#or perhaps they were not good. but great days

[madschiavelique]

A Crown Of Ink : Chapter 15 - The Chariot

summary : fiora hosts a party during which reader starts feeling all sorts of new things. between game strategies and open heart conversations, things are starting to look brighter

content warnings : none, werewolf (aka mafia), seven minutes in heaven, heart to heart conversation, omg they're touching hands, jealous viktor if you squint

word count : 14.8k

author's note : oof, biggest chap so far! we've officially exceeded the epic length in terms of wordcount, and the slowburn is finally starting to spark a bit hihi. i'm scared y'all will get bored with the game parts OOPSIE but yea i hope y'all will like it nevertheless!

proofread the pretty boy @oneoftheextras

masterlist．．discord ．．playlist．．my ko-fi

The rest of your stay went much better than you could have imagined. You were undertaking visits, each more friendly and educational than the last, discovering customs and foods, and having a great time that would leave good memories in their wake.

Like when Sky recited phrases in a strong Demacian accent to you, giving credit to Demacia and its imposing stature, or when Jayce made a fool of himself by pronouncing ‘croum de la cram’ wrong again while eating a cream puff in front of a waiter.

Fiora had seemed to slow down her charms towards Viktor on a grand scale, although she still gave him the nickname ‘Vikkie’, which made him roll his eyes to the sky as he searched for you and uttered ‘kill me’ with mute lips.

You always smiled at him when this happened, amused, his eyes resting on you, making you feel all odd. As the days went by, despite the fact that Fiora stayed largely with him and you with Garen, you couldn't help looking for him, lowering your gaze or pretending to look away whenever his eyes crossed yours.

As another day out came to an end and you found yourself in bed, lights out and ready to sleep, you were thinking about it for a long time.

There was this strange urge growing inside you, and you couldn't work out what it was. You kept feeling the heat on the back of your neck as well as on your cheeks as you thought back to all the moments of your close proximity. And that warmth in your belly, that strange, light, fuzzy sensation that persisted in his presence. Why did you feel that way?

Perhaps you were allergic to something Viktor had on him, and you were having a physical reaction to it? 

When you had drunk his coffee where his lips had rested, your whole body had warmed up in the same way after all. He didn't seem to apply any lip balm or add anything to his coffee that might have caused you to have such a reaction, so you ruled that out.

Did he have a particular perfume whose ingredients made you react badly? You remembered the masquerade and his coat, and although it didn't leave any physical traces on you, it did leave slightly stronger inner impressions.

In the wood of his cane, perhaps? Maybe the varnish of the wood or the metal of the knob gave you a bad reaction. But you'd hardly ever used it, the rare occasions being when you'd hit Tyler with it, and when you'd handed it to him after he'd picked you up from your fall in the library - even if some of your symptoms had started at that moment.

Or maybe you were just homesick, maybe the air or the food made you react badly, maybe the petricite was more unpleasant than you thought. However, this idea would have meant suggesting that you had an arcane source inside you, and if that were the case, it would have been pointless since it had never saved you from anything where it could have proved useful.

You replayed the moment of the museum over and over in your mind, the feeling of realisation that he had drawn you towards him with a deft movement of his cane going to your head. You could still imagine the warmth of his hand on your hip, of his eyes on you as they rested on your lips.

You turned in your bed with a grunt of frustration as your chest warmed at the thought of it, burying your face in your pillow. What was happening to you? He wasn't even in the damned room, and yet these symptoms were perfectly awake and persistent. Yet you didn't see him any more than that. 

A routine had set in. Whenever you came back from a class trip, it was his custom to go and rest in his room, away from more walking and to escape Fiora's presence.

Demacia, all white and glorious, didn't seem to have any great inclination towards accessibility. Its cities were built on mountainsides where bridges and domes overlapped over vast, empty, flat expanses. You never got lost, though, as the streets were never narrow and the view was always unobstructed.

It was almost a little frightening, leaving no room for anyone to hide or escape, whatever the situation.

From most angles, Demacia wasn't suitable for everyone, and the lack of benches in the streets for people to sit on, for example, was backed up by the need for an athletic society and sporting encouragement.

So it wasn't surprising that Viktor was keen to get some rest, as you yourself would end your days out on the town tired beyond belief. You hoped his naps were restorative, even if sleep couldn't cure all ills.

Your own sleep came late that night, your thoughts returning incessantly and inevitably to him.

In the early hours of the morning, what finally woke you up was someone knocking on your door. With a grunt, you rolled over in bed, hoping that the idiot who had just knocked would go away.

The knock came again, a sigh from behind the door. "You in there Piltie girl?"

Why did the first voice you had to listen to this morning have to be Fiora's? You turned to face the door, propping yourself up on your elbows.

"Come in," you replied in a voice all hoarse with sleep.

So she entered, energetic and judgmental as ever. The room was dark except for a small nightlight on your bedside table.

"You're still asleep?" she asked, almost mockingly, as she strode over to the blackout curtains in the bedroom and yanked them open.

You pressed the heel of your palms against your eyes, clearing the sleep crusts and sniffling as the sun penetrated your room and slapped your body with its light.

"Why, did I oversleep?" you questioned as you finally lowered your hands to your legs, crossing them.

She squinted her eyes at your face. "You're so ugly when you wake up."

"And you're an asshole all day long, to each his own," you winced as you planted your feet on the floor, the fresh flagstone floor unpleasant and just making you want to crawl back under your blanket and fall back asleep in the warmth of your bed.

"Look at that," Fiora chuckled, "Miss Phathe's not a morning person, who'd have thought it."

The mere mention of Selene's name between her lips made you want to strangle her. "Continue putting dirt on my name and you'll end up at your own funeral," you replied before heading for the bathroom. "You're just one bad day away from being me anyway."

"You know," you heard her giggle as she followed you, leaning in the doorway as she watched you go through your morning routine, "for a Piltie, you sure have a way with comebacks."

"That is because I'm not a Piltie," you replied as you tended to your hair.

"Really?" she questioned, surprised. "What are you then?"

You considered answering her for a moment. There was only today and tomorrow left when you would leave in the evening and arrive in Piltover the following night.

"Zaunite," you finally replied as you picked up your toothbrush, squeezing your tube of toothpaste mechanically, "but from where? Not sure."

She arched an eyebrow as you began to brush your teeth. "Explains the poor taste in everything."

"Explains the sword up your ass," you managed to articulate.

She giggled, smiling into the mirror as she watched you for a moment. It wasn't a look of expectation that you'd screw something up, more a look of consideration.

"You know," she began, "prettying yourself up wouldn't be that complicated."

You huffed, spitting into the sink. "Why would I need it?"

"Not saying you need it," she corrected, "I'm saying it'd be fun."

"Never took much attention to it anyway," you sighed before returning your toothbrush to your mouth, "I'm not trying to charm anyone."

Her eyes rolled up to the sky as if you'd just said the stupidest thing she'd ever heard. "It's not about charming anyone you idiot," she shook her head, "It's about doing this for yourself."

You looked at yourself in the mirror, your tired eyes watching you as she continued.

"If you're applying makeup and pretty dresses for anybody else but you in the first place, that's a bit desperate."

You spat into the sink again, rinsing the bristles from your toothbrush. "Making yourself pretty for someone you like would be desperate?"

"In some cases, no," she admitted, "Like wearing something someone offered you." 

You grabbed one of the glasses of water on the sink, filling it to rinse your mouth.

‘"But I can tell you're negligent of yourself," she continued as she moved forward to stand next to you, "and that's what's bringing you lower than zero." 

You turned to her, thinking the conversation was going to turn negative and immediately demeaning, but her tone wasn't condescending.

"This doesn't just apply to your physique, Zaunite girl," she pointed out, marking the new appellation with her tongue, "but to the way you consider yourself. You want to be number one at all times, but you forget to put yourself first and that is the very reason you're losing."

You sighed - she wasn't wrong. You weren't taking care of yourself, weren't giving yourself enough of the treatment you deserved or simply needed to live. The memories of your fever during exam week and of all the deviations you had made out of greed to win also came back to mind.

You'd put your primary needs to one side, neglected your friendships by walking away from them as soon as you thought you'd done anything remotely negative, and ended up in situations where your health was in danger simply because you unconsciously thought you deserved it or that it was the norm.

And every time, Viktor intervened.

He stayed by your side when you were seriously ill, passed you his coat during the masquerade, persevered in wanting to be your friend and assured you that he didn't think badly of you.

You took a sip of water from your glass to keep it in your mouth and spit, hoping that its coolness would contrast with the heat you felt just thinking about it.

"Any reason for this early morning motivation class?" you asked as you came out of the bathroom to find something to change into,"Or are you about to bring me outside barefoot in the grass while we do some flowy movements for better harmony in our bodies?"

She stood by the bathroom frame, giggling. "No party of mine happens barefoot."

You turned to her, frowning and giving up the search for the day's clothes for the moment. "Party?"

"Yup," she confirmed as she walked over to you, observing the contents of your suitcase. "You guys are leaving tomorrow evening, so I wanted to make sure we'd all have our fun one last time." Her eyes returned to yours. "Tonight, I'm hosting a party in one of the apartments under my name, not far from here. Everyone's invited."

You turned to your suitcase, Fiora's earlier questions about your appearance taking on a second meaning. 

"I've never been to any party before," you admitted as you found what you were going to wear for the day and headed for the bathroom so you could change in privacy, closing the door behind you.

She approached the door, leaning against the wall next to it. "Have you been that much of a fun killer all your life?" she giggled.

"Just never had the opportunity or any invite, alright?" you sighed, tired of her answers which you found a little too dramatic as you undressed. "My first party of the sort was a masquerade I attended this very year which, apart from a few exceptions, had guests that were all toffs twice my age."

"Well, there's a first time for everything," she argued. "It's not going to be anything wild or club-like unfortunately if I have to fit Lolanthe and Heimerdinger's policy of moderate drinking or fun with a capital F."

You'd never really liked clubs -they were too noisy, too dark with lights only provided by neons and drinks that were far too expensive for how they tasted. Zaun's clubs were quite an attraction themselves, but nothing could have convinced you to end in one of them willingly to party and have fun.

"You know," she continued, "that might be an opportunity for you to get closer to Viktor."

The mention of his name stopped you putting on your trousers and nearly made you lose your balance.

"You're still on this," you whispered as you accelerated your dressing. If you wanted to escape this conversation, or her in general, you had to get out of this room.

"Come on," she sneered from the other side of the door, "have you never ever thought there could be something between the two of you?"

You stood there motionless, your eyes landing back on you in your mirror. Could anyone fall in love with this reflection you saw? Could anyone be charmed by it?

You'd never really had time to think about the possibilities of having a relationship with anyone, since your attention was mainly focused on your studies, but could there really have been a possibility of someone falling in love with you and you being able to return that love?

"You're taking an awfully long time to answer this," Fiora toned from the other side.

You opened the door, not even glancing at her as you walked purposefully to your suitcase and arranged it a little. "I never wondered about it."

She huffed exaggeratedly. "Viktor didn't answer like that."

Your heart skipped a beat as you turned to face her. "What?"

"A-ha!" she exclaimed, pointing at you as you realised her little trap. "See? You're interested in him."

You huffed, trying to calm your mind and your heart. She was only trying to elicit a reaction from you, nothing more, nothing less. Wasn't she?

You caught yourself thinking about the possibility that she had actually asked him the question, and wondered whether her remark was a complete lie or whether there was some truth in it. Your heart felt cramped in your chest.

"Whatever," you sighed as you set your suitcase down on the floor again, the box of your tarot cards sticking out slightly from under one of your T-shirts, and you decided that you would wait until evening to read your card.

She didn't press the point any further, realising that she probably couldn't get any more information out of you at the moment. "Have you ever played Werewolf, Zaunite girl?"

"Werewolf?" you questioned.

"You really have come out of a cave," she remarked, "I feel like I'm babysitting."

"Well why are you doing all this effort for me then?"

"Because I want us to find a way to get along at least once, alright?" she finally admitted. "I'm trying to make up for what I pulled on you. Is party-fun forbidden in Piltover?’

You sighed, she was doing it very awkwardly of course, but that didn't stop her original intention from being almost touching, honourable.

"It's not forbidden to me, just... foreign," you admitted.

"Would you like to try it, though?" she asked.

You chewed your cheek, considering this most unusual offer. Was there any harm in trying? You wouldn't gain anything but the usual if you refused this offer and stayed in your room reading a book. You already did that every night, after all, so why not give it a try?

"Come on," she hummed, arching an eyebrow with a playful little smile, "I know Viktor will come if you do."

Your eyes rolled up to the ceiling, although the idea seemed strangely intriguing. Viktor wouldn't come to a place just because you were there, that would sound ridiculous.

"Fine, I'll come," you finally agreed, placing your index up in front of her to impeach her from saying anything. "But it's not just because of Viktor, don't get any ideas."

"Sure, whatever floats your delusion boat," she smiled before leaving the room.

You followed her into the hotel restaurant, which was already packed with students and other guests. You had indeed slept longer than usual, and if Fiora hadn't come to wake you up, you would probably have ended up receiving a remark from Heimerdinger about your absence to his lesson.

Unless perhaps one of your friends had come. It could very well have been Sky, Jayce, maybe Garen.

Maybe even Viktor.

As if searching for the beam of a lighthouse on the open sea, your eyes landed on him, sitting at a table in a corner with Jayce, as usual. Fiora joined them, and you helped yourself to breakfast, turning back to their table as Viktor's gaze fell on you.

Your heart skipped a beat as you gripped your tray tightly, hoping not to make a fool of yourself by dropping it if your body decided to act like this again against your will.

You walked towards them, Fiora sitting next to Viktor who only seemed to be partially listening to her, while Jayce seemed genuinely invested in what she had to say.

"Good morning," you greeted as you placed your lunch tray next to Jayce's. 

"Oh hey!" he said as he turned to you, "you're up later than usual."

"Yeah well," you sat down and took a slice of your lunch in hand, "couldn't find sleep."

Your eyes rested on Viktor, his own already on you and seemingly unchanged since he'd seen you come into the room. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks again, that stupid allergy. 

"Oh? Why?” questioned the golden boy.

Surely not because I couldn't stop thinking about your best friend and that kept me up all night.

"Couldn't drop my book," you offered by way of explanation.

You felt Viktor's insistent gaze on you, and you swallowed your mouthful with difficulty, glancing at Fiora next to him who gave you a knowing little smile. Couldn't you look anywhere?

"What were you guys talking about?" you asked, turning to Jayce, who at least didn't seem ready to extort any information from you.

"Fiora was just explaining to us the rules of this game called the Werewolf," he smiled, turning to her.

You did the same, offering him a raised eyebrow as if to say ‘see, I'm not the only one who doesn't know about it’.

"Oh you're teachin’ them Werewolf?"

Garen, tray in hand, took a seat next to you.

"No, I'm visibly showing them how to use an iron curler," Fiora huffed heavily.

He glanced at her perfectly straight hair. "You're a poor demonstrator if that is the case," he replied before lowering his gaze to the contents of his tray and starting his breakfast.

"So," she continued, deciding to ignore him openly, "the game is simple. A narrator, players; two sides, one objective: may the best player win."

Your eyes met Viktor's again, a playful flicker crossing his gaze as your lips quirked with nostalgia for the beginning of the year.

"The players are either villagers or werewolves," continued Fiora. "The villagers' objective is to discover who the werewolves are and eliminate them, while the werewolves seek to eliminate the villagers without being discovered."

"Is this a board game?" questioned Viktor without taking his eyes off you.

You could sense that he was intrigued, and that for some reason he was intrigued because you were potentially going to play it.

Had Fiora just told them about the party? Had she arrived at their table to proudly wave a flag with the words ‘she said yes’ after your conversation?

I know Viktor will come if you do.

You brought the cup of your morning drink to your lips, trying to banish the constant replay in your mind of memories of that infamous shared cup of coffee.

"More like a card game," Garen replied, "all players start the game with a card that determines their role until the end of the game."

"The game is played in two distinct phases - night and day," continued Fiora. "At night, the leader calls out the roles one by one so that they wake up and take their actions. During the day you learn the results of what the night has sown, and you can eliminate a player by voting. And the cycle continues until the end."

"Wait," Jayce finally asked, beginning to really get into the game, "you said there were two sides, villagers and werewolves. But then you said you were calling out the roles one by one during the night."

"That's because some of the villagers have special powers," Garen pointed out.

"Powers?" you chuckled, finishing your mouthful before resuming. "I thought you hated anything to do with magic, isn't it strange to incorporate it into your games though?"

"It's a game, not real life," Fiora informed, and if she could have added 'you stupid cunt' to the end of her sentence, she had the perfect tone for it. "These powers are more special abilities than anything else."

You decided to keep quiet for the moment, Fiora explaining the roles one by one. 

"First of all, cupid."

Your eyes rested on Viktor for a moment, his glance never shifting from you but never losing the thread of the conversation. Your gaze fell on his cup of coffee for a tiny moment before you redirected your attention to Fiora and listened to her.

"He points at two players who will fall in love with his arrow, and if one of them dies, the other will kill themselves out of love. The aim of the lovers is to survive the game together, even against the village if one of them is a werewolf."

You understood more and more that the game would be based on strategy and theory, and you found yourself genuinely interested in it.

"Next up," Fiora continued, "is the card reader."

You frowned, but seeing as you'd been rebuffed the moment before for your question about magic, you weren't about to be taken back twice by asking her a second time.

"The card reader can observe a card of her choice, and keep the information for herself."

"Why not say in the morning that she knows the identity of a player?" questioned Jayce.

"Because the point is to manage to keep her role secret, or to bluff," explained Garen, biting into a green apple. "Someone might well claim to be able to tell that a player is innocent when they're not."

So it was a game of lies and trickery... strange coming from the Demacians, unless in the end it was an outlet for them to compensate for the lack of daydreams crushed by the constant oppression of justice and absolute truth.

"Finally, come the werewolves who, still in silence, consult each other to decide by pointing to their next victim. Once agreed, they go back to sleep - however," Fiora arched an eyebrow, “the role of the little girl can spy during the wolves' turn by discreetly half-closing her eyes, or by finding a better way to hide her spying."

"If you knew the possible strategies," laughed Garen, accidentally pressing his knee against yours, the latter turning towards you, "sorry."

"It's fine," you assured him as you shifted slightly to give him more room, it must be said that sitting between Jayce and Garen made you feel a little small.

"The penultimate, the alchemist," Fiora continued, "the narrator shows the alchemist the werewolves' victim, and asks him if he wishes to save them with an elixir," she held up her thumb, "do nothing," lowering it to the side, "or kill them with a poison," placing her thumb downwards.

"So there's another way of eliminating werewolves other than by voting?" questioned Viktor.

"Of course," confirmed Garen, "not only could the alchemist use a poison very carefully, but an eliminated player in love with a werewolf could very well take his love to his grave. Then, of course, there's the hunter."

"The hunter?" you repeated.

"The hunter is the last card," confirmed Fiora. "If the hunter dies, he can choose a target to kill with a bullet from his rifle before he dies."

"That's a lot of roles to remember," sighed Jayce, looking up at the ceiling of the restaurant and wishing he could keep all this information in his head.

"It'll come as the game goes on," Garen assured him, "I can always give you tips, by the way."

"It's cheating if you give them the keys to the game," Fiora grumbled as she slumped back in her seat and crossed her arms.

"They barely know the rules of the game," sighed Garen, "they're going to find themselves up against werewolf war machines without having a great idea of all the different strategies we know."

She said nothing, simply rolling her eyes as Garen turned to you and put his mouth to his palm to whisper in your ear, your eyes resting relentlessly on Viktor's which seemed to narrow under his frowning eyebrows.

"Werewolves can vote on each other, and if they agree on that, it means that when it's the alchemist's turn, they can get a werewolf resurrected and make the village's only saviour lose his life potion to prolong their chances."

He leaned back from you, and you let out a small laugh from your lungs as the confusion grew in Viktor's features.

"The Noxians have a lot to worry about if the Demacians are playing this game as a hobby," you smiled before taking the last of your breakfast into your mouth.

"Great," gasped Fiora, "now Zaunite girl is going to shamelessly try to tear us apart."

"Afraid of a debutant?" you pointed out with a mocking smile.

"I don't have anything to be afraid of," she articulated, her own smirk emerging, "since I will be the narrator."

"Pfft, coward," you huffed.

"I'm just out of this game because I would make it too hard for you to win anything," she countered before standing up. "But if your determination is as fierce as your fists, I think tonight's game is sure to prove interesting."

And with that, as she made her way out of the restaurant, Heimerdinger quieted the room to tell them all about the day's programme.

For the penultimate day, you were entitled to free time. You were allowed to visit any monument, street or other event taking place in the city.

Your day consisted of long walks through the streets, shopping for souvenirs along the way, taking part in street attractions such as a portrait drawn in ebony ink on a stone as white as the cliffs of Demacia, or a small café that gave a personality quiz at the entrance and offered you a coffee to go with it afterwards.

Viktor had left you again when the afternoon came, wishing to rest before the evening in case the Demacian flats reflected their streets by removing any sofas and chairs.

"If there was a way for them to sleep standing up, they wouldn't have any beds," he sighed before leaving.

You took advantage of this little trip back to the hotel to start packing your suitcase. Fiora's remark about your appearance and your neglect of it still lingered slightly in the back of your mind, even though you eliminated the possibility of buying a dress or some make-up soon enough.

As you packed your things, your fingers inevitably landed on your deck of cards. There were two decks today, and you had a feeling that they would be revealing.

After your usual shuffling ritual, the deck offered you the Chariot card.

Advancing towards a chosen goal. Confidence and certainty. Movement and adventure. The city wall behind the Chariot reflects the barrier between you and others. You are freeing yourself.

You huffed as you sat on your bed, could you honestly follow the advice on this card?

The description continued: The character is protected by his armour and all the celestial bodies are reflected on the canopy. Two sphinxes line up on the black and white pillars of the High Priestess. They reflect duality and the outer pillars of the Tree of Life. The Magician has channelled energy through his body to transport it here and push the body into action. Nothing can stop you. You are literally in the driver's seat.

Your fingers ran over the smooth varnish of the card, your eyes searching its details. Could you be so certain? Could you sincerely free yourself from all those cycles and ideas that were needlessly handcuffing you to behaviours linked to the past?

