#just wondering if sometimes the old emperor in himself would come back from time to time

[vvvavaaa]

I wonder if he would adopt his old posture when he is truly mad or something in the mansion.

[hlficlibrary]

HL Fic Library 🥀 Exes Fic Rec

Remember to leave kudos and a comment on the fics you enjoyed to show your appreciation! You can find the library's other recs here.

🥀 Mine Would Be You by @crinkle-eyed-boo {E, 114k}

Louis blinks his eyes open, his eyelids fluttering as the room swims around him. He takes several gulps of beer once he confirms that he’s definitely not hallucinating, that the very first portrait Harry Styles ever painted of him is hanging on that wall.

Louis stares at the wall, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest as he realizes that there’s not just one painting of him, there’s five, the portraits lined up like they’re some sort of storyboard depicting the rise and fall of his deepest love. His greatest heartache. A pain that cut him so deep that he left the fucking country, severing all ties with his life in New York, now suddenly surrounding him as if he’d never left.

Fucking shit motherfucker fuck.

Louis returns to New York City five years after he left it – and the love of his life – behind. He didn't intend to see Harry again, but fate has a funny way of pulling them together, whether they like it or not. After making a begrudging truce, they both start to wonder: Would it be so bad if history repeated itself?

🥀 And What If I Were You by jacaranda_bloom / @jacaranda-bloom {E, 109k}

For Louis, will losing his sight give him the clarity to realise what is right in front of him?

For Harry, will losing the love of his life give him the strength to finally open his heart?

And can they find their way back, before they lose each other forever?

A story of love. A story of loss. A story of fighting for each other, no matter the odds.

🥀 somewhere in between lightning  by jassy117, @nauticalleeds, shiningdistractionwrites / @shiningdistraction {E, 99k}

As Louis took another bite, he thought back to how he had once believed that the hardest thing about being on Love Island would be Liam handling his social media.  He had been wrong. It was Harry Styles, peeking over at Louis as he forked a pancake into his mouth, and gauging his reaction. It was having to quench the swelling of his heart, which felt simultaneously like hope and the breaking of a thousand pieces.

A summer gone wrong (or very right) when, under Liam’s persuasion, Louis finds himself drunkenly applying for Love Island, and getting accepted. Oh, well. A summer spent on an island paradise couldn’t be all that bad, right?

Imagine his surprise when Louis arrives in sunny Majorca to find that his first love and ex-boyfriend, Harry, is another contestant, about to capture the hearts of everyone in the villa. Most normal people don’t have to face their ex on an otherwise straight TV show. Most normal people don’t fall for their ex again in front of the whole nation, either. Too bad this whole situation isn’t normal.

🥀 Emperor’s New Clothes by sunsetmog / @magicalrocketships {E, 92k}

The fact that Louis’s most precious belonging was a cat with a face like thunder and an uncanny ability to cover every single inch of Louis’s clothing with cat hair was something that Louis chose not to think about too much.

or: Harry’s a pop star and Louis isn’t, and there’s a non-disclosure agreement where there used to be a relationship.

🥀 Consequences by @allwaswell16 {E, 78k}

Two years ago Harry let his powerful family come between him and the love of his life, something he deeply regrets. Louis has tried to move on from their devastating break up. Sometimes, he even thinks he has. It only takes one moment to freeze them back in time.

An amnesia au

🥀 your memory over me by @shimmeringevil {E, 64k}

Three years have passed since Louis last saw him, but all it took was a few minutes in Harry’s presence for him to be relegated to the desperate twenty-one year old that was practically begging his boyfriend for an ounce of reassurance that he still cared about him.

Harry shouldn’t be here. He’s brought too many unresolved feelings with him, that Louis thought he’d never have to face.

It’s Harry’s apparent apathy that’s the most difficult to come to terms with. Anger, he could handle. Regret, he would welcome. But Harry’s amiability, and carefree demeanor can only be born from indifference.

He’s moved on. He doesn’t care. And that is something Louis doesn’t think he’ll ever be strong enough to face.

OR - The worst heartbreak of Louis’ life walks right back into it when his parents invite their family friends on an all-expenses-paid trip for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Facing a past that he tried to bury long ago, Louis learns that some people have a way of sticking with you even when they’re gone.

🥀 Feels Like Coming Home by @phdmama {E, 60k}

The last thing Harry Styles expects when he's hanging out at the Someday Cafe in Somerville one rainy October day is for his ex, Louis Tomlinson to walk through the door, but that's exactly what happens. After a spectacularly ugly break-up three years prior, Harry hasn't heard one word from Louis, and he's moved on. Gotten over him. But having Louis back in his life, not to mention working at the restaurant where he's a chef, isn't easy, and the feelings that Harry thought he'd left turn out to be not so easily forgotten.

This is a story about love and the power of forgiveness, and how the hard choices we make define us, and change our lives.

🥀 The Second Hand Unwinds by @kingsofeverything {E, 51k}

Louis Tomlinson is one of the first members of NASA's top secret Chrono Exploration Program. When things go wrong and he's sent further back in time than planned, he has no other option than to show up on his ex-boyfriend's doorstep.

🥀 The End Should Be A Good One by bananasandboots / @anylessreal {M, 43k}

It doesn't feel like falling in love, the way it had felt the first time around, easy, simple, almost like floating, wrapped up in a whirlwind of touches and kisses, late nights spent laughing breathlessly into each other's skin. This feels broken, complicated, like every move carries the weight of their past. Like the floorboards beneath them could collapse at any moment. This doesn't feel good.

Or, the one where Harry loses the love of his life on New Years Eve and finds him again, six months later, ready to open some poorly-stitched wounds.

🥀 Sometimes You Just Know by @2tiedships2 {M, 33k}

“Dear diary. Today is going to be a good day, and here’s why...”

“What are you doing?” Louis mumbled as he bit into a piece of toast.

“It’s been almost two years and today Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson reunite. Louis is very excited about…”

Louis’ chair screeched along the kitchen floor as he flew up out of his seat, quickly grabbing the paper from Niall’s grasp. As he scanned the page he found it amounted to lines of nothing.

“What is this?” Louis asked again. “We’ve discussed how Harry Styles will never be spoken of in this flat. I don’t care how long it’s been.”

Niall snatched the paper from Louis and proceeded to draw a line across the page before writing.

“Today is the day that he-who-shall-not-be-named is coming to dinner.”

Or the one where Harry and Louis don’t believe in soulmates… until they do.

🥀 like a timebomb ticking by @infinitelymint {M, 31k}

Louis loses everything. Harry's still there.

🥀 Cowboy Like Me by Rearviewdreamer / @all-these-larrythings {M, 29k}

Going legit and starting over in a small town was supposed to solve all of Harry’s problems. That was until a string of robberies in wealthy towns brings him face-to-face with his rouge ex-partner and their dicey, unresolved past.

🥀 Get Out Of My Head (and I'll get out of yours) by Imogenlee / @imogenleewriter {E, 29k}

“You really that desperate, are you?” Despite it being a shitty thing to say, Harry didn’t mind too much, as the bitterness in Louis’ tone sounded like music to Harry’s ears. Harry was winning tonight. “Can’t find anyone new to be interested in you, so you try to hit on Zayn.”

“I can’t find someone interested in me?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’re having a laugh, mate.”

“Yeah, well, where are they, then? Because from what I’ve heard, you’re here alone.”

“As if I’d bring anyone to somewhere I knew you’d be. I wouldn’t wish your presence on my worst enemy.”

“Aw,” Louis cooed in a way that made Harry want to slap him. “You’re saying I’m not your worst enemy?”

“For someone to be an enemy, you have to give a shit about them. So, no. You’re not even on the list.”

“Oh–kay. Well, it’s been lovely as always, gents,” Zayn said before knocking back the rest of his drink.

Or the one for the Bottom Harry Fic Fest where Harry bottoming is more of a side plot, because angst got in the way--but it doesn't really matter because the fest stopped existing when I was halfthrough.

🥀 some things fade (some never do) by we_are_the_same / @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed {T, 25k}

Matching tattoos. He’d never thought he’d be the type for tattoos to begin with, let alone matching or magical ones, but once Harry had put the idea in his mind it had never quite managed to disappear. And it had made sense. With their relationship a long distance one, this was simply another way of feeling close to one another. Of knowing where the other was, how they felt. It had made so much sense.

Back then.

Three years after their break up, Harry calls.

🥀 Might've Took The Long Way by LiveLaughLoveLarry / @loveislarryislove {M, 21k}

It's been two years since Harry and Louis broke up. They were that couple in high school -- you know the one; been together forever, hopelessly in love, all over each other, the whole nine yards. Even when Louis went off to university, they found a way to make the distance work.

Until they broke up.

Now Harry is back in town, and no matter how many times Louis tells himself they can't be together, they keep falling right back into each other.

“They got a name?” Bebe asks.

“What?”

“Your ghosts,” she says, her voice suddenly soft. “If you want to tell me, I mean. I know I said I wouldn’t ask, but. Sometimes it can help to exorcise them.” She pauses, and chuckles. “Other times, vodka works better than sage.”

Louis holds his breath for a moment, building the courage, before he finally murmurs, “Harry.”

“Sorry?”

“Harry,” Louis says again. The name feels like a time bomb in his mouth, but it hasn’t blown up yet. “His name was -- is -- Harry.”

🥀 lost in my head by YesIsAWorld / @louandhazaf {E, 12k}

Louis had been, until about a year prior, the love of Harry’s life.

🥀 Fuck You For Ruining New York City For Me by galactic_larry / @galacticlarry {T, 11k}

Harry met Louis in college and fell in love with him in record time. Louis broke up with him in their New York apartment, so Harry left the city for good. Except now he’s back, visiting with his new boyfriend.

What happens when they run into each other at a bar three years after breaking up?

🥀 give me things to stay awake by embodied {E, 10k}

It’s shitty and it’s counterproductive and it’s self-indulgent, but he lets it become a thing. On Saturday nights Harry goes out and gets so pissed he can’t stand, and when the bartender cuts him off he rings Louis and is in his car within an hour. It’s not a cycle he’s proud of, but it’s also something he can’t resist, and he keeps doing it as long as Louis keeps showing up.   AU. It's been a year since Louis broke up with Harry.

🥀 Now That It's Over by @lululawrence {NR, 8k}

“What are the odds we would both be at Mariano’s on a Thursday night?”

Louis’ shoulders tensed. What the hell was he doing here?

“Harry? Hi? The odds are pretty crazy, yeah.”

Harry smiled down at Louis the way he used to, but there was also a glint in his eye that Louis absolutely did not like. Harry was also dressed in his favorite black and white striped women’s jeans and a printed shirt only he would ever be able to pull off. It was quite rude of him to come and interrupt Louis, particularly while looking so good. Louis hadn’t seen him since he’d finished moving his shit out of what was once their shared flat, so this being the first time seeing him wasn’t exactly providence in Louis’ mind.

Or the one where Harry and Louis broke up two months ago, and Harry just might be sabotaging Louis' dates.

🥀 Unspoken by Speechless / @smokingluckiesalltheway {E, 5k}

Harry and Louis broke up when they were nineteen. They see each other after six years.

"I'm not going to be the guy you fuck on the side while you settle down with your blonde wife." Maybe it's the way he phrased it, something about what Louis has just said tears a small laugh out of him. "I don't want that." Harry says, serious again. There is no reason for him to keep on holding onto Louis' scarf like this, but he does. "The last time I saw you I thought we would fix it." Louis' the one laughing this time, his vision blurry. "The last time you saw me was right before you got on a train and fucked off." "And I thought we would fix it." Harry repeats, his voice shot. "I thought you'd come."

🥀 Not yet a breach, but an expansion by theweightofmywords / @lil0 {NR, 2k}

“I don’t understand why we keep running into each other,” he says as his hands grip his hair in frustration.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he scoffs. “You know why, Harry."

Fate, it seems, still holds their lives in her ceaseless orbit.

[lucygriefer]

Apothecary Dust Design

Here's Dust's design for the Apothecary Nightmare AU. There is one thing about his design that I might change and will talk more about it in a second. So enjoy his design so far. I was looking for the creator of Dusttale to give credit to them and I've found a few different names. IDK which one to use so I'll just put the three that came up in my search. Evan Strewblow, Osteophile, and Ask-DustTale.

Dust is the shortest concubine in the group, standing at 5' 2" and is 22 years of age. He was one of the princes to the Soul Flurry Empire. A empire located close to the snowy mountains that also had a strong belief of communicating with the spirits in the afterlife. This empire always had a bunch of snow and some years they would also have very little food. Everyone there was happy with what they had. Dust continues to wear his crown from his empire to remember what remained of his home and family.

The makeup I gave Dust I'm thinking of changing it. From either changing the design or the colors. I don't fully know at the moment and I'm gonna play around with the colors more later.

Dust has a lot of magic while his body is very weak. This results in him getting sick alot more often. Growing up he was always bedridden. With his brother to help care for him on the worst days of the year. One day when Dust was 15 years of age a neighboring empire attacked and destroyed his empire. Only him and a few citizens remaining as they had managed to hide away and they left him alone thinking he'd pass away from his sickness. also not knowing that he was royalty. Once he was better he took the see through fabric scarf his brother use to wear, his crown, and small makeup stash. Took the ones that remained of his empire and left. Eventually making it to the X-Empire and begging and even offering himself up to become a concubine to have his remining people saved. Cross took his offer and started to show him around. Introducing him to Horror and working on getting to know the other. He also causes the least worry for his ladies in waiting... when he isn't sick.

Despite Dust being fairly quiet he can have a bit of a temper on him. From frustrations of how he couldn't save his home and family in the past. To frustrations over his own weak body. With all the magic he has he is able to summon many different types of weapons at the same time in battle. Earning him the title of Weapon Master concubine.

At night he follows his empire's teachings and tries his best to communicate with the afterlife like others in his empire before bed. Because of how sickly he can sometimes become from Cross and Horror would check up on him some mornings if he isn't up to help care for him.

Eventually Killer joins the empire and he finds the other annoying but also finds enjoyment in Killer's antics. With all the energy he has, and how he rarely ever holds his tongue from making rude, suggestive, or other types of comments in front of others. Unless it's the emperor, Killer at least knows to hold himself back and bite his tongue when it comes to Gash (The nickname I'm giving XGaster). Sometimes even joining in to get a good laugh every now and then. He loves both Mo and Arch. Wishing to also have a child of his own. Eventually.

Then Nightmare comes along. After saving Mo and Arch he helps Cross in learning more about the new skeleton, along with subtly preparing him for the position as the next concubine one day. He's especially trying to figure out who put the heavy restrains on his body. As he can tell that they are also restraining his magic back. He wonders which empire was cruel enough to put that on him. Especially as he doesn't know how many empires have those. It frustrates him even more after learning how old Nightmare was when the restrains were put on him.

... I'm going to possibly be making a mini comic showing Dust's frustration and anger at learning how old Nightmare was when the heavy restrains were put on him.

[interrogatormentors]

INTERLUDE 2: a king, a lord (an emperor, a god)

Sometimes, Eridan would lay in his cupe and he'd stare at the ceiling. He'd think about the things he'd been pushing away for so long.

He'd think about late morning chats with Karkat. He'd think about orphaner duties with Feferi. He'd think about his occasional lamentations with Kanaya (and the fact that he kept losing her name in the haze was both terrifying and comforting).

He'd think about his archives back on Alternia. He'd think about his hive, his lusus.

He wondered if the old skyhorse had moved on, already. If the ruins of his hive were repurposed. If the books had been pilfered. He wondered if the new inheritor cared as much as he once had about the knowledge he'd so carefully cultivated.

He wished, in a small way, that he was back there. Back then. When times were simpler, when his mind actually worked, when things made sense. He kept losing time. He kept losing himself.

But really, who was he anymore? Was he really anything before Her? His beloved Mistress. His reason to keep going. She was everything.

Thinking about this was always the worst. He shuffled out of his cupe, sighing as he went to shower instead. Once appropriately and impeccably groomed to the nines as was expected of him he made his way out of his blocks, taking his time to walk through the halls.

The lights, the sights, the stars, they never ceased to dazzle, nowadays.

