#here’s a story focusing on people caught in its shadow.

[kunosoura]

The worldbuilding combo headspace I’m in right now is contemplating the gundam newtype thing where fantastic powers emerge between humans in the cold void of space to connect them, with a twist of that sort of xianxia/cultivation approach to magic where every culture, school, and society has their own philosophies about how and why they cultivate and use energy, shaped by their histories, environments and values, where you for instance see people living on an icy moon adapt by cultivating an inner heat, or a clan of spacer nomads who have adapted their bodies to surviving a vacuum Add in that Firefly twist of focusing on the fringes and never quite letting the story do more than pass through the wealthy, shiny parts of the setting because there’s nothing I find more boring than scifi stories about officially commissioned spaceship captains working for a government (sorry Star Trek!).

[unconventional-lawnchair]

It Repeats Itself

Platonic! Remus x Werewolf! Reader

Summary: Even years after the war the effects of Voldemort's reign still had waves of effects. One just so happened to have a poor girl caught in the cross fire. (This is more of a concept then a fleshed out story-a little cliche)

WC: 3.7k

CW: Death, blood, werewolf attack, break in, severally injured kid (the reader), parent death, Remus calls the reader Star, this is an intense blurb I would very much recommend making sure you are in the right headspace for it.

The forest was eerily quiet as Remus and Sirius made their way up the narrow dirt path, the trees casting long shadows in the dim afternoon light. The scent of rain lingered in the air, mingling with something far more sinister- blood. It was faint, but unmistakable.

“Something’s not right,” Remus muttered, his grip tightening on his wand.

Sirius adjusted his leather jacket, a grim expression darkening his face. “You think Greyback’s been through here?”

“Has to be,” Remus replied. “It’s his signature, isn’t it? Isolated homes, far from help, and-” He paused, catching a stronger whiff of blood on the breeze.

“And families,” Sirius finished grimly, his voice edged with disgust.

The cottage came into view, nestled in a clearing like a forgotten relic. Its once-pristine exterior was scarred with claw marks, the front door hanging askew on its hinges.

“Let me guess,” Sirius said dryly, gesturing to the faint family crest above the door- a pair of intertwined serpents engraved in silver. “Purebloods. Old family, by the looks of it.”

“Ardent supporters of the old ways,” Remus said, his tone bitter. He remembered their names now: a husband and wife who’d made their opinions of “tainted blood” abundantly clear at Ministry functions. They’d scoffed at Muggleborns, sneered at anyone less than pure, and gone out of their way to avoid creatures like him. Moved away to avoid creatures like this.

Sirius snorted humorlessly. “Imagine the irony. Spent their whole lives preaching about blood purity, and now look- Greyback probably didn’t even spare them a second thought. Werewolves aren’t picky about their prey, are they?”

Remus shot him a sharp look but didn’t respond, his mind too focused on the task ahead. It wasn’t the time for old grievances, no matter how tempting it was to dwell on it.

“They’re still victims,” Remus said quietly, more to himself than to Sirius.

Sirius sighed. “Yeah. Even if they’d have called us both abominations.”

They stepped onto the porch, the wooden boards creaking beneath their weight. The door groaned as Sirius pushed it open, revealing a scene of chaos. Furniture lay overturned, claw marks marred the walls, and blood spattered the floor in dark, sticky pools.

“Merlin,” Sirius whispered, his voice hollow. “He really did a number on this place.”

Remus moved carefully through the cottage, his wand casting a soft glow in the dim morning light that filtered through the broken windows. The scent of blood grew stronger with each step, mingling with the acrid tang of fear and violence. His chest tightened as he pushed open the door to the sitting room.

There, crumpled together like broken dolls, were the bodies of the couple. Their once-elegant robes were soaked through with dark, congealing blood, their faces frozen in expressions of terror. Claw marks shredded their clothing and the carpet beneath them, and it was clear they’d fought to the bitter end.

Remus stared for a long moment, his jaw clenching as his grip on his wand tightened. These were the same people who would have turned their noses up at him at Ministry gatherings, who would have crossed the street to avoid being near him. And yet, he felt no satisfaction in their deaths. Only a hollow ache.

“They didn’t deserve this,” He murmured to the empty room, his voice heavy with sorrow.

“Remus!” Sirius’s voice cut through the silence, sharp but low, barely above a whisper.

Remus spun around, his heart pounding. There was an urgency in Sirius’s tone that set him on edge. He quickly made his way back down the hallway, past the overturned furniture and shattered glass, following the sound of Sirius’s voice.

“Sirius?” He called, his voice equally low.

“Here,” Sirius hissed from a room at the back of the house.

The room was a bedroom- small, with faded wallpaper of enchanted stars that still flickered faintly despite the destruction. It was clearly a child’s room, but like the rest of the house, it was a wreck. The bed was overturned, sheets torn and spattered with blood. Broken toys and shattered picture frames littered the floor.

Remus’s stomach churned as he stepped inside. They weren't told a child stayed here. The air was thick, suffocating, and the coppery scent of blood was overwhelming here. Sirius stood near the wardrobe, his expression grim as he gestured silently to the floor.

Remus followed his gaze and felt acid rise in his throat. A thin trail of blood, smeared and uneven, led from the bed to the wardrobe. Tiny handprints streaked the floor, desperate and frantic.

“They dragged themselves,” Sirius said quietly, his voice unusually subdued. “From the bed to here.”

Remus swallowed hard, his grip on his wand tightening. He knelt slowly, the bile in his throat threatening to rise as he stared at the wardrobe door. It was closed, but faint scratches marred its surface, as if small fingers had clawed at it from the inside.

“Greyback doesn't spare anyone,” Sirius muttered bitterly, though there was a flicker of something in his voice- hope, maybe, that he was wrong.

Remus reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he placed it on the wardrobe’s handle. The scent of blood and fear was stronger here, mingling with something else- something faint but unmistakable: life.

“She’s in there,” Remus said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sirius nodded, his wand ready but pointed away. “Go slow. Don’t scare her.”

Remus inhaled deeply, steadying himself before gently pulling the wardrobe door open.

Inside, huddled in the corner amidst a pile of torn blankets and broken toys, was a little girl. Her knees were pulled tightly to her chest, her small hands clutching at her side where a bloodied piece of fabric had been tied haphazardly. Her wide, tear-filled eyes locked onto Remus, and her lips trembled as she held up a tiny shard of glass in a shaking hand.

“Stay back!” She hissed, her voice hoarse and weak but filled with a fierce, trembling determination. “I’ll hurt you!”

Remus froze, his heart breaking at the sight of her. Her face was pale, smudged with dirt and blood, and her breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps. She was small, fragile, but there was a fire in her eyes that reminded him all too much of himself at that age- terrified, cornered, and desperate to fight back. He felt guilty as he felt relief. Seeing an injured child was far better then the alternative.

“Hey,” he said softly, lowering his wand and holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Sirius crouched beside him, his expression unusually gentle. “We’re here to help, little one,” he said, his voice quieter than Remus had ever heard it. “You’re safe now.”

The girl’s lips quivered, but she pressed herself further into the corner, clutching the shard of glass tighter. It nicked her skin and she hissed, dropping it. She watched in horror as her last line of defense was shattered into unmanageable sizes. The second she reached for it Remus held his hands up and she flinched back.

Sirius clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he glanced at Remus. “You’re scaring her, mate,” he said under his breath, his tone somewhere between teasing and concerned.

Remus sighed, lowering his hands slowly. “I’m not trying to,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving the girl. “But that glass could hurt you,” he said softly, addressing her directly. “I don’t want you to get hurt more than you already are.”

The girl’s lips trembled, and her wide, tear-streaked eyes darted between the two men. She clutched her side tighter, wincing as the movement sent another wave of pain through her small frame. Her hands, now empty of the glass shard, trembled in her lap as she pressed herself further into the corner of the wardrobe.

“Okay,” Remus said, his voice steady but gentle. “I’ll make you a deal.” He carefully removed his wand from his pocket, holding it delicately between two fingers as though it were something fragile. “This is my wand. It’s very important to me. I’ll give it to you- just so you know I won’t hurt you. Does that sound fair?”

The girl frowned, clearly confused, but her gaze flickered to the wand. Her lips parted as if to ask a question, but she quickly clamped them shut, her small body still shaking.

“It’s yours for now,” Remus said, placing the wand gently on the floor and nudging it toward her. “Just until you feel safe.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Instead, he stood, brushing the dust off his knees. “I’ll give you two a minute,” he muttered, stepping back toward the door. “I’m going to send a Patronus to Lily. Let her know we need help.”

Remus nodded without looking up, his focus still on the girl.

She hesitated for a long moment, her small hands twitching toward the wand before quickly pulling back, as if afraid it might bite. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she reached out and snatched it, clutching it tightly in her lap like a lifeline.

“There,” Remus said with a soft smile. “See? You’re in charge now.”

The girl stared at him, her tiny fingers gripping the wand so tightly her knuckles turned white. She still didn’t speak, her wide eyes filled with suspicion and fear.

“What’s your name?” Remus asked gently, sitting cross-legged on the floor to appear less intimidating.

She shook her head, her lips pressing into a firm line. “I’m not allowed to talk to strangers,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Remus’s heart twisted, but he nodded slowly, respecting her caution. “That’s very smart,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. I am a stranger. How about this- can I give you a nickname? Something just for now, until you feel safe enough to tell me your real name?”

The girl hesitated, her small brow furrowing. After a moment, she gave the faintest of nods.

“Alright,” Remus said, his voice warm and steady. “How about… Star? You have stars on your wallpaper,” he gestured gently toward the flickering patterns on the walls, “and I think it suits you.”

Her lips quirked upward ever so slightly, though it disappeared almost as quickly as it came. “Star?” she repeated, her voice soft and unsure.

“Star,” Remus confirmed with a small smile. “Do you like it?”

The girl gave a tiny nod, her grip on the wand loosening just a fraction. “It’s… okay,” she said quietly, her voice trembling less than before.

“Okay is good,” Remus replied, his heart lifting just a little. “Okay is a start.”

Behind him, Sirius’s voice echoed faintly from the hallway as he sent his Patronus, its silvery light spilling into the room for just a moment before fading. Remus turned back to Star, his gentle smile never faltering.

“We’re going to take care of you, Star,” he said softly. “I promise. You’re not alone anymore.”

Star didn’t reply, but the way she held the wand a little closer to her chest and let out a shaky breath told him enough. It was a step- a small one, but a step all the same.

~~~

The trek back to Grimmauld Place was tense and quiet. Star clung to Remus like her life depended on it, her tiny fingers gripping his robes tightly as though letting go would mean being left behind. She had refused to let go of his wand, holding it protectively against her chest as her small frame shuddered against him.

Sirius walked ahead, his posture rigid as he cast wary glances over his shoulder, keeping a sharp eye out for any lingering danger. He didn’t speak much, only murmuring the occasional reassurance when Star flinched at a sound in the forest or the rustle of the wind.

When they finally stepped through the front door of Grimmauld Place, Star’s wide, frightened eyes darted around the dim hallway, her grip on Remus tightening even more.

“It’s okay,” Remus whispered to her, his voice soft and soothing. “You’re safe here, I promise.”

Lily and Regulus were waiting in the kitchen, their faces pale but determined. The moment they saw Star in Remus’s arms, their expressions shifted- Lily’s to one of heartbreak, and Regulus’s to quiet resolve.

“Merlin, she’s so small,” Lily murmured, stepping closer. Her gaze flickered to the bloodied fabric at Star’s side, and her lips pressed into a firm line. “She needs healing, Remus. That wound-”

“I know,” Remus interrupted gently, his voice steady but laced with tension. “But it’s going to take some coaxing.”

He crouched down, keeping Star close as he met her wary gaze. “Star, this is my friend Lily,” he said softly, gesturing to the red-haired woman with a warm smile. “She’s very kind, and she’s going to help you feel better. And that’s Regulus- he’s nice too, though he might look a bit scary at first.”

Regulus huffed quietly, but the corner of his mouth twitched in the faintest hint of a smile.

Star’s grip on Remus didn’t ease, her body trembling as her gaze darted between the strangers.

“I’ll stay right here,” Remus promised. “And you can hold onto my wand the whole time. But Lily needs to look at your side, okay? It’ll hurt less after she’s done.”

After a long, agonizing moment, Star gave the smallest of nods, though her grip on Remus’s robes remained firm. Lily approached carefully, her movements slow and deliberate, while Regulus prepared potions and bandages in the background.

It took time and quiet reassurances, but eventually, they managed to ease Star away from Remus long enough for Lily and Regulus to tend to her wound. The moment they were done, Star returned to Remus’s side, clutching his wand once more and burying her face against his chest.

~~~

The house had quieted as you finally fell asleep, tucked safely in one of the upstairs rooms. Remus sat at the kitchen table, his head resting in his hands, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. Sirius leaned against the counter, his arms crossed, while Lily and Regulus sat across from Remus, their expressions heavy with concern.

“She wouldn’t let me leave,” Remus said softly, his voice barely audible. “Even for a second. I had to let her take my wand just to get her to let Lily near her.”

“She trusts you,” Lily said gently. “It’s a good thing, Remus. You made her feel safe.”

“But for how long?” Remus asked, his voice thick with frustration. “We can’t just take her to an orphanage, or the Ministry. Not if she’s been bitten.”

Before Lily could continue, the door to the kitchen creaked open. Everyone shifted to watch as James entered, holding a crying Harry’s hand.

The kitchen fell silent as the door creaked open. Harry’s soft sniffles broke the quiet as he toddled in, his tiny hand clutching James’s finger tightly. His face was red and tear-streaked, his little shoulders shaking from the remnants of a tantrum.

“Sorry to interrupt,” James said, his voice hushed but wry. “Someone decided he didn’t want to stay asleep after Lily and Reg went rushing out in the middle of the night.” He gently steered Harry toward Lily, who immediately stood to scoop him into her arms.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” Lily cooed, pressing a kiss to Harry’s damp cheek as he buried his face in her shoulder. “Did we wake you? I’m so sorry, love.”

James stepped forward, his hand brushing affectionately against Regulus’s back as he leaned in to kiss him softly on the temple. Then he turned to Lily, pressing a quick kiss to her lips before settling himself against the counter beside Sirius.

His sharp eyes scanned the room, noticing the tension lingering like a storm cloud. His smile faded slightly. “Alright,” he said, folding his arms. “What’s going on? You all look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Sirius let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Not a ghost, exactly,” he said, glancing toward Remus, who sat stiffly at the table. “But close.”

James frowned, his gaze narrowing. “Remus?”

Remus sighed, lifting his head from his hands. The exhaustion etched into his face was now accompanied by a deep sadness. “We found a child,” he said softly, his voice strained. “At the cottage Greyback attacked.”

James’s frown deepened, and he straightened up. “A child? Are they alright?”

“She’s alive,” Lily interjected gently, rocking Harry in her arms as she spoke. “But she’s hurt. And… it looks like she’s been bitten.”

James’s face hardened, his jaw clenching as he processed her words. “Bloody hell,” He muttered. “Greyback?”

Remus nodded, his hands gripping the edge of the table tightly. “She’s four,” he said quietly, his voice trembling just slightly. “Same age I was when…” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

James swore under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair. “And what happens now?” he asked, his tone more subdued. “We can’t exactly hand her over to the Ministry, can we?”

“No,” Remus said firmly, his voice gaining a little strength. “We’re not handing her over to anyone. Not to the Ministry, and definitely not to some orphanage. If she’s been bitten, we all know what they’ll do to her.”

“They’ll treat her like a monster,” Regulus said quietly, his voice cold and sharp. “Lock her away, or worse.”

James nodded grimly. “Alright, so we keep her here,” he said, glancing around the room. “She’ll be safe with us.”

“And then what?” Sirius asked, his tone more serious than usual. “We can keep her safe for now, but she’s a child, Prongs. A scared, bitten child. This isn’t just a temporary fix.”

“Then we’ll find her something permanent,” Remus said, his voice unwavering. He looked around at the group, his gaze steady and determined. “She doesn’t have anyone else. I’ll take care of her. I’ll make sure she’s safe until we find an alternative.”

Lily’s eyes softened as she looked at Remus. Their eyes had a silent exchange- clear worry etched into every expression. “You’re sure?” She asked gently.

“I'm sure,” Remus replied, his voice resolute. “I’m not letting her go through what I did. Not alone. You saw how she was.. she doesn't want anyone near her.”

James nodded, clapping a hand on Remus’s shoulder. “Then we’ll help you,” he said firmly. “Whatever you need, Moony. We’re in this together.”

The sudden sound of shuffling and muffled sobbing broke through the tense quiet of Grimmauld Place, cutting through the conversation like a knife. It was faint but unmistakable, coming from upstairs where Star had been put to bed.

Everyone froze.

Lily’s eyes darted toward the staircase, and Regulus immediately stood, his wand already in hand. Sirius pushed off the counter, his usual confidence replaced with an edge of urgency. But it was Remus who moved first.

The moment Star’s frightened cry echoed down the stairs, it was as if a switch flipped inside him. His chair scraped back with a sharp screech, and before anyone could react, he was out of the kitchen, taking the stairs two at a time. His instincts roared louder than his thoughts, Moony taking over as his protective instincts surged.

