#my first time writing oc fic

[hom3landr]

Icarus Falling

Chapter One: Flight Risk

Homelander X OC

When Vought decides to shut down a failing experimental program, a little winged loose end is left. Years later, a bitter young woman named Dove lives in isolation under Vought’s close watch. Not quite human but not quite a supe, Dove must use her wits to survive when Stan Edgar appoints her to The Seven for unknown reasons.

Dove’s tongue peeks out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrates on making her brush strokes as even as possible. The sudden garish swipes of polish scratch something in her brain. Her hands are steady now. She no longer leaves a mess all over her fingers from hands shaky with uncertainty. Instead, the ritual has become a balm to her constantly racing mind. The patience to achieve perfection is one of the few things that bring her peace. She prefers bright gaudy colors that irritate the eye. It makes her think of poison frogs and she envies their ability to maim simply by a touch. She wishes she could have had that mutation if she was destined to be a freak. She contemplates whether she’d like to try some nail art today. She isn’t good but that’s not the point. It’s not like anyone will see them anyway. No one ever sees her.

She neatly finishes her nail, happy with the final result. A bright neon green, her nails seem to shine in the beige bleakness of her Vought sponsored house. She supposes that she could make the place homier but she refuses. It feels wrong to make peace with what scraps Vought throws her. She refuses to take comfort in their blood money. Her body may bear signs of their interference but it’s still hers. Her body will have to be her home as it is the only thing she can trust.

Her feathers flutter gently as the oscillating fan blows lukewarm air on her. The sticky summer air lingers and her bare skin is damp with sweat. Her curls are pulled up away from her neck in hopes of some relief from the muggy air. Of course Vought didn’t feel like springing for working air conditioning for her. She guesses it’s because it’s not “cost-effective”

She stretches out her wings behind her, wincing slightly at the way her shoulder blades ache. They may be part of her but the human body isn’t made to have wings. Her muscles are forced to shift and pull in unnatural ways to account for the unfamiliar DNA. She’s no different than a poorly bred dog, too many elements being blended together and spit out without thought to nature’s elegance. The weight of them makes her constantly sore, even with the harness for support. It’s nothing fancy but the leather contraption helps take some of the strain off her back. Her wings are another reason she doesn’t decorate. Furniture tends to be a hassle more often than not when it comes to accommodating her. Couches and any chair with a back is a solid no-go, unless she wants a wing cramp. She’s currently sitting on her unfolded futon she uses as a makeshift wing-friendly couch.

She happily observes her nails as they dry, so used to boredom that watching the slick wet polish turn tacky is a decent passtime. She whistles a jaunty little tune along with the music playing softly on the radio. She decides that she will try some nail art. She could use a little cheetah print.

Alas, her relatively good mood instantly sours when a sleek black car pulls into her driveway. Her stomach turns. The only people who ever come to visit are Vought cronies, usually doing the bare minimum to make sure she’s still alive. Her house that was supposed to be her refuge becomes just another lab. She angrily screws back on the cap to her polish and sluggishly rises with a groan. She didn’t realize she’s due for another checkup so soon. She contemplates grabbing a shirt but decides they don’t deserve the privilege of decorum. She doesn’t feel like putting in the effort of trying to wrestle her wings into one. She never bothers when she’s alone.

Something still feels off and there is a prickle on the back of her neck as she watches the car park. She double takes when she sees the figure getting out of the car. It’s not some nameless lab tech. It’s not some suit here to chastise her for flying high enough to be seen. It’s Stan Edgar, the man whose machinations led to her fate but who never found her important enough to speak to directly. He’s almost a mythical figure to her and her throat tightens. She doubts this is another quick checkup to endure. This is something big.

Once more she wonders if she should grab a shirt. But again, she decides against it. Maybe she’ll get lucky and the shock of her nudity will give the old fucker a heart attack. Her shoulders pop as she shifts. Clad only in a pair of ratty denim cutoffs, she opens the door to stare brazenly at the leader of Vought with her hand placed impudently on her hip.

“It’s rude to show up without calling”

Much to her dismay, Edgar doesn’t even flinch at her exposure. Although the same certainly can’t be said for the two bodyguards flanking him. Even with their sunglasses, the tilt of their heads is an obvious indicator of just where their eyes are focused. She rolls her eyes internally despite never breaking eye contact with Edgar. She’ll die before she’s the one who blinks first.

“I thought a visit might be pleasant considering your…isolation.” He smiles emptily at her. She grits her teeth and fights the urge to spit on his fancy suit.

“I think our definitions of what “pleasant” means may differ. I consider it pleasant to have some privacy, Sir.” She cocks her head at him. Her wings fluff up with displeasure. She should probably use her manners in front of a man as powerful as him; especially one who technically owns her. There’s a tiny voice inside begging her to practice some self preservation. But then she looks at him and she remembers. He wasn’t in the lab with her but whatever tortures she had to endure were committed with his full knowledge and approval. As far as she’s concerned, he might as well have been holding the scalpel himself.

He seems as unfazed by her remark as he did at the sight of her bare chest. She clenches her fist as he looks at her like a bored parent waiting out their child’s tantrums while in time-out.

“Allow me to introduce mysel…” His polite greeting is abruptly cut off by Dove’s scoff.

Settle down. The voice inside her implores but she brushes it from her mind like flicking a flea.

“You’re Stan Edgar, Head of Vought. I know.” She replies, hackles raised at his infuriating calm. “You’re the one who dumped me here.”

He smiles.

Bastard

“A decision that was made with your wellbeing in mind. But if that is your grievance with me then allow me to supply you with some good news. May I come in so we can discuss it?” He asks as though she has a choice in the matter. They both know she doesn’t, not really.

She pauses, two sides of her viciously battling it out in her brain. One side wants to fight and push just to see how far he’ll let her go before his facade finally cracks. The other side just wants peace. She grits her teeth. If she wants him to leave, she’ll just have to endure his visit so she sighs and steps to the side. He nods and enters, flanked by his leering entourage. She does roll as her eyes at their stares this time and grabs a scarf she spies draped over the edge of a nearby table. She follows them over to the futon, threading it through her harness and tying it into a makeshift top.

She plops down on the futon, crosses her legs and looks up at him blankly. She doesn’t offer him a seat. Of course, there really isn’t a place for him to sit even if she did feel like being polite. The living area of her tiny one bedroom house is bare except her futon, a small table with the fan still whirring away and her radio, and a short cabinet that she mainly uses to store her collection of polishes and a few dvds gathering dust. The walls are blank and cold.

“You should let Vought know you are in need of some furniture.” Edgar remarks as he looks around at the sad state of her place.

“I’ll get right on that.” Dove says wryly. She has no intention to ask for anything from Vought.

“Actually, I wouldn’t bother just yet. That's one of the things I wish to speak with you about.” Edgar replies. Dove regrets sitting because now she has him looming over her. The power play was fun at the moment but she’s quickly realizing that Edgar has a way of making them feel pointless and immature.

“I didn’t realize you cared this much about my interior design.” Dove can’t help but retort.

“It does seem pointless to furnish this place considering you will be moving in the near future. I’m sure you’ll enjoy a place with a little more class.” He’s smug, clearly trying to lead her somewhere. He says it like he’s expecting her to jump up like her team just won the superbowl. There is always the undertone of condescension and superiority that makes Dove bristle. She’s known this man for all of ten minutes but that’s all she needs. She doesn’t even register the meaning of his words. She’s too angry and it clouds her judgment. She doesn’t immediately register that he’s offering her an out.

“Vought has class?” She bites out, her joking tone too harsh to be taken lightly. The hurt behind it is open and raw. Edgar’s smile drops. She should feel smug that she finally got the mask to drop. She doesn’t.

“I’m sure you think that your comments are cute but I came here expecting to talk to an adult, not a petulant child.” His voice sharpens but the pitch never changes.

Dove’s mouth snaps shut and she bites her tongue till she tastes iron. Her feathers fluff out involuntarily as she seethes. She’s tempted to snap back but she begrudgingly realizes that the sooner they can get through this conversation, the sooner he’ll be out of her hair. She frowns when she notices one of her still tacky nails has smudged.

Fucking great

“Fine, just tell me then.” She crosses her arms before promptly relaxing them, not wanting to let him know how much she’s pouting.

The corner of his mouth curls up but his eyes stay as empty as ever.

“How would you feel about finally putting your skills to good use?” He asks.

Dove double takes and stutters out a bemused laugh. Not once since they threw her out with the bathwater had they ever indicated she had any use besides what failed experiment they had been planning. She is baffled as to what they could possibly want with her.

“I think my current situation shows what Vought thinks of my skills. Can’t you get one of your precious little supes to do it?” She replies with sheer disdain.

Psh…Supes

Oh, she despises supes. Spoiled little brats. Spoiled pampered little brats. Vought’s golden children. They’re genetic freaks too but they get freedom and fame. They have lives and families. They only have to endure a little shot of go-go juice as a baby and the world is handed to them on a golden fucking platter. Meanwhile here she is, weak, hidden, abandoned. She had to endure endless tortures and for what?

“We need someone with your unique composition.” His face gives nothing away.

That doesn’t sound good.

“…Oh.” She shifts nervously. A sick feeling starts to brew in her gut. She becomes viscerally aware of the prickle of sweat under her arms and running down her spine “I’m not…going back, am I? You all promised me I wouldn’t have to go back there anymore.”

Edgar laughs. He fucking laughs.

“Yes and no, but don’t worry, we won’t have any need for that. I think you’ll enjoy what we have planned.” He replies with false peasantry. Dove inhales tightly. Her hackles are raised at the constant dancing around the question. She highly doubts enjoyment is on the table. When has enjoyment ever been on the table for her?

“Well, are you gonna tell me what it is?” She retorts sharply. The constant whirring of the fan grates on her strained nerves and in this moment she wants nothing more than to chuck it across the room.

Edgar nods at one of the bodyguards who steps forward to hand her a fancy embossed letter. She resists the urge to snatch it rudely from his hand. She minds her manners though, being careful not to rip the fancy paper. Edgar stares her down as she opens it. Luckily her nails are dry enough now to not stick.

Her heart stops dead as she reads.

WHAT THE FUCK

Her hands start to shake.

This is a joke

This is a joke

This is a joke.

This is a fucking joke.

What she is holding is a genuine, bonafide, official invitation to join The Seven.

Dove drops the letter like it’s a scalding hot coal. A furious stinging longing like nothing she has ever known throbs hot in her chest.

Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? For your pain to mean something?

“No.” She replies shakily. “No, I don’t want it.”

She does. She wants it so bad.

“No.”

She knows what she is. She’s not a supe. She will never be a supe. That had been quite clear to her with every broken bone, every bruise, every slice of the scalpel. She was deemed unworthy with every scribble of a scientist's pen. Her only claim to fame is not dropping dead from her inhuman slurry of mismatched genes like the rest.

Whatever worth she has, it’s definitely not as one of Vought’s shiniest gems. She doesn’t have the luxury of hope.

“No? I assumed you’d be glad for the opportunity. Especially considering your…situation.” He nods at her wings and she draws them closer to her body.

“I’m…not one of them. I’m all but human. What need could you possibly have for me in The Seven. I’m…” She cuts herself off.

Weak

That’s the whole point of her existence really. Vought wanted to create a new breed of supes that weren’t supes. People with abilities but without the pesky super strength that makes things hard to manage. They wanted to corner the labor market. Who wouldn’t want to hire a worker capable of more than a human could ever be while still being easy to control? So, they turned to animal DNA, to see if they could generate specific traits based on carefully selected genes. It failed, the constant deaths of the subjects deemed it too cost ineffective to keep trying. When they shut it down, all they had to worry about was one winged little loose end.

