#it's in chronological order roughly enjoy

[beggars-opera]

I got paid to make this

[fayes-fics]

Lessons In Motion

Lessons Series Masterpost

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (threesome)

Summary: An eventful carriage ride with the boys.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, MMF threesome, no incest, dom/sub dynamics - dom!Bridgertons sub!reader, masturbation, dirty talk, mild degradation, light spanking/slapping, hair pulling, vaginal fingering, cockwarming, exhibitionism, breast play, edging, bondage restraint, sensory deprivation (blindfold), anal sex, vaginal sex, double penetration.

Word Count: 6.3k

Authors note: Is this the threesome I should be writing? No of course not. Sorry. This was indeed inspired by the synchronised head tilt in the s3 trailer 🤷‍♀️ Part of Lessons-verse, chronologically this takes place before Lessons in Breeding. Thank you to @colettebronte for betaing. Enjoy! <3

You bounce nervously in your shoes, craning to see the ride you are awaiting. 

You slipped out the side entrance of the music hall, eager to escape prying eyes, leaving them to exit through the front, picking up their family carriage together. Being a guest in the family box for the evening is one thing; an unattached woman leaving publicly with two of the most eligible bachelors in the country is another matter entirely—you have no desire to provoke the wagging tongues of the Ton. But that does not mean you wish for your night with them to be over, far from it.

With a whinny, a two-horse carriage rounds the corner into the quiet street a few hundred yards from the venue and comes to a halt before you. The windows are all obscured by thick, draped curtains. So much so that you hesitate, hang back under the shadow of the mature oak. Until that is, the door swings open, and a very familiar face pops out, expression bemused.

“Does my girl not wish for a carriage?” Anthony teases with an expectant, fond tone.

You giggle and rush towards the vehicle, climbing in quickly. The door slams behind you as a fist knocks upon the ceiling to indicate for the driver to move on. The carriage is dimly lit by one tiny glass lantern flame flickering, both sets of eyes are eager on you, that molten heat in your belly as you sit opposite them, both so handsome.

“Did you enjoy your evening, gentlemen?” you query, feigning innocence.

They both comedically tilt their heads in brotherly unison, matching bemused grins claiming their lips as Benedict giggles behind his fist.

“Considering where you had your hands all night, you know well we did,” he pipes up, raising an eyebrow pointedly. 

“Twas rather a boring recital, sir.” Your invocation of his play title makes his chest swell and his pupils dilate. “Should I not have kept myself sufficiently entertained?” He appreciates your sass, nodding with a knowing smirk. 

Indeed, you were greatly entertained. But not by the singing onstage. Sitting in the Bridgerton family box, a rigid cock in each hand as you teased them mercilessly, the angle of the seating allowing you the privacy to do so unseen by other patrons. Never letting either of them climax, taking them somewhere close then backing off, each huffing quietly, a white knuckle grip on their chair arms, as your fingers were coated with pre-cum. Most entertaining indeed. At one point, Anthony had hissed how he would have you on your knees and down your throat if you prolonged the torture much longer, but you knew it to be an empty (and entirely welcomed) threat. Now, in the privacy of the carriage, you rather suspect you are about to be taught a lesson for that cheeky behaviour.

“I do believe it is time for payback, brother,” Anthony opines, voicing your exact suspicions, them exchanging their trademark glance—so much communication with no words.

“Yes, I rather suspect a lesson is in order: that which you do unto others, you should expect done unto you,” Benedict forebodes.

Your stomach ripples as he grabs your ankle and roughly pushes it out wide, a hand travelling up your leg, gathering your dress around his forearm as he does. Soon, they discover the secret you held this evening: that you wear no chemise, no stockings, no undergarments at all, in fact—just your blue silk dress and ballet-style shoes.

“You filthy little vixen,” Anthony growls as he sees a flash between your legs.

“Do not pretend this type of indecency is not exactly what you want from her, brother,” Benedict counters dryly as his hand trails up your inner thigh, your breath quickening as he reaches your apex. You cry out, staring Anthony down as Benedict's fingers plunge into your pussy, burrowing deep, leaning his head into yours. “Always so hot, wet and wanting, are you not?” he rumbles into your hair as his fingers start to rock.

“Yes sir,” you know better than to ignore a question that is asked of you. “Only for you and my lord,” you add, knowing they always want to hear it.

“That is right,” Anthony preens, fighting with the buttons of his trousers and taking his sizable cock in hand, watching you moan and squirm on Benedict's invading digits, dripping down onto his palm, the sounds he draws from your body already obscene. You have been soaked since teasing them at the recital.

“I bet even the driver can hear this tight little cunt. Our filthy beautiful girl just drenching herself like the bitch in heat she is…” Benedict remarks casually.

You love it when they call you such taboo names in play, an illicit thrill running down your spine as he smiles predatorily and curls his fingers, hooking against your pussy wall, making you gasp. It's not quite enough pressure. Your head swings to look at him, silently requesting more.

He chuckles. “What did I tell you earlier?” 

“Teasing?” 

He nods as you pout, sliding his lips right to your ear, his breath hot there. “Until you are a mindless and trembling creature who will do whatever we tell you to.” 

You bite your lip and exhale raggedly, your belly constricting at the thought and at the sight of Anthony lazily pumping his cock, wanting to ride it so much your fingers flex upon the velour bench seat, rocking your pelvis with each stroke Benedict takes, hoping to catch a dash of friction upon your engorged clit. He tuts admonishingly when he senses what you are trying to do, curling his free hand around your inner thigh and spanking there. A stinging slap that makes you jump and mewl.

“Stop trying to come so hastily, darling girl. We decide if and when that will ever happen…” Anthony calls out from across the carriage, grabbing your leg and pulling it high and wide. He yanks off your shoe and bites your instep, not hard, but enough to make your whole body jerk, so you slide deeper onto his brother's fingers, moaning and throwing your head back, the rocking motion of the carriage somehow making it a worse tease.

“‘Tis not a long ride to either of your lodgings… surely you cannot tease me forever,” you speculate, spiralling slowly under such expert ministrations, an itch in your brain that needs to be scratched, even your teeth feel on edge.

“Oh, my girl, we are not headed to either place. Oh no. We are headed to our country retreat. The ride will take the rest of the night,” Anthony crows. “Our family will be remaining in London. So it will just be the three of us… with hundreds of acres to ourselves,” he grins devilishly, still slowly pumping his cock as he speaks.

“But…” you splutter, “I have nothing with me! No dresses, no shoes...” fretting mildly even as your stomach quivers with the thought of time spent alone with your boys.

“Oh, you sweet thing,” Benedict chuckles in your hair,  rotating his fingers so they drag over that sensitive spot that makes you shudder. “As if we are going to let you wear anything except our jewels. You shall be naked for days.”

“If you truly object, say your word now,” Anthony states clearly.  “And we shall drop you at your home.”

Benedict pauses his motions, awaiting your answer, both always respectful of your full consent. You look at them in turn, then merely shake your head fractionally, basking in their wolfish smiles. Wanting to do this with them—a new illicit adventure. The idea of days alone with both of them in a luxury country idyll is so beguiling. And a definite step forward in your dynamic as a throuple.

“Well, then, might as well tear off this dress right now; start as we mean to go on, right brother?” Benedict breezes as he withdraws his fingers from you, making you whine at the loss. But then he trails them across your decolletage, dipping his head to suckle your juices from your skin, his teeth sinking lightly into the swell of your breast, making you groan loudly and push up into his mouth.

“Agreed,” Anthony practically growls, pushing his trousers further down, cupping his balls now with his other hand.

“But my lord,” you stumble, tearing your eyes reluctantly from that tempting sight up to his face. “I need my dress to alight from this carriage when we arrive. Surely your staff should not see me naked?!" Your dissent is light, core pulsing at the mental image of them parading you naked up the front steps of a grand country house for all the gathered staff to greet your debauched arrival.

“Please,” Anthony withers, “what is a touch of nudity when they will likely find us fucking you in every way and place possible? Our darling little plaything, always so keen, are you not?” 

“Yes, my lord, Always.” 

Your whisper is obedient, watching him squeeze his cock more forcefully in his fist, his gaze locked between your splayed legs as Benedict yanks down your neckline roughly. The sound of fabric tearing fills the carriage, then their approving grunts as they realise you are without stays. 

“Get her naked, brother,” Anthony orders brusquely.

He sets about the task with enthusiasm, your dress ripping along the seams as he deploys both large hands and tears the fine silk asunder. It is one Anthony had paid for, so you do not mourn its loss, you rather suspect he will replace it with one identical in short order.

“If I am always to be naked, then will you warm my body when I am cold, sir?” You coquette, batting your eyelashes, playing up the damsel in distress to Benedict as he pushes aside the remaining fabric from around your front.

“Always sweet girl,” Benedict promises duskily, trailing his palm down your flushed skin, pulling you in for a kiss that is all tongues and heat. It has you canting your now naked body into his, desperate for his fingers, or even better, his cock, to be inside you.

As if sensing your need, Anthony intervenes as your lips break apart, perhaps jealous at the amount of time his brother has had with you. 

“Alright, enough of that. I think you are plenty prepared now. Come, my girl,” Anthony pats his thigh invitingly, “come sit on my cock.”

You make a victorious noise and slide out from around Benedict, Anthony grabbing your waist and spinning you around to face away from him. 

“Hello, my darling girl,” Anthony greets, his tone like velvet, pulling you snugly against his frame, the brocade of his waistcoat tickling your spine.

Your responding greeting turns into a cry as he guides you down onto his cock, splitting you open in that way it always does, a stretch that is just the right side of discomfort, that heavy weight pressing far inside that you yearn for.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, grabbing your jaw and pulling you back into a plundering kiss, making you pliant in his arms.

“Fuck me, my lord,” you beseech when you realise he is holding your hips down with a slight force, preventing any movement.

“But we have hours,” he drawls unhurriedly, “how about you sit still and just enjoy the ride, hmmm?”

You mewl in protest; as much as the carriage ride is indeed a pleasant rocking motion, your clit is throbbing, needing friction, craving release. You attempt to coax him by squeezing his cock so he groans throatily.

“Stop that. If you defy me, I will never let you come.”

He forcefully grabs your knees and drapes your thighs on either side of his woollen trousers that are bunched around his hips, then splays his legs wide. There’s a burning stretch on your inner thighs as he now holds you obscenely open. You are powerless to do anything but sit obediently upon his cock, whining slightly as the need claws at the edges of your mind.

Across from you, Benedict watches, seemingly transfixed by the sight of you naked and pinned open, speared on Anthony's cock, whimpering as your attempts to move are quelled by those firm hands clamped on your hips. You watch as he unbuttons and takes himself in hand, just as Anthony had, his eyes hungrily raking over your body. It makes you want to climb into his lap and fuck him over and over. 

“Will you fuck me, sir?” You lobby, hoping it will get a rise out of Anthony, that it will catalyse him into taking you hard, possessively.

“You know I will, sweet girl,” Benedict responds huskily. “But as my brother says, we have hours, and you will learn your lesson today…”

“I promise I have learned my lesson not to tease either of you,” you implore sincerely, hopeful for absolution, but both of them merely huff a laugh, suspecting it a hollow pledge. 

You pout again but relent, leaning back into Anthony, accepting your fate. His lips graze your temple as you rest your head on his shoulder and try to get comfortable. Try to ignore the pulse in your engorged clit with every heartbeat. Try to ignore the press of his frenulum inside, a pressure you feel compelled to rub against. Try to ignore that tingle in your nipples where they pucker hard, desperate for a tongue or some rough fingers.

And that is how you stay for what feels like an eternity. Just the noises of movement and horses upon what is now a dirty track, bright moonlight seeping through the cracks in the curtains as you sit in silent submission, The rocking of the carriage meaning you must occasionally endure the jolts of his cock against your hilt, making your breath catch. Your eyes alternate between fluttering closed and opening to see Benedict idly grasping his cock, but it's too tempting a sight, so you swallow hard and close them again. 

However, with your eyes closed, you see worse images dancing before you, taunting you. Flashes of them both lathing their tongues all over your skin, of you on your knees between them, a cock in your mouth and one pounding into your pussy, a loop of carnal push and pull. It makes you leak more, a trickle leaving your body and pooling at the base of Anthony’s cock, nestling in his hair there.

“I can feel how aroused you are,” Anthony purrs into your hairline, almost startling you after many minutes of quiet. “How it is taking every fibre in your being not to defy me. Let’s see how good you can really be for me. Remember, you may not move.”

That’s all the warning you get before his warm, lightly quill-calloused fingers slide over your clit, rubbing an agonisingly light, slow circle. Not enough to do anything but make you shudder and pant, needing more, tiny sparks igniting through your heavy pelvis. Fighting so hard to keep your hips still, wanting more than anything to buck up, bear down onto the hook of his fingers, frottage yourself until you come clenching around his cock so steely and hot inside you.

“Please, my lord,” you grit out, turning to bury your nose into him, huffing his spicy amber cologne, lips brushing the rasp of stubble on his strong jaw.

“I could listen to you beg all night,” Anthony confesses and there’s an edge to his voice that is dark, dangerous, unyielding. 

You lament when his fingers disappear, but he rolls his hips with the motion of the carriage, his cock sliding just a fraction deeper, making you cry out, the change of angle promising so much. Your hand flies out for purchase upon something solid but instead seizes the carriage curtain, unintentionally pulling it back so the glass is revealed.

“Oh, excellent idea!” Anthony lauds. “Yes, show yourself to the world, darling girl; show what a wanton thing you are for us.”

By now, though, the busy streets of Mayfair are long behind you. You are out in the darkness past Blackheath, moving fast down the Dover road to rural Kent. If there are any prying eyes, they will only catch a glimpse of you utterly naked, seated upon a clothed Viscount.

“Open the rest, brother,” Anthony clips.

Your eyes ping to Benedict as he releases his cock and pulls open the draped fabric on either side, hooking it back so the inky blackness of night is all around you.

“Imagine being seen, my girl,” Anthony baits. “There could be a highwayman right now lurking among those trees.”

Benedict leans forward, his hand suddenly clasping the jewelled necklace draped around your throat, the one Anthony presented you with just last week. His motion pulls you upright away from Anthony, the tilt of his cock inside you catching your breath.

“They may want this darling girl,” Benedict joins in. “Will you give it to them? Or will you offer something else instead in order to keep it? A more precious jewel perhaps….” He releases your necklace and trails that hand down between your breasts, over your belly, spidering lower until he grazes your clit. “Will you allow him this? Your greatest treasure?”

You moan loudly at his expert touch, a stroke of his middle finger under the hood of your clit making your whole body quake.

“N-no sir, I would not,” you stumble. “That belongs to my lord and to you.”

“Oh, good answer,” he winks, eyes twinkling in the moonlight streaming in as his now wettened finger traces back up over your belly. “But what if that is what we wish? To watch you be fucked by a stranger? A thief in a mask? Would you then?”

“I would do whatever you and my lord want, sir,” you pledge truthfully, then inhale sharply as he grabs the back of your neck and moves in close, his lips ghosting yours as he speaks again, teasing you with an almost kiss.

“I could watch you be fucked by a dozen men and enjoy every single one. I do so love the way your eyes roll when you are being taken rough. How you always, always plead for more, greedy little one that you are.” 

Your eyes flit down to see his other fist speeding up around his cock. It makes you clench around Anthony, who groans hard, the air in the carriage somehow notching hotter, tighter, like it’s a fight to breathe.

“Sir,” you murmur on his lips, “Please help me; I am in such need.”

You feel as much as see that crooked, laconic smile claims his face, his cock still in hand. “What do you want from me, darling girl? Be specific, maybe I will do it…” 

“Suck my nipples,” you request boldly at his enticement as he tilts back to watch you speak. “Maybe bite them a touch? Use your wonderful fingers upon my pearl; you can surely see it is so swollen...”

You know such explicit language will work for him, and sure enough, his nostrils flare as you ask for precisely what you need, his tongue flicking out to trace around his lips.

“Brother, will you allow it?” Benedict checks, his gaze flitting briefly to the man you sit upon.

“I will,” Anthony concedes, “on one condition: do not let her come, not yet.” He grabs a fistful of your hair, making you inhale sharply, jerking you back against his body, trailing his nose over your cheek. “I do so need her desperate and crying pretty tears for me before I shall allow that.”

Benedict slides to his knees before you, between your splayed legs, and you tremble as his damp lips ghost over the valley between your breasts, nuzzling your skin, inhaling deeply, trailing the point of his nose left to your nipple. You moan loudly as he suckles you into his hot mouth, lips pursed around your puckered teet. Then he glances the edge of his front teeth over your skin, causing a shudder down your spine. His hand cups your other breast, fondling your nipple with swipes of his thumbpad, teasing, while his teeth clamp down and tug away—a beeline to your core. 

You mutter a curse and thrash your head a little, settling on pressing your nose into Anthony’s neck and whimpering lightly, so much sensation coursing through you, his cock is still rigid and unrelenting inside you. Muttering as Benedict keeps feasting upon your breasts, biting, suckling, fondling, not allowing you one moment without the tormenting thrill, a quake in your thighs, an odd tingle in your arms, a pressure behind your belly that is a ball of need, wound tight like a spring.

“Sweet, sweet girl,” Anthony sighs, wrapping an arm around your head, his bicep bulging against your face through his jacket. “Now you have some sense of how we felt earlier tonight…”

At that, Benedict slides his thumb over your clit, flicking in a sideways motion that has you screaming into Anthony’s skin, clawing your hands into both of their hair, grasping their scalps and making them both growl.

“My lord, sir, please….” 

It's a broken, pitiful sound, teetering as you are, reality a blur, a buzz in your brain that is febrile. A tear of frustration prickles your eye at the prolonged agony of denied ecstasy. Just as you are incapable of defying them anymore and have to break, Benedict pauses, pulls back, and watches with that killer smile as you protest even louder, breasts wet with his saliva, goosebumps covering your entire body.

“She is so beautiful like this, brother,” Benedict groans, grabbing himself again and squeezing a few times as if staving off his own orgasm. “You should see it from here….” he adds as he falls back upon the opposite bench.

“I want to,” Anthony confesses, kissing your temple. “I want to see what you look like, my girl, struggling like this; I wish this damn carriage had a mirror….”

“There is one way….” Benedict shrugs, probably aiming for nonchalant but missing entirely. “She may do the same to me?”

“Do you want that, my girl? To sit upon my brother as well?”

“Yes, my lord,” you confess, always eager to gratify them both. “Will I be allowed to come if I do?”

He chuckles into your skin. “Not yet. But if you are good for him too, maybe then.”

Hope flares as Anthony closes his legs and hoists you up and off his cock, you emitting a slight lament at the loss of him as he helps you to turn around and guides you onto Benedict’s lap. Before you know it, you are once again invaded intimately, the stretch different in ways you can’t fully articulate but just as wonderful. Sliding deep, Benedict’s responding moan is hot in your ear as you settle upon him. He hooks your legs over his in the same manner Anthony did, pushing his knees wide open, perhaps even more so, and you hiss at the tugging sensation in your tendons.

“See, brother?” Benedict crows. “Look how spectacular she is…” the words are nuzzled into your temple as he drops a sighing kiss there.

“‘Tis quite the sight…” Anthony agrees lowly as he starts to unwind his cravat while sitting back to admire you. “But I feel she may need those rebellious hands restrained….”

Your belly roils as Anthony grabs your wrists, jerking them forward and binding them with the soft white silk, looping the fabrics many times before tying a tight bow that is unyielding. He doesn’t even ask for your colour, knowing such things are always a green light. What’s new is he guides your bound hands up high, then backwards, curling them behind Benedict’s head with an amused arched eyebrow.

“Don’t you dare move those arms until I say so,” Anthony warns, and all you can do is nod and bite your lip.

“Oh, excellent idea,” Benedict rhapsodises, staring fervently down the plane of your body draped naked over him.

It’s all at once similar and yet different to moments ago with Anthony: the stretch of a cock impaling you, the ache in your thighs forced so wide open, but now with the pulse in your wrists with your hands bound behind Benedict’s strong neck, your fingernails sinking into the plush ruched fabric on the wall behind.

“Watch me, my girl,” Anthony commands.

Drowsy and shaky with unmet needs, you observe as he touches himself again, his proud cock still glistening with your juices as it passes through his fist, tempting, teasing you. Attempting relief by undulating upon Benedict, but balance is more difficult now your hands are bound, instead resorting to supplicant pleas, hoping his empathetic nature will win out.

“Not yet,” he soothes through gritted teeth, but you can sense his quandary, wanting so much to rut into you, his hands flexing upon the dip of your waist. 

“You believe I have learned my lesson, do you not, sir?” Your soft appeal is blatant manipulation, reluctantly looking away from Anthony to twist sideways and stare beseechingly into his hazy blue eyes, finding a storm of desire there. Your lips tingle for his kiss as he goes to answer but is interrupted.