“Remus!” James called after him, already moving to follow, but Sirius stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Let him,” Sirius muttered, his voice low but steady. “Just- give him a moment.”

~~~

Remus reached the small room where you had been resting, his heart hammering in his chest. The door was slightly ajar, the soft glow of the enchanted lamp spilling into the dark hallway. He could hear her whimpering now, her breaths hitching with each quiet sob.

He pushed the door open gently, stepping inside. You were huddled on the bed, your small frame trembling as you clutched his wand tightly to your chest. Your wide eyes darted toward him, filled with panic, and you let out a small, broken cry.

“Remus!” You whimpered, her voice cracking.

“I’m here,” He said softly, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. He crossed the room in a few quick strides and crouched beside the bed, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Your small fingers tightened around his wand, her tiny knuckles turning white. You blinked up at him, her tears streaking through the grime on her face. “I-I thought you left,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

Remus felt his heart twist painfully at her words. He reached out slowly, placing his hand palm-up on the edge of the bed, giving her the choice to take it. “I’ll never do that,” he promised, his voice firm but gentle. “I’m right here, Star. Yeah?.”

You hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering between his face and his hand. Then, slowly, you released your grip on the wand just enough to reach out and grab his hand with both of hers. Her small fingers clung to him desperately, as if letting go would make him disappear.

“You’re safe now,” Remus murmured, his other hand moving to gently brush the hair from her tear-streaked face. “Nothing will hurt you here. I won’t let it.”

You let out a shaky breath, your small frame still trembling as you leaned toward him. Without thinking, Remus lifted you into his arms, cradling you against his chest. You buried your face in his shoulder, your sobs quieting but not stopping entirely.

Behind him, the faint creak of footsteps signaled Sirius’s arrival. He lingered in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he watched Remus hold you. After a moment, he stepped inside, his movements uncharacteristically cautious.

“She okay?” Sirius asked quietly, his voice softer than usual.

Remus nodded, his hand gently rubbing Star’s back. “She thought we’d left her.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something dangerous flashing in his eyes. “No one’s leaving her,” he said firmly. “Not now. Not ever.”

Your grip on Remus tightened at Sirius’s words, her small voice muffled against his shoulder. “Don’t go…”

Remus held her closer, his resolve hardening. “I’m not going anywhere, Star,” he said softly. “I promise.”

And in that moment, he knew- no matter what challenges lay ahead, no matter how difficult the road might be- he would do whatever it took to keep that promise. You weren't just a scared child they’d rescued. You were his. He knew it the moment he found you in that closet.

[phantomwitch16]

Hazbin Hotel Theory: Lilith

I had never posted about Hazbin Hotel before, but I came across a theory about Lilith that I wanted to discuss. I’ve only seen clips, so correct me if I'm wrong. So, anyone who hasn't watched anything or hasn't caught up yet, WARNING: SPOILER ZONE.

At this point, everyone is quite aware of the Lilith/ Eve Theory, where Lilith left or was kidnapped by Eve to explain her disappearance for most of the show and what she was doing in Heaven. I think the theory has some promise, but some things don’t feel quite right.

In the episode where Lucifer first appears, we learn that Lilith and Lucifer seem to have split years ago. We don't know how long ago or the circumstances of the separation, with it pretty much up in the air.

It could be possible that Lucifer’s depression could've gotten in the way of their relationship (similar to his relationship with Charlie), causing some friction. This obviously would give Lilith a lot of responsibility, likely to raise Charlie and inspire the denizens of Hell by herself. We don't know much about what Lucifer does most of the time other than making ducks, keeping Lulu World running and wallowing in his depression.

I don't think that they split up, at least I don’t think that’s the whole story. There have been some odd details regarding Lilith and a few other people within the series that do add to the theory. While it's possible things might have changed during the development of the series, Viv has previously stated that Lilith and Lucifer were a very lovey-dovey couple and I doubt that she would change it. While I think their relationship would have its faults, obviously with their history and trauma, yeah, that was going to happen, but not the stereotypically 'my partner hates me' bs.

Even if they had split up, I doubt that Lilith would have just up and left Charlie without saying anything.

But anyway, since her appearance on the beach with Lute, there have been several theories about Lilith and whether she would be an antagonist or the main one. I disagree, but given how she's been pretty much a mystery for most of the series, with not much being said about her, it’s understandable most would come to this conclusion. But I doubt Lilith would be because Lilith was the one to instil Charlie to help the denizens of Hell so for her to come to disrupt her progress with the Hotel.

This obviously leads to the Lilith/Eve Theory people have come up with by what people have seen and picked apart from the show and the cards that people received before it aired. Now people who have watched the show and been on Twiiter/X or any other social media probs already know the theory, but I'll spell it out for those who don't.

Just before the show aired, people received cards on each character and a few select items in the series. Of these characters was Lilith, but there was something off with it. Instead of seeing a revamp of her original design in the pilot, it's just a close up with her face shadowed.

The image above has Lilith or who we think is Lilith sitting with her hand over her lips and a shadow over her face, only showing a sinister smile. The one thing strikes me about it was the was almost like she know that we know there was something wrong with the image and was telling us to be quiet.

So far in the show, we've only seen her in the portraits that are decorated around the hotel and in Lucifer's ducky workshop. She makes a brief appearance in Charlie’s flashbacks where we don’t even see her face, though this is largely because the attention was focused on Charlie and Lucifer. Here it shows that even her look has remained largely consistent since the pilot.

What truly defines Lilith design is her long wavy hair. But despite it, there is something different about it in the card. It's very long, obviously but as it gets closer to her face, it starts to look more uneven. Or jagged.

But what grabs the attention in the card is the smile. It looks very sharp and angular, very different to the smile that she has in the portraits and in her depiction on the storybook in the first episode.

But we've already seen it somewhere. Just not on Lilith.

Obviously, this isn't a new take. This is a very popular take that nearly everyone has heard.

I like to think that with the reveal, we will get a more factual retelling of what happened when Lilith and Lucifer rather than what came out of the story book Charlie was reading, likely something her mother made for her when she was growing up. Mainly what happened to Eve as they cleverly avoided it. While we don't know if they're going to tackle it, it's likely that they will discuss Eve's life after eating the fruit and her very long life. I think that while Adam was sent to heaven to become one of the exterminators, Eve became one of the first original sinners sent to Hell.

There are several ways they could handle it with it's possible the Eve is starting a little bit of chaos using the knowledge Lilith and Lucifer gave her. With Lilith attempting to stop her alongside Lute and the rest of Heaven.

For what reason? She could've taken up a new identity after death. that identity being called Roo. Or more specifically, the Root of All Evil.

Roo is someone that's been known for since 2019 and someone Viv is excited to introduce since she first drew her, calling her a looming threat amongst the series. Hints of her appearance have been placed throughout the pilot on the tower and on the show. I believe that Lilith, Lute and Eve are working together with Heaven to track down Roo to destroy her hold on Earth or to prevent her from doing something to Hell, Heaven and Earth.

It's also likely that she is the demon Alastor is chained to. Why her specifically and not Lilith? Besides the timeline matching, there is very little opportunity for them to meet. Even though Alastor has made a big name for himself in the Pride Ring, Lucifer has not heard of him, so why would Lilith? But that just might be a Lucifer thing, they probably could've met after one of Lilith's shows or something.

Knowing Alastor as a person, he would've been in a very desperate situation, or maybe he was too cocky like with Adam and picked a fight with her, thinking that she was some random Overlord or low ranking demon who knocked him down and stole his soul. With her having control over him, then he is willing to do anything to get out of their agreement. Whether its to play around and isolate the princess of Hell from her support network, to make her hopes and dreams crumble to dust.

It could be possible Lilith left Charlie and Lucifer to focus on Roo, with it likely that Lucifer knows what's she's up to and tries to shield her from what's happening. But as the hotel gets more popular, Roo's attention is directed to it, thus putting Charlie and all three realms in danger. Lilith would come to Charlie, try to sugarcoat it as best as possible before revealing Roo as a threat. Then when she comes there, Alastor betrays them, but as he is free, has a change of heart and attempts to help.

That's what i think anyway.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Criminal Detectives Part 2

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

The human’s words and observations certainly caused a stir back at police HQ. Trem and Morbin’s chief was not pleased to have had his two star detectives not only mislabel a murder as a suicide, but to have also had those determining facts shown to them by a human who had been on the scene for less than ten minutes.

With the case reclassified as a murder investigation the human government had taken control and placed Douglas Finch in charge moving forward. Their Chief had fought against such a decision, but it was standard policy that in the event of a human murder case the human government would oversee all investigations into the matter. The Mayor of the city had even called the chief to “reinforce” the new structure and told the chief that they should offer Finch every courtesy in the matter.

It was a phone call so heated officer’s two floors below could still hear the Chief’s voice shouting.  

So it was now that both the alien detectives watched their crime scene now swarmed over by a host of humans snapping pictures, collecting samples for testing, and interviewing not only the rest of the building’s occupants but reaching out to several people who frequented the outside office areas who may have saw or heard anything strange during the time of death.

Finch, the CSI human who had been dispatched, was standing in the hallway outside the murder victim’s office reading a data file when Trem and Morbin approached.

“Glad you two could find your way back so easily.” Finch remarked to the two alien detectives as they approached. He didn’t even bother to take his eyes off the data pad as he continued scrolling through its contents.

Morbin was smart enough not to rise to the bait, but Trem was less than cordial.

“We’ve served on the force for over thirteen stellar rotations!” Trem replied sharply.

“Yet you missed the file cabinet’s lock being broken open, several missing files, that the murder weapon was put into the wrong hand of the victim to fake a suicide, and thought it wasn’t odd that the victim would wait for a passing train to blow his brains out to muffle the sound.”

“We…I….you!” Trem stammered as he boiled in rage as Finch tucked away his data pad and walked past the alien detectives.

“Where are you going?” Morbin demanded. Finch didn’t even bother to turn around to answer and just shouted over his shoulder as he left the building.

“Going to see what I can dig up on my own.”

Both alien detectives looked at each other in astonishment as the human left before quickly following after them.

------------------- Three sector grids later the pair of alien detectives watched from the shadows as the human got out of his hover car. They’d been trailing him the moment he left the crime scene and despite a few instances of nearly getting caught they were sure the human wasn’t aware of them.

To his credit the human had covered their tracks surprisingly well. They’d transferred into four different hover cars during their wanderings across several different city levels until finally ending up in the industrial district. Neither Trem nor Morbin knew what the human could want here, but they were both well aware they were in the shady part of the city that had unsuspecting cops vanishing all the time.

“What’s he doing now?” Morbin asked as Trem focused on the scanner lenses.

“He just got out of his car and is walking down the street.”

Morbin was at the wheel of their hover car while Trem was next to him in the front with the scanner lenses. They could pierce through solid materials and focus on certain living organisms but only within a range of about 50-60 feet.

“I hope he gets in another car soon so we can get out of here.” Morbin kept his eyes peeled to either side of the street. “You don’t hover into the Pipelands unless you got a police battalion behind you.”

“Relax,” Trem quipped as he adjusted the scanners, “it’s not like the human is going to meet-“

Trem’s voice trailed off as he finished adjusting the scanner.

“What is it?” Morbin asked as he sat up. When Trem didn’t respond right away he upholstered his laser pistol with one hand and tightened his grip on the steering wheel with the other.

“That flesh sack,” Trem stammered, “is meeting Fnar.”

“What?!?” Morbin snatched the scanner lenses out of his partner’s hands and brought them up to his eyes. The scanners quickly cut through the building between him and their human target and sure enough he saw the outline of Finch slowly take shape; and standing over him like a looming tower was a new bio-signature that identified itself as none other than Fnar Batal, the unofficial ruler of the Pipelands.

His criminal operation spread across sixteen sector grids and he ruled them with an iron fist. Even the mayor was too scared to cross Fnar directly, but thankfully the crime lord had learned that make a big show of power tended to get his kind jailed or killed. Fnar had opted to rule through intimidation and a deaf hand to not invite a similar fate and was the oldest crime lord on the planet.

“What are they say?” Trem asked as he reached for the scanner lenses back. Morbin swatted his hand away while he kept his eyes glued to the outlines of Finch and Fnar.

Finch’s back was towards Morbin so he couldn’t make out what he was saying, but the human was making several hand gestures and Fnar seemed to be nodding. Whatever the human was saying was clearly the right words to be used. Finch’s outline then turned in Morbin’s direction and a hand came up to point directly at the alien detective.

“FRAK!” Morbin shouted as he dropped the scanner lenses and made to hit the accelerator when a pair of massive arms smashed through the driver’s window and yanked him from the hover car. The blaster in his hand was snatched away by another thug while Trem was likewise hauled from the vehicle.

“Thought coppers like you knew the Pipeland’s were off limits.” The thug holding Morbin remarked; the smugness dripping from every word as the other thugs chuckled. The thug’s grip tightened further and Morbin could hear his exoskeleton creaking under the intense pressure. He tried to speak again but his voice was little more than gasps at this point.

“Ease off lads.” A new voice cut in. ‘I just wanted to give them a bit of fright, not kill them.”

Morbin followed the voice to see Finch standing in front of the hover car pulling out a cigarette. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a match which he immediately struck off against the hood of Morbin’s car and lit up while the thugs watched on.

“We don’t take orders from you flesh sack!” The thug holding Morbin shot back.

“But you do listen to your boss,” Finch countered, flicking the burnt match at the thug dismissively, “and I don’t think he’d take kindly to you making his guest feel unwelcome.”

Finch walked over to the thug and tilted his head back a smidge to look up into their face.

“So kindly put them him and his friend down, and then piss off somewhere else.”

The thug mashed their teeth together in rage before relenting; dropping Morbin followed shortly after by Trem on the other side of the car.

“Next time we see them we gut them like sigs.” The thug spat before leaving.

Morbin and Trem grasped their throats and coughed several times as air flooded back into their lungs. When Morbin’s eyesight cleared again he saw Finch smiling down at him.

“Need a ride?”

--------------------- “What….was…that about?” Morbin gasped as he and Trem were flown out of the Pipelands by Finch in his own vehicle.

“Bit of field work.” Finch said dryly, turning to avoid an oncoming hover hauler. “I needed to get some info about the case and Fnar was the only one who could provide it.”

“What could you…”, Trem spoke up, “possibly have that Fnar wants?”

“A promise to move his incarcerated son to a max level human prison for one thing.” Finch said with a grin. “Seems he’s got a whole list of enemies that wouldn’t mind gutting the little runt in prison to get back at dear old papa, so he was all too willing to make a trade for the kids safety.”

“You deal with criminals?” Morbin spoke up; his voice returning to his stable tone. “I thought you were a human enforcer of law?”

“You spend enough time fighting crime you eventually learn that it never goes away,” Finch replied seriously, “and that having someone with their ear to the ground can be even more productive than someone behind bars.”

Morbin was astonished to hear that human could so easily rationalize dealings with criminals. The idea of allowing criminals to exist just so they could turn on other criminals was beyond his comprehension of law and order.

“And did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you get information?” Trem asked.

Finch nodded.

“It seems Morgan Solis was very good at accounting and had noticed some irregularities with the book keeping of his company.” Finch opened up. “Large sums of money were being swept under the table and were written off as charity donations.”

“That’s nothing new.” Trem admitted, “Corporations do that all the time.”

“True, but Morgan made the mistake of tracking down who the money was being diverted to and was in the process of going public with that information.”

“And how would Fnar know all this?” Morbin inquired.

“Not too long ago a contract was floated around about a B&E job paying big credits. Fnar remembered it since it was rather light on details aside from it involving a human. He passed on the job, as did many of the other main providers, since crossing humans tends to lead to bad business; but he kept a copy of the contract and the details match up with the crime scene.”

“We’re looking for someone who is heavily invested in staying in the shadows and is not afraid to kill someone to keep themselves there.”

Morbin and Trem say in silence for a time taking in the new information they had just been given. “So,” Morbing finally spoke up as they neared the upper sectors of the city again, “what do we do now?”

“I don’t know about you,” Finch said cockily, “but I mean to find these bastards and drag them into the light myself; kicking and screaming all the way if needed.”

[asraxfile]

Sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ ᴅᴜᴇᴛ

sypnosis: when a new singer approaches your opera house, you cannot not be drawn to Miyeon's pure presence. Both of you making a strange duet together.

pairing: opera singer! Miyeon x fem!phantom!reader

genre: fluff, romance

warnings: reader has a scripted visual(dark, curly hair and dark eyes(don't be mad pls))

word count: 3.7k

A/n: before reading listen to this masterpiece for better understanding of the story. Enjoyy readingg ^^

Paris, 1879.

The air was dimly and oddly fresh but the street was full of passersby. Full of carriages and people rushing to the place they’re assigned to be in. Loud horse hooves smashed through the hard, brick streets as  the chattering of people made the air even tougher. In one of the carriages an upper class, rich Cho Miyeon’s family, rushed to the Palais Garnier Opera house. 

It was never Miyeon’s choice to go there, but who was she to judge her life? Under her parents hand she didn’t have a voice. Knowing Miyeon’s excellent singing abilities, they’ve come to a conclusion to make her join the opera crew in their city of love, Paris. 

Miyeon’s only hope was her belief, she didn’t believe in any God, but in an angel. An angel of music. 

As the following days, weeks and months passed since Miyeon joined the Opera house, she was finally gonna perform on stage with an important role. She will play Elissa from the famous Opera—Hannibal. Miyeon felt a little nervous but it was a distant feeling for her. 

Miyeon’s heart pounded with a constant rhythm. The noises of people walking and talking before taking a seat made her feel a rush of adrenaline run over her. Looking sideways, where people off stage can’t see, Miyeon saw her supportive friend, Clara. Encouraging her before it all finally went quiet. 

The white, long gown was perfect for Miyeon, it signified her innocence, purity and thoughtfulness. Her hair was curly loose with small braids on, outshining the gentle aura she held naturally with little flowers on the braids.  

At last, the big red cover finally revealed Miyeon’s pure but still presence to the crowd, making them surprised by her visuals. The music started with gentle piano chords and at last Miyeon  started to sing. 

It was so angelic yet so emotional, Miyeon made every note strike through the person’s heart. Yet, it sounded so effortless. Miyeon softly blinked through the performance, standing still with slowly swaying her palms, immersed in the performance. 

As she opened her eyes, she caught the awed expressions of the audience. Her parents sat in the front row, their pride clear even from where she stood. Every note drifted off her lips like a heartbeat, filling her with a sense of joy. 

Miyeon would occasionally look around the audience to catch their amused faces, but she could feel another presence watching her from afar, but she couldn’t see who it was. It was a presence that felt refreshing, like warm water rushing upon her cold skin, its presence fulfilled her. 

Her angel of music was with her, 

or was it? 

As the song went on, she got to the hardest part of it all and that was when the orchestra stopped. She took a deep breath and jumped lower on the notes, making the crowd curious. And then, with a focused precision, she switched from her lowest note to her highest in one smooth movement. Her voice echoed as the orchestra resumed, taking the audience by surprise and leaving them breathless. The audience sent a loud applause as Miyeon bowed with a proud smile, looking sideways to be met by her fellow friends who watched her in proudness. 

After the performance, Miyeon walked to her dressing room, looking at herself in the mirror, she smiled proudly. She knew she did a good job. But before she starts to remove her makeup, she hears a deep voice call her name. 

“Miyeon.” 

She stops in her trance, furrowing her eyebrows. She didn’t hear anyone knock on her door, 

was it Clara? 

“Miyeon.” 

Here it was, again. The low voice was heard from behind the shadows themselves, Miyeon was confused. 

“I know you remember me. You felt me there, didn’t you?”

It spoke again, its voice was too high for a male but too low for a female voice. Suddenly, all of the candles were put out. The cold wind breezed through the dressing room as Miyeon fastly walked to the door, trying to escape. 

Soon after, she realized the door was locked. Miyeon’s heart raced as she pulled frantically on the handle, fear tightening the air in her chest. 

"Who’s there?" she half yelled, her voice barely heard on the other side of the door. The silence hung thick in the air, but then the voice came again, softer this time. She looked around the room, everything was so dark that she could only see her reflection in the big mirror.

"Don’t be afraid, Miyeon," it murmured. 

"I have been watching over you, guiding you. You sang beautifully tonight." 

There was a gentle warmth to the voice, a strange familiarity that sent shivers down Miyeon’s spine, as if she had seen—felt this presence before. 

Miyeon’s fingers trembled as she turned, scanning the room in hopes of seeing the stranger of the voice. "Are... are you...?" she stuttered, "my Angel of Music?"

“I…am your angel…of music.” it softly sang, a figure emerged from behind the mirror. A tall female figure with a black suit and a mask that was on the side of her head, pierced with her look towards Miyeon. Hypnotizing her with each passing moment. Miyeon slowly walked towards the female figure. 

“Come…to me angel…of music.” 

The dark female figure offered her hand and Miyeon took it, letting it lead her wherever the mysterious woman's heart took her.

Your hand was so cold, yet so inviting. Miyeon gazed upon your female figure who had a serious look on your face, holding the magnificent flambeau while leading Miyeon downstairs, behind the mirror. 

“In sleep she sang to me, in dreams she came. That voice which calls to me and speaks my name.” 

Miyeon was mesmerized by your beauty. Black, messy curls and your dark eyes, dark as death, looking at her with pleasure and gently leading her through the secret passage in this opera house. Miyeon sang for you like an instinct. 

“And do I dream again? For now I find. The Phantom of the Opera is there inside my mind.”

Walking deeper into the secret chambers of yours, you as the phantom of the opera, the tensions, the familiarity and the whole encounter between the two of you meant everything to Miyeon. 

As if she belonged with you and with you only. 

Even though you were an unknown story to her, you were lucky that Miyeon doesn't judge a book by its cover. 

“Sing once again with me, our strange duet. My power over you grows stronger yet. And though you turn from me to glance behind. The Phantom of the Opera is there inside your mind.” You gazed upon Miyeon’s beautiful self, not showing how mesmerized she was to finally be in her presence. 

After getting off the long stairs, Y/n gently brushes her hand off yours and shoes you aa large place, under the whole building, looks like a cave with water at least 2.5 meters deep. 

You bring the small boat closer and give Miyeon some space to get into it. And so, Miyeon obeyed, confidently sitting on the front as you took the oar and they headed to her lair. 

“Sing, my angel.” you commanded and Miyeon obeyed. 

Miyeon could never turn away from you now that she got herself under your spell. Once again, Miyeon sang for you. 

“Sing for me.” 

As Miyeon’s voice filled the mysterious underground chamber, her notes echoed off the dark, damp stone walls, mingling with the gentle lapping of the water around the boat. Her voice seemed to take on a life of its own, rising and falling with a beauty that carried both power and vulnerability. She closed her eyes, immersing herself into the music, and the phantom’s presence at her back, guiding the boat, added a curious tension that made her heart race even more.

When the song faded with the last note, an unbearable silence settled around the both of you, only faint dripping water being heard in between your and Miyeon’s breaths. She opened her eyes, and her gaze found your dark figure standing across the boat. 

The phantom’s face was partly overshadowed by the shadows themselves, but Miyeon could see the gleam in your eyes, sharp and gravely, but watched her with an intensity that aroused curiosity in Miyeon’s mind. 

“Who…are you? Are you really the infamous Phantom of the Opera?” Miyeon stood up on the messy ground, getting out of the boat, following your trace. Watching you walk slowly away from her then turning around. “It must be me then.” you replied, adjusting your quartz colored mask that covered half of your face. 

“I didn’t know the Phantom was a…woman.” Miyeon looked down then back at you, twisting the edge of her white dress as she breathed heavily. 

She didn't know what you wanted from her or why she was there, what she definitely knew was that she wanted to get to know you more. "Even better, right?" you joked, a small proud smile growing on your face. Miyeon chuckled softly as she took a step closer to you, being full of questions but so out of words. 

