#protesters pelt stones

[paknewsinsightspk]

" In Karachi, 6 police personnel were injured due to stone pelting by protesters. " | PAK News Insights

” KARACHI: The tense situation at Regal Chowk was brought under control as protesters dispersed after heavy police presence, ARY News reported on Friday. According to officials, a heavy anti-riot police force was deployed around the area to restore order. Police personnel entered the side streets of Regal Chowk to control the situation and traffic on the main roads partially resumed. The…

[rightnewshindi]

संजौली में प्रदर्शन में शामिल 60 लोगों ने की थी पत्थरबाजी, पुलिस ने ड्रोन और वीडियो से की पहचान

संजौली में प्रदर्शन में शामिल 60 लोगों ने की थी पत्थरबाजी, पुलिस ने ड्रोन और वीडियो से की पहचान #News #RightNewsIndia #RightNews

Shimla News: शिमला के संजौली में स्थित मस्जिद में हुए अवैध निर्माण के खिलाफ प्रदर्शन में शामिल लोगों के खिलाफ पुलिस ने शिकंजा कसना शुरू कर दिया है। पुलिस धारा 163 के उल्लंघन के तहत कार्रवाई कर रही है। पुलिस ने प्रदर्शन में शामिल 185 लोगों की पहचान कर ली है। पुलिस का दावा है कि करीब 60 ऐसे लोगों की पहचान की गई है, जिन्होंने प्रदर्शन के दिन पत्थरबाजी की थी। ‘प्रदर्शनकारियों का मकसद मस्जिद तक…

[nimbusclan]

Moon 2

[Previous] [Start] [Next]

“Moonpaw, wake up. We have to keep moving. Moonpaw.” 

Moonpaw mrrps in sleepy protest as she's jostled awake by her brother's paw digging insistently into her shoulder. She cracks one bleary eye open, momentarily disoriented by her surroundings. 

Right. They’re not at home. They don't have a home.

She stands, stiff from sleeping on bark, her muscles protesting as she arches her back and stretches her legs. The sun that slots into their log from an opening at the top paints the inside in streaks of rich reds and browns, so different from the cool, smooth stone she’s used to waking up to. She misses her moss nest fiercely in that moment, the weight of her grief threatening to overwhelm her, but she forces the feeling away with a shake of her head. There is no comfortable, warm nest for her to return to. Not now, not ever, and she needs to move on.

“Coming,” she mumbles sleepily, rubbing a paw against her eyes as Fogpaw turns and ducks out of the log. “How'd you sleep?” She stumbles out into the sunlight and shivers in the weak, earling morning newleaf air.

“I've certainly slept better,” Fogpaw mews, licking a paw and drawing it over one of his ears. “Best not to dwell on it. Breakfast first.”

Moonpaw nods, padding after Fogpaw as he weaves through the sparse mountain pines. She opens her mouth, scenting for prey, and sets her ears on a swivel to better hone in on the skittering of small paws through the bed of fallen pine needles that soften the cats' footfalls.

The breeze drifts the scent of mouse towards Moonpaw and her tail flicks up in excitement. She shoots a look Fogpaw's way and he nods and veers off in another direction, allowing her this hunt to chase his own prey.

Creeping forward, the words of her former mentor rings in her ears. Keep your paws light. Even so much as a scattered pebble will alert your catch to your presence. She never was able to complete her training and earn her warrior name, she thinks with a pang, but files that sadness away for later. She has enough information to know how to hunt, and she and Fogpaw will have plenty of time to practice now.

The mouse she's stalking shows itself, leaping onto the root of a tree, little whiskers twitching. Moonpaw waggles her haunches, preparing to launch herself at it, but as she leaps she slips on the loose pine needles underfoot and falls short of her catch. The mouse darts away and she lunges forward, hoping to snag it with a claw as it escapes, but it's too far from her outstretched paws and disappears into a hole in the ground.

“Star-damned trees,” Moonpaw growls to herself and sits back with a huff, her tail tip twitching. “Hunting on the mountain was so much easier.”

Prey continues to evade her for the rest of the afternoon. Squirrels run up trees, voles dive for cover under the leaf litter, and one particularly annoying chase after a songbird ends with Moonpaw landing in a puddle of mud.

She screeches with disgust, the bird long gone, and drags herself out of the mud to shake her fur. Her nose wrinkles in disgust at the state of her pelt. This is going to take ages to clean out of her white fur. Hopefully, Fogpaw is faring better with his hunt.

She follows her brother's scent trail to find him laden with mice, pawfuls of them at his feet. As he glances up and makes eye contact with her, the corner of his muzzle ticks up in amusement. “Rough hunt?”

“Do. Not,” Moonpaw huffs, eyeing his sleek, clean coat enviously. She drops herself next to him in a patch of sunlight and begins to groom her coat. Between mouthfuls of fur, she says, “we need to find someplace else on the territory to stay. This is no place for a mountain cat to settle.” She darts a pointed look at his small mountain of prey. “Except for you, maybe.”

Fogpaw mrrps a laugh and pushes a mouse towards her. “You can have some. I caught plenty.” He settles onto his paws and helps Moonpaw clear the mud from her fur. “I agree, though. I think we should look around the rockier places of our territory until we find a place that could work as a new camp.”

“A whole camp?” Moonpaw says doubtfully, tongue paused in her grooming. “I could settle for a couple of safe hollows in a rock. What do we need a whole camp for?”

“Rebuilding NimbusClan, of course.”

“Oh, Fogpaw–”

“No, Moon, seriously. I don't want to spend the rest of our days as rogues. I want–” he falters, eyeing her hesitantly before continuing. “I've always wanted a family, one like ours. Mom and Dad and us, it just… made me so happy, you know? I want that for myself one day.” He casts his eyes away from her, his shoulders hiking up around his ears, and Moonpaw knows he’s fighting back tears.

Moonpaw smiles gently at Fogpaw, her own eyes misting a little. “It made me happy too, Fogpaw. Makes me happy. They're watching over us in StarClan, I'm sure of it.” She curls her tail reassuringly over his back. 

“I'm sure they are,” He murmurs, resting his head against hers. “I miss them.”

“I miss them, too.”

They sit that way for a while, purring softly with each other as the newleaf breeze plays over their fur. Eventually, they tuck into the mice Fogpaw caught, and then curl together to take a nap in the sunshine.

[Previous] [Start] [Next]

---

(Okay so yes I know moons are months and so far the timeline of the fic portions doesn’t exactly line up with that, but bear with me for the sake of storytelling purposes)

[grandlinedreams]

|| inspired by the fact that's one of my favorite tropes, I present to you: kisses in the rain, featuring: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Ace [pt.1! Pt.2 will include Sabo, Law, Kid & Mihawk]

Luffy ㅡ It's unexpected, the abrupt switch from bright and sunny to torrential downpour as Luffy grabs your hand and tugs you with him, loud laughter making you join in as you bolt down the path back to the Sunny.

"Come on," Luffy urges and your yelp is half of amusement and surprise as you lose a shoe ㅡ unsurprising, they're not made for the sticky muck the ground has turned into.

"Luffy, my shoe!" You protest, tugging at his hand to make him stop so you can pick up the lost piece of footwear. Bright grin undimmed, he opts to simply pick you up, earning another yelp.

"There," he says, laughter still clear in his voice as he resumes running. It doesn't take long to be back on the deck of the Sunny, and he sets you down on your feet. "Man, that was fun!"

"It was," you agree, eyeing him and the way rain still pelts the brim of his hat before you lean to steal a soft peck. Luffy looks a little bewildered but nevertheless pleased.

"What was that for?"

"Nothing, I just love you." Both of you should undoubtedly change clothes, but the way Luffy lights up at your words is worth it.

"I love you too!"

ㅡ

Zoro ㅡ If he hears Nami's warnings about heading directly towards brewing storm clouds, it clearly slips Zoro's mind in favor of a nap in one of his usual spots. And as such, the rumble of impending rain doesn't wake the swordsman.

One drop hits his face. Two, three, four ㅡ and his eye(s) flutter when nothing else hits his face. Was that it? Not much of a storm ㅡ but soft laughter has him waking further to stare up at you. "What are you doing?"

"Making sure you can sleep," you say, "if you insist on being outside in the middle of a rainstorm."

"It isn't that bad." He'll complain later when his clothes are soaked, but for now? He's comfortable. "You'll get wet too, you know."

"I know." You shrug. "Worth it, if it's with you."

"Idiot," Zoro chastises, but it's fond and affectionate, accompanied by the lift of a hand to cup the back of your head and coax you down for a kiss. The awkward angle makes you giggle, and he grins at the sound of it.

ㅡ

Sanji ㅡ "Regretting grocery shopping with me now?" Standing beneath the overhang of the shop behind the two of you, Sanji turns to look at you, and you shake your head.

"Nope. I make a habit not to regret anything, especially if it's with you." Sanji stares, the lightest dusting of pink on his cheeks at your genuine words.

You hold a hand out, humming as water pelts your skin. "It's not so bad, I think we can make it back."

"You sure?"

You turn towards him. "A little rain never hurt anyone, Sanji."

He steps out from the overhang after you, watches as you hum and spin, arms spread out. "Like it that much?"

"I do," you answer, head tipped back and uncaring of the rain that soaks into your hair, plastering it to your face. "You don't like the rain?"

Sanji blinks, then shrugs. "I don't hate it," he says, and you crow hop towards him, reaching to cup his face before he can react.

Your lips are soft on his, a little cold and a little wet ㅡ but he still stares dazedly at you when you pull away. "And now?"

A slow smile curls his lips. "I'm being persuaded to like it more."

ㅡ

Ace ㅡ "Get back here you littleㅡ"

"Sticks and stones, Ace! Sticks and stones!" You call back, breathless with laughter even as the rain seems to come down even faster. "Don't tell me you're afraid of regular water too!"

"I'm not afraid of either one, but you're gonna get sick!" Ace gives chase despite his initial reluctance, enticed by the bright gleam of your eyes and childish grin on your face.

"So? Small price to pay to live today!" Ace nears you and then overtakes you, making you shriek as he staggers to a stop and brings you with him, arms locked around you. Steam curls off him like a wispy haze, his body heat seeping through your clothes and making you shiver.

"Love you," you murmur into the tangle of his arms around your shoulders, and he squeezes you in response.

"Love you too," he answers, letting up just enough to let you turn to face him before he kisses you. Slow and sweet, uncaring for the fact the two of you are drenched to the bone ㅡ that doesn't matter. All that matters is that you're here, and so is he.

[kradogsrats]

The last time Lissa cries is in Katolis.

As she rides away, she feels as if she'll weep forever—tears she can't stop flowing down her cheeks, ceaseless and steady—but when she crosses into Del Bar, her face and eyes are dry. Her parents welcome her back into their home. Her siblings and their children turning out to comfort her. Lissa smiles and thanks them, lets them embrace her.

None of them say, I told you so. Not outright, at least. She can tell some of them are thinking it.

Doesn't seem all that broken up about it, does she? Not a single tear.

Shush—let the poor girl be. Not all pains can be wept over right away.

But when her mother falls ill, she doesn't cry like her sisters do. When they bury her—when her father, always mountain-strong, is reduced to gravel in his children's arms—she has no tears to shed.

Nor does she weep for her brother's son—young and bright and brimming with promise—dead the instant his horse throws him, his neck snapped cleanly. He'd planned to marry his sweetheart, in a year or two. There's a funeral instead, the other boy's anguished tears a river of grief.

Lissa still does not cry. No matter the sorrow, her eyes sit in her head like stones, hard and heavy. Dry as bone, even as her throat closes and her chest burns like her heart is on fire.

There are no tears from her even for her second sister's husband, a sailor whose ship never returns from its last journey through the spring storms. Her sister holds her own shattered pieces together for the sake of their small children, and the family rallies to support her with food and chores and company. They cry with her, late into the night—all of them, except for Lissa.

Cold as the heart of Hinterpeak, that one.

You're surprised? She married a mage, she was cursed from the start.

Then she abandoned her children in the snake's den, when she'd had her fill of him and his poison.

I suppose it takes a monster to love a monster.

What could she tell them—that Viren had meant no ill? That she'd been the collateral damage of a miracle, a negligible cost for saving a child from death? That her children were better served by staying with a father who loved them so fiercely than by their broken mother dragging them away?

That when he'd stumbled in half-mad, his face scarred beyond recognition, ranting and raving his demands that she weep to save their son, she had refused? That she'd feared what he might take from her, as if anything she possessed could be worth more than Soren's life?

That when his hand twisted in her hair and the cold glass pressed against her cheek, she cried not for Soren, but for the man she'd loved and the monster he'd become?

That, most of all, she had cried for herself?

She stays quiet, and does not cry.

Her father finally passes, never recovered from her mother's loss, and her brother approaches on behalf of the family. We love you, Lissy, you know that—but we think it would be best if you didn't come to the funeral.

Lissa's heart burns, her throat clenched tight against any protest, and she nods. She leaves that night, vanishing into the mountains. No one comes looking for her.

She settles outside a remote village, in a tiny hut halfway up the mountain, more a hunter's seasonal shelter than a house. She busies herself with survival—tends a garden, hunts and forages. Down in the village, she trades the pelts of what she can trap, and sometimes plays the decrepit, barely-tuned piano in the tavern for coins.

That's where she hears of the great march on Xadia. King Viren of Katolis, leading the united Pentarchy to end the threat of dragons for good.

Lissa returns to the tavern every day after that, desperate for more news—it's barely a week later when she hears he's dead, his army broken by an alliance between the elves of Xadia and those loyal to King Harrow's son. There is no mention of her children in any of the garbled rumors.

It's almost a relief, that she doesn't cry for Viren.

But Soren would be old enough to have joined the Crownguard, just as he'd always wanted. With two kings dead in such quick succession—first King Harrow, and then, somehow, his own father—could she even dare hope he still lives? And Claudia, so fascinated by magic, even when it tore their family apart—had she succumbed to all its dangers? Would Viren have let her walk a different path, if she chose?

She imagines going back, demanding to know what happened to her son and daughter—if Viren remained in a place sufficiently prominent to somehow become king, someone has to know. She imagines seeing them again, being able to run to them and take them in her arms. She imagines crying, then—a decade of stolen tears released in a flood of joy and relief.

Then she imagines their revulsion at the mother who left them, should she be unable to shed a single tear of grief or regret.

Lissa stops going to the tavern. Her heart burns as if its falling to ash.

She doesn't cry.

[fallstreakfeathers]

Where Light Dwells- part II (Sekido Pet!AU)

Warnings: au typical trauma

Word Count: 8,658

If it's unreadable, try it on Ao3 : Where Light Dwells Part 1 is Here @hantenguclonesimp-minuszoha Spife come get ur food

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚══════════════════════════════════════════╝

Rain pelts your windows like small stones as you turn into the dark parking lot. It’s empty, except for a couple employee cars, not that it really surprises you. You’re thankful, actually, as you crash through the door, water dripping from the coat you wear to hide your injury, panting with exhaustion from trying to outrun the storm.

An old woman sits at the reception desk, tapping away on an old keyboard.

A small black sign in gaudy cursive tells you her name is Angela.

“Please, I need help! My demon is… he’s very sick, I-I-I think he might be dying,” you stammer, stumbling over the words in the rush to get them out. “He’s in my car - I can’t carry him alone!”

The receptionist adjusts her reading glasses peering over them at you as if you’ve grown a second head. The wind pushes rain against the window in waves forceful enough that it almost sounds like laughter- like the very weather is mocking your urgency.