“Stop trying to cheat my girl,” Anthony counsels tersely. While he has welcomed Benedict into your dynamic, sometimes residual jealousy rears when you appear to have a moment of connection with his brother, wanting to gain control—the upper hand.

“You heard him. So, are you going to be a very good girl for me?” 

Benedict’s voice is a resonant vibration through your back, his frilly shirt tickling your spine. You would do anything for him when he asks like that. Your resounding nod is rewarded with a kiss, and his long fingers snagging around your nipples, your pussy clenching reflexively upon him as his tongue rolls over yours. It makes him stutter a growl into your mouth, which tastes like sin laced with smoky whiskey. 

And so you do as asked—sitting meekly, submissively, that heavy distracting weight inside you keening quietly, throbbing between your legs as Benedict tweaks your nipples almost lazily between his paintbrush-calloused fingers, his lips on your neck, sucking gently, a sensation that is all soft, wet heat. Your hooded gaze is glued to Anthony idly stroking himself, only a fraction of movement designed to keep himself aroused, no doubt. 

Minutes tick by, so you lean back into Benedict’s body as his touch softens, allowing your breathing to syncopate to his, his chest rising and falling against your back. Despite your thrumming arousal, the effect is soporific, and you find yourself growing so sleepy, eyelids too heavy…

…“Wake up, sweet girl,” Benedict’s bemused voice rings in your ear.

You startle, having no concept of how much time has passed. You are impressed when you realise he is still rock-hard inside you, your legs closer together now.

“For how long was I asleep?” You query, stifling a light yawn. A warmth blooms behind your ribs when you realise that, at some point, they unhooked your arms from behind Benedict's head, your hands resting in your lap, still bound in Anthony’s cravat.

“About a quarter hour,” Anthony chuckles. “You looked so peaceful, but we decided to rouse you to deliver the good news. We believe that you have indeed learned your lesson, sweet girl….”

“Yes, my lord, I have!” You enthuse, suddenly awake again, feeling an instant quickened throb in your clit, hoping it means they will finally take pity on you, fuck you, let you come.

“Then it is time for your reward…” 

Anthony’s tone is both benevolent and filthy as he flicks open a small vial that he must have retrieved from somewhere while you were sleeping. He shuffles his trousers down his legs a little further, the smell of olives and clove swirling in the air as he pours the oily substance onto his cock. 

“What is my reward, my lord?” You ask as your stomach clenches. 

But you already know. There is only one reason he does this. It’s when he wants to claim your bottom, not your pussy.

“You get both of us inside you at once, darling,” he answers with a dangerous smile, and Benedict groans as again, on instinct, you clench around him in excitement.

“She likes that idea, brother,” Benedict offers sardonically from behind you.

“Use your cravat, sir, blindfold me,” you petition, twisting your head to look at him, wanting to feel as much as see tonight.

“By god, I adore you,” Benedict gruffs, his voice laden with admiration and arousal as he dives in for a quick kiss. 

Then you feel him fighting off the teal silk behind you, unwinding it rapidly before settling it gently over your face, the gossamer soft fibres still warm from his neck, scented lightly of him. He ties a bow behind your head and then drops a kiss on your shoulder. Then two sets of hands assist you up off of Benedict's cock. You revel in their touch as they gently spin you and guide you backwards onto Anthony’s now bare lap, his trousers around his knees.

As the carriage rocks gently, two oiled fingers slide between your cheeks, and Anthony whispers sweetly as he swirls a finger around your bottom, extolling soft praises as he always does when he takes you here, preparing you for him. 

When you murmur that you are ready, you exhale shakily as you feel that intense blunt pressure, now more familiar to you, as he breaches your tight hole, your body stretching to accommodate his oiled cock, slowly sinking into his lap as you take slow, relaxing breaths. 

“Exquisite,” he stutters, his hands moving to hold your waist tightly, guiding you the last few inches until you are seated to his root—the utter fill like a sense memory. After a few moments of allowing you to adjust, Anthony changes his stance, pulling your legs open wider and shifting inside in a way that feels pleasurable and makes your hands flex in your binding.

“You like that, do you not?” you can hear the smirk in Benedict’s voice even if you can't see it, feeling his intense gaze upon your body as you raise your head to the sound of his voice and nod.

“Hands above your head, my girl,” Anthony instructs, and instantly, your hands shoot up, the silk binding on your wrists flexing as Benedict grabs your arms and hooks them behind Anthony’s head, his heat looming over you as he does so.

“Good, now are you ready for me too?” he checks, and you just know he has an arched brow, that menacing look; you can hear the pump of his cock in his fist, saliva gathering in your mouth at the very thought.

“Yes, sir.” 

“You do not want gentle tonight, do you?” Benedict intuits, likely seeing the hunger writ large across your blindfolded face as he kneels on a little footrest; you can feel his hips at the perfect height, the edge of his cropped jacket snagging the soft skin of your inner thigh.

“No, sir.” 

“So very different to the first time we did this,” Anthony remarks knowingly in your ear, invoking the memory of that landmark night in your burgeoning dynamic—the night you truly became a throuple.

It makes you almost wistful even in this carnal moment, that now familiar press of both their bodies, of being sandwiched between them as Benedict leans in. Although tonight, it is not warm skin upon yours, but the slight scratch of wool, the tickle of silk as they remain clothed. 

“Perhaps we indulge you too much, with both of us at once…” Anthony chuckles.

“No! Let me have both..” you twist back to implore him, even though you cannot see. “I need you both so much, my lord, sir, I am aching…”

“Well, I cannot deny such a pretty appeal as that, brother,” Benedict avows, and that is all the warning you get before he guides himself into you. 

You groan loudly as his tip nudges into your pussy, the stretch of two cocks always making your eyes roll, your toes scrunch hard. Anthony’s hands grasp your thighs, holding you open as Benedict slides deeper inside, their breath uneven, knowing they can likely feel the pressure of each other as much as you can. A curse slips from your lips as they both finally rest entirely within you.

“Darling girl, you always take us so well,” Benedict’s voice lauds, dark and decadent, “so magnificent.”

Your eyelids flutter hard against his cravat, bound and blindfolded, split open upon two cocks… you can think of nowhere else you would rather be.

“Please fuck me…” you entreat, feeling as if you have been pleading for hours with them, your mind scratchy, clawing, like a wild beast clambering up the sides of the carriage, wailing to be sated.

You almost howl as finally, finally, they take pity upon you. Benedict withdraws and then thrusts back into you, aided by the rocking motion as the carriage hurtles through past the fields of Kent, the journey seeming to speed up, mirroring the fevered atmosphere within.

Blindly, you seek a kiss from them both, swivelling to Anthony, then Benedict. Desperate, hot, open mouths meet as you start to set a rhythm together, the friction and fullness radiating pulses of pleasure outwards from where you are joined.

You love it when you are caged between them like this, pinned, hands tied, unable to see. Unable to do anything, indeed, but submit to their whims, entrusting your body and gratification utterly to them, to lay back and take it. Take the endless surges of pleasure, the push and pull, the drag of them both inside you as they change tempo, catching you unawares and making you moan and babble. The noises they wrench from your body are drowned out by the thrum of wheels upon dirt, by the thundering of hooves before you, all of you chasing destinations, literal and ephemeral. Windows fogging with panted breaths, the carriage air almost cloying, all three of you moaning unfettered as pleasure mounts.

“Do you think the coachmen above can hear us?” you gasp out, eyes rolling at the overwhelming sensations of both moving within you, their hips snapping roughly.

“Do you honestly care?” Anthony challenges, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he rolls under you.

“She wants them to watch, most likely,” Benedict pants, his hands a vice-like grip on your waist as he fucks into you.

When you do not respond they both huff a laugh.

“Your silence says so much,” Anthony remarks and suddenly, your hair is in his fist, the force making your back arch, sliding both of their cocks deeper, your moan unbridled. “Whose good little whore are you?” he demands hotly, a glance of his teeth upon your jaw.

“Yours,” you rasp, eyes fluttering against your blindfold, head tilted to the carriage ceiling, feeling the burn on your scalp, your nipples pebbled hard against the rough rasp of Benedict's jacket lapel.

“Then repeat it,” Benedict bites out, his mouth sucking harshly upon your shoulder, leaving his mark, a darkened patch you know he will have you look at in the mirror in the coming days.

“I’m your good little whore,” you echo breathily, for them both, the degrading words ratcheting you higher.

They both groan at your utterance, their hands becoming a more urgent hold. Fingertips grazing and tweaking your nipples, you know not whose. Teetering so close, you beg. Beg them to go faster, to touch your clit, to hold you down, be rough, do anything to make this fever upon your skin, buzzing in your mind, break over you, release you from this prolonged heightened state, leaking profusely around their cocks, slack-jawed, strung out with need.

When a hand worms between your bodies, snagging against your clit, you convulse around them, both groaning at the restriction, curse words falling from them in harsh pants as finally you reach the peak you have been seeking forever. One flick of a thumb, and you are gone.

The intensity of your orgasm is breathtaking: transported and hurtled into the skies far above, your whole pelvis contracting and rippling around both of them as they cry out as your vice-like grip. Static buzzing in your skull as they seem to sandwich into you even harder, your lungs gasping for air as your body feels rearranged, your mind floating on a sea of bliss as their movements become harsher, more desperate, you pulling them over the edge with you. Benedict withdraws suddenly, a warmth splashing upon your lower belly as Anthony growls hard under you, feeling the ripple of his cock as he releases inside your bottom.

For a few moments, it’s just panted breaths, all slumped together in a damp pile. Exchanging sated smiles as they tenderly unwrap the cravat from around your eyes and wrists, delicately kissing your skin as you rearrange. Playtime over, back to yourselves, a shared affection between that is undeniable now.

“How much longer until we reach your country home?” you ask as you curl up into their joint embrace, hands caressing your skin in soothing swirling patterns, a languorous pull in your bones now that you are finally satiated. A flickering glow behind your ribs at the idea this is just the start of something new with your boys.

“I have absolutely no clue, my darling,” Anthony confesses with a carefree bubble of laughter, “and I do not particularly care as long as you are in our arms, right brother?” he adds, tilting his head leisurely towards Benedict.

“Absolutely,” Benedict concurs, “If only all carriage rides were this stimulating…” he jests wistfully.

“They could be… if you always take me with you,” you breeze, giving him a chaste kiss.

“We shall never travel again without you,” Anthony attests over a stifled yawn, his stubble abrading your collarbone as he burrows his head into your neck and sighs contentedly.

And that is how you all finally rest, a tangled pile of limbs, your naked body warmed by their tight hold as the carriage whisks you through the countryside under a blanket of stars. 

Taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @kisskissshutmydoor @y0ur-favgerman @sya-skies

[prythianpages]

I've Been Waiting For You | Bonus

Azriel x Reader bonus scenes based off of this one shot. These are some scenes/ideas that didn’t make it to the final cut.

warnings: just some suggestiveness with the last one (but not really, it's just the morning after you and Az spend the night together but the scene itself is just fluff.) all of these scenes are purely fluff 🤧

Thank you so much for all the love you showed this imagine! I'm so happy you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing ♡ I tried to keep all of this roughly in chronological order.

Azriel groveling after snapping at you.

Azriel found himself in a situation that required more than just words to apologize to you, especially with the look of hurt he had seen in your eyes. Determined to make amends, he decided to enlist Elain's help, knowing that you had a sweet tooth and that snickerdoodles were among your favorite treats. Elain was happy to help, agreeing to bake them for you.

Azriel carefully left the freshly baked cookies in the kitchen, accompanied by a note expressing the sincerity of his remorse.

**

However, the next morning took an unexpected turn when Cassian stumbled upon the kitchen with Nyx in his arms. "Cas-see-an," Cassian kept repeating to Nyx, enunciating his name so slowly in an effort to get the infant to repeat it.

Nyx babbled in response as Cassian gently set him down on the counter. He kept a hand on the baby while his other reached for a mug, missing the way Nyx's curious gaze landed on the colorful note resting atop delicious cookies.

His tiny hands grasp at the note, squeezing it in his hand before it it falls from his grip. Nyx watches as the note falls to the floor, landing under the cabinets. He lets out a small whine.

"Are you hungry?" Cassian asks, turning back to his sweet nephew and follows Nyx's gaze.

"Oh!" Cassian exclaims with a gleeful grin when he spots the plate of cookies. "Don't tell your mother."

Cassian quickly uncovers the plate, thanking the Cauldron for gifting him with a wonderful sister in law that loves to bake. He offers a cookie to Nyx while he takes a couple for himself.

**

Sensing your presence nearby, Azriel dispatches his shadows to investigate the kitchen. They quickly report back to him with the unfortunate news that the cookies had been devoured. He's then rushing into the kitchen himself.

"Morning, Cassian," he hears you say and then with a much lighter and excited tone, "Good morning, Nyx! Whatcha got there?"

"Morning y/n," Cassian greets back, brushing crumbs off his shirt.

Azriel's eyes narrow, gaze flickering between the empty plate and the crumbs on both Cassian's shirts and Nyx's face.

"Oh! Good morning, Az."

At the mere sound of his name, he notices the subtle tension in your body. Before Azriel can utter a word, you swiftly conjure up an excuse and make a hasty exit from the kitchen. As Azriel turns his gaze to Cassian and Nyx, he finds himself unable to muster any anger.

A sigh escapes him. His first effort to make amends had not gone as planned.

**

Undeterred, Azriel decides to try a different approach for his next apology. This time, he chose to give you flowers, intending to leave it somewhere for you to find. However, in his haste or maybe his distraction, he accidentally placed the flowers in a spot where someone else stumbled upon it. Amren, of all people.

"What are these, boy?" She asks sharply, eyeing the colorful arrangement warily as her hands wrap around the vase.

"Flowers."

"I know they're flowers."

"They weren't for you."

"Oh, thank the gods," Amren says in what sounds like relief.

And just as Azriel is about to take them back, his shadows sense you approaching. The Cauldron must not favor him, he thinks. He hears the sudden pause in your step as your gaze lands on him and catches the way your fingers tighten against the book in your hand. He catches a glimpse of Seers in Prythian etched across the cover.

Azriel knows you want to turn around but given it'd be absolutely obvious that you're avoiding him if you did, you find yourself frozen. When he meets your gaze, you turn your head, focusing your direction on Amren instead.

"Nice flowers, Amren."

"Thank you," Amren smirks, silver eyes flashing between you and Azriel. "Aren't they lovely?"

"Lovely as you!" You reply with a smile and then leave.

Once again, Azriel finds himself sighing deeply at another failed attempt in apologizing to you.

"Do better, boy."

"I know."

**

Azriel's third attempt in making amends is cornering you so he can finally talk to you. He sits in the living room, perched on the couch that directly faces the door to Rhysand's office, with a book about the history of seers similar to the one he had seen in your hands the other day. You're currently inside with Elain as you both debrief Rhysand and Feyre on your progress with Elain's powers.

Elain is the first to step out, eyes widening in surprise. "Azriel," she greets with a smile. "What are you doing here?"

"Reading," he replies simply, gesturing toward the book in his hands.

"About seers...?"

"Just thought I could help..."

Elain's eyes narrow at him and Azriel finds himself sinking further into the couch. Though he's apologizing because he genuinely feels remorse and wants to make things right, he can't escape the fact that Elain had chastised him for not doing so already days ago.

"You haven't apologized yet, have you?"

"I'm trying."

Elain's gaze softens and she lets out a small chuckle. "She'll be out in a couple of minutes."

Azriel feels a wave of relief as you step out alone, prompting him to rise to his feet and call your name.

"Hey, Azriel," you greet politely, and his shadows seem to dance with delight at the acknowledgment of his presence. Finally, they whisper eagerly into his ears.

"Can we talk?"

"Oh, um...," Your gaze shifts over his shoulder, seemingly fixed on something that his shadows report as nonexistent. "I think someone else is calling me. Maybe another time? I have to go!"

As you attempt to maneuver around him, Azriel subtly moves with you, blocking your path. "No one called your name," he points out softly, suppressing a smile as your eyebrows furrow. He senses you scrambling for another excuse.

"The future!" you exclaim, your eyes brightening as you tap the corner of your eye. "The future is calling me. I must go."

As you move, Azriel doesn't have it in himself to block your path again. He doesn't even have it in himself to be upset. Not when he finds your excuse amusing and your presence itself endearing.

His shadows, however, aren't as forgiving. They whisper harshly into his ears, growing impatient with each failed attempt. "Next time," he promises them quietly.

(And almost two weeks after him snapping at you, he finally succeeds in asking for your forgiveness during his fourth attempt when he brings your dinner to you in the library.)

Elain gets a vision, where she finds out you and Azriel are mates.

"Close your eyes and focus on your breath," you instruct her softly. "Feel the rhythm of the earth beneath you. Attune yourself to the heartbeat of the world around you. What do you hear?”

Elain closes her eyes in deep concentration and as her head grows quiet, the world around her seems to awaken. She can feel the power coursing through her veins as she says, “I can hear the wind and the tremble of the grass beneath it. I can hear the wind carry all the way to the sea.”

“Good. Now feel the whispers of the unseen.”

“I can’t.” Elain’s eyebrows furrow as she struggles to delve deeper into her power. She finds herself stuck amidst the wild sea of the unknown. Wave after wave crashes down on her, knocking her down before she could even get back up.

“Here, take my hands,” she hears you say and then she feels your hands reach for hers. “Imagine a pool of water within you, calm and reflective. Use me as a vessel to carry you through it. I’ll guide you to where your visions will manifest.”

Elain does as told, bringing herself back to that sea of unknown in her mind. This time, she's not alone and she's able to rise from the water. You're there with her, the two of you standing knee deep in the waters that are beginning to calm in your presence. The world stills around you two and Elain feels her body relax as she allows you to guide her to the center.

And suddenly, the dark sky around her begins to brighten with visions, dazzling her like the stars in your eyes do. She finds herself overwhelmed by the all the flashes and voices. She takes deep, steadying breaths like you always do and the visions begin to slow, developing before in a way she can discern.

Her eyes widen she realizes they're all of you.

In the first vision, you're sat at the breakfast table, making small conversation with Cassian and Nesta as you bite into your pancake. The next couple of visions are mundane, just you going about your daily routine.

Then, you're seated at one of the tables at the garden, basking in the sun while Elain gardens a couple of feet away.

"Did the Suriel ever say anything about Lucien?"

"Many things," you answer her with a grin. "Called him his Fox boy..."

And Elain wants to linger in this vision longer, itching to know more. But as quickly as it flashed before her eyes, it's fading away and a new vision is brought forth.

Now, she stands within a resplendent ballroom nestled within the House of Wind. Fae lights adorn the ceiling, casting a celestial glow that lets her know its Starfall. Amidst the enchanting scene, you and Azriel gracefully twirl on the dance floor. Elain, intrigued, takes a step forward, captivated by the mesmerizing dance unfolding before her.

“You should stay.”

“Why?”

She watches as a wistful expression takes over your features and she has to stop herself from reaching out for you. The music comes to a gradual end and you free yourself of Azriel's hold before the next song starts, missing the way Azriel frowns at the loss of your warmth.

“There’s no one here for me.”

There's a deep, haunting sadness to the laughter that follows your words. Elain also finds herself frowning. She didn't know you were feeling this way, or rather, going to feel this way.

Elain detects a subtle twitch in Azriel's hand from the periphery of her vision, as if he longs to reach out to you but is held back by fear. Redirecting her focus to Azriel, she observes the tender and affectionate gaze he bestows upon you, while you remain unaware, fixated on the ground. This sight tugs at Elain's heart.

It's surprising because she thought she would feel hurt by it. But she doesn't. Instead, empathy floods her, accompanied by a silent wish that you would lift your gaze and witness the profound way Azriel looks at you in this very moment.

Please, she wants to scream but even if she opens her mouth, she knows no sound will come out. Please look up!

“I’m right here.” 

Elain exhales with relief as you finally meet Azriel's gaze, but the moment has passed. Azriel's expression transforms into one more guarded, his eyes now concealing what was once openly displayed. A subtle frown settles on your lips, and Elain witnesses a fleeting trace of hurt that crosses Azriel's face. Whatever you sought in that exchange, it appears you did not find it.

The scene before her blurs, shifting into another. Elain is now standing at the foyer of the river house, watching as you make your way down the steps. Suddenly, the door slams open and Azriel's chest is rising and falling as if he's been running. His eyes are wide and frantic, relaxing only when he spots you.

"It's you. All this time. It's been you."

“You know?”

"You're my mate."

A warm smile graces Azriel's lips as his gaze meets yours, and the tender expression Elain previously observed during the Starfall vision reappears on his face. She feels her heart melt at the sight because this time, you don't miss the way he's looking at you.

