an apparent lack of words, you push. 

“Seriously! You must play for me sometime. That’d be so sick. Learning the piano is actually on my bucket list, fun fact.” 

Despite shaking his head, he flashes a small, undeniably pleased smile that vanishes as quickly as it appears. He picks up his quill again. “Right, then, have you begun the written portion?” 

With an exhale that puffs out your lips, you twiddle the pen around one-handedly now. You admit defeat with an exasperated, “No.” 

He actually comes close to laughing at that and eyes your writing utensil. 

“Firstly, you can stop doing… whatever it is that you’re doing with that thing, and get down the lot we pulled.” 

You’re thrown into focus and find success in interpreting the reading with Draco. It’s fairly simple to construct a general prediction of events, and to note the advice of your cards. As he takes the lead, you wonder if his aptitude extends towards all of his academic endeavors. 

By the time you leave The Grove, the sun dwindles downwards, overtaking cloudy blues with shades of pink and orange and purple. Butterflies flutter away to their resting zones, fairies hole themselves up, and every other diurnal creature of the woodlands calls it a night. The venture back to the campus and Slytherin dormitories is livelier than before. 

“The first game of the season is this weekend. Are you going?” You ask once you step foot in the common room. There’s only a stray student or two hanging around in the corners, studying, no doubt. 

“Certainly. I’m playing in it.” 

“Oh! Really?” That shouldn’t quite be a shock, so you aren’t sure why it is. Has he always been on the team with Marla? Unlikely. She would’ve mentioned it. So… has he just joined? 

He chuckles short at your surprise, affirmative. “Are you going?” 

“Of course, I love a good quidditch game. And it’s Marla against Cedric— may the best player win.” 

“Which’ll be us, naturally.” His shoulders lean back, boastful, as he stalls his strides. Your departure nears, coming up on the stairwell that directs to the dorms. 

“Naturally. But I suppose I’ll still go, even if I already know the outcome.” 

The strap of Draco’s bag rests in the clutch of his hand, stilling as you two loiter around by the staircase. A beat ticks by before the nerves eat at you, and you will yourself to bid him farewell. You offer him good luck on the game. 

“I’ll see you there,” he all but promises. His casual voice does not resonate with the weird twist in your tummy. 

Going your separate ways and rushing up to your bedroom, you not only relish in the prosperity of the day– the progress you’ve made in both schoolwork and perhaps companionship– but also perturb yourself with the thought of what you could possibly wear to the game. It hadn’t been such an occasion before, but now, with the potential interaction with a new acquaintance, you find it fret-worthy.