“He’s hurt bad!”

She shakes her head.

“I’m sure he’s just a bit ill, dear,” says the woman with a kindly smile. An attempt to reassure you. “Demons rarely get sick, but I promise you, whatever’s going on, it’s nothing he won’t heal from.” You shake your head vigorously.

“You don’t understand. I don’t think you’ve ever seen anything like this. I’m begging you. Please help him. He’s in my car,” you repeat, waving your good arm helplessly. “H-he can’t stand. He's thrown up everywhere, and he can’t talk and he... he’s…” you interrupt yourself with a frustrated sob. You are so out of your league.

“Okay, alright,” the woman behind the desk says with another glance at you, “I’ll go check, okay? Try to calm down.”

The fear in your voice is strong enough for the receptionist to become concerned, though her look was one of pity and confusion.

No one has ever been so worried about a demon.

Still, she follows you out into the icy rain and to your car as you nearly trip over your own feet.

You open the door and the receptionist immediately puts her hand to her nose.

“Oh…”

She takes one look inside and gasps.

Sekido lays there motionless and with dried vomit around his mouth. Trembling in his semi-conscious state. Bleeding with every wheezing breath.

“Oh my...” her face turns pale as she turns to you. “Let me get help.” Angela rushes back into the building, leaving you alone with Sekido.

You place your hand on his shoulder and rub gently in motions you hope are soothing.

He does not make a sound, doesn’t have the strength.

You don’t even know if he can feel you, though you can feel the wheeze in his chest as it falls.

Don’t know if he can hear you. There’s shouting from inside the building, and a glance at the too meticulously cleaned doors of the facility shows that several people scuttling about like ants.

You turn your attention back to your demon. “You’ll be fine,” you assure him for the umpteenth time that day as the technician reappears.

She is followed by a man you assume is the vet - a tall, stern-looking man in a white coat and round glasses, pulling a stretcher behind him. Without stopping to process his own astonishment at the sight, the vet carefully moves the demon to the bed with Angela’s help and gets him inside just as quickly.

You can see them stringing your demon up with a transparent fluid, and another nurse seems to take his pulse. The bewildered look on his face doesn’t encourage you- begins stripping what hope you’ve clung to. You try to follow them, to stay with Sekido, but Angela holds out her thin arm to stop you just before your hand reaches the door that leads into the back.

“We can’t have you back there right now, hon,” she shakes her head, motioning towards her desk. You start to protest, but she’ll hear none of it. “There’s no room for you in there, dear. You’ll just be in the way. I promise, he’s in the best hands possible,” Angela says. “In the meantime, I have some paperwork I’m going to need you to fill out for us. I need you to tell me about him- is he yours?” she continues as you give a reluctant look toward the metal doors before slowly shuffling to the desk and settling into the creaky chair. You can’t seem to focus on her words, your mind drifting to Sekido. What was happening behind those heavy doors? Angela smiles apologetically, and you think to yourself that she smiles a lot. “I know this is hard, but try to just focus on the questions. It’ll help us help him. Sekido is yours, correct?” The fluorescent lights overhead glint harshly off polished floors, leaving a sterile, stuffy gleam on everything they touch. The air is heavy with the smell of antiseptic, strong enough that it makes you slightly nauseous. It is a reminder of the frailty of life in these walls. “Yes.” You don’t hesitate at that, surprising yourself with the quick response. “I-I mean, he is now. As of today, yes.” The paper forms all ask for various basic information, which would be fine had you adopted Sekido the usual way- in which that information is provided. You don’t know his lineage or his medical history. You barely even know his temperament, really, and that was only through your short (terrifying) experience with him. “Don’t worry too much about the papers then. Just give us what you know, okay?” Angela says as you struggle to fill the blank spots of the form. “You can leave the fields empty and we’ll take care of it. You said he’s yours as of today? What do you mean by that? Did you buy him?” Your nose wrinkles at the thought of buying something so human-looking. Don’t understand how nobody else sees the problem with it. “I found him at the side of the road a few hours ago,” you admit. “He was tied to a tree. I don’t know anything but his name, really…” Another question: relationship to patient. How.. How do you define what you are to the demon when you’d only met him hours ago. Owner? You don’t like that one. Hate what it implies. Hate that it reduces Sekido to an item. Acquaintance? Sure. that could work, but… ‘Friend’, you settle on, placing a firm punctuation at the end of the word. You hand the papers back and hiss in pain when you accidentally knock your injured arm against the table. “Are you okay?” the woman asks, and you freeze. “Y-yeah. Yeah,” you wave off her concern with an awkward laugh. “I just, uh, hurt my arm. No big deal.” You flash a smile to assure her, but it comes out as a grimace. Feels almost as painful as the injury itself. There’s no way you could tell her the truth. Violence against a human was a death sentence for demons, even if it was self-defense. That’s what the wiki said, at least. It wouldn’t matter that he didn’t really know what he was doing, or that it was your own fault. “Really, I’m fine.” It wouldn’t matter to anyone else that he was scared out of his wits. Demons had no rights. “Here, let me see,” Angela insists gently as if she's talking to an anxious child- takes your arm despite your protest. She unwraps the filthy cloth, revealing a swollen, inflamed wound that has her humming in surprise. “Oh my… Did he do this?” “It’s not his fault!” You blurt in panic, pulling the limb back. Though it no longer bled, the punctures are deeper than you originally thought. The air stung, sent throbbing pain through the flesh. “Don’t blame him. Please don’t hurt Sekido!”

“We’re not going to hurt him, dear,” Angela's compassionate eyes offered a small amount of hope. “I-it was my fault! I was stupid, and I think he was delirious. It wasn’t his fault,” you repeat with a quivering voice.  “He’s just sick…” She nodded like she understood. “It’s alright, dear,” the old woman pats your shoulder. “But you need a hospital for that. It’s going to need stitches and, unfortunately, we don’t work on humans here.” She giggles at her own joke in an attempt to soothe you.

You shake your head vigorously. “I’m not leaving him,” you say firmly. “I can’t go to the hospital!” They would ask questions. They would want to know about Sekido, and if they did then he would receive a euthanasia order- be considered a threat, too dangerous to live.

If you left him, would he still be there when you returned? Would he think you abandoned him? Would they take the opportunity to rid the world of a demon everyone else considered too much trouble to help? “There’s nothing we can do for you here. I’m very sorry, but you’ll need to see a human doctor for your arm. Sekido will be here when you get back,” Angela promises. “Sometimes we have to trust others to help us, even if it’s scary. Hopefully, when you get back, he’ll be right healthy and healing. But you have to heal yourself so you can keep helping him, right?” “You won’t put him down?” You need her to confirm as you nervously rock back and forth on your feet. To be assured that the vet wouldn’t just wait until you left to kill him. 

Was Sekido even yours? You weren’t certain of the technicalities. His owners had abandoned him, clearly with no intent to retrieve him, so, surely that meant he was your demon now? It was a strange realization, though one that wasn’t entirely unwelcome to you.

“No,” the technician replies firmly. “We can’t euthanize any creature without the owner’s- your- written consent.  That includes this demon.” She lowers her voice into an almost conspiratorial whisper: “I won’t mention your arm or the wound. Please, go get it cared for. It’s going to be a while, but if anything changes I’ll call you with the number you’ve given us, okay?” Finally, you cave. What else could you do? Sekido was out of your hands- for now. “Okay… Okay. I’ll go,” you mumble. “Maybe I should get the car cleaned, too.” You try to laugh, but it comes out dry and withered. “The whole thing kinda stinks…” Besides, when you finally take Sekido home, you’d like to think he might prefer a clean car.

-------- ≪ °✾° ≫ --------

You return several hours later with a stitched arm, scrubbed seats, and bills you don’t even want to think about. At least you have insurance to cover most of it. Still, maybe you’ll pick up an extra shift- just for a little while. It wouldn’t hurt to have the extra money for Sekido’s needs anyhow. When you walk inside, Angela breaks into a grin, casting a ray of warmth that lightens the load on your heart. “He’s going to be okay, hon!” You release the breath you didn’t know you held, swallowing the lump in your throat. “R-really? Oh my God, that’s incredible!” Angela’s smile widens as she squeezes your hand. “Yes, really! The doctors were able to stabilize him, and he’s responding very well to antibiotics. Isn’t that amazing?” You feel tears of relief welling up in your eyes. Fumbling to express yourself amidst the waves of emotion that suddenly course through you, you manage to gather yourself enough to utter a “thank you!”, though the words come quietly. You wipe away your misty eyes, part of the day's stress melting off. “Thank you!” you say again, stronger this time.

The metal doors of the infirmary open quietly and the man who took Sekido from your car walks in. Somehow he seems even more imposing up close. He looks to Angela, as if investigating the sudden commotion. “John, this is that demon’s owner,” she explains. John greets you with a polite, firm handshake, but his face is grim. It makes you uneasy, and it’s hard to keep a genuine smile on your face as your heart sinks once more. “I’d like you to come with me,” he says, motioning to one of the empty exam rooms. “There are some things I need to discuss with you.”

Your brow furrows at his tone.

He closes the door behind you and leans his back against the exam stable, balancing himself with the palms of his hand. You take your seat on the bench. “Sekido has been stabilized, I’m sure Angela told you,” he started, then hesitates, rubbing his forehead like he had a headache. Finally, he raises his head and looks at you.

“This demon was in the worst condition I have seen... Never in my 25 years of practice have I ever treated a demon in septic shock,” John admits. “Frankly, I hadn’t thought such a thing was even possible considering how quickly the creatures usually heal.” Your eyes widen. You might not know much about demons, but you knew how dangerous blood poisoning was for any living thing. If you hadn’t brought Sekido here, if you had attempted to wait until tomorrow, he likely would have died in your home. The thought of how much this demon has suffered makes your stomach turn, but you try not to let yourself feel too guilty about your original plan to bring him home before a doctor visit. You didn’t know. “How?” How did he get so ill? How could anyone abuse a living person so horrifically? How could you continue to help this man? “Generally, a demon’s wounds will heal rapidly on their own- unless something impedes that process,” the vet repeats.  “Malnutrition and ‘sun-sickness’ are common problems…relatively. Though it’s rare, old age. Demons do age, just at a much, much slower rate than we do. Or, like I found in his blood, wisteria. I think I know how Sekido ended up tied to that tree.” You wait for him to continue, interested in his theory. “While I was shaving Sekido’s matted hair, I found a series of numbers and letters tattooed on the back of his neck, just under his hairline,” John takes a weary breath, and you know that the information he’s about to give you may change how you view your situation entirely. “Considering this, and his blood, I suspect that Sekido is, or was, part of an illicit demon fighting ring- where people force captive demons to fight and place bets on them.”

Your jaw drops, horrified as the eerie revelation casts a more sinister shadow over your limited knowledge of Sekido’s life. “Oh, God…” An underground fighting ring? His rampant hostility made even more sense now. Your stomach twists in disgust. It seems there's no end to humanities cruelty. Dogs, birds, humans, demons- some people revel in the thrill of watching living creatures tear each other apart. There is no honor in these fights, you already know. It is grotesque, a fight for life. For survival.

“His blood is strong. Unlike anything I’ve seen in demons before. If I had to classify it, finding a demon like him is like finding a diamond in a mud pit. He is extremely valuable, to the right people, and his owners paid a lot of money to get him. I’ll cut to the chase- he probably lost a fight, costing someone more money than he was bought with, and he was abandoned for it. His masters dearly wanted him to suffer. That’s the only reason wisteria would be anywhere near a demon. It’s deathly toxic to them,” the vet’s voice cut through the air, shaping the demon's past with grim detail. “Because Sekido is so used to violence and fighting for everything just to survive, he will never be able to live as a normal pet. He reacts to every stressor with violence. We had to sedate him just to finish treating him,” John trails off. You wince at that knowledge, wishing you could have been in the room. Maybe it would’ve helped to have a sort of familiar face nearby while strangers poked and prodded and injected him with odd things- or maybe not. “Listen… There's no easy way to say this, but,” he looks you in the eye, “in my experience, demons like this cannot be rehabilitated. Sekido can never be integrated as a normal companion, much less be around other demons. He will struggle even being around humans.”

Your heart drops.

“I’m very sorry, but despite how valuable this creature is, I would suggest putting Sekido down. For his sake. You tried your best to help him, and that’s admirable,” John said. “He is very lucky to have met someone like you. Not many would have gone through the trouble to free him. But, the fact is that this is a very traumatized, aggressive demon. He’s already attacked you once. I cannot tell you honestly that he won’t do it again.” He placed his hand on your shoulder with a sympathetic smile. “Some wounds run too deep to heal. He is too dangerous for anyone to reasonably handle. A ticking time-bomb that will destroy any normal household he’s put in. I truly believe euthanasia is the best choice for both of you.”

You shake your head. Absolutely not!

John sighs quietly. “We will sedate him again. Sekido will be asleep when it happens so he’s not going to feel anything. He’ll drift off to sleep, and then he’ll be gone. He won’t be afraid, and he won’t feel the cut. He won’t ever know what happened.”

“No!” You couldn’t believe he was suggesting such a thing! Kill Sekido? That was not an option- not ever! John looks at you with pity in his face. Confusion. Maybe a little admiration.

“I don’t mean to be dramatic, but if he attacks again, there is no guarantee you’ll be getting up from it. This demon was conditioned for one thing and one thing only; he is trained to attack with little discrimination. He will kill you. Let Sekido go, and put your kindness towards another demon that needs your help- one that hasn’t lived in such violence. One that isn’t so dangerous.” “But I don’t want another demon,” you protest. You’d never wanted a demon before in your entire life, but Sekido was yours now. You wouldn’t have anyone else. “I promised him…”

“I understand,” John spoke gently. “I really do, but please consider my advice. Sekido is unpredictable and very violent. You cannot control a demon like this except through force- and you don’t seem the type to do that.” “He cannot be trusted,” John finished with finality. “Ever.” You fall silent. He was right, in a way- you wouldn’t harm Sekido regardless of what he did. You couldn’t even find it in you to fault him for the stitches that made your forearm itch. But he was also wrong about your demon. Sekido had shown that he could cooperate, albeit when it suited him, with little resistance except some rude words. He’d shown the ability to care, briefly, when he kept your arm from bleeding out with his own rags. He wouldn’t have done that if he’d meant to kill or if he had no impulse control. Right? “If he attacks me, let that be between him and me,” you reply firmly. “I did not go through all this just so you could kill my demon!”

John begins to speak, but you cut him off with a dismissive wave of your hand. “He’s a living being, not a broken tool. It’s not his fault what he’s been through,” you argue passionately, anger seeping into your words. “I know it won’t be easy. I… I am shocked that this is his past, but I didn’t expect helping him to be easy! Sekido deserves to know what a life of peace is like. He needs to know what it is for someone to care about him, and I want to give him that- nobody else is going to give him that chance!” John stares at you with disbelief and frustration. “You don’t understand what he’s capable of,” he insists, his voice raising slightly. 

You shake your head, refusing to relent. “Maybe I don’t fully understand, but I’m willing to try. That's more than anyone ever has for him.” The silence stretches between you, heavy with tension. You can see John grappling with your words, his mind racing. “You’re taking a huge risk,” he finally says, his tone softening just a bit. “You could be killed.” “I’m aware of the risks,” you reply, your voice steady. “But sitting back and doing nothing isn’t an option. Living in fear isn’t a life at all. Sekido deserves a chance, just like anyone else.” Part of you realizes that John simply doesn't want to see you hurt, and you can appreciate that. But you can take care of yourself, you think, and this is your decision to make.