“You let us worry about all that. You’ll just need to follow instructions and smile pretty for the camera.” He reaches out to take a shaky hand in his, his demeanor unnervingly parental in this moment. He pats it soothingly. She fights the urge to flinch away at the touch of skin. She’s painfully unused to human contact that doesn’t involve harm.

“What kind of instructions?” She’s wary.

“I told you, let us worry about that. I promise it won’t be anything you can’t handle.” His voice has warmed considerably as he tries to gain her consent without having to resort to more unpleasant means. After all, no isn’t really an option. Vought owns her. The invitation is merely a polite formality.

“No,” Dove repeats more firmly, a steely resolve in her eye

“No?” Stan Edgar raises an eyebrow.

Dove doesn’t want to hear anymore. What they’re giving her is not an out but a golden cage. She’s Snow White being handed the poison apple. She won’t be a victim of Vought’s plans again. She won’t be that stupid.

“What makes you think I want to do anything to help Vought out? What makes you think a bit of fame is enough to make me forget the shit you put me through?” Dove stands, staring Edgar down. She clenches her fists and the body language of his guards changes immediately. “If you try to set my ass in front of a camera I’ll spill everything. All I want is to be left alone.”

Edgar remains unphased by her outburst. He’d expected as much. The reports from her check-ups had informed him of her temperament. He has one more card up his sleeve before things have to get nasty.

“I understand that you’re disgruntled by your previous treatment. As an apology and as incentive for joining The Seven, Vought would like to reunite you with your mother. Remain as a member for one year and fulfill all your necessary duties, and we’ll get you in contact with her.”

His voice fades out into a droning buzz.

I have a mother.

Dove’s head swims.

She tries to speak but the words catch in her throat. She makes a strangled noise at the revelation. What can she even say to that? How is she supposed to respond to her whole world getting flipped on its head? Unwanted tears prickle in her eyes as her knees give out and she drops back on to the futon.

She’s always been so alone but all this time…

All this time…

“How come you never said anything? How come I didn’t…” Her voice trails off. “You’re lying.”

A photo enters her field of vision and she takes it shakily. There is a young woman in the picture, with curly hair and dark familiar eyes, Dove’s eyes. She doesn’t look much older than nineteen but the resemblance is unmistakable. She's wearing an all too familiar medical gown and her hand rests on the subtle swell of her stomach. Her expression is solemn. Dove chokes down a sob as she softly strokes the woman’s face.

“She signed a contract saying that she did not want any contact with the child post-birth. In recent years, she seems to have changed her mind. She’s expressed a desire to reconnect. If you agree to our terms, we can facilitate a reunion.” Edgar explains.

Dove can’t take her eyes off the photo.

Her mom abandoned her. She abandoned her to Vought’s heartless clutches. She’d walked away without a care. Dove should rip the picture up and tell Edgar to stuff it. She shouldn’t feel anything towards this woman…her mother.

Dove had never known where she came from. Vought had never specified. Now she has a chance to know. What is her mother like? Is she happy now? Why did she leave her alone? Why does she want her now? Did her mom ever love her?

Dove is furious at herself for feeling conflicted even as questions fill her head. She has so many questions she can get the answer to.

“I…” Dove flounders. She doesn’t want it. She doesn’t want anything else. She hates this mystery woman who left her in Vought’s clutches. She needs more than anything to be held in her arms, this woman with the dark sad eyes.

Don’t you fucking dare! Something inside her pleads. You’re going to regret it. You will never be free from them

Dove swallows thickly and with the finality of an executioner's swing, she gives Stan Edgar her answer.

“I’ll do it.”

[suntails]

hijo de la luna

[luxaofhesperides]

For the ghostlights drabbles: “Say my name” with a favor being called in?

Duke had saved Phantom years ago, back when he was just out of high school and working to take down a branch of the government that was kidnapping and experimenting on people, targeting magic users and metas. Phantom had been working on his own to take them down, and they met in the middle, trashing a lab and freeing as many people as they could.

They had managed to shoot his back, knocking him down and making him bleed a glowing green. Phantom couldn’t move, protecting two kids with his body, and Duke couldn’t reach them in time before they were taken away by another swarm of agents. 

He was able to go after them in time, free Phantom and the kids, and evacuated the victims before Phantom rained hell down on the facility.

At the end, standing in the background as they watched paramedics treat the victims and take them towards the nearest hospitals, Phantom had turned towards him and thanked him.

Or rather, he thanked the Signal and offered him a bracelet with a rounded orb of ice, glowing faintly in the dark. If you ever need me, he had said, Hold this, and call me name.

Phantom vanished once the last of the victims were transported to a safer location, and Duke hadn’t seen him since.

He’s kept up with news about Phantom as best he can, but from what he could tell, Phantom is based primarily in Amity Park, Illinois, and the town is fiercely protective of their hero. News rarely leaks out of there, and with them running on their own servers and independent internet, it was nearly impossible to get in from the outside. 

Phantom remained a curious and distant figure in Duke’s life. He holds onto the bracelet still, guarding it carefully and sometimes running his fingers over the ice that never melts.

But he doesn’t call in that favor. He’s never to.

At least, not until now.

Sucking in a breath, Duke prepares himself and holds the orb of ice in the palm of his hand. He’s in civies, unable to hide his identity for this, and closes his eyes. “Phantom,” he says.

For a moment, nothing happens. Duke blinks his eyes open and frowns, mind already forming new plans to contact Phantom. Then the ice goes bitingly cold, almost painful, and the temperature in the room drops dramatically. The ice lifts up from his hand, floating in the air, then cracks open.

White-blue light spills out of it, growing brighter as it seems to swallow up the room entirely. Duke hurries to back up, an arm thrown up to protect his eyes. His breath mists out before him and he shivers as the sound of ice cracking fills the room.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, the light disappears and the cold fades away like a bad dream. 

Slowly, Duke lowers his arm and looks up at Phantom, floating in the middle of his living room with a crown made of ice, engulfed in blue fire, hovers above his head. He looks older, more regal, holding his head high. 

He regards Duke carefully for a minute, then tilts his head and says, “Signal?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Man, I’m so glad you came.”

“You… need help with something? You’re calling in your favor now, right?”

Duke nods. He understands Phantom’s confusion; being in the hero business means that favors like these tend to be used only during the most hopeless of times, when the world is close to ending, when the chances of getting out of a situation alive is close to impossible. It’s exactly the kind of thing Duke was expecting to call Phantom in for.

Not the kid sleeping on his couch.

“You’re a ghost, yeah?”

Phantom blinks at him. “Ghost king, now. Why?”

“Well…” Duke rubs the back of his neck, nervously. “I didn’t really know who else to call, and I can’t do this on my own since I’m not a ghost. But this kid got attached to me and won’t leave, so now I’m taking care of her and I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“I don’t know why you think I have any experience with kids but—”

“She’s a ghost.”

Phantom stops short. “Ah. I see.” He floats down until his feet touch the floor, and then he’s standing like any other person. “Where…?”

Duke looks past Phantom’s shoulder, and Phantom turns to follow his gaze. Chelsea, the ghost girl, looks to be around nine years old and is fast asleep on the couch, curled up under Duke’s softest blanket.

“Signal,” Phantom says quietly, “What, exactly, is the favor you need from me?”

“You can say no,” Duke starts. “I get that this is a lot. But I need help raising her. And since you’re a ghost, I figured you could help me learn about the ghostly side of things. You don’t have to raise her with me or anything! Just… I would appreciate any help you’re willing to give me.”

Phantom doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares down at Chelsea, an unreadable expression on his face. 

On the couch. Chelsea shifts in her sleep, brows furrowing as she makes a choked noise in the back of her throat.

Moving on autopilot after so many nights of this routine, Duke kneels next to the couch, fishing one of her hands from beneath the blanket. He gives it a few reassuring squeezes, keeping it a slow rhythm to pull her gently from her nightmare. She settles down in just a minute, brow smoothing out as she continues to sleep. 

The silence grows and Duke is all too aware that his heart is the only one beating. 

He doesn’t hear Phantom move. Doesn’t realize he’s right next to him until he sees Phantom’s hand reach out towards Chelsea. When Duke looks, Phantom is sitting on the floor next to Duke, looking at Chelsea with something soft and devastated in his eyes. His hand hovers about her head for a long moment, then slowly lowers to rest on her head. 

The touch looks gently, barely putting any pressure on her head, but it’s enough to make Chelsea’s eyes snap open, suddenly wide awake. She stares at Phantom with wide eyes, then sits up and looks between him and Duke.

“Who are you?” she asks in a small voice that makes Duke want to stand against the world to keep her safe. 

Phantom smiles. It’s casual and charming and makes him look like anyone else, as if he’s not a powerful king from a realm unreachable to humans. “Hi there,” he says, “I’m Danny. I’m a ghost like you. Signal called me and asked me to meet you.”

The Ghost King is good with kids. Who would have thought?

Chelsea looks at him for confirmation and only relaxes when he nods. “I’m Chelsea. What do you mean ghost? I’m not dead.”

Both he and Phantom tense, carefully keeping their expressions neutral. She hasn’t told him much at all, just that her parents were gone and forgot her and she got hurt, so she wanted to stay with ‘Mr. Signal’ because he’s a hero and heroes keep people safe and he was the only one who was Black like her. Duke hadn’t had the heart to say no, and began searching for her family, only to find that her parents had fled the state, and likely the country, after killing their only child through neglect and a dangerous environment. 

It was then that he realized that her powers were not because she was a meta, but because she was ghost.

It still hurts to realize how young she is, how much of her life had been stolen from her in an instant. Duke hadn’t been brave enough to broach the topic with her, instead choosing to let her grow comfortable in his presence, get them both settled into a routine now that he was her primary guardian. 

“I know it sounds scary,” Phantom says, “And you may not want to believe me, but it’s true. I’m sorry that you died so young, but that just means you get to hang out with me and other ghosts from now on!”

Chelsea crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. “I am not dead,” she says.

“Cici, I’m sorry to say this, but you are,” Duke cuts in. “That’s why I called… Danny. You have new powers as a ghost, and he can help you get used to them.”

“I’m not dead!” she says again.

“Kid,” Phantom begins, but Chelsea shakes her head hard and hops off the couch.

“I’m not lying! Watch, I’ll prove it to you!” She closes her eyes and scrunches up her nose, concentrating. Her hands curl into tight fists by her sides, and the glow around her grows dim. Two faint, stuttering rings of light appear around her waist. They flicker and wobble in the air, as if weak and uncertain of their own existence, then split apart, one moving up towards her head while the other falls to her feet.

Beside him, Phantom sucks in a sharp breath, but Duke can’t turn to see what’s wrong when he’s trying to take in the sight of Chelsea suddenly full of vibrant color, looking more solid that he’s ever seen her, very much alive.

“See?” she says proudly, lifting her arms and doing a spin to show off her right she was. “I told you I’m not dead!”

“No, you’re not,” Phantom agrees, sounding shell-shocked. When Duke is finally able to look away from Chelsea to check on him, he looks awed. There’s the smallest smile on his face, just the slightest upturn of his lips, but it makes him look softer.

Duke turns his attention back to Chelsea before he can be caught staring. “Cici, can you come here for a second?”