Eridan felt like he was the center of the universe, for all intents and purposes. It made him feel warm and fuzzy in ways that he couldn't begin to describe, the things he had deserved all his life finally being given to him as he justly deserved.

He was a fucking marvel, a gift to the Empire.

(She laughed more genuinely, She smiled more pleasantly when he wasn't sober, so he'd do whatever it took to keep Her happy. That was all he was worth, after all.)

He fished out his flask again. He took a long swig from it and then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, letting the sting of the alcohol on the back of his tongue ground him. A notification pinged on his palmhusk and he pulled that out from his pocket, brows rising as he saw the notification. His presence was required on the HBC Condescension, with the DC Reichenbach having already been given instructions to land in the docking bay.

He approached the massive pressurized doors in the loading bay, tapping his feet impatiently.

"Dock," he snapped out, eye twitching with the pang in his temple. God damn it. Not now.

"Dooooock? What's the magic word, Amps?"

"Shakes, none'a this runt grub nonsense outta you. I got summons. Dock." At least this request wasn't horribly fraught with time sensitivity. He hammered at the button nonetheless, annoyed.

"Ughhhhhhh you're no fun anymore. Fine. I'm docking, dude, just chill." The snotty fucking helmsman devolved into grumbling that Eridan couldn't possibly retain care less about retaining. There was more important information he needed to keep track of.

"I don't need to be fun, I need to be good at my job, maybe you should try it one night," Eridan snapped back. He ignored the mock offended gasp from Shakes as he stepped out of the ship, staring up at the docking bay of the HBC Condescension . It was a familiar sight at this point, almost comforting even if it felt too big to fit sometimes.

He slowed as he saw another figure coming straight towards him. He recognized the outfit, decorated with Head Admin certification badges as well as medals and pins that spoke of countless experience and demanded respect. The figure was a seadweller, significantly older than him with age-darkened skin, grey hair and a sharp-cut beard, so he reflexively saluted. It was still strange to receive the respectful gesture in return, but it was slowly becoming less jarring and more expected of his station.

"Head Admin Ashvar Zysgin," Eridan greeted coolly.

"Head Admin Eridan Ampora," Ashvar replied in an equal formal tone, looking down his nose at the smaller seadweller. "The Empress filed for your temporary transfer to assist in Head Admin duties for the next two perigees."

"My what?"

Eridan stared blankly at Ashvar, as if expecting to be hearing things. He was clearly not, though, as the silence stretched on before Ashvar clucked his tongue in annoyance.

"You were supposed to be sent notice." The tone of voice was distasteful, and it made Eridan's blood boil. True to his conditioning education under the Empress, Eridan didn't respond aside from straightening his back, annoyance clear on his face. No stress. No panic. He had to be better. Do not let emotions rule your head. Turn it off.

"I was only sent notice of summons," Eridan said slowly. "It seems a miscommunication occurred."

Ashvar's lip curled. "Clearly." He turned his nose up, clearly annoyed. "Can't trust shitbloods to do anything these nights."

"Clearly," Eridan agreed simply, keeping it short and concise. This one seemed to be far more old fashioned.

"In any case, there is no sense in dallying. I was informed that my duties for the night were to get you caught up. The crew of the Reichenbach will supplement the crew of the Condescension for the next incursion; it's a colony expansion. Captain Nekara will manage orders ship-side, to ensure our magnificent Empress can focus on her glorious conquest as necessary. Consider it an honor, Consort, that she is putting her trust in your capabilities."

He was quite proud of himself for maintaining the calm, casual air that he was meant to carry, even as he preened at the attention and the reverential title of Consort. "Understood, sir. Ever may She reign."

Some of the tension eased as Ashvar clearly approved of the appropriate deference. Good. One step done correctly.

—

Managing a ship as massive as the Condescension was one that took several admins, Ashvar explained as they walked. Eridan kept his eyes focused out as he listened to the senior Admin, taking stock of the surroundings. The interior arrangement of the ship always made it felt more like a mobile city than a ship, in his opinion, but it was fascinating to see. The changes made throughout trollkind history were obvious. Despite having been in the ship multiple times, it never ceased to enthrall him.

Now a bit of that wonder was occupied fiercely by the route memorization he was fiercely committed to as it was explained to him. The maintenance sector was manned by Sector Admin Talawa —and wow, Sector Admin! A whole subset of admins for each corner of the gargantuan ship! It wasn't something taught in schoolfeeding, that's for sure— while the sector by that was engine technology, under Sector Admin Elagya. The culinary sector, responsible for maintaining the meal hall and providing for the fleet, was overseen by Sector Admin Uareon, and the armory was manned by Sector Admin Julien. The mediculling unit was managed by Sector Admin Isopre, and Sector Admin Daunus was in charge of personnel.

He was glad he was recording all the discussions dutifully. He'd upload them to his pandrive later.

"I've called for all the sector admins to meet," Ashvar droned on, gesturing grandiosely, "so they can meet with you and understand that you'll be filling in with... who was the junior admin on your ship again?"

"Ysseol Holkaf," replied Eridan. Ashvar seemed to take Eridan's presence in stride, and there was actual hope that maybe Eridan would find himself fitting in here, better than the rapidly alienating presence he held on the Reichenbach.

Meeting the sector admins unfortunately coincided perfectly with running into someone else. Someone rather unexpected that would blow all those hopes out of the water. 

The admins that had gathered were all stiff at attention, and even Ashvar was taken aback at the towering presence of the Empress where She sat, waiting for them all in the meeting block. Her massive mane of hair easily took up a huge portion of the block, let alone Her horns. She smiled coolly, eyes narrowing in amusement.

Eridan stepped forward immediately as She stood.

"Mistress," he breathed out, taking a knee and bowing deeply, hand over his pusher and other tucked behind his back. Perfectly executed, as She'd taught him. He opened his eyes after waiting the requisite three seconds to see that She had closed the gap, holding Her hand out with Her wrist facing him.

Oh, truly, what an honor. He leaned in and pressed his lips reverently to Her pulse, and he relaxed as he felt Her claws curl around his jaw.

"Stand, guppy," She said coolly, and he did so at Her command, hands now tucked behind his back. "Good buoy. You're in charge."

Eridan froze. Ashvar followed suit. "...My Empress?" Ashvar asked, dimly confused. The other admins, loathing the risk of being singled out, all stayed eerily quiet in the block as it seemed to instantly grow more suffocating.

"Did I stutter, Head Admin?" She asked, coldly. "He's shrimpressed me. You whale do as he says. He has no otter will than mine . For this incursion, I trust no otter."

Eridan bowed his head numbly, eyes shut in reverence to Her judgment. He felt fit to explode.

"And, Eridan," he stopped breathing as he heard his name on Her lips, looking up in wonder at his dear, beloved Empress, "you'll come to my personal blocks after shift's end. Understood?"

"Yes, Mistress," he murmured, awestruck. "Glory be. May your reign be eternal."

There was a playful spark to Her eyes that hid vicious satisfaction, cruel amusement that he wanted to see more of. So caught up was he, that he missed the reviled rage thinly hidden behind Ashvar's eyes.

As She took Her leave, he watched Her go, taken by Her presence as he always was. He was rudely shocked back to himself with a firm, sharp clearing of the throat. Turning on his heel, he saw Ashvar, looking less calm and collected than he had been prior.

"I will not fail," Eridan said firmly, straightening his back. "Introductions, then. If we're goin' to be workin' together for the next incursion, we ought to know each other. Head Admin of the DC Reichenbach, Imperial Consort to the Empress, Eridan Ampora."

He learned more than a few names in the brief meeting that followed. The spindly, long-haired cerulean that looked down his glasses at Eridan with derision was Quetus Isopre, and the stocky, burly purple that stood by his side was Baldur Daunus, his brow set in a wrinkled scowl. Fidice Julien was a buff butch blueblood with a sharp military haircut, a gnarly scar over the right side of her face that took her eye with it, a broad chest and a mean grin that didn't reach her eyes. Vigare Uareon was another seadweller, not as old as Ashvar but not the youngest of the group, hair tied back in a clean ponytail. Asavra Elagya was a tealblood, the lowest blood of the admins and the shortest with a bush of hair and large, thick rimmed glasses, while Toptan Talawa was another purple with subjugglator-style face paint, and seemed the youngest of them all. He'd have to pull their files to know for certain.

Another thing that Eridan learned, with a sinking feeling he carefully hid, was that none of them were particularly excited at the sudden shift in power.

—

When Eridan reported to the Condesce's private blocks as instructed, he expected everything to go as it always did when She summoned him to Her chambers. Casual chatting about the state of the Empire, some quips thrown in by Psii, Her best alcohol with that horrible powder served in his glass, and everything to go hazy and foggy as She did whatever She so pleased took care of him in a way he'd likely never truly earn the right to claim. He certainly wasn't about to question anything She did to him so graciously gave him in the way of attention.

And that it was. He would never deny how much he adored these quiet moments that only he was so blessed to be privy to. Even if remembering everything that happened wasn't exactly an option...

As usual, Eridan came back to himself tucked away in the Empress's embrace, feeling sore all over and finding it hard to breathe, everything between his knees and stomach feeling raw. He blinked slowly, tucking himself up against Her as She played with his hair, claws curling around his horns. They ached as She did this, but he couldn't react, he'd learned. He needed Her touch more than he needed air.

"One night, if you keep up your current performance," She murmured into the skin of his neck like a kiss, cool, plump lips skimming over tattered gills, "this will be yours. Zysgin's on in his sweeps. I won't have need of him soon enough. A lame troll is of no use to me."

He swallowed. "Such faith in my ability, I could never ask for more, Mistress," he replied hoarsely. His throat ached. He wondered if She'd had him screaming. He didn't really need to know.

"I know you'll be a wonderful extension of my will, guppy," She crooned.

He let out a happy little hum, curling further against Her, simply basking in the attention and the affection, listening to Her breathe. He didn't say a word as Her hand began to wander over his skin again. It didn't matter what he wanted, after all.

He just did as She wanted.

—

The next evening began bright and early. He woke up alone in Her chambers, unsurprising but still disappointing. His pan pounded as usual, displeased with him for falling asleep without being in sopor. Unfortunately, he always fell asleep like this after late mornings spent in Her chambers, and so it was a reality he'd just have to deal with.

Arming himself with his flask, taking a quick shower before dressing himself up as normal, he took his leave from the blocks.

His first stop... personnel. That'd be the biggest doozie, considering how he was certain the sector admin had to speak to each of the division heads on board for morale, health and livelihood reports. It was guaranteed to be the biggest headache possible. Laughsassins, threshecutioners, cavalreapers, ruffiannihilators, interrogatormentors (he shuddered, bile in the back of his throat), subjugglators—well, they all had force deployments here on the HBC Condescension. This was the forward ship for all military campaigns, after all, the stuff of legends. He was excited to read into the stuff.

He was less than enthused when he arrived to see no sign of Baldur. He frowned. The purple should be here somewhere. Where the fuck was he? Something itched in his pan; he sought another swig from his flask.

Wasting too much time trying to find him, at least Eridan actually found him. He saw the jackass brawling with the head of the ruffianihilator squad, which most certainly wasn't part of his duties.

"Admin Daunus!" Eridan barked, bewildered and taken aback. "Where's your report?"

"Somewhere else, shortstack," Baldur snarled in reply, "don't fucking interrupt me."

"The— this is your fucking job!" he snapped, completely blindsided by the sheer disrespect. The other ruffiannihilators all laughed, and Eridan burned in a rage, lip curling as he sneered down the whole lot of them.

"Just like your ancestor, aren't you? Complete stick in the mud. That can get your pail kicked, chumbucket," a purple ruffiannihilator called out. Eridan's eyes narrowed, incensed by the sheer disrespect he was being afforded.

"Show some fuckin' respect, you're talkin' to the acting head admin of the HBC Condescension on Her Imperious Condescension's illustrious order, cannon fodder."

The expression on her face fell into severe unease at this revelation. A subtle glance she gave to Baldur was all Eridan needed to know; the other admin had rigged this interaction.

He turned his ire on the larger purple. "Report, sector admin. That's an order and I am done tolerating your disrespect."

The dry amusement drained off Baldur's face, leaving only annoyance behind as he flipped the ruffiannihilator he was sparring over. "Left it with the threshecutioners, Head Admin," he drawled, and the title felt like an insult.

He bared his teeth and turned off. The report he ultimately found was dismal; damaged and barebones, barely legible and an insult to administrative work as Eridan prided himself on conducting. God. Fucking. Damn it.

—

Next admin... okay. Surely, it couldn't go as bad as Baldur's sector. He hated the smell of antiseptic, of course, and he'd been in this area more times than he'd like (the sight of his horn being removed, the tendrils in his pan crawled and writhed and hurt and hurt and hurt and—) but reports were reports and things needed done. The rota needed to be established, and Eridan was hopeful that Quetus would keep notes as diligently as he appeared to from a glance.

Instead, Quetus was doing something completely unrelated. No reports were prepared for him. After stocking something that most certainly was not his job, he looked over slowly, taking his sweet time to acknowledge Eridan who had been standing there for the past ten minutes.

"Do you know about Orphaner Dualscar?"

Eridan blinked. He glanced over, confused at the line of questioning. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Quetus looked over to him, eyes crinkling in vicious amusement. "Did you know he died a disgrace? Pathetic and washed out, culled by the Grand Highblood?"

His mouth went dry. His eyes narrowed. "Hell are you implyin', Admin Isopre?"

"Watch your step, pupa," Quetus merely said, turning off. Eridan struggled to comprehend what the hell that was supposed to mean, insulted at the way his rank was so casually disregarded .

"Oi!" he called out, frustrated and annoyed. "Where the fuck's your report!?"

"The table," came the infuriatingly vague reply. The way the docterrors and assistants all looked at him, knowing full well who he was and what procedure had been done to him in this very hall incensed him more, and he frustratedly scoured the goddamn block until he found the stupid fucking manila folder. Much like Baldur's report, he realized in quiet dismay, it wasn't worth jack shit. But he was now running late and low on time. He couldn't afford to redo this shit. He needed to keep going.

—

Once was strange. Twice was a trend, and Eridan wished it wasn't so. Because the third time was simply enough to piss him off, which sustained as he merely continued floundering about, unable to get a purchase with any of the sector admins.

He couldn't get a single goddamn report delivered correctly. Each sector was either missing its admin, or experienced its admin doing things they had no business doing. Fidice was outright neglecting the job to drink and play poker with the guards! Come on! She didn't even need soporifics to keep functioning! 

The packet that he ultimately ended up with was disgraceful, a great lump of barely legible shit that didn't get any of the required details a report should have.

He was losing his mind. And by the end of the night, he was summoned by his Mistress. He arrived at Her throne, lowering himself in a prostrate bow and horrified at the fact that he had nothing to show but substandard, cobbled together reports.

He was incensed to see Ashvar showing up with a much nicer looking report folder. He realized at that moment that he'd been duped . And as Ashvar handed off the report to his Mistress, Her expression held only disapproval that cut him far more to the core than anything else She could have possibly done in that moment.

"Oh, guppy," She said softly, disappointed, "I'm gonna have to prawnish you today."

Eridan's shoulders stiffened, panic flickering over his face. "Mistress, I, I swear I—"

"Shhhh. No excuses, buoy. You're bein' two shrimpulsive. What are you?"

Eridan felt humiliated, for Her to bring this up now while the saboteur responsible for this daymare was in the same fucking block? "P-please, Mistress—"

Her tone grew colder. "What are you?"

Eridan squeezed his eyes shut, shame rising up. Don't cry. She would hate that more than anything in the world, at this moment. "...a failure."

"Good buoy. To my private blocks."

The taste in the back of Eridan's mouth was sour as he looked down at his feet. "Yes, Mistress," he croaked quietly. He could feel smugness radiating off that grandiose piece of shit, but he couldn't afford to feel rage in that moment. He wouldn't give the fucker the satisfaction. 

He had to accept his punishment.

—

His throat was sore the next evening. Everything hurt, bruises covering him under his uniform as a reminder of his incompetence. Moving was a misery in and of itself, but he knew he'd deserved it. It wasn't like he could say anything against Her, after all (the heretical audacity of the mere thought gave him anxiety), so he simply sucked it up, showered, and with a thundering pan, he went off to start his rota for the night.