“What’s your purpose anyway?” She looked at you, making you widen your eyes in disbelief at the sudden question. “Why did you choose to capture me?” 

You sighed at her silliness and tiredly looked back at her, locking an interesting eye contact. 

“My purpose is to make music for this Opera house.” You exclaimed, adding more emotion to your words. “But what is your purpose, dear? You seem a little lost for the past month or two you’ve stayed here.” 

Miyeon stands speechless, widens her eyes at the sudden question back. “I…” she starts, “You also feel a little…reserved I suppose?” you assume, moving closer to Miyeon. "Look, I know this is all new to you, but..." 

You look Miyeon straight in the eyes. Even though your whole face was not visible from the mask, you still radiated a comforting energy in order for Miyeon to relax a little more. 

"As I mentioned before, I've been watching you these days, from this very spot." you point to the numerous candles that stood on the huge organ and the multitude of papers with notes of unfinished music. "You gave me the final hope in this opera house." taking Miyeon's hand, holding it tightly. 

"I finally found my muse, you, Miyeon." 

Miyeon looked down at her hand that was tangled in yours, feeling a strange desire rush up her arm. She could feel her heart pounding, louder than the water’s echo in the underground chamber.

"You…you’ve been watching me?" she whispered, her voice trembled with disbelief but softened with wonder.

"Every tone with every gesture," you replied, pulling closer, a kind smirk crawling up the corners of your mouth. "Your voice reached me, called me out of my solitude. I may be the Phantom, hidden away from the cruel world, but when you let that voice of yours…you make me feel seen in a way I’ve always wanted to be seen."

Miyeon’s breath hitched as your heartfelt words washed over her. For so long, she’d felt empty about her singing. Nobody ever said anything more about it, except for you. And now, standing here, she finally understood the thing with you. 

Her hand tightened around yours, anchoring her in the strange, electric quiet between you. “And now…” you began softly, leaning closer, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across your face, "now that I have you here, I realize I need you more than just your voice."

Miyeon felt her heart flutter, the slipped words off your lips pulled her in. She tilted her head up, her face inches from yours. The air between you was heavy with unsaid words, a silence charged with yearning.

With a gentle inhale, Miyeon whispered, “Show me what you need.”

And in that moment, as if the outside world around you faded into the background, you leaned down, capturing Miyeon’s lips in a kiss both lustful and romantic. It was like breathing in music, like her very soul was being wrapped in a melody that only you could compose. 

Your arms wrap tightly around Miyeon’s waist as she brushes her palms against your shoulders. Both of you kissing like you’re chewing on the most sweet candy ever consumed, like you two needed each other for a while. Time for the both of you seemed to pause and it was just the two of you. 

For you, there was a lot of time that had passed since you felt this way with anyone. Always being hidden and forbidden, never knowing the true color of your voice. The only thing you could do is make music for the opera house. But how can someone make music without its own muse? 

And for Miyeon, she finally became something more than just her voice. She was your muse, a muse that had a melody of its own and control she wanted to finally be in. There was no one that could silence Miyeon anymore. 

She slightly pulled from the kiss, resting her forehead on yours. Both of you exchanged little chuckles as you held Miyeon’s cheeks, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “I promise I will never let you feel alone again,” you whispered, soft and comforting. 

Miyeon closed her eyes, savoring the gentle tension, her breath synching with yours in the shared silence. She leaned into your touch, her hand resting on yours as she spoke, her voice barely more than a breath. 

“All my life, I’ve been told how to sing, how to stand, what to be. But with you…” Her eyes fluttered open, meeting yours with a spark of happiness and freedom. “With you, I can finally hear my own song.”A gentle smile curved on your lips, one that Miyeon adored the most.

In the quiet moment in that hidden world you and Miyeon just created, a strange spark lit up between you two, making a duet that celebrated each other’s love with each passing day with each passing melody. Fulfilling each other's dreams and making the perfect music for the music of the night. 

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [01]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: cot3 +1 (and kipps), canon-typical violence & horror, loss of family member (not just Lockwood), found family, touch starved Lockwood, childhood friends Kipps & Reader, childhood trauma, slow burn, rivals to lovers (if this stays a Lockwood/Reader), mature language (swearing), aged up characters (everybody's in their early 20s; Kipps is mid-20s), fem! Reader though pronouns are used sparingly and no use of y/n

Summary: “Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.” Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?” You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Notes: [02]

Words: 5.1k

A/N: Words will never suffice how much Lockwood & Co. has carried me through some of the toughest parts of my life. To see it adapted to a show is SO EXCITING, I couldn't help but be a little self-indulgent and plan out a whole ass story for my favourite three (+ Kipps) ghost hunters. So here we go.

This could either stay a Lockwood/fem!Reader or I could easily change it into Locklyle or even freaking poly cot3 x Reader or just Locklyle depending on what people want to read. I'm fine with pretty much everything; I just want my silly little Reader joining 35 Portland Row because I am in DIRE NEED OF FOUND FAMILY AND JUST SELF-INDULGENT GHOST HUNTING

So yeah, I'm totally open to people requesting Locklyle or anything for this one, but it's still gonna be from Reader's POV and focusing on an original story with action and characters studies and personal growth. Also sorry for any mistakes, English isn't my first language and I'd be super happy if someone offered to become my beta-reader for this! Any feedback is super super appreciated!!

01: let the dead hollers hum

when i first saw you, the end was soon to bethlehem it slouched and then it must've caught a good look at you

—hozier: nfwmb

At almost two in the morning the streets should be empty of people and cars, yet you manage to nearly get hit by a night cab turning down Tredegar Road. Its ghastly horn echoes like the wail of a Banshee through the dark, disturbing the peaceful night. Across the street, a kitchen light flickers to life inside a building. A shadow moves behind the white curtains, pausing for a second to look out at the street.

Bracing against the cutting wind, you turn up your maroon trenchcoat’s collar and duck your head like a turtle trying to hide inside its shell. It would have been much colder without your gloves now that the early winter bite is coming, but it’s still very unpleasant to be outside after the sun has set. Today is a clearer night, despite the day of rain; the moon chases stray wisps of cloud across an otherwise unmarked black sky.

London turns in earlier than usual now that the nights grow longer and colder—and more dangerous as well. Just yesterday you heard two more night-watch kids have succumbed to ghost-lock down at the warehouses near Blackfriars when they got distracted trying to warm up from the freezing evening rain that had set in after eleven. They turned into easy pickings for a Drowner lurking beneath the docs—former scoundrels who ended their sorry lives in the water by drowning. They rarely make a pleasant sight with their bloated limbs and skin wrinkled so hard it is peeling off like layers of paint.

It makes you glad to feel the familiar weight of your rapier hanging from your hip holster, to know that just within short reach, everything you need to protect yourself is at your disposal. That and the salt bombs around your belt. It’s hard not to feel safe while carrying around something with ‘bomb’ in its name.

You find the meeting point you’ve been summoned to at the end of the street. The Green Goose is a two-floor building with the restaurant at the bottom and what you can only assume the storage and other facilities upstairs. All sun-blinds on the first floor are drawn shut.

Few London establishments are open during the night, and fewest of all in the dark hours before the dawn. But places like this, catering for agents or night-watch kids, are easily recognised by the additional fortification against possibly unwanted visitors. High up where the first floor meets the second, heavy mistletoe bushes run around the whole building like a gigantic garland. You imagine in summer this would be lavender blooms, plunging the whole street into their thick, sweet scent. The door and windows are laced with iron grilles, and overhung with battered ghost-lamps. A few wooden dining tables and benches remain vacated outside, left to their own until the warmth of spring returns.

After a first glance inside the premise through the grimy windows, you don’t spot your friend. How much easier this would be if you could carry a phone around, just to check if you are at the right place. Now all you have to go on is his cryptic call before your shift started this morning, and a vague sense of the kind of establishments he likes based to his tastes.

Good thing you have known him for almost a decade.

But that doesn’t really give you an idea what exactly Quill Kipps wants from you. Maybe help with a case? Or he has finally realised he has a crush on his co-worker, that lemony-smelling Kat or Kate, and now he needs advice. Not hanging out at the dead of the night would be a preferable start.

Small bells jingle when you push the door open with your shoulder, and a waft of warm air scented with grease and coffee hits your nose, bringing heat back to your face. It looks a lot smaller than from the outside, narrow and with the sitting area stretched in an L-shape around the bar and counter in the middle. Behind that a pair of slightly askew doors lead to the kitchen where you can hear a radio play.

The first row of tables line alongside the window, then disappear further into the back. In the corner, two night-watch kids sit huddled together, quietly snoring and drooling on each other’s shoulders with their meagre food spread before them. A waitress with short black hair and a chubby chin standing behind the counter looks up from a magazine, stares at you, and blows out a baby-blue bubble of gum until it pops loudly.

She raises an eyebrow.

You raise one back at her.

From the other side of the entrance, you hear Kipps calling your name. At that, the waitress gives you a single, polite nod which you answer alike, as though you are two cowboys engaged in a stand-off who don’t want to shoot each other.

Marching down the narrow aisle, you pass an occupied table and accidentally bump into it. Cutlery rattles against an empty plate. You mumble a half-hearted apology and move on, barely listening to the grumbled answer or really looking at the man clad in black sitting there. He gives of a sweet, heavy scent you can’t really place, and quickly move on.

Knowing you’d arrive in a foul mood, Kipps has already ordered your favourite midnight snack after a hard day’s work: coffee and a simple English breakfast with a fried egg, hot and greasy sausages, crispy bacon, tomatoes and mushrooms on the side.

“It better be important, Kippy,” you say in lieu of hello, manoeuvring over his lap to the unoccupied seat by the window, using elbows and knees to execute a complicated dance with him so you can squeeze into the narrow booth. He grunts and makes barely any effort to make you room. His outstretched legs take up a disproportionate amount of real estate. “I got a ten hour shift behind me and I’m desperate for my bed.”

“You certainly smell like after a ten hour shift,” he comments, wrinkling his nose. Of course he looks well kempt and neat as always with not a single ginger curl on his head out of order. But there are dark circles under his eyes as though someone put a charcoal pen to his skin, betraying his tidy appearance. His eyes flit over your face for a second, scanning it for any injuries.

You give him your best shit-eating grin and wolf down on your eggs when someone clears his throat from across the table—and that’s when you realise Kipps isn’t alone.

Nursing a cup of tea, opposite you sits a young man in a black suit, slender and tall, his short, unruly hair swept back elegantly. He watches you with mild interest, his thin lips slightly pursed, like someone would watch a flock of hungry pigeons plunge towards bread crumbs spread by tourists at Hyde Park—nothing out of order. Just another regular sight in the big city on a late afternoon stroll.

You hold his steady, dark eyes when you bite into your egg, feeling the yolk escape at the corners of your mouth and run down your chin. You didn’t even realise how much you were starving.

“Hwo’sh yor fren’, ‘Ippy?” you ask with your mouth full because you have absolutely zero shame.

Kipps swallows a groan.

“Yes, Kippy,” the young man replies with the most soothing, alluring voice you have ever heard, as though he’s eaten silk and honey for breakfast. “Why don’t you introduce us?”

Kipps makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. Annoyance radiates off him stronger than any other-light you have seen on apparitions. “Friend is a bit much,” he says slowly, as though he has to talk around the word ‘friend’ because it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “That’s Lockwood.” You recognise his tone. It sounds a lot as if he’s saying That’s the biggest nuisance of my life.

The effect is pretty much the same.

You nearly choke on your next bite and aim for the coffee to wash it down. When you jerk your head around to stare at Kipps in disbelief, your eyes stretch wider than the dinner plate before you. Kipps must read what’s written on your face: That’s Lockwood? Tony Lockwood you can’t shut up about? Your arch-nemesis?

Kipps rolls his eyes so hard it must give him a spectacular view of his skull. Just humour me, his expression says.

“Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.”

Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?”

You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Lockwood seems to understand, for he doesn’t inquire further, but his smile seems to freeze a little at the corners. “And you are?”

“Kipps’s friend.” You stuff the rest of your toast into your mouth and give your name. Lockwood blinks and keeps a polite smile, and doesn’t ask even though you’re sure he didn’t understand a word you just said.

“I wasn’t aware Kipps has friends.” Lockwood’s eyes have taken on a taunting glint, and he leans forward as he speaks. “Certainly not friends at Rotwell.”

His eyes drop to the crest stitched onto the upper part of your sleeve on your trench-coat: a snarling lion holding a rapier in its front paw—the agency’s symbol—before he gives Kipps a pointed look as though that small detail would have been worth mentioning before they got up to whatever this is.

Kipps ignores him. “I called you because I need your help,” he says, sliding napkins over to you which you promptly ignore. “I need your Talent.”

You halt at that and give him a long, level look. Kipps doesn’t shy away from the weight of your gaze, and suddenly you become painfully aware of the tension surrounding them, thick enough you could cut it with your dull knife.

Slowly, you chew your sausage. “What exactly are we talking about?” you ask, voice quieter, matching Kipps’s. He’s doing that little wiggle in his seat, shifting his weight from left to right he always does when bracing for potential conflict. When he trails his eyes away from you, you follow them to Lockwood who is looking at Kipps as though seeing him for the first time.

From the pockets of his long, black coat, Lockwood pulls out a small wooden box. It would easily fit into the palm of your hand, and from where you sit you can’t see a particular design or anything on the surface. Lockwood slides the box across the table towards you, flips it over with his long, slender fingers, and opens the lid, revealing a small bronze key lying on a cushion surrounded by thin iron plates.

You stare at it for five, six seconds. Then reach out to take another big swig of your coffee. With no sugar, acidly bitter taste explodes on your tongue, just the way you like it.

“It’s a Source,” you say. “You just carry a Source around like that?”

“Exceptional observation skills,” Lockwood says with the mild tone of someone barely holding back his impatience. “I can see why you asked her to join us, Kippy.”

“I can see why Kipps wants to shove his rapier up your—”

“Trust me, I’d be the last one missing out on a chance to ridicule Lockwood,” Kipps interrupts, tapping a finger on the table in front of the box, “but Barnes wants results by tomorrow and I’d like to act like professionals for once, so can we please focus?”

Lockwood and you throw a mirror glare at Kipps that’s something along the lines of You’re one to talk. When you notice each other’s similar expressions, Lockwood quickly schools his features back to a neutral one. “It is secure inside its seal for now, but the Visitor contained in it is not particularly strong. If we’re quick, it won’t have time to come through,” he says.

You shake your head. “You’re mad. And you—” you knock your knee against Kipps’s—“what’s wrong with you for going along with this?”

“There’s just … not enough time,” Kipps says. Exhaustion seeps into his voice, strong enough to peel back layers of caution for he shares a quick glance with Lockwood and what they don’t say screams so loudly that you have to lean back and re-evaluate what you’ve known about their relationship up until now.

It seems that Kipps has missed out on filling you in on some crucial details about the past few weeks he has worked at Kensal Green Cemetery.

“Then why don’t you just tell me what this is about?” you say, looking over at Kipps sharply. “Why does Barnes need you both to work on it? Is it a Fittes job? Did Bobby get his greasy little hands on something and—”

“Actually,” Lockwood chimes in, “it is our case. Lockwood & Co. Kipps is … an associate. And we’re very short on time to solve this case. Let’s just say Kipps has a little favour to repay. We need someone who excels at Touch, and he said you are the best at it. You might be our last chance to find out more about this key.” He has switched from that arrogant drawl to a soft, melodic cadence with that maddeningly smooth voice of his. It has to be intentional—he is trying to play you like a fiddle with that charm he switched on like an industrial bulb.

“What’s there to solve? You got the Source, you sealed it. That’s all there is. This should be on its way to a furnace right now.” You fall back into your seat, eyes raking over Lockwood’s form. He doesn’t even wear a uniform for Christ’s sake. “And you call yourself an agent?”

And just like that the light goes out, the switch flicks off. Lockwood’s face is calm; the only sign of his agitation is a pulse hammering in his throat and a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Kipps shifts in his seat. “We can’t give it to Barnes yet,” he says in a quiet voice, wrenching your eyes away from the glaring contest you have engaged in with Lockwood. Kipps presses his lips into a thin line, and you can see the mental strain it takes on him to agree with something Lockwood said. His handsome face crumples as though he has bitten into a lemon. “We believe the murder of that Visitor is still out there.”

You digest that. Go in for some more food. It takes a lot more effort to swallow your bacon. “Even more reason to just leave it to Inspector Barnes and DEPRAC. Exactly why is this your responsibility?”

“Justice for the dead?” Kipps offers.

“Protecting the living?” Lockwood states nobly.

It sounds like a load of crap, but you are too sleep-deprived to bother figuring out what truly is at stake for them. Maybe another stupid bet, or whatever favour Kipps owes Lockwood from the last.

You run a hand through your hair, bobbing your leg up and down in a frantic rhythm. It isn’t your favourite thing to do, but you have always had a hard time telling Kipps no—and God knows he has done so much for you.

“You owe me,” you tell him. Kipps nods, and visibly relaxes with relief.

“Do you need me to—” he starts, sliding his hand across the seat and offering it to you. From across the table, you hear the seat’s leather creak as Lockwood leans forward to get a better look at what you are doing. It reminds you of a hound scenting blood in the air and going out on the hunt for its prey.

“No, I’m good. I’m not taking my gloves off anyway.” You don’t like using your Talent without anything to ground you, but there is something about the way Lockwood is looking at you two, hungry almost, as though he is categorizing a particular fascinating information to dissect it later and see what use he can draw from it. Best to just ignore him. Besides, without your gloves, you feel naked, vulnerable. This isn’t something for prying eyes—and Lockwood has an awfully piercing, scrutinising pair of unfathomably dark eyes you are not interested at all to get lost in.

You lean back into the seat and get comfortable first. It never works when you go in too tense because it takes more effort to peel away the wards of your consciousness. When Kipps takes the key and plays it into your open palm, you focus on its weight first—akin to a bird bone, you barely feel it through the thick fabric of your glove.

Which doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy. The energy radiating off this thing is like a physical force pushing you back into the backrest of your seat. You close your eyes and focus on the low thrum of energy—feelings and impressions wash over you in torrents, layer after layer. Your chest feels heavy. Your stomach clenches in a hard, tight knot—fear. Fear grips you in a tight, cold grip.

Something is lurking, far far back, something unfathomably dark and abysmal but you can’t get a hold od if through your gloves and as you begin to sift through the chaotic blur of emotions to find the source—so much darkness, so much death; good Lord the things people did to get their hands on—

Excitement. A lingering echo burning so bright it blinds; hope swelling after long periods of dread, like the first spring buds blooming after a cruel, cold winter. Agitation. The adrenaline-inducing last sprint towards your goal knowing there is nothing that stops you from reaching it. The smell of damp soil and coppery hijacks your senses, and then—

Pain explodes in your chest, knocking you back against a cushioned surface. Your knees slam against something hard, sending hot shots of pain up your legs. Your eyes snap open but the world spins when all the oxygen is sucked out of your lungs and warmth spreads over your chest, liquid seeps through your fingers—but how? He could not. He would never—someone is screaming, a piercing, blood-churning scream. It takes a moment to realise the scream belongs to you; the wailing is drawn out from your raw throat, but how could anybody blame you; you are dying, shot in the chest by—

Someone is calling your name. Strong hands grab your shoulders and shake you hard as though trying to tear you away from a dream, a nightmare.

“Oh God, help me. He—he shot me—please help.” You gasp, trying to stop the bleeding by pressing your trembling hands against the wound.

“You’re fine. Listen to me, you’re fine. Nobody shot you!” A familiar voice—Kipps’s voice pierces through the wailing terror inside your head. You stare up at his green eyes which are paler than usual, widened in worry. “It’s just a psychic echo. You’re safe here.”

Another forceful inhale expands your lungs. The hot pinpoint pain in your chest subsides slowly with every shaking exhale, and when you look down at your hands, there is no blood sticking to your fingers, only coffee. When you hit your knees against the table, you knocked over your cup. Now the liquid is spreading across the table in a big puddle and dripping down its edges.

Lockwood is busy wiping the table clean with the leftover napkins while wildly gesturing with his free hand to the waitress looming over your table. “Just a long night, nothing serious,” you hear him say in haste. Either she isn’t interested or doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this; she shrugs and drags herself back behind the counter. You look around the establishment, ready to apologise for your outburst, but everybody has left already.

You turn around. When your eyes meet Lockwood’s, he grins, his smile so sudden and jarring as a thunderclap. “I have never seen anyone so sensitive to Touch. That was remarkable.” He beams as though you have performed an exceptional trick at the circus.

Something about the excitement in his voice sets you off—or maybe you are just still very raw from the experience, and the aftershock of such a gruesome echo is driving you up the wall.

“Oh yeah, it is so much fun! Feeling how people get killed every time is so worth it.” You grab your fork and stab your sausage with enough force you send tomatoes flying. On second thought, you are not hungry anymore. “Why don’t I get a gun and shoot you just so you can get an idea—”

“I’ve had my own fair share, thank you,” comes Lockwood’s flippant answer and for a second you imagine leaning over the table and smothering him with his own tie.

“So he was shot.” Kipps quickly steers the conversation back to its topic before you can follow your impulse. You slump against the seat, feeling pressure around your hand. When you look down, Kipps is holding your hand tightly, grounding you. You should have let him from the start. Weakly, you squeeze back. “We knew that already—”

“He … he never expected it to end like this,” you say slowly, gazing outside the window. Only your own reflection stares back at you. “He was shot by someone he knew. There was … genuine surprise. Before the pain, I mean. He couldn’t believe he would be hurt by someone he trusted. It was so absurd, he didn’t even have time to feel betrayed. That’s how unbelievable it was.”

“So it was someone very close to the victim. Who’s someone you’d never expect to betray you?” Kipps thinks aloud.

“Friends,” Lockwood provides.

“Family,” you say, quietly.

“A lover.” Kipps takes your fork and helps himself to some leftover mushrooms from your plate. When you look at the food, your stomach churns. “We should go back to the house tomorrow and see if you missed something, Tony. Wouldn’t surprise me if you managed to gloss over some obvious evidence,” he says to Lockwood.

“Why do you believe I would be the one—”

You shut out their bickering. A fine drizzle has set in outside, leaving small rain drops on the window. The street is a blur of black and faint white light from the ghost-lamps. When you look at your own face in the window’s reflection, your own eyes stare back at you—big, scared and haunted.

It always takes some time to get back after using your talent—to slowly build up the walls and distance yourself from the echoes of someone else’s life and the brutal way it ended. Deaths like these: sudden, violent, painful are always difficult to come back from. Which is why it is so important to have someone to ground you. Kipps has known you for so long, he is well aware how the psychic hangover drags your senses through the shredder and leaves your mind and body bruised and raw like an open nerve.

He had a few years training on how to handle it thanks to your brother.

The thought of Matthew shakes you awake and shoves you into full alertness, as if ice-cold water has been dumped down the back of your neck. You feel a sharp ache in your chest as you shove the ghost of his memory out of your mind, and then raw emptiness, as if a grappling hook has yanked your heart out of your body. It is just the aftershock—the hangover from the psychic connection, you try to reason. This is no time to allow grief back into your body, your mind.

Kipps must have heard the quiet sound you made, like a wounded animal. He falls dead silent mid-sentence and whips his head towards you. An echo of recognition passes his features for a second—there and gone so quickly, you think you imagined it.

“We are done here,” he says, and reaches over to close the box’s lid with a resolute click. You didn’t even notice he has taken the key away from you and returned it inside its seal. Lockwood opens his mouth, as though ready to argue, but whatever expression your face paints, even he recognises that you have reached your limit. Without another word, he swiftly slides the box back into his pocket.

You turn away from them, feeling anger and frustration boil inside you. You don’t want them to think you are weak just because you are a little more sensitive than other agents who can use Touch.

“Want me to drop you off the dormitory?” Kipps asks, his voice intensely neutral. He is digging through his purse to pay for your food, and shoots a glare towards Lockwood to indicate that no, he will not pay for his.