And just as she's about to dive into another vision into your future, she finds your connection abruptly broken. The warmth of your hands leave hers and you disappear from the depths of her mind. The sky around her darkens and though the waves begin to lap at her again, they remain calm and soothing.

"Stop!"

"I'm not hurting her!"

Elain blinks her eyes open and widen at the sight before her. You wear a pained expression on your face and there's blood trickling down your nose. Guilt courses through her, making her skin pale. She didn't know she was hurting you. Oh gods, if she knew, she wouldn't have lingered in the visions of your future. She didn't even know she could do so and judging by the look on your face, you're completely unaware of her accidental intrusion. Maybe, it's best if she didn't tell you...

"Are you okay?"

Elain doesn't have time to dwell on it as Azriel is urging her to go grab a towel while he guides you forward with a worried expression. When she returns with the towel in hand, she finds her apology dying at her throat, reluctant to disrupt the tender moment between you and Azriel.

"Like what?" She hears Azriel asked in an amused manner.

"Don't make me answer that."

At that moment, your gaze locks onto hers, and Elain assumes an air of nonchalance as she finally approaches the two of you with the towel in hand. Azriel takes it from her, carefully wiping at the blood on your face, and as Elain silently watches, she can't believe how she didn't see it before.

You and Azriel are mates and she feels nothing but pure joy for you both. She only wishes she had known sooner.

Elain confesses to you about Lucien and then asks you about Azriel.

The vibrant streets of Velaris hum with excitement as you and Elain approach one of the bustling markets. Amidst the lively atmosphere, you find yourself marveling at the enduring beauty of the city. You inhale, taking delight in the sweet blend of fresh flowers.

There's a certain lightness to Elain's steps, more so than usual today. Catching your gaze, she turns to you with a soft smile, intertwining her arm with yours and drawing you closer.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

Your eyes light up involuntarily, driven by your insatiable curiosity for gossip. "Of course," you reply and though this is a secret you promise to keep, it doesn't dim your desire to hear it.

"I wrote to Lucien. I think I'm ready to give him a chance."

You stop, halting her in the process as well. A frown creases your brow as you look at her. "Are you sure?"

"I used to think mating bonds were precious," you speak again, mind drifting to Azriel briefly, before redirecting your focus back to Elain. "But I've come to realize there's an even greater beauty in choice."

"I want to give him a chance," she reassures you. "It's my choice."

"Okay then," you reply and the two of you resume in your walk toward the markets. "As long as you're happy, I'm happy."

Elain's gaze lingers on you, a fleeting trace of guilt flickering in her eyes so briefly that you wonder if you imagined it. Curiosity takes hold as she ventures, "What about your own happiness? Is there anyone special you fancy here?"

"I like you," you smile, completely missing the point. "I like Feyre, I like Nyx, I like--"

"No," Elain giggles beside you. "Anyone you like, like?"

"Maybe a certain somebody...," she hints, her voice trailing off and when you stare blankly at her, she adds, "Like maybe Azriel?"

At the mere mention of his name, your body tenses. You're silently hoping Elain doesn't pick up on it, but given she still has her arm wrapped around yours, you're sure she felt it. Still, you feign nonchalance.

“What about Azriel?”

“Do you like him?”

“He’s beautiful, yeah.”

"That's not what I asked," Elain laughs, wearing a knowing grin as if she's already privy to your response.

Your heart skips a beat, prompting an abrupt halt once again. At this rate, you won't reach the stall that sells your favorite pastries in time.

"The other day," you start, and she instantly understands the reference to the day she accidentally glimpsed into your future. "Did you see anything?"

"No," she responds a bit too hastily. "Did you?"

"No," you say with a shake of your head and that dull ache from that day returns. "All I saw was a dark void."

Elain asks what the Suriel had to say about Lucien.

Nestled on one of the lounge chairs in the garden, you close your eyes as you bask in the sun. Elain, rests a couple of feet away on the soft grass, as she tends to the gardens.

"Did the Suriel ever say anything about Lucien?"

"Many things," you reply, opening your eyes. Your lips curve into a grin as you remember all the late nights you spent talking about said Autumn male. As emissary to the Spring Court, who often got sent on a lot of missions, the Suriel had a lot to say about him.

"Called him his fox boy...What are you itching to know?

Turning your head toward Elain, you catch the way she blushes. "I don't know," she admits sheepishly. "I was just curious."

"Did you know he told Amarantha to go back to the shit-show she'd crawl out of?" Elain's lips begin to twitch upwards, but your next words prevent the smile from fully forming. "It cost him his eye, unfortunately. "

"Lucien is good male," you speak again, swiftly shifting the topic to something lighter. "He has friends everywhere, in every court. He's the type to do anything for those he holds dear. From what I've heard, he's a pretty generous lover and given he's from Autumn Court, gods are you in for a treat. One night, the Suriel told me that he took a female to--"

"That's okay!" Elain cuts you in sharply, making you laugh.

"Autumn males have fire in their blood and I heard they fuck like it too."

"Feyre!" Elain gasps with wide eyes, her face growing as pink as the roses she just planted.

You're turning to face Feyre with a delighted smirk. "So you know too!"

Elain stands up, brushing her hands on the dress, indifferent to the dirt staining the fabric.

"Where are you going? We were just about to get to the good part." You muse.

"I'm actually going to go see him," Elain admits and before you can any anything, she adds, "I think I'll just ask him what I want to know myself."

You respond with a shrug of your shoulders and wish her good luck. "Have fun!" Feyre calls after her.

After Elain disappears from view, Feyre gracefully settles into the lounge chair next to you. Her blue eyes carefully assess you for a moment. "What else do you know about him?"

You meet her gaze, detecting an unspoken knowledge. "What else do you know?"

You feel her presence asking for entrance in your mind and you let her in, smiling when all she mentally utters is one word. A name, actually. Helion.

His father, you reply back with an all-knowing gleam in your eye. Did you know the Lady of Autumn and him are mates?

Feyre's eyes widen, and she releases a gasp. There's more isn't, there? She speaks into your mind.

Of course there is, you reply back. With a graceful wave of her hand, a complete tea set materializes along with an array of snacks upon the iron table between you.

I sense we'll be here for awhile, she muses to you, blue eyes glimmering with anticipation.

You chuckle as you start to sweeten one of the steaming cups of tea to your liking. Your attention shifts to the untouched third set on the table, and a dull ache settles in your chest as you envision the Suriel, absent yet somehow still present at the table.

As you bring your tea cup to your lips, you proceed to indulge Feyre with every bit of knowledge and gossip you possess about Helion's affair with the Lady of Autumn through your mind.

You don't realize it then, but this day, marks the beginning of what you and Feyre would later name "the Suriel fan club." As time passes on, the club grows more and more, until it becomes a monthly meeting amongst the inner circle.

The morning after you and Azriel spend the night together for the first time.

Your eyelids flutter, like delicate butterflies stirring from slumber, as the muffled whispers of morning dance in the air. You stir and turn to your side, bringing the warmth of your sheets with you. Your movement causes a chain of reaction and your entire body freezes when you feel an unfamiliar weight come to rest over your side.

It's instinct, the way your fingers grasp for the dagger you keep under your pillow. In a moment of panic, you find yourself straddling a body and pressing your dagger against what you initially thought was an intruder.

"y/n, what are you doing?"

Your eyes snap wide open and memories of the night before flood your mind. You find yourself looking down at Azriel. Your mate, Azriel. Despite the dagger pressed at his throat, he smiles lazily up at you.

"I'm so sorry!" You exclaim with a heated blush, throwing the dagger onto your nightstand, relieved that you didn't knick him on accident. Judging by the way he's looking at you, you don't think he'd mind anyway.

"I'm not used to sharing my bed," you admit sheepishly, sliding off of him and wishing your bed would just swallow you whole at this point.

Taking advantage of your shift in position, Azriel turns on his side and hovers over your body, hazel eyes gleaming down at you. "You sleep with a dagger under your pillow?"

"Yes and?" You retort, a touch too defensively, eliciting laughter from him that sends an infectious warmth coursing through you. A smile tugs at your own lips. "You were listening when I told you I lived between Prythian's forests and shady Inns for many years, right?"

"Of course, I was. I listen to everything you say," Azriel responds smoothly. "It's just..." His voice trails off, and though your gaze remains fixed on his face, you notice him reaching for something in your peripheral vision.

He flashes you a grin as he pulls out his beloved dagger from under the pillow his head was resting on earlier.

"I sleep with a dagger under my pillow too."

a/n: hope you enjoyed these little scenes! I also wanted to clarify that Elain was starting to think about giving Lucien a chance, even before she found out reader and Az were mates, and it's her finding out about your bond that gives her the confirmation to move forward. She realizes that Azriel won't be alone as he has someone waiting for him (:

tagging: @stormhearty @shinyghosteclipse @justvibbinghere @mybestfriendmademe @aandweaa @loveareum @hellodarling1357

@sassybluebird, @crookedcrusadestranger, @xlosttdreamss, @peachcontour-blog, @shadowandlightt, @waytoomanyteenagefeels, @darlingbravebelle, @scooobies, @je-suis-prest-rachel, @toobsessedsstuff, @kaysav608, @idkitsem, @coffeebeforewater, @rinalsworld, @elissanatok, @mischiefmanagers, @paranoidhwks, @meshellexplosionmurder, @skylling, @irismoon, @addieslibrary, @wildrosewhiskey, @aneekapaneeka, @mx13sworld, @vixemi, @strangersreadingcorner, @aristocrrat, @olive-main, @moonyscherry, @stressed-reader, @alysena2, @heartysworld, @aomi-recs, @vardda, @awritingtree, @sillysillygoose444, @spideytingley, @aria-chikage

I tried tagging everyone who had left a comment or reblog with comment/tags, just in case you were curious to read more about Az & seer reader. Idk why not all tags worked out :(

[eroguron0nsense]

The Mysterious Mysteries of Mr Sir Crocodile (Character Analysis)

(Apologies in advance for discrepancies from my usual tone and for holding off on everyone who voted for this on my last poll. Honest to God I hope y'all enjoy this in some capacity because I've been procrastinating on this meta so long it's derailed ALL my other One Piece writing and I only accomplished it through addy-fuelled mania)

This was such a fucking pain to write. I really wanted to say something about Crocodile and what makes him so fascinating that wasn't like, another fan theory or just a set of headcanons, but that's easier said than done?? We could boil it down to immaculate design, screen presence, attitude, or just the fact that he got brought back as an unlikely ally who shocked everyone by saving the protagonist, but I don't know that those factors in and of themselves make for a villain who's become such an object of fandom obsession.

Whatever it is, it's certainly not backstory or depth, because 24 years and hundreds and hundreds of chapters after his introduction, we still know nothing about Sir Crocowani's past beyond a vague confrontation with the Late Great Edward Newgate (that apparently like, ruined his dreams or something?), and some totally-not-just-a-threat-to-out-him-if-he-betrayed-the-alliance blackmail material the Queen of the Queers is holding over his sandy reptilian ass. I was born and grew into adulthood in the time it took Oda to tell the world fuck all about where he's from or his inner thoughts, or his actual honest motivations and traumas.

All we have about this character are questions. Why did he save Luffy and Ace –very conspicuously after both of their lineages were revealed to the world– against all logic and reason? Does he have ties to the revolutionaries? Is he the long-lost son of Rocks D. Xebec? Did he bounce on Comrade Dragon's Monkey D and squirt out the fucking Warrior of Liberation? I assume Oda's going to tell us more about him, but at this point, he's managed to keep a tighter lid on Sir Crocs, Inc.'s past than the fucking Secret History

You may be wondering, dear reader: what the fuck is my point? What is there, at this final stage of Long Running Pirate Manga, for me–Frankie EroGuroNonsense, OP Tumblr Community Z-lister with like, 7 mildly popular meta posts under my belt–to write about the legendary Sir Krokorok that hasn't already been said or theorized? What eagle-eyed observations did I make while rereading Alabasta and writing toxic Crobin fanfic? Am I going anywhere with this? Sorta. Yeah.

Let's start with listing things we actually know about Crockpot, in roughly chronological (??) order: –attended Gol D.'s execution way back when he was my age, along with anyone else who's anyone from his generation.

–At some point, met and was known well enough by Iva that she could effectively blackmail him

–Made it far enough on the Grand Line, somehow getting to the New World, and managed to pick up an 81,000,000 bounty (low end for a warlord, presumably scouted fairly early in his career)

–Wanted to be Pirate King until he gave up on it, not 100% explicitly confirmed but most likely due to getting his ass beat so badly by Whitebeard that he settled for picking off small fry and racketeering behind a government desk job. This makes him profoundly relatable to the rest of us depressed fucking losers who acquiesce to our own mediocrity.

–At 30, after presumably licking his wounds for a hot minute, sets up shop in Alabasta, comes up with a clever evil plan to quietly build up enough arms to conquer the world with a WMD, and then gets his years-long bioterrorist coup attempt foiled by a 17-year-old.

The rest we know: after a brief moment of glory as the unsung MVP of Impel Down/Marineford, he immediately reverts to Failguy Mode, gives all his money to a literal clown, and consequently gets roped into the neverending uncontrollable PR nightmare that is Cross Guild. It's still super vague and we know little to nothing about his past before the Alabasta Saga (for all we know he had a fling with King Cobra)

...Onto his personality and mannerisms. This shit's a lot more revealing. Superficially, he's everything: immaculate Bond villain levels of charismatic villainy, unbelievably ostentatious, dripped out like a Pimp, constantly smoking cigars, absolutely dripping with smugness and grease and disdain. Owns exotic pets and a giant casino, and spends every waking moment either grinning like a maniac when he's got the upper hand or storming around in a fucking mood when anything goes mildly wrong.

He's also pretty hardened underneath all that, obviously couldn't have lived a day on the grand line or survived Impel Down Torture otherwise. But even in Alabasta, Crockery gives off an air of being distinctly more grounded and willing to get his hands dirty than other flashy, established villains who flaunt their wealth and status. A big part of it is just his really hyper-masculine indomitable tough guy persona, but even early on he's very much micromanaging his operation, fighting people hand to hand in (as opposed to, say, Doffy, who literally puppeteers people while lounging around) and makes a point to keep almost all of his followers at a distance and rely on them as little as possible. He rants a bit about how dreams and whatnot are pointless follies, as One Piece antagonists tend to do, and repeatedly taunts Vivi about how her idealism can't save her, but with the context that he wanted to find Laughtale himself, it feels a lot like projection.

The character trait that's harped on a LOT in canon, and probably the most pertinent one to whatever demons he has, is Croconaw's profound pathological distrust for everyone around him. It's a huge part of what makes him a good early foil to the Nefertari family and the Straw Hats, whose collective strength is derived from organic human connection; Crocalor, by contrast, makes sure that up until the very last moment, he keeps most of his people so distant from him that they genuinely have no idea he's even their boss. His relationship with Robin is interesting, but he turns on her immediately when he realizes she either can't or won't give him the location of Pluton and has his dramatic stabbing/"I forgive you" lines about how he never trusted her or anyone from the start. He says the same shit to Mihawk when he suggests they join forces, even citing their mutual distrust as a kind of paradoxical justification for why they'd actually work well together.

Arguably the only exception is Daz Bones, but even that relationship is still a pretty reserved one; one of the few traits Daz exhibits is a similar avoidance of human connections to his boss and even though they've ironically formed a bond despite it, I can't imagine that they're emotionally close. I find these more explicit declarations of paranoia a lot less indicative of what's actually going on in Croconut's head than subtext, but I feel inclined to mention them just because it more or less tells us that his background/trauma has something to do either with betrayal or alternatively just being jaded and deprived to the point of self-isolation.

Krookodile's character gets a little bit more interesting when we get to see him again in Impel Down being a smug little manipulative rascal right up until he gets blackmailed by his endocrinologist, which is definitely medical malpractice but also funny as hell. I also appreciate that literally the first thing he does after getting out of his cell is change into a big coat and cravat to keep up appearances, but it's not until Marineford proper that things get really complicated. Saving Luffy and Ace is the first selfless thing we see Crobat do–while yelling at Luffy that he needs to protect what matters to him properly, no less– and he just keeps fighting for them after that, teaming up with his most hated rival crew to cover Luffy's retreat and telling the entire WG to go fuck itself multiple times over. He fights everyone on sight with no regard for his own safety, talks mad shit to Doffy, and demonstrates a genuinely compelling amount of honest to god chivalry.

For a short time, we see Crocomotive less as a really entertaining cartoon villain and more as a person with hidden, profound emotions and a confusing moral code that's seemingly incompatible with the vicious little creature we met in Alabasta. We come to understand, in a few very brief lines that give us way more questions than answers, that Cromagnon has deep-seated, emotional convictions he actively suppresses, and that whatever baggage he has is probably tied to wanting to or failing to save something of his own. His resentment of Newgate, who he really really wants to have a go at (despite theoretically no longer caring about the ambitions of his youth) is indicative of a desire to revisit the fight that probably ruined his dream and ego, but it's also tinged with a deep-seated grudging respect for a living legend.

Crock–Afire Explosion's obvious seething hatred of Doffy also gives us a few more insights into what's wrong with him. On a surface level, it makes sense that he dislikes a profoundly obnoxious, even flashier fellow warlord who achieved more or less the same goal he set out to in a shorter time, fucks with his business, and then mocks him/tries to recruit him right after his very public defeat and imprisonment. He postures a lot, especially with his lines insisting he's on a higher level and that Doffy could only ever join him as a subordinate, but he's visibly steamed in their initial encounter and clearly hasn't liked him for quite some time. I bring this up because if we stretch our interpretation a little (for the sake of my argument), Croc Holliday's distaste for someone who's (outwardly) so much like himself and embodies all of his villainous characteristics from back in Alabasta might also suggest that deep down, he doesn't actually like the things they have in common; he sees right through Doffy because he's done the same shit and he hates what he sees.

Having gone over all that, I've come up with some key characteristics of Crocomelon that I'll use going forward:

–Extremely performative: puts an ungodly amount of energy into maintaining a carefully curated persona, and projecting a certain amount of power, masculinity, and prestige. Not necessarily an unnatural or inauthentic one, but a constructed and purposeful one nonetheless

–Deep-seated paranoia, hidden secrets; probably intertwined. Keeps personal details on tight, tight lockdown, probably afraid of being known.

–Constant projection of his own insecurities and failures onto other people, making a point to be uniquely cruel in Alabasta to an idealist who loves her people and a dreamer who wants to be the Pirate King.

Ironically, he demonstrably respects and defends two people–Luffy and Whitebeard–who theoretically embody everything he hates or scorns (ambition, goodness, love, connection, romanticism, greatness in the traditional sense) and he intensely dislikes the villain most like himself, or at least the one who shares a lot of his worst characteristics (ostentatious manipulative scheming rat bastard backed by people stronger than himself) –The Grinch's heart grew three sizes at Marineford because of like, the compelling power of brotherly love and reminders of his youth or something

SPECULATION, CONCLUSIONS??

The difficulty with writing anything definitive about Crocko's Basilisk is that he's such a mystery, which functionally lets the fanbase project literally whatever weird personality traits, potential backstories, or anything else they could possibly come up with onto him. So I want to be clear that I have absolutely no interest in theorizing about the specifics of his past or secret identity or potential baby daddy or anything along those lines; I'm only interested in what we can infer about his personality by extrapolating from canon. And the conclusion I keep coming back to, the one that I'm convinced is true on some level, is that Crocodile is living a lie and he fucking hates himself. Everything he does, from how he acts to what he claims to believe, is a desperate effort to cope with his own insecurity and failure and cover up a past version of himself he's deeply ashamed of.

Now, unfortunately, Oda did not conceive of Crocodile as a trans man but stories belong to the people and we can do what we want let's forget about that and play it straight because he's constantly performing gender as a means of compensating for a deep-seated shame and self-loathing from whatever traumas and secrets he keeps hidden. Even assuming he's a cis man, he deliberately chooses a hypermasculine persona with a Capital V Villain moniker and pimp outfit and speech pattern he's carefully curated to project masculine power–physical, political, and financial–and we know it's performance because we see him break kayfabe and get legitimately fucking angry whenever he's confronted by a person like Luffy, who's crazy and brave enough to try and do what he couldn't and risk everything for love and hope that he cannot bring himself to feel for another person, or reminders of the past he tries so desperately to bury.

The lessons he's wrongfully obtained from his past are as follows: Idealism is a weakness. Dreaming is a weakness. Connections to other people and being known are crippling liabilities (If he is, in fact, trans and closeted, that's all the more reason to be existentially disgusted by what he used to be). All the hope he brought to the Grand Line, all the excitement of trying to carry on where Roger left off, needs to be purged and buried because all he got to show for it was loss and humiliation. But he can't stop wanting more, and ironically, after he gives up on conquering the Grand Line, he ends up chasing the same fucking poneglyphs and weapons because his ambition's still there; it's just compromised and much more jaded.

