#he's truly just leeching off of his mother's protection

[britneyshakespeare]

10 words every girl wants to hear

"jared, you have been evicted from the big brother house."

[nmakii]

CAN’T REMEMBER TO FORGET YOU

[before you read this, check out the rest of the story!]

— running away from alastor wasn’t so hard the first time, who says you can’t do it again while pregnant?

alastor; the monster you call husband. he was absolutely by all definitions, obsessed. he never left your side— cooking all your meals, escorting you everywhere, even watching you sleep.

he proudly announced your pregnancy on live radio, sealing that you are his. no man will want for you anymore, he has defiled your purity. he clung onto you like a leech, draining away what little happiness you had left.

you just had to get away from that monster. you couldn’t stand another second in this hellhole house, everything in it was a cruel reminder that you’re trapped with no way to escape.

well, you’re not gonna just fall into his trap. it was then that you had planned to run away. far into saint bernard, where no one knew who you were.

and with that plan in mind, you packed all you could and ran. running south with wild abandon, you needed to run far as far from alastor as possible.

you took shelter at a rundown motel while you got back on your feet, taking a singing gig at a club down the street.

you sang well, earning favorable tips from the drunk men who desired you, wanting to see what else was underneath your signature loose flowy dresses. and with that money, you were able to afford a small house with the basic necessities. well, enough for when your child was born.

being a single mother had been rough, when you went to work at night, you entrusted your son, noah with one of your neighbors who you had grown fond of. you sent noah off to a public school, it was not the best, but it was all you could afford.

soon enough, your hard work truly paid off, you were able to live much more comfortably, buying your son the things he could ever want for.

true, there were times that your son wondered where his father was… and to that, you decided to tell him the complete truth; of how alastor is an evil man, a sort of big bad wolf. and, how you ran away to protect him and keep him safe from that wolf.

and, to him, that was a reasonable explanation.

7 years passed by, your son grew into a handsome little boy. handsome, yet you couldn’t look him in the eye. everyday, as he grew up, he started looking more and more just like his father; the tuft of chestnut brown hair, those piercing eyes, and that smile— it was all resembling the monster you ran away from. it seems as if all that your son inherited from you was your heart.

as you walked over to the bar, you spotted your co-worker mimzy slacking off. it wasn’t often that your shifts had co-incided, but the two of you still remained aquaintances. she was apparently talking up some fellow, probably trying to milk some cash out of him.

and as you took a peek of the poor soul mimzy had decided to prey on, your frame froze. was that alastor? what was he doing so far out from new orleans? your breath hitched as you walked back, trying to move as far away from that wretched man.

maybe you shouldn’t buy heels from thrift stores anymore.

the heel on your right foot snapped as you fell onto your butt. this had caught the attention of alastor, excusing himself from the conversation as he walked towards you.

you shuffled back into the crowd as best as you could, crawling away before he could get his hands on you. and still, you weren’t fast enough. alastor bended down by his waist, a smile plastered on his face. “why, say it ain’t so! if it isn’t my darling wife.” he laughed. “ex-wife.” you corrected. “ah-ah” alastor tutted, wagging his finger. “wife. we never had a formal divorce. did we, dear?”

“whatever…” you scoffed, still moving back. “say, where is our child? the one you’ve hidden from me for 7 years? i’m sure they’ll be delighted to meet me after you’ve kept us apart for so long!” he rambled on. “get away from me, alastor. you’ll never meet my child.” you said, finally getting back up on your feet, albeit the broken heel. “won’t you at least tell me their name?” he pleaded, doe eyes begging you. the doe eyes that made you crawl back every time.

“…noah. his name is noah” you frowned, glaring up at alastor. “noah. what a beautiful name for our son.” he mused. “now, would you leave me alone?” you hissed, pushing him away.

despite his lanky frame, alastor had barely moved. “my love, do you think i of all people would let you off the hook so easily? all the scheming, forcing you into an affair, into running away, crawling back to me, even following you far into this club— i wouldn’t want it all to be for naught…” he frowned, explaining his plan as he backed you into a wall, a predatory shine in the way he stared at you.

alastor planned it all..? all the ‘hardships’ you faced— all of it was in some elaborate scheme. no word could’ve described the overwhelming betrayal that overcame you. you just wanted to get out of this club, run home to your son, and run farther away. to another city, a different state, or even a different country! anything to keep him far away from his father. “now that you’ve had your fun, dear… i think it’s time you and noah return home. you can’t keep my son away from me forever. plus, my mother has been dying to meet her grandchild!” he laughed, holding you by the waist.

alastor took note of how you submissively agreed, letting him take you back to your true home. it seems you finally learned your lesson; there’s no escaping alastor. no matter what you do, it’ll end with you back in his bed, back in his arms.

“come now, my doe. it’s not safe to leave noah alone at home.” he chided, opening your side of the car door. “he must be quite confused right now. after all, he’s in the room we had prepared for him all those years ago, he must have no idea where he is right now!”

ah…

there was no use keeping alastor away.

he’d always find his way back, even through drab methods.

[howlingday]

Sworn Duty to Protect

It was cold that morning. The day they laid Nicholas Schnee to rest, her beloved and so adored grandfather, Weiss' heaving breaths came out in clouds of sorrow from her mouth. Her mother was so disraught by her father's death, she shut herself away into her room. Weiss didn't know it, but that would be the last she saw her mother sober for the next twelve years.

Klein held her hand, rubbing a thumb as he stoicly watched the casket lower. He also held Winter's hand as she failed to match his stone face. Whitley fussed in her arms, unaware of the tragedy in their family. Weiss wouldn't forgive him for... so long.

A supposed "close friend" of Nicholas spoke at the eulogy, giving empty words of death and dust and neither truly ending. Even at her young age, Weiss knew a corporate shill when she saw one. Her father arranged the ceremony, and it only made sense for a rat to come to assist a leech.

"Remember, Weiss," her father whispered, his voice a relief from the mockery, "that this death is faulted on one man. Do you understand?"

Wordlessly, she nodded. It was the man who abandoned her grandfather. The serpent in hiding amongst the permafrost of her home, trickering her grandfather, her family, into believing his lies of honor, respect, and duty. Her father was many things, a liar sitting high among the list, but he was no murderer.

Nothing like an Arc.

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

"You know what else is great? Me." Jaune jumped in. "Jaune Arc, nice to meet you."

"Hello, Jaune," the red-haired girl waved, "it's nice to meet you!"

"Thanks." Jaune waved quickly before getting closer to Weiss. "So, I couldn't help but overhear you say-"

"Did you say your name was Arc?" The white-haired woman interrupted, staring at the ground.

"Uh, y-yeah," Jaune answered, suddenly feeling a cold chill, "I didn't think it would be famous."

"Arc." She breathed out slowly, like the word held a deeper meaning beyond a name. She looked up from the floor, and Jaune nearly froze on the spot in terror. Never before had he felt such hatred, such boundless rage and disgust in anyone's eyes before. After drawing a long breath, she spoke once more. "From now on, your life will be a living hell."

"What?" With a flick of her wrist, Jaune was frozen up to his neck in a block of ice. Weiss then twirled in a sort of ballerina form and kicked Jaune to the opposite end of the locker.

"Come along, Pyrrha." Weiss walked away.

"Uh, it was nice to meet you!" Pyrrha shouted and waved before cautiously following Weiss.

"Was it something I said?"

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

"It wasn't just your words, but your actions." Weiss huffed.

The older man bellowed. "You sound just like your mother!" He touseled her hair again, which she spent all morning making look perfect. "But there are worse people you could be like."

"Oh, hush." Her mother said, holding her baby brother in her arms. "Weiss doesn't have to be anything like me."

"Nah." A voice came from behind before lifting Weiss high into the air. With a toss, Weiss was spun round and caught in the same hands, finding her grandfather's old and grizzled face smiling at her. "She just has to be the best Weiss she can be."

"Hallo, Opa!" Weiss greeted with a giggle.

"Hallo, liebchen!" After rubbing his nose against hers, he set her on his massive shoulder. "Where's Winter? It isn't like her to miss on a family gathering."

All eyes fell to the hallway, where a pair of blue eyes and a crown of black hair peeked around a corridor. When her grandfather followed their gaze, there was a squeak and she fell away. He belted a laugh.

"Scaring children again, Arc?"

"It's not my fault." The other man argued. "I've always been bad with girls." He looked to her mother for support. "Right, Willy?"

"Considering I had to throw you off a cliff for you to notice your wife, I would say yes."

"Come on, Willy..." the man groaned, earning another laugh from her grandfather.

"Mr. Arc?" Klein called from the hallway.

"Klein, come on!" The man opened his arms. "We've known each other for years! Call me Big Nicholas!"

"Hey!" Her grandfather barked teasingly. "You're already stealing my look, so don't go stealing my name, too!" The two continued to share their laugh. It was a running joke between the two named Nicholas.

"You never know, Schnee." He gave a cheeky smile. "Maybe my son will woo one of your girls?"

"If he has your charm or half your density, then I shouldn't have to worry." Her grandfather replied with a smile.

"Er, Mr. Ar- Nicholas Arc, sir," Klein called again, "Master Jacques will see you now."

The man shook his head. "And we were having such a great time, too."

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

"I don't think that was a great time at all."

"Sure it was, Ren!" The bubbly girl replied to the lean gentleman. "I got to ride a Grimm, then got a cute, little castle, and then got to kill a giant scorpion thing!"

"A Deathstalker." Ren corrected.

"Get goose height."

"Gesundheit." Weiss said.

"Huh?"

"Gesundheit," she repeated, turning to the pair, "it's Atlesian for health."

"Oh, like-"

"From this day forward, you will work together as Team CRDL, led by... Cardin Winchester!"

Weiss clapped from her place beside the two. As the names were called for the next team, she glared hard at the blond fool. Her gaze only burned hotter as it was announced the son of a snake was deemed in any way capable of leading a team. Her hated enemy was either more clever than he initially appeared or was charismatic enough to be believed. She couldn't believe either option, which angered her ever more.

As the months at Beacon rolled by, it had become clear that the fool grew affections for her. This would not stand, so she pushed her disgust and hatred for him as far as she could. Unfortunately, it only seemed to interest him more.

It seemed she would have to get physical.

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

"Are you sure you can't stay another week?"

"I'd love to, Willie, but if I don't get home soon, Jaune might start crying again." The man chuckled. "It's still surprising that my only son is the most emotional of the five."

"Well, he is your son." Grandfather chuckled.

"Ha ha ha." He dryly replied. "Good luck on your mission. Hope the bullhead doesn't crash from your fat head."

"My wife says it's quite distinguished." Grandfather replied with a smile. "But I should be fine, and I appreciate the concern."

The man approached her grandfather and grabbed his arm. In return, her grandfather grabbed his. Blue eyes met blue eyes and the two silently nodded.

"If there's any trouble, you'll give me a call, right?" The man asked.

"Of course." Her mother said. "But only if you promise to come as soon as we do."

"Of course!" He smiled. "You have my word!"

"And we all know how an Arc never goes back on his word." Grandfather finished. "Take care, Nick."

"You, too, Big Nick."

With that, the man left, leaving the Weiss to watch the door a little longer from her perch atop the stairs. How could she have known then that would be the last she saw of both the man and her grandfather? She couldn't.

Not even as she drifted to sleep watching from above.

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

"Agh!" Jaune tripped as he stepped back, falling backwards. As he stood, Weiss pressed the attack and struck again, knocking him down again. "Give me a break, Snow Ang- Agh!"

"Shut up!" Weiss spat. "If you have breath to speak, you have breath to fight!"

"It's supposed to be friendly sparring." Jaune groused as he stood, hefting his shield up.

"In case you haven't noticed..." Weiss thrust at him, but didn't connect. Instead, she feinted, tapped Myrtenaster, activated a dust round, and stepped away. Jaune approached with a wide swing, like a fool. Dust empowered, she thrusted a torrent of ice shards into him. "We! Are! Not! Friends!" Jaune fell onto his back, icicles cracking as they covered his chest. "I despise you. Loathe you. HATE you entirely."

"Why, though?" Jaune groaned as he tried to lift himself. "I haven't done anything- RGH!" Jaune's body was trapped in a black circle, his weight doubling, if not tripling within.

"That is exactly why." Weiss growled as she held her icy gaze on him. "All an Arc does is nothing."

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

"Dad?" Jaune crept into his father's den. It had been a while since he spoke to him, and even longer since he came back from his mission. "Dad, can I talk to you?"

"I'm busy, Jaune." His father weakly groaned from his chair. The room once full of light and life with open windows and music on the record was now dark and dim with shades shut and the only light from the hallway. "We'll play later."

"Dad, I..." Jaune gulped. "I was wondering if you could teach me how to use a sword."

The room was silent. Jaune gulped as he stood in the light, waiting for his father's reply. As the chair squeaked, he flinched. As his father approached, Jaune's little heart hammered in his chest.

A gentle hand rested on Jaune's shoulders, and turned him to the door. "Another time."

"Arc's word?" Jaune asked.

Nicholas flinched, though only he noticed it. Without answering, he shut the door. He walked back to his desk and sat in the darkness. He tapped his scroll and swiped through the old photos he took. It had been two months since his best friend's funeral, and even longer since he spoke to his family.

Nicholas Arc was a coward who couldn't keep his word.

[bloodycassian]

A journey, continued. Part two of this fic. 

!!!!Warnings for Crescent City spoilers!!!!

Scrambling to your feet, you choked a cough. Incense was burning somewhere, making the golden sunrays catch in blue smoke that stained the air. The monks, clothed in yellows and whites held no expression of surprise or disappointment at your arrival. Their arms raised in the air did not falter when you slammed into a shield wall that prevented you from leaving. True terror seeped into your bones. Not one of them would make eye contact with you, even when you screamed and thrashed against the barrier that separated you. Tears leaked down you face, and your breath came in ragged pants. The wall pushed you back, towards the center of the crowd. Their song reached a higher octave, and their hands went back to their sides - all of them synchronized in the movement. Practiced and precise. Would this be a sacrifice? Were you nothing more than a caged animal to them? Mind racing, you analyzed the room, looking for any way out of this mess. Tall ceilings arched into the sky, but nothing beyond the thick crowd of singers could be seen.

The song pitched into a higher note, the momentum of it building until it reached a crescendo that forced you to cover your ears, wincing and praying to the mother that they’d stop. The air seemed to warm, and drums sounded somewhere far off. A flash of cold spread over your body, and portal of black opened beside you. 

The shield pushed you towards it, and though it was somehow familiar, you shied away from it. The inky black disappeared, revealing, a body, limp on the floor. With horror, your breath left you at the sight of the wings and light of blue siphons wrapping around himself protectively.

Azriel - you couldn’t breathe. Had he watched what had happened and tried to follow? You rushed to him, hot tears welling in your eyes. His face was pale, siphons dulled, a pool of blood forming beneath him. Kneeling beside him, you checked his pulse and muttered a curse. Weak, but still alive. Still alive.

His eyes fluttered, registering his surroundings to thoroughly enough to hiss out an insult- “Fucking leeches-” Azriel’s groan came out as a pant, his hands clutching his ribs on the right side.

The monks followed you forward, the shield pushing further and further in until you were forced directly over Azriel’s body. 

No.. following where the injured male below you had glanced, you noticed the red sashes banded across their chests. Mother above… how you hadn’t noticed it before was a wonder.

They were Asteri. Blood hungry fae from the continent that butchered their own kind for their own life force. They were an enigma on Prythian, a far off threat too small to ever garner attention. But now that you were face to face with their chilling song of Death… you’d wished you’d taken the stories much more seriously.

They chanted, the song growing louder and louder, ears ringing you refused to let go of Azriel’s leathers - afraid that somehow he would disappear beneath you. His head lolled to the side, casting curled hair over his long lashes. His brow furrowed, lips parted, possibly saying some silent prayer before you both died. It was surprisingly boyish, and if you weren’t terrified you may have been able to appreciate it more.

Gods if you’d had any time, perhaps you could have taken everything back that you’d said to Cassian. You shouldn’t have opened the door.. Shouldn’t have even asked him about the other female he’d brought home. If you’d just wallowed in bed, this never would have happened. 

Cassian… Why wasn’t he here? He’d watched you get taken, how was it that Azriel had been the one to be cast along side you in this atrocious ceremony? Had Cassian truly let you be stolen away, right in front of him? Sadness roiled with rage in the pit of your stomach, along with the fear and finality of death coming for you. 

The knowledge that your life would soon be forfeit for the creatures before you was a peaceful, yet frantic thing. The fear quivered in the background of your mind, while the foreground stood tall, daring death to throw itself at you as you stood courageous. 

In a sudden change of pace, the singing ceased, and the drumbeat picked up tempo. The relief from the tone  was immediate, but terrifying. If they’d finished singing, what came next? You shook Azriel, hoping to wake him. The wall pressed against your legs. Would it crush you? Would it press your bodies so close together that you’d suffocate? 

One of Azriel’s scarred hands curled around one of your ankles, the other in a fist. The tendons of his wrist sharp against his skin, a coat of pure black writhing around the limb. 

Small footsteps clicked against the steps directly in front of you, then stopped. You glanced up from Azriel, peering through lashes clumped together with tears. A small male stood there, a book in hand. He flipped it open, not even pretending to spare you a glance while he read.

“The price of our eternal life-”

Azriel’s hand clawed into your ankle, scraping downwards. Skin peeled away, blood seeped into the air, and the room exploded into nothingness. Black surrounded everything, and pressure forced your ears to pop wildly while the barrier shattered around you. 

