#i suppose i will finally tag naught with

[karts-pit-of-art]

horrible first impression you look like a rat

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 12: Catharsis

Summary:  After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.3k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

"Then say it, Astarion,” she urges him. Her lower lip trembles. She unconsciously bites it to quell the movement. A single fang peeks out and glints in the sunlight, white as the purest snow. “Open the bond and say it.”

“I…I-” he trails off with a rasp and cracking voice. The words are lodged in his esophagus and anchored on the tip of his tongue. That presence in his mind tugs at his psyche, grappling for control. It speaks its ethereal omens. “ She will be your end. She spins her web of destruction even now. When she snares you, she will crush you in her grasp, and when you finally break, I will be there to claim you once again." He grimaces at the ill-portent and cedes, “Perhaps you are right. This is a conversation better had at home.”

She nods, crestfallen and stares at the lake with a longing look that he does not like to see upon her face. It’s the look of defeat. All hope is lost and withered away. She yearns for stillness and obscurity to quiet her mind. Yes, he knows the expression inlaid on her features well.

Is he putting her in further danger if he says it? Could the voice in his head be speaking truths?

He’s said it before. What stops him?

Is it a lie? He is no liar.

He said it before….

He said it…. 

Gods. It’s hard to think clearly with this tittering in his head, defiling his thoughts with its blighted ballad. The presence screams that she is a threat. She has cast some sort of spell on him. “A trick!” It chimes, “A clever, beautiful trick by a clever, beautiful sorceress. She means to unravel you! She means to break you apart, crumble you into pieces and dance on your ashes!”

She would not do such a thing. Would she? Could she? He has used his beauty to mislead many in the past centuries. Is it possible she is doing the same? She cannot scourge him physically, but mentally… well, that is a fate far worse than even death.

She would not trick him. She need not trick him. He already lov-

Hells below, he cannot even think it, let alone say it aloud.

He can force her. He can make her his with naught but a thought. She already belongs to him. He can pull her strings and make her dance, a puppet upon his world stage because he is the Vampire Ascendant, and he can take anything he pleases.

No. He grimaces at the sadistic notion and how good and powerful it makes him feel. His thoughts become contorted and serpentine too easily these days, a pit of snakes twisting themselves into tangled knots.

She wants something real. She deserves something real, but what in the Hells does real look like? Is it supposed to be like in the silly stories he’s read? Surely not. Those are just a conglomerate of lovely words, trussed into pretty lies that the eyes can view.

He hears them before he sees them. They stand idle in the shadows, trying to hide their heartbeats behind the thundering hoofs of the horses and the wind whipping through the trees. They do not smell like powdered iron-vine.

They are learning.

They should not know he is here, but he does not have time to ruminate on it. His heart detonates in his chest, leaping around like a frightened bird in a cage. The presence in his head serenades him, pulling at its chains, pleading to be unleashed. He needs to get her away from here, from them and himself, before he sinks.

“Run!” He commands.

She hesitates, her pouty lips set into a hard line while she scowls at him and protests his commands. She draws the Weave. It shimmers around her like a vapour in the air. She is beautiful.

She challenges him at every damn turn. He loves it. He loves her for it.

He loves her…

She will not leave of her own accord. Even if he begs, an army cannot make her leave his side, and he knows it. He knows what he must do, but he does not wish to do it. Taking her control from her, forcing her into servitude, the idea used to thrill him. When did that stop?

Yet, he will always do what he must, even if it pains him as he has always done.

He confiscates her control, “Run to the manor as fast as you can and stay there until I return. You will stop for no one and nothing.”

She’s going to berate him later for this, but at least she will be alive to admonish him.

She sprints, and he summons every werewolf, every bat, and every ghoul he can, “Follow her!” He sends several away as the hunters rush him. He parries and dodges, sinking his blades into ribs, necks, and chests. “Protect her at all costs. Signal me when she is out of the forest and return here.”

Gods, his head hurts as he’s torn, the rattling of chains in his head splitting his concentration, but he must make sure she makes it out before he can give in and be overtaken. What will he lose this time? Whenever he drowns, something is stolen from him - a memory becomes snapped and riven like looking into a broken mirror, another part of the real him lost.

Once he hears the baying signal, he lets go and allows himself to be consumed, and all is black, black, black.

Shadowheart tugs on your limbs and clothes, wrapping her arms around your waist and heaving with all her strength. Her voice resounds, but it sounds like a faint, distant whisper, like the sigh of a weary breeze over barren plains. You feel like you’re staring at yourself from a distance. Fatigued, faded and lusterless, you’re a relic of what was and what could have been, just another corpse littering the earth. The skyline is the indigo and blue hues of impending dawn, and the stars no longer stare down on this tragedy as they wink out like eyes shutting against an unexpected bright light. When the sun rises, you will float away and be forgotten in the sands of time.

You were so close. Gods, so fucking close. In the end, Astarion had been right. Love hailed itself a saviour and became your destroyer.

“The sun is rising,” Shadowheart pants, panicked as she tries to pry your fingers from their clutch on Astarion, but they might as well be fused to him. “We don’t have a second longer to lose.”

Each time you blink, a new memory appears and plays in your mind’s eye. Some good. Some bad. Some terrible. Is this what they mean when people say your life flashes before your eyes at death? The reliquary opens, and your hopes, dreams and broken pieces are laid before you to gaze upon.

“Astarion would not want this!” Shadowheart raves, agitation and dread, making her voice tremble. She shakes your shoulders and hauls on them. “He would not want you to die!”

I am already dead.

The first thin golden strings of the newborn sun weave their way through the trees, a grand lace of radiant light that falls upon your pearlescent, colourless skin. Shadowheart screams, her heartbeat pounds in your ears, her blood a tidal wave through her veins as she tries to cocoon you with her body and limbs so the light cannot consume you.

“I’ve got her, Shadowheart,” Astarion’s faint voice charges the air. “I’ve always got her.”

You barely catch it, another whispering flutter in the air, but his chest shudders underneath you, and you’re plunged into your body. Your eyes snap to his, which are open in a hairline split. Crismon barely peeks through behind thick lashes, but somehow, you know he’s looking straight at you.

You grab his hands, interlocking your fingers with his, “Astarion?”

He does not answer, but his fingers twitch, and his grip tightens, if only by a barely perceivable fragment.

Shadowheart clambers, her hands glowing the baby blue hue of her magic so brightly that she could rival the sun as she focuses every morsel of power she has left. She slams her splayed hands onto Astarion’s chest with a thump that makes him wheeze and cough, and he’s bathed in vivid blue.

“You’re not burning.” Shadowheart’s chest swells and recedes like waves over a storm-tossed ocean with exertion, “Is he?”

Astarion stills again, eyes closed. Yet, you do not burn as the rays of light prance over your skin. Your ears perk and quiver as they catch the faint, feeble beating in his chest.

You smile at Shadowheart and throw your arms around her, “His heart beats. He lives. Thank you, Shadowheart. Good Gods, thank you.”

You sit cross-legged on the bed beside Astarion and fixate on him. Shadowheart helped you get him home and into bed, but he’s still not stirred more than some muttering and twitching in his sleep in three days. You’ve not left his side to sleep or eat, and you’re getting hungry. Very hungry. Shadowheart refuses to leave despite your insistence that she is not safe with you. With each passing second, it gets harder and harder to ignore her presence. Astarion’s heartbeat is of no concern to you, but hers… good Gods. Hers sounds like a culinary delight being offered to a starving ogre. You forgot how hard it was to be around the living with their delicious-smelling blood and beating hearts, begging to be tasted.

I’m a monster.

Shadowheart knocks and lets herself into Astarion’s bedroom. She yawns and stretches. You can hear her bones cracking and grimacing at the sound assaulting your ears, “Still nothing?”

“No,” you mumble, clutching fistfuls of bedsheets to stop yourself from scratching your skin in front of her. “His heart sounds stronger and beats more rhythmically, but he hasn’t woken.”

Shadowheart nods toward him, “May I?”

She’s been continuing to heal him every day as much as she can until she needs to sleep and recuperate. You’re surprised she’s putting so much effort into helping him. You thought she hated him, but there is worry etched into the lines of her expression and sadness you did not think you would see, at least when it came to him. You push yourself against a wall, splaying your hands against the wood. You cannot let her get too close to you. You are dangerous. Being a vampire spawn has not been as easy as Astarion made it look. Although, it is substantially less difficult when you’re well-fed.

“Go ahead,” you nod at Shadowheart with a small smile, “but always be wary of me. I cannot be trusted.”

She scoffs, laying a hand on Astarion and reciting incantations in a repeating melody, “You lived with me for a year, and you only tried to kill me once. I trust you. You have better control than you believe, but I will be on guard.”

You wince at the memory. It had been only a few weeks into living with Gale and Shadowheart after they found you in the sewers, starving, writhing and feral with hunger. Astarion had made being a spawn look easy. He could be around blood and gore, and it barely seemed to affect him, but you learned quickly that it was not as simplistic as that.  Shadowheart and Gale could not understand why you would not leave your room or why you barricaded yourself in there with every spare piece of furniture you could. One night, you had ventured down, and Shadowheart had been cooking after having had quite enough of Gale’s dry and tasteless food. She nicked herself with a knife chopping vegetables. A small wound, but the blood in the air sent you into a feeding frenzy, blacking out everything but that delicious sanguine tang and you had lunged at her. Gale cast sleep on you before you could bite. Shadowheart laughed it off, but it was a wake-up call to you.

You are dangerous. You cannot be trusted, and you cannot trust yourself. Bloodlust overrides everything else far too easily.

Shadowheart’s magic washes over him again but with little noticeable effect, and she frowns at her palms as if somehow it’s her fault.

“He’s improving,” you assure her, disheartened by her sullen look. “Every time, he improves. His heart beats stronger.”

She clenches her fist with a nod and a grin, walking over to the chair at the other end of the room. She gives you once over and states, “You’re hungry.”

You swallow hard, crawl onto the bed and place your hand on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat in your palm, and it comforts you, “Yes. I’m very hungry,” you don’t bother trying to conceal it. “You should leave Shadowheart. I know you mean well, and I am grateful for all your help, but I am not Astarion. I do not have the control he does.”

“He keeps you well fed,” she points at Astarion. It’s not a question, and you cock your head at her, “You were skin and bones when you left, but you’re looking healthy again. You’re looking like yourself. I imagine you’ve not gotten much better at hunting, so he must do it for you.”

Your fingers curl into him, “He’s trying to teach me,” you laugh lowly for the first time in days. “He says I’m atrocious. I believe he called it an affront to the gods themselves,” you try to mimic his voice while rolling your eyes. “He takes me out every night, usually.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Shadowheart’s brows pinch. “You said you didn’t have time to explain it, but we have nothing but time while we wait on him. Gods. Is he always this lazy?”

She’s trying to cheer you up, and you giggle at her. You’ve missed her. Shadowheart was not overly pleased when you showed up as a spawn, but she accepted it when you told her it was what you wanted. Shadowheart has been the only one, other than Astarion, who you can be brutally honest with regarding your morbid urges.

“He always did enjoy his beauty sleep,” you shrug with a giggle, and she grins. “The Rite had more consequences than we assumed,” you sigh, “Not entirely surprising. As for what exactly, I cannot be sure yet, but I think it would be best if he tells you himself - if he wants to.”

“I understand. If he allows it, I will help any way I can,” she nods. She will not pry because she would want the same choice if it were her, and you would never give away her secrets, just as you refuse to give away his, “You need not be alone in this.”

Hells below. Shadowheart never fails you.

“I could hug you right now, Shadowheart.” You smile, fangs bared, because you do not need to hide from her, “But can we perhaps wait until I’ve eaten and you’re not looking so godsdamn delicious?”

“I’ll have you know that I am as delicious as you are pale. I will have to tell Astarion to get you out into the sun more often,” she giggles as you groan. You’ve had enough sun for a while after your last dalliance with it, “I will take the hug when you’re feeling less peckish. I like my blood in my veins.”

Peckish is an understatement. You could eat a bear, or two, or three, or perhaps an army of them right now. Those hunger cramps and spasms in your muscles are starting to make themselves known and hard to control. Your mouth is a salivating spring, and you have to swallow excessively lest you drool. If Astarion does not wake soon, you will have to push Shadowheart out with physical force if she does not heed your warnings.

“You really should think about going home, Shadowheart,” you urge with a plea that wobbles your intonation. Your hand hovers over bandaged wounds. The superficial ones healed long ago, but these. Gods. Any of these would have killed a mortal man instantly, and he has several, “Astarion just needs time to heal, I think.”

Shadowheart’s eyes flash with that pig-headed defiance you’ve come to know, and she sniffs, “I’m not leaving until he wakes,” she smirks as you grumble under your breath at her, “Is there anything you can tell me about what is going on with him?”

“I know this will be a challenge for you,” you smirk at her with a knowing glower, “But when he wakes, try not to make him angry. You two have always been like cats and dogs, but try not to push him too far. When he gets angry…. Well, let’s say he is not himself.”

“Don’t make him angry?” Shadowheart scoffs, crossing her arms and turning her nose up with a brashly twisted mouth, “Gods. That will be quite the task. He can be exceptionally insufferable.”

“I heard that.” Astarion grumbles, clicking his tongue while opening his eyes sluggishly, “I am a positively magnificent bastard, aren’t I?”

“Astarion!” You nosedive into him, wrapping your arms around him and basking in the warmth of his skin.

“Well, hello, little love,” he purrs comfortingly. His arm wraps around you and compresses you against his chest with his nose in your hair. He thrusts you back with one arm and scans you, “You are alright?”

“Me!?” You fight the overwhelming desire to shake him. He’s just woken up, and he’s asking about you? “You stupid, foolish idiot! When you are on your feet, you and I need to talk.”

He chuckles, running his fingers through your hair, “I expected as much.”

Shadowheart stands, “I hate to break this up, but may I?”

She gestures to Astarion, and you nod, pulling out of Astarion’s grip with a reluctance that makes your skin crawl. Astarion arches a brow at your retreat. Shadowheart’s magic infuses his skin, healing him slightly further, and he looks at her confused.

“Thank you for taking care of her, Astarion,” Shadowheart emphasizes with a genuine smile. “She’s looking well. I owe you gratitude for that. She would not tell me what’s happened to you, but I would like to help if I can - if you will accept it. I don’t need your answer now, but think about it.”