The dormitory for Rotwell agents, commonly known as the Lions Den, are rows of sand-bricked two-room apartments housing most of Rotwell’s younger agents in Chelsea. Half of your monthly salary evaporates just for paying rent, but at least it is a roof over your head and only a few stops away from your workplace. There is also something about pretending to belong to the upper posh class of London, to stroll through the highly-maintained gardens and polished windows glinting like diamonds in the early morning sun. They don’t have to deal with countless sleepless nights, the psychic hangover that makes you feel as if your body is not your own, or the constant fear every shift might be the last.

Sometimes it is that moment of pretending as though you live a different life that makes a difference.

“It’s okay, I’ll just take a cab.” Because for one, Kipps lives on the other side of the city, and two, you need to be alone.

Kipps nods, but he doesn’t look happy about it. Lockwood stays silent and is completely relaxed, a paragon of serenity with alert, dark eyes.

You scoot out of the booth and follow them outside into the cold drizzle. Mist hangs in the dark streets, rendering the area nearly invisible. Kipps and Lockwood share a few quiet words. When they part, Lockwood’s coat end flaps like black wings in the dark. He turns halfway around, gives you a long, considering look over the back of his shoulder. He parts with a single, almost approving nod, then ducks his head against the biting wind and strides down the street, disappearing into the dark night.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kipps buttons the front of your trenchcoat. He is balancing on the back of his heels—an old habit when he feels bad for something and doesn’t quite know how to apologise and it would be easier to just bail from the conflict. “You still look like shit.”

You give him a weak kick to the shin. His shoulders relax. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow about how it went,” he says, jamming his hands inside his pockets. He pulls one out again and shoves a crushed candy into your hand. It’s your favourite brand and for the first time today, you feel something warm spreading in your chest.

“Wait.” Before he can turn away, you quickly catch his sleeve and make him turn around. “About that key…”

“Is there anything else?” Kipps leans forward and you have to bend your neck back to meet his eyes.

You remember when he was much smaller and you were at the same eye level. At 13 years, Kipps used to be smaller than the rest of the boys at Stroud & Co. where you started out your agent career and met. He’s had his share of playing errand boy or punching bag for the older, taller boys, until Matthew came along one day, dunked one of Kipps’s bullies into an overflowing rain barrel and got his nose broken in return.

They became best friends after that, and you in the middle. Matthew, Quill, and you. Lock, Shock, and Barrel.

Now, only two remain.

Kipps claps your shoulder, snapping you out of the memory and dispersing the picture you have conjured in your mind of him young. Today, he stands tall and broad-shouldered before you, twice in size and muscle. Nobody sane would try and mess with him.

“What’s wrong?” Kipps asks. “Where did you go in there?” He taps two fingers against his temple.

“When I was holding the key, the recent death was the strongest echo, but there was more. Like … way, way more.” You sling your arms around yourself. “Like many layers on a painting, and whatever is underneath all that … it feels evil. Really, really evil. There is a lot of death attached to that key.”

Kipps chews on this. He looks down the street to where Lockwood has vanished, his square jaw drawn tense. “I can’t say Lockwood’s stake on this, but I don’t care much about its history. It changed owners, I get it, but who would kill for something like that?”

“I don’t know.” You think back to the smell of blood, to the underlying eagerness to own that key. “But if that key is already that vile,” you say, shuddering, “then what about the thing it opens?”

“Not important to me as long as it’s not our problem.” He yawns, and taps a foot against the hard pavement to stave off the cold. “I bet it got destroyed or lost long ago. There is no way it’s still around.” Kipps runs a hand through his hair. It curls against his temple and neck in the damp mist. “Chances are high we’ll never hear anything about it ever again after this week. Case closed. Thanks for helping us. I’m sure DEPRAC can find the murderer and it’ll be just another case in the books.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess you’re right.” You barely hold back a yawn.

Kipps nudges your elbow. “I’ll catch up with you later, OK? Gotta make sure Lockwood’s the one who messed up the earlier investigation and go back to the crime scene.”

“Doing the Lord’s work,” you joke and give him a mocking salute. For the first time tonight, Kipps grins that lopsided half-grin showing part of his white teeth before he rushes off into the night after Lockwood.

For a moment, you stand still and let the drizzle engulf you. Although you have been almost sixteen hours on your feet, exhaustion has slowly trickled away, and in its stead a bone-deep anxiety has settled. Sleep. You need to sleep this off, and everything will return back to normal by tomorrow.

Heading for the main street to catch a night cab, you don’t turn around, and just like that, you miss out on the shadow unhitching itself from a wall even though the ghost-lamp flickers to life.

A/N: hmu if you want to join the taglist!

[delicatebarness]

caught in the storm | prologue

Summary: As your life faces unexpected changes, you must make difficult decisions for the future of the life inside you. Ultimately, finding yourself torn between love and the need for a better life.

Warning: Substance & Alcohol Abuse. Domestic Violent. Toxic Relationships. Pregnancy. Paranoia. Jealousy. Child Birth.

Word Count: 4757

Spotify Playlist | Support: Ko-FI

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

A/N: This man will not get out of my head, so here you go. Again, this is another part of Prologue season so if you want to know what happens 15 years after this, you gotta let me know :D - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @mrsnikstan | @lanabuckybarnes

DAY ONE

The relentless bass thumped through your veins as the music pounded with your racing heart–flashes and flickers of neon lights cast erratic shadows over the crowded room. A red plastic cup was clutched in your hand, weaving through the gathering of people and its contents sloshing close to the rim. Alcohol and cocaine coursed through your system, heightening your senses, everything seeming sharper, louder, and more vibrant. 

A possessive arm was slung over your shoulders. Pete, who at twenty had a reckless confidence that came from his daily mixture of youth and drug abuse. With his wild and unfocused eyes, he leaned in close, muttering something incoherent into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. With a smile plastered across your face, you nodded. 

Stumbling into the kitchen, the countertop was littered with bottles, cans, and an assortment of substances. You heard someone call Pete, offering him a line, and he eagerly leaned over, snorting it up with practiced ease. You watched him, remembering the edge he had been on lately. His temper became more volatile, and his jealousy more intense. Shaking it off, you focused on the moment– his smile, the deeper shade of blue in his eyes. 

As you navigated back through the party, you felt the lingering eyes on you, leading to an instinctive, reassuring squeeze of Pete’s hand. The guys eyed you openly, and Pete noticed every single one. He clenched his jaw tightly, and though you tried to calm him with a hand to his chest, it was too late. He had already begun spiraling. 

“Oh my god, I love this song!” you exclaim, pulling Pete into a dance, trying to distract him. He barely heard you. His gaze darted around the room, and paranoia set in. You could sense it, the storm that brewed beneath the surface. 

“Who the fuck are you looking at?” Pete growled, his voice low and dangerous, directed to a guy nearby. You open your mouth to reassure and answer him, but with an iron grip on your wrist, he begins to pull you away from the crowd.

Before you know it, Pete is shoving you into a bathroom and slamming the door shut behind you. The noise of the party faded into a muffle, leaving the two of you in a tense silence. His eyes were now bloodshot with blown-wide pupils. His expression twisted into a mask of anger and fear. 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” he spat, pacing back and forth in the small bathroom. “Do you think I don’t see the way they look at you? The way you look at them?” 

“Pete, please,” you begin, trying to keep your voice calm and steady in an attempt to diffuse the situation. “No one’s looking at me. It’s just a party, it’s nothing.” 

“Bullshit!” he shouts, his fist coming into contact with the wall, making you flinch. The sharp tang of cleaning chemicals filled the air as it grew thicker with tension. You tried reaching out, tried to touch him, and ground him, but he swatted your hand away. His breathing ragged. 

“I can’t stand it,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “I can’t stand them looking at you, wanting you. You’re mine.” 

“I am,” you insist, tears welling your eyes. “I’m yours, Pete. Only yours… I love you.” 

Stopping, he started at you, and the anger in his eyes flickered. Something raw and desperate, replacing it. He took a step closer, cupping your face in his rough but tender hands.

“Prove it,” he whispered, a slight crack in his voice. “Prove you love me.” 

Nodding, you knew what he needed, what you both needed to keep the fragile peace between you. Lifting on your toes, you pressed your lips to his. The kiss was fierce, a declaration of your devotion. 

He responded hungrily, pulling your face closer. The storm was clearing as the kiss grew more intense. Your bodies pressed against each other in the confined space of the bathroom, the outside party fading further away. It was just the two of you locked in that moment of desperate passion. Pete’s hands moved to roam everywhere, rough and insistent, as if to claim every inch of your skin.

Yanking his shirt over his head, your fingers trembled over his skin. With an almost violent, raw need he teared at your clothes, hurried and uncoordinated. Suddenly, your back hit the cold tiles, making you gasp, but Pete’s lips swallowed your sounds as they met yours again. 

“Mine,” he growled against your lips, his fingers dug into the skin of your hips. “You’re mine.” 

“Yours,” you moan, tugging at his jeans. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he lifted you, pinning your body against the wall. You didn’t care about the pain from the force of his body pressing into you; you needed this. He fumbled with his jeans, pulling them down enough to free himself. 

You guided him inside you, and his moves became instantly frantic, a punishing rhythm. The roughness made you cry out, but a cry of pleasure. His hands tightened their grip on your hips, you knew there would be bruises in the morning. But it didn’t matter. With equal fervor, you met his thrusts, digging your nails into his back. Little red trails left in their wake. 

“Tell me you love me,” he demanded with a harsh whisper against your ear. “Tell me you’re mine.” 

“I love you, Pete Brenner,” you gasp, your voice breaking. “I’m yours.” 

Your words seemed to drive him, his movements became even more intense, jolts of pleasure being sent through you with each thrust. Clinging to him, your bodies moved in a desperate dance for each other. The tension built, coiling tighter until it snapped. 

With a cry, you came apart, your body shuddering against his. A few short moments later, he followed. His nails dug into your soft skin as he let out a low, guttural groan. After a moment, he lowered you to the floor. You both stood panting, trembling. He rested his forehead against yours, desperate eyes searching yours for reassurance. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice broken. “I just can’t stand the thought of losing you.” 

“You won’t,” you promised, tracing patterns along his chest. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Helping each other dress, you stole rough, urgent kisses– almost as if you were trying to reassure each other that you were still there, still together. Stepping out of the bathroom, the noise crashed back around you but Pete held onto you.

For now, you had each other, and that was enough.

~

TWO WEEKS LATER

The harsh fluorescent light made everything feel surreal. Your usual mess cluttered the small space: makeup, hair products, and a full range of skincare items scattered around the sink. But at that moment, it all felt inconsequential compared to the little plastic stick on the floor next to you. 

You hadn’t been feeling well for a few days– nauseous, tired, and unable to focus. Firstly, you chalked it up to being the usual post-party hangover. Yet, when the symptoms didn’t leave, a gnawing worry took root in your mind. You picked up a pregnancy test at the drugstore on a whim, thinking it was only to rule out the possibility. Now, as you sat on the cold floor, waiting for the results, you realized how much hinged on that tiny piece of plastic. 

The second began to feel like an eternity, and your heart pounded in your chest. You noticed your reflection in the full-length mirror, anxiety etched on your face. It was supposed to be just another fun night, another ride with Pete. But, if the test was positive…

The timer on your phone buzzed, jolting you back to reality. Taking a deep breath, you felt a knot of dread tighten in your stomach. Slowly, you picked up the test, your hands trembling. 

Two lines. 

“Oh, fuck,” you whispered. A thousand thoughts raced within your mind, colliding all at once. You’re pregnant. You. Pregnant. The reality hit you like a freight train, you felt breathless and dizzy. 

Standing on shaking legs, your gaze shifted back to the counter, where lines of coke had neatly been arranged. A small reminder of the life you’ve been living for the last year; the parties, the highs, the reckless abandon. Now, everything was different. You were no longer just responsible for yourself. 

You reached out, your hand hovering over the rolled-up dollar bill. The temptation was strong, a familiar need, desperation to escape and numb the overwhelming emotions surging through you. Then, something stopped you. The thoughts of what damage it could do, not just to you, but to the tiny life inside you. 

Tears welled in your eyes as you pulled your hand back. This wasn’t about you anymore. You had to be stronger, better– for the baby. 

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Thinking of Pete, his wild eyes, his tight grip, his temper. How would he react? What will this mean for both of you? Wiping your tears, you carefully clean away the lines of coke, flushing the remnants down the toilet. A small step, but an important one. 

~

EIGHT WEEKS LATER

In a blur of secrets and growing anxieties, the weeks pass. You had stopped drinking and snorting coke, opting for water at the parties, and trying to stay away from the substance tables. Thankfully, Pete had yet to notice. Too wrapped up in his own constant highs and the cycle of coke and chaos managed to keep him distracted. Under loose clothing, a small curve of a bump was just beginning to show, and it wouldn’t be much longer until it was undeniable. 

That night was no different– another party in full swing, with loud music and dim lights. By now, you had perfected an art of blending in, a red cup filled with water in one hand, and making small talk. All the while you tried to keep a wary eye on Pete, who was already high as a kite as he moved through the crowd. 

You felt his eyes on you, a sense of unease creeping in while you chatted with a friend. Turning slightly to see him watching you, you noted the dangerous glint in his eyes and his jaw clenched. And, before you could react, he was by your side, gripping your arm with a bruising force.

“Come on, Princess,” he growled, pulling you away from the crowd. His grip tightened as you tried to protest, but you knew better than to argue in front of others. Leading you out the back door, the cool night air hit you, and once again the sounds of the party faded. You were left alone with him, under the stars.

With shaky hands, Pete pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Taking a deep drag, his eyes never left yours. “What the fuck is going on with you?” he demanded, his voice low. 

“Nothing, Pete,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, stopping your hand instinctively resting on your stomach. “I’m just trying to enjoy the party.” 

“Fuck you,” he snapped, blowing smoke into the night. “You’ve been acting weird for months. You’ve avoided me, you’re drinking water. What’s going on?” 

You had been dreading this moment, but there was no turning back. Taking a deep breath, you sighed. “I need to tell you something,” you say with a trembling voice. 

He narrowed his eyes, suspicion and anger flickered across his face. “Who is he?” Pete’s accusation hung in the air. His eyes bore into yours, searching for any hint of betrayal. 

“What? No! Pete, it’s not what you think,” you stammered. You could see the storm, beginning to once again brew within him. His fist clenched and unclenched, his body tensing as if ready to lash out. “There’s no one else, Pete. I swear.” 

Taking another drag of his cigarette, the ember glowed ominously in the dark. “What what is it? What the fuck are you hiding from me?” 

You searched for the right words, your heart pounding in your chest. A ticking time bomb and you weren’t sure how much time you had before it exploded. “I-I’m pregnant.” 

The words spilled out, and at that moment, the world seemed to stop. You could almost see the gears turning in Pete’s mind, he stood frozen, his eyes widened: Disbelief, shock, and then anger. 

“What?” his voice was barely above a whisper, but you did not miss the lace of venom. “You’re pregnant?” Another drag. “You’re fucking with me,” he continued, his voice carrying a coldness, now. “This is just another bullshit excuse.” 

“I’m not lying, Pete,” you insisted. “I’m pregnant, and I didn’t know how to tell you.” 

Shaking his head, he threw the cigarette onto the ground, grinding it under his heel. His eyes locked back onto yours as he stepped closer, nicotine, alcohol, and anger mingling in the air between you. “Prove it,” he demanded, anger and desperation rising in his voice. 

Your hands trembled as you reached for the hem of the oversized t-shirt, you took from his wardrobe. The fabric suddenly felt heavy in your grip. And slowly, you began to lift it, revealing the soft curve. The night sky barely illuminated the slight swell, the small sign of the life growing. His gaze flickered down.

Instead of the recognition or understanding that you had hoped for, his expression hardened. “You just look bloated,” he spat, his words sharp, cutting into the fragile moment. 

“Pete, please,” you whispered, tears beginning to well in your eyes as you lowered the shirt. “It’s real. I’m pregnant, I’ve got the tests to prove it.” 

His gaze remained locked on your midsection. “Show me,” again, he demanded, the venom dripped from his lips. 

Once back in your dorm room, you could feel Pete’s eyes burning into your back. The room was small and cluttered, college life evident in the clothes strewn and textbooks piled. Opening your closet, you pulled out a small shoebox hidden under sweaters. 

Turning back, Pete’s expression was a mixture of skepticism and curiosity as you took a seat next to him on the bed. Setting the box on the bed, you opened it and revealed a collection of pregnancy tests. Each one was marked with the unmistakable mixture of two lines, plus signs. 

“I’ve been taking them over the last couple of weeks,” you said, avoiding his gaze. “I needed to be sure. I needed to know it wasn’t a hallucination, not just an effect of the drugs.” 

Pete stared at the tests. Picking one after another up, his face went pale and his hands began to shake. “This is real?” he muttered, questioning himself. “This is happening?” 

“I’m scared, Pete,” you admitted, tears spilling down your cheek. “It’s real, and I’m terrified.” 

Finally looking up at you, you met his gaze, his eyes wide and vulnerable. You had never seen this in him before. “I’ll be better,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ll stop it all, I promise. I’ll be here.” 

At that moment, you believed him. Clinging to him, the warmth of his broad body was a small comfort against the uncertainty. Yet, there was still a seed of doubt remaining deep down. 

~

FIFTEEN WEEKS LATER

There was a glimmer of hope, you witnessed Pete trying to cut back on the drinking drugs. Yet, as the months went by, his promises faded. The allure of the high was too strong, and his habits quickly resurfaced. He went back to the parties, and in doing so, his fits of jealousy and anger returned. Your heart sank every time you saw him with a bottle or a line. 

You found him one night in the very bathroom where your unborn child was conceived, a line of coke on the counter. His eyes were red and haunted. A knot of dread tightened in your stomach as he met your gaze. “What’s your problem?” he snapped before snorting the line. “Why are you always watching me?” 

“You promised, Pete,” you say, trying to keep your voice calm.

“Yeah, well, it’s not that easy,” he growled, sniffing and wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “You don’t get it.” 

“I do get it,” you say, running a hand through your hair. “You have to think about our baby, Pete.” 

Scoffing, he stepped closer, trapping your body between him and the cold tiled wall. “You and that fucking baby,” he muttered, his body looming over yours. “I can’t deal with this right now.” 

After that night, Pete passed out in a drunken stupor in his apartment. You decided you couldn’t keep doing this. You couldn’t keep holding onto the hope he’d change when it was clear he had no real intentions to. You had to think about your future and the future of your child; with or without him. 

You packed a bag that night, quietly moving while your heart pounded. Afraid of him waking up and stopping you. Writing a note, your hands shook: “I’m sorry, Pete. I love you, but I need to think about our baby. I’ve got to leave and go back to my parents’ house. I hope one day you can find the strength to change. X” 

Slipping out of his apartment, the weight of your decision pressed down on you. The city lights blurred through your tears as you took a cab back to your parents’ house. As you pulled up outside your childhood home, your mom opened the front door, her face etching with concern. 

“Sweetie, what’s wrong?” she asked, wrapping her arms around you, and pulling you into an embrace. 

You broke down, tears flowing freely. “I can’t do it anymore, Mom.” you sobbed. “I-I left Pete, I need help.”

~

NINE WEEKS LATER

Your stomach grew rounder as you settled into a new sense of peace at your parents’ house. And, with it, your determination to provide a better life for your baby. Contact with Pete had been cut completely, you ignored his calls and messages. Only sending him relevant information like when your scans were, in case he wanted to be there. He never came. 

One afternoon, your mom threw you a baby shower brunch. Your friends and family gathered in the backyard, laughter and the smell of fresh flowers filled the air. Surrounded by people who loved and supported you, and their excitement for your baby was contagious. 

Suddenly, there was a knock at the front door. Looking around, the sound immediately sent your heart racing. Something in your gut knew it was him before you even opened the door. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice low but urgent as you stepped out onto the front porch, closing the door behind you. 

There was a mixture of desperation and something else, something almost broken in his wide eyes. His eyes roam from your shoes and up your legs, and then they linger for a moment on your stomach before meeting your eyes. “Can we talk?” his voice hoarse. 

“Pete,” you glanced back through the glass on the door, your heart pounding. “This isn’t a good time.” 

“When is a good time? You haven’t answered my calls in two months,” his voice cracked, and you could see the raw emotions in his eyes, the plea in every fiber of his being. “Please, Princess, just five minutes.” 

You shook your head, the lingering feelings you had for him had you torn between the fierce protectiveness you felt for your unborn child. “I-I can’t, Pete, it’s not a good idea.” 

“What do you want me to do? Get down on my knees? I will, I’ll get down on my knees for you,” he says, his voice trembling with desperation. And, before you could stop him, he’s on his knees. 

Right there, on your parents’ front porch, Pete Brenner had his hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer. “I will change, Princess. I promise, you,” he pleaded. 

Panic rose as you looked around, checking to make sure no one was watching this. The last thing you needed was for your family and friends to see Pete like this– coked up and on his knees. “Please, get up, Pete,” you whispered urgently, glancing back toward where everyone was gathered. “I’ll listen, Pete, please just get up off the floor.” 

He didn’t move, tears brimming in his bloodshot eyes as they locked onto yours. “I’ll change,” he repeated, his voice barely audible. “I need you, I just need you.” 

“Pete, you’re coked up right now,” you said, your heart aching even as your voice hardened. 

Your words caused him to flinch, but he didn’t break eye contact. “I had to see you,” he replied, his voice shaking. “I just needed the courage to get here.” 

“And yet you thought, the best way to do that was to snort that shit and then show you at my fucking baby shower?” your words caught in your throat. 

Pete finally stood, unsteady on his feet as you both stared at each other. The tension between you grew thick, as the air mixed with emotions that neither of you could fully articulate. 

His eyes searched yours desperately. “I just– I just want to talk,” he repeated once again. “To know… I’m still a part of this.” 

“You haven’t been a part of anything, you missed every scan,” you snapped, the hurt and anger you managed to bury for months started to bubble to the surface. “You never showed up. Not once, Pete.” 

“I know, I know,” he quickly said, running a hand through his grown disheveled hair. “I fucked up. But, I’m here now. I want to make this right.” 

The front door swung open before you could respond, and Michelle, your best friend stepped out. Her expression immediately hardened when she saw Pete and his state. 

“Oh great, crackhead is here,” she snaps, crossing her arms, and glaring at him.

“Michelle, as charming as ever,” Pete scoffed, his voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Fuck off, Pete,” Michelle snapped back, stepping closer. She placed herself between the two of you, her body language reflecting her protectiveness. 

“Mich–” you started, trying to diffuse the situation, but she cut you off.

“She doesn’t want you here, dipshit,” Michelle said coldly, her eyes narrowing at Pete.

“She doesn’t, or you don’t?” Pete fired back, his anger rising the longer he remained in her presence. 

“Both, now leave,” her tone left no room for argument, as she stared him down. 

He took a step forward, his jaw set tight, and fists clenched to his side. “Or what? What are you going to do if I don’t?” he challenged, his low voice threatening. 

“Will both of you just stop, please?” you finally shouted, your voice broken through their standoff. You had been trying to keep your emotions in check, yet the stress of the situation all came spilling out. “This isn’t helping anyone, especially not the baby.” 

Turning to you, Michelle’s face softened slightly. “Be honest, do you want him here?” 

Your gaze locked with Pete’s, his eyes filled with desperate hope. “Princess…” 

The truth was, a part of you did want him there. This moment was one you had imagined countless times– Pete by your side, the two of you figuring parenthood out together. But another part of you, the part that endured the pain and disappointment, knew that this wasn’t the time for children’s fairy tales. 

“Please, Pete, just go,” you sighed, a slight tremble in your voice. “I promise, I’ll call you later. Just… please let me have this one day.” 

Pete’s shoulders slumped in defeat, and he took a step back, his eyes never leaving yours. “Boy or girl?” he softly asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What?” you asked, thrown by the sudden question. 

“What is my baby’s gender?” he repeats, sorrow filling in his eyes, cutting right through you. 

Swallowing hard, the lump in your throat made it difficult to speak. “I-I don’t know, I didn’t find out. It didn’t feel right to find out without… you.” 

For a silent moment, his gaze lingered on your stomach. His eyes flickered with sorrow and hope as they glanced back toward yours. “Promise me, you’ll call me?” 

“Pete,” you began, your tone softer as you tried to balance the tenderness you felt and the boundaries you had to maintain. “I promise you, once this is over and everyone leaves, I’ll call you.” 

“Tonight?” His voice cracked, desperation still clinging to his words.