"Hey, Amps!"

He snarled in annoyance, pinching his brow as he turned his attention to the usual troublemakers from his crew. "What?" he asked, sharply, "I'm busy."

Shakes squinted at him and let out a low whistle. "Jeez. What crawled up your nook and died?"

The acrid glare that Shakes got in return had him holding up his hands. "Okay, okay, bad line of convo. Something up, dude?"

"Head Admin Ampora, and no, I'm—I'm fine. Just. Just stop distractin' me, I have reports to get!"

He turned off, paying no further mind to his ship's helmsman. He didn't even pause to wonder why the guy was out and about, considering how outright hostile a lot of people on the HBC Condescension were to lowbloods and, in particular, mobile helmsmen. Traditionalist fucknuts, the whole lot of them.

It's not like it mattered to him, anyways. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

Any hopes he'd had of the first night being a fluke were firmly dashed. The second night went just as poorly, this time overrun by the fact that he tried to do all their reports for them. This took too much time for one troll to do, for the ship was simply so massive that it was impossible to get the work done in a single night. He showed up that night with half the packet clearly done by him alone, and the other half still the same, low tier work. Ashvar, again, showed up with a comprehensive report.

Eridan was once again ordered for punishment.

The punishment that morning was immediately soured by Ashvar intercepting him after they were both dismissed, as Eridan was making his way to Her chambers. The other seadweller had simply smiled, a hand placing on his shoulder, claws threateningly tight against his uniform;

"You know, it's not as if this is unexpected," Ashvar said. "Your ancestor was a disgrace to the empire as well. Vying for something he had no business vying for. You could simply admit to the Empress that you're not cut out for this work, pupa, surely she would allow you to take second position."

Eridan yanked his arm away from Ashvar, not deigning to give him a response. "I have my orders," he simply said, making his way to her blocks again.

How the fuck did this spawn of a bitch know anything about Dualscar?

—

Night three didn't go any better. Supplementing the holes in their shit reports rather than rewriting the shit from scratch didn't work when Elagya simply lied on her report, coming up with bullshit that didn't match the report she'd given to Ashvar. Collapsing on the job didn't help matters, either.

This time he remembered screaming until his throat gave out. Forget it forget it cast it aside. Don't think about it. Just shut down. Keep going. You have to keep going.

God, he was so tired. And, of course, because he was actively being punished, his pathetic plea to see Psii for a moment of relief was immediately and firmly denied.

"You need to do betta for that, guppy," She'd told him.

God, he wanted to cry.

Turn off. Turn it all off. Focus on the work.

—

Alright. No more relying on their reports. He just had to get up earlier. He just had to work harder. He just...

...who was he kidding? Another night, another sinking feeling that he wasn't going to survive to the end of the week. Three nights of failure leading into three days of consecutive punishment and sopor denial was starting to wreak havoc on him. He couldn't afford the time needed to cover up the deep, heavy bags under his eyes, punched in with restless, worthless sleep. He should honestly have just worked through the day, once She was done with him.

Even still, he got up early. He showed up to personnel before Baldur was even conscious, ignoring the annoyance at the troop heads at being bothered before the shift alarm had even gone off, and got the data he needed. He had mediculling's reports written up as well and was walking and sorting through his list of what needed getting, pan going a mile a minute to meticulously micromanage his timing when something changed in his fortunes.

Eridan groaned, scrubbing at his temples, but took pause as he saw a figure approach. Teal on her uniform, expression carefully controlled, he recognized her, first by the shift in her gender-presenting pheromones.

"Admin Holkaf," he said slowly, tucking the still burning anger and betrayal (and hurt so much hurt what had he done to deserve her betrayal, he tried so hard to be an admin worth respecting on that thankless ship) deep in his pusher until he never had to think about it again. Ysseol saluted, and he noticed something in her hands.

"...reports I gathered, sir," she said quietly. "From the armory and culinary sectors."

His brows shot up, genuinely taken aback for a moment. He slowly took the folder and opened it.

He recognized this handwriting. This wasn't Ysseol's, but he wasn't about to bring it up. The second report, of course, had her neat handwriting in it, but the first one... well, that was Spoons. 

What the fuck was a helming tech that had no reason to like him anymore doing, preparing a report? But as he read it over, it was a breath of fresh air that twinged his sore, aching lungs. This was comprehensive. This was excellent work. If her blood had been a couple shades higher, he'd always thought, she'd make an excellent admin. Now he was wondering if that long-standing rule should be twisted for her, but... well. By now, he knows her. She would hate the kind of work that came with administrative tiers. She liked working with her hands, staying busy—

— Why did any of this matter, guppy?

The thought, sounding eerily like Her voice, shook him out of his mystified reverie. He took a slow breath.

"Good work."

Ysseol tilted her head back subtly. He ignored the look on her face. "Of course, sir," she said quietly. "Do you still have additional sectors needing to be gathered?"

Eridan felt a sting in his thoracic cavity; doubt, anxiety. What if she was plotting against him too? The admin crew of the HBC Condescension saw no desire to step back and let him have an easier time of things by any means. She'd already betrayed him, once. Spoons had all the more reason to see him burn, after what he'd done to Bricks he didn't remember he didn't remember why didn't he remember? Wouldn't he have remembered? Wouldn't he—

He took in a slow breath. "No," he lied, and he turned away.

Despite the hustle and the tireless struggle, he ultimately managed to get the rest of the reports. He felt a mix of annoyance and gratefulness when he saw a familiar teal-written folder waiting for him at the entrance of the engine technology sector that he viciously smothered, knowing full-well that he needed a better poker-face. He took the report anyways. He'd arrange for Ysseol to have a night off when the DC Reichenbach was on its merry way, after this horrid shit-show was said and done.

Night four was the first night that ended in his position as acting Head Admin where he didn't get pushed by Her. Ashvar looked fit to spit nails. Eridan did not give him the satisfaction of a response as he was pulled into Her lap and postured like a lap-fitted woofbeast spoiled rotten as his station deserved. 

He simply stared, blankly, turning his mind off and letting Her do as She pleased. 

As he was made to do.

—

It came to a head when, by the end of the week, Eridan was run ragged and exhausted, beyond annoyed. Ysseol and Spoons continued to pitch in when they can (he ignored the report that looked like Bricks's handwriting, pushed that far back in his pan until he'd forgotten who that handwriting belonged to) and his workload became slightly easier. But it wasn't ever supposed to be like this.

He would never complain about his crew on the Reichenbach again, he swore, because if this was how his beloved Mistress's people ran her ship, he felt so, so sorry for Her. Never before had he understood Her troubles more than in this moment, with sheer incompetents sullying Her illustrious name with their panrotted drivel.

His mind made up, he called a meeting to discuss the problems he was seeing. He arrived at the room with the pathetic excuses of reports he'd had to hand the Empress sorted (because yes, he'd been told that he had to keep them, read them over, and solve the issue, of course he had).

He also came with a lighter.

So he waited, there, for the meeting to start. This would hopefully clear the air between them. Just a proper meeting, where he set the groundwork for how their relationship was going to be from here on out.

.....a meeting where no one fucking showed up.

Eridan took a deep breath. He let the breath out. Turn them off. Turn your emotions off. Do not let your emotions rule your head.

"...Psii," Eridan said, lowly, hands splayed across the table, the results of the disastrous week scattered across as much as they well deserved. "You're not too busy at the moment, are you? Could you do me a favour?"

"You know the answer to that question, but I can multitask for you. State your request."

Eridan closed his eyes, breathing again. Slow. Measured.

"The sector admins have elected to not show themselves at a meeting I specifically called. Nor has your head admin. Find them."

Not even a second passed before the Helmsman was rattling off locations. "Admin Daunus is napping. Admin Isopre has invented a maintenance request and is currently meandering through a supply closet. Said supply closet is on deck seven. Admin Fidice is carving the ice for her soporific. Admin Elagya is in a tepid excuse of a hot tub with Admin Talawa and Admin Uareon. Head Admin Zysgin is finalizing routes through the next system. All alerts for the meeting have been snoozed manually in their systems and thus I had no authority to reinstate them nor alert you."

Eridan closed his eyes. "In my position as acting Head Admin of the HBC Condescension, and as the Imperial Consort of the Empress, this is my order. Make them come."

"Would you prefer promptly, or humbled?" There was something like amusement on the edge of the Helmsman's voice, despite the deadpan death-rattle he always spoke with over intercoms.

Eridan smiled slowly, each tooth bared straight to the gum. "Humble them, my dearest diamond. Show them what happens when they disrespect the will of our Mistress."

"Understood. The query was a formality. Your poker face still needs work, Eridan. This request has been deleted from the Imperial Network and shall commence shortly."

Eridan let out a mirthless laugh. "Let me have my fun, snowflake. For now, I'll wait."

There was a scratchy exhale that had an echo of a laugh to it that trailed into a cough, and then the intercom went silent.

Eridan sat and waited, patiently. He flicked the lid of the lighter on and off, feet kicked up on the table. He would outlast them, after everything they'd put him through. It took half an hour before the scumfuckers finally showed up, all of them irritated and annoyed and clearly displeased at the methods visited upon them. He would have to ask Psii for recordings of the merriment later, if only to observe the best ways to get under these dipshits skins.

"How highly immature of you," Ashvar sniffed indignantly. "You would set the Helmsman, an important tool to the Empress, on us? And for what? Because you're unhappy?"

"Object lesson, Ashvar," Eridan said slowly, flicking the lighter on. He stood slowly, eyes flicking slowly, purposely down to the meeting table. "This is the work you all presented me in this past week."

He touched the lighter to the surface of the table. The table which had been cleanly drenched with ignition fluid, and thus lit up like a trash fire. Which, truly, it was.

"I am disgusted with your conduct," he said, calmly, in the midst of their shouts of alarm. "You hem and haw about immaturity, and yet in your illustrious tenure, you present me with trash. I would expect this out of wigglers. I would expect this out of unorganized rebel scum." His eyes glared into each of the admins eyes, all of them appalled at the way the table between them all burned. "Is this how you respect our wonderful, radiant Empress? Undermining the sanctity of Her well oiled machine, when we're gearin' up for a new colony?"

"You set a fucking meeting block on fire! Are you fucking insane?!" Vigare yelled, eyes wide. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Eridan placed his hand on the table. The flames licked around his fingers, around his rings, and they all stared, put into an immediate hush. "What's wrong with me? Me? My problem is that I'm surrounded by incompetent fools who have grown complacent and resistant to change. There's a new Head Admin in the picture at a critical juncture, one who holds the Empress's confidence more than any of you remora ever fuckin' have." He pulled his hand slowly back, wiggling his fingers. He could barely feel the angry blistering of his hand where the rings grew hot. He'd had worse.

"Do you think I'm some sort of yellow-bellied weaklin'? That I wouldn't catch on to your game? 'Cause I was on it from night one. Your Head Admin, I'm afraid, is not subtle in the slightest. So if you think I'm stupid, naive, well, you are sadly fuckin' mistaken."

He rounded the table and approached them, nose turned up in the air, eyes narrowed to slits. "You know, I know intimately well how to dismember corpses. I was an Orphaner in my youth, much like a certain undeservin' whisper of an alleged ancestor you shitpans keep tryin' to foist on my person. So it should come as no surprise to hear when I tell you that once you have a skeleton, yer wretched meatsack follows a pattern. Doesn' matter if you're a troll, or a lusus. You've got joints. Those can be broken, easy. Claws? Those can peel off much easier than you'd think. Muscle fibers need the right angle, but they'll tear, even with a blunt instrument. With the right technique, nothin' lasts."

There was a sharp sound, and Eridan reeled for a moment, blinking slowly as he felt dull pain spread through his face. He looked slowly to see Ashvar, violet in the face and enraged, his teeth pulled back in a snarl.

"How dare you," the other Head Admin snarled. "You miserable little brat. Barely out of your fresh molt, and an accident has convinced you you're worth something? When such a critically important assignment looms over us as a guillotine? You should have accepted your failure on that first night and conceded that you were ill-equipped to handle this task."

"You raised your hand to the Imperial Consort," Eridan commented, eyes dragging up to the intercoms. The casual threat only incensed the usually composed seadweller.

"You're nothing," Ashvar roared, grabbing Eridan by the lapels, the fuchsia of his consort cape bunched under his undeserving grubby claws. "Nothing but a little runt clawing at the worthless legacy of a disgraced Orphaner who died in pathetic misery! Even she thinks you're nothing, she tore your ear off, left you mutilated— marked you a wretched little slave! I owned dozens of you in the prime of the Empire, hundreds of sweeps before you were even spat out of the mother grub's brooding sphincter!"

Eridan snarled. He lashed out, but without claws to dig in, he could only grab Ashvar's throat and squeeze. The man threw him aside, laughing, and he slammed into the wall. He collected himself quickly, pushing himself up to his feet as he glared over furiously, eyes narrowed to slits. "You're a declawed, defanged little plaything pacified by a crippling dependence on soporifics that she's winding up to watch break! You–" Eridan was kicked in the side with a sharp bite of pain that he dared not voice, "–are–" another kick, another bloom of pain, more unvoiced rage, "–nothing!"

The admins laughed in amusement. The laughter circled in his aching, roaring pan, twisting the band of sanity tauter and tauter until it finally snapped in a moment of pain, humiliation, and cold, nauseating fury.  

The red overcame him.

Last longer. Punch harder. Tear flesh and scales apart with your teeth. Be every bit the monster that people think you are. But do not let emotions rule your head.

Do not let emotions rule your head.

DO NOT LET EMOTIONS RULE Y

Eridan sucked in a slow breath as his vision cleared. He was sore. He was tired. He was panting for air, gills burning, teeth bared to the gums. The table was slammed into the wall, cracked clean in two, the charred remains of shit reports scattered uselessly and soaked in violet.

He could taste iron and flesh in his mouth, and he blinked slowly, staring blankly down at the fallen limb in front of him. He could see it was impaled in multiple parts, and he noted that tacky coldness was dripping slowly down his horns. Fingers were missing off the hand, and he saw shredded remains of them scattered around in a barbaric bloodbath.

Ashvar was down on the ground, dry-heaving from the pain. His only hand with what fingers remained clung at the jagged stump of his arm. Eridan moved forward, slowly, boots squishing on the tacky violet blood that stained the pristine floors of his Mistress's ship.

He placed his boot on the stump, and shoved the older seadweller down without remorse.

The resulting shriek made his fins ring, dimmer in the slave-cut fin. He ignored it. He only felt cold anger, slowly drenched in the arctic waters that filled his lungs.

"Crawl," Eridan said, frigid. "Crawl to the fuckin' medbay and pray to the good will of our Illustrious Empress that the Docterror on duty won't turn you away for bein' a dumb sack of shit waste of genetic material. And th' next time you think of somethin' smart, watch your tongue or I'll rip it out of your withered sack of meat, you panrotted hasbeen. I am the Imperial Consort of the Empress, executor of Her will, extension of Her radiant, everlasting splendour. I can and will always rank above you, and lip service will earn you a visit from the drones, if you're lucky enough to miss disciplinary action from the Imperial Network." His eyes rose slowly, needling each of the other admins purposefully.

No one was laughing at him anymore.

"Ashvar Zysgin is an example," he continued. The rage he felt was drained out of him entirely; only cold remained. "If any of you have any complaints, by all means, come forward. We'll settle this the old fashioned way. I don't need any'a you dead-weight swill to get this job done. I've already made that painfully clear."

None dared to move. He wondered, dimly, what he'd done to earn the looks on their faces. He decided that, having seen the aftermath, he didn't actually care.

"Good. So you understand," he said softly, "that if you ever, ever disrespect me or mention the Orphaner Dualscar to my face again, you will not survive your next breath."

Everything felt cold, so fucking cold. He didn't think he could feel cold like this. They kept shooting glances at each other, and he couldn't make out the details, the aura in his eyes unbearable. The silence burned colder in his throat.

"I expect an answer out of you, bottom-feeders. Are. We. Clear?"