If Fiora's advice was sincerely that you put yourself first, you were going to choose what you wanted for yourself and not someone like Fiora who wanted to tell you how to act and react. But you kept her advice in mind when it came to the physical side of things.

You had to move forward, make up your mind and not look back.

That evening, you met Sky in the hall to go to Fiora's house. Outside, the air was fine, and other students were already on their way to her address. Viktor and Jayce would arrive later, no doubt to avoid the social rule that arriving too early for a party was a waste of time.

"I'm surprised you're going to her party," Sky admitted as the two of you walked side by side. "After everything she's done to you, it would almost be doing her too much honour to come."

"I'd be doing her a favour if I stayed in my room on my own," you sighed. "If I didn't come to her party, I would have admitted defeat and needlessly deprived myself of an opportunity to have a good time."

"I can understand that," Sky conceded, "but don't you think she'd risk a public toast to you again by revealing anything else you'd have preferred to keep secret?"

"I don't think that even with all the effort in the world she would come to any further conclusion about me that she could reveal," you admitted. "But the holiday is coming to an end, and I'd rather leave on good terms with good memories. Something tells me this evening will be a perfect example of that.’

It wasn't long before you reached the address. It was more a large house than anything else, three storeys high with multiple balconies where you had a feeling that some people were going to end up in a counterparty.

When you entered the hall, warm colours cut through the generally cold exterior. Sofas covered in red and magenta cushions were placed in the living room, where some of your friends were already sitting and chatting, a large kitchen with a massive island on which various glasses and snacks were sitting was at the back of the room, while Fiora was chatting with some of her other friends.

You met her gaze and she abandoned her discussion to come towards you as Sky found Orcelyia.

"The pipsqueak and the muscle-bound one aren't here yet?" she asked, looking around the room.

"They won't be long," you confirmed, imitating her gesture. "So that's your place?"

"In part, yes," she confirmed, observing the decoration in turn before turning away towards the island. "It's under my surname, and therefore mine in a way."

You moved forward to follow her, observing the petit fours ready to fill all the stomachs of the evening. "You truly do live like a princess."

"I hate it as much as I love it," she admitted before taking a goblet, uncorking a black felt-tip pen with her teeth and keeping the cap between her lips as she wrote on the cup. 

"Too many dresses in your closet?" you questioned as you leaned back against the worktop.

"Too many expectations about me wearing the dresses," she explained before handing you the cup with your name on it and taking another in her hand. "What is wearing me down is the need to honour it."

You watched her elegant handwriting and the way she had added an exclamation mark to the end of your name. "I think you can honour them well, otherwise you wouldn't get the guilt from it."

"I wish I didn't need to honour anything at all," she confessed, writing her own name with little flourishes and other little drawings on it. "All I want is to cut the air with my blade and be considered as someone other than Fiora from house Laurent. Want something to drink?’

If you wanted to be able to stay alert later on during those famous werewolf games, alcohol was probably not a wise choice. So you asked her for a simple drink that you could enjoy without worrying about the side effects it would bring.

You watched the rest of the room, the background music loud enough to set the mood without anyone having to lean over to their conversation partner to hear. You wondered when Viktor and Jayce would arrive.

"So," Fiora continued as if she could read your mind, or was once again far too curious, "you and Viktor."

"Not this again," you sighed, taking a sip of your drink.

"Come on," she lengthened her sentence lasciviously, "I want to know where it all started."

You chuckled slightly, thinking back to all the things you'd been through about him so far.

"Well," you began, looking around the room, your eyes resting on Sky for a moment, "the day I returned to the Academy after the holidays were over, this homo-idioticus, in one single day, refused my help coldly and managed to overtake me in the Academy results."

"Off to a strong start," she smiled, intrigued.

‘’Don't remind me,’‘ you continued, ”there followed weeks and weeks of childish bickering, leading to Heimerdinger eventually pairing us up for a team project and us working together.’’

"Heimerdinger is decidedly well versed in what he needs to do."

"He made me want to rip his moustache off," you sneered, "I even ended up in detention because of it."

"You, in detention? I'd have liked to have seen that," she smiled, "did you hit another pupil to achieve the same result?"

"Well..." you let your sentence fade for a moment as you moistened your lips, "there's a chance Tyler's face might recall that."

Fiora's smile faded in an instant as shock passed seamlessly over her face. "I was joking, but..." she seemed to consider the situation, chuckling as a mocking smile settled on her face. "Gosh he is pathetic."

‘’Tell me about it,‘’ you observed as you searched the room for him with your eyes.

"He's not invited, if that's your concern," Fiora informed you before taking only a sip of her drink. "What happened next?"

You were trying to put the pieces of the story back together. "Then came the exams, and my unforgivable desire to win got the better of me enough that I flirted with death for a moment while the illness confined me to a bed. He…” you breathed in, thinking back to the sun caressing his hair, the crease of his eyebrows in his sleep, “he watched over me.”’

She was silent beside you, and when you turned to her, she wore a small, knowing smile as her eyebrows rose suggestively. "Mhm."

You rolled your eyes. "After that, when I finally realised that our goals weren't common and there was no reason for me to hate him, we decided to call a truce."

"And I suppose he came up with the idea?" she questioned.

You nodded, bringing your cup to your lips in the hope that the heat would subside in your cheeks, your eyes resting on the entrance to the room, waiting.

"You're so blind," Fiora whispered.

You turned to her. "How so?"

"I can't say yet, not when your wit is as sharp as a butter knife," she smiled as she walked over to the counter to get a refill. "But when it hits you, it's going to be like a brick."

“Viktor's my friend,” you repeated once more.

"Yeah, right," she smiled, her eyes settling on a point in the room as her lips stretched into a sneer, "speaking of the devil."

Your eyes inevitably fell on Viktor and Jayce who had just arrived. Jayce was elegant, with a black shirt that hugged his muscular frame and jeans of the same colour. Viktor, on the other hand, was dressed simply in a brown shirt with rolled-up sleeves and simple black trousers, his brace covering his leg. Of the two, you could tell who had spent more time in front of the mirror.

"Finally here," Fiora called before moving towards them and you following.

Jayce had simply taken an inordinate amount of time getting ready, as usual, even if he had seemed to cut back on certain parts of his routine. This was no doubt due to the little teasing you and Viktor had given him, and poor Jayce was probably having an existential crisis about his tastes and appearances.

"This is your place?" questioned Jayce as he observed the architecture and interior decoration.

"I know," whispered Fiora, "it's a bit too big, but for these kinds of occasions, it's perfect. Bathrooms on each floor, a few bedrooms as well as closets, balconies for a smoke if wanted - all we need. Now, let me bring you your cups.’

As she disappeared towards the counter again, you turned towards them. Viktor looked at you while Jayce observed the flat's decorations.

"Thankfully this is not another masquerade," you smiled.

"I think I'd prefer a masquerade," Viktor confessed, "it would help me hide my boredom with a conversation if I find myself stuck in it."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Jayce encouraged, "we're going to spend most of the evening obviously playing games anyway."

He pressed his hand on his friend's shoulder before leaving to see other students. He seemed to find Garen, who smiled at him as they began a discussion. Perhaps the latter would also offer him a strategy for this evening's game.

"I have a feeling it's going to be a long one," you admitted before taking a sip of your drink and observing the rest of the room.

"I was going to go out and look for a balcony to claim as my own for the evening," Viktor conceded, "but I have a feeling it won't be that unpleasant."

"Really? What makes you say that?’ you questioned.

He shrugged, his eyes settling on the armchairs and sofas. "The fact that I don't have to stand."

You couldn't help but laugh at his remark, and he smiled. There was something soft in his eyes, and you couldn't make out what it was, but it cradled your heart in its arms.

"So you're the lady that kicked Fiora's ass!"

You turned towards a cheerful voice that sounded foreign to you. A young lady with blonde hair and eyes sparkling with wonder had arrived at your level.

"I..." you exchanged a glance with Viktor, wondering if he knew the young lady, "I am."

"I wish I could have been there for that," she mused with a charming euphoric smile, "it's all anyone's talked about for a week. It really makes you want to come to the training ground more often."

She hardly seemed to contain her excitement, and you were genuinely surprised. She looked to be about fifteen, and not one of the students at the party.

"Lux, please don't harass her in one go."

Garen reached your height, placing his hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Forgive my sister," he smiled, "I told her a little about our days and I do believe she has developed an adoration."

"I didn't know you had a little sister," you remarked before turning to her and introducing yourself.

"I already know your name," she smiled, "I've heard a great deal about you." She turned to your friend. "And you must be Viktor, right?’

"Himself," he sighed.

She leaned forward to whisper for him. "Sorry about Fiora's behaviour and the way she glued herself to you."

"Now," Fiora rightly interjected as Lux jumped slightly from surprise, coming back over to you and handing Viktor a cup with 'Vikkie' written on it with a little heart over the dot of the i's, "we have games to play. Lux, you're joining us little one?’

When enough people volunteered to play, everyone took their places on two sofas facing each other and an armchair to one side. You found yourself sitting on a corner of a sofa next to Sky, who was sitting between you and Orcelyia, while Jayce and Garen were sitting next to each other on the sofa opposite, and Lux was sitting next to her big brother. As for Viktor, he was sitting in the armchair.

This was a warm-up game so that the new players could get used to the game together - and possibly play with more players in future games. Fiora shuffled the cards for a moment, explaining the rules of the game and the process. She showed you the cards one by one, reminding you what they were, and soon enough she dealt them out.

You took yours and looked discreetly at its symbol: Werewolf.

Great, already an enemy in a game. It would be all right, it would be simple, wouldn't it? There were two werewolves present in the game, and you were wondering who would be the second participant.

"Now that everyone knows who they are," began Fiora, "the village is going to sleep for its first night."

Everyone closed their eyes, although it took Fiora's clarification that ‘you sleep with your eyes closed’ for Jayce to finally understand that he couldn't keep his eyes open at the moment.

"I call Cupid."

Having your eyes closed made for a strange experience. You found yourself trying to work out every movement of the more or less close players to try and work out who had what role.

"Designate two lovers who, at first sight, will fall madly in love with each other."

Despite the music, you tried to guide your ears towards the players and the reaction time. 

"All right, cupid, you can go back to sleep," said Fiora. "I'm now going to touch the heads of the two lovers, who will see and recognise each other."

The idea of having to be associated with anyone and that one of these players might be your partner displeased you at the time: what if they made a mistake? What if they were targeted and you ended up dead because you had to commit yourself?

You heard Fiora start to walk, and you feared that your head would be hit. She passed by Orcelyia and Sky, and her legs brushed against your knees without you feeling anything on your head or her continuing on her way.

Saved. All you had to do now was kill one of the lovers to kill two birds with one stone and speed up the game. It didn't matter who your furred partner was, if you could kill one of the lovers, you were going to seize the opportunity.

"The lovers wake up, to recognise each other," Fiora continued, leading the game with finesse and constantly moving around you to mislead the players.

Near you, however, you felt movement to your right, towards Sky and Orcelyia. Could they be the lovers of the evening? A player like Garen or possibly Lux, who already knew their way around, wouldn't have made the simple mistake of not being sufficiently quiet.

If that was the case and Sky was one of the two lovers, you could certainly try to silently convince your sidekick to come to terms with it - even if the thought broke your heart.

"Lovers go back to sleep," sighed Fiora. "I call the card reader. Point me to a player's card you'd like to see."

You concentrated hard to try and hear anything, but it seemed impossible to ignore the slight stirring of Sky next to you. Perhaps she was the card reader, perhaps she was just fidgeting to reposition herself.

When Fiora came round to move the cards and make you doubt, you dreaded your card being shown. What if you were eliminated from the start?

"The card reader can go back to sleep. I'm now calling in the werewolves."

You opened your eyes and lifted your head, looking around until your eyes landed on Viktor to your left. 

He looked back at you, cheek pressed lasciviously to the back of his hand. You were the two werewolves.

You couldn't help your lips from stretching into a smile as he winked at you, your cheeks heating and your heart missing a beat.

"They recognise each other," Fiora confirmed with a wry little smile. Had she intentionally dealt the cards so that you'd end up together like this? "The werewolves are now going to choose a victim for the night who will be their meal."

Your eyes roamed over the small group of closed eyes, apprehending to point with your thumb to the right towards Sky, but Viktor pointed without hesitation to Jayce. When your eyes landed on him, you noticed that his fingers were spread apart, barely hiding his open eyes.

The little girl, of course, barely concealing his identity as he tried hard to hide behind his thick fingers. You stifled the little laugh that rose up inside you before pointing to Jayce.

Fiora rolled her eyes. "Well, the werewolves have made their choice and can go back to sleep."

You exchanged one last glance with Viktor, who smiled at you before his eyes gently closed and you did the same.

"The alchemist's waking up."

You couldn't hear anything coming from the opposite sofa, and if the alchemist was on yours, they were very quiet.

"This person has been named as tonight's victim," you imagined her pointing at Jayce, "what do you wish to do? Save this person, do nothing, or kill someone?’

You could hardly hear anything, until Fiora spoke again. "Alright, alchemist, you can go back to sleep." She paused for a moment, then resumed. "The village wakes up."

Everyone raised their eyes, opening their falsely tired eyelids. You watched everyone, examining their faces and the way they acted.

"Dear villagers, last night a victim was devoured by werewolves."

You tried to remain calm, observing the rest of the participants, trying to gauge who might have what role. You met Garen's eyes, who was also watching you, followed by Lux, who seemed to be smiling in satisfaction. She could be a target for the vote, but you were counting on finding a way to cut it short by killing the two lovers.

Fiora turned to Jayce, pointing at him. "Jayce was found this very morning, jugular ripped out while he was out last night," she stepped forward to pick up Jayce's card, which until now had been lying like all the others on the coffee table at the centre of this affair. "The little girl died last night."

You feigned surprise, watching the other participants until your eyes fell on Viktor. It would have been more than suspicious if you hadn't been looking at him, and as you watched he seemed serene although falsely intrigued by who could have committed this murder.

"I suppose I can't say anything of what I saw?" questioned Jayce with a frustrated pout.

"Do dead people talk?" questioned Fiora in return, and Jayce crossed his arms, slumping back on the sofa as he stared into space followed by a long sigh.

"Wasn't so subtle about being the little girl I guess?" remarked Orcelyia.

"You guess?" underlined Garen. ‘Were you awake when this butchery happened?

Orcelyia abandoned her small smile for an expression of shock. "Of course not!"

If Orcelyia could become the target of the day, that was fine with you, and you intended to make sure that the day went in your favour. But you still had to pretend you were a villager and invent fictitious concerns.

"What's troubling is that the Alchemist did not use a life potion, Jayce is," you turned to him for a moment, "sorry, was not a threat."

"Hey!" he shouted indignantly.

"The dead don't speak," Fiora pointed out, Jayce grabbing a cushion from the sofa, putting it on his stomach and wrapping his arms around it to steady himself.

"She's right, though," Sky resumed. "The Alchemist kept his life potion. Now, who wouldn't want to save him?’

With a strange unanimity, everyone turned to Viktor. The hitherto silent man looked at you all, frowning.

"You really think I wouldn't have used some magic potion to save my friend if I had the opportunity?"

Viktor was playing the ‘it would be suspicious for me to target a friend’ card, and he played it wonderfully. You dreaded the possibility of Garen pointing out that it was precisely because Viktor was his friend that he had an extra chance of targeting him, but he did not.

You refrained from emphasising this idea, not wishing to eliminate your partner in crime even though this possibility could have given you undisputed immunity. No, you wouldn't do that to Viktor even if you could, and that idea made you feel all weird.

"Orcelyia," you resumed though, hoping to steer the conversation away from any further ideas about Viktor, "how did you make that assumption about Jayce?"

"Well, just look at him," she gestured broadly in the air at him.

You knew that Jayce wasn't the most discreet man in the world, but that didn't stop the remark from seeming like a perfect opportunity to pin her down.

"Excuse me?" you almost choked out. "Would you have attacked him on the logic that he was an easy target?"

"No don't take it this way," Orcelyia hastened, "you know what I meant!"

"You seem nervous," added Viktor calmly, the difference between his calm demeanour and Orcelyia's provided a convincing contrast - who would believe someone who looked guilty?

"Indeed she does," Garen remarked.

"I'm not a werewolf!" continued Orcelyia.

"You're not putting up anything to defend yourself though," Lux remarked, taking a slight dig at Garen's attitude.

"Because you don't give her time to defend herself," remarked Sky.

The two of them were in love, that was for certain.

"Are you defending her because she's your partner in crime?" you questioned.

You were insinuating a doubt, and the others were starting to hang on to it. You weren't seeing Viktor at the moment, trying not to let on that you had a more than dubious connection with him.

"Absolutely not," continued Orcelyia, "isn't my truth enough?"

"The truth will be what we make of it," you remarked.

"I think it's time for the village to vote," Fiora observed. 

You had prepared your target, Orcelyia perfectly in the lion's den as the others would follow. Even if your target was originally Sky, the possibility that the latter two were in love meant you could hope for a big score. After their elimination, only Garen and Lux would be left to foil, and one against two, no matter how it ended, would be gifted to win.

"On the count of three, you will point to the person you wish to consider as the target of this day's vote. One, two, three."

The count fell, and so a majority of hands turned to Orcelyia, besides her and Sky pointing one to you and one to Garen. You won.

"Well, the vote is almost unanimous. Orcelyia, today the village has chosen you as its victim. Offer your card."

She grumbled, taking her card and turning it over on the table.

"Orcelyia was the Alchemist," confirmed Fiora, showing the card to the players.

"Why didn't you save Jayce?" questioned Viktor.

"Because she was in love," you said, turning to Sky.

By making this remark, you were allowing yourself to be seen as the cupid left in the two villagers, even if after tonight you were going to win.

Orcelyia sighed as she turned to your friend in turn. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," she smiled, "they had already made their choice."

Fiora stepped forward. "Sky, pierced by cupid's arrow, was madly in love with Orcelyia. And following today's vote, she has decided to join her lover in the grave" Sky grabbed her card, turning it over for all to see. "Sky was the card reader."

"Damn," you breathed, falsely shocked, although there was very little left to pretend given the rest that remained to be eliminated.

"So the reason you kept your potion close was so you could save Sky in case she was in danger of dying?" questioned Jayce.

"Yes," she breathed, "sorry Jayce, I had to make sure she stayed alive."

"Is the village ready to go back to sleep?" questioned Fiora, watching your heads nod. "Well, the village is going back to bed. The dead, meanwhile, can watch."

All those remaining - you, Viktor, Garen and Lux - closed their eyes or buried their eyelids in their palms.

"I'm calling the werewolves."

Viktor and you raised your heads, and Jayce opened his mouth wide, silently articulating with his lips ‘you two?!’

You shrugged as your lips pressed into a thin line, Viktor smiling shamelessly.

"Werewolves, from now on choose who will be your victim this night."

Any one of them could make the choice, but the hunter remained, and something told you that Garen hadn't been the one to make Sky and Orcelyia the lovers. So, if you devoured him tonight and woke up in the morning with one of you dead, you'd end up with a tie. No, you had to win, take this first victory proudly and handily to show the other players that even if you were just beginners, you were formidable.

So you pointed to Lux, and Viktor exchanged a glance with you before following you with his finger. He trusted your instincts, just as you had trusted him with Jayce.

"Right, the werewolves can go back to sleep," she indicated, waiting a final moment before saying, "the village wakes up."

The four of you opened your eyes, the other two seeming to understand the fate that awaited them.

"Tonight, a new victim has been taken," she moved towards Lux, "between the white feathers and the blood, Lux has been devoured." She grabbed her card, showing it for all to see. "Lux was the cupid."

Sky and Orcelyia smiled at her, while Garen understood the situation.

"Of course it had to be the both of you," he smiled, "it's always you two."

"You don't change a winning team," you grinned for a moment, your eyes settling on those of Viktor.

There was a glint of quiet, dark amusement in his eyes, nodding. 

"She called you an homo-idioticus," Fiora commented as if reading a line from your lecture notes, or a post-it scribble you'd put on Viktor's forehead to make him guess what he was.

"It's a pet name," he remarked, chuckling slightly at the appellation as he turned to you.

"Birds of a feather flock together," you tried to clarify at least.

"Right, could the two cubs finally name their voting victim?"

You both pointed at Garen, who sighed as Fiora picked up his card. "Garen was the hunter."

He huffed, slumping down on the sofa next to Jayce before pointing his index finger at you like a pistol, pretending to aim at you. 

"Poof," he pressed as with that imaginary trigger he winked, to better aim for a moment.

"And so the werewolves win with Viktor," Fiora pointed out before starting to pick up the cards again.

"You killed me?!" Jayce finally exclaimed in your direction.

"You were hardly discreet," pointed out Viktor.

"You were spreading your fingers a lot," you confirmed.

"I was doing my best! Why did you kill me straight away?"

"You were going to reveal who we were if we let you live until tomorrow," you continued, "and knowing it's you, everyone would have believed it."

Other students from the party eventually wanted to join in, and just as you were expecting to start another game of it, Fiora had other ideas.

"We're going to try a new game, but with a different layout," she indicated as she stood up, turning to some of the rest of the students, "you're doing seven minutes in heaven?"

"Yeah, we've just cleared the dressing room," grinned one of them as he nervously scratched the back of his neck while his other hand had a thumb busy pressing against his red lips. Another girl behind him was redrawing her own with a red lipstick. 

"What's a seven minutes in heaven?" you questioned, mixing curiosity with slight concern.

"You really do live in a cave," sighed Fiora, turning to you and Viktor, "you two, follow me."

You exchanged a glance with Viktor, himself looking confused, before you both stood up and followed her out of the room.

"Seven minutes in heaven is simple," she began to explain as you headed down a corridor, "we choose two people to meet for seven minutes in a closet."

"To do what?" asked Viktor.

She turned to the two of you once she'd reached a door at the end of the corridor. "Make out."

Your heart leapt into your throat as your mind raced. Make out? 

The idea seeped into your mind like sunlight through the cracks of a cave. For a moment you imagined the scene, how close you'd be, how his hand would rest on your waist like you'd tattooed your mind with it in the museum, how your lips would have no cup to separate them.