“Yes, tonight,” you assured him, your voice firm even though your heart raced. 

Seemingly to accept your promise, he nodded slowly, yet you could see the struggle in his eyes. He turned and began walking down the driveway, each step heavy with the reality of his situation. Upon reaching the gate, his hand rested on it for a moment, as though he was gathering the strength to leave. 

Before he stepped through, he turned back toward you, his voice remained low. “I love you,” he spoke, the words hung in the air, raw and real. 

“Pete…” you started, but the words caught in your throat. You couldn’t find the courage to say it back– not now, not like this. Instead, your eyes bore into his, neither of you moving. 

~

SIX WEEKS LATER

In the throes of labor, the room was bright and sterile. There was a beeping from a machine, constantly reminding you of the life about to enter the world. Your mom was by your side, holding your hand as she whispered encouraging words. Waves of contractions made you grit your teeth, but yet even through the intense pain, your thoughts kept drifting back to Pete.

“Has anyone got a hold of Pete?” you asked between breaths, worry filled your eyes as you looked up at your mom. 

Squeezing your hand, her face was a mask of calm. “I don’t know, Sweetie. I told your father to contact him, but I can’t be sure.” 

Nodding, you tried to focus. You believed Pete had a right to be there, but the uncertainty around if he would show gnawed at you. Minutes turned into hours, and your labor dragged on, exhaustion settling in. With every passing moment, your hope diminished. 

“What if he’s not coming?” you whispered, as tears mingled with your sweat. 

“You’re doing amazing, Sweetie,” your mom said gently, brushing your hair back. “Keep focus on the baby.” 

Just as you were about to give up hope, the door to the delivery room burst open. Disheveled and out of breath, Pete rushed in, his eyes wide with fear and determination. “I’m here!” he exclaimed, looking around frantically until his eyes landed on you. 

“Pete?” you gasped, relief and surprise flooded through you. 

Rushing to your side, he took your other hand in his. “I’m so, so sorry I’m late, Princess,” he said, his voice catching as he tried to catch his breath. “I came as fast as I could.” 

In that instant, the tension between you melted away, and the only thing that mattered to you was that he was there. Leaning in closer, he rested his forehead against yours as he whispered, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” 

As another contraction hit, you squeezed his hand hard, a cry forcing its way out of your throat. Pete didn’t flinch; he stayed holding onto you, grounding you in ways you hadn’t expected. 

Finally, the moment came. One last agonizing push and the room was filled with the sharp, piercing cry of your baby. Relief, joy, and exhaustion hit you all at once. You collapsed back against the bed, tears and sweat continuing down your face, 

“It’s a boy,” the doctor announced, holding up the tiny, squirming bundle. 

As you looked at your son for the first time, your breath hitched. Pete’s grip tightened as he stared at him with wide eyes, awe, and disbelief mixed in his expression.

“You did it, Princess,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as the nurse brought your son over, placing him gently on your chest. The warmth of his body against yours, you could feel his tiny heartbeat, and the reality of what you had gone through started to sink in. 

Pete leaned in, and his other hand reached toward your baby’s tiny fingers. “Welcome to the world, little guy,” he said, his voice full of wonder.

And in that moment, everything was perfect.

---

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

[jimxnslight]

Chapter 3: Princess

Summary: Elitist Academy is exactly what it sounds like: an academy that focuses on teaching students from elite classes of the magic community. When Y/N is thrown into the academy to learn alongside 8 men, she realises she’ll have to learn to work with them, whether she likes it or not.

Pairing: Reader x OT7 (Choose Your Own)

Genre: Magic School au, mystery, angst

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: domestic abuse, additional warnings might be added as story progresses

“Dude! What are you doing?!”

“Let go of her! What are you a creep?”

“Come on man, why are you-”

“Stop it! I’m not doing anything to her!”

What was going on?

You groaned at the loud voices surrounding you, the sound hurting your ears as you managed to open your eyes slowly. But when you were met with a midnight blue sky, you bolted upwards with a start, gaze immediately scanning the area around you. You were sitting on the ground of what seemed like a forest, sparsely filled with large coniferous trees that reached for the glittering stars. Small animals flitted through their branches in the dark, seeming more like mere wisps of shadows. Soft green grass brushed against the palms of your hands while you squinted, trying to figure out if there was anything else lurking in the dark. 

Anything that you should actually be worried about.

“Oh look, she’s awake.”

You turned towards the sound of the voice to find a man towering over you with his thick arms crossed over his chest. His hair was blonde, and long enough for him to manage a part of it into a short ponytail while the rest of it fell to frame his face and neck. His eyes were a deep green colour that seemed to practically glow in the darkness of the night. Your gaze also caught onto two silver cross earrings dangling from his ears. 

Offhandedly you thought he looked like a bunny. 

He was dressed in the Elitist Academy uniform, a clear sign that he was also a student. The only thing that wasn’t clear at the moment was what was going on?

“Glad to see you’re alive sleeping beauty,” he spoke again. You caught slight amusement in his tone, “for a second we thought that Mr. Creep here really killed you.”

Your gaze followed his to another man that you hadn’t noticed had been standing beside you this entire time. His hair was the same shade as the first man that had spoken, but his was a little longer and messily collected into a hair tie, only a single strand free to frame his face. He was also dressed in a uniform, its colours darkened under the night sky. 

Your eyes widened slightly when you leaned forward to catch a glimpse of his face. A black eyepatch hid one of his eyes, but the intense blue of the other was enough to make up for it. It was like a feline’s eye: sharp and calculating. 

Despite the accusation, eyepatch guy remained standing silently with his arms crossed over his chest. 

As your gaze drifted around the forest, you realised that there were a lot more people present that you hadn’t noticed. You recognised Namjoon leaning against a tree, observing everyone closely from afar, while Hoseok and Taehyung stood watching you and cross-earrings guy. Jimin stood beside them with the guy you had saved from being bullied earlier huddled behind him despite being taller. 

You moved to speak but paused when you realised a cloth had been tightly wrapped over your mouth, preventing you from saying even a word. Okay… this did not look good. You were alone, with seven men, in a forest in what seemed like the middle of the night. As the alarms started blaring in your head you pushed yourself off the ground, reaching to remove the cloth, only for a firm hand to grab your wrist. 

“That stays on for now,” eyepatch said, voice solid and gaze unyielding. 

“You could at least try to sound less perverted,” cross-earrings snorted, though his gaze was fixed on eyepatch’s grip on your wrist. 

Eyepatch ignored him just like he had done earlier, not even sparing a glance his way, as he gave you a hard look. The message behind said look was clear: obey me.

With a scoff, you tried to snatch your wrist back, but his hold on you didn’t budge. All you could do was send him a withering glare as you fought his grip, trying to speak through the cloth despite how muffled your voice came out because of it. Maybe a small part of you was scared too considering the situation, but you pushed that fear from your mind. You weren’t going to let any of them hurt you. 

You weren’t going to let any of them hurt you. 

Eyepatch frowned when you finally managed to push him backwards. It was barely a step, but it was enough to get him to realise you weren’t going to back down. He sighed frustratedly, clearly irritated by your lack of compliance. But he was stupid if he thought you were just going to blindly let someone like him keep you here in a dark forest with a gag.

“Fine,” he relented after a moment, finally coming to terms with the fact that you weren’t really the docile type, “but only if you don’t use it.”

That made you pause. 

“Use what…?” You heard Hoseok mutter, clearly confused. Everyone else’s face mirrored his, equally perplexed. Except for Namjoon, of course. 

If glares could kill, eyepatch would have been completely decimated by now. You were sick of him trying to tell you what to do, who did he even think he was? However, you were also just as sick of having your ability to speak taken away from you. 

So you nodded slowly, still irritated by his audacity.

Even then eyepatch seemed to hesitate for a moment before he reached over and removed the piece of cloth. 

“It was you wasn’t it?” You said immediately, “you’re the one that knocked Jimin and I out. Why?”

You couldn’t remember much after the hit you took to your head, but the blurry images of the blonde man standing over you before you passed out seemed to resemble eyepatch greatly. 

“Don’t bother,” cross-earrings said lazily, “we’ve been trying to get answers out of him for an hour.”

“And I deeply apologise for his lack of communication,” a voice suddenly explained from behind the group, “I made Yoongi promise to let me explain everything.”

The group whirled around to look behind them, their eyes widening at the man standing before them before quickly straightening themselves. 

Standing in the centre of a clearing between the trees was Principal Park, the principal of Elitist Academy. He was a man of average height, with short brown hair and a big face. He looked stoic as he stood with his hands clasped behind his back and head held high, with a posh black suit seemingly ironed to perfection. 

“I also apologise for the seemingly drastic measures,” he continued, holding the gaze of each and every one of you, “I’m sure you all must be terribly confused.”

“I promise that none of you are in trouble, nor will any of you be harmed. I simply wished to speak to the eight of you privately as this matter does not concern the rest of the student body.”

Your confused expression mirrored the rest of the group’s expressions. Except for eyepa- Yoongi. He seemed completely unsurprised by the turn of events. But then again, he was the one that had brought you all here in the first place. 

“As you are all aware, Elitist Academy is an academy that was created for the magic society’s upper class, for the sons and daughters born into power and riches so that they may be taught humility, gratitude, and responsibility.”

Principal Park’s gaze swept over you all once more, “but you all are a different type of upper class. You are the elite of the elite.”

You noticed his gaze fall on you during the last sentence. 

Of course…

“When I think of the future of this country, as well as the future of magic, I see the eight of you leading us, hopefully, to success.”

“But in order for such an achievement, you must be provided with training of the highest quality. You must be taught the intricacies of how to be a leader and how to handle the responsibilities that come with it. Which is why you all will be placed in a separate curriculum in comparison to the rest of the students. From now on, your classes will be specialised to prepare you for your distinct future roles.”

“Wait,” you blurted out suddenly, a sinking feeling in your chest. Principal Park’s gaze landed on you, “you’re saying they’ll be the only ones in my class for the rest of our degree? No one else?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

Your chest dropped at the confirmation as your gaze reluctantly scanned the boys around you once again. This couldn’t be happening… You couldn’t be stuck with seven men for the rest of your degree. 

Oblivious to your deteriorating thoughts, Principal Park turned back to the group once again.

“All of you have travelled from different regions of the country, away from your homes and families to receive the finest education available. In a way, you will only have each other during your years here at Elitist Academy. So I hope you find comfort in each other.”

In the midst of your dread, you couldn’t help but catch onto a hint of nostalgia behind his words. But you scoffed inwardly at the thought.

Comfort? In them?

“Well, I suppose I will let you introduce yourselves to each other now, but it is already past midnight,” he said, “I wouldn’t advise you to stay out for too long at this hour.”

The eight of you watched Principal Park turn around and walk deeper into the clearing, hands still clasped behind his back during his confident strides. When he paused, you didn’t have enough time to shield your eyes as a flash of bright light blinded you for a moment. 

It was only when the light had receded when you noticed that the clearing had disappeared, replaced by the entirety of the academy now standing before him. Your eyes widened, wondering what kind of magic had made the school appear in front of you in the blink of an eye. 

“Also,” Principal Park added, back still facing the eight of you, “I did not have Yoongi kidnap you all without reason. It was a lesson to show you that even within the academy you are not fully safe. Always remain vigilant.” 

He turned his head to look each and every one of you in the eye one last time, “it was frightening just how easy it was for Yoongi to capture you all.”

With those comforting words, he turned around once again and walked back to the academy, leaving the eight of you stunned to silence in front of its gates. 

The other’s were probably stunned by the implication that there may be people out to get you even within the academy’s walls, but your silence was for a completely different reason.

The problem… was them.

Principal Park had just thrown you into a class full of men like it was nothing. Not even one girl in the class to make things at least slightly more tolerable. How could he have done it so casually, too?

You could almost hear the laughs of whoever controlled your fate.

“Well, the principal did have a point. We might as well introduce ourselves if we’re going to be stuck with each other from now on,” Namjoon spoke first, to your surprise.

“You make a valid point,” cross-earrings agreed immediately, “I’m Jeon Jungkook, and I can tell when people are lying.”

Your mind, which had been drifting far from the conversation, was suddenly reeled in by Jungkook’s words. They were going to reveal their abilities? Just like that?

“I’m Park Jimin,” your roommate said next, “I can… um, make people feel good?”

Jungkook smirked. 

“Anyone can do that with the right skills.”

Jimin, clearly amused, rolled his eyes, “I obviously didn’t mean it like that. Here, let me show you.”

He walked up to Jungkook and placed his hand on his shoulder, earning a confused expression from Jungkook.

“Dude, what the hell? Don’t touch m-”

You watched Jungkook suddenly quiet, pupils dilating as a calm expression suddenly spread through his features. His lips pulled into an almost dream-like smile. 

“Woah,” he breathed, his voice almost sounding like he was in a daze, “I feel so… calm, and at peace.”

A breathy laugh escaped his lips as his gaze jumped from one thing to another joyously, seemingly seeing his surroundings in a new light, “this is amazing.”

But the serenity in his composure dropped the second Jimin removed his hand from Jungkook’s shoulder. He blinked a few times, as if waking up from a dream, before straightening himself out once again. 

“That’s what I meant,” Jimin explained, “I can control how good I want a person to feel. I can even go as far as making a person drunk on happiness.”

“I have never wanted to make a dirty joke more badly in my entire life.”

Hoseok scratched his head as he seemed to ponder on something, “I’ve heard that Principal Park’s son has the same ability…”

“That’s because I am his son,” Jimin confirmed, turning to Hoseok.

Jungkook gasped, “you’re Principal Park’s son? Wait! You have to tell me, is it true you have an evil twin? I’ve heard so many rumours about it! And I swear I saw this guy that looked just like you in class earlier!”

“Okay,” Namjoon intervened with a judgy eyebrow raised, “I think we’re getting off topic. Would anyone else like to introduce themself?”

“I’m Jung Hoseok,” Hoseok said, “my ability is healing. Pretty basic, I know, but very useful.”

Then he pointed to Taehyung, who was standing silently behind his shoulder, “the one behind me is Taehyung, he can control ice and frost. He’s not very talkative to strangers so don’t mind him.”

So that’s why you had frost on your arms when they had spoken to you earlier today.

“There seems to be a lot of quiet ones amongst us,” Jungkook teased, sending a glance towards you. But at that moment, Jimin spoke up, almost apologetically.

“Actually my brother can’t really help it,” he said, pointing towards the guy that had gotten bullied this morning. He had been practically hiding behind Jimin the entire time you all were here, “this is Kim Seokjin, my brother. He has a speech disability.”

“Wait, what?” You blurted out before you could stop yourself.

“Well who would have thought, she actually speaks!” Jungkook said playfully. 

“He lost his ability to speak when he was younger,” Jimin explained, “not even the magic healers could find a way to help him speak again.”

The guy that you had saved from being bullied earlier… was mute? No wonder he didn’t say anything after. He couldn’t have, even if he wanted to. 

It made you feel kind of… bad, for blowing up on him. 

“That’s weird,” Hoseok spoke up, “magic can usually heal physical illnesses like that.”

“The healers found it weird too, but there was still nothing they could do about it,” Jimin said, but then an edge appeared in his voice, “but it doesn’t matter because either way there’s nothing wrong with him. He’s still my brother, whether he can speak or not.”

He looked around the group, as if daring anyone to object.

“Relax Jimin,” Namjoon said, “I don’t think anyone would stoop that low as to bully someone for that reason.”

You snorted at his statement, earning an odd look from Namjoon. School hadn’t even started yet when you had found Seokjin getting bullied by a bunch of students. 

“That guy is right,” Jungkook said, “you don’t have to worry about that from us at least. What’s his ability though?”

“He, um,” Jimin hesitated.

“He doesn’t have one.”

Everyone’s gaze snapped to him in surprise as Jimin’s words rendered them speechless. 

One of the major reasons why Principal Park had excluded all of you from the rest of the students was because you came from special families. These families, unlike the rest of the magic users, were special because they had a history of being born with unique abilities. Normal magic users couldn’t be born with those abilities, nor could they acquire them in their lives. They would always be dependent on a wand in order to use magic. But you all, coming from special families, didn’t need a wand to perform magic and were each born with unique abilities that made you “stronger” than the rest. 

The thing that was so shocking was that Seokjin was a part of a special family and didn’t have a special ability. You don’t think you’ve ever heard of a child from a special family being born without some kind of an ability. It was honestly the first time hearing anything like this for you and, judging from the others’ expressions, they were thinking the same. 

Namjoon cleared his throat, clearly ready to change the subject, “anyways, my name is Namjoon. My ability is a little complex to explain to others so, in a nutshell, let’s just say I’m extraordinarily smart.”

Jungkook crossed his arms over his chest with a frown, “did he just call us dumb?”

“That question in itself proves my point,” Namjoon deadpanned. 

He then turned towards Yoongi, who had been standing to the side quietly with his arms crossed over his chest the entire time, “what about you?”

Yoongi just gave him a blank stare before stating, “Min Yoongi.”

The rest of you waited for him to continue, but it only stretched the silence. 

Guess not everyone was willing to share their ability…

When the guys had given up on him, their gaze then fell on you. It took you a moment of silence to realise they were waiting for you to speak. They had all happily given their names and abilities to bond in that way guys seemed to do easily. 

And now they were expecting you to do the same to join the club. 

But you didn’t want to be part of this boys club, because, ultimately, it didn’t matter if they had a smile on their face or an expression that told you they didn’t care. It didn’t matter if they were cold or friendly. Shy or confident. 

All men were the same. 

And you would much rather go through this school year alone than risk being hurt by them. 

“Yeah, this isn’t happening,” you finally said, tone flat, “I want nothing to do with any of you or this family.”

You turned around, starting to walk back to the academy.

“Just leave me alone.”

The boys all watched you disappear behind giant double doors that led straight into the residences. 

“I’m getting a sense of deja vu right now,” Hoseok mumbled, watching the double doors close shut. 

Jimin nodded in agreement, “you’re telling me.”

Namjoon couldn’t help but burst into laughter, “god, she’s so predictable.”

“You know her?” Jungkook asked.

“Her name is Han Y/N,” Namjoon explained, “our father’s are close friends, so we practically grew up with each other.”

“Didn’t seem like that to me,” Taehyung said, voice as icy as his gaze. Namjoon frowned, slightly annoyed by his attitude.

“I said we grew up together, not that we were childhood besties. Besides, Y/N would never be friends with someone like me.”

“Because of your arrogance?” Jungkook asked with an eyebrow raised.

“Because I’m a man.”

Everyone’s brows raised at his words, partly surprised and partly confused by his answer. 

“What?” Hoseok finally asked. 

“Y/N hates men,” Namjoon explained, “it’s like her quirk I suppose. She’ll be the kindest and most caring person until a man shows up. Then she’ll be about as caring as a brick wall.”

Seokjin shifted unnoticeably behind Jimin, letting his gaze drift to the floor.

She wasn’t the nicest, but… she still stood up for me against those bullies, he thought, she can’t be that bad.

“It’s why she didn’t even bother staying here to get to know you guys.” 

“Did something happen to her that she’s like that?” Jimin wondered out loud, surprised by the revelation, “there’s no way it’s for no reason.” 

Namjoon shrugged, “if there is a reason I don’t know it. She’s been like that ever since I met her.”

“What does it even matter?” Taehyung said, growing tired of the conversation, “she’s just a little girl that throws a tantrum every time she sees a man.”

“Little girl or not, she’s anything but harmless.”

The boys all gave Namjoon a questioning look, urging him to explain the ominous comment. 

“I’ll tell you her ability, but only because I’m warming up to you guys,” he said, “she can command anyone to do anything she wants. As long as she says it, and you hear it, you’ll have to do it. Even if you die trying.”

The others’ eyes widened, slightly horrified by just how bad a power like that can be for them. But Jungkook’s eyes were widened for an entirely different reason. 

“Wait…” he said slowly, turning to Yoongi, “that’s why you gagged her? Because you knew about her ability?”

“Got any other assumptions you want to make about me, mafia boy?”

Jungkook chuckled sheepishly, “oops.”

Yoongi then turned to the others, “I, for one, think she's smart for not wanting to waste her time here.”

“Should’ve left when she did,” he muttered under his breath before turning around and making his way back to the academy. 

“Isn’t he a treat?” Jungkook said sarcastically, watching Yoongi disappear behind the double doors of the residence. 

“Yeah,” Namjoon agreed, studying Jungkook, “but why did he call you ‘mafia boy’?”

Jungkook just raised an eyebrow, “wouldn’t you like to know, porcupine head.”

“Anyways,” he said, clapping his hands, “it looks like this party's over. I’ll see you guys later.”

The last four boys watched Jungkook take the same route Yoongi had.

“I agree,” Jimin finally said, “it would be best to call it a night considering how late it is. I’m sure Y/N will warm up to us eventually.”

“I’m sure as well,” Hoseok said, a hopeful smile on his face, “we’ll be studying together for an entire degree. Her view of us will have to change over time!”

“Good luck with that,” Namjoon snorted. For as long as he’d known you, you’d always been set on blocking yourself from every man you met. Namjoon had his own theories on why that was, but he’d never actually been able to pinpoint the exact cause. 

He met the hopeful gazes of Jimin and Hoseok.

“Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

-

-

-

You walked through the empty hallway towards the dorms, fuming at the recent turn of events. Your entire life you’ve spent trying to avoid men like the plague and yet life just had a way of making sure you were stuck with them regardless. 

Namjoon’s presence was especially annoying, like a rotten cherry on top of a rotting cake. You bet he’s been waiting for your downfall ever since he stepped foot in this school, that arrogant bastard. You’ll never give him that satisfaction, even if it’s the last thing you do. 

The sound of muffled footsteps behind you had you pausing in the centre of the corridor. 

Did one of the guys really decide to follow you after you left? 

You had been hoping Namjoon would tell them about your ability and that would be enough to scare them off. But it seemed that you were mistaken. 

Typical men. Too busy listening to their ego than to reason. 

You turned around, only to find the hallway completely empty. With furrowed brows, you slowly made your way to the end of the hallway.

Was this some sort of elaborate prank? The guys hadn’t really seemed like the type, except for maybe Jungkook you supposed. He seemed to have an air of mischief around him. 

What exactly was going on?

Another muffled sound reverberated around the hallway, as if someone had clanged something metal against a hard surface. It took you a second to realise that the sounds were muffled because they had been coming from the main hall, so you pushed against the large double doors to enter it. 

Your eyes widened at the scene. Under the moonlight that was entering through the stained glass ceiling above, the pink petals of the Tree of Life glowed a mystic violet colour. The glow spread throughout the dark hall, lighting it up beautifully. 

But right in front of the stone barrier encasing the tree’s base was a figure hunched over on the floor, wrapped in the academy uniform. The person mostly had their back to you from what you could make out in the hazily moonlit hall. 

You wasted no time in pulling out your wand and aiming at them. Compared to most students, you were already quite skilled with magic, so hopefully it would be enough to deal with whoever this was. 

“Hey, what are you doing?” You asked after taking a few steps towards the person you were starting to realise was a boy. When you watched him pause, you tightened your grip on the wand, “who are you?”

Then he stood.

And your eyes widened in confusion. 

It was Jimin. The same plump lips, small nose, and sharp jaw. But… it wasn’t him, because the man standing before you had eyes that were sharp… and red. A deep red that reminded you of blood. It was fitting even, since his gaze felt more like a knife slowly slicing into your skin, rather than the warmth that seemed to always accompany Jimin’s soft gaze. His hair was a deep purple, messily parted at the side. 

“Jimin…?” You said, uncertainly. Your eyes were saying that this was clearly Jimin standing before you, but your mind…

Your mind was screaming anything but him.

“Tsk,” Jimin said, an arrogant tilt to his head as he scanned you callously. Watching his mannerisms only grew your uncertainty even more. 

“Guess again, princess.”

<< previous chapter || masterlist || next chapter >>

[housederiva]

I just finished writing the last chapter of Coming Back to Roost which you can read here! I've also put the first of the chapters underneath the cut xx

It's a retelling of the beginning of Lucanis recruitment mission but with more Crow Rook back story and interaction with Viago and Teia

(also thank you so much for 900 hits on it so far, I'm glad people seem to like it!)

The group had been standing before the eluvian for what felt like hours now, though it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. Bellara insisted on poking and prodding each and every corner of the mirror she could reach before any of the others so much as breathed in its general direction. Which was fine by Rook as it gave her a moment to take in what it felt like to be in the Fade while not being actively threatened or hunted. Her blood could be mistaken for being aerated now that she focused on in, it was the same sensation as sailor would get before an incoming storm.

