#may day menagerie

[myceliomancer]

Some recent Menagerie City writing:

Oh, and how Jun loved its cities, springing right up around the Painted Mahogany like an ant-nest. Well, they were forest people after all, and what is a city if not a forest? And Jun’s cities were true jungles, great filthy towering things where buildings grew on buildings like galls, roads twisted and knotted and self-cannibalised, churches and temples of all shapes and sizes desecrated each other and themselves; they were hot and noisy with a cacophony of different tongues, spilling their chaos outwards and upwards and downwards uncontrollably, drunkenly.

And it was here, in the noise and the rank, amidst the monkey-lords and the beggars and fortune-tellers and the restless dead and bankers and the vermin and the gods, that the Mahogany stood, unchanging and unmoving, and she grew quiet and she grew thoughtful.

[to-the-stars8]

The Wayne's Nanny

Batfamily and Reader/ Bruce Wayne x Reader Chapters Ao3

Ex in the House

You hadn’t expected to see your ex in the kitchen when you went to make some coffee, but he looked just as smug as the day he broke up with you. Alfred, who had been washing dishes at the sink informed you that your ex had arrived thirty minutes prior demanding to speak to you, acting as if the man he was talking about wasn’t even there. Politely, you thanked the butler and asked him to watch the kids so you could speak with your ex alone. Truly, you wanted Alfred gone so your drama wouldn’t be added to his menagerie of gossip. 

Once the two of you were alone, you shook the chair he was sitting in until he stood. Exasperated, you exclaimed, “Are you crazy?”

“What? No! But, you may be,” He said. You took a step toward him and your ex quickly put up his hands in surrender. “Hold on. Hold on. Don’t get all crazy on me yet, I came over here to talk.”

You slowly back off, telling him to sit and he obediently did. “Talk about what? Talk about how you still owe me my last check?”

“I don’t,” Your ex inserted. “But, no. I wanna talk about us.”

“There’s nothing left to talk about,” You spat, refusing to sit when he gestured for you to do so. Your ex sighed before standing, coming over to slowly rub your arms. You loathed his touch and shrugged his hands off of you. “Just get it out.”

He sighed and said, “I want you back. I realized how much I fucked up.”

You stared at him, torn between smacking him or laughing in his face. If you hadn’t known that his fiance left him a week ago, you would have believed him a little. Instead, you stayed quiet and let him go on a long-winded rant that left you feeling almost sorry for him. Obviously, the guy was in a deep hole of pathetic loneliness. 

You were so distracted by your ex that you hadn’t seen Jason watching the two of you from the slightly cracked kitchen door. He knelt down just enough that you would likely not see him if you looked over. 

“Please, get to your point,” You demanded as soon as you got tired of hearing his voice. 

Your ex sucked in a breath and finally said, “I want you to come back. Come back to work. To me.”

You stared at him before sarcastically saying, “Okay, let’s go!” 

Jason felt his heart sink at your remark. You seemed so eager to go that it made him wonder if something had happened to make you stop loving them. Had they not been good enough? Did he do something to make you want to leave? Jason could hardly breathe and could only think of running to his room to get some comfort. 

You noticed the kitchen door swing back and forth slightly, but that didn’t stop you from going on, “As if, asshole. I like my job, my kids, and my life now. I wish I realized how much sooner it sucked with you in it.”

Mr. Wayne abruptly entered the room before the conversation could continue. He looked just as surprised to be there as you were to see him there. Bruce truly hadn’t meant to intrude, but Alfred had told him your ex was there. Suddenly, he had to be in the kitchen. Bruce chose not to look for an explanation for his thought process. 

“You sleepin’ with him, is that it?” Your ex said, tone trying to be threatening. 

“No! No, he’s my boss. You think I would make that mistake again?” You looked back at Bruce, who didn’t seem phased or at all impressed, before saying to your ex, “You need to leave. We’re done. You can’t be causing a scene here. There are children.”

“Fuck them kids,” Your ex said. 

It happened in a blink of an eye. You extended your hand and slapped your ex so hard that it knocked him over. He didn’t quite fall to the floor, but it caused him to stumble into the pantry door. Fortunately for you, he didn’t have time to return to gesture as Mr. Wayne put himself between you and him. 

“Get out of my house,” Bruce said, voice angry and serious. When it took your ex a second too long, your boss used his angry parental voice and yelled, “Now!”

You even jumped, but you would be lying if you said you didn’t like it. Your ex grumbled something as left. Once your ex was gone, you were left embarrassed and flustered. You stumbled over yourself in apologies to Mr. Wayne, especially since the man was allowed so close to the kids. 

“Mr. Wayne, I don’t even know what to say. I am so sorry for all of this,” You reassured him in hopes he wouldn't make you leave on the spot. 

 Bruce grabbed your shoulders gently, looking down at you with a worried look in his eyes. You had expected him to be angry, not kind. “Are you okay?” 

Stunned, you stumbled over your words, before managing out, “I mean, I’m better than my ex right now. Did’ya see the way I slapped him?”

The was a moment of silence before Mr. Wayne began to laugh. It was a rumble that started in his throat before bubbling out of his mouth. It sounded more like prolonged chuckling, but it was a pleasant sound. Not to mention his smile. Damn, you thought, what you wouldn’t do to see that smile again. No wonder half the world was in love with him, Bruce Wayne was a beautiful man. 

“Well, I hate to say it, I don’t think he’s coming back,” He said. 

“I hope he doesn’t.” You said, eyes going down to his lips. They were perfect and pink. You admired the cute little cupid's bow on his upper lip and wondered how soft they were. The two of you stared at each other for a few seconds too long, and you only broke the tension when you turned away to go back to the kids. 

You didn’t see Mr. Wayne again until dinner. He sat at the head of the table with Dick on one side and Cassandra on the other. You sat in the middle of the little kids since it would be your job to make sure they ate their food. After a few minutes of conversation, you noticed Jason hadn’t come down for dinner yet. You hadn’t seen him since a few hours earlier once you really thought about it. 

You passed the basket of rolls to Tim as you asked Alfred, “Where’s Jason? Still in his room?”

“Yes, Miss,” Alfred said. “He threw quite the fit when I insisted he come down to eat.” 

You shared a glance with Bruce before pushing back your chair. “I’ll see what’s going on. You kids keep eating.”

After reassuring the rest of the kids that you would be back (you were starting to get the sneaking suspicion that they were developing separation anxiety), you made your way to Jason’s room. His room was usually spotless, but, upon entering after hearing a meek come in, you saw it was a huge mess. Things were thrown about, books knocked off the shelves, clothes pulled out of the drawers, and even writing on the walls. Oh, Bruce would not be happy about the state of his room at all. 

You stopped in the middle of the mess to see Jason curled on his bed facing away from you. “Jason, what happened here?”

He barely lifted his head and looked over at you, before putting it back down. After a few seconds of silence, he said, “I hate you.”

That threw you for a loop. Truly, you didn’t know Jason had a hating bone in his body. You sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing circles on his back, before trying to get him to tell you what made him hate you. At first, he refused to talk, just saying he hated you over and over again. You wouldn’t lie, it got to you a little, but you refused to show it. From what you learned from the parenting self-help book Alfred bought you, you knew he was just acting out an anger he couldn’t come to you about. 

“Jason, tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart,” You said. “I want to help.”

“No! You don’t. You just want to leave like Bruce always does and you hate me like Catherine did,” He said quickly so you wouldn’t hear the crack in his voice. 

“Oh, sweetheart. I don’t hate you. I never have, and I know your mom didn't hate you, either.” You pulled him into you, hugging him close. “What makes you think I want to leave?”

“You said so. When that man was here. He told you to leave with him and you said yes,” Jason mumbled. 

That’s when you finally realize it. It wasn’t Mr. Wayne who was there like you initially suspected when you first saw the door swinging by itself, it had been Jason. Squeezing him, you explained what had truly happened— Granted, leaving out some details. 

“I don’t hate you at all. I never have.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek. “And, your dad works a lot. I wish you knew how much he loved you kids and wants to be with you. I can tell just by looking at him.”

Jason, turning to lay on his back, smiled a little. “Yeah? What does he look like?”

You pushed some of his black curls out of his face and rubbed away the tear streaks as you spoke: “He gets all brooding and upset when he has to go to work. But, when he comes home, he’s all smiley.”

“Dad doesn’t smile.”

There was a knock on the open door and the two of you watched Mr. Wayne slowly walk in. His eyes scanned the room, noting everything amiss, before landing on you. Before you could tell Mr. Wayne not to get mad, Jason mumbled an apology. 

“Jason,” Bruce said in a soft voice. He crossed the rest of the room in two strides before stopping at the edge of the bed. “Are you okay?”

Jason was quiet for a moment before mumbling, “I didn’t want Nan to leave. I didn’t want her to hate me, either.” 

“I told him I wasn’t going to leave or ever hated him,” You added, glancing up at Mr. Wayne. 

Bruce reached down and played with Jason’s hair before messing it up playfully. The boy whined and tried to pull away, but his father was much bigger than him. Kneeling to look up at his son, Bruce took his small hands into his. 

“I promise you Nan isn’t going anywhere. I’d fire her then rehire her if she tried.” Mr. Wayne smiled, and you knew it was one just for his little boy. He glanced back up at you, before going on. "Plus, I think we all like her here. With you kids, that's a rare find."

Jason looked over at you. “You were right. He does smile.”

“And he's actually good at smiling, too,” You said. “Now, come on. There’s dinner downstairs for you.”

Jason leaped off the bed, loudly stating how hungry he was, and practically ran for the door. Bruce was quick, though. He grabbed the back of the boy’s shirt and dragged him back a little so they could be face-to-face. 

“When you’re done with dinner, you will clean up this room, and we need to talk about you acting out like this,” he said. 

He agreed, before now slowly going toward the dining room. Considering the state of the room, you knew Jason would drag out dinner for as long as he could.

Mr. Wayne must have known, too, because he made sure to add extra vegetables to the boy’s plate.

[aealzx]

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Update Post

Prologue | AO3

Previous Next

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“So…Let me just summarize to make sure I understand,” Jazz requested, feeling a little overwhelmed by all the new information Bruce, Barry, and Leslie had explained to her, but at least not so overwhelmed to the point of breaking down anymore. She’d just never heard of something like hemoperfusion before, so it had been a lot to take in. “Danny has blood blossom toxin throughout his blood stream, and since blood blossoms don’t exist here there’s no antitoxin to inject him with. And since developing one would take too long and be too risky, you want to try hemoperfusion. Which is like hemodialysis, except it removes toxins instead of fluids. And since hemoperfusion is known to cause a mild decrease in various common blood components, you want to have a blood donation from Danielle to offset that. Because she’s the only one here who also has ectoplasm in her blood, and you don’t want to dilute that in Danny since he’s already low…Did I get all of that?”

“Yes,” Bruce answered simply, giving a small nod. He was ready to go over anything they needed to again, a tablet in his hand ready to be used to open any of the files he’d already shown Jazz a second time. She had reacted to the information about Danny’s condition with anxious fear, but overall she was managing to remain significantly calmer than earlier that day.

Jazz was silent as she ran through everything she could remember just one more time, as well as trying to think of anything that they may have missed. Either because it was an oversight, or they simply just didn’t know. But she couldn’t see any risks other than the ones they had already told her they were aware of. She honestly wasn’t sure she would have caught the risk of diluting the ectoplasm in Danny’s blood herself. Amity always had an abundance of ectoplasm leaking everywhere, so even when Danny has spent a lot he’d always been able to recover some from the ambient. It, and the way they had addressed this situation, was enough for her to finally look to Bruce and nod. “Okay. Go ahead.”

Bruce was admittedly pleasantly surprised at the response, but kept his response in check other than a content smile. Barry’s shoulders sagged with his sigh of relief, and he barely waited for Bruce to give him a nod before he dashed from the room in a blink.

“Barry and Wally will take care of getting the supplies. We’ll test the types of resin with the blood samples we already have to make sure we use the correct one. But it shouldn’t take too long. Is it alright if we inform the rest of your family of what’s going on?” Bruce requested, not wanting Sam, Tucker and Danielle to be left out just because his own children were doing a good job keeping them occupied. Barbara had come over to meet them already, and she and Tim were indulging Tucker’s questions as well as getting some of their own answers. Then Stephanie and Cass had spent some time letting Danielle pick out some different clothes before they had joined Wally in the gym. Danielle had been ecstatic to find out about Wally’s abilities, and all four of them were having fun showing off and messing around together. Which left Sam talking with Duke, Damian, and Alfred about some of Duke’s adventures, Damian’s menagerie of pets, and Alfred’s recipes and food sources. The news would be an interruption to their fun, but Bruce had confidence that his team could help them stay occupied and taken care of instead of relying only on Jazz.

“...Sure,” Jazz agreed once more, giving another nod. They had already told her that they would have Danielle stop by the room to draw her blood, so having the three of them back in the room for a bit wasn’t a bad idea.

It didn’t take long at all for Barry and Wally to return with the equipment, getting it set up in record speed next to the bed before Barry joined Bruce back in the lab to test the different resins. They were simple tests that could all be done at the same time, so they were back upstairs soon after Leslie had finished drawing Danielle’s blood.

“Here’s the lucky winner,” Barry chimed, holding a second canister of the resin that they had found cleared the blood blossom toxin from Danny’s blood while having minimal effect on the important parts that needed to stay.

“Woah… I was expecting something bigger,” Sam admitted, watching Barry from where she was hovering near Danielle.

Barry just chuckled as he headed to the machine and popped the canister in. “It doesn’t need to be that big. We’re only pulling a tiny amount of toxin from him and putting the rest back after all.”

“Fair enough,” Sam accepted, attention shifting slightly as Danielle flexed her arm and moved around to make sure she wasn’t dizzy or anything.

“And you’re sure it’s going to work?” Tucker asked, his nervous nature prompting him to reach for reassurance despite the procedure not being used on him.

“It’s not as common as dialysis, but it’s still something that’s been used thousands of times on thousands of different people. I’m sure it’ll get most, if not all of the toxin,” Barry assured, stepping out of the way so Leslie could proceed to get Danny connected to the device. Unfortunately the IV needle that had been used was too small, so Leslie couldn’t use it for one of the tubes, even if it had been in the right place. So it was simply pinched closed, and disconnected to use again later while the other two tubes were inserted.

The others continued to chatter lightly, but Jazz was more focused on what Leslie was doing. How she was prepping Danny’s arm, where she put the tubes, trying to guess what she was looking for. She didn’t think this would be the last time Danny, or Danielle got poisoned, so she felt she should learn as much as she could while she could. It also helped her feel like she was being useful. Adding to her skillset to maybe use later instead of just sitting and being worried. It certainly helped even though once Leslie finally started the machine nothing seemed to be happening. It was a good thing though. No immediate adverse reactions, no sudden drop in vitals. Nothing but the quiet hum of the machine added to the soft beeps of the heart monitor and puffs from the oxygen tank.

Within an hour the others had gotten bored enough to easily be lured away by the rest of Bruce’s family once again.

Thirty minutes after and Jazz was the only one left, having moved to sit on the floor at the side of the bed. She wanted to be close to Danny, but she felt in the way if she sat on the bed. There were too many tubes now. Before he could have been mistaken for just sleeping. But now he really was looking like a coma patient. It made it hard to watch him, even though she refused to leave.

A short time later Jason was knocking on the doorframe to announce his presence, causing Jazz to look up.

“...Hey,” she greeted, a little confused.

“Hey,” Jason returned, “Just checking in. You need anything?” A half lie. He’d actually volunteered to hang out for a while to make sure the hemoperfusion process was going well. Luckily it looked like Danny’s vitals hadn’t changed much from two hours ago.

Jazz blinked in mild surprise at the offer, but even after thinking for a moment she couldn’t come up with anything. Part of her knew there were probably a multitude of things that she should be at least curious about, but mostly she just felt tired. The near quiet of the room while she knew everyone was okay and having fun was nice. She was content to just relax as well as she could for now. “No, I’m good,” she responded.

Jason didn’t quite believe her, his brow raising. “Says the girl sitting on the floor wearing random spare clothes borrowed from someone else, and doing nothing but stare at the other side of the room,” he commented dryly with a half smirk, stepping into the room and taking a seat on the floor near Jazz.

The comment caught Jazz off guard, but she could only give a small giggle. She probably did look at least a little unwell huh. “...I guess I just haven’t fully realized I’m safe yet,” she admitted. “It’s hard to think about anything.”