Your hands left Azriel’s tunic only to cover your damaged ears. You were sure there was blood there, but your attention was fixed upon Azriel’s figure before you. Even injured he took on a defensive stance in front of you, wings held high. He seemed so fragile, though the sheer size of him was a wonder. The light shone through his wings, revealing every tendon and vein that could so easily be cut through. Every scar he’d endured over his life, there on display for them all to see. A strange, protective feeling washed over you. They shouldn’t be seeing him like this. Not ever. No one should. The shadowsinger didn’t have to show his prowess like this, never had to. Yet here he was… making himself a cobra among mice.

Half the Asteri were on the ground, some were fleeing up the steps in the distance and others held blades made of some silvery metal that emitted light.

“I’ve slaughtered one of you before and I’ll take a thousand more.” His voice came out guttural, like three other beings spoke through him. Even with your damaged hearing, the voice was frightening. Goosebumps covered your flesh, and you pushed your way up form the floor. A few of their mouths moved, but your ears ached so badly-

Azriel folded a wing around you, pulling you towards him and against his bloodied leathers. A small patch of siphon bandage lay at the wound, glowing brightly against your sleep clothes. Had you truly woken only a short while ago? Had the conversation with Cassian been this very same day? Your head spun. 

“If you see me again, pray to whatever gods watch over your kind.” Azriel’s voice was low, a pointed tactic. He did not fear these beings. He’d only been afraid for you when that pure shadow had exploded from him. He reigned in that darkness now, his hand flexing while his shadows circled closer and closer, leaving the life eaters to cower before him - or plan an attack. Knowing now that they intended to seal your life from you for their own… you wanted to vomit. 

Azriel’s wing left you for the briefest moment, but was replaced by his arm. He pulled you with him as he leapt upwards, with a powerful beat of his wings that had your stomach lurching. 

+

The skies over the continent were warmer than over Prythian. Azriel explained in a pained voice that it was because of the desert reflection in the south, that kept the area warm even at night. He’d managed to fly for a few hours before you noticed the blood seeping through his siphon bandage, and he finally agreed to allow a break. 

He would have refused to let you leave his sight, if he were in better condition. But he’d bled enough for him to become dizzy. You rushed to find any familiar herbs, along with any vines to wrap around him. Pressure would halt the bleeding long enough that you could find medicine, unless there was nothing useful on this damned continent. 

You rushed back to him, and nearly fell to your knees at the sight of him digging into the wound with his own filthy fingers. “Do you know nothing about basic-” You began to scold, unloading your shirt-full of leaves and roots. 

He grunted, and sighed. “Got it.” He held up a small, thin piece of bloodied metal, then flicked it into the shrubs. You stared at him, mouth agape while he laid back, seemingly relieved. You stared, waiting for some sort of explanation, but only received a wet hand on your own. “Pack it nicely, but not too deep. There’s probably more pieces-” 

“What happened?” You demanded. He wouldn’t just tell you there were more pieces of a knife inside of him and just have you accept that. Though he smiled, you saw the pain there. The lingering effects of what he’d just put himself through, and whatever had happened back on that sacrifice stage. 

“The short or long version?” He grunted, pulling himself into a better position to watch as you bound ropes of vine around and around to fashion something durable enough to keep tight on him. 

A glare made him smile, and he blew out a breath. “I was once… more than Rhysand’s shadowsinger. I was an assassin, of sorts..” 

“How is one only partly an assassin?”

“Very carefully.” He chuckled, then hissed when you pressed the first of the herbs into his wound. It was a clean gash, a knife certainly. Sharpened to kill, but missed just enough to leave him living. “There is a lot more in this world… in all the worlds than most know about. Everything that happens out there, can always effect us. The Asteri are one of those things. Filthy parasites-” 

“Are you saying that that cult isn’t from here-”

“Exactly- yes” His face twisted in agony as you pressed the last of the herbs in. “get it closed please” He rushed the words together in a breath. 

“How-” You stammered, glad to keep your hands busy, because your mind was lagging far behind what he told you. 

“Cassian never told you the history of Illyrians?” He panted a moment, taking your silence as answer enough. “Because we are neither fae or human.. Or shifter or god or any other lesser creature… many think we’re something else. Something to be even more feared than the Asteri, because we can reproduce fairly easily in comparison.” 

“They… cant?”

He shook his head, beads of sweat making the hair cling to his forehead. “They need an immense amount of power to…. Create another one of them. That is all they seek, is power. In politics, history, monarchies in every world they inhabit. Some believe that Illyrians are related to their power, and think we are their dark cousins. Born of another kind of evil. That we will be more dangerous and powerful than them, because they claim to only seek their own lives among us. Not many understand what they mean, fully. The only life they want is the ones they can suckle from the most powerful sacrifices they can get.” 

Your hands shook as you wound the bandage around him, making sure it was tight. Cassian had left you out of such a vital part of him. You hadn’t really given him a chance before… but this was crucial to the history of Prythian. How could none of this be in any texts or scrolls-

“Their influence was indisputable at one point. Any negative history about them was wiped from our lore. Then the war came. The first war, where none questioned who were pulling the strings and thousands died.” He paused a long moment, thinking over his next words. “I killed one of their kind on the last day of battle. They know me. They remembered what I did, and the only reason we’re not dead right now is because they were too shocked to attack.”

+

A few hours later, the bleeding from his wound had dissipated greatly. Color was brought back to his skin, and the pained look upon his face slowly smoothed. You fetched new leaves, re-dressing the wound. His hand brushed over yours when you pressed lightly against the gash, a pleading look in his eyes. 

The pale fading light made him seem so much more fragile, breakable. Though the scars on his arms and hands defied that feeling, it seemed that he’d softened somehow. Like he was about to break into a million tiny pieces, and you’d be the one to reassemble him.

You didn’t flinch from it. Nor when his fingers tangled with your own over his wound. 

Your breathing stopped. The rustling of foliage caught your attention, and you readied for an attack. Azriel was up in an instant, despite the lack of pressure against the gash. It wouldn’t matter if the Aserti had found you. But you wouldn’t go down without a fight. You eyed the rocks scattered around the clearing, noting what ones you could use as weapons.

Shadows shuddered and coiled around you, curling around your legs like a cat. Tears brimmed in your eyes, unwilling to accept that this moment may be the end. That you wouldn’t get to know more about anything Azriel was speaking of. That you wouldn’t get to know him more. In the few hours you’d spent together, he’d shown just how loyal and trusting he was with you, and it was a strange change of pace.

The shrubs ripped apart in a glow of red and black. Darkness flung out over the area and you shielded your face. Azriel stepped before you, splaying his wings out and shielding your body. Here he was, yet again ready to defend you though he was injured. You peeked around that massive wing, nearly collapsing at the sight there. Rhysand appeared from the forest shadow, along with Cassian right behind. They hacked through the shrubs with the glow of their power, both their weapons disappearing the moment they sighted you and Azriel.

Cassian rushed to you, arms extended while Rhys winnowed straight to Azriel. Crushing arms squeezed the breath from your lungs, Cassian’s relieved words becoming background noise as you watched a portal of black open, and Rhysand escort Azriel through. You pushed away from Cassian, squirming in his grasp. “Put me down, stop!” You smacked his chest until the point was clear.

“Take me to him.” You demanded, panic cascading over your senses. Relief had been washed away the moment Azriel had left your side. 

“Rhys is taking him to a healer. I’ll fly us.” He smiled, oblivious to the irritation in your tone. Tears welled in his eyes, and your heart softened for the briefest moment. Cassian had likely tried his damndest to find you, but all you could think of was Azriel’s injuries. That you should be with them, taking care of the shadowsinger, telling the healers he was going to see about the injury. Doing what you could to protect him back.

“I-” You began, trying to push away the snap of tension that fired down the bond. “He saved me.” You muttered, looking to the ground. Angry tears fell, unsolicited and hot against your cheeks. “Where were you?” 

A silence followed your bitter question, then a scoff. “You think I didn’t bother finding you? I got to Rhys as quick as I could!” He threw his arms in the air, heat coiling around your shared bridge. “Az joined you because he was reckless and went after that bastard-”

The Illyrian. The male that’d taken you. The memories came flooding back. “Whos Kali?”

His eyes met yours with searing intensity when you looked back up. His arms fell to his sides, his lip curling at one side. “She’s no one. Where did you even hear that name?”

His defensiveness made you smug. “Apparently she’s someone quite  important. The Illyrian that sent me into that hell said-”

“Wait… where did you go? Have you not been here?”

You scowled. Of course he would avoid the question. “Just take me to Azriel. I dont need to explain myself to him.”

There was a long, tense stare off, then he was hoisting you into his arms. The straining patience along the bond was exhausting. Your body was ridgid, not a word spoken as he brought you closer and closer to Velaris. The chilled mountain peaks you coasted past seemed bearable in comparison to Cassian’s frigid presence at the other side of the bond. 

Thankfully, Azriel had managed to transport you within a few hours of the city. The moment you touched down in front of the infirmary, Cassian was storming in behind you, ready to demand answers. The pale look upon Rhysand’s face forced him to pause, his eyes immediately going to Azriel’s slightly hunched posture. Your heart lurched in your chest, straining for him like a magnet.

“Cassian, we have some things to discuss.” Rhys offered his hand, but the stern look he gave his brother seemed to communicate that it was more of an order than a request. He obeyed, but not before giving you a long glare that told you your previous conversation was not over.

“Still alive. Good.” You nodded at the shadowsinger, who gingerly began walking towards the nearest bridge. His apartment was only a few blocks away, thank the Mother. You weren’t sure if you could carry him if you had to.

“The nurses weren’t as good as you. That leaf and vine method was really something.” 

“Holistic medicine.” You smiled. Joking with him like this came easy. Simple. So much so that it left you wondering how you’d gone this long without talking to him as much as you were now.

It took double the time to get to his home with his ginger pacing, but you didn’t complain. Not when you talked and learned about each other the entire way. It didn’t seem like long enough. Like his words and the way he described things made time slip away like bottles of wine. Perhaps his presence was intoxicating you. 

Azriel’s apartment was minimally decorated, the only artwork upon the brick walls being a dark painting full of greys and black, but the darkest part in the center of a set of wings expanded, a soft glow of blue emitting from that center form. It seemed cold, despite the rich tones of the furniture. 

You helped him on to the couch, pushing a pillow firmly behind his back so he wouldn’t have to strain to get up. Though he protested, he allowed it. 

“Thank you for this.” He said, pulling the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapping it around himself. “Cassian wasn’t happy with us, was he?”

“Cassian is a liar, I owe him nothing.”

“He’s your mate.”

“Does that mean anything, when he abandons me and refuses to tell me who Kali is?”

His face reddened. So he knew something of the name. “Tell me.” You demanded, tossing a match into the tinder. The flame caught, crackling along the thin cut kindling. “Tell me, please.” You repeated, taking your attention away from the flame long enough to look at him. He scratched the back of his head, debating internally. 

“It wasn’t his fault that he wasnt there for you… Aside from that, Kali was a long time ago.” 

You stoked the fire with a few larger pieces before standing, and putting yourself directly in front of Azriel. “Tell me.” You said, voice deadly calm. Your firm outer tone hid the pleading beneath, and if he noticed he didn’t say anything. 

He sighed, and lifted the blanket, offering you the seat beside him. Wearily, you joined. He wouldn’t be telling you this without you joining him. “She was a lover. One of his many, and-” He broke off. “It’s not my story to tell.” 

You shot him a look, and he held up his hands. 

“She was with an Illyrian male, betrothed. But Cassian hadn’t known that, and when he met her in a dance - bar, they ended up..connecting. She got pregnant with his child. She was sure it was his, and when she returned to her betrothed, and he didn’t kill her for it, they started planning.” He slicked his hair back, then flexed his fingers in his lap. He hadn’t wanted to speak of this, you reminded yourself. “He had wanted a child. If he could raise a kid with Cassian’s kind of power… that’s the kind of stuff that makes kings in our land. If Cassian and I weren’t a part of the High Lord’s Court, we’d be lording over the Steppes ourselves.” He stared at the flames for a long moment.

Your jaw clenched, and you waited for him to continue. “Cassian keeps these things to himself because it’s painful for him to remember, but I don’t understand how someone could forget…”

“She grew, but the babe grew faster. She saw a healer every day, but they couldn’t get it to stop. They offered to end it for the babe there, but she refused. She wanted it, said he was a strong boy and that The Mother would save them both.” He shook his head, eyes on the fire but distant. “They both died. The male that took you was Kali’s betorthed. Mikail. When Cassian saw you were gone, and he was still there… I think all that rage over Kali’s death came out then. Mikail died bloody, but quick. Rhys showed me it all, straight from Cas’ memory while Madja was healing me.”

His arms tightened around himself, as if he were holding himself together to tell you this. You waited a long moment, watching the fire together before speaking. “You knew her..” You nodded, wondering how he’d felt about Cassian bedding a female he’d clearly cared about.

“Everyone did.” He nodded, his voice rough when he said it. “She was a dancer, my friend.” He wiped at his nose, but you didn’t turn to him. It was easier this way. Like you both spoke only to yourselves. “I introduced them. I thought they’d be a good match, even mates possibly. She was… a lot like you.” He nodded, smiling down at the floor. “But she was reckless, careless until she had that child in her.” 

There was another long moment of silence, comfortable with the crackling fire. Sadness permeated the room, but it wasn’t hostile or tense like it’d been during the flight with Cassian. “I’m sorry.” You offered. It was the only thing to say. 

He nodded slowly, and pushed the blanket towards you. He pushed off the couch gently, and hobbled to the fire. You didn’t stop him, didn’t want to take this small action of independence from him as he tossed another round of wood on to the coals. 

“I have an extra room, if you’d like to stay. It may be cold, but there’s extra blankets-”

“I’d like that. Thank you.” You pulled the blanket to the side and offered him the seat back, just as he’d done for you. 

Your hand grazed over his when you placed the cover back over him. Neither of you flinched away, and when your palm lay flat atop the knit, he placed his own beside yours. Your heart skipped, and in an instant of daring adrenaline, you scooted your hand over until you both moved in sync, tangling your pinky and ring fingers together. 

[cinnabun-faerie]

Can we get a hug from one of your WOL's? Completely platonic, I just want to know how they hug people!

A/N: Yes! But why pick one when you could have multiple? I have a bunch of characters, so I'd love to make multiple parts!

What better way to start this than with my main OC/WoL Cinna & her family? I know they may not be WoLs or even morally good, but I want to include them.

Warning: OC lore, a whole swear word, minor ffxiv spoiler

Note: Cinna's mother will be in part II!

Grey's FFXIV OC Hug HCs Pt I: Rosewood Family

Characters included

Rosewood Siblings: Cinna, Rei, Siah, Charlie, Isaac, Thomas, Zachariah, Felix, Noah, Finny, Jamie, Sammy

Others: Victor Rosewood(father), Juri Phoenix (Siah's bf/hubby)

So we're starting off with Cinna, eh?

Cinna would have gentle and warm hugs. It makes sense since she comes from a large family (5th born of 13) and is a mother. She's going to give you the hugs you need when you are seeking comfort.

But if you give her a hug, she just might melt. She needs a hug from time to time too.

Cinna's Brothers + Juri:

Oldest Rosewood brother Rei is a bit more on the shy side. He's a bit stand-offish at first, so no one really asks him for hugs except for his siblings (Though he hasn't hugged/seen his siblings for years until EW, but not by choice). So when this man finally hugs someone, he makes sure that they know that he cares for them. His hugs are almost protective in a sense. He's shielding you from the bad in the world. He couldn't protect four of his brothers who unfortunately passed away, so he wants to protect anyone and everyone else, even if his protection is in the form of a hug.

Cinna's broody older brother Siah actually doesn't mind hugs. He's not normally the one to initiate them though. But he doesn't mind if you randomly hug him. He's used to it with his family and Juri, and he knows that sometimes, people just need a hug.

Would he let cousin Zenos hug him? Chances are low, but not zero.

Once you get a hug out of him, they're often comforting and he never lets go until you do. He has learnt that sometimes longer hugs are needed.

Juri's basically family (through marriage), so I'mma include him. Yeah, he's a flirty dude but that's not his whole personality. He's actually pretty chill. He doesn't like giving hugs just randomly (unless he knows you but even then he's reluctant). However, his boyfriend/now husband Siah, is the only one that gets the hugs that could mow a person down.

For anyone else, you'd have to ask him if you could give him a hug. And honestly, he'd love that. He likes when both persons feel cared for.

Hugs are nice. But he likes to be in his own bubble. But he can give you a hand-hug or a high five. The only hugs he has ever given in is when something happens that makes him worry for his siblings.

The only time he let his siblings hug him in a group hug was when he was dying at the Vault beside his good buddy Haurchefant. Having a fear of death, he wanted to die surrounded by his siblings so he wouldn't have to be alone.

Isaac is known to hug his books to his chest. So he would treat you like a book, with care and delicacy. If you let him, he would rub your back or pet your hair.

No. Thomas doesn't want a hug. He hates them. And any kind of affection (platonic and romantic). He doesn't like leeches (people who like hugs like Zachariah). Chances are asking Thomas for a hug is going to end up in him attacking you.

If you want hugs, this is your boy right here; Mr. Middle Child himself. Zachariah truly believes in his silly little head that if everyone just had a hug, it could make the world better. While he would love to throw himself at every person like some rabid hugging beast, he will always ask calmly first. If no, he'll settle for just a wave.

Note: Have white/ginger hair? Chances are he'll think you're another sibling (he can't keep track of the number of siblings he has) or another family member he hasn't met yet.

His hugs are...well...

Have you ever been hugged by a boa constrictor?

Felix isn't too big on hugs. But he will give you a side-hug if you ask. They're quick usually but he's known to have given longer hugs based on circumstance.