But you pulled yourself together. The idea should have repulsed you, or made you feel more unpleasant than anything else - not possible.

Why had you even considered it?

You turned to him, who seemed just as surprised as you were as your eyes fell on his.

"What?" you finally asked nervously, turning to Fiora.

"Relax, I'm kidding," she reassured, and your shoulders slumped as you realised Viktor was doing the same, "although most people in seven minutes in heaven do make out. You can just talk in there, do absolutely nothing at all and wait for the time to end, or engage in further than just kissing.’

She wore a naughty smile, and you hoped your cheeks would miraculously stop heating up.

"Although I don't think you'll get to that stage, I suppose it's always good to know your options," she pointed out as she opened the dressing room door and grabbed what looked to you like an alarm clock. ‘Here, no one will come and spy on you or hear you. Please enter your palace for the next seven minutes."

You exchanged a glance with Viktor, who seemed to be gauging the situation just as you were. You didn't have to kiss him or anything, and you obviously doubted that Viktor would want to engage in such an activity. You were reassured by the fact that simple conversation was a possibility, but the closeness would no doubt trigger this allergy even more.

"Do I have to push you inside or are you going to go in?" Fiora was getting impatient.

‘’All right, all right,‘’ you grumbled, finally stepping into the room.

You stood there for a moment, arms folded as you looked at Viktor, who seemed surprised by your choice.

"It's not like we're going to make out or anything," you shrugged.

He was silent for a moment, a look in his eyes that you couldn't quite work out was there, before he finally nodded and walked over to you. The room wasn't so small, at least not small enough for you to feel claustrophobic.

Fiora placed the alarm clock on the floor, then grabbed the door handle to close it on you. ‘’Good game!" she wished, the door closing and leaving you both in a room illuminated by a small orange nightlight that kept most of the room bathed in darkness.

Her footsteps faded into the echo of the corridor, leaving just you and Viktor, silently alone, just the two of you. Just goes to show, you didn't need a balcony to have a contre soirée.

Your eyes inevitably met, drifting slightly to one side but surely out of embarrassment or nervousness at the situation.

"So," Viktor broke the silence, "I'm a Homo-Idioticus?"

You laughed, your head falling back as you closed your eyes with a smile before your head fell lazily forward again. "Not you too, please."

"Under what context was I called such an endearing nickname?" He smiled, seeming in no way offended as he teased on.

You sighed, leaning against the wall adjacent to your exit door. "She asked me how we met."

"Ah," he realised, "yes I suppose a Cretinus Totalus would have been good for you too at times."

"Are you tired of calling me Miss already?" you joked.

He took a small step towards you to face you. "It's going to take a miracle for me to get tired of ever saying it."

The memories of your discussion at the museum came back to you just by your mutual position. You remembered his jaw, your proximity, the feeling of his hand on your waist keeping you in place and waiting for Fiora to leave. The situation mirrored itself in a new angle.

And the way you had to leave things only underlined the need for a continuation to it. You were well aware that you hadn't come to the end of that conversation yet, and he seemed to think so too.

"That day," he said as his eyes pierced you with their questions, "why did you leave?"

You knew instantly of the moment he was speaking about. You replayed in your mind the fight against Fiora, the disgusting feeling of the blood on your hands, and Viktor's shocked eyes on you that you tried not to think about if possible.

"I felt like..." you lowered your eyes to your hands, nervously fidgeting with them, "I disgusted you."

It was his turn to giggle and for your gaze to gain back his level. "So you used to be disgusted by me and now you're the one scared of me being disgusted by you?"

"You never disgusted me, Viktor," you articulated firmly as you met his eyes, your jaw tightening for a moment as he seemed a little surprised by your seriousness and the mention of his name. "Never have, never will."

His lips parted for a moment in astonishment.

"And I'm sorry that I ran away, but," you tried to hold your breath and not let your heart get the better of your words, "I really needed to get it all off of me."

Your fingers were almost itchy, and you tried in the moment to distract the sensation by bringing your hand to the back of your neck, which felt like it was burning, while your other hand hung down your body.

The muscle in Viktor's jaw tightened, the orange glow of the nightlight lingering on it for a moment before he relaxed. He didn't look angry, disappointed, or disgusted.

"I," his own hand gripped his cane differently, "wanted to find you then, to talk to you, to..." his amber eyes met yours, concerned, "make sure you were okay."

Your heart almost sank to its knees in the hollow of your chest - Viktor cared about you. Of course, that's what friends do for their friends when problems arise, but it didn't change the fact that the idea made you feel strange.

"Fiora was in a worse state than me," you mumbled.

"I do not care about Fiora," Viktor pointed out, shaking his head to clear the idiotic idea, "she is no friend of mine."

You inhaled harshly. "You stay friends with violent people?"

"I stay friends with people that I admire."

The lack of hesitation in his voice and his words left you almost speechless. There was this easiness about the way he said it, like it was an evidence, like it couldn't have been otherwise.

"Admire?" you repeated, as if to make sure you hadn't misheard what he'd said.

His eyes on you made you burn, eradicating everything in their path and revealing only truths you thought impossible to be seen. He took a step forward, and it seemed to you that their heat was setting you ablaze.

"Yes," he resumed, "admire."

"What is there to admire about me?" you chuckled, feeling like a lost cause.

"Do you want the chronological or the alphabetical order?"

You raised your eyebrows. "You have both these lists prepared?"

"If you can have our clauses numbered at the top of your mind, I don't see why I wouldn't have my own list prepared for the reasons to be your friend," he confirmed.

You blinked rapidly, amazed at the immediacy with which he responded. He cut short any possibility that went against his reasoning, and if you were coming up with anything that would try and rival such comebacks, he already had two prepared in advance. You breathed in, but ended up huffing out a sigh.

"No need for this list," you chuckled, a small pause taking the air before your grin left your lips. "I feared the way you would see me after," your eyes fell on your fingers again, "what I did. There was just something that..." with your fingernail, you were trying to scrape off a flap of skin sticking out near your thumb. "I just couldn't get you to be disappointed in me."

He frowned, his head jerking back in disbelief. "I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear that."

"What?" you questioned, confused.

"Disappointed?" he repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. "In you?"

You shrugged. "Does it seem that surprising of a concept?"

"Yes," Viktor confirmed with an incredulous grin, "or maybe do I have to remind you of your number one spot at the academy?"

You turned your head away, his eyes becoming an annoying mirror of what you were as you fled your reflection. "Not needed."

"Then why think you'd disappoint me?"

But you regained his gaze in the moment, he deserved to see the fear in your eyes and the uncertainty that stalked you. "Because who would want someone that is violent to hang out with?"

He shook his head. "It was legitimate defense."

"If it was legitimate defense, why did I end up with her blood on my hands, Viktor?" You almost raised your voice.

"Violent?" He frowned, taking another step towards you, leaving only a metre between you. "Don't you think I would have wanted to know how to fence with my cane to go against anyone that would have dared say what she said aloud to me?"

There was a firmness in his tone, his accent snapping across his teeth and lips. You parted your own, inhaling heavily. Had you pissed him off? Had you finally pushed him too far?

Noticing, however, the way you had tensed up, he let out a long sigh, his eyes softening as they roamed over your face and came to caress with the tips of his lashes where Fiora had struck.

Your back was pressed against the wall, you couldn't escape him. But would you have escaped if you'd had the chance? If the wall didn't exist, would you have backed away?

"We all have our angers," he continued, his voice softer, "and our reasons to fuel them. All different, all tailored, and that is what makes it so much easier to feel." He moved a little closer, and your chest swelled with warm air. "But in no way shape or form does it define you."

You swallowed, trying to force down the knot that was trying to form in your throat. Your eyes lowered to your hand, to your fingernail, still trying to tear off the cursed skin that kept sticking out. 

"Anger has left a gash in me that never wants to heal," your voice had grown small, a tiny light emerging in the darkness of the room, "I'm doing everything I can to make sure it never spreads again and closes."

You didn't meet his gaze, head down, continually scratching your skin to eradicate this weed growing on your skin. For as long as you had tried fighting all of this, it seemed as if you could never truly run away from it. Living with yourself had become a luxury through time, a possibility to move on with your life. And yet this clingy, sticky sensation clung to your fingers and mind horrifyingly.

And then, silently, Viktor gently moved his free fingers towards your hand without touching it. He just hovered over it, considering the situation, hesitating.

Then, his fingertips brushed against yours, sending sparks all over your arm and igniting your heart before he pressed his thumb against the skin you were trying so hard to rip off. 

His hand was warm, more than you would have expected, slightly calloused but soft and reassuring. He caressed the skin next to your fingernail, providing it a care your own treatment vould never have offered.

"To heal a wound, you have to stop touching it, Miss."

His voice was gentle, what little warmth there was in the room coming to lodge close to your heart for a moment. You inhaled harshly, the touch of his thumb on your skin washing away your worries like waves on sand.

If this allergy really was an allergy, why weren't any of the symptoms unpleasant?

"I know," you murmured, your thoughts slowly drifting away as the simple sensation of his skin on yours anchored you.

You could feel his eyes on you. "Then why do you keep letting it open?"

You tried to regain his gaze, to let yourself be seen, to let him see you. You inhaled sharply, biting the inside of your cheek as you looked up at him.

"Because it's the only thing I've ever known."

He tilted his head to one side, your heart missing a beat as his eyes showed no embarrassment, no fear, no disgust. His thumb pressed a little closer to your skin, moving ever so slightly along it.

"You don't have to live in it anymore," he murmured, his eyes resting on yours.

You lowered your gaze to your hands, Viktor's thumb sliding along the length of your index finger towards the inside of your hand, undoing your clenched fist in the process as his fingers barely covered the back of your hand.

"It'll take time," you whispered, letting the tension fade from your body.

You were close, only a small space separating your shoes from each other. There was something almost hypnotic in his caresses, in the fearful slowness with which he moved. There was something inside you, something that seemed to wake up a little more each time you were in his presence.

"All the time it needs," Viktor confirmed, his thumb continuing its journey to your knuckles, still darkened by the force of your strikes.

You watched, feeling his fingers pass under yours and support them as if you'd just given him a dance. 

His eyes watched your hand, yours raised to meet the serenity on his face. "Has your anger ever calmed?" you asked.

His chest swelled with air before he let out a long sigh. "It had," he confirmed.

"Had?" you questioned.

"Lately, I can't lie about the fact that a certain frustration has taken hold of me," the tip of his thumb brushed against the knuckle of your middle finger, the latter particularly dark compared to the others.

"Why?" you questioned, your fingers clasping his for a moment to gain his attention on the subject. "What happened?"

He straightened up, his eyes setting on you for a moment before letting go of your hand gently to rest it on top of the other one on the pommel of his cane. You were already strangely missing his warmth, why were you disappointed that he'd let go? Why had he held on to it? He could have let go of it a long time ago, so why did he go on? And you, who hadn't withdrawn it, why was that the case?

"Well," he continued, "a certain friend of mine started spending more time with a Demacian and neglected help from me but not from him."

You frowned, "Garen?"

"Unless your wounds were magically treated by air the day after the fight, I don't see anyone else," Viktor confirmed.

You remembered the morning itself, the alcohol stinging your lips as your eyes found Viktor. Was his frustration due to the fact that you hadn't come to see him instead of Garen?

"Well," you began again, "that was because my friend was monopolised by another Demacian that hated me."

He nodded. "I could have used a little help on that one too, I suppose."

"Sorry, your guard dog had a bit of trouble against the Demacians," you joked before gesturing vaguely to your face to show the area where you'd been injured.

He gave a small, amused smile. ‘’Damned Demacians, all bark no bite."

"Well, they do bite, just not as hard as Zaunites." You remembered what Eris had said just before you met Viktor, and found it ironic that you'd gone from lone wolf to watchdog. Were you that dedicated?

"The underground brings out the best underhounds," he confirmed, "we have a way to claw our way up to success that remains unrivalled."

You smiled, and he returned the gesture. There was an ease in the air, a comforting return to normality. But did normal include him taking your hand again? Or were you just going to go back to being a simple classmate? The second idea seemed more bitter. You would have liked to stay like that, in the softness of a room where, even if it was full of clothes, you were naked in the eyes of the heart.

"It's a good thing the trip is coming to an end," you admitted reassuringly, the impatience to know what the year's continuity had in store for you residing close to your soul.

The alarm went off, and you gasped before bringing your hand to your forehead to sigh. Time was just up. Viktor laughed as you recovered from your disorientating shock.

"Let's go," he offered as he opened the door and held it open for you, "before Jayce ends up martyred to the Werewolf."

You laughed lightly, breaking away from the wall to step out into the corridor as he followed you. Your heart was still pounding in your ears, and you couldn't decide whether that was a result of your surprise at the alarm, or whether it was due to the phantom feel of Viktor's fingers on your skin.

How lucky, you thought, that his digits hadn't wandered up your wrist to discover the erratic rhythm of your pulse.

The two of you walked back to the living room, another duo designated to take your place as you appeared.

Fiora seemed deeply disappointed that your lips weren't mutually swollen or your hair a mess and that you were returning as she'd left you.

"Joining us for a new game?" questioned Lux excitedly.

"Absolutely," you confirmed as you sat down on the sofa and Viktor, unable to get back his place on the armchair, sat down next to you.

Fiora redistributed the cards, promising one last game before adding more players so that the games would last longer and not end as quickly as the previous one, which you and Viktor had won hands down.

You picked up your card, bringing it discreetly to your eyes: hunter.

After finishing a game in which the hunter had killed you, you were taking on his role. You put your card down in front of you, and Viktor did the same. You wondered whether he was a werewolf again, whether he would target you if he was, or whether he too had a different role.

"The village falls asleep," Fiora began again.

You closed your eyes, happy in the knowledge that you would only have to be attentive and not active, given your sleeping role.

"I call upon Cupid," Fiora proclaimed, "designate two players who will love each other until death do them part."

You waited a moment, feeling Fiora move slightly in space. "Good, Cupid you can go back to sleep. I'm now going to touch the heads of the two lovers, who will wake up and recognise each other."

You could feel her moving, hearing her footsteps on the carpet, until you felt her hand press down on your head. Brilliant. You thought you could play a game without having to go through debates and stuff, but here you were, having to watch someone's back.

You opened your eyes, looking around to see who might have been your love for the game. Everyone in front of you had their eyes closed, and you frowned before turning to Viktor.

He was awake.

You were the lovers of this game.

The lovers' card came to mind in Eris's draw, and a wave of heat ran through your body.

You arched an eyebrow, eyes half-closed and chin high, offering a wink in response to his gesture from the previous game. His eyes darkened for a moment, a mischievous smile spreading across the corner of his lips.

"Lovers can go back to sleep, or do what lovers do," Fiora smiled, your eyes rolling up to the sky as you closed them.

The rest of the night went on, you paying little attention to what was going on, though your thoughts kept returning to the feel of his hand on yours, his warmth, his tenderness. The more time passed, the more this idiotic allergy theory crumbled. You wouldn't look for symptoms of an allergy to happen again, so why did you feel so drawn to his touch? To his words? To him?

What would happen if you engaged even slightly physically? Would he be disgusted by it? Would he be embarrassed? Would he move away like he had ended up doing?

There was only one way to find out.

Gently then, tentatively, you pressed your knee against his. Your heart was racing, so much so that it was difficult to hear anything other than the rapid rhythm of its drumming in your eardrums.

A second went by, then another, and another, and you wondered if you shouldn't have withdrawn your leg after such a ridiculous gesture.

But just before you pulled away after a good ten more seconds had passed, he pressed his knee against yours, not as a request to pull away, but as an acceptance.

You tried very slowly to let out a sigh of relief, the air escaping in bumps as your heartbeat cut it off slightly.

"The village wakes up," Fiora finally announced.

You hadn't thought about the fact that eventually you'd have to open your eyes, and the idea of meeting Viktor's gaze again after that attempt, from which you still hadn't moved, scared you a little.

But you had to open your eyes, and so you put them on Fiora to listen to what she had to say and concentrate.

"Last night, the werewolves claimed a victim." She moved towards Orcelyia. "After firing her arrow, it seems she didn't use it to defend herself." She picked up her card, showing it to everyone. "Cupid died last night."

So Orcelyia, who had previously died because of your relentlessness against her, had no doubt decided to take revenge by putting you two in love.

You met her gaze as she slumped back on her sofa.

"Another alchemist who didn't save a victim," Garen remarked.

"So maybe an alchemist who's in love again," theorised Sky.

You were perhaps realising this pattern. Was Viktor saving his life potion to save you in the potential event where you'd be designated a victim?

As the others began to put forward their theories, you let them do so without saying anything, your thoughts too busy on the contact that you and Viktor had.

It was just two knees, two limbs from two different bodies, bones covered in muscles covered in skin and then clothes, nothing more and nothing less. So, if that's all it was, why couldn't you stop thinking about it?

Maybe what was stopping you from not thinking about it was the fact that you had thought about doing it? Maybe what was stopping you from not thinking about it was the fact that you'd done it? Maybe what was stopping you from not thinking about it was the fact that he had returned the gesture and hadn't moved back?

The conversation passed without you paying much attention, except that Lux and Garen seemed rather devious. Maybe it was just the brother and sister effect, you thought. So the vote of the day came, and Sky was chosen, the theory being that since she had been linked to Orcelyia in previous games, she would have tried to make herself feel safe about being a werewolf by killing her to prove that she would never have done that. But the verdict was in: she was the little girl.

The village went back to sleep, without you meeting Viktor's eyes, but without forgetting him. It seemed as if every light and reflection that had lit up his eyes so far came back to you under closed lids.

The night of the power cut, when the almond of light from the candle had been lodged in his pupils, the morning after passing out when he'd slept at your bedside before waking up for the sun to settle in his eyes, and just then when his eyes were reflecting the little orange glow.

You had been used to cold lights, to the Safphire burning in Selene's hearth, to the darkness of the night, to the depths of a neon-lit city. 

And he had come to illuminate all this, as the day set to let the night live on, the two coming together in a single colour that proved to be his favourite - the one he preferred.

Fiora called out to the players one by one until the village awoke.

"Last night there was a real massacre," Fiora exclaimed theatrically. "Not one, but two people died!"

"Did the lovers die?" questioned Garen.

"The Alchemisy used his death potion?" exclaimed Lux.

"You'd better believe it," smiled Fiora. "Last night, found amongst her incense and candles, Jayce was killed," she uncovered his card, "and Jayce was the card reader."

"I was going to make it all right!" he exclaimed as he brought his face into his hands.

"Don't worry, Jayce" Fiora comforted though, "because out of your two killers, one died last night." She turned to Lux. "The alchemist had concocted a deeply devastating elixir that very night, capable of taking out any man..." she grabbed the girl's card and turned it around for all to see, "or any beast."

You smiled, Lux sighed and tilted her head back in disappointment. Now there was only Garen left.

"It seems it's always the two of us against everyone, Miss," Viktor smiled, his knee pressing ever so slightly against yours as a small sign of victory. 

"You..." Garen opened his mouth into a smile as a unique burst of laughter rose up his throat, "of course you were the lovers."

"Hmm," Viktor hummed, frowning with a thoughtful expression. "What are we going to do with him?"

"Well," you pressed your lips into an inverted smile as you watched Garen, "if you live by the river, I got a bag."

"Just finish this already," Garen sighed, pointing at you again for his vote as the two of you pointed at him.

"And just like that," Fiora walked over to Garen and picked up the card, "the reign of the werewolves ends with the union of two lovers."

You turned to Viktor, a victorious smile tugging at your lips as you offered him your hand to shake. Was it a simple desire for politeness in the gesture of having played so well as your sidekick, or was it another unconscious desire to feel his hand close to yours?

He smiled back, shaking your hand. The handshake wasn't very long, just to seal your victory in everyone's eyes, but you couldn't help noticing the way his thumb lightly caressed your hand before withdrawing.

"Another game?" suggested Fiora.

And so the evening continued, the group of students growing in size as roles were added and debates sparked. You laughed when Jayce let out an ‘ouch!’ when Fiora touched his head to determine who the lovers were, or when Orcelyia almost grabbed Garen by the collar when he referred to her as a werewolf even though she was a villager.

The strategy Garen had given you ended up coming handy when you both were werewolves, and it became evident that you’d bring this game back to Zaun to teach it to some kids.

When those who closed their eyes during the night part of the game finally really felt actual sleep taking them, the living room began to empty little by little, until there were only too few students left to play games. Some had returned to the hotel or to their homes, others had taken free rooms to sleep there. What about you? Well, you were helping to tidy up a little.

Fatigue began to pull you as you put the few remaining cups in the trash. Your eyes rested on two of them, sticking close to one another - yours and Viktor's, near each other.

Your shoulders sagged, his name next to yours now seeming to you more than simple letters, more than simple black strokes on plastic, more than two names on a list of league tables.

You pressed your thumb against your fingers, remembering the feeling of his hand on yours, and your two knees joined on the couch, and his eyes…

You shook your head, turning away from the kitchen to leave the apartment. Jayce had already accompanied Viktor home earlier in the evening, Garen and Lux had left earlier, Sky and Orcelyia were probably occupying a room, while Fiora was probably sleeping in her bed very comfortably.

You were leaving the house, the morning freshness making you regret forgetting a jacket. You didn't expect to have so much fun, to stay so long, or to experience all this. The delicate sunrise was your morning caress, accompanying you alone until you reached the hotel. 

Even if the outside was profoundly silent and was barely waking up, your thoughts were all jostling in your head as you went over each event of the evening, catching each one like fireflies in your hands and delicately observing their light between your fingers.

Inside, the personnel were already busy preparing the buffet – today it was hotel brunch and therefore was open until noon. You felt that after a meager sleep, you would find great comfort in a cup of coffee.

You walked mechanically to the end of the corridor leading to your room, inserting the key with a lack of energy, but you stopped in your gestures. You turned to the door facing it, Viktor's.

If you opened your own door, it would have been like leaving again for seven minutes in the paradise of memories, ready to recast your entire conversation, for your eyes to annotate your thoughts by rewinding the track, your heart making close-ups on the most important passages. His eyes, his hands, your fingers tied. No element would be forgotten.