“Fair enough,” Jason accepted, being able to understand the feeling. “...Do you mind if I ask you something then?”

Another mild surprise, but Jazz just nodded after a moment. “Sure.”

“You mentioned before…” Jason started, thinking back to something Jazz had said before lunch, “that your parents tried to hurt Danny before they knew….” The reminder was potentially a very unhappy topic, but it was prodding he felt was necessary. Were they safe at home? Were they runaways? Were their parents involved with the ones that had hurt Danny recently? They needed to know if it was a good idea to try and get these kids back to their family or not. And if he was going to keep Jazz company and monitor the hemoperfusion process he didn’t feel like spending the time in silence.

“....Yeah… Our parents used to be ghost hunters,” Jazz admitted, a sorrowful smile as she stared at her hands. It seemed she was in the mood to talk, for she continued unprompted. “We grew up with their crazy antics. Making machines that could track down and destroy ghosts. Always talking about dissecting them, or using them as a power source. They had so many studies supporting the idea that ghosts were just residual emotions from people, given human form, but not actually human. So many things that convinced others that ghosts weren’t people anymore.”

“And yet… all it took was them finding out that Danny was half ghost, half dead, and it made them rethink everything they had developed. He was fourteen when… And I didn’t find out until a few months later. I didn’t even tell him I knew, because I knew if I did he would get scared. Why wouldn’t he, after all? With the idea that his mom and dad might cut into him just to satiate their curiosity looming over his head. It was an accident that they found out, and I was so scared he was going to run away. But mom just tried her best to treat him like Danny, and nothing else. Dropped her gun and told us we should go home and get a snack, because we were probably hungry. It…. it was enough to keep him home, but it wasn’t enough for everything to be okay. It was like everyone was trying to pretend everything was normal, but we all knew it wasn’t. They stopped doing their experiments. Started pretending they were oblivious to anything related to ghosts. It was awful. I felt so… so useless.”

“It was months of this stupid, awkward fake normal family facade before it finally broke. Danny accidentally got burned when mom was cooking, and she had a breakdown. We found out that our dad was okay with everything, but mom was having a hard time because she couldn’t believe that she had hurt Danny before. Even if she didn’t know it was him. But, after she had a really long talk with my brother, things started to look more normal again. Only this time, instead of being ghost hunters my parents dove headfirst into trying to figure out how to help ghosts. We realized we couldn’t take Danny to the doctors anymore, so my parents and I tried to make sure we could fill in that role. Mom would try all sorts of new, ectoplasm rich meals for him, making sure they tasted good to him. She started making smoothies for him every morning once she found ones he liked. On top of helping him study for school every day when there weren’t other ghosts causing trouble. There’s so many nights I found them asleep together on the couch. Danny was always mom’s favorite, and I think dad got jealous about how close they got. Until Danielle came back from her world exploration adventures and Danny convinced her to officially meet my parents. Then Dad and Danielle latched onto each other so quickly, and became inseparable.”

The retelling had seemed a little painful at first, but it was easy to see that Jazz was at least content with the way her family life was now. It wasn’t perfect, but then again families never were. Jason couldn’t help notice the tone of voice she took when talking about her parents favoring her siblings. She didn’t seem too upset, but there definitely wasn’t complete indifference to the facts. “...Does it make you upset? Having your siblings be your parents’ favorites?” he couldn’t help asking.

Jazz could only snicker at the question, falling quiet for a beat before answering. “Sometimes,” she admitted, then looked over with a mildly mischievous grin that made Jason semi think of Danielle. “But then I remember I’m Danny’s favorite, and I’m usually okay.”

The proud declaration made Jason snicker, glad to hear she had at least one thing keeping her from devolving into jealousy. She didn’t seem to want to talk much more though, and Jason wanted to leave the conversation on a happier note and therefore didn’t ask about the ‘Guys in White’ Danielle had mentioned before. So instead, after another stretch of quiet, he just chose to reassure her. “... He’ll be okay.”

Jazz didn’t answer immediately, drawing in a sigh and letting it go. She seemed to be doing much better as the day had stretched on, handling the news that Danny had poison throughout his bloodstream much better than the suggestion of drawing his blood. And being reassured that he would be okay, she gained a smile. “... He better be,” she commented, gaining a glint in her eye that Jason had seen in others he knew. “Otherwise the government back home will have to deal with a new super villain family.”

The comment only caught Jason slightly off guard, eyes widening just for a moment as he looked at Jazz before bursting into a hearty laugh. “Fair enough,” he agreed. The son of a family getting killed by the government was a legit enough back story for super villains in his opinion.

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lil bit of home situation dump and hopefully the last bit of the part that was giving me trouble. Nice to get to draw Jason without the suit XD though I almost forgot to draw the bandage on his fingers.

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Tag list: @galaxy-sharks-and-bottled-ships, @starscreamlover, @nerdynonnativenarnian, @dragongoblet, @megacharizardx99

@bellathecatastrophe, @cj-ghostemoji-destielpie, @asexual-insomniac, @wolfeyedwitch, @tkiesai, 

@fanaroff, @raven1508, @nebulainajar, @serasvictoria02, @oliocelottafanfics,

@honeysuckletook, @omniithe-deer, @wolf-under-the-stars, @gingernutcalo, @that-random-fangirl,

@op-sys-chaos, @kirasigncomics, @ehobep

[howi99]

Prince of Vale 7

Meeting room

Jaune: *looking at the leaders of every major nation* Messieurs, leaders of Vacuo, Atlas, Mistral and Menagerie, i welcome you. *Bow in sign of respect to his guest*

All of the representatives: *bow to the king, showing their respect*

Jaune: *taking a seat* As all of you must know, i have summoned all of you to discuss two major incidents. The first and least important one being the demands of Jacques Schnee, demanding the day of my mother's funeral, the queen funeral, that i take one of his daughters as queen consort. The second and far more grave incident was the Prime Minister of Mistral accusing me of protecting the princess of Menagerie from the Mistralean judicial system.

Ghira: *looking directly at said Prime Minister* Is that so?

PM: *adjusting his tie* With all due respect, your daughter did participate in White Fang's activities. Both of your nations may not see them as a terrorist organization, but the material damage they are causing in the name of liberty cannot be disregarded.

Jacques: *a calculating look in his eyes* And should i remind you, your majesty, that said material was the property of the Schnee Dust Company? Not only that, but my daughter was placed in the same team as said criminal?

Jaune: *coldly looking at Jacques* First, may i remind you that you are only the manager of said company and not its true owner? *Looking at Willow* Your wife is the one allowed to speak without constraints during the meeting. And secondly, you shall address her by her title or miss Belladonna.

Willow: *surprised* Your majesty?

Jacques: ... *Sigh* I must ask your forgiveness. It slipped my mind.

Jaune: I see. *Now looking at the PM* Now, as you probably know, Miss Belladonna isn't part of the White Fang anymore. Not only that, but her crimes were committed as a minor. Furthermore, she isn't a Mistralean resident, meaning we are in no obligation to extradite her.

PM: *frowning* You are saying that she won't be punished for her crimes?

Jaune: *shaking his head* I never said that. She will be judged according to Valean laws.

Ghira: *nodding* And i approve of this decision. Tell me, wouldn't you prefer we bury the hatchet and try de-escalating the situation?

PM: ... *Sigh* What would be the sentence?

Jaune: Under our laws, she committed vandalism, vigilantism and endangerment of civilian life during said vigilantism. For the remainder of her time in Beacon, she will have to do community service every Saturday. Furthermore, she will be forbidden from leaving the vicinity of Beacon UNLESS it is for said service.

PM: ... Fine, we shall accept those conditions. *Looking at Ghira* In exchange, we simply ask for the White Fang to stop attacking the SDC shipments to our cities.

Ghira: *sigh* I would love to, but i have limited influence on them i'm afraid.

Jaune: *looking at the annoyed Jacques* Maybe the SDC could make some concessions? *Smiling, now looking at Willow* What do you think, lady Willow?

Willow: *nervous* I-i... My husband...

Jaune: *gently cutting her* Has no authority during this meeting.

Willow: *Feeling the gaze of her husband* I... *Shaky voice* Y-yes your majesty. The company has gone too far.

Jacques: *low angry voice* Willow...

Willow: *looking at Jaune with more resolve* I am fully aware of the wrongdoing of Jacques. In exchange for those concessions, however, i want the rights of the SDC's old mines back.

Jaune: *pensive* The one from before the faunus war, i assume?

Willow: *nod* Yes, your majesty... I will be frank with you, Jacques demands were mostly aimed at re-appropriating them back.

Jaune: *sigh* It would have been so much easier to say so... *Nod* You are free to restart mining on Valean soil. However, some of the mines were privatised. Is this fine with you, my lady?

Willow: *nod* I was already aware of that. Besides, competition never hurts.

Ironwood: *surprised, whispering to Winter* It's the first time i've seen her speak up.

Winter: *as surprised as him* Same for me here. I always thought she was completely under my father's thumb...

Jacques: *furious, getting up from his chair* Willow, what are you doing!? "I" own the company! "I" brought it back from the mountain of debts your father had to pay!

Willow: *looking at him* And in doing so, you ran my family name through the mud. *Getting up, locking eyes with him* You made us enemy number one of faunuskind, you supplied both the government and the criminals alike in the name of profit and that's enough! I'm through with this!

Jacques: What are you-

Willow: I'm divorcing you, you twat!

The Vacuan representative: *whispering to Jaune* Soooo.... Would it be a bad time to talk about the unlawful exploitation of our Dust by the SDC or?

[aventurineswife]

dan heng aven jiaoqiu gepard with a wife who is obsessed with cats and animals of any kind. And imagine bro comes home from work to see. The house filled with like. 200 cats, 20 dogs and like. 50 parrots and she convinces him to keep them because she has adorable puppy eyes that can sway anyone. Thank u

“Home is Where the Heart (and the Animals) Are”

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Gepard x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Fluff, Domestic Life, Overwhelmed Partners, Pet Overload, Love & Humor, Sweet Moments.

Warnings: Mild chaos and humor involving an excessive number of pets, Some moments of light teasing and playful situations, Overwhelming amount of animals (not for those who are sensitive to the idea of pet overload).

A/N: holy shit, that's a lot- 😨🙏

Dan Heng arrived home after a long day of guarding the Astral Express, his thoughts still focused on the mission at hand. But as soon as he opened the door, his eyes widened. The overwhelming sound of meowing, barking, and the occasional squawk of a parrot filled the air.

"[Name]...?" His voice faltered as he stepped further into the house.

Before him stood an entire menagerie: cats lounging on the furniture, dogs chasing each other around the living room, and a flock of parrots hanging from the ceiling, their vibrant feathers filling the air with color. Dan Heng could barely move for fear of stepping on one of the numerous paws or claws.

You turned around, eyes sparkling, a wide grin on your face. "Welcome home, Dan Heng! Isn't it amazing?"

He stared, utterly stunned. "How... how did all this happen?"

"Well, I may have adopted a few..." you said innocently, though there was a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Okay, maybe more than a few, but look at them! Aren't they just precious?"

Dan Heng rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of the situation pressing on him. "There are hundreds of them, [Name]. How are we supposed to manage all of this?"

With a sigh, you moved to his side, batting your lashes playfully as you wrapped your arms around his waist. "But look at these faces! They need us. And I swear, they love you already! How could you say no to that? You know how much I love animals... please?"

The puppy eyes you gave him—those sweet, pleading eyes—could melt even the hardest of hearts. Dan Heng hesitated, his stoic demeanor cracking slightly. He wanted to resist, but he also couldn’t say no to you. Not when you were so sincere, and especially not when your eyes were so full of hope.

"Fine," he sighed, resigned. "But we’re getting a bigger house."

Your face lit up with happiness, and you squeezed him tighter. "I promise we'll take good care of them. Thank you, Dan Heng!"

He sighed again, looking around at the chaos. "You're impossible, but I love you."

Gepard returned to his home after a long, demanding day leading the Silvermane Guards. As soon as he entered, he was hit by the overwhelming sound of barking and meowing. His brow furrowed in confusion as he looked around the house, which now appeared more like a zoo than a home.

"Dear?" He called out, his voice echoing slightly in the chaos.

You appeared, grinning ear to ear, with a parrot perched on your shoulder and a puppy wagging its tail at your feet. "Welcome home, Geppie!"

He blinked, glancing around. "What... is all of this?" His eyes scanned the room, settling on the hundreds of cats lounging around and the dogs running in circles. A parrot squawked loudly, drawing his attention.

You innocently looked up at him, your big, hopeful eyes making it nearly impossible for him to resist. "I adopted a few animals today... okay, maybe more than a few... but look how happy they are! They love you already!"

Gepard rubbed the back of his neck, trying to process the situation. "This is... a lot, [Name]."

You moved closer, wrapping your arms around his waist and looking up at him with the most adorable expression. "Please, Gepard? I promise I’ll take care of them. I’ve always wanted a big family of animals, and you know how much I love them."

He sighed, looking down at you, conflicted. "This is... a lot of responsibility, [Name]."

But the way you looked at him, with that soft, pleading gaze, was enough to sway even his steadfast resolve. Gepard sighed again, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Alright, alright. But you’re going to have to help me organize this."

Your face lit up with pure joy, and you kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, thank you! I love you so much, Geppie!"

He shook his head with a small smile, though his heart softened at the sight of your happiness. "You're impossible, but I wouldn't want anyone else to share this madness with me."

Aventurine had returned to his luxurious estate after a grueling day, ready to unwind with a glass of something strong and a quiet moment to himself. However, as soon as he opened the door, he was immediately assaulted by the cacophony of meowing, barking, and the squawking of parrots. His eyes narrowed as he took in the sight before him: a small army of cats, dogs, and birds filling every available space in the living room.

"Darling... what is this?" he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and amusement as he stepped further into the house, trying to avoid stepping on any tails or paws.

You appeared from behind a large cat tree, your arms full of puppies. Your face lit up with excitement, and you immediately rushed to his side. "Churin! Aren’t they just the cutest? I couldn’t resist. I adopted some animals today... well, maybe more than just a few..."

Aventurine sighed dramatically, his fingers running through his hair. "This is... excessive."

"But look at them!" You grinned, holding up a tiny puppy in one arm and a kitten in the other. "They love you already, and I can tell you’ll love them too."

His eyes softened as he gazed at you—your enthusiasm, your passion for animals, and your big, pleading eyes. He could never say no to you when you looked at him like that.

"[Name]," he said with a playful smirk, "you’ve turned our home into a zoo. What exactly do you expect me to do with all these animals?"

You snuggled closer to him, using your best puppy eyes. "Please, Aventurine? I promise I’ll take care of them. I just want to give them all a loving home. You’re so good at everything else... can you help me with this too?"

Aventurine stood still for a moment, looking down at you, his heart softening at the sight of your bright smile. "You’re impossible, you know that?" he said, his tone more affectionate than before.

"But you love me," you teased, nuzzling him.

With a resigned but fond sigh, Aventurine caved. "Alright, alright. But you’re cleaning up the messes."

Your face lit up as you jumped into his arms, kissing him on the cheek. "Thank you, thank you! I love you so much!"

Aventurine let out a small chuckle as he surveyed the scene. "I might regret this, but I suppose... they can stay. Just don’t turn our home into a full-blown zoo, okay?"

"I promise," you said sweetly, resting your head on his shoulder.

[thatnonameuser]

Excuse me, but can I write something else about yandere Kalim? (Anything) What will it be like to try to escape Kalim? Does Kalim mind sharing with Jamil? Although Jamil is clearly against this... Translator

Escaping him.

Kalim is very protective of you, so he’s going to make sure that you’re protected from all the threats that could kidnap or try to kill you. So that makes escape difficult enough already. Then there’s Jamil stopping you, so that’s even worse. 

You would have to plan, while being as affectionate as possible to not tip off anyone of your escape attempt. You’ll probably have to pay someone to aid in your escape. And if that works, make sure you have enough money squirreled away to buy their eternal silence, because if offered with untold riches they’ll probably rat you out when Kalim freaks out. 

You’ll have bounty hunters chasing you down at every possible second. You’ll probably never get the opportunity to feel safe ever again. You could step outside at any moment and the next you’ll be back with your ‘husband’. 

The only way you could manage to evade him is if you sacrifice your newly gotten freedom to someone else. More specifically, his closest confidante, Jamil. He knows the Asim’s family’s secrets better than anyone and if you want to sleep well away from his side, he's your best bet. 

Sharing with Jamil.