Seth doesn't mind gentle one-on-one hugs. He just doesn't like group hugs that much. At first when he meets you, his hugs may be awkward and quick. Eventually when you get to know him, they are welcoming and long-lasting.

Noah is another one of the family members who isn't big on hugs. He used to really like hugs when he was younger, but he quickly grew out of it. Would he give you a hug if you asked? Probably. But as long as no one is around. He doesn't want anyone to see that he is soft.

Finny isn't sure if he gives good hugs. He can't just go and ask his sister or his brothers! It would be a little awkward. He wants to hug people but he's too worried that he's doing something wrong. However, if you hug him, he has this silly little grin on his face and he wraps his arms around you, holding you like you are the only person in the world besides him in the moment.

Jamie is so focused on helping Sammy that he's never really considered what he really wants. So if you hug him, he won't complain. He'll just be a bit surprised. He has the cutest and biggest smile when someone just hugs him randomly.

He loves hugs! Feel free to hug him! As the youngest of 13, he grew very affectionate but has a hard time communicating it to others as he is deaf. But with his twin Jamie's help, they can let those around that he is very much a hugger! So if you want to, you can hug him! His hugs are just like hugging a teddy bear; soft, sweet and fluffy.

Cinna's father:

Papa Rosewood has strong hugs that could cure sadness. His hugs are like how you feel when you go to a place that you love so much. His hugs are truly what safety feels like. It might be a little hard to let go of him, but he is willing to not move until you have gotten your fill of the hug. It was something that he taught his children.

[ms-taurusvenus]

Your earlier reading on max,sophie and Victoria really made me sad :( but it also made me think I’m not saying max isn’t trying but maybe he’s trying the wrong way… a lot of people are always saying that vic and sophie are leeching off him which I disagree with I think that’s they only way he knows how to show them he is sorry but with vic I think it’s not working she wants him probably to acknowledge the problem and try to talk and work it out. I feel like they might not wanna talk their problems out as well out of fear of opening old wounds especially max he strikes me as someone that just wants to brush things under the rug and try to move on not blaming him he might also be scared of what would happen if they try to talk things out

Victoria has preciously said they don’t bring up their parents divorce and what happened afterwards. Just a thought

I noticed it in the reading as well, but the reading was making me emotional, so I didn't want to start crying lol.

Max genuinely wants to address the issues and problems that have led to his father preferring him and utilizing his youth to build his F1 career. He acknowledges the past, but it is difficult for him fully grasp everything that had happened. It's a difficult pill for him to swallow. I hope he realizes it's not his fault because he didn't know any better; how is a child supposed to know that what he was used to seeing his father behave and act towards him and his mother and sister when that's all he's ever known? I see him desperately wanting to mend his relationship with his sister. Because, while his mother does not want him to feel bad around her, his sister feels betrayed and can be cold towards him. After all, he is her big brother, the man who is supposed to protect, support, and assist her. However, Jos's obvious preference for Max and refusal to allow her to participate in racing caused a schism between them. While Max was racing, she was watching her brother, knowing that it was something she also wanted and could do, but Jos was being a sexist jerk. I also see his mother feeling betrayed and blindsided by him. Yes, she adores him; after all, he is her child, and while she is proud of his achievements at such a young age, she wishes it hadn't happened the way it did. The same man who assaulted her was also abusing her son while he was racing… as a child. When I recall Jos abandoning Max at a gas station and Sophie having to go get him (I believe this was after their divorce) and Max still going back to him, I see her heart breaking and her crying. How can a father do that to his child and that kid goes back to them. Sophie was also a racing driver and I see Max at the time put his dad over her. 

It always seemed off and weird to me whenever people would say his mother and sister were leaching on him and exploiting him for money. Because anyone who knows what happened would understand. When someone is successful and wealthy, they usually give money/support and help those who have wronged them financially. Because they dont know how to and what happened is a hard pill for them to sallow. Anyone who has been in that situation (or have any empathy) would understand that.

I truly hope that one day his relationship with his mother and sister will be repaired. It's possible that he's being held back by not solving and healing from this.

[erigold13261]

LINO HIIIIIII!!!!!! I love the long hair drooping like that!!

What are they like? What abilities do they have? … are they in multiple worlds??

Glad you like her! Here's some sketches I drew to get her design down a lil better!

I like to think she is really quiet and observing, sorta like how Dagon was when they were still a cursed womb (most likely she is also a cursed womb), but also a bit more active (active=biting :3).

She's supposed to be kinda based off of leeches and linonophobia (the fear of strings, which is also where I got her name from). Once I draw her mouth open it will probably be easier to see the leech design. Also kinda slug design-ish going on.

Because she is based off of the fear of strings, she isn't as powerful curse-wise as it is a pretty niche fear set and mostly (from my research) happens from childhood trauma. However, she isn't purely a curse because of how she was born (created by accident while Ilia was weaving extra parts of his and Dagon's soul into a pretty pattern) so she is still stronger than like a grade 2 curse.

Her body is like clumps of wet string amassed together that take form into limbs just barely. It's hard for her to create fully formed limbs so she tends to just stick to a worm-like body of strings under her sheet (which is also part of her body unlike Dagon's sheet) that sometimes takes shape into arms.

If she was to be on her own as a curse, she would most likely go after children or people who truly have a fear of strings as well as people who are afraid of being constrained or in small spaces as she would be able to wrap her strings around people to slowly suffocate them (as well as leeching her strings into their mouths to suffocate them that way if strangulation isn't working, though that is for a much quicker kills which she doesn't necessarily need to do).

But since she is not on her own, she gets fed by Ilia and the curses! I definitely think Mahito takes her out to hunt humans. Hanami is probably the go-to sitter for Lino because she can use her roots to keep Lino in check and has the most patience (also love the idea that Lino bites Hanami just to like teethe, which she tolerates only when it's Lino but if it's Ko-guy, who also likes to bite Hanami, she will shut him down so quickly lol).

I don't see Jogo or Lino really caring for each other. Mainly because of their opposite powers (Lino being wet strings and Jogo being fire). He also is more of a "I will tolerate you because you are Dagon's kid" but honestly, if he ends up like those dads who don't want kittens that then begrudgingly loves the kittens but is like that with Lino, I think that would be very funny! (Jogo protecting Lino like how he tried to protect Hanami from Gojo, hurting others to keep their loved one safe, love that!).

And then Dagon and Ilia are the main care takers of Lino (who is honestly pretty independent considering she is mostly a curse). Dagon is best at taking care of her because they can relate to her as well as knows how to properly feed her since they were a curse womb at one point (probably why the two are the closest).

Ilia struggles a bit more because I can see him (like me) not really ever wanting a kid, but considering this isn't a human child, it is much better and honestly a lot more tolerable. However, there is that kind of disconnect between Ilia and Lino for a while because of the idea that this is now a child curse that he has to take care of that he created rather than just adopting a random child/childlike curse. He gets over it fairly quickly and tries to be a good parent to Lino.

Alright, after that rambling! Is Lino in other worlds?

I haven't really thought about that yet. So I don't know. If she is in other worlds, it's most likely not going to be as Ilia's kid, but rather as like a lil sister/adoptive sister (or possibly adoptive daughter) that he takes a mother role on (and yea, I do use the term mother for Ilia and not father because if Ilia is going to be called a parental term then he wants "mother." There's this title that I want to give Ilia called "The Mother of Curses" because he's been around for so long and had become known as a person who cares and nurtures curses over millennia, which now would get a new meaning as he finds out he can literally just create his own curses with his strings).

So yea, I will think about whether or not Lino is in other media. If she is, she's most likely going to be more of a younger sister role that the older sibling has to take care of/keep safe. Though this can depend on the Ilia as Trolls don't really have siblings (as far as I remember), as well as other roles not really having siblings (like angels and computer programs).

[kissagii]

Hello I am here to join your Valentine’s Day event

Can I please get a male attack on titan matchup please!

- name is Samantha but people usually calls me “Sam” only use “Samantha” if I’m in trouble tho 😅. I go by she/her

- I like cheesecake!!! I have a sweet tooth so I enjoy my sweets and aside from that I like to go shopping and buy some things for the people I really care about and I treat myself out sometimes

- I dislike, loud obnoxious toxic people… I tend to not go near them because most likely they will start drama for no reason. And leeches I hate leeches they are my worst nightmares.

- I’m an ISFP and an enneagram 7 I may be an introvert but when I feel like it I don’t mind meeting new people and making new friends, I have such a caring and loving nature that I can be a little overprotective of my friends I act like a “mother” sometimes 😅 so usually if people tries to hurt me or my friends I step in and try to haunt that person down, with that being said I do have the tendency to be blunt, I don’t sugarcoat things, I say what needs to be said and I do have such a sassy and savage side to me but I’m also the fun one in my friend group, I enjoy going on an adventure and sometimes I can be funny without even trying to be so when people laugh at me I am literally so confused…

- I am on the short side I’m 5’2, im a natural black haired girl but I died my hair auburn a couple months ago, hour glass figure with a slight chubby doing face. Usually wear some sort of reddish lipstick with mascara to bring out some colour and dimension on my face. And my clothes usually consist of something comfy but cute, like a white T shirt with black jeans and a black sweater type of style.

Thank you in advance and I hope this is enough :)

i match you with....

armin arlert

your fun and sassy attitude was what initially attracted him to you

you really help to bring him out of the comfort zone

together you are the parent friends - truly a power couple. you're fiercely protective over each other and nobody dares mess with either of you

he definitely takes you out on shopping sprees and never complains if you want him to hold your bags

i hc that he has a sweet tooth too so you learn to bake together!

your first date: carnival on the pier!

had it been any other day, armin would've been hanging halfway out of the ferris wheel basket, searching for the ripples of marine life in the ocean far below. but something about the late afternoon light hit sam's face at just the right angle, illuminating her bright smile and auburn hair like a goddess, had him transfixed. "look, armin, dolphins!" sam's exclamation was just enough to break his trance, eyes lighting up at the promise of marine life. as he watched the far-off pod that sam spotted, he couldn't helpt but smile. she remembered how much i love them.

[latelyanobsession]

What if Billy's mother got involved with Neil because of the societal and environmental pressures in her life?

Like follow me here... I love the headcanons I've seen of Billy's mother being a hippie, maybe she was also heavily anti-war and was a part of the counter culture movement in the 60's.

Neil I imagine was a very straight-laced young man, and he didn't even need to wait for his draft number to be called. He volunteered for duty during Vietnam. Because it's what was expected of him. Because his own father who fought in the Pacific in WWII would never let him live it down if he didn't enlist.

Neil got lucky, volunteering in the Navy and getting stationed stateside in San Diego at the naval base. He worked heavy machinery and repairs on board the battle ships.

Neil and Billy's mother (I think of her as Diana), met at a party. Neil was off base on leave with some buddies. These friends of his were looking for a good spot in town. A place where chicks, booze, and grass were plentiful. Looking to live it up before heading back below decks and to potential deployment. They heard through the grapevine about such a place in the Gaslamp Quarter.

Neil saw Diana first. She was vibrant and beautiful. Surrounded by friends. He had to introduce himself. Diana was interested by Neil's presence. What was a GI doing at this kind of party?

He was sweet, real sweet on her. Commanding her attention and isolating her all to himself. She was captivated by the way he could move and order people about. He seemed like a man with ambitions, someone who was going places.

The whole night they talked. And the longer Diana was around him the more those old sage words from her parents popped into her head. "Find yourself a respectable man..." her mother would say. "You need to think about your future..." her father would remind her. "You're not getting any younger..." her mother pressed.

Neil was all the things her parents wanted for her, dressed up in pleated slacks and an oxford. If her mother saw him she would be relieved that Diana has finally attracted someone 'decent'. Not another dirty washed up dreamer flocking to the coast to beg and leech off of hardworking locals. Her father would love him. A man of strong character with a commanding presence. The poster child of a man raised 'right'.

Neil pressed for her number, where he could find her again after the party. His interest in her was strong. He was polite but persistent in his pursuit of her. He would not be deterred. Diana thought that Neil truly liked her. She found his undivided attention flattering.

Initially as Neil and Diana began seeing each other, things were good. They got along well. She laughed at all his jokes, and he went to lengths to impress her. Bringing her flowers on a rainy day, his uniform soaked through to the skin.

She loved him. She thought he loved her.

As things became more serious Diana began to notice things about Neil. Things he hadn't done before or had only done subtly.

When they were out, Neil's hands were always on or around her. If she pulled away, even for a moment he would pull her back, grabbing her arm or hand. She was practically glued to him at all times. His grip tightening if she tried to wander away before first saying where she was going. Diana convinced herself he was just overly protective. That he cared so deeply for her safety that he couldn't bear to lose sight of her.

Simple and enjoyable tasks that Diana used to take on now became points of criticism for Neil. She loved gardening and going to Balboa Park. Spending the afternoon outside with the loving earth that brought breath into her lungs. She rarely spent time at home, or being domestic. She loved being at the beach. "What a pathetic excuse for a woman you are..." Neil would chide, dropping a bag of groceries he had to get onto the table. "You should spend less time with your head in the clouds and act right. Be a woman."

Neil took over all spaces in their tiny apartment. Nothing was specifically hers anymore. His shoes and clothes tossed about the bedroom floor. Free weights in the living room. Ashed cigarettes staining the kitchen tabletop. Books thrown carelessly on the couch, their spines strained and cracked from rough handling.

If Diana wanted to go out with friends Neil began openly complaining. Using derogatory words to describe the company she kept, and guilt-tripping her into staying home with him. "I'm the only respectable person you know... why would you hang with trash like them?" He would often use her parent's high opinion of him as evidence that he was the best and only good thing she'd managed to find. He threatened to leave her multiple times, Diana begging him to stay. That they could fix things together.

Diana first witnessed Neil's temper when he came home one day with a discharge notice in his hands. Diana had been feeling ill and had not yet started making dinner. The empty plates stacked on the countertop wisping past her and into the wall, shattering. She was terrified, running for the bathroom as he stomped after her. She couldn't get the door shut quickly enough, as he slammed the door back against her face. Grabbing her arm he dragged her out into the hallway, ranting. He screamed at her, shaking her violently, his fingers digging bruises into her skin. "What've you been doing all day?!" he raged. His day had gone to shit and all he wanted was a little order when he returned home. Apparently that was too much to ask.

Small bickering led to larger fights, and Diana became very skittish. Neil had a hair-trigger temper. Gently talking over his glass of orange juice in the morning with her, and slapping her by the late afternoon. His temper flaring over simple things, like a bill being accidentally paid twice, or if the television was too loud. He would apologize for hurting her, but eventually those died out.

Diana began yearning for 'good days'. Days when Neil was warm and receptive. Days when he almost acted like the man she had met. Almost loving. The days that weren't good left her in tears and anguish. Was it really all her fault? Should she have known that the car was going to be in the shop for multiple days, making Neil late to work? To Neil it was. It was obviously her fault. When things went wrong, it was because Diana dropped the ball. Because she didn't love him enough. Because she was careless. Because she was stupid. Because she was helpless.... she couldn't function without him. How would she ever survive?

When Diana became pregnant she didn't tell Neil. She thought about leaving. Neil had just taken up a job with a security company. Diana had been unemployed for over a year. Neil had insisted that she didn't work. Women don't work. Women stay home.

It wasn't until she began showing that she finally told Neil. She was sitting at the kitchen table, hands shaking when the front door opened and he tromped in. "Where's dinner?" he demanded.

"I'm pregnant..." she stated, gripping the table. He shucked off his jacket, digging around the fridge. The sharp crack of a beer can opening. He took a long drink. Silence filling the room. Tension electrifying the air.

"Heat up that damn chicken..." he snarled before walking into the living room.

A small cry left her throat, tears tumbling down her cheeks.

There would be no leaving now.

[aquilaofarkham]

title: the little death rating: T+ word count: 2,409 summary: Two years after his fight with Death, Trevor’s injuries start catching up to him while Alucard realizes that humans are more fragile than he thought. 

For @trevorsmellmont ❤️  Thank you so much for commissioning me!

READ HERE

There’s a sharp pain pooling beneath his right arm, coursing through his ribcage. Trevor ignores it just as he’s ignored all the other aches, jabs, and stings over the past two years. Two years of building something better, something sustainable to last far longer than its young, admittedly green founders. Countless days, weeks, and months erecting homes, gardens, and pens for those dumb gentle animals who think the entire townscape is their personal pasture. Not another mistake of allowing them to wander aimlessly straight into the castle. As if heifers need to learn how to craft medicine or conduct what’s being referred to as “electricity”.

The work will never be finished. Even on days like this when the sun burns hotter than any circle in hell. A few drops of warm salt-ridden sweat crawl past Trevor’s pressed lips and into his dry mouth. Pain and thick heat were never enough to stop him before—he tells himself this, barely certain of his own supportive thoughts (a new concept taking root in his mind). Take it slow, don’t push yourself, idiot. This cabin made from the earth will get built eventually. Another family will receive their forever home to fill with lots of babies. Old wounds beg to differ as Trevor’s arms begin to weaken, each movement slower than the last, struggling to keep up with Greta’s superior pace. She’s always known her way around a mallet.

Another bead of sweat gets caught in Trevor’s lashes, sparing his eyes from temporary discomfort. Though it wouldn’t have mattered as they’re already past any sort of respite. He looks for distraction but can only see the blurred shapes coming from a huddle of bodies, despite being a short distance from them. He knows it’s only Sypha and Alucard with the village children, which gives Trevor some relief.

