#its good for their ego though. they are among the few in the cast that do need that boost. a little bit.

[harlequinoccult]

Its very embarrassing how much I want to fuck OD and how horny I am for them while they're just SO UNSERIOUS ABOUT IT

not only are they unserious but they're on that "you wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid" type shit about it.

[adndmonsteraday]

Amnizu (pronounced: /ɑːmˈnitsʌ/ ahm-NEE-tsu), also known as styx devils, were powerful baatezu primarily responsible for protecting the River Styx within the circle of Hell known as Stygia. Like the sinister depths of the Styx itself, they could drain the memories of those that they touched to induce amnesia. Amnizu were counted among the caste of greater devils.

“Amnizu are called the Keepers of the Styx; they’re immune to its draining effect. They guard Stygia, the fifth layer of Baator, against invasion (tanar’ric and otherwise). Though the fiends fulfill their duties admirably, amnizu are notoriously treacherous.” — The mortal mage Nomoto Sinh

Amnizus were green, gruesome humanoids with short, squat bodies and stubby limbs. They usually stood between 4‒5 ft (1.2‒1.5 m) tall and weighed 200 lb (91 kg), although older amnizu could grow past 10 ft (3 m) tall and could weigh over 700 lb (320 kg). Sprouting from their backs was a pair of large, leathery wings colored black but with a silver trim. Their bald heads were disproportionately large and elongated compared to the rest of their bodies, hosting porcine eyes, a pug-nose, and a mouth full of jagged teeth. As amnizus grew older they began to further dress their corpulent forms in the robes of office.

Amnizu had a deep-seated loathing not only for foreigners but even the native inhabitants of the Nine Hells, viewing all others as nothing but tools to be utilized or a form of currency. They were ruthless and tyrannical baatezu whose high position caused them to take on an aloof attitude in regards to lesser devils, a disinterest that frequently reached the point of callous disregard. This feeling of superiority was fostered by Levistus, who encouraged his trusted chancellors to view themselves as above Hell's rules.

On the other hand, amnizus abhorred being inferior to others, whether in terms of personal station or ability. Rather than obeying commands due to an inherently lawful disposition, they followed their superiors in order to advance or avoid punishment by the pit fiends. The pit fiends were not exempt from the constant schemes and undermining machinations of the amnizus, convinced as they were that they were the only devils truly fit to rule Hell. Even as an amnizu feigned servility, they persistently plotted to eliminate their rivals and superiors, either through attempting to discredit their foes with complex political maneuvers or more direct means, such as hiring an assassin.

While notorious for their diabolical nature and constant conspiracies, styx devils were admirable in their ability to complete their duties and unfailingly completed their wicked agendas within the limits of the law. Despite their great intelligence, amnizus were often hoist by their own enormous egos when clever enemies pandered to their pride. If not working or scheming they recklessly indulged in the pleasures and luxuries of the Nine Hells, being among those devils notoriously prone to the temptations of sexual desire.

The touch of an amnizu was incredibly dangerous as it channeled harmful energy into their enemies that only magical protection could impede. Their touch degraded not only the body but the mind, draining targets of their intellects and memories like the Styx itself. Conversely, their connection to the Styx also made them immune to its harmful effects, an immunity that carried over into anything that would reduce their mental capacity. Magical, silver, and holy weapons were among the few things that could properly hurt them, outside of acid or good-aligned spells and abilities. In order to banish an amnizu back to Stygia a holy word had to be uttered.

Due to their role as protectors styx devils were also given access to powerful imprisonment magic with which to seal away dangerous opponents, although they could only make use of it once per day. Amnizus also had an array of powerful and innate, mental magic, letting them dominate and destroy the minds of their opponents. They were also capable of hurling dangerously fast fireballs at their foes as a means of causing more direct harm. If in danger, amnizus could call upon a wide variety of devils for aid, including abishai, advespas, barbazus, erinyes, hamatula or another amnizu with varying degrees of success.

Due to their own perceived nobility as greater baatezu, amnizus preferred to leave combat to their minions rather than engage attackers themselves. Even when pressed into battle, styx devils favored having a large force of advespas, barbazus, or similarly inferior underlings as a wall between them and their opponents. An amnizu's primary objective was the capture of their foes and so they launched a flurry of fireballs at larger opponents to weaken them as their troops dealt with smaller threats. Once their foes were sufficiently drained an amnizu would attempt to use their mind-draining touch to disable and detain their defeated enemies. If such tactics were not possible, an amnizu's next gambit was to attempt to swoop down at melee opponents and mentally incapacitate them with their touch.

Amnizus were the baatezu that most frequently studied magic as wizards, often specializing in water magic. The psuedo-elementals they conjured from the foul waters of the Styx were greatly feared.

Stygia hosted the greatest population of amnizu, with a majority of them residing within the City of Ice, otherwise known as Tantlin. Amnizu were sometimes called the Keepers of the Styx, since despite serving other functions within the Nine Hells, their primary purpose was to defend the River of Blood. The Styx was a weak point in Hell's defenses since it ran through both Stygia and Avernus, and thus allowed mortal crusaders and tanar'ri hordes access to Hell from other points within the Lower Planes. While amnizus were technically responsible for keeping invaders out of the Nine Hells, their true task was not so much preventing such beings from entering but to ensure that they never escaped.

Along every ten miles of the Styx were checkpoints at which every visitor to Hell had to register. Such checkpoints normally consisted of a watchtower from which white abishai guards could fly in and out of to identify travelers and a processing center where most amnizus dwelt in. Processing centers were grim, odorous places with labyrinthine corridors at the end of which were inquiring amnizu in charge of discerning the motivation, possessions and intended staying time of foreigners. After humiliating strip searches conducted by their guards, travelers were required to pay an entrance fee somewhere below 500 gold pieces worth of coins, magical items or gemstones. Any attempts to break through the bureaucratic net were met by a swiftly organized troupe of hunters that would relentlessly scour the Nine Hells for the rebellious fugitives. Targets would be hunted regardless of boundaries not only for the interrogatory torture an amnizu would be allowed to conduct on prisoners before handing them over to kytons, but for the fame and recognition that came with the deed.

The second function of the styx devils was to serve as generals for the infernal legions. Rather than occupying checkpoints along the Styx, some amnizus watched the river from fortresses along its bank from where it flowed through Dis and Stygia. Lemures that arrived to Hell through the Styx, having no personality, memories, or desires outside of taking revenge on reality, had to have the rules of Baator drilled into them by amnizu sergeants before they were marshalled into armies. The protection of Stygia depended on amnizu generals, each of which were given an army composed of thousands of abishai and erinyes, although nothing prevented them from using such forces for their own gain. Regardless of personal standing, most amnizu had at least one squadron of advespas at their disposal and a group of barbazus as bodyguards, although they were more fond of having war devils as protectors due to their slightly higher intelligence.

Amnizus made up the majority of the leaders in the Second Command, the division of the devil legions that specialized in warfare at sea. Their natural resistance to the Styx and greater experience with it made them perfect for the job of protecting and attacking using the wicked waterway. The admirals of the navies often stocked their vessels with an intoxicating flower known as "desert's night", a blossom found in Set's stygian realm that could undo the memory loss effects of the Styx.

Although amnizu mainly watched over the Styx, they were not only its guardians, but the guardians of all gates to Baator and the traffic between them. Their missions often took them to the upper layers of Hell, and individuals were often put in charge of managing portals and planar touchstones throughout Baator. Because they protected the portals to the Nine Hells they could be seen more frequently than other devils within mortal realms, occasionally touring the Material Plane to conduct devastating genocides.

As greater baatezu, amnizus were a part of the ruling class within Baator, existing as a kind of nobility somewhere below pit fiend status. As the administrators and politicians of the Nine Hells, they spent a large amount of their time plotting on how to ascend their hierarchy whether through collecting the prestige that came with the capture of fugitives or brokering deals with sinister forces. They acted within the shadows to secure souls from night hags or occasionally made alliances with mortals to defeat rivals protected by the law. Their personal treasures, if not spent of luxuries, were invested into potions and magical items.

While it was commonly known that devils of higher status were more closely observed by the enigmatic Dark Eight, amnizu often ordered their minions to destroy the servants of the Dark Eight. It was said that amnizu might even attempt to betray pit fiends if it could be done in secret, such was their desire to scale the hierarchy. Their tactical insight and adherence to the rules of Hell were great enough that the styx devils still held value to the archdevils despite their frequent treachery.

Their traitorous deeds to rise were potentially done to gain the respect given to pit fiends, or to simply grow beyond the task of guardian, as attempting to rise to a higher rank from of devil was inevitably difficult. Despite being greater baatezu, the rank of amnizu was ultimately unfavorable to any devil desiring to reach the top of Hell's hierarchy. Like nupperibos, the only way to proceed further was to undergo transformation into cornugons, beings thought to be of lower status.

To become an amnizu, an osyluth would have to undergo a painful promotion process where their limbs would be torn off to reveal stubby ones and their faces removed. The ritual was administered by other bone devils who would leave the subject's to peel off the leftover caul from their face, or otherwise die before the promotion was finished.

Aside from Stygia, amnizu were particularly numerous in politics-laden Maladomini and the greater devil haven of Nessus.

Source: https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Amnizu

[delicrieux]

☆ﾐ 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 “𝚘𝚑”

PART 13: ...O-OH?

it’s the night of the big stream. y/n uncovers a strange, albeit deep, bond with charlie. corpse interrupts her garden date with sykkuno quite unceremoniously. tensions are high as ever; proximity chat reveals internal monologues and stray thoughts. y/n’s “batshit insane” energy affects everyone. this is, quite literally, the best game of among us bretman has ever played.

─── corpse husband x reader, sykkuno x reader (if you squint, it’s very one sided)  ─── soc. media + written fiction! ─── word count: 6.1k oops ─── ❥ reqs: sum people requested some interaction w bretman + jealous corpse + flirty sykkuno

author’s note: guys....GUYS WE’RE ON THE 3RD “OH” hope ur excited cus i am!!! this was rly fun to write, but then again, everything is better than writing an essay lmao! this is extremely chaotic and a bit seggsy but like a minuscule bit u wont even notice it i swear xx there’s not much social media in this one, mostly written lol. as always lmk wat u think n thank u for all ur kind words n sooo manyyyy ideassss!!! love u lots

ultimate masterlist.  ҉  myso masterlist   ҉   previous. ҉   next.

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It’s happening, you think, picking the discreet, angelic white color for your astronaut - with a halo and all, truly, you are a seraph that stepped through the gates of heaven and descended onto earth to grace these morals with your presence...quite literally, you’re not only donning white in game, but also in real life, cute as a button or more like as a bunny. Cat girls are overrated - cat boys, on the other hand, you’ll ardently defend till your last breath - but bunny girls...Safe to say, your chat had been going feral. Your endless ego is fed well. You even swore on your heart that no devilish trickery would follow in this game - you had left your snake ways behind you.

No one believed you. The Roaches know you too fucking well.

The influx of new subs, however, do not. Look at this cute girl! She wouldn’t hurt a fly! You chuckle at the compliments. At the exact same moment, Rae pipes up on the discord call, “Y/n is leering and cackling evilly. No one trust her.”

Demon woman herself must be watching your stream before starting her own. You pout, all adorable and innocent, but your eyes gleam slyly. Truly, a mastermind of manipulation! Look at you go! The chat is swooning. The viewer number steadily climbs past 16K and you hum happily, welcoming all that decided to join your little clan, “Don’t listen to Rae. Wifey is mad because I said I’m not bringing her back a souvenir. Well guess what, bitch, I’m the gift.”

Your perfect image does not quite align with your tone, nor the affectionate nickname you call your roommate (bitch, not wifey). The new viewers are none the wiser though, just like your new stream mates.

There is laughter from people you don’t quite know. The lobby is almost full, but not everyone has trickled in yet.

“Filing divorce papers right now.” Rae mumbles, but you hear the smile in her voice. It makes you crack a grin, too. 

More hello’s and shy introductions to the people in the lobby. Sykkuno’s green astronaut pops in with a upbeat, “Hey, everyone! Hi, Y/n!” as his character circles around yours. A collective awww echoes in your stream chat as you, quite breathless at the wholesomeness, reply with a “Hi! Hi hi!” as well.

Corpse is next to join, mysteriously ominous. The discord call is pure chaos, everyone screaming over the other variations of his name while stressing different syllables. Silent as a grave, he just stands there, his black astronaut seemingly eyeing everyone in the lobby. 

Alas, when the noise dies down, he utters, “Whaddup, baby.” and it’s pandemonium all over again. You are screeching/laughing along with the rest. His astronaut swiftly glides to Sykkuno, still circling around you, “Hey, Sykkuno.” He says. The latter abruptly stops. The game hasn’t even started, and already - betrayal! Sykkuno starts circling around Corpse now, leaving you in the dust.

“Hey, dude!”

“Yo,” You interrupt, “I’m like here too, yeah?”

“Fight, fight, fight!” Pokimane jeers. You can’t see her, but you’re certain she’s pumping her fists in the air. 

“Let’s leave the bloodshed for the game, yeah?” Dream offers past her laugh ridden urging.

“No, fuck that, let’s start this shit right now,” Charlie declares - his monotone is strangely pleasant to the ear, and you lean back in your chair with a thoughtful hum. Something about his energy just clicks with yours instantly, but perhaps you’re judging too quickly- “Got my fucking knife ready to slit some throats. You can all pretend you aren’t ready to kill on sight, but that’s not me. I’ll teabag your dead fucking body.”

-yeah, no, your initial estimate had been correct! What a pleasant surprise, you feel like you and he will get along beautifully. 

“Way to be subtle, Charles.” Rae snorts.

“Subtle doesn’t make an interesting game, Rae,” He’s quick to bite back, “and if I’m Impostor, you bet your fucking ass I’m going after you first.”

“Noooooo!” She shrieks, rushing to your astronaut, which is still just standing there, abandoned, like the equivalent of that one emoji, “Y/n, protect me.”

“Of course, baby.” You purr. 

There’s mumbling in the discord call, though it’s barely audible. Corpse seems to be repeating the word to himself: Baby...Baby?...Baby...

“You’re gonna stab me in the back the first chance you get, won’t you?” She questions, already painfully aware of the answer.

“You know it!”

“Finally, someone that’s not fucking cowering in their boots and flaunting their real nature.” Charlie says, “Y/n, form a Big Dick Alliance with me.”

“Oh for sure, man.” You agree immediately, trailing to his in game figure, “Let’s show these virgins how it’s done.”

“This is going to be a mess, isn’t it?” Sean’s voice rings with a cheerful laugh, making you flustered. Yes, you’re actually playing with THE JacksepticeyeTM. You still haven’t fully wrapped your head around that part, “I’m very excited to see where this will go.”

“Nowhere good.” You say with unparalleled sincerity - every word you speak to him, the icon, the legend, the one of the few youtubers you actually actively follow, must be genuine. You doubt you can lie to him. He’s too good of a person. You admire him too much. Stuck between wanting to be a shady bitch and an absolute saint, you refrain from addressing him more - you are simply not worthy.

its the y/n trying to act like a normal person in front of jack for me

ikr she looks ready to join the monastery

each day we stray closer to gods light???

Your viewers are snide as always. Gosh, you love them.

The last player pops in, fashionably late, “Hey, y’all.”

“Hey, Bretman!” The call choruses somewhat harmoniously.

“Hi, daddy.” He’s speaking to Corpse now, a smile in his voice - you can hear it even past the static of his atrocious mic. Your eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up. Your friends are cackling, but confusion refrains you from doing the same - were you not the only one Corpse offered, seemingly so long ago!, to be his sugar baby? 

One betrayal after the other. You’re glad for the Big Dick Alliance. The name has a nice right to it, too. 

Corpse laughs, “...Hey, Bretman. How are you today?”

Damn, two sentences for him, but not even a word spoken to you!? You’re already scripting a very melodramatic paragraph you will text him after the stream. With poorly masked discontent, you mutter, “Wow, thanks for such a warm welcome, Corpse, my day’s going great, yeah, loving the company.”

“Now now miss girl,” Bretman chimes, “we can’t be all daddy’s favorite.”

“Careful,” Charlie drones, “I think you just got yourself onto Y/n’s shit list.”

“Right next to Corpse Husband and Valkyrae.” You agree, “Sykkuno!” You suddenly call him.

“Uhm-Uh-Yes?” Is his nervous reply.

“You’re safe.” You state coldly, “For now.”

“You are not going after Sykkuno on my watch.” It must be a belated holiday miracle because Corpse finally decides to address you. His words seem to awake something in him, “Hey-Hey-Hey-” He swiftly glides to you, standing right next to your minute virtuous angel, “When are you coming back to Cali?”

corpse stop acting weird challenge

literally omg lmao

he does bring up a good point y/n y u not in cali yet?!

^pack it up corpse simp he disrespected the queen when he didnt say hi

“Back off, buddy,” Charlie interjects, “this spot is for Big Dick Alliance members only.”

“I’m never returning.” You inform him, your voice cold like the Arctic snow, and the look in your eyes is no kinder. You feel like you’re having a stare down through screen. 

Silence stretches. Is this an intimidation tactic? Because if it is, it’s a paltry one. Your conviction to be petty is stronger than any vulnerability you might feel.

“Then I have nothing to say to you.” He admits and fucks right off with that. Fine, go join Sykkuno and Rae in their little corner of betrayal! Friendship ended with Corpse, now Charlie is your best friend.

“Okay, guys, guys, guys-” Toast, noting this is going to spiral any minute now, tries to catch their attention, “Let’s start?!”

You look into your camera, and the roaches know what you’re thinking. You’re twins like that, communicating telepathically. You are taking back your tender promise of not being a conniving bastard. It’s fucking on. You will destroy everyone in your path, starting with the guy you have a stupid crush on - maybe?! Feelings are confusing, you’d rather just not think point blank period.

With no objections from the cast, the counter ticks away seconds and, for the first round, you’re stuck as CREW MATE.

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Charlie is a gift. Truly, you had not expected such a sudden, wonderful relationship to bloom. How have you not known of him sooner?! It’s a crime that you hadn’t spoken to him earlier. You are a 100% certain if you had found him before you started streaming, he would’ve been a big inspiration. 

The two of you do your silly little tasks and curse like sailors, commenting about this and that thanks to proximity chat. You wouldn’t have been able to stand the claustrophobic silence if it was just a normal Among Us game - to think, missing out on all his foully worded quips! It almost springs a tear into your eye. He’s just as unhinged as you.

worried about this dynamic 

its a trainwreck lol i love it plz collab more plz

Caught in a headed discussion in Electrical - TikTok trends, or audios specifically - you defend the app the best you can. Charlie thinks it’s super cringe, and you insist it’s part of the charm as you connect wires.

“I mean, have...-do you know that one audio, the one that goes, like,” You’re spilling your words, heated, frustrated that he’s so dismissive of the app that literally saved 2020, “it goes like, uhm,” You clear your throat, prep your voice - even take a sip of your favorite drink. Drawing the syllables, you try your best to make it drop an octave - it must sound like you’re doing an atrociously bad and nauseatingly scratchy Corpse impression with an extra dramatic flair, “My assssssss, your cockkk, you do the mathhh.”

“Did-Did I just-” You freeze hearing Corpse’s voice, finally done with your task. Charlie is muffling his laughter behind his palm; Corpse’s astronaut stands in the doorway, “What the fuck did I just walk into?” He seems genuinely confused, though a strangely winded. You’re mortified. Your shoulders are shaking. You look at the stream chat but it’s going too fast for you to follow. Manic laughter bubbles in your chest and you squeeze your eyes shut, mouth split into a toothy grin, lowering your head and trying to hide the blush dusting your cheeks.

“Hey? Guys? What the fuck are you talking about?” He questions again.

“Honestly?” Charlie chimes, “No fucking clue. TikTok, I think. Ask Y/n.”

You can’t reply. You’re crying. You cover your face with your palms, muttering a soft oh my god before bursting into a full blow laugh, throwing your head back, the motion accidentally knocking your headphones off.

“Y/n.” Corpse calls you, “Fuck was that?”

You’re howling. Your stomach hurts. There are literal tears in your eyes. You think Charlie might be laughing too, but you can’t really tell over your loud screeching. Hastily fixing your headphones, you wipe away the tears stuck to your lower lashes, heaving, “S-Sorry, I-” You stutter, breaking into another fit of giggles. Corpse patiently waits you to calm down. Catching your breath, you start again with a sniffle, “TikTok, yeah.” You idly fix your hair, trying to bite down a smile, “It’s an audio.”

“What- What kind of videos are you watching?”

“The good kind.” Your reply is instant, merciless, “Also, why are you here? We’re having a BDA meeting, you know.”

“I-I...” He trails off, “I...I heard people talking and...I just came here to check it out, but...I’m regretting it.” There’s a lilt in his voice, and you know he doesn’t regret jack shit. You bet he’s smiling. You wish you could see it.

“Bitch, then leave!” You huff. You aren’t sure what is with him today, and you don’t want to stick around and find out - his playfulness makes your stomach flip at the most inappropriate times! Like when you’re trying to sound threatening. You must retreat posthaste, “No, wait, I’ll do it for you.” You say, brushing past his character. Charlie follows after you.

“Dude, you’re so fucking lucky neither of us are the Impostor because you’d be deader than I’ve been feeling since I was 10.” Your favorite companion comments. Charlie is truly a modern wordsmith. You’re pretty sure you adore him, because you’re nodding your head, so quick to agree with him that even you’re surprised. 

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A meeting is called. You spare a glance at your fallen crew mates. They will be missed. Sean most of all, God, why does heaven always take the good ones?! The game feels emptier without him, even if you really only passed him once on your trek to Cafeteria with Charlie.

You may or may not have been avoiding him, afraid you’d accidentally say something horrible and he would hate you. It’s a silly fear, though a deep one. And with Charlie keeping you company, you had not uttered a single objectively  good, or even coherent, sentence. Your parents can’t watch this stream once it’s uploaded onto your Youtube channel. They know you’re barely keeping it together in most of your videos, but here, now? Yeah, no. Charlie is already hard to listen to on his own for sensitive viewers, and hearing you agree with literally everything he says with your own chaotic ideas? Your dad would stumble into an early grave.