“Uh,” Astarion is taken aback by Shadowheart’s authentic appreciation, but he recovers his detached mask quickly. “You’re welcome,” he says cooly, “I will think on your request. Please tell me this does not make us,” he cringes, “friends.”

Shadowheart scoffs, “Gods, no!”

“Good,” Astarion giggles. “I do positively enjoy our squabbling, after all.”

Astarion’s eyes swing to you, pressed against the wall as if you’re trying to melt into it. Your jaw is clenched hard, teeth rasping. Try as you might, you cannot hide the discomfort you’re feeling, and you look away from him, uncomfortable under his penetrating gaze. He will recognize bloodlust.

Astarion pushes himself upright, “How long have I been out? Please tell me she’s at least tried to eat.”

Shadowheart answers before you do, “Three days and no. She has not left your side,” she points at you with a scowl, “Despite my insistence that she do so. You know how stubborn she can be.”

“Hells below.” Astarion is out of bed before you or Shadowheart can comprehend what’s happened, and he pulls you close to him with a tight grip on your waist, “I thank you for your assistance, Shadowheart, truly, but you should leave. It’s not safe for you to be around her. I will think about your offer and walk you out.”

Shadowheart puts her hand up with a shake of her head, “That is unnecessary. I can show myself out. Take care of her, Astarion. Do not make me regret saving your hide.”

Astarion chuckles, “I can only promise I will take care of her. You have my word."

Shadowheart smiles at you, “I will be expecting that hug once you’re feeling better.”

The shattered glass crunches under your feet as you walk through the shambles of what remains of the mirrors, vases and paintings you ravaged. Little pieces of mirror reflect the candlelight, spraying it in a flickering array across the walls and ceiling like a conglomerate of stars. Your fingers tremble over the curtains, but the anguish is fresh in your mind, and you can’t get yourself to open them. It feels grave to be away from Astarion, even though he’s upstairs, and you keep your hearing trained on his heartbeat, afraid that if you don’t, it might arrest.

With a sigh, you bend down and start to collect the broken fragments of the mirror that spurns your existence and remains empty despite your fingers gripping the surface. You breathe on the glassy surface. You know nothing will happen, but for a reason unknown to you, the refusal to acknowledge you sways you in a sudden grip on anger. You squeeze it, and the sharp edges slice into your fingers. Blood wells up, gliding and smearing on the surface, and you grin as if you’ve forced the damn thing to accept you are real.

“Decided to do a little redecorating, I see,” Astarion chuckles, arching a brow at the mess.

You whirl, compressing the pieces of mirror in your hand so hard they start to buckle and splinter further. You want to berate him for sending you away, screaming at him for compelling you and scolding him for dying and almost leaving you alone for eternity, but once your eyes meet his, the anger is washed away by relief. He’s alive, and for now, that’s all that matters.

I have an eternity to chastise him for being an idiot.

“Sorry.” It’s the best you can do.

Astarion walks toward you, and even though the floor is littered with rubble, his footsteps still make no sound. His fingers slip down your arm to the hand that’s clutching those broken pieces, blood still rolling down the surface.

“It’s okay, little love.” He coos, taking the fragments from you and letting them fall back to the floor. He kisses your blood-smeared fingers, “It was all horrific. Wasn’t it? We can redecorate.”

We?

Gods. He talks as if nothing has happened, and it vexes you, but you slip your arms around him, push your ear to his chest, and enjoy that steady and strong beat almost stolen from you.

Astarion kisses your temple, then forehead and then tilts your head up and moulds his lips to yours in a lingering kiss before pulling back and scowling at you. His voice is coarse and booming, “What you did in the forest was bloody stupid! What in the Hells were you thinking? You would have burned to death had Shadowheart’s damn wailing not roused me.”

“You don’t get to lecture me on stupidity.” You push him away and meet his ire with your own. “You should not have sent me away! I could have helped.”

“It’s not your problem,” he shakes his head.

“Oh, Gods,” you scoff at him, fingers curling into fists at your side, “Not this bullshit again! Your problems are my problems. When will you learn that?”

“No.” He hisses, “I failed you once, and the Gur nearly killed you. I will not fail you again.”

“You imbecile!” You scream, starting to weep, and you put your hand on a wall to keep yourself steady as the leaden weight of everything that’s happened descends, “You died! You were dead! You… you almost left me here all alone.”

The blaze of anger in his eyes winks out, sterilized by grief. Astarion’s brows rise, and the corners of his mouth turn down, “Oh, love, no.”

Astarion’s arms fold around you as your knees give out, and he braces you against him with a hand at the back of your head. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles with his lips against your forehead.

You almost want to push him away, to give yourself some distance, because you are falling too hard, too fast, but he guides your head up, and warm ruby eyes unite with yours. The connection with him croons the invitation to open, and you don’t hesitate to answer. Everything floods in a downpour. All your nerves, synapses, and neurons buzz with the efflux of information. You squeeze your eyes shut as your body attempts to orient itself. You inhale several shaky breaths as his heart beats inside your chest. It’s uncomfortable, but Hells, you will gladly take that pain.

The flood eases and becomes pleasant, languid streams that cross softly, slowly, and you are one. You are whole. You are complete.

Before you can open your eyes again, you feel Astarion’s lips ghost over yours, and you part them for him in a gasp as you feel his desire ignite. A raw, almost feral passion, unbridled and uninhibited. It’s so potent it’s intoxicating, and your yearning bursts and throbs between your thighs. Astarion kisses you with ferocity, and his tongue darts into your mouth. His taste is rich, deep and dark, and you moan as you drink him in. His fingers slip into your hair at the back of your neck, holding you firmly while he pushes your back against the wall. He grinds his hips into you with a resonating growl as he pins you.

Good Gods. With the connection to him open, you feel everything. His pleasure. Your pleasure. All brimming and teeming as one ocean of bliss you’re going to drown in. Without his smooth skin against yours, you feel painfully bare, and you rip open his shirt, flinging buttons askew. Astarion slips your dress from your shoulders with a smug smirk and lustfully hooded eyes, and it pools at your feet as Astarion lets his shirt fall.

Pushing yourself against him, you sigh with a pining whimper. He feels pure and warm as sunshine, and he is the light that parts the gloom of sorrow that has clutched your heart for the past few days.

Astarion parts your folds, spreading them and stroking the slickness. He is not slow this time. He is not teasing. He is feverish in his need for you. The pads of his fingers find your aching center, swollen with want, and quickly settle into a rhythm that makes your body twitch and spasm with white-hot pleasure, making you arch off the wall. You moan loud and animalistic, whimpering his name like a verse that’s stuck in your head, and his throat steals your moans with his lips on yours as if he can taste the euphoria in your cries.

Tension coils in your belly, and Astarion moans deep and velvety smooth as you crest and dissolve for him. He doesn’t waste a moment. You can feel his urgency from the connection, and it makes you just as rabid. You need to feel him stretching you, massaging your walls, making you his.

With a quick snap of his wrist, his trousers are below his hips. His cock is hard and yearning, twitching in the candlelight. Astarion grips your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist, and he buries himself into you with one quick thrust.

The pleasure is so intense, either his or yours or maybe it’s both combined, you do not know, but you clench around him so hard he hisses when he inhales and groans, bracing himself with his forearm on the wall as if he might fall over.

“F-fuck,” he pants. He pulls out slowly and slams back into you with a snap of his hips. “Tell me you love me,” he commands with another pump, plunging himself deeper.

Your ears barely perceive the words he’s saying while you sink into your mind-numbing ecstasy, but you know what he wants intuitively, “I love you,” you whimper, lacing your fingers into his soft curls.

Astarion’s pace increases, uncontrolled and more frantic, as he rears his hips back and drives into you. He pushes himself as close as he can possibly get while he pumps his into you.

“Again,” he instructs huskily as he finds a pace that snares all your senses. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” you breathe, panting, bucking your hips to push against his thrusts, rolling them in the way you know drives him crazy. “I love you. I love you. I love you,” you repeat a whispering hymn.

Every nerve quivers in bliss, and your eyes roll back. You clench, gripping his cock tighter and tighter with every thrust.

“Come,” he growls the command darkly.

Your lips crash into his as you comply, your body submitting to his influence. It feels like a dream to obey, and you crash into your orgasm like a wave crashing upon a rocky shore. You cry out, fingers raking his skin, thighs squeezing him as you’re cast upon that shore time and time again.

“Good girl,” he purrs. His hips stutter as the tremors massage his girth. “Again,” he barks with a groan, his breath hitching as he plunges into you erratic and needy.

Every pump of his hips is an ode to possession. Every twitch of his cock is a chorus of control. Every time he drives you to your peak is a sonnet to claim.

He owns you. You belong to him. You are his.

Yes, take me and make me yours.

You don’t know if they are your thoughts or his, but you hear his answer in your mind as it drifts on the slipstream of your bond.

“I will.”

Good Gods. Astarion means to make you shatter around him over and over until your body cannot possibly splinter any further. He means to take, take and take until you have nothing left to give, and even then, he means to take more.

And he does.

The smell of Honeysuckle, Vanilla and brandy is heavy and prevalent, arousing you gently back to your senses. Your eyes remain closed with lingering fatigue. The muscles in your body ache with an obnoxiously constant pang, and you groan and grumble under your breath at the sensation. There’s a serene tranquillity rife that you cannot quite explain, like a peaceful and undisturbed pond. You’re warm as if swaddled in a blanket made of sunlight.

Sunlight. Sun…

No. You should not be in the sun!

Your eyes snap open, and you flounder, graceless and clumsy. Steam rises all around you, and water swooshes and splashes over the sides of a ceramic-tiled tub, splashing against the floor.

“Easy, love,” Astarion chuckles, pulling you against his chest to stop your inelegant lumbering. “You’re alright.”

Your head quirks up, and your eyes meet his gaze. Candlelight treads and sways in the sanguine sea, and kindness coruscates, making them radiate softly.

You blink, and your hand slices through the water, “What in the Hells?”

“A bath,” he grins handsomely, sweeping wet strands of hair from your cheek and behind your ear tenderly. His fingers trace your jaw, “Apologies. I may have gotten a little… carried away.”

Carried away is one word for it, I suppose.

“Oh,” he giggles, beautiful and lighthearted, as careless as a child at play. It makes you smile. You came so close to never hearing that sound again. “And what’s the other word for it?”

Shit. He’s still in my head.

“Yes,” he kisses your temple, hugging you tighter. His fingers skim across your skin comfortingly, “I am still in your head as you are in mine.”

“You put me in a bath?” You arch your brow at him.

“It was necessary,” he smirks arrogantly. “I made quite a mess of you.”

Astarion reaches down, his fingers parting your folds, and you jump, confused at what exactly his goal is. “Relax,” he purrs. “This is not about sex.” His fingers rub over you gently, washing you and easing that soreness his enthusiasm caused. His feelings of affection and genuine, thoughtful compassion roll through the connection. “Unless you wish to go for round four? Or was it five? Or six? I could be persuaded.”

You groan and slump down further into the bath. Despite your exhaustion, your body responds to his touch as it always does, fire igniting within your stomach and desire making your skin prickle.

“Good Gods, Astarion,” you mumble with a sigh. “No more.”

“I thought not.” Astarion lathers his hands with soap and starts washing your arms, chest and back. He massages your stiff muscles with perfect pressure.

Should I be angry with him? 

“Oh, don’t be sour,” he tsks, clicking his tongue and nuzzling your cheek. “You enjoyed yourself. I felt it. I felt it every godsdamn time. I almost couldn’t contain myself. You’re lucky I have such excellent control. That would undo a lesser man immediately.”

“You are full of yourself, aren’t you?” You laugh. Astarion’s cheerful mood is infectious, and you can’t help but feel a little bubbly with happiness yourself.

He shrugs, “Can you truly blame me? I am rather impressive.”

“I think it’s me that’s impressive,” you smirk with a wolfish grin, “If the exultant Vampire Ascendant could barely contain himself.”

“Sassy girl,” he tuts with a chuckle. “You are inconceivably enchanting. Even with an eternity, I could never get enough of all this.” He gestures over your body with seductive eyes but becomes more serious, “And whatever this is, between us, I could never tire of it, my love.”

My love… 

The words descend in your mind, slow and tortuous like a feather falling from a great height. He does not love you. He said as much himself, and his silence and reluctance when you pressed him only cemented that. Yet, his actions speak different words, and his thoughts and feelings that you can feel utter different syllables. You don’t know which language to believe.

“I do,” his answer floats in your head, not out of his mouth.

You push away from him, whirling around in the enormous tub, splashing additional water over the edges. You need to see him, be able to watch and look in his eyes. His brows furrow in confusion, and he looks at the swaying water, “At least, I think I do.”

“What happened downstairs was not love. You want to possess me, control me and claim me. You want me to belong to you. I felt it,” you frown. It’s all so godsdamned confusing. “You craved ownership, not a partner. Is that love to you?”

Astarion’s eyes widen, and his hand reaches for you, but you bat it away, and he stops his advance. You need distance if you have any hope of keeping your wits about you.

“You want to be taken and claimed. You want to be mine,” he snarls, but there’s a sorrow weaved in between that choler. “I felt it. I heard it. I do not understand why you deny yourself these truths. Why do you continue to fight me?”

He’s clever, always able to take your questions, skirt them artfully and turn them around on you, but you know his tricks. He’s partly correct. You do want to be his, to belong, but you do not want to be owned and controlled.

“You didn’t answer the question, Astarion.” You retort bluntly, narrowing your eyes at him.

You have to tread carefully over these hot coals. If you challenge him too much, you’re likely to be reacquainted with his anger made flesh.

Astarion takes a deep breath, calming himself and smoothing his severe expression, “I already admitted I got carried away and caught up in the intensity of the moment. Sometimes, my thoughts become twisted. What more do you want me to say?”

You can accept that sometimes his thoughts are out of his control. You’ve heard the chittering yourself, and it’s like a flesh-eating infection that grazes upon contemplations. If you want him to continue being open, you must be able to withstand his darkness.

You can and you will because you must.

Always the lovesick hero.