There’s more comfort to be felt when he remembers that one of those little monsters is his own, nestled in Sypha’s lap then placed in Alucard’s gentle arms. She has a name far too long for any toddler to pronounce—Elizabeta Belnades Tepes Belmont—so what rolls off her developing tongue instead is simply “Liza”. She’s innocent now but once she leaves this little man-made paradise and ventures into a harsher world, she will take more after her mother and father. Grabbing whatever life offers with both fists, clawing and biting her way through every obstacle until her teeth are reddened with bloody meat. For the time being, they relish Liza’s soft cheeks, wispy hair, and the way she throws herself at whichever adult happens to be in her nearest vicinity. The other children are helping her socialize by playing games and embracing frivolity; a tactic Trevor remembers from his own upbringing, though with less games and even less frivolity. 

“Think you can handle one or two more?”

Greta’s voice manages to cut through Trevor’s mental fog. Funny how she asks if he can “think” about anything especially at this suffocating moment. She must have noticed the way his lips curl into a happy doped up grin while observing his family and couldn’t help but inquire. As any close, loved and valued friend would.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“What’s wrong with looking a bit further into the future? Now that we all have one.” 

“Looking is one thing, but seriously suggesting is something else completely. My… performance in certain areas isn’t as up to snuff as it used to be.”

As Trevor says this, things deteriorate and get a bit fuzzier from his eyesight down to his chest. Out of focus. Painful. He keeps talking, keeps ignoring the inevitable. Always ignoring what his own body screams for.

Greta wrinkles her nose at his statement. “There are children present, Belmont.”

“What? I’m referring to the house. I barely managed to get one wall up while you’re already on the fucking roof.”

“So dramatic. You three really do deserve each other. And you’re still young.”

“On the outside, maybe.”

She laughs at his lie, misinterpreting it as another piece of mild self-deprecatory banter he might never be able to live without. Greta says something else, perhaps her own personal jest to counter his, but Trevor cannot hear. Breath grows heavier, forcing out a raspy “it’s fine. It’s just my chest”. Barely able to tell if Greta actually said anything about his sudden condition. Or rather, not so sudden. No, this has been building over quite some time now. His muscles and bones screaming, begging for relief or death, and end to everything—whichever comes first. Feelings that only worsened over the years.

Trevor loses control over his legs, now practically boneless. The collision between his head and the ground is nothing compared to the inner war over his heart. Whether it will finally succumb. Greta immediately calls for help—he thinks without confidence, once again. Trevor can still hear voices, but not their exact words. Not Sypha when she demands to know what happened. Not Alucard when he begs for him to stay conscious. Not even Liza as she cries for her papa.

Then all the chaos in the world fades into slow darkness.

--

Alucard stands outside the closed bedchamber door, contemplating how often he’s touched Trevor’s body. Lithe fingertips have memorized every crevice, scar, soft and rough spots alike. Not just as a lover with wandering hands underneath blankets in the dead of night. Or a friend who holds him steady on both feet when he needs it. But as this family’s self-appointed physician. 

Perhaps the prince of two worlds took after his father after all. “Polymath” is what Alucard used to describe Dracula and the very same word others have referred to him as, mostly in the realm of medicine. He knows more than anyone, little offence given towards the herb dispensers and leech farmers (only to be polite for his own townsfolk). Thus, through the anxieties and trembling hands, Alucard gave Trevor his diagnosis: heat exhaustion along with a muscle somewhere in his chest that decided to go rogue and strain itself.

The son of Tepes, the only local doctor worth trusting, and arguably the co-leader of their little prospering hamlet paces across the hall like Trevor did the day Liza was born. He’s on the other side of that closed door, resting. Bedridden from heat exhaustion and a fucking pulled muscle. It bothers Alucard. This shouldn’t have happened to someone who stood up to the personification of Death and pissed in his eye. A stupidly common and easily treatable inconvenience to the human body shouldn’t be the end of a fucking Belmont.

It shouldn’t—unless Trevor’s scars have anything to say about it. The ones on the inside and outside. Inside, unseen, and untreatable. There’s a harsh revelation to be found there; one which the prince has been purposefully avoiding up to this moment. Alucard can try as he wants, use the tools left behind by his father and mother as though it were their final death wish, but he might never tend to what pains Trevor on the inside. He’s a Belmont, undeniably so, but Belmonts are human despite the many recurring signs pointing to the contrary. Then there’s Sypha with her magic, but she’s human as well. Greta and Liza are still human. Humans are more susceptible to dying easy, little deaths even when they follow world-saving victories.

Where does this leave Alucard? Thoughts spiral down, down towards darker places the longer he nervously hovers outside the bedroom. He’s been known to awkwardly stumble into deflection, insisting he’s only half human whenever certain someones bring up this topic of necessary conversation. Meaning he might as well not be human at all. Not when the bodies of those he loves change so rapidly while his remains petrified. It’s only been two years, filled to the brim with countless hours he wouldn’t ever want to trade for the entire world. But the thought of one night as they nestle themselves into bed and Alucard touches either Trevor or Sypha’s chest only to feel an anomaly within their hearts. The earliest sign that time and age will eventually betray them as it does for all mortals—it could be the one thing to break him.

Alucard stops himself at the opportune moment, right before he starts thinking about his mother and father. Did Dracula ever contemplate Lisa’s mortality? Was the decision to never turn her easy or the hardest thing he forced upon his unstable, immortal conscience? Arms crossed over his chest like a protective cage, fingernails digging into the fabric of his shirt until it hurts, Alucard swallows a bitter glob of spit and reaches for the doorknob. Sypha will have to accept the fact that he couldn’t wait for her. He quietly thanks her for the lessons she taught him. If he needs to talk about something—truly talk, no sarcastic wit or banter, just the raw emotions—Alucard no longer hesitates. He won’t, not as he enters the room and immediately sees Trevor still in bed, not quite altogether there. At least he can manage a decent smile and wave of his hand.

“Evening.”

“How does your chest feel?”

“Still a bit tight, but I’ve been taking deep breaths like the doctor ordered.”

The amount of strain heard in Trevor’s voice worries Alucard. Hopefully the Belmont has learned something from the recent past, so he won’t be stupid and suggest anything having to do with leaving bed or getting back to work.

 “I think I should get up.”

“I think that’s a poor decision.”

“Are you saying that as my physician or because you’re letting that pretty little blonde head of yours get too worked up?”

No. Yes. Both? If only Trevor didn’t look up at him with those glassy eyes (can he still see him?) the colour of stained glass windows erected in cathedrals he felt so unwelcome inside. If only that smile, somehow both soft and shit-eating, wasn’t in place of a more serious expression. Then maybe Alucard could voice his concerns without being accused of acting overbearing—an accusation grounded in solid evidence but he’s not ready to admit that yet. Not out loud.

“Normal, healthy adults do not become bedridden after pulling a small muscle in their chest.”

“Belmonts aren’t normal… or healthy in my case.”

Alucard’s brow furrows. “I want to think you’re healthy—” I need to. “—that you’ll live long enough to see the children of this village have little ones of their own. Liza included.”

“God’s sake, she’s only two years old. You and Greta, always talking about looking one step too far into the future. Let her be a child before adulthood rears its ugly maw.”

“Try not to change the subject.”

Trevor lifts his head off the indent pressed into his sweat drenched pillow. “Alright. Fine. I feel much better. I won’t push myself and give my heart some more time to recover.”

No response coupled with broken eye contact; sure signs of Alucard’s reluctance to accept his rather weak assurance. The Belmont has no other choice.

“Come here. Sit.”

Another moment’s hesitation before Alucard complies. Feeling his weight upon the mattress, Trevor blindly reaches for his wrist until calloused fingers grip cool, unblemished skin.

“Now lie down. No, no. Not like that. Place your head right here.” He pats his chest and with a fleeting amount of guidance, Alucard’s cheek fits perfectly between his breasts. Two hands smooth over the dhampir’s curves before one before one rests on his silk smooth head and the other against the small of his back. Alucard lied about one thing: his own body can change in small yet noticeable ways. Without the need to fight for the lives of others, whether today or tomorrow, sharp edges turn softer. Trevor and Sypha have finally let themselves breathe as well, let go, and enjoy all of life’s pleasures.

“Hear that?” He asks Alucard.

“... It’s slow.”

“Slow and strong like it should be.”

Alucard wishes he could bottle up that heartbeat or place it in a box. Preferably a music box to listen to its soothing melody long after its original body and soul are both eventually gone from this world. Who knows? It might make things hurt a little bit less like when he redrew his parent’s portrait or built a much larger nursery where his own used to be. Not a lot, but Alucard could possibly live with just “a little”.

“Speaking of Greta…” The baritone of Trevor’s voice sends deep vibrations through his broad chest, tickling Alucard’s cheek. “She said something about more children.”

“More orphans joining us?”

“No, even though I know how much you love those damn orphans. She asked if we could handle one or two more.”

“What did you say?”

“I implied that she was taking after Sypha’s influence by being wonderfully insane.”

Alucard chuckles in agreement. That sounds like Greta. “You never know. It might be good for Liza if she has a younger sibling.”

With the sound of Sypha’s well timed arrival, he’s mercifully saved from Trevor’s lengthy speech about how patience is apparently a virtue and tirades about his “performance” or lack thereof. Greta reveals herself shortly afterwards with a still crying Liza in tow. So many bodies gathered around one inebriated individual, here for him and him alone. Trevor’s consoled yet exasperated expression directed at Greta in particular says “isn’t there someone more important you could be helping right now?”

Sypha is the first to voice her gratitude after fussing over her exhausting loved one. “I will never be able to thank you enough, Alucard.”

“I think the bed did most of the heavy lifting, love.”

Trevor is given an affectionate, somewhat caring glare in response but his focus is demanded elsewhere once he suddenly notices Liza jumping onto the bed. She snuggles herself between him and Alucard, wetting their shirts with her tears.

“Easy there, you little monster. Papa’s still a bit tender.” Not that she can understand or care.

There’s an aura of relief felt amongst everyone in the room—less with Alucard who smiles bittersweetly. It’s a truth he knew he had to acknowledge before it tore his heart open. Trevor and Sypha will die one day and he will have to bury them. He’ll bury Greta, he might even bury Liza. Not today thank all the gods, or tomorrow, not for the next few decades if fate is kind enough. 

But the day will come. And it will be Alucard’s own little death.

[crowdedimagines]

Leaked (Finale) Harry Styles

“You guys got to see a very raw and real side of us. It’s a bummer that it wasn’t our choice, we didn’t choose to reveal such a personal thing that happened, not to mention what else has been leaked.” I sigh, finally breaking eye contact with the camera sitting on a tripod in front of us. The fans will be getting a glimpse into Harry’s home for this video.

“I know what I signed up for when I got into this business, very little privacy, but I never expected it to come to this extreme. M’very private with my relationships, and I never want to see anyone-'' He pauses to focus himself again, I place a hand on his thigh and attempt to carry on. Against the better judgement of both Jeff and Jordan we both decided against a script, we had highlighted points we wanted to address, but didn’t want it to seem disingenuous.

“Harry and I lost a child last July.” I pick my head up letting the tears openly fall without letting myself choke over them, “And the song you guys have all heard came from that, a place of hurt and exhaustion. We never expected the world to hear it, and we never thought those pictures would be out in the world either. But that’s life isn’t it?” I laugh humorlessly.

The song was leaked a few hours ago now, my name having never left the top trending on twitter, but now Harry’s and several conspiracies have joined it. People cutting parts from it with raw and loud sobs coming from each of us, open for discussion among the whole world.

“We love you all, but please understand our choice to step back from the public for the time being.” Harry chimes in. We both look at each other and nod, feeling we addressed what we need to.

“Treat people with kindness, yeah?” I ask as we both get up from our spot on Harry’s couch.

“Yeah.” He pulls me in for a hug, as Jeff gets up to cut the camera. Our teams were both getting the footage and posting it to our accounts. Harry and I have both agreed to a break from phones for a bit.

“Okay, so this will be posted across all platforms, on both of your accounts shortly. I don’t think we’ll need to edit much.”

I walk over to the other side of the living room where Jordan is standing reading through her phone, she glances up as soon as she sees me coming. She puts on a smile, and pulls me in for a tight hug. She knows just how long the past few days have been.

“Alright, Paula and I booked flights, we’re heading out this afternoon to go home.”

“What about me?” I question.

“We both know that you need to stay here for a while.” She smiles, “Take some time to heal, just remember you two never fell out of love. Call me if you need anything.”

I glance back at Harry whose now joined by his sister and mother. I don’t want to leave, to be completely honest. The last thing I want is to have to go home to my empty house in L.A. Harry and I ran away from each other last year, maybe this is the opportunity for us to finally stop running.

Harry’s POV

“Don’t you think that you need to heal together this time? You can’t let her leave again.” My mum explains, trying to make her point, as quietly as possible. I watch as she glances over my shoulder to where Y/n must be somewhere.

“Mum, I can’t make her stay.” I shake my head. I couldn’t make her stay before, now we’ve spent so much time apart. All I want is to pull her into my arms, but I don’t know if that’s what she wants after all this time. Hell, after this week she might not ever want anything to do with me.

“No, but you can ask her.” Gemma nods her head in Y/n’s direction as she walks over to join us.

“Harry, can I talk to you?” Her voice is soft and calm. My shoulders visibly drop as I relax and follow her to the back porch. We sit in the same spot on the couch as we did yesterday.

“What’s going on, love?” I ask once we’ve both taken a seat.

“Well, Jordan and Paula are flying out this afternoon.” She says, she pulls her legs up close to her chest.

“And you?”

Please god tell me you’re staying.

“I think I might stay.” She picks up her head, “If that's alright with you.”

I can’t fight off the smile at this point. I just give her a simple nod, pulling her close to lean on my shoulder. I should’ve known that we were on the exact same page, we always have been.

“I don’t think I could go back to an empty house, to be honest.” She sighs.

“I don’t think I could let you walk out of that door again, to be honest.”

Y/n’s POV

“Do you mean that?” I ask, picking up my head, “Truly?”

He simply nods and bites at his bottom lip.

“What are we supposed to do, Harry? I don’t think we can just pick up where we left off?”

“No, but isn’t that the beauty of it? We can try again, try for a different outcome. Build on how much we already love each other.”

“Hmm, how much we already love each other?” I smirk, my tone taking on a teasing edge.

“Mhm.” Harry hums, his cheeks taking on a pink hue.

“Alright Styles, lets give this a shot.”

T W O Y E A R S L A T E R

“Hello? Is anybody home?” Anne’s voice rings out loudly as she lets herself in the front door.

I make my way downstairs, I’m sure that she’s found Harry who's in the kitchen getting dinner prepared. Gemma got here about ten minutes ago. I put on a record and go to stand in the doorway and watch the encounter. Anne gives her son a big hug, stealing a carrot from his cutting board as they make small chat to catch up.

“Hello.” I walk in, making my presence known.

“Look out you!” Anne squeals, “You’re glowing!” She immediately walks over to pull me in for a hug, her hands resting on my belly once I pull away.

“I feel like a bit of a whale, but thank you.” I smile.

“Oh hush it.” Harry scolds.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like I’m having a baby in four weeks.”

“Yeah, and she’s still going on runs!” Harry says with a proud grin, “Every morning she gets up with me and we run a few miles.”

“It’s pretty much a fast walk for Harry though.” I smile.

“Yeah, but he isn’t forming a pancreas while he does it!” Gemma cuts in making us all laugh. “We’re more impressed with you.”

“Exactly.” Harry presses a kiss to my temple.

I join Gemma at the counter while Anne helps Harry finish cooking everything. I would help, but my ankles are too swollen by the end of the day, and I know everyone in the room would kick me out before I could even start.

“So, things have been going well with everything? You guys feeling ready to be parents?” Anne grins.

“Is anyone ready before they are?” I ask, “I’m just trying to take it one day at a time, and read as much as I can.”

“You guys will be wonderful parents.”

It means the world to hear this from Anne. It’s been weird to be in London for most of the pregnancy and away from my own mother, but it’s been a blessing to have Anne. She’s an amazing mom herself, and she hasn’t complained once over my odd and annoying questions.

“And if not they’ll have the best Aunt ever to make up for it.”

I roll my eyes and take Gemma’s hand in mine and set it on the front of my belly. Moving and adjusting to the exact spot that the little bean is kicking in.

“That’s mad.” She sighs, “I don’t think I would ever be able to get over that.”

“Harry can be like a leech sometimes! Can’t get him off.” I laugh.

“You feel it all, I’m going to steal as much time as I possibly can.”

We all sit down to eat, and catch up on everything that we’ve missed in life over the past few weeks. Ever since the pregnancy both Anne and Gemma have made an effort to come to our house as often as they can for meals, or even just a visit.

I think we were all a bit shocked to find out I was once again pregnant. Harry and I couldn’t believe it at first, I don’t think we wanted to. Didn’t want to risk getting our hopes up. It had been a year and a few months since we got back together when we found out. Four tests sitting on the counter, two thins lines on each of them.

We waited a long time before telling anyone, too afraid that it could be a repeat of what happened those years ago. Once we did finally tell our families they couldn’t be more excited. The fans were too, surprisingly. I debated pulling a Kylie Jenner and just disappearing from the world for months, but I knew I would get too stir crazy. So as soon as the bump was visible, Harry and I both confirmed it on social media.

The fans were happy for us, most of them were so disappointed and saddened about what happened, they felt bad that we were made to share things neither of us were ready too. This time we were trending for positive reasons, and I’ve never felt more supported by everyone in my life.

F O U R W E E K S L A T E R

“Love, are you sure I’m good to go to the studio?” Harry asks for the millionth time, not wanting to leave me home alone so close to my due date.

“Yes!” I laugh, pushing him closer to the door, “You actually have the time while the bean is inside me, I’ll need you here once they’re out.”

“Alright.” He says with hesitancy, “Please call me for anything. The studio isn’t even far from here, so please don’t hesitate with anything.”

“Ok, babe, just go so you can come back!”

“Promise you’ll call?”