Mom probably wouldn’t mind too much, but you’d have to explain your relationship status again. She is under the assumption that everyone you collab with is your significant other. You’d say it began with Sykkuno, though the exclamation of “Finally! My daughter isn’t pathetically single! We need to celebrate.” had started with Rae. Truly, a scandal.

Speaking of which, Sykkuno is gone, too, but you had time to mourn him already. You found his body roughly ten minutes ago; so torn with the fresh agony of heartbreak, you could not do anything else but cry. It was Charlie, bless his heart, that reported it.

“Someone killed Jack,” You say, voice dripping with venom, “court is now in session. I’m ready to vote the fucker out.”

People speak all at once. Toast roars over them, “ORDER! ODER IN COURT!” as he slams his hand onto his desk repeatedly. That seems to work, though briefly.

“I think it’s Y/n.” Corpse says. You stare at him, hand gripping your heart, mouth falling open in surprise.

flame him

corpse boutta be a corpse fr

beat his ass queen!!!!!

“Pardon my french,” You grumble, “but nani the fuck?!”

“It’s definitely Y/n, I found her and Charlie conspiring in Electrical. Surrealist experience of my fucking life, but it’s definitely her.”

“Dude, we’ve been over this,” Charlie sighs, shushing Rae who was about to comment something - knowing your luck, it was probably in favor of the man throwing you under the bus, “we would’ve snapped your fucking neck the moment you walked in. But we didn’t.”

“Yeah, we didn’t.” Corpse notes, “I said nothing about you, I’m just saying it’s definitely her. She probably didn’t kill in front of you because of your stupid alliance-”

“Someone sounds salty because he wasn’t invited.” Pokimane snickers.

“-or possibly she did tell you and you won’t betray her for the exact same reason.”

“That’s some big brain logic you pulled there, genius,” Charlie says, absolutely unimpressed, “sure you didn’t have an aneurysm trying to connect all of that together?”

“Well,” Rae pipes up, “Y/n and Charlie did say they will kill right before the game started. If you ask me, it’s not unbelievable. And Sykkuno was sorta on the shit list.”

“I’m writing down your name twice, Rachell.” You spit.

“Not helping your case at all, Y/n...” Dream worries, “And Rae makes a good point. Charlie and you have professed desire for murder. I’m just saying! It’s a bit suspicious, you know?”

The next words to leave Corpse’s lips sound incredibly smug, “See?” He drawls.  The pressure is getting to you - you don’t understand where this beguiling talent of his to convince literally everyone comes from, but it doesn’t inspire any confidence. Your fist suddenly feels incredibly lonely, so useless - oh, how you long to swing at him, “It’s definitely Y/n.”

“I dunno...” Toast mumbles.

“It’s Y/n.”

“Corpse-” You try, but he's ignoring you - shocker, as if he hadn’t been doing that from the very start of this stupid game - and chanting your name like it’s a fucking mantra or something, a smile in his voice, knowing, relishing in the fact that he’s grating on your nerves, “FIRST OF ALL,” You scream into the mic, successfully cutting him off; catching your breath, you exhale, and continue, calmly, lowly,  “get my pretty name out of your mouth.” 

There’s a pause full of tense silence. 

Then, there’s a sound, seemingly stuck in the back of his throat, “...O-Oh...?”

“Second of all,” You continue, words like honey dipped in arsenic, “This is the clearest smear campaign I have ever witnessed. By how hard you’re trying to frame me for fuck knows what reason, I’m led to believe it’s you that killed them. You’re the Impostor.”

“Corpse wouldn’t kill Sykkuno, though.” Rae comments, skeptical.

“Then the other Impostor did it.” You counter.

“Maybe you’re both Impostors.” Pokimane chirps.

“Y/n would never betray the Big Dick Alliance like that.” Charlie states.

You grin, “Charlie, I literally love you.” 

“Wait hold up now,” Corpse seems to get his bearings together, “what’s this about love I’m hearing?”

“I have none for you, dick.” You snap, flipping him off. Your chat cheers. While he can’t see it, you hope he senses it through the screen, “I officially hate you.”

“No, wait-”

“Boo, Corpse, you suck.” Toast laughs.

“Y/n, please-”

“Let’s all vote for Corpse Husband, okay?” You say it like it’s his full official name with an encouraging smile and multiple soft nods. Sykkuno can’t be here to nod, so you’ll do it for him. You eye the rapidly decreasing timer before clicking on Corpse’s figure and voting for him. The VOTED icon instantly pops up beside your adorable astronaut.

“Baby, I-” It slips past his lips so easily, as if he’s not even thinking about it, like it’s only natural to call you that and a spike of anxiety shoots up, making you glare. It’s only halfhearted. You try your best to ignore the rapid and uncoordinated pulses of your heart. Replace unwanted feelings with anger and hate - works like a charm, every time.

“You are not allowed to call me that.” You hiss. The chat spams snake emojis. 

“Wait-” Bretman chimes, “Hold up, y’all, slow down a minute. Why does Corpse never call me baby?”

“Yeah!” Pokimane agrees, “I want to be baby, too!”

Pokimane may not have been called baby, but you just single-handedly decided her nickname for her - Target 4. Welcome to the shit list, she is officially your public enemy number 1. You aren’t sure why the thought of Corpse ever referring to anyone else as baby makes you sick to your stomach (you actually do know why, but brain no think at the moment), but you wish this whole conversation never happened. You don’t like it.

20 seconds left. More VOTED icons appear by your friends. Corpse is the last one to cast his ballot at, you assume, you, as the rest wait for his quick explanation before everyone (or not) returns to the game, “...Because she’s my baby.”

Goodbye. Life had been sweet, and there was sorrow, though the amount of embarrassment you feel now is worse than when the internet found your cringe worthy high school pictures on your mom’s Facebook. It’s a mixture of dread and excitement - the pleasure of being noticed, cherished even, though anxious from vulnerability. Someone is screaming a very prolonged “WHAAAAT?!”, or maybe multiple people are, you aren’t sure, your ears start to hurt from the loud, conflicting cacophony of voices as you stare blankly at the screen. You received two votes, just like Corpse, Charlie got one, the rest skipped. With no one flung out, you all find yourself back in Cafeteria again.

Baby. My baby? My baby. My baby. The sentence is playing ping-pong in your mind, reverberating louder each time. You’re actually speechless for the first time in your life; your chest hurts, your heart beating so fast your hands start shaking. Had he meant it? Or was this a some joke? Was he trying to get a rise out of you again? You might just go insane from so many questions. My baby. Holy shit, this is a heart attack, this is what a heart attack feels like, dear God, you figured you at least had ten years before you get one!

  ✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

First round ends with IMPOSTORS raining victorious. Your sixth sense had been working wonders since, true to you previous estimate, it had been Corpse. His companion was Pokimane. For absolutely no reason what’s so ever, you change her name once more from Target 4 to Target 1. Normally, you’re all for girls supporting girls. Men don’t deserve anything, really, but now you’re so flustered and still reeling from what you are 80% sure was cardiac arrest that you genuinely don’t care about your established morals.

Round two starts without much deliberation. You get CREW MATE again; the game must sense your growing bloodlust, making sure that once you do get IMPOSTOR, you will not hold back. True power is granted to those who are ready and strong enough to wield it. You wait for your moment with bated breath.

Charlie is taken from you too early. The two of you were once again caught in a discussion - God knows about what, Minecraft, hentai, oh! your server! - as you tried to card swipe for the umpteenth time. The lights blew out and you just knew one of you was getting murdered there and then. Charlie’s voice abruptly cut off, and you think a part of you died with him.

It’s a cold meeting; with your new best friend being the first to go, everyone decides to skip. You proclaim you seek vengeance. When the meeting comes to an end, Sykkuno is the first to offer his condolences.

“I’m sorry, Y/n.” He says, and while he’s not in Brooklyn, you somehow feel him patting your back. You feign a sniffle.

“There’s nothing to apologize for...” You murmur sadly, “Unless...” Your voice turns sharp as the knife that was surely twisted into Charlie’s back, “It was you?”

“NO!” He exclaims, “I would never-you gotta believe me! I would never kill him. I know he’s important to you. I wouldn’t do that, I swear.”

“He was like a brother to me.” You admit, solemn, “Charlie, if you’re haunting me right now, know I will avenge you. I will not let this go.”

Sykkuno hums, circling around you, “Hey, I have a task in Greenhouse. Would you, uh--Would like to, uhm, join me?” Despite the shaky start, he finishes on a firm, pleasant note. He’s trying to cheer you up. Having lost your closest friend, he’s offering you his company. You accept with a soft smile and a cute “Yes, please!” and he releases an airy little laugh. The two of you make your way to your favorite place in map MIRA.

It’s difficult to stay sad for long when Sykkuno’s so sweet; the atmosphere of the Greenhouse is strangely calming; your problems seem to be left behind the shut doors. If you tried hard enough, you could imagine being in an actual Greenhouse - the warm, damp air clinging to your skin, the unmistakable smell of earth and vegetation, the pleasant silence broken only by yours and his hushed voices and clumsy footsteps.

The two of you are talking. Mainly about your choice of attire. Cat first, Sykkuno ponders aloud, doing his task as you watch the plants grow, now bunny, what’s next? You affirm that you will most likely dress up in cow-print next, or as an adorable sheep. He laughs, admitting you’ll look good in anything before he trails off. His awkwardness is really endearing. 

“Or!” You chirp happily, content with being locked away with him for the whole game. The idea must be playing in his mind, too, because he seems in no rush to leave, “I could, like, dress as someone from My Hero Academia. I watched the stream you did with Stella, the one where she made you look like Todoroki. It was really cute. You were really cute.”

“Oh, uhm-well, uh, thank you, thanks, I, uhm-” He clears his throat, and despite his stutter, you hear the smile in his voice, “I-I think you’d look better, though. Not as Todoroki. Or, probably as Todoroki, too. But, uhm, what character are you thinking about?”

“Maybe Momo?”

“Momo!” He yeps, “Momo is good. Yeah, she’s great. You’ll-uhm-you’ll look amazing. Really. Momo is awesome. Very pretty. Just like you.”

You are blushing. A stupid, toothy grin makes your cheeks hurt. Your eyes flicker to the chat, but again, it’s going wild. Giggling, you thank him for his sweet words, so giddy it’s honestly embarrassing. Why can’t you stop smiling? This is incriminating. You hide your lips behind your palm.

“...What’s this?” Corpse question. You had failed to note his sudden appearance, too busy gushing. “Am I interrupting?”

“Hey, Corpse!” Sykkuno greets. For someone so awkward and shy, he sure is good at hiding it when he wants to. Perhaps it’s all an act and you had been deviously tricked! Probably not, but you can’t help but narrow your eyes suspiciously, finally able to calm down. You definitely underestimated him, you just haven’t figured out how yet, “Not really! Y/n was sad Charlie died so I took her here.”

“You interrupted our date, dipshit.” You deadpan. 

“...Fuck you say?” Corpse dares, his voice low and somewhat menacing - for someone who exclusively portrays his emotions through only his voice, he’s incredibly hard to read. This is payback. Your love for wreaking havoc resurfaces suddenly. Serves him right for pulling all this ignoring shit at the start. Maybe you’ll make him say oh again.

Your sly smirk is promptly wiped. Fuck. He said oh, he literally said oh out loud. The Teruhashi fangirl in you is screaming. You had been so caught up in defending yourself you didn’t even register it at first. Alarmed, you look at the camera, then at the chat. First oh, then my baby. There’s no way he had been teasing you, and this proves it. Holy shit. You mouth the words “HE SAID OH!” for your audience only.

now she notices

snail pace baby we’ve been loosing our shit for the past hour 

corpse x y/n saikik au enemies to lovers 500k words slow burn im here for it

opening wattpad rn^

Your heart races in your chest - it might be considered an Olympic medalist at this point; flustered yet again, you wish you could cave into yourself. You should’ve brought your bright blue wig with you to Brooklyn. Turns out it would have been perfect for this stream. Yes, yes thinking about unnecessary details always works in distracting you from the butterflies throwing a fucking rave in your stomach. 

“I guess it is a date!” Sykkuno admits, “Kinda after a funeral, but still.”

Corpse hums. You’re still too stunned to say anything. The black astronaut with adorable cat ears approaches Sykkuno. 

“It’s not.” He states. Your mouth falls open in shock as your date, your companion, the Shoto to your Momo is murdered in cold blood right in front of you. His lifeless body, cut in half, lays on the tiles by the growing flowers, right beside you, “You didn’t see shit.”

“...I didn’t see shit.” Is all you can utter, breathless and terrified.

“Thaaaat’s fucking right, baby.” Corpse coos, “Now I’m gonna report it, and I’ll say we found Sykkuno together. Better stick close to me after the meeting, got it?”

If Sykkuno is Shoto, then Corpse is definitely Dabi. 

why is that kinda hot tho omg

didn’t know i needed dom corpse since now but i do

y/n looks like shes boutta throw up lmao 

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

You follow him around like a lost puppy - because what else is left for you to do!? You’re helpless in this situation. He’s got you in the palm of his hand, successfully eliminating everyone you had previously interacted with. First it was Charlie, then Sykkuno, even Sean, who said hello in passing, was shot instantly. Real Sangwoo behavior. You almost want to scream warnings at everyone to not approach you. You cannot mourn another lost crew mate, you don’t think your conscience can take it. But words fail to form. You’re too weak. You fake cry to your audience. They’re quick to remind you to stop acting like a little bitch.

“Mean.” Is all you say, eyeing the comments.

“Hm?”

“Was talking to the roaches.”

“What are they saying?”

“That I should betray you.”

“...Better not.”

A shiver shoots up your spine and you half believe he will bust down your door and drag you into his basement for real. A nervous laugh slips past your lips, “I won’t, I won’t.” You reassure him, “Don’t worry, I’m sticking with you. I haven’t seen shit.”

“I like that you listen to me. You always this agreeable?”

“You’re kinda not giving me a choice right now.” You grumble, vending yourself a drink while he looms behind you, protecting you. From who?! Himself?!

“Oh my fucking God, finally,” Bretman exclaims, “girl, I’ve been running around the whole map trynna find someone, is everyone like, dead?”

You’re scared to reply. Corpse does it for you, “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, maybe? Not sure. Where have you been?”

“Oh you know,” Bretman grins, “doing tasks, talking shit, the usual. You two are not, like, Impostors right?”

You shoot a look at Corpse, but he obviously can’t see it. Biting your lip, you murmur, “Nope.”

“Just your regular crew mates doing regular crew mate things.” Corpse says, no, purrs. Because that’s not suspicious at all. You’d recommend Bretman to run, and not only because that sounded shady as fuck. But he seems to enjoy danger, or he just doesn’t care.

“Hmmmm, crew mates, sure. Miss girl Y/n,” He’s addressing you now; you smile anxiously, “How come every time I see you, you’re with a different man?! Like damn, leave some for the rest of us, for real!”

You like Bretman. You like his high-pitched whine and drawl. You would like him even more if not for the complex situation at hand. You fear for his life. Chewing at your bottom lip, you snicker, “Sorry, Bret. I can leave you Corpse if you want?”

He laughs, “Girl, I’d say yes so fucking quick, but I know he wouldn’t want that. Normally I wouldn’t care, but y’all are such a cute couple it’s making me not want to be a shady motherfucking bitch. Changing my ways, embracing the lord. Love it.”

 Corpse doesn’t correct him that you are, in fact, not dating. His lack of reaction unnerves you slightly. Does he...? No! No think! Only exist! You catch that train of thought and steer it away from forbidden territory. Looks like it’s up to you to clear the air, and that is exactly what you do after trying to swallow down the lump in your throat, “Uh, we’re not together, actually. We’re just really good friends.”

“Bitch, then move over,” Bretman says snappily,”go like, back to your other boyfriends. Or find another one. I think I saw Dream near Navigation.”

“Near Navigation, huh?” Corpse hums thoughtfully. It’s a subtle warning, but you catch it. Yeah, even if you try running, Dream’s going to join your other ‘boyfriends’ in the afterlife. Granted, killing someone by just talking with them is kind of cool. Or maybe Stockholm Syndrome is finally kicking in, “Bret, the thing is, Y/n’s scared of dying, so she asked me to stay with her.”

It’s disturbing how good at lying he is. It is also really really attractive, as bizarre as that is.

y/n stop being in a toxic relationship with corpse challenge

making fanart of this omg her face

its the blushing for me girl get your head outta the gutter!

^she cant, it lives there

“Baby, you’re gonna fucking die if you stick with her,” Bretman points out, “have you noticed the mortality rate of her partners? Rest in peace, daddy.”

“He’s right, you know.” You mutter, dramatically looking to the side, “I’m no good, Corpse.”

“Not leaving you, end of discussion. Bretman, join us?” Corpse offers, catching you by surprise. He might still be lying, though. Creating a false sense of security before eliminating Bretman. Probably would laugh while doing it, too. Wow, he truly is evil.

Turns out he doesn’t have to do any of that, because when Dream strolls into Cafeteria, he kills Bretman instead. The two Impostors are finally revealed. You promised not to snitch on Corpse, but you didn’t say shit about not exposing Dream. You press the REPORT button and say just that: “Dream just murdered Bret right in front of me and Corpse.”

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

The last meeting is called. Dream had been voted out with the help of Corpse, and now only you, he, and Rae remain.

“Baby, you know what to do.”

The VOTED icon pops up beside Corpse’s astronaut. Rae wheezes, “No! Y/n, it’s not me, you gotta believe me, I swear it’s not me!”

“...I really don’t know,” You murmur, “I’ve been with Corpse a lot, and...Rae, I’m not sure...”

“Please! I swear it on my Kagayama cardboard cut out, I’m not the Impostor, please! You know me, I’d never lie to you like this.”

“She’s definitely lying.” Corpse says, sounding pleased.

“Don’t listen to him! Remember, during the first round, when he tried to convince us that you were the Impostor? He’s doing the same shit to me!”

“I also remember you agreeing with him.” You remind her.

“I was stupid! Small dumb brain moment! He was using us to win! He’s using you right now!” She votes, “Please, Y/n, make the right choice.”

You’re silent for a moment.

“I’m gonna...I’m gonna vote for who I think it is.” You lastly say.

A slow, lazy grin makes it’s way onto your lips, eyes gleaming mischievously. You had not forgotten your promise to your brother from another mother, you had not forgotten the pride of the BDA, you had not forgotten your beautiful friendship. Two miniature astronauts pop up by Corpse’s at the exact moment Rae screeches “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!”

“Fuck.” Is all Corpse says with a laugh.

The screen changes, informing of the first CREW MATE victory.

Your ears are assaulted with different voices as you appear in the lobby.

“Now that’s what I’m fucking talking about.” Charlie raves, “I swear to fucking God, Y/n, you even got me going for a second. Pulled some 1000 IQ shit right there. It was fucking amazing. Best back stabbing I’ve seen in a while, and I’ve seen a lot.”

“That was absolutely fantastic, Y/n.” Sean applauds, “I really thought you joined Corpse like some crew mate accomplice or something. Can’t believe you switched on him at the last second.”

“That’s my wifey!” Rae cheers, strolling to you, “Love you, mwah.”

“Hey, Corpse,” Charlie calls him, “How does it feel to be a fucking loser?”

“I’m surprisingly fine with it.”

yeah he would be lmao

mom is the best snake ever i love you sm y/n

rae and y/n’s friendship....the feeeeeels

As the rest sing your praises for another solid minute or two, the third round begins. CREW MATE again. Though, just because you’re stuck as an underpaid worker in a dying spaceship, it doesn’t mean you’re innocent. Your last round proved that quite well. You can’t help but silently snicker.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

TAGLIST IS CLOSED!

tags (in italics is those i couldn’t tag! make sure all’s ok w your settings!) : @littlebabysandboxburritos - @fairywriter-oracle - @tsukishimawh0re - @ofstarsanddreams - @bbecc-a - @annshit - @leahh19 - @letsloveimagines - @bellomi-clarke - @wineandionysus - @guiltydols - @onephootinfrontoftheother - @liamakorn - @thirstyfangirl - @lilysdaydreams - @pan-ini - @mxqicshxp - @tanchosanke - @yoshinorecommends - @flightsandfantasy - @liljennyx3 - @bingusmode - @unknown-and-invisible - @sinister-sleep - @fivedicksinatrenchcoat - @mercury--moon - @peterparkerspjsuit - @unstableye - @simonsbluee - @shinyshimaagain - @ppopty - @siriuslystupid - @crapimahuman - @ofthedewthesunlight - @mythicalamphitrite - @artsyally - @corpsesimpp - @corpsewhitetee - @corpse-husbandsimp - @hyp-oh-critical - @roses-and-grasses - @rhyrhy462 - @sparklylandflaplawyer - @charbkgo - @airwaveee - @creativedogs - @kaitlyn2907 - @loxbbg - @afuckingunicornn - @fleurmoon - @yeolliedokai

more tags are in the comments bcs tumblr only allows me to tag 50 people max 💙

[serendipitystation]

Holding Hands - a Kanej fanfic

Read it here, too: AO3

Summary: Several times that Inej and Kaz hold hands and what follows. Slow-burn, oneshot.

Length: Short

A/N:  Writing for these two is difficult, but that's a testament to Leigh Bardugo's wonderfully complex writing more than anything. Cheers, friends :)

i.

The first time that Kaz and Inej hold hands, they stand together looking down at the ship that will take them far apart from one another. To Inej, it is a miracle, a blessing; to Kaz, it is a gift, a tool for good in hands cleaner than his own. They both understand how their paths are destined to diverge, but there is no peace needing to be made with this. Divergence calls to reunion as light calls to dark. Their souls have been in close quarters long enough that a few thousand miles won't shatter their bond. As they watch a boat unload its newcomers to the city, they feel a joy that only the knowledge of better days can create. The darkness will return, but not today. Today is for joy and reunions and the most shockingly pleasant smile that Inej has ever seen on the face of the lord of the crows. Her happiness knows no end. Any prick of pain in Kaz's soul is easily ignored.

ii.