John stares at you with a bewildered look, then relents with an exasperated sigh. “Nothing’s going to change your mind, huh? Alright… I know when I’ve been beat. Do you really believe you can help a demon as dangerous as this?” he asks softly. “I believe I’m the only one who will try,” you repeat. You couldn’t understand why anyone would treat a demon like this- people gave more of a chance to violent dogs! “Like I said, if he tries to hurt me again then let that be between me and him. However,” you hesitate, “if… if he hurts someone else while in my care, then I’ll bring him in.” ‘For euthanasia’, was the end you didn’t want to add. There was no reason to anyway- it was obvious what you had meant. You hoped John would accept the compromise. He’s quiet, contemplative for a long minute and just when you think he’ll refuse, he speaks.

“I’ll agree to that,” he finally said. “But, considering the unconventional circumstances and because we don’t usually do this, I will provide a liability form for you to sign that will release this establishment and its employees of all responsibility should you be harmed by this demon. If you want to take Sekido home, then signing is mandatory.” You respond with a subtle nod, easily picking up the blatant effort to escape a looming lawsuit as the vet exits the room. If something happened, you really would be on your own. There would be no recourse, nobody to turn to or blame but yourself. John returns several minutes later with a stack of papers that he slides in front of you. You hesitate only a moment, then lower your hand to the signature lines. The pen you use to bind yourself to your demon is filled with dark ink that puddles and smudges into the creases of paper. The vet gives you a quiet nod as he takes the form and he taps them on the desk, forcing them into unity. “We will need to keep Sekido in our care for the next 24 hours so we can continue to monitor his condition, but he should be waking up soon, if you’d like to see him?” A whole day? With the state he arrived in, you weren’t surprised, but still… you were glad it was your weekend away from work. God, what were you gonna do about work? You… you had paid sick days still, right? Yeah. You’d use those to get Sekido settled in a bit before returning to your 9-5. “Where is he?” John leads you to the room where Sekido is recovering and motions for you to go inside before leaving. You open the steel door slowly. Quietly. Unsure of how Sekido might react. He lies on a white cot with his eyes closed and his signature frown on his face. There are IV’s connected to his arm, pumping him full of a clear liquid. The room is quiet, except for the sounds of the heart monitor and the demon’s soft breathing. Despite his usual furrowed brows, he looks almost relaxed. He occasionally makes a noise in his sleep that you can’t decide whether it’s a growl or a snore. Though the vet had warned you about shaving Sekido’s hair, it was odd to see him with such short locks. Only about an inch had been left- still filthy with dandruff and muck, twigs and blood, but no longer weighing on his head in thick drapes of clumped hair. As you sit in the chair beside him, you can see a little of the tattoo that had been mentioned. ‘HAN-2S…’ It looked like there was more, but it was hidden around the other side of his neck. You wondered what those letters and numbers meant, whether it was just to label him like a barcode. You wonder if his previous owners used the name Sekido gave you, or if they called him by that tattoo. Again, you think it's better you don’t know, though you can't help but ponder what stories and pain lie beneath that ink. However, deep down, you know that delving into his past might only lead to more questions, and you wouldn't ask him to relive the memories anyway. When you gingerly reach to brush a bit of cut hair off his forehead, he stirs.

Sekido’s eyes slowly open and squint groggily against the light. Then, he groans as his sight lands on you. “... What… do you want?” the demon scowls slowly, obviously fighting against the drugs he’d been given. You don’t know what he’s asking. You want him safe. And healthy. And alive. His well-being has become your top priority overnight. You're willing to do whatever is necessary to ensure that he recovers- no matter the challenges. Even if it means facing that scowl every single day. He scoffs at your confused look, takes a breath. “Nobody is nice to demons just because,” he says. Can’t believe you’re still there- that you hadn’t left him at the first opportunity.  “Nobody cares about things like me. Not unless they want something- so what the fuck do you want?” “Nothing,” you reply, ignoring his aggressive tone. “I want nothing. Just for you to heal.”

Sekido stares at you bitterly. Doesn’t believe you for even a second in his deep-rooted mistrust of humanity. Is afraid to consider that you might be telling the truth. His voice, gruff and menacing, warns, “I’ll hurt you,” in a blend of caution and threat, but you’ll stand firm either way. Even if it is a threat you can’t bring yourself to be afraid of him anymore. Somehow… despite John’s insistence about the danger he brings, you don’t really believe that Sekido will hurt you again. The demon looks away from you with a sigh of weary resignation as he shakes his head, his lips thin and vision distant. He pulls the heavy hospital blanket up his chest, knuckles pale with the strength that he grips that poor blanket.

“You can't save me,” the words leave his lips in gravelly despair as closes his eyes, wanting to ignore your obnoxious presence while he wonders why you won’t just leave him alone.“I want to try, ” you tell him. Won’t accept his words as truth. Won’t accept that he believes redemption of any kind is beyond his reach. “I'm gonna try.” Sekido’s eyes snap open and he turns to you with another appraising glare. Then, finally, his lips tug slightly up with a snorted half-laugh. “... Then you are a fool,” Sekido spat. “Yeah, maybe,” you agree quietly. You don’t know what else to say to that. What does one even say to that? How do you comfort a man who believes he’s beyond saving? How do you convince someone they deserve to be saved? Sekido closes his eyes again, falling silent. You might’ve thought he was asleep again except for his ragged breaths. “I’ll, uh… I’ll let you get some rest, okay?” you mutter awkwardly. You don’t expect a response from the grumpy demon- didn’t wait for one. Didn’t want to hear him bark more disdain at you. So you stand and leave him to his devices. It didn’t make his lack of response any less disappointing, but you weren’t sure what you wanted him to say anyway. You don’t see Sekido watching you as you leave, an amused smirk tugging his lips.

-------- ≪ °✾° ≫ --------

You return for him the next morning, interrupted from your frantic attempts to get your home at least partially company-worthy in the short hours you had since leaving the infirmary. You still can’t believe all the chaos has happened, but the aching punctures in your arm leave little room for doubt- throbbing reminders of the harrowing night. Sekido is awake when you arrive, glaring at anyone who walks past his half-curtained glass doors as if the demon expects them to harass him at any second.  The flicker of aggression in his eyes and clenched fists, a dare for anyone to cross him, contrasts with his physical condition. One of his fangs poke his bottom lip so hard it draws blood, like tiny ruby orbs on his skin. If you did not know his strength, you could’ve mistaken his sickly body as harmless. Frail. His gaze does not soften when it sees you, unyielding in his defiance even as you draw the curtains fully to give the room its privacy.

You had come as soon as you’d received Angela’s call that Sekido had nearly been medically cleared. Obeying traffic laws this time, you made your way to the vet with a nervous heart. Some part of you was… excited, almost. It’s been a long time since you’ve had a housemate. Once they finish their checklist of procedures, Sekido would be discharged from the hospital and entrusted to your care. Into your home.

You take a deep breath as you pull into the parking lot, wondering if he will ever look at you with anything but contempt. Your heart aches for the wounded man who believes nobody could ever want to help him without a hidden agenda. You hope that in time, perhaps Sekido will come to accept you and that you two will become friends. Has he ever had friends, the thought crosses your mind before it can be stopped. You shake your head, knowing that Sekido has likely never had someone he can count on. Not anytime recently, at least. You resolve to be that person for him. It's going to take time. You know it’s going to take time- a lot of effort, of compromise, but you’re going to break through the spiny, angry walls he’s built around himself, whether the cantankerous demon appreciates it or not.

A nurse quietly arrives to check your demon one last time, his hands gingerly lifting the bandages on his wounds. Sekido flinches slightly, his body and limbs tensing… then he hisses, a low and menacing sound. You see the nurse try not to jump and shift in your seat, unsure what to do. Should you reach out? Talk to him? Reassure your demon that nobody is going to hurt him? Would that make him more upset?

You wonder what Sekido might have been like had the world not been so cruel- solemnly accept that you’ll never know as he snaps defensively when the nurse accidentally prods a little too hard.

The nurse quickly rewraps Sekido’s arm and leaves without a word, though you see the shudder in his shoulders as he closes the door behind him. A sigh of relief that he no longer had to deal with a dangerous, irritable, unpredictable creature like Sekido. Now, the demon watches you. His silence is deafening, and you can’t help but wonder what thoughts swirl in his mind as he stares, stone-cold with barely kept irritation. “So…this is it, huh?” You ask, clearing your throat. Your nervousness is unhidden in the way your voice wobbles, fracturing the already uncomfortable silence. “Time to go home…”

The weight behind those words hangs in the air as Sekido studies you for what seems like an eternity. Like he hasn’t processed your words. Like you’ve grown another head.

“What?” he chokes, but tries to hide it with another grumble, “You…?” “You’re coming home with me, remember? I’m, uh… adopting you,” you manage to stammer under the strength of his disbelief, your voice wilting. “I already signed the papers…”

Sekido’s eyes widen in shock, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly in his attempts to even grasp the concept. You were actually taking him home? A hint of vulnerability seeps through his steely composure, a mix of confusion and disbelief- then anger, in the crimson that colored his narrow eyes. “Are you out of your mind?” he snarls, his voice dangerously low. His hands curled into fists again. The room seems to shrink around you as tension thickens the air, his piercing gaze locking onto you with an emotion you can’t quite put a name on. The silence hangs heavy, your words lost in the seething glare of a demon that reads like a warning. You say nothing. You had to be at least a little out of your mind. But you wouldn’t back down. No matter what the demon said. “Adopting,” Sekido repeats slowly, like he’s tasting the word. His lips curl over his fangs with disgust. “Legally, yes,” you nod. Honestly, you weren’t a fan of the process either, or the idea of ‘owning’ someone so human. But, whatever it takes, right? His reaction to the news strikes you as ice-cold despite the fiery temper in him. You almost smile at the private joke. Then, he speaks. “Are you inviting me to your home? Knowing that I’ll hurt you?” he questions. Scoffs. You reach instinctively to pat his shoulder, reassure him that, “You won’t hurt me.” From whom were you comforting him? Himself? His past? You? You aren’t sure.  “I know you won’t.” “You know nothing,” he hisses bitterly, punctuating his words by swatting your hand away. You pull your hand back, rubbing it lightly to soothe the sting. Sekido staunchly avoids looking at you, glares out the open windows. A soft breeze blows against white curtains- they are too pure in their color, in your opinion. Like the very material had been bleached of its soul. For a moment, all that’s heard is the wind and cheerful chirping of house sparrows as they flit around outside. “Do you think that will change my mind?” you ask, softly breaking the silence. “I’ve made my decision.”

“It’s a stupid decision,” Sekido argues. Part of you is almost touched that he seems so concerned for your safety. The other part frowns that he thinks of himself as a threat. “But it’s made,” you reply easily. He says nothing after that, just snorts in disbelief as you both stand your grounds- like two warriors on the opposing sides of a battlefield. No further words are spoken, but the conversation continues in the silence, like the room itself is waiting for resolution. The sparrows continue to sing their songs, oblivious to the standoff inside the building. Finally, there is the smallest, reluctant bow of Sekido’s head, and you feel the tension easing from your shoulders. You can’t do this without him, even if he doesn’t really have a choice- no matter how much you wanted to pretend otherwise. An hour later, the final test results come back and Sekido is officially released from the hospital. With the blood poisoning dealt with, the demon should recover fully and quickly, the vet assured you as he hands another stack of papers to you. An assistant wheels over a chair, but Sekido refuses it, staggering to his feet as you finish paying the final bills at the front counter. Even ill as he is, he refused to show weakness. What he perceived as weakness. What he was taught is frailty, failure, feebleness, punishable by whips and starvation and fear.

The doctors try to reach out to steady him as he stumbles, but he shakes off their help with another warning growl.  They don’t bother attempting it again. Sekido moves slowly and deliberately, taking each step with careful rigidness. His bare toes stretch out to maintain his wobbly balance with every stride. As he catches sight of cloud-muffled daylight at the end of the hall, it seems like he quickens his pace. You don’t try to slow him, despite pointed, almost judgemental looks from the staff. You want out of the hospital too. Finally Sekido reaches the glass doors and stops.

He does not look back, but waits at the edge of the spotless black carpet that serves as a doormat, his fingers twitching in his desire to simply grab the handle and escape.

No one stops the two of you as you open the door for him, because you know he won’t leave the building himself without permission, like a dog trained to wait at the entryways of a house. It’s easy to locate your vehicle, sparkling clean as it is. That aside, it’s the only car in the lot that isn’t owned by employees of the hospital.

Sekido walks just ahead of you, stumbles twice and then leans on the back doors as his chest shudders.

“No,” you say carefully and point to the passenger seat. “You can sit up there, Sekido. Next to me.”

And again he gives you an incredulous look, like he can’t comprehend the thought. With your gentle urging, he grasps the door handle, then cautiously opens it with a flick of his pointed ear- alert for any sound that might indicate you’ve changed your mind. That you’ve tricked him.

You wait for him to climb in before taking the driver's seat.

The ride home is uncomfortably silent, but you don’t try to hold a conversation either- too lost in your own thoughts and too nervous to attempt to quell your demon’s rigid posture. He’s so stiff one might think he were a statue, except for the radar-like swivel of his ears that takes in every sudden noise with practiced precision. It would be very cute, except that you know it’s a habit he must have obtained in defense- to protect himself from further harassment at the hands of his old masters.

A passer-by's questioning glance is enough to fuel Sekido’s ire. The old woman stares fixedly out of her window and narrows her eyes at the man beside you. It's as if she knows he doesn't belong there, Sekido thinks. As if it's even her business. A rumble builds in the demon’s throat, his fangs piercing his lip once more. When the passenger of another car, a young child, makes mocking motions towards the demon, Sekido snarls, forcefully striking the window. You jump in surprise, your hands tightening on the wheel instinctively. “Sekido!” The exclamation bursts from you, unintentionally loud, spooking the demon from his own thoughts. His long ears flatten against his head, his crimson eyes briefly meeting yours before averting his gaze, accompanied with a subdued growl that slips through his bared teeth. Like he’s warning you away. Like he expects you to hit him. Like you’re one of those horrid people who beat him for misbehaving. You take a breath to steady yourself- remind yourself that you agreed to this, to the commitment, to supporting him, and to the challenges you know he comes with and the challenges sure to surprise you, and you lower your voice to a more soothing tone. “Hey,” you start uncomfortably in an attempt to maintain the barely noticeable trust you have with your demon, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. You startled me, is all.” You offer a small, reassuring smile as you slow to a red light. You hope he understands. His gaze meets yours again, slightly less hard, and then he turns to watch the scenery fly past again.