“You know what I want you to say,” you whisper with a tear glistening in the corner of your eye. You know he won’t say it. You can feel his aversion as if it were your own.

“I can’t,” Astarion says flatly. He does not offer a reason. His fingers comb through his hair, and he shudders as if ice was suddenly thrust upon his warm skin. “You want something real? I’m not entirely sure what real looks like, but I will try. For you, I will try. But I cannot say what you’re asking right now.”

“Then I think this conversation is over,” you growl bitterly while climbing out of the bath.

Water drips down your body as you wrap yourself in one of the plush towels. You can feel his pain through the bond, and it’s tearing you apart on the inside, but you cannot fathom being his pet. You are not an object to be owned and flaunted, and no matter how badly you want him, you cannot allow him to treat you as such.

He does not speak as you walk away, your feet leaving wet marks across the floor. You don’t turn when you speak. You cannot see the sorrow reflected in his eyes, “And Astarion, if you ever compel me like that again, I will walk out and never return.”

His answer is calculated and numb, “I will do what is necessary to protect you.”

“Then you better be ready to lose me,” you snarl. “I am not an object you can wield when it suits your needs and put away when you’ve finished with me.”

“So be it,” he concludes quickly.

This time, you close the door in your head, although you’re reluctant to do so as you tread the hall back to your room. You are hollow once again, but you fill the void with hatred. You will find out how the Gur knew of your whereabouts and descend on the wings of death.

You know exactly where to start.

Elowyn.

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, I hope you enjoy this, darlings!

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

I felt terrible for the cliffhanger, so I spent much of my free time writing this week so I could keep mostly on schedule :)

[ponder-the-orb]

Wash Me Clean

Pairing: Fem Tav/Gale, (named draconic sorcerer Tav)

Tags: 18+, river bathing, smut (self pleasure), Act 1, tiefling party, sexual tension

Summary:

There’s another breath against her skin, a longer one. “You might just be the death of me, Ciri.”

A titter bubbles in her throat. “Maybe. Maybe not. So tell me then Gale. If you could have anything right now, what would it be?”

He considers her question for a second before removing his fingers from her arm. Her disappointment quickly dissolves into a gasp as he places them on the back of her neck instead. He caresses the short hair there before moving slowly, deliberately, over her shoulder, down her spine and to the dip of her waist. It’s feather light, but she feels sensation everywhere until her desire finally settles, warm as a blush, between her legs.

He leans forward. “If I could? Everything.” He cups her hip, stroking his thumb back and forth until all her thoughts begin to melt into a pink fog.

Word count: 3.2K

Read on AO3 or below

It had taken Ciri a while to find somewhere quiet.

She can still hear the revelries of the party as a hum on the breeze, the tieflings and her companions alike still very much making merry around the campfire. The goblin leaders disbanded, of course she’d agreed to let them have one evening to forget the perils of the road ahead and let the ghosts of those they’d lost hang less heavily over their heads.

She cannot complain. Not really. For a time, it had been pleasant to watch everyone, their smiles lost in their cups as they danced under the fat happy moon. She’s had her fill though. She’d slipped out when no one was watching and walked with quiet deliberate steps along the riverbank until the water was wide and the only light were her sparks and a handful of stars scattered above. And when she was sure she was alone, she’d stripped, walked into the river and channelled her fire until the shallow water was a more bearable temperature. 

She isn’t sure how long she’s been kneeling here, not enough to be missed she assumes, and certainly not enough for her feelings to float away along with the goblin blood and grime.

She runs hot most days, but this feeling is different entirely. It’s gentle but frustratingly present, burning like embers that just won’t cool.

She submerges herself fully for a few seconds so the muffled noise of the party completely disappears. Peace. Finally. What she’d give to float here forever as naught but murk in the river. Leader and hero to none.

As she reemerges up to her shoulders, something stirs behind her. There’s a gasp, a shuffle and then the snap of a twig as something moves clumsily on the bank.

Ciri immediately whips around, firebolt poised in her hand.

“Don’t fire!” 

Gale stands about twenty paces away with wide eyes and both hands up.

She waves the fire away. “Bloody hells Gale! I could have incinerated you.”

“Ah sorry.” His eyes float from her face down to the water lapping just under her collarbones before he abruptly jerks his head towards the sky. “And– uh–  thank you for not doing that. I don’t have much else to change into should my clothes get destroyed.”

Ciri's cheeks flood with heat and she quickly ducks further into the water, crossing her arms over her breasts. She has no idea how much he’d seen, but is fairly certain the sweet pink spilling across his nose is not from indulging in too much wine.

“It’s fine,” she says slightly too hurriedly. “It’s almost a relief I suppose. I’d rather not fight anyone else until at least tomorrow morning. So what brings you out here anyway?” 

“I did not follow you, if that is what you are worried about. There may be strange creatures lurking in the bushes out here but I can assure you I am not one of them.”

Ciri turns back around and cups a handful of cool water to her neck. She’s almost surprised it doesn’t sizzle. “Just warn me next time. The last person who snuck up on me lost their eyebrows.”

His answering laugh is a soft rumble over the wind. “Duly noted.”

“Even if I didn’t turn around I think the crack of those knees would have given you away.”

“Get to my age and then see if you’re still laughing about it.”

She throws a softer look over her shoulder. “I’m ten years older than you.” 

She’s almost disappointed he’s still staring at the sky so intently. She wonders that if she’d turned a second sooner she might have interrupted a furtive glance, perhaps one that lingered on the damp column of her neck for just a moment too long. It’s as her own eyes wander over his face that she notices the red stain spreading from his neck and over his usually pristine shirt. 

“What happened to your clothes?”

“An experiment gone awry. Between Rolan and his two mage hands, it turns out the number of wine bottles he can juggle is three and I happened to be standing in the exact wrong place. Once the laughter died down I thought it was high time for a rinse.”

“You couldn’t just prestidigitate yourself clean?”

His eyes drift down to meet hers again. This time, they stay. “I could, but after being on the road for more than a tenday, the prospect of an actual bath is a luxury. And I’d go so far as to guess that you are of the same mind?”

She turns and makes a show of scrubbing her arms. “You’re the one that had plenty to say about my musk. If I am to be this party’s reluctant leader, then we cannot have anyone distracted by whatever got splattered on me this time.”

It’s a half truth. She can feel the dirt of this particular journey seeping into more than just her skin and she hadn’t planned on leaving these waters until she’s managed to scrub every fleck of blood and sinew clean. It’s her mind that needs a good clean as well. Fear, stress, confusion, want– they’re all tangled like vines knitted together over the door of some ancient temple. Every day she gets one answer and a hundred new questions about their situation.

Just one moment of true clarity. It’s all she wants. If not about what their future holds than at least what this party of broken misfits actually want from her.

Her eyes flick back to Gale, perhaps the most frustrating knot in that tangle. Now he’s here, with her. Alone. Naked. Like something out of one of the bluer novels she’d pilfered from local libraries in her younger years.

Ciri rubs the back of her neck. “Truth be told, I just… couldn’t get all the blood out from under my fingernails. We spent so long checking all the bodies for equipment and when we finally walked away we were covered in that mess.” It’s something she has not admitted to anyone, far too scared of bringing down the party’s mood when the tieflings were just trying their damndest to be happy. “Do not misunderstand, I’m so happy that everyone from the Grove is safe but there were so many bodies.”

There’s a long moment of silence between them.  “I suppose this is different to your usual adventures then?” he finally responds.

She shakes her head. “I’m usually hired to chase away monsters or fetch cursed artefacts. I stopped Sazza getting struck with a crossbow in the Grove but then was more than happy to mow down her companions barely a day later. Yes, they were a violent warband, but also people.” People she burned and then looted. People that she felt no guilt for as Lae’zel pushed them from ledges and Astarion slit their throats from behind. It’s not the smell of charred skin or the gore that’s twisting like a dagger in her gut right now, but that it was easy. That up until half an hour ago she’d been parading around the party in clothes she’d stripped off a dead drow’s body with not a comment from anyone.

“They would have killed you if you’d hesitated. Then me. Then everyone else who is enjoying tonight.” She hears the soft shuffle of Gale stepping closer to the water’s edge. “Just because I see the value in preventing a fight before one breaks out, does not mean I’m not ready to jump in when it’s required. And sometimes swords and sorcery are the only way.” 

Ciri had certainly seen that in action today. She’d watched him, awed, as he’d thrown spells with the grace of a trained archer, disintegrating his targets to dust. 

“Perhaps someone else needs to take up the mantle of leader for a while,” she says.

Gale laughs again. “I would have to disagree there. After all, we’re still here and very much alive thanks to you. Not that I’m diminishing my own considerable involvement but that silver tongue of yours has gotten us out of more than a few scraps already. There’s no one else I’d trust to get us from A to B still in one piece.”

A slow, hidden smile breaks over her face. “I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment for me or an insult to the rest of our companions”

“The highest praise, I can assure you.”

There’s a pause, a heartbeat, then something slightly sweeter plucks at that tangle inside her.

“Well, I suppose I should leave you be,” he continues when she stays quiet. “I doubt company was what you were searching for when you ventured out here. My shirt can wait.” There’s no sound of him backing away as he speaks. She can feel the question hanging between his words, present as the weight of his eyes on her bare shoulders. 

Do you want me to stay?

She turns and deliberately brushes a droplet as it falls down her neck. “You should try the water. It’s more pleasant than you might think.”

She shifts before she can see his reaction. There’s nothing to interpret here, no words lost or wrapped in metaphor. Just the two of them, the pale moonlight and a week’s worth of tension she’d all but ready to shatter into a thousand irreparable pieces. 

There’s another pause, a rustle of fabric then a series of soft ripples as the water breaks behind her. 

“Well, that’s certainly warmer than I expected.”

She raises her hand to show her glowing palm. “You can thank Iraxys for that.”

“Judging by the draconic etymology, I’m going to assume that’s who you have to thank for the scales? It’s quite the impressive feat to have found the specific dragon in your ancestry.”

“It’s what my family told me so I’ve always called her that, even if they probably just made something up to stop my constant questions." She touches the scarlet patch on her cheek bone, an old rough comfort. "There's no way they could know- that anyone could, but even if that’s not what she was called, it’s nice to put a name to the feeling.”

A louder splash rings out as he submerges himself fully.

“Would it be rather crass to question exactly how a fifty foot dragon joined an elven family?”

“You would not be the first to ask. And I do have my own theories– some being a lot more descriptive than others.”

“And those are?”

She twists her head a fraction. “Not yet for your ears.” 

He’s a blur in her peripheral vision, knelt deep in the water a respectable number of paces back. She lifts her chin a mite, just until she can make out the edges of detail. His hair has fallen a little more freely in front of his face, the wet strands clinging to his ears. So round she’d found herself thinking more than once, so… human. She follows the purple lines of the orb from the corner of his eye to where it lies under the water. Even mostly hidden, she can see the breadth of his chest, the dark hair dusting over the softness and trailing down. They’re the things she’d seen but hints of before, ones she’s been folding away during the day and leafing through so carefully at night. She’d been quick to push past her initial vexation at such thoughts, for even if they are impractical, perhaps even insufferable– they’re warm. Why should she not indulge when it’s one of the few comforts she has left on the road.

Ciri looks away as he rubs the edge of his beard, plunging her twitching hands back into the water. Gods above does she want to feel that roughness. 

“I did not expect you to leave the festivities so soon,” he says. “You’re the talk of the camp. Last I heard there are ballads being composed with your name and drinks still being poured for you. Though as an adventurer I expect you’re used to all that.”

She shrugs. “First time actually. When you’re getting paid, people don’t tend to throw you a party as well. It’s certainly a different experience. Lots of people. Lots of attention.”

The water ripples again as she feels Gale move closer. “It can be a lot to have all eyes on you. Especially when some may linger for longer than others."

“Maybe I want that,” she whispers, idly turning a current-worn pebble between her fingers before letting it sink back into the silt. “Or maybe just one pair in particular.”

She’d been ready to take that step tonight. She’d sought him out first, laid out the teases, the smiles, her intentions flashing brightly as any beacon. But he’d left her be, told her to enjoy the evening while he waited at the sidelines lest the orb destroy them all. She needs to hear the words now. The real words that were not so carefully chosen when surrounded by companions and strangers alike.

Ciri lifts herself from her knees and stands at her full height. The river laps around her waist, droplets running in cool trails over her scars, her breasts, the curve of her stomach. She rubs her scales again and fights the urge to duck back down into that protective shroud of water.

“I’ve been thinking about what I showed you when we channelled the weave together.” she says. “About… if I should have done that.”

That vision of their kiss had been dancing in the gentle colour in the corner of her trances for days now. It had been such a small thing to start. Something fanciful, a want driven by both the fear of death and a few days enjoying the shape of his mouth whenever he spoke in such an overly impassioned way about magic. That was before she saw the full hungry truth with her hands clasped to his glowing chest. He’d tasted a goddess, shared her bed, her wonder, her wrath. And despite that he’d still humoured her mortal wants, seemed elated at them even, enough for that fanciful desire to grow ever hotter inside her with each passing hour.

He hums softly behind her. “You should never regret being so bold. It was more than just a pleasant moment and those have been few and far between since we crash landed here.” There’s another moment of silence. Another ripple as he moves until the smell of wine and parchment brushes past her. “And I've been thinking on it too. Perhaps more than I’d like to admit.”

Ciri rubs the back of her hand. “Then why not take it?”

She wonders what would happen if she turned around right now and showed him her every naked curve and dip and colour, about whether he would avert his eyes or drink her in more eagerly than the evening’s wine, if he would back away or reach for her and feel exactly how much she burns for him under her damp skin. They’re questions she can’t quite answer– not when she knows she’s still standing against the memory of the divine. Magic may be her life, but Mystra she knows little of. When he showed that dark torrent of memory, Ciri had seen the echoes of her still glowing in the corners of his mind. Lyrical praises whispered, about how she was beautiful as the weave, soft as a dream, everything wonderful and terrible a mage could want.

Something larger flutters in her chest as she feels the heat of his skin barely a pace behind her now.

“Once, the promise of a truly kind touch would have been worth the cost of potentially levelling a city. To feel one’s demise in a moment of pure ecstasy– it’s almost poetic in a way.” His breath brushes her shoulder as he speaks, tender as a kiss. “But now? I cannot. For so many reasons– for the journey we must complete, for these companions, friends even. And for you, perhaps most of all.”

