#maybe people don't care whether i tag them or not and even just worrying about it is silly. oh well! i will carry on regardless

[anonyanonymouse]

🙈

[neverendingford]

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[incomprehensi-bull]

okay so i've had a bare-bones kofi made and ready sitting in my pocket for a little bit now. would anyone be interested if i did a paid sketch request type thing? take it for a little test drive before i try doing anything big kinda thing?

[lilmisshellfireswritingblog]

The Prophecy Chapter 2: Even Statues Crumble

Summary: Aurelia prepares for her wedding to Lucius Verus and marries him to save her own life.

A/N: Thank you for reading this little idea of mine. It literally came to me as I was listening to The Prophecy in the car on the way to work. If you have any requests as to like blurbs or one shots that happen within this universe, please let me know. I also don't do tag lists but, I appreciate the support! Warnings: 18+, arranged marriage, forced marriage, talks of death, second guessing, weddings, Geta being an a-hole, use of flashbacks, talking about wanting to die, emotions., and as always, let me know if I missed any.

Flashbacks are labeled as such.

Separator banner credit to: sweetmelodygraphics.

Aurelia’s gaze flitted to the reflection of the gown on the bed, her heart sinking. The fabric seemed to mock her. Every thread, every seam, a reminder of the future she never wanted. She felt suffocated by her obligations—by the weight of what was expected of her. Her father, her mother, the Senate, the people—they had all decided for her. They had all played their parts in crafting her destiny, and now she was nothing more than a pawn in a game of politics.

The door opened behind her with a soft creak, but she didn’t turn. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this—not tonight. Not before the wedding.

Her servant, Flavia, stepped in cautiously, her voice gentle as she spoke. "Your Highness, everything is prepared. The gown... the feast… everything is ready for tomorrow.."

Aurelia stood still for a long moment, her hands gripping the windowsill. The breeze from the open window fluttered her hair around her face, but she didn’t feel the coolness of it. She barely felt anything at all. She was numb.

“Aurelia?” Flavia’s voice was concerned now, soft but insistent.

Aurelia slowly turned toward her, her face unreadable, her eyes tired but defiant. “You were right to be excited for me,” she said bitterly, her words sharper than she intended. "But I’m not." She felt the sting of tears rising in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She would not cry in front of anyone—not now.

Flavia hesitated, her brow furrowing with worry. “You don’t have to go through with this. You know that, right? You can—”

“No,” Aurelia interrupted sharply, stepping away from the window, her voice suddenly hoarse. “I have no choice. I am to be the Emperor’s wife, whether I want to be or not. It’s this or die.”

Her words cut through the air, thick with the weight of resignation. She hated them. She hated the fact that her life was no longer hers to control. She had no say in who she married, no say in what her future would be. Her marriage to Geta had been forced upon her, too, but at least she had known him, had grown accustomed to his cruelty. This marriage—this union with Lucius Verus—felt like a strange cruelty of its own.

Flavia opened her mouth to protest again, but Aurelia cut her off with a soft, bitter laugh.

“You don’t understand, Flavia,” she whispered, her hands trembling at her sides. “Geta and Caracalla are dead. The empire is in the hands of men who would never think twice about tearing me apart. I am a puppet. A trophy wife. Tomorrow, I’ll stand before the Senate, and they’ll pretend to care, while they all gawk at the new Empress. And Lucius…” She paused, her voice thick with disdain, “He doesn’t want me. He’s just another part of the game. Another ruler who’ll sit beside me in the throne room and we’ll both pretend to love each other.”

Flavia moved closer, placing a gentle hand on Aurelia’s arm. “He’s not like the others, Aurelia. Lucius—he’s different. He was a gladiator. He knows what it means to fight, to survive. He’s not like the men who’ve ruled before.”

Aurelia’s lips trembled at the words. She wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe that Lucius, this gladiator-turned-emperor, was different. That maybe, through some strange twist of fate, he might understand her pain. But the truth was more complicated than that.

She stepped away from Flavia’s touch, pacing slowly toward the edge of the room. Her fingers lightly brushed against the fabric of the wedding gown once more, the weight of it pulling her down. "I don’t want to marry him,” she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else. “I don’t want this life. I don’t want any of it."

The words hung in the air, thick with the despair she had not allowed herself to feel until now. There was a part of her, a small, fragile part, that wanted to scream at the heavens. Why me? Why is it always me who has to bear the weight of the empire’s cruelty?

Flavia, sensing the depth of her distress, approached her once more, her voice softer this time, filled with empathy. "You don’t have to marry him if you don’t want to. You are strong, Aurelia. You can walk away from this. There are other ways."

Aurelia looked at her, her eyes clouded with pain. “What other ways, Flavia? Do you think the Senate would let me walk away? Do you think I could just... disappear?” Her voice cracked, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, her composure shattered. "I am nothing but a political pawn in their game. If I don't marry Lucius, I’ll be executed. They’ll kill me and then they’ll put someone else on the throne."

Flavia’s heart broke at the words, but she stood still, not knowing how to comfort her. There was no escape, not really. Not for Aurelia. Not for the woman who had already lost everything.

“I have nothing,” Aurelia whispered, her voice hollow. “Nothing left. Nothing to give. Nothing to hope for. This marriage... this wedding... it’s all a lie.” 

Tears filled Aurelia’s eyes, but she quickly wiped them away, turning away from Flavia. “I wish I could die before tomorrow. Just to be free of all of this.”

Flavia’s breath hitched, panic rising in her chest. She grabbed Aurelia by the shoulders, turning her to face her. “Don’t say that, Aurelia. Don’t even think it! You’re strong. You have so much to live for.”

Aurelia pulled away gently, her voice strained and broken. “What do I have to live for? This empire? This crown?” She gestured helplessly to the room, to the gown she would wear tomorrow, to the life that awaited her. “I never asked for any of this. I didn’t want this.”

She sank into a chair, her head buried in her hands as she trembled. Flavia stood helplessly nearby, watching the woman she had served for so long unravel before her eyes.

And for a moment, the silence between them was unbearable, filled only with the weight of unspoken sorrow.

Aurelia’s thoughts were a whirl of darkness and pain but in the quiet, with the wedding gown looming in the distance, she knew—deep down—that she had to keep moving forward, whether she wanted to or not.

It was marriage or death.

For tomorrow, whether she accepted it or not, she would marry Lucius Verus and she would be Empress once more. 

Flashback ~ Before Her Marriage to Geta

The night before her wedding to Emperor Geta, Aurelia lay in her bed, the cool sheets tangled around her legs, but it was the storm in her mind that kept her awake. She stared up at the high, vaulted ceiling, the shadows of the room stretching long and dark, as if the very walls were closing in on her.

She had barely eaten at dinner. She had hardly spoken. The weight of the marriage, of the future that awaited her, hung like a shroud. Tomorrow, she would walk down the aisle in a gown of white and gold, and before the Senate and the people of Rome, she would become Empress Aurelia, the wife of a man she barely knew, a man she had been told to marry to secure her family's place in the empire.

But Aurelia did not want this. Not this life. Not with him. She never wanted the titles or the riches.

A thousand thoughts raced through her mind, but one was clear: she could not go through with it. She would not. If there was any way to escape, to avoid this fate, she would find it. She had to.

She slipped out of bed, her bare feet cold against the marble floor. She had worn the finest silken gown, but now she felt it like a weight—a symbol of the chains that bound her to this life she had not chosen. Moving quickly, she crept to the door, her heart hammering in her chest. The guards would be outside, she knew. They always were. But what if she could slip past them? What if she could leave the palace unnoticed?

Aurelia moved silently through the darkened corridors, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she pressed herself into the shadows, listening carefully for any signs of movement. The stone walls of the palace seemed oppressive in their silence, like the very architecture was conspiring against her.

She reached the door that led to the garden, the place where she used to play as a child, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like a distant memory. The scent of roses filled the air, the sound of the night insects buzzing faintly in the distance. She stepped outside, the cool night air hitting her skin, and felt a fleeting sense of freedom.

But just as she began to move toward the edge of the gardens, a voice sliced through the silence.

“Aurelia.”

Her heart leapt into her throat. She froze. Slowly, she turned to find Marcus Cassius, her father, standing in the shadows, his face unreadable but stern. He had been watching her. Of course he had. The guards would never have let her slip by without reporting it.

“You should be in bed,” he said, his voice soft but firm, like the press of a blade against her throat.

“I—” Aurelia began, but her words faltered. She had no excuse. No lie would work.

She was tired of lying.

“I can’t do this, Father,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can’t marry him. I can’t marry Geta.”

Marcus took a slow step forward, his face illuminated by the moonlight, and Aurelia saw the flicker of something in his eyes—concern, perhaps, or disappointment. It was hard to tell. His features were always so controlled.

“I know this isn’t what you want,” he said, his tone gentle, but there was an undercurrent of something darker, something unyielding. “But it is what you must do.”

Aurelia’s chest tightened, her breath coming faster as the weight of his words crushed her. “I don’t care about what I must do!” she snapped, her voice rising. “I care about what I want, what I need. And I need to be free. Free from this. I don’t belong with Geta. I don’t love him. How can you ask me to marry a man I barely know, someone I’ve heard only whispers of? How can you force me into this life?”

Her father’s eyes softened, but the hardness in his face never wavered. “It’s not about love, Aurelia,” he said, his voice almost too calm. “This is about Rome. This is about securing the future of our family. Your marriage to Geta will ensure that we remain in power, that our name remains in the annals of history. You were born to be a part of this.”

Aurelia stepped back, shaking her head in disbelief. “I never asked for this. You’ve always made choices for me, Father, but I’m not a child anymore. I’m not some pawn for you to place in a marriage bed just to secure alliances. I want my own life. I want to choose my own path.”

Marcus’s gaze hardened, his jaw tightening. “You’ve never had a choice, Aurelia. You’ve always known that. The empire does not offer choice to women like you. You are a Cassia, and that means you have a duty. Do you think your mother didn’t know this when she married me? Do you think she didn’t understand that duty? That she didn’t make sacrifices for it?”

Aurelia recoiled, her breath catching in her throat. She had never heard her father speak of her mother with such coldness. It was as if the warmth of her mother’s memory—of her kindness and devotion—was gone, swept away by the weight of duty and power.

“I don’t want to be like her,” Aurelia said, her voice barely above a whisper, her hands trembling at her sides. “I don’t want to give up everything for the empire. I don’t want to be controlled.”

Her father’s expression faltered, just for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. “You have no choice. Neither does Geta. The Senate has already approved this marriage. The people will expect it. If you do not comply, there will be consequences for us both.”

Aurelia’s world felt like it was collapsing around her. The walls of the palace, the stone and marble, seemed to close in on her, suffocating her. “I don’t care about their consequences!” she cried, her voice breaking, but even as she said it, she knew she was lying. She cared about the consequences—she cared deeply. A refusal would mean disgrace, dishonor, and ruin for her family. And for herself.

“You must go through with it,” Marcus said quietly, his voice final. “You will meet Geta tomorrow. You will marry him. And you will do it for Rome. For us. For your future.”

Aurelia’s knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the stone bench in the garden, her hands pressing against her face. The tears she had been holding back for so long finally spilled over, and for the first time in years, she felt utterly, completely powerless.

Her father’s gaze lingered on her, but there was no sympathy in it. Only the cold, unyielding expectation of a Roman nobleman.

“You will learn to accept it,” he said quietly, before turning and walking back toward the palace.

Aurelia was left alone, the sound of his footsteps fading as the weight of her reality set in. She could run. She could scream. But she knew, deep down, that there was no escape. Not for her. Not from the life her father had chosen for her.

Aurelia stood in front of the full-length mirror, her reflection hazy in the soft light of the candle-lit chamber. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the silk robe that clung to her skin. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional clink of jewelry being prepared by her attendants. The noise from outside—laughter, music, the murmur of the Senate gathering for the ceremony—seemed distant, almost foreign to her in this moment of solitude.

Her wedding day. It should have been a day of joy, of hope for a future that could be built in the light of love and partnership. But for her, it felt like the closing of a door she had never intended to open.

The door to the chamber opened slowly, and one of her handmaidens entered, holding the delicate wedding gown in her arms. Aurelia’s eyes flickered toward it for a moment before returning to her own reflection. The gown was a brilliant red, trimmed with gold thread, the fabric soft and weightless like a dream. The delicate embroidery along the hem and neckline sparkled faintly in the light—symbols of Rome's glory, of the empire's future that was now her responsibility, and her burden.

"Aurelia?" The handmaid's voice was gentle, tentative, as if unsure whether to interrupt her mistress's thoughts.

Aurelia turned, giving her a tight, thin-lipped smile. "Yes, Flavia?"

"The gown is ready to don, Empress. Shall I help you?" The woman’s gaze was respectful, but there was something else there too—a flicker of sympathy that Aurelia couldn’t bear to acknowledge.

Aurelia swallowed the lump in her throat. She didn’t want sympathy. She didn’t want pity. She wanted to scream, to break something, to tear off this crown of thorns that Rome had placed on her head. But she did none of that. She simply nodded.

"Yes," she said softly, turning her back to the mirror so Antonia could help her slip out of the robe and into the wedding gown.

The cold air of the room pricked at her skin as she stood there, exposed, while her handmaiden adjusted the dress. The fabric felt like it was suffocating her, the layers of fine silk pressing against her ribs, wrapping around her like a prison. Every movement she made seemed to tighten the knot in her chest, that feeling of being trapped.

“Do you want to wear your crown?” Antonia asked quietly as she fastened the gown with a delicate clasp at the back.

Aurelia’s eyes closed for a moment, the thought of the crown heavy in her mind. It was an ancient piece, crafted with intricate gold filigree and precious stones, a symbol of imperial power. It had once been worn by the great empresses of Rome, and now it would sit atop her head—whether she liked it or not.

But no. Not today.

“Not yet,” Aurelia replied with a sigh, her voice flat. She didn’t need the crown to feel the weight of this marriage. The crown would only serve as a reminder of the chains that now bound her to Lucius.

The handmaiden gave a small nod and moved to prepare the rest of the ensemble. Aurelia looked back at her reflection, her eyes scanning her face, her chestnut brown hair, now expertly arranged in a complicated updo, twisted with strands of gold. The gold accents in her gown glinted, catching the light like cruel promises.

Her heart thudded in her chest. It was not fear that made her body tense, nor anxiety over the marriage itself. It was the overwhelming weight of her own complicity. She was walking into this union with her eyes wide open. She knew what this would mean for her. For her future. For her identity.

"I should be happy," she murmured to herself. "I should be proud."

But she wasn’t.

She wasn’t anything but resigned.

She had spent her life surrounded by men who used their power for their own gain—first Geta, then Father, and now Lucius. Each had taken something from her. Her love. Her trust. Her belief in what a marriage could be. Now, this marriage would be no different. Lucius was no Geta, certainly, but the coldness that resided between them was something that neither of them could escape. He may have been the son of Lucilla, the true heir to the throne, but she knew him only as a gladiator—someone who had fought his way to power, someone who had been shaped by violence and bloodshed.

The door creaked again, and another handmaiden entered, this one carrying the veil that would cover her face. Aurelia stood still as it was gently placed over her head. She let the fabric fall into place, the lace soft against her skin. It was beautiful, but suffocating.

“You look stunning, Empress,” Antonia whispered, as if her words would somehow erase the tension in the room.

Aurelia didn’t respond immediately. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, to pretend for even a moment that this day was anything other than the beginning of something that she had not chosen.

The heavy silence settled between them, the air thick with the weight of her decision. The marriage would proceed. The ceremony would go on. She would stand by Lucius’s side. She would wear the crown, and she would endure.

In a fleeting moment, as the last of the attendants left the room to give her space, Aurelia allowed herself one last thought: Perhaps, somewhere in the depths of her heart, she still longed for a different life. A life where she was not bound by duty, not made to be the symbol of an empire, not forced into a marriage for the sake of political alliances.

But as the clock ticked, the reality of her situation gripped her again, cold and unyielding.

This was not her choice. Not really.

She was an empress and empresses did not have the luxury of choice.

Aurelia stepped toward the door, the faint sound of the wedding procession echoing in the halls of the palace. She walked down the corridors, her heels clicking softly against the marble floors, her breath steady. Her hands, now trembling once more, gripped the edges of her gown. She could feel her heart race. But she kept her face neutral, resolute.

The doors to the grand hall opened, and before her, in the vastness of the room, stood Lucius—waiting for her. The air buzzed with anticipation.

And she, Aurelia, stood at the threshold, ready to step into her new life.

The price of power. The price of survival.

And, most of all, the price of being an empress.

The grand hall of the imperial palace was bathed in golden light, its columns adorned with rich purple tapestries and intricate carvings that had witnessed countless ceremonies of wealth and power. But today, this sacred space seemed to pulse with an air of something darker—something forged by the sword, blood, and vengeance.

Aurelia Carina Cassia stood near the altar, her breath shallow and her body stiff with anger, her eyes dark and haunted as she gazed out over the sea of guests. Senators, generals, and various figures of power from across the Empire filled the space, their murmurs low and expectant. It was meant to be a celebration of Rome’s new era, but for her, it felt like a bitter mockery.

Her heart still ached for Geta, her late husband. Cruel though he had been, she had found a way to love him—a love that had never been returned but existed all the same. Now, the man who had taken his place as Emperor, Lucius Verus, stood in front of her.