The second time that Kaz and Inej hold hands, Jesper and Wylan are singing the absolute worst song either of them have ever heard. While Specht helps Inej hire a crew for her ship, she and her parents are staying at the Van Eck home at Wylan's insistence. In the moments during which she leaves her parents' sides, Inej watches Wylan graviate towards the warmth of her father's countenance and Jesper flirt in shameless jest with her mother (he backs off slightly when Inej threatens to revoke his skillet bread priviledges). Kaz is the lone statue in the waving grass- he is cordial and as friendly as he's ever been, which doesn't say much, but he keeps a slight distance. One night, after dinner has been devoured, Wylan picks out a folk tune and sings lightly, while Jesper accompanies him with the most off-key harmonies to be heard any side of Ketterdam. As Inej feels Kaz's discomfort like a fog seeping across the floor, she melts into the shadows of a hallway just slow enough for Kaz to catch on. Under the nearly-dark sky of the back garden, they sit on a bench and watch the stars wink to life. Inej gently eases the glove off Kaz's right hand, feeling him tense up and relax with a slow shudder as the glove comes free. As the discordant sounds of their friends float in the cool air, Inej traces the creases of Kaz's hands and Kaz wills himself to not react, to keep his head above water, to let desire overrule history. Each time they touch, he gets better at floating.

iii.

The third time that Kaz and Inej hold hands, Kaz watches Inej giving orders aboard her ship as they prepare for their maiden voyage. She takes to the role of captain like a fish in water, the surety in her actions a strength she will need as she meets the unyielding sea. If she seems green at all for a captain, her crew know better than to question her due to her reputation as the Wraith, if not for her knives. Kaz can see her in his mind's eye, acting as justice's henchwoman among the waves, a puzzle piece that fits perfectly into its surroundings and completes them. He respects her abilities as much as he loves her. Loves. Kaz's mind has used the word before, yet using it now feels like a revelation. If any god were to call out from the heavens and announce him a Grisha, it would be less discordant to Kaz's nature than love in any form. Still, Kaz knows better than to deny the truth. He loves Inej and, in a few days, he will watch her sail away. When Inej comes to stand beside him, a look of satisfaction on her face, Kaz shakily slips his hand into hers. As he does so, Kaz swears she begins to smile.

iv.

The fourth time that Kaz and Inej hold hands, they are saying goodbye. Kaz doesn't do goodbyes- sentimentality shows weakness and he's long vowed to never look weak again. For Inej, however, he makes an exception, at least in private. In the mist of the morning of the launch, he slips onboard the Wraith and down the bustling deck to the quarters below. When he walks into the captains' quarters, Inej doesn't turn her head- she knows he's there; she could hear his lopsided gait all the way down the hall outside. They trade pleasantries about the ship, the voyage, everything but the inevitable goodbye to be faced. It is Inej who breaks gracefully; as Kaz prepares to leave, she walks up to him until they are but inches apart, takes both his hands, and reassures him that she will return. She can see the ice of his eyes melt and lets him thaw. Inej has known that she loves him for some time- unlike Kaz, her trauma isn't rooted in betrayal and she never feared the vulnerability of caring. Her love is a candle that she chooses to let burn, even as she acknowledges that love and destiny are not one and the same. As Kaz bends towards Inej, his forehead touching hers as light as a feather, the candle's flame grows stronger.

vi.

The sixth time that Kaz and Inej hold hands, Kaz's fingers trace a scar on Inej's arm. They sit in Kaz's office in the Slat, where prying eyes can make no assumptions about anything. Inej spent five months at sea before returning to Ketterdam, a length of time that ticked by at a glacial pace on Kaz's end. After regaling Jesper and Wylan with tales of her exploits upon her return, Inej had stolen away to the quiet safety of the Slat where the company was quieter. As Inej answers Kaz's questions with the patience, she adjusts the buttons at her wrists, revealing a flash of ropy skin on one arm. With a frown that stretches into shadows, Kaz reaches out to gently slide up Inej's sleeve, bringing into light the full fresh scar that zigzags up her arm. Kaz's face settles into its familiar scheming expression as the red of rage clouds his vision. Only Inej's voice, the featherlight sweep of her finger across his creased brow, and the shiver that travels his limbs like lightning bring him back to reality. As he wills the anger to subside, he reviews what he knows to be true; Inej is capable, strong, and not needing to be saved. She's no longer his investment- she's here because she chose him. Why his ego is so unperturbed by it all, he doesn't really know. Until Inej speaks up, Kaz doesn't realize that he's smiling.

viii.

The eighth time that Kaz and Inej hold hands, the ghosts that frequent Kaz's room watch them. Night has long fallen over Ketterdam and the prospect of Inej embarking on her next voyage looms over Inej. Her desire for life has not changed, nor has her mission, though it hurts to leave. Tonight, Inej has lingered far past the setting of the sun in Kaz's company. Getting back to her ship would be no problem- captain or Wraith, she walks the streets free of fear- but she doesn't particularly want to leave. As Kaz removes his waistcoat in his bathroom, Inej lays back on his bed and watches him. Out of the corner of his eye, Kaz catches her gaze and sarcastically offers to share the bed. What he doesn't expect is for her to strip down to her vest and pants tuck herself in. When Kaz puts out the lights and slides into the bed that barely fits them both, there's a strange weight that settles in their chests. They stay apart, both unsure. Then Kaz slips his hands into Inej's and the weight lifts and it feels like the world has fallen into place. They watch the dim light of the city carve through the shadows on the ceiling and, as they fall asleep to each other's breathing, the ghosts take the night off.

xii.

The twelfth time that Kaz and Inej hold hands, their faces are grim in the coal-streaked dawn. The hour for casting off from the harbour approaches the Wraith too fast for anyone's liking, but especially for Kaz. Caring is a weary task and a luxury that shadows can't afford, even as his soul becomes more intertwined with the captain whose knives protect a heart he longs to hear beat next to his. In the light of day and surrounded by the waking city, Kaz looks the part of Dirtyhands, all sharp lines and sharper glances. Inej knows that the persona is just that- a front crafted with years of practice, however jaded and survivalist he has become. She can see his mortality in the tells only she knows- the set of his mouth, the crag of his brow, the care with which he watches the crew. She doesn't need to hide anything, not like he does, but no smile graces her lips all the same. When it comes time to cast off, Inej holds Kaz's palms in hers and takes a piece of his heart. Kaz wasn't sure he had one to give away. As he watches the Wraith disappear on the endless gray horizon, he feels the painful pull of it moving farther away. He'll never get used to the sensation.

xiii.

The thirteen time that Kaz and Inej hold hands, it's a bright afternoon. The sea air wends its way through the streets of Ketterdam close to the harbour, stray gulls slicing through the air of the nearby alleyways. Kaz doesn't pass the docks on his way across the city; he rarely needs to these days. With his shares in Fifth Harbour long gone and the sea busy only with the usual flurry of trading ships, there's no reason to visit. If he wishes he had cause to do so, he tells no one. Only Inej would know otherwise, were she present- secrets can't hide from her.

When Kaz makes it to the Slat, it's quiet, as most afternoons find it. The crew are out and about on their assignments, as they should be, even though a few stray folk keep the din of the house to a reasonable level. Kaz walks into his office, fully prepared for a day of reviewing the week's profits, but he knows that the day will prove eternally better the moment he walks in. He can feel Inej's presence before he sees her sitting behind his desk. Inej won't tell him that she bribed Anika to keep the news of her arrival away, nor does she need to mention that she took the rooftops to reach the Slat- he'll already have figured it out. He doesn't need to say he missed her- she can tell from his face and the way he comes around the desk and intertwines his fingers with hers, all while telling her to take her boots off his desk. Neither of them need to say anything. They both know they're where they belong- together.

[pochiperpe90]

Points of view – The Interview: Luca Marinelli

How do you approach your characters. 

Sometimes I also wonder how I get to the character. For “Non essere cattivo”, I had a very detailed script and a fascinating director at my disposal, so I didn't struggle to relate. It was a very brave script for the way it dealt with reality. At first my auditions went in the direction of Vittorio's character but also knowing the figure of Cesare, more than once I thought I would like to play him. I saw the auditions of others and I stopped to think how I could have done Cesare. Then at a certain point I remember that Claudio looked at Valerio and told him that it would be better to reverse the roles, to let me try Cesare, and so it went. When I read the script of “Lo chiamavano Jeeg Robot”, the first thing that struck me, besides the courageous imagination, was to understand how a film of this kind could be made. 

In the first part of your career, you brought an image of introverted and staid youth to the screen. Was this a choice. 

Absolutely not. Or rather yes, it was the choice of those who met me first. Perhaps a part of my personality has been seen that could best marry the characters in question. It happened both in “La solitudine dei numeri primi” by Saverio Costanzo and later with Virzì in "Tutti i santi giorni", then it can be said that with Casare of “Non essere cattivo” and the Zingaro of “Lo chiamavano Jeeg Robot” I was allowed to turn things around slightly, to play a character who had a disposition and behavior that was completely the opposite of what I had faced previously. 

What do you remember about your debut with Saverio Costanzo. 

He was my initiation into cinema, I came from the Academy and I had no idea what it was like to work on a set. The best memory, in addition to the experience of the film with him and Alba, is the first meeting, the first audition, where I really understood that I strongly wanted to work with him and that if this had happened I would have ended up in the hands of a great author. 

With that film you found yourself in the main competition of the Venice Film Festival. What memories do you have of that first time at the lido. 

Of a huge confusion and a big headache. We were tossed around from one interview to another and not only that, because the worst thing was always answering the same questions, and I was terribly worried not to make the situation even more boring for the machine operator, who never changed, and I don't think could take it longer to hear the same phrases over and over. Fortunately, Alba was there as well and saved me in more than one interview. The experience helped me because the following times I knew slightly more what I was going through and how to manage situations and keep stress at bay. Or maybe not yet, it's a long way. 

I noticed that when you talk about your job you do it using the verb “to play” (giocare). Is it a coincidence or the choice has a precise meaning. 

Perhaps it’s not a coincidence that in English the term recite is said precisely in this way because in my opinion to play, or the French jouez, represents the feeling of freedom and fun that is inherent in the job I do, better. As far as I'm concerned, the moment of the take is when the actor has to stop thinking, abandon worries, to be able to bring out the energy of his character. He has to play with the same seriousness and commitment with which a child does. I remember a piece of advice from Carlo Cecchi on the fact that in acting counts listening and the here and now. Being actively present to oneself and to others at that exact moment.

You have a method for achieving this condition. 

If someone asked me something about technique, I wouldn't know what to answer, apart from listening. On the set of Andrea Molaioli's film in which I am the father of the young protagonist, the actor who plays him, Ludovico, who is really good, full of talent and very smart, once asked me what was the technique to make the best of the character, and the only thing I felt able to advise him was to try to be present in that moment and then to let go, listen and not think about the rest. 

But I imagine that there are also practical aspects in the preparation that precedes the start of filming. 

As for me, I try to prepare as much as I can before arriving on set because at the start of the shoot it would be good to be ready. But not everything happens automatically, in the sense that you can’t always find the character immediately. However, I have always been lucky enough to have more or less long periods of rehearsal before starting a film. I remember this moment with Saverio and Alba, where we spent weeks among us and also with the kids who would have played us as children, to try the various scenes and to create a union and harmony between the characters. The same happened with Paolo Virzì, Thony and I, more than once we gather, facing the script, to clarify all the passages and moments of the scenes. 

And how did things go with Claudio Caligari. 

The same thing also happened with Claudio even though the illness made everything more complicated for him. He asked us to change our bodies, to participate in the auditions of the other actors. This allowed all of us, the cast, to integrate and develop a unity of purpose and a truly rare familiarity. So in front of the camera it seemed to me that the gang, to which Cesare and Vittorio belonged, was really part of my life, that it wasn’t hard to pass from Luca to Cesare, because I had found him. And always to identify with the environment of the story, I preferred a house in Ostia, and Alessandro often came to me from Rome to spend time between the two of us. Claudio, in addition to having reading meetings together, also showed us films that were a source of inspiration for him for this film, such as “Accattone” by Pier Paolo Pasolini, “Rocco e i suoi fratelli” by Luchino Visconti and “Mean Sreet” by Martin Scorsese.

Instead, I wanted to ask you what happens between takes, for example when you come home after a day of work. You stay inside the character as it happens to Daniel Day Lewis, or you put it aside and think of something else like Marcello Mastroianni did. 

I try to disconnect from the set. I try. I go home and try to do something else, but the last thought before falling asleep always goes to the next day's work plan and I leave myself a few minutes for the memory and concentration useful for tomorrow and then I close my eyes.  

We asked Roberta Mattei and we ask you too. During the processing you were aware of the exceptional nature of what you were doing. 

Yes. Let me explain: I saw with my own eyes that what was happening was exceptional, a man who was dying wanted to give his latest work to the public, to his audience, to his people, to people. This has no equal for me. Don't think about yourself in such a situation but about others.

Then it was the turn of Lo chiamavano Jeeg Robot. 

I shot Jeeg Robot in March 2014, and therefore before “Non essere cattivo”. The fact that Mainetti's film is only coming out now is due to the long post-production period necessary to assemble the shot with the special effects present in the film. 

Here as well it was an interpretation and a character who completely overturns the transparent and pristine image of the first part of your career. 

To make Jeeg Robot we had to convince each other, Gabriele Mainetti and I, about my success in the character. I pushed him towards a theatricality and Gabriele towards a real madness, a pure pain. In the end, I think we have found the right amount. 

The construction of the Zingaro was already very clear in the writing and it was up to us, however, to find its true aspect. 

Guiding him is this crazy and boundless ego, and the obsession with having to leave a mark. The Zingaro's eccentricity is partly reflected in his look, halfway between a rock star and a suburban bully. For the costumes and make-up we were inspired by the great rock icons. We dared in some choices, such as the black coat with pink leopard lining that characterize the wardrobe. For the aspects related to the way of performing, his model was Anna Oxa and in particular the video of her at Sanremo, when she sings “Un’emozione da poco”. 

In part you have already answered, but I wanted to know how you choose to accept the proposals that are made to you and if you have any foreclosures towards television, or more generally towards commercial cinema. 

I choose the proposals on the basis of love at first sight that must happen with the film, with its screenplay. Then figure out who will be leading the film, meet the director. I don't have any kind of foreclosure, let's say that if I don't like something I don't do it and if I like it I do. And it doesn't matter if it's cinema or television. 

As a spectator what is the cinema you love. 

I like films that have something to say and that I also choose based on who directed and starred in it. Usually when they ask me to name some titles I have a void. Think that the same thing happened to me also during the audition to enter the experimental center, when Lina Wertmuller asked me the title of a film I had seen recently. I was struck by a cosmic void and instead of naming her an authoritative and important film I left her stunned by citing Batman, I think Nolan's first, still a good film, but I still had Wertmuller in front of me... But to go back to what you asked me, I tell you that in general I always like to watch films that come from Sundance, of which I remember, for example “Like Crazy”, which I found disarmingly beautiful, the films of P.T. Anderson, Wes Anderson, the Cohen, there are many, and among the Italians those played by Alba Rohrwacher, Valerio Mastandrea, Elio Germano, Kim Rossi Stuart and directed by Alice Rohrwacher, Costanzo, Virzì, Sorrentino, Garrone, Salvatores. Without forgetting those of the great Joaquin Phoenix. But in reality I look at everything, let's say that I try not to lose anything of these. 

Despite the certificates of esteem you have received for your performances, the impression is that of an understatement that almost seems not to be aware of what you have achieved so far as an actor. 

Whenever I see a film of mine I always think there is something I could have done better. But basically I'm happy with what I've done so far. Having said that, I think that the films alone should be enough to explain everything and that the interviews don’t add anything new to what there was to say before making them. But when I am in the dance, when I need to promote, I am committed to doing it in the best possible way. I strongly think that in life and at work it’s important to demonstrate that you know how to do and not to show at all costs that you do.

DREAMINGCINEMA

Just wanted to translate this old interview for the non-italian’s fans ^^ (sorry for my English)

[reigning-rhapsody]

Bittersweet

Strifesodos, past Gengeal; 2841 words

No TWs

The ear piercing noises of pots and pans and what sounded like now unusable plates briefly silenced the patrons crowding Seventh Heaven and let about everyone in the bar flinch in unison- all but one. Cloud merely quirked up a brow as his head shot towards the kitchen where the newest member of the staff, though it had been months since he’d joined and kept some work away from the ever so eager-to-work Tifa, had been on duty to cook for the evening.

I am, by no means, a great cook, he’d warned them at first, which turned out to be more than true, but his tastebuds didn’t lie, nor did his memory. He could tell what needed more salt and what had to stay cooking on the stove just a bit more until it was at its best, and he knew quite a few recipes for someone that, apparently, was no good as a chef. He wants to evade working any more than just as a bartender, Cloud assumed at first exactly because of that, but as good as the man was when it came to acting, as he had proven quite a few times, what he told was no lie.

Tifa insisted he should try cooking, and Gaia, it was worse than Marlene’s mud-pies from when she was younger. According to Barret, at least, who entered the establishment with a growling belly longing for a meal right as their chef in the making had finished his… attempt. A burnt pot and sore stomachs were the victims in the aftermath of Genesis Rhapsodos’ cooking despite everyone who passed him in the process paying attention to him wearing the glasses he was supposed to have sitting on his nose.

If one wanted to trust the promises given by Tifa, who insisted that teaching her new co-worker how to make some proper dishes was essential, he was a fast learner, and occasionally he even suggested to make a few meals he had memorized. No one knew as to why it was that he had recipes in mind, but no one bothered to ask either. One thing was clear though, the guy sure liked apples.

“Cloud, can you check on him?”, Tifa’s voice rung behind the blond addressed by it, barely able to be heard as the chatter and laughter picked up among the patrons again. She was busy, carrying two trays with food and drinks and a plate on one of her outstretched arms on top of it, so it was understandable she didn’t even wait for an answer and moved to the table that awaited their order. His next delivery would be in about twenty minutes and as slow as he could make himself walk, to evade whatever mess just occurred behind that door a few feet ahead of him would was impossible. Better get it over with quickly.

With a sigh, Cloud turned fully to face the direction of the kitchen and closed the gap that separated him from the door with a few swift steps slipping past filled tables. The blond swung the door open while his unoccupied hand rested in the pocket of his baggy pants. “Hey, the hell-?” He started, cutting himself off as his Mako infused gaze fell upon a kneeling Genesis staring at the floor like he was about to propose to it. Or rather, to the soup on the ground surrounding an upside down pot, porcelain pieces of what once upon a time were bowls circling the romanticized mess like ivory rose petals.

Genesis didn’t look up, nor did he answer, nor did he acknowledge Cloud and pretended the delivery boy wasn’t even present. He picked up the shattered vessels meant for the customers to eat what he begrudgingly prepared out of, seemingly doing his utmost to keep his eyes averted, or fully hidden to begin with.

Cloud narrowed his eyes and stepped forward so the door could fall shut behind him, swaying in and out of the room a few more times and allowing whatever curious mind sat in the much busier space of Seventh Heaven to catch a last glimpse of the scene playing out in the no-customer space, although who was sunken on the ground being covered by Cloud standing in front of him. He approached Genesis, both hands now in the confided space of his roomy pockets as he simply stared down at who he usually had to crane his head back for to make eye contact. Seeing someone who held himself so highly on the floor picking up shards with his own hands, it was amusing in a slightly sadistic way to say the least.

He knew that speaking up would only end in a discussion, then an argument and then a passive aggressive verbal fight that could break out into something physical at any given second. At least it sounded like that, anyway, but if it was the truth stood in the stars since the pair usually got interrupted when they got into another of their near daily banters. So he kept quiet and stayed put until the slender ginger would say the first word. And so he eventually did, pausing his task to exhale a defeated sigh and with what was left of his pride for the day.

And yet, he didn’t look up. “Not. A word.”, Genesis punctuated with a clearly irritated voice and Cloud just replied with an entertained huff. “Need help?”

“No.” “Uh-huh.” He didn’t have the time to put up with the mage’s stubbornness and crouched down, reaching out to grab the pot whilst his eyes remained on the culprit of the ruined meal. Finally eye-to-eye, Cloud noticed the missing black frame supposed to reach behind Genesis’ ears, “So, let me guess…”, the younger man started, turning the pot around and holding it by the handles, “You knocked this all over because you’re not wearing the glasses?”

That earned him a venomous glare, but an exposed one. Unlike Genesis’, his own vision was just fine, and thus not spotting the black supposed to be added to the color scheme around his face wasn’t just an illusion. “I don’t need them,”, the redhead barked back, “As I’ve told you before. You all are being dramatic over nothing at all.”

Hearing him out of all people judging what crosses the line of being too dramatic made Cloud snort and shake his head at how ridiculous that was, much to the wannabe-cook’s further annoyance. They locked eyes, three triplets and one glassy, milky-white outcast cataract.

The cracks scarring the porcelain skin roped themselves from his left eye over the same side of his cheek, shimmering through the applied makeup that attempted to hide them in vain as it had been vanishing with the sweat glistening on the man’s face from standing in a hot kitchen for hours on. Like veins dotted with thorns, they reached down his neck, reaching over the visible parts of his equally pale chest that was exposed due to the button up Genesis wore being partially undone. He could only guess how much of his body they tainted. They are what caused that vision problems too, as he’d been told by Genesis.

“I know I’m just mesmerizing, but make yourself useful if you refuse to let me handle this on my own.” An arrogant voice pierced Cloud’s zoned out thoughts and he blinked himself back into reality, not having the best experiences with anything piercing him. If it wouldn’t have been a vocal trigger that brought him back though, it would’ve been the smell of something burning.

“Agh- shit!” Genesis cursed under his breath and got on his feet again, groaning at his aching legs that fell asleep staying in the same uncomfortable position for some time. Cloud followed and watched the man place down the pieces of the bowls he’d already picked up next to the stove where a pancake was smelling like the victims of his flames- although it wasn’t on purpose for once.

Another swear muttered as he turned off the heat, or at least what Cloud assumed to be one since it was spoken in the ginger’s native language, and grabbed a spatula that rested on the workspace to his right to try and scratch the pitch blackness off the bottom of the pan. After some hard work was put into saving what could be saved, or what he hoped to save at least, that being the pan, Genesis put the inedible dessert on a nearby plate flipped over.

Both pairs of eyes in the room stared at it in silence, Cloud approaching with caution like what was sitting there was a Behemoth about to jump up and eat both of them whole whilst minding the puddle of broth, veggies and meat on the floor. He then stood next to the creator of the ‘food’ and stared it down. Roasted darker than his outfit, the smell was absolutely unappetizing and nothing looked appealing about it at all. It even took he blond a bit to figure out that there were apple slices mixed into the darkness, swallowed by it like stars during a cloudy night sky.