She breathes out shakily. “Are you really sure it would be so catastrophic?”

He lets out a short laugh. “Not even slightly. But what I do understand all too well is wanting to take comfort with someone in a moment of calm. When danger can pounce at any given time, such desires are all too mortal.” Her skin prickles with heat as he gently touches Astarion’s bite marks at the side of her neck, then the bruise on her arm from where Lae’zel had bumped her a little too enthusiastically. “Whoever that may be with.”

She reads his message loud and clear. ‘Take whomever you wish to your bed tonight. I won't hold it against you.’ 

“I know what I want. I don’t need an itch scratched or some fleeting desire satiated,” she answers firmly. 

There’s another breath against her skin, a longer one. “You might just be the death of me, Ciri.”

A titter bubbles in her throat. “Maybe. Maybe not. So tell me then, Gale. If you could have anything right now, what would it be?”

He considers her question for a second before removing his fingers from her arm. Her disappointment quickly dissolves into a gasp as he places them on the back of her neck instead. He caresses the short hair there before moving slowly, deliberately, over her shoulder, down her spine and to the dip of her waist. It’s feather light, but she feels sensation everywhere until her desire finally settles, warm as a blush, between her legs.

He leans forward. “If I could? Everything.” He cups her hip, stroking his thumb back and forth until all her thoughts begin to melt into a pink fog.

She wants him. Wants and wants and wants in a way she can barely comprehend right now. She wants to press herself back against him, feel the softness, the muscle, the heat. She wants to turn and wrap herself in his arms, letting them both taste and bite and devour until the mess of their joint passions dissolves into the water around them. She wants to have him, to let him have her until that vile orb shatters under her touch and there’s nothing left but the scar of their coupling burned into the earth. And yet, above all that, she wants to be gentle. To touch and be touched, enjoy something quivering and slow and sweet amongst the death and disarray that follows them everywhere.

And for that, she can wait.

“Alright. That’s all I needed to know. Goodnight Gale.” She steps away from him and marches towards the closest bank without turning around. She keeps going when her feet hit the ground, walking past her clothes and into the most secluded piece of forest she can find. And then, with one hand braced against a tree, she slips the other between her legs and touches her clit until her back is misted with sweat and gold explodes behind her eyes.

This is part of my longer fic, Broken Horizons. Read the full thing here

[vesanal]

₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊The 8th Day of Writemas₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊

Hiya y’all!! Day 8 is here!! So here is the invite post and here is the day 8 prompts! I wanna say thanks so much for all of the support and thanks so much again @agirlandherquill for hosting this event for all of us!! I really like the prompts for today too. :D

Prompts used:

Feeling: The ache of the wind snatching air from lungs

Dialogue: "Can you forgive me?"

Setting: A graveyard

Today gave me strong Perci vibes and I love to write for him so here is more lol. My tragic boy I love him so yeah also this one is going to be much shorter because I’m extremely busy rn and should be studying instead of writing but here I am LOL Anyway,

Read about the WIP here!!

Please enjoy!

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Snow covered the once freshly filled dirt hole in the ground. A snowstorm brewed around the Across the fenced in grounds, hundreds of stone graves covered the area that looked just like the one Perci stood before. Each one had a name, a family that they belong to. A family that was stripped from them long ago, fighting a seemingly endless battle. One that still cursed the land of gracious Pytharios. So, effectively, their deaths were all for naught.

Locking his eyes back to the headstone in front of him, Perci read back over the words engraved into it that he had seen thousands of times before. 

“Can you forgive me?” Perci began, hanging his mouth open trying to properly articulate himself as the wind whipped the right words out of him, “I wish I listened to you. You were right. And I was wrong. You wanted to protect me and I never listened.”

He stopped himself before he could unload all of his thoughts out to a simple stone sticking out of the ground. He panted frantically. The heavy winds wanted to knock him on his feet for voicing his silly concerns. This was war. All conflicts get solved through it. It was necessary to live. With life comes war that’ll take it from you, along with everything else. Perci, almost falling over, stumbled as a burst of wind crashed into him. The bleak, loveless winds knew better than a sentient being, of course.

“I shouldn’t have gone against your will. I just thought that—Well—I—I thought you would appreciate me following in your footsteps. I see now what you meant then. Why did I go? I just wanted to learn some magic and get a job to help out you and mom. And then I got good, too good for my own good! And then— the… mandate. I didn’t want any of this!” 

Perci half expected the grave to answer, fully knowing the man below would never answer anything ever again. He scoffed at himself for being so naive. 

“I suppose I would be following in your footsteps now. Graduated. Drafted. Then, finally dead. In a graveyard surrounded by thousands of other men who were given the same cruel fate as I have on this day.” Perci managed to wheeze a few gasping laughs of it all but laughing wouldn’t help him now and he knew it. He really was as good as dead out there, as far as he knew about the strange world beyond the familiar horizons that he would soon leave behind in the coming days.

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(PLEASE tell me if you wanna get added to a tag list here because I genuinely don't know who to tag lol. I'll edit this and add you in!! <3 )

TAGLIST SO FAR: @sunflowerrosy @seastarblue

@thebookishkiwi @viridis-icithus @corinneglass

Our wonderful host <3 → @agirlandherquill Have a lovely day everyone!!

[auraxins]

goro akechi x gn!reader

wc: 0.9k

warnings: angst, p5r third semester spoilers, established relationship, promise rings, potentially ooc

obligatory tag to my beloved @verxsyon for being my fellow akechi lover in arms i hope this kills u as much as it killed me to write <3 its just impossible to write fluff for this man idk he drives me crazy

“This is ridiculous,” scoffs Akechi. “All this and there won’t be a reason for it tomorrow.” 

Naught more than moonlight passes through to the hallway of your apartment and douses you in silver. It’s dim, enough to conceal the nerves that creep their way into the quavering corner of your lip and the uneven pulse that wracks through your body. 

You giggle, shooting him a look. He knows what it means. “You could have said no.” 

The touch of his fingertips against your wrist is cold in contrast to the heat that radiates through you. Akechi has never quite been as warm as you are. His thumb grazes the dip of your palm, carving paths of electricity against your skin, before he turns your hand over. 

Akechi pauses, one hand holding onto you and the other reaching towards the table. “You didn’t expect us to say anything special here, did you?” 

“You can if you want,” you tease. “I’m sure you’re dying to voice your feelings.” 

“Too soon,” he chastises, smooth laughter slipping from him despite the way his words had caught in his throat for just a second. 

“We don’t have to say anything,” you assure. With your free hand, you reach out for Akechi’s shoulder. Even now, you half expect him to shrug you away. He doesn’t.

By now, the tears you’d tried to keep down are rising up to the surface. You take a deep sniffle to push them back, to hold them at bay. You don’t want to cry for him just yet. This is supposed to be a happy moment. 

And yet, one still leaks through in defiance when Akechi finally slides the ring onto your hand. 

It’s nothing official, a symbol more than anything. You’d suggested it in passing when you first found out about the state of this false reality you’d found yourselves in, when you learned about the inevitability of Akechi’s fate. He’d laughed at you, in that exasperated fond way he tends to, and you’d assumed he had dismissed the idea. You hadn’t meant it all too seriously anyway. 

That is, until he showed up at your door with two little rings in boxes earlier this evening. 

“I’m sorry,” he had said, “I picked out my own as well. I thought that doing things this way would be easier.” 

He’d been right, of course. You know you’d have spent far too long agonising over choices and all sorts of things that are utterly inconsequential in the face of things. None of this needs to be perfect for it to mean something. 

Besides, he has good taste. The ring that sits now on your finger isn’t too large or too small- you do have to wonder briefly just how he knew your size so perfectly- and its no more than a simple band. But its plainness is perfect, just the right sort of symbolism for what you wanted. A promise. A memory. 

You reach for the one Akechi has chosen for himself and turn it over in your hands briefly. It looks the exact same. The metal clinks against your own ring as you pluck it back out of your palm and the sensation resonates through your bones. 

“It’s not too late to back out of this, you know,” you say quietly. 

Akechi’s next words are quiet, lacking the characteristic vitriol that tends to fuel him. “We’ve never had the privilege of time.” 

You swear his hand shakes when you place the ring. 

He doesn’t let you pull away from him, instead grasping onto your hand and locking your fingers together. 

You frown, concerned. “Is everything okay?” 

The look in his eyes is intense, serious. It pierces through your very soul. He squeezes your hand tight, as though he is anchoring himself to you. 

“Don’t forget. This is a pact. I will never forgive you if you dare to regret this night.” 

“I understand.” You nod. “I’ll take you with me to the grave.” 

He stumbles, coughs and rights himself, so quickly that you barely notice it. 

“As will I,” he swears. 

His thumb idly traces across the side of your hand, fond and tender. The urge to kiss him right now is almost overwhelming. A fragment of moonlight casts across his face, highlights one deep brown eye and the ghost of makeup-covered freckles that have faded into view. It curves along the contours of his lips, thin but wet with remnants of gloss. He’s utterly irresistible. 

“I’m yours,” you declare, “for eternity.” 

“As am I, yours,” he promises with a dry chuckle, warm palm rising to cup your cheek, “at least for the night.” 

Veins on fire, you choke down any lingering apprehensions with a thick swallow.

The early February air is clement, peaceful. Still. It sits upon your shoulders and soaks into your lungs, pleasant and cool. Akira is there to greet you as you reach the stadium, the rest of the Phantom Thieves in tow. Their faces are solemn, resolute. It’s a comfort in a way, that they’re no more externally emotional than yourself today. 

As you take one last glance at your home, and another towards your destination, there is no regret in your mind. There is no smile upon Akechi’s lips, replaced instead with a determined scowl, but the glint of metal that rests around his finger speaks for him. Everything comes down to this. 

You’re about to save the world. 

[lollytea]

Okay so when Willow and Hunter first kiss, Willow totally wraps them in vine with orange and pink flowers blooming and she panics a bit and tries to undo it, but of course it just makes them closer, and Hunter looks her in the eye like, “but I am complaining??” Willow doesn’t blush often but this time she does (Hunter blushes too after realizing what he said)

LOVE THIS!!! GIGANTIC BRAIN!!!!

I headcanon that Hunter's flash step can be really annoying sometimes and it takes him years before he has total control over it. So, for the duration of Hunter's teenage stage, he has a really obvious tell for when he's uncomfortable. Because he will just randomly blip himself out of a situation. It's really embarrassing for him when he first starts attending Hexside and tagging along on those "Rebuilding the Isles" council meetings. If he gets nervous enough, then his heart will be like "oh girl we do NAUGHT wanna be here <33" which forcibly ejects him from the room. He then proceeds to burst back in through the door a few seconds later, red faced and frantically apologizing. Like he knows he has an obligation to be a part of things. He can't be running away from his responsibilities. It's just very hard to control a power that's linked to the flippant impulsive whims of the heart.

Meanwhile, I imagine that Willow's emotions are a lot bigger and way more intense than she outwardly expresses. And I don't mean just her negative feelings. Girl is obsessed with Hunter. In an aggressive, possessive, starving rabid animalistic kind of way. Yknow. As teenage girls tend to be. But she's desperately trying to not come across as insane because she doesn't want to startle him, so she's adopting a far more detached approach. Rehersed calculated flirtation, always maintaining her poise and grace. She definitely slips up a ton of times but she's doing her best. But it's her magic that's always giving her away.

Willow allows more vulnerability when it comes to Hunter but that doesn't mean she wants everything inside of her spilling out. She's still trying to be cool for Titan's sake.

And then they finally kiss, soft and gentle and that's supposed to be the end of it. But no! Willow's inner lunatic is acting up and now there's relentless vines roping around the shape of him, declaring Mine! Mine! Mine!, blinding them with bursts of bright vibrant blossoms, messages of adoration written in the colours. All mine!!

Willow is mortified.

But when she panics, she makes everything worse. If Willow had just remained calm, she could have managed to get control over the vines and make them fall limp. But she makes the mistakes of worrying and that directly effects the plants' clutch on her boyfriend.

She let the thought cross her mind that this was going to freak him out and she might lose him.

And now the vines are in a frenzy. Lose him? Lose him? Lose him? No, no, no, keep him, keep him, keep him!!! and are now twisting protectively around Hunter's frame, stitching his chest against hers.

It's weird. It's awkward.

"I'm sorry," Willow blurts out, still attempting to undo her mess.

Hunter's face is bright pink. He's clearly aware that this is a flustering position to be in.

"But am I complaining?" He asks.

This is what brings the flood of heat to Willow's face, as it slowly sinks in that Hunter is still here, tangled up with her.

He might be just as embarrassed as she is, but if this was truly too much for him, he would have been involuntarily snapped six feet to the left.

His heart has no problem with this.

[ascalonsmercy]

9/10: (EC) BLEED.

verb: lose blood from the body as a result of injury or illness.

rating: t

characters: prince haldrath, euphemie de dansereau

tags: mid-heavensward, injuries, blood warning (of course), pillow talk (the haldphie pastime)

summary: the wounds are still fresh.

wordcount: 738

She woke to something wet on her back.

Cold and wet, mind you—but what made her turn was the ragged, shaky breathing of her beloved right behind her.

“I—I—” Haldrath stammers, in the dark of the night, with only the faint stripes of moonlight that crept in past the cracks of the curtains to assist her in making out what could be his expression. She hates the way his hand retreats from the one she has at her back, fingertips with the imprint of his blood—as if she were something delicate. Something he’d tainted.  In truth she’d been the one (well, she and Bertie both) who’d forced him into the infirmary after the skirmish at Whitebrim. Haldrath is far more genuine a hero than many of them—her included—will be, as he’d been assisting civilians after the remaining Dravanians fled. In doing so he’d prolonged the wound and it was she and the chirurgeon both who’d chided over him on the infirmary cot and he could do naught but agree with a hard-pressed smile that held the pain at bay.

Of course now smiling did nothing for either of them: not only did her nightstand carry curatives and tonics to get her through the difficult nights but also medical supplies for ease of access. She knew rudimentary first aid, of course—with a bit of conjury that their mother had enforced on the lot of them since childhood. Euphemie was loath to admit that the woman had been right all along for at least one thing. 