Lucius Verus. He was unlike anything she had imagined. A gladiator. A slave. And yet, he bore the blood of the true Imperial line. He was her captor and her future husband, thrust into this role by the whims of power. He had murdered Macrinus, the usurper who had orchestrated the deaths of her first husband and his brother Caracalla, but in his victory, there was no joy—only a quiet fury that matched her own.

He stood tall and commanding, his piercing blue eyes scanning her face with an intensity that unsettled her. He was dressed in the traditional garb of an emperor, but his bearing—the broad shoulders, the ruggedness, the battle-worn look—betrayed his humble origins. He had spent most of his time in Rome now in the blood-soaked sands, fighting for survival, earning his freedom through the same violence that had stolen his childhood.

He was, in a sense, a mirror to her own loss. She, too, had been forced to survive in a world she could never control.

And now they were to be joined in marriage, a union that was born not of love, but of survival.

The officiant, a high-ranking priestess, gestured for them to stand at the center of the room, her voice smooth and practiced as she spoke the traditional words of union. Her gaze flickered between the two, noting the tension in their posture, the unwillingness that clung to them like a dark cloud.

Aurelia’s hands trembled as she reached out to take the hand of her new husband. His palm was rough and calloused, the grip firm but not comforting. She could feel the history of his life in his touch—years of hardship, bloodshed, and struggle. His thumb brushed against the back of her hand in a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture, but it was enough to remind her that despite all that had happened, they were bound by something now. A shared future of power, of control, and of the very Empire that had destroyed their lives.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she nodded, the ceremony continuing in its formalities, yet her mind was far from the words being spoken. She thought of the fateful choice she had been given: marry Lucius Verus or face execution. It was a choice she had made out of necessity, but every fiber of her being screamed in defiance. She had loved Geta, and in that love, she had found a strange semblance of purpose, even if it had been a hollow one. Now, that love had been torn from her, and she was left with a man she neither knew nor cared to know.

Lucius, for his part, said nothing. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something that mirrored her own anger. Perhaps it was the knowledge that neither of them had been given the luxury of choice, that their fates had been decided by forces greater than themselves.

The priestess continued with the vows, each word falling like the sound of a hammer on stone. As Lucius Verus spoke his vows, his voice was steady, though there was a quiet intensity beneath it, as if he were speaking not just to Aurelia but to the Empire itself, declaring his authority, his claim to this throne. He had killed Macrinus for the very right to stand where he was now. And she was his symbol of legitimacy, the last link to the imperial bloodline of the old regime.

Her turn came, and for a moment, she hesitated. The weight of what this marriage meant pressed down on her, the reality of her new life settling in. There was no love to offer him. No affection. Just the remnants of a broken loyalty to a man who had never truly loved her.

“I vow,” she said, her voice cold, “to stand by your side, as is my duty. I vow to give you the Empire that you now rule, for what it is worth. But know this, Lucius Verus—there will be no affection, no love between us. Only power. Only ambition.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence. The room held its breath.

Lucius’s blue eyes bored into hers, and for a long moment, she thought he might challenge her words, perhaps even reject her defiance. Instead, he simply nodded, as if he had already anticipated it.

“We will rule together,” he said, his voice steady and unwavering. “There is no room for weakness in Rome.”

And with that, the ceremony was complete.

As they turned to face the assembled guests, the crowd erupted into applause, their faces masks of politeness, their hands clapping with enthusiasm. The new emperor and his empress stood together, united in a marriage that neither had chosen but both were bound by. Aurelia could feel the coldness of her own heart as she stood there beside him, the weight of the imperial crown now heavy on her brow.

Her life, her future, was now irrevocably linked to this man, this gladiator-turned-emperor, whose blue eyes hid more secrets than she would ever be able to unravel. But as they walked down the aisle, side by side, she knew one thing for certain: in the world of power, there could be no true love. Only survival. Only Empire. Only Rome. Only duty.

Flashback ~ The Wedding To Geta

The sun was setting over Rome, casting a soft golden glow over the city that stretched out below the Palatine Hill. Aurelia stood before a tall mirror, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the folds of her wedding dress—a gown of delicate silk and rich embroidery that shimmered in the fading light. The dress, fit for an empress, was crafted from the finest materials, but it felt heavy against her skin. Every stitch, every detail, reminded her of the weight of the day, of the promise she was about to make, and the life she was about to step into.

Her reflection stared back at her, but she barely recognized the woman in the mirror. Gone was the spirited young woman she had been before her marriage was arranged. Gone was the girl who had dreamed of love and adventure. In her place stood a woman bound by duty—her fate sealed by the politics of empire, her future written in the cold, unfeeling hand of power.

Aurelia closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a steadying breath. She would have preferred to wait, to delay this moment, to take time to come to terms with the reality of her marriage. But there was no time. The people expected it. The Senate demanded it. And her father, always the pragmatist, had seen the union as an opportunity for political gain—an alliance that would strengthen the family name.

"Are you ready?" came a voice, breaking her reverie. It was her father, standing in the doorway of her chamber. His expression was unreadable, as it always was, but there was something behind his eyes—a flicker of concern, perhaps, or maybe guilt. He had done what was necessary. But Aurelia knew it had not been his choice either.

She forced a smile, the kind of smile she had perfected long ago when she was a child trying to please her father. "As ready as I’ll ever be."

Her father’s eyes softened for just a moment before he nodded. "You will be Empress. You know what that means, Aurelia. It’s a responsibility to Rome. To the future. Remember all that your mother and I have taught you."

Aurelia nodded, her throat tightening. Her future was already laid out for her, and it was not a future she had chosen. But she had always known that in the Roman world, duty outweighed personal desire. She was a woman of privilege, yes, but she was also a pawn in a game of power and politics.

The doors to the chamber opened, and Aurelia’s attendants entered, guiding her to the grand hall where the wedding would take place. The hall was massive, filled with marble columns and the scent of fresh flowers, the long tables draped in crimson cloths. Guests had already arrived, dressed in their finest to witness the union of the Emperor and the daughter of a noble family. But none of it felt real to Aurelia. It all felt distant, a pageant for the empire’s elite, a performance where she was expected to play her role.

Her heart beat in her chest, faster than it had been moments ago. Not from excitement, but from a deep, gnawing apprehension. This man— Emperor Geta—would be her husband. A man who had already shown her nothing but coldness and indifference. Their marriage, she knew, was not one built on affection or love but on the weight of imperial necessity.

As she entered the hall, she could feel the eyes of the guests on her, their gazes heavy, judging. The high-ranking senators, the nobles of Rome, all gathered to witness the consolidation of power that this marriage represented. But Aurelia’s mind was elsewhere, focused on the figure at the end of the long aisle.

Emperor Geta stood there, his back straight, his expression impassive. His dark hair was neatly combed, and his tunic was rich with gold embroidery, the imperial seal shining brightly on his chest. His eyes, dark and unreadable, met hers briefly as she walked toward him. For a moment, there was a flicker—an almost imperceptible shift in his gaze—but it was gone before Aurelia could understand it.

His presence was like a shadow, looming over her, a reminder of what was to come. He was not cruel—at least, not outwardly—but there was a coldness in him, an emotional distance that made her uneasy. The idea of this man being her husband was foreign, unsettling. And yet, as the ceremony began, she knew there was no turning back.

The high priest stepped forward, his voice solemn as he began the traditional rites. Aurelia’s gaze remained fixed on Geta, but he was unmoved. His lips were set in a firm line, his expression a mask of indifference. He did not seem to care for the ceremony, nor did he seem to care for her.

"Do you, Emperor Geta, take Aurelia Carina Cassia to be your wife, to rule beside you in both marriage and in empire, in joy and in hardship, in life and in death?" the priest asked.

Geta’s voice was low, almost detached. "I do."

Aurelia’s heart skipped a beat. He spoke the words with no passion, no conviction, as though the act was nothing more than a formality to be checked off the list. A formality for the empire.

Then it was her turn.

"Aurelia Carina Cassia," the priest said, turning his gaze to her. "Do you take Emperor Geta, to be your husband, to join with him in marriage, in rule, in life, and in death?"

Her lips parted, but for a long moment, no sound came out. Her mind swirled with conflicting thoughts—fear, doubt, and resignation. She had no choice. There was no turning back. The empire was watching her.

"I do," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.

The ceremony continued, the exchange of vows, the binding of rings, the symbolic gestures of unity. But even as the final prayers were spoken and the crowd cheered, Aurelia felt nothing but an overwhelming sense of emptiness. She was a wife, yes, but not in the way she had imagined. She was a wife in name, a wife to a man who would never truly love her.

As the final blessing was given, Geta turned to her, offering her his arm as he led her from the altar. His eyes met hers for a moment, and in the fleeting seconds, Aurelia saw something there—something cold, something distant. But she couldn’t place it. She wasn’t sure if it was pity, disdain, or something else entirely. But it didn’t matter.

They were married now. The empire will have its heirs. The empire had its future.

They walked together, side by side, but it felt as though they were walking in separate worlds, worlds that had collided for the sake of duty, of power, of an empire that demanded much and offered little in return.

As Aurelia took her place at his side, she couldn’t help but wonder what the future would hold for her in this cold, loveless marriage. Would she ever find warmth in his eyes? Or would she forever remain a figure beside him, a silent witness to the empire’s unyielding march?

In the end, she knew one thing for certain: the wedding had been the beginning of a new life, but it had not been the beginning of love.

The grand dining hall of the imperial palace was a breathtaking sight, adorned with lavish tapestries depicting the heroic deeds of the emperor's past. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, honeyed wine, and exotic spices, while gilded chandeliers cast their warm glow over the guests, whose laughter and chatter echoed off the marble walls. The feast had begun in earnest, but for Aurelia, it felt like an insufferable pageantry, an endless display of opulence that was as hollow as her own heart.

The high table, where she and Lucius Verus now sat side by side, was elevated above the sea of guests, an uncomfortable reminder of the power that now bound them together. At one end of the table sat the new Emperor of Rome, his piercing blue eyes cold and distant, as if he were already surveying the entire Empire with an authority that didn’t need to be spoken. At the other end, Aurelia sat stiffly, her hands clenched in her lap beneath the rich folds of her gown, unable to fully appreciate the luxury that surrounded her. She had been made Empress again, yes, but it was a title that seemed to mock her more than anything else. She had no love for Lucius Verus—her husband only in name—yet here she was, forced to play the part, to smile and pretend that this was all as it should be.

Her gown shimmered beneath the flickering candlelight. It was the color of Rome’s old blood—the blood of emperors, of gladiators, and of countless men and women who had fought for survival. She hated the irony of it all.

Lucius, for his part, barely spoke. His jaw was set, his expression unreadable. He lifted his goblet of wine to his lips and took a long drink, his eyes briefly meeting hers, but only for a second. The tension between them was palpable, like an invisible thread pulling them further apart with every passing moment.

The servants moved around the table with practiced efficiency, placing golden platters of roasted boar, venison, and lamb, their skins crackling with crisp fat, alongside bowls of fresh fruits—pomegranates, figs, and clusters of grapes—and loaves of freshly baked bread. An assortment of cheeses and honeyed pastries were brought in, and the scent of wine—sweet, tart, and heady—filled the air. Flutists played softly in the background, and a troupe of dancers from the East began a slow, sensuous dance, their silks flowing as they moved in perfect harmony with the music.

But despite the abundance of food and drink, despite the spectacle unfolding before her, Aurelia could not enjoy a single moment. Her mind swam with bitter thoughts: memories of Geta, the brutal coldness of his reign, his violence—yet, within that cruelty, she had found something to hold on to, something that had made him hers, even if only in the darkest corners of her heart.

She was brought back to the present by a low voice beside her.

"Not hungry?" Lucius Verus’s voice was quieter than before, his words heavy with something unreadable. It was not a question of concern, but one of curiosity, or perhaps challenge.

Aurelia turned toward him, meeting his gaze. His blue eyes were sharp and intent, as though he were studying her, as though she were the next opponent to be defeated in his personal arena.

"I’m not hungry," she replied, her voice cool, and for a moment, their eyes locked, the silence between them thick and heavy.

Lucius’s lips tightened, though it wasn’t in anger. It was more a quiet acknowledgment of the tension between them. He turned his gaze back to the feast and picked up a roasted fig, placing it delicately in his mouth. There was something almost calculated about his movements, as if every action were part of a larger strategy.

Around them, the feast continued with laughter and revelry. A senator cracked a joke, a group of soldiers clinked their goblets together in a celebratory toast, and a young noblewoman tried to engage Lucius in conversation about the new laws he would enact. Yet, despite the outward merriment, there was an underlying current of unease. The guests were not so naïve as to ignore the strange and uneasy marriage that had just been sealed in the hall behind them.

Lucius shifted slightly in his seat, as though feeling the weight of the eyes that turned toward him.

"You don’t have to pretend," he said, breaking the silence again, his voice low and almost resigned. "I know why you’re here. You don’t have to like it."

Aurelia’s lips tightened at his words, but there was no anger in them. It was merely truth, blunt and direct, as always. She looked down at her hands, unwilling to meet his gaze again.

"I don’t pretend," she replied softly, though she knew the truth of her own hypocrisy. She was pretending, of course. Pretending that she didn’t care. Pretending that this was all something she could endure.

"Then why sit through this?" Lucius asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why endure this charade?"

Aurelia raised her eyes to his once more, meeting his gaze squarely. For a moment, she wanted to say because it’s all I have left, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she said only, “Because I have no choice, just as you have no choice.”

For a heartbeat, Lucius said nothing. He stared at her, as though seeing her for the first time—truly seeing her. His gaze was piercing, intense, yet something flickered in those deep blue eyes. Perhaps it was understanding, perhaps it was something more, but Aurelia could not bring herself to interpret it.

A loud cheer broke the silence, and Aurelia turned toward the noise. The guests were raising their cups in a toast, celebrating the new Emperor and Empress, raising their voices in the name of Roman glory. It was an exultant sound, but it grated on her nerves, like the clanging of swords against stone.

"To Lucius Verus, Emperor of Rome!" a voice cried from the crowd.

"And to Aurelia Carina Cassia, Empress of Rome!" another echoed.

The room erupted in applause, and for a moment, the noise drowned out everything else. Aurelia didn’t raise her glass. Instead, she simply sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her thoughts swirling in dark circles.

Lucius raised his goblet, the flickering light from the candles catching in the deep blue of his eyes, but he did not look at her when he spoke.

"To Rome," he said simply, his voice carrying authority that silenced even the loudest of voices.

The crowd echoed his words, and for the briefest of moments, Aurelia felt the weight of the empire—its triumphs, its cruelties, and its endless hunger for power. It was the weight she had inherited, and it was a weight that would forever bind her to Lucius Verus.

For better or for worse, she was now his. And he was hers.

The feast continued around them, but for both of them, it had already ended. 

The grand banquet hall was alive with the sounds of music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets, but amid the festivity, there was a tension that seemed to weave itself into the very air. The feast had stretched on for hours, but now the guests were beginning to murmur in anticipation as the next part of the evening approached. The moment that every wedding in Rome demanded—the first dance.

Aurelia Carina Cassia stood frozen at the edge of the hall, her gown heavy around her, the rich crimson fabric swishing as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She could feel the weight of every eye in the room, the glances that flicked between her and Lucius Verus, the new Emperor of Rome, her husband by forced choice. He was already standing at the center of the room, his posture perfect, his jaw set in that all-too-familiar way of someone who had long since learned to suppress any sign of weakness.

They were supposed to dance. They were supposed to take the center of the room and spin in graceful circles, the crowd watching and applauding as if this were a storybook wedding. But Aurelia didn’t feel like a princess or a queen. She felt like a prisoner.

Her eyes flicked nervously to the musicians at the far end of the room, their instruments ready, their gazes expectant. They were waiting for her to take the first step, to move toward Lucius and begin the ritual. Her chest tightened with the weight of it. She couldn’t do this. Not with him. Not when every inch of her body wanted to scream in defiance.

Lucius turned toward her, his gaze cool but unreadable, like a glacier that had been worn smooth by the passage of time. He was not nervous. Of course, he wasn’t. A gladiator, a warrior forged in blood, who had danced with death more times than he could count. What was a simple waltz to a man who had survived arenas and emperors’ plots?

"You’re stalling," he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the growing hum of the room.

Aurelia didn’t respond immediately. She couldn’t. She simply stared at him, that same gnawing bitterness rising within her. She was trapped, caught in the unrelenting gears of this machine—this Empire, this marriage. And there was nothing she could do to escape it.

His eyes softened just the slightest bit, but it wasn’t with warmth. It was a recognition of the struggle she was facing, though he would never voice it aloud. Lucius knew what it was to be trapped in chains, though his were made of blood and iron, not silk and ceremony.

When he spoke again, his words were measured, as though he were giving her a final choice.

"You don’t have to like it. But we have to do this, for Rome." His words weren’t a command; they were simply a fact, one that neither of them could escape.

Aurelia took a sharp breath and glanced back at the crowd. She could feel their eyes on her, the heat of their stares burning into her skin. They were waiting for their Empress to play her part, to show the world that Rome was strong, unified under the rule of its new Emperor. She had no choice. She could feel the weight of it in the pit of her stomach.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back, trying to summon whatever dignity she had left, and began to walk toward Lucius. Each step felt like an eternity. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor, the sound strangely amplified in the stillness that had fallen over the room. Lucius didn’t move, didn’t step forward to meet her. He simply waited, his posture as commanding as ever.

When she reached him, there was a brief, uncomfortable pause. He regarded her with those piercing blue eyes, his expression unreadable. Aurelia wanted to say something—anything—to break the silence. To tell him that she would never be the obedient bride he expected her to be. But instead, she lifted her chin, her jaw set in defiance, and placed her hand on his shoulder, offering him the coldest, most formal smile she could muster.