Kalim Al-Asim had everything in the palms of his hands since the day he was conceived, let alone born. As the heir to his family’s wealth and his father’s beloved first child, he never had to want for anything. 

When he wanted a pet, he got a whole menagerie. 

When he wanted to fly, he got a magic carpet.

When he wanted a best friend, he got Jamil. 

And Jamil is the bestest friend he could have asked for! Sure, they had that one hiccup where Jamil overblotted and tried to kill him, but every friendship has its hiccups! All that means now is that Kalim has to be extra nice to him now to make up for it and change his mind about him!

And if it means Jamil will be happy if he has you too, then he’ll be happy to share! You mean the world to Kalim, but Jamil does too. 

The problem is, he never had to share anything. Not with his siblings, not with his friends. Not with anyone. So he may be a little more possessive, maybe giving Jamil a lil more work so he can have more time to spend with you. Obviously, you’ll be married to him and not Jamil, but it’s a compromise and that way everyone will be happy!(You being married to Kalim and not Jamil makes things even worse, because of Jamil's issues. But Kalim doesn't notice.)

He’s perfectly willing to share! Just as long as he gets more time with you than Jamil. Plus, Jamil’s UM can be a little helpful if you intend on being difficult.

[crazyyluvr]

Gotta put Some Color in the Miserable Place — Much to Dirtyhands' Liking

pairing: kaz x gn!reader

summary: A famous graffiti artist has been roaming around Ketterdam for a while now. It was about time you set your sights on the Slat, bare and just waiting to be painted on. A certain gloved man didn't exactly like that.

genre: idk how to label it but it's the beginning of something

wc: 2.3k

content: art-inclined reader, they/them pronouns, kaz getting annoyed, ooc kaz? not sure how to write him properly yet, spraypaint exists because I need it to, fighting

note: just a little something to get me out of my slump — it sucks, i'm sorry

oneshot under the cut :: not edited :: part 1/?

Ketterdam wasn't known to be the most luxurious of cities in Kerch. Yes, it did have places where people with money could settle down and quality napkins for them to wipe their buttcheeks on, but the "slums" part of the city overpowered that luxury. There were numerous criminals, thieves, pickpockets, and people of other illegal occupations roaming around the streets, especially the streets of the West Stave. At every alley, there would be at least some signs of a beating that occurred not too long ago. Even when people inhaled the air, it didn't feel clean.

One of your biggest concerns about the city, however, wasn't about how cleanly it was. What worried you the most was about how damn plain it seemed to be.

Where was the color? The flare? Come on, if people around the lands travel to Kerch for business, they might as well have some pretty things to look at as they cautiously walked on the streets.

You took it upon yourself to rectify that. Which was why, for the past two years, you have been one of the most sought-after criminals of Ketterdam that everyone called the “Painter”. Not because you murdered people or stole kruge, no. It wasn't even because of the fact that you decided to spray your art without permission.

It wasn't really the art that concerned other people (most of the time), but rather where you decided to put it up.

Plain old alley walls weren't the only victims of your spray bottles. Your style ended up on the main doorways of well-known brothels like the Menagerie, or the ground leading to the secret bases of different gangs. It made you a target not only of officers, but of other criminals as well. You may or may not have been the cause of the Dime Lions losing one of their main strongholds to a rival gang because you put skipping stones of Pekka Rollins' name leading to it.

You were flattered by the attention people were putting on you, but you felt unsatisfied. You had tried to put at least a little bit of your art on every visible wall of the West Stave and some of the East Stave as well, but there was something missing. Like there was one part of the Ketterdam map that hasn't been colored by you.

You got the answer to your problem one mundane day, while you were coming back from the market with a bag of groceries.

The Slat.

You had no idea why it hadn't hit you sooner. Sure, the Slat was the home of the Crows besides their bar "The Crow Club." Sure, the gang had been gaining a dangerous reputation this past year. Sure, the man calling the shots was scary as hell.

But it was just perfect.

You had long admired the Crows and their leader Kaz Brekker. You had spotted him going about business during late nights when you decided to test your skills by evading the Wraith that always pursued him (you hadn't been attacked by her, so you assumed that you were really good at sneaking around).

He was a man of business, a boss that liked getting his hands dirty — maybe that was how he got his nickname Dirtyhands. You don't see much of that in Ketterdam, and that interested you quite a bit.

Not to mention he was attractive in his own, ghostly way.

The Slate was also one of the very few canvases that you had left blank in this wretched city due to some unknown and unconscious reason, but now you had just the perfect artwork in mind for it.

—————

Kaz was in a bad mood today.

He woke up to his leg in pain. Well, it was always in pain, but it felt particularly worse that day. He almost face-planted while hobbling down the stairs in the Slat.

He had a small heist, with just him, Jesper, and Inej, but it was still messed up due to the unexpected appearance of a drunk group in the house they were robbing.

He got jumped on by some stupid pickpockets, idiots who were unaware of his identity and his reputation. He didn’t obtain any injury, but the blood that still stained his black gloves and his long black coat made him feel disgusting.

Just when he thought that he would find peace in the Slat, peace in just holing up in his office with no one to bother him, he limps down the streets of West Stave to the home of the Dregs to find a small crowd gathered on the side, murmuring to each other.

They were all members of the Crows, and they were all looking at something that was on the wall of the Slat.

His already creased brows creased further at the sight of the gathering. What were these idiots looking at this time?

Jesper was the first one who first saw him, eyes drifting over his blood-splattered clothes in slight concern.

“What’s going on?” Kaz asked, not giving Jesper the opportunity to worry over him.

“It seems that the Painter finally set their eyes on the Slat,” Jesper replied, his voice containing its usual mischief and mirth.

Kaz forged onwards, making the sharpshooter step aside to make way for Dirtyhands.

The small crowd parted for him as well, conversations dying down to small murmurs as Kaz got a better look at what they were ogling at.

He had to blink to make sure he was actually seeing what he was seeing.

When “the Painter” left Jesper’s mouth, Kaz wanted to run his fingers through his hair in frustration. The days when infamous the Painter set sights on establishments or gang bases were the days when gangs or businessmen would get publicly humiliated by the art on their walls. Normally, it would ridicule the head of the place (The Menagerie spent a significant amount of money to wash off and paint over the caricature of Tante Heleen in a horrid neon green outfit) or reveal some interesting gang secrets (two gangs were exposed to be stealing from each other and there was a little war between them).

Which was why Kaz had to blink twice to make sure he was seeing it right.

The artwork on the side of the Slat was a large mural of the Dregs’ signature crow perched on the lip of a cup, but a trail of black roses swirled around it in a spiral. Surrounding it was the Crows’ motto “no mourners, no funerals” in black and white. The irregular red and white shape behind it all emphasized everything, making it look like a banner rather than something someone actually took the time to spray on a wall.

It was unlike any artwork that was spotted anywhere in the city.

And even Kaz, who’s never had any particular interest in art, had to admit that it was nice. Flattering.

Beautiful, even.

"The Painter has their favorites, huh?" A Crow chuckled, making his mates laugh and shake their heads.

"If everyone's done having a staring contest with the wall," Kaz called, making everyone turn to their boss, "get back to work."

And just like that, they lost their interest in the artwork and dispersed. Some drifted away to different alleys to visit some gambling house, most passed by Kaz to finish some unfinished business of theirs, and others went back inside the Slat.

Kaz felt a familiar presence beside him. "Can you find this Painter, Inej?"

The Wraith that appeared out of nowhere replied, "I can try, but they're slippery."

Kaz rose an eyebrow, curiosity piquing. Someone who can evade his best spider? Now that caught his attention.

"Do it. Bring them to me," Kaz said, dismissing her with a wave. He didn't have to look to know that Inej had dissolved into the shadows.

He examined the mural once more, the barest ghost of a smirk on his face. Maybe you can come around to work for me, "Painter".

—————

You were having a good time.

If running away from some angry traders was something people would consider a good time.

"I'll kill you!" One of the men chasing you bellowed, hurling a stone that hit a wooden pillar dangerously close to your head.

You laughed, a manic cackle that only came from someone facing a certain death.

You leaped over crates, weaved through people with barely any gracefulness that would have made dancers feel second-hand embarrassment, but you didn’t care. Being chased around West Stave was one of the best things to do in Ketterdam, and you were enjoying every single bit of it.

You turned left into a random alley, only to find that it was a dead end. You looked upwards, but found only ladders that led to heavily-barred windows. You were trapped.

"Nowhere left to run, scum," A man laughed, his companion grinning as well.

You turned to flash them a charming smile. "Actually there is one way, but you're blocking it, so if you'd kindly move aside so I can peacefully make my leave."

They both looked at each other before turning back to you. "Not until we've got our money."

You pretended to think for a moment, not knowing what they mean, until you widened your eyes. "Oh! The money! That's what you were after? Why didn't you just say so?"

You rummaged through your deep pockets. "Here it is!"

You took a few quick steps forward and took out a spray can, squeezing it and drifting it over the closest man's eyes, creating a thick yellow line across his face.

The man yelled and stepped back in surprise, prompting you to catch his heel in yours and pull, making him fall.

You bent down to punch him twice before rummaging in his pockets, taking out a few loose coins and pocketing them.

You turned to face the other guy, who you found already on the ground with a figure standing above him.

The Wraith.

"Oh." Your gaze alternated between the sudden assistance and the man on the ground, before you decided to focus on the one standing and smiling at them. "Thanks for your help, Miss Wraith. Now, if you don't mind, I'll take my leave —"

You turned, only for Inej to block your exit, making you sigh. "What is it that you want from me this time?"

"For you to come with me to the Slat," Inej responded, grabbing your wrist and dragging you out of the alley.

You sighed again. This was going to be a long day.

—————

"Look, if this about money, I don't have any. I'm very broke." You stared at the man sitting in front of you, a desk separating him from your standing figure.

The Bastard of the Barrel didn't respond to your statement, opting to just look at you, his eyes examining your movements.

You let the silence drain on for a few more seconds before you lost patience. "What do you want?" You asked, frustrated.

"You're the Painter," He responded, putting his elbows on his table and lacing his gloved fingers together.

You waited for a moment, waiting for him to say more. When he didn't continue, you replied. "Yes."

"Everyone in Ketterdam is aware of your reputation to leaking powerful people's information," Kaz finally continued. "But that's not what's interesting. What intrigues me, is how you acquire the information in the first place, when the Wraith has never spotted you out in the open other than spraying on some random wall."

You shrugged. You had your ways, and if the Dirtyhands didn't know your methods, then there was no way you could reveal them. "I have my ways."

Kaz rose an eyebrow. "I can have you killed right here and now, did you know that?"

"And I’ve gotten out of these chains three minutes ago, did you know that?" You mocked him, shrugging the cuffs off and tossing them on his table. Inej moved, pulling out a dagger. Kaz put up his hand, and Inej paused, waiting.

You approached the desk, putting your hands on it and leaning forward, leaving half a feet of space in between your face and Kaz's.

"You want to know my methods so you can have the Wraith master them and use them," you said, leaning a bit more. "But then she can't. No one in this place can do what I can."

"I suppose there's an underlying deal somewhere in those words," Kaz hummed, seemingly unfazed by the distance.

You grinned. "Indeed there is. I can work for you, as long as I get paid. I'll do my thing, get your information, even infiltrate a few places if you like."

"Hmm," Kaz thought about it for a moment. "Two thousand kruge for each mission."

You paused. That would be enough to buy your food and pay your rent for a week or two, maybe even enough for some new clothes.

Yeah, you didn't have that good or luxurious of a lifestyle, but hey, money is money.

"Alright," You decided, sticking your hand out to seal the deal.

Kaz stared at your hand for a moment, before taking it. You pulled him up from his chair, face now barely away from yours. "If you think about double-crossing me and leaving me out in the cold, then you risk some of your own information being revealed... Rietveld." Your voice was barely louder than a breath, words only for Kaz’s ear.

His eyes widened, looking at you. Just the mere mention of his old last name, the one he shared with his brother, was enough for the water at his ankles to pool around his knees.

But you had already pulled away, brushing against the Wraith with a nod as you left the office without another word.

"What was that?" Inej asked — more like demanded.

Kaz didn't spare her a glance, his eyes glued to the door. It took him a long pause to reply.

"The start of another painful alliance," Kaz muttered, running his hand through his hair.

The start of something indeed.

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 10 "Fettered Flesh"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧ Dreams are messages from the deep ✧

A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: 18+, smut, she/her AFAB FMC, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, Frank Herbert would frown, some politics, implied/referenced (child) abuse❗, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts❗, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, implied/referenced cannibalism❗, Murder, Female rage, Teaching the Universe about Feminism, Angst with a Happy Ending

WORD COUNT: 5k

A/N: HELLO PRECIOUS PEOPLE 💕 Shit hits the Giedi Prime fan, so get out your umbrellas!! I feel like with every chapter I'm getting more excited 🥹 And everyone who has left a comment is to blame 😭 I appreciate it so greatly 😭 I've recently started an internship thingy (in a manner of baby's first real job experience lmao), so I have a bit less time to write, but chapter 11 and 12 are finished already, so I do have a bit of food in stock 💪

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

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Day 5

Jealousy is a beast, but loneliness is a monster.

Jealousy ignites with fiery tendrils but loneliness drowns you slowly until you're staring up from the bottom of the pitch black sea, yearning for the light.

All day she's been mulling over the three woman-creatures, Feyd's "pets". What is it that infuriates her the most? The physical violence? The fear of what they might have done to her - Death, torture or worse? Their derogatory status? Their beastliness grafted into female bodies, paired with the fact that Feyd has been bedding them at some point?

Without thinking about it, and perhaps it is tactless, she has been pouring her heart out to Lilia while the attentive handmaid is treating her scabbed injuries from last night. Now it is evident that wound management is a well-needed skill around the Harkonnen palace. The sarcophagus is safely folded up and her new weapon is tucked into one of the compartments.

"Am I overreacting?!" She asks, even though - hell no - she knows she isn't, but a part of her soul yearns for human connection, affirmation, camaraderie, friendship. It feels so good to be talking to someone who is not the man she thought she knew or the belittling Bene Gesserit sisters.

"Hmm," Lilia begins tentatively and the glowglobe light brings out the unusual color of her eyes as she tilts her head, so amber that they almost appear golden. "While I'll say it's never been common for the na-Baron to practice monogamy… I'll also say that I'd be quite furious at my husband if he had three women on the side." Her voice quivers upon women, as if it repels her to describe the three beings as such. The spider in the Baron's throne room may be the most harmless monster to roam these halls.

The engineer's questions chip away and it becomes perfectly clear that it's the jealousy that cuts the deepest, even with her superficial wounds cared for, a blade is wedged inside her guts that will keep on cutting.

"And do these 'pets' have handmaids too?" A self-destructive question to determine where her own status truly lies. What's a bride but another pet to him?

"They used to have handmaids…" Lilia hesitates. "But they always ended up eating them. I'm glad to be assigned to you, my Lady."

Great. There she has another horror to add to the menagerie.

Lilia continues: "If it calms you, I doubt there will be any further incidences with them. The na-Baron has been in an, uhm, unstable mood since last night." The maid's posture turns rigid. She shouldn't be speaking about the na-Baron like that, but the Earth woman's emotions are contagious. Lilia will get herself killed if she's not careful. She's been telling that to herself since she was a little girl.

"Unstable, uh-huh, well so am I."

The Harkonnen woman nods and decides it is best not to elaborate on what it means when Feyd-Rautha is having the worst day of his life.

Vladimir Harkonnen chuckles with delight at his nephew's distress and the infantile killing spree that has been painting the halls black since last night.

It took even less time than he expected, for the new woman to be disgusted by his poor nephew and he cannot hold it against her. Feyd-Rautha is a raging child in an unfortunately manly body. 

The Baron is well-entertained by the hollow screams that blare down the hallways. First the three harpies. A shame, they had helped keep Feyd settled so nicely and they hadn't been cheap either. It's also a shame that the Bene Tleilax don't offer bulk discount, considering the number of Gholas the Baron saw himself forced to commission for the little game his nephew and he have been playing.

Next on Feyd's blade was the guard at his little witch's door, then anyone who crossed his path in the night, all the while Feyd was chafing with desire to be cut and hurt. But no one outside of the ring is allowed to raise their blades against the Baron's heir apparent, unless instructed by the Harkonnen sovereign himself.

Some fire has returned to his nephew since the woman's arrival and he appreciates that, yes, he does, but he will keep a sharp eye on the two of them. He has no doubt that she's a Bene Gesserit agent who has implanted phantasms in Feyd-Rautha's mind, but Vladimir is willing to play the sisterhood's game, for his nephew's sake, even though he had sworn to never let a witch enter his fortress again. 