“Yes, I promise.” I laugh, he’s always been protective, but now he’s to a whole nother level since the pregnancy.

“Alright, I’ll bring home food too, I really shouldn’t be gone too long.”

“That’s perfect, babe! Maybe we can get - ow!”

He instantly turns around and pulls his hand from the door when I cry out in pain.

“Darling? Are you okay?”

“No, I’m fine.” I hold out my hand, “It was just this really sharp-ow!”

I cry out again, clutching my belly. Before I know it, a warm liquid is spreading down my legs.

“Love, your water just broke!” He cheers, his eyes saying nervous but he has a smile on his face. “I guess I’m not going to the studio.”

“Oh god!” I groan, I start waddling towards the door, “Okay, you grab the go-bag, I’m gonna start walking to the car.”

I know it might take me awhile to get there. I know it’s not true, but I feel like I need to keep my knees shut from keeping the little bean from falling out.

“Right, go bag.” He mutters to himself, slowly becoming more flustered, “Should we call an ambulance?”

“No.” I laugh, taking deep breaths.

“Love, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Just grab the bag so we can go to the hospital.”

“Yeah-”

“Harry!” I yell, “In the coming hours I am going to force a human being out of my vagina. Now I personally would like to do that at a hospital, will you go grab the bag, or do you need me to do it?”

He swallows and runs upstairs to grab the bag and I make my way to the car. It doesn’t take him long at all, now he’s finally had some sense smacked into him.

“We’re really doing this?” He asks, smiling as he pulls out of the driveway.

“We’re really doing this.” I grin, taking his hand in mine.

O N E   Y E A R  L A T E R

“Happy birthday to you dear, Anderson, happy birthday to you!” We all sing to the little one year old boy I hold tight to my chest.

“Let’s blow out the candles, baby.” I lean forward and blow out the singular candle for the one year old. We made a true event of it, calling everyone we knew practically to celebrate in our backyard, complete with so many games for other children, even though our son was still too young to play most of them. Harry and I couldn’t be more proud of our little boy.

Everyone cheers, I smile looking at Harry who’s got a similar grin. A year in the making to get to this day, lot’s of late nights, but more laughter than anything else. It’s been a wonderful afternoon, everyone loving the little boy who looks practically identical to his father. Cheering as he smashes his little cake all over his face, the table, and his clothes.

“Alright, let’s have Grandma get you all cleaned up!” Anne says as she steals Anderson from me. I smile watching her take the giggly little boy inside to get the cake he’s managed to smear everywhere cleaned off.

Most everyone has left at this point, it has been a packed house to celebrate the one year old, but as it gets later things slow down. It’s finally just down to immediate family and Harry and I can put our feet up for a few minutes.

“Can you believe it? A whole year we’ve been parents.” I lean back into Harry’s side. We’re sat on the outdoor couch, a spot that has grown to contain a lot of heart to hearts over the years.

“No, he’s getting too big too fast.” Harry presses a kiss to the top of my head, “He’s going to be needing another sibling soon.”

I let out a soft chuckle.

“Hmm, is that so?”

“Yeah, who wouldn’t want another kid like that?” We both look over our shoulders to peek in to see Gemma and Anne playing with blocks on the floor in the living room.

“Are you gonna push the next one out?” I tease, I get up and grab the only unopened present that’s remained on the table all day.

“It’s funny that you should say that.” I smirk, turning my attention back on the man I love. I hand him the box, neatly wrapped in polka-dot paper.

“What’s this?”

“Just open it.” I sit down again.

He tears the paper from the box and flips the lid open. His jaw dropping as soon as he sees the contents. Pulling out an olive green tee shirt for Anderson. Simply written across it is “Big Brother”

“You’re teasing me?” His eyes look hopeful though, like he’s praying I wouldn’t tease him like that.

“You can check the four tests in my drawer in the bathroom if you don’t believe me.” I smirk, “Or the fact that I have an appointment at the clinic this Monday.”

“Shut up.” His grin only getting wider.

“Baby Styles number two, coming soon.”

He tackles me down to the couch, a big warm hug.

“Oh my god.” He sighs into my neck. “I can’t wait to do this all again.”

“Me neither.” I grin, rubbing my hands up and down his back. He finally pulls back to get a good look at me, holding my face in his hands.

“God, I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.”

kinda cheese, but a fun way to end it! this was cute lol

[astralbulldragon13]

Son of the Dragon Chapter 1: Tír na nÓg

It had been four years since that one fateful night by the pond, Houmi and Malleus grew closer, and since Crowley couldn’t find a way for her to go home, once she graduated from Night Raven College, she didn’t want to go back. Malleus brought her to his home, telling his grandmother of his intent to marry her. It made Houmi nervous, meeting the powerful Fae woman since she was just a human. Lillia insisted that she would love her. Still, it terrified Houmi because she heard that the great Witch of Thorns was not fond of humans. But to her surprise, the Great Fae smiled at Houmi, despite the little human’s trembling. On the other hand, the Royal Court did not like the idea of their powerful prince marrying a human, and a seemingly magicless one at that. And to hear the boy would sully himself with marrying a human wench, it was unspeakable. 

At the advisor’s insistence, she was roomed in a tower that overlooked the garden, and while it was away from Malleus, it was in much better state than the Ramshackle Dorm. Also, thankfully, her friends came to the kingdom to visit, and was able to connect to the internet with the help of Deuce Spade, so that she could talk with her friends from Night Raven College, as well as taking some classes online, Grim acting as her lap-cat and familiar, after all, the two of them were the Ramshackle student. And now, in the Valley of Thorns, she gained more of a family. Lillia supported her like a father, while Silver watched over her like an older brother, and Sebek, well, he was himself, a strict, brotherly figure that, while still loyal to Malleus, he still looked after Houmi when she was walking the gardens. Many of the members of the Fae court are courteous to her, though it was probably just because of Malleus and his intimidating aura. It seems even in his own kingdom Malleus makes people afraid to approach him. Malleus would speak with Lillia for hours at a time about a wedding. The two of them agree that it would be a small ceremony, with only their friends from Night Raven College. 

The ancient fae enjoyed these conversations, as he was more of a father to the young prince than anyone ever was. There were questions on who the officiant would be, obviously Headmaster Crowley, giving away the bride? They had decided that it would be Leona Kingscholar, who was very protective of the girl, like a younger sister. His groomsmen would be Silver and Sebeck, while Ace and Deuce decided to be Houmi’s Men of Honor, much to the laughter of the whole group. There was a small glen outside of the capital city. The forest clearing was decorated by small fairies, with direction from Lillia and a visiting Vil Schoenheit, little fairy-lights and flowers were draped over tree limbs. The model and actor was adamant about choosing the right flowers. The hangings were braided with edelweiss and borage.Tied around the trees with blue ribbons were cascading bundles of red chrysanthemums, aster and heliotrope. Lillia and his fellow members of the Light Music Club were enchanting instruments for the march. Even Idia Shroud came out of his cave to see one of his dearest friends be married. 

As these friends prepared for the wedding, Houmi tried to get to know Malleus’ family. His mother and Maleficent were very fond of her. Maleficent would call her ‘Little Beastie’, and showed her special ways to spin thread, and the two of them bonded over sewing, teaching Houmi how to make clothes and other textiles. With the help of Vil and Ruggie, Houmi made the outfits for the wedding. Lillia showed her images from old books involving Fae weddings. Malleus’ mother was very inquisitive, asking Houmi about her past that she couldn’t remember very well. The older Fae made certain that her future daughter-in-law was well fed, and that Maurin and the other members of the court did not give her too much grief. There were a few ladies who spoke cordially with Houmi, questioning her about her odd friendships with princes, celebrities, and some of the most prestigious noble families. They also gave Grimm a flood of attention, giggling when he purred and let them put him in stylish bows with a myriad of different fabrics. They would even refer to him as Ser Grimm, protector of the future Queen. The flaming feline loved the attention, and took his newly assigned duty very seriously, especially with the private wedding ceremony. 

On the first full moon of autumn, it was time. Vil and Rook were helping Houmi get prepared. The gown that she had finished was made of lace and tulle, with an off-shoulder neckline that was made from crème-colored tulle, accentuating the collar-bone. The bodice was covered in a fine, alencon lace over crepe fabric, the skirt was made of layers of tulle that fell to the ground. It was truly a wonderful piece, and the finishing touch was a crown of ivy braided with red salvia. A bouquet of red camellias and yellow tulips tied with emerald ribbon was clasped in her hands as she walked into the forest, a small gathering of small pixies were flitting around her face, adding the last bits of make-up and arranging her hair to be perfect to their standards.

Leona stood at the mouth of the glen, dressed in white clothes like what he wore to the Fairy Gala, only the sleeves were made of tulle. He offered his arm to Houmi, a gentle smile on his face. “You ready, Herbivore?” She chuckled, waving away the small sprites weaving her shoulder length, dark brown hair into her ivy crown. “Of course, Leona.” They made their way through the woods to the altar, the creatures of the forest bowed to their princess as she  took as Leona brought her to Malleus, standing under an arch of arbutus, white heather, and blue violets. Behind him was Crowley, his mask and cane missing as he held a small black book that looked like some kind of grimoire. 

Leona sighed as he offered her to Malleus, locking his emerald eyes with the horned prince’s acid green ones. “Keep her safe, Lizard. If you do anything to make her sad, or do her harm, I will personally turn your hide into a rug.”  Malleus smirked, and he held his soon-to-be wife in his arms. “I’ll take a sword through my heart before I let anything, or anyone hurt her.” That seemed to satisfy the lion prince, as he moved to join the others assembled, as Crowley opened his book to the marked page. 

The ceremony was short and sweet, an exchange of vows, and rings of black metal and green stones, placed on their fingers. The kiss was something that sent a spark throughout the glen, a strong wind and glowing lights filled the air, showing the love that Malleus and Houmi had for one another. What they felt, and how their hearts were joined by the strings of fate. They walked back down their makeshift aisle, Grim, Rook, and the Leech Twins threw rice in the air. 

As the moon rose over the treeline, wine was opened, food was served, and music was played. The happy couple danced over the glen, lights glinting over the leaves matching their fluttering heartbeats. Lilia sang in a forgein tongue, everyone clapping in rhythm as Malleus led her in a fast paced, almost-jig. The wedding party went long into the night, the wee hours of the morning chasing the revelers to caravans that they had set up, and the new, royal couple wandering away to the castle. Instead of going to Malleus’ chambers, Malleus walked them to Houmi’s solitary tower. ‘More private,” the young prince said, gripping her hand tightly. Once they were at the stairs at the bottom of the tower Malleus’ scooped up his bride and began carrying her up to her chambers. It was time for them to finish their marriage, and consummate their love. 

[yan-twst]

yan-twst’s yandere twst base guidelines

long story short, i’m tired of not writing yan characters consistently so this is more so a guide for MYSELF to write them consistently. it’s not going to be 100% coherent or like, poetic, because this is moreso a reminder for myself to know how i’m characterizing these boys, but i thought i might as well post it so everyone has an idea how i work with yan characters

warnings: death mentions, general yandere content, mentions of verbal and physical abuse, non consensual drug use, you know the drill

riddle rosehearts is desperate for control and affection. his mommy issues make him seek out the sort of coddling and care he never got from his mother, and at the same time makes him want to establish he’s the one in charge to feel safe. he is easily jealous, doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty if it’s for his darling. he can be manipulated by them in his weaker moments, but he’ll usually be able to tell when they’re trying to use him and retaliate. he wouldn’t be opposed to letting those he trusts oversee his darling. he’ll keep his darling in his dorm; they may be allowed to roam around with trey or maybe cater, but riddle fully expects them to only go out when he’s there.

ace trappola is sadistic and a bit immature. he likes to make his darling’s life hell, tear them down and make them cry until he’s the one who comforts them (not very well). he’s the standard “little kid teasing his crush in the playground”, except way more violent. ace trusts nobody with his darling- he’ll use threats and violence to get them to stay away. he mocks his darling for being weak. ace can’t really keep his darling locked up due to his dorm situation, but his verbal abuse and manipulation are enough to keep them silent about how he treats them

deuce spade is conflicted but selfish. his past as a delinquent makes violence come easily to him, and he might hurt his darling in an outburst of anger. likewise, he’ll get rid of people he thinks are “getting too close” to his darling with threats of physical violence, and he’ll easily make good on those threats if prompted. the idea of locking them up isn’t something that comes up naturally (besides, he can’t really do that), but he’s always waiting for his darling in the door of their dorm in the mornings and drops them off, making sure they aren’t wandering off. he has bouts of extreme sweetness, talking about how they “changed him”, bringing them flowers, making them meet his mom- a big contrast to his violent tantrums, but his sweetness is enough to make his darling think he might stop hurting them (and also fear of what he could do if they broke up with him)

trey clover is a manipulator. he doesn’t really need fancy tricks or strength to make his darling stick by his side. the fact everyone sees him as a friendly and helpful man means nobody questions his actions too much. he pushes his darling to act the way he wants them to, usually gaslighting them or guilt tripping them into doing as he wishes. trey will not lock up his darling, at least not in school, but he’ll make them feel like they aren’t allowed to talk to anyone or interact with anyone other than him. he’ll also freely twist his darling’s words to make people who try to get close to them stay away

cater diamond needs to be told he’s loved, be told he’s good. he craves to have a close connection to somebody, and he’s just not used to feeling so attached to someone. he’ll use lots of blackmail to keep his darling obedient. whether he kidnaps his darling or not depends on how easily he can do so: if they’re the MC, he might not do so, since he craves to take pictures and show the world who he’s dating, and if he kidnapped them and published those it’d be too obvious. however, his blackmail makes it enough that his darling doesn’t dare go against him. cater won’t use violence to get rid of “rivals”, but he’s very much willing to use rumours and blackmail to ruin them

leona kingscholar wants both a plaything and someone to treat him like a king. he will make his darling feel weaker and inferior to him, but he’ll also seek comfort in them. leona has no trouble using some physical violence to keep his darling in their place, nor does he have qualms in killing people who he sees as a threat. luckily, it takes a lot to get him to that point, since he’s quite lazy about the effort it takes to kill. he fully expects his darling to pamper him, but he often makes allusions that once he sets a life for himself, they’ll be his “queen” of sorts. ruggie absolutely knows this is going on, and leona will let him be around his darling once in a while, as long as he knows his limits. lots of jealousy towards his brother- mentioning him is a surefire way to get beat black and blue

ruggie bucchi wants someone to call his own. he’s possessive and jealous, and he’ll do all he can to make them be his. he treats them more like property than as a lover sometimes. at the same time, he’s very much a needy lover, and he’ll be whining and keening for constanta affection. physical violence isn’t usual in his darling, but he has no issue getting rid of others- he’s very, very good at getting rid of the body. he keeps his darling locked in his room out of jealousy, and he’s got no problems with using his unique magic to make them give him affection

jack howl feels bad about how he feels but ha can’t stop himself. he rationalizes that he’s “protecting” his darling from the outside world, seeing them as weak and helpless compared to him. he scales up slowly in his obsession, starting from walking them around to locking them in his room. he thinks his darling is being thankless for not appreciating his worry. jack will not use physical violence on his darling, but he might make empty threats just to make them understand he’s stronger. jack will be hesitant to kill for his darling, however if he gets mad enough and if someone seems to be trying to rescue them or contact them, he might snap

azul ashengrotto is desperate to be reassured. he often cries and guilt trips his darling, asking them to assure him he’s good enough for them. the way he treats his darling wildly varies on his mood; when he’s feeling confident he’ll use smooth talking and act in a way so gentlemanly it might be able to temporarily make them forget their situation, but when he’s in the deep end of his insecurities he’s all screams and tears. when he’s out of his mind, he might leave bruises on his darling, but it’s more of a lack of control than a desire to hurt. he lets the leech twins around- under his watch- and makes them make sure his darling doesn’t think of escaping lest they be hunted by the eels. he’ll absolutely use a contract to take away his darling’s magic, and by extension take away the magic of anyone he sees as a “threat”. likewise, he’ll sic the twins onto the “threats” 

jade leech is sadistic but calculating. he wants his darling to be dependent on him and him alone. upon kidnapping them, he makes sure to treat them nicely; bringing them warm food, physical comfort, etc. of course he also punishes quite liberally: however, he’s always careful in how he does it. he either makes it out to be entirely his darling’s fault so that he’s not “the bad guy”, or he might send in floyd to make them suffer. either way, jade is always the one to comfort them, and make them associate his presence with being well. jade absolutely keeps his darling locked up, and while he doesn’t like them being alone with someone else, he does let floyd or azul see them sometimes, maybe for dinner or something. jade has no problem killing to teach his darling a lesson, but he’s more often lowkey and clean about it

floyd leech does whatever he pleases. it doesn’t take much for him to decide to take his darling and force them into his room into the role of a toy for him to squeeze and bash around. floyd’s darling is always bruised and injured in some way- floyd sometimes treats their wounds, sometimes jade drops by to treat them, but he’s too rough for them to heal entirely. floyd rejoices in his darling’s tears and missery: he isn’t going to comfort them or try to make them love him, but rather demand they act how he wants when he wants and hurt them to get that. he’ll happily kill anyone his darling even as much as seems to think of- and he’ll also be very happy to show his darling the corpse and the gore to make them cry and sob

kalim a-asim truly doesn’t want to do his darling wrong. at first it’s his worries over his darling’s safety that makes him take action and lock them in the dorm; he prepares a room for them, lavish gifts and whatnot. kalim seems to be trying to buy his way into his darling’s heart, believing his actions can be forgiven with enough repentance (but not giving up what he’s gotten). although kalim would never harm his darling, he’ll chain them up so they can’t run, believing he’s doing the best. while kalim loathes violence and death, if he truly does believe it’s “needed”, he might pay his family’s assassins to silently get rid of threats, but he’ll be very careful to keep this a secret from his darling. talks a lot about the future and how he’ll marry his darling and how good life will be