Lucius’s hand slid around her waist, the touch firm but not intimate. It was a touch that spoke of duty, not desire. He began to guide her into the first slow steps of the dance, his movements practiced and smooth, as though he had done this a thousand times before. Aurelia resisted the instinct to pull away, to lash out, but it was harder than she anticipated.

The music swirled around them, the sounds of the flutes and strings filling the room with a kind of ethereal, haunting beauty. The guests began to murmur, some of them leaning in to catch a glimpse of their new rulers, while others smiled and whispered praises. Aurelia could feel their eyes, their judgments, and it made her skin crawl. This was their moment, a moment they had all been waiting for.

Lucius’s grip tightened just slightly around her waist as they moved in time with the music. The movement was mechanical, almost rehearsed. She could feel the tension between them—an invisible barrier neither of them had the will or the desire to cross. Neither of them spoke. The only sound between them was the soft rustle of her gown as they moved in an intricate, slow circle.

Aurelia’s breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t the dance itself that bothered her—it was the feeling of being so close to him, so exposed. His scent, sharp and masculine, filled her senses, and she had to fight not to recoil. The proximity, the enforced intimacy, made her stomach churn.

Lucius seemed to sense her discomfort, but he didn’t falter. Instead, he gave a small, barely perceptible nod, as though acknowledging the weight of the situation. Aurelia couldn’t tell if it was sympathy, amusement, or something else entirely.

The music shifted, becoming faster, more energetic, but still they danced—two figures moving through the motions, a king and queen of an empire built on blood, sweat, and lies. Their feet moved in perfect time, yet there was a palpable distance between them, a gulf that no amount of waltzing could bridge. It wasn’t the graceful, romantic affair the guests had expected. It was a dance of survival. A dance of power.

Aurelia’s mind raced with thoughts of the life she had lost, the man she had loved, and the empire that had torn it all apart. She fought the urge to pull away from Lucius, but there was no escaping this moment. They were bound by more than the silk of her gown or the glittering jewels in her hair. They were bound by the expectations of Rome, by the empire that had demanded this union, this performance.

And so they danced. Neither of them truly present, both lost in the performance. And the crowd watched, applauded, and whispered their approval, as the two of them continued the endless charade that had begun with a marriage forged in blood.

When the dance finally ended, and the last notes of the music drifted into silence, Aurelia was left breathless. Her chest rose and fell with the exertion of holding herself together, and she quickly stepped back, her hand falling from his shoulder. The applause was polite, distant, but it was nothing compared to the silence between them now.

Lucius’s eyes met hers for a brief moment, his expression unreadable. His lips parted as though he might say something, but then he simply nodded.

"Thank you," he said, his voice quiet, though the words seemed hollow to her ears.

Aurelia didn’t answer. She simply gave him a stiff nod in return, the weight of the crown upon her head heavier than ever before.

Then, she turned and walked away, the crowd parting for her like water parting for a stone, their whispers now louder, more insistent but she didn’t care. All that mattered now was the emptiness she felt inside and the weight of the empire that bound her to a man she would never love.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

*insert Elmo in flames meme*

Ahhhh! I'd be happy to give you some Ominis fic ideas 😁🩷 of course, you could just scrap this altogether but I was thinking 🤔 could we have a 7th year Ominis being able to gain financial freedom from his family because MC gave her Hogsmeade shop to him? I know a lot of people want him to escape to America but Hogsmeade just feels so cozy and perfect for him being a shopkeeper.

And MC realizing her feelings for him during one instance when she had to return to him to replenish her supplies from her travels, and maybe decides it's time to be with him? 😣💕

It's okay if you don't like this plotline but I just finished the Haunted Hogsmeade quest, and I immediately thought of Ominis being its owner!

Thank you so much!!

Threads of Fate | Ominis Gaunt x Reader

Anon, I hope this is everything you hoped for! Thank you for the request and inspiration <3 it was my absolute pleasure writing this.

Words: ~6,700

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Post Canon, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Fluff, Fluff AGAIN

“You’d think after all these years I’d be better at writing letters, but somehow, I still find myself pausing, trying to decide how to start. Then again, you always make it easier when you write first. Your last letter was… exactly what I needed. You have a knack for saying the right thing, even when you don’t realize it.”

“Anne stopped by the shop recently. She told me to stop ‘hovering like a nervous bird’ over your enchanted scarves and to start charging more for them. Apparently, she’s appointed herself my business manager, whether I wanted one or not. She also asked about you—how you’re doing, where you are, why you haven’t written her back, and, most importantly, when you’re finally coming home. I told her I didn’t know, but she was unimpressed by my answer. Honestly, I’m not impressed either.”

“Sebastian, meanwhile, has decided that I’ve become too boring for his liking. He keeps trying to convince me to pack up and visit you, as though I could just leave the shop to run itself. His words, not mine. It’s ridiculous, of course, but I wonder if there’s something to it. You’ve been gone so long now, it’s hard not to feel like there’s a part of this place missing.”

“Speaking of which—are you planning to come back anytime soon? You told me six months, and that was, what, six months ago? You’re not terrible at keeping promises, but you’re testing the limits here. I’ll forgive you if you write soon with some good news—or better yet, with the promise of coming home.”

“The shop is still standing, though I’ve made a few small changes here and there. I hope you won’t scold me when you see them. It’s funny, even when you’re not here, I find myself thinking, ‘What would she do?’ And sometimes, I swear I can hear your voice, usually chiding me for something I’ve misplaced or forgotten. I wonder—did you know, even then, how much this shop would mean to me? …Did you know how much you mean to me?”

“Take care of yourself, won’t you? Though I doubt I need to remind you. You’ve always been reckless, but you’ve never been careless. But I can’t help worrying about you—it’s impossible not to.”

“Write soon, or better yet, come home. I’d like to see you again. I’d like to… well, there’s plenty I’d like to say in person.”

Yours, always, Ominis

The letter, over a month old now, was worn at the edges, its parchment soft from being folded and unfolded too many times. Your fingers traced the familiar loops of Ominis’ handwriting, lingering over the slight smudge where his quill must have hesitated.

Even as the train carried you closer to Hogsmeade, you felt guilty. You hadn’t written back. But you hadn’t trusted yourself to put quill to parchment, not even to Anne or Sebastian, neither of whom could be trusted to keep your long awaited return a secret.

Six months. You’d promised him six months, and here you were, long past that mark. You’d wanted to return sooner—Merlin knew how much you’d wanted to—but there had always been one more ruin, one more curse to break, one more excuse to stay away.

It wasn’t just the work, though. The truth you hadn’t dared admit to yourself was that the thought of walking into Stitches and Draughts again, of seeing Ominis after all this time, terrified you. What if things had changed? What if the delicate balance of your friendship—of your stupid, traitorous feelings for him—had changed?

Merlin knew you had.

You caught your reflection in the train’s window, and for a moment, it felt like looking at a stranger. The girl you once were, the one with the boundless energy and effortless grace of youth, was nowhere to be found. Gone was the lithe figure and carefree ease that had come with an 18-year-old’s metabolism, replaced by a version of yourself you were still learning to accept. The life of a cursebreaker hadn’t been kind to your body—or your soul. Years of chasing dangerous leads, grueling physical labor, and long nights spent deciphering ancient scripts had taken their toll. Meals were often hurried, whatever you could grab between assignments, and the relentless travel left little room for rest. You were softer now, and your body bore the marks of your journey—an ache in your shoulders from carrying too much weight, faint scars from brushes with danger, and an exhaustion that felt carved into your very bones.

You turned away from the window, forcing your reflection out of sight. The sight of it only dredged up insecurities you had no business indulging—not now, not when you were so close. It was stupid to worry about it, you told yourself. What did it matter whether Ominis found you attractive? Seven years had passed. Seven years of separate lives, separate paths. You couldn’t expect him to still see you as he once might have—or to have waited for you at all.

Back then, you were just kids, after all. Even when your friendship had danced on the edge of something more, neither of you had ever been brave enough to take that final step. You thought of the moments that had felt like more—his hand brushing yours when you walked side by side, the way he’d linger in the shop late into the night, his head tilted toward you as though he could hear the shape of your smile. But those moments were fleeting, always followed by silence or a change of subject. Neither of you had ever said the words.

And now? Seven years was a long time to expect someone to wait for something that was never truly spoken aloud.

Still, the thought haunted you, gnawing at your resolve. Would he notice the changes in you? Would he care about the extra softness to your curves, the faint lines of exhaustion that hadn’t been there before? The idea that he might—that he’d look at you with anything less than the quiet warmth you remembered—made your stomach twist.

The train jolted, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts as it slowed to a screeching halt at Hogsmeade Station. The sound of the brakes, sharp and familiar, was like a spell breaking. You rose stiffly from your seat, clutching your bag as you tried to gather yourself.

The platform was just as you remembered it: bustling with witches and wizards, steam curling in the crisp air, and the faint smell of coal mingling with the fresh, wintry scent of snow. Twinkling fairy lights hung from the lampposts, casting a warm glow on the frosted cobblestones, while festive garlands of holly and enchanted mistletoe draped along the edges of the station roof. You adjusted the strap of your bag and stepped off the train, your boots crunching against the frost-dusted ground.

The walk into the village was surreal, like stepping back into a dream you hadn’t dared let yourself miss too much. The bustling streets, the cheerful glow of the shop windows, the distant chatter of students—every detail tugged at something deep inside you. It looked the same, as though no time had passed, and yet that was precisely what unsettled you.

Time had passed. Seven years, to be exact.

Seven years since you’d walked these streets as a Hogwarts student, clutching a bag of Honeydukes’ sweets or ducking into the Three Broomsticks with your friends to escape the cold. Seven years since you’d stood inside Stitches and Draughts as its owner, turning your ideas into enchanted creations, the room filled with the warmth of softly glowing candles and the sound of laughter. Seven years since you’d worked side by side with Ominis, his sharp wit cutting through Sebastian’s dramatic tales of Quidditch triumphs, all while the three of you shared late nights in the shop as though the world outside didn’t exist.

But even then, you’d known the shop wasn’t meant to be your forever.

The decision to give it to Ominis had come in the quiet months of your seventh year, after countless conversations where he’d confided in you about his family, his fears, and the cage he felt he could never escape. You’d listened as he spoke of the suffocating expectations of the Gaunt name, how every aspect of his life had been dictated by tradition and duty.

And money.

It wasn’t fair. Ominis deserved more than that. Far, far more.

Your Ominis deserved everything.

The idea had taken root during one of those late nights in the shop. He’d been helping you charm a batch of scarves to repel rain when you’d caught him standing at the counter, running his hands over the worn wood. There’d been a wistful look on his face, one that had stayed with you long after the candles were extinguished and the shop had gone dark.

By the time graduation loomed, the decision felt inevitable.

You still remembered the day you handed him the deed, the way his pale fingers trembled as he unrolled the parchment. His expression had been unreadable at first, his face carefully composed as he scanned the document.

“What is this?” he’d asked, his voice low and wary.

“It’s yours,” you’d replied, keeping your tone light even as your heart pounded. “The shop. Everything in it. Consider it a… graduation gift.”

The silence that followed had been deafening. Ominis had stared at you, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“You can’t be serious,” he’d said finally. “This is yours. Your work. You can’t just—”

“I can,” you’d interrupted, placing a hand over his. “And I am. You’re the only one I trust to take care of it. To make it more than I ever could.”

He’d tried to argue, of course. Ominis always argued. But you’d stood your ground, knowing in your heart it was the right choice.

“It’s not just about the shop,” you’d said softly, looking into his unseeing eyes. “It’s... about giving you a way out. A chance to build something that’s yours—not theirs.”

That had silenced him.

He’d accepted the deed reluctantly, his gratitude laced with disbelief. And though you hadn’t admitted it aloud, you’d known you were giving him more than just the shop. More than just securing his freedom. You were giving him a part of yourself, a way to stay connected even when you left.

And now, as Christmas loomed all these years later, your legs carried you through the village, back to that very same place. You were almost on autopilot, even as your heart pounded erratically in your chest with every step that brought you closer to the shop. Around you, the village bustled with holiday cheer, but all of it faded into the background, a distant hum drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat.

And then you were there.

And Stitches and Draughts looked beautiful.

The building had been freshly painted, its trim gleaming with a soft, snowy white that contrasted perfectly with the deep emerald of the shop’s sign—still the same one you’d painted years ago, but lovingly restored. The doorframe was draped with enchanted holly garlands, the bright red berries twinkling like tiny stars. The windows sparkled in the glow of lights strung carefully along the eaves, and the front display was nothing short of magical.

Inside the glass, enchanted scarves floated gracefully in midair, their threads shimmering with subtle, festive embroidery—snowflakes that danced along the hems, holly leaves that twisted and turned like they were caught in a gentle breeze. Beside them, self-heating gloves sat arranged in neat little bundles, their tags tied with golden ribbons that seemed to hum faintly with charmwork.

It was perfect. Too perfect. And the sight of it, so familiar and yet so undeniably different, had your heart aching in your chest. This wasn’t just a shop anymore—it was his shop. Every detail spoke of Ominis’ care, his precision, his thoughtfulness. He’d taken what you’d built and turned it into something so much more.

Your grip tightened on the strap of your bag as your eyes flicked between the display and the freshly polished door handle. The urge to turn and flee surged through you, but your feet remained rooted to the spot. You’d faced cursed ruins, ancient traps, and magic designed to kill, but nothing—nothing—had ever felt as daunting as the prospect of walking through that door.

Would he even want to see you? Would he welcome you after all this time, after the months of silence and unfulfilled promises? Or had the years widened the distance between you too far to bridge?

The bell above the door jingled as someone exited the shop, their arms laden with carefully wrapped packages. They offered you a polite smile as they passed, but you barely noticed, your gaze fixed on the door that had swung closed behind them.

Your legs felt heavy as you took a hesitant step forward. Then another.

With a deep, unsteady exhale, you pushed the door open, the familiar chime of the bells above echoing like a memory brought to life.

The warmth of the shop enveloped you immediately, the scent of cedar and lavender mingling with something faintly sweet—probably from a batch of enchanted candles near the counter. Shelves lined the walls, filled with bolts of fabric, potion bottles, and racks of neatly displayed scarves and gloves. The hum of magic thrummed softly in the air, a comforting, familiar sound.

But none of it mattered, not really.

Your eyes were drawn to the figure standing behind the counter, his back to you, the blond of his hair catching the golden light.

"Be with you in a moment," he said, his voice smooth and warm, but it hit you like a jolt of lightning.

It had been so long—too long—since you’d last heard his voice, and even now, it was exactly as you remembered, richer with age but still undeniably Ominis. It overwhelmed you, the weight of it pressing down on the breath you tried to draw, stealing the words you’d thought you’d prepared.

And then he turned.

The sight of him was truly your undoing.

Ominis was taller than you remembered, his frame lean but strong, elegant but unyielding. He was wearing a soft sweater in a deep charcoal gray, the fabric snug across his broad shoulders and loose around his narrow waist, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the sharp angles of his wrists and the pale skin of his forearms. His blond hair, a touch longer than it had been when you’d last seen him, was still combed back, though a strand at the front had fallen to rest against the curve of his face.

Time had only refined the sharpness of his cheekbones and the strong, angular line of his jaw. His features were striking in a way that felt almost unfair, the kind of beauty that drew the eye and held it captive.

And yet, there was something softer about him, too—something that hadn’t been there before. The rigid tension that had so often defined him in your Hogwarts years seemed less pronounced, replaced by a quiet ease as he worked. He looked… content.

It was too much.

You’d imagined this reunion a hundred different ways, but none of them had accounted for the way it would feel to see him again, to hear his voice, to stand so close and yet feel the weight of all the time and space that had separated you.

“My apologies for the delay. Welcome to Stitches and Draughts,” he said, his tone polite and practiced, yet warm in a way that made your chest ache. He tilted his head slightly, as though listening more intently. “What can I help you with today?”

The words hung in the air, impossibly ordinary for a moment that felt anything but.

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. All the carefully rehearsed greetings, the lighthearted explanations you’d planned for why it had taken so long to return, evaporated.

Your silence stretched just a second too long, and you saw the faint furrow of his brow, the slight tilt of his head as he picked up on your hesitation.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice softening, concern creeping into his tone.

That was what finally broke you.

“Ominis,” you managed, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to steady it.

His lips parted as though to say something, but no words came, and his sightless eyes, usually so calm and focused, seemed to search for you in the space between.

“Is it—” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling at the edges. “Is… it really you?”

Tears pricked at your eyes, hot and relentless. You nodded before realizing he couldn’t see the gesture.

“It’s me,” you managed.

Ominis moved before you could register it, stepping out from behind the counter with a swiftness that made your breath catch. “You’re here,” he murmured, his voice filled with something close to wonder. “You’re actually here. But you… you didn’t write back. I thought—”

“I know,” you said quickly, guilt flooding your chest. “I’m sorry, Ominis. I—” Your voice faltered. How could you possibly explain everything? The silence, the distance, the fear?

Before you could try, Ominis closed the gap between you. His hands reached out, tentatively searching, as though he were afraid to reach out and find nothing there. When his fingers brushed against your sleeve, he inhaled sharply, and then his hands moved upward, settling on your shoulders.

You watched as his expression crumbled. The carefully constructed composure he’d always worn fell away, replaced by something raw and unguarded.