Luckily the streets are pretty empty aside from that and those that drive ahead of you mind their business enough to not taunt the traumatized demon in your car, saving you from whatever other outburst the demon might unleash if provoked again. As you pull into your driveway, the car comes to a gentle stop. Your small, one-bedroom apartment awaits. It may not be extravagant, but it's home. The front lawn is neatly mowed, and the plants in the garden beds beneath your windows flourish in still-living shades of green. Sekido observes it all with a quick glance. If he has any grievances, he keeps them to himself - maybe out of reluctance, maybe out of deeply hidden gratitude. Anything is better than before. “Well… we’re here,” you say. You can see your neighbor across the street peeking through their curtains to peer at what’s going on, the nosy bastards they are. You roll your eyes once you’re turned away from them. At least they make a good casserole during the holidays. You just hope they won’t try to come over with unwanted ‘friendly advice’ on how to deal with your demon like they had with your wilting plants. Somehow you knew their advice wouldn’t be as kind to Sekido. You fumble your keys as you open your front door. Only then, just as you’re about to lock the car, do you realize that Sekido hasn’t left the vehicle. He hasn’t even unbuckled himself. He’s sitting there, cloudy sunlight on clean leather seats, staring at the house like he doesn’t believe he’s even here. This is a house, he thinks, not a shed, or a cage, or an underground garage. A real house, where people live and don’t dread seeing its form on the horizon. A house where he, apparently, will be permitted to live, inside like a.. Like a person and not a simple slave-tool of violence. He can hardly believe it, swallows rough against his dry throat. “Sekido?” You call gently. “C’mon, it looks like it’s gonna rain.” He could smell it in the air, the sharp dampness of a summer storm.  Tepid wind rustles the trees in your yard, sending dry leaves across the street. Sekido opens the passenger door, just a couple inches, then pushes it wide. His bare feet tentatively touch rough cement as he exits the vehicle. When the doors snap closed again, he flinches at the sound. Your demon follows you slowly, as if fearing you might just laugh and throw him in the backyard to take shelter under an old, rusty kennel like the men who trained him had. He had refused to bow that low- had sat with his knees under him and his hands in his lap, with eyes closed against biting, frosty rain and wind that chilled him to the bone, leaving a muddy puddle under his weight. The men had found no amusement in his defiance- abusing him with rods of steel as if they thought they could beat the spirit from him like the blood that thickened the murk. But, you aren’t those people and though he does not trust you, he reluctantly steps onto your wooden floors. Your home is… lived-in, he notices as he glances around your belongings. Stray books and items litter the bookshelves and coffee table, alongside a succulent or two. It needs cleaned, Sekido thinks. You smile apologetically, like you know what is going through his mind. Like you’re embarrassed. “I wasn’t expecting guests,” you rub the back of your neck with a sheepish look, moving a group of magazines into a neat stack. “I’ll be right back, okay? Feel free to explore.” You leave the room to quickly finish cleaning up the dishes in the kitchen- a process you’d been in the middle of when the hospital called. Sekido says nothing, but continues to take in his surroundings. It’s not a bad house, he admits to himself.

Sunlight filters through the large window, casting a warm glow over the room. A faint scent of the coffee you’d been preparing that morning lingers in the air, creating a sense of comfort and homeliness. Your walls are adorned with colorful paintings and photographs, each telling a story of its own. Sekido’s eyes linger on family photos of moments now frozen in time. The creativity and warmth that fills the space makes it feel inviting despite the slightly cluttered appearance. Sekido's gaze wanders to a worn-out armchair in the corner, where you have probably spent countless hours reading and relaxing. It's a cozy little nook in an otherwise chaotic room. With a slight nod of approval that you don’t see in the other room, he finally breaks his silence. “Hmph.” Your home may not be perfect, but it has a charm that is uniquely yours. You return quickly, within just a couple minutes, but Sekido stands right where you’d left him, looking about uneasily. You take a hesitant step forward. “Sorry, I didn’t have quite enough time to finish up the kitchen before I left,” you apologize. “I didn’t want anything to start going rancid, you know?” Not for the first time that day, he gives you a perplexed look. “Humans don’t apologize to demons,” he mutters, like he’s scolding you on what’s right and wrong. “We aren’t worthy of it.” The phrase makes you wince- a horrid reminder that despite what you do know of Sekido’s past, you really know nothing at all. And you definitely aren’t sure how you’re supposed to fix him. “You are to me.” Again, he freezes, grunts as he glares at the wall. Anywhere he didn’t have to meet your gaze. But… Maybe you aren’t supposed to ‘fix’ someone like him at all. Maybe it would be good enough, right now, simply to teach him how to be alive. Is he hungry, you ponder? You don’t bother asking. You chastise yourself for even thinking it was a good question- the demon looks half starved! Instead you apologize, again, quietly- awkwardly. Your inelegance is enough to have him smirking behind your back, amused as you fumble words and thoughts. “You can sit if you want,” you tell him again, hoping he’ll take a seat on the sofa, or armchair. He grunts. Doesn’t make any attempt to move. You make your way to the kitchen to cut a small ribeye steak you’d planned on eating yourself into strips and small, easy-to-chew cubes. That should… this should be fine, right? All sources you’d searched said raw meat was just fine for demons. Not that you trusted the authors to have the best in mind for them. You hesitate, then take half the meat out and put that in another bowl before covering it and placing it back in the refrigerator. The last thing you needed was the demon vomiting again, you shudder as you stride into the living room, ignoring his subtle sniffing of the air, and the wetness shining on the corner of his mouth.

Sekido eyes you suspiciously as you hold the bowl out to him- refusing to put it on the ground like he’s some sort of animal. This is a trap. It has to be, he reasoned. He’s done nothing to earn the food, so you must be trying to trick him. But… you hold that bowl of meat tantalizingly close- enough that his pupils dilate at the smell of it and his body tries to lurch forward despite his wishes. The demon takes a rigid step back when you push your arm further towards him as his fingers twitch with desire to grab at the promise of the first bit of food he’s had in weeks. Drool finally trickles down one corner of his mouth and he shakes his head viciously. “Take it,” you order him in the unwillingness to even entertain the idea that Sekido wasn’t allowed to eat if he wished, and suddenly he couldn’t even pretend to have self-control enough to stop himself. The meat was gone from the bowl, shoveled into his mouth like a starving dog. He swallows without bothering to chew before you can even say a word, once, twice, hard enough that he's nearly choking on the fat, and then it’s over and his ears are pinned back and his eyes dart around with feverish intensity as if you’re going to punish him- even as his tongue licks the grease from the bowl. You can’t take the food from him. He won’t let you. Not when it’s the first thing he’s eaten in weeks. Not when he can feel the miniscule amount of protein and iron already in his system. Not when it takes his aches away so quickly. To his shock, you don’t do anything he expects you to. You don’t shout or curse or grab a stick to hit him with. In fact, you slowly back away and give the demon space while he glares at you with a practiced rage meant to hide his fear. His shoulders are tense, spine like a spring to recoil at the slightest sign of danger, but after what seems like another eternity, his gaze drops, and your own back relaxes. His grip on the bowl tightens. You decide to maintain your calm demeanor, but the decision seems to unsettle him more than any visible irritation would. He does not ease his grip on the bowl, staring at you. “Do you want more?” You ask gently. He doesn’t answer, meeting the kind gesture with narrowed eyes. You’re offering him more food? He hadn’t even earned the first bowl. Surely, you’re tricking him, he thinks again. But… “Yes,” he grumbles quietly, “Master.” Relinquishes his grip on the bowl as he hands it back with quivering hands. The title makes you flinch, stings like a bitter wound, and you nearly drop the blood-streaked bowl as a deep frown pulls at your lips. It’s another awful reminder of the reality of your roles- of the role's society wanted to force. Sekido, sensing your inner turmoil, reacts by flattening his ears once more. Displeased. He had displeased you. Was that not what he was to call his owner? That is what he had been forced to call all owners before you. “No,” you disagree gently, holding firm at his bewildered expression. “Listen, Sekido. You don’t need to call me that. My name is fine, or whatever else you want. Just… not ‘master’ or ‘owner’ or anything else that makes it sound like you’re beneath me.” “You are my owner,” he snarls again, insisting as if acknowledging otherwise would shake him to his core. Like he’s trying to educate you on how to treat a demon. “I do not own you, Sekido,” you explain carefully. Except legally, you didn’t say, didn’t think it needed to be… You think of that legality as only something society forced. Wouldn’t have even signed the papers except that it was necessary. “We’re equals, okay? You’re the master of yourself. I want you to make decisions for yourself and do things because you want to, not because you think it would make me happy, do you understand?” And again, he looks at you like you’ve grown another head, and you briefly wonder if maybe you’re being a little too honest. But… somehow, you think he might appreciate it- eventually. Sekido doesn’t seem to like sugarcoating things. You just hope you don’t sound too corny.

[mybutcheredtongue]

I'll Love You 'til the Grass Around My Gravestone is Deceased

harry potter timeline sirius black x fem!reader

CHAPTER SEVEN (see full series list here)

1992

You stand in front of a gravestone, the cold winter air biting at your skin and making you sniffle. You glance at the small bouquet of flowers you've left at the foot of the stone: lilies.

In front of you, the grave of Lily and James Potter.

Most weekends during the year are spent at Hogwarts, walking the grounds, working, etc. But on Hogsmeade weekends you choose to visit different people. Alice and Frank, your parents, Lily and James.

You kiss the tips of your fingers and press it against the stone, silently wishing them peace and hoping that they didn't see you trip over Dubh yesterday and bang your head against your bedframe, causing you to go pester Madam Pomfrey for some ointment.

You leave, apparating to Hogsmeade and walking back to Hogwarts. You're a little cold as you walk, but delighting in the crunching of snow under your shoes, delicate snowflakes slowly falling to the ground.

Hogwarts in the winter is your absolute favourite. It's so beautiful, with the blanket of soft snow on the ground, snowflakes fluttering in the air, and the Black Lake still and frozen. Your favourite is the joy it brings the students — running outside, laughing, throwing snowballs at each other and making snowmen...it reminds you of your school days.

♡*⁠。♡*⁠。

1974

"Anyone up for a friendly snowball fight?" James asks the group, and you grin excitedly, glancing at Lily and Alice.

"Yes, definitely. I vote boys against girls!" You announce, eyeing the four boys suspiciously.

"What? That's not fair, they've got an extra person!" Alice protests, but you wave her off.

"And we'll still mop the floor with them. Let's go!" you take off at a run Alice and Lily quickly follow after you as they move away to set base.

The boys scamper away to a safe zone, Sirius and James building their lines of defense while Peter and Remus wave their wands to create snowballs, though Remus' are uniform and spherical and Peter's are looking much more ovally and tend to vary in size.

Alice rushes to fortify a wall, while you and Lily make your snowballs. You craft a particularly big one with your own two hands, intending to levitate it with your wand and hit Sirius square in the face.

Both teams duck below your makeshift bases, eyeing the opposition.

"Are you ready to start?" James calls loudly across the gap.

"Yup!" you yell back, two snowballs ready in your hand.

Chaos then ensues. Snowballs fly from every direction, and nearly every player gets pelted in the face by one at some point or another. You're determined to win over Sirius and you both eventually end up advancing out from the safety of your forts to attack the other. You levitate the large snowball you had made and throw it towards him with as much force as you can put behind your wand.

Sirius deftly dodges it, laughing as he does. You groan in frustration before getting hit with another snowball from the boy and you yelp, running towards him. You chase him around the grounds, caught between breathing and giggling as you desperately throw snowballs at him to no avail.

Curse his stupidly agile hips.

Once you're at arm's length from his back, you claw at the air closest to him and manage to trip him over, making him face-plant into the snow. You burst into laughter, looking down at his angry, snow-covered face as he looks back at you, and then, to your horror, he grabs your hand and tugs you down so you fall into the snow too.

"You idiot!"

"Hey, you're the one who ran after me, you mad woman!" Sirius retorts with a grin, snowflakes dancing over his sharp features.

"Listen, listen...don't hate the player, hate the game," you say, holding a finger up as you breathe out.

He scoffs, chuckling, "Yeah, yeah..." you lay on your backs on the soft snow, the winter sky already beginning to darken above you.

You sense Sirius turning his head to look at you, and you turn and smile at him, raising your eyebrows. "Take a picture, Sirius, it'll last longer."

Suddenly there's a loud click above you, and you move to see Bitsy, the house elf, standing over you with a camera. You and Sirius are well acquainted with Bitsy. She's always very chatty and loves it when you sneak into the kitchen.

You immediately sit up, Sirius following suit. "Bitsy?"

Bitsy grins, her big brown eyes scrunching up. "Picture!" she squeaks, eagerly handing you a moving photo, showing your interaction with Sirius mere moments ago.

"Bitsy, what are you — "

"Bitsy has found a camera, young mistress! Bitsy enjoys taking pictures! Look, look, see what Bitsy has taken!"

She pulls a tattered bag out from the back of her pillowcase dress, shoving it into your hands. There are many, many photos in the bag. Most are of the kitchen, the other house elves, a few of what looks like Bitsy's thumb, and of course, Bitsy herself. There are some other areas of the castle photographed, including one with a poor unknowing couple snogging in the background.

As you look closer, you recognise long, messy black hair, defined cheekbones and a chiselled jawline...

"Oh my — Sirius, you're in this!" you exclaim, laughing as you show him the photo. "Getting some action, are we?"

Sirius snatches the photo from you, bringing it closer to inspect and furrowing his eyebrows. "Wait, hold on, that is me..."

You burst into a fit of laughter and Sirius just scoffs, looking away from you haughtily. "Don't act like you're not jealous, love."

You roll your eyes, pushing him away from you. "Oh, fuck off. You wish."

♡*⁠。♡*⁠。

1992

"Happy Christmas!" You greet to those sitting at the table cheerfully on Christmas morning. The Great Hall is decorated beautifully with candles in the air, a large wreath on the door, the twelve Christmas trees up with twinkling lights and colourful baubles...it's wonderful. Thick streamers of holly and mistletoe are also strung alone the corridors. Not long ago, you remember Sirius pulling you under every mistletoe he could find in the castle just as an excuse to kiss you during school.

Even Dubh is in the Christmas spirit, happily following you down to the Great Hall, occasionally playing with strings of tinsel and streamers. Christmas Day is one of the few days were the Great Hall is not as full of students as it usually is, so she tends to be more keen to follow you down. Professor McGonagall quite likes her.

Of course, there aren't many at the table today. There's yourself, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, and Filch, along with six students, Harry, Ron, and Hermione among them.

"Crackers!" Dumbledore says enthusiastically, offering the end of a large silver one to Snape, who takes it reluctantly and tugs. With a bang, the cracker flies apart to reveal a large, pointed witch's hat topped with a stuffed vulture.

Dumbledore swaps the witch's hat for his wizard's one at once. "Tuck in!" he advises the table, beaming around.

You help yourself to some turkey, hearing Snape click his tongue beside you disapprovingly at Dubh, who's currently holding herself up against his chair and looking up expectantly. "You could not keep your incessant pet in your chambers?"

You fake pout at the greasy man, tutting. "Aw, Severus, she likes you!"

Snape scoffs, shooing Dubh away with a wave of his hand.

The doors of the Great Hall open again, and Professor Trelawney enters, gliding towards you as though on wheels.

"Sybill, this is a pleasant surprise!" says Dumbledore, standing up. You raise your eyebrows at her appearance, hardly expecting the all-wordly seer to bother herself with such a gathering. Or at least, that's what she tells you every year.

"I have been crystal-gazing, Headmaster," she says in her mystical voice, "and to my astonishment, I saw myself abandoning my solitary luncheon and coming to join you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate? I at once hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to forgive my lateness..."

"Certainly, certainly," says Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. "Let me draw you up a chair — "

He draws a chair from mid-air with his wand, which revolves around for a few seconds before falling with a thud across from you between Sprout and McGonagall. Trelawney however, does not sit down; her enormous eyes moving around the table and she suddenly utters a weirdly soft scream.

"I dare not, Headmaster! If I join the table, we shall be thirteen! Nothing could be more unlucky! Never forget that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die!"

"We'll risk it, Sybill," says McGonagall impatiently. "Do sit down, the turkey's getting stone cold."