Everything he does that's seemingly contradictory makes sense when you realize that Crocodile resents his failure and wants to avenge himself. He makes a big show of talking down to Luffy and Vivi's petty ideals and shit-talking Newgate and his family, but he still wants to fight Whitebeard like he did way back when and help Luffy protect what matters to him. He hates Doffy, who's honestly just a more successful schemer than he is because it's a constant reminder of what he settled for when he took that warlord post and fucking gave up. He claims to trust no one, but he keeps Daz by his side and rewards his loyalty because he can't help but trust someone who respects him so deeply and follows him to the ends of the fucking earth long after losing the material incentive to do so. He claims to look down on people who aim for the stars and fight for love and joy and freedom and yet, in his most vulnerable moments–not in the face of violence or imprisonment, but when he's emotionally compelled to defend a child and help save his brother–we see how badly he wants that for himself.

TLDR: Crockman Holic is deeply insecure in his masculinity, desperately needs psychological help, and his character/potential redemption arc in One Piece is just dealing with his midlife crisis.

[emergingghost]

julien baker live lyric changes masterpost

the many ways that julien changes her lyrics over time and seamlessly alters the lyrics and meanings of her songs to maintain a level of personal authenticity has become so fascinating to me and many others so i thought it'd be nice to do some research and compile as many as i can. enjoy! or cry! whichever!

the original lyrics are in parenthesis, changes are bolded, roughly in chronological order and i’ve added timestamped links to performances [x] where i can! i use mostly youtube because it's the most accessible. some of these seem to be permanent changes and others are just occasional, probably depending on how she's vibing with the song at the time (i'm assuming). let me know of any i’ve missed!

Rejoice: [x] [x] [x] pronoun change, does this lots! "i know there's a god and they hear either way" ("i think there's a god and he hears either way") [x] she uses the 'she' pronoun here this time! [x] she sings 'force' here and also in a version she performed pre-release "asking why did you let them leave and then force me to stay?" ("asking why did you let them leave and then make me stay?")

Good News: [x] [x] [x] these are not full lyric changes but rather some gut-wrenching repetition. side note she performs a cover of paul by big thief in the first clip here too! "it's less about you / it's all about how i ruin everything oh everything i do / everything i do / god i ruin everything oh everything / oh everything i think could be good news." ("it's less about you / it's more about how i ruin everything--- i think could be good news")

Distant Solar Systems: [x] pronoun change speaking of god, she also omits the second last verse. "I send postcards from the road and now and then she answers" ("and now and then he answers")

Turn Out the Lights: [x] [x] [x] this one hurts! a few times in late '18 and in '19 "maybe i'd do it but it's not a joke" ("i'd never do it but it's not a joke")

Sour Breath: [x] [x] another one that hurts!! "think all the liquors gonna keep me warm / burn everything down just to prove i could / leave you inside a body made of wood" ("think all the liquors gonna keep you warm / burn everything down just to prove you could / leave me inside a body made of wood") [x] audio only from 1:16 (same changes as above +) "i don't do too well when everyone's worried about me" ("i don't do too well when nobody's worried about me")

Appointments: [x] [x] [x] in lots of performances post-2018. she switches between using 'know' and 'think' occasionally “i know that i ruined this / but i think i can live with it / nothing turned out how pictured it ... i think that i failed again / but i know you’re still listening” ("i think if i ruin this / that i know i can live with it / nothing turns out like I pictured it ... i think if i fail again / then i know you’re still listening") [x] audio only - from 2:45 (same changes as above +) "i hope you're still listening" ("i know you're still listening")

Happy to Be Here: [x] tiny changes. not sure if she's done this more than once "different me would be inhabiting my body / have two cars, a garage, a dog..." ("different me would be inhabiting this body / have two cars, a garage, a job...")

Something: [x] [x] [x] [x] (she adds 'again' a lot, even since 2015) “asking aloud why you’re leaving again” (“asking aloud why you’re leaving--”) [x] (this was prior to release) "asking aloud why you're leaving again / i know you won't answer me" ("asking aloud why you're leaving --- / but the pavement won't answer me")

Red Door: [x] "beneath before you won't follow me down" ("beneath before you wont follow me there")

Shadowboxing: [x] [x audio only - from 3:09] "tell me that you love me / tell me you love me / i wanted so bad to believe you / so tell me you loved me / tell me you loved me / i wanted so bad to believe you" ) ("when you tell me you love me / tell me you loved me / i wanted so bad to believe it / so tell me you love me / tell me you loved me")

Ziptie: [x] [x] [x] [x] (side note the end of the second clip rules!!) “someone’s/somethings got my heart in a ziptie” (“someone’s got my head in a ziptie”)

Tokyo: [x] [x] [x audio only - from 1:30] in a few performances in 2022 “a seven-car pile-up of every disastrous thing that i am" (“a seven-car pile-up of every disastrous thing that i’ve been”) + also sings "accident" instead of "aftermath" in the audio clip

Relative Fiction: [x] [x] [x] [x] does this lots! "honey you're the only thing i'll wait around for" ("--you’re the only thing i’ll wait around for")

Highlight Reel: [x] [x audio only from 1:45 ] original chorus lyrics are 'you feel' but now in one chorus she sings 'to' and the other she sings 'you' "ooh it's a highlight reel / tell me how to feel" ("ooh it's a highlight reel / tell me how you feel")

Ringside: [x] [x] [x audio only from 3:50] two separate lyrics changes in these clips! "like a scratch-off ticket how i dig my nails into your skin" ("like a scratch-off ticket how you dig your nails into my skin")

(from final verse) “nobody deserves a second chance / so why do i keep getting them?” (“nobody deserves a second chance / but i keep giving them”) [x] [x] (from the second last verse) “nobody deserves a second chance / but somehow i keep fucking getting them” (“nobody deserves a second chance / but honey i keep getting them") Anti-Curse: [x] [x] [x] [x] [x] she doesn't always change 'foreign characters' "writing the words to the best love song you've ever heard" ...“sounding out familiar characters” ("writing the words to the worst love song you've ever heard"...“sounding out the foreign characters”)

Favor: [x] [x] [x] [x] first change - changing to 'why?' in most live performances “why couldn’t you make me do it?” (“well you couldn’t make me do it”) [x] [x] new change from MSG in 2023! “how did you make me do it?” (“well you couldn’t make me do it”)

HONOURABLE MENTIONS:

Funeral Pyre: [x] this is just a funny thing i found on my hunt. the audience accidentally corrected her grammar, theyre singing along and sing "needed so badly" instead of the original "needed so bad" and everyone took a lil' moment to laugh. Funeral Pyre: allegedly. i just read about it somewhere so have no proof!! “while i drank gasoline 'cause it's what i needed so bad” (“while you drank gasoline 'cause it's what you needed so bad”) Shadowboxing: [x] she doesn't really change any lyrics significantly but repeats the final verse for emphasis.

Good News: [x] (i think an early/demo version but i cant find any other recordings/videos of this version!) "how i fuck up everything i think could be good news" ("how i ruin everything i think could be good news") Rejoice: [x] house show performance from 2015 before official release. a few different lyrics! "ask you why did you let them leave and then force me to stay?" ("asking why did you let them leave and then make me stay?") (final verse) "i rejoice anyway / i rejoice either way" ("i rejoice i rejoice / i rejoice i rejoice") Sour Breath: [x] she added a new mini verse repeating "the harder i swim" where there are usually just instrumentals or 'oohs.' then she continued with the original final "the harder i swim the faster i sink" verse.

Sour Breath: [x] house show performance from 2015 before official release. there's an entire additional verse where the repeated 'the harder i swim the fast i sink' usually is. proceed with caution. "...too late to talk just go to sleep been up too long and you've been drinkin' all night it's almost a week and you haven't said a word been thinkin' it isn't worth the tryin' it takes to fix everything you hate about me all that you wouldn't wanna see

the harder i swim, the faster i sink and all i ever wanted was to pull you down with me was to pull you down with me don't you wanna sink with me? don't you wanna drown with me? just let me pull you down..."

[maniculum]

Bestiaryposting Results: Basekhwa

Interesting one this time, in that we've got a lot of details, but not a lot of specificity as to what it looks like. The most we get is phrases like "with a tap of the hoof" which can cue us into the fact that it has hooves. Mostly we hear about things it does. So, before we see what people did with that, the obligatory links.

If you are confused as to what this post is about, please see https://maniculum.tumblr.com/bestiaryposting. The specific entry this week's artists are working from can be found here:

And now, art below the cut in roughly chronological order.

@sweetlyfez (link to post here) got hers in first this week, and it's a really charming creature. I think the colored-pencil medium gives the drawing a little extra something. A really clever interpretation here, I think, is that it has a trunk for catching snakes -- which makes sense if you think about it. The first thing we're told about them is:

Basekhwas are the enemies of snakes; when they feel weighed down with weakness, they draw snakes from their holes with the breath of their noses and, overcoming the fatal nature of their venom, eat them and are restored.

If an animal is luring snakes out by putting its nose against their hidey-holes, it seems entirely sensible to have the nose do double duty as an appendage for dealing with the snakes when they come out. I also enjoy the long flappy ears and the tapir-like coloration. This one, it seems, has been shot -- the entry does say they're an easy mark for archers -- but that's what the snake is for. (And thank you for the alt text.)

@silverhart-makes-art (link to post here) notes that a creature that is mentioned to have both hooves and horns is surely an ungulate. I don't know enough about taxonomy to comment, so sure! They've picked a couple different ungulates to mix together for this design -- for details on that, see the linked post -- and given it a horn structure that's ideal for scooping up snakes from the ground, which I like. They describe it as turning out quite "feral unicorn-esque", which I can definitely see.

@cheapsweets (link to post here) brings us another detailed pen drawing. In their laudable drive to incorporate as much of the material as possible, we can see that they have found a creative way to show us additional scenes in this animal's life: in little vignettes on the Stylized Tree. Another fun nose on this one, too -- CheapSweets notes that it's inspired by the saiga antelope. All of this is very good, and the baby hidden in the bush is adorable. For detailed discussion of this art and how it relates to the entry, please see the linked post. (And thank you for the alt text.)

@pomrania (link to post here) regrettably was unable to do a final version, but posted their doodles. Given that I'm tagged in the post, I assumed they were meant to be put here. I kind of like the glimpse here into their process, with all these different scenes from the entry being brought in to toy with. Also I think the one labelled "frozen" is quite funny, and I enjoy that one is labelled "baby".

@strixcattus (link to post here) gives us this rather chimeric creature that kind of makes me think of an okapi if you turned the "different fur patterns in the front and back" thing up to 11. What I really like here is the horn asymmetry -- there's a little of it in CheapSweets's entry, in the middle vignette if you look close, but Strixcattus is taking it to another level. Both artists seem to have been inspired by the same part of the entry, i.e., this sentence:

Of their horns, the right-hand one is better for medical purposes.

If one horn is better medicine than the other, it's pretty reasonable to think they might look different. What I think is interesting here is that CheapSweets decided the medicinal horn should be the longer one, but Strixcattus made it the shorter one. Much to think about. (Oh, and the way it's posed so that the horns frame the sun is also really cool in my opinion.) As usual, please check out the linked post for Strixcattus's modernized description of this beast; I think this week's is particularly interesting actually.

Side note: I did a quick google to make sure that the okapi was indeed the animal I was thinking of and this was the first suggested question in the results (note that I just searched "okapi", no other words) :

... oh dear. The way search results are changing really is going to be a problem, isn't it?

@coolest-capybara (link to post here) has drawn something I find delightful. (And not just because I like her medieval-inspired style.) I actually laughed out loud seeing this one just because it's such a fun take. Here we have a Basekhwa "weighed down with weakness" and "draw[ing] snakes from their holes with the breath of [its] nose." I think everyone else went with "the breath is a lure and then the Basekhwa grabs/stabs/stomps/bites them", but Coolest-Capybara decided that it's not exhaling, it's inhaling, and it just hoovers the snakes out. I love it. Both the tired-looking Basekhwa and the rather panicked-looking snake are amazing. (And thank you for the alt text.)

Anyway, to the Aberdeen Bestiary:

... um.

Yeah, there are a few of these -- I think this is the second we've seen so far. Someone cut out an illustration at some point. So we're going to look towards the "sister manuscript", the Ashmole Bestiary:

So this one is... a deer.

I didn't know any of that stuff about deer, did you?

Not much I have to add here, but let me share a folk etymology I redacted for this entry.

The offspring of the deer are called hinnuli, 'fawns', from innuere, 'to nod', because at a nod from their mother, they vanish from sight.

I just... I don't think that's true.

[happyyyandcrazyyy]

liquid dreams (draco malfoy x reader)

summary: (y/n) is gone and if the only way for draco to see her is through dreams, so be it

or

“grief is the price we pay for loving.”

warnings: it’s written in non-chronological order, draco is really going through it, grieving process, mentions of blood (not detailed)

(if there’s any more warnings you think i should add let me know!)

a/n: i’m usually one to write fluff, but i wanted to write something more personal, more raw. this one was a roller coaster to write. hope you enjoy it!

i. five months and twelve days after the accident

Draco opens his eyes in panic, breathing labored and loud. He’s scared and confused, and he would be downright spiraling into an anxiety attack if this wasn’t such a common occurrence.

(The first night it’d happened he found himself unable to breath. He’d desperately stumbled out of bed, the haziness of sleep making everything distorted and disorienting. He’d hit his knee against the door, he’d bled on the white tiles of their bathroom floor. He’d spent two hours in the shower that night, fully clothed. The coldness of the water hadn’t been enough to soothe the burning heartbreak that gnaw on his soul, but it’d been enough to anchor him back.)

It takes him a moment to realize he’s frozen mid-action, one of his hands reaching forward and his fingers slightly curved, as if they’d been grasping something.

No. Not something. Someone.

Suddenly everything comes back, jumbled pieces of a half-remembered dream.

Her smile, the small crinkle by her eyes, the warmth of her skin under his fingertips.

Draco chokes out a gasp.

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

In desperation he reaches for his own throat and grips it tightly, just firmly enough to feel the thumping of his blood under his palm. The unsteady pulse tethers him to reality, reminds him that he’s still alive, helps him settle enough for air to fill his lungs.

He chokes out a gasp, coughs roughly.

Instinctively, almost as an afterthought, Draco reaches for her side of the bed only to immediately reel his hand back when he’s met with cold, unused sheets. It’s been months and he still doesn’t dare to sleep on her side, still keeps everything of hers untouched— her blue toothbrush by the sink, her favorite slippers, the book she left on the coffee table. He knows preserving her things won't bring her back, he does it anyways.

Draco sighs and the sound reverberates, taunts him. It’s a reminder that he’s all alone, a reminder that a room once filled with soft snores and gentle laughter is now quiet enough for him to hear the pounding of his own heart, a reminder that over the last couple of months everything around him has been slowly filling itself with grief and sadness and pain and regret.

No wonder Draco can’t sleep, he’s suffocating.

He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, hard enough to have dotted spots of light fill his vision, firmly enough to keep the tears at bay. If he concentrates, he can still see the outline of the face he’d been dreaming about.

(Her, her, her. Always her.)

Once his heart settles and he can breathe properly, Draco reaches for the little vial by the bed. It’s already half empty. Without a second thought Draco downs the remaining liquid before tossing the glass aside, ignoring the way it smashes against the floor. He forces himself to lay still, wills his eyes to remain shut. He lulls himself back to sleep, lets the potion bring him under.

(It does not matter that waking up will feel like his soul is being carved out and his heart ripped out of his chest, that he cannot handle coming back to a reality where she’s gone. If dreams are the only place he can be with her, he’ll dream.)

The last thing he remembers before losing consciousness is turning to his side and hugging himself close; a poor attempt at replicating the safety her arms once provided.

ii. two weeks and six days after the accident

Narcissa Malfoy arrives through Floo Network on a Saturday morning. She turns up without a warning, completely uninvited, and makes herself at home. Draco reckons it’s partially his fault, after leaving the magical world he’d been the one that had insisted they connect their home to the Floo Network, for precaution. He’d never shared their location with his parents, but he isn’t surprised his mother had been able to easily locate him. She is a Malfoy, thoroughly resourceful.

She doesn’t hug him, neither does she make any attempt to offer words of condolences. Draco wasn’t expecting them, they’re Malfoys, after all; kind touches are scarce, gentle words even more so, but it still stings, like alcohol burning over a wrongly healed scab. His mother gives him a dismissive look, one that has Draco shrinking into himself.

“This is unacceptable,” is the first thing she says, voice as firm as the last time they spoke to each other, almost eight years ago. Draco can’t help the way he flinches. He doesn’t know if she’s talking about the state he’s in— because he's in disarray, hasn’t showered in three days, hasn’t changed clothes in even longer— or the mess around the house.

She steps closer, scrunches her nose and looks him over with something akin to disgust, then clicks her tongue in distaste.

“Go shower.”

Draco finds his feet moving before he can even process the instruction.

(It’s rattling, having her here after not seeing her for years. It’s also frightening how quickly he goes back to obeying her every order.)

As he showers Draco tries to shake himself out of the whirlwind of emotions that his mother’s presence has unleashed. It’s hard to do so when his mind feels as if it’s been split in half; one part mourning the loss of his wife and the other still expecting her to come home. He’s struggling to grasp his reality, trying to ignore the ever-growing emptiness in his chest. Draco closes his eyes and sighs deeply, he lets the cold water numb his skin, lets it steel him just enough to face his mother.

He thinks he’s handling himself better when he walks into the kitchen— new clothes on his skin and hair still wet —but then he catches his mother’s house-elf reaching for (Y/N)’s dirty wine glass, the one she left half empty when she walked out that night, and Draco loses it.

It’s been years since he’s used magic, but it’s instinctive the way he reaches for his wand. (He never did get rid of the habit of carrying it with him everywhere.) He points it at the creature, hand shaking, but voice surprisingly stern, “Do not touch her things.”

His vision blackens at the corners, blood rushing through his ears. He can’t let them erase the traces of her in their home. He can’t. He can't. Not right now, not when he sees pieces of her everywhere, not when his heart has an open wound that keeps on bleeding and Draco hopes he could just wake up from this hellish nightmare and go back to a place where she's still here, where she's still alive.  

“Now, don’t be childish, Draco.” It isn’t until his mother speaks that he realizes that he’s been mumbling under his breath, loud enough for her to hear. His vision clears, the hazy feeling in his brain diminishes. He blinks back into reality, catches a glimpse of his mother’s impassive face from the corner of his eye, realizes the house-elf has backed away from the glass and is now bowing to him, limbs trembling in fear and nose almost touching the floor.

He lowers the wand slowly, almost mechanically, as he turns to his mother.

“You will not touch her things.”

She clicks her tongue. The sound makes him flinch away— because it always came before a slap in the wrist, or his ear being pulled tight — but he somehow manages to hold his ground, wand still held tightly, fingers becoming numb.

“You’re living in a dumpster, look at all the mess,” she gestures around the room with revulsion.  Draco can’t see anything but residue of love around the house. It’s everywhere, in the doodled notes left on the fridge and the bottle of wine they never got to finish. He won’t let them take that away from him, take her away from him. Not yet. Not with his heart is still bleeding and missing and yearning.

“No touching,” he repeats himself. His voice doesn’t waver in the slightest, it sounds steadier than he feels, and there must be something in his semblance because his mother relents.

It’s with distaste that she spits out, “Fine, have it your way,” and sends the house-elf back home.

She doesn’t leave, however. She takes over the kitchen, the smell of sugar and cinnamon filling the air— and that’s how Draco knows she’s truly stressed, because his mother only ever bakes when she feels as if she’s losing control of the situation at hand and money can’t fix it. Draco swallows down the pastries when they’re placed in front of him and he’s given a pointed look. (He pretends they aren’t insipid; pretends they don’t feel like ash going down his throat. He doesn’t tell his mother that his appetite is mostly gone, that eating feels like an arduous task, that these days he throws up just about anything he eats. He doesn’t have the energy to do so, he reckons she wouldn’t care, anyways.)

Draco chews and chews and chews until it becomes a mechanical habit and then he disconnects his brain. He ignores the way the buttery, sweet smell that lingers around the house reminds him of the apple pie (Y/N) used to bake, he blinks away the tears when a little voice in the back of his head reminds him that he won’t ever get to taste it again.

His mother lingers in the background— just like she’d done when he’d been a child and she’d wanted to see how much he’d progressed on his French after a two-hour tutoring session, ready to make vile comments about his accent and his grammar —and Draco can’t do anything without hearing an offhanded mumble about how pathetic he’s being. Her lingering used to petrify him, it made him want to be perfect for her, but now it just irks him. Draco wants to yell at her to leave him the fuck alone, but his anger is feeble, and grief smothers the fire before it turns into rage. The words remain stuck at the back of his throat.