“Well… not that it was satisfactory, anyway.” Genesis admitted in defeat, much to Cloud’s surprise, although his ego must have been knocked down a few from their earlier confrontation. He might even go as far and claim he saw the slightest, embarrassed blush tinting the ex-SOLDIER’s pale cheeks, though mentioning it would only result in more than just a pancake ending up scorched.

“How the hell did you survive this long?”, Cloud asked with a wrinkled nose.”

“Thank you for your, as always, comforting words.”

“And what do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. It’s-”, Genesis took a deep breath, tightening his ponytail by dividing it into two strings in his hands and pulling, “There was never a need for me to learn how to cook. As a child, we had someone that cooked for us, and when I went to Midgar I first lived off of cafeteria food.. which I, eventually, resented and blatantly refused to eat. Then it was takeout, mostly, and once we became firsts we got an apartment together, so I had Angeal cooking for me.”

The drop of his name briefly silenced Genesis who still had his leer cast upon the failed attempt of a pancake. His lips thinned and he swallowed dryly, hands placed flat on the surface of the workspace. He exhaled a breath through his nose and his shoulders twitched weakly in a half-chuckle. “‘You’ll stay out of the kitchen when I’m cooking. You’re banned from the stove, Gen.’”, Genesis mocked a deeper voice to the best of his abilities, a bittersweet smile curling on his lips, “Sugar sweet, no? I never needed to learn how to make anything for myself. It was a thing I had done for me, and people never minded, either.”

“Not that that would have gotten me to start learning.” He added after another few seconds filled with nothing but the mechanical whirring of the fridge a few feet away from them. “Angeal, he uh… He loved cooking, but baking even more. The pie he made was to kill for, and whenever he made it, I would sit there and watch. Talk to him, sometimes even help. Providing he let me, that is.”

Finally, he looked up again and turned his head to look at the other swordsman. “No matter what I will make, it won’t live up to what he did.”, his head then hung low once more, “Nor would it satisfy him.” The normally so confident and boasting voice, teasing and preaching highly poetic metaphors nobody but him understood, grew lower in volume, quieter with every word vocalized and brought to live by it, although it sounded dead, unenthusiastic. It wasn’t a voice that fit Genesis.

“Or me.” His hands visibly gripped the edges of the big table harder, like he was trying to ground himself so he wouldn’t fall into a void that existed to eat him up from the inside, fill him with the worst of what life had to offer. His eyes fell shut, knuckles turning white and his fingers shook ever so slightly until he straightened his posture to one that equaled that of a candle and let out a shaky breath between agape lips, mismatching eyes fluttering open again. “I should clean this up now. Don’t you have a delivery to fulfill, hm?” Genesis ushered, his intent to get Cloud out and not show any more weakness than what just occurred beyond noticeable. It went under his skin, let the hair on the back of his neck rise and spread goosebumps across his arms.

It was… so damn depressing to witness.

“Ah. Ah- yeah, right.” Cloud reminded himself and reaches for the PHS in his pocket, flipping it open to check the time. He had a few more minutes. Watching Genesis move to a cabinet where a few kitchen towels were stored from the corner of his eye, the blond warrior pocketed his phone again, ran a hand through his artfully spiked hair, took a deep breath that let his chest puff out, counted his blessings and took off a glove with his teeth to grab the round little mistake sprawled out on the plate. Leather glove dropped in his lowered hand once it returned from brushing back the sunny mess on his head, he made sure the golden-brown side was the one facing the floor and placed it against his lips. He swallowed, opened his mouth and took a generous bite.

The first few times of chewing were experimental, eyebrows knitted together and eyes nearly pinched shut, though he discovered that keeping the part which wasn’t tainted by the lord of the Underworld and all evil himself judging by the pitch blackness trademarking it did make it a lot more bearable. Whenever some of the burnt bit brushed over his tongue he just gave it his best to swallow that piece, his tastebuds welcoming the sweet flavor of the apples dancing over it whenever he was lucky to have some in his mouth the more bites he took.

Two down, about two or another three to go. It wouldn’t be a chore to eat it if it weren’t for the burnt side, he had to admit, so Tifa wasn’t lying when she said he improved and was indeed a fast learner.

“You’re insane, Strife.”

Cloud nearly choked on the load of pancake occupying his mouth the moment Genesis caught him forcing down the food. He cleared his throat and properly swallowed what was left on his tongue. He ‘tch’ed, glaring at the dessert like it was his worst enemy. “I didn’t eat anything yet today’s all. Don’t want Tifa to get on my ass for not eating again.” “And how would she know?” “She… just does- you should be glad I’m making what she’ll say to you less worse.” The sunny haired man silenced himself by ripping another huge piece out off the pancake, so much it only left one last bite instead of a possible three. Although his angles eyebrows raised into a less hostile expression when he saw the slightest bit of a smile growing on the auburnet’s plush cherry lips. He stopped chewing for just a moment, taking in- no, admiring what he did by refusing to let someone sulk and keep self loathing. “Get out, or I’ll tell Tifa all of what just occurred was your and only your fault.”

Cloud playfully rolled his eyes, though did as told and moved towards the door, no intentions of a further exchange made- not on his side, at least. “Oh, also-”, he was stopped by Genesis speaking up once more, coming to an abrupt halt and half turning around, “You should pay me a visit when I am on cooking duty again sometime, maybe I have more blissfully tasting food for you to devour.”

Cloud snorted, “No promises.”

“Don’t you speak to me with a full mouth, learn some manners.”, Genesis retorted with a playful hum before truly dismissing the other with a flamboyant wave of the hand that didn’t hold a soup-soaked towel.

This time truly exiting, Cloud pushed the last small bite of the pancake into his mouth and chewed with stuffed cheeks, hands returning to his pockets as he eyed the bar counter where the delivery was stored. Forcing down the rest of the half-bitter-half-sweet mistake, he glanced over his shoulder one last time to see Tifa hurriedly moving into the kitchen. He exhaled in amusement at the distant chatter coming from behind the door swaying door before it fell shut completely and blocked out the conversation though. Cloud moved behind the bar to crouch down and grab the package that needed to be driven to Junon and set on his way out of the warm and cozy confinement to let the cold air hit him full on.

Genesis sounded more like himself again, he noted.

[silence-burns]

No Place Like Here (Except For a Few Taverns) //part 8 (epilogue)

Fandom: The Witcher

Summary: Life on the road is never easy for a lone witcher, but it would get significantly easier if he didn’t have two idiots following his every step. 

One might think that killing a harpy was as bad as it could get, but the unspoken truth was actually that selling its head was way more difficult. 

Jaskier strummed his lute from the height of his horse to both yours and the horse's dismay. You had to wait for Geralt while he dealt with the business of getting his promised money, and as time passed in front of the withering house at the end of the muddy road, the boredom, along with the sun, rose.

You were sitting on the fence, fanning Jaskier's hat in hopes of chilling the air at least a little bit. Roach feasted on the grass on the other side of the fence. You hadn’t noticed when she got there. She refused to share any answers. 

"Do you think we'll get enough money at least for a beer?" you asked the artist and his suffering horse. The horse only snorted, pulling its ears back and considering throwing its rider to the ground. The artist shrugged. 

"They've been at it for at least half an hour by now. Either they're still arguing, which gives hope for at least a few coins, or Geralt's in the middle of skinning them alive, which results in more coins." 

"Maybe we could get another job," you mused, looking around. 

The sun had already parched wide spots of grass, painting it unhealthy shades of dried yellow. The few trees sticking out in between the houses didn't look much better. A few of them used to bear fruit, but the drought and hunger among the people took them all already. If the rains didn't come soon, the crops wouldn't suffice to feed the villagers. 

The fields on the other side of the fence were a sad thing to look at. Roach was skimming on the bordering patch of thin grass, but the rest didn't look any more promising. Whatever problems the village might have, they were all focused on the prospect of famine. Not many would care to spare any coin to a witcher. 

"Maybe you could play at a wedding? Or a funeral, if need be." 

"Do you see anyone interested in that?" Jaskier gestured to the empty village. "Because I can't see a living soul here. Everyone's roaming the forest and hoping to stack enough food to survive another day. They won't have anything to pay with, even food." 

You winced. That was true. "Looks like we'll have to hit the road again. There's another village, two days down the road…" 

The melody coming from under Jaskier's fingers ended abruptly. You frowned, not expecting him to have any objections, but in the next moment you noticed the reason behind his growing smile. 

Further down the road, coming from the direction you followed earlier, came the merry chatter of voices accompanied by instruments of varied sort. 

You groaned when the colorful crew strodded through the village, their voices booming over the empty houses.

"I know them!" Jaskier squealed and turned his horse towards the newcomers. 

Geralt walked out of the building the moment the bard was enveloped in a hug and drowned in questions.

"More bards?" Geralt groaned and walked to the fence next to you.

"Looks like it. Unless they kill monsters with those flutes."

"Last thing we need is more bards."

"And the first thing we need is some coins. How do we stand on that?"

Geralt pulled an uneasy face. You noticed his knuckles were suspiciously red.

"I'm afraid we have more bards than coins. The bastards here were not completely honest about the funds in their possession." 

Your growling stomach deemed it unfortunate. 

"Maybe we'll have more luck in the city. When do we move on?" 

Geralt eyed the bards booming with laughter, Jaskier's face flushed and more alive than it'd been in weeks. 

As if Jaskier could sense the witcher's eyes on him, he rode back, fidgeting in his saddle. "Geralt, please, can we ride with Crokus for a while? I haven't seen him in ages and we're going in the same direction anyway, so…" 

"Wait, you've got friends? Like, actual friends?" you stopped him. 

"Of course I do!" 

"He does," said the blonde man coming closer. "Although it surprises me too sometimes. My name is Crokus, nice to meet you both. I've heard tales of your adventures, I wish I had such a company with me." 

Geralt eyed the outstretched hand as if it was a viper. He didn't move, but the muscles under the tight leather seemed to tense. 

You slipped in closer on the fence, flashing your brightest smile. "And I've heard a lot about the food and drinks that never leaves a troupe of bards."

"Oh, we have something special reserved for the evening, once we make camp. You should join us!" 

"We'd be delighted." 

The road welcomed you, dust rising beneath the horse's hooves. Following the musicians at a distance sufficient to retain one's sanity, Geralt couldn't stop from glaring at you from the height of the Roach. 

"What?" you snapped at last, as the sky darkened and mosquitos began their hunt. "I was hungry. Still am." 

"We still have some cheese left." 

"You mean the one I couldn't crunch even with my shoe? Thanks, Geralt, but I think I'll try whatever they have." 

"You know there won't be much sleep tonight, though? They are only getting started." 

The bards didn't break off their singing even in the saddles, their merry crew's voices sang clear, and their melodies changed every few notes—showing off to one another. You shrugged. 

"Probably, but it's not like we're joining them for good. Unless you want to change your sword for a lute, which, by the way, I'd pay to see. But other than that, we'll part ways tomorrow anyway, so let Jaskier have his fun for now. He had a difficult past few days," you said. then laughed, remembering the circumstances that led to losing both of Jaskier's shoes. 

"He is having fun," Geralt nodded. "What if he chooses to stay with them?" 

"Well," you said, toying with the reins. "Last time I checked, he was a big boy, usually capable of making his own decisions. Besides, we often part ways and then stumble into each other again. Such is life." 

"Hmm," Geralt said. Roach agreed with a soft neigh. 

Their moods didn't change when the camp settled and the sky was overrun by the stars. Geralt stayed gloomy even when the fire rose high and cast flickering shadows over the figures dancing around it to the fast music sinking into your weary bones. You couldn't stop your foot from twitching slightly to the music and songs as you laid wrapped into a blanket, your cheek pressed into Geralt's arm. 

You watched through heavy lids as Jaskier danced on the grass, his feet bare, and his smile unfaltering as he let the celebrations consume him whole. Crokus was always a step next to him, and his companions swirled around them, never losing their footing. Despite the hour growing late, no signs of stopping could be seen.

You felt Geralt yawn soundlessly. His hand stroked your back and arm and occasionally swiped at the bloodthirsty mosquitoes. 

"He's happy," you whispered into the dark leather. 

"He is." 

There was something in that voice that left room for more words, but they didn't make it to you in time. Somehow, before you noticed, the other voices lulled you to sleep, leading you through colorful swirls of half-made concepts. 

The morning rose a few hours later. Jaskier didn't, engulfed in whatever dreams he had on Geralt's lap, clutching the black leathers. There was a serene expression on his face, undisturbed by the rays of sunshine. 

Crokus and his merry band were in better shape. They had already gathered around the remnants of the fire and prepared breakfast. 

You turned your head to see Geralt already awake. He watched the troupe with a neutral expression, but his hand was on Jaskier's back. 

The road through the forest took you most of the next day and ended way quicker than you thought. It opened onto a city circled with a stone wall, very effective for whatever usually crawled out of the forest at night. Geralt grew even more silent as you cleared the city gates, the bards exchanging warm welcomes with the guards. 

The gates were followed by a rather large area, usually used by the vendors to showcase their goods of various sorts and dubious origins, but they were already packed for the night, leaving enough space to stop the horses. The inevitable came. 

"The journey was most pleasant thanks to your company, friends," Crokus smiled. 

"The pleasure is ours," you said. Geralt was a mute figure somewhere to your right. 

"Take care of yourself," you addressed Jaskier, currently exchanging some notes with one of the other bards. 

He frowned. "Why? Aren't you going to do this anymore?" 

"I thought you'd stay with..." 

The bards laughed, their beautiful voices falling into a melodious chorus. "That wouldn't be wise." 

"Some friendships are best honed from a distance," Crokus explained, turning his horse to the left. 

Jaskier nodded as if it was an obvious truth to every bard. He watched the band disappear into the street, the hooves of their horses echoing off the buildings. 

"So… You aren't really friends," you said. 

"Of course we are!" Jaskier exclaimed with dramatic outrage, but its effect was lost as he clutched the notes to his chest like a mother and her newborn child. "Some bonds are just too great to—" 

"I think that your ego just wouldn't survive that company for long," you laughed. The expression on his face was answer enough.

"Let's go, the night is near," was the first thing Geralt said in a while. He turned Roach in the right direction. You might not have been able to see his face, but the invisible weight seemed to be lifted from his shoulders. 

"I know a perfectly good tavern, right around that corner." Jaskier rode up, continuing to babble about the notes he received from his friend. 

The sun bathed everything in warm reds and yellows, making the picture of the bard and witcher in front of you resemble a painting. You smiled and gently kicked your horse to follow them.

*

A/N: Hope you enjoyed this chapter :D Something might come to an end, but don’t worry, the merry group will be back soon with another adventure, in a separate mini-series! (it’ll be called “Don’t Trust The Chicken”)

[nsr-scrapped-records]

Bad timed question: if you could give a few of the objects in our solar system personalities, what would you give them?

Okay I'm gon

I'm gon

Mercury - energetic little procastinator who's really lonely. Mercury's orbit is really close and dangerous. Skimming around the due dated and deadlines and rushing through them. At the same time, zey don't care about getting things perfect. The orbit has the highest eccentricity of our planets, once beat by pluto. Zeir work reflects it, but Zey don't try to do this. There are no friendships in Zeir life, none outside the main orbits. Mercury has no moons. Zey aren't stupid, and the procrastination has lead zem to teaching zemself how to read and do simple math (up to 3x2 multiplication) in zeir head really quick. Zey live on caffeine. Mercury goes the fastest out of all orbits, so it doesnt crash into the fucking sun

Venus - Perfection. Untouchable. Ego. Alone. Scared. Hiding. At the same time being close with the others but distanced. His makeup game is off the charts, and its heavily used, covering up anything he deems an imperfection or off. They always bundle up throughout the year, wearing their coats in weather others find unbearable. Venus' atmospheric pressure is 93 bar, comparable to 900m below the ocean, is on average 743k, and we cannot see the surface. There are two images of Venus. One that he let's everyone else see. Beauty. Perfection. Comparable to his name sake. Loving all those around him. But there's a distance to their words, their actions, their tones and emotions. There's a rigidness beneath it. A distance. Venus has no signs of tectonic plate movement, which means it holds much of its formation heat, and has no moons. He is much like a star. Burning brightly. Showing off a glorious side. But the fire is burning him up inside and out. Too afraid to be cast aside, for everyone is stuck looking out away from the solar system. Away from him. Might as well hold their gaze as long as he can.

Earth has a huge ego. Everything is centered about Earth. Earth. Earth. Earth. Geocentric beliefs, geocentric everything. Earth first, earth is the one doing everything Earth is the one getting out there.very annoying ego.

Pluto. Little, bitty, inconsequential pluto.... who doesn't Care. Of COURSE it doesnt care. Why would it CARE what ONE planet thinks of it? It has a partner, unlike every other planet. Technically, Pluto is in a binary orbit with Charon. It also forges it's own path among the stars, though it enjoys meeting up with the other from time to time. Pluto's orbit is heavily tilted compared to the other planets. A good friend to have around but constantly on the move

[fckinsupreme]

Camp redwood opens again in 2020 and it just so happens that a certain counsellor catches Xavier's eye, so much so he might not want to let her go. The only thing that's sparked any sort of emotion other than longing for almost 40 years..

There she goes again. Walking along as if she didn’t know what was doing to him, her hips swaying, her eyes cast straight ahead instead of where he was standing. She had been on Xavier’s radar from the moment she arrived, the crew arriving several days early to help prepare for the grand reopening of Camp Redwood. There was a lot to clean up and a lot to do, and Xavier couldn’t help but feel a strong sense of deja-vu. But hopefully now, with Margaret’s ghost in check and Jingles & Ramirez no longer terrorizing anyone, it would be different than his own experience.

Y/N was the hottest of the counselors, without question. As was the case with his own group, most counselors were male, with Y/N being one of three girls. The other girls weren’t Xavier’s type, and he gave them as little thought as he would the ground beneath his feet. But Y/N…she was /the one/. They met the first night she arrived, after he caught her lurking around the woods in search of her hook-up—a burly counselor with a small dick and an even smaller, more fragile ego. Xavier made sure it didn’t happen, inviting her to the dock to watch the ducks in the moonlight. She hadn’t a clue who he was, had no idea that he was a victim in the 1984 massacre and was now a spirit tethered to the land for eternity. Maybe she would run away screaming if she knew, although she didn’t seem the type. Or maybe she would steer clear of him and never want to associate with him for the entirety of the summer.

But goddammit, he felt something for her. He had to have her; she was the /only/ thing that made him feel anything in the last thirty-six years. Ever since he died, all there had been was sadness, anger, bitterness, darkness. Seeing her, listening to that adorable laugh, witnessing the beautiful smile on her lips that he had caused, made him feel happy and like he was /alive/ again.

The way he saw it, she was the beauty and he was the beast. He wasn’t going to stay away, though. Quite the contrary, he was going to /get her/, no matter what it took. He knew summer would end too quickly and he would likely never see her again, and the thought filled him with such dread and rage that it almost consumed him. He couldn’t let it happen. He couldn’t let her just get away from him. It was still so early, he could get to her and see if she would fall for him enough to stay here with him forever. But no, that was foolish; surely she had family, people who would miss her. Xavier didn’t have that luxury, since his friends were the only people he had and they had died here with him.

But Y/N would have him, if no one else.

He watches her as she reaches the dock, scanning the water for any signs of the other counselors. He observes her form as she moves, the swell of her ass, the way her legs are bared in her shorts, her (h/c) hair blowing in the breeze. Xavier decides to come out of hiding when she makes her way back, stepping out into the path. She jumps when she sees him, her hand landing on her chest as she grins at him.

“You scared me to death,” she says, breathing in relief. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d come check on you,” Xavier says, taking a step closer to her. “See how you’re adjusting. The kids are coming tomorrow, I hear.”

“Yeah,” she replies, chuckling a bit. “Yeah, tomorrow morning. I’ve been going crazy, trying to find the others to get the last-minute preparations underway. They’re too occupied with sex and with the ghost stories to get anything done.”

Xavier’s blood runs cold, a heavy weight like lead in his stomach. “Ghost stories?”

“About the massacres,” she says. “The one in ‘70 and the other in ‘84. Plus, the other stuff that happened in ‘89.”

“Right,” Xavier says, swallowing thickly. “Yeah, yeah. I…Yeah.”

“Are you okay?” she asks with a frown. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m okay,” he assures, backing you up against a thick tree. “I’ve never been better.”

She meets his eyes, and Xavier swears he can feel his heart jumping in his chest. Funny, considering that he wasn’t even alive and hadn’t felt such a thing in nearly forty years. He can’t look away, slowly leaning forward with his eyes on her lips. She doesn’t pull away or push him off, instead moving forward as well to meet him halfway. When their lips touch, it only solidifies the belief that Xavier can’t ever let her go. There was no way he was letting it happen. Sparks seem to shoot through his whole body, and he feels absolutely invincible. He feels as though he could just walk right out of this camp, to the world beyond, with its various changes and shitty music. None of that mattered to him, anyway; the only thing that did was right here, her lips against his and her arms wound around his shoulders.

He deepens the kiss, and is delighted to see that she does the same. She isn’t resisting, isn’t making some kind of excuse to leave. She wanted this every bit as much as he did, and he decides to try something just to see. As the kiss grows more hungry and messy, Xavier’s hand creeps under her tanktop to cradle her breast. She doesn’t stop him, instead moaning against his mouth as she presses his hand more firmly against her skin.

“Shit,” she gasps, her head tipped against the tree as he rolls the nipple between his fingers. “Xavier…”

“No bra?” he asks with an amused grin. “You’re brave.”

“I was gonna—fucking /God/,” she moans, Xavier’s fingers rubbing the nipple in slow, featherlight circles.

“Gonna what?” he asks smugly. “I didn’t catch that last part.”

“Doesn’t matter now,” she says, yanking him down for a harder, more passionate kiss as both of his hands rest over her tits.

He doesn’t question her further. How could he now, when her tongue was swiping his in that needy way of hers? Her nipples were hard and erect under his palms, and he could feel his dick growing harder with every little pant she made, every little rut of her body, every swipe of her tongue. He tugs her shirt up, and she helps him take it off. It lands in a nearby bush, scaring away a bird that was perched there. It flies off, chirping angrily, taking refuge in a distant tree.