You pressed the handle of your room, not finding there the dimness of the orange nightlight, but the blue of the mosaics and slabs. You closed the curtains, pulled yourself out of your shoes and pants with great fatigue, and collapsed on your bed.

Your eyes rested on the ceiling, stinging with fatigue as you fought a hard battle with your lids. Your hand rested on your heart, the latter beating under your t-shirt, covering your skin covering your muscles covering your bones.

You inhale gently while closing your eyes, and it's as if you were breathing him in.

All these sensations that were turning upside down in you, you didn't know what they were. But one thing was certain, you didn't want them to stop.

✦﹒ previous chapter ✦﹒ next chapter

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[burningcheese-merchant]

"sorry but I love your writing so much OP" ARE YOU FOR REAL? I LOVE YOUR WRITING, DUDE!!! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ADDING YOUR IDEAS, THEY'RE FANTASTIC

Ugggghhhhhhhh the Ancients and Beasts being SO CLOSE to understanding each other, SO CLOSE to accepting the truth of their undeniable and unbreakable connection, but always letting their personal flaws big and small get in their way and drive a wedge between them!!!!!!! Fear of rejection, fear of further suffering and loss! All of the anger and grief and self-loathing! And amidst all of this, those two that dared to defy this order that no one meant to establish, but no one is able or willing to break, and stepping across that threshold to meet each other halfway, to become one as all five pairs were meant to, if only for a single, fleeting moment...

To the Ancients, they see a maverick. That one that, of their ragtag group of five, they had always known was the one most worthy of the title of "hero", more than any of them could ever hope or strive to be. A man who overcame his fear of the world and of himself, and who somehow always finds insurmountable strength in even the most fragile, fumbling weakness. He did what they so desperately wish to: he confessed. That cloying sentiment that tugged on the strings of their hearts like a delicate instrument; the fabled happy ending they'd see in their dreams, that made them smile and sigh softly in their sleep. He did it. Pure Vanilla did it. It ended badly - the way they all suspected, lamented that it would - but he did it, and that's what matters most at the moment. Do they congratulate him? Do they gather round and cage him in a warm embrace, mourning his cruel rejection alongside him? Bah... they'll do both. They'll do it all for their friend. And perhaps, in doing so, they can live through him, and share in this small, fleeting victory...

Shadow Milk knows better than to show his face to... are they even still his friends, in this day and age? Is that a term he could use, a relationship he could imply, without a savage bite or bark in dismissive response? Did their camaraderie mean anything anymore, after all they've said and done?

Hmph... It doesn't matter. None of it matters. Not them, not the Ancients, not that miserable, mewling, bleeding heart coward Pure Vanilla. Meant to be together? HA! "No one else but me can truly understand you"? Now THAT'S a good joke. So good, that he actually brought the house down! That saying is supposed to be just that, but Pure Vanilla actually gave it life and limb! He was the true jester all along, it would seem! And far be it from Shadow Milk to allow himself to be outdone by anyone, never mind... him. But oh well. That rosy-cheeked bastard's time will come.

Understanding... No one understands Shadow Milk. No one ever did, and no one ever shall. It is Shadow Milk who understands. He, the once great Fount of Knowledge. HE is the arbiter of truth and understanding, no one else. It is HE who understands.

And what does Shadow Milk understand?

He understands that that mask Mystic Flour wears from dusk to dawn and every minute in between will finally shatter, should he ever grace her with his presence again. The cocoon she wove ever-so-tightly around her heart will unravel once and for all - and from it will spring an unfettered, grief-stricken rage the likes of which none have ever seen. Those silk ribbons and spider webs will instead coil around his wrists, his ankles, his neck, and they will squeeze. She will gaze into the abyss of his soul as all of the air and excuses are slowly wrung from his aching lungs, without a sound herself; he won't deserve any answers from her, and they both know what they are, anyway. He had enlightenment in his grasp. The one she recoiled from and longed for so strongly. He threw it away. For it, he will suffer. He must.

He understands that there is no Hell torturous enough for Burning Spice to damn him to, no corner of the earth he can scuttle off and cower in, nothing he can say or do to quell his spitting fury. He will beat him, break him, put splinters beneath his fingernails, slather him in lamb's blood and throw him to the wolves, tear out his guts with his bare hands and use them to hang him from a bridge. And all the while, he will scream and shout every last ounce of his disappointment. His longing. His sorrow. All he wants anymore is Golden Cheese. He needs her. And he KNOWS Shadow Milk needs Pure Vanilla in the same way - and instead of accepting that precious gift, he chose to be boring and lie like he always does about EVERYTHING in his worthless life. If Shadow Milk has a joke, a poem, a scathing criticism, however he chooses to dress his EXCUSES- no, Burning Spice won't hear them. They will seep into the earth, never to be of use again, along with every last drop of his blood as Burning Spice split every last vein open with his axe

He understands that Eternal Sugar will be tempted to play a song for him. Let her fingers dance along the strings of her precious harp one more time, just for him, even though she lost her taste for music long ago. Soft, sickly sweet crooning about how much of a coward and a failure he is. A melody that graces his ears with the warmth and affection of a seditious courtesan dutifully handing her king his poisoned tea. And he would listen and scowl and say nothing in reply - he needed to dedicate his focus to staying awake, because the last thing he wanted was to fall asleep in Eternal Sugar's presence. It was what she hoped for; in his dreams, she could demonstrate her REAL frustration. So he'd deny her that chance for as long as he could, and let her trill that Hollyberry's disappearing act was more captivating than his would ever be

He understands that it never mattered that Silent Salt was born mute, for he was nevertheless a master of expression that rivaled even Shadow Milk himself. The tremor in his hand as he gripped his sword tighter. Tighter. Tighter. The loud, clanking stomp of his armored boots as he marched towards Shadow Milk, unyielding to any obstacle or distraction he tried to throw onto his path. That aura, more powerful than any of theirs had ever been, cold as steel and equally as heavy and suffocating, looming over Shadow Milk like a storm over the sea. The bleeding imprint of his gauntlet on Shadow Milk's cheek. The lilies - soft-hearted fool, he always has at least one on hand - he'd shove into Shadow Milk's mouth and down his throat until he choked and perished in his shaking grasp. The tears Shadow Milk could sense welling in those furious, bloodshot eyes hiding behind that helm. Perhaps it was for the best that Silent Salt was truly born silent; Shadow Milk shuddered to imagine what horrors would spill from his mouth and strike the whole world down otherwise.

He understands that Pure Vanilla's love is persistent and unconditional. There is nothing Shadow Milk can say or do to push him away, not really. He can reject him a thousand times and he will always return and try again. The man wrapped himself around Shadow Milk's finger willingly; he and his heart and soul were forever his to toy with as he pleased.

... He understands that somewhere, in his heart of hearts, he wanted to say yes. He wishes he did. No one will ever hate Shadow Milk more than Shadow Milk himself for choosing not to, no matter his reasoning. No matter the outcome.

He understands that he bears the exact same curse as his compatriots. He understands there is no cure, no solution, no salvation. Not that ones such as them deserve such a mercy, anyway.

... It doesn't matter. None of it matters. Fools, the lot of them. Every single one.

Somewhere in the hollow pit of his damned soul, Shadow Milk understands that he's the biggest fool of them all. Such is the burden of Knowledge...

"You and I... We are meant to be together." okay everyone pack it up. go home. it doesn't get worse than this. I fear all other ancient x beast is #cancelled forever because how the utter fuck do you compete with that. My god. Dark Cacao would die on the spot, his old fucking heart would give out processing a sentence that romantic. Golden Cheese would choke and die from the physical manifestation of her own pride and ego before she could ever utter a sentence that open and honest. Hollyberry is choosing to laugh it all off and pray she can drink away and not think about it. White Lily would fall into another witch pot of bubbling goo before confronting said feelings. Only Pure Motherfucking Vanilla is that clincally batshit and unburdened to spout his feelings 1000% unfiltered to a guy who just killed his friends and got his rocks off psychologically torturing him.

Mystic Flour being utterly repulsed by such naïve, meaningless sentimentality, still clinging to the remains of the apathy she so cherishes and champions even as it slips through her fingers like flour through a sieve; hating herself to her very core because somewhere within it, she KNOWS her heart beats and aches for that ridiculous man, but she would end her own suffering before she allowed the truth to poke its head out from the shadows of her subconscious for even a single second

Burning Spice knowing how he feels for Golden Cheese, reveling in it, LIVING for the way his heart thunders in his chest and his breath hitches at the mere thought of his little bird. Never being afraid to tell her so, to pour out the contents of his dark heart without any filter (and Witches know he needs one at times...), either through his mouth or through the blade of his axe. But... still knowing that it isn't quite enough. Not for her. Because there's still something missing from his confessions. That soft, sugary sweetness that took away enough of the edge to his overwhelming spice that even he himself noticed it. That raw honesty - a different kind than he's used to, not quite what he employs. The kind that well and truly leaves him vulnerable and open to judgment; things he hates himself for fearing, even if it's only in relation to her and no one else. The kind he simply cannot have, that he cannot carry out. He tells Golden Cheese how he feels for her the way he WANTS to, not the way he NEEDS to. For that, he must change. And damn it, he can't handle any more change. It'll kill him, and he doesn't want to die anymore. Not while she's there to make his life fun again

Eternal Sugar sighing, rolling her eyes before letting them flutter shut again, because she knows this song and dance. She once helped countless others perform it; such was her lot as Happiness. And she chooses to ignore it, tuck herself back into bed and retreat into the world of dreams once more. Letting laziness govern her actions, like always. Running away from everything again - including her feelings for Hollyberry, and the fears and doubts that shroud them. Choosing to do nothing with the fact that Hollyberry is a runner and a quitter just like her, instead of taking initiative with her life and emotions for the first time in ages and telling Hollyberry point-blank that they could run away from the world together if she truly wanted

Silent Salt secretly lamenting his condition more than ever before, for now more than ever can he truly say that it is a hindrance, a curse, a stain on the tapestry of his life. Because no matter how well he's trained himself to express his thoughts and feelings through his actions, he knows that there are times where words really DO speak louder - and he can't speak them at all. He can never look White Lily in the eye and open his mouth and allow his praise and adoration to leap freely from his tongue. She will never feel the warmth of his tone as his words embraced her. She will never shiver and swoon at the joy and passion that dripped from every single letter - and there would've been many, there would've been more than could ever have been recorded, for he would've sung his feelings from every rooftop on earth until his lungs gave out. But he can't. He never will. Does he try to pretend it's better this way? Does he try and fail to cope with his lovesickness like his comrades do with theirs? Or does he accept the bitter reality for what it is, no ifs, ands, or buts, only hiding the gloom and doom he knows is written all over his face behind his helm just so he doesn't have to see it for himself?

And, above all of these things, bundling up the other 4 Beasts' feelings and tucking them away... Above all else, they are angry. They are angry at Shadow Milk. Because he achieved what none of them could. He got everything he wanted. His Ancient admitted his love for him, with all of the raw sincerity one could possibly afford another. The other Beasts would do ANYTHING to hear their Ancients speak to them in such a way. To acknowledge and embrace their connection, to confess to loving and longing for them; for their countenance, for their voice, for their touch, for their very souls. Shadow Milk got to reunite with his other half - who chose him willingly, wholeheartedly.

And Shadow Milk chose to throw it all away in the end. Let it all go to waste.

If any of them ever see him again, they're going to let him know EXACTLY how they feel about it all. Maybe it can count as practice towards crafting a proper heartfelt confession.

[girl-lostconnection]

Wolf in Sheep’s clothing is more than a Warning

Shoutout to my buddy @jesterinc without whom this wouldn’t have happened. Let’s all cheer for him for listening to my feverish rants, contributing a great deal of his own insight and adding fuel to this fire

It wasn’t difficult to get the injection with a stim off your ship and in the lab. All Price had to do was pull rank and say that it’s highly classified.

Coupled with lieutenant Riley’s heavy presence and “stop asking fucking questions and do your job” glare it did the trick. 

So no, it wasn’t difficult to whisk away the miraculous thing that stitched you up in the matter of seconds and left you in a state John could only describe as “high on pain relief”.

Thank God, Laswell was more than inclined to keep it under the cover until they have any substantial evidence or sufficient proof that something was very fucking wrong in Helldiver branch. 

Took them a couple weeks to actually get the bloody lab reports and get through thick pages of terminology that made their blood run cold for more reasons than one.

Stims were highly addictive and devastating in consequences in long term usage.

They drained the resources of the body, they wore out heart’s ability to pump blood, they ate Helldivers alive, they made them dependent on the next dosage and were frequently used as regular energy supplements.

It was not right or safe to keep this information hidden so Price had Kate to call in every favour and get the report and their own letters as high up the chain of command as it was possible.

The more people would find out about it the better.

It was something that had to be loud and flashy, something that would be impossible to ignore.

And slowly, the wheels came in motion.

They were picking up speed with every higher up official that saw the reports and detailed brief sent over from base.

Summary which could have been only described as "we are killing our own soldiers".

And upon investigation that got rolled out another nerve-wracking fact came to life - there were no regulation for how exactly stims were made.

There were no protocols of distribution.

Which meant that every day Helldivers all across the board would get different varieties of the same drug.

With different side effects and different components.

Some made out of terminid remains, some engeneered with the information they brought off Chort Bay, some from picked up samples of Illuminati sector.

Commandment pushed for the whole branch of Helldiver's to be put under review until further notice.

No missions, no dives, no stims.

Taskforce 141 volunteered to be the ones to come to your ship with these news. So you wouldn’t hear it from someone else. So you wouldn’t piece together the timing of it all.

Partially because Laswell let them know that if they won't — someone else will.

And partially because no matter what was going on with your branch — they knew you.

You were a good soldier.

A decorated military officer with years of experience and dedication likes of which Price hasn't seen before.

You were good, you were smart and what mattered the most — you were a friend.

You were their first link with the Helldivers and you were kind enough to let them onto your ship and into your armoury and never have asked a single question about their arrival.

Perhaps, because you never provided a lot of answers yourself — always in the rush, always one leg already in the hellpod, always ready to dive down.

So, naturally, when Kate told them to be part of the internal investigation. Investigation specifically into your involvement, they didn’t spend too much time mulling it over.

Of course, they will take the job.

Better them than some pencil-pusher that wouldn’t know the price and value of diligent work you conducted.

Therefore, without much hassle they packed up and came back to your ship.

They will need to find out whether or not you (divers) were aware about consequences stims brought onto your ships.

Whether or not you participated in distribution and if there was anything else command needed to know about.

Anything at all.

Especially, if there were any Helldivers that were no longer able to continue their service due to the effects of stims.

Taskforce were carefully notified that if you as a current captain of notorious SAS “Whisper of Steel” were no longer able to continue in your current role — a thorough report was expected.

So they came back — tight-lipped and tense, bags of equipment in hands, explanations on the tips of their tongues.

Just to find you as calm as a soldier that was used to constant action can be out of said action.

You were sitting on the steps to the hellpods when they were dropped off — old journal in your hand, it's cover so beaten up it was a miracle the damn thing wasn't falling apart.

It was like nothing changed at all, your ship buzzing under their feet, stuff quietly chatting to each other, repairs being made in engineering wing.

Nothing out of ordinary.

You were still covered from head to toe — always ready to jump back into action at moment's notice.

The only part of you not covered were your hands — wide steady palms, deft fingers with a few crooked digits, skin wrapped in scars — jagged shrapnel cuts, splashes of old burns, pearly lines of skin tearing.

You didn’t pay much attention to occasional staring — too engrossed in your work, cataloguing newest supply arrivals, counting up how much more you’d need to order — pen spinning in your fingers.

Simon's eyes linger on ugly markings on some of your fingers — telltale signs of them being torn off and then stitched back on in time, before it was too late. That’s entirely too much pain for a single person, but who is he to judge.

Your nails are short and clean, cuticles darker from gun grease that never washes off fully.

But no signs of neurotic biting or picking of skin, no self-inflicted scratches, nothing to account for your supposed instability.

Or withdrawal symptoms.

Simon slots the knowledge for later, turning away from you.

It's rare to see even a sliver of your skin. Feels almost alien to see that much now.

A little reminder that you are a human just like them.

Simon sits himself down on opposing stairs, watching you out of the corner of his eye.

It's funny, he never thought that that's the way some (most) people feel about him.

So used to seeing armour and fabric covering every inch of skin at all times — the reminder of warm human flesh underneath feels almost uncomfortable.

How much does it take for a person to become something else? How long can you be a soldier before you turn into an archetype? A story.

Something intangible and ephemeral, ghost wearing human's body, memory of memory wrapped in flesh and greyish lines of nerves.

Not a person but a concept.

Part of the agenda, part of the myths, part of the story.

Simon watches you write crouched on the steps of the stairs, so human in the moment he feels like he doesn't know you at all.

Who are you under all that gear? Who are you with it?

His attention slides off you because Kyle as carefully as he can herds you away, pacing in front of you back and forth until you finish and get off the stairs with quiet groan.

His hand gets draped around your midriff which, they still can't get used to, is very much welcomed.

Because you grumble something, reluctantly melting into the embrace and allow him to lead you away, finally giving Simon space to work.

It’s not something he likes doing to you, especially considering how relaxed you seem — you don’t look nervous, you don’t look guilty or like you are trying to hide something.

But as much as Simon likes you and would like to believe what he sees, experience tells him that sometimes people are not who they seem to be.

So, the faster they check you out, the sooner you will be away from the scrutiny and spotlight of the command.

That’s what matters the most.

And with you finally leaving your perch on the stairs right next to control panel means he gestures to Soap to come in and start shifting through files.

They finally get to slip through the cracks and dig up whatever you could have buried.

No matter how deep it is.

Price doesn’t come to meet up with Simon until the evening, too focused on your state and the way you stall under Kyle’s touch before relaxing when you realise it’s just him.

Like you need conscious effort to remind yourself that he is safe.

That they are safe.

Building up trust takes time and effort and John would like nothing more than to stay in this slow warm state with you gradually letting them in.

But he has never compromised in the matters of health and livelihood of his man. He’s not about to make you an exception out of his rule.

But Simon doesn’t find anything.

Neither does Soap.

There is nothing — no personal mementos, no diaries, no letters or email.

There is nothing, it’s like you-person has never existed.

Like there is nothing to you other than Helldiver-you. Other than soldier-you.

Which should be a relief but the gnawing feeling doesn’t let John to just let it go and report you as another Helldiver perfectly loyal to their duty.

Now it was not a matter of work ethics even, it was a matter of bone deep need to know you.

Everyone has something that makes them tick, that makes them them, that gives an inch he could hook onto to pull out the rest of your soft innards out of the hard shell.

There has to be something.

And something they found. Kyle does.

And not exactly finds.

There is a flash drive — angular little thing, old metallic case of which is covered in tiny scratches. Like it spent one too many years in someone’s pocket with all kinds of things.

Kyle pulls it out of your breast pocket, right under the heart, when you start dozing off.

Shame churning in his gut at that, because that’s low.

That’s not fair.

If you ever find out he might never come back from it.

The flash drive in front of them feels like a point of no return. Like stepping over some invisible line in the sand. Like pushing too hard into somewhere they were not invited to.

Johnny doesn’t like it. Johnny doesn’t like sneaking around in your personal things and he can see that neither does usually calm Simon.

None of them does, it’s written on everyone’s faces.

In a way small muscle in John’s jaw twitches with tension, in a way Soap rolls his shoulders as if hoping to shake off whatever sticky feeling he’s got from looking somewhere this deep — from sneaking around to find if you are hiding something.

Heavy hover of Simon’s brows doesn’t encourage Price either. None of them likes it. None of them feels like it’s the right thing to do.

All of them know it’s the necessary one.

“Doesn’t mean we will report everything that can be on it. We looked the other way before, we could do it again”, Simon hums out and it’s so sudden, but Kyle glances at him sideways and turns to captain to give him a tight nod.

It’s their job to work in the grey, is it not?

“But we have to see what’s on it, right? Just for…protection, aye?”, Soap still sounds as unsure as he can get but he actually takes the flash drive now and doesn’t watch it like something that could bite him if he’s not careful.

“Aye”, John just nods, crossing his arms over the chest and nods at Soap’s laptop. “Open it up, let’s see what’s in on it”.

There is no way you will give them all the answers willingly.

Which is weak excuse at best but the more solid one is that they can’t afford to tip you off if you do have something to hide.

Soap spends the next few hours trying to get into whatever encrypted data you have there.

Which admittedly is not what they have expected.

There is a strange type of encryption on them, Johnny shares, eyes glued to the screen as he waits for everything to upload.

Very different from what they usually see on protected data — not meant to destroy everything on the flesh drive as soon as it’s opened.

The code was specifically designed to preserve it.

Was it some kind of valuable intel you never passed on? Were these some kind of records you never got rid off?

About something or someone.

But there is nothing of sorts when Soap manages to crack it open.

On the flesh drive there’s nothing other than audiologs — hundreds of hours of audios, dozens and dozens of half-scraped recordings.

Terabytes of them.

It doesn’t make much sense on the first glance. It makes even less when they start listening.

They don’t know the appropriate order and it looks like a lot of dates has been scraped off the logs.

Frantically, feverishly, like someone without much technical expertise was rummaging through it, wiping off any trace of when and where it happened.

They click through few trying to grasp what is going on there only to find the unexpected.

It’s an entire year of audiologs that just get longer and more detailed the longer they keep going.

There is recorded music in horrible quality, there’s singing — a little off tune and a little hoarse — voice of someone not used to using it this much, but the melody is steady and excitement is palpable.

They don’t recognise the voice. Not at first.

Though whoever is singing they were having the time of their life. They were elated to share.

There’s also obviously male voice — strangely mechanical in its range, almost blank, completely level.

It reminds 141 of butchered quality of dynamics some Helldiver’s comms have. Like someone smashed it before using.

The sound is a little distorted, static flaring up when Soap tries to speed it up so they resign to just listening through the whole thing.

God knows these logs have seen better days.

But there is a lot of what they never expected to find.

There are jokes — old puns and dark humour and laughter, god, there is so much laughter.

It echoes through conversations, it cracks through years to the TaskForce listening with baited breaths.

It’s a beautiful laughter.

They don’t realise at first whose laughter it is. Whose singing it was.

They have never heard you laugh before.