Of course, her mother—and most of the city, for that matter—were wrong about far more things. And it stung Euphemie to think that she herself was among them. 

When the bleeding had ceased and fresh clean bandages were taut ‘round the wound, he settled back against the pillow with a sigh as she rose to wash her hands in the nearby basin. They hadn’t spoken and she suspected it was more than simply exhaustion that kept their words at bay. “...It’s…really over, isn’t it?” When the thought left her lips she found herself wishing her voice had been too weak for him to hear. To make such a vulnerable thought known was a horror to her—even if the person who heard it was someone as beloved as her Hal.

“...I never gave it thought.” In the stillness and silence of the night, she heard his reply punctuated with a swallow. “...What’s going to happen, Hal?” Here, she can be like this—as clueless and vulnerable as a child. Everywhere else it’s impossible. She has a darling little page and two darling little nephews asking her the same question, and if Lady Euphie can’t figure it out, then—

“I don’t know.” One of the things that makes Hal better is his honesty; perhaps that’s one of the many things that makes him such a great leader, she thinks—telling the truth then and there and not dwelling on whether or not he should. The word truth is a word that’s starting to wear on her as of late: it’s starting and ending conversations all the same. The supposed guiding light that had been smothered for centuries by their forefathers had finally come to a light at perhaps the worst or best time possible—at the end of the Dragonsong War.

And it had only been two damn days.

“...But things will be better this way,” Haldrath takes a careful breath as she settles back down beside him, pulling the sheets up with her.

“though I know not how such will come to be.”

Her fingers slowly ghosted over the re-bandaged wound ���neath his chest.

“...I would very much like to still be in love with you then.” She counts the seconds until his fingers find hers and intertwine—it takes less than three. She’s afraid of what will come to pass and she’s ashamed of how badly of a secret she’s made of that: her heart was in her face, her eyes, her lips—and it had a tendency to lead her first and foremost, only second to her spear.

“It’s only been two days,” He chuckles, taking her hand into his and bringing it to his lips for a kiss, eyes never parting from her own.

“Just be with me.” She bites back the urge to say please—Euphemie de Dansereau doesn’t plead. But she fears her eyes say otherwise, for Haldrath’s amethyst hues softened.

“That much I promise you.”

[stygiananon]

An Ancient Bat King Shares His Umbrella

Inspired by a writing prompt from a thread off of @mkdarqchylde on twitter, I come today to show what I think is still a work in progress for the first real thing I have written in ages. I can only hope I did the prompt some justice.

Context: Fantasy world. The listener is new to the Great City Spira, Bastion of the Goddess. Following a visit to the Adventurer's Guild to seek opportunity, they find themselves waiting at a stagecoach station waiting for a ride down the Heroes' Causeway which connects Spira's prosperous Upper Wards to the Castletown's Lower Districts. After some time, the storm which had been threatening all day finally began, leading them to seek cover under the meager shelters, when from the darkness an auspicious stranger appeared.

Tags : Monster Speaker x Human Listener. No Warnings. M4A. Solo

Italics - Foley sounds

-> - King Nightshade speaking.

Storming ambiance

->Tis a strange sight indeed, one of the Sun Queen's children at this late hour. Tell me little one, why is it you tarry here?

->A thousand pardons. My monstrous visage and apparation from the night's turmoil have set you ill at ease. I assure you, I mean you no harm.

->Thou dost not find me a grotesquerie? In ages past, naught more than a single glance alone was cause enough for Empires to arm against my ilk. Mayhaps thine eyes are as feeble as mine in daylight.

->Truly? Forgive my presumption, and my addling of thine wits.

->Further, I meant no offense by mine inquiry, thou are as welcome within the Spira's vaunted walls as I, to whatever or wherever thine heart leads. Merely, I inquire as to why thou are *here*, tis a surety a tavern or your demanse would be more appropriate...

->I see... Pardon my inference, but mayhaps you are a new arrival to this city fair? 

->Well Little one, tonight marks the beginning of the full lunar cycle, as such the stagecoaches that frequent these causeways are suspended. The were-pups are prone to bouts of frivolity, and while the keen eyed Night Watch are ever observant, tis better to remove temptation all together, lest their urges cause greater concerns. One of many foibles one must endure, being the greatest asylum city in the lands I suppose. 

->*Muted chuckle* Of course. That you *cannot* see them is precisely the point. Were they to adorn themselves in garish colours and gleaming plate, t'would be a simple thing to spot them.

->No, I am not one of their number. Though a great many are drawn from my retainers.

->Well Little One, you find thyself in the presence of Lord Shadewing, First and Only Scion of the lineage of the Eternal One. True ruler of the Mournmire Country. Other titles I have, thou for brevity's sake Shadewing will do. Charmed, to be sure.

->Now now, no need to grovel or bow Little One. Thine audacious lack of decorum is freshing. Yours is a countenance free of falsity and agenda. When I gathered my brood and people to seek The Sun Queen's Pardon, I found myself free of millennia of courtly intrigue. T'would be a shame to return to such fabrications in such pleasant company.

Peel of thunder

->Alas, it would seem the night's storm turns evermore tumultuous. And whilst I hath enjoyed our conversation, tis hardly proper to keep you exposed in this tempest with naught but sodden cloth to keep you warm.

-> Nonsense, stand close little one beneath my wing and warm thyself against my fur. Let me be thine aegis.

->There now... Thou art shivering as a wind wracked leaf! Tell me plainly, where are thine lodgings?

->The Widow's Web? Not too far then, I am familiar with it. *Umbrella opening sound* Tis my word on mine honoured heritage, I shall see you there safely.

->This? *Shakes umbrella* Tis my parasol.

->*Chuckling* Monstrous by most measures, in this I remain in civility. Stand as close as you please little one, mayhaps we might converse more while I guide you

wet footsteps retreating

->You have an inquiry? You may ask it, but with the knowledge I may decline to answer.

->If I am the true king of the Mournmire, whyst would I seek The Queen's Pardon?.... Hrmmm.... A fair question... But not one for idle chatter on a dark evening Little One.

->None taken, we just simply haven't the time.

->Because thy stand barely a hair's breadth above my waist. When thou are as prestigious of frame as my kind, many measure to little more than children to us. And more besides, your curiosity of mine and my people harkens back to a child's idle mind.

->*Chuckle* Take no offense... It has been a great many centuries since any outside of my own have cared so much. Wonderment is a gift oft lost in the weathering of time, that thou keepest yours is a treasure of its own.

Footsteps stop

->But alas, it seems our evening stroll is at an end. As good as my word, we've arrived at The Widow's Web.

->I am afraid I must decline, the hour as grown later then I had intended, thusly I must make my haste to mine own affairs before Sun's rise. But ...

Umbrella closes

->Take with you this boon and token, my parasol to shield you as I did and as an opportunity.

->The current court of Miremoor now resides in the Northeastern Section of Upper Castletown. Shouldst thou desire it, bring with you my gift and you shall be welcomed. Merely show any its pummel and they will know you walk with the authority of House Shadewing.

->Until next time Little one, walk in Her Light. Always. 

Wet footsteps recide

.

.

.

There it is. Words from my head about a peculiar situation, a first draft I think, I feel there are some edges that need smoothing. It took quite a bit of willpower to not turn an auspicious meeting into a lore dump.

Thank you if you took the time to read these word of mine. If you wish to indulge me more, there is a comment section below.

Until next time, Cheers!

[thecontumacious]

Prayers

Pairing: Royal AU Yandere!Vox Akuma x GN!Reader

a/n: i wasn't planning on posting this here, but since i wanted to celebrate 100 followers, here it is :3 yes everyone, this will be the first time you actually get to see my work in a proper format, annunciations and actually capitilized. i also submitted this on the kinfiction tag on twitter, so let's pray together that vox will read it in his next fanfic reading!!

tw: mentioned deaths, gore scenes, implied r*pe

i heavily advise you to click away if you're not comfortable.

“Darling~” his voice drips with a sickeningly sweet tone, enough to melt just about anyone’s knees but yours. Perhaps when you first met him, it would’ve. That charming smile and confident demeanor. It didn’t help that he was incredibly powerful and rich, intelligent and well-mannered. It was why people were extremely envious of you when news spread that he asked for your hand in marriage.

You catch my eye like how a firefly glitters in the night. And I wish to keep that light for myself, as selfish as that sounds, my dear. If you are willing, allow me to court you and in return, you will be given everything this world has to offer. Darling, I vow to always love and protect you.

Sincerely, your love, Vox.

The letter read. To be loved and protected by the emperor himself… what a curse.

“Come, darling. If you come out now, all will be forgiven,” Vox says again into the night. Your voice is stuck in your throat, even your breathing has stopped. Please, you prayed internally to whatever deity might offer some sort of aid. A branch crunches near your hiding spot in the thick woods, and you desperately wished your heart too would stop just to lose all chances of being found out.

“Perhaps I’ve been neglecting you,” Vox concludes and you hear him shift about, almost as if taunting you. He spoke again, in a rather grim voice, “To the point where you have to play such games with me. So be it, then. We will play your game. But if I win, I will get the reward I deserve.”

The emperor chuckles darkly as you quiver and shrink with fear. Your hopes stayed alit like a small candle in a damp cave, with only a matter of time before it blew out completely. Again, you prayed.

Please, you thought hard. Your hands are clasped together, pale from the sheer tightness of the hold. Sweat drips down your back and tears start to sting at the corner of your eyes. You had found the right time. You managed to escape the castle grounds this far. Will it be all for naught? Will you have to come back to that dreaded land you once called your home?

The woodland grounds are eerily quiet. Even your thoughts were louder.

Had he gone? Did Vox started looking elsewhere? Were you… finally safe?

“How long are you going to stay down there?”

Fuck.

Your candle-like hope is extinguished with the pinch of Vox’s fingers. So easily. So mercilessly. You gulp and slowly look up, frankly, to your demise. Your supposed ‘lover’ towers over you, his shadow drinking you in as the small and vulnerable person you were to him.

You fall back and make haste to get up on your feet to evade Vox, but you were foolish to think you had a chance to escape now. Vox is quick to grab your ankles and you yelp when he pulls you towards him, your head scratched among harsh jagged rocks.

“Could you have not made it harder for me, my love?” Vox frowns like a child but all you want to do is slap him until he bleeds. You (stupidly) attempt to move away, but his grip on your ankles tighten.

“S-stop it, Vox, it hurts,” you whimper, the tears finally falling down.

“Awe,” he coos, reaching out to wipe away the fallen tear. You hate it when he touches you so gently. His scent begins to suffocate you but there was no way to escape it anymore. Vox’s face is a mere inch away from yours and then he smiles. “Forgive me, darling.”

His hold on your ankles loosens for a mere moment.

“But this is your punishment for losing the game.”

Crack.

You scream, the pain burning you inside and out. You fall on your back while whimpering and wailing for mercy. Not only did your plan fail, whatever plan you had next was near to impossible with your broken ankle. Going anywhere was not an option. Just like how Vox likes it.

“You have such beautiful screams, no?” Vox chuckled, reaching over to hover above you. He has you locked in between his legs, well, not like you could go anywhere with an incapacitated foot anyway. He leans in to kiss you gently, savoring in your pained noises.

How ironic. You came here to escape, but now when you needed help the most… no one is here to help you. Then again, no one can.

That day when you slipped a message of help to Guard Captain Mysta, you received a reply in the form of his hand. Only. When you tried again with the kingdom’s syndicate leader, Luca (said to have been a help to many people), you learn that night there was a big fire “accident” in the cities.

Even your only confidant in the court, Advisor Shu, mysteriously disappeared after only planning to meet with him. And your childhood best friend, Ike… God, you missed him so much. You wanted to find him, really, but with Mysta, Luca and Shu’s absence, you wanted nothing to happen to Ike.

You sobbed, at your terrible demise, for the fate of your friends. What else could you do?

“Oh, it’s alright, my dear. We can try again next time,” Vox pulls away, caressing your skin. But it felt more like he was painting on the blood of his victims onto you. There was not much to be done though. As if losing all life force, you limp. But you are sadly still alive.

The emperor wraps his arms around your body and scoops you off the ground, heading back to your prison. The taste of freedom only lasted for so long…

“Come, it’s time we return home and I finally make up for all the times I’ve been gone,” he purrs, looking down at you with menacing eyes. And you know all too well what was going to happen soon after…

Help, please, anyone… you pray, once again.

Masterlist!

[samblackblog]

Chapter 1

⎔ MASTERLIST ⎔ REQUESTS ⎔ X FILES ⎔ I WANT TO BELIEVE ⎔

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings:

A/N: Wrote these years ago, hope someone enjoys

▪️Chapter 2 →

—————

Tonight was a late and exhausting night. I was up most of it with Mulder finishing a case, all the evidence needed, we had. We caught the suspect, who then killed themselves with a cyanide capsule. The evidence was incriminating, we had enough to blow this whole thing wide open, to show that this man was working for our Government; which has been hiding and experimenting on Aliens and extraterrestrial life for years. As I said, the truth will be out there by mid-afternoon tomorrow. Mulder and I have a meeting with Assistant Director Skinner tomorrow; it's time for him to believe. Believe in UFO's and extraterrestrial life. Therefore I should get some rest, I've got a big day ahead, and I hope that Mulder gets some sleep. The last time I saw him was in the office, I just hope he doesn't stay up all night, like he usually does. God he stresses me out, but where would I be without him? Probably stuck behind a desk waiting for my big break! I push the thoughts aside and wash what little make up I have on, off. The water splashes in the sink basin. Outside of the bathroom, I hear a floor board creek. I open the door quietly, and walk over to the aide board. I grab my gun, and walk through each room. Nothing. There's nothing, not a thing or a sound. Creek! It came from the kitchen. I hear it again, and the sound is followed by a draft of cold air. I peer into the kitchen; the window is open a little. I must have opened it for fresh air this morning. I close it, and hear the creek again. It came from behind me, I spin around and point my gun. Meow! 

"What are you doing cat?" I look into its big green eyes, and it meows. "you scared me, that's all.' I'm talking to a cat. Great! I suppose it's not as weird as some of Mulder's things. 

"What am I going to do with you?" I ask. 