Not since Lady Margot Fenring had tried to steal his lovely boy's precious seed. Luckily, Feyd's blade had worked quicker than the thief's vocal chords.

But Valdimir is willing to adapt. The boy had been boring him to death for the past two years and he used to be so entertaining and feisty!

In the evening hours after a night and day of bloodshed, Feyd still has stamina (a trait the Baron cherishes so dearly about his nephew) and comes barging into the guarded dining room, bringing with him the cloying scent of blood that sticks to the tacky soles of his boots. He wears the clothes of yesterday and blood lust in his eyes.

Careful now.

Vladimir gives no sign to the guards, chews without haste and takes a noisy gulp of wine, making sure a bead rolls down the folds of his massive neck. The muscle at his nephew's jaw twitches and his fingers strangulate the blood-slick handle of his blade.

The eight arm-legged arachnid creature shivers in its basket under the table, eager to get to Feyd, partly because his boots smell yummy, but it doesn't dare move away from the Baron's feed. Smart thing.

"Don't look at me like that. It's not my fault that she doesn't like you, boy."

Feyd halts as if struck by one of the bolts of infrared lightning that cook the atmosphere during the summer months. Tension strains his neck, a bull ready to charge at his Matador and for a second the Baron thinks he'll have to switch on his shield ring. But his nephew turns and barges off with bouncing, stomping steps, draining his stamina and wetting his knives on everything that breathes, when the only one he really wants to kill sits fat and mighty on his throne. 

It's almost cute, Vladimir thinks. The boy could kill him so easily now, if he really put his cunning, little mind to it. He's strong enough, smart enough, but his spirit - that's the crux. Feyd's spirit is broken and riddled with fear of the punishments. The last time he tried was at 17 and then never again.

Ah-h-h, yes, the Baron has conditioned him well and he considers it his retirement plan. Age hasn't left the Harkonnen sovereign unscathed and while his mind may still be sharp (or else how would he have come up with such a genius plan!), his morbidly obese body fully relies on the protection of his shield ring, guards, lung machine and poison snoopers. But as long as the boy still fears him, the deadliest threat within these halls remains on a pretty, silver leash.

The fire of jealousy has dwindled down and now all she does is miss him, sitting lonely in her room, lonely on this planet, lonely in the universe with only inanimate objects and the virtual messages and images of dead people to keep her company. None of this can ever compare to the warm hands of her beloved and his smile, the roundness of his cheeks and his painted teeth. She misses the way his eyes used to crinkle just for her. He had made her believe that only she could make him smile and offer a sliver of peace to his soul.

It's been two years since their last dream. Why wouldn't he have taken other women?

He said he "hasn't touched them". Since when? Since he learned she's alive? Since their first dreams? Ever?

She regrets now that she denied him when he knocked on her door an hour ago. The bitter guilt of disgracing oneself crawls over her when she slowly moves towards the door, but her self-respect has cauterized and become cinders along with her fury. Feeling sick to her stomach, she places her hand on the panel and the heavy door slides open.

Finding herself face to back with a guard in bulky plate armor, she halts. She wouldn't know where exactly to find Feyd's room anyway. The man turns on his heels and salutes briskly before returning his hand to the hilt of his saber.

"Good evening. Ah, wait, are you… New?" She blurts out, not meaning to seem disrespectful. The Harkonnens often do look quite alike to her, but she could have sworn the old guard was a little shorter.

"Yes, my Lady." The man looks right above the crown of her head, avoiding her eyes.

"What happened to the other guard?"

"He was replaced, my Lady."

That does make sense and she's almost a little relieved. She wouldn't want anyone who'd let these bloodthirsty creatures inside to guard her and her most valuable possession. However, she still hopes this incident won't ruin his chances of employment indefinitely.

"I see." She glances cautiously down the austere corridor. Past the windows, there is only blackness and the occasional faraway rumble from the factories. "Do you have to stand here all night? Your feet must be hurting. What about a chair?"

"I'm not allowed such luxuries."

"Says who? You can't excel at your job while being overworked and your feet are aching in those boots." 

The man wonders if the na-Baron's Lady wishes to insult or test him. "I am at full capacity, my Lady!" He salutes again. "I have no complaints about my boots."

"Fine, alright. Could you please point me the way to Feyd's room then? I want to see him. No need to accompany me, I'm sure I'll find it, just make sure no one enters my room, please?"

"Sorry!" The man extends his arm to the side, stopping her advance around him without laying a finger on the Lady. "The na-Baron has ordered this door to be sealed unless he or your handmaid demand entrance."

"Well I don't demand entrance, I want to exit. I want to see Feyd."

The guard grows queasy. That scenario was not included in his instructions. To be fair, the briefing for his new position can be considered rudimental at best but he didn't complain. Up here has been the safest spot in the palace tonight. "The na-Baron doesn't welcome visitors in his private quarters."

"But I'm his…" She swallows uncomfortably. "Betrothed, or am I not?"

"You are, my Lady."

"So, couldn't you perhaps call him?"

The poor guard's expression says 'I'd rather not'. The na-Baron has only just settled, finally, and even the dumbest desert rat knows not to wake a sleeping tiger. All evening long he's been wondering how many of his comrades will be dead come the morning and he doesn't want to be the next one to become fodder for the slaves' food rations. "I'm sorry, my Lady. It is against the protocol to disturb the na-Baron at night unless there is an emergency. Is there an emergency?"

"No…" The woman's expression twists into defeat and she pads backwards with slackened shoulders and somber eyes. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

The door slides shut and she is too sad to even be angry about her gentle imprisonment. There's nothing out there for her anyway, except for Feyd, and if he doesn't want to see her…

Self-destructive thoughts sprout from the cinders in her chest and grow into the wildest phantasms. The guard was too kind to tell her Feyd has visitors in his room. Perhaps he explicitly decreed that she is not to join him.

To prevent herself from hurtling into a bottomless spiral, she must find a distraction. Nearly choking on bitter tears, she opens up the virtual app drawer that she's most familiar with and selects the 3d-modeling tool. A nice, little task to keep her thoughts from straying is exactly what she needs, and so she settles down on the bed and begins to design a practical, foldable, printable chair for her guard, thoughtfully optimizing stability and the required resources.

The engineer doesn't notice when her tears dry, but they do.

Day 6

She sleeps awfully that night, despite the chip's helpful sleeping program consisting of gentle rain and soothing frequencies. It can't have been much longer than two hours when she is awoken by a knock on the door, followed by another, more insistent one a moment later.

The 3d-modeling interface still overlays reality when her eyes snap open and her sluggish brain activity requires a moment to shut it down. She was almost finished with the printable chair parts last night, but she must have dozed off eventually. 

The knocking persists and she calls: "Lilia?"

A pause. "It's me." An unmistakable, deep and raspy voice comes muffled from the other side. Feyd-Rautha, freshly showered and dressed in a clean, casual suit, leans his forehead against the cool, thick plastic, breathing hard and fast so that his respiration condenses on the door. Waiting, he pleads silently for mercy. He cannot do this anymore, doesn't want to kill anymore just to feel something other than fear.

She freezes, legs half swung off the mattress as anxiety twists her belly. All of her jealousy comes crashing back and a little demon whispers poison in her ear: Go back to your hyenas and toy around with them, not me!

When silence is the answer to Feyd's timid greeting, his stomach drops as if filled with lead. Blood pounds in his ears like the war drums on his birthdays and his breath becomes shallow, so that he no longer even hears the guard's antsy shuffling. What will he do if she never forgives him? 

A harrowing need for violence flashes through him cold and dark and his twitching hand jerks for the blade at his hip but the door rushes open before he can brandish it and his woman faces him with crossed arms, her face puffy from sleep but her eyes are wide and vulnerable.

She beckons him to enter and he follows, eyes racing to the crowns of thorns in the vase, the sarcophagus, the ruffled bed, everything the way it was. How does she deal with pain?!

"Hello," Feyd mumbles, voice reduced to a tiny, grated whisper.

"Hello."

"Can we… talk?"

The relic nods and waits, clammy fingers clutching her sleeves. But then Feyd says… nothing. His eyes are focused on an imaginary point somewhere behind her navel and his jaws strain as if chewing a brick.

So, she begins: "I'm sorry, but I was very upset." She paces, shoulders drawn up. "I know that customs are different around here, I mean, they obviously are," she guffaws quietly and shakes her head. "But where I'm from, it requires consent to have more than one partner and I never gave you that consent. I've never given my consent to anything that's happened to me since I woke up! And then I found out you're alive and I can be with you and I really believed everything would finally be better, but you-" Her voice hiccups. "I'm very upset, okay?" Her lips twist and she lifts a hand to her mouth, sobbing quietly into her palm. "You're so different in real life."

Feyd's frozen limbs regain their agility and he jumps to her side as she tries to turn away, a swift predator despite his anguish. He clutches her by the arms. "Wait! Remind me. H-How was I in our dreams?" 

"I- I don't know, you looked happy." Her arms burn where he's holding onto her with his broad palms and long fingers. "And you were kind."

"Have I not been kind to you?"

"To me, yes. But being kind only to me is not enough." She shakes her head bitterly.

"What do you want me to do?" 

"Be honest with me. Who are these three?! They said you don't play with them anymore like you used to, and they hurt me, Feyd!" She writhes out of his clenched fists and he lets her because when her fingers skim his wrists, all his muscles go weak. She yanks up her shirt, showing off the healing gash on her waist.

Feyd wants to kill his darlings all over again and his sinful mouth twists into anger. "They used to be my pets. Pleasure slaves, if you will. Just some meaningless toys, nothing more, I swear it to you."

"Pleasure slaves!" She blurts out, shaking her head. At least he's being honest but - what the fuck?! "You-" Stumbling over her own words, she backs away from him with disgust. "Who are you? Who the fuck are you?"

More violence waits on her tongue. Does he respect anyone other than himself?

"You know me! You know who I am, where are you going?!" Doesn't she know she knows more about him than anyone else?

"I don't know shit about you!" She yells. "Where were you last night?"

"What?" All color is drained from his face. How could she know?

"Were you with them because I couldn't perform the way you wanted the other day?"

"What are you talking about?!" Feyd tries to grasp her by the arms once more but she twists away. If anything, he is at blame for being unable to make his woman comfortable enough to reach her release. What a pitiful good-for-nothing he is, pathetic down to the last, rotting cell. "I haven't touched my pets since I met you and that's the truth!"

"Oh, yeah? Then why was I not allowed to see you at night?" 

"What makes you say that?" 

"I tried to come to you last night, but the guard at my door said I'm supposed to stay in this room! So, were you with them?!"

Feyd stops his advance and an incredulous shimmer glazes over his blinking eyes. He could have held her last night, against his hurting heart. A dizzying lightness befalls his chest and sorrow becomes anger and anger wings his footsteps when he turns to the door, grinning, then giggling. Feyd slams his veined hand against the panel so hard, the screen cracks and inky blood slips down the valleys of his palm.

"Feyd? Feyd! What are you-"

The baffled guard faces the snickering na-Baron behind the opening door, last night's tiger resurrected like a Ghola for one last kill. A stammered 'my Lord' on diddering lips. Feyd-Rautha looks as bestial as his hyenas with prowling steps and rolling shoulders, searing eyes locked on his unmoving prey.

"You told my woman she couldn't see me last night? S'that right?" A slip of pink peeks out of the ghastly frame of black, gnashing teeth.

"My Lord, I beg your mercy, I didn't wish to distur-"

Metal flashes. The relic screams as the length of Feyd-Rautha's blade carves into the guard's pallid neck, Adam's apple bulging and sitting on the knife like a popped, black cherry. Blood sputters around Feyd's clenched fingers and laughter has faded from his lungs at once. He digs deeper as the guard draws in gurgling breaths, bubbles of air swimming in the blood around the metal.

The relic freezes like a mouse, glued to the spot as if she might turn invisible to the cold eyes of the beast who wears her lover's clothes. He looks nothing like Feyd-Rautha now, his features empty and alien with eyes that don't feel and hands unfazed by the death that stains them in thick, inky streams that roll down his victim's neck. 

This is how the universe sees him.

Feyd's blade slashes sideways, spraying a half moon of blood across the corridor and when the guard stumbles, he falls back into the na-Baron's knife, adding a vertical gash to the horizontal one, tip sinking into the flesh under his jaws, and with a jerk - up into his tongue.

The man grunts, still clinging to his life by a thread, and lurches forwards without drawing his sword. His head falls on Feyd-Rautha's shoulder. Feet shuffle in a grotesque waltz and Feyd's bloody fingers slip around the taller man's neck, holding him there while his blade plunges into his belly between armor plates so deftly, he could find all the weak spots blindfolded. The body slackens, weighing down on Feyd-Rautha whose ichor dripping fingers aren't ready to let go.

Shuk! Shuk! 

Is the sound of his blade sinking into soft flesh and viscera, whipping back out with a spray of blood and entrails.

The Bene Gesserit may have proclaimed her human, but the adrenaline that sets her nerves ablaze is a gift from her ancestors, animals, because that's what humans are at the end or the day when facing a bigger predator.

Fwump.

Feyd looks her way, the dead body dropped, and blood covers his hand like a shiny glove of ink, dripping down the blade tip in a drizzling stream. The light catches on the sharp edges of his alabaster skull and all she sees is a new, terrifying breed of human, birthed by a world of poison and decay. There are millennia between them. They may share the same DNA but that doesn't mean he is not an alien to her. 

In the end, the man from her dreams is not the man of her dreams.

Out the door? - Blocked! Death!

Off the balcony?! - Death!

To the Sarcophagus then. To her gun.

She turns and sprints, feet skidding over the shards of her rose-colored glasses, but Feyd pounces, a beast hungry for carnage, and catches her around the waist, hurling her backwards with the strength of three men. His blade clatters to the ground.

"No, wait. No. NO! NO! You can't go," he howls. "You cannot leave me!"

Wailing, she thrashes in his grasp and slams her elbow into his guts, her foot against his shin, then his crotch and the soft flesh there is squashed by her heel. When his hold slackens, she twists away and bolts, bare toes slipping across icy marble, but blood-smeared fingers find her shoulder, tearing on the fabric. She throws herself away from him so hard, the seam starts coming apart, so his other hand flies to her throat, steel-hard fingers curling around clammy flesh, yanking her around and against the wall.

She can't be looking at him like that, like he's the devil. Like he looks at his uncle.

Desperately, his lips search for hers but she jerks her head to the side, bites, scratches, nails burrowing into his throat. No is the word that Feyd-Rautha raps out between violent kisses that seek her pulse point with his tongue and teeth, no, she can't ever leave him, no, not ever, even if she hates him like everyone else. Her fear poisons the sweat on her neck and her nails don't egg him on, they hurt. He takes a knee to the guts and his lungs pop open for a harrowed cry.

Pain used to be pleasure but everything hurts, she doesn't love him anymore. One more meek and quiet final 'no' as he abandons the assault on her neck and his slackened arms wrap around her middle, hiding his face from rejection in her shoulder's soft flesh. Tears drip hotly, finally. All day and all night he's been waiting for the cathartic downpour, but not even the most pitiful plea could rouse a sliver of empathy in the hollow of his chest. Now he bawls like a baby forgotten in its crib and his blood-soaked hands seek purchase at the back of her shirt.

The woman grows still, nails still wedged inside the bloody crescent indents in his neck. Her lungs ache when she draws a trembling breath and Feyd-Rautha's hard, heavy chest moves with her, no more fight left in him. Quietly, she cries with him and curls her arms around his round shoulders, holding him there as he clings to her like an abandoned child and sheds tears for all the hurt and all the fear.

The man of her dreams is still there, somewhere, under the alien shell, vulnerable, weeping.

"You hate me, don't you?" A broken sob.

Looking over his head, the dead guard's viscera glitters darkly on the hallway and she is surprised to realize that even now, she doesn't hate him.

Feyd continues: "This is why I never wanted you to know who I am. I am awful."

"You're not awful," she whispers, fingers slipping around the back of his head, nails rimmed darkly by Feyd's blood.

"I have to be awful. I was born to be awful." 

"That's not true…" He was groomed to be awful.

But Feyd isn't finished. In a fashion of now or never, confessions spill out of him like poison rain. "I killed my mother when I was four. I don't remember why. I killed my pets. I kill men for sport. I kill people for fun. I kill because it's the only thing I can do. Yesterday, I-" His voice breaks. "I killed anyone I could find and no one fought back. I lo-o-ost count."