“We’re gonna get caught out here,” she pants when he pulls back to kiss over her soft neck. She smells like flowers and candy, her pulse beating against his lips as he kisses along her carotid. “I could lose my job.”

“We won’t get caught,” Xavier promises, his hand plunging inside of her shorts, two fingers gliding along the front of her panties as she groans hotly. “And if we do, would that be so bad? Your boss doesn’t seem like that much of a hard-ass. Not like m—“

He catches himself, but luckily, she didn’t seem to notice the near slip-up. He moves down to her breasts, pushing them together as he massages his tongue along her nipples. Her hand grips his hair in a tight hold, a beautiful moan spilling from her mouth as he pulls one nipple between his lips. He sucks slowly at first, before gradually going faster, his tongue swirling in rapid circles. She’s looking at him, lust in her eyes as she gets even wetter against his fingers.

“You’re soaked,” he remarks, dropping to his knees in front of her as he tugs her shorts down. “Can I taste you?”

“Please, fuck,” she begs, the sweetest sounds pouring from her lips as his tongue makes contact with her pussy. “/Xavier—/“

“Keep saying my name just fucking like that,” he says. “Fuck, you’re so hot when you say it. Do it again.”

“Xavier,” she whimpers, his fingers spreading her lips as he dives further into her cunt.

Her smell, her taste, makes him absolutely dizzy with emotion, so much that he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling. He didn’t feel this overwhelmed when he was still among the living, so how did this girl, this gorgeous stranger, have this kind of effect on him? He didn’t know, nor did he care to break down the mechanics right now. He was too focused on her, on her amazing, unique taste that coated his tongue with every swipe over her swollen labia. She was loving it, moaning her appreciation with every move he made. He sucks her clit between his lips, his tongue against it as he gives his head a few rapid shakes.

“God fucking dammit,” she whines, her gaze on him as she plays with her tits. “You’re too good at that.”

“Mmm, I know, babe,” he says, sucking on her left lip before flicking his tongue around her entrance.

He keeps it up for several more minutes, until she’s cumming with so much force that her legs nearly give out. He lies her down upon the earth and claims her, fucking her nice and slow when she expresses her desire for him. Her consent only drove him crazier with need, knowing that she truly did want him just as badly as he was wanted her. She’s a goddess, his own Aphrodite, her body so warm and so inviting for him. Her cunt is so tight, so wet, so /perfect/, her face twisted in pleasure as her hands travel all over his body. He wonders if his own is cold, stiff, something so disconcerting that she begins to question it. But if he is, she doesn’t seem to care or pay any mind; he isn’t sure if he’s relieved or disappointed by that.

He kisses her with fervor, conveying every ounce of passion for her into that one small action. He knows even a kiss would never be enough, not even intimacy on this level would be. He wants her like this for all time, wants her body and her soul and everything in between. How could he even turn his back on her? How could he let her get away?

He had to tell her the truth.

It was a realization so sudden and so horrid that he almost stops fucking her right there. Instead he increases the speed & force of his thrusts, throwing her legs over his waist so that he can pound directly into her G-spot. This brings a whole new slew of responses from her, her mouth open in a perfect O-shape, her nails tearing at his skin, drawing blood from shallow scratches that would soon heal before she ever noticed. The noises she made cause his cock to twitch, and he knows he’s dangerously close.

“Y/N,” he pants. “Cum with me, baby.”

He kisses over her neck and collarbones, her eyes squeezed shut as he leaves hickey after hickey on her skin. She cums at the same time he does, their names echoing through the woods, the sweet sounds they both made more melodic than birdsong. He can’t pull out yet, still connected to her, not wanting this moment to end. Not wanting her to leave him when the truth spilled from his kiss-swollen, saliva-coated lips.

“Y/N…” he gasps, his forehead pressed to hers as he tries not to cry. “There’s…There’s something I need to tell you.”

—

Baby tags: @littledemondani @wroteclassicaly @angel-langdon @my-thoughts-and-prayers @thorohdamnson @lvngdvns @leatherduncan @xavierplym @mrsplympton @xavierplymptons @littlegirlsdontplaynice @xaviersghost @codyfernmorelikedaddyfern @wickedlangdon @melodylangdon

[timeforelfnonsense]

Unconventional

Astarion x Dafni || G || Previous Story Chronologically (not necessary but might fill in some gaps) || Ao3 || Sunshine & Starlight: My on going bg3 series  

The low fire crackled and popped as it consumed more of its kindling into ash. Dafni idly ran her finger along the chipped rim of the ceramic mug clasped firmly in her hand. She prodded the slice of venison on her plate with her two-pronged fork, translucent red juices trickling out from the small puncture. A frown tugged at her mouth, as her mother’s voice rang in her ears.

Don’t play with your food dear, it’s impolite.

Dafni sighed, popping a portion of the meat into her mouth. She found the rich, earthy taste of deer flesh pleasant enough. There was a gameyness to wild-caught meat she’d missed in the city. It lent itself well to the simplicity of rosemary and salt Gale had prepared it in.

“This is very good Gale,” she said between bites, “Deer can be a difficult meat.”

The wizard grinned bowing his head ever so slightly in thanks, “That’s kind of you, Dafni. I’ve always enjoyed cooking! Though, I have to admit my skills are more suited for a kitchen than a campfire.”

Dafni rather liked Gale. He was the sort of man who might have visited her mother’s tower seeking knowledge. If she closed her eyes she could picture him on the steps of Laurel chatting with Leto and Theia as the younger of Thesmia’s daughter hid away in an alcove tittering and blushing like little roses over his handsome face and magical skill. Polymnia in particular would have been taken with Gale. The lovely alseid had a soft spot for human men. Especially those with a quick wit and keen mind. Perhaps she’d introduce them when this was all over?

As the thought crossed her mind, it occurred to Dafni that Gale might not be on the market. She hadn’t thought to ask him- or any of her new friends for that matter if they had anyone who might be consumed with lovelorn worry by their disappearances.

Normally the romantic entanglements of those around here were among her favorite topics of discussion. She had always enjoyed listening to the trials and joys of her patients’ courtships in the city. When she’d lived among her own people, the wood elves too for that matter- love and sex had been discussed free and open. She’d found that city folk were, all too often, needlessly sheepish when it came to such topics.

“So, do you have loves waiting for you once this is all over?” Astarion asked in an airy, casual voice. A mirthful glimmer in his red eyes as he tossed his untouched serving of venison to Scratch. Dafni wondered if perhaps her own thoughts had bled into his head via their tadpoles or if Astarion was simply as curious as she was.

“You know what -” Gale responded, his brows stitching, “that is not the easiest of questions for me to answer.”

Drat!

So much for setting him up with Poly.

“You mean just waiting, like a love-sick puppy?” Shadowheart let out a judgmental huff, her pale gray-green eyes rolling as she spoke, “Short-term amusements are much less hassle. Do you have someone waiting for you in Baldur’s Gate, Astarion? A sweetheart perhaps?”

Dafni’s hands went clammy the moment Shadowheart’s words fell from her lips. Dafni had the unfortunate habit of finding herself enraptured with all sorts of eye-catching creatures, and mysterious, cheeky Astarion’s almost kiss had cast firmly him in the role of the leading lord in her girlish daydreams.

Bracing herself for what felt like an inevitable bruise- not only to her ego but her tender heart, she risked a quick peek at him through the little plume of steam forming above her cup. His long legs were casually outstretched, his elbow propped on the fallen tree behind him as if he were draped across a fine chaise lounge rather than earth and vegetation. He ran his hand through that perfect coif of soft, ivory curls. The cool, silvery light of the moon almost shimmered across his fair complexion. He had truly been blessed with the aloof, dreamy, beauty of Sehanine Moonbow. An incandescent majesty demanding admiration and awe.

“Not one in particular.” Astarion said with a coy shrug of his shoulders, “The city is a veritable feast of sweethearts.”

Dafni hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath until the lungs full of relief came whooshing out of her. While she was, in part, pleased to know there was no one of romantic significance in his life for her to contend with, his response had still left her a bit disheartened.

If he took such little issue with rake-ish behavior, why pull away from her kiss?

Dafni worried the fraying edge of her sleeve as she nibbled her lower lip. She felt a familiar tenderness in her chest. The same ache she’d felt as she watched each of her sisters be asked for dances of turns about the garden by the lords and ladies of the Summer Court during countless Seelie Soirées. Despite her outgoing nature and sunny disposition, those around her had always seemed determined to exile her to wallflowerdome.

“You must be eager to get back then. Slimmer pickings out in this wilderness.”

I think the pickings are just fine, thank you very much!

Dafni’s nose crinkled, a sour, resentful glare taking form across her face. She  knew  Shadowheart’s comment wasn’t intended as a dig but it felt like one nonetheless.

She’d always felt babyish compared to her beautiful older sisters. They were the kind of poised and lovely women folk expected the elves and nymphs of Faerie to be. Tall, slender ladies with a wild fey beauty that was nearly impossible to resist. In contrast, Dafni was petite in stature and plump in shape. She’d stopped aging physically sometime in her early 20s leaving her heart-shaped face with a trimming of eternal baby fat.

While she’d come into her own by no small measure whilst living among the wandering wood elves of Lylarth Forest. She could tease and tempt with the best of them and she’d had her share of dalliances in the last half-century. Even so, the ghost of the girl, sat pouting in the corner while her lovelier, more worldly sisters made merry lingered.

“How about you, dear?” Astarion asked tilting his gaze towards Dafni’s sulky figure, “Is there anyone waiting for you back in the city?”  

“Not really, I’d only been in the city for a few months,” Dafni explained. She kept her eyes fixed far away in hopes he wouldn’t see the fluster looming in them. “I don’t know many people in Baldur’s Gate aside from those who frequent my clinic and it wouldn’t be appropriate to pursue any of them. I think the people in my neighborhood found me a bit too… Unconventional for their tastes at any rate.” She tried her best not to sound bitter but there was still a bite to her words. While she’d been practically invisible to her fancies in the feywilds, in Baldur’s Gate she stuck out like a sore thumb. Most of the inhabitants of the lower city had never met a wood elf let alone an eladrin. They simply didn’t know what to make of her otherworldly countenance. Moreover, her own ineptitude when it came to understanding customs and niceties outside of the wilds had solidified her reputation as an eccentric outsider.

“To the hells with being conventional, darling.” Astarion scoffed, “Conventional is just a word tedious, uninteresting people use to justify their own mediocrity.”

His voice had an indignant edge to it. As if he was offended that the rabble of Eastway hadn’t been falling at her feet every time she crossed over her threshold. Dafni tried to fight the rush of heat that crept across the bridge of her nose and full cheeks. It felt good to be seen by someone so dazzling. And Gods, It was endearing to see him so ruffled on her behalf. If only he’d been at all those dreadful parties.

Perhaps he might have asked her for a dance...

Stop that! He’s only being polite, Dafni!  She scolded herself,  Don’t do this! He just admitted to being a heartbreaker, you silly, starry-eyed, ninny!

She tried to banish the cacophonous thumping in her chest. To herd the whimsical yearning into submission. It was no use. With every passing moment, she felt her attraction to him solidify into a full-on fancy. With luck, the feelings would fade in time, as they had with countless conquests before him. Their time together was far from over, so she’d just have to pray disinterest would take hold before she did something  too  embarrassing in an attempt to win him over.

“I’m inclined to echo that sentiment.” Gale’s voice felt like mercy. He had spared her from having to stammer out a reply of her own, “I think you’d be hard-pressed to label any of our number as conventional and I’d wager our chances of surviving these parasites are better for it.”

Gale was right, as usual. Dafni cast a glance across the faces of her new friends. Gale’s intelligence, Criella’s ingenuity, Wyll’s courage, Shaowheart’s wit, Lae’zel’s metal, Astarion’s charm. Each of them outlandish and remarkable in their own way. Their quirks and eccentricities made them the people they were. Despite the squabbling, despite the clashing personalities, she was glad to have them.

[rainbowstrashpile]

Hypocrisy of Cathedrals pt. 1

I posted a rough preview of this but here is the finished first chapter. Nothing actually sexual yet, so if you wanna just read this as a creepy oneshot feel free.

Warnings: emotional manipulation, coercion, ableism, cruelty, future dubcon, and just Prime being a dick to the entire universe.

Word count: 3,094

"Prime has had few hobbies that held his interest over the centuries, but there is one that always brings him pleasure: breaking things down. Opening them up. Seeing how they work. To lay something bare and dissect it, to study all of its parts with the greatest of scrutiny while it thrashed and squirmed will always be amusing. This new planet may hold delights untold, and the anticipation only makes it that much sweeter. He will wait, just a bit, before he sinks the first claw into it, virgin territory yielding and unfolding before his might.

Yes, he will have Etheria, just as he has had everything else in the universe. But before the main course, there must be h’orderves. And he has the most interesting of treats awaiting him. Something with which to bide his time. His defective brother, so desperate to return to his embrace, will be fun to take apart as well."

                                                    Confession

The universe is governed by very little. For the most part, it is matter gravitating towards matter. Particles coalescing. Becoming. Morphing and igniting and compounding into stars and planets, nebulae and meteors, burning screaming spinning rupturing crashing uncontrolled. Chaotic. Messy.

Truly, this cacophony is something to be despised as the things it gives rise to are horrendous. Planets laid to waste by dying stars, their surfaces now an irradiated husk. Solar systems devoured by a star's gravity, their mass so great they pull everything around them down into their flames. Planets so hot that they rain glass; billions of tiny knives ripping through the atmosphere. Hostile, horrible, useless.

But the worst of all is life. Seething, crawling, oozing masses all loudly clambering for more more  more , their hunger unending. For eons, he has watched what other life forms are capable of, and he has found them lacking.

Prime has come to live by a rigid philosophy. Curated over the millennia and refined down to a simple fact: to want is a crime. A cardinal sin. Wanting leads to greed; to covetous desire, then to war. Endless, senseless violence where there is no true winner. The only prizes gained were loss and suffering. It was exhausting, really, that most beings were too unevolved to grasp this, too simple in their mindset to realize they themselves were the root of their problems. Wasn’t it better then, that the universe be governed by order rather than chaos? Guided by a deft, firm hand as opposed to the mindless greed of the inhabitants? Too wanton and wasteful for their own good, consuming everything around them. Instead, Prime would provide all that was needed. Prime would bring peace and enlightenment to the unwashed masses. In turn the only thing they should desire was his approval, his love.

Just like his little brothers. Tailor made little life forms, never fussing or struggling against his doctrine; always reverent and obedient. All of them together working in perfect unison. Their small thoughts a happy, thrumming buzz in the back of his mind at all times. How glad they were, to have such great purpose. How thankful they were, to be allowed to bask in his light. What could be better than serving the one who had created order in the universe at last?

Attending to the one who had brought enlightenment and civilization to countless lives, despite the primitives kicking and screaming the whole way. His work is exhausting, and at times even frustrating, but by now he has it down to a science. There's a rhythm to the teaching, an order. A delicate dance of subjugation and indoctrination. They always resist at first, too set in their flawed ways. Generally, they must be crushed completely, their egos broken down to nothing with their kingdoms in flames, in order to finally accept peace and light. But Prime and his brothers are infinite, unyielding. A flawlessly composed missionary melody executed with precision. But then, something discordant happened; a sour note in his otherwise perfect meter. A defect. A mistake. And like all mistakes, he had been cast out.

Prime, in his infinite wisdom and kindness, had tried to send him out with honor. To die on the battlefield with glory in the name of his creator. Instead this defect kneels before him again, a testament of undying loyalty, craven to serve. He has returned from parts unknown, dragging with him not only two other lifeforms, but an entire planet of backward creatures. And what a mess he’d made of this new conquest. A terrible impression of Prime’s divine Horde.  

Poor little thing, trying to lead an army like that. His brothers are simply not meant to lead. They are created only to serve. It’s no surprise that he had done such a terrible job; that he had been manipulated and felled so easily by his subordinates. Lucky for him, Prime is merciful. He is willing to take him back into the fold despite his failings; willing to correct his lowly, animalistic behavior. It seems that, hidden from the light of Prime, even his brothers will become corrupt. For this one wanted  more  than to be a good boy. As if wanting something wasn’t bad enough on its own. This one thought he could be favored. Held on high and beloved above all of his brothers. How selfish, how greedy of him to want more, especially when Prime loves all of his brothers equally. He would have to be reconditioned for that, certainly.

This little brother had to be shown that wanting will only lead to pain. Especially when he had wanted something other than the peace and order Prime had so graciously brought to the universe.

What a strange thing he wanted indeed. Purple hair. Red eyes. Gentle gloved hands. Diminutive. Soft. Despite that, she had been a blur of motion, a wellspring of knowledge and innovation; exuberant and enthusiastic. Her heart so open Little Brother had fallen head first into it.

He had wanted to stay with her. To build a nest for them to tinker away in; two defects hidden from the cleansing light of Prime.

It was only when she was gone did he resume his journey home. But still, his labor should be rewarded. And not just that of the portal, but his missionary work as well. Despite his flaws, this brother had been kind and generous in trying to bring these heathens to Prime's light. To fight for so long in order to return to his side. And in such a sickly state too. Poor defect. His body would collapse, as hard as he may try to be like the others. He would only slow them down, gumming up the works of the machine they worked so hard to maintain. He could be propped up with chemicals, reinforced with outside structures, but try as he might eventually he would fail again.

And yet, it seemed a waste to be rid of him. His time away had done things to him. How interesting this one had become. Deviant, in a way; corrupted by the chaos and want of an uncivilized world. How fascinating it would be to crack his mind open, to lay him bare entirely; to witness the seething mass of imperfection he had become. To see those sins burn away by Prime’s light.

Once his new guests had been settled he would deal with his wayward brother himself.

Prime’s steps echoed in the cold hallways of the Velvet Glove, sterling heels clicking on chrome floors, his stride metronome perfect. He passes the cell holding the little queen, knowing she could hear him but could not see him, and Prime revels in the fear she must feel. Until this moment her universe was a void, an empty dimension with only her world. And now she is here among the stars, so very near their ruler. And she is powerless. Stranded and without her magics. Though he could see no evidence they had served her particularly well thus far.

She could not even stop the defect and his cobbled together army, silly ploy that it had been. If she was frightened of his brother, how fun it would be, to watch her tremble before Prime himself. Though in time, she will come to count herself lucky. He would have snapped her fragile neck had the feline not informed him of her importance. Apparently she’s a piece of a whole, one of a set, and Prime considers himself a bit of a collector.

Mostly though, it is the planet she rules that interests him. A weapon of that caliber would be useful. At the very least, it will be interesting to study. Prime has had few hobbies that were able to hold his interest over the centuries, but there is one that always brings him pleasure: breaking things down. Opening them up. Seeing how they work. To lay something bare and dissect it, to study all of its parts with the greatest of scrutiny and watch it thrash and  squirm will always be amusing. This new planet may hold delights untold, and the anticipation only makes it that much sweeter. He will wait, just a bit, before he sinks the first claw into it, virgin territory yielding and unfolding before his might.

Yes, he will have Etheria, just as he has had everything else in the universe. But before the main course, there must be h’orderves. And he has the most interesting of treats awaiting him. Something with which to bide his time. His defective brother, so desperate to return to his embrace, will be fun to take apart as well.

Prime comes to a stop before another force field, identical to every other in his ship. He taps the middle, his diamond sigil appearing briefly before the wall fades away. The interior of the chamber is unadorned and unfurnished, as its occupant is unworthy of such luxuries. Little Brother looks reasonably penitent, awash in the uranium green and scalpel silver light of the ship. He’s waiting on his knees, hands gripping at the bare flesh of his thighs uselessly; the lines of his body tense,  anxious .

“Welcome home, Little Brother,” Prime drawls, voice bathwater warm as he gazes curiously down at his wayward sibling. There is black smudged thickly around his eyes, and his mouth bears a faint trace of it as well. Even his hair, once pristine white, is now an indigo blue. “I see you’ve deviated from my image,” he says, raising his brow as he looks him over. Cosmetic alteration had never once been allowed in his Horde, and to see one of his brothers fall prey to it irritates him. Prime had made them in his image. Prime selected how they were supposed to look. For this brother to change his appearance was to deny Prime’s sovereignty over him. To deny Prime’s control meant that he had chosen chaos over order. Darkness over light. But he was not yet beyond salvation.

Fear blooms on his brother’s face, and Prime watches, vaguely amused, as the defect stutters out an excuse. “My Lord, it was nothing but a war tactic, I assure you! The natives found this color scheme to be intimidating.”

“Is that so?” Prime asks, secondary eyes rolling around their sockets to focus on his brother. “Was the visage I gave you not intimidating enough?”

Little Brother squirms in his place, eyes darting around the room as he scrambles for an answer. “They found the white and green to be soothing. Peaceful.”

Prime sees this as the excuse that it is, and allows it to amuse him. He has tangled this brother in his own words, and to watch him struggle in the web brings him pleasure. “You seem to misunderstand our goal on a fundamental level then, Little Brother. Did you forget that we are indeed bringing peace to the universe?”

The defect looks down at the polished floor, uselessly clenching the fabric of his dress. “Forgive me, Lord Prime. I was wrong to alter my appearance. Their planet was already mired in unrest, and I did not think they were capable of accepting peace without force or fear.”

“Dear little brother,” Prime says, abandoning the ire and derision in his tone to slip fondness in its place, “I did not create you to think. I designed you and your brothers to obey. It is not surprising that you were so lost without my guiding hand. I suppose it is to be expected that you made so many wrong decisions. It must have been difficult for you, to be all on your own like that. Away from your brothers. Away from  me. ”

Little brother sits up straight now, nodding in agreement. “I was lost without your light to guide me! I suffered every second I was not at your side!”

“Do you believe that you have suffered enough, Little Brother? Enough to deserve forgiveness?”

The defect before him says nothing, and takes to looking at the floor again. There is no right or wrong answer to this question, as it is a fact this brother has suffered quite a bit already. Prime is already willing to take him back into his flock. But he is curious what he will say. He has given the question enough weight that this brother will believe his existence hinges upon the answer.