I carry the cat to the front door, and it starts to rain. I feel bad about throwing it out into this weather. It's not just a shower, it's full on raining. Then a clap of lighting illuminates the street. 

"Just tonight." I say to the cat as I shut the door. I go to the bed room calling the cat, and peel back the duvet. I climb in and the cat follows. Before I turn the light off, I check for a tag. Nope. No tag. 

"I don't know if you even have a name, let alone a home." 

Meow! I stroke by its ear and under its chin. I fall asleep to the sound of the cat's deep purr.

Ring, ring! Ring, ring! Ring, ring! I'm still partially asleep when I hear the doorbell. No. Not the doorbell.

"It's the telephone!" I yell as I lean up in bed. The cat hisses after being startled by me. 

Ring, ring! I pick up the receiver and try to speak. my throats clammy, so I have to cough.

"Hello?" I manage.

"Scully, it's Mulder." I can sense the anger in his tone.

"What's up Mulder?" I ask. My pitch has gone up.

"They've taken it! All of it, down to the smallest piece of insignificant data." He throws something because I hear it hit the wall.

"Mulder calm down! What happened? What have they taken?" I try to calm myself for the inevitable. 

"They took the evidence. Scully it's all gone." he pauses for breath. "Not only did they take the evidence, but they have made us look like fools. Or rather, they will." 

I tell him to calm down, and I'll be right over.

I enter the Federal building at 8:30am. Early but I need to see Mulder. After all this case has cost, all the hours it took. It's worse for him, he's devoted half his life for chasing UFO's and extraterrestrial life, and how much evidence has he got? Zilch. Nada. Naught. Not anything more than a blurry photograph that could be a fake. I make my way down the corridors an show my ID. Then down a few more corridors, and finally to the basement. I knock on the door, no reply. I knock again. I reach for the Handle as someone opens the door. 

"Didn't you hear me Mulder?" I'm curious as to why he didn't answer.

"Yeah, I just thought it was one of those polite knocks you do to announce yourself. After all, this is as much your office as it is mine. So why knock?" He does that thing where he stares into your eyes trying to put things together, that or he hasn't slept yet. 

"I, er... I knocked in case you were on the phone, or chucking anything!" I half laugh. I can see a smile trying to break out on his face. 

"You wouldn't believe this, but they even erased the answer machine." he sounded like a moaning kid. However, he has a point. There was information on that.

"Can we ask for the tape back? I mean jut ask for the contact information of the deceased's family." I suggest. I don't know why I suggested this, because I know he would have already tried. 

"No. I tried that, I don't think..." he trails off. 

The next thing I know, he has me in a hug. I pat his back.

"Scully?" He sounds confused.

"Yeah?" 

"Why do you smell like cat?" He takes a deep breath. 

"Why are you smelling me?" I joke. "It's a long story." I can tell he wants to know. "I'll tell it anyway!" Yay. This is going to be annoying, it's not that interesting.

I finish telling him about the cat that I thought was an intruder, and he just laughs. I suppose it is funny. 

"I can't believe you thought the cat was an intruder. You even talked to it Scully." He started to chuckle. 

"Mulder, I don't think you would have done anything different. I can't help but feel that you're displeased." I sound very harsh, but if he thinks he can be critical of me, when he's spooky Mulder... then he has other thing coming.

"Displeased? Scully, why would you think that? After everything I have seen, you think talking to a cat is..." he's lost for the last word.

"Spooky?" I suggest.

He just nods and carries on chuckling. Sometimes I think he deserves the way he's treated, and should get called all the names. I remember the first time we met, it was a bit... strange.

"Agent Mulder. I'm Dana Scully. I've been assigned to work with you." I sounded confident.

"Oh, isn't it nice to be suddenly so highly regarded. So who did you tick off to get stuck with this detail, Scully?" his voice had a hint of sarcasm and patronisation. Like I was a kid getting lost and stuck in something that I shouldn't be involved with. I got the impression I was not welcome.

"Actually, I'm looking forward to working with you. I've heard a lot about you." I tried to show enthusiasm, but in all honesty I remember thinking he was spooky and possibly crazy to believe in UFO's. 

"Oh, really? I was under the impression that you were sent to spy on me." he looked at me, to see my reaction. Luckily I could control myself. 

He then went into showing me things that he thought were evidence of UFO and Extraterrestrial life. Fake. Was all I thought. I don't believe, I need scientific evidence to be able to believe. If only I knew what the future may hold, I would have believed right there and then.

I come to from the past, when Mulder grabs my shoulders. I can see he asked me a question, so I just say: "yes." even though I've no idea what he said. 

"So you agree that we should go take a naked mud bath together and paint each other with ancient symbols to get the aliens to visit. Good. I'm glad that's settled." he sounds quite real about that.

"Excuse me?" I ask with a slight note of worry. 

"Well I asked if we should do that and you said 'yes'!" he looks at me, wearing my 'I'm not amused' expression "alright, you caught me out! I really asked: are you all right? You looked like you were in a trance. Your face gave it away, you looked confused and disorientated, like you didn't know what happened and were trying to remember where you were." Again he looked at me to see if I was following. "I then guessed that you hadn't heard me, and just said what you thought." he finishes, then sighs. "You should work on controlling your facial expressions. They haven't become any better since the first day I met you, and you tried to hide the fact that you may be spying on me." his face lights up when he sees my new reaction. I'm dumbfounded.

Not sure what to do, so I say: "got any evidence to prove that nice theory Mulder?" I walk out to make coffee.

The machine gurgles as it prepares the coffee. I wait beside it, drumming my fingers on the work surface. A person walks into the room, and makes a tea on the other side of the room. I don't pay much attention to them, and don't see their face. On their way out, they walk into me; knocking me to the ground. I get up a notice a piece of paper on the floor beside me. It reads:

Twelve strikes and it will begin.

Twelve till twelve, deep down in the skin.

Hold your breath, see what you find.

You may prevent death or cause it to bind.

The machine finishes my coffee, but I go back without it. When I enter the office Mulder looks up from his desk.

"Where's the Coffee Scully? I assume that's what you went to get." I see his face turns from mocking to alarm in a manner of seconds. "What's wrong? Did you see Skinner?" He actually is panicking now.

I hold out the piece of paper. He takes the paper from me, and reads it. He looks at me with no understanding.

"Practising your poetry now?" He hands the note back.

"No. It's not mine. Well, I didn't write it." I pause for breath. What do I tell him? That an anonymous FBI agent gave this to me? I assume it was an FBI agent. "Mulder, when I made coffee... There was this person. I didn't see them, not really. Anyway they walked into me and disappeared. They left this note in my possession." I sit down, and try to piece this together. What could it mean? "Mulder, what do you think it means? Is it just a poem, or a warning?"

"I'm not sure, but it's a hell of a poem. Let's put it that way." 

I had the note checked for finger prints. The only ones on there are mine and Mulders. Whoever left it for me, sure knew what they were doing. I decide to go get some coffee, since I didn't have any the last time. This time the machine is quicker so I get Mulder one as well. I enter our office quietly because I hear talking. I find Mulder on his chair, eyes closed mumbling: "Twelve strikes and it will begin. Twelve till twelve, deep down in the skin. Hold your breath, see what you find. You may prevent death or cause it to bind." He pauses. Did he hear me? Then he starts again. "Hold your breath, see what you find... Hold your breath... Hold" He takes a deep breath and holds it in. 

"Mulder, what are you doing?" I say, with a note of amusement. 

He turns to me, eyes shut breath held in. His index finger is up signaling for me to give him a minute. He exhales loudly. 

"See what you find." he says while opening his eyes. "It's you Scully. I see you. That's what I found. You." he chuckles and folds the note up, which is then placed in his suit blazer pocket. I sigh and put the coffees down in front of him. I think he may be looking to much into this, and I tell him that.

"Scully, why would you have received this if it didn't mean anything? I think that this does mean something. I think something will happen, and it will happen very soon. This may help us 'prevent death', like it says." Is what I get back.

"Yes, and it also says 'or cause it to bind'. That could mean that death may take many more lives than one, if we interfere." I explain.

"Well, I'm not waiting around for something to happen." He says while turning in his chair and shutting his eyes. 

I go over to my desk and switch the computer on. I readjust my field report for the last case, but save it as a new file. This way skinner can read both a see what he thinks. We found a lot of evidence to suggest our hypothesis was correct, so maybe just the explanation of it in the report will convince him. It gets to mid-day.

"Mulder we need to go. Skinner is waiting." I quietly say, in case he's in thought.

"Mhmmm" is the answer I get. 

I send the two computer files to the printer on the fifth floor. We then walk up the stairs instead of using the elevator, both of us are trying to delay the meeting. 

When we get to the fifth floor I only find ones of the documents. Funnily enough, it's the edited one, written without mention of the stolen evidence. 

"Mulder I'll be back in a minute." I say as I walk to the elevator. I push the button for the basement, I get to the forth floor and seven people get in. Three want the ground floor, one needs the seventh and two need the eighth and the last one needs the fifth. I'm glad I got in before or I might be waiting a while. We stop at the ground floor, only need to go down a level. The elevator goes up.

"What?" I half breath out. 

That's not right, it should go down. I press the basement button again. We stop at the seventh, fifth then eighth before reaching the basement. Someone wanted to delay me, but why? Our office. They're in our office again. I run the rest of the way. I fling the door open, hoping to catch someone. No one's there, nothing I out of order. I'm paranoid. 

I'll have to print the file again.

"That's funny." 

The computers on. I'm sure I turned it off, probably forgot due to being in a rush. I look for the file. 

"Damnit!" I yell. It's gone, the file's gone. They've deleted it. There's nothing I can do, so I rejoin Mulder.

"The report with the evidence in has gone, even the computer file has gone." I say in a loud voice. People look up from their desks.

"We'll have to use this one." He talks slowly and quietly, like he thinks they're listening. I don't doubt that they are listening, the question is: who is listening? The people Deep Throat used to work for, before he was shot? Perhaps. Maybe this whole thing is bigger than we thought. I know we are in over our heads and there is no going back, we've seen too much. 

"Should we get to Skinner's office?" he asks. I nod. "After you" he teases and points ahead.

"What's next, I get to hold your arm?!" I joke back, as he actually offers his arm. Of course I brush it aside.

The smell of cigarette smoke fills the air, making it hard to breathe without coughing. As a doctor I know the damages it has to your health, so I turn my head away from Cigarette-smoking man. That's not his real name; but we don't know it, so we stick with the nickname. He despises us, we can tell from the numerous times he's worked against us. Or dropped us in trouble. A few months back the X-Files were shut down, when they were reinstated and Mulder and I could finally work together again, he wasn't happy. We later found out that he had done everything he could to keep us shut down. I guess you can't keep the truth hidden for ever. My thoughts are interrupted by Mulder, arguing with Skinner.

"Sir, I think we know what we saw. Can't you just believe us for once?" He stands up in his frustration and starts pacing. "We had the evidence to prove that UFO's exists, and that the Government has been experimenting with Alien viruses and technology." He sits again, hands on the arm rest of his chair. 

"Agent Mulder, where is this so called evidence?" Skinner patronisingly says.

I can tell Mulder is going to say something he will regret, so I step in.

"Sir, is it not good enough that we solved the case?" I interject.

"Agent Scully, it would be if Agent Mulder hadn't said about the missing evidence." He sighs.

Skinner has a point, it's one thing to have evidence stolen, it's another thing to accuse the Government of these actions. Although I too have my suspicions. Cigarette-smoking man comes over from the window and sets his carton of cigarettes on Skinners desk. He lights another after putting one out. 

"I think that's all" Skinner says.

As I get up my eyes are on the overflowing ash tray, and the cartoon of Cigarettes. I wonder how many he has a day? 

"Would you like one Agent Scully?" Cigarette-smoking man asks. A smile crosses his face, and yellowing teeth are revealed. He knows I hate smoking, probably knows I don't like him too. He'd the kind of man that would work for the secret secret Government organisation that stole the evidence and killed Deep Throat. I ignore him and walk out. I hear him chuckle before I make it out of the door. 

"Woah! Wait up Scully." Mulder yells. 

I face him while he catches up, then immediately start off again. He's by my side and follows me out of the building. We walk for a while before I stop in a park. 

"Perfect." I sigh.

People around, green grass, trees and not a federal agent in sight. I didn't come hear to relax. I want to scream and shout about the betrayal I feel from the bureau. I want to tell Mulder to give up chasing UFO's and E.B.E's, and to pursue a normal life that the government can't mess around with. What use is that? He will never give up. Not till he knows the truth. If only there was a way to find his sister. She was the start of this, when she was abducted at the age of eight. I want to help him, I do, but it feels useless even trying. Before I can say anything to Mulder, a gun is fired. The sound of screams and the tolling bell of midday hurts my ears. Where was the shot fired from? Who was the target? I turn to see, an old man fall to his knees. I hear the second shot. This time I see the bullet. I see it emerge from the other side of the old man's head.

[soulsow]

11. transform [free day]

summary: azem is asked an uncommonly intimate question.

rating: t

characters: adonis (sam azem oc), areia (ancient!phie)

word count: 521

notes: egg and i gave eachother prompts for free day! :D another one with some creative interpretation but uhhh there’s not a lot of ancient lore to go off of. just enjoy the ooey-gooey happiness ok

"won't you please transform for me, adonis?"

not many people still called azem by that name, but when it was areia he never minded—though she did have a habit of calling him by his title when feeling particularly feisty or angry, which never failed to elicit a chuckle from him.

"are you sure we're on that level, areia?" he asked, a hand running through his floppy brown hair, a smirk playing on his lips. a gentle shove and a pout were her answer.

they were on one of the outskirting islands of elpis, able to look out over the facility while also bask in the warm sunlight and under the pastel-colored clouds. it was idyllic, but most of the world was. still, elpis was always a place of calm where azem knew he could retire if he needed space to think.

when areia tagged along, however, there wasn't a lot of room for thinking—at least not of the academic kind. she was fiercely intelligent, smarter than he was, and he could admit that easily. it was one of just the many things he found entirely fascinating about her.

"you know transforming takes a lot of energy," he finally said in earnest, stretching his legs out on the blanket they were sitting upon. The breeze from their altitude rustled the tree leaves and caught a spare edge of his robe, causing it to billow up before settling down moments later. "and it’s not really something we're supposed to show others."