A full glass can't get any fuller when pouring more water, so shock and disgust are lost to the acceptance that has smoothed over the crescendo. They're just information to be added into a folder in her head. Feyd killed his mother. Feyd kills people for fun. Still, she holds him, fingers sliding up and down the back of his head as his shaky sobbing turns breathless and ugly.

"Okay," she whispers and rests her cheek on his head, exhaling softly so her warm breath fans his scalp. "For fun?"

"Ye-e-es."

"So, you had fun last night when you-" She swallows. "Killed?"

"No."

She lets out a thoughtful hum and Feyd's grip on the small of her back tightens. Still, he doesn't dare look at her and tears and snot have soaked her shirt. With her emotions currently defective, her ability for logic is still sharp, and so she concludes, it does all make sense.

Her poor Feyd, a current had pulled him under when he was barely a child and then layer after layer, he has been building his armor so as not to drown in the maelstrom of abuse. With every kill, a little boy has been screaming for help in an empty room.

Soft lips press a kiss to the crown of his head and Feyd's breath trembles in her hold, a beast tamed by a loving caress. That's all it takes.

Just because she understands his actions, doesn't mean she endorses them.

"Will you still be my wife?"

"I haven't decided yet." Another kiss so gentle, it taunts the corpses stacked up in the processing hall.

"So, we're no longer engaged?" 

"I don't think we ever were, not to me. But that doesn't mean I don't love you."

Dizzily, Feyd-Rautha raises himself. If not for the fingers twisted into his woman's shirt, he might just topple back into the spinning vortex at whose edge he is teetering now, one foot in heartbreak, the other in salvation. Blue eyes crack open, rimmed with dark blood vessels. She doesn't flinch, doesn't bolt, only her hands slide to the front of his suit and slip under the lapels, thumb rubbing where his heart hammers.

Feyd sees the tracks of dried tears on her cheeks and the shadow of horror tucked away in the corners of her eyes in a way that is all too familiar to him. More than anything, he wants to delete the images from her head and close the door, kick the blade under the bed, pretend it never happened. He tried to do everything right, got her flowers, hid her away in her own room away from state matters, made love to her with all his heart, but at the end of the day he is still who he is when he can't hide within a dream and it'll never be enough.

"Feyd, is… Is Lilia okay?"

"Yes, she is," comes the earnest reply and she exhales shakily, head sinking against Feyd's chest, arms sliding around his waist beneath the suit where his skin is burning hot.

"Thank God." Her voice warbles, the only warning before her knees give out and every other muscle along with them. The pair sink to the cold, hard ground.  "I just want to go home," she sobs and crawls in her beloved's lap which is still the only place in the cold, hard universe that soothes her soul.

Not her sarcophagus, although it is tempting to freeze herself up again and sleep forever. No, it is still him. A new home, not what she had imagined, but a home.

"Me too," Feyd sighs and squishes his cheek against the top of her head, closing his eyes to envision the bedroom of their shared dream, blue pillows, a white bed, a softly rustling fern in a terracotta pot, her in his arms. Home.

How easy it would be to demand of him: 'If you kill one more innocent, I will leave you!' But she might just kill more than she saves that way, and maybe him too, and maybe herself.

"Feyd, can you-" She sniffles. "If you get angry again, please never hurt Lilia. And whoever the new guard will be, don’t hurt him either. Can you do that for me please?"

"I promise." He squeezes her tight, eyes screwed up so tightly that he sees only dizzying stars. "I love you. I'm sorry."

She cannot fix the whole world, but she can start where she can see. It's not a solution, but a sapling, and a sapling can grow.

Mother Father How did I end up here, stone bound? All I feel ist the striking distance to the clouds My flesh is fettered on the skin of the soil But even so I almost reach the sparks in the void Sailing through the vacuum, am I drowned or alive?

- Cepheus by Fewjar

A/N: Okay, I promise promise this was the angstiest chapter, we're climbing uphill from here!! 🥺🥺🥺 Hand over your guesses, what do you think will happen from here? 😌💕 Thank you so much for all of your time!

TAG LIST:

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted

[anthurak]

Ruby's and Yang's Family Reckoning

Has anyone else noticed how each of the post-Beacon arcs thus far have featured a member of Team RWBY returning home and reconciling/repairing issues with their family? Volumes 4 and 5 had Blake returning to Menagerie and reconciling with her parents, while Volumes 7 and 8 had Weiss returning to Atlas and helping repair the broken relationships with her siblings and mother.

With that in mind, I think it’s easy to imagine that Volumes 10 and 11 will be Ruby’s and Yang’s turn to sort out their long-standing family baggage. I mean, they’ve got two of their parents/parent-figures already in Vacuo, the third and their childhood home is just a quick bird-mom-portal away, and it turns out they ALSO recently got information that their fourth parent might not be as dead as they thought.

And here’s the other thing: we’ve also seen an escalation in just how complicated, dysfunctional and overall ‘fucked-up’ the family issues faced by our heroines have gotten over the last two arcs.

As many have noted, Blake has the only unambiguously good parents among her team, with the worst of the ‘issues’ they had to deal with being some simple estrangement. Instead, the real family ‘issues’ Blake had to deal with Volume 4 and 5 was reclaiming her family’s legacy, ie; the White Fang, from Adam and the Albain brothers.

Then we went from that, to the long-abused mess that is the Schnee family.

So going off that trend, as well as several other factors…

Yeah, I have NO doubt at this point that the STRQ family is going to find a way to be an even BIGGER fucked-up, messy, dysfunctional train wreck that Ruby and Yang are going to have to sift through and repair.

Now I know some people are probably wondering how Team STRQ could possibly be worse than the Schnees? After all, they had actual Worst-Dad™, Jacques Gele. How could Summer, Taiyang, Qrow and Raven be worse than that?

Here’s the thing though: The Schnee family may have been a wreck, but it was also a fairly uncomplicated wreck with a singular, easy-to-understand root cause; one utter shitbag who was making life terrible for everyone else. And the solution to the family problems (or at least the START of the solution) wound up being likewise simple and straightforward; just kick out the aforementioned utter shitbag and the family can start healing. I mean, it took less than a day after Jacques was given the boot for Weiss, Willow, Whitley and even Winter to make major steps in patching things up between them.

The STRQ family on the other hand aren’t going to be anywhere NEAR that simple. They are ACTUALLY messy and dysfunctional and complicated and ambiguous and all the other things fandom claims to love yet more often seems to just break their black-and-white-morality-loving brains when they actually see it.

Because unlike the Schnees, Team STRQ DOESN’T actually have just one terrible person who can easily be pointed to as the root cause of their problems (No, not even Raven)*. Instead, I think it’s becoming more and more apparent that Summer, Raven, Qrow and Tai are simultaneously good people who all love their daughters and genuinely want the best for them, and are also all MASSIVE dysfunctional fuck-ups in each their own way who have FAILED Ruby and Yang as parents in one way or another.

Summer the ‘supermom’ who also obsessively chased her hero-complex into martyrdom.

Raven the ‘daddy had a good reason for leaving you’ who actually didn’t have a good reason.

Qrow the ‘cool uncle’ who’s actually spent the last 15+ years wallowing in alcoholic depression.

Taiyang the at-first seeming ‘reliable’ father who turns out to actually be a MASSIVELY dysfunctional wreck.

All while Ruby AND Yang can both state openly and matter-of-factly that YANG was the one to RAISE RUBY. The kind of sibling relationship we might generally expect to see in two orphans. Which does NOT, in any context, speak highly of the parenting they received.

And I think Volumes 10 and 11 are going to be when the story finally shines a light on all those problems and forces Ruby and Yang to finally confront them.

Simply put, I think this is going to be when the story effectively yanks the rug out from under us and flips the script on basically everything we, plus Ruby and Yang, long assumed about Team STRQ has been wrong. Or alternatively for Ruby and Yang, everything that’s been right in front of them, yet have been refusing to confront all this time.

Things like just about everything Yang thought she knew about her family when she explained her backstory to Blake in Volume 2 (and which has served as the basis for nearly ALL of our assumptions about Team STRQ) turning out to be wrong in one way or another.

Or things like Taiyang being shown to be just as big a dysfunctional fuck-up parent as Qrow and Raven.

Or things like Qrow being called out for ditching the family pretty much just as much as Raven did to join Ozpin’s secret society.

Or Raven turning out to be Ruby’s dad.

Or Summer turning out to NOT actually be dead and is basically Salem’s Darth Vader via horrific grimm-hybridization.

And ultimately, just how much Summer, Raven, Qrow and Taiyang all FAILED Ruby and Yang as their parents, as illustrated, once again, by the fact that Ruby considers her primary parent-figure to be none of them, but rather YANG.

Ever since Volume 1 featured songs like Red Like Roses Part 2 and Gold, the fact that Yang raised Ruby has been a proverbial Sword of Damocles hanging over Team STRQ. Representing the fact that that ALL of them, Summer, Raven, Qrow and Tai, FUCKED UP as parents.

And I think in the next couple volumes, that sword is finally going to fall.

--

*Okay, maybe Ozpin.

[jpcaruso-author]

Cover reveal!

With officially 3 months to go until publication, I can finally reveal the cover of my first ever book, The Menagerie! It's a spicy (read: VERY spicy) M/M BDSM slow burn romance that's sure to tug at your heart strings. Available May 13th! Blurb below the cut!

Rowan Campbell loves his life, finally. He’s happy. He’s happy, but… there’s something missing. Some itch under his skin he can’t quite scratch through his work as a paramedic or hobbies or family gatherings or casual hookups alone. Then one day he responds to a 9-1-1 call at an exclusive BDSM club, the Menagerie, and immediately splurges on a membership. He isn’t expecting much… until he meets the notoriously hard-to-please club veteran, Malcolm Savaryn. Mal is a firecracker of a man: Sharp and witty with a take-no-shit attitude, he fascinates Rowan from the start.

Rowan has a big secret he’s afraid to share, and Mal has walls that seem impenetrable. Both men have dark pasts, and mental health struggles have marred them, leaving them wary of relationships. Their chemistry is immediate and unmatched, though, and they quickly enter into a steamy Dom/sub relationship, meeting weekly at the club. It’s just sex, right? But can they keep things strictly sexual, or will one or both of them develop feelings along the way? And if so will they find the courage to admit them and risk their hearts?

The Menagerie is a compelling exploration of BDSM, trust, and the slow evolution of friendship and love between two complex characters.

[pampushky]

Foot of the Gallows

trafalgar d. water law/reader - chapter 5 - 3.2k

ao3 link | masterlist | series masterlist | next chapter

5.) lion's bane

A powerful sedative once dried and powdered. When picked fresh, it can be pickled and then eaten to help children sleep before significant procedures. Legend says it was once used to make a fierce mountain lion sleep, so that it could then be put into the royal menagerie.

You’re on your way back from foraging for a certain mushroom that only grows deep in the forest when you see someone leave your shop, which is interesting. Because your shop was always closed during this specific time, on the same day every week, it makes you freeze before you sprint back to the shop, fearing some version of a robbery only to find…. a clinic.

Lined up around the first floor of your shop are dozens of people staring at you while you stand there with your chest heaving, your harvesting sickle held out like a weapon. And sitting behind the counter, in your stool that has always been your stool since you could walk, is Law, focused entirely on the swollen wrist of a mink-hybrid child. Tiny little cat ears flattened to their head while a doting father hovers, a bushy white tail twitching back and forth as Law murmurs and draws a shimmery black string of mana a centimeter or two over the child’s wrist. The string flashes, sinking into the child’s skin, watching as the wrist stops swelling, while Law scribbles down something on a piece of paper— your paper! 

He blinks at you as you stand there and give a little wave as you look at the line of people. They’re mostly peasantry, the same people who you would have ended up writing prescriptions and waving the payment, though you do see a few nicer-dressed folk, who look rather embarrassed to be sighted alongside the lowborn seeking Law’s care. 

“You were gone, so I opened up my clinic here.” Law gestures to the line and how he’s set up at your counter. Using your pens and paper. Offering the younger patients sweets you saved to keep off your hunger during rushes.

“You’re in my stool and using my paper,” the words come out before you can stop them. And you feel your face heat up. Because that’s not what you’re really mad about, but you still want to let him know that you’re mad about them. 

So you turn right on your heel and go upstairs to start to dry the mushrooms you’d foraged, but it’s not right, because you’re supposed to be downstairs when you do this. After all, that’s the best place to do it. It’s not too humid, and the light around this time of day is perfect even when you’re an hour late or early from coming back. But it’s too loud down there, and the floors will be covered in mud, and you’ll have to clean it all again before you can start, meaning that the mushrooms will take longer to dry, or they may not dry correctly at all. 

It’s ridiculous. You know that. They’ll dry fine on the kitchen counter as long as you cut them the same way and use the same spells to help wring the moisture from them. But downstairs was where your mother had taught you how to do it. Where your Uncle had helped you learn the spell to pull the water from it, and it was always where you had done it.

Downstairs is where Law had become your husband now, too. 

With matching embroidered cuffs and necklines, as was standard for the couples that could afford it, it was your fault for not clarifying to the tailor that he didn’t have to do that. You look down at the thread around the cuff of your sleeve. The serpentine body entwined with the ivy. Constricting, tightening around the neckline of your dress, and by instinct, your hand goes to your throat as if to ensure nothing is there.

Why do you keep having to remind yourself that Law had never choked you on that day? You place your hands flat on the counter, counting down from ten as you had learned to do when your mind got the better of you in these moments.

Law can feel the prickle of annoyance and anxiety trickling down his back as he helps the next person in line. Your mana makes a prickling noise, almost like a Geiger counter, in his ears (not that Law knew what a Geiger counter was or could even comprehend the idea of nuclear waste). And continues to feel it, crackling in the back of his mind until there’s no one left in the shop. He’s well aware it’s yours, but he’s not sure about what. It’s been a week— the pattern you two have set out has worked thus far. 

Or, he thinks it has. You don’t talk to him unless it’s absolutely necessary. But the anxiety says otherwise. And just when he’s about to start sweeping, he can feel a jolt of rather violent anxiety spiking— enough so that he sprints upstairs just to see you with your palms on the countertop, staring at a pile of neatly-sliced mushrooms on your drying rack. He can hear you mumbling, one of your hands clenched in a tighter fist than the other. 

The mushrooms are dried now, or close to it, but you still seem frazzled. Eyes squeezed shut as you count your way down from fifty. 

“Are you alright…?” Law stays at the top of the stairs, not wanting to get too close. Your hunched form leaning against the doorframe of your bathroom haunts him still. 

“Fine.” You gasp out as if it’s painful to do so. “Perfect. Amazing. Stupendous. What are other synonyms, you were always better at the languages than I was,” you trail off, and he can see how labored your breathing is as you start to count down from sixty. 

“...You don’t sound it,” Law speaks hesitantly. Weighing your symptoms in his mind, practiced eyes taking in your entire body. Anxiety attack. You need grounding, and fast. You’d never been good with more practiced methods– he recalls that much, or rather, has had those details committed to memory forever. So, he walks briskly to your side, pulls you to the kitchen sink as you briefly protest, only to plunge your hands into a stream of icy cold water. “Five seconds. Then I want you to go from cold to hot.”

“What—”

“Do you have any ice?” Law rustles through the cabinets, knowing that you had at least oneenchanted one to keep produce and meats fresh, and then another to keep things frozen, he just can’t recall which one it is. 

“Yes— top right–”

You shriek when he pops an ice cube rather forcibly into your mouth, and the anxiety that had been trickling down his back pops, as though it never existed to begin with. 

And then you cuff him in the ear while trying not to drop the ice cube from your open mouth.

“Law Water D. Trafalger—!” You screech, and he can’t help it. He starts to laugh, dodging your clumsy swipes at him, easily blocking them. This seems to enrage you even more. “What the hell were you thinking—!?”

“A way to stop your panic attack,” Law laughs, grinning so widely as you pause, as if you’re still processing what he’s said, before scowling at him. “C’mon, give me some credit. I’ve known what your panic attacks look like since we were kids.” 

“You also once shoved a pill bug in Luffy’s nose when he was sleeping.” Your tone is so dry as you turn off the faucet and leave the ice cube in there to melt. “Shanks was pissed,”

“He bit me!”

“He was like, seven!”

“I didn’t bite when I was seven,” Law sulks, leaning against the counter. “I just watched my parents die.”