Trelawney hesitates, then lowers herself into the empty chair, eyes shut and mouth clenched tight, as though expecting someone to smack her clear across the face. You'd nearly want to for the time she told you your hair would be grey by the time you turn 35 and that you'd lose your hearing within the next year. She told you that the first year you started working here.

McGonagall pokes her spoon into the largest tureen. "Tripe, Sybill?"

Trelawney ignores her, instead looking around once more with wide eyes and saying, "But where is dear Professor Lupin?"

"I'm afraid the poor fellow is ill again," Dumbledore responds. You felt most disappointed when you had seen the full moon scheduled, hoping to at least be able to give Remus his Christmas present today. "Most unfortunate that it should happen on Christmas Day."

"But surely you already knew that, Sybill?" McGonagall says, eyebrows raised. You bite back a laugh, catching McGonagall's eye and giving her a small smile.

Trelawney gives her a cold look. "Certainly I knew, Minerva. But one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing. I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the Inner Eye, so as to not make others nervous."

"That explains a great deal," McGonagall says tartly and once again you have to bite your lip to stop from laughing. There was a reason she was your favourite teacher at school, and there's a reason she's your favourite colleague now.

"If you must know, Minerva, I have seen that poor Professor Lupin will not be with us for very long. He seems aware, himself, that his time is short. He positively fled when I offered to crystal-gaze for him — "

"Perhaps it was because you don't foretell many positive things, Sybill. Last time you crystal-gazed for me you told me I was going to trip over my own shoes and land at the bottom of the Astronomy Tower," you chime in and Trelawney just wrinkles her nose at you.

"It has not happened yet! I see a great deal of pain in your future," she replies snippily. "You would do well to air on the side of caution."

You give her an exaggerated smile. "Thanks!"

"I doubt," Dumbledore says in a cheerful but slightly raised voice, which puts an end to the conversation, "that our dear Astronomy Professor nor Professor Lupin are in any immediate danger. Severus, you've made the potion for him again?"

"Yes, Headmaster," Snape replies.

"Good," Dumbledore says. "Then he should be up and about in no time...Derek, have you had any of these chipolatas? They're excellent."

The first-year boy goes furiously red on being addressed directly by Dumbledore, and takes the platter of sausages with trembling hands.

The rest of Christmas dinner passes semi-normally, as you dive into a chat with Professor Sprout about Christmas traditions you had as children. Then, when most are finishing up and full to the brim with good food, Ron and Harry get up first from the table and Trelawney shrieks loudly.

"My dears! Which of you left his seat first? Which?"

"Dunno," says Ron, looking uneasily at Harry.

"I doubt it will make much difference," says McGonagall coldly, "unless a mad axe-man is waiting outside the doors to slaughter the first into the Entrance Hall."

You nearly choke on your drink and can't help the laugh that escapes you. Professor Trelawney looks highly affronted.

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

Later that evening, you're sitting in your office, Dubh nestled in her bed, as you fill out the crossword at the back of the most recent edition of Astronomy's Articles.

There's a knock at your door and you toss the magazine on the desk, standing up and going to open it. Outside stands Professor McGonagall holding a long brown package.

"Minerva! Is everything alright?" You ask and she glances down at the package.

"May I come in?"

"Of course, of course..." You open the door wider for her to enter, gesturing for her to sit down as you take your seat behind your desk. She lays the package on your desk, looking at you through her horn-rimmed spectacles.

"Ms Granger approached me after dinner today, claiming Mr Potter had received this package this morning," she tells you and you nod.

"There was no card, no note, no message of any kind with it," she continues. "And I believe I may know who it was sent by."

"Who?"

She pulls back the paper, revealing a beautifully crafted broomstick, with an untouched handle and pristine bristles. Ingrained on the side is the word 'Firebolt'. It looks like it cost a fortune.

"I believe it was Sirius Black."

You look back at her incredulously. "Sirius? Why would Sirius send Harry a broomstick?"

"Perhaps it is jinxed? I'm going to bring it to Rolanda and Filius and see what they make of it," McGonagall responds.

You suck your lip, thinking intently as you look at the broomstick. "How would he even have bought this? There's no way he'd have been able to access his vault. Surely the goblins wouldn't be too keen on letting him into Gringotts?"

"You have no way of telling?"

You shake your head, shrugging. "Well, they do allow me to access it...but it has been so long since I last opened it that I wouldn't even notice if anything was gone. There is quite a lot of money in it."

McGonagall hums thoughtfully, sighing. "The goblins do not tend to abide by wizarding rules."

You nod. "I suppose you're right...but yes, get the broom checked. It's better to be safe than sorry."

McGonagall looks at you for a moment, as though reading your expression and you chuckle, waving her off. "I know what you're thinking...but we both know what happens to the minds of those who've spent time in Azkaban. Best to get it checked, just in case."

She nods wordlessly and you smile cheerily at her, moving to grab a teapot and two cups. "Tea, Minerva?"

She smiles. "Yes, that would be lovely. I do believe we have quite a lot to catch up on."

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

->-> read chapter eight here!

→ all kinds of interaction are appreciated! ♡

[nikethestatue]

A Ballad of Sorrow and Love

End of Elriel Month 2024 and end of the story.

TW: death, I guess.

Part III

Lovely Fawn

Despite Rhysand’s not so subtle objections, Azriel decided to attend the reception with the Vallahan dignitaries. Elain didn’t protest either, so he concluded that it would be appropriate for him to make an appearance. Not that he necessarily wanted to, however, he was the Prince of Hewn City, and his title obligated him to do things which he didn’t always enjoy–like attending boring parties. At least in Hewn City, he could fuck Elain in front of the Court, if he so desired. She wouldn’t say no, and it certainly made receptions a lot more interesting and enjoyable. No such pleasure in Night Court. 

Today, Elain dressed in a black dress that was little more than gossamer, which wrapped around her voluptuous body like second skin. It glittered with sequins and strategically placed black flowers, which covered her breasts and her bottom. A smattering of extra sparkles was all that concealed her front. A long train slithered on the floor with every step that she took. Elain liked pearls–a stone of mourning and innocence, of fertility and purity, of perfection and romance–and wrapped many strands around her neck and her wrists. 

“A crown for my Princess,” Azriel announced, opening up a heavy wooden box.

Elain smiled and peered inside. It was the Black Peregrine Crown tonight then. One of her favourites. A heavy, imposing crown made of black and white diamonds, studded with black and white pearls, tourmalines and opals. Azriel lifted the crown from its velvet nest and then gently placed it on Elain’s golden head. 

“Perfect,” he whispered when she straightened and he could observe her in all her glory. “You are so fucking beautiful, Elain. So beautiful.”

They stepped out on the terrace and Azriel opened his arms, allowing Elain to slip into his embrace. He lifted her easily off the ground and as she wrapped her arms around his neck, he spread his wings and shot up into the air. She threw a shield over them, so that the wind didn’t mess up her hair and once they crossed the enchanted barrier that surrounded the palace, the weather became less than pleasant, with heavy rain pelting the ground and bouncing off the air shield. “Thanks, smart girl!” Azriel chuckled, grateful for the shield and then kissed her.

Rhysand, the High Lord of Night Court sat in his chair, which wasn’t quite a throne, but also wasn’t just a simple chair. It was long, made for two, for him and for Feyre, his High Lady, to sit beside him. He didn’t feel the need to greet his guests on a throne–this wasn’t going to be a show of power and his High Lord’s might. The relationship between his Court and Vallahan was friendly enough. Although now, after what Azriel had uncovered about Eris and Lucien, Rhysand didn’t know who to trust. And whether he could ever let his guard down the way he did with the Vanserra brothers. This thing pressed on him and he wasn’t at his best. Feyre flitted around the reception room, greeting and welcoming the guests, and even Nesta helped out, doing a passable impression of being interested. 

“Are you alright?” Feyre whispered, when she finally extricated herself for a moment and approached him. She looked lovely, dressed in a pale pearl gown with a halter top, which was tied in the back into a large bow and then flowed into a fluttering train of silk.

“All good, Feyre darling,” he smiled at her and kissed her hand. 

Then, his eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips. Seeing the change in his expression, Feyre turned her head and before she could say anything, Rhys hissed, “what is he doing here? I requested that he not come!”

Her arms crossed on her chest, Nesta Archeron, stately and cool, stepped behind him and said, “He has just as much right to be here as you do. You are a High Lord of your Court and he is a Prince of his.”

“This is my Court,” Rhys cut her off, “and my request.”

Nesta shrugged in her usual nonchalant way, not giving him any leeway.

“She is right, you know,” Feyre agreed, eyeing her mate with displeasure.

“Don’t gang up on me,” he ordered. “Because you both know that I am right. He makes things uncomfortable. He is barely lucid as it is…”

“Lucid enough to have uncovered a massive conspiracy that spans the continent,” Nesta noted meaningfully.

Rhys shook his head and insisted, “these types of events are inadvisable for him.”

“Elain is with him,” Nesta said calmly. “She will keep him in line.”

“Az!” she then called, waving her arm at him. “How are you? It’s nice to see you. We weren’t sure you’d come tonight.”

She walked to him and then embraced him, before saying, “good evening Ellie-girl!”

Feyre joined them soon after and greeted Azriel with a wide smile.

“Are you treating my sister well?” she joked.

Azriel pulled Elain to his side and draped his arm over her shoulders, before pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Always,” he said. Elain nodded.

“What are you wearing today?” Feyre whispered and then said, “The Black Peregrine!”

Azriel’s eyes wandered to his High Lord and he saw that Rhys was scowling in his direction–not that it was a very unusual reaction. The brothers didn’t see eye to eye most of the time. 

Rhys would’ve wanted to pull the Court of Nightmares back under his control, but the divine Power wouldn’t allow him too, refusing to budge away from Azriel.

“Uncle Az!” He heard a lovely familiar voice and turned around, smiling. 

His beautiful niece Elena hurried toward him, a pretty pink gown with black flowers accentuating her incredible loveliness. It always amused him how Cassian’s and Nesta’s daughter looked so much like Elain. Same golden brown curls, same big dark round eyes, same shy smile. 

“My pretty girl, I am so happy to see you here tonight!” he exclaimed, taking her into his arms and embracing her tightly. 

“Uncle Rhys wanted me to be here,” she explained, “though he told me that you wouldn’t be coming,” she frowned at that.

Azriel shrugged, “He never wants me to come,”

“Ahhh,” she sighed sadly. “I so wish you’d patch things up with him! He is not being very fair to you.”

“It’s been like that for years,” Azriel said, “I suppose I am used to it by now,”

She stomped her little foot and said, “Well, it isn’t fair! And you shouldn’t accept it.”

He smiled at her, again, reminded of Elain –even that little pout was all Elain. 

He flicked the top of her arched ear and said, “You look like your aunt!”

“Pfff, everyone says that!” then she glanced at the clock and said, “oh, I have to run, Uncle,”

“Where are you going?”

She rolled her eyes, “Nyx and myself and Kira and Zoya (Nesta and Cassain’s other daughters) are expected to go and entertain the ambassadors’ children. At least they are our age!”

Azriel smiled and kissed her forehead. “You better join us for dinner then.”

“We will!” she blew him a kiss and hurried away.

Before the ambassadors entered the reception hall, Rhys released a bit of his power, so it thrummed in the air, filling the space and making all who were present pay attention. Feyre took her seat at his side. Then it was Azriel, who held the highest rank behind the High Lord and Lady. He sat in a chair, with Elain beside him, and wrapped his arm around her. He was glad of it too, because he was too fucking old to be standing around, greeting ambassadors and emissaries. That was a job for the kids like Elena and Nyx. They had the energy. And Cassian too, apparently, because he stood behind Nesta’s seat, legs apart, hand on his sword. Hopefully, there wasn’t going to be a need for all that tonight.

The six ambassadors and their entourage arrived soon after and Rhysand rose from his chair in a gesture of good will, greeting them.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice loud and melodious, created to put visitors at ease. 

The males and two females bowed, and Rhys began the introductions.

“My mate, the High Lady of Night Court, Feyre Archeron.”

Feyre smiled and inclined her head at the guests.

Rhys continued, bypassing Azriel, though he was supposed to have been next,

“General Nesta Archeron, Cauldron Made, leader of the Valkyrie armies.”

Nesta greeted them politely, her back straight, her face placid.

“Cassian, Commander General of the Night Court.”

Then he paused, and everyone’s gazes inevitably fell on Azriel.

“His Highness, Prince Azriel of Hewn City,” Rhys finally said with a sigh. “Commanding General of the Darkbringers, Lord of the Court of Nightmares.”

Azriel glared at Rhysand and while the others bowed and curtsied, he barked loudly,

“AND?”

At that, Feyre got up and walked to him, saying calmly,

“And Lady Elain Archeron of the Court of Nightmares, Princess of Hewn City, Cauldron Made.”

Everything stopped, the very air silent and tense.

The ambassadors stared at the High Lady, then at Azriel. And then at Nesta, who stood up and walked over as well, saying loudly ‘my sister’.

-

Only there was no one next to Prince Azriel.

He sat alone in his chair.

Because, as everyone knew, Princess Elain had died in childbirth 184 years ago.

-

His mind had fractured that day. 

They didn’t know that Elain was carrying twins until it was too late. The girl, who was small, hid behind the boy for too long in their mother’s womb. Their heartbeats beat in unison, and even the most experienced healers didn’t notice a second baby. A wingless baby. A baby who survived, while her mother and brother died. A baby who was picked up by her uncle Cassian, while his wife and mate Nesta was mute and dumb from grief and his brother Azriel flew out of the birthing room, only to return forever changed. Cassian took the baby with him and named her Elena.

Whether Azriel knew that Elain was dead and had been dead for almost two centuries, Feyre did not know. He never indicated that he was aware. He never called Elain a ‘ghost’ or made it known that he knew that she was dead, but it was easier to pretend like she was alive.

No.

The three of them–Feyre, Rhys and Cassian–were quite sure that Azriel had lost his mind that day and consequently, Elain’s death simply never registered with him. When he’d returned from his flight that day, he seemed the same as he always was. No shadows whispering in his ears, no sadness in his eyes. He did seem to be conscious of the fact that the children weren’t born, but he and ‘Ellie’ sat down with Temal, his adopted son, and explained it to him. Temal wasn’t exactly a child by then, but a grown man and he understood that something had happened to his father when Elain had died. Ever since then, Temal has played along. Almost two hundred years later, it became…normal to him. That his father and the illusion of his mother lived together and ruled together. It somehow became ‘normal’ to all of them, except for Rhys. But Feyre and Cassian, and especially Nesta protected Azriel from Rhys.

Nesta wasn’t entirely lucid either. Feyre was sure that Nesta knew that Elain was dead, but she’d come to believe that Elain was always next to them–just like Azriel claimed.

Whether it was a hallucination or an illusion that Azriel’s traumatised mind had conjured, Feyre couldn’t know. But Azriel had lived with this version of Elain ever since that day, and never looked unhappy. He was never confused. He was never doubtful. The only time he displayed any agitation is when Rhys ‘forgot’ about Elain and acted like she wasn’t at Azriel’s side. In his mind, Azriel convinced himself that it was because Rhys didn’t want Elain to marry him, and therefore ignored her because of that. Otherwise, Azriel went about his life married to Elain. 

In fact, Feyre believed that perhaps, Azriel and his Elain, were the happiest couple among all of them. 