jamil viper wants to be, for once, the most important person to someone. he wants to be seen for all he is and congratulated, worshipped. his obsession starts with being praised and given attention, and suddenly he wants more. jamil has no issue using his unique magic to keep his darling locked in his room and acting as he wants; however, he wants them to act like that out of their own accord. punishments may be verbal or physical, but in the end, he wants his darling to act like they love him without him having to hypnotize them. there’s a fair chance jamil will let kalim know about the situation, albeit word it in such a way kalim believes jamil’s darling is actually a willing lover and lend him an extra room to keep them in or something. jamil will try to avoid getting blood on his hands, but if he sees that it’s going to be better off it he kills people who may try to release his darling or expose him, he’ll gladly remove them from the scene

vil schoenheit finds peace in having someone to control and fuss over. his day to day life is very busy, always having something to do, something to study, maintain his image and his grades and his job. when it comes to his darling, vil feels relaxed when he can simply pamper them like a doll: to have some absolute control for once. he prides himself in how he “polishes” his darling. vil will use any sort of potion, from potent love potions to numbing or calming draughts to keep his darling dumb and pliant under his care. because he believes that hard work means doing everything needed, vil will easily use untraceable poisons to get rid of those he thinks are trying to tarnish his darling. he doesn’t care if the love he’s being showered with comes from a love potion, as long as he feels like he’s being entirely appreciated for who he is (and not just who the world sees him as). he’d trust rook enough to stay around and watch over his darling, but usually he’ll just keep them in his room, knowing full well the potions make them too docile to hurt themselves or make a big mess

rook hunt loves all things beautiful and thinks of his darling as a muse. he’s the very image of the stalker who watches his darling through their day, stealing trinkets and making a small “shrine”, taking creepshots, and sending anonymous letters with enough detail to make his darling scared. he builds up the “fear” (in his mind, he’s just elongating the hunt, making it a game) until he finally catches them and takes his prize home. rook has no problem letting vil know he’s keeping someone locked in: honestly, this isn’t too surprising, and as long as he doesn’t cause trouble, vil might be willing to supply love potions and such to keept he ruckus down. still, rook much prefers to “tame” his darling the natural way- with fear, punishment, and reward. he’ll often make them think they have a chance to escape only to catch them later, crushing their spirits

epel felmier wants to be told he’s strong, he’s manly, he’s his darling’s one and only. he’s grown up seeing the traditional quiet marriages of the people back in his village, and he fully believes he’ll play the role of the supporting, strong, capable man to his darling, meanwhile they’ll be his domestic and pliant spouse (regardless of his darling’s gender). he may use his innocent appearance to fool them into his trap, and then use any means possible to keep them, from mild poisons in food he brings to spells that make their body lock up. he luckily isn’t one for physical punishments, but that can change if his darling tries to insult him or imply he’s effeminate or weak. 

idia shroud is a creep. he spies on his darling with the campus security cameras, he sends small drones to spy on them sleeping, when he dares venture out to the campus he nervously pockets their belongings and builds a literal shrine to them. he might even use ortho to lure them into his room- and once they seem to trust him just a little, he strikes and keeps them locked inside. idia is so very aware his darling thinks he’s a weirdo and a creep, but he still wants their affection. idia may force his darling into cosplays of his favourite characters, using empty blackmail threats or threatening to somehow hurt or sabotage the people they care about using his borderline horrifying technological creations. he even uses ortho as leverage, telling them that if they keep acting that way and crying they’re going to worry the small child who sees them as another sibling figure

malleus draconia has never felt this way before and all he knows is he feels a need to keep and protect. his dragon’s instincts are to hoard his treasure, and his darling is the most precious thing to him. malleus keeps his darling captive as part of that hoarding instinct, although he does crave genuine love and becomes frustrated and angry when he doesn’t receive it. if he’s angered enough, malleus might have outbursts where his darling is seriously hurt- although he’ll be very guilty later. he’s very, very jealous of anyone who gets close to his darling, and he really might turn them into a pile of ashes if they irk him wrong. he has his guards and lilia making sure his darling doesn’t run away, although more often than not that’s not even possible with the sleeping curses he puts on his darling while he’s away

lilia vanrouge has been alive for long enough to know he can get away with pretty much anything, and so he really won’t hold back. he’s a sadistic lover, but more than teasing or being mean it’s sometimes him downright enjoying his darling’s pain and misery. he has enough experience to know exactly what to do to make his darling do what he wants without them even realizing they’re playing right into his tricks, and if not, he’s never afraid to come back home a little bit bloody and make his darling guess who he got rid of because they refused to behave. lilia can keep his darling about anywhere; he’s experienced enough with teleportation magic to switch back and forth from NRC to wherever he pleases, but it’s more likely he’ll keep them in his dorm room so he can “play family” with malleus, silver, and his unwilling darling. 

silver is just doing what his heart tells him, unaware his love is an obsession. being raised by fae, he isn’t 100% of how human romance and courtship works, and it doesn’t really help his parental figures are either clueless in love or twisted enough to encourage his obsession. silver doesn’t want to punish his darling or bring them harm, but he’s ruthless on those he thinks are threats or are trying to tear him and his darling apart. malleus and lilia let him keep his darling locked in diasomnia, even offering to help keep them locked in when silver falls victim to his sleep. of course, the one thing silver wants is affection and warmth- the kindness and sweetness with which he treats his darling are so contrasting to how ruthlessly he kidnapped them that it’s almost painful to see his sad face when they refuse to embrace him

sebek zigvolt is mad. he’s mad that someone is causing him to be confused and distracted, that he can’t properly protect malleus because his heart is going wild at the thought of some silly human. he takes this anger out on his darling; they think he hates them, at first. but the stares, the blush, the fact he’s stealing their personal belongings, smelling their sweaters he stole before he goes to sleep tell another story. and yet he’s mad; when he kidnaped them, he locks them up, telling them he’s punishing them for distracting him. over time, he’ll give in, once his thirst for affection and for holding his darling override his initial anger. but that won’t change much- he’ll still be controlling, very violent when angered, despite him drinking up their praise and basically begging for their affection

[neonponders]

👀 👀 👀 👀  Oh jesus oh lord. Deeper Than Skin is finished so I’ll enable another wip.

@ghostofjellyfishforgotten I hope you don’t mind me using your tags on this vampire!Billy / blood donor!Steve post as inspiration! Your brain is just too big for me not to pass up an opportunity to write vampire shenanigans.

Read on ao3 ~

🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹

Steve didn’t judge people who worked as donors—

Fine, as an adult with a better awareness and compassion, Steve didn’t judge donors. He might’ve said some shitty things to Jonathan Byers when he worked to make his family extra money.

Honestly? Steve admired that. Jonathan being underage and having the guts to figure out how to get into the donation clinic, and then to let…

Steve knew he was a coward in a lot of ways. He knew it when he called Jonathan a queer who enjoyed leeches sucking on him. He knew it when he lost to the punches Byers threw. For a skinny, half empty blood bag, the guy could really hit. And Steve knew it when he almost ran away from Nancy and Jonathan fighting off the rogue vampire who kidnapped little Will Byers.

But Steve didn’t run away.

Just like he didn’t run away from the couch he sat on with his mother while his father explained…a situation that left Steve digging deeper and deeper into the gap between fear and bravery. Maybe call it disassociation. Or confused shock.

“You what?”

Harrington senior never took well to being interrupted. But he sighed from across the coffee table and reiterated, “The family is in debt.”

“No. You. You’re in debt. This is your problem.”

The man certainly didn’t take well to having his own mistakes shoved under his nose. “This isn’t for debate. This is the way things are and need to be.”

“No,” Steve repeated like a broken record clinging onto its song. “This is your fault. Who’s made me work minimum wage jobs to teach me a lesson? Who’s refused to pay for me to go to community college? Who hasn’t let me work in their company? And who made the shitty gambles with your company’s stocks? You shoved me out, so it’s definitely not my problem—”

“The contract has already been signed.”

Now his mother shifted her posture on the couch beside him. “Excuse me?”

Steve’s father moved his blunt nails over the armrest of his wingback, fidgeting. At least something put fear into the old bastard’s heart.

“There’s nothing I could do. The market has been evolving ever since vampires gained their rights and opened up their decades and centuries old bonds—”

“Vampire legislation passed over a century ago,” Mrs. Harrington purred. Sometimes the worst anger was the quiet kind. “You have no excuse. You lost the game, and you sold our son. Is that what we’re to believe?”

“That’s not possible,” Steve intercepted. “Slavery isn’t a thing anymore. Even I picked that up in history. And I would have to be there to sign the contract! It’s my—”

“Steve,” his father silenced. “When enough money is involved, anything is bought. And you’re not like anyone else.”

Mrs. Harrington fumed, “Do not talk to him like he’s a prize pony!”

“Except to a wealthy vampire, he is.”

Steve could only sit in weighted silence for a moment. He always joked to himself that he’d be disowned one of these days. For being a disappointment. For all of his bad grades. For giving his friends alcohol and cigarettes. For only being able to get jobs that required no qualifications or experience level at all. For discovering he liked kissing boys at the grimy music venues Robin took him to. Maybe living at home for too long. Or leaving the smell of burnt pancakes in the air too often because he always struggled with the first one—

“Vampire?” he croaked. For some reason it hadn’t dawned to him until now but…shit.

Holy shit.

Steve wasn’t being sold off to be some billionaire’s secretary for life. He was being…truly sold. Like…goodbye, Steve, who likes spring nights and summer mornings. His favorite food is breakfast and he wishes he kept with the music lessons his mom paid for instead of being peer pressured into sports. Whose best friend was Robin Buckley because she was brave and funny and stuck with him during his ironic and a little bit terrifying queer awakening…

Hello, Donor 0235. Blood type O. Allergic to nickel and checks off all vaccination requirements.

“Steve’s not wrong,” his mother echoed like a voice deep in a cave, drawing Steve out of his thoughts. “He is the one to sign the contract. Not you.”

“He is still classified as our dependent and on our insurance,” his father refused.

“So being an adult means nothing in this country?”

“They have our family records, Annette!” he exclaimed. “There is a dual government in this country even if nobody below upper-middle class sees it. The human government had to cede a great deal because the vampire population is massive. And they’ve kept track of all the Sanguis families! Name changes, and two World Wars did nothing to save us—”

“The what?” Steve all but whispered.

His mother rotated her hips to face him. “We only have legends about how it happened. Paleolithic gods making deals, vampires crossbreeding humans to make a certain kind of blood donor, human evolution after symbiotic deals were struck—but that doesn’t matter. The point is that there are people in this world with abilities that preserve themselves against vampires. That’s why you healed in less than two days after that silly fight by the movie theatre.”

His father intercepted, “The genes skipped your mother but fell to you.”

Steve’s eyes widened as his mother confirmed, “To protect us, girls have been promoted in the family tree for generations. Through marriage, their names could change, and make them harder to track.”

Steve countered toward his father, “So this really isn’t your place to sign my life away. Like five times over.”

“I quite agree,” his mother turned back to the man she’d married. The man who was supposed to protect her and her children with his name and promising, growing business.

At least Steve wasn’t the only failure in the family.

His father massaged his forehead and defended, “As I said. Humans’ government is far easier to corrupt our way into forgiving any debt. The vampires, however, are inconsolable. The bastard would have my business, the cars, our house, and taken his time discovering Steve on his own if I hadn’t—”

Steve took after his father, but he was his mother’s son as they both stood up from the couch, furious that this man had thrown his own kid under a vampire’s bus—

“Get out of the house, Steve.”

His head whipped around at her. “I-What?”

“Get out of the house,” she seethed, but not at him. “I don’t care where or what you do. Go.”

Steve didn’t need to be told twice but he hadn’t managed to grab his car keys or his shoes before the house and his ribcage trembled with his parents’ arguing. He went in his socks outside and put the shoes on in his car.

Then…he didn’t know where to go. Running the hell away seemed like the obvious solution, but if vampires really had such a network, what was the point? And if he left, what would happen to his mom?

Steve drove on autopilot to the video rental store. Robin. All he had was Robin, who took the lollipop out of her mouth when the bell on the door twittered. “Hey, dingus, it’s your day off—Steve?”

He couldn’t really remember driving. That probably should have raised more red flags than he already had, but for now, the black and neon carpeting of the Family Video was blurring and swirling…

“I’m gonna throw up,” he heard himself say.

And Robin in that distant, echoing cave his mother had spoken from, “Outside! STEVE!”

[funkzpiel]

Another consideration (sorry) is if Jaskier did lose his voice permanently from the Jinn and Geralt feels guilty and doesnt stop trying to find a cure even though he knows there isnt one (or lies to Jaskier that he's trying to find one til Jaskier finds out)

He doesn’t sing again. That prickly part of Geralt that’s been traveling alone for most of his life gruffly thought he’d enjoy that result. After all, he did his level best to have the issue resolved. It wasn’t his fault that the bard got involved. He hadn’t invited him along – he had just wanted to fucking sleep for fucking once in his life, damn it. It had been his wish though, however unintentional, that brought the bard into this new life, this silent existence. A world without Jaskier’s singing.

It is like biting into a pie only to find it has no filling.

Those words haunt him in the lingering silence of Jaskier’s presence. They hang between him and the bard as heavily as any wraith might – leeching him just as much as actual conversations exhausted him. Jaskier, like the birds of the woods, was born to sing and talk and fill the world with the litany of his voice and his perspective and his life; and Geralt had taken part in shattering him.

Yennefer had, in her way, tried to heal him. They had released the Djinn – much to the mage’s dismay – and that should have been the end of it. Jaskier’s swelling went down, his bleeding stopped.

But when he opened his mouth to greet Geralt when finally he woke, nothing more than a wheeze passed his lips. In that moment, the witcher watched a part of Jaskier die. He saw it in the bard’s eyes – a small bit of the light that constantly filled him fading away like a cloud passing over the sun.

Jaskier stayed with him. Geralt doesn’t understand why. It was his fault, his words, his hasty and ill thought out wish that had crushed the bard’s vocal cords to dust. Jaskier should hate him, and yet he stayed. Geralt thought pragmatically that it was because alone, Jaskier would struggle. He was a man who had independently crafted a life and a career for himself off his voice, and now that was gone. He had his fingers, his lute, of course – but drunken pub-goers relished the bard’s songs, his lyrics, and with nothing to sing along to, it left Jaskier’s lute playing, while lovely, pale and hollow by comparison to what patrons expected to hear when they recognized who he was.

Geralt did that to him. So it was the least he could do to keep Jaskier by his side. To provide a safe place for the bard to sleep, coin for him to eat. And that must be why he stayed, he reasoned. Why else?

As they passed through villages, he asked for healers, for mages – anyone who might have insight into the bard’s situation. He even began to direct their travels in the direction of famous herbalists or sorcerers (or sometimes even creatures), all without ever making it plain, just in case they might stumble upon someone who might have a cure.

‘Sorry’ hung heavy on his heart, weighing it down between his ribs, pressing in on his lungs, strangling him. He spent his nights, already so prone to sleeplessness, on his back and staring up at the sky as though the stars might suddenly align and spell out the answers he sought. His eyes drifted to Jaskier, curled by the fire. Small and quiet. So fucking quiet.

Geralt was really beginning to fucking detest the quiet.

It made him admire Jaskier’s penchant for conjuring a conversation seemingly out of nowhere; particularly when he began to try and solve this problem of too much fucking quiet by doing what Jaskier could not: talking.

“Pleasant day,” he growled one morning, eyes on the meal he stoked above the fire as Jaskier silently worked on lacing up his clothing. Blue eyes sought him out over the fire. He could feel the weight of them, the surprise. But what else was there to say? His words had been efficient. The day was pleasant. What should he say next? Describe the color of the sky? Foolish.

He grit his teeth, hating himself for his blatant inability to provide even so much comfort as this. But he keeps trying. He practices. Only because when he does, Jaskier’s gaze falls to him – keen in a way those blue eyes had not been in some time since the silence started – and for a moment he feels as though his bard has returned again.

Jaskier, for his part, does not simply melt back into the stone of a garden wall like a shrinking violet. His voice was not what made him so lively, so vibrant; it was a side effect of all the life and sunlight and existence that the gods had seen fight to cram into a body as lithe as Jaskier. He learned how to speak with his hands and Geralt, a man who had only spoken through body language for so long, found it easy to listen. It was an act of communication that drew no end of curious looks when they went to villages. How could two men speak so silently? Some even began to suspect Jaskier was a familiar of Geralt’s – which made the bard wheeze silently, laughing.

Geralt couldn’t even be annoyed by that. It was good to see the bard laugh.

Jaskier’s hands grew more and more fluent as they travelled until he learned how to fill the silence in an entirely new way. And if Geralt’s attention were distracted, his eyes not on the bard, Jaskier found ways to grab his attention. A pebble to the shoulder, if annoyed. A hand to his side, to the small of his back, to his bicep if not.

But still, Geralt looked for a cure. He did not ask for forgiveness. He didn’t deserve it – not while Jaskier was still unable to say the words to pardon him for his wish. Wishes. How Geralt hated them, hated the word. His wish had driven Yennefer away. His wish had bound Jaskier to a life in which he could not do what he loved. Geralt didn’t deserve forgiveness. So he did not ask.

And then came the contract about the witches of the bog.