Finally, he opens his black lined mouth, and hesitantly, he says, “It is not my place to make that decision, my Lord.” It’s a safe answer, because it is not truly an answer, but what the defect thinks he wants to hear. Prime could push him past breaking here. Demand a yes or no answer, and pick apart the flaws in each one. But he has other questions to ask. Other wheels he wants to break him on.

Prime smiles, pleased. “Do you wish for absolution, Little Brother?”

“Yes, Lord Prime.” And he says it in a whisper. Like if he dares speak too loudly everything around him might break, and he will be denied. But Prime is merciful. And he has already made his decision.

“Then unburden yourself of your failures. Starting with that terrible armor,” he purrs out, a cruel promise hidden in the rich notes of his voice. Little Brother’s newly green eyes widen almost imperceptibly and Prime watches as his hands begin to tremble; gnat’s wing flutter under the burning sun of his gaze.

“Why do you hesitate, Little Brother?” And his tone is almost teasing, as if he didn’t know. As if he didn’t see the whole sordid tale played to the bitter end all walled off safe and sound in his mind

The poor thing looks away, pain and shame gouging into his expression. And, in a rare gesture, Prime crouches down to his level, the bend of his body is fluid, graceful; an ironic genuflection. One lone hand, strong and steady, reaches out to grasp his brother’s chin.

Gently, insistently, he turns the defect’s head back, the cold metal claw adorning his index finger digging into tender flesh. “Do not look away from me,” he coos, the ghost of his breath warm and alive against his brother's face. “Now, why do you hesitate to remove that  junk? Are you disobeying my order?”

“Never!” he gasps out, face still cradled in Prime’s hand.

“Then why are you still wearing it?” Prime’s tone is flat, playing at unamused.

“I-I simply do not wish to inflict my defect on you, my Lord. It is unsightly. Not worthy of your eyes.”

“Is that why? I had perhaps thought it had sentimental value,” he says, dragging his finger down his brother's face. Prime’s index claw carefully traces over the ridge of his cheek, the dip of chin. The sharp tip teasing delicate flesh as it runs down his throat, skating over his windpipe in its descent to the empty diamond shaped slot in his armor. The metal of his claw taps against it twice, the click deafening in the silence.

“It means nothing to me!  She  means nothing to me!”

Oh yes, this is what Prime has been waiting for. For his brother to lay bare his sins of his own volition. “She? Pray tell, who is  she ?” he asks. His hand snakes its way back to little brother’s chin, and he holds it firmly in place as their eyes meet, Prime’s gaze unyielding.

“No one.” Little Brother whispers.

“And yet you’ve brought her up unprompted.” Prime drawls, letting his grip fall from his brother’s face.

“She...helped. Design the armor.”

“Couldn’t do it yourself then, Little Brother?” And for many moments, the defect is silent. The weight of his failures crashing down upon him as he kneels before his god. “Speak up, Little Brother.” Prime drawls, prompting his confession.

“I was...too weak, my Lord.”

“How merciful she was then, to take pity on you. Such a fine mind she must have to create something from so little. Tell me, where is she now?” He knows, of course, that this is what will cause him to crumble. He is simply curious about how the pieces will fall.

“She is dead.” And he says it like he’s being choked, barely getting the words past his lips.

“How did she die?” Prime asks casually. “Catra...sent her to die,” Little Brother whispers, forcing the truth out through a throat swollen with grief.

“Why would you allow that?”

“I didn’t!” he screams, slamming both palms down against the floor, the dull thud of flesh against metal thrumming in their ears. “She deceived me! Made me think I had been betrayed!”

“How naive, Little Brother. But, why did you believe her?” And it is a curiosity, that he had allowed the feline to stay after so many missteps. His brother must truly have a soft heart.

“I did not think that...” Little Brother speaks like the words are caught in his throat, like saying them brings him actual pain, “that she would want to...sully herself. By spending time with a defect like me.” He whispers, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes before tumbling down his face, mixing with the cosmetics to make a smeary, sludgy mess.  

“Why do you weep, Little Brother?” Prime tuts, artificial sympathy oozing in his tenor.

“I-I miss her.” The defect’s voice is empty, his whisper a dried out husk of a thing; his heart bled dry from sorrow.

“Poor Little Brother.” Prime cups his face again, the wetness of tears and ruined makeup staining his hands. “This is why the universe needs my light. To make sure tragedies like this do not happen.” His thumbs stroke just above his ears, and the defect’s rheumy eyes widen. “So guileless creatures like yourself do not have to feel such pain. Do you wish for me to take the agony away?” Prime asks, cocking his head slightly. “Please! Take this from me. Cleanse me of this horror!” His wide eyes bloom tears anew, running hot and sticky over Prime’s hands. Oh yes, this brother is well on his way to absolution.

“Then you must unburden yourself of the reminders.” Prime’s eyebrows arch, and the corners of his lips quirk in the slightest of smiles. He lowers his hands from his brother’s face and caresses over the armor he still wears, auxiliary eyes roving over the metal contours. If this one truly wants to be forgiven, to be welcomed back, he must shed any desire he ever had for anything but Prime’s love.

[viciousvisxge]

P I N N E D: P O S T // Click for Details

Is that RODOLPHUS LESTRANGE stepping out into Diagon Alley? Ministry records tell us that they were born on 19 FEBRUARY and are a 40 year old, PURE BLOOD who works as a WIZENGAMOT AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC. Some have said that they can be described as being CHARISMATIC, WELL KEPT & SMOOTH however, they also see themselves as being COLD, MERCILESS & SPITEFUL. Apparently, HE looks a lot like DAVID GANDY, whoever that is, and if they had to pick a side in the war, they would choose to JOIN THE DEATH EATERS.

C H A R A C T E R: S T A T S

FULL NAME: Rodolphus Lestrange

NICKNAME(S): Rod, Lestrange

DATE OF BIRTH: 19 February

NATIONALITY: English

OCCUPATION: Ministry of Magic - Wizengamot

RELIGION: Athiest

GENDER IDENTITY: He/Him

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Pansexual

ETHNICITY: Caucasian

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Married

C H A R A C T E R: D E T A I L S

POSITIVE TRAITS:  Charismatic, Well Kept, Smooth

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Cold, Merciless, Spiteful

PATRONUS: A Snowy Owl: The snowy owl is traditionally thought to possess strong magic and have insight into the future. Snowy owls, like other varieties of owls, represent wisdom, but the white bird also means a transition may be coming.

BOGGART: A Sword: The Boggart would take the form of a sword. It seems odd to most, but it represents falling on a sword. Whether it’s losing his family, losing the war or dissapointing those who look up to him. Pride and ego hold a large place in Rodolphus’ heart and loosing that means losing everything. When casting the Riddikulus charm, the sword would turn into a serpent that he could order away.

WAND TYPE: Length: 13.5” Wood: Redwood, rigid, . Wand-quality redwood is in short supply, yet constant demand, due to its reputation for bringing good fortune to its owner. As is usually the case with wandlore, the general populace have the truth back to front: redwood wands are not themselves lucky, but are strongly attracted to witches and wizards who already possess the admirable ability to fall on their feet, to make the right choice, to snatch advantage from catastrophe. The combination of such a witch or wizard with a redwood wand is always intriguing. Core: Dragon Heartstring. As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner. The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental

C H A R A C T E R: A P P E A R A N C E

FACE CLAIM: David Gandy

HEIGHT: 6′3

WEIGHT: 220lbs

HAIR COLOR: Black

EYE COLOR: Ice Blue

DOMINANT HAND: Right

SCARS: Left Eyebrow

TATTOOS: Rodolphus has ink covering the top of both his hands. It’s full coverage that reaches his top knuckles, with letters one each finger in the space between top and middle knuckles. There’s a rose with the stem tattooed down the length of each thumb, one for his father and one for his mother. The family crest is woven into an intricate design on his right hand and the names of Rabastan, Rosemary and Bellatrix are woven into the left along with a depiction of a wild wolf for Fenrir. Those he cares for the most. For now, the tattoos reach the top of his wrist but will eventually spread to full sleeves on both sides.

PIERCINGS: N/A

C H A R A C T E R: B A C K G R O U N D

HOMETOWN: London, England

CURRENT RESIDENCE: London, England

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

EDUCATION LEVEL: Hogwarts

C H A R A C T E R: D O S S I E R

There are few wizards Death Eaters fear as much as they do Voldemort… Rodolphus Lestrange is one of them. He may not be among the same caliber as Voldemort and Dumbledore but his mean streak rivaled that of the Dark Lord. He instilled fear into his victims long before allowing them the mercy of death and even then, it was slow and excruciating. It is for that reason, and the trust the Dark Lord has in him that placed him as the Leader of the Death Eaters, he answers only to their Lord. He holds the respect of those in the Rebellion, whether it be by fear, envy or mutual appreciation- he doesn’t care, they know better than to go against his orders. In a time of such turbulence, insolence will not be tolerated. If they wanted to win this war, tightening their ranks was the only course of action.

[leothelionsaysgrrrr]

🌹🍁🌿🌾🌺 for Silver and Rexus.

🌹 Where in the world does your OC feel most at home? Is there any reason why? If it’s not the place they were born, where were they born? Is there a certain somebody that makes them feel at home where ever they may be? What does home mean to them?

The answer is actually the same for both of them, though it takes some time before the reason is the same: The Ivory Oasis, the upscale pleasure house where Silver works. It’s a brothel, yes, but the whole point of the place is to be ridiculously comfortable. It’s lavishly furnished and impeccably maintained, and boasts a luxurious bathhouse, a natural hot spring, a beautiful courtyard with a pool, any and everything anyone could ever want to relax. The culture there is all about looking out for and taking care of each other - it’s meant to be an oasis for the workers as well as the clients. Alba, the madam, has a bit of a soft spot for taking in strays and giving them work and a free place to live and free food and access to all the nice things about the place, and both Silver and Rexus have been those strays at one point or another.

(Under the cut because I have feelings about this)

Silver - then known by his real name, Adrian - came to Minrathous from his hometown in eastern Tevinter (near Carastes) when he was 18. His father cast him and his mother out after his linea sanguinis - a coming-of-age thing for Tevinter nobles that involves what’s basically a blood magic paternity test, and is QUITE embarrassing if you were unaware that your kid is not really your kid - and rather than stay with his mother he chose to go to Minrathous on his own. None of his plans for what to do when he got there panned out, so he ended up on the streets for some time until one of the Oasis’s courtesans, Aularia, brought him there and convinced Alba to take him in.

Rexus, meanwhile, born and raised in Minrathous, was the legitimate son of noble parents, but to his father’s great dismay never manifested magic. He first came to the Oasis as a client, though he knew and had been assisted by Alba before during his own post-disowning time on the streets. Though he befriended Silver shortly after the latter became a courtesan and became an almost controversially frequent tesseratus (a client personally invited by a courtesan by gifting them special coins unique to that courtesan called tesserae that could be exchanged for their services) Rexus didn’t come to live there until 9:38, when Silver found him drunk and in despair in the Free Marches and brought him back to help with his work smuggling escaped slaves out of the Imperium and make amends for the life he’d lived before.

Silver considers Alba a highly respected and beloved mother figure, but he and Rexus are kind of each other’s person that always feels like home? There are a lot of reasons and most of the time no one really understands what exactly their relationship even is, but it comes down to a lack of pressure to be anything but themselves and just being incredibly comfortable with each other. Even if all they do is to have some drinks and talk shit with each other, it’s like kicking off your shoes at the end of the day and settling down into a cozy chair with your legs flung over the sides. They’re happy, they’re safe, they’re wanted. That’s home to them.

🍁 Where does your OC go when they need to have some time to themself? Would they ever have their own “comfort corner” filled with all the things they like? Do they have a favourite spot outside that feels like its theirs and theirs alone?

Silver takes a bath.  His bedchamber is probably more private than the bathhouse, but for Silver, ‘time to himself’ isn’t the same as ‘time alone’.  He likes time to himself.  Time to himself is sitting in a hot, lightly scented bath with a glass of wine, where he can see out into the courtyard, observing people but not necessarily interacting.  Or, it’s his morning exercises in the courtyard - again, among people, but doing his own thing and not interacting.  Time alone is being in his bedchamber with all the doors and windows shut, unable to see or hear people, just him and his thoughts.  He does not like time alone.  Aside from his bedchamber he doesn’t really claim an area of the Oasis as ‘his’, though he easily could.  He could ask to rearrange the entire place to suit his fancy and Alba would see it done, but he’d never make such an imposition.  He prefers existing among everyone else there as opposed to making them exist around him.

Rexus SEEMS like he would take the same approach and want to be around people (read: bothering them) instead of spend time alone, having been alone most of his life, but where Silver genuinely likes People in a broader sense, Rexus really doesn’t. He likes attention. Which explains why he likes Silver so much; Silver is probably the most ridiculously attentive person in existence, and he’s a frequent go-to for wind-down time. Otherwise, his time to himself changes a bit pre- and post-exile; before, ‘needing time to himself’ meant finding someone to take to bed and otherwise ignore, watching the harbor from his balcony, and drinking, a lot. After, a combination of needing to lie low and actually wanting to do and be better mean he’s a lot more comfortable with himself, by himself. He’ll still sit in a crowded tavern or find a place to chill for a while that overlooks the harbor and watch people to pass time, but he won’t feel as much of a need to interact. He’ll be more comfortable with introspection, as well, and will be able to just lay in his bed in his room at the Oasis, stare at the ceiling, and contemplate.

🌿 What way does your OC show that they care without using words? What way do others show your OC that they’re cared about without using speech?

(I’m only answering this one for Silver because someone else asked it about Rexus and you have to share :P)

Like I said in the previous answer, Silver is a consummate caregiver and therefore ridiculously attentive. He’s always on the lookout for things he can do, needs he can meet. He’ll bring things like drinks, snacks, blankets, etc. without being asked. He listens intently when people talk, remembers, and either makes sure to have things they said they liked next time he sees them, or will bring up things they said later. He LOVES drawing baths for people - every patron at the Oasis has to bathe before...activities...and Silver loves working out what is best for each individual person in terms of temperature, herbs and oils to add to the water, just figuring out how to best help them relax.

🌾 Describe your OC through the eyes of someone absolutely head-over-heels in love with them.

Silver:

“He’s such a terribly silly man.  My love would have you believe it has taken knowing me, of all people, for him to care as he does, to give as he does, to risk as he does, but you mustn’t believe him.  No matter all his pretty words, I’m not so special to make him the man he is.  One does not...just become that.  I don’t pretend to know him before he came here, but...I think he was always like this.  Silver loves with all of him as naturally as he breathes, and that, he did not learn from me.  I think he has always felt keenly how others need what he can give, and he has always had the strength and the will to give it.  All I have done is believe him that he could.”

- Aularia, his late lover who he credits with the inspiration to begin his secret humanitarian work as his masked alter ego, Sen.

“👉 👌” 

- Rexus.  It’s his way of saying he can’t put into words how much Silver’s kindness and enduring faith in him has meant to him, how inspiring and uplifting he is, what beautiful hair he has, and how very lucky he is that this man has chosen to, despite shit like this, love him so very much.

Rexus:

Rexus is a jewel in the armoire of my soul.  He smells always of the sweetest, purest honey, and I should dearly love to bathe him in a basin of warm milk, sprinkled with lavender and vanilla, that he might leave such sweetness behind.  I titter thinking of how the soft whiskers of his beard tickle at my nose, my lips, my...ears.  Such songs I could sing of his unparalleled grace and beauty, but who would hear them?  They would die. Of longing. Immediately.  I am surprised I have not died of longing for him already myself.  Oh, but such sweet fortune that I may look upon him in all his splendor in my bed each night, unhindered by fine cloth for which I paid much coin solely to drape just so around his pleasing curves, and marvel at the sight of his plentiful body hair, which I envy spectacularly.  

- an excerpt from, supposedly, Silver’s journal, though Silver does not keep a journal and the handwriting clearly belongs to Rexus himself.

🌺 What does your OC do to calm down when they’re scared or after a nightmare? Do they have any special comfort items or need to be reassured by a specific person? How do they handle this if they’re alone?

Silver has to deal with this more often than he likes to admit.  Poor guy’s cursed with an imagination just about as vivid as Lux’s, but instead of making up fun stories his just torments him.  He worries a lot about a lot of people, and that he’s putting in a lot of effort that will ultimately end up meaningless.  When he needs to calm down at night, he gets up and gets a glass of water, makes tea, or goes for a swim.  Water is always soothing to him in one form or another, even if he doesn’t drink it and just like...stirs his finger in it for a while, it’ll help him feel better.  Someone’s always up and about at the Oasis, so he might seek them out to chat idly for a while; he loves the interaction and the others like feeling seen by him.  He might write a letter, usually to Emma, as he doesn’t see her anywhere near as often as he’d like, or read an old one.  Sometimes the refugees he helps send him coded messages a while later to let him know how they’re doing, and those have proved invaluable to him more than a few times to let him know he’s doing good work and really making a difference.  

Rexus gets angry when he’s afraid, because he shouldn’t be letting whatever’s affecting him affect him, and he is, of course, terrible at coping by himself.  He paces, rambles loudly, drinks, throws things, is prone to saying really mean stuff, just isn’t at all pleasant to be around when he’s afraid unless you know how to solve whatever’s bothering him or can convince him he’s being stupid.  Silver is, of course, usually good at this, as is his partner Tyranos (belongs to @lavellanlove), and surprisingly Emma was too when she was with him.  His mother, Atilia, can be this for him to a degree, but only during and before TSU when telling her his problems meant she’d pull strings to get them to go away with minimal effort from him.  Alone he just drinks until he passes out and forgets about it.  

Got any more?

[aaronmaurer]

TV I Liked in 2020

Every year I reflect on the pop culture I enjoyed and put it in some sort of order.

Was there ever a year more unpredictably tailor-made for peak TV than 2020? Lockdowns/quarantines/stay-at-home orders meant a lot more time at home and the occasion to check out new and old favorites. (I recognize that if you’re lucky enough to have kids or roommates or a S.O., your amount of actual downtime may have been wildly different). While the pandemic resulted in production delays and truncated seasons for many shows, the continued streaming-era trends of limited series and 8-13 episode seasons mean that a lot of great and satisfying storytelling still made its way to the screen. As always, I in no way lay any claims to “best-ness” or completeness – this is just a list of the shows that brought me the most joy and escapism in a tough year and therefore might be worth putting on your radar.

10 Favorites

10. The Right Stuff: Season 1 (Disney+)

As a space program enthusiast, even I had to wonder, does the world really need another retelling of NASA’s early days? Especially since Tom Wolfe’s book has already been adapted as the riveting and iconoclastic Philip Kaufman film of the same name? While some may disagree, I find that this Disney+ series does justify its existence by focusing more on the relationships of the astronauts and their personal lives than the technical science (which may be partially attributable to budget limitations?). The series is kind of like Mad Men but with NASA instead of advertising (and real people, of course), so if that sounds intriguing, I encourage you to give it a whirl.

9. Fargo: Season 4 (FX)

As a big fan of Noah Hawley’s Coen Brothers pastiche/crime anthology series, I was somewhat let down by this latest season. Drawing its influence primarily from the likes of gangster drama Miller’s Crossing – one of the Coens’ least comedic/idiosyncratic efforts – this season is more straightforward than its predecessors and includes a lot of characters and plot-threads that never quite cohere. That said, it is still amongst the year’s most ambitious television with another stacked cast, and the (more-or-less) standalone episode “East/West” is enough to make the season worthwhile.

8. The Last Dance (ESPN)

Ostensibly a 10-episode documentary about the 1990s Chicago Bulls’ sixth and final NBA Championship run, The Last Dance actually broadens that scope to survey the entire history of Michael Jordan and coach Phil Jackson’s careers with the team. Cleverly structured with twin narratives that chart that final season as well as an earlier timeframe, each episode also shifts the spotlight to a different person, which provides focus and variety throughout the series. And frankly, it’s also just an incredible ride to relive the Jordan era and bask in his immeasurable talent and charisma – while also getting a snapshot of his outsized ego and vices (though he had sign-off on everything, so it’s not exactly a warts-and-all telling).

7. The Queen’s Gambit (Netflix)

This miniseries adaptation of the Walter Tevis coming-of-age novel about a chess prodigy and her various addictions is compulsively watchable and avoids the bloat of many other streaming series (both in running time and number of episodes). The 1960s production design is stunning and the performances, including Anya Taylor-Joy in the lead role, are convincing and compelling.

6. The Great: Season 1 (hulu)

Much like his screenplay for The Favourite, Tony McNamara’s series about Catherine the Great rewrites history with a thoroughly modern and irreverent sensibility (see also: Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette). Elle Fanning brings a winning charm and strength to the title role and Nicholas Hoult is riotously entertaining as her absurdly clueless and ribald husband, Emperor Peter III. Its 10-episodes occasionally tilt into repetitiveness, but when the ride is this fun, why complain? Huzzah!

  5. Dispatches From Elsewhere (AMC)

A limited (but possibly anthology-to-be?) series from creator/writer/director/actor Jason Segal, Dispatches From Elsewhere is a beautiful and creative affirmation of life and celebration of humanity. The first 9 episodes form a fulfilling and complete arc, while the tenth branches into fourth wall-breaking meta territory, which may be a bridge too far for some (but is certainly ambitious if nothing else). Either way, it’s a movingly realized portrait of honesty, vulnerability and empathy, and I highly recommend visiting whenever it inevitably makes its way to Netflix, or elsewhere…

4. What We Do in the Shadows: Season 2 (FX)

The second season of WWDITS is more self-assured and expansive than the first, extending a premise I loved from its antecedent film – but was skeptical could be sustained – to new and reinvigorated (after)life. Each episode packs plenty of laughs, but for my money, there is no better encapsulation of the series’ potential and Matt Berry’s comic genius than “On The Run,” which guest-stars Mark Hamill and features Laszlo’s alter ego Jackie Daytona, regular human bartender.

3. Ted Lasso: Season 1 (AppleTV+)

Much more than your average fish-out-of-water comedy, Jason Sudeikis’ Ted Lasso is a brilliant tribute to humaneness, decency, emotional intelligence and good coaching – not just on the field. The fact that its backdrop is English Premier League Soccer is just gravy (even if that’s not necessarily represented 100% proficiently). A true surprise and gem of the year.