Uareon stumbled forward, clearly ousted into the speaking role by her co-conspirators. She immediately shrank back, nauseated and pale as death as she looked down at the sobbing mess that was once a tenured Head Admin. "...crystal, Head Admin Ampora, sir. This will not happen again, sir. A thousand apologies for the disrespect, sir. Your will be done, sir."

He saluted automatically, demanding respect as they responded in kind with the additional deferential tilts of the head to expose their necks. He felt cold, cold, colder than ice as he turned on his heel. He saw Nekara at the door of the meeting block. He couldn't make out the expression she wore. The aura he saw was overwhelming. He needed relief a drink.

"Captain Fyrane," he said, coldly, the only acknowledgement he offered as he passed her out the door.

There was only one person he needed to respect anymore. Only one person he could trust. He'd tried, he'd tried so hard so fucking hard, but realized in futility that he would never belong anywhere. He only belonged in one place in the whole cruel, unfeeling world, and it was a place he'd never leave. 

He understood now, understood why She ruled through fear, understood why none dared cross Her, and he felt pity for Her. To be so alone in the universe, with no one to understand Her... what a sad, lonely existence.

But he was there. And he would let Her do anything to him. Because he was so, so desperately flushed for Her.

And as he saw Her standing further behind the gruesome scene, simply watching, judging, and waiting, saw the vicious approval, the too wide smile, the amusement at Her toys playing approval and pity and affection on Her face, he stopped before Her.

He bowed, followed the cues he'd learned so well, and finally received the pleasure of kissing the palm of Her hand with all the tenderness he could possibly muster in the universe. Violet blood and bits of gore smeared in his wake. She smiled wider, deeply amused by his grand show.

He felt nothing at all.

(Somewhere else, choked out and unheard through a suffocating web of necrotic wire, someone sang a funeral dirge for the person he used to be.)

[brackenfrond]

So. Wondering about how Carver, in my BG3 playthrough, would feel about the companions and some NPCs and I took psychic damage. Naturally I have to share this.

Warning: spoilers for both DA2 and BG3

Because Lae'zel is forthright and an excellent fighter and he trusts that she'll watch his back and suddenly he remembers Aveline, always there to plant herself like a tree, to yell and snarl. Who he met single handedly fending off a swarm of darkspawn to protect the person she loved wholeheartedly.

Because Shadowheart is so devout, so fairhful in her goddess until she is asked to do the unthinkable and she can't. And he is so proud and for a second he sees Merril, of all people, clinging to her Dalish heritage, her religion. He heard about the elven gods being fake, and could see Merril's anguish in Shadowheart's stunned silence in the aftermath.

Because sometimes when he's half asleep he sees a flash of white hair and nearly hisses out an annoyed 'Fenris', until he remembers. Astarion is dissimilar to him in personality (Isabela, his mind screams. His personality is all Isabela) but everything else is too similar. Not just the white hair - the breaking of chains, the anger at his former captor, and the feeling of sudden emptiness when the job is done.

Because Gale grates on him purely because he is so much like Anders. Clever and quick, casting spells with efficiency and rambles about his interests in a way that reminds Carver of rants about mage equality. Sometimes he closes his eyes and sees a brught explosion and is too scared to examine that closely, wondering if he'll see the Chantry or his new mage friend at the epicentre.

Because Wyll is harder to place, but his prince charming demeanour brings to mind Sebastian, for as short a time as Carver really knew him. Because even with horns curling from his skull, from whatever hellish curse Mixora put on him, Wyll is good. And kind. And full of a desire to help people. And Carver can't examine that too hard, because it makes him think of Bethy, and someone else has already stolen her face.

Because Karlach is the hardest. She's boisterous and loud, bright smiles that can turn into pure, unbridled rage at injustice. Who when she can touch again asks him for a hug, and pats his shoulder and calls him 'soldier' and she is his sister. And Hawke is dead. Hawke walked into the Fade at Adamant and never came out and Karlach does not deserve to be compared to the woman who Carver still sort of hates while grieving her. Because Hawke was his sister and he loved her, but even after she was gone he was just 'her brother'.

Because the guardian, because The Emperor, had the gall to steal his twins face and he hates hates hates it for it. But he still cries when he thinks about the early dreams, of how he had called her name. Voice trembling, shaky, feeling like a five year old again. And she didn't know the name. Or it didn't know the name. It hurts Carver to think about it, and more than just in how to refer to the early dream visitor.

Because he sees the Tiefling refugees and is immediately transported back to Kirkwall, to being rejected over and over for being a refugee, and launches himself into helping them. He sees Isabela in Mol's cunning, argues with Rolan and finds himself warming to him as time goes by, his devotion to his younger siblings admirable. He snatches Arabella away from Kagha and had to be physically held back from attacking her because she's a child. The refugees echo him, in a way, and he mourns when her reaches Last Light and find out that soem are dead, others maybe good as.

Aylin and Isobel hurt. Because Aylin and Isobel make him think of brave, strong, powerful Hawke and small but no less terrifying Isabela, and that fucking hurts.

He punches Lorroakan in the face when he meets him. He feels vicious vindication when Aylin breaks his spine.

He hugs Shadowheart when all she has been put through comes to light, digs his hands into moonlight silver hair and prentends he doesn't feel her tremble.

He gives a soldier's salute to Lae'zel when she leaves to free her people, pride bubbling in his chest when she grins viciously in response, returning the salute.

He's proud of Gale for turning away from absolute power, from godhood, to make a name for himself away from gods who have only ever hurt him.

He stands at Astarion's side when he faces Cazador, snarling and ready to assist. He leads him away by the hand after everything, after he turns away ascendancy, and promises to find a way to let him walk in the sun after the tadpole is dealt with.

He hugs Wyll before he leaves for the hells, manages not to cry when he hugs him back.

He only avoids hugging Karlach because she is burning hot, hut vows to give her the biggest hug ever when he sees her again, because she deserves it.

He is welcomed at Sorcerous Sundries by the new master of Ramazoth's Tower and his two younger siblings, and nearly collapses into Rolan's arms. But he's smiling.

These are his people now. He'll see Mol grow to become a terrifying crime boss, and he'll hear Alfira sing her songs, hear her talk about Lakrissa, and he'll eventually meet Morena Dekarios and the famous Tara. He'll always mourn what he's lost.

But here. Far away from lands he knows, he finds a new family, a new home, and Carver Hawke gets a happy ending.

After all, he has always deserved that.

[ripeteeth]

fragments: 01 (wangxian)

[I'm clearing out my incomplete wips and posting fragments that might stand alone as a bit of an amnesty of old projects. This is the first of that series.]

“He was important to you,” his brother says, and Lan Wangji considers the trouble of language. Is, he thinks, not was. There is no end limit to love. Wei Wuxian may not exist in the world, but Lan Wangji still loves him, and someday, when he himself is gone, his love will still be true. It is a fundamental rule of the world, just as gravity keeps his feet on the ground.

There are moments when he forgets: when a dark figure passes through a crowd, at the first notes of a flute, at the flash of laughter bright as a forest fire. Each time, his breath stops, and his knuckles whiten as he forms a fist, digging the half-moons of his nails into his palms, reminding himself of this break between desire and truth: Wei Wuxian had died in the Burial Mounds and is no longer here. 

Some griefs are deeper than others. This one cuts like a fresh lash each time. 

He wakes each morning at five, his breath shallow. Sometimes he dreams of Wei Wuxian, sometimes he does not. When he sleeps deeply, he wakes briefly uncertain which reality is the truth. Did he wake from a dream of this loss? Each morning, he presses his palm against his own chest, feeling the ridges of the Wen brand, and knows that no, the proof is borne on his skin. In no world with Wei Wuxian did they share this. He likes the feeling of it now, the way the scar tissue on his chest and back bears proof of his devotion.

(He remembers a boy, age seventeen, caught in a cave and laughing at his own fresh branding. A man should get scars for love, Wei Wuxian had said, dark eyes glinting. Now she’ll never forget me. He wonders if, wherever Wei Wuxian is now, if he has forgotten him.) 

Habits prop up the days. When he passes a shop selling jars of Emperor’s Smile, he cannot resist buying one. Each time, for a few moments, he might pretend that he is buying it for Wei Wuxian. When he pries up the floorboard, concealing the jars within, he might imagine that someday the other man might be here, filling the room with hot laughter. You thought of me? Wei Wuxian would say, and Lan Wangji would feel warm. 

No one comes. Sometimes he pries up the floorboard and stares at the jars, little pieces of Wei Wuxian that he might have. Like a magpie, he steals pieces. The brand, the wine, robes he orders in black and red. As if Wei Wuxian were a lover away for a week, a month, a year, and just waiting to return home. 

[rated e (explicit) below the cut]

He has never known Wei Wuxian’s touch as a lover. (Once, he had fumbled and pressed his mouth to the other man’s, but that was taken. Wei Wuxian had not reached back, had not kissed back.)

His nightly habits have not changed since he was seventeen. Retiring to his rooms, he slips the robes from his body like a peel from a fruit. Inside, he’s ripe already. He bathes, efficiently and with purpose. It’s only once he is alone, settled into bed, concealed beneath blankets, that he allows one hand to wander south between his thighs. He is thirty now and has long since ceased trying to fight his own mind. What he wants is impossible, except in the corners of his imagination, so he fucks his own fist, teeth clenched, imagining that this skin is Wei Wuxian’s golden own, and that this slick is his beloved’s. Some information is known. Again, nightly, he remembers how Wei Wuxian had looked, blindfolded and leaning against a tree, how the sinew and muscle of his chest had pressed into Lan Wangji’s own. His lips had been wet and soft and when Lan Wangji had bitten in, he had moaned and his hips had stuttered, as if he might have wanted it. 

So he imagines this again. Wei Wuxian, disheveled, pressed sharply into a tree or a wall, rutting against Lan Wangji’s thigh, his hair wild and dark, like treebranches in winter. He would take that cock in hand, redder and fat with blood, (like his own, now. In his mind, his cock is both his own and not his own. In his mind, his hands are both his own and Wei Wuxian’s.) and stroke them together until Wei Wuxian would shudder and break apart, all for him, here in the palm of his hand. 

He comes, spilling across his own sword-rough palm. His eyes squeezed shut, his breathing is his own and not his own. Again, as he has done each and every night, he drags his come-covered hand out from beneath the sheets. Self-abuse is forbidden in Cloud Recesses, and there is nowhere to wipe this, nowhere to wash it off, without potentially being discovered, so he drags his palm across his tongue, swallowing the spill of himself down.

The taste is his own, and not his own.

He sleeps alone. This is not new. It never has been.

[forcenexus]

THE THREAT WAS LIKE ANY OTHER HE HAD SPOKEN, simple and to the point. Back in the heyday of the Republic before it fell, he may have been bold enough to push his cockiness on his enemies. General Grievous had gotten then blunt side of his mouth, much to Obi Wan's dismay. That cockiness always seemed to muster its way up and split out. A Hero without Fear, maybe he was still that. The years had not been kind to him. No, he had found himself drinking into a stupor that had him stumbling around his main quarters shouting why him into the air. Well, until Qui Gon made himself know one night and had him falling straight on his rear end in shock, seeing his old master as plain as day.

Leading the way, Anakin was careful not to venture too close to the wire traps and the camera's that were concealed in the sand. One wrong move, and it could early take a foot or a leg. Dancing around it, he found himself near the entrance and went down the stairs to the lower level where the kitchen was and the dining area. There was no common room. The dining room where the younglings met would do or the kitchen while he brewed some tea leaves the villager gave him recently. Finding himself in the kitchen, he glanced over his shoulder.

The kitchen was just as broken down as the rest of the abode he made into his home over the year. It was far from the comparison of the Jedi Temple he called home so many years ago. He missed it sometimes. The rush of battle, to be the famed hero he had once been - only for him to be an exiled hermit. Long time ago was those days. He was no longer the Jedi that he wished to be at times. Jinn had said he was something more now. He was more in tuned with the balance than before.

He could feel his saber in his sleeve, hidden in the fabric where he made a place for it to sit without harming him in any way. Anakin was smart. Sometimes too much. He used all his Jedi training almost every day to survive. It made him miss Obi Wan all the more and it made him angry that he lost everything in a blink of an eye. All because of the Sith Lord who wished to be Emperor. He lost everyone and grieved heavily after seeing on the holo that Senator Amidala passed, his beloved wife.

Damned he took so long to call her his wife. He had post boned the marrying her until after he became a knight and was a bit more mature. She had been happy then. So carefree on the planet of Naboo where they made their hidden vows. He courted her properly in secret. Padme had deserved that much. Now she was apart of the Force. Gone from him forever and the child he had carried. His legacy.

Anakin had heard of Starkiller on the comms. He didn't know what he looked like until much later because he rarely looked at the holo feed unless he needed too. So when he did find out his appearance, he had went into a rage then. One of the younglings he trained had come to an end because of the inquisitors. It just made him hate the Empire all the more. Something that almost pushed him out of his hiding place and to go to the Rebels to help with the effort. His time would come is what Qui Gon told him. It was not time yet then.

Approaching the stove he had made years ago, he went to put some water on. That was until the sound of the man stumbling caused him to look over. He was near the dining table that once had been filled with younglings talking and being carefree. The benches he made where still there. Raising a brow, he wondered what was wrong with the man. That void still circled around him from what he felt. "No need to apologize."

Stopping what he was doing when he saw the other clutch his face, he wondered why he was acting that way. Did he have a tracker on him? If so he should cut him down now. No one could know of this place and if he found it, who else knew. "What?" Skywalker asked confused. His brows creased as he stared helpless. "I.... I'm not doing anything." His hand itched like it did when he needed his saber. In an instance his new weapon was drawn out and he pointed it at him. "What device?" He demanded as he heard the familiar hum of his saber. The blade was a deep purple and the hilt had branch like drawings burnt on the hilt. It was all very symbiotic to him. It mimicked his relationship he had with the Force. The balance itself.

[freakystrashdump]

🔮The Oracle Bakery🔮

Emperor Belos|Phillip Wittebane/OC

Slow burn, enemies to lovers, Belos is a content warning by himself

Read on AO3

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Chapter 7: Old Friends, New Friends

The journal was an absolute treasure, more precious than any of the human books and thingamabobs she had acquired from the Owl Lady throughout the years. It was an obvious labour of love, the illustrations filled with detail and the text, oh the text! It was written in a way that's both easily digestible and informational, on top of being incredibly flowery and picturesque. 

As soon as Selena was back in the bakery, she excused herself to her little apartment, letting Katya (who had finally came in apparently just a mere 15 minutes after she left) run customer service again while the kitchen took care of everything else, and was inhaling the journal, page by page by page. And by the Titan, she could wax poetic about all the ways she was in love with this book.

And she couldn’t put her finger on why , but something about the illustrations and the text, it felt almost…nostalgic? 

She wondered if the Emperor ever wrote a children's book under a pen name, something she may have come across in the library at a younger age. I mean, he wasn’t always an Emperor, right? Or maybe he just had a classical artstyle, probably one he copied from the same books she may have read as a child.

Selena promised to return the book in a decent enough time-frame, refusing to hog it for too long. Both because it would be considered rude and because she felt uncomfortable keeping something from the Emperor in her home, no matter how amazing the thing may be. So she was thinking of maybe taking the Friday off and putting together a three day weekend, to dedicate it to copying everything she could need from it.

As she read (and re-read) the journal, only coming down to the bakery once around lunch time to find a pastry to be her meal and check in on Katya, the light from outside turned to a more golden hue and the shadows grew longer and darker.

A knock on the hatch door broke her away from the journal “It’s open!”

The hatch lifted to reveal Katya, out of the apron uniform and with a rucksack on her back “Hey, it’s closing time boss, I’m about to head out.”

Selena’s head quickly turned towards the nearest clock, her eyes instantly widening when seeing how late it was “Oh, oh wow. Yeah, it really is closing time. Damn, I lost track of time.” Katya climbed up fully, sitting on the edge of the hatch opening. Her eyes zeroed in on the journal in the witch's hands.

��Yeah, you full on zoned out my dude. What is that book you’re reading, anyway?” As soon as she asked, Selena shut the journal audibly.