“You’re home,” he said, his voice trembling. “How long have you been planning this?”

The crack in his voice broke something inside you. “I… for months,” you whispered, your own voice shaking. “I'm so sorry, it took so long—”

Your words were cut off again as Ominis pulled you into him, strong arms wrapping around you with a desperate urgency, his hands firm against your back as if he were afraid to let go, afraid you might slip away again. The suddenness of it made you stiffen, your insecurities flaring instantly to life.

He’d know.

He’d feel the difference—the softness of your curves where you’d once been lithe, the weight you carried now, both physical and emotional. The image of what you’d been years ago, the version of you he might still hold in his mind, clashed violently with the reality of who you were now.

But then there was the feel of him.

Him, warm against you, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of his characteristic cologne—it was all so achingly familiar, so Ominis, that you couldn’t bring yourself to care about the way you’d changed.

Tears spilled freely down your cheeks as you let yourself sink into his chest, your arms lifting to wrap around his waist. You clung to him, the years of distance and silence collapsing between you as if they’d never existed.

His hand moved gently, brushing over your hair in a soothing rhythm that made your heart ache. “I missed you hopelessly.” He murmured, his voice muffled by your hair

“I missed you more than anything,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to look up at him, tears still streaming freely down your cheeks. “I thought about you every day.”

Ominis pulled back slightly, his hands still resting lightly on your shoulders. His sightless eyes searched your face as though he could somehow see you, the corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest of smiles. You felt his thumb brush against your sleeve, as if he needed the tactile confirmation that you were truly there. One of his hands slid down to grasp yours, his fingers curling firmly around yours as if to anchor you both in this moment.

For a long, breathless second, neither of you spoke.

Then, without a word, Ominis turned toward the shop’s entrance, your hand still firmly in his. He moved quickly, his steps sure as he crossed the space to the door. Releasing your hand only briefly, he flipped the sign to Closed and twisted the lock with a decisive click.

“To hell with work,” he muttered under his breath, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

The words caught you off guard, pulling a startled laugh from you—a sound you hadn’t realized you’d been holding back.

When he turned back to you, his expression softened further, though there was still an edge of something you couldn’t quite name in the set of his jaw. Relief, perhaps. Or the determination of someone who wasn’t about to let this moment slip away.

“Come upstairs,” he said, his voice low and steady. “The shop can wait.”

He didn’t give you a chance to argue—not that you would have—before leading you to the small staircase tucked behind the counter. His hand stayed in yours as he guided you, his grip firm but gentle, like he was still afraid to let go.

The stairs creaked faintly under your feet as you followed Ominis into the flat above the shop. The scent of cedar lingered here too, mixed with something faintly herbal—his cologne, no doubt.

“Forgive the state of things,” he said quickly, his tone uncharacteristically self-conscious as he gestured toward the room. “I wasn’t exactly expecting... well, anyone. Least of all you.”

But as your eyes roamed the space, you couldn’t find the “mess” he spoke of. The room was tidy, cozy, and so very him. A small bookshelf stood against one wall, lined with neatly arranged tomes you recognized from your Hogwarts years, alongside a few newer additions. A comfortable-looking armchair sat in one corner, its seat draped with a soft, worn throw blanket. A half empty mug of tea sat forgotten on the small table beside it, next to what appeared to be a half-finished crossword puzzle.

There were small signs of his life everywhere: a folded sweater resting on the back of the chair, a walking stick leaning against the wall by the door, a well-cared-for violin resting in its case near the bookshelf. The window was framed by simple curtains, their edges charmed to shimmer faintly in the light, a detail that felt unmistakably him.

“It’s perfect,” you said, turning to him with a soft smile.

He let out a huff of disbelief. “Hardly. It’s small, and I wasn’t expecting guests, so it’s a bit—”

“No, really,” you insisted, stepping further into the room. “It’s... you. I mean that in the best way.”

His lips parted slightly, as though he wanted to argue, but he seemed to think better of it. Instead, his free hand gestured vaguely at the space. “I haven’t had much reason to bring anyone up here,” he admitted, his tone quieter now. “I usually keep to myself unless Sebastian or Anne drag me out for something."

You turned back to him, catching the faint blush dusting his cheeks as he moved to straighten a few items on the table near the armchair. The sight made your heart ache in the best way, the years falling away as though you’d never been apart.

“It’s nice to see you’ve kept up the crossword habit,” you teased, gesturing toward the table.

Ominis smirked, his confidence returning just enough to quip, “It’s either that or let my mind wander, and we both know that can only lead to trouble.”

You laughed, the sound light and easy, "That's true."

He gestured toward the couch near the window, its cushions plump and inviting. “Sit,” he said, his tone soft but insistent. “I'm sure you’ve been traveling all day.”

You hesitated, still standing near the door, but Ominis stepped closer, his expression gentle. “Please,” he added, his voice quieter now.

With a nod, you set your bag down near the door and crossed to the couch, sinking into its cushions. It was as comfortable as it looked, and you let out a quiet sigh as the tension in your body began to ease.

He moved toward the kitchenette. “Tea?” he asked, his head tilted slightly in your direction.

“Yes, please,” you said quickly, your voice softer than you intended.

Ominis nodded, his movements fluid and purposeful as he filled the kettle and set it on the small stove.

“I’ve got chamomile, mint, and… some Earl Grey that Sebastian swore I’d love but tastes like someone soaked socks in bergamot,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smirk.

You laughed softly, leaning back into the couch. “Chamomile sounds perfect.”

He nodded, plucking the sachet from its place with an almost practiced precision, his hands moving with the same quiet grace you remembered so vividly. Despite the ease of his movements, you could see the faint tension in the set of his shoulders, the way he hesitated before reaching for the mugs.

"Did Sebastian and Anne know about you coming back?" Ominis asked, his voice calm but carrying a subtle edge of curiosity.

You hesitated, fingers tracing the edge of the couch cushion. "No," you admitted softly. "I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t… want them to spill the secret. I thought it might be better this way."

He turned slightly, his sightless eyes tilted in your direction, one brow arching faintly. “Better for whom?”

You huffed a humorless laugh, biting your lip. "Me, I guess. I thought if I just showed up, it would be easier. Less... complicated."

Ominis tilted his head slightly, as though weighing your words, his fingers brushing the rim of the mug as he prepared your tea. "You thought sneaking back into Hogsmeade unannounced would be less complicated?"

A faint smile tugged at your lips despite the knot of nerves in your chest. "Okay, maybe not less complicated. But at least it meant I wouldn’t have to explain myself to Sebastian. You know how he gets."

He let out a soft laugh, the sound light and genuine, and it warmed something deep inside you. "Indeed. He is relentless," he said, placing the mug of chamomile tea in front of you on the low table. "Though, I can’t say I’d have been any better. If I’d known you were coming, I wouldn’t have been able to focus on anything else."

You looked up at him, startled by the quiet sincerity in his voice. He wasn’t smiling anymore, his expression open and unguarded as he sat down across from you, his own mug cradled in his hands.

“I didn’t mean to make you wait,” you said softly, your fingers curling around the warm ceramic. “I just—” You paused, your words catching in your throat. "I don't know. I suppose it doesn't matter. I'm here now."

Ominis’ lips pressed together for a moment, his brows furrowing slightly as though he wanted to press further. His hands tightened almost imperceptibly around his mug, the tension in his shoulders betraying his thoughts.

But then he exhaled softly, the lines of his face smoothing as he nodded. “You’re here now,” he repeated, his voice quiet but steady, though you could hear the unspoken for how long? lingering in the air.

You quickly took a sip of your tea, the warmth a welcome distraction as you scrambled for something that would steer the conversation elsewhere. “This tea is lovely,” you said, offering a smile that you hoped looked effortless. “Everything is. The flat, the shop... it’s all incredible. You must be so proud of what you’ve built.”

Ominis tilted his head slightly, his expression softening into something almost amused. “That’s kind of you to say, but I hardly think a well-stocked tea shelf qualifies as incredible.”

You laughed, grateful for the easy banter. “It’s not just the tea shelf, though it is very impressive. The shop looks amazing—I noticed the display when I walked in. And the enchanted holly on the door? It’s such a nice touch. It’s all so... you.”

He leaned back in his chair, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I did have some help with the holly—Anne insisted. She thought it might ‘soften my cold, foreboding reputation.’”

You grinned, picturing Anne bustling around the shop, her infectious energy clashing against Ominis’ quieter demeanor. “I think it works. Though I can’t imagine anyone thinking you’re 'foreboding'.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” he said dryly, his smirk deepening. “Anne says I scare away the first years who stop in. Apparently, my ‘stern demeanor’ doesn’t pair well with curious children looking for enchanted scarves.”

You laughed, the image of wide-eyed first-years inching cautiously into the shop playing vividly in your mind. “I’m sure you’re not that bad,” you teased. “Maybe they just don’t appreciate your charm.”

Ominis quirked an eyebrow, his smirk softening. “Charm, is it? I’ll be sure to tell Anne you said that next time she accuses me of being the ‘shopkeeper equivalent of a Boggart.’”

That earned another laugh, lighter this time, and you shook your head. “If she really thought you were a Boggart, she wouldn’t have helped with the decorations.”

“She likes to keep me humble,” he replied, his tone full of wry affection.

But even as Ominis joined in your banter, you could see the way his fingers drummed absently against the side of his mug, his thoughts clearly turning over something unsaid. He was playing along with your attempts at small talk, but you knew he wasn’t fooled.

Still, for now, he let it go, his quiet smile lingering as he said, “So tell me, how does it feel to be back?”

The question caught you off guard, and your smile faltered slightly. “It feels... surreal,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “Like I’ve been gone forever, and yet somehow nothing’s changed.”

Ominis nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Hogsmeade does have a way of staying the same. But you..." He hesitated, and his words hung in the air, unfinished but heavy with meaning.

You’re different.

He had noticed. Of course he had. Ominis was nothing if not perceptive.

You lowered your mug to the table, your hands curling into your lap as if that could somehow steady you. The warmth that had spread through your chest moments ago was now replaced with a twisting unease, a voice in the back of your mind whispering, This is it. This is when he sees what’s changed and decides it isn’t enough. That you aren’t enough.

"I know I’m different," you murmured, your voice trembling under the strain of your nerves. It cracked as you spoke, barely louder than a whisper. "I… I’m not the same person I was when I left. I know I’m not exactly how you remember me, and I—" Your breath faltered, hitching as you shook your head, your thoughts spiraling. "I just didn’t want you to be disappointed."

“Disappointed?” Ominis’ voice broke through your spiraling thoughts like a sudden, sharp wind, and when you looked up, his sightless eyes were fixed on you, his expression taut with something between shock and frustration. "Is this... is this why you've taken so long to come home?"

The question hung in the air, sharp and unrelenting, like the edge of a blade poised to strike. You opened your mouth to answer, but no sound came. The truth was tangled in your chest, knotted with years of insecurity and fear, and the weight of it pressed down on your throat, stealing your voice.

Ominis’ expression softened as he straightened in his chair, his jaw tightening as though he were holding back his own frustration—not at you, but at the very idea that you could feel this way. He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his mug before setting it aside with deliberate care.

“Is that really what you’ve been carrying all this time?” he asked, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “You thought I’d be... disappointed? In you?”

The lump in your throat grew heavier. "I’ve been gone so long... and you’ve built this incredible life here, and I—” You hesitated, your breath catching as you fought to steady yourself. “I didn’t know if I’d still fit into it.”

“You think I could ever—” He stopped himself, exhaling slowly as he ran a hand through his hair. “Merlin’s beard, don't you have any idea how much of this life exists because of you?”

Ominis leaned forward further, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. His fingers curled and uncurled against one another, as though he were searching for the right words. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, but no less firm.

“Do you know what I thought when you walked into that shop today?” he asked, his words deliberate.

You shook your head, though he couldn’t see it. “No,” you whispered.

“I thought I’d finally woken up from the longest, most frustrating dream of my life,” he said, his lips twitching into a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. "And now, you’re sitting here, telling me you’re afraid I’d notice you’ve changed. Of course you’ve changed. I’d be more worried if you hadn’t. Life does that to people. It changes them. But just because you're different doesn't mean..." he swallowed, his words catching for just a moment before he pressed on, his voice quieter but laced with conviction. “Just because you’ve changed doesn’t mean you’re any less.”

He paused, his fingers tightening where they rested, his knuckles pale with the effort. His expression softened as his words seemed to tumble out, as if he couldn’t hold them back any longer. “That couldn’t be further from the truth, actually.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone, by the faint flush creeping up his neck.

Ominis sat back slightly, his hand running through his hair in a rare display of bashfulness. “It’s been seven years,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “Seven years, and in the brief time I’ve had to—to touch you, to hear you, to smell that very same perfume you always wear, you’ve only… Merlin, I don’t even know how to say this without sounding foolish.”

You felt your breath hitch, your pulse quickening as his words sank in. He wasn’t looking at you, not exactly, but the intensity in his voice made it feel as though he could see every piece of you, laid bare and vulnerable.

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head slightly in your direction as he gathered his thoughts. “You’ve only improved,” he said finally, his voice low but unwavering. “Despite whatever ridiculous notions you’ve been carrying around, you haven’t diminished. You haven’t become ‘less.’ If anything, you’re... more.”

“You’ve been away, yes," he continued. "You’ve faced things I can only imagine. And yet here you are, sitting in front of me, as strong and resilient and...” He hesitated, his lips curving into a faint, almost shy smile. “As breathtaking as the day you left. You think I’d notice the changes and find fault with them? How could I, when every single one is just another piece of the person I’ve been missing for so long?”

Your hand flew to your mouth, your vision blurring with tears. "Are you... you sure? You really don't have to say this, I—"

He shook his head, raising a hand to stop you, though his touch hovered just shy of reaching across the small space between you. “Of course I'm sure,” he said, his voice soft but insistent. “I’ve never been more certain of anything."

He drew in a slow, measured breath, his shoulders rising and falling as though he were steadying himself for a duel.

“I’ve spent seven years wondering if I’d ever get the chance to say this,” he admitted. “To say all the things I was too much of a coward to admit before you left. And I won’t waste it by letting you believe for even a second that you’re anything less than extraordinary," his voice softened, trembling at the edges as he stood from his chair. For a moment, he simply stood there, his sightless eyes cast downward as though steadying himself for what he was about to do. Then, slowly, he moved forward, kneeling on the floor in front of you with a grace that made your breath catch.

His hands reached out, tentative but deliberate, brushing over yours where they rested in your lap before curling around them.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said quietly, his voice raw with emotion. “But I need you to hear this. I need you to understand.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he shook his head, cutting you off gently.

“I love you,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, his thumbs brushing over the backs of your hands. " I’ve loved you for so long that I don’t even remember what it feels like not to. And I know I should’ve said this before. I should’ve told you when we were still at Hogwarts, when you handed me the shop, when you left. But I was scared. Scared of what it would mean, scared I’d ruin what we had. And then you were gone, and I thought… I thought maybe I’d lost my chance.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, your heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might shatter through your ribs.

“But now you’re here,” he said, his words almost a whisper. “And I can’t let you leave again without knowing how much you mean to me. You are the most extraordinary person I’ve ever known, and I’ve spent seven years building a life that, no matter how complete it might seem from the outside, has always been missing you.”

You stared at him, your breath catching as the world seemed to slow around you. The face you’d waited seven years to see again—its every detail etched into your memory but now somehow more vivid, more real—was right before you. The faint furrow of his brow, the slight parting of his lips as though bracing himself for your response, the glisten of unshed tears in his sightless eyes.

It was all so achingly familiar, and yet time had made him even more beautiful in his quiet, unassuming way.

And you loved him.

You always had.

The years apart, the missed chances, the countless letters you’d written and rewritten but never sent—it all fell away, leaving only this moment. This man. The only person who had ever made you feel like you belonged.

“I’ve loved you too,” you whispered, the words spilling from your lips unbidden, your voice trembling but resolute.

Ominis stilled, his brows furrowing further as though he hadn’t quite heard you. “What?”

You reached out, your hands shaking as you cupped his face, your thumbs brushing over the faint stubble on his jaw. His breath hitched, his sightless eyes searching the space between you as though trying to see what your touch already told him.

“I love you, Ominis,” you said again, your voice steadying as you saw the hope flicker to life in his expression. “I always have."

His lips parted, his breath catching audibly as he tilted his head toward your hands, leaning into your touch as though it were the only thing grounding him.

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

You smiled through your tears, leaning closer until your forehead rested against his. “I love you,” you murmured, your voice soft but sure.

A shaky laugh escaped him, a sound filled with so much relief and joy it sent a fresh wave of tears streaming down your cheeks. His hands moved to cradle your face, his touch reverent and tender as his thumbs brushed away your tears.

“Merlin,” he breathed, his voice cracking with emotion. “I can’t believe... after all this time...”

“Believe it,” you said, your voice filled with quiet certainty.

His grip tightened slightly, his hands trembling as he pulled you closer. “Promise me,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips. “Promise me you’ll stay—I’m begging you—don’t leave again. Merlin, I... I can’t go another seven years without you. Not knowing where you are, if you’re safe, if you’ll ever come back.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I promise.”

[lucozadehulahoop]

A Question of Time (Astarion x afab!Tav) part 4/?

Chapter summary: Astarion comes to terms with the peculiar effects of Tav's blood running through his veins, and leaving her is becoming more difficult than he'd originally anticipated.

Also: Astarion unwillingly finds himself reading a smut fic.