You sound so young there. You sound so human.

Such a stark contrast to the person they came to know you as.

Older you is closed off, older you is guarded and twitchy — silent more often than not, feral animal aching for warmth and terrified of feeling any.

Marks of phantom old collar chuffing the skin of your neck until it breaks. Until you break.

What have been done to you? What happened?

There are million questions swirling through John’s head as he listens, brows furrowing when static flares up once again.

There is nothing wrong with recordings per se. Frankly speaking Price doesn’t see the reason to continue listening, especially since he can see how uncomfortable his team is with going through something so personal to you.

Something that obviously meant enough that you were carrying it with you whenever you went.

But there’s a nagging feeling that doesn’t leave John alone. Like they are missing something.

Helldivers are still soldiers — they are not forbidden from maintaining personal connections.

Why would someone (most likely you) try to scrape the flash drive so desperately? Why would you bother holding it as close to the body as possible?

Somewhere along these recordings there is answer to why you never come down on Chort Bay anymore. Somewhere along the audiologs they are going through there is a reason to why you do missions only in terminid sector.

There’s a question that doesn’t leave Price alone as he sits and listens through another dozen of butchered recordings.

Who’s the person on the other end?

And why do you still have this flesh drive if you could have gotten rid of it long time ago? Would save you a lot of trouble considering how hard you tried to cover up tracks.

So Johnny scrolls through the logs until he finds first one actually dated.

March. Tuesday. 11:51. Six years ago.

“What did you want to be before?”, male voice cracks to life startling them after almost three minutes of radio silence, Simon’s fingers twitching to reach for the gun.

But it’s just a recording, no one is here but them and these butchered audio logs. “Surely…surely, you did not intend to be this. No child does”

There is a small pause before you answer.

As if you want to ask how can the other person know it.

As if you don’t know if you should tell that most children actually do.

Because being a Helldiver is an honour.

It seems like one, at least.

The ultimate sacrifice in the name of greater good.

Your bones might have a chance of being the base of someone’s throne, shouldn’t this be honour enough?

“Ballerina”, your response makes Price quirk a brow, leaning back in chair. That’s the first log without any static. The first one where they can hear you clearly.

Your answer is short, curter than what you’d give your companion before. It reeks of old vulnerability and almost shameful shyness.

Not in your nature to play coy and you apparently didn’t intend to make it seem like it was.

“Ballerina?”, metal creaking is more evident now, male’s voice grinding on their ears, faint whisper of his comms acting as a white noise.

Filling the air with hum none can make out and falling into the background.

It didn’t occur to you at the time that those like your companion have lifespans even shorter than Helldivers so.

That they are machines of war way more dedicated than any diver is.

That they probably don’t dance.

You tell yourself that it’s the only reason you continue talking about something that is no longer viable even as an old fever dream.

“Yeah, the dancer. Did you know they retire young?”, the tidbit of knowledge feels like an offering, like you are a child bringing your stick figured drawing for some approval.

Your voice goes a little higher — smile in your voice so wide, Soap can’t help but chuckle.

“Don’t you all retire young?”, the tone is so level, so perfectly polite that the question would sound innocent if not for undercurrent of teasing.

It leaves you gobsmacked for a moment.

Was that…did he just joke about fast mortality rate amongst Helldivers? He of all people?

Unbelievable.

There’s a pause before your laughter escapes the confines of your mouth — wheezing thin sound that grows into hoarse warm bark of laughter.

“That’s really dark, Sar”, finally a mention of a name forces Kyle to scribble it down as fast as he can. Finally something to hook onto. A bloody name.

“And yet you are laughing”, satisfaction in man’s voice is so obvious it practically drips off every syllable.

Unusually expressive from what they heard before.

Thick and sticky, filling up ears and coating skin.

Like oil.

The recording clicks off and the room falls silent for a few moments with them simply staring at the screen.

There is uneasy feeling in John’s chest, like they are getting closer.

He’s not sure if he wants to keep going.

At this point it would be okay to close investigation on you, to clear you in eyes of the command.

But Soap scrolls down, clicking on the next dated recording without Price stopping him.

It dates almost eight months after the one they just listened to. Johnny clicks “play” and sits back ready to listen, cold slowly filling his fingertips.

What would be worse now — to find something or not find anything at all?

How much is too much as a price for your broken trust?

Your voice rings out of the speakers, too quiet for them to hear and they have to adjust the sound before continuing.

Your voice is tired hoarse thing when you breathe out “what a wicked thing it is. To dream of you. To dream of what I can never have and should have never wanted” and it makes something inside of Gaz ache for you. Why would you say that?

Was the price of being a Helldiver really this steep?

You sound so small on the record, so broken — exhaustion wrapping its heavy arms around your shoulders and pressing down hard.

“I wish it wasn’t like that.”, you finally say after a moment’s silence.

Male voice they already got used to hearing is almost soft when it responds to you — gentle purr of automatic vocal cords, not yet honed timbre of a person still learning to love.

“I know.”, John doesn’t know what he expected but it isn’t this. There is a strange finality to these words.

A quiet intimate kind of resignation he saw in soldiers that knew they are not coming back.

“I can’t do this, Sar”, your voice waivers — wet and cracking and Kyle turns away, leaning heavily on the back of the chair, shoulders slumped down.

This is more difficult than he thought it would be.

You sound defeated.

He has never heard you sound like that before. He now knows he never wants to hear you like that ever again.

“I know”, the gentle acceptance of someone who they ever saw feels wrong in the moment.

Feels like they are still fucking missing something.

A clue that has been looking them in the face all this time.

But with the way you are coming apart at the seams…Ghost doesn’t know how anything but tenderness could be possible.

Stubborn beautiful captain, has no one ever treated you with kindness you deserved?

Has no one but this…whoever that is handled you with proper care?

Did he even handle you with it?

“I…this can never end well”, you got quieter with every word and John has to take a breath because he is aching for you.

Younger you, softer you, bruised you.

Soldier so young you grasped for any straw of support. Soldier so lonely you apparently fell into hands of someone you shouldn’t have.

“Does it really matter?”, the question is so soft John feels like raging, like dismantling the whole fucking branch, like cradling you in his hands and holding tight because the sharp inhale he hears cuts deep.

There is a long pause before you finally answer, familiar clicking of the clip of your gun holster a little too loud.

“No. No, it doesn’t”

Audio ends on that — no usual goodbyes or jokes exchanged. No banter, no witty remarks.

Almost like you can’t do that. Almost like a little more and the rags of you are going to be torn apart.

Too worn-out, too thinly spread.

Oh, dear god, Captain. What have you done?

They take a break so Simon can properly search the databases for any soldier named or call signed “Sar”, any trace of the other person in these audiologs.

There’s an eerie feeling that doesn’t leave John, the same one he can see in occasional fidgeting of his men.

Something happened to these logs — parts of conversations scraped, the sound butchered, the encryption so robust Soap could hardly get through it.

Maybe once it was a happy memento, a treasure you kept close to your heart.

But it was this for younger you — the one who laughed and sang and admitted childish dreams sitting somewhere on the empty battlefield.

Now, in its ravaged state it was no longer what it was before.

It was a reminder.

An ominous one at that.

The kind people tried to brainstorm for radioactive burials so whoever comes across them in the distant future would know that haunted stones of black obelisks meant “stay away”.

John sits in the corner fiddling with a pen, clicking it again and again, gears turning in his head.

The male voice on the recordings — it sounded too rough for a Helldiver, too static-y even when your own sounded clearly.

The voice way too unnatural.

Like the person it belonged to was still learning how to use it.

Like he was mimicking speech patterns.

John comes back to listening through the dozen more broken records until Simon comes back tight-jawed and dark as death.

Finally with an answer.

There is ice slowly spreading in their veins — jaws clenched so hard it’s painful.

But pain is nothing. All of it is nothing.

Because he finally knows why you were guarding the flesh drive.

Why there is no soldier named “Sar”.

There has never been one.

“Sar” is not a name, but a nickname you gave your companion during your talks. “Sar” is short for “Comissar”.

You were communicating with autobot commander.

You were committing treason.

There’s another recording. The last one. Still completely intact.

Soap presses the key so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t fall off.

This time there is no introduction, no greetings. There is only one voice.

The Autobot’s.

“Super Earth’s scum likes to portray us as unfeeling. Machines of pointless bloody war.”, he starts, voice as level as they get, eerie mechanical undertones of too static speech seeping through.

Sar…Comissar pauses before continuing, his voice getting so much softer it’s uncanny.

So soft John feels like grinding his teeth into nothing. Fucking hell, the autobot had no business sounding like that.

“But god, I swear, I could feel the sunlight shine on my face when you’d come down to me.”, there is a wistful component to his voice, one Simon doesn’t fucking like at all.

“I could feel the wind. I could taste the sea.”

“I could taste you.”, the implication leaves Kyle with dread raising its heavy head in his gut, eyes so wide it hurts. He can’t blink and he can’t turn away and he can’t stop listening.

They need to finish.

“We often think Helldivers to be soldiers of the guile — merciless and casually cruel, you plunge feet first into hell from a hell of your own straight above our heads — harbingers of death.”, is said almost conversationally, like it’s another fact. Another thing he probably had to get over.

“But I could have sworn you were an angel.”, there is reverence in the voice of the bloody machine the likes of which Soap hasn’t heard before. The absolute, almost biblical, devotion. Borderline an obsession.

“My angel”, the emphasis is not lost to them.

“My loveliest doom.”

“You were sent down to hunt and destroy my kind, to turn to ash my army, to bring ruin and despair.”, there is a small pause before the man continues.

His voice as tender as they could get, so eerily soft that Soap barely contained the urge to turn it off.

To stop listening.

But they need to finish it, so he just steps back from the laptop, turning his head away, the automatic voice gnarling on his nerves.

“But you brought me peace. You brought warmth.”, there is wonder in Comissar’s voice, quiet excitement of someone who long gave up and accepted the way things are.

“You brought laughter and songs and dreams.”, he says like this was everything. Like it is everything. More than he could have ever hoped for. More than he, perhaps, deserved.

“How strange it is, my love, to be machine deemed incapable of human emotions but still feel.

How strange it is that you — the perfect lovely you — made me so human I can barely recognise myself.”, he stalls for a moment before chuckling — sound cool and gentle, his cords still a little rusty.

“Maybe that’s another ploy of your branch. Maybe Helldivers finally found the way to our absolute ruin.

But oh, what a sweet way to go.

I couldn’t wish for a different one. I wouldn’t have.

Know that no matter what happens next — I have always been devoted to you.”, John’s hand hovers above the keyboard, urge to turn off the bloody recording so strong he almost does it.

“The last time we saw each other you said that it won’t end well. And I won’t lie to you — it won’t.”, the autobot shifts, metal creaking with its every movement, comms whispering in a language they cannot understand.

“I know that they will come for my fortress. I know they will win — my head will be the prime trophy of this campaign.”, the man says and it feels a lot like a goodbye. Like this is it. The end of the road.

“I know it’s not your fault.”, notion kicks the breath out of Simon because despite the revulsion and anger, there is so much gentle acceptance in Comissar’s voice it makes his skin crawl.

“We are not bad people, my love. Just very unlucky ones.

I can only hope that the next time we meet will be better.

I hope next time you won’t have to choose between duty and your humanity.

I hope when we meet next time you will forgive me for making this choice for you.”, John’s eyes flicker to Simon’s who’s already trying to get reports of what fucking happened back then. Someone should be able to share at least a crumb of information.

“Goodbye, my angel. Remember that down on Chort Bay even the rusted remains of my skeleton will love you.

And please,

Don’t ever come back.”

There’s a heavy silence when they record clicks off, finishing the playing of it.

“What the fuck happened on Chort Bay?”, Price doesn’t recognise the hoarse rasp for his voice until Simon doesn’t give him a glass of water, brown eyes dark with something John isn’t sure he understands.

“War torn. The battles are ongoing as of right now but at the time of the recording…”, Simon glances down on the report on his laptop before turning back to his captain. “…Helldiver forces took Chort Bay back — effectively eradicating everything in their way”.

Which means that no one survived.

The “Sar” perished with the resistance leaving you only that — the flash drive with all of your conversations. Perhaps hoping (if robots can hope) that you would understand.

Price thinks to the quiet fractured way you carry yourself and wonders if you ever did.

They need to know what to do now. How to proceed. Because fraternising with the enemy…it’s going to be punishable by an execution. If anyone finds out about their discovery you are going down.

You won’t be just dishonourably discharged — you will be shot dead.

Price rubs his palms over his eyes, heels of them pressing onto his eyeballs because god, how did you even get into this kind of mess? Why would you even hold onto incriminating piece of evidence?

He knows why, god, of course he knows. He listened through remaining conversations and heard your laughter and heard your shy confessions.

(John tries not to think that he had no right to them. That these recordings were not his to listen to, he has no claim over them — they aren’t for him)

They decide to come clean the next day. Maybe figure out how to proceed from then on, what to write. How to save you from yourself, if needed.

But all plans go down the drain when the next morning you are antsy and fidgety, eyes roaming over the ship in frantic search. You already noticed your flash drive gone.

Johnny tries to carefully start the conversation, explaining why they came back, what was the purpose of it.

He feels bile rise in his throat at the look on your face when you see your audiologs in his palm.

When you hear that they listened to them.

Kyle steps in, voice gentle as he tries to explain that they didn’t want to, that it’s just vetting process, that they won’t tell anyone what they found.

He also says that you must have had your reasons, but keeping such thing this close was reckless and wrong and—

But then you snatch the flash drive out of Soap’s hand, eyes wide with something he doesn’t like, clutching the thing like it’s a treasured.

Your treasure.

These conversations — hundreds of hours of conversations with a mechanical voice, tenderness of which seeps through every sound. Very syllable.

Mad, wrong and forbidden.

This should have never happened. It would have never happened if Helldivers were treated more humanely, Price thinks.

It would have never happened if you had proper protocols and socialisation and support in place.

What kind of madness is it, to fall in love with a fucking piece of steel? An enemy no less.

It is wrong, it is mad, it is everything you were never supposed to do. As a soldier, as a Helldiver.

It’s not just a mistake. It’s treason.

You would be executed without martial court, without right to appeal. You are a traitor.

“Captain?”, there’s heavy silence in the armoury, stares on you almost accusatory and you hate it you hate it you hate it.

They don’t know you, they don’t know what it’s like.

They don’t understand. They probably never will.

So you don’t say anything.

You stuff the flesh drive into the breast pocket under armoured plates of your vest, not looking them in the eye, not willing to give them any more than they already took.

“Captain, you- have you ever returned to the automaton sector?”, Simon’s question is carefully worded and it is not the best time to ask whether or not you killed autobots after having an affair with one.

It’s not fair to you and he knows it.

But the situation itself isn’t fair.

Neither are you with your heavy silences and your high walls and your stubborn glares.

“No.”, the answer is as short as they get, your thumb pressing into the sharp side of the metal case, trying to take your mind out of a spiral by any means necessary.

You never came back to Chort Bay. You never came back to autobot sector after coming down to collect the last message from Sar. One mission before you realised you couldn’t do it. You just couldn’t.

Robots were too human afterwards.

Even worse, you were too human — finger always stalling when it came to shooting other autobots.

Other’s like Sar.

Maybe in some deeper level you were still waiting for him to come back, to meet you with the flesh drive like he usually did. Maybe on some deeper level you were hoping for him to find another way.

Maybe you grew soft.

(Helldivers can’t be soft. Helldivers are never soft. Not if they want to survive)

“What does it say about me that I didn’t die with him and kept living?”, you don’t even realise you said it out loud until you look at Kyle and see that his face is grey with horror. He makes a step towards you, something pained in his eyes raising when you twitch away.

He’s spent his trust. It doesn’t take a mind reader to realise who took your flesh drive. It doesn’t take a psychic to figure out that he stole it.

But really, what does it say about you if you are still going though you admitted to Sar once that you probably wouldn’t be able to if something was to happen to him.

You kept living when maybe you shouldn’t have. You kept living like nothing ever happened, like you didn’t lose a part of you — a good part, a decent part, a humane part.

“Capt’n, please…”, there’s anguish in Price’s voice, his eyes — prettiest summer sky — looking at you the same way one would look at animal they ran over. Pity.

There is hot licks of fury in your chest, spreading like a wildfire, scorching you from inside out, cauterising the bleeding heart of yours.

How fucking dare he. How dare they scoop out everything that was left of the good you and watch it with morbid fascination like it was some suffering creature with broken spine.

How dare they even look like they feel sorry for you when there��s nothing to feel sorry about?

“This- look around”, there’s manic desperate chuckle, crack in his voice the size of one in your chest. “This isn’t livin’, capt’n. You are not livin’. You are survivin’. And all for a machine that-”

Maybe you would have listened before to him, but John Price steps on the landmine the size of Jupiter and you snap. Snarling, feral creature — kicked dog whose tail got caught in the closing doors — your eyes stinging, armour clicking in place all around you.

“He has a name.”, you snarl with such viciousness that John blinks in surprise, taken aback by your reaction. “And you don’t know him.”

“For fuck’s sake, capt’n, it’s not a name.”, Price snaps in return, stepping closer to you, eyes blazing, shoulders squaring and it’s almost laughable because what the fuck is he going to do? Wrestle you to the floor of your own ship? “You gave him a nickname. He never had a name. He’s not an actual person-“

Maybe it would have been better if he tried to fight you. At least that way you’d have a good excuse to land a few punches on him. At least that way you wouldn’t feel like someone backhanded you across the face — skin tingling with heat, beast in your chest uncurling into something dangerous.

How dare he talk like he knows what’s been going on? How fucking dare he speak of your friend, of your Sar, like he has been some fucking pet?

The silence is dark and heavy between you two, fire raging so loudly in your head you hardly hear Simon stepping in.

It hardly registers until he mentions something about stims and “withdrawal induced agitation” and your head snaps to him so fast he actually steps back.

You’ll admit it takes you a few moments to piece it all together. The investigation, the secrecy, the tension.

The last conversation that you had with Price.

Your fury builds up into the whole storm, your face so hot it hurts, you are so hot it’s sticky and sweaty, your uniform clinging to your body.

(Blood in the threads of it-blood in the threads of it-blood in the threads of it)

“You stole from me”, the first exhale is pure disbelief before the last bits of you snap like a dry twig and you practically lunge at Price, fingers wrapping around his shoulder with the force enough to break it. “I let you in and you stole from me.”, your anger is deaf and blind. Your anger is powerful.

Your pain isn’t.

You don’t expect it but it still hurts because you let them see so much, you thought they were safe, you thought they were friends.

Rookie mistake. You won’t repeat it again. Never again.

Hurt just amplifies your anger, revulsion flaring up when Soap reaches for you. Usually warm hand trying to soothe, trying to calm down.

But you can’t do this. You can’t-you cant-you can’t.

You think of Kyle waiting for you to fall asleep to take your flesh drive and bile rises to your throat.

You think of Price stealing your stim, of Simon going through your things and talking about your anger like it’s a fucking symptom.

You think of them and you want to crawl out of your skin.

The loud slap of your hand against Johnny, smacking him away clicks something in the team, the whole TaskForce coming into action.

Pulling them into the formation, pulling out soldiers and not friends.

For some reason it hurts even more.

“Captain, you have to calm down.”, there is an edge to Ghost’s voice and you just sneer in response, his changed attitude doing nothing but agitate you further.

Kyle watches you like he’s expecting you to snap. They all do, you realise.

“Get out.”, your voice is alien even to you, your body uncurling to its full frame, fury — now cold and merciless flooding your veins. “Get your things and get the fuck off my ship. Now.”

Simon opens his mouth to say something but you snap before a single word leaves his lips.

“Get out of I will personally drag you off my fucking bird, lieutenant.”, you hiss his rank out and it’s so wounded you almost cringe. Fucking hell, you are getting soft.

But still it works. He pulls back and turns away.

You don’t wait to see whether or not they have something else to say. You want nothing to do with them.

You want them out.

You want to hate them but instead you are just hurt and furious.

It’s a solemn ride back home. A quiet and heavy one, all of them feeling the effect of your fury still.

Simon looks at John and John finally understands. There is no other choice. Not now. Not anymore.

Upon return Price sits in his office for a few very long hours before he finally gets to writing the report command requested on you.

He has never compromised on his soldiers’ wellbeing and he won’t start now.

Even if he will need to drag you thrashing and kicking with a force of a damn bull.

Report gets sealed and so does your fate when he sends it out.

Report written black on white, his full name and rank, date and location.

Report doesn’t name you a traitor but Price knows you will hate them nonetheless.

Report says “recommend immediate transfer. Not suitable for active space duty. Not able to continue in their current responsibilities. Recommendation to discharge Helldiver captain of SAS “Whisper of steel” effective immediately”.

[thisonehere]

Please make a second part of the fic "Sleeping Beauty" I want to please my boy Smoke 👀

Finish Him

A/n: Me too, I need him in ways that haven't been scientifically discovered yet.

Tags: Request, Mk1 fanfic, Mk smut, NSFW

C/w: Blue Balls, more teasing, sexually frustrated, masturbation, oral sex (blow job), mention of bodily fluids

Last part

The rest of the day wasn't a good one for Tomas, not at all. Not after you left him to deal with that beast.

He started the morning late. Many thoughts that he just slept in late, but in actually trying his best to pleasure himself. There he was at the side of the bed stroking and rubbing himself as best he could. The room echoed with his moaning and whimpering as he chased the high of a climax.

After nearly an hour of agonizing work, he managed to reach it...but it just wasn't the same.

With a defeated sigh, he cleaned himself up and got ready to meet Honzo at the Dojo. The young man had been waiting there for a while, he had arrived an hour early to the great hall in hopes of practicing his technique before training with Tomas.

By the time Tomas arrived the boy was busy practicing his backside kick. Honzo stopped as he turned to face his mentor as he entered. "Apologies about my lateness. I was...I was busy and fell behind." He cleared his throat. "Let us begin."

---

"Correct your stance." Tomas nearly barked, Honzo had attempted a crescent kick against the punching dummy. He could deny that his poor stance caused him to balance, but it was getting harder to train with the way Tomas looked him. A harsh scowl on his face, as if he was upset about something.