“Something to help with the human recipes.” she quipped “It’s an old book of ingredients from the Imperial library I was allowed to borrow. The Emperor insisted I take it so I can make him more diverse snacks.”

Katya’s jaw dropped “Wait, he let you borrow his book? The Emperor?”

“Yup.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same witch? Emperor Belos, really tall and really scary?”

Not missing a beat, Selena shrugged nonchalantly “He’s suffering from a massive sweet-tooth, I guess.”

The bard clicked her tongue in annoyance “I don’t like this.”

“No one is happy about this, least of all me.” Selena put the journal away in her nightstand and made sure to lock the drawer. “But that’s life, sometimes it sucks and sometimes it really sucks.” she turned back to Katya “Anyway, thanks for today, you’re free to go. Actually, I’m gonna be taking a three day weekend, so I’ll see you again on Monday!”

“Wait, for real?!” Katya seemed to forget her previous worries, eyes sparkling with excitement “Aw nice , boss! I’ll finally have some time to catch up on my writing~” she winked and started going back down, super excited to start her extended weekend “I cleaned up and everything, so don’t worry about that! See ya boss!”

And just like that, she was gone. Though she didn’t close the hatch door behind her, annoyingly so, making Selena grumble at the realisation she was going to have to get out of her little blanket nest she made in bed to do so. While she hated omitting the truth from Katya in this manner, no matter how much she disliked the Emperor, a secret she promised to keep was not one she intended to blabber. And besides, she wanted to be kept in his good graces. 

Keep your enemies close, as they say.

She continued snuggling in her perfect blanket nest for a bit longer, the cup of tea she made still deliciously warm where she held it on her lap. Even without the journal as an excuse, she grew more content with the idea of a long weekend. Sure, they worked short hours during Saturdays and were closed Sundays, but three full days off? Man, that’s lush. She couldn’t wait to sleep in and just stay in her pyjamas. It’s been a while since she actually took a surprise holiday weekend like this. Despite the warm feeling that thought gave her, a shiver still shook her body, forcing her to remember the open hatch. 

Oh right. She should really close that, the draft coming through was becoming noticeable.

Letting out a loud groan of annoyance, she dragged herself out of bed and the countless pillows surrounding her, the blanket still tightly wrapped over her shoulders to tactically keep as much warmth as possible from escaping. Too lazy to put on slippers, the socks she wore cushioned each step against the hardwood floors. Knees and ankles creaked in protest as she crouched down, leaning over to grab the hatch door…

…Only for her heart to freeze and drop all the way down to her knees when she caught a glimpse of a figure standing near the ladder downstairs, hidden in shadows.

The scream of terror died in her throat, only coming out as a particularly sharp inhale of air, the split-second of fear made her feel like jumping out of her skin, and without even thinking about it she summoned the spirit out of her ring, the violet apparition body-slamming into whoever was standing down there in a blink of an eye and pinning them to the floor.

The person flattened to the floor let out a pained grunt. A very…familiar, pained grunt. It made her pause completely, blinking owlishly as she tried to make out who it was that broke in.

“...Darius?” she gasped out as the fear left her struggling to catch her breath.

Looking up at her from under the spirit who left him unable to move, was Darius Deamonne, managing to look both grumpy and unamused “Good evening, Lena. Quite the welcome, I must say.”

~*~*~*~

Selena invited him up, of course. As soon as she helped him back up from the floor where she had pinned him down to earlier, that is. Both witches grumbling at each other in aggravation: Selena scolding Darius for breaking in after closing hours, and Darius very displeased by the violent way he was greeted. “You nearly gave me a heart attack! Has no one ever taught you not to sneak up on people in their home?!” Selena hissed and put a cup of tea in front of him. No matter how mad, hospitality was ingrained deep into her brain. “How did you even get in?!!”

Darius rolled his eyes “I morphed in through the kitchen passage, of course."

“You morphed in through the-” Jaw dropping, Selena squinted her eyes at him “How do you know about the kitchen passage?”

“Oh come now, Lena, Sitrie lived in this apartment during our mentorship years, do you think he wouldn’t have told me about it?”

The girl felt like she was taking crazy pills "Darius, you broke into my house! I have no doubts you and Alador used to sneak in to hang out here while my brother used the apartment, but I live here now. Me. Not Sitrie. You can't just waltz in-"

"Please, like I would ever willingly hang out with that hack -"

"Ap-ap-ap!" She tutted loudly, cutting him off "I don't care about your weird rivalry with Alador, we aren't discussing that right now. We are talking about how youbroke into my home and youscared me nearly to death!" She let out a sound, somewhere between a groan and a screech, wishing to take a pillow and scream into it right now, but it would be rude. Instead, she let herself fall into the chair opposite of her uninvited guest, who just stared at her with an unamused look.

Darius watched as she put her head in her hands, messy mop of hair completely obscuring her face "Are you quite finished?"

Selena gave an affirmative grunt, straightening up in her seat and fixing her hair. One deep breath, hold it in - one, two, three - and let it out. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening, Darius?"

He seemed to regard her for a moment or two, gears turning in his head as the younger witch put all her energy not to flinch under his glower. Even back in the day, whilst she was a giggly crushing school girl, Darius intimidated her, more so than Alador. And with time spent apart, his overpowering aura only grew and became more suffocating to deal with. Just by being in the same room, one was forced to acknowledge his presence.

“I think we both know why I’m here.” he drawled, one hand raising up to turn the cup of tea she served earlier so it wasn’t so obscenely askew “How long have you been the Emperor’s private little delivery girl, Selena?”

It’s not that she wasn’t expecting this to come up, not at all, but did he have to phrase it that way?

Somehow looking to distance herself, Selena leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, her body language instantly becoming closed off and protected “I wouldn’t call it that…” she muttered, trying not to portray that he was definitely riling her up.

“What would you call it then, if I may ask?” the conjurer raised one eyebrow, lips in a snarl. The condescending tone of his voice did little to quell her temperament.

“I deliver pastries, that’s it!” she finally snapped back “I am not his private little delivery girl , and I’m not his little baker or whatever other demeaning name pompous men will think to use on me next!” she hunched up her shoulders, nails digging into her arms “I am doing my damned job! Hell, I didn’t even want to do this in the first place! The Golden Guard had to snitch on me to Belos, now I’m stuck making deliveries whenever his majesty demands it!” Finishing her tirade, she slumped back into her seat with enough gusto to make the chair scrape loudly against the hardwood floor. And both stayed silent, uncomfortably so. Her own breathing sounded offensive to her with how loud it sounded. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, Selena cleared her throat “It’s been…a stressful couple of weeks, now I'm blowing up at you. I’m sorry."

Darius let out a sigh "No, I feel the apology should be coming from me." He sounded sincere, toning down his usual arrogance quite noticeably "Let us try this again, with cooler heads: How did you get roped into this?"

And with cooler heads, and apologies offered, she told him. The entirety, from the beginning; from the Golden Guard who heckled her over wild witches and Midnight, to her trying to win her way over in to his good graces with a bribe of baked goods made according to a human cookbook, to those same baked goods making it into the clutches of the Emperor, who has developed a taste for them and an interest in her. Which is where she was now, the only person allowed to deliver from her bakery, straight into the Emperor’s awaiting arms. And she wasn’t gonna lie, it felt good to let it out, all at once, to someone other than Katya.

She left out anything inconsequential, naturally. Darius didn’t need to know about the Emperor’s trip to the human realm, nor the journal he gave her, he didn’t need to know about Midnight, and he definitely didn’t need to know about the Emperor’s peculiarly weird…fondness of her.

The coven head seemed deep in thought as he tapped his index finger against the rim of the cup of tea, wheels turning in his head.

“That is…” he clicked his tongue, picking out his words carefully “...unfortunate, to say the least.” Selena let out a humm in agreement with his quite perceptive conclusion “And I don’t assume there is any way to bail out of this arrangement, either.” when she shook her head no, he sighed “No, I thought not.” finally picking up the cup of tea Selena made for him earlier he continued “How are your folks handling this?”

“They don’t know.”

He paused just before the cup reached his lips “They don’t know?!” The tone was both surprising and accusatory. 

Darius knew her family, and very well if he might add. Ursula’s children were all incredibly protective over their mother, a fondness that he himself saw how it grew after the untimely death of their father, and for it they made sure to be honest and open with their mother about everything happening to them. If not with their mother - which only would happen if they were scared it might stress her out - then it was shared between the siblings themselves. They were close-knit, to the point even he had been somewhat envious of it.

Sure, he thought, he didn’t keep in close contact with Sitrie as they grew older, and with it meant he hadn’t seen much of his mother or two younger sisters, but this was incredibly out of character. 

“No, are you insane?! If mom knew, she’d absolutely lose it.” Selena ran her hand through her hair “She was okay with handing me the bakery so I’d stay out of trouble, not land myself in…whatever this mess of a situation is!”

Ah, so it was a “don’t stress mom out!” situation. That made more sense. “You realise it’s only a matter of time before Magnus finds out, right?”

“Yeah, but my uncle isn’t a blabbermouth. He kept a lot of stupid things I did while under his mentorship a secret, so I’m hoping when he does find out, he won’t go running to mom instantly.” she crossed her arms, grimacing 

“I think this may be a bit too big for him to stay quiet for long.”

“...I know.”

The conversation died off after, both mulling over their tea in their thoughts.

“He seems…” Darius seemed to hesitate, as if unsure how to put it in a non-offensive way “... fond of you.”

“He is not!”

The speed and intensity at which Selena barked that out actually made Pip wake up from his little nest on the night table near her table. Grumpy from being awoken, he let out a weird guttural caw, as if chastising Selena for being so loud.

“Lena, a blind man could see it, plain and apparent as the light of day.” he continued, the woman instantly letting out an indignant gasp “It’s obvious you have earned yourself a spot in the Emperor’s good graces. Better in his good graces than in his bad ones, that’s certain.” he muttered out the last one as he finally, finally took a sip from his tea “Oh, this is really good, actually. What blend is this?”

“Oh, it’s a black tea blend with calendula and moonflower.” she chirped enthusiastically, only to frown “Hey, don’t change the subject!”

“I don’t need to change the subject, there simply isn’t much to discuss.” Darius concluded, taking another sip “The Emperor finds your presence to be pleasant , which isn’t something many people on the Boiling Isles can say. You can pretend it isn’t so until you turn blue in the face, but there is no escaping the facts.”

Selena tsk’d in annoyance “He’ll grow bored, I’m sure.” the witch scoffed “Of me, that is. Like a shiny trinket that’s turned dull with time, so will the novelty of a baker making human pastries wear off. Not like I’m particularly interesting, apart from that.”

The other witch chuckled deeply, amused by her words “I do admire your self-deprecating optimism, quite a fun oxymoron to behold.” with that, he reached one hand over the table, putting it over her own which she held in a fist on the wooden surface, giving a reassuring squeeze “However, if the Emperor’s… company proves to be overwhelming, know that the palace has friends you can count on.”

It was an earnest gesture, one that made Selena’s heart clench involuntarily. She couldn’t help the smile that took over her face, suddenly feeling incredibly safe. Returning the gesture, she put her free hand over his “Thank you, Darius.” she replied softly, fearing that being louder would ruin the heartfelt moment.

Allies- no, friends , in the palace.

Knowing that, the morning ritual suddenly didn’t feel so daunting anymore.

~*~*~*~

Selena had sent him off not too long after that, letting him finish his tea and packing him some leftover pastries for later. Darius tried declining, but it fell on deaf ears, the woman already pushing the box into his hands and saying she wasn’t having it and to stop complaining. He got intense flashbacks to all the time her mother would do the same when he was younger, it was the same flavour of aggressive kindness. While Darius was fully ready to just use his abominations to transport through the passage, the Fortuna made him wait, saying he could use the trap door like a “normal person” and not “goop around”. So he was forced to wait, visibly annoyed, as Selena cleared out the pots and pans that were in the cupboard where the hidden passage was. He hated walking through the grimmy passageway, it was full of dirt and cobwebs and crawling creatures, all so filthy . But, there was no arguing with Selena, it would seem.

Since when was she so bull-headed? The Selena he used to know couldn’t be assertive to save her life, she was a timid, nervous wreck of a teenager, too worried about doing anything foolish others could tease her about.

Then again, he thought, she was a teen. It’s been a lot of years since then.

“ If you plan on visiting, I’d prefer it if you tried using the front door.” Selena huffed at him, a bit out of breath after finally cleaning everything out and removing the fake bottom. “However, I suppose just starting to randomly visit, especially since I think there still might be scouts around my house, is not optimal, so I’m gonna be keeping the hidden entrance clear from now on.” she stood up and cleaned the dust off of her hands before crossing them, giving him an annoyed frown  “Just try not to sneak in like a mad man like you did today. My heart can't take it.”

“Of course, of course.” he held up his hands defensively “You are really on edge, though, you should try looking into some self care. A spa day would do wonders on your fraying nerves.”

“I thought you were breaking in. No amount of magic mud on my face would help with that stress, Darius.”

Already half-way in, Darius gave her a smart aleck look “Don’t knock it till you try it, kid .” almost on cue, he saw her anger flare up again. She was super easy to rile up, if one knew where to push. The moment didn’t last long, as Darius felt someone grab his legs from below and pull him down the hole, a yelp of surprise escaping him as it did. And once again, he found himself hitting the floor back-first, only this time it was worse somehow, as his fall stirred up a cloud of dirt and dust, leaving his pristine clothes absolutely filthy.

“Huh–huh-huh, oh you’re just a little kid , so funny - I pay taxes, jerkwad.” he heard Selena mock him from above.

The cloud made him hack and cough and he quickly sat up, trying to lift his head above it. He saw Selena’s Spirit retreat back up into her ring as she hung above through the hatch. The blasted thing pulled him down. It had enough decorum to gently put down the box of snacks, tho.

“Truly you are a beacon of hospitality.” he deadpanned. Selena scrunched up her face indignantly before sticking out her tongue “And so mature! Surely, you showed me.”

“Oh! Just-shut up!” she huffed. The hatch shut and Darius was left alone in the passageway. As the darkness enveloped him, so did his face twist into an uneasy frown. 

He didn’t like this. Not at all.

The second he saw her, marching into that throne room like a fury from hell, he recognized Selena. How could he not, sure she was much older, her hair shorter and eyes now sparkling behind a pair of glasses, but you don’t forget the annoying kid sister of a childhood friend that easily, especially one that was persistently trotting behind like a little lost duckling, her long braids bouncing with every exaggerated tiny step she took.

A little duckling who seemed to have grown into a swan…with the temperament of a ferocious goose-beast.

Whose sole presence was enough to stop the Emperor in his tracks and abandon Darius solely for her company.

This…was a development that complicated things in ways he never would have thought possible. Emperor Belos doesn’t grow such fascinations easily. Not since he had known the man. Not since his late mentor had known the man, either.

He remembered his mentor saying “The Emperor is not a kind man, Darius. Not to no one.”

And yet there he was, body language changing, voice softening, a tone he never heard from his lips before, all as soon as the youngest Fortuna had his attention.

Despite life giving way to a growing distance between the two, Darius felt a certain sense of loyalty to his old friend, and not only to him, but his family he knew well. Even to his annoying baby sister. And seeing the claws of Emperor Belos dig into her shoulders as he pulled her close, threatening to almost hide her under his cloak like a trinket he selfishly wanted to keep for himself, to engulf her whole and hide her from sight. Her eyes widening in shock, grip so hard it made her fingers turn white, form so small next to him. 

It made him filled with unease and anger. 

Those wretched claws, that once were digging into his mentor, ones he was certain were responsible for him leaving this world far too soon, were now moving their grip to another person he promised a long time ago to keep safe.

It made him feel sick.

Despite Selena being adamant about not telling her family, Darius was not going to sit idle and wait - he’d make sure Magnus found out. The Fortuna was one of his rare allies at the palace, along with Eber, and so he knew his schedule well. He would make sure he was there at the same time as Selena. That way, he wouldn’t break Selena’s trust, at least, not in a way she’d find out. Eberwolf, as well, he mussed, he’d tell the beastling to keep an eye on her.