She goes before he’s finished speaking, crossing the space between them in a single jump, then grins up at him. Her hair is a bit of a mess, the two buns he managed to get her hair into falling askew. He makes a note to visit the old aunties in the Narrows later to ask them to teach him how to do hair. For now, he holds out a hand and Chelsea drops an arm into it.

It seems to good to be true, having her be alive, but her pulse is steady and strong when he presses his thumb against the inside of her wrist. 

“Well,” he says, leaning back and letting go of her arm. “You certainly proved us wrong.”

Chelsea doesn’t have much time to look smug before PHantom quietly says, “You’re like me.”

“What?”

“You’re like me,” he tells Chelsea. “A halfa.”

She tilts her head to one side. “What’s that?”

“Someone who is half human and half ghost. Both dead and alive.”

Duke blinks, taking in the words, then turns to face Phantom so quickly he’s worried he might give himself whiplash. Halfa, he said. Like me, he said. 

And sure enough, two rings of light, bright and strong, appear around Phantom’s waist before splitting in half, moving over his entire body. 

Gone is the Ghost King, all powerful and adorned in dark clothing with a crown of ice above his head. In his place is a guy who looks to be Duke’s age, eyes a deep blue and his black hair messy, feet set solidly on the floor. He looks completely normal, completely human, and no longer an impossibility.

“You still up for learning how to use all your new powers?” Phantom asks.

Chelsea grins. “Yeah!” And then, with a quick flick of her eyes going from Phantom to Duke that he almost misses, very innocently asks, “Are you going to stay with us then?”

“I… don’t know?” Phantom looks to Duke for an answer.

Already, Duke can see this going two ways. The correct way forward, the normal one, has Phantom popping in every so often, taking Chelsea out for a few hours to work on training her and her powers. It’s easy and routine and they can keep their boundaries uncrossed and be professional. 

The other path is what Duke wants most that he shouldn’t impose onto the literal Ghost King. He could have Phantom living with them while he’s on Earth and out of Amity Park, having a place at the table, a section in the closet for his own clothes, a quietly domestic night together while Chelsea sleeps where they can get to know each other more, get to know each other outside of news reports and texts on a screen.

“You can stay with us if you want,” Duke offers, casually, “It might keep my apartment safe from her powers acting up on their own again.”

“Are you sure? I could always just fly in on the weekends or something.”

“I’d appreciate having you around. So you can help Cici.”

“If you don’t mind,” Phantom says, looking away. Like this, fully alive with a beating heart, it’s easy to see the blush steal away across his cheeks. 

“I don’t.”

“I don’t either!” Chelsea pops in, looking far too gleeful by their awkward conversation.

Duke can’t help but laugh, feeling lighter than he had in ages. The relief of knowing that Chelsea is alive, for the most part at least, eases the guilt of thinking he had been too late to save her, that there was no chance she could have made it out and had a future, makes him feel weak. All the exhaustion of the past few weeks hits him all at once and he wants nothing more than to collapse in bed and sleep for twelve hours.

“Alright, squirt,” he says, reaching out to pat her head. “It’s late. We can talk more in the morning, so go to bed. In your actual bed this time, not on the couch.”

Chelsea stands up taller, ready to argue, but Duke gives her a Look™ and she quickly shuts her mouth, nods, and drags her feet back to her room (the former guestroom he can never give any of the other Waynes ever again, once they find out about her). 

Sighing, Duke collapses onto the couch once he hears the door shut behind her. Phantom joins him after a few seconds, sitting tentatively on the edge of the couch. The cushion moves beneath his weight, another reminder of how solid and alive he is right not.

Duke wants to touch him, to reach out and feel for himself his pulse, the warmth of his body, his chest lifting with each breath. 

He doesn’t move. He stays where he is, hands carefully still, and tries to think past the dizzying thoughts of she’s still alive, I’m not too late, he’s still here, he’s alive.

“Rough week?” Phantom asks, voice purposefully light.

“Something like that.”

“You should get some sleep too.”

“I don’t think I can. Not after everything. My mind’s too loud right now.”

Phantom shifts closer to him, hesitant in a way that Duke has never seen before in him, and asks, “Want me to stay with you until you mind quiets down some?”

“Yeah. I’d like that. Thanks, Phantom.”

“You know, if I’m going to be around so often as Chelsea’s halfa mentor, then you might as well call me Danny.”

Truth be told, Duke didn’t think that was his real name. He’s glad to know it’s not. 

“Then call me Duke.”

“...Are you sure? You could still hide your identity from me.”

“Nah, I trust you. A name for a name, yeah?”

Danny smiles. “Duke,” he says, testing out the name, and it’s never sounded better than when it falls from Danny’s mouth.

“Danny,” Duke returns. He belatedly realizes that they’ve leaned towards each other, drawn together like gravity, stuck in each other’s orbit. It feels natural. It feels like this is where they’re meant to be.

Maybe he should be more cautious. They’ve only meant once before, after all. But he’s read all he could on Phantom and has seen how Amity Park loves him. He’s stressed and exhausted and trying to figure out how to look after a half-ghost child that’s already been dealt a bad hand in life. He should be keeping Phantom at a distance, watching over him carefully to ensure he isn’t a threat to Chelsea.

But Duke saw how he acted with Chelsea, so gentle and understanding and kind. That’s all he needed to see.

He may not know much about Danny, but he knows this: he is trustworthy.

Enough to entrust his identity to him.

Enough to entrust Chelsea to him.

It’s more than a favor; it’s a promise to walk this road together. 

There’s no one he’d rather do this with. 

“Thanks,” he says again, “For all of this. I know it’s a lot.”

Danny shrugs. “I don’t mind. Really. It’s nice to know there’s another halfa out there, no matter how she came to be one. Makes things feel less lonely.”

“Will you tell me more about halfas?”

“Later. Once you get some proper rest. We’ve got time, haven’t we?”

“We do,” Duke agrees, affection settling warm in his chest. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

Learning how to control her new powers won’t be easy for Chelsea. Learning how to take care of her won’t be easy. Learning how to do things together, as Duke and Danny rather than the Signal and Phantom, won’t be easy. But Duke knows with a certainty he feels in his bones that they’re going to be fine.

So long as they’ve got each other, they’ll be fine.

[songofsoma]

can’t believe i never posted the commission i got of karlach and daefina from the talented @b0zart i’m still so in love with it

[myokk]

before it felt like a sin, ch. 1

pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

word count: 3000

summary: Eloise never wanted to be different.

And yet, her differences are what have defined her life up until this point: growing up as a squib in one of the most prominent wizarding families, being exiled to muggle society, and then attending Hogwarts at the age of sixteen.

She finds herself thrust into the life she should have been prepared for from birth but was denied. As she navigates this new life and her new precarious position in her family, she must come to terms with the fact that maybe what she dreamed of her whole life isn't turning out how she ever expected it would.

a/n: Hi everyone!! I decided to post this here too...I'm slowly going through everything I've written so far, and I want to post each chapter here as I edit them. I'm hoping that this can be a way to a) get back in to writing more, and b) get better at my art as I make full illustrations for each chapter. Let me know what you think!! :)

There is nothing quite as horrible as being a muggle, Eloise thought savagely as she ripped out yet another stitch in the landscape she was embroidering. At least, it was supposed to be a landscape. Maybe with her head tilted to the left and with her eyes almost closed so everything blurred together, it might resemble one. She did just that, trying her hardest to make out some recognizable shape and blast the stupid practice of manually pushing colored thread through a fabric in some sort of -

“And what is this, Miss Babbit?”

Eloise jumped at the sound and looked up at the scowling face of her teacher, and then quickly back down at the tangled thread in her lap. Behind her, she could hear the hushed giggles of the other girls in her class.

“Oh! Er…it’s -”

“How long have you been here?” the woman interrupted.

“One hour…I just -”

“Don’t be smart with me. I mean, at this institute.”

“Five years.” Eloise glared down at her embroidery as if it had personally offended her. It wasn’t like she was actively trying to be bad at everything, but she had the distinct disadvantage - how had it ever come to be that she would be at a disadvantage to muggles? - of not having spent a lifetime being prepared for muggle society and all that it entailed. The last five years had been a monotonous, endless cycle of lessons designed to turn her into the perfect lady: French (a waste of time as Eloise was already fluent), embroidery (a waste of time as the things she embroidered weren’t actually useful), dancing (a waste of time as she was already engaged to be married - why would she bother trying to woo another silly man?), and her most dreaded class of all: etiquette. No matter how many years had been spent trying to assimilate into muggle culture, her thoughts still got muddled when she tried to remember the steps to a dance, or how to properly address the son of a duke.

Did it really matter, anyways, what the other girls thought? She had pretended her whole life to be the daughter she thought her parents had wanted - now she was simply pretending that she hadn’t been thrown into the muggle world without a second thought. What was a bit more pretending - that she didn’t care? That she hadn’t been tossed aside without a second thought?

“Exactly. Five years. And yet, you have shown no progress whatsoever. This -” a finger jabbed accusingly at the embroidery - “is absolutely horrendous. If your parents hadn’t continued to make such a sizeable donation every year, I would have deemed you a lost cause and sent you packing when you first arrived. How your family ever managed your betrothal to the son of an earl is beyond me.”

Eloise grimaced at the mention of her fiance as her teacher clapped her hands together to get the attention of the class - a wholly unnecessary action due to the fact that it was already being given. “Class is dismissed. Please collect your belongings and put them in the correct place. Remember, as future wives and mothers, you must be organized in all aspects of your life. Many of you will be managing important households and the slightest misstep -“ a slight glance to Eloise out of the corner of her eye - “can cause the biggest of scandals.”

Eloise raced to gather her things and leave the classroom before everyone else. No matter how many years had been spent at the school, she couldn’t help but hate sitting through the classes amongst the judgmental stares and snide remarks. Although things had started out shaky at the finishing school - to be expected, really, when you’ve grown up in wizarding society and then are then forced to live as a muggle - it still stung that after all these years, she still hadn’t found a friendly face. She was treated as if she were a pariah: it was as if the other girls just knew that something was different about her. But…wasn’t that the great irony of it all? She wasn’t different than them. She was a filthy squib.

When she first arrived at the school, she was an anomaly. A twelve-year-old girl who didn’t know how to play the piano or who the queen was. It was clear to everyone that Eloise wasn’t the charity case of the school - her parents were obviously quite wealthy - and yet they seemingly wanted nothing to do with her. Whereas the others got regular letters and visits from their family, it was as if Eloise were an orphan. Nothing new to her of course, but to her peers this otherness aided them in her ostracization.

Upon entering her room, she was abruptly pulled out of her thoughts. Something wasn’t right. Everything seemed the same: a twin bed perfectly made opposite a small wardrobe, a plain wooden desk placed between them. The weak afternoon sunlight shone through the window, illuminating her desk. But…there.

That…

Placed on her bed, resting on the pillow, was a letter.

She never received letters.

Eloise shoved her embroidery under her bed and hungrily grabbed at it, pausing when she saw the address. Miss E. Babbit. The Third Bedroom on the Left… It seemed vaguely familiar to her in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

As she read the letter, though, it became apparent to her exactly why this was. Although not exactly the same as the one her brother had received six years earlier, it quickly became apparent that this was a Hogwarts letter. For her. For Miss E. Babbit.

Hands shaking, she set the letter down on her desk and sat on the edge of her bed. She smoothed her hands over her skirt over and over, taking comfort in the familiar softness as she tried to even her breathing.