Sometimes, when the sorrow eases and Draco is lucid enough to pay attention, he catches the glimpses of annoyance in his mother’s eyes. He knows that the only reason she’s here is to play damage control, to make sure he doesn’t derail too far and tarnish their last name even further. (The reputation of the Malfoy family had taken a hard hit after the Second Wizarding War when his father had been declared guilty and sent to Azkaban. It’d only worsened when Draco failed to fulfill his responsibilities of stepping up as patriarch in his father’s absence, instead deciding to elope and disappear to the muggle world.) Draco also knows that his mother wishes for simple solutions, she expects to place a bandaid over his ruptured soul and have him immediately snap back to his younger self. That won’t ever happen— Draco won’t ever go back to who he used to be before meeting his wife, before discovering love and warmth and safety —and her slowly rising frustration is a sign that she’s beginning to realize that.

In the end it’s his inability to get out of bed that gets her to snap.

“I’ve had enough.”

Draco blinks up at her.

Today is a bad day, the kind of day where breathing hurts and the feeling of his heart pumping is just a reminder that he’s alive and she’s not, the kind of day where he feels as if he’s underwater and slowly drowning.

He sees her mouth moving, hears the distorted words she’s saying, but can’t engage. It’s like he’s watching her through a screen, witnessing a scene far removed from him.

“I’m done letting you play your childish games. I’ve been lenient enough.” Her irritation is palpable, but Draco can’t process it.

He’s sinking and sinking and sinking.

“Get up.”

Why is she yelling?

“Get up, Draco.”

He can’t.

“Unbelievable.” And now she’s grabbing the end of the sheets and pulling them off the bed. Draco can’t bring himself to care. He can’t bring himself to even lift a finger. It angers her. He might be slipping away, but he sees it in the way her mouth tightens into an ugly sneer. Instinctively, he prepares himself for the harshness that always accompanies that look.

“She was just a silly little girl, Draco.”

The words cut sharply through the water and the grief and the pain. Suddenly Draco isn’t sinking anymore, suddenly it’s like he’s been zapped with an electrical wire. The numbness is pushed to the back of his mind and replaced with something darker, something ugly.

His mother doesn’t stop there.

“I thought letting you have your fun would be enough. I thought you would grow tired of her.” And now his brain is functioning properly and the words are making sense and Draco can’t help the way his brows pull up in confusion. His mother notices, of course she does, and she lets out a mocking laugh, one that has Draco’s blood turning cold.

“What? You think you ran away and got married behind our backs?” she scoffs, arms crossing over her chest. “I knew all along, child. I let you run around and play out your foolish little fantasy of love. See how that turned out.”

Draco can’t breathe. There's pressure in his chest, tightening and contracting. Anger begins to ignite; it goes from a fleck to a small flame.

“It’s over, Draco. You’re coming home.”

He shakes his head, manages to find the strength to sit up. It’s the first time he’s moved in hours and his muscles protest.

“I am home.”

That makes her snort, a mixture of disgust and insulting laughter.

“This place?” His mother looks around in disgust. “This isn’t your home.”

She clicks her tongue.

“And that dumb girl? She’s dead,” she scoffs and under her breath adds, “and thank Salazar for that, all that mudblood ever did was stain our name.”

Anger takes over, the flame becomes a blazing inferno, scorching everything around, it runs hot through his veins until all that is left is unrestrained, seething rage. It’s the first time it’s burning enough to destroy.

And Salazar does Draco want to consume everything around him.

“Never talk about my wife that way again.”

The words come out strong for a voice that hasn’t been used in hours.

He doesn’t know when he moves but now he’s towering over her and his hands are shaking by his side.

Silly little girl.

Mudblood.

To dare use those words to describe the love of his life, someone who could light up a room with a single smile and could fix all troubles with a few kind words, makes Draco enraged.

Draco looks at his mother and he just wants her to hurt.

“You don’t know the first thing about love, so who are you to come preach about it, mother.” He spits the words with disgust, uses a tone he knows will sting.

He’s never talked back to her, ever, and her shock is evident in the way she gapes at him with disbelief.

“I won’t have you speaking to me in such—”

“Get the fuck out.”

Draco has never cursed at her before. He’s never interrupted her, either. His mother looks like she’s been slapped, like she doesn’t recognize the person standing in front of her.

“Draco—”

“Out.”

She looks him over one last time, something akin to disappointment in her eyes, before jutting her chin and slamming the door on her way out.

With a sigh, Draco walks back to bed and curls into himself. It doesn’t take long for the anger to evaporate and for him to slip back into despair, to sink and sink and drown.

Numb. Numb. Numb.

Hours, or maybe just minutes, later she comes back. Her tone has been schooled back into the indifferent one Draco is more than accustomed to. She tells him that she’s leaving because of his father, that ever since being released from Azkaban he hasn’t been coping well and she must return home to ensure his health. Draco doesn’t call her out on her bullshit, doesn’t even turn around to face her, he just hums.

Numb. Numb. Numb.

His mother doesn’t come back.

iii. five days after the accident

It feels like floating through a dream, everything hazy and limbs lethargic. He goes through the motions out of pure muscle memory, mind disconnected and hidden somewhere far away. It’s like an outer body experience, as if he's watching himself move and talk without having any true control over it. He hurts so deeply, and the pain is so raw that Draco pushes it away and stores it in a dark place in the corner of his mind, a place where it can’t kill him. He takes all other emotions, too, until nothing but numbness is left behind.

Reality doesn’t seem real, because how can the world keep moving and the sun rising and the birds chirping if she’s gone. How can his heart keep beating if hers doesn’t?

The muggles at work worry about him, even with his mind clouded by grief he can tell. Mrs. Bailey, the kind older lady for who he works by serving tables and mopping floors, hugs him tightly when he walks into the cafe shop less than a week after the accident. She doesn’t say a thing about him missing work, but rather pulls him close, shushing him gently and running a hand through his hair. It's a motherly act Draco is unfamiliar with. Her eyes show so much sympathy, but Draco doesn’t let himself think too much about that because that might end up causing him to spiral, and he won't allow himself to slip (he can't let himself slip, last time he slipped he spent hours in the bathroom floor, pulling at his hair to try to ground himself back to reality, biting down on his lip and bleeding).

Her hug should provide some sort of comfort, but Draco can't feel a thing. That should make him sad, and maybe it does, but all emotions are muted, and he doesn't even try to understand them.

His coworkers are also gentle with him, so much so that if he were in his right mind Draco would find it annoying, but he allows it because he feels as if a single wrong touch might break him apart beyond repair.

They try to reach out to him, too, but Draco finds himself hiding away at home, rejecting every offer to hang out or keep him company. He wishes to be alone— even when the loneliness sometimes claws up his throat and suffocates him —so he can wallow in the waves of sorrow and let them pull him under.

Draco wants to hurt, he thinks, because at least then he’s feeling something.

He floats away in dreams of despair and struggles to find a will to live, sometimes he’s not even capable of picking himself up from bed, and the only reason he doesn’t starve is because Mrs. Bailey drops him leftovers every night.

Draco is so unbelievably grateful for her, even if he doesn’t verbalize it, even if he just nods and offers him a half smile and closes the door in her face. He hopes she knows.

iv. two months and four days after the accident

Draco wouldn’t say he has withdrawn into himself, Pansy thinks otherwise. She never says so— she wouldn’t, she’s been unbelievingly gentle with him the last couple of months, far kinder than Draco ever thought her capable of being — but Draco overheard her talking to Blaise, tone filled with worry.

And Draco, well, he’s dealing as best as he can. It’s just hard to function properly when the sadness never settles and instead becomes stronger, grips his heart and squeezes at the most unexpected moments. Some days are good, and other days he’s drowning and sinking and choking on grief, always halfway through a nervous breakdown. Those days he can’t leave his bed, he can’t even eat, breathing and moving become the most painful tasks. Draco will admit he has become more quiet, more absent, but withdrawn feels like going too far.

In the past, he would've argued with Pansy that he hasn't withdrawn into himself, that he's alright, that he's managing as much as he can. In the past, he would've petulantly argued that she just doesn’t get it, explained that everything hurts and maybe— if ever under the influence of Firewhisky —might’ve even confessed that he feels as if sadness has its clutches so deep into his heart that the wound is slowly getting infected, admitted that he’s scared it will never heal. But this isn’t the past and Draco is nothing but the broken pieces of who he used to be, so he doesn’t open his mouth. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t call her out for speaking about him behind his back, doesn't even try to contradict her.

Existing is tiring and Draco just doesn’t have the energy to spare.

Pansy watches him with something akin to pity and fear, like she can see how he's fading and is scared he'll disappear if she looks away. (Draco doesn't blame her. Some days it does feel as if he could vanish, as if his body could fade into nothingness, as if his mind could give in into despair and anger and just never return. Part of him had hoped time would soothe the emptiness in his heart, but it’d been like applying salve on an open wound. Time hadn’t done a fucking thing.)

And it’s just because he doesn’t have any fight left in him that Draco lets Pansy be— he allows her to coddle him, he eats as much as he can muster when she begs and drinks the tea she prepares before leaving at night.  It’s the only reason he’s here right now, back in wizarding London and walking at a stagnating pace through Diagon Alley, because Pansy said fresh air and a change of scenery would do him good and Draco just didn’t have it in him to argue.

He tugs at the hood of the cloak he’s wearing— it’s an old one of his, one Pansy found buried in the depths of his closet, one that fits awkwardly and smells musty but does a good enough job at concealing his distinguishing silver hair— and follows closely behind her.

It’s weird, he thinks to himself, being back in the wizarding world after many years spent in muggle London. He can’t deny that there’s a sense of familiarity at seeing and feeling the magic around, a warm tugging in his chest— probably his own dormant magic, one that hasn’t been used for far too long, responding to the energy around him —but there’s also an underlying sense of unsettledness.

He’d promised (Y/N) to return to the magic world once tension lessened and things sorted themselves out. They were meant to walk these streets together. Draco walks them all alone.

Something twists uncomfortably in his chest. He’s grown accustomed to the pain, so he pushes it down and allows Pansy to grab the hem of the cloak and pull him into a shop.

The smell hits him first, it's a mixture of wet parchment and mint with a hint of licorice. Surrounding him are what feels like a thousand objects— some small, some larger —but all unrecognizable to Draco. It's uncomfortable to see with his own eyes how the magical world has kept on evolving, even after they left. It's even more unbearable that his first reaction is to turn around to meet (Y/N)'s eyes, only to find his side empty. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, one that intertwines itself with melancholy and agony.

Draco distracts himself by looking around. Pansy follows him around for a while, and after realizing that he won't suddenly burst out into tears and collapse (which Draco can't blame her for believing as it has happened before) she leaves him to buy whatever she came here for.

It's as he's mindlessly looking through the stands, fingers flickering uninterested through small parchment pieces that transcribe whatever is mumbled to them, that Draco sees them; small vials, no bigger than his thumb, containing a blueish substance. There's a tag sticking to the lid. Draco moves closer, turns the paper around gently and is met with neatly written, italicized words.

He skips over the first few words, eyes drawn to the last few sentences.

"Our amazing liquid formula lets you control your dreams so you can visualize any event that has happened in the past with vivid detail. Imagine being able to wake up feeling like you just spent the night with your childhood best friend who moved away 10 years ago, or a loved one who has passed away. All it takes is a few drops before bed and voilà! You chose the memory, and we do the rest.  The opportunities are endless with our state-of-the-art formula that helps you unlock the past and immerse yourself in memories like never before. Make sure to..."

Liquid Dreams, they call it.

Draco buys a few vials before he's even done reading the tag.

v. two months and three weeks after the accident

Draco stares at the little vial, unblinking. Somewhere out in the living room there's an old clock, the type they don't really fabricate anymore, antique, made of old deep wood and with its classic curvy shape. It's quiet enough that Draco can hear it ticking all the way to the master bedroom.  

Tick. Tock.

The vial remains where it was placed by Draco when he bought it almost three weeks ago, contents untouched. It mocks him, an unwanted reminder that he could see her again if he wasn’t such a coward.

Tick. Tock.

He steps closer, reaching out for the glass, before hesitating and backing away, resuming his pacing around the room. The sole of his foot hits the wooden ground soundlessly, the lack of noise makes him feel all the more alone.

Tick. Tock.

Draco chews on his lower lip, makes it bleed. All he wants is within his reach, but he's so fucking scared. Because what happens if he sees (Y/N), or the memory of her, and it does nothing to soothe the burning in his heart. He'd be doomed then, destined to walk the rest of his life with a bleeding wound in his soul, destined to dance with grief until his feet ache and blister and his body just gives up and he dies, too. Draco’s heart wouldn’t survive that.

Tick. Tock.

But then again, a little voice chimes at the back of his head, it can’t get worse than this. It can’t get worse than days that blur into one another, than the way he loses control of his mind, fog condensing in his head, and he blinks awake only to find himself in a place he can’t remember walking to. It can’t get worse than coming back home to an empty house, a cold bed, to solitude, with his heart feeling so heavy it weights him down. It definitely cannot get worse than it is because he’s already missing her with his every breath, with every beat of his heart.

Tick. Tock.

It comes from somewhere within him, the sudden impulse, a surge of energy that has him moving forward to undo the lid. He tips the blue substance back, swallows it down in one go before he can second guess himself. No going back now. In the rush, Draco forgets to think of a specific moment.

Tick. Tock.

The taste is strange, indescribable: sweet and bitter all at once. Draco can feel the liquid burning as it goes down, it leaves an aftertaste that lingers heavily in his mouth. It tastes weirdly artificial, like someone tried hard to make it taste like fruits and flowers but failed, he can feel it at the back of his throat. The effect of the potion is almost instantaneous, the abruptness hitting Draco strongly and making him stumble into the side of his bed.

Tick.

He tries to fight the exhaustion, but it’s like his eyelids are trying to shut themselves together. Draco can do nothing but give in to sleep, let himself be swept under.

Tock.

When he opens his eyes, he isn’t lying in bed anymore. The sun shines brightly in the sky, it makes him squint and look away. He recognizes the smell immediately, salty and musky, like seaweed and sunscreen. Draco knows where he is— the beach near Sussex to which they apparated once they left the Wizarding World all those years ago —and he knows exactly who is behind him. With his heart beating so hard it’s almost painful, Draco turns around to be greeted with a smile he knows too well, one he could paint with his eyes closed.

(Y/N).

Her eyes crinkle with mirth. Something within Draco deflates. It feels as if, for the first time since the accident, he can finally breathe.

When he wakes up in the morning, Draco tells himself he'll be careful with the potion, won't abuse it. But he finds himself chugging down the blue liquid every night, buys a box of Liquid Dreams and keeps the vials hidden under his bed.

Anything to see her one more time.

vi. six months and a day after the accident

Draco could choose any memory, he knows that, and sometimes he does. He picks the first time they kissed (under the snow during a trip to Hogsmeade), he revisits their arrival to the beach near Sussex (because she’d never seen the beach before, had never felt the sand under her toes, and Draco basks on the feeling of her happiness), he relieves their short honeymoon (the dinner under the moonlight, the wandering hands, the stolen kisses, the feeling of her breath against his cheek and her skin pressed right against his). Most of the times, however, he brings himself back to that night. It isn’t intentional, it happens when he doesn’t focus hard enough on a memory, almost as if his mind wishes to torture him further. Because it is torture, going back to their last moments together— to the last time he ever saw her alive —without the blissful ignorance of what’s to come.

On nights like that he wakes with his heart ready to leap out his chest, sometimes halfway through a panic attack, tears cascading down his cheeks, and then he lays awake for the rest of the night, pulling himself together piece by piece, stitching the metaphorical laceration on his heart with deep breaths, before forcing himself to go through the motions, get through the day.

The sadness never disappears, it follows him like a shadow on the sunniest of days. Sometimes it seems to grow smaller— or maybe Draco gets used to its looming presence, it’s darkness —and it gives space to anger, which settles between his ribs and climbs all the way up to his throat and burns. Sometimes it feels as if the rage will seep out of his pores, tainting him. He’s angry at everything, at the world, at her, at himself. Waking up every morning to a reality in which she’s gone makes the anger increase by a tenfold, it’s so so fucking painful, but at night, when he sees her and feels her and holds her— even if it’s just in memories and dreams —the feeling mellows and that’s why he must return to her, must drink the cloudy blue potion every night, because if he doesn’t he knows the mixture of grief and rage and resentment will consume him.  

It isn’t a problem, it really isn’t— so what if he sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night screaming for her to stay, what if sometimes he wishes he could stay in his dreams to keep on holding her close, what if coming back to reality just makes the whole in his heart deeper, that’s no one’s business but his own. That is, until he starts seeing her outside the dreams.

It begins with shadows, the outline of her body. Draco blinks once, twice, and then it’s gone.

“Malfoy? You good?”

He meets his coworker’s eyes. Mark is young, barely twenty, started working in the restaurant only a couple of months ago. He wasn’t here when Draco lost (Y/N), didn’t get to see the way he broke down and pieced himself back together, didn’t experience the gentleness and leniency with which they all treated him, but he seems to be acutely aware that something happened because he’s soft with him too.

“What?”

Mark cocks his head to the side, eyebrows furrowing, “You look like you saw a ghost.”

Draco thinks he might’ve. He decides to blame it on the lack of proper sleep.

“I’m fine.”

But he’s not fine, because he keeps seeing her. It becomes more recurrent as time goes on, and (Y/N)’s ghost goes from being a just dark shape to taking full on corporeal form. He can even see the little freckles on her skin.

It’s concerning.

Draco knows she’s not real, not really, just the remnants of a memory, a side effect of drinking Liquid Dreams every night when the wizarding company that produces the potion suggests a maximum of two vials per week.

He should stop.

He doesn’t.

He can’t.

He keeps on tipping the vial back, drinking the liquid, making a grimace at the flavor. He keeps being a spectator from within his own body, keeps going back to that night.

It's the only way to be with her.

It always starts the same way, the smell of garlic and oregano in the air, the soft jazz tune playing in the radio. Draco finds himself moving without his own permission, the glass of wine he holds in his hand guiding itself towards his mouth. He's long learned that the experience is gentler for his mind, and overall better, if he doesn't fight it. It's useless, anyhow, he can't change what already happened, he's just reliving his memories.

"Merlin, that smells so good," his voice sound foreign to his ears. He reaches forward to hug (Y/N) from behind, swaying her to the beat of the song and humming the last notes against her skin. She smiles and tips her head back a little, enough to allow him to place a chaste kiss to her neck. Draco's heart tightens at the ease in which they move around one another, the familiarity of her body pressed to his own.

"It's your favorite," she responds gently, moving the wooden spoon with which she's mixing the sauce towards him, tipping it back so he can taste it. It's thick and buttery, rich and only slightly sweet, just like he likes it.  

Draco groans playfully, presses his forehead to the crook of her neck.

"I'm the luckiest man."

"And don't you forget it," she teases, moving aside to let him take over. She steals the glass of wine from his hand and moves away giggling when Draco makes a poor attempt at following after her. She drinks the remaining alcohol, sticking her tongue out at him.

He feels his throat close up, melancholy settling deep within his bones. He tries to memorize the curve of her smile, the sound of her laughter. Draco wishes he could change what comes next, wishes he could instead rush forward and capture her lips in a kiss, make her stay with him. He can't, because that’s not what he did that night. Instead, he rolls his eyes, soft laughter falling from his lips. It’s ironic how he’s laughing in his memory, but slowly dying inside as he forces himself to live this moment over and over again.

From the corner of his eye, Draco watches as (Y/N) refills the glass, taking a small sip. He cleans up some pieces of onion, listening as (Y/N) sings softly to herself, the cadence of her voice is smooth, it flows and mixes effortlessly with the one coming from the radio. Draco could hear her sing forever. There's a light patter of rain against the window as he preheats the oven, so he closes the window to prevent any water from slipping in.

It's a slow night, a Saturday night, the type of nights in which they'll cook together and drink a bit, and then some more, and dance drunkenly around the kitchen only to end up in their bedroom, discarding their clothes and rediscovering each other's bodies.  

It should've ended that way.

It won't.

Don't say it. Don't say it.

"Hey, love, where did you put the mozzarella? Can't find it on the fridge."

There's a small, soft, "Oh, shit," in the background. Her singing stops. The rain becomes heavier.

"Forgot to buy it," she replies, already moving for the keys to their small car.

It's alright, he wants to scream out, we don't need it. Stay. I'll cook something else. Don't leave.

What falls out of his mouth instead is, "My forgetful little one."

Please stay. Please.