The iron claws of the Emperor were already too deep in for him to remove without causing damage.

All he could do now was make sure the talons didn’t rip through the ribcage and tear into the heart.

[mythicandco]

It was not often that Emperor Belos visited Hunter’s room.

Usually he was working on the portal or in his throne room, or occasionally roaming the castle halls after dark. Hunter had once seen him without his mask, staring at a mural of the Savage Ages. He’d somehow looked equally disgusted and wistful. He was saying something under his breath that could’ve been a conversation, had there been anyone around to talk to.

Hunter had left his uncle alone that night.

But today Hunter was just sitting in his room doodling Red, waiting for new orders to come in. He’d grown weirdly attached to the palisman since they had flown in his window, and they were a wonderful model, sitting perfectly still while he tried to capture every detail and shadow. He wasn’t very good, but he was sure he was improving.

That was when a gentle, yet resounding knock sounded from the other side of his door, and a familiar voice asked, “Hunter, may I come in?”

Hunter’s eyes went wide and his palisman ducked under his pillow in a flash. He stashed his drawings under the bed and said, “Come in!”

Emperor Belos pushed open the door with the care of a potionist concocting a delicate brew. He was wearing his mask, but it looked like he’d thrown it on in a hurry and hadn’t tucked his hair out of the way, instead having it tied loosely up into a ponytail.

Hunter always got deja-vu when he saw his uncle with this hairstyle. The last time he’d had it up like this was when Hunter had accidentally damaged his staff and Belos had gladly agreed to help him fix it. He wasn’t sure why his uncle had been so eager to help him fix his mistake. It seemed like every passing day made Belos’ curse worsen, and his fuse shorten.

But even with his outbursts of violence (which were all perfectly reasonable considering the circumstances of each one), Belos still cared about Hunter. He trusted him with secrets he never told anyone else, and appreciated and cared about him as long as he stayed loyal and useful. Hunter remembered the stories his uncle would tell when he was little, tales of two brothers who went on adventures and quests and sometimes messed up, but ultimately cared about each other above all else.

Belos had never told the character’s names, but Hunter had always kind of imaged them in his head as himself and his uncle. He wasn’t sure why, but it was just what felt right.

Belos’ hand hovered in midair for a moment, before he reached up to take off his mask. The door shut behind him and he sat down next to Hunter, looking at the wall.

“Are you alright, Uncle?”

“Yes,” he smiled a little bit. “Thanks mainly to you. I’m proud of you for getting the Titan’s blood. You did well.”

“I almost didn’t,” Hunter replied, looking away. “I almost failed again.”

“We mustn’t dwell on would’ves and could’ves,” Belos waved a hand almost dismissively, as though he was clearing himself of those thoughts as well. “What matters is that the Day of Unity is closer than ever, and it’s because of your hard work.”

Hunter couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you, Emperor Belos.” He paused, recalling a question he’d never been able to ask. The last time he’d wondered about this aloud, Belos had turned him away and said, “Maybe at a later time.”

But now seemed like as good a time as any - he’d come into Hunter’s room, most likely just to talk to him. The Titan’s plans were going smoothly and everyone had a moment to stop and breathe. But on the other hand, if Hunter asked, his uncle might leave. He might never get a chance to sit side-by-side with him like they were brothers again. But on the other other hand, what use was sitting in silence?

“Uncle, I’ve been… meaning to ask you something,” Hunter admitted finally before he could chicken out. He bit his lip as Belos turned his full attention on him, already regretting his decision. Well, no turning back now. “With the Titan’s blood acquired and the portal almost ready and how everyone’s taking a little break before the Day of Unity arrives, I thought it would be a good time to ask.” He swallowed. Moment of truth. “…Who were my parents? A-and I know they were killed by wild magic,” he added, “but what were they like before?”

Belos’ expression turned from listening intently to horrified to very, very sad in less than a heartbeat.

Hunter’s back straightened. “I-I mean, y-you don’t have to-“

Belos held up a hand, silencing his nephew. “No, it’s alright. You have a right to ask. It’s only fair after the trouble I’ve put you through.” He chuckled, but it was dry in his throat. “I didn’t…” He hesitated.

“Your mother was a wonderful woman. She was always going off to slay beasts or tame small creatures. I know she loved animals and had a fiery spirit. And your father loved her very, very much.” He paused. “We didn’t part on the best of terms. I wish I could’ve told her that I was happy for her.”

“You said not to dwell on would’ves and could’ves,” Hunter pointed out. Belos smiled again.

“Yes, well, I suppose deep down we’re all sentimental old historians,” his uncle responded. “Now, I knew your father very well. He and I would always get into all kinds of trouble. It hardly mattered when one of us fell, because the other would help him back to his feet. We almost never saw eye-to-eye, always butting heads, but it was the kind of friendly rivalry good friends are supposed to have. He was like a brother to me.” His expression hardened.

“I’m sorry you don’t have a sibling, Hunter.”

“I-“ the witch paused. This thought had occurred to him only once, back when he was little. It was a silly thought - who needed a sibling when your uncle was the emperor of the Boiling Isles, and your family was his entire Coven? Hunter didn’t need friends to weigh him down, not when he had big things to accomplish. “What do you mean? I have you.”

Belos visibly winced, and Hunter flinched. He’d said something wrong, now he was going to be left alone again, or maybe worse, please don’t-

But the emperor didn’t move beyond that, and instead let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “You are the spitting image of him.”

Hunter took a moment to process this. “My father?” he finally asked. Instead of replying, Belos stood up. Hunter’s worry increased. He had said something wrong, he had upset his uncle! “I’m sorry,” he stood up as well. “Whatever I said wrong, I didn’t-“

“It’s not your fault, Hunter. I must get back to work.” Belos put his mask back on, and then he was gone. The door shut behind him with a click.

Hunter buried his head in his pillow with a muffled sob. An indignant chirp startled him from his wallowing in self-pity.

“Huh?” he sat up, ramrod straight. “Red?”

“Chirp, chirp chirp chirp tweet,” the little bird palisman replied, hopping from one foot to the other.

Hunter let out a yelp of surprise. “He is not!”

The little bird cocked their head at him. “Chirp chirp tweet, chirp.”

“Alright, maybe that,” he admitted. “Did you listen to that whole conversation?”

“Tweet tweet tweet,” Red swooped down and scooped up the drawings from under the bed. “Tweet chirp chirp chirp tweet.”

“Haha, fine,” Hunter picked up his pencil. “What was the pose you were doing earlier?”

“Tweet chirp tweet tweet tweet,” Red hopped up onto his shoulder and craned their neck towards an unknown source above and in front of Hunter. Somehow he was able to draw it, and it came much easier to him than the other poses Red had struck so far. He even added himself, with the bird on his shoulder. It looked pretty good. He held up the picture to show the little palisman. “What do you think?”

“Chirp,” the birdlike, wooden creature responded. Hunter laughed.

“Okay, but only a few more.”

[redrosesartcabin]

So yeah, I wrote the thing based on an anon message for @itsme-star

I made it a Barley x (female) reader (based on my self insert character) fanfic ‘cause I had to be a little self indulgent lmao

I hope you enjoy it! It turned out longer than I had planned xD

——————————————————

The double-decker couch

Barley x (female) reader fanfiction

———

Around three months ago:

Y/n’s boyfriend, Barley Lightfoot, had knocked on her window… with small stones… in the middle of the night:

At first her ear just twitched and the noise had mashed with the dream she was having, but the more the noise repeated, the more her consciousness felt pulled into the physical realm again, and with a groan, she had to face the reality that the noise would not stop until she got up (she already had a suspicion as to who was causing the noise).

With a heavy sigh, y/n forced herself from under her comfortable blanket, before ripping the window open.

‘Of course it’s him’, she thought, looking down at Barley as he waved his hands up at her, somehow wide awake.

‘How much energy can a person have?’, she asked herself, before she motioned with her hands, that she’d come outside.

“What in the world are you doing here?”, she asked as she arrived, whisper-yelling at him.

“Well you know how it is my lady: sometimes one just drives around at night after finishing a campaign of quests of yore and sees the poster of a double-decker bus and then one might think: ‘Wouldn’t it be cool if one could have a couch after that structure?’ After having had thought about a new couch for a while and ‘wouldn’t it be cool, if one might be able to build that with their girlfriend?’”

“I can’t say I relate, though I am impressed by one having the idea”, she said, deliberately accentuating the word ‘one’, as she couldn’t now but smile at her beautiful dork, “And I have to say I love the idea, though I still have to decide whether it was worth waking me up at three a.m… but for now I’ll just say yes, because I love you too much to be mad at you for this”

“I know: I’m irresistible”, he winked, pulling her closer to him and engaging her in a sickeningly romantic kiss.

“As nice as this is, I would still like to catch up on some sleep. We’ll write later and you tell when we should start building”

“I actually thought… you know… that maybe now-”

“Don’t push it”

“Right”

Now:

It hadn’t been easy. First they had to scavenge several junkyards for old couches (because let’s be real: They were both poor college students and buying material or new couches just was too expensive), who weren’t completely busted. Then they had to figure out how to build the thing.

After studying art for a while, where y/n had to do a bunch of installation projects, she had gotten significantly better at building things with woods and such, though she still wasn’t an expert. And whilst Barley also got crafty from time to time, he also wasn’t a master.

But somehow, after sweat, and even a couple of tears after y/n once got her hand stuck under one of the couches, they had finished it: The double decker couch.

“This-”, Barley said, pointing his finger at it, “This is beautiful”.

It was a yellow and a green couch, connected through metal poles and stabilized with old wood planks with two ladders placed on top of it and just enough space between the couches, so that one could sit up straight. It sort of looked like a bunk bed, but with couches.

“It is. It really is”, y/n agreed, looking at her bandaged hand, “totally worth busting my hand”

“Totally worth going through every junkyard in the city”, Barley added.

“Totally worth being awake once for 48 hours”, she added as well.

“This should be awarded some kind of price… maybe I’d also just be happy for some money for a wellness weekend ‘cause my back could really need a nice massage”, Barley groaned, touching the small of his back.

“Hard agree”

They stayed standing there for a while, looking at it, before y/n occurred a question that should’ve occurred to her much sooner.

“So-uhm-”, she started, “what do we actually do with it now?”, she asked

“Sit on it of course. You sit below and I above so I can feed you grapes like you’re a roman emperor”, Barley explained matter of factly.

“That sounds lovely darling but that’s not what I mean”

“What seems to be the issue then?”he asked, a little frustrated. What could she possibly have to say now? After so much hard work?

“I mean… where do we put it?”, she asked with a sincere expression which immediately washed away his annoyance, “because it certainly won’t stay in my parents basement”, she stated.

“It’s certainly more worthy than this old, dusty room with your family's junk. And also because this place is crawling with bugs that I will have to remove every time because you’ll just screech and run away until it magically disappears”

“Hey!”, y/n interjected

“It's true!”

“Ok yeah fair enough, though seriously- where? I also can bet’ya we can’t put it anywhere in our homes either. It probably barely fit under the ceiling”

“Yeah no”

A moment of contemplative silence spread across them.

After a while, Barleys thoughts wandered to the night where he had gotten the idea. He thought about his beloved car-

‘OH. MY. GOD. That’s it!’, he thought to himself.

“I got it!”, he then yelled excitedly, his face contorted into one of the most adorable expressions y/n had ever seen anyone wear. No matter what it would be: She couldn’t but say yes to that smile.

Still she asked, “What’ya got?”

“You know how I got my idea from a poster with a double-decker bus?”, he asked her, still smiling like he had won the lottery

“Yes?”

“And you know how I have a van, right?”

“No”, she answered sarcastically, “I know absolutely nothing about your most prized possession of a van that you called Guenivere the second after you sacrificed your first Guenivere when on a quest-”

“Ok I got the gist”, he chuckled, “but ok hear this: Since I have this wonderful van, this wonderful BIG van-”

“Wait a minute: You really want to put the couch in-”, she interrupted as she realized what he was saying, but got immediately interrupted back as he realized she had caught on

“Yes! I absolutely am”

“Dear lord… but ok I have no better idea, let’s do it”

“YES”

“Barley I am telling you, this is NOT working”, y/n huffed as she let her side of the construction gently land on the ground once again.

“Come on, just one more time!”, Barley pleaded.

“You’ve been saying ���just one more time’ for an hour!”, she argued, “there is no way around: this just doesn’t fit inside the van. You underestimated Guenivere”

“Hey! There is no underestimating Guenivere! It’s not her fault”, he pouted.

“Ok ok ok... Sorry Gueni”, y/n said, giving the car a sincere pat on one of the back doors. She has gotten used to treating the car similar to a pet, “but seriously: We’ve been trying this at every angle, and as cool as Guenivere is, she can’t magically shapeshift”

“Magically shapeshift”, Barely repeated her last words, suddenly deep in thought, before an “ohhhh”, sound escaped him, “wait here my lady, I’ll be back in a sec”

“O...k”, she said, a little confused.

Five minutes later, she saw Ian storm out of his house, his hands clenched around his magic staff, with Barley closely behind him. “WHAT'S THE EMERGENCY?”Ian yelled as he came to a hold, which caused his brother to almost crash into him.

“I need you to make Guenivere big enough so that our self made double-decker couch fits into her”, Barely explained, breathing as though he had just run from death.

For a moment nobody said anything to that before Ian and y/n both shouted

“WHAT?”,at the same time.

“So much for an emergency”, Ian also mumbled, a little annoyed at his brother's antics.

“I mean: If she’s too small, then we can just make her bigger, right?”

“Technically yes but I think you didn’t consider a very small, tiny detail”, Ian commented.

“And what would that be?”, Barley asked irritated, not understanding what the issue was.

“You are aware as a supposed magic expert, that I can’t only enlarge the trunk, right? I would have to make the entire car big, and that would lead-”

“-to the entire street being filled with the car”, y/n finished the thought, apologetically laying her hand on Barleys shoulder, “I’m sorry my love. It was a nice thought”

“Dang it”, Barley breathed out, “I was looking forward to make my own uber-van-couch-double-decker-business”

“Hm”, y/n simply hummed. She had known from the beginning it would probably go south, but his enthusiasm had given her hope.

“Sorry Barley”, Ian said quietly, now feeling bad for having been so harsh beforehand , before slowly heading inside again.

Y/n and Barely sat down on the edge of Guenivere’s trunk, tired and disappointed that it all hadn’t turned out like they wanted as they looked at their creation.

Y/n leaned against Barley’s shoulder, lovingly rubbing her cheek against him like a cat (she loved doing that).

After a while Barley decided he had enough of sulking, standing up to go to the front to put on some good old metal (which luckily she enjoyed too).

As he however returned to the trunk, he noticed some ropes laying around.

He had used ropes last time to tie up some of the material he had bought for their project, so they wouldn’t move around- what if though…

“Ok I’ve had enough”, Barley decided, “I WILL have my double-decker-couch-van for more people to ride with me and my buddies and if its the last thing I’m gonna do!”

“Barley, what are you-”, y/n wanted to ask, but as she saw him pick up the ropes from the trunk floor, she understood, “- Are you sure this will work out?”

“Nope”, he answered truthfully, “but I will surely try!”

She was still skeptical, but at the same time she would try anything with him, and if it meant helping him tie a double-decker-couch to the roof of his van.

“If you believe it can be done, I will too”, she smiled, giving him a quick peck on his cheek, “let’s do this!”

It was eight p.m. The sun was almost behind the horizon and the streetlamps threw dodgy looking lights in the middle of the street and kept the corners dark.

But the elven couple, who stood in front of a yellow van with a double-decker couch tied to its roof, couldn't help but see what they had accomplished: Which was accomplishing what, at least the female elf, had thought was impossible… yet again.

“I can’t believe that worked”, Y/n mumbled.

“Told ya”, Barley hushed back.

“Should we drive around? See if anyone is crazy enough to go on a drive?”, she asked.

“You bet we are. And tomorrow… and whenever we can. I’ll be the driver and you the tourist guide.. or maybe some kinda sturdess, after all you’re good lookin’”

“Oh hush”, she giggled, visibly blushing

“And-”, he continued, though not without giving her a good wink after his compliment, “then we’re gonna show the dear people of this town another perspective to life”

“That we can promise”, she laughed, “that we sure can”

[count-lero]

May I ask you, dear gentlemen and gentlewomen, what time is it? I humbly believe that it’s a meme time!