"Again, harder!" These were the words Tomas would usually say to Honzo during Training, but he couldn't help but notice...venom in his words. Tomas seemed more irate than usual, not as bad as Bi-Han, he was still fairly kind to Honzo. But he seemed annoyed by something, it's like he literally woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. He wondered what could've happened this morning to agitate him so.

"That was perfect, Honzo, you've improved greatly." Tomas said after 3 hours of training. He gave Honzo a warm smile as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He seemed to have calmed down now, perhaps the training blew off some steam, calming him down a great deal. "Take a break," he huffed. "We'll meet again in 2."

He walked over to the bench to take a swing of water, until he catches something at the corner of his eye. He sees a very familiar figure pass the doorway to the training ground. You. Immediately follows after you, not giving Honzo a single look, not taking a single sip of water.

"Y/n!" He calls to you as he quickly trails behind you. A tinge of desperation can be sensed in his voice. You stop and turn to face him. Your smile is innocent, your eyes are demure, this morning didn't happen. "Um, hey." He shifts his pose, trying to look more chill and nonchalant as if he wasn't basically chasing after you a few moments ago. "Hey." You smile back at him. "So...what are you up to?"

"I'm heading to the storage room, Kuai needs a shin guards and hand wraps for a new initiate." Tomas's eyes perked up at the sound of this, as if he had an idea. "What a coincidence, I'm on my way there too." Your arch you brow in surprise, "Really?" You could've sworn you just saw him training Honzo. "Really." he assured you. With a sigh, you flash Tomas knowing smile and lead him to the storage room.

The storage room was the largest room in the entire complex. It was filled to the brim with supplies and uniforms for new recruits, it also worked as a place to hold weapons until they found an armory to put it all in. Boxes lined to 6 feet towers in rows creating entire walls. You quickly get to work finding the shin guards and wraps. Meanwhile Tomas awkwardly leans against doorframe, trying to be sexy. "Um, so, Y/n about this morning."

Your ears immediately purk up at this, you know where this is heading. Yet you play dumb. "Oh, yeah. You were telling me about how you had to train Honzo. How's that going?"

"Wonderful!" Tomas quickly jumps off the doorframe excitedly. "He's improved so much! Just a few more months and he'll be a full fledged Shirai Ryu. Actually, he'll even be the youngest-" he suddenly remembers what he was trying to do, clears his throat, and gets back to leaning against the doorframe, hoping to be sexy. "Fine. He's doing fine." He series to make his voice deeper, softer. "But I was talking about the other thing."

"Oh, is that so?" You finally find the Shin guard and wraps. You also get softer, turn to him, a sultry look finds its way onto your face. This took Tomas by surprise that he once again drops his attempts at trying to be sexy and just stand there awkwardly as you slowly advance up to him, your hips swaying here and there.

"Y-Yes, I couldn't stop thinking about it." He felt his heart skip a beat as you lay a hand to his chest. "I see. You want me to finish?" He frantically nods, his face becomes red with blush. "Yes, I would."

Your hands go from his chest, trails down his torso, and it begins to undo his pants. Tomas began to breathe more heavily as he watched.

His pants drop to the floor, and his eager member recoils upward, bouncing up and down excited at being free. You admire it for a moment, it's more than 8.5 inches long and 3.6 inches in width. You nearly lost your composure at the sight of it, he looks bigger and harder than he's ever been. His top is dripping with pre-cum. Maybe your teasing was more effective than you thought.

"I'm guessing you want me to give it a kiss?" You slowly get on your knees, licking your lips to moisten them. Tomas frankly nods, "Yes! Yes, please!" He begs, he's so desperate, it's kinda cute. "Alright." You grab his pen, both hands are required to grip. You wait and stare at it for a second, you have torture him for a little longer.

Finally, you plant a tender kiss at the tip. You even lick, the sweat from training mixed with cum gives it a nice and salty taste. Tomas's head falls back as he moans as relief is felt all over his body.

You then quickly get back up to your feet. "I better go, I have to get this to Kuai." Tomas eyes stretch open as he becomes horrified. "W-What!?! No, you can't, you have to-"

"I said I'd give it a kiss. I even went a step further with that licked." You say as you race out the door. "Y/n, please. Do you want me to beg? I'll beg! Please, just come back."

He looks down at the new problem you left him with. "Please come back." He whines to himself. Looks like he's going to be in the Storage room longer than he thought.

A/n: Aren't I just a tease? *Laughs maniacally*

Anyway, do y'all think I should do a part 3 where Y/n actually does it?

[hirschkuh-traumvoll]

Breakfast with my love

the plot is: waking up and having g breakfast with alastor

words ≈ 2.9

warnings: slightly suggestive by the end but all in all very fluffy; alastor is a bit ooc

author's note: it was published before on my shadowbanned blog, and i'm SO SORRY @kikihikaru if it was not visible for you that i tagged you 😭😭 it was a great pleasure to write this work and i hope you like it 🥺🥺

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

Alastor tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. With the back of his hand he gently brushed down your cheek, his arm slid to the small of your back and in your sleep you clung closer to him. You huddled up, snuggling closer to Alastor under the blanket, as if you wanted to melt in his warmth. He softly chuckled, he liked this time of day, these morning hours, when you pressed yourself so tightly to him, avoiding your waking up. Though you used to complain how much you hated mornings, Alastor wondered if you were honest about it, because, judging by the genuine smile adorning your face when you left your sweet somnolence, all you felt was quiet happiness. Your eyes radiated tenderness, your voice spoke sweet greetings to him, arms weakly embraced his waist. No, since you had moved to Alastor's room, you felt no hatred for awakenings, nor for mornings, nor for hell itself. And Alastor was glad he was the reason making you cherish the hours you once cursed.

But wasn't it too long for sleeping? Alastor glanced at the clock above the fireplace, it was almost breakfast time. Alastor sighted and patted your head, his claws just slightly brushed your scalp, sending shivers down your spine. You moaned sleepy and hid your face in his chest.

“Darling. Darling, wake up.” He whispered in your crown. Though he hadn't been sleeping, his voice sounded husky after keeping silent for the whole night. “Darling.”

“No.” You muttered in his pajamas, and Alastor felt how you clenched the fabric of his shirt in your small fists, clinging even closer.

“Darling, it's breakfast time.” He pronounced a little louder but still softly enough not to break the morning peace. “We’d better go downstairs, dear.”

“No.” You refused again and nestled your leg between his, throwing another leg on his hip. You showed how stubborn you were in your attempt to prolong the cosy morning. Alastor was so warm, his arms on your body were so heavy, and the static noise he made lulled you back to sleep so gently, how could you resist? No, you didn't want to leave bed even though now you could feel not even Alastor's tummy-rumbling but yours as well. So unnoticed by you, you fell asleep again. Alastor understood it as he heard your faint wheeze. What a sleepyhead you were!

You stayed in bed for some time. Alastor enjoyed the landscape of the morning bayou shrouded in haze, he kept you close and listened to your heartbeat. But as he felt another annoying grumble in his stomach he took his eyes away from the woods and looked down at you. You were sleeping so peacefully.

Alastor tucked you tighter in the blanket, put his hands under your waist and knees, and lifted you with the blanket he wrapped you in. He left the room with the sleeping cocoon you turned into.

The first sinner he met was a tall and awkward snake, who nervously waved at him and stuttered, “G-good morning, Mr. Radio Demon Ssssir!” and stayed at the door he had just locked. Alastor glared at him, baring his gums in a grin, worried that the shout of this idiot could wake you up. The sinner pressed his body to the wall, heavy blush on his dark scaly skin, as Alastor passed him by.

“And good morning to you! Ah, ow, she's sleeping, I'm ssssory.” The snake man put his hands on his mouth, finally realising that his exclamations only disturbed and were not wishful. But who it even was..?

Alastor narrowed his eyes at him…

Ahh! The one who ruined his coat! Well, that sinner didn't deserve his attention. But perhaps only…

“Good morning, my friend!” Alastor expressed his scorn in the sharpest grin of his yellow fangs and low whisper. The lights in the room went dimmer, making the red glow of his eyes brighter and more ominous.

The sinner gasped, pressing even closer to the wallpaper behind him and swallowed hard. The scones lit up again and with a smirk Alastor went forward.

You woke up because of a strange rocking feeling, as if you were drifting somewhere in the waves. You lazily opened your eyes, the so familiar corridor with maroon walls and carpeted floor stretched forward, rocking up and down before you.

Immediately you realised that you were being carried in the arms. You were still wrapped in the soft blanket, strong arms tightly held you, and your head propped against the shoulder of the only one who it could be. You looked up at your beloved. Alastor smiled down at you with a mix of pride and tenderness as every time he held you this style. But this was the first time when you were a cocoon wrapped in a duvet, while he was carrying you down the corridor. Well, it was even better than when he just carried you bridal-like. You smiled at him, lay your head on his shoulder and felt how he pressed his cheek to yours just for a few seconds.

“Oh my Satan, good morniiiiing!” You looked in the direction of the cheery voice. Charlie, of course. For your standards Charlie’s energy in the morning was rather frightening, but Vaggie's frown, piercing right to your side, was even more intimidating, as if it was your personal fault that morning was so disturbing. Well, perhaps there indeed was a little bit of your fault — her gaze was concentrated on the hands holding you and it was common knowledge how much Vaggie disliked Alastor. You felt your cheeks blushing, understanding that you were in Alastor's arms in front of the girls and it seemed he wasn't to put you down, moreover he slowed his pace as he reached the couple and stopped in front of them. His smile became more smug.

“Good morning, my dear.” He said to the princess, who brought her palms under her face, cocking her head in adoration, watching you two.

“Oh, you look so good together. I've never thought-!” Charlie interrupted herself, panicking she chose not really suitable words, but immediately continued her short eulogy with the same passion as in the beginning, “Oh, I mean, I-I always believed… but I also always doubted that it was possible for you, Alastor! But look at you now! Both are so lovable and sweet! Tell them, Vaggie!” Charlie shook Vaggie's shoulder, waiting for her response. Charlie's eyes radiated rapture, her shining smile infected you, and you couldn't help breaking into a shy smile, imagining how cute you looked wrapped in the blanket, carried in your beloved's arms.

Alastor seemed not very impressed with the speech, but nevertheless nodded to Charlie, thanking her, not really knowing for what exactly but considering it was expected from him. As much as he loved being with you, holding you, kissing you, talking to you, he loved to share these moments privately.

Vaggie raised one brow and sighted,

“Can't you walk yourself?”

“C'moooon, Vaggie, aren't they adorable?” Charlie threw her head back in frustration. But before you could give a proper answer, Alastor pressed you closer to his body and purred, looking directly at Vaggie,

“Of course she can but why would she need it when there is a gentleman like me nearby? Right?” And he winked at you. Vaggie crossed her arms, looked at you. She never trusted Alastor and always worried about you. And now there were doubts in her look but also something glimmering as hope. And you gave her a smile, a sincere and the one you'd been suppressing all this time. You also let yourself relax in the arms holding your, loosened your embrace around Alastor's neck, let your head fall on his chest. Vaggie's eye widened and she lowered her head, hiding a forming smile. She looked up at you again,

“Alright, lovebirds, we will be downstairs soon. Don't drop her!”

“How funny.” Alastor hissed through his grin and passed the girls by. You chuckled at how Alastor twitched at Vaggie's sudden ‘lovebirds’. You followed with your eyes: Charlie bent to her girlfriend and whispered to her something with blooming cheeks, her angel only nodded at her and, seeming to feel your gaze on her, cast you a look. Then she turned to Charlie, replying to her something, and next second the hotel's corridor filled with the cheerful “Hooray!” of the princess.

Your face lit up with a smile again and returned your look to your beloved. What a handsome man he was! You simply couldn't take your eyes from his face, adoring his profile, lips, hair, eyelashes… everything. The flickering lights fell on his face, giving his ashen skin a warm hue as if he was in the sun, and these lights reflected in his crimson eyes. You could discern thin raspberry lines raying in his irises, as if the red sun was caught in his eyeballs. So many shades of red were in his eyes… His profile was something too perfect to belong to a sinner from hell. He had a high forehead, a pointed up nose with a smooth bridge and thin nostrils, thin and pale lips adorned his face in a self-confident smile, and looking how his chin jutted out you couldn't suppress your desire to leave a quick kiss there. Immediately you were rewarded with a strict sideway glance which looked so funny with a pinkish blush on his cheeks. But a joke forming in your mind had to be forgotten because of a sudden and indeed loud rumbling of your stomach. Alastor cocked his eyebrow at you,

“Was that peck an attempt to have me for breakfast?”

The dissatisfaction of your belly became louder, and you clung closer to your man, cooing against his neck,

“I really want to eat, Alastor…”

“Want to eat me?” He dramatically raised his voice, making a shocked face and then shook his head, “Darling, you can only hope.”

It wasn't your intention to make your statement sounds equivocally, but played up to Alastor anyway,

“No, I'm so hungry, I'll literally devour you!”

“You can try.” He purred, giving you that look which made your cheeks burn brightly.

“No, that's too much for morning.”

You and Alastor turned to the low voice. Husk sent an accusing glimpse at your side and closed the door of the room, before he could make a step out of it. Alastor narrowed his eyes at the door as if attempting to burn a hole in it and right into the cat's back. But there was another grumbling, causing you to roll up more in your cocoon.

“Let's go, Al, or I'll really eat you up.”

“Would you like to have some beignets, dear?” He continued the way.

“Mmm… I adore them, you know.”

“Very well.” He whispered close to your ear, so close you could feel his wet breath on your skin.

On your further way down the corridor you met Angel. He'd just left his room and was heading to the stairs when noticed you. He froze with his arms outstretched and his mouth opened in a yawn, lips immediately curved in a smirk and arms fell on his hips. By the way he cocked his eyebrow and crossed his arms under the fluff of his chest, you knew that you would hear some obscenity now.

“The night was so rough, can't even walk now, babe?”

“Enough.” Alastor stopped.

All he wanted to do is make that morning delightful for you, but why on earth (or hell) did everyone think that this was their business as well? As if their ridiculous commentaries could gladden you, as if their waves and smiles could rejoice you more than his ones. Nonsense! Your happiness was only his, Alastor's, business.

A huge shadow raised from below as if appearing right from the air and enveloped you and Alastor from head to toe until your vision completely dissolved. In cold darkness you still felt Alastor's hands on you and only that let you not to surrender to the increasing panic that pounced at anyone who travelled through the shadows. You gave in to the heat radiating from Alastor's body, closed your eyes, though all you could see was darkness anyway. And when the static noise in your ears died away you opened your eyes and found yourself in the hotel's kitchen. Cold slid from your limbs away.

Niffty, standing at the table and preparing breakfast for the residents, heard the familiar popping of white noise and turned around. Alastor had just put you down in a soft armchair. He conjured two wingback chairs and a round coffee table in a corner of the room especially for you two. It was sweet how he built secluded islands for two of you to bask in intimacy away from prying eyes.

It was pretty hot in the kitchen, so you let the blanket slide from your shoulders, and Alastor left a little kiss on your shoulder, promised, whispering in your ear, that breakfast would be very soon. You watched him coming up to Niffty, greeting her with a simple “Good morning” at which she responded with a wide smile. Perhaps a little demoness was the only person in the hotel he didn't mind meeting now. She was the only one who didn't react to his relationship with you, and it was just what he wanted everybody to learn from her. She took this relationship as self-evident and didn't stress (unlike others) what kind of gaze Alastor gave you, or how you touched his hand, or how he carried you to the kitchen when you were still too sleepy to move your legs or anything else. In her eyes you and Alastor were just what you had to be and there was no need to create a buzz around it.

Less than twenty minutes later Alastor put two plates on the table, and Niffty placed two big mugs. You breathed in the bitter aroma of black coffee, blended with the sweet scent of fresh beignets.The powdered sugar melted on gold buns and you hastened to take one in your hand. Seemed like Alastor used his magic powers to fry the dessert so quickly, but you absolutely liked it, because you felt dying for the second time of hunger.

“Bon appetit!” Niffty wished with a shining eye, and you barely had time to thank her with a mouthful before she slipped off to the dinning room where the hotel crew had already gathered. The hubbub and loud laugh reached your hearing as Niffty opened the door, and you mentally thanked Alastor for always finding a quiet place for you. The door softly closed, muffling the uproar, and Alastor took his place in front of you, crossing his legs. He placed his chin on his hands, feasting his eyes upon you. He swung his foot and it touched your calf as if accidently, but by the playfully smile on his lips you knew he was doing it on purpose. And he only stopped when you ran your foot up his calf.

“Hm. You know, my dear, we will never go through these corridors again.”

“But why?” You chuckled at him. Of course you knew why, but wanted to see how Alastor would explain it. He always looked annoyingly sweet justifying his decisions.

He took a sip from his mug and said,

“Because in the morning, my dear, I want to hear only your voice, and I want to see only your face. And I, if I may go as far, want to have a tete-a-tete with you.” He added, placing the mug on the table and leaning forward, “Can we arrange that? After breakfast, of course.”

“S-sure.” You said with a little cough. You almost choked with coffee you drank under his ogle.

“Marvellous!” He started eating but looked up at you again as you spoke,

“You know I loved this journey so much. It was so good to be in two of my favourite places at once.”

“How's that?”

“Under my blanket and in your arms,” You smiled coquettishly.

“Hmm.” Alastor tapped his chin with his forefinger, as if thinking about something thoroughly. “And I thought there was another place pleasing you.”

“And what is this?” You tilted your head.

Instead of answering he tapped his lap.

“No.” You laughed, feeling the air in the kitchen becoming hotter. Or perhaps it was your cheeks.

“Why not, my dear? We're alone now.” And with a roll of his eyes he added, “Finally.”

You cleared your throat and left the armchair to slowly come up to Alastor and sit on his lap. Immediately his hand found your waist, pressing you closer.

“Don't tell me, you'll feed me.”

“Oh, I will.”

And nothing disturbed you from each other while you were having breakfast, Alastor being leaned back in his armchair, and you leaning against his chest. You insisted on feeding yourself, but a compromise was letting Alastor bring a beignet to your lips so you'd take a bite. Everything was peaceful with Alastor's palm on your waist, with his breath fanning in your hair, with your hands bringing him his mug of coffee, with your back against his beating heart. Indeed it was the morning worth awakening.

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

[thewritetofreespeech]

Rolan x Tav

plot: Blessed Hearts Day was a special holiday in Baldur's Gate. Celebrating love, intimacy, and unity. For Rolan it was just another Thursday....

rating: G [just a cute little thing for Valentine's Day]

pairing: Rolan x gn!reader/Tav

---------------------------💜----------------------------------

When Rolan first heard the name Lorroakan, he thought he was a great man. A god, even, in the ways of magic and was truly in awe that someone like him would take an interest to be his teacher. Now Rolan realized he was just a fraud, and worse yet a hoarder.

After the battle with the Elder Brain, he set off with the staff to rebuild Sorcerous Sundries to its former glory. Trade and commerce of equal importance in the rebuilding Baldur’s Gate as well as the structures. That taken care of, Rolan set about making sense of his former master’s personal inventory. However, between his stock in the tower and the vault, it was a slow process. Lorroakan seemed to be a glutton for all things. Magic. Power. Punishment; or at least dishing it out.

He had spent weeks combing through what was on offer to sift out the wheat from the chaff. Which was what he was doing when he heard Cal & Lia come in before they even made it through the foyer.

“I’m telling you! He was totally flirting with me! A fine woman like me can sense these things in a man. Sense their intentions.”

“More like desperation.” Cal quipped. “It was so obvious he just didn’t want to be alone for the holiday. Hardly a match made in heaven sister.”

Lia barked out a harsh, sarcastic laugh at her brother. “You’re just jealous that I’ll have an invitation out, and you won’t. The only invite you’ll be getting come morrow is an invitation to pay your bill from Sharess Caress.”

Cal blushed at his sister’s comment. His skin turning almost magenta in the act. “Th-! That’s not--! Rolan! What are you doing tomorrow then??”

“Same as I have been for the past few months, trying to make sense of this mess called a library.” He sensed a shift in the air, or was perhaps just caught off by their silence, and turned to his siblings with a curious look. “What?”

“You really haven’t planned anything?” Cal asked in all sincerity.

“It’s Blessed Hearts Day, you idiot.” Lia just told him, forgoing sincerity or letting him get there on his own.

Rolan’s eyes widened. He had completely forgotten the date on the calendar. “I…of course not!” He lied. “It’s just that Tav and I have no need for such superficial, frivolous holidays.”

“Are you sure? Did you ask them?” Lia asked. Stepping a little closer and peering past his side when he turned around to avoid an answer. “Look, I’ll be the first to admit Tav is a cool customer when it comes to things. But even heroic adventures like a little romance now & then.”

“And how would you know?” Rolan bit at her.

“Look Rolan, you need to plan something.” Cal told him. “Even if you’re right and they things this is all ridiculous, what’s the harm? Worse the two of you have a good laugh. But if you’re wrong….” The male tieflings both gulped at the implication. “Better safe than sorry, is all I’m saying.”

His siblings continued to jeer & pester him for a while before Rolan blew up at them and requested to be left alone. Suddenly the wizard felt panicked. He couldn’t be caught out a fool tomorrow for forgetting the holiday, and it was nearly too late to plan anything properly.

Racking his usually clever brain that was coming up empty, Rolan remembered that in his sifting he had found a few magical pendants dusting up some trunks. Most were useless, but there were a few worth keeping or selling downstairs. Acting quickly Rolan went to get one that he thought would be suitable, wrapped it, and then waited for tomorrow to come with a sigh of relief that he had narrowly escaped danger once again. Who said he couldn’t be an adventurer as well?

“Oh Rolan! It’s stunning!” Tav cooed the next day when Rolan presented it to them. He smiled, pleased that he had pulled this off, and listened to Tav gush over his gift.

However, as they continued to praise him, Rolan suddenly felt sick to his stomach. “It’s nothing. Truly.” He felt awful now. Making them believe that he had been thoughtful and loving when in reality he had been neglectful & petty. “This is just something I found in the archive.” He told them honestly. “In truth I forgot all about this silly holiday, because it never mattered to me before. I never had someone to share it with. No Heart of my own. But…” Rolan reached out and took Tav’s hand in his, “I realize I was being self-centered. Thinking only of my own opinion as usual and not about you. I’m sorry.”