Much of Bellara’s ministrations were filled with humming and quiet murmurs that couldn’t quite be understood. While the inspection took place, Harding busied herself with examining a small patch of clover before finally selecting the exact one she wanted to pluck and tuck safely within her satchel for later pressing in her journal.

“So, how’d you get so good at fixing eluvians?” She asked once the cutting was slipped away.

“Hm? Oh, it’s mostly a survival thing,” Bellara didn’t look away from where the edge of the mirror met its frame as she answered, “Accidentally release a couple demons or rile up local wildlife with misdirected magic a few times and you learn what not to do.”

Harding chuckled nervously, “Ah well… practice makes perfect, I guess.”

It wasn’t lost on Rook how Neve kept glancing off into the distance towards a secondary eluvian. Unlike the one before them, which was cradled in the arches of Treviso like a lover’s embrace, the one that caught her eye was surrounded by the unmistakable architecture of Minrathous, jagged like that same lover’s scorn. Harding’s anxious banter with Bellara did nothing to draw anything close to a smile on the detective’s face. Too lost in thought to listen in, Rook supposed.

She moved back under the guise of not wanting to be her fellow elf’s stepping stool so that higher sections of the glass could be reached. Only stopping her stride when she got to Neve’s side.

“We’ll go to Minrathous as soon as we get back from Treviso,” Rook said, “Requests like this usually don’t take long.”

Where Neve had a sort of reverence in her stare - a longing for the familiar, Rook had wariness and an urge to forget. While Rook was most likely born there too, it was never her home like it was for Neve. Her childhood spent in its suffocating walls was full of laughter while for Rook, there wasn’t even a childhood to begin with. To her fellow mage, the walls were never suffocating and the people were kind – or at least they could be. Rook had cruelty and a cage coloring her vision, it blinded her at times.

Neve sighed, gently pressing two fingers into the soft spot below her eye socket where her bruise was the deepest, “It’s not all as bad as…” She trailed off, taking in the way Rook was staring at the secondary eluvian, “There are good people in Minrathous, Rook.”

“How would I know?” She sighed in turn, pushing away the seed of spite in her chest before it could fester into resentment. Neve and the Shadow Dragons weren’t at fault for the injustices dealt Rook’s way. They weren’t to blame for the people pressed under more powerful thumbs then the resistance could lift. She was once just one back bowed out of many, no need to be remembered or afforded special treatment in the grand scheme of things, “It’s hard to go sightseeing when you’re at the beck and call of a man more powerful than you.”

“Rook I-”

“Okay!” Bellara called out with several claps, effectively, and unknowingly, stopping the conversation before it could begin.

Harding, the ever-watchful scout, darted her eyes away from the two of them and back towards the mirror. The sad expression switched to embarrassment when she was caught staring.

Varric had said that Harding just needed time to deal with everything. But Rook had known her for months now, this wasn’t the same despondent sadness she had when they ran into a hitch in their plans. Harding looked lost, defeated. There was a grief knitted into her brow that had been more prevalent in the last week than any day before.

“Great work Bellara,” Harding spoke up before Rook could, smiling in that gentle way that made her believe everything was alright.

The compliment was waved off before any others could be added, “Pshh, All I did was double triple check the attunement spheres and a few other things, it’s no biggie.”

“It’s safe though, right?” Neve rested her hand on her hip, putting her weight off her prosthetic as she stared up skeptically to the rippling reflection of the city before them.

“Yes! Most likely…maybe.”

Before a deeper hole could be stuttered into, Rook put her hand on Bellara’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze “If you say it’s good, then it’s good.”

She was expecting at worst a despondent shrug and at best a half-felt delayed agreement from the other women after asking if they were ready to go. If Varric were there and not back at the Lighthouse resting, he’d give a short and sweet speech about being able to show off the sights of her city and how amazing it’d be that they would be home in time for the dinner Bellara was so excited about making.

Instead of the laughter or an eye roll that he would have drawn out, she got three nods in unison, succinct like the speech she skipped out on.

It was only then that she released the tension in her shoulders, a bad habit she was never quite able to break out of, and let the gravity of what she was about to do fully sink in.

She was going home.

In her letter to Teia sent ahead through the eluvian with the aid of a crow conjured by her magic, she had explained what had happened in the most concise way she was able. Rook wasn’t expecting the ball of electric energy she had given wings to return with a letter penned by Teia’s own hand.

The messenger sent was a trick she had learned from one of the few other Crows capable of magic, maybe her proficiency with it was how Viago convinced the former Head of de Riva to keep her around in the first place. Her teacher in that regard was Marcio de Riva, a Crow only a few years older than herself. The skill and experience he had when they first met made her look like an infant in comparison. But, any resentment for him she had as a child had since bloomed into admiration.

Teia’s response was one sentence long, tucked elegantly within the paper sheet folded into a diamond: Come home.

Rook could hear the distant chiming of harbor bells where the freshwater of the canal met the salt of the ocean. The crickets and cicadas buzzed alongside the lapping of water and creaking of floorboards. When she breathed out the stiffness her body held, the unmistakable smell of damp earth and seaweed washed over her. It was a scent that could not be duplicated anywhere else in Thedas and one she would make a candle out of were she able.

It had been over a year now since she was home. Thirteen months and twelve days since she was sent away. In that time, Rook had only ever gotten one letter from her Talon. It was dated six months beforehand and got to her four prior.

Idiot, the page began, which all in all was a good start, considering everything. I hope you’re reading this. That was all she needed to know that he still cared. However, to not go over the rest of Viago’s letter would be a disservice to the elegant swirl of ink that made up his chastising.

His handwriting had always been a comfort to her, a fact she knew Viago was well aware of. The first time she had ever seen her name written on paper, the name he gave her, it was penned by his hand. When she was young, Rook had spent hours late into the night after training copying the way the tale of the R curled.

It was Viago’s handwriting that she had learned to read by all those years ago. His that she had learned to unintentionally mimic. The same curve of the R and the G, the strike of the S's tail and the dot of the I. She didn’t have the shaky uncertain handwriting of a slave trying to be more. There were no words to express how grateful she was for that. Several heads of other houses were much less kind to their roost than Viago was to his.

He had a sternness, yes. A pension for annoyance and an unrelenting need for perfection for those under him. Rook could never say any of it bordered on cruelty. De Riva was lucky to have Viago, her family all knew that.

They had members better suited for teaching a slave how to read, but Rook had curled her tiny little hand into the cuff of his jacket she held onto far too often as a child. She only had to ask once for him to say that he would try.

That closeness was a problem, she knew that now and, while it hurt, understood the distance put between them when he became the head of de Riva and later the Fifth Talon. Any and all softness that Viago gifted her and others could be seen as a weakness. She was a possible poison he couldn't build an immunity to. Of course he sent her away after her blunder with the Antaam. She couldn't be seen as an exception to the House’s standards.

The letter Viago had sent was a scolding, a reminder of her mistake and that she could return home after helping Varric. Despite the cold tone of the letter's center, she held onto it. With the aid of a small ball of veil fire, she’d read the opening and closing whenever the regret of being cast out became too much to hold. Teia told her once that his strengths were in beginnings and ends. Rook never fully understood what she meant by that, she’d like to think she could see the sentiment reflected in the letter.

Don’t get careless out there. Don’t fail. And don’t get yourself killed, or I will come after you in the Fade myself. The blackened ink that closed his reminder at her superior’s lingering annoyance had a blue tinge that the rest lacked, signaling that it was written at a different time. ‘Don’t be careless’ was one of the first lessons her Talon taught her. In fact, those were among the first words Viago said to Rook.

Over the years, she had watched countless parents kiss their children on the top of their head’s goodbye with a request for them to be safe before sending them on their way. Viago always told her not to be careless. Before any outing and every mission, it would be accompanied by a nod that she would mirror back without hesitation. She never had the tenderness of a parent’s goodbye. Viago’s unspoken worry would always be worth more.

The first kindness ever afforded Rook’s way was the day Viago killed the man who kept her enslaved. A spice merchant from Minrathous who, in Rook’s opinion, wasn’t important. The terms leading to the man’s contract were never shared with her, not that she ever asked. She supposed it didn’t matter now.

In the quiet of night, she could still hear the way Crows that were now dead snickered when he brought her home.

Those same gossiping Crows claimed that Viago took pity on her simply because Rook looked eerily familiar to Teia from a distance and similar to him upon closer inspection. Though none would be stupid enough to remark on the coincidence within either’s earshot.

Coffee black hair that sat in curls at the nape of her neck when she attempted to take care of it, tan skin a mix of the two of theirs. Her eyes were brighter in direct sunlight but, in the blanket of Treviso’s night, were the same slate blue as Viago’s.

Whatever the reasoning for his lapse in judgement, it led to Rook bleeding out in Viago’s arms while she clutched onto the leather of his jacket. She could still feel the way her blood gurgled in her throat as she drowned. Now she wanted nothing more than the comfort of gripping onto his jacket as he muttered out with annoyance, “Well, that was rather careless of you.”

The two of them decided that she was at youngest fourteen and at oldest sixteen when her throat was stitched together and dressed.

Her former master ordered Rook to stand in front of him as a shield when Viago came for his contract. Without hesitation, she had complied. When the man realized that was not going to stop his soon to be assassin, he slit her throat in a bid for distraction.

It didn't work.

That first night in Antiva, other Houses had swarmed around her like vultures, appraising her as one would a lamb for slaughter. Giuli Arainai, the Eighth Talon, had grabbed the bottom of her chin with such force she thought her jaw would crack. Viago moved from his place after one stern look to their previous Guild Master before he draped his coat over her bare shoulders, drawing her close to his side.

“I take responsibility for her,” he had said with unwavering eye contact to his predecessor, “She will not be a disgrace to our House.”

Viago was impulsive when he was younger. It was the same kind that he reprimanded her for now. But, had he not moved then, she would have ended up in a warehouse pitted against other slaves fighting for scraps of food only to be tortured by crueler Crows.

“Rook?” Neve led the charge of the others looking at her skeptically, “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah, yes. We have the Demon of Vyrantium to get” She cleared her throat, giving the group the smile closest to Varric’s she could mimic, “With any luck, we’ll be back before dinner.”

[felice-jaganshi]

Alastor X OC

His Pet

Chapter 3/??

The next few days, Zariah seemed rather reclusive. She spent a lot of time in her room and when she wandered the halls of the hotel, she always looked kind of dazed. Though she'd snap right out of it soon as someone said her name. It made Alastor curious what was going on in that head of hers. One day, he stopped her wanderings by poking a finger to her forehead. She stopped moving but still seemed lost in her head.

“My dear, what is going on in that head of yours?” He asked softly, bending over to look in her eyes.

She seemed so far away, but her reply was confident, “the dragon kingdom being at war with the griffin tribes because of a vague prophecy that one of their princes would kill their king…”

He blinked, maintaining his constant smile, but confusion shone in his eye. “The what now?”

She seemed to zone back in, “oh, sorry Al, I was in my head again… too many ideas bouncing around at once.” She looked a little embarrassed. 

He hummed, “Is that all? You seemed so out of it, even angel dust was worried you were on drugs. But you snap out of it too quickly for that to be the case.”

“Oh, no, I just had a really good idea for a novel, and I was so focused on world building, I forgot I was walking around. I should probably go back to my room and write it all down before I forget what I just came up with.” She turned to leave, her tails swishing about, almost touching his face. He smelt a relaxing perfume from them, like almonds and peonies. He decided to follow her.

“Might I follow you, dear? I'm quite curious what Charlie has done for your room.”

“You're not going to help the others prepare for battle?” She asked, looking over her shoulder. 

“Oh no dear, they'll be fine on their own.” He grinned like always, but it felt empty to her.

“Huh… okay.” 

She entered her room, “Shoes off here at the entrance please. The less dirt tracked in the better.” She took off her own shoes and went straight for her desk.

Alastor looked about from the entrance. The bed was a bunk bed, but the top was covered in books, and the bottom had thick curtains covering all the sides to make it a “canopy bed”. There were papers and notebooks scattered all over the floor, opened to different pages with a doctor's level of scribbling all over the pages. He took off his shoes begrudgingly and made his way across the floor. She was sitting in a chair, rocking it back on its back feet as she wrote quickly.

Alastor looked over her shoulder and was having a hard time making out any of the words. “My dear, are you even writing in full sentences?”

“Oh, no. These are just my personal notes. I don't intend for people to read my raw notes, they're just for me. If you want to read the stuff I've actually cleaned up, there's a pile over in the corner of cleaned up stories.” She pointed over to them. “The one in the red notebook I think you'll like best. It's a horror romance, with a wendigo like monster, and werewolves. The wendigo is the love interest.” 

She didn't look up from her pages as she went back to writing.

He was vaguely curious, so he went over and picked it up. He skimmed it a bit. “This is quite unique. You're getting more and more intriguing by the day, darling.” She stopped writing as he called her that, she lost her balance on the chair and fell back with a yelp!

But before her head could hit the ground, the chair was caught and turned back upright, with her still on it. She looked back and saw Alastor's shadow had caught her.

“My my, you should really be more careful. You could have gotten a nasty bruise there.” His smile took on a playful air.

She laughed lightly, “thanks Al. You just surprised me is all. I've never been called ‘darling’ by anyone before.”

“Really? A charming young thing like you?” He asked, resting his chin in his hand as he leaned on the desk.

“young? Hah, and charming?” She shook her head, “I may look cute in this form, but when I was alive… let's just say my soul is more beautiful than my body was. And for the 2020's, I sure wasn't considered charming. You're from what, the 1920's? There's like 100 years between us. And probably about half a continent at least.” She sighed, then held one of her own tails, petting the fur to soothe herself. “Oh, hey, so I noticed the deer ears and antlers, do you have a tail too? Oh, do your antlers get velvet that sheds seasonally?” She smiled at him.

He couldn't help but chuckle, “ah dear, you ask such interesting questions. And I plan to answer none of them!” She pouted and he shuffled his chair over to pet her head again, “Your hair is so soft.” She purred and her other tail flipped into his lap.

“My tails are soft too. They're really soothing to pet when I get anxious. You can pet my tails if you'd like!”

He pulled his hand back from petting her and held them both up, “ah, my dear, I think you may have misunderstood my affections!” He sounded a bit nervous. She looked at him for a moment before blushing and waving her hands frantically!

“Wait! No no, I just meant it as a friendly offer! I know you weren't trying to come onto me, I'm sorry if it came off weird. It's not like my tails are sensitive or anything weird. I was just being friendly.” She then hid her face in her hands, her ears laying flat. 

He sighed, a relieved look crossing his face, “ah, good. Then this was just a misunderstanding. I'm sorry for causing you such distress, Zariah.” He then reached out and pet the tail in his lap, just one stroke… it was the softest thing he'd ever felt! He kept petting it, and Zariah began to calm down and relax. 

“Well, I'm glad that's the case. I'll also take our bond seriously as well.” 

“It's okay, I'm sorry I caused you discomfort. I should have worded that better. Or added further clarification or something. I don't ever want to make you uncomfortable around me. You're my first friend in hell, and I'm taking that bond seriously.” She had a determined look, and he chuckled, it seemed his new pet liked her leash. 

[mxnsterbabe]

Male Owl Fae/Female Reader SFW Wordcount: 3,332 Commissions | Ko-fi | Masterlist

You start a new job at the Reader's Garden, a twenty-four hour library with a secret resident. As you get to know Anjouan, you can't help but fall for him.

You stepped into the Reader's Garden twenty-four hour library, nervous and excited for your first night shift. The towering shelves and musty smell of old books filled the air, creating an atmosphere of mystery and wonder. Rumours of supernatural beings inhabiting the library had always surrounded the place, but you dismissed them as mere stories meant to keep people entertained.

The clock struck nine as a friendly colleague greeted you with a warm smile; she was a beautiful elven woman with thick black curls and a bright smile.

"I'm Nousha," she said kindly, "want a tour of the Reader's Garden?"

You beamed right back. "You bet."

Nousha led you through the labyrinth of bookshelves, pointing out the different sections and areas you'd be responsible for. Her voice echoed softly in the vast space as she explained the library's layout and rules.

As you walked, you couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching you. You glanced around the dimly lit crevices and caught glimpses of shadows shifting in the corners of your vision. Your heart raced, but you reminded yourself that it was just your imagination and focused on Nousha's words.

Finally, Nousha brought you to the back of the library, where a dusty old door creaked open to reveal a hidden, ancient section. "This area is rarely visited," she murmured, "but you'll need to check on it occasionally. We have a couple of regulars who could disappear in here for hours." She paused, brows furrowed. "Some say this part of the library is haunted, but I've never seen anything myself."

You chuckled nervously, trying to brush off the eerie feeling that settled in your chest. You knew it was just a job, and there was nothing to be afraid of. The two of you spent a few more minutes exploring the older section, with its rows of leather-bound books and cobwebs hanging from the ceiling.

After your tour, Nousha wished you luck and left you alone in the silent library. "That's pretty much it," she admitted with a smile. "If you need anything, I'm just a phone call away. Sorry to leave you on your own for the first shift, but we're so understaffed..." she trailed off with an apologetic wince.

Honestly, the peace and quiet was half the reason you chose this job to begin with. You offered a smile and replied, "it's no problem, honestly. Get home safe, Nousha, and thanks for the tour."

Nousha left with a wave and a kindly grin, leaving you alone in the cavernous library foyer. The shadows seemed to grow longer, and the air felt colder as the night deepened. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, and turned to the stacks of books that needed put away.

It was well past midnight when you first heard it – a soft rustle, like the flutter of wings, followed by the faintest whisper. You froze, listening intently, but the sound didn't come again. You brushed it off as the wind or the creaking of old wood and continued your work.

But as the night wore on, the whispers grew more persistent, and you couldn't ignore them any longer. With your heart pounding, you followed the sounds, which led you to the dusty old door Nousha had shown you earlier. You hesitated, hand on the doorknob, wondering if you should venture into the ancient, secluded section. Curiosity got the better of you, and you pushed the door open with a long creak.

As you stepped into the ancient part of the library, the whispers grew louder, and you felt the tickle of a gaze watching you from... somewhere. You searched the dark corners, shining your flashlight into the shadows, until you finally spotted a figure perched on one of the shelves. Your heart skipped a beat as you realized it wasn't a human, or even an elf or orc – he was clearly fae, with large, luminous eyes and a cloak of feathers draped over his shoulders.

You offered a gentle smile, hoping to convey peaceful intentions. The fae's eyes seemed to search your face for any signs of deceit or danger. His features were a blend of human and owl, with a sharp, angular face and large, expressive eyes framed by an array of intricate feathers. His white wings, a magnificent sight to behold, spanned several feet, their tips touching the bookshelves on either side of him. He was like nothing you had ever seen before, leaving you breathless.

Fae were uncommon enough in Oceanhall town, but someone as magnificent as this was even rarer. Standing face-to-face with this strange owl fae, you couldn't help but feel a sense of awe wash over you.

His eyes narrowed as he continued to study you, head tilted to one side. You could tell he was skittish and unsure of how to react to your presence. You decided to break the silence, hoping to ease his concerns.

"Hi," you whispered softly, keeping your voice low and gentle. "I didn't mean to startle you."

His wings twitched again, and he tilted his head to one side, as if contemplating your words. You took another step back, giving him more space, and noticed that he seemed to relax, if only slightly.

You tried to come up with something else to say, something that might help bridge the gap between you. "I've always loved this library," you continued, your voice filled with sincerity. "There's something magical about it. It's why I wanted to work here. Well, that and the fact the night shift is always quiet. Who comes to a library at one o'clock anyway?"

He seemed to consider your words for a moment, his eyes flicking between you and the books that surrounded him. It was clear that he, too, felt a deep connection to this place. Just as you thought he might respond, a sudden noise from elsewhere in the library made him tense up.

He looked around nervously, and you could see the fear in his eyes. He was afraid of being discovered, of being forced to leave the sanctuary he had found within the library. Before you could say anything more, he spread his magnificent wings and took off across the cavernous library, disappearing into the shadows like a phantom.

You stood there for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest, trying to process what had just happened. The encounter had been so brief, so unexpected, and yet it still left you reeling.

As you turned to leave the ancient section of the library, your mind raced with questions. Who was he? Why had he chosen this library as his refuge? And, most importantly, would you ever see him again?

***

The next day, as the sun cast its golden rays through the library windows, you found yourself unable to shake the memory of your encounter with the owl fae. Your mind was consumed with thoughts of him, and you felt an inexplicable need to learn more about his presence in the library. With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, you approached Nousha, who was busy sorting through a cart of books.

"Hey, Nousha," you began hesitantly, "I wanted to ask you something. Do you know anything about an owl fae living here in the library?"

Nousha looked at you, a puzzled expression on her face. "An owl fae? I've never heard of such a creature in our library. We have a few fae regulars, but they don't live here?"

You hesitated for a moment, wondering if you should share the details of your encounter. "Well, last night, during my shift, I saw something... unusual. Maybe I imagined it."

You knew you hadn't, of course, but if Nousha didn't know then maybe it wasn't sensible to tell her too much. You thought of the fear that flashed across the fae's face when you first saw him, and sympathy twisted your heart.

Nousha's eyes widened in surprise. "I've been working here for years, and I've never seen anything unusual. Maybe he's just a shy visitor who usually stays hidden."

You nodded, considering her words. "Yeah, maybe... if you see anything weird, can you let me know?"

"Sure, of course."

You thanked Nousha for her help and went back to your work, but the mystery of the fae continued to gnaw at you. If no one else had seen him, then perhaps he had a reason for remaining hidden. Was he in danger, or was he simply distrustful?

As the day wore on, you couldn't help but let your eyes wander to the dusty old door that led to the ancient section. You knew that the chances of seeing the owl fae again during the day were slim, but you couldn't help but hope that you might catch a glimpse of him.

When your shift ended, you lingered in the library, reading up on fae lore and legends in the hopes of finding some information about owl fae. The books offered a wealth of knowledge on various fae species, but there was no mention of any creature resembling the one you had encountered.

As the night unfolded, you discreetly searched for the elusive creature, hoping to catch a glimpse of him among the towering bookshelves. After what felt like hours of fruitless searching, you found yourself back at the entrance to the ancient section. Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the dusty old door and stepped inside, your heart pounding with anticipation.

You moved quietly through the dimly lit room, your eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of the owl fae. Then, you spotted him – perched on one of the highest shelves, his wings tucked neatly around him as he peered down at you with curiosity and caution.

Determined to coax him into conversation, you approached him slowly, speaking in a soft and gentle tone. "Hello again," you said. "I've been hoping to see you. Are you all right in here?"

The owl fae tilted his head, considering your words. After a moment, he hesitantly replied, his voice barely audible, "What do you want with me?"

You paused, searching for the right words. "I'm curious," you admitted, "and I want to understand why you're here, in the Reader's Garden. I promise, I won't harm you or expose your secret."

He seemed to ponder your promise before finally speaking again. "My name is Anjouan," he said softly, "and this library... it's my sanctuary. It's the one place where I feel safe."

As Anjouan spoke, you could hear the vulnerability in his voice, and you felt a sense of protectiveness towards him. "I think I understand," you said, "I promise, I won't tell anyone you're here."

Anjouan's eyes shimmered with gratitude, and for the first time, you saw a hint of warmth in his gaze. "Thank you," he whispered.

You offered a smile, inching towards where he perched high above you. Although a part of you didn't want to scare him off again, the larger part of you wanted to get closer. "Do you mind if I stay a while?" you asked.

He spread one enormous wing as if beckoning you closer. "Yes, please do."

The two of you sat together in the dimly lit ancient section of the library, surrounded by the comforting scent of old books and the hushed whispers of stories long forgotten.