Tags and T.W.:pre-bg3!Astarion, slave!Astarion, demi-goddess!tav, kinda NSFW (minors stay away kindly, thank you darlings).

words: 2.5k

part 1 / part 2 / part 3

Tav felt the bite before she could even see it coming.

In her complete state of confusion, he twisted her hands even tighter in Astarion's shirt, frightened yet seeking comfort from the strong hold he had on her at the same time.

They were completely locked in on each other, almost as if letting a single breath of air between them would have been a fatal mistake.

Tav whimpered softly as her mind finally caught up with the sharp pain in her neck, the languid pull of her blood being drained from her flesh. She would have been lying if she said she hadn't already suspected something about Astarion's nature, but it had never quite mattered to her in the grand scheme of things.

"A-Astarion..." She pleaded with him, uncertain on whether he'd be able to stop himself. Tav wasn't human, she could withstand most perils situations that others couldn't, but neither of them could know the consequences of a vampire drinking her blood of all people.

Astarion was completely lost in his bliss. Not only had he just broken one of his Master's cardinal commandments by drinking the blood of a thinking creature, but he'd just switched from two centuries of eating rats and dogs to sipping on the very ambrosia of the gods.

He felt strong. No, more than that, he felt invincible, like he could walk right up to Cazador and snap him in half if he wanted to.

The next thing he felt was warmth begin to spread through his body in the first time since forever. He let out a groan of relief, sinking his teeth even deeper into Tav's neck, making her cry out. "Astarion, please!" And that, was when he finally remembered himself and what he was doing, his eyes flying open in alarm.

He was very careful to hold her still as to not hurt her while he retracted his fangs in the most gentle manner he could muster. "Oh what have I done-- what have I done?" Astarion cursed himself as he looked at Tav' vacant eyes and the giant gaping wound he'd just given her. In a fit of panic, he first attempted to stop the bleeding by putting pressure on her neck with his hand, then opted to do the same with the nearest, cleanest piece of fabric he could find.

He brought her over to the bed so she could lay down, never once stopping the pressure he was keeping over he wound. "Tav? Tav, darling, keep those pretty eyes on me now--" Astarion tried his best to keep her from drifting further away from him, but his attempts were seeming more and more fruitless by the second. "No, no don't you do this to me, okay? I made a mistake --- a truly wretched mistake. I never meant-I never wanted to hurt you please-"

Astarion suddenly heard the words he was speaking out loud in his own head. Was he worried? For someone else other than him? Was he afraid to... lose Tav? He blinked a single tear and realised his face wasn't just wet with Tav's blood. He was... crying.

"Tav, just... just say something... please darling, I'd give anything to... hear that bratty little voice of yours right now..." Astarion pleaded with her silently, undecided if he was more afraid about her dying in his arms or how much it hurt to care about another person again after so long. And why did he care so much about her? The two of them weren't lovers, nor had they known each other long.

Maybe it was the fact Astarion was now aware of what she'd sacrificed for him. That despite appearances, she was just as much of a prisoner inside the Crimson Palace as he was.

It could have been because he saw an affinity in their rather different tragidies. Or maybe... Tav had been the only person he'd met in his undead life that had tried her best to help him without seemingly wanting anything back from him. It could have been that Astarion may have possibly been harbouring the small hope of having found a friend, someone who didn't treat him like a monster or use him for his body. Someone he was beginning to like, that drew him in with her insufferable self righteousness and her pouty lips---

"Shh, quiet..." Her sweet voice came to him finally. "Can't you hear it? Your heart... it's beating." She murmured weakly before falling asleep with her head on his chest.

Astarion feared the worst. Tav was clearly delirious, thinking that she could hear the heart beat of a vampire --- then he felt it too. Incredulously, Astarion put a hand over his chest and listened. His heart... was truly beating.

He laughed in shock, welcoming the tears of joy that ran down his face as he tried his best not to hurt Tav while his hand was still keeping pressure on the wound.

For five more minutes Astarion lay in bed and revelled in the fact he had a beating heart once more. Then, slowly, the steady rhythm began to de down until it finally came to a familiar halt. Tav's blood had briefly, but undoubtedly made him human.

With a cool head once again, Astarion managed to rationalise the intense feelings he'd felt while he'd been worried sick over Tav. He wouldn't have been able to fret over her so much in his normal state, but that didn’t mean they hadn't been real. For a brief moment he'd been yanked out of the hardened selfish shell that came with being a vampire and he'd remembered what it felt like to care for someone else.

So... he hadn't always been such a bad person, he thought as he gazed down at Tav, who was still sleeping on his chest. Thankfully, he wound had been healing fast, at almost unnatural speed.

That still didn't make things right.

He'd taken something from her forcefully, used her for his own needs. And he would have been a dirty liar if he said he hadn't liked it too. A single taste of her blood and he'd been brought to ecstasy.

Now back in the seat of power, his selfish mind told him Tav was too valuable to let go. She made him strong, gave him unimaginable pleasure. What if... he could walk in daylight if he just drank enough of her blood? Even if only for a few hours...

Things would be even more complicated if Astarion were willing to openly acknowledge how deeply he desired Tav. The mere thought of it scratched at a possessive itch at the back of his brain he hadn't even been aware he had. She may have been powerful, but she was too sweet, too trusting of the world despite the environment she'd experienced. Shouldn't it have been... Astarion's responsibility to keep her from harm? From the terrible monsters out there who wouldn't have thought twice about exploiting her? After all, he owed her, considering everything she had done for him...

...☆...

When Tav woke up, she found tea and biscuits on the bedside table. She tentatively touched the cup with her fingers and found it to be cold, almost as if the beverage had been prepared hours ago.

She looked around to find she was back in her room, snugly tucked into her bed. Reaching for her neck, she let out a slight hiss at how tender her flesh still felt.

"Thought you might like to know... prince charming himself is here... and I doubt he's looking for me..." Astarion sneered as he looked out the window, his sharp eyes zeroing in on the valiant young knight who'd come to court Tav. It should have been none of his business. The sun had nearly almost set and it was about time he himself go going before he wasted another night.

Tav barely managed to sit up on the bed. It didn't usually take her so long to recover whenever she got hurt. Yet, she was feeling rather... sluggish and warn out. "Oh... is it one of those people asking for handkerchiefs again?" Tav huffed, closing her eyes and rubbing her midriff a little. "Just throw one down for him, will you Astarion? I don't understand... is there a shortage of cloth in the city? There's always a new one coming around... singing a song or asking very nicely..."

Astarion gave Tav a look of pure confusion. Did she really think that knights and nobles trying to serenate her at dusk were simply people who needed handkerchiefs? It clicked in his head then, that when a lady would give a token of her favour, the token usually resembled something akin to an embroidered cloth or handkerchief.

When the realisation hit, he burst out laughing in Tav's face.

"What?" Tav searched his face for a reason to his hilarity, now she was the one to be confused. "The first time it happened... this gentleman showed up, he was a terrible singer, kept me up all night with his... whining... so I started throwing things at him. Out of the pile, he picked at a handkerchief, seemed pretty happy, and left. Never saw him again. The others have been more or less the same."

It wasn't hard to believe they never came back. Trespassing on Cazador's grounds at night was dangerous business. Astarion grinned to himself in a rather evil thought. Tav had been unknowingly drawing in a fair amount of unsuspecting prey, and for some reason, it gave him great satisfaction to know all of her suitors up to that point had come to a rather sticky end.

"Darling, let me explain something to you—" Astarion began to say as he walked towards her, but he was interrupted by the lousy notes of a poorly strummed lute. The terrible sound of it made him visibly cringe.

"My lady — oh, fair lady —" The voice outside began to sing out of tune.

"Oh no..." Tav whined. "Just, throw something down the window of the tower for him, will you? I really am not in the right state to deal with this right now..."

"Sure, how about that priceless pianoforte in your music room?" Astarion snickered. "I bet that will keep him quiet. For good."

"No! I do not want you to flatten the poor man with my piano!... just... let's just try to ignore it..." Tav searched through a pile of books next to her bed, deciding to attempt reading as a distraction.

"Oh lady, lady of the tower-

Why, oh why would you leave me so... sour?"

"Oh sweet hells, is this guy actually serious?" Astarion cursed and shook his head, marching over to open the window and peek his head out. The knight was unsurprisingly taken back by seeing him instead of Tav.

"I say, are you incapable of taking a hint?" Astarion shouted down at him. The man was gobsmacked, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. "The lady of the tower is rather indisposed at this moment..." He said languidly, purposely making the man draw the wrong conclusions. "In fact, she is completely bedridden... if you catch my meaning... I do apologize as it is completely my fault..."

Okay, so maybe he was laying it on a bit too thick. But it wasn't as if Astarion was jealous or anything. He just enjoyed messing with people. It was one of life's little pleasures.

"Now get lost, the last thing you want is to get caught out there after dark..." Astarion gave him one last warning before closing the windows shut.

"You didn't have to be so mean to him, you know?" Tav said as Astarion turned back to face her.

He took in the state he'd left her in and hated the fact he was sprouting a sense of empathy at an incredibly inconvenient time for him. Tav had done so much for him, and he'd yet to hear her screaming at him for taking a chunk out of her without permission.

Astarion didn't want to say goodbye. He decided then and there he was going to leave as soon as Tav fell back to sleep, which in her condition was probably going to be soon. All he needed to do was speed the process along.

He picked up the first book he could find on her drawing desk and sat down in a chair next to her bed.

Astarion looked at the title on the cover and tried his best not to roll his eyes. Tristan and Iseult. Of course, he had to go and pick a love story.

"You really don't have to read to me just because you feel bad-" Tav began to say, but Astarion cut her off.

"Excuse me, I'll have you know I am a very prolific reader, and you, my dear, seem to have a lack of understanding when it comes to courtship so this will be... an informative way to pass the time." He said, and swallowed thickly, already dreading the experience.

"How so?" Tav asked, blinking up at him curiously.

"Because-" Astarion huffed, already feeling uncomfortable in his chair. "This-" he said, wagging the book up in the air. "Is one of greatest love stories of all time and maybe you'll be... more aware of what's going on the next time some fool comes singing underneath your window..."

Tav raised a quizzical eyebrow at him, but asked no further questions. Astarion cleared his throat and began the reading. He was surprised to find the story was a lot less boring than he'd remembered, clearly catching on to the fact it was an unofficial re-telling of some sorts, due to new characters and extra encounters he'd never known from the original version.

Unfortunately, Tav was very interested too, hanging off his every word. She didn't seem like she was about to fall asleep any time soon. Astarion did his best to counteract this by letting his voice drone on in a deep soothing tone, yet his eyes almost jumped out of his skull when the tender love story took a very unexpected turn.

"Tristan watched as his fair love drank down the potion so hastily, the liquid spilled down her perfect neck and between the curves of her---" Astarion coughed nervously and turned the page, hoping Tav wouldn't notice as he skipped to the following passage. "Both drunk on the intense effects of the love potion, with trembling hands they reached for----- t-their, um, thriving bodies---"

"Hey! You skipped a section!" Tav protested.

"No, I didn't!" Astarion huffed back, pressing a hand to his forehead. How in the hells had he ended up recanting some bard's published smut-fic, he would never know.

"Let me see that..." Tav snatched the book from his hands and it was all Astarion could do as he jumped on her bed like a cat to get it back.

---

tag list (if you want to be added to the tag list, just let me know!): @d0nutkaky0in @i-just-want-to-sleep-97 @omggiannarosa @dead-giirl-walking @warbwarts @mrsfullbuster500 @uwomina @iyaesakura @cheeslyy @dragon-kazansky @bambamwolf87 @chibi-chi @orsomethingelseentirely @davenswitcher @adequate-superstar @ophelias-flowerss @tragedybunny @yaimlight @the-golden-ouroboros @candyladycry @babygirlbrainrot @mariposakitten @blobs-away @biganddrunkunicorn @astarionmisc @the-garbage-central @raviolixxx @banana-beans-police @screechingphantommaker @sunnanse @faefanatic @in-the-bleak-midwinters

[jomamaofficial]

An Empty Vessel pt.3 (Dabi x Fem!Reader Dark Angst)

A/N: Hey guys, this is a repost. For some reason, my post wasn't getting the reach that it normally gets. I don't know, maybe it got flagged 😭😭. So I apologise for tagging you guys again. I urge you all to read the TWs and CWs because this series as a whole is just dark. As always, my Ask Box is open for any requests or just a conversation. Please remember to take care of yourselves, and enjoy. As always, I would love to see your thoughts in the comments :).

TW: Substance abuse (alcohol, smoking), small mention of mass murder and a reunion with abusive lover.

CW: swearing.

Taglist: @marlenemckinnonsleftfoot @sukunasleftkneecap @istoleyourmanho3 @witherfag @porusuniverse @iluvoaldmen @genshinsimpforli @shadowmoonlight @simpsimpson2023 @crybab7 @kaeyastittysucker @jennieyes @an-ever-angry-bi @gyarukitti

Masterlist

Word Count: 2207.

Summary: Saira Uchiyama. His past had caught up to him in the form of a family– Touya Todoroki had no family but Dabi could not deny the existence of his. The existence of a family that had driven him to search for a name he had never even heard of. Dabi's fragile world unravelled; every single thread forced him to confront the consequences of his actions. Was it even her? The one he had beat and shut out of his life? Dabi’s mind hurt, because it finally intertwined with the realisation of the irreparable damage he had caused.

——————————————————————————————————

Dabi has had his overcoat for a long time. 

It was the first thing that was ever made for him, and only him. 

He never had to share it. 

The material was light; he could move quickly without the weight dragging him down. 

The material was heat-resistant, so he didn’t have to worry about incinerating his clothes during a fight. 

His clothes allowed him to let go. Dabi could explore the forbidden fruits of his full potential because the material allowed heat to escape– because of the fabric’s ‘enhanced breathability’ or something. He never paid attention. But it worked, so he always had it on. 

Dabi made his way up to the roof, ignoring the small cries of his name from the distance. It wasn’t on purpose though– he couldn’t concentrate on anything else. His mind had to work hard to think about nothing. Because if his conscience took over, his chest would collapse. 

There wasn’t anything left inside of him anymore. That’s what he had recited every waking day of his life as Dabi. But God, he needed a cigarette– to fill that hollow feeling inside of him. 

A few long puffs always did the trick. Although it felt best when he was on the roof, legs hanging off the ledge. 

One of his favourite hobbies was to look at the city under the glistering stars. 

Yokohama never slept. The little toy cars had small people that were always going somewhere. Their blinking red lights mirrored the sea of stars on the bumpy road. At such a distance, where cars disappeared from one end to the other, that journey seemed so mindless. Yet still, everything felt like… like it was still in place. As if everything about this world was truly intentional. 

Dabi dragged a longer puff, throwing his head back, succumbing to the gentle breeze and his thoughts. 

But in the end, you couldn’t make out any face, let alone their identity. Everything became insignificant. All that mattered was the action. 

Dabi could distinguish between a walking figure and a jogging figure. Whether they were alone or with others. 

But in the end, everything else was insignificant when he was above them all. 

So far up, that if he fell– right now– he wouldn’t come back. 

Anyone could push him off.  

“There you are!” 

Dabi grimaced. His soothing bubble had been forcefully broken, and he was dragged back to reality. He had his suspicions on who it was. 

“I thought we could use a drink or two.”

His eyes glowered at the approaching figure. He could never be left alone. But when the bottle of scotch was handed to him, the interruption wasn’t too bad after all. Dabi jerked his head towards the empty space beside him. 

He could hear careful steps approaching, then cautious shuffling beside him. 

Had he stolen a glance in his peripheral vision, he could watch the gentle breeze tease her hair, sweeping it left and right. 

He felt a chaste glance on his face. 

There was a thin, yet strong wall between them. It was thin enough to talk through– although it left no room for subtlety. It was thin enough for them to warm each other. But if they tried to cross it, they’d have to break it down, and crush the other under the weight of the wall. 

There was a lingering sense of emptiness that filled the night sky. 

Empty smiles, empty vessels. 

She drew in a breath, but no words followed, as though she had forgotten how to speak.

“Today was…” she started, only to falter off into silence, her hands rubbing at her arms. 

Dabi had his overcoat for a very long time. 

It was the first thing that was ever made for him. And only him. 

He never had to share it. 

But it felt way too heavy today. And despite the gale tightening its frosty clutch, Dabi could feel his body heating up. 

“The plan was successful”, Dabi replied flatly, “that’s all we need to care about”. 

He pushed his discarded jacket towards her. She slipped it around her shoulders.

The League’s attack on downtown Esuha was broadcasted globally, and they had finally reached the headlines of every news article. 

‘Bloodshed Strikes Downtown Esuha as Villains Unleashed Devastating Attacks’

After years of failed plans, the League of Villains had finally succeeded. 

No man, no woman, no child was left. But it was all worth it. 

Wasn’t it? 

Their plan was the highlight of every media discussion.

Dabi took a larger sip of his drink, bathing under the serene wave which washed over his inhibitions. 

And the wall between them felt thinner and weaker. 

“D’ya think your mom would ever sacrifice herself for you?” 

The vivid images of fresh blood and visceral screams haunted their mind.  

“What did that woman say again?” Dabi asked, his voice cracking, “‘take me, but please, leave my baby alone’... That’s what she said right?” 

Both of their eyes lowered. The alcohol and the little food he had consumed was kicking against his stomach lining, irritating his abdominal grafts. 

“‘She has a long life ahead of her. Please, please, don’t kill her please’”, Dabi heard a sniffle. “That’s what she said before we…”  

He felt sick. 

“That’s what we do, doll.”