How was this possible?��She had all but accepted the fact that she was a squib. The shame of her family, a dirty secret to be hidden away and never talked about or mentioned again. Her parents had suspected as much by the time she had turned seven without any signs of magic whatsoever manifesting around her - not even a basic transformation of brussel sprouts to sweets during dinner. It was ultimately confirmed, however, when her own Hogwarts acceptance letter never arrived. She had spent the whole year before her banishment daydreaming about her life at Hogwarts, still optimistic that there could be something magical inside of her. Her brother, Leo, came home every holiday with wonderful stories of his new friends and teachers, and the subjects he was learning at school. Even back then, at twelve years old, Eloise hadn’t been sure if he was actually hopeful she wasn’t a squib, or if he had been trying to prolong the fantasy for her before it all came crashing down.

Although she had had five years to come to terms with her new life, there was still a small part of her that hoped. A small “what if…”. She had tried time and time again to squash that tiny ray of optimism that would escape every so often, tried so very hard to cultivate a hard exterior that wouldn’t let any sort of vulnerability shine through. And that optimism was a vulnerability, after all. It was that vulnerability that had made it absolutely impossible for her to fit in the muggle world, and made it so that she didn’t really want to try.

Five years to come to terms with the fact that she needed a new purpose for her life and…

…not anymore?

Eloise grabbed the letter and greedily read through it again, drinking in all of the words. She paused at the end, thinking. Was this a forgery? Some sort of awful joke orchestrated by her brother? Leo had never been cruel to her in the past; in fact, he was the one who always encouraged her and was the most probable source of the small optimism that remained within her. However, she had no way of knowing how he had changed since she had last seen him. It had been, after all, five very long years. And not once had she heard from him, even though he had promised her through huge sobbing gulps that he would never abandon her. Maybe their parents had slowly poisoned him against her. It would be right on the nose for them, after all.

Looking at the envelope again, however…Third Bedroom on the Left…no. It was too specific. Nobody in her previous life had any reason to even want to contact her again, and nobody in her current life even knew what Hogwarts was, let alone have the ability to convincingly forge a letter just to have some fun at her expense.

A light, bubbly feeling began to spread throughout her body as it sunk in that this was real. She was going to Hogwarts. Soon, a - squinting at the letter again - a Professor Fig would be contacting her and giving her things to study. A huge grin slowly spread across her face and she hugged the letter to her chest as she fell back on her bed. She read through it again. Was it the fifth time already? It felt as though no amount of times rereading the letter would ever be enough.

Eloise got up and walked over to look at the calendar on her desk. She was surprised to see that September 1st was in only two days. The days at the finishing school moved in such a strange, sluggish way. They all felt the same. Monotonous. French and Latin and embroidery and household management and Merlin even knows what else all blending into each other in an endless parade of dusty classrooms and gossip and boredom.

The light feeling left her in an instant as, after years of practice, the optimism was squashed back down. But how will you even get to London? And, her brain added sneakily, you haven’t even shown any signs of magic. Maybe you’ll just be returned back here after they realize their mistake.

No, she thought fiercely, gripping the letter. Until -

A tapping came from the window. A tentative smile returned at the sight of a tawny brown owl with another envelope in its beak. She ripped it open as soon as it was in her hands (again addressed to Miss E. Babbit) and along with the letter a small, purple pouch fell out of the envelope and onto her bed.

Miss Eloise Babbit,

I am pleased to be the wizard charged with such an important task as escorting you to Hogwarts in two days’ time. It is something extraordinary to be accepted in your fifth-year, and as such, I expect extraordinary things from you. I have enclosed a small pouch along with this envelope, and in it are some items that will be vital to you in the upcoming days. I have included books for you to study at your leisure, and a small gobstone that will bring you to our rendezvous point in London. All you have to do is touch it at noon on the 1st and you will be transported instantly.

Your family has not been informed of your acceptance. I am sure you understand why - at this, Eloise scoffed quietly to herself - which is why I will personally be your escort.

I am looking forward to meeting you and bringing you to the sorting ceremony in two days’ time.

Yours,

Eleazar Fig

The handwriting was tiny and spidery and cramped, but it didn’t stop Eloise from reading it with the same vigor as the previous letter and as many times. Finally, she turned to the small pouch that had fallen onto her bed when she opened the second envelope. It must have had an invisible extension charm, because it was filled to the brim with books on basic spellwork and general wizarding history. Professor Fig had no way of knowing, but Eloise had already read many of these books and many more during the year her brother had started Hogwarts, as she had needed to know absolutely everything about what would be awaiting her. A few years may have passed since she had stepped foot in her family’s library, but she couldn’t get the books or their contents out of her brain even if she had wanted to. She had really wanted to forget everything she knew about the magical world when it was confirmed she was a squib but it was a futile effort. As she zoned out during her piano lessons, she would find herself mentally going through the movements to cast different charms.

It was painful to be thinking about things from the life that had been ripped away from her, to know that what she was thinking about would never come to pass, that she would never be able to wield magic - and yet she couldn’t find herself able to stop.

As Eloise picked out one of the books and settled into her armchair, a steely resolve overcame her.

She would prove that she deserved to be there, and was just as capable as any of they were. She would make her parents regret ever discarding her like she was nothing.

She was worthy. She was capable. And she would prove it.

The morning of September 1st dawned cold and rainy. Absolutely perfect.

Eloise had pretended to be sick the night before, and no one had suspected a thing when she stayed in bed long after all of the other girls had gotten ready and headed to breakfast. As the last of the chattering faded away down the hallway, Eloise finally got out of bed and prepared herself for the day. It was difficult to sit still long enough to braid her hair. Her fingers wouldn’t stop trembling and she had to restart countless times. Finally, she tied the black ribbon at the end into a neat bow and turned to the drawer of her desk to retrieve the small purple pouch she had hidden away.

Everything she deemed important enough to come along with her had already been placed inside: the books from Professor Fig, the hair ribbons gifted to her by her brother many years ago, and some clothing. Nothing else was coming with. She needed the fresh start. Besides, anything else she might need would be supplied, as her acceptance letter had specifically stated that any school supplies would be provided to her.

Waiting the hours before noon came along proved to be more difficult than Eloise had imagined. Time seemed to be moving slower than the molasses that had come with the breakfast sent up to her, the steady patter of the rain becoming a sort of metronome keeping time as she paced back and forth. Wasn’t there anything that could distract her, even for a bit? She glanced at the clock. Only five minutes had passed since the last time. 10.35.

The second hand ticking away in tandem with the sound of rain splashing against her window.

What if this was all a trick? What if she arrived at Hogwarts, and they turned her away because they realized they had made a mistake? After all, why would they admit a sixteen-year-old? Surely she was too old; every other student had started Hogwarts at the age of twelve and had shown signs of magic much earlier than that. She still hadn’t shown any signs of magical capability whatsoever, and didn’t feel any different than she had before receiving the letter. It had to be a fluke.

As her thoughts started veering into the melancholy she was prone to, she shook her head. No. Today was a happy, exciting day. She wasn’t going to squash the optimism down today, not when she needed it most. All of these thoughts she was having were simply that: thoughts. Not reality. Hogwarts never made a mistake, and in all of the history books she had read, she couldn’t recall an instance of someone being turned away at the door. Granted, she had also never heard of someone being admitted so late. But, better to focus on what she did know, which was that she had gotten the letter. It must be right in its assumption that she had magic.

Trying to pass the time was easier said than done. She ended up quizzing herself on all of the charms she had memorized in the books sent by Professor Fig, moving an imaginary wand in the precise movements needed to successfully cast and focusing on her pronunciation. She had studied all of these forms late into both nights she had had the books, and when she would eventually close her eyes to sleep, the wand movements were all she saw.

Eloise was determined that she would receive pity from nobody. Nobody was going to look at her like she was lacking. She had gotten enough of that to last a lifetime, and now that she was given this opportunity she wasn’t about to waste it.

When noon finally struck, Eloise was ready and waiting. She eagerly grabbed the gobstone that was sitting on her desk and felt the familiar tugging sensation in her navel as she was whisked away to London and the beginning of her new life.

next chapter

[boywifesammy]

sam winchester would NOT have a binder… he binds with ace bandages and packs with socks 👍

[hiyogdh]

some svsss oc scribbles to start a new sketchbook

[tethrras]

a soft place to land

vittoria de riva x lucanis dellamorte. 2.7k. fluff, hurt/comfort, flirting. click here to read on ao3.

-

Vittoria is no stranger to loneliness.

It keeps her bed cold and her nights quiet. Sometimes she’s grateful for it and other times the longing for something more, the same longing she’s felt since childhood, threatens to strangle her. But she’s a Crow, and Crows can’t afford connections like that, so she doesn’t complain and instead spends long nights sharpening her blades in silence. Sharpening blades or, when she feels longing’s hands tightening around her neck, sitting in the window of her apartment in the canal district and watching the civilians of the city go about their lives.

“Her” apartment isn’t her apartment at all. It’s an abandoned apartment overlooking the market that no one has lived in for what seems like a decade, if not longer. She found it after one of her first contracts, and it’s the only place in Treviso that she can escape to without feeling the need to look over her shoulder for Viago. On nights she can’t sleep and doesn’t want to think or train, she scales the surface of the tower and settles in the window, letting the heartbeat of Treviso lull her into something that might resemble sleep. Visiting the apartment is what she misses most about home, and after seeing what happened to Minrathous, after hearing about what's happening in the South, she wants to visit it again. Who knows if - who knows when - it’ll be the last time?

She intends to head for the Eluvian with little fanfare - the others don’t need to know about her trip - but when she reaches the bottom of the staircase in the library, she finds Lucanis sitting on a chair with a cup of coffee in his hand and a book open in his lap. He looks up at her as her footsteps slow to a stop.

“De Riva.”

“Dellamorte.”

Vittoria shifts her weight from one foot to the other as a slight smile creases Lucanis’s lips.

“You’re going out.” He appraises her armor with a raised brow. She should’ve cleaned it earlier like she had meant to…

“I am.” Vittoria rests her hand on the hilt of her sword. “But I won’t be gone for long.”

“Where to?”

“Home,” she answers, then, “Treviso. Ever since we got back from Minrathous…”

He glances down at his lap then. “I know.”

She can tell he feels as she does - guilt for what happened to Minrathous, to the Shadow Dragons, to Neve, but gratefulness that the same - or worse - didn’t happen to Treviso. It’s a poor consolation, but consolation at all is priceless in times like this. 

Vittoria clears her throat. “Would you…”

“Would I what?”

“Um. Nothing,” she insists, shaking her head. Of course he wouldn’t want to come with her - he’s clearly in the middle of something. She’s not sure she wants company, either. “Anyway, I won’t be long. If anyone asks for me -”

“Were you going to ask me if I’d like to come with you?”

“... No.”

“Then what were you going to ask?”

She knows very well that Lucanis didn’t know who she was before she rescued him from the Ossuary, despite the two decades that she has spent with the Crows. It continues to surprise her that he understands her better than Viago ever has after only a month or two. No wonder he’s such a good assassin - he’s very good at reading his mark. She clears her throat. “Alright,” she confesses. “I was.”

“I thought so.” He stands up, takes a long sip from his teacup, and then places it down on the saucer. “Let me get my things. I will meet you at the Eluvian.”