Once again trying my best in the field of some incredibly local history-related jokes and puns realised with the help of memes which sometimes seem old as time itself… Fortunately, we constantly speak about time, space and particular historical epoch over here, thus I proclaim the notion “outdated meme” a social construct. 👍

Aaaand proudly present to you this notorious composition called “The Austrian Chancellor who came to save the imperial day from the God-knows-where-in-the-Rhein-region and the 33 Bohemian noblemen (with the intrusion of one Moravian “fonctionnaire”) who accompanied him on his thorny life-path”!

Of course, 33 person in one picture would be a little bit too much. That’s why I took the creative liberty to pick only the most famous and influential ones whom I’m going to name all at once (with the exception of dear Fürst Karl, for sure, cause his emersion will probably start causing headaches for everyone who still checks this God forsaken blog soon…)!

Let’s start with two wonderful people standing proudly behind Schwarzenberg’s back as they were his favourite adjutants during the Napoleonic campaigns of 1812-1814 and owe him a lot with regards to their careers in the Austrian military ranks. The first one is Karl Johann Nepomuk Gabriel Graf Clam-Martinez (count Karl Clam-Martinez, in short), a wonderful soldier and even more brilliant administrator who will actively help Metternich in his rivalry with another exceptional gentlemen featuring in this meme which took place in the late 1830s (like he suddenly died in 1840).

Cool story alert! In April 1814 Clam was a member of the group of allied generals who accompanied Napoleon himself on his journey to Elba and saved the emperor from certain humiliating experience few times. Napoleon was truly grateful to him and treated him well during those memorable times. 🤲

The second one is non other than Alfred Candidus Ferdinand Fürst zu Windisch-Grätz (prince Alfred zu Windish-Grätz, in short), a flamboyant, hot-headed, very straight-forwards military man (future field-marshal) who - according to the contemporaries - managed to steal the hearts of half of the renown European beauties, most notably of Wilhelmina, duchess of Sagan. So, yeah, he actually was Metternich’s adversary №1 for a while, when it came to the sphere of scandalous love affairs, and let me tell you all, it was a sh*t show I still can’t comprehend fully because it was too much. Even for such an eccentric person as Metternich… ☠️

(Actually! Actually, both Clam and Windisch-Grätz were les amants of the two most renown sisters of Sagan - Wilhelmina, being the eldest, and Dorothea, being the youngest, - during the Congress of Vienna. Basically at the same time as those stunning women drove crazy Metternich and Talleyrand respectively. I can see that hilarious picture clearly: two diplomats practically dying of their love towards sisters of Sagan; two sisters of Sagan cheerfully celebrating the New 1815 year together with two young distinguished Austrian officers of Czech origin; meanwhile Schwarzenberg, the president of Hofkriegsrath already, just sits in his Kriegsgebäude, listens to the rumours about his ✨good boiz✨ and sighs resignedly…)

Well, that was fun! Passing on to count Radetzky…

…Comes a sudden revelation that I won’t speak out a lot about Joseph Wenzel Anton Franz Karl Graf Radetzky von Radetz (count Joseph Radetzky, in short) simply because it’s him! He probably is the most well-known herr out of the whole company - Metternich’s close friend, whom Klemens saved from the total oblivion after the war of 1809, the head-of-stuff at Schwarzenberg’s times, future president of Hofkriegsrath as well and the “father of the nation”, of course (does a question “what is the second-to-first «titular» nation in the Habsburg’s monarchy after the Austrians themselves” truly appear after that claim, I wonder)!

*also, like, Windish-Grätz and Radetzky were the 1848s main repressive force in the empire and the only people who truly mourned Metternich’s resignation and exile - what a turn of events, for Alfred especially!*

Now we come to the uncharted territory almost.

This wonderful person is… Karl Friedrich von Kübeck, Freiherr von Kübau. He sounds quite simple, ordinary even, you might say, however his origin story is a miracle. This man was a son of a tailor from Moravia (it’s like Bohemia is the western part of modern-days Czech Republic and Moravia is the eastern part of the country) who rose to the position of hofrat and obtained a barony as a reward for his excellent service. He joined Metternich’s opposition to the last character who will appear in our miraculous story in the late 1830-1840s as he understood everyone’s weaknesses very well and still saw in Metternich, an incredibly experienced official at the time, a lot of potential.

The man of his social background, he understood the needs of the country better than anyone else, yet he was unsuccessful in his efforts of reforming the monarchy slowly but surely without any need for an internal bloodshed. And that was a real tragedy, since even Metternich himself tried to adapt the bullky machinery of the Austrian empire to the certain notions of time still in the 1820s… Even Metternich, one the most famous conservators of the post-Napoleonic Europe.

I guess, that circumstance speaks all for itself. 😔

Thus, we arrive to the glorious conclusion of this extensive memology and it has the magnetic face of Franz Anton Graf von Kolowrat-Liebsteinsky (count Franz Kolowrat-Liebsteinsky). He deserves to crown our noble list of Bohemian aristocrats, since he became the actual governor of the region in the year 1809! He also was elevated to lead the Austrian State Council responsible for the Interior and Finances in 1826. 🇨🇿

The most important period in his life came with the death of the emperor Franz II and the accession to the throne of his poor son Ferdinand who had such bad health issues that he needed a Regency council to aid him in his reign. Who tried to claim all the responsibilities to himself only? Of course, it was our dear Klemens! Metternich actually waged very intense battles against Kolowrat since his appointment as the minister of the interior. And after the creation of the Regency council their rivalry could be described as “two delicate, aristocratic from the top of their silver-haired heads to the tip of their sleek fingers, old queens fighting constantly throughout the whole damned Vormärz”. 🙄