He met the pain in her eyes. They were a mirror. 

Dabi clenched his jaw before looking away. 

She did too.

Dabi began biting his fingernails, and her hands fidgeted with the glass. 

And then they looked at each other again, somehow closer than they were in the beginning. 

“I don’t know if my mom would ever do that for me… But, I-hm…”

A dry chuckle followed in a feeble attempt to humour the situation. 

But Dabi finished her unspoken sentence. 

“But you would, right? For your child,” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows and squinted, trying to make out some of the writing on the tall buildings afar. 

“Any mom would do that for her child.” 

“Didn’t you just say th-”

“Any good mom would”. 

No one spoke. But they shared a knowing look, before averting them back to the vastness of Yokohama. 

“But to be honest…” She took another sip of her drink. “If I had a baby, I’d never live in Musutafu.” 

Dabi let out a snort, thus earning a playful shove in return. 

“Oh yeah? Then where would you live, fucking Minato City?”

It was her turn to snort. 

“You think I’d live in a rich neighbourhood to avoid being a target of criminals and villains?” She scoffed, slurring out her words. “I know I’m the newbie but you have to give me some credit, Dabi.”

He rolled his eyes, yet they still urged her to continue. 

She thought for a moment, her gaze wandering off into the distance, before she continued again. 

“There’s this place, just outside of here. It’s called Yosai. It’s this remote residential area. And, um. It takes around 30 minutes minimum, to find any markets, or- or any offices or clubs, and you know, all that stuff. I think, for most people, it’s like- really boring. And that’s why it’s so isolated. No one even thinks of going there because there’s literally nothing. There’s a park, and a local school– I think, but there’s no one. Nothing. There’s these houses- a lot of them! A bunch of houses with no one to live in them”. 

It was weird, to be talking, uninterrupted, for this long. 

“I guess”, she shrugged a bit, blinking a few times. “Recently, people have started building roads and stuff for cars now. So they can actually do something. But yeah. Zero reported crimes and it’s been there for a few decades. So yeah, if I had a family, I’d go there”. 

She looked intently at Dabi, who didn’t say anything. 

But he moved closer, leaning forward, sitting upright. He scanned her jittering hands before searching in his pant pocket. He raised his eyebrows at the cigarette in his hands. She nodded. So he lit it, pressed the ends to his lips and inhaled before giving it to her. 

He watched her lips touch the cigarette. Where his lips were. 

“There’s actually this property under her maiden name- my mom’s. There’s still some legal stuff I need to sort out before it actually becomes mine. It’s like this, it’s so stupid, because it’s like obviously none of us use that maiden name anymore. But because of that they can’t give it to us. I don’t even know… But I guess it’s nothing too difficult”. 

“Ah”. That was all he could say. But when he peered into her expectant eyes, there was a sudden need to elaborate. Anything better than ‘ah’ at least.

Dabi felt dizzy. 

“Umm… What's your mom’s maiden name?” 

When his delayed voice finally caught up to him, Dabi winced.

“Fuck”, he muttered. It was a stupid question, but he wanted to make sure that she knew he was listening. 

“It’s Uchiyama.” 

They were closer, breaths intertwining with each other under the watchful eye of the moon. 

-

There weren’t any buses that travelled from Musutafu to Yosai. Dabi made his journey by foot. 

Thus, during this four day journey, Dabi became well acquainted with people.

And he noticed that a lot of people in Japan had blue eyes. After the emergence of quirks, blue became a common colour for many. The truly rare ones were pink, or purple now.  

But Dabi’s eyes… they were different. 

His eyes. 

They were handpicked from the colours in the cerulean depths of the stormy sea. Whispers of secrets remained untold– that’s why no one could have the eyes that he had. 

Never. 

They were gleaming– echoing the beauty of the lights in the North. Depending on how you looked at them, they were teal, or sapphire. One thing was indisputable– the arctic chill they’d give when he’d pierce into your soul was breathtaking. 

His eyes. 

They were simply breath-taking. 

So when he towered over a small frame, gaze lowered, he could not explain the way his heart forgot to beat when he stared into a perfect replica of his eyes. 

With each beat, lost time unfolded in front of him. 

And he noticed the slight difference in the silent expanse that he had gazed into. 

There was an innocent reflection of the North Star twinkling in their genuine, rolling waves. Dabi’s eyes were an abandoned lighthouse. 

But, what alarmed him the most, was when those flawless replications turned frozen. Dark. 

Petrified. 

Dabi's heart ached as those eyes formed fog and mist, obstructing him from reaching the truth that was hidden beyond the plane of sight. 

His knees surrendered under the accumulating guilt of his past. And so his tears fell, trying to escape the grief and strain his weak body had repressed for so long. 

“Honey, are you okay? Who’s at the door?”

Icy tendrils spiked through him, and his breath was captured without a fight. In the wake of realisation, his body signalled all the alarms they could, telling him– no, begging him to run, but, his blood had turned to ice, and he succumbed in the paralysing grip of his inevitable fate. 

“Sana, are you okay…” 

He heard the voice taper away, followed by a sharp clink of a metal spoon. His laden head fixed itself downwards in shame, guilt, fear…  

“Dabi…?” Those words drifted out in a hushed tone. As if they were trying to protect the young girl, who now hid behind her mother. 

He braced himself for the hardest task he would ever have to face.

And in that split second, his breath had returned, and he let out a short exhale when he finally saw that face materialise from his past. 

Y/N. 

It was you. Saira Uchiyama. 

After 6 years, 8 months, and 19 days of navigating through the circular journey of denial, anger, bargaining, and depression, Dabi finally had the chance to reach the beacon of acceptance. 

His shoulders slumped, as short breaths hiccuped through the dark caverns of his chest. 

He had finally found you. 

And he had finally found the end to his coveted quench, which yearned for a solace, only to be found in your longing embrace. 

Softly, a bewildered whisper escaped his lips, barely denting the silence around them.

“Doll…?” 

Dabi watched as the maturer skin scrunched together, deep lines frowned at him. As the tenderness in your heart had to be locked away inside an untouchable crevice in your body. 

You pushed your daughter behind you, blocking Dabi’s protesting hands before they touched her.

“Sweetie, I need you to go upstairs okay”, you ordered sternly. 

“Mommy, he’s scaring m-” 

“Sana. You need to go upstairs. Lock the door and close your windows.” 

Sana.  

Her name was a painful reminder of the blank pages he had failed to fill as her father. How could he have written anything? 

He didn’t even know what the title was. 

“Never fucking come near my family again”. 

Those blank pages began to rip. 

“You disgusting freak”. 

The blank pages had burned to ashes, and Dabi was left outside on the suburban patio of a perfect neighbourhood. 

Maybe, if he found a place to wash his face, he could blend in with the garbage. 

[sagesilentfire]

Hello, everyone. It's so strange to be saying this, but the last part of SAMATFOE is imminent, and we're getting closer and closer to the End. It's been a really fun five years. (Four to ya'll, but I've been working on this for longer than I've been talking about it publicly!) The cast of characters has expanded dramatically, I've gotten much better as a writer and artist, and I feel I've grown as a person too. I won't stop stalking the svtfoe tag or talking about svtfoe after this is done, don't worry, but I have a lot of non-svtfoe related plans in the future, so if you like Sílthéy and her weird siblings, don't stop following when SAMATFOE is over. 

But as for the actual contents of s5, well, I've got lots of plans. We've got a dark magic plague that's an incredibly transparent metaphor for climate change. We've got Mina playing the oil barons and trying to stop everyone from saving the world for her own personal gain. We've got Glossaryck (capitalism). We've even got the answers to a lot of mysteries and character arcs. Like, so many character arcs. It has been incredibly difficult to stuff all these character arcs into this far-too-short piece of fanfiction. But I hope I did that adequately. 

On a personal note, while hiring a beta/sensitivity reader for a piece as massive as SAMATFOE proved impossible for someone who does not own their own money, I have done a lot more research than I had at seventeen. I wanted the monsters to be more than just badly-done allegories for Native Americans – I wanted them to be people with their own culture, history, and ideas. People who are inspired by real-world Indigenous cultures, but, because they're literally nonhuman, are distinct from them. Whether or not they could count as Indigenous is discussed in-text, but I do not come to an actual conclusion because I want my readers to draw their own. It's not my place to say whether colonized space aliens could be Indigenous. And their connection to the land and to magic is drawn from their shared knowledge, not mysticism, and their culture is idealized because a caring godlike entity helped them to that, not because they're better than anyone. I hope to demonstrate that they are all people, first and foremost. Because we're going to be spending time in Septarsis! So much time! And Toffee has officially been promoted to main character status! It's Star and Marcie AND the Forces of Evil, babey!

But there's a lot of characters here. So, for the second and final time, 

Dramatis Personae:

Star - Star doesn't know what to do. She has everything she ever wanted, even if she doesn't realize it. She has no future responsibilities, having passed that to Eclipsa, but she is still special and important, being the most powerful magic-user ever to exist and the only one who can fix the dark magic, and Toffee doesn't even seem to hate her. Sílthéy does, though, and that is a sticking point. Star is much less oblivious now, though even her oblivious former self would probably pick up on the bad vibes Sílthéy is actively sending her way. She wants everyone to see how hard she's working to make everything better, but Sílthéy doesn't, and that is unbearable. Add that to Shinjai avoiding her and Marcie growing distant, and she has very little time for introspection, even if that would help fix things.

Marcie - Marcie is done with Mewni. She can't believe she believed the Butterflys' lies for so long. She's going to devote herself to Septarsis as fervently as she did Mewni. She just... she doesn't want to bother anyone, or take anyone's time. Why should she get attention paid to her, when there are stronger and smarter magic users out there who could do so much to actually help the world? Marcie is small and useless, and clearly so easily tricked. Better to work on herself before she brings anyone else into her orbit. Also, Star keeps making bad decisions, and Marcie's boundaries are pushing her away too... maybe it's better to do everything alone.

Ludo - Ludo is having a great time! He's earned the trust of some of the monsters in the Avarius village, his plumbing has been fixed, and Pemma is teaching him how to use the Avarius Beacon! Certainly nothing bad is going to happen to him or anyone he cares about! :D

Buff Frog - I'll confess here: Buff Frog is not a huge part of s5. He'll appear in the finale, but he's not a fighter anymore, and lives a peaceful life in Septarsis. He still has fond feelings for Star, but he's not too worried about her. She's strong, and he has twelve young froglets to take care of. She'll be fine on her own... right?

Toffee - Una'met Co'tzin-Nekohtzaca, Last Child of Old Septarsis, The Forces of Evil, Kéta'cha For the Dragon of Space, is doing FINE. They're definitely not five bad seconds away from a total mental breakdown, definitely not, that would be bad for everyone involved, and they are a calm, peaceful, certified not-doing-bad-things-er. The fact that everyone is almost certainly going to die a horrible death from dark magic is fine. They just have to cram thirty-plus years of training into the rapidly-dwindling time before the entire multiverse is dead. They barely know Star Butterfly, except that she's too good for things like "basic training" and "reading." How are they going to do this? And why won't Sílthéy tell them why she caused this in the first place? Well, they do know one thing, which is they can't tell Star about that.

Jackie - Jackie is done with Star Butterfly. She's talked to... someone, and done some digging, and that only served to verify the book she was given in s4. She doesn't know anything about Mewni save for what the book told her, but she can't believe that she trusted the family that doomed her dimension.

Janna - Janna doesn't like this apocalypse. No chance of survival is boring. So she's going to do what she can to help out. Also, she's been keeping her own secrets, secrets that might hold the key to survival.

Tom - Tom isn't angry anymore. He's not angry at Eclipsa for keeping Miquiz locked up, he's not angry for the Butterflys for spreading the dark magic that's thrown the Underworld into chaos, he's not angry that he keeps being left out of things. He's. Not. Angry. Anymore!

Moon - Moon didn't kill her mother. She didn't. It was Toffee, Toffee who couldn't come up with some loophole, Toffee who couldn't forget a conversation that happened when they were a child, Toffee who aimed the arrow at Comet's chest. And her holding onto anger isn't what's driving Star away from her, it's Toffee. They're the one driving her daughter away from her! But as cold reality and remaining dark secrets loom behind her, her brittle facade is beginning to crumble.

Glossaryck - Glossaryck misses when he and Star got along. Yeah, he's destroying her dimension, and everyone in it, and her, all to win kudos from his family, but it really sucks that Star won't give him the time of day anymore. He used to be her wise old mentor! Geez, she was going to die anyways, that's what mortals do! Might as well get along before it happens!

River - River is tired of being left out of the loop. He doesn't know what's going on. He doesn't know what to do. Moon barely speaks to him, she's always busy with Eclipsa, or whatever. But he might be the thing Moon needs, if she would only let him in.

Angie - Angie doesn't know if she should have had Mariposa. Sure, Mari is wonderful, and she loves her, and she DID NOT have a baby to replace Marcie dear god why were the svtfoe writers like that – *ahem* but the multiverse is ending, and Mariposa is just a baby... she didn't want to bring a baby into this world just to have them all die.

Rafael - Rafael is worried about Star. He's worried there's nothing he and Angie can do to help her. He's worried about Marcie. She seems really stressed about the dark magic. But he's the calm, goofy dad, so he's going to keep being that, and praying it'll help somehow. 

Mariposa - Mariposa is fresh to the world, and doesn't understand much of anything yet. But everyone is worried she won't survive long enough to understand the world at all.

Kelly - Kelly is chilling. Apparently Star and Marcie are off on a trip to Septarsis, but that's none of her business as long as art classes and hangouts with Nova and Jorby go well. She might drop by to visit, though.

Miss Heinous - Saint Olga is dead. Miss Heinous's one reason for existing, her greatest love and greatest enemy, the robot who raised her, is dead. What does Miss Heinous do now?

Meteora - Meteora's doing great. She's won popular opinion, she's training to be a true Crown Princess, or at least a high-ranking official, if Sílthéy's democracy takes off. She's stepped into her role as a leader, far more than her mother could claim. But that's fine. Not everyone is suited for leadership.

Eclipsa - Eclipsa has an albatross around her neck. She is doing her best to ignore it, to be a good queen, to love her people, but... she cannot get away from the child she killed. Would it be easier if she was just always evil, not done one evil act out of rage and grief? Well, she knows what happened to her mother. What does she do now?

Globgor - Globgor is doing his best. He's a little miffed by Sílthéy mistrusting him, as her first big act of s5 will be to demonstrate how little he's valued as a Legitimate Voice of the Monsters, but really, who can complain. There's so much else going on, who cares if he fades into the background?

Shinjai - Shinjai gets the wand. Shinjai does not want the wand, and the circumstances surrounding her getting the wand are ridiculous, but she gets it, and she hates it, and she can't control it. Unlike Star, her inability to control the wand makes her not want to use the wand at all lest she hurt someone with it. Oh, and Star keeps wanting to teach her fun spells now that she's been handed this nuclear bomb of a magic wand, and Shinjai does not want to deal with Star. She hasn't forgiven Star. She doesn't want to forgive Star. She'll ignore Star as much as she can, and focus instead on Alice and the teen militia, which is much more fun. She loves Alice. She loves learning to fight, learning to battle the most dangerous people in the multiverse and win WITHOUT the help of a wand. She'd be doing great, if her past would stop knocking at her door.

Rasticore - Rasticore's worried about his partner. Una is fraying at the seams trying to fix everything, and he has the feeling they're not telling him something. But what else is new? He'll wait. He has friends to make, a new teenage militia to help train, and a Miss Heinous to keep from destroying Septarsis stone by stone. He's endlessly patient. When Una wants to talk to him, he'll be there for them. He just... has... to... wait...

Mina - Mina is trying to destroy the world. She doesn't tell her followers that, no, they don't even know the dark magic is a thing, but she wants Glossaryck to win and the Solarian Age, of which she is the last remnant, to end everything with it. So she'll destroy the world, and fulfill Solaria's dream of taking the Forces of Evil with her.

Lilacia - Lilacia is, somehow, a spoiler. Like, legitimately, the Princess Formerly Known as Ponyhead's role in s5 is a spoiler, and not for magic power-up speech cliché reasons. But she's still her dumb, ditzy self, of course.

Still Unnamed Mystery Character - "Stella" is still mysterious, but I promise you we'll get who she is and her backstory in this part ;)

Alice - Alice is wary of the new Mewman presence on the outskirts of Septarsis. She knows why they're there, but she's still extremely suspicious. She does not want them to hurt Septarsis. But she doesn't know that the true danger comes a little closer to home.

Teyauh - Teyauh is also a spoiler, but she'll be there!

Linda - Linda loves her wife, and will follow her anywhere, but Teyauh will have to accept that her knees don't work how they used to, so Linda will have to follow in a suit of POWER ARMOR, BABY!

Nova - Nova is part of the Nuxalkmc, an Indigenous tribe native to the Northwestern Turtle Island, and she loves that about herself. Now that Kelly and her dimensional scissors are here, she can finally explore the multiverse to find new places and see if they're anything like home. Septarsis is one of those places, and she loves it at first sight.

Dr. Edevane - Dr. Edevane is a doctor. He and Toffee have a lot to nerd out talk about together. He will be useful, too.

Dennis - Dennis is busy reigning in dozens of siblings, including Ludo. It's a busy life, but a happy one. Nothing bad whatsoever will happen to him! (I'm lying)

Chloe - Chloe doesn't know this "Star Butterfly" person, but she's very suspicious. But man, Mewni would be such a cool place to visit... so much magic! ...No, she needs to concentrate on being mad. And she is mad. She wants Earth to be like Mewni, like it deserves to be.