He doesn’t leave her waiting long, and they travel home through the Crossroads in companionable silence. Vittoria can’t help but glance over at him from time to time. While he didn’t notice her in the past, she certainly noticed him - she even thought she had been in love with him once, though she’s sure now that she didn’t know what love meant. Or means. But he and Illario had a life that all Crow recruits wanted for themselves, and Vittoria had been one of them. The acclaim. The attention from the Talons. The inherent talent. When she was younger, she thought that having the attention of someone like Lucanis would’ve made her life easier - easier than the attention from Viago, anyway - and she strove for years to get that attention. She grew out of it eventually, and then, of course, he died, and whatever leftover feelings she might have had died with him. But now, the fact that not only is he alive, but that she was the one to save him… Sometimes it doesn’t feel real, and she always catches herself looking at him to make sure he’s really here.

“We’re not going to the Diamond,” she says when the two of them reach the Treviso Eluvian. “If you wanted to check in with Teia and Viago...”

“Hm. Then where are we going?”

“I have a place in the city that I go to. I consider it… well… a home. Of sorts. I wanted to make sure it was still standing, after…”

Lucanis nods. “I understand. But maybe we can check in with Teia and Viago while we’re here…” At Vittoria’s wince, he gives her a smile. “Or not.”

“Thank you.” There is a part of her that loves Viago, however complicated and repressed that part is, but the last thing she needs right now is a lecture.

“Of course. No one understands the desire to avoid Viago as well as I do, believe me.”

She steps through the Eluvian with Lucanis on her heels. 

Most of the Crows are asleep for the night, so the two of them meet no resistance at the Casino, and from there she leads him through the familiar streets in silence. It’s a short walk, though, and soon enough she’s standing at the base of the apartment building and refreshing herself on her usual footholds. She hasn’t been here since before she saved Varric all those months ago, and she would hate to fall to her death from the building that she’s scaled more than any other - in front of Lucanis, no less. To her relief, the tower doesn’t seem to have suffered in the face of the dragon attack. She glances back at her companion, who is staring up at the surface of the building the same way she had been moments ago.

“It’s not as tall as it looks,” she reassures him.

He meets her gaze. “Good thing I have wings.”

Vittoria has been climbing her whole life. As a child, she would spend hours scaling trees until she reached the top and could settle down in the branches with a book or wooden toy that she had stolen from one of her siblings. By the time she was six, she could scale the tallest tree on her family’s farm in one breath. When she first arrived in Antiva, it was the only thing that made her suited to the life of a Crow - everything else, the fighting and the thick skin and the iron stomach, came later. So climbing is second nature to her, and in no time, she’s heaving herself through the window and rolling onto the floor of her apartment. Lucanis follows. They stand up from the ground, dust themselves off, and meet each other’s eyes.

“This is it.” She says it more awkwardly than she’d meant to, and winces at herself. She thought she’d gotten over her infatuation with him - she doesn’t dwell on those old feelings when they’re working together side-by-side, killing Antaam and Venatori and Sentinels - but now that it’s the two of them, alone in an abandoned apartment with no gods or dragons for miles around, that soft spot of her heart feels rubbed raw. She turns away from him. “I’ve been coming here for years,” she says again. “I’m glad to see it’s still standing.”

Lucanis looks around curiously, and Vittoria does, too, to familiarize herself with the apartment again. There’s a bookshelf with a few books in it - books that she bought from the market herself, but can’t remember the contents of now - and a collection of knives sitting on a stool next to a well-worn whetstone. Above the stool is a series of scratches on the wall, each scratch representing one of her successful contracts. There must be more than a hundred scratches, but she’s not sure if he’d consider that a high or low number, so she resists the urge to call attention to it. 

On one side of the room is the window from which she can see the market, and on the wall opposite is the window from which she can see the whole of Treviso spilling over the hills on the horizon, its silver spires sparkling in the moonlight. Lucanis lingers here, standing still for a long moment. When he speaks, it shatters the silence.

“I have never seen Treviso like this.”

“I haven’t seen it like this for a long time.”

She brushes past him and sits on the edge of the window. It’s what she would do if she were alone, after all, and that’s what she had been coming here to do - to be alone, to calm herself and soothe her nerves of steel. Even though she knows she won’t be able to do those things now that he’s here with her, she’s still going to pretend that she can. And it’s easy, because for a long, long moment, neither of them move. It's only when she turns her head to look at him that he sits down on the windowsill across from her, stretching his legs out until his feet are nearly in her lap.

She used to dream of this. Of sitting across from Lucanis, fighting alongside him, of him knowing her name and… knowing even more than that. When she was little, she always imagined what she would tell someone if they asked her about her childhood in Ferelden, and for some reason, sitting across from him, she feels the words leaving her mouth before she can think about it. “When I arrived in Antiva, all I could think about was how different it was from Ferelden. I hated it at first.” But even the word hate doesn’t capture her feelings, because she spent most nights in the year or two after she arrived sobbing in her bed until the other recruits realized that hitting her hard enough could convince her to be quiet. “But I can’t remember what Ferelden looks like anymore. I can’t remember my family. All I know is Antiva, Treviso, Salle. The Crows. Viago. If Ghilan’nain’s dragon had…”

Vittoria glances over at Lucanis. He seems focused on something in the distance, but she notices him shift in his seat and straighten up when she looks for long enough.

“Did you recognize me?” She doesn’t know why she asks him this, but she does. “In the Ossuary?”

Lucanis shakes his head. “I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I didn’t think you did.”

“But I wish that I had.” He turns to face her. “I don’t know how I never noticed you before, truthfully.”

“And why is that?”

He smiles again, and she resists the urge to glance back out the window. “You are an impressive woman, Vittoria.” 

“Well.” She clears her throat. She doesn’t know what “impressive” means to him, if it means what she thinks it means or what it should mean or if it means something else, but her face flushes nevertheless. “I’ve worked hard to be.”

At that, his smile sours. “You know… You take very good care of us. Of the team. But I hope you don’t think that we can’t be there for you the way that you - ”

“I didn’t invite you here to give me a motivational speech.”

“Ah. You didn’t invite me at all, remember? I had to tease it out of you.”

Her face flushes even more at the word “tease”. 

“I just mean that… If there is anything I can do for you, any difficulties you might be facing that I don’t know about… please tell me.” He sighs. “I know that I can’t do much, all things considered, but I can try to ease some of the weight off your shoulders if you let me. I have wings, you know. I can take it.”

“Please.” Vittoria waves her hand at him to dismiss the thought. “You keep me fed - that’s enough.”

“Mm.” He crosses his arms over his chest and nods. “And you do eat a lot more than the others, that’s true…”

“Hey!” She kicks his foot. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing! It was merely an observation.”

“Watch it, Dellamorte.” She gestures to the open window. “You’d hit the ground before Spite realized what was happening.”

“Please don’t say his name right now. I don’t want him to ruin the moment.”

There it is - another word that might mean something to him but also might mean nothing. She didn’t realize that whatever’s happening between them right now could be considered a moment… but at the same time, she has started to notice that he’s been giving her more attention since she saved him and the Crows from the dragon. He sits beside her at dinner, keeps close to her side in fights and in their travels through the Crossroads… and what had he been doing tonight, sitting in the library of the Lighthouse instead of the kitchen? 

She tells herself that it doesn’t mean anything, though. It can’t mean anything. Vittoria could never live at Lucanis’s side. He’s in line to become First Talon, and his family has been a part of the Crows for hundreds and hundreds of years. No matter how much training she does, no matter what she does, Vittoria won’t ever feel like she belongs to the Crows or like the Crows belong to her. She doesn’t think she’ll ever rid herself of the fear that one wrong move will be the end of it - of her life here, or of her life at all. And she feels the same about Lucanis. If she pushes her luck too far, who can she trust to watch her back the way she trusts him? She needs to focus on finding allies right now. Not a lover.

If he was interested in her at all. Which he isn’t. He can’t be.

“We don’t have to talk, you know,” she tells him, more for her sake than his. If her face flushes any more tonight, she might burst into flames. “We can just sit here and… look out at our city.” 

“Our city.” Lucanis turns away from her and rests his head against the window frame, settling in and looking more at ease than she’s ever seen him. And while watching him in motion is enough to drive her to madness, seeing him at ease might be even worse. Watching his chest rise and fall with long, measured breaths. Watching his eyelashes flutter like he’s trying to keep himself awake. He is a beautiful thing, Lucanis. She’s sure being loved by him would be a beautiful thing, too.

“Before we stop talking, then, let me say one last thing: thank you for saving our city.” His voice is softer than a whisper, so soft that she has to lean in to hear what comes next. “And even though I didn’t know you before, I am glad that I know you now.”

As allies. As friends. As teammates. While she knows that’s all he means, it’s still something. Vittoria smiles at him. “Me too.”

True to his word, Lucanis doesn’t speak again for the rest of the night. Neither does Vittoria. (Neither does Spite.) They watch the sun rise over the mountains surrounding their home and then decide that it’s time to return to the Lighthouse to rest before they see the First Warden. But if things go well, if she somehow figures out a way to stop the gods, then she might bring him back here and tell him all the things that no one has ever thought to ask her about. He might even want to know.

[clerichs-xi]

nothing to see here, just the party rogue reporting to the party tactician after a scouting mission... being that close and shirtless is mandatory. for party morale of course.

[thegreatyin]

And thus, with the passing of 24 hours, Caeru's ambition truly comes to an end. Major Nemesis spoilers below the cut- we're talking endgame ambition business here. Mostly on a character RP front.

The Doomed Scientist made quite a few... choice decisions, in the end. Killing Cups once and for all, recording his story as one of grief-

And sparing what little remained of Mr Mirrors, leaving it free to roam Parabola as it sees fit.

Some of them, he can explain. Others, he's still left to feel... discontent.

Cups needed to die. That much was certain from the start. It was a tyrant, as all Masters are, and complicit in the bargaining and eventual destruction of four (potentially five) cities, as all Masters are. It was an obstacle. A murderer. A petty monster that felt no remorse even on its deathbed, and it went out of its way to ruin multiple lives just because it felt owed its own sick and twisted idea of revenge.

It killed his first love. It looked him in the eyes and he knew what it had done and he knew from the start it was going to die.

Perhaps, in the end, it knew too. And yet it still pleaded, and wanted to live, and-

It made a bargain.

A bargain Caeru didn't take.

Not because he didn't want to. Gods, he wanted to. He wanted it. He wanted it more than anything else in the world. To have Greylu back, to give him the gift of life, of love, to show him the wonders of the Neath and the beauty of the correspondence and all of the people Caeru has met and loved and found home with along the way-

But. He couldn't.

Because Cups was a monster. And no matter what, it deserved to die. And he could not, in good conscience, allow it to live.

Even if sparing it meant everything he's ever wanted.

So he's left here, now. With a bloodied traveling coat, and a bloodsoaked knife, and a favor finally fulfilled.

And nothing to live for. No resurrected lover, no charming visits to Helicon, no slow dances in the living room, no memories to rebuild and lives to live and he won't live again-

Nothing. All he has is a coat born of obligation, not to his love, but to people he's never even met. To lives he's never even touched. To a paramour, still alive, with hair of rose-pink, who doesn't even remember her own brother's existence.

Cups didn't die for Caeru's sake. Cups died for the sake of all who wanted it dead. For the revenger's court, and the ghost screaming in his ear, and the reckoning that will not be postponed indefinitely.

And Caeru, who acted as a tool to carry out their wills? Who all but betrayed his own lover, just to satisfy a cause he never knew existed?

All Caeru is left with, is regret. Regret-

-And grief.

[throughpatchesofviolet]

To Sail Forbidden Seas ~ Chapter 1

Synopsis: After a long voyage, Yi Sang and Heathcliff seek shelter.