Tav of course accepted his apology and told him it wasn’t that big of a deal. Rolan just shook his head. “No. It is. You deserve someone who thinks of you. Someone that cherishes you, and doesn’t try to cheat his way out of it. Someone thoughtful.” The tiefling shifted to kneel down in front of Tav. “I promise I will try to be more considerate in the future. Think on the ‘we’ and not just ‘me’.” It would be hard. So much of Rolan’s life had been looking out for himself, because if he didn’t then no one would. But Rolan realized that it wasn’t just about him anymore. It was about them. “I’m sorry I didn’t get you something truly worthy of your value. But I’ll make every effort to make it up to you, and not repeat the same mistake next year.”

The adventurer chuckled and leaned forward to wrap their arms around Rolan’s neck. He accepted it and was at last truly relieved as he let out a sigh.

This was a stupid, frivolous holiday. But perhaps a little frivolity was worth the effort from time to time.

[adhd-fandom-hyperfocus]

✧₊⁺ Remember ✧₊⁺

Pairing: Raserei (Primarch oc) x Reader

Summary: To stop the freed Primarch of the 2nd legion from suicide missions and to maybe clear the dark malaise that plagues him, Guilliman assigns a personal remembrance to his brother. However, most of the Imperium at large have not seen the rumored fiend primarch of the 2nd.

Part 1/?

Arthur's Note: I am terrible at keeping POV when writing in the third person and try to do omniscient, but again I am no real writer.

Warnings: general gimdarkness.

18+ Minors DNI

★。------ ＼｜／------。★

Raserei struggled to find a place in the world he had woken to. Every trace of his homeworld was gone, not a single missive or breath of his people ever existing, his legion slain or absorbed into other legions. Though with careful mindfulness their gene-seed died out; his gene-seed. Even his false sons were robbed of him. A primarch of nothing, a specter to nothing in particular. A failed project not cared for enough to properly discard of.

Heavy, dark thoughts swirled in his head, threatening to allow little fissures into his mind; his fabricated soul and let the whispers of those who sow ruin in. It was that which moved his hand over the parchment. This need to push back the side of him he hid from Guilliman, hid even from The Emperor; at least he believed so. Perhaps his creator always knew there was a tinge of black in his soul. Something hollow always looking for something to fill it. A beast that lurks just below the skin that is stretched too thin.

The pen moved with grace as he tried to put memory to it. Planes of their faces. He had to remember because everything was getting foggy; had been foggy since he awoke. Weren't their minds supposed to be perfect? So why was his fading? Why couldn't he fully remember their faces anymore?

A knock at the door to his chambers stilled his hand. Though the pacing of the knocks were calm; they were too heavy for one of the baseline serfs, and too out of sync to be one of Guilliman's sons. Raserei felt the corners of his lips twitch. He wondered if Roboute knew his knock sounded more human than his sons? How inhuman they really were at times.

"Enter," Raserei said, moving his project inside one of his desk drawers.

The Fiend Primarch of the second held a callous stare as Guilliman entered his quarters. While their relationship has grown, there is still much tension between the two demigods. The reasons for Raserei's erasure from history and memory caused great strain between the brothers. As Guilliman's memory of the events was murky, clearly a sign his mind had been tampered with. But that did not mean he trusted the man's recollection before him.

As Guilliman entered the room he stood to the side revealing you to the daemon-looking primarch.

Raserei craned a brow before returning his attention to Guilliman, "I will assume there is a reason why you are disturbing me?"

Guilliman nodded, "I know," Guilliman paused ever so briefly, knowing the weight of what he was about to say. How hypocritical it would sound to his lost brother, "All of your past deeds have been stricken from Imperial record. That things are not what they seem, or perhaps how I remember...But I wish to try and amend this. I present you with your own Remembrancer. They were not formed yet in the early days of the Crusade, but they have become quite beneficial in recording events and people of the Imperium's histories. A good number of us had them before..."

Raserei held a massive clawed hand up to quiet his brother, "I have heard of this order. However, I was under the impression they were all on Terra, merely writing history and not living it. And why would I need one?"

His brother frowned deeply, "I cannot replace what was lost, but I hope to keep and save what happens forth. Perhaps you could tell her about what was lost?" the last part Guilliman said quietly.

The lord of the 2nd didn't speak, nor move his gaze from his brother. Finally, he spoke, "No."

Raserei's tone was deadpan, and upon delivering his answer the monstrous man seemed to go about ignoring the pair in his presence, as if the matter was handled.

"No? I am not giving you a choice in this," Guilliman's voice was firm. He did not wish to start an argument, nor to explain that this was a ploy to get his brother to stop flinging himself against the enemy so wantonly. The Avenging Son knew what a death wish looked like, and Raserei screamed it silently, "I am assigning them to you. The Imperium has fallen in it's ability to account for things, and this is my way of making sure such details and events are properly recorded."

Raserei glared at his brother, but as soon as he went to speak Guilliman was already guiding you in and making his exit.

༺═──────────────═༻

You were told it was a great honor, but you knew it was punishment. Honor would be following the Regent Lord, one of his champions or even the Primarch Lion or Dante. No, being sent to be a personal remembrancer for the possibly heretical primarch of the 2nd was unspoken cruelty by those above you who were angered by you daring to point out their errors.

Though, when Guilliman himself told you he saw this as a great chance to make amends for something he never elaborated on, it did make you feel somewhat better. After all you got to meet The Avenging Son yourself! Stand in his presence, and it was him who asked for this. So perhaps this was in it's way a blessing from the Emperor!

As you followed him through the halls of the ship, to where his brother and his men stayed, the primarch of the second explained how the 2nd Legion was small in number and not ready to man a ship of their own, yet. So you will have the honor and glory of accounting for their reformation and rise to greatness.

But when you stopped at a door, your heart pounded. No one had seen this lost primarch before, only rumors spread through the Imperium. How, the God-Emperor's chosen almost censured Guilliman for him being released. Everything was shrouded in mystery and darkness regarding this primarch's return.

Guilliman cleared his throat and stood aside, leaving you in the unforgiving stare of a creature nothing short of a daemon. Your chest tightened and your lungs refused to fill with air. His gaze was crushing. The inhumanness of his nature was more oppressive than the Lord Regent. You try to bow, but your knees buckle as your legs wobble.

Meeting the Lord Regent left you awe-struck, but seeing the man, no creature before you made you fearful. Was this why this primarch was stricken from all histories? All records? A daemon among the God-Emperor's sons?

The hold of his gaze released you as he refocused on Guilliman. The exchange was brief and you were soon being ushered into the room to be alone with a clearly disgruntled primarch. Your ears burned hot with fear. You couldn't move or speak. His gaze fixated on you. There was something in that pale eye of his that held you in place. Like it was searching, rending your soul bare. It was like death was looking at you and judging if you were to be reaped. A look of the grave. Cold and still.

"I do not know who you angered to be sent to me, but do not stand there like a scared animal," he smirked at you, "You have nothing to fear, I already ate."

And then there was crushing darkness.

[hellfirelobby666]

Alastor Comforts you after Vox Makes You Cry (PT.1)

I started this out of boredom in class, but It quickly got out of hand so...

Hell was not easy, it was never mean't to be. Though, it could for sure become less stressing when you worked for the right demons. But this was not your case. You worked for Vox as his secretary, arranging papers in your office most of the time. Many sinners dreamed of being in such high rank. The payment (surprisingly) was always on time, so the concern of not being able to pay rent was pratically non-existent. It was understandable why so many folks at the corporation envied your place, though did they even know what you went through?

Some days could be called "Double Hell", depending on what Vox's mood was. Heck, good thing you were in the bathroom when he and Valentino began making out in front of everyone at the meeting room. Bu it's not like anyone besides Velvette had the guts to say something.

Entering your office, the first thing your eyes landed down to were the three stacks of papers messily placed on either sides of your desk. Sitting down, your back ached in complaining for remaining in the same position all day, quietly begging a well deserved rest. You sighed, aware you still had five hours of work before you were allowed to go home and sleep.

Finishing the last stack, you took a long sip of your coffee. The lack of windows and a clock made you unsure of the time. Perhaps, one of Vox's strategies to make sure his employees kept working. When your lips ceased drinking up, you noticed the mug had become empty. Perhaps, it would be good to get some more.

To your surprise, Vox stood right in front of the door when you pushed it open, barely avoiding to hit his flat face. You opened your mouth to speak, unfortunately being too slow before the Overlord began;

"Y/N! What are you doing leaving your office so early?" His tone was angry, although some formality covered it a little.

"I-I was going to refil my mug." You stuttered, raising your hand to reveal the empty mug. "Is that so? But dear Y/N, you could've asked Peppermint to fill it for you. It sounds like you don't wanna do your job." Vox smirked. Your swear you could see the corner of his eye twitching as he did so. "Listen, Sir, Peppermint is busy with his own work-" "I don't want any more excuses, Y/N. You're a great secretary, it would be such a shame to make you Chloe's dinner..." Wait, was he talking about one of his pet sharks?" Of course he was.

"You know, she has a very special diet, prepared by the best chefs of the whole Pride Ring. Do you know what her favorite food is? The mangled bodies of little helpless sinners, especially those who do not follow their corporation rules." He growled, his voice glitching as he spoke. A shiver ran down your spine, the fear in your chest resulting in it beating twice as fast. After a few moments of agonizing silence, Vox took a deep breath, seeming to have calmed himself down a little. "Look, I have a date with Valentino in a few hours and I won't stain this suit, so GET BACK TO YOUR WORK." The sudden raise of the Overlord's voice made you jump back in surprise. "Yes, I-I will." You muttered, so quietly you could barely hear yourself. "Good. As a punishment for breaking the rules, you shall remake everything you've done today to think about what you did, Y/N." Before you could protest, Vox snapped his fingers. Turning your head back the office, all the paperwork had disappeared in thin air, along with his terrifying presence.

Returning to your desk, the silence was harsh, penetrating you blade by blade. "I-It's all gone..." An urge to start crying rapidly emerged inside your chest. No, you weren't a baby to cry after a mild inconvenience. But holding that stress all day for only to lose your work because of a simple mistake.. Snapping back to reality, you realized the desk was now full of teardrops, going down your swelled eyes and shirt. Suck it up, Y/N, it's not time for crying. That's what Vox would say if he caught your current pathetic state.

Wiping away your tears, you sighed. Time to get back to work.

[caitlynsvioletgarden]

short little jayvik drabble I wrote for my friend :)

As always, the lowering sun is nothing of a deterrent to the citizens of Zaun and visitors alike. The shops are teeming with customers, food trucks making a killing with the dinner rush alone. It’s a side of his city, Jayce realizes, that he’s never seen. The peace that could come without prestigious charity events or passive-agressive cocktail parties. 

It’s not like he grew up in wealth. Yes, the hammer business had made a living. But it was hard work and for as long as he could remember, supporting his mother was the number one priority. He’d just grown accustomed to the ways of the richer side of town, in Piltover. But down here, where string lights and neon signs were preferred to street lamps and sconces, there came a sense of community as well. Everyone seemed to know each other. You couldn’t glance over your shoulder without seeing old friends sharing a drink or a child running and squealing through the crowd. 

Viktor’s pace was probably faster than his own as he gawked at the surrounding scene, just as curious as all those kids that raced around him. His head was brought back to his boyfriend’s from the previous swiveling angle it had been when a food cart materialized beside him, narrowly missing a frying pan to the face. Perhaps not his finest moment. 

“You look like you’ve never seen the undercity before” 

Viktor joked lightly as they reached their destination; picnic table-style chairs surrounding an open grill where a menacing, teal-hued man served what he could only guess to be Noxian-style seafood. The smell was phenomenal at its most modest, and Jayce reflexively propped the Zaunite’s cane against the far edge of the lawn. 

“Am I gonna lose points if I admit that I haven’t? At least, not since it was so…peaceful” Viktor sighed but didn’t seem surprised. Of course he hadn’t. Once a Piltie, always a Piltie. He could reason with that. Not many would leave the plush of the progressing city to knock it back at The Last Drop, or to feast at Jericho’s. Nevertheless, it was slightly discouraging.

“You must give it a chance” He chided gently, accent thick in the low evening air, “I find it a place of community. Past judgement has no place in a future of domesticity. You of all people should understand that, Jayce. What is an inventor besides his drive and passion for a better way of life?”

“I’m not judging it by the past. I just didn’t know how much this place had changed since the last time I was here, alright? I’m not against the undercity. I wouldn’t have agreed to celebrate here with you if I was. This is a place of progress, just like Piltover. I guess my head’s been too clouded to realize it” 

The little tension in the air faded as Viktor rested his hand over Jayce’s on the wooden table, and it helped to remind him why they were here. What this night was. It was supposed to be happy, to congratulate the first year of many they’d hopefully spend together. 

Upon ordering, with great direction from his boyfriend of course, he was met with a heaping plate of steaming, saucy salmon, and that’s about all he could identify from the dish. He could conclude that it tasted as good as it looked though, and the first few minutes of their date was just them enjoying the food. Maybe not too romantic or conventional, but what could he say? Science yielded regular nutrition. There weren’t enough hours in the day to discover all they craved and take adequate care of themselves. Food was often neglected. 

“You’re right. No one treats me like an outsider here, y’know? I can feel the community here. It’s…a nice change of pace” He was genuine, Piltover could be exclusive and prejudiced. These people didn’t seem to waste their time with constructs like that. They were wiser than they got credit for. 

“I’m sure Caitlyn would’ve loved it here” Viktor said, earnestly. 

Then, Jayce’s head exploded. 

No matter how many years had gone by, mentions couldn’t be casual. He couldn’t just…smile at a good memory. She was bigger than that. She was the entire room even if she only shrunk into a small corner of it. 

His throat closed up, and with a muttered excuse, he got up and trapped himself behind a food cart, hands on his knees. Scenes of his old apartment flashed through his mind, the rubble, piercing blue sparks, ruins of the drywall…her neck twisted at an unnatural angle, navy hair stained with soot and cheeks raw from scrapes. Not a breath left in her body. 

Caitlyn had been like a little sister to him. A shadow, almost, but she was too curious for that. Too honest and outspoken and remarkable to be condemned to just a shadow. Her wide eyes, tooth-gapped smile, clumsy legs too long for her fifteen-year-old body. She was funny, and blunt, and so intelligent it felt like she could outthink him if their ages were parallel. 

In a place so full of community, it was empty without her. She would’ve loved the freedom down here. Jayce could picture her out in the forest with that damned rifle of hers, shooting at anything and everything, always striking a bullseye. He felt all this pressure condensed in his chest, constricting his breathing. One mention and he was working through deep breaths in the middle of a date, hidden on the far side of a glorified truck. 

Maybe this was a place for the future, but Jayce would always be stuck in the past. It wasn’t a good value for a man of progress, but then again, what was a man if not a broken value? He didn’t have an answer.

[synvil]

Chocolates // Matt Sturniolo

a/n : pure fluff. school setting!

synopsis : you weren’t planning on giving out any chocolate, even if you did make one.. but something unexpected happens.

Valentine’s Day.

The holiday that most people cherished, especially the people around you. It was important, one that was often celebrated whether with friends, partners or alone.

It is finally the end of class for you. The long, boring day of classes gave you a headache and all you want to do is go home and crash in bed.

Not to mention, you didn’t really have anyone in mind to give chocolate or spend this special day with anyways, so a nice romantic comedy film and snacks was good enough for you.

Though, it probably didn’t help that the entire day was filled with various couples or confessions or just people exchanging stories, gifts and sweets to one another. It wasn’t like you were jealous but the sight was pretty repetitive to watch.

Reaching into your bag, you pull out a small box. “There wasn’t a point in making any chocolates after all.”

Exhaling softly and glance at the small wrapped back in your hands and tuck it into your bag before standing up from your desk.

Making your way out the door, you pass by the lingering students around the classroom and the hallway.

And of course, since it was the end of the day for most people, the hallways were filled.

Everyone was exchanging gifts and chocolates to one another, a few more than others.

Even some of the teachers and staff got some from the students, as today was a pretty special occasion. Everyone knew everyone in this school, so it wasn’t that much of a surprise.

“Time to go home.”

Heading out through the crowd of people, you go to turn the hallway when you stumble upon another confession, but this one caught your eye.

Matt Sturniolo.

You weren’t sure what your problem with Matt was, Matt was a great guy. He had great manners, is kind to everyone he meets, popular but warm-hearted, and not too mention handsome.

It was no surprise to see his bag overflowing with chocolates and gifts.

But even then, something about him just put you off. Perhaps it was because he seems to constantly be around wherever you were.

It wasn’t like you hated Matt but you were just awkward and confused, wondering why he always seemed to be around you, striking conversations when you hardly even knew him. Even earlier today he tried to but with it being Valentine’s day, he was busy all day receiving gifts.

You go to just walk past but you stop, instead choosing to hide behind the wall.

You’re curious to see what he was going to do with the female in front of him. Not only was she giving him chocolates, it seems she was confessing to him.

“I think you’re really handsome.. Would you maybe go out with me?” Her hand held out a letter for him, signed with just his name and a heart.

Matt blinks before he smiles gently at the girl and pats her head. “For me? That’s really sweet.” He hums, moving his hand to place over hers that grips the letter and you can see her eyes light up with hope.

“But.. I’m afraid I have feelings for someone else. My sincerest apologies, miss. I don’t mind being friends though, if you’re alright with that.”

The usual kind smile plasters over his face and even if she was just rejected, the girl just couldn’t say no.

“Oh.. well I don’t mind. I’m okay with being friends! Thank you, Matt.” With that, the female heads off with a smile, leaving him alone with the letter in hand.

You blink at what just happened before glancing at Matt who was staring at the letter, seeing him put it into his bag. Furrowing your brows, you turn away and shrug.

“Feelings for someone, huh? Surprising.”

For some reason, hearing that made your heartstrings tighten just a little bit, but you figure you were just feeling dehydrated is all.

Just as you went to continue walking, a voice peers behind you.

“[Name]? What’re you doing like that?”

Jumping in shock, you turn around to see Matt standing with quite the puzzled look. “Sorry, did I scare you?”

Your eyes narrow towards him and you furrow your brows. “How did he get behind me so quickly??” You decide to disregard it and just exhale heavily.

“Nothing, see you tomorrow, Matt.” You mutter, walking away with your bag to the front of the building, when Matt follows you, smiling.

“Going home already? Hey, did you give chocolates to anyone?”

Confusion laces your eyes at his question but you disregard it, reluctantly answering.

“Yeah, I am going home. The school day ended. And why does it matter if I did or not?”

“Oh, right.” Matt chuckles sheepishly before smiling softly. “Well, I was just curious since you have a box sticking out of your bag. Either you made or bought those for someone or someone gave them to you, so I was just wondering. Sorry.”

“Nothing like that, dumbass... I don’t know why I made them..” You knew exactly why but you didn’t want to admit it.

Matt stays silent as he follows you to the door before offering a smaller smile and reaching into his bag, digging deep to grab a particular item.

“Here. I want to give this to you.”

Hearing him, you glance over and see the item in his hand. It was a deep, crimson red foiled box, with your name on it.

“... is this one of the chocolates you were given?”

Matt widens his eyes and shakes his head assuredly. “No, it’s my own chocolates. I made it myself! I wanted to give it to you before you left.”

Matt reaches for your hand and places the small box into it, his smile widening. “There.”

You glance down at the red box and see a tag, reading your name.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, [Name].”

Matt rubs the back of his neck a bit shyly, his cheeks dusting pink. “I really like you so i wanted to get you something today... anyways, I should let you get home, you must have special plans. I’ll see you.”

With that, Matt began to walk away, hands in his hoodie pockets and a gentle smile on his lips.

This guy.. always so nice and considerate.. you never would’ve dreamed the person he liked was you.

Slowly, a blush began to form on your cheeks as you grip the box. “..”

“Matt!”

The male turns around at his name, just to be met with a box being tossed his way.

Expecting it to be his box, he was instead surprised to see it [ Color ] instead of his dark red one and he blinks, looking up at you to see you faced away.

“H-Happy Valentine’s Day..”

Matt tilts his head as he glances down at the box again, a bright grin starting to form as he sees the tag, labeled with his name.

“To Matt Sturniolo”

Just as you slowly turn around to see his reaction, you see the beaming grin on his face, seeing him hold up the box of chocolate.

Bringing it to his lips, he presses a tender kiss to it.

“Thank you, [Name]! I’ll savor it!” He calls out as he walks backwards, winking as he did so before running off.

You merely blush at the action and clear your throat, looking down at the small box in your hands.

“Matt Sturniolo..”

a/n : not edited. i’ll finish rafe’s in the morning and post it when i can. being sick has really fucked me up more than i thought. agh this is kinda cringe but hopefully rafe’s is better.

[pro-dumbledores-office]

Breaking Down Dumbledore's Outfits - Crimes of Grindelwald Edition

In the Fantastic Beasts prequels, Dumbledore's clothing gets a complete reboot. Instead of long sweeping robes, he dons a variety of tweed suits. The one problem with all of this is that it is a touch muggle looking, but as someone who adores muggle dress clothes, his outfits are still pretty great. Here is a breakdown of his outfits in Jude Law's first outing as Dumbledore.

1. London (1927)

When we first meet Dumbledore in Crimes of Grindelwald, he is standing on a roof looking out over interwar London. Dressed in a snazzy wide wale corduroy blue coat with the collar popped. The coat is double breasted and in true gentlemanly style he has not buttoned the bottom most button. The sleeves are polished off with squared off button tabs. He is also wearing a fedora with a slightly pointed crown (to make it look more wizardy) and rather narrow brim. The hat is a dark blue that matches the coat but has a pale gray ribbon around the crown. Always dressed for the occasion this outfit is Dumbledore at his most spymaster - dark and mysterious. Though a touch of whimsy still comes through in all his clothing (after all, does James Bond ever wear double breasted corduroy coats?).

Since Dumbledore wears his coat throughout his whole trip to London - the parts we see anyway - it is hard to get a good look at the suit he wears under it. Luckily for us, there are a number of behind the scenes shots of Jude walking around set with the coat off. These photos reveal that it is a grayish brown tweed suit. The style is very much a shooting suit - hence the four large pockets on the front that were historically used to hold ammunition. Truth be told, this is not the sort of thing that should be worn in the city but we can assume Dumbledore came straight from Hogwarts so we can forgive him this fashion faux pas. Like the suit, this is the best look we get at his tie which seems to be dark blue silk.