Hekapoo - Hekapoo doesn't like her dad's plan. He says it'll work out, it's fine, but the plan is... questionable. She doesn't like it. And she definitely isn't getting conflicting feelings about puppeteering her brother around, either...

Rhombulus - Ṯ̶̡̧̧̡̧̠͉̻̦̜̭͚̰̪̣̬̠̦̲̹̯̯̮̹̰̺̣̳̬̳̬͙̙̞̹͚͖̼̲̰̼̻̭͇̘̻̹͔̝͌͐̀̇̓̀́̄̇̓̊̚ͅH̶̛̠̽̎̇̽̉̃̔͒̽̈́͌͝Ȩ̸̢̧̛̛͔̭͍̪͈͚̮̘͙̭̳͍̺͖̗͇͍̘̱̉̽͑̆̌̓̆͛̓̌̈́̐̾͑̅͂͗̔̽̌̋̈́̎̈́́̓̓͌̆̄͐̀̋̅͂̒̓̔͗̈͊̊͆̄̒͘͘̚͘͝͝͠͠͠͠ͅ ̷̧̪̰͈̺̯̳̙̳̹̙̣͔̗̜̫̗̲̠̙̝̠̯̻̯̩͈͇͉̞̙͙͈̲̻̹̰̳̣̤̣̀́̐͆͜͜͜ͅͅK̵̨͎̙̩͓̘͇̳̩̲̝̳̼̖̯̘͖̹͙̪̰͙͔̤̭̘͖̖̪̬͓͚̫̦̝̠͍̙̊͛̏̈́͛́̒̈́͂͜͜͜͝ͅÍ̸̡̧̨̨̥͍̮̮͇̟͈͙̩̥͙̥͖͚͉̬̟̻̹̰̟̘͓̪̦̹͈̺̤̜̣̺͉̘͕̮̲͓̳͍͈͍̜̯̯̘̪͙̩͛́̐̆̈́͗͋̔̐̒̌̚͜ͅT̵̨̟̲̑̅̑̕̚T̶̨̨̨̛̞͖̻̖̞̹̜͉̦͓̣̠̗̘̣̺̲̹̘̻͎̤̝̤̜̞̜̳̭͎̲͙̮͓͕̼͇̘̃̈́̑̅͐̆͛͊̎̀̈́̔̐̂͛͒̎̕͜͜Ę̴̟̻͍͓̲̙͙̬̺̖̘͎̺̯͐̍̀͊̊̃̃̐̒̊̽̅̉̒̇̎̒͗͆̓͋͂̍̎̈̓́́͌̈͌̕͘̕̕͜͝͝͠͝͝Ņ̷̡̥͕̞̘͙͇̪̺̯͕̪͖̗̙͖̭̻̳͙͖̯̺̟̳̟̪̼̤̞̘̯̘̥̏́̊̾̓̀͐̑̈́͛͊͜͝͝͝S̸̨̨̨̡̤͕͚͈̻̯̫̯̦̖̣͈͔͉͚̠̪̮͚̳͈͇̯̱̯̙̙̬͎̝̪̬̦̙͇̝̲̤̰̃͒̓͒̾̀̋̎̊̈̀́̐̎̇͜͝ͅ ̵̧̧̛̣͉͕̤̻͔̰̜̺̮̘̞̠͓͚̹̗͒͐̽́̆̈́́̏̀̎̋͌̔́̌͗̎̍̉̀̃͌͂̎̽̿̃͂̎̽̌̈́̄́̀́̓̿̅́̎͆̾̆͑͌̔̿̑́́̕̕̕͝͝͝M̸̢̡̨̭͓̘͙̟̩̦͎̤̟̮̤͍͔̝̑̀̅̊̑̊́̂̈͑̽͋̃̑͋͐̆͆͊̈́́̋͑̋͜͝I̸̡̛̖̺͇͎͕̗̹̦̦̻̻̙͈͔̮̭̤̺͚͙͙͖̱̙͚̣̼̠̺̘̐̄͋͒̒͗̎̓͐͗͛̊̀̓̄̅̆̇̐͒̄̌̔͗̒̎̃̒̊̍̋͐̊͛͘͠͝͝͠S̴̨̡̡̨̲̖̺̭̺̱̰͎͓͇̰̙͙̩̯̺̖̲̥̜͖̦̙̹̜̻͙̠͉͇̲̲͍̞͚̭̯͕͋͐̌̾̈́̄͐̇̔͜͝͝Ş̴̢̨̢̝̬̤̯̗̞̳̟̞̲̠̮͇̻͙͖̻̜̺̘̑̑̆̈́̇͋͗͒͒́̅́́̚̕͝ ̷̨̡̡̛̛͚̩̣̠̠̹̘̟̼̘̤͇͖͓̙̺̙̮͚̫̺͖̠͇͙̏̆̋̆̀̅̓̔͋̐̐͛̃̾̃̿̓́̑̇̏̈̉͊̂̍̾͑̐̈́̀̑͑̈́̏͗̇͋̀̆́̍̊̃̀͐͘̚̚͝͝͝͠͝ͅͅḨ̶̨̧̻̺̟͚̠͍̗͙̗̹͇̗̦͔͕̮̦͖͔̝͚̟̖̖͉̾̔͒̓̋̀̔̅̿̈̑͆̀̇̇̄̈́́͋̿͐͆̔��̈́͋̈́̊̊̈́̓̈́͋̕͘͝͝͝I̷̡̡̢̨̹͎̼̻̖̗̭̫̩̣̬̻̦̠̗̰̥͕̗̟̯̰͉͙̯͖̦͚̟̖̞͍̦̙̯̲̲̖̲̲̜͚̓̍͜ͅM̶̧̡̢̧̧̙̥̭̲̖̦͙̘̙͈͓͖̩̜̦͍̦̘͍̘͕̳̜̱͚̥̹͓͕͉͔͕̫̺̮͕̳͖͉̭̺͙̠͖̥͕͖͙̜̉͑͛̎̓̈́͐͋̐̀̏̊̀̽͋̈́͊̄͌̋̌̐̓̄̉̓͒̕̕͝͠͠͝ͅͅͅ

Reynaldo - Reynaldo looks and looks and he does and does, but he does not win this bet. It is the thing he wants most, that he will do all sorts of terrible, horrible-things-that-make-him-want-to-throw-up to get. What is it? 

Omnitraxus Prime - Omni will do anything to protect the multiverse. Including trusting zir dad, who is looking more untrustworthy by the day, and trusting Mina, who was never trustworthy in the first place. Mina has much more training than Star, and strong magical ability from spending three hundred years close to the wand, and it's the best option... right?

Necahua - Necahua is a mess currently, and being a mess leaves you more open to mistakes. Uh oh! Una still loves them, though. 

In fact, I made a short story in my creative writing class about the relationships between Una'met, Necahua, and Cayeto, since I feel they got overlooked in the main story. Yes, no one in my class had any idea what was going on. I'll post it next, before chapters 1 and 2 of s5.

Cayeto - Cayeto is also in the short story. He doesn't play a huge role in the main plot, but he is just another reason Toffee does the things they do. He died hoping that Una and Necahua, specifically, survived, and Necahua died, so he does not have the best grip on reality.

Xocochiapal - Xoco is the de-facto ghost leader of the ghosts now. No legislation without representation, right? Toffee does most of the work, but she's in charge when they can't address a thing right away. She was right despite everyone else blindly going to their deaths, and now everyone knows it. She also was the highest-ranked Septarian to become a ghost, and her hatred of the Mewman occupation is a clear and strong motivation.

Tecoloa - Tecoloa is the voice of reason. The good one. She died protecting her elementary school class from the worst of the heat, and that caring nature has translated into protecting everyone she can. 

Sílthéy - Sílthéy is a character now, and OH BOY is she happy about it. She hates Star and will never get over it, and she loves to remind Star of that fact. She feels immense guilt for what happened with Septarsis, and will never get over that, either. She is a mess, but she's been hiding her messiness for 0/0 years, so she's a pro. And it's not like anyone here can stop her from being a mess, can they? So she'll go on being a mess in her corner, and she'll be fine. Her hobbies include storytelling, dissing Star, and doing the most bizarre stuff in the background of any given scene. She owns her weirdness. She's annoying, but that just makes her more fun to write.

Mocel - Mocel is mad at Eclipsa. She's mad at all Mewmans, really. She cares a lot about Miquiz, and she hates that he's locked up while she, with her lightweight ash body, can sneak out whenever she likes. The world isn't fair, and she knows it.

Miquiz - Miquiz is dying a second time. The dark magic wound on his chest is expanding. He doesn't want to leave, not without seeing the sun again, but he may not have a choice. He doesn't want to leave without saying something to Eclipsa, but again, no choice. He doesn't know what to do.

Tecolo - Tecolo is just vibin. He wants to see Ludo again, and he will, but he's mostly busy having fun with his dead and living relatives after centuries floating in the void.

[rooklinensinker]

I heard this from somewhere I don't recall so please let me know if you manage to find the original.

Explaining being Trans to someone who isn't

☃️With Christmas Sweaters🎄

(Pretend) It's Christmas!

Let's say your mother gets you your first Christmas sweater as a baby.

She puts it on you and takes a picture and it's nice and wholesome. And every year since then, you wear that same sweater as a tradition.

At first, the sweater fits and it's comfortable. Who cares? You're a kid and your mom picks all your clothes anyways!

Or maybe you never liked it and it was always too itchy. Or the colours were too bright. You told your mom to cut the tag out but there wasn't one. And even after wearing layers under the sweater, whenever it still touches your skin you're reminded that it's still uncomfortable having it on.

And with each year, the sweater gets smaller until you can barely move, barely breathe even, without ripping it apart. You have to be more careful about it than other people seem to be. But you bear it because you don't know what else to do.

You don't want to disappoint your family, who all know you as "the kid with the sweater" in their postcards. But you can't take it anymore and you ask your mother if you could wear something else of your choosing.

Your mother has grown attached to the sweater now and even you just suggesting you get rid of something you had since you were a kid, is a sensitive matter. It is as if you're throwing your identity out. You'll no longer be "the kid with the sweater".

But it's just clothes. And when you finally wear something comfortable, it feels much better. Like you can be as happy as those people who always liked their sweaters. Like you don't even think about what you're wearing anymore because it's not constantly itching.

Of course, there will still be people who remember you for your sweater, or compare what you have on now to what you used to wear. But it's your choice to decide whether to listen to them and put on the sweater again or not. Heck, you might even find the same sweater but in a bigger size that is comfortable to you now. Or you might never go back to it. Or you might switch up sweaters instead of sticking with just one. Still, only you can choose that and your clothes don't dictate your identity. You're not "the kid with the sweater" anymore. You grew up. What you are is what you decide to be.

Point is, it doesn't matter when or how you decide the sweater doesn't fit you and makes you uncomfortable. All that matters is that you find something comfortable in the end, whatever it be. It's a tough world out there and the least of our worries should be clothes. Plus, while you were all fretting over the Christmas sweater, I snuck into your house and ate all your food. The family dinner is now ruined because of me. And I will keep doing it until you finally stop arguing about clothes. Stop enabling me or I will steal your dog next👀

[moonyasnow]

SSR Veronica Dragomir - Birthday Kid Vignette

"Happy Birthday"

(PART 1) (PART 2) PART 3

In what ways would you say living in Briar Valley is different from Night Raven?

Too many to count. But the biggest thing that struck me was the electricity.

I knew what a phone was, obviously; but the only one I'd ever seen before coming here was a rotary phone that didn't work because there was no electricity to connect it to.

It made me realize just how behind-the-times we are.

Honestly...it worries me.

My knowledge of the world outside Briar Valley may have been limited to what few books one of my teachers left me, but just from reading the literature I'd gathered the rest of the world is far more technologically advanced than us.

If a large-scale conflict were to break out, I don't think I could say whether magic or technology would win. But technomancy is by far the most dangerous.

If we don't learn to better control technology, who's to say some other country couldn't declare war on us and stop us dead in our tracks with some kind of technomancy that stops the use of magic?

What then?

We'd be sitting ducks, and no one back home seems the least bit worried about it!

It's glaringly obvious people back home don't like humans. But that doesn't mean they should underestimate them...!

I may be fond of the clothing and technology of the outside world, and Briar Valley isn't exactly somewhere I want to live for the rest of my life, but the last thing I'd want is to see it colonized.

If you don't mind, I have a final question about something you said earlier.

Hm?

Earlier you said you 'haven't had a birthday together in so long'.

!!!

Hmph.

Can I ask what you meant by that?

...

You already know, so I guess its fine...

But this stays out of the published interview, got it?

Got it.

...

We...

We haven't been able to celebrate our birthday together in...years. I stopped celebrating mine entirely. It just wouldn't be a birthday without him; it was always OUR birthday. Not 'mine'.

Ours.

I could never celebrate it alone.

When we were kids it was always just the two of us and my father there to celebrate it.

But that was fine with me.

I never cared that no one else wanted to come to our party. Because I had Victor, so I didn't need anyone else. I was there for him, and he was there for me.

...I guess our birthday came to 'represent' that, even all those years we weren't together. Maybe especially then.

It's special.

So other people being involved...spoils it.

Thank you very much for sharing this with me. And have a continued happy birthday!

A link to her card, since it has now been updated to include Groovy Voice Lines!

Tag list: @another-random-paradise @thehollowwriter @faefum @cactus13-rolloflammesimp @beneathsakurashade

@nyx-of-night @theolivetree123 @babyghoul138 @skibidibabygirl @screamintoad

PLEASE TELL ME IF YOU WANNA BE TAGGED IN FUTURE STUFF!

[cerealforkart]

Announcements and Updates

I already mentioned this with my anniversary comic this morning (I'm glad people seemed to like "it's back on air"), but Dungeons and Daddies the Manga is a whole year old today and I wanted to talk about a couple things!

For starters, thank you to everyone who's been on this journey with me, from those of you who have been here since lesson 1 to those of you who only just discovered lesson 42 yesterday (you probably don't exist because the tags hated lesson 42). Whether you like or reblog every single lesson, you silently read the updates without ever interacting with them, and even if you fell out of the fandom but you read the manga at some point, I appreciate you all so deeply.

I might be making this a bigger deal than it actually is, but Dungeons and Daddies the Manga is a really special project to me. I'm so proud of my growth and I've put a genuinely crazy amount of time and effort into this. There was a time when I was trying to catch up when this was basically a second job. I would come home from work and draw manga pages until I went to sleep, it was all I did, it probably wasn't healthy tbh. People in the discord know, I've gotten crazy efficient at making these, if I don't have anything else going on, I can pump out 2-3 of these a day when new episodes drop. I've never undertaken a project this big before, I'm more the kind of person with a million abandoned first chapters, so to actually still be keeping up with this is huge for me, so I'm hyping this up a little bit.

If anyone has ever thought, "wow, I would love to support cereal financially! They seem to work very hard and would probably really like some money! I would also love some of cereal's cute art to plaster on my belongings," please keep your eyes open, I'll be dropping stickers in near future (Taylor in the trash can will be one of them)! I meant to have them ready for today, but I've never sold anything online before, and I'm kind of stumbling through the process. I'll try to have them up soon! So keep an eye out in the upcoming weeks.

For those of you who only care about Dungeons and Daddies the Manga, you can stop reading here, thank you so much for enjoying my manga this past year! For anyone interested in some personal updates and projects, please keep reading, I've been working on something I'm finally ready to announce.

I've learned a lot from my work on Dungeons and Daddies the Manga. My art has improved a lot, and it's still improving all the time, and I've really come to love making comics. Which is why maybe it won't be so surprising to learn I've decided to start an original webcomic. This webcomic won't interfere with my work on the manga, no need to worry, but as much as I love the manga, and the DnDads community, there's only so much I feel like I get back from it. I've been pouring so much time, energy, and love into Dungeons and Daddies the Manga over the past year, and I'm so proud of my product, but I want to start putting some of all that into something that's actually mine. I've been through a weird past couple of months where I went through some really bad burnout, looked around my life and realized "oh wow, this ALL sucks! I don't like a single thing I have going on here!" So, I quit my job, moved, and while I've been restructuring my life, I started dusting off some of those old abandoned first chapters I mentioned earlier and getting back into original work.

The webcomic is called The Rotting Things, I've teased it a very little bit here and there. It's about a boy with a power that is slowly but surely killing him and a man said to be unable to die trying to maneuver through a world of magic that hates anyone unlucky enough to be able to wield it.

I'm kind of nervous about starting a webcomic, but I've been waiting to be "good enough" to put something out there for a very long time, and I'm trying to come to terms with the fact I'll never be fully happy with my own work and just diving in. It would mean a lot to me if anyone wanted to give it a chance.

An eight page prologue will be dropping next Friday, September 29th, after which pages will start to drop one at a time every Friday. We'll see how I handle the one update a week schedule, it might go up to two pages a week depending on how confident I feel. Just like the manga was, this will be a learning curve for me, but I'm eager to try it out! Please give it a shot!