Ship: The Adventure of Wuthering Heights

Words: ~2330

Warnings: alcohol; a physical altercation between characters; food

“It’s not much further, now,” Yi Sang said, glancing over his shoulder at his companion, who ambled along behind him, his head hung low as he clutched at the ragged cloak concealing his shoulders.

For a moment, Yi Sang’s gaze lingered on his friend’s hand, eyes silently tracing the tattoos inked into his scarred flesh, then he shook himself, turning to point at an inn down the road.

“There it is—Thames Landing … you’ll be safe there.”

His partner slowly lifted his head, eyes gleaming beneath his hood as he quietly studied the building Yi Sang indicated—it was a quaint, two-story structure, built from shabby wooden planks. The slanted roof had been bleached by the sun, and a makeshift fence, cobbled together from bits of driftwood, encircled the building. It was simple, almost rustic, in presentation.

“This place … good. Has charm.” The man spoke slowly, his sentences short, but each word was firm. Still, his brow furrowed, and he cast a questioning glance towards Yi Sang. “Safe … you sure?”

Yi Sang nodded, smiling as he motioned for his companion to follow him down the road. “At ease, my friend … I promise you Mycroft Holmes won’t lambast you with questions—aside from those pertaining to your stay, of course.”

The pair halted in front of the inn, and the man lifted his gaze to the sign hanging above the door. Even in the semi-darkness, he could make out a series of white letters that spelled out the inn’s name, the words painted to resemble a bridge arching over a dark band of water.

“Now, Heathcliff,” Yi Sang said softly, drawing his companion’s attention back to him, “while I can guarantee the Holmes siblings won’t object to you residing here, I cannot say the same for their other patrons—many of them are unscrupulous fellows, you see … the shameless, deceitful sort who’d sell you out in a heartbeat.”

His friend nodded solemnly. “Then I stay under cloak. Until you sort things out.”

Yi Sang smiled sadly, his fingers settling on the door handle. “Yes … I do believe that’s for the best.”

Taking a deep breath, Yi Sang threw the door open, and Heathcliff blinked as warm, golden light spilled onto the street. Hushed conversations tickled Heathcliff’s ears, and he reached to pull his hood over his eyes before following Yi Sang inside, quietly studying his surroundings from beneath his cloak. Wooden chandeliers hung from the ceiling, providing ample light for those below, and a massive fire blazed in the hearth built into the far wall. A large, bubbling kettle was suspended above the flame, the steam rising from the cauldron carrying a mouthwatering aroma that reached Heathcliff’s nostrils from the doorway, causing his stomach to growl.

“This way.” Yi Sang motioned for Heathcliff to follow as he approached the bar, flagging down the man behind the counter. “Mycroft! Can I trouble you for a moment?”

The bartender glanced up from the glass he was drying, his face brightening when he recognized Yi Sang. “Well, well … if it isn’t the first mate of the Pequod, himself! To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

“The pleasure’s all mine—though, you could raise a toast to Captain Ishmael, if you so desired.” Yi Sang smiled, settling onto a barstool as Heathcliff melted into the corner. “She led us on yet another successful hunt.”

“Ah … Sherry did mention something about her going after another Whale …” Mycroft set the glass in front of Yi Sang, then reached beneath the counter for a bottle of whiskey, proceeding to pour the sailor a drink. “Now, what exactly can I get for you?”

“Well … my companion and I were looking to room here for the evening …”

Heathcliff exhaled slowly, tuning out the conversation as he scanned the inn—men crowded around large, rickety tables scattered throughout the dining room, swapping stories and downing tankards of liquor. Oftentimes, the amber liquid missed its mark, sloshing onto the floor, instead.

The harpooneer snorted, and was turning his gaze back towards the bar when something—nay, someone—caught his eye: a woman, the hem of her periwinkle gown trailing along the soiled floorboards, circled the tables, unimpeded by the sailors stumbling around her. She cut through the intoxicated mob like a ship through the Waves, her tawny hair streaming behind her as she weaved between toppled stools and unconscious men, scooping up dirty dishes as she passed.

Something about the way she carried herself intrigued Heathcliff—despite the chaos unfolding around her, she remained calm and collected, tending to her clients’ every need without complaint.

He shrank further into the corner as she drew near, his eyes dropping to the floor until she’d swept past. As her footsteps faded, Heathcliff slowly lifted his head, staring after her.

“Oi! You, there! You’re not ogling that lass, are you?”

Heathcliff flinched, shrinking back into the corner as one of the sailors staggered to his feet, scowling at the harpooneer. “Did not mean to stare,” he mumbled, lowering his gaze.

“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t,” the man growled, lurching towards Heathcliff, who drew his cloak tighter around his shoulders. “But you were, weren’t you? Bet you’re thinkin’ you have a shot with her, too.”

“Was not,” Heathcliff muttered, pressing his back against the wall as the man stumbled closer.

“What was that?” The sailor came to a stop a few feet away from the harpooneer, his face set in an ugly sneer. “Speak up, you bastard—no one can understand you when you’re mumbling.”

Heathcliff grit his teeth. “Said, ‘was not.’ You need your ears checked.”

“You think you’re clever, eh? You wouldn’t be talkin’ like that if you knew who I was.”

“Do not care who you are. Go away. Want to be alone.”

“Do you? Well, you should’ve thought about that before you started makin’ eyes at the lass … now you’ve gotta pay the price.”

The sailor lunged forward with surprising speed, and Heathcliff raised an arm, barely blocking his fist. Swearing, the man struck out with his free hand, clawing at the edge of Heathcliff’s cloak, and the harpooneer hissed, attempting to squirm away, but it was no use—his assailant caught hold of his robe, grinning as he tore it from Heathcliff’s shoulders.

But his smile faded as the cloak fluttered to the floor, his eyes widening in horror as he noticed the tattoos inked on Heathcliff’s skin. “By the Wing’s … you’re … you’re …”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the inn as everyone stared at Heathcliff—at the markings covering every inch of his exposed flesh.

“You’re from … the Middle …” The sailor stumbled backwards, clasping his hands before starting to beg. “P-please … spare me—I didn’t mean any of it, I swear!”

Heathcliff lowered his head. “Tattoos from Middle, yes. But I … I not with them. Not anymore.”

The sailor blinked, his brow furrowing. Then, he straightened, his sneer returning. “You left the Middle? Isn’t that some kind of taboo?”

Heathcliff said nothing, and the man laughed as whispers passed through the crowd.

“Silence speaks louder than words, or so they say,” he said, grinning. “So, you ran out on the Middle, fully knowing the consequences … I wonder, just how much are they offerin’ for you?”

The sailor glanced at the men behind him, still smiling.

“Perhaps we should see about turning you in—we could use some extra cash, right boys?”

Murmurs of agreement echoed behind him, and the sailor, emboldened, grabbed Heathcliff’s wrist.

“Right, then … I’m goin’ to need your name—I’ll be givin’ it to the Middle, you know.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

The man blinked as a voice rang out from across the room, and Heathcliff lifted his head, his heart skipping a beat when he saw a woman striding towards them, her eyes flashing.

“Sh-Sherry …” the sailor stammered, stumbling backward. “I-I’ve gotta do this, love—if the Middle were to find out your brother was hiding this man, they’d kill him …”

“The Middle isn’t going to find out we’re serving this gentleman,” the woman replied icily. “You aren’t going to breathe a word about him to anyone. Right?”

“B-but … this is to pro—”

“Right?”

The man flinched as she cut him off, eyes dropping to his feet. “Right.”

“That’s what I thought.” She folded her arms, nodding towards the door. “Now, leave, Victor. You’ve harassed my clients enough for one evening, and I shan’t tolerate your indecency a moment longer.”

“Sherry, I—”

“Leave. Now.”

Her words were like thunder, ringing clearly through the silent inn, and a shiver shot up Heathcliff’s spine as the sailor whimpered, slinking away. The woman watched him leave, then turned to the throng of men behind her, scowling.

“As for the rest of you … I trust you know what’ll happen if I find you’ve sold this man out?”

A chorus of soft “ayes” rippled through the crowd, and she nodded.

“Good—as you were, gentlemen.”

With that, the men exchanged glances, some smiling, others shaking their heads, before resuming their conversations. The woman knelt down, retrieving Heathcliff’s cloak from the floor and gently dusting it off before draping it over his shoulders.

“My sincerest apologies, sir … I do hope your stay hasn’t been spoiled by Victor’s poor conduct.”

Heathcliff blinked, unable to tear his gaze away from her face—she was even prettier up close than she had been from afar, with sharp, angular eyes whose color reminded him of the sea at midday.

“Your eyes … like ocean.” He said finally, his words soft. “Very pretty.”

She studied him for a moment, then smiled. “Thank you.”

Warmth bloomed in Heathcliff’s chest as the woman fussed with his cloak, straightening it so his tattoos were hidden. After a moment, she stepped back, lifting her eyes to meet his.

“Now, then … how may I serve you, this evening?”

Again, Heathcliff blinked, his gaze dropping to the floor as he mumbled a response. “Came for room. Yi Sang … said it was safe here. Said Holmes siblings … accept me. As guest.”

“Ah … then you’ll need to speak to my brother, Mycroft.” She nodded towards the bar. “He’ll see to preparing your lodgings.”

“Yi Sang said … he’d handle it.” Heathcliff murmured, shuffling back into the corner. “So, I wait.”

“Is that so?” the woman frowned, brow furrowing. “Well, if you have any trouble, do let me know—I’ll do everything in my power to ensure your stay is a pleasant one.”

She offered him a curtsy, then melted back into the crowd, leaving Heathcliff staring after her.

“So … my sister’s caught your eye, has she?”

The harpooneer started, turning his head to find the bartender studying him curiously—only then did Heathcliff notice his sharp, angular eyes. “Your eyes … shaped like hers.”

Mycroft nodded, setting down the glass he was drying. “That’s about the only feature we share, it seems … well, aside from one peculiar faculty unique to our family, that is.”

“Heathcliff …” Yi Sang spoke softly, unable to meet his friend’s gaze. “I … I failed you. I shouldn’t have allowed that man to expose you, and yet …”

“You have not failed me,” Heathcliff said. “You promised me a safe place, and this place … is safe. Even after seeing my tattoos, I am welcomed. Like you promised.”

Yi Sang was quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat, rising to his feet. “Mycroft has generously arranged for us to reside in separate lodgings—and he’s providing dinner, on the house.”

“My sister will see to it you’re fed,” Mycroft said, chuckling softly. “Your friend’s in for quite the treat, Yi Sang … Sherry’s serving her finest chowder, tonight.”

“Please inform her I’ll be dining in my quarters.”

“Of course … and how about you, sir?” Mycroft addressed Heathcliff, raising an eyebrow.

“Eat in room, like Yi Sang.”

“Very well, then.” Reaching beneath the counter, Mycroft produced a pair of brass keys, setting them on the counter. “Yi Sang, you’ll be staying in room 212—it’s the third door on the right. And, Heathcliff, you’ll be in room 201—first door on the left after you climb the stairs.”

“Thank you, Mycroft,” Yi Sang murmured, his fingers curling around one of the keys. “Your hospitality is sincerely appreciated.”

“As is your business,” the bartender replied, winking. “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen … and do let either Sherry or I know if you need anything.”

He bowed as they turned, making their way across the crowded dining hall. Heathcliff kept close to Yi Sang, eyeing the drunken mob warily as they approached the stairs.