The suit is accessorized with with a small square watch in the style of a Cartier Tank with a brown leather band. The shoes are perhaps the most eccentric thing about the outfit. They appear to be brown suede with tiny cobwebs at the the tip.

2. Hogwarts (1927)

Next time we see Dumbledore he is in his element (at first anyway) - teaching the young minds of tomorrow and clearly loving every minute of it. Its also my favorite of the outfits we see Dumbledore wear in both movies. In these scenes, Dumbledore wears a light gray tweed three piece suit. Though it is not obvious in his classroom, when talking to Leta later that day it becomes apparent that the suit has very subtle red (almost pink) stripes on it. The jacket is a three button jacket but Dumbledore never seems to button it up. Like all of Dumbledore's suits in the films, the pants are high waisted which would have been the common cut for a pair of pants at the time.

He accessorizes the suit with a dark reddish brown tie that is from a thicker material than his blue silk one but not quite as thick as wool. Not entirely sure on the material and I am open to suggestion. The pocket square is a dark blue with a red and pink floral pattern. The most whimsical item in this outfit.

When we first see him, Dumbledore has the jacket off which gives us a good look at his shirt. Later when he is looking into the Mirror of Erised we get an even better look at a more informal (and this time vulnerable) Dumbledore. His collar is slightly longer and more pointed, which perfectly fits the style for the time period. Though the shirt looks white at times, the harder I look, the more I am convinced it is a very very light blue - almost white but not quite. He also wears small round silver cufflinks.

3. Hogwarts (1910)

When we journey back in time to witness the origins of Newt and Leta's friendship, Dumbledore is dressed even more professorially. Once again he is in brownish gray tweed (his trademark outfit for the Fantastic Beasts movies seems to be various shades of gray tweed). This one is a windowpane tweed that he pairs with a pale green sweater vest. This flashback is the one and only time we see Dumbledore in a fun little bow tie - a red one with white microdots. The pocket square for the outfit is a muted blue color with some sort of gold design on it. Dumbledore's polishes off his teaching outfit with another set of brown suede shoes. It is possible these are the same from earlier but impossible to know for sure at this distance.

4. Hogwarts Bridge (1927)

The last time we see Dumbledore in the film he is on the bridge leading to Hogwarts. Though I have tried my level best to find differences, I am almost one hundred percent sure this is the exact same outfit he wears in all his other scenes at Hogwarts. Perhaps he did not sleep the previous night while waiting to hear news from Paris? I am unsure but it sadly leaves me with little to say here. I can however provide a couple more pictures of the suit from different angles.

So that is the end of my breakdown of the Crimes of Grindelwald clothes of Dumbledore. Stay tuned sometime in the coming week for one on Secrets of Dumbledore.

[hailturinturambar]

Cursed Song.

Pairing: Sauron/Annatar x Mirdania

Word count: 2.955

Request: “I'll do anything with Mirdania/Annatar”

Author's Notes: English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes or confusion. Requests are open, check the information before requesting. I am a great apologist for my girl Mirdania who fell for the seducer Sauron's lies. I don't blame her, I would be the same. And this is what should have happened in that damned forge! This is my Valentine's Day gift to you. This story will have a part two.

Warnings: Manipulation, Coercion, Minor sexual content.

Summary: Mirdania lived many years in Eregion before Halbrand's arrival, and when she discovered that this lying Man was an Emissary of the Valar, she could no longer hide her guilty passion for him. And even Sauron could not pretend to be indifferent to her.

Part I

When Arda was in its youth and the Valar led a war against Morgoth, and Arda underwent countless changes, Beleriand disappeared forever. And so did all the tragedies and wars that had taken place in those lands. The survivors scattered across Middle-earth in search of new refuges, new homes.

These stories were not strange to Mirdania, of course not. She knew all of them deeply, even though she was young at the time when ruin fell on Beleriand. Many tragedies followed her family, and the few who survived lived as wanderers for many centuries, wandering aimlessly. With the passing of the ages and the spread of the Orcs' dominion, Mirdania was all that remained.

There was a place for her, the surviving elves told her. The Kingdom of the Elven Blacksmiths. Her family knew blacksmithing and Mirdania had learned a lot from her father. And perhaps the Lord of Eregion would take her on as one of his apprentices.

Lord Celebrimbor had a special nose for talented Elves, and he recognized Mirdania's talent when he met her. Mirdania proved her ability, and indeed, Celebrimbor promised that she could live in Eregion for as long as she wished. She would be safe with them. For Mirdania, Celebrimbor was like a father.

For many centuries Mirdania lived happily as an apprentice in Eregion, until she formally became part of Lord Celebrimbor's smiths. She truly loved assisting Celebrimbor and taking part in his magnificent creations. For Celebrimbor, it was not just an art, but a blessing that should be shared with all the peoples of Middle-earth. It was contagious.

Middle-earth might be at war, but Eregion was the jewel in the elven crown, the realm for the most skilled elves to show their worth. A different kind of peace reigned over those lands, with their birds singing at dawn. It was as if they lived in a small, forgotten part of Valinor.

However, all this happened before the fall of the Great Tree of Lindon. Lord Celebrimbor was desperate, as was High King Gil-galad. Without the help of the Dwarves, the Elves would be forced to return to Valinor or perish.

They did not wish to return to the land of the Valar, to live as apprentices and no longer masters. Mirdania, of course, understood Celebrimbor's concern. Because she didn't wish to return either. She was happy in Middle-earth. She had been born there and had lived there with her family. Those lands were the last memory of everything she had lost and loved most.

Celebrimbor told Mirdania of his intentions to turn to the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm. It wouldn't be easy, he said, but with calm and intelligence they could heal Middle-earth. The cure, however, took longer than they had hoped and Elrond did not get the result he had hoped for.

King Durin III refused to give the Elves any help, and hope seemed lost. Mirdania had an idea, a risky one, she knew. Her family had been on good terms with the Dwarves for a long time, and perhaps they would remember her.

Lord Celebrimbor reluctantly agreed to her departure, but they had no choice. Even more so when Elrond returned from Lindon to tell them of the Elves' immediate departure.

Only Eru knows the mysteries of Arda and Mirdania never knew that Halbrand was in Eregion while she was traveling to Khazad-dûm. King Durin III received her for old times' sake, but his answer was the same. The Elves were on their own, but he would like Mirdania to spend some time with them.

It took time for Halbrand to convince Lord Celebrimbor of his new ideas for healing Middle-earth. A blessing, perhaps, was that the paths of Mirdania and Halbrand did not cross. Sometimes the Valar have curious ways of running Middle-earth.

Not wishing to abuse Durin III's hospitality, Mirdania returned to Eregion. Celebrimbor was very shaken when she returned. Furious, even. He didn't tell Mirdania what had happened during his departure. Perhaps he should have.

The new forge in Eregion was responsible for the greatest creations seen in Middle-earth in that era. Mirdania had almost forgotten Celebrimbor's unusual behavior. Until Halbrand arrived.

The gates of Eregion were thunderous, though light, and Mirdania walked up to Celebrimbor's Tower to observe the new travelers. She didn't know him, she would have remembered if they had met before. Matted brown hair covered part of the man's face and Mirdania suspected he was mortal.

“Mirdania?” Celebrimbor's voice called out.

“Here, My Lord.” She said, noticing the blacksmith standing next to her. “Do you know him?”

The traveler, whoever he was, was watching Lord Celebrimbor carefully, and Mirdania was sure that they knew each other. Celebrimbor, if we were honest, seemed reluctant to answer his blacksmith.

“Well, My Lord? Do we grant him entry?”

“No.” Celebrimbor replied quickly, startling Mirdania.“Forgive me, my dear. I just didn't expect him to return so soon…"

“Should I ask him to leave?” She asked helpfully, trying to comfort Celebrimbor.

“Yes, yes. I'd like that.”

Mirdania agreed, leaving Celebrimbor alone with his thoughts. She sighed, trying to remain calm. If Celebrimbor wanted him to leave, well, his motives should be reasonable enough.

The courtyard of Eregion was bustling, with many Elves chatting with merchants and apprentices. But that Man with nothing going for him seemed to stand out more than any of them. Alone, he stroked his horse, waiting for an answer from the Lord of Eregion.

Before Mirdania reached him, she noticed that he was watching her. He was laughing, was that it? But it didn't sound like a wicked laugh, more as if he was assessing her, watching her steps with deliberate attention. Almost malicious, even.

“Lord Celebrimbor regrets to inform you he's unable to grant you entry.” Mirdania said seriously, trying to ignore the traveler's smile.

“Mightn't I speak with him directly?” He smiled seductively at her, somewhat comfortably.

“My Lord is occupied.” Mirdania kept her voice steady. “But he wishes you good fortune on your journey.”

He seemed to know how beautiful he was and to use that to his advantage. A great seducer, she realized, trying to win her trust with his charm. Well, she couldn't deny that he had a knack for it.

“Are you asking me to leave?” Halbrand asked with a dazzling smile, noticing that Mirdania blushed at his words.

“The Lord of Eregion is asking you.”

Mirdania tried to turn away, but he knew how to be insistent. He hoped that Celebrimbor would change his mind, but Mirdania doubted that her Lord would think otherwise. She herself was tired of him, despite his charm.

However, she couldn't remain indifferent when she noticed the marks on his back. He must have been in terrible pain, traveling for so many days with those wounds still so alive on his skin.

Halbrand, of course, if he had been an ordinary man, would have succumbed to the Orcs' attacks. But Sauron was more powerful than that. He would suffer many attacks before he agreed to fall into the Orcs' hands again. And he couldn't help but notice the pity and concern in her eyes. Mirdania, he had heard Celebrimbor call her.

She was attractive, he himself wasn't blind to that fact, and she didn't know his past. It would be a good way to spend his time in Eregion, as long as Galadriel didn't spoil his plans yet again.

It had been easy for Sauron to isolate Eregion and fall into Celebrimbor's good graces. Just a few sweet words, a few lies about his origin and return, and not even the greatest of Elven smiths was able to see behind Sauron's deception.

For many weeks, Sauron kept Celebrimbor in his grasp, trapped in his web, blinded by his lies. But the Rings were beginning to worry the Elf. Why couldn't he understand that this was the only solution to save Middle-earth?

He wasn't as ambitious as Sauron had hoped, but this could be solved. He knew how to be patient. After so many centuries of living as a formless being, his mere consciousness crawling through a cave, he knew that he would soon achieve his goals.

And he was no stranger to Mirdania's gaze. Oh, if she had felt sorry for Halbrand, she would simply have been fascinated by Annatar. Who wouldn't be? An emissary of the Valar themselves, living with mere Elves in Eregion. An honor without a doubt.

Mirdania thought she was being discreet, but Sauron could easily see what she was feeling, how she always seemed so willing to accept everything he said, everything he asked for. She was also his great defender, always speaking on his behalf.

When Celebrimbor began to lose his mind, Sauron knew he would have to use all his tricks. He hadn't expected Mirdania to be able to see his true nature. He didn't even expect the cursed Ring to work on her. But of course, being so determined to please him, she did her best to create that Ring.

If he wanted Mirdania to stay by his side, to help him when Celebrimbor could see his deception, he needed her to trust him completely. He wouldn't lie that it would be unpleasant to distract Mirdania.

She really was beautiful, a beauty that attracted him the moment they met. She wouldn't be like Galadriel, a problem he would need to remove before the truth was exposed. Mirdania didn't even suspect him, that much he was sure of.

Annatar could hear Mirdania crying in the forge, after all the Elves had left. She was still very shaken. Oh if she only knew that the emissary of the Valar she had been so enchanted by was nothing more than the Evil she had glimpsed when wearing the Ring.

Gasping, he could hear Mirdania trying to hold back her sobs, lest a passing Elf notice her state. Calmly, Annatar entered the forge, observing the Elf sitting alone, her face stained with tears.

“My Lord Annatar!” She replied in alarm, rubbing her reddened eyes. “Sorry, I thought you were alone.”

“There's no need to hide, Mirdania.” Annatar said, compassionately. “Not from me.”

“I look like a complete stupid here, alone.” Mirdania sighed.

Annatar denied it, walking towards her. She was so much smaller than him that it somehow sparked something in him, made him feel powerful. So haughty and majestic that she couldn't take her eyes off him. His presence was intoxicating for her, and that made everything so intoxicating for him. Maybe certain types of company weren't so bad after all.

Standing next to her, Annatar noticed that her breathing was calmer, his mere presence soothing to her. It was almost unfair, he had to admit, the power he had over her. It wasn't even a challenge for him. This, in fact, made it all the more exciting.

“You are very brave.” Annatar approached, standing facing Mirdania, his body almost touching her legs. “Some who behold the Unseen eorld are never quite at home in this one again.”

“Have you seen it?” Mirdania gasped in surprise. She hadn't imagined that an emissary of the Valar would know such a thing.

“Yes.” Annatar smiled. “In its light, things appear as they truly are. Beings of differing shades of light. And its darkness.”

Annatar spoke with regret, pretending to be deeply hurt by everything that had happened. Mirdania didn't hesitate for a second, trusting his words. It seemed impossible to her, yes, that Celebrimbor was being corrupted by the Rings. But was it really impossible?

Annatar was an emissary of the Valar, he better than anyone could recognize the darkness that dominates a spirit. And Mirdania was so shaken, so frightened by what could have happened to Celebrimbor, that he was beyond salvation.

Mirdania agreed with Annatar, feeling that she had little choice. Only he would help Lord Celebrimbor, only he could cure the Evil that was taking hold of the Lord of Eregion without anyone else noticing. She would keep his secret safe, and be at Celebrimbor's side.

“How strange.” Annatar smiled, staring at Mirdania, as if he really noticed something different about her. “When the light caught your hair, for a moment, you seemed her perfect likeness.”

“Whose likeness?” Mirdania asked in confusion.

She didn't even understand the change of subject between them, trying to understand what Annatar meant by those words. But she would never understand. Because for Sauron, that moment was a revelation. A realization that he didn't need Galadriel. That he could achieve his goals, with other allies, he would say.

“Why, Lady Galadriel's, of course.” He answered so lightly, as if it were obvious.

Mirdania smiled, feeling her face flush. Lady Galadriel was loved by many in Eregion. Mirdania had seen her only a few times, but she was always happy to be able to talk to a Commander of the High King Gil-galad. And Galadriel was always so kind to her. It was a great compliment indeed.

Lost in her thoughts, Mirdania took a moment to notice Annatar's hand approaching her hair. His touch was light, unassuming, tossing a golden lock to one side. He smiled all the time as he did so, as if he knew how embarrassed Mirdania was, how nervous she felt around him.

“Can I trust you, Mirdania?” He whispered, wrapping a lock of her hair around his finger.

“Of course, My Lord.” She said quickly.

Annatar looked at her, without moving his hand from her hair. Sauron wondered where she had been when he was first in Eregion. She wasn't there, he was sure. He would have noticed her there.

Who knows, maybe it wasn't such a big mistake to find a distraction, someone to ease the burden of being stuck there with a reluctant Celebrimbor.

“Would you do something for me?” Sauron asked, analyzing her reactions.

“I'll do anything.” Mirdania said.

It was so easy that it was cruel, but Sauron was never one to throw away small victories handed to him so easily. Especially when an Elf was trusting completely in his words, in his intentions, which would never be as pure as she had hoped.

Sauron's hand, which was holding Mirdania's hair, grabbed the back of her head, startling her. Despite this, she didn't pull away. Sauron smiled, taking this as encouragement. His legs forced Mirdania's away, getting between her legs. She breathed fast, raggedly, their faces so close that their breaths began to mingle.

Sauron would accept that little guilty pleasure handed to him on a silver platter. He was quick, pressing his lips against Mirdania's with impetus, with fervor. Because everything in Sauron burned like the flames of a forge and his desire was not gentle.

Mirdania let her hand reach Annatar's golden hair, returning the kiss. She was perhaps not as innocent in her intentions as Sauron believed her to be, not when she gave in so willingly to him, with such uncontrolled desire.

Sauron intensified the kiss, pushing Mirdania's body onto the forge table, letting his body hang over hers. It was brutal how he couldn't resist her. It was supposed to be a game, a way of achieving his goals. But he knew he wouldn't be rid of her any time soon when he felt her lips on his.

When he tugged on her curls, Mirdania moaned into his mouth, testing Sauron's lack of control. He was never good at keeping his emotions contained for long. He let one of his hands free Mirdania, going down to her leg, gripping her thigh tightly, forcing the green dress up.

Anyone who came in could see them there, so exposed in the flames of the forge, but for the Valar's sake, he didn't care about anything else now. He deserved that, didn't he? He was also working hard at forging the Rings, in his quest to heal Middle-earth.

Mirdania moaned as his fingers gripped her leg tighter, lifting her body up so that they were impossibly closer, almost as if she wanted to merge with him. He didn't need to invade Mirdania's mind to know that she wanted to be his, that she longed to be taken and remade by his hands. Emissary of the Valar or not, he was sure.

But the cursed knocks on the forge door distracted Sauron and he growled against Mirdania's lips, disgusted by the interruption. He groaned, his body so on fire against hers, a sensation almost unknown to him in recent eras.

“Lord Annatar?” Murmured an embarrassed voice.

Annatar sighed, lifting his body from Mirdania's as she stood up from the table, doing her best to make herself look presentable, as presentable as her swollen lips, flushed face and messy hair could hide.

“Yes?” Annatar muttered, before forcing a smile in the direction of one of Celebrimbor's personal guards.

“Lord Celebrimbor requests your presence in his chambers.” He said, without looking in Mirdania's direction, his face turning as red as the embers of the forge.

“Tell him I'll meet him soon.”

The guard agreed, turning his back on Annatar and Mirdania. Irritated, Sauron clasped his hands together, trying his best not to let Valinor's facade of calm and kindness disappear from his face. Uncertain, Mirdania stood behind him.

“I'd better go.” She muttered, starting to walk away.

“Mirdania?” He called out, seeing that she quickly turned to him again.

Walking over to her, Sauron held her hand gently, a delicacy that seemed false even to him. She, however, didn't seem to notice, looking at him expectantly.

“In time, I will reward you for all your efforts.”

Annatar whispered, heading out of the forge, while Mirdania was left behind, trapped by the words of the Lord of the Gifts.

Was it mean of me to end it like this? I know, I know. But things are going to heat up soon. I had to do this little mean thing to you, sorry!

I hope you enjoyed it. Reblogs, comments and likes are always welcome! And please don't copy my work or post it anywhere else.

tag: @valar-did-me-wrong @redrosesandcharmingsouls

[egophiliac]

can't believe that skeleman has turned on us, and Halloween Prom is tomorrow.

(what a top-tier UM...we are about to be just totally obliterated in the absolute silliest way. what possible use could this power have outside of bringing us to the brink of utter holiday disaster.)

[xxplastic-cubexx]

GORGEOUS DRAWING OMG YOU'RE SO TALENTED MATE!!!

We need more Magneto protecting his Charles with all his will>>>>>

thank you much my friend !!!!!!!!! might i offer you a small gift..

and a bonus. if you will.

[gracebriarwoodwrites]

I write fragile on a dozen boxes salvaged from recycling I forgot to take out before I knew I was moving and my hand shakes even more each time. The lines bleed off the box corners and into me. I'm fragile, you see.

[orcelito]

Ok I'm thinking about kabuto backstory again and thinking about how unfair and fucked up it all is like

> be Danzo

> threaten local orphanage mother into returning to being a spy (by threatening the kids there)

> force them to send One Kid too because he "lost a man" while obtaining the intel he's threatening her to spy over (the kid is Kabuto, who volunteered bc he overheard them threatening the mother over this) (Danzo knows he overheard)

> train kabuto to be a spy while orphanage mother is off on her long spy job as well

> bait spy mom with the promise of keeping kabuto safe to keep her agreeing to work with you

> decide they both are too good at their jobs (????) Of being spies (that work for you?????)(they've been loyal this whole time????) So they're too dangerous and both need to die

> keep mom and kid away from each other as kid grows up

> literally DOCTOR FAKE PHOTOS of the kid growing up to make it seem like he looks totally different now???? So she won't recognize him?????

> give her the assassination assignment of killing the Real Kabuto (who she won't recognize) so they'll kill each other

> whoops, Kabuto survived and killed her instead, oh well at least Orochimaru's watching him now

I'm just like. How fucked up is it to threaten these people into working as spies for you "for the good of Konoha", and then decide that these people (who have given NO INDICATION of intending to betray Konoha) are too good at being spies and thus Too Dangerous and should be killed for it. But no he can't just kill them in a normal way. He had to manufacture an entire scenario so that they'd kill EACH OTHER while making the mom not recognize him (with the express purpose of breaking the kid's spirit) like BROOOOOO I know you ordered the whole Uchiha clan to be massacred (conducting genocide for the sake of 'peace') actually now that I think about it he ordered this of itachi. Ordered him to kill his own family. Of course Danzo would get off on making a mother and son kill each other "for the good of Konoha" he's almost fucking cartoon villain level of horrible past the point of logic EXCEPT there really are people this awful that have existed. Plenty of them. And they have also justified it as being "for the good of [nation]" like that's the Thing, he's a war hungry nationalist that has decided He Knows Best so he's going to fuck up SO many people's lives, up to and including his own damn citizens!!!! And this bitch thinks he deserves to be kage?!?!?! Fucking Hiruzen letting him run wild like this. He knew Danzo was stealing children and indoctrinating them into a murder cult (where, keep in mind, he purposefully raises kids in pairs so they view each other as family AND THEN ORDERS THEM TO KILL EACH OTHER)(AGAIN!!!! with the family killing, what is his PROBLEM) but Hiruzen just let it fucking happen. Spineless fucking piece of shit. He fucked Naruto up he fucked Orochimaru up he fucked up Royally with Danzo like come ONNNNNNNNNN

Rattling the bars of my cage rn at how awful Danzo is and how he was able to just. DO THIS???? I know the bitch is dead but he's not dead enough. Give me the glock.