Ancient hags. Magical ladies. So old that Geralt wasn’t even sure if the word ‘witch’ truly befitted them anymore. He didn’t even know what to call them, what to research in his bestiary. Three witches of the bog. Complicated and powerful, hand in hand. Some of the village worshipped them. They kept the forest rich with game. They protected birthing mothers. They warded off those from foreign lands that might colonize their home, change it, urbanize it. It left the area like a capsule from another time; perfectly preserved.

Others hated them. Virgins tended to disappear now and then. Children too. Livestock would die, men would suddenly fall dead. Believers called it penance, divine and unknowable justice for deeds the public might never see or fathom. Nonbelievers called it terrorism at the hands of monsters. Geralt found himself stuck in the middle.

He insisted Jaskier stay in the village. This was beyond even his expertise. Even with normal monsters there was always the chance that he might fail, not protect Jaskier, however slim. Now? He would not tell Jaskier that he had a healthy fear for what laid ahead, but he made it known that for no reason should the bard follow him this time.

He approached the bog with his swords on his back but his hands nowhere near their hilts. Women as old as these, there was a chance he might be able to reason with them. Negotiate.

There was just as big as chance that he might offend them by trying.

His heart thumped in his chest as he kneeled in a dry spot in the bog. He set out the offerings the believers told him would attract the witches to him. He rested his hands on his thighs. Closed his eyes.

“Bog women,” he said, calling to them in a hushed, croaking voice, “Ladies of the North, Winter Women… I have no request but to parlay with you. I humble myself, I kneel, knowing I don’t deserve an audience. Would you speak with me?”

At first there was nothing. He wondered if the believers had lied, if the nonbelievers were far more stable by comparison. He was just about to stand, to leave, when a wind brushed the faint hairs not held back by his hair tie to wisp about his face. The willows around him swirled and sang a sorrowful tune. The fine hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms rose.

“What is a boy’s name?” A witch sung to him. A boy. Despite his years, he felt very much like a boy kneeling at the feet of those women.

He nearly responded. Nearly. But there was power in a name for folk such as them.

“You may call me witcher,” he said instead, careful in his wording. Another witch laughed, delighted.

“Clever witcher-boy,” the laughing witch chirped, stepping out of the fog. She was lovely. Her red hair hung down to her bottom. Her face was round like a peach, her cheeks pink like one too. She wore a gown unlike one he had ever seen before. She looked kind, her smile pleasant, but her eyes – if he looked too long, he could see the predatory glint in those eyes. Her glamor blurred around the edges and if he peered too closely, he could almost see—

His pupils dilated, huge and blown out as he tried to make sense of what he saw. Limbs, so many limbs. A body distorted with tumors; or what he thought might be tumors, but perhaps just did not know the right word for them. Too many mouths, eyes, faces. The punishing visage of those warped by black magic or simply the form of a god not meant to be seen or understood by mortal men? He didn’t know, but he did register something wet beneath his nose. Hot and dripping. His heart thundered. He wondered if it might burst when finally another woman came up behind him, bent over him, and gently rested a hand over his eyes.

“A strong boy with keen eyes,” the woman behind him hummed, “Few have seen past our glamor. Fewer still remained sane enough to tell the tale.”

The first witch cackled, having appeared from the fog as well, and sneered, “You steal our fun,” then said a name that made Geralt’s lashes flutter sickly. The name sounded more like the mad tumble of rocks down a mountain side that any human word. His stomach lurched. He was so fucked. “I wished to see how far a witcher-boy’s mind might bend.”

“A boy came to us in good faith,” the witch whose name sounded like falling rocks said. Her voice sounded like the voice of many women, but also, one woman. His mother. He wondered if that was part of the glamor as well. If that magic was seeping into his mind, collecting fragments and details that might sooth him, lure him into a false sense of security.

Too bad it was the voice of the woman who had abandoned him. It only served to wake him up.

He decided to call that woman Earth Mother. The name pinged something familiar in the far recesses of his mind.

“Laws of matronhood,” said the second to the first, naming her as well. He gritted his teeth against the sound of it – glass shattering, wolves howling. It made his muscles tense, ready to flee the jaws of a wolf. When the feeling passed, a human name appeared in his mind seemingly from nowhere: Beast Mother.

“Aye, I know the laws,” said the Beast Mother, then a final name. Geralt’s stomach dropped sickly like missing a step on a staircase. This name sounded like the wind – both tame as the first warmth of spring thaws the fields, and wild like the storm that punishes a village. Sky Mother, his mind supplied.

Geralt bowed his head as those final, hind-brain instincts washed over him and eventually dulled. He felt suddenly exhausted. Word thin by the mere presence of these women.

“What does a witcher-boy call to women such as we for?” Asked the Sky Mother.

“Does a witcher-boy come to kill us?” Laughed the Beast Mother cruelly, and even with the third woman’s hand over his eyes – cool and soothing and dark – Geralt knew the Beast Mother was grinning with too many predatory teeth. More teeth than any human mouth should have. Teeth and teeth and teeth—

“The village placed a contract on you,” Geralt forced himself to say. “But I’m quickly realizing this is no monster hunt.”

He was in the presence of gods, or at least as close to gods as reality might ever get. Every story, every religion, stemmed from something after all. These land spirits, these witches, these women – they were so much more than a contract to be hunted. They owned the land, the wood, the swamp, and all inside it. Fuck.

“If you know this, then why come?” The Earth Mother asked gently.

“Some of the villagers are suffering,” Geralt explained, “I’m here to help. To parlay.”

“Life is to suffer,” laughed the Beast Mother cruelly.

The Sky Mother said instead, “And what can a witcher-boy offer us? How can a witcher-boy help?”

The Earth Mother was against his back, matronly and kind. He felt like a boy hiding behind a mother’s skirts – or more accurately Vesemir’s legs. It felt both nostalgic and sickening at the same time, his mind peeled apart like an onion so easily in their presence.

“I am nothing and no one to you Mothers,” Geralt acknowledged, “But I cannot turn my back on suffering. If I do so here, I have no right to my namesake.”

“A witcher-boy wanted to be a hero,” cackled the Beast Mother, fangs gleaming in his mind’s eyes, pearly and wet with hungry spittle.

“A witcher-boy is kind,” whispered the Mother blinding him with her mercy, her hand.

“A witcher-boy is doomed,” offered the Sky Mother clinically, but not dispassionately.

“What did the village ask?” The Beast Mother spat, “Did they whine about their lost babes? Their disappeared virgins? Their dead men? Their cows?”

“The milk had spoiled in their udders, so we killed them,” the Sky Mother said simply.

“The men had raped and stolen and marred the virtue of our lands, so we removed them from the grace of our hospitality,” the Beast Mother growled.

“The virgins sought escape from abusive homes, sought freedom and peace, so we guided them to happier places,” the Earth Mother hummed.

“And the babes would have died a painful death from winter, from illness, from genetic deficiencies – so we lured them to that better place in peace instead,” the Sky Mother finished.

“Life is cruel,” the Beast Mother growled like the sound of hooves on earth, pounding in chase after the fox, “But we are not. A witcher-boy cannot fathom our motives, so we pardon him once, but question our intentions again and a witcher-boy will understand punishment for himself.”

Geralt bowed his head intentionally this time, hands in tight, humbled fists on his knees.

“Apologies, Mothers, I knew not what to expect.”

“As we said, a witcher-boy is pardoned,” the Sky Mother said simply.

“We know a witcher-boy,” the Earth Mother sang behind him, her voice the laughter of a babe’s first smile, the song of a mother kneading dough in the morning. “A witcher-boy withholds his name, but we know him.”

“White. Wolf.” The Beast Mother is grinning with too many hungry teeth again. Geralt shivered.

“You helped a Godling not far from here,” says one.

“Spared a group of trolls in the eastern mountains,” says another.

“Helped a succubus escape the fires of the cities and the purge of daft men who put their faith in nonsense,” says the last.

“The list is long,” the Earth Mother says, her other hand stroking through his hair now. She’s untied it, let it fall loose around his ears. She tsks and says, “At least a witcher-boy tried to bathe for us. You need fine oils for hair such as this.”

He feels disoriented, exposed. Unsure of his footing.

“I will explain to the village—” he begins, but clicks his jaw shut audibly when the Beast Mother howls, “We were not done, witcher-boy!”

He swallows dryly. His very bones shiver. The Earth Mother shushes his fears and continues to pet him like a dumb, beloved dog warming her feet. It feels… nice. He has to shake his mind awake not to fall for that glamor, that lulling sense of safety. There is no safety. Safe is an illusion.

“Clever witcher-boy,” the Earth Mother says proudly, fondly.

“You’ve helped people and creature alike on our land,” the Sky Mother said.

“But you’ve also taken justice into your hands, as if we were not suitable to maintain it,” snarled the Beast Mother.

“What are three Mothers to do with their witcher-boy, their kind hearted wolf, their man of stone?”

They might kill him. They were not wrong, he had taken their affairs into his own hands unknowingly when fulfilling contracts in these lands. If their territory extended as far as he thought it did, he had only done so twice perhaps. Maybe thrice. A werewolf that had gone mad, slaughter their family. A cockatrice that had been spoiling the hunt for another township, killing the best of their providers. A wraith left behind by a widow spurned.

“We would have gotten to them in our own time,” the Beast Mother said, answering his unspoken question of why, if they protected these lands, had they not handled it?

“Or perhaps we did handle it in our own right,” the Earth Mother offered with a chuckle. Working through him, he realized. A pawn in their ways just as he was a pawn to fate. He shuddered helplessly, a little flame of offense rising in his gut as it always did at the concept of ‘fate’. She brushed his hair back in apology, stroked his cheek. “You need a shave.”

Disoriented didn’t begin to cover it.

“Spoil sport,” the Beast Mother snorted. So that had been it, then. He had acted as unwitting representative for them and their will.

“You are a trustworthy wolf,” the Sky Mother said, “Good in intention, civil in mercy.”

“You will go to the village,” the Earth Mother continued. “You will explain the way of things. Those who cannot abide by those ways can flee freely or be dealt with accordingly… They will not pay you, witcher-boy. Their hearts are selfish and easy to see reason why they should keep their coin despite your bravery, despite how you put yourself between we women and their cowardly souls.”

“For this, for the works you’ve already done unintentionally in our name and for the works you will later do intentionally in our name, we women shall pay you instead.”

He stiffened. Every bone locked in his body like rusted hinges on a door, painful and tight. That was a dangerous offer. He could not deny it and live. But one wrong word would spell a world of pain unending. He swallowed.

“You are too kind to someone as undeserving as me,” he managed to croak.

The Beast Mother laughed cruel and amused, high like a harpy’s screech and low like a bear’s roar. He shuddered visibly. The Earth Mother smoothed down the hackles that rose on the back of his neck like a master calming a spooked dog.

“Correct, we are too kind. Wise of you to notice,” the Beast Mother said.

“What does a witcher-boy want?” The Sky Mother asked.

Geralt clenched his jaw, feeling more like a mouse caught between a cat’s paws than a witcher. It was an uncomfortable, greasy feeling, and he hated it.

“I require nothing –”

“—Ha! A man says he requires nothing from gods!” The Beast Mother howled like a pack of wolves.

“You would spit in our eye and refuse our gift?” The Sky Mother asked diplomatically.

“Do not let them frighten you, witcher-boy,” the Earth Mother hummed, stroking his hair again. “We Mothers are unused to debt.”

He could ask for a token from them; small enough so as not to ask too much, but enough to appease their debt. He could ask for some tidbit of knowledge; the location of a cache in their lands, perhaps. He could ask for hospitality in their woods; safety and peace whenever he visited. But as their champion, which he was quickly coming to find that he was unknowingly, he inherently knew he need not ask for any of this. They had always provided for him, had always shown him the way. He never went hungry or thirsty in these woods. The birds called when anything deigned attack him, warning him. He slept here. To ask for what they already provided would be turning a blind eye onto their gifts – a dangerous thing.

He should find something else – something small, something humble. And yet…

“My friend… what would it cost for you to heal him?” Geralt finally asked.

“Aaah,” the Beast Mother crooned, “A witcher-boy does not love silence after all.”

“A witcher-boy did not know what he had until it was gone,” the Earth Mother said, her voice if possible even more fond.

“Witcher-boys tend to be clever, and yet dumb as rock trolls,” the Sky Mother said blandly.

“Please,” Geralt said, leaning into the cradle of the Earth Mother’s hand which blinded him, protected him. She hummed soothingly behind him.

“We women are powerful and old. We saw the mountains form and the rivers fill. We were there for the first storm, the first wind that graced the ground, the first sprig of grass, the birth of the first land beast,” said the Sky Mother.

“But alas, this boon you ask for is not as simple as you think,” the Earth Mother said sadly.

He nearly asked ‘so you can’t help’ before he caught his tongue. What a stupid way to die, offending gods. The Beast Mother cackled. She knew what he had almost asked.

“It is not that we are not capable. You ask for something more than what we owe,” the Beast Mother said, fangs glinting, her words the framework of a hungry maw in his mind’s eye, waiting for an excuse to eat him. A merry chase, a dangerous game. It thrilled her to chase him like a rabbit through their laws and customs and loopholes, waiting for him to trip and yet hoping he might not so the game would continue. “And you cannot afford a cure outright.”

“What is the cost of an outright cure?” He asked. He had to know. Maybe he could—

“Souls. Innocent souls. Blood. Flesh. Creation and death. You request to overwrite a Djinn’s will, witcher-boy. That sort of magic by human means, by the means in which you could pay us, would change you fundamentally. You’d no longer be worthy as champion of our will. We have no intention of warping a witcher-boy and losing a pawn such as yourself. Too dull, too boring. Too simple. A witcher-boy offends.”

He hung his head again. His debt to his friend was more expensive than his morality, the makeup of his being, than his use to the world and to these witches, these gods. His stomach became a stone inside him. There was no outright cure…

His head rose a little.

“What cost for his voice?” He asked. Not a cure. A voice. The Earth Mother stroked him approvingly. The Beast Mother smiled with impressed fangs. The Sky Mother considered him.

“A steep price,” the Sky Mother said, like spring rain.

“A generous price,” snorted the Beast Mother, like boars stomping in the brush.

“A fair price,” hummed the Earth Mother, like the sound of a gentle hands guiding a plant into fresh soil.

“Name it,” Geralt said, something unidentifiable to his knowledge of himself in the edges of the words, though he recognized it in others. Pleading.

They named it.

He agreed.

“But first,” said the women with too many voices, “What is a witcher-boy’s name?”

They already knew it. Geralt knew that they did. But he hadn’t given it to them. There was power in giving a name.

Geralt paid.

–

He returned to town feeling exhausted, hollowed out and reed-thin, and yet he held the light of dawn in his chest, weightless and hopeful. He carried it with him over the hall and down the path that led to the village, leaving behind him his Ladies and the offerings he had placed on their humble altar.

He followed their instructions precisely.

He went first to the village alderman – a believer – and the man who had posted the notice – a nonbeliever. He explained that this village was not in fact their home, but the home of the women, and it was by their mercy that their crops flourished and their lives went by in relative peace. When the nonbeliever questioned him, cheeks red with rage that Geralt had not done as he was tasked, Geralt merely offered precisely what the women had told him to say.

“If you do not like living in the lands of the Ladies, you are free to relocate somewhere with no matronage. But if you stay and presume to keep calling the lands your own, and living outside the laws of matron and guest, there’s nothing I can do to spare you from them. This was their land first. They’ve upheld every law, provided every mercy. Live by their terms, live somewhere else, or find out for yourself why men have disappeared from among you by becoming another face on a flier.”

They had bid him not over explain. There was no faith to be had otherwise, no trust, and the Ladies asked for little more than that from their guests. To explain would be to condemn these villages to eviction. So he left the nonbelievers’ fate to themselves. Heed, flee or perish.

They didn’t pay him, just as the women had warned. The nonbelievers accused him of solving nothing. They called him a charlatan and a cheat. The believers claimed that they had not asked for help in the first place – and honestly, that was fair.

He didn’t need their payment anyways, not now. He would not go hungry or thirsty while in their wood. They’d tide him over until he left their lands in pursuit of his next contract. That was more than enough.

He brushed off their accusations, their thanklessness, like kicking dirt from his shoes. He wondered if that was what endeared him to the Ladies, or at least part of it – for both he and the god women understood thanklessness despite service.

He went to the inn, carried himself up to the room he had left Jaskier in. He could hear his lute from halfway up the stairs. It was a pleasing sound, something cheerful to wake to – it’d have to be, not to received complaints from other patrons also guesting at the inn.

The moment he walked in, he found Jaskier seated on the window sill, face to the early morning sun like a plant soaking in daylight as he played with mindlessly fluent fingers. Geralt leaned against the doorframe and enjoyed watching the dance of those fingers over the strings, plucking, always searching for the next note. He let himself bask in that moment, in the portrait of his bard in peaceful domesticity. Then, knowing the Ladies would not wait forever, rapped two knuckles against the doorframe, drawing Jaskier’s attention.

The bard let his song lull to a stop, his face lighting up at the sight of him returned unharmed. There was relief there, plain and naked as Jaskier was in most ways; unabashed and quick to feel, to express. He set his lute aside with the same sort of care that Geralt might give one of his swords and immediately his hands went into action, his whole body speaking to Geralt as easily as he once did with words.

Well, what happened, don’t keep me waiting? Were they in fact witches or something more nefarious? Well? Come on, Geralt, these stories don’t write themselves!

He smiled. There was a weight in his chest he hadn’t realized he had been carrying until now as it slowly lifted, so close to resolution as he was. He stepped forward without a word, amber eyes locked on his bard, his traveling companion, his friend, his partner. It drew Jaskier’s hand to a stuttering motion not unlike ‘um’ or ‘uh’ or ‘what’s going on?’.

“Months ago, I stole your voice from you,” Geralt finally said, standing in front of the bard, close enough to touch him – but not yet. A puzzled look spread across Jaskier’s face.