She scrunches her nose up, just the way she always does when he calls her by that nickname. Draco always thought it made her look cute. Now it only makes him want to cry. She crosses the room, presses a quick kiss to his lips.

"I'll be back soon."

He's yelling inside his own head, can feel the dread settling somewhere in his stomach.

Please don't leave.

Don't go.

Stay.

Stay.

"Be safe," he calls out. He rages within himself, desperate to do something different, say something different.

I love you, and it feels like his throat is going raw with how loud he's crying out. He tries to open his mouth, to move, to do anything, but it's futile.

Because that night, (Y/N) walks out the door, and Draco doesn't tell her he loves her one last time.

vii. seven years, three months and two days before the accident

Draco falls in love quick and hard, and once he realizes it, he's in too deep. He doesn't know how it happens, he just knows that one day he looks at (Y/N)— watches the way snowflakes fall on her hair, slowly painting it white, and how she looks up the sky as if it's her first time ever seeing the snow, smile so bright it makes something in Draco's chest tighten —and he thinks to himself yeah, fuck, I would spend the rest of my life by her side.

(And Draco can't pinpoint where along the line he fell in love, but he knows precisely why. It's all in the way her laugh floats around the air and settles somewhere within his heart, the sound soft and comforting, and how her eyes become gentle when they set on him, like she can see through him and wishes to take away anything that could cause him harm. It's the soft caresses of his hair, the delicate kisses to his forehead, the way in which her hand subconsciously searches for his. It's in the way that (Y/N) sees all parts of him, including the dark and ugly, the sides of himself that he's ashamed of, and she doesn't flinch away in disgust, but rather pulls him closer. It's the way she loves, so effortlessly, and the way she teaches Draco how to be better every day, a better human, a better friend, a better lover.)

Falling in love is not something he ever planned on doing, the last thing Draco wanted was to drag someone into the mess that was his life, but by the time he has half a mind to think about stopping it, his heart has already crawled out of its place deep within his chest and has settled in (Y/N)'s hand, where it's being tenderly held and thoroughly cherished. It might just be the worse time to be thinking of love— because, despite what the Ministry of Magic insists on, the Dark Lord is back, and the unmistakable mark that contrasts his father's pale skin has never been darker, and there's people with masks coming and going around the Manor, and slowly the pressure on Draco's shoulders is piling and piling and piling and he's beginning to feel like he can't breathe— or maybe it's just the right time. After all, (Y/N) is like a breath of fresh air, like warm, soothing hands on his blemished soul. Draco feels weightless when he's around her, like all his troubles are unimportant and nothing in the world matters but the two of them. He feels at peace, like he can finally rest.

She becomes his best friend, his confidant, and so much more. Draco loves her, can't think of a life without her, wants to keep her safe, wants to be with her.

Maybe that's the reason why a couple of years later, when the Second Wizarding War comes to an end and they're holding each other close after the Battle of Hogwarts, skin torn open, wounds still oozing blood, muscles aching, but both of them undeniably still alive, that Draco cups her face between his hands and whispers against her lips, "Let's start a new life, you and I."

They do.

They leave a shattered Wizarding World behind. They escape the clutches of Draco's family. They abandon magic.

It's the beginning of the happiest eight years of Draco's life. It's also the beginning of the end.

Years down the line, a bottle of Firewhisky in hand and alcohol running through his veins, Draco will wonder if he should've kept quiet, if they should've stayed instead. They would not have been together, his family would've never allowed the union between a Malfoy and a muggleborn, but at lease she would still be alive.

viii. the accident

(Y/N) dies on a Saturday. Her favorite day of the week.

Draco is waiting for her, fingers working steadily to knead the dough for their dinner. She hasn't been gone long, maybe half an hour, but in that time, he's changed the radio station from soft jazz to something more pop. He knows she'll bicker about the music when she's back, will pout and definitely win that battle— because if there's one thing Draco is weak for, it's her —but for now Draco enjoys the bubblegum boyband music that's playing.

Outside, the rain has grown stronger, and the wind howls, creating a low whistling noise that resonates around the kitchen.

The landline phone rings, and Draco's already halfway through teasing her about forgetting her keys and the umbrella— something along the lines that the only reason she doesn't lose her head is because it's permanently attached to her body —when he picks up the phone.

"I'll come out to get you, but you'll owe me a kiss." He's already gripping the umbrella by the handle.

"Uh, I'm sorry, is this the Malfoy residency?"

The grin falls off his face immediately. The voice on the other side is deep and gruff, muffled by the static and the rain. Draco doesn't recognize it.

"Who is this?"

There is no gut feeling, no intuition to tell him there might be something wrong. It doesn't sink in that this has to be about (Y/N) until the voice starts talking again.

The man introduces himself, but Draco forgets the name by the time he's done hearing it.

"Sir, there's been an accident. Your wife..."

It's like Draco's heart falls to the bottom of his stomach.

The umbrella drops to the floor, a loud thud resonating around the room.

He can't breathe.

The man keeps going, his voice getting increasingly shaky as he keeps on explaining the situation, and Draco catches only pieces of what he's saying.

The rain.

A crash.

Dead on impact.

He really can't breathe.

For a second there's nothing but silence in his mind, stillness, and then there's everything all at once. Draco goes from being unable to hear his own breathing to being hyperaware of his surroundings. He can hear the static of the radio behind him, the light buzzing of the electricity in the bulb above his heads, the sizzling of the sauce, the pain on his feet where the umbrella landed before rolling to the floor, the ticking of the old clock (Y/N) bought. He suddenly can't control his body, can't control how he backs away slowly, tugging at the phone's cord— is he moving slowly? He thinks he is, he can't tell, everything around him is distorted— can't help it when his knees weaken beneath him and his hands tremble.

He grips the counter to steady himself.

He wheezes, tries to bring some oxygen into his lungs.

This can't be happening. This cannot be happening.

He saw her less than forty minutes ago. She was going to the store to get cheese. What do you mean dead on impact? What do you mean she's gone. She can't be. She'll be walking through the door any minute now, soaked because she forgot her umbrella. She'll pout about the pop music and Draco will begrudgingly agree to playing more jazz and they'll dance around the kitchen as they wait for dinner to be ready. She's not dead. She cannot be dead. They had survived a war, she cannot be dead.

"I'm sorry, sir." The words are garbled, but somehow, despite his distress, Draco manages to make sense of them.

"I, uh—"

"There's an officer here who wishes to speak with you, sir."

There's shuffling. Draco closes his eyes, presses his forehead against the cool counter. Merlin, this cannot be happening. This has to be a nightmare; this can't be real. It doesn't feel real.

"Am I speaking with Mr. Malfoy."

Draco hates to be called that; it reminds his too much of his father. His voice is soft, and it breaks when he responds, "Yes."

The policeman must hear it because his tone becomes slightly gentler, but no less formal. "I'm sorry to ask this of you, sir, but we need you to identify the body."

The body. Not (Y/N). The body. Draco clenches his jaw hard enough for it to hurt.

He doesn't mean to do it, but he's struggling to tether himself to reality and the officer is awaiting a response, talking to him so softly it's making him dizzy, so Draco does what he knows how to do best; he slips the Malfoy mask on, places it tight enough that it won't fall down and then tightens it further to prevent any cracks.

The mask stays on longer than he intends it to. He wears it to sleep that night, wakes up with it in the morning. It accompanies him to the morgue, loosens a little around the edges when he's forced to make the identification, but stays on otherwise. It keeps him from feeling anything, from facing reality, from breaking down in front of complete strangers who are already looking at him with so much pity. It doesn't really slip off until the funeral, when Draco watches her be lowered into the ground.

She's gone.

Something within him snaps, breaks beyond repair. The mask shatters against the ground.

He cries for the first time that day and it feels as if he never stops crying afterwards.

ix. eight months and eighteen days after the accident

He's doing groceries when it happens. From the corner of his eye, he can see the shape of (Y/N), always lingering, present ever since the day Draco saw her outside of the dreams for the first time. It's eerie. Draco hasn't grown accustomed to it— to her? He doesn't think he ever will. It's one thing to see her in his memories, within his dreams, because he knows she isn't real. It becomes more difficult to discern reality from dreaming when he constantly sees her in real life. (He tries reaching out to touch her once, recently woken up and still a little sluggish with sleepiness. His hand meets nothing but air. Draco jerks his hand back, runs to the bathroom to be sick.)

A part of him, at the beginning, thought that having her around with him every moment of the day would lessen the heavy weight around his chest, evaporate the remains of grief, but this isn't her, just a ghost of his wife.

Draco's so focused on ignoring the hallucination— its blank, emotionless face, the eyes that follow him around —and trying to manage the raging headache he's had since he woke up, that it takes him a while to notice the tapping on his shoulder. It's only when it becomes insistent that he turns around.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but you're bleeding."

For a moment the words don't make sense. Then, Draco feels the sticky substance running down his cupid's bow. His fingers come back red when he reaches to touch it.

The woman, small and old, offers him a blue handkerchief with a kind smile, "Take care, kid. It's been oddly warm these days."

Draco knows the nosebleed isn't in any way related to the heat, but he nods and thanks her anyways.

She lets him keep the handkerchief, "It was my late husband's. I have a feeling you'll be needing it more than I will", and over the next couple of days Draco uses it more often than he would like to admit.

It only gets worse from there. Nausea, vomiting, body tremors.

Draco knows it's the potion, but he can't bring himself to stop. He must see her. He keeps on tipping his head back and chugging the misty liquid.

Most days he wakes up exhausted, the bags under his eyes no longer disguisable. He's irritable, he snaps at the smallest of things. Mrs. Bailey tells him to take some days off, the concern evident in her eyes. It just angers him. He's alright. More than alright. He gets to see his dead wife every night, he keeps her alive. He's fine.

But then he isn't because his body begins to slowly shut down. He starts feeling feverish, fog condenses his head. He lays in bed and time becomes a foreign concept. He's sweating, hot and cold at the same time, it's like he's boiling from the inside and can't escape it. He sees (Y/N), standing at the corner. Is this a dream? Everything sways around him, the world tilts. He can't talk, can't move. He falls unconscious. But not before reaching for the little glass vial and its addicting blue contents.

He blinks awake to the dream.

It's always the same. Garlic. Oregano. Jazz music in the radio. A glass of almost finished wine in his hand.

"Merlin, that smells so good."

He hugs her from behind, sways her to the beat of the song. She twists around in his arms.

She twists around in his arms?

"We need to talk."

It's her voice, Draco would recognize it anywhere, soft and velvety. But she never said those words. She couldn't have said those words. Draco has relieved this memory seventy-three times, he knows.

She steps away, takes his hand, and the scenery around them swiftly changes. The background becomes distorted, it melts down and reconstructs itself. It makes Draco dizzy, the sudden change from dimmed lights and rainy weather to a bright sunny day. They're at the beach near Sussex.

This has never happened before. This shouldn't be happening. Draco opens his mouth, tries to swallow down the bright panic flaring in his chest, and finds out he can speak. This isn't a memory anymore.

"How are you—? You shouldn't be—" He stops himself, looks around. The beach is just as he remembers it, the air is hot, but the breeze is cool. It smells like seaweed and fish. In his memory (Y/N) is smiling. She isn't smiling now, just studying him carefully. "You're dead."

Draco has never said those words out loud before. The pain in his chest, the one that hasn't settled since the accident, burns and then becomes lighter.

"I am," she confirms. She doesn't sound sad, it's almost as if she's just stating facts. The sky is blue and (Y/N) is dead.

When he remains frozen, mind still going haywire, so she takes him by the hand and tugs him along. They walk closer to the ocean. Her hand is warm against his.

"How is this happening?"

She looks back at him, offers a gentle smile, and Draco knows his wife well enough that he recognizes the look in her eyes. You already know. It all clicks in his head. He focuses on the water, realizes that the waves aren't moving as they should, notices that the image is slightly deformed and misshaped. His mind is creating all of his, everything around him is becoming blurry because he never walked close to the shore. (Y/N) figure remains sharp and clear because her image is safely stored in Draco's mind.

"You're not you," he whispers to himself.

She stops dead in her track, turns around to meet his gaze. There's a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, as if she knows something he doesn't.

"Aren't I?"

"This is all happening inside my head. It's a dream."

"That does not mean it's not real."

She sits on the ground, not caring about the sand staining her clothes, and it's such a (Y/N) thing to do that Draco's heartstrings tighten and a part of his mind can't believe it isn't her. She pats the ground and he sits beside her.

They remain quiet for some time. (Y/N) plays with the sand, picking it between her fingers before allowing the breeze to take it away. She gives him time to gather his thoughts, and there's so much Draco want to say. So much. But it's like the words are stuck at the back of his throat and he can't manage to spit them out.

She speaks first, keeps on picking up sand and letting it go.

"You're killing yourself," her tone is soft, but there's a certain harshness in her words. It isn't at all what Draco was expecting to hear.

"What?"

(Y/N) turns to meet his gaze, eyes firm, "You're drinking the potion every night, are you not? You're getting headaches, nausea, nosebleeds. You're seeing me outside the memories."

Draco could lie, but she would see right through him.

"I am."

She nods absentmindedly, like he's just confirming what she already knows. Her gaze leaves his face and sets on the horizon.

"You'll die." There's a slight tremor to her voice, the kind she used to get when she was a few words away from crying.

"Is that so bad?"

She snaps her head back to him, tears on the corner of his eyes. "Don't say that," and her words are tainted with a rigidness he isn't accustomed to.

Her tone should unsettle him, but Draco pushes, "I would get to be with you, wouldn't I?"

She shakes her head. "There's so much left for you to live, Draco. So much."

Draco is the one to look away now, he tries to reign in the anger. She doesn't understand because she's the one that left, she's not the one that has to deal with the ever-growing emptiness and sadness and grief. Draco is the one that stayed. He's the one that was left all alone to cope, to try to find ways to live without her. He's the one that feels her absence, every day with every breath.

"What's the point if you're not around to live it with me."

He looks back just in time to see her eyes soften around the edges. She looks sad now, apologetic.

(Y/N) reaches for his hand and Draco lets her take it.

"Then live it for the both of us. Live it for me."

Just like that Draco deflates, he focuses on the circles her thumb rubs against the back of his palm.

"I just miss you," he confesses, "so so much. You wouldn't understand."

Her grip tightens.

"I know."

"I just want to be with you."

"I know, I know." There's a heaviness in her features, a twinge of pain in the corner of her lips and between her brows. Draco, for a moment, wonders if he's wearing a matching expression, if they both carry the hollowness in their hearts. "I'm sorry I left you." She comes closer, cradles his face the same way Draco did when he suggested they run away all those years ago. He wants to tell her she doesn't need to apologize, that it isn't her fault, but her words soothe some sort of internal ache. "I'm sorry about all the things that could've been but won't ever be." His throat constricts. He thinks about all the things they promised each other (to grow old together, to start a family), doesn't notice the tears falling down his cheeks until she wipes them away. (Y/N) presses her forehead against him, whispers the words against his lips, "I'm so sorry, my love."

Draco shatters, grips her wrists to anchor himself. The sobs that leave his mouth are muffled, quiet, but he knows (Y/N) hears them by the way her hold on his face becomes firmer. She hums, a soft jazz song, the one that was playing the night she died, and lets him cry to his heart's content.

It isn't until he quiets down, sobs becoming hiccups, that she pulls away. She lets her eyes trail over his face, brushes her thumbs against his cheeks and pulls a strand of hair out of his face. Her eyes are sad as she mumbles, "Trapping yourself in our memories and living off the past isn't going to bring me back."

Draco knows. He knows. But he can't bear the idea of never seeing her again, of never holding her, of never hearing her voice.

"I need more time with you."

She smiles softly, "We got eight years of nothing but happiness, my love. That's much more than what many lovers get."

"A lifetime by your side wouldn't have been enough."

It's true. Draco could've lived a thousand lives with her, and it would've never been enough. His soul craved her with an intensity that was almost overwhelming. No amount of time would've been enough.

"I love you." He needs to say it, needs her to hear the words coming from his own lips. "I didn't get to say it that day, when you left, but I do. I love you so much."

"I know."

Draco blinks up at (Y/N), finds her already staring back. In that moment, there's nothing but her.

"Draco, baby, you could've never uttered those words to me again, and I would've known. I felt it in every touch and every look. It was all around us. I know you love me, and you know just how much I love you too."

And Draco does know. Love is raw and primal; it leaves an indelible mark one must carry forever. Love builds and it shatters, it heals and burns. Draco presses his forehead against her collarbone and sighs, people leave, and they die, but their love stays. He loves her, will always love her, and she loves him too, even in death.

The dream begins to melt, to fold into itself. The colors blend together. (Y/N) begins to pull away and Draco panics, grips her a little tight.

"Please stay with me."

There's desperation in his tone, anguish.

(Y/N) comes back close, softly presses her lips against his. "I'm always with you," she whispers as she back away. "Here," she taps right above his heart, the place where her name is branded on his skin, "and here," she presses her finger to his temple.

Everything disintegrates.

When he comes back to himself it's due to a sound. He tries to open his eyes, but they feel too heavy, so it takes him a while to gather enough strength to do so. His tongue is heavy on his mouth, dry. The sweat is making his clothes stick to his skin. Draco feels like he could throw up at any moment.

He thinks of (Y/N).

I'm always with you.

The sound persists in the background. At first it appears to come from far away, it's muted and dull, as if he's hearing it from under water, but it becomes clearer as the haze slowly disappears from his mind. It takes Draco some time to recognize it; someone is pounding on the door.

He would move to open it if he could regain control of his limbs.

It appears like his presence isn't even needed because after a thunderous bang— which Draco somehow recognizes as his door being broken down —the pounding stops. Draco should be worried, someone is inside his house, he can hear the footsteps approaching, but he can't bring himself to care.

I'm always with you.

Blaise walks into his room, eyes frantic and unfocused.

They settle on him and there's a flash of anger before it twists into something more worried, something closer to panic. He looks like he just stumbled across a corpse.

Blaise's eyes dart around the room and Draco can tell the moment he notices the small glass vials that he never bothered to clean up because Blaise's face tightens, "You idiot."

And he's upset, Draco knows he is, can hear it in his voice, but Blaise is still walking forward and kneeling by the side of his bed. He's upset, but his eyes hold on so much concern.

"What have you done?"

The words are whispered, Blaise presses the back of his hand to Draco's forehead, ever so gentle, and Draco can't help it, he catches a peek of (Y/N)'s ghost looming over Blaise's shoulder, smiling softly at him before softly shattering and disappearing, and the tears begin to fall. He's still a little out of it, a little feverish, still thinking of his dream.

I'm always with you.

Draco clenches his fists. He doesn't feel the nails digging into his skin, deeper and deeper, until Blaise places his hands over his own and softly coaxes them open, "It's okay. You're okay."

Blood flows freely down his palm. It doesn't even sting. Nothing can ache more than his heart.

Draco shakes his head. Nothing is okay, it hasn't been okay since the day she died.

Blaise sighs softly, "I know."

Draco doesn't know if he muttered the words or if his best friend can read his mind.

"I just miss her," it comes out watery and weak, but Draco doesn't even care. He's breaking, falling, shattering.

He sees the way Blaise swallows hard, closes his eyes and looks up to the ceiling, breathing hard. "I know you do, but this..." He gestures at the tiny glass vials that lay empty by the foot of his bed, before setting his eyes back on him. "Draco..."

"Don't." He begs, because he can feel the anger beginning to simmer, buried underneath the steam of illness and confusion, but Blaise has always been one to speak his mind, ruthlessly so, and so he presses on.

"You're hurting yourself."

You're killing yourself, her voice echoes in his brain. You'll die.

"Leave it alone."

"I can't," Blaise stresses, tightening his grip on Draco's wrist. The words don't surprise Draco, Blaise has always been a fixer, unable to let go once he figures out a problem and has effectively resolved it, but they do anger him. "For Salazar's sake. Liquid Dreams, Draco? Really? Have you've got any idea how harmful the potion can be if ingested on the daily."

He does know, he does, he's seen the effects, has felt them on his body. His limbs shiver, his heart is racing, his skin shuffles between being unbearably hot to freezing cold. He might've ignored the warning tag on every vial, but Draco knows. He just didn't care.

"I just want to see her."

I just want to be with you.

A lifetime by your side wouldn't have been enough.

I'm always with you.

He presses the back of his hand against his eyes, tries to mute the resonating voices in his head.  

"No," Blaise responds, "You're trying to keep her alive." Draco's breath comes to a sudden halt, eyes opening and focusing on Blaise, fire burning beneath them. Blaise doesn't shy away, doesn't even flinch. He's always been bluntly honest. Draco has never hated that quality more than he does know. His final words come out soft, "You can't. She's gone."

You're dead.

I am.