Nesta and Azriel talked to ‘Elain’, laughed with her, walked with her, and in Azriel’s case, lived with her. He lived with her as a man would with his wife–sleeping and eating with her, bathing and cooking, dancing and drinking, making love with her and going on missions together. He did everything with Elain. He was Elain’s husband for eternity, just like he promised her at their wedding. And she was with him, walking hand in hand, living into the promise that she’d made to him.

From what Feyre could gather, the only difference between how Nesta was with their sister, and how it was different from Azriel, was that Nesta couldn’t see Elain. But she always insisted that Elain spoke to her, and as unnerving as it was to hear, Feyre got used to Nesta saying ‘Elain told me…” or “Elain and I were talking and she said…” or “El and I were laughing the other day…” Nesta confided to Elain, cried to her, argued with her, got angry with her. She ‘invited’ Elain to her training, and even discussed military plans with her. Apparently Elain ‘played’ with Nesta’s girls, sang to them, and knew that Nesta was raising Elena. 

At least Nesta seemed to have been aware that Elena was not her daughter, but Elain’s. Though they’d all agreed that it would be best for Azriel not to know about Elena and to preserve his fragile mind, they always treated Elena as Nesta and Cassian’s daughter and Azriel’s niece. It was, therefore, especially amusing, but also heartbreaking that Azriel and the girl were so close and that he loved her far more than any other of his nieces and nephews. 

When Elain had passed on, they did not know what to do with the body. The little boy was lovely as well, handsome and strong–his father’s son. They could not very well bury her without Azriel’s consent. They certainly couldn’t cremate her either. The mere mention of Elain’s death had Nesta’s eyes glowing with silver flames, and when she unequivocally announced that Elain was not dead, they dared not argue with her.

So Elain and her son were laid in a glass coffin, both perfect and unblemished even in death, sealed within it, Elain’s immense power still seeping out of her and then brought to rest under the Prison. Beneath the roots of the mountain. Under Dusk Court.

“Princess Elain is happy to meet you,” Azriel said simply to the ambassadors.

Sometimes, Elain didn’t want to talk, and he didn’t pressure her.

Sometimes, she talked a lot and he loved listening to her. But there were days when she preferred to be quiet and it didn’t bother him at all. The two of them always understood each other perfectly well, even in silence. Before they became lovers, before they were married, Elain could always read him and his moods, she always knew what he was thinking and was aware of his reasons for his actions. Words were always somewhat superfluous to them. 

Their Court knew that the Princess sometimes communicated through him, and they’d come to accept that. But Elain was usually especially quiet around Rhys. It was as if she knew that he didn’t approve of her and did not like her.

The Court. The Court of Nightmares had a mad ruler, who ruled them alongside his dead wife. A ruler who was fully convinced that she sat on the throne with him, that she attended balls with him, that she weighed on topics and disagreements that arose during open sessions, that she opined on judicial decisions. But because he was a good ruler despite his madness, the Court…accepted it. So what if the Princess wasn’t there in the flesh. Perhaps, she truly spoke through him and who were they to question whether their Prince actually saw her and communicated with her if she were alive. 

“No sweetness, he is not angry that you came,” Azriel assured her, peering angrily at Rhysand. “Rhys is just stressed. Soon we’ll go to dinner and then I will dance with you.”

Elain smiled at him. And then she found her voice and asked, “you promise?”

“I promise. You are my princess. And I am your prince. And soon, we’ll go back to our dark kingdom and we’ll be home, amongst our people.”

“You promise?” she repeated.

“I do. I promise.”

“Forever.”

“Forever.”

-

Epilogue

Seventeen years later

It took years to find him, but at last, he did.

Azriel looked down at the male cowering in the pews of the temple.

It was an oddly cathartic moment, he couldn’t deny it. 

Azriel and Lucien, forever locked in a silent battle, all because the Cauldron gave Elain to the wrong man. A lifetime of animosity, and the desire to correct a divine mistake. 

“Azriel,” Lucien straightened and looked at his nemesis with his one eye. 

“Lucien,” Azriel offered a curt nod.

“How did you find me?”

Azriel smirked.

“Well, if not me, then who?”

“I guess that’s true.”

Sighing heavily, Lucien looked down at the stone floor and wondered,

“So, now what? You finally get to kill me. And you’ll bring the traitor’s head to Rhysand as a trophy?”

Azriel seemed to consider it, cocking his head to the side. 

Could he? Should he?

“You deserve it,” he told Lucien simply.

“Perhaps. But I didn’t do it just for myself. I did it for the Fae kind as well.”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better.”

Lucien unsheathed his sword and asked coldly, “so, what happens now? How do you want to do this?”

Azriel turned his head and seemed to listen to something.

Lucien was well aware of the male’s madness–knew that Azriel thought that Elain was standing beside him that very moment, speaking to him.

“Elain says ‘hello’,” Azriel said.

It cost him nothing, and Lucien answered, “Hello Elain.”

Azriel stiffened and glanced at the other male with mild surprise. Like he wasn’t expecting Lucien to greet Elain.

After a long pause, Azriel scrubbed his chin and muttered, “she says not to kill you”.

Lucien almost dropped his sword, glaring at the Prince, mistrust in his eye.

“Stop fucking around, Shadowsinger. If you are here to kill me, then just do it.”

Azriel smiled at his old title. Shadowsinger. Yes, that power remained with him, but also disappeared some time ago. It was odd to hear the title spoken out loud.

“She asks for you to kill me,” he stated simply. “But only on this specific spot.”

“What are you on about?” Lucien groaned. “I am not killing you! If we fight, then we fight like real Fae!”

“I don’t need to fight like real Fae,” Azriel snapped. “I’ve fought for something for almost 800 years and what did it give me? Nothing. What I want is a life that was taken from me. What I want, is to live a life with my fucking wife. What I want is to escape this world, the judgement in everyone’s eyes, and to no longer be called a ‘madman’. I want to live a life with Elain Archeron. I want to be with her. I want…” he stopped, his voice trailing off. Then he raised his eyes and looked at Lucien, almost pleading with him, “I want release, Lucien. That’s what I want. I want to be with Elain. In this world. In another. I don’t care. I just want that…I just want to feel…Feel what I felt with her and have it be real.”

Lucien listened, unsure if Azriel was being truthful, but also saw the desperation in the male’s eyes. Was Azriel, in fact, not as mad as he let everyone believe?

Or was this just a moment of rare mental clarity?

“So I am to kill you?” he then confirmed.

“That’s what Elain says,” Azriel nodded. 

“And then what?”

“And then you go on your merry way, scheming or doing whatever it is that you do.”

“And Rhysand?”

“I am a burden, not a cause celebre to him,” Azriel shrugged indifferently. “And if it took me that long to find you, I think you are quite safe. He won’t find you.”

“What will happen when I kill you?”

“I don’t know,” Azriel confessed. “But Elain insists on it.”

“You do know that this is…” Lucien’s voice was quiet. “I am not used to murdering unarmed men…and you are my mate’s husband…”

“It’s all right,” Azriel shrugged. “I forgive you. Just do it already. Stop talking. I am at peace. My daughter will take over Hewn City. She is a marvellous, brilliant, smart woman–I know the Power will choose her.”

“You have a daughter?” Lucien exclaimed, absolutely puzzled by this new revelation.

“Yeah. I suspected that she was–for a long time–and I finally got proof a few years ago. And I am so proud of her. I’ve got two amazing children–Temal and my Elena. And my grandchildren. Believe me, I am at peace. I am content. And whatever is going to happen, is going to happen.”

He stepped aside and walked to a specific spot, stopping abruptly. 

“Elain says it has to be done here.”

“Why?”

“The Cauldron stood here for a while, in this specific spot. The Cauldron loves her and always helps her with odds and ends.”

“Killing you is helping her?” 

“I don’t know. We are about to find out. Also, do it cleanly, Vanserra. One through the heart. Got it?”

“I suppose.”

Azriel pulled Truth-Teller out of its sheath and clutched it in his hand. “Don’t want to lose it.”

Lucien approached him cautiously, still unsure of what was happening, but Azriel seemed at ease and determined.

“I guess I am coming home, treasure,” Azriel murmured.

-

Light flooded the space around him. Azriel stood in front of a door, in a place that was not familiar to him. He was still clutching his dagger in his hand. Gingerly, he pushed the door and it opened and he stepped inside. 

“Hi, love, are you home?” Elain called out from inside the house.

“I am,” Azriel murmured.

Suddenly, Elain, lovely as a morning sunrise, ducked her head from behind a wall and smiled at him.

“You are late,” she said.

“It took me a long time to find the way here.”

He looked around.

Nothing seemed familiar, and yet it was. It was a house filled with things that were unknown to him, and of a different origin. 

“Is this the Land of Milk and Honey?” he wondered.

“No. It’s Lunathion.”

This was…unexpected.

She came to him, looking just like he remembered her, only glowing with life and health. Her outfit was unusual and unfamiliar to him–a plain sleeveless shirt that was quite tight and a pair of short pants, which looked more like underwear than something one would wear outside. Her long braid hung carelessly over her shoulder. On her finger, she wore the ring that he’d given her when they married. The same simple silver band. 

“I’ve been waiting,” Elain said, putting his hand to her lips.

“What was the price?” he wondered, looking down at her and still unsure if this was another illusion, if this was death, or if this was real.

She worried her lower lip between her teeth and then admitted,

“There is no going back. This was the Cauldron's final gift. Its parting gift. We died, only to live again, but here. We’ll never see any of them again. Not our children, not our family. We can never jump through a Rift to go back. We died.”

He nodded.

A price he was willing to pay.

“Ready for a new chapter?” she said.

“With you?” he asked hopefully.

She reached for him and took his scarred hand in hers.

“With me. Forever.”

“Forever.”

[fallenclan]

Buzzardcry Fic

By Dragon Anon

Buzzard couldn't help but feel a pang of annoyance as Kestrel practically glued herself to his side, shorter pelt ruffling his own. Still, Buzzard chose not to comment on it, knowing his sister was only seeking some form of comfort, since Vulture didn't seem keen to offer any.

"Where are we even going?" Buzzard demanded, hating the way his voice took on an almost whine-like quality. 

"The mountains."

Buzzard blinked in surprise. This was the first real answer Vulture had given them in days. "Why?"

" . . . " 

Buzzard sighed. Evidently, his mother was returning to her silent brooding. "What are mountains like?" Kestrel whispered, her muzzle brushing against Buzzard's cheek.

"I don't know. Tall?" Kestrel frowned. Hating the saddened look in his sister's eye, Buzzard hurriedly continued, "But it'll be a new sort of adventure for us to find out."

"Really?" Kestrel's gaze brightened. She loved stories about adventures. Vulture used to tell all kinds of stories, before Falcon had died.

"Yeah. Don't you worry, Kes. It'll be fun."

"Okay." Kestrel smiled, vacant gaze becoming more focused. "I like adventures."

"I know, Kes. I know."

***

"We have to cross this?" Buzzard hissed, gawking at the river Vulture had pointed out. Its waters were moving at relatively slow pace, but the way they sloshed against the stepping stones Vulture had instructed them to use made Buzzard's stomach flip. 

"Don't complain. Watch what I do, and copy me," Vulture replied briskly. With allowing further room for debate, Vulture leapt forward, pouncing from stone to stone with the skill of a mink hopping through the snow. 

Buzzard remained rooted to his spot on the river's bank opposite of Vulture. "Don't worry, Buzz," Kestrel chirped. "See how easy Mama made it look? We can do this!"

"I don't-" Before Buzzard could finish, Kestrel had already begun to leap from stone to stone. She had almost made it when---

SPLASH. She had mis-stepped, flailing wildly for a few moments before landing in the river with a tiny shriek. "Kestrel!" Buzzard yowled, racing along the riverbank. "Kestrel?!"

After several moments of wild searching, Kestrel's head resurfaced. Buzzard dove towards his sister, paddling fiercely against the river's current. His limbs seemed to howl in protest, struggling to move in the direction he wanted them to, until finally, finally...

Buzzard latched on to Kestrel's scruff, swimming the rest of the way across the river and collapsing against the far riverbank. Kestrel was trembling violently and coughing. Buzzard was silent, inhaling and exhaling deeply through his nose.

Vulture watched with wide eyes from a few paces away.

She hadn't even moved a paw since Kestrel had fallen.

***

"Mama?! Mama, get up!" Buzzard hissed, heart beating wildly against his chest. It wasn't fair, she couldn't leave them now, they had almost made it to the mountain!

Vulture wheezed, throat torn open after a vicious tussle with a vixen. The fox had tried to take off with Kestrel, and before Buzzard could even react, Vulture had flown after the vixen. 

Kestrel's nape was bleeding badly and her eyes were wide like two pale moons. "Go--" Vulture gasped, legs spasming as she fought to get up. "--the mountain. She said---she said she would come here if--" 

"What are you talking about? Mama?" Buzzard demanded, blinking furiously to try and force back the sob threatening to escape his chest. 

"Find Cedar---she---" Vulture let out a final, wretched gasp, and fell still.

All that was left was the scent of blood, and the ragged breathing of her kits.

***

Buzzard lay still. He had no energy left to move, or to call for help. They had made it to the mountain, and for what? Kestrel was gone, unable to fight off the infection that grew within her bite wound. 

Now Buzzard was alone.

He didn't know how long he had been laying there when a soft, frantic voice spoke: "Stars above! Little one, are you all right?" A spotted black cat with a distinctly white chest was peering down at him. Vaguely, her pelt reminded Buzzard of a magpie.

"Don't worry, I'm going to bring you somewhere safe and get you all healed up, okay? Stars, you're skinny... I'll get you some prey to eat, too."

Buzzard didn't respond, glaring at the unknown cat. Leave me alone, he wanted to screech. He remained quiet, even as her felt her teeth sink into his scruff, lifting him up as if he were a kit and she his mother. 

He had stopped being a kit a long time ago.

***

"It's a good thing Eris found you when xe did. You're lucky to be alive," Shrewscratch murmured, brows furrowed deeply. "You said your name was Buzzard?"

"Yeah." Buzzard flattened his ears. It appeared as though every cat in FallenClan had something to say to him. 

"Well, she and Cedarberry have offered to look after you for now. You're too young to be on your own. Once you're old enough, you can decide if you want to stay or not."

Buzzard scowled for a few moments before freezing. "Cedarberry?"

"Do you... know her?" Shrewscratch tilted her head.

"Not really." After that, Buzzard stopped speaking, not wanting to entertain conversation any longer. 

***

"Did you know a cat named Vulture?" Cedarberry's eyes widened at Buzzard's question, her mouth opening slightly in shock.

"I--yes, I did, once upon a time. Why, d'you know her?"

"She was my mama. She told me to find you." Buzzard eyed Cedarberry accusingly. Who was this cat, that Vulture had trusted so deeply?

Cedarberry sighed, glancing at Eris, who was listening with a placid expression. "Vulture an' I were friends a long time ago. We, uh, made a promise to look after each other, if anythin' ever went wrong. I used to dream about livin' in these mountains. Talked her ear off about it, actually. I didn't think she was actually listenin' to what I was sayin."

"Why did she never mention you until--" Buzzard winced. "Until right before she died?"

"Things didn't end well between us," Cedarberry replied wistfully. "She was a strong cat, but a stubborn one too. I'm sorry to hear 'bout her passin'."

" . . . " Buzzard glared at his paws.

Clearing her throat, Eris mrrowed, "Why don't we go set up a nest in the nursery? Ain't many cats in there right now. We can use any sort of bedding you like, okay?"

" . . . okay."