"i've always been curious what a member of the convocation would look like transformed," she mused, leaning over closer to him. "you're all so strong, you must be incredibly fearsome."

had he seen anyone else on the convocation transform? nay, not that he could remember, at least not in recent memory. most were a bit more...uptight than he was, but even the amiable elidibus didn't parade about in his transformed state. nobody really did.

"we're a bit too busy most days to sit about and compare our second forms," he laughed, the irony of his statement not lost on himself. he could almost predict what she might say next.

"well, if you're so busy, azem, why deign to spend time up here with me?" her words were haughty, but a laugh colored the edge of her words and a little smirky smile pulled at her lips.

falling back on the blanket to look up at the soft clouds swirling above them, adonis smiled and glanced at her.

"in my travels, i've learned much. academia is oft considered the most important thing we can strive for, and i do not disagree that it's important." he said. "however...there's naught else i've found in the world that can replace the company of someone you love. nothing else has meaning without that."

areia, having moved closer, grinned down at him. her hair created a canopy around their faces as she bent down, lips grazing against his gently before committing to a  kiss. they separated after a moment; the embrace didn't last long, but it didn't have to.

"i still want to see you transform, though."

[childrenoflight-darkness-nothing]

Find the word tag

tagged by @souliloquyyy (thank you!!!)

I don't currently have much written for any of my projects. So. I'm writing a few scenes I have planned that I think can fit at least some of the words. And then pulling small sections from those. I'll probably post the whole scenes, or at least some of them over at @projectsoulcode

I'm only going to do three, cuz this is getting kinda long 😅😅

Regret // Child of Nothing — Chapter One: Jace

"Princess…" Jace started, regret forming each syllable. They both knew well enough Death would not be stopped. Even if they were coming to claim Castor…

"No," she argued. Her head shook violently, her expression hardening. "You have to. He can't die. He can't. He's all I have, aside from mother. They're all I have. I cannot lose anyone else. I will not." Her tone changed, her expression with it. Eyes pleading as she gripped Jace's arm tightly. "Please… You have to try."

Jace swallowed. Ey weren't one to go around making promises that could not be kept. Finally ey sighed, eir shoulders dropping.

"I will do what I can."

Desperate // Child of Nothing — Chapter Two: Clarissa

They sighed a little, desperate to return to that. Before. Things had been simpler in Treagden. "Do you have a desire to see the prince today, milady?" they asked with the hope to change their thoughts from home. "To wish your farewells?"

"Do you think we could go riding today?" Deirdre asked instead, turning around to face them. Her expression was light, though Claire knew forcibly so, as she changed the subject. The prince was a delicate subject, as he was to be her husband. And normally, Claire was eager to avoid it. Though they feared the regents' judgement for Deirdre failing to extend the proper courtesies given the prince's soon departure for the fae forests of Mirrior. "I do believe the trails would be a wonderful sight as the weather's starting to turn. Of course, nothing like back home I'm certain."

Clarissa frowned. It was a daily request, one they'd come to expect. And one they'd long since come to hate denying. Of course… any request of Deirdre's was one they longed to grant. "Perhaps I could submit a request to join the Regent's hunting party come weeks end? I'm sure with Prince Castor soon gone he'd appreciate fresh competition."

Deirdre snorted a little, the faint upturn of her lips warming Clarissa's heart. "I have no wish to feign mediocrity to stroke a man's ego, Regent or no. And poor Castor's efforts of pulling back his own strengths all of this time would decidedly be for naught should I best his uncle."

Tribute // Child of Stars

"Though you’ve known all along, it was Deirdre who finally connected the dots for us. The star of the winter sky, the one gifted to this world with powers to match each of our fallen. Light and darkness and the space in between. You. The one with the power to unite us all. A tribute to bring an end to the world's suffering."

“My only wish," Sioban sighed, her hands waving over the potions and charms and ingredients laid out on the table in front of her, "is that there was another way, that you wouldn’t have to give your life to save a world you’ll never get to see reborn. But there isn't, we must be grateful that our salvation is to come from someone will to grant it to us selflessly.”

“You can’t honestly be okay with this. She’s—she’s a child. And you’re asking... There’s still time. There has to be another way. We’re supposed to better the world, and you want to achieve that dream by... by sacrificing a child. How does that make us any better?”

Tagging: @january-writing @pen-of-roses @woodhousejay @crazy-like-us and anyone else who'd like to participate (yes you reading this)

Your words to find in your WIP should you wish to participate are. Stars, storm, sand, elegant, referral, and transcend. Or any variations there of. Absolutely no pressure, and aplogies if you'd wish to not be tagged.

[brightlycoloredteacups]

Babies

Boba Fett x Fem!reader

Summary: Boba wants some babies...do you?

Warnings: None

a/n: hey. lookit this...writing after taking a could o’ years off...who knew. 

Tagging: @anunhealthydoseofangst

Boba Fett had been handsy with you the moment you both had met in a dinghy little bar on a backwaters planet. It had been instant passion for you both, and though it had been years, he still couldn’t get enough of you...or so you thought. 

A few months ago he began acting strange. He hardly touched you, that lustful gleam in his eyes was now gone. When you two slept in your shared quarters, he barely even grunted a good night to you before turning over and wrapping himself in the warm blanket. As much as it broke your heart, you knew what was happening. He’d found someone else to occupy his time. Someone prettier than you, someone better. The knowledge stung. But what could you do? You simply wanted him to be happy. This was all you had convinced yourself of before this morning. 

You hadn’t meant to overhear him, in your defense, though, you lived in tight quarters, and sound traveled easily from the bathroom to the bedroom. So when you heard your name being called, being the semi-light sleeper you woke up, thinking something was wrong. 

You padded sleepily over to the bathroom door, “Boba?” You called, putting a hand on the door to push it in. “Are you-” You stopped short when you heard that familiar grunt of his. Oh, he’s doing that right now. You frowned. Had he really brought someone in to fuck them while you were asleep in the bed next to him. Your heart broke, your blood boiled. You were ready to burst in there before his next sentance stopped you, “That’s it, meshla,” He called your name, once, twice, then continued “take it, fuck. Just like that, you and I fit so well together, don’t you think?” You bit your lip, trying to stifle a laugh, sweet relief flooding your entire being. 

You were ready to call his name before it died on your lips with the words he spoke next. “That’s it,” he grunts again, you can tell he’s close, “Thats it, let me fuck you, let me put a baby in you.” Your jaw drops. A what?! You back away from the door, shocked, unable to process what you just heard. 

After a few more moments of listening to him, you throw on some decent clothing and dash out the door, this revelation has completely turned your world upside down. 

*

This was going to be hard on him. You’d become more important to him than you probably realized. He was madly, utterly in love with you, but he didn’t want you to suffer. This meant he had to let you go. For the better part of a week you had avoided him, rejected his romantic advances, and just lain there beside him when you normally would glue yourself to his side. He wondered where he went wrong, but in the end he decided that didn’t matter. Something had soured your love for him, and now he was going to have to do that hardest thing he’d ever done. Damn, did it hurt.  

He takes a deep breath and says the words he hoped he’d never have to say, “You’re welcome to leave any time you want.” He says them softly, quietly, wanting this to be nothing more than a mere nightmare. You turn over to face him, “What the hell are you talking about?” You ask. “I’m not a stupid man, love,” He tells you, “I know when my woman has lost interest in me.”

The quietness in the air is almost too much for him, he just wants you gone so that he may grieve in peace. “I haven’t lost interest,” You snap, “I’ve just been thinking.” You trail off, leaving the statement open. “What could you possibly be thinking about that makes you so cold towards me?” Boba asks, he doesn’t bother to turn to you, just continues to look at the ceiling. This was difficult enough, he didn’t want to look in your face and have his resolve crumble to dust. He didn’t want to beg to keep you. 

Once there was a time when he believed he was going to spend the rest of his days with you, marry you...have a family. He knows now that he’s an utter fool. You were too good for him, too pretty. He was just a stepping stone to your real happily ever after, a man with which to work out your issues. It was the Mandalorain with the green baby. It had to have been him you were thinking about. You’d never looked at another man the way you’d looked at Din Djarin.

Boba Fett was in no way prepared to hear the answer you gave him. “I was thinking about whether I wanted a family with you or not.” Your confession hit him harder than anything that ever had. You place a hand on his chest and he finally turns to you, confused, but feeling lighter by the moment. “And why would you want a little brat running around, causing a ruckus?” He asks gently. He can’t seem too interested in the thought, even though his own dreams and desires had turned towards making an honest woman out of you. You smiled knowingly at him. “You’re not as subtle as you think,” you tease. His frown deepens, trying to work out what it was you actually meant. “I heard you in the bathroom one day,” You finally confess. “Something along the lines of letting you put a baby in me?” 

His heart leaps into his throat and he chokes. You weren’t supposed to have heard that.

*

If you ever thought there would be a day when you caught the Boba Fett off guard, it was naught but a mere dream. But here you are, surprising him with the knowledge that you knew one of his best kept secrets. He stumbles for an explanation for a few moments before giving up entirely. He turns from you to look at the ceiling once more. 

You giggle and bring your hand to his face, rubbing his cheek with your thumb lightly. You make no move to force him to look at you. “You’ve been thinking about this for a week.” He says. “Mhm,”

“An entire seven days.”

“Yup,” 

“And?” You can hear the hint of hope in his voice. It tugs at your heart, but you still can’t stop yourself from messing with him, just a little. 

You withdraw, and turn on your other side. “I think it’s a bad idea,” You tell him. You let it hang in the air for a moment or two knowing if you wait too long, you’ll just piss him off and this entire thing will be over with, just like that. “Not until I see a ring on my finger. I want to be a wife before I’m a mother.” 

You hear him growl. You squeal when you feel him wrap his strong arms around you and pull you to him. He buries his head in the crook of your neck. “You’re horrible,” He mutters. You giggle. “I get it from you old man.” He breaths a deep sigh, whether from relief or exasperation you’re unsure. “I’m your old man,” He mumbles. You nod enthusiastically. “Yes,” You tell him, “Yes you are.” 

[malewifegradyruewen]

Ceux Qui Ne Meurent Jamais, Chapter Two

i swear i didn’t mean for this to get so long so fast-

previous | next | masterpost

trigger warnings: religion mention but it’s not explicit and also it’s a religion i made up so it’s complicated but read at your own risk, ask to tag

word count: 1814

tagging: @fire-sapphics @zoyyanazyalensky @dirty-racoon @della-vacker-supremacy @raiinyrxse @lucat13 @tiergan-andrin-alenefar @genyyasafin @cadence-talle @thewhiteblades @gay-otlc @brilliantblindinglights @enbies-and-felonies @love-pyramus @silver-war @pencilwritesshiz47 @littlemisscupcake lmk if you want to be added/removed!!

The sky outside was dark when Nathalie opened her eyes, and it took her a moment to remember where she was. She wasn’t in the small dormitory of the children’s manor, but sprawled out on the cushioned expanse of her new bed in Marchant Manor. She looked to the clock across the room next to the door. Seven-twelve.

Supper. She had just over fifteen minutes to change and fix what she knew was a rat’s nest in her hair. Nathalie leaped out of bed, tore open her bags, and grabbed a midnight blue skirt, along with an off-white blouse. She threw them on as quickly as possible and slid on the grey shoes she’d kicked off before climbing into bed. She checked the clock again. Seven-twenty. Grabbing her brush, she ran to the vanity and started pulling her hair back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. No time for makeup, not that she had much to begin with.

The clock read seven-twenty-seven as she ran out the door and down the grand staircase. Lady Lucie had told her where the kitchen was, but not the dining room, and Nathalie had no idea where it was. At the children’s manor the dining hall had been connected to the kitchen with a swinging door. Maybe it was the same at Marchant. She ran down the hall towards the kitchen, and burst through the first doorway she came across.

Unfortunately, the room she burst into wasn’t the kitchen. Fortunately, her search was over. She’d found the dining room with- according to the clock on the opposite wall -not a moment to spare. The room was empty, but the chandelier had been lit and there were three place settings on one end of the long, ornately carved table. Lady Lucie was nowhere in sight, but neither was the third lady of the house. She wasn’t sure what else to do, so she walked to the table and took a seat.

The room was large and drafty, and eerily quiet. Nathalie noticed the whole house was like that, for the most part. Lady Lucie had said that they had been alone, just the two of them, for eight years. It was no surprise that the manor was as dilapidated as it was, but it still, to be alone in the dining room was terribly frightening, and Nathalie hoped it wouldn’t be that way for long.

Just then, a small door near a corner of the room swung open and Lady Lucie bustled in, carrying two platters and a bowl. “Ah, there you are! I was wondering where you went off to. I checked your room not long ago but I didn’t see you there.”

Nathalie looked at her, baffled. “How long ago did you check?”

“Oh, maybe an hour or so? How come?”

“I was...taking a nap. I was in my room the whole time.”

“Oh,” Lady Lucie said. “I must have missed you.”

“Yeah,” Nathalie agreed, although she was skeptical.

“Have you seen the other lady of the house yet? She’s late,” Lady Lucie asked as she placed the platters down in front of Nathalie.

“No, I haven’t,” she admitted.

Just then, the door to the hallway flew open, and there stood a slender lady with a tight bun and a floor-length black skirt. She didn’t look up from the book she was reading, the title of which Nathalie couldn’t make out. Even though she wasn’t watching where she walked, she moved with speed and grace, as though she’d done this a million times.

“I’ll take my supper in the library, Lady Lucie,” she said, flipping the page with her bony fingers.

“Lady Brigid, we have a new lady in the house. For one supper, you can put the book down and engage in conversation.” Lady Lucie walked towards her and grabbed the book. Lady Brigid cried out and reached to grab it, but Lady Lucie had already tucked it away into the folds of her own skirt. “Come, sit. Set a good example for Lady Nathalie.”

Lady Brigid scowled and sat down, her long skirt sweeping the floor as she did. She glared at Lady Lucie, but she seemed not to notice, serving Nathalie a helping of potatoes and a serving of mushrooms.

“So who is this?” Lady Brigid asked, turning her attention to Nathalie.

“I’m Nath- Lady Nathalie,” she said, remembering what Lady Lucie had told her. The title was still strange, and she was still getting used to it.