In the end, we can say with confidence, that count Kolowrat emerged victorious from the struggle: the Revolution of 1848 made an exile out of the damned Mephistopheles Metternich, meanwhile Kolowrat became the first Minister-President of the renewing Habsburg’s monarchy.

~~~~~~~

Well. That was an incredible journey half a century long, for sure. 👁👁

Very proud of marrying successively all the puns with the factual information I wanted to share about this incredible company of Austrian men who were connected to each other so gracefully and so closely. 🇦🇹

Hope you’ll like it as well, dear readers! It’s always my pleasure. 💗

Bis zum nächsten Mal~

[gossip-girl-of-middleearth]

ahoy there 👋 i just remembered a horrible conversation i had recently in which little old me brought up joey batey because i love him and EVERYBODY ELSE immediately proceeded to google him and then bash him for being a basic white man 😭 AND SOMEONE THOUGHT HE WAS DANIEL RADCLIFFE 😭 and they all said they thought i would have better taste because i was TOO WEIRD FOR HIM (weird being a good thing) 😭😭😭 let me tell you, could a BASIC man say cause ive been here so many times before dont you think i look pretty curled up on this bathroom floor where you see weakness i see wit sometimes i fall to pieces just to see what bits of me dont fit and when i stand those folks will run and tell the tales of what ive become theyll speak of me in whispered tongues and say my name like it shakes their bones ???? NO A BASIC MAN COULD NOT!

Bestie this literally broke my dear heart this morning (haha, my puns strike again). I was literally putting my cloak on and brushing my teeth as I was getting ready for the tavern and mountaineering today, and in my free hand I was reading this and I swear to the gods above in the mirror I could see my face twisting in absolute, "What the fuck?? How can people be so mean???" like no wonder the poor blorbo dude swears off social media

Dude's a wise old soul, and I'd 10/10 dedicate a season up in the mountains meditating and learning whatever knowledge he could pass down to me

What they're doing is like referencing a deity character from mythology and calling them "basic" lmao

Joey is not in the same category as those basic bro dudes you meet at a pub who are like, "Oh, yeah, I'm a musician; I play the guitar and stuff *hair flip* — Music just speaks to my ✨soul✨" and then when you follow them back to their apartment they just strum the same three Nirvana chords over and over again and think that counts as serenading or something, like a sad little Emperor Penguin with no song to woo you over with for the upcoming hatchling season

Am I speaking from experience? No. Well. Maybe. Yes. A little. Doesn't matter, POINT IS: Joey saw the bar for men, looked at it, and said, "Is anyone gonna raise that a little higher, for heaven's sake?" and did not wait for an answer, and now that bar is literally so wedged up into the sky high above I just cringe at every Kyle I come across upon my many, many ventures into the world of courting men

Anywho... Dedicated bodyguard rant aside, Daniel Radcliffe himself ain't even a basic dude lmao

They're really gonna watch this video and call the man, the myth, the legend himself basic

I swear to the gods above; boys with dark hair and blue/green eyes are on a different level, ie. Jaskier, Joey, Daniel, Percy Jackson etc

Also bestie I sure hope they weren’t your friends! If so, they suck — join your local DND club and make better friends <3

[sigil-stone]

an invitation

this letter was written on thick papyrus and found laying on a stone table in a daedric ruin in the province of vvardenfell in 4e 198 during a redoran expedition into the ash wastes. after analysis, the letter was believed to be drafted in the late merethic or very early first era. ezimar belongs to @mothermara !

Beloved Ezimar, Second Prince of Corruption,

Why fret, old friend? What is the past but a reflection of the eternal now, strange and shifting in its forms? Little Tels will miss you, most assuredly, but I will be quite glad to have you back. I will be quite glad to be back, in the ways that I can be; you know how things get. The chronographers are none too pleased with me, and neither are the Jills, or the Psijics, or Sil himself, for that matter… I need not waste ink on it.

How have you been? What misadventures have you gotten up to? I stopped by the planemeld in hopes of catching sight of you, but I was instead greeted by the putrid form of your predecessor. The First Prince's foul voice still echoes through the halls of Time, though I am happy to see its influence diminish. I try not to pass judgment on Daedra – it is a fruitless endeavor, as you no doubt know – but I won’t hide my joy in seeing you rise to take its place among the ranks of the Princes.

I have been well, slipping in and out of the Aether as it suits me. I stopped by White-Gold a few days ago to watch the young Emperor Belharza’s coronation, which was as Sanguatic as you may imagine. As it happens, Belharza is quite popular with the fair men and women of Cyrodiil.

Oh! That reminds me - just yesterday I took a stroll amidst the streets of the Mourning Hold, when I found my thoughts drifting to the city of Seht. I’ve been on the outskirts before - that’s where I met Llavados, remember? Have I told you about Llavados yet? It was not long before my grand escape from Akatosh’s chains, and it was Llavados and his foster-child who cemented my dedication to my craft - but I’ve yet to visit the city proper. As I was walking, the thought crossed my mind that the great city of clockwork is a marvel worthy of a god, and as such, I would like to know if you would visit it with me.

Only in the first few centuries after its construction, of course, when Sil roams the streets freely and has not yet resigned himself to his sorrow. He really let that place go, you know; it's a true shame that such beauty and genius was wasted because of one man’s grief. Sometimes I wonder if ALMSIVI’s apotheosis is what cemented the decline of the Resdayn of old. Perhaps I should visit the Red Tower, find a nice place to sit behind a rock or something, and watch the ascension for myself. Ah, but I don’t know, I’ve heard some versions of the tale that were quite bloody, and you know how squeamish I can be - and in addition, if the whispers of a Dragon Break around that time and area are true, I would likely just come out more resentful of Akatosh and more confused about ALMSIVI.

Regardless, the invitation stands. If you wish to wander the brass halls (and maybe take a peak at the Second Heart? I promise I won’t try to take a piece from it this time, and after all, how was I to know Dumalacath was standing behind me?) then meet me by the waterfall just outside of Mournhold, outside of the walls by the Temple of Almalexia. If a few artifacts happen to disappear from the city, or some notes, or some very pretty and complex machinations happen to find their way into our pockets - well, who’s to say? Apostles get bored, I’m sure, and it’s not unheard of for even the most faithful of Seht’s posse to become tempted by such powerful creations. It happens.

Change is a tricky thing, you know; at once exhilarating and terrifying, freeing and imprisoning. I am fascinated to see how you grow next, for every step you take is a testimony to your strength. It was not I who changed you, Ezimar; you opened your arms to me and extended your friendship, guiding me through the blind darkness of doubt when we first met. I may have been a singular catalyst, but you are made of potentiality, shrouded in starlight - a child of the Aedra, Daedra, and those of us who fall in between. You, beloved Ezimar, are the very concept of change, given shape, form, and thought. You are unique among Princes in that regard. Other princes - Sheogorath, for example, after the final Greymarch - may bear the markings of some degree of mortal influence, but even then, they either choose to forget mortality, or they never truly knew in the first place. You are above that.

What I’m trying to say is that I miss you deeply. Come to the Clockwork City with me, and let’s raise the hells together, shall we?

I hope to see you there, my Prince and my friend.

Yours in Time and Trust, Indoril Telsanvish

[nillegible]

Uneasy lies (the head that wears a crown) [NiF ficlet]

On the 4th day of the 10th month, the Crown Prince, His Highness Xiao Jingyan, accompanies the three presiding officials to the palace to meet the Emperor.

The Emperor, the Son of Heaven, stares hatefully down at the four of them. His son. His brother. His once dearest friend. Standing beneath him with cold, accusing eyes that make him want to rage. The details, when they recite them with their studiously blank faces make his blood boil. How dare they?

He waits for the triumph on Jingyan’s face, and only curses him further when he detects none of it, no joy, just a fierce kind of burning, not unlike Jingyu’s when… when he stood before this selfsame throne, and… 

What a fool I was, he thinks. What had he gained by his suspicions of Jingyu, a paltry thirteen years of ruling the empire he’d fought so hard for? Thirteen years for Jingyan to take revenge on his brother’s behalf, to wrest his power away, to back the Emperor into a corner and stand before him like this, unrepentant. 

Thirteen years for Jingyan, the bull-headed young man who yelled at him that it could not be true that his brother would conspire against the throne, to finally find the evidence for the betrayal he had suspected. To force the emperor to hear his words at last.

“And what-” says the Emperor, coldly. They have him, there’s no defense he can make. An old man to be ruined most thoroughly while no one speaks of his humiliation to his face. “-do the presiding officials believe is fair compensation?”

The emperor hears their terms, and fury whites out his vision. He pushes himself up to stand, trembling with illness and anger, and points at Jingyan. He cannot bear this humiliation. But he will not beg his own son to let this go.

(Jingyan, the stubborn fool, would never listen.)

I was a fool, he thinks, staring at this son who looks back, chin raised defiantly. As if he is already Emperor. This is not how Jingyu looked, he thinks, and tears that thought violently away. That son is gone, gone after raising this one to be so impossible, filled with the same ridiculous notions… the Emperor’s hand, aged and feeble, shakes where he points. “I will not,” he snarls. And starts to cough.

And coughs, and coughs, as Gao Zhan comes to take his weight. 

The emperor’s heart pounds as he gasps for breath, terrified. 

Is he dying?

But within the haze of terror of the unknown, of the end that he has been so ready to send others to, rises one last vicious thought: 

It would serve Jingyan right. 

The Son of Heaven laughs weakly in between the painful, hoarse wheezes. He has lost. 

*

(The mourning bells sound with a grand finality, marking Mei Changsu’s and Xiao Jingyan’s losses, too.)

*

The Emperor wakes in his own bed, still laughing, invigorated. “My lord rested well?” asks a familiar voice, and he looks up into the exquisitely beautiful face of Noble Consort Yue.

Too beautiful. Too young. He stares, confused, before ordering her out of his bed. It takes until he’s climbed out of bed himself - easily, painlessly - that he realizes that this was her bed. 

Her palace. 

As it had been, years ago. She was who she had been, years ago. This is not the crazed and ill woman he had last seen, ruining herself to gain her son the throne.

“Impossible,” he says, and perhaps his distress had been too obvious because Gao Zhan - precious Gao Zhan, one of the few who had never failed him - appears, inquiring gently after his well being. “We are well,” says Xiao Xuan. “But we would like to depart.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” says Gao Zhan, stepping backwards to make way and send some servants scurrying ahead to pass on the eunuch’s messages and prepare the next palace for the Emperor’s royal presence. Xiao Xuan has to pause before following; he’d forgotten that it had been like this once. That Gao Zhan had not always been at his side (one of his wives often at the other) helping to keep him on his feet.

What happened? Why is he here?

(Is it true, or has he finally lost his mind?)

*

He is back to three years before Jingyu’s betrayal. Before the year Xia Jiang and Xie Yu played that cruel trick that robbed him of peace - he had tried, he had tried so hard to outrun that loss, to tell himself it was worth it to not have the thorn of Jingyu’s rising power and influence in his side. To not have Lin Da-ge’s censorious presence judging his every action. And how long had that lasted? The deaths following him from that moment on, in his grandmother’s grief, in Jingyan’s cold fury, in Yan-er-ge’s studied silence.

The Emperor is not sorry, he was never sorry. He had wanted his son back at times perhaps, when he was feeling sentimental. And Jinyang’s absence had of course taken years to get accustomed to (Liyang had quieted after marriage but Jinyang had stayed her bright and sharp self…) And Lin Yueyao… sometimes. It had been nearly impossible not to want her.

But never more than he wanted his throne. ‘For that, anything,’ he had told himself, disgusted and exhausted that the blood he had spilled to gain the throne was not the end of it, that he must spill more and more to keep his own sons from taking over.

The Emperor has lived this life before, and yet he is no clearer now than he was fifteen years ago (three years from now) when he wondered: Has Jingyu had enough? What will he do, the next time that he disagrees with me?

He had thought he had known the answer, when he sent the poisoned wine to his son. Had thought Lin da-ge had given up on him, and decided to back his nephew to put his own blood on the throne. 

In spite of the way Jingyan had thrown the contrary evidence in Xiao Xuan’s face, the way Noble Consort Jing had insisted that Jingyu had never intended to commit treason, his heart remains unconvinced. Perhaps Jingyu had not hit his limits then. perhaps his child truly had been framed and too heartbroken at the great loss to defend himself. But would he truly have waited, silently, without interfering, and allowed Xiao Xuan to rule for decades more?

He thinks not. 

He… He wonders if he should give Jingyu a chance.

Now that he knows where Jingyan and Jingxuan and Jinghuan’s hearts lie. Knows what lengths Xia Jiang and Xie Yu would go to to mislead him for their own aims.

Things would be different. 

He will make it different. 

Isn’t that why the heavens had given him this chance?

[tennessoui]

I love how you write obikin, could you please do 3 + 40 or 15 + 18???

of course!! here's 3 + 40 (i did bastardize the quote a little bit my b)

3 - The aftermath of a bad fight + 40 - “It’s just hard for me to forgive you after everything that’s happened.”

(Vaderwan)

The emperor of the galaxy stands in front of the windows overlooking Coruscant. It's sunset. Obi-Wan has just returned from his latest mission.

The emperor knows all of this, probably felt him arrive in atmo if not before then when his ship was planets away.

Obi-Wan kneels and keeps his head down. His protests are small and insubstantial these days. It's been years. And Obi-Wan has always been a weak man.

"How did it feel?" The emperor asks. "To kill the slavers."

Obi-Wan's hands clench into fists. This is a routine question after all of the missions Emperor Vader sends him on. How did it feel to kill the slavers, to dole out justice, to save the children they were hurting? How did it feel to break your Jedi Code under my command? How did it feel to follow my orders, my old master?

"Good," he murmurs. It had been a lie in the beginning, when he would say anything to get out of Vader's presence. He tries to tell himself it's still a lie, but the words are harder to find. The emotions are closer to the surface. They had been so young, the slaves, when Obi-Wan had found them. They had been so hurt.

The darkness had been so easy to slip into with so few tethers to the light remaining. He'd come back to himself in that foresty clearing, dripping slaver blood. The children had been afraid of him, had cowered away. It had reminded him of days where the Jedi rescued children and became their heroes.

But the Jedi are no more. And Obi-Wan is a Jedi no more, not really.

It had felt good to kill those slavers. It had felt right. Whether this was Vader's influence or simply Obi-Wan's last shred of willpower giving out, he doesn't know. Couldn't say.

Finally, the emperor turns to face him. He's beautiful, resplendent in his black and gold robes, hilt of his new lightsaber strapped to his waist. His eyes like twin fires burn into Obi-Wan's.

"Still blue," the emperor murmurs, stalking forward. He grabs Obi-Wan's chin and turns his head this way and that, studying his old master. "What a farce," he hisses.

Obi-Wan stays silent, but he feels his anger building. The Dark Side clings to him in every way. His mind, from the mission. His soul, from sharing a bond with the Sith emperor. His body, from sharing a bed with the same man.

"You kneel before me, covered in blood, with Darkness sticking to every crevice of your soul," Vader purrs, as if too overjoyed to even feign fury. "And yet your eyes are still blue, Obi-Wan. I wonder what it would take to tempt you into Falling?"

Obi-Wan takes a several deep breaths. Vader already knows the truth, of course. That Obi-Wan has been close to Falling since their fight on Mustafar, since Vader won, since the Jedi died. Since Vader killed Palpatine in revenge for the deaths of his family. Since Vader took Obi-Wan as a pet or a prize or something else all together.

He's been on the edge. Every kiss they've shared, every touch. Every mission, when it was clear Obi-Wan could no more bring himself to run away from Anakin than he could kill him on Mustafar, every report. It brings him closer to Falling. To joining his former padawan. It would be so nice, he catches himself thinking sometimes, to just let the galaxy burn. To light the match.

But Vader can't know it, not from Obi-Wan's own lips. That would mean the battle would be completely lost. And it can't be. It can't be yet.

"Even if I fall, Vader, I will never forgive you. Not after everything that has happened."

The Force pulls him to his feet and pushes him into Vader's grasp. He expects to be choked for his remark, but Vader only smirks down at him.

The mechno hand, the reminder of the first time Obi-Wan had failed his padawan, reaches up to brush away a lock of his hair. "Why would I need your forgiveness?" Vader purrs, leaning in to nuzzle at his hairline. "When I already have you?"

[fluri-above-all]

ToV Rarepair Drabble - Scars

One of the oneshot prompts I've seen lately was about scars. And I've been wanting to write Harry x Ioder again ever since @nagia36 brought up one of my old drabbles...Harry doesn't really get the attention he deserves so I wrote this to make it up to him.

Warning for suggestive themes.

Scars

Harry’s body held scars. 

The first was across the bridge of his nose and honestly…he couldn’t remember how it happened. Yeager had told him once it was from crying so much while he was a baby that the tears created the cut turned scar as they fell. This had prompted further crying from the very young blonde. 

His grandfather later pat him on the head (and whacked Yeager upside his) and proceeded to tell him even he did not know how Harry got it. When Garry's family was driven out of their hometown, he’d reunited with Harry and his mother and the mark had already marred his unconscious face. His mother had had a mental breakdown and disappeared one night, taking the secret with her. With his memories of that day unknown and lost to him, Harry eventually came to simply accept the scar as one of the earliest parts of himself. It was his “favorite” if he had to pick one. 

There were also scars that were not his favorite. They adorned his back, parts of his chest and even the side of his neck. These were from skirmishes, battles and attacks on his life. The ones on his chest weren’t visible with his clothes on, even with his shirt barely covering his torso. The scar on his neck was small, from a younger part of his life when someone had foolishly tried to take him hostage. Their plan would have worked, had they not nicked Harry in the neck and set the guilds into frenzy. It was one of the few times he had ever seen his grandfather look truly angry, “seeing red” is what he’d later come to recognize it as. 

Since that day no one has tried to kidnap or capture the young man. That incident was probably why….

It could also be from the size Harry had grown during his years of rebuilding himself as well...but he liked to think the terrors of Altosk had spooked his assailants away.

One of the scars on his back was up by his shoulder, where the tusk of a large monster had snagged him from behind and pinned him to the ground. Harry winces even now just thinking about that particular instance. 

The oddest scar of all – In Harry’s opinion anyway – was on his ankle. A blood-thirsty group of bandits had attempted – very poorly – to attack the still inexperienced Don on his trip through the desert. One of the bandits speared him in the ankle with a harpoon gun, the retraction dragged Harry several feet before Raven and the other members of Altosk dispatched the group. When the weather gets cold, he can feel the irritation in his foot from the long scarred over wound. It was his “least favorite” if he had to pick. 

Still, the young Don of 23 years took pride in his scars. They were symbols depicting an exciting (and often dangerous) life, proof that through all he had endured, he was strong. And more importantly, he was still here. He'd been stabbed in the back, attacked head on, pulled against his will, and yet, he was still standing tall. 

Harry had never been particularly close with death; none of the wounds engraved on his body were life-threatening. If anything, people would say he had Lady Luck on his side. He'd scoff at that, being a man who believed in carving his own path and not fate…

Still...

That didn’t mean he was itching to meet his maker enough to test it. As reckless as he could be he had no desire to push the limits of his life. It was something precious that had been fought for and sacrificed his whole life. And through those scars, he knew they were signs that represented those who had lost their life for him…It meant their sacrifice was not in vain. He would continue to fight. No matter what it took. 

It was his relentless and unwavering ability to never back down that made Ioder worry – he knew that. 

The first time they had made love he’d hesitated to show himself to the other blonde. Harry wondered if the young Emperor would find him grotesque with his marred skin, a dark contrast to Ioder’s pale perfection. But Ioder said nothing about them, even kissed the one across his collarbone. 

Harry didn’t want to admit it, but the tender intimacy made his pulse quicken and his body waver slightly. 

Who knew a person’s bitter scars could elicit such a sweet reaction? Certainly not Harry. He didn’t think his body could ever be so sensitive to another’s touch, especially with his scars. 

It was yet another surprise that kept Harry wrapped around the Emperor’s finger – contrary to everyone’s opinion of Ioder being swept away by Harry. It was another surprise and a secret Harry wanted to keep to himself. 

But Ioder had ways of figuring him out. 

And he was always so damn sneaky about it too...

The day was innocent enough (as always), Ioder was signing off paperwork at his desk and Harry was lying on the nearby couch. He'd come unannounced so Ioder had insisted Harry be patient and wait for him to finish. It was fairly hot outside, so even with the window open, save for the occasional breeze, it was almost unbearable. 

Except Ioder appeared perfectly fine. 

And for some reason, that irritated Harry. The Emperor wore considerably more when it came to his attire and not only that, the material was bulkier as well. 

“Aren’t you hot?!” Harry cried out, unable to take the heat of the room any longer. Just looking at Ioder made him sweat. The sudden sound of Harry’s voice must have startled Ioder, because he had blinked several times in shocked confusion. 

“Ah forget it, you’re not even paying attention are you…” Harry accused, knowing Ioder had a way of tuning everything out once ensconced in his work. 

“Don’t apologize either.” He added as he saw the gears turning in Ioder’s head. The Emperor likely realized he was not being the best of hosts at the moment. Stretching his arms above his head, Harry elicited a yawn and removed his vest. With the dark garment discarded, he already felt immensely better. 

And while he was at it, he might as well make himself comfortable. Untucking his shirt, Harry’s hands moved to pull the shirt over his head – 

“What are you doing?” Ioder questioned - eyes wide as he regarded the young Don mid shirt removal. 

“I’m taking my shirt off.” Harry answered simply. He opened his mouth to question if there was a problem but then he had to briefly consider where he was. 

Oh that’s right…people are worried about propriety here….

He lifted the shirt up and off anyways,  dropping it on the couch next to him. 

“Harry!” Ioder scolded, face a light shade of pink as he tried not to stare too intently. 

“It’s hot.” Harry regarded with a shrug. “Besides….” He turned his head to the side, a suggestive look on his face. “It’s not anything you haven’t seen before.” Harry withheld the smirk threatening to burst forth at the way Ioder’s cheeks flushed before he looked away. The young Don chuckled to himself, smug with this victory. Ioder went back to work once his face returned to a normal shade, but Harry wasn’t making things easy for him. 

Perhaps it was a low blow, distracting Ioder the way he was with his bare torso. 

And the young Emperor was certainly distracted. He stole the occasional glance as Harry sat back to lounge on the couch once more, the Don feeling quite relieved with his skin exposed. With all the sun he’d soaked up recently, his skin had tanned considerably, especially the front of his chest where he showed most of his muscled chest. 

Now Harry wasn’t a narcissist, but he couldn’t help but admit it was a pretty damn good look on him. Catching Ioder staring out the corner of his eye was all the confirmation that he needed. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of Ioder’s pen as he wrote, a contented bliss took over him at how comfortable things had become with a few simple garments removed. 

In fact, he almost drifted off to sleep.

Almost.

The sound of Ioder’s chair shuffling back switched his brain back into alertness. Maybe he was taking a break? Ioder sometimes scooted the chair back to get more room to stretch. 

However he didn’t hear the groan come as it normally did when Ioder did this. Instead, he felt the presence of the young Emperor much closer to him than before. Harry opened his eyes to see what Ioder was up to when the other blonde was actually right in front of him. 

“Iod-“

Harry tried to sit up to ask what was wrong when Ioder pushed Harry’s shoulders back against the couch, the Emperor lifting his legs to straddle him. 

“It’s not nice to tease.” Ioder scolded, but it lacked the disciplinary bite it usually did when he was reprimanding the young Don. Instead it held a hint of mischief, with no short amount of lust. 

Harry had to admit – Ioder lasted much longer than he thought he would. The Don’s arms wrapped around Ioder’s waist, drawing the other man closer. “You know I have every intention of following through…” he answered, voice low and suggestive.

He stretched up to kiss Ioder but Ioder leaned down instead, placing a soft kiss on the tiny scar on the side of his neck, warm hands lightly tracing the sensitive flesh across his once injured collarbone and chest. The sudden physical contact elicited a moan Harry hadn’t even realized he was holding in. Pliant lips rested against the young Don’s ear, warm breath causing Harry to shutter as Ioder spoke. 

“Not if I don’t let you.”

The tanned blonde raised an eyebrow in inquiry. Ioder – Mr. Pacifist – able to subdue someone twice his size? He’s seen Ioder talk down people much stronger than him, but Harry? Did he really think he had an edge over him that would keep him submissive?

Ioder seemed to sense Harry’s apprehension and Harry could almost feel the smirk coming from behind his calm expression. “I notice things about you too Harry.” He kissed along Harry’s jaw, sending sparks down the Don’s spine. “I’d noticed this a while ago but…” Ioder trailed off as he kissed down the other blonde’s neck. Harry’s eyes fluttered shut, finding he didn’t much mind letting the young Emperor take the reins now and then.

“But?” Harry inquired, leaning his head back to allow Ioder better access. 

Hands traveled down Harry’s sides to the dip of his hips, tracing gently over the scar along his hip bone. Harry’s eyes shot open as he bucked his waist up at Ioder’s touch, a soft gasp escaping his mouth. 

“But you really like it when I touch your scars like that.” 

If looks could kill….well…Harry could never kill Ioder, but he certainly wanted to upend him from his lap and wipe that smug expression off his face. 

“I’ll touch them all you’d like later, so be patient and wait for me to finish my work so there won’t be any distractions. Okay?” Ioder asked, lips curled up in a sickeningly innocent smile. His actions betrayed that sweet smile however, as his fingers gently traced Harry’s chest.

“You say that…but you’re not stopping…” Harry pointed out. 

Ioder’s smile turns into a bit of a smirk. “You don’t sound like you’re complaining….”

“Got nothing to complain about.” Harry smirks back, hands moving to Ioder’s waist. Before they can find purchase however, Ioder pulls back, sauntering off to his desk and leaving Harry slightly miffed.

He does take a small bit of satisfaction in the way Ioder squirms uncomfortably in his seat, face slightly flushed. 

Good, he is affected by it…

Harry settles back onto the couch, heat long forgotten as he tries to calm down his hard-on.

How could he let such a weakness become apparent? And how could Ioder use it against him like that?

And why was he strangely alright with all of it?

Those would have to be answers for another time, but for now…

He settled for simply enjoying the way his scars buzzed from Ioder's lingering touch and the anticipation of things to come once Ioder finished his work.