As the night wore on, you and Anjouan spoke about everything and nothing – the books you loved, the worlds you dreamed of, the little things that made life worth living. The more you learned about Anjouan, the more enchanted you became by his gentle nature and the wisdom that seemed to flow from him like the ink on the pages he cherished.

You noticed a change in Anjouan as well, a few minutes at a time. After a while he shifted closer to you, bent low to meet your gaze despite his towering height.

"I want you to know how grateful I am to have found you," he murmured, making you shiver. "For so long, I've been hiding here, isolated from the rest of the town. I know that my kind are more accepted now, but when I first went into hiding... anyway, you've shown me that maybe I don't have to hide anymore."

You felt your heart swell with affection for the tender-hearted man before you. "Anjouan," you replied, reaching out to gently touch his feathered arm, "I'm grateful too.."

Anjouan's eyes softened as he leaned into your touch, clearly moved by your words. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as you waved gentle fingers through his soft feathers.

As the night drew to a close and the first rays of dawn began to filter through the library's windows, you knew that your time with Anjouan had to come to an end for now. But as you said your goodbyes and returned to the foyer, you already felt a pang of reluctance at having to leave him.

***

Over the following weeks, you saw Anjouan more and more. When you weren't dealing with the odd nightly regular, you spent countless hours together in the library exploring the hidden nooks and crannies of the Reader's Garden. As the days turned into nights, the library became a haven where you could leave the worries of the world behind and immerse yourself in the magic of each other's company.

One morning before your shift ended, you decided to surprise Anjouan with an early breakfast. You had noticed that he was often so absorbed in his reading that he would forget to eat, and you wanted to make sure he was taking care of himself. It didn't occur to you that he didn't actually need to. So, with a steaming thermos of tea and a basket filled with an assortment of pastries and fruit, you made your way to the ancient section, where you knew Anjouan would be waiting.

As you entered the room, Anjouan looked up from the book he was reading, his eyes lighting up with surprise and delight as he saw what you had brought. "Evelyn, what's all this?" he asked, a touch of wonder in his voice.

"I thought we could share breakfast together," you replied with a smile, setting the basket and thermos down on a nearby table. "I wanted to make sure you were taking care of yourself."

Anjouan's eyes shimmered with amusement as he looked at the spread you had prepared. "Thank you," he said softly, his voice gentle. "No one has ever done something like this for me before."

You reached out to squeeze his hand gently, your fingers brushing against the soft cream feathers that adorned his arms. "You're important to me, Anjouan," you said earnestly, "and I want you to know that you're not alone anymore. I'm here for you."

Anjouan looked into your eyes, and for a moment, it felt as though the rest of the world ceased to exist. All that mattered was the sparkle in his eyes, the gentle flush of his cheeks where the feathers were thinner.

Slowly, Anjouan leaned in towards you, his breath warm and sweet as it mingled with your own. Your heart raced in anticipation, and as his lips finally met yours, it felt as though time itself had stopped,.

The kiss was tender and sweet, leaving you breathless with giddiness. As you pulled apart, your eyes locked with Anjouan's, and you could see the warmth reflected in his gaze.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely audible, "for showing me that there is still love and kindness in this world. You've shown me more in our short time together than decades of hiding here."

His voice was soft like the rustle of leaves, his large eyes glittering - but the moment was cut short when you heard footsteps approaching. Nousha entered the dimly lit room, her eyes widening in shock as they fell upon Anjouan.

Her gaze darted from Anjouan to you as if questioning her own sanity. Her face paled, her lips trembling in disbelief. You could see the panic rising within her, her breaths shallow and rapid.

In an instant, she turned heel and darted from the room. Her heart raced, her fear almost palpable. You knew that you had to act quickly to calm her down before she ran off and alerted the whole library.

You rushed to Nousha's side, gripping her arm gently, yet firmly enough to halt her escape. Her eyes were wide, searching yours for answers.

"Nousha, wait," you pleaded, your voice low and soothing. "It's okay. He's a friend."

You gestured to Anjouan, who tilted his head, observing the scene with quiet curiosity. Nousha's gaze returned to him, her body trembling as she struggled to comprehend the extraordinary creature before her.

Seeing her continued distress, you guided her to a nearby chair, urging her to sit down. She complied, her legs wobbling beneath her.

"Take deep breaths," you advised, demonstrating the action. "Anjouan is not here to harm anyone. He's been living in the library for a long time, and he hasn't caused you trouble yet."

As Nousha attempted to steady her breathing, you shot a reassuring smile towards Anjouan. He nodded, understanding the need for patience. Although his gaze shone with hesitancy, he didn't try to disappear.

Gradually, Nousha's breathing returned to normal, and her body began to relax. She continued to watch Anjouan, curiosity now replacing her initial fear.

"Really?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "He's... friendly?"

You nodded, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Yeah, I promise. Would you like to meet him?"

With a cautious nod, Nousha agreed, and you led her closer to Anjouan. As she took her first tentative steps towards him, you felt a sense of pride in her bravery.

Anjouan ducked his head, and Nousha hesitantly shook his outstretched hand. Bit by bit, they both began to relax.

"See?" you offered kindly, "he's no different to any other fae."

"Yeah," she murmured; and although she was still pale, she didn't look nearly as distraught. "Sorry I freaked out."

After Nousha's initial introduction to Anjouan, she decided it was time for her to leave. Maybe she was still processing everything that had happened. With a shaky smile and a whispered promise to keep the secret, she exited the ancient section of the library, leaving you alone with Anjouan again.

As the door closed behind her, you felt a sense of quiet intimacy return to the room. The soft amber light filtering through the dusty windows cast a warm glow over the countless tomes and scrolls surrounding you.

Anjouan's eyes met yours, and his angular features creased into a soft smile. You moved closer to him, your footsteps barely audible against the worn wooden floor. His feathers shimmered in the dim light, and his gaze held a gentle warmth that made your heart swell.

You reached out a tentative hand, and Anjouan leaned into your touch, allowing you to stroke his soft feathers. His eyes closed, and a contented sigh escaped his beak. In that moment, you felt as though you shared a bond that transcended the barriers between your worlds, a connection built on trust, respect, and mutual curiosity.

You sat down on the floor beside him, your back resting against a bookshelf; and Anjouan nestled close to you, his warmth and presence enveloping you like a comforting embrace. The silence between you was comfortable, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of a page turning or the distant footsteps of library patrons.

As you sat there with Anjouan, you felt a profound sense of belonging, as if you had found a hidden sanctuary within the walls of the library. It was a place where you could be yourself, free from the judgment and expectations of the outside world.

You shared a smile with Anjouan, his eyes filled with gratitude and affection. In the soft, hushed atmosphere of the ancient library, you leaned in for another kiss.

[sadwizardlover]

No Hope in Hell

Summary: The ambush on the tieflings in the Shadow-Cursed Lands and its aftermath, from Rolan's perspective Tags: Hurt, angst, absolutely no comfort or light whatsoever TW: This story contains descriptions of violence and torture

Link on AO3

"Hope hurts. That's what you need to learn, and fast, if you don't want it to cut you open from the inside out. Hope is bad. Hope means you keep on holding to things that won't ever be so again, and so you bleed an inch at a time until there's nothing left." --Seanan McGuire, Every Heart a Doorway

"Surrender in the name of the Absolute, or die." 

It's a voice that will haunt Rolan's nightmares for weeks to come, long after they've left the Shadow-Cursed Lands and he can no longer place a face to it. A voice devoid of any emotion or inflection, it sounds almost bored, as if condemning an entire caravan of people to their deaths is as commonplace as discussing the weather.

Everything changed so quickly. One minute, they were on the road to Baldur’s Gate: wary but not yet terrified of the shadows around them, trusting in their torches and spells to keep the worst of the darkness at bay. Muted conversations, Alfira singing to calm the children’s nerves. Cal and Lia beside him. 

The next–

Cultists emerging on the road ahead of them, flanking them from the woods, cultists coming up from behind. Appearing so suddenly and noiselessly they seem almost to be born of the shadows themselves. Armed with bows, greatswords, maces–all aimed at the trembling band of tieflings caught in their trap.

"Surrender in the name of the Absolute, or die." 

None of them know what to do. Their own weapons are raised in response; they aren’t outnumbered, from what Rolan can tell, but how many of them actually know how to fight? Back at the Druid’s Grove they’d needed an outsider’s help before they’d been able to push back the goblins; he doubts they’ll be so lucky here. There is no closed gate standing between them and their would-be murderers, no cave for the children to hide in. They’re completely vulnerable.

And yet–

At the Grove, Zevlor had rallied them before the battle: told them that though they were afraid, though they’d never been handed the easy choices, they had to resist. For their children, for their future. His words had given them courage and led them to victory against a much more powerful foe than the cultists they now face. Rolan doesn’t normally believe in the power of mere words over steel and magic; but what other hope do they have? Surely Zevlor will say something, will do something, to keep his people alive. 

The others must be thinking the same because all eyes are focused on their leader. Tilses, Zevlor’s faithful aide, turns to him and quietly whispers “sir, what should we do?”. Zevlor seems not to have heard her; his gaze is unfocused, staring off at something in the darkness that only he can see. “Sir? Sir!” 

Finally Zevlor turns to face them. He still doesn’t seem to be entirely there, he’s not looking directly at them but through them, like they’re ghosts from his past–but still, Rolan thinks, now is when things will turn in our favor. It’s not a thought he previously would’ve indulged in, especially in a situation where all the evidence in front of him is screaming at him to run, to hide, to do whatever it takes to keep himself and his siblings alive, damn all the others to the Nine Hells. But then a tadpole in the form of an intrepid adventurer wriggled its way into his skull and gave him the slightest hope that maybe, just maybe, they could win against impossible odds.

A slight hope that is snuffed out faster than a moth landing on an open flame.

“The Absolute…will protect us,” Zevlor says. "The Absolute is giving us a chance. Lay down your weapons. Please!" The shock that runs through the caravan is palpable. Looks of confusion and dawning horror pass through the party; from off to his right, Rolan hears Lia hiss "what in the hells is happening?!"

"Sir." Tilses is still trying to plead with Zevlor and make him see sense. "Sir, please. We can't just give in, they'll kill us all!"

No point in begging, Rolan thinks, the old man won't hear you.

Some of the other tieflings feel the same. One of them–Amek? Locke? Rolan has ceased to give a shit about remembering their names–angrily spits out "Some Hellrider you are, Zevlor! Fucking coward." Another shouts "rot in the Nine Hells, we're not going anywhere!" This voice Rolan recognizes as Okta, the motherly woman who made him and Lia and Cal gruel and let them stay in front of her tent. He hadn’t realized she had such guts.

It doesn’t matter of course. The cultist in charge actually chuckles, a noise that makes Rolan wish he could strike them dead then and there, then turns to one of the others. “Line ‘em up so we can bring them to Moonrise.”

Zevlor is still, for gods only know what reason, begging and pleading–not with the cultists, he’s not asking them to show mercy or let them go, no, the disgraced Hellrider is begging to his own people–telling them to lay down their weapons, the Absolute would save them, he would save them. Whether Zevlor’s actually turned traitor, is being compelled, or some combination of the two, Rolan doesn’t care. His entire focus has narrowed to a single pinprick. He will get Cal and Lia out of this alive.

A sharp elbow to his back forces him into line with the others: Lia and Cal to his right, Alfira and Lakrissa to his left. Towards the end of the line are Asharak and the children who don’t have parents to see to their safety. To Rolan’s surprise, the cultists don’t take their weapons away or even order them to be sheathed, so Lia is allowed to keep her bow. In this moment he thinks the cultists have forgotten to confiscate them out of sheer ineptitude or stupidity; later, when he has nothing better to do than drown himself in bottomless glasses of wine and reply this scene ceaselessly in his mind, he will realize it’s the opposite.

The cultists know exactly what will happen in a few minutes.  They’ve set the perfect trap–one baited with that faint, faint hope that maybe there’s still a chance for them to all to survive–and the tieflings have strolled right into it. They want them to fight back because that will make justifying their deaths even easier.

Once they’re lined up, they aren’t immediately ordered to start marching, and the waiting is torture. The cultists point and snicker at them, making crude comments on the state of their clothes, how bone-weary and haggard they look, how easy it would be to just let the evil lurking in the shadows consume them like the hellspawn they are. Their leader is the worst of all. They use the tieflings as a lecture, a morality play to prove the righteousness of their cause.

“See how those who reject the Absolute must cower in the darkness, weighed down by the burden of their unworthiness and sin. They believe themselves to be strong, to be deserving of the air they breathe and the ground underneath their feet. But see how their leaders–” here the cultist leader gestures to Zevlor, still babbling about the Absolute himself, “--see how their leaders shatter like glass when faced with the might of the Absolute! Only through embracing the Absolute can they be made pure. Those who reject the Absolute, those who resist, must be culled like vermin!”

One of the children begins to cry. Asharak tries to quiet them and keep them from drawing the cultists’ attention.

“Shh, it’s alright, it’s alright. Remember what that hero said, back at the Grove? You just have to be strong for a little bit longer, we’ll be okay.” His voice is barely a whisper and the cultist leader is at the opposite end of the line, but somehow they still hear him.

“You,” they say, in a voice dripping with bile, malice, authority. “Do you doubt the truth of the Absolute?”

“No, you didn’t think, did you, that anyone would call your lies into question. Heretics rarely do. I think,” they give a curt nod to one of the cultists near the end of the line, “a little lesson is in order for these children. Better they have some honesty in their lives, however short lived they may be.”

“W-what?” Asharak says, quaveringly. “N-no, I–I’m just trying to calm the children–”

“By telling them lies? It’s alright, we’ll be okay,” the leader echoes mockingly. “Do you really believe they will be spared from this? That any of you will be?”

“I—I don’t—I didn’t—”

“Don’t hurt them, please! They’re only children, they haven’t done anything wrong–!”

“Not them, boy. You will be their lesson. Now kneel.” Asharak remains standing, eyes bulging in horror and confusion. “Kneel.” The cultist behind him grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him to his knees. 

Rolan’s head is spinning. He doesn’t know what’s coming, only that it will be terrible, something he doesn’t want to see, something he doesn’t want Cal and Lia to see, because as soon as they do there will be no going back to who they were before.

“Eyes that deny the truth of the Absolute,” the cultist leader says, “shall be plucked from the unworthy.”

The cultist pinning down Asharak pulls out a dagger with a blade that somehow still gleams menacingly even in the dim light of the Shadowlands. Asharak begins to shake and struggles to free himself from their grip; they kneel down behind him and lock his head in a chokehold, then roughly jerk his chin so he’s facing them. Stupid, brave Asharak is still trying to get away, clawing at their arm, twisting and squirming. The last things he sees in this life are the face of his captor and then the fall of the dagger.

No one screams, no one even breathes. The horror of what they’ve all just witnessed defies anything they’ve seen before; even the fall of Elturel into the hells couldn’t match the sheer, unbridled evil of cutting a man’s eyes out for comforting a scared child.

The worst of it is that Asharak is still alive. He’s moaning and whimpering, blood streaming from where his eyes once were, but he’s still alive, somehow. Asharak, who looked after the children, told them stories and taught them to fight. Gods, the pain he must be in…

“Tongues,” says the cultist leader, snapping everyone’s attention back to them, “that sully the Absolute with lies and deceit shall be sliced from the unworthy.” They signal again to the cultist holding Asharak in place.

They all know what to expect now, know to look away before the dagger drops. But that doesn’t protect them from the noise: the noise of metal through flesh, the noise of Asharak keening in pain, the noise of the cultists chanting “Praise the Absolute!” en masse, as though a god who could condemn a man to such a torturous and slow death for committing no crime at all was worthy of such slavish praise. The Absolutists’ jubilant shouts are matched by the desperate prayers, sobs, and pleas of the tieflings. Zevlor is entreating the children to look away; someone is retching up what little food they’ve had to eat. 

While the cultists are distracted by lauding their murderous god, Rolan feels a trembling hand slip into his. Lia is shaking, he can’t tell if it’s with fear or with anger, but her eyes are clear and determined. He recognizes that look. It’s the Lia is about to do something incredibly stupid and I need to stop her look. But by the way she gazes at him–so focused despite her fear, ready to throw her own life on the line to protect everyone else–Rolan realizes in a heartbeat that he won’t be able to. Next to her, Cal has a similar expression; his is softer than Lia’s, less ferocious, but no less set on doing something dangerously heroic.

When did you two get so big, Rolan suddenly thinks. When you were little you wouldn’t dare do something this stupid in front of me. When you were little, I could protect you.

Lia squeezes his hand tightly. “Spells and swords, Rolan,” she murmurs. He knows what she’s asking of him. Knows she’s calling on him to fall back and shield the children, like they did in the Druid’s Grove. Knows she’s trying to reassure him that they’ll be fine, her and Cal, they can take care of themselves. He knows, and the fear that this may be the last time he’ll ever hold her hand is so overwhelming Rolan wishes it was him with his eyes and tongue cut out and not Asharak. It would be far less painful than this.

“Spells and swords, Lia,” Rolan whispers. And then he lets go.

Lia immediately turns away, pulling an arrow from her quiver and aiming it straight at the cultist leader’s throat. It flies true; if Rolan weren’t so damned afraid, he’d be proud of his sister’s marksmanship. The leader clutches at the arrow and yanks it out, gasping down their last gulps of air before the life dribbles out of them. At the same time, Cal lets out a roar and charges at the cultist closest to them with his pike.

All hell breaks loose.

The tieflings scatter in all directions. Some of them go running off into the shadows; others join Cal and Lia and begin fighting back against the cultists. A cacophony of screams, of weapons clashing, of people dying, cuts through the darkness.

“Run, Arabella!” 

“Danis?! Danis where are you?!”

“You vermin will never see daylight again!”

“No…this can’t be happening, no…no…NO!”

Rolan tries to tune out the chaos as best he can and makes a mad dash for Alfira, who’s collapsed on the ground next to Asharak’s now still corpse. Her eyes are wide with panic and her face is streaked with tears; the children are clinging onto her like she’s the only thing keeping them from being snatched away. It enrages Rolan to see her just sitting there weeping while his siblings are fighting, are dying–

No. He won’t think that, not right now anyway.

“Get up!” he shouts, shoving her roughly. “If you don’t want to die, grab the children and run, now!” This snaps Alfira out of whatever trance she’s in and she quickly stands up and starts to run, pulling the children with her. One of the cultists tries to go after them; Rolan hits him with a magic missile volley and he falls to the ground, dead. He sees Mol stab another cultist in the thigh and yells at her to come with them. 

Then they’re running, running, running, him and Alfira and the children, along with whichever refugees are smart enough and fast enough to follow them. Rolan doesn’t know what spells or cantrips he’s casting to beat back the cultists; his arms are flying almost as fast as his feet. He just knows that he has to survive this, not for his own sake but for Cal and Lia. Who will remember to come back for them if not him? He doesn’t let himself think about how he might be coming back to their dead bodies, or worse, to nothing left of them at all. 

He doesn’t know how long it takes them to get to Last Light from where they were ambushed. It could be minutes, it could be hours, he doesn’t care, before they burst forth from the darkness into the shimmering dome of light encircling the inn. Another Rolan, in another lifetime, would’ve been fascinated by the magic required to create such a massive protective barrier.

This Rolan, in this lifetime, is covered in someone else’s blood and just wants a fucking drink.

There are Harpers and Flaming Fist at the inn who bombard the others with questions about where they came from (“we were on the way to Baldur’s Gate from the Druid’s Grove”) and how they managed to survive the ambush (“Rolan saved us”). They want to talk to him, too, but after he demands to know when they’re going to be attacking Moonrise to free the prisoners and is met with pitying looks and half-hearted reassurances that they will save them, eventually, they just need to know what Ketheric Thorm is planning first—Rolan refuses to speak to them. Cowards, the lot of them. Cal and Lia are worth a thousand of their kind.

Lia and Cal are worth a thousand of you, Rolan.

He sets himself up in front of the bar. Doesn’t even find a bed to rest in, doesn’t try to sleep, because he knows as soon as his eyes close he’ll see everything as clearly as if he’s still trapped in the shadows: Asharak with his eyes and tongue cut out, the cultists laughing at their fear and misery, Cal and Lia looking at him with complete trust before doing something suicidally reckless. The liquor will keep the darkness at bay. With every new cup he pours, Rolan thinks, this time. This time when I get to the bottom they’ll walk through the door. They’ll probably be tired and scared but I don’t care, I’m going to yell at them, how could they be so stupid and leave me alone like this? Every cup carries an enticing whiff of hope that his siblings are playing some childish prank on him and hiding just out of sight, waiting to jump out and yell “surprise, we didn’t die in a ditch!”

Every cup ends in fresh disappointment. 

The others try to console him, initially. Cerys tells him that he and Lia and Cal were brave for what they did, braver than Zevlor who stood by and did nothing while his people died, but this praise means nothing to Rolan. He’d much rather be in Zevlor’s place right now, because then at least he’d be dead, or in some prison cell with the others. Instead he’s here, nursing a drink and a headache, just him and his thoughts and all his flaws. 

Alfira tries to comfort him too. She quietly approaches him at the bar–as he’s thinking yet again of what a fuckup he is, it should be him in prison and Cal and Lia should be here–and gently places her hand on his arm. “Rolan,” she says softly, “I wanted…I wanted to thank you. For saving us. For saving me. I would’ve died if it wasn’t for you, and for Cal and Lia, too.” Alfira swallows nervously. “I know…I know it’s not my place to say anything, and you’re going through a lot, but. I just want to say, I know they’d be proud of you–”

“You don’t know anything,” Rolan barks, wrenching himself away from her. “I didn’t want to save you, I didn’t choose to save you. I would let you all rot in the dark out there a thousand times over if it meant I could have Lia and Cal here with me. None of you mean anything to me and don’t you dare say they’d be proud of me for what I did, don’t you dare even speak their names.” He knows he’s being unimaginably cruel, that Alfira is only trying to help, that she’s grieving too. But in his alcohol-addled haze, his grief seems so much bigger, so much more important than hers, because it’s a grief built on a solid foundation of shame and self-loathing. Alfira can cry about losing Lakrissa but it’s not really the same, is it? It’s not like she could’ve bashed a cultist on the head with her lute. 

But Rolan. Rolan is supposed to be a magical prodigy, the future apprentice to the greatest wizard in all of Faerun, and yet he couldn’t do the one simple thing that was his responsibility and his alone. He couldn’t protect Cal and Lia. If he’s failed so miserably at this, how can he expect to succeed at anything else? Maybe the voice in his head that’s always nagged at him for not being enough is right. Maybe he truly is an irredeemable nobody.

Having to be around the children is the worst part of being stuck in the purgatory that is the Last Light Inn. They are keenly aware that every one of them would be dead if not for him; they are also keenly aware of how angry he is, but because they are children, have no way of understanding why he keeps yelling at them and demanding they refill his drinks even after all the other adults have told them to quit serving him. They want to thank him, want to repay him for getting them to safety, but because they are children all they can do is watch helplessly as Rolan drinks himself into a stupor. How can he tell them that every time he looks at them, he sees Cal and Lia at that age: small, happy, healthy, alive? They’re a living reminder of his failure. They’re not the children he wants to see. His thoughts fill him with such shame and he swallows the shame back with another glass of wine.

As the minutes melt into hours melt into days, Rolan’s ire switches focus and lashes out at everyone not present. At the Cult of the Absolute, for their sick belief in a sick god who sees torture and murder as a way to bring about purification. At Zevlor, for tricking them all into thinking they were strong enough to take on any obstacles in their way, and then abandoning them when they needed his leadership most. At–and here Rolan’s mind disgusts him so much that he has to down an entire bottle of beer before he can even get the thought out–Lia, at Cal, for being so stupid, for having to play the hero when they can hardly do anything without his help, for abandoning him. 

But. The person Rolan loathes the most (apart from himself) is that intrepid adventurer. That hero. That interfering menace, who popped into their lives for only a short time and yet in one fell stroke managed to completely upend everything, simply by giving them hope. If they hadn’t helped Zevlor fight the goblins, he wouldn’t have been deluded into thinking there were still good people in the world, wouldn’t have passed that delusion on to the rest of the tieflings and then betrayed them. If they hadn’t fed Asharak and the children some line about “being strong” and “trusting each other”, Asharak might’ve kept his stupid mouth shut in front of the cultists, instead of being left to bleed out in a dark wood, sightless and speechless. If they hadn’t convinced Cal, Lia, and himself to stay and fight, he and his family would be in Baldur’s Gate by now, safe in Lorroakan’s care and protection. 