***

"Please please please please please?" Palekit was practically jumping up and down, little paws batting at Buzzardcry's side. "It isn't fair! You know tons of battle moves! Can't you just teach us one?"

"Yeah!" Darkkit whined. "We wanna be strong like you!"

"You'll be apprentices in a moon." Buzzardcry gently shook Palekit off of himself. "You can learn all the battle moves you want then."

"Noooooo," Palekit collapsed dramatically, acting as though he'd struck her.

"Boo!" Darkkit stuck out his tongue as well. Nearby, Eris and Cedarberry were both chuckling. 

Buzzardcry shook his head. Kestrel had always been so timid, so gentle. Nothing at all like Palekit and Darkkit, who always seemed to be yowling about this or that and running whirlwinds around camp. 

"Don't be botherin' your big brother too much, kiddos. He's got adult cat stuff to do, too," Cedarberry rumbled, amusement radiating from her whole body,

Unbidden, Buzzardcry felt a tiny smile sneak its way onto his features. "Actually, I think I have time to show you one battle move..."

"Yes!"

"...if both of you agree to help clean out the elders' den later. I'm sure Cliffpaw and Inkypaw would be greatly appreciative."

"What!" Palekit exclaimed, eyes widening in disbelief. "But only apprentices clean out the elders' den!"

"Only apprentices learn battle moves, too," Eris piped up, chuckling.

As Palekit begin to squabble with Eris about what constitued as "apprentice duties," Buzzardcry could only purr contentedly.

Somewhere, he hoped Kestrel was watching. Buzzardcry had been given a second chance to be a big brother, and he wasn't going to squander it for anything in the world.

-🐉

(dedicated to the several individuals who agreed that a buzzardcry fic would be interesting! i'm sure buzzardcry will continue to have fun sibling times with paledawn and darkpaw and that nothing bad will happen ever... smiling in an evil and autistic way)

(beetle note: ok this one made me lose my mind a little. i was at work when i read it and i just KNEW i had to use it as inspiration for today's warmup. big brother buzzard :(((( side note i especially love the "pouncing from stone to stone with the skill of a mink hopping through the snow" line, it envokes such vivid imagery)

[faustianfascination]

feeling not thinking

Kinktober 5. Pussy/Cockdrunk | Double Penetration

Words: 1328 Pairing: Faust/Charles/Vlad x OC (ikemen vampire) Tags: NSFW! MDNI! double penetration, group sex, biting, voyeurism, oral sex, AFAB reader

Note: So, this was ment to go up yesterday but life happened so today it is then

The rain was still pelting against the castle windows, creating a gentle patter echoing through Vlad's room.

Charles's lips worked up and down Persephone's neck, one hand holding her hip while the other played with her breast as he thrust slowly in from behind into her kneeling form, back pressed against his chest as she moaned from his cock hitting a particularly sensitive spot. Even the canopies of Vlad's bed did little to stop the sound echoing off the stone walls; the owner of the bed reclined regally against the pillows watching them with burning eyes, his hand pumping his own cock lazily. Faust's eyes were also on them, his fangs peeking out from his lips as his desire to bite her again began to win out.

To think, this all began with a rain storm. Persephone ended up stranded at the castle as the storm picked up intensity, Charles had offered to make dinner and the pair joined by Faust had ended up cosy by the fire enjoying some wine, each others company and some lighthearted flirtation. The turn came when Faust had pulled her onto his lap and began seducing her in earnest and it didn't take long for it to escalate.

Vlad had entered only to be greeted by the sight of Persephone's naked body; hands bound and around Faust's neck as he held her legs open, playing with her breasts as Charles' mouth was buried in her pussy. She looked very pretty like that, even more so when she noticed him and embarrassment caused her to try and hide. Too bad Faust and Charles and no intention of letting her hide from anyone's gaze. Vlad descended on her too, sealing away her protests with his lips. In a movement so quick it felt impossible she was in his arms like a princess as he casually mentioned that his room had the biggest bed. The other two vampires following close behind in various states of undress.

The storm raged outside, thunder and lightning drowned out by wanton moans, creaking wood and the erotic squelch of her hole being filled over and over. Her body was now glazed in a mix of sweat, bites and semen from the three men taking turns fucking her, the lingering taste of skin and seed in her mouth. Even with her dancer's stamina she was getting towards her limit but she felt incredible, every nerve sensitised and explored by skilful hands and lips. Each of them had their own quirks. Charles luxuriating in making her body sing for him with teasing light touches and reverence, sending her to realms of over stimulation. Faust was forceful and dominant bullying pleasure out of her in a way that left fine bruises all over her hips. Never scared of sinking his fangs into her flesh. Vlad was beguiling making her serve him, ride him like he's a king to be rewarded with praises and blissful pleasure. Even the ache in her muscles felt delicious thanks to their attention.

The murmuring of French into her skin brought her back to the present as he slowed his movements to stretch out the pleasure he wanted to make her feel. She locked eyes with Faust, his hypnotic hazel eyes entrancing her again as she saw his sadism flash before he rose up again and brought himself up to the pair. Holding her jaw firm as he kissed her again, his cock pressing against the front of her cunt, adding a welcome pressure on her clit as Charles thrust, making her flutter. Charles' resulting moan evidence of the increased stimulation, made Faust chuckle

"Think you could manage both of us?" his voice huskier than usual. If she weren't so cock drunk fear would probably have crept in, none of them were small. However, she was feral right now, her mind only on feeling not thinking

"I've never tried, but I'd like to" her breathy voice giving him the confirmation he needed. Charles stilled his movement, bringing his lips to her other ear

"Sure princess?" Charles' voice laced with both reassurance and worry, both his hands gently massaging her hips.

"Yes" her voice definitive, her body was soft and pliant after hours of being their enthusiastic plaything and despite her dwindling strength she wanted more, to feel more. She wound one arm around Faust's neck and the other around Charles' letting her fingers explore their soft hair, running her nails along their scalps as Charles drew out of her, leaving only the tip as Faust slid his cock along her folds to meet where her and Charles were joined. The extra friction was already incredible, but the feeling as Faust slowly pushed in was intense like nothing else. The stretch was still uncomfortable but the two men sandwiched her between them, holding her body as she let her head roll back at the intrusion. Slowly, inch by inch they filled her, every vein, every ridge of their cock's sent jolts of pleasure through her body rendering her unable to do anything but pant, tears falling from her eyes. They stayed still to let her adjust, touching every part of her, every good spot and finally after relishing the fullness she gave a nod and they began pumping into her. They moved smoothly at first, falling into a perfect rhythm Charles pulling out as Faust pushed in, never leaving her empty. They began to speed up, making her body tremble and hips jerk as another climax began building, her walls squeezing them tight making all of them moan and pant at the overwhelming sensations. A finger playing with her apex stoked the fire even more, making her clench and push herself onto them as they stilled enjoying the sensation of her pussy massaging their cocks. Both of the men gripping her tighter, fighting the urge to fuck her harder.

"How are you feeling?" Faust asked with a strain in his voice, he'd been holding himself in check as not to hurt her, he could see Charles biting his lips struggling with the same desire

"fu-fuck i've never felt full, so good" her breathless moan into his shoulder paired with her gently rocking her hips on them to keep the sensations building, she felt like she was burning in the best way. Faust and Charles began to run their noses along her shoulders on either side, nuzzling the juncture between them and her neck, a tell tale sign of them getting ready to bite paired with the increase in speed as they started thrusting harder than before. Then came the bites, two of them at once as they pounded her, her body thrown into an orgasm that felt like it would never end. Just as it began to subside it picked up again, squirting all over them as they rode her through it, all the energy left her body as she relied on how they caged her between them to keep her up right. Her head came to rest on Faust's shoulder, her weary eyes catching Vlad's as his beautiful red eyes watched her be fucked by the vampires he'd sired, a serene and mesmerising smile on his face. Shifting only when he closed his eyes to enjoy his own climax.

She could feel both Charles and Faust twitching in her, their movements becoming more jagged as they began falling into their own pits of pleasure. They pulled out together, her cunt being painted in their warm come and their near growls into her neck giving her a final sensations before they let her limp body fall into the soft sheets.

She was too worn out to open her eyes as she felt someone pull her into the bed and wrap her in warmth. Her head came to lay on Vlad's chest, as Faust curled up behind her gently rubbing circles over her hips, Charles holding her free hand so he didn't miss out on her warmth. They chatted amongst themselves as she drifted off into a deep much needed rest as the storm eased off outside.

[burstanddecay]

hi, lovely x

how about our baby Matt Murdock + "X pulls Y in for a kiss by their necktie"?

I hope your brain is nicer to you soon xx

Hi darling! I had an absolute field day with this one, thank you!

I'm working on the brain thing, but it's a slow journey. We'll get there eventually though! 🤎

lavender haze

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader Summary: Matt comes home late, soaking wet from the rain outside, just as you're taking a bath. It leaves you with a question you're a little hesitant about, but he encourages you to ask it anyway. Wordcount: 1.5k Contains: Past jealously, mentions of fingering. Mainly just soft fluff 🧡

The rain seems unrelentless today, pouring down from the moment you opened your eyes this morning, continuing all throughout the day with no end in sight. It pounds against the windows, pelting razor sharp drops as if it was an act of vengeance, trying to prove a point to an uncaring world.

You’re standing in front of the one reason you fought tooth and nail for this apartment: the massive bathtub, currently filled with water so hot the steam caused the mirror to fog up as it filled. The bath bomb you lowered in turned the water a lovely soft lavender, filling the air with a citrusy scent you can’t quite place.

The wick of the candle you’re lighting crackles in protest before a small flame settles on the neatly trimmed wick. You carefully place it back on the vanity, a fair distance away from your towel and other things, the thought of an accidental fire always an anxious thought in the back of your mind. Almost ready to finally get in, you flick the light off as you move to hang your robe off the hook on the door, leaving the bathroom to be lit by the candle alone.

The water is scalding and you bite back a satisfied hiss as you lower the first leg into the water, sitting down on the edge of the tub as you acclimate, barely needing a minute before you fully sink into the tub.

A wave of ease washes over you as you close your eyes, letting the warm water melt the tight muscles in your back, there thanks to the stress that came along with a day full of meetings. The sound of the rain is a welcome accompaniment to your winddown, something you seek out as your ambience of choice for a variety of things. It’s something Matt lovingly likes to poke at, the teasing endless when you once jokingly said it feels like I’m a little mouse reading under a mushroom. It's called escapism, Matthew. The inevitable reply had poked fun at the subway rats that he could hear scuttling about, telling you with a completely straight face that they strictly listened to either smooth jazz or Eminem, no in between.

The delivery had been so stone-faced that you paused for a second before picking your book up and continuing reading where you left off.

A few minutes pass before you open your eyes again, moving to reach for the tablet you placed on the stool next to the tub, hesitant between the choice of listening to the audio book you’re slowly making your way through, or rewatching an episode of New Girl you’ve already seen more times than you’d like to admit.

The decision is made for you as you hear the front door unlock. There’s only one person with a key that would let themselves in, that person being Matt. He’d called earlier in the day and mentioned he’d be late, no guaranteed timeline as to when that would be. When those words are uttered, it usually means pulling an all-nighter, the case they’re working on so complex it eats into his Daredevil hours. In a rare exception, it wasn’t as late as you thought it would be: it was around eight when you started setting everything up, something that usually took no more than thirty minutes before you could actually take your bath.

You pause when you don’t hear the door close immediately behind him, straining to hear what’s going on, Matt’s voice inaudible compared the shrill voice of your neighbour that always seemed to be mysteriously running into him in the hallway.

You had been snarky about it once, when hormones had been wrecking your body mid-period and you ran out of the patience that Matt seemed to have in spades sometimes. He calmly explained that she had a crush on him, her heartbeat and breathing telling on her, and that she definitely did not run into him by accident, but rather lingered near the door and just conveniently went to get her mail just to talk to him.

He proceeded to give you an orgasm that was so mind blowing that it still lingers in your mind, all as was he sat behind you on the couch with an unwavering steadiness to him, letting you know he wasn’t going anywhere.  

That doesn’t deter her from trying to get her way, so you close your eyes again, slipping down in the water until your shoulders are submerged, revelling in the warmth as you leave them to their conversation.

“Sweetheart?”

“In here.” you reply, eyes still closed. “Bathroom.”

You hear his footsteps approach before he softly knocks on the door. “Can I come in?”

You hum in reply, opening your eyes as the door creaks open and Matt slips in.

“Hi,” you smile in amusement as he comes into view. Though barely visible in the dim light, you can see his hair is slicked back, plastered to his head by the downpour outside. “’s bit wet outside, huh?”

He snorts, leaning against the vanity with his arms crossed. “Only a little. Took a cab, so managed to stay mostly dry.”

Part of you stills feel like it’s intrusive to ask how Matt experiences the world, though he had been honest about it when things started to get serious between you two. You still struggled to understand what was too much, what he could tune out. That line was something you still toed, something he apparently picks up on.

“You’re worried,” he says. “Anxious. Did anything happen at work today?”

“Nooo,” you breathe, sliding down a little further, the water silently sloshing. You hesitate again, not sure about what you want to ask.

“Just because I can hear your heartbeat, doesn’t mean I’m a mind reader, sweetheart,” he says, taking his glasses off before placing them on top of your towel. “It sounds like a panicked rabbit.”

“Have you ever seen a rabbit before?”

“Stop deferring the question,” he says, no malice behind the words.

“I wasn’t aware we're in court, mister Murdock,” you smile at the seriousness on his face. You can see the faint outline of a bruise on his cheekbone with his glasses off, his scruff a little heavier than usual. “Nothing happened at work. A question popped into my head and I’m not sure it’s rude or not. That’s all.”

He hums quietly and pushes himself off the vanity, taking off his suit jacket before sitting down on the edge of the tub. A hand comes up and softly brushes your cheek as he smiles at you.

“The fact that you even consider the fact that whatever comes into your mind might offend me, says a lot. But it won’t.”

You pause and look at your boyfriend, whose unfocussed gaze rests just off your face, his thumb brushing across you chin, body language relaxed and open.

Sometimes you still struggle to believe you got this lucky.

“I…” you start, searching for the right words. “The rain. Does it like… mess with your ability to do your thing?”

His face breaks into a bright smile at the question. “That was your question?”

“Yeah.”

He chuckles. “A little. Depends on how tired I am,” he says honestly. “It’s harder to hear my surroundings, it gets muddled. Takes more energy to listen and pick up what I need, leave what I don’t.”

You smile and sit up, pulling your knees to your chest as you do. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

You shrug. “Answering my question.”

His hand wanders to one of your exposed knees, tracing circles with his index finger. “Don’t think that’s something that warrants a thanks, sweetheart.”

“Oh?”

“You can ask me whatever, baby. Any time, any day.”

Your heart swells in your chest as you look at Matt, who smiles at you in reply, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners.

You don’t say anything, but instead reach for his tie and pull him closer until his breath ghosts over your face. It halts, stuttering in his throat as he waits for what’s going to happen. You grin, twisting the tie around your hand, the other coming up to his cheek as you place a gentle kiss on his lips.

“In that case, wanna get in?” you ask, toying with the silk fabric in your hand, the other scraping alongside his jaw. He looks fully content, a step away from purring, his eyes hazy as he leans into your touch.

“I think there’s something else I’d rather do,” he murmurs, the hand that was leaning on your knee sliding down into the water, disappearing between your thights.

“Wh—Oh,” you gasp, jerking at unexpected sensation, soaking his pantleg in the process. “Shit, yeah, okay. Or we do that. Jesus.”