He doesn't know if it's the fever or the potion, but his next words come out manic, rushed, erratic.

"She isn't! Not when I drink the vials. Not when I see her every night."

Blaise's gaze softens. There's pain in his eyes.

"You've got to let her go."

Trapping yourself in our memories and living off the past isn't going to bring me back.

"You don't understand, Blaise." Now he's shouting, feelings jumbling within his chest and words tumbling out his mouth. He's confused and scared and hurt and sad and angry, and it comes out in the way of a sharp tone that cuts like a knife, "You couldn't even begin to comprehend what I'm feeling, what my life has been like for the last months."

Blaise remains impassive, but his features harden. Draco catches the brief flare of annoyance in his eyes.

"My sister died in the war, Malfoy." His words come back with the same razor-sharp edge Draco used. "So did my father, in case you forgot."

Draco breathes heavily, guilt pools at the bottom of his stomach.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, and Blaise doesn't say anything back, but Draco knows he's forgiven by the way his friend's shoulders relax. For all his tough exterior, Blaise has never been able to hold onto anger. Draco wishes he could be like that.

They stay quiet for a while, time that feels like an eternity.

It's Blaise who breaks the silence. "I know it hurts, and I know you miss her, but you're keeping her hostage in your dreams and you're holding onto the pain."

Draco exhales shakily.

"That's not going to bring her back."

"I know," he whispers, tears slowly filling his eyes once more. Trapping yourself in our memories and living off the past isn't going to bring me back, he hears being mumbled by his ear. "Fuck, I know."

He looks up at Blaise and by the way his friend briefly looks away Draco knows he must look absolutely shattered.

"How do I let her go, Blaise, when it feels like my soul was ripped in half?"

Blaise swallows hard. There are tears by the corner of his eyes, too, "You let yourself hurt, you let yourself feel."

Live it for me.

I'm always with you.

"I'm sorry I left you alone, Draco. I thought you wanted to... I don't know, process privately. I'm sorry I wasn't here."

Draco shakes his head. "Don't be," he closes his eyes with a sigh, "When I felt myself slipping, I should've said something." But it's difficult to do so, to reach out, when you feel so alone and alienated, and Blaise must know, must understand, because when Draco opens his eyes, Blaise is also shaking his head.

"And I should've noticed before," he responds, and Draco knows he isn't just talking about the grief, but also about Draco's borderline addiction to the potion. "You are my best friend, after all."

They stare at each other for a split second before Blaise sighs and looks away, "We'll talk about it later. Let's just focus on getting your fever down."

Draco has known Blaise long enough to understand what goes unsaid. Don't worry, I'm here now, I've got you, you're going to be okay.

And Draco isn't okay, not even close, but this feels like a step in the right direction. He feels lighter. His heart aches, but it's manageable. For the first time in months, Draco doesn't feel the overwhelming itch to go back to his memories.

x. two years after the accident

For the longest time Draco thought he would die without her, and maybe a part of him does. But as he stands in front of her grave, a bouquet of heliotropes on his hand, he thinks that maybe that's okay. The last year has taught him how to let go of the hurt, let go of the part of him that isn't really him anymore, and instead hold onto her, onto their love.

It never stops hurting, there's always a lingering, dull pain in his heart, but Draco learns how to live with it. He thinks that's okay, too. The pain is a reminder that he loved and was loved. Love hurts because it's everlasting, because it never truly goes away. Grief is the price we pay for loving. That's okay, he reckons, it's a small price.

Draco presses his hand to the headstone, squats down to place the flowers on the floor, closes his eyes and allows himself to feel. Healing isn't linear, he's learned, and it's okay to sometimes feel a sorrow so deep it pierces and reopens the wound in his soul, as long as he can release the sadness and the pain, as long as he swims with it but doesn't allow himself to drown.

Having Blaise and Pansy around helps and Draco is more than unbelievably grateful for his support system. (For Blaise, who helps him through the days of withdrawal, who opens up his house to him, who helps him look for a grief counselor. For Pansy, who teaches him how to paint with oil, and how to pour his feelings into blank pieces of parchment instead of bottling them up.) He learns that he's not alone, never was. He learns how to lean on someone else when he needs help.

It takes time, but he slowly regains parts of him he thought had shatter beyond repair. He cooks pizza for his friends, he drives to work, he listens to slow jazz songs and thunderstorms without the urgent desire to break down. He wears his wedding band around his neck.

He heals. Slowly, but surely.

Draco learns that the memories he shared with her will always be there, for him to think back upon, but they are not meant for him to live within.

[luminologism]

Sky Cotl Skytober 2024: A retrospective by ME!

All of my skytober pieces in chronological order! -> here The song I set it too! -> here

This year, I participated in an Inktober adjacent drawing event. I did the Sky Cotl version of Inktober, Skytober. Now that it's November 1st, I have thoughts and feelings about the experience, what I learned, what I did right, and what I can improve on! This post is very much for me to reconcile and reflect on the art I did this month, but please feel read and enjoy my raw thoughts as well. I feel like everybody can learn from or relate to what I'm gonna chatter on about below, so take a read if you're so inclined! I'll be touching on relatability, popularity vs niche, effort vs efficiency, and passion vs honing skill.

WHY I DID SKYTOBER

So, as I said above, I participated in Skytober! It's my first Inktober adjacent event EVER! I've done similar projects in the past related to other arts (NaNoWriMo for example) but ultimately failed! Why? Well, I just didn't see that stuff through. I did not have a strong goal, and thus the past projects inevitably failed.

This year, however, I was DETERMINED to finish this project! This is because I have been meaning to make my inevitable swap from Paint Tool Sai 2 to Clip Studio Paint for AGES. I've had this program since forever (and even had the old version Manga Studio as a kid!), but it was far too robust at the time for me to want to learn it. However, it's been sitting on my computer for ages, and I have a massive commission in the works currently! I felt many of CSP's tools would be useful for that commission, so I took a bit of a detour and decided that Skytober would help me sit down and actually spend time learning this damn program.

Needless to say, I think my attempts at learning at least a bit of the program was successful. I learned a lot of the basic functions and where I liked tools and functions placed, I learned how to fiddle with some interesting brushes, and I also spent a LOT of time learning how to (roughly) paint backgrounds! These are all skills I was desperately trying to learn anyways, so having some solid and strict direction very much helped. I still have a lot to learn program wise, but drawing (nearly) every day has definitely given me a solid foothold in this program. As a diehard SAI2 user, the jump is difficult! But I think I did alright.

MY CREATIVE MINDSET AND DIRECTION

Now, the art itself. There are favorites I have, and there are absolute duds as well. In my eyes, to be specific. Drawing (nearly) every day is bound to run you dry for some mental and creative resources, but I did a few things to help mitigate that and keep the train chugging. For a long time, I had been meaning to make a Sky Cotl animatic using the song Virtual Angel by ARTMS. That's a recent release from that music group, but it's been one of my favorites recently. I think it's a beautiful song, and with lyrics like 'for the sin of swallowing up the sun' and 'fly me to your eden, this is eden' and 'i'll be there for you when your wings break', I thought the song fit Sky Cotl's vibe perfectly. However, I know absolutely nothing about animatics, so I decided to repurpose the idea into assigning a lyric to each Skytober piece instead. This massively helped with direction of ideas. It wasn't perfect, but it still significantly helped. Another thing I did to keep myself inspired was I actually wrote out a significant number of my ideas beforehand. They were not super fleshed out at times, and often they changed if I got inspired in another way. And other times, I just completely gave up on any ideas and decided the goal was just to finish SOMETHING, if just to keep the ball rolling. Either way, at least planning some things ahead of time helped eliminate a majority of the 'idk what to draaaaw!' woes down. It also helped me stay efficient, and having the song as direct inspiration sort of kept stoking the fires of my passion and helped me keep going! Raaah! Even so, I still ended up with duds, and you can absolutely see that reflected in each pieces notes.

RECEPTION OF MY WORK

I've never had this much attention on my work before. I used to run a pretty popular twitter before restarting it (and then deleting that second one just recently due to twitter being twitter), but I've never surpassed 1000 notes on anything before. Please understand, while I know that's not really all that much, for me that is! It's like imagining 1000 people standing in the same room as me giving me a thumbs up on my silly picture. It was amazing!! I would look at my notes all day at the start of the month with a smile on my face. It was surreal seeing people's thoughts coming in in real time. Seeing everybody's thoughts and feelings and interpretations of my works was amazing and so interesting to see. There would be people simply screaming at my work with glee, giving me genuine and sincere compliments, giving me their interpretations of how my works made them feel, and so much more! The most jarring thing for me was seeing a few people tag their friends in my work. I would sit there like 'huh, this person liked this piece so much that they had to show their friend directly!'. And it made me smile.

I also got to see in real time how my efforts can directly correlate with the interactions I got. And that swung both ways. There are some pieces I posted that barely had eyes on them, and it wasn't because I did poorly. It was because I think people can very much see when something is low effort or if you post something without confidence. Meanwhile, there were some pieces I posted that I sort of just threw together, and people LOVED? My picture for the prompt 'Mural' went absolutely bonkers, and I don't even really think it's all that good! On that piece I was just testing out manga stone wall brushes and fussing with glowing layer modes. It's by far my most popular Skytober piece as of posting this retrospective though, so it's interesting to see!

Another thing I saw that was interesting and I picked up very quickly on was my own OC content sees less eyes! Not because my OCs are bad or anything, but strangers can't relate to it! Even if the art is baller, my OC content had less interest than my more vague pieces. The pieces where I posted random moths (the closer to base game look, the better) were the ones people liked the best! That, or if I posted in game characters.

OVERALL

All in all, it was a very enlightening experience! If I do another event like this again, I will not pigeonhole myself to the square little paint stamp vibe I had going on. That made it hard to branch out or many images look wider. I will also put less effort in. Funny that I word it like that, but I actually think I put TOO MUCH effort in on some pieces! That made my inspiration (and other pieces) suffer. I also think that while I enjoyed posting my works with song lyrics, I won't do that again. Or if I do, I'm choosing a shorter song. I might also combine prompt days next time.

[sparks-polls]

And the next tournament is... *drumroll*

Tumblr's Favourite Sparks Song!

(a.k.a. we are all going to suffer immensely on the daily. I am sorry.)

128 songs have been selected for this tournament based on the results of the Sparkstember polls. There are between 3 and 7 songs per album in the running. (More songs were selected when the poll results were more scattered between songs.) This Town Ain't Big Enough For Both Of Us will not be in the running this time as it has already proven itself many, many times over the years as one of Sparks' most beloved songs - it got a well deserved win as Tumblr's Favourite Sparks Single last year.

For the first round songs have been matched up with songs from albums from roughly the same era. For the next rounds I have made a bracket that follows a roughly chronological order, which means the polls will follow a predetermined order. Keeping the order chronological means the tournament will contain songs from almost every era for as long as possible, and songs that are decades apart will not be matched against each other until later on in the tournament.

This tournament will run for a long time. The first round will consist of 64 polls, with 2 polls dropping every single day for the next 32 days. You will have a week to cast your vote on each poll. I would advice listening to both songs before casting your vote, especially if you're less familiar with one of the songs.

Okay that is all! Have fun, enjoy hyping up your biggest faves, and lastly: good luck to all of us!

[butterflydm]

this is random but i just remembered that ages ago i saw an ask game for asking fic writers their 5 favorites/ones they're most proud of of their own fics, and i would love to know yours if you're up for it! it would be so interesting to hear a Butterfly Career Retrospective haha

feel free to be flexible on the number and discuss as many or as few fics as you feel like, and to count a whole series as a single entry (like voice, although if you have any particular favorite installments or interludes within that that you'd like to note i'd be curious to hear that too!)

This took a while but I finally got it done, @markantonys!

I have written a lot of fics, so this was a difficult challenge. I am somewhat helped out by the fact that old fics tend to fade out of my memory… but then if I reread a bit of them, I tend to remember why I wrote them and what I loved about them. I did not limit myself to five fics (I tried!) but these are roughly in reverse chronological order of when I posted them.

not in the stars, but in ourselves - trying to bob and weave and make something that feels narratively satisfying out of the mess that is Mat Cauthon's late series arc has become something of a hobby of mine! This is fic is one of several where I narratively examine parts of the canon that didn't work so well for me and try to rearrange them into something that feels like it rings true for the previous characterization and choices.

This fic in particular really made me see how the roadblocks that existed in each of the character's main plotlines was so much easier to solve if they had access to the other main characters (and I suspect that's part of why Jordan kept them so unnaturally separated during these arcs).

I also really enjoy the romance in this fic, and how the characters interact with prophecy in more unexpected ways, and how Rand and Mat help each other through their traumas, and how each of the members of the polycule bring their own perspective to the relationship.

the caffrey exception in White Collar fandom - this fic languished mostly unfinished on my harddrive for a long time before polyweek gave me an excuse to finish it up and post it! I wasn’t really in White Collar fandom, was the problem, and I always write and post more consistently when I have fellow fandom people to encourage me. I also was originally watching WC with my (now ex-)girlfriend and I stopped watching after we broke up, iirc, so I didn’t actually finish the show until years later. And by the time I was writing it, I didn’t feel like there was all that much visible fandom around. But it had a nice little response during polyshipweek, so I was really happy with how it all turned out. Makes me think that one day maybe I’ll finish up and post that RENT fanfic that’s been on my harddrive for eighteen million years.

negotiating with the truth in The Wheel of Time fandom - you can tell I got fancy with this fic because I gave the chapters titles, lol. This fic leans hard into Mat being an unreliable narrator and playing around with that, and it was a lot of fun to focus on and explore that part of him. I do love a lot of the fics I've written in WoT so trying to narrow it down more was tough (and I still only managed to narrow down to three!) but I really loved writing this one and exploring the differing ways that Mat and Rand were approaching this relationship of theirs and how they come to a compromise in the end. I think I really liked that they genuinely do have different wants and desires that need to be navigated.

voice interlude: feels like falling for the first time in The Wheel of Time fandom - this is, a little bit, subbing in for the Voice series as a whole, but I wanted to pick out a complete story and not something still in progress. I am pretty hopeful that Voice will get finished (there are three more main fics in the series, I think — one that mostly spoils through bk9: winter’s heart; one that mostly spoils through bk12: the gathering storm; and then one with whole-series spoilers) but I have some fairly long unfinished works in past fandoms, so eggs and hatching & etc.

What makes this fic in particular stand out to me is how I was able to really take this one moment in time in the series and expand on it so that I could deep-dive into Mat’s characterization and what he was thinking and feeling, and it’s such a revelatory moment for Mat. I enjoy showing characterization via writing about sex, and the interludes in the Voice series really allow me to do that.

my mouth (your lips) my hands (your hips) in The Magicians fandom - This fic where Margo and Eliot approach Quentin on this more equal ground (of them competing to see which of them can land him first) and it developing into a true polyam relationship… I really loved exploring how messy but ultimately loving it was. I also loved delving into Margo as an aromantic character in this fic, and how the great love of her life is her best friend.

A lot of my own fears and pains and worries made it into the three main characters in this one, though all in ways that make sense with their own base characterization, I think. There’s this one line that Eliot thinks - “he had always been better at self-preservation than bravery” and that is 100% canon Eliot but… yeah, it’s also me. One of the things I am working on in therapy is loosening the stranglehold of my self-preservation so that I can be a little braver when it comes to reaching out to other people.

If you like my poly fics in WoT fandom, you might also enjoy my marqueliot fics (but I wouldn’t recommend the show tbh. Or, well, I might rec it up until the episode “All That Hard Glossy Armor”. That’s a good one to end on. And it’s a Margo episode!).

searching for a sound (we hadn’t heard before) in The Magicians fandom - I wrote some serious fix-it fics in this fandom. But this fic was me taking the kind of ridiculous angle on a plotline that I think that the show might have actually pulled off, if it had been so inclined. This fic was also me balling up all my frustration at the poor writing choices and lobbing it at the show’s forehead. It was very cathartic to write. And I think it’s pretty funny too, so that’s a bonus.

(I’m Not Calling You A) Liar for Steven Universe fandom — I am cheating here and including a vid. This vid is… if I sliced up my heart (Hannibal style) and laid it out on a plate, it would look something like this vid. I actually started watching Steven Universe because I saw the “Stronger Together” clip with Garnet but soon after I started watching… holy shit, Pearl and her deep heartbreak over Rose just grabbed me by the throat and did not let me go. Watching her slowly process and begin to resolve her grief was a very healing experience when I was watching the show. There was something very much intensely yearning about Pearl at the start of SU, and how she was trying so hard to hide it (from Steven but from the other gems as well). But she can’t move on until she confronts and heals!

My favorite of the vids that I’ve made, I think, and the one I’m proudest of. There is maybe one single clip that I would change now if I went back to edit it again, but that’s it. I’m fully satisfied with the rest of it; and this is not the case with most of my vids. My Yuri! On Ice vid is probably the other one that comes closest to feeling like I wouldn’t change anything now.

Enyo’s Daughter in MCU fandom — so I am a bit of an odd one out in MCU fandom, because the ship that I liked the best, over any other… Tony and Natasha. Iron Man and Black Widow. It’s a complex and thorny ship, but I liked exploring it. Tony and Natasha both get to be messy and fucked up and exploring situations like that can be interesting. It was written pretty soon after the first Avengers movie came out, if I recall correctly. I never did finish the sequel to this fic, which I am kinda sad about.

Any fandom where canon is currently developing can be kinda tough for me to stay ahead of, in terms of writing any big fic series(es) — this is also why my big Star Wars WIP is destined never to be finished, tbh. I started writing it before a lot of the current canon even exists, and trying to go back and finish it would be difficult because the new shows & movies have changed so much and it can be hard to mentally reconcile what I knew back then vs what I know now when it comes to canon. Once the new MCU movies after Avengers came out, this fic was kinda doomed to never get the sequel finished, alas. And this is why WoT having a closed book canon has made writing fic for it easier, I think.

Melt into Time from American Idol RPF — time-travel fic! I’ve attempted it from time to time, but this one I actually finished. I don’t remember the actual process of writing this anymore, because my memory is for crap, as I mentioned at the start, but it is probably my favorite fic that I wrote in this fandom overall. It deals with second chances and a lot of yearning and people being emotionally messy (a theme for me, for sure).

Justice, Be Not Blind from Dexter — my one and only Dexter fic. What I remember most about writing this fic is that despite how short it is (less than 1k), I did so much research. Miguel Prado was hands-down my favorite character who ever appeared on Dexter and so I wanted to write a fic for him, but I wanted it to sound as true to his character voice as possible. I don’t even really remember the extent of the research that I did and it’s been so long that I couldn’t tell you anymore whether or not the character voice is accurate, but I remember how much I wanted to get this right and how much work I put into trying to get Miguel to feel genuine.

Travelers Without Map or Compass for Doctor Who fandom - cute romantic fluff, but I’m very fond of it. It captures a sort of vibe in the Doctor & Rose relationship that was very appealing to me, and I enjoyed exploring and expanding my thoughts on some of the rooms in the TARDIS.

Another Nameless Planet in the Star Wars (Prequel) fandom — I wrote longer fics in Star Wars fandom but honestly I think I captured Anakin best in this small fic that’s not really about anything in particular except Anakin wanting to be treated as an equal (by Obi-Wan specifically).

I have fics that I wrote before this point, but most of them I genuinely don’t remember writing to the point of going, “huh, oh, wow, I guess that was me, huh?” lol. But going back over my fics… man, it really is like having the deepest yearnings of your heart spread out in front of the world sometimes, isn’t it?

Thanks for sending me on this journey to the past! I hope you enjoyed it. <3

[citrus-cactus]

Citrus' Art Summary 2024!

I made my own template this year, based on filling in all the squares of a 5x7 grid. Not sure I recommend this method; it was difficult to both place pieces in roughly chronological order and make the layout varied & interesting, and I feel like the final result is too easily divisible into (uneven) quadrants, which I wanted to avoid. Ah well, maybe I'll think up a better system next year! :)

This is a bit of an odd year for an art summary, because while I created something every month and I'm legitimately proud of SO MANY of these, I kind of... stopped publishing my art to the Internet in the latter part of the year. There are various reasons for this. I'm not sure all of them are good, especially given the above statement about being proud of everything I made on the whole. But I'll talk about that beneath the cut, since that's where I usually ruminate about the year. There are also links to full pieces (where they exist) at the very end.