I don’t understand.

“I wished for peace not knowing I already had something better. Already had peace in my hands. I was just to blind to comfort, to kindness, to know that I had it.”

Jaskier gave him a baffled look that both said ‘well aren’t you chatty today?’ and ‘who are you and what did you do with my witcher?’

Geralt did not know this language, this new tongue he was trying to learn: intimacy, apology, love. He reached to cup Jaskier’s jaw and paused nearly there feeling foolish, blushing, because words and intimate touches had never been a language of his. It felt foreign. Like a crude imitation, rusty and weak for what he was trying to convey. But Jaskier just watched him patiently, brows drawn into a curious frown as he met him halfway and nestled his jaw into his calloused hand.

‘Geralt?’

He brushed a thumb over Jaskier’s smooth jaw, freshly shaven and smelling of sweet oil. Memorized the lines of Jaskier’s face, the soundless paragraphs of his expression, and tucked it away in his mind for later.

“I am sorry knowing me left you silent,” he finally said, croaked, hushed, admitted.

Jaskier’s brows drew tight, his mouth a strange line. He shook his head.

“I understand if you cannot forgive me,” Geralt looked away. “I should have apologized the morning you first could not speak, but it felt wrong to ask when you could not answer. But now… Do you trust me, Jaskier?”

There was still that expression – anger, grief, confusion, all deserved. He’d leave him after this, no doubt. Geralt had pushed too far, presumed too much. But he pressed on. He had to see this through. Then he’d let Jaskier return to his normal life. Let him make his choice. Set him free.

He thought he heard a womanly sigh.

Jaskier’s hand came up to cradle Geralt’s on his jaw. In his touch and in his face, Geralt heard him: Of course I trust you, you daft excuse for a witcher.

Do or die.

He leaned down. Watched as Jaskier’s eyes widened. Watched until he was too close to see anymore. Got closer until their lips brushed – his so chapped against the bard’s meticulously cared for lips, soft and pleasant. The bard felt like a canary in his hands, all fluttering energy; fragile with hollow bones, more melody than flesh. He pressed, then swiped a tongue across trembling lips to ask permission.

Jaskier let him in. He sealed their lips together. Let his hand move from the man’s jaw to cup the back of his neck, crush him close without actually crushing him. Then he felt it. It began in his throat, behind his Adam’s Apple, and slowly crawled up – warm, not unpleasant but certainly not normal. It rose. When it met his tongue it tasted of night and bestiaries; earthy and deep. His voice. It passed by his teeth, slipped through their lips, then felt Jaskier jump in his hands. He leapt as though stung, or perhaps shocked like walking with socked feet and touching a door knob – surprising, sharp and fleeting. Then settled in his hands.

Geralt pulled away to mumble three words against Jaskier’s slack mouth, his own stomach twisting when no words actually bloomed despite his tongue and mouth doing what needed to be done to make words. He was mute. It had worked. The price had been paid.

He should have said it before he lost the chance to, and yet, there was a pathetic sort of comfort in murmuring the words soundlessly against Jaskier’s lips instead – like hiding behind a mask, bold because he could do so secretly.

Jaskier pulled away, speaking on instinct out of shock, “Geralt, what’s wrong with you—” then he stilled, eyes owlish. His hands shot to his throat. Patted and fluttered and searched for something that might give away what was going on.

Geralt smiled. His throat vibrated as it would if he had chuckled, but no sound followed.

“My voice,” Jaskier croaked, pale from shock and relief and all manner of emotions he wore as plainly on his face as he did his clothes. “How?”

Geralt felt relief bloom in his own belly: that weight lifting fully now that he had made amends, had fixed his wrongs. Relief that Jaskier’s voice was his own and not Geralt’s because that was a level of weird even the witcher couldn’t handle. He tapped his own throat with his fingers and looked at Jaskier pointedly.

Color leeched from the bard’s skin.

“You gave me yours?”

Geralt nodded, then blinked – confused – when Jaskier suddenly sprung to his feet, all pent-up nervous energy, and slapped faintly at Geralt’s chest with a sharp, “Take it back!”

Geralt’s brows drew tight, his lips pursed, utterly baffled.

“You lummox! Don’t you give me that look! You can’t—I can’t—this is too much!”

Geralt shook his head.

‘I had to make it right’ he said, using his hands, with his face, with his body; a pale imitation of Jaskier’s fluency.

“It wasn’t yours to make right! The Djinn did it, not you!”

‘My wish—’

“Was an accident! You thought the Djinn was under my control anyhow, it hadn’t been intentional. I honestly don’t recall if you even wished for it or said ‘I just want some damn peace!’ – you had warned me it was dangerous! If I had just listened—”

Wait. Wait.

Geralt shook his head. How had this spun away from him so quickly?

‘This wasn’t your fault.’

“It was no more yours than mine or mine than yours!” Jaskier pointed out, as if that had been his intention all along. He threw his hands out to his sides, pacing quietly – quiet, he hadn’t expected that, as if it had become a habit. He watched as the bard fluttered nimble fingers against his lips, eyes darting to Geralt distractedly, and mumbled, “Lovely kiss, by the way,” and when Geralt smirked he continued haughtily, “Which we will further discuss later, you oaf!”

Geralt chuckled without chuckling.

“You are,” Jaskier said slowly, finally stopping his pacing, “Insufferable. Your hero complex will see you into the ground one day, I swear, and no one will even know now because you can’t talk.”

Geralt gave him an obvious, deadpanned look. This? This felt right. Natural. Things had always been this way. Jaskier just hadn’t realized that yet.

‘You have always been my words.’

Jaskier stilled. In the lines of his body Geralt saw the quiet sway of wind through a garden well cared for; buzzing with bees, home to all manner of flowers, beautiful and soothing to its guests. So alive, so open. Jaskier was a garden. Geralt had merely returned the birds that had lost their way.

He waited. Waited for the inevitable. He had taken Jaskier’s voice, then made parlay for it without his permission. Surely the bard would leave him. He no longer needed the witcher, after all, and in his silent days had seen more than enough journeys to sing about for the rest of his life. Geralt waited.

“You bloody imbecile,” Jaskier breathed, his face going slack with subdued outrage and realization. “You daft man, you uncommunicative bastard!”

Geralt looked away. He didn’t need his voice. It was better suited in the bard. He didn’t need Jaskier. He had been on the road alone for years before him, and he could do it again.

But there was something in his chest – heavy, prickly and unfamiliar. Want.

He swallowed. He didn’t approach him, but also did not shy away when Jaskier stomped forward and reached for his face. He waited for the slap, for the slam of a door.

Jaskier guided his gaze back down to him.

“Don’t belittle my affections by presuming I stayed because you were convenient. I do not need my voice to live a comfortable or enjoyable life. I need you.”

He felt like shattered glass in a repair man’s palms, all his broken edges grinding together in wrong ways.

“What’s done is done,” Jaskier finally said, his hand reaching back to cup the back of Geralt’s neck as he had done to him not long ago. “And… you’re right. We’ve never needed words to speak and they have never been a tool you enjoyed using. I shall be your words. I’ve been with you long enough to know how to explain your creatures to townsfolk and gods above know I am a better haggler than you – you let that bastard swindle you into this contract for 250 crowns, for gods sake, Geralt! I was dying – ahh,” he shook his head, refocusing, “Nevermind. Point is, we’ve always made it work. We’ll make this work too. But for the record, I wasn’t broken, Geralt. Not with you.”

He pressed a chaste kiss to the witcher’s mouth, smiling and soft at the sight of Geralt’s baffled look, his inability to collect himself to react in the face of such an unexpected confession. Jaskier was the one to whisper into his lips this time between kisses, “Not that I don’t appreciate your sacrifice. The songs I’ll sing about the gift you’ve given me, Geralt – gods above, I’ve missed singing.”

‘I’ve missed it too,’ Geralt thought, perhaps said with his touch and the way he leaned into every peck Jaskier gave him, every breath against his lips.

“Fucking knew it,” Jaskier said, grinning against his mouth, “Filling-less pie, you emotionally constipated dog. And don’t think for one moment I didn’t hear you. We’ve been talking without talking for too long for me to have missed it, you know.”

Geralt felt heat rush to his cheeks and crawl up his neck, making a home in the tips of his ears. He turned away to hide it as Jaskier pulled back, but it was too late. The bard chuckled fondly and when Geralt finally chanced looking back at him, he grumbled embarrassedly – silently.

“It’s not the first time you’ve said you love me, Geralt,” Jaskier said, smiling with all his teeth, skin aglow like dawn breaking the night. “You’ve been saying it for ages.”

Jaskier drew his face back to him when Geralt tried once more to look away, bristly and unsure of himself and self-conscious that all this time he hadn’t been half as secretive – or aware himself – as he thought.

Jaskier took his time looking him over. Memorizing his face, Geralt realized, as he had memorized the bard’s when he found him on the windowsill. He felt exposed as he had at the Mothers’ feet. Known.

He leaned into Jaskier’s hand. Enjoyed the brush of a thumb over a sore scar on his cheekbone.

“I don’t need words,” Jaskier said gently, “But I am grateful to have them. Thank you, Geralt. I’ll use your voice wisely.”

The witcher leaned in, loose like a puppet with his strings cut now that it was finally done, and pressed his forehead to the bard’s. Power thrummed between them, the magic of being known and kept.

Silently, love spoke for them

[ashes-and-ashes]

Harry can feel Draco trembling as they step into Azkaban.

It’s not just the coldness of the place, the damp walls and iron, the halls that still seemed haunted with the ghosts of dementors. It’s not the sound of the wind through the towers, the crash of waves against rock. It’s not even the shadows, stretching out towards the two of them, chased away only by the lantern that the guard carried as he escorted them through the prison.

Harry swallows, glancing a look over at Draco, the way he gripped Harry’s hand so tightly that Harry knew he’d find tiny cuts on the skin, made with nails pressed too deeply into the soft flesh. Draco’s breath becomes more and more labored as they approach a set of corridors, all heavy stone and dark metal, the flickering light from the lamp casting everything into sharp relief. Draco looks almost petrified, his eyes fixing to one cell near the back.

“I never got to see the water,” he breathes, quietly, so only Harry could hear him. “Thank god for that.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry manages. Draco shakes his head.

“It feels strange,” he murmurs; Harry can feel the rapid flutter of his pulse through the thin skin at his wrist. “Like it’s calling me back. Like someone will grab me and lock me back up again.”

Harry just squeezes Draco’s hand tighter, pulling him away from the cell he used to live in, for 2 desperate years after the end of the war. “I’ll die before I let that happen,” he says, and Draco’s face relaxes.

They turn another corridor, the keys on the guards’ belt so loud compared to the utter silence of the place. Harry supposed the heavy silencing charms drowned out most of the noise, the waves doing the rest.

“What’s your name?” he asks; the guard turns around, appearing almost startled at the question.

“Uh...Jimmy, sir.”

“Jimmy.” Harry gives him his warmest smile. “Thanks so much.”

Jimmy just nods, leading them through another set of corridors. They walk in silence for a few minutes, Draco’s hand still firmly clasped in Harry’s then -

“Here,” Jimmy says, setting down the lantern. He gestures at a small cell at the end of the corridor. “See those squares on the floor?”

Harry looks down at his feet - he can just make out the faint outline of a box near the cell door, made out of cut stone only slightly paler than the rest of the floor.

“Stand inside of it. The silencing spells don’t affect you if you’re in them.“ He hands Harry a small button, the surface worn from use. “Press it if you need me. I won’t be able to hear you.”

Harry nods. He turns to Draco, his breath catching in his throat as he sees the terror on his face, catalogues the wild toll of his heart.

“We don’t have to,” he says, voice low. Draco cuts terrified eyes to him, his face made paler by the dim lighting. “Seriously. We can just go. Leave right now. Go home and we’ll make dinner and put on a movie.”

Draco swallows, hard. His hand still hadn’t left Harry’s - Harry squeezes it tight.

“It’s fine,” Draco says; his voice is remarkably smooth despite everything. “I’m fine.”

Harry nods. “Do you want me to wait?”

“No,” Draco whispers. “I need you.”

Harry doesn’t even hesitate. Draco steps over the line and he follows, into the square at the front of the cell.

Narcissa Malfoy stares back at them. She’s changed - there’s silver in her hair now, her skin even paler, devoid of the glittering jewels or fine silks that Harry’s always seen her in. He can see the thin bones of her shoulders and her arms: beside him Draco flinches back so much he almost steps out of the box.

“Mother,” he says, and even though he tries Harry can still hear the barest tremble in his voice.

“Draco,” Narcissa replies, in measured tones. She still looks like a queen, Harry thinks, her gaze piercing as if she was the one on the outside staring into a cage.

Draco swallows, hard and for the first time Harry truly sees how similar the two of them were. It was the same blonde hair and silver eyes, sure, but it was also the way they carried themselves, ramrod straight, masks made of marble snapped down over their true faces.

This could have been him, Harry thinks, watching Narcissa delicately clasp her hands on top of her lap. A broken prince in a rotting cage if he has been sentenced. Bile rises in his throat and he swallows, the silence between Narcissa and Draco like a blade.

Please, he breathes, watching Draco’s face, a mix between terror and desperate hope. Please don’t turn him away, scorn him like Lucius did -

“Why,” Draco chokes out, the words painful and raw. There are tears in his eyes, though his face remained as impassionate as always. “Why did you make me take it?”

Narcissa closes her eyes, the closest to a flinch that Harry’s ever seen. “Would you believe me if I said I was trying to protect you?”

“It hurt,” Draco breathes, and then the walls are coming down and Harry could hear the 14 year old boy inside of Draco’s voice, abandoned and neglected and in pain. “God, it hurt. Some protection, Mother, forcing me to kill and torture, having me be tortured myself - “

“We didn’t know,” Narcissa says, her voice still even. “We thought it would be the safest course of action. Given the direction the war was heading.” She clasps her fingers together. “Pardon me, Mr Potter, but if not for sheer luck the War would have been won by The Dark - Voldemort. At least the Ministry would be merciful enough to let you live, in the case that they managed a victory. With Voldemort there was no such protection.”

“Protection?” Draco echos, his voice deathly soft. Harry presses a hand to Draco’s lower back, a steadying anchor against the rising tide. “Is that what you think you gave me?”

Colour stains Narcissa’s cheeks as she says, “The Ministry would not want to kill someone so young, especially if they thought he was pressured - “

“Wrong,” Draco grits out, his body shaking. “You were fucking wrong, Mother. They were going to execute me. Set an example. Harsh measures, so this would never happen again.”

Narcissa blanches, her face leeching of colour. She clasps a hand to her mouth, eyes welling with tears. “Draco,” she manages, before her voice breaks. “Draco, I didn’t - I thought it would keep you safe.”

Draco stares at her for a long time, his expression haunted. Harry watches him, the single tear that slid down his face, the way his cheekbones were stained with a beautiful, rosy pink, his hair appearing almost silver in the dim light. He reaches down, wrapping his fingers around Draco’s; Narcissa’s eyes flash as she tracks the movement.

Draco stares back at her, hard and defiant as he deliberately links their fingers together. “Problem?” he asks coldly.

Narcissa doesn’t hesitate. “No,” she says, and then the tears start flowing, dripping down onto the stone floor of her cell as she sobbed. “No. Draco. My darling Draco. How could I have a problem?”

“Father did,” Draco says, his voice trembling.

Narcissa manages a watery smile. “Draco. My beautiful boy. You look so happy.”

Draco’s lower lip wobbles. “I am,” he says, and then his voice breaks. “Mother, I - “

Narcissa just swallows, hard, her eyes shining like Draco’s. “In the Manor,” she begins, then has to press a hand to her mouth to compose herself. “In the Manor. By my dresses - the silk ones that you always used to love to hide behind. There’s a loose panel with a star carved on it. You’ll find a box behind it.”

Draco blinks. “A box?”

“Yes.” Narcissa smiles, suddenly looking very young again. “Your father, before...before everything. He’s different, from the man I loved. I promise you that, Draco. I promise he used to be better.”

Draco shakes his head, eyes bright. “I can’t see it.”

Narcissa closes her eyes. “Our rings are in there. The ones he used to propose. I would like...I would like you and Harry to use them. When you get married.”

“Mother,” Draco begins, but Narcissa cuts him off.

“Remember,” she whispers, a mother’s whisper, all the lullabies and hugs and blankets pulled up to chins. “I’ll be there with you. Always.”

“Mum,” Draco chokes out, and then he’s sobbing, his arms reached out as if to touch Narcissa, separate by the impenetrable spells that lie across the bars. Harry swallows, hard, then steps out of the box.

“Jimmy,” he says; the guard comes over right away. “Jimmy. Can you lower the wards?”

Jimmy looks uncomfortable, eyes darting back and forth. “Sir - “

“Please,” Harry says, his heart breaking as he watched Draco and Narcissa sob. “His mother is going to be executed tomorrow. Let him say goodbye.”

Jimmy sighs, flicking his wand. “Okay. 10 minutes,” he murmurs, then walks back.

Harry steps back inside the box to see Draco’s hand reach through the bars, grasping Narcissa’s, both of them pressed up against the doors. Narcissa was stroking Draco’s head, her tears mixing with the soft sounds she was making, Draco shuddering in her arms.

“I love you,” she says softly. “You’re going to be wonderful - you know that right Draco? You two are going to be so happy together.”

She looks up, her eyes locking on Harry’s, eyes silver-bright and fierce. “Take care of him.”

“I will,” Harry says, and then Narcissa is pulling back slightly, just enough to look her son in the eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispers, and then sniffs. “I give you my blessing, Draco.”

“For what? Draco breathes back. Narcissa just smiles.

“Everything.”