[wri0thesley]

hi, nat! truly sorry if this is a bit much but i guess i need to vent this out somewhere and you're one of my fave creators here so, i hope you can bear with me on this.

i really never cared that much for notes, so long as i put out my works here, i'm good, always thankful and happy nonetheless whenever someone interacts with it. nowadays, it's really getting to me, like what am i missing? i'm active here, interact with a lot of my mutuals and artists i come across with whenever their works interest me, i can say as well that my works are decent, i've been here almost two years now and my progress with engagements are still so low, like i have lots of followers but it always makes me think that no one likes me at all bc no one talks to me here 💀 seeing a lot of writers get so much from anything they put out is honestly just makes me wish i have that as well and keeps me over thinking whether my works are actually good or i'm not likable at all.

i don't know, i guess what i want to get here is maybe an advice on how to not feel like this. again, i'm really sorry to put this here and hope you could understand.

hello beloved anon! i do not mind this kind of venting, do not worry <3

i think it is very very difficult to really 'not care about notes'. for artists and for people who basically put pieces of their soul out there into the world (and that counts as silly sexy drabbles too; everything you create has a piece of you in it!), it is hard to send something you care about out into the great wide world and feel as though people are just ignoring it!

for me, though, i try to frame it as thus: it is very nice to have a post with 1000 notes. it is less nice to have a post with 1000 notes when 23 are reblogs with no tags and the other 977 are likes. it is WONDERFUL to have a post with 60 notes where 15 are likes, 20 are replies to specific parts of the post, and the other 25 are reblogs with tags!!! if you can make yourself excited about the quality of the engagement, that is a wonderful way to stop caring about the number! but i understand if you're not even getting that . . . yeah, it can be really difficult!

(and believe me the jealousy is real!!! i have been here for like seven years or so and i sometimes still get jealous of writers with lots of notes and friendship groups that seem to rally around them!)

honestly it sounds as if you are just unlucky! especially if you are an active participant in lifting other people up; i find that artists/writers feel so much more inclined to interact with you if you do it first (i know thats true for me bc i am afraid of annoying people!). i wish i had better advice for you, but there is unfortunately no catch-all 'here is how to stop caring and also to make everyone else care'. but i understand where you are coming from and i can promise you are not at all alone!!! <3 sometimes tumblr also goes through peaks and troughs of interaction; i got way more interaction a few years ago when jjk was at its peak and i was chugging out content than i do now. sometimes it's just about making the right post at the right time! the internet is fickle like that. but i support you and i know you are doing your best and i hope that you can feel a little bit better at least!!! in five years maybe someone will stumble across something you've created and feel Seen in a way they haven't before. you are making something permanent when you Create that transcends notes and asks! <3

[loves-looking-glass-not-active]

A Very Important Announcement.

Dear all followers of this blog, I am leaving this blog.

I have to be honest with you all, and I must tell you that this ed is ruining my health. I have had ana for almost two and a half years and my health has been on the steady decline since, both mentally and physically.

Recently, my sister had a depressive relapse and was sent to a mental ward. This made me think about my own life, as she tried to take hers. Ana has given me nothing, though I have given it all I have. I want to live a long life. I want to live and have grandchildren and give them lemonade on hot summer days. I want to go to an art college and become a painter without the fear that my heart will give out. I want to live.

If I keep going at this rate, I'll die by 30, hell maybe even 25. I don't want to die, even if I die skinny. Because of that, I will have sacrificed so much that my life will not have been worth it anyway.

So, I am leaving this blog. No, I will not be deleting it, but what I will be doing is wiping the tags from everything, so that my words cannot reach anyone else. I will probably relapse with Ana soon, it's how the cycle goes, but I will no longer be posting about it. Posting daily about weight loss has brought me to a toxic cycle of loving Ana. I will probably still lurk tags and such, but again, no longer will I post about it.

I hope you all can understand, but this is my choice, and my life. I will forever be greatful for all the mutuals I've made and the friends, but I can't continue to live like this. I just can't.

I've been putting of posting this for about a month now, unable to chose whether or not that this would be a good idea. But, as you all can see, I chose to post. I've also chosen to tell you who the person behind this account is, the real me.

My name is Virgil, I live in the southern US, I'm an Aquarius, I have a crush on my friend and she knows about it, I weigh 192 lbs, and I'm 14 years old. Yes, fourteen. I'm sorry, but this, this life, the choices I've made, they will kill me young. I do not care if this bothers you, as it bothers me the most. I'm too young to worry about my heart stopping in the night, I'm too young to worry about muscle atrophy, I'm too young to count the calories on every package I pick up. I don't want to live like this anymore.

This blog will probably be t-ed if I keep posting anyway, and will also probably take down my real acc. Please, again, I really hope you understand where I'm coming from. If you don't stew in your anger, I don't care anymore, if you think I'm "too fat" to stop posting and recover, I don't give a flying fuck, because you know what, that only shows how pathetic and hurt you are as a person.

This is goodbye, thank you for the memories. I hope that maybe this can make other people find will to recover, and if it doesn't that's okay. I hope that maybe one day, we'll all recover, and that we'll all be able to live healthy lives.

So, for the last time,

This is Virgil, signing off, luv ya <3

[doshiart]

Gallavich Intro

uh huh, thank you @callivich for these encouragement reblogs post, so here we are!

(nick)Name: Doshi

Age: 22

What made you fall in love with Gallavich? I mean… gallavich, they're they. Okay, if serious, I just knew about them but never interested in it and don't remember whether I watched this show before or not. But I seen all of seasons attentively only in November 2023. Then I fell into it entirely and completely.

How long have you been a fan? 3.5 months / since November 2023

Favourite Gallavich moment/scene? oh god, it's hard.. so many really awesome scenes. I want to highlight a few and maybe make a top.

Mickey Watching Over Ian [S04E07] — my s-tier, i love re-watch this scene, i love this song (and i'm so sad that it's been removed from spotify but ok whatever). It's incredibly emotional, that's all. Mickey is so protective, there are so many thoughts on his face. And this silent talk with Svetlana screams very loudly for me. I just like to think that in that moment Mickey is thinking about how much he loves Ian and how glad he is that he's finally here.

"First Time I Felt Anything Since…" [S05E10] — just one more emotional scene before disaster. Really like it and the song is good too.

The Club Kiss [S04E08] — they are so touch starved for each other's. yummy.

"I Gotta Worry. You're My Husband." [S11E04] — it's really sad that this scene was deleted :\

"Rain On Me." [S11E07] — PLEASE they're so domestic and comfort, singing together, what could be better??

idk i just can't stop?? ok i'm quickly pick these important ones for me: "Don't." [S03E12] "Ian. Look At Me." [S04E10] "Sorry I'm Late." [S05E08] The Dock Scene [S07E10] "A lot." [S07E11]

Favourite Shameless character apart from Ian and Mickey? Carl! I actually really love a lot of the characters, but Carl the most. Love his character development, love his sibling bonding with Debbie and how they grew together, as well as his brotherly relationship with his elders. Love his interactions with Mickey and wish there was more. He's so sweet and silly kitty. I also had a crush on Sandy and would have liked to see more of a storyline with Debbie, but eh.

Do you write or draw or make edits? I draw! tag in tumblr / commissions open + other social

Favourite type of Gallavich fics? I'm absolutely in love for AUs! Before gallavich I didn't realize how much I loved the AUs. It's just amazing and this fandom is amazing because there are so many things I want to read, but there are sooooo many. I love multi-chaps and slowburn! Any universe, the main thing is our boys and tension between them!

Most of all I want to mention my love for texting/social media or something like that. I like it when text messages are inserted into the writing.

I prefer fluff, but I have nothing against angst, only if it is hurt/comfort. I love getting different emotions and I love crying too, but I don't like bad endings.

Favourite Gallavich quote? "You're Under My Skin, Man." "What You And I Have Makes Me Free." "Hit My Husband Again, I'll Fucking Kill You." "Don't fucking tell me what's impossible! We're taking care of him here. You, me, us. His fucking family. "Fuck You, Fuck You, And Especially Fuck You!"

Anything else you’d like to share about yourself? I'm a bit of a shy introverted lurker and didn't understand at all how tumblr blogging system worked until that moment, usually I just threw my art and ran away. But now I'm watching how people do their posts (use a queue?? what). And I wasn't completely sure how to blog with drawings without turning it into something personal, but it seems that's the point of blog?

So I'm just getting used to everything and want to stay in the shameless fandom, because it's very nice to be here. You are all very nice people and I have already become attached to y'all.

Apart from anything else, I have a huge obsession. I constantly read something new that comes into my hands, and I have a lot of ideas for new arts. (I might even want to do an edit, but shhh, I'm not sure I'm really mentally ready yet haha).

So yeah, you are truly amazing and I hope to be more active in the fandom! <3

[barenecessiteas]

I've done it, I gave in. Here's your NSFW Alphabet for Luis Sera under the cut.

Let the record state that, again, I'm not a writer so I'm well aware this post sucks. Just fucking around and having a little fun 🙃

Also I'm tagging a few people who replied in the last post about about wanting this written. I hope you guys don't mind and that you get a kick out of this!

@jessy-the-martian-girl @angi-writes-filth @ravenrune @margexoxo

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

I feel like, at first, he wouldn't go above and beyond afterwards. He'd definitely help you clean up a little, make sure you're alright. You would have to specifically tell him about anything you'd want to do after, he just doesn't think of it on his own.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

On himself, he likes his hands. Cuz he knows how to use them 👀

On his partner - tits. We all saw this coming. He's a ballistics man. He loves being able to fondle, kiss, lick, nuzzle, etc your chest. While he'd have a lot of fun with someone who part of the big titty committee, he doesn't care whether they're big or small. He just likes being able give your chest lots of attention.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

He's not used to using protection all that much. They def didn't have any in the village so he didn't really know what his options were until he went off to college. Overall he prefers being able to cum in you, he's more than happy to use protection if you're uncomfortable with that!

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

This one was really hard to come up with because I don't Luis has any sort of filter with this stuff.

After realizing he likes you (after a very long time of trying to convince himself it's just physical attraction), it just makes him want you even more. So he ends up finding one of your shirts/hoodies and steals it for a bit so he can jack off and pretend he's holding you instead. But he will never admit that out loud. He's got a reputation as Mr. Cool to uphold, he's taking this shit to the grave

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He knows what he's doing. He's been around, he's a ho and a half. Majority of it was from flings/one-night stands, but there were a few short-term relationships in there. So yeah, Luis is definitely experienced.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

While he loves anything that gives him the freedom to have his hands all over you, he particularly likes spooning, having you ride him, or just missionary. As long as Luis is free to smother you with affection, he's in heaven.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

This man doesn't know how to shut up (and I love him for it), so yes he's gonna be making a sarcastic/teasing comments here and there. Luis does know when to be serious, so he wouldn't say anything if it didn't fit the mood.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

He doesn't really care. He'll maybe trim every now and then, but it's not something he worries about. And this extends to you too, he literally does not care whether you shave or not.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

He's a true romantic at heart, so intimacy is very important. Even with flings he's had in the past, Luis values at least making sure both you and him have a good time. And like I said before, he can't keep his hands to himself, so he'll be constantly pulling you close, stroking your cheeks, running his hands through your hair, and kissing you throughout it all.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

To be honest I don't see him as the type to masturbate that much, only because his first inclination would be to hook up with someone. Has he done it before? Absolutely. But he doesn't do it often since it's not quite as enjoyable as actual sex

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Hair pulling. Please please please run your fingers through his hair and tug on it. He loves that shit. Not to the point where you like rip strands out but he adores the feeling of it. Plus, to him, it's a sign that you're thoroughly enjoying yourself lol

Luis loves marking too. Nothing too severe, just love bites and hickeys around your body, especially on your neck. He thinks you look so pretty like that, he can't help himself.

And idk what this would be called specifically, but nothing gets him going like seeing how fucked out you get. Partly because he loves you and wants you to enjoy yourself, and partly because he's got a huge ego and out goes right to his head when he thinks "Yeah I'M the one that's doing that to you" especially with overstimulation and/or edging.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Overall, Luis prefers being at home so that he can take his time with his partner. The most important thing to him is you and your comfort, so he'd never do anything in places where you didn't feel comfortable doing anything. He just wants you to feel comfortable and safe 🥺

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

When I tell you it is so easy to turn this man on.... He's got self control, don't get me wrong, but Luis is constantly ready to go. Long make out sessions, seeing you get dressed or wearing more revealing clothes, just lounging around with you for a long time, he adores you so it's super easy to get him motivated.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

I don't see him being into any BDSM, bondage, hitting, anything that would hurt you in anyway. Like I said, he's romantic at heart, and it just isn't his style. Spanking is fine with him, but he doesn't think to do it much.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Luis can't decide which one he likes better, he just can't decide. On one hand he loves looking into your eyes and playing with your hair while you suck him off. On the other hand, knowing he can drive you crazy with just his tongue goes straight to his ego.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

In general he goes with whatever you like, but he prefers to go slower and draw everything out. He doesn't want the fun to end too soon. Although, it's not unheard of for Luis to change it up through the act just to tease you 😈

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Luis will never say "no" to a quickie but they aren't his first thought either. Like I said before, he enjoys taking his time with you. You'd probably have to be the one to initiate it, he just doesn't really think of it.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

I touched on this a bit before but physical risk or harm is a huge no for him. Since Luis is so focused on just being with you in the moment and making sure you both feel good, he won't really do much in terms of doing anything in public. Tho this plays into quickies, he's more than fine with going somewhere modestly private but technically in public, like an empty room or a closet or whatever. The slight chance/idea of getting caught is excited, but he never wants to actually be caught for real.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

I see him lasting 1 round because of his tendency to go at it for a while. Trust me, this man while last a long time. He will take his sweet time with you until neither of you can stand it anymore.

T = Toys (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Luis is pretty indifferent. As I keep saying, he's cocky af (shocking I know), so he prefers being able to make you feel good all by himself. He's certainly not opposed to you using them, especially if he's not around, but he really doesn't use any on himself.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Oh my fucking God this man is ✨E V I L✨.

He loves edging you and overstimulating you. When I tell you he will do that until both of you absolutely can't stand it, I'm not exaggerating in the slightest. How can he resist when you look so cute begging him for more?

However, I don't see him being able to restrain you, at least not very much. Maybe he'll hold your hands over your head for a little bit to mess with you, but he's so touchy that he won't be able to do it for very long. Luis would definitely never last if you tried to restrain him in anyway either. He'll try to play it off but really he's just dying to hold you even closer.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

So he's not loud but he's definitely vocal. Most of it is praising you, telling you how much he loves you, generally any dirty talk. Luis loves whispering sweet nothings into your ear. But you'll definitely hear some groans and sighs throughout it all too.

He wants you to be vocal, too. Not necessarily loud (though he's definitely not complaining if you are). He just wants some form of noise out of you.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

When he gets really close or just really into what he's doing, he'll unintentionally start talking in Spanish (assuming it's not your first language). Sure, he'll whisper little phrases and words to you in Spanish every now and then, but when he's completely blissed out, it's all you're gonna hear.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

I can't believe I'm actually writing this oh my god.

Slightly on the thinner side, little on the longer side but not to the point where it's scary. That is all, you guys can let your imagination flow from here 😉

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Moderate, I'd say. He's not so horny that he'll constantly get turned on in public at every little thing you do. But when you're both alone together it's a lot easier for him to get desperate for you.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

When I tell you this man passes tf out afterwards... Sometimes he likes to have a cigarette after (yeah he's one of those guys) but he feels so relaxed and content after that he just immediately wants to pass out with you in his arms. That's the biggest reason I see him not doing a ton of aftercare is just because he goes unconscious lmao

[mrs-monaghan]

As a jkkr, I often wonder why tkk is such a popular ship. Like, here on tumblr, the Jikook tag only has 3,000 more followers than the taekook tag. 33k people REALLY ship tkk? And there's definitely wayyy more since, obviously, not everyone in the fandom uses tumblr. But yeah, I find this absolutely bizzare. Why do you think the ship is so popular? I genuinely can't think of any good reasons. Would love to hear your thoughts, though.

Wow you made me go look this up out of curiosity

6.3M

6M is way more than I thought I'd see for Jkk

This is fascinating. When I first joined the fandom, properly, which is just the other day, Yoonmin was the most popular after Taekook and Namjin was also more popular than Jikook. Now Jikook is catching up to Taekook like no one's business.

There is more and more Jikook supporters as the days go by. No wonder the vermin are so threatened 🤭🤭🤭

I don't have an answer for you anon. I really don't. It's mind boggling to me.

We know about the older tkkrs in bad relationships and we know about the really young tkkrs who are gullible as shit. But I bet most of you didn't know about the busy tkkrs. See, alot of Army are quite busy with real life and barely have time to keep up with content. All they can do is stream and maybe watch a compilation or two when they can. What I'm saying is, these Armys don't have time to watch original content. And if u don't watch OG content then its easy to believe everything you're fed by an unreliable narrator.

Its why I love receipts so much. Coz I ain't trying to mislead anybody. Also, they make my posts look aesthetically pleasing and alive.

No seriously that's really why I do it. If you wanna believe everything I say that's your fault 😂😂😂

Anon, hi. How are you? I digressed and I don't care to go back. Idk why anyone ships tkk. Like, Yoonkook is JK's weakest ship and Tkk is right next to Yoonkook at the bottom.

Two good-looking men from the BTS maknae line I guess? But then so is Jikook so....

Beats me.

I couldn't be a tkkr even if I tried. Forget the antis and scam of the fandom. I'm thinking just being a normal shipper who just wants them to be boyfriends. Then I have to be scared of memories every year. I have to be scared when JK goes live, not knowing whether he will debunk my ship and only talk about Jimin. Having to worry about Jimin all the time and how comfortable JK seems to be around Jimin. Having to worry about Jennie?? Looking at the fanservice narrative and trying to ignore all the holes in said narrative.

Being a tkkr just seems ulcer inducing anon, I couldn't do it.