“.... By the gods above and below, you’re still such an ass,” You mumble, bracing yourself against the counter, turned away from him. But he can still see the little smile on your face. Good, he’s distracting you. Forcing you not to think about whatever had upset you so much. 

The mushrooms catch his eye again. Lion’s Bane. He’d always needed more of that— it helped him to sleep when he’d first moved to the southern continent when the pain of the curse had really started to kick in. Before that, he’d spent most of his nights passing out from exhaustion when he finally couldn’t take it anymore, and asked Doflamingo if there was anything that could help him. Anything. 

And, of course, there was. But it came with a price. Everything that was given to him came with a price: another tight wire coiled around his neck to keep him under control. 

“Hey— these look good,” Law plucks one of the thin slices from the drying rack, carefully examining it. “You really have gotten better. With your earthen magic, I mean.”

The anxiety immediately comes back, and it nearly knocks Law over. Okay– one question answered, but now another presented itself to him. Why were you so anxious over the Lion’s Bane? These were perfect— he wasn’t joking about that. You were one of the best apothecaries he’d ever worked with. Yet your anxiety said otherwise. It was making him feel nauseous. 

“No, they’re terrible,” You sound so certain. So utterly devastated. “I wasn’t as fast with drying them, which means they won’t be as effective when powdered.”

“That’s… a thing that happens?” Law puts the mushroom back down. “How much does it affect it?” 

“It takes five and a half minutes longer to kick in,” You mumble, and he hates how tears are threatening to spill over onto your cheeks— 

But he laughs. And you look utterly startled. 

“Then they’re just fine for doctors,” Law does mean to, but he takes your hands. They’re clammy and shaky, and he worries about your circulation for a brief second before he snaps back into gear. “I promise. How many minutes do yours normally take to kick in?”

“Ten minutes,” you whisper, still with tears threatening to spill, “They’re gonna take fifteen and a half—” You stop speaking when you notice how baffled he looks. “What?”

“Your Lion’s Bane powder. It only takes fifteen and a half minutes?”

“Ten normally,” you pull your hands away from his and start to wring them nervously. “Why?”

“They take about forty minutes on average. From every other apothecary I’ve gotten them from. How— what are you doing to them? Whatever you’re doing to them, you’re making them so much more effective,” Law looks at one on the drying rack, then at you, and then back at the drying rack, snapping one up as he makes his way over to the couch. “Time me. I— I need to test this, this is remarkable if you’re right—“

“You shouldn’t eat an entire dried slice—“You make a grab for his hand, but he’s already dangling it above his mouth and drops it in, chewing and then swallowing quickly. He looks at you, and suddenly, you’re both fifteen and seventeen again. “Oh my fucking Gods, Law, I’m gonna kill you.”

“Are you timing it?” He grins at you, and you have half a mind to have Gertrude smack him in the back of the head or reach down his throat to pull it from his throat.

“What— no— I should be shoving charcoal down your throat right now—“

“Well, there goes the experiment!” Law slumps onto the couch. “Where are you even getting them from, I can already feel the effects— yes, slight blurriness around edges of my vision, slowed reaction time,” he adds when you pitch a pillow at him, and he doesn’t even dodge, letting it hit him square in the face, pulling it to his chest. “This is remarkable!”

“They’re just in the woods outside the city wall! It’s where my family’s been getting them from for centuries—“

“You need to show me.”

“Excuse me?”

“These could be…” he yawns and blinks sleepily, “…a huge breakthrough for… for chronic insomnia…”

Law is slumped against the wall before he can even finish his sentence, drooling onto his tunic as you watch him. There’s gentle shuffling behind you as Gertrude comes to set a leaf on your shoulder. You pat their leaf gently and plop down onto the opposite side of the couch, rubbing your forehead. Gertrude wordlessly starts to get you a glass of water while rifling through the cabinet to find the charcoal you’d mentioned when Law first ate the mushroom. “Thank you,” you mumble, taking the charcoal from the plant, along with a glass of water. The charcoal is already crushed, meant for emergencies with your customers. In this case, just for your idiot of a childhood friend and now husband. Law snores as you mix the powdered charcoal with the water and doesn’t even flinch as you pour it into his mouth, tilting up his throat and having him swallow, keeping his head tilted forward so he doesn’t choke. It’ll be a bit late to help him wake up, but you just sigh, leaning back against the couch. Gertrude brings you a cup of milk tea, gently patting your head with one of their leaves before going back to being nestled around the top of the cabinets.

Your eyes close softly after you finish the cup of tea, still caked in mud from your four-hour hike through the woods to get to the lion’s bane.

When you wake up, Law is looming over you. You do the natural thing and scream, kicking him immediately in the place you’ve learned is the weakness of most men, regardless of if they were born as one or not. You kick him straight in the balls, watching as he topples nearly instantly, clutching his groin while holding in several groans as he bites his lower lip.

Gertrude is laughing, the little shit. They’re laughing, and you’ve just kicked Law in a very sensitive area. Rustling their leaves from the top of the cabinets until you shoot them a stern glare. 

“G’mornin,” Law’s voice is several pitches higher. Still holding his crotch and looking at you with a very shocked expression. “That hurt.”

“Why were you hovering over me,” you steady your breathing. You still have your leg outstretched to kick. Your hands brace on the couch. “Like a fucking weirdo?”

“You’re getting mud on the couch.”

Your eye twitches. And you stand, even when you want to sit back down and rub mud into the fabric just to spite him. But you know you’ll be more upset in the end if you do end up doing that. The mud feels so wrong against your skin when you’re in your casual wear. It would stick to your skin all day, even if you’d washed it away.

“It’s my couch.”

“Our couch.”

“Fuck off, you literally ruined my day yesterday,” Your voice is venomous, and he seems shocked by the anger. 

“How?”

“You— ugh— you wouldn’t get it,” 

Because he probably wouldn’t. You’d tried to talk to your parents about it, especially when they still worked with you. You liked things done a certain way. There was always a proper way to do things and a certain place to do it all. When trying to tell your mother that, while she was turning the orange roots of a fire bush into a paste, she just quirked an eyebrow at you and told you, albeit lovingly, to get over yourself and that any place in the shop was the right place to work, so long as it was clean. She didn’t understand that while it may be that way for her, you liked your rhythms. The specificity. It had taken years to develop these routines and patterns for harvesting and processing all of your medicines. Along with finding the perfect materials to label and write your detailed notes. 

Kizaru had somewhat understood. But he also was in a very different profession than yours. Yet he understood nonetheless.

“Why not?”

Why not? Because he would likely tell you to get over it like your mother had and would make you work out of your comfort zone. Sometimes, it helped. Other times, it made it worse. She hadn’t meant anything by it. She just didn’t understand.

“Because— because I’m weird about my shit, and I don’t like it when people use it,” You blurt out, “Like my paper! That paper is resistant to most degrading compounds, so it’s safe to not only label but use as a packaging thing, and I really, really hate when people sit in my stool because it’s my stool and—“

“Calm.” You feel a wave of ease roll over you, with Law pressing his thumb to the center of your forehead. 

You feel like the world is moving much slower. Or your brain is. The prickling under your skin is gone. “I do actually understand that,” Law says, pulling his hand away from your forehead and kneeling so he can look you in the eyes. His hands are warm, cupping your face, making sure you’re looking at him. “And I’m sorry I invaded your space like that. You’d been gone for two hours already, so I figured it would be alright if I opened my clinic down there.” “It takes me five hours to get the lion’s bane, and then I dry it downstairs. That’s how I’ve always done it.”

He hates how tired you look. How soft your voice is. He knows exactly why you’re like this, too. You’d always had… peculiarities about doing things your way. It’d make you cry if you couldn’t do them the way you’d always wanted to do them, sending you into a quivering mess. Your mother had accidentally triggered one of these when she’d been drying out thunder root and had nearly panicked when you couldn’t voice why you were so upset. 

“I didn’t know. But I won’t do it there, or at that time, again. Okay?” Law pulls his hands away, and he thinks he’s imagined the way you almost chase after his touch. “... do you normally panic when things like that happen? It… hasn’t changed?” “Yeah,” you pull your knees to your chest. “I think. It’s just been piling on. All the stuff from the past three weeks.” Law nods, rocking back on his heels. 

Just the two of you. Law on the floor, you on the couch, both of you with your knees to your chests, looking at each other. It’s painfully familiar and foreign at the same time. 

“...I never apologized. For….” “Don’t,” Your voice quivers. The fight and anger are gone. You just sound defeated. And he can feel the weight of the sorrow on his soul as you tuck your head into your arms, hiding away your face. “Please.”

The sorrow gives way to fear. Of the wetness of mud caked on your skin, slinging to your hair and eyelashes. How it weighed down your clothes, your skin, your hair. How cold you’d felt as you trudged back to your home. 

You hate mud. Yet you’re still in the mud-caked clothes from your hike to forage for mushrooms yesterday. “Alright.” Law chokes, unable to handle just how heavy everything feels from your side of the bond, “Alright.”

You don’t know how to feel when there is an unfamiliar twinge of guilt and longing that is not your own. The door down the hall shuts as Law shelters himself away in his room. And you just cry into your arms, your tears turning the dried dirt on your sleeves to mud again. 

[deancaspinefest]

Love's Menagerie

Author: SamandDean76 | Artist: Mörökölli

Posting on Saturday March 15

Castiel was the most trusted Alpha courtesan in the royal court of Chuck and Rowena. He obeyed all the commands that were given him, including the order to service a mysterious Omega who showed up at the castle in the middle of the night. Castiel was entranced by the desperate Omega, and he was gentle when he helped the young man through his first heat. But the Omega was clearly upset to have needed any aid, and once done, he wields a surprising strength and sucker punches Castiel before he flees into the night. Dean was an Omega in dire need, searching for his destined true mate, when his heat was triggered. He couldn’t believe his luck when Castiel was delivered to his chambers. In a panic, once he realized that they had conceived, Dean fled and pined for his lost mate while he raised the children their one night of passion had helped to create. But how was he going to remedy the dilemma of no mate, and being shunned within his own kingdom? Sam wasn’t about to let the foolish pride of his brother and his brother’s future mate stand in the way of their destined love. With a bold plan, he kidnaps Castiel and reunites them. Only to discover that the biggest hurdles to their happily ever after are only just beginning.

Keep reading for a sneak preview!

Chuck met his gaze as he placed a thin hand on his shoulder and drew him closer. “Castiel, this is a very delicate matter. The young man had only just presented, and it had been assumed that he would be an Alpha. He was betrothed to an Omega princess, but now. Well, that’s not the important part.” Castiel remained passively calm while he listened to the king, knowing that it sometimes required him several long minutes before he came close to making whatever point he was driving towards.

“This boy was to be a king, and now. I know that you are aware that not all nations are as tolerant as we are.” Castiel nodded, for that was a simple fact. Valaria was a kingdom that had fully embraced both sides of their nature. They had taken the time to acknowledge that one half could not survive and thrive without the full support and cooperation of the other. Omegas lifted up their Alphas while the Alphas did everything in their power to cherish those who gave them their all. While some prejudices may still exist, as evidenced by the guard that Castiel still couldn’t drudge up any sympathy for, other nations were not so kind or fair to all of their people.

“He was left to suffer unattended for almost two days now. And this is his first time. I need you to be gentle with him and give him all that he requires.” Castiel couldn’t stop his eyelids from falling shut as the wretched news hit him full force. An Omega that was in such dire need, having been denied so long already, their body would be in a desperate state. They would require that Castiel give everything he had to offer.

Including his seed.

On any other occasion, Castiel would drink the serum, and he would be rendered sterile for the duration of the coupling. The Omega would still gain what they required – an infusion of pheromones and his release, but Castiel wouldn’t risk leaving a child alone in the world. For he was not of royal lineage and any child he sired would be cast off. Given to others to be raised as a servant who might one day follow in his father’s footsteps.

While Castiel had indeed made the best of his lot in life, he would never dream of wishing it upon another. Especially one who was completely innocent and would only be seen as an unwanted byproduct of a necessary evil. One that should have been royalty otherwise and would have been allowed to lead a life of leisure. Instead, that dream would be cruelly snatched away, and the child would know drudgery and unless incredibly fortunate, a short and hard life followed by an unremarkable death. Mourned by no one when their existence should have been heralded.

Keep reading on Ao3 after Saturday March 15 🌲Find more 2025 Pinefest previews here 🌲

[forgetful-lethean]

A Hand Bleeding Starlight (III)

A Court of Thorns and Roses Story

Azriel X Hemophiliac!Reader

5.0K Words

Previous | Next

Summary:

A human hiding amongst the Fae, you operate as a common bookkeeper in Velaris, using tactics to avoid being detected and sent back to the mortal realm (or worse). Trouble and violence brews in your homeland and the clarion call of war threatens; if you are sent back, you face immeasurable danger. For now, you pray you remain unknown, and your shop successful. That is, until a stranger appears and challenges your idyllic existence. You have secrets that may spill blood; a certain Fae has secrets that will spill blood. Will they remain hidden? Or will the life you've spent years cultivating come crumbling down in the tangled web of Fate and silver-tongued lies?

Chapter Three:

"Lark Aloft"

Where you spend the day in a Velaris marketplace hunting for supplies, and instead encounter a strange shopkeeper and a stranger book. Payment day looms.

NOTE:

No beginning notes today! Meant to get this out earlier but I got delayed.

Little ol' me screwed up the formatting massively and had to manually go through and reformat each separate text piece. That took, uh, a while.

* * *

The market bloomed before you on the street as if flowers sprung from the cobblestone—a messy, labyrinthine assemblage of stalls slicing through the paved causeways of the Rainbow—crowds sluicing easily through the menagerie of scents and smells, cries and criers, all harking their wares to the available ear and the steely eye, hoping to win from them a silver glint of recognition, a burning interest, a pretty coin for their toils on the street side.

Once, when you had first stepped foot into Velaris, worried step after worried step, you feared such crowds—the dangers it brought, the Fae that all but loomed over you in every aspect of life. The crushing breathlessness of fast-paced conversations without the chance to consider if—and what—you might accidentally reveal. But now...to say you feel like you're drowning in the crowds made as much sense as a raindrop protesting to join the vast expanse of ocean. You felt the energy, the cosmopolitan pulse that shuddered beneath every hurried step, rushed breath, careless words tossed to the wind and the tinkling of coins darting between ethereal figures. You felt that odd sense of serenity, a faceless mass amongst the living body of the crowd; a sense of community that an outcast, a misfit would never even begin to consider.

Sometimes, you wished you could just lose yourself in that crowd, like a raindrop that falls on the beach, sits on a pebble, adores the ocean it failed to join and savoring the aroma from the cyclical motion of the waves. The crowd before you had that aching life, a mass of vibrant clothes shining in the morning light, people gliding like enchanting shoals of speedy fish. There was chatter between the sellers and buyers, the drone of old friends catching up on the wayside, new friends clasping hands. They were, in such a strange way, your kin.

Ellora had sent you to fetch more supplies from the myriad of temporary sellers that dotted the street's landscape—too many repairs on her desk and not enough glue, or enough thread, or enough paper. Her instructions were very precise. Honestly, you thought it was all just a ploy to force you out of the shop! At least it wasn't a terrible deluge like yesterday had been—the sun was shining in full force, a brilliant lantern casting the everyday hues of the marketplace into vivid glows. The kind made of the best of dreams, you thought.

Slipping through the crowds, one hand grasping the edge of your cloak as you were forced to brush by a pair of Fae ogling a stall of prim, intricate jewelry, you forced your way through the cacophony. Your eyes sought two stalls in the mess—like a lighthouse to a lost ship in the sea—two vendors that offered the best supplies for the most reasonable prices. All you needed was some animal and archival glues and a few spools of thread, after all.

There!

The flashing maroon awning, a fabric that seemed to greedily devour the overjoyous light, caught your eye. You fought you ways toward it, a minnow darting against the current, offering profuse apologies to Fae who glared daggers in your direction, grunts of dismissal to those who snatched at your argentite cloak. Every time you felt that pull, fear found infancy in your heart, your mind, twining with the incessant pool of dread plaguing your thoughts.

The crowds were comforting, but they were also your enemy.

Any one of them could grow too curious, peer too closely, ask too insightful a question that threatened the careful sanctity of your disguise. Any one of them could put you, and the veneer of the Fae would be thrown away, the gossamer fabric of reality flowing on the wind, to reflect the beastly, the violent, the dangerous trickster Fae. The Fae that you had read, learned, heard about. That, you feared. Discovery.