“Heathcliff,” Yi Sang said softly as they climbed the creaking steps, “about what Mycroft said, before … you’d best tread with caution.”

The harpooneer blinked. “What do you mean?”

“The way you were looking at Sherry … if you truly do fancy her, you need to be careful. That man from earlier—the one who attacked you—he’s one of her admirers. And they don’t take kindly to competition from strangers, as you’ve no doubt come to realize yourself.”

“Was not staring for that reason,” Heathcliff muttered. “She stood out. Could not look away.”

Yi Sang sighed. “She does tend to have that effect … just be careful, alright?”

Heathcliff nodded as they reached the second-floor landing—ahead of them stretched a short corridor with four doors on each side, and they paused, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the gloom.

“Your room’s here,” Yi Sang said, motioning towards the door nearest to them. “If you need anything, you can always—”

“Call on you. I remember.” Heathcliff gently nudged his friend forward. “But I will not bother you. Not tonight. You need rest.”

Yi Sang stared at him for a moment, then his gaze softened as a smile spread over his face. “I shall get on that, then … and I am wishing you pleasant dreams, as well.”

Turning on his heel, Yi Sang vanished into the shadows, and Heathcliff released a slow sigh, his shoulders sagging as he unlocked the door leading to his chambers.

[tarnishedbloodhound]

"In their youth, it was rumoured that the Princess Rellana's sorcery mentor and her arms instructor were close, but few knew just how close exactly the two truly were."

Featuring a younger Count Ymir and the soon-to-be Carian knight Dominic, sometime prior to the Land of Shadows.

[dustmint]

Helloooooo. I wanted to post this art fight attack I made for @leonenjoyer69 of Mind Jekyll and Elias dancing because I'm really proud of it :3

Below the cut is also a little thing I wrote to go along with the drawing!!

The music was everything but harmonious. It sounded like pure cacophony, harsh and echoing in Elias ears as this fake Jekyll spun him around once again. The music combined with the ticking of the clocks strewn around in the ballroom, all lying, they all showed different times, advanced at different speed, how could he tell which one was real? His own pocket watch that he had been given by this hellscape was saved in the pocket of his trousers. He knew that it was lying too, time was meaningless in this place. Yet, he tried to reach it, trying to find a small comfort in something familiar, but Jekyll grabbed his wrist, holding it tightly with a smug smirk on his face.

"Now, there's no need for that, darling. We have all the time in the world here! Besides, it's not as if everyone out there misses you, it would be best to take our time with this, yes? Everyone here is counting on us to give them a good show." There was a light above them, it hid the vague shadows that resembled people, blinded him. But he could still feel their gaze upon him. They were all whispering. They did not care for him, why would they? They had never cared once. And the face of Not-Jekyll could almost be mistaken as something tender, something warm, but his eyes betrayed him, dead, cold and uncaring, he did not care for him either. The hand on his shoulder was cruel, and Elias could feel tears starting to well up in his eyes.

"Pl– please...Let me go." Fake-Jekyll laughed, the corners of his mouth far too wide for himself, an expression more fitting of Hyde, and the sound joined all the others. It worsened the ache inside of his head, the buzzing of his skin, as he desperately tried to pull away. He needed to get out, he needed to get away from him. He needed to leave. This was too much, everything was too much. Faint laughs joined the whispers, and Elias whimpered, ashamed the moment that the sound left his mouth.

Mind Jekyll spun them around once again, colours blurring in front of him, until the only thing he could clearly see was the face of the brown haired man. He cooed pitifully, mocking him.

"Awwwww." His voice was soft and melodic. Elias hated how much he loved it, hated how it cut through the mess of sounds and comforted him for a small moment, hated how it reminded him of better times, back when he was still just a small part of Hastie Robert Lanyon that was repressed and hidden away. "Of course not, Hastie! The dance has only just begun."

Mind Jekyll spun him around again, one more time, and then dipped him to the floor. He almost wished he would let him fall just to be free of his hands. It didn't. Elias felt tears finally escaping him, and he sobbed.

[kemendin]

How We See In The Dark

“What good is a drow who can’t see through the dark? Who cringes from the shadows instead of becoming them?” Unsettled by the atmosphere of the Shadow-Cursed Lands, Dhamari tentatively accepts Gale's invitation to spend the night in the comfort of the wizard’s tent. But the drow feels uncertain, wary of the affections growing within him, and Gale is weighed down with darkness of his own. Seeking solace in each other's company is all well and good, but Dhamari is about to discover that becoming truly close with someone is an even more convoluted experience than he has imagined.

Gale x Ace!Tav Words: 13,700 A/N: Hurt/comfort with both angst and fluff. Spoilers through Act II. Content warnings for canon-typical violence, discussions of death, suicidal imagery, and implied abuse. I promise there's also lots of cuddling and hand holding to balance it out.

Read on AO3 (excerpt below cut)

Lost in trying to make sense of the indistinct shapes formed by the shroud of gloom overhead, Dhamari’s normally keen senses fail him. His ears give a belated twitch at the pad of nearby footsteps. He rolls quickly to one side, and sees a pair of elegantly embroidered slippers shuffling past. A curious contrast with such bleak and broken surroundings, but then, their wearer has never been one to stint on the comforts of home, even out here in the wilderness.

Gale pauses in his path, his attention caught by Dhamari’s movement. He turns, glancing down, and offers a small, tired smile to the drow - an expression that only accentuates the lines wrought on his face.

“I see I’m not the only one finding it difficult to sleep.” His voice is low, and sounds faintly distorted, as though the very air refuses to let his words pass easily through its thickened veil. “I thought I might wear myself out with a walk around camp, but instead my nerves feel more tightly wound than ever.”

Looking up at him, Dhamari experiences a quick flurry somewhere inside that has nothing to do with his readiness to jump at shadows. It’s hardly hidden anymore, how he feels about Gale - and certainly Gale has made no secret of his own attraction to the drow - but a kind of awkwardness still lingers between them, keeping them at arm’s length from each other. An uncertainty of when, and how, and what does this even mean, when they are both, in a very real sense, dead men walking; because if the parasites curled inside their heads don’t take them, then the black magic lodged within Gale’s chest surely will.

“There’s an almost tangible discomfort in the air, isn’t there?” Gale goes on. “A weight.” He glances towards the glow of the campfire, then out past the shrivelled trees, where shadows and spectres reign. “It makes you wonder if, when you close your eyes, you’ll ever manage to open them again.”

Dhamari slowly pushes himself into a sitting position. “They might as well stay closed, for all the help they’ve been,” he replies. The sullen tone of his words is mirrored on his angular face - a shallow scrunch of his aquiline nose and a slight baring of sharp teeth. “What good is a drow who can’t see through the dark? Who cringes from the shadows instead of becoming them?” 

He gives a rough shake of his head, his long ears lowering moodily. He feels uneasy here, out of place - floundering where he should be formidable. Even years spent on the surface hadn’t eradicated his instincts for navigating the Underdark, instincts that had proved vital during the party’s recent venture below-ground. But here, those same instincts feel weak, nearly ineffectual. And he does not care for it.

“Ah, but what you’re used to is the absence of light,” says Gale. He lifts a finger and then leans forward slightly, in the way he often does when he’s explaining something. “What surrounds us now is an actual presence of darkness - and a magical presence, at that. Not an obvious distinction, in many cases, but when one considers the curse that plagues this land, the difference becomes quite blatant.”

Dhamari casts a look out at the nigh-impenetrable fog, and his lips thin. “I’m not sure that makes me feel any better,” he mutters.

“Perhaps not.” Gale tilts his head as he considers the drow for another moment, then straightens up. “But as they say - and I can attest to this, emphatically - knowledge is power. Even simply knowing what it is that’s causing you such disquiet can give your mind the chance to lessen its hold, if you’ll let it.”

Dhamari pushes a sceptical tch out between his teeth, a sound remarkably reminiscent of Lae’zel. “Knowing what the problem is doesn’t make it magically disappear, Gale.”

“Alas, no,” Gale concedes, with a wry huff. “At least, not entirely.” Perhaps sensing the drow’s still-simmering discontent, he spreads a placating hand and adds, “I merely offer what wisdom I’ve gleaned from enduring many a sleepless night of my own.”

But this wisdom feels like only the feeblest of lights when compared to the shadows around them, and Dhamari does not reply. He hunches forward, tugging the single roughspun blanket higher upon his legs as another shiver passes through him. He can feel Gale’s eyes upon him still, and somehow that makes it worse - that the focus of his unversed affections should be standing there, watching him come unravelled in the darkness.

An awkward silence descends between them, thick as clinging cobwebs, until at last Gale clears his throat and speaks again.

“Of course… it can also help to have someone with you,” he ventures. “Someone to tug your mind away from your troubles.” 

He hesitates, then proceeds more carefully:

“Perhaps you and I would both find ourselves resting easier… in company?”

At this, Dhamari goes quite still. His suddenly quickened heartbeat sounds very loud to him, drowning out the eerie echoes that are filtering through the campsite. And louder still, a memory of Gale’s voice from only a day or two ago, pushing to the forefront of his mind:

“But standing at your side through such darkness and disrepair… it only makes me want you more.”

Another flurry of emotion twists through the drow; but this time, the affection that wells within him is sullied by something distinctly nervous.

He wets his lips. “In… company?” he repeats, questioning, maybe even stalling, and feeling more than ever that he is stumbling blindly through the dark. He considers his simple, narrow bedroll, then flicks a dubious look up at Gale. “You mean - here? With me?”

“That is… certainly an option,” Gale replies, with a thoughtful back-and-forth wobble of his head. But he seems to share something of the other’s doubt, because he is quick to add, “Or, if you so desire - you may also consider this an informal invitation to stroll across our camp and join me for the night. No slight intended, but I daresay that what I laughingly call my living space these days is still a tad more comfortable than a skin spread out across a rock.” His lips quirk with a rueful little smile. 

Dhamari dips his head in acknowledgement of this, even as he swallows against the mass of growing confusion that’s taking hold inside him. He and Gale have hardly shared more than fond words, bright yet bashful looks, the occasional deliberate squeeze of a hand. Once, admittedly, a bone-crushing hug on Dhamari’s part, when he’d welcomed Gale back from the dead following a disastrous encounter with an Underdark bulette, and several heartstopping minutes spent scrambling to revive the wizard in the aftermath. The ferocity of the drow’s sudden embrace had taken both of them by surprise; Dhamari can still recall Gale’s eyes going wide with startled gratitude, and then warming with a flicker of something more, as the still-cold breath of his thanks brushed past his saviour’s cheek. But Dhamari - still unsteady in his own heart, and deeply flustered - had quickly disengaged, and before he could think again Gale had drawn back, turned away, and the moment had passed.

And now - quite suddenly, it seems to Dhamari - Gale is offering the drow a place in his bed.

Dhamari’s twilight fingers grip at his blanket in trepidation. He wants to be closer to Gale - very much, in fact. So much that he’s caught himself physically drifting nearer the man as they traverse these desolate roads, until he feels the finely woven fabric of the wizard’s robes brushing against his shoulder. 

The issue is - he is not at all convinced that his definition of ‘closer’ aligns with Gale’s own. 

But when he looks up again, it is to find Gale’s hand extended out towards him, and a more earnest smile - oh, that smile - broadening the other man’s bearded lips.

“Come on,” Gale invites him, and then, softer: “Please.”