2. Mrs. America (hulu)

This FX miniseries explores the women’s liberation movement and fight for the Equal Rights Amendment in the 1970s and its opposition by conservative women including Phyllis Schlafly. One of the most ingenious aspects of the series is centering each episode on a different character, which rotates the point of view and helps things from getting same-y. With a slate of directors including Ryan Bowden and Anna Fleck (Half-Nelson, Sugar, Captain Marvel) and an A-List cast including Cate Blanchett, Rose Byrne, Uzo Aduba, Sarah Paulson, Margo Martindale, Tracey Ulman and Elizabeth Banks, its quality is right up there with anything on the big screen. And its message remains (sadly) relevant as ever in our current era.

1. The Good Place: Season 4 (NBC)

It was tempting to omit The Good Place this year or shunt it to a side category since only the final 4 episodes aired in 2020, but that would have been disingenuous. This show is one of my all-time favorites and it ended perfectly. The series finale is a representative mix of absurdist humor and tear-jerking emotion, built on themes of morality, self-improvement, community and humanity. (And this last run of eps also includes a pretty fantastic Timothy Olyphant/Justified quasi-crossover.) Now that the entire series is available to stream on Netflix (or purchase in a nice Blu-ray set), it’s a perfect time to revisit the Good Place, or check it out for the first time if you’ve never had the pleasure.

5 of the Best Things I Caught Up With

Anne With An E (Netflix/CBC)

Another example of classic literature I had no prior knowledge of (see also Little Women and Emma), this Netflix/CBC adaptation of Anne of Green Gables was strongly recommended by several friends so I finally gave it a shot. While this is apparently slightly more grown-up than the source material, it’s not overly grimdark or self-serious but rather humane and heartfelt, expanding the story’s scope to include Black and First Nations peoples in early 1800s Canada, among other identities and themes. It has sadly been canceled, but the three seasons that exist are heart-warming and life-affirming storytelling. Fingers crossed that someday we’ll be gifted with a follow-up movie or two to tie up some of the dangling threads.

Better Call Saul (AMC)

I liked Breaking Bad, but I didn’t have much interest in an extended “Breaking Bad Universe,” as much as I appreciate star Bob Odenkirk’s multitalents. Multiple recommendations and lockdown finally provided me the opportunity to catch up on this prequel series and I’m glad I did. Just as expertly plotted and acted as its predecessor, the series follows Jimmy McGill/Saul Goodman on his own journey to disrepute but really makes it hard not to root for his redemption (even as you know that’s not where this story ends).

Joe Pera Talks With You (Adult Swim)

It’s hard to really describe the deadpan and oddly soothing humor of comedian Joe Pera whose persona, in the series at least, combines something like the earnestness of Mr. Rogers with the calm enthusiasm of Bob Ross. Sharing his knowledge on the likes of how to get the best bite out of your breakfast combo, growing a bean arch and this amazing song “Baba O’Reilly” by the Who – have you heard it?!? – Pera provides arch comfort that remains solidly on the side of sincerity. The surprise special he released during lockdown, “Relaxing Old Footage with Joe Pera,” was a true gift in the middle of a strange and isolated year.

The Mandalorian (Disney+)

One of the few recent Star Wars properties that lives up to its potential, the adventures of Mando and Grogu is a real thrill-ride of a series with outstanding production values (you definitely want to check out the behind-the-scenes documentary series if you haven’t). I personally prefer the first season, appreciating its Western-influenced vibes and somewhat-more-siloed story. The back half of the second season veers a little too much into fan service and video game-y plotting IMHO but still has several excellent episodes on offer, especially the Timothy Olyphant-infused energy of premiere “The Marshall” and stunning cinematography of “The Jedi.” And, you know, Grogu.

The Tick (Amazon Prime)

I’ve been a fan of the Tick since the character’s Fox cartoon and indie comic book days and also loved the short-lived Patrick Warburton series from 2001. I was skeptical about this Amazon Prime reboot, especially upon seeing the pilot episode’s off-putting costumes. Finally gaining access to Prime this year, I decided to catch up and it gets quite good!, especially in Season 2. First, the costumes are upgraded; second, Peter Serafinowicz’s initially shaky characterization improves; and third, it begins to come into its own identity. The only real issue is yet another premature cancellation for the property, meaning Season 2’s tease of interdimensional alien Thrakkorzog will never be fulfilled. 😢

Bonus! 5 More Honorable Mentions:

City So Real (National Geographic)

The Good Lord Bird (Showtime)

How To with John Wilson: Season 1 (HBO)

Kidding: Season 2 (Showtime)

Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt: Kimmy Vs The Reverend (Netflix)

[angstmongertina]

oh what a tangled web we weave

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave/When first we practise to deceive!” —Sir Walter Scott, “Marmion”

In which Essek lies, confirms friendships, and then fails miserably at lying to the people he has grown to care about.

Read it on AO3!

It is a strange thing, friendship.

If he is to be perfectly honest with himself—and he must, to somebody at least, he cannot remember the last time he has felt such a sense of belonging. It is a truly ironic sentiment considering his original intention for being in close proximity to them, for understanding the individuals who brought one of the stolen beacons back to the Dynasty, but for all of his status and time spent in Rosohna, this ragtag group, this mismatched band of adventurers whom he has known for only a short few months, is the first in a long while to reach out to him, personally rather professionally. To be interested in him, Essek, rather than the Shadowhand, the young prodigy of Den Thelyss. It is, for lack of a better word, refreshing.

And so, he finds himself sitting in the drawing room of the house that his den purchased for the Mighty Nein on his recommendation, a small fey familiar in the form of a feline draped across his lap as he fields what seems like an endless stream of questions.

As he catches himself chuckling, genuine and in good humor, over the good-natured banter thrown between this tight-knit group of friends, drawn together through need and adversity, he allows himself to slowly, slowly, let his guard down. To elaborate on the concept of consecution and other aspects of Kryn culture. To tell them small hints of himself, to explain why he has even appeared on their doorstep like this. To give them a glimpse of his life and goals, his ambitions, and to ask theirs in return.

Of course it is Caleb, quick-minded Caleb with his sharp memory and haunted eyes carrying a lifetime’s worth of pain, who asks what the worst thing the tiefling has ever done is, following her… discussion on the Traveler. And of course the other human, Beauregard, blunt and direct and keen-eyed but somehow all the more likeable for it, turns the question on him.

He should have been expecting it. If he were being truly cautious, he would never have come in the first place, risking everything he has worked towards, putting it all on the line. He knows this, and perhaps that is what draws the chuckle from his chest as he stalls, wracking his memory.

Had he been asked only a few short months earlier, his answer would have been much easier but now… Now, he fights the perhaps dangerous and certainly foolish temptation to speak his newfound truth, to lay his crimes at their feet. Except… It is already too far in motion now to risk being found out, to risk putting others, putting them, in danger.

Instead, he sighs, casting his eyes upward, and surrounds himself in the memory of his past self, in the memory of finding out what happened to his father. It is… strangely difficult, speaking of something he tries not to think of, and feeling the mood of the room shift, he offers a downplay with a nonchalance he is not entirely sure he feels. And thankfully, in part due to that incorrigibly cheerful tiefling, it is enough to inspire a topic change, without them prying too far into the matter.

After all, navigating the conversation, giving them just enough information to keep his plans—and by extension, them all—safe, already takes more effort than he cares to admit. Perhaps it is the wine, but even cautious as he is, when discussing the war and the importance, the desire, of regaining peace between the two nations, he finds himself telling bits of the truth, hinting at secret research and the safety of peace, and despite trying to avoid those bright blue eyes, knowing deep down that to be seen is to chance being understood, they pull him in, too, brimming with intelligence and curiosity and a spark of something he dare not try to identify. Not like this. Not now.

Whether he fears or craves discovery more, he cannot be certain.

He is taken aback by how thankful he is when the conversation turns to talk of friendship and camaraderie; somehow even discussing his own perpetual solitude is more comfortable than attempting to navigate the perilous waters of careful half-truths and dangerous lies in which he dwells. Then again, considering the odd warmth that seems to fill his chest when he glances among them, feeling their contentment with each other’s and oddly enough, from what he can tell, his own presence, perhaps that is not as surprising as it could be.

That, along with the alcohol, must be what compels him to join them by the hot tub they have constructed, listening to their teasing and, in some cases, more serious conversation. In fact, it is with almost reluctance that he remembers the time and the many tasks requiring his supervision before the peace summit, such as it is. Reluctance and a faint twinge of something that most resembles…

Well, it is already too late for that.

He is not entirely surprised when Caleb asks to see his home immediately, nor can he quite restrain his excitement; of everybody he has met in his life, this human is one of the few who shares his hunger, his respect and enthusiasm, for knowledge. And those eyes, world-weary with more suffering than most men at least double his age, sparkle with that familiar spark of scientific curiosity, of discovery and the promise of knowledge, that he too craves.

It is dangerous, how he feels, the kinship and understanding in his veins threatening to pull him from his path. For a long, precarious, second, he is almost disappointed when Beauregard elects to tag along.

He feels their eyes on him as well as their surroundings as he guides them down the familiar path to his abode and though none of them speak, it is a comfortable, warm peace, so unlike the thick, heavy weight of the past month, undisturbed in his home. It is not until the familiar three towers come into view that he interrupts the silence, indicating his home. Once again, he is not entirely surprised when the conversation turns once more towards the esoteric in the way that discussion between two minds matched in understanding and interests always does.

For a moment, he contemplates inviting his student, his friend, in, but the third in their party shifts, something resembling impatience in her stance, and he shakes himself as Caleb snaps his attention back to her, letting him wrap up the conversation with promises of breakfast and continuing their discussion.

When he bids the two good night, letting the gate close with a groan of iron, it is with a strange, faint tinge of emotion in his chest that he cannot quite bring himself to name.

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In retrospect, perhaps he should have been expecting it. Nothing about the Mighty Nein has been predictable, not since that day, months ago, when he first met them, standing before the Bright Queen, accused of crimes against the Dynasty, and bearing one of the beacons he had given to the Empire. No, they have always defied his expectations, breaking boundaries set upon them, creating outliers in the models he has tried to mentally build. In that sense, this is nothing new.

Except it is one thing to know this fact and another entirely to experience it when he least expects it. Not even the brief announcement of visitors is enough to prepare him for their arrival.

On the deck of the Wind of Eons, he freezes, recognizing the voices before he sees them. The Martinet hardly appears to react, his face its usual mask of inscrutable serenity as he turns to them with a polite greeting, introducing his alter ego alongside their third companion with calm dignity.

His spellwork is as impeccable as it always is and he knows this, yet the pairs of eyes, curious and earnest, sharp and cautious, that look him over seem to both charm him and cut straight through the illusion.

He does not need Da’leth’s slight shift in position to know that his attempt to excuse himself is a poor showing. Nor, he suspects, was his subconscious exclamation of surprise entirely unnoticed; he knows them all well enough now to know that Caduceus, though not as learned in many respects, has a keen eye, as does his… protege. It is, however, enough to earn him a reprieve.

Or, at least, it would have been if not for the damnably personable Uludan.

The tiefling is her usual cheerful self, chattering about her mother with all the enthusiasm of a friend, which, he supposes, she is, though not in the way she suspects. And behind her, those bright, intelligent eyes hooded with caution…

He listens to the conversation with one ear, doing his best to avoid meeting that gaze that, he senses, might be able to cut him to his core. His distraction is such that he almost misses the Martinet’s request for another conversation, no doubt the cause for the request in the first place, but he cannot help but be thankful at the direction the conversation turns and the abrupt manner in which it encourages the group to leave.

Of course, Caleb, clever, insightful Caleb, requests to see the beacon before they depart, insists upon it and refuses to delay until after they have set sail. The man has caution, has suspicion, in his veins, particularly where the Cerberus Assembly is involved, and in spite of himself, he glances from him to the archmage, curious and nervous in equal measure.

In some ways, it is a blessing that Da’leth has requested a private conversation; he is too tense, too ill-at-ease, to leave the boat at the same time as the group, and he is certain that, if he attempts any more conversation with his friends, the entire ruse will fall apart around him.

Breathing an audible sigh of relief, he follows the Martinet out of the sun and into the depths of the ship.

He is not surprised that his… reluctant ally notices his discomfort; he has long since been aware of the fact that Ludinus Da’leth is a highly intelligent man, that he must be to have kept his position in the Cerberus Assembly for so long, and he doubts that such levels of intelligence is strictly necessary, given his current state. The fact that Lord Uludan does not appear to notice is far more a statement on the perception of the latter than any on the former.

Then again, if he is to be perfectly honest, he cannot blame the Martinet for his displeasure and surprise; he cannot even explain it to himself. That he, the Shadowhand of the Bright Queen, who has always prided himself on his impartiality, his indifference, who has remained impassive countless times when facing his empress and his people, has dealt with untruths and subterfuge for so long… That he could be affected by the mere presence of his friends. That he has suddenly found that he cannot meet their eyes like this, that he struggles to lie to the ones who have come to trust him. He can hardly fathom it himself.

But to do anything other than continue might put everything he has risked, everything that he has worked towards, in jeopardy. To back out now, to reveal his hand or even just lose his concentration, let his guard down, might result in the truce, the attempt at peace, falling apart, might bring upon all of Wildemount more unnecessary death and suffering, more than he has always wrought.

Might put his friends’ lives in jeopardy, those stubborn, well-meaning, earnest friends of his, allied to neither dynasty nor empire but instead wholly devoted to the well-being of the general populace.

The antithesis to him.

If his act, his falsehoods and lies, will protect that, will protect them, then it is all worth his while in the end. He nods, squaring his shoulders, and lets the form of Lord Dezran Thane settle once more over him.

Much to his chagrin, his will is tested almost immediately; the group is still lingering on the docks when he emerges once more. Barely daring to meet their gaze, he straightens, forcing a smile, and offers a greeting. Thankfully, they appear to have little interest in continued conversation and he relaxes, just a fraction.

“It is a pleasure meeting you.”

In spite of himself, his eyes flicker to Caleb, to the thin face and the keen eyes that seem to hold something inscrutable in their depths, and he clears his throat, bowing his head again to hide any possible changes in his expression.

“You as well,” he returns, short and to the point… and all, he suspects, he can manage at this point.

Before they can respond once more, he hurries away, a quick enough speed that any attempts at polite conversation would be impossible, and returns to his sanctuary, of a sort, for when he has been forced to stay in Nicodranas for an extended time.

With the Mighty Nein now intending to attend the party in under two days’ time, he will need as much time as he can to regain his equilibrium before he can contemplate interacting with them once more.

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He has never been a fan of parties. Perhaps it is a result of his experience in Rosohna, of that feeling of isolation which permeated much of his past decades, focused as he has always been on his studies and research, on dunamancy and those things that much of the rest of the dynasty takes for granted. Or perhaps it is simply a part of who he is, more comfortable alone than in crowds, feigning enjoyment at interacting with those putting on a mask, in some cases literally, for the sake of the audience or their own gains.

Then again, in this particular case, that last complaint may only be an exercise in hypocrisy.

Still, regardless of the reason, the fact remains, and he finds it crossing his mind increasingly often the longer his charade continues. His disguise as one of the minor lords of Nicodranas, allowing him more access than an average citizen would have without compromising overly on recognition, does have the added caveat of necessitating his attendance at such functions. And while they can be tolerated in the best of times, the current situation was far from that. With the meeting between the Empire and the Dynasty looming overhead and the… inconvenient presence of his friends, he has too much on his mind to so much as even attempt to relax.

Judging from the way he remains within polite earshot at all times, it is a fact that the Martinet once again does not fail to notice.

Much to his relief, the commotion on their arrival is such that he cannot remain oblivious to it; even if Lord Robert Sharpe, with all of his unnecessarily… unsavory charm, had not drawn the gaze of the entire courtyard, it seemed, with his unwelcome attentions, the reputation of his friends has proceeded them and the Mighty Nein are whispered about on more than a few pairs of lips, particularly when arriving accompanied by the famed Ruby of the Sea.

He vaguely recalls that they had spoken of her before, during that too-long conversation with Uludan, and it is clear that Jester, whatever her name might imply, spoke true that her mother held some sway and fame over the elite of Nicodranas.

In spite of that, he finds his attention drawn back to the newly arrived group, and not solely due to the spectacle that Jester and Lord Sharpe have succeeded in creating. It is almost impressive, how swiftly and effectively she deals with the problem, and he finds himself hiding a chuckle of his own. As far as he is aware, Lord Sharpe will not be missed by any at the party, and no doubt the women will be more thankful than disappointed at his predicament. Any other day, any other function with less at stake, and he might have even found it making his unwilling attendance worth his while.

However, his amusement, thankfully, does not serve to distract him from his current mission, keeping an eye on the location of his friends to remain well out of conversation, Jester’s enthusiastic greeting notwithstanding. At least certain members among them have proven themselves to be gregarious even to those they have only just met, while others sharp enough to, if not deduce the truth, at least detect something suspicious about his behavior. And, if he is to be perfectly honest with himself, the task is made somewhat easier by the fact that his gaze is drawn back to them time and again.

When he first met them, months earlier in Rosohna, they had appeared, to put it politely, to have been run ragged, clothing dirty and ripped with the remnants of travel and battle. Then, it was their impact, their actions, that had caught the eye of the Bright Queen, far more than anything they might have donned. Even in more recent times, now established and accepted, or at least tolerated, within the dynasty and given all of the benefits that entails, they are often on the move, dressed for comfort and ease of movement far more than presentation, and it is… different to see them adorned so formally for the occasion.

From a safe distance, he glances over the dresses and suits, practiced eye catching the telltale signs of expertly tailored attire, no doubt under the guidance of Jester, given her mother’s own background. He lingers on some more than others: Fjord, his captain’s suit complete with a comically large hat, catches the attention, and amusement, of more than a few partygoers, while Beauregard appears far more collected and, for lack of a better word, approachable, than he has ever seen before, though considering her training, he doubts that it would be any safer for him to approach her now. And then there is Caleb…

He pauses, looking over his protege with a second, slower scan. The cut is modest, not entirely unlike most formal attire from both the dynasty and the empire, but carefully designed and selected to flatter his build, drawing attention to his slender frame. Silver embroidery offers character and intricacy, while the red lining complements the dark tone of the suit, emphasizing his fair skin and the fiery copper of his hair. All in all, the effect is masterful, simple but elegant, and puts the more ostentatious ensembles to shame.

Perhaps it is the prolonged distraction that causes his guard to drop, or perhaps it is his concern at the conversation between the Martinet and his… friend in question, but Jester approaches entirely unnoticed, and he has to actively prevent himself from jumping.

His performance, he knows, is atrocious. It is a strange thing, considering his experience dealing with deceit and his typical dispassionate attitude, but it seems the Mighty Nein has managed to tear down his walls, or at least find a chink in his armor, one that he is unable to repair quickly enough, leaving him exposed, vulnerable, in the face of his tiefling friend’s irrepressible and mostly one-sided conversation.

Though it is almost a blessing, it takes every ounce of will in his body to hold himself still as the Ruby of the Sea begins her performance, instead plotting scenarios in his head. It will no doubt arouse further suspicion, but he will have to try harder to excuse himself afterwards; he is not certain he can even attempt to lie to those earnest eyes any longer.

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He realizes the moment he takes another sip of his drink that something is wrong.

In spite of her mother’s performance, Jester still chatters brightly beside him, voice only marginally lower to accommodate the singing, and he struggles to reply, to force some semblance of normalcy back into the conversation, into himself, but it is too late. He feels as his body freezes, unable to move, or even to talk, and mentally swears as he attempts to speak to no avail.

Whatever is going on, his conversational partner clearly was not expecting it either; she panics, drawing more attention to them, and he can almost feel his plot coming to an end, unsuccessful despite the multitude of lives it has taken, as eyes turn in his direction. Except she is also redirecting their attention back to the performance, as though she also has no desire to request aid, and…

Shit.

She does not seem to be surprised when she tugs him away without too much difficulty and even frozen as he is, he still sees more members of the Nein following suit, and the truth of the situation sinks in.

They know.

Their conversation, hastily corrected at best, though he cannot blame them considering his own disastrous act moments earlier, only serves to confirm his suspicions. For once in this long night, however, it seems that the gods are on his side as his muscles finally relax, back under his control, and he straightens, meeting their gaze for one brief moment.

“I have to go.” His words are quiet, abrupt, as he pulls out of her grasp, but another voice cuts in, harsh and steely, the typically soft Zemnian accent now forceful, commanding, and in spite of himself, he freezes.

“I don’t think so.”

His eyes dart to Caleb’s, hard with determination, and he cannot seem to move as the pale hands close around his wrists, as he feels as the clasp of cold metal against his skin. He stumbles, a wave of exhaustion crashing over him, but frantic adrenaline and sheer desperation keep him upright. He has to escape. Before it all falls into pieces, before everything that has been sacrificed goes to waste, he has to…

Decades of experience has him speaking the incantation before he is fully aware of his own actions and he blinks, casting his gaze around. There had to be some spot…

There.

He focuses on the point outside the gates, as far from the group as he can manage. An instant later, he vanished, reappearing off the manor’s grounds unshackled and, more importantly, out of reach. He glances around, searching for the best path—

“Stop.”

The word is calm, almost exasperated in tone, but despite its mild nature, somehow impossible to ignore. Once again, he finds himself freezing, staring at the group, his heart beating a frantic staccato in his chest. Their conversation with the guards is quick, too quick, the pair managing to convince the sentries that they mean no harm, and they approach before he can shake himself, the tall, calm firbolg and his fiery student leading the way to where he stands, still motionless to the light admonishment.

“You really do want to talk to us. I think it’s really important. You do.”

He is not surprised when Caduceus speaks first, nor, he has to admit, is he surprised that they are the two who reach him first, staring him down. His previous encounters with them, his friendship with them, have done plenty to show him that they are two of the ones he would have expected to discover the truth, or at least part of it. And behind them, Yasha stands, her arms crossed over her chest, with Jester beside her and no doubt Nott somewhere equally nearby.

Still, for a moment, he contemplates trying yet again to escape, once he has full command of his faculties once more. He has plenty of spells in his arsenal, ways to shift location or move about unseen and surely they cannot possibly stop his every attempt, but… But as he looks at them, circling about him with serious, determined expressions, he finds himself doubting that even his prodigal abilities might save him from the perseverance of this group, even if his body, his subconscious, does not disobey him once more.