“Where did you come from?” Lady Brigid stared at her, as though trying to bore holes through Nathalie’s skull.

“Hazelford Children’s Manor in Toulliers, ma’am. First cycle.”

“So I see they’re sending just anyone here now, are they?” Lady Brigid remarked, as though Nathalie were the scum of the Earth.

“Lady Brigid, that’s quite enough,” Lady Lucie interrupted. “This is not a time for argument. I’m sure Hazelford does a fine job of educating the young ladies in their care, and Lady Nathalie is as good as any of the ladies.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Lady Brigid said, still staring at Nathalie.

A moment of uncomfortable silence followed, broken by Lady Lucie declaring, “Well, we mustn’t let our food get cold. Eat, eat!”

Nathalie folded her hands to pray, but Lady Lucie and Lady Brigid had both started cutting into the duck meat on their plates. “Do we not pray?”

The other ladies stopped and looked at Nathalie. “I suppose we do,” Lady Lucie said slowly, putting down her fork and knife. Lady Brigid followed suit and they folded their hands and bowed their heads.

“Oh Lady of All Ladies, protect the ladies of the order and bless us this day, as you have and will forever, amen.” It was a short prayer that Nathalie knew by heart, having said it before each meal for as long as she could remember. After saying this, she placed her napkin in her lap and started cutting her meat, just as Lady Sylviane had taught her.

“A lady must act like a proper lady, otherwise her title is for naught,” Lady Sylviane had been fond of saying whenever she saw a girl whose posture was not perfect or took too large of a bite. Nathalie could still hear her reprimands, even at a meal she wasn’t present at.

She glanced over at her fellow ladies. Had Lady Sylviane been there, she would have been appalled. Lady Lucie was eating potatoes with her fingers, and Lady Brigid had somehow acquired a new book that she had placed next to her plate and she was poring over as she took a bite of her duck. She gaped at them for nearly a minute before they realised she was staring.

“Have you no shame?” Nathalie asked. “Have you no shame at all?”

They stared back at her for a moment before Lady Lucie said sheepishly, “It’s been a while since anyone else dined with us. We usually take supper independently, in the library.”

“If we don’t use cutlery, we don’t have to wash it,” Lady Brigid added. “It’s just us taking care of the whole manor. That’s why we closed so much of the house off, so we haven’t got to clean it. We try to make as little mess as possible, so we can dedicate more time to study.”

Nathalie stared at them. “Did you not receive proper education in the children’s manor?”

“We did, we just have a mutual, unspoken agreement that that’s too much trouble.” Lady Lucie looked at Nathalie as though she were stupid. “We can use proper manners, but it’s so rare we have visitors that we decided not to bother.”

With that, the pair of them went back to their meals, their manner the same as before. Nathalie stared a moment more, baffled at their logic. She supposed it made sense to close off parts of the house, as there was simply too much of it for the few people residing in Marchant Manor, but she’d assumed that all of the ladies would use proper table manners. Some small part of her had always hated Lady Sylviane’s rules, but she’d been too scared to try and defy her. But seeing as the ladies here didn’t mind…

She tentatively put down her fork and gingerly picked up a baby potato. Had she been using cutlery, she would have cut it in two, but it wasn’t too large as to not fit in her mouth. Before she could change her mind, she placed the whole thing in her mouth and started chewing it. She couldn’t entirely close her mouth, but it didn’t matter. The potato itself was nothing special, but the action was what made it truly special. It was silly, really, that something so small could bring her such joy, but it did. She ate her whole meal in that fashion, finally sitting back and licking her fingers.

“It’s nice, not to have to think about the rules, isn’t it?” Lady Lucie asked, watching Nathalie finish up. She nodded, and Lady Lucie smiled. “Would you like to see the rest of the house tonight?”

“Oh, no thank you,” she said. “I’m full, and I’d like to go to bed.”

“I figured as much. Lady Brigid, you’ll be returning to the library, I assume?”

“Yes, thank you for supper,” Lady Brigid stood up, not looking up from her book as she exited the dining room.

“Mysterious, isn’t she?” Lady Lucie remarked as she began to clear the dishes. “She’s nice enough, but she’s strange. Still don’t know much about her, and I’ve been here eleven years.”

“Really?” Nathalie asked, stacking up the supper plates. “How odd.”

“Yes, well, I’m not sure what else to do with her,” Lady Lucie said. “Perhaps we can discover things together. But it can wait until tomorrow. You should get some rest.”

“Are you sure you don’t need help cleaning up supper?” Nathalie asked.

“Oh, I’m fine. I clean up by myself all the time,” she said, taking the plates from Nathalie. “Truly, I can handle it. Go to bed, and I’ll see you in the morning. Breakfast is usually around nine, but I’ll make yours whenever you wake. Sleep well.”

With that dismissal, Nathalie felt she had no choice but to climb back up the grand staircase to her bedroom, where she shut the door behind her. Supper had been interesting, in more ways than one, but she was too exhausted to think about it. Instead, she removed the bun from her hair, replacing it with a long plait, and slipping into her nightdress before climbing into bed, under the heavy sheets. Tomorrow would be a day of education, in more ways than one, but right now, it was time to rest. Nathalie had no barely drawn the covers up to her chin before she was fast asleep.

[whumpinggrounds]

What’s up, Doc?

short lil chapter to build up to a, uh...much bigger chapter. stay tuned!!

tagging @killtheprotagonist​ and @shapeshiftersandfire​

CW: pet whump, lady whump, mentions of electric shock, mentions of past abuse, bruises, scars, dehumanization, betrayal

When Mara brings Isabella in for her latest memory checkup, the bruises haven’t quite faded from her neck. Lips thinning, she orders Isabella into one of her turtlenecks, already frustrated by the way her pet is going to stretch out the shoulders. It’s all for naught, of course, because the first thing Collins does when he sees Isabella is pull the neck of the sweater down to buckle a shock collar around her neck.

Sheriff Collins whistles when he sees the faint red fingerprints around Isabella’s throat, and takes another evaluative look at the layer of makeup coating Isabella’s serene face. It’s not a very good coverup job –Mara and Isabella don’t have the same skin tone, and neither of them have ever covered a bruise before. “Not bad, doc,” he tells Mara with a grin, and she smiles tightly back at him, not even pretending to mean it. “I was worried you’d have trouble with discipline, but I see that I was wrong.”

“Had a minor behavioral issue,” she admits, seeing the way that Isabella stiffens minutely at the words. Casting an irritated glance at her pet, Mara wants to demand the boxgirl come up with her own answer, tell Mara what the fuck she’s supposed to say.

“From my 493?” Collins shakes his head. “Now that is disappointing. I mean, I do love that you’re taking a hands-on approach” – Collins chuckles at his own joke – “but I wish you didn’t have to.”

Mara shrugs, trying to pretend she can’t feel her pet’s desperate stare boring into the side of her face. “It was nothing serious,” she says finally, and she knows if she looked over, she’d find Isabella melting with relief, probably alight with something like adoration. Or…or maybe not the adoration, anymore. It pisses her off all over again, thinking about how all that devotion is once again being pointed at fucking Jamie.

“May I ask, ah, what the problem was?”

She shouldn’t tell Collins. She really shouldn’t. He’s about to take Isabella into the back and electrocute her for a few hours – Mara knows that now; she’s seen the tapes and she’s seen the electrical burns from when Collins got a little too excited and forgot to shift the collar. Telling Arthur Collins, empowered sadist, why she’s angry with Isabella is fucking cruel.

And it might help. The idea growing in her head, Mara lets out a practiced, disinterested sigh. “She has a crush on her pet sitter.”

Beside her, from Isabella’s throat, issues a barely audible squeak. In front of her, Arthur Collins cracks a wide, knowing smile. “Ah, so you’re the possessive type?”

Mara shrugs, curbing the impulse to glare. He’s a coworker and client, she reminds herself. Can’t go alienating him now when it’s you who decided to overshare.

“This might sound odd.” It already does because what does Collins have to be so excited about right now? “But do you have a picture of the pet sitter? From social media or anything?”

“I, uh. Yeah. I can find one.”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind sending that to me, I think I can help you out with this little crush problem.”

Mara bites her lip. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean – how often does this little girl get out?” He pulls Isabella in, ruffles her curly hair. The Box Babe’s big green eyes stay fixed on Mara, pleading with her silently. Pointedly, Mara avoids her desperate gaze.

“Uh, not often.”

“Yeah, so I’m sure our little duckling is just imprinting on this sitter because they’re one of the few people she gets to see. She’s trained to be friendly, after all.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Mara agrees reluctantly, even though she knows that’s not it. It’d be one thing if it were a random pet sitter, but this is Jamie.

But. Not like she can tell Collins that. Stifling a sigh, she waits for whatever bright idea this handler’s so excited about. “So, look, you could always use a different sitter...”

“Yeah, but this one just has, uh, really good rates-”

“I didn’t say that was your only option.” Collins smirks. “I can work with her today, do a little extra programming, and I promise you won’t have to worry. Isabella won’t be thinking about whoever it is you’re leaving her with, ever again. Or at least, thinking about them will not make her happy.”

“Really?” Mara tries to sound neutral. ���I mean, Arthur, wouldn’t you have to charge me for that?”

“For you, doc? Absolutely free.” He flings his arms out magnanimously, releasing Isabella from his too-tight grip. The boxgirl stands frozen where he left her, and when Mara accidentally meets those green eyes, she finds them full of tears. If Isabella were speaking, she’d be begging with everything in her, pleading with Mara not to do this.

“That sounds great, Arthur. I’ll pick her up at five.”

[cto10121]

Sometimes, when I deign to trawl through the R&J tag and then almost instantly regretting it, I like to imagine what the first Elizabethean fandom for Romeo and Juliet was like in its heyday. We know that the play was popular, especially with the youths (“I set thy lips abroach, from whence doth flow / Naught but pure Juliet and Romeo”) and in the Parnassus play written by Oxford college students, a character Gullio, who is meant to be the stereotypical ultimate Shakespeare fanboy, enters and another character complains “we shall have naught but Romeo and Juliet now.” Sure enough, Gullio almost instantly quotes from R&J.

So now I’m imagining a fandom of collectively flailing Elizabethean young adult grammar students, apprentices, and law students utterly destroyed from seeing the play at the Curtain (“Er, farest thou well?” “No, I do not fare well, fellows, I am unDONE, look not for me, I am returned to earth as dust” “I knew t’was a tragedy but I did not know I. would. CARE”) and they talk and joke and make memes and inside jokes until even the mention of “a full half of an hour” (the time it takes Juliet to wake up after Romeo dies) makes them automatically start wailing and becomes a meme shorthand for the time it takes for any tragedy to occur. There would have been fans who stan the actors hard, especially Burbage who made such a great Romeo people would still remember it years later as one of his best roles. There would finally have been a fandom for Shakespeare himself when they finally realize he wrote the play and also for his portrayal of the Chorus and the Friar, and the early fans of Venus and Adonis, Shakespeare’s narrative poem, would have been “fINALLY, the people hath appreciated our sweet word wizard, come ye to the dark side, we have lusty goddesses and horses galore.” (And then proceed to gatekeep, of course). There would have been almost exclusively Mercutio stans, including the actor (I headcanon John Heminges, Shakespeare’s real-life BFF). There would have been Elizabethean fuckboys using R&J lines to pick up girls (yes, this actually happened).

And oh, and the wank! Imagine the fans of Shakespeare’s R&J versus the OG fans of Arthur Brooks’ version AND the hipster fans of the original Italian sources fighting constantly and gatekeeping so hard, with the latter insisting that Shakespeare’s play ruined and dumbed down the original’s message about the consequences of teenage lust and disobeying your parents and the Shakespeare fans basically replying “yes we know ‘tis canon but since t’was the most asinine decision yet set upon calfskin, our lord and master of our earthly souls Will Shakespeare declined to accept it, and I know not what you may think on it, but methought t’was truly the fairest thing” and “the Theater play was BETTER, that is flat, therefore hie you all hence home, you stink with drink.” I wouldn’t even be surprised if there were a tiny faction of Romeo/Rosaline shippers who are also hardcore Petrarchan stans and those fans would have been just. universally hated by the greater fandom. No matter the receipts you pull out, no matter the argument, they just won’t accept the Romilet endgame and uphold Rosaline as Romeo’s True Love. Things are made worse by the fact that the only source for the play text is a bootlegged quarto with some deleted BTS material but otherwise very low quality and inaccurate text. The fans are especially furious at the botched marriage scene with an OOC R&J.

Then finally in ‘97 or thereabouts a quarto with the whole complete and accurate text comes out and the fandom goes wild. They have memorized the play, naturally, but the naked page provides many possibilities for other interpretations and the fans can finally, visibly see that Romeo and Juliet’s first interaction makes a perfect sonnet (something that most diehard fans picked up but seeing it so clearly on the page is...something else. “THIS SHIP SAILETH ITSELF” is the common response). It is a deathblow to Romaline, thankfully, but it also incurs a general robust backlash re: the whiny OG fans of Arthur Brooks who are and forever will be salty at Shakespeare’s changes (“they did not speak so long in the Brooks, they kissed almost presently which is how it should be for that ‘tis a ~love~ based on nothing less than mere LUXURY” “hold thy tongue, knave, or I shall cut it out of thee”).

So while the grammar kids are supposed to analyze their Ovid and Seneca, they are reading the quarto version of Romeo and Juliet on the sly, whispering favorite lines and headcanons, leading their scandalized grammar profs to decry the death of learning!!!1!! and the Puritans harangue the Theater and Curtain playhouses for their gross irresponsibility in portraying unhallowed teenage lust as love in front of impressionable teen boys and once again the inherent lewdness of such an erotically-charged story conveyed by all-male actors (“The beast is among us and lo, she is hight the Theater!!1!!!”).

At last the Middle Temple issues a kind but strongly worded reminder to all law students that no, you can’t petition a writ of distringas [restraining order] against a play poet on the basis of “his Romeo causing great emotional damage for that I must lie down and weep every #full half of an hour” because it will be dismissed by the Star Court and most any court in the realm. It also feels the need to write to inform Master William Shakespeare of the phenomenon, politely inquiring, um, what the hell. All this for a stage play you penned???? Shakespeare just smiles wryly.