Stepping from the stream, into the comfort of distance, you emerged at the edge of that burgundy-covered stall, a bloody light seeping through the canvas to illuminate a man with piercing blue eyes, wheat-dashed hair, flashing the most brilliant of smiles. Recognition widened his grin, and he waved you over with the lilting call of "Wren! Wren!"

You swore it sounded like a bird-call. The man—Kirin, one of your fellow bookbinders in the region—always had some cheerful glimmer in his eye. He never went anywhere without his steadfast cheer, to his stall, his shop on the other side of the Sidra, or otherwise. As such, the two of you had become steadfast trading partners—his supplies, your books; it was a symbiotic relationship. His movements were pragmatic in that casually aristocratic way, tipping his head down at your approach as if you were a wayward royal, then propping himself up by an elbow. He twirled a speckled ink brush between his fingers, an appraising glance sweeping up your figure. Kirin arched a brow, "Always the stylish one, even in this heat, are you not?"

You scoffed, smoothing the fabric of your cloak, "You know how the weather always changes on a whim. No one can be too prepared." A pause, and you set a few silver coins on the counter. Kirin didn't look, not yet—a silent agreement passed between you two. Whatever he could spare.

He hummed thoughtfully, his eyes still staring at you—through you—as if puzzling some secret of your soul. "Of course." He didn't sound fully convinced. You didn't feel convincing either. "I've never seen your eyes before, you know. All this time, all this time," Kirin clicked his tongue, finally turning away—and you swallowed the building anxiety in your throat—and searching through the tinctures and vials, the bound signatures, the leather-pressed covers, the assortment of glues retrieved from all over Prythian and, you expected, a few from the Mortal Realms as well. His stall was always a mess.

Another Fae stalked up to the stall, the delirium of imperial hauteur sharp in his eyes, his clothes a decadent purple. Kirin didn't spare him a glance, offering a noncommittal smile as he, clutching close to his chest a plethora of vials and a spool of umber thread. Not the highest quality, but it would do anyways. You just hoped Ellora was skilled enough with her materials that she didn't waste any (or, worse, that a repaired book would fall apart!). A moment passed, and the strange man released a dissatisfied huff, glanced towards you, and walked away.

"Here you are, my dearest bookkeep!" A heap of supplies dropped to the counter. More than your paltry coins had paid for.

"Kirin, I can't—"

"Word on the street is you're struggling, Wren. Please, let me."

Protests fumbled on your lips, died bloody deaths as you fought the urge to deny his kindness. Why should you receive such a gift? An impostor among their ranks, dressed in their livery, passing for a Fae, and you took their gifts! It wasn't right—but what other choice did you have? You pushed those ceaseless thoughts aside, leaving them for another stormy day. Kirin was staring at you again. Searching. What did he see? What did he want to find?

Gently, you picked up the vials of glue, marveling at the sheen of light curving on their surface; collected the signatures and the thread, the paper too soft, too nice, with a thread much too clean to be old. Met his eyes, offered him a meek smile. "Thank you."

He flashed a smile, "Don't worry yourself. You're my most loyal patron, I wouldn't let you go under just because you can't afford some coin here and then! Cauldron knows you would've done the same for me in your position. Now, shoo! Be safe!"

Be safe. Those words, they stuck to your thoughts like a cloying scent, nauseating, overwhelming. You stepped away, back into the numbing rush of steps and voices and scents. Those eyes—those damned eyes!—peering into your soul. What did Kirin know? Was it possible that he—

Word on the street is you're struggling...

An electric shock sparked wildfire in your mind—some spindly creature of Nature whispering a revelation into your covered ears. Of course. Of course! If he knew of your troubles then he knew of the Wardens. He was just trying to help you out; he didn't suspect you of anything! No nefarious plan, no mortal quandary. But you hadn't told anyone about the beast of burden chained to your store's lot. The bills that piled, the coin that dwindled. Ellora knew, but she wouldn't tell a soul. Solicit help from others that weren't the Wardens, and you invited bundles of trouble that swept, viciously, darkly through the night with fangs of poison and treachery.

That was the rule. Make the payment yourself. Always.

The Wardens sent your mind into a spin. A spiral, aching with heavy gravity—your thoughts, your thoughts always came back to them! The iron grasp they held on your life, your store, your existence. They crowded, a maelstrom occupying too much space. And then the sounds grew brighter, bled from the air, seeped into your ears. The scents grew louder, battering your nose, your throat, your mouth. Choking, suffocating. If you didn't have enough money for supplies, how could you pay them? It was only a few days away! And then—

In your distraction, you missed a step. Fell out of harmony with the flowing crowd. Something slammed into you, your leg twisted and you cried out—a flash of deep purple, remorseless eyes, words spearing through the air, into your chest, "Fool." Thrown off-balance, then another woman elbowed your shoulder—you were too short, or she too tall, to give any pitiful regard, and you gasped, stumbling, eyes wide, clutching your prize to your chest. So many Fae, too many Fae—

The tinkling sound of glass shattering filled the air. A flurry of pages announced your precipitous calamity.

You impacted the ground, thrown to the side by some defiance of nature, some well-timed prayer to the Mother. Your knees burned. You couldn't parse whether it was the sun-baked stones or the pain. Pain. It radiated through your shoulder, your leg. You pressed your hand to the ground, forcing yourself to a stumbling stand. The bruise on your arm, from yesterday, still ached something fierce.

Tears brimmed beneath your sheer blindfold. Panic, that primal, human instinct of dread and fear and despair, ebbed and flowed with your rapid heart and trembling lip. A step forward, two steps stumbling back, clutching your leg with a silent, shaky cry. You'd been shoved into some off-shoot of an alley from the main streets. Steps away the crowd rushed, seemingly oblivious.

Then the sounds caught up to your ears. And you realized what you had done—the glass decorating the cobbled with a mockery of a starlit sky. Glue splattering the stone. Unspooled thread wet and grimy, befouled by the darkened recesses of Velaris. Ruined. And what few coins you'd given Kirin—a sizable sum of your "fortune"—lost to the streets.

The second stall had all but fled your mind as you sat staring, dejectedly, morosely, as the remnants of your supplies. Ellora was going to be furious—she was your assistant, but she was also your partner! It stared back at you, mockingly, the glass reflecting a sharp-fanged smile of light. You sank against the wall of the alley, dropping once more to the ground. You tried not to cry. You didn't want to cry. A tear slipped free anyways, falling sparklingly, radiantly, in a fractal of brightness to the dingy ground.

A voice rasped.

A new emotion—beating back the panic, the distress—swept you forward, up, down, left and right about the tumultuous sea of your brain.

Terror.

"My child, my sweet darling child, come, come. Do not cry."

Something primal jumped in your heart, thundering along the blood racing through your veins. To your right—deeper in the alley, that's where it was coming from. Warily, you shifted your weight forward, snatching a shard of glass. Pushing up from the wall, you peered into the depths. Saw a form haloed by the dying embers of a rusted lantern.

Its hand slithered from the recesses of its ragged, ruined cloak, beckoning, summoning. Darkness obscured the thing's face, a second mask. Thin, bony, too frail for the majestic Fae that filled the streets behind you.

"Who are you?" Your voice was barely a whisper.

A rasping response, the darkness stretched beneath its hood. Smiling, it was smiling. Aged fingers crooked, another summons. Fingernails yellowed and misshapen, long and brittle, accentuating the bulbous, grotesque nature of its hands. "You shouldn't be here, child. Much too dangerous for folk like you."

Silently, the urge to run, to flee, settled in the pit of your stomach. Folk like you.

"What do you mean?"

Its head tipped, and rotting teeth, dark with mossy neglect met the dim light of the alley. A tongue flickered out, ran over them, a tendril of saliva slipping down its lips. Slavering. "You walk among them with such an enchanting cloak. Not as one of them. A mirage. An illusion."

Now, you stepped closer. Closing the distance, and the tatters of its cloak seemed to shift with the disturbance. From the depths reflected beady eyes. Eyes much too wise, too knowing. Eyes that sparkled with secrets and cosmic ideas. No. No. Leave! Everything in your body screamed that this was something, someone dangerous. Words fumbled to your lips, "I actually have to go—"

A hand shot out, clutching your cloak and yanking you towards it. "Human!" Venom infused its words, the seething of its emotion frothing at the corners of its mouth. Spittle hit your cheeks and you sank back. But it's grip—iron-clad—forced you into against its body. Behind it, the lantern jumped with caustic vehemence, casting licking, weak shadows along the walls. Beastly shadows that violently wrestled with your own.

Weakly, fearfully, you ventured your question. "What are you?"

Seemingly satisfied, the thing released you. A shaky breath, and it answered. "A... benefactor." It glided with a smooth, preternatural gracefulness not born of its decrepit form towards a haphazard table. On it, an eclectic collection of wares. Wooden accessories. A book sat primly underneath a thin silk cover. The Fae (for you believed that it was such), removed the cover, seeming to marvel at the book for a moment, before urging you closer. "My child, my child. Come, look. Perhaps I have something you need, no?"

Nothing could replace your supplies—but if it was offering.... Your wariness incensed it. "Please, I speak of truths, child. I seek safety here, like you. I will not expose you. Do not worry."

It struck you then, what this thing was. An ancient, malicious Fae. A Suriel. Panic seized your throat, but you stilled it. Beat it down. Regarded the boom it urged you to. First, you noticed the book was an ancient thing, an ugly ancient thing. Wooden slats crudely bound together in the archaic ways, stuffed with pages of yellowed and crumbling paper. A layer of leather tried to save the integrity of the piece. Second, you noticed there was no title on the wooden cover. And then you noticed the wood was a lighter color—not native to the Night Court or the birds that roosted here. Everything on the table was made of it.

Ash wood. Fatal to Fae.

"I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else—"

The book flew across the table, shoved by the Suriel's spindly fingers. "No, no. I insist. You are a bookkeep are you not? Ah, I thought so, I thought so. A shame you tripped. But here!" Excitedly, it knocked the cover with its knuckles, "Free of charge, free of charge, for your troubles!"

Everything about it was off. Wrong. Was its mind so addled, so distraught that it made the Suriel...like this? Disturbed. No Fae would willingly offer ash wood.

"Why?" The word sat heavy in the air between the two of you, in this darkened alleyway of covert negotiations. It grew paws, a sniveling snout, pranced around the licking shadows, claws primed. It leapt at the Suriel, these words, brightened its eyes with delirious intensity and it cried out with zeal—

"You will need it! Someone will ask, and you must give it to them." Its voice jumped in the air, like the fluttering of many wings in a frightened flock taking flight.

Its nails scraped along the book, digging up splinters from the soft wood. The crowd, the marketplace seemed a lifetime away as you regarded that singular instance. "And if I don't?"

The Suriel wrenched its hand back as if the words had scalded it, and violence burned in the specks of eyes buried in the cloak, "You must!" Its raspy voice reached a crescendo. The lantern popped, flame unraveling like a thread, tendrils seeking, then recombining.

It sounded like a whip-crack, that quiet pop.

"You must!" the Suriel shrieked.

Suddenly, the storm in its voice, the tempest in its movements seized. It went frigid, stiff, muttering, chest heaving, robes jittering around its body as it struggled to tame its words, its thoughts, its emotions. Silence ensued, thickening the tension, until it spoke, controlled and modulated. "The Fae signed a treaty long ago, to end a war. To end the enslavement of mortals. That was the...purpose of it all. The Wall. The borders." It didn't even seem to be speaking to you. It was staring intently at the book, at the claw marks in the cover. Ancient wisdom spilled from its lips, like a chalice overflowing with wine. Greedily, you waited.

"It collapsed not too long ago. They're trying again—again! The treaty! The negotiations! Vallahan! How foolish. Can't they see? It shall fail. Always. Too violent, too fickle, too aggressive and amoral, you mortals. Prone to war and bloodshed. Too prone, I say."

Surprise nestled amongst your curiosity. The Wall had collapsed? Vaguely, you were aware of the history, just enough to pass, but you'd had to sneak through a crack in the wall so long ago. It was...gone? Who was guarding it? The threat implicit in those words rose to mind, bubbling amongst the vitriol that the mortal realm already possessed against the Fae. A tentative treaty that was going to fail. Violence already champing at the reins that held it back. The wars and violence you fled, the burgeoning turmoil in the mortal realm, if that came here. If that came to Prythian.

Then it became a question of whether mortal fury could beat immortal pride. You had an inkling as to which would win.

"Child of the warmongers—you know, you understand? I see it in the eyes you hide. Truth cannot be so hidden from me."

Forcibly, you cleared your throat. The two of you were both in hiding—one from its people, the other from its past. You swept up the book, eyeing the Suriel with a newfound sense of admiration. It carried ash wood with it not because it was twisted or disturbed—it was a talisman, in case it was endangered. A malicious Fae, holding the very thing that could, just as well, be its doom.

A resolution sat heavy in your mind. Your hands closed around the book, engulfing it in the folds of your cloak. "I accept, Suriel."

"Ah, keen you are. Yes, yes. World-walker, leave me here. You have what you need, what makes your eyes free of the veil and the mask. The others—fools, blinded by their hubris, others by their violence." The Suriel quieted, its words devolving into a series of ramblings and mutterings, secrets slipping into the space between seconds, incomprehensible. Its eyes no longer seemed so transfixed on you.

The loss of your materials no longer seemed so intense. You didn't even regard it on the ground. Glass crunched under your feet.

The lantern sputtered and died as you left. Shadows flooded the alleyway.

* * *

The marketplace's vibrant pulse of life amplified when you fell back into its rhythm. Or, rather, as an accompaniment to its rushing harmony of movement. A stumbling ache in your leg impeded swiftness, and the throbbing in your shoulder, halted by the adrenaline of the encounter, surfaced with force. Their searching eyes now appeared glassy, their chatter having lost its vicious bite. Docile, tamed, from the apparent surge of before. The second stall that you'd intended to visit—more out of courtesy than a need to purchase, given your financial burdens at the moment—stood stalwart before you.

It contained a mixture of inks, a mess of paints, a few blank canvasses, and an assortment of decorated awls for easing the threading of signatures, bone scorers for folding pages, and other useful tools. Ellora always swore the more expensive items off—she preferred her version of repairing the books, and so you often let her decide which tools to buy and which to leave as "window attractions," such that she called them.

You trailed a finger over one of the tools—a stark, ivory bone scorer, with a dull edge so that the signatures didn't rip as you folded them. A pretty little thing, without a mark on it. On a whim, you flagged down the shopkeeper, offered a single coin (just enough to cover the cost, it was), and pocketed the slim device. A dash of mauve caught your eye, right as it knocked into you. A startled cry resounded, like a nightingale striking up its song. The man was more startled than you, running a pampered hand down his richly embroidered jacket.

"Ah, Wren! Just who I wanted to see today! I meant to swing by yesterday, mind you, but that dreadful weather halted my quest. A flood of never-ending water, it seemed; never seen anything like it. I'll say."

Of course. Master Oberyn.

Cautiously, you clasped the strange book tighter under the confines of your cloak. Whatever that Suriel intended, this book was obviously something important—perhaps, even, valuable to the right people. You plastered on a shaky smile, "The weather was terrible yesterday. I wouldn't have dreamt of anyone making such a trek!"

"Ah, nonetheless, I'm glad I ran into you now! I think I still have it..." he pats his suit jacket, puzzling through the curiosity that was his extraordinary attire. All the while, anxiety grips your shoulders, searching for some way to escape the interaction and get somewhere—back to your bookstore. Oberyn, with a huff of triumph, produced a cream-colored envelope, elegantly scribed with your false name, and what you thought was an attempt at drawing a bird. Which one, you did not know, but it was certainly, indubitably, a bird.

He offered it to you, all the while chattering away, "—My lovely Alette, she's just dying to meet you. Growing sicker by the day, I fear, but she simply adores the idea of your store and coming there in person one day. Wants to see all you have to offer; she loves those books more than me, I swear." His laughter was sincere, almost wistful, and he waved off his misty-eyed expression with a bright smile, "She wants to host a small dinner party, just to meet you. Alette, you see, she'll read anything; her knowledge of literature is something rivaling even the best scholars of the Day Court. Anyways, you'll come?"

Not so much an invitation, you saw, but a demand. But Master Oberyn was always so kind and thoughtful, you couldn't disappoint him or his lady. You nodded, somewhat too eagerly, "I'll bring some titles over for her." You knew you couldn't afford that. You knew it might also not make a lick of difference. "Is there a date for the party?"