He grins, giving you a quick kiss before getting up, moving your towel onto the stool next to the tub and taking his exit.

“See you in a bit, sweetheart.”

You groan, sinking back down into the water, rubbing your face as you do, knowing there’s a long night ahead of you, curtesy of Matt Murdock.

[shiyorin]

Animal instincts

#Just romcom in 40K

#Today's menu: Leman Russ and Lion El'Jonson

#Primarchs x Reader, Reader is Imperial Agent

#Late Christmas gift and early New Year gift

Leman Russ

The endless snows of Fenris stretched as far as the eye could see, blanketing mountains and wilds alike under pristine powder. You found yourself overwhelmed at the awe-inspiring landscape, so different from your world upbringing. 

But greatest curiosity lay with one who called these frigid wastes home - Leman Russ, Primarch of the Space Wolves. You observed him now, surrounded by his warriors yet apart, a lone towering figure contemplating the white void. 

His austere features seemed carved from the very stone and ice encasing this planet, immovable yet holding untold depth and power beneath granite exterior. Thick fur-lined armor and coarse pelt draped his massive frame, like the predators ruling these inhospitable wastes.

But as Russ turned toward some comment, face transforming with gruff laughter at his pack's roughhousing, you saw not an impervious demigod but something familiar. Great shoulders shook in mirth like immense boulders slipping loose, blue eyes alive with warmth despite frigid surroundings. An involuntary thought slipped through, that in this moment, he resembled not conqueror but some canines, mighty and playful. 

Shaking off fanciful musings, you continued observant tasks, keeping distance respectful between yourself and the lords of this domain. But later as briefings commenced, Russ stopped his gigantic form before you, breath curling like frost wolves from a mouth curled in question. 

You blinked up into eyes keen yet gentle, all rational thought scattering like snow on gale winds. Impulse surged before discipline could rein it, and you found hands rising of their own accord to Russ' massive brow, carding gloved fingers through coarse hair as one might a trusted hound. 

Silence descended, thick as the powdery drifts. Russ' features slackened in blank shock, pale eyes blinking owlishly. "Lass..." he rumbled, uncomprehending. 

You started as if slapped, jerking hands back so swiftly your wrist protested. "My lord, I..." Words fled, face aflame to your hairline. What folly had possessed you so?!

Yet to your surprise, Russ laughed, a booming, resonant sound like glaciers calving. "By Fenris's ball, lass, yer got the spirit!" 

His tone held no anger, merely bemusement. But when you swallowed apologies, you glimpsed what may have been wistfulness flickering through feral eyes, gone as swift as the thought that spawned it. Had his invisible tail genuinely twitched to wag? Definitely you are crazy or something.

"Aye, lass. Well, if the fur satisfies yer hands, s'pose I'll oblige." 

To your shock, he leaned nearer once more, an unmistakable invitation dancing in blue eyes. Hypnotized, you carded soft locks obediently, finding they are softer than you think. Russ sighed, almost seeming to lean into your touch. An absurd image flickered of an immense wolf nuzzling against your hand, tail wagging invisible yet content. Smiling softly, you traced strong jaw and was rewarded with a look of such warmth and longing, all of your rational thought dissolved. 

Lion El'Jonson

Your survey of the growing threat in Caliban's wilds brought you regularly to the Lion's tower, poring over maps and missives seeking the root of corruption's spread. This eve found you and him yet at work as dusk deepened, twin flames bending over parchment and discourse. 

A lull arose as analysis hit dead ends once more, frustration mounting. You sighed and stretched tired limbs, risking a sidelong glance at your lord. The Lion remained absorbed, strong brows furrowed, stroking his trim beard absently as strategic mind raced. 

A strange thought struck then, in this dim shuttered space, with dusk masking Caliban's savage beauty, did he not seem every inch a great cat himself? Powerful yet graceful, thinking moves ahead with predatory cunning, alone yet bound to wilder instincts doubtless few witnessed.   

Before rational thought could intervene, curiosity overruled. Stepping softly, your hands found scratching points along Lion's bearded jaw and throat. Beneath your ministries his eyes slid shut, muscles unwinding with a contented sigh. Success! Like any feline such attentions soothed.

Encouraged, your nails lightly raked his scalp, eliciting a startling response, a primal rumbling purr trembled his massive frame. His relaxation vanished in an instant, eyes flying open to stare at your in wild-eyed alarm. 

You stumbled back several paces, own eyes round as moons. Had Lion just...purred? Like some overgrown house tabby? Your mind reeled, seeking logical explanations amongst unfathomable strangeness unfolding. 

Lion's pupils elongated before your gaze, resembling nought cat-like slits in green eyes gone feral-bright. His confusion melted into predatory stillness, fixing you with an eerie stare that raised all hairs standing on end. What strangeness possessed them?

For long moments you and him remained suspended, breathing halted, shock and unnamed sparks passing between hands dropped limp to sides once more. Then all broke at once, your stammered excuses and the Lion retreating to the shadows of his tower, retreating from… what?

That night, your sleep proved fitful, your mind restless with possibilities. Had you gone too far when crossed a line with Lion that afternoon, awakening forces better left slumbering? 

Morning comes, dread coiled cold and heavy in your gut. Open the tower's door with trepidation, you froze at the grisly sight awaiting just beyond threshold. A massive deer carcass lay splayed, crimson pool already attracting swarms of flies. 

Your breath caught in horror, had Lion's frustrations boiled over in vengeance? Was this brutal warning of what further torments awaited should your act overstep once more? Shaking, you backed hurriedly inside, thoughts whirling. 

Meanwhile across Caliban's wilderness, Lion admired graceful flickers weaving between ancient trees, oblivious to turmoil sown. Inhaling your lingering scent lost to the mists. Pride swelled that his token gained your notice, for what better way to proclaim your worth and pique your interest further? 

He would await your next visit, gifting further demonstrations of prowess to stoke your regard. In time, you would see none matched his prowess for providing and protecting what he deemed most worthy.

Extra:

Russ: Pat me, pat me, woof woof!

Lion: If I give a bigger prey, will the agent love me more?

[dualdeixis]

[Image description: A digital drawing in black and white. A rock dove, white-spectacled bulbul, European bee-eater, Eurasian hoopoe, Eurasian spoonbill, European nightjar, and common nightingale fly together while carrying stones in their talons. Each bird is accompanied by its own name in Arabic. The rock dove has a shining halo around its head and the nightingale also carries a rose. On the top and bottom, two verses in Arabic are written, while the left and right read "VICTORY TO THE / STONE-THROWERS." End image description.]

inspired by qur'an 105:3-4 "for It sent against them flocks of birds, pelting them with stones of baked clay" + the article "how trapped palestinians fell in love with bird-watching."

ways to help palestine:

global strike on monday december 11!!!!

connecting gaza humanitarian aid + e-sims for gaza guide

decolonize palestine (patreon)

samidoun (calendar of worldwide protests)

palestine action

palestine legal

bds movement

legal defense for jerusalem armenians

financial support for palestinian refugee students

support palestinian businesses

more resources

ways to help congo:

communist party of the congo

list of donations

boycott & donate

ways to help sudan:

list of donations

fundraiser for a refugee family

action against hunger

darfur women action group

ways to help armenia:

all for armenia

armenian food bank

artsakh housing fund

armenia fund

armenian assembly of america action center

ways to help other indigenous peoples around you:

learn about whose land you may be living on

wôpanâak language reclamation project

list of donations

more resources

[workingclasshistory]

On this day, 31 January 1919, striking workers fought police in the centre of Glasgow and the army was deployed to restore order. The strikers demanded the working week be reduced from 54 to 40 hours, to create jobs for demobilised soldiers and increase workers’ leisure time. The strike began on Monday 27 January, and by Friday 31st, 60,000 workers had downed tools. The newspapers were outraged: The Scotsman referred to “Terrorism on the Clyde” and the Glasgow Herald claimed the workers were deploying “the methods of terrorism.” On this day, upwards of 60,000 protesters gathered in George and sang “The Red Flag.” The Glasgow Evening News described what happened next: “The police found it necessary to make a baton charge, and strikers and civilians — men, women, and children — were felled in the melée that followed.” Initially overwhelmed, the workers quickly retaliated and forced the police back. A turning point in the battle came when a lorry carrying glass bottles was trapped by the crowd. As the strikers began to pelt the police with stones and bottles, many police broke ranks and fled. Led by demobilised servicemen, the workers then marched to Glasgow Green, where they were again attacked by the police. This time they uprooted iron railings and counter-charged. The violence continued until late into the night, and the Secretary of State for Scotland famously told the War Cabinet, “It is a misnomer to call this situation in Glasgow a strike — this is a Bolshevist uprising." So the following morning, while the local regiment were confined in their barracks, 10,000 troops entered the city. With tanks and machine-gun detachments set up in key locations and thousands of soldiers patrolling the streets, the militancy of the strike was annulled. On Monday 10 February, after the employers agreed to a 7-hour reduction in the working week, the strike was called off. https://www.facebook.com/workingclasshistory/photos/a.296224173896073/2198610490324089/?type=3

[girlactionfigure]

Morning Israel News Summary

ISRAEL REALTIME - Connecting to Israel in Realtime

♦️MAJOR COUNTER TERROR OP.. IDF drone strikes a terror operations center in Nur a-Shams (Tulkarm area).  5 terrorists eliminated, including 1 (another report says 3) released in the last hostage deal.  Multiple semi-official statements that the IDF has started a major multi-week counter-terror operation throughout Judea-Samaria.

▪️KIDNAPPING INCIDENT IN SAMARIA at Tapuach Intersection, cleared.  The IDF: the suspicion of kidnapping has been ruled out.

⭕ ROCKET STRIKES by HEZBOLLAH in Ayelet HaShachar in the north hit homes and start a large fire.

▪️MANY ANGRY.. people, leaders and evacuees from the north are VERY angry that the government and IDF only performed a major strike against Hezbollah once Tel Aviv was threatened.  In a sarcastic response, a number of towns have replaced their town signs with “Tel Aviv”.

▪️USING HUMAN SHIELDS.. IDF spokesman in Arabic:  90% of the launches carried out the night before last by Hezbollah were launched from the heart of a civilian population and near civilian facilities.  In the attack, of the about 230 launches and about 20 suicide drones, 90% were launched from the heart of a civilian population, near civilian facilities - mosques, schools, UN compounds, and more.

▪️PROTEST - FOR A DEAL.. Demonstrators affiliated with the 'Headquarters of the Kidnapped Families' blocking Ayalon south near the Shalom interchange this morning.

▪️BEWARE SHEIN CONTACT LENSES?  Ch. 13 reports of people arriving in the emergency room due to quality problems with contact lenses order through Chinese discount site Shein.  

▪️GAZA POLIO VACCINE DANGER?  An unusual notice from Israeli health professionals - the polio vaccine sent to Gaza by the UN WHO is an experimental live attenuated vaccine that has the possibility of spawning actual polio cases - which can then spread.

▪️BUS vs. CAMEL.. an accident on Negev roads, bus vs. camel.  Drivers in the Negev and headed to/from Eilat are warned to beware wild camels, particularly at night.

▪️TERROR - STONING AMBUSH - SAMARIA.. Lynching attempt in Hawara: Arab rioters attacked a car driven by a Jewish woman from both directions and pelted it with stones. The driver managed to escape from them and miraculously was not injured (the car, however, badly damaged).

▪️JUDGES.. High Court of Justice in the decision against Justice Minister Levin:  If you do not convene the committee, you will receive a ruling in September that will oblige you to do so.

.. The minister responds: the decision is expected, conflict of interest and lack of authority. They are their own judges, actually taking over the committee completely, refusing to accept anyone who is not from their own inner circle.

🔹ANOTHER IRANIAN AIRSPACE NOTICE.. effective September 1, 2024, at 00:00 (midnight) - for 3 days.

🔹US Joint Chiefs of Staff:  The chances of an all-out war in the region have decreased after the attack carried out against Hezbollah.

⭕ 2 rounds of ROCKET attacks by HEZBOLLAH at northern towns overnight.

[whencyclopedia]

Antoine Barnave

Antoine Pierre Joseph Marie Barnave (1761-1793) was a French lawyer, politician, and one of the most influential orators of the early stage of the French Revolution (1789-1799). He is notable for being a champion of constitutional monarchy, and for co-founding the Feuillant Club to offset the influence of the radical Jacobins.

Eloquent and well-read, Barnave made a reputation for himself as one of the National Assembly's best speakers. A member of the Assembly's unofficial 'triumvirate', he was instrumental in some of the Revolution's earliest accomplishments. However, his refusal to back the abolition of slavery in France's colonies alienated him from his radical colleagues. As he lost influence in the Jacobin Club, he gradually became a supporter of constitutional monarchy; his efforts to increase the power of the monarchy included correspondence with Queen Marie Antoinette (1755-1793), a correspondence that, when discovered in 1792, led to his arrest and execution the following year.

Early Career

Antoine Barnave was born on 22 October 1761 in Grenoble, in the province of Dauphiné. Born into an upper-bourgeois Protestant family, his father was an advocate of the Parlement of Dauphiné, while his mother was a highly-educated woman. When he was ten, he and his mother had to be thrown out of an empty theatre box reserved for the noble friend of the provincial governor. The incident, an act of protest on the part of Madame Barnave, had a profound impact on young Antoine, who would later say that it gave him his life purpose: "to raise the caste to which belonged from the state of humiliation to which it seemed condemned" (Doyle 26).

As a Protestant, he was not allowed to receive an education at the Catholic-run schools and was homeschooled by his mother. He was later privately tutored in law and debuted at the bar in 1781. Now a small-town lawyer, Barnave was eloquent, sociable, studious, and well-read. He excelled in the French and English languages and had a penchant for the Enlightenment-era philosophies that inspired all of France's revolutionary leaders. Not content with a quiet life in Grenoble, Barnave dreamed of either political or literary fame, longing to make his impact on the world. He would not have to wait for long.

In the summer of 1788, the French Revolution had a sort of dress rehearsal in Barnave's hometown of Grenoble. On 7 June, protests erupted in response to the Revolt of the Parlements, when King Louis XVI of France's (r. 1774-1792) chief minister Étienne Loménie de Brienne (1727-1794) attempted to break the power of the parlements after they refused to pass his edicts. When royal soldiers were sent in to crush the protests, citizens picked up stones and cobbles from the streets, climbed onto roofs, and pelted the soldiers with projectiles. Following this event, known as the Day of Tiles, Barnave sensed an opportunity to thrust himself into politics. Around this time, he wrote his first pamphlet, Spirit of the Edicts Registered by Military Force at the Parlement of Grenoble, the general thesis of which was an appeal to the king to convene an Estates-General.

He was not the only one in Grenoble to make this demand. On 14 June, an illegal assembly of the three societal orders in Grenoble gathered and decided to convoke the Estates of Dauphiné without the king's consent. The representation of the Third Estate (commoners) was to be equal in number to the combined representation of the upper two estates (clergy and nobility). The ensuing meeting took place at a nobleman's mansion of Vizille, organized by the judge Jean-Joseph Mounier (1758-1806). Mounier himself drafted the resolution, calling on the king to convene an Estates-General while asking that he restore power to the parlements and retract Brienne's edicts. Barnave, although playing a secondary role, made an impact with his oratory and energetic presence. His participation at Vizille, along with his pamphlet, thrust Barnave into fame; when Louis XVI conceded and announced the Estates-General of 1789, Barnave was the second deputy elected from his province, following Mounier.

Continue reading...