[accidentalcookies]

Whumperless Whump Event Day 1

self-done stitches / alcohol as sanitizer / "It's just a scratch, I've had worse."

tw: blood, but i think that kind of goes without saying, haha

caretaker: celestinus

whumpee: shaoyuan

no oc intro post yet because i am a chronic procrastinator, but someday i'll link it 😅 for some context, both celestinus and shaoyuan are part of a mafia/criminal underworld-type thing run by aristides, with celestinus as aristides' personal bodyguard and just general medic, and sy as aristides' assassin. this is relatively early on in their relationship, after celestinus has warmed to sy, but before it has been made clear to sy that the others actually care about him as a person. there's also a brief mention of some sort of technological enhancement that sy has, which i hope to elaborate on in future fics, but for now, you can essentially think of it as just your bog standard sci-fi enhanced human-type thing (strength, speed, healing factor, etc.)

enjoy!

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The elevator doors slid open—and, catching sight of what was inside, Celestinus groaned.

“No,” he said. “No, you have got to be kidding me.”

Shaoyuan raised an eyebrow at him. “‘Hi, Shaoyuan,’” he deadpanned. “‘It’s nice to see you, Shaoyuan.’ I’ve been led to believe that that’s typical for greetings.”

Celestinus leveled him with an unamused stare. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

And just in case Shaoyuan didn’t get the gist, he pointedly swept his gaze down to his side, to where he had one hand pressed to a suspiciously dark patch on his clothing.

“No idea, actually,” he replied blandly. “Can I get through?”

The absolute gall of this man.

He reached in to take Shaoyuan’s arm—not the one that could have been holding in his internal organs, for all Celestinus knew.

But instead, his hand closed around air as Shaoyuan neatly sidestepped around him.

“Thanks,” he said, and turned to leave. “See you later.”

“Nope. We’re not playing this game.”

He dropped his bag and followed. In just a few words, Shaoyuan had already eaten up half the hallway with his lanky stride, and didn’t slow his pace as Celestinus caught up either, forcing him to do a sort of awkward half-jog just to stay at his side.

Shaoyuan didn’t turn. “What game?”

“The one where you swear up and down that you’re fine, and then I have to peel your sorry ass off the floor when you eat it.”

That had been a harrowing experience, loathe as Celestinus was to remember it. Aristides had only noticed because Shaoyuan, ever the most diligent member of this organization, had missed reporting in to him after his mission. When he’d gone searching, he found him flat on his face, bleeding out from a set of gunshot wounds—ones that normally would not have been a major problem, had his internal hardware not been compromised.

But it had been, and there was literally no one else left alive on the planet who knew how to un-compromise it, and so Celestinus had spent a long, stressful night playing “pin the tail on the donkey”—if you substituted the donkey with Shaoyuan and the tail with life.

“That was extenuating circumstances,” said the donkey, surprising absolutely no one with his wildly understated description. “There was an EMP involved.”

“That wasn’t extenuating circumstances, practically everyone tries to hit you with one nowadays,” Celestinus countered. “And the consequences were very much real and very much inconvenient and I’ll be damned if I have to deal with it again. What happened?”

“...It’s just a scratch,” he replied. “I’ve had worse.”

“I’m sure that’s true, but that’s not what I asked.”

“Weren’t you about to do something for Aristides?” he asked. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Celestinus had been about to run an errand, true, but that was before something else took priority. Namely, corralling their resident idiot into letting him throw a first aid kit at him.

Preferably at his head. Patients were much more convenient to work with when they were unconscious.

“Really, beanpole?” he sighed.

Looked like he had no other choice. It was time for the big guns: appealing to Shaoyuan’s unwillingness to inconvenience others.

He looked back over his shoulder. “You dripped blood on the floor.”

“I know I didn’t,” Shaoyuan said.

Despite that, he still slowed to turn back, and in that moment of distraction, Celestinus’ hand shot out to yank Shaoyuan’s away from his side.

Things proceeded to devolve. Shaoyuan ducked to one side, then again as Celestinus lunged for him, then a third time as he lunged for him again, at which point Celestinus gave up, decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and jabbed him in the solar plexus.

As Shaoyuan wheezed and folded over, Celestinus pulled his hand away—and then  had to fight through the various layers of fancy clothing both he and Aristides preferred to find the bloodied skin below, yanking them into disarray.

Ever the joker, Shaoyuan croaked out, “Dinner first.”

“Ha hah, you’re so funny,” Celestinus deadpanned, staring down at a large gash that would most definitely need stitches. “This is not ‘just a scratch.'”

“It hasn’t breached the abdominal cavity,” he pointed out. “That’s a scratch.”

Celestinus sighed and let it go, knowing that trying to argue injury definitions with a man who thought breaching the abdominal cavity was a good indicator for when things were starting to become bad was a lost cause. “You’re coming with me.”

“Your errand–”

“Can wait. Keeping you from bleeding on the carpets is the priority.”

Shaoyuan looked pointedly at the ground. “I’m noticing a severe lack of carpets.”

“Oh, because bleeding on marble isn’t just as bad?” he asked sarcastically. “I’m helping whether or not you agree. All arguing’s gonna do is waste my time.”

He made direct eye contact with Shaoyuan and held it stubbornly, until finally the man relented and looked away.

“Fine,” he said.

Internally, Celestinus breathed a long sigh of relief. “Then come on,” he said.

---

tagging: @whumperless-whump-event

[violettaskies]

The One

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader // Eddie Munson x you

Genre: fluff, shy reader, cute crushes, first meeting

Notes: SUITABLE FOR ALL AGES // a small blurb from my very first fic ever, Every Summertime (completed story on ao3 as well) // if you do decide to read the entire completed story, thank you! but there are more content warnings there // this blurb is very sfw in comparison to the rest of the story lol // very small mentions of Eddie’s parents // hope you enjoy reading

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When you were little, you never understood how friendship worked. An only kid, living in a trailer park that was far away from your other classmates, with a shy little voice – it all added up to you not making a close friend until you nearly reached middle school. Of course, you were still able to socialize during class and recess if necessary, or were given pity invites to a few birthday parties here and there; but, none of that compared to when your friendship with Eddie Munson began to blossom. Like you, he lived in Hawkins his entire life. However, he was moving from apartment to apartment until he was taken in by his Uncle Wayne.

Seeing him around school was one thing, but it was around the time you just turned nine when he moved to the trailer next to yours. Your parents wanted you to give a formal introduction to help grow your social skills, but seeing him so close in a personal setting was a bit daunting.

The boy who gave the teachers a hard time, but they still wanted to help the kid with big eyes and an ever-healing bruise or two on his arm. The boy who talked about rock music so loudly during the lunch break and would play air guitar on top of the tables. The boy who, no matter what, held the door open if there was a girl walking behind him, because that’s what a gentleman would do. That regardless of how his father treated women, he wasn’t going to continue that cycle. The boy who saw you didn’t have a partner in music class so he came up to you with a smile and asked if you could do him the honour of helping him play the recorder. The boy you harboured a crush on all throughout your elementary school days, Eddie Munson, moved right next door.

It was scary to say the least. At school, you could easily walk a little faster in the hallways with your head down if you were blushing and didn’t want him to see. Or maybe even try to sit a few seats away so you wouldn’t need to awkwardly interact with him. Now, he’s right next door and you couldn’t get your heart to stop leaping out of your chest.

The thing was, Eddie’s heart was doing the same thing when he noticed you were his neighour.

Nothing in his life was stagnant: from his parents, to his home, to his grades in school. He was lucky to make friends with the people he now calls his bandmates, which gave him a small sense of stability. But how was he going to make his pulse stable? He would never know.

Seeing you so close and yet so far made all the butterflies flutter in his stomach. You were the one who mainly kept to yourself during school, no matter how much the teachers tried to get you to keep participating in class discussions. The one who read books every lunch period to pass the time, and would sometimes lift your eyes from the novel if you sat next to a really talkative person; you would smile, and slowly get over your bouts of shyness – how he loved to see it. The one who, no matter what, would secretly share your packed lunch with the kids who couldn’t afford what was offered in the cafeteria. Since you knew what it was like to be ashamed of not having enough food, and you didn’t want anyone else to feel that way. The one who even did it for Eddie once when you sat next to each other coincidentally. Your eyes didn’t leave the book you were reading, when you lightly kicked him under the table and dropped half a sandwich and chips in a plastic bag onto his lap.

The one who has a heart of gold that he wanted to get to know better. The one who was always trying to make a friend, but was too scared to make the first move. The one who sat in the corner of music class with a recorder in your shaky hands when everyone partnered up around you. He knew that was when he was going to say thank you, by asking to be your partner and seeing you smile again. The one who he was head over heels for – you were his new neighbour. 

It only took about a week after Eddie settled in before you made formal introductions as each other’s nextdoor neighbours. Your parents were working and you wanted to savour the last bit of summer. So you decided to sit at the communal picnic tables with a red solo cup of lemonade and read the last few chapters of The Hobbit. As you were just about to turn the page, a large gust of wind made your book fly out of your hands.

“Ugh, of course,” you said to yourself in an exasperated tone while getting up to go find the book somewhere in the grass nearby. The area around you was clear, so you started to scan your eyes a little further until you landed on a figure in black jean shorts and oversized baseball tee, holding the book in his hands.

His eyes were wide when he looked at you, his smile even bigger, when he said: “no way! You’ve read The Hobbit? This and the Lord of the Rings trilogy are my favourite books ever. It looks like you’re almost done too.” The boy handed the book back to you and continued, “is this your first time reading it? Do you like the story too? How about,” he paused, “oh sorry, I keep talking too much.” The blush of embarrassment flooded his face which made you smile.

“No, it’s alright really. Thank you for grabbing my book. I was just doing a reread of Tolkein’s work this summer vacation, but wasn’t able to find my copy of The Hobbit until last week. Just my luck,” you said, looking between your feet, the book in your hands, and his eyes.

“The name’s Eddie Munson, by the way,” the boy spoke on. “You probably already know that by now since we’ve been going to school together for years. It’s a pleasure to meet you, neighbour,” his voice cracked as he spoke in the softest tone you’ve ever heard from him.

“Of course I remember your name, E-Eddie. But it is nice to meet you now as the boy next door.” You gave him your name in return, then gestured to the picnic tables before continuing, “I was just reading over there, but I feel like having lunch before finishing up the book. W-would you like to join me?” The words came out nervously as you remember parts of the little script your parents made you practice for when you wanted to make a friend.

“Well if you insist, mi’lady, I suggest you lead the way,” with a bow and wink he said, “to the kitchens?”

“Yes, to the kitchens,” you giggled as you grabbed his hand, a move you never would have done with others in your life. Then you led him to your trailer so that the two of you could make lunch and talk about all of the nerdy things you both enjoyed.

It was that summer when the two of you finally made a friend you could count on. The blossoming beginning of a life-long friendship. A friendship of mutual love and respect, always urging the other to grow, allowing the both of you to find your true selves in the midst of teenage angst.

He was the one who never forced you to talk, but would listen intently if you did; the one who told imaginary stories over the phone before bed, which helped you forget that your parents weren’t home often; the one who never failed to make you smile when you cried; the one who you would use your loudest voice for, if it would lead to his bullies to get off his back.

You were the one who never looked at him with disgust at school; the one whose smile had the power to overcome negative memories of his parents that clouded his mind; the one who held his hand to calm him down whenever he needed it most; the one who he would willingly climb the tallest mountain for if it meant he could hold your hand forever.

You were each other’s The One, but neither of you knew it just yet. 

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