"Hm, I believe she said...five days from today? She wanted to give you some time to prepare anything you might need."

Your heart sank. Tithing Day—when you were supposed to meet the Wardens for your payments. But, it was necessary to go to Oberyn's party—it was a matter of duty, if that. The payments didn't usually take long—if you had the money, that was. So, a day-trip into the Hewn City, a visit to the Wardens, and back in time for supper at Oberyn's.

Easy, right?

Nevertheless, queasiness turned your stomach, and that Suriel was fresh on your mind. You shouldn't attend. Instead, you smile, "Master Oberyn, I'd be delighted to attend."

And as you turned to leave, pocketing the invitation, he clears his throat, somewhat awkward, "Alette says you can bring someone with you, too! Please do, the more the merrier!" He vanishes into the crowd with a final wave, leaving you standing there with a book that may or may not be cursed, an invitation to a party that may or may not threaten your identity, on a day that may or may not involve death threats.

Fatigued from the adventures of the day, you wind your way free of the marketplace labyrinth, detouring from your route only to stop at the Sidra for a moment of respite, admiring the waters. Trying not to think about the book heavy against your side, of the Suriel, or of anything that brought you back to that uncontrolled spiraling anxiety of the shaky day. So, you decided to think about the one thing that wasn't so awful.

Azriel.

You hadn't seen him since yesterday—when he had left you with a beautifully repaired book, after watching the rare event of an eagle's death spiral. Was he lurking about, the spymaster of the Night Court? Over there, in the shade of the unassuming bush, or flirting with the shadows of alleyways, hunting some common criminal? Ironic, how desperately you wanted to unravel his secrets, yet so desperately clinging to your own in the same fashion.

You breathe in, inhaling the subtle, heady scent of the rushing river, letting it wash through your body, scoop away the day's tumultuous emotions and thoughts and make them anew into something vaguely peaceful. You watched the river, a rushing thing so full of glimmering beauty yet so invariably deadly; a vital glowing thing of flame and gold in the dallying sun. A shadow flitted over the water, and you looked up.

Far above, a small shape zipped by—wings shaped like a bat. At this hour? Much too early, much too early. One part of your brain wanted to rationalize that it was just an early riser of the bats; but the other part...well, it wanted to believe a fiction, a non-reality that could never be, because that would threaten too much. And you couldn't afford what kindling of hope that he stirred.

So, when you turned away from the Sidra, you crushed it. That beauty was much too dangerous.

The walk home was uneventful for the sole reason that there was every possibility of doing so today.

The door rattled as you opened it, as it always did, a warm greeting. Ellora sat at her desk, threading a needle through bundles of pages to be rebound. She barely looked up, but somehow she sensed the rigors of the day. She had that having way about her, always reading people's minds with a glance. "Azriel didn't stop by, if that's what you're worried about."

Strange, how you felt so dejected hearing that. He was a stranger! Someone you barely knew and who'd read only one of your many books. Silently, you stepped past the threshold, ducking behind the counter.

"Birdie, what's wrong?"

Please don't.

"You didn't come back with any supplies, I thought we were running low on glues."

"We were." The phrase sounded hollow to your ears, "I fell on the way back, broke the vials. Oberyn's invited me to a dinner in five days—are you able to come with me?"

Ellora set the book down, a queer light burning in her dark eyes, "That's the day we're supposed to visit the Wardens, Wren. I'll be too busy anyways with the paperwork." She winced, as if the words had struck some harsh blow, "Sorry." Ellora turned back to her book, humming a lullaby she usually sang.

Taking the chance, you slipped the strange book from your cloak, where it had spent the day burning a hole in your makeshift holster. The wood was blemished with age, the nail marks from the Suriel a superficial gouge. You lifted the cover, spurred on by some inane courage to see what it contained—a name emblazoned on the cover, Lady Marin, ringing some faint bell from your travels around Prythian.

An unassuming lady in the Summer Court. What had she done to come into the possession of this book? You suspected that wouldn't be answered for a while—you couldn't ask her directly, and whatever this book was meant for, it was apparently dangerous.

You didn't look further—couldn't bring yourself to. As such, you debated where to hide it—if you should hide it—what might entail if you revealed it to Ellora, or to anyone for that matter. Too many questions and not enough answers. On a whim, you crouched behind the counter, feeling for a loose floorboard. It was an old building and rarely up to code, and the drafts that often leaked in were a result of its less-than-structurally sound foundation. Finding a loose nail, a board that creaked ever so slightly, you pried it up with a grunt.

"Everything okay?" Ellora called.

"Fine, just a nail that snagged on something." You shove the book into the slim gap, just wide enough to fit on, and push the board back down into place.

"Who are you going to take to the dinner? If I can't go, surely someone else would like to?"

You didn't have an answer for her—as you didn't for many of the questions aroused today. But, at least for this one, you had an inkling where to start.

After all, the best way to know your enemies was to keep them closer than your friends, and what better way to do that than to ask the Spymaster of the Night Court to a friendly supper?

Thus entailed your next endeavor.

Finding that secretive bat in time.

* * *

Previous | Next

A/N:

Less Azriel-focused on this chapter in order to set up future points—however, he will be very much present in the next chapters, in whatever capacity that may look like! But, on the plus side, a Suriel! Huzzah!

(If you spot any formatting errors, no you didn't, those were, uh, intentional! Yeah...)

If anyone wants to be added or removed from the tag list, please let me know and I'll gladly provide the service 🫡

Hopefully you enjoyed, and if you did feel free to leave a comment, a critique, or any number of ideas that you might have about the story so far Have a good weekend!

Your friendly neighborhood lore creature,

~ Lethe

TAG LIST:

@blueeclipsepaperstudent ; @vechkinfan ; @fuckingsimp4azriel ; @lunarxcity ;

[rosechata]

Monday

The life-force of our formidable matriarch is waning, and her last request is to die at home.

Wednesday

So here we are, flown in from various corners of the country, back to the sun-bleached stomping grounds of our childhood. We’re nursing beers and recalling memories—that one time I dared Santi to kick a cactus and we spent days picking spines from his swollen foot; the Easter when Saraí shot me in the hand with a BB gun and my uncle’s punishment was that she had to stand still for long enough that I could return the favor. We’re in the yard soaking up warmth and watching our gaggle of dark-eyed kids frolicking in the old familiar places we did so many seasons of life ago. Our own parents are all seated in the shade on the dusty back patio, much like my grandparents used to do, watching us watch them. This is the spiral of time, no longer linear but all at once. I may be thirty-four, but I am also seven years old, and I am simultaneously already dead. I am a seed rooted in the core of my grandmother, as my someday-granddaughter has a history rooted inside of me.

Friday

I make her all of the traditional healing foods she forced me to eat postpartum (even though all I wanted was sushi). Warm broths, warm teas, warm atole. Warm feet, warm womb. That’s the medicine. She pushes the spoon full of simmering soup away from her mouth with one demand: “I want an apple fritter”. And so we, her oddball menagerie of grandchildren, dutifully pile into my brother’s pickup and drive the unpaved thirty miles back to town, which is really just a one-stoplight street with a gas station, a taquería, a donut shop, and a seedy rundown motel. We make it into the donut shop just before closing and secure the loot—one apple fritter, plus a couple dozen colorful donuts for the rest of us. We clear our plates, buzzing with the sugar rush. She takes one bite and soon closes her eyes; each sleep longer, each breath more labored.

Saturday

The angel of a hospice nurse, with her tattooed knuckles and curly magenta hair, says it probably won’t be too long now, but that people can surprise you, and that sometimes folks stick around until some unspoken query is answered. But grandmother is talking to ghosts who exist just outside the veil of the rest of our sights—her mother, her husband, her firstborn child who died before his first steps—and says the dragons are coming to fly her away soon. We take turns kissing her forehead and tell her that it sounds like such a magical adventure is awaiting her on the other side.

Sunday

I have never feared death. The promise of a return to non-existence is a lullaby, not a threat. When death comes for me, I only hope it will feel like this. To die surrounded by three generations gathered around the hearth in laughter, tears, prayers, and love. To die warm. To die at home. What a gift.

What a rare and lucky end to a life long lived.

[baldurs-gape]

Traditions

Every tradition had to start with its first iteration as some point. The hope was that the reunion party was going to be something similar to what Withers had hosted six months after the Netherbrain's defeat but with more people attending. As well as the regular suspects, friends and family were also welcome, which was how Ulder Ravengard was stood next to Minthara and finding himself both enchanted and caught in a web of ambition. Their little chat was interrupted by none other than Astarion and Gale.

"All I'm saying is that my mother has a lot of opinions and will share them with those who care to listen and those who don't."

Astarion's scoff was audible from quite a distance away.

"At least we know where you got that particular trait from. Tell me, was she also the one to teach you that tongue trick?"

Lae'zel clapped her hands over Xan's ears and glared at the two bickering.

"Rolling one's 'r' is an essential part of wizardry, even first years at Blackstaff could tell you that enunciation is vital in spellwork. But see? This is exactly what I'm trying to say. You won't get my mother's blessing, she's very much a woman of her generation."

"You forget how old I am, dear. Trust me, I know how these things go, you'll be betrothed to me by the end of the night."

Perhaps it wasn't the most romantic of proposals but then again anyone who knew Astarion would have thought Orin was back if he suddenly got all sappy. Even Gale's determination to have his mother's blessing was expected too. The most surprising part of the whole thing was that Gale and Astarion were actually still together. Maybe it shouldn't have been such a curiosity, Gale was loyal to a fault and Astarion was not in the habit of letting go of good things he could sink his claws into.

Any further bickering was cut short by the arrival of none other than Morena Dekarios. She greeted her son with a sturdy hug before giving Astarion the same treatment.

"It's good to finally meet the one my son has been so besotted with."

"The honour is all mine," Astarion drawled and took Morena's hand in his, kissing the back of it. "Though I believe we have another matter to discuss. In exchange for Gale's hand in marriage I can give you four hens, two geese, an ox and a piglet."

"Astarion!" Gale half hissed half yelped. All eyes and ears were on them.

"Hush dear, it's okay, you're worth it. And I won't even ask for proof of your virginity. That's a little too old fashioned for me. What do you say, Morena? May I take Gale as mine?"

A titter of laughter was the first reply before Morena hid her grin behind a hand.

"Oh dear. You're rather serious, aren't you?"

"I can make it two piglets if you insist." Astarion gave a wry smile and eyed Gale before turning back to Morena. "You drive a hard bargain but you're right, if I could, I'd offer the world to you for his hand."

Morena patted Astarion's arm, eyes soft.

"That's all I need to hear, dear. And why don't you keep your menagerie for the start of your married life? The youth need all the help they can get in this day and age. Just ask Gale if he'll say yes, you have my blessing."

Eyebrow raised, Astarion turned to Gale.

"Well?"

"Of course I'll marry you. Even if you have some strange ideas sometimes."

"Excellent." The cocksureness melted from Astarion and he looked sheepish. "I don't suppose you know what to do with some hens, geese, an ox and a couple of piglets, do you?"

[aquagirl1978]

Hello, aqua! May I please have chevalier and "cupping his cheeks and calling him cute"? I want to see his reaction :)

Thanks!

Hi anon - thank you for this request. I am always happy to write my favorite

The Exchange

A/N: Part of my Naughty or Nice event Pairing: Chevalier Michel x Reader Prompt: cupping his cheeks and calling him cute Word count: 1071 Tags: fluff

It was just another day in the office of the foreign affairs faction – Chevalier was seated regally at his desk, quill in hand, while Nokto, who was seated nearby, was reviewing trade agreements. Clavis was off somewhere, presumably the garden with Cyran digging traps. Luke was likely napping in the gardens, a menagerie gathering on his sleeping body.

You had just returned after visiting Sariel’s office, arms ladened with papers the king needed to sign. Chevalier looked up, his gaze softening upon seeing you, his smile gentle as you approached his desk. His eyes never left yours as you placed the stack of papers on his desk, waiting for you to take your seat next to him at his desk.

You worked seamlessly as a pair, barely a word needed as you pointed with a fingertip where he needed to sign. He quickly scanned the documents placed before him, pleased with your diligence in reviewing them. He’d then silently pass the documents back to you, his gloved thumb barely grazing the back of your hand.

“King Highness, the Jadean delegation will be here in a few days. Prince Keith will be arriving with them.”

“I’m aware,” Chevalier replied, his gaze fixed on the paperwork before him. Nokto sauntered over, winking at you as he leaned against his brother’s desk. 

“Then you know they will be looking for…”

“Yes, I know,” he said with a sigh, setting down his quill. His eyes flicked up, blue meeting red. “If they want me to entertain their demands…” he added with a wicked smirk.

“How’s three?” Nokto asked with a tilt of his head.

For all his frivolity, Nokto was quite adept not only at his job but handling Chevalier. While the king of Rhodolite was notoriously stubborn, known for not doing a single thing he didn’t want to, it was a poorly kept secret that he could be bribed – with books – to do those things he didn’t particularly want to do.

You watched your love, waiting with bated breath for his reaction.

“Four,” he replied, his gaze averted. “They still owe me one from the last time Prince Keith was here.”

*******

A few days later….

It was already dark when there was a knock at the door to the office. You glanced at Chevalier, the only other person in the room with you, wondering who it could be at this hour.

Rising from your seat, you walked around the desk and opened the heavy door. “Prince Keith, what a pleasant surprise,” you greeted, inviting him to enter.

The tall man bowed his head. “Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty,” Keith said, “but I just ran into Prince Nokto who reminded me of something.”

“Yes?” Chevalier asked, resting his chin in his hand.

Keith approached his desk, his long legs swiftly taking him there; the moment Chevalier saw the books Keith was carrying, a soft smile spread on his lips as his gaze lingered on the treasure Keith was holding.

Leaning against the wall, you quietly observed Chevalier, your gaze never leaving his.

“On behalf of Jade, I’d like to request an audience with Your Majesty…” Keith stood tall before the king, a slight tremor in his hands as he gently held the books. 

Chevalier waved a hand, his gaze fixed on the leather-bound volumes cradled in Keith’s hands.

“There’s five,” the king said softly.

“My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty. I brought an extra since I was so delinquent in getting you that book you requested on my last visit here. I am so sorry,” Keith replied. “May I?” he asked, seeking permission to place the books on the desk. Chevalier nodded, his gaze still on the books. “This one,” Keith said, proudly pointing to the book on top, “was recommended to me by my friend, Maeve. I hope you like it as much as we did.”

Chevalier steepled his fingers, silent in thought. “The others, they’re all by the same author.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Sonia is my friend, she is quite the popular author in Jade and I thought –.”

“Your friend?” Chevalier interrupted, eyes widening.

“Yes, I feel like I’ve known Sonia forever. She’s always wanted to visit Rhodolite. If she ever does get to travel here, I could arrange for you to meet her.” Keith stopped, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I’m being far too presumptive…”

“I’d like that,” Chevalier said simply. “I’ll meet with you and your delegation tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thank you,” Keith mumbled while bowing his head, somewhat stunned things worked out as easily as Nokto had told him. “Thank you again for your graciousness.” Keith, head still bowed, bumped into a chair behind him. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the chair before escorting himself from the office.

As soon as the door closed, and with a bright smile, you made your way over to Chevalier’s desk. You didn’t wait to be invited; you took it upon yourself to sit on the king’s lap. Cupping his cheeks, you tilted his face towards yours.

“You’re so cute when you get excited. Like when you see books.”

Chevalier scoffed,  his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I get excited with you.”

Your cheeks flushed with warmth. “That’s not the same,” you said softly, slowly stroking his cheek with the pad of your thumb. “ It’s different when you see new books. Your eyes sparkle and your face lights up like a child on Christmas morning.” 

“It’s a rare joy I don’t often see you express,” you continued, tracing his lips with your fingertip, “but one that I carve into my heart every time I bear witness to it.”

“Are you done yet?” he asked with a laugh. The corners of his lips twitched, curling into a smile, while his gaze drifted towards the pile of books lying on his desk. Your hands fell from his face and settled on his shoulders, his quickened pulse easily felt by your fingertips grazing his neck. 

Leaning closer, you tilted your face so you could whisper into his ear. “I know you’re itching to read those books. Let’s retire to your room.”

Your words – or perhaps it was your warm breath on his skin – caught his attention. He wrapped a clumsy hand in your hair, pulling you close for a kiss. 

“After I’ve had my fill of my books,” he whispered between kisses, “I’m devouring you next.”

His ice blue eyes warming as he gazed into your eyes. 

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