***

First, the positive! I branched out a lot this year (or at least... continued the trends that were starting to form in 2023). I did a lot of uh... darker/more serious art? Which I have enjoyed immensely, though I know it can be a bit of a tone whiplash compared to most of my finished art from past years. I love cute, happy things!! But I have these other dimensions that have long been in need of exercising. My favorite thing that I did is probably the first Bad End Takuma piece from January, which was for Survive Week. I just... really love how it came together. It surprised me every step of the way, and it was full of happy accidents (despite the subject matter! Lol). I still look at it and am like "wow! I made that!!" But I really like October's piece too. It's an illustration for a fanfic I'm (still) working on, and it gives me emotions. Justice for minor characters. Justice for minor characters for 1000 years!!! XD

Besides fanart, I made some other things! I published a secret fanfic (it's absolutely not hard to find if you're willing to do a little searching, but there's no way I'm going to link to it ever! Sorryyyyy! :3). I spent two weeks in Iceland, and somehow that inspired a fair bit of artistic endeavors XD September shows a small sample of a digital collage that includes several photos my spouse and I took (as well as some other stuff. The full piece partially communicates my somewhat-cynical thoughts about being a tourist in Iceland). November shows a drawing from an 8-page zine about hiking the Laugavegur Trail, which was an amazing experience! I also cross-stitched a Christmas ornament for a family member this month! None of these were intended for an Internet audience, but they were all fun and somewhat different to do!

So... yeah, the whole "not sharing art" thing. It started because I was... kind of frustrated with how few notes I felt I was getting compared to how hard I felt I had worked on some of these pieces? Which is... I mean, I know it's silly. More effort =/= more notes, especially since I'm focusing my creative efforts on such tiny little niches of the Digimon fandom (sadly, Appmon and Digimon Survive are just not that popular, especially compared to Adventure!), so any "engagement" on that art is going to be low, because the audience is just not that large to begin with. Plus, activity on Tumblr just seems to be tailing off in general. And I GET that numbers on posts shouldn't matter. I really, super-duper get that! But when something you worked really hard on and are excited to see people respond to only gets a handful of notes... well, it does kind of sting a bit, or makes me feel like I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up about it being received well. And then I end up waiting with baited breath for the usernames associate I with the fandom to react to it. If I don't see them in my notes, does it mean they hate it? Or did they just miss it? It's not something I have any control over, so why does it matter to me?

And it's NOT to say I don't appreciate the notes and comments I DO get. I appreciate them so much!! I just hate knowing that my worth as an artist has become tangled up in this notice-me-senpai attitude I seem to have created for myself. I hate caring about numbers (I know I should not care about them!), and I hate how much I seem to care about numbers. Posting used to bring joy, but now it brings... I don't know, anxiety and entitlement mixed with disappointment, I guess? So I decided to remove it from of my art process. I took a purposeful hiatus from The Numbers and caring about who sees my art to really just create for myself, for the first time in many years... and overall, I think it was a healthy way to hit "reset" on myself and my ego's ravenous desires.

But now... well, I don't exactly know to proceed.

There are things I do want to post, that I want other people to see! But the situation on Tumblr and on the Internet at large really isn't any different, and I'm not sure it's different in my brain, either. Can I continue to not care about The Numbers if I put them back in my life? I hope so, but I'm not certain. On top of that, I'm doing a lot of of art for a different fandom, and I'm still unpacking... well, let's call it what it is: a seemingly unending supply of middle school shame that I feel about Liking This Thing Too Much, which (apparently) never really went away. Yikes! This is a "me" problem, it has ALWAYS been a "me" problem. So that's a fun feeling to have (...not :/). Plus it's just... idk, different fandom, different people, different opinions flying around, I've been away from it for so long, do I really belong here?? But of course I do (even when I feel like I'm being so incredibly cringe... looking at you, August). I bring my own unique viewpoints to all the fandoms that I'm a part of (as does everyone!), and by sharing our ideas and stories and passions, we create our own community and extend the lives of the things we love. I do want to continue to be a part of that, but getting back on that horse is hard for me right now! I took a posting hiatus for health, but it also made me that much more shy. I have been thinking about my Return to Posting Art for months at this point, which again feels silly, because it's so easy to hit "post" on one of the many things I have saved up. I probably will go back to it... I'm just not exactly sure when. Maybe when I have something Digimon-related to share. Digimon is comfortable and safe. It's the only fandom I've felt like I really belong in. Sharing anything else feels... too personal somehow, and also too unknown. All of these have been thorny problems to grapple with, and I'm still working my way through them, carefully and slowly.

So yeah. Phew! If you made it through all that existential angst, you deserve a medal! But I can't give you one, so here are those links to the full pieces that I promised:

JANUARY: Bad End Takuma #1 ("Cooperation")

FEBRUARY: Survive Week Day 5 ("Villains")

MARCH: Dark Ages Gargirls

APRIL: HaruShinkai-Daily 4th Anniversary/100 Follower omake

MAY: Bad End Takuma #2 ("Darkness & Loss")

JUNE: Happy Birthday, Haru! (2024)

JULY: OC drawn on iPad

[seeminglydark]

You can now get The Good The Bad and the Ugly, a Digital Sketchbook collection of Johnny and Caro from my comics Seemingly Dark and Mil-Liminal in my ko-fi shop! There are roughly 40 sketches, these are dating from about December 2022 til now, they are not in order of when created, but more like chronological to the stories. There's some sneak peak stuff from book two, all the little sketch punk and cheerleader comics and a lot of cuddley junk. Some are really good, some are pretty bad, and some are super ugly, but all fun I think. If you follow me on socials, some you've seen, but many you haven't. Please remember these are literally just rough sketches, some are really sloppy and messy or half finished, you can see a sample of the range between them in the second image! I hope you enjoy!

ps if youre a patreon, or thinking about becoming one, its also available there by being a member, instead of paying for it on ko-fi <3

[naughtybg3confessions]

Hi, just wondering how many Astarion confessions are there in queue? I made a confession about acsending him just so he could impregnate me about a week ago. I don't know if it successfully submitted though.

Worry not, I see it in the ask box so it looks like it did go through, unless someone else sent a similar confession.

We've been getting a lot of asks like this lately, so this next part is addressed to everyone: patience, grasshoppers. <3 More often than not, your confession did go through. But as it says in the pinned post, there are over 720 confessions in the inbox, 12-30 are posted a day (aside from 69 on Thursdays), so that means the wait is roughly 4.5 - 5 weeks to see your confession posted after sending it. Such is the nature of these blogs, we have 1,300 followers and receive new confessions constantly. Dirtybg3confessions has 2000+ unpublished confessions and a many months-long wait. Even with two confession blogs in the fandom, we can barely keep up with the thirst! (not that I'm complaining)

I promise I receive them and intend to post them; it just takes time to get through them all in chronological order. In the meantime, enjoy all the other wonderful confessions that get posted here daily!

[maniculum]

Bestiaryposting Results: Miscellaneous Birds

So! This is the first in our six-week wind-down of Bestiaryposting, where we run through the Honorable Mentions that appear in the Aberdeen Bestiary but didn't get their own post here because the author of the Bestiary and I have different goals.

If you don't know what any of that means, you can find out at https://maniculum.tumblr.com/bestiaryposting.

To see the entry our artists are working from, click here:

To see the entry people are drawing now, so that you can potentially join in, click here:

Art is below the cut, in roughly chronological order.

@silverhart-makes-art (link to post here) decided to do Literally All of the birds. I am fascinated by the detail here; I particularly like the pose on the Hreakgleav, and the feathers on the Klethghrom. I would direct anyone trying to figure out which is which to the linked post, which contains a key and brief descriptions of each.

@coolest-capybara (link to post here) has also given us a tree full of birds. The explanation in the linked post of which is which and what they were inspired by is illuminating (pun not intended), so check that out. I especially enjoy the interpretations of the Klethghrom and the Lokfotreag. (And thank you for providing alt text.)

@wendievergreen (link to post here) has drawn three of the birds in their always-charming style. For explanations, close-ups, and individual treatments of each, please see the linked post. I really like the tail on the Hreakgleav and the... frankly insane look of the Klethghrom. (Also thank you for providing alt text.)

All right, we're going to identify these rapid-fire because there are a bunch of them and I'm not going to hand you a whole-ass essay here. Readers are encouraged to add their own commentary.

Tluftasong

The manuscript identifies this one as "night owl", but I've seen other sources refer to this entry as the "night heron". I'll leave that one to people who know birds more.

Lokfotreag

This is the hoopoe. Which, as listeners to the podcast know, you can trade to demons for perpetual access to great parties. The illustration is very cool, and seems to show the young birds rejuvenating their aging parent.

Hurrashbeg

Really love the Stylized Plant, of course. One of the things that really strikes me about medieval manuscript art is how particular things that Definitely Don't Exist keep cropping up in different manuscripts, looking pretty much the same. Like, unless this is by the same artist who did the Rutland Psalter, it shows an interestingly consistent artistic tradition -- I swear that's the exact same plant, and in a couple other places in the manuscript they have the exact same wyvern.

Anyway, those are clearly magpies. I don't know why they're being shot at.

Konchilkuk

This one didn't get an illustration, but it's the woodpecker.

Wobrahfmet

Yep, that sure is a raven. They actually have a really long entry, but it's mostly about what they symbolize.

Hrongnewit

This one is the kite. Yeah, that looks pretty believable.

Klomurgrae

This is... apparently the ibis. Also, from the context of the entry, I think it's intended to be standing on a snake. Neither of those look like the things they are supposed to be.

Zagsmenrok

This is the blackbird. I have no explanation for why it's brown. The illustrator clearly has access to black ink.

Hreakgleav

Yep, that's very clearly an owl.

Wahrembeag

It tickles me that these are right next to each other, because there's a moderately-well-known Middle English poem called "the Owl and the Nightingale". This is pure coincidence; they're not together in the bestiary, there are a few birds in between.

Oh yeah, this is the Nightingale.

Sarbrufeat

This is the heron. The illustration seems broadly correct, but do herons come in white? That's an egret, surely.

Keltrumram

This is the coot -- doesn't look like one to me, but maybe the artist and I are familiar with different species of coot. Readers may recall its cameo in the Eagle entry; its own is unfortunately rather shorter.

Grozfarwat

Meet the quail. I was initially confused, but apparently the plume thing I associate with quails is not actually common to all species of quail. So... yeah, good quail.

Mortelgeng

Very definitely a crow.

Burngraega

Also very identifiable, here's the swan. Head and beak seem a bit flatter and wider than I would expect, though.

Klethghrom

This was basically the poster child for "too obvious to get its own entry". Here's the peacock.

And that's it for this week, it's late. Talk amongst yourselves, or tell me what you think about all these birds.

[notesappwitch]

fe3h fic masterpost

omg i cannot believe we are celebrating the FIFTH anniversary of fe3h. the passage of time is Crazy

to honor the fandom that actually made me start writing seriously, i thought i'd put all my fe3h fics in one spot so you can revisit them or perhaps find them for the first time! these are in no particular order but my favs ARE at the top ;) (also all fics are explicit jsyk)

the lion pulls his own teeth out so you can love him

Dimitri/Felix/Sylvain; 14,983 words; explicit A series of scenes set over the course of the Blue Lions route, following Dimitri's fall to madness and the phases of his, Felix, and Sylvain's relationship.

no angels could beckon me back and it's hotter than hell where i'm at

Ingrid/Annette/Mercedes; 5,287 words; explicit Ingrid lacks experience, and Annette and Mercedes have just the type she needs.

when i'm down on my knees you're how i pray

Hilda/Marrianne; 7,822 words; explicit Hilda gets gravely wounded and stranded in a battle; Marianne is there to help her.

and the day that we watch the death of the sun

F!Byleth/Dimitri; 2,460 words; explicit Byleth is beyond thrilled that Dimitri has come back to himself, but there's still a part of her that misses when she'd first found him and he was still a little feral.

Riding Rank S

Dimitri/Claude; 2996 words; explicit Dimitri was visiting the eyrie on routine, kingly duties and not to watch for one flight-harness wearing wyvern rider in particular.

i'm drinking poison and expecting you to die

Dorothea/Edelgard; 7,208 words; explicit Listening to the Imperial Empress dole out commands was no longer of interest to Dorothea, but helping Edelgard unwind after delivering them was.

blood on my shirt, heart in my hand

Sylvain/Felix; 5,012 words; explicit Felix and Sylvain go out to the seclusion of the woods for the full moon. They're going to need it. (Vampire/Werewolf AU)

Pillow Princess

Linhardt/Caspar; 5,602 words; explicit Caspar asks, "Is it right to treat a princess so roughly?"

boar, beast, and other names of endearment

Dimitri/Felix; 3,109 words; explicit Dimitri didn't like being insulted by one of his longest friends. ...Right?

Unused Lipstick

Sylvain/Felix; 3,032; explicit Felix returns something that Sylvain has lost.

the funniest part about going thru my fics in chronological order is you can literally see where i decided all of my fics were going to have song lyric titles forever permanently

i hope you decide to check something out off this list! i know im going to go through my bookmarks and reread some favs lol

if you like any of these, i also write bg3 and stranger things you might enjoy <3 (theyre better, bc they're way more recent)

[grapenehifics]

Countdown to Chapter One!

My fellow Obikins: I am very, VERY excited to share my next fic with you. Some of you may remember a fic of mine called An Uncivil War, the first chapter of which I posted on AO3 almost exactly a year ago, in May of 2023, and wrapped up that July. At the time, I mentioned to a number of people in the comments that I was already partway through the sequel (An Uncivil War is listed as part one of a three-part series, Can't Stop the Suns), and that I hoped to have Part II ready to go by end of 2023.

Well, that obviously didn't happen. I started looking at February 2024. That didn't happen either. I pushed it to April. April has come and gone. May, though! May I am going to make happen! May 27th, 2024, to be exact. Chapter one of Pick Up the Pieces, a.k.a. part 2 of Can't Stop the Suns, a.k.a. the sequel to An Uncivil War, a.k.a. the thing I have been writing on and off for more than three years now, is going up on AO3. (Excerpt and way more ramblings below the cut.)

A) I wanted to make this announcement in advance because I'm just really excited to share this fic. Parts of it I've posted on Tumblr as WIP Wednesdays, but most of it I've tried to keep under wraps until it's ready and, frankly, I really want to talk about it!

B) @palfriendpatine66 specifically asked for a heads-up before I started posting, but I figured I'd share publicly in case anyone else has the same desire to read (or re-read) part one before starting part two. May 27th is the day!

I do want to say, though - prior knowledge of An Uncivil War is NOT required to understand or enjoy this fic. If you haven't read An Uncivil War, I would really love it if you did! I'm enormously proud of it and love, love, love talking about it. But I also don't want anyone to not give Pick Up the Pieces a try, assuming they were otherwise interested, because they're worried they won't understand what's going on. If you want to jump in, make sure you read the tags and the summary, and by the time you get to chapter three you should have a pretty good grounding in what happened previously. Obviously there are some little details here and there you'll miss but for the most part you should be okay. I did try to make it as accessible as possible.

C) Thirdly - mostly as a reward for reading this far - I thought it would be fun, over the next three Wednesdays, to give a sneak peek of one of the later chapters, because I've really missed doing regular WIP Wednesdays for this fic (for the aforementioned secrecy reasons).

The main part of the fic is set during what would have been the final year of the Clone Wars, except we take a departure from canon during the season 5 episode The Wrong Jedi and diverge off-course from there. Mixed in with that, though, are flashback chapters, covering some portion of Anakin's years as Obi-Wan's Padawan, which have just been a blast to write. They go in roughly chronological order, and this one in particular is set when Anakin is 17. I'll post a little bit today, the next part a week from today, the final section the week after that, and then you'll get the rest of it when chapter ten goes up in the actual fic :)

Chapter Ten preview starts below:

“Uh…” Anakin looked down at his cards and bit his lip. “Hit me?” he asked tentatively. The three other players around the table blinked slowly back at him. He reached out and flipped the top card of the table deck over, letting the rest of the players see it. “Damnit,” he hissed through his teeth.

“Tough luck, boy,” boomed the Besalisk on Anakin’s right, the one he was most worried about getting a peek at his cards. “That makes twenty-two.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Anakin snapped, frustrated. He tossed his cards face-down in front of him. “Don’t remind me.”

Anakin was losing, and quite badly at that. He really needed to slow down and stop the bleeding or Obi-Wan was going to catch him not only gambling, but totally out of credits, too, and he would not be happy about it.

“I’m going to take a break,” Anakin said suddenly, standing up so quickly his chair squeaked. “I’ll sit out this round. Be right back.” He scooped the (very meager) pile of credits he had left to his name into his hand and pocketed them before walking away. What he really wanted to do was take a quick minute to check the chronometer strapped to his wrist without any of them seeing him do it, but needing to take a walk was as good an excuse as any.

He didn’t leave the Castle (Takodana was a little too humid for Anakin’s liking), just took a slow lap around the edges of it, checking out the other gambling tables, the billiards games, the tourists, the regulars, the spacers, the spice runners, the spice addicts, the smugglers. The people who, if he hadn’t become a Jedi, probably would have been his friends and his enemies, his rivals, his contemporaries. His lovers, maybe.

The lower levels of Takodana Castle had once been an ancient Jedi temple, a fact Obi-Wan had mentioned rather a few more times than strictly necessary on their trip over from Coruscant. It had been built on the site of an even more ancient battleground, where Jedi and Sith had fought one another centuries – maybe a millennia – ago. The Jedi had won, that time, and built the original Takodana Temple as a kind of memorial. Anakin let the tips of his fingers trail over the wet, warm stone walls as he walked, feeling to see if he could catch any whispers of the old voices. Old hurts, old betrayals, old war wounds…

He had started doing this thing, about a year or so back. He had discovered, largely by accident (not that Jedi were supposed to believe in accidents, just The Will of the Force, and all that), that he could, rather paradoxically, up the ante on his meditation skills by upping the ante on his distractions. He’d been filling in for Obi-Wan, who was supposed to have been taking a turn sitting in with a group of the youngest Younglings but had been called away at the last minute (or so he had said, at least; Anakin still wasn’t totally sure he believed him). Anakin had tried to keep to the Younglings’ schedule, which included a quarter of an hour of daily mandated meditation time. Younglings not being particularly good at meditation (they were worse at it than Anakin was, which was really saying something), they’d lasted only about half that time before starting to get fidgety. It had started small – a few coughs here and there, a couple of giggles, wiggling on their mats – and then had progressed from there to full-blown chaos. Anakin was supposed to be setting an example, though, and was determined to sit still, keep his eyes closed, and ignore everything that wasn’t an outright cry for medical attention until the allotted time was up.

What he had found, though, was that it was actually one of his better meditation sessions. The noisier the room got, the more relaxed Anakin got. He’d eventually opened his eyes to find one Youngling on his lap, another chewing on his Padawan braid, and a third hanging from the ceiling rafters, but had felt…calm and at peace and a little floaty, but also grounded, connected to the Force, the air, even the children. He’d asked Obi-Wan about it later that night over dinner. Obi-Wan had suggested they meditate over it, which made Anakin roll his eyes because he already had meditated today, that was the whole thing he wanted to talk to Obi-Wan about, and how much meditation did a person need every day, really? But after they ate he’d dutifully sat down across from Obi-Wan and closed his eyes anyway. Obi-Wan had reached out and taken Anakin’s hands in his, which almost made up for the double meditation session. (Almost.)

And then, just as Anakin was starting to settle into something resembling regulating his breathing, something hard and poky had slammed into the side of his head.

“Ow!” he’d said, reflexively, and opened his eyes. Obi-Wan’s datapad was lying on the floor beside him. Obi-Wan himself was still sitting serenely, holding Anakin’s hands.

“What the kriff did you do that for?” Anakin demanded.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan had said, without opening his eyes, “I thought you said you liked having distractions while you meditated.”

“Not painful ones!” Anakin shot back.

“Apologies.” The holopad, from the floor, flicked on and started replaying whatever the last thing either of them had watched on it, which happened to be a nature documentary about tee-muss. “Is that better?”

Anakin grumbled about it, but he had, sort of, asked for this, and admitting defeat now would be both embarrassing and would necessitate him letting go of Obi-Wan’s hands, so he closed his eyes and tried again.

Of course, the first thing he had to do was release the pain in his head into the Force, but once he’d done that, he found that, once again, sifting through his distractions was easier when he actually had distractions to sift through. He let the migratory patterns of wild tee-muss go, and felt Obi-Wan squeeze his hands. “Good, Anakin,” he murmured softly, so quietly Anakin almost couldn’t hear him over the documentary narrator. “That’s very good.” (Anakin had replayed the moment in his head, putting that voice of Obi-Wan’s into different and much more…naked contexts, so many times since then that he could get hard just thinking about it, now.)

So Anakin had started to experiment, on and off. He turned the holoprojector on in their rooms while he was meditating. He sat in the corner of the refectory and meditated during mealtimes. Once, he tried meditating during galactic history class, but his teacher had ratted him out to Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan had told him not to do that anymore. And, now, he wanted to see if he could do it while inside Takodana Castle on a bustling summer afternoon.

To be continued next Wednesday!