It is little surprise now that they, with Caleb’s clever thinking, Jester’s disarming charm, Nott’s quick movements, and Caduceus’ steadying force, have achieved what they have in spite of what might be considered insurmountable odds. He would be a fool to assume otherwise. He supposes he already is one, for thinking that he could have hidden anything from the only ones who have cared enough to reach out to him.

He was not wrong when he said that friendship has changed him, but in many ways, it has also made it all, this entire tangled mess of plans and plots and what was once secret betrayals, so much worse.

“A lot at stake here.” Caleb’s conversational tone cuts worse than any amount of anger, of hatred, would, and he barely resists the urge to flinch.

“A lot.”

He looks from one to the other, from sympathetic, compassionate eyes to hard, unflinching ones, and in this moment, he is not sure which are worse. Cold disdain he knows how to deal with, and dispassionate disapproval, but this… This mix of righteous anger and hurt and, underneath it all, a willingness to hear him out, to have a conversation, despite what he knows is a betrayal of the deepest kind, even if it was unwittingly put into motion years earlier, long before he ever met them.

This is new and foreign… and he knows he doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve them.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a slow, resigned sigh. “Fine, then. Show me where.”

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He tells them everything.

When they first lead him to their ship, he is still contemplating ways of hiding, of manipulating, the truth. To tell them just enough that they might let him go, to ascertain just how much they know and try to keep it at that. Whether it is so they do not think the worst of him, though he rather suspects that that ship has long sailed, or to protect them from the truth and what others might do to them, he is not certain.

That intention lasts only until Caleb speaks, slow and clear after Jester’s rambling speech. “Yes, friend. What are you doing?”

The word, the reminder of what they are to him, stings and before he can stop himself,  he flinches, dropping his gaze to the floor.

He has imagined being found out in many ways, with many outcomes. Considering the extent of his actions, the depths of his treachery, it is not altogether an unexpected thing, after all, and he is nothing if not methodical. And yet, somehow, in all of his contingency plans, between all the plots of what to do should he be seen by a member of the Empire or preparations in case the Bright Queen were to catch wind of his betrayal, among all of the procedures for if his life and livelihood are at risk, he has not planned for this. For this motley crew that has unknowingly, determinedly, forced their way past all of his emotional defenses to ascertain the truth.

And now, all he can manage, all he can possibly tell, is the truth.

At Jester’s invitation, he moves a crate to his side, sitting on it with a heavy sigh, and tells them. He explains his ambitions, his foolhardy, selfish thought process, expanding on everything he has hinted at before. He confesses his crimes, the lies he has told them and the harm that his self-serving actions have caused, bares his soul before them, the only people who have attempted to understand him, who have even the faintest inkling of who he is.

Except even these people he has called, has believed to be, friends have been fooled by him as well; they must be, because in spite of everything, in spite of his falsehoods and treason, in spite of the countless lives that have been destroyed by his actions, they still believe that there is goodness in him.

He apologizes, because that is all he can do now, his every breath belabored and harsh in his chest, each word heavy and sharp in his throat. Each sentence he utters puts them all in more danger, and he knows it, except…

Except at the same time, as he bows his head, his gaze focused on the floor instead of the many pairs of eyes on him, there is some relief, as well. A certain amount of comfort in knowing that his actions have caused him pain as well, that he can still feel it, the regret and disgust and self-loathing that he so clearly deserves. And there is nothing left for him, now that he is burning this one, final, bridge by telling them the truth, nothing left but to carry his plans forward, to ensure that all of the pain and suffering he has caused is not in vain.

In spite of his determination—or perhaps more accurately, his cowardice—to see it through, he recoils at Caleb sinking to his knees before him, at the gentle touch he has done nothing to warrant, but he also cannot fight it, not any longer. Instead, he forces himself to meet those eyes that hold far more understanding, far more sympathy, than he could ever deserve.

And despite everything, despite his own better judgment, he listens, lets those words wash over him, somehow harsh and yet impossibly gentle at the same time. “You were not born with venom in your veins,” his friend, the man who at once mirrors and is also the better version of who he is, says, and part of him longs to argue, but there is pain in those bright blue eyes, a baring of souls that he cannot turn his back on, and he holds his tongue.

The hand that comes to rest on his shoulder, is solid and firm, and the plea, the emotions behind it, seems to cut him to the bone. He can feel himself trembling as he inhales, coarse and shaky, as he swallows against the strange lump in his throat, as he forces out his reply, his denial because he knows it cannot be.

“There is no path to redemption for me,” he says, and he knows it is true, has always known it to be true, so then why does it burn on his tongue now, acrid and bitter? He knows that any attempt to rectify the wrongs he has done, that any revelation to the powers that be will end in his demise, and yet he cannot meet the earnest gaze peering up at him, can only blink hard against the painful stinging behind his eyes.

For a heartbeat, there is nothing, silence but for his own heavy breathing, and then gentle lips press against his forehead, warm and solid, full of emotion that he does not dare to identify, not now. In that moment, that one moment of shock, frozen in time, as he finds himself leaning into that unfamiliar, tender touch, he feels his will begin to crumble.

“Maybe you and I are both damned, but we can choose to do something and leave it better than it was before.”

The words are a fierce whisper, an insistence that he knows he cannot fight, but for them, for him, he tries. Slowly, he draws a breath, forcing his body into some semblance of control, and lets it out in another slow, heavy sigh. “You weren’t part of the plan.” He looks up, meeting that warm gaze, willing him to understand. “And now you’re all in terrible danger for the things that you know.”

“So be it,” is the simple reply, and he closes his eyes.

They talk of plans, of what his goals going forward are, of trust and allegiances and the fate of the two nations, but in the end, it is what Nott, a goblin no longer, says that rings in his head as he makes his way back to the city proper, that he finds himself clinging to. That he has been heard by his friends. That he is not one against many.

That now, finally, he is no longer alone.

[walkingshcdow-a]

All I Want For Christmas (Is You) : Drabble

Summary: Finnegan spends Christmas with his aunt and without Victor.  Ships: Finnegan/Victor Trevor @tinfoiltemplar

Snow glistened on the branches of the trees stretching across Edie’s property. Finnegan, tucked neatly into himself, alone in one of the castle’s libraries, glanced out at the silent, Scottish countryside. He hadn’t wanted to come home for the holidays. This year, like most years, he’d intended to stay in London for the holiday season. It was Charity Gala Season, Christmas party season… Usually, Finnegan glittered among London’s elite. FinneCorp’s Christmas party was tonight. Finnegan hadn’t missed a single one since he was eighteen. He couldn’t bear to go this time, though. He’d be alone - he was often alone - and Victor Trevor would be with Shanon. The holidays were a time for family, after all. Finnegan usually enjoyed trying to show up or show off his lover at galas. He enjoyed completing his outfit with a date who was accomplished or gorgeous or both and watching Victor watch him with someone else. It wasn’t so tempting when the tables were turned. And, of course the Trevors were invited to the FinneCorp gala. It would have looked strange not to invite them after a year’s worth of cat-and-mouse games in ballrooms and board rooms, tennis courts and country clubs. Maybe Finnegan was a coward for not wanting to be reminded that his favorite plaything was a married man, with obligations more important than Finnegan could ever be. Maybe he was a coward for only getting as far as Scotland when he tried to run away. He could have set out across the world with a dozen lingerie models and sent Victor the pictures. Instead, he was here. He was home. The closest thing to a “home” he thought of when everyone else in the world was talking about “going home for the holidays”. Edie received him well enough when he called two weeks ago to invite himself. 

“I’m not dying yet, you know,” she said coyly. 

“You’d better not be,” Finnegan said back, tone just as teasing. “I don’t have time to take your seat in Parliament. Big things are happening at FinneCorp just now. I’d hate to give it up.”

“But you won’t go to your own company’s Christmas party?”

“I’m reevaluating my priorities, Edith.”

“Michael Finnegan, if you tell me you’re dying, I’m driving to London to kill you myself.”

“I’ll be there on the twenty-second,” Finnegan said. “I won’t inconvenience you for more than a few days.”

“Stay through New Year’s,” Edie said. “Or is it only your own Christmas party you’re avoiding?”

Finnegan had forgotten what it was like to be seen by someone who didn’t keep you a dirty secret. He’d forgotten what it felt like to feel good in another person’s company without realizing that the feeling wouldn’t last past morning. He’d forgotten how good it felt to be able to take someone’s love for granted. 

He stared at his phone. Right now, Victor was probably getting ready for a gala - his? - while that wife of his shrilled at him about not embarrassing her. Would Victor look for him at the gala? Worry and wonder when Finnegan wasn’t there? He hoped so. He hoped Victor scanned the room and could only find the vacant places Finnegan ought to be. He hadn’t outright told Victor he wouldn’t be in attendance. A week ago, wrapped around Victor in his bed that was now too large for Finnegan alone, he pressed his lips to the nape of Victor’s neck. 

“I’ll miss this,” he said quietly. “During the holidays.”

Victor had rolled over in his sleep and snuggled small against Finnegan’s chest, mumbling something of his own - a question, maybe. If he wasn’t so canny, Finnegan would have asked Victor to run away with him. Instead, he carded his fingers through Victor’s wild curls and smiled grimly.

“Oh, our social schedules this year,” Finnegan said vaguely, thinking he answered the question. “We’ll have some catching up to do come January.”

January couldn’t come soon enough. 

After all, what was he meant to do? Bring his lover home to his aunt and the ancestral walls that had silently judged Finnegan with the same stoniness as most of the figures he remembered from his youth? How would he explain to Edie that he was willing to waste his time as Victor’s shame when he would have been anyone else’s pride? How would he say why he hadn’t yet devoured Victor whole and spat back his bones? His teens and twenties were a graveyard of lovers who took second place to FinneCorp or his ego or a thousand other things. Edie had watched him then with exasperation and a little something like guilt. It wasn’t her fault Finnegan didn’t know what love was supposed to look like. Had his mother and father ever missed each other this miserably? Of course not. God, of course not - unfeeling creatures. They’d never watched sunrise crawl up a sleeping lover’s back; never subtly touched a lover’s wrist at a dinner party to say ‘I’m still here; I’m glad you’re here, too”. They’d never admired the grace and power of a lover whose backhand could send the tennis ball distressingly far or whispered secret commands into a cell phone the night before reuniting with your lover, things only the two of you would know. They’d never exchanged glances, redesigned their schedules, risked their reputation. Passionless. 

He envied them. They hadn’t even been able to get a passionless marriage right - both long dead before Finnegan’s thirtieth birthday, no golden anniversary. The dry pages of their love story provided kindling for their quick, burning funeral pyre, which lit the way for their only child to map the world. Finnegan knew his world well. He knew his place in it. He knew that his place was not to be cheaply tossed aside by the likes of Victor Trevor, not to be exposed for indiscretions that lesser men would have, not to die in disgrace. That was the ruinous road he trod now, so sure that even if the map spelled disaster that one thing was clear: Victor would not cast him aside. Finnegan could come and go as he pleased, as he did now, and Victor would remain stubbornly loyal, maybe more afraid of being alone than he was in love with Finnegan. After all, as Finnegan well knew: those who loved him were a rare and dying breed. Edith crossed his mind again. She would pity him because she loved him and she’d tell him to wash his hands of the whole thing because she loved him. He envied her. How much simpler it was to wash your hands of love than to be covered in it. Finnegan wanted to scrub and scrub the feeling away so he could forget, at least until after New Year’s that he was in love. Instead, he felt Victor’s fingerprints smudging him still, a week after they last touched. It didn’t feel dirty. It felt like someone re-molding him, fashioning him into something new. For so many years he’d been sharp, a weapon. What would it be like if he let Victor make him into art?

Good God, he wasn’t even drunk. He was simply sitting in the upstairs library, smiling at his phone as he silently begged it to buzz. Not work. No, his work phone was plugged in by the bed, charging. This phone, his personal phone, rarely saw the light of day. Since he’d arrived, however, he’d waited and waited for it to show a sign of life. He tried to be discreet, pretend that he was answering emails, but the crestfallen disappointment that sank his whole bulk into the corner of the couch ricocheted off of him, drawing the eye with a flash of light and then its sudden absence. Why wasn’t Victor texting him? Finnegan sighed and cast his eyes out the window once more. 

“Don’t tell me you’re already regretting staying home from the party,” Edie said from the doorway.

Finnegan didn’t jump, but he certainly hadn’t noticed his aunt enter. Her sharp, pale features complemented her dry wit, much the way a fluted glass complemented white wine. Putting the phone on his lap, he looked at her, composing his own features into a Sauvignon Blanc. 

“I’m sure the party is suffering far more in my absence than I am,” he said. “What’s in those mugs?”

“Mulled cider,” she said, crossing the room. “Not as romantic as a champagne toast, but…”

“I’m not married to my job,” Finnegan said, pointedly avoiding the point. “I can’t imagine what would be romantic about any champagne toast I might give FinneCorp this year.”

Edie arched an eyebrow and joined him on the couch carefully, handing him one of the mugs. Finnegan wrapped his hands around it for warmth. Even though a fire blazed in the fireplace, the castle was old and drafty. No dignified amount of jumpers ever seemed to make this part of the castle warm enough. 

“What’s really wrong, Finn?” she asked. 

“Nothing.”

“Usually at this point in the evening, you’re texting me for second opinions on identical bowties,” she said. “Tonight, you’re sulking in the coldest part of the house.”

“It isn’t the coldest part,” Finnegan said. “I’m sure if I want to freeze to death, I could spend the night in the stables.”

“How dare you,” said Edie. She took great pride in her racing horses and the quality of care they received, but Finnegan didn’t expect her to sound so insulted. She glowered at him over the top of her mug. “I know you better than just about anyone. This is sulking.” 

“I’m just enjoying the quiet,” Finnegan lied. “It’s nice to put my work phone on silent.”

“So who are you waiting to call you?”

He narrowed his eyes.

“No one.”

“Then why have you been gazing wistfully at your phone since you got here?”

“I’m not gazing wistfully at my phone-”

“Michael Finnegan, I know I raised a better liar than that,” Edith said. She lowered her mug. “Try that again: who are you waiting to hear from?”

Finnegan paused.

“A business partner,” he said hollowly, “who I’m planning a new venture with.”

“Mhmm.”

“It felt disloyal to discuss it at the FinneCorp gala,” he continued. “And I hoped he was as enthusiastic about the prospect of going into business together as I am - was. I know I’m probably dodging a bullet, of course.”

“Of course.”

“He’d be a fool to let such a golden opportunity walk out his door. I don’t consider side ventures with just anyone. I won’t make that mistake again any time soon.”

“Of course not, darling,” said Edith. “How long have you been sleeping with him?”

Finnegan scowled and looked at his phone again. 

“I don’t know why you’re keeping it a secret,” said Edith. She shrugged and took a sip of her cider. “You could have brought him with you.”

“Things aren’t that serious,” said Finnegan. “Are they ever?”

“Darling, you referred to yourself as a business venture,” she said primly, in that pointed way she had long ago taught him meant that what you didn’t say was everything: I know how you feel about business ventures. “It’s a big enough castle, don’t you think?”

“He has other plans,” Finnegan said. 

Finnegan and Edith exchanged looks. 

“Does he know you wanted to see him?”

“If he knew that, then he’d have the upper hand,” said Finnegan. “He knows that I’ll be glad to see him in January.”

“That’s a long time,” said Edith. “I won’t judge you if you invite him here for New Year’s. It might be nice to see you smile instead of gazing longingly out windows.”

“He won’t,” Finnegan said. 

“You’ve finally found someone who can tell you ‘no’ and now you’re refusing to let me meet them?” Edith asked. “I’m hurt.”

“He can’t tell me ‘no’,” Finnegan said. “That’s the problem, which is precisely why I didn’t invite him.”

“You aren’t giving your HR department headaches because of a scientist or a secretary, are you?”

“No. I’m not twenty-five anymore.” 

I’ve moved on to bigger and better scandals, he thought miserably, taking a swig of his cider. It warmed him inside-out and he realized that he would be very sad and cold when he drank it all. 

“No, you aren’t,” Edith said. “Which is why it baffles me that you’d be willing to waste time the way you are now. If I was your age and I had a handsome young man in London-”

“I never said he was handsome.”

“Finnegan.”

Finnegan nestled back into the couch. He checked his phone once more before staring into the fire. The flames twisted and danced with much more merriment than he could muster. 

“Are you two fighting?” Edith asked, voice softer, less poised to make fun of him or roast him. Finnegan lifted his gaze to his aunt and shrugged. “Call him.”

“It’s not that simple,” said Finnegan. “We aren’t fighting.”

“Then why haven’t you called him?” Edie asked. “I bet he’s doing the same thing with his phone, hoping to hear from you first.”

Finnegan could imagine it. Victor, drinking and staring at the phone deep into the night. Victor, sitting for family Christmas photos and checking his cell phone. Victor, tonight, at the gala, hoping to at least see him and getting drunk when he realized Finnegan wasn’t coming. Finnegan took a sip of his cider. Then another. 

“I hope he has a miserable Christmas.”

“Michael!” 

Nominally, they were Church of England; neither side of Finnegan’s family had ever been religious. You still would have thought he’d told his aunt that he wanted to punch the pope square in the jaw a few times. 

“I do,” Finnegan said. “It’s what he deserves.”

“Because he had plans with his own family for the holidays?”

“Precisely.” Finnegan said. “He had plans with his own family for the holidays.”

“Finn...”

As the pieces came together for Edith, Finnegan feared the worst. He feared her pity, her horror. He feared she would think he was still a child and that he didn’t understand the enormity of the situation, how colossally he’d ruined his own life, their legacy, everything. Instead of tucking into the couch tighter, though, Finnegan maintained his aunt’s gaze levelly. He refused to be ashamed. Refused. He already lived like a fugitive in the city he owned because of the affair. He refused to be shamed here. This was to be his castle someday. Surely his ancestors had worse secrets buried on these grounds. Surely Edie had heard worse - from his own mother, perhaps…

“Goddamn it, Michael.” she said, leaning back. “Tell me this is one of your boyfriends from Eton… someone you knew before…”

“No.”

“So he was married when you met?” Edie asked. Finnegan said nothing. “Does he have children?”

“Not yet, thank god. I’m sure his family will apply pressure soon enough.”

“Do we know his family?” Edith asked. 

Finnegan shrugged. The Trevors were of middling importance. Millionaires, not billionaires. Nouveau-riche, relatively speaking. He set his mug down and searched his pockets for a cigarette and lighter. 

Edie’s brow creased. 

“Is he someone important?” she asked. 

“That depends on your definition of ‘important’.”

“So he is.”

“He’s not that important,” Finnegan said. “Not to me, not really. I could discard him if it suited me.”

“It doesn’t suit you to discard a married man?” The ridges scripting themselves into Edies’ forehead deepened. “But he’s not important?”

“I’m still enjoying him,” Finnegan said. “When I tire of him, that’ll be the end of it.”

“Oh, Finnegan.” She sighed his name so pityingly that Finnegan choked on a lungful of smoke. Coughing, he looked at his aunt through the bluish haze. Her hand, adorned with jewels Victor’s family might have mined and sold, rested on Finnegan’s knee. He studied the sharp cut of the diamonds as they glittered in the firelight. It was easier to focus on the small details of ancient family jewels than the diamond-sharp pain in his chest. He tried to breathe it out. His eyes stung. “If he was just a plaything, you would be at that party tonight. It isn’t charming for you to delude yourself - you’re the only one here you’re fooling.”

“Yes, well, so long as I delude social London, too, I’m the only one who can get hurt by it,” Finnegan snapped. He pried his aunt’s hand from his knee. “I don’t need you feeling sorry for me.”

“I don’t know if I feel sorrier for you or for him. You aren't the only one who could get hurt, Finn. He’ll look for you at Christmas galas all throughout the holiday season. God only knows why, if you’re as warm towards your lovers as you are towards your family.”

Finnegan glowered. 

“I’ll see him in January,” he said. “He’ll wait for me.”

Edie said nothing, strategically retreating into her mug of cider. Wielded by her, silence was a weapon. Finnegan could feel the crushing hit of her judgement without words to soften the blow. 

“He will,” Finnegan insisted. “I’m worth waiting for.”

“You’re worth so much more than that,” Edie said softly. In her hands, softness, too, was a weapon. Finnegan grimaced into another drag from his cigarette. “You deserve a lover who can give you their all, no hesitation.” 

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Clearly,” said Edie. “If you knew it, you wouldn’t waste a minute more on the heartbreak of a married lover.” 

“I’m not heartbroken,” Finnegan said. “And it isn’t a waste. It… builds character.”

Edie laughed sadly, so sadly Finnegan drew tighter into himself for warmth. 

“Oh, Finn,” she murmured. “No one who knows you would ever think you were devoid of character.”

She rose from the couch and drained the rest of her cider.

“I’m going downstairs,” she said. “I kicked the chef out for the night and I’m going to bake Christmas cookies. I’d like my sous chef at my side, like when you were little.”

Finnegan groaned. Neither he nor Edie were talented bakers. He was very good at fetching ingredients from the pantry and little else. He mostly perched atop the counter and watched as Edie overmixed the dough. Their cookies were always a little tough. Every now and then, one had a gooey center, but many more had burnt edges. The frosting was always too thick or too thin and Finnegan usually lacked the patience to frost cookies when they’d sufficiently cooled. As a child, he’d watched frosting melt and run down the sides of his cookies and wondered why his cookies looked nothing like the ones Edie’s personal chef made for them. 

“I’m in no mood for disappointing family traditions,” he said. He took another drag from the cigarette and smoke billowed from his nose. 

“I’m afraid that’s what you signed up for when you chose to come home for the holidays.” 

Finnegan heaved himself to his feet and tossed his cigarette into the fireplace. 

“Do I have to leave my phone upstairs?”

“You can bring it on one condition,” said Edie. “Either you text him a ‘merry Christmas’ or you delete his number from your phone. Come downstairs once you’ve done one or the other.”

She walked from the library to the hall and Finnegan listened to her descend the stairs. Then, picking up his phone, he typed two words to Victor Trevor. 

Merry Christmas, he typed.

Maybe I won’t give you up for my New Year’s resolution after all, he wanted to say.

I miss you, he thought. It aches. 

And then, silently, he slipped his phone into his pocket and followed Edie’s path downstairs.