Hadn’t they known how dangerous hope was to people who had long ago resigned themselves to a life of hopelessness?

Rolan hopes he never sees the adventurer again. He hopes they’re dead, cut down on the road somewhere; it’ll still be better than they deserve, for all the pain and damage they’ve caused.

Rolan hopes the adventurer is alive, that they’ll come striding through the door so he can punch them in the face, can scream at them about how they’ve ruined his life, they’ve ruined everything, why did they do this to him? What harm did he ever cause them to deserve such punishment as this?

Rolan hopes that the adventurer will come save him, will save everyone, even though he knows this is the most futile hope of all.

Rolan doesn’t know what he hopes for anymore. 

When he eventually does drift off to fitful slumber–his head cradled in his arms on top of the bar, a mug of ale still clenched tightly in his hand–his last thought is that he doesn’t need hope. He has himself, his sense of purpose, and that is enough to get him through whatever lies ahead. The Flaming Fist and the Harpers are too scared to attack Moonrise? Fine, he’ll do it on his own then. Rolan isn’t afraid of the shadows, of the curse that chokes the land outside their little bubble of safety. He’s seen things that are much, much worse than mere shadows in the span of a few days, and those things have his siblings. He will get them out of there, even if he kills himself in the process. Rolan makes a mental note to record a message for Cal and Lia on the scant chance that they manage to escape and make it to the inn while he’s still searching for them in the dark. If he does fall, he wants them to continue to Baldur’s Gate, and not mourn him the way he’s mourning for them right now.

With this plan of action set firmly in his mind, Rolan finally sets his tortured thoughts aside for a time and lets the oblivion of sleep take him.

[shockdingo]

Starting Over II - Video Essays are Fighting in the Streets!

In my last post I made mention that the Bird app scrapped my page out of the blue, so I figured I'd start over and introduce or re-introduce you all to me & my works over here! I'm a voice actor by trade, but one of my main passions is making Video Essays. I LOVE Street Fighter and tend to make several videos about it; it's a funny thing, it's got a surprising amount of interesting story details & lore, but localization troubles in the 90s affected its spread.

First up is the video that got me into video essaying:

"Man of Mystery"

For years I had speculated about the mysteries of the Street Fighter universe with fellow lore fans on the Shoryuken dot com forums, eventually I wanted to put my findings out into the world and make them easier to consume, thus I thought of a pilot to a YT series!

One of the more obscure of the Street Fighter roster, Q immediately caught my attention. First appearing in the last edition of SF3 - Street Fighter 3rd Strike, Q immediately had people scratching their heads:

"Is that a robot?"

"What's his deal?"

"Fedoras? Those'll never catch on, now Trilby's? I sense the 2000s are gonna love 'em!"

In the 20+ years since his debut, little has been revealed about Capcom's Combat Cryptid, buuut with a critical eye, you can notice some rather interesting details and a possible connection to a non-playable character named David Spender. Check out the vid for a dive into mystery!

G& Q: The Golden Question!

This was a follow up to Man of Mystery and solidified my love of video essays! Street Fighter V dropped a rather striking and strange DLC character 5 years ago, he became known as G, the self-titled President of the World! This video focused on the early, pre-release speculation; when details emerged, people like myself noticed more than a few passing similarities to ol' Q and thus, I threw my thinking cap on, covered myself in gold dust, downed some tea and got to crafting this video!

G & Q: Fool's Gold!

The fantastic follow up! When Capcom sent El Presidente to the world stage it only went to solidify possible ties to G & Q. While more mystery than answer was present, Eagle-eyed viewers noticed even more ties between the two characters, as well as a possible path for G. His story mode also featured an interesting look into the social media world of Street Fighter! Grab a snack and a delightful beverage and give this a view, heck, tell a friend! You'll never know who digs Street Fighter and a good mystery solving caper!

The Road to the New Generation! - A Street Fighter 3 analysis!

The biggest, most involved video yet! As Street Fighter 6 was on the horizon and a user made mention that SF3 characters could use more focus, I got to researching & forging!

SF3 characters are certainly loved now, but upon their debut & for several years, they just couldn't catch a break, thus lived in the shadow of the Uber-Famous SF2 cast. This has resulted in many not knowing what the cast is all about. Quick, tell me the name of Alex's mentor! Okay, good guess, what about Magnificent Mutant, Necro...what's his real name? See?

This is a deep dive into information that's really obscure but captivating. Street Fighter 3 until SF6 was the FURTHEST in the timeline, so for ages, no one knew what happened to Ryu, Ken, Chun-Li and the rest of the cast after 3rd Strike. With SF6, we now have that knowledge and forward momentum with the lore, but at the time, I felt this would be a nice refresher before making the jump into the future.

If you've got the time, grab a snack, maybe a meal, and give this a watch. I've time coded various sections so you can focus on specific areas or even resume viewing if that makes it easier for you.

Thanks for taking the time to read this, I put a lot of love and hard work into these, so it means a lot to me if you check these out! If you dug this post, I'll make more highlighting the other work I've done!

Thanks and have a good one!

-ShockDingo

[nicklloydnow]

“Surreal characters, simple controls and a catchy soundtrack turned the 2004 PlayStation 2 title into a masterpiece. Last month its sequel, We Love Katamari, which arguably perfected those qualities, was rereleased with improved graphics and new levels.

But Takahashi ended his involvement with the franchise and its publisher, Bandai Namco, long ago. He continues to live in the shadow of the katamari, experiencing the strange conditions of an industry where artistic creations become valuable intellectual property for companies. He says he does not receive any royalties from the sales of Katamari games.

“That is the nature of the business,” Takahashi said. “I am not important. The game is important. But myself? Who cares?”

Takahashi, 48, never intended to become a game designer; he originally trained as a sculptor at Musashino Art University in Tokyo. However, the young artist became disillusioned as classmates disposed of their creations after each assignment. “I realized that making art was not exactly useful,” he said.

That is why when a professor asked him to create a goat sculpture, he decided to turn the animal into a flower pot that drained excess water from its udders.

“I cannot forget that moment when everyone started laughing,” Takahashi recalled from his office in the garage of the San Francisco home where he lives with his wife, Asuka Sakai, a composer, and their two children. “That was when I realized what I should do, and I believed video games could provide joy and fun to people.”

(…)

A demo at the 2003 Game Developers Conference in San Jose caught the attention of industry leaders at a time when the market was mostly focused on multiplayer shooters like Medal of Honor and Halo. Here was something new and unusual for American audiences, invariably described as a “dung beetle” game or a “snowball simulator.”

(…)

“It feels like Katamari Damacy escaped Japan by accident,” said Paul Galloway, a collection specialist at the Museum of Modern Art who helped establish its video game program, which includes Takahashi’s debut. He added that “it presages a lot of aesthetics found during the 2010 indie gamer boom.”

(…)

But by 2009, Takahashi announced he was leaving video games, saying he would help design a playground in England.

“He is a very singular creator,” said Laura E. Hall, a game designer based in Portland, Ore., who wrote a book about Katamari Damacy. “And that is often at odds with the need to move units in the video game industry.”

Takahashi was coming off the self-described “beautiful failure” of a project called Noby Noby Boy, the one with the alien caterpillar, which received tepid reviews and had lackluster sales. The playground was also doomed; city commissioners were not too keen on the designer’s circular doughnut slide or the giant climbing frame that seemed to extend five stories in the air.

He returned to the gaming industry, but this time wanted more control over the creative process. He had left Bandai Namco because he did not think its other engineers were passionate enough.

“They were making games for the money,” he said. “And if I wanted to make a new project, I would need to hire staff from the company, which was super limiting.”

(…)

By the time Takahashi released Wattam, featuring the green cube, in 2019, Bandai Namco was already remastering his katamari games without his input.

(…)

Galloway said it was normal in the gaming industry, as in other design fields, that individual creators don’t own their creations. After all, games are a collaborative art form, typically requiring dozens of people to make.

“Someone can take Katamari and do something wildly different,” Galloway said. “But there is something that can be lost. Keita’s unique vision for Katamari was lightning in a bottle, and after a while it becomes a bit diluted when you milk the same formula over and over again.”

Takahashi does not want to repeat himself. “Recently, I realized that I don’t really know what a video game is,” he said, explaining his attempts to shed his preconceptions about what defines a good game.

His new definition is much simpler: Bring joy back into people’s lives.

(…)

“I know our lives are not so fun. They are boring. We do the same things over and over,” Takahashi said. “But we should be celebrating the good things in life. Then we can become better people. That’s my thing right now.””

“Katamari Damacy is a special sort of game. So special in fact, that it sidetracked me from writing this several times, playing the game in an absent-minded daze, marvelling at how 塊,the Kanji for katamari, already looks like a small prince rolling stuff up. It worms itself inside your brain by giving the mundane a unique sort of whimsy.

Whimsy, silliness and fun on first glance seem like something unrestrained and purposefully difficult to capture, but Katamari's game director Keita Takahashi made these feelings into substantial pillars of the design philosophy that informs all of his games. Katamari is meant to convey novelty, ease of understanding, enjoyment, and humour, all in a neat little package.

(…)

Yet most of the motivation comes from how you receive encouragement much more frequently than punishment. You're not told to hurry, all items you pick up are equally valid to build your clump with. The consequences of bumping into something are never catastrophic. The King of all Cosmos often reacts enthusiastically to your efforts and the nature of the things you roll up, which is understandable, given I'm generally just as overjoyed whenever I find a spare pound between the couch cushions. The wrath of your father the king is severe, but easily soothed by success. The knowledge that it was his drunken debauchery that nearly caused the collapse of the entire cosmos in the first place makes it difficult to take him seriously in his anger. This way, the king is a quintessential dad - a stern, occasionally threatening force on one hand, the guy who falls asleep with his mouth open at a rerun of "I'm a celebrity" on the other. (I'm absolutely not drawing on personal experience here.)

Narratively, Katamari could make a dire point about the dangers of consumerism and the fact that there really is quite a lot of stuff on earth, but as with every other aspect, it's lenient and careful not to hamper your enjoyment. There is a joy in collecting, after all, preserved all the way from collecting shells from the beach, shiny buttons or stickers as children. Why not virtual thumbtacks and cucumbers?

Nothing about Katamari Damacy would work quite as well, however, if it weren't for its laid-back visual aesthetic. With his background in art, Keita Takahashi isn't so much interested in games as he is in playfulness. You can immediately see influences like Taro Okamoto or Yayoi Kusama in the way he uses colours and shapes.

(…)

By not taking itself too seriously, Katamari allows you to do something that may not serve a distinct purpose. It invites you to look at something visually pleasing and hum a happy tune, to unite what by all accounts shouldn't be united into a satisfying shape. Takahashi's games are different to us because we already have an idea in our minds of how games work, how fun is facilitated and how you maximise engagement. Takahashi found his own answers to all of these questions and instead drew on ideas that are equally familiar to his players from other aspects of life.

Katamari Damacy is designed to appear mostly unconcerned with design, at least the right kind of design. Instead, it's something that simply feels good, and that feeling never goes out of style.”

“Katamari Damacy achieves all of its emotional weight without any complex story or characters, without surmounting any gameplay challenges. This simple game only occasionally deviates from your goal of making your Katamari as large as possible under a time limit.

(…)

Just like any mythology, this simple plot and characters themselves express a deeper network of meanings and associations. In Steven Reale’s Chaos in the Cosmos: The Play of Contradictions in the Music of Katamari Damacy, he notes that the King often dashes the Prince’s attempts to live up to his approval throughout the game. The King towers over the tiny Prince, and even when a level is successfully completed, the King still asks that next time, “we want a bigger one” (Reale, 2011). At its heart, Reale suggests the story of Katamari is that of the frustrations of childhood.

(…)

Katamari Damacy was often referenced by game content producers on YouTube, and its praise by some of my favourite reviewers is what initially piqued my interest. It was through the nostalgic lens that drives so many classic game enthusiasts that I learned an important lesson: the games that I played during these developmental years will have an unrivaled amount of cultivated memories associated with them. More importantly, this is worth celebrating and sharing with others.

(…)

Katamari Damacy captured everything that made childhood special, and more precisely, why it was so joyous to reclaim “play time” all to the tune of “Cherry Blossom Color Season”, one of the most powerful and serene tracks on the soundtrack. The game’s composer, Yuu Miyake even cited it as his favourite song from the whole series, a simple but powerful showcase of his ability to compose a song only with simple chords and melody (Napolitano, 2009).

The moment was pure bliss. I have never felt so completely and holistically happy playing a game, and I think Katamari Damacy achieves this moment by virtue of its simplicity, which consistently evokes a sense of childhood, imagination and free play. Miyake’s simple song was coupled with straightforward gameplay and tactile controls. Together, these elements created the sense of pure joy and discovery that comes with exploring levels and discovering hundreds of new objects.

(…)

In a 2009 Game Developers Conference talk, Takahashi confirmed that Katamari Damacy was about consumption society. This presented a problem: his goal to make things light-hearted, silly, and fun was wrapped up in work that expressed a cynical stance towards society. He stated, “I wanted to make more objects. If there are few objects, I feel lonely. If there are more objects, they will make things more colourful. But when they’re rolled up, they’re gone. I felt empty” (Welsh, 2009).

Takahashi’s dilemma was that the game presented his signature simple, soft, and colourful aesthetic, but it came from a place that was fundamentally cynical. He wanted to critique our desire to collect, consume, and progress. The gameplay necessitated that we participate in that consumption.

But even before this confirmation, critical commentators were already reading the game as an anti-capitalist, Marxist text. In Ryan Stanci’s Katamari Damacy – A Critique he argues that if the Marxist critique of art links that work to enforce or challenge the values of consumer society, then Katamari specifically comments on a culture obsessed with collecting and archiving (2006).

(…)

Despite Stanci’s conclusion that our desire to collect is what hits the right buttons for consumers, and our innate desire to collect it all, perhaps there is something inherently innocent about that desire, even if it can result in destruction. Stanci quotes Joseph Lewandowski’s Unpacking: Walter Benjamin and His Library, where he says the following about the children and collecting:

“They collect forgotten and ignored phenomena, they name “dead” objects. According to Benjamin, such an alternative world-view accomplishes a kind of renewal and rescue – children retrieve objects and stimulate life in a frozen cultural modernity; they re-enchant, albeit momentarily, a disenchanted world […] It is precisely in collecting as a child-like ‘mode of acquisition’ that a genuine collector emerges” (1999).

I believe that the childlike practice of collecting to re-enchant the disenchanted word is the ultimate achievement of Katamari Damacy.

(…)

While it is clear that Takahashi is critical of his own work, ultimately, I don’t think our experiences with his work are in conflict. Takahashi designs works to make people happy, even if it’s only for a brief moment. Katamari, to me, perfectly encapsulated the joy and the silliness of childhood, however brief that experience may be.”

[cursed-blade-gf]

Surprise! Mini Petra story. This is Edgy Petra at her finest. I also wanted to characterize her a little more and show a little of what she’s capable of, so enjoy. @ebevkisk

CW: mentions of blood and gore

Communion

The cathedral echoed with the sounds of people mindlessly chatting after the ending of a sermon. The bishop had just concluded and was bidding his goodbyes to those that had attended on this Sunday afternoon as the sun had slowly started to set through the stained glass windows. Candles flickered as the doors opened and closed as the last few people finally trickled out and the bishop started to gather his things, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw a girl, who looked roughly late 20’s with bright red hair wearing a tailcoat and skintight pants with a rapier attached to her hip. She was staring up at a statue of Nostramus, God of Light and Progress, at the back of the cathedral. He decided to approach.

“That was a gift from the Lavela clergy. They appreciated the work we were doing out in the Lytheric ports and tendered this generous donation. Took them 6 months to install it due to its size.” He said, tenderly.

The girl had a focused expression on her face. “Oh really? Seems a bit much for this guy to be honest.”

The bishop pursed his lips slightly. “May I ask your name? I’ve never seen you in our congregation before. Are you a traveler?”

The girl pulled some leather from her satchel and began to tie her hair back. “My name is Petra and you could say that. Cor Varias is a large continent and there are so many places to see.”

The bishop paused. Whatever feeling he was getting from this girl was familiar. “You know, the confession booth is always open if you’re needing to speak on certain matters.”

The girl chuckled. “My apologies, father. I’m risking life and limb just by walking in here. I’m surprised I haven’t caught fire to be honest.”

The bishop took a step back. “All sins can be cleansed. Nostramus forgives all as long as they trust in him.”

The girl turned and her eyes were glowing a malevolent red and purple. “Then tell me, pastor. Why do I still smell the blood on your hands?”

With her left hand, she reached out and several tendrils of blood rose from the ground and tied his hand and rooted him to the spot.

As he watched in horror, the girl shifted into what could only be described as a nightmare. Claws as sharp as daggers, legs fading into a dress, face shifting into an octahedron, two sets of wings sprouting from her back, and glowing magenta markings across her demonically red body.

The pastor was horrified. “I swear I didn’t do anything. I promise. Just let me go.”

The hellspawn raised a spindly finger towards its face. “For shame, father. Telling lies in a church. I’m disappointed.”

The pastor's horror turned to rage. “I will not take the blame for this. I did what should have been done for the good of the people.”

The demon’s dress faded, replaced with two digitigrade legs that ended in two raptor like talons at the feet. “Now that’s more like it.”

The pastor broke the tendrils and shifted into an angel, flying into the rafters out of sight.

Petra assumed a defensive stance in order to hear movement and any tells as to where he was.

“You betrayed your people, pastor. 200 years, you’ve hid here hoping you got away with it, but I don’t forget.”

She heard the flapping of wings. “I remember you. You were the apprentice of that damned librarian. The one who guilted us for years after the fact. The one who knew I’d been a part of it. People spoke about your kindness. How you’d never hurt a fly.”

Petra channeled her magic and every shadow and dark corner grew longer, covering the room in a veil of darkness. “Every person I ever killed deserves it. Not so unlike you. What about the thousands of souls you led to their deaths. How you looked the other way when a certain interloper invaded your clergy. The pride you took in succeeding. Not many angels would be satisfied with aiding a demon.”

She heard footsteps and immediately slashed behind her, causing angelic blood to splatter across the cobblestone only for him to disappear.

“The aasimar were dangerous. Going against the divine will. The Aasimar were supposed to be following the gods, not acting selfishly. They were supposed to serve the people.”

Petra hissed with a spiteful tone. Fading into the shadows, she waited for more movement. Using her mind , she spoke into the pastor’s thoughts. “People don’t exist for your benefit. Especially you, angel. Gods don’t birth children to serve your purpose. Those people had a right to live their lives and you took that away from them. Your beliefs cost them and now, they’re gonna cost you.”

The angel flapped their wings in a rage and pews went flying. “I will not explain myself to a degenerate hellspawn.”

Petra seized the chance and rose behind him, seizing his wing and slicing it off with her claws. “Careful, father. Angel blood is sacred. And you’re about to lose a lot of it.”

Petra grabbed his throat and lifted him into the air. “Say good night, reverend. And say hi to Behemoth for me. She’s a friend.” And with a sickening snap, she broke his neck.

She then turned to the rest of the chapel and readjusted the pews with her magic and pulled the angel blood from the walls and floor into several vials she kept on her. She was right, angel blood was sacred and the last thing the world needed was angel blood floating around the criminal underworld.

As she glanced around the chapel, looking as if nothing had happened, she shifted back into her aasimar form, dusted herself off, and teleported the body back to the keep.

He wasn’t who she was looking for, but the fact that she found him meant bad things for the inhabitants of Cor Varias. There were still several members of Multanith’s council still very much alive and kicking and she could not allow them a second chance.

[hunter-clarke]

A story, anyone? Criticism welcome.

Chapter One: Alliances and Suspicions

The morning sun bathed Hyrule in a golden glow, casting long shadows across the stone corridors of the castle. Link moved silently through the halls, his steps instinctively alert, eyes constantly scanning the horizon. His mind was focused, not just on his duties as Zelda’s knight, but on the world beyond—something in the air felt different today.

In the throne room, Zelda stood at the heart of the court, her voice soft but resolute as she handled the kingdom’s affairs. King Rhoam sat nearby, his gaze fixed on the discussions unfolding, yet there was a tension in his demeanor that did not go unnoticed by Link. The calm before a storm, perhaps.

It was then the ground trembled—a distant rumble that cut through the chatter. Link’s instincts flared. He turned swiftly, eyes darting toward the sky through the nearest window. Something was coming—something not of Hyrule.

High above, strange vessels descended slowly, their sleek forms silhouetted against the fading afternoon sun. Their grace defied the laws of nature, cutting through the sky with an eerie quiet. This wasn’t a storm, nor any natural occurrence—this felt like a harbinger.

Without a word, Link turned and moved toward the stairs, his hand resting on the hilt of the Master Sword. His body, always ready to protect Zelda, knew what needed to be done. Whatever was coming, he could not leave her unprotected.

Inside the throne room, Zelda was speaking with a stranger. A woman, dressed in regal attire and accompanied by armored soldiers. Link watched from the doorway as Zelda engaged her, her voice measured and diplomatic. The woman, calm but resolute, was discussing an offer from beyond their world.

“We come from a distant galaxy,” the woman, Padmé Amidala, said. Her voice carried an authority tempered by wisdom. “The Galactic Republic seeks an alliance. We are at war, and we believe your people’s strength could turn the tide.”

King Rhoam sat in still contemplation, his gaze fixed on Padmé. “A galaxy…” he murmured, as though testing the weight of her words. “Beyond our borders?”

Padmé nodded solemnly. “Yes, Your Majesty. The conflict reaches beyond our comprehension, but we need allies—especially those with the wisdom to guide us.”

Before King Rhoam could respond, the doors of the throne room burst open, interrupting the tense moment. Guards rushed in, their breaths heavy, their urgency palpable. “Your Majesties, there are more of them. Strange men in armor, demanding an audience.”

Zelda rose instantly, her hand at her side, but Link was already moving toward the door. His instincts screamed. Something about these new arrivals didn’t sit right with him.

The guards ushered the newcomers into the room—a group clad in strange white armor, their movements precise and calculated. But it was the figure at their forefront that caught Link’s attention: a tall man dressed in black robes and armor, exuding an almost unnatural presence. His eyes met Link’s—dark, piercing, as though seeing through him. The air seemed to shift between them, a tension born of something deeper than mere chance.

Link’s hand tightened around the hilt of the Master Sword. The familiar hum of its power echoed in his grip, but there was no comfort in it—not yet.

Zelda, sensing the shift, paused, her gaze flicking to Link. “Link,” she spoke softly, but with a quiet firmness that calmed him, if only slightly. “Not everyone here means us harm.”

Still, Link’s eyes remained fixed on the man. He did not trust him—not yet.

The figure stepped forward, his posture commanding, his presence undeniable. His eyes flicked between Zelda and Link before settling on her. “I am Anakin Skywalker,” he said, his voice deep, yet tinged with a quiet force. “I come from the Galactic Republic. We seek your cooperation.”

Zelda, ever the diplomat, nodded with practiced grace. “Princess Zelda. It is an honor to meet you, Master Skywalker. However, I must ask for more than words before I agree to anything.”

Anakin’s gaze softened ever so slightly, yet his demeanor never wavered. “I understand. You’ll find that the Republic’s offer is not one to be taken lightly. It’s one that can shape the future.”

With a subtle gesture, Zelda indicated a nearby set of chairs. “Please, sit. We can discuss this further.”

As the conversation unfolded, Link’s mind raced. He had fought many battles, faced many foes—but these people, these “Republic” soldiers, were different. Their manner was strange, their mission unclear. But one thing was certain: they posed a potential threat to Zelda, and that was enough to keep his guard raised.

Link’s eyes flicked between Anakin and the soldiers, noting the precise movements of the troopers. They were soldiers—trained, disciplined. And Anakin… Link could sense something more. The man seemed to exude a power, a quiet force, that unsettled him deeply.

Every so often, Anakin’s gaze would flick in Link’s direction, as though assessing him with an understanding that went beyond mere observation. It made Link uneasy—this wasn’t the scrutiny of a mere outsider. No, Anakin knew something. And that knowledge could be dangerous.

His grip on the Master Sword tightened.

For now, Link remained silent, ever watchful. Zelda was his priority, and no matter what strange galaxy or war these people hailed from, he would protect her with his life..

Any thoughts are more than